FREE SPEECH
Fifty years ago Blackwater town was a sawmill village on the Blackwater
River which furnished the power for the first little sawmill set up by
Grant Maitland's father.
Down the river came the sawlogs in the early spring when the water was
high, to be caught and held by a “boom” in a pond from which they were
hauled up a tramway to the saw. A quarter of a mile up stream a mill
race, tapping the river, led the water to an “overshot wheel” in the
early days, later to a turbine, thus creating the power necessary to
drive the mill machinery. When the saw was still the water overflowed
the “stop-logs” by the “spillway” into the pond below.
But that mill race furnished more than power to the mill. It furnished
besides much colourful romance to the life of the village youth of those
early days. For down the mill race they ran their racing craft, jostling
and screaming, urging with long poles their laggard flotillas to
victory. The pond by the mill was to the boys “swimming hole” and
fishing pool, where, during the long summer evenings and through the
sunny summer days, they spent amphibious hours in high and serene
content. But in springtime when the pond was black with floating logs
it became the scene of thrilling deeds of daring. For thither came the
lumber-jacks, fresh from “the shanties,” in their dashing, multi-colored
garb, to “show off” before admiring friends and sweethearts their skill
in “log-running” and “log-rolling” contests which as the spirit of
venture grew would end like as not in the icy waters of the pond.
Here, too, on brilliant winter days the life of the village found its
centre of vivid interest and activity. For then the pond would be a
black and glittering surface whereon wheeled and curved the ringing,
gleaming blades of “fancy” skaters or whereon in sterner hours opposing
“shinny” teams sought glory in Homeric and often gory contest.
But those days and those scenes were now long since gone. The old mill
stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the
steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only
pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had
dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow
lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life
was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.
A single bit of life remained--the little log cottage, once the
Manager's house a quarter of a century ago, still stood away up among
the pines behind the old mill ruin and remote from the streets and homes
of the present town. At the end of a little grassy lane it stood, solid
and square, resisting with its well hewn pinelogs the gnawing tooth of
time. Abandoned by the growing town, forgotten by the mill owner, it was
re-discovered by Malcolm McNish, or rather by his keen eyed old mother
on their arrival from the old land six months ago. For a song McNish
bought the solid little cottage, he might have had it as a gift but that
he would not, restored its roof, cleared out its stone chimney which,
more than anything else, had caught the mother's eye, re-set the window
panes, added a wee cunning porch, gave its facings a coat of paint,
enclosed its bit of flower garden in front and its “kale yaird” in the
rear with a rustic paling, and made it, when the Summer had done its
work, a bonnie homelike spot which caught the eye and held the heart of
the passer-by.
The interior more than fulfilled the promise of the exterior. The big
living room with its great stone fireplace welcomed you on opening the
porch door. From the living room on the right led two doors, each giving
entrance to a tiny bedroom and flanking a larger room known as “the
Room.”
Within the living room were gathered the household treasures, the Lares
and Penates of the little stone rose-covered cottage “at hame awa' ayont
the sea.” On the mantel a solid hewn log of oak, a miracle of broad-axe
work, were “bits o' chiny” rarely valuable as antiques to the knowing
connoisseur but beyond price to the old white-haired lady who daily
dusted them with reverent care as having been borne by her mother from
the Highland home in the far north country when as a bride she came by
the “cadger's cairt” to her new home in the lonely city of Glasgow. Of
that Glasgow home and of her own home later the walls of the log cottage
were eloquent.
The character giving bit of furniture, however, in the living room was
a book-case that stood in a corner. Its beautiful inlaid cabinet work
would in itself have attracted attention, but not the case but the books
were its distinction. The great English poets were represented there
in serviceable bindings showing signs of use, Shakespeare, Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Browning, Keats, and with them in various editions, Burns.
Beside the poets Robert Louis had a place, and Sir Walter, as well as
Kipling and Meredith and other moderns. But on the shelf that showed
most wear were to be found the standard works of economists of different
schools from the great Adam Smith to Marx and the lot of his imitators
and disciples. This was Malcolm's book-case. There was in another corner
near the fire-place a little table and above it hung a couple of shelves
for books of another sort, the Bible and The Westminster Confession,
Bunyan and Baxter and Fox's Book of Martyrs, Rutherford and McCheyne and
Law, The Ten Years' Conflict, Spurgeon's Sermons and Smith's Isaiah, and
a well worn copy of the immortal Robbie. This was the mother's corner,
a cosy spot where she nourished her soul by converse with the great
masters of thought and of conscience.
In this “cosy wee hoosie” Malcolm McNish and his mother passed their
quiet evenings, for the days were given to toil, in talk, not to say
discussion of the problems, the rights and wrongs of the working man.
They agreed in much; they differed, and strongly, in point of view. The
mother was all for reform of wrongs with the existing economic system,
reverencing the great Adam Smith. The son was for a new deal, a new
system, the Socialistic, with modifications all his own. All, or almost
all, that Malcolm had read the mother had read with the exception of
Marx. She “cudna thole yon godless loon” or his theories or his works.
Malcolm had grown somewhat sick of Marx since the war. Indeed, the war
had seriously disturbed the foundations of Malcolm's economic faith, and
he was seeking a readjustment of his opinion and convictions, which were
rather at loose ends. In this state of mind he found little comfort from
his shrewd old mother.
“Y'e have nae anchor, laddie, and ilka woof of air and ilka turn o' the
tide and awa' ye go.”
As for her anchor, she made no bones of announcing that she had
been brought up on the Shorter Catechism and the Confession and in
consequence found a place for every theory of hers, Social and Economic
as well as Ethical and Religious, within the four corners of the mighty
fabric of the Calvinistic system of Philosophy and Faith.
One of the keen joys of her life since coming to the new country she
found in her discussions with the Rev. Murdo Matheson, whom, after some
considerable hesitation, she had finally chosen to “sit under.” The Rev.
Murdo's theology was a little narrow for her. She had been trained in
the schools of the Higher Critics of the Free Kirk leaders at home.
She talked familiarly of George Adam Smith, whom she affectionately
designated as “George Adam.” She would wax wrathful over the memory of
the treatment meted out to Robertson Smith by a former generation of
Free Kirk heresy hunters. Hence she regarded with pity the hesitation
with which her Minister accepted some of the positions of the Higher
Critics. Although it is to be confessed that the war had somewhat rudely
shattered her devotion to German theology.
“What d'ye think o' yere friend Harnack the noo?” her son had jibed at
her soon after the appearance of the great manifesto from the German
professors.
“What do A think o' him?” she answered, sparring for time. “What do A
think o' him?” Then, as her eye ran over her son's uniform, for he was
on leave at the time, she blazed forth, “A'll tell ye what A think
o' him. A think that Auld Hornie has his hook intil him and the hale
kaboodle o' them. They hae forsaken God and made tae themselves ither
gods and the Almichty hae gi'en them ower tae a reprobate mind.”
But her Canadian Minister's economic positions satisfied her. He had
specialised in Social and Economic Science in his University Course and
she considered him sound “in the main.”
She had little patience with half baked theorists and none at all with
mere agitators. It was therefore with no small indignation that she saw
on a Sunday morning Mr. Wigglesworth making his way up the lane toward
her house door.
“The Lord be guid tae us!” she exclaimed. “What brings yon cratur
here--and on a Sabbath mornin'? Mind you, Malcolm,” she continued in
a voice of sharp decision, “A'll hae nane o' his 'rights o' British
citizens' clack the morn.”
“Who is it, Mother?” enquired her son, coming from his room to look out
through the window. “Oh, dinna fash ye're heid ower yon windbag,” he
added, dropping into his broadest Doric and patting his mother on the
shoulder.
“He disna fash me,” said his mother. “Nae fears. But A'll no pairmit
him to brak the Sabbath in this hoose, A can tell ye.” None the less she
opened the door to Mr. Wigglesworth with dignified courtesy.
“Guid mornin', Mr. Wigglesworth,” she said cordially. “Ye're airly on
yere way tae the Kirk.”
“Yes--that is--yes,” replied Mr. Wigglesworth in some confusion, “I am a
bit (h)early. Fact is, I was (h)anxious to catch Malcolm before 'e
went aht. I 'ave a rather (h)important business on 'and with 'im, very
(h)important business, I might say.”
“'Business,' did ye say, Mr. Wigglesworth?” Mrs. McNish stood facing him
at the door. “Business! On the Lord's Day?”
Mr. Wigglesworth gaped at her, hat in hand.
“Well, Mrs. McNish, not (h)exactly business. That is,” he said with an
apologetic smile, “(h)it depends, you see, just w'at yeh puts (h)into a
word, Mrs. McNish.”
Mr. Wigglesworth's head went over to one side as if in contemplation of
a new and striking idea.
“A pit nae meaning into a word that's no in it on its ain accoont,” she
replied with uncompromising grimness. “Business is just business, an' my
son diz nae business on the Lord's Day.”
There was no place for casuistry in the old Scotch lady's mind. A thing
was or was not, and there was an end to that.
“Certainly, Mrs. McNish, certainly! And so sez I. But there might be a
slight difference of (h)opinion between you and I, so to speak, as
to just w'at may constitute 'business.' Now, for (h)instance--” Mr.
Wigglesworth was warming to his subject, but the old lady standing on
her doorstep fixed her keen blue eyes upon him and ruthlessly swept away
all argumentation on the matter.
“If it is a matter consistent with the Lord's Day, come in; if not, stay
oot.”
“Oh! Yes, thank you. By the way, is your son in, by (h)any chance?
Per'raps 'e's shavin' 'isself, eh?” Mr. Wigglesworth indulged in a
nervous giggle.
“Shavin' himsel!” exclaimed Mrs. McNish. “On the Sawbath! Man, d'ye
think he's a heathen, then?” Mrs. McNish regarded the man before her
with severity.
“An 'eathen? Not me! I should consider it an 'eathenish practice to go
dirty of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wigglesworth triumphantly.
“Hoots, man, wha's talkin' about gaein' dirty? Can ye no mak due
preparation on the Saturday? What is yere Saturday for?”
This was a new view to Mr. Wigglesworth and rather abashed him.
“What is it, Mother?” Malcolm's voice indicated a desire to appease the
wrath that gleamed in his mother's eye. “Oh, it is Mr. Wigglesworth.
Yes, yes! I want to see Mr. Wigglesworth. Will you come in, Mr.
Wigglesworth?”
“Malcolm, A was jist tellin' Mr. Wigglesworth--”
“Yes, yes, I know, Mother, but I want--”
“Malcolm, ye ken what day it is. And A wull not--”
“Yes, Mother, A ken weel, but--”
“And ye ken ye'll be settin' oot for the Kirk in half an oor--”
“Half an hour, Mother? Why, it is only half past nine--”
“A ken weel what it is. But A dinna like tae be fashed and flustered in
ma mind on ma way till the Hoose o' God.”
“I shall only require a very few moments, Madam,” said Mr. Wigglesworth.
“The matter with w'ich I am (h)entrusted need not take more than a
minute or two. In fact, I simply want to (h)announce a special, a very
special meetin' of the Union this (h)afternoon.”
“A releegious meetin', Mr. Wigglesworth?” enquired Mrs. McNish.
“Well--not exactly--that is--I don't know but you might call it a
religious meetin'. To my mind, Mrs. McNish, you know--”
But Mrs. McNish would have no sophistry.
“Mr. Wigglesworth,” she began sternly.
But Malcolm cut in.
“Now, Mother, I suppose it's a regular enough meeting. Just wait till I
get my hat, Mr. Wigglesworth. I'll be with you.”
His mother followed him into the house, leaving Mr. Wigglesworth at the
door.
“Malcolm,” she began with solemn emphasis.
“Now, now, Mother, surely you know me well enough by this time to trust
my judgment in a matter of this kind,” said her son, hurriedly searching
for his hat.
“Ay, but A'm no sae sure o' yon buddie--”
“Hoot, toot,” said her son, passing out. “A'll be back in abundant time
for the Kirk, Mither. Never you fear.”
“Weel, weel, laddie, remember what day it is. Ye ken weel it's no day
for warldly amusement.”
“Ay, Mither,” replied her son, smiling a little at the associating of
Mr. Wigglesworth with amusement of any sort on any day.
In abundance of time Malcolm was ready to allow a quiet, unhurried walk
with his mother which would bring them to the church a full quarter of
an hour before the hour of service.
It happened that the Rev. Murdo was on a congenial theme and in
specially good form that morning.
“How much better is a man than a sheep,” was his text, from which with
great ingenuity and eloquence he proceeded to develop the theme of the
supreme value of the human factor in modern life, social and industrial.
With great cogency he pressed the argument against the inhuman and
degrading view that would make man a mere factor in the complex problem
of Industrial Finance, a mere inanimate cog in the Industrial Machine.
“What did you think of the sermon, Mother?” asked Malcolm as they
entered the quiet lane leading home.
“No sae bad, laddie, no sae bad. Yon's an able laddie, especially on
practical themes. Ay, it was no that bad,” replied his mother with
cautious approval.
“What about his view of the Sabbath?”
“What about it? Wad ye no lift a sheep oot o' the muck on the Sawbath?”
“A would, of course,” replied Malcolm.
“Weel, what?”
“A was jist thinkin' o' Mr. Wigglesworth this morning.”
“Yon man!”
“You were rather hard on him this morning', eh, Mither?”
“Hard on him? He's no a sheep, nor in some ways as guid's a sheep, A
grant ye that, but such as he is was it no ma duty to pull him oot o'
the mire o' Sawbath desecration and general ungodliness?”
“Aw, Mither, Mither! Ye're incorrigible! Ye ought to come to the meeting
this afternoon and give them all a lug out.”
“A wull that then,” said his mother heartily. “They need it, A doot.”
“Hoots! Nonsense, Mither!” said her son hastily, knowing well how
thoroughly capable she was of not only going to a meeting of Union
workers but also of speaking her mind if in her judgment they were
guilty of transgressing the Sabbath law. “The meeting will be just as
religious as Mr. Matheson's anyway.”
“A'm no sae sure,” said his mother grimly.
Whether religious in the sense understood by Mrs. McNish, the meeting
was not wanting in ethical interest or human passion. It was a gathering
of the workers in the various industries in the town, Trade Unionists
most of them, but with a considerable number who had never owed
allegiance to any Union and a number of disgruntled ex-Unionists. These
latter were very vociferous and for the most part glib talkers, with
passions that under the slightest pressure spurted foaming to the
surface. Returned soldiers there were who had taken on their old jobs
but who had not yet settled down into the colourless routine of mill and
factory work under the discipline of those who often knew little of
the essentials of discipline as these men knew them. A group of
French-Canadian factory hands, taken on none too willingly in the
stress of war work, constituted an element of friction, for the soldiers
despised and hated them. With these there mingled new immigrants from
the shipyards and factories of the Old Land, all members or ex-members
of Trade Unions, Socialists in training and doctrine, familiar with the
terminology and jargon of those Socialistic debating schools, the Local
Unions of England and Scotland, alert, keen, ready of wit and ready
of tongue, rejoicing in wordy, passionate debate, ready for anything,
fearing nothing.
The occasion of the meeting was the presence of a great International
Official of the American Federation of Labour, and its purpose to
strengthen International Unionism against the undermining of guerilla
bands of non-Unionists and very especially against the new organizations
emanating from the far West, the One Big Union.
At the door of the hall stood Mr. Wigglesworth, important, fussy
and unctuously impressive, welcoming, directing, introducing and,
incidentally but quite ineffectively, seeking to inspire with respect
for his august person a nondescript crowd of small boys vainly seeking
entrance. With an effusiveness amounting to reverence he welcomed McNish
and directed him in a mysterious whisper toward a seat on the platform,
which, however, McNish declined, choosing a seat at the side about half
way up the aisle.
A local Union official was addressing the meeting but saying nothing in
particular, and simply filling in till the main speaker should arrive.
McNish, quite uninterested in the platform, was quietly taking note of
the audience, with many of whom he had made a slight acquaintance. As
his eye travelled slowly from face to face it was suddenly arrested.
There beside her father was Annette Perrotte, who greeted him with a
bright nod and smile. They had long ago made up their tiff. Then McNish
had another surprise. At the door of the hall appeared Captain Jack
Maitland who, after coolly surveying the room, sauntered down the aisle
and took a seat at his side. He nodded to McNish.
“Quite a crowd, McNish,” he said. “I hear the American Johnnie is quite
a spouter so I came along to hear.”
McNish looked at him and silently nodded. He could not understand his
presence at that kind of a meeting.
“You know I am a Union man now,” said Captain Jack, accurately reading
his silence. “Joined a couple of months ago.”
But McNish kept his face gravely non-committal, wondering how it was
that this important bit of news had not reached him. Then he remembered
that he had not attended the last two monthly meetings of his Union,
and also he knew that little gossip of the shops came his way. None
the less, he was intensely interested in Maitland's appearance. He
did Captain Jack the justice to acquit him of anything but the most
honourable intentions, yet he could not make clear to his mind what end
the son of his boss could serve by joining a Labour Union. He finally
came to the conclusion that this was but another instance of an
“Intellectual” studying the social and economic side of Industry from
first-hand observation. It was a common enough thing in the Old Land.
He was conscious of a little contempt for this dilettante sort of Labour
Unionism, and he was further conscious of a feeling of impatience and
embarrassment at Captain Jack's presence. He belonged to the enemy camp,
and what right had he there? From looks cast in their direction it was
plain that others were asking the same question. His thought received a
sudden and unexpected exposition from the platform from no less a person
than Mr. Wigglesworth himself to whom as one of the oldest officials in
Unionised Labour in the town had been given the honour of introducing
the distinguished visitor and delegate.
In flowing periods and with a reckless but wholly unauthorised
employment of aspirates he “welcomed the (h)audience, (h)especially the
ladies, and other citizens among 'oom 'e was delighted to (h)observe
a representative of the (h)employing class 'oo was for the present 'e
believed one of themselves.” To his annoyed embarrassment Captain Jack
found himself the observed of many eyes, friendly and otherwise. “But 'e
would assure Captain Maitland that although 'e might feel as if 'e 'ad
no right to be 'ere--”
“'Ere! 'Ere!” came a piercing voice in unmistakable approval,
galvanising the audience out of its apathy into instant emotional
intensity.
“(H)I want most (h)emphatically to (h)assure Captain Maitland,”
continued Mr. Wigglesworth, frowning heavily upon the interrupter, “that
'e is as welcome--”
“No! No!” cried the same Cockney voice, followed by a slight rumbling
applause.
“I say 'e is,” shouted Mr. Wigglesworth, supported by hesitating
applause.
“No! No! We don't want no toffs 'ere.” This was followed by more
definite applause from the group immediately surrounding the speaker.
Mr. Wigglesworth was much affronted and proceeded to administer a rebuke
to the interrupter.
“I (h)am surprised,” he began, with grieved and solemn emphasis.
“Mr. Chairman,” said the owner of the Cockney voice, rising to his
feet and revealing himself a small man with large head and thin wizened
features, “Mr. Chairman, I rise to protest right 'ere an' naow against
the presence of (h)any representative of the (h)enemy class at--”
“Aw, shut up!” yelled a soldier, rising from his place. “Throw out the
little rat!”
Immediately there was uproar. On every side returned soldiers, many of
whom had been in Captain Jack's battalion, sprang up and began moving
toward the little Cockney who, boldly standing his ground, was wildly
appealing to the chair and was supported by the furious cheering of a
group of his friends, Old Country men most of whom, as it turned out,
were of the extreme Socialist type. By this time it had fully been borne
in upon Captain Jack's mind, somewhat dazed by the unexpected attack,
that he was the occasion of the uproar. Rising from his place he tried
vainly to catch the Chairman's attention.
“Come up to the platform,” said a voice in his ear. He turned and saw
McNish shouldering his way through the excited crowd toward the front.
After a moment's hesitation he shrugged his shoulders and followed. The
move caught the eye and apparently the approval of the audience, for it
broke into cheers which gathered in volume till by the time that McNish
and Captain Jack stood on the platform the great majority were wildly
yelling their enthusiastic approval of their action. McNish stood with
his hand raised for a hearing. Almost instantly there fell a silence
intense and expectant. The Scotchman stood looking in the direction of
the excited Cockney with cold steady eye.
“A'm for freedom! The right of public assembly! A'm feart o' nae enemy,
not the deevil himself. This gentleman is a member of my Union and he
stays r-r-right he-e-r-re.” With a rasping roll of his r's he seemed to
be ripping the skin off the little Cockney's very flesh. The response
was a yell of savage cheers which seemed to rock the building and which
continued while Mr. Wigglesworth in overflowing effusiveness first shook
Maitland's limp hand in a violent double-handed pump handle exercise and
then proceeded to introduce him to the distinguished visitor, shouting
his name in Maitland's ear, “Mr 'Oward (H)E. Bigelow,” adding with a
sudden inspiration, “(H)Introduce 'im to the (h)audience. Yes! Yes! Most
(h)assuredly,” and continued pushing both men toward the front of the
platform, the demonstration increasing in violence.
“I say, old chap,” shouted Captain Jack in the stranger's ear, “I feel
like a fool.”
“I feel like a dozen of 'em,” shouted Mr. Bigelow in return. “But,” he
added with a slow wink, “this old fool is the daddy of 'em all. Go on,
introduce me, or they'll bust something loose.”
Captain Jack took one step to the front of the platform and held up
his hand. The cheering assumed an even greater violence, then ceased in
sudden breathless silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a slightly bored voice, “this
gentleman is Mr. Howard E. Bigelow, a representative of the American
Federation of Labour, whom as a member of the Woodworkers' Union, Local
197, I am anxious to hear if you don't mind.”
He bowed to the visitor, bowed to the audience once more swaying under a
tempest of cheers, and, followed by McNish, made his way to his seat.
From the first moment of his speech Mr. Howard E. Bigelow had to fight
for a hearing. The little Cockney was the centre of a well-organised and
thoroughly competent body of obstructers who by clever “heckling,”
by points of order, by insistent questioning, by playing now upon the
anti-American string, now upon the anti-Federation string, by ribald
laughter, by cheering a happy criticism, completely checked every
attempt of the speaker to take flight in his oratory. The International
official was evidently an old hand in this sort of game, but in the
hands of these past masters in the art of obstruction he met more than
his match. Maitland was amazed at his patience, his self-control, his
adroitness, but they were all in vain. At last he was forced to appeal
to the Chairman for British fair play. But the Chairman was helplessly
futile and his futility was only emphasised by Mr. Wigglesworth's
attempts now at browbeating which were met with derision and again at
entreaty which brought only demands for ruling on points of order, till
the meeting was on the point of breaking up in confused disorder.
“McNish, I think I'll take a hand in this,” said Captain Jack in the
Scotchman's ear. “Are you game?”
“Wait a wee,” said McNish, getting to his feet. Slowly he once more
made his way to the platform. As the crowd caught on to his purpose they
broke into cheering. When he reached the side of the speaker he spoke a
word in his ear, then came to the front with his hand held up. There
was instant quiet. He looked coolly over the excited, disintegrating
audience for a moment or two.
“A belonged tae the Feefty-fir-rst Diveesion,” he said in his richest
Doric. “We had a rare time wi' bullies over there. A'm for free speech!
Noo, listen tae me, you Cockney wheedle doodle. Let another cheep out o'
yere trap an' the Captain there will fling ye oot o' this room as we did
the Kayser oot o' France.”
“You said it, McNish,” said Maitland, leaping to the aisle. With a roar
a dozen returned men were on their feet.
“Steady, squad!” rang out Captain Jack's order. “Fall into this aisle!
Shun!” As if on parade the soldiers fell into line behind their captain.
“Macnamara!” he said, pointing to a huge Irishman.
“Sir!” said Macnamara.
“You see that little rat-faced chap?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take your place beside him.”
With two steps Macnamara was beside his man.
“Mr. Chairman, I protest,” began the little Cockney fiercely.
“Pass him up,” said the Captain sharply.
With one single motion Macnamara's hand swept the little man out of his
place into the aisle.
“Chuck him out!” said Captain Jack quietly.
From hand to hand, with never a pause, amid the jeers and laughter of
the crowd the little man was passed along like a bundle of old rags till
he disappeared through the open door.
“Who's next?” shouted Macnamara joyfully.
“As you were!” came the sharp command.
At once Macnamara stood at attention.
Captain Jack nodded to the platform.
“All right,” he said quietly.
Mr. Howard E. Bigelow finished his speech in peace. He made appeal for
the closing up of the ranks of Labour in preparation for the big fight
which was rapidly coming. They had just finished with Kaiserism in
Europe but they were faced with only another form of the same spirit
in their own land. They wanted no more fighting, God knew they had had
enough of that, but there were some things dearer than peace, and Labour
was resolved to get and to hold those things which they had fought for,
“which you British and especially you Canadians shed so much blood to
win. We are making no threats, but we are not going to stand for tyranny
at the hands of any man or any class of men in this country. Only one
thing will defeat us, not the traditional enemies of our class
but disunion in our own ranks due to the fool tactics of a lot of
disgruntled and discredited traitors like the man who has just been
fired from this meeting.” He asked for a committee which would take the
whole situation in hand. He closed with a promise that in any struggle
which they undertook under the guidance of their International Officers
the American Federation of Labour to their last dollar would be behind
them.
Before the formal closing of the meeting Maitland slipped quietly out.
As he reached the sidewalk a light hand touched his arm. Turning he
saw at his elbow Annette, her face aglow and her black eyes ablaze with
passionate admiration.
“Oh, Captain Jack,” she panted, her hands outstretched, “you were just
wonderful! Splendid! Oh! I don't know what to say! I--” She paused in
sudden confusion. A hot colour flamed in her face. Maitland took her
hands in his.
“Hello, Annette! I saw you there. Why! What's up, little girl?”
A sudden rush of tears had filled her eyes.
“Oh, nothing. I am just excited, I guess. I don't know what--” She
pulled her hands away. “But you were great!” She laughed shrilly.
“Oh, it was your friend McNish did the trick,” said Captain Jack. “Very
neat bit of work that, eh? Very neat indeed. Awfully clever chap! Are
you going home now?”
“No, I am waiting.” She paused shyly.
“Oh, I see!” said Captain Jack with a smile. “Lucky chap, by Jove!”
“I am waiting for my father,” said Annette, tossing her head.
“Oh, then, if that's all, come along with me. Your father knows his way
about.” The girl paused a moment, hesitating. Then with a sudden resolve
she cried gaily,
“Well, I will. I want to talk to you about it. Oh, I am so excited!”
She danced along at his side in gay abandon. As they turned at the first
corner Maitland glanced over his shoulder.
“Hello! Here's McNish,” he cried, turning about. “Shall we wait for
him?”
“Oh, never mind Malcolm,” cried the girl excitedly, “come along. I don't
want him just now. I want--” She checked herself abruptly. “I want to
talk to you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Captain Jack. “He's gone back anyway. Come along
Annette, old girl. I have been wanting to see you for a long time.”
“Well, you see me,” said the girl, laughing up into his eyes with a
frank, warm admiration in hers that made Captain Jack's heart quicken a
bit in its steady beat. He was a young man with a normal appreciation of
his own worth. She, young, beautiful, unspoiled, in the innocence of her
girlish heart was flinging at him the full tribute of a warm, generous
admiration with every flash of her black eyes and every intonation of
her voice. Small wonder if Captain Jack found her good to look at and to
listen to. Often during the walk home he kept saying to himself, “Jove,
that McNish chap is a lucky fellow!” But McNish, taking his lonely way
home, was only conscious that the evening had grown chilly and grey.