“We’ll follow your lead past starvation, sir,” he said in a voice hoarse with new-born hope. The knowledge of Goddard’s arrival had quickened the general apathy. His visible presence in the streets was a draught of strength. The brave words he spoke to casual knots of men turned their sullenness to hope, and were passed from lip to lip after he had gone by. Before the great meeting in the afternoon, he had already lifted the tone of the strikers. They were conscious of a new force among them. When he mounted the platform in the densely packed market-place, a spontaneous cheer arose to greet him. When he retired, after a long, vigorous speech, he knew that he had accomplished the first and all-important part of his task--the winning of the men’s confidence. And then began a period of intense, unremitting work. For beyond the commonplaces of strike organisation, picketing, fund-distribution, speech-making, and the like, the continuous maintenance of the moral strength of a whole community by sheer force of will involved infinite devotion. He had to carry things with a high hand. The Employers’ Federation invited a conference. For a while he had high hopes. The hour came, and the whole town awaited the issue in breathless suspense. Goddard sat alone in the little office of the Union, chafing at his necessary exclusion from the discussion. At last the representatives of the Union returned, the secretary bearing a paper in his hand. “Shall we agree?” he asked, giving it to Goddard. He glanced over it, and his face darkened. “Can I make this public?” “Certainly, if you think it best,” replied the secretary, with a sigh. “Thank God, it’s over, any way,” said one of the representatives. But Goddard did not hear. He flung open the window and brandished the paper before the crowd assembled in the street. “Men! listen to the result of the conference.” He read the document in a loud, even voice. The employers had offered a few trivial concessions, a slight rise in skilled wages; but the principles were untouched. He hurried through the last clause; and before there was time for a cry to come from below, he tore the paper across and across with a passionate gesture, and scattered the pieces on the heads of the crowd. The men, who had listened in silent submission to what they thought were the final terms agreed upon, burst into a great cheer. The dramatic touch had quickened the revulsion of feeling. “There, gentlemen,” said Goddard, turning round to the representatives. “I have burned your ships for you.”