LEYBURN'S INSPIRATION
Feverish activity was going forward in all the labor controls which
acknowledged Austin Leyburn's leadership. Everywhere was agitation and
ferment among the rank and file of the workers, while controlling
staffs worked night and day.
Austin Leyburn had projected the greatest coup ever attempted in the
country. At one stroke he intended to paralyze all trade. East and
west, north and south, it was his purpose to leave the moving world at
a standstill.
There were many nominal causes for the upheaval. They could be found
every day, in almost every calling, each one, in itself, of a trivial
nature, perhaps, but, collectively, an expression of tyranny and
injustice on the part of the employers that he, Leyburn, and those
others interested in the labor movement, declared could not be borne by
the worker. So the latter awoke to learn of the many injustices he had
been enduring, and of which, before, he had been utterly unaware.
The real cause of the forthcoming struggle lay far deeper. It found its
breeding ground in the fertile realms of human nature, the human nature
of the men who led the movement. They required self-aggrandizement and
profit, and beneath the cloak of Principle they hid their unworthy
desires from the searchlight of publicity. Principle--since democracy
had struggled from beneath the crushing heel of the oppressor the word
had become enormously fashionable. Its elasticity had been its success.
It could be molded by the individual to suit every need. But in these
days, it had become far more the hall-mark of hypocrisy than the
expression of lofty ideals.
Years ago Austin Leyburn had declared his belief that some of the
overflow from the world's pockets could be diverted into his own, by
methods far less strenuous than those of the great Leo. Since then he
had endeavored to prove his assertion.
That he had been successful there could be no doubt. He was far better
equipped with this world's goods than he would have cared to proclaim
from the platform to one of his labor audiences. He kept his private
life hidden by a very simple process, and so much noise and bustle did
he contrive in his calling that no one gave him credit for possessing
any--private life.
But herein the world was mistaken. The life he displayed to his
colleagues was simple and unpretentious. He lived in a cheap suite of
apartments in the humbler quarters of Toronto. He ate in restaurants
where he rubbed shoulders with men of the labor world. In his business
he walked, or rode in the street cars. To carry added conviction his
clothes were always of the ready-made order, and he possessed a perfect
genius for reducing the immaculateness of a low, starched collar.
But there was another Austin Leyburn when the claims of his business
released him for infrequent week-ends. He was an affluent sort of
country squire. A man who reveled in the possession of an ample estate
and splendid mansion, hidden away in the remotenesses of a natural
beauty spot some twenty-five miles outside Toronto. Here he enjoyed the
luxuries and comforts which in others were anathema to him. His cellar
was well stocked with wines of the choicest vintages. His cigars were
the best money could buy. He possessed a modest collection of works of
art, and his house was furnished with all those things valued for their
age and associations.
To this place he would adjourn at long intervals. And at such times
even his name would be left behind him in the city, in company of his
ready-made clothing, his scarcely immaculate collar, and the memory of
fly-ridden restaurants, lest there should be a jarring note to his
enjoyment as he lounged back in his powerful automobile, which was
never permitted to cross the city limits.
All these things were bought and paid for by a method of making money
almost devilish in its inception. Leyburn was a gambler on the stock
market. He gambled in Labor strikes.
This was the great final coup he now contemplated. He cared not one jot
for the injustices meted out to labor. He cared nothing for the
sufferings, the privations it had to endure. Long ago he and many
others of his associates had learned the fact that all strikes more or
less affected the financial market. Nor were they slow to take
advantage of it.
A general transport strike would send shares crashing to bed-rock
prices; would send them tumbling as they had never fallen before, as
even international war would not affect them. And when they had fallen
sufficiently, when, in his own phraseology, the bottom had dropped out
of the market, then he and his fellow-vultures would plunge their
greedy beaks into the flesh of the carcass and gorge themselves. Then,
and not till then, the starving worker might return to his work.
Just now he was in Calford and hard at work. While his subordinates
lived in a whirl of organization, his it was to contrive that the news
of the labor troubles reached the world at large in a sufficiently
alarming type. And his gauge of the alarm achieved would be the state
of the financial markets.
He had only that morning returned from Deep Willows, and it was not
until long after his mid-day meal that he found leisure to turn his
thoughts definitely to the fresh plans he had decided upon, on his
journey back to Calford.
Now, as he sat before his desk, he picked up the receiver of the
telephone and spoke sharply.
"Is Frank Smith in the office?" he demanded. "Yes. I said Smith. Oh!
Then tell him to come to me at once."
He replaced the instrument and leaned back in his chair. He felt that
Fate had played an extraordinarily pleasant trick upon him. In his
cynical way he admitted grudgingly that for once she had been more than
kind. The chance of it. A loose end. Yes, he had actually found himself
with a loose end, and had promptly decided to fill up the time with a
visit to the greatest wheat grower in the country in the interests of
his new toy, the Agricultural Labor Society. It had led him--whither?
His narrow eyes smiled. But the smile died almost at its birth, lost in
a bitter hatred for the man who had robbed him upon the Yukon trail
twenty years ago.
The door of his room opened and Frank hurried in. His manner was
nervous, quite unlike his usual manner. He was changed in appearance,
too. Nor was it a change for the better. He looked older. His eyes were
painfully serious. His dress wore an air of neglect. Whatever else the
work of a labor organizer had done for him there was no outward sign of
improvement.
"You sent for me?" he demanded, a look of nervous expectation in his
serious eyes.
"Sure." Leyburn nodded. His manner was final. It was also the manner of
an employer to a subordinate. The intimacy between these two had
somehow died out.
Leyburn gazed at him thoughtfully, and the superiority of his position
was displayed therein. Frank experienced a feeling of irritation.
Leyburn frequently irritated him now. When they had first met, the
boy's enthusiasm had made him regard this leader as something in the
nature of a god. Since then he had discovered a good deal of clay about
the feet of his deity.
"Guess I'm going to hand you a change of work, boy," Leyburn said at
last, his manner deliberately impressive. "Say, you weren't a big hit
with the railroaders." Frank winced perceptibly, and the other saw that
his thrust had gone home. "Oh, I don't blame you a hell of a lot," he
went on patronizingly. "You've never been a railroader--that's where it
comes in. I'd say the feller that talks to those boys needs to be one
of 'em. We got plenty without you, and--so I'm going to hand you a
change, to the farming racket." Then he smiled. "Guess you're a bit of
a mossback yourself. You'll understand those boys, and be able to talk
'em their own way."
Frank's face had flushed with the poignancy of his feelings over his
failure. He felt even more the crudeness of this man's manner.
"I'll do my best," he said briefly.
There was none of his earlier enthusiasm in his assurance. Truth to
tell, something of his enthusiasm had died on the night of his failure
at the railroaders' meeting, and it had died after Alexander Hendrie
had left him.
"That's right," said Leyburn, with some geniality. "I don't like your
'cocksures.' Give me the man out to do his damnedest. You'll make good,
lad--this time. Say, I'm going to set you chasing up the work among the
farms. See it's going ahead. Ther's men out to do the gassing. You'll
just have to see they gas right. Get me? There's going to be a strike
around harvest--this year. It's going to happen along with the
transporters."
Frank was startled. There was to have been no serious movement this
year on the agricultural side. Only preparations. Why this sudden
change of plans?
"This year?" he said.
"That's how I said," returned Leyburn dryly.
"But I thought----"
"I'll do the thinking, boy," said Leyburn quickly. Then he grinned.
"Guess I've done most of it already. You're on?"
"Why, yes." Frank was perplexed. Nor had he any definite objection.
"Good." Leyburn picked his teeth with a match. Then he went on: "You'll
make your headquarters at Everton. That's where Hendrie's place is.
I've got men at work there. They've been there quite a while. We're
taking up that nigger question there, and punching it home for all
we're worth. It's a good lever for running up wages on. The wheat men
will be easy--their crops are perishable. If Hendrie don't squeal
quick, he's got miles of wheat growing," he said significantly. "Of
course he's only one. But he's good to work on. Now, just watch around
there. Don't do a heap of big talk. The other'll do that. You'll go
around the farms, the smaller ones, and do some private talk. You'll
superintend the whole of that section. Guess there's a hundred and more
farms in it. I'll hand you a schedule of 'em."
As Leyburn finished speaking, Frank stirred uneasily.
"Must I go on this work?" he asked hesitatingly.
Leyburn looked up sharply. There was a sparkle in his eyes.
"Sure," he said coldly.
"Couldn't you hand me another section?" Frank asked, after an awkward
pause, while Leyburn regarded his averted face closely.
"Why?" The demand rapped out. It was full of a sudden, angry distrust.
Leyburn was not in the habit of having his orders questioned in his own
office.
But Frank's hesitation and nervousness vanished under the other's
intolerable manner. Leyburn's attitude was not one he was prepared to
submit to. He felt it would not have been displayed, but for his
failure with the railroaders. If that was the sort of man Leyburn
was--well----
"I can't do the work you want me to, round about Deep Willows," he
said, with deliberate coldness.
"Why?" Again came the monosyllabic inquiry. But this time it was in
genuine surprise, and possessed no resentment.
Frank found it easier to explain in consequence.
"You see, Mon--Mrs. Hendrie is--is my foster mother," he said simply.
"I owe her nothing but good. I can never tell you of the sacrifices she
has made for me, and of her devotion. I shouldn't like to hurt her."
Leyburn stared. There was no resentment in him now--only amazement.
"Then--then--Hendrie is----"
"Hendrie is the man who sent me to the penitentiary for five years."
Frank turned away as he made the admission. Leyburn emitted a low
whistle.
"You see," Frank went on. "I had told you my story without telling you
any names. I should not tell you now, only that it becomes necessary to
explain my reasons for refusing to accept the work."
But Leyburn was not listening. He suddenly pointed at a chair.
"Sit, boy," he cried, his manner suddenly assuming a pleasant
geniality. "Sit right down--and let's talk this thing out."
Frank was glad enough to accept the invitation. He owed this man a good
deal in spite of his slight change of feelings towards him. Nor was he
one to shrink from paying his debts.
"It's the queerest thing ever," Leyburn went on thoughtfully, as Frank
drew up a chair. Then, in answer to the other's look of inquiry: "Why,
that I should chose you to go and deal with our--organization--in
Hendrie's neighborhood. Seems almost like Fate pitching him into your
hands for what he's--done to you. He's hurt you, and now--now, why,
your turn's coming along."
"But curiously enough, I have no desire for any retaliation," said
Frank simply. "One time I might have been pleased to--hurt him. But
now--well--somehow I seem to understand what drove him to it, and--I
don't blame him so much. Besides----"
"Besides?" Leyburn's eyes were watchful.
"That sort of thing doesn't fit in with my ideas of Brotherhood," Frank
concluded simply.
Leyburn nodded. His expression had become absurdly gentle.
"Maybe you're right, boy," he said. "You see, I'm an old campaigner.
Guess I'm a bit hardened."
"That's natural, too." Frank was glad at the change in the man. He was
glad, too, that he could agree with him.
"But there's no real hurt coming to Hendrie, if--he's reasonable,"
Leyburn went on thoughtfully. "You see, boy, maybe it looks that way,
but this process of ours is only a sharpish way of teaching these
monopolists that they've got to remember there are other folks in the
world who need to live. That there is such a thing as brotherhood. I'd
say Hendrie's a pretty good man, but he's headstrong--as you know. He
won't be told a thing. All we need from him is his example, showing all
those smaller folk he understands the needs of humanity, and is
prepared to do his slice for it. What are we going to do? Why, when the
time comes, the time most vital to him, we're going to show him he's
dependent on us, and needs to treat us right. That's all. If he treats
us right, then there's no harm done. This war--you hate the word--can
be run on peaceful lines if both parties are not yearning to scrap. All
we've got to do is to be ready to scrap. You won't be hurting Mrs.
Hendrie. You won't be hurting a soul. But you'll just stand by to
defend labor if they're out to hurt us. Get me?"
Frank nodded.
"Yes. It is right enough what you say," he replied. "I know all that.
But it's this strike, and all the damage it does, makes me feel sick
about it."
Leyburn laughed.
"If I know Hendrie, there'll be no strike. All we've got to do is to be
ready for one. Say, lad, you're a bit sensitive. I tell you we're just
going to bluff Hendrie into doing what he doesn't want to do. That's
giving a living wage to folk who work for him. He'll give it when the
bluff's put up."
"You think so?" Frank's eagerness sounded pleasantly in Leyburn's ears.
"Sure. They all do--in the end. Wheat men are easier than railroad
companies. Their crops are perishable. There'll be no real strike. So
Mrs. Hendrie's your--foster mother. Say, it beats hell."
"Yes." Frank looked up. "She's a sort of aunt, too," he said
unguardedly, flushing as he remembered that he could claim no real
relationship with any one. "Her sister was my--mother. I don't know who
my father was--exactly. I know he was called Leo, but----"
"Leo!" Leyburn started. It was with difficulty he could keep himself
from shouting the name. "Leo--you said? Then you are----" It was on the
tip of his tongue to tell Frank he was Hendrie's son. But a sudden
inspiration checked the impulse.
"I am--what?" demanded Frank, caught by the others excitement.
But Leyburn was equal to the occasion.
"Not necessarily, though," he said, with an assumption of
thoughtfulness. "I was going to say Italian. Maybe Leo was just his
first name."
Frank shook his head.
"I don't know. I don't think I'm Italian, though," he said
unsuspiciously. "You see, Mrs. Hendrie is American, as, of course, was
my mother. She had been an actress. Audrey Thorne, I think she called
herself, but her real name was Elsie Hanson. Still, these details can't
interest you," he finished up a little drearily.
Leyburn stared out of the window for some moments. He was thinking
hard. He was piecing all he had just learned together, and striving to
see how he might turn it all to account in the purpose he had in his
mind. If he had been amazed before on learning the name of the man who
had injured Frank--amazed, and fiendishly delighted, it was nothing to
his feelings now. Hendrie, Frank's father! Audie's son! Audie! Yes,
more than ever Frank must be enlisted in this work. It would delight
his, Leyburn's, revengeful nature if Hendrie could be made to suffer
through his own son. It was a good thought, and very pleasant to him.
He turned a smiling, kindly face upon his victim.
"It's all devilish hard luck on you, boy--to be born, in a manner of
speaking, without father or mother. The world certainly owes you a big
debt. A debt so big you'd wonder how it could ever pay it. But the
world has its own little ways of doing things. It's sometimes got a
queer knack."
Frank shook his head. His smile was tinged with sadness.
"I don't seem to feel that way either," he said slowly. "I don't seem
to feel any one owes me anything. Maybe I did a while back, but I don't
now."
"Not even Hendrie?"
Frank shook his head seriously.
"Least of all--Hendrie. I rather fancy he's been paid all he can bear
for what he did to me."
Leyburn sighed with pretended sympathy.
"You're a good boy," he said kindly. "Too good for the hard knocks life
likes handing around. Maybe you'll get--compensation. However," he went
on, sitting up, and assuming a business-like alertness, "we've got to
put this business through. We've got to make these people give a fair
wage to their workers, a wage that will leave them a margin of comfort
and happiness in a dreary sort of life. Nigger labor is cutting them
out, and it can't be tolerated. We're not out to injure these
employers. By God, we're not! We're out with as good a purpose by them
as any church parson. That's what I can't get folks to see. Our methods
may be rough, but the end justifies it. They are our only ways of doing
it. I tell you, boy, in this fight we are having, of man against
himself--and that's what it amounts to--we have got to put all
sentiment aside. Our duty lies clear before us. And when the war is
over, Hendrie, and all men like him, will be the first to see the
righteousness of our cause--and thank us. We take out a tooth, boy,
because it aches, and it is painful to do it, but it leaves us with
everlasting peace. You don't feel you can do this work I want you to
do? Well, I won't press it. But"--he turned a sidelong glance upon the
other's ingenuous face, now so expressive of the struggle going on
within his simple mind--"but I think the teaching for Hendrie would
have come well from you. Yes, it surely would." He smiled. "Good for
evil, eh? And it is for his good. It is almost a duty--feeling as you
do. He is a good man, but--passionate. And his passions run away with
him. Seems to me it would be good to point the right road to him. Then,
too, you understand his kind. S'pose I threw a hard-shouting,
leather-lunged hobo at him--we wouldn't get so good a result. Not by a
lot. It would be doubling the risk of trouble. Well, where would you
like to work--instead?"
Frank rose from his seat and began to pace the room. Leyburn silently
watched him. The smile behind his eyes was well hidden. He knew his
man. He felt it to be hard work persuading him, but it was worth while.
At last Frank abruptly came to a stand before him.
"I'll do the work," he cried, with a gulp. "I tell you, Leyburn, I'd
rather do anything else, but I--I believe, as you say, it's my duty to
do this. Yes, I'll go, and I'll do my very best. But I warn you, if
trouble threatens Mrs. Hendrie, directly or indirectly, I'll do my best
to help her, if all labor in the world has to suffer for it."