getting one's
way, but self-confession screwed up a little tighter--screwed up into
self-confession to others.

I need not say that I am not throwing this idea out right and left to
employers with any hopeful notion that it will be generally acted on
offhand.

It is merely thrown out for employers who want to get their way with
their employees--get team work and increased production out of their
employees before their rivals do.

It is only for employers who want their own way a great deal--men who are
in the habit of feeling masterful and self-masterful in getting their own
way--who are shrewd enough, sincere enough to take a short-cut to it, and
get it quick.

XII

THE FACTORY THAT LAY AWAKE ALL NIGHT

There is a man at the head of a factory not a thousand miles away, I wish
thirty thousand banks and a hundred million people knew, as I know
him--and as God and his workmen know him.

Some thirty years ago his father, who was the President of the firm,
failed in health, lost his mind slowly and failed in business. The
factory went into the hands of a receiver, the family moved from the big
house to a little one--one in a row of a mile of little ones down a side
street, and the sixteen year old son, who had expected to inherit the
business stopped going to school, bought a tin dinner pail and walked
back and forth with the tin dinner pail with the other boys in the street
he lived in, and became a day laborer in the business he was brought up
to own.

In not very many years he worked his way up past four hundred men, earned
and took the right to be the President of the business he had expected to
have presented to him.

Eight or ten years ago he began to have strikes. His strikes seemed
uglier than other people's and singularly hopeless--always with something
in them--a kind of secret obstinate something in them, he kept trying in
vain to make out. One day when the worst strike of all was just on--or
scheduled to come on in two days, as he looked up from his desk about
five o'clock and saw four hundred muttering men filing out past his
windows, he called in Jim--into his office.

Jim was a foreman--his most intimate friend as a boy when he was sixteen
years old. He had lived in the house next door to Jim's and every morning
for years they had got out of bed and walked sleepily with their tin
dinner pails, to the mill together talking of the heavens and the earth
and of what they were going to do wh