THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE
Ruth Tracy was as good as her word. She went to call on Mary Bradley.
She found her in the little house on Factory Hill from the porch of
which Stephen Lamar had addressed the crowd on the day of Bradley’s
funeral. It was a bleak November afternoon; a Saturday half-holiday for
the more favored class of workers; the busy end of a toilsome week for
those whose occupations brought them no week-day respite. The rows of
small, brown houses, some of them ill-kept and dilapidated, formed a
cheerless foreground to an unattractive landscape. But Ruth Tracy was
not unaccustomed to the appearance of an environment such as this, and
she was not depressed by the scene. She had done much visiting among
the poor. She had left her car at the foot of the hill, and had walked
up. She had learned by experience that her work among these people was
most effective when there was the least display of luxury.
From a man who overtook her on the street she inquired her way to the
Bradley house.
“I am going there myself,” he replied, “and I’ll show you.”
He walked along with her――it was not more than a block or two――and
brought her to Mrs. Bradley’s door. During this brief walk, however,
she learned that her guide was no other than Stephen Lamar, of whom she
had often heard, but whom she had not before, to her knowledge, seen.
He had taken a personal interest, he told her, in Mrs. Bradley, and had
found employment for her during the recent political campaign, at the
headquarters of the Socialist party. She had done her work with such
marked efficiency that the committee had kept her on as their secretary
and as one of the promoters of their cause. They valued her services
highly. The headquarters were closed on Saturday afternoons, and
undoubtedly she would be at home. She was at home. When she opened her
door in response to Lamar’s knock she was somewhat taken aback to see
the labor-leader standing on her porch in company with a well-dressed
young woman.
“I do not,” he said as they entered the house, “know the lady’s name
nor her errand. I found her on the street, inquiring her way here. I
came, myself, to see you about the notices for the Sunday afternoon
meeting. There’s been a mistake. I’ll talk with you about it when your
other visitor has gone. In the meantime I’ll step into the kitchen and
have a little visit with your mother.”
“It’s not necessary for you to leave the room,” interrupted Ruth; “I
simply came to make a social call on Mrs. Bradley. I’m Ruth Tracy, and
I’ve heard of Mrs. Bradley through Mr. Farrar, the rector of Christ
Church.”
The other woman’s face flushed at the mention of the rector’s name,
but she gave no further sign of approval or disapproval of the errand
of her guest. She placed a chair for Ruth, and motioned Lamar to a
seat across the room. He thanked her, and made no further attempt to
withdraw. He was glad to remain. He wanted to know the real purpose of
Miss Tracy’s visit. He wanted to be able to checkmate any move which
might be made toward influencing Mrs. Bradley to identify herself in
any way with the Church. He feared that if she should look with favor
on organized religion, she would, sooner or later, be lost to the cause
of the workingmen, to the cause of socialism, and especially lost to
him, Stephen Lamar. So he sat quietly and listened.
With charming tact and simplicity Ruth strove to make herself agreeable
to the mistress of the house. Her efforts were received coldly at
first, but her evident sincerity and her unaffected interest soon
brought a response, and it was not long before the two women were
conversing pleasantly and without restraint. There was no offer of
help, or of charity of any kind, on the part of the guest, no inquiry
into economic conditions, no religious appeal, no intimation of any
kind that she was there for any other purpose than that of a friendly
visit. Mary Bradley was nonplused. This was something new in her
experience. Women of the wealthy class who had called on her heretofore
had come with offers of help, or sympathy, or religious consolation;
and she had declined their help, had refused their charity, had
resented their interference on behalf of the Church. But this was
different. Why had this young woman come on what appeared to be simply
a friendly visit? What ulterior motive was back of it? How much had
the rector of Christ Church to do with it? Except at the moment of
introducing herself Ruth had not mentioned his name. It was Mrs.
Bradley herself who now brought it to the front.
“I hardly thought,” she said, “that Mr. Farrar would have remembered
me.”
“He forgets no one, and he remembers you very well,” was the reply.
“He was much concerned over your lawsuit, and over the death of your
husband, and he is interested now in your welfare.”
“He is very kind. I think he is too good to be a preacher.”
“Why do you say that, Mrs. Bradley? Should not a preacher be one of the
best of men?”
“Oh, I suppose he should be; but if he is it’s in spite of his calling,
not because of it.”
“I do not understand you.”
“I mean this, Miss Tracy; a church such as yours is in control of the
rich people who support it. And the rector can’t please those people
and be just to the poor at the same time. And the preacher who isn’t
just to the poor isn’t good.”
Miss Tracy made no effort to defend the rich people of her church. She
simply said:
“I don’t think Mr. Farrar is so much concerned about pleasing people as
he is about being right. And I think he is very just to the poor.”
“So do I. That’s the reason I think he is too good for his Church. I’ve
heard about the trouble he is having. I don’t know whether you are for
him or against him. But I’m sure he’ll be beaten in the end.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because the power of money is too great. It controls everything;
society, business, law, religion, everything. Sooner or later Mr.
Farrar must yield to it or it will destroy him.”
“I do not think you know how much will and determination Mr. Farrar
has.”
“In a way I do. I have heard him preach several times lately. He is
very brave. I believe he is as good as he is brave. He has――done me
some favors, and I am very grateful to him.”
“Then why do you not permit him to call?”
“Did he tell you that I refused him? Well, that was before I knew of
what stuff he was made.”
“And you wouldn’t refuse him now? May I tell him so? He will be so
glad.”
Lamar, who had been watching, with some uneasiness, the drift of the
conversation, could not refrain at this juncture from interrupting it.
“I don’t think it does any good, Miss Tracy,” he said, “for preachers
to visit the working class. It doesn’t help us any toward industrial
freedom, and that’s what we need first, not religion.”
“But Mr. Farrar is also an advocate of industrial freedom.”
“I know; but his advocacy counts for nothing so long as he preaches
from a capitalistic pulpit. If he wants to be of real service to us let
him out loose from the Church and come with us.”
“He is trying to make his church a church of the people, where every
one, rich and poor, will stand on an equal footing.”
“He can’t do it. No one can do it. The whole ecclesiastical system
would have to be changed to accomplish it. His spectacular crusade
will amount to nothing. He’s only stirring up trouble for the laboring
people. He’s making the rich angry, and they’ll take it out on the
poor. He’s making the capitalists afraid, and they’ll turn the screws
tighter on the men that work for them. I hope Mrs. Bradley will not see
this man. It can do her no possible good, and may injure the cause.”
Mary Bradley, who had been quiet since Lamar entered into the
conversation, turning her eloquent eyes from one to the other of
the speakers, now spoke up on her own account. She had on her face
something of the look that was there that day in the court-room when
she denounced the injustice of the law. She was not accustomed to
being told whom she should or should not receive at her house. Her
voice, quiet and well modulated, had in it nevertheless a ring of
determination as she turned to Ruth and said:
“You may tell Mr. Farrar that I shall be glad to see him whenever he
chooses to come.”
In the excitement attendant upon this incident, none of the three had
noticed the hum of an automobile in the street outside, nor that the
car had stopped in front of Mrs. Bradley’s house. There came a knock at
her street door, and she went and opened it. Barry and Miss Chichester
stood on her porch. She recovered at once from her astonishment and
invited them to come in.
“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Miss Chichester, when she came in
sight of Ruth. “What in the world brought you here?”
“I came to call on Mrs. Bradley,” Ruth answered, quietly.
“Quite a coincidence,” remarked Barry. “The last time I came here I
found Farrar here. And this time I find his right hand helper here.
There must be a conspiracy to get Mrs. Bradley into the Church.”
“We’re always conspiring to get people into the Church,” said Ruth.
“Mr. Lamar, let me introduce you to Miss Chichester, and Mr. Malleson.”
“Malleson of the Malleson Manufacturing Company,” explained Barry.
“Vice-president, you know.”
Lamar smiled grimly. “I am glad,” he said, “to meet so distinguished a
gentleman.”
“Won’t somebody please introduce me to Mrs. Bradley?” asked Miss
Chichester plaintively.
“Pardon me!” replied Ruth. “I thought you knew each other. Mrs.
Bradley, this is Mr. Malleson’s friend, Miss Chichester.”
Barry looked doubtful, but Miss Chichester did not demur to the form of
the introduction. She bowed slightly and smiled.
“I’m glad to know you,” she said. “Barry, that is Mr. Malleson, has
told me about you. I believe you have had some very hard times, Mrs.
Bradley.” She took in the widow’s very plain costume, and cast her eyes
about the cheaply furnished room.
“Hard times come sooner or later, in one form or another, to every
one,” replied Mrs. Bradley. “I’ve simply been having mine now.”
“But,” continued Miss Chichester, “it must be so distressing to be so
poor.”
The widow’s eyes flashed, but no resentment was discernible in the tone
of her voice.
“I have plenty of company. Every one is poor on Factory Hill. Besides,
so many people have been kind to me in my misfortune. Mr. Lamar has
found congenial employment for me. Mr. Farrar has called once to
see me. Miss Tracy has to-day made me a most agreeable visit. Miss
Chichester has done me the honor to call. Mr. Malleson has been here
once before to offer me help, and has done it so courteously and
sincerely that I am sure I may look upon him as my friend.”
The eyes that she turned on Barry were soft and appealing. He had never
seen another woman with such eyes as Mary Bradley’s; what wonder that
they entranced him? Unaccustomed to any of the social graces, she had
bidden her guests to be seated, and sat among them with a modesty and
self-confidence that would have done credit to a dweller on the borders
of Fountain Park.
“Barry is so tender-hearted,” said Miss Chichester, “and so easily
touched by the sight of distress. He’s really foolish about it.”
“Indeed!” said Mary Bradley. “I didn’t know.”
“Why,” stammered Barry, “it’s only what we do for all our widows; I
mean for all widows who became widows because their husbands were in
our employ.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“And that reminds me,” continued Barry, “that I’ve brought the check
and voucher with me again, and if you’ll sign the check and take the
voucher I’ll be glad to leave them.”
“Barry means,” broke in Miss Chichester again, “that you should sign
the voucher and take the check, don’t you, Barry?”
Without waiting for a reply she hurried on: “I hope you’ll do it, Mrs.
Bradley. Barry is very anxious to get it settled and off his mind.
Aren’t you, Barry?”
“I realize that I should have some consideration for Mr. Malleson’s
mind,” replied Mrs. Bradley, “but really, I don’t see how I can take
this money with a good conscience. I understand,” turning her eyes
again on Barry and dissipating what little self-assurance he had left,
“that you offer me this as a gift, pure and simple?”
“Pure and simple,” was his reply; but when he saw her shake her head
slightly he added: “Or as a loan, Mrs. Bradley, or as――as a trust.
Anything you like so long as you take it.”
She laughed a little at that, showing rows of perfect white teeth. Then
she turned to Ruth.
“Mr. Malleson’s company,” she explained, “after my husband’s death,
in view of my straitened circumstances, offered me a sum of money. I
couldn’t see my way clear to accept it at the time, and I can’t now.
I’m working; I’m supporting myself; my debts are paid. I don’t see why
I should accept this gift, much as I appreciate the generosity of Mr.
Malleson and his company. What would you do, Miss Tracy, if you were in
my place?”
“I wouldn’t take it,” replied Ruth, “if I felt that it would in the
least humiliate me, or have a tendency to undermine my independence or
self-respect.”
“There, Mr. Malleson,” said Mrs. Bradley, “you hear what Miss Tracy
says.”
“I do,” protested Barry, “but Ruth was never a――a childless widow, with
a family to support, and she doesn’t know how it feels.”
Ruth colored and laughed, but, without waiting for her to respond, the
“childless widow” turned to Barry’s companion.
“And what would you do, Miss Chichester?” she asked.
“I would take it, without hesitation,” Miss Chichester replied. “Miss
Tracy is a very dear friend of mine, but I disagree with her entirely
in this matter. Besides, the company is rich and can well afford to pay
you. And then again, if you shouldn’t take it I know Barry would be
grieved. Wouldn’t you, Barry?”
But the young man was so deeply engaged in studying the lights and
shadows on Mrs. Bradley’s face that, if he heard the question at all,
he paid no heed to it.
The widow now appealed to Lamar.
“Mr. Lamar,” she said, “you are a friend of mine, and your judgment is
very good. What would you do if you were in my place?”
“I should turn the offer down,” replied Lamar, promptly. “It would be a
great blunder for you to take this corporation’s money. It would injure
you and our cause in more ways than one.”
The widow smiled again. Her face was fascinating when she smiled. There
were two men in the room who would have vouched for that.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “See what an embarrassing position
you place me in. Mr. Malleson and Miss Chichester are positive that
I should take the money, and Miss Tracy and Mr. Lamar are equally
positive that I shouldn’t. Two and two. And you are all my friends.
What am I to do?”
Up through Barry’s consciousness there struggled a gleam of light.
“I’ll tell you what to do, Mrs. Bradley,” he said, speaking with
unusual rapidity; “hold the matter under advisement, a――hold the matter
under advisement. For a fortnight say. Think it over carefully, and――as
my friend Farrar would say――prayerfully, and I’ll see you about it
later.”
Then Miss Chichester again had her innings.
“Barry!” she exclaimed, “you’ll do nothing of the kind! If you don’t
close it up to-day you must drop it entirely, because I shall not come
with you again to help you put it through.”
Barry pondered for a moment over this ultimatum, but he did not appear
to be at all displeased.
“I’ll not insist,” he said, “on your coming again. In fact I think
possibly I could get along with Mrs. Bradley better, don’t you know, if
there wasn’t any one present to interfere.”
And then the widow closed the discussion. “I have decided,” she
said, “to adopt Mr. Malleson’s suggestion, and hold the matter under
advisement.” She turned to Barry. “I shall be glad to see you at any
time, here or at my office in the Potter Building.”
Again those wonderful eyes, looking him through and through, not boldly
or coquettishly, or in any unseemly way, but with a magnetic power that
a far stronger will than his would have been unable to resist. Ruth
rose and took Mrs. Bradley’s hand.
“I want you to come and see me,” she said. “We shall find so many
things to talk about. You will come soon, won’t you?” She turned to
Lamar and bowed smilingly. “You see, Mr. Lamar,” she said, “we women
will have our own way, and Mrs. Bradley is just like the rest of us.
Barry, if you and Jane are going now, I’ll ride down the hill with you.”
“We’re going now,” replied Miss Chichester, firmly. “Come, Barry!”
But Barry, who had risen, stood as if in a dream.
“Come, Barry!” repeated Miss Chichester. “Ruth is already in the
street.”
It was not until she laid her hand on his sleeve that he really awoke
and was able, in some fashion, to make his adieux. He remembered,
afterward, much to his dismay, that he had shaken hands cordially with
Lamar, and had invited him to call some day at the office and go over
to the City Club with him for luncheon.
When they were gone, the door from the kitchen was opened, and the
little, gray-haired, wrinkled-faced old woman who had been there on the
day of Barry’s first call looked in.
“Have they all gone?” she inquired.
“All but Steve, mother,” her daughter replied.
“He don’t count,” she said. “Who was the young lady that came first?”
“That was Miss Ruth Tracy.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted,” replied Lamar, “to capture Mary.”
“What for?”
“To get her into the Church; to make a hypocrite of her.”
“The Church ain’t such a bad thing, accordin’ to my way o’ thinkin’,”
said the old woman. “Both o’ ye’d be better off if ye seen more of it.
Who was the other young lady?”
“That was Miss Chichester, mother.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted,” replied Lamar, “to protect young Malleson.”
“Can’t the man take care of himself?”
“Not when Mary’s around, he can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Ask Mary.”
But the old woman didn’t ask Mary; she gave a little, cackling laugh,
and retreated to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
“I suppose you know the purpose of Miss Tracy’s visit,” said Lamar when
he was again alone with the widow.
“I can imagine what it is,” was the reply.
“If she can get you interested in the preacher,” he continued, “and the
preacher can get you interested in the Church, you’re as good as lost.”
“I might be as good as saved,” she replied.
“That’s religious cant. You know what I mean. The moment you get into
the Church capital will have its clutches on you. You’ll be lost to
socialism, lost to labor, lost to me. None of us can afford it.”
“You seem to value my services,” she said.
“I do. Socialism does. You’ve brought us more genuine recruits in the
short time you’ve been with us than all those high-toned, college-bred
fellows that train with us could get for us in years.”
“You are extravagant.”
“I have a right to be. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Then suppose I should use the power you credit me with in winning over
Mr. Farrar and Miss Tracy to the cause. I think they’re more than half
converted now.”
“We don’t want them. They’re too closely allied to the capitalistic
class. We can’t afford to have that kind of people with us. The
workingmen look on them with suspicion; they have no confidence in
them. As for the preacher, he’s putting out a big bluff, but he doesn’t
mean it, and he couldn’t accomplish anything if he did. He’s wincing
now under the screws they’re putting on him.”
“You have a grievance against the preacher. You haven’t got over the
drubbing he gave you at Carpenter’s Hall. It hurts a little yet,
doesn’t it, Steve?” She looked at him with mischievous eyes, and a
smile shadowing her perfect lips.
“Nonsense, Mary! He didn’t get the best of me. Haven’t I told you?”
“The crowd seemed to think he did.”
“Oh, the crowd! They’ll shout for anybody who can tickle their ears
with fine phrases. It’s the easiest thing in the world to carry a mob
of these ignorant, flat-headed day-laborers off their feet.”
“How about the ‘wisdom of the proletariat’?”
“The ‘wisdom of the proletariat’ be damned!”
He reddened and laughed a little as he thus passed condemnation on one
of his own favorite phrases.
“Well,” she said, the smile still playing about her mouth, “what would
you say to my converting Barry Malleson?”
“Oh, he’s anybody’s fool. Do what you like with him. You’ve got him
pulverized already. I’d crack his skull now, out of pure jealousy, if
he had brains enough in it to rattle.”
“Don’t you think he’d make a good socialist?”
“That depends on how far you could bleed him for funds.”
“Steve, you’re as cold-blooded as a shark.”
“I admit it; in everything but my admiration for you. But I don’t care
to have you setting up friendly relations with such people as this
preacher and the crowd that was here to see you to-day. It won’t do any
good, and may do a good deal of harm.”
“Do you propose to control my social conduct?”
“I’ve been your friend, haven’t I?”
“That’s very true.”
“And I’ve landed a good job for you?”
“That’s true also.”
“Then be reasonable; and understand what I have in store for you.”
“What have you in store for me?”
“This. Listen! In the new social régime women will be on a par with
men. That’s a part of the socialist creed. It’s going to be a question
of brains, not sex. You can be as much of a leader as I can. Working
together we can control a following that will give us almost unlimited
power, almost unlimited opportunity. There’s going to be a rich harvest
for some one. It may as well be ours as any one’s. Do you understand?”
“I think I do. But that lies pretty well in the future, doesn’t it?”
“One can’t tell just how near or how far away it may be.”
“Well, there’s something I want here and now that will give me more
pleasure and satisfaction than all the future glory you can predict for
me.”
“What is it?”
“Revenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain.” She sat with her elbows resting on the table, her hands
covering her ears, her eyes dominating him as he sat across from her,
taking in her words.
“You know what they did to John Bradley?”
“Yes; they killed him.”
“And you know what they did to me?”
“I know; they threw you out of court; treated you like a dog.”
“Worse than a dog. I said that day when they got their verdict that I’d
make them sorry for it. I propose to do it, and I want you to help me.”
“How?”
“I want Richard Malleson smashed. I want his company wrecked. I’ll be
satisfied with nothing less.”
“You’ve laid out a big job.”
“Do you flinch at it?”
“No; but it’s no boys’ play to do it.”
“You know how?”
“There’s only one way; put organized labor on his neck.”
“Exactly! That’s what I want done.”
He looked at her for a moment without replying. She sat there resolute,
splendid, perfect, the most desirable thing in the world in the eyes
and thought of Stephen Lamar. But she had held him at arm’s length. She
had drawn a rigid line beyond which he had not dared to trespass. Her
coolness had only inflamed his ardor. She had given him, now, something
to do which would be not only a test of his ability, but a test also of
his declared devotion to her. If he should accomplish the task she was
setting for him, surely he would be entitled to a rich compensation.
Still looking into her eyes he said:
“And if I succeed in doing what you ask, I shall want my pay for it.”
“You shall have it,” she replied. “What’s your price?”
“You.”
She laughed a little. “You shall have,” she said, “a man’s reward for
work well done.”
And with that promise he had to be content.
Ten minutes later the old woman came back from the kitchen into the
living-room, and found her daughter there alone.
“Is Steve gone?” she asked.
“He’s gone, mother.”
“I don’t care much for Steve.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the look in his eye.”
“That’s no reason.”
“He don’t believe in God.”
“Lots of people don’t.”
“Nor religion.”
“I don’t care much for religion myself.”
“The more shame to ye. They say Steve’s got a wife up in Boston. Has
he?”
“I’ve never asked him. He’s never told me.”
“But if he has why don’t he live with her?”
“That’s his own business.”
“It’s bad business. There’s somethin’ wrong about him. I say let Steve
Lamar alone. He’ll do ye harm.”
“Mother, I don’t care who he is, or what he is, or what he does, so
long as he does what I’ve asked him to do.”
“What’ve ye asked him to do?”
“That’s my secret.”
“It’s a fool’s secret. Some day he’ll kill ye.”
The angry old woman shuffled back into the kitchen and slammed the door
behind her.
At eight o’clock that evening Stephen Lamar entered a saloon on lower
Main Street, known as “The Silver Star.” It was a favorite gathering
place for the mill-workers. It was a place where there was undoubted
social equality. And in that respect, as Lamar once said to a crowd
there, it overtopped any church in the city.
He was greeted noisily as he went in. Some one, standing at the bar,
called out to him to come up and have something.
“No,” he replied, “I’m not drinking to-night. I’m looking for Bricky.”
“Bricky ain’t been in yet,” said the bartender.
“Maybe he won’t come no more,” added the man at the bar. “I’m told he’s
been goin’ to hear that feller preach. The feller’t wears the nightgown
an’ flummadiddles an’ lets on he’s for the laborin’ man. Maybe he’s got
Bricky to cut out the booze.”
A man seated alone at a table in the corner of the room spoke up.
“You’ve got no call to speak disrespectful of Mr. Farrar, Joe. I’ve
been goin’ to hear him myself. Take it from me, he’s the straight
goods.”
“Right you are, Bill!” exclaimed another one of the company, and a half
dozen voices echoed approval. Then a man, seated with a group at a
table, rose unsteadily to his feet and lifted a half-drained glass in
the air.
“I drink,” he shouted, “to health of rev’ren’ ’piscopal preasher.
Frien’ o’ labor. Who joins me?”
Every glass was raised, and all of the men seated rose to take part in
the tribute.
“Come, Steve!” shouted one; “take a nip to the preacher.”
But Lamar shook his head defiantly.
“Not I,” he said. “You fellows can drink your empty heads off to him
if you want to. But I say that any one who pretends to be a friend to
the laboring man just to get a chance to steer him into a capitalistic
church is a damned hypocrite!”
The lone man in the corner brought his glass down on the table with a
crash.
“Take that back, Steve!” he shouted. “You’ve got no right to say that,
an’ it’s a lie. He’s no hypocrite. I know. Why, boys, what you think
that preacher done when my Tommy was sick an’ died with the black fever
last spring, an’ you, Steve Lamar, and every mother’s son of you here,
was too damn scared o’ your lives to come within a mile o’ the house.
He held my boy’s hand whilst he was a-dyin’; that’s what he done, an’
he come there an’ read the funeral business when my own brother was
afraid to come into the yard; an’ the missus would crawl a hundred
miles on her hands and knees to-night to do the least kindness to the
preacher with a heart in him. Oh, to hell with your knockin’!”
For a moment following this impassioned speech there was utter silence
in the room; then came a roar of applause, and in the midst of it some
one shouted: “Drink! To the preacher with a heart in ’im! Drink!”
Every man in the room was on his feet and drinking, save Lamar; and
every man drank his cup to the bottom in honor of the clergyman who was
not afraid.
It was a strange tribute; equivocal, incongruous, unseemly no doubt,
but genuine indeed. Lamar stood, for a moment, sullen and defiant; but
before the glasses were lowered he turned to the bartender and said:
“When Bricky comes in tell him I want to see him.”
Then he strode on into an adjoining private room, and closed the door
behind him. But he took back nothing that he had said.
Ten minutes later Bricky came and joined Lamar in the private room. He
was a tall, angular fellow, with a shock of dull red hair, and a pair
of gray eyes that looked out shrewdly from under overhanging brows.
He was a skilled laborer in the plant of the Malleson Manufacturing
Company, and a leader of the workingmen employed there.
“You’ll have a beer, won’t you?” he asked, touching a button in the
wall behind him.
“I wasn’t drinking,” replied Lamar, “but I will have a whiskey, and
I’ll have it straight. Beer won’t touch the spot to-night. I’ve got an
attack of nerves. The treat’s mine.”
“Thanks! I heard the boys outside rubbed it into you a little.”
“Rubbed nothing in. They can’t faze me by shouting for the preacher.
And as for Joe Poulsky, damn him! I’ll get him yet.”
When the whiskey came he drank it at a gulp. Then he asked how the men
were getting on at the Malleson plant. Bricky (his name was Thomas
Hoover, but few knew him otherwise than as Bricky) replied that things
were going on as usual. The wage scale was satisfactory; sanitary
conditions good, hours of labor agreeable, bosses human; probably the
best plant in the city in which to work.
“When does the agreement expire?”
“First o’ January,” was the reply.
“Going to renew it?”
“So far’s I know. Why?”
Lamar did not answer the question, but he asked another one.
“Do you know how much the company’s going to clean up in net profits
this year?”
“No; I ain’t heard.”
“Well, I have. It’ll run close to two hundred thousand. Malleson and
his family get the lion’s share of it.”
“I s’pose so. They’re the biggest stockholders.”
“Do you think you fellows that work there are getting what you’re
entitled to out of the earnings of that concern?”
“We’re gittin’ what the scale calls for.”
“Never mind the scale. Do you think you’re getting a fair share of the
money your work brings in?”
“I don’t know. I ain’t figured it out.”
“Well, I have. I know you’re entitled to about fifty per cent, more
than you’re getting.”
“That’s some of your socialist arithmetic, Steve.”
“No. Socialist or no socialist; they could pay you fifty per cent. more
and make a handsome profit beside.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe we’re entitled to it. It’s another thing to
git it.”
“You won’t get it unless you ask for it. Why don’t you demand an
increase under a new scale?”
“The old man wouldn’t stand for it.”
“He’d have to. He couldn’t afford to shut down. He’s making too much
money. Besides, there are seven non-union men working in the plant.
I’ve had them checked up.”
“Well, of course they’ve got to join or quit.”
“Sure! And you’re only getting time and a half for overtime. You’re
entitled to time and three-quarters.”
“I guess that’s right, too.”
“Of course it’s right. Why, there are a dozen things that ought to be
fixed up before you fellows sign a new scale. That concern’s pulling
the wool over your eyes every day. Wake up! and get what belongs to
you.”
“That’s easier said than done, Steve.”
“Not a bit. All you’ve got to do is to work the thing up. Get after
the men. Convince them. Do it yourself. Don’t bring in outsiders. Show
them where they’re getting trimmed every day they work. Put them up
to demand a new scale with an increase that’s worth while, and better
all-’round conditions.”
“Suppose we do that and the old man sticks out?”
“Then strike.”
“How long would a strike last without Union backin’?”
“You’d have Union backing. I’ll see that the Union endorses you. I can
do it. You know that. I’ll stop every wheel in every mill in this city
till you fellows get what you demand.”
“You know what you’re talkin’ about, Steve? You know what a hell of
a lot o’ red tape they is about a strike these labor union days?
Meetin’s an’ votes, an’ grievance committees, an’ strike committees,
an’ all the head buckies in the unions buttin’ in? How do you know the
Central would stand by us?”
“I tell you everything in labor in this district will stand by you. I
know what I’m saying. What the devil makes you so chicken-hearted and
suspicious?”
The man with the shock of red hair laid his arms on the table and
leaned across toward Lamar.
“Look here, Steve,” he said, “let’s be plain about this thing. No
beatin’ around the bush. Do you want a strike at the Malleson?”
“I want a strike at the Malleson.”
“What for?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’ve got a damned good reason.”
The man with the red hair leaned still farther across the table, and
spoke in a whisper.
“What is there in it,” he asked, “for me?”
Lamar rose, went to the door that led into the room and locked it,
dropped the ventilating sash above it, pulled down the shade at the
window, and resumed his seat at the table. After that the conversation
between the two men was carried on in subdued tones.
Twenty minutes later they came out into the barroom. The man who had
given the lie to Lamar was gone. So were most of those who had heard
him. But their places were more than filled by others who had come in.
Lamar called all hands to the bar. The drinks, he said, were on him.
“That’s right!” affirmed Bricky, nodding to every one. “It’s Steve’s
treat. Say what you’ll have.”
When the glasses were all filled Lamar raised his and said:
“Here’s to better times and better wages!”
“And to the man that brings ’em!” added Bricky.
So they all drank.