ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY.
STUDIES IN PRACTICAL ECONOMICS.
BY
ADELINE KNAPP.
[Illustration]
1894:
THE ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY,
COPLEY SQUARE, BOSTON, MASS.
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY ADELINE KNAPP.
[All rights reserved.]
DEDICATED
TO THE
THOUGHTFUL MEN AND WOMEN
OF AMERICA.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION 5
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY;
A FINANCIAL EXPERIMENT 11
THE SICK MAN;
A FABLE FOR GROWN-UP BOYS AND GIRLS 42
THE DISCONTENTED MACHINE;
AN ECONOMIC STUDY 73
GETTING AHEAD;
A SKETCH FROM LIFE 101
THE EARTH SLEPT;
A VISION 125
INTRODUCTION.
It seems to me that the accompanying little sketches are timely. A deal
of thinking must be done by all classes of people before any solution is
attempted of the problems in economics that are pressing upon us, and
any factor that will help turn the general mind to this unwonted
exercise may be termed a useful one.
There is one sketch for which I wish to make a special plea. “The
Discontented Machine” has been criticised as teaching a false principle
in economics.
We are told that never before in the history of the world did labor
absorb so great a proportion of the gains that would otherwise accrue to
capital. It is claimed that fully ninety per cent. of the entire income
of the United States is paid for wages and salaries.
On the other hand, it must be stated that the individual laborer is
worse off to-day, in this free country, than he was twenty, or even ten
years ago. The census returns of 1880 showed the average wage among
laborers in the United States to be less than $7 per week. The returns
of 1890 show that wage to be less than $5 per week.
And yet we are told that labor absorbs ninety per cent. of the income of
the United States. This is an enormous percentage to flow in one
direction, and seems ample refutation of the laborer’s claim that even
at this rate he does not get enough.
This leads to the question whether the laborer really does get his share
of return from the results of his labor, and in “The Discontented
Machine” I have tried to show a very curious phase of this question, and
one which I do not remember to have seen touched upon elsewhere.
Wages are supposed to be adjusted, in the long run, to that which among
a people is customarily requisite for the perpetuation of life, and the
propagation of the species, according to the standard of living among
that people. This is called “The Law of Wages.” It means, put very
plainly, and according to La Salle, that the income of labor must always
dance around the outside rim of that which, according to the standard of
each age, belongs to the necessary maintenance of life.
Now the point raised is this: That under the so-called law of wages, the
wage laborer is not really paid anything for himself. Judged from a
purely commercial standpoint, labor gets its wage; but what does the
laborer get?
In every manufacturing business the wear and tear, original cost and
cost of repair, of machinery, etc., are taken out of the gross receipts
of the business. Now labor, in the eyes of the employer, is simply an
adjunct, as the machines are adjuncts, to the business. As these
require, for their successful operation, certain expenditures for coal,
oil, gearing, and the like, so labor requires for its successful
operation, certain expenditures for food, shelter, clothing, which are,
so to speak, labor’s coal, oil, and gearing. These expenditures, for
which a wage is paid to labor, “in order that it may live,” are
regulated by the law of wages as stated above. They represent exactly
what will enable labor to perform its function, and the amount required
for them is charged to labor out of the gross receipts of the business,
just as the items of machinery expense are deducted from those receipts.
For himself, over and above his labor’s bill of expense, the laborer
gets nothing.
It may be that he is entitled to nothing. This condition of affairs may
be only his misfortune. It certainly cannot be said to be his employer’s
fault that in delivering the commodity in which he deals—labor—the
laborer must deliver himself as well. This is the tragic phase of the
whole situation. Labor, the power to perform, is the man himself; so
that in offering his commodity, the working man must offer, as well,
himself, with all his human rights and endowments. He does this
literally, but in reality it is only his commodity that is wanted, only
this that is paid for. The human being himself is a superfluous
consideration, and an inconvenient one.
And as for him? He waits, asking his question, now softly, now with
clamoring insistence; but he, too, along with the others, must do a deal
of thinking before any tangible solution to his problem is presented.
ADELINE KNAPP.
_San Francisco, Cal., 1894._
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS A DAY.
A FINANCIAL EXPERIENCE.
“Yes,” said the anti-poverty orator, “what we require is an equitable
distribution of the world’s wealth. The bloated bond-holder, the idle,
white-handed aristocrat and the politician who rob the people, must all
go. We want such a distribution of the money and wealth of the land as
will make every man independent of his neighbor. Then the world will
really prosper, but not until then will we see an end of poverty and
misery, and the never-ending struggle that is driving men to desperation
and women to perdition!”
“Time for us to go,” whispered Carroll Burton’s companion just at this
juncture. “He’ll begin to wave the red flag in a minute, and then
there’ll be an anarchistic powwow. This meeting always ends in a
rumpus,” and together the two young men forced their way through the
crowd and out upon the street.
Dale, Burton’s friend, was inclined to poke a little quiet fun at him
for the attention he had given the ranting speaker. “These fellows have
each an infallible scheme for setting the world straight,” he said, “and
no two are alike. Between you and me, anyway,” he added, “the world’s a
good deal better than the ranters would have us think. Why, give these
fellows one thousand dollars a day apiece and they wouldn’t be
satisfied.”
But Burton was not in the mood for laughing. His reason told him how
specious were the arguments of the anti-poverty speaker and how
preposterous were the ideas he advanced regarding an equitable division
of the world’s wealth, but he could not tonight, as he had frequently
done before, shake off the conviction that our present industrial system
is out of joint.
“It don’t seem right,” he muttered to himself, as he stood waiting for
his car, after bidding Dale good-night, and saw the carriage of a
well-known millionaire dash along the street and nearly run down a poor
little shivering wretch of a news-boy, who, hurling a curse in a shrill,
piping voice after the driver of the carriage, was only answered by a
stinging blow from the latter’s long lash. One or two by-standers
laughed. “The young imps,” said one carelessly, “’twould be well if they
were all run over and killed. They’ll only grow up into hoodlums and
fill our jails later. What other chance have they?”
“It isn’t right,” Burton concluded. “We can’t have perfect equality of
conditions, but such glaring inequalities as that ought not to exist in
a free country;” and swinging aboard his car he was soon speeding
homeward.
Next morning he was awakened much earlier than usual by the sound of
unwonted cries under his window. “Have all the newsboys in town come
into this one block?” he asked himself. “What are they saying, anyway?”
Listening a moment the cry took definite shape.
“Extra _Leader_, five cents; all about the money distribution!”
“What’s that?” wondered Burton. “Have the anti-poverty people carried
their idea?”
Dressing himself, he descended into the street and directed his
footsteps to the restaurant where he was accustomed to breakfast.
Incidentally he bought a paper, and glancing at the first page was
filled with wonder at what he saw recorded.
To sum up in a few words the story to which the paper devoted two whole
pages, with blazing headlines: the anti-poverty element, who, since the
last election, Burton knew, had been in a large majority in both houses,
had at last carried the point for which they had long been
working—namely, the division among the people of the enormous output
from the great Golconda mines in Arizona. These mines being situated on
government lands, the anti-poverty party had from the first contended
that they were the property of the government—that is, of the
people—and, having grown sufficiently strong to put the matter through,
they had at last, by Act of Congress, secured the distribution among the
people of the fabulous sums that had accumulated since the opening of
the mines. The coinage had been greatly increased since the discovery of
this great supply, but despite this fact, money had been in no freer
circulation than before, and on every hand complaints of hard times were
heard, while the gold coin in the government treasury was piled ceiling
high in the great vaults, and the question of what to do with it was
becoming a serious one.
Now, by Act of Congress, it was to be equally divided among the people.
For the present, and until the accumulated hoard should be reduced,
every man and woman in the country over eighteen years old was to
receive one thousand dollars a day.
Burton read the account incredulously. It was too preposterous to be
true. If that were done—Great Heavens! Why, he was one of the people!
He, Carroll Burton, would be entitled to a thousand dollars per day. Ah!
if it could but be true, what a plum it would be. Joe should go to
college, his old mother back East, why, both Joe and his mother would
each have a thousand dollars a day as well as himself. Pshaw! It was
only a newspaper fake. Yet—they would hardly dare. Those Golconda mines
were said to be inexhaustible. He remembered hearing a great city
capitalist say, some time before, that if the government did not close
them up soon, money would become a drug in the market and capital would
be crippled.
At the restaurant the only theme of conversation was the great new act.
Few credited it—it so staggered belief. Later in the day, however,
proclamations were out on every bulletin board and dead wall in the
city. The act had really passed. Every state, county, township and city
was to be districted, and on the first day of June every American
citizen above eighteen years of age would, upon calling at the
distributing station in his or her ward, receive the sum of one thousand
dollars daily until further notice.
The first of June was only three days off, which was fortunate for the
people, as, while every one made a pretense of being busy, very little
besides talk was accomplished in any of the places of business,
excitement running so high that no one could settle down to work.
Early on the first day of June, Burton found himself one of a great
crowd waiting at the door of the distributing center of the ——th ward,
which in this case was one of the chief banks of the city, all of whose
employees were busy paying out piles of beautiful bright gold to all
comers.
The crowd was a very silent one. Burton wondered why, until he suddenly
realized that he, himself was silent, oppressed and feeling almost
solemn at the wonderful event that was taking place. The people took
their gold, glanced at it, signed a receipt for it and retired at once,
some furtively counting the piles as they went, some affecting
indifference, others openly exulting in the shining twenties as they
walked along gazing at them.
When it came Burton’s turn he received fifty broad gold $20 pieces—more
gold than he had ever before owned. “You know there’ll be as much for
you to-morrow,” the paying teller said as Burton signed his receipt, and
Carroll was so awe-stricken at the idea that he could only nod without
speaking. Then he fell back to watch the crowd. Poor widows, wondering
young men and maidens, prosperous business men, business men whom he
knew to be tottering on the brink of ruin, hard-handed workmen, pompous
millionaires, writers, mechanics, ministers, college professors,—every
class and grade of the body social, was represented in turn as the
people filed up to the window.
After a while Burton turned and went to his place of business—a
commission office, where he spent eight and a half hours every day in
adding rows of figures and carrying results from page to page in a
complex system of “bookkeeping by double-entry,” to acquire which he had
years ago attended a business college. Every one about the place was
jubilant. Even the errand-boy, a chuckleheaded lad just turned eighteen,
had drawn a thousand dollars, and was already, in expectation, drawing
another cool thousand on the morrow, and succeeding morrows.
Business throve that day, in all its branches. Men who, the day before,
had been seeking extended time on small accounts, now came in to pay up
and make new purchases. Men who had never bought in their line came
forward as purchasers. In all departments of trade money was plentiful;
people bought freely and everybody was happy as the day is long.
A second distribution the next day gave another impetus to the market.
“Now,” said Burton to himself, when at noon he had a breathing spell,
“we can begin to live. I’m going to treat myself to one of Reading’s
wheels and take an occasional spin into the country.”
“Yes,” said the man whom he addressed, an old forty-niner, “there’ll be
good times now. Haven’t seen anything like this since ‘the days of old,
the days of gold,’ and so forth. Why it’s regular diggings times again.”
The day passed by. Every one was in good spirits, buying everything he
wanted.
It is curious to note how quickly we become accustomed to pleasant
things. Carroll drew his thousand dollars on the morning of the third
day, quite as a matter of course, and even felt that ’twas not such a
very great matter after all. “I wish they’d give it to me all in a lump,
instead of in these daily driblets. Then a man could really do something
with it,” he thought to himself as he carelessly dropped into an outside
pocket, what was really more than under the old system he would have
earned by six months’ work.
Through the day, however, he did a little thinking. “There’s really no
occasion for my working now,” he said. “I never did like this business.
I’ll quit, and go on with my electrical studies, as I’ve always longed
to do.”
No sooner thought of than decided upon. That night, as he was going
home, Burton stepped into the private office of the head of the firm and
announced his intention of leaving.
“Oh, is that so, Burton?” said his employer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I
am thinking of going out of business in order to travel, and had hit
upon you as just the man to succeed me. I’d make very easy terms with
you.”
But Carroll’s mind was made up. He was a natural-born electrician, and
here was the long-coveted chance to perfect himself in his favorite
hobby. He must not miss it.
He slept late next morning, but was ready to go down town in time to
draw his thousand dollars. He had to wait a strangely long time for a
street car, and when, at last, one came down and he boarded it, he was
surprised to note that the gripman was none other than the chief
engineer of the road, while the secretary of the company himself was
handling the punch and taking fares. As he handed up his nickel Burton
asked: “How’s this, Graham? Are you ‘personally conducting’ this car
load?”
Graham smiled grimly at the joke. “Looks like it,” he said sharply.
“This thousand-dollar-a-day lunacy of the anti-poverty people is going
to ruin our business. All our men have quit work. When they’ve a
thousand dollars a day to draw they’re not going to pull grips and punch
tickets for $2.50 a day, they say—and no one can blame ’em, I suppose,
but it’s mighty hard on capital, I can tell you. We’ve got to run cars
or forfeit our franchise.”
Burton assented that it was pretty tough. “I must see Reading about that
wheel,” he thought, “then I can be independent of cars.” So having drawn
his money he started for the shop of a famous mechanic, who made a
superior style of wheel for which he controlled the right on the Pacific
Coast. On the way Burton tried to bank his money, which was heavy and
troublesome to carry; but found, much to his disgust, that none of the
banks would touch it.
“We’ve got more now than we know what to do with,” was the cry. “We
can’t loan it nor invest it, and we’ve no room to store it.”
So, carrying it, Carroll proceeded to Reading’s shop. He was not really
surprised to find it closed, and a notice on the door to the effect that
Reading had gone out of business. “I can’t say I blame him,” thought
Burton, “but I wish I’d got my wheel yesterday. I must hunt up an
agent.”
It was a long hunt before he found one whose store was open, and he had
but one machine left that Carroll could ride. “I’ve sold a good many
this week,” the agent explained, “and it’s hardly worth while to stock
up again, as I’m going out of business. Besides, I had a telegram from
the Eastern factory this morning, saying their men had nearly all quit
work.”
Congratulating himself upon having secured any bicycle at all, Carroll,
who had before had a few lessons, wobbled uncertainly away upon it, to
the restaurant where he was wont to eat his meals. It was closed.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as he met another of the frequenters of the
place, “this is getting serious. I’m hungry.”
“Yes,” said the other, “so am I. I quit work myself to-day. I’ve always
wanted to study medicine, but fate made me a carpenter. Now I’ve got
even with fate. I’m going to college, but I want something to eat.”
So the two began a round of the restaurants of the neighborhood, and at
last found a wretched little place open, where they were glad to satisfy
their hunger with coffee and doughnuts eaten at a dirty table, in a
dirty, ill-smelling room. “I gloses up to-morrow,” the proprietor said,
with a grin, as they paid their checks.
“Great guns!” exclaimed the carpenter. “We’ll all starve at this rate.”
“Oh, no,” said Burton hopefully. “We can always ‘bach it.’”
But one evening at the end of a fortnight he began to fear that even
this would fail. He had cooked his own meals for three days, and had
lived mainly on boiled eggs and baker’s bread; but on this particular
morning he was unable to buy any bread, and had been forced to content
himself with a single egg and the heel of a stale loaf soaked in milk.
“I shall go out in the country this afternoon in search of food,” he
decided. Meantime, however, he had to go and fetch away a double load of
golden twenties, for, filled with disgust at the useless coins, he had
not gone the day before, and had been promptly notified by the bank that
he must come and take away his daily allowance, as it would not be
allowed to accumulate, the bank having no place to keep the quantities
that would be left on their hands.
As he walked down Market Street he saw one of San Francisco’s
millionaires driving his own team and carriage up-town. Inside the
carriage was a tiny casket, at the head of which sat a weeping woman,
the millionaire’s wife. The other occupant of the carriage was a lad of
fourteen, the millionaire’s son. The casket contained the remains of the
millionaire’s baby, and as Burton looked he knew that the millionaire
was on his way to the cemetery to bury the child, for on the seat beside
him he saw a pickax and shovel and a coil of rope. He remembered that in
all the city there was not a man who could be hired to do a hand’s turn.
All had money a-plenty, and no need to work. Then he remembered that
there was a milk famine in the city, and reflected that the
millionaire’s baby had probably died because of it.
He went to the bank and got his money, carrying it up Market Street
openly in a canvas bag. There were no police in the city—the entire
force had resigned, but no one would think of stealing money. If his bag
had contained bread, now, it would had been different. Every food shop
in town had long since been plundered by leading citizens, but gold was
safe. Every store on the street was closed; not a street-car was in
sight,—none were running. The ferries had ceased to make regular trips;
sometimes a boat did not pass between Oakland and San Francisco for
days. No trains went in and out of the city. Commerce was at a
stand-still. It was in banking hours and every passer along Market
Street carried a bag of gold, and every man and woman among them was
hungry.
“Something must be done,” they muttered to each other. “This state of
things cannot last.”
Passing down a street on the south side, to escape the sight of the
general misery, Burton chanced upon a curious scene. A wretched, ragged
street gamin was leading a goat along the sidewalk. A handsomely dressed
gentleman had accosted him. The boy was just explaining to him that he
meant to take the goat home and kill it; his mother would cook it.
“Here is a thousand dollars,” the man said, holding out a bag. “I’ll
give it all to you for one quarter of the goat when you kill it.”
The boy grinned. “I’m takin’ this ’ere home ter my mudder,” he said.
“She don’t want gold; she’d ruther have a bag of Injun meal.”
“See here,” the man said, suddenly. “I used to have a big merchant
tailoring establishment. My men all left me and I had to close up, but
I’ve got lots of cloth. If you’ll just milk that goat before you kill
it, and let me take the milk home to my baby, I’ll make you a suit of
clothes with my own hands.”
The boy looked down at his ragged togs, then at Burton. “You’re
witness,” he said. “It’s er bargain.”
The episode gave Burton a bright idea. In a couple of hours he had
secured a large store on Market Street and put out a sign: “Labor
Exchange. A Way Out Of Our Present Difficulties.”
He had not long to wait for visitors. The city was full of idle people,
and they flocked to learn what the new idea was.
The first inquirer said:
“I’ve got a house half built. I want it completed. Have you got any
carpenters that want a job?”
“What’s your business?” asked Burton.
“I’m a baker.”
“Would you be willing to pay for your labor in bread?”
“Of course, if I could get flour.”
“I’m a miller,” shouted a man in the crowd; “I’d be willing to work if I
could get bread, but I’ve got no use for more gold.”
“I have fifty carloads of wheat in warehouses,” a broker said, “and I’d
be willing to turn it in and do day’s work for my share of bread to be
made from it.”
“Shure, and I’ll be glad the day I could help haul it,” cried an Irish
teamster, “but it’s no day’s wages in money I’d work for. It’s a pair of
boots I’m wantin’ an some milk for my kid at home.”
“Milk,” cried a dairyman, bitterly. “You could ‘a’ had milk long ago,
but not a man can I get to drive a wagon or turn a hand to milk the
fifty cows. I’ve had to leave their calves with them ever since this
blasted gold fit seized the government.”
“Gold!” roared a laborer, lifting a bag containing his day’s allowance.
“Who wants gold? It’s bread we’re starving for,” and with a single jerk
he flung the bag into the gutter. The broad twenties rolled and
glittered in the sun, and a baby, attracted by the shine, left its
mother’s side and picked one up. The rest lay where they had fallen—no
one wanted them.
Gradually Burton made his plan clear to the assembled throng. He
proposed to start a labor exchange, conducted on commission principles.
He proposed that the golden double eagles, now so worthless, should be
melted, and cast into labor tokens, for hereafter the medium of exchange
would be labor. In the meantime written promises to pay in labor, would
be accepted as legal tender.
The scheme grew as he talked, with suggestions now and then from those
in the crowd, as the workmen warmed up and began to see a way out of the
mire.
“Put me down for eight hours a day in the street-car service!” cried an
ex-gripman, “and I’ll take my pay in tokens for bread and milk and meat
service.”
“I’d gladly give that last to the company for you,” said a sturdy
butcher, “just to git the cars running out our way again.”
Trade after trade was heard from, offering service and making
suggestions, until finally a pompous but somewhat anxious voice
inquired:
“But where do we come in?”
“Who are ‘We?’” was asked.
“The bankers and brokers, capitalists and men of means,” replied the
voice.
There was a general laugh from the working crowd. “Oh,” some one said,
jocularly, “you can all put your labor in along with the rest; so speak
up and say what you want to do.”
“We want our morning paper back,” some one cried. “We’re all willing to
work for the printers and editors if they’ll work for us.”
And so the plans were laid and the wheels of the great city began to
move again. The mills were again in operation, the cars carried
passengers about the city, traffic was resumed; the great law of supply
and demand, rightly applied at last, was working peace and harmony in
the industrial system of the city. The example spread, and prosperity
dawned upon the land. The labor token of every man and every woman was
good for his or her daily needs, for it was backed by the only real
value in the world—human power.
The capitalists and politicians fared rather badly at first, but as time
went by they began to fall in line and take their places in the life of
the industrial commonwealth. After a few months, there being no
particular reason why the government should flood the country with
useless gold, any more than with lead or iron tokens, the coining ceased
and gold was only used in the arts and manufactures. Labor was the
wealth of the country, and labor was owned by The People.
THE SICK MAN.
A FABLE FOR GROWN-UP BOYS AND GIRLS.
Once upon a time, somewhere, not so very far away, nor a time so very
long ago, there lived A Man. He was young, strong and full of
enterprise. Opportunities lay within his reach, for a career such as no
man had ever before been able to seize. His fellows were all watching
him, studying his progress, some with disapproval, some with envy, but
all with interest, admitting, without exception, that his future
promised brilliantly. He was such an all-round, capable fellow. His
promise was so splendid, and he had had such a capital start in life.
There is no doubt but that all his rare promises would have been more
than fulfilled, but one day The Man fell ill. He had, in fact, been
ailing for some time. His physician warned him of the fact; his wife
realized it; his children felt its effects, but he, himself, refused to
admit it. He might be a little under the weather—every man is at
times—but there was nothing serious the matter with him—nothing that his
splendid constitution would not carry him safely over.
And so he grew worse. He became uncertain in his methods, capricious as
to his appetite. His business dealings were characterized, now by keen
astuteness of judgment, now by weakness and a childish changefulness of
purpose, just as he happened to be feeling better or worse that day.
Every now and then he would awake to a semi-realization of his own
condition, and declare he was going to ruin, would die soon if he did
not do something to help himself. Then he would summon the doctors, and
they would consider his case and prescribe, some one remedy, some
another. They never seemed able to agree as to what ailed him, or the
remedy that was indicated, but each could prescribe something which he
was quite certain would affect a cure.
And The Man would follow first one prescribed course of treatment, then
another, until perhaps his headache would abate, his gastric difficulty
would moderate, or his liver would become less inactive, and then, “I
have recovered,” he would say; “I told you I would. You see there is
nothing the matter with me.”
There came a day, however, when The Man lay prostrate, and the doctors
met in solemn conclave over him.
There was no mistake about it this time. He was undeniably sick.
“He is in a bad way,” they said. “Energetic measures must be instituted,
or The Man will die.”
They could not, however, agree upon the diagnosis.
“His lungs are nearly gone,” was the opinion of one.
“There is a general condition of congestion that should be relieved at
once,” said another. “The Man should be bled to save his life,” and they
bled him.
“His mental powers are failing,” a third declared, while a fourth was of
the belief, and argued his point learnedly, that an operation for
appendicitis would set him right at once. “’Tis the common lot of
mankind,” he maintained, “and he cannot hope to escape it. He has been
slower in developing the condition, because he is younger, and his
environment has been different. But you see for yourselves to what he is
reduced. It is what might have been anticipated, and the condition
should be met at once.”
“On the contrary,” a new comer said, “The Man is manifestly very low.
His blood is impoverished. He needs building up—building up, I say.
Transfusion of blood is what is wanted. Then, with his magnificent
constitution, he’ll pull through all right.”
This treatment struck the assembled council as likely to do good, and
they at once decided to act upon the new comer’s suggestion. The case
was a desperate one and called for desperate remedies.
In the circulatory system of an individual who enjoyed excellent health
a great commotion was taking place.
“Have you heard the news?” the little red blood-corpuscles were saying
to each other, “some of us are to be sent abroad to a new organism. It
is out of order, and we are to institute a reformation.”
There was a great confusion of preparation, but finally everything was
in readiness, and a large number of corpuscles were sent upon their
errand of mercy. In the bustle attendant upon the change the early
incidents of the journey escaped note, but there was, among the
visitors, one little corpuscle who, after the first few moments, being a
wide-awake fellow, resolved to keep his eyes open and take notes upon
his adventures in this new and strange country.
He was in the heart when he began his notes. That great organ suddenly
contracted, and with many of his companions he was forced into the
lungs, where he gave up the load of carbon dioxide which he had picked
up as he hurried through the veins, and received in exchange a modicum
of oxygen to be distributed to the organism. He did not receive as much
oxygen as he was accustomed to have. He experienced a certain curious
difficulty in getting to the front to obtain his supply. He could not
understand it at the time, but thinking it over as he hurried back
through the pulmonary circulation to the heart, he recalled that certain
of the native corpuscles had crowded ahead of him, seeming in great
anxiety lest their own supply be curtailed. In a conversation which he
overheard between them they characterized him as an interloper, telling
each other they ought to rise and drive him and his fellows from the
organism. “They are all coming in here to consume the oxygen that
belongs to us,” they complained.
“Funny,” he thought to himself, “They only want enough to supply
themselves and exchange with the organism for nutriment. There is surely
nothing else they can do with it. This seems a very strange country.”
By this time he was back in the heart, ready for his life-giving,
life-receiving journey through the organism. He was close by the
semi-lunar valves, just about to leap forward into the aorta, when—
“Hold on!” exclaimed the valve, “you have not paid the toll.”
“The what?” asked the little corpuscle.
“The gate toll. Be quick; you are keeping others waiting.”
“But what is this toll, and what is it for?”
“An atom of oxygen. It is to pay me, to be sure, for maintaining this
valve that prevents you from being forced back into the heart.”
“But,” persisted the corpuscle, “I must be sent along. Why should I pay
you when I am doing the work of the organism and shall pay it before I
get through? If I cannot get through the whole organism will suffer.”
“Hurry up, hurry up, there is no time to talk,” said the valve, and as
the crowd was impatiently pushing behind him the little corpuscle gave
up an atom of oxygen and hurried on.
“You must pay me an atom too,” murmured a voice in his ear.
“Who are you?” asked the corpuscle.
“I am the aorta. You will have to pay me for carrying you to the general
circulation.”
“But if I pay you I shall have to rob the tissues that need what I am
carrying, and it will be impossible to procure from them what I need to
keep me alive in turn. I must get my load along.”
“But you can’t do it unless I carry you,” said the voice.
This was only too true, as the corpuscle was well aware.
“I must get this oxygen to the tissues,” he reflected. “It will not keep
much longer, and there will be no market for it. It is of no use to me,
and I greatly need some inorganic salts.” So, parting with another atom
of oxygen, he was taken through the aorta, and landed in one of the
branching arteries that would carry him to the stomach. The branch road,
too, collected of him a quota of oxygen.
As he was hurrying along he found himself side by side with another
corpuscle, a native, whom he engaged in conversation.
“What do all these fellows want of so much oxygen?” he asked. “If the
other corpuscles pay it over at the same rate I have, some one must get
a good deal more than he can possibly use.”
“Why,” said the other, “it is the great medium of exchange in the
organism, and of course we all want as much as we can get. They
re-invest it, turn it over, double it and quadruple it.”
“But is there more in the organism on that account?”
“No, but they have more, don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see,” was the reply, “but I cannot understand what good it does
them. The organism must suffer if its supply is diverted. And do not
they suffer with the whole body?”
“Oh, I suppose so, but then, suffering is the common lot of the race. It
is good discipline for us, and prepares us for the better life
hereafter.”
“I don’t understand that,” was the new corpuscle’s comment. “In the
country I came from we believe the best preparation for the future life
is a good start in this existence, and as we can none of us reach the
future state apart from the whole organism, why, we all work for its
good. But I am anxious to know more about these transportation systems.
By what method do they regulate their charges?”
“Well,” the native corpuscle said, “they calculate about how much oxygen
you have; how greatly the tissues you are bound for need it; what they
can afford to pay for it, and then they charge what they think the
traffic will bear.”
“But the whole organism must suffer from such a method.”
“It does, but there seems to be no help for it.”
“But, as the whole organism is the loser, and would be the gainer under
a better management, why does it not take charge of the system and
manage it so all would be benefited?”
“Why! that would be interfering with individual rights! It would never
do. It would destroy all individual enterprise, all individual ambition,
all individuality of every sort, and reduce everything to a dead level.
It would not do at all. Besides, the liver has too much influence with
the organism, and would never allow such a state of things to come to
pass.”
“Why should the organism ask permission of the liver?”
“Well,” said the other, “the liver is the most important body of our
whole community. All our richest corpuscles compose it.”
“Richest corpuscles? What are they?”
“Why, those who have the largest share of the organic wealth, of course.
You must be very stupid not to know that.”
“How did they get more of this organic wealth than the others have?”
“Oh, in various ways. By their superior enterprise for one thing. They
saw in the beginning the necessity for transportation facilities for the
blood, chyle, and so forth, and through their efforts the Venous and
Arterial Transit Systems were established.”
“Do you mean that they formed the veins and arteries?”
“Oh, no, of course not. They had not the means for that, but the
organism aided them, knowing that it would be a great thing to have this
system established; that it would build up the organism.”
“I see; and then I suppose these rich corpuscles of the liver paid the
organism back out of their gains?”
“Not exactly—that is to say—they’ve not yet done so. You see, somehow,
the system has not paid as well as they thought it would. It seems there
have been unforeseen exigencies, they have not been able to pay. In
fact, they say the system is on the verge of insolvency.”
“But I thought you said the corpuscles owning it are the richest ones in
the organism?”
“So they are; but that is their individual wealth, don’t you see? It
takes all that the system can earn to pay expenses, and reimburse the
management for their original outlay in getting things in running order.
You could not expect them to invest their capital for nothing, you
know.”
“But I understood you to say a little while ago that the organism
advanced the means and that the management still owes for the advances.”
“Yes, yes, that is true. But, don’t you see, these corpuscles assumed
the responsibility, and their enterprise merits some reward.”
“But if the system is in such bad shape, and owes the organism so much,
why does not the latter take it out of the management’s hands and
operate it itself!”
“There you go again! Did not I explain to you that that would be
interfering with individual rights? But there—my way turns here, and I
must leave you. Sorry I could not make things any plainer to you. I
suppose ’tis difficult for a stranger to understand the operations of
this government, but you will learn, in time, and be sure of one thing,
whatever is, is right;” and the native corpuscle was carried off towards
the pancreas.
“That last remark sounds rather funny,” thought the visitor, “I do not
quite see, myself, the logic of it, but I’ll look about me, and perhaps
it will come straight bye and bye.”
Just then his attention was called to a lugubrious corpuscle standing at
a division of the ways, in the pathway leading to the liver.
“Why are you standing here?” the little stranger asked.
“I’m out of a job,” was the sullen reply.
“A job! What is that?”
“Why, work, of course! What sort of a place do you come from, not to
know that?”
“Oh, work; well, then why do you not get up and go to work?”
“No one will give me a job.”
“But there is plenty of work. What is to hinder you from doing your
share?”
“The corpuscles that control the work won’t let me.”
“Control it! Do you mean to say that corpuscles _own_ the work of the
organism? How came it theirs?”
“That’s plain to be seen, stupid! They own the sources of work; the
machinery to work with; the places where work is done, and the money to
pay for work, and there is a glut in the labor market just now. The
supply exceeds the demand.”
“I see. Then you can rest and take it easy, can you not, until there
_is_ work? I should think you would like that.”
“Yes; but where is my living to come from? If one doesn’t work, neither
shall he eat.”
“But if he does not work he cannot eat, can he?”
“Well, he’s got to earn his living anyway, and that’s all there is about
it.”
At this moment a corpuscle approached, wearing a star in his breast, and
carrying a baton.
“Come, now! Lave this,” said he to the idle corpuscle, “an’ be movin’
on.”
The one thus addressed growled, and murmured something about “rights.”
“Rights, is it?” demanded the corpuscle with the star, “I’d like to know
what rights the likes of you has, anyhow, an idle loafer. Why don’t you
get to work, like I do? Move on, now, or I’ll be after running you in
for a vagrant,” and the grumbler moved slowly off, along a by-way, for
the transit system was closed to such as he.
“Who are you?” asked the stranger corpuscle of the wearer of the star.
“Sure, I’m a p’lice corpuscle,” was the reply, “a gardeen of the pace,
I’d have you know, an’ it’s a civil tongue you better be kapin’.”
The new comer had heard about the police corpuscles, and was about to
engage this one in conversation, when his attention was arrested by a
troop of white corpuscles who came along, each bearing a small burden of
oxygen.
“Why!” he exclaimed, “What are these young things doing?”
“Working, to be sure; they’ve got to earn their kape, same’s the rest of
us.”
“But these are the young of the race. I remember, now. I have heard that
there have been slaves in this organism. I presume these are young
slaves, yet remaining.”
The police corpuscle waxed indignant. “No, indeed!” he cried. “These are
no slaves, but the offspring of free and independent corpuscles. We have
here no slaves. These young corpuscles must help maintain themselves,
and the families to which they belong. It’s not able the red corpuscles
are, to hustle for all, these hard times, an’ it’s the little white ones
must help.”
“But the corpuscle I just saw said there was a glut in the labor
market.”
“Faith, yes, for the likes of him. But the little white ones work
chaper, you know, and so they have to put in their little earnings and
help kape things goin’. Times is hard, and the rich corpuscles can’t
support the hull system.”
“But surely it must greatly impoverish the organism to have these white
corpuscles set to bear burdens before they are able to do so. With so
many of these busy in the circulation, I do not wonder that the system
suffers from anæmia.”
The police corpuscle glowered at the new comer.
“You must be one of them blooming foreigners that’s bin brought into the
country,” he said. “You take my advice, and keep still and tend to
business, or it’s trouble ye’ll be gitting into. I’ve a notion to run
you in myself now for malicious imperdence.” And he looked so
threatening that the little corpuscle hurried off, fearful lest he might
be deprived of his liberty.
He had made the round of the circulation, and was carrying a load to the
brain, when he met a corpuscle staggering along under the weight of a
big bundle.
“Where are you going?” he asked of the new comer.
“To the Relief Home,” he replied.
“I do not know what that is.”
“Why, it is a home provided for poor corpuscles. Do they not take means
to help such in your country?”
“I do not know what they are. Are they anything like rich corpuscles?”
“No, indeed. They are those who cannot provide for themselves; they have
no means and cannot work, or else cannot get work to do. We have places
where they can stay and be helped for a time, or until they can help
themselves.”
“I see. I suppose the organism maintains these homes?”
“Well, some of them—yes. But not most of them by any means. They are
supported by charitably disposed corpuscles who have been blessed by
Providence with plenty, and who give of their abundance. We get a great
deal of help from the tissues and corpuscles of the liver, who are rich
and often liberal toward the poor.”
“Why do you have rich and poor corpuscles? Would it not be better to
have all comfortable, than to have some with more than they can use, and
others with nothing?”
“Oh, no, it takes all kinds of corpuscles to make up the organism, you
know. It is good for the poor to have the rich to help them, and it is
good for the rich that the poor need their help. Otherwise the rich
might become proud and selfish, if they had not the sight of their needy
brothers to keep their hearts tender, and prompt them to benevolence.
They also do a great deal of good in keeping so many corpuscles employed
in waiting upon them and supplying their needs.”
“But would not these corpuscles be better employed in supplying the
needs of the whole organism?”
“Perhaps—only, do you not see, the other organs could not employ them
all; they are not able to pay them.”
“But if the liver did not absorb so much of the general supply, would
not the others have more and so be able to pay?”
“Oh, you do not understand the matter at all. We never can get rid of
the poor. Our greatest Teacher has said: ‘The poor ye have with you
always,’ and the fact remains to this day, as a proof of his infallible
wisdom and divine inspiration.”
“He did not say you had to have the poor with you always, did he?”
“What has that to do with it? We always have had them, from which it is
only fair to infer that we always shall have them. It seems hard, I
know, but the wisdom of Providence is inscrutable, and since He has so
decreed we can only do our best to pity the afflictions of the poor and
ease their lot.”
“But is not that attempting to thwart the very decree of Providence to
which you counsel submission?”
“My young friend,” said the other corpuscle sternly, “no good ever came
of carping criticism. It disturbs faith in fixed institutions, and in
humanity. It leads to doubt, anarchy and misrule. It should never be
permitted. It is what has brought this organism to its present sad pass.
We may sorrow to see the sufferings of the poor, and it is kind, humane
and therefore right to attempt to lighten their lot, but to criticise
the wisdom of Established Order is to fly in the face of Providence, and
I cannot countenance such impiety by remaining to listen to it.”
Much abashed, the little corpuscle continued his way. Meekly he paid
tribute to the large leucocytes living in affluence in the liver. These
had control of all the great natural monopolies of the organism, and let
no corpuscle escape due payment of his quota into their coffers.
Sometimes these great ones attacked each other. Then would come a panic,
and one or more would be absorbed by the survivors, along with a few
score of the lesser corpuscles, who had endeavored to get “in it,” and
instead were squeezed dry.
Thus things went on from bad to worse. The red corpuscles became fewer
and less able to do the work required of them. The little white
corpuscles became feebler and fewer in number, the great monopolists
increased in size and power, waxing all the time more and more unwilling
to do the work of the organism, until, finally, outraged nature could
endure the strain no longer, and The Man died.
“Fatty degeneration of the liver,” the doctors said at the _post
mortem_. “That organ had diverted to itself the living of the entire
organism, and death was inevitable.”
THE DISCONTENTED MACHINE.
AN ECONOMIC STUDY.
It was a magnificent piece of machinery, and had been put into the great
manufactory at an enormous expense. Other manufacturers had shaken their
heads, doubtfully, when they heard that Hyde & Horne were about to put
in a mammoth cutter and shaper that would enable them to dispense with
nearly twenty-five per cent. of the men whom they had heretofore
employed.
“It is a hazardous experiment,” they all said, putting in new and
untried machinery. “Why, if half that is claimed for this new machine is
true, it will revolutionize the boot and shoe trade, and enable Hyde &
Horne to have their own way with us, unless we put in the same
machinery; while, if it fails, they’ll never see their money back, and
the firm will be ruined. It’s risky business, very risky business,
indeed. The chances are a thousand to one against its success.”
Nevertheless, their intense anxiety lest Hyde & Horne should be forced
into bankruptcy by their experiments with the new and costly machinery,
did not prevent their taking a lively interest in the same. They watched
it closely, from month to month, and were presently forced to confess
that it was an unqualified success. No firm in the trade turned out such
quantities of shoes of uniform quality, finish, style, and cheapness, as
Hyde & Horne. The new machine produced them so much more cheaply than
other firms, with their older and less complete methods, were able to
do, that the more enterprising concern virtually controlled the market.
Hyde & Horne disposed, in advance, of their entire output, early in the
season, and were beginning to talk of putting in another of the new
machines, when, at last, their competitors were fully alive to the fact
that they, too, must bestir themselves, or find the market completely
blocked to their goods.
Accordingly, one fine morning, the members of the rival firm of Russett
& Tan called at the factory, and asked to inspect the new machine.
“Certainly! certainly!” was Mr. Horne’s courteous reply, and he led the
way to the cutting department, chatting pleasantly as he went.