JAKE VODELL'S MISTAKE
Since that night of the tragedy McIver had struggled to grasp the
hidden meaning of the strange series of incidents. But the more he
tried to understand, the more he was confused and troubled. Nor had he
been able, strong-willed as he was, to shake off the feeling that he
was in the midst of unseen forces--that about him mysterious influences
were moving steadily to some fixed and certain end.
In constant touch, through his agents, with the strike situation, he
had watched the swiftly forming sentiment of the public. He knew that
the turning point of the industrial war was near. He did not deceive
himself. He knew Jake Vodell's power. He knew the temper of the
strikers. He saw clearly that if the assassin who killed Captain
Charlie was not speedily discovered the community would suffer under a
reign of terror such as the people had never conceived. And, what was
of more vital importance to McIver, perhaps, if the truth was not soon
revealed, Jake Vodell's charges that the murder was inspired by McIver
himself would become, in the minds of many, an established fact. With
the full realization of all that would result to the community and to
himself if the identity of the murderer was not soon established,
McIver was certain in his own mind that he alone knew the guilty man.
To reveal what he believed to be the truth of the tragedy would be to
save the community and himself--and to lose, for all time, the woman he
loved. McIver did not know that through the tragedy Helen was already
lost to him.
In his extremity the factory owner had come at last to the man who was
said to wield such a powerful influence over the minds of the people.
He had never before seen the interior of that hut on the cliff nor met
the man who for so many years had been confined there. Standing just
outside the door, he looked curiously about the room with the
unconscious insolence of his strength.
The man in the wheel chair did not speak. When Billy looked at him he
signaled his wishes in their silent language, and, watching his
visitor, waited.
For a long moment McIver gazed at the old basket maker as if estimating
his peculiar strength, then he said with an unintentional touch of
contempt in his heavy voice, "So _you_ are the Interpreter."
"And you," returned the man in the wheel chair, gently, "are McIver."
McIver was startled. "How did you know my name?"
"Is McIver's name a secret also?" came the strange reply.
McIver's eyes flashed with a light that those who sat opposite him in
the game of business had often seen. With perfect self-control he said,
coolly, "I have been told often that I should come to see you but--" he
paused and again looked curiously about the room.
The Interpreter, smiling, caught up the unfinished sentence. "But you
do not see how an old, poverty-stricken and crippled maker of baskets
can be of any use to you."
McIver spoke as one measuring his words. "They tell me you help people
who are in trouble."
"Are you then in trouble?" asked the Interpreter, kindly.
The other did not answer, and the man in the wheel chair continued,
still kindly, "What trouble can the great and powerful McIver have? You
have never been hungry--you have never felt the cold--you have no
children to starve--no son to be killed."
"I suppose you hold me personally responsible for the strike and for
all the hardships that the strikers have brought upon themselves and
their families?" said McIver. "You fellows who teach this
brotherhood-of-man rot and never have more than one meal ahead
yourselves always blame men like me for all the suffering in the
world."
The Interpreter replied with a dignity that impressed even McIver. "Who
am I that I should assume to blame any one? Who are you, sir, that
assume the power implied by either your acceptance or your denial of
the responsibility? You are only a part of the whole, as I am a part.
You, in your life place, are no less a creature of circumstances--an
accident--than I, here in my wheel chair--than Jake Vodell. We are
all--you and I, Jake Vodell, Adam Ward, Peter Martin, Sam Whaley--we
are all but parts of the great oneness of life. The want, the misery,
the suffering, the unhappiness of humanity is of that unity no less
than is the prosperity, peace and happiness of the people. Before we
can hope to bring order out of this industrial chaos we must recognize
our mutual dependence upon the whole and acknowledge the equality of
our guilt in the wretched conditions that now exist."
As the Interpreter spoke, James McIver again felt the movement of those
unseen forces that were about him. His presence in that little hut on
the cliff seemed, now, a part of some plan that was not of his making.
He was awed by the sudden conviction that he had not come to the
Interpreter of his own volition, but had been led there by something
beyond his understanding.
"Why should your fellow workmen not hate you, sir?" continued the old
basket maker. "You hold yourself apart, superior, of a class distinct
and separate. Your creed of class is intolerance. Your very business
policy is a declaration of class war. Your boast that you can live
without the working people is madness. You can no more live without
them than they can live without you. You can no more deny the mutual
dependence of employer and employee with safety to yourself than Samson
of old could pull down the pillars of the temple without being himself
buried in the ruins."
By an effort of will McIver strove to throw off the feeling that
possessed him. He spoke as one determined to assert himself. "We cannot
recognize the rights of Jake Vodell and his lawless followers to
dictate to us in our business. It would mean ruin, not only of our
industries, but of our government."
"Exactly so," agreed the Interpreter. "And yet, sir, you claim for
yourself the right to live by the same spirit of imperialism that
animates Vodell. You make the identical class distinction that he
makes. You appeal to the same class intolerance and hatred. You and
Jake Vodell have together brought about this industrial war in
Millsburgh. The community itself--labor unions and business men
alike--is responsible for tolerating the imperialism that you and this
alien agitator, in opposition to each other, advocate. The community is
paying the price."
The factory owner flushed. "Of course you would say these things to
Jake Vodell."
"I do," returned the Interpreter, gently.
"Oh, you _are_ in touch with him then?"
"He comes here sometimes. He is coming this afternoon--at four o'clock.
Will you not stay and meet him, Mr. McIver?" McIver hesitated. He
decided to ignore the invitation. With more respect in his manner than
he had so far shown, he said, courteously, "May I ask why Jake Vodell
comes to you?"
The Interpreter replied, sadly, as one who accepts the fact of his
failure, "For the same reason that McIver came."
McIver started with surprise. "You know why I came to you?"
The man in the wheel chair looked steadily into his visitor's eyes. "I
know that you are not personally responsible for the death of the
workman, Captain Martin."
McIver sprang to his feet. He fairly gasped as the flood of questions
raised by the Interpreter's words swept over him.
"You--you know who killed Charlie Martin?" he demanded at last.
The old basket maker did not answer.
"If you know," cried McIver, "why in God's name do you not tell the
people? Surely, sir, you are not ignorant of the danger that threatens
this community. The death of this union man has given Vodell just the
opportunity he needed and he is using it. If you dare to shield the
guilty man--whoever he is--you will--"
"Peace, McIver! This community will not be plunged into the horrors of
a class war such as you rightly fear. There are yet enough sane and
loyal American citizens in Millsburgh to extinguish the fire that you
and Jake Vodell have started."
* * * * *
When Jake Vodell came to the Interpreter's hut shortly after McIver had
left, he was clearly in a state of nervous excitement.
"Well," he said, shortly, "I am here--what do you want--why did you
send for me?"
The Interpreter spoke deliberately with his eyes fixed upon the dark
face of the agitator. "Vodell, I have told you twice that your campaign
in Millsburgh was a failure. Your coming to this community was a
mistake. Your refusal to recognize the power of the thing that made
your defeat certain was a mistake. You have now made your third and
final mistake."
"A mistake! Hah--that is what you think. You do not know. I tell you
that I have turned a trick that will win for me the game. Already the
people are rallying to me. I have put McIver at last in a hole from
which he will not escape. The Mill workers are ready _now_ to do
anything I say. You will see--to-morrow I will have these employers and
all their capitalist class eating out of my hand. To me they shall beg
for mercy. I--I will dictate the terms to them and they will pay. You
may take my word--they will pay."
The man paced to and fro with the triumphant air of a conqueror, and
his voice rang with his exultation.
"No, Jake Vodell," said the Interpreter, calmly. "You are deceiving
yourself. Your dreams are as vain as your mistake is fatal."
The man faced the old basket maker suddenly, as if arrested by a
possible meaning in the Interpreter's words that had not at first
caught his attention.
"And what is this mistake that I have made?" he growled.
The answer came with solemn portent. "You have killed the wrong man."
The agitator was stunned. His mouth opened as if he would speak, but no
word came from his trembling lips. He drew back as if to escape.
The old man in the wheel chair continued, sadly, "_I_ am the one you
should have killed--I am the cause of your failure to gain the support
of the Mill workers' union."
The strike leader recovered himself with a shrug of his heavy
shoulders.
"So that is it," he sneered; "you would accuse me of shooting your
Captain Charlie, heh?"
"You have accused yourself, sir."
"But how?"
"By the use you are making of Captain Charlie's death. If you did not
know who committed the crime--if you did not feel sure that the
identity of the assassin would remain a mystery to the people--you
would not dare risk charging the employers with it."
With an oath the other returned, "I tell you that McIver or his hired
gunmen did it so they could lay the blame on the strikers and so turn
the Mill workers' union against us. That is what the Mill men believe."
"That is what you want them to believe. It is an old trick, Vodell. You
have used it before."
The agitator's eyes narrowed under his scowling brows. "Look here," he
growled, "I do not like this talk of yours. Perhaps you had better
prove what you charge, heh?"
"Please God, I will prove it," came the calm answer.
Jake Vodell, as he looked down upon the seemingly helpless old man in
the wheel chair, was thinking, "It would be safer if this old basket
maker were not permitted to speak these things to others--his
influence, after all, is a thing to consider."
"No, Jake Vodell," said the Interpreter gently, "you won't do it. Billy
Rand is watching us. If you make a move to do what you are thinking,
Billy will kill you."
The Interpreter raised his hand and his silent companion came quickly
to stand beside his chair.
With a shrug of his shoulders Vodell drew back a few steps toward the
door.
"Bah! Why should I waste my time with a crippled old basket maker--I
have work to do. If you watch from the window of your shanty you will
see to-morrow whether or not the Mill workers are with me. I will make
for you a demonstration that will be known through the country. I told
you at the first that the working people would find out who is their
friend. Now you shall see what they will do to the enemies of their
class. Who can say, Mr. Interpreter, perhaps your miserable hut so high
up here would make a good torch to signal the beginning of the show,
heh?"
When the door had closed behind Jake Vodell, the Interpreter said,
aloud, "So he has set to-morrow night for his demonstration. We must
work fast, Billy--there is no time to lose."
With his hands he asked his companion for paper and pencil. When Billy
brought them he wrote a few words and folding the message gave it to
the big man who stood waiting.
For a few minutes they talked together in their silent way. Then Billy
Rand put the Interpreter's message carefully in his pocket and
hurriedly left the hut.
* * * * *
That evening Jake Vodell addressed the largest crowd that had yet
assembled at his street meetings. With characteristic eloquence the
agitator pictured Captain Charlie as a martyr to the unprincipled
schemes of the employer class.
"McIver and his crew are charging the strikers with this crime in order
to set our union brothers against us," he shouted. "They think that by
setting up a division among us they can win. They know that if the
working people stand together, true to their class, loyal to their
comrades, they will rule the world. Why don't the police produce the
murderer of Captain Charlie? I will tell you the answer, my brother
workmen: it is because the law and the officers of the law are under
the control of those who do not want the murderer produced--that is
why. They dare not produce him. The life of a poor working man--what is
that to these masters of crime who acknowledge no law but the laws they
make for themselves. You workers have no laws. A slave knows no justice
but the whim of his master. Think of the mothers and children in your
homes--you slaves who create the wealth of your lords and masters. And
now they have taken the life of one of your truest and most loyal union
leaders. Where will they stop? If you do not stand like men against
these cruel outrages what have you to hope for? You know as well as I
that no workman in Millsburgh would raise his hand against such a
fellow worker as Captain Charlie Martin."
While the agitator was speaking, Billy Rand moved quickly here and
there through the crowd, as if searching for some one.
After the mass meeting on the street there was a meeting of the Mill
workers' union.
Later, Vodell's inner circle met in the room back of Dago Bill's pool
hall.
It was midnight when Billy Rand finally returned to the waiting
Interpreter.
Evidently he had failed in the mission entrusted to him by the old
basket maker.
The next morning, Billy Rand again went forth with the Interpreter's
message.