M. Pouget that in no case is it poisoned,—unpalatable, yes; "but not injurious to health."
In California, during the strike on the Harriman roads, a machinist who had left his job made the same distinction. "We refuse," he said, "to put the public to serious risk. We can manipulate the machinery easy enough—from the engines to the track, we can put big trouble and big expense onto the managers." Another told me, "We'll bleed that crowd white before we get through. We've forced them to hire an army of spies and Pinkertons. They talk cheerful to the public, but we'll take so many millions out of them that they will think more than twice before turning us down again." He too, like M. Pouget, was sure that the public was safe, but his reasoning was even less reassuring.
The variety of these practices is as diverse as modern industry itself. In the life of that famous utopian, Fourier, we are told that his first moral revolt against the competitive system came to him when he discovered that as clerk he was expected to lie to the purchaser whenever necessary. Of great spiritual sensitiveness, he could not bring himself to this and went on blurting out the truth about the various wares until the infuriated employer turned him from the shop.
I have sometimes heard this delicate cruelty of exact truth telling recommended by the I. W. W. as one of the most perfected forms of sabotage for clerks and retail vendors generally. "Get together, study the foods, spices, candies, and every adulterated product. Study the weights and measures, and all of you tell the exact truth to every customer."
