IT was a dull, gray day, the first of December. Autumn had set in early
this year. There had been a week of cold rain that had quite destroyed
the magnificent foliage, one of Yerbury's greatest charms; and it became
a sodden mass, trodden under foot by pedestrians. The ground was baked
by sharp frosts at night, making the unpaved streets a mass of ruts
early and late, and quagmires in the middle of the day.
Yerbury had changed much from the pretty, clean, thriving country-town,
to something that aped a grand city; unfinished streets, small farms
laid waste, rows of pretentious houses or florid cottages that had never
been thoroughly completed, nearly every one adorned with the ominous
placard, "For Sale." They needed painting and tidying: vines were left
about, dahlia-stalks hung to poles, steps were awry, and gates swinging
on one hinge; heaps of ashes and garbage lay here and there.
This day Yerbury wore a particularly listless air. The leafless trees
hung out long and drooping arms, that swayed to and fro in the biting
wind. The sullen sky overhead added its tone of dreariness to the
picture. There was no cheerful whir of factories and shops, no brisk
steps of men going to and fro, though there were enough standing around
in groups with scowling faces and compressed lips, or flushed with angry
gesticulation.
The only places that evinced any air of business were the beer-shops.
Here a man harangued his fellows; there he did not deign to argue, but
openly cursed. "Let's treat on that!" said one. "I'll stand to that
sentiment," declared another. Sometimes voices rose so high that a
proprietor was forced to command order.
Yerbury was on a strike. There had been a new scale of prices with the
opening of autumn, submitted to by most of the men with a sympathetic
good-nature. Trade was getting dull. Fancy prices no longer ruled. An
ominous feeling pervaded all classes. Building fell off. One tenant gave
up his house, and took part with another. Housewives looked about for
the cheapest market, and talked of making last year's coat or cloak do
for the winter.
Hope Mills had been among the first to propose this second reduction.
David Lawrence had returned from his business tour much depressed. There
was an undercurrent of distrust, a disinclination to lay in stock, a
wordless questioning from eye to eye, with no hopeful response.
Horace Eastman had worked himself into the charge of the inside
business. He had no real interest, but a liberal salary; and Mr.
Lawrence felt that he lifted a weight of care from his shoulders. If
only Fred-- But with college training and elegant tastes he could hardly
be expected to take to the dull routine of business cares. So matters
had been left more and more to Eastman, who was shrewd and sharp, who
always managed to get the most for his money.
Now Mr. Lawrence was appalled by the amount of stock on hand. They had
been running the mills at full capacity all summer.
"We must offer goods at a lower figure," said Mr. Eastman promptly. "We
must get command of trade again. Prices _will_ come down,--that is a
foregone conclusion. The abundant harvests have glutted the market, and
living will be cheaper. The laborer can live on less; and, if we can
manufacture at less cost, we shall be all right again."
"But there seems no demand for goods," said Mr. Lawrence faintly.
"Store-shelves are full. People are carrying last year's stock with no
call for it. It has always seemed to me, Eastman, that a liberal policy
to workmen brought its own reward. They are large consumers. Cut them
down to mere food and shelter, and clothes are the first to go. In
decent times your workman is ashamed of a ragged coat."
"All very true, Mr. Lawrence; but, if there is no market, we must create
one. Sell cheaper stock to new men. That will make a demand at once."
"Undersell! We used to call that a cut-throat business, Mr. Eastman;"
and a flush stained the fine face, now rather worn and thin.
"It is what we must come to. There is next to no premium on gold, and
the first man who touches bottom will be the lucky one, to my thinking.
Cheap goods, cheap every thing, will be the next cry. The farmers must
dispose of their wool, and labor must come down. Why, ordinary workmen
have been living like princes."
The delicate brows were drawn thoughtfully.
"I always hated to grind workmen down to a bare subsistence," spoke the
honest, loyal gentleman, as God made him. Trade had not warped body and
soul. He was an aristocrat, if you please, and his home was as sacred to
refinement and elegance as a ducal palace. A common person would have
stood in his hall until his errand was done, and he would never even
have asked a workman to take a seat in his office; but his soul was
honorable, if haughty.
"Let me manage it," with a confident nod. "We'll keep the topmost wave,
as you will see."
So to New York Horace Eastman went, and arranged for a large
auction-sale of goods, which was a remarkable success, and created quite
a ripple in the sea of stagnation. Then he contracted to deliver another
lot by the first of January, at certain prices. And now either
manufacturer must give up profits, or workman yield his margin, and be
contented with daily bread alone.
"There really was no need of workmen owning houses, having Brussels
carpets and pianos," argued Eastman. "They were in some degree
answerable for the hard times. Every one wanted to out-do his neighbor.
They were not content to live as their fathers had lived; and, where the
mothers wore print dresses, the daughters must have silk. They had gone
on altogether too fast."
Yet only a few years ago workingmen had been urged to put their money
into homes. Rows of houses had been built for them, and sold on such
ridiculously easy terms, only a trifle down. The interest would not be
as much as rent. Then the fascinating shopkeeper had flaunted his wares
in the faces of the thrifty housewives. "A good article is cheapest in
the end. This Brussels will outwear two ingrain carpets, at a very
little advance on the first cost. No moths will trouble it, once down it
is there for years, saving worry and hard work;" and the buyer was
persuaded. Then there must be new furniture, and so on to the end. Was
it altogether their fault? The old things were passing away. The world
was awaking from its Rip-Van-Winkle nap. There was to be a wider
outlook, a liberal cultivation, a general rising of every one.
So there had been years of plenty, and men had pulled down the old
storehouses to build new ones.
Such people as the Eastmans and the Lawrences could not economize at a
moment's warning. The screws must be put on elsewhere.
At first the workmen looked at each other in blank dismay. Winter was
coming on--a hard one it bid fair to be. Coal had risen, and in spite of
the abundant harvest the absolute staples of life had not much decreased
by the time they reached the consumer. Coffees were high: pease, beans,
and chiccory were sold at a reduction, to be sure, and you could get
lumpy heavy flour that spoiled your bread, and poor butter, and teas
that were colored and doctored; and this was cheap living.
There was a stormy wrangle. Meetings were held, and speakers figured out
the actual cost of living. Less than the present rates meant loss,
privation, and want in the end. So a strike was determined upon.
Jack Darcy, being foreman of one department, stood, as it were, between
the upper and nether millstone, at present just escaping both. He
thought it hard that the men should have this second reduction so soon,
and it did seem to him reasonable that profits ought to yield a little,
that there ought to be a sympathy between them. Personally, he should be
comfortable enough; but if he had a wife and three or four children, a
helpless, bedridden mother, or a drunken father, or a do-nothing
brother, hanging upon him, what then?
He advised a little moderation and patience. It might be better to take
the wages now, and wait until spring--
"They doant give up any thing, as we sees," broke in an elderly English
weaver. "The great house is full of every thing, and coal eno' burning
in the greenhouses to ripen a few bunches of grapes out of God's own
season, as would keep many of us warm. Who puts our coal down a dollar
in the ton, or takes it off of house-rent when wages come down? I'll
work as cheap as the next one if ye'll gi' me a cheap house to live in
and cheap beef and bread. I doant care for money in the savin's bank, or
a house that they tax all out o' sight. When I'm old I'll go to the
poorhouse, I will; but I'm danged if I like starvin' before then, and
they a-ridin' over us in their carriages. I left 'em over yonder"--with
a nod of the head--"for that."
"What do you think of it?" asked a thin, hungry-looking man, fingering
his Cardigan nervously. "See here! If I could have one more prosperous
year, I'd be through the woods, have the house I've worked so hard for
settled upon my old woman, and would be out of the reach of misfortune.
But this thing hits me hard, it does."
"I don't believe striking will succeed just now," said Jack candidly.
"And it's a bad time. Two or three weeks lost time will more than cover
the odds in wages."
"I don't want to lose time. I'd rather keep straight on."
"It's the principle of the thing," broke in another. "I'd lose six
months before I'd give in an inch. I'd have struck the other time."
There was a call for the overseers, and Jack left the group. Eastman was
talking to several of the men in his office. A fine, portly figure he
had, indicating rich living and good wines; a man still on the sunny
side of forty, stout, rather florid, a full dark beard and hair, but
with eyes that were light and furtive; eyes that could stare you out of
countenance, and yet not meet yours ordinarily, with a frank, outward
look. He always went handsomely dressed, and wore diamond shirt-studs,
an expensive seal-ring, a substantial watch-chain with two or three
costly charms. He had not a flashy look, but the sign and seal of
gentlemanliness was wanting in that intensely selfish face.
He had heard of the disaffection. There was not much to say except that
the new scale of prices would go into effect next Monday morning. He
never asked a man to work for any less wages than he, the workman,
considered his services worth. Here was the work, and the wages Hope
Mills could afford to pay. They could take it, or leave it. There were
plenty of men at Coldbridge, thrown out by the failure of Kendrick &
Co., who would be glad to come. He could fill any vacant place.
But the ball grew and grew by handling. There were union-meetings and
violent harangues, much of them truth, too, but badly and unwisely
used. And the result was that the men demanded the old wages, were
peremptorily refused, and struck. The great engine subsided, and a
Sunday stillness reigned. Down at Hull's Iron Works the same proceedings
were going on, but the saloons seemed to profit by it.
Jack hung around the mill for a while, then went down stairs. The
chilliness in the air made him draw his coat together by one button, and
slip his hands into his pockets. He sauntered through several streets,
nodding to one and another, or exchanging a few words. Once again his
advice was asked.
"I think you had better come to work to-morrow," he said. "Don't muddle
your brains with beer or bad whiskey: that will not make the way any
clearer."
"A good enough lad!" was the surly comment, "but why grudge a man a sup
of beer when he can't have wine like the big folks?"
Jack had hardly planned for the enforced idleness. He did not want to go
home and read, he could not call on Sylvie thus early in the morning,
neither did he feel in the humor for argument with any of the men. So he
stopped at the door of a small office, and turned the knob rather
hesitatingly.
"Hillo, Darcy, is that you? Come in, come in! Sullen gray day, isn't it?
Off on a strike, eh?"
Jack laughed,--the sound with no real music in it, the sort of
lip-service merely.
"Come in, old fellow; don't be afraid. I've neither pistol nor bludgeon,
and I'll promise to treat you civilly."
The man's accents were clear and curt, with a certain ring of out-door
freshness,--a capital voice to travel with up mountain-sides and through
forests. The face, too, indicated a kind of joyous strength; for the
blue eyes were merry and baffling, the laughing lips a brilliant
scarlet, the nose neither Grecian nor aquiline, but slightly
_retroussé_; a bronze moustache with long curling ends that were
undeniably red, and hair a little darker, slightly curling as well. A
broad-shouldered man with the deep breathing of intense vitality;
healthy nerves that could enjoy laziness to the full, as well as a brisk
walk across the country.
A glance at the interior showed the place to be a doctor's office. On
one side a long case with glass doors above and drawers underneath,
filled with bottles and books and papers, perhaps in not the most
systematic order; at the farther end a fire in an open-front stove; a
luxurious Turkish lounge covered with russet leather, and a bright wool
blanket thrown carelessly over it; several capacious armchairs; and in
one, with his legs stretched out on another, sat Dr. Philip Maverick,
eight and twenty or thirty years old, perhaps.
"How nice and cosey you are! I really did not know what to do with
myself. Yes, we are all on a strike, I am sorry to say."
"Bad time," and Maverick shook his head. "What's the prospect? Have a
cigar."
"The prospect is that the weakest goes to the wall, of course," answered
Jack. "Maverick, I am dreadfully muddled on this point. I have thought
of it all the week. It _is_ hard on the men. I know the general advice
is to economize more closely, but how can you do it just at the
beginning of winter? One cannot move to a cheaper tenement, fire and
lights cost more, and provision is a little dearer. Low living in winter
does not conduce to a healthy state in the spring. Then, on the other
hand, if they are going to make such sales as they did last month, they
cannot pay the wages, and realize what they consider a fair profit. But
why shouldn't the Lawrences and the Eastmans and many others give up
something, as well?"
Jack turned an anxious face to his listener.
"All you manufacturers have been crazy the last few years," he said,
delicately shaking the ashes from his cigar. "The country was such an
extensive purchaser through the war, that your dreams became Utopian.
Then everybody came home with some money and no clothes, and the people
were large consumers. Now everybody has been clothed, and the stores are
full, and here is a glutted market. Over-production, my dear fellow."
"Then I do believe it would be better to leave off for a while. Still
that would not suit as well. Half a loaf is better than no bread, to a
hungry man. But, after all," said Jack, knitting his brows, "I don't
altogether believe in the cry of over-production. The boys of war times
are men now. They are pushing in everywhere for work. They want food,
shelter, raiment. There are a great many more people in this town than
there were five years ago. Even if we only depended on the natural
increase of population"--
"But, you see, people are forever crowding into cities," interposed Dr.
Maverick.
"I have a fancy they do not come much faster than they are called,"
returned Jack dryly. "See what we have been doing around here. The small
outlying farms have been bought up by speculators, cut up, destroyed for
farming purposes. Their owners with families of children had to go
somewhere. 'Come to the mills and factories,' was shouted in their ears,
and they came. Now they are here, depending on their labor for bread,
and Eastman will bring fifty or a hundred more from Coldbridge; and in
the spring, if there is any difficulty, some more will come. The old
ones cannot go back to their farms if they would. Their fertile gardens
lie cut up into waste squares, their fruit-trees have been despoiled:
they must starve here, or tramp to some other crowded town, and perhaps
starve there. Will your farmer take in half a dozen hands at a moment's
notice? Can they put themselves down in any country place, and go to
work?"
Maverick studied Jack intently, and then gave a low whistle.
"Upon my word, Darcy, you _have_ been going over the subject. Take the
stump. And of course you go against capital?"
"No, I don't," returned Jack shortly. "Only it does seem to me that
there ought to be some place where capital and labor could strike hands.
It appears to me, both have been to blame. We cannot condemn men for
crowding into cities, when there has been a steady call for them. We do
blame them for not laying up a little money against a rainy day; but
many of them have. Look at the cottages that have been sold to
workingmen. Look at the bank savings. To-day, perhaps, as many poor men
could pay their whole indebtedness, according to the ratio, as the rich.
But we fly at the laboring classes, when it is only human nature
cropping out. Your millionnaire puts his money into whatever he thinks
will bring him the greatest return; your poor man puts his capital, his
capacity, health, and strength, where it will earn him the most money."
"Well, I don't see but they are both right enough," said Maverick. "And
unless you are running over into communistic ideas"--
"I am not," was the decisive reply. "Some one much wiser than I said,
ages ago, 'He among you that will not work, let him not eat:' yet," with
a humorous laugh, "if the rule were strictly enforced, there would more
than one go hungry, I'm thinking. The great consolation would be that
the right man would suffer, not the innocent and guiltless."
"I really do not see what you are driving at, Darcy," and the other
studied him curiously.
"Well, I told you in the beginning I was muddled. I don't pretend to see
my way clear, only I think we have just begun the fight. It is as much
of an irrepressible conflict as that other, for which so many brave men
gave their lives. And one point in it no one seems to take note of. We
are proud of the increase of population in our country. Every city,
town, and hamlet boasts of it, and the depopulated places run to slow
decay. We welcome these people; and yet they must eat to live, and the
majority of them must work, or they will have nothing to eat. I think
the most of them labor cheerfully, and my experience is that idleness is
the worst foe of man. But, on the other hand, every year invention so
protects and fortifies capital, that one must do a larger business or
employ fewer men. In five years the condition of labor has greatly
changed at Hope Mills, and in five years more it will change again. This
is the inexorable law of nature, or, I ought to say, growing
intelligence."
"Then I should say we wanted wider markets and a better classification
of labor."
A quick light came into Jack's eyes.
"I think you have hit it, Maverick," he answered. "But what is
everybody's business is nobody's; and we are so apt to forget that the
world does move, and the condition of things changes all the time," and
Jack's eyes dropped thoughtfully.
"See here, Darcy, take Brock's Hall, and talk to the men to-morrow
night," began the doctor eagerly. "They will listen to you because to a
certain extent you are in sympathy with them, one of their number; and
you do seem to have some clear ideas on the subject. No: we'll say
Wednesday night, and I will get out some posters."
Jack laughed. "What shall I tell them? I can't see how to get about the
remedy clearly myself. The trade-unions have not hit it either. When
they say to a man, 'Because I will not work for a certain sum, you shall
not,' they lean on a reed that will surely break, and pierce themselves.
Hunger is stronger than theory. No: I shall have to give the point a
more thorough study before I become a blatant apostle."
Philip Maverick blew out a curling whiff of smoke, and looked at his
visitor through it. Darcy gave him a curious feeling, as if a good deal
of excellent material were running to waste, that if shaped and trained,
and brought up to higher purposes, might be of much good service to the
world. Did he realize it himself? He was twenty-four, and had a good
position as things went; and Dr. Maverick had heard the women of the
house were prudent and thrifty, and had a nice home. Was Darcy bounded
in by conservatism, or afraid of losing? or was he honest when he said
he did not know just what to do? Yet he did not look like the kind of
man to go plodding all his days.
"Darcy, you puzzle me!" he began abruptly. "With that great body of
yours, those strong arms and hands that look as if they could wrest
Nature's secrets from her mighty soul, with that brow, and the resolute
mouth, it seems as if you ought to be in better business than making
cloth: pardon me. You don't use up half your energy. You ought to be
planning a ship-canal across Darien, or tunnelling mountains. You're the
square man; and how upon earth did you ever get fitted so smoothly to a
round hole?"
Jack laughed, and told his story very simply. To him there was neither
romance nor heroism in it, just a plain every-day sort of compulsion.
The tunnelling would have been much more to his mind.
"Go on with the problem," said Dr. Maverick abruptly. "In the next five
years I think we will all have use for our wits. We are going to see
another change in matters, that will require more wisdom than is needed
in mere money-making. See here, I'm interested in the thing. Let us go
out, and hear what the men say about it."
Maverick rose, and put on his great-coat, and lighted another cigar.
Then the two started together.
Maverick had been in the town just six months. He had studied medicine
in Philadelphia and Paris, taken a three-years ramble over Europe, when
a college friend begged him to come to Yerbury, and step into a vacant
place. And he had what he fancied an excellent reason for it.