"We cannot afford a strike for a principle," declared Colonel Halket. "The men realize perfectly that this would be an advantageous time to strike—when we are making large profits and cannot fill all our orders." But he was thinking of the possible loss to his national prestige rather than of the pecuniary loss that a strike would entail. He had boasted of his security against strikes and of the affection of his men; the threat of the Knights of Labor committee had frightened him with its unwelcome possibilities. "We must preserve harmony among our men. I am sorry to order the discharge of an old employee like Tibbs, I am willing even that he should be pensioned; but under the circumstances he must go. I have promised it. You will issue the order for his discharge and at the same time convey to him the information that a suitable pension will be paid him."
Floyd, sitting forward in his chair, leaned over and laid his hand on Colonel Halket's knee.
"Grandfather," he said, and there was earnest appeal in his voice, "I've got to mutiny. I can't issue any such order. Tibbs is a good man, and I simply will not be a party to turning him out of his job because his daughters are trying to earn an honest living. Why, good God, Grandfather!"—indignation suddenly swept him out of discretion—"What do you and the Knights of Labor want to do—drive the man's girls out on the streets?"
"Floyd!" Colonel Halket rose to his feet, stood clinching his hands, and looked down at his grandson with flashing eyes.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Floyd said, rising. "But though that remark was uncalled for, I feel that what you command is a great injustice to an innocent and faithful workman. It seems to me unworthy of such an establishment as yours, and likely, moreover, to do untold harm. Rather than issue such an order, I will resign my position."
Colonel Halket put his hands on Floyd's shoulders and looked at him steadily. "Do you mean it, Floyd?"
