Why? Of course, there was his father--and Jack wearily turned to his
correspondence basket, sick of the sight of paper and letter heads and
cost forms and production reports. For his father's sake, who had only
him, he would carry on. And carry on he did, doggedly, wearily, bored to
death, but sticking it. The reports from the works were often ominous.
Things were not going well. There was an undercurrent of unrest among
the men.

"I don't wonder at it," said Jack to old Wickes one day, when the
bookkeeper set before him the week's pay sheet and production sheet,
side by side. "After all, why should the poor devils work for us?"

"For us, sir?" said the shocked Wickes. "For themselves, surely. What
would they do for a living if there was no work?"

"That's just it, Wickes. They get a living--is it worth while?"

"But, sir," gasped the old man, "they must live, and--"

"Why must they?"

"Because they want to! Wait till you see 'em sick, sir. My word! They do
make haste for the Doctor."

"I fancy they do, Wickes. But all the same, I don't wonder that they
grouch a bit."

"'Tis not the grumbling, sir, I deplore," said Wickes, "if they would
only work, or let the machines work. That's the trouble, sir. Why, sir,
when I came to your father, sir, we never looked at the clock, we kept