THE first weeks of the strike slipped by without excitement. Harvest
time came and went. A rainless August browned the earth and seared the
woods with its heat, but nothing happened to vary the dull monotony. The
shops, a sepulchre of sound, stood silent and empty. General Cornish,
in the rôle of the avenger, did not appear on the scene, to Oakley's
discomfiture and to the joy of the men. A sullen sadness rested on
the town. The women began to develop shrewish tempers and a trying
conversational habit, while their husbands squandered their rapidly
dwindling means in the saloons. There was large talk and a variety of
threats, but no lawlessness.
Simultaneously with the inauguration of the strike, Jeffy reappeared
mysteriously. He hinted darkly at foreign travel under singularly
favorable auspices, and intimated that he had been sojourning in a
community where there was always some one to “throw a few whiskeys” into
him when his “coppers got hot,” and where he had “fed his face” three
times a day, so bounteous was the charity.
At intervals a rumor was given currency that Oakley was on the verge of
starting up with imported labor, and the men, dividing the watches,
met each train; but only familiar types, such as the casual commercial
traveller with his grips, the farmer from up or down the line, with his
inevitable paper parcels, and the stray wayfarer were seen to step from
the Huckleberry's battered coaches. Finally it dawned upon the men that
Dan was bent on starving them into submission.
Ryder had displayed what, for him, was a most _unusual_ activity. Almost
every day he held conferences with the leaders of the strike, and his
personal influence went far towards keeping the men in line. Indeed,
his part in the whole affair was much more important than was generally
recognized.
The political campaign had started, and Kenyon was booked to speak in
Antioch. It was understood in advance that he would declare for the
strikers, and his coming caused a welcome flutter of excitement.
The statesman arrived on No. 7, and the reception committee met him
at the station in two carriages. It included Cap Roberts, the Hon.
Jeb Barrows, Ryder, Joe Stokes, and Bentick. The two last were an
inspiration of the editor's, and proved a popular success.
The brass-band hired for the occasion discoursed patriotic airs, as
Kenyon, in a long linen duster and a limp, wilted collar, presented
himself at the door of the smoker. The great man was all blandness and
suavity--an oily suavity that oozed and trickled from every pore.
The crowd on the platform gave a faint, unenthusiastic cheer as it
caught sight of him. It had been more interested in staring at Bentick
and Stokes. They looked so excessively uncomfortable.
Mr. Kenyon climbed down the steps and shook hands with Mr. Ryder. Then,
bowing and smiling to the right and left, he crossed the platform,
leaning on the editor's arm. At the carriages there were more greetings.
Stokes and Bentick were formally presented, and the Congressman mounted
to a place beside them, whereat the crowd cheered again, and Stokes
and Bentick looked, if possible, more miserable than before. They had a
sneaking idea that a show was being made of them. Ryder took his place
in the second carriage, with Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows, and
the procession moved off up-town to the hotel, preceded by the band
playing a lively two-step out of tune, and followed by a troop of
bare-legged urchins.
After supper the statesman was serenaded by the band, and a little later
the members of the Young Men's Kenyon Club, attired in cotton-flannel
uniforms, marched across from the _Herald_ office to escort him to the
Rink, where he was to speak. He appeared radiant in a Prince Albert and
a shiny tile, and a _boutonnière_, this time leaning on the arm of Mr.
Stokes, to the huge disgust of that worthy mechanic, who did not know
that a statesman had to lean on somebody's arm. It is hoary tradition,
and yet it had a certain significance, too, if it were meant to indicate
that Kenyon couldn't keep straight unless he was propped.
A wave of fitful enthusiasm swept the assembled crowd, and Mr. Stokes's
youngest son, Samuel, aged six, burst into tears, no one knew why, and
was led out of the press by an elder brother, who alternately slapped
him and wiped his nose on his cap.
Mr. Kenyon, smiling his unwearied, mirthless smile, seated himself in
his carriage. Mr. Ryder, slightly bored and wholly cynical, followed his
example. Mr. Stokes and Mr. Bentick, perspiring and abject, and looking
for all the world like two criminals, dropped dejectedly into the
places assigned them. Only Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows seemed
entirely at ease. They were campaign fixtures. The band emitted a
harmony-destroying crash, while Mr. Jimmy Smith, the drum-major,
performed sundry bewildering passes with his gilt staff. The Young Men's
Kenyon Club fell over its own feet into line, and the procession started
for the Rink. It was a truly inspiring moment.
As soon as the tail of the procession was clear of the curb,
it developed that Clarence and Spide were marshalling a rival
demonstration. Six small and exceedingly dirty youngsters, with reeking
torches, headed by Clarence and his trusty lieutenant, fell gravely in
at the rear of the Kenyon Club. Clarence was leaning on Spide's arm.
Pussy Roberts preceded them, giving a highly successful imitation of
Mr. Jimmy Smith. He owned the six torches, and it was unsafe to
suppress him, but the others spoke disparagingly of his performance as a
side-show.
Since an early hour of the evening the people had been gathering at the
Rink. It was also the Opera-House, where, during the winter months,
an occasional repertory company appeared in “East Lynn,” the “New
Magdalen,” or Tom Robertson's “Caste.” The place was two-thirds full
at a quarter to eight, when a fleet courier arrived with the gratifying
news that the procession was just leaving the square, and that Kenyon
was riding with his hat off, and in familiar discourse with Stokes and
Bentick.
Presently out of the distance drifted the first strains of the band.
A little later Cap. Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows appeared on the
make-shift stage from the wings. There was an applausive murmur, for
the Hon. Jeb was a popular character. It was said of him that he always
carried a map of the United States in tobacco juice on his shirt front.
He was bottle-nosed and red faced. No man could truthfully say he had
ever seen him drunk, nor had any one ever seen him sober. He shunned
extremes. Next, the band filed into the balcony, and was laboriously
sweating its way through the national anthem, when Kenyon and Ryder
appeared, followed by the wretched Stokes and Bentick. A burst of
applause shook the house. When it subsided, the editor stepped to the
front of the stage. With words that halted, for the experience was a new
one, he introduced the guest of the evening.
It was generally agreed afterwards that it had been a great privilege to
hear Kenyon. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but that was a
minor consideration. The Congressman was well on towards the end of his
speech, and had reached the local situation, which he was handling in
what the _Herald_ subsequently described as “a masterly fashion, cool,
logical, and convincing,” when Oakley wandered in, and, unobserved, took
a seat near the door. He glanced about him glumly. There had been a time
when these people had been, in their way, his friends. Now those nearest
him even avoided looking in his direction. At last he became conscious
that some one far down near the stage, and at the other side of the
building, was nodding and smiling at him. It was Dr. Emory. Mrs. Emory
and Constance were with him. Dan caught the fine outline of the latter's
profile. She was smiling an amused smile. It was her first political
meeting, and she was finding it quite as funny as Ryder had said it
would be.
Dan listened idly, hearing only a word now and then. At length a
sentence roused him. The speaker was advising the men to stand for their
rights. He rose hastily, and turned to leave; he had heard enough; but
some one cried out, “Here's Oakley,” and instantly every one in the
place was staring at him.
Kenyon took a step nearer the foot-lights. Either he misunderstood
or else he wished to provoke an argument, for he said, with slippery
civility: “I shall be very pleased to listen to Mr. Oakley's side of the
question. This is a free country, and I don't deny him or any man the
right to express his views. The fact that I am unalterably opposed
to the power he represents is no bar to the expression here of his
opinion.”
Oakley's face was crimson. He paused irresolutely; he saw the jeer on
Ryder's lips, and the desire possessed him to tell these people
what fools they were to listen to the cheap, lungy patriotism of the
demagogue on the stage.
He rested a hand on the back of the chair in front of him, and leaned
forward with an arm extended at the speaker, but his eyes were fixed
on Miss Emory's face. She was smiling at him encouragingly, he thought,
bidding him to speak.
“This is doubtless your opportunity,” he said, “but I would like to ask
what earthly interest you have in Antioch beyond the votes it may give
you?”
Kenyon smiled blandly and turned for one fleeting instant to wink at
Ryder. “And my reply is this: What about the twenty-million-dollar
specimen of American manhood who is dodging around London on the money
he's made here in this State--yes, and in this town? He's gone to
England to break his way into London society, and, incidentally, to
marry his daughter to a title.”
A roar of laughter greeted this sally.
“That may be,” retorted Oakley, hotly, “but Antioch has been getting its
share of his money, too. Don't forget that. There's not a store-keeper
in this audience whose bank account will not show, in hard American
dollars, what General Cornish does for Antioch when Antioch is willing
to let him do for it. But, granted that what you have said is true, who
can best afford to meet the present situation? General Cornish or these
men? On whom does the hardship fall heavier, on them or on him?”
“That was not the spirit which prevailed at Bunker Hill and Lexington!
No, thank God! our fathers did not stop to count the cost, and we have
our battles to-day just as vital to the cause of humanity; and I, for
one, would rather see the strong arm of labor wither in its socket than
submit to wrong or injustice!”
Oakley choked down his disgust and moved towards the door. There was
applause and one or two cat-calls. Not heeding them, he made his way
from the building. He had reached the street when a detaining hand was
placed upon his arm. He turned savagely, but it proved to be only Turner
Joyce, who stepped to his side, with a cheerful:
“Good-evening, Mr. Oakley. They seem to be having a very gay time in
there, don't they?”
“Have you been in?” demanded Oakley, grimly.
“I? Oh, no! I have just been taking a picture home.”
“Well,” said Oakley, “I have just been making a damned fool of myself.
I hope that is something you are never guilty of, Mr. Joyce?” Joyce
laughed, and tucked his hand through his companion's arm.
“Doesn't every one do that occasionally?” he asked.
Dan shook off his bitterness. Recently he had been seeing a great deal
of the little artist and his wife, who were about the only friends he or
his father had left in Antioch. They walked on in silence Joyce was
too tactful to ask any questions concerning his friend's affairs, so he
ventured an impersonal criticism on Kenyon, with the modest diffidence
of a man who knows he is going counter to public sentiment.
“Neither Ruth nor I had any curiosity to hear him speak to-night. I
heard him when he was here last. It may be my bringing up, but I do like
things that are not altogether rotten, and I'm afraid I count him as
sort of decayed.” Then he added: “I suppose everybody was at the Rink
to-night?”
“The place was packed.”
“It promises to be a lively campaign, I believe, but I take very little
interest in politics. My own concerns occupy most of my time. Won't you
come in, Mr. Oakley?” for they had reached his gate.
On the little side porch which opened off the kitchen they found Ruth.
She rose with a pleased air of animation when she saw who was with her
husband. Oakley had lived up to his reputation as a patron of the arts.
He had not forgotten, in spite of his anxieties, the promise made Joyce
months before, and at that very moment, safely bestowed in Mrs. Joyce's
possession, were two formidable-looking strips of heavy pink paper,
which guaranteed the passage of the holder to New York and return.
“I hope this confounded strike is not going to interfere with you, Mr.
Joyce,” said Oakley, as he seated himself. He had discovered that they
liked to talk about their own plans and hopes, and the trip East was the
chief of these. Already he had considered it with them from every
conceivable point of view.
“It is aggravating, for, of course, if people haven't money they
can't very well afford to have pictures painted. But Ruth is managing
splendidly. I really don't think it will make any special difference.”
“I am determined Turner shall not miss this opportunity. I think, if it
wasn't for me, Mr. Oakley, he'd give up most everything he wants to do,
or has set his heart on.”
“He's lucky to have you, then. Most men need looking after.”
“I'm sure I do,” observed the little artist, with commendable meekness.
He was keenly alive to his own shortcomings. “I'd never get any sort of
prices for my work if she didn't take a hand in the bargaining.”
“Some one has to be mercenary,” said Ruth, apologetically. “It's all
very well to go around with your head in the clouds, but it don't pay.”
“No, it don't pay,” agreed Dan.
There was a long pause, which a cricket improved to make itself heard
above the sweep of the night wind through the tree-tops. Then Ruth said:
“I saw Miss Emory to-day. She asked about you.”
Mrs. Joyce and her husband had taken a passionate interest in Oakley's
love affair, and divined the utter wreck of his hopes.
“Did she? I saw her at the Rink, too, but of course not to speak with.”
Turner Joyce trod gently but encouragingly on his wife's foot. He felt
that Oakley would be none the worse for a little cheer, and he had
unbounded faith in his wife's delicacy and tact. She was just the person
for such a message.
“She seemed--that is, I gathered from what she said, and it wasn't so
much what she said as what she didn't say--”
Dan laughed outright, and Joyce joined in with a panic-stricken chuckle.
Ruth was making as bad a botch of the business as he could have made.
“I am not at all sensitive,” said Dan, with sudden candor. “I have
admired her immensely; I do still, for the matter of that.”
“Then why don't you go there?”
“I can't, Mrs. Joyce. You know why.”
“But I think she looks at it differently now.”
Oakley shook his head. “No, she doesn't. There's just one way she can
look at it.”
“Women are always changing their minds,” persisted Ruth. It occurred to
her that Constance had been at her worst in her relation with Oakley. If
she cared a scrap for him, why hadn't she stood by him when he needed
it most? The little artist blinked tenderly at his wife. He was lost in
admiration at her courage. He would not have dared to give their friend
this comfort.
The conversation languished. They heard the strains of the band when
the meeting at the Rink broke up, and the voices of the people on the
street, and then there was silence again.