THE STRIKE BEGINS
THE first day of the strike dawned much as any winter day might—cold and
blustery, with a threat of snow in the air. It can not be denied that
Allan was exceedingly nervous as he hastened to work. He stopped first
at the freight-house, but both Stanley and Reddy Magraw reported that
everything there was serene, and that the strikers had made no effort to
interfere with the men who were to supplant them.
About the yards, too, everything was moving as usual, and Allan began to
wonder if he were the only one to whom the coming hours seemed
threatening and full of menace. He might almost have fancied he had
dreamed the whole thing but for the patrol on duty before the
freight-house. At his desk, he made out the detail of crews from among
the strike-breakers, using for this purpose the reports which Mr. Round
had secured of the past performances and experience of the strangers.
These reports were anything but trustworthy, since they had come from
the men themselves, but they were the only thing to be had, and he made
up his lists from them, giving the more important trains to the men who
seemed best fitted to handle them. One thing made the task somewhat
easier than it would otherwise have been. He knew that for a few days,
at least, there would be no need to supply the places of conductors and
brakemen; only engineers and firemen had to be provided now, but, even
at that, it was with no little uneasiness that he finally passed the
list over to his stenographer to be copied.
The first important train for which he must supply a crew was Number
Three, the west-bound flyer, leaving Wadsworth at 2.30 P. M. As
engineer, he had selected a man named Hummel, who, from the report,
seemed to have had an exceptional experience. But as the morning
progressed, Allan grew more and more uneasy over the prospect of
choosing the wrong man for this important post, and finally decided to
have a look at Hummel before announcing the detail. So he called up the
freight-house and asked that that individual be sent over to him.
Five minutes later, one of Stanley’s deputies ushered into the chief
dispatcher’s office a man from whom Allan shrank instinctively as from a
serpent. He was a thin, undersized fellow, with a face deeply pitted and
with the ghastly pallour which smallpox sometimes leaves behind it. But
it was not the complexion so much as the eyes which disgusted and
repelled. It is difficult to describe the effect they produced—they were
so venomous, so bloodshot, so reptilian.
“Is your name Hummel?” Allan asked, speaking with an effort not to show
his repulsion.
“Yes, sir.”
“You seem to have had a good deal of experience.”
“Ten years of it,” answered Hummel, confidently.
“What was the trouble?”
“What trouble?” demanded Hummel truculently.
“How does it come you’re here?”
“Oh! Well, I never got a square deal. I ain’t no bootlicker I guess is
the reason.”
There was already a trace of hostility in his tone, as though he dimly
felt the aversion his appearance had occasioned.
“All right,” said Allan, “that’s all I want to know. Thank you for
coming over.”
He turned back to his work, and Hummel, after one venomous glance,
stalked out the door. Allan watched him and his guard as they crossed
the tracks toward the freight-house; then he reached for his list and
scratched out Hummel’s name. But which name should be substituted? He
hesitated for a moment and then, snatching up his hat, hastened over to
the freight-house himself. Half an hour later he returned, with some
little information as to the appearance of the owners of the several
names. Fully half of them he had checked off as not to be sent out at
all, unless it should prove absolutely necessary. From the other half he
chose the men who would be needed during the next twenty-four hours.
So the morning passed and noon came, and the great division clock ticked
off the seconds as calmly as though this midday was just like any other.
To all appearances it was. The first train to start, Number Four, the
east-bound flyer, left Cincinnati at 12.15, promptly on time. The
regular engineer had, of course, failed to report for duty, and when a
special man, convoyed by Mr. Schofield, climbed up on the engine, the
fireman, as Nixon had predicted, climbed down. Another man was promptly
put in his place, and no further disaffection developed, both conductor
and brakeman remained on duty, nor did any switchman attempt to
interfere with the train as it rolled slowly out of the yards and on to
the main track. Mr. Schofield had chosen the best men at his command for
this train, and as it passed station after station on time, Allan’s
spirits rose perceptibly.
Other trains were started out without misadventure. At Wadsworth, the
strike-breakers were convoyed to and from their trains by two of
Stanley’s men, the remainder patrolling the yards and keeping them clear
of loiterers. It was soon evident, however, that ten men would not be
enough to handle this work night and day, and Allan instructed Stanley
to swear in ten more deputies.
So the first afternoon passed and the first evening came.
It was a raw and blustery night, very dark, with dashes of sleet and
snow, and, while everything had passed off serenely without sign of
trouble, Allan was not wholly at ease as he left his office and started
home to supper. In fact, things were _too_ serene, and Allan could
scarcely believe that the strikers would permit their places to be
filled so quietly. Something of this apprehension must have been
apparent in his face, as he sat down to supper, for Mamie, who was
always quick to note any change in him, looked at him anxiously and
started to ask a question, but thought better of it and closed her lips
again.
“You’re lookin’ real tired, Allan,” Mary observed.
“I _am_ a little tired,” he admitted. “A good supper will set me up
again. Where’s Jack?”
“He hasn’t come yet. Delayed out on the road somewheres, I reckon. He’s
mighty uncertain at his meals since he got his promotion. Here he comes
now,” she added, as a heavy foot sounded on the side porch, and the back
door opened.
They heard him moving around in the kitchen, evidently washing up after
the day’s work. Then he opened the door and came into the dining-room.
“Hello,” he said, nodding all around, and taking his seat. “It’s a bad
night for sure. How’s everything goin’, Allan?”
“Oh, all right. We haven’t had a bit of trouble.”
“I judged so,” said Jack, “from the way the trains passed. I was over
near Hamden lookin’ after that new switch. I don’t think there’ll be any
trouble among the section-men or switchmen, either. They seem t’ think
the thing’s a joke.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Allan gloomily. “I think it’s very different from
a joke.”
The responsibility of his position was beginning to oppress him.
Heretofore there had always been somebody higher up with whom, in any
unusual emergency, he could consult. Now, he was thrown entirely upon
his own resources, and an emergency might arise at any moment which
might involve much more than the welfare of the road. Human life might
be involved, and law and order—all these might hinge upon a single word,
the decision of a moment. If only it might be given him to speak the
right word, to decide wisely! He trembled inwardly at thought of the
crisis he might be called upon to face.
“I’ve got to go back,” he said, at last, pushing back his chair. “I
don’t know how long I’ll be,” he added, “so don’t wait up for me.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Jack, catching a telegraphic glance from Mamie
and hastily gulping down his coffee. “I want to take a look around an’
see how things are.”
“All right,” said Allan, “come along,” and together they went out into
the night.
The wind had increased in violence and the weather was turning much
colder. They needed all their breath, as they fought their way up the
street against the wind. At the freight-shed, Allan paused for a word
with one of the guards, who was stamping his feet and clapping his arms
against his sides in an effort to keep warm.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered the guard, recognizing his voice, “everything
serene. Not a sign of trouble anywhere.”
“That’s good,” said Allan, and started across the yards.
“I’m goin’ to look around a while,” said Jack. “I’ll look you up in half
an hour or so.”
“All right,” said Allan, and continued on to his office, while Jack’s
figure vanished instantly in the darkness.
Jack had turned back toward the freight-house, intending to ask a few
questions of the guard, but as he passed the platform at the lower end,
a voice hailed him.
“That you, Jack?”
“Yes,” Welsh answered, peering around, “but where are you?”
“Down here under the platform,” and as Jack stooped, the odour of
tobacco smoke assailed his nostrils.
“Oh, is it you, Reddy?” he asked.
“Yes. Come under an’ set down.”
Jack groped his way under and, guided by the glow of Reddy’s pipe, sat
down beside him. The quarters were rather cramped, but the cold wind did
not reach them and so they were fairly comfortable.
“What you doin’ out here?” Jack demanded.
“Oh,” said Reddy, “I got so tired lookin’ at them bums in there an’
listenin’ to their big mouths, that I jest had t’ git away by myself an’
have a quiet smoke. Did ye ever wash dishes?”
“Oh, once in a while,” Jack answered, laughing, and getting out his pipe
to keep Reddy company.
“Well, it’s a mighty poor way t’ earn a livin’,” said the latter. “If it
wasn’t fer Allan, I’d a-thrown up the job afore I took it—but they’s
goin’ t’ be trouble.”
“There is? When?”
“Most any time. Them fellers can’t do without whiskey any more’n you kin
do without air. They’re havin’ a meetin’ about it now.”
“They are? What for?”
“They want t’ go an’ come as they please—between the freight-house an’
them saloons over there. They say they’re bein’ kept prisoners.”
“But that’s all nonsense!”
“Don’t I know it,” said Reddy, scornfully, gazing at the lighted windows
across the yards which marked the chief dispatcher’s office. “But any
excuse’ll do when a man’s lookin’ fer trouble. I guess the strikers had
a pointer this was comin’—that’s the reason they’ve been so quiet.”
“You mean you think there’s somebody tippin’ things off to them?”
“Yes; but I ain’t dead sure, yet,” answered Reddy, knocking out his
pipe. “Drop in here every evenin’ an’ see me, Jack,” he added. “I’d like
t’ talk things over with ye. I must be gittin’ back. Hello, there goes
the messenger,” he went on, as a figure strode from the freight-shed
across the yards. “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” Jack answered, and he sat watching the messenger. He saw
him mount the stair that led to the division offices, and, a few minutes
later, saw him come down again, accompanied by Allan West. He watched
them cross the yards towards him, and mount the platform, heard a door
open and shut, and all was still.
“If I could only help!” he murmured to himself, with drawn lips. “But I
can’t—I can’t! An’ it’s a hard fight!”
* * * * *
Meanwhile, inside the freight-house a queer scene was enacting. As must
be the case when any body of men are thrown together, a leader had
developed, or had arrogated to himself the rights of leadership. In this
instance, the leader, strangely enough, was not one of the larger or
older men, but a small fellow whose livid pock-marked face and shifty
eyes told of life in city slums and not in God’s open air—told, too, of
a soul as well as body infected—in a word, Hummel. The personnel of the
men had changed somewhat during the afternoon. Ten or twelve crews had
been sent out, and as many had come in, but there was still present a
majority of those who had arrived the night before. Hummel, of course,
had been assigned to no run, and those that remained with him were the
undesirables, the ones against whose names Allan had placed a
check-mark. Among these, Hummel had been working quietly all day,
talking to them first singly, then in groups of two and three, and
finally, when they had finished supper, he had spoken out boldly.
“I don’t know how you fellers feel about it,” he said, getting to his
feet and pounding on the table to attract their attention, “but I feel a
good deal as though I was in a lock-up. Oh, I ain’t no hypocrite—I knows
how a lock-up feels, and I guess I ain’t the only one here as does. But
I didn’t hire out to this here road t’ be locked up, an’ I won’t stand
it. This is a free country—”
“Now, see here, brother,” interposed Stanley, who had come hurrying up,
“you ain’t locked up, an’ you know it. We’re treatin’ you right. We’re
givin’ you good grub an’ a good bed an’ we’ve got a lookout jest to make
sure you ain’t interfered with.”
“You mean t’ say I kin go out that door if I want to?” queried Hummel.
“You sure can.”
“An’ come back if I want to?”
“No,” said Stanley, sweetly. “You can’t come back. If you go out, you
lose your job.”
“That’s it!” shouted Hummel, banging the table again. “We kin go out,
but we can’t come back! Why can’t we come back?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. West,” replied Stanley.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the chief dispatcher, and in charge here.”
“That kid what sent for me this mornin’?”
“The same. But he ain’t a kid an’ I’d advise you not to monkey with
him.”
“Pooh!” said Hummel, contemptuously. “I guess I kin hold my own with a
purty boy like that. Where is he?”
“I’ve sent for him. He’ll be here in a minute,” and indeed, even as he
spoke the words, Allan entered.
Hummel, thoroughly angry, looked Allan up and down with a single glance
of the eye, and continued to stare at him impudently as he approached.
“What’s the trouble, Stanley?” Allan queried, for he had heard Hummel’s
excited voice as he opened the door.
“Oh, I guess this feller has gone without booze about as long as he can
stand it,” answered Stanley, with a wave of his hand toward the
white-faced protestant. “He wants to go out an’ git some, I reckon.”
“That’s a lie!” shouted Hummel, waving his arms in the air. “All I want
is my rights as a free American citizen. You can’t work no peonage
racket on me. You can’t keep me a prisoner—”
“Nobody wants to,” broke in Allan. “Take your coat and hat and get out.”
“And I will come back—”
“No, you won’t—you’re fired. Get out.”
“When do I get my wages?”
“Next payday—in about three weeks.”
“That’s justice, ain’t it! I kin afford t’ loaf around here three weeks,
can’t I, t’ git one day’s pay!”
“Leave your address and the check will be sent you,” said Allan.
But that was just what Hummel could not do, for he had no idea where he
would be in three weeks. Besides, a glance around at the faces of his
companions showed him that he was going too fast—that he had not secured
their sympathy.
“All right,” he said, after a moment, controlling himself by a mighty
effort. “I guess I kin stand it awhile longer. I just wanted t’ be sure
you weren’t tryin’ to keep us prisoners. I’ll stay.”
“No, you won’t,” retorted Allan, promptly. “I’ve already told you you’re
fired. Now get out, or I’ll have Stanley throw you out. I guess you can
do it, can’t you, Stanley?”
“Try me,” said Stanley, grinning down from his six feet upon the little
man before him. “Say the word.”
But Hummel didn’t wait for that. With one glance at the big officer, he
turned to the wall and took down his overcoat from a hook where he had
hung it. His face was livid and his lips were drawn back from his yellow
teeth in an ugly snarl, as he started for the door. Stanley followed him
and gave the sentry outside word to pass him. Hummel went down the steps
silently, save for a queer hissing in his throat, and Stanley stood and
watched him until he disappeared in the darkness. Then he went slowly
back into the freight-shed, his face very grave.
“That fellow means trouble,” he said to himself. “He means trouble.
Mebbe I’d ort to run him in.”
Could he have seen Hummel at that moment, he would have been more than
ever convinced that he was a dangerous man to be at large. For he had
stopped in the shadow of a box-car and waited until Stanley, re-entering
the building, closed the door behind him. Then, creeping closer, he
concealed himself behind a pile of ties. There he sat down, hugging his
knees with his arms.
“I’ll git him,” he muttered, over and over to himself. “I’ll git him.
Oh, I’ll git him,” and he sat staring at the freight-house door with
eyes like a wild beast’s.
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