stice--"

Walter yawned as the words went on.

"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against the previous
injunctions, and will release the machines that were sabotaged, we will
be happy to formally withdraw these charges."

There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His Honor turned to
Jeff Bates. "Are you counsel for the defendant?"

"Yes, sir." Bates mopped his bald scalp. "The defendant pleads guilty to
all counts."

The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a crash. The
judge stared. "Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you leave me no
alternative--"

"--but to send me to jail," said Walter Towne. "Go ahead. Send me to
jail. In fact, I _insist_ upon going to jail."

The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference. A recess
was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then: "Your Honor, the plaintiff desires
to withdraw all charges at this time."

"Objection," Bates exclaimed. "We've already pleaded."

"--feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court--"

The case was thrown out on its ear.

And still the machines sputtered.

* * * * *

Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently
gutted, and that the plant could never go back into production.
Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high in uniondom had
perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying Management into the strike
for the sole purpose of cutting current dividends and selling stock to
themselves cheaply. The rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The
workers came to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged
in the finest of lounges, and read the _Wall Street Journal_, and felt
like stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the
highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance fees, and
sundry other little items which had formerly been paid by well-to-do
managements, and very little was left but the semi-annual dividend
checks. And now the dividends were tottering.

Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the plant floor, in
the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began joking about the trash cans;
then the humor grew more and more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon
of the eighth day, Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.

"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?"

"Sir--the men--I mean, there's been some nasty talk. They're tired of
making trash cans. No challenge in it. Any