A CALL FOR HEROES
The first business before the Assembly of the Brotherhood was the
permanent assignment of work. The enthusiasm which swept the
Socialists through the first week of joyous life could not last. No
one expected it. The novelty of their surroundings, the surprise and
elation of every one over the beauty and richness of their newly
acquired empire, carried the pioneers over the opening days as in a
dream. It all seemed like a great picnic--like the long-hoped-for
holidays in life of which they had dreamed and never realized, yet
which somehow had come to pass.
But the time was at hand to face the first big, sober reality of the
new social system. The dining-hall was packed. Every member of the
Brotherhood was present.
The orchestra played a lively air in a vain effort to revive the
spirit of festivity with which every meeting had hitherto buzzed.
But an evil spirit had entered the Garden of Eden, and joy had fled.
Over every heart hovered a brood of solemn questions. What will be my
lot? Will I be allowed to choose my work? Or will they tell me what to
do? Will it be dirty and disagreeable, or pleasant and inspiring?
Norman sat in his chair of state as presiding officer, bending over a
mass of papers which Barbara had spread before him. She leaned close,
and a stray hair from one of her brown curls touched his forehead. He
trembled and stared blankly at the papers, seeing only a beautiful
face.
"You understand?" she asked. "I've placed under each department the
number of workers needed."
"Yes, yes, I understand!" he repeated, looking at her, blankly.
"I don't believe you've heard a word I've spoken to you," she said,
reproachfully.
He was about to answer when the music stopped. Norman lifted his head
with a start, rose quickly and faced the crowd.
"Comrades," he began, "the time has come for us to make good our faith
in one another. You have proven yourselves brave and faithful in our
struggle with the infamies of the system of capitalism. We call now
for the heroes and heroines of actual work. We are entering, under the
most favourable auspices, on the most important experiment yet made in
the social history of the world. We are going to prove that mankind is
one vast brotherhood--that love, not greed, can rule this earth.
"In our temporary organization we wish to outline the forms on which
we will later found the permanent State of Ventura. At present we will
organize four departments--Production, Distribution, Domestic Service,
and Education.
"I am going to ask each one of you, by secret ballot, to choose your
permanent work."
A cheer shook the building.
Norman flushed with pleasure, and continued quickly:
"It shall be my constant aim as your general manager under our
temporary organization to give you the widest personal liberty
consistent with the success of our enterprise.
"Before preparing your ballots for choice of your work, I shall have
to ask that each head of a family and each unmarried man and woman
first pass by the platform and draw lots for the assignment of your
rooms in our Mission House. There have been some complaints already,
I'm sorry to say, on this question. Some wish to live on the first
floor, some on the top, but everybody wants to live on the south side
of the house with the glorious views of the sea, and nobody wishes to
live on the north side. There is but one way to determine such a
question in our ideal state. Fate must decide.
"The numbers of each room and suite are in the basket. The bachelors
will be assigned to the right wing, the girls to the left wing, the
married ones to the centre of the building.
"Please form in line on the left and march toward the right aisle past
the platform."
"Mr. Chairman!" called Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat.
Norman rapped for silence, and those who had risen resumed their
seats.
"I protest, Mr. Chairman," continued the poet, "against the cruelty of
such a process. The weak and the aged should be given their choice
first."
"We left them all behind us!" Norman cried, with a wave of his hand.
"There are no weak and aged in this crowd. We belong to the elect. We
have found the secret of eternal youth."
Another cheer swept the crowd, the poet subsided with a sigh of
contempt, and the people quickly filed past the platform and drew
their lots for permanent rooms in the building. The larger suites had
been subdivided, so that the entire pioneer colony of two thousand
found accommodations under one roof.
When the crowd had resumed their seats, and the last cry of triumph
over a successful draw and the last groan of disappointment over an
unlucky lot had subsided, Norman rose and made the most momentous
announcement the Brotherhood had yet heard:
"In the Department of Production we need hod-carriers, bricklayers,
carpenters, architects, teamsters, and skilled mechanics for the
foundry and machine-shops, saw-mill, and flour mills. On the farm and
orchard we need ploughmen and harvesters for grain and hay, gardeners,
stablemen, and ditchers.
"In our Department of Domestic Service we need cooks, seamstresses,
washerwomen, scrubbers and cleaners, waiters, porters, bell-boys,
telephone girls, steamfitters, plumbers, chimney-sweeps, and sewer
cleaners.
"In the Department of Education we need artists and artisans,
teachers, nurses, printers and binders, pressmen and compositors, one
editor, scientists and lecturers, missionaries, actors, singers, and
authors.
"Now you each of you know what you can do best. Choose the work in
which you can render your comrades the highest service of which you
are capable and best advance the cause of humanity. Write your name
and your choice of work on the blanks which have been furnished you."
The orchestra played while the ballots were being cast and counted.
The chairman at length rose with the tabulated sheet in his hand and
faced his audience.
"Comrades," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "that old saying I'll
have to repeat, 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again!'
Beyond the shadow of a doubt we shall have to try this election again.
If I didn't know by the serious look on your faces that you mean it
I'd say off-hand that you were trying to put up a joke on me."
He paused, and a painful silence followed.
"Give us the ballot!" growled the Bard.
Norman looked at the list he held, and in spite of himself, as he
caught the gleam of mischief in Barbara's eye, burst into laughter and
sat down.
Wolf ascended the platform, glanced over the list and whispered:
"It's a waste of time. Call for the election of an executive council
with full powers."
"We'll try once more," Norman insisted, quickly rising.
"Comrades, I'm sorry to say there is no election. We must proceed to
another ballot, and if the industries absolutely necessary to the
existence of any society are not voted into operation, we must then
choose an executive council with full power to act. I appeal to your
sense of heroism and self-sacrifice----"
"Give us the ballot! Read it!" thundered the offended poet.
"Yes, read it!"
"Read it!"
The shouts came from all parts of the hall. The crowd was in dead
earnest and couldn't see the joke.
Once more the young chairman raised the fateful record of human
frailty before his eyes, paused, and then solemnly began:
"In the first place, comrades, more than six hundred ballots out of
the two thousand cast are invalid. They have been cast for work not
asked for. They must be thrown out at once.
"Three hundred and sixty five able-bodied men choose hunting as their
occupation. I grant you that game is plentiful on the island, but we
can't spare you, gentlemen!
"Two hundred and thirty-five men want to fish! The waters abound in
fish, but we have a pound-net which supplies us with all we can eat.
"Thirty-two men and forty-six women wish to preach.
"We do not need at present hunters, fishermen, or preachers, and have
not called for volunteers in these departments of labour.
"Three hundred and fifty-six women wish to go on the stage, and one
hundred and ninety-five of them choose musical comedy and light
opera. I think this includes most of our female population between the
ages of fourteen and thirty-five!"
A murmur of excitement swept the feminine portion of the audience.
"Allow me to say," he went on, "that the most urgent need of the
colony at this moment cannot be met by organizing a chorus, however
beautiful and pleasing its performances would be. We need, and we must
have, waitresses and milkmaids. The chorus can wait, the cows cannot.
"I asked for one editor. One hundred and seventy-five men and
sixty-three women have chosen that field. Seventy-five men and
thirty-two women wish to be musicians."
"We have looked in vain among the ballots for a single hod-carrier, or
ploughman, ditcher, cook, seamstress, washerman or washerwoman,
stableman, scrubber, or cleaner. The Brotherhood cannot live a day
without them. Remember, comrades, we are to make the great experiment
on which the future happiness of the race may depend. Let us forget
our selfish preferences and think only of our fellow men. I call for
heroes of the hod, heroines of the washtub and the scrubbing-brush and
milk-pail, knights of the pitchfork, spade, and shovel. Let hunters,
fishermen, preachers, and chorus-girls forget they live for the
present.
"This is not a joke, comrades, though I have laughed. It's one of the
gravest problems we must face. It has been suggested that we hire
outside labour to do this disagreeable work for a generation or two.
The moment we dare make such a compromise we are lost forever. We must
solve this problem or quit. A second ballot is ordered at once."
Again the orchestra played, the ushers passed the boxes, the vote was
taken, and all for naught. Not a single hero of the hod appeared. Not
a single heroine of the washtub, the scrubbing-brush, or the
milk-pail.
The young chairman's face was very grave when Barbara handed him the
results.
She bent and whispered:
"Away with frowns and doubts and fears! There's a better way. A leader
must lead. Their business is to follow."
Norman's face brightened. He turned to the crowd, and in tones of
clear, ringing command announced:
"Comrades, I had hoped you could choose your work of your own accord.
The attempt has failed. Six divisions of labour, each of them
absolutely essential to the existence of society in any form above
the primitive savage, have not a single man or woman in them."
"We must elect an executive council of four who shall sit as a court
of last resort in settling the question of the ability of each comrade
and the work to which he shall be assigned. Under our temporary
charter the general manager will preside over this court and cast the
deciding vote. Nominations are in order for the other four. We want
two men and two women in this council. In all our deliberations woman
shall have equal voice with man."
The Bard made a speech of protest against the action about to be
taken, in the sacred name of liberty.
"This act is the first step on the road to a tyranny more monstrous
than any ever devised by capitalism!" he shouted, with hands uplifted,
his long hair flying in wild disorder.
Tom Mooney, an old miner, who had met Norman and become his friend
during a visit to one of his father's mines, sprang to his feet and
made a rush for the excited poet. Confronting him a moment, Tom
inquired:
"Kin I ax ye a few questions?"
"Certainly. As many as you like."
"Kin ye cook?"
"I cannot."
"Kin ye wash?"
"No!"
"Kin ye scrub?"
"No, sir."
"Ever swing a hod?"
"I have not."
"Ever milk a cow?"
"No!"
"Are ye willin' to learn them things?"
"I didn't come here for that purpose."
"Then, what t' 'ell ye kickin' about?" Tom cried, and, glaring at the
poet, he thundered fiercely:
"Set down!"
The man of song was so disconcerted by this unexpected onslaught, and
by the roars of laughter which greeted Tom's final order, that he
dropped into his seat, muttering incoherent protests, and the
balloting for the executive council proceeded at once amid universal
good humour.
A dozen names were proposed as candidates, and the four receiving the
highest votes were declared duly elected.
The election resulted in the choice of Herman Wolf, Catherine, Barbara
Bozenta, and Thomas Mooney.
Tom was amazed at his sudden promotion to high office, and insisted
on resigning in favour of a man of better education.
Norman caught his big horny hand and pressed it.
"Not on your life, Tom. You've made a hit. The people like your hard
horse-sense. You will make a good judge. Besides, I need you. You're a
man I can depend on every day in the year."
"I'll stick ef you need me, boy--but I hain't fitten, I tell ye."
"I'll vouch for your fitness--sit down!"
The last command Norman thundered into Tom's ears in imitation of his
order to the poet, and the old miner, with a grin, dropped into his
seat.
As Norman was about to declare the meeting adjourned, the steward
ascended the platform and whispered a message.
The young leader turned to the crowd and lifted his hand for silence.
"Comrades, a prosaic but very important announcement I have to make. I
have just been informed that there is no milk for supper. The cows
have been neglected. They must be milked. I call for a dozen volunteer
milkmaids until this adjustment can be made. Come, now!--and a dozen
young men to assist them. Let's make this a test of your loyalty to
the cause. All labour is equally honourable. Labour is the service of
your fellow man. Who will be the first heroine to fill this breach in
the walls of our defence?"
Barbara sprang forward, with uplifted head, laughing.
"I will!"
"And I'll help you!" Norman cried, with a laugh. "Who will join us
now? Come, you pretty chorus-girls! You wouldn't mind if you carried
these milk-pails on the stage in a play. Well, this is the biggest
stage you will ever appear on, and all the millions of the civilized
world are watching."
A pretty, rosy-cheeked girl joined Barbara.
An admirer followed, and in a moment a dozen girls and their escorts
had volunteered. They formed in line and marched to the cow lot with
Norman and Barbara leading, singing and laughing and swinging their
milk-pails like a crowd of rollicking children.
When they reached the pasture where the cows were herded, Norman asked
Barbara, with some misgivings:
"Honestly, did you ever milk a cow?"
"Of course I have," she promptly replied. "I spent two years on a farm
once. Do you think I'd make a fool of myself trying before all these
kids if I hadn't?"
"I didn't know but that you made a bluff at it to lead the others on.
What can I do, for heaven's sake?"
Norman looked at her in a helpless sort of way while Barbara rolled up
her sleeves. For the first time he saw her beautifully rounded bare
arm to its full length. He stood with open-eyed admiration. Never had
he seen anything so white and round and soft, so subtly and
seductively suggestive of tenderness and love.
"For heaven's sake, what do I do?" he repeated, blankly.
"Get some meal in that bucket for my cow, and see that her calf don't
get to her--I'll do the rest."
Norman hustled to the barn with the other boys, got his bucket of
meal, placed it in front of the cow Barbara had selected, and stood
watching with admiration the skill with which her deft little hands
pressed two streams of white milk into the bucket at her feet.
"Goodness, you're a wonder," he cried, admiringly. "But where's the
calf I'm supposed to be watching?"
"I think that's the one standing close to the gate in the next lot
watching me with envy. The first time the gate's opened he'll jump
through if he gets half a chance--so look out!"
"I'll watch him," Norman promised, without lifting his eyes from the
rhythmic movement of the bare white arms.
He had scarcely spoken when a careless boy swung the gate wide open,
and the lusty calf, whose soft eyes had been watching Barbara through
the fence, made a break for his mother. In a swift, silent rush he
planted one foot in Barbara's milk-pail, knocked her over with the
other, switched his tail, and fell to work on his own account without
further concern. It was all done so suddenly it took Norman's breath.
He sprang to Barbara's side and helped her to her feet.
Norman grabbed the calf by the ear with one hand and by the tail with
the other, and started toward the gate.
The animal suddenly ducked his head, plunged forward, jerked Norman to
his knees, and dragged him ten yards before he could regain his feet.
The young leader rose, tightened his grip, and started with a rush
toward the gate, but the calf swerved in time to avoid it, gaining
speed with each step, and started off with his escort in a mad race
around the lot, galloping at a terrific speed, bellowing and snorting
at every jump.
The others stopped their work to laugh and cheer as round and round
the maddened little brute flew with the tall, heroic leader galloping
by his side.
Norman had no time to call for help. He couldn't let go and he
couldn't stop the calf.
As he made the second round of the lot, upsetting buckets, smashing
milk-pails, and stampeding peaceful cows, a boy yelled through the
roars of laughter:
"Twist his tail! Twist his tail an' he'll go the way you want him!"
Norman misunderstood the order, loosened the head and grabbed the tail
with both hands. With a loud bellow the calf plunged into a wilder
race around the lot, dragging his tormentor now with regular, graceful
easy jumps. He made the rounds twice thus, single file, amid screams
of laughter, suddenly turned and plunged headlong through an osage
hedge, and left Norman sitting in a dusty heap on the ground among the
thorns. He rose, brushed his clothes sheepishly, and looked through
the hedge at the calf which had turned and stood eyeing him now with
an expression of injured innocence.
Barbara came up, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.
"I've learned something new," Norman quietly observed. "All labour
may be equally honourable. It's not equally expedient. I wish you'd
look at that beast eyeing me through the fence! It's positively
uncanny. I believe he's possessed of the devil. I don't wonder at that
belief of the ancients. I've tackled many a brute on the football
field--but this is one on me!"
The brilliant young leader of the new moral world led the procession
of milkmaids back to the house as the shadows of evening fell, a
sadder but wiser man for the day's experience.