Andrew Barrett read it. His jaw dropped and he stared at H. R. Then he
declared with conviction:
"Next to the Gettysburg address, this!
WE--NEV-ER--SO-LI-CIT--SUB-SCRIP-TIONS! Where does it all come from?"
H. R. solemnly pointed to the ceiling of his office, meaning thereby,
like most Americans, heaven. Max Onthemaker looked at him dubiously, the
Deity being extra-judicial. Then he shook his head uncertainly. History
had told of Peter the Hermit, Mohammed, and others. It was a familiar
hypothesis.
The public, when it read in the newspapers that these poor men did not
believe in killing scabs, but hated tightwads and never asked for
subscriptions, unmistakably and unreservedly espoused their cause. The
man who skimped was the common foe of the free citizen. They wrote
letters to the newspapers.
So did the Public Sentiment Corps.
To hate tightwads and never to ask for subscriptions were admirable
American traits. Christian merchants and even heretics in trade called
them Virtues!
Big business took the trouble to tell the reporters that this was the
kind of labor organization everybody could approve of. It was a check to
Socialism. Big business believes in some kinds of checks.
The labor organizations could not condemn a union. They said they also
were for peace and against the wretches who capitalized the hunger of
their fellows.
In twenty-four hours the scab-users surrendered!
More clippings for Grace.
The Society of American Sandwich Artists prudently leased three more
offices and prepared for the rush. It came. Orders poured in from scores
of merchants. The premises were so crowded with men both with and
without sandwich-boards that the other tenants complained.
The agent of the Allied Arts Building requested H. R. to vacate. He
requested it three times an hour, from nine to six.
"The other tenants object to your sandwiches," the agent explained to
H. R.
"Let 'em move out. We'll take the whole building--at a fair concession.
"Move out yourself!" shrieked the agent.
"See our lawyer," said H. R., and turned his back on the agent.
The agent called on Mr. Onthemaker.
"Fifty thousand dollars!" said Max.
The agent fled, holding his watch in place.
In the mean time the treasury of the society was growing apace. H. R.
transferred his account. He now deposited the funds with the National
Bank of the Avenue.
The president, Mr. Wyman, told Mr. Goodchild about it. Mr. Goodchild,
who had turned red as H. R.'s name was mentioned by a highly esteemed
colleague, looked thoughtful--he might have had the account.