A COUNCIL OF WAR
Tom lived in the district below West Fourteenth Street, where, to the
bewildered explorer venturing for the first time into that region, the
jumbled streets seem to have been laid out by an egg-beater.
It was almost six o'clock when, hungry and wrathful, he thrust his
latch-key into the door of his four-room flat. The door opened into
blackness. He gave an irritated groan and groped about for matches, in
the search striking his hip sharply against the corner of the dining
table. A match found and the gas lit, he sat down in the sitting-room to
await his wife's coming. From the mantel a square, gilded clock, on
which stood a knight in full armor, counted off the minutes with
irritating deliberation. It struck six; no Maggie. Tom's impatience
rapidly mounted, for he had promised to be at Barry's at quarter to
eight. He was on the point of going to a restaurant for his dinner,
when, at half-past six, he heard the fumble of a latch-key in the lock,
and in came his wife, followed by their son, a boy of four, crying from
weariness.
She was a rather large, well-formed, and well-featured young woman, and
was showily dressed in the extreme styles of the cheap department
stores. She was pretty, with the prettiness of cheap jewelry.
Tom rose as she carefully placed her packages on the table. "You really
decided to come home, did you?"
"Oh, I know I'm late," she said crossly, breathing heavily. "But it
wasn't my fault. I started early enough. But there was such a mob in the
store you couldn't get anywhere. If you'd been squeezed and pushed and
punched like I was in the stores and in the street cars, well, you
wouldn't say a word."
"Of course you had to go!"
"I wasn't going to miss a bargain of that kind. You don't get 'em
often."
Tom gazed darkly at the two bulky packages, the cause of his delayed
dinner. "Can I have something to eat,--and quick?"
By this time her hat and jacket were off. "Just as soon as I get back my
breath," she said, and began to undo the packages.
The little boy came to her side.
"I'm so hungry, ma," he whined. "Gimme a piece."
"Dinner'll be ready in a little while," she answered carelessly.
"But I can't wait!"--and he began to cry.
Maggie turned upon him sharply. "If you don't stop that bawling, Ferdie,
you shan't have a bite of dinner."
The boy cried all the louder.
"Oh, you!" she ejaculated; and took a piece of coarse cake from the
cupboard and handed it to him. "Now do be still!"
Ferdinand filled his mouth with the cake, and she returned to the
packages. "I been wanting something to fill them empty places at the
ends of the mantel this long time, and when I saw the advertisement in
the papers this morning, I said it was just the thing.... Now there!"
Out of one pasteboard box she had taken a dancing Swiss shepherdess, of
plaster, pink and green and blue, and out of the other box a dancing
Swiss shepherd. One of these peasants she had put on either side of the
knight, at the ends of the mantel.
"Now, don't you like that?"
Tom looked doubtfully at the latest adornment of his home. Somehow, he
didn't just like it, though he didn't know why. "I guess it'll do," he
said at length.
"And they were only thirty-nine cents apiece! Now when I get a new tidy
for the mantel,--a nice pink one with flowers. Just you wait!"
"Well,--but let's have dinner first."
"In just a minute." With temper restored by sight of her art treasures,
Maggie went into the bedroom and quickly returned in an old dress. The
dinner of round steak, fried potatoes and coffee was ready in a very
short time. The steak avenged its hasty preparation by presenting one
badly burnt side. But Tom ate the poor dinner without complaint. He was
used to poor dinners; and his only desire was to get away and to
Barry's.
Once during the meal he looked at his wife, a question in his mind.
Should he tell her? But his eyes fell back to his plate and he said
nothing. She must know some time, of course--but he didn't want the
scene now.
But she herself approached uncomfortably near the subject. She had
glanced at him hesitatingly several times while they were eating; as he
was rising from the table she began resolutely: "I met Mrs. Jones this
afternoon. She told me what you said about Foley last night at the
meeting. Her husband told her."
Tom paused.
"There's no sense doing a thing of that kind," she went on. "Here we are
just beginning to have things a little comfortable. You know well enough
what Foley can do to you if you get him down on you."
"Well?" Tom said guardedly.
"Well, don't you be that foolish again. We can't afford it."
"I'll see about it." He went into the sitting-room and returned with hat
and overcoat on. "I'm going over to Barry's for awhile--on some
business," he said, and went out.
Barry and Pete, who boarded with the Barrys, were waiting in the
sitting-room when Tom arrived,--and with them sat Mrs. Barry and a boy
of about thirteen and a girl apparently a couple of years younger, the
two children with idle school books in their laps. Mrs. Barry's
sitting-room, also her parlor, would not have satisfied that amiable
lady, the president of the Society for Instructing Wage-Earners in House
Furnishing. There was a coarse red Smyrna rug in the middle of the
floor; a dingy, blue-flowered sofa, with three chairs to match (the
sort seen in the windows of cheap furniture stores on bargain days,
marked "Nineteen dollars for Set"); a table in one corner, bearing a
stack of photographs and a glass vase holding up a bunch of pink paper
roses; a half dozen colored prints in gilt-and-white plaster frames. The
room, however, quite satisfied Mrs. Barry, and the amiable president of
the S. I. W. E. H. F. would needs have given benign approval to the
room's utter cleanliness.
Mrs. Barry, a big, red-faced woman, greeted Tom heartily. Then she
turned to the boy and girl. "Come on, children. We've got to chase
ourselves. The men folks want to talk." She drove the two before her
wide body into the kitchen.
Tom plunged into the middle of what he had to say. "We've talked about
Foley a lot--all of us. We've said other unions are managed decently,
honestly--why shouldn't ours be? We've said we didn't like Foley's
bulldozing ways. We didn't like the tough gang he's got into the union.
We didn't like the rough-house meetings. We didn't like his grafting.
We've said we ought to raise up and kick him out. And then, having said
that much, we've gone back to work--me, you and all the rest of us--and
he's kept on bullying us, and using the union as a lever to pry off
graft. I'm dead sick of this sort of business. For one, I'm tired
talking. I'm ready for doing."
"Sure, we're all sick o' Foley. But what d'you think we ought to do?"
queried Barry.
"Fire him out," Tom answered shortly.
"It only takes three words to say that," said Pig Iron. "But how?"
"Fire him out!" Tom was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his
knees, his big, red hands interlocked. There was determination in his
square face, in the set of his powerful red neck, in the hunch of his
big shoulders. He gazed steadily at the two men for a brief space.
"Boys, my mind's made up. I'm going to fight him."
Pete and Barry looked at him in amazement.
"You're goin' to fight Buck Foley!" cried Barry.
"You're jokin'!" said Pig Iron.
"I'm in dead earnest."
"You know what'll happen to you if you lose?" queried Barry.
"Yes. And I know Foley may not even give me a chance to lose," Tom added
grimly.
"You've got nerve to burn, Tom," said Pig Iron. "It's not an easy
proposition. Myself, I'd as soon put on the gloves an' mix it up with
the devil. An' to spit it right out on the carpet, Tom, I think Buck's
done the union a lot o' good."
"You're right there, Pete. No one knows that better than I do. As you
fellows know, I left town eight years ago and was bridging in the West
four years. I was pretty much of a kid when I went away, but I was old
enough to see the union didn't have enough energy left to die. When I
came back and saw what Foley'd done, I thought he was the greatest thing
that ever happened. If he'd quit right then the union'd 'a' papered the
hall with his pictures. But you know how he's changed since then. The
public knows it, too. Look how the newspapers have been shooting it into
him. I'm not fighting Foley as he was four or five years ago, Pete, but
Foley as he is now."
"There's no denyin' he's so crooked now he can't lay straight in bed,"
Pete admitted.
"We've got to get rid of him some time, haven't we?" Tom went on.
"Yes," the two men conceded.
"Or sooner or later he'll smash the union. That's certain. Now there's
only one way to get rid of him. That's to go out after him, and go after
him hard."
"But it's an awful risk for you, Tom," said Barry.
"Someone's got to take it if we ever get rid of Foley."
"One thing's straight, anyhow," declared Pete. "You're the best man in
the union to go against Foley."
"Of course," said Barry.
Tom did not deny it.
There was a moment's silence. Then Pete asked: "What's your plan?"
"Election comes the first meeting in March. I'm going to run against him
for walking delegate."
"If you care anything for my opinion," said Pete, "here it is: You've
got about as much chance as a snowball in hell."
"You're away off, Pig Iron. You know as well as I do that five-sixths of
the men in the union are against Foley. Why do they stand for him?
Because they're unorganized, and he's got them bluffed out. If those
men got together, Foley'd be the snowball. That's what I'm going to try
to do,--get those men in line."
A door opened, and Mrs. Barry looked in. "I left my glasses somewhere in
there. Will I bother you men much if I look for 'em?"
"Not me," said Tom. "You can stay and listen if you want to."
Mrs. Barry sat down. "I suppose you don't mind tellin' us how you're
goin' to get the men in line," said Pete.
"My platform's going to be an honest administration of the affairs of
the union, and every man to be treated like a man. That's simple enough,
ain't it?--and strong enough? And a demand for more wages. I'm going to
talk these things to every man I meet. If they can kick Foley out, and
get honest management and decent treatment, just by all coming out and
voting, don't you think they're going to do it? They'll all fall in
line."
"That demand for more wages is a good card. Our wage contract with the
bosses expires May first, you know. The men all want more money; they
need it; they deserve it. If I talk for it Foley'll be certain to oppose
it, and that'll weaken him.
"I wanted to talk this over with you fellows to get your opinion. I
thought you might suggest something. But even if you don't like the
scheme, and even if you don't want to join in the fight, I'm going to
stick it out. My mind's made up."
Tom sank back into his chair and waited for the two men to speak.
"Well, your scheme don't sound just like an insane asylum," Pete
admitted. "Count me in."
Tom looked across at Barry. Barry's face was turned down and his hands
were inter-gripped. Tom understood. Barry had been out of work much
during the last three years, and recent illness in the family had
endowed him with debts. If he actively engaged in Tom's movement, and
Foley triumphed, Foley's vengeance would see to it that Barry worked no
more in New York. It was too great a risk to ask of a man situated as
Barry was.
"I understand, Barry," said Tom. "That's all right. Don't you do it."
Barry made no answer.
Mrs. Barry put her hand on her husband's shoulder. "Jim, ain't we goin'
to be in on this fight against Foley?"
"You know why, Mary." There was a catch in his voice.
"Yes. Because of me an' the kids. You, I know you've got as much nerve
as anybody. We're goin' in, Jim. An' if we lose"--she tried to
smile--"why, I ain't much of a consumptive, am I? I'll take in washin'
to help out."
Tom turned his face about. Pete did the same, and their eyes met. Pete's
face was set hard. He growled out something that sounded very much like
an oath.
It was midnight when Tom left. The strike which Foley called on the St.
Etienne Hotel the next day gave him time for much thinking about his
campaign. He acquainted several of the more influential members of the
union with his purpose, asking them to keep secret what he said till he
was ready to begin an open fight. All gave him sympathy, but most of
them hesitated when it came to promising active assistance. "Now if
Foley only couldn't do us out of our jobs, in case you lose, we'd be
right with you. But----" Fear inclined them to let bad enough alone.
This set Tom to thinking again. On Monday evening--that afternoon Foley
had ordered the men back to work on the St. Etienne Hotel--Tom announced
a new plan to Barry and Pete. "We want to get every argument we can to
use on the boys. It struck me we might make some use of the bosses. It's
to their interest, as well as to ours, for us to have the right sort of
delegate. If we could say that the bosses are sick of Foley and want us
to get a decent man, and will guarantee to keep us at work no matter what
Foley says,--that might have influence on some of the weak-kneed
brothers."
"The boys'd say the bosses ain't runnin' the union," said Pete. "If you
get the bosses on your side, the boys'll all stand by Foley."
"I thought of that. That's what'd happen if we got mixed up with anybody
on the Executive Committee of the bosses except Baxter. The boys think
Murphy, Bobbs, and Isaacs are pretty small potatoes, and they think
Driscoll's not on the square. I guess it's a case of the pot calling the
kettle black, but you know what Foley says about Driscoll. But with
Baxter it's different. He's friendly to the union, and the boys know it.
A word from him might help a lot. And he hates Foley, and Foley has no
use for him. I've heard Buck say as much."
"It's worth tryin', anyhow," Pete and Barry agreed.
"Well, I'm going to brace him to-morrow after work," said Tom.