IN WHICH LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE AND TOM VAN DORN WINS
ANOTHER VICTORY
For a long and weary night and a day of balancing doubt, and another
dull night, little Ben Bowman lay limp and crumpled on his cot--a broken
lump of clay hardly more than animate. Lida Bowman, his mother, all that
time sat in the hall of the hospital outside the door of his room. The
stream of sorrow that winds through a hospital passed before her
unheeded. Her husband came, sat with her silently for a while, went, and
came again, many times. But she did not go. In the morning of the second
day as she stood peering through the door crack at the child she saw his
little body move in a deep sigh, and saw his black eyes open for a
second and close as he smiled. Dr. Nesbit, who stood beside her, grasped
her hand and led her away.
"I think the worst is over, Lida," he said, and held her hand as they
walked down the hall. He sat with her in the waiting room, into which
the earliest tide of visitors had not begun to flow, and promised her
that if the child continued to rally from the shock, she might stand by
his bed at noon. Then for the first time she wept. He stood by the
window looking out at the great pillars of smoke that were smudging the
dawn, at the smelter fumes that were staining the sky, at the hurrying
crowd of men and women and children going into the mines, the mills, the
shops, hurrying to work with the prod of fear ever in their backs--fear
of the disgrace of want, fear of the shame of beggary, fear to hear some
loved one ask for food or warmth or shelter and to have it not. When the
great motherly body had ceased its paroxysms, he went to Mrs. Bowman and
touched her shoulder.
"Lida," he said, "it isn't much--but I'm glad of one thing. My bill is
on the statutes to give people who are hurt, as Ben was, their money
from the company without going to law and dividing with the lawyers. It
is on the books good and tight; referred to the people and approved by
them and ground clear through the state supreme court and sustained. It
isn't much, Lida--Heaven knows that--but little Ben will get his money
without haggling and that money will help to start him in life."
She turned a tear-swollen face to him, but again her grief overcame her.
He stood with one wrinkled hand upon her broad shoulder, and with the
other patted her coarse hair. When she looked up at him, again he said
gently:
"I know, Lida, that money isn't what you mothers want--but--"
"But we've got to think of it, Doc Jim--that's one of the curses of
poverty, but, oh, money!--It won't bring them back strong and whole--who
leave us to go to work, and come back all torn and mashed."
She sat choking down the sobs that came surging up from her great bosom,
and weaving to and fro as she fought back her tears. The Doctor sat
beside her and took her red unshapely hands unadorned except by the thin
gold wedding ring that she had worn in toil for over thirty years.
"Lida, sometimes I think only God and the doctors know how heavy women's
loads are," said the Doctor.
"Ain't that so--Doc Jim!" she cried. "Ain't that the truth? I've had a
long time to think these two days and nights--and I've thought it all
over and all out. Here I am nearly fifty and eight times you and I have
fought it out with death and brought life into this world. I'm strong--I
don't mind that. I joyed at their coming, and made the others edge over
at the table, and snuggle up in the bed, and we've been happy. Even the
three that are dead--I'm glad they came; I'm thankful for 'em. And Dick
he's been so proud of each one, and cuddled it, and muched it--"
Her voice broke and she sobbed, "Oh, little Ben--little Ben, how pappy
made over his hair--he was born with hair--don't you mind, Doc Jim?"
The Doctor laughed and looked into the past as he piped, "Curliest
headed little tyke, and don't you remember Laura gave him Lila's baby
things she'd saved for all those years?"
"Yes, Doc Jim--don't I? God knows, Doc, she's been a mother to the whole
Valley--when I got up I found I was the twentieth woman up and down the
Valley she'd given Lila's little things to--just to save our pride when
she thought we would not take 'em any other way. Don't I know--all about
it--and she's still doing it--God bless her, and she's been here every
morning, noon and night since--since--she came with a little beef tea,
or some of her own wine, or a plate of hot toast in her basket--that she
made me eat. Why, if it wasn't for her and Henry and Violet and
Grant--what would God's poor in this Valley do in trouble--I sure
dunno."
There came an unsteady minute, when the Doctor stroked her hand and
piped, "Well, Lida--you folks in the Valley don't get half the fun out
of it that the others get. It's pie for them."
The woman folded her hands in her lap and sighed deeply. "Doc Jim," she
began, "eight times I've brought life into this world. The three that
went, went because we were poor--because we couldn't buy life for 'em.
They went into the mills and the mines with Dick's muscle. One is at
home, waiting till the wheels get hungry for her. Four I've fed into the
mills that grind up the meat we mothers make." She stared at him wildly
and cried "O God--God, Doc Jim--what justice is there in it? I've been a
kind of brood-mare bearing burden carriers for Dan Sands, who has sold
my blood like cheese in his market. My mother sent three boys to the war
who never came back and I've heard her cry and thank God He'd let her.
But my flesh and blood--the little ones that Dick and me have coddled
and petted and babied--they've been fed into the wheels to make
profits--profits for idlers to squander--profits to lure women to shame
and men to death. That's what I've been giving my body and soul for, Doc
Jim. Little Ben up there has given his legs and his arms--oh, those soft
little arms and the cunning little legs I used to kiss--for what? I'll
tell you--he's given them so that by saving a day's work repairing a
car, some straw boss could make a showing to a superintendent, and the
superintendent could make a record for economy to a president, and a
president could increase dividends--dividends to be spent by idlers. And
idleness makes drunkards who make harlots who make hell--and all my
little boy's arms and legs will go for is for sin and shame."
The Doctor returned to the window and she cried bitterly: "Oh, you know
that's the truth--the God's truth, Doc Jim. Where's my Jean? She went
into the glass factory--worked twelve hours a day on a job that would
have crippled her for life in another year, and then went away with that
Austrian blower--and when he threw her out, she was ashamed to
write--and for a long time now I've read the city papers of them women
who kill themselves--hoping to find she was dead. And Mugs--you know
what South Harvey's made of him--"
She rose and walked to the window. Standing beside him she cried:
"I tell you, Doc Jim--I hate it." She pointed to the great black mills
and mine shafts and the piles of brick and lumber and sheet iron that
stretched before her for a mile. "I hate it, and I'm going to hit it
once before I die. Don't talk peace to me. I've got a right to hit it
and hit it hard--and if my time ever comes--"
A visitor was shown into the room, and Mrs. Bowman ceased speaking. She
was calm when the Doctor left her and at noon she stood beside the cot,
and saw little Ben smile at her. Then she went away in tears. As she
passed out of the door of the hospital into the street, she met Grant
Adams coming in to inquire about little Ben.
"He knows me now," she said. "I suppose he'll get well--without
legs--and with only one arm--I've seen them on the street selling
pencils--oh, little Ben!" she cried. Then she turned on Grant in anger.
"Grant Adams--go on with your revolution. I'm for it--and the quicker
the better--but don't come around talking peace to me. Us mothers want
to fight."
"Fighting, in the long run, will do no good, Mrs. Bowman," said Grant.
"It will hurt the cause.
"But it will do us good," she answered.
"Force against force and we lose--they have the guns," he persisted.
"Well, I'd rather feed my babies to good merciful guns than to wheels,"
she replied, and then softened as she took his hand.
"I guess I'm mad to-day, Grant. Go on up. Maybe they'll let you look at
him. He smiled at me--just as he did when Doctor Nesbit showed him to me
the day he was born."
She kept back her tears with an effort, and added, "Only the Doc tried
to tell me that babies don't smile. But I know better, Ben smiled--just
like the one to-day."
"Well, Mrs. Bowman," rejoined Grant, "there's one comfort. Dr. Nesbit's
law makes it possible for you to get your damages without going to law
and dividing with some lawyer. However the Doctor and I may differ--we
down here in the mines and mills must thank him for that."
"Oh, Doc Jim's all right, Grant," answered Mrs. Bowman, relapsing into
her lifetime silence.
It was nearly three months later and spring was at its full, before they
discharged little Ben from the hospital. But the last fortnight of his
stay they had let him visit outside the hospital for a few hours daily.
And to the joy of a great crowd in the Hot Dog saloon, he sat on the bar
and sang his little heart out. They took him down to Belgian hall at
noon, and he sang the "Marseillaise" to the crowd that gathered there.
In the hospital, wherever they would let him, after he had visited the
Hot Dog, he sang--sang in the big ward where he sat by a window, sang in
the corridors, whenever the patients could hear him, and sang Gospel
hymns in his cot at bedtime.
He was an odd little bundle, that Henry Fenn carried into the offices of
the Wahoo Valley Fuel Company one afternoon in early June, with Dick
Bowman following proudly, as they made the proof of the claim for
compensation for the accident. The people in the offices were kind and
tenderly polite to the little fellow. Henry saw that all the papers were
properly made out, and the clerk in the office told Dick and Henry to
call for the check next day but one--which was pay day.
So they carried little Ben away and Mrs. Bowman--though it was barely
five o'clock--began fixing Ben up for the wedding of Jasper Adams and
Ruth Morton. It was the first public appearance as a singer that little
Ben had made in Harvey. His appearance was due largely to the notion of
Captain Morton, supported and abetted by George Brotherton. So little
Ben Bowman was smuggled behind a palm in the choir loft and permitted to
sing "O Promise Me" during the services.
"Not," explained the Captain to Mr. Brotherton in the barn where he was
smoking, the afternoon before the ceremony, "not that I cared a whoop in
Texas about Ben--though 'y gory, the boy sings like a canary; but it was
the only excuse I could find for slipping a hundred dollars to the
Bowman family, without making Dick and Lida think it was charity--eh?"
The wedding made a dull evening for Grant. He carried little Ben in his
arms out of the crowd at the church, and gathering up the Bowmans and
his father, went home without stopping for the reception or for the
dance or for any of the subsidiary attractions of the ceremony which
Jasper and the Captain, each delighting in tableaux and parades, had
arranged for. Little Ben's arm was clinging to Grant's neck as he
piloted his party to the street car. They passed the Van Dorn house and
saw old Daniel Sands come tottering down the walk from the Van Dorn
home, between Ahab Wright and young Joe Calvin. Daniel Sands stumbled as
he shuffled past Amos Adams and Amos put out an arm to catch Daniel. He
regained his balance and without recognizing who had helped him,
cackled:
"Tom's a man of his word, boys--when he promises--that settles it. Tom
never lies." And his senile voice shrilled in a laugh. Then the old
banker recognized Amos Adams with Grant in the moonlight. "Hi, old spook
chaser," he chirped feebly, still holding to Amos Adams's arm; "sorry I
couldn't get to my nevvy's wedding--Morty went--Morty's our social man,"
he laughed again. "But I had some other important
matters--business--very important business."
The Sands' party was moving toward the Sands' limousine, which stood
purring at the curb. Ahab Wright and young Joe Calvin boosted the
trembling old man into the car, and Ahab Wright slipped back and
returned to the wedding reception, from which he had stolen away. Ahab
was obviously embarrassed at being caught in the conference with Sands
and Van Dorn, but Daniel Sands as he climbed into the car, sinking
cautiously among the cushions and being swathed in robes by the
chauffeur, was garrulous. He kept carping at Amos Adams who stood by
with his son and the Bowmans, waiting for the street car.
"Lost your only sane son, Amos," he said. "The fool takes after you, and
the fiddler after his mother--but Jap--he's real Sands--he's like me."
He laughed at his joke, and when his breath came back he went on.
"There's Morty--he's like both the fool and the fiddler--both the fool
and the fiddler--and not a bit like me."
"Morty isn't very well, Daniel," said Amos Adams, ignoring all that the
old man had said. "Don't you think, Daniel, you're letting that disease
get too deep a hold on Morty? With all your money, Dan, I think you'd--"
"With all my money--with all my money, Amos," cried the old man, shaking
his hands, "with all my money--I can just stand and wait. Amos--he's a
fool, I know--but he's the only boy I've got--the only boy. And with all
my money--what good will it do me? Anne won't have it--and Morty's all
I've got and he's going before I do. Amos--Amos--tell me, Amos--what
have I done to deserve this of God? Haven't I done as I ort? Why is this
put on me?" He sat panting and blinking and shaking his ever-denying,
palsied head. Amos did not reply. The chauffeur was taking his seat in
the car. "Ain't I paid my share in the church? Ain't I give parks to the
city? Ain't I had family prayers for fifty years? Ain't I been a praying
member all my life nearly? Ain't I supported missions? Why," he panted,
"is it put on me to die without a son to bear my name and take care of
my property? I made over two millions to him the other day. But why,
Amos," the old man's voice was broken and he whimpered, "has the Lord
sent this to Morty?"
Amos did not reply, but the big voice of Grant spoke very softly: "Uncle
Dan, Morty's got tuberculosis--you know that. Tuberculosis has made you
twenty per cent. interest for twenty years--those hothouses for
consumption of yours in the Valley. But it's cost the poor scores and
scores of lives. Morty has it." Grant's voice rose solemnly. "Vengeance
is mine sayeth the Lord, I will repay. You've got your interest, and the
Lord has taken his toll."
The old man showed his colorless gums as he opened a raging mouth.
"You--you--eh, you blasphemer!" He shook as with a chill and screamed,
"But we've got you now--we'll fix you!"
The car for Harvey came, and the Adamses climbed in.
Amos Adams, sitting on the hard seat of the street car looking into the
moonlight, considered seriously his brother-in-law, and his low estate.
That he had to be helped into his limousine, that he had to be wrapped
up like a baby, that his head was palsied and his hands fluttering,
seemed strange and rather inexplicable to Amos. He counted Daniel a
young man, four years his junior, barely seventy-nine; a man who should
be in his prime. Amos did not realize that his legs had been kept supple
by climbing on and off a high printer's stool hourly for fifty years,
and that his body had buffeted the winds of the world unprotected all
those years and had kept fit. But Daniel Sands's sad case seemed
pathetic to the elder Adams and he cut into some rising stream of
conversation from Grant and the Bowmans inadvertently with: "Poor
Daniel--Morty doomed, and Daniel himself looking like the breaking up of
a hard winter--poor Daniel! He doesn't seem to have got the hang of
things in this world; he can't seem to get on some way. I'm sorry for
Daniel, Grant; he might have made quite a man if he'd not been fooled by
money."
Clearly Amos was meditating aloud; no one replied and the talk flowed
on. But the old man looked into the moonlight and dreamed dreams.
The next day was Grant's day at his carpenter's bench, and when he came
to his office with his kit in his hands at five o'clock in the
afternoon, he found Violet Hogan waiting with the letters he was to
sign, and with the mail opened and sorted. As he was signing his letters
Violet gave him the news of the day:
"Dick Bowman ran in at noon and asked me to see if I could get Dr.
Nesbit and George Brotherton and Henry Fenn down here this evening to
talk over his investment of little Ben's money. The check will come
to-morrow." Grant looked up from his desk, but before he could ask a
question Violet answered: "They'll be down at eight. The Doctor is that
proud! And Mr. Brotherton is cutting lodge--the Shriners, themselves--to
come down."
It was a grave and solemn council that sat by Grant Adams's desk that
evening discussing the disposal of little Ben's five thousand. Excepting
Mr. Brotherton, no one there had ever handled that much money at one
time. For though the Doctor was a man of affairs the money he handled in
politics came easy and went easy, and the money he earned Mrs. Nesbit
always had invested for him. So he and Lida Bowman sat rather apart
while Dick and Brotherton considered the safety of bonds and mortgages
and time deposits and other staple methods of investing the vast sum
which was about to be paid to them for Ben's accident. They also
considered plans for his education--whether he should learn telegraphy
or should cultivate his voice, or go to college or what not. In this
part of the council the Doctor took a hand. But Lida Bowman kept her
wonted silence. The money could not take the bitterness from her loss;
though it did relieve her despair. While they talked, as a mere incident
of the conversation, some one spoke of having seen Joe Calvin come down
to the Wahoo Fuel Company's offices that day in his automobile. Doctor
Nesbit recalled having seen Calvin conferring with Tom Van Dorn and
Daniel Sands in Van Dorn's office that afternoon. Then Dick Bowman
craning his neck asked for the third time when Henry Fenn would show up;
and for the third time it was explained that Henry had taken the Hogan
children to the High School building in Harvey to behold the spectacle
of Janice Hogan graduating from the eighth grade into the High School.
Then Dick explained:
"Well, I just thought Henry would know about this paper I got to-day
from the constable. It's a legal document, and probably has something to
do with getting Benny's money or something. I couldn't make it out so I
thought I'd just let Henry figure on it and tell me what to do." And
when a few minutes later Fenn came in, with a sense of duty to the
Hogans well done, Dick handed Fenn the paper and asked with all the
assurance of a man who expects the reassurance of an affirmative answer:
"Well, Henry--she's all right, ain't she? Just some legal formality to
go through, I suppose?"
Henry Fenn took the document from Bowman's hand. Henry stood under the
electric, read it and sat thinking for a few seconds, with widely
furious eyes.
"Well," he said, "they've played their trump, boys. Doc Jim--your law's
been attacked in the federal court--under Tom Van Dorn--damn him!"
The group barked a common question in many voices. Fenn replied: "As I
make it out, they got a New York stockholder of the Wahoo Valley Fuel
Company to ask for an injunction against paying little Ben his money
to-morrow, and the temporary injunction has been granted with the
hearing set for June 16."
"And won't they pay us without a suit?" asked Bowman. "Why, I don't see
how that can be--they've been paying for accidents for a year now."
"Why, the law's through all the courts!" queried Brotherton.
"The state courts--yes," answered Fenn, "but they didn't own the federal
court until they got Tom in."
Bowman's jaw began to tremble. His Adam's apple bobbed like a cork, and
no one spoke. Finally Dr. Nesbit spoke in his high-keyed voice: "I
presume legal verbiage is all they talk in hell!" and sat pondering.
"Is there no way to beat it?" asked Brotherton.
"Not in this court, George," replied Fenn, "that's why they brought suit
in this court."
"That means a long fight--a big law suit, Henry?" asked Bowman.
"Unless they compromise or wear you out," replied the lawyer.
"And can't a jury decide?"
"No--it's an injunction. It's up to the court, and the court is Tom Van
Dorn," said Fenn.
Then Dick Bowman spoke: "And there goes little Ben's school and a chance
to make something out of what's left of him. Why, it don't look right
when the legislature's passed it, and the people's confirmed it and nine
lawyers in all the state courts have said it's law,--for the attorney
for the company holding a job as judge to turn over all them forms of
law. Can't we do something?"
"Yes," spoke the big voice of Grant Adams for the first time since Fenn
made his announcement, "we can strike--that's one thing we can do. Why,"
he continued, full of emotion, "I could no more hold those men down
there against a strike when they hear this than I could fly. They'll
have to fight for this right, gentlemen!"
"Be calm now, Grant," piped the Doctor; "don't go off half cocked."
Grant's eyes flared--his nose dilated and the muscles of his heavy jaw
worked and knotted. He answered in a harsh voice:
"Oh, I'll be calm all right, Doctor. I'm going down in the morning and
plead for peace. But I know my people. I can't hold 'em."
Those in the room stood for a moment in dazed silence; then the Doctor
and Brotherton, realizing the importance of further discussion that
night, soon withdrew from the room, leaving Dick voluble in his grief
and Lida, his wife, stony and speechless beside him. She shook no
sympathizing hand, not even Grant's, as the Bowmans left for home. But
she climbed out of the chair and down the stairs on tired, heavy feet.
In the morning there was turmoil in the Valley. In the _Times_
Jared Thurston, with the fatuous blundering which characterizes all
editors of papers like his, printed the news that little Ben Bowman
would be denied his rights, as a glorious victory over the reformers. In
an editorial, written in old Joe Calvin's best style, the community was
congratulated upon having one judge at last who would put an end to the
socialistic foolishness that had been written by demagogues on the state
statute books, and hinting rather broadly that the social labor program
adopted by the people at the last election through the direct vote would
go the way of the fool statute under which the Bowman lad hoped to cheat
the courts of due process of law.
In vain did Grant Adams try to rally carpenters to the trocha. He
pleaded with the men to raise a special fund to take little Ben's case
through the federal courts; but he failed.
The Wahoo Valley saw in the case of little Ben Bowman the drama of greed
throttling poverty, all set forth in stark, grim terms that no one could
question. The story appealed directly to the passions of the Valley and
the Valley's voice rose in the demand to resort to its last weapon of
defense. The workers felt that they must strike or forfeit their
self-respect. And day by day the _Times_, gloating at the coming
downfall in Van Dorn's program of labor-repression, threw oil on the
flaming passions of the Valley, so labor raged and went white hot. The
council of the Wahoo Valley Trades Workers came together to vote on the
strike. Every unit of seven was asked to meet and vote. Grant sat in his
office with the executive committee a day and a night counting the
slowly returning votes. Grant had influence enough to make them declare
emphatically for a peaceful strike. But the voice of the Valley was for
a strike. The spring was at its full. The little garden plots were
blooming. The men felt confident. A conference of the officials of the
council was called to formulate the demands. Grant managed to put off
the strike until the hearing on the temporary injunction, June 16, was
held. But the men drew up their demands and were ready for the court
decision which they felt would be finally against them.
The Wahoo Valley was stirred deeply by the premonitions of the coming
strike. It was proud of its record for industrial peace, and the
prospect of war in the Valley overturned all its traditions.
Market Street had its profound reaction, too. Market Street and the
Valley, each in its own way, felt the dreaded turmoil coming, knew what
commercial disaster the struggle meant, but Market Street was timid and
powerless and panic-stricken. Yet life went on. In the Valley there were
births and deaths and marriages, and on the hill in Harvey, Mrs. Bedelia
Nesbit was working out her plans to make over the Nesbit house, while
Lila, her granddaughter, was fluttering about in the seventh Heaven, for
she was living under the same sky and sun and stars that bent over
Kenyon, her lover, home from Boston for the Morton-Adams wedding. He
might be hailed as a passing ship once or twice a day, if she managed to
time her visits to Market Street properly, or he might be seen from the
east veranda of her home at the proper hour, and there was a throb of
joy that blotted out all the rest of the pale world. There was one time;
two times indeed they were, and a hope of a third, when slipping out
from under the shadow of her grandmother's belligerent plumes, Lila had
known the actual fleeting touch of hands; the actual feasting of eyes
and the quick rapture of meeting lips at a tryst. And when Mrs. Nesbit
left for Minneapolis to consult an architect, and to be gone two
weeks--Harvey and the Valley and the strike slipped so far below the
sky-line of the two lovers that they were scarcely aware that such
things were in the universe.
Kenyon could not see even the grim cast of decision mantling Grant's
face. Day by day, while the votes assembled which ordered the strike,
the deep abiding purpose of Grant Adams's soul rose and stood ready to
master him. He and the men seemed to be coming to their decision
together. As the votes indicated by a growing majority their
determination, in a score of ways Grant made it evident to those about
him, that for him time had fruited; the day was ready and the hour at
hand for his life plans to unfold. Those nearest him knew that the
season of debate for Grant Adams had passed. He was like one whose sails
of destiny are set and who longs to put out into the deep and let down
his nets. So he passed the long days impatiently until the hearing of
the injunction in little Ben's suit arrived, and every day burned some
heavier line into his face that recorded the presence of the quenchless
fire of purpose in his heart.
A smiling, affable man was Judge Thomas Van Dorn in his court the
morning of June 16. He had his ticket bought for Chicago and a seat in
the great convention of his party assured. He walked through the court
room, rather dapperly. He put his high silk hat on the bench beside him,
by way of adding a certain air of easy informality to the proceedings.
His red necktie brought out every thin wrinkle in his burnished brown
face and upon the pink brow threaded by a chain lightning of a scar. The
old mushy, emotional voice of his youth and maturity had thickened, and
he talked loudly. He listened to arguments of counsel. Young Joe Calvin,
representing the Fuel Company, was particularly eloquent. Henry Fenn
knew that his case was hopeless, but made such reply as he could.
"Well," cut in the court before Fenn was off his feet at the close of
his argument, "there's nothing to your contention. The court is familiar
with those cases, cited by counsel. Either the constitution means what
it says or it doesn't. This court is willing to subscribe to a fund to
pay this Bowman child a just compensation. This is a case for charity
and the company is always generous in its benevolence. The Socialists
may have the state courts, and the people are doubtless crazy--but this
court will uphold the constitution. The injunction is made permanent.
The court stands adjourned."
The crowd of laborers in the court room laughed in the Judge's face.
They followed Grant Adams, who with head bowed in thought walked slowly
to the street car. "Well, fellows," said Grant, "here's the end. As it
stands now, the law considers steel and iron in machinery more sacred
than flesh and blood. The court would have allowed them to appropriate
money for machines without due process of law; but it enjoins them from
appropriating money for flesh and blood." He was talking to the members
of the Valley Labor Council as they stood waiting for a car. "We may as
well miss a car and present our demands to the Calvins. The sooner we
get this thing moving, the better."
Ten minutes later the Council walked into the office of Calvin and
Calvin. There sat Joseph Calvin, the elder, a ratty little man still,
with a thin stringy neck and with a bald head. His small, mousy eyes
blinked at the workmen. He was exceedingly polite. He admitted that he
was attorney for the owners' association in the Valley, that he could if
he chose speak for them in any negotiations they might desire to make
with their employees, but that he was authorized to say that the owners
were not ready to consider or even to receive any communication from the
men upon any subject--except as individual employees might desire to
confer with superintendents or foremen in the various mines and mills.
So they walked out. At labor headquarters in South Harvey, Nathan Perry
came sauntering in.
"Well, boys--let's have your agreement--I think I know what it is. We're
ready to sign."
In an hour men were carrying out posters to be distributed throughout
the Valley, signed by Grant Adams, chairman of the Wahoo Valley Trades
Workers' Council. It read:
STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE
The managers of our mines and mills in the Wahoo Valley have
refused to confer with representatives of the workers about an
important matter. Therefore we order a general strike of all
workers in the mines and mills in this District. Workers before
leaving will see that their machines are carefully oiled,
covered, and prepared to rest without injury. For we claim
partnership interest in them, and should protect them and all
our property in the mines and mills in this Valley. During this
strike, we pledge ourselves.
To orderly conduct.
To keep out of the saloons.
To protect our property in the mines and mills.
To use our influence to restrain all violence of speech or
conduct. And we make the following demands:
First. That prices of commodities turned out in this district
shall not be increased to the public as a result of concessions
to us in this strike, and to that end we demand.
Second. That we be allowed to have a representative in the
offices of all concerns interested, said representative to have
access to all books and accounts, guaranteeing to labor such
increases in wages as shall be evidently just, allowing 8 per
cent. dividends on stock, the payment of interest on bonds, and
such sums for upkeep, maintenance, and repairs as shall not
include the creation of a surplus or fund for extensions.
Third, we demand that the companies concerned shall obey all
laws enacted by the state or nation to improve conditions of
industry until such laws have been passed upon by the supreme
courts of the state and of the United States.
Fourth, we demand that all negotiations between the employers
and the workers arising out of the demands shall be conducted on
behalf of the workers by the Trades Workers' Council of the
Wahoo Valley or their accredited representatives.
During this strike we promise to the public righteous peace;
after the strike we promise to the managers of the mines and
mills efficient labor, and to the workers always justice.
STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE
At two o'clock that June afternoon the whistle of the big engine in the
smelter in South Harvey, the whistle in the glass factory at Magnus, and
the siren in the cement mill at Foley blew, and gradually the wheels
stopped, the machines were covered, the fires drawn, the engines wiped
and covered with oil, and the men marched out of all the mills and mines
and shops in the district. There was no uproar, no rioting, but in an
hour all the garden patches in the Valley were black with men. The big
strike of the Wahoo Valley was on.