SAY!” Clarence blurted out, “there's going to be a strike!”
Oakley glanced up from his writing.
“What's that you are telling me, Clarence?”
“There's going to be a strike, Mr. Oakley.”
Dan smiled good-naturedly at the boy.
“I guess that has blown over, Clarence,” he said, kindly.
“No, it ain't. The men had a meeting last night. It was in the room over
Jack Britt's saloon. I've just been talking with a fellow who was there;
he told me.”
“Sit down,” said Oakley, pushing a chair towards him.
“Now, what is it?” as soon as he was seated. And Clarence, editing his
reminiscences as he saw fit, gave a tolerably truthful account of his
conversation with Spide. The source of his information, its general
incompleteness, and the frequent divergences, occasioned by the boy's
attempt to incorporate into the narrative a satisfactory reason for his
own presence in the yards, did not detract from its value in Oakley's
estimation. The mere fact that the men had held a meeting was in itself
significant. Such a thing was new to Antioch, as yet unvisited by labor
troubles.
“What is that you say about my father?” For he had rather lost track of
the story and caught at the sudden mention of his father's name.
“Spide says they got it in for him. I can't just remember what he did
say. It was something or other Griff Ryder knows about him. It's funny,
but it's clean gone out of my head, Mr. Oakley.”
Oakley started. What could Ryder know about his father? What could any
one know?
He was not left long in doubt. The next morning, shortly after he
arrived at the office, he heard the heavy shuffling of many feet on
the narrow platform outside his door, and a deputation from the
carpenter-shop, led by Joe Stokes and Branyon, entered the room. For a
moment or so the men stood in abashed silence about the door, and then
moved over to his desk.
Oakley pushed back his chair, and, as they approached, came slowly to
his feet. There was a hint of anger in his eyes. The whole proceeding
smacked of insolence. The men were in their shirt-sleeves and overalls,
and had on their hats. Stokes put up his hand and took off his hat. The
others accepted this as a signal, and one after another removed theirs.
Then followed a momentary shuffling as they bunched closer. Several, who
looked as if they would just as soon be somewhere else, breathed deep
and hard. The office force--Kerr, Holt, and Miss Walton--suspended their
various tasks and stood up so as not to miss anything that was said of
done.
“Well, men, what is it?” asked Oakley, sharply--so sharply that
Clarence, who was at the water-cooler, started. He had never heard the
manager use that tone before.
Stokes took a step forward and cleared his throat, as if to speak. Then
he looked at his comrades, who looked back their encouragement at him.
“We want a word with you, Mr. Oakley,” said he.
“What have you to say?”
“Well, sir, we got a grievance,” began Stokes, weakly, but Branyon
pushed him to one side hastily and took his place. He was a stockily
built Irish-American, with plenty of nerve and a loose tongue. The men
nudged each other. They knew Mike would have his say.
“It's just this, Mr. Oakley: There's a man in the carpenter-shop who's
got to get out. We won't work with him no longer!”
“That's right,” muttered one or two of the men under their breath.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Oakley, and his tone was tense and strenuous,
for he knew. There was an awkward silence. Branyon fingered his hat a
trifle nervously. At last he said, doggedly:
“The man who's got to go is your father.”
“Why?” asked Oakley, sinking his voice. He guessed what was coming next,
but the question seemed dragged from him. He had to ask it.
“We got nothing against you, Mr. Oakley, but we won't work in the same
shop with a convicted criminal.”
“That's right,” muttered the chorus of men again.
Oakley's face flushed scarlet. Then every scrap of color left it.
“Get out of here!” he ordered, hotly.
“Don't we get our answer?” demanded Branyon.
While the interview was in progress, McClintock had entered, and now
stood at the opposite end of the room, an attentive listener.
“No,” cried Oakley, hoarsely. “I'll put whom I please to work in the
shops. Leave the room all of you!”
The men retreated before his fury, their self-confidence rather dashed
by it. One by one they backed sheepishly out of the door, Branyon being
the last to leave. As he quitted the room he called to Dan:
“We'll give you until to-morrow to think it over, but the old man's got
to go.”
McClintock promptly followed Branyon, and Clarence darted after him. He
was in time to witness the uncorking of the master-mechanic's vials of
wrath, and to hear the hot exchange of words which followed.
“You can count your days with the Huckleberry numbered, Branyon,” he
said. “I'm damned if I'll have you under me after this.”
“We'll see about that,” retorted Branyon, roughly. “Talk's cheap.”
“What's the old man ever done to you, you infernal loafer?”
“Shut up, Milt, and keep your shirt on!” said Stokes, in what he
intended should be conciliatory tones. “We only want our rights.”
“We'll have 'em, too,” said Branyon, shaking his head ominously. “We
ain't Dagoes or Pollacks. We're American mechanics, and we know our
rights.”
“You're a sneak, Branyon. What's he ever done to you?”
“Oh, you go to hell!” ruffling up his shirt-sleeves.
“Well, sir,” said McClintock, his gray eyes flashing, “you needn't be so
particular about the old man's record. You know as much about the inside
of a prison as he does.”
“You're a damn liar!” Nevertheless McClintock spoke only the truth.
At Branyon's last word he smashed his fist into the middle of the
carpenter's sour visage with a heavy, sickening thud. No man called him
a liar and got away with it.
“Gee!” gasped the closely attentive but critical Clarence. “What a
soaker!” Branyon fell up against the side of the building near which
they were standing. Otherwise he would have gone his length upon the
ground, and the hands rushed in between the two men.
Stokes and Bentick dragged their friend away by main strength. The
affair had gone far enough. They didn't want a fight.
McClintock marched into the office, crossed to the water-cooler, and
filled himself a tumbler; then he turned an unruffled front on Oakley.
“I guess we'd better chuck those fellows--fire 'em out bodily, the
impudent cusses! What do you say, Mr. Oakley?”
But Dan was too demoralized to consider or even reply to this. He was
feeling a burning sense of shame and disgrace. The whole town must
know his father's history, or some garbled version of it. Worse still,
Constance Emory must know. The pride of his respectability was gone from
him. He felt that he had cheated the world of a place to which he had no
right, and now he was found out. He could not face Kerr, nor Holt, nor
McClintock. But this was only temporary. He couldn't stand among his
ruins. Men survive disgrace and outlive shame just as they outlive
sorrow and suffering. Nothing ever stops. Then he recognized that, since
his secret had been wrested from him, there was no longer discovery
to fear. A sense of freedom and relief came when he realized this. The
worst had happened, and he could still go on. How the men had learned
about his father he could not understand, but instinct told him he
had Ryder to thank. Following up the clew Kenyon had given him, he
had carefully looked into Roger Oakley's record, a matter that simply
involved a little correspondence.
He had told Branyon and Stokes only what he saw fit, and had pledged
himself to support the men in whatever action they took. He would drive
Oakley out of Antioch. That was one of his motives; he was also bent on
cultivating as great a measure of personal popularity as he could.
It would be useful to Kenyon, and so advantageous to himself. The
Congressman had large ambitions. If he brought his campaign to a
successful issue it would make him a power in the State. Counting in
this victory, Ryder had mapped out his own career. Kenyon had force and
courage, but his judgment and tact were only of a sort. Ryder aspired to
supply the necessary brains for his complete success. Needless to say,
Kenyon knew nothing of these benevolent intentions on the part of his
friend. He could not possibly have believed that he required anything
but votes.
Oakley turned to Clarence.
“Run into the carpenter-shop, and see if you can find my father. If he
is there, ask him to come here to me at once.”
The boy was absent only a few moments. Roger Oakley had taken off his
work clothes and had gone up-town before the men left the shop. He had
not returned.
Dan closed his desk and put on his hat, “I am going to the hotel,” he
said to Kerr. “If anybody wants to see me you can tell them I'll be back
this afternoon.”
“Very well, Mr. Oakley.” The treasurer was wondering what would be his
superior's action. Would he resign and leave Antioch, or would he try
and stick it out?
Before he left the room, Dan said to McClintock:
“I hope you won't have any further trouble, Milt Better keep an eye on
that fellow Branyon.”
McClintock laughed shortly, but made no answer, and for the rest of the
morning Clarence dogged his steps in the hope that the quarrel would
be continued under more favorable circumstances. In this he was
disappointed. Branyon had been induced to go home for repairs, and
had left the yards immediately after the trouble occurred, with a wet
handkerchief held gingerly to a mashed and bloody nose. His fellows
had not shown the sympathy he felt they should have shown under the
circumstances. They told him he had had enough, and that it was well to
stop with that.
Dan hurried up-town to the hotel. He found his father in his room,
seated before an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and with his Bible in
his lap. He glanced up from the book as his son pushed open the door.
“Well, Dannie?” he said, and his tones were mild, meditative, and
inquiring.
“I was looking for you, father. They told me you'd come up-town.”
“So I did; as soon as I heard there was going to be trouble over my
working in the shops I left.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“Not a word, Dannie, but I knew what was coming, and quit work.”
“You shouldn't have done it, daddy,” said Dan, seating himself on the
edge of the bed near the old man. “I can't let them say who shall
work in the shops and who not. The whole business was trumped up out of
revenge for the cut. They want to get even with me for _that_, you see.
If I back down and yield this point, there is no telling what they'll
ask next--probably that the wages be restored to the old figure.”
He spoke quite cheerfully, for he saw his father was cruelly hurt.
“It was all a mistake, Dannie--my coming to you, I mean,” Roger Oakley
said, shutting the book reverently and laying it to one side. “The
world's a small place, after all, and we should have known we couldn't
keep our secret. It's right I should bear my own cross, but it's not
your sin, and now it presses hardest on you. I'm sorry, Dannie--” and
his voice shook with the emotion he was striving to hide.
“No, no, father. To have you here has been a great happiness to me.”
“Has it, Dannie? has it really?” with a quick smile. “I am glad you can
say so, for it's been a great happiness to me--greater than I deserved,”
and he laid a big hand caressingly on his son's.
“We must go ahead, daddy, as if nothing had happened. If we let this
hurt us, we'll end by losing all our courage.”
“It's been a knock-out blow for me, Dannie,” with a wistful sadness,
“and I've got to go away. It's best for you I should. I've gone in one
direction and you've gone another. You can't reconcile opposites. I've
been thinking of this a good deal. You're young, and got your life ahead
of you, and you'll do big things before you're done, and people will
forget I can't drag you down just because I happen to be your father
and love you. Why, I'm of a different class even, but I can't go on. I'm
just as I am, and I can't change myself.”
“Why, bless your heart, daddy,” cried Dan, “I wouldn't have you changed.
You're talking nonsense. I won't let you go away.”
“But the girl, Dannie, the girl--the doctor's daughter! You see I hear a
lot of gossip in the shop, and even if you haven't told me, I know.”
“We may as well count that at an end,” said Dan, quietly.
“Do you think of leaving here?”
“No. If I began by running, I'd be running all the rest of my life. I
shall remain until I've accomplished everything I've set out to do, if
it takes ten years.”
“And what about Miss Emory, Dannie? If you are going to stay, why is
that at an end?”
“I dare say she'll marry Mr. Ryder. Anyhow, she won't marry me.”
“But I thought you cared for her?”
“I do, daddy.”
“Then why do you give up? You're as good as he is any day.”
“I'm not her kind, that's all. It has nothing to do with this. It would
have been the same, anyhow. I'm not her kind.”
Roger Oakley turned this over slowly in his mind. It was most
astonishing. He couldn't grasp it.
“Do you mean she thinks she is better than you are?” he asked,
curiously.
“Something of that sort, I suppose,” dryly. “I want you to come back
into the shops, father.”
“I can't do it, Dannie. I'm sorry if you wish it, but it's impossible.
I want to keep out of sight. Back East, when they pardoned me, every
one knew, and I didn't seem to mind, but here it's not the same. I can't
face it. It may be cowardly, but I can't.”