The younger man went up the steps of the building and spoke to the

guards. “I want to see Mr. Cartwright.”

“He’s inside,” answered one, not cordially. With Edward following, Hal

entered, and was ushered into the private office of the superintendent.

Having been a working-man, and class-conscious, Hal was observant of the

manners of mine-superintendents; he noted that Cartwright bowed politely

to Edward, but did not include Edward’s brother. “Mr. Cartwright,” he

said, “I have come to you as a deputation from the workers of this

camp.”

The superintendent did not appear impressed by the announcement.

“I am instructed to say that the men demand the redress of four

grievances before they return to work. First--”

Here Cartwright spoke, in his quick, sharp way. “There’s no use going

on, sir. This company will deal only with its men as individuals. It

will recognise no deputations.”

Hal’s answer was equally quick. “Very well, Mr. Cartwright. In that

case, I come to you as an individual.”

For a moment the superintendent seemed nonplussed.

“I wish to ask four rights which are granted to me by the laws of this

state. First, the right to belong to a union, without being discharged

for it.”

The other had recovered his manner of quiet mastery. “You have that

right, sir; you have always had it. You know perfectly well that the

company has never discharged any one for belonging to a union.”

The man was looking at Hal, and there was a duel of the eyes between

them. A cold anger moved Hal. His ability to endure this sort of thing

was at an end. “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “you are the servant of one of

the world’s greatest actors; and you support him ably.”

The other flushed and drew back; Edward put in quickly: “Hal, there’s

nothing to be gained by such talk!”

“He has all the world for an audience,” persisted Hal. “He plays the

most stupendous farce--and he and all his actors wearing such solemn

faces!”

“Mr. Cartwright,” said Edward, with dignity, “I trust you understand

that I have done everything I can to restrain my brother.”

“Of course, Mr. Warner,” replied the superintendent. “And you must know

that I, for my part, have done everything to show your brother

consideration.”

“Again!” exclaimed Hal. “This actor is a genius!”

“Hal, if you have business with Mr. Cartwright--”

“He showed me consideration by sending his gunmen to seize me at night,

drag me out of a cabin, and nearly twist the arm off me! Such humour

never was!”

Cartwright attempted to speak--but looking at Edward, not at Hal. “At

that time--”

“He showed me consideration by having me locked up in jail and fed on

bread and water for two nights and a day! Can you beat that humour?”

“At that time I did not know--”

“By forging my name to a letter and having it circulated in the camp!

Finally--most considerate of all--by telling a newspaper man that I had

seduced a girl here!”

The superintendent flushed still redder. “_No!_” he declared.

“_What?_” cried Hal. “You didn’t tell Billy Keating of the _Gazette_

that I had seduced a girl in North Valley? You didn’t describe the girl

to him--a red-haired Irish girl?”

“I merely said, Mr. Warner, that I had heard certain rumours--”

“_Certain_ rumours, Mr. Cartwright? The certainty was all of your

making! You made a definite and explicit statement to Mr. Keating--”

“I did not!” declared the other.

“I’ll soon prove it!” And Hal started towards the telephone on

Cartwright’s desk.

“What are you going to do, Hal?”

“I am going to get Billy Keating on the wire, and let you hear his

statement.”

“Oh, rot, Hal!” cried Edward. “I don’t care anything about Keating’s

statement. You know that at that time Mr. Cartwright had no means of

knowing who you were.”

Cartwright was quick to grasp this support. “Of course not, Mr. Warner!

Your brother came here, pretending to be a working boy--”

“Oh!” cried Hal. “So that’s it! You think it proper to circulate

slanders about working boys in your camp?”

“You have been here long enough to know what the morals of such boys

are.”

“I have been here long enough, Mr. Cartwright, to know that if you want

to go into the question of morals in North Valley, the place for you to

begin is with the bosses and guards you put in authority, and allow to

prey upon women.”

Edward broke in: “Hal, there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing this

conversation. If you have any business here, get it over with, for God’s

sake!”

Hal made an effort to recover his self-possession. He came back to the

demands of the strike--but only to find that he had used up the

superintendent’s self-possession. “I have given you my answer,” declared

Cartwright, “I absolutely decline any further discussion.”

“Well,” said Hal, “since you decline to permit a deputation of your men

to deal with you in plain, business-like fashion, I have to inform you

as an individual that every other individual in your camp refuses to

work for you.”

The superintendent did not let himself be impressed by this elaborate

sarcasm. “All I have to tell you, sir, is that Number Two mine will

resume work in the morning, and that any one who refuses to work will be

sent down the canyon before night.”

“So quickly, Mr. Cartwright? They have rented their homes from the

company, and you know that according to the company’s own lease they are

entitled to three days’ notice before being evicted!”

Cartwright was so unwise as to argue. He knew that Edward was hearing,

and he wished to clear himself. “They will not be evicted by the

company. They will be dealt with by the town authorities.”

“Of which you yourself are the head?”

“I happen to have been elected mayor of North Valley.”

“As mayor of North Valley, you gave my brother to understand that you

would put me out, did you not?”

“I asked your brother to persuade you to leave.”

“But you made clear that if he could not do this, you would put me out?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And the reason you gave was that you had had instructions by telegraph

from Mr. Peter Harrigan. May I ask to what office Mr. Harrigan has been

elected in your town?”

Cartwright saw his difficulty. “Your brother misunderstood me,” he said,

crossly.

“Did you misunderstand him, Edward?”

Edward had walked to the window in disgust; he was looking at

tomato-cans and cinder-heaps, and did not see fit to turn around. But

the superintendent knew that he was hearing, and considered it necessary

to cover the flaw in his argument. “Young man,” said he, “you have

violated several of the ordinances of this town.”

“Is there an ordinance against organising a union of the miners?”

“No; but there is one against speaking on the streets.”

“Who passed that ordinance, if I may ask?”

“The town council.”

“Consisting of Johnson, postmaster and company-store clerk; Ellison,

company book-keeper; Strauss, company pit-boss; O’Callahan, company

saloon-keeper. Have I the list correct?”

Cartwright did not answer.

“And the fifth member of the town council is yourself, ex-officio--Mr.

Enos Cartwright, mayor and company-superintendent.”

Again there was no answer.

“You have an ordinance against street-speaking; and at the same time

your company owns the saloon-buildings, the boarding-houses, the church

and the school. Where do you expect the citizens to do their speaking?”

“You would make a good lawyer, young man. But we who have charge here

know perfectly well what you mean by ‘speaking’!”

“You don’t approve, then, of the citizens holding meetings?”

“I mean that we don’t consider it necessary to provide agitators with

opportunity to incite our employés.”

“May I ask, Mr. Cartwright, are you speaking as mayor of an American

community, or as superintendent of a coal-mine?”

Cartwright’s face had been growing continually redder. Addressing

Edward’s back, he said, “I don’t see any reason why this should

continue.”

And Edward was of the same opinion. He turned. “Really, Hal--”

“But, Edward! A man accuses your brother of being a law-breaker! Have

you hitherto known of any criminal tendencies in our family?”

Edward turned to the window again and resumed his study of the

cinder-heaps and tomato-cans. It was a vulgar and stupid quarrel, but he

had seen enough of Hal’s mood to realise that he would go on and on, so

long as any one was indiscreet enough to answer him.

“You say, Mr. Cartwright, that I have violated the ordinance against

speaking on the street. May I ask what penalty this ordinance carries?”

“You will find out when the penalty is exacted of you.”

Hal laughed. “From what you said just now, I gather that the penalty is

expulsion from the town! If I understand legal procedure, I should have

been brought before the justice of the peace--who happens to be another

company store-clerk. Instead of that, I am sentenced by the mayor--or is

it the company superintendent? May I ask how that comes to be?”

“It is because of my consideration--”

“When did I ask consideration?”

“Consideration for your brother, I mean.”

“Oh! Then your ordinance provides that the mayor--or is it the

superintendent?--may show consideration for the brother of a

law-breaker, by changing his penalty to expulsion from the town. Was it

consideration for Tommie Burke that caused you to have his sister sent

down the canyon?”

Cartwright clenched his hands. “I’ve had all I’ll stand of this!”

He was again addressing Edward’s back; and Edward turned and answered,

“I don’t blame you, sir.” Then to Hal, “I really think you’ve said

enough!”

“I hope I’ve said enough,” replied Hal--“to convince you that the

pretence of American law in this coal-camp is a silly farce, an insult

and a humiliation to any man who respects the institutions of his

country.”

“You, Mr. Warner,” said the superintendent, to Edward, “have had

experience in managing coal-mines. You know what it means to deal with

ignorant foreigners, who have no understanding of American law--”

Hal burst out laughing. “So you’re teaching them American law! You’re

teaching them by setting at naught every law of your town and state,

every constitutional guarantee--and substituting the instructions you

get by telegraph from Peter Harrigan!”

Cartwright turned and walked to the door. “Young man,” said he, over his

shoulder, “it will be necessary for you to leave North Valley this

morning. I only hope your brother will be able to persuade you to leave

without trouble.” And the bang of the door behind him was the

superintendent’s only farewell.

SECTION 17.

Edward turned upon his brother. “Now what the devil did you want to put

me through a scene like that for? So undignified! So utterly uncalled

for! A quarrel with a man so far beneath you!”

Hal stood where the superintendent had left him. He was looking at his

brother’s angry face. “Was that all you got out of it, Edward?”

“All that stuff about your private character! What do you care what a

fellow like Cartwright thinks about you?”

“I care nothing at all what he thinks, but I care about having him use

such a slander. That’s one of their regular procedures, so Billy Keating

says.”

Edward answered, coldly, “Take my advice, and realise that when you deny

a scandal, you only give it circulation.”

“Of course,” answered Hal. “That’s what makes me so angry. Think of the

girl, the harm done to her!”

“It’s not up to you to worry about the girl.”

“Suppose that Cartwright had slandered some woman friend of yours. Would

you have felt the same indifference?”

“He’d not have slandered any friend of mine; I choose my friends more

carefully.”

“Yes, of course. What that means is that you choose them among the rich.

But I happen to be more democratic in my tastes--”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried Edward. “You reformers are all alike--you

talk and talk and talk!”

“I can tell you the reason for that, Edward--a man like you can shut his

eyes, but he can’t shut his ears!”

“Well, can’t you let up on me for awhile--long enough to get out of this

place? I feel as if I were sitting on the top of a volcano, and I’ve no

idea when it may break out again.”

Hal began to laugh. “All right,” he said; “I guess I haven’t shown much

appreciation of your visit. I’ll be more sociable now. My next business

is in Pedro, so I’ll go that far with you. There’s one thing more--”

“What is it?”

“The company owes me money--”

“What money?”

“Some I’ve earned.”

It was Edward’s turn to laugh. “Enough to buy you a shave and a bath?”

He took out his wallet, and pulled off several bills; and Hal, watching

him, realised suddenly a change which had taken place in his own

psychology. Not merely had he acquired the class-consciousness of the

working-man, he had acquired the money-consciousness as well. He was

actually concerned about the dollars the company owed him! He had earned

those dollars by back- and heart-breaking toil, lifting lumps of coal

into cars; the sum was enough to keep the whole Rafferty family alive

for a week or two. And here was Edward, with a smooth brown leather

wallet full of ten- and twenty-dollar bills, which he peeled off without

counting, exactly as if money grew on trees, or as if coal came out of

the earth and walked into furnaces to the sound of a fiddle and a flute!

Edward had of course no idea of these abnormal processes going on in his

brother’s mind. He was holding out the bills. “Get yourself some decent

things,” he said. “I hope you don’t have to stay dirty in order to feel

democratic?”

“No,” answered Hal; and then, “How are we going?”

“I’ve a car waiting, back of the office.”

“So you had everything ready!” But Edward made no answer; afraid of

setting off the volcano again.

SECTION 18.

They went out by the rear door of the office, entered the car, and sped

out of the village, unseen by the crowd. And all the way down the canyon

Edward pleaded with Hal to drop the controversy and come home at once.

He brought up the tragic question of Dad again; when that did not avail,

he began to threaten. Suppose Hal’s money-resources were to be cut off,

suppose he were to find himself left out of his father’s will--what

would he do then? Hal answered, without a smile, “I can always get a job

as organiser for the United Mine-Workers.”

So Edward gave up that line of attack. “If you won’t come,” he declared,

“I’m going to stay by you till you do!”

“All right,” said Hal. He could not help smiling at this dire threat.

“But if I take you about and introduce you to my friends, you must agree

that what you hear shall be confidential.”

The other made a face of disgust. “What the devil would I want to talk

about your friends for?”

“I don’t know what might happen,” said Hal. “You’re going to meet Peter

Harrigan and take his side, and I can’t tell what you might conceive it

your duty to do.”

The other exclaimed, with sudden passion, “I’ll tell you right now! If

you try to go back to that coal-camp, I swear to God I’ll apply to the

courts and have you shut up in a sanitarium. I don’t think I’d have much

trouble in persuading a judge that you’re insane.”

“No,” said Hal, with a laugh--“not a judge in this part of the world!”

Then, after studying his brother’s face for a moment, it occurred to him

that it might be well not to let such an idea rest unimpeached in

Edward’s mind. “Wait,” said he, “till you meet my friend Billy Keating,

of the _Gazette_, and hear what he would do with such a story! Billy is

crazy to have me turn him loose to ‘play up’ my fight with Old Peter!”

The conversation went no farther--but Hal was sure that Edward would

“put that in his pipe and smoke it.”

They came to the MacKellar home in Pedro, and Edward waited in the

automobile while Hal went inside. The old Scotchman welcomed him warmly,

and told him what news he had. Jerry Minetti had been there that

morning, and MacKellar at his request had telephoned to the office of

the union in Sheridan, and ascertained that Jack David had brought word

about the strike on the previous evening. All parties had been careful

not to mention names, for “leaks” in the telephone were notorious, but

it was clear who the messenger had been. As a result of the message,

Johann Hartman, president of the local union of the miners, was now at

the American Hotel in Pedro, together with James Moylan, secretary of

the district organisation--the latter having come down from Western City

on the same train as Edward.

This was all satisfactory; but MacKellar added a bit of information of

desperate import--the officers of the union declared that they could not

support a strike at the present time! It was premature, it could lead to

nothing but failure and discouragement to the larger movement they were

planning.

Such a possibility Hal had himself realised at the outset. But he had

witnessed the new birth of freedom at North Valley, he had seen the

hungry, toil-worn faces of men looking up to him for support; he had

been moved by it, and had come to feel that the union officials must be

moved in the same way. “They’ve simply got to back it!” he exclaimed.

“Those men must not be disappointed! They’ll lose all hope, they’ll sink

into utter despair! The labour men must realise that--I must make them!”

The old Scotchman answered that Minetti had felt the same way. He had

flung caution to the winds, and rushed over to the hotel to see Hartman

and Moylan. Hal decided to follow, and went out to the automobile.

He explained matters to his brother, whose comment was, Of course! It

was what he had foretold. The poor, mis-guided miners would go back to

their work, and their would-be leader would have to admit the folly of

his course. There was a train for Western City in a couple of hours; it

would be a great favour if Hal would arrange to take it.

Hal answered shortly that he was going to the American Hotel. His

brother might take him there, if he chose. So Edward gave the order to

the driver of the car. Incidentally, Edward began asking about

clothing-stores in Pedro. While Hal was in the hotel, pleading for the

life of his newly-born labour union, Edward would seek a costume in

which he could “feel like a human being.”

SECTION 19.

Hal found Jerry Minetti with the two officials in their hotel-room: Jim

Moylan, district secretary, a long, towering Irish boy, black-eyed and

black-haired, quick and sensitive, the sort of person one trusted and

liked at the first moment; and Johann Hartman, local president, a

grey-haired miner of German birth, reserved and slow-spoken, evidently a

man of much strength, both physical and moral. He had need of it, any

one could realise, having charge of a union headquarters in the heart of

this “Empire of Raymond”!

Hal first told of the kidnapping of the committee. This did not surprise

the officials, he found; it was the thing the companies regularly did

when there was threat of rebellion in the camps. That was why efforts to

organise openly were so utterly hopeless. There was no chance for

anything but a secret propaganda, maintained until every camp had the

nucleus of an organisation.

“So you can’t back this strike!” exclaimed Hal.

Not possibly, was Moylan’s reply. It would be lost as soon as it was

begun. There was no slightest hope of success until a lot of

organisation work had been done.

“But meantime,” argued Hal, “the union at North Valley will go to

pieces!”

“Perhaps,” was the reply. “We’ll only have to start another. That’s what

the labour movement is like.”

Jim Moylan was young, and saw Hal’s mood. “Don’t misunderstand us!” he

cried. “It’s heartbreaking--but it’s not in our power to help. We are

charged with building up the union, and we know that if we supported

everything that looked like a strike, we’d be bankrupt the first year.

You can’t imagine how often this same thing happens--hardly a month

we’re not called on to handle such a situation.”

“I can see what you mean,” said Hal. “But I thought that in this case,

right after the disaster, with the men so stirred--”

The young Irishman smiled, rather sadly. “You’re new at this game,” he

said. “If a mine-disaster was enough to win a strike, God knows our job

would be easy. In Barela, just down the canyon from you, they’ve had

three big explosions--they’ve killed over five hundred men in the past

year!”

Hal began to see how, in his inexperience, he had lost his sense of

proportion.

He looked at the two labour leaders, and recalled the picture of such a

person which he had brought with him to North Valley--a hot headed and

fiery agitator, luring honest workingmen from their jobs. But here was

the situation exactly reversed! Here was he in a blaze of

excitement--and two labour leaders turning the fire-hose on him! They

sat quiet and business-like, pronouncing a doom upon the slaves of North

Valley. Back to their black dungeons with them!

“What can we tell the men?” he asked, making an effort to repress his

chagrin.

“We can only tell them what I’m telling you--that we’re helpless, till

we’ve got the whole district organised. Meantime, they have to stand the

gaff; they must do what they can to keep an organisation.”

“But all the active men will be fired!”

“No, not quite all--they seldom get them all.”

Here the stolid old German put in. In the last year the company had

turned out more than six thousand men because of union activity or

suspicion of it.

“_Six thousand!_” echoed Hal. “You mean from this one district?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“But there aren’t more than twelve or fifteen thousand men in the

district!”

“I know that.”

“Then how can you ever keep an organisation?”

The other answered, quietly, “They treat the new men the same as they

treated the old.”

Hal thought suddenly of John Edstrom’s ants! Here they were--building

their bridge, building it again and again, as often as floods might

destroy it! They had not the swift impatience of a youth of the

leisure-class, accustomed to having his own way, accustomed to thinking

of freedom and decency and justice as necessities of life. Much as Hal

learned from the conversation of these men, he learned more from their

silences--the quiet, matter-of-fact way they took things which had

driven him beside himself with indignation. He began to realise what it

would mean to stand by his pledge to those poor devils in North Valley.

He would need more than one blaze of excitement; he would need brains

and patience and discipline, he would need years of study and hard work!

SECTION 20.

Hal found himself forced to accept the decision of the labour-leaders.

They had had experience, they could judge the situation. The miners

would have to go back to work, and Cartwright and Alec Stone and Jeff

Cotton would drive them as before! All that the rebels could do was to

try to keep a secret organisation in the camp.

Jerry Minetti mentioned Jack David. He had gone back this morning,

without having seen the labour-leaders. So he might escape suspicion,

and keep his job, and help the union work.

“How about you?” asked Hal. “I suppose you’ve cooked your goose.”

Jerry had never heard this phrase, but he got its meaning. “Sure thing!”

said he. “Cooked him plenty!”

“Didn’t you see the ‘dicks’ down stairs in the lobby?” inquired Hartman.

“I haven’t learned to recognise them yet.”

“Well, you will, if you stay at this business. There hasn’t been a

minute since our office was opened that we haven’t had half a dozen on

the other side of the street. Every man that comes to see us is followed

back to his camp and fired that same day. They’ve broken into my desk at

night and stolen my letters and papers; they’ve threatened us with death

a hundred times.”

“I don’t see how you make any headway at all!”

“They can never stop us. They thought when they broke into my desk,

they’d get a list of our organisers. But you see, I carry the lists in

my head!”

“No small task, either,” put in Moylan. “Would you like to know how many

organisers we have at work? Ninety-seven. And they haven’t caught a

single one of them!”

Hal heard him, amazed. Here was a new aspect of the labour movement!

This quiet, resolute old “Dutchy,” whom you might have taken for a

delicatessen-proprietor; this merry-eyed Irish boy, whom you would have

expected to be escorting a lady to a firemen’s ball----they were

captains of an army of sappers who were undermining the towers of Peter

Harrigan’s fortress of greed!

Hartman suggested that Jerry might take a chance at this sort of work.

He would surely be fired from North Valley, so he might as well send

word to his family to come to Pedro. In this way he might save himself

to work as an organiser; because it was the custom of these company

“spotters” to follow a man back to his camp and there identify him. If

Jerry took a train for Western City, they would be thrown off the track,

and he might get into some new camp and do organising among the

Italians. Jerry accepted this proposition with alacrity; it would put

off the evil day when Rosa and her little ones would be left to the

mercy of chance.

They were still talking when the telephone rang. It was Hartman’s

secretary in Sheridan, reporting that he had just heard from the

kidnapped committee. The entire party, eight men and Mary Burke, had

been taken to Horton, a station not far up the line, and put on the

train with many dire threats. But they had left the train at the next

stop, and declared their intention of coming to Pedro. They were due at

the hotel very soon.

Hal desired to be present at this meeting, and went downstairs to tell

his brother. There was another dispute, of course. Edward reminded Hal

that the scenery of Pedro had a tendency to monotony; to which Hal could

only answer by offering to introduce his brother to his friends. They

were men who could teach Edward much, if he would consent to learn. He

might attend the session with the committee--eight men and a woman who

had ventured an act of heroism and been made the victims of a crime. Nor

were they bores, as Edward might be thinking! There was blue-eyed Tim

Rafferty, for example, a silent, smutty-faced gnome who had broken out

of his black cavern and spread unexpected golden wings of oratory; and

Mary Burke, of whom Edward might read in that afternoon’s edition of the

Western City _Gazette_--a “Joan of Arc of the coal-camps,” or something

equally picturesque. But Edward’s mood was not to be enlivened. He had a

vision of his brother’s appearance in the paper as the companion of this

Hibernian Joan!

Hal went off with Jerry Minetti to what his brother described as a

“hash-house,” while Edward proceeded in solitary state to the

dining-room of the American Hotel. But he was not left in solitary

state; pretty soon a sharp-faced young man was ushered to a seat beside

him, and started up a conversation. He was a “drummer,” he said; his

“line” was hardware, what was Edward’s? Edward answered coldly that he

had no “line,” but the young man was not rebuffed--apparently his “line”

had hardened his sensibilities. Perhaps Edward was interested in

coal-mines? Had he been visiting the camps? He questioned so

persistently, and came back so often to the subject, that at last it

dawned over Edward what this meant--he was receiving the attention of a

“spotter!” Strange to say, the circumstance caused Edward more

irritation against Peter Harrigan’s regime than all his brother’s

eloquence about oppression at North Valley.

SECTION 21.

Soon after dinner the kidnapped committee arrived, bedraggled in body

and weary in soul. They inquired for Johann Hartman, and were sent up to

the room, where there followed a painful scene. Eight men and a woman

who had ventured an act of heroism and been made the victims of a crime

could not easily be persuaded to see their efforts and sacrifices thrown

on the dump-heap, nor were they timid in expressing their opinions of

those who were betraying them.

“You been tryin’ to get us out!” cried Tim Rafferty. “Ever since I can

remember you been at my old man to help you--an’ here, when we do what

you ask, you throw us down!”

“We never asked you to go on strike,” said Moylan.

“No, that’s true. You only asked us to pay dues, so you fellows could

have fat salaries.”

“Our salaries aren’t very fat,” replied the young leader, patiently.

“You’d find that out if you investigated.”

“Well, whatever they are, they go on, while ours stop. We’re on the

streets, we’re done for. Look at us--and most of us has got families,

too! I got an old mother an’ a lot of brothers and sisters, an’ my old

man done up an’ can’t work. What do you think’s to become of us?”

“We’ll help you out a little, Rafferty--”

“To hell with you!” cried Tim. “I don’t want your help! When I need

charity, I’ll go to the county. They’re another bunch of grafters, but

they don’t pretend to be friends to the workin’ man.”

Here was the thing Tom Olson had told Hal at the outset--the workingmen

bedevilled, not knowing whom to trust, suspecting the very people who

most desired to help them. “Tim,” he put in, “there’s no use talking

like that. We have to learn patience--”

And the boy turned upon Hal. “What do you know about it? It’s all a joke

to you. You can go off and forget it when you get ready. You’ve got

money, they tell me!”

Hal felt no resentment at this; it was what he heard from his own

conscience. “It isn’t so easy for me as you think, Tim. There are other

ways of suffering besides not having money--”

“Much sufferin’ you’ll do--with your rich folks!” sneered Tim.

There was a murmur of protest from others of the committee.

“Good God, Rafferty!” broke in Moylan. “We can’t help it, man--we’re

just as helpless as you!”

“You say you’re helpless--but you don’t even try!”

“_Try?_ Do you want us to back a strike that we know hasn’t a chance?

You might as well ask us to lie down and let a load of coal run over us.

We can’t win, man! I tell you we can’t _win_! We’d only be throwing away

our organisation!”

Moylan became suddenly impassioned. He had seen a dozen sporadic strikes

in this district, and many a dozen young strikers, homeless, desolate,

embittered, turning their disappointment on him. “We might support you

with our funds, you say--we might go on doing it, even while the company

ran the mine with scabs. But where would that land us, Rafferty? I seen

many a union on the rocks--and I ain’t so old either! If we had a bank,

we’d support all the miners of the country, they’d never need to work

again till they got their rights. But this money we spend is the money

that other miners are earnin’--right now, down in the pits, Rafferty,

the same as you and your old man. They give us this money, and they say,

‘Use it to build up the union. Use it to help the men that aren’t

organised--take them in, so they won’t beat down our wages and scab on

us. But don’t waste it, for God’s sake; we have to work hard to make it,

and if we don’t see results, you’ll get no more out of us.’ Don’t you

see how that is, man? And how it weighs on us, worse even then the fear

that maybe we’ll lose our poor salaries--though you might refuse to

believe anything so good of us? You don’t need to talk to me like I was

Peter Harrigan’s son. I was a spragger when I was ten years old, and I

ain’t been out of the pits so long that I’ve forgot the feeling. I

assure you, the thing that keeps me awake at night ain’t the fear of not

gettin’ a living, for I give myself a bit of education, working nights,

and I know I could always turn out and earn what I need; but it’s

wondering whether I’m spending the miners’ money the best way, whether

maybe I mightn’t save them a little misery if I hadn’t ’a’ done this or

had ’a’ done that. When I come down on that sleeper last night, here’s

what I was thinking, Tim Rafferty--all the time I listened to the train

bumping--‘Now I got to see some more of the suffering, I got to let some

good men turn against us, because they can’t see why we should get

salaries while they get the sack. How am I going to show them that I’m

working for them--working as hard as I know how--and that I’m not to

blame for their trouble?’”

Here Wauchope broke in. “There’s no use talking any more. I see we’re up

against it. We’ll not trouble you, Moylan.”

“You trouble me,” cried Moylan, “unless you stand by the movement!”

The other laughed bitterly. “You’ll never know what I do. It’s the road

for me--and you know it!”

“Well, wherever you go, it’ll be the same; either you’ll be fighting for

the union, or you’ll be a weight that we have to carry.”

The young leader turned from one to another of the committee, pleading

with them not to be embittered by this failure, but to turn it to their

profit, going on with the work of building up the solidarity of the

miners. Every man had to make his sacrifices, to pay his part of the

price. The thing of importance was that every man who was discharged

should be a spark of unionism, carrying the flame of revolt to a new

part of the country. Let each one do his part, and there would soon be

no place to which the masters could send for “scabs.”

SECTION 22.

There was one member of this committee whom Hal watched with especial

anxiety----Mary Burke. She had not yet said a word; while the others

argued and protested, she sat with her lips set and her hands clenched.

Hal knew what rage this failure must bring to her. She had risen and

struggled and hoped, and the result was what she had always said it

would be--nothing! Now he saw her, with eyes large and dark with

fatigue, fixed on this fiery young labour-leader. He knew that a war

must be going on within her. Would she drop out entirely now? It was the

test of her character--as it was the test of the characters of all of

them.

“If only we’re strong enough and brave enough,” Jim Moylan was saying,

“we can use our defeats to educate our people and bring them together.

Right now, if we can make the men at North Valley see what we’re doing,

they won’t go back beaten, they won’t be bitter against the union,

they’ll only go back to wait. And ain’t that a way to beat the

bosses--to hold our jobs, and keep the union alive, till we’ve got into

all the camps, and can strike and win?”

There was a pause; then Mary spoke. “How’re you meanin’ to tell the

men?” Her voice was without emotion, but nevertheless, Hal’s heart

leaped. Whether Mary had any hope or not, she was going to stay in line

with the rest of the ants!

Johann Hartman explained his idea. He would have circulars printed in

several languages and distributed secretly in the camp, ordering the men

back to work. But Jerry met this suggestion with a prompt no. The people

would not believe the circulars, they would suspect the bosses of having

them printed. Hadn’t the bosses done worse than that, “framing up” a

letter from Joe Smith to balk the check-weighman movement? The only

thing that would help would be for some of the committee to get into the

camp and see the men face to face.

“And it got to be quick!” Jerry insisted. “They get notice to work in

morning, and them that don’t be fired. They be the best men, too--men we

want to save.”

Other members of the committee spoke up, agreeing with this. Said

Rusick, the Slav, slow-witted and slow-spoken, “Them fellers get mighty

damn sore if they lose their job and don’t got no strike.” And Zammakis,

the Greek, quick and nervous, “We say strike; we got to say no strike.”

What could they do? There was, in the first place, the difficulty of

getting away from the hotel, which was being watched by the “spotters.”

Hartman suggested that if they went out all together and scattered, the

detectives could not follow all of them. Those who escaped might get

into North Valley by hiding in the “empties” which went up to the mine.

But Moylan pointed out that the company would be anticipating this; and

Rusick, who had once been a hobo, put in: “They sure search them cars.

They give us plenty hell, too, when they catch us.”

Yes, it would be a dangerous mission. Mary spoke again. “Maybe a lady

could do it better.”

“They’d beat a lady,” said Minetti.

“I know, but maybe a lady might fool them. There’s some widows that came

to Pedro for the funerals, and they’re wearin’ veils that hide their

faces. I might pretend to be one of them and get into the camp.”

The men looked at one another. There was an idea! The scowl which had

stayed upon the face of Tim Rafferty ever since his quarrel with Moylan,

gave place suddenly to a broad grin.

“I seen Mrs. Zamboni on the street,” said he. “She had on black veils

enough to hide the lot of us.”

And here Hal spoke, for the first time since Tim Rafferty had silenced

him. “Does anybody know where to find Mrs. Zamboni?”

“She stay with my friend, Mrs. Swajka,” said Rusick.

“Well,” said Hal, “there’s something you people don’t know about this

situation. After they had fired you, I made another speech to the men,

and made them swear they’d stay on strike. So now I’ve got to go back

and eat my words. If we’re relying on veils and things, a man can be

fixed up as well as a woman.”

They were staring at him. “They’ll beat you to death if they catch you!”

said Wauchope.

“No,” said Hal, “I don’t think so. Anyhow, it’s up to me”--he glanced at

Tim Rafferty--“because I’m the only one who doesn’t have to suffer for

the failure of our strike.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry I said that!” cried Tim, impulsively.

“That’s all right, old man,” replied Hal. “What you said is true, and

I’d like to do something to ease my conscience.” He rose to his feet,

laughing. “I’ll make a peach of a widow!” he said. “I’m going up and

have a tea-party with my friend Jeff Cotton!”

SECTION 23.

Hal proposed going to find Mrs. Zamboni at the place where she was

staying; but Moylan interposed, objecting that the detectives would

surely follow him. Even though they should all go out of the hotel at

once, the one person the detective would surely stick to was the

arch-rebel and trouble-maker, Joe Smith. Finally they decided to bring

Mrs. Zamboni to the room. Let her come with Mrs. Swajka or some other

woman who spoke English, and go to the desk and ask for Mary Burke,

explaining that Mary had borrowed money from her, and that she had to

have it to pay the undertaker for the burial of her man. The hotel-clerk

might not know who Mary Burke was; but the watchful “spotters” would

gather about and listen, and if it was mentioned that Mary was from

North Valley, some one would connect her with the kidnapped committee.

This was made clear to Rusick, who hurried off, and in the course of

half an hour returned with the announcement that the women were on the

way. A few minutes later came a tap on the door, and there stood the

black-garbed old widow with her friend. She came in; and then came looks

of dismay and horrified exclamations. Rusick was requesting her to give

up her weeds to Joe Smith!

“She say she don’t got nothing else,” explained the Slav.

“Tell her I give her plenty money buy more,” said Hal.

“Ai! Jesu!” cried Mrs. Zamboni, pouring out a sputtering torrent.

“She say she don’t got nothing to put on. She say it ain’t good to go no

clothes!”

“Hasn’t she got on a petticoat?”

“She say petticoat got holes!”

There was a burst of laughter from the company, and the old woman turned

scarlet from her forehead to her ample throat. “Tell her she wrap up in

blankets,” said Hal. “Mary Burke buy her new things.”

It proved surprisingly difficult to separate Mrs. Zamboni from her

widow’s weeds, which she had purchased with so great an expenditure of

time and tears. Never had a respectable lady who had borne sixteen

children received such a proposition; to sell the insignia of her

grief--and here in a hotel room, crowded with a dozen men! Nor was the

task made easier by the unseemly merriment of the men. “Ai! Jesu!” cried

Mrs. Zamboni again.

“Tell her it’s very, very important,” said Hal. “Tell her I must have

them.” And then, seeing that Rusick was making poor headway, he joined

in, in the compromise-English one learns in the camps. “Got to have!

Sure thing! Got to hide! Quick! Get away from boss! See? Get killed if

no go!”

So at last the frightened old woman gave way. “She say all turn backs,”

said Rusick. And everybody turned, laughing in hilarious whispers,

while, with Mary Burke and Mrs. Swajka for a shield, Mrs. Zamboni got

out of her waist and skirt, putting a blanket round her red shoulders

for modesty’s sake. When Hal put the garments on, there was a foot to

spare all round; but after they had stuffed two bed pillows down in the

front of him, and drawn them tight at the waist-line, the disguise was

judged more satisfactory. He put on the old lady’s ample if ragged

shoes, and Mary Burke set the widow’s bonnet on his head and adjusted

the many veils; after that Mrs. Zamboni’s own brood of children would

not have suspected the disguise.

It was a merry party for a few minutes; worn and hopeless as Mary had

seemed, she was possessed now by the spirit of fun. But then quickly the

laughter died. The time for action had come. Mary Burke said that she

would stay with what was left of Mrs. Zamboni, to answer the door in

case any of the hotel people or the detectives should come. Hal asked

Jim Moylan to see Edward, and say that Hal was writing a manifesto to

the North Valley workers, and would not be ready to leave until the

midnight train.

These things agreed upon, Hal shook hands all round, and the eleven men

left the room at once, going down stairs and through the lobby,

scattering in every direction on the streets. Mrs. Swajka and the

pseudo-Mrs. Zamboni followed a minute later--and, as they anticipated,

found the lobby swept clear of detectives.

SECTION 24.

Bidding Mrs. Swajka farewell, Hal set out for the railroad station. But

before he had gone a block from the hotel, he ran into his brother,

coming straight towards him.

Edward’s face wore a bored look; his very manner of carrying the

magazine under his arm said that he had selected it in a last hopeless

effort against the monotony of Pedro. Such a trick of fate, to take a

man of important affairs, and immure him at the mercy of a maniac in a

God-forsaken coal-town! What did people do in such a hole? Pay a nickel

to look at moving pictures of cow-boys and counterfeiters?

Edward’s aspect was too much for Hal’s sense of humour. Besides, he had

a good excuse; was it not proper to make a test of his disguise, before

facing the real danger in North Valley?

He placed himself in the path of his brother’s progress, and in Mrs.

Zamboni’s high, complaining tones, began, “Mister!”

Edward stared at the interrupting black figure. “Mister, you Joe Smith’s

brother, hey?”

The question had to be repeated before Edward gave his grudging answer.

He was not proud of the relationship.

“Mister,” continued the whining voice, “my old man got blow up in mine.

I get five pieces from my man what I got to bury yesterday in

grave-yard. I got to pay thirty dollar for bury them pieces and I don’t

got no more money left. I don’t got no money from them company fellers.

They come lawyer feller and he say maybe I get money for bury my man, if

I don’t jay too much. But, Mister, I got eleven children I got to feed,

and I don’t got no more man, and I don’t find no new man for old woman

like me. When I go home I hear them children crying and I don’t got no

food, and them company-stores don’t give me no food. I think maybe you

Joe Smith’s brother you good man, maybe you sorry for poor widow-woman,

you maybe give me some money, Mister, so I buy some food for them

children.”

“All right,” said Edward. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a bill,

which happened to be for ten dollars. His manner seemed to say, “For

heaven’s sake, here!”

Mrs. Zamboni clutched the bill with greedy fingers, but was not

appeased. “You got plenty money, Mister! You rich man, hey! You maybe

give me all them moneys, so I got plenty feed them children? You don’t

know them company-stores, Mister, them prices is way up high like

mountains; them children is hungry, they cry all day and night, and one

piece money don’t last so long. You give me some more piece moneys,

Mister----hey?”

“I’ll give you one more,” said Edward. “I need some for myself.” He

pulled off another bill.

“What you need so much, Mister? You don’t got so many children, hey? And

you got plenty more money home, maybe!”

“That’s all I can give you,” said the man. He took a step to one side,

to get round the obstruction in his path.

But the obstruction took a step also--and with surprising agility.

“Mister, I thank you for them moneys. I tell them children I get moneys

from good man. I like you, Mister Smith, you give money for poor

widow-woman--you nice man.”

And the dreadful creature actually stuck out one of her paws, as if

expecting to pat Edward on the cheek, or to chuck him under the chin. He

recoiled, as from a contagion; but she followed him, determined to do

something to him, he could not be sure what. He had heard that these

foreigners had strange customs!

“It’s all right! It’s nothing!” he insisted, and fell back--at the same

time glancing nervously about, to see if there were spectators of this

scene.

“Nice man, Mister! Nice man!” cried the old woman, with increasing

cordiality. “Maybe some day I find man like you, Mr. Edward Smith--so I

don’t stay widow-woman no more. You think maybe you like to marry nice

Slavish woman, got plenty nice children?”

Edward, perceiving that the matter was getting desperate, sprang to one

side. It was a spring which should have carried him to safety; but to

his dismay the Slavish widow sprang also--her claws caught him under the

arm-pit, and fastening in his ribs, gave him a ferocious pinch. After

which the owner of the claws went down the street, not looking back, but

making strange gobbling noises, which might have been the weeping of a

bereaved widow in Slavish, or might have been almost anything else.

SECTION 25.

The train up to North Valley left very soon, and Hal figured that there

would be just time to accomplish his errand and catch the last train

back. He took his seat in the car without attracting attention, and sat

in his place until they were approaching their destination, the last

stop up the canyon. There were several of the miners’ women in the car,

and Hal picked out one who belonged to Mrs. Zamboni’s nationality, and

moved over beside her. She made place, with some remark; but Hal merely

sobbed softly, and the woman felt for his hand to comfort him. As his

hands were clasped together under the veils, she patted him reassuringly

on the knee.

At the boundary of the stockaded village the train stopped, and Bud

Adams came through the car, scrutinising every passenger. Seeing this,

Hal began to sob again, and murmured something indistinct to his

companion--which caused her to lean towards him, speaking volubly in her

native language. “Bud” passed by.

When Hal came to leave the train, he took his companion’s arm; he sobbed

some more, and she talked some more, and so they went down the platform,

under the very eyes of Pete Hanun, the “breaker of teeth.” Another woman

joined them, and they walked down the street, the women conversing in

Slavish, apparently without a suspicion of Hal.

He had worked out his plan of action. He would not try to talk with the

men secretly--it would take too long, and he might be betrayed before he

had talked with a sufficient number. One bold stroke was the thing. In

half an hour it would be supper-time, and the feeders would gather in

Reminitsky’s dining-room. He would give his message there!

Hal’s two companions were puzzled that he passed the Zamboni cabin,

where presumably the Zamboni brood were being cared for by neighbours.

But he let them make what they could of this, and went on to the Minetti

home. To the astonished Rosa he revealed himself, and gave her husband’s

message--that she should take herself and the children down to Pedro,

and wait quietly until she heard from him. She hurried out and brought

in Jack David, to whom Hal explained matters. “Big Jack’s” part in the

recent disturbance had apparently not been suspected; he and his wife,

with Rovetta, Wresmak, and Klowoski, would remain as a nucleus through

which the union could work upon the men.

The supper-hour was at hand, and the pseudo-Mrs. Zamboni emerged and

toddled down the street. As she passed into the dining-room of the

boarding-house, men looked at her, but no one spoke. It was the stage of

the meal where everybody was grabbing and devouring, in the effort to

get the best of his grabbing and devouring neighbours. The black-clad

figure went to the far end of the room; there was a vacant chair, and

the figure pulled it back from the table and climbed upon it. Then a

shout rang through the room: “Boys! Boys!”

The feeders looked up, and saw the widow’s weeds thrown back, and their

leader, Joe Smith, gazing out at them. “Boys! I’ve come with a message

from the union!”

There was a yell; men leaped to their feet, chairs were flung back,

falling with a crash to the floor. Then, almost instantly, came silence;

you could have heard the movement of any man’s jaws, had any man

continued to move them.

“Boys! I’ve been down to Pedro and seen the union people. I knew the

bosses wouldn’t let me come back, so I dressed up, and here I am!”

It dawned upon them, the meaning of this fantastic costume; there were

cheers, laughter, yells of delight.

But Hal stretched out his hands, and silence fell again. “Listen to me!

The bosses won’t let me talk long, and I’ve something important to say.

The union leaders say we can’t win a strike now.”

Consternation came into the faces before him. There were cries of

dismay. He went on:

“We are only one camp, and the bosses would turn us out, they’d get in

scabs and run the mines without us. What we must have is a strike of all

the camps at once. One big union and one big strike! If we walked out

now, it would please the bosses; but we’ll fool them--we’ll keep our

jobs, and keep our union too! You are members of the union, you’ll go on

working for the union! Hooray for the North Valley union!”

For a moment there was no response. It was hard for men to cheer over

such a prospect! Hal saw that he must touch a different chord.

“We mustn’t be cowards, boys! We’ve got to keep our nerve! I’m doing my

part--it took nerve to get in here! In Mrs. Zamboni’s clothes, and with

two pillows stuffed in front of me!”

He thumped the pillows, and there was a burst of laughter. Many in the

crowd knew Mrs. Zamboni--it was what comedians call a “local gag.” The

laughter spread, and became a gale of merriment. Men began to cheer:

“Hurrah for Joe! You’re the girl! Will you marry me, Joe?” And so, of

course, it was easy for Hal to get a response when he shouted, “Hurrah

for the North Valley union!”

Again he raised his hands for silence, and went on again. “Listen, men.

They’ll turn me out, and you’re not going to resist them. You’re going

to work and keep your jobs, and get ready for the big strike. And you’ll

tell the other men what I say. I can’t talk to them all, but you tell

them about the union. Remember, there are people outside planning and

fighting for you. We’re going to stand by the union, all of us, till

we’ve brought these coal-camps back into America!” There was a cheer

that shook the walls of the room. Yes, that was what they wanted--to

live in America!

A crowd of men had gathered in the doorway, attracted by the uproar; Hal

noticed confusion and pushing, and saw the head and burly shoulders of

his enemy, Pete Hanun, come into sight.

“Here come the gunmen, boys!” he cried; and there was a roar of anger

from the crowd. Men turned, clenching their fists, glaring at the guard.

But Hal rushed on, quickly:

“Boys, hear what I say! Keep your heads! I can’t stay in North Valley,

and you know it! But I’ve done the thing I came to do, I’ve brought you

the message from the union. And you’ll tell the other men--tell them to

stand by the union!”

Hal went on, repeating his message over and over. Looking from one to

another of these toil-worn faces, he remembered the pledge he had made

them, and he made it anew: “I’m going to stand by you! I’m going on with

the fight, boys!”

There came more disturbance at the door, and suddenly Jeff Cotton

appeared, with a couple of additional guards, shoving their way into the

room, breathless and red in the face from running.

“Ah, there’s the marshal!” cried Hal. “You needn’t push, Cotton, there’s

not going to be any trouble. We are union men here, we know how to

control ourselves. Now, boys, we’re not giving up, we’re not beaten,

we’re only waiting for the men in the other camps! We have a union, and

we mean to keep it! Three cheers for the union!”

The cheers rang out with a will: cheers for the union, cheers for Joe

Smith, cheers for the widow and her weeds!

“You belong to the union! You stand by it, no matter what happens! If

they fire you, you take it on to the next place! You teach it to the new

men, you never let it die in your hearts! In union there is strength, in

union there is hope! Never forget it, men--_Union_!”

The voice of the camp-marshal rang out. “If you’re coming, young woman,

come now!”

Hal dropped a shy curtsey. “Oh, Mr. Cotton! This is so sudden!” The

crowd howled; and Hal descended from his platform. With coquettish

gesturing he replaced the widow’s veils about his face, and tripped

mincingly across the dining-room. When he reached the camp-marshal, he

daintily took that worthy’s arm, and with the “breaker of teeth” on the

other side, and Bud Adams bringing up the rear, he toddled out of the

dining-room and down the street.

Hungry men gave up their suppers to behold that sight. They poured out

of the building, they followed, laughing, shouting, jeering. Others came

from every direction--by the time the party had reached the depot, a

good part of the population of the village was on hand; and everywhere

went the word, “It’s Joe Smith! Come back with a message from the

union!” Big, coal-grimed miners laughed till the tears made streaks on

their faces; they fell on one another’s necks for delight at this trick

which had been played upon their oppressors.

Even Jeff Cotton could not withhold his tribute. “By God, you’re the

limit!” he muttered. He accepted the “tea-party” aspect of the affair,

as the easiest way to get rid of his recurrent guest, and avert the

possibilities of danger. He escorted the widow to the train and helped

her up the steps, posting escorts at the doors of her car; nor did the

attentions of these gallants cease until the train had moved down the

canyon and passed the limits of the North Valley stockade!

SECTION 26.

Hal took off his widow’s weeds; and with them he shed the merriment he

had worn for the benefit of the men. There came a sudden reaction; he

realised that he was tired.

For ten days he had lived in a whirl of excitement, scarcely stopping to

sleep. Now he lay back in the car-seat, pale, exhausted; his head ached,

and he realised that the sum-total of his North Valley experience was

failure. There was left in him no trace of that spirit of adventure with

which he had set out upon his “summer course in practical sociology.” He

had studied his lessons, tried to recite them, and been “flunked.” He

smiled a bitter smile, recollecting the careless jesting that had been

on his lips as he came up that same canyon:

“He keeps them a-roll, that merry old soul--

The wheels of industree;

A-roll and a-roll, for his pipe and his bowl

And his college facultee!”

The train arrived in Pedro, and Hal took a hack at the station and drove

to the hotel. He still carried the widow’s weeds rolled into a bundle.

He might have left them in the train, but the impulse to economy which

he had acquired during the last ten weeks had become a habit. He would

return them to Mrs. Zamboni. The money he had promised her might better

be used to feed her young ones. The two pillows he would leave in the

car; the hotel might endure the loss!

Entering the lobby, the first person Hal saw was his brother, and the

sight of that patrician face made human by disgust relieved Hal’s

headache in part. Life was harsh, life was cruel; but here was weary,

waiting Edward, that boon of comic relief!

Edward demanded to know where the devil he had been; and Hal answered,

“I’ve been visiting the widows and orphans.”

“Oh!” said Edward. “And while I sit in this hole and stew! What’s that

you’ve got under your arm?”

Hal looked at the bundle. “It’s a souvenir of one of the widows,” he

said, and unrolled the garments and spread them out before his brother’s

puzzled eyes. “A lady named Mrs. Swajka gave them to me. They belonged

to another lady, Mrs. Zamboni, but she doesn’t need them any more.”

“What have _you_ got to do with them?”

“It seems that Mrs. Zamboni is going to get married again.” Hal lowered

his voice, confidentially. “It’s a romance, Edward--it may interest you

as an illustration of the manners of these foreign races. She met a man

on the street, a fine, fine man, she says--and he gave her a lot of

money. So she went and bought herself some new clothes, and she wants to

give these widow’s weeds to the new man. That’s the custom in her

country, it seems--her sign that she accepts him as a suitor.”

Seeing the look of wonderment growing on his brother’s face, Hal had to

stop for a moment to keep his own face straight. “If that man wasn’t

serious in his intention, Edward, he’ll have trouble, for I know Mrs.

Zamboni’s emotional nature. She’ll follow him about everywhere--”

“Hal, that creature is insane!” And Edward looked about him nervously,

as if he thought the Slavish widow might appear suddenly in the hotel

lobby to demonstrate her emotional nature.

“No,” replied Hal, “it’s just one of those differences in national

customs.” And suddenly Hal’s face gave way. He began to laugh; he

laughed, perhaps more loudly than good form permitted.

Edward was much annoyed. There were people in the lobby, and they were

staring at him. “Cut it out, Hal!” he exclaimed. “Your fool jokes bore

me!” But nevertheless, Hal could see uncertainty in his brother’s face.

Edward recognised those widow’s weeds. And how could he be sure about

the “national customs” of that grotesque creature who had pinched him in

the ribs on the street?

“Cut it out!” he cried again.

Hal, changing his voice suddenly to the Zamboni key, exclaimed: “Mister,

I got eight children I got to feed, and I don’t got no more man, and I

don’t find no new man for old woman like me!”

So at last the truth in its full enormity began to dawn upon Edward. His

consternation and disgust poured themselves out; and Hal listened, his

laughter dying. “Edward,” he said, “you don’t take me seriously even

yet!”

“Good God!” cried the other. “I believe you’re really insane!”

“You were up there, Edward! You heard what I said to those poor devils!

And you actually thought I’d go off with you and forget about them!”

Edward ignored this. “You’re really insane!” he repeated. “You’ll get

yourself killed, in spite of all I can do!”

But Hal only laughed. “Not a chance of it! You should have seen the

tea-party manners of the camp-marshal!”

SECTION 27.

Edward would have endeavoured to carry his brother away forthwith, but

there was no train until late at night; so Hal went upstairs, where he

found Moylan and Hartman with Mary Burke and Mrs. Zamboni, all eager to

hear his story. As the members of the committee, who had been out to

supper, came straggling in, the story was told again, and yet again.

They were almost as much delighted as the men in Reminitsky’s. If only

all strikes that had to be called off could be called off as neatly as

that!

Between these outbursts of satisfaction, they discussed their future.

Moylan was going back to Western City, Hartman to his office in

Sheridan, from which he would arrange to send new organisers into North

Valley. No doubt Cartwright would turn off many men--those who had made

themselves conspicuous during the strike, those who continued to talk

union out loud. But such men would have to be replaced, and the union

knew through what agencies the company got its hands. The North Valley

miners would find themselves mysteriously provided with union literature

in their various languages; it would be slipped under their pillows, or

into their dinner-pails, or the pockets of their coats while they were

at work.

Also there was propaganda to be carried on among those who were turned

away; so that, wherever they went, they would take the message of

unionism. There had been a sympathetic outburst in Barela, Hal

learned--starting quite spontaneously that morning, when the men heard

what had happened at North Valley. A score of workers had been fired,

and more would probably follow in the morning. Here was a job for the

members of the kidnapped committee; Tim Rafferty, for example--would he

care to stay in Pedro for a week or two, to meet such men, and give them

literature and arguments?

This offer was welcome; for life looked desolate to the Irish boy at

this moment. He was out of a job, his father was a wreck, his family

destitute and helpless. They would have to leave their home, of course;

there would be no place for any Rafferty in North Valley. Where they

would go, God only knew; Tim would become a wanderer, living away from

his people, starving himself and sending home his pitiful savings.

Hal was watching the boy, and reading these thoughts. He, Hal Warner,

would play the god out of a machine in this case, and in several others

equally pitiful. He had the right to sign his father’s name to checks, a

privilege which he believed he could retain, even while undertaking the

role of Haroun al Raschid in a mine-disaster. But what about the

mine-disasters and abortive strikes where there did not happen to be any

Haroun al Raschid at hand? What about those people, right in North

Valley, who did not happen to have told Hal of their affairs? He

perceived that it was only by turning his back and running that he would

escape from his adventure with any portion of his self-possession.

Truly, this fair-seeming and wonderful civilisation was like the floor

of a charnel-house or a field of battle; anywhere one drove a spade

beneath its surface, he uncovered horrors, sights for the eyes and

stenches for the nostrils that caused him to turn sick!

There was Rusick, for example; he had a wife and two children, and not a

dollar in the world. In the year and more that he had worked, faithfully

and persistently, to get out coal for Peter Harrigan, he had never once

been able to get ahead of his bill for the necessities of life at Old

Peter’s store. All his belongings in the world could be carried in a

bundle on his back, and whether he ever saw these again would depend

upon the whim of old Peter’s camp-marshal and guards. Rusick would take

to the road, with a ticket purchased by the union. Perhaps he would find

a job and perhaps not; in any case, the best he could hope for in life

was to work for some other Harrigan, and run into debt at some other

company-store.

There was Hobianish, a Serbian, and Hernandez, a Mexican, of whom the

same things were true, except that one had four children and the other

six. Bill Wauchope had only a wife--their babies had died, thank heaven,

he said. He did not seem to have been much moved by Jim Moylan’s

pleadings; he was down and out; he would take to the road, and beat his

way to the East and back to England. They called this a free country! By

God, if he were to tell what had happened to him, he could not get an

English miner to believe it!

Hal gave these men his real name and address, and made them promise to

let him know how they got along. He would help a little, he said; in his

mind he was figuring how much he ought to do. How far shall a man go in

relieving the starvation about him, before he can enjoy his meals in a

well-appointed club? What casuist will work out this problem--telling

him the percentage he shall relieve of the starvation he happens

personally to know about, the percentage of that which he sees on the

streets, the percentage of that about which he reads in government

reports on the rise in the cost of living. To what extent is he

permitted to close his eyes, as he walks along the streets on his way to

the club? To what extent is he permitted to avoid reading government

reports before going out to dinner-dances with his fiancée? Problems

such as these the masters of the higher mathematics have neglected to

solve; the wise men of the academies and the holy men of the churches

have likewise failed to work out the formulas; and Hal, trying to obtain

them by his crude mental arithmetic, found no satisfaction in the

results.

SECTION 28.

Hal wanted a chance to talk to Mary Burke; they had had no intimate talk

since the meeting with Jessie Arthur, and now he was going away, for a

long time. He wanted to find out what plans Mary had for the future,

and--more important yet--what was her state of mind. If he had been able

to lift this girl from despair, his summer course in practical sociology

had not been all a failure!

He asked her to go with him to say good-bye to John Edstrom, whom he had

not seen since their unceremonious parting at MacKellar’s, when Hal had

fled to Percy Harrigan’s train. Downstairs in the lobby Hal explained

his errand to his waiting brother, who made no comment, but merely

remarked that he would follow, if Hal had no objection. He did not care

to make the acquaintance of the Hibernian Joan of Arc, and would not

come close enough to interfere with Hal’s conversation with the lady;

but he wished to do what he could for his brother’s protection. So there

set out a moon-light procession--first Hal and Mary, then Edward, and

then Edward’s dinner-table companion, the “hardware-drummer!”

Hal was embarrassed in beginning his farewell talk with Mary. He had no

idea how she felt towards him, and he admitted with a guilty pang that

he was a little afraid to find out! He thought it best to be cheerful,

so he started to tell her how fine he thought her conduct during the

strike. But she did not respond to his remarks, and at last he realised

that she was labouring with some thoughts of her own.

“There’s somethin’ I got to say to ye!” she began, suddenly. “A couple

of days ago I knew how I meant to say it, but now I don’t.”

“Well,” he laughed, “say it as you meant to.”

“No; ’twas bitter--and now I’m on my knees before ye.”

“Not that I want you to be bitter,” said Hal, still laughing, “but it’s

I that ought to be on my knees before you. I didn’t accomplish anything,

you know.”

“Ye did all ye could--and more than the rest of us. I want ye to know

I’ll never forget it. But I want ye to hear the other thing, too!”

She walked on, staring before her, doubling up her hands in agitation.

“Well?” said he, still trying to keep a cheerful tone.

“Ye remember that day just after the explosion? Ye remember what I said

about--about goin’ away with ye? I take it back.”

“Oh, of course!” said he, quickly. “You were distracted, Mary--you

didn’t know what you were saying.”

“No, no! That’s not it! But I’ve changed my mind; I don’t mean to throw

meself away.”

“I told you you’d see it that way,” he said. “No man is worth it.”

“Ah, lad!” said she. “’Tis the fine soothin’ tongue ye have--but I’d

rather ye knew the truth. ’Tis that I’ve seen the other girl; and I hate

her!”

They walked for a bit in silence. Hal had sense enough to realise that

here was a difficult subject. “I don’t want to be a prig, Mary,” he said

gently; “but you’ll change your mind about that, too. You’ll not hate

her; you’ll be sorry for her.”

She laughed--a raw, harsh laugh. “What kind of a joke is that?”

“I know--it may seem like one. But it’ll come to you some day. You have

a wonderful thing to live and fight for; while she”--he hesitated a

moment, for he was not sure of his own ideas on this subject--“she has

so many things to learn; and she may never learn them. She’ll miss some

fine things.”

“I know one of the fine things she does not mean to miss,” said Mary,

grimly; “that’s Mr. Hal Warner.” Then, after they had walked again in

silence: “I want ye to understand me, Mr. Warner--”

“Ah, Mary!” he pleaded. “Don’t treat me that way! I’m Joe.”

“All right,” she said, “Joe ye shall be. ’Twill remind ye of a pretty

adventure--bein’ a workin’ man for a few weeks. Well, that’s a part of

what I have to tell ye. I’ve got my pride, even if I’m only a poor

miner’s daughter; and the other day I found out me place.”

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“Ye don’t understand? Honest?”

“No, honest,” he said.

“Ye’re stupid with women, Joe. Ye didn’t see what the girl did to me!

’Twas some kind of a bug I was to her. She was not sure if I was the

kind that bites, but she took no chances--she threw me off, like that.”

And Mary snapped her hand, as one does when troubled with a bug.

“Ah, now!” pleaded Hal. “You’re not being fair!”

“I’m bein’ just as fair as I’ve got it in me to be, Joe. I been off and

had it all out. I can see this much--’tis not her fault, maybe--’tis her

class; ’tis all of ye--the very best of ye, even yeself, Joe Smith!”

“Yea,” he replied, “Tim Rafferty said that.”

“Tim said too much--but a part of it was true. Ye think ye’ve come here

and been one of us workin’ people. But don’t your own sense tell you

the difference, as if it was a canyon a million miles across--between a

poor ignorant creature in a minin’ camp, and a rich man’s daughter, a

lady? Ye’d tell me not to be ashamed of poverty; but would ye ever put

me by the side of her--for all your fine feelin’s of friendship for them

that’s beneath ye? Didn’t ye show that at the Minettis’?”

“But don’t you see, Mary--” He made an effort to laugh. “I got used to

obeying Jessie! I knew her a long time before I knew you.”

“Ah, Joe! Ye’ve a kind heart, and a pleasant way of speakin’. But

wouldn’t it interest ye to know the real truth? Ye said ye’d come out

here to learn the truth!”

And Hal answered, in a low voice, “Yes,” and did not interrupt again.

SECTION 29.

Mary’s voice had dropped low, and Hal thought how rich and warm it was

when she was deeply moved. She went on:

“I lived all me life in minin’ camps, Joe Smith, and I seen men robbed

and beaten, and women cryin’ and childer hungry. I seen the company,

like some great wicked beast that eat them up. But I never knew why, or

what it meant--till that day, there at the Minettis’. I’d read about

fine ladies in books, ye see; but I’d never been spoke to by one, I’d

never had to swallow one, as ye might say. But there I did--and all at

once I seemed to know where the money goes that’s wrung out of the

miners. I saw why people were robbin’ us, grindin’ the life out of

us--for fine ladies like that, to keep them so shinin’ and soft! ’Twould

not have been so bad, if she’d not come just then, with all the men and

boys dyin’ down in the pits--dyin’ for that soft, white skin, and those

soft, white hands, and all those silky things she swished round in. My

God, Joe--d’ye know what she seemed to me like? Like a smooth, sleek cat

that has just eat up a whole nest full of baby mice, and has the blood

of them all over her cheeks!”

Mary paused, breathing hard. Hal kept silence, and she went on again: “I

had it out with meself, Joe! I don’t want ye to think I’m any better

than I am, and I asked meself this question--Is it for the men in the

pits that ye hate her with such black murder? Or is it for the one man

ye want, and that she’s got? And I knew the answer to that! But then I

asked meself another question, too--Would ye be like her if ye could?

Would ye do what she’s doin’ right now--would ye have it on your soul?

And as God hears me, Joe, ’tis the truth I speak--I’d not do it! No, not

for the love of any man that ever walked on this earth!”

She had lifted her clenched fist as she spoke. She let it fall again,

and strode on, not even glancing at him. “Ye might try a thousand years,

Joe, and ye’d not realise the feelin’s that come to me there at the

Minettis’. The shame of it--not what she done to me, but what she made

me in me own eyes! Me, the daughter of a drunken old miner, and her--I

don’t know what her father is, but she’s some sort of princess, and she

knows it. And that’s the thing that counts, Joe! ’Tis not that she has

so much money, and so many fine things; that she knows how to talk, and

I don’t, and that her voice is sweet, and mine is ugly, when I’m ragin’

as I am now. No--’tis that she’s so _sure!_ That’s the word I found to

say it; she’s sure--sure--_sure!_ She has the fine things, she’s always

had them, she has a right to have them! And I have a right to nothin’

but trouble, I’m hunted all day by misery and fear, I’ve lost even the

roof over me head! Joe, ye know I’ve got some temper--I’m not easy to

beat down; but when I’d got through bein’ taught me place, I went off

and hid meself, I ground me face in the dirt, for the black rage of it!

I said to meself, ’Tis true! There’s somethin’ in her better than me!

She’s some kind of finer creature.--Look at these hands!” She held them

out in the moonlight, with a swift, passionate gesture. “So she’s a

right to her man, and I’m a fool to have ever raised me eyes to him! I

have to see him go away, and crawl back into me leaky old shack! Yes,

that’s the truth! And when I point it out to the man, what d’ye think he

says? Why, he tells me gently and kindly that I ought to be sorry for

her! Christ! did ye ever hear the like of that?”

There was a long silence. Hal could not have said anything now, if he

had wished to. He knew that this was what he had come to seek! This was

the naked soul of the class-war!

“Now,” concluded Mary, with clenched hands, and a voice that

corresponded, “now, I’ve had it out. I’m no slave; I’ve just as good a

right to life as any lady. I know I’ll never have it, of course; I’ll

never wear good clothes, nor live in a decent home, nor have the man I

want; but I’ll know that I’ve done somethin’ to help free the workin’

people from the shame that’s put on them. That’s what the strike done

for me, Joe! The strike showed me the way. We’re beat this time, but

somehow it hasn’t made the difference ye might think. I’m goin’ to make

more strikes before I quit, and they won’t all of them be beat!”

She stopped speaking; and Hal walked beside her, stirred by a conflict

of emotions. His vision of her was indeed true; she would make more

strikes! He was glad and proud of that; but then came the thought that

while she, a girl, was going on with the bitter war, he, a man, would be

eating grilled beefsteaks at the club!

“Mary,” he said, “I’m ashamed of myself--”

“That’s not it, Joe! Ye’ve no call to be ashamed. Ye can’t help it where

ye were born--”

“Perhaps not, Mary. But when a man knows he’s never paid for any of the

things he’s enjoyed all his life, surely the least he can do is to be

ashamed. I hope you’ll try not to hate me as you do the others.”

“I never hated ye, Joe! Not for one moment! I tell ye fair and true, I

love ye as much as ever. I can say it, because I’d not have ye now; I’ve

seen the other girl, and I know ye’d never be satisfied with me. I don’t

know if I ought to say it, but I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be altogether

satisfied with her, either. Ye’ll be unhappy either way--God help ye!”

The girl had read deeply into his soul in this last speech; so deeply

that Hal could not trust himself to answer. They were passing a

street-lamp, and she looked at him, for the first time since they had

started on their walk, and saw harassment in his face. A sudden

tenderness came into her voice. “Joe,” she said; “ye’re lookin’ bad.

’Tis good ye’re goin’ away from this place!”

He tried to smile, but the effort was feeble.

“Joe,” she went on, “ye asked me to be your friend. Well, I’ll be that!”

And she held out the big, rough hand.

He took it. “We’ll not forget each other, Mary,” he said. There was a

catch in his voice.

“Sure, lad!” she exclaimed. “We’ll make another strike some day, just

like we did at North Valley!”

Hal pressed the big hand; but then suddenly, remembering his brother

stalking solemnly in the rear, he relinquished the clasp, and failed to

say all the fine things he had in his mind. He called himself a rebel,

but not enough to be sentimental before Edward!

SECTION 30.

They came to the house where John Edstrom was staying. The labouring

man’s wife opened the door. In answer to Hal’s question, she said, “The

old gentleman’s pretty bad.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Didn’t you know he was hurt?”

“No. How?”

“They beat him up, sir. Broke his arm, and nearly broke his head.”

Hal and Mary exclaimed in chorus, “Who did it? When?”

“We don’t know who did it. It was four nights ago.”

Hal realised it must have happened while he was escaping from

MacKellar’s. “Have you had a doctor for him?”

“Yes, sir; but we can’t do much, because my man is out of work, and I

have the children and the boarders to look after.”

Hal and Mary ran upstairs. Their old friend lay in darkness, but he

recognised their voices and greeted them with a feeble cry. The woman

brought a lamp, and they saw him lying on his back, his head done up in

bandages, and one arm bound in splints. He looked really desperately

bad, his kindly old eyes deep-sunken and haggard, and his face--Hal

remembered what Jeff Cotton had called him, “that dough-faced old

preacher!”

They got the story of what had happened at the time of Hal’s flight to

Percy’s train. Edstrom had shouted a warning to the fugitives, and set

out to run after them; when one of the mine-guards, running past him,

had fetched him a blow over the eye, knocking him down. He had struck

his head upon the pavement, and lain there unconscious for many hours.

When finally some one had come upon him, and summoned a policeman, they

had gone through his pockets, and found the address of this place where

he was staying written on a scrap of paper. That was all there was to

the story--except that Edstrom had refrained from sending to MacKellar

for help, because he had felt sure they were all working to get the mine

open, and he did not feel he had the right to put his troubles upon

them.

Hal listened to the old man’s feeble statements, and there came back to

him a surge of that fury which his North Valley experience had generated

in him. It was foolish, perhaps; for to knock down an old man who had

been making trouble was a comparatively slight exercise of the functions

of a mine-guard. But to Hal it seemed the most characteristic of all the

outrages he had seen; it was an expression of the company’s utter

blindness to all that was best in life. This old man, who was so gentle,

so patient, who had suffered so much, and not learned to hate, who had

kept his faith so true! What did his faith mean to the thugs of the

General Fuel Company? What had his philosophy availed him, his

saintliness, his hopes for mankind? They had fetched him one swipe as

they passed him, and left him lying--alive or dead, it was all the same.

Hal had got some satisfaction out of his little adventure in widowhood,

and some out of Mary’s self-victory; but there, listening to the old

man’s whispered story, his satisfaction died. He realised again the grim

truth about his summer’s experience--that the issue of it had been

defeat. Utter, unqualified defeat! He had caused the bosses a momentary

chagrin; but it would not take them many hours to realise that he had

really done them a service in calling off the strike for them. They

would start the wheels of industry again, and the workers would be just

where they had been before Joe Smith came to be stableman and buddy

among them. What was all the talk about solidarity, about hope for the

future; what would it amount to in the long run, the daily rolling of

the wheels of industry? The workers of North Valley would have exactly

the right they had always had--the right to be slaves, and if they did

not care for that, the right to be martyrs!

Mary sat holding the old man’s hand and whispering words of passionate

sympathy, while Hal got up and paced the tiny attic, all ablaze with

anger. He resolved suddenly that he would not go back to Western City;

he would stay here, and get an honest lawyer to come, and set out to

punish the men who were guilty of this outrage. He would test out the

law to the limit; if necessary, he would begin a political fight, to put

an end to coal-company rule in this community. He would find some one to

write up these conditions, he would raise the money and publish a paper

to make them known! Before his surging wrath had spent itself, Hal

Warner had actually come out as a candidate for governor, and was

overturning the Republican machine--all because an unidentified

coal-company detective had knocked a dough-faced old miner into the

gutter and broken his arm!

SECTION 31.

In the end, of course, Hal had to come down to practical matters. He sat

by the bed and told the old man tactfully that his brother had come to

see him and had given him some money. This brother had plenty of money,

so Edstrom could be taken to the hospital; or, if he preferred, Mary

could stay near here and take care of him. They turned to the landlady,

who had been standing in the doorway; she had three boarders in her

little home, it seemed, but if Mary could share a bed with the

landlady’s two children, they might make out. In spite of Hal’s protest,

Mary accepted this offer; he saw what was in her mind--she would take

some of his money, because of old Edstrom’s need, but she would take

just as little as she possibly could.

John Edstrom of course knew nothing of events since his injury, so Hal

told him the story briefly--though without mentioning the transformation

which had taken place in the miner’s buddy. He told about the part Mary

had played in the strike; trying to entertain the poor old man, he told

how he had seen her mounted upon a snow-white horse, and wearing a robe

of white, soft and lustrous, like Joan of Arc, or the leader of a

suffrage parade.

“Sure,” said Mary, “he’s forever callin’ attention to this old dress!”

Hal looked; she was wearing the same blue calico. “There’s something

mysterious about that dress,” said he. “It’s one of those that you read

about in fairy-stories, that forever patch themselves, and keep

themselves new and starchy. A body only needs one dress like that!”

“Sure, lad,” she answered. “There’s no fairies in coal-camps--unless

’tis meself, that washes it at night, and dries it over the stove, and

irons it next mornin’.”

She said this with unwavering cheerfulness; but even the old miner lying

in pain on the cot could realise the tragedy of a young girl’s having

only one old dress in her love-hunting season. He looked at the young

couple, and saw their evident interest in each other; after the fashion

of the old, he was disposed to help along the romance. “She may need

some orange blossoms,” he ventured, feebly.

“Go along with ye!” laughed Mary, still unwavering.

“Sure,” put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, “’tis a blossom she is

herself! A rose in a mining-camp--and there’s a dispute about her in the

poetry-books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says

to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying!”

“Ye’re mixin’ me up,” said Mary. “A while back I was ridin’ on a white

horse.”

“I remember,” said Old Edstrom, “not so far back, you were an ant,

Mary.”

Her face became grave. To jest about her personal tragedy was one thing,

to jest about the strike was another. “Yes, I remember. Ye said I’d stay

in the line! Ye were wiser than me, Mr. Edstrom.”

“That’s one of the things that come with being old, Mary.” He moved his

gnarled old hand toward hers. “You’re going on, now?” he asked. “You’re

a unionist now, Mary?”

“I am that!” she answered, promptly, her grey eyes shining.

“There’s a saying,” said he--“once a striker, always a striker. Find a

way to get some education for yourself, Mary, and when the big strike

comes you’ll be one of those the miners look to. I’ll not be here, I

know--the young people must take my place.”

“I’ll do my part,” she answered. Her voice was low; it was a kind of

benediction the old man was giving her.

The woman had gone downstairs to attend to her children; she came back

now to say that there was a gentleman at the door, who wanted to know

when his brother was coming. Hal remembered suddenly--Edward had been

pacing up and down all this while, with no company but a “hardware

drummer!” The younger brother’s resolve to stay in Pedro had already

begun to weaken somewhat, and now it weakened still further; he realised

that life is complex, that duties conflict! He assured the old miner

again of his ability to see that he did not suffer from want, and then

he bade him farewell for a while.

He started out, and Mary went as far as the head of the stairway with

him. He took the girl’s big, rough hand in his--this time with no one to

see. “Mary,” he said, “I want you to know that nothing will make me

forget you; and nothing will make me forget the miners.”

“Ah, Joe!” she cried. “Don’t let them win ye away from us! We need ye so

bad!”

“I’m going back home for a while,” he answered, “but you can be sure

that no matter what happens in my life, I’m going to fight for the

working people. When the big strike comes, as we know it’s coming in

this coal-country, I’ll be here to do my share.”

“Sure lad,” she said, looking him bravely in the eye, “and good-bye to

ye, Joe Smith.” Her eyes did not waver; but Hal noted a catch in her

voice, and he found himself with an impulse to take her in his arms. It

was very puzzling. He knew he loved Jessie Arthur; he remembered the

question Mary had once asked him--could he be in love with two girls at

the same time? It was not in accord with any moral code that had been

impressed upon him, but apparently he could!

SECTION 32.

He went out to the street, where his brother was pacing up and down in a

ferment. The “hardware drummer” had made another effort to start a

conversation, and had been told to go to hell--no less!

“Well, are you through now?” Edward demanded, taking out his irritation

on Hal.

“Yes,” replied the other. “I suppose so.” He realised that Edward would

not be concerned about Edstrom’s broken arm.

“Then, for God’s sake, get some clothes on and let’s have some food.”

“All right,” said Hal. But his answer was listless, and the other looked

at him sharply. Even by the moonlight Edward could see the lines in the

face of his younger brother, and the hollows around his eyes. For the

first time he realised how deeply these experiences were cutting into

the boy’s soul. “You poor kid!” he exclaimed, with sudden feeling. But

Hal did not answer; he did not want sympathy, he did not want anything!

Edward made a gesture of despair. “God knows, I don’t know what to do

for you!”

They started back to the hotel, and on the way Edward cast about in his

mind for a harmless subject of conversation. He mentioned that he had

foreseen the shutting up of the stores, and had purchased an outfit for

his brother. There was no need to thank him, he added grimly; he had no

intention of travelling to Western City in company with a hobo.

So the young miner had a bath, the first real one in a long time. (Never

again would it be possible for ladies to say in Hal Warner’s presence

that the poor might at least keep clean!) He had a shave; he trimmed his

finger-nails, and brushed his hair, and dressed himself as a gentleman.

In spite of himself he found his cheerfulness partly restored. A strange

and wonderful sensation--to be dressed once more as a gentleman. He

thought of the saying of the old negro, who liked to stub his toe,

because it felt so good when it stopped hurting!

They went out to find a restaurant, and on the way one last misadventure

befell Edward. Hal saw an old miner walking past, and stopped with a

cry: “Mike!” He forgot all at once that he was a gentleman; the old

miner forgot it also. He stared for one bewildered moment, then he

rushed at Hal and seized him in the hug of a mountain grizzly.

“My buddy! My buddy!” he cried, and gave Hal a prodigious thump on the

back. “By Judas!” And he gave him a thump with the other hand. “Hey! you

old son-of-a-gun!” And he gave him a hairy kiss!

But in the very midst of these raptures it dawned over him that there

was something wrong about his buddy. He drew back, staring. “You got

good clothes! You got rich, hey?”

Evidently the old fellow had heard no rumour concerning Hal’s secret.

“I’ve been doing pretty well,” Hal said.

“What you work at, hey?”

“I been working at a strike in North Valley.”

“What’s that? You make money working at strike?”

Hal laughed, but did not explain. “What you working at?”

“I work at strike too--all alone strike.”

“No job?”

“I work two days on railroad. Got busted track up there. Pay me

two-twenty-five a day. Then no more job.”

“Have you tried the mines?”

“What? Me? They got me all right! I go up to San José. Pit-boss say,

‘Get the hell out of here, you old groucher! You don’t get no more jobs

in this district!’”

Hal looked Mike over, and saw that his dirty old face was drawn and

white, belying the feeble cheerfulness of his words. “We’re going to

have something to eat,” he said. “Won’t you come with us?”

“Sure thing!” said Mike, with alacrity. “I go easy on grub now.”

Hal introduced “Mr. Edward Warner,” who said “How do you do?” He

accepted gingerly the calloused paw which the old Slovak held out to

him, but he could not keep the look of irritation from his face. His

patience was utterly exhausted. He had hoped to find a decent restaurant

and have some real food; but now, of course, he could not enjoy

anything, with this old gobbler in front of him.

They entered an all-night lunch-room, where Hal and Mike ordered

cheese-sandwiches and milk, and Edward sat and wondered at his brother’s

ability to eat such food. Meantime the two cronies told each other their

stories, and Old Mike slapped his knee and cried out with delight over

Hal’s exploits. “Oh, you buddy!” he exclaimed; then, to Edward, “Ain’t

he a daisy, hey?” And he gave Edward a thump on the shoulder. “By Judas,

they don’t beat my buddy!”

Mike Sikoria had last been seen by Hal from the window of the North

Valley jail, when he had been distributing the copies of Hal’s

signature, and Bud Adams had taken him in charge. The mine-guard had

marched him into a shed in back of the power-house, where he had found

Kauser and Kalovac, two other fellows who had been arrested while

helping in the distribution.

Mike detailed the experience with his usual animation. “‘Hey, Mister

Bud,’ I say, ‘if you going to send me down canyon, I want to get my

things.’ ‘You go to hell for your things,’ says he. And then I say,

‘Mister Bud, I want to get my time.’ And he says, ‘I give you plenty

time right here!’ And he punch me and throw me over. Then he grab me up’

again and pull me outside, and I see big automobile waiting, and I say,

‘Holy Judas! I get ride in automobile! Here I am, old fellow fifty-seven

years old, never been in automobile ride all my days. I think always I

die and never get in automobile ride!’ We go down canyon, and I look

round and see them mountains, and feel nice cool wind in my face, and I

say, ‘Bully for you, Mister Bud, I don’t never forget this automobile. I

don’t have such good time any day all my life.’ And he say, ‘Shut your

face, you old wop!’ Then we come out on prairie, we go up in Black

Hills, and they stop, and say, ‘Get out here, you sons o’ guns.’ And

they leave us there all alone. They say, ‘You come back again, we catch

you and we rip the guts out of you!’ They go away fast, and we got to

walk seven hours, us fellers, before we come to a house! But I don’t

mind that, I begged some grub, and then I got job mending track; only I

don’t find out if you get out of jail, and I think maybe I lose my buddy

and never see him no more.”

Here the old man stopped, gazing affectionately at Hal. “I write you

letter to North Valley, but I don’t hear nothing, and I got to walk all

the way on railroad track to look for you.”

How was it? Hal wondered. He had encountered naked horror in this

coal-country--yet here he was, not entirely glad at the thought of

leaving it! He would miss Old Mike Sikoria, his hairy kiss and his

grizzly-bear hug!

He struck the old man dumb by pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his

hand. Also he gave him the address of Edstrom and Mary, and a note to

Johann Hartman, who might use him to work among the Slovaks who came

down into the town. Hal explained that he had to go back to Western City

that night, but that he would never forget his old friend, and would see

that he had a good job. He was trying to figure out some occupation for

the old man on his father’s country-place. A pet grizzly!

Train-time came, and the long line of dark sleepers rolled in by the

depot-platform. It was late--after midnight; but, nevertheless, there

was Old Mike. He was in awe of Hal now, with his fine clothes and his

twenty-dollar bills; but, nevertheless, under stress of his emotion, he

gave him one more hug, and one more hairy kiss. “Good-bye, my buddy!” he

cried. “You come back, my buddy! I don’t forget my buddy!” And when the

train began to move, he waved his ragged cap, and ran along the platform

to get a last glimpse, to call a last farewell. When Hal turned into the

car, it was with more than a trace of moisture in his eyes.

POSTSCRIPT

From previous experiences the writer has learned that many people,

reading a novel such as “King Coal,” desire to be informed as to whether

it is true to fact. They write to ask if the book is meant to be so

taken; they ask for evidence to convince themselves and others. Having

answered thousands of such letters in the course of his life, it seems

to the author the part of common-sense to answer some of them in

advance.

“King Coal” is a picture of the life of the workers in unorganised

labour-camps in many parts of America, The writer has avoided naming a

definite place, for the reason that such conditions are to be found as

far apart as West Virginia, Alabama, Michigan, Minnesota, and Colorado.

Most of the details of his picture were gathered in the last-named

state, which the writer visited on three occasions during and just after

the great coal-strike of 1913-14. The book gives a true picture of

conditions and events observed by him at this time. Practically all the

characters are real persons, and every incident which has social

significance is not merely a true incident, but a typical one. The life

portrayed in “King Coal” is the life that is lived to-day by hundreds of

thousands of men, women and children in this “land of the free.”

The reader who wishes evidence may be accommodated. There was never a

strike more investigated than the Colorado coal-strike. The material

about it in the writer’s possession cannot be less than eight million

words, the greater part of it sworn testimony taken under government

supervision. There is, first, the report of the Congressional Committee,

a government document of three thousand closely printed pages, about two

million words; an equal amount of testimony given before the U. S.

Commission on Industrial Relations, also a government document; a

special report on the Colorado strike, prepared for the same commission,

a book of 189 pages, supporting every contention of this story; about

four hundred thousand words of testimony given before a committee

appointed at the suggestion of the Governor of Colorado; a report made

by the Rev. Henry A. Atkinson, who investigated the strike as

representative of the Federal Council of the Churches of Christ in

America, and of the Social Service Commission of the Congregational

Churches; the report of an elaborate investigation by the Colorado state

militia; the bulletins issued by both sides during the controversy; the

testimony given at various coroners’ inquests; and, finally, articles by

different writers to be found in the files of _Everybody’s Magazine_,

the _Metropolitan Magazine_, the _Survey_, _Harper’s Weekly_, and

_Collier’s Weekly_, all during the year 1914.

The writer prepared a collection of extracts from these various sources,

meaning to publish them in this place; but while the manuscript was in

the hands of the publishers, there appeared one document, which, in the

weight of its authority, seemed to discount all others. A decision was

rendered by the Supreme Court of the State of Colorado, in a case which

included the most fundamental of the many issues raised in “King Coal.”

It is not often that the writer of a novel of contemporary life is so

fortunate as to have the truth of his work passed upon and established

by the highest judicial tribunal of the community!

In the elections of November, 1914, in Huerfano County, Colorado, J. B.

Farr, Republican candidate for re-election as sheriff, a person known

throughout the coal-country as “the King of Huerfano County,” was

returned as elected by a majority of 329 votes. His rival, the

Democratic candidate, contested the election, alleging “malconduct,

fraud and corruption.” The district court found in Farr’s favour, and

the case was appealed on error to the Supreme Court of the State. On

June 21st, 1916, after Farr had served nearly the whole of his term of

office, the Supreme Court handed down a decision which unseated him and

the entire ticket elected with him, finding in favour of the opposition

ticket in all cases and upon all grounds charged.

The decision is long--about ten thousand words, and its legal

technicalities would not interest the reader. It will suffice to reprint

the essential paragraphs. The reader is asked to give these paragraphs

careful study, considering, not merely the specific offence denounced by

the court, but its wider implications. The offence was one so

unprecedented that the justices of the court, men chosen for their

learning in the history of offences, were moved to say: “We find no such

example of fraud within the books, and must seek the letter and spirit

of the law in a free government, as a scale in which to weigh such

conduct.” And let it be noted, this “crime without a name” was not a

crime of passion, but of policy; it was a crime deliberately planned and

carried out by profit-seeking corporations of enormous power. Let the

reader imagine the psychology of the men of great wealth who ordered

this crime, as a means of keeping and increasing their wealth; let him

realise what must be the attitude of such men to their helpless workers;

and then let him ask himself whether there is any act portrayed in “King

Coal” which men of such character would shrink from ordering.

The Court decision first gives an outline of the case, using for the

most part the statements of the counsel for the defendant, Farr; so that

for practical purposes the following may be taken as the coal companies’

own account of their domain: “Round the shaft of each mine are clustered

the tipple, the mine office, the shops, sheds and outbuildings; and

huddled close by, within a stone’s throw, cottages of the miners built

on the land of, and owned by, the mining company. All the dwellers in

the camp are employés of the mine. There is no other industry. This is

‘the camp.’ Of the eight ‘closed camps’ it appears that practically the

same conditions existed in all of them, and those conditions were in

general that members of the United Mine Workers of America, their

organisers or agitators, were prevented from coming into the camps, so

far as it was possible to keep them out, and to this end guards were

stationed about them. Of the eight ‘closed camps’ one of them, ‘Walsen,’

was, and at the time of the trial still was, enclosed by a fence erected

at the beginning of the strike in October, 1913: Rouse and Cameron were

partly, but never entirely, enclosed by fences. It is admitted that all

persons entering these camps and precincts were required by the

companies to have passes, and it is contended that this was an

‘industrial necessity.’”

The Court then goes on as follows:

“The Federal troops entered the district in May of 1914, and the

testimony is in agreement that no serious acts of violence occurred

thereafter, and that order was preserved up to and subsequent to the

election, and to the time of this trial.

“It was under this condition that in July, 1914, the Board of County

Commissioners changed certain of the election precincts so as to

constitute each of such camps an election precinct, and with but one

exception where a few ranches were included, these precincts were made

to conform to the fences and lines around each camp, protected by fences

in some instances and with armed guards in all cases. Thus each election

precinct by this unparalleled act of the commissioners was placed

exclusively within and upon the private grounds and under the private

control of a coal corporation, which autocratically declared who should

and who should not enter upon the territory of this political entity of

the state, so purposely bounded by the county commissioners.

“With but one exception all the lands and buildings within each of these

election precincts as so created, were owned or controlled by the coal

corporations; every person resident within such precincts was an employé

of these private corporations or their allied companies, with the single

exception: every judge, clerk or officer of election with the exception

of a saloon keeper, and partner of Farr, was an employé of the

coal-companies.

“The polling places were upon the grounds, and in the buildings of these

companies; the registration lists were kept within the private offices

or buildings of such companies, and used and treated as their private

property.

“Thus were the public election districts and the public election

machinery turned over to the absolute domination and imperial control of

private coal corporations, and used by them as absolutely and privately

as were their mines, to and for their own private purposes, and upon

which public territory no man might enter for either public or private

purpose, save and except by the express permission of these private

corporations.

“This right to determine who should enter such so called election

precincts, appears from the record to have been exercised as against all

classes; merchants, tradesmen or what not, and whether the business of

such person was public or private. Indeed, it appears that in one

instance the governor and adjutant general of the state while on

official business, were denied admission to one of these closed camps.

And that on the day of election, the Democratic watchers and challengers

for Walsen Mine precinct, one of which was Neelley, the Democratic

candidate for sheriff, were forced to seek and secure a detail of

Federal soldiers to escort them into the precinct and to the polls, and

that such soldiers remained as such guard during the day and a part of

the night....

“But if there was any doubt concerning the condition of the closed camps

and precincts, and the exclusion of representatives of the Democratic

party from discussing the issues of the campaign within the precincts

comprising the closed camps, it is entirely removed by the testimony of

the witness Weitzel, for contestee (Farr). He testified that he was a

resident of Pueblo, and was manager of the Colorado Fuel and Iron

Company; that Rouse, Lester, Ideal, Cameron, Walsen, Pictou and McNally

are camps under his jurisdiction. That he had general charge of the

camps and that there was no company official in Colorado superior to him

in this respect except the president; that the superintendent and other

employés are under his supervision; that the Federal troops came about

the 1st of May, 1914, and continued until January, 1915. That in all

those camps he tried to keep out the people who were antagonistic to the

company’s interests; that it was private property and so treated by his

company; that through him the company and its officials assumed to

exercise authority as to who might or who might not enter; that if

persons could assure or satisfy the man at the gate, or the

superintendent that they were not connected with the United Mine

Workers, or in their employ as agitators, they were let into the camp.

That ‘no one we were fighting against got in for social intercourse or

any other’; that he and officials under him assumed to pass upon the

question of whether or not any person coming there came for the purpose

of agitation. That Mr. Mitchell, the chairman of the Democratic

committee, as he recalled it, was identified with the agitators, ran a

newspaper and was connected either directly or indirectly with the

United Mine Workers; that Mr. Neelley, Democratic candidate for sheriff,

was identified with the strikers, and that he would be considered as an

objectionable character. That when the Federal troops came, they

restored peace and normal conditions; there was no rioting after that,

there was no fear on the part of the company when the Federal soldiers

were here, except fear of agitation. Asked if he guarded the camp

against discussion, against the espousal of the cause of the company, he

replied, ‘We didn’t encourage it.’ The company would not encourage

organisers to come into the camp, no matter how peacefully they

conducted themselves; that the company did not permit men to come into

the camp to discuss with the employés certain principles, or to carry on

arguments with them or to appeal to their reason, or to discuss with

them things along reasonable lines, because it was known from experience

that if they were allowed to come in they would resort to threats of

violence. They might not resort to any violence at the time, but it

might result in the people becoming frightened and leaving, and they

were anxious to hold their employés. He was asked whether or not one had

business there depended upon the decision of the official in charge; he

replied that the superintendent probably would inquire of him what his

business was. That any one that Farr asked for a permit to enter the

camp would likely get it....

“There was but one attempt to hold a political meeting in the closed

precincts. Joseph Patterson, who attempted to hold this meeting,

testifies concerning it as follows:

“Was at a political meeting at Oakview. Had been a warm, personal friend

of Mr. Jones, the assistant superintendent of the Oakview mine, and had

written him a letter asking the courtesy of holding a political meeting.

On Saturday evening received a letter that he could hold such meeting.

On the day previous to the meeting witness received a ’phone message

from the assistant superintendent, in which the latter inquired whether

witness was coming up there to cause any trouble, and witness replied,

certainly not, and if the superintendent felt that way they would not

come. Had advised the superintendent that he and others were going to

hold a political meeting for the Democratic party. Jones, the

superintendent, stated that witness should come to the office that night

before he went to the school house for the purpose of the meeting; when

witness arrived at the meeting there were about six or eight English

speaking people and a dozen to fourteen Mexicans. The superintendent,

Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Price, were outside of the door most of the time.

Witness noticed that the first few fellows that came toward the school

house, the superintendent stopped and talked with them and they turned

back to the camp. This happened several times: as soon as they talked

with Morgan they turned back. After he saw that, witness went into the

school house and said that it was no use to hold any meeting; that it

seemed that nobody was allowed to come. This meeting was supposed to be

in a public school house on the company property. Had to get permission

from the superintendent of the Oakview mining Company to hold said

political meeting.”....

“It appears that the number of registered voters in the closed precincts

was very largely in excess of the number of votes cast, and this of

itself was sufficient to demand an open and fair investigation as to the

qualifications of the alleged voters.

“It appears from the testimony that in these closed precincts many of

those who voted were unable to speak or read the English language, and

that in numerous instances, the election judges assisted such, by

marking the ballots for them in violation of the law. Again, it appears

that the ballots were printed so that.... (The decision here goes on to

explain in detail a device whereby the ballot was so printed that voting

could be controlled with the help of a card device.) Thus such voters

were not choosing candidates, but, under the direction of the companies,

were simply placing the cross where they found the particular letter R

on the ballot, so that the ballot was not an expression of opinion or

judgment, not an intelligent exercise of suffrage, but plainly a

dictated coal company vote, as much so as if the agents of these

companies had marked the ballots without the intervention of the voter.

No more fraudulent and infamous prostitution of the ballot is

conceivable....

“Counsel contend that the closed precincts were an ‘industrial

necessity,’ and for such reason the conduct of the coal companies during

the campaign was justified. However such conduct may be viewed when

confined to the private property of such corporations in their private

operation, the fact remains that there is no justification when they

were dealing with such territory after it had been dedicated to a public

use, and particularly involving the right of the people to exercise

their duties and powers as electors in a popular government.

“The fact appears that the members of the board of county commissioners

and all other county officers were Republicans, and as stated by counsel

for the contestees, the success of the Republican candidates was

considered by the coal companies, vital to their interests. The close

relationship of the coal companies and the Republican officials and

candidates appears to have been so marked both before and during the

campaign, as to justify the conclusion that such officers regarded their

duty to the coal companies as paramount to their duty to the public

service. To say that the closed precincts were not so created to suit

the convenience and interests of these corporations, or that they were

not so formed with the advice and consent of these corporations, is to

discredit human intelligence, and to deny human experience. The plain

purpose of the formation of the new precincts was that the coal

companies might have opportunity to conduct and control the elections

therein, just as such elections were conducted. The irresistible

conclusion is that these close precincts were so formed by the county

commissioners with the connivance of the representatives of the coal

companies, if not by their express command.

“There can be no free, open and fair election as contemplated by the

constitution, where private industrial corporations so throttle public

opinion, deny the free exercise of choice by sovereign electors, dictate

and control all election officers, prohibit public discussion of public

questions, and imperially command what citizens may and what citizens

may not, peacefully and for lawful purposes, enter upon election or

public territory....

“We find no such example of fraud within the books, and must seek the

letter and spirit of the law in a free government, as a scale in which

to weigh such conduct....

“The denial of the right of peaceful assemblage, can have been for no

other purpose than to influence the election. There was no disturbance

in any of these precincts after they were created, up to the time of the

election, and up to the time of this trial. The Federal troops were

present at all times to preserve the peace and to protect life and

property. There was no reason to anticipate any disturbance. Therefore

this bold denial was an inexcusable and corrupt violation of the natural

and inalienable rights of the citizens.

“The defence relies not upon conflicting evidence, but upon the

contention that the conduct of the election was justified as an

‘industrial necessity.’

“We have heard much in this state in recent years as to the denial of

inherent and constitutional rights of citizens being justified by

‘military necessity,’ but this we believe is the first time in our

experience when the violation of the fundamental rights of freemen has

been attempted to be justified by the plea of ‘industrial necessity.’

“Even if we were to concede that there may be some palliation in the

plea of military necessity on the theory that such acts purport to be

acts of the government itself, through its military arm and with the

purpose of preserving the public peace and safety: yet that a private

corporation, with its privately armed forces, may violate the most

sacred right of the citizenship of the state and find lawful excuse in

the plea of private ‘industrial necessity’ savours too much of anarchy

to find approval by courts of justice.

“This case clearly comes within another exception to the rule, in that

it is plain that the findings were influenced by the bias and prejudice

of the trial judge.

“A careful reading of the record discloses the rejection by the court of

so much palpably pertinent and competent testimony offered by the

contestors, as to force the conclusion that the trial judge was

influenced by bias and prejudice, to the extent at least, charged in the

application for a change of venue, and sufficient in itself to justify a

reversal of judgment....

“For the foregoing reasons the judgment of the court in each case before

us, is reversed, and the entire poll in the said precincts of

Niggerhead, Ravenwood, Walsen Mine, Oakview, Pryor, Rouse and Cameron is

annulled, and held for naught, and the election in each of said

precincts is hereby set aside. This leaves a substantial and

unquestioned majority for each of the contestors in the county, and

which entitles each contestor to be declared elected to the office for

which he was a candidate.

“We find further, that J. B. Farr, the defendant in error, was not and

is not the duly elected sheriff of Huerfano county, and that E. L.

Neelley, the plaintiff in error, was and is the duly elected sheriff of

said county. It is therefore ordered that the said county, and that the

said E. L. Neelley, immediately and upon qualification as required by

law, enter and discharge the duties of the said office of sheriff of

Huerfano county....”

So much for the court opinion upon coal-camp politics. In relation

thereto, the writer has only one comment to offer. Let the reader not

drop the matter with the idea that because one set of corrupt officials

have been turned out of office in one American county, therefore justice

has been vindicated, and there is no longer need to be concerned about

the conditions portrayed in “King Coal.” The defeat of the “King of

Huerfano County” is but one step in a long road which the miners of

Colorado have to travel if ever they are to be free men. The industrial

power of the great corporations remains untouched by this decision; and

this power is greater than any political power ever wielded by the

government of Huerfano County, or even of the state of Colorado. This

industrial power is a deep, far-spreading root; and so long as it is

allowed to thrive, it will send up again and again the poisonous plant

of political “malconduct, fraud and corruption.” The citizens and

workers of such industrial communities, whether in Colorado, in West

Virginia, Alabama, Michigan or Minnesota, in the Chicago stock-yards,

the steel-mills of Pittsburg, the woollen-mills of Lawrence or the

silk-mills of Paterson, will find that they have neither peace nor

freedom, until they have abolished the system of production for profit,

and established in the field of industry what they are supposed to have

already in the field of politics--a government of the people, by the

people, for the people.

NOTE: On the day that the author finished the reading of the proofs of

“King Coal,” the following item appeared in his daily newspaper:

COLORADO MINE WORKERS ASK LEAVE TO STRIKE

[BY A. P. NIGHT WIRE]

DENVER (Colo.), June 14.--Officers of the United Mine Workers

representing members of that organisation employed by the Colorado Fuel

and Iron Company, have telegraphed their national officers asking

permission to strike.

At the morning session a resolution was adopted expressing

disapprobation of the action of J. F. Welborn, president of the fuel

company, for failure to attend the meeting, which was a part of the

“peace programme” to prevent industrial differences in the State during

the war.

The grievances of the men, according to John McLennan, spokesman for

them, centre about the operation of the so-called “Rockefeller plan” at

the mines. McLennan said the failure of Mr. Welborn to attend the

meeting and discuss these grievances with the men precipitated the

strike agitation.

THE END