AN INCIDENT AT THE MILL
On a morning when Beth took her turn at marketing she met Mather on the
street. "It's four days since you were at the house," she reminded him.
"Is there really any advantage in my coming often?" he asked her.
"I don't know," she answered plaintively. "But Judith has very little to
do. You might ask her to visit the mill."
"Come any time. Both of you," he responded.
"I'll bring her this morning," she said quickly.
But when Mather had been another hour at the mill he forgot the
engagement thus made. For in going about he noticed that the quiet in
the place was different from the bustle of ordinary days; the men seemed
expectant. Then as he passed near one of the older workmen the man spoke
to him under his voice.
"Look out this morning, sir."
"The strike is coming, Ferguson?" Mather asked, at once alert.
"Yes, sir."
Mather returned to his desk in the office. He believed that the strike,
if it came so soon, would be ill-planned. The day was warm; all doors
and windows were open to admit the harbour breeze; as he looked through
the screen-door into the mill he watched one man in particular. Though
the fellow's station was at a window, he seemed hotter than his
neighbours: his face was flushed; he wiped his brow and moved nervously.
The stenographer rose from her desk and silently laid a slip of paper
before Mather. On it was scrawled in pencil: "Wee will stand by you,
Mister Mather. Old Hands." Mather smiled; he had but twelve out of
seventy workmen who knew what strikes and lockouts meant. Most of the
men he had picked up where he could, training them himself; he had no
idea how far he could trust them. Instead of giving him confidence, the
note suddenly showed how weak his backing was.
"Where did you get this, Miss Jenks?" he asked.
"I found it just now, sir, slipped in among my papers."
"Thank you," he answered, and she went back to her desk, pale and
frightened.
The workman whom Mather had been watching kept looking at the clock. It
began to strike eleven; at once all eyes were turned on him; all work
was suspended during the slow striking. When this ceased, the workman
left his place and went to the door of the office; all glances followed
him, and the men who were more distant left their stations and crowded
to watch. Conscious of the stir he made, the fellow walked with a
swagger, but a change came in his manner when, through the screen-door,
he saw the quiet manager also eyeing him. He knocked on the door.
"Come in, Stock," said Mather.
Now the main entrance to the office was from outside, through a short
passage. At the moment when the workman entered from the mill, Judith
and Beth came into the passage; seeing Mather in apparent conference
with an employee, they waited until he should be finished. He had
wheeled in his chair, and his back was turned to them. "Well, Stock?" he
said.
The spokesman of the employees was a lean man, somewhat wolfish, with
an eye that moved too much. He seemed a talker rather than a doer, with
something of the actor showing as he stood by the door and folded his
arms. He spoke with an important air; no voice, Judith thought, can be
impressive if it is not clear.
"I've come to say, sir, that we're dissatisfied."
"That means," asked Mather, quietly and without rising, "that _you_ are
dissatisfied?"
The man cleared his throat, but still a characteristic huskiness
remained. "Yes, sir, I am."
"Very well," was the response, and the manager turned to the
stenographer. "Miss Jenks, make out a bill of this man's time."
Beth clutched Judith by the sleeve and sought to draw her away. Judith
stood still; not for anything would she have lost the sight of those two
men as they watched each other.
"You discharge me?" cried the workman with excitement.
"You discharged yourself," answered Mather steadily. "I can't have a man
here who is dissatisfied."
"My grievances----" began the other.
Mather cut him short. "Grievance is a word that doesn't apply. You knew
the conditions of work when you came; I have changed none of them."
"Then," cried Stock, "let me tell you from the men----"
"Stop!" ordered Mather; "no one speaks for my men who is not in my
employ."
"Just the same----" began Stock, anxiety peering from his eyes. Mather
interrupted him again.
"That will do. How much, Miss Jenks? Thanks." He took the money from his
pocket and handed it to the workman. "That is correct, I think. Good
day, Stock."
The workman was visibly troubled at the turn of events. "This is most
improper treatment," he complained. As he turned to the door at his back
he ventured a threat. "You shall see!"
"Not that door," said Mather quickly. "Remember that you are no longer a
workman here. The other way leads out of doors."
"I must get my hat," the man said, his eye now truly shifty and alarmed.
For a second it met Judith's, and she felt that he glared like a trapped
rat. Nevertheless, under Mather's glance he moved away from the mill
door.
"I will send for your hat," said Mather. He rose and opened the door
himself. "Jamison, Stock is leaving us. Will you bring his hat?"
He stood at the open door and waited. Judith looked beyond him into the
mill, where machinery rumbled, and in great vats huge cylinders
revolved. The men stood and stared at each other, or looked at the door
and the manager standing there. Some of the men were shamefaced, some
uneasy, some were smiling--and these were the older hands. The man who
had gone for the hat had reached the door on his return before any sound
rose above the rumble of the machinery.
Then Judith heard a voice, high-pitched and harsh. It needed a look at
Stock to make sure his husky tones could become so sharp. He was craning
toward the door, sending his voice toward those farthest away.
"Now is the time," he cried, "to assert your manhood!"
Mather took out his watch. "Yes," he said, and though he did not raise
his voice Judith noted its splendid carrying power. "Now is your time,
boys. Any one dissatisfied, like Stock here, can go with him. I give you
three minutes."
One of the older men laughed aloud, and standing above a vat began
raking in it, apparently, with a hooked pole. Others turned to their
work, yet they all kept their attention on those of the younger men who
stood still. Judith felt her hands grow cold, and knew her heart was
beating faster, for half of the men had not moved. Then fingers as cold
as her own took her hand, and Beth pressed up to her side. The older men
stopped work again, the man above the vat stood with pole suspended, and
Stock gave a little dramatic laugh.
"One minute!" said Mather clearly.
The men's eyes were on him, Judith's eyes also. He was calm and
perfectly confident; he had no word to say, but he seemed massive as his
own chimney, and as hard to move. His eye roved among the men, then
turned to the office, and for an instant met those of the frightened
stenographer. He gave a smile of confidence, looked at his watch, then
turned again to his men.
"A minute and a half!"
His voice seemed to ring out a challenge. Before it the men broke. One
who stood nearest the door, smiling feebly, turned and shuffled toward
his place. He gave the signal to the others. One by one they went to
work, but this time the older men last, until the man by the vat, with a
disdainful sniff, plunged his pole again into the liquid. Then Stock,
reaching for his hat, snatched it and almost ran from the office. In the
passage he fairly crowded Judith and Beth against the wall. Mather,
turning to look after him, saw the sisters.
At once he closed the solid door into the mill, cutting out the sounds
and bringing quiet. "Come in," he said to Judith. "How long have you
been there?"
"About three minutes," she answered, entering. She looked him in the
eye; he saw that she was excited, and flushed under the admiration
which showed in her glance.
"I am sorry you ran into this," he said. "I had not expected it for a
fortnight."
"I am glad," she returned. "What a peaceful spot this will be for a
while. You will show us over the mill?"
"Not when this has just happened," he answered. "It would be too much
like showing off the animals I had tamed. Will you excuse me?"
"I must see the office, then," she said. "Open your safe: pretend I am a
bank inspector, do!"
He laughed and introduced the sisters to Miss Jenks, laid out his books,
opened the safe, and challenged their criticism. Judith had never been
in an office before: the excitement of what she had just seen still
dominated her. To the stenographer's eyes she was dazzling, enchanting;
even Mather, though he told himself that the interest would pass, was
deeply pleased. He showed the store-room with its stock of sheet metal,
the yard, the wharf, the coal-pockets. Returning to the mill, the three
entered the office again.
"It is almost twelve," said Beth, looking at the clock.
A new interest took Judith, and she did not hear. Miss Jenks was at work
at her typewriter; she realised that Judith was watching
her--critically, of course. The magnificent Miss Blanchard must be above
such a thing as typewriting.
But Judith was interested rather than critical as she watched the clever
fingers at their work. It did not seem hard, and it fascinated her as at
each stroke a long type-arm sprang up, reached over, and struck upon the
paper. Letters grew to words, words to lines--and a faint glow spread
over the stenographer's face as Miss Blanchard moved forward to her
side and looked down at her work.
"You don't mind, do you?" asked Judith.
Miss Jenks did mind; she was nervous and almost frightened, but she
stuck to her task. Judith bent lower over the machine, knitting her brow
as she studied its working. The regular movement of the carriage, the
flashing type-arms, the flying fingers, and the result in violet print,
took strong hold of her.
"There," said Miss Jenks at last, flushing deeply, "the letter is ready
for Mr. Mather's signature." She drew it from the machine and handed it
to Judith.
"Is it so very hard?" asked Judith, glancing at the letter for but a
moment, then fixing the stenographer with an earnest eye. "Did you have
to study long?"
"At the typewriting?" asked Miss Jenks. "No, I picked that up quickly.
But shorthand is not easy at all." She took from the desk a note-book
and offered it to Judith. "Those are my notes of what Mr. Mather
dictated."
The pothooks on the paper meant nothing to Judith, but she saw that they
were very few. "Is this whole letter in these signs?" she asked.
"Indeed! It must be hard to learn." She looked still harder at the
stenographer, who blushed again under the intense scrutiny. Judith was
thinking that if this little, anæmic girl could learn shorthand, surely
she could do so herself.
"But Judith," said Beth, interposing, "you are keeping her from her
work."
"The letters are all finished," murmured Miss Jenks, glad to turn her
embarrassed eyes elsewhere.
Judith moved to the typewriter and looked down at it. Until this morning
she had never seen one except in an advertisement; its shiny
complications grew more attractive. She said nothing, but Beth smiled
at Mather mischievously.
"Try it," she suggested to Judith.
"Oh, if you will!" exclaimed Miss Jenks. She slipped a sheet of paper
into place and placed the chair for Judith. "Will you not?" she invited.
Judith took the seat.
"You can begin," suggested Miss Jenks, "by striking the letters one by
one. You press this key----"
"For capitals; yes, I saw," Judith replied. "No, I will try to write
without practising. To whom, Beth?"
"Tell Mr. Pease," Beth suggested, "that you approve of his manager."
So Judith wrote, dating, addressing, and beginning to explain that she
liked the mill. It--she bit her lip--was not quite so easy as it might
be, nor--as she finished a line without mistake, and released her lip
again--so very hard after all. She became interested, forgot the others,
and talked to herself.
"R--where's R? Oh, thanks. That was not hard enough; it scarcely
printed. Now Y--here! Now the end of the line; how easily this runs.
Beth, how do you spell----?"
Then they laughed at her, and she rose. "Judith, it's almost twelve,"
said Beth again. "Let's get away before the workmen do."
"George," Judith said to Mather, "let me look into the mill once more."
He opened the door again. The cylinders were still turning; the men were
busy--they even looked cheerful. And but for Mather's firm hand the mill
might at this moment be empty and idle! She gave him a glance of frank
approval as she turned to say good-bye. On the way home she was so
silent that Beth wondered if she were moved by what she had seen.
In fact, Judith was deeply moved. Never before had she seen such a sight
as that in the office, and the qualities displayed by Mather had
impressed her. Thus to stand up against a danger, thus to handle men--it
seemed to Judith as if he had done something almost great. His coolness
and success were heroic; for the rest of the day he occupied her mind;
she sat on the piazza, even at the table, with thoughts visibly
abstracted, and Beth at last became so impressed that she sought the
telephone when Judith was out of hearing, meaning to give Mather a piece
of advice. But he was no longer at the office; Miss Jenks said he had
gone to the city.
"I am very sorry," said Beth.
"So am I," sympathised Miss Jenks.
"I wanted to ask him to come up here this evening," said Beth. "You are
sure I cannot get him at his hotel?"
"Very sure," replied Miss Jenks. So Beth, much disappointed, left the
telephone.
Miss Jenks could have told Beth more. When the sisters had gone from the
mill, the stenographer found in the typewriter a sheet which she took
out and laid silently before her employer. He looked at it for a while,
then--tore it up. He had passed beyond the stage of treasuring reminders
of his lady. Only the day before he had found and destroyed a little
hoard of mementos which seemed to reproach him with his lack of success.
Judith, he told himself with that grimness which was a feature of his
self-control, did not exactly inspire poetic dreaming. So he destroyed
the letter, but when his day's work was over he turned reluctantly from
going to see her.
Miss Jenks saw his hesitation as, after putting on his hat, he stood at
the door and visibly asked himself: "Which way?" To the right led up
the hill and to Judith; to the left would bring him to his cottage;
straight ahead stood a trolley-car ready to start back to the city. The
little stenographer would have been wise enough to send him where, at
that moment, Judith was thinking of him. But like a man he blundered.
"Hang it!" he thought, "she doesn't want to see me all the time." He
counted up that he had seen her twice in one week; Sunday was the
earliest that he could go again. Also he remembered Ellis's house-plans.
So Miss Jenks, with a sense of disappointment which was both personal
and unselfish, saw him board the car.
At her house Beth scratched a note to Mather; it contained only the
words: "Follow it up!" She would send it in the morning. But after
dinner Judith received a telephone message from Mrs. Harmon, asking her
if she would not come over for the evening. Judith consented; it would
be neighbourly to go.
"Will you come?" she asked of Beth.
"Is the Judge there?" Beth inquired.
"He is in the city."
"Then I think I'll stay at home," decided Beth. She forecasted events
exactly. Judith went, stayed most of the evening, and was escorted home
by--Ellis. "He came down," Judith vouchsafed, "after I arrived there."
Since morning Judith had been softer, gentler than usual; but now she
was lofty again, with her old manner underlaid by excitement. Beth went
sadly to her room and tore up her note to Mather.