When Jim Ashe returned to the mill after his conversation with Zaanan
Frame he found the machinery idle, employees pouring out of the
entrances. He walked past them and into the building in a frame of mind
that would have rendered him undesirable as a dinner companion. Another
breakdown!
He found Nelson and Beam standing below a couple of mechanics who were
working over a pair of big gears. They only nodded curtly at his
approach, for apparently their patience, like Jim’s, was close to the
fusing-point.
“Now what?” Jim asked.
“Core gear. Stripped the wooden teeth out of it.”
“How?”
Nelson shrugged his shoulders, but Beam replied. “Just got started after
dinner,” he said. “I was standin’ not ten feet from here when I seen
that solid gear lift up into the air, it looked like two foot, and come
down smash onto the wooden teeth. Twouldn’t be so bad if we had a spare
set of teeth, but we hain’t.”
“Got to cut ’em out,” supplemented Nelson.
“How long does that mean?”
“If we work all night we ought to get to runnin’ by noon to-morrow—with
luck.”
“Who’s to blame?” Jim demanded
“Who drove the nails in the logs?” John Beam replied, a trifle sullenly.
“Nelson went over those gears last night. I seen him. He says there
wa’n’t anythin’ wrong then.”
Jim set his teeth; the urge to action came over him that had earned him
the name of Sudden Jim. He recognized it, expected himself to do
something decisive—and was surprised that he did not. Instead he found
himself reflecting coolly, choosing the better from the worse course of
action.
“It can’t be helped now, boys,” he said. “Speed up and get her going
again—and keep quiet about it.”
He turned on his heel and went up to the office, where he found the noon
mail on his desk. The first letter he opened was the resignation of his
salesman for New York and New England, a man of exceptional ability,
whose sales mounted to many car-loads a year, and whose customers were
his customers, not those of the Ashe Clothespin Company. Winkleman could
take them with him to whatever firm he had sold his services. Jim knew
well Winkleman had not abandoned the woodenware trade—he had gone over
to Welliver or some other of the enemy. Here, Jim recognized, was the
shrewdest blow of the war.
Jim went on opening his mail. Another letter was from Silvers, his
Chicago representative. This man handled the product of Jim’s mills as a
part of his brokerage business. He was able; no week passed that did not
see at least one car-load consigned to him or to his customers.
What’s up? (the letter said). Welliver wants me to drop you and
come over to him. Says your goose is cooked and offers me an
extra two and a half per cent. commission. Says you started this
clothespin rumpus. Had a contract ready for me to sign, and
wanted me to drop you unsight and unseen, I wouldn’t do it, but
his offer is tempting.
There was more to the communication, but here we have the heart of it.
One blow followed another. The attack had commenced in earnest and Jim
was on the defensive. He had declared war, but had not struck a blow.
Now he must act swiftly, intelligently, efficiently. First he wired
Silvers:
Won’t meet Welliver’s offer. We’re sound. If you can’t stick by
us in fight don’t want you anyhow. Want men can depend on. Wire
answer.
Next he called in Grierson.
“What percentage of our business is in New York and New England?” he
asked.
“A quarter, maybe.”
“Who sells heaviest there?”
“Plum and Mannikin.”
“One of them has hired away Winkleman.”
Grierson made a crisp, crackling sound with his lips. It indicated
dismay. Jim smiled grimly.
“We’re going to increase our Eastern business,” he said. “We haven’t
pushed it as we might, just as those Eastern factories haven’t pushed
for orders in the West. But we’re going to. We’re going after all we can
get anywhere we can get it. It’s three o’clock. I want you to catch the
six-o’clock train for Buffalo. Then New York and Boston. Go and pack. By
the time you’re back here I’ll have your instructions ready for you.”
“But, Mr. Ashe—”
“Hustle,” said Jim. It was Sudden Jim speaking now.
In an hour Grierson was back, dubious, flustered.
“Grierson,” said Jim, “you know the personnel of the woodenware business
better than I. Here’s what I want you to do: Land the best woodenware
broker in Buffalo to handle our line for the city and western New York.
Get him! Give him seven and a half commission, if necessary. Have him
sign a contract like Levine’s in Cleveland. Then hit for New York.
There’ll be soreness somewhere over this Winkleman business. It must
have cut into somebody’s territory. You know who to go to. We want the
biggest—somebody with a sales organization. Offer them all New York and
all New England outside of Boston. If they hang out for Boston, give it
to them, too. If they don’t insist on it go to Boston and repeat the
dose. I want somebody who will sell our goods—and keep us hustling to
fill orders. We’ll put a dent in Plum and Mannikin. Now you’ll want to
bury your young man in directions for his guidance while you’re gone.
Get at it. And don’t come back here unless you’ve got what I want.”
Grierson was blinking. “Your father was a swift mover when he was
r’iled,” said he; “but for suddenness, and for landing a hard punch, I
guess you are a little ahead of him. I’ll do my best, Mr. Ashe.”
Jim’s next move was a wire to Philadelphia. Pennsylvania was the home
ground of the Jenkins mills, and Jim was determined to hit as many heads
as he could. Any woodenware man worthy of the name was familiar with the
house of Sands & Stein, of the Quaker City. Jim’s wire said:
If interested handing our whole line Pennsylvania exclusive
territory wire.
These things accomplished, Jim entered upon the routine of his work,
which occupied him until six o’clock was near. Just as he was leaving
the office a telegram arrived from Silvers.
“I’m no quitter,” it said, tersely, and Jim knew that he had found at
least one dependable man.
As Jim approached he saw a man seated on the Widow Stickney’s porch. He
wondered if the widow was entering on a campaign to conquer her “third,”
and had invited him to supper as an opening gun. Jim was not familiar
enough with Diversity’s citizens yet to identify an individual by his
legs, and this one’s face was concealed by the climbing vine. If Jim had
been a native of the village he would have experienced no such
difficulty, for Diversity’s male inhabitants were as easy to distinguish
by their pants as by their faces. We recognize a man by his face because
that is the face he has always worn. The same rule held true of
Diversity’s trousers. Old Clem Beagle still went to church in the
garments that covered him when he was married sixty years before.
When Jim climbed the porch he was convinced that the widow had nothing
whatever to do with the visitor. It was Michael Moran, and Jim wondered
just who in that house was responsible for his presence.
“How do you do, Mr. Ashe?” said Moran, rising and extending his hand. “I
just learned you were boarding here. Glad to hear it. Makes it more
interesting for Miss Ducharme, I imagine, and she needs cheering up
considerable.”
Jim responded to the greeting, experiencing at the same time a dubiety
as to Moran’s sincerity. Indeed, without any adequate reason for his
belief he was of the opinion that Moran was not pleased with his
presence.
“Sort of protegee of mine—Miss Ducharme. Father was walking boss for
me. I always take supper with her when I’m in town, if I can manage it,”
Moran explained.
Jim nodded. He was remembering that it was on the morning following a
visit of Michael Moran’s to Diversity he had first encountered Marie, on
the top of a knoll from which a view might be had of far countries. Her
reckless mood, reckless words, were fresh in his mind, and he would have
been glad to know if Moran had anything to do with the matter.
“Everything starting off well at the mill?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Jim.
“I see you’ve started shipments. Hope you’ve been getting cars as you
wanted them. If you ever have any difficulty, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” said Jim. His mind was only casually on what Moran was
saying; it was striving to penetrate to what he was thinking. From the
morning of his first sight of the man Jim had been repelled by him.
That, of course, was to be laid to the fact that Moran was first seen in
company with Welliver. But since then Jim had been led to suspect him as
an active enemy. Stories—gossip, perhaps—that came to his ears led him
to set Moran down as a shifty individual, a man who looked to the right
and unexpectedly threw his brick to the left. Also he had heard from Tim
Bennett and others hints regarding Moran’s attitude toward women. But
there was proof of nothing. Jim was fair enough to admit this. All was
hint, rumor, or deduction from flimsy bases.
“You know, of course, that I’ve taken over the control of the Diversity
Hardwood Company?”
“I had heard it.”
“That and my railroad will bring us in touch considerable. Before long
we ought to hit on some sort of basis so we can work together for the
benefit of both of us. We’re in a position to help each other in a dozen
ways.”
“By driving nails in each other’s logs,” Jim thought, but he smiled and
agreed that co-operation seemed advisable.
“Conditions in the county aren’t what they ought to be,” said Moran
after puffing briefly on his cigar. “You and I—with the influence we
can exert—ought to be able to do a lot to remedy matters.”
“As how?” Jim asked, really curious to know what Moran was approaching.
“You and I represent practically the whole of the county’s business
interests. We ought to have more of a say in running things than we
have. As it is now—well, we haven’t much of anything to say. Zaanan
Frame says it all, and he’s a stiff-backed, hard-headed old scoundrel if
there ever was one. Talk about your city political bosses! Zaanan could
show them things they won’t be finding out for another twenty years.”
“Pretty strong politically, is he?”
“Just this strong, Mr. Ashe, that he appoints the officers in this
county. Appoints ’em. Of course there are elections, but if Zaanan told
these farmers and what-not to vote for his horse Tiffany for President
of the United States, that horse would come close to carrying the county
unanimously. That’s how strong he is. The circuit judge is his; the
sheriff is his; the prosecutor is his. What chance has money in such a
nest? The worst of it is, the old man’s pretty well off and you can’t
reach him.”
“Never can tell till you try,” said Jim.
“I’m in a position to tell, all right. It’s no go. The only thing is to
get rid of him. If he could be beaten out of his own job I guess he’d be
done for. And I think I can manage it with your help.”
“I’m not aching to meddle with politics any.”
“You will be when he hands you a dose of his medicine. Look at us.
Probably a dozen little suits in the justice court every week come
before him. What protection have we?” Moran spread his hands in a
gesture of helplessness. “Any Tom, Dick, and Harry that wants to goes
ahead and sues—and Zaanan sees to it we get the worst of it. Anywhere
else we could appeal, but here the circuit court belongs to Zaanan, and
it spends as much of its time playing to the gallery and coddling the
poor, downtrodden working-man at my expense as Zaanan does.”
“Pretty tough,” said Jim. He told himself that here was first-class
evidence to support the Widow Stickney’s praise of Zaanan Frame. It was
being admitted he was honest, that influence did not subvert justice. He
was a boss, perhaps, but his virtues seemed to stamp themselves on the
men his power put in office. Theoretically a boss is bad, Jim thought,
but this case seemed to demonstrate there might be exceptions. Suppose
Zaanan were absolute monarch of Diversity, what had made him so and what
kept him in his place? Apparently it was the fairness, the rugged
squareness, of the old man. Apparently he possessed the love and
confidence of his people to the point that they were willing to delegate
their powers to him in the belief that he would work better for them
than they could for themselves.
“You bet,” said Moran. “If we could get in a justice of the peace we
could stop all these petty suits right there. Let a couple of dozen of
these fellows find out they were going to get beaten, and the whole mess
of them would quit. I hate to think how much money Frame costs me a
year.”
“Or how much he benefits the man who couldn’t help himself without
Zaanan’s court,” Jim thought. “It means much to the poor man to know
that his court—the justice’s court—is honest; that he can carry his
wrong to it and see it righted! What’s your idea?” he asked aloud.
“We’ll have to get him in the caucus,” said Moran. “Couldn’t beat him at
the election. I don’t suppose there are a dozen votes cast against him
in the whole county. But that’s quite a while off. I just wanted to
mention the matter to you and find out how you looked at it. I’m glad
you agree with me.”
“We can do more together than we could separately,” Jim said,
jesuitically.
The widow appeared in the doorway and announced supper. Jim waved Moran
to precede him, and he walked to the table feeling more sure of his
ground than he had been an hour before. His suspicions of Moran rested
on a surer foundation—the man was not honest. He was the sort of
business man who has brought stigma on his kind by bribery, by conniving
at injustice, by seducing officers of justice. He was ruthless. The
rights of others only represented something to be overridden. To Jim it
seemed that the day when Michael Moran replaced Zaanan Frame as dictator
of Diversity would be a black day indeed for the county.
Further, he made up his mind to win that friendship which Zaanan Frame
had denied him. In his difficulty he felt a flood of gratitude to good
fortune that such a man as Zaanan Frame was at hand and in power. When
he took his seat at the table he was more cheerful than he had been for
many a day; his face was lighter, his eyes brighter. The widow noticed
his changed expression and was deeply curious to account for it. The
widow was a motherly soul. Of late she had taken to coddling and
worrying over Jim. Hers was a heart that could not be inactive—if man’s
persistent mortality discouraged her from taking another husband, she
could, at least, secretly adopt a son.