"If you'd junk a few traditions," said Lightener, "and import a little modern efficiency--and human understanding of human beings--you might get somewhere. You quit developing with that first ancestor of yours. If the last hundred years or so haven't been wasted, there's been some progress. You're wabbling along in a stage coach when other folks use express trains.... When I met the boy here last night, I thought he was whittled off a different stick from the rest of you.... I guess he was, too. But you're tying a string of ancestors around his neck and squeezing him into their likeness." "My son knows his duty to his family," said Mr. Foote. "I didn't have a family to owe duty to, thank God," said Lightener, "but I spent quite some time figuring out my duty to myself.... You won't listen to reason, eh? You're going to bull this thing through?" "My son will act as my son should act," said Mr. Foote. Lightener turned to where Bonbright stood with set face and eyes that smoldered, and studied him with an eye accustomed to judging men. "There'll be rioting," he said. "Probably there'll be bloodshed. There'll certainly be a devil of a lot of suffering. Your father is putting the responsibility for it on your shoulders, young fellow. Does that set comfortably on your mind?" Bonbright was slow to answer. His position was difficult, for it seemed to him he was being asked by a stranger to criticize his father and his family. His own unrest under the conditions which were forced upon him was not to be mentioned. The major point--the conflict between capital as represented by Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, and labor--as represented by the striking employees--he did not understand. He had wanted to understand it; he had felt a human interest in the men, but this was forbidden to him.... Whatever he felt, whatever he thought, whatever dread he might have of the future as it impended over himself--he must be loyal to his name. So when he spoke it was to say in a singularly unboyish voice: "My father has spoken for me, Mr. Lightener." For the first time Lightener smiled. He laid a heavy hand on Bonbright's shoulder. "That was well done, my boy," he said. Bonbright was grateful for his understanding. A servant appeared. "Mr. Bonbright is wanted on the telephone," she said. It was Rangar. "There's rioting at the plant," the man said, unemotionally. "I have notified the police and taken the necessary steps." "Very well," said Bonbright. He walked to the library, and, standing in the door, stirred by excitement so that his knees quivered and a great emptiness was within him, he said to his father, "There's rioting at the plant, sir." Then he turned, put on his coat and hat, and quietly left the house.