The death of his aunt gave Warrington a longing for action--swift
mental and physical action. To sit in that dark, empty house, to read
or to write, was utterly impossible; nor had he any desire to take
long rides into the country. His mind was never clearer than when he
rode alone, and what he wanted was confusion, noise, excitement,
struggle. So he made an appointment with Senator Henderson the next
morning. He left the Benningtons with the promise that he would return
that evening and dine with them. Warrington had become the senator's
hobby; he was going to do great things with this young man's future.
He would some day make an ambassador of him; it would be a pleasant
souvenir of his old age. Warrington was brilliant, a fine linguist,
was a born diplomat, had a good voice, and a fund of wit and repartee;
nothing more was required. He would give the name Warrington a high
place in the diplomatic history of the United States. Some of the most
capable diplomats this country had produced had been poets.
Warrington's being a playwright would add luster to the office. The
senator was going over these things, when a clerk announced that Mr.
Warrington was waiting to see him.
"Send him right in."
Immediately Warrington entered. He was simply dressed in a business
suit of dark blue. He wore a straw hat and a black tie. There was no
broad band of crape on his hat or his sleeve. He had the poet's horror
of parading grief, simply because it was considered fashionable to do
so. He sincerely believed that outward mourning was obsolete, a custom
of the Middle Ages.
"Ha!" ejaculated the senator.
"Good morning. How goes the fight?"
"Fine, my boy; I'll land you there next week; you see if I don't. The
main obstacle is the curious attitude of the press. You and I know the
reason well enough. McQuade is back of this influence. But the voter
doesn't know this, and will accept the surface indications only. Now
you know the newspaper fellows. Why not drop around to the offices and
find out something definite?"
"It's a good idea, Senator. I'll do it this very morning."
"Has McQuade any personal grudge against you?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"He's a bad enemy, and often a downright unscrupulous one. If it's
only politics, I'll have a chat with him myself. You pump the
newspapers. You leave it to me to swing the boys into line at the
convention."
Then they proceeded to go over the ground thoroughly. Something must
be done with the newspapers. The delegates and minor bosses were
already grumbling. Had nothing appeared in the newspapers,
Warrington's nomination would have gone through without even minor
opposition. But the Republican machine was in sore straits. If
Donnelly won this time, it would mean years of Democratic rule in an
essentially Republican town. McQuade must be broken, his strong
barricades toppled; and now that there would be no surprise for the
public, the majority of the delegates began to look doubtfully upon
what they called the senator's coup. They wanted the City Hall, and
they did not care how they got there. Warrington was a fine chap, and
all that, but his acquaintanceship was limited. He could not go about
shaking hands like Donnelly, who knew everybody, high and low. The
laboring man knew nothing about Warrington, save that he was famous
for writing plays they had not seen, nor would have understood if they
had. Warrington was a "swell"; he had nothing in common with the man
who carried the dinner-pail.
"And there the matter stands, my boy," concluded the senator, shifting
his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "If I can swing
the convention the rest will be plain sailing, once you start
speech-making. Oh, McQuade is clever. He knew that by exposing my hand
he would lessen your chances. But you tackle the newspapers and see
what can be done. And good luck to you."
McQuade came down early that morning. The first thing he did was to
call on the editor of the Times.
"Here's something," he said, tossing a few typewritten pages on the
editor's desk. "This'll settle Warrington's hash, Walford."
"What is it?" asked Walford.
"Read it and see for yourself." McQuade sat down and picked up the
early New York papers.
Walford read slowly. When he reached the last paragraph he returned to
the first and read the article through again. He laid it down and
faced his employer.
"Mr. McQuade, the Call and the Times are the only papers in town that
pay dividends. The Times as it stands to-day is a good, legitimate
business investment. Do you want the circulation to drop ten thousand
and the big advertisers to cancel their contracts?"
"What's the matter with the story? Isn't it all right?"
"Frankly, it isn't."
"It's true," said McQuade, his fist thudding on the desk; "it's true,
I tell you, every damned word of it."
"The truth of it isn't the question. It's the advisability of
publishing it. I say to you that if you insist on this story's
publication, you'll kill the Times deader than a door-nail. I'll call
the business manager in." Walford whistled through a tube, and shortly
after the business manager appeared. "Read this," said Walford
briefly, "and give Mr. McQuade your honest opinion regarding its
publication. Mr. McQuade thinks it ought to run as local news."
The business manager read it.
"It makes good reading, Mr. McQuade, but if you want to kill the
Times, run it. There are some stories that can only be rumored, not
printed, and this is one of them. If this appears, you have my word
that every decent advertiser will cancel his contract forthwith."
Walford looked at his employer in frank triumph. McQuade had great
confidence in these two men. He ripped the manuscript into squares and
filtered them through his fingers into the waste-basket.
"You boys are probably right," he said reluctantly. "I have no desire
to see the paper lose its sound footing. But this would have killed
the man socially and politically, so far as this town is concerned."
"Admitted," replied Walford, straightening out some proofs. "But we'll
topple him over in a legitimate way."
"Go ahead, then. I'm not particular how it's done so long as you do
it. Perhaps, after all, it's just as well. I've got another idea. I
can see that I've made a mistake."
McQuade started down the stairs to the street and met Warrington
coming up. The two men paused for a moment, then went on. Once on the
sidewalk, McQuade turned and hesitated. No, he had nothing to say to
Mr. Warrington. He strode down the street toward his own offices.
It will be seen that Warrington had gone directly into the enemy's
camp. He knew Walford of old; they were tolerably good friends. He
gave his card to the boy. Walford, on reading it, stuffed several
newspapers into the waste-basket and pressed his foot on them. He was
a bit shaken.
"Send him in. Hello, Dick," he said. "How are you? You're the last man
I expected to see this morning. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell your political reporter and your editorial man to let up
on me for a week," said Warrington directly. "What the devil have I
done to you chaps that you should light into me after this fashion?"
"You have become rich and famous, Dick, and mediocrity can stand
anything but that." But there was a twinkle in Walford's eyes.
"Come, Wally, you know that isn't the truth."
"Well, if you want the truth I'll give it to you. Answer me frankly
and honestly, do you consider that you have any moral right to accept
a nomination for the mayoralty of Herculaneum?"
"Moral right. I'll pick up that phrase and carry it to your camp. I
have as much moral right as Donnelly, who, if he hasn't been caught,
is none the less culpable for breaking his oath of loyalty. You know
this as well as I do."
Walford eyed the waste-basket thoughtfully.
"Now, we'll turn to the legal side," continued Warrington. "I was born
here; I cast my first vote here; for several years I've been a
property owner and have paid my taxes without lying to the
tax-assessor. It is notorious that Donnelly is worth half a million,
and yet he is assessed upon a house worth about seven thousand. You
have called me a meddler; you apply the term every day. Now draw the
distinction, as to eligibility, between Donnelly and myself."
Walford got up from his chair and closed the door. He returned and sat
down again.
"Dick, politics is politics, and its ways are dark and mysterious,
like the heathen Chinee. If I had your talent--if I had your ability
to earn money, I'd walk out of this office this moment. But I am only
a poor devil of a newspaper man. I've a family. When I was twenty,
eighteen years ago, I was earning twelve a week; to-day it is forty;
when I am sixty it will return to twelve. You know the business; you
know the value they set on a man's brains in this city. And there's
always somebody waiting for your shoes. Now, listen. In the first
place I must live, and as honorably as environment permits me. By
conviction I am a Democrat; I believe in the Democratic principles.
Thus, I consider it my duty to thwart, if possible, any and all moves
the Republican party makes. I recognize your strength, and I shall do
what I can from my side of the barricade to defeat your nomination at
the Republican convention; for I believe you able, if once nominated,
to lead your party to success and victory. But I shall fight you
honestly, Dick. In all I have said so far, there has been no innuendo;
I've stood out in the open. I did you a good turn this morning, but
you will never be any the wiser. Personally, I like you; I have always
liked you, and I am glad to see one man of the craft rise above the
grubs and earn a splendid competence. It hasn't been easy, Dick;
you've had to fight for it, and that's what I admire. You're a good,
clean fighter. If I should rebel against continuing this attack
against you, the attack would go on, but I shouldn't. That would do
neither of us any good. McQuade might find a man with less scruples
than I have. And that's how the matter stands, Dick."
"Well, you're frank and honest about it, and I know you will at least
give me a square deal, in the event of my nomination."
"You may reckon on that. Good luck to you and bad luck to your cause."
They talked about the old days for a while, and then Warrington
departed and directed his steps to the office of the Journal, the
paper in which he had begun his career. Oh, here they were willing to
do anything in their power from now on. If he was really determined to
accept the nomination, they would aid him editorially. That evening
the editor made good his word, frankly indorsing Warrington as the
best possible choice for Republican nominee. The editor explained his
former attitude by setting forth his belief that Mr. Warrington's
candidacy was not serious. At the office of the Telegraph they treated
him cordially enough. They never meddled with politics till the fight
was on. Then they picked the candidate whose views most coincided with
their own. If Mr. Warrington was nominated, doubtless they would
support his ticket. The general manager had been a classmate of
Warrington's. He called on him and explained his errand. The manager
simply wrote on a pad: "McQuade owns fifty-five per cent. of the
shares," held it under Warrington's nose and then tore it up.
"That's where our independence stands at this moment."
"I had heard of this, but didn't quite believe it," Warrington said.
Bill Osborne evidently knew what was going on, then. "I'm sorry to
have troubled you."
"None at all."
On the street Warrington was stopped by Ben Jordan, the Telegraph's
star reporter, who had worked with Warrington on the Journal.
"Say, Dick, I am glad to see you. I was going up to your house on
purpose to see you. Come over to Martin's a minute. I've got some news
that might interest you."
"I don't like Martin's place," said Warrington. "Let's compromise on
Hanley's."
"All right, my boy."
They walked down to Hanley's, talking animatedly.
"What will you have, Ben?"
"Musty ale."
"Two musty ales," Warrington ordered. "Well, Ben?"
Ben took a deep swallow of ale. He was the best all-round reporter in
the city; he knew more people than Osborne knew. Murders, strikes,
fires, they were all the same to Ben. He knew where to start and where
to end. The city editor never sent Ben out on a hunt for scandal; he
knew better than to do that. Nine times out of ten, the other papers
got the scandal and Ben's behavior became one. The labor unions were
Ben's great stand-by. On dull days he could always get a story from
the unions. He attended their meetings religiously. They trusted him
implicitly, for Ben never broke his word to any one but his landlady.
He was short and wiry, with a head so large as to be almost a
deformity. On top of this head was a shock of brick-colored hair that
resembled a street-cleaner's broom. And Ben's heart was as big as his
head. His generosity was always getting him into financial trouble.
"Dick, you're a friend of Bennington's. You can quietly tip him that
his men will go out Monday morning. There's only one thing that will
avert a strike, and that's the discharge of the Englishman."
"Bennington will never discharge him."
"So I understand. He'll have a long strike on his hands."
"Do you know the inside?"
"Enough to say that the men will go out. They're a lot of sheep.
They've an idea they've been wronged. But you can't reason with them."
"Ben, you go up to the shops yourself and tell Bennington what you
know."
"I don't know him. How'll he take it?"
"Tell him I sent you."
"I'll do it, Dick. But if he kicks me out, the drinks will be on you.
What countermove will he make?"
"Better ask him yourself. But if you have any influence among the
unions, tell them to go slow. They haven't sized up Bennington. Wait a
moment. I'll give you a note to him." He called for paper and
envelopes, and wrote:
Dear John:
This will introduce to you Mr. Jordan, a reporter in whom I have the
greatest confidence. Whatever you may tell him you may rest assured
that he will never repeat. I am sending him to you in hopes he may
suggest some plan by which to ward off the impending strike. There may
be a little self-interest on my side. A strike just now will raise the
devil in politics. You may trust Jordan fully.
Warrington.
He pushed it across the table. "There, that will smooth the way."
"Many thanks, my son. Where's he eat his lunch?"
"Usually in the office."
"Well, I'm off!"
Ben always had his eye on the story of to-morrow, and he would face
all or any difficulties in pursuit of the end. If he could stop the
strike at the Bennington shops it would be a great thing for the
Telegraph and a great thing for Ben. So he hailed a car, serenely
unconscious that he was taking a position absolutely opposed to that
of his employer. He arrived at the shops some time before the noon
hour. His letter opened all doors. Bennington was in his private
office. He read the letter and offered Ben a chair.
"I have never been interviewed," he said.
"I am not here for an interview," said Ben. "Your men will go out
Monday."
"Monday? How did you learn that?"
"My business takes me among the unions. What shall you do in the event
of the strike?"
"And I have no desire to be interviewed."
"You read Mr. Warrington's letter. Perhaps, if I knew what stand you
will take, I could talk to the men myself. I have averted three or
four strikes in my time, simply because the boys know that I always
speak the truth, the plain truth. In this case I feel that you have
the right on your side. You haven't said anything yet. The union is
practically trying to bluff you into coming to its terms: the
discharge of the inventor, or a strike."
"Are you representing the union?"
"I am representing nobody but myself."
"I may tell you, then, that I shall not discharge the inventor. Nor
will I, if the men go out, take a single one of them back."
"The men will not believe that. They never do. They've been so
successful in Pennsylvania that they are attempting to repeat that
success all over the Country. They have grown pig-headed. I feel sorry
for the poor devils, who never realize when they are well off."
"I feel sorry, too, Mr. Jordan," said Bennington. He played a tattoo
on his strong white teeth with his pencil. "Mr. Warrington seems to
know you well."
"We began on the Journal together. You will not tell me what your plan
is, then?"
"I'd rather not, for honestly, I can not see how it would better the
case."
"It might be worth while to give me a chance."
Bennington re-read Warrington's note. Then he studied the frank blue
eyes of the reporter.
"Miss Ward, you may go," he said to the stenographer. "Now,"--when the
girl had gone,--"you will give me your word?"
"It's all I have."
"How can you convince the men without telling them?"
"Oh, I meant that whatever you tell me shall not see light in the
papers till I have your permission. There's a weekly meeting to-night.
They will decide finally at this meeting. To-morrow will be too late."
Bennington was an accurate judge of men. He felt that he could trust
this shock-headed journalist. If without any loss of self-respect, if
without receding a single step from his position, he could avert the
crash, he would gladly do so. He had reached one determination, and
nothing on earth would swerve him. So he told Ben just exactly what
would happen if the men went out. Ben did not doubt him for a moment.
He, too, was something of a judge of men. This man would never back
down.
"I give you this to show them, if your arguments do not prevail,"
concluded Bennington, producing a folded paper. "They will hardly
doubt this."
Ben opened it. It was a permit from the municipal government to tear
down a brick structure within the city limits. Ben stowed the permit
in his pocket. He looked with admiration at the man who could plan,
coolly and quietly, the destruction of a fortune that had taken a
quarter of a century to build. He was grave. There was a big
responsibility pressing on his shoulders.
"Much obliged. You will never regret the confidence you repose in me.
Now I'll tell you something on my side. It is not the inventor, though
the men believe it is. The inventor is a pretext of Morrissy, the
union leader."
"A pretext?"
"I can't prove what I say, that's the trouble; but McQuade has his
hand in this. I wish to Heaven I could find solid proofs."
"McQuade?" Bennington scowled. He could readily understand now.
McQuade! This was McQuade's revenge. He could wait patiently all this
while!
"I'll do what I can, Mr. Bennington; I'll do what I can."
Bennington ate no lunch that noon. Instead, he wandered about the
great smoky shops, sweeping his glance over the blast-furnaces, the
gutters into which the molten ore was poured, the giant trip-hammers,
the ponderous rolling-machines, the gas-furnaces for tempering fine
steel. The men moved aside. Only here and there a man, grown old in
the shops, touched his grimy cap. ... To tear it down! It would be
like rending a limb, for he loved every brick and stone and girder, as
his father before him had loved them. He squared his shoulders, and
his jaws hardened. No man, without justice on his side, should dictate
to him; no man should order him to hire this man or discharge that
one. He alone had that right; he alone was master. Bennington was not
a coward; he would not sell to another; he would not shirk the task
laid out for his hand. Unionism, such as it stood, must receive a
violent lesson. And McQuade?
"Damn him!" he muttered, his fingers knotting.
Education subdues or obliterates the best of fighting in the coward
only. The brave man is always masculine in these crises, and he will
fight with his bare hands when reason and intelligence fail. A great
longing rose up in Bennington's heart to have it out physically with
McQuade. To feel that gross bulk under his knees, to sink his fingers
into that brawny throat!--The men, eying him covertly, saw his arms go
outward and his hands open and shut convulsively. More than ever they
avoided his path. Once before they had witnessed a similar
abstraction. They had seen him fling to the ground a huge puddler who
had struck his apprentice without cause. The puddler, one of the
strongest men in the shops, struggled to his feet and rushed at his
assailant. Bennington had knocked him down again, and this time the
puddler remained on the ground, insensible. Bennington had gone back
to his office, shutting and opening his fists. Ay, they had long since
ceased calling him the dude. The man of brawn has a hearty respect for
spectacular exhibitions of strength.
One o'clock. The trip-hammers began their intermittent thunder, the
rolling-machines shrieked, and the hot ore sputtered and crackled.
Bennington returned to his office and re-read the letter his father
had written to him on his death-bed. He would obey it to the final
line.
That particular branch of the local unions which was represented in
the Bennington steel-mills met in the loft of one of the brick
buildings off the main street. The room was spacious, but ill
ventilated. That, night it was crowded. The men were noisy, and a haze
of rank tobacco-smoke drifted aimlessly about, vainly seeking egress.
Morrissy called the meeting to order at eight-thirty. He spoke briefly
of the injustice of the employers, locally and elsewhere, of the
burdens the laboring man had always borne and would always bear, so
long as he declined to demand his rights. The men cheered him. Many
had been drinking freely. Morrissy stated the case against Bennington.
He used his words adroitly and spoke with the air of a man who regrets
exceedingly a disagreeable duty.
From his seat in the rear Jordan watched him, following each word
closely. He saw that Morrissy knew his business thoroughly.
"We'll get what we want, men; we always do. It isn't a matter of
money; it's principle. If we back down, we are lost; if we surrender
this time, we'll have to surrender one thing at a time till we're away
back where we started from, slaves to enrich the oppressor. We've got
to fight for our rights. Here's an inventor who, if we permit him to
remain, will succeed in throwing two hundred men out of work.
Bennington is making enough money as things are now. There's no need
of improvement, such as will take bread and butter out of our mouths,
out of the mouths of our wives and children. We've got to strike.
That'll bring him to his senses."
At the conclusion he was loudly applauded.
Jordan stood up and waited till the noise had fully subsided.
Everybody knew him. They had seen him stand up before, and he always
said something worth listening to.
"You all know me, boys," he began.
"You bet!"
"You're all right!"
"Speech! Go ahead!"
Jordan caught Morrissy's eye. Morrissy nodded with bad grace. Jordan
spoke for half an hour. He repeated word for word what Bennington had
told him. In the end he was greeted with laughter.
"Very well, boys," he said, shrugging. "It's none of my business.
You've never caught me lying yet. You don't know this man Bennington.
I believe I do. He'll make good his threat. Wait and see."
"How much were you paid to attend this meeting?" demanded Morrissy,
sneering.
"A good deal less than you were, Mr. Morrissy." There was a dangerous
flush on Ben's cheeks, but the smoke was so dense that Morrissy failed
to observe it. The men laughed again, accepting Ben's retort as a
piece of banter. Ben went on doggedly: "I have in my pocket a permit
to tear down the shops. Bennington gave it to me to produce. Look at
it, if you doubt my word. There it is."
The men passed it along the aisles. It came back presently, much the
worse for the wear. Some of the older men looked exceedingly grave,
but they were in the minority.
"Anybody can get a permit to tear down his property," said Morrissy
scornfully. "It's a big bluff, men. What! tear down the golden goose?
Not in a thousand years! It's a plain bluff. And I'm sorry to see a
decent man like our newspaper friend on the enemy's side."
"If I am on the enemy's side, Mr. Morrissy, it's because I'm a friend
of every man here, save one," significantly. "You men will vote a
strike. I can see that. But you'll regret it to your last day. I've
nothing more to say. I helped you once when old man Bennington was
alive, but I guess you've forgotten it." Ben sat down in silence.
"We'll proceed with the voting," said Morrissy.
Half an hour later there was a cheer. The men would go out Monday, if
the demands of the committee were not acceded to. The meeting broke
up, and many of the men flocked into the near-by saloons. Morrissy
approached Ben, who had waited for him. No one was within earshot.
"What the hell do you mean by saying you were paid less than I was?"
he said, his jaw protruding at an ugly angle.
"I mean, Morrissy," answered Ben fearlessly, "that you had better move
carefully in the future. If I were you, I wouldn't accept any
unstamped envelopes in Herculaneum It would be a good plan to go to
some other town for that."
"Why, damn you!" Morrissy raised his fist.
"Stay where you are," warned Ben, seizing a camp-chair "or I'll break
your head. Listen to me. I'm starting out from this night on to break
you, and, by God, I'll do it before the year is over. This is your
last strike, so make the most of it. You were at Schmuck's the other
night, you and McQuade. There was a friend of mine on the other side
of the partition. Unfortunately this friend was alone. I haven't got
any proofs, but I'll get them."
Morrissy became yellower than his diamonds. Ben flung aside his chair
and left the hall. He went straight to Martin's saloon. He found Bill
Osborne alone at a table.
"Will they strike, Ben?" he asked in a rough whisper.
"Yes. I thought I might influence them, Bill, but I've only made an
ass of myself. Two whiskies," he ordered, "and make one of them stiff.
I told Morrissy."
"You didn't mention my name, Ben? Don't say you told him that I was on
the other side of the partition!" Bill's eyes nearly stood out of his
head.
"I told him nothing. How'd you happen to land in Schmuck's saloon,
anyhow? Why didn't you telephone me when you heard Morrissy come in?"
"Oh. Ben, I was drunk! If I hadn't been so drunk!" Bill's eyes
overflowed remorsefully.
Ben swore.
"And say, Ben, that fellow Bolles is back in town. He was in here a
few minutes ago, drunk as a lord. He flashed a roll of bills that
would have choked an ox."
"Where is he now?"
"Up stairs playing the wheel."
Ben shook his head. He had his salary in his pocket, and he vividly
remembered what roulette had done to it a fortnight gone.
"If Bolles is drunk, it wouldn't do any good to talk to him." Ben
sighed and drank his liquor neat. He was tired.