It was in December that Mary's great idea began to assume form. She wrote
to the American Ambassadors in Great Britain and France for any documents
which they could send her relating to the subject so close to her heart.
In due time two formidable packages arrived at the house on the hill.
Mary carried them into the den and opened them with fingers that trembled
with eagerness.
Yes, it was all true.... All true.... Here it was in black and white,
with photographs and statistics set down by impartial observers and
printed by government. Generally a state report is dry reading, but to
Mary at least these were more exciting than any romances--more beautiful
than any poem she had ever read.
At last woman had been given a chance to show what she could do. And how
she had shown them!
Without one single straining effort, without the least thought of doing
anything spectacular, she had gently and calmly taken up men's tools and
had done men's work--not indifferently well--not in any makeshift
manner--but "in all cases, even the most technical, her work has equalled
that previously done exclusively by man. In a number of instances, owing
to her natural dexterity and colour sense, her work, indeed, has been
superior."
How Mary studied those papers!
Never even at college had she applied herself more closely. She
memorized, compared, read, thought, held arguments with herself. And
finally, when she was able to pass any examination that might be set
before her, she went down to the office one day and sent for Mr.
MacPherson, the master mechanic.
He came--grey haired, grim faced, a man who seemed to keep his mouth
buttoned-and Mary asked him to shut the door behind him. Whereat Mac
buttoned his mouth more tightly than before, and looked grimmer, too, if
that were possible.
"You don't look a day older," Mary told him with a smile. "I remember you
from the days when my father used to carry me around--"
"He was a grand man, Miss Mary; it's a pity he's gone," said Mac and
promptly buttoned his mouth again.
"I want to talk to you about something," she said, "but first I want you
to promise to keep it a secret."
He blinked his eyes at that, and as much as a grim faced man can look
troubled, he looked troubled.
"There are vera few secrets that can be kept around this place," was his
strange reply. "Might I ask, Miss Mary, of what nature is the subject?"
And seeing that she hesitated he added, first looking cautiously over his
shoulder, "Is it anything, for instance, to do wi' Mr. Woodward? Or, say,
the conduct of the business?"
"No, no," said Mary, "it--it's about women--" Mac stared at her, but when
she added "--about women working in the factory," he drew a breath of
relief.
"Aye," he said, "I think I can promise to keep quiet about that."
"Isn't it true," she began, "that most of the machinery we use doesn't
require a great deal of skill to run it?"
"We've a lot of automatics," acknowledged Mac. "Your grandfather's idea,
Miss Mary. A grand man. He was one of the first to make the machine think
instead of the operator."
"How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?"
"A few weeks is generally enough. It depends on the man and the tool."
Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn't think much of
it until she showed him the photographs. Even then he was "michty
cautious" until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory
in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe
work.
"Think of that now," said he; "in Glasga'!" As he looked, the frost left
his eye. "A grand lot of lasses," he said and cleared his throat.
"If they can do it, we can do it, too--don't you think so?"
"Why not?" he asked. "For let me tell you this, Miss Mary. Those old
countries are all grand countries--to somebody's way of thinking. But
America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as
fast as ships can bring them! What they can do, yes, we can do--and add
something for good measure, if need be!"
"Well, that's it," said Mary, eagerly. "If we go into the war, we shall
have to do the same as they are doing in Europe--let women do the factory
work. And if it comes to that, I want Spencer & Son to be ready--to be
the first to do it--to show the others the way!"
Mac nodded. "A bit of your grandfather, that," he thought with approval.
"So what I want you to do," she concluded, "is to make me up a list of
machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have
it as soon as you can."
"I'll do that," he grimly nodded. "There's far too many vacant now."
"And remember, please, you are not to say anything. Because, you know,
people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man's
work."
"I'm mute," he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth buttoned
very tightly indeed. But even while his hand was stretched out to reach
the knob, he paused and then returned to the desk.
"Miss Mary," he said, "I'm an old man, and you're a young girl. I know
nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the
world. And a man's not a fool. What I'm going to tell you now, I want you
to remember it, but forget who told it to you. Trust nobody. Be careful.
I can say no more."
"He means Uncle Stanley," thought Mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon
the day. She was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose.
"I'll leave these papers in the desk here," she thought, taking her keys
from her handbag. She unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the
papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused
and her eyes opened wide.
On the top letter in her drawer--a grey tinted sheet--was a scattered
mound of cigarette ash.
"Somebody's been here--snooping," she thought. "Somebody with a key to
the desk. He must have had a cigarette in his hand when he shut the
drawer, and the ashes jarred off without being noticed--"
Irresistibly her thoughts turned to Burdon Woodward, with his gold
cigarette case and match box.
"It was he who gave me the keys," she thought.
She sighed. A sense of walking among pitfalls took possession of her. As
you have probably often noticed, suspicion feeds upon suspicion, and as
Mary walked through the outer office she felt that more than one pair of
eyes were avoiding her. The old cashier kept his head buried in his
ledger and nearly all the men were busy with their papers and books.
"Perhaps it's because I'm a woman," she thought. Ma'm Maynard's words
arose with a new significance, "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways
been so, and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural
enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!"
But Mary could still smile at that.
"Take Mr. MacPherson," she thought; "how is he my natural enemy? Or Judge
Cutler? Or Archey Forbes? Or Wally Cabot?" She felt more normal then, but
when these reflections had died away, she still occasionally felt her
thoughts reverting to Mac's warning, the cigarette ash, the averted
glances in the office.
The nest morning, though, she thought she had found the answer to the
latter puzzle. She had hardly finished breakfast when Judge Cutler was
announced, his hawk's eyes frowning and never a trace of his smile.
"Did you get your copy of the annual report?" he asked.
"Not yet," said Mary, somehow guessing what he meant. "Why?"
"I got mine in the mail this morning." He drew it from his pocket and his
frown grew deeper. "Let's go in the den," he said; "we've got to talk
this out."
It was the annual report of Spencer & Son's business and briefly stated,
it showed an alarming loss for the preceding twelve months.
"Ah-ha!" thought Mary, "that's the reason they didn't look up yesterday.
They had seen this, and they felt ashamed."
"As nearly as I can make it out," said the judge, "there's too many
improvements going on, and not enough business. We must do something to
stop these big expenses, and find a way to get more bearings sold--"
He checked himself then and looked at Mary, much as Mac had looked the
previous day, just before issuing his warning.
"Perhaps he's thinking of Uncle Stanley, too," thought Mary.
"Another bad feature is this," continued the judge, "the bank is getting
too strong a hold on the company. We must stop that before it gets any
worse."
"Why?" asked Mary, looking very innocent.
"Because it isn't good business."
"But Uncle Stanley is president of the bank. You don't think he'd do
anything to hurt Spencer & Son; do you?"
The judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise
like a groan--as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was
being pulled.
"Many a time," he said, "I have tried to talk you out of your suspicions.
But--if it was any other man than Stanley Woodward, I would say today
that he was doing his best to--to--"
"To 'do' me?" suggested Mary, more innocent than ever.
"Yes, my dear--to do you! And another year's work like this wouldn't be
far from having that result."
Curiously enough it was Mary's great idea that comforted her. Instead of
feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes
shining at the thoughts which came to her.
"All right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. I'll wait
till I get my copy of the report."
Wally came that afternoon, and Mary danced with him--that is to say she
danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory
with an envelope addressed in MacPherson's crabbed hand. Mary took one
peep inside and danced no more.
"If the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "I have
counted 1653 places in this factory where they could be working in a few
weeks time--that is, if the places were vacant. List enclosed.
Respectfully. James O. MacPherson."
It was a long list beginning "346 automatics, 407 grinders--"
Mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she
called up Judge Cutler.
"I wish you would come down to the office in about half an hour," she
said, ".... Directors' meeting. All right. Thank you."
"What was it dad used to call me sometimes--his 'Little Hustler'?" she
thought. "If he could see, I'll bet that's what he would call me now."
As she passed through the hall she looked in the drawing room to tell
Helen where she was going. Helen was sitting on a chaise lounge and Wally
was bending over her, as though trying to get something out of her eye
with the corner of a handkerchief.
"I don't see anything," Mary heard him saying.
"There must be something. It hurts dreadfully," said Helen.
Looking again, he lightly dabbed at the eye. "Oh!" breathed Helen.
"Don't, Wally!"
She took hold of his hand as though to stop him. Mary passed on without
saying anything, her nose rather high in the air.
Half way down the hill she laughed at nothing in particular.
"Yes," she told herself. "Helen--in her own way--I guess that she's a
little Hustler ... too ...!"