“Zechariah, I want you to give Joel Byron his old place in the mill. I
do not approve of discharging workmen for their politics.”
“I shall do no such thing, Sister Eva. Byron was not discharged for
his politics, but for attempting to create discontent among his
fellow-workmen.”
“The petition to the Selectmen, which Byron circulated, asking for an
evening session of town-meeting, was a perfectly respectful one, was it
not?”
“If you mean respectful to the Selectmen,--yes; if you mean respectful
to us,--_no_!”
“How so?”
“We, who own the town, ought to say what its taxes should be. Our
employees, who pay only poll taxes, should not vote taxes for us to
pay. If the appropriations for town expenses were made at an evening
session, as they are in some Massachusetts towns, our workmen could
vote, and load us down with taxes. Under Massachusetts law, mill-hands
can remain away from their work only _two hours_. This law does not
apply to town-meeting, but we give our workmen the benefit of it. Our
workmen can come and vote for town-officers by secret ballot, and get
back to the mills within the two hours. After they are safely away from
town-meeting, and at work again, we pass the appropriations.”
“You don’t believe in popular government, then?”
“I don’t believe that a man who pays only two dollars tax, should be
the equal of one who pays ten thousand dollars taxes, when it comes to
voting appropriations.”
“But what would become of popular government, and of our free
institutions, if your ideas prevailed?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. You have about as much sense as a hen,
Eva, when it comes to business.”
“Have I? Very well. I have about as much influence as a hen, if you
please, in the management of the Baldwin Mills, although my father
left me a two-million-dollar interest in these mills. Now, Zechariah,
I have been a mere cipher in this business long enough. There is a
New York gentleman who will gladly pay me every dollar my interest in
the Baldwin Mills is worth. He will not be a cipher in the concern
as I have been, and he has opinions of his own as to the rights of
workingmen. He will not see his employees’ interests trodden under foot
without uttering a protest which will be heard, not only throughout the
State, but throughout the Nation.
“I give you fair warning. One week from to-day, unless you and David
make a fair division of the property with me, I shall deed my interest
in the Baldwin Mills to the New Yorker. Don’t say I didn’t give you
fair warning. You will have a partner, if I sell out, who will be able
to protect both himself and his workmen. We’ll see whether I have as
much sense as a hen in this business.”
The black eyes snapped fiercely, and Eva Baldwin swept out of the room
without giving her brother a chance to reply. He immediately summoned
David home from Washington. The Congressman had often made peace
between his brother and sister, but he found it impossible to patch up
any kind of a truce this time. In vain he made promises.
“You’ve made promises before, David Baldwin, and then you’ve let
Zechariah cheat the workingmen out of their votes again, just the same
as before. You’re standing before the country as the workingman’s
friend, when really you are an impostor. Some day the country will
find you out. The man who stands by and sees his workmen defrauded of
the right to vote appropriations for their own homes, is just as big a
villain as the man who does the dirty work himself.”
These were Eva Baldwin’s plain words. Only one day was left of her
week’s notice, and still no agreement.
“You are not going to carry out your threat, are you Eva?” asked the
Congressman.
“It is not a threat. I am simply not going to be a partner in this
iniquity any longer. If I sell out it will be to a man who thinks as I
do about the workman’s rights. I’m ready to draw the papers.”
“I think it is a bad move, both for you and for us,” was the brother’s
reply; “but you have the advantage of us. Of course we cannot admit
a stranger to ownership in the Baldwin Mills, so we make this
proposition: Calling your interest two millions, we will give you the
Liberty Mill, at one and one-half million dollars, and pay you the
balance.”
This offer was accepted and Eva Baldwin became owner of the Liberty
Mill.
Town-meeting day arrived. The movement for an evening session had
apparently died.
Back of the town-hall was the office of Ford Hulbert, auctioneer and
real estate agent. On the morning of town-meeting Hulbert’s front
entrance was closed, locked, and a curtain drawn. In the rear his
office opened upon a long alley running back to an unfrequented street
called Back Lane. Had anyone watched Back Lane that morning from
daylight to ten o’clock, he would have seen an occasional lonely voter
pass quietly along the street, up the long alley, and into the rear
door of Hulbert’s office. They did not attract suspicion. One by one
they passed in, like flies into a trap, but none of them came out.
Ten o’clock came. In the town-hall less than twenty voters were
present, mostly Baldwin sympathizers. Every word spoken was heard in
Hulbert’s office.
“The time has arrived for calling this meeting to order,” said the town
clerk, who then read the warrant.
“Prepare your ballots for a moderator,” commanded the Clerk. But now
the rear door opened, and in filed forty voters from Hulbert’s office.
After the choice of a moderator and a few minor town-officers, Mr.
Hulbert arose and said:--
“I move that this meeting, except the balloting for town-officers, be
adjourned to seven-thirty o’clock this evening.”
“I second the motion,” said John Wycliff.
A chorus of objections arose from the Baldwin party.
“Question!” shouted Hulbert with his auctioneer’s lungs. “A motion to
adjourn, Mr. Moderator, is not debatable.”
“Question! question! question!” the forty followers yelled, at the top
of their lungs.
“Right you are; a motion to adjourn is not debatable,” said the
Moderator, as soon as he could make himself heard. “You hear the
motion; all in favor of adjourning this meeting to seven-thirty o’clock
this evening, will signify it by saying _Aye_; contrary minds, _No_. It
is a vote.”
“Disputed! disputed!” the Baldwin forces yelled, as they now saw other
voters coming, and hoped for reinforcements by delay.
“All in favor of this motion raise your right hands,” said the
Moderator. “I see forty-two hands. Now all opposed, raise your right
hands. I see seventeen hands. The motion is carried. This meeting is
adjourned until seven-thirty o’clock this evening.”
The trap of Ford Hulbert’s setting had sprung neatly, and caught the
Baldwins napping. It had been customary to adjourn until two o’clock,
hence the small number present, and the ease with which Hulbert’s
strategy succeeded. For the first time in many years the mill-hands
would have a chance to vote on the money to be spent for their schools,
highways, and other expenses.
At the evening session Zechariah Baldwin took the floor, and said:
“It was a mean, contemptible trick to adjourn town-meeting to this
hour. No decent man would take part in such a game.”
Ford Hulbert sprang to his feet.
“Mr. Moderator: There is _one_ gentleman by the name of Baldwin, whom
we all delight to honor. Let us hear from our Congressman.”
Amid cheers the Congressman rose and said: “I am satisfied with this
arrangement if it meets the popular will. Let us get to business.”
He was too wise to show the anger which he felt.
The business of the town-meeting was marked out by a committee
consisting of all the larger property-owners in the town, and one
common laborer. It was through this “Financial Committee” that the
Baldwins largely controlled town-meeting, and the one lonely laborer
showed how lightly they esteemed the class that had made them wealthy.
To-day the improvement of a certain street, the home of laborers, was
under discussion. Sheriff Burse, an agent of the Baldwins, arose, and
in a husky voice, like the whisper of the wind thro’ the pine woods,
said that the Financial Committee did not approve the appropriation.
True, a dozen vehicles had been overturned on that street recently,
but, according to the Sheriff, it was the fault of the drivers. The
matter was considered settled, when a sleepy-looking little man arose
and addressed the Chair.
“Uncle Jerry Barnaby,” whispered the crowd. “There’ll be fun now.”
Uncle Jerry was the wit of the town. It is hard to define wit. In Uncle
Jerry’s case his appearance had much to do with the laughter which
greeted him. He was a sad-looking, wild-eyed little man, whose “little
body,” as he expressed it, “was tired carrying around his big brain.”
“Mr. Moderator.”
“Mr. Barnaby.”
“It is true, as Sheriff Burse has said, that a man may drive through
Hodgson Street safely. By using great care, by dodging rocks and
sand-banks, and by the special favor of Divine Providence, he may live
to drive through that street; but I would advise him, before attempting
it, to place a good big insurance on his life, and to kiss his wife and
children farewell. As has been said, Mr. Moderator, a man may drive
through Hodgson street safely; a perfectly sober man may drive through
a wood-lot, but--”
In the uproar which followed, Uncle Jerry never finished his sentence.
It was voted to repair Hodgson Street.
The secret balloting, during the day, elected Hugh Maxwell Selectman,
and the Baldwins failed in their efforts to force Jacob Sharp upon the
voters.
There was a proposition to increase the pay of the police from two
dollars to two dollars and a half per night. There was much opposition
to the increase, its general drift being that the policemen were
already well paid, when Uncle Jerry was again recognized by the
Moderator. Congressman Baldwin frowned, and a reflection of his frown
was seen upon the face of the Moderator, who was obliged to recognize
the mirth-provoking Barnaby.
He immediately began a somewhat rambling oration, which he had been
declaiming in his own house for weeks, and which was intended to set
forth the faithful services of the policemen. The audience was soon
convulsed with laughter, and it was impossible for the Moderator to
check him, as almost everybody in the hall was encouraging him by
laughter and applause.
Uncle Jerry was thoroughly in earnest. He could see no occasion for
mirth.
“When all sounds of industry are stilled,” said Uncle Jerry, “when the
fond mother lies asleep with the darling babe on her bosom,--”
“Speak on the question, Mr. Barnaby!” roared the Moderator.
“I am speaking on the question, Mr. Moderator--when the demon tongues
of fire leap up in the basement, and threaten your lovely home,
threaten to envelop in their horrible embrace all that you hold dearest
on earth,--that fond wife and loving mother and that darling infant on
the mother’s breast,--”
“Come to the point, Mr. Barnaby!”
“I am coming to the point, Mr. Moderator, just as fast as I can, but
you make me lose my place. When the devouring flames, Mr. Moderator,
threaten to embrace that fond wife and loving mother and darling infant
on the mother’s breast,--it is the watchful eye of the vigilant
policeman, Mr. Moderator--,”
The allusion to the “vigilant policemen” of Papyrus was the last straw.
The audience reveled in such a fit of uncontrolled laughter that Uncle
Jerry never proceeded further. Meanwhile the friends of the policemen
thought it a favorable time to take a vote.
“Question!” shouted one.
“Question!” echoed a hundred. The policemen won.
The most important question taken up was that of a sewer. Physicians
and others testified to the wretched sanitary conditions which made
Papyrus one of the most unhealthy towns in the state, for the lack of
a sewer. Deacon Surface, the most adroit speaker in Papyrus, answered
them. He said that the taxes were too high. At the proper time the “men
who owned the town” would be ready for a sewer, but not yet. He omitted
to say that the Baldwins paid taxes on less than half the true value of
their property in Papyrus. He omitted to say, also, that the Baldwins
had recently given to the city of Elmfield, for something much less
needed than a sewer, a larger sum than it would cost to build several
sewer-systems for Papyrus. The Deacon’s speech was eloquent, polished,
and well-rounded--a beautiful bubble, needing only the pinpoint of
truth to explode it. Ford Hulbert was just thinking it his duty to
apply the pin to the bubble, when the irrepressible Barnaby rose.
“Mr. Moderator,” piped the wild-eyed little man.
“Mr. Barnaby,” groaned the Moderator.
“Mr. Moderator. I want to congratulate Deacon Surface on making the
most eloquent speech I have ever heard in this hall. Among all the
facts which he gave us, it is strange that he overlooked one fact--one
cold, scientific truth--bearing on the question.”
“What is it?” asked a hundred voices. Even Deacon Surface arose, turned
toward Uncle Jerry, and joined in the question. Then, when you could
have heard a pin drop, and the silence was becoming oppressive, the
piping voice said:--
“One cold, scientific fact, Mr. Moderator, just as true as the facts he
gave us,--the moon is made of green cheese, Mr. Moderator.”
Deacon Surface collapsed with his bubble argument, while the audience
went wild. But the sewer was lost. The employees of Zechariah and David
Baldwin, in a matter involving so large an outlay, dared not openly
vote against their masters.
Not until we have the secret ballot for measures, as well as for men,
will there be political freedom in Massachusetts towns.