What then? What could you do? What would your individuality be worth?... Think it over, my son. In the meantime we will postpone this matter until you revise your mood."

He turned abruptly and went into his own room. He wanted to consider.

He did not know how to conduct himself, nor how to handle this distressing affair... He fancied he was acting wisely and diplomatically, but at the same time he carried away with him the unpleasant consciousness that victory lay for the moment with his son.

Individuality was briefly triumphant. One thing was clear to him--it should not remain so. The Bonbright Foote tradition should be continued correctly by his son. This was not so much a determination as a state of mind. It was a thing of inevitability.

Bonbright's feeling as his father left him was one of utter helplessness, of futility. He had received his father's unveiled threat and later it would have its effect. For the moment it pa.s.sed without consideration. First in his mind was the fact that he did not know what to do--did not even know what he WANTED to do. All he could see was the groove he was in, the family groove. He did not like it, but he was not sure he wanted to be out of it. His father had talked of individuality; Bonbright did not know if he wanted to a.s.sert his individuality. He was at sea. Unrest grappled with him blindly, urging him nowhere, seeming merely to wrestle with him aimlessly and maliciously... What was it all about, anyhow? Why was he mixed up in the struggle? Why could not he be left alone in quiet? If he had owned a definite purpose, a definite ambition, a describable desire, it would have been different, but he had none. He was merely bitterly uncomfortable without the slightest notion what event or course of action could bring him comfort.

One thought persisted through the chaos of his surging thoughts. He must call in Ruth Frazer and explain to her that he had not done what the papers said he did. Somehow he felt he owed her explanation, her of all the world.

She entered in response to the b.u.t.ton he pushed, but there was not the broad smile--the grin--he looked up eagerly to see. She was grave, rather more than grave--she was troubled, so troubled that she did not raise her eyes to look at him, but took her seat opposite him and laid her dictation book on the desk.

"Miss Frazer--" he said, and at his tone she looked at him. He seemed very young to her, yet older than he had appeared before. Older he was, with a tired, haggard look left by his sleepless night. She could not restrain her heart from softening toward him, for he was such a boy--just a boy.

"Miss Frazer," he said again, "I want to--talk to you about last night--about what the papers said."

If he expected help from her he was disappointed. Her lips set visibly.

"It was not true--what they said... I sha'n't explain it to anybody else. What good could it do? But I want you to understand. It seems as if I HAVE to explain to you.... I can't have you believing--"

"I didn't read it in the papers," she said. "I heard from an eyewitness.

"Mr. Dulac," he said. "Yes, he would have seen. Even to him it might have looked that way--it might. But I didn't--I didn't! You must believe me. I did not run to the police to have them charge the strikers again... Why should I?"

"Why should you?" she repeated, coldly.

"Let me tell you... I went there--out of curiosity, I guess. This whole strike came so suddenly. I don't understand why strikes and troubles like this must be, and I thought I might find out something if I went and watched... I wasn't taking sides. I don't know who is right and who is wrong. All I wanted was to learn. One thing... I don't blame the strikers for throwing bricks. I could have thrown a brick at one of our guards; a policeman shoved me and I could have thrown a brick at him.... I suppose, if there are to be strikes and mobs who want to destroy our property, that we must have guards and police... But they shouldn't aggravate things. I went around where I could see--and I saw the police charge. I saw them send their horses smashing into that crowd--and I saw them draw back, leaving men on the pavement,... There was one who writhed about and made horrible sounds!... The mob was against us and the police were for us--but I couldn't stand it. I guess I lost my head. I hadn't the least intention of doing what I did, or of doing anything but watch... but I lost my head. I did rush up to the police, Miss Frazer, and the strikers tried to mob me. I was struck more than once... It wasn't to tell the police to charge. You must believe me--you MUST.... I was afraid they WOULD charge again, so I rushed at them. All I remember distinctly is shouting to them that they mustn't do it again--mustn't charge into that defenseless mob.... It was horrible." He paused, and shut his eyes as though to blot out a picture painted on his mind. Then he spoke more calmly. "The police didn't understand, either. They thought I belonged to the mob, and they arrested me.... I slept--I spent the night in a cell in Police Headquarters."

Ruth was leaning over the desk toward him, eyes wide, lips parted.

"Is--is that the TRUTH?" she asked; but as she asked she knew it was so. Then: "I'm sorry--so sorry. You must let me tell Mr. Dulac and he will tell the men. It would be terrible if they kept on believing what they believe now. They think you are--"

"I know," he said, wearily. "It can't be helped. I don't know that it matters. What they think about me is what--it is thought best for them to think. I am supposed to be fighting the strike."

"But aren't you?"

"I suppose so. It's the job that's been a.s.signed to me--but I'm doing nothing. I'm of no consequence--just a stuffed figure."

"You caused the strike."

"I?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. "How?"

"With that placard."

"I suppose so," he said, slowly. "My name WAS signed to it, wasn't it?... You see I had been indiscreet the night before. I had mingled with the men and spoken to Mr. Dulac.... I had created a false impression--which had to be torn up--by the roots."

"I don't understand, Mr. Foote."

"No," he said, "of course not.... Why should you? I don't understand myself. I don't see why I shouldn't talk to Mr. Dulac or the men. I don't see why I shouldn't try to find out about things. But it wasn't considered right--was considered very wrong, and I was--disciplined.

Members of my family don't do those things. Mind, I'm not complaining.

I'm not criticizing father, for he may be right. Probably he IS right.

But he didn't understand. I wasn't siding with the men; I was just trying to find out..."

"Do you mean," she asked, a bit breathlessly, "that you have done none of these things of your own will--because you wanted to? I mean the placard, and bringing in O'Hagan and his strike breakers, and taking all these ruthless methods to break the strike?... Were you made to APPEAR as though it was you--when it wasn't?"

"Don't YOU misunderstand me, Miss Frazer. You're on the other side--with the men. I'm against them. I'm Bonbright Foote VII." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he said it, and it did not escape her attention. "I wasn't taking sides.... I wouldn't take sides now--but apparently I must.... If strikes are necessary then I suppose fellows in places like mine must fight them.... I don't know. I don't see any other way.... But it doesn't seem right--that there should be strikes. There must be a reason for them. Either our side does something it shouldn't--and provokes them, or your side is unfair and brings them on.... Or maybe both of us are to blame.... I wanted to find out."

"I shall tell Mr. Dulac," she said. "I shall tell him EVERYTHING. The men mustn't go on hating and despising you. Why, they ought to be sorry for you!... Why do you endure it? Why don't you walk out of this place and never enter it again?..."

"You don't understand," he said, with perplexity." I knew you would think I am siding with the men."

"I don't think that--no!... You might come to side with us--because we're right. But you're not siding with yourself. You're letting somebody else operate your very soul--and that's a worse sin than suicide.... You're letting your father and this business, this Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, wipe you out as if you were a mark on a slate--and make another mark in your place to suit its own plans. ...

You are being treated abominably."

"Miss Frazer, I guess neither of us understands this thing. You see this business, for generations, has had a certain kind of man at the head of it. Always. It has been a successful business. Maybe when father, and his father, were young, they had to be disciplined as I am being. Maybe it is RIGHT--what I have heard called TRAINING."

"Do you like it?"

He did not answer at once. "I--it disturbs me. It makes me uneasy. ...

But I can do nothing. They've got me in the groove, and I suppose I'll move along it."

"If you would own up to it, you're unhappy. You're being made miserable.... Why, you're being treated worse than the strikers--and by your own father!... Everybody has a right to be himself."

"You say that, but father and the generations of Footes before him say the exact opposite.... However, I'm not the question. All I wanted to do was to explain to you about last night. You believe me?"

"Of course. And I shall tell--"

He shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't. Indeed, you mustn't. As long as I am here I must stick by my family. Don't you see? I wanted YOU to know. My explanation was for you alone."

Rangar appeared in the door--quietly as it was his wont to move.

"Pardon," he said. "Your father wishes to speak to you, Mr. Foote."

"One moment, Miss Frazer. I have some letters," Bonbright said, and stepped into his father's office.

"Bonbright," said his father, "Rangar has just discovered that your secretary--this Miss Frazer--lives in the same house with Dulac the strike leader.... She comes of a family of disturbers herself. Probably she is very useful to Dulac where she is. Therefore you will dismiss her at once."

"But, father--"

"You will dismiss her at once--personally."

A second time that day the eyes of father and son locked.

Bonbright's face was colorless; he felt his lips tremble.

"At once," said his father, tapping his desk with his finger.

Bonbright's sensation was akin to that of falling through s.p.a.ce--there seemed nothing to cling to, nothing by which to sustain himself. How utterly futile he was was borne in upon him! He could not resist.

Protestation would only humiliate him. He turned slowly and walked into his own room, where he stood erect before his desk.

"Miss Frazer," he said in a level, timbreless voice, "the labor leader Dulac lives in your house. You come of a family of labor agitators.

Therefore you are discharged."