Seven thousand men were out of work.
Out of work! George Judson, staring moodily out the window of his private office in a corner of the administration ell, had a chance to read something of what that meant in the faces of the procession filing out with lunch-boxes or dinner-buckets on their arms. He had often taken pride in watching these well-fed, well-paid workmen of his pass under that window; taken pleasure in their contented looks and admired the air of businesslike independence with which they bought their evening paper and then fought for places on street cars or cranked up their own automobiles and drove away.
Now he might have spared himself, yet some morbid fascination urged him to watch this gloomy picture.
Once in a while a face was lifted to stare at the windows of the administration wing, and perhaps some of these saw George gazing down at them so glumly and knew who he was. Whether they saw him or not, he fancied a look of accusation upon these occasional upturned faces. It was as if they complained because they had had no voice in that control which had brought calamity upon them. Workingmen were concerned in the results; they ought to be consulted in the planning: that was what George read in these upturned faces; or perhaps it was in the air and he caught it like a radio message;
