ON Thursday the _Herald_ published its report of the trouble at
the shops. Oakley had looked forward to the paper's appearance with
considerable eagerness. He hoped to glean from it some idea of the
tactics the men would adopt, and in this he was not disappointed. Ryder
served up his sensation, which was still a sensation, in spite of the
fact that it was common property and two days old before it was accorded
the dignity of type and ink, in his most impressive style:
“The situation at the car-shops has assumed a serious phase, and a
strike is imminent. Matters came to a focus day before yesterday, and
may now be said to have reached an acute stage. It is expected that the
carpenters--of whom quite a number are employed on repair work--will be
the first to go out unless certain demands which they are to make to-day
are promptly acceded to by General Cornish's local representative.
“Both sides maintain the strictest secrecy, but from reliable sources
the Herald gathers that the men will insist upon Mr. Branyon being taken
back by the company.
“Another grievance of the men, and one in which they should have the
sympathy of the entire community, is their objection to working with
the manager's father, who came here recently from the East and has since
been employed in the shops. It has been learned that he is an ex-convict
who was sentenced for a long term of imprisonment in June, 1875, for the
murder of Thomas Sharp, at Burton, Massachusetts.
“He was only recently set at liberty, and the men are natural-ly
incensed and indignant at having to work with him. Still another
grievance is the new schedule of wages.
“A committee representing every department in the shops and possessing
the fullest authority, met last night at the Odd Fellows' Hall on South
Main Street, but their deliberations were secret. A well-authenticated
rumor has it, however, that the most complete harmony prevailed, and
that the employés are pledged to drastic measures unless they get fair
treatment from the company.”
Ryder tacked a moral to this, and the moral was that labor required a
champion to protect it from the soulless greed and grinding tyranny
of the great corporations which had sprung into existence under the
fostering wing of corrupt legislation. Of course “the Picturesque
Statesman from Old Hanover” was the Hercules who was prepared to right
these wrongs of honest industry, and to curb the power of Cornish, whose
vampire lusts fattened on the sweat of the toiler, and especially the
toiler at Antioch.
A copy of the paper was evidently sent the “Picturesque Statesman,” who
had just commenced his canvass, for in its very next issue the _Herald_
was able to print a telegram in which he “heartily endorsed the
sentiments embodied in the _Herald's_ ringing editorial on the situation
at Antioch,” and declared himself a unit with his fellow-citizens of
whatever party in their heroic struggle for a fair day's wage for a fair
day's work. He also expressed himself as honored by their confidence,
as, indeed, he might well have been.
Dan digested the _Herald's_ report along with his breakfast. Half an
hour later, when he reached the office, he found McClintock waiting for
him.
“The men want to see you, Mr. Oakley. They were going to send their
committee in here, but I told 'em you'd come out to them.”
“All right. It's just as well you did.” And Oakley followed him from the
office.
“Did you read the _Herald's_ yap this morning?” Inquired the
master-mechanic.
“Yes,” said Dan, “I did. It was rather funny, Wasn't it?”
“The town will be owing Ryder a coat of tar and feathers presently.
He'll make these fools think they've got a reason to be sore on the
company.”
The men were clustered about the great open door of the works in their
shirt-sleeves. From behind them, in the silence and the shadow, came
the pleasant, droning sound of machinery, like the humming of a million
bees. There was something dogged and reckless in the very way they stood
around, with folded arms, or slouched nervously to and fro.
Dan singled out Bentick and Joe Stokes, and three or four others, as the
committee, and made straight towards them.
“Well, men, what do you want?” he asked, briskly.
“We represent every department in the shops, sir,” said Bentick,
civilly, “and we consider Branyon's discharge as unjust. We want him
taken back.”
“And suppose I won't take him back, what are you going to do about
it--eh?” asked Dan, good-naturedly, and, not waiting for a reply, with
oldtime deftness he swung himself up into an empty flat-car which stood
close at hand and faced his assembled workmen.
“You know why Branyon was dismissed. It was a business none of you have
much reason to be proud of, but I am willing to let him come back on
condition he first offers an apology to McClintock and to me. Unless he
does he can never set his foot inside these doors again while I remain
here. I agree to this, because I don't wish to make him a scapegoat for
the rest of you, and I don't wish those dependent on him to suffer.”
He avoided looking in McClintock's direction. He felt, rather than
saw, that the latter was shaking his head in strong disapproval of
his course. The committee and the men exchanged grins. The boss was
weakening. They had scored twice. First against Roger Oakley, and now
for Branyon.
“I guess Branyon would as lief be excused from making an apology, if
it's all the same to Milt,” said Bentick, less civilly than before, and
there was a ripple of smothered laughter from the crowd.
Dan set his lips, and said, sternly but quietly, '“That's for him to
decide.”
“Well, we'll tell him what you say, and if he's ready to eat humble-pie
there won't be no kick coming from us,” remarked Bentick, impartially.
“Is this all?” asked Oakley.
“No, we can't see the cut.” And a murmur of approval came from the men.
Dan looked out over the crowd. Why couldn't they see that the final
victory was in his hands? “Be guided by me,” he said, earnestly, “and
take my word for it; the cut is necessary. I'll meet you half-way in the
Branyon matter; let it go at that.”
“We want our old wages,” insisted Bentick, doggedly.
“It is out of the question; the shops are running behind; they are not
earning any money, they never have, and it's as much to your interests
as mine, or General Cornish's, to do your full part in making them
profitable.”
He pleaded with unmistakable sincerity in his tones, and now he looked
at McClintock, who nodded his head. This was the stiff talk he liked to
hear, and had expected from Oakley.
The committee turned to the men, and the men sullenly shook their heads.
Some one whispered, “He'll knuckle. He's got to. We'll make him.” Dan
caught the sense of what was said, if not the words.
“Wages can't go back until the business in the shops warrants it. If you
will continue to work under the present arrangement, good and well. If
not, I see no way to meet your demands. You will have to strike. That,
however, is an alternative I trust you will carefully weigh before you
commit yourselves. Once the shops are closed it will not be policy to
open them until fall, perhaps not until the first of the year. But if
you can afford to lie idle all summer, it's your own affair. That's
exactly what it means if you strike.”
He jumped down from the car, and would have left them then and there,
but Bentick stepped in front of him. “Can't we talk it over, Mr. Oakley?”
“There is nothing to talk over, Bentick. Settle it among yourselves.”
And he marched off up the tracks, with McClintock following in his wake
and commending the stand he had taken.
The first emotion of the men was one of profound and depressing surprise
at the abruptness with, which Oakley had terminated the interview, and
his evident willingness to close the shops, a move they had not counted
on. It dashed their courage.
“We'll call his bluff,” cried Bentick, and the men gave a faint cheer.
They were not so sure it was a bluff, after all. It looked real enough.
There were those who thought, with a guilty pang, of wives and children
at home, and no payday--the fortnightly haven of rest towards which,
they lived. And there were the customarily reckless, souls, who thirsted
for excitement at any price, and who were willing to see the trouble to
a finish. These ruled, as they usually do. Not a man returned to work.
Instead, they hung about the yards and canvassed the situation. Finally
the theory was advanced that, if the shops were closed, it would serve
to bring down Cornish's wrath on Oakley, and probably result in his
immediate dismissal. This theory found instant favor, and straightway
became a conviction with the majority.
At length all agreed to strike, and the whistle in the shops was set
shrieking its dismal protest. The men swarmed into the building, where
each got together his kit of tools. They were quite jolly now, and
laughed and jested a good deal. Presently they were streaming off
up-town, with their coats over their arms, and the strike was on.
An unusual stillness fell on the yards and in the shops. The belts, as
they swept on and on in endless revolutions, cut this stillness with
a sharp, incisive hiss. The machinery seemed to hammer at it, as if
to beat out some lasting echo. Then, gradually, the volume of sound
lessened. It mumbled to a dotage of decreasing force, and then
everything stopped with a sudden jar. The shops had shut down.
McClintock came from the office and entered the works, pulling the big
doors to after him. He wanted to see that all was made snug. He cursed
loudly as he strode through the deserted building. It was the first time
since he had been with the road that the shops had been closed, and it
affected him strangely.
The place held a dreadful, ghostly inertness. The belts and shafting,
with its innumerable cogs and connections, reached out like the
heavy-knuckled tentacles of some great, lifeless monster. The sunlight
stole through the broken, cobwebbed windows, to fall on heaps of rusty
iron and heaps of dirty shavings.
In the engine-room he discovered Smith Roberts and his assistant, Joe
Webber, banking the fires, preparatory to leaving. They were the only
men about the place. Roberts closed a furnace-door with a bang, threw
down his shovel, and drew a grimy arm across his forehead.
“Did you ever see such a lot of lunkheads, Milt? I'll bet they'll be
kicking themselves good and hard before they get to the wind-up of
this.”
McClintock looked with singular affection at the swelling girths of
iron which held the panting lungs of the monster the men had doomed to
silence, and swore his most elaborate oath.
“No, I never did, Smith. You'd think they had money to burn the way they
chucked their job.”
“When do you suppose I'll get a chance to build steam again?”
“Oakley says we won't start up before the first of September.”