The Republican caucus or convention was uneventful. Warrington was
nominated for mayor of Herculaneum, with little or no opposition.
Everybody expected it. It was, in the phraseology of the day, cut and
dried. There was no surprise on the part of the public. Still, Senator
Henderson was jubilant; he had nominated his man.
The young candidate's speech, accepting the nomination, was reproduced
in full in all the newspapers, whose editorial writers frankly
admitted that the speech was one of the best heard in Herculaneum in
years. Reporters raked up anecdotes and old photographs; they enlarged
upon the history of his early struggles and his ultimate success; and
long despatches flashed over the wires. The whole continent was more
or less interested in the sudden political ambition of one of its
favorite dramatic writers.
It was true that Warrington's vanity was touched. It always touches
our vanity to be given something for which we have made no struggle
whatever. It was something to be followed by curious newsboys, to be
spoken to respectfully by Tom, Dick and Harry, who erstwhile hadn't
known of his existence. Warrington was human, and he laughed at his
vanity even as it was being gratified.
On the other side the Democrats perfunctorily nominated Donnelly. It
was the best they could do, and Donnelly had nothing to learn. And so
the fight was on. Donnelly went everywhere; so did Warrington. If
Donnelly spoke in the German district, Warrington spoke to the
Italians and in their native tongue. Warrington soon learned how to
shake hands in the manner of a candidate,--to take the whole hand and
squeeze it soundly. The coal-heaver whose hand the dramatist grasped
thereupon returned to his friends with the report that the candidate
had a good grip, that there was nothing namby-pamby about him, for all
his dude clothes. It is the gift of Heaven to win friends and keep
them, and Warrington possessed this gift. His good-humored smile, his
ready persiflage, his ease in all environments, and his common
sense--these were his bucklers. He spoke in dingy halls, on saloon
bars, everywhere and anywhere and at all times. It was a great sight
to see him lightly mount a bar and expound his politics, his nostrils
assailed by cheap tobacco and kerosene lamps. If Donnelly opened a keg
of beer, Warrington opened two; if Donnelly gave a picnic, Warrington
gave two. And once he presented free matinee tickets to a thousand
women. This was a fine stroke of policy. When a man wins a woman to
his cause, he wins a valiant champion. Here, then, were a thousand
tongues in his service.
His work put enthusiasm into the rank and file of the party, and soon
all half-heartedness disappeared and dissensions vanished. He
furnished foot-ball suits for the newsboys, torch-light regimentals
for the young men's Republican clubs; he spent his own money freely
but judiciously; and all the while Donnelly was not far behind. For
the first time in the history of local politics the two parties went
to work with solid ranks. It promised to be a great campaign.
Warrington's influence soon broke the local confines; and the
metropolitan newspapers began to prophesy that as Herculaneum went, so
would go the state.
Warrington's theatrical manager came up from New York and said he
wanted that play at once. The dramatist declared that there would be
no play that season. The manager threatened a lawsuit; Warrington
remained unmoved. His first duty was to his party; after the first
Tuesday in November he would see. This argument found its way to
reportorial ears, with the result that it merely added to the young
candidate's growing popularity.
It was only occasionally that he saw the Benningtons. His nights were
devoted to speech-making or conferences. Sometimes, however, on his
way home late at night, he would walk up as far as the old house and
look up at the windows; and if he saw a light in Patty's room he would
pause for a few minutes, then turn about, Jove limping at his heels.
Patty Bennington! The one idyl in his noisy life, the one uplifting
influence! He knew that he was not making this fight for clean
politics because his heart was in it, but because Patty's was. It is
thus that women make the world better, indirectly. Once or twice he
had seen Patty in the gallery at mass meetings; but, hurry as he
might, he never could get around to the entrance in time to speak to
her.
As for McQuade, he knew that between him and that gentleman the war
had only begun. He was constantly wondering how McQuade would act; but
so far as he could see, McQuade had absolutely nothing to stand on.
McQuade would have to tunnel; he could not carry on the war above
ground. McQuade would never forgive the result of the dog fight. There
had been so much raillery in the newspapers that McQuade became
furious whenever it was mentioned. His dog was a professional fighter
and had made three kills, and here a "pet" had given him his first
licking. It rankled, and none of McQuade's friends dared refer to it.
So Warrington remained alert and watchful; it was all he could do.
In more ways than one Herculaneum became widely known. Other cities
realized that there was a peculiar strike in progress, upon the
outcome of which depended the principles of unionism. Here was an
employer who was making preparations to destroy his shops, regardless
of financial loss, regardless of public opinion, regardless of
everything but his right to employ and discharge whom he willed. Every
great employer in the country focused his eye upon Herculaneum; every
union leader did likewise. The outcome would mean a kind of
revolution.
At the shops the men had placed the usual sentinels around the limits,
ready to repel the expected army of non-union workmen. But a day
passed, two, three, four; a week, then ten days; a month. Not a single
strange man approached the gates. Not one man among them had any
information whatever as to the movements of their whilom employer.
Scab labor never showed its head above the horizon. The men began to
wonder; they began to grow restless. But Morrissy always pacified them
with the word "wait."
"Vigilance, boys; that's the word," said the leader. "The moment we go
to sleep he'll have his men inside."
So the men relaxed none of their watching, night and day. It was
rather pathetic to see the children bringing scanty meals to the
guarding men. They were being misled, that was all, but they had to
find that out themselves. The city's bill-boards were covered with
"Boycott" and "Unfair" paper. The men were careful. They made no
effort to injure anything; they made no attempt to enter the shops;
they had had a brush with the militia once, and they were wise. They
could beat the new men and maim them, but so long as they did not
touch property there would be no call for the militia. They waited.
Mean-time Morrissy wore a new diamond.
One day a cry went up.
"Here's the scabs! Here they come!"
Word was sent immediately to the union's headquarters.
A body of twenty-odd men, carrying shovels and pickaxes and
dinner-pails, moved toward the gates. At their head was Bennington
himself. He placed the great key in the lock and swung the gates
inward. The men passed in quickly. Bennington was last. He turned for
a moment and gazed calmly at the threatening faces of the strikers. An
impulse came to him.
"Men," he said, "up to one o'clock this noon these gates will be open
to you. Each of you can take up your work where you left it, at the
same wages, at the same hours. This is the last chance. Later you will
learn that you have been betrayed."
"How about Chittenden?"
"Chittenden will return at the same time you do."
"The hell he will! Let him show his British face here, and we'll
change it so his mother won't know it."
Bennington went inside and shut the gates. There was nothing more to
be done. He did not slam the gates insolently, as some men would have
done; he simply shut them.
This event was also reported at headquarters. That afternoon all the
strikers were out in force. They congregated in groups and talked
angrily. Two policemen patrolled up and down. Bennington had had some
difficulty in securing even these. The men waited for the first sign
of smoke from the chimneys, but none came. No one was lighting the
furnaces; there was nothing but silence inside the shops. There was no
possible excuse as yet for deeds of violence, though many of the more
turbulent element urged riot at once. What was the use of waiting? In
the afternoon there appeared some fifty more strange men. These
carried tool-bags. They were challenged. They ignored the challenge
and pushed on resolutely. For the first time blows were struck. The
leader whirled around.
"Look here, men, you're making a big mistake. Your fists won't help
you. We are going inside, and if we can't go in peaceably, why, we'll
break some heads to get in. We have all been sworn in legally as
deputy police, and if we start in to break heads we promise to do it
thoroughly."
"What are you going to do in there?" demanded Morrissy.
"None of your business, for one thing," answered the burly spokesman
of the interlopers. "I'll add this much, if it will ease your minds:
nobody's going to step into your jobs; when you went out you left your
jobs behind."
"So you fellows are what they call strike-breakers, are you?" asked
Morrissy wrathfully.
"Oh, we aren't going to break your strike, my friend. You can call
this a strike as long as you please, so far as we're concerned. We've
got work to do here, though, and we are going to do it."
"Are you union men?"
"Not so you'd notice it," was the cool reply.
"All right. You fellows won't be here long."
"Stop us if you can. Now, stand aside!" commanded the stranger
menacingly.
"Let 'em by, men," cried Morrissy. "Don't touch 'em yet. You just
leave it to me. I know a way and a good one, too. You just leave it to
me."
The angry strikers divided ranks and the strangers entered the shops.
Morrissy directed his steps to McQuade's office, and together they
paid a visit to the mayor.
"Look here, Donnelly, did you permit Bennington to swear in deputy
police?" asked McQuade.
"Deputy police? Bennington has no deputy police from this place,"
answered Donnelly hotly.
"Well, all we know is that he has them," snapped Morrissy.
"Then he has gone directly to the governor."
"The governor?"
McQuade and Morrissy looked at each other blankly.
"He has that prerogative," said Donnelly.
"But he wouldn't dare!"
"Oh, yes, he would. It's his last term; he is without further
political ambition; he can act as he pleases, in the face of public
condemnation. There's one thing left, though."
"What?"
"Injunction," said Donnelly tersely.
"With Republican judges on the benches?" replied McQuade ironically.
"And you can't enjoin private property," added Morrissy.
"I'll send for Bennington," Donnelly volunteered. "Perhaps I can talk
him into reason."
"It's up to you to block this move somehow," said McQuade. "It means
the labor vote. And we've got to have that."
"I'll do the best I can. I can stop his permit to tear down the
building, if he really intends to do that."
"It will be a good day's work for you."
"I'll act this very afternoon."
Once outside the mayor's office, McQuade turned to Morrissy.
"Where's that receipt you promised on oath?"
"Haven't you got it?" asked Morrissy, feigning surprise.
"No, and I doubt you sent it. But I want it at once, and no more
monkeying."
"Well, I sent it. I mailed it to your office. You've overlooked it."
"Come over to my office now and make it out," McQuade insisted.
"You've got plenty of grips on me without that," protested Morrissy
reproachfully.
"But I want this one, and I'm going to have it."
"I'll go to your office. Will Donnelly be game?"
"He will if he knows which side his bread is buttered on,"
contemptuously.
The two went up to McQuade's office. It was deserted.
"The girl's gone this afternoon," said McQuade, "but I can handle the
typewriter myself."
"All I've got to say is that I mailed you a receipt. What do you want
it for?" with a final protest.
"I've got an idea in my head, Morrissy. I want that receipt. Some day
you may take it into your head to testify that I offered you a
thousand to bring on the strike at Bennington's. That would put me in
and let you out, because I can't prove that I gave the cash to you.
Business is business."
"Hell! Any one would think, to hear you talk, that I had threatened to
betray."
"Every man to his own skin," replied McQuade philosophically. He then
sat down before the typewriter. There were two blank sheets in the
roller, with a carbon between. The girl had left her machine all ready
for the morrow's work. McQuade picked out his sentence laboriously.
"There, sign that."
The paper read:
"I, James Morrissy, the undersigned, do hereby declare that I have
received $1,000, in two sums of $500 each, from Daniel McQuade, these
sums being payment agreed upon for my bringing about the strike at the
Bennington shops."
Morrissy looked at the boss incredulously.
"I say, Mac, have you gone crazy?" he cried. "Do you want evidence
like this lying around in your safe? It's the penitentiary for both of
us if any one finds that."
"I know what I am doing," McQuade responded quietly, as indeed he did.
"But look; you've got the strike and I've got the cash; that makes us
quits."
"Sign it," was all McQuade replied to this argument.
"All right. What's bad for me is bad for you," and without further ado
Morrissy affixed his fist to the sheet.
"Here's the duplicate for you."
Morrissy lighted a match and set fire to the sheet; he stamped on the
ashes with grim satisfaction.
"Not for mine," with a laugh. "You're welcome to yours."
McQuade folded his deliberately and put it away in the safe. The sheet
of carbon paper he crumpled into a ball and tossed into the waste-basket.
We all commit blunders at one time or another, and McQuade had
just committed his.
"That's all, Morrissy. I think I can trust you fully. I mean no harm,
boy; 'tis only self-preservation."
"Oh, so long as your name's on it there's no kick coming from me; only
I never saw you do such a fool thing before. Anything else to-day?"
"No. You might keep tab on that fool Bolles. He's been drunk ever
since he came back from New York. And he doesn't know how to keep his
mouth shut."
"I'll keep an eye on him."
"He's the only man we have who can handle the dagos. I'll see you up
at Dutch Hall to-night. Donnelly is making a speech there, and we'll
open a few kegs of beer for the boys."
When Morrissy was gone McQuade laughed softly and went to the safe
again. He proceeded to do to his receipt exactly what Morrissy had
done to his--burn it. So long as Morrissy believed that McQuade held
his signature, so long might Morrissy be trusted. It was only an idea,
but it proved that the boss knew his lieutenants tolerably well.
"The blackleg would sell the tomb off his father's grave," he mused,
brushing the ashes from his clothes.
Let Bennington rip up his shops; all the better for Donnelly's chances
of reelection. The laboring party would be sure to desert Warrington's
standard, since he was a personal and intimate friend of Bennington
the oppressor. He laughed again sinisterly. Presently he would have
them all by the throats. He would watch them squirm, too. This young
fool Warrington; he was the first real obstacle he (McQuade) had
encountered in his checkered career. Threats could not move him. He
had believed at the start that he could scare him away from the
convention; but the fool wouldn't be scared. And his damned dog!
"He'll never reach the City Hall, not while I live, damn his
impudence! That woman, though, is no fool. She's kept her mouth shut.
They don't always do that. Well, I can write more than receipts on the
machine. I'll ruin them both if I can. Ordered me out of the house,
and I honestly liked the woman! But I'll square accounts presently."
Meanwhile Donnelly set the wires humming. He finally got Bennington at
the shops.
"This is Mr. Bennington. Who is it and what is wanted?"
"This is the mayor talking."
"Oh! Well, what is it, Mr. Donnelly?"
"I must see you at once in my office. This is an urgent request. I
can't explain the matter over the wire. But you'll do yourself and me
a great favor if you'll come into town at once."
"Very important?"
"Extremely so."
"I shall be there at five o'clock."
"Thanks. I shall await you." Donnelly hung up the receiver, very well
satisfied.
Bennington understood. Politics was going to take a hand in the game.
After all, it was best to take the bull by the horns at once and have
it over with. He knew how well he had fortified himself against any
political machinery. So, promptly at a quarter to five, he departed,
leaving explicit orders with his subordinates. The strikers moved
aside for him, muttering and grumbling, but they made no effort to
impede his progress. There were groans and catcalls, but that was all.
He looked neither to the right nor to the left, but presented his back
to them fearlessly. Chittenden, upon Bennington's advice, had gone to
New York. The strikers would have used him roughly, could they have
laid hands on him.
Arriving in town, Bennington went at once to the City Hall and
straight to the mayor's private office.
"Well, Mr. Donnelly?" he began, his hat on his handsome head and his
cane behind his back, neither offensive nor defensive.
Donnelly closed the door leading to the clerk's office and came back
to his desk. He waved his hand toward a chair. If he could bend this
young hot-head, it would be a victory worth while, politically.
"In the first place, Mr. Bennington, aren't you going a little too
hard on the men?"
"That was their lookout; they had every chance to think the matter
over, to examine all sides of the question."
"You went personally to the governor for deputy police. Why didn't you
come to me?"
"The governor is a personal friend of mine."
"I don't believe that I have been found lacking in justice," said
Donnelly thoughtfully.
"I can't say that you have. But I was in a hurry, and could not wait
for the local machinery to move."
"You have placed armed men in your shops without a justifiable cause."
"The men are mechanics, sworn in for their own self-protection."
Donnelly saw that he was making no impression.
"These men, then, are to tear down your shops?" not without
admiration.
"Well, they are there to dismantle it."
"That building must not go down, Mr. Bennington."
"'Must not'? Do I understand you to say 'must not'?"
"Those words exactly."
"It is private property, Mr. Donnelly; it was not organized under
corporation laws."
"You can not destroy even private property, in a city, without a legal
permit."
"I have that."
"And I shall call a special meeting of the Common Council to rescind
your permit."
"Do so. I shall tear it down, nevertheless. I shall do what I please
with what is my own." Bennington balanced on his heels.
"The law is there."
"I shall break it, if need says must," urbanely.
Donnelly surveyed the end of his dead cigar.
"The men will become violent."
"Their violence will in no wise hinder me, so long as they confine it
to the shops. Even then I shall call upon you for police protection."
"And if I should not give it?"
"Just now I am sure you will. For the mayor of Herculaneum to refuse
me my rights would be a nice morsel for the Republican party."
Donnelly passed over this.
"I wish to protect the rights of the workman, just as you wish to
protect yours."
"What are the workman's rights?"
Donnelly did not reply.
"Well, I'll reply for you, then. His right is to sell his labor to the
highest bidder; his right is to work where he pleases; for what hours
he desires; his right is to reject abusive employers and to find those
congenial; his right is to produce as little or as much as he thinks
best; his right is to think for himself, to act for himself, to live
for himself."
"You admit all this, then?" asked Donnelly in astonishment.
"I have never so much as denied a single right that belongs to the
workman."
"Then what the devil is all this row about?"
"If the workman has his rights, shall not the employer have his?"
Donnelly mused. He would not be able to do anything with this
plain-spoken man.
"But the workman steps beyond. He has no right to dictate to his
employer as to what HIS rights shall be. Where there is no amity
between capital and labor there is never any justice; one or the other
becomes a despot. The workman has his rights, but these end where the
other man's rights begin. He shall not say that another man shall not
seek work, shall not sell his labor for what he can get; he has no
right to forbid another man's choosing freedom; he has no right to say
that a manufacturer shall produce only so much."
"Well, I've only to say," said Donnelly, hedging before this clear
argument, "I've only to say, if the men become violent, look out for
yourself."
"I shall appeal to you for civic or military protection; if you refuse
it, to the governor; if politics there interferes, I shall appeal to
Washington, where neither your arm nor McQuade's can reach. I
understand the causes back of this strike; they are personal, and I'm
man enough to look out for myself. But if politics starts to work,
there will be a trouble to settle in the courts. You may not know the
true cause of this strike, Mr. Donnelly, but I do. The poor deluded
men believe it to be the English inventor, but he is only a blind. Had
you really wished to do me a favor, you would have spoken to the men
before they went out on this silly strike. But I am master of what is
mine, and I shall tear down that building. I shall tolerate no
interference from any man. The workman has his rights; this is one of
my rights, and I intend to use it."
"It's your business. If you are fool enough to kill a golden goose,
it's no affair of mine. But I shall rescind your permit, however. I
believe it to be my duty."
"Call your Council together, Mr. Donnelly. You can not get a quorum
together earlier than to-morrow night; and by that time I shall have
the work done. You say you will not afford me protection. Very well;
if the men become violent and burn the shops, I shall be relieved of
the expense of tearing them down. Good afternoon."
Donnelly sat in his chair for a quarter of an hour, silent and
thoughtful. Suddenly he slapped his thigh.
"I don't know what McQuade has against that man, but, by the Lord! he
IS a man!"
That night the strikers received several bottles of whisky and a keg
of beer. The source of these gifts was unknown. Some of the more
thoughtful were for smashing the stuff, but the turbulent majority
overruled them. They began to drink and jest. They did so with
impunity. For some reason the police had been withdrawn. The hammering
inside the shops puzzled them, but they still clung to the idea that
all this clamor was only a ruse to frighten them into surrendering.
From the interior the pounding gradually approached as far as the
walls of the courtyard. At midnight one of these walls went thundering
to the ground. A few minutes later another fell. The strikers grouped
together, dismayed.
"By God, boys," one of them yelled, "he's tearing it down!"
In that moment, and only then, did they realize that they had been
dealing with a man whose will and word were immutable. They saw all
their dreams of triumph vanish in the dust that rose from the
crumbling brick and plaster. And dismay gave way to insensate rage. It
would only be helping Bennington to riot and burn the shops, so now to
maim and kill the men who, at hire, were tearing down these walls.
"Come on, boys! We'll help the scabs finish the work! Come on!"
There was now a great breach in the wall. Men moving to and fro could
be seen. The strikers snatched up bricks and clubs and dashed toward
this. But ere they had set foot on the rubbish they stopped. Half a
dozen resolute men faced them. They were armed.
"That's far enough, boys," warned a powerful voice. "I told you we
have all been sworn in as deputy police, with all the laws of the
state back of us. The first man that steps across that pile of bricks
will go to the hospital, the second man to the undertaker."