sn't their fault, this strike. If we do that it's going to make
them mighty sore."

"Sore at us--but it'll make 'em _hate_ the strikers!"

"It will work a hardship on them--they need their salaries."

"If they don't like it let them find other jobs."

"They can't, Simon--there aren't any in Hambleton."

"Then let 'em move to another village--there isn't one of them who'd be
a real loss to the community."

"They can't do that, either, they're all family men and they can't pull
up stakes and shift at a minute's notice."

"Then they'll stay here and do the best they can until we're ready to
whistle 'em to heel again. So much the better. Nothing breaks a
strike quicker than adverse public opinion--and those clerks are going
to provide a lot of that when they begin to feel the pinch. I'm giving
you a lesson, Jason, not only in economy, but in strategy!"

"Just the same--I don't like it."

Simon Varr's eyebrows had gone up a full inch and dropped again.

"You don't like it?" he retorted ironically. "Well, I _do_--and what I
say, _goes_!"

Which had ended the debate, since he spoke the simple truth.

He blew the dust from the finger that he had trailed along the desk and
entered the small office that was his sanctum. Seated at his ancient
roll-top, he opened and read a handful of letters that had come in the
afternoon mail--and his ready frown was active again as he noted the
tone of some of them. The clerk, Stevens, when he told Maxon that
several orders were shortly due to be filled, had in nowise exaggerated
the case. Two or three were already overdue, and irate gentlemen in
distant cities were beginning to make inquiries more pertinent than
polite. Varr threw the letters on his desk and swore at the writers.

The light in the office suddenly became dim; Simon rose irritably and
went to the single window, where he raised the green shade to its
greatest height. Storm-clouds rolling up from the west had obscured
the descending sun so that the countryside, with its rolling fields of
grain and patches of thick woodland, which a moment since had been
laved in a golden flood, now looked grim and gray beneath the deepening
shadows. The tanner studied the gloomy prospect with angry eyes,
finding in it some reflection of his own situation, and the face which
he raised to the heavens was as black as the clouds themselves.

His was the startled, half-uncomprehending fury of the bull at the
first stinging dar