the laboring element--something connected with the Union, yet different
from what I had been accustomed to elsewhere. I had ever been an
advocate of the union of workingmen to protect themselves against the
tyranny and insolence of those who, possibly by fortuitous
circumstances, were their employers. I had seen the evil of the uncurbed
insolence added to the unlimited power of the boss to take on or to
fling off whom he pleased and, while the occupation lasted, to give or
reduce wages as he pleased. And I had seen the tyrannous exercise of
this power--had seen men turned off for nothing but the whim of a
superior; had seen them hacked about; ordered around as if they had been
beasts of burden, and if they ever murmured, told to go elsewhere, as
though a poor man with a family of children could "go elsewhere" at an
hour's notice; hundreds of men, thousands of men "laid off," because, it
was said, "times were dull," though the returns from their work in good
times had made their employers rich beyond anything their fathers had
ever dreamed of. And I had witnessed with that joy that a man feels in
seeing justice meted out, the rise of a power able to exact, if not
complete, at least, measurable justice for the down-trodden.
But here was something different. It was still the Union; but bore a new
complexion and a different relation alike to the workingman, the
employer, and the public. It was a strange power and its manifestation
was different. It was not in active exercise when I first went among the
workingmen. Yet it was ever present. A cloud appeared to hang over the
population; there was a feeling that a volcano, as yet quiet, might
burst forth at any time, and no man could tell what the end might be. It
was ever in men's minds, not only the workingmen's, but the tradesmen's,
the middlemen's. It appeared to keep on edge a keen antagonism between
all laboring men as such and all other men. It was nearer and more
important than politics or religion. It had entered into their lives and
created a power which they feared and obeyed. To a considerable extent
it had taken away their liberties, and their lives were regulated by
their relation to it. I saw the growth of the system and was mystified
by it, for I saw individuality and personal liberty passing away--men
deliberately abandoning their most cherished privileges to submit to a
yoke that was being put on them. I noted the decline of excellence in
the individual's work and of ambition for excellence in himself--the
decay of the standard of good workmanship. I marked the mere commercial
question of wages--higher wages irrespective of better work--take the
place of the old standard of improved workmanship and witnessed the
commercialism which in large figures had swept over the employer class,
now creep over and engulf the laboring class to the destruction of all
fine ambition and the reduction of excellence to a dead level of
indifferent mediocrity. They deliberately surrendered individual liberty
and all its possibilities and became the bondmen of a tyrannous dictator
which they set up.
I was familiar with the loafer and the shirker. He is incident to
humanity. He exists in every calling and rank of life. But it was novel
to me to find an entire class deliberately loafing and shirking and
slurring on principle. I saw gangs of workmen waiting around, shivering
in the wind, for the hour to come when they might take up the tools
which lay at hand with which they might have warmed themselves. I saw
them on the stroke, drop those tools as though the wave of sound had
paralyzed their arms. I saw them leave the stone half set, the rivet
half driven, the bar half turned; the work, whatever it was, half done.
I saw bright, alert, intelligent men, whose bodies were twice and their
brains ten times as active as their fellows', do double work in the same
time as the latter and then dawdle and loaf and yawn empty-handed beside
the unfinished work with which they might readily have doubled their
income. I asked some of my friends why it was and the answer was always
the same: "the Union."
A strike was going on on the other side of the town, but the direct
results were not yet felt among us, and as the enterprises there where
the trouble existed were in conflict with those on our side, and
therefore our rivals, it did not appear likely that we should be
affected except possibly to our advantage. The population of our
section, therefore, looked on and discussed the troubles with the placid
satisfaction of men who, secure on land, discuss and commiserate those
tossed by storms far off, whose existence is known only by the long
surges that with spent force roll against their shore. They enjoyed
their own good fortune, rejoiced in the good times, and to a
considerable extent spent their earnings like children, almost
indifferent as to the future.
XXVIII
THE WALKING DELEGATE
Miss Eleanor Leigh had observed for some time that her father was more
than usually grave and preoccupied. She knew the cause, for her father
discussed many matters with her. It was often his way of clarifying his
own views. And when he asked her what she thought of them she felt that
it was the highest compliment she ever received--not that he took her
advice, she knew, but this did not matter; he had consulted her. The
fact gave her a self-reliance wholly different from mere conceit. It
steadied her and furnished her a certain atmosphere of calm in which she
formed her judgment in other matters. Of late, in the shadow of the
clash with his operatives, which appeared to be growing more and more
imminent, he had not advised with her as formerly and the girl felt it.
Was it due to the views which she had been expressing of late touching
the suppression of the laboring class? She knew that her father held
views as to this quite the opposite of those she had been vaguely
groping toward, and while he treated her views with amused indulgence he
considered the whole line of thought as the project of selfish
demagogues, or, at best, of crack-brained doctrinaires. It might suit
for the millennium, but not for a society in which every man was
competing with every other man. In fact, however, the principal reason
for Mr. Leigh's silence was the growing differences between himself and
Mrs. Argand. The struggle had grown until it involved the very existence
of his house. He knew that if his daughter ever realized the truth, that
her aunt's interest had been thrown against him and in favor of men
whose methods he reprobated, it would mean the end of all between them,
and he was unwilling that a breach should come between his daughter and
her mother's sister.
The status of the present relation with his men was, however, growing
steadily worse and more threatening. The influences at work were more
and more apparent. The press was giving more and more space to the
widening breach, and the danger of a strike on a vast scale that should
exceed anything ever known heretofore was steadily increasing.
Eleanor knew that this was the cloud that left its shadow on her
father's brow and she determined to make an effort to assist him. She
had revolved the scheme in her little head and it appeared the very
thing to do.
The approach of Thanksgiving offered an opportunity for an act of
good-will which she felt sure would bear fruit. She had talked it over
with John Marvel and he had glowed at the suggestion. So one day at the
table she broke in on her father's reverie.
"Father, how many men have you in the mills and on the railway?"
Her father smiled as he nearly always did when she spoke to him, as,
indeed, most people smiled, with sheer content over the silvery voice
and sparkling eyes.
"Why, roughly, in the mills about eleven hundred--there may be a few
more or a few less to-day; to-morrow there will not be one."
"Oh! I hope they won't do that. I have such a beautiful plan."
"What is it? To give them all they demand, and have them come back with
a fresh and more insolent demand to-morrow?"
"No, to give them--every one who has a family, a Thanksgiving basket--a
turkey."
Her father burst out laughing. "A turkey? Better give them a goose. What
put that idea into your little head? Why, they would laugh at you if
they did not fling it back in your face."
"Oh! no, they would not. I never saw any one who did not respond to
kindness."
"Better wait till after to-morrow and you will save a lot of turkeys."
"No, I am serious. I have been thinking of it for quite a while and I
have some money of my own."
"You'd better keep it. You may come to need it."
"No, I want to try my plan. You do not forbid it?"
"Oh, no! If you can avert the strike that they are preparing for, your
money will be a good investment."
"I don't do it as an investment," protested the girl. "I do it as an act
of kindness."
"All right, have your way. It can't do any harm. If you succeed, I shall
be quite willing to foot the bills."
"No, this is my treat," said the girl, "though I shall put your name in
too."
So, that day Miss Eleanor Leigh spent inspecting and getting prices on
turkeys, and by night she had placed her order with a reliable man who
had promised to provide the necessary number of baskets, and, what is
more, had gotten interested in her plan. She had enlisted also the
interest of John Marvel, who worked like a Trojan in furtherance of her
wishes. And I, having learned from John of her charitable design, gave
my assistance with what I fear was a less unselfish philanthropy.
Happily, disease is not the only thing that is contagious. It was
impossible to work shoulder to shoulder with those two and not catch
something of John Marvel's spirit, not to mention the sweet contagion of
Eleanor Leigh's charming enthusiasm. I learned much in that association
of her cleverness and sound sterling sense as she organized her force
and set them to work. And I was fortunate enough to get one of her
charming smiles. It was when she said, "I want one of the best baskets
for Mrs. Kenneth McNeil," and I replied, "I have already sent it." Thus,
in due time, on the day before Thanksgiving Day, a score of wagons were
busily at work carrying not only the turkeys ordered by Miss Leigh, as a
Thanksgiving present for each family in her father's employ, but with
each one a basket of other things.
It happened that that night a great meeting of the operatives was held.
It was largely attended, for though the object had not been stated in
the call, it was well known that it was to consider a momentous subject;
nothing less than an ultimatum on the part of the men to the Company,
and this many of the men felt was the same thing with a strike. The name
of David Wringman, the chief speaker, was a guaranty of this. He was a
man who had forged his way to the front by sheer force, mainly sheer
brute force. From a common laborer he had risen to be one of the
recognized leaders in what had come to be known as the workingmen's
movement. He had little or no education, and was not known to have
technical training of any kind. Some said he had been a machinist; some
a miner; some a carpenter. His past was, in fact, veiled in mystery. No
one knew, indeed, where he came from. Some said he was Irish; some that
he was Welsh; some that he was American. All that was known of him
positively was that he was a man of force, with a gift of fluent speech
and fierce invective, which rose at times and under certain conditions
to eloquence. At least, he could sway an assemblage of workingmen, and,
at need, he was not backward in using his fists, or any other weapon
that came to hand. Speaking of Wringman, Wolffert once said that not the
least of the misfortunes of the poor was the leaders they were forced to
follow. His reputation for brute strength was quite equal to his
reputation as a speaker, and stories were freely told of how, when
opposition was too strong for him in a given meeting, he had come down
from the platform and beaten his opponents into submission with his
brawny fists. It was rumored how he had, more than once, even waylaid
his rivals and done them up, but this story was generally told in
undertones; for Wringman was now too potent and dangerous a man for most
men of his class to offend personally without good cause. His presence
in the city was in itself a sign that some action would be taken, for he
had of late come to be known as an advanced promoter of aggressive
action. To this bold radicalism was due much of his power. He was "not
afraid of the capitalists," men said. And so they established him in his
seat as their leader. To his presence was due a goodly share of the
shadow that had been gathering over the workingmen's part of the section
of the town which I have noted.
Thus, the meeting on the evening I speak of was largely attended. For an
hour before the time set for it the large hall in the second story of a
big building was crowded, and many who could not get in were thronging
the stairways and the street outside. A reek of strong tobacco pervaded
the air and men with sullen brows talked in undertones, broken now and
then by a contentious discussion in some group in which possibly some
other stimulant than tobacco played a part.
Wolffert and Marvel had both been trying to avert the strike, and had, I
heard, made some impression among the people. Marvel had worked hard all
day aiding Miss Leigh in her friendly efforts, and Wolffert had been
arguing on rational grounds against a strike at the beginning of winter.
I had been talking over matters with some of my mill-friends who had
invited me to go with them; so I attended the meeting. I had been struck
for some time with the change that had been going on in the workingmen's
districts. As wretched as they had been before they were now infinitely
more so.
The meeting began, as the meetings of such bodies usually begin, with
considerable discussion and appearance of deliberation. There was
manifest much discontent and also much opposition to taking any steps
that would lead to a final breach. A number of men boldly stood forth to
declare for the half-a-loaf-better-than-no-bread theory, and against
much hooting they stood their ground. The question of a resolution of
thanks for Miss Leigh's baskets aroused a little opposition, but the
majority were manifestly for it, and many pleasant things were said
about her and her father as well, his liberal policy being strongly
contrasted with the niggard policy of the other roads. Then there
appeared the real leader of the occasion, to hear whom the meeting had
been called: Wringman. And within ten minutes he had everything his own
way. He was greeted with cheers as he entered, and he shouldered his way
to the front with a grim look on his face that had often prepared the
way for him. He was undoubtedly a man of power, physical and mental.
Flinging off his heavy overcoat, he scarcely waited for the brief
introduction, undertaken by the Chairman of the occasion, and, refusing
to wait for the cheers to subside, he plunged at once into the midst of
his subject.
"Workingmen, why am I here? Because, like you, I am a working man." He
stretched out his long arm and swept it in a half circle and they
cheered his gesture and voice, and violent action, though had they
considered, as they might well have done, he had not "hit a lick" with
his hands in a number of years. Unless, indeed, a rumor which had begun
to go the rounds was true, that he had once at least performed work for
the government in an institution where the labor was not wholly
voluntary.
Then came a catalogue of their grievances and wrongs, presented with
much force and marked dramatic ability, and on the heels of it a tirade
against all employers and capitalists, and especially against their
employer, whom he pictured as their arch enemy and oppressor, the chief
and final act of whose infamy, he declared to be his "attempt to bribe
them with baskets of rotten fowls." Who was this man? He would tell
them. He held in his hand a paper which pictured him in his true
character. Here he opened a journal and read from the article I had
written for Kalender--the infamous headlines of the editor which changed
the whole. This was the man with whom they had to deal--a man who flung
scraps from his table for famishing children to wrangle over with dogs.
There was but one way to meet such insolence, he declared, to fling them
back in his face and make him understand that they didn't want favors
from him, but justice; not rotten fowls, but their own hard-earned
money. "And now," he cried, "I put the motion to send every basket back
with this message and to demand an increase of twenty-five per cent. pay
forthwith. Thus, we shall show them and all the world that we are
independent American workmen earning our own bread and asking no man's
meat. Let all who favor this rise and the scabs sit still."
It was so quickly and shrewdly done that a large part of the assembly
were on their feet in a second, indeed, many of them were already
standing, and the protest of the objectors was lost in the wild storm of
applause. Over on the far side I saw little McNeil shouting and
gesticulating in vehement protest; but as I caught sight of him a dozen
men piled on him and pulled him down, hammering him into silence. The
man's power and boldness had accomplished what his reasoning could never
have effected.
The shouts that went up showed how completely he had won. I was thrown
into a sort of maze. But his next words recalled me. It was necessary,
he went on, that he should still maintain his old position. His heart
bled every moment; but he would sacrifice himself for them, and if need
were, he would die with them; and when this time came he would lead them
through flaming streets and over broken plutocrats to the universal
community of everything. He drew a picture of the rapine that was to
follow, which surpassed everything I had ever believed possible. When he
sat down, his audience was a mob of lunatics. Insensible to the folly of
the step I took, I sprang to my chair and began to protest. They hushed
down for a second. I denounced Wringman as a scoundrel, a spy, a hound.
With a roar they set upon me and swept me from my feet. Why I was not
killed instantly, I hardly know to this day. Fortunately, their very
fury impeded them. I knew that it was necessary to keep my feet, and I
fought like a demon. I could hear Wringman's voice high above the uproar
harking them on. Suddenly a cry of "put him out" was raised close beside
me. A pistol was brandished before my face; my assailants fell back a
little, and I was seized and hustled to the door. I found a man I had
noticed near me in the back part of the hall, who had sat with his coat
collar turned up and his hat on, to be my principal ejector. With one
hand he pushed me toward the entrance whilst, brandishing his revolver
with the other, he defended me from the blows that were again aimed at
me. But all the time he cursed me violently.
"Not in here; let him go outside. Leave him to me--I'll settle him!" he
shouted--and the crowd shouted also. So he bundled me to the door and
followed me out, pushing others back and jerking the door to after him.
On the outside I turned on him. I had been badly battered and my blood
was up. I was not afraid of one man, even with a pistol. As I sprang for
him, however, he began to put up his weapon, chuckled, and dropped his
voice.
"Hold on--you've had a close call--get away from here."
It was Langton, the detective. He followed me down the steps and out to
the street, and then joined me.
"Well?" he laughed, "what do you think of your friends?"
"That I have been a fool."
He smiled with deep satisfaction. "What were you doing in there?" I
asked.
"Looking after my friends. But I don't feel it necessary to invite them
to cut my throat. One good turn deserves another," he proceeded. "You
keep away from there or you'll find yourself in a bad way. That
Wringman----"
"Is a scoundrel."
"Keep a lookout for him. He's after you and he has powerful friends.
Good night. I don't forget a man who has done me a kindness--And I know
that fellow."
He turned into a by-street.
The next morning the papers contained an account of the proceedings with
glaring headlines, the account in the _Trumpet_ being the fullest and
most sympathetic and giving a picture of the "great labor-leader,
Wringman, the idol of the workingman," who had, by "his courage and
character, his loftiness of purpose and singleness of aim, inspired them
with courage to rise against the oppression of the grinding corporation
which, after oppressing them for years, had attempted by a trick to
delude them into an abandonment of the measures to secure, at least,
partial justice, just as they were about to wring it from its reluctant
hand."
It was a description which might have fitted an apostle of
righteousness. But what sent my heart down into my boots was the
republication of the inserted portion of my article on the delayed train
attacking Mr. Leigh. The action of the meeting was stated to be
unanimous, and in proof it was mentioned that the only man who opposed
it, a young man evidently under the influence of liquor, was promptly
flung out. I knew that I was destined to hear more of that confounded
article, and I began to cast about as to how I should get around it.
Should I go to Eleanor Leigh and make a clean breast of it, or should I
leave it to occasion to determine the matter? I finally did the natural
thing--I put off the decision.
Miss Eleanor Leigh, who had worked hard all the day before despatching
baskets to the hundreds of homes which her kind heart had prompted her
to fill with cheer, came down to breakfast that morning with her heart
full of gratitude and kindness toward all the world. She found her
father sitting in his place with the newspapers lying beside him in some
disorder and with a curious smile on his face. She divined at once that
something had happened.
"What is it?" she asked, a little frightened.
For answer Mr. Leigh pushed a paper over to her and her eye fell on the
headlines:
HONEST LABORING MEN RESENT BRAZEN
ATTEMPT AT BRIBERY
LABOR LEADER'S GREAT APPEAL FOR JUSTICE
LABOR DEMANDS ITS DUES
"Oh, father!" With a gasp she burst into tears and threw herself in her
father's arms.
"That is the work of Canter and his partner, McSheen," said Mr. Leigh
grimly.
It was not the only house in which the sending back of her baskets
caused tears. In many a poor little tenement there was sore weeping
because of the order--in not a few a turkey had not been known for
years. Yet mainly the order was obeyed.
Next day Mr. Leigh received in his office a notification that a
deputation of the operatives on his road demanded to see him
immediately. He knew that they were coming; but he had not expected them
quite so soon. However, he was quite prepared for them and they were
immediately admitted. They were a deputation of five men, two of them
elderly men, one hardly more than a youth, the other two of middle age.
At their head was a large, surly man with a new black hat and a new
overcoat. He was the first man to enter the room and was manifestly the
leader of the party. Mr. Leigh invited them to take seats and the two
older men sat down. Two of the others shuffled a little in their places
and turned their eyes on their leader.
"Well, what can I do for you?" inquired Mr. Leigh quietly. His
good-humored face had suddenly taken on a cold, self-contained
expression, as of a man who had passed the worst.
Again there was a slight shuffle on the part of the others and one of
the older men, rising from his seat and taking a step forward, said
gravely: "We have come to submit to you----"
His speech, however, was instantly interrupted by the large man in the
overcoat. "Not by a d----d sight!" he began. "We have come to demand two
things----"
Mr. Leigh nodded.
"Only two? What may they be, please?"
"First, that you discharge a man named Kenneth McNeil, who is a
non-union man----"
Mr. Leigh's eyes contracted slightly.
"--and secondly, that you give a raise of wages of fifteen per cent. to
every man in your employ--and every woman, too."
"And what is the alternative, pray?"
"A strike."
"By whom?"
"By every soul in your employ, and, if necessary, by every man and woman
who works in this city--and if that is not enough, by a tie-up that will
paralyze you, and all like you."
Mr. Leigh nodded. "I understand."
A slight spark came into his eyes and his lips tightened just a shade,
but when he spoke his voice was level and almost impersonal.
"Will nothing less satisfy you?" he inquired.
"Not a cent," said the leader and two of the others looked at him with
admiration. "We want justice."
Mr. Leigh, with his eye steadily on him, shook his head and a smile came
into his eyes. "No, you don't want justice," he said to the leader,
"you want money."
"Yes, our money."
Again Mr. Leigh shook his head slowly with his eyes on him. "No, not
your money--mine. Who are you?" he demanded. "Are you one of the
employees of this road?"
"My name is Wringman and I am the head of this delegation."
"Are you an employee of this Company?"