MR. BAXTER HAS A FEW CONFERENCES
Captains of war have it as a common practice to secure information, in
such secret ways as they can, about their opponents' plans and
movements, and to develop their own plans to match these; and this
practice has come into usage among captains of industry. The same
afternoon that Jake brought news of Tom's scheme to Foley, a man of
furtive glance whom a member of the union would have recognized as
Johnson requested the youth in the outer office of Baxter & Co. to carry
his name to the head of the firm.
"Wha' d'youse want to see him 'bout?" demanded the uniform.
"A job."
"No good. He don't hire nobody but the foremen."
"It's a foreman's job I'm after," returned Johnson, glancing about.
The debate continued, but in the end Johnson's name went in to Mr.
Baxter, and Johnson himself soon followed it. When he came out Mr.
Baxter's information was as complete as Buck Foley's.
That evening Johnson's news came into the conversation of Mr. Baxter and
his wife. After dinner she drew him into the library--a real library,
booked to the ceiling on three sides, an open wood fire on the
other--to tell him of a talk she had had that day with chance-met Ruth.
With an aunt's privilege she had asked about the state of affairs
between her and Mr. Berman.
"There's no telling what she's going to do," Mrs. Baxter went on, with a
gentle sigh. "I do hope she'll marry him! People are still talking about
her strange behavior in leaving us to go to work. How I did try to
persuade her not to do it! I knew it would involve us in a scandal. And
the idea of her offering to go to work in your office!"
Mr. Baxter continued to look abstractedly into the grate, as he had
looked ever since she had begun her half-reminiscent strain. Now that
she was ended, she could but note that his mind was elsewhere.
"James!"
"Yes." He turned to her with a start.
"Why, you have not spoken a word to me. Is there something on your
mind?"
He studied the flames for a moment. "I learned this afternoon that the
Iron Workers' Union will probably demand a ten per cent. increase in
wages."
"What! And that means a strike?"
"It doubtless does, unless we grant their demand."
"But can you afford to?"
"We could without actually running at a loss."
Mrs. Baxter was on the board of patronesses of one or two workingwomen's
clubs and was a contributor to several fashionable charities, so
considered herself genuinely thoughtful of the interests of
wage-earners. "If you won't lose anything, I suppose you might as well
increase their salaries. Most of them can use a little more money.
They're respectable people who appreciate everything we do for them. And
you can make it up by charging higher prices."
Mr. Baxter sat silent for a space looking at his wife, quizzically,
admiringly. He was inclined to scoff in his heart at his wife's
philanthropic hobbies, but he indulged her in them as he did in all her
efforts to attain fashionable standing. He had said, lover fashion, in
their courtship days, that she should never have an ungratified wish,
and after a score of years he still held warmly to this promise. He
still admired her; and little wonder, for sitting with her feet
stretched toward the open fire, her blonde head gracefully in one hand,
her brown eyes fixed waitingly on him, looking at least eight less than
her forty-three years, she was absolutely beautiful.
"Elizabeth," he said at length, "do you know how much we spent last
year?"
"No."
"About ninety-three thousand dollars."
"So much as that? But really, it isn't such a big sum. A mere nothing to
what some of our friends spend."
"This year, with our Newport house, it'll be a good thirty thousand
more; one hundred and twenty-five thousand, anyway. Now I can't make the
owners pay the raise, as you seem to think." He smiled slightly at her
business naïveté. "The estimates on the work I'll do this year were all
made on the present scale, and I can't raise the estimates. If the ten
per cent. increase is granted, it'll have to come out of our income. Our
income will be cut down for this year to at least seventy-five thousand.
If things go bad, to fifty thousand."
Mrs. Baxter rose excitedly to her feet. "Why, that's absurd!"
"We'd have to give up the Newport house," he went on, "put the yacht out
of commission and lessen expenses here."
She looked at her husband in consternation. After several years of
effort Mrs. Baxter was just getting into the outer edge of the upper
crust of New York society. At her husband's words she saw all that she
had striven for, and which of late had seemed near of attainment,
withdraw into the shadowy recesses of an uncertain future.
"But we can't cut down!" she cried desperately. "We simply can't! We
couldn't entertain here in the manner we have planned. And we'd have to
go to Atlantic City this summer, or some other such place!--and who goes
to Atlantic City? Why, we'd lose everything we've gained! We can never
give the raise, James. It's simply out of the question!"
"And we won't," said Mr. Baxter, gently tapping a forefinger upon the
beautifully carved arm of his chair.
"Anyhow, suppose we do spend a hundred and twenty-five thousand, why the
working people get everything back in wages," she added ingeniously.
Mr. Baxter realized the economic fallacy of this last statement; but he
refrained from exposing her sophistry since her conscience found
satisfaction in it.
Monday morning, in discharge of his duty as president of the Iron
Employers' Association, Mr. Baxter got Murphy, Bobbs, Isaacs, and
Driscoll, the other four members of the Executive Committee, on the
telephone. At eleven o'clock the five men were sitting around Mr.
Baxter's cherry table. Bobbs, Murphy, and Isaacs already had knowledge
of Tom's plans; Mr. Baxter was not the only one having unionists on his
payroll who performed services other than handling beams and hammering
rivets. Mr. Driscoll alone was surprised when Mr. Baxter stated the
object of calling the committee thus hastily together.
"Why, I thought we'd been assured the old schedule would be continued!"
he said.
"So Mr. Foley gave us to understand," answered Mr. Baxter. "But it's
another man, a man named Keating, that's stirring this up."
"Keating!" Mr. Driscoll's lips pouted hugely, and his round eyes
snapped. For a man to whom he had taken a genuine liking to be stirring
up a fight against his interest was in the nature of a personal affront
to him.
"I think I know him," said Mr. Murphy. "He ain't such a much!"
"That shows you don't know him!" said Mr. Driscoll sharply. "Well, if
there is a strike, we'll at least have the satisfaction of fighting with
an honest man."
"That satisfaction, of course," admitted Mr. Baxter, in his soft,
rounded voice. "But what shall be our plan? It is certainly the part of
wisdom for us to decide upon our attitude, and our course, in advance."
"Fight 'em!" said Mr. Driscoll.
"What is the opinion of you other gentlemen?"
"They don't deserve an increase, so I'm against it," said Mr. Bobbs. Had
he spoken his thought his answer would have been: "It'll half ruin me if
we give the increase. Fact is, I've gone in pretty heavy in some real
estate lately. If my profits are cut down, I can't meet my payments."
"Same as Driscoll," said Mr. Murphy, a blowzed, hairy man, a Tammany
member of the Board of Aldermen. He swore at the union. "Why, they're
already gettin' twice what they're worth!"
Mr. Baxter raised his eyebrows the least trifle at Mr. Murphy's
profanity. "Mr. Isaacs."
"I don't see how we can pay more. And yet if we're tied up by a strike
for two or three months we'll lose more than the increase of wages would
come to."
Mr. Baxter answered the doubtful Mr. Isaacs in his smooth, even tones.
"You seem to forget, Mr. Isaacs, that if we grant this without a fight,
there'll be another demand next spring, and another the year after.
We're compelled to make a stand now if we would keep wages within
reasonable bounds."
"Yes, I suppose so," agreed Mr. Isaacs.
"Besides, if there is a strike it is not at all likely that it will last
any time," Mr. Baxter continued. "We should break the strike easily,
with a division in the union, as of course you see there is,--this Mr.
Keating on one side, Mr. Foley on the other. I've met Mr. Keating. I
dare say he's honest enough, as Mr. Driscoll says. But he is
inexperienced, and I am sure we can easily outgeneral him."
"Beat 'em easy, an' needn't spit on our hands to do it neither," said
Mr. Murphy. He started to swing one foot upon the cherry table, but
catching Mr. Baxter's eye he checked the leg in mid-career.
Straightway the five plunged into an excited discussion of the chance of
beating the strike, of plans for fighting it, and of preparation that
should be made in anticipation of it.
When they had gone Mr. Baxter sat down to his desk and began writing a
note. He had listened to the talk of the four, to him mere chatter, with
outward courtesy and inward chafing, not caring to mention to them the
plan upon which he had already decided. His first impulse had been to
fight the union, and fight it hard. He hated trade unionism for its
arrogation of powers that he regarded as the natural right of the
employer; it was his right, as the owner of a great business, and as the
possessor of a superior intelligence, to run his affairs as he saw
fit--to employ men on his own terms, work them such hours and under such
conditions as he should decide--terms, hours, and conditions, of course,
to be as good as he could afford. But his business training, his wholly
natural instinct for gain, and later his large family expenses, had
fixed upon him the profitable habit of seeking the line of least
resistance. And so, succeeding this first hot impulse, was a desire that
the strike be avoided--if that were possible.
His first thought had been of Foley. But the fewer his meetings with the
walking delegate of the iron workers, the more pleased was he. Then came
the second thought that it was better to deal directly with the
threatening cause--and so the letter he now wrote was to Tom Keating.
The letter was delivered Tuesday morning before Tom left home. He read
it in wonderment, for to him any letter was an event:
"Will you please call at my office as soon as you can find it
convenient. I have something to say that I think will interest you."
Guessing wildly as to what this something might be, Tom presented
himself at ten o'clock in the outer office of Baxter & Co. The uniform
respectfully told him that Mr. Baxter would not be in before twelve. At
twelve Tom was back. Yes, Mr. Baxter was in, said the uniform, and
hurried away with Tom's name. Again there was a wait before the boy came
back, and again a wait in a sheeny chair before Mr. Baxter looked up.
"Oh, Mr. Keating," he said. "I see you got my letter."
"Yes. This morning."
Mr. Baxter did not lose a second. "What I wanted to see you about is
this: I understand that some time ago you were inquiring here for a
position. It happens that I have a place just now that I'm desirous of
filling with an absolutely trustworthy man. Mr. Driscoll spoke very
highly to me of you, so I've sent for you."
This offer came to Tom as a surprise. His uppermost guess as to the
reason for his being summoned had been that Mr. Baxter, repenting of his
late non-participation, now wished to join in the fight against Foley.
Under other circumstances Tom would have accepted the position, said
nothing, and held the job as long as he could. But the fact that the
offer was coming to him freely and in good faith prompted him to say:
"You must know, Mr. Baxter, that if you give me a job Foley'll make
trouble for you."
"I have no fear of Mr. Foley's interference," Mr. Baxter answered him
quietly.
"You haven't!" Tom leaned forward in sudden admiration. "You're the
first boss I've struck yet that's not afraid of Foley! He's got 'em all
scared stiff. If you'd come out against him----"
Tom would have said more but Mr. Baxter's cold reserve, not a change of
feature, chilled his enthusiasm. He drew up in his chair. "What's the
job?"
"Foreman. The salary is forty a week."
Tom's heart beat exultantly--and he had a momentary triumph over Maggie.
"I'll take it," he said.
"Can you begin at once?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Then I'll want you to leave to-morrow."
Tom started. "Leave?"
"Yes. Didn't I mention that the job is in Chicago?"
Mr. Baxter watched Tom closely out of his steely gray eyes. He saw the
flush die out of Tom's face, saw Tom's clasped hands suddenly
tighten--and knew his answer before he spoke.
"I can't do it," he said with an effort. "I can't leave New York."
Mr. Baxter studied Tom's face an instant longer.... But it was too
honest.
He turned toward his desk with a gentle abruptness. "I am very sorry,
Mr. Keating. Good-day."
With Mr. Baxter there was small space between actions. He had already
decided upon his course in case this plan should fail. Tom was scarcely
out of his office before he was writing a note to Buck Foley.
Foley sauntered in the next morning, hands in overcoat pockets, a cigar
in one corner of his mouth. "What's this I hear about a strike?" Mr.
Baxter asked, as soon as the walking delegate was seated.
"Don't youse waste none o' the thinks in your brain-box on no strike,"
returned Foley. He had early discovered Mr. Baxter's dislike of uncouth
expressions.
"But there's a great deal of serious talk."
"There's always wind comin' out o' men's mouths."
Mr. Baxter showed not a trace of the irritation he felt.
"Is there going to be a strike?"
"Not if I know myself. And I think I do." He blew out a great cloud of
smoke.
"But one of your men--a Mr. Keating--is stirring one up."
"He thinks he is," Foley corrected. "But he's got another think comin'.
He's a fellow youse ought to know, Baxter. Nice an' cultivated;
God-fearin' an' otherwise harmless."
Mr. Baxter's face tightened. "I know, Mr. Foley, that this situation is
much more serious than you pretend," he said sharply.
Foley tilted back in his chair. "If youse seen a lion comin' at youse
with a yard or so of open mouth youse'd think things was gettin' a
little serious. But if youse knew the lion'd never make its last jump,
youse wouldn't go into the occupation o' throwin' fits, now would
youse?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothin'. Only there'll be no last jump for Keating."
"How's that?"
"How? That's my business." He stood up, relit his cigar, striking the
match on the sole of his shoe. "Results is what youse's after. The how
belongs to me."
At the door he paused, half closed one eye, and slowly blew forth the
smoke of his cigar. "Now don't get brain-fag," he said.