XIII

The morning's mail included one letter of importance for Pelham. It was

a form announcement of a directors' meeting of the mining company, at

ten.

Judge Florence was calling the group to order, when Pelham arrived. The

young mining engineer took one comprehensive look around the massive

directors' table, a plate-glass-covered stretch centering the sumptuous

gray office. Slowly he let himself into the one vacant chair. Paul

Judson sat next to the head; Henry Tuttle, of Tuttle and Mabry, general

counsel for the corporation, was talking earnestly to him. Kane, one of

Judson's directors, was grouped with two of the younger men from the

other interest. Sam Ross, John and Stephen Birrell, Randolph, Pelham

nodded to each in turn: their faces seemed to him carved into a new

heartless savagery,--a huddled group of soul-squeezing masters of men.

As general manager, Paul reported briefly the facts of the accident,

with evidence, gathered by company detectives, that the blow-up

originated in a miner's criminal carelessness in seriously overcharging

in number six entry. This was due to wilful misunderstanding of the

company's haste to get out iron, to take advantage of war prices; haste,

but not carelessness, was demanded.

Two of the fourteen in the entry most affected were still alive; one had

given his deposition at the hospital, telling of the conversation

between the miner and his foreman immediately preceding the explosion,

in which the dead miner had boasted of the overheavy charge.

"There are, according to the latest reports," Paul concluded,

"twenty-two dead, and about thirty injured in greater or less degree.

Spence and Jacks have filed already the first damage suits. If we pay

these claims, it will cost the company from a quarter of a million to a

million dollars. Since the company is not at all responsible, I

recommend that we make no settlement whatever." His thin lips lifted

together, and contracted. He sat down.

"Can you give us the legal side, Henry?" Jeremiah Florence had lifted

Henry Tuttle from Choctaw Falls to Adamsville, and started him on the

driving career that made him the worst-feared corporation lawyer in this

part of the South. He regarded him now with fatherly admiration.

Tuttle rose lankly, his thin watery eyes staring with fixed impassivity.

His voice was soft and malleable; he was never hurried, never vehement;

he possessed a tact that caught the idea of the more creative type, then

carried it to unerring completion. "Paul's suggestion would hold, if we

decided to follow it. There is no liability in this state for such an

accident; it would be a different matter if the legislature had passed

that additional liability act last fall. That is the legal side."

He took his feet more slowly in answer to the chairman's second

question. "Public policy? That is perhaps different. It might be well to

make some sort of settlement. It's never hard to buy off Spence and

Jacks; three or four hundred apiece--a thousand at the most--they'd keep

half, or more----"

John Birrell, the older of the two boys, who retained much of the

implacable push that had carried old Stephen Birrell to the headship of

the local mining industry, spoke sharply from his seat. "I agree with

Mr. Judson. This is no time to yield; ore's high enough to pay for any

unpleasantness. Give them an inch, they'll demand the whole plant. They

were restless before, in our mines as well as the Judson; even the

furnaces report union talk. This is the chance to step on the whole

matter."

Three or four expressions of similar vigor were too much for Pelham. He

took the floor unsteadily; the glances bent on him were curious, almost

pitying. The table's circle had read of the pass with his father at the

labor convention; there was an uneasy titillating expectancy as to how

much of a fool he would make of himself, how long he could hang on to

the fringes of business, while he nourished a sprouting radicalism.

"I represent only two shares as a stockholder," he began painstakingly.

"I am only one director. But I wonder if you gentlemen know what you are

doing. Thirty of your workers lie seriously injured; twenty-two families

are deprived of their bread-winners through an accident not their fault,

but yours; yours, and other mining employers' who have fought all safety

legislation, even as late as last week----" His eye caught a side

glimpse of his father's unperturbed profile, as he rolled an unlighted

cigar around the rim of his teeth. "It is not enough to say that these

were convicts, or negroes; many were hired white workers. I don't know

how well you have the law sewed up; but every idea of justice entitles

them to full settlement. Any other decision would be an outrage."

The aged chairman, while disavowing any sympathy with the spirit of the

young man's remarks, wondered if a proper regard for public opinion

would not dictate some middle course. The younger Birrell sided with

him, as did Sam Ross, Tuttle, and several others. At length Paul Judson

was asked again for his opinion.

"Gentlemen, you understood what I said before. I have told you what you

must do--refuse to pay one cent to any claimant, no matter how strongly

the claim is pressed. Any other course, in the long run, will be

suicide. Unless you want ultimate bankruptcy, you will treat this as a

business matter." He gathered into a portfolio the papers before him. "I

have some matters to attend to. I have shown you how to handle the

matter. You can call me in for a vote."

The discussion veered and twisted after his abrupt departure; but Pelham

could not fail to see, even through his disgust, how his father's

insistent advice, no matter how unpleasantly phrased, dominated the

group. The driver of men is never popular; and Paul Judson's keen,

aggressive mind drove them against their wills. Within an hour a

resolution embodying his idea was put and carried with only the son's

dissenting vote.

The _Times-Dispatch_ contained a report of the meeting, and an interview

with Paul Judson stressing the legal side of the situation. An editorial

referred to the disaster as one of the necessary casualties of

industrial growth, paid tribute to the company's promise of further

safety devices, and hung on an attack on the "forces of unrest that

sought to make capital of the accident, to aid their insidious

unAmerican propaganda."

Pelham was puzzled by this wording, until he came across Jane, who had

charge of the relief work among the victims' families. Her large eyes

sparkled with a light of warfare, as she fell into step beside him,

among the poor-ridden shanties of Hewintown. "You hadn't heard? Why,

it's all over town now, Pell. There's a big meeting at Arlington Hall at

seven-thirty to-night, to discuss the accident--and a strike!"

"Fine! It had to come--the radical unionists were just waiting the

chance."

"Will you take me?"

"You couldn't keep us away."

They arrived early, but the crowd had come earlier. Only by taking stage

seats were they able to get in at all. When the son of the owner of the

mine was recognized, there was slight hissing, and scattered

handclapping from a few Socialists. Jensen came over quietly to Pelham,

his eyes dancing. "Your application's gone through, my boy; Hernandez

has your red card in his pocket."

They shook hands silently. Now, Pelham realized, he was a recognized

member of the red-bannered army, who were leading man into his promised

earthly heritage.

Michael Serrano, who presided, plunged into the thing that had brought

them there. "I'm a bricklayer by trade, as you all know. The bricklayers

have made me president of their local four times. I'm called the

'reddest of the red.' If this murderous mine accident doesn't make all

of you reds too, then you aren't fit for anything but to be murdered!"

The crowd stamped approval. They had come in fighting spirit; the proper

key had been hit from the start.

"Now, if ever, is your chance to win your rights. The papers have been

slobbering of wartime profits on ore; the reckless haste to line their

pockets was the real cause of this explosion for which the worthy

directors of your mines are responsible. They can't afford a shutdown

now; this is your hour to win!"

Turning from the applause, he introduced Ben Spence as "a labor lawyer,

with a union card in place of a heart." Spence and Jacks were the

regular federation attorneys, and Spence was quite close to Pooley and

Bivens; but he always professed a near-socialism that captivated his

hearers in Labor Day addresses. He passed from a humorous opening into

an indictment of the mining corporations that brought the hot crowd

clamoring to their feet, with wild shouts of "Go to it, Ben! Eat 'em

up!"

The next few speeches scattered. Pelham wondered if the mass desire

would evaporate without action. Serrano saw the drift, and walked over

to where the son of Paul Judson sat drinking in the wild-mouthed

denunciation of his father's rapacity and cold-heartedness. "I'm going

to call on you, comrade."

"You have to?"

The chairman nodded. "You give 'em hell. I'll sound 'em out first. These

regular unionists--pfui!" He spat in scorn, and went back to his

splintered gavel.

Jack Bowden, of the Miners', tied up with the Big Pooley gang, finished

his inconclusive remarks. At once Serrano's orotund Italian voice shot

out into the crowd. "Now you've heard what you're getting. And you've

heard what you're entitled to. How many miners are in this crowd? Raise

your hands."

Amid general neck-stretching, the hands went up--almost a third of the

vociferous audience. There was a rattle of applause at the good showing.

"Are you going to stand being treated as dirt, or will you act like men?

How many of you miners vote strike? Let's hear your voices!"

The shout of approval showed how avid they were for some direct

expression of their accumulated resentment. Bowden, a worried look on

his face, rose to protest; the ecstatic chairman waved him down.

"I'm going to do an unusual thing. I'm going to call on one of your

employers to tell what he really thinks about you. I call on Comrade

Pelham Judson, assistant manager of the Birrell-Florence-Mountain Mining

Company."

There was no applause. Pelham, tremendously alone, walked down to the

front of the big platform. His mind registered random impressions--the

faded tawdriness of the cheap bunting below the dirty footlights, the

smell of fetid cigars and pipes, bulging necks above dirty unstarched

collars, the fierce resentment and shining hunger for better things

flaring in the eyes just below him. The irresistible contrast with the

suave gray fittings of the directors' room flooded him.

He summoned all his knowledge of speaking, and stood silent, his eyes

ranging the vast pit and the jammed galleries.

"Fellow laborers--comrades----" His voice choked. "Many of you know how

I think about this. What happened two days ago on that red mountain I

love was murder--definite, systematized murder. The danger has always

been known; and when every effort to wipe out that danger by law has

been fought, and the deaths occur, I call that deliberate murder!"

There was a startled pelt of applause in one corner of the room. It did

not spread; the others were too interested, too surprised, to pass

judgment.

"What ought you to do? Your referendum will decide. If I were in your

places, there is only one thing I could do--and that is, strike! Strike

against the company, and me--yes! Strike for the enforcement of the

weak-kneed mining law, and for a better one! Strike for more pay,

shorter hours, and your organization! Fight back! Unite"--his long,

tense arms reached out, and drew in together in a clenching

grasp--"bring together your force as one man, and there is no power in

the world that can stand against you!"

This was familiar. They howled agreement.

"There are two ways you must strike. Part of the blame lies with that

legislature at Jackson. You elected them; you can retire 'em. Strike

politically. Unite at the polls--there'll be a labor ticket, the

socialist ticket, for every office--drive it home to victory! Then you

will have laws which would make such an explosion an impossibility!"

There were a few mock groans from the _Voice of Labor_ crowd, but the

majority still sat silent.

"You have a quicker weapon, on the industrial field--a strike. We've all

read the announcement of the company's action; my vote was the only one

against it at the directors' meeting. You must strike to teach your

masters what they can't do! Strike for justice to the thirty men maimed

and crippled in the cause of profits! Strike for the twenty-three

families who are the worst sufferers from this hell. Yes, twenty-three,

Mr. Chairman; I received phone word that Hank Burns died of his injuries

at six-thirty to-night." There was a faintly rising moan of anger at

this. "If you unite, as I believe you will, there is no power in the

world that can stop you!"

He went back to his seat, trembling, his forehead moist with frigid

sweat. Jane's rapturous hands caught his; he felt fully repaid.

The meeting broke up in an uproar of enthusiasm.

As he started for the Andersons' with Jane, the mad spell of a June

moon-bright night caught and tortured him, until it was pain to think of

letting her go. The cool darkness rushed by on both sides. Out of the

crevasses of big buildings they passed into the more open stretches of

low urban homes. The country club road invited; they slid over gentle

rises until they had their fill of tree rustle and moon shimmer. Against

the sky they traced the soft outlines of the swan and the lyre swung to

the East over the dull rose glow of unsleeping furnaces; but the

persistent flood from the moon dulled even Vega to a mild glimmer. At

length the car whirred up the last hill, and stopped in front of the

darkened house where she was to sleep.

There was so much to be said. The beauty of the night was

throat-catching, and lifted them away from the hectic scene at Arlington

Hall, and the bitter fight that to-morrow must bring. He felt her full

sympathy with the attitude he must take; her first hand-grasp, as he

took his seat after the speech, told him that. His hand, as the car

waited before her house, lingered fearfully against hers; an electric

current snapped between the two.

His fancy played fitfully with fantasies that started with his lifting

that warm dear hand to his kiss ... then the yielding lips ... then the

mutual surrender. But like a scourge memory listed over to him the

mouths he had kissed, youthfully, poignantly, casually.... No, he had

done with that. This must be no mere union of bodies; love should begin

with a pure communion of kindred spirits. A kiss, a caress--these were

the soft persuasive preludes to the swelling finale of mating; cheapen

them, wear out their springbud freshness, and the blossom of mated love

must remain stunted, like a frost-warped dogwood flower,--must

henceforth be soiled, like a draggled pear-blossom mired by an April

downpour. Hereafter he would hold his lips--and keep hers--inviolate,

virginal; the miraculous event of love consummated should not be fouled

by recollections of squandered embraces, of cheap philanderings.

The desire to touch and conquer the hand beside his almost overpowered

him, despite his ascetic musing. Spasmodically he pulled his hand away.

A force stronger than his will brought it slowly back, until it shivered

against hers.

Quietly, with restrained and schooled abandon, his words breathed out.

"Jane ... dear ... dearer--dearest----"

Her intuitive eyes read the words that were coming, before his own mind

framed them. A sudden blossoming of joy surged within her, so great for

a moment that it prevented speech; then, panic-stricken, she wished to

postpone the inevitable question, to delay the rapture, to flee away,

with the words unspoken, for just a little longer to consider the

matter.... She said nothing of this; her silence, blent into the silence

of the mountain at the end of the rise before them, was voluble with

another message than delay or hesitation.

An agony of doubt racked him. Hadn't he been mistaken all along?

Wouldn't she laugh at him, for his presumption in reading even

toleration in her eyes, that radiated indifferently upon things

unworthy, like himself, and worthy alike? Would he dare go on? He

must--even if her laugh shattered the iridescent sphere of his hopes.

An impassioned eagerness to get the words out made his tone forced and

unnatural. "Will you have me, Jane? Will you love me--a little? I know

I've no right to speak--my affairs are so tangled, and all----"

Then she raised her arm, until the hand was above his head; and her

fingers touched his hair gently, caressingly, soothingly.

"Jane...." His voice was rich with reverent unbelief.

"Pelham dear----"

In excess of happiness, he caught the hand beside him almost to his

lips; and then, instead, pressed it against his breast, against his

heart.