THE COWARD
Two days before his meeting with Miss Arnold Tom had been convinced that
any more time was wasted that was spent in looking for a job as foreman.
He had before him the choice of being idle or working in the gang. He
disliked to do the latter, regarding it as a professional relapse. But
he was unwilling to draw upon his savings, if that could be avoided, so
he decided to go back into the ranks. The previous evening he had heard
of three new jobs that were being started. The contractors on two of
them he had seen during the morning; and after his encounter with Foley
he set out to interview the third. The contractor was an employer of the
smallest consequence--a florid man with little cunning eyes. "Yes, I do
need some men," he replied to Tom's inquiry. "How much d'you want?"
"Three seventy-five a day, the regular rate."
The contractor shook his head. "Too much. I can only pay three."
"But you signed an agreement to pay the full rate!" Tom cried.
"Oh, a man signs a lot o' things."
Tom was about to turn away, when his curiosity got the better of his
disgust. For a union man to work under the scale was an offense against
the union. For an employer to pay under the scale was an offense
against the employers' association. Tom decided to draw the contractor
out. "Well, suppose I go to work at three dollars, how do we keep from
being discovered?" he asked.
The little eyes gleamed with appreciation of their small cunning. "I
make this agreement with all my men: You get the full amount in your
envelope Saturday. Anybody that sees you open your envelope sees that
you're gettin' full scale. Then you hand me back four-fifty later.
That's for money I advanced you durin' the week. D'you understand?"
"I do," said Tom. "But I'm no three dollar man!"
"Hold on!" the contractor cried to Tom's back. His cunning told him in
an instant that he had made a mistake; that this man, if let go, might
make trouble. "I was just foolin' you. Of course, I'll pay you full
rate."
Tom knew the man was lying, but he had no real proof that the contractor
was breaking faith both with the union and his fellow employers; so, as
he needed the money, he took the offered position and went to work the
next morning. The job was a fire-engine house just being started on the
upper west side of the island. The isolation of the job and the
insignificance of the contractor made Tom feel there was a chance Foley
might overlook him for the next two weeks.
On the following Saturday morning three new men began work on the job.
One of them Tom was certain he knew--a tall, lank fellow, chiefly knobs
and angles, with wide, drooping shoulders and a big yellow mustache. Tom
left his place at the crane of the jimmy derrick and ran down a plank
into the basement to where this man and four others were rolling a round
column to its place.
He touched the man on the shoulder. "Your name's Petersen, ain't it?"
"Yah," said the big fellow.
"And you worked for a couple of days on the St. Etienne Hotel?"
"Yah."
Tom did his duty as prescribed by the union rules. He pointed out
Petersen as a scab to the steward. Straightway the men crowded up and
there was a rapid exchange of opinions. Tom and the steward wanted that
a demand for Petersen's discharge be made of the contractor. But the
others favored summary action, and made for where the big Swede was
standing.
"Get out!" they ordered.
Petersen glowered at the crowd. "I lick de whole bunch!" he said with
slow defiance.
The men were brought to a pause by his threatening attitude. His
resentful eyes turned for an instant on Tom. The men began to move
forward cautiously. Then the transformation that had taken place on the
St. Etienne Hotel took place again. The courage faded from him, and he
turned and started up the inclined plank for the street.
Jeers broke from the men. Caps and greasy gloves pelted Petersen's
retreating figure. One man, the smallest of the gang, ran up the plank
after him.
"Do him up, Kid!" the men shouted scrambling up to the sidewalk.
Kid, with showy valiance, aimed an upward blow at the Swede's head.
Petersen warded off the fist with automatic ease, but made no attempt to
strike back. He started away, walking sidewise, one eye on his path, one
on his little assailant who kept delivering fierce blows that somehow
failed to reach their mark.
"If he ain't runnin' from Kid!" ejaculated the men. "Good boy, Kid!"
The blows became faster and fiercer. At the corner Petersen turned back,
held his foe at bay an instant, and a second time Tom felt the
resentment of his eyes. Then he was driven around the corner. A minute
later the little man came back, puffed out and swaggering.
"What an infernal coward!" the men marveled, as they went back to work.
That was a hard evening for Tom. He not only had to work for votes, but
he met two or three lieutenants who were disheartened by the men's
slowness to promise support, and to these friends he had to give new
courage. Twice, as he was talking to men on the street, he glimpsed the
tall, lean figure of Petersen, standing in a doorway as though waiting
for someone.
The end of his exhausting evening's work found him near the Barrys', and
he dropped in for an exchange of experiences. Barry and Pig Iron Pete
had themselves come in but a few minutes before.
"Got work on your job for a couple more men?" asked Pete after the first
words had been spoken.
"Hello! You haven't been fired?"
"That's it," answered Pete; and Barry nodded.
"Foley's work, I suppose?"
"Sure. Foley put Jake Henderson up to it. Oh, Jake makes a hot foreman!
Driscoll ought to pay him ten a day to keep off the job. Jake complained
against us an' got us fired. Said we didn't know our business."
"Well, it's only for another week, boys," Tom cheered them.
"If you think that then you've had better luck with the men than me 'n'
Barry has," Pete declared in disgust. "They're a bunch o' old maids!
Foley's too good for 'em. I don't see why we should try to force 'em to
take somethin' better." The whole blankety-blanked outfit had Pete's
permission to go where they didn't need a forge to heat their rivets.
"You don't understand 'em, Pete," returned Tom. "They've got to think
first of all of how to earn a living for their families. Of course
they're going to hesitate to do anything that will endanger their chance
to earn a living. And you seem to forget that we've only got to get one
man in five to win out."
"An' we've got to get him!" said Barry, almost fiercely.
"D'you think there's much danger of your losin', Tom?" Mrs. Barry
queried anxiously.
"Not if we work. But we've got to work."
Mrs. Barry was silent for several moments, during which the talk of the
men ran on. Suddenly, she broke in: "Don't you think the women'd have
some influence with their husbands?"
Tom was silent for a thoughtful minute. "Some of them, mebbe."
"More'n you think, I bet!" Mrs. Barry declared. "It's worth tryin',
anyhow. Here's what I'm goin' to do: I'm goin' to start out to-morrow
an' begin visitin' all the union women I know. I can get the addresses
of others from them. An' I'll keep at it every afternoon I can get away
till the election. I'll talk to 'em good an' straight an' get 'em to
talk to other women. An' we'll get a lot o' the men in line, see if we
don't!"
Tom looked admiringly at Mrs. Barry's homely face, flushed with
determination. "The surest thing we can do to win is to put you up for
walking delegate. I'll hustle for you."
"Oh, g'wan with you, Tom!" She smiled with pleasure, however. "I've got
a picture o' myself climbin' up ladders an' buyin' drinks for the men."
"If you was the walkin' delegate," said Pete, "we'd always work on the
first floor, an' never drink nothin' but tea."
"You shut up, Pete!" Mrs. Barry looked at Tom. "I suppose you're wife'll
help in this, too?"
Tom looked steadily at the scroll in Mrs. Barry's red rug. "I'm afraid
not," he said at length. "She--she couldn't stand climbing the stairs."
It was after eleven o'clock when Tom left the Barrys' and started
through the quiet cross street toward a car line. A man stepped from an
adjoining doorway, and fell in a score of paces behind him. Tom heard
rapid steps drawing nearer and nearer, but it was not till the man had
gained to within a pace that it occurred to him perhaps he was being
followed. Then it was too late. His arm was seized in a grip of steel.
The street was dark and empty. Thoughts of Foley's entertainment
committee flashed through his head. He whirled about and struck out
fiercely with his free arm. His wrist was caught and held by a grip like
the first. He was as helpless as if handcuffed.
"I vant a yob," a savage voice demanded.
Tom recognized the tall, angular figure. "Hello, Petersen! What d'you
want?"
"I vant a yob."
"A job. How can I give you a job?"
"You take to-day ma yob avay. You give me a yob!"
In a flash Tom understood. The Swede held him accountable for the
incident of the morning, and was determined to force another job from
him. Was the man crazy? At any rate 'twould be wiser to parley than to
bring on a conflict with one possessed of such strength as those hands
betokened. So he made no attempt to break loose.
"I can't give you a job, I say."
"You take it avay!" the Swede said, with fierce persistence. "You make
me leave!"
"It's your own fault. If you want to work, why don't you get into the
union?"
Tom felt a convulsive shiver run through the man's big frame. "De union?
Ah, de union! Ev'ryvare I ask for yob. Ev'ryvare! 'You b'long to union?'
de boss say. 'No,' I say. De boss give me no yob. De union let me not
vork! De union----!" His hands gripped tighter in his impotent
bitterness.
"Of course the union won't let you work."
"Vy? I am strong!--yes. I know de vork."
Tom felt that no explanation of unionism, however lucid, would quiet
this simple-minded excitement. So he said nothing.
"Vy should I not vork? Dare be yobs. I know how to vork. But no! De
union! I mak dis mont' two days. I mak seven dollar. Seven dollar!" He
fairly shook Tom, and a half sob broke from his lips. "How de union tank
I live? My family?--me? Seven dollar?"
Tom recognized with a thrill that which he was hearing. It was the man's
soul crying out in resentment and despair.
"But you can't blame the union," he said weakly, feeling that his answer
did not answer.
"You tank not?" Petersen cried fiercely. "You tank not?" He was silent a
brief space, and his breath surged in and out as though he had just
paused from running. Suddenly he freed Tom's wrists and set his right
hand into Tom's left arm. "Come! I show you vot de union done."
He started away. Those iron fingers locked about the prisoner's arm were
a needless fetter. The Swede's despairing soul, glimpsed for a moment,
had thrown a spell upon Tom, and he would have followed willingly.
Their long strides matched, and their heel-clicks coincided. Both were
silent. At the end of ten minutes they were in a narrow street, clifted
on its either side with tenements that reached up darkly. Presently the
Swede turned down a stairway, sentineled by garbage cans. Tom thought
they were entering a basement. But Petersen walked on, and in the solid
blackness Tom was glad of the hand locked on his arm. They mounted a
flight of stone steps, and came into a little stone-paved court. Far
above there was a roof-framed square of stars. Petersen led the way
across the court and into the doorway of a rear tenement. The air was
rotting. They went up two flights of stairs, so old that the wood
shivered under foot. Petersen opened a door. A coal oil lamp burned on
an otherwise barren table, and beside the table sat a slight woman with
a quilt drawn closely about her.
She rose, the quilt fell from her shoulders, and she stood forth in a
faded calico wrapper. "Oh, Nels! You've come at last!" she said. Then
she saw Tom, and drew back a step.
"Yah," said Petersen. He dragged Tom after him into the room and swept
his left arm about. "See!--De union!"
The room was almost bare. The table, three wooden chairs, a few dishes,
a cooking-stove without fire,--this was the furniture. Half the
plastering was gone from the ceiling, the blue kalsomine was scaling
leprously from the walls, in places the floor was worn almost through.
In another room he saw a child asleep on a bed.
There was just one picture on the walls, a brown-framed photograph of a
man in the dress and pose of a prize fighter--a big, tall, angular man,
with a drooping mustache. Tom gave a quick glance at Petersen.
"See!--De union!" Petersen repeated fiercely.
The little woman came quickly forward and laid her hand on Petersen's
arm. "Nels, Nels," she said gently.
"Yah, Anna. But he is de man vot drove me from ma yob."
"We must forgive them that despitefully use us, the Lord says."
Petersen quieted under her touch and dropped Tom's arm.
She turned her blue eyes upon Tom in gentle accusation. "How could you?
Oh, how could you?"
Tom could only answer helplessly: "But why don't he join the union?"
"How can he?"
The words echoed within Tom. How could he? Everything Tom saw had not
the value of half the union's initiation fee.
There was an awkward silence. "Won't you sit down, brother." Mrs.
Petersen offered Tom one of the wooden chairs, and all three sat down.
He noted that the resentment was passing from Petersen's eyes, and that,
fastened on his wife, they were filling with submissive adoration.
"Nels has tried very hard," the little woman said. They had been in the
West for three years, she went on; Nels had worked with a non-union crew
on a bridge over the Missouri. When that job was finished they had spent
their savings coming to New York, hearing there was plenty of work
there. "We had but twenty dollars when we got here. How could Nels join
the union? We had to live. An' since he couldn't join the union, the
union wouldn't let him work. Brother, is that just? Is that the sort o'
treatment you'd like to get?"
Tom was helpless against her charges. The union was right in principle,
but what was mere correctness of principle in the presence of such a
situation?
"Would you be willing to join the union?" he asked abruptly of Petersen.
It was Petersen's wife who answered. "O' course he would."
"Well, don't you worry any more then. He won't have any trouble getting
a job."
"How?" asked the little woman.
"I'm going to get him in the union."
"But that costs twenty-five dollars."
"Yes."
"But, brother, we haven't got _one_!"
"I'll advance it. He can pay it back easy enough afterwards."
The little woman rose and stood before Tom. Her thin white face was
touched up faintly with color, and tears glistened in her eyes. She took
Tom's big red hand in her two frail ones.
"Brother, if you ain't a Christian, you've got a Christian heart!" she
cried out, and the thin hands tightened fervently. She turned to her
husband. "Nels, what did I say! The Lord would not forget them that
remembered him."
Tom saw Petersen stand up, nothing in his eyes now but adoration, and
open his arms. He turned his head.
For the second time Tom took note of the brown-framed photograph, with
"The Swedish Terror" in black letters at its bottom, and rose and stood
staring at it. Presently, Mrs. Petersen drew to his side.
"We keep it before us to remind us what wonders the Lord can work, bless
His holy name!" she explained. "Nels was a terrible fightin' man before
we was married an' I left the Salvation Army. A terrible fightin' man!"
Even in her awe of Petersen's one-time wickedness Tom could detect a
lurking admiration of his prowess. "The Lord has saved him from all
that. But he has a terrible temper. It flares up at times, an' the old
carnal desire to fight gets hold o' him again. That's his great
weakness. But we pray that God will keep him from fightin', an' God
does!"
Tom looked at the little woman, a bundle of religious ardor, looked at
Petersen with his big shoulders, thought of the incident of the morning.
He blinked his eyes.
Tom stepped to the table and laid down a five-dollar bill. "You can pay
that back later." He moved quickly to the door. "Good-night," he said,
and tried to escape.
But Mrs. Petersen was upon him instantly. "Brother! Brother!" She seized
his hands again in both hers, and looked at him with glowing eyes.
"Brother, may God bless you!"
Tom blinked his eyes again. "Good-night," he said.
Petersen stepped forward and without a word took Tom's arm. The grasp
was lighter than when they had come up. Again Tom was glad of the
guidance of that hand as they felt their way down the shivering stairs,
and out through the tunnel.
"Good-night," he said once more, when they had gained the street.
Petersen gripped his hand in awkward silence.