_Blinded Eyes_
An old proverb advises us to be sure we are right, then go ahead. To the
last part of the proverb Hartwell was paying diligent heed; the first,
so far as he was concerned, he took for granted. Hartwell was carrying
out energetically his declared intention of informing himself generally.
He was accumulating a vast fund of data on various subjects connected
with the affairs of the Rainbow Company, and he was deriving great
satisfaction from the contemplation of the quantity. The idea of a
proper valuation of its quality never occurred to him. A caterpillar in
action is a very vigorous insect; but by means of two short sticks
judiciously shifted by a designing mind he can be made to work himself
to a state of physical exhaustion, and yet remain precisely at the same
point from whence he started.
Hartwell's idea was a fairly laudable one, being nothing more nor less
than to get at both sides of the question at issue individually from
each of the interested parties. Early and late he had visited the mine
and mill. He had interviewed men and foremen impartially, and the amount
of information which these simple sons of toil instilled into his
receptive mind would have aroused the suspicions of a less self-centred
man.
Of all the sources of information which Hartwell was vigorously
exploiting, Luna, on the whole, was the most satisfactory. His guileless
simplicity carried weight with Hartwell, and this weight was added to by
a clumsy deference that assumed Hartwell's unquestioned superiority.
"You see, Mr. Hartwell, it's like this. There's no need me telling you;
you can see it for yourself, better than I can tell it. But it's all
right your asking me. You've come out here to size things up generally."
Luna was not particularly slow in getting on to curves, as he expressed
it. "And so you are sizing me up a bit to see do I know my business and
have my eyes open." He tipped a knowing wink at Hartwell. Hartwell
nodded, with an appreciative grin, but made no further reply. Luna went
on:
"You see, it's like this, as I was saying. Us labouring men are sharp
about some things. We have to be, or we would get done up at every turn.
We know when a boss knows his business and when he don't. But it don't
make no difference whether he does or whether he don't, we have to stand
in with him. We'd lose our jobs if we didn't. I'm not above learning
from anyone. I ain't one as thinks he knows it all. I'm willing to
learn. I'm an old mill man. Been twenty years in a mill--all my life, as
you might say--and I'm learning all the time. Just the other day I got
on to a new wrinkle. I was standing watching Tommy; he's battery man on
Five. Tommy was hanging up his battery on account of a loose tappet.
Tommy he just hung up the stamp next the one with the loose tappet, and
instead of measuring down, he just drove the tappet on a level with the
other, and keyed her up, and had them dropping again inside of three
minutes. I watched him, and when he'd started them, I up and says to
Tommy, 'Tommy,' says I, 'I'm an old mill man, but that's a new one on
me!' Tommy was as pleased as a boy with a pair of red-topped,
copper-toed boots. It's too bad they don't make them kind any more; but
then, they don't wear out as fast as the new kind. But, as I was saying,
some bosses would have dropped on Tommy for that, and told him they
didn't want no green men trying new capers."
Luna paused and looked at Hartwell. Hartwell still beamed approbation,
and, after casting about for a moment, Luna went on:
"You see, a boss don't know everything, even if he has been to college.
Most Eastern companies don't know anything. They send out a boss to
superintend their work, and they get just what he tells them, and no
more. None of the company men ever come out here to look for themselves.
I ain't blaming them in general. They don't know. Now it's truth I'm
telling you. I'm an old mill man. Been in the business twenty years, as
I was telling you, and your company's the first I ever knew sending a
man out to find what's the matter, who knew his business, and wa'n't too
big to speak to a common workman, and listen to his side of the story."
It was a strong dose, but Hartwell swallowed it without a visible gulp.
Even more. He was immensely pleased. He was gaining the confidence of
the honest toiler, and he would get the unvarnished truth.
"This is all interesting, very interesting to me, Mr. Luna. I'm a very
strict man in business, but I try to be just. I'm a very busy man, and
my time is so thoroughly taken up that I am often very abrupt. You see,
it's always so with a business man. He has to decide at once and with
the fewest possible words. But I'm always ready to talk over things with
my men. If I haven't got time, I make it."
"It's a pity there ain't more like you, Mr. Hartwell. There wouldn't be
so much trouble between capital and labour. But, as I was saying, we
labouring men are honest in our way, and we have feelings, too."
Luna was getting grim. He deemed that the proper time had arrived for
putting his personal ax upon the whirling grindstone. He looked fixedly
at Hartwell.
"As I was saying, Mr. Hartwell, us labouring men is honest. We believe
in giving a fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and it grinds us to
have the boss come sneaking in on us any time, day or night, just like a
China herder. He ain't running the mill all the time, and he don't know
about things. Machinery won't run itself, and, as I was saying, there
ain't no man knows it all. And if the boss happens to catch two or three
of us talking over how to fix up a battery, or key up a loose
bull-wheel, he ain't no right to say that we're loafing and neglecting
our business, and jack us up for it. As I said, Mr. Hartwell, the
labouring man is honest; but if we're sneaked on as if we wasn't,
'tain't going to be very long before they'll put it up that, if they're
going to be hung for sheep-stealing, they'll have the sheep first,
anyway."
Luna paused more for emphasis than for approbation. That he could see in
every line of Hartwell's face. At length he resumed:
"As I said, that ain't all by a long shot. There's all sorts of
pipe-dreams floating around about men's stealing from the mine and
stealing from the mill. But, man to man, Mr. Hartwell, ain't the
superintendent got a thousand chances to steal, and steal big, where a
common workman ain't got one?" Luna laid vicious emphasis on the last
words, and his expression gave added weight to his words.
To do Hartwell simple justice, dishonesty had never for an instant
associated itself in his mind with Firmstone. He deemed him inefficient
and lacking a grasp of conditions; but, brought face to face with a
question of honesty, there was repugnance at the mere suggestion. His
face showed it. Luna caught the look instantly and began to mend his
break.
"I'm not questioning any man's honesty. But it's just like this. Why is
it that a poor labouring man is always suspected and looked out for, and
those as has bigger chances goes free? That's all, and, man to man, I'm
asking you if that's fair."
Luna's garrulity was taking a line which Hartwell had no desire to
investigate, for the present, at least. He answered directly and
abruptly:
"When a man loses a dollar, he makes a fuss about it. When he loses a
thousand, he goes on a still hunt."
Luna took his cue. He winked knowingly. "That's all right. You know your
business. That's plain as a squealing pulley howling for oil. But I
wasn't telling you all these things because you needed to be told.
Anyone can see that you can just help yourself. I just wanted to tell
you so that you could see that us labouring men ain't blind, even if
everyone don't see with eyes of his own the way you're doing. You are
the first gentleman that has ever given me the chance, and I'm obliged
to you for it. So's the men, too."
Hartwell felt that, for the present, he had gained sufficient
information, and prepared to go.
"I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Luna, for the information you and your
men have given me." He held out his hand cordially. "Don't hesitate to
come to me at any time."
Hartwell had pursued the same tactics at the mine, and with the same
results. He had carefully refrained from mentioning Firmstone's name,
and the men had followed his lead. Hartwell made a very common mistake.
He underrated the mental calibre of the men. He assumed that, because
they wore overalls and jumpers, their eyes could not follow the pea
under the shell which he was nimbly manipulating. In plain English, he
was getting points on Firmstone by the simple ruse of omitting to
mention his name. There was another and far more important point that
never occurred to him. By his course of action he was completely
undermining Firmstone's authority. There is not a single workman who
will ever let slip an opportunity to give a speeding kick to a falling
boss on general principles, if not from personal motives. Hartwell never
took this factor into consideration. His vanity was flattered by the
deference paid to him, never for a moment dreaming that the bulk of the
substance and the whole of the flavour of the incense burned under his
nose was made up of resentment against Firmstone, nor that the waning
stores were nightly replenished at the Blue Goose. Had Hartwell remained
East, as devoutly hoped by Firmstone, it is all but certain that
Firmstone's methods would have averted the trouble which was daily
growing more threatening.
Hartwell had occasionally dropped in for a social drink at the Blue
Goose, and the deferential welcome accorded to him was very flattering.
Each occasion was but the prologue to another and more extended visit.
The open welcome tendered him by both Pierre and Morrison had wholly
neutralised the warnings embodied in Firmstone's reports. He was certain
that Firmstone had mistaken for deep and unscrupulous villains a pair of
good-natured oafs who preferred to make a living by selling whisky and
running a gambling outfit, to pounding steel for three dollars a day.
In starting out on the conquest of the Blue Goose, Hartwell acted on an
erroneous concept of the foibles of humanity. The greatness of others is
of small importance in comparison with one's own. The one who ignores
this truth is continually pulling a cat by the tail, and this is
proverbially a hard task. Hartwell's plan was first to create an
impression of his own importance in order that it might excite awe, and
then, by gracious condescension, to arouse a loyal and respectful
devotion. Considering the object of this attack, he was making a double
error. Pierre was not at all given to the splitting of hairs, but in
combing them along the line of least resistance he was an adept.
Hartwell, having pacified the mine and the mill, had moved to the
sanctum of the Blue Goose, with the idea of furthering his benign
influence. Hartwell, Morrison, and Pierre were sitting around a table in
the private office, Hartwell impatient for action, Pierre unobtrusively
alert, Morrison cocksure to the verge of insolence.
"Meestaire Hartwell will do me ze honaire to mek ze drink?" Pierre
inquired.
"Thanks." Hartwell answered the question addressed to him. "Mine is
brandy."
"A-a-ah! Ze good discrimination!" purred Pierre. "Not ze whisky from ze
rotten grain; but ze _eau-de-vie_ wiz ze fire of ze sun and ze sweet of
ze vine!"
Morrison placed glasses before each, a bottle of soda, and Pierre's
choicest brand of cognac on the table.
"Help yourself," he remarked, as he sat down.
Sipping his brandy and soda, Hartwell opened the game.
"You see," he began, addressing Pierre, "things aren't running very
smoothly out here, and I have come out to size up the situation. The
fact is, I'm the only one of our company who knows a thing about mining.
It's only a side issue with me, but I can't well get out of it. My
people look to me to help them out, and I've got to do it."
"Your people have ze great good fortune--ver' great." Pierre bowed
smilingly.
Hartwell resumed: "I'm a fair man. I have now what I consider sufficient
knowledge to warrant me in making some radical changes out here; but I
want to get all the information possible, and from every possible
source. Then I can act with a perfectly clear conscience." He spoke
decidedly, as he refilled his glass.
"Then fire that glass-eyed supe of yours," Morrison burst out. "You
never had any trouble till he came."
Hartwell looked mild reproach. Morrison was going too fast. There was a
pause. Morrison again spoke, this time sullenly and without raising his
eyes.
"He's queered himself with the men. They'll do him if he stays. They
ain't going to stand his sneaking round and treating them like dogs.
They----"
"Mistaire Mo-reeson speak bad English, ver' bad." Pierre's words cut in
like keen-edged steel. "On ze odder side ze door, it not mek so much
mattaire."
Morrison left the room without a word further. There was a look of
sullen satisfaction on his face. Hartwell smiled approvingly at Pierre.
"You've got your man cinched all right."
"Hall but ze tongue." Pierre shrugged his shoulders, with a slight wave
of his hands.
"Well," Hartwell resumed, "I want to get at the bottom of this stage
business. Fifty thousand doesn't matter so much to us; it's the thing
back of it. What I want to know is whether it was an accident, or
whether it was a hold-up."
"Feefty tousand dollaire!" Pierre spoke musingly. "She bin a lot of
monnaie. A whole lot." Pierre hesitated, then looked up at Hartwell.
"Well?" Hartwell asked.
"How you know she bin feefty tousand dollaire hin ze safe?"
"Mr. Firmstone advised me of its shipment."
"_Bien!_ Ze safe, where she bin now?"
"In the river."
"A-a-ah! You bin see her, heh?"
"No. The water's too high."
"When ze wattaire bin mek ze godown, you bin find her, heh?"
"I suppose so."
"_Bien!_ Mek ze suppose. When ze wattaire mek ze godown, you not find ze
safe?"
To some extent, Hartwell had anticipated Pierre's drift, but he
preferred to let him take his own course.
"It would look as if someone had got ahead of us."
Pierre waved his hand impatiently. "Feefty tousand dollaire bin whole
lot monnaie. Big lot men like feefty tousand dollaire, ver' big lot.
Bimeby somebody get ze safe. Zey find no feefty tousand dollaire--only
pig lead, heh?" Pierre looked up shrewdly. "Ze men no mek ze talk 'bout
feefty tousand dollaire, no mek ze talk 'bout honly pig lead, heh?"
"You think, then, the bullion was never put into the safe?" Hartwell had
hardly gone so far as Pierre. "In other words, that Mr. Firmstone kept
out the bullion, planned the wreck, caused the report to be spread that
there was fifty thousand in the safe, with the idea of either putting it
out of the way himself, or that someone else would get it?"
Pierre looked up with well-feigned surprise.
"_Moi?_" he asked. "_Moi?_" He shrugged his shoulders. "I mek ze fact,
ze suppose. You mek ze conclude."
Hartwell looked puzzled.
"But," he said, "if what you say is true, there is no other conclusion."
Pierre again shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"_Bien!_ I mek no conclude. You mek ze conclude. Ze suppose mek ze
conclude. She's bin no mattaire _a moi_. I mek no conclude." Pierre's
words and manner both intimated that, so far as he was concerned, the
interview was closed.
Pierre was a merciful man and without malice. When he felt that his
dagger had made a mortal thrust he never turned it in the wound. In this
interview circumstances had forced him farther than he cared to go. He
was taking chances, and he knew it. Zephyr was booked to disappear.
Others than Zephyr were watching the river. But Zephyr might escape; the
company might recover the money. What, then? Only his scheme would have
miscarried. The recovery of the money would clear Firmstone and leave
him where he was before. Pierre's diagnosis of Hartwell was to the
effect that, if an idea was once lodged in his mind, an earthquake would
not jar it out again. Even in this event Pierre's object would be
accomplished. Firmstone would have to go.
Hartwell made several ineffectual attempts to draw out Pierre still
farther, but the wily Frenchman baffled him at every turn. And there the
matter rested. Had Hartwell taken less of Pierre's good brandy, he would
hardly have taken so freely of his sinister suggestions. As it was, the
mellow liquor began to impart a like virtue to his wits, and led him to
clap the little Frenchman's back, as he declared his belief that Pierre
was a slick bird, but that his own plumage was smoothly preened as well.
Followed by Pierre, he rose to leave the room. His eyes fell upon Elise,
sitting quietly at her desk, and he halted.
His outstretched hand had hardly touched the unsuspecting girl when
Pierre caught him by the collar, and, with a twist and shove, sent him
staggering half-way across the room. Little short of murder was blazing
from Pierre's eyes.
"_Crapaud!_" he hissed. "You put ze fingaire hon my li'l Elise! _Sacre
mille tonnerre!_ I kill you!" Pierre started as if to carry out his
threat, but restraining hands held him back, while other hands and feet
buffeted and kicked the dazed Hartwell into the street.
The safe guarding of Elise was the one bright spot in Pierre's very
shady career. To the fact that it was bright and strong his turning on
Hartwell bore testimony. Every point in Pierre's policy had dictated
conciliation and sufferance; but now this was cast aside. Pierre rapidly
gained control of his temper, but he shifted his animus from the lust of
gain to the glutting of revenge.