SECTION 10.
Hal slept but little that night. Amid the sounds of the snoring of eight of Reminitsky's other boarders, he lay going over in his mind various things which might happen on the morrow. Some of them were far from pleasant things; he tried to picture himself with a broken nose, or with tar and feathers on him. He recalled his theory as to the handling of burglars. The “G. F. C.” was a burglar of gigantic and terrible proportions; surely this was a time to call out, “Help yourself!” But instead of doing it, Hal thought about Edstrom's ants, and wondered at the power which made them stay in line.
When morning came, he went up into the mountains, where a man may wander and renew his moral force. When the sun had descended behind the mountain-tops, he descended also, and met Edstrom and Sikoria in front of the company office.
They nodded a greeting, and Edstrom told Hal that his wife had died during the day. There being no undertaker in North Valley, he had arranged for a woman friend to take the body down to Pedro, so that he might be free for the interview with Cartwright. Hal put his hand on the old man's shoulder, but attempted no word of condolence; he saw that Edstrom had faced the trouble and was ready for duty.
“Come ahead,” said the old man, and the three went into the office. While a clerk took their message to the inner office, they stood for a couple of minutes, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, and turning their caps in their hands in the familiar manner of the lowly.
At last Mr. Cartwright appeared in the doorway, his small sparely-built figure eloquent of sharp authority. “Well, what's this?” he inquired.
“If you please,” said Edstrom, “we'd like to speak to you. We've decided, sir, that we want to have a check-weighman.”
“What?” The word came like the snap of a whip.
“We'd like to have a check-weighman, sir.”
There was a moment's silence. “Come in here.” They filed into the inner office, and he shut the door.
“Now. What's this?”
Edstrom repeated his words again.
“What put that notion into your heads?”
“Nothing, sir; only we thought we'd be better satisfied.”
“You think you're not getting your weight?”
“Well, sir, you see—some of the men—we think it would be better if we had the check-weighman. We're willing to pay for him.”
“Who's this check-weighman to be?”
“Joe Smith, here.”
Hal braced himself to meet the other's stare. “Oh! So it's you!” Then, after a moment, “So that's why you were feeling so gay!”
Hal was not feeling in the least gay at the moment; but he forebore to say so. There was a silence.
“Now, why do you fellows want to throw away your money?” The superintendent started to argue with them, showing the absurdity of the notion that they could gain anything by such a course. The mine had been running for years on its present system, and there had never been any complaint. The idea that a company as big and as responsible as the “G. F. C.” would stoop to cheat its workers out of a few tons of coal! And so on, for several minutes.
“Mr. Cartwright,” said Edstrom, when the other had finished, “you know I've worked all my life in mines, and most of it in this district. I am telling you something I know when I say there is general dissatisfaction throughout these camps because the men feel they are not getting their weight. You say there has been no public complaint; you understand the reason for this—”
“What is the reason?”
“Well,” said Edstrom, gently, “maybe you don't know the reason—but anyway we've decided that we want a check-weighman.”
It was evident that the superintendent had been taken by surprise, and was uncertain how to meet the issue. “You can imagine,” he said, at last, “the company doesn't relish hearing that its men believe it's cheating them—”
“We don't say the company knows anything about it, Mr. Cartwright. It's possible that some people may be taking advantage of us, without either the company or yourself having anything to do with it. It's for your protection as well as ours that a check-weighman is needed.”
“Thank you,” said the other, drily. His tone revealed that he was holding himself in by an effort. “Very well,” he added, at last. “That's enough about the matter, if your minds are made up. I'll give you my decision later.”
This was a dismissal, and Mike Sikoria turned humbly, and started to the door. But Edstrom was one of the ants that did not readily “step one side”; and Mike took a glance at him, and then stepped back into line in a hurry, as if hoping his delinquency had not been noted.
“If you please, Mr. Cartwright,” said Edstrom, “we'd like your decision, so as to have the check-weighman start in the morning.”
“What? You're in such a hurry?”
“There's no reason for delay, sir. We've selected our man, and we're ready to pay him.”
“Who are the men who are ready to pay him? Just you two”
“I am not at liberty to name the other men, sir.”
“Oh! So it's a secret movement!”
“In a way—yes, sir.”
“Indeed!” said the superintendent, ominously. “And you don't care what the company thinks about it!”
“It's not that, Mr. Cartwright, but we don't see anything for the company to object to. It's a simple business arrangement—”
“Well, if it seems simple to you, it doesn't to me,” snapped the other. And then, getting himself in hand, “Understand me, the company would not have the least objection to the men making sure of their weights, if they really think it's necessary. The company has always been willing to do the right thing. But it's not a matter that can be settled off hand. I will let you know later.”
Again they were dismissed, and again Old Mike turned, and Edstrom also. But now another ant sprang into the ditch. “Just when will you be prepared to let the check-weighman begin work, Mr. Cartwright?” asked Hal.
The superintendent gave him a sharp look, and again it could be seen that he made a strong effort to keep his temper. “I'm not prepared to say,” he replied. “I will let you know, as soon as convenient to me. That's all now.” And as he spoke he opened the door, putting something into the action that was a command.
“Mr. Cartwright,” said Hal, “there's no law against our having a check-weighman, is there?”
The look which these words drew from the superintendent showed that he knew full well what the law was. Hal accepted this look as an answer, and continued, “I have been selected by a committee of the men to act as their check-weighman, and this committee has duly notified the company. That makes me a check-weighman, I believe, Mr. Cartwright, and so all I have to do is to assume my duties.” Without waiting for the superintendent's answer, he walked to the door, followed by his somewhat shocked companions.
SECTION 11.
At the meeting on the night before it had been agreed to spread the news of the check-weighman movement, for the sake of its propaganda value. So now when the three men came out from the office, there was a crowd waiting to know what had happened; men clamoured questions, and each one who got the story would be surrounded by others eager to hear. Hal made his way to the boarding-house, and when he had finished his supper, he set out from place to place in the camp, telling the men about the check-weighman plan and explaining that it was a legal right they were demanding. All this while Old Mike stayed on one side of him, and Edstrom on the other; for Tom Olson had insisted strenuously that Hal should not be left alone for a moment. Evidently the bosses had given the same order; for when Hal came out from Reminitsky's, there was “Jake” Predovich, the store-clerk, on the fringe of the crowd, and he followed wherever Hal went, doubtless making note of every one he spoke to.
They consulted as to where they were to spend the night. Old Mike was nervous, taking the activities of the spy to mean that they were to be thugged in the darkness. He told horrible stories of that sort of thing. What could be an easier way for the company to settle the matter? They would fix up some story; the world outside would believe they had been killed in a drunken row, perhaps over some woman. This last suggestion especially troubled Hal; he thought of the people at home. No, he must not sleep in the village! And on the other hand he could not go down the canyon, for if he once passed the gate, he might not be allowed to repass it.
An idea occurred to him. Why not go up the canyon? There was no stockade at the upper end of the village—nothing but wilderness and rocks, without even a road.
“But where we sleep?” demanded Old Mike, aghast.
“Outdoors,” said Hal.
“Pluha biedna! And get the night air into my bones?”
“You think you keep the day air in your bones when you sleep inside?” laughed Hal.
“Why don't I, when I shut them windows tight, and cover up my bones?”
“Well, risk the night air once,” said Hal. “It's better than having somebody let it into you with a knife.”
“But that fellow Predovich—he follow us up canyon too!”
“Yes, but he's only one man, and we don't have to fear him. If he went back for others, he'd never be able to find us in the darkness.”
Edstrom, whose notions of anatomy were not so crude as Mike's, gave his support to this suggestion; so they got their blankets and stumbled up the canyon in the still, star-lit night. For a while they heard the spy behind them, but finally his footsteps died away, and after they had moved on for some distance, they believed they were safe till daylight. Hal had slept out many a night as a hunter, but it was a new adventure to sleep out as the game!
At dawn they rose, and shook the dew from their blankets, and wiped it from their eyes. Hal was young, and saw the glory of the morning, while poor Mike Sikoria groaned and grumbled over his stiff and aged joints. He thought he had ruined himself forever, but he took courage at Edstrom's mention of coffee, and they hurried down to breakfast at their boarding-house.
Now came a critical time, when Hal had to be left by himself. Edstrom was obliged to go down to see to his wife's funeral; and it was obvious that if Mike Sikoria were to lay off work, he would be providing the boss with an excuse for firing him. The law which provided for a check-weighman had failed to provide for a check-weighman's body-guard!
Hal had announced his programme in that flash of defiance in Cartwright's office. As soon as work started up, he went to the tipple. “Mr. Peters,” he said, to the tipple-boss, “I've come to act as check-weighman.”
The tipple-boss was a man with a big black moustache, which made him look like the pictures of Nietzsche. He stared at Hal, frankly dumbfounded. “What the devil?” said he.
“Some of the men have chosen me check-weighman,” explained Hal, in a business-like manner. “When their cars come up, I'll see to their weights.”
“You keep off this tipple, young fellow!” said Peters. His manner was equally business-like.
So the would-be check-weighman came out and sat on the steps to wait. The tipple was a fairly public place, and he judged he was as safe there as anywhere. Some of the men grinned and winked at him as they went about their work; several found a chance to whisper words of encouragement. And all morning he sat, like a protestant at the palace-gates of a mandarin in China, It was tedious work, but he believed that he would be able to stand it longer than the company.
SECTION 12.
In the middle of the morning a man came up to him—“Bud” Adams, a younger brother of the “J. P.,” and Jeff Cotton's assistant. Bud was stocky, red-faced, and reputed to be handy with his fists. So Hal rose up warily when he saw him.
“Hey, you,” said Bud. “There's a telegram at the office for you.”
“For me?”
“Your name's Joe Smith, ain't it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that's what it says.”
Hal considered for a moment. There was no one to be telegraphing Joe Smith. It was only a ruse to get him away.
“What's in the telegram?” he asked.
“How do I know?” said Bud.
“Where is it from?”
“I dunno that.”
“Well,” said Hal, “you might bring it to me here.”
The other's eyes flew open. This was not a revolt, it was a revolution! “Who the hell's messenger boy do you think I am?” he demanded.
“Don't the company deliver telegrams?” countered Hal, politely. And Bud stood struggling with his human impulses, while Hal watched him cautiously. But apparently those who had sent the messenger had given him precise instructions; for he controlled his wrath, and turned and strode away.
Hal continued his vigil. He had his lunch with him; and was prepared to eat alone—understanding the risk that a man would be running who showed sympathy with him. He was surprised, therefore, when Johannson, the giant Swede, came and sat down by his side. There also came a young Mexican labourer, and a Greek miner. The revolution was spreading!
Hal felt sure the company would not let this go on. And sure enough, towards the middle of the afternoon, the tipple-boss came out and beckoned to him. “Come here, you!” And Hal went in.
The “weigh-room” was a fairly open place; but at one side was a door into an office. “This way,” said the man.
But Hal stopped where he was.
“This is where the check-weighman belongs, Mr. Peters.”
“But I want to talk to you.”
“I can hear you, sir.” Hal was in sight of the men, and he knew that was his only protection.
The tipple-boss went back into the office; and a minute later Hal saw what had been intended. The door opened and Alec Stone came out.
He stood for a moment looking at his political henchman. Then he came up. “Kid,” he said, in a low voice, “you're overdoing this. I didn't intend you to go so far.”
“This is not what you intended, Mr. Stone,” answered Hal.
The pit-boss came closer yet. “What you looking for, kid? What you expect to get out of this?”
Hal's gaze was unwavering. “Experience,” he replied.
“You're feeling smart, sonny. But you'd better stop and realise what you're up against. You ain't going to get away with it, you know; get that through your head—you ain't going to get away with it. You'd better come in and have a talk with me.”
There was a silence.
“Don't you know how it'll be, Smith? These little fires start up—but we put 'em out. We know how to do it, we've got the machinery. It'll all be forgotten in a week or two, and then where'll you be at? Can't you see?”
As Hal still made no reply, the other's voice dropped lower. “I understand your position. Just give me a nod, and it'll be all right. You tell the men that you've watched the weights, and that they're all right. They'll be satisfied, and you and me can fix it up later.”
“Mr. Stone,” said Hal, with intense gravity, “am I correct in the impression that you are offering me a bribe?”
In a flash, the man's self-control vanished. He thrust his huge fist within an inch of Hal's nose, and uttered a foul oath. But Hal did not remove his nose from the danger-zone, and over the fist a pair of angry brown eyes gazed at the pit-boss. “Mr. Stone, you had better realise this situation. I am in dead earnest about this matter, and I don't think it will be safe for you to offer me violence.”
For a moment or two the man continued to glare at Hal; but it appeared that he, like Bud Adams, had been given instructions. He turned abruptly and strode back into the office.
Hal stood for a bit, until he had made sure of his composure. After which he strolled over towards the scales. A difficulty had occurred to him for the first time—that he did not know anything about the working of coal-scales.
But he was given no time to learn. The tipple-boss reappeared. “Get out of here, fellow!” said he.
“But you invited me in,” remarked Hal, mildly.
“Well, now I invite you out again.”
And so the protestant resumed his vigil at the mandarin's palace-gates.
SECTION 13.
When the quitting-whistle blew, Mike Sikoria came quickly to join Hal and hear what had happened. Mike was exultant, for several new men had come up to him and offered to join the check-weighman movement. The old fellow was not sure whether this was owing to his own eloquence as a propagandist, or to the fine young American buddy he had; but in either case he was equally proud. He gave Hal a note which had been slipped into his hand, and which Hal recognised as coming from Tom Olson. The organiser reported that every one in the camp was talking check-weighman, and so from a propaganda standpoint they could count their move a success, no matter what the bosses might do. He added that Hal should have a number of men stay with him that night, so as to have witnesses if the company tried to “pull off anything.” “And be careful of the new men,” he added; “one or two of them are sure to be spies.”
Hal and Mike discussed their programme for the second night. Neither of them were keen for sleeping out again—the old Slovak because of his bones, and Hal because he saw there were now several spies following them about. At Reminitsky's, he spoke to some of those who had offered their support, and asked them if they would be willing to spend the night with him in Edstrom's cabin. Not one shrank from this test of sincerity; they all got their blankets, and repaired to the place, where Hal lighted the lamp and held an impromptu check-weighman meeting—and incidentally entertained himself with a spy-hunt!
One of the new-comers was a Pole named Wojecicowski; this, on top of Zamierowski, caused Hal to give up all effort to call the Poles by their names. “Woji” was an earnest little man, with a pathetic, tired face. He explained his presence by the statement that he was sick of being robbed; he would pay his share for a check-weighman, and if they fired him, all right, he would move on, and to hell with them. After which declaration he rolled up in a blanket and went to snoring on the floor of the cabin. That did not seem to be exactly the conduct of a spy.
Another was an Italian, named Farenzena; a dark-browed and sinister-looking fellow, who might have served as a villain in any melodrama. He sat against the wall and talked in guttural tones, and Hal regarded him with deep suspicion. It was not easy to understand his English, but finally Hal managed to make out the story he was telling—that he was in love with a “fanciulla,” and that the “fanciulla” was playing with him. He had about made up his mind that she was a coquette, and not worth bothering with, so he did not care any curses if they sent him down the canyon. “Don't fight for fanciulla, fight for check-weighman!” he concluded, with a growl.
Another volunteer was a Greek labourer, a talkative young chap who had sat with Hal at lunch-time, and had given his name as Apostolikas. He entered into fluent conversation with Hal, explaining how much interested he was in the check-weighman plan; he wanted to know just what they were going to do, what chance of success they thought they had, who had started the movement and who was in it. Hal's replies took the form of little sermons on working-class solidarity. Each time the man would start to “pump” him, Hal would explain the importance of the present issue to the miners, how they must stand by one another and make sacrifices for the good of all. After he had talked abstract theories for half an hour, Apostolikas gave up and moved on to Mike Sikoria, who, having been given a wink by Hal, talked about “scabs,” and the dreadful things that honest workingmen would do to them. When finally the Greek grew tired again, and lay down on the floor, Hal moved over to Old Mike and whispered that the first name of Apostolikas must be Judas!
SECTION 14.
Old Mike went to sleep quickly; but Hal had not worked for several days, and had exciting thoughts to keep him awake. He had been lying quiet for a couple of hours, when he became aware that some one was moving in the room. There was a lamp burning dimly, and through half-closed eyes he made out one of the men lifting himself to a sitting position. At first he could not be sure which one it was, but finally he recognised the Greek.
Hal lay motionless, and after a minute or so he stole another look and saw the man crouching and listening, his hands still on the floor. Through half opened eye-lids Hal continued to steal glimpses, while the other rose and tip-toed towards him, stepping carefully over the sleeping forms.
Hal did his best to simulate the breathing of sleep: no easy matter, with the man stooping over him, and a knife-thrust as one of the possibilities of the situation. He took the chance, however; and after what seemed an age, he felt the man's fingers lightly touch his side. They moved down to his coat-pocket.
“Going to search me!” thought Hal; and waited, expecting the hand to travel to other pockets. But after what seemed an interminable period, he realised that Apostolikas had risen again, and was stepping back to his place. In a minute more he had lain down, and all was still in the cabin.
Hal's hand moved to the pocket, and his fingers slid inside. They touched something, which he recognised instantly as a roll of bills.
“I see!” thought he. “A frame-up!” And he laughed to himself, his mind going back to early boyhood—to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his home, containing story-books that his father had owned. He could see them now, with their worn brown covers and crude pictures: “The Luck and Pluck Series,” by Horatio Alger; “Live or Die,” “Rough and Ready,” etc. How he had thrilled over the story of the country-boy who comes to the city, and meets the villain who robs his employer's cash-drawer and drops the key of it into the hero's pocket! Evidently some one connected with the General Fuel Company had read Horatio Alger!
Hal realised that he could not be too quick about getting those bills out of his pocket. He thought of returning them to “Judas,” but decided that he would save them for Edstrom, who was likely to need money before long. He gave the Greek half an hour to go to sleep, then with his pocket-knife he gently picked out a hole in the cinders of the floor and buried the money as best he could. After which he wormed his way to another place, and lay thinking.
SECTION 15.
Would they wait until morning, or would they come soon? He was inclined to the latter guess, so he was only slightly startled when, an hour or two later, he heard the knob of the cabin-door turned. A moment later came a crash and the door was burst open, with the shoulder of a heavy man behind it.
The room was in confusion in a second. Men sprang to their feet, crying out; others sat up bewildered, still half asleep. The room was bright from an electric torch in the hands of one of the invaders. “There's the fellow!” cried a voice, which Hal instantly recognised as belonging to Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal. “Stick 'em up, there! You, Joe Smith!” Hal did not wait to see the glint of the marshal's revolver.
There followed a silence. As this drama was being staged for the benefit of the other men, it was necessary to give them time to get thoroughly awake, and to get their eyes used to the light. Meantime Hal stood, his hands in the air. Behind the torch he could make out the faces of the marshal, Bud Adams, Alec Stone, Jake Predovich, and two or three others.
“Now, men,” said Cotton, at last, “you are some of the fellows that want a check-weighman. And this is the man you chose. Is that right?”
There was no answer.
“I'm going to show you the kind of fellow he is. He came to Mr. Stone here and offered to sell you out.”
“It's a lie, men,” said Hal, quietly.
“He took some money from Mr. Stone to sell you out!” insisted the marshal.
“It's a lie,” said Hal, again.
“He's got that money now!” cried the other.
And Hal cried, in turn, “They are trying to frame something on me, boys! Don't let them fool you!”
“Shut up,” commanded the marshal; then, to the men, “I'll show you. I think he's got that money on him now. Jake, search him.”
The store-clerk advanced.
“Watch out, boys!” exclaimed Hal. “They will put something in my pockets.” And then to Old Mike, who had started angrily forward, “It's all right, Mike! Let them alone!”
“Jake, take off your coat,” ordered Cotton. “Roll up your sleeves. Show your hands.”
It was for all the world like the performance of a prestidigitator. The little Jew took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows. He exhibited his hands to the audience, turning them this way and that; then, keeping them out in front of him, he came slowly towards Hal, like a hypnotist about to put him to sleep.
“Watch him!” said Cotton. “He's got that money on him, I know.”
“Look sharp!” cried Hal. “If it isn't there, they'll put it there.”
“Keep your hands up, young fellow,” commanded the marshal. “Keep back from him there!” This last to Mike Sikoria and the other spectators, who were pressing nearer, peering over one another's shoulders.
It was all very serious at the time, but afterwards, when Hal recalled the scene, he laughed over the grotesque figure of Predovich searching his pockets while keeping as far away from him as possible, so that every one might know that the money had actually come out of Hal's pocket. The searcher put his hands first in the inside pockets, then in the pockets of Hal's shirt. Time was needed to build up this climax!
“Turn around,” commanded Cotton; and Hal turned, and the Jew went through his trouser-pockets. He took out in turn Hal's watch, his comb and mirror, his handkerchief; after examining them and holding them up, he dropped them onto the floor. There was a breathless hush when he came to Hal's purse, and proceeded to open it. Thanks to the greed of the company, there was nothing in the purse but some small change. Predovich closed it and dropped it to the floor.
“Wait now! He's not through!” cried the master of ceremonies. “He's got that money somewhere, boys! Did you look in his side-pockets, Jake?”
“Not yet,” said Jake.
“Look sharp!” cried the marshal; and every one craned forward eagerly, while Predovich stooped down on one knee, and put his hand into one coat pocket and then into the other.
He took his hand out again, and the look of dismay upon his face was so obvious that Hal could hardly keep from laughing. “It ain't dere!” he declared.
“What?” cried Cotton, and they stared at each other. “By God, he's got rid of it!”
“There's no money on me, boys!” proclaimed Hal. “It's a job they are trying to put over on us.”
“He's hid it!” shouted the marshal. “Find it, Jake!”
Then Predovich began to search again, swiftly, and with less circumstance. He was not thinking so much about the spectators now, as about all that good money gone for nothing! He made Hal take off his coat, and ripped open the lining; he unbuttoned the trousers and felt inside; he thrust his fingers down inside Hal's shoes.
But there was no money, and the searchers were at a standstill. “He took twenty-five dollars from Mr. Stone to sell you out!” declared the marshal. “He's managed to get rid of it somehow.”
“Boys,” cried Hal, “they sent a spy in here, and told him to put money on me.” He was looking at Apostolikas as he spoke; he saw the man start and shrink back.
“That's him! He's a scab!” cried Old Mike. “He's got the money on him, I bet!” And he made a move towards the Greek.
So the camp-marshal realised suddenly that it was time to ring down the curtain on this drama. “That's enough of this foolishness,” he declared. “Bring that fellow along here!” And in a flash a couple of the party had seized Hal's wrists, and a third had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Before the miners had time to realise what was happening, they had rushed their prisoner out of the cabin.
The quarter of an hour which followed was an uncomfortable one for the would-be check-weighman. Outside, in the darkness, the camp-marshal was free to give vent to his rage, and so was Alec Stone. They poured out curses upon him, and kicked him and cuffed him as they went along. One of the men who held his wrists twisted his arm, until he cried out with pain; then they cursed him harder, and bade him hold his mouth. Down the dark and silent street they went swiftly, and into the camp-marshal's office, and upstairs to the room which served as the North Valley jail. Hal was glad enough when they left him here, slamming the iron door behind them.
SECTION 16.
It had been a crude and stupid plot, yet Hal realised that it was adapted to the intelligence of the men for whom it was intended. But for the accident that he had stayed awake, they would have found the money on him, and next morning the whole camp would have heard that he had sold out. Of course his immediate friends, the members of the committee, would not have believed it; but the mass of the workers would have believed it, and so the purpose of Tom Olson's visit to North Valley would have been balked. Throughout the experiences which were to come to him, Hal retained his vivid impression of that adventure; it served to him as a symbol of many things. Just as the bosses had tried to bedevil him, to destroy his influence with his followers, so later on he saw them trying to bedevil the labour-movement, to confuse the intelligence of the whole country.
Now Hal was in jail. He went to the window and tried the bars—but found that they had been made for such trials. Then he groped his way about in the darkness, examining his prison, which proved to be a steel cage built inside the walls of an ordinary room. In one corner was a bench, and in another corner another bench, somewhat broader, with a mattress upon it. Hal had read a little about jails—enough to cause him to avoid this mattress. He sat upon the bare bench, and began to think.
It is a fact that there is a peculiar psychology incidental to being in jail; just as there is a peculiar psychology incidental to straining your back and breaking your hands loading coal-cars in a five foot vein; and another, and quite different psychology, produced by living at ease off the labours of coal-miners. In a jail, you have first of all the sense of being an animal; the animal side of your being is emphasised, the animal passions of hatred and fear are called into prominence, and if you are to escape being dominated by them, it can only be by intense and concentrated effort of the mind. So, if you are a thinking man, you do a great deal of thinking in a jail; the days are long, and the nights still longer—you have time for all the thoughts you can have.
The bench was hard, and seemed to grow harder. There was no position in which it could be made to grow soft. Hal got up and paced about, then he lay down for a while, then got up and walked again; and all the while he thought, and all the while the jail-psychology was being impressed upon his mind.
First, he thought about his immediate problem. What were they going to do to him? The obvious thing would be to put him out of camp, and so be done with him; but would they rest content with that, in their irritation at the trick he had played? Hal had heard vaguely of that native American institution, the “third degree,” but had never had occasion to think of it as a possibility in his own life. What a difference it made, to think of it in that way!
Hal had told Tom Olson that he would not pledge himself to organise a union, but that he would pledge himself to get a check-weighman; and Olson had laughed, and seemed quite content—apparently assuming that it would come to the same thing. And now, it rather seemed that Olson had known what he was talking about. For Hal found his thoughts no longer troubled with fears of labour union domination and walking delegate tyranny; on the contrary, he became suddenly willing for the people of North Valley to have a union, and to be as tyrannical as they knew how! And in this change, though Hal had no idea of it, he was repeating an experience common among reformers; many of whom begin as mild and benevolent advocates of some obvious bit of justice, and under the operation of the jail-psychology are made into blazing and determined revolutionists. “Eternal spirit of the chainless mind,” says Byron. “Greatest in dungeons Liberty thou art!”
The poet goes on to add that “When thy sons to fetters are confined—” then “Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.” And just as it was in Chillon, so it seemed to be in North Valley. Dawn came, and Hal stood at the window of his cell, and heard the whistle blow and saw the workers going to their tasks, the toil-bent, pallid faced creatures of the underworld, like a file of baboons in the half-light. He waved his hand to them, and they stopped and stared, and then waved back; he realised that every one of those men must be thinking about his imprisonment, and the reason for it—and so the jail-psychology was being communicated to them. If any of them cherished distrust of unions, or doubt of the need of organisation in North Valley—that distrust and that doubt were being dissipated!
—There was only one thing discouraging about the matter, as Hal thought it over. Why should the bosses have left him here in plain sight, when they might so easily have put him into an automobile, and whisked him down to Pedro before daylight? Was it a sign of the contempt they felt for their slaves? Did they count upon the sight of the prisoner in the window to produce fear instead of resentment? And might it not be that they understood their workers better than the would-be check-weighman? He recalled Mary Burke's pessimism about them, and anxiety gnawed at his soul; and—such is the operation of the jail-psychology—he fought against this anxiety. He hated the company for its cynicism, he clenched his hands and set his teeth, desiring to teach the bosses a lesson, to prove to them that their workers were not slaves, but men!
SECTION 17.
Toward the middle of the morning, Hal heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and a man whom he did not know opened the barred door and set down a pitcher of water and a tin plate with a hunk of bread on it. When he started to leave, Hal spoke: “Just a minute, please.”
The other frowned at him.
“Can you give me any idea how long I am to stay in here?”
“I cannot,” said the man.
“If I'm to be locked up,” said Hal, “I've certainly a right to know what is the charge against me.”
“Go to blazes!” said the other, and slammed the door and went down the corridor.
Hal went to the window again, and passed the time watching the people who went by. Groups of ragged children gathered, looking up at him, grinning and making signs—until some one appeared below and ordered them away.
As time passed, Hal became hungry. The taste of bread, eaten alone, becomes speedily monotonous, and the taste of water does not relieve it; nevertheless, Hal munched the bread, and drank the water, and wished for more.
The day dragged by; and late in the afternoon the keeper came again, with another hunk of bread and another pitcher of water. “Listen a moment,” said Hal, as the man was turning away.
“I got nothin' to say to you,” said the other.
“I have something to say to you,” pleaded Hal. “I have read in a book—I forget where, but it was written by some doctor—that white bread does not contain the elements necessary to the sustaining of the human body.”
“Go on!” growled the jailer. “What yer givin' us?”
“I mean,” explained Hal, “a diet of bread and water is not what I'd choose to live on.”
“What would yer choose?”
The tone suggested that the question was a rhetorical one; but Hal took it in good faith. “If I could have some beefsteak and mashed potatoes—”
The door of the cell closed with a slam whose echoes drowned out the rest of that imaginary menu. And so once more Hal sat on the hard bench, and munched his hunk of bread, and thought jail-thoughts.
When the quitting-whistle blew, he stood at the window, and saw the groups of his friends once again, and got their covert signals of encouragement. Then darkness fell, and another long vigil began.
It was late; Hal had no means of telling how late, save that all the lights in the camps were out. He made up his mind that he was in for the night, and had settled himself on the floor with his arm for a pillow, and had dozed off to sleep, when suddenly there came a scraping sound against the bars of his window. He sat up with a start, and heard another sound, unmistakably the rustling of paper. He sprang to the window, where by the faint light of the stars he could make out something dangling. He caught at it; it seemed to be an ordinary note-book, such as stenographers use, tied on the end of a pole.
Hal looked out, but could see no one. He caught hold of the pole and jerked it, as a signal; and then he heard a whisper which he recognised instantly as Rovetta's. “Hello! Listen. Write your name hundred times in book. I come back. Understand?”
The command was a sufficiently puzzling one, but Hal realised that this was no time for explanations. He answered, “Yes,” and broke the string and took the notebook. There was a pencil attached, with a piece of cloth wrapped round the point to protect it.
The pole was withdrawn, and Hal sat on the bench, and began to write, three or four times on a page, “Joe Smith—Joe Smith—Joe Smith.” It is not hard to write “Joe Smith,” even in darkness, and so, while his hand moved, Hal's mind was busy with this mystery. It was fairly to be assumed that his committee did not want his autograph to distribute for a souvenir; they must want it for some vital purpose, to meet some new move of the bosses. The answer to this riddle was not slow in coming: having failed in their effort to find money on him, the bosses had framed up a letter, which they were exhibiting as having been written by the would-be check-weigh-man. His friends wanted his signature to disprove the authenticity of the letter.
Hal wrote a free and rapid hand, with a generous flourish; he felt sure it would be different from Alec Stone's idea of a working-boy's scrawl. His pencil flew on and on—“Joe Smith—Joe Smith—” page after page, until he was sure that he had written a signature for every miner in the camp, and was beginning on the buddies. Then, hearing a whistle outside, he stopped and sprang to the window.
“Throw it!” whispered a voice; and Hal threw it. He saw a form vanish up the street, after which all was quiet again. He listened for a while, to see if he had roused his jailer; then he lay down on the bench—and thought more jail-thoughts!
SECTION 18.
Morning came, and the mine-whistle blew, and Hal stood at the window again. This time he noticed that some of the miners on their way to work had little strips of paper in their hands, which strips they waved conspicuously for him to see. Old Mike Sikoria came along, having a whole bunch of strips in his hands, which he was distributing to all who would take them. Doubtless he had been warned to proceed secretly, but the excitement of the occasion had been too much for him; he capered about like a young spring lamb, and waved the strips at Hal in plain sight of all the world.
Such indiscreet behaviour met the return it invited. As Hal watched, he saw a stocky figure come striding round the corner, confronting the startled old Slovak. It was Bud Adams, the mine-guard, and his hard fists were clenched, and his whole body gathered for a blow. Mike saw him, and was as if suddenly struck with paralysis; his toil-bent shoulders sunk together, and his hands fell to his sides—his fingers opening, and his precious strips of paper fluttering to the ground. Mike stared at Bud like a fascinated rabbit, making no move to protect himself.
Hal clutched the bars, with an impulse to leap to his friend's defence. But the expected blow did not fall; the mine-guard contented himself with glaring ferociously, and giving an order to the old man. Mike stooped and picked up the papers—the process taking him some time, as he was unable or unwilling to take his eyes off the mine-guard's. When he got them all in his hands, there came another order, and he gave them up to Bud. After which he fell back a step, and the other followed, his fists still clenched, and a blow seeming about to leap from him every moment. Mike receded another step, and then another—so the two of them backed out of sight around the corner. Men who had been witnesses of this little drama turned and slunk off, and Hal was given no clue as to its outcome.
A couple of hours afterwards, Hal's jailer came up, this time without any bread and water. He opened the door and commanded the prisoner to “come along.” Hal went downstairs, and entered Jeff Cotton's office.
The camp-marshal sat at his desk with a cigar between his teeth. He was writing, and he went on writing until the jailer had gone out and closed the door. Then he turned his revolving chair and crossed his legs, leaning back and looking at the young miner in his dirty blue overalls, his hair tousled and his face pale from his period of confinement. The camp-marshal's aristocratic face wore a smile. “Well, young fellow,” said he, “you've been having a lot of fun in this camp.”
“Pretty fair, thank you,” answered Hal.
“Beat us out all along the line, hey?” Then, after a pause, “Now, tell me, what do you think you're going to get out of it?”
“That's what Alec Stone asked me,” replied Hal. “I don't think it would do much good to explain. I doubt if you believe in altruism any more than Stone does.”
The camp-marshal took his cigar from his mouth, and flicked off the ashes. His face became serious, and there was a silence, while he studied Hal. “You a union organiser?” he asked, at last.
“No,” said Hal.
“You're an educated man; you're no labourer, that I know. Who's paying you?”
“There you are! You don't believe in altruism.”
The other blew a ring of smoke across the room. “Just want to put the company in the hole, hey? Some kind of agitator?”
“I am a miner who wants to be a check-weighman.”
“Socialist?”
“That depends upon developments here.”
“Well,” said the marshal, “you're an intelligent chap, that I can see. So I'll lay my hand on the table and you can study it. You're not going to serve as check-weighman in North Valley, nor any other place that the 'G. F. C.' has anything to do with. Nor are you going to have the satisfaction of putting the company in a hole. We're not even going to beat you up and make a martyr of you. I was tempted to do that the other night, but I changed my mind.”
“You might change the bruises on my arm,” suggested Hal, in a pleasant voice.
“We're going to offer you the choice of two things,” continued the marshal, without heeding this mild sarcasm. “Either you will sign a paper admitting that you took the twenty-five dollars from Alec Stone, in which case we will fire you and call it square; or else we will prove that you took it, in which case we will send you to the pen for five or ten years. Do you get that?”
Now when Hal had applied for the job of check-weighman, he had been expecting to be thrown out of the camp, and had intended to go, counting his education complete. But here, as he sat and gazed into the marshal's menacing eyes, he decided suddenly that he did not want to leave North Valley. He wanted to stay and take the measure of this gigantic “burglar,” the General Fuel Company.
“That's a serious threat, Mr. Cotton,” he remarked. “Do you often do things like that?”
“We do them when we have to,” was the reply.
“Well, it's a novel proposition. Tell me more about it. What will the charge be?”
“I'm not sure about that—we'll put it up to our lawyers. Maybe they'll call it conspiracy, maybe blackmail. They'll make it whatever carries a long enough sentence.”
“And before I enter my plea, would you mind letting me see the letter I'm supposed to have written.”
“Oh, you've heard about the letter, have you?” said the camp-marshal, lifting his eyebrows in mild surprise. He took from his desk a sheet of paper and handed it to Hal, who read:
“Dere mister Stone, You don't need worry about the check-wayman. Pay me twenty five dollars, and I will fix it right. Yours try, Joe Smith.”
Having taken in the words of the letter, Hal examined the paper, and perceived that his enemies had taken the trouble, not merely to forge a letter in his name, but to have it photographed, to have a cut made of the photograph, and to have it printed. Beyond doubt they had distributed it broadcast in the camp. And all this in a few hours! It was as Olson had said—a regular system to keep the men bedevilled.
SECTION 19.
Hal took a minute or so to ponder the situation. “Mr. Cotton,” he said, at last. “I know how to spell better than that. Also my handwriting is a bit more fluent.”
There was a trace of a smile about the marshal's cruel lips. “I know,” he replied. “I've not failed to compare them.”
“You have a good secret-service department!” said Hal.
“Before you get through, young fellow, you'll discover that our legal department is equally efficient.”
“Well,” said Hal, “they'll need to be; for I don't see how you can get round the fact that I'm a check-weighman, chosen according to the law, and with a group of the men behind me.”
“If that's what you're counting on,” retorted Cotton, “you may as well forget it. You've got no group any more.”
“Oh! You've got rid of them?”
“We've got rid of the ring-leaders.”
“Of whom?”
“That old billy-goat, Sikoria, for one.”
“You've shipped him?”
“We have.”
“I saw the beginning of that. Where have you sent him?”
“That,” smiled the marshal, “is a job for your secret-service department!”
“And who else?”
“John Edstrom has gone down to bury his wife. It's not the first time that dough-faced old preacher has made trouble for us, but it'll be the last. You'll find him in Pedro—probably in the poor-house.”
“No,” responded Hal, quickly—and there came just a touch of elation in his voice—“he won't have to go to the poor-house at once. You see, I've just sent twenty-five dollars to him.”
The camp-marshal frowned. “Really!” Then, after a pause, “You did have that money on you! I thought that lousy Greek had got away with it!”
“No. Your knave was honest. But so was I. I knew Edstrom had been getting short weight for years, so he was the one person with any right to the money.”
This story was untrue, of course; the money was still buried in Edstrom's cabin. But Hal meant for the old miner to have it in the end, and meantime he wanted to throw Cotton off the track.
“A clever trick, young man!” said the marshal. “But you'll repent it before you're through. It only makes me more determined to put you where you can't do us any harm.”
“You mean in the pen? You understand, of course, it will mean a jury trial. You can get a jury to do what you want?”
“They tell me you've been taking an interest in politics in Pedro County. Haven't you looked into our jury-system?”
“No, I haven't got that far.”
The marshal began blowing rings of smoke again.
“Well, there are some three hundred men on our jury-list, and we know them all. You'll find yourself facing a box with Jake Predovich as foreman, three company-clerks, two of Alf Raymond's saloon-keepers, a ranchman with a mortgage held by the company-bank, and five Mexicans who have no idea what it's all about, but would stick a knife into your back for a drink of whiskey. The District Attorney is a politician who favours the miners in his speeches, and favours us in his acts; while Judge Denton, of the district court, is the law partner of Vagleman, our chief-counsel. Do you get all that?”
“Yes,” said Hal. “I've heard of the 'Empire of Raymond'; I'm interested to see the machinery. You're quite open about it!”
“Well,” replied the marshal, “I want you to know what you're up against. We didn't start this fight, and we're perfectly willing to end it without trouble. All we ask is that you make amends for the mischief you've done us.”
“By 'making amends,' you mean I'm to disgrace myself—to tell the men I'm a traitor?”
“Precisely,” said the marshal.
“I think I'll have a seat while I consider the matter,” said Hal; and he took a chair, and stretched out his legs, and made himself elaborately comfortable. “That bench upstairs is frightfully hard,” said he, and smiled mockingly upon the camp-marshal.
SECTION 20.
When this conversation was continued, it was upon a new and unexpected line. “Cotton,” remarked the prisoner, “I perceive that you are a man of education. It occurs to me that once upon a time you must have been what the world calls a gentleman.”
The blood started into the camp-marshal's face. “You go to hell!” said he.
“I did not intend to ask questions,” continued Hal. “I can well understand that you mightn't care to answer them. My point is that, being an ex-gentleman, you may appreciate certain aspects of this case which would be beyond the understanding of a nigger-driver like Stone, or an efficiency expert like Cartwright. One gentleman can recognise another, even in a miner's costume. Isn't that so?”
Hal paused for an answer, and the marshal gave him a wary look. “I suppose so,” he said.
“Well, to begin with, one gentleman does not smoke without inviting another to join him.”
The man gave another look. Hal thought he was going to consign him to hades once more; but instead he took a cigar from his vest-pocket and held it out.
“No, thank you,” said Hal, quietly. “I do not smoke. But I like to be invited.”
There was a pause, while the two men measured each other.
“Now, Cotton,” began the prisoner, “you pictured the scene at my trial. Let me carry on the story for you. You have your case all framed up, your hand-picked jury in the box, and your hand-picked judge on the bench, your hand-picked prosecuting-attorney putting through the job; you are ready to send your victim to prison, for an example to the rest of your employés. But suppose that, at the climax of the proceedings, you should make the discovery that your victim is a person who cannot be sent to prison?”
“Cannot be sent to prison?” repeated the other. His tone was thoughtful. “You'll have to explain.”
“Surely not to a man of your intelligence! Don't you know, Cotton, there are people who cannot be sent to prison?”
The camp-marshal smoked his cigar for a bit. “There are some in this county,” said he. “But I thought I knew them all.”
“Well,” said Hal, “has it never occurred to you that there might be some in this state?”
There followed a long silence. The two men were gazing into each other's eyes; and the more they gazed, the more plainly Hal read uncertainty in the face of the marshal.
“Think how embarrassing it would be!” he continued. “You have your drama all staged—as you did the night before last—only on a larger stage, before a more important audience; and at the dénouement you find that, instead of vindicating yourself before the workers in North Valley, you have convicted yourself before the public of the state. You have shown the whole community that you are law-breakers; worse than that—you have shown that you are jack-asses!”
This time the camp-marshal gazed so long that his cigar went out. And meantime Hal was lounging in his chair, smiling at him strangely. It was as if a transformation was taking place before the marshal's eyes; the miner's “jumpers” fell away from Hal's figure, and there was a suit of evening-clothes in their place!
“Who the devil are you?” cried the man.
“Well now!” laughed Hal. “You boast of the efficiency of your secret service department! Put them at work upon this problem. A young man, age twenty-one, height five feet ten inches, weight one hundred and fifty-two pounds, eyes brown, hair chestnut and rather wavy, manner genial, a favourite with the ladies—at least that's what the society notes say—missing since early in June, supposed to be hunting mountain-goats in Mexico. As you know, Cotton, there's only one city in the state that has any 'society,' and in that city there are only twenty-five or thirty families that count. For a secret service department like that of the 'G. F. C.', that is really too easy.”
Again there was a silence, until Hal broke it. “Your distress is a tribute to your insight. The company is lucky in the fact that one of its camp-marshals happens to be an ex-gentleman.”
Again the other flushed. “Well, by God!” he said, half to himself; and then, making a last effort to hold his bluff—“You're kidding me!”
“'Kidding,' as you call it, is one of the favourite occupations of society, Cotton. A good part of our intercourse consists of it—at least among the younger set.”
Suddenly the marshal rose. “Say,” he demanded, “would you mind going back upstairs for a few minutes?”
Hal could not restrain his laughter at this. “I should mind it very much,” he said. “I have been on a bread and water diet for thirty-six hours, and I should like very much to get out and have a breath of fresh air.”
“But,” said the other, lamely, “I've got to send you up there.”
“That's another matter,” replied Hal. “If you send me, I'll go, but it's your look-out. You've kept me here without legal authority, with no charge against me, and without giving me an opportunity to see counsel. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you are liable criminally for that, and the company is liable civilly. That is your own affair, of course. I only want to make clear my position—when you ask me would I mind stepping upstairs, I, answer that I would mind very much indeed.”
The camp-marshal stood for a bit, chewing nervously on his extinct cigar. Then he went to the door. “Hey, Gus!” he called. Hal's jailer appeared, and Cotton whispered to him, and he went away again. “I'm telling him to get you some food, and you can sit and eat it here. Will that suit you better?”
“It depends,” said Hal, making the most of the situation. “Are you inviting me as your prisoner, or as your guest?”
“Oh, come off!” said the other.
“But I have to know my legal status. It will be of importance to my lawyers.”
“Be my guest,” said the camp-marshal.
“But when a guest has eaten, he is free to go out, if he wishes to!”
“I will let you know about that before you get through.”
“Well, be quick. I'm a rapid eater.”
“You'll promise you won't go away before that?”
“If I do,” was Hal's laughing reply, “it will be only to my place of business. You can look for me at the tipple, Cotton!”
SECTION 21.
The marshal went out, and a few moments later the jailer came back, with a meal which presented a surprising contrast to the ones he had previously served. There was a tray containing cold ham, a couple of soft boiled eggs, some potato salad, and a cup of coffee with rolls and butter.
“Well, well!” said Hal, condescendingly. “That's even nicer than beefsteak and mashed potatoes!” He sat and watched, not offering to help, while the other made room for the tray on the table in front of him. Then the man stalked out, and Hal began to eat.
Before he had finished, the camp-marshal returned. He seated himself in his revolving chair, and appeared to be meditative. Between bites, Hal would look up and smile at him.
“Cotton,” said he, “you know there is no more certain test of breeding than table-manners. You will observe that I have not tucked my napkin in my neck, as Alec Stone would have done.”
“I'm getting you,” replied the marshal.
Hal set his knife and fork side by side on his plate. “Your man has overlooked the finger-bowl,” he remarked. “However, don't bother. You might ring for him now, and let him take the tray.”
The camp-marshal used his voice for a bell, and the jailer came. “Unfortunately,” said Hal, “when your people were searching me, night before last, they dropped my purse, so I have no tip for the waiter.”
The “waiter” glared at Hal as if he would like to bite him; but the camp-marshal grinned. “Clear out, Gus, and shut the door,” said he.
Then Hal stretched his legs and made himself comfortable again. “I must say I like being your guest better than being your prisoner!”
There was a pause.
“I've been talking it over with Mr. Cartwright,” began the marshal. “I've got no way of telling how much of this is bluff that you've been giving me, but it's evident enough that you're no miner. You may be some newfangled kind of agitator, but I'm damned if I ever saw an agitator that had tea-party manners. I suppose you've been brought up to money; but if that's so, why you want to do this kind of thing is more than I can imagine.”
“Tell me, Cotton,” said Hal, “did you never hear of ennui?”
“Yes,” replied the other, “but aren't you rather young to be troubled with that complaint?”
“Suppose I've seen others suffering from it, and wanted to try a different way of living from theirs?”
“If you're what you say, you ought to be still in college.”
“I go back for my senior year this fall.”
“What college?”
“You doubt me still, I see!” said Hal, and smiled. Then, unexpectedly, with a spirit which only moonlit campuses and privilege could beget, he chanted:
“Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He made him a college, all full of knowledge—
Hurrah for you and me!”
“What college is that?” asked the marshal. And Hal sang again:
“Oh, Liza-Ann, come out with me,
The moon is a-shinin' in the monkey-puzzle tree!
Oh, Liza-Ann, I have began
To sing you the song of Harrigan!”
“Well, well!” commented the marshal, when the concert was over. “Are there many more like you at Harrigan?”
“A little group—enough to leaven the lump.”
“And this is your idea of a vacation?”
“No, it isn't a vacation; it's a summer-course in practical sociology.”
“Oh, I see!” said the marshal; and he smiled in spite of himself.
“All last year we let the professors of political economy hand out their theories to us. But somehow the theories didn't seem to correspond with the facts. I said to myself, 'I've got to check them up.' You know the phrases, perhaps—individualism, laissez faire, freedom of contract, the right of every man to work for whom he pleases. And here you see how the theories work out—a camp-marshal with a cruel smile on his face and a gun on his hip, breaking the laws faster than a governor can sign them.”
The camp-marshal decided suddenly that he had had enough of this “tea-party.” He rose to his feet to cut matters short. “If you don't mind, young man,” said he, “we'll get down to business!”