After the burial of his daughter, Braunt sat in his lonely room and
pondered bitterly upon the failure his life had been, ever since he
could remember. Hard and incessant toil he did not complain of: that was
his lot, and it had been the lot of his fathers. He was able to work and
willing; the work was there waiting to be done: yet, through the action
of men over whom he had not the slightest control, he was doomed to
idleness and starvation until the capricious minds of others changed,
and the signal was given to pick up the tools that had been so
heedlessly dropped.
“Ah’ll not stand it!” he cried aloud, bringing his fist down on the
empty table.
But after these momentary flashes of determination, the depression
habitual to him settled down with increased density upon his mind,
and, realizing how helpless he was, he buried his face in his hands and
groaned in hopeless despair. It is difficult for a starving man to be
brave for long. What could he do? Absolutely nothing. He might drop dead
from exhaustion before he got a chance to earn a meal, though he
tramped the huge city searching for work. The trade he knew was already
overcrowded with thousands of men, eager for the place he had
been compelled to abandon. Even the street crossings were owned by
impoverished wretches who earned what living they got by sweeping them.
If he were presented with a crossing, he had not the money to buy a
broom. Gibbons, fool though he might be, spoke the truth when he said
a workingman was but a cog in a large wheel: the wheel might get a new
cog, or a new set of cogs, but the cog separated from the wheel was as
useless as a bit of old iron.
Langly stole softly in upon his stricken friend, closing the door
stealthily after him, with the bearing of a man about to commit a crime
and certain of being caught. Braunt gave him no greeting, but glowered
upon him from under his frowning, shaggy eyebrows.
“There is some money here that you are to take,” said the organist
timidly, placing a heap of coins on the table.
Braunt, with an angry gesture, swept away the pile, and the silver
jingled on the floor.
“Ah’ll have none o’ thy money, as Ah’ve told ’ee before!” he roared. “Ah
can earn ma money, if Ah boot get th chance.”
Langly, with no word of remonstrance, stooped and patiently collected
every scattered piece.
“It is not my money,” he said, on rising. “It was sent to you, and is
for you and for no one else. It belongs to you: I have no right to it,
and this very money you yourself have earned. I don’t know who has a
better claim to it.”
Again placing the silver and gold on the table, Langly tiptoed out of
the room in some haste, before Braunt could collect his wits and make
reply.
The Yorkshireman, with curious inconsistency, had accepted without
question the money which had saved his child from a pauper funeral,
although he must have known, had he reflected, that the expenses were
paid by some one; yet charity which did not come direct awakened no
resentment in his turbulent nature, while the bald offer of money or
food sent him instantly into a tempest of anger.
He thought over the organist’s words. How could the money be his? How
had he earned the coins? His slow brain gradually solved the problem the
money evidently had come from Hope or Monkton, or perhaps from Sartwell.
He cursed the three of them, together and separate, and in his rage
once more scattered the heap to the floor. The coins whirled hither and
thither, at last spinning to rest on the bare boards. Braunt watched
them as they lay there glittering in the dim light, his mind ceasing to
cogitate on the respective culpability of employers or employed for
the state of things under which he suffered. He had formerly thought of
Monkton and Hope as purse-proud, haughty capitalists, until he saw their
cringing, frightened demeanour when escorted out of the works by the
policemen, and since that time he had been endeavouring to reconstruct
his ideas concerning them. So, after all, why should he refuse to take
money from them if one or other had sent it? He gazed at the coins on
the floor, white splotches and yellow points of light, hitching round
his chair the better to see them. He had heard that a man might be
hypnotized by gazing steadily on a silver piece held in the palm. As
Braunt watched the coins intently, he passed his hand swiftly across his
brow, concentrating his gaze by half closing his eyes. He leaned forward
and downward. Surely they were moving, edging closer to each other, the
larger heaps attracting the various atoms of metal, as he remembered,
with bewildered brain, was the case with money all the world over,
which gave a plausible cause, such as one has in dreams, for the coins
creeping together, although what was left of his reason told him that it
was all an illusion. The sane and insane sections of his mind struggled
for mastery, while Braunt leaned closer and closer over the money,
sitting forward now on the very edge of his chair, breathing hard,
almost wholly absorbed in the strange movement on the floor, and
gradually losing interest in the mental conflict regarding the reality
of what his strained, unwinking eyes told him was going on at his feet.
At last he noticed that the heap was slowly but perceptibly sliding away
from him. All doubts about the geniuneness of what he saw vanished The
money was trying to escape.
He sprang to his feet and jumped to the door, placing his back against
it.
“Oh, no,” he shouted, “you’re mine, you’re mine!”
Crouching down, never taking his eyes from the coins, he got upon his
hands and knees, crawling towards them craftily; then pounced suddenly
on the main heap, while the isolated pieces scuttled back to their
former positions, pretending they had never shifted their places. He
laughed sneeringly at their futile attempts to deceive him, poured the
heap into his pocket, and captured each separate coin that remained, by
springing upon it. He searched the whole room like some animal, nosing
into’ the corners, crouching lower and proceeding more cautiously when
he spied a silver or gold piece that had rolled far, chuckling when he
seized it and placed it with the others. At last he rose to his feet,
slapping his pocket joyously, and making the money jingle. Once erect,
the blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. He staggered, and leaned
against the wall, all his hilarity leaving him. The room seemed to swim
around him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.
“Ah’m gooin’ mad,” he whispered. “Ah moost ha’ summat ta eat--or drink.”
Braunt staggered through the doorway to the passage and down the stair,
out into the open air, which revived him and made him feel the nip of
hunger again. Once on Light Street, he turned into the “Rose and Crown,”
and asked for a mug of beer. The barman hesitated. The credit of the
strikers had long since gone.
“I’d like to see the colour of your money,” he said, gruffly.
“Ah’ve no money. Ah’ll pay thee next week; ah’m goin’ to put a stop ta
the strike to-day.”
He brought down his open palm against his trousers pocket to emphasize
his poverty, and was startled by the clink of coins. He thrust his hand
down into his pocket, and pulled out some silver, gazing at it stupidly.
“Ma word,” he gasped at last, “Ah thought Ah dreamt it!”
The barman laughed, and reached for an empty mug, grasping the beer-pump
handle.
“That dream’s good enough for the ‘Crown,’” he said. “Better have some
bread and cheese with it.”
“Yes. Be quick, man.”
Standing there, Braunt ate and drank ravenously.
“I can get you a plate of cold meat,” said the barman, seeing how hungry
the man was. The other nodded, and the plate, with knife and fork, was
placed before him.
“So the strike’s off, is it?” said the man, leaning his arms on the bar.
“It’ll be off when Ah get there.”
“Well, it’s not a minute too soon. Our trade’s suffered.”
“More than your trade has suffered, worse luck. Dom little you’ll do for
a man, unless the money’s in ta pouch.”
“Oh, if it comes to that, neither will other people. We’re not giving
out-door relief, any more than our neighbours.”
Braunt ate his food and drank his beer, but made no reply. The barman’s
attitude was commercially correct; no one could justly find fault with
it. Money was the master-key of the universe; it unlocked all doors. The
barman did not care how Braunt came by it, so long as he paid for what
was ordered; and the workman now found that courage was taking the place
of despair, merely because he had money in his pocket. He felt that now
he had energy enough to cope with the strikers, simply because he had
fed while they were hungry. He would wait for no meeting, but would
harangue the men on the street, those of them that were assembled in
futile numbers around the closed gates, and most of them were sure to be
there. If Gibbons opposed, he would settle the question by promptly and
conclusively knocking him down--an argument easily comprehended by all
onlookers.
Braunt drew the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished
his meal, and departed for the works. He found, as he expected, the
despondent men standing there, with hands hopelessly thrust deep in
their empty pockets. Their pipes were as smokeless as the tall chimneys
of the factory, and that of itself showed that their condition was at
its lowest ebb. They were listening with listless indifference to a
heated altercation going on between Gibbons and Marsten, as if the
subject discussed did not concern them.
“You might have played that card last week,” Marsten cried, “but it is
too late now. You can have no conference with the owners. I tell you
they have left the country, and won’t return for a fortnight, and by
that time the works will be filled with new men. The new men are coming
in on Monday. I demand that the committee call a meeting now and that a
vote be taken.”
“Don’t mind him, men!” cried Gibbons. “He’s in Sartwell’s pay.”
The men didn’t mind him, and paid no attention to Gibbons either.
What they wanted was something to eat and drink, with tobacco to smoke
afterwards. If Marsten was in Sartwell’s pay, they would gladly have
changed places with him. Braunt made his way roughly through the crowd,
elbowing the men rudely aside. None resented this; all the fight had
gone out of them. Marsten seemed on the point of attacking Gibbons for
the slanderous remark made, when he felt Braunt’s heavy hand on his
shoulder.
“The time is past for meetings, lad,” said the big man, “and for talk
too. The meeting’s here, and Ah’ll deal with it. Stop bothering with
that fool, and stand among the crowd, ready to back me up if need be.”
Marsten at once did as requested, while Braunt strode across the open
space, in spite of the warning of a policeman to stand back.
Few of the force were on the ground; the authorities saw there was
little to fear from cowed and beaten men.
“You’ll have to stand back,” said the officer, “or I’ll take you in
charge.”
“Will you so?” cried Braunt truculently, rolling up his sleeves as he
turned upon his opponent. “Then I warn you, send for help. You haven’t
men enough here to take me in charge. Ah’ve had a meal to-day.”
After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the
closed gate.
The officer paid heed to the advice given him and sent for more men. He
saw there was to be trouble of some sort.
Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels and roared at the top of
his voice:
“Open the gates!”
A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd.
The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their
necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wondering
what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without
interfering, waiting for reinforcements. Braunt beat with his fist
against the sounding timbers, the rhythmic thuds being the only break
in the stillness except when he repeated his stentorian cry, “Open the
gates!”
The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and
met the manager coming down the stairs.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be another riot, sir,” said the porter,
breathlessly.
Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted
it, and stepped out.
“What do you want?” he said.
“We want our work!” cried Braunt. “Open the gates!”
Sartwell’s glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws
dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed
barriers. The manager quickly comprehended that it was no time for
discussion or arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and
prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter, and said peremptorily:
“Throw down the bar!”
Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order
in the face of the hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger
from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager, and obeyed
the command with haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open.
“Now, men, in with you!” cried Braunt, with a scythe-like swing of his
long arm. “The man that holds back now--ah, God!--Ah’ll break his back!”
Some one stumbled forward, as if pushed from behind; then it was as if
an invisible rope, holding the crowd back, had suddenly broken. The men
poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his
hands like a maniac, cried:
“Stop! Stop! Listen to me for a moment!”
But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with
anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting:
“Let me get at him! Ah’ll strangle the whelp!”
“Braunt!” said Sartwell sharply, his voice cutting through the din of
shuffling boots. “Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the
men together in the yard. I want a word with them.”
Braunt’s truculence at once disappeared. He turned with the men, and
came to where Sartwell stood looking grimly at the moving throng. No one
glanced towards his master, but each went doggedly forward, with head
down as though doing something he was ashamed of. Braunt stopped at
Sartwell’s side and whispered:
“For God’s sake, Manager, set them at work, and don’t talk to them.
They’re beaten, and there’s no more to be said. Be easy with them;
there’s been talk enough.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Sartwell, in kindly manner. “Don’t be
afraid, but gather them together. You have the voice for it. I heard
your first shout at the gates in my office.”
As the last man passed through, Sartwell heard Braunt calling them to
halt. A few still remained outside,--Scimmins and his fellow-members
of the strike committee, listening gloomily to Gibbons’s frantic
denunciation of the wholesale defection. The manager stepped inside, and
ordered the wondering porter to close the gates.
As Sartwell walked briskly towards the works he saw the men huddled
together like sheep, very crestfallen, and evidently ready to endure
any censure the manager saw fit to launch at their defenceless heads.
Braunt, towering over them, looked anxiously about him, with the air of
a huge dog not quite certain how his flock would behave.
Sartwell mounted the steps leading to the door of the former office, and
spoke.
“I take it, men,” he said, “that this strike is off. I want to begin
fair and square; so, if there is any among you unwilling to go back to
work on my terms, let him stand out now and say so.”
There was a short pause, during which the silence was unbroken. No one
stepped out.
“Very well,” continued the manager. “That’s settled and done with. Now
each man knows his place in these buildings; let him get there, and
remain for further instructions. No work will be done to-day, as some
preparation is required before we begin. You will come to-morrow at the
usual hour, and, after arrangements for work have been made, you may
each draw half a week’s wages in advance from the cashier: I shall give
orders to that effect. A number of telegrams were to have been sent out
on Saturday which it is now unnecessary to send: I will spend the money
thus saved in tobacco, of which each man shall get a share as he passes
out through the small gate. The large gates will not be opened until
to-morrow morning.”
There was a faint wavering cheer as Sartwell stopped speaking and
stepped down. The men then slowly filtered into the works.