SECTION 5.
Mary's speech was brought to a sudden end. A group of the men had moved down the street, and there arose a disturbance there. The noise of it swelled louder, and more people began to move in that direction. Mary turned to look, and all at once the whole throng surged down the street.
The trouble was at the hospital. In front of this building was a porch, and on it Cartwright and Alec Stone were standing, with a group of the clerks and office-employés, among whom Hal saw Predovich, Johnson, the postmaster, and Si Adams. At the foot of the steps stood Tim Rafferty, with a swarm of determined men at his back. He was shouting, “We want them lawyers out of there!”
The superintendent himself had undertaken to parley with him. “There are no lawyers in here, Rafferty.”
“We don't trust you!” And the crowd took up the cry: “We'll see for ourselves!”
“You can't go into this building,” declared Cartwright.
“I'm goin' to see my father!” shouted Tim. “I've got a right to see my father, ain't I?”
“You can see him in the morning. You can take him away, if you want to. We've no desire to keep him. But he's asleep now, and you can't disturb the others.”
“You weren't afraid to disturb them with your damned lawyers!” And there was a roar of approval—so loud that Cartwright's denial could hardly be heard.
“There have been no lawyers near him, I tell you.”
“It's a lie!” shouted Wauchope. “They been in there all day, and you know it. We mean to have them out.”
“Go on, Tim!” cried Andy, the Greek boy, pushing his way to the front. “Go on!” cried the others; and thus encouraged, Rafferty started up the steps.
“I mean to see my father!” As Cartwright caught him by the shoulder, he yelled, “Let me go, I say!”
It was evident that the superintendent was trying his best not to use violence; he was ordering his own followers back at the same time that he was holding the boy. But Tim's blood was up; he shoved forward, and the superintendent, either striking him or trying to ward off a blow, threw him backwards down the steps. There was an uproar of rage from the throng; they surged forward, and at the same time some of the men on the porch drew revolvers.
The meaning of that situation was plain enough. In a moment more the mob would be up the steps, and there would be shooting. And if once that happened, who could guess the end? Wrought up as the crowd was, it might not stop till it had fired every company building, perhaps not until it had murdered every company representative.
Hal had resolved to keep in the back-ground, but he saw that to keep in the back-ground at that moment would be an act of cowardice, almost a crime. He sprang forward, his cry rising above the clamour. “Stop, men! Stop!”
There was probably no other man in North Valley who could have got himself heeded at that moment. But Hal had their confidence, he had earned the right to be heard. Had he not been to prison for them, had they not seen him behind the bars? “Joe Smith!” The cry ran from one end of the excited throng to the other.
Hal was fighting his way forward, shoving men to one side, imploring, commanding silence. “Tim Rafferty! Wait!” And Tim, recognising the voice, obeyed.
Once clear of the press, Hal sprang upon the porch, where Cartwright did not attempt to interfere with him.
“Men!” he cried. “Hold on a moment! This isn't what you want! You don't want a fight!” He paused for an instant; but he knew that no mere negative would hold them at that moment. They must be told what they did want. Just now he had learned the particular words that would carry, and he proclaimed them at the top of his voice: “What you want is a union! A strike!”
He was answered by a roar from the crowd, the loudest yet. Yes, that was what they wanted! A strike! And they wanted Joe Smith to organise it, to lead it. He had been their leader once, he had been thrown out of camp for it. How he had got back they were not quite clear—but here he was, and he was their darling. Hurrah for him! They would follow him to hell and back!
And wasn't he the boy with the nerve! Standing there on the porch of the hospital, right under the very noses of the bosses, making a union speech to them, and the bosses never daring to touch him! The crowd, realising this situation, went wild with delight. The English-speaking men shouted assent to his words; and those who could not understand, shouted because the others did.
They did not want fighting—of course not! Fighting would not help them! What would help them was to get together, and stand a solid body of free men. There would be a union committee, able to speak for all of them, to say that no man would go to work any more until justice was secured! They would have an end to the business of discharging men because they asked for their rights, of blacklisting men and driving them out of the district because they presumed to want what the laws of the state awarded them!
SECTION 6.
How long could a man expect to stand on the steps of a company building, with a super and a pit-boss at his back, and organise a union of mine-workers? Hal realised that he must move the crowd from that perilous place.
“You'll do what I say, now?” he demanded; and when they agreed in chorus, he added the warning: “There'll be no fighting! And no drinking! If you see any man drunk to-night, sit on him and hold him down!”
They laughed and cheered. Yes, they would keep straight. Here was a job for sober men, you bet!
“And now,” Hal continued, “the people in the hospital. We'll have a committee go in and see about them. No noise—we don't want to disturb the sick men. We only want to make sure nobody else is disturbing them. Some one will go in and stay with them. Does that suit you?”
Yes, that suited them.
“All right,” said Hal. “Keep quiet for a moment.”
And he turned to the superintendent. “Cartwright,” said he, “we want a committee to go in and stay with our people.” Then, as the superintendent started to expostulate, he added, in a low voice, “Don't be a fool, man! Don't you see I'm trying to save your life?”
The superintendent knew how bad it would be for discipline to let Hal carry his point with the crowd; but also he saw the immediate danger—and he was not sure of the courage and shooting ability of book-keepers and stenographers.
“Be quick, man!” exclaimed Hal. “I can't hold these people long. If you don't want hell breaking loose, come to your senses.”
“All right,” said Cartwright, swallowing his dignity.
And Hal turned to the men and announced the concession. There was a shout of triumph.
“Now, who's to go?” said Hal, when he could be heard again; and he looked about at the upturned faces. There Were Tim and Wauchope, the most obvious ones; but Hal decided to keep them under his eye. He thought of Jerry Minetti and of Mrs. David—but remembered his agreement with “Big Jack,” to keep their own little group in the back-ground. Then he thought of Mary Burke; she had already done herself all the harm she could do, and she was a person the crowd would trust. He called her, and called Mrs. Ferris, an American woman in the crowd. The two came up the steps, and Hal turned to Cartwright.
“Now, let's have an understanding,” he said. “These people are going in to stay with the sick men, and to talk to them if they want to, and nobody's going to give them any orders but the doctors and nurses. Is that right?”
“All right,” said the superintendent, sullenly.
“Good!” said Hal. “And for God's sake have a little sense and stand by your word; this crowd has had all it can endure, and if you do any more to provoke it, the consequences will be on you. And while you're about it, see that the saloons are closed and kept closed until this trouble is settled. And keep your people out of the way—don't let them go about showing their guns and making faces.”
Without waiting to hear the superintendent's reply, Hal turned to the throng, and held up his hand for silence. “Men,” he said, “we have a big job to do—we're going to organise a union. And we can't do it here in front of the hospital. We've made too much noise already. Let's go off quietly, and have our meeting on the dump in back of the power-house. Does that suit you?”
They answered that it suited them; and Hal, having seen the two women passed safely into the hospital, sprang down from the porch to lead the way. Jerry Minetti came to his side, trembling with delight; and Hal clutched him by the arm and whispered, excitedly, “Sing, Jerry! Sing them some Dago song!”
SECTION 7.
They got to the place appointed without any fighting. And meantime Hal had worked out in his mind a plan for communicating with this polyglot horde. He knew that half the men could not understand a word of English, and that half the remainder understood very little. Obviously, if he was to make matters clear to them, they must be sorted out according to nationality, and a reliable interpreter found for each group.
The process of sorting proved a slow one, involving no end of shouting and good-natured jostling—Polish here, Bohemian here, Greek here, Italian here! When this job had been done, and a man found from each nationality who understood enough English to translate to his fellows, Hal started in to make a speech. But before he had spoken many sentences, pandemonium broke loose. All the interpreters started interpreting at the same time—and at the top of their lungs; it was like a parade with the bands close together! Hal was struck dumb; then he began to laugh, and the various audiences began to laugh; the orators stopped, perplexed—then they too began to laugh. So wave after wave of merriment rolled over the throng; the mood of the assembly was changed all at once, from rage and determination to the wildest hilarity. Hal learned his first lesson in the handling of these hordes of child-like people, whose moods were quick, whose tempers were balanced upon a fine point.
It was necessary for him to make his speech through to the end, and then move the various audiences apart, to be addressed by the various interpreters. But then arose a new difficulty. How could any one control these floods of eloquence? How be sure that the message was not being distorted? Hal had been warned by Olson of company detectives who posed as workers, gaining the confidence of men in order to incite them to violence. And certainly some of these interpreters were violent-looking, and one's remarks sounded strange in their translations!
There was the Greek orator, for example; a wild man, with wild hair and eyes, who tore all his passions to tatters. He stood upon a barrel-head, with the light of two pit-lamps upon him, and some two score of his compatriots at his feet; he waved his arms, he shook his fists, he shrieked, he bellowed. But when Hal, becoming uneasy, went over and asked another English-speaking Greek what the orator was saying, the answer was that he was promising that the law should be enforced in North Valley!
Hal stood watching this perfervid little man, a study in the possibilities of gesture. He drew back his shoulders and puffed out his chest, almost throwing himself backwards off the barrel-head; he was saying that the miners would be able to live like men. He crouched down and bowed his head, moaning; he was telling them what would happen if they gave up. He fastened his fingers in his long black hair and began tugging desperately; he pulled, and then stretched out his empty hands; he pulled again, so hard that it almost made one cry out with pain to watch him. Hal asked what that was for; and the answer was, “He say, 'Stand by union! Pull one hair, he come out; pull all hairs, no come out'!” It carried one back to the days of Aesop and his fables!
Tom Olson had told Hal something about the technique of an organiser, who wished to drill these ignorant hordes. He had to repeat and repeat, until the dullest in his audience had grasped his meaning, had got into his head the all-saving idea of solidarity. When the various orators had talked themselves out, and the audiences had come back to the cinder-heap, Hal made his speech all over again, in words of one syllable, in the kind of pidgin-English which does duty in the camps. Sometimes he would stop to reinforce it with Greek or Italian or Slavish words he had picked up. Or perhaps his eloquence would inflame some one of the interpreters afresh, and he would wait while the man shouted a few sentences to his compatriots. It was not necessary to consider the possibility of boring any one, for these were patient and long-suffering men, and now desperately in earnest.
They were going to have a union; they were going to do the thing in regular form, with membership cards and officials chosen by ballot. So Hal explained to them, step by step. There was no use organising unless they meant to stay organised. They would choose leaders, one from each of the principal language groups; and these leaders would meet and draw up a set of demands, which would be submitted in mass-meeting, and ratified, and then presented to the bosses with the announcement that until these terms were granted, not a single North Valley worker would go back into the pits.
Jerry Minetti, who knew all about unions, advised Hal to enroll the men at once; he counted on the psychological effect of having each man come forward and give in his name. But here at once they met a difficulty encountered by all would-be organisers—lack of funds. There must be pencils and paper for the enrollment; and Hal had emptied his pockets for Jack David! He was forced to borrow a quarter, and send a messenger off to the store. It was voted by the delegates that each member as he joined the union should be assessed a dime. There would have to be some telegraphing and telephoning if they were going to get help from the outside world.
A temporary committee was named, consisting of Tim Rafferty, Wauchope and Hal, to keep the lists and the funds, and to run things until another meeting could be held on the morrow; also a body-guard of a dozen of the sturdiest and most reliable men were named to stay by the committee. The messenger came back with pads and pencils, and sitting on the ground by the light of pit-lamps, the interpreters wrote down the names of the men who wished to join the union, each man in turn pledging his word for solidarity and discipline. Then the meeting was declared adjourned till daylight of the morrow, and the workers scattered to their homes to sleep, with a joy and sense of power such as few of them had ever known in their lives before.
SECTION 8.
The committee and its body-guard repaired to the dining-room of Reminitsky's, where they stretched themselves out on the floor; no one attempted to interfere with them, and while the majority snored peacefully, Hal and a small group sat writing out the list of demands which were to be submitted to the bosses in the morning. It was arranged that Jerry should go down to Pedro by the early morning train, to get into touch with Jack David and the union officials, and report to them the latest developments. Because the officials were sure to have detectives following them, Hal warned Jerry to go to MacKellar's house, and have MacKellar bring “Big Jack” to meet him there. Also Jerry must have MacKellar get the Gazette on the long distance phone, and tell Billy Keating about the strike.
A hundred things like this Hal had to think of; his head was a-buzz with them, so that when he lay down to sleep he could not. He thought about the bosses, and what they might be doing. The bosses would not be sleeping, he felt sure!
And then came thoughts about his private-car friends; about the strangeness of this plight into which he had got himself! He laughed aloud in a kind of desperation as he recalled Percy's efforts to get him away from here. And poor Jessie! What could he say to her now?
The bosses made no move that night; and when morning came, the strikers hurried to the meeting-place, some of them without even stopping for breakfast. They came tousled and unkempt, looking anxiously at their fellows, as if unable to credit the memory of the bold thing they had done on the night before. But finding the committee and its body-guard on hand and ready for business, their courage revived, they felt again the wonderful sentiment of solidarity which had made men of them. Pretty soon speech-making began, and cheering and singing, which brought out the laggards and the cowards. So in a short while the movement was in full swing, with practically every man, woman and child among the workers present.
Mary Burke came from the hospital, where she had spent the night. She looked weary and bedraggled, but her spirit of battle had not slumped. She reported that she had talked with some of the injured men, and that many of them had signed “releases,” whereby the company protected itself against even the threat of a lawsuit. Others had refused to sign, and Mary had been vehement in warning them to stand out. Two other women volunteered to go to the hospital, in order that she might have a chance to rest; but Mary did not wish to rest, she did not feel as if she could ever rest again.
The members of the newly-organised union proceeded to elect officers. They sought to make Hal president, but he was shy of binding himself in that irrevocable way, and succeeded in putting the honour off on Wauchope. Tim Rafferty was made treasurer and secretary. Then a committee was chosen to go to Cartwright with the demands of the men. It included Hal, Wauchope, and Tim; an Italian named Marcelli, whom Jerry had vouched for; a representative of the Slavs and one of the Greeks—Rusick and Zammakis, both of them solid and faithful men. Finally, with a good deal of laughter and cheering, the meeting voted to add Mary Burke to this committee. It was a new thing to have a woman in such a role, but Mary was the daughter of a miner and the sister of a breaker-boy, and had as good a right to speak as any one in North Valley.
SECTION 9.
Hal read the document which had been prepared the night before. They demanded the right to have a union without being discharged for it. They demanded a check-weighman, to be elected by the men themselves. They demanded that the mines should be sprinkled to prevent explosions, and properly timbered to prevent falls. They demanded the right to trade at any store they pleased. Hal called attention to the fact that every one of these demands was for a right guaranteed by the laws of the state; this was a significant fact, and he urged the men not to include other demands. After some argument they voted down the proposition of the radicals, who wanted a ten per cent. increase in wages. Also they voted down the proposition of a syndicalist-anarchist, who explained to them in a jumble of English and Italian that the mines belonged to them, and that they should refuse all compromise and turn the bosses out forthwith.
While this speech was being delivered, young Rovetta pushed his way through the crowd and drew Hal to one side. He had been down by the railroad-station and seen the morning train come in. From it had descended a crowd of thirty or forty men, of that “hard citizen” type which every miner in the district could recognise at the first glance. Evidently the company officials had been keeping the telephone-wires busy that night; they were bringing in, not merely this train-load of guards, but automobile loads from other camps—from the Northeastern down the canyon, and from Barela, in a side canyon over the mountain.
Hal told this news to the meeting, which received it with howls of rage. So that was the bosses' plan! Hot-heads sprang upon the cinder-heap, half a dozen of them trying to make speeches at once. The leaders had to suppress these too impetuous ones by main force; once more Hal gave the warning of “No fighting!” They were going to have faith in their union; they were going to present a solid front to the company, and the company would learn the lesson that intimidation would not win a strike.
So it was agreed, and the committee set out for the company's office, Wauchope carrying in his hand the written demands of the meeting. Behind the committee marched the crowd in a solid mass; they packed the street in front of the office, while the heroic seven went up the steps and passed into the building. Wauchope made inquiry for Mr. Cartwright, and a clerk took in the message.
They stood waiting; and meanwhile, one of the office-people, coming in from the street, beckoned to Hal. He had an envelope in his hand, and gave it over without a word. It was addressed, “Joe Smith,” and Hal opened it, and found within a small visiting card, at which he stared. “Edward S. Warner, Jr.”!
For a moment Hal could hardly believe the evidence of his eyesight. Edward in North Valley! Then, turning the card over, he read, in his brother's familiar handwriting, “I am at Cartwright's house. I must see you. The matter concerns Dad. Come instantly.”
Fear leaped into Hal's heart. What could such a message mean?
He turned quickly to the committee and explained. “My father's an old man, and had a stroke of apoplexy three years ago. I'm afraid he may be dead, or very ill. I must go.”
“It's a trick!” cried Wauchope excitedly.
“No, not possibly,” answered Hal. “I know my brother's handwriting. I must see him.”
“Well,” declared the other, “we'll wait. We'll not see Cartwright until you get back.”
Hal considered this. “I don't think that's wise,” he said. “You can do what you have to do just as well without me.”
“But I wanted you to do the talking!”
“No,” replied Hal, “that's your business, Wauchope. You are the president of the union. You know what the men want, as well as I do; you know what they complain of. And besides, there's not going to be any need of talking with Cartwright. Either he's going to grant our demands or he isn't.”
They discussed the matter back and forth. Mary Burke insisted that they were pulling Hal away just at the critical moment! He laughed as he answered. She was as good as any man when it came to an argument. If Wauchope showed signs of weakening, let her speak up!
SECTION 10.
So Hal hurried off, and climbed the street which led to the superintendent's house, a concrete bungalow set upon a little elevation overlooking the camp. He rang the bell, and the door opened, and in the entrance stood his brother.
Edward Warner was eight years older than Hal; the perfect type of the young American business man. His figure was erect and athletic, his features were regular and strong, his voice, his manner, everything about him spoke of quiet decision, of energy precisely directed. As a rule, he was a model of what the tailor's art could do, but just now there was something abnormal about his attire as well as his manner.
Hal's anxiety had been increasing all the way up the street. “What's the matter with Dad?” he cried.
“Dad's all right,” was the answer—“that is, for the moment.”
“Then what—?”
“Peter Harrigan's on his way back from the East. He's due in Western City to-morrow. You can see that something will be the matter with Dad unless you quit this business at once.”
Hal had a sudden reaction from his fear. “So that's all!” he exclaimed.
His brother was gazing at the young miner, dressed in sooty blue overalls, his face streaked with black, his wavy hair all mussed. “You wired me you were going to leave here, Hal!”
“So I was; but things happened that I couldn't foresee. There's a strike.”
“Yes; but what's that got to do with it?” Then, with exasperation in his voice, “For God's sake, Hal, how much farther do you expect to go?”
Hal stood for a few moments, looking at his brother. Even in a tension as he was, he could not help laughing. “I know how all this must seem to you, Edward. It's a long story; I hardly know how to begin.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Edward, drily.
And Hal laughed again. “Well, we agree that far, at any rate. What I was hoping was that we could talk it all over quietly, after the excitement was past. When I explain to you about conditions in this place—”
But Edward interrupted. “Really, Hal, there's no use of such an argument. I have nothing to do with conditions in Peter Harrigan's camps.”
The smile left Hal's face. “Would you have preferred to have me investigate conditions in the Warner camps?” Hal had tried to suppress his irritation, but there was simply no way these two could get along. “We've had our arguments about these things, Edward, and you've always had the best of me—you could tell me I was a child, it was presumptuous of me to dispute your assertions. But now—well, I'm a child no longer, and we'll have to meet on a new basis.”
Hal's tone, more than his words, made an impression. Edward thought before he spoke. “Well, what's your new basis?”
“Just now I'm in the midst of a strike, and I can hardly stop to explain.”
“You don't think of Dad in all this madness?”
“I think of Dad, and of you too, Edward; but this is hardly the time—”
“If ever in the world there was a time, this is it!”
Hal groaned inwardly. “All right,” he said, “sit down. I'll try to give you some idea how I got swept into this.”
He began to tell about the conditions he had found in this stronghold of the “G. F. C.” As usual, when he talked about it, he became absorbed in its human aspects; a fervour came into his tone, he was carried on, as he had been when he tried to argue with the officials in Pedro. But his eloquence was interrupted, even as it had been then; he discovered that his brother was in such a state of exasperation that he could not listen to a consecutive argument.
It was the old, old story; it had been thus as far back as Hal could remember. It seemed one of the mysteries of nature, how she could have brought two such different temperaments out of the same parentage. Edward was practical and positive; he knew what he wanted in the world, and he knew how to get it; he was never troubled with doubts, nor with self-questioning, nor with any other superfluous emotions; he could not understand people who allowed that sort of waste in their mental processes. He could not understand people who got “swept into things.”
In the beginning, he had had with Hal the prestige of the elder brother. He was handsome as a young Greek god, he was strong and masterful; whether he was flying over the ice with sure, strong strokes, or cutting the water with his glistening shoulders, or bringing down a partridge with the certainty and swiftness of a lightning stroke, Edward was the incarnation of Success. When he said that one's ideas were “rot,” when he spoke with contempt of “mollycoddles”—then indeed one suffered in soul, and had to go back to Shelley and Ruskin to renew one's courage.
The questioning of life had begun very early with Hal; there seemed to be something in his nature which forced him to go to the roots of things; and much as he looked up to his wonderful brother, he had been made to realise that there were sides of life to which this brother was blind. To begin with, there were religious doubts; the distresses of mind which plague a young man when first it dawns upon him that the faith he has been brought up in is a higher kind of fairy-tale. Edward had never asked such questions, apparently. He went to church, because it was the thing to do; more especially because it was pleasing to the young lady he wished to marry to have him put on stately clothes, and escort her to a beautiful place of music and flowers and perfumes, where she would meet her friends, also in stately clothes. How abnormal it seemed to Edward that a young man should give up this pleasant custom, merely because he could not be sure that Jonah had swallowed a whale!
But it was when Hal's doubts attacked his brother's week-day religion—the religion of the profit-system—that the controversy between them had become deadly. At first Hal had known nothing about practical affairs, and it had been Edward's duty to answer his questions. The prosperity of the country had been built up by strong men; and these men had enemies—evil-minded persons, animated by jealousy and other base passions, seeking to tear down the mighty structure. At first this devil-theory had satisfied the boy; but later on, as he had come to read and observe, he had been plagued by doubts. In the end, listening to his brother's conversation, and reading the writings of so-called “muck-rakers,” the realisation was forced upon him that there were two types of mind in the controversy—those who thought of profits, and those who thought of human beings.
Edward was alarmed at the books Hal was reading; he was still more alarmed when he saw the ideas Hal was bringing home from college. There must have been some strange change in Harrigan in a few years; no one had dreamed of such ideas when Edward was there! No one had written satiric songs about the faculty, or the endowments of eminent philanthropists!
In the meantime Edward Warner Senior had had a paralytic stroke, and Edward Junior had taken charge of the company. Three years of this had given him the point of view of a coal-operator, hard and set for a life-time. The business of a coal-operator was to buy his labour cheap, to turn out the maximum product in the shortest time, and to sell the product at the market price to parties whose credit was satisfactory. If a concern was doing that, it was a successful concern; for any one to mention that it was making wrecks of the people who dug the coal, was to be guilty of sentimentality and impertinence.
Edward had heard with dismay his brother's announcement that he meant to study industry by spending his vacation as a common labourer. However, when he considered it, he was inclined to think that the idea might not be such a bad one. Perhaps Hal would not find what he was looking for; perhaps, working with his hands, he might get some of the nonsense knocked out of his head!
But now the experiment had been made, and the revelation had burst upon Edward that it had been a ghastly failure. Hal had not come to realise that labour was turbulent and lazy and incompetent, needing a strong hand to rule it; on the contrary, he had become one of these turbulent ones himself! A champion of the lazy and incompetent, an agitator, a fomenter of class-prejudice, an enemy of his own friends, and of his brother's business associates!
Never had Hal seen Edward in such a state of excitement. There was something really abnormal about him, Hal realised; it puzzled him vaguely while he talked, but he did not understand it until his brother told how he had come to be here. He had been attending a dinner-dance at the home of a friend, and Percy Harrigan had got him on the telephone at half past eleven o'clock at night. Percy had had a message from Cartwright, to the effect that Hal was leading a riot in North Valley; Percy had painted the situation in such lurid colours that Edward had made a dash and caught the midnight train, wearing his evening clothes, and without so much as a tooth-brush with him!
Hal could hardly keep from bursting out laughing. His brother, his punctilious and dignified brother, alighting from a sleeping-car at seven o'clock in the morning, wearing a dress suit and a silk hat! And here he was, Edward Warner Junior, the fastidious, who never paid less than a hundred and fifty dollars for a suit of clothes, clad in a “hand-me-down” for which he had expended twelve dollars and forty-eight cents in a “Jew-store” in a coal-town!
SECTION 11.
But Edward would not stop for a single smile; his every faculty was absorbed in the task he had before him, to get his brother out of this predicament, so dangerous and so humiliating. Hal had come to a town owned by Edward's business friends, and had proceeded to meddle in their affairs, to stir up their labouring people and imperil their property. That North Valley was the property of the General Fuel Company—not merely the mines and the houses, but likewise the people who lived in them—Edward seemed to have no doubt whatever; Hal got only exclamations of annoyance when he suggested any other point of view. Would there have been any town of North Valley, if it had not been for the capital and energy of the General Fuel Company? If the people of North Valley did not like the conditions which the General Fuel Company offered them, they had one simple and obvious remedy—to go somewhere else to work. But they stayed; they got out the General Fuel Company's coal, they took the General Fuel Company's wages—
“Well, they've stopped taking them now,” put in Hal.
All right, that was their affair, replied Edward. But let them stop because they wanted to—not because outside agitators put them up to it. At any rate, let the agitators not include a member of the Warner family!
The elder brother pictured old Peter Harrigan on his way back from the East; the state of unutterable fury in which he would arrive, the storm he would raise in the business world of Western City. Why, it was unimaginable, such a thing had never been heard of! “And right when we're opening up a new mine—when we need every dollar of credit we can get!”
“Aren't we big enough to stand off Peter Harrigan?” inquired Hal.
“We have plenty of other people to stand off,” was the answer. “We don't have to go out of our way to make enemies.”
Edward spoke, not merely as the elder brother, but also as the money-man of the family. When the father had broken down from over-work, and had been changed in one terrible hour from a driving man of affairs into a childish and pathetic invalid, Hal had been glad enough that there was one member of the family who was practical; he had been perfectly willing to see his brother shoulder these burdens, while he went off to college, to amuse himself with satiric songs. Hal had no responsibilities, no one asked anything of him—except that he would not throw sticks into the wheels of the machine his brother was running. “You are living by the coal industry! Every dollar you spend comes from it—”
“I know it! I know it!” cried Hal. “That's the thing that torments me! The fact that I'm living upon the bounty of such wage-slaves—”
“Oh, cut it out!” cried Edward. “That's not what I mean!”
“I know—but it's what I mean! From now on I mean to know about the people who work for me, and what sort of treatment they get. I'm no longer your kid-brother, to be put off with platitudes.”
“You know ours are union mines, Hal—”
“Yes, but what does that mean? How do we work it? Do we give the men their weights?”
“Of course! They have their check-weighmen.”
“But then, how do we compete with the operators in this district, who pay for a ton of three thousand pounds?”
“We manage it—by economy.”
“Economy? I don't see Peter Harrigan wasting anything here!” Hal paused for an answer, but none came. “Do we buy the check-weighmen? Do we bribe the labour leaders?”
Edward coloured slightly. “What's the use of being nasty, Hal? You know I don't do dirty work.”
“I don't mean to be nasty, Edward; but you must know that many a business-man can say he doesn't do dirty work, because he has others do it for him. What about politics, for instance? Do we run a machine, and put our clerks and bosses into the local offices?”
Edward did not answer, and Hal persisted, “I mean to know these things! I'm not going to be blind any more!”
“All right, Hal—you can know anything you want; but for God's sake, not now! If you want to be taken for a man, show a man's common sense! Here's Old Peter getting back to Western City to-morrow night! Don't you know that he'll be after me, raging like a mad bull? Don't you know that if I tell him I can do nothing—that I've been down here and tried to pull you away—don't you know he'll go after Dad?”
Edward had tried all the arguments, and this was the only one that counted. “You must keep him away from Dad!” exclaimed Hal.
“You tell me that!” retorted the other. “And when you know Old Peter! Don't you know he'll get at him, if he has to break down the door of the house? He'll throw the burden of his rage on that poor old man! You've been warned about it clearly; you know it may be a matter of life and death to keep Dad from getting excited. I don't know what he'd do; maybe he'd fly into a rage with you, maybe he'd defend you. He's old and weak, he's lost his grip on things. Anyhow, he'd not let Peter abuse you—and like as not he'd drop dead in the midst of the dispute! Do you want to have that on your conscience, along with the troubles of your workingmen friends?”
SECTION 12.
Hal sat staring in front of him, silent. Was it a fact that every man had something in his life which palsied his arm, and struck him helpless in the battle for social justice?
When he spoke again, it was in a low voice. “Edward, I'm thinking about a young Irish boy who works in these mines. He, too, has a father; and this father was caught in the explosion. He's an old man, with a wife and seven other children. He's a good man, the boy's a good boy. Let me tell you what Peter Harrigan has done to them!”
“Well,” said Edward, “whatever it is, it's all right, you can help them. They won't need to starve.”
“I know,” said Hal, “but there are so many others; I can't help them all. And besides, can't you see, Edward—what I'm thinking about is not charity, but justice. I'm sure this boy, Tim Rafferty, loves his father just exactly as much as I love my father; and there are other old men here, with sons who love them—”
“Oh, Hal, for Christ's sake!” exclaimed Edward, in a sort of explosion. He had no other words to express his impatience. “Do you expect to take all the troubles in the world on your shoulders?” And he sprang up and caught the other by the arm. “Boy, you've got to come away from here!”
Hal got up, without answering. He seemed irresolute, and his brother started to draw him towards the door. “I've got a car here. We can get a train in an hour—”
Hal saw that he had to speak firmly. “No, Edward,” he said. “I can't come just yet.”
“I tell you you must come!”
“I can't. I made these men a promise!”
“In God's name—what are these men to you? Compared with your own father!”
“I can't explain it, Edward. I've talked for half an hour, and I don't think you've even heard me. Suffice it to say that I see these people caught in a trap—and one that my whole life has helped to make. I can't leave them in it. What's more, I don't believe Dad would want me to do it, if he understood.”
The other made a last effort at self-control. “I'm not going to call you a sentimental fool. Only, let me ask you one plain question. What do you think you can do for these people?”
“I think I can help to win decent conditions for them.”
“Good God!” cried Edward; he sighed, in his agony of exasperation. “In Peter Harrigan's mines! Don't you realise that he'll pick them up and throw them out of here, neck and crop—the whole crew, every man in the town, if necessary?”
“Perhaps,” answered Hal; “but if the men in the other mines should join them—if the big union outside should stand by them—”
“You're dreaming, Hal! You're talking like a child! I talked to the superintendent here; he had telegraphed the situation to Old Peter, and had just got an answer. Already he's acted, no doubt.”
“Acted?” echoed Hal. “How do you mean?” He was staring at his brother in sudden anxiety.
“They were going to turn the agitators out, of course.”
“What? And while I'm here talking!”
Hal turned toward the door. “You knew it all the time!” he exclaimed. “You kept me here deliberately!”
He was starting away, but Edward sprang and caught him. “What could you have done?”
“Turn me loose!” cried Hal, angrily.
“Don't be a fool, Hal! I've been trying to keep you out of the trouble. There may be fighting.”
Edward threw himself between Hal and the door, and there was a sharp struggle. But the elder man was no longer the athlete, the young bronzed god; he had been sitting at a desk in an office, while Hal had been doing hard labour. Hal threw him to one side, and in a moment more had sprung out of the door, and was running down the slope.
SECTION 13.
Coming to the main street of the village, Hal saw the crowd in front of the office. One glance told him that something had happened. Men were running this way and that, gesticulating, shouting. Some were coming in his direction, and when they saw him they began to yell to him. The first to reach him was Klowoski, the little Pole, breathless; gasping with excitement. “They fire our committee!”
“Fire them?”
“Fire 'em out! Down canyon!” The little man was waving his arms in wild gestures; his eyes seemed about to start out of his head. “Take 'em off! Whole bunch fellers—gunmen! People see them—come out back door. Got ever'body's arm tied. Gunmen fellers hold 'em, don't let 'em holler, can't do nothin'! Got them cars waitin'—what you call?—”
“Automobiles?”
“Sure, got three! Put ever'body in, quick like that—they go down road like wind! Go down canyon, all gone! They bust our strike!” And the little Pole's voice ended in a howl of despair.
“No, they won't bust our strike!” exclaimed Hal. “Not yet!”
Suddenly he was reminded of the fact that his brother had followed him—puffing hard, for the run had been strenuous. He caught Hal by the arm, exclaiming, “Keep out of this, I tell you!”
Thus while Hal was questioning Klowoski, he was struggling half-unconsciously, to free himself from his brother's grasp. Suddenly the matter was forced to an issue, for the little Polack emitted a cry like an angry cat, and went at Edward with fingers outstretched like claws. Hal's dignified brother would have had to part with his dignity, if Hal had not caught Klowoski's onrush with his other arm. “Let him alone!” he said. “It's my brother!” Whereupon the little man fell back and stood watching in bewilderment.
Hal saw Androkulos running to him. The Greek boy had been in the street back of the office, and had seen the committee carried off; nine people had been taken—Wauchope, Tim Rafferty, and Mary Burke, Marcelli, Zammakis and Rusick, and three others who had served as interpreters on the night before. It had all been done so quickly that the crowd had scarcely realised what was happening.
Now, having grasped the meaning of it, the men were beside themselves with rage. They shook their fists, shouting defiance to a group of officials and guards who were visible upon the porch of the office-building. There was a clamour of shouts for revenge.
Hal could see instantly the dangers of the situation; he was like a man watching the burning fuse of a bomb. Now, if ever, this polyglot horde must have leadership—wise and cool and resourceful leadership.
The crowd, discovering his presence, surged down upon him like a wave. They gathered round him, howling. They had lost the rest of their committee, but they still had Joe Smith. Joe Smith! Hurrah for Joe! Let the gunmen take him, if they could! They waved their caps, they tried to lift him upon their shoulders, so that all could see him.
There was clamour for a speech, and Hal started to make his way to the steps of the nearest building, with Edward holding on to his coat. Edward was jostled; he had to part with his dignity—but he did not part with his brother. And when Hal was about to mount the steps, Edward made a last desperate effort, shouting into his ear, “Wait a minute! Wait! Are you going to try to talk to this mob?”
“Of course. Don't you see there'll be trouble if I don't?”
“You'll get yourself killed! You'll start a fight, and get a lot of these poor devils shot! Use your common sense, Hal; the company has brought in guards, and they are armed, and your people aren't.”
“That's exactly why I have to speak!”
The discussion was carried on under difficulties, the elder brother clinging to the younger's arm, while the younger sought to pull free, and the mob shouted with a single voice, “Speech! Speech!” There were some near by who, like Klowoski, did not relish having this stranger interfering with their champion, and showed signs of a disposition to “mix in”; so at last Edward gave up the struggle, and the orator mounted the steps and faced the throng.
SECTION 14.
Hal raised his arms as a signal for silence.
“Boys,” he cried, “they've kidnapped our committee. They think they'll break our strike that way—but they'll find they've made a mistake!”
“They will! Right you are!” roared a score of voices.
“They forget that we've got a union. Hurrah for our North Valley union!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” The cry echoed to the canyon-walls.
“And hurrah for the big union that will back us—the United Mine-Workers of America!”
Again the yell rang out; again and again. “Hurrah for the union! Hurrah for the United Mine-Workers!” A big American miner, Ferris, was in the front of the throng, and his voice beat in Hal's ears like a steam-siren.
“Boys,” Hal resumed, when at last he could be heard, “use your brains a moment. I warned you they would try to provoke you! They would like nothing better than to start a scrap here, and get a chance to smash our union! Don't forget that, boys, if they can make you fight, they'll smash the union, and the union is our only hope!”
Again came the cry: “Hurrah for the union!” Hal let them shout it in twenty languages, until they were satisfied.
“Now, boys,” he went on, at last, “they've shipped out our committee. They may ship me out in the same way—”
“No, they won't!” shouted voices in the crowd. And there was a bellow of rage from Ferris. “Let them try it! We'll burn them in their beds!”
“But they can ship me out!” argued Hal. “You know they can beat us at that game! They can call on the sheriff, they can get the soldiers, if necessary! We can't oppose them by force—they can turn out every man, woman and child in the village, if they choose. What we have to get clear is that even that won't crush our union! Nor the big union outside, that will be backing us! We can hold out, and make them take us back in the end!”
Some of Hal's friends, seeing what he was trying to do, came to his support. “No fighting! No violence! Stand by the union!” And he went on to drive the lesson home; even though the company might evict them, the big union of the four hundred and fifty thousand mine-workers of the country would feed them, it would call out the rest of the workers in the district in sympathy. So the bosses, who thought to starve and cow them into submission, would find their mines lying permanently idle. They would be forced to give way, and the tactics of solidarity would triumph.
So Hal went on, recalling the things Olson had told him, and putting them into practice. He saw hope in their faces again, dispelling the mood of resentment and rage.
“Now, boys,” said he, “I'm going in to see the superintendent for you. I'll be your committee, since they've shipped out the rest.”
The steam-siren of Ferris bellowed again: “You're the boy! Joe Smith!”
“All right, men—now mind what I say! I'll see the super, and then I'll go down to Pedro, where there'll be some officers of the United Mine-workers this morning. I'll tell them the situation, and ask them to back you. That's what you want, is it?”
That was what they wanted. “Big union!”
“All right. I'll do the best I can for you, and I'll find some way to get word to you. And meantime you stand firm. The bosses will tell you lies, they'll try to deceive you, they'll send spies and trouble-makers among you—but you hold fast, and wait for the big union.”
Hal stood looking at the cheering crowd. He had time to note some of the faces upturned to him. Pitiful, toil-worn faces they were, each making its separate appeal, telling its individual story of deprivation and defeat. Once more they were transfigured, shining with that wonderful new light which he had seen for the first time the previous evening. It had been crushed for a moment, but it flamed up again; it would never die in the hearts of men—once they had learned the power it gave. Nothing Hal had yet seen moved him so much as this new birth of enthusiasm. A beautiful, a terrible thing it was!
Hal looked at his brother, to see how he had been moved. What he saw on his brother's face was satisfaction, boundless relief. The matter had turned out all right! Hal was coming away!
Hal turned again to the men; somehow, after his glance at Edward, they seemed more pitiful than ever. For Edward typified the power they were facing—the unseeing, uncomprehending power that meant to crush them. The possibility of failure was revealed to Hal in a flash of emotion, overwhelming him. He saw them as they would be, when no leader was at hand to make speeches to them. He saw them waiting, their life-long habit of obedience striving to reassert itself; a thousand fears besetting them, a thousand rumours preying upon them—wild beasts set on them by their cunning enemies. They would suffer, not merely for themselves, but for their wives and children—the very same pangs of dread that Hal suffered when he thought of one old man up in Western City, whose doctors had warned him to avoid excitement.
If they stood firm, if they kept their bargain with their leader, they would be evicted from their homes, they would face the cold of the coming winter, they would face hunger and the black-list. And he, meantime—what would he be doing? What was his part of the bargain? He would interview the superintendent for them, he would turn them over to the “big union”—and then he would go off to his own life of ease and pleasure. To eat grilled steaks and hot rolls in a perfectly appointed club, with suave and softly-moving servitors at his beck! To dance at the country club with exquisite creatures of chiffon and satin, of perfume and sweet smiles and careless, happy charms! No, it was too easy! He might call that his duty to his father and brother, but he would know in his heart that it was treason to life; it was the devil, taking him onto a high mountain and showing him all the kingdoms of the earth!
Moved by a sudden impulse, Hal raised his hands once more. “Boys,” he said, “we understand each other now. You'll not go back to work till the big union tells you. And I, for my part, will stand by you. Your cause is my cause, I'll go on fighting for you till you have your rights, till you can live and work as men! Is that right?”
“That's right! That's right!”
“Very good, then—we'll swear to it!” And Hal raised his hands, and the men raised theirs, and amid a storm of shouts, and a frantic waving of caps, he made them the pledge which he knew would bind his own conscience. He made it deliberately, there in his brother's presence. This was no mere charge on a trench, it was enlisting for a war! But even in that moment of fervour, Hal would have been frightened had he realised the period of that enlistment, the years of weary and desperate conflict to which he was pledging his life.
SECTION 15.
Hal descended from his rostrum, and the crowds made way for him, and with his brother at his side he went down the street to the office building, upon the porch of which the guards were standing. His progress was a triumphal one; rough voices shouted words of encouragement in his ears, men jostled and fought to shake his hand or to pat him on the back; they even patted Edward and tried to shake his hand, because he was with Hal, and seemed to have his confidence. Afterwards Hal thought it over and was merry. Such an adventure for Edward!
The younger man went up the steps of the building and spoke to the guards. “I want to see Mr. Cartwright.”
“He's inside,” answered one, not cordially. With Edward following, Hal entered, and was ushered into the private office of the superintendent.
Having been a working-man, and class-conscious, Hal was observant of the manners of mine-superintendents; he noted that Cartwright bowed politely to Edward, but did not include Edward's brother. “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “I have come to you as a deputation from the workers of this camp.”
The superintendent did not appear impressed by the announcement.
“I am instructed to say that the men demand the redress of four grievances before they return to work. First—”
Here Cartwright spoke, in his quick, sharp way. “There's no use going on, sir. This company will deal only with its men as individuals. It will recognise no deputations.”
Hal's answer was equally quick. “Very well, Mr. Cartwright. In that case, I come to you as an individual.”
For a moment the superintendent seemed nonplussed.
“I wish to ask four rights which are granted to me by the laws of this state. First, the right to belong to a union, without being discharged for it.”
The other had recovered his manner of quiet mastery. “You have that right, sir; you have always had it. You know perfectly well that the company has never discharged any one for belonging to a union.”
The man was looking at Hal, and there was a duel of the eyes between them. A cold anger moved Hal. His ability to endure this sort of thing was at an end. “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “you are the servant of one of the world's greatest actors; and you support him ably.”
The other flushed and drew back; Edward put in quickly: “Hal, there's nothing to be gained by such talk!”
“He has all the world for an audience,” persisted Hal. “He plays the most stupendous farce—and he and all his actors wearing such solemn faces!”
“Mr. Cartwright,” said Edward, with dignity, “I trust you understand that I have done everything I can to restrain my brother.”
“Of course, Mr. Warner,” replied the superintendent. “And you must know that I, for my part, have done everything to show your brother consideration.”
“Again!” exclaimed Hal. “This actor is a genius!”
“Hal, if you have business with Mr. Cartwright—”
“He showed me consideration by sending his gunmen to seize me at night, drag me out of a cabin, and nearly twist the arm off me! Such humour never was!”
Cartwright attempted to speak—but looking at Edward, not at Hal. “At that time—”
“He showed me consideration by having me locked up in jail and fed on bread and water for two nights and a day! Can you beat that humour?”
“At that time I did not know—”
“By forging my name to a letter and having it circulated in the camp! Finally—most considerate of all—by telling a newspaper man that I had seduced a girl here!”
The superintendent flushed still redder. “No!” he declared.
“What?” cried Hal. “You didn't tell Billy Keating of the Gazette that I had seduced a girl in North Valley? You didn't describe the girl to him—a red-haired Irish girl?”
“I merely said, Mr. Warner, that I had heard certain rumours—”
“Certain rumours, Mr. Cartwright? The certainty was all of your making! You made a definite and explicit statement to Mr. Keating—”
“I did not!” declared the other.
“I'll soon prove it!” And Hal started towards the telephone on Cartwright's desk.
“What are you going to do, Hal?”
“I am going to get Billy Keating on the wire, and let you hear his statement.”
“Oh, rot, Hal!” cried Edward. “I don't care anything about Keating's statement. You know that at that time Mr. Cartwright had no means of knowing who you were.”
Cartwright was quick to grasp this support. “Of course not, Mr. Warner! Your brother came here, pretending to be a working boy—”
“Oh!” cried Hal. “So that's it! You think it proper to circulate slanders about working boys in your camp?”
“You have been here long enough to know what the morals of such boys are.”
“I have been here long enough, Mr. Cartwright, to know that if you want to go into the question of morals in North Valley, the place for you to begin is with the bosses and guards you put in authority, and allow to prey upon women.”
Edward broke in: “Hal, there's nothing to be gained by pursuing this conversation. If you have any business here, get it over with, for God's sake!”
Hal made an effort to recover his self-possession. He came back to the demands of the strike—but only to find that he had used up the superintendent's self-possession. “I have given you my answer,” declared Cartwright, “I absolutely decline any further discussion.”
“Well,” said Hal, “since you decline to permit a deputation of your men to deal with you in plain, business-like fashion, I have to inform you as an individual that every other individual in your camp refuses to work for you.”
The superintendent did not let himself be impressed by this elaborate sarcasm. “All I have to tell you, sir, is that Number Two mine will resume work in the morning, and that any one who refuses to work will be sent down the canyon before night.”
“So quickly, Mr. Cartwright? They have rented their homes from the company, and you know that according to the company's own lease they are entitled to three days' notice before being evicted!”
Cartwright was so unwise as to argue. He knew that Edward was hearing, and he wished to clear himself. “They will not be evicted by the company. They will be dealt with by the town authorities.”
“Of which you yourself are the head?”
“I happen to have been elected mayor of North Valley.”
“As mayor of North Valley, you gave my brother to understand that you would put me out, did you not?”
“I asked your brother to persuade you to leave.”
“But you made clear that if he could not do this, you would put me out?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And the reason you gave was that you had had instructions by telegraph from Mr. Peter Harrigan. May I ask to what office Mr. Harrigan has been elected in your town?”
Cartwright saw his difficulty. “Your brother misunderstood me,” he said, crossly.
“Did you misunderstand him, Edward?”
Edward had walked to the window in disgust; he was looking at tomato-cans and cinder-heaps, and did not see fit to turn around. But the superintendent knew that he was hearing, and considered it necessary to cover the flaw in his argument. “Young man,” said he, “you have violated several of the ordinances of this town.”
“Is there an ordinance against organising a union of the miners?”
“No; but there is one against speaking on the streets.”
“Who passed that ordinance, if I may ask?”
“The town council.”
“Consisting of Johnson, postmaster and company-store clerk; Ellison, company book-keeper; Strauss, company pit-boss; O'Callahan, company saloon-keeper. Have I the list correct?”
Cartwright did not answer.
“And the fifth member of the town council is yourself, ex-officio—Mr. Enos Cartwright, mayor and company-superintendent.”
Again there was no answer.
“You have an ordinance against street-speaking; and at the same time your company owns the saloon-buildings, the boarding-houses, the church and the school. Where do you expect the citizens to do their speaking?”
“You would make a good lawyer, young man. But we who have charge here know perfectly well what you mean by 'speaking'!”
“You don't approve, then, of the citizens holding meetings?”
“I mean that we don't consider it necessary to provide agitators with opportunity to incite our employés.”
“May I ask, Mr. Cartwright, are you speaking as mayor of an American community, or as superintendent of a coal-mine?”
Cartwright's face had been growing continually redder. Addressing Edward's back, he said, “I don't see any reason why this should continue.”
And Edward was of the same opinion. He turned. “Really, Hal—”
“But, Edward! A man accuses your brother of being a law-breaker! Have you hitherto known of any criminal tendencies in our family?”
Edward turned to the window again and resumed his study of the cinder-heaps and tomato-cans. It was a vulgar and stupid quarrel, but he had seen enough of Hal's mood to realise that he would go on and on, so long as any one was indiscreet enough to answer him.
“You say, Mr. Cartwright, that I have violated the ordinance against speaking on the street. May I ask what penalty this ordinance carries?”
“You will find out when the penalty is exacted of you.”
Hal laughed. “From what you said just now, I gather that the penalty is expulsion from the town! If I understand legal procedure, I should have been brought before the justice of the peace—who happens to be another company store-clerk. Instead of that, I am sentenced by the mayor—or is it the company superintendent? May I ask how that comes to be?”
“It is because of my consideration—”
“When did I ask consideration?”
“Consideration for your brother, I mean.”
“Oh! Then your ordinance provides that the mayor—or is it the superintendent?—may show consideration for the brother of a law-breaker, by changing his penalty to expulsion from the town. Was it consideration for Tommie Burke that caused you to have his sister sent down the canyon?”