ted to Maraton and sat down. Peter Dale removed his pipe from
his mouth.

"It's just as well, David Ross, for you to remember," he said gruffly,
"that you're here on sufferance. Seems to me there's a bit of the dog
in the manger about your whining. I don't know as it matters to any one
particularly what your opinion is, but if you expect to be taken in
along of us, you'll have to alter your style a bit. It's all very well
for the platform, but it don't go down here. Now, lads, let's get on
with business. What I say is this. If Mr. Maraton is going on the
platform to-night to talk anarchy, why then we'd best stop it. We want
subscriptions, we want the sympathy of the British public in this
strike, and there's nothing would make them button up their pockets
quicker than for Mr. Maraton there to go and talk about bringing ruin
upon the Empire for the sake of the people who ain't born yet. That's
what I call thinking in the clouds. There's nowt of good in it for us,"
he added, with a momentary and vigorous return into his own vernacular.
"Get it out of thy head, lad, or pack thy bag and get thee back to
America." There was a brief silence. Most of those present had drawn a
little sigh of relief. It was obvious that they were entirely in
agreement with Dale. Only Ross was leaning across the table, his eyes
blinking, drumming upon the tablecloth with the palm of his hand.

"That's right," he muttered, "that's right. Send him away, the only one
who sees the truth. Send him away. It's dangerous; you might lose your
jobs!"

Then Maraton spoke quietly from his place.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I gather one thing, at least, from our brief
conference. You are not extremists. I will bear that in mind. But as
to what I may or may not say to-night, I make no promises."

"If you're not going to support the strike," Peter Dale declared
sturdily, "then thou shalt never set foot upon the platform. We've had
our fears that this might be the result of your spending the week-end
with Mr. Foley. There's six of us here, all accredited representatives
of great industrial centres, and he's never thought fit to ask one of us
to set foot under his roof. Never mind that. We, perhaps," he added,
with a slow glance at Maraton, "haven't learnt the knack of wearing our
Sunday coats. But just you listen. If Mr. Foley's been getting at you
about this cotton strike, and you mean to throw cold water upon it
to-night, then I tell ye that you're out for tr