“Toyama is here.”
With a jerk he raised his head. Toyama! He felt a faint gleam of light. That was the man; if only he would speak up—if he and the Right Wingers could be got to work together, surely the efficiency committee would be a success.
He rose and went downstairs. … Toyama had been neglecting union work lately; it was said that he was not on very good terms with the Left-Wing crowd, he mused.
Sitting on the hard chair of the reception room was a man of twenty-six or twenty-seven, in overalls, with a beard and a muddy complexion.
“How do you do, Mr. Toyama?” The vice-president forced a smile and sat down beside him. “I wonder if we’ll launch the efficiency committee successfully, what do you think?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” answered Toyama brusquely. He had the high cheek-bones and stiff beard of a Kushu man, but seemed to have lost all his vitality. At one time, as a leader of the 1924 strike, he had carried weight with all the workers; to-day his influence was gone. Younger men were taking his place.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting you to use your influence to make it a success?”
There was a note of entreaty in the vice-president’s voice as he scanned the other’s face. If this man were to wave the flag of revolt against the Left-Wing! To say the least, he was hopeful.
“I think you must appreciate that I have supported your demands, haven’t I, now? And I may
