This is Ecclesby when the factories are working, and the hum of strange machinery strikes the ear on passing by the yawning gateways. But when Goddard went there a blight had fallen on the town. The factories for the most part were silent, the streets depressing with unjoyous idleness. The fact that the strikers had gone in procession the day before with a brass band that played the Dead March in “Saul” before the employers’ villas had not produced lasting exhilaration. The very deadly boredom of leisure, apart from anxiety as to issues, was wearing down the adult population. To lean against a street corner, pipe in mouth, hands in pockets, in taciturn converse with one’s mates, is pleasant enough for a few hours on Saturday afternoons; but to persist in it all day long, and day after day, induces considerable lassitude of the flesh and infinite weariness of the spirit. What the deputation had told Goddard was true. The men were growing sick of the struggle. Whispers of submission already floated in the air. The Trades Union officials were steadily losing their influence. The employers’ agents had been busy among them, spreading nerve-shaking reports as to the impregnable position of the firms. The Union was small, poor, badly organised. The strike pay was scanty. Much of it was spent, almost unwillingly, in drink. Severe distress already began to make itself felt. Goddard brought a practised intelligence to grasp the situation, and realised how fully his were victory, if it were gained; also how great a responsibility rested upon his shoulders in urging the continuance of the strike. It meant the extravagant love or execration of a teeming town. “If you advise us to give in, we’ll do so,” said the secretary of the Union, a careworn man with iron-grey hair and lantern-face. They had been discussing affairs in the office. The fire had gone out in the tiny grate, and the dimness of a gathering wet evening crept in through the uncleaned panes. Goddard was silent a moment. The man’s tone was so hopeless. Then the joy of battle rose within him, and was mingled strangely with the radiance of Lady Phayre--a thrilling sense of his own strength, trebled by the wine of her influence--and he leapt from his chair and brought his two great hands down on the secretary’s timorous shoulders. “We’ll win this, mate. We’ll carry it through, and have the firms on their knees. Ruin is staring them in the face. They will have to climb down. Man, we are not fighting machinery. If we were, I would say ‘throw it up.’ Man has never bested a machine yet, and never will. It’s mere brute force--who can hold out longest. And they can’t hold out longer than we. I’ll stake my soul upon it.” “But the capital behind them,” murmured the secretary. “That’s a pack of damned lies!” cried Goddard. “You can take it from me!” A glow appeared on the grey face as Goddard’s splendid assurance gained upon him.