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220 which embraced 10,000 workers in the printing trades, they had been like a victorious army.

“Comrades, come rally!” Singing lustily, they pressed up to the time record. Their voices rose on a great wave as one after another they pushed their time-books into the big time-clock.

“And the last fight let us face.” The belts of the engines started flapping and all twelve shops were instantly drowned in noise. In the lulls resounded the spirited voices of the workers.

In the president’s room six officials were assembled; the heads of each department (accounts, business, works, and general affairs), the managing director and the vice-president.

Behind the great green armchair, reserved for the president, hung a “Graph of Production” like a holy Buddhist picture before an altar.

From the beginning of the year the red line representing production descended swiftly like a bird that has been shot, while the blue line of wages soared upwards like an aeroplane.

Of the six men the lean vice-president and the thick-set, florid, puffy-cheeked managing director stood out in vivid contrast. And this contrast was not only an external one, but bore a striking affinity to the actual situations of the two men at that time.

At noon the president was to arrive, and then the final plan would be decided on. That was the definite time limit allowed to Vice-President Arishima. His only salvation was to exert all his