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Updated: June 6, 2025
He wanted to call the man back and demand that he listen to the truth. He wanted to explain, to set himself right. He wanted that man and all men to know he was not the Bonbright Foote who had brought on the strike and fought it with such vindictive ruthlessness.
"She's LOST," said Bonbright, as Hilda came into the room. "What? Who are you talking about?" "'Ruth.... She's not with Dulac. He doesn't know where she is; she was never with him." "Did you think she was?" Hilda said, accusingly. "You you're so Oh, the pair of you!" "Do you know where she is?" "I haven't seen nor heard of her since the day your father died."
Lightener was on the wire. "This is Rangar, Mr. Lightener Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. Mr. Foote wished me to inquire if you had seen Mr. Bonbright between six o'clock last night and this morning." "No.... Why does he ask me? What's the matter?" "Mr. Foote says Bonbright stayed with you one night, and thought he might have done so again. Mr. Foote is worried, sir.
The malice which had glittered in his eyes then was functioning now. Rangar's message was to Dulac. "Your girl's just gone to Apple Lake with young Foote in his car," it said. That was all, but it seemed ample to Rangar. Bonbright was not a reckless driver, but he drove rapidly this evening, with a sort of driven eagerness.
Behind him a hatless man in a high state of excitement was making an inflammatory speech from a doorstep. He was urging the mob to charge the police, to trample them under.... Bonbright leaned far over the railing so he could look down the street where the main body of the mob was assembled. There was another speaker.
"If you think I'm goin' to sign one of them releases you're damn mistaken," moaned the man. "Jim," said Bonbright, "you needn't sign anything.... What's done can't be mended.... It was bad. It was criminal..." "Mr. Foote," protested the young lawyer. "I'll attend to this," said Bonbright, shortly.
"You have my word," said Bonbright. "Rats!" "Shut up... shut up!" the objector was admonished. "That's all, men," Bonbright said. "Think it over. This plan is going into effect. If you want to share in it you can do so, every one of you.... Thank you for listening." Bonbright turned and sat down in a chair on the platform, anxious, watching that sea of faces, waiting to see what would happen.
Before the gate a man sat on a soap box, a short club dangling by a thong from his wrist. As Bonbright approached he arose. "What you want?" he demanded, taking a businesslike grip on his weapon. "I want to go in," said Bonbright. "I'm Mr. Foote." The man grinned. "To be sure, Mr. Foote. Howdy, Mr. Foote. You'll be glad to meet me. I'm Santa Claus." "I tell you I'm Mr. Foote. I want to go inside."
It had been labor's entering wedge into the automobile world. Then Bonbright had married the girl he loved. Some men can hate sufficiently for that cause alone... Ruth had loved him, but she had married Bonbright. He had gone to take her away, had seen her yielding to him and Bonbright had come. Again he had intervened.
Perhaps, as individuals became acquainted with him, there was less open hostility manifested, but there remained suspicion, resentment, which Bonbright was unable to convert into friendship and co-operation. The professor of sociology peered frequently at Bonbright through his thick spectacles with keen interest.
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