Sitting on his
high stool, he tried to imagine he was a part of that sweating,
gulping crowd of men, that he was one of them, and not an outsider,
suspected, regarded with unfriendly looks.
Behind him a man began to make conversation for Bonbright's ears. It
had happened before.
"The strike up to the Foote plant's on its last legs," said the man,
loudly.
"So I hear," answered another.
"Infernal shame. If it was only the closed-shop question I dunno's
I'd feel so. We're open shop here--but we git treated like human
bein's. ... Over there--" The man shrugged his shoulders. "Look at
the way they've fought the strike. Don't blame 'em for fightin' it.
Calc'late they had to fight it, but there's fightin' and fightin'.
... Seems like this Foote bunch set out to do the worst that could be
done--and they done it."
"Wonder when it 'll peter out--the strike?"
"Back's busted now. Nothin's holding it up but that man Dulac.
There's a man for you! I've knowed labor leaders I didn't cotton to
nor have much confidence in---fellers that jest wagged their tongues
and took what they could get out of it.
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