For a few days after the commencement of his reign Bonbright remained
quiescent. It was not through uncertainty, nor because he did not know
what he was going to do. It was because he wanted to be sure of the
best way of doing it. Very little of his time was spent in the room
that had been his father's and was now his own; he walked about the
plant, studying, scrutinizing, appraising, comparing. He did not go
about now as he had done with Rangar on the day his father inducted him
into the dignity of heir apparent and put a paper crown on his head and
a wooden scepter in his hand.
He was aware that the men eyed him morosely. Bitterness was still alive
in their hearts, and the recollection of suffering fresh in their
minds. They still looked at him as a sort of person his father had made
him appear, and viewed his succession as a calamity. The old regime had
been bad enough, they told one another, but this young man, with his
ruthlessness, his heartlessness, with what seemed to be a savage desire
to trample workingmen into unresisting, unprotesting submission--this
would be intolerable. So they scowled at him, and in their homes talked
to their wives with apprehension of dark days ahead.
He felt their attitude. It could not be helped--yet. His work could not
be started with the men, it must start elsewhere. He would come to the
men later, in good time, in their proper order.
His third morning in the office he had called Malcolm Lightener on the
telephone.
"Is your proposition to manufacture ten thousand engines still open?"
"Yes."
"I'll take the contract--providing we can arrive at terms."
"I'll send over blue prints and specifications--and my cost figures.
Probably our costs will be lower than yours...."
"They won't be," said Bonbright, with a tightening of his jaw. "Can you
lend me Mershon for a while?" Mershon was Lightener's engineer, the man
who had designed and built his great plant.
"I can't, but I will."
"As soon as he can arrange it, please. I want to get started."
"He'll be there in half an hour."
Mershon came, a gray, beefy, heavy-faced man--with clear, keen, seeing
eyes.
"Mr. Lightener has loaned you to me, Mr. Mershon. It was a tremendous
favor, for I know what you can do."
Mershon nodded. He was a man who treasured up words. He must have had a
great store of them laid by, for in his fifty years he had used up
surprisingly few.
"This is what I want," Bonbright said. "First, I want a plant designed
with a capacity of twenty thousand Lightener engines. You designed
Lightener's engine plant--so you're about the one man to give me one
that will turn out more engines with less labor and at lower cost than
his. That's what I want."
Mershon's eyes lighted. "It will cost money," he said.
"I'll find the money; you give me the plant," Bonbright said. "And
second, I want a survey made of this present plant. I know a lot of it
is junk, but I'm not competent to say how much. You will know what to
do. If I have to junk the whole outfit I'll do it. I don't want to
waste money, but I want these mills to be the equal of any mills in the
country.... Not only in efficiency, but as a place to work. I want them
safe. You will understand. I want the men considered. Give them light
and air. Wait till you see our wash rooms!" He shrugged his shoulders.
"It isn't enough to have the best machines," he said. "I want the men
to be able to do the best that's in them.... You understand?"
Mershon nodded.
"The next room is yours." Bonbright pointed toward his old office, the
one it had been the family custom to close on the accession of the heir
apparent, and never to reopen until a new heir was ready to take up his
duties. He felt a sort of pleasure in this profanation. "You'll find it
large enough. If you need more room, ask for it.... Get what assistants
you need."
"No more interruption of production than necessary," said Mershon.
"Exactly.... And we need that new plant in a hurry. I've taken a
contract to make ten thousand engines for Mr. Lightener this year."
It was that day that he called Rangar into the room. Rangar had been
uneasy, fearful, since his old employer had died. He had been an
important figure under the old order; a sort of shadow behind the
throne. He wondered what would happen to him now. More especially if
Bonbright had a notion of some of his duties under Bonbright's father.
He was not kept in suspense.
"Mr. Rangar," said Bonbright, "I have been looking through the files.
Some of your duties have become clear to me. I was familiar with
others.... Perhaps my father required a man like yourself. I do not.
The old way of doing things here is gone, and you and I could not be
happy together. I shall direct the cashier to give you a check for six
months' salary..."
"You mean--"
"Exactly what I say."
"But--you don't understand the business. Who is going to run it while
you learn?"
"I don't want to know how this business was run. It's not going to be
run that way.... There's nothing you could teach me, Mr. Hangar....
Good afternoon."
Rangar went white with rage. Animosity toward this young man he had
harbored since the beginning; it flowered into hatred. But he dared not
voice it. It was not in Hangar's nature to be open, to fight without
cover. If he spoke, the check for six months' salary might be
withdrawn, so, uttering none of the venom that flooded to his lips, he
went away.... Rangar was the sort of man who vows to get even. ...
That evening Bonbright sat in his window and watched the army of his
employees surge out of the big gate and fill the street. Five thousand
of them.... It was a sight that always fascinated him, as it had that
first evening when he saw them, and came to a realization of what it
meant to be overlord to such a multitude. More than ever he realized it
now--for he was their overlord. They were his men. It was he who gave
them the work that kept them alive; he who held their happiness, their
comfort, their very existence in the hollow of his hand.... And he knew
that in every one of those five thousand breasts burned resentment
toward him. He knew that their most friendly feeling toward him was
suspicion.
It was easy to rebuild a plant; it was simple to construct new mills
with every device that would make for efficiency. That was not a
problem to awe him. It needed but the free expenditure of money, and
there was money in plenty.... But here was a task and a problem whose
difficulty and vastness filled him with misgiving. He must turn that
five thousand into one smooth-running, willing whole. He must turn
their resentment, their bitterness, their suspicion, into trust and
confidence. He must solve the problem of capital and labor.... An
older, more experienced man might have smiled at Bonbright--at his
daring to conceive such a possibility. But Bonbright dared to conceive
it; dared to set himself the task of bringing it about.
That would be his work, peculiarly. No one could help him with it, for
it was personal, appertaining to him. It was between Bonbright Foote
and the five thousand.
It was inevitable that he should feel bitterness toward his father,
for, but for his father, his work would now be enormously more simple.
If these men knew him as he was--knew of his interest in them, of his
willingness to be fair--he would have had their confidence from the
start. His father had made him appear a tyrant, without consideration
for labor; had made him a capitalist of the most detestable type. It
was a deep-seated impression. It had been proven. The men had
experienced it; had felt the weight of Bonbright's ruthless hand....
How could he make them believe it was not his hand? How could he make
them believe that the measures taken to crush the strike had not been
his measures; that they had been carried out under his name but against
his will? It sounded absurd even to himself. Nobody would believe it.
Therefore he must begin, not at the beginning, but deeper than the
beginning. He could not start fairly, but under a handicap so great as
to make his chances of winning all but negligible.... It would be
useless to tell his men that he had been but a figurehead. For him the
only course was to blot out what had gone--to forget it--and to start
against odds to win their confidence. It would be better to let them
slowly come to believe he was a convert--that there had been a
revolution in his heart and mind. Indeed, there was no other way. He
must show them by daily studied conduct that he was not what they
feared he was....
He did not know what he was himself. His contact with Malcolm
Lightener's workingmen had given him certain sympathies with the
theories and hopes of labor; but they had made him certain of fallacies
and unsoundness in other theories and ambitions. He was not the
romantic type of wealthy young man who, in stories, meets the under dog
and loves him, and is suddenly converted from being an out-and-out
capitalist to the most radical of socialists. It was not in him to be
radical, for he was steadied by a quietly running balance wheel.... He
was stubborn, too. What he wanted was to be fair, to give what was
due--and to receive what was HIS due.... He could not be swayed by
mawkish sentimental sympathy, nor could he be bullied. Perhaps he was
stiff-necked, but he was a man who must judge of the right or wrong of
a condition himself. Perhaps he was too much that way, but his
experiences had made him so.
If his men tried to bulldoze him they would find him immovable. What he
believed was right and just he would do; but he had his own set notions
of right and justice. He was sympathetic. His attitude toward the five
thousand was one of friendliness. He regarded them as a charge and a
responsibility. He was oppressed by the magnitude of the
responsibility.... But, on the other hand, he recognized that the five
thousand were under certain responsibilities and obligations to him. He
would do his part, but he would demand their part of them.
His father had been against unions. Bonbright was against unions. His
reason for this attitude was not the reason of his father. It was
simply this: That he would not be dictated to by individuals who he
felt were meddling in his affairs. He had arrived at a definite
decision on this point: his mills should never be unionized.... If his
men had grievances he would meet with them individually, or committees
sent by them--committees of themselves. He would not treat with
so-called professional labor men. He regarded them as an impertinence.
Whatever differences should arise must be settled between his men and
himself--with no outside interference. This was a position from which
nothing would move him.... It will be seen he was separated by vast
spaces from socialism.
He called together his superintendents and department foremen and took
them into his confidence regarding his plans for improving and
enlarging the plant. They came, if not with an air of hostility, at
least with reserve, for they were nearer to the men than they were to
Bonbright. They shared the prejudices of the men. Some of them went
away from the meeting with all of their old prejudices and with a new
belief that Bonbright added hypocrisy to his other vices; some withheld
judgment, some were hopeful. Few gave him implicit belief.
When he was done describing the plans for the factory, he said: "There
is one more thing I want to speak about. It is as vital as the
other.... We have recently gone through a strike which has caused
bitterness toward this institution on the part of the men. There has
been especial bitterness toward myself. I have no defense of myself to
make. It is too late to do that. If any of you men know the facts--you
know them. On that point I have nothing to say.... This is what I want
to impress on you men who are in authority. I want to be fair to every
man in this plant. I am going to give them a fit place to work. Many
parts of this plant are not now fit places. From every man I shall
demand a day's work for a day's pay, but no more. You are in direct
authority. I want each of you to treat his men with consideration, and
to have an eye for their welfare. Perhaps I shall not be able to make
the men feel toward me as I want them to feel, but if it can be brought
about, I want them to know that their interests are my interests....
That is all, except that to-morrow notices will be posted in every
department stating that my office door is open to any man who works for
me--any man may come to me with complaint or with suggestion at any
time. The notices will state that I want suggestions, and that any man
who can bring me an idea that will improve his work or the work in his
department or in the plant will be paid for it according to its value.
In short, I want the co-operation of every man who draws wages from
this concern...."
As they went back to their departments the men who left the meeting
discussed Bonbright, as he knew they would and hoped they would.
"It's a four flush," declared one old fellow, hotly.
"I don't know.... Wait and see," said another. "He looked like he meant
it."
Wait and see! That was the general attitude. They took nothing on
trust, but put it squarely up to Bonbright to prove himself by his
actions.
Mershon came into the office. "How about this construction work?" he
asked. "Need an army of bricklayers. What about the unions?"
Was this question coming up so quickly? Bonbright frowned. His attitude
toward the unions must become public and would inevitably raise another
obstacle between himself and the men, but he was determined on the
point.
"A man has a right to join the Masons or the Knights of Columbus, or
the Bricklayers' Union," he said, presently. "That's for him to say,
but when he comes to work here he comes as an individual."
"Open shop?"
"Yes."
"You won't recognize any union? I want to know how I stand with them at
the beginning."
"I'll recognize no union," said Bonbright.
The card of a young man from Richmond's office was brought in.
Bonbright sent word for him to be admitted.
"I came about that Hammil accident case," said the young man. "Hammil
was hurt yesterday, pretty badly, and the report makes it look as if
we'd be stuck if the thing goes to a jury."
"I know nothing about it," said Bonbright, with a little shock. It was
possible, then, for a man to be maimed or killed in his own plant and
news of it to reach him after days or perhaps never. He made a note to
rectify THAT state of affairs. "You mean that this man Hammil was hurt
through our fault?"
"I'm afraid a jury would say so." The young man explained the accident
in detail. "He complained about the condition of his machine, and his
foreman told him he could stick to his job there or quit."
"Forced him to work on an unsafe machine or quit?"
"Yes."
Bonbright stared at his blotter a moment. "What did you want to see me
about?"
"We'd better settle. Right now I can probably run up and put a wad of
bills under Hammil's nose and his wife's, and it'll look pretty big.
Before some ambulance-chaser gets hold of him. He hasn't been able to
talk until awhile ago, so nobody's seen him."
"Your idea is that we could settle for less than a jury would give him?"
The young man laughed. "A jury'd give him four or five thousand, maybe
more. Doctor says the injury is permanent. I've settled more than one
like it for three or four hundred."
"The man won't be able to work again?"
"Won't be good for much."
"And we're responsible!" Bonbright said it to himself, not to the young
man. "Is this thing done often--settling these things for--what we can
squeeze them down to?"
"Of course." The young man was calloused. His job was to settle claims
and save money. His value increased as his settlements were small.
"Where's Hammil?"
"At the General Hospital."
Bonbright got up and went to the closet for his hat. "Come on," he said.
"You're not going up there, are you?"
"Yes."
"But--but I can handle it all right, Mr. Foote. There's no need to
bother you."
"I've no doubt you can handle it--maybe too well," said Bonbright.
They were driven to the hospital and shown up to Jim Hammil's room. His
wife was there, pale, tearless, by his bedside. Jim was bandaged,
groaning, in agony. Bonbright's lips lost their color. He felt guilty.
It was HE who had put this man where he was, had smashed him. It was
HIS fault.
He walked to the bedside. "Jim," he said, "I am Mr. Foote."
"I--know--you," said the man between teeth set to hold back his groans.
"And I know you," said his wife. "I know you.... What do you want here?"
"I came to see Jim," said Bonbright. "I didn't know he was hurt until a
few minutes ago.... It's useless to say I'm sorry."
"They made him work on that machine. He knowed it wasn't safe.... He
had to work on it or lose his job...."
"I know that NOW, Mrs. Hammil.... What was he earning?"
"Two-seventy-five a day.... And now.... How'll we live, with him in the
hospital and maybe never able to work again?"
"Here..." protested Hammil, weakly, glaring at Bonbright. "We'll come
out all right. He'll pay.... You'll pay, that's what you will. A
jury'll make you pay. Wait till I kin see my lawyer...."
"You won't need any lawyer, Jim," said Bonbright. It was hard for him
to talk. He could not speak to these people as he wanted to, nor say
the words that would make their way through their despair and rage to
their hearts. "You won't need any lawyer," he repeated.
"If you think I'm--goin'--to sign--one of them--releases--you're
damn--mistaken," moaned the man.
"Jim," said Bonbright, "you needn't sign anything.... What's done can't
be mended.... It was bad. It was criminal..."
"Mr. Foote," protested the young lawyer.
"I'll attend to this," said Bonbright, shortly. "It's between Jim and
me.... I'll make it as nearly right as it can be made.... First we'll
have you out of this ward into a room.... As long as you are laid up
your wife shall have your full pay every week, and then you and I will
have a talk to see what can be done. Only don't worry.... Don't worry,
Mrs. Hammil...."
Hammil uttered a sound that was intended for a laugh. "You can't catch
me," he said, in a dreadful voice. "I'm--up to--them sharp tricks....
You're lyin'.... Git out of here, both of you.... You're--jest here--to
cheat me."
"You're wrong, Jim."
"I know--you and--your kind," Jim said, trying to lift himself on his
elbow. "I know--what you--done durin'--the strike.... I had a baby--and
she--DIED.... You killed her!" His voice rose almost to a scream.
"Better go, sir," said a nurse. "He's hurting himself."
Bonbright gazed at her blankly. "How can I go?" he asked. "He won't
believe me. He's got to believe me...."
"You lie!... you lie!..." Hammil cried. "I won't talk to you.... My
lawyer'll--do my talkin'."
Bonbright paused a moment. Then he saw it would do no good to remain.
The man's mind was poisoned against him; was unable to conceive of a
man in Bonbright's place meaning him otherwise than treachery.... It
went deeper than suspicion of an individual; it was suspicion of a
class.
"I'll do what I promised, Jim.... That'll prove it to you."
"You--lie.... You lie..." the man called after him, and Bonbright heard
the words repeated again and again as he walked down the long corridor.