In the course of his wanderings about the camp, Hal had observed several
wide-awake looking young men with notebooks in their hands. He could see
that these young men were being made guests of the company, chatting
with the bosses upon friendly terms; nevertheless, he believed that
among them he might find one who had a conscience--or at any rate who
would yield to the temptation of a “scoop.” So, leaving the gathering at
Mrs. David’s, Hal went to the pit-mouth, watching out for one of these
reporters; when he found him, he followed him for a while, desiring to
get him where no company “spotter” might interfere. At the first chance,
he stepped up, and politely asked the reporter to come into a side
street, where they might converse undisturbed.
The reporter obeyed the request; and Hal, concealing the intensity of
his feelings, so as not to repel the other, let it be known that he had
worked in North Valley for some months, and could tell much about
conditions in the camp. There was the matter of adobe-dust, for example.
Explosions in dry mines could be prevented by spraying the walls with
this material. Did the reporter happen to know that the company’s claim
to have used it was entirely false?
No, the reporter answered, he did not know this. He seemed interested,
and asked Hal’s name and occupation. Hal told him “Joe Smith,” a
“buddy,” who had recently been chosen as check-weighman. The reporter, a
lean and keen-faced young man, asked many questions--intelligent
questions; incidentally he mentioned that he was the local correspondent
of the great press association whose stories of the disaster were sent
to every corner of the country. This seemed to Hal an extraordinary
piece of good fortune, and he proceeded to tell this Mr. Graham about
the census which some of the workers had taken; they were able to give
the names of a hundred and seven men and boys who were inside the mine.
The list was at Mr. Graham’s disposal if he cared to see it. Mr. Graham
seemed more interested than ever, and made notes in his book.
Another thing, more important yet, Hal continued; the matter of the
delay in getting the fan started. It had been three days since the
explosion, but there had been no attempt at entering the mine. Had Mr.
Graham seen the disturbance at the pit-mouth that morning? Did he
realise that a man had been thrown out of camp merely because he had
appealed to the deputy state mine-inspector? Hal told what so many had
come to believe--that the company was saving property at the expense of
life. He went on to point out the human meaning of this--he told about
old Mrs. Rafferty, with her failing health and her eight children; about
Mrs. Zamboni, with eleven children; about Mrs. Jonotch, with a husband
and three sons in the mine. Led on by the reporter’s interest, Hal began
to show some of his feeling. These were human beings, not animals; they
loved and suffered, even though they were poor and humble!
“Most certainly!” said Mr. Graham. “You’re right, and you may rest
assured I’ll look into this.”
“There’s one thing more,” said Hal. “If my name is mentioned, I’ll be
fired, you know.”
“I won’t mention it,” said the other.
“Of course, if you can’t publish the story without giving its source--”
“I’m the source,” said the reporter, with a smile. “Your name would not
add anything.”
He spoke with quiet assurance; he seemed to know so completely both the
situation and his own duty in regard to it, that Hal felt a thrill of
triumph. It was as if a strong wind had come blowing from the outside
world, dispelling the miasma which hung over this coal-camp. Yes, this
reporter _was_ the outside world! He was the power of public opinion,
making itself felt in this place of knavery and fear! He was the voice
of truth, the courage and rectitude of a great organisation of
publicity, independent of secret influences, lifted above corruption!
“I’m indebted to you,” said Mr. Graham, at the end, and Hal’s sense of
victory was complete. What an extraordinary chance--that he should have
run into the agent of the great press association! The story would go
out to the great world of industry, which depended upon coal as its
life-blood. The men in the factories, the wheels of which were turned by
coal--the travellers on trains which were moved by coal--they would hear
at last of the sufferings of those who toiled in the bowels of the earth
for them! Even the ladies, reclining upon the decks of palatial
steamships in gleaming tropic seas--so marvellous was the power of
modern news-spreading agencies, that these ladies too might hear the cry
for help of these toilers, and of their wives and little ones! And from
this great world would come an answer, a universal shout of horror, of
execration, that would force even old Peter Harrigan to give way! So Hal
mused--for he was young, and this was his first crusade.
He was so happy that he was able to think of himself again, and to
realise that he had not eaten that day. It was noon-time, and he went
into Reminitsky’s, and was about half through with the first course of
Reminitsky’s two-course banquet, when his cruel disillusioning fell upon
him!
He looked up and saw Jeff Cotton striding into the dining-room, making
straight for him. There was blood in the marshal’s eye, and Hal saw it,
and rose, instinctively.
“Come!” said Cotton, and took him by the coat-sleeve and marched him
out, almost before the rest of the diners had time to catch their
breath.
Hal had no opportunity now to display his “tea-party manners” to the
camp-marshal. As they walked, Cotton expressed his opinion of him, that
he was a skunk, a puppy, a person of undesirable ancestry; and when Hal
endeavoured to ask a question--which he did quite genuinely, not
grasping at once the meaning of what was happening--the marshal bade him
“shut his face,” and emphasised the command by a twist at his
coat-collar. At the same time two of the huskiest mine-guards, who had
been waiting at the dining-room door, took him, one by each arm, and
assisted his progress.
They went down the street and past Jeff Cotton’s office, not stopping
this time. Their destination was the railroad-station, and when Hal got
there, he saw a train standing. The three men marched him to it, not
releasing him till they had jammed him down into a seat.
“Now, young fellow,” said Cotton, “we’ll see who’s running this camp!”
By this time Hal had regained a part of his self-possession. “Do I need
a ticket?” he asked.
“I’ll see to that,” said the marshal.
“And do I get my things?”
“You save some questions for your college professors,” snapped the
marshal.
So Hal waited; and a minute or two later a man arrived on the run with
his scanty belongings, rolled into a bundle and tied with a piece of
twine. Hal noted that this man was big and ugly, and was addressed by
the camp-marshal as “Pete.”
The conductor shouted, “All aboard!” And at the same time Jeff Cotton
leaned over towards Hal and spoke in a menacing whisper: “Take this from
me, young fellow; don’t stop in Pedro, move on in a hurry, or something
will happen to you on a dark night.”
After which he strode down the aisle, and jumped off the moving train.
But Hal noticed that Pete Hanun, the breaker of teeth, stayed on the car
a few seats behind him.
BOOK THREE
THE HENCHMEN OF KING COAL
SECTION 1.
It was Hal’s intention to get to Western City as quickly as possible to
call upon the newspaper editors. But first he must have money to travel,
and the best way he could think of to get it was to find John Edstrom.
He left the train, followed by Pete Hanun; after some inquiry, he came
upon the undertaker who had buried Edstrom’s wife, and who told him
where the old Swede was staying, in the home of a labouring-man nearby.
Edstrom greeted him with eager questions: Who had been killed? What was
the situation? Hal told in brief sentences what had happened. When he
mentioned his need of money, Edstrom answered that he had a little, and
would lend it, but it was not enough for a ticket to Western City. Hal
asked about the twenty-five dollars which Mary Burke had sent by
registered mail; the old man had heard nothing about it, he had not been
to the post-office. “Let’s go now!” said Hal, at once; but as they were
starting downstairs, a fresh difficulty occurred to him. Pete Hanun was
on the street outside, and it was likely that he had heard about this
money from Jeff Cotton; he might hold Edstrom up and take it away.
“Let me suggest something,” put in the old man. “Come and see my friend
Ed MacKellar. He may be able to give us some advice--even to think of
some way to get the mine open.” Edstrom explained that MacKellar, an old
Scotchman, had been a miner, but was now crippled, and held some petty
office in Pedro. He was a persistent opponent of “Alf” Raymond’s
machine, and they had almost killed him on one occasion. His home was
not far away, and it would take little time to consult him.
“All right,” said Hal, and they set out at once. Pete Hanun followed
them, not more than a dozen yards behind, but did not interfere, and
they turned in at the gate of a little cottage. A woman opened the door
for them, and asked them into the dining-room where MacKellar was
sitting--a grey-haired old man, twisted up with rheumatism and obliged
to go about on crutches.
Hal told his story. As the Scotchman had been brought up in the mines,
it was not necessary to go into details about the situation. When Hal
told his idea of appealing to the newspapers, the other responded at
once, “You won’t have to go to Western City. There’s a man right here
who’ll do the business for you; Keating, of the _Gazette_.”
“The Western City _Gazette?_” exclaimed Hal. He knew this paper; an
evening journal selling for a cent, and read by working-men. Persons of
culture who referred to it disposed of it with the adjective “yellow.”
“I know,” said MacKellar, noting Hal’s tone. “But it’s the only paper
that will publish your story anyway.”
“Where is this Keating?”
“He’s been up at the mine. It’s too bad you didn’t meet him.”
“Can we get hold of him now?”
“He might be in Pedro. Try the American Hotel.”
Hal went to the telephone, and in a minute was hearing for the first
time the cheery voice of his friend and lieutenant-to-be, “Billy”
Keating. In a couple of minutes more the owner of the voice was at
MacKellar’s door, wiping the perspiration from his half-bald forehead.
He was round-faced, like a full moon, and as jolly as Falstaff; when you
got to know him better, you discovered that he was loyal as a
Newfoundland dog. For all his bulk, Keating was a newspaper man, every
inch of him “on the job.”
He started to question the young miner as soon as he was introduced, and
it quickly became clear to Hal that here was the man he was looking for.
Keating knew exactly what questions to ask, and had the whole story in a
few minutes. “By thunder!” he cried. “My last edition!” And he pulled
out his watch, and sprang to the telephone. “Long distance,” he called;
then, “I want the city editor of the Western City _Gazette_. And,
operator, please see if you can’t rush it through. It’s very urgent, and
last time I had to wait nearly half an hour.”
He turned back to Hal, and proceeded to ask more questions, at the same
time pulling a bunch of copy-paper from his pocket and making notes. He
got all Hal’s statements about the lack of sprinkling, the absence of
escape-ways, the delay in starting the fan, the concealing of the number
of men in the mine. “I knew things were crooked up there!” he exclaimed.
“But I couldn’t get a lead! They kept a man with me every minute of the
time. You know a fellow named Predovich?”
“I do,” said Hal. “The company store-clerk; he once went through my
pockets.”
Keating made a face of disgust. “Well, he was my chaperon. Imagine
trying to get the miners to talk to you with that sneak at your heels! I
said to the superintendent, ‘I don’t need anybody to escort me around
your place.’ And he looked at me with a nasty little smile. ‘We wouldn’t
want anything to happen to you while you’re in this camp, Mr. Keating.’
‘You don’t consider it necessary to protect the lives of the other
reporters,’ I said. ‘No,’ said he; ‘but the _Gazette_ has made a great
many enemies, you know.’ ‘Drop your fooling, Mr. Cartwright,’ I said.
‘You propose to have me shadowed while I’m working on this assignment?’
‘You can put it that way,’ he answered, ‘if you think it’ll please the
readers of the _Gazette_.’”
“Too bad we didn’t meet!” said Hal. “Or if you’d run into any of our
check-weighman crowd!”
“Oh! You know about that check-weighman business!” exclaimed the
reporter. “I got a hint of it--that’s how I happened to be down here
to-day. I heard there was a man named Edstrom, who’d been shut out for
making trouble; and I thought if I could find him, I might get a lead.”
Hal and MacKellar looked at the old Swede, and the three of them began
to laugh. “Here’s your man!” said MacKellar.
“And here’s your check-weighman!” added Edstrom, pointing to Hal.
Instantly the reporter was on his job again; he began to fire another
series of questions. He would use that check-weighman story as a
“follow-up” for the next day, to keep the subject of North Valley alive.
The story had a direct bearing on the disaster, because it showed what
the North Valley bosses were doing when they should have been looking
after the safety of their mine. “I’ll write it out this afternoon and
send it by mail,” said Keating; he added, with a smile, “That’s one
advantage of handling news the other papers won’t touch--you don’t have
to worry about losing your ‘scoops’!”
SECTION 2.
Keating went to the telephone again, to worry “long distance”; then,
grumbling about his last edition, he came back to ask more questions
about Hal’s experiences. Before long he drew out the story of the young
man’s first effort in the publicity game; at which he sank back in his
chair, and laughed until he shook, as the nursery-rhyme describes it,
“like a bowlful of jelly.”
“Graham!” he exclaimed. “Fancy, MacKellar, he took that story to
Graham!”
The Scotchman seemed to find it equally funny; together they explained
that Graham was the political reporter of the _Eagle_, the paper in
Pedro which was owned by the Sheriff-emperor. One might call him Alf
Raymond’s journalistic jackal; there was no job too dirty for him.
“But,” cried Hal, “he told me he was correspondent for the Western press
association!”
“He’s that, too,” replied Billy.
“But does the press association employ spies for the ‘G. F. C.’?”
The reporter answered, drily, “When you understand the news game better,
you’ll realise that the one thing the press association cares about in a
correspondent is that he should have respect for property. If respect
for property is the back-bone of his being, he can learn what news is,
and the right way to handle it.”
Keating turned to the Scotchman. “Do you happen to have a typewriter in
the house, Mr. MacKellar?”
“An old one,” said the other--“lame, like myself.”
“I’ll make out with it. I’d ask this young man over to my hotel, but I
think he’d better keep off the streets as much as possible.”
“You’re right. If you take my advice, you’ll take the typewriter
upstairs, where there’s no chance of a shot through the window.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Hal. “Is this America, or mediaeval Italy?”
“It’s the Empire of Raymond,” replied MacKellar. “They shot my friend
Tom Burton dead while he stood on the steps of his home. He was opposing
the machine, and had evidence about ballot-frauds he was going to put
before the Grand Jury.”
While Keating continued to fret with “long distance,” the old Scotchman
went on trying to impress upon Hal the danger of his position. Quite
recently an organiser of the miners’ union had been beaten up in broad
day-light and left insensible on the sidewalk; MacKellar had watched the
trial and acquittal of the two thugs who had committed this crime--the
foreman of the jury being a saloon-keeper one of Raymond’s heelers, and
the other jurymen being Mexicans, unable to comprehend a word of the
court proceedings.
“Exactly such a jury as Jeff Cotton promised me!” remarked Hal, with a
feeble attempt at a smile.
“Yes,” answered the other; “and don’t make any mistake about it, if they
want to put you away, they can do it. They run the whole machine here. I
know how it is, for I had a political job myself, until they found they
couldn’t use me.”
The old Scotchman went on to explain that he had been elected justice of
peace, and had tried to break up the business of policemen taking money
from the women of the town; he had been forced to resign, and his
enemies had made his life a torment. Recently he had been candidate for
district judge on the Progressive ticket, and told of his efforts to
carry on a campaign in the coal-camps--how his circulars had been
confiscated, his posters torn down, his supporters “kangarooed.” It was
exactly as Alec Stone, the pit-boss, had explained to Hal. In some of
the camps the meeting-halls belonged to the company; in others they
belonged to saloon-keepers whose credit depended upon Alf Raymond. In
the few places where there were halls that could be hired, the machine
had gone to the extreme of sending in rival entertainments, furnishing
free music and free beer in order to keep the crowds away from
MacKellar.
All this time Billy Keating had been chafing and scolding at “long
distance.” Now at last he managed to get his call, and silence fell in
the room. “Hello, Pringle, that you? This is Keating. Got a big story on
the North Valley disaster. Last edition put to bed yet? Put Jim on the
wire. Hello, Jim! Got your book?” And then Billy, evidently talking to a
stenographer, began to tell the story he had got from Hal. Now and then
he would stop to repeat or spell a word; once or twice Hal corrected him
on details. So, in about a quarter of an hour, they put the job through;
and Keating turned to Hal.
“There you are, son,” said he. “Your story’ll be on the street in
Western City in a little over an hour; it’ll be down here as soon
thereafter as they can get telephone connections. And take my advice, if
you want to keep a whole skin, you’ll be out of Pedro when that
happens!”
SECTION 3.
When Hal spoke, he did not answer Billy Keating’s last remark. He had
been listening to a retelling of the North Valley disaster over the
telephone; so he was not thinking about his skin, but about a hundred
and seven men and boys buried inside a mine.
“Mr. Keating,” said he, “are you sure the _Gazette_ will print that
story?”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the other. “What am I here for?”
“Well, I’ve been disappointed once, you know.”
“Yes, but you got into the wrong camp. We’re a poor man’s paper, and
this is what we live on.”
“There’s no chance of its being ‘toned down’?”
“Not the slightest, I assure you.”
“There’s no chance of Peter Harrigan’s suppressing it?”
“Peter Harrigan made his attempts on the _Gazette_ long ago, my boy.”
“Well,” said Hal, “and now tell me this--will it do the work?”
“In what way?”
“I mean--in making them open the mine.”
Keating considered for a moment. “I’m afraid it won’t do much.”
Hal looked at him blankly. He had taken it for granted the publication
of the facts would force the company to move. But Keating explained that
the _Gazette_ read mainly by working-people, and so had comparatively
little influence. “We’re an afternoon paper,” he said; “and when people
have been reading lies all morning, it’s not easy to make them believe
the truth in the afternoon.”
“But won’t the story go to other papers--over the country, I mean?”
“Yes, we have a press service; but the papers are all like the
_Gazette_--poor man’s papers. If there’s something very raw, and we keep
pounding away for a long time, we can make an impression; at least we
limit the amount of news the Western press association can suppress. But
when it comes to a small matter like sealing up workingmen in a mine,
all we can do is to worry the ‘G. F. C.’ a little.”
So Hal was just where he had begun! “I must find some other plan,” he
exclaimed.
“I don’t see what you can do,” replied the other.
There was a pause, while the young miner pondered. “I had thought of
going up to Western City and appealing to the editors,” he said, a
little uncertainly.
“Well, I can tell you about that--you might as well save your car-fare.
They wouldn’t touch your story.”
“And if I appealed to the Governor?”
“In the first place, he probably wouldn’t see you. And if he did, he
wouldn’t do anything. He’s not really the Governor, you know; he’s a
puppet put up there to fool you. He only moves when Harrigan pulls a
string.”
“Of course I knew he was Old Peter’s man,” said Hal. “But then”--and he
concluded, somewhat lamely, “What _can_ I do?”
A smile of pity came upon the reporter’s face. “I can see this is the
first time you’ve been up against ‘big business.’” And then he added,
“You’re young! When you’ve had more experience, you’ll leave these
problems to older heads!” But Hal failed to get the reporter’s sarcasm.
He had heard these exact words in such deadly seriousness from his
brother! Besides, he had just come from scenes of horror.
“But don’t you see, Mr. Keating?” he exclaimed. “It’s impossible for me
to sit still while those men die?”
“I don’t know about your sitting still,” said the other. “All I know is
that all your moving about isn’t going to do them any good.”
Hal turned to Edstrom and MacKellar. “Gentlemen,” he said, “listen to me
for a minute.” And there was a note of pleading in his voice--as if he
thought they were deliberately refusing to help him! “We’ve got to do
something about this. We’ve _got_ to do something! I’m new at the game,
as Mr. Keating says; but you aren’t. Put your minds on it, gentlemen,
and help me work out a plan!”
There was a long silence. “God knows,” said Edstrom, at last. “I’d
suggest something if I could.”
“And I, too,” said MacKellar. “You’re up against a stone-wall, my boy.
The government here is simply a department of the ‘G. F. C.’ The
officials are crooks--company servants, all of them.”
“Just a moment now,” said Hal. “Let’s consider. Suppose we had a real
government--what steps would we take? We’d carry such a case to the
District Attorney, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes, no doubt of it,” said MacKellar.
“You mentioned him before,” said Hal. “He threatened to prosecute some
mine-superintendents for ballot-frauds, you said.”
“That was while he was running for election,” said MacKellar.
“Oh! I remember what Jeff Cotton said--that he was friendly to the
miners in his speeches, and to the companies in his acts.”
“That’s the man,” said the other, drily.
“Well,” argued Hal, “oughtn’t I go to him, to give him a chance, at
least? You can’t tell, he might have a heart inside him.”
“It isn’t a heart he needs,” replied MacKellar; “it’s a back-bone.”
“But surely I ought to put it up to him! If he won’t do anything, at
least I’ll put him on record, and it’ll make another story for you,
won’t it, Mr. Keating?”
“Yes, that’s true,” admitted the reporter. “What would you ask him to
do?”
“Why, to lay the matter before the Grand Jury; to bring indictments
against the North Valley bosses.”
“But that would take a long time; it wouldn’t save the men in the mine.”
“What might save them would be the threat of it.” MacKellar put in. “I
don’t think any threat of Dick Barker’s would count for that much. The
bosses know they could stop him.”
“Well, isn’t there somebody else? Shouldn’t I try the courts?”
“What courts?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Well,” said the Scotchman, “to begin at the bottom, there’s a justice
of the peace.”
“Who’s he?”
“Jim Anderson, a horse-doctor. He’s like any other J.P. you ever
knew--he lives on petty graft.”
“Is there a higher court?”
“Yes, the district court; Judge Denton. He’s the law-partner of
Vagleman, counsel for the ‘G. F. C.’ How far would you expect to get
with him?”
“I suppose I’m clutching at straws,” said Hal. “But they say that’s what
a drowning man does. Anyway, I’m going to see these people, and maybe
out of the lot of them I can find one who’ll act. It can’t do any harm!”
The three men thought of some harm it might do; they tried to make Hal
consider the danger of being slugged Or shot. “They’ll do it!” exclaimed
MacKellar. “And no trouble for them--they’ll prove you were stabbed by a
drunken Dago, quarrelling over some woman.”
But Hal had got his head set; he believed he could put this job through
before his enemies had time to lay any plans. Nor would he let any of
his friends accompany him; he had something more important for both
Edstrom and Keating to do--and as for MacKellar, he could not get about
rapidly enough. Hal bade Edstrom go to the post-office and get the
registered letter, and proceed at once to change the bills. It was his
plan to make out affidavits, and if the officials here would not act, to
take the affidavits to the Governor. And for this he would need money.
Meantime, he said, let Billy Keating write out the check-weighman story,
and in a couple of hours meet him at the American Hotel, to get copies
of the affidavits for the _Gazette_.
Hal was still wearing the miner’s clothes he had worn on the night of
his arrest in Edstrom’s cabin. But he declined MacKellar’s offer to lend
him a business-suit; the old Scotchman’s clothes would not fit him, he
knew, and it would be better to make his appeal as a real miner than as
a misfit gentleman.
These matters being settled, Hal went out upon the street, where Pete
Hanun, the breaker of teeth, fell in behind him. The young miner at once
broke into a run, and the other followed suit, and so the two of them
sped down the street, to the wonder of people on the way. As Hal had had
practice as a sprinter, no doubt Pete was glad that the District
Attorney’s office was not far away!
SECTION 4.
Mr. Richard Parker was busy, said the clerk in toe outer office; for
which Hal was not sorry, as it gave him a chance to get his breath.
Seeing a young man flushed and panting, the clerk stared with curiosity;
but Hal offered no explanation, and the breaker of teeth waited on the
street outside.
Mr. Parker received his caller in a couple of minutes. He was a well-fed
gentleman with generous neck and chin, freshly shaved and rubbed with
talcum powder. His clothing was handsome, his linen immaculate; one got
the impression of a person who “did himself well.” There were papers on
his desk, and he looked preoccupied.
“Well?” said he, with a swift glance at the young miner.
“I understand that I am speaking to the District Attorney of Pedro
County?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Parker, have you given any attention to the circumstances of the
North Valley disaster?”
“No,” said Mr. Parker. “Why?”
“I have just come from North Valley, and I can give you information
which may be of interest to you. There are a hundred and seven people
entombed in the mine, and the company officials have sealed it, and are
sacrificing those lives.”
The other put down the correspondence, and made an examination of his
caller from under his heavy eyelids. “How do you know this?”
“I left there only a few hours ago. The facts are known to all the
workers in the camp.”
“You are speaking from what you heard?”
“I am speaking from what I know at first hand. I saw the disaster, I saw
the pit-mouth boarded over and covered with canvas. I know a man who was
driven out of camp this morning for complaining about the delay in
starting the fan. It has been over three days since the explosion, and
still nothing has been done.”
Mr. Parker proceeded to fire a series of questions, in the sharp,
suspicious manner customary to prosecuting officials. But Hal did not
mind that; it was the man’s business to make sure.
Presently he demanded to know how he could get corroboration of Hal’s
statements.
“You’ll have to go up there,” was the reply.
“You say the facts are known to the men. Give me the names of some of
them.”
“I have no authority to give their names, Mr. Parker.”
“What authority do you need? They will tell me, won’t they?”
“They may, and they may not. One man has already lost his job; not every
man cares to lose his job.”
“You expect me to go up there on your bare say-so?”
“I offer you more than my say-so. I offer an affidavit.”
“But what do I know about you?”
“You know that I worked in North Valley--or you can verify the fact by
using the telephone. My name is Joe Smith, and I was a miner’s helper in
Number Two.”
But that was not sufficient, said Mr. Parker; his time was valuable, and
before he took a trip to North Valley he must have the names of
witnesses who would corroborate these statements.
“I offer you an affidavit!” exclaimed Hal. “I say that I have knowledge
that a crime is being committed--that a hundred and seven human lives
are being sacrificed. You don’t consider that a sufficient reason for
even making inquiry?”
The District Attorney answered again that he desired to do his duty, he
desired to protect the workers in their rights; but he could not afford
to go off on a “wild goose chase,” he must have the names of witnesses.
And Hal found himself wondering. Was the man merely taking the first
pretext for doing nothing? Or could it be that an official of the state
would go as far as to help the company by listing the names of
“trouble-makers”?
In spite of his distrust, Hal was resolved to give the man every chance
he could. He went over the whole story of the disaster. He took Mr.
Parker up to the camp, showed him the agonised women and terrified
children crowding about the pit-mouth, driven back with clubs and
revolvers. He named family after family, widows and mothers and orphans.
He told of the miners clamouring for a chance to risk their lives to
save their fellows. He let his own feelings sweep him along; he pleaded
with fervour for his suffering friends.
“Young man,” said the other, breaking in upon his eloquence, “how long
have you been working in North Valley?”
“About ten weeks.”
“How long have you been working in coal-mines?”
“That was my first experience.”
“And you think that in ten weeks you have learned enough to entitle you
to bring a charge of ‘murder’ against men who have spent their lives in
learning the business of mining?”
“As I have told you,” exclaimed Hal, “it’s not merely my opinion; it’s
the opinion of the oldest and most experienced of the miners. I tell you
no effort whatever is being made to save those men! The bosses care
nothing about their men! One of them, Alec Stone, was heard by a crowd
of people to say, ‘Damn the men! Save the mules!’”
“Everybody up there is excited,” declared the other. “Nobody can think
straight at present--you can’t think straight yourself. If the mine’s on
fire, and if the fire is spreading to such an extent that it can’t be
put out--”
“But, Mr. Parker, how can you say that it’s spreading to such an
extent?”
“Well, how can you say that it isn’t?”
There was a pause. “I understand there’s a deputy mine-inspector up
there,” said the District Attorney, suddenly. “What’s his name?”
“Carmichael,” said Hal.
“Well, and what does _he_ say about it?”
“It was for appealing to him that the miner, Huszar, was turned out of
camp.”
“Well,” said Mr. Parker--and there came a note into his voice by which
Hal knew that he had found the excuse he sought--“Well, it’s
Carmichael’s business, and I have no right to butt in on it. If he comes
to me and asks for indictments, I’ll act--but not otherwise. That’s all
I have to say about it.”
And Hal rose. “Very well, Mr. Parker,” said he. “I have put the facts
before you. I was told you wouldn’t do anything, but I wanted to give
you a chance. Now I’m going to ask the Governor for your removal!” And
with these words the young miner strode out of the office.
SECTION 5.
Hal went down the street to the American Hotel, where there was a public
stenographer. When this young woman discovered the nature of the
material he proposed to dictate, her fingers trembled visibly; but she
did not refuse the task, and Hal proceeded to set forth the
circumstances of the sealing of the pit-mouth of Number One Mine at
North Valley, and to pray for warrants for the arrest of Enos Cartwright
and Alec Stone. Then he gave an account of how he had been selected as
check-weighman and been refused access to the scales; and with all the
legal phraseology he could rake up, he prayed for the arrest of Enos
Cartwright and James Peters, superintendent and tipple-boss at North
Valley, for these offences. In another affidavit he narrated how Jeff
Cotton, camp-marshal, had seized him at night, mistreated him, and shut
him in prison for thirty-six hours without warrant or charge; also how
Cotton, Pete Hanun, and two other parties by name unknown, had illegally
driven him from the town of North Valley, threatening him with violence;
for which he prayed the arrest of Jeff Cotton, Pete Hanun, and the two
parties unknown.
Before this task was finished, Billy Keating came in, bringing the
twenty-five dollars which Edstrom had got from the post-office. They
found a notary public, before whom Hal made oath to each document; and
when these had been duly inscribed and stamped with the seal of the
state, he gave carbon copies to Keating, who hurried off to catch a
mail-train which was just due. Billy would not trust such things to the
local post-office; for Pedro was the hell of a town, he declared. As
they went out on the street again they noticed that their body-guard had
been increased by another husky-looking personage, who made no attempt
to conceal what he was doing.
Hal went around the corner to an office bearing the legend, “J.W.
Anderson, Justice of the Peace.”
Jim Anderson, the horse-doctor, sat at his desk within. He had evidently
chewed tobacco before he assumed the ermine, and his reddish-coloured
moustache still showed the stains. Hal observed such details, trying to
weigh his chances of success. He presented the affidavit describing his
treatment in North Valley, and sat waiting while His Honour read it
through with painful slowness.
“Well,” said the man, at last, “what do you want?”
“I want a warrant for Jeff Cotton’s arrest.”
The other studied him for a minute. “No, young fellow,” said he. “You
can’t get no such warrant here.”
“Why not?”
“Because Cotton’s a deputy-sheriff; he had a right to arrest you.”
“To arrest me without a warrant?”
“How do you know he didn’t have a warrant?”
“He admitted to me that he didn’t.”
“Well, whether he had a warrant or not, it was his business to keep
order in the camp.”
“You mean he can do anything he pleases in the camp?”
“What I mean is, it ain’t my business to interfere. Why didn’t you see
Si Adams, up to the camp?”
“They didn’t give me any chance to see him.”
“Well,” replied the other, “there’s nothing I can do for you. You can
see that for yourself. What kind of discipline could they keep in them
camps if any fellow that had a kick could come down here and have the
marshal arrested?”
“Then a camp-marshal can act without regard to the law?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Suppose he had committed murder--would you give a warrant for that?”
“Yes, of course, if it was murder.”
“And if you knew that he was in the act of committing murder in a
coal-camp--would you try to stop him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then here’s another affidavit,” said Hal; and he produced the one about
the sealing of the mine. There was silence while Justice Anderson read
it through.
But again he shook his head. “No, you can’t get no such warrants here.”
“Why not?”
“Because it ain’t my business to run a coal-mine. I don’t understand it,
and I’d make a fool of myself if I tried to tell them people how to run
their business.”
Hal argued with him. Could company officials in charge of a coal-mine
commit any sort of outrage upon their employés, and call it running
their business? Their control of the mine in such an emergency as this
meant the power of life and death over a hundred and seven men and boys;
could it be that the law had nothing to say in such a situation? But Mr.
Anderson only shook his head; it was not his business to interfere. Hal
might go up to the court-house and see Judge Denton about it. So Hal
gathered up his affidavits and went out to the street again--where there
were now three husky-looking personages waiting to escort him.
SECTION 6.
The district court was in session and Hal sat for a while in the
court-room, watching Judge Denton. Here was another prosperous and
well-fed appearing gentleman, with a rubicund visage shining over the
top of his black silk robe. The young miner found himself regarding both
the robe and the visage with suspicion. Could it be that Hal was
becoming cynical, and losing his faith in his fellow man? What he
thought of, in connection with the Judge’s appearance, was that there
was a living to be made sitting on the bench, while one’s partner
appeared before the bench as coal-company counsel!
In an interval of the proceedings, Hal spoke to the clerk, and was told
that he might see the judge at four-thirty; but a few minutes later Pete
Hanun came in and whispered to this clerk. The clerk looked at Hal, then
he went up and whispered to the Judge. At four-thirty, when the court
was declared adjourned, the Judge rose and disappeared into his private
office; and when Hal applied to the clerk, the latter brought out the
message that Judge Denton was too busy to see him.
But Hal was not to be disposed of in that easy fashion. There was a side
door to the court-room, with a corridor beyond it, and while he stood
arguing with the clerk he saw the rubicund visage of the Judge flit
past.
He darted in pursuit. He did not shout or make a disturbance; but when
he was close behind his victim, he said, quietly, “Judge Denton, I
appeal to you for justice!”
The Judge turned and looked at him, his countenance showing annoyance.
“What do you want?”
It was a ticklish moment, for Pete Hanun was at Hal’s heels, and it
would have needed no more than a nod from the Judge to cause him to
collar Hal. But the Judge, taken by surprise, permitted himself to
parley with the young miner; and the detective hesitated, and finally
fell back a step or two.
Hal repeated his appeal. “Your Honour, there are a hundred and seven men
and boys now dying up at the North Valley mine. They are being murdered,
and I am trying to save their lives!”
“Young man,” said the Judge, “I have an urgent engagement down the
street.”
“Very well,” replied Hal, “I will walk with you and tell you as you go.”
Nor did he give “His Honour” a chance to say whether this arrangement
was pleasing to him; he set out by his side, with Pete Hanun and the
other two men some ten yards in the rear.
Hal told the story as he had told it to Mr. Richard Parker; and he
received the same response. Such matters were not easy to decide about;
they were hardly a Judge’s business. There was a state official on the
ground, and it was for him to decide if there was violation of law.
Hal repeated his statement that a man who made a complaint to this
official had been thrown out of camp. “And I was thrown out also, your
Honour.”
“What for?”
“Nobody told me what for.”
“Tut, tut, young man! They don’t throw men out without telling them the
reason!”
“But they _do_, your Honour! Shortly before that they locked me up in
jail, and held me for thirty-six hours without the slightest show of
authority.”
“You must have been doing something!”
“What I had done was to be chosen by a committee of miners to act as
their check-weighman.”
“Their check-weighman?”
“Yes, your Honour. I am informed there’s a law providing that when the
men demand a check-weighman, and offer to pay for him, the company must
permit him to inspect the weights. Is that correct?”
“It is, I believe.”
“And there’s a penalty for refusing?”
“The law always carries a penalty, young man.”
“They tell me that law has been on the statute-books for fifteen or
sixteen years, and that the penalty is from twenty-five to five hundred
dollars fine. It’s a case about which there can be no dispute, your
Honour--the miners notified the superintendent that they desired my
services, and when I presented myself at the tipple, I was refused
access to the scales; then I was seized and shut up in jail, and finally
turned out of the camp. I have made affidavit to these facts, and I
think I have the right to ask for warrants for the guilty men.”
“Can you produce witnesses to your statements?”
“I can, your Honour. One of the committee of miners, John Edstrom, is
now in Pedro, having been kept out of his home, which he had rented and
paid for. The other, Mike Sikoria, was also thrown out of camp. There
are many others at North Valley who know all about it.”
There was a pause. Judge Denton for the first time took a good look at
the young miner at his side; and then he drew his brows together in
solemn thought, and his voice became deep and impressive. “I shall take
this matter under advisement. What is your name, and where do you live?”
“Joe Smith, your Honour. I’m staying at Edward MacKellar’s, but I don’t
know how long I’ll be able to stay there. There are company thugs
watching the place all the time.”
“That’s wild talk!” said the Judge, impatiently.
“As it happens,” said Hal, “we are being followed by three of them at
this moment--one of them the same Pete Hanun who helped to drive me out
of North Valley. If you will turn your head you will see them behind
us.”
But the portly Judge did not turn his head.
“I have been informed,” Hal continued, “that I am taking my life in my
hands by my present course of action. I believe I’m entitled to ask for
protection.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“To begin with, I’d like you to cause the arrest of the men who are
shadowing me.”
“It’s not my business to cause such arrests. You should apply to a
policeman.”
“I don’t see any policeman. Will you tell me where to find one?”
His Honour was growing weary of such persistence. “Young man, what’s the
matter with you is that you’ve been reading dime novels, and they’ve got
on your nerves!”
“But the men are right behind me, your Honour! Look at them!”
“I’ve told you it’s not my business, young man!”
“But, your Honour, before I can find a policeman I may be dead!”
The other appeared to be untroubled by this possibility.
“And, your Honour, while you are taking these matters under advisement,
the men in the mine will be dead!”
Again there was no reply.
“I have some affidavits here,” said Hal. “Do you wish them?”
“You can give them to me if you want to,” said the other.
“You don’t ask me for them?”
“I haven’t yet.”
“Then just one more question--if you will pardon me, your Honour. Can
you tell me where I can find an honest lawyer in this town--a man who
might be willing to take a case against the interests of the General
Fuel Company?”
There was a silence--a long, long silence. Judge Denton, of the firm of
Denton and Vagleman, stared straight in front of him as he walked.
Whatever complicated processes might have been going on inside his mind,
his judicial features did not reveal them. “No, young man,” he said at
last, “it’s not my business to give you information about lawyers.” And
with that the judge turned on his heel and went into the Elks’ Club.
SECTION 7.
Hal stood and watched the portly figure until it disappeared; then he
turned back and passed the three detectives, who stopped. He stared at
them, but made no sign, nor did they. Some twenty feet behind him, they
fell in and followed as before.
Judge Denton had suggested consulting a policeman; and suddenly Hal
noticed that he was passing the City Hall, and it occurred to him that
this matter of his being shadowed might properly be brought to the
attention of the mayor of Pedro. He wondered what the chief magistrate
of such a “hell of a town” might be like; after due inquiry, he found
himself in the office of Mr. Ezra Perkins, a mild-mannered little
gentleman who had been in the undertaking-business, before he became a
figure-head for the so-called “Democratic” machine.
He sat pulling nervously at a neatly trimmed brown beard, trying to
wriggle out of the dilemma into which Hal put him. Yes, it might
possibly be that a young miner was being followed on the streets of the
town; but whether or not this was against the law depended on the
circumstances. If he had made a disturbance in North Valley, and there
was reason to believe that he might be intending trouble, doubtless the
company was keeping track of him. But Pedro was a law-abiding place, and
he would be protected in his rights so long as he behaved himself.
Hal replied by citing what MacKellar had told him about men being
slugged on the streets in broad day-light. To this Mr. Perkins answered
that there was uncertainty about the circumstances of these cases;
anyhow, they had happened before he became mayor. His was a reform
administration, and he had given strict orders to the Chief of Police
that there were to be no more incidents of the sort.
“Will you go with me to the Chief of Police and give him orders now?”
demanded Hal.
“I do not consider it necessary,” said Mr. Perkins.
He was about to go home, it seemed. He was a pitiful little rodent, and
it was a shame to torment him; but Hal stuck to him for ten or twenty
minutes longer, arguing and insisting--until finally the little rodent
bolted for the door, and made his escape in an automobile. “You can go
to the Chief of Police yourself,” were his last words, as he started the
machine; and Hal decided to follow the suggestion. He had no hope left,
but he was possessed by a kind of dogged rage. He _would_ not let go!
Upon inquiry of a passer-by, he learned that police headquarters was in
this same building, the entrance being just round the corner. He went
in, and found a man in uniform writing at a desk, who stated that the
Chief had “stepped down the street.” Hal sat down to wait, by a window
through which he could look out upon the three gunmen loitering across
the way.
The man at the desk wrote on, but now and then he eyed the young miner
with that hostility which American policemen cultivate toward the lower
classes. To Hal this was a new phenomenon, and he found himself suddenly
wishing that he had put on MacKellar’s clothes. Perhaps a policeman
would not have noticed the misfit!
The Chief came in. His blue uniform concealed a burly figure, and his
moustache revealed the fact that his errand down the street had had to
do with beer. “Well, young fellow?” said he, fixing his gaze upon Hal.
Hal explained his errand.
“What do you want me to do?” asked the Chief, in a decidedly hostile
voice.
“I want you to make those men stop following me.”
“How can I make them stop?”
“You can lock them up, if necessary. I can point them out to you, if
you’ll step to the window.”
But the other made no move. “I reckon if they’re follerin’ you, they’ve
got some reason for it. Have you been makin’ trouble in the camps?” He
asked this question with sudden force, as if it had occurred to him that
it might be his duty to lock up Hal.
“No,” said Hal, speaking as bravely as he could--“no indeed, I haven’t
been making trouble. I’ve only been demanding my rights.”
“How do I know what you been doin’?”
The young miner was willing to explain, but the other cut him short.
“You behave yourself while you’re in this town, young feller, d’you see?
If you do, nobody’ll bother you.”
“But,” said Hal, “they’ve already threatened to bother me.”
“What did they say?”
“They said something might happen to me on a dark night.”
“Well, so it might--you might fall down and hit your nose.”
The Chief was pleased with this wit, but only for a moment. “Understand,
young feller, we’ll give you your rights in this town, but we got no
love for agitators, and we don’t pretend to have. See?”
“You call a man an agitator when he demands his legal rights?”
“I ain’t got time to argue with you, young feller. It’s no easy matter
keepin’ order in coal-camps, and I ain’t going to meddle in the
business. I reckon the company detectives has got as good a right in
this town as you.”
There was a pause. Hal saw that there was nothing to be gained by
further discussion with the Chief. It was his first glimpse of the
American policeman as he appears to the labouring man in revolt, and he
found it an illuminating experience. There was dynamite in his heart as
he turned and went out to the street; nor was the amount of the
explosive diminished by the mocking grins which he noted upon the faces
of Pete Hanun and the other two husky-looking personages.
SECTION 8.
Hal judged that he had now exhausted his legal resources in Pedro; the
Chief of Police had not suggested any one else he might call upon, so
there seemed nothing he could do but go back to MacKellar’s and await
the hour of the night train to Western City. He started to give his
guardians another run, by way of working off at least a part of his own
temper; but he found that they had anticipated this difficulty. An
automobile came up and the three of them stepped in. Not to be outdone,
Hal engaged a hack, and so the expedition returned in pomp to
MacKellar’s.
Hal found the old cripple in a state of perturbation. All that afternoon
his telephone had been ringing; one person after another had warned
him--some pleading with him, some abusing him. It was evident that among
them were people who had a hold on the old man; but he was undaunted,
and would not hear of Hal’s going to stay at the hotel until train-time.
Then Keating returned, with an exciting tale to tell. Schulman, general
manager of the “G. F. C.,” had been sending out messengers to hunt for
him, and finally had got him in his office, arguing and pleading,
cajoling and denouncing him by turns. He had got Cartwright on the
telephone, and the North Valley superintendent had laboured to convince
Keating that he had done the company a wrong. Cartwright had told a
story about Hal’s efforts to hold up the company for money.
“Incidentally,” said Keating, “he added the charge that you had seduced
a girl in his camp.”
Hal stared at his friend. “Seduced a girl!” he exclaimed.
“That’s what he said; a red-headed Irish girl.”
“Well, damn his soul!”
There followed a silence, broken by a laugh from Billy. “Don’t glare at
me like that. _I_ didn’t say it!”
But Hal continued to glare, nevertheless. “The dirty little skunk!”
“Take it easy, sonny,” said the fat man, soothingly. “It’s quite the
usual thing, to drag in a woman. It’s so easy--for of course there
always _is_ a woman. There’s one in this case, I suppose?”
“There’s a perfectly decent girl.”
“But you’ve been friendly with her? You’ve been walking around where
people can see you?”
“Yes.”
“So you see, they’ve got you. There’s nothing you can do about a thing
of that sort.”
“You wait and see!” Hal burst out.
The other gazed curiously at the angry young miner. “What’ll you do?
Beat him up some night?”
But the young miner did not answer. “You say he described the girl?”
“He was kind enough to say she was a red-headed beauty, and with no one
to protect her but a drunken father. I could understand that must have
made it pretty hard for her, in one of these coal-camps.” There was a
pause. “But see here,” said the reporter, “you’ll only do the girl harm
by making a row. Nobody believes that women in coal-camps have any
virtue. God knows, I don’t see how they do have, considering the sort of
men who run the camps, and the power they have.”
“Mr. Keating,” said Hal, “did _you_ believe what Cartwright told you?”
Keating had started to light a cigar. He stopped in the middle, and his
eyes met Hal’s. “My dear boy,” said he, “I didn’t consider it my
business to have an opinion.”
“But what did you say to Cartwright?”
“Ah! That’s another matter. I said that I’d been a newspaper man for a
good many years, and I knew his game.”
“Thank you for that,” said Hal. “You may be interested to know there
isn’t any truth in the story.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the other. “I believe you.”
“Also you may be interested to know that I shan’t drop the matter until
I’ve made Cartwright take it back.”
“Well, you’re an enterprising cuss!” laughed the reporter. “Haven’t you
got enough on your hands, with all the men you’re going to get out of
the mine?”
SECTION 9.
Billy Keating went out again, saying that he knew a man who might be
willing to talk to him on the quiet, and give him some idea what was
going to happen to Hal. Meantime Hal and Edstrom sat down to dinner with
MacKellar. The family were afraid to use the dining-room of their home,
but spread a little table in the upstairs hall. The distress of mind of
MacKellar’s wife and daughter was apparent, and this brought home to Hal
the terror of life in this coal-country. Here were American women, in an
American home, a home with evidences of refinement and culture; yet they
felt and acted as if they were Russian conspirators, in terror of
Siberia and the knout!
The reporter was gone a couple of hours; when he came back, he brought
news. “You can prepare for trouble, young fellow.”
“Why so?”
“Jeff Cotton’s in town.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him in an automobile. If he left North Valley at this time, it
was for something serious, you may be sure.”
“What does he mean to do?”
“There’s no telling. He may have you slugged; he may have you run out of
town and dumped out in the desert; he may just have you arrested.”
Hal considered for a moment. “For slander?”
“Or for vagrancy; or on suspicion of having robbed a bank in Texas, or
murdered your great-grandmother in Tasmania. The point is, he’ll keep
you locked up till this trouble has blown over.”
“Well,” said Hal, “I don’t want to be locked up. I want to go up to
Western City. I’m waiting for the train.”
“You may have to wait till morning,” replied Keating. “There’s been
trouble on the railroad--a freight-car broke down and ripped up the
track; it’ll be some time before it’s clear.”
They discussed this new problem back and forth. MacKellar wanted to get
in half a dozen friends and keep guard over Hal during the night; and
Hal had about agreed to this idea, when the discussion was given a new
turn by a chance remark of Keating’s. “Somebody else is tied up by the
railroad accident. The Coal King’s son!”
“The Coal King’s son?” echoed Hal.
“Young Percy Harrigan. He’s got a private car here--or rather a whole
train. Think of it--dining-car, drawing-room car, two whole cars with
sleeping apartments! Wouldn’t you like to be a son of the Coal King?”
“Has he come on account of the mine-disaster?”
“Mine-disaster?” echoed Keating. “I doubt if he’s heard of it. They’ve
been on a trip to the Grand Canyon, I was told; there’s a baggage-car
with four automobiles.”
“Is Old Peter with them?”
“No, he’s in New York. Percy’s the host. He’s got one of his automobiles
out, and was up in town--two other fellows and some girls.”
“Who’s in his party?”
“I couldn’t find out. You can see, it might be a story for the
_Gazette_--the Coal King’s son, coming by chance at the moment when a
hundred and seven of his serfs are perishing in the mine! If I could
only have got him to say a word about the disaster! If I could even have
got him to say he didn’t know about it!”
“Did you try?”
“What am I a reporter for?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened; except that he froze me stiff.”
“Where was this?”
“On the street. They stopped at a drug-store, and I stepped up. ‘Is this
Mr. Percy Harrigan?’ He was looking into the store, over my head. ‘I’m a
reporter,’ I said, ‘and I’d like to ask you about the accident up at
North Valley.’ ‘Excuse me,’ he said, in a tone--gee, it makes your blood
cold to think of it! ‘Just a word,’ I pleaded. ‘I don’t give
interviews,’ he answered; and that was all--he continued looking over my
head, and everybody else staring in front of them. They had turned to
ice at my first word. If ever I felt like a frozen worm!”
There was a pause.
“Ain’t it wonderful,” reflected Billy, “how quick you can build up an
aristocracy! When you looked at that car, the crowd in it and the airs
they wore, you’d think they’d been running the world since the time of
William the Conqueror. And Old Peter came into this country with a
pedlar’s pack on his shoulders!”
“We’re hustlers here,” put in MacKellar.
“We’ll hustle all the way to hell in a generation more,” said the
reporter. Then, after a minute, “Say, but there’s one girl in that bunch
that was the real thing! She sure did get me! You know all those fluffy
things they do themselves up in--soft and fuzzy, makes you think of
spring-time orchards. This one was exactly the colour of
apple-blossoms.”
“You’re susceptible to the charms of the ladies?” inquired Hal, mildly.
“I am,” said the other. “I know it’s all fake, but just the same, it
makes my little heart go pit-a-pat. I always want to think they’re as
lovely as they look.”
Hal’s smile became reminiscent, and he quoted:
“Oh Liza-Ann, come out with me,
The moon is a-shinin’ in the monkey-puzzle tree!”
Then he stopped, with a laugh. “Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve,
Mr. Keating. She wouldn’t be above taking a peck at it as she passed.”
“At me? A worm of a newspaper reporter?”
“At you, a man!” laughed Hal. “I wouldn’t want to accuse the lady of
posing; but a lady has her role in life, and has to keep her hand in.”
There was a pause. The reporter was looking at the young miner with
sudden curiosity. “See here,” he remarked, “I’ve been wondering about
you. How do you come to know so much about the psychology of the leisure
class?”
“I used to have money once,” said Hal. “My family’s gone down as quickly
as the Harrigans have come up.”
SECTION 10.
Hal went on to question Keating about the apple-blossom girl. “Maybe I
could guess who she is. What colour was her hair?”
“The colour of molasses taffy when you’ve pulled it,” said Billy; “but
all fluffy and wonderful, with star-dust in it. Her eyes were brown, and
her cheeks pink and cream.”
“She had two rows of pearly white teeth, that flashed at you when she
smiled?”
“She didn’t smile, unfortunately.”
“Then her brown eyes gazed at you, wide open, full of wonder?”
“Yes, they did--only it was into the drug-store window.”
“Did she wear a white hat of soft straw, with a green and white flower
garden on it, and an olive green veil, and maybe cream white ribbons?”
“By George, I believe you’ve seen her!” exclaimed the reporter.
“Maybe,” said Hal. “Or maybe I’m describing the girl on the cover of one
of the current magazines!” He smiled; but then, seeing the other’s
curiosity, “Seriously, I think I do know your young lady. If you
announce that Miss Jessie Arthur is a member of the Harrigan party, you
won’t be taking a long chance.”
“I can’t afford to take any chance at all,” said the reporter. “You mean
Robert Arthur’s daughter?”
“Heiress-apparent of the banking business of Arthur and Sons,” said Hal.
“It happens I know her by sight.”
“How’s that?”
“I worked in a grocery-store where she used to come.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Peterson and Company, in Western City.”
“Oho! And you used to sell her candy.”
“Stuffed dates.”
“And your little heart used to go pit-a-pat, so that you could hardly
count the change?”
“Gave her too much, several times!”
“And you wondered if she was as good as she was beautiful! One day you
were thrilled with hope, the next you were cynical and bitter--till at
last you gave up in despair, and ran away to work in a coal-mine!”
They laughed, and MacKellar and Edstrom joined in. But suddenly Keating
became serious again. “I ought to be away on that story!” he exclaimed.
“I’ve got to get something out of that crowd about the disaster. Think
what copy it would make!”
“But how can you do it?”
“I don’t know; I only know I ought to be trying. I’ll hang round the
train, and maybe I can get one of the porters to talk.”
“Interview with the Coal King’s porter!” chuckled Hal. “How it feels to
make up a multi-millionaire’s bed!”
“How it feels to sell stuffed dates to a banker’s daughter!” countered
the other.
But suddenly it was Hal’s turn to become serious. “Listen, Mr. Keating,”
said he, “why not let _me_ interview young Harrigan?”
“_You?_”
“Yes! I’m the proper person--one of his miners! I help to make his money
for him, don’t I? I’m the one to tell him about North Valley.”
Hal saw the reporter staring at him in sudden excitement; he continued:
“I’ve been to the District Attorney, the Justice of the Peace, the
District Judge, the Mayor and the Chief of Police. Now, why shouldn’t I
go to the Owner?”
“By thunder!” cried Billy. “I believe you’d have the nerve!”
“I believe I would,” replied Hal, quietly.
The other scrambled out of his chair, wild with delight. “I dare you!”
he exclaimed.
“I’m ready,” said Hal.
“You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it.”
“In that costume?”
“Certainly. I’m one of his miners.”
“But it won’t go,” cried the reporter. “You’ll stand no chance to get
near him unless you’re well dressed.”
“Are you sure of that? What I’ve got on might be the garb of a
railroad-hand. Suppose there was something out of order in one of the
cars--the plumbing, for example?”
“But you couldn’t fool the conductor or the porter.”
“I might be able to. Let’s try it.”
There was a pause, while Keating thought. “The truth is,” he said, “it
doesn’t matter whether you succeed or not--it’s a story if you even make
the attempt. The Coal King’s son appealed to by one of his serfs! The
hard heart of Plutocracy rejects the cry of Labour!”
“Yes,” said Hal, “but I really mean to get to him. Do you suppose he’s
got back to the train yet?”
“They were starting to it when I left.”
“And where _is_ the train?”
“Two or three hundred yards east of the station, I was told.”
MacKellar and Edstrom had been listening enthralled to this exciting
conversation. “That ought to be just back of my house,” said the former.
“It’s a short train--four parlour-cars and a baggage-car,” added
Keating. “It ought to be easy to recognise.”
The old Scotchman put in an objection. “The difficulty may be to get out
of this house. I don’t believe they mean to let you get away to-night.”
“By Jove, that’s so!” exclaimed Keating. “We’re talking too much--let’s
get busy. Are they watching the back door, do you suppose?”
“They’ve been watching it all day,” said MacKellar.
“Listen,” broke in Hal--“I’ve an idea. They haven’t tried to interfere
with your going out, have they, Mr. Keating?”
“No, not yet.”
“Nor with you, Mr. MacKellar?”
“No, not yet,” said the Scotchman.
“Well,” Hal suggested, “suppose you lend me your crutches?”
Whereat Keating gave an exclamation of delight. “The very thing!”
“I’ll take your over-coat and hat,” Hal added. “I’ve watched you get
about, and I think I can give an imitation. As for Mr. Keating, he’s not
easy to mistake.”
“Billy, the fat boy!” laughed the other. “Come, let’s get on the job!”
“I’ll go out by the front door at the same time,” put in Edstrom, his
old voice trembling with excitement. “Maybe that’ll help to throw them
off the track.”
SECTION 11.
They had been sitting upstairs in MacKellar’s room. Now they rose, and
were starting for the stairs, when suddenly there came a ring at the
front door bell. They stopped and stared at one another. “There they
are!” whispered Keating.
And MacKellar sat down suddenly, and held out his crutches to Hal. “The
hat and coat are in the front hall,” he exclaimed. “Make a try for it!”
His words were full of vigour, but like Edstrom, his voice was
trembling. He was no longer young, and could not take adventure gaily.
Hal and Keating ran downstairs, followed by Edstrom. Hal put on the coat
and hat, and they went to the back door, while at the same time Edstrom
answered the bell in front.
The back door opened into a yard, and this gave, through a side gate,
into an alley. Hal’s heart was pounding furiously as he began to hobble
along with the crutches. He had to go at MacKellar’s slow pace--while
Keating, at his side, started talking. He informed “Mr. MacKellar,” in a
casual voice, that the _Gazette_ was a newspaper which believed in the
people’s cause, and was pledged to publish the people’s side of all
public questions. Discoursing thus, they went out of the gate and into
the alley.
A man emerged from the shadows and walked by them. He passed within
three feet of Hal, and peered at him, narrowly. Fortunately there was no
moon; Hal could not see the man’s face, and hoped the man could not see
his.
Meantime Keating was proceeding with his discourse. “You understand, Mr.
MacKellar,” he was saying, “sometimes it’s difficult to find out the
truth in a situation like this. When the interests are filling their
newspapers with falsehoods and exaggerations, it’s a temptation for us
to publish falsehoods and exaggerations on the other side. But we find
in the long run that it pays best to publish the truth, Mr.
MacKellar--we can stand by it, and there’s no come-back.”
Hal, it must be admitted, was not paying much attention to this edifying
sermon. He was looking ahead, to where the alley debouched onto the
street. It was the street behind MacKellar’s house, and only a block
from the railroad-track.
He dared not look behind, but he was straining his ears. Suddenly he
heard a shout, in John Edstrom’s voice. “Run! Run!”
In a flash, Hal dropped the two crutches, and started down the alley,
Keating at his heels. They heard cries behind them, and a voice,
sounding quite near, commanded, “Halt!” They had reached the end of the
alley, and were in the act of swerving, when a shot rang out and there
was a crash of glass in a house beyond them on the far side of the
street.
Farther on was a vacant lot with a path running across it. Following
this, they dodged behind some shanties, and came to another street--and
so to the railroad tracks. There was a long line of freight-cars before
them, and they ran between two of these, and climbing over the
couplings, saw a great engine standing, its headlight gleaming full in
their eyes. They sprang in front of it, and alongside the train, passing
a tender, then a baggage-car, then a parlour-car.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Keating, who was puffing like a bellows.
Hal saw that there were only three more cars to the train; also, he saw
a man in a blue uniform standing at the steps. He dashed towards him.
“Your car’s on fire!” he cried.
“What?” exclaimed the man. “Where?”
“Here!” cried Hal; and in a flash he had sprung past the other, up the
steps and into the car.
There was a long, narrow corridor, to be recognised as the kitchen
portion of a dining-car; at the other end of this corridor was a
swinging door, and to this Hal leaped. He heard the conductor shouting
to him to stop, but he paid no heed. He slipped off his over-coat and
hat; and then, pushing open the door, he entered a brightly lighted
apartment--and the presence of the Coal King’s son.
SECTION 12.
White linen and cut glass of the dining-saloon shone brilliantly under
electric lights, softened to the eye by pink shades. Seated at the
tables were half a dozen young men and as many young ladies, all in
evening costume; also two or three older ladies. They had begun the
first course of their meal, and were laughing and chatting, when
suddenly came this unexpected visitor, clad in coal-stained miner’s
jumpers. He was not disturbing in the manner of his entry; but
immediately behind him came a fat man, perspiring, wild of aspect, and
wheezing like an old fashioned steam-engine; behind him came the
conductor of the train, in a no less evident state of agitation. So, of
course, conversation ceased. The young ladies turned in their chairs,
while several of the young men sprang to their feet.
There followed a silence: until finally one of the young men took a step
forward. “What’s this?” he demanded, as one who had a right to demand.
Hal advanced towards the speaker, a slender youth, correct in
appearance, but not distinguished looking. “Hello, Percy!” said Hal.
A look of amazement came upon the other’s face. He stared, but seemed
unable to believe what he saw. And then suddenly came a cry from one of
the young ladies; the one having hair the colour of molasses taffy when
you’ve pulled it--but all fluffy and wonderful, with stardust in it. Her
cheeks were pink and cream, and her brown eyes gazed, wide open, full of
wonder. She wore a dinner gown of soft olive green, with a cream white
scarf of some filmy material thrown about her bare shoulders.
She had started to her feet. “It’s Hal!” she cried.
“Hal Warner!” echoed young Harrigan. “Why, what in the world--?”
He was interrupted by a clamour outside. “Wait a moment,” said Hal,
quietly. “I think some one else is coming in.”
The door was pushed violently open. It was pushed so violently that
Billy Keating and the conductor were thrust to one side; and Jeff Cotton
appeared in the entrance.
The camp-marshal was breathless, his face full of the passion of the
hunt. In his right hand he carried a revolver. He glared about him, and
saw the two men he was chasing; also he saw the Coal King’s son, and the
rest of the astonished company. He stood, stricken dumb.
The door was pushed again, forcing him aside, and two more men crowded
in, both of them carrying revolvers in their hands. The foremost was
Pete Hanun, and he also stood staring. The “breaker of teeth” had two
teeth of his own missing, and when his prize-fighter’s jaw dropped down,
the deficiency became conspicuous. It was probably his first entrance
into society, and he was like an overgrown boy caught in the jam-closet.
Percy Harrigan’s manner became distinctly imperious. “What does this
mean?” he demanded.
It was Hal who answered. “I am seeking a criminal, Percy.”
“What?” There were little cries of alarm from the women.
“Yes, a criminal; the man who sealed up the mine.”
“Sealed up the mine?” echoed the other. “What do you mean?”
“Let me explain. First, I will introduce my friends. Harrigan, this is
my friend Keating.”
Billy suddenly realised that he had a hat on his head. He jerked it off;
but for the rest, his social instincts failed him. He could only stare.
He had not yet got all his breath.
“Billy’s a reporter,” said Hal. “But you needn’t worry--he’s a
gentleman, and won’t betray a confidence. You understand, Billy.”
“Y--yes,” said Billy, faintly.
“And this,” said Hal, “is Jeff Cotton, camp-marshal at North Valley. I
suppose you know, Percy, that the North Valley mines belong to the ‘G.
F. C.’ Cotton, this is Mr. Harrigan.”
Then Cotton remembered his hat; also his revolver, which he tried to get
out of sight behind his back.
“And this,” continued Hal, “is Mr. Pete Hanun, by profession a breaker
of teeth. This other gentleman, whose name I don’t know, is presumably
an assistant-breaker.” So Hal went on, observing the forms of social
intercourse, his purpose being to give his mind a chance to work. So
much depended upon the tactics he chose in this emergency! Should he
take Percy to one side and tell him the story quietly, leaving it to his
sense of justice and humanity? No, that was not the way one dealt with
the Harrigans! They had bullied their way to the front; if anything were
done with them, it would be by force! If anything were done with Percy,
it would be by laying hold of him before these guests, exposing the
situation, and using their feelings to coerce him!
The Coal King’s son was asking questions again. What was all this about?
So Hal began to describe the condition of the men inside the mine. “They
have no food or water, except what they had in their dinner-pails; and
it’s been three days and a half since the explosion! They are breathing
bad air; their heads are aching, the veins swelling in their foreheads;
their tongues are cracking, they are lying on the ground, gasping. But
they are waiting--kept alive by the faith they have in their friends on
the surface, who will try to get to them. They dare not take down the
barriers, because the gases would kill them at once. But they know the
rescuers will come, so they listen for the sounds of axes and picks.
That is the situation.”
Hal stopped and waited for some sign of concern from young Harrigan. But
no such sign was given. Hal went on:
“Think of it, Percy! There is one old man in that mine, an Irishman who
has a wife and eight children waiting to learn about his fate. I know
one woman who has a husband and three sons in the mine. For three days
and a half the women and children have been standing at the pit-mouth; I
have seen them sitting with their heads sunk upon their knees, or
shaking their fists, screaming curses at the criminal who is to blame.”
There was a pause. “The criminal?” inquired young Harrigan. “I don’t
understand!”
“You’ll hardly be able to believe it; but nothing has been done to
rescue these men. The criminal has nailed a cover of boards over the
pit-mouth, and put tarpaulin over it--sealing up men and boys to die!”
There was a murmur of horror from the diners.
“I know, you can’t conceive such a thing. The reason is, there’s a fire
in the mine; if the fan is set to working, the coal will burn. But at
the same time, some of the passages could be got clear of smoke, and
some of the men could be rescued. So it’s a question of property against
lives; and the criminal has decided for the property. He proposes to
wait a week, two weeks, until the fire has been smothered; _then_ of
course the men and boys will be dead.”
There was a silence. It was broken by young Harrigan. “Who has done
this?”
“His name is Enos Cartwright.”
“But who _is_ he?”
“Just now when I said that I was seeking the criminal, I misled you a
little, Percy. I did it because I wanted to collect my thoughts.” Hal
paused: when he continued, his voice was sharper, his sentences falling
like blows. “The criminal I’ve been telling you about is the
superintendent of the mine--a man employed and put in authority by the
General Fuel Company. The one who is being chased is not the one who
sealed up the mine, but the one who proposed to have it opened. He is
being treated as a malefactor, because the laws of the state, as well as
the laws of humanity, have been suppressed by the General Fuel Company;
he was forced to seek refuge in your car, in order to save his life from
thugs and gunmen in the company’s employ!”
SECTION 13.
Knowing these people well, Hal could measure the effect of the
thunderbolt he had hurled among them. They were people to whom good
taste was the first of all the virtues; he knew how he was offending
them. If he was to win them to the least extent, he must explain his
presence here--a trespasser upon the property of the Harrigans.
“Percy,” he continued, “you remember how you used to jump on me last
year at college, because I listened to ‘muck-rakers.’ You saw fit to
take personal offence at it. You knew that their tales couldn’t be true.
But I wanted to see for myself, so I went to work in a coal-mine. I saw
the explosion; I saw this man, Jeff Cotton, driving women and children
away from the pit-mouth with blows and curses. I set out to help the men
in the mine, and the marshal rushed me out of camp. He told me that if I
didn’t go about my business, something would happen to me on a dark
night. And you see--this is a dark night!”
Hal waited, to give young Harrigan a chance to grasp this situation and
to take command. But apparently young Harrigan was not aware of the
presence of the camp-marshal and his revolver. Hal tried again:
“Evidently these men wouldn’t have minded killing me; they fired at me
just now. The marshal still has the revolver and you can smell the
powder-smoke. So I took the liberty of entering your car, Percy. It was
to save my life, and you’ll have to excuse me.”
The Coal King’s son had here a sudden opportunity to be magnanimous. He
made haste to avail himself of it. “Of course, Hal,” he said. “It was
quite all right to come here. If our employés were behaving in such
fashion, it was without authority, and they will surely pay for it.” He
spoke with quiet certainty; it was the Harrigan manner, and before it
Jeff Cotton and the two mine-guards seemed to wither and shrink.
“Thank you, Percy,” said Hal. “It’s what I knew you’d say. I’m sorry to
have disturbed your dinner-party--”
“Not at all, Hal; it was nothing of a party.”
“You see, Percy, it was not only to save myself, but the people in the
mine! They are dying, and every moment is precious. It will take a day
at least to get to them, so they’ll be at their last gasp. Whatever’s to
be done must be done at once.”
Again Hal waited--until the pause became awkward. The diners had so far
been looking at him; but now they were looking at young Harrigan, and
young Harrigan felt the change.
“I don’t know just what you expect of me, Hal. My father employs
competent men to manage his business, and I certainly don’t feel that I
know enough to give them any suggestions.” This again in the Harrigan
manner; but it weakened before Hal’s firm gaze. “What can I do?”
“You can give the order to open the mine, to reverse the fan and start
it. That will draw out the smoke and gases, and the rescuers can go
down.”
“But Hal, I assure you I have no authority to give such an order.”
“You must _take_ the authority. Your father’s in the East, the officers
of the company are in their beds at home; you are here!”
“But I don’t understand such things, Hal! I don’t know anything of the
situation--except what you tell me. And while I don’t doubt your word,
any man may make a mistake in such a situation.”
“Come and see for yourself, Percy! That’s all I ask, and it’s easy
enough. Here is your train, your engine with steam up; have us switched
onto the North Valley branch, and we can be at the mine in half an hour.
Then--let me take you to the men who know! Men who’ve been working all
their lives in mines, who’ve seen accidents like this many times, and
who will tell you the truth--that there’s a chance of saving many lives,
and that the chance is being thrown away to save some thousands of
dollars’ worth of coal and timbers and track.”
“But even if that’s true, Hal, I have no _power_!”
“If you come there, you can cut the red-tape in one minute. What those
bosses are doing is a thing that can only be done in darkness!”
Under the pressure of Hal’s vehemence, the Harrigan manner was failing;
the Coal King’s son was becoming a bewildered and quite ordinary youth.
But there was a power greater than Hal behind him. He shook his head.
“It’s the old man’s business, Hal. I’ve no right to butt in!”
The other, in his desperate need, turned to the rest of the party. His
gaze, moving from one face to another, rested upon the magazine-cover
countenance, with the brown eyes wide open, full of wonder.
“Jessie! What do you think about it?”
The girl started, and distress leaped into her face. “How do you mean,
Hal?”
“Tell him he ought to save those lives!”
The moments seemed ages as Hal waited. It was a test, he realised. The
brown eyes dropped. “I don’t understand such things, Hal!”
“But, Jessie, I am explaining them! Here are men and boys being
suffocated to death, in order to save a little money. Isn’t that plain?”
“But how can I _know_, Hal?”
“I’m giving you my word, Jessie. Surely I wouldn’t appeal to you unless
I knew.”
Still she hesitated. And there came a swift note of feeling into his
voice: “Jessie, dear!”
As if under a spell, the girl’s eyes were raised to his; he saw a
scarlet flame of embarrassment spreading over her throat and cheeks.
“Jessie, I know--it seems an intolerable thing to ask! You’ve never been
rude to a friend. But I remember once you forgot your good manners, when
you saw a rough fellow on the street beating an old drudge-horse. Don’t
you remember how you rushed at him--like a wild thing! And now--think of
it, dear, here are old drudge-creatures being tortured to death; but not
horses--working-men!”
Still the girl gazed at him. He could read grief, dismay in her eyes; he
saw tears steal from them, and stream down her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t
know, I don’t _know!_” she cried; and hid her face in her hands, and
began to sob aloud.
SECTION 14.
There was a painful pause. Hal’s gaze travelled on, and came to a
grey-haired lady in a black dinner-gown, with a rope of pearls about her
neck. “Mrs. Curtis! Surely _you_ will advise him!”
The grey-haired lady started--was there no limit to his impudence? She
had witnessed the torturing of Jessie. But Jessie was his fiancée; he
had no such claim upon Mrs. Curtis. She answered, with iciness in her
tone: “I could not undertake to dictate to my host in such a matter.”
“Mrs. Curtis! You have founded a charity for the helping of stray cats
and dogs!” These words rose to Hal’s lips; but he did not say them. His
eyes moved on. Who else might help to bully a Harrigan?
Next to Mrs. Curtis sat Reggie Porter, with a rose in the button-hole of
his dinner-jacket. Hal knew the rôle in which Reggie was there--a kind
of male chaperon, an assistant host, an admirer to the wealthy, a solace
to the bored. Poor Reggie lived other people’s lives, his soul
perpetually a-quiver with other people’s excitements, with gossip,
preparations for tea-parties, praise of tea-parties past. And always the
soul was pushing; calculating, measuring opportunities, making up in
tact and elegance for distressing lack of money. Hal got one swift
glimpse of the face; the sharp little black moustaches seemed standing
up with excitement, and in a flash of horrible intuition Hal read the
situation--Reggie was expecting to be questioned, and had got ready an
answer that would increase his social capital in the Harrigan family
bank!
Across the aisle sat Genevieve Halsey: tall, erect, built on the scale
of a statue. You thought of the ox-eyed Juno, and imagined stately
emotions; but when you came to know Genevieve, you discovered that her
mind was slow, and entirely occupied with herself. Next to her was Bob
Creston, smooth-shaven, rosy-cheeked, exuding well-being--what is called
a “good fellow,” with a wholesome ambition to win cups for his athletic
club, and to keep up the score of his rifle-team of the state militia.
Jolly Bob might have spoken, out of his good heart; but he was in love
with a cousin of Percy’s, Betty Gunnison, who sat across the table from
him--and Hal saw her black eyes shining, her little fists clenched
tightly, her lips pressed white. Hal understood Betty--she was one of
the Harrigans, working at the Harrigan family task of making the
children of a pack-pedlar into leaders in the “younger set!”
Next sat “Vivie” Cass, whose talk was of horses and dogs and such
ungirlish matters; Hal had discussed social questions in her presence,
and heard her view expressed in one flashing sentence--“If a man eats
with his knife, I consider him my personal enemy!” Over her shoulder
peered the face of a man with pale eyes and yellow moustaches--Bert
Atkins, cynical and world-weary, whom the papers referred to as a
“club-man,” and whom Hal’s brother had called a “tame cat.” There was
“Dicky” Everson, like Hal, a favourite of the ladies, but nothing more;
“Billy” Harris, son of another “coal man”; Daisy, his sister; and
Blanche Vagleman, whose father was Old Peter’s head lawyer, whose
brother was the local counsel, and publisher of the Pedro _Star_.
So Hal’s eyes moved from face to face, and his mind from personality to
personality. It was like the unrolling of a scroll; a panorama of a
world he had half forgotten. He had no time for reflection, but one
impression came to him, swift and overwhelming. Once he had lived in
this world and taken it as a matter of course. He had known these
people, gone about with them; they had seemed friendly, obliging, a good
sort of people on the whole. And now, what a change! They seemed no
longer friendly! Was the change in them? Or was it Hal who had become
cynical--so that he saw them in this terrifying new light, cold, and
unconcerned as the stars about men who were dying a few miles away!
Hal’s eyes came back to the Coal King’s son, and he discovered that
Percy was white with anger. “I assure you, Hal, there’s no use going on
with this. I have no intention of letting myself be bulldozed.”
Percy’s gaze shifted with sudden purpose to the camp-marshal. “Cotton,
what do you say about this? Is Mr. Warner correct in his idea of the
situation?”
“You know what such a man would say, Percy!” broke in Hal.
“I don’t,” was the reply. “I wish to know. What is it, Cotton?”
“He’s mistaken, Mr. Harrigan.” The marshal’s voice was sharp and
defiant.
“In what way?”
“The company’s doing everything to get the mine open, and has been from
the beginning.”
“Oh!” And there was triumph in Percy’s voice. “What is the cause of the
delay?”
“The fan was broken, and we had to send for a new one. It’s a job to set
it up--such things can’t be done in an hour.”
Percy turned to Hal. “You see! There are two opinions, at least!”
“Of course!” cried Betty Gunnison, her black eyes snapping at Hal. She
would have said more, but Hal interrupted, stepping closer to his host.
“Percy,” he said, in a low voice, “come back here, please. I have a word
to say to you alone.”
There was just a hint of menace in Hal’s voice; his gaze went to the far
end of the car, a space occupied only by two negro waiters. These
retired in haste as the young men moved towards them; and so, having the
Coal King’s son to himself, Hal went in to finish this fight.
SECTION 15.
Percy Harrigan was known to Hal, as a college-boy is known to his
class-mates. He was not brutal, like his grim old father; he was merely
self-indulgent, as one who had always had everything; he was weak, as
one who had never had to take a bold resolve. He had been brought up by
the women of the family, to be a part of what they called “society”; in
which process he had been given high notions of his own importance. The
life of the Harrigans was dominated by one painful memory--that of a
pedlar’s pack; and Hal knew that Percy’s most urgent purpose was to be
regarded as a real and true and freehanded aristocrat. It was this
knowledge Hal was using in his attack.
He began with apologies, attempting to soothe the other’s anger. He had
not meant to make a scene like this; it was the gunmen who had forced
it, putting his life in danger. It was the very devil, being chased
about at night and shot at! He had lost his nerve, really; he had forgot
what little manners he had been able to keep as a miner’s buddy. He had
made a spectacle of himself; good Lord yes, he realised how he must
seem!
--And Hal looked at his dirty miner’s jumpers, and then at Percy. He
could see that Percy was in hearty agreement thus far--he had indeed
made a spectacle of himself, and of Percy too! Hal was sorry about this
latter, but here they were, in a pickle, and it was certainly too late
now. This story was out--there could be no suppressing it! Hal might sit
down on his reporter-friend, Percy might sit down on the waiters and the
conductor and the camp-marshal and the gunmen--but he could not possibly
sit down on all his friends! They would talk about nothing else for
weeks! The story would be all over Western City in a day--this amazing,
melodramatic, ten-twenty-thirty story of a miner’s buddy in the private
car of the Coal King’s son!
“And you must see, Percy,” Hal went on, “it’s the sort of thing that
sticks to a man. It’s the thing by which everybody will form their idea
of you as long as you live!”
“I’ll take my chances with my friends’ criticism,” said the other, with
some attempt at the Harrigan manner.
“You can make it whichever kind of story you choose,” continued Hal,
implacably. “The world will say, He decided for the dollars; or it will
say, He decided for the lives. Surely, Percy, your family doesn’t need
those particular dollars so badly! Why, you’ve spent more on this one
train-trip!”
And Hal waited, to give his victim time to calculate.
The result of the thinking was a question worthy of Old Peter. “What are
_you_ getting out of this?”
“Percy,” said Hal, “you must _know_ I’m getting nothing! If you can’t
understand it otherwise, say to yourself that you are dealing with a man
who’s irresponsible. I’ve seen so many terrible things--I’ve been chased
around so much by camp-marshals--why, Percy, that man Cotton has six
notches on his gun! I’m simply crazy!” And into the brown eyes of this
miner’s buddy came a look wild enough to convince a stronger man than
Percy Harrigan. “I’ve got just one idea left in the world, Percy--to
save those miners! You make a mistake unless you realise how desperate I
am. So far I’ve done this thing incog! I’ve been Joe Smith, a miner’s
buddy. If I’d come out and told my real name--well, maybe I wouldn’t
have made them open the mine, but at least I’d have made a lot of
trouble for the G. F. C.! But I didn’t do it; I knew what a scandal it
would make, and there was something I owed my father. But if I see
there’s no other way, if it’s a question of letting those people perish,
I’ll throw everything else to the winds. Tell your father that; tell him
I threatened to turn this man Keating loose and blow the thing wide
open--denounce the company, appeal to the Governor, raise a disturbance
and get arrested on the street, if necessary, in order to force the
facts before the public. You see, I’ve got the facts, Percy! I’ve been
there and seen with my own eyes. Can’t you realise that?”
The other did not answer, but it was evident that he realised.
“On the other hand, see how you can fix it, if you choose. You were on a
pleasure trip when you heard of this disaster; you rushed up and took
command, you opened the mine, you saved the lives of your employés. That
is the way the papers will handle it.”
Hal, watching his victim intently, and groping for the path to his mind,
perceived that he had gone wrong. Crude as the Harrigans were, they had
learned that it is not aristocratic to be picturesque.
“All right then!” said Hal, quickly. “If you prefer, you needn’t be
mentioned. The bosses up at the camp have the reporters under their
thumbs, they’ll handle the story any way you want it. The one thing I
care about is that you run your car up and see the mine opened. Won’t
you do it, Percy?”
Hal was gazing into the other’s eyes, knowing that life and death for
the miners hung upon his nod. “Well? What is the answer?”
“Hal,” exclaimed Percy, “my old man will give me hell!”
“All right; but on the other hand, _I’ll_ give you hell; and which will
be worse?”
Again there was a silence. “Come along, Percy! For God’s sake!” And
Hal’s tone was desperate, alarming.
And suddenly the other gave way. “All right!”
Hal drew a breath. “But mind you!” he added. “You’re not going up there
to let them fool you! They’ll try to bluff you out--they may go as far
as to refuse to obey you. But you must stand by your guns--for, you see,
I’m going along, I’m going to see that mine open. I’ll never quit till
the rescuers have gone down!”
“Will they go, Hal?”
“Will they go? Good God, man, they’re clamouring for the chance to go!
They’ve almost been rioting for it. I’ll go with them--and you, too,
Percy--the whole crowd of us idlers will go! When we come out, we’ll
know something about the business of coal-mining!”
“All right, I’m with you,” said the Coal King’s son.
SECTION 16.
Hal never knew what Percy said to Cartwright that night; he only knew
that when they arrived at the mine the superintendent was summoned to a
consultation, and half an hour later Percy emerged smiling, with the
announcement that Hal Warner had been mistaken all along; the mine
authorities had been making all possible haste to get the fan ready,
with the intention of opening the mine at the earliest moment. The work
was now completed, and in an hour or two the fan was to be started, and
by morning there would be a chance of rescuers getting in. Percy said
this so innocently that for a moment Hal wondered if Percy himself might
not believe it. Hal’s position as guest of course required that he
should graciously pretend to believe it, consenting to appear as a fool
before the rest of the company.
Percy invited Hal and Billy Keating to spend the night in the train; but
this Hal declined. He was too dirty, he said; besides, he wanted to be
up at daylight, to be one of the first to go down the shaft. Percy
answered that the superintendent had vetoed this proposition--he did not
want any one to go down but experienced men, who could take care of
themselves. When there were so many on hand ready and eager to go, there
was no need to imperil the lives of amateurs.
At the risk of seeming ungracious, Hal declared that he would “hang
around” and see them take the cover off the pit-mouth. There were
mourning parties in some of the cabins, where women were gathered
together who could not sleep, and it would be an act of charity to take
them the good news.
Hal and Keating set out; they went first to the Rafferties’, and saw
Mrs. Rafferty spring up and stare at them, and then scream aloud to the
Holy Virgin, waking all the little Rafferties to frightened clamour.
When the woman had made sure that they really knew what they were
talking about, she rushed out to spread the news, and so pretty soon the
streets were alive with hurrying figures, and a crowd gathered once more
at the pit-mouth.
Hal and Keating went on to Jerry Minetti’s. Out of a sense of loyalty to
Percy, Hal did no more than repeat Percy’s own announcement, that it had
been Cartwright’s intention all along to have the mine opened. It was
funny to see the effect of this statement--the face with which Jerry
looked at Hal! But they wasted no time in discussion; Jerry slipped into
his clothes and hurried with them to the pit-mouth.
Sure enough, a gang was already tearing off the boards and canvas. Never
since Hal had been in North Valley had he seen men working with such a
will! Soon the great fan began to stir, and then to roar, and then to
sing; and there was a crowd of a hundred people, roaring and singing
also.
It would be some hours before anything more could be done; and suddenly
Hal realised that he was exhausted. He and Billy Keating went back to
the Minetti cabin, and spreading themselves a blanket on the floor, lay
down with sighs of relief. As for Billy, he was soon snoring; but to Hal
there came sudden reaction from all the excitement, and sleep was far
from him.
An ocean of thoughts came flooding into his mind: the world outside,
_his_ world, which he had banished deliberately for several months, and
which he had so suddenly been compelled to remember! It had seemed so
simple, what he had set out to do that summer: to take another name, to
become a member of another class, to live its life and think its
thoughts, and then come back to his own world with a new and fascinating
adventure to tell about! The possibility that his own world, the world
of Hal Warner, might find him out as Joe Smith, the miner’s buddy--that
was a possibility which had never come to his mind. He was like a
burglar, working away at a job in darkness, and suddenly finding the
room flooded with light.
He had gone into the adventure, prepared to find things that would shock
him; he had known that somehow, somewhere, he would have to fight the
“system.” But he had never expected to find himself in the thick of the
class-war, leading a charge upon the trenches of his own associates. Nor
was this the end, he knew; this war would not be settled by the winning
of a trench! Lying here in the darkness and silence, Hal was realising
what he had got himself in for. To employ another simile, he was a man
who begins a flirtation on the street, and wakes up next morning to find
himself married.
It was not that he had regrets for the course he had taken with Percy.
No other course had been thinkable. But while Hal had known these North
Valley people for ten weeks, he had known the occupants of Percy’s car
for as many years. So these latter personalities loomed large in his
consciousness, and here in the darkness their thoughts about him,
whether actively hostile or passively astonished, laid siege to the
defences of his mind.
Particularly he found himself wrestling with Jessie Arthur. Her face
rose up before him, appealing, yearning. She had one of those perfect
faces, which irresistibly compel the soul of a man. Her brown eyes, soft
and shining, full of tenderness; her lips, quick to tremble with
emotion; her skin like apple-blossoms, her hair with star-dust in it!
Hal was cynical enough about coal-operators and mine-guards, but it
never occurred to him that Jessie’s soul might be anything but what
these bodily charms implied. He was in love with her; and he was too
young, too inexperienced in love to realise that underneath the
sweetness of girlhood, so genuine and so lovable, might lie deep,
unconscious cruelty, inherited and instinctive--the cruelty of caste,
the hardness of worldly prejudice. A man has to come to middle age, and
to suffer much, before he understands that the charms of women, those
rare and magical perfections of eyes and teeth and hair, that softness
of skin and delicacy of feature, have cost labour and care of many
generations, and imply inevitably that life has been feral, that customs
and conventions have been murderous and inhuman.
Jessie had failed Hal in his desperate emergency. But now he went over
the scene, and told himself that the test had been an unfair one. He had
known her since childhood, and loved her, and never before had he seen
an act or heard a word that was not gracious and kind. But--so he told
himself--she gave her sympathy to those she knew; and what chance had
she ever had to know working-people? He must give her the chance; he
must compel her, even against her will, to broaden her understanding of
life! The process might hurt her, it might mar the unlined softness of
her face, but nevertheless, it would be good for her--it would be a
“growing pain”!
So, lying there in the darkness and silence, Hal found himself absorbed
in long conversation with his sweetheart. He escorted her about the
camp, explaining things to her, introducing her to this one and that. He
took others of his private-car friends and introduced them to his North
Valley friends. There were individuals who had qualities in common, and
would surely hit it off! Bob Creston, for example, who was good at a
“song and dance”--he would surely be interested in “Blinky,” the
vaudeville specialist of the camp! Mrs. Curtis, who liked cats, would
find a bond of sisterhood with old Mrs. Nagle, who lived next door to
the Minettis, and kept five! And even Vivie Cass, who hated men who ate
with their knives--she would be driven to murder by the table-manners of
Reminitsky’s boarders, but she would take delight in “Dago Charlie,” the
tobacco-chewing mule which had once been Hal’s pet! Hal could hardly
wait for daylight to come, so that he might begin these efforts at
social amalgamation!
SECTION 17.
Towards dawn Hal fell asleep; he was awakened by Billy Keating, who sat
up yawning, at the same time grumbling and bewailing. Hal realised that
Billy also had discovered troubles during the night. Never in all his
career as a journalist had he had such a story; never had any man had
such a story--and it must be killed!
Cartwright had got the reporters together late the night before and told
them the news--that the company had at last succeeded in getting the
mine ready to be opened; also that young Mr. Harrigan was there in his
private train, prompted by his concern for the entombed miners. The
reporters would mention his coming, of course, but were requested not to
“play it up,” nor to mention the names of Mr. Harrigan’s guests.
Needless to say they were not told that the “buddy” who had been thrown
out of camp for insubordination had turned out to be the son of Edward
S. Warner, the “coal magnate.”
A fine, cold rain was falling, and Hal borrowed an old coat of Jerry’s
and slipped it on. Little Jerry clamoured to go with him, and after some
controversy Hal wrapped him in a shawl and slung him onto his shoulder.
It was barely daylight, but already the whole population of the village
was on hand at the pit-mouth. The helmet-men had gone down to make
tests, so the hour of final revelation was at hand. Women stood with wet
shawls about their hunched shoulders, their faces white and strained,
their suspense too great for any sort of utterance. A ghastly thought it
was, that while they were shuddering in the wet, their men below might
be expiring for lack of a few drops of water!
The helmet-men, coming up, reported that lights would burn at the bottom
of the shaft; so it was safe for men to go down without helmets, and the
volunteers of the first rescue party made ready. All night there had
been a clattering of hammers, where the carpenters were working on a new
cage. Now it was swung from the hoist, and the men took their places in
it. When at last the hoist began to move, and the group disappeared
below the surface of the ground, you could hear a sigh from a thousand
throats, like the moaning of wind in a pine-tree. They were leaving
women and children above, yet not one of these women would have asked
them to stay--such was the deep unconscious bond of solidarity which
made these toilers of twenty nations one!
It was a slow process, letting down the cage; on account of the danger
of gas, and the newness of the cage, it was necessary to proceed a few
feet at a time, waiting for a pull upon the signal-cord to tell that the
men were all right. After they had reached the bottom, there would be
more time, no one could say how long, before they came upon survivors
with signs of life in them. There were bodies near the foot of the
shaft, according to the reports of the helmet-men, but there was no use
delaying to bring these up, for they must have been dead for days. Hal
saw a crowd of women clamouring about the helmet-men, trying to find out
if these bodies had been recognised. Also he saw Jeff Cotton and Bud
Adams at their old duty of driving the women back.
The cage returned for a second load of men. There was less need of
caution now; the hoist worked quickly, and group after group of men with
silent, set faces, and pickaxes and crow-bars and shovels in their
hands, went down into the pit of terror. They would scatter through the
workings, testing everywhere ahead of them with safety-lamps, and
looking for barriers erected by the imprisoned men for defence against
the gases. As they hammered on these barriers, perhaps they would hear
the signals of living men on the other side; or they would break through
in silence, and find men too far gone to make a sound, yet possibly with
the spark of life still in them.
One by one, Hal’s friends went down--“Big Jack” David, and Wresmak, the
Bohemian, Klowoski, the Pole, and finally Jerry Minetti. Little Jerry
waved his hand from his perch on Hal’s shoulder; while Rosa, who had
come out and joined them, was clinging to Hal’s arm, silent, as if her
soul were going down in the cage. There went blue-eyed Tim Rafferty to
look for his father, and black-eyed “Andy,” the Greek boy, whose father
had perished in a similar disaster years ago; there went Rovetta, and
Carmino, the pit-boss, Jerry’s cousin. One by one their names ran
through the crowd, as of heroes marching out to battle.
SECTION 18.
Looking about, Hal saw some of the guests of the Harrigan party. There
was Vivie Cass, standing under an umbrella with Bert Atkins; and there
was Bob Creston with Dicky Everson. These two had on mackintoshes and
water-proof hats, and were talking to Cartwright; tall, immaculate men,
who seemed like creatures of another world beside the stunted and
coal-smutted miners.
Seeing Hal, they moved over to him. “Where did you get the kid?”
inquired Bob, his rosy, smooth-shaven face breaking into a smile.
“I picked him up,” said Hal, giving Little Jerry a toss and sliding him
off his shoulder.
“Hello, kid!” said Bob.
And the answer came promptly, “Hello, yourself!” Little Jerry knew how
to talk American; he was a match for any society man! “My father’s went
down in that cage,” said he, looking up at the tall stranger, his bright
black eyes sparkling.
“Is that so!” replied the other. “Why don’t you go?”
“My father’ll get ’em out. He ain’t afraid o’ nothin’, my father!”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Big Jerry.”
“Oho! And what’ll you be when you grow up?”
“I’m goin’ to be a shot-firer.”
“In this mine?”
“You bet not!”
“Why not?”
Little Jerry looked mysterious. “I ain’t tellin’ all I know,” said he.
The two young fellows laughed. Here was education for them! “Maybe
you’ll go back to the old country?” put in Dicky Everson.
“No, sir-ee!” said Little Jerry. “I’m American.”
“Maybe you’ll be president some day.”
“That’s what my father says,” replied the little chap--“president of a
miners’ union.”
Again they laughed; but Rosa gave a nervous whisper and caught at the
child’s sleeve. That was not the sort of thing to say to mysterious and
rich-looking strangers! “This is Little Jerry’s mother, Mrs. Minetti,”
put in Hal, by way of reassuring her.
“Glad to meet you, Mrs. Minetti,” said the two young men, taking off
their hats with elaborate bows; they stared, for Rosa was a pretty
object as she blushed and made her shy response. She was much
embarrassed, having never before in her life been bowed to by men like
these.