All next day train-loads of logs came down from Camp One to be decked in
Jim’s yard. Thirty-five thousand feet had been rolled off the first
night and day; upward of forty thousand feet were added to it the
second. It was enough to supply the saws for a week. Moran had made no
visible move; no attempt to interfere with the men in the woods or with
the running of trains had been made. This did not reassure Jim. Moran
was not the man to be beaten so easily. He knew he would strike
back—that the Clothespin Club would strike back—for Moran and the Club
were as one in this war.
The blow came from the Club—one not altogether unlooked for. It was
their logical move, but it would be costly to them. News of it came in
telegrams from Jim’s agents, telling him that Welliver and Jenkins and
Plum were offering clothespins at a further cut of ten per cent. in
price.
Jim figured rapidly. He knew that now his mill was running efficiently,
his crew of operators were trained, each machine was showing its
production of seventy-five boxes of pins or better a day, he was making
pins more cheaply than any other manufacturer in the country. He knew
they could not make pins at such a price; that every box sold at such a
figure represented a loss. It represented a loss to Jim of something
like a cent and a half a box. Probably it meant from three to five cents
to the Club. But they could stand it for a time. They had capital in
reserve. Jim had none, or very little, to carry on an extended war. But
fight he had to, whether he had the money or not.
Perhaps he could borrow more, but he very much doubted it. One resource
he had—the option on old Louis Le Bar’s timber. That must be sold at
once.
He determined to take the afternoon train to Grand Rapids to go over it
in the big lumber offices. His immediate action was to wire his
representatives generally to take no orders at the new price. To New
York and Chicago he gave directions to sell one car-load each at a drop
of five per cent. under the Club’s last figure. This would serve further
to demoralize the markets in those centers and to compel the Club to
protect its customers on the additional decline. It would cost Jim a few
hundreds of dollars. How much more expensive it would be to the Club he
did not know.
The morning found him in Grand Rapids. The lumbermen received him with
suspicion. It was apparent they were aware of his existence, had
expected his arrival. They were willing to talk, but not to deal. They
knew the Le Bar tract, of course. It was desirable, but none of them
cared to undertake it.
Their attitude was difficult to understand until one old gentleman
bruskly informed Jim he did not care to spend his good money buying a
lawsuit.
“Why a lawsuit?” Jim asked.
“We were tipped off to you, young man. From a dependable source we know
there’s something wrong with that tract, and we’re taking no chances on
it.”
“Have you investigated it? Will you investigate it?”
“No. It’s a desirable tract, but it’s not necessary. We can get along
without it, and just now we’re too busy to go fooling round with a
doubtful title.”
“You can easily investigate the title.”
“What’s the use? We know your option is disputed. We know we’d take on a
lawsuit with it, and we don’t need any lawsuits.”
At last Jim understood. Moran had taken his steps, as he said he would.
He had promised that Jim would be unable to dispose of his option, and
had made good his promise. The task had been simple. He had notified all
possible buyers that he would contest Jim’s option; that he claimed some
lien or title. Jim knew when he came face to face with the impassable.
He put his option in his pocket and returned to Diversity.
Neither magazine nor newspaper could hold his attention on the train.
His mind could not be made to forget the weight that lay upon it; his
heart could not be numbed to pain by anaesthetic. Jim was young.
Suffering was new to him, and experience had not showed him how best to
endure it.
It was not the ruin that hung over his business that clouded with
anguish the eyes he fixed on the scudding landscape. It was not the
knowledge that he was in a corner, fighting for his financial life with
his back to the wall. It was Marie—only Marie. Youth can look forward
to the building of another fortune; the losses of to-day will be wiped
out in the gains of to-morrow. But when love crashes down in sordid ruin
there is no to-morrow. Youth cannot see that the unguent of time will
close the wound; it can see only that hope, the sweet anticipations
which make of the future a magical realm almost within the grasp of the
extending hand, has been swept away beyond recall.
Marie was not true, steadfast, as he had believed; her soul did not
shine clearly, purely, with the guiding light he thought he had seen.
Marie, the wonderful, the womanly, was erased from the picture; replaced
by one sordid, despicable, treacherous even. Perhaps the bitterest pain
is rending asunder of the trust of youth.
What remained? Work, feverish exertion, the comfort of facing an
antagonist, of straining breast to breast with him.
At the junction Jim changed to the Diversity railroad. In the smoker
when he entered was a sprinkling of Diversity folk, who, as the train
got in motion, edged together to talk politics. Politics in Diversity
was a topic of conversation as it had not been for twenty years. Zaanan
Frame had taken the zest from it. He had been the county’s politics so
long. In the eyes of the inhabitants the present condition assumed
almost the importance of a revolution.
“Zaanan’s beat, and he knows it,” was an opinion boldly expressed. “He
hain’t even makin’ a fight for it. Calc’late he’s too old.”
“Calc’late,” replied a gesticulating individual, “he’s plum disgusted.
Who’s the best friend Diversity folks has had, eh? Zaanan Frame; that’s
who. And now, because a dollar for a vote is easy money to earn, men
that ought to think shame is turnin’ against him. It hain’t that he
can’t fight. Don’t git sich an idee into your head. It’s that he’s too
disgusted to fight.”
“He’s run things long enough. Nobody kin call his soul his own. He comes
perty clost to sayin’ who shall marry who, and which kind of a baby
they’ll have after they’re married. We hain’t goin’ to stand that kind
of thing much longer. No, sir; we’re a-goin’ to run our own affairs like
we want to—”
“You’re a-goin’ to swap Zaanan Frame for Michael Moran, that’s what
you’re goin’ to do—and you’re welcome to your bargain. Wait till Moran
gits the power Zaanan’s got now. See how he uses it. Has any feller here
got a word to say ag’in Zaanan’s honesty? Eh?”
Nobody replied.
“Kin anybody here lay his hand on a wrong Zaanan’s done? Kin anybody
p’int to a case in court that hain’t come out as near fair and just as
human men kin make it? No, you can’t. But wait. Why d’you calc’late
Moran is reachin’ out for Zaanan’s place? It’s so he can chase the law
out and put Mike Moran’s will in. That’s why. It’s so he kin make of
Diversity what Quartus Hembly made of Owasco a few years back. He’ll rob
you and git his courts to back him up; there’ll be wrongs done and
nobody punished. Diversity is run by Zaanan Frame because we’ve turned
over the job to him. But it’s run like an American town. Moran’ll run it
like a town in Roosian Siberier. Mark me!”
“I call to mind the times ’fore Zaanan got his office first,” piped up a
toothless octogenarian. “Diversity and Hell was first cousins. Sich
things as I’ve seen! Wa-al, Zaanan he turned to, and ’twa’n’t long ’fore
there wa’n’t a quieter, better-behaved town in the timber. He’s deserved
a heap of this town.”
“He’s gone too far. Kind of figgers he’s king, or somethin’ like that.
We hain’t goin’ to stand for it no more.”
“Go ahead,” squeaked the old man; “whatever you git is comin’ to you.
’Twon’t be a year ’fore you’re on your knees prayin’ for Zaanan Frame to
come back, and it’ll be too late, ’cause this Moran’ll have the power
and nobody’ll git it away from him.”
“Zaanan’s beat,” repeated the first speaker.
“Looks so,” admitted the old man; “but money done it. Votes has been
bought, lies has been told. He hain’t beat fair.”
Jim was interested in spite of himself. Here was a fight, one more fight
for him to get into. He, clearer than these men, saw what it would mean
to the town and county for Moran to become its dictator. He welcomed
another task; it would coax his mind away from Marie. If the new task
was also a high duty of citizenship it was so much the more welcome. He
sat erect in his seat; again he was Sudden Jim. He addressed the men
within hearing.
“Zaanan Frame isn’t beaten,” he said. “Maybe he won’t fight for himself,
but there are folks who will fight for him, and I’m one of them. The
time’s short, but, you men who are against him, take this thought away
with you: If you’ve taken money for your votes or influence, begin to
worry. If there has been crookedness you may carry word from me to the
man who is to blame for it that he shall answer for his crookedness. The
time’s short, as I said, but a lot of fighting can be done in a short
time. It isn’t too late.”
“And you’re some fighter, Mr. Ashe,” grinned a little Irishman. “When
you come into the car I says to my friend, says I, ‘There’s an illigant
lad wid knuckles to his fists.’”
“Thanks, O’Toole. Tell the boys I’m against the man who robs his
woodsmen in the wanigans. Tell them I’m against the man who would steal
away their chance to get justice. Tell them I know Zaanan Frame is their
best friend, and beg them to vote for him.”
“Have no worries about the b’ys wid corked boots,” said O’Toole. “Think
ye we don’t know Mike Moran?”
“But Zaanan won’t help himself,” said the old man.
“I’ll see Zaanan the minute we get to town,” promised Jim.
He kept his word. From the train he walked straight to Zaanan’s office.
Dolf Springer sat on the door-step, his head hunched down between his
shoulders, a very picture of disconsolation. He scarcely looked up as
Jim passed him.
Zaanan, as always in his leisure moments, was reading Tiffany’s
_Justices’ Guide_. Jim fancied that the old man’s figure was less erect
than formerly, that it drooped with discouragement, with disappointment
over the crumbling of the work of his life. Jim could mark on Zaanan’s
face the effects of the blow he had received when it became plain his
people were turning against him. To realize their ingratitude, how
little they appreciated the expenditure of his life in their behalf,
must have grieved the old justice sorely.
He greeted Jim with his usual brief phrase, “Howdy?”
“Judge,” said Jim, breaking impetuously into the subject of his coming,
wasting no time in preliminaries, “we’ve got to get up and stir
ourselves.”
“Um! What’s been happenin’ to you now? Worried ’cause you couldn’t sell
your option?”
Jim was a bit startled at Zaanan’s knowledge of the failure of his
errand, but brushed aside his curiosity to know how the old justice came
by his information.
“It’s not myself I’m worrying about; it’s you, Judge, and Diversity.
Even your friends admit you’re beaten. They say you admit it yourself.
They think you’re too old to get out and fight.”
“Heard me admittin’ I was beat, Jim, eh? Heard me sayin’ any sich
thing?”
“No.”
“Think I’m too old, Jim, eh? Past my usefulness?”
“You’re the best man of all of us. That’s why—”
Zaanan’s eyes twinkled for a moment, then he bent his head in an
attitude of weariness, “Folks is tired of me, Jim. They calc’late I’ve
outstayed my welcome. Noticed that, Jim, eh?”
“They’ve been bamboozled into thinking it, or paid to think it.”
“But they think it, all the same. Any reason I shouldn’t give ’em a
chance to run their logs without me? See why I shouldn’t git a minnit’s
peace and quiet at the tail end of my life, eh? Specially when folks is
anxious I should?”
“Yes, Judge, I do see a reason. These are your people. You’ve made them
what they are. You’ve looked after them for years and, maybe, because
you’ve looked after them so thoroughly and well, they are less able to
look after themselves than they should be. You’re responsible for them.
Nobody but you can save them and this town from passing into a condition
that will be intolerable. You aren’t entitled to rest. You’ve got to get
into this fight—and win.”
“Perty late, hain’t it, Jim? Perty late in the day?”
“We’ll just have to work that much harder.”
“Dun’no’s I kin agree with you, Jim. Seems to me time’s too short. Maybe
I should ’a’ fought, but there wa’n’t much encouragement. Folks was
flockin’ to Peleg. Shouldn’t wonder if a dose of Peleg ’u’d be the thing
to cure ’em.”
“You mustn’t leave them in the lurch. It’s natural you should feel hard
against them, but they-they’ve been fooled. It’s not their fault.”
“Somehow, Jim, I don’t feel as able to undertake things as I did once.”
Zaanan’s voice was weary, old. “Looks to me like it would be wastin’
time to stir things up now. Calc’late I’m done for, Jim.”
“All your friends haven’t left you. But they need you to lead them. They
don’t know what to do.”
“There hain’t nothin’ to do, Jim, against Moran and all his money.”
“But won’t you come out and try? Go down fighting, anyhow.”
“Hain’t no occasion for it, Jim. Better save up what strength I’ve got
left. No use wastin’ it in vain efforts.”
A surge of sympathy for the old man welled up in Jim. Sitting there in
the latter end of his days, deserted by friends, abandoned by those for
whom he had striven for a score of years, he could not be contemplated
unmoved. In his discouragement he was pitiful indeed.
“Judge,” Jim said, impulsively, “I wish I could drop everything and jump
into this thing for you. I can’t do that, but I can do something. Until
caucus day I’m going to give every possible minute to this election,
whether you help or not.”
“Much obleeged,” said Zaanan, without enthusiasm. “What’s your special
int’rest in this thing, eh? Seems to me like you was consid’able wrought
up over it.”
Jim hesitated.
What was his interest? Was it merely hatred for Moran, or was it
something worthier? He paused to search his soul for the answer.
“Before my father induced me to take over this business I had other
plans. I had been a newspaper man in the city. I had seen things, and it
seemed to me that there was room for somebody who wanted to help. The
people—the people at the bottom of the heap—need help, Judge. They
don’t belong. They pay their dues in money or labor, but they’re not
members. They have none of the privileges. Perhaps they aren’t entitled
to the privileges; perhaps they wouldn’t know what to do with them if
they got them, but they’re entitled to something. Our Declaration of
Independence says something about all men being born free and equal. In
theory that may be true. In practice only those are free and equal who
are strong enough to force others to recognize their freedom and
equality. I wanted to do something—one man could do only a
little—toward helping the bottom of the heap out from under to where
the weight of the top of the heap wouldn’t crush them.”
“Um! One of them newfangled socialists, eh?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know just what a socialist is, but if what I’ve
said makes me one, then I’m guilty of the charge.”
“Hain’t jest normal for a feller employin’ men and women like you do.”
“That is one of the things that moved me to accept father’s proposition
when he turned things over to me. I could do my small part here. I could
at least see that my bottom-heapers got a fair trade from me, who was
their top-heaper. And I guess that’s why I’m interested in this
election. You’ve kept things spread out so the bottom was not smashed by
the top. Moran wants to take your place so he can crush the bottom as he
wants to.”
“Um! No pers’nal spite?”
Jim flushed.
“I hate Moran.”
“Not astonished to hear it. Now, abandonin’ the election for a minute
and takin’ up your affairs: I bought me a couple shares in the Diversity
Hardwood Company t’other day. Had the chance. Thought maybe you’d be
wantin’ to take ’em off my hands. Figgered you might find a use for ’em.
Think you kin, eh? Annual meetin’ of that corporation comes day
follerin’ caucus. Better git them shares properly transferred on the
company’s books right off. Here they be.”
“But—” began Jim.
“Hain’t I said them shares might come in handy? Paid two hundred dollars
for ’em. Gimme check.”
Zaanan’s methods were now more or less familiar to Jim. He knew the
justice would not have bought this stock for him without some good
reason. He scented some plan that Zaanan was working out.
“All right, Judge.”
“Git that transfer made right off.”
“Without fail,” said Jim.
“G’-by, Jim.”
“Good afternoon, Judge. But I wish you—”
“G’-by, Jim,” repeated Zaanan, with a convincing tone of finality.
From that day for the week that remained before the caucus Jim talked,
argued, pleaded with the voters of Diversity. He even essayed public
speaking; hired the local opera-house for the purpose, and there
publicly denounced Peleg Goodwin as Moran’s cat’s-paw; publicly
excoriated Moran. But he came to perceive his was a hopeless task.
He could not arouse the people. Zaanan himself might have stirred them,
but no stranger could. Especially no stranger could stir them to fight
for Zaanan when Zaanan himself acknowledged defeat.
Some there were who fought shoulder to shoulder with Jim. Dolf Springer
did what was in him, and when he saw the futility of it his watery eyes
grew more watery still. Dolf was faithful; Zaanan was his great man. His
faith in the goodness of God was shaken.
Moran did not abate his exertions. He himself, his agents, his
hirelings, traversed the township, the county. Ceaselessly they worked,
and tirelessly, efficiently. Their faces wore no looks of
discouragement; their bearing was jaunty. Any man with half a political
eye could see the victory was theirs. On the eve of the caucus Jim
grudgingly admitted it, too.
That night—the hour was not quite nine—the young man who was
Grierson’s assistant in the bookkeeping realm—his name was
Newell—rushed up to Jim on the hotel piazza. Obviously he was in a
state of high excitement.
“Mr. Ashe! Mr. Ashe!” he panted.
Jim drew him aside.
“What is it, Newell?” he asked.
“Crab Creek Trestle, Mr. Ashe. They’re going to burn it to-night, so you
can’t get any more logs.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“I don’t know the man—tall, carried a gun under his arm.”
“Gilders,” said Jim to himself. It was sufficient verification for him
if the warning came from that man. “All right, Newell. Go along about
your business and keep your mouth shut.”
Jim did not pause to determine the best course to follow. For him there
was but one course—instant action. Without halt, without plan, without
aid, he set out for Crab Creek. It was a trip to be taken afoot. No road
led to the spot. Jim made for the railroad, sped down it toward the
threatened spot.