The mats were full of holes, and sticky and greasy. The pillows were of wood. The food was fit only for pigs. Uematsu believed in feeding his livestock cheaply. But for the men this system had proved a blessing in disguise; being always herded together they had come instinctively to learn the meaning of solidarity. One idea, one emotion animated them all.
Uematsu understood this and in the new factory. No. 11, he did not allow the men to live together. He employed only boys, vouched for by their headmasters.
After the strikers had started attacking the boats it became dangerous to bring the men back to the village each day. This, however, threatened to deprive him of scabs. So he began to give “prizes” to those who would stay in the dormitory. All mention of Chiun’s ghost was forbidden.
From the top of the strainer the bag, swollen up with bean pulp, stuck out bulkily. The vats in the room where the final process was carried out stood in a row like a fleet of warships. The man on guard, who was an ex-policeman, passed behind the vats like a shadow.
“It looks mighty dangerous for to-morrow or the next day. I tell you it looks as if the blighters are going to resort to violence.” He grabbed the foreman by the shoulder and whispered in his ear: “Tell all ours to be ready.”
“D’ye think the sons of bitches could do anything?”
“You don’t think there’s any chance of them cutting the telephone wires?”
