Sartwell smiled grimly when the young man mentioned the firm. He knew that there lay his weakness rather than his strength, for although the firm had said he was to have a free hand, yet he was certain the moment the contest became bitter the firm would be panic-stricken. Then, if the women took a hand in, the jig was up. If the strikers had known on which side their bread was buttered they would have sent a delegation of their wives to Mrs. Monkton and Mrs. Hope. But they did not know this, and Sartwell was not the man to show the weakness of his hand.
“Yes,” said the manager, “I have the entire confidence of Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope. I wonder if the men appreciate that fact.”
“Oh yes, sir; they know that.”
“Now, Marsten, have you any influence with the men?”
“Very little, I’m afraid, sir.”
“If you have any, now is the time to exert it; for their sakes, you know, not for mine. The strike is bound to fail. Nevertheless I don’t forget a man who stands by me.”
The young man shook his head.
“If my comrades go, I’ll go with them. I am not so sure that a strike is bound to fail, although I am against it. The Union is very strong, Mr. Sartwell. Perhaps you do not know that it is the strongest Union in London.”
The manager allowed his hand to hover for a moment over a nest of pigeon-holes, then he drew out a paper and handed it to Marsten.
“There is the strength of the Union,” he said, “down to the seventeen pounds eight shillings and twopence they put in the bank yesterday afternoon. If you want any information about your Union, Marsten, I shall be happy to oblige you with it.”
The young man opened his eyes as he looked at the figures.
“It is a very large sum,” he said.
“A respectable fighting fund,” remarked Sartwell, impartially. “But how many Saturdays do you think it would stand the drain of the pay-roll of this establishment?”
“Not very many perhaps.”
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