THE STRIKE
Angus looked up into the faces of the three men standing beyond his
roll-top desk, which was littered with dust and debris such as no man
accustomed to office work could have tolerated. But Angus was no office
man. He hated the place, and only used it when his work obliged him to.
Just now he was glad of it. He was glad of its support in dealing with
affairs such as were confronting him at the moment. It helped him to an
air which he felt to be necessary. Full well he knew the awe of a
roll-top desk for these sons of the soil.
Now he leaned back in his chair, and his cold eyes glanced deliberately
at each man's face in turn. They were russet-hued faces, bearded and
unkempt. They were the faces of men strong in muscle if simple of mind.
They were three of his farm hands, and each one had served under his
guidance for many years. They were competent, skilled machinists, whose
thought was only for their work and their weekly wage.
Angus knew them well, for willing, hard-working men, with a weakness
only for taking things easy on Monday mornings, and an invincible
desire to reach the Russell Hotel bar punctually at one o'clock on
Saturday afternoons.
Secretly he regretted the interview; outwardly he was roughly
indifferent.
The men stood silent and uncomfortable under his scrutiny, but a surly
truculence was in their eyes as they endeavored to return his stare.
"So this is your--ultimatum," the manager said at last, with something
of his best snarling grouch in his harsh voice. "Mr. Hendrie's got to
cut out one hundred and eighty-three niggers from this place, all
slap-up workers, who don't break up every blamed machine they put their
hands on, because you white boys are kicking at their color." One of
the men made a movement as though about to interrupt, but Angus
silenced him with a gesture. "Hold on," he cried. "Guess I listened to
you all you needed. I hadn't a word while you boys were gassing. Now I
need to do some talk. Seein' I'm busy I'm not going to waste my time on
you. So just get this, and get it good and quick. I'm running this
layout. I'm paying you your wages. I'm boss. I'll run the place as I
see fit. If you don't like it you can go--to hell!"
"They're undercuttin' us in price," cried one of the men, with an oath.
"They're being paid the same wages as you are--according to their class
of work," retorted Angus sharply.
"Then they've no right to it, they're bl---- niggers," cried the same
man.
Angus's eyes snapped.
"I don't care a cuss if they're Red Indians or Chinamen," he snarled.
"See here, Mr. Moraine," cried another, "we come here like men to tell
you what's doing, so it's up to you. We refuse to work alongside a
lousy crowd o' niggers. Try and force it on us, and there's not a
blamed soul among us whites'll handle a binder this harvest. Your crops
can rot till they stink. Every white man on this layout quits at
sun-down to-day."
Angus rose from his chair, and his lean figure was bent forward as he
supported himself with one hand on the desk.
"You can take your damned 'times' now," he cried fiercely. Then he shot
one hand in the direction of the door. "There's the door," he shouted.
"Get to hell--through it."
The three muttering figures retreated hastily. They knew this man's
methods too well to hesitate. They had been chosen by their comrades to
represent them, and they had carried out their mission in good faith.
But from the outset they had little enough hope of success. Men on that
farm had attempted to bluff Angus before. But the hard-faced Scot was a
match for any man he employed. Physically he knew no fear, and his
contempt for the "hired man" was profound.
They returned to their waiting comrades filled with resentment against
both Hendrie and his representative. They had done what they considered
their duty, a duty pointed out to them by the talkers of their union,
now they were ready to listen to any counsels, and act upon them,
provided they were not of a pacific nature.
Angus dropped back into his chair, with the sigh of a man at high
tension.
A moment later he picked up a tinted paper, and read the typewritten
words upon it. It was a message he had received that morning from the
millionaire. It was satisfactorily brief.
"Fixed up everything. Hendrie."
The sight of those three words gladdened the Scot to an extent that
brought a wintry smile to his lean face. Yes, he was satisfied. He knew
that the deal in wheat had been made, and that the trust affairs were
safeguarded. It was this knowledge that had inspired the ruthless,
autocratic fashion in which he had sent the workers' delegates about
their business.
Yes, now he was rather pleased at the prospect of a fight. He would
rather fight than eat. That was a phrase frequently used to express the
opinion the workers held of their chief. Nor was it particularly
exaggerated. This hard-driving descendant of Scotch ancestors possessed
a wonderful predilection for the lesser scientific art of physical
self-defense, and it was the secret of much of his success in the
organizing of his employer's interests at Deep Willows.
But these developments at home left many possibilities of an ugly
nature, a nature that could not easily be anticipated. With strikes
here, there, and everywhere about the country, strikes of sympathy, as
well as strikes for definite grievance, not even Hendrie, himself,
could foresee all the possibilities of mischief. Therefore, in the
millionaire's absence, it became his obvious duty to distribute a
universal warning to all the trust farmers.
This was no small task, but it was one that afforded him a sort of
malicious satisfaction in the thought of beating these people in the
game they contemplated.
Angus quite enjoyed the work. He was really in his element. The
prospect of a fight warmed his heart. Almost in the same breath he
blessed and cursed what he characterized as Hendrie's bull-headed
obstinacy. At one moment he was fiendishly chuckling at the headlong
retreat of the invaders of his office, and the next he was swearing
under his breath at the man who invented pens, and such a depressing
hued liquid as ink. He was wound up to his best fighting mood, and his
disappointment would be keen if the immediate future afforded no
further outlet for his violent spirit.
At last his task was completed, and he sighed his relief. It was well
past his dinner hour when the last message was written and dispatched
to the telegraph office at Everton. But food was just now of no sort of
consequence. He sat back in his chair, lit his pipe, and prepared to
compose a message to his employer.
After considerable thought, and several written attempts, he completed
the message. But it was not altogether satisfactory. For some moments
he sat considering it, and, in the midst of his cogitations, his eye
lit upon his unfolded copy of the _Winnipeg Daily Times_.
It was lying on the top of his desk. He always received the paper a day
late, but it was his custom to read it every morning, immediately after
his breakfast. This morning it had lain in its place neglected by
reason of the coming of the delegation from the farm workers. Now he
picked it up without another thought. His interest in the world's
finance was far too deep to permit of any further neglect.
He turned the financial page and scanned it eagerly. Then, his appetite
in this direction appeased, he idly turned over to the general news.
In a moment he was sitting up alert. In a moment all thoughts of
finance, and everything else, were banished from his mind, and his
whole interest became absorbed in what he read. The top headline was in
vast type, and half a column was devoted to lesser "scare" headlines.
GENERAL RAILROAD STRIKE
THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY
With hungry eyes he read down the list of inconveniences and terrors by
which, the paper informed the public, they were beset. Then below this
he read on into the lesser type, and found the filling out of the
"scare" headings in picturesque, not to say lurid, journalese. This was
all for the unsophisticated, the simple, and warned them that the
bubble of civilization had burst as effectually as if it had been made
of soap.
Angus read it all, and it impressed him. Not, perhaps, as the editor
intended, but his keen mind saw through the embellishments and detected
the painful truth of the facts underneath. The possibilities were
enormous. He pictured the state of chaos he and Hendrie had so often
discussed, which might occur in a vast country, such as Canada, with a
simple trunk route of communication running through it.
Further, his mind flew to the coming of the harvest. It was less than
two weeks off. In a moment the possibilities piled up in his mind till
he began to think that perhaps the picturesque journalist was right, a
great and terrible national disaster was upon the country.
In the midst of it all he suddenly remembered his message to Hendrie.
It was a request for him to return without delay. The memory of it made
him promptly turn to the paragraph relating to passenger transport. It
was brief, but very definite.
"The strikers hold the track from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific,
and it is understood that if the railroad company attempts to transport
either passengers or freight, under military escort, at a given signal
the permanent way will be torn up at hundreds of different points all
along the line. Thus, even the mails will be held up. The intention of
the strikers is to paralyze the entire trade of the country, and, since
the numbers of police and troops in the country are utterly inadequate
to protect the thousands of miles of permanent way, it seems more than
likely the strikers' orders will have to be implicitly obeyed, or a
reign of anarchy will set in. It seems impossible to believe that here
in the twentieth century," etc., etc.
Angus looked from the paper at his message to Alexander Hendrie, and
his pursed lips emitted a low whistle.
"It looks like----"
He was muttering to himself of the impossibility of the millionaire's
return, when the door communicating with the house was unceremoniously
flung open, and Phyllis hurried in.
"Mr. Moraine," she cried, a little breathlessly, holding out a
telegraph slip. "I want you to get this off at once. I don't want to
send it by any of the house servants. It's to Mr. Hendrie. He--he--must
come back at once."
Angus scowled. He eyed the paper and finally took it from her hand in
no very friendly manner. If there was one thing he hated on earth it
was for women to mix themselves up with affairs.
He began to read the message, but Phyllis gave him no time to finish
it. She was as near despair as ever she had been in all her young life.
"He must get right back," she declared passionately. "It's--it's--Mrs.
Hendrie. I've just left Doctor Fraser." Suddenly tears leaped into her
distressed eyes. "He says--if--if we are to save her she'll need to
be--be operated on right away. Oh, it's awful! You--you must just get
him back, and he must bring a--specialist with him. Ah--what?"
Angus pointed at the newspaper. Its headlines were staring up from the
desk in all their painful crudity.
"See that?" he demanded, in his sharp way. Then he picked the paper up,
and held it out to her. "Read it. There." He pointed at the paragraph
relating to the transport of passengers. "I don't just see how he's to
get back here with a doctor or anything else. He's wanted right here
for other things, too, but----"
"Other things?"
The man nodded.
"We'll have a strike here of our own--to-night. All hands. Over three
hundred of 'em."
But the girl was devouring the news. As she read, her heart sank, and
all hope was completely dashed. The threatening tears overflowed down
her cheeks. For the first time in her life she felt utterly helpless.
"But he must, he must, he must come?" she cried desperately. "Don't you
understand? It means Mrs. Hendrie's life if he doesn't bring help. Oh,
don't sit there staring. Do something. You--you've got to get him here,
somehow--with a--a surgeon. Strike? Do you think we can let strikes
stand in the way--when her life depends on it? Let him come by
'special'--anything so we get him here. Oh!"
Her hands flung together in an impotent gesture of desperation with her
final exclamation, and even the cold heart of the manager was moved.
He leaned forward in his seat.
"Easy, girl," he cried. "You're talking foolish. You got to keep cool,
and we'll think this thing out. I guess Mrs. Hendrie's turn was
sudden," he said thoughtfully. "And the Doc's let her run to the last
before he guessed how things were. It's their way--some of 'em. How
long's she got? You see, Hendrie's hung up--same as other folks. It's
no use talking of 'specials,' but the wire's still open. Now, see here,
if we've got time, maybe he can make it in an automobile. It's up to
him, and I don't guess much'll stop him when he knows how things are.
You find out what time the Doc gives her, and I'll wire. You see,
sometimes these things---- What's that?"
Angus held up a hand and sat listening.
Far away it seemed, a low, soft note droned in through the open window.
It was a deep, purring sound like the hum of the wind in overhead
telegraph wires.
Suddenly the man sprang from his seat. He went to the outer door and
flung it open. The girl followed, and stood beside him. The sound grew
louder. At last the man turned. His excitement had given place to his
usual taciturn expression. He shook his head ominously.
"That's Hendrie's automobile," he said. "If he's in it--there's a hell
of a poor chance of getting a surgeon from Winnipeg."
But Phyllis made no answer. She was staring out down the trail,
watching, watching for the coming of the vehicle, in the hope that
Hendrie was not with it.
The moment passed. Then all of a sudden she cried out, and stood with
outstretched arm pointing.
"Look," she cried. "Look, look! It is--Mr. Hendrie."
A few moments later the great machine rolled up. The millionaire, at
sight of Angus and Phyllis, signed to the driver, and, instead of going
on to the front of the house, the machine drew up at the office door.
He leaped to the ground and came over to them at once.
"I just made it," he cried. "Got the last train out of Winnipeg.
They've closed down tighter than hell. There's not a locomotive running
in the country to-day--except to carry mails. Just the loco and
caboose--that's all. I was dead in luck. Inside information put me
wise. Say--there's going to be the devil to pay."
"There sure is," replied Angus grimly. "Say, just come right in.
There's things--doing."
Hendrie glanced sharply into the man's face. Then his eyes turned
quickly upon Phyllis. But he followed his manager into the office
without a word.
Inside Angus pushed a chair forward for the millionaire's
accommodation. But the latter made no attempt to use it.
"Well?" he demanded, looking from one to the other. "What's--doing?"
Angus shrugged and picked up the message he had written out. He handed
it to him.
"Guess that'll tell you--quickest," he said.
The millionaire took the paper. As he read the long message it
contained, his eyes lit, and a half smile stirred the corners of his
mouth.
Finally he looked up into the Scot's face.
"Well?" he said. "We've guessed that all along. That's not worrying any
of us. You got my message? The deal's through. Every grain of wheat on
Deep Willows is sold in the ear. I've sold no more, but I stand a
personal guarantee for the rest. You see, I've a notion that the risk
lies in my property--only. Nowhere else. My guarantee for the rest of
the trust farmers, which includes your property, goes. The trust must
get the full benefit of the market. This is its first year of
operation, and I want to show a good result. Strike or no strike, we've
got them beaten to a mush. The trust just gets to work as per schedule.
Say, they can't hurt us a thing. Even this railroad strike can't
seriously interfere. All it will do, if it only lasts long enough, is
to send up the price of the crop. That's not going to worry us a
little----"
At that moment Phyllis, unable to contain herself longer, made a move
towards the millionaire. Angus saw the movement, and Hendrie became
aware of it as his manager's eyes were turned upon the girl.
"Ah, my dear," he cried, still buoyant in his confidence, "guess I'd
forgotten you. Eh?"
Phyllis was holding up her message. The message she had brought for
Angus to dispatch.
"What, more trouble?" cried Hendrie, taking the paper with a laugh.
Phyllis made no answer. She felt sick at heart. Her unaccustomed eyes
had not yet adjusted their focus to matters involving life and death.
Besides, since she had first encountered Monica upon the trail, a great
affection had steadily grown up in her heart for the woman, who, later,
she had learned, was the woman whom Frank had always regarded as his
mother. Now, to her inexperienced mind, there seemed to be no hope for
her, whichever way she looked. She was pinning her faith to this man
whose strength and dominating force alone seemed possible in such an
emergency. She waited, scarcely daring to breathe, watching for that
ray of hope she dared to think his expression as he read might afford
her.
But her hopes fell completely, still further below the zero at which
they had stood. First, as she watched, she saw that ominous drawing
together of the man's heavy brows, then, the naturally cold gray of his
eyes seemed to change. Their stony gleam shone like the pinnacles of an
iceberg in the light of a winter sun. Then they lit with a sudden
violent emotion, and it seemed to her that the strength she was relying
upon was about to fail her.
He looked up from the paper which fluttered to the floor from fingers
which no longer seemed to obey the controlling will. He looked at Angus
for a moment in a sort of dazed inquiry. Then his gaze sought the girl,
and the storm burst.
"God in heaven!" he cried.
It was the exclamation of a mind which scarcely grasps the reality of
the position, and yet has received the full shock.
"Why was I not told?" he demanded fiercely. "Why, in God's name, was it
left till now? You Angus! You girl!" He turned furiously from one to
the other. "Do you know what you've done? Do you?" He laughed wildly.
"Of course you do? You've timed it. Timed it, do you hear? So it's
impossible to get poor Mon the help she needs. Oh, as if I can't see.
Am I blind? Am I an imbecile? You, you rotten Scot, you've always hated
her. I saw it from the first. And now maybe you're satisfied. As for
you, girl"--he turned upon Phyllis with upraised arms, as though about
to strike her to the ground--"you're as bad. You wanted your revenge
for what your man has been made to suffer. That's it. Oh, God, that I
should have been so blind! Was there ever such a devilish vengeance?
You, with your mild ways and simple air, you've stolen into my house
that you might break my heart to square with me for your man's
sufferings. And between you my Monica, my poor Mon, is lying in
extremity, waiting for the help you would deny her. You thought to hurt
me, and by God! you have succeeded," he cried, his voice rising to
greater violence. "Oh, yes, you've succeeded, between you. You've done
more. You've--you've killed her!"
He brought one great fist crashing down upon the desk. Then he rushed
on--
"That fool doctor talks of hope. How can there be hope? I tell you
there's none--not a shadow. There's not a train to go through. North,
South, East and West, we are cut off as if those cursed plains were an
ocean. Hope?" he laughed harshly. "There's as much hope as there is in
hell. That woman'll be left to die. Do you hear me? Die! And between
you, some of you, you've killed her!"
His frenzy was the frenzy of a madman. It was a frenzy such as, once
before in his life, he had displayed. All this man's strength was swept
aside by the passionate torrent of his dreadful feelings. All power of
reason was lost to him. No hysterical child could have been weaker in
its mental balance than this great savage man was at that moment.
Phyllis understood something of this. Angus simply eyed him watchfully.
His was not the discerning eye of the girl. His attitude was the
outcome of a nature which understood violence only at its face value,
therefore he was physically and mentally alert. But the girl, a mere
child, saw deeper. And her observation roused her own latent courage
and mentality to activity.
She saw that she must fling herself into the arena that he might be
brought up to the only fighting pitch that could serve them all, that
could serve Monica. She seized upon his final charge to attack him
almost as fiercely as he had attacked them.
"You are talking like a child," she cried recklessly. "You're talking
out of a yellow strain that lies somewhere in your own wicked heart.
How dare you say such things to us--to me? It's you--you who've laid
poor Monica on her bed of sickness. You, with your cruel wickedness.
Your vile suspicions. It is you, alone, who's responsible, and you know
it.
"Say, Mr. Hendrie," she went on, her tone changing from passionate
anger to one of taunting mockery. "You're a great man. There's no one
can beat you when they get up against you. That's why you can stand
there bullying and accusing us. You think to crush us right into the
dust, like--like slimy reptiles. Oh, you're a great man. You're so
strong."
Then, in a flash, her mockery was merged into a fierce challenge, the
more strong for her very youth and girlishness.
"Prove it! Prove it!" she cried. "Prove your power against the fate
barring your way. Don't stand there accusing folks who're right here to
help you all they know. Save your Monica. There's time--yes, I tell you
there's time--if you've the heart and courage to do it!"
She stood before him, her slim figure palpitating with the fierce
emotion his madness had stirred in her. Her dark eyes flashed into his
with all the courage of her young heart shining in their depths. And
before it the man's insane frenzy died abruptly.
Angus, watching, beheld this girl's--this child's--victory. His cool
Scotch brain marveled, and reluctantly admired, while he waited for the
millionaire's reply.
It came after a long pause. It came in the hard, cold tones to which he
was used, when stress of affairs demanded the concentrated force which
lay behind his methods.
"Run away, girl," he cried harshly. "Run away, and leave me to think
this thing out. Guess I'm sorry for what I said---- Now I just want to
think."