that upper world of unrelenting struggle for
supremacy into which, through her relation to Ditmar, she had been
projected, and the significance of which she had now begun to realize.
She surveyed Holster critically. He was short, heavily built, with an
almost grotesque width of shoulder, a muddy complexion, thick lips, and
kinky, greasy black hair that glistened in the sun. His nasal voice was
complaining, yet distinctly aggressive, and he emphasized his words by
gestures. The veins stood out on his forehead. She wondered what his
history had been. She compared him to Ditmar, on whose dust-grey face she
was quick to detect a look she had seen before--a contraction of the
eyes, a tightening of the muscles of the jaw. That look, and the
peculiarly set attitude of the body accompanying it, aroused in her a
responsive sense of championship.

"All right, Ditmar," she heard the other exclaim. "I tell you again
you'll never be able to pull it off."

Ditmar's laugh was short, defiant.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Why not! Because the fifty-four hour law goes into effect in January."

"What's that got to do with it?" Ditmar demanded.

"You'll see--you'll remember what I told you fellows at the conference
after that bill went through and that damned demagogue of a governor
insisted on signing it. I said, if we tried to cut wages down to a
fifty-four hour basis we'd have a strike on our hands in every mill in
Hampton,--didn't I? I said it would cost us millions of dollars, and make
all the other strikes we've had here look like fifty cents. Didn't I say
that? Hammond, our president, backed me up, and Rogers of the wool
people. You remember? You were the man who stood out against it, and they
listened to you, they voted to cut down the pay and say nothing about it.
Wait until those first pay envelopes are opened after that law goes into
effect. You'll see what'll happen! You'll never be able to fill that
Bradlaugh order in God's world."

"Oh hell," retorted Ditmar, contemptuously. "You're always for lying
down, Holster. Why don't you hand over your mill to the unions and go to
work on a farm? You might as well, if you're going to let the unions run
the state. Why not have socialism right now, and cut out the agony? When
they got the politicians to make the last cut from fifty-six to
fifty-four and we kept on payin' 'em for fifty-six, against my advice,
what happened? Did they thank us? I guess not. Were they contented? Not
on y