Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
"Feetch!" grated Ogden Piltdon, president of the Piltdon Opener savagely. "The Piltdon Can-Opener is trailing the competition. Advertising and Sales are breaking their necks. It's Engineering that's missing the boat!" "But Mr. Piltdon," remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's "For two years there hasn't been one lousy improvement in the Piltdon for?" Feetch adjusted his spectacles with shaking hands. "But Mr. Piltdon, "Dignity," pronounced Piltdon, "is for museums. Four months, Feetch! no more!" Piltdon trudged out of the room, leaving behind him an oppressive silence. How could you set a time limit on research and development? A designer had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare, discard. He had always wanted to devote all his time to research, but thought Feetch. Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines, production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance. What had happened, to the proud dream he once had, the dream of exploring uncharted engineering regions, of unlimited time to investigate and Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction. What now? He had to hang on to his job. Technical work was scarce. Since the early 1980's the schools had been turning out more technicians than industry could absorb. He was too old to compete in himself, of course Hanson—good man—could work with him. He shook his head despairingly. Something would be sure to blow up. Well, he had to start— you just like that if you don't do the impossible. The Piltdon Company is built upon your designs and you get handed this deal!" "Well, well," said Feetch. "I drew my pay every week so I suppose I have no complaints. Although," a wistful note crept into his voice "I would have liked a little recognition. Piltdon is a household word, "Hello," said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a pencil point. "Feetch!" roared Piltdon. "Is this talk that's going "Mr. Piltdon—" said Feetch shakily. Feetch? The thing can be duplicated, can't it?" "Feetch," bit out Piltdon, his face growing hard. "Stow this hooey. I climbed to hundreds of thousands per day. Piltdon Opener went into sales to one to a customer. Piltdon cancelled his advertising program. Piltdon, genial these days with success and acclaim, roared at Feetch: That's almost four dollars a week, man." "Thank you, Mr. Piltdon." And still, thought Feetch wryly, he received no recognition. His name did not even appear on the patent. Well, well, that was the way it went. He must find his satisfaction in his work. And it had been interesting lately, the work he had been doing nights at home investigating what had been named the Piltdon Effect. It had been difficult, working alone and buying his own equipment. The oscillator and ultra microwave tracking unit had been particularly expensive. He was a fool, he supposed, to try independent research when so many huge scientific organizations were working on it. But he could no more keep away from it than he could stop eating. He still didn't know where the cans went, but somehow he felt that he As soon as he could get hold of Piltdon, Feetch said trembling, "Sir, I think I know where those cans are going. I recommend—" "Are you still worrying about that?" Piltdon roared jovially. "Leave that to the long-hairs. We're making money, that's all that counts, eh Feetch?" there. Anti-Piltdon editorials appeared in the papers. Commentators on the tip of his nose. "You're through, Feetch!" raved Piltdon. "Fired! Get out! But before Piltdon's huge desk. "No!" yelled Piltdon at Feetch's face which was "Forever, Feetch?" "You're positive, Feetch?" Piltdon's eyes glared into Feetch's. Feetch felt himself sag inwardly. "Mr. Piltdon," he said. "I'm asking your job back, didn't you?" The prospect of long years of heavy production schedules, restricted engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel very tired. Research, he thought. Development. What he had always wanted. Over the years he had waited, thinking that there would be opportunities later. But now he was growing older, and he felt that "Mr. Piltdon," Feetch said. "I—" klunk!—"resign." "No use," said Feetch. "Nothing you can say—" klunk! klunk! klunk!—"will make any difference now." "Feetch!" howled Piltdon. "I order you to remain!" Feetch almost submitted from force of habit. He hesitated for a moment, "Good-day," said Feetch firmly, sprinting through the falling cans to the door. Money, Feetch decided after a while, was a good thing to have. His supply was running pretty low. He was not having any luck finding day, as predicted by the statisticians, industry would not soon forget the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge. It was not anxious to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing. "Yes," Feetch would admit miserably. not desirable in a member of our organization—former employer states the decision was yours entirely. Unfavorable reference—" Piltdon, Feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his slow anger, Piltdon was hitting low and getting away with it. Of course, if he were to agree to reveal his latest discoveries to a No, Feetch told himself, he was revealing nothing that Piltdon might grab. The anger began to mount. But he was beginning to need money desperately. Jenny wasn't getting any better and medical bills were running high. "I'll go up another ten dollars," grated the little Piltdon image. Feetch. I know you can't find work anywhere else." "No," said Feetch. "People will forget anyway—I hope." "If you won't think of yourself, at least think of your fellow workmen," begged Piltdon, his voice going blurry. "Do you realize that Piltdon Opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your have families too. Think of the men in the shop, the girls in the office, the salesmen on the road. All, all unemployed because of you. Think of that, Feetch." Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him. Piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. "Think it over, Feetch." Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose figured the Super-Opener can solve this." Feetch hung up. A glow of anger that had been building up in his chest grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think, Feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of Think? He'd figured the solution long ago, only he hadn't allowed himself to see it. Not lack of brains, lack of guts. Well, he thought grimly, dialing Piltdon's number, he was going through with it now. hand. "Here is everything I know about what I call the Feetch Effect, Piltdon leaped from his chair. "Outrageous!" He roared. "Ridiculous!" Piltdon threw the paper to the floor and screamed: "Gentlemen, will you be a party to this?" "Well," murmured the Government man, "I never did think Feetch got a "Mr Feetch—" said Piltdon. Feetch looked up from his desk in the newly constructed Feetch "Piltdon, don't bother me about production. Production is your problem." "But Mr. Feetch—" Piltdon blanched and left.

<question>:
How did the majority of Piltdon workers feel about Feetch?

<options>:
A They respected him
B They thought he was too careless
C They felt indifferent towards him
D They thought he was only thinking about money

<answer>:

A