are many things I should like to ask her."



CHAPTER IX

At twenty minutes past eight, Maraton, with his two companions, reached
the building in which the meeting was to take place--a plain,
unimposing-looking edifice, built for a chapel, whitewashed inside, but
with plastered walls and bare floors. The room was almost packed, and
it was with some difficulty that they found seats in the back row.
David Ross, Peter Dale and Graveling occupied chairs on the platform.
Between them, Julia and Aaron kept Maraton informed as to the identity
of each newcomer.

"That's Mr. Docker, who is going to speak now," the latter declared in
an excited whisper. "He is a fighting man. It's he who has manoeuvred
this strike, they say. Now he's off."

Mr. Docker has risen to his feet amidst a little hoarse cheering. For
a quarter of an hour or more, he spoke fluently and convincingly. It
appeared from his statements that boiler-makers were the worst paid
mechanics in the universe, that it was he who had discovered this, that
it was he who had drawn up the ultimatum which had been presented to the
masters and refused. His peroration was friendly but appealing.

"There are some amongst Boulding's people," he wound up, "who, they tell
me, are satisfied. If so, I hope they are not here. They haven't any
place here. To them I would say--'If you are satisfied with twenty-four
shillings a week, well, don't waste a penny in subscribing to the