_The_ Worship _of
The_ Golden Calf.
A Story _of_
Wage-Slavery
_in_ Massachusetts.
_By
Charles Sheldon French._
DALTON, MASS.:
C. Sheldon French, Publisher,
35 John Street.
PITTSFIELD, MASS.:
William J. Oatman, Printer,
536 North Street.
1908.
COPYRIGHT,
1908,
BY CHARLES SHELDON FRENCH.
NOTE. Since Chapter VIII was written Massachusetts law has been so
amended that $10,000, instead of $5,000, may now be collected for
a human life lost through the negligence of a railroad or street
railway corporation.
CHAPTER I.
The snows had begun to disappear from the far-famed valleys of
Berkshire; the mountain-tops and slopes were still white; in the
softening air was the promise of the return of birds and flowers;
Nature was relenting from her winter harshness, but man was less kindly
than Nature.
On Beauna Vista, one of the hillocks rising slightly above the level
of the Housatonic Valley, the day’s work was done, and John Wycliff,
a farm-laborer, was awaiting the pay for his last month’s work before
returning home.
There was nothing prepossessing about Wycliff’s appearance. Short of
stature, minus one eye which he had lost in an encounter with the
Indians, with a bent nose, a souvenir of a cattle-stampede on the
plains,--he was tough and wiry as a lynx, and his features betrayed
almost as little emotion as that animal.
His experience had been largely of a kind to make him suspicious of
his fellows, and alert for self-defence. He had knocked about the
East in a variety of occupations, and in the West had been editor,
cow-boy and gold-miner. He had seen varying fortunes, having been
once part owner of a gold mine. He had lost all and was now a common
laborer again. Although he still retained his interest in the mine, it
was considered worthless. He had hopes that sometime it might become
valuable again through the invention of cheaper methods of separating
the gold from the rock.
Jacob Sharp, the farm-superintendent, was, in appearance, a typical
Yankee. He was tall and angular, with blue eyes, which sometimes
kindled with a kindly light, but which oftener showed a steely luster
suggesting something of the serpent. The nose was the most prominent
feature. It was large and sharply defined, and he had a habit, when
excited, of blowing it vigorously.
On this occasion a trumpet-like blast first warned John Wycliff that
Boss Sharp had something on his mind. He blew his nose loudly several
times, while the blue eyes seemed to retreat more deeply into their
sockets and to give out a snaky leer. After an unusually loud blast,
which testified to the healthy condition of his lungs, he pulled some
bank-notes from his pocket.
“Twenty-five dollars,” he said, handing the notes to Wycliff. “I have
retained five dollars for Mr. Bothan on the bill which you owe him.”
“But you agreed to pay me thirty-five dollars per month,” replied
Wycliff. “I am very poorly situated at this time for losing any part of
my earnings. I should be glad to pay all my debts in full at once, but
at present my wages will barely supply the necessities of life for my
family.” Then, turning to Mr. Bothan, who stood near by, he continued,
“Both law and gospel make it a man’s first duty to provide for his
family. Besides, you should have no preference over my other creditors.”
But the words were wasted. Wycliff might as well have appealed to
the flint boulders on the mountain side. Sharp insisted that he had
agreed to pay him only thirty dollars per month, and he also insisted
on paying five dollars of that sum to Richard Bothan on Wycliff’s debt.
He even threatened to discharge Wycliff if the latter should take
advantage of the Bankruptcy Law and thus place Mr. Bothan on a level
with other creditors. Wycliff received twenty-five dollars and walked
away.
Mr. Sharp then passed a five dollar note to Mr. Bothan, who returned
him one of smaller denomination with the remark, “Here’s a dollar for
collecting.”
The men then separated, unconscious that there had been any witness
of their conversation. Only a few steps distant, where a rustic
watering-trough was hidden from sight by a clump of low hemlock bushes,
two horseback-riders, a lady and a gentleman, had paused to let their
horses drink.
“What a spectacle that is!” exclaimed the gentleman; “Congressman
Baldwin, one of the owners of this farm, belongs to the national
legislative body which passed the Bankruptcy Law, and here we see his
foreman threatening to discharge a workman for accepting the benefits
of that law. The law is designed to relieve those who are unable to
pay their debts. Congressman Baldwin is sworn to uphold the law. His
foreman, Jacob Sharp, is doing his best, in this instance, to destroy
the law. I don’t believe David Baldwin, the Congressman, would feel
very proud of his foreman if he witnessed this scene.”
“Would his brother and partner, Zechariah Baldwin, approve of it?”
asked the lady.
“I cannot say,” replied the gentleman. “Zechariah Baldwin has less
sense of justice or love for his workmen than his brother David. But
this is a mean act, at any rate. Mr. Sharp has no moral or legal rights
to withhold the workman’s wages and it is contemptible at this time,
because Mr. Wycliff has a child very sick and needs every dollar he can
earn. I am surprised that such a man as Sharp, who is notorious for
cheating his workmen, should hold so high a position in the church.”
“It is much easier to criticise the church than to help in the good
work which the church is doing,” answered the lady tartly.
“We have a right to criticise the church if she fails to take up the
work which the Master left for her to do;” replied the gentleman, but
the lady was offended, and the remainder of the journey was passed in
silence.
Meanwhile John Wycliff found little to comfort him on his return home.
“Robert has been growing worse all day;” were the first words of
his wife: “The Doctor gives very little encouragement. He says that
to-night will decide and that he is so frail and sensitive that we must
gratify all his whims. Whatever he wants we must promise to get it for
him. The Doctor says we must not cross him the least bit in any of his
wishes.”
The wife and mother--a slight, sensitive thing--dropped upon her knees,
buried her face in the bed-clothes, and prayed for her son in words
which reached no ear but the Almighty’s. Then she lay down upon a
couch, exhausted by days and nights of watching.
The mother slept. The boy lay for the most part quietly, his spirit
fluttering as lightly as a butterfly’s wing between life and death. The
father sat beside the crib where his child lay, and watched his every
movement, bending down frequently and placing his ear close to the
little sufferer’s face, to learn if he were still breathing. Once he
woke his wife hurriedly, thinking that the end had come. But life still
lingered.
There was a distant rumble of wheels. John Wycliff recognized the sound
of that vehicle, and it made him for the moment desperate. Some of
the rough points of his Western life had ingrained themselves in his
nature, and one characteristic memento of that strenuous time was at
hand in a bureau-drawer.
He glanced at his wife. She was in a sound sleep. He bent down and
caught the sound of the boy’s breathing. Then he sprang to the bureau
and rushed, coatless and hatless, into the street.
Jacob Sharp was alone on his way to the mid-weekly evening prayer
meeting. When he came into the shaft of light thrown from the sick-room
window, his horse was grasped by the bridle, while a low voice said:
“Pay me the wages you defrauded me of!” and a pistol gleamed in Sharp’s
face.
“Be quick!” the voice added, as Mr. Sharp’s right hand went up, as was
his habit when excited, to blow his nose. The hand dropped quickly to
his pocket, and a ten-dollar note was handed over.
“Take legal action about this if you choose, Mr. Sharp,” said Wycliff.
“I can land you in prison and for more than one offense.”
“Say nothing, and I will say nothing;” replied Sharp as he drove on.
Wycliff’s challenge uncovered a chapter in Sharp’s history which he had
fancied covered up and which he did not wish exposed. This adventure
filled only a very brief time, and again Wycliff was by the bedside.
The little lips moved feebly. He placed his ear close to them.
“Pop--will I--have--pony--cart--heaven?”
It was with great difficulty that he gathered the words. Heaven! What
did he know about heaven? What did he care about it if such men as
Jacob Sharp and Richard Bothan were its representatives here on earth?
But he answered instantly, recalling the doctor’s warning, and bending
close to the child’s ear:
“Yes, you will have everything you want there.”
And then, very slowly and very feebly--so slowly and so feebly that
his coarse senses could hardly be sure of the scarcely whispered
words--came the “Pop--will I--ever--have--pony--cart--here?”
There was but an instant’s hesitation, as the father recalled his
inability to fulfil his promise, and he replied, watching his child’s
face as the fluttering spirit caught the meaning:
“Yes, Robbie, if you will stay with us you shall have a pony and a
cart.”
This had been the height of the child’s desire, his highest idea of
happiness, his heaven--to have a pony and a cart. In sight of the other
shore, and with voices, perhaps, which his father’s coarse ear could
not hear, calling him thither, he was willing to stay on this side if
his desire might be gratified.
The father thought he saw the slightest trace of a smile on the thin
face. The boy slept. More than once there were brief intervals when the
father could not detect his son’s breathing, but as the hours wore away
there seemed to be a gain.
Meanwhile the father’s memory was busy. As a lightning-flash, in the
night, for an instant illuminates the entire landscape, so his son’s
question flashed his whole life in review before him. He recalled the
day, when, with high ideals, he had pledged himself to Christ in the
little country meeting-house, and the church had pledged friendship
to him. Later some of these comrades in the church had defrauded
him of all he possessed. To-day the worst enemies of himself and of
every other workingman in the town of Papyrus, were pillars in the
fashionable church of that place. These things stood out in bold relief
to-night, as bold as the mountain’s rugged outline when the lightning’s
flash illumines it.
“The First Church of Papyrus,” Wycliff had once said to Deacon Surface,
“does not stand for righteousness. It will whitewash any wrong done
by its wealthy members. Our pastor is eloquent in condemning the
disfranchisement of the negroes of the South, but does not say one word
to condemn the disfranchisement of mill-hands in Papyrus. Employees in
the Baldwin Mills are prevented from voting appropriations for schools,
roads, street-lights, and other public benefits in their own town. To
be consistent, you should place the sign of the Almighty Dollar on the
pinnacle of your beautiful church, and inscribe over the altar these
words: ‘The rich can do no wrong.’”
Deacon Surface, who belonged, body and soul to the Baldwins, had
been horrified at Wycliff, whom he regarded as little better than an
infidel. Wycliff regarded Deacon Surface and his kind, as followers of
the Master only for the ‘loaves and fishes.’
But the night wore away. The boy was better. The mother was worn out,
and Wycliff remained at home to care for his wife and child.
Jacob Sharp was an early caller.
“Your position will be open to you, at thirty-five dollars per month,
whenever you can come back;” he said.
But Wycliff was never to return.