THE DOWNFALL OF BASSETT
SINCE the beginning of the strike, the engineers’ headquarters had
remained open continually, and, in addition to the informal meetings
during the day, a formal meeting was held every evening to discuss the
situation. These meetings, which the firemen also attended, had started
out peacefully enough, but two factions had soon developed, one led by
Simpson, the special delegate, and the other by Rafe Bassett. The
feeling between these factions had steadily increased in bitterness, and
had culminated the evening before, as Stanley had reported to Allan, in
an assault by Bassett on one of the oldest engineers in the road’s
employ.
Simpson, early recognizing Bassett’s violent and quarrelsome
disposition, had foreseen this development, and had lost no opportunity
to strengthen himself with the conservative element and to gain its
confidence. He had worked wisely and well, and the consequence was that
Bassett’s following had melted away so rapidly that Simpson at last felt
himself strong enough to administer a stinging warning to the offender.
In this victory, Simpson had been greatly aided by the course of events.
Many of the engineers had opposed the strike at the outset, but had been
over-borne by the younger element; as the days passed, more and more,
under Simpson’s careful guidance, had come to acknowledge that the
strike was a mistake and that public opinion was turning against them.
The older men were especially outspoken in their expressions of regret,
and while many of the younger men kept up a semblance of contentment, it
was plainly to be seen that they, too, were growing uneasy. Almost the
only one who was still openly pleased with the strike was Bassett
himself.
The discontent with the situation had found expression on the floor of
the lodge the night before, when Jim Adams had suggested that a
committee be appointed to wait upon the officials of the road, and see
whether an agreement to end the strike could not be reached. It was this
suggestion which had led to Bassett’s assault and to the subsequent
warning and reprimand which Simpson had given him.
In consequence of all this, everyone felt that affairs were reaching a
crisis, and the lodge room was even more crowded than usual, this
evening, as the hour for the meeting approached. The men gathered in
little groups and discussed in low tones the scene of the evening
before. It was evident that a new spirit had come over the men, and more
than one stated that it was his intention to approve the suggestion made
by Adams the night before, and that he would not allow Rafe Bassett to
roar him down. But none of them cared to provoke unnecessarily Bassett’s
open enmity, for he was universally recognized as a dangerous man, and
when, at last, he swaggered into the room, plainly under the influence
of liquor, an uneasy silence fell upon the crowd.
The meeting was called to order, and Simpson arose to make a few
announcements. He waited until Bassett, evidently spoiling for a fight,
swaggered noisily to a chair near the stage.
“There is no change in the situation,” he began. “The strike is
progressing quietly—”
“Too blame quietly,” Bassett broke in. “You’d think we was a lot o’
Sunday school kids by the way we set around with our hands folded,
actin’ like sugar wouldn’t melt in our—”
“Order! Order!” called the chairman, rapping with his gavel, and Bassett
subsided, growling, into his chair.
“As I was saying,” Simpson proceeded calmly, “the strike is progressing
quietly. One good piece of news I have—the fellows who tried to set fire
to the stock-yards have been arrested and turned out to be a couple of
saloon bums, who never worked on a railroad, or anywhere else, and of
course never belonged to the brotherhood. I’m mighty glad that this
effectually clears the brotherhood of any suspicion of being implicated
in the affair.”
“How do you know they’re the ones?” Bassett demanded.
“I understand they have confessed.”
“Been given the third degree, I guess. Who’s defendin’ ’em?”
“I don’t know, nor care. The brotherhood certainly won’t defend them. If
they haven’t any money, counsel for them will be appointed by the court,
I suppose, in the usual way.”
“And they’ll be railroaded to the pen, also in the usual way,” sneered
Bassett. “It makes me sick the way we go back on our friends.”
“They’re not our friends,” said Simpson, sharply. “They’re the worst
enemies we’ve got. We’re in no way responsible for them nor indebted to
them.”
“Ain’t we?” and Bassett was on his feet again. “Where’d they git the
whiskey they tanked up on afore they tackled the job? Who give it to
them?”
“I don’t know—some saloon-keeper, probably.”
“No, it wasn’t no saloon-keeper,” cried Bassett, “an’ you know it. What
would a saloon-keeper be givin’ away good whiskey fer? An’ more’n that,
where’d they git the twenty dollars that was found on each of ’em? Did a
saloon-keeper give ’em that, too?”
“Since you seem to know so much about it,” said Simpson, with ominous
calmness, “suppose you tell us.”
“All right, I _will_ tell you!” yelled Bassett, his self-control
suddenly slipping from him. “Though I won’t be tellin’ you no news, for
all your standin’ there lookin’ so goody-good. It’s sneaks like you an’
Jim Adams, what want t’ go crawlin’ back lickin’ the boots of the
railroad, that disgusts me with the brotherhood.”
“Sneak yourself!” cried Adams, jumping to his feet and starting for
Bassett, but two of his friends seized him and held him back.
“Let him come on!” shouted Bassett, fairly purple. “I’ll fix him this
time—I’ve been wantin’ to fer years. Let him come on!”
But Adams was pulled panting back into his chair.
“Did you hear what he said?” he demanded of those about him. “Did you
hear what he said? He as good as admitted he tried to do fer me that
night at Jones Run bridge!”
But they weren’t listening to him; they were listening to Bassett, who,
fairly livid with rage, had turned back to Simpson.
“Yes,” he shouted, “goody-goody sneaks like you an’ Adams—standin’ there
lettin’ on you don’t know who it was put them poor devils up to firin’
the stock-yards!”
“I’ve already asked you to tell me,” repeated Simpson, quietly.
“It was two members of this lodge!” yelled Bassett, quite beside
himself. “It was two members of this lodge what give the whiskey an’ the
cash, an’ they knowed what they was doin’, too!”
The place was in an uproar; angry voices demanded the names of the
offending members, denials were shouted across the room, fists were
shaken; but the chairman finally succeeded in beating down the din until
Simpson’s voice could be heard again. His face was flushed and there was
a dangerous light in his eyes as he turned to Bassett, who had subsided
into his seat again.
“Mr. Bassett,” he began, “you have said too much not to say more. I
demand the names of those two men.”
But Bassett had already said more than he had intended to say, and
heartily regretted his hasty tongue.
“I ain’t no tale-bearer,” he protested. “I know what I know; but it
don’t go no furder.”
“You refuse to tell?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then,” said Simpson, firmly, “by virtue of the authority vested in me
by the Grand Lodge, I suspend you from membership in the brotherhood
until a hearing of this case can be had.”
“What!” yelled Bassett, on his feet again, his face purple. “Suspend me!
Why, you—you snake! Boys,” he shouted, “do you stand fer this?” It’s
Nixon over ag’in! Oh, they’re all rotten! I tell you those fellers
layin’ in jail down at Cincinnati ought t’ be looked after by the
brotherhood—I tell you why—I speak as a man to men—I don’t believe in
lettin’ some corporation-owned Hamilton County judge railroad them to
the pen. It ain’t right, an’ every man of you knows it ain’t right. But
I ain’t no informer—I won’t say nothin’ more—an’ because I won’t, this
here whipper-snapper from headquarters says he’ll suspend me. Boys, I
tell you the Grand Lodge is rotten through an’ through. It’s owned by
the railroads. It’s time we turned the scoundrels out!”
It was a good talk, effectively delivered, and it carried some of the
younger men with it, as was shown by the subdued growl which ran around
the room. Not so very long before, it would have carried the whole lodge
with it, but sentiment had changed. Simpson, who had gone through just
such scenes before, never turned a hair.
“And I want to say to you,” he said, “that the Grand Lodge is devoted to
you, and you know it—deep down in your hearts, you know it. Yes, and I
want to add that I think we made a mistake in consenting to this strike,
and in my opinion the sooner we call it off the better. As to those
fellows at Cincinnati, so far from defending them, the brotherhood has
promised to pay, and will pay, a reward of five hundred dollars upon
their conviction, and it will pay the same reward for the conviction of
the scoundrel who tried to dynamite the bridge at Parkersburg.
“As for this man,” he added, pointing to Bassett, “he is no longer a
member of the brotherhood and will not be until he is reinstated—and if
that ever happens, which I don’t believe, it will certainly be against
my advice. As this lodge has further business to transact, I would
therefore ask Mr. Bassett to retire.”
“Retire yourself!” shouted Bassett, now thoroughly enraged. “If you want
me out, you’ll have to put me out, an’ I’d like to see you do it!”
“Oh, I’ll do it, if necessary,” retorted Simpson. “But before you go, I
want to say one thing to you for all these men to hear. It’s blackguards
like you who bring discredit upon the brotherhood and upon unionism
generally—blackguards who are always trying to get something they don’t
deserve, and to evade something they do deserve. It’s blackguards like
you who think the union cause is helped by violence, and who want every
strike to be accompanied by violence. Now, apart from any consideration
of right or wrong—”
“What is this, a sermon?” demanded Bassett, looking around with a
raucous laugh—but it found no echo.
“Yes,” retorted Simpson; “and a sermon you’ll do well to listen to.
Apart from any consideration of right or wrong, nothing hurts our cause
like violence—I think we’ve found that out—and the fellow who advocates
violence or assists in it is an enemy and not a friend. And I haven’t
the slightest doubt,” he added, wheeling upon Bassett, “that it was this
fellow here who was responsible for that fire at the stock-yards.”
Bassett, his face white and drawn with passion, could only sputter
inarticulately for a moment. Then, by a mighty effort, he regained
control of himself.
“You’re pipin’ a different tune,” he sneered, “from what you did when
you first come down here. Why? Have you been seen, like Nixon was? Have
you got a wad of railroad money in your pocket?”
“Sergeant-at-arms,” called Simpson, “this fellow is not a member of this
lodge. Remove him, so that the meeting can proceed.”
Then Simpson sat down and awaited the event with serene confidence. For,
as has been stated, he had been in just such a position more than once
before, and he had planned carefully to meet this crisis. The
sergeant-at-arms, instructed beforehand in his duties, summoned two
assistants and advanced upon Bassett. For a moment, it was evident that
that individual meditated resistance; then, as he sized up the three
stalwart men confronting him, he realized the futility of it.
“All right,” he said; “I’ll go. But don’t put your hands on me—I won’t
stand that. An’ I just want to say one thing: you’ll all of you regret
this night’s work.”
And catching up his overcoat, he followed the sergeant-at-arms to the
door, which closed after him a moment later.
The night’s experience had sobered him, but nevertheless he reeled
slightly as he went down the stairs—not with intoxication, but with a
kind of vertigo of rage. He paused at the foot of the stairs to recover
himself.
“They framed it up on me!” he muttered to himself. “The hounds! To think
of their framin’ it up on me!”
And he got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead with shaking
hand. Then, entering the saloon on the ground floor of the building, he
asked for two quart bottles of whiskey.
The bartender, an old acquaintance, ventured to protest.
“Look here, Rafe,” he said, “you’re goin’ it too strong. Better let up a
little, old man.”
“Oh, this ain’t fer me,” answered Bassett, laughing grimly. “I’m givin’
a little blow-out to-night. This is fer the company,” and putting a
bottle in each coat-pocket, he hurried from the place.
The bartender gazed after him speculatively, for there was a strangeness
in his manner, a sort of menace, as of a man who has thrown down the
gauntlet to society, regardless of the consequences, but other customers
demanded attention, and the bartender soon forgot all about the
incident. Could he have followed Bassett, he would have been more and
more surprised; for the latter’s path did not lead him home, nor to any
place suggestive of a social function. Instead, he turned down the
nearest alley, came out upon the railroad track and followed it toward
the river. Once he passed a track-walker, but the latter did not
recognize the dark figure apparently hurrying toward home.
The road ran past back yards, from which an occasional dog saluted him,
crossed a street at an angle, skirted a row of tumble-down brick
buildings, and then emerged upon the river bank, which it skirted for
perhaps half a mile. Upon this bank, in the days when municipal
sanitation was not what it now is, a number of slaughter-houses had been
built, because of the convenience of running their refuse into the
river. This had been stopped some years before, and the buildings,
already decrepit and decayed, had fallen into a still more disreputable
condition.
A high board fence surrounded the little stretch of ground in front of
them, and before this Bassett paused, groped an instant, pulled aside a
loose board and slipped through. He let the board slide into place
behind him, crossed the dirty yard, and, producing a key from his
pocket, applied it to the lock of the first door he came to. An instant
later, he had opened the door and entered.
An odour incredibly foul and overpowering greeted him, and he paused to
catch his breath, as it were. Then, groping his way forward along the
wall, he came to another door, which he opened. Carefully closing it
behind him, he struck a match. Its glow revealed a black pit yawning
before him, into which plunged a steep and narrow stair. On a ledge at
the top was a candle-end, and lighting this and holding it before him,
Bassett descended the stair, which creaked and groaned ominously under
his weight. At the bottom he blew out his candle and placed it carefully
on the lowest step.
He could hear the ripple of the river close at hand, but no other sound,
for he was at the bottom of the shaft which led to the water’s edge. He
apparently knew the place well, for he felt his way forward until his
hands touched a board partition. Upon this he rapped sharply three times
and then, after an interval, a fourth.
Instantly there was a sharp click and a little door swung open,
disclosing a man holding a candle above his head and peering out into
the darkness—a little, shrivelled man, with livid, pock-marked face and
venomous eyes.
“All right, Hummel,” said Bassett, and stepped inside and drew the door
shut after him.
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