MR. SCHOFIELD’S BOMBSHELL
THE meeting room of Scioto lodge, B. of L. E., was jammed to the doors.
Every member who was off duty and who could by any possibility attend,
was present. Many of them had come in from the road only a short time
before, and in the ordinary course of things, would have gone home, got
something to eat, and gone to bed; but the present crisis took the place
of food and sleep, and its excitement robbed them of desire for either.
The meeting hall was on the third floor of a brick building only a short
distance from the station. It was reached by two long flights of steep
and narrow stairs, and was cold and scantily furnished and uninviting.
At various points about the room, large arm chairs stood on little
platforms, these being the stations for the officers of the lodge, when
going through the intricacies of the ritual. Rows of smaller chairs were
pushed back along the walls, there was a table or two—and that was all.
On this bright morning in late January, as has been said, the hall was
crowded. A group had gathered around Bassett, who was declaiming
excitedly.
“It’s our chance,” he was saying. “Now’s the time t’show the road who’s
boss. You know well enough all the other orders’ll stand by us, an’
we’ll tie the division up so tight it can’t turn a wheel.”
The younger men nodded emphatically, but a few of the older ones looked
grave. They had been through strikes before, and knew that they did not
always turn out as the strikers anticipated.
“I don’t know,” put in one of them, hesitatingly. “I don’t believe we’ll
ever be able to boss the road. It don’t look right. If you had a
business, you’d want to run it, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” flashed Bassett. “But I’d run it square.”
“O’ course; we kin do our best to make ’em run it square.”
“Well, that’s all we’re tryin’ to do now, ain’t it?”
“Some o’ you fellers seem to be hopin’ there’ll be a strike. Mebbe
they’ll reinstate Bassett.”
“Mebbe they will,” growled that worthy, “but I don’t believe it. They
ain’t got manhood enough to do that.”
In his heart, he knew that he had been wrong, and did not deserve
reinstatement; but this consciousness of guilt interfered in no way with
the bold face he turned to the world, and the loud voice in which he
proclaimed his wrongs. And a bold face and loud voice often have great
weight with the unthinking, who mistake them for the earmarks of
innocence.
“Well, I hope they will,” said another of the older men, wistfully. “I
ain’t in no sort o’ shape to stand a strike.”
“I ain’t either,” put in one of the younger men, boldly, “but that don’t
make no difference. I’d ruther starve ’n work fer a company as wouldn’t
do the right thing.”
“It’s all right to starve yourself,” rejoined the older man. “I used t’
feel that way, too; but when it comes t’ starvin’ yer family, it’s a
different matter—mighty different.”
“Yes,” added another, “an’ when a feller’s built a house an’ is payin’
fer it in the Buildin’ an’ Loan, a strike don’t look good, neither. If a
feller can’t make his payments, he loses his house, without any ifs or
ands about it.”
“Pshaw!” put in the young fellow, easily. “The brotherhood’ll take care
of you. You won’t starve nor lose your house, neither.”
“Mebbe not. But if I loses my job, a lot o’ good my house’ll do me,
won’t it?”
“Lose yer job? How kin you do that?”
“Easy enough. I’ve seen—”
But a sudden shout from the door interrupted him.
“Here’s Nixon! Here’s Nixon!”
And the great man was half-pushed, half-carried forward to the platform
at the end of the room.
He smiled about to those on the right and left of him, and finally
mounted the platform and deliberately removed overcoat and hat. A close
observer might have seen that he was very nervous, but he held himself
well in hand. The truth is, Nixon had not anticipated so large an
outpouring nor such intense interest in the case and in consequence,
found the task confronting him considerably more difficult than he had
thought it would be.
He took out his handkerchief and passed it over his moist moustache, for
he had stopped in the saloon on the first floor to take a single
“bracer,” then he held up his hand impressively for silence. Nixon
believed in doing a thing dramatically.
“Well, boys,” he announced, “I’ve seen Schofield.”
“What did he say?” shouted one of the men, impatient of Nixon’s
deliberate manner.
“Now, look here,” yelled Nixon, searching the offender out with
threatening forefinger, “I won’t be interrupted—I won’t! If another man
does that, I leave—an’ I’ll let y’ wait a week fer a letter from
headquarters. You don’t seem t’ realize what it means fer a man like me
t’ come down here t’ settle your rows.”
“That’s what you’re paid fer,” murmured one of the men, in a far corner,
but he lowered his voice carefully.
“Schofield an’ I went over the situation from a to izzard,” Nixon
continued, when quiet was restored, satisfied that there would be no
further interruptions. “He gave me the case from the road’s side, and I
gave him the case from our side, and I can’t deny that he had the best
of me.”
There was a little murmur at this, but Nixon stilled it instantly with
raised finger.
“The fact of the matter is,” he went on, raising his voice suddenly and
glowering at Bassett, who occupied a place in the front line, “this man
Bassett was drunk the other night, and every mother’s son of you knows
it.”
“It’s a lie!” yelled Bassett, white as death, and again there was a
murmur, but again Nixon managed to still it.
“I’ll answer _you_,” he said, pointing to Bassett, “after this meetin’
adjourns. I ain’t here to argue. I’m here to state facts. This man was
drunk an’ insulted his superior officer. The road had a right to fire
him on two counts—fer bein’ drunk an’ fer insubordination.”
He paused an instant and glowered around. There had been a little
movement at the door a few minutes before, and Mr. Schofield had stepped
quietly inside, followed by the two men whom Nixon had seen standing in
the hall outside the superintendent’s office. But so intent was everyone
on what Nixon was saying that no one observed them, and they stood
watching the proceedings without question or interference.
“Now, I’m going to give it to you fellers straight,” continued Nixon.
“You need it. You’ve been makin’ a little tin god of this feller and he
ain’t worth it. Now my advice to you is, drop him. Kick him out. At any
rate, the grand lodge won’t back you up if you try to call a strike
about this, and you know what that means. It means that your charter
will be taken away from you and the lodge disbanded. The grand lodge
will see every time that you get your rights, but it won’t back you up
when you’re as clearly in the wrong as you are now. Why, to call a
strike for a thing like that would be suicide. Let me tell you boys
something—you’ll never win any strike unless you have the public with
you. If the public’s against you, sooner or later you’ll be going back
to work like whipped curs—an’ you’ll be lucky if you kin get your old
jobs. An’ I guess that’s all,” he concluded, mopping his forehead with
his handkerchief.
Then his eyes rested on three men who had been gradually working their
way toward the stage, and he caught his breath sharply. But in an
instant, by a mighty effort, he had recovered his self-control.
“Boys,” he said, “here’s Mr. Schofield himself. I’m glad he’s with us. I
want to say that I’ve found him a square man.” There was a little
flutter of applause at this, for most of them had themselves found him
to be a square man. “We would all be glad to have Mr. Schofield address
us a few words,” added Nixon, but he glanced at the superintendent
apprehensively, as the latter, in response to the invitation, stepped
with alacrity upon the platform.
“Yes,” said Mr. Schofield, turning and facing the expectant audience, “I
want to say a few words to you. I have heard what Mr. Nixon has been
saying—I have listened to him with great pleasure. For I believe that
what he has told you is true—in the first place, that the road was right
in discharging Bassett and in refusing to reinstate him, and in the
second place that no strike can succeed unless it has the public behind
it.”
Here he glanced at Nixon, who had seated himself in the president’s
chair and who was nodding from time to time, as Mr. Schofield proceeded,
every trace of apprehension banished from his countenance.
“But before I go further,” Mr. Schofield continued, “I ought, perhaps,
to apologize for my presence here. I had intended, of course, to ask
permission to enter, but there wasn’t anybody at the door, nor anybody
to ask, so I just came in. I ask permission now.”
“That’s all right,” shouted one of the men, “go ahead,” and it was
evident from their smiling faces that everyone present concurred in the
invitation.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Schofield. “And now,” he continued, more
seriously, “I have something to say to you. As I said, I was glad to
hear Mr. Nixon’s sentiments and to see that, on the whole, you agreed
with him. I certainly think that the road was right in the stand it
took, and I believe all of you will agree with me when you think it
over. You have always found the road ready to meet you half way in any
reasonable demand, but we’ve got to maintain discipline or quit
business. And, after all—and here I’m talking very frankly to you—it’s
we who are running the road and not you. Of course, if you don’t like
the job, you can quit it—we don’t quarrel with that; but, if you are
really fair-minded, you will see our side, too, which is that if you
break the rules, you must take the consequences. When you take
employment with the road, you agree to obey the rules, and you can’t
object if the road holds you to the bargain.”
The superintendent was evidently carrying the crowd with him, and he
paused a moment before launching his bombshell. Should he launch it, he
asked himself, or should he let well enough alone? There would be no
strike, everything had been quietly smoothed over. Nixon had carried out
his agreement. Was it not wiser to stop now and let affairs take their
course? Then the remembrance of Allan West’s flushed and indignant face
rose before him and he nerved himself to go on.
“So I was interested to hear Mr. Nixon’s opinions,” he said, slowly,
“and I thought you might be interested in knowing how Mr. Nixon arrived
at them.”
At the words, Nixon turned livid and half-started from his chair, but
Mr. Schofield heard the movement and turned toward him sternly.
“Sit down,” he said, curtly, and the two men who had come in with him
moved closer to Nixon’s chair. “This representative of yours,” he
continued, impressively, “came to me this morning. I told him we had
decided not to reinstate Bassett. He said that in that case, there would
be a strike—a general strike—that would cost us thousands of dollars. He
hinted that the stock-yards would be set afire and other damage done to
the company’s property. But in the end, he agreed to report against
Bassett and prevent a strike, in consideration of the payment to him of
the sum of one thousand dollars.”
The room woke up at the words as though a cyclone had suddenly broken
loose. Nixon was on his feet, shaking his great fist at the speaker, who
was himself trembling with excitement.
“I paid him the money,” shouted Mr. Schofield, in a voice which
dominated even that tumult, “and he delivered the goods!”
The words fanned the flames anew, for a moment, and then a sudden
silence fell upon the crowd, as Bassett sprang to the platform.
“If this thing’s true,” he shouted, his face as white as Nixon’s, “we
want proofs. I’ve stood here an’ heard myself called a drunkard an’
liar, but I don’t care. I want proof.”
“And you shall have proof,” retorted Mr. Schofield, “if you’ll be quiet
a minute. That’s right—don’t let him get away,” he added, as Nixon tried
to slip from the platform and was promptly collared by the two
strangers.
“Who are you?” demanded the prisoner, white with rage. “Leggo me or I’ll
knock you down!”
“Oh, no, you won’t, Johnny,” rejoined one of them calmly, and showed his
shield.
“Detectives!” gasped Nixon.
“Exactly.”
“Let me set down,” said Nixon, faintly, and sank back into the chair
from which he had arisen.
“Now,” continued the superintendent, when that little by-play was ended,
“if you’ll listen a moment, I’ll give you your proof. I had intended to
have Nixon arrested as he left my office, but when he told me he was
coming right over here, I thought it would be more convincing to all of
you if I made the disclosure here. My proof is, that in the inside
pocket of Nixon’s coat there is a package of ten one hundred dollar
bills. They are notes issued by the First National Bank of this city,
and range from number A142320 to A142329. As a further mark of
identification, each of them has a small cross in red ink just over the
head of the eagle.”
Bassett sprang toward the crouching man.
“We’ll see!” he cried savagely, and ripping Nixon’s coat open plunged
his hand into the inside pocket.
An instant later, he snatched it out again, and waved the packet of
bills in the air over his head.
“It’s true!” he yelled. “He’s sold us!”
And he turned upon Nixon as though to rend him limb from limb, while the
mob pressed forward like so many maddened beasts.
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