In November a strike of the street-railway employees broke out. The
company, which had applied for and obtained a seven-cent fare six months
earlier, had now asked for the right to raise it to ten cents. The city
council refused; whereupon the company, alleging its inability to carry
on at even a modest profit under the existing costs, declared a twenty
per cent. cut in wages, and the employees struck. The clash was fierce
and there was much violence. The company imported strike-breakers from
Chicago, they were mobbed, there were deaths, the militia was called
out, and a few empty cars with shattered windows ran occasionally up and
down the city streets.
Stacey was not particularly interested, having other things to think
about. He barely glanced at the news headlines and smiled ironically as
he did so, knowing that Colin Jeffries, who had a controlling interest
in the stock of the street-railway company, also virtually owned the
evening (Republican) paper and was engaged in many business enterprises
with the owner of the morning (Democratic) paper. As for the editorials,
he would no more have read them than he would have read the latest novel
by Harold Bell Wright. But sometimes his father read them aloud at table
in a tone of fierce assent, and thus Stacey learned that they were all
about “one hundred per cent. Americanism” and the duty of labor to yield
something, just as capital was yielding something.
However, one afternoon Edwards, whom Stacey had not seen for a week,
suddenly entered the office.
“Hello!” cried Stacey cordially. “Come in. Where have you been?”—then
broke off at sight of the other’s appearance.
Edwards was unshaven and rather dirty, and his eyes glowed darkly in his
tense face. He shut the door behind him, then sat down opposite Stacey
at the desk.
“I want to talk to you, Carroll,” he said. “It’s about the strike.”
“All right,” said Stacey. “I hardly know anything about it, haven’t
followed it.”
Edwards’ eyes suddenly blazed. “No,” he cried, “of course not! What’s it
all matter to _you_? _You’re_ all right! _You’re_ not your brother’s
keeper! It—”
“Now look here,” said Stacey, firmly but pleasantly enough, “cut out the
class business, will you? You know that’s not the way you feel about me
or you wouldn’t be coming here to see me. I haven’t a doubt but that the
men are right in this strike, but the reason I’ve kept off the subject
as much as possible is because I don’t see what in the world I can do
about it, and I don’t know anything worse than futile sentimental
sympathy.”
“I apologize, Carroll,” Edwards returned moodily. “I didn’t mean that,
of course. And I’d probably better apologize in advance for anything
else I may break loose and say. I haven’t had much sleep lately.”
“That’s all right,” Stacey replied. “Go as far as you like.”
“Carroll,” said Edwards painfully, “we’re beaten. I mean, on every big
thing. There isn’t going to be any change in the rotten system, not for
now. There isn’t going to be any revolution. There isn’t going to be a
beginning of socialism, all men sharing tasks, each according to his
capacity. There’s just going to be the same tyranny there’s always been,
the same exploitation of a lot of men by a few. I tell you, I’m
broken-hearted!” He paused, his face set.
“You must be,” said Stacey, “if you hoped for that.”
“Oh, I did and I didn’t! I thought maybe—but now this strike,” he went
on sharply. “Six months ago there’d have been a general strike in
sympathy. Every workman in the city would have downed tools. Not—now!
We’re beaten, I tell you! There are thousands of unemployed, winter’s
here, coal costs what you know, the men don’t dare. Beaten! You’ve heard
what one of the big employers said openly—that pretty soon the men
would be eating out of their hands! And here am I fighting for this puny
little thing—that men be doled out enough to exist on! And fighting in
vain!”
Stacey looked at him with silent sympathy.
“Here!” said Edwards, tearing papers from his pocket. “Here are the
figures. Here’s what it costs a family of three to live—Government
statistics. Here’s what the men were getting. Here’s what they’re to get
now if they yield.” He pushed the papers across the table.
Stacey fingered them, but kept his eyes on his friend. “I know,” he
said. “I can imagine without studying them. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Edwards nervously. “I’d thought of two or three
things. If you were to print the facts—just the facts—with your name
signed to them, in one of the papers. . . .”
Stacey smiled bitterly. “Fat chance! How much of a power in this town do
you think I am? Don’t you know that Colin Jeffries, who owns the
street-railway, controls the papers?”
“Yes, I know that, damn him!” Edwards burst out. “He’s everywhere! You
can’t get out from under his shadow.”
“And even if I could get such an article printed, what would it
accomplish? When did the public ever budge? Inert mass of sheep! And all
the time the papers harping on the idea that the street-railway company
can’t pay its stock-holders even a nominal interest on their investment
under current conditions.”
“Well,” Edwards fairly shouted, “and if they can’t! Do you know anything
about that company? I do. I’ve looked into it with a lawyer. Way
over-capitalized. Three millions of water, Carroll,—three cool millions
into private pockets! So men must starve, must they, to pay interest on
that stock?”
Stacey’s face was grim. “No,” he said shortly, “I hadn’t looked into it,
but it doesn’t surprise me. I’ll tell you what I _could_ do,” he said
hesitatingly after a moment. “I—er—the only available income I have is
what I make here at the office. I could turn over—say two hundred and
fifty dollars a month of it to the union. And I might—that is, I don’t
know what my sister does with her income—gives most of it away, I
fancy—but I dare say she’d put in as much more.”
Edwards stared. “Say,” he said shakily, “that’s decent! I thought you
had—well, it’s none of my business. But it wouldn’t be any use,
Carroll. Not a hundredth part enough. But—thanks!”
“Oh!” said Stacey deprecatingly, then fell to thinking. “Look here,” he
remarked finally, “there’s only one thing I can think of, and it will
have to be you to do it rather than I. Also it’s only a faint chance.
Now my father is an honest man—set in his beliefs, but honest. And he’s
also influential. Colin Jeffries probably defers as much to him as to
any one living, because father’s very likely the only thoroughly honest,
disinterested friend Jeffries has. Father believes in the principles
Jeffries only exploits to make money out of. If you can get him—my
father, I mean—on your side, he might take the matter up to Jeffries
personally.”
Edwards’ face expressed extreme dislike of the suggestion. “Can’t say I
care much for the idea—like begging for what you’ve a right to.”
“I didn’t suppose you would. But I estimate that what you’re out for is
to save a living wage for these men—by any means.”
“Yes,” Edwards muttered, “I’d do anything. But how on earth could I
swing your father into line?”
“Well,” said Stacey slowly, “come out to the house this evening at
eight-fifteen, just when dinner’s over, and talk to him, always about
the personal side, the facts of it, show him the figures, _and keep away
from all discussion of principles_! Appeal to his sense of fair play to
get him to go down with you to-morrow morning and see the men
themselves.”
Edwards reflected. “All right,” he said sullenly, and rose.
“Mind now!” Stacey called after him, “no principles!”
Stacey made himself very agreeable at dinner that evening. He was keyed
up by anticipation, his eyes glowed, and he looked younger. There was an
added warmth in the harmony that had been lately achieved in the Carroll
house. But Stacey saw Catherine glance at him wonderingly. It wasn’t
possible to hide feelings from Catherine.
He caught her alone for a moment on the way to the library. “Now
listen!” he said. “You stick by me. Don’t budge from the library. And
support me in every way you can.”
Her dark eyes were curious, but her lips curved faintly into a
smile—perhaps at his tone of command, that was so unlike his customary
tone with her.
He would explain nothing, however; only marched her on down the hall.
And a very few minutes later Parker came in to say that a Mr. Edwards
had called.
“Oh, yes,” Stacey exclaimed, “he’s a friend of mine! Bring him in,
Parker,—or, no, I’ll go get him myself,” and he went out. “Take it easy
now, and no principles,” he growled to Edwards, as he piloted him in.
“Father,” Stacey remarked, “this is my friend, Edwards,—was commander
of the Legion post, you know. Mrs. Blair, Mr. Edwards.”
“How do you do, sir?” said Mr. Carroll, shaking hands. His face had
assumed its keen yet non-committal business-look. Mr. Carroll knew
something about Edwards, of course, and disapproved of what he knew, but
he was a courteous gentleman in his own house; such a man as Mr.
Latimer, artistically conscious of every attitude, could not have
expressed the situation more nicely.
“I wanted to say a few words to you, sir, about this strike,” Edwards
began, sitting down awkwardly in the chair toward which Stacey had
impelled him.
Mr. Carroll did not reply at once. He gnawed at his moustache, his eyes
grew harder, and he shot one swift angry glance at Stacey.
Up to now Stacey had been rather pleased with himself; he thought he had
engineered things well. It suddenly struck him that, instead, he had
made a mess of them. His father was angry with him, and therefore more
hostile to Edwards. And Edwards was nowhere near at his best; he was
gauche, heavy, impressed by his surroundings—it had never occurred to
Stacey that he might be,—and correspondingly resentful. Oh, Lord!
Stacey looked across helplessly at Catherine.
She had poured out another cup of coffee and now handed it to the guest.
“Will you have sugar, Mr. Edwards?” she asked.
“No—no, thank you!” he replied, startled, and took the cup gingerly. He
looked as though he would much rather have refused it had he dared.
Mr. Carroll turned his eyes back to the young man. “I have no connection
with the street-railway company, Mr. Edwards,” he said deliberately,
choosing his words with care. “On the basis of such information as I
have been able to obtain in regard to the strike my sympathies are with
the company. I fail to see why capital should have to make all the
sacrifices and labor none. But since you—_and Stacey_—wish it, I shall
be glad to hear you state the men’s side of the case. I should think,
however, that some official of the street-railway company would be the
proper person to hear it.”
Edwards, who had flushed, made a quick angry gesture. But this almost
upset the fragile cup that he held; so he was forced into restraint. He
drank his coffee hastily before replying.
“Well, sir,” he began then, “Carroll—I mean Stacey—thought if I could
give you the facts as I did to him you’d maybe see them our way. I don’t
want to talk about principles, sir—”
“Why not?”
Edwards glanced wrathfully at Stacey. “Because we wouldn’t agree about
them and there wouldn’t be any use in our trying to.” His hand trembled
slightly, and the tiny silver spoon rattled against his coffee cup; so
he rose and limped over to a table to rid himself of the nuisance once
for all.
Catherine leaned forward. “Stacey told me you had been wounded in the
war, Mr. Edwards,” she said softly.
He looked toward her. “Yes, ma’am,” he returned, “at Les Eparges. My
right leg was rather shot to bits.”
Stacey drew a breath of relief. He hardly thought Catherine was being
deliberately tactful; she had spoken impulsively. But the result was
excellent. And Edwards in the tone with which he replied to Catherine
revealed that old-fashioned attitude of deference toward women just as
women, which was also Mr. Carroll’s attitude.
“I hope they fixed you up all right,” said Mr. Carroll gruffly.
“Pretty well, thanks. I happened to draw a good surgeon.”
As for Stacey, he said nothing at all. He had that much sense anyway, he
told himself. He’d have to face his father later on; for the present he
wanted to be as nearly forgotten as possible. So he sat still and
commented silently on the shifting fortunes of the battle.
“Have a cigar, Edwards?” asked Mr. Carroll, holding out his case. (Good!
There was a touch of something more personal in this.)
“No, thank you, sir.” (Oh, confound it! why didn’t he take one?).
Edwards drew his papers from his pocket. “Mr. Carroll,” he said, “I’m
not going to talk to you at all about social theories or about what sort
of stock it is that the street-railway company wants to pay dividends
on.” (“Well, damn it, then, don’t!” cried Stacey internally.) “I only
want to show you, in figures, the condition of the employees just as
men; what they were getting, what they’re going to get if they accept
this cut in wages, what it costs a family of three to live to-day.” And
he began to read.
He did not read aloud very well. He stuttered a little over a word now
and then. But there was an intensity in his deep voice that lent an odd
warmth to the figures about groceries, fuel, wages, and the rest. Mr.
Carroll must see that the man was in deadly earnest.
When he had finished reading he stretched out the papers. “Want to see
them?” he demanded abruptly.
Mr. Carroll shook his head. He was frowning and chewing at the end of
his cigar. “The trouble is,” he began, but with less than his usual
firmness, “that you can’t separate facts from principles. Labor—”
“Oh,” cried Catherine suddenly, “you must!”
Two of the three men started and turned toward her; Stacey had been
looking at her already.
But Catherine’s eyes were fixed now on the guest. “Do you mean, Mr.
Edwards,” she asked, in a voice that revealed both compassion and scorn,
“that the highest wage of any employee would be only forty cents an
hour?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Edwards bitterly, “if they accept the cut in wages.”
“And are there many families of three?”
“Most are a good deal more than three,” he replied. “About twenty per
cent. of the men are unmarried and perhaps bring the average down to
three.”
Catherine’s face had an odd expression. Stacey thought she looked like a
sorrowful goddess. “Before my husband died,” she said, “we were a family
of four. We were living on two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and
you thought, Mr. Carroll, that we had to live too sordidly. You will do
something?”
He gazed at her kindly, but did not reply at once.
Stacey was touched by the mention of Phil. The thought of Phil was with
him, almost like a gentle presence, very often. Catherine spoke of him
seldom but, when she did so, quite simply and naturally, as now. She
must miss him sadly, Stacey thought, and felt grieved for her. But,
since it was his instinct to carry through unswervingly anything he had
undertaken, he was also exultant, as well as faintly amused at his
father, who was being swept away from principles at every turn, simply
not permitted to play with them.
“I can’t say I like those statistics,” said Mr. Carroll at last, more to
Catherine than to Edwards. Then he turned to the latter. “But I’d have
to know more. I’d have to look into things. And then I don’t know what I
could do about it; I might do something, I suppose. Confound it! sir,”
he exclaimed impatiently, “why didn’t you take this up with some
official of the company?”
“I want you to know more, sir,” Edwards returned eagerly. “I’d like it
if you’d go down with me and see some of the strikers man to man, get
their story.”
Mr. Carroll reflected, frowning. “All right,” he said sharply. “Come to
my office to-morrow morning at nine.”
Catherine’s face fairly shone, and Mr. Carroll, looking back at her,
relaxed his sternness and leaned over to pat her hand.
“May I go, too?” she asked of them both.
“Yes, _ma’am_!” said Edwards, getting up. “I’d like that.”
He made his adieux clumsily, with too much formality, and Stacey
accompanied him down the hall to the door.
“Well,” Edwards remarked, “that’s something, I suppose,—thanks to Mrs.
Blair. Precious little help you were, though, Carroll!”
“Oh, yes,” said Stacey cheerfully, “I messed things up properly. But
then, look at you! What the devil do you mean by behaving like a
resentful commoner at a court function? Go on home, you sulky snob!” he
added with a laugh, and pushed his friend out of the door.
Then he returned to the library.
His father and Catherine were sitting there in silence, she gazing away
with dark abstracted eyes, he frowning slightly and staring down at a
closed magazine on which he tapped nervously with his fingers. He looked
up and turned to Catherine as Stacey entered.
“You a member of this conspiracy, Catherine?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Stacey exclaimed promptly, “she wasn’t! Didn’t know a thing about
it. It was all my damfoolishness.”
“I see,” said Mr. Carroll, and rose. “I’ll go to bed, I think. Good
night.”
But Stacey set his back against the door. “No, sir,” he returned, “let’s
have this out. I’ll concede that I was wrong to do this in this way. Now
you go ahead and tell me some more things.”
His father stood there, looking at him keenly, antagonistically, judging
him. Mr. Carroll’s upper lip was drawn in a little, and there was a
harshness about his face. One could see that he had fought hard fights
in life and that he was still an adversary to be reckoned with.
“I am not aware,” he began coldly, “of being in my dotage—yet. If
anybody wants anything from me the thing for him to do is to come and
ask me for it; then if I think he ought to have it he’ll get it. I’ll be
damned if I’ll be cosseted and cajoled into a good humor so that
something can be wormed out of me.”
Absolutely justified, his father was, Stacey thought helplessly. “You’re
perfectly right, sir,” he said, “and I apologize, My only excuse for not
being frank—and I admit it’s not good enough—is that I was so
confoundedly anxious for you to hear Edwards’ story, and was fool enough
to think you might refuse if I asked you to, point-blank.”
For just an instant Stacey glanced away to Catherine and saw with sharp
regret that her eyes were full of pain. Why the devil had he let her in
for this? Then he looked back at his father.
But Mr. Carroll’s wrath was not assuaged, and when he spoke again Stacey
perceived that a long resentment, dangerously repressed, had burst loose
finally.
“You take me for a damned fool,” Mr. Carroll went on angrily. “I’m a
fool perhaps, but not a damned fool. Do you think I can’t see how you
humor me?—the nice, kindly, tolerant spirit you show for my foibles,
your ‘poor-dad-he’s-growing-old’ attitude! Superior, sir! Intolerably
superior!”
This was pretty bad, and all the worse for the tiny element of truth it
contained. “Now look here, dad!” Stacey pleaded. “That’s not so. There
isn’t anybody in the world I respect more than I do you. Why—”
“Extraordinary method of showing it you take, then!” snapped his father.
“Respect—nothing! At heart you’re a Bolshevist, sir. Well, then, if you
are, _be_ one! You’re not consistent. You’re a Bolshevist in theory”
(“Oh, Lord! I haven’t got any theories!” Stacey thought, but did not try
to say), “a millionaire in practice. I gave you a tidy fortune. You took
it, didn’t you? You live here with me in a certain amount of luxury.
Well, why do you? Why don’t you go and live in a hut?” He paused, out of
breath, glaring at his son.
Stacey was pale; for this hurt. But he was further than before from
losing his temper, since now the attack was unjust. To his amazement,
and certainly to Mr. Carroll’s as well, it was Catherine who lost her
temper—or almost.
“Mr. Carroll!” she cried—and both men, turning suddenly toward her, saw
her standing erect, a slim firm figure with a face of angry beauty.
“That’s unfair and cruel and not like you! I know that Stacey cares less
for money than any one else in Vernon—and it is a shame that it should
have to be I to say so. He lived for four years in mud and horror
because he hoped it would do some good. It’s wonderful that when he came
back and seemed to find that it hadn’t done any good he could keep his
sanity. And still he’d go and live like that again if it were of any
use. And you accuse him of living here because of the luxuries you give
him! He lives here because of his affection for you and because of the
affection he thought you had for him. It’s—shameful—what you said!”
She ceased and sat down again, her breath coming fast, her lips
quivering.
Stacey gazed at her, his heart beating rather quickly; he was
overwhelmed with the number of his emotions. He was astounded at the
brave magnificent way she had spoken, proud that it was in his cause,
deeply touched, and somehow profoundly sad.
As for Mr. Carroll, he looked in a dazed way from Catherine to his son.
“There is no excuse for what I—said to you, son,” he said at last. “I
don’t suppose you can forgive me. Try to, if you are able.”
Stacey walked over and shook his hand. “Oh—er—shucks, dad!” he
muttered. “It’s all right—forgotten.” It was the first time he had ever
heard his father apologize to any one for anything.
Mr. Carroll gave his son a strange wistful look of gratitude, then went
over to Catherine. “Are you going to let me sit down beside you,
Catherine?” he asked. “You’re not going to pack up and leave the house
just because your host’s an old fool?”
“No,” she said in a strangled voice, giving him her hand, but keeping
her face averted, so that neither he nor Stacey could see it.
“I’m not altogether an old fool, my dear,” he added, patting her hand;
then got up again. “Er—a game of pinochle, Stacey?” he suggested.
Stacey nodded, and moved to get the card table. “Sure! I’d like one. But
you don’t really think you’ve any chance against me, do you, dad?” he
said shakily.