THE PROGRESS OF THE STRIKE
When morning began to creep into the streets, and while it was yet only
a dingy mist, Tom slipped quietly into his flat and stretched his
wearied length upon the couch, his anguish subdued to an aching numbness
by his lone walk. He lay for a time, his eyes turned dully into the back
yard, watching the dirty light grow cleaner; and presently he sank into
a light sleep. After a little his eyes opened and he saw Maggie looking
intently at him from their bedroom door.
For a moment the two of them maintained a silent gaze. Then she asked:
"You were out all night?"
"Yes," he answered passively.
"Why?"
He hesitated. "I was walking about--thinking."
"I should think you would be thinking! After what happened to you
Wednesday, and after losing your job yesterday!"
He did not correct her misinterpretation of his answer, and as he said
nothing more she turned back into the bedroom, and soon emerged dressed.
As she moved about preparing breakfast his eyes rested on her now and
then, and in a not unnatural selfishness he dully wondered why they two
were married. Her feeling for him, he knew, was of no higher sort than
that attachment which dependence upon a man and the sense of being
linked to him for life may engender in an unspiritual woman. There was
no love between them; they had no ideas in common; she was not this, and
not this, and not this. And all the things that she was not, the other
was. And it was always to be Maggie that he was to see thus intimately.
He had bowed to the situation as the ancients bowed to fate--accepted it
as a fact as unchangeable as death that has fallen. And yet, as he lay
watching her, thinking it was to be always so,--always!--his soul was
filled with agonizing rebellion; and so it was to be through many a day
to come. But later, as his first pain began to settle into an aching
sense of irreparable loss, his less selfish vision showed him that
Maggie was no more to blame for their terrible mistake than he, and not
so much; and that she, in a less painful degree, was also a pitiable
victim of their error. He became consciously considerate of her. For her
part, she at first marveled at this gentler manner, then slowly yielded
to it.
But this is running ahead. The first days were all the harder to Tom
because he had no work to share his time with his pain. He did not seek
another position; as he had told Ruth, he knew it would be useless to
ask for work so long as the charge of being a dynamiter rested upon him.
He walked about the streets, trying to forget his pain in mixing among
his old friends, with no better financial hope than to wait till the
court had cleared his name. Several times he met Pig Iron Pete, who,
knowing only the public cause for Tom's dejection, prescribed a few
drinks as the best cure for such sorrow, and showed his faith in his
remedy by offering to take the same medicine. And one evening he brought
his cheerless presence to the Barrys'. "Poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Barry
after he had gone. "He takes his thumps hard."
One day as he walked about the streets he met Petersen, and with the
Swede was a stocky, red-faced, red-necked man wearing a red necktie
whose brilliance came to a focus in a great diamond pin. Petersen had
continued to call frequently after nightly attendance had become
unnecessary. Two weeks before Tom had gleaned from him by hard
questioning that the monthly rent of twelve dollars was overdue, the
landlord was raging, there was nothing with which to pay, and also
nothing in the house to eat. The next day Tom had drawn fifteen dollars
from his little bank account, and held it by him to give to Petersen
when he next called. But he had not come again. Now on seeing him Tom's
first feeling was of guilt that he had not carried the needed money to
Petersen's home.
The stocky man, when he saw the two were friends, withdrew himself to
the curb and began to clean his nails with his pocket knife. "How are
you, Petersen?" Tom asked.
"I'm purty good," Petersen returned, glancing restlessly at the stocky
man.
"You don't need a little money, do you?" Tom queried anxiously.
"No. I'm vorkin'." He again looked restlessly at his manicuring friend.
"You don't say! That's good. What at?"
Petersen's restlessness became painful. "At de docks."
Tom saw plainly that Petersen was anxious to get away, so he said
good-by and walked on, puzzled by the Swede's strange manner, by his
rather unusual companion, and puzzled also as to how his work as
longshoreman permitted him to roam the streets in the middle of the
afternoon.
When Tom met friends in his restless wanderings and stopped to talk to
them, the subject was usually the injustice he had suffered or the
situation regarding the strike. Up to the day of the Avon explosion the
union as a whole had been satisfied with the strike's progress. That
event, of course, had weakened the strikers' cause before the public.
But the promptness with which the union was credited to have renounced
the instigator of the outrage partially restored the ironworkers to
their position. They were completely restored three days after the
explosion, when Mr. Baxter, smarting under his recent loss and not being
able to retaliate directly upon Foley, permitted himself to be induced
by a newspaper to express his sentiments upon labor unions. The
interview was an elaboration of the views which are already partly known
to the reader. By reason of the rights which naturally belong to
property, he said, by reason of capital's greatly superior intelligence,
it was the privilege of capital, nay even its duty, to arrange the
uttermost detail of its affairs without any consultation whatever with
labor, whose views were always selfish and necessarily always
unintelligent. The high assumption of superiority in Mr. Baxter's
interview, its paternalistic, even monarchical, character, did not
appeal to his more democratic and less capitalized readers, and they
drew nearer in sympathy to the men he was fighting.
As the last days of May passed one by one, Tom's predictions to Ruth
began to have their fulfillment. By the first of June a great part of
the building in the city was practically at a standstill; the other
building trades had caught up with the ironworkers on many of the jobs,
and so had to lay down their tools. The contractors in these trades were
all checked more or less in their work. Their daily loss quickly
overcame their natural sympathy with the iron contractors and Mr. Baxter
was beset by them. "We haven't any trouble with our men," ran the gist
of their complaint. "Why should we be losing money just because you and
your men can't agree? For God's sake, settle it up so we can get to
work!"
Owners of buildings in process of construction, with big sums tied up in
them, began to grow frantic. Their agreements with the contractors
placed upon the latter a heavy fine for every day the completion of the
buildings was delayed beyond the specified time; but the contracts
contained a "strike clause" which exempted the bosses from penalties for
delays caused by strikes. And so the loss incurred by the present delay
fell solely upon the owners. "Settle this up somehow," they were
constantly demanding of Mr. Baxter. "You've delayed my building a month.
There's a month's interest on my money, and my natural profits for a
month, both gone to blazes!"
To all of these Mr. Baxter's answer was in substance the same: "The day
the union gives up, on that day the strike is settled." And this he said
with unchangeable resolution showing through his voice. The bosses and
owners went away cursing and looking hopelessly upon an immediate future
whose only view to them was a desert of loss.
But Mr. Baxter did not have in his heart the same steely decision he had
in his manner. Events had not taken just the course he had foreseen. The
division in the union, on which he had counted for its fall, had been
mended by the subsidence of Tom. The union's resources were almost
exhausted, true, but it was receiving some financial assistance from its
national organization, and its fighting spirit was as strong as ever. If
the aid of the national organization continued to be given, and if the
spirit of the men remained high, Mr. Baxter realized that the union
could hold out indefinitely. The attempt to replace the strikers by
non-union men had been a failure; Mr. Driscoll and himself were the only
contractors who still maintained the expensive farce of keeping a few
scabs at work. And despite his surface indifference to it, the pressure
of the owners of buildings and of the bosses in other trades had a
little effect upon Mr. Baxter, and more than a little upon some other
members of the Executive Committee. A few of the employers were already
eager to yield to the strikers' demand, preferring decreased profits to
a long period of none at all; but when Mr. Isaacs attempted to voice the
sentiments of these gentlemen in a meeting of the Executive Committee, a
look from Mr. Baxter's steady gray eyes was enough to close him up
disconcerted.
So Buck Foley was not without a foundation in fact for his hopeful words
when he said in his report to the union at the first meeting in June:
"The only way we can lose this strike, boys, is to give it away."
Which remark might be said, by one speaking from the vantage of later
events, to have been a bit of unconscious prophecy.