23927	----	None 
2908	----	FIRST SERIES PLAYS By John Galsworthy STRIFE A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS PERSONS OF THE PLAY JOHN ANTHONY, Chairman of the Trenartha Tin Plate Works EDGAR ANTHONY, his Son FREDERIC H. WILDER, | WILLIAM SCANTLEBURY,| Directors Of the same OLIVER WANKLIN, | HENRY TENCH, Secretary of the same FRANCIS UNDERWOOD, C.E., Manager of the same SIMON HARNESS, a Trades Union official DAVID ROBERTS, | JAMES GREEN, | JOHN BULGIN, | the workmen's committee HENRY THOMAS, | GEORGE ROUS, | HENRY ROUS, | LEWIS, | JAGO, | EVANS, | workman at the Trenartha Tin Plate Works A BLACKSMITH, | DAVIES, | A RED-HAIRED YOUTH. | BROWN | FROST, valet to John Anthony ENID UNDERWOOD, Wife of Francis Underwood, daughter of John Anthony ANNIE ROBERTS, wife of David Roberts MADGE THOMAS, daughter of Henry Thomas MRS. ROUS, mother of George and Henry Rous MRS. BULGIN, wife of John Bulgin MRS. YEO, wife of a workman A PARLOURMAID to the Underwoods JAN, Madge's brother, a boy of ten A CROWD OF MEN ON STRIKE ACT I. The dining-room of the Manager's house. ACT II, SCENE I. The kitchen of the Roberts's cottage near the works. SCENE II. A space outside the works. ACT III. The drawing-room of the Manager's house. The action takes place on February 7th between the hours of noon and six in the afternoon, close to the Trenartha Tin Plate Works, on the borders of England and Wales, where a strike has been in progress throughout the winter. ACT I It is noon. In the Underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is burning. On one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the hall. In the centre of the room a long dining-table without a cloth is set out as a Board table. At the head of it, in the Chairman's seat, sits JOHN ANTHONY, an old man, big, clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick dark eyebrows. His movements are rather slow and feeble, but his eyes are very much alive. There is a glass of water by his side. On his right sits his son EDGAR, an earnest-looking man of thirty, reading a newspaper. Next him WANKLIN, a man with jutting eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer papers. TENCH, the Secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. On WANKLIN'S right sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw, and steady eyes. Back to the fire is SCANTLEBURY, a very large, pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. Between him and the Chairman are two empty chairs. WILDER. [Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the devil! Can I have a screen, Tench? SCANTLEBURY. A screen, ah! TENCH. Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is-- perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr. Underwood---- SCANTLEBURY. These fireplaces of yours, Underwood---- UNDERWOOD. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather! I'm sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now. [He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly, ironically.] WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm! [UNDERWOOD goes out.] SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils! WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury. EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them, according to the Trenartha News. WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views. They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought to be shot. EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike----" WILDER. Well, we have come. EDGAR. [Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched." [WANKLIN takes the paper from him.] WILDER. Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself. [ANTHONY says something that is not heard.] WILDER. What does your father say? EDGAR. He says "The kettle and the pot." WILDER. H'm! [He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.] SCANTLEBURY. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get that screen. [UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is twenty-eight years old.] ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the highest we've got. WILDER. Thanks, capitally. SCANTLEBURY. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci, Madame! ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his head.] Edgar--anything? EDGAR. You might give me a "J" nib, old girl. ENID. There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury. SCANTLEBURY. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses "J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.] What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood? UNDERWOOD. A quill! SCANTLEBURY. The homely product of the goose. [He holds out quills.] UNDERWOOD. [Drily.] Thanks, if you can spare me one. [He takes a quill.] What about lunch, Enid? ENID. [Stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] We're going to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with your meeting. [WANKLIN and WILDER bow, and she goes out.] SCANTLEBURY. [Rousing himself, suddenly.] Ah! Lunch! That hotel-- Dreadful! Did you try the whitebait last night? Fried fat! WILDER. Past twelve! Are n't you going to read the minutes, Tench? TENCH. [Looking for the CHAIRMAN'S assent, reads in a rapid and monotonous voice.] "At a Board Meeting held the 31st of January at the Company's Offices, 512, Cannon Street, E.C. Present--Mr. Anthony in the chair, Messrs. F. H. Wilder, William Scantlebury, Oliver Wanklin, and Edgar Anthony. Read letters from the Manager dated January 20th, 23d, 25th, 28th, relative to the strike at the Company's Works. Read letters to the Manager of January 21st, 24th, 26th, 29th. Read letter from Mr. Simon Harness, of the Central Union, asking for an interview with the Board. Read letter from the Men's Committee, signed David Roberts, James Green, John Bulgin, Henry Thomas, George Rous, desiring conference with the Board; and it was resolved that a special Board Meeting be called for February 7th at the house of the Manager, for the purpose of discussing the situation with Mr. Simon Harness and the Men's Committee on the spot. Passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one balance certificate." [He pushes the book over to the CHAIRMAN.] ANTHONY. [With a heavy sigh.] If it's your pleasure, sign the same. [He signs, moving the pen with difficulty. ] WANKLIN. What's the Union's game, Tench? They have n't made up their split with the men. What does Harness want this interview for? TENCH. Hoping we shall come to a compromise, I think, sir; he's having a meeting with the men this afternoon. WILDER. Harness! Ah! He's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed chaps. I distrust them. I don't know that we didn't make a mistake to come down. What time'll the men be here? UNDERWOOD. Any time now. WILDER. Well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do them any harm to cool their heels a bit. SCANTLEBURY. [Slowly.] Poor devils! It's snowing. What weather! UNDERWOOD. [With meaning slowness.] This house'll be the warmest place they've been in this winter. WILDER. Well, I hope we're going to settle this business in time for me to catch the 6.30. I've got to take my wife to Spain to-morrow. [Chattily.] My old father had a strike at his works in '69; just such a February as this. They wanted to shoot him. WANKLIN. What! In the close season? WILDER. By George, there was no close season for employers then! He used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket. SCANTLEBURY. [Faintly alarmed.] Not seriously? WILDER. [With finality.] Ended in his shootin' one of 'em in the legs. SCANTLEBURY. [Unavoidably feeling his thigh.] No? Which? ANTHONY. [Lifting the agenda paper.] To consider the policy of the Board in relation to the strike. [There is a silence.] WILDER. It's this infernal three-cornered duel--the Union, the men, and ourselves. WANKLIN. We need n't consider the Union. WILDER. It's my experience that you've always got to, consider the Union, confound them! If the Union were going to withdraw their support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them to strike at all? EDGAR. We've had that over a dozen times. WILDER. Well, I've never understood it! It's beyond me. They talk of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they are--but that's not enough to make the Union withdraw their support. What's behind it? UNDERWOOD. Fear of strikes at Harper's and Tinewell's. WILDER. [With triumph.] Afraid of other strikes--now, that's a reason! Why could n't we have been told that before? UNDERWOOD. You were. TENCH. You were absent from the Board that day, sir. SCANTLEBURY. The men must have seen they had no chance when the Union gave them up. It's madness. UNDERWOOD. It's Roberts! WILDER. Just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like Roberts for leader. [A pause.] WANKLIN. [Looking at ANTHONY.] Well? WILDER. [Breaking in fussily.] It's a regular mess. I don't like the position we're in; I don't like it; I've said so for a long time. [Looking at WANKLIN.] When Wanklin and I came down here before Christmas it looked as if the men must collapse. You thought so too, Underwood. UNDERWOOD. Yes. WILDER. Well, they haven't! Here we are, going from bad to worse losing our customers--shares going down! SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] M'm! M'm! WANKLIN. What loss have we made by this strike, Tench? TENCH. Over fifty thousand, sir! SCANTLEBURY, [Pained.] You don't say! WILDER. We shall never got it back. TENCH. No, sir. WILDER. Who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like this--nobody suggested that. [Looking angrily at TENCH.] SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] I've never liked a fight--never shall. ANTHONY. No surrender! [All look at him.] WILDER. Who wants to surrender? [ANTHONY looks at him.] I--I want to act reasonably. When the men sent Roberts up to the Board in December--then was the time. We ought to have humoured him; instead of that the Chairman--[Dropping his eyes before ANTHONY'S]--er--we snapped his head off. We could have got them in then by a little tact. ANTHONY. No compromise! WILDER. There we are! This strike's been going on now since October, and as far as I can see it may last another six months. Pretty mess we shall be in by then. The only comfort is, the men'll be in a worse! EDGAR. [To UNDERWOOD.] What sort of state are they really in, Frank? UNDERWOOD. [Without expression.] Damnable! WILDER. Well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on like this without support! UNDERWOOD. Those who know them. WILDER. I defy any one to know them! And what about tin? Price going up daily. When we do get started we shall have to work off our contracts at the top of the market. WANKLIN. What do you say to that, Chairman? ANTHONY. Can't be helped! WILDER. Shan't pay a dividend till goodness knows when! SCANTLEBURY. [With emphasis.] We ought to think of the shareholders. [Turning heavily.] Chairman, I say we ought to think of the shareholders. [ANTHONY mutters.] SCANTLEBURY. What's that? TENCH. The Chairman says he is thinking of you, sir. SCANTLEBURY. [Sinking back into torpor.] Cynic! WILDER. It's past a joke. I don't want to go without a dividend for years if the Chairman does. We can't go on playing ducks and drakes with the Company's prosperity. EDGAR. [Rather ashamedly.] I think we ought to consider the men. [All but ANTHONY fidget in their seats.] SCANTLEBURY. [With a sigh.] We must n't think of our private feelings, young man. That'll never do. EDGAR. [Ironically.] I'm not thinking of our feelings. I'm thinking of the men's. WILDER. As to that--we're men of business. WANKLIN. That is the little trouble. EDGAR. There's no necessity for pushing things so far in the face of all this suffering--it's--it's cruel. [No one speaks, as though EDGAR had uncovered something whose existence no man prizing his self-respect could afford to recognise.] WANKLIN. [With an ironical smile.] I'm afraid we must n't base our policy on luxuries like sentiment. EDGAR. I detest this state of things. ANTHONY. We did n't seek the quarrel. EDGAR. I know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough. ANTHONY. No. [All look at one another.] WANKLIN. Luxuries apart, Chairman, we must look out what we're doing. ANTHONY. Give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it. WANKLIN. I quite agree, but---- [ANTHONY Shakes his head] You make it a question of bedrock principle? [ANTHONY nods.] Luxuries again, Chairman! The shares are below par. WILDER. Yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next dividend. SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Come, come! Not so bad as that. WILDER. [Grimly.] You'll see! [Craning forward to catch ANTHONY'S speech.] I didn't catch---- TENCH. [Hesitating.] The Chairman says, sir, "Fais que--que--devra." EDGAR. [Sharply.] My father says: "Do what we ought--and let things rip." WILDER. Tcha! SCANTLEBURY. [Throwing up his hands.] The Chairman's a Stoic--I always said the Chairman was a Stoic. WILDER. Much good that'll do us. WANKLIN. [Suavely.] Seriously, Chairman, are you going to let the ship sink under you, for the sake of--a principle? ANTHONY. She won't sink. SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Not while I'm on the Board I hope. ANTHONY. [With a twinkle.] Better rat, Scantlebury. SCANTLEBURY. What a man! ANTHONY. I've always fought them; I've never been beaten yet. WANKLIN. We're with you in theory, Chairman. But we're not all made of cast-iron. ANTHONY. We've only to hold on. WILDER. [Rising and going to the fire.] And go to the devil as fast as we can! ANTHONY. Better go to the devil than give in! WILDER. [Fretfully.] That may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit me, or any one else I should think. [ANTHONY looks him in the face-a silence.] EDGAR. I don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this means starvation to the men's wives and families. [WILDER turns abruptly to the fire, and SCANTLEBURY puts out a hand to push the idea away.] WANKLIN. I'm afraid again that sounds a little sentimental. EDGAR. Men of business are excused from decency, you think? WILDER. Nobody's more sorry for the men than I am, but if they [lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves and the shareholders. EDGAR. [Irritably.] It won't kill the shareholders to miss a dividend or two; I don't see that that's reason enough for knuckling under. SCANTLEBURY. [With grave discomfort.] You talk very lightly of your dividends, young man; I don't know where we are. WILDER. There's only one sound way of looking at it. We can't go on ruining ourselves with this strike. ANTHONY. No caving in! SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of despair.] Look at him! [ANTHONY'S leaning back in his chair. They do look at him.] WILDER. [Returning to his seat.] Well, all I can say is, if that's the Chairman's view, I don't know what we've come down here for. ANTHONY. To tell the men that we've got nothing for them---- [Grimly.] They won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain English. WILDER. H'm! Shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute Roberts had n't got us down here with the very same idea. I hate a man with a grievance. EDGAR. [Resentfully.] We didn't pay him enough for his discovery. I always said that at the time. WILDER. We paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three years later. If that's not enough! What does he want, for goodness' sake? TENCH. [Complainingly.] Company made a hundred thousand out of his brains, and paid him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir. WILDER. The man's a rank agitator! Look here, I hate the Unions. But now we've got Harness here let's get him to settle the whole thing. ANTHONY. No! [Again they look at him.] UNDERWOOD. Roberts won't let the men assent to that. SCANTLEBURY. Fanatic! Fanatic! WILDER. [Looking at ANTHONY.] And not the only one! [FROST enters from the hall.] FROST. [To ANTHONY.] Mr. Harness from the Union, waiting, sir. The men are here too, sir. [ANTHONY nods. UNDERWOOD goes to the door, returning with HARNESS, a pale, clean-shaven man with hollow cheeks, quick eyes, and lantern jaw--FROST has retired.] UNDERWOOD. [Pointing to TENCH'S chair.] Sit there next the Chairman, Harness, won't you? [At HARNESS'S appearance, the Board have drawn together, as it were, and turned a little to him, like cattle at a dog.] HARNESS. [With a sharp look round, and a bow.] Thanks! [He sits--- his accent is slightly nasal.] Well, gentlemen, we're going to do business at last, I hope. WILDER. Depends on what you call business, Harness. Why don't you make the men come in? HARNESS. [Sardonically.] The men are far more in the right than you are. The question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them again. [He ignores them all, except ANTHONY, to whom he turns in speaking.] ANTHONY. Support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have done with it. HARNESS. That won't do, Mr. Anthony. You can't get free labour, and you know it. ANTHONY. We shall see that. HARNESS. I'm quite frank with you. We were forced to withhold our support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of current rates. I expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day: if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them again at once. Now, I want to see something fixed upon before I go back to-night. Can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war business? What good's it doing you? Why don't you recognise once for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's good for them just as you want what's good for you [Bitterly.] Your motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners. ANTHONY. If the men will come in, we'll do something for them. HARNESS. [Ironically.] Is that your opinion too, sir--and yours-- and yours? [The Directors do not answer.] Well, all I can say is: It's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone I thought we'd grown out of--seems I was mistaken. ANTHONY. It's the tone the men use. Remains to be seen which can hold out longest--they without us, or we without them. HARNESS. As business men, I wonder you're not ashamed of this waste of force, gentlemen. You know what it'll all end in. ANTHONY. What? HARNESS. Compromise--it always does. SCANTLEBURY. Can't you persuade the men that their interests are the same as ours? HARNESS. [Turning, ironically.] I could persuade them of that, sir, if they were. WILDER. Come, Harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all the Socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. There 's no real difference between their interests and ours. HARNESS. There's just one very simple question I'd like to put to you. Will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay them? [WILDER is silent.] WANKLIN. [Chiming in.] I humbly thought that not to pay more than was necessary was the A B C of commerce. HARNESS. [With irony.] Yes, that seems to be the A B C of commerce, sir; and the A B C of commerce is between your interests and the men's. SCANTLEBURY. [Whispering.] We ought to arrange something. HARNESS. [Drily.] Am I to understand then, gentlemen, that your Board is going to make no concessions? [WANKLIN and WILDER bend forward as if to speak, but stop.] ANTHONY. [Nodding.] None. [WANKLIN and WILDER again bend forward, and SCANTLEBURY gives an unexpected grunt.] HARNESS. You were about to say something, I believe? [But SCANTLEBURY says nothing.] EDGAR. [Looking up suddenly.] We're sorry for the state of the men. HARNESS. [Icily.] The men have no use for your pity, sir. What they want is justice. ANTHONY. Then let them be just. HARNESS. For that word "just" read "humble," Mr. Anthony. Why should they be humble? Barring the accident of money, are n't they as good men as you? ANTHONY. Cant! HARNESS. Well, I've been five years in America. It colours a man's notions. SCANTLEBURY. [Suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.] Let's have the men in and hear what they've got to say! [ANTHONY nods, and UNDERWOOD goes out by the single door.] HARNESS. [Drily.] As I'm to have an interview with them this afternoon, gentlemen, I 'll ask you to postpone your final decision till that's over. [Again ANTHONY nods, and taking up his glass drinks.] [UNDERWOOD comes in again, followed by ROBERTS, GREEN, BULGIN, THOMAS, ROUS. They file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a row. ROBERTS is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop. He has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes. He wears an old and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler hat. He stands nearest the Chairman. GREEN, next to him, has a clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes. He wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar. Next to him is BULGIN, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap from one hand to the other. Next to him is THOMAS, an old man with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face, whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck. On his right, ROUS, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he has a glitter in his eyes.] UNDERWOOD. [Pointing.] There are some chairs there against the wall, Roberts; won't you draw them up and sit down? ROBERTS. Thank you, Mr. Underwood--we'll stand in the presence of the Board. [He speaks in a biting and staccato voice, rolling his r's, pronouncing his a's like an Italian a, and his consonants short and crisp.] How are you, Mr. Harness? Did n't expect t' have the pleasure of seeing you till this afternoon. HARNESS. [Steadily.] We shall meet again then, Roberts. ROBERTS. Glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take to your people. ANTHONY. What do the men want? ROBERTS. [Acidly.] Beg pardon, I don't quite catch the Chairman's remark. TENCH. [From behind the Chairman's chair.] The Chairman wishes to know what the men have to say. ROBERTS. It's what the Board has to say we've come to hear. It's for the Board to speak first. ANTHONY. The Board has nothing to say. ROBERTS. [Looking along the line of men.] In that case we're wasting the Directors' time. We'll be taking our feet off this pretty carpet. [He turns, the men move slowly, as though hypnotically influenced.] WANKLIN: [Suavely.] Come, Roberts, you did n't give us this long cold journey for the pleasure of saying that. THOMAS. [A pure Welshman.] No, sir, an' what I say iss---- ROBERTS.[Bitingly.] Go on, Henry Thomas, go on. You 're better able to speak to the--Directors than me. [THOMAS is silent.] TENCH. The Chairman means, Roberts, that it was the men who asked for the conference, the Board wish to hear what they have to say. ROBERTS. Gad! If I was to begin to tell ye all they have to say, I wouldn't be finished to-day. And there'd be some that'd wish they'd never left their London palaces. HARNESS. What's your proposition, man? Be reasonable. ROBERTS. You want reason Mr. Harness? Take a look round this afternoon before the meeting. [He looks at the men; no sound escapes them.] You'll see some very pretty scenery. HARNESS. All right my friend; you won't put me off. ROBERTS. [To the men.] We shan't put Mr. Harness off. Have some champagne with your lunch, Mr. Harness; you'll want it, sir. HARNESS. Come, get to business, man! THOMAS. What we're asking, look you, is just simple justice. ROBERTS. [Venomously.] Justice from London? What are you talking about, Henry Thomas? Have you gone silly? [THOMAS is silent.] We know very well what we are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. What did the Chairman tell me up in London? That I did n't know what I was talking about. I was a foolish, uneducated man, that knew nothing of the wants of the men I spoke for. EDGAR. Do please keep to the point. ANTHONY. [Holding up his hand.] There can only be one master, Roberts. ROBERTS. Then, be Gad, it'll be us. [There is a silence; ANTHONY and ROBERTS stare at one another.] UNDERWOOD. If you've nothing to say to the Directors, Roberts, perhaps you 'll let Green or Thomas speak for the men. [GREEN and THOMAS look anxiously at ROBERTS, at each other, and the other men.] GREEN. [An Englishman.] If I'd been listened to, gentlemen---- THOMAS. What I'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say---- ROBERTS. Speak for yourself, Henry Thomas. SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] Let the poor men call their souls their own! ROBERTS. Aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body that you've left them, Mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word were an offence] Scantlebury! [To the men.] Well, will you speak, or shall I speak for you? ROUS. [Suddenly.] Speak out, Roberts, or leave it to others. ROBERTS. [Ironically.] Thank you, George Rous. [Addressing himself to ANTHONY.] The Chairman and Board of Directors have honoured us by leaving London and coming all this way to hear what we've got to say; it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting. WILDER. Well, thank God for that! ROBERTS. Ye will not dare to thank Him when I have done, Mr. Wilder, for all your piety. May be your God up in London has no time to listen to the working man. I'm told He is a wealthy God; but if he listens to what I tell Him, He will know more than ever He learned in Kensington. HARNESS. Come, Roberts, you have your own God. Respect the God of other men. ROBERTS. That's right, sir. We have another God down here; I doubt He is rather different to Mr. Wilder's. Ask Henry Thomas; he will tell you whether his God and Mr. Wilder's are the same. [THOMAS lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to prophesy.] WANKLIN. For goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, Roberts. ROBERTS. I rather think it is the point, Mr. Wanklin. If you can get the God of Capital to walk through the streets of Labour, and pay attention to what he sees, you're a brighter man than I take you for, for all that you're a Radical. ANTHONY. Attend to me, Roberts! [Roberts is silent.] You are here to speak for the men, as I am here to speak for the Board. [He looks slowly round.] [WILDER, WANKLIN, and SCANTLEBURY make movements of uneasiness, and EDGAR gazes at the floor. A faint smile comes on HARNESS'S face.] Now then, what is it? ROBERTS. Right, Sir! [Throughout all that follows, he and ANTHONY look fixedly upon each other. Men and Directors show in their various ways suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they themselves would not have spoken.] The men can't afford to travel up to London; and they don't trust you to believe what they say in black and white. They know what the post is [he darts a look at UNDERWOOD and TENCH], and what Directors' meetings are: "Refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on the men's condition. Can we squeeze them a little more?" UNDERWOOD. [In a low voice.] Don't hit below the belt, Roberts! ROBERTS. Is it below the belt, Mr. Underwood? The men know. When I came up to London, I told you the position straight. An' what came of it? I was told I did n't know what I was talkin' about. I can't afford to travel up to London to be told that again. ANTHONY. What have you to say for the men? ROBERTS. I have this to say--and first as to their condition. Ye shall 'ave no need to go and ask your manager. Ye can't squeeze them any more. Every man of us is well-nigh starving. [A surprised murmur rises from the men. ROBERTS looks round.] Ye wonder why I tell ye that? Every man of us is going short. We can't be no worse off than we've been these weeks past. Ye need n't think that by waiting yell drive us to come in. We'll die first, the whole lot of us. The men have sent for ye to know, once and for all, whether ye are going to grant them their demands. I see the sheet of paper in the Secretary's hand. [TENCH moves nervously.] That's it, I think, Mr. Tench. It's not very large. TENCH. [Nodding.] Yes. ROBERTS. There's not one sentence of writing on that paper that we can do without. [A movement amongst the men. ROBERTS turns on them sharply.] Isn't that so? [The men assent reluctantly. ANTHONY takes from TENCH the paper and peruses it.] Not one single sentence. All those demands are fair. We have not. asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. What I said up in London, I say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper that a just man should not ask, and a just man give. [A pause.] ANTHONY. There is not one single demand on this paper that we will grant. [In the stir that follows on these words, ROBERTS watches the Directors and ANTHONY the men. WILDER gets up abruptly and goes over to the fire.] ROBERTS. D' ye mean that? ANTHONY. I do. [WILDER at the fire makes an emphatic movement of disgust.] ROBERTS. [Noting it, with dry intensity.] Ye best know whether the condition of the Company is any better than the condition of the men. [Scanning the Directors' faces.] Ye best know whether ye can afford your tyranny--but this I tell ye: If ye think the men will give way the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever made. [He fixes his eyes on SCANTLEBURY.] Ye think because the Union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming on our knees to you one fine morning. Ye think because the men have got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question of a week or two---- ANTHONY. It would be better if you did not speculate so much on what we think. ROBERTS. Aye! It's not much profit to us! I will say this for you, Mr. Anthony--ye know your own mind! [Staying at ANTHONY.] I can reckon on ye! ANTHONY. [Ironically.] I am obliged to you! ROBERTS. And I know mine. I tell ye this: The men will send their wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they will starve sooner than give way. I advise ye, Mr. Anthony, to prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your Company. We are not so ignorant as you might suppose. We know the way the cat is jumping. Your position is not all that it might be--not exactly! ANTHONY. Be good enough to allow us to judge of our position for ourselves. Go back, and reconsider your own. ROBERTS. [Stepping forward.] Mr. Anthony, you are not a young man now; from the time I remember anything ye have been an enemy to every man that has come into your works. I don't say that ye're a mean man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in their own fate. Ye've fought them down four times. I've heard ye say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight ye'll ever fight! [TENCH touches ROBERTS'S sleeve.] UNDERWOOD. Roberts! Roberts! ROBERTS. Roberts! Roberts! I must n't speak my mind to the Chairman, but the Chairman may speak his mind to me! WILDER. What are things coming to? ANTHONY, [With a grim smile at WILDER.] Go on, Roberts; say what you like! ROBERTS. [After a pause.] I have no more to say. ANTHONY. The meeting stands adjourned to five o'clock. WANKLIN. [In a low voice to UNDERWOOD.] We shall never settle anything like this. ROBERTS. [Bitingly.] We thank the Chairman and Board of Directors for their gracious hearing. [He moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied; then ROUS, throwing up his head, passes ROBERTS and goes out. The others follow.] ROBERTS. [With his hand on the door--maliciously.] Good day, gentlemen! [He goes out.] HARNESS. [Ironically.] I congratulate you on the conciliatory spirit that's been displayed. With your permission, gentlemen, I'll be with you again at half-past five. Good morning! [He bows slightly, rests his eyes on ANTHONY, who returns his stare unmoved, and, followed by UNDERWOOD, goes out. There is a moment of uneasy silence. UNDERWOOD reappears in the doorway.] WILDER. [With emphatic disgust.] Well! [The double-doors are opened.] ENID. [Standing in the doorway.] Lunch is ready. [EDGAR, getting up abruptly, walks out past his sister.] WILDER. Coming to lunch, Scantlebury? SCANTLEBURY. [Rising heavily.] I suppose so, I suppose so. It's the only thing we can do. [They go out through the double-doors.] WANKLIN. [In a low voice.] Do you really mean to fight to a finish, Chairman? [ANTHONY nods.] WANKLIN. Take care! The essence of things is to know when to stop. [ANTHONY does not answer.] WANKLIN. [Very gravely.] This way disaster lies. The ancient Trojans were fools to your father, Mrs. Underwood. [He goes out through the double-doors.] ENID. I want to speak to father, Frank. [UNDERWOOD follows WANKLIN Out. TENCH, passing round the table, is restoring order to the scattered pens and papers.] ENID. Are n't you coming, Dad? [ANTHONY Shakes his head. ENID looks meaningly at TENCH.] ENID. Won't you go and have some lunch, Mr. Tench? TENCH. [With papers in his hand.] Thank you, ma'am, thank you! [He goes slowly, looking back.] ENID. [Shutting the doors.] I do hope it's settled, Father! ANTHONY. No! ENID. [Very disappointed.] Oh! Have n't you done anything! [ANTHONY shakes his head.] ENID. Frank says they all want to come to a compromise, really, except that man Roberts. ANTHONY. I don't. ENID. It's such a horrid position for us. If you were the wife of the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. You can't realise, Dad! ANTHONY. Indeed? ENID. We see all the distress. You remember my maid Annie, who married Roberts? [ANTHONY nods.] It's so wretched, her heart's weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper food. I know it for a fact, Father. ANTHONY. Give her what she wants, poor woman! ENID. Roberts won't let her take anything from us. ANTHONY. [Staring before him.] I can't be answerable for the men's obstinacy. ENID. They're all suffering. Father! Do stop it, for my sake! ANTHONY. [With a keen look at her.] You don't understand, my dear. ENID. If I were on the Board, I'd do something. ANTHONY. What would you do? ENID. It's because you can't bear to give way. It's so---- ANTHONY. Well? ENID. So unnecessary. ANTHONY. What do you know about necessity? Read your novels, play your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the bottom of a struggle like this. ENID. I live down here, and see it. ANTHONY. What d' you imagine stands between you and your class and these men that you're so sorry for? ENID. [Coldly.] I don't know what you mean, Father. ANTHONY. In a few years you and your children would be down in the condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves. ENID. You don't know the state the men are in. ANTHONY. I know it well enough. ENID. You don't, Father; if you did, you would n't ANTHONY. It's you who don't know the simple facts of the position. What sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between you and the continual demands of labour? This sort of mercy-- [He puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] First would go your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would be going all the time! ENID. I don't believe in barriers between classes. ANTHONY. You--don't--believe--in--barriers--between the classes? ENID. [Coldly.] And I don't know what that has to do with this question. ANTHONY. It will take a generation or two for you to understand. ENID. It's only you and Roberts, Father, and you know it! [ANTHONY thrusts out his lower lip.] It'll ruin the Company. ANTHONY. Allow me to judge of that. ENID. [Resentfully.] I won't stand by and let poor Annie Roberts suffer like this! And think of the children, Father! I warn you. ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] What do you propose to do? ENID. That's my affair. [ANTHONY only looks at her.] ENID. [In a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] Father, you know you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what Dr. Fisher said! ANTHONY. No old man can afford to listen to old women. ENID. But you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter of principle with you. ANTHONY. You think so? ENID. Don't Dad! [Her face works.] You--you might think of us! ANTHONY. I am. ENID. It'll break you down. ANTHONY. [Slowly.] My dear, I am not going to funk; on that you may rely. [Re-enter TENCH with papers; he glances at them, then plucking up courage.] TENCH. Beg pardon, Madam, I think I'd rather see these papers were disposed of before I get my lunch. [ENID, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father, turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.] TENCH. [Holding the papers and a pen to ANTHONY, very nervously.] Would you sign these for me, please sir? [ANTHONY takes the pen and signs.] TENCH. [Standing with a sheet of blotting-paper behind EDGAR'S chair, begins speaking nervously.] I owe my position to you, sir. ANTHONY. Well? TENCH. I'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; I--I depend upon the Company entirely. If anything were to happen to it, it'd be disastrous for me. [ANTHONY nods.] And, of course, my wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now. And the rates are really terrible down our way. ANTHONY. [With grim amusement.] Not more terrible than they are up mine. TENCH. No, Sir? [Very nervously.] I know the Company means a great deal to you, sir. ANTHONY. It does; I founded it. TENCH. Yes, Sir. If the strike goes on it'll be very serious. I think the Directors are beginning to realise that, sir. ANTHONY. [Ironically.] Indeed? TENCH. I know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your habit to look things in the face; but I don't think the Directors-- like it, sir, now they--they see it. ANTHONY. [Grimly.] Nor you, it seems. TENCH. [With the ghost of a smile.] No, sir; of course I've got my children, and my wife's delicate; in my position I have to think of these things. [ANTHONY nods.] It was n't that I was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me---- [hesitates] ANTHONY. Out with it, then! TENCH. I know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life you do feel things dreadfully---- ANTHONY. [Almost paternally.] Come, out with it, Trench! TENCH. I don't like to say it, sir. ANTHONY. [Stonily.] You Must. TENCH. [After a pause, desperately bolting it out.] I think the Directors are going to throw you over, sir. ANTHONY. [Sits in silence.] Ring the bell! [TENCH nervously rings the bell and stands by the fire.] TENCH. Excuse me for saying such a thing. I was only thinking of you, sir. [FROST enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table, and looks at ANTHONY; TENCH coveys his nervousness by arranging papers.] ANTHONY. Bring me a whiskey and soda. FROST. Anything to eat, sir? [ANTHONY shakes his head. FROST goes to the sideboard, and prepares the drink.] TENCH. [In a low voice, almost supplicating.] If you could see your way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed. [He looks up at ANTHONY, who has not moved.] It does make me so very anxious. I haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact. [ANTHONY looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.] [Disheartened.] No, Sir? [He goes on arranging papers.] [FROST places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by ANTHONY'S right hand. He stands away, looking gravely at ANTHONY.] FROST. Nothing I can get you, sir? [ANTHONY shakes his head.] You're aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir? ANTHONY. I am. [A pause. FROST suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a low voice.] FROST. This strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. Excuse me, sir, is it--is it worth it, sir? [ANTHONY mutters some words that are inaudible.] Very good, sir! [He turns and goes out into the hall. TENCH makes two attempts to speak; but meeting his Chairman's gaze he drops his eyes, and, turning dismally, he too goes out. ANTHONY is left alone. He grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his chair.] The curtain falls. ACT II SCENE I It is half-past three. In the kitchen of Roberts's cottage a meagre little fire is burning. The room is clean and tidy, very barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls, much stained with smoke. There is a kettle on the fire. A door opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street. On the wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of bread and cheese. Close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a rug, sits MRS. ROBERTS, a thin and dark-haired woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes. Her hair is not done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon. By the fire, too, is MRS. YEO; a red-haired, broad-faced person. Sitting near the table is MRS. ROUS, an old lady, ashen-white, with silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is MRS. BULGIN, a little pale, pinched-up woman. In a chair, with her elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands, sits MADGE THOMAS, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair. She is listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves. MRS. YEO. So he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o' money I seen this week. There an't much 'eat to this fire. Come and warm yerself Mrs. Rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are. MRS. ROUS. [Shivering--placidly.] Ah! but the winter my old man was took was the proper winter. Seventy-nine that was, when none of you was hardly born--not Madge Thomas, nor Sue Bulgin. [Looking at them in turn.] Annie Roberts, 'ow old were you, dear? MRS ROBERTS. Seven, Mrs. Rous. MRS. ROUS. Seven--well, there! A tiny little thing! MRS. YEO. [Aggressively.] Well, I was ten myself, I remembers it. MRS. Rous. [Placidly.] The Company hadn't been started three years. Father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg. I kep' sayin' to 'im, "Father, you've got a pisoned leg." "Well," 'e said, "Mother, pison or no pison, I can't afford to go a-layin' up." An' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. It was Providence! There was n't none o' these Compensation Acts then. MRS. YEO. Ye had n't no strike that winter! [With grim humour.] This winter's 'ard enough for me. Mrs. Roberts, you don't want no 'arder winter, do you? Wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would it, Mrs. Bulgin? MRS. BULGIN. We've had bread and tea last four days. MRS. YEO. You got that Friday's laundry job? MRS. BULGIN. [Dispiritedly.] They said they'd give it me, but when I went last Friday, they were full up. I got to go again next week. MRS. YEO. Ah! There's too many after that. I send Yeo out on the ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. Stops 'im from broodin' about the 'ouse. MRS. BULGIN. [In a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] Leavin' out the men--it's bad enough with the children. I keep 'em in bed, they don't get so hungry when they're not running about; but they're that restless in bed they worry your life out. MRS. YEO. You're lucky they're all so small. It 's the goin' to school that makes 'em 'ungry. Don't Bulgin give you anythin'? MRS. BULGIN. [Shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.] Would if he could, I s'pose. MRS. YEO. [Sardonically.] What! 'Ave n't 'e got no shares in the Company? MRS. ROUS. [Rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] Well, good-bye, Annie Roberts, I'm going along home. MRS. ROBERTS. Stay an' have a cup of tea, Mrs. Rous? MRS. ROUS. [With the faintest smile.] Roberts 'll want 'is tea when he comes in. I'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than anywhere. [She moves very shakily towards the door.] MRS. YEO. [Rising and giving her an arm.] Come on, Mother, take my arm; we're all going' the same way. MRS. ROUS. [Taking the arm.]Thank you, my dearies! [THEY go out, followed by MRS. BULGIN.] MADGE. [Moving for the first time.] There, Annie, you see that! I told George Rous, "Don't think to have my company till you've made an end of all this trouble. You ought to be ashamed," I said, "with your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the fire. So long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us starve." "I 'll take my oath, Madge," he said, "I 've not had smoke nor drink these three weeks!" "Well, then, why do you go on with it?" "I can't go back on Roberts!" . . . That's it! Roberts, always Roberts! They'd all drop it but for him. When he talks it's the devil that comes into them. [A silence. MRS. ROBERTS makes a movement of pain.] Ah! You don't want him beaten! He's your man. With everybody like their own shadows! [She makes a gesture towards MRS. ROBERTS.] If ROUS wants me he must give up Roberts. If he gave him up--they all would. They're only waiting for a lead. Father's against him-- they're all against him in their hearts. MRS. ROBERTS. You won't beat Roberts! [They look silently at each other.] MADGE. Won't I? The cowards--when their own mothers and their own children don't know where to turn. MRS. ROBERTS. Madge! MADGE. [Looking searchingly at MRS. ROBERTS.] I wonder he can look you in the face. [She squats before the fire, with her hands out to the flame.] Harness is here again. They'll have to make up their minds to-day. MRS. ROBERTS. [In a soft, slow voice, with a slight West-country burr.] Roberts will never give up the furnace-men and engineers. 'T wouldn't be right. MADGE. You can't deceive me. It's just his pride. [A tapping at the door is heard, the women turn as ENID enters. She wears a round fur cap, and a jacket of squirrel's fur. She closes the door behind her.] ENID. Can I come in, Annie? MRS. ROBERTS. [Flinching.] Miss Enid! Give Mrs. Underwood a chair, Madge! [MADGE gives ENID the chair she has been sitting on.] ENID. Thank you! ENID. Are you any better? MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm; thank you, M'm. ENID. [Looking at the sullen MADGE as though requesting her departure.] Why did you send back the jelly? I call that really wicked of you! MRS. ROBERTS. Thank you, M'm, I'd no need for it. ENID. Of course! It was Roberts's doing, wasn't it? How can he let all this suffering go on amongst you? MADGE. [Suddenly.] What suffering? ENID. [Surprised.] I beg your pardon! MADGE. Who said there was suffering? MRS. ROBERTS. Madge! MADGE. [Throwing her shawl over her head.] Please to let us keep ourselves to ourselves. We don't want you coming here and spying on us. ENID. [Confronting her, but without rising.] I did n't speak to you. MADGE. [In a low, fierce voice.] Keep your kind feelings to yourself. You think you can come amongst us, but you're mistaken. Go back and tell the Manager that. ENID. [Stonily.] This is not your house. MADGE. [Turning to the door.] No, it is not my house; keep clear of my house, Mrs. Underwood. [She goes out. ENID taps her fingers on the table.] MRS. ROBERTS. Please to forgive Madge Thomas, M'm; she's a bit upset to-day. [A pause.] ENID. [Looking at her.] Oh, I think they're so stupid, all of them. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile]. Yes, M'm. ENID. Is Roberts out? MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm. ENID. It is his doing, that they don't come to an agreement. Now is n't it, Annie? MRS. ROBERTS. [Softly, with her eyes on ENID, and moving the fingers of one hand continually on her breast.] They do say that your father, M'm---- ENID. My father's getting an old man, and you know what old men are. MRS. ROBERTS. I am sorry, M'm. ENID. [More softly.] I don't expect you to feel sorry, Annie. I know it's his fault as well as Roberts's. MRS. ROBERTS. I'm sorry for any one that gets old, M'm; it 's dreadful to get old, and Mr. Anthony was such a fine old man, I always used to think. ENID. [Impulsively.] He always liked you, don't you remember? Look here, Annie, what can I do? I do so want to know. You don't get what you ought to have. [Going to the fire, she takes the kettle off, and looks for coals.] And you're so naughty sending back the soup and things. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile.] Yes, M'm? ENID. [Resentfully.] Why, you have n't even got coals? MRS. ROBERTS. If you please, M'm, to put the kettle on again; Roberts won't have long for his tea when he comes in. He's got to meet the men at four. ENID. [Putting the kettle on.] That means he'll lash them into a fury again. Can't you stop his going, Annie? [MRS. ROBERTS smiles ironically.] Have you tried? [A silence.] Does he know how ill you are? MRS. ROBERTS. It's only my weak 'eard, M'm. ENID. You used to be so well when you were with us. MRS. ROBERTS. [Stiffening.] Roberts is always good to me. ENID. But you ought to have everything you want, and you have nothing! MRS. ROBERTS. [Appealingly.] They tell me I don't look like a dyin' woman? ENID. Of course you don't; if you could only have proper--- Will you see my doctor if I send him to you? I'm sure he'd do you good. MRS. ROBERTS. [With faint questioning.] Yes, M'm. ENID. Madge Thomas ought n't to come here; she only excites you. As if I did n't know what suffering there is amongst the men! I do feel for them dreadfully, but you know they have gone too far. MRS. ROBERTS. [Continually moving her fingers.] They say there's no other way to get better wages, M'm. ENID. [Earnestly.] But, Annie, that's why the Union won't help them. My husband's very sympathetic with the men, but he says they are not underpaid. MRS. ROBERTS. No, M'm? ENID. They never think how the Company could go on if we paid the wages they want. MRS. ROBERTS. [With an effort.] But the dividends having been so big, M'm. ENID. [Takes aback.] You all seem to think the shareholders are rich men, but they're not--most of them are really no better off than working men. [MRS. ROBERTS smiles.] They have to keep up appearances. MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm? ENID. You don't have to pay rates and taxes, and a hundred other things that they do. If the men did n't spend such a lot in drink and betting they'd be quite well off! MRS. ROBERTS. They say, workin' so hard, they must have some pleasure. ENID. But surely not low pleasure like that. MRS. ROBERTS. [A little resentfully.] Roberts never touches a drop; and he's never had a bet in his life. ENID. Oh! but he's not a com----I mean he's an engineer---- a superior man. MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm. Roberts says they've no chance of other pleasures. ENID. [Musing.] Of course, I know it's hard. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a spice of malice.] And they say gentlefolk's just as bad. ENID. [With a smile.] I go as far as most people, Annie, but you know, yourself, that's nonsense. MRS. ROBERTS. [With painful effort.] A lot 'o the men never go near the Public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes if there's illness. ENID. But they've got their clubs, have n't they? MRS. ROBERTS. The clubs only give up to eighteen shillin's a week, M'm, and it's not much amongst a family. Roberts says workin' folk have always lived from hand to mouth. Sixpence to-day is worth more than a shillin' to-morrow, that's what they say. ENID. But that's the spirit of gambling. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a sort of excitement.] Roberts says a working man's life is all a gamble, from the time 'e 's born to the time 'e dies. [ENID leans forward, interested. MRS. ROBERTS goes on with a growing excitement that culminates in the personal feeling of the last words.] He says, M'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all 'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the grave. He says that without a man is very near, and pinches and stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither surplus nor security. That's why he wouldn't have no children [she sinks back], not though I wanted them. ENID. Yes, yes, I know! MRS. ROBERTS. No you don't, M'm. You've got your children, and you'll never need to trouble for them. ENID. [Gently.] You oughtn't to be talking so much, Annie. [Then, in spite of herself.] But Roberts was paid a lot of money, was n't he, for discovering that process? MRS. ROBERTS. [On the defensive.] All Roberts's savin's have gone. He 's always looked forward to this strike. He says he's no right to a farthing when the others are suffering. 'T is n't so with all o' them! Some don't seem to care no more than that--so long as they get their own. ENID. I don't see how they can be expected to when they 're suffering like this. [In a changed voice.] But Roberts ought to think of you! It's all terrible----! The kettle's boiling. Shall I make the tea? [She takes the teapot and, seeing tea there, pours water into it.] Won't you have a cup? MRS. ROBERTS. No, thank you, M'm. [She is listening, as though for footsteps.] I'd--sooner you did n't see Roberts, M'm, he gets so wild. ENID. Oh! but I must, Annie; I'll be quite calm, I promise. MRS. ROBERTS. It's life an' death to him, M'm. ENID. [Very gently.] I'll get him to talk to me outside, we won't excite you. MRS. ROBERTS. [Faintly.] No, M'm. [She gives a violent start. ROBERTS has come in, unseen.] ROBERTS. [Removing his hat--with subtle mockery.] Beg pardon for coming in; you're engaged with a lady, I see. ENID. Can I speak to you, Mr. Roberts? ROBERTS. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing, Ma'am? ENID. But surely you know me! I 'm Mrs. Underwood. ROBERTS. [With a bow of malice.] The daughter of our Chairman. ENID. [Earnestly.] I've come on purpose to speak to you; will you come outside a minute? [She looks at MRS. ROBERTS.] ROBERTS. [Hanging up his hat.] I have nothing to say, Ma'am. ENID. But I must speak to you, please. [She moves towards the door.] ROBERTS. [With sudden venom.] I have not the time to listen! MRS. ROBERTS. David! ENID. Mr. Roberts, please! ROBERTS. [Taking off his overcoat.] I am sorry to disoblige a lady --Mr. Anthony's daughter. ENID. [Wavering, then with sudden decision.] Mr. Roberts, I know you've another meeting of the men. [ROBERTS bows.] I came to appeal to you. Please, please, try to come to some compromise; give way a little, if it's only for your own sakes! ROBERTS. [Speaking to himself.] The daughter of Mr. Anthony begs me to give way a little, if it's only for our own sakes! ENID. For everybody's sake; for your wife's sake. ROBERTS. For my wife's sake, for everybody's sake--for the sake of Mr. Anthony. ENID. Why are you so bitter against my father? He has never done anything to you. ROBERTS. Has he not? ENID. He can't help his views, any more than you can help yours. ROBERTS. I really did n't know that I had a right to views! ENID. He's an old man, and you---- [Seeing his eyes fixed on her, she stops.] ROBERTS. [Without raising his voice.] If I saw Mr. Anthony going to die, and I could save him by lifting my hand, I would not lift the little finger of it. ENID. You--you----[She stops again, biting her lips.] ROBERTS. I would not, and that's flat! ENID. [Coldly.] You don't mean what you say, and you know it! ROBERTS. I mean every word of it. ENID. But why? ROBERTS. [With a flash.] Mr. Anthony stands for tyranny! That's why! ENID. Nonsense! [MRS. ROBERTS makes a movement as if to rise, but sinks back in her chair.] ENID. [With an impetuous movement.] Annie! ROBERTS. Please not to touch my wife! ENID. [Recoiling with a sort of horror.] I believe--you are mad. ROBERTS. The house of a madman then is not the fit place for a lady. ENID. I 'm not afraid of you. ROBERTS. [Bowing.] I would not expect the daughter of Mr. Anthony to be afraid. Mr. Anthony is not a coward like the rest of them. ENID. [Suddenly.] I suppose you think it brave, then, to go on with the struggle. ROBERTS. Does Mr. Anthony think it brave to fight against women and children? Mr. Anthony is a rich man, I believe; does he think it brave to fight against those who have n't a penny? Does he think it brave to set children crying with hunger, an' women shivering with cold? ENID. [Putting up her hand, as though warding off a blow.] My father is acting on his principles, and you know it! ROBERTS. And so am I! ENID. You hate us; and you can't bear to be beaten! ROBERTS. Neither can Mr. Anthony, for all that he may say. ENID. At any rate you might have pity on your wife. [MRS. ROBERTS who has her hand pressed to her heart, takes it away, and tries to calm her breathing.] ROBERTS. Madam, I have no more to say. [He takes up the loaf. There is a knock at the door, and UNDERWOOD comes in. He stands looking at them, ENID turns to him, then seems undecided.] UNDERWOOD. Enid! ROBERTS. [Ironically.] Ye were not needing to come for your wife, Mr. Underwood. We are not rowdies. UNDERWOOD. I know that, Roberts. I hope Mrs. Roberts is better. [ROBERTS turns away without answering. Come, Enid!] ENID. I make one more appeal to you, Mr. Roberts, for the sake of your wife. ROBERTS. [With polite malice.] If I might advise ye, Ma'am--make it for the sake of your husband and your father. [ENID, suppressing a retort, goes out. UNDERWOOD opens the door for her and follows. ROBERTS, going to the fire, holds out his hands to the dying glow.] ROBERTS. How goes it, my girl? Feeling better, are you? [MRS. ROBERTS smiles faintly. He brings his overcoat and wraps it round her.] [Looking at his watch.] Ten minutes to four! [As though inspired.] I've seen their faces, there's no fight in them, except for that one old robber. MRS. ROBERTS. Won't you stop and eat, David? You've 'ad nothing all day! ROBERTS. [Putting his hand to his throat.] Can't swallow till those old sharks are out o' the town: [He walks up and down.] I shall have a bother with the men--there's no heart in them, the cowards. Blind as bats, they are--can't see a day before their noses. MRS. ROBERTS. It's the women, David. ROBERTS. Ah! So they say! They can remember the women when their own bellies speak! The women never stop them from the drink; but from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women stop them fast enough. MRS. ROBERTS. But think o' the children, David. ROBERTS. Ah! If they will go breeding themselves for slaves, without a thought o' the future o' them they breed---- MRS. ROBERTS. [Gasping.] That's enough, David; don't begin to talk of that--I won't--I can't---- ROBERTS. [Staring at her.] Now, now, my girl! MRS. ROBERTS. [Breathlessly.] No, no, David--I won't! ROBERTS. There, there! Come, come! That's right! [Bitterly.] Not one penny will they put by for a day like this. Not they! Hand to mouth--Gad!--I know them! They've broke my heart. There was no holdin' them at the start, but now the pinch 'as come. MRS. ROBERTS. How can you expect it, David? They're not made of iron. ROBERTS. Expect it? Wouldn't I expect what I would do meself? Wouldn't I starve an' rot rather than give in? What one man can do, another can. MRS. ROBERTS. And the women? ROBERTS. This is not women's work. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a flash of malice.] No, the women may die for all you care. That's their work. ROBERTS. [Averting his eyes.] Who talks of dying? No one will die till we have beaten these---- [He meets her eyes again, and again turns his away. Excitedly.] This is what I've been waiting for all these months. To get the old robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin's worth o' change. I 've seen their faces, I tell you, in the valley of the shadow of defeat. [He goes to the peg and takes down his hat.] MRS. ROBERTS. [Following with her eyes-softly.] Take your overcoat, David; it must be bitter cold. ROBERTS. [Coming up to her-his eyes are furtive.] No, no! There, there, stay quiet and warm. I won't be long, my girl. MRS. ROBERTS. [With soft bitterness.] You'd better take it. [She lifts the coat. But ROBERTS puts it back, and wraps it round her. He tries to meet her eyes, but cannot. MRS. ROBERTS stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him about, are half malicious, half yearning. He looks at his watch again, and turns to go. In the doorway he meets JAN THOMAS, a boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny whistle.] ROBERTS. Hallo, boy! [He goes. JAN stops within a yard of MRS. ROBERTS, and stares at her without a word.] MRS. ROBERTS. Well, Jan! JAN. Father 's coming; sister Madge is coming. [He sits at the table, and fidgets with his whistle; he blows three vague notes; then imitates a cuckoo.] [There is a tap on the door. Old THOMAS comes in.] THOMAS. A very coot tay to you, Ma'am. It is petter that you are. MRS. ROBERTS. Thank you, Mr. Thomas. THOMAS. [Nervously.] Roberts in? MRS. ROBERTS. Just gone on to the meeting, Mr. Thomas. THOMAS. [With relief, becoming talkative.] This is fery unfortunate, look you! I came to tell him that we must make terms with London. It is a fery great pity he is gone to the meeting. He will be kicking against the pricks, I am thinking. MRS. ROBERTS. [Half rising.] He'll never give in, Mr. Thomas. THOMAS. You must not be fretting, that is very pat for you. Look you, there iss hartly any mans for supporting him now, but the engineers and George Rous. [Solemnly.] This strike is no longer Going with Chapel, look you! I have listened carefully, an' I have talked with her. [JAN blows.] Sst! I don't care what th' others say, I say that Chapel means us to be stopping the trouple, that is what I make of her; and it is my opinion that this is the fery best thing for all of us. If it was n't my opinion, I ton't say but it is my opinion, look you. MRS. ROBERTS. [Trying to suppress her excitement.] I don't know what'll come to Roberts, if you give in. THOMAS. It iss no disgrace whateffer! All that a mortal man coult do he hass tone. It iss against Human Nature he hass gone; fery natural any man may do that; but Chapel has spoken and he must not go against her. [JAN imitates the cuckoo.] Ton't make that squeaking! [Going to the door.] Here iss my daughter come to sit with you. A fery goot day, Ma'am--no fretting --rememper! [MADGE comes in and stands at the open door, watching the street.] MADGE. You'll be late, Father; they're beginning. [She catches him by the sleeve.] For the love of God, stand up to him, Father--this time! THOMAS. [Detaching his sleeve with dignity.] Leave me to do what's proper, girl! [He goes out. MADGE, in the centre of the open doorway, slowly moves in, as though before the approach of some one.] ROUS. [Appearing in the doorway.] Madge! [MADGE stands with her back to MRS. ROBERTS, staring at him with her head up and her hands behind her.] ROUS. [Who has a fierce distracted look.] Madge! I'm going to the meeting. [MADGE, without moving, smiles contemptuously.] D' ye hear me? [They speak in quick low voices.] MADGE. I hear! Go, and kill your own mother, if you must. [ROUS seizes her by both her arms. She stands rigid, with her head bent back. He releases her, and he too stands motionless.] ROUS. I swore to stand by Roberts. I swore that! Ye want me to go back on what I've sworn. MADGE. [With slow soft mockery.] You are a pretty lover! ROUS. Madge! MADGE. [Smiling.] I've heard that lovers do what their girls ask them-- [JAN sounds the cuckoo's notes] --but that's not true, it seems! ROUS. You'd make a blackleg of me! MADGE. [With her eyes half-closed.] Do it for me! ROUS. [Dashing his hand across his brow.] Damn! I can't! MADGE. [Swiftly.] Do it for me! ROUS. [Through his teeth.] Don't play the wanton with me! MADGE. [With a movement of her hand towards JAN--quick and low.] I would be that for the children's sake! ROUS. [In a fierce whisper.] Madge! Oh, Madge! MADGE. [With soft mockery.] But you can't break your word for me! ROUS. [With a choke.] Then, Begod, I can! [He turns and rushes off.] [MADGE Stands, with a faint smile on her face, looking after him. She turns to MRS. ROBERTS.] MADGE. I have done for Roberts! MRS. ROBERTS. [Scornfully.] Done for my man, with that----! [She sinks back.] MADGE. [Running to her, and feeling her hands.] You're as cold as a stone! You want a drop of brandy. Jan, run to the "Lion"; say, I sent you for Mrs. Roberts. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a feeble movement.] I'll just sit quiet, Madge. Give Jan--his--tea. MADGE. [Giving JAN a slice of bread.] There, ye little rascal. Hold your piping. [Going to the fire, she kneels.] It's going out. MRS. ROBERTS. [With a faint smile.] 'T is all the same! [JAN begins to blow his whistle.] MADGE. Tsht! Tsht!--you [JAN Stops.] MRS. ROBERTS. [Smiling.] Let 'im play, Madge. MADGE. [On her knees at the fire, listening.] Waiting an' waiting. I've no patience with it; waiting an' waiting--that's what a woman has to do! Can you hear them at it--I can! [JAN begins again to play his whistle; MADGE gets up; half tenderly she ruffles his hair; then, sitting, leans her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands. Behind her, on MRS. ROBERTS'S face the smile has changed to horrified surprise. She makes a sudden movement, sitting forward, pressing her hands against her breast. Then slowly she sinks' back; slowly her face loses the look of pain, the smile returns. She fixes her eyes again on JAN, and moves her lips and finger to the tune.] The curtain falls. SCENE II It is past four. In a grey, failing light, an open muddy space is crowded with workmen. Beyond, divided from it by a barbed-wire fence, is the raised towing-path of a canal, on which is moored a barge. In the distance are marshes and snow-covered hills. The "Works" high wall runs from the canal across the open space, and ivy the angle of this wall is a rude platform of barrels and boards. On it, HARNESS is standing. ROBERTS, a little apart from the crowd, leans his back against the wall. On the raised towing-path two bargemen lounge and smoke indifferently. HARNESS. [Holding out his hand.] Well, I've spoken to you straight. If I speak till to-morrow I can't say more. JAGO. [A dark, sallow, Spanish-looking man with a short, thin beard.] Mister, want to ask you! Can they get blacklegs? BULGIN. [Menacing.] Let 'em try. [There are savage murmurs from the crowd.] BROWN. [A round-faced man.] Where could they get 'em then? EVANS. [A small, restless, harassed man, with a fighting face.] There's always blacklegs; it's the nature of 'em. There's always men that'll save their own skins. [Another savage murmur. There is a movement, and old THOMAS, joining the crowd, takes his stand in front.] HARNESS. [Holding up his hand.] They can't get them. But that won't help you. Now men, be reasonable. Your demands would have brought on us the burden of a dozen strikes at a time when we were not prepared for them. The Unions live by justice, not to one, but all. Any fair man will tell you--you were ill-advised! I don't say you go too far for that which you're entitled to, but you're going too far for the moment; you've dug a pit for yourselves. Are you to stay there, or are you to climb out? Come! LEWIS. [A clean-cut Welshman with a dark moustache.] You've hit it, Mister! Which is it to be? [Another movement in the crowd, and ROUS, coming quickly, takes his stand next THOMAS.] HARNESS. Cut your demands to the right pattern, and we 'll see you through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down here again. I 'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to know by this time. If you're the sound men I take you for--no matter who advises you against it--[he fixes his eyes on ROBERTS] you 'll make up your minds to come in, and trust to us to get your terms. Which is it to be? Hands together, and victory--or--the starvation you've got now? [A prolonged murmur from the crowd.] JAGO. [Sullenly.] Talk about what you know. HARNESS. [Lifting his voice above the murmur.] Know? [With cold passion.] All that you've been through, my friend, I 've been through--I was through it when I was no bigger than [pointing to a youth] that shaver there; the Unions then were n't what they are now. What's made them strong? It's hands together that 's made them strong. I 've been through it all, I tell you, the brand's on my soul yet. I know what you 've suffered--there's nothing you can tell me that I don't know; but the whole is greater than the part, and you are only the part. Stand by us, and we will stand by you. [Quartering them with his eyes, he waits. The murmuring swells; the men form little groups. GREEN, BULGIN, and LEWIS talk together.] LEWIS. Speaks very sensible, the Union chap. GREEN. [Quietly.] Ah! if I 'd a been listened to, you'd 'ave 'eard sense these two months past. [The bargemen are seen laughing. ] LEWIS. [Pointing.] Look at those two blanks over the fence there! BULGIN. [With gloomy violence.] They'd best stop their cackle, or I 'll break their jaws. JAGO. [Suddenly.] You say the furnace men's paid enough? HARNESS. I did not say they were paid enough; I said they were paid as much as the furnace men in similar works elsewhere. EVANS. That's a lie! [Hubbub.] What about Harper's? HARNESS. [With cold irony.] You may look at home for lies, my man. Harper's shifts are longer, the pay works out the same. HENRY ROUS. [A dark edition of his brother George.] Will ye support us in double pay overtime Saturdays? HARNESS. Yes, we will. JAGO. What have ye done with our subscriptions? HARNESS. [Coldly.] I have told you what we will do with them. EVANS. Ah! will, it's always will! Ye'd have our mates desert us. [Hubbub.] BULGIN. [Shouting.] Hold your row! [EVANS looks round angrily.] HARNESS. [Lifting his voice.] Those who know their right hands from their lefts know that the Unions are neither thieves nor traitors. I 've said my say. Figure it out, my lads; when you want me you know where I shall be. [He jumps down, the crowd gives way, he passes through them, and goes away. A BARGEMAN looks after him jerking his pipe with a derisive gesture. The men close up in groups, and many looks are cast at ROBERTS, who stands alone against the wall.] EVANS. He wants ye to turn blacklegs, that's what he wants. He wants ye to go back on us. Sooner than turn blackleg--I 'd starve, I would. BULGIN. Who's talkin' o' blacklegs--mind what you're saying, will you? BLACKSMITH. [A youth with yellow hair and huge arms.] What about the women? EVANS. They can stand what we can stand, I suppose, can't they? BLACKSMITH. Ye've no wife? EVANS. An' don't want one! THOMAS. [Raising his voice.] Aye! Give us the power to come to terms with London, lads. DAVIES. [A dark, slow-fly, gloomy man.] Go up the platform, if you got anything to say, go up an' say it. [There are cries of "Thomas!" He is pushed towards the platform; he ascends it with difficulty, and bares his head, waiting for silence. A hush.] RED-HAIRED YOUTH. [suddenly.] Coot old Thomas! [A hoarse laugh; the bargemen exchange remarks; a hush again, and THOMAS begins speaking.] THOMAS. We are all in the tepth together, and it iss Nature that has put us there. HENRY ROUS. It's London put us there! EVANS. It's the Union. THOMAS. It iss not Lonton; nor it iss not the Union--it iss Nature. It iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to Nature. For this Nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is. There iss more years to my hett than to the hett of any one here. It is fery pat, look you, this Going against Nature. It is pat to make other potties suffer, when there is nothing to pe cot py it. [A laugh. THOMAS angrily goes on.] What are ye laughing at? It is pat, I say! We are fighting for a principle; there is no potty that shall say I am not a peliever in principle. Putt when Nature says "No further," then it is no coot snapping your fingers in her face. [A laugh from ROBERTS, and murmurs of approval.] This Nature must pe humort. It is a man's pisiness to pe pure, honest, just, and merciful. That's what Chapel tells you. [To ROBERTS, angrily.] And, look you, David Roberts, Chapel tells you ye can do that without Going against Nature. JAGO. What about the Union? THOMAS. I ton't trust the Union; they haf treated us like tirt. "Do what we tell you," said they. I haf peen captain of the furnace-men twenty years, and I say to the Union--[excitedly]--"Can you tell me then, as well as I can tell you, what iss the right wages for the work that these men do?" For fife and twenty years I haf paid my moneys to the Union and--[with great excitement]--for nothings! What iss that but roguery, for all that this Mr. Harness says! EVANS. Hear, hear. HENRY ROUS. Get on with you! Cut on with it then! THOMAS. Look you, if a man toes not trust me, am I going to trust him? JAGO. That's right. THOMAS. Let them alone for rogues, and act for ourselves. [Murmurs.] BLACKSMITH. That's what we been doin', haven't we? THOMAS. [With increased excitement.] I wass brought up to do for meself. I wass brought up to go without a thing, if I hat not moneys to puy it. There iss too much, look you, of doing things with other people's moneys. We haf fought fair, and if we haf peen beaten, it iss no fault of ours. Gif us the power to make terms with London for ourself; if we ton't succeed, I say it iss petter to take our peating like men, than to tie like togs, or hang on to others' coat-tails to make them do our pisiness for us! EVANS. [Muttering.] Who wants to? THOMAS. [Craning.] What's that? If I stand up to a potty, and he knocks me town, I am not to go hollering to other potties to help me; I am to stand up again; and if he knocks me town properly, I am to stay there, is n't that right? [Laughter.] JAGO. No Union! HENRY ROUS. Union! [Murmurs.] [Others take up the shout.] EVANS. Blacklegs! [BULGIN and the BLACKSMITH shake their fists at EVANS.] THOMAS. [With a gesture.] I am an olt man, look you. [A sudden silence, then murmurs again.] LEWIS. Olt fool, with his "No Union!" BULGIN. Them furnace chaps! For twopence I 'd smash the faces o' the lot of them. GREEN. If I'd a been listened to at the first! THOMAS. [Wiping his brow.] I'm comin' now to what I was going to say---- DAVIES. [Muttering.] An' time too! THOMAS. [Solemnly.] Chapel says: Ton't carry on this strife! Put an end to it! JAGO. That's a lie! Chapel says go on! THOMAS. [Scornfully.] Inteet! I haf ears to my head. RED-HAIRED YOUTH. Ah! long ones! [A laugh.] JAGO. Your ears have misbeled you then. THOMAS. [Excitedly.] Ye cannot be right if I am, ye cannot haf it both ways. RED-HAIRED YOUTH. Chapel can though! ["The Shaver" laughs; there are murmurs from the crowd.] THOMAS. [Fixing his eyes on "The Shaver."] Ah! ye 're Going the roat to tamnation. An' so I say to all of you. If ye co against Chapel I will not pe with you, nor will any other Got-fearing man. [He steps down from the platform. JAGO makes his way towards it. There are cries of "Don't let 'im go up!"] JAGO. Don't let him go up? That's free speech, that is. [He goes up.] I ain't got much to say to you. Look at the matter plain; ye 've come the road this far, and now you want to chuck the journey. We've all been in one boat; and now you want to pull in two. We engineers have stood by you; ye 're ready now, are ye, to give us the go-by? If we'd aknown that before, we'd not a-started out with you so early one bright morning! That's all I 've got to say. Old man Thomas a'n't got his Bible lesson right. If you give up to London, or to Harness, now, it's givin' us the chuck--to save your skins--you won't get over that, my boys; it's a dirty thing to do. [He gets down; during his little speech, which is ironically spoken, there is a restless discomfort in the crowd. ROUS, stepping forward, jumps on the platform. He has an air of fierce distraction. Sullen murmurs of disapproval from the crowd.] ROUS. [Speaking with great excitement.] I'm no blanky orator, mates, but wot I say is drove from me. What I say is yuman nature. Can a man set an' see 'is mother starve? Can 'e now? ROBERTS. [Starting forward.] Rous! ROUS. [Staring at him fiercely.] Sim 'Arness said fair! I've changed my mind! ROBERTS. Ah! Turned your coat you mean! [The crowd manifests a great surprise.] LEWIS. [Apostrophising Rous.] Hallo! What's turned him round? ROUS. [Speaking with intense excitement.] 'E said fair. "Stand by us," 'e said, "and we'll stand by you." That's where we've been makin' our mistake this long time past; and who's to blame fort? [He points at ROBERTS] That man there! "No," 'e said, "fight the robbers," 'e said, "squeeze the breath out o' them!" But it's not the breath out o' them that's being squeezed; it's the breath out of us and ours, and that's the book of truth. I'm no orator, mates, it's the flesh and blood in me that's speakin', it's the heart o' me. [With a menacing, yet half-ashamed movement towards ROBERTS.] He'll speak to you again, mark my words, but don't ye listen. [The crowd groans.] It's hell fire that's on that man's tongue. [ROBERTS is seen laughing.] Sim 'Arness is right. What are we without the Union--handful o' parched leaves--a puff o' smoke. I'm no orator, but I say: Chuck it up! Chuck it up! Sooner than go on starving the women and the children. [The murmurs of acquiescence almost drown the murmurs of dissent.] EVANS. What's turned you to blacklegging? ROUS. [With a furious look.] Sim 'Arness knows what he's talking about. Give us power to come to terms with London; I'm no orator, but I say--have done wi' this black misery! [He gives his muter a twist, jerks his head back, and jumps off the platform. The crowd applauds and surges forward. Amid cries of "That's enough!" "Up Union!" "Up Harness!" ROBERTS quietly ascends the platform. There is a moment of silence.] BLACKSMITH. We don't want to hear you. Shut it! HENRY Rous. Get down! [Amid such cries they surge towards the platform.] EVANS. [Fiercely.] Let 'im speak! Roberts! Roberts! BULGIN. [Muttering.] He'd better look out that I don't crack his skull. [ROBERTS faces the crowd, probing them with his eyes till they gradually become silent. He begins speaking. One of the bargemen rises and stands.] ROBERTS. You don't want to hear me, then? You'll listen to Rous and to that old man, but not to me. You'll listen to Sim Harness of the Union that's treated you so fair; maybe you'll listen to those men from London? Ah! You groan! What for? You love their feet on your necks, don't you? [Then as BULGIN elbows his way towards the platform, with calm bathos.] You'd like to break my jaw, John Bulgin. Let me speak, then do your smashing, if it gives you pleasure. [BULGIN Stands motionless and sullen.] Am I a liar, a coward, a traitor? If only I were, ye'd listen to me, I'm sure. [The murmurings cease, and there is now dead silence.] Is there a man of you here that has less to gain by striking? Is there a man of you that had more to lose? Is there a man of you that has given up eight hundred pounds since this trouble here began? Come now, is there? How much has Thomas given up--ten pounds or five, or what? You listened to him, and what had he to say? "None can pretend," he said, "that I'm not a believer in principle--[with biting irony]--but when Nature says: 'No further, 't es going agenst Nature.'" I tell you if a man cannot say to Nature: "Budge me from this if ye can!"-- [with a sort of exaltation] his principles are but his belly. "Oh, but," Thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful, and take off his hat to Nature!" I tell you Nature's neither pure nor honest, just nor merciful. You chaps that live over the hill, an' go home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight your way every inch of it? Do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the tender mercies of this merciful Nature? Try it and you'll soon know with what ye've got to deal. 'T es only by that--[he strikes a blow with his clenched fist]--in Nature's face that a man can be a man. "Give in," says Thomas, "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you down a crust." JAGO. Never! EVANS. Curse them! THOMAS. I nefer said that. ROBERTS. [Bitingly.] If ye did not say it, man, ye meant it. An' what did ye say about Chapel? "Chapel's against it," ye said. "She 's against it!" Well, if Chapel and Nature go hand in hand, it's the first I've ever heard of it. That young man there-- [pointing to ROUS]--said I 'ad 'ell fire on my tongue. If I had I would use it all to scorch and wither this talking of surrender. Surrendering 's the work of cowards and traitors. HENRY ROUS. [As GEORGE ROUS moves forward.] Go for him, George-- don't stand his lip! ROBERTS. [Flinging out his finger.] Stop there, George Rous, it's no time this to settle personal matters. [ROUS stops.] But there was one other spoke to you--Mr. Simon Harness. We have not much to thank Mr. Harness and the Union for. They said to us "Desert your mates, or we'll desert you." An' they did desert us. EVANS. They did. ROBERTS. Mr. Simon Harness is a clever man, but he has come too late. [With intense conviction.] For all that Mr. Simon Harness says, for all that Thomas, Rous, for all that any man present here can say--We've won the fight! [The crowd sags nearer, looking eagerly up.] [With withering scorn.] You've felt the pinch o't in your bellies. You've forgotten what that fight 'as been; many times I have told you; I will tell you now this once again. The fight o' the country's body and blood against a blood-sucker. The fight of those that spend themselves with every blow they strike and every breath they draw, against a thing that fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law of merciful Nature. That thing is Capital! A thing that buys the sweat o' men's brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own price. Don't I know that? Wasn't the work o' my brains bought for seven hundred pounds, and has n't one hundred thousand pounds been gained them by that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger. It is a thing that will take as much and give you as little as it can. That's Capital! A thing that will say--"I'm very sorry for you, poor fellows--you have a cruel time of it, I know," but will not give one sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time. That's Capital! Tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them that will consent to another penny on the Income Tax to help the poor? That's Capital! A white-faced, stony-hearted monster! Ye have got it on its knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to save your miserable bodies pain? When I went this morning to those old men from London, I looked into their very 'earts. One of them was sitting there--Mr. Scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us: sittin' there for all the world like the shareholders in this Company, that sit not moving tongue nor finger, takin' dividends a great dumb ox that can only be roused when its food is threatened. I looked into his eyes and I saw he was afraid--afraid for himself and his dividends; afraid for his fees, afraid of the very shareholders he stands for; and all but one of them's afraid--like children that get into a wood at night, and start at every rustle of the leaves. I ask you, men--[he pauses, holding out his hand till there is utter silence]--give me a free hand to tell them: "Go you back to London. The men have nothing for you!" [A murmuring.] Give me that, an' I swear to you, within a week you shall have from London all you want. EVANS, JAGO, and OTHERS. A free hand! Give him a free hand! Bravo --bravo! ROBERTS. 'T is not for this little moment of time we're fighting [the murmuring dies], not for ourselves, our own little bodies, and their wants, 't is for all those that come after throughout all time. [With intense sadness.] Oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll up another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an' let the bitter sea in over them. They're welcome to the worst that can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, are n't they--are n't they? If we can shake [passionately] that white-faced monster with the bloody lips, that has sucked the life out of ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began. [Dropping the note of passion but with the utmost weight and intensity.] If we have not the hearts of men to stand against it breast to breast, and eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go on sucking life; and we shall stay forever what we are [in almost a whisper], less than the very dogs. [An utter stillness, and ROBERTS stands rocking his body slightly, with his eyes burning the faces of the crowd.] EVANS and JAGO. [Suddenly.] Roberts! [The shout is taken up.] [There is a slight movement in the crowd, and MADGE passing below the towing-path, stops by the platform, looking up at ROBERTS. A sudden doubting silence.] ROBERTS. "Nature," says that old man, "give in to Nature." I tell you, strike your blow in Nature's face--an' let it do its worst! [He catches sight of MADGE, his brows contract, he looks away.] MADGE. [In a low voice-close to the platform.] Your wife's dying! [ROBERTS glares at her as if torn from some pinnacle of exaltation.] ROBERTS. [Trying to stammer on.] I say to you--answer them--answer them---- [He is drowned by the murmur in the crowd.] THOMAS. [Stepping forward.] Ton't you hear her, then? ROBERTS. What is it? [A dead silence.] THOMAS. Your wife, man! [ROBERTS hesitates, then with a gesture, he leaps down, and goes away below the towing-path, the men making way for him. The standing bargeman opens and prepares to light a lantern. Daylight is fast failing.] MADGE. He need n't have hurried! Annie Roberts is dead. [Then in the silence, passionately.] You pack of blinded hounds! How many more women are you going to let to die? [The crowd shrinks back from her, and breaks up in groups, with a confused, uneasy movement. MADGE goes quickly away below the towing-path. There is a hush as they look after her.] LEWIS. There's a spitfire, for ye! BULGIN. [Growling.] I'll smash 'er jaw. GREEN. If I'd a-been listened to, that poor woman---- THOMAS. It's a judgment on him for going against Chapel. I tolt him how 't would be! EVANS. All the more reason for sticking by 'im. [A cheer.] Are you goin' to desert him now 'e 's down? Are you going to chuck him over, now 'e 's lost 'is wife? [The crowd is murmuring and cheering all at once.] ROUS. [Stepping in front of platform.] Lost his wife! Aye! Can't ye see? Look at home, look at your own wives! What's to save them? Ye'll have the same in all your houses before long! LEWIS. Aye, aye! HENRY ROUS. Right! George, right! [There are murmurs of assent.] ROUS. It's not us that's blind, it's Roberts. How long will ye put up with 'im! HENRY, ROUS, BULGIN, DAVIES. Give 'im the chuck! [The cry is taken up.] EVANS. [Fiercely.] Kick a man that's down? Down? HENRY ROUS. Stop his jaw there! [EVANS throws up his arm at a threat from BULGIN. The bargeman, who has lighted the lantern, holds it high above his head.] ROUS. [Springing on to the platform.] What brought him down then, but 'is own black obstinacy? Are ye goin' to follow a man that can't see better than that where he's goin'? EVANS. He's lost 'is wife. ROUS. An' who's fault's that but his own. 'Ave done with 'im, I say, before he's killed your own wives and mothers. DAVIES. Down 'im! HENRY ROUS. He's finished! BROWN. We've had enough of 'im! BLACKSMITH. Too much! [The crowd takes up these cries, excepting only EVANS, JAGO, and GREEN, who is seen to argue mildly with the BLACKSMITH.] ROUS. [Above the hubbub.] We'll make terms with the Union, lads. [Cheers.] EVANS. [Fiercely.] Ye blacklegs! BULGIN. [Savagely-squaring up to him.] Who are ye callin' blacklegs, Rat? [EVANS throws up his fists, parries the blow, and returns it. They fight. The bargemen are seen holding up the lantern and enjoying the sight. Old THOMAS steps forward and holds out his hands.] THOMAS. Shame on your strife! [The BLACKSMITH, BROWN, LEWIS, and the RED-HAIRED YOUTH pull EVANS and BULGIN apart. The stage is almost dark.] The curtain falls. ACT III It is five o'clock. In the UNDERWOODS' drawing-room, which is artistically furnished, ENID is sitting on the sofa working at a baby's frock. EDGAR, by a little spindle-legged table in the centre of the room, is fingering a china-box. His eyes are fixed on the double-doors that lead into the dining-room. EDGAR. [Putting down the china-box, and glancing at his watch.] Just on five, they're all in there waiting, except Frank. Where's he? ENID. He's had to go down to Gasgoyne's about a contract. Will you want him? EDGAR. He can't help us. This is a director's job. [Motioning towards a single door half hidden by a curtain.] Father in his room? ENID. Yes. EDGAR. I wish he'd stay there, Enid. [ENID looks up at him. This is a beastly business, old girl?] [He takes up the little box again and turns it over and over.] ENID. I went to the Roberts's this afternoon, Ted. EDGAR. That was n't very wise. ENID. He's simply killing his wife. EDGAR. We are you mean. ENID. [Suddenly.] Roberts ought to give way! EDGAR. There's a lot to be said on the men's side. ENID. I don't feel half so sympathetic with them as I did before I went. They just set up class feeling against you. Poor Annie was looking dread fully bad--fire going out, and nothing fit for her to eat. [EDGAR walks to and fro.] But she would stand up for Roberts. When you see all this wretchedness going on and feel you can do nothing, you have to shut your eyes to the whole thing. EDGAR. If you can. ENID. When I went I was all on their side, but as soon as I got there I began to feel quite different at once. People talk about sympathy with the working classes, they don't know what it means to try and put it into practice. It seems hopeless. EDGAR. Ah! well. ENID. It's dreadful going on with the men in this state. I do hope the Dad will make concessions. EDGAR. He won't. [Gloomily.] It's a sort of religion with him. Curse it! I know what's coming! He'll be voted down. ENID. They would n't dare! EDGAR. They will--they're in a funk. ENID. [Indignantly.] He'd never stand it! EDGAR. [With a shrug.] My dear girl, if you're beaten in a vote, you've got to stand it. ENID. Oh! [She gets up in alarm.] But would he resign? EDGAR. Of course! It goes to the roots of his beliefs. ENID. But he's so wrapped up in this company, Ted! There'd be nothing left for him! It'd be dreadful! [EDGAR shrugs his shoulders.] Oh, Ted, he's so old now! You must n't let them! EDGAR. [Hiding his feelings in an outburst.] My sympathies in this strike are all on the side of the men. ENID. He's been Chairman for more than thirty years! He made the whole thing! And think of the bad times they've had; it's always been he who pulled them through. Oh, Ted, you must! EDGAR. What is it you want? You said just now you hoped he'd make concessions. Now you want me to back him in not making them. This is n't a game, Enid! ENID. [Hotly.] It is n't a game to me that the Dad's in danger of losing all he cares about in life. If he won't give way, and he's beaten, it'll simply break him down! EDGAR. Did n't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this state? ENID. But can't you see, Ted, Father'll never get over it! You must stop them somehow. The others are afraid of him. If you back him up---- EDGAR. [Putting his hand to his head.] Against my convictions-- against yours! The moment it begins to pinch one personally---- ENID. It is n't personal, it's the Dad! EDGAR. Your family or yourself, and over goes the show! ENID. [Resentfully.] If you don't take it seriously, I do. EDGAR. I am as fond of him as you are; that's nothing to do with it. ENID. We can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. But we know the Dad might have a stroke any day. D' you mean to say that he isn't more to you than---- EDGAR. Of course he is. ENID. I don't understand you then. EDGAR. H'm! ENID. If it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own Father! You don't seem to realise. EDGAR. I realise perfectly. ENID. It's your first duty to save him. EDGAR. I wonder. ENID. [Imploring.] Oh, Ted? It's the only interest he's got left; it'll be like a death-blow to him! EDGAR. [Restraining his emotion.] I know. ENID. Promise! EDGAR. I'll do what I can. [He turns to the double-doors.] [The curtained door is opened, and ANTHONY appears. EDGAR opens the double-doors, and passes through.] [SCANTLEBURY'S voice is faintly heard: "Past five; we shall never get through--have to eat another dinner at that hotel!" The doors are shut. ANTHONY walks forward.] ANTHONY. You've been seeing Roberts, I hear. ENID. Yes. ANTHONY. Do you know what trying to bridge such a gulf as this is like? [ENID puts her work on the little table, and faces him.] Filling a sieve with sand! ENID. Don't! ANTHONY. You think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble of the century. [He passes on. ] ENID. Father! [ANTHONY Stops at the double doors.] I'm only thinking of you! ANTHONY. [More softly.] I can take care of myself, my dear. ENID. Have you thought what'll happen if you're beaten-- [she points]--in there? ANTHONY. I don't mean to be. ENID. Oh! Father, don't give them a chance. You're not well; need you go to the meeting at all? ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] Cut and run? ENID. But they'll out-vote you! ANTHONY. [Putting his hand on the doors.] We shall see! ENID. I beg you, Dad! Won't you? [ANTHONY looks at her softly.] [ANTHONY shakes his head. He opens the doors. A buzz of voices comes in.] SCANTLEBURY. Can one get dinner on that 6.30 train up? TENCH. No, Sir, I believe not, sir. WILDER. Well, I shall speak out; I've had enough of this. EDGAR. [Sharply.] What? [It ceases instantly. ANTHONY passes through, closing the doors behind him. ENID springs to them with a gesture of dismay. She puts her hand on the knob, and begins turning it; then goes to the fireplace, and taps her foot on the fender. Suddenly she rings the bell. FROST comes in by the door that leads into the hall.] FROST. Yes, M'm? ENID. When the men come, Frost, please show them in here; the hall 's cold. FROST. I could put them in the pantry, M'm. ENID. No. I don't want to--to offend them; they're so touchy. FROST. Yes, M'm. [Pause.] Excuse me, Mr. Anthony's 'ad nothing to eat all day. ENID. I know Frost. FROST. Nothin' but two whiskies and sodas, M'm. ENID. Oh! you oughtn't to have let him have those. FROST. [Gravely.] Mr. Anthony is a little difficult, M'm. It's not as if he were a younger man, an' knew what was good for 'im; he will have his own way. ENID. I suppose we all want that. FROST. Yes, M'm. [Quietly.] Excuse me speakin' about the strike. I'm sure if the other gentlemen were to give up to Mr. Anthony, and quietly let the men 'ave what they want, afterwards, that'd be the best way. I find that very useful with him at times, M'm. [ENID shakes hey head.] If he's crossed, it makes him violent [with an air of discovery], and I've noticed in my own case, when I'm violent I'm always sorry for it afterwards. ENID. [With a smile.] Are you ever violent, Frost? FROST. Yes, M'm; oh! sometimes very violent. ENID. I've never seen you. FROST. [Impersonally.] No, M'm; that is so. [ENID fidgets towards the back of the door.] [With feeling.] Bein' with Mr. Anthony, as you know, M'm, ever since I was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age. I've taken the liberty to speak to Mr. Wanklin [dropping his voice]-- seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen--but 'e said to me: "That's all very well, Frost, but this strike's a very serious thing," 'e said. "Serious for all parties, no doubt," I said, "but yumour 'im, sir," I said, "yumour 'im. It's like this, if a man comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets over it." "Yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that." [FROST looks at his nails.] That's where it is, M'm. I said to Mr. Anthony this morning: "Is it worth it, sir?" "Damn it," he said to me, "Frost! Mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" Beg pardon, M'm, for using such a word. ENID. [Moving to the double-doors, and listening.] Do you know that man Roberts, Frost? FROST. Yes, M'm; that's to say, not to speak to. But to look at 'im you can tell what he's like. ENID. [Stopping.] Yes? FROST. He's not one of these 'ere ordinary 'armless Socialists. 'E's violent; got a fire inside 'im. What I call "personal." A man may 'ave what opinions 'e likes, so long as 'e 's not personal; when 'e 's that 'e 's not safe. ENID. I think that's what my father feels about Roberts. FROST. No doubt, M'm, Mr. Anthony has a feeling against him. [ENID glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the double-doors.] It 's, a regular right down struggle between the two. I've no patience with this Roberts, from what I 'ear he's just an ordinary workin' man like the rest of 'em. If he did invent a thing he's no worse off than 'undreds of others. My brother invented a new kind o' dumb-waiter--nobody gave him anything for it, an' there it is, bein' used all over the place. [ENID moves closer to the double-doors.] There's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e wasn't born a gentleman. What I say is--no man that's a gentleman looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above 'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below. ENID. [With slight impatience.] Yes, I know, Frost, of course. Will you please go in and ask if they'll have some tea; say I sent you. FROST. Yes, M'm. [He opens the doors gently and goes in. There is a momentary sound of earnest, gather angry talk.] WILDER. I don't agree with you. WANKLIN. We've had this over a dozen times. EDGAR. [Impatiently.] Well, what's the proposition? SCANTLEBURY. Yes, what does your father say? Tea? Not for me, not for me! WANKLIN. What I understand the Chairman to say is this---- [FROST re-enters closing the door behind him.] ENID. [Moving from the door.] Won't they have any tea, Frost? [She goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking at the baby's frock.] [A parlourmaid enters from the hall.] PARLOURMAID. A Miss Thomas, M'm ENID. [Raising her head.] Thomas? What Miss Thomas--d' you mean a----? PARLOURMAID. Yes, M'm. ENID. [Blankly.] Oh! Where is she? PARLOURMAID. In the porch. ENID. I don't want----[She hesitates.] FROST. Shall I dispose of her, M'm? ENID. I 'll come out. No, show her in here, Ellen. [The PARLOUR MAID and FROST go out. ENID pursing her lips, sits at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. The PARLOURMAID ushers in MADGE THOMAS and goes out; MADGE stands by the door.] ENID. Come in. What is it. What have you come for, please? MADGE. Brought a message from Mrs. Roberts. ENID. A message? Yes. MADGE. She asks you to look after her mother. ENID. I don't understand. MADGE. [Sullenly.] That's the message. ENID. But--what--why? MADGE. Annie Roberts is dead. [There is a silence.] ENID. [Horrified.] But it's only a little more than an hour since I saw her. MADGE. Of cold and hunger. ENID. [Rising.] Oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart---- What makes you look at me like that? I tried to help her. MADGE. [With suppressed savagery.] I thought you'd like to know. ENID. [Passionately.] It's so unjust! Can't you see that I want to help you all? MADGE. I never harmed any one that had n't harmed me first. ENID. [Coldly.] What harm have I done you? Why do you speak to me like that? MADGE. [With the bitterest intensity.] You come out of your comfort to spy on us! A week of hunger, that's what you want! ENID. [Standing her ground.] Don't talk nonsense! MADGE. I saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold. ENID. [With a movement of grief.] Oh! why wouldn't she let me help her? It's such senseless pride! MADGE. Pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm. ENID. [Passionately.] I won't talk to you! How can you tell what I feel? It's not my fault that I was born better off than you. MADGE. We don't want your money. ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go away! MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you and your father! ENID. [With rage and emotion.] That's wicked! My father is suffering himself through this wretched strike. MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead! That 'll make him better. ENID. Go away! MADGE. When a person hurts us we get it back on them. [She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They stand a yard apart, crossing glances.] MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt that! Lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after, is n't it. She won't trouble you long! ENID. Go away! MADGE. I've given you the message. [She turns and goes out into the hall. ENID, motionless till she has gone, sinks down at the table, bending her head over the frock, which she is still clutching to her. The double-doors are opened, and ANTHONY comes slowly in; he passes his daughter, and lowers himself into an arm-chair. He is very flushed.] ENID. [Hiding her emotion-anxiously.] What is it, Dad? [ANTHONY makes a gesture, but does not speak.] Who was it? [ANTHONY does not answer. ENID going to the double-doors meets EDGAR Coming in. They speak together in low tones.] What is it, Ted? EDGAR. That fellow Wilder! Taken to personalities! He was downright insulting. ENID. What did he say? EDGAR. Said, Father was too old and feeble to know what he was doing! The Dad's worth six of him! ENID. Of course he is. [They look at ANTHONY.] [The doors open wider, WANKLIN appears With SCANTLEBURY.] SCANTLEBURY. [Sotto voce.] I don't like the look of this! WANKLIN. [Going forward.] Come, Chairman! Wilder sends you his apologies. A man can't do more. [WILDER, followed by TENCH, comes in, and goes to ANTHONY.] WILDER. [Glumly.] I withdraw my words, sir. I'm sorry. [ANTHONY nods to him.] ENID. You have n't come to a decision, Mr. Wanklin? [WANKLIN shakes his head.] WANKLIN. We're all here, Chairman; what do you say? Shall we get on with the business, or shall we go back to the other room? SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes; let's get on. We must settle something. [He turns from a small chair, and settles himself suddenly in the largest chair with a sigh of comfort.] [WILDER and WANKLIN also sit; and TENCH, drawing up a straight-backed chair close to his Chairman, sits on the edge of it with the minute-book and a stylographic pen.] ENID. [Whispering.] I want to speak to you a minute, Ted. [They go out through the double-doors.] WANKLIN. Really, Chairman, it's no use soothing ourselves with a sense of false security. If this strike's not brought to an end before the General Meeting, the shareholders will certainly haul us over the coals. SCANTLEBURY. [Stirring.] What--what's that? WANKLIN. I know it for a fact. ANTHONY. Let them! WILDER. And get turned out? WANKLIN. [To ANTHONY.] I don't mind martyrdom for a policy in which I believe, but I object to being burnt for some one else's principles. SCANTLEBURY. Very reasonable--you must see that, Chairman. ANTHONY. We owe it to other employers to stand firm. WANKLIN. There's a limit to that. ANTHONY. You were all full of fight at the start. SCANTLEBURY. [With a sort of groan.] We thought the men would give in, but they-have n't! ANTHONY. They will! WILDER. [Rising and pacing up and down.] I can't have my reputation as a man of business destroyed for the satisfaction of starving the men out. [Almost in tears.] I can't have it! How can we meet the shareholders with things in the state they are? SCANTLEBURY. Hear, hear--hear, hear! WILDER. [Lashing himself.] If any one expects me to say to them I've lost you fifty thousand pounds and sooner than put my pride in my pocket I'll lose you another. [Glancing at ANTHONY.] It's--it's unnatural! I don't want to go against you, sir. WANKLIN. [Persuasively.] Come Chairman, we 're not free agents. We're part of a machine. Our only business is to see the Company earns as much profit as it safely can. If you blame me for want of principle: I say that we're Trustees. Reason tells us we shall never get back in the saving of wages what we shall lose if we continue this struggle--really, Chairman, we must bring it to an end, on the best terms we can make. ANTHONY. No. [There is a pause of general dismay.] WILDER. It's a deadlock then. [Letting his hands drop with a sort of despair.] Now I shall never get off to Spain! WANKLIN. [Retaining a trace of irony.] You hear the consequences of your victory, Chairman? WILDER. [With a burst of feeling.] My wife's ill! SCANTLEBURY. Dear, dear! You don't say so. WILDER. If I don't get her out of this cold, I won't answer for the consequences. [Through the double-doors EDGAR comes in looking very grave.] EDGAR. [To his Father.] Have you heard this, sir? Mrs. Roberts is dead! [Every one stages at him, as if trying to gauge the importance of this news.] Enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything. It's enough! [There is a silence, every one avoiding the other's eyes, except ANTHONY, who stares hard at his son.] SCANTLEBURY. You don't suggest that we could have helped the poor thing? WILDER. [Flustered.] The woman was in bad health. Nobody can say there's any responsibility on us. At least--not on me. EDGAR. [Hotly.] I say that we are responsible. ANTHONY. War is war! EDGAR. Not on women! WANKLIN. It not infrequently happens that women are the greatest sufferers. EDGAR. If we knew that, all the more responsibility rests on us. ANTHONY. This is no matter for amateurs. EDGAR. Call me what you like, sir. It's sickened me. We had no right to carry things to such a length. WILDER. I don't like this business a bit--that Radical rag will twist it to their own ends; see if they don't! They'll get up some cock and bull story about the poor woman's dying from starvation. I wash my hands of it. EDGAR. You can't. None of us can. SCANTLEBURY. [Striking his fist on the arm of his chair.] But I protest against this! EDGAR. Protest as you like, Mr. Scantlebury, it won't alter facts. ANTHONY. That's enough. EDGAR. [Facing him angrily.] No, sir. I tell you exactly what I think. If we pretend the men are not suffering, it's humbug; and if they're suffering, we know enough of human nature to know the women are suffering more, and as to the children--well--it's damnable! [SCANTLEBURY rises from his chair.] I don't say that we meant to be cruel, I don't say anything of the sort; but I do say it's criminal to shut our eyes to the facts. We employ these men, and we can't get out of it. I don't care so much about the men, but I'd sooner resign my position on the Board than go on starving women in this way. [All except ANTHONY are now upon their feet, ANTHONY sits grasping the arms of his chair and staring at his son.] SCANTLEBURY. I don't--I don't like the way you're putting it, young sir. WANKLIN. You're rather overshooting the mark. WILDER. I should think so indeed! EDGAR. [Losing control.] It's no use blinking things! If you want to have the death of women on your hands--I don't! SCANTLEBURY. Now, now, young man! WILDER. On our hands? Not on mine, I won't have it! EDGAR. We are five members of this Board; if we were four against it, why did we let it drift till it came to this? You know perfectly well why--because we hoped we should starve the men out. Well, all we've done is to starve one woman out! SCANTLEBURY. [Almost hysterically.] I protest, I protest! I'm a humane man--we're all humane men! EDGAR. [Scornfully.] There's nothing wrong with our humanity. It's our imaginations, Mr. Scantlebury. WILDER. Nonsense! My imagination's as good as yours. EDGAR. If so, it is n't good enough. WILDER. I foresaw this! EDGAR. Then why didn't you put your foot down! WILDER. Much good that would have done. [He looks at ANTHONY.] EDGAR. If you, and I, and each one of us here who say that our imaginations are so good-- SCANTLEBURY. [Flurried.] I never said so. EDGAR. [Paying no attention.]--had put our feet down, the thing would have been ended long ago, and this poor woman's life wouldn't have been crushed out of her like this. For all we can tell there may be a dozen other starving women. SCANTLEBURY. For God's sake, sir, don't use that word at a--at a Board meeting; it's--it's monstrous. EDGAR. I will use it, Mr. Scantlebury. SCANTLEBURY. Then I shall not listen to you. I shall not listen! It's painful to me. [He covers his ears.] WANKLIN. None of us are opposed to a settlement, except your Father. EDGAR. I'm certain that if the shareholders knew---- WANKLIN. I don't think you'll find their imaginations are any better than ours. Because a woman happens to have a weak heart---- EDGAR. A struggle like this finds out the weak spots in everybody. Any child knows that. If it hadn't been for this cut-throat policy, she need n't have died like this; and there would n't be all this misery that any one who is n't a fool can see is going on. [Throughout the foregoing ANTHONY has eyed his son; he now moves as though to rise, but stops as EDGAR speaks again.] I don't defend the men, or myself, or anybody. WANKLIN. You may have to! A coroner's jury of disinterested sympathisers may say some very nasty things. We mustn't lose sight of our position. SCANTLEBURY. [Without uncovering his ears.] Coroner's jury! No, no, it's not a case for that! EDGAR. I 've had enough of cowardice. WANKLIN. Cowardice is an unpleasant word, Mr. Edgar Anthony. It will look very like cowardice if we suddenly concede the men's demands when a thing like this happens; we must be careful! WILDER. Of course we must. We've no knowledge of this matter, except a rumour. The proper course is to put the whole thing into the hands of Harness to settle for us; that's natural, that's what we should have come to any way. SCANTLEBURY. [With dignity.] Exactly! [Turning to EDGAR.] And as to you, young sir, I can't sufficiently express my--my distaste for the way you've treated the whole matter. You ought to withdraw! Talking of starvation, talking of cowardice! Considering what our views are! Except your own is--is one of goodwill--it's most irregular, it's most improper, and all I can say is it's--it's given me pain---- [He places his hand over his heart.] EDGAR. [Stubbornly.] I withdraw nothing. [He is about to say mote when SCANTLEBURY once more coveys up his ears. TENCH suddenly makes a demonstration with the minute-book. A sense of having been engaged in the unusual comes over all of them, and one by one they resume their seats. EDGAR alone remains on his feet.] WILDER. [With an air of trying to wipe something out.] I pay no attention to what young Mr. Anthony has said. Coroner's jury! The idea's preposterous. I--I move this amendment to the Chairman's Motion: That the dispute be placed at once in the hands of Mr. Simon Harness for settlement, on the lines indicated by him this morning. Any one second that? [TENCH writes in his book.] WANKLIN. I do. WILDER. Very well, then; I ask the Chairman to put it to the Board. ANTHONY. [With a great sigh-slowly.] We have been made the subject of an attack. [Looking round at WILDER and SCANTLEBURY with ironical contempt.] I take it on my shoulders. I am seventy-six years old. I have been Chairman of this Company since its inception two-and-thirty years ago. I have seen it pass through good and evil report. My connection with it began in the year that this young man was born. [EDGAR bows his head. ANTHONY, gripping his chair, goes on.] I have had do to with "men" for fifty years; I've always stood up to them; I have never been beaten yet. I have fought the men of this Company four times, and four times I have beaten them. It has been said that I am not the man I was. [He looks at Wilder.] However that may be, I am man enough to stand to my guns. [His voice grows stronger. The double-doors are opened. ENID slips in, followed by UNDERWOOD, who restrains her.] The men have been treated justly, they have had fair wages, we have always been ready to listen to complaints. It has been said that times have changed; if they have, I have not changed with them. Neither will I. It has been said that masters and men are equal! Cant! There can only be one master in a house! Where two men meet the better man will rule. It has been said that Capital and Labour have the same interests. Cant! Their interests are as wide asunder as the poles. It has been said that the Board is only part of a machine. Cant! We are the machine; its brains and sinews; it is for us to lead and to determine what is to be done, and to do it without fear or favour. Fear of the men! Fear of the shareholders! Fear of our own shadows! Before I am like that, I hope to die. [He pauses, and meeting his son's eyes, goes on.] There is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. This half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation, has brought all this upon us. Sentiment and softness, and what this young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. You can't eat cake and have it! This middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or whatever it may be, is rotten. Masters are masters, men are men! Yield one demand, and they will make it six. They are [he smiles grimly] like Oliver Twist, asking for more. If I were in their place I should be the same. But I am not in their place. Mark my words: one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way there--you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you, floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to. I have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of my pride--I am thinking of the future of this country, threatened with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, threatened with what I cannot see. If by any conduct of mine I help to bring this on us, I shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the face. [ANTHONY stares before him, at what he cannot see, and there is perfect stillness. FROST comes in from the hall, and all but ANTHONY look round at him uneasily.] FROST. [To his master.] The men are here, sir. [ANTHONY makes a gesture of dismissal.] Shall I bring them in, sir? ANTHONY. Wait! [FROST goes out, ANTHONY turns to face his son.] I come to the attack that has been made upon me. [EDGAR, with a gesture of deprecation, remains motionless with his head a little bowed.] A woman has died. I am told that her blood is on my hands; I am told that on my hands is the starvation and the suffering of other women and of children. EDGAR. I said "on our hands," sir. ANTHONY. It is the same. [His voice grows stronger and stronger, his feeling is more and more made manifest.] I am not aware that if my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault. If I fall under his feet--as fall I may--I shall not complain. That will be my look-out--and this is--his. I cannot separate, as I would, these men from their women and children. A fair fight is a fair fight! Let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel! EDGAR. [In a low voice.] But is it a fair fight, Father? Look at them, and look at us! They've only this one weapon! ANTHONY. [Grimly.] And you're weak-kneed enough to teach them how to use it! It seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their enemy's side. I have not learnt that art. Is it my fault that they quarrelled with their Union too? EDGAR. There is such a thing as Mercy. ANTHONY. And justice comes before it. EDGAR. What seems just to one man, sir, is injustice to another. ANTHONY. [With suppressed passion.] You accuse me of injustice--of what amounts to inhumanity--of cruelty? [EDGAR makes a gesture of horror--a general frightened movement.] WANKLIN. Come, come, Chairman. ANTHONY. [In a grim voice.] These are the words of my own son. They are the words of a generation that I don't understand; the words of a soft breed. [A general murmur. With a violent effort ANTHONY recovers his control.] EDGAR. [Quietly.] I said it of myself, too, Father. [A long look is exchanged between them, and ANTHONY puts out his hand with a gesture as if to sweep the personalities away; then places it against his brow, swaying as though from giddiness. There is a movement towards him. He moves them back.] ANTHONY. Before I put this amendment to the Board, I have one more word to say. [He looks from face to face.] If it is carried, it means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do. It means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all Capital. It means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves. It means that we shall be open to constant attack to which we as constantly shall have to yield. Be under no misapprehension--run this time, and you will never make a stand again! You will have to fly like curs before the whips of your own men. If that is the lot you wish for, you will vote for this amendment. [He looks again, from face to face, finally resting his gaze on EDGAR; all sit with their eyes on the ground. ANTHONY makes a gesture, and TENCH hands him the book. He reads.] "Moved by Mr. Wilder, and seconded by Mr. Wanklin: 'That the men's demands be placed at once in the hands of Mr. Simon Harness for settlement on the lines indicated by him this morning.'" [With sudden vigour.] Those in favour: Signify the same in the usual way! [For a minute no one moves; then hastily, just as ANTHONY is about to speak, WILDER's hand and WANKLIN'S are held up, then SCANTLEBURY'S, and last EDGAR'S who does not lift his head.] [ANTHONY lifts his own hand.] [In a clear voice.] The amendment is carried. I resign my position on this Board. [ENID gasps, and there is dead silence. ANTHONY sits motionless, his head slowly drooping; suddenly he heaves as though the whole of his life had risen up within him.] Contrary? Fifty years! You have disgraced me, gentlemen. Bring in the men! [He sits motionless, staring before him. The Board draws hurriedly together, and forms a group. TENCH in a frightened manner speaks into the hall. UNDERWOOD almost forces ENID from the room.] WILDER. [Hurriedly.] What's to be said to them? Why isn't Harness here? Ought we to see the men before he comes? I don't---- TENCH. Will you come in, please? [Enter THOMAS, GREEN, BULGIN, and ROUS, who file up in a row past the little table. TENCH sits down and writes. All eyes are foxed on ANTHONY, who makes no sign.] WANKLIN. [Stepping up to the little table, with nervous cordiality.] Well, Thomas, how's it to be? What's the result of your meeting? ROUS. Sim Harness has our answer. He'll tell you what it is. We're waiting for him. He'll speak for us. WANKLIN. Is that so, Thomas? THOMAS. [Sullenly.] Yes. Roberts will not pe coming, his wife is dead. SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes! Poor woman! Yes! Yes! FROST. [Entering from the hall.] Mr. Harness, Sir! [As HARNESS enters he retires.] [HARNESS has a piece of paper in his hand, he bows to the Directors, nods towards the men, and takes his stand behind the little table in the very centre of the room.] HARNESS. Good evening, gentlemen. [TENCH, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they speak together in low tones.] WILDER. We've been waiting for you, Harness. Hope we shall come to some---- FROST. [Entering from the hall.] Roberts! [He goes.] [ROBERTS comes hastily in, and stands staring at ANTHONY. His face is drawn and old.] ROBERTS. Mr. Anthony, I am afraid I am a little late, I would have been here in time but for something that--has happened. [To the men.] Has anything been said? THOMAS. No! But, man, what made ye come? ROBERTS. Ye told us this morning, gentlemen, to go away and reconsider our position. We have reconsidered it; we are here to bring you the men's answer. [To ANTHONY.] Go ye back to London. We have nothing for you. By no jot or tittle do we abate our demands, nor will we until the whole of those demands are yielded. [ANTHONY looks at him but does not speak. There is a movement amongst the men as though they were bewildered.] HARNESS. Roberts! ROBERTS. [Glancing fiercely at him, and back to ANTHONY.] Is that clear enough for ye? Is it short enough and to the point? Ye made a mistake to think that we would come to heel. Ye may break the body, but ye cannot break the spirit. Get back to London, the men have nothing for ye? [Pausing uneasily he takes a step towards the unmoving ANTHONY.] EDGAR. We're all sorry for you, Roberts, but---- ROBERTS. Keep your sorrow, young man. Let your father speak! HARNESS. [With the sheet of paper in his hand, speaking from behind the little table.] Roberts! ROBERT. [TO ANTHONY, with passionate intensity.] Why don't ye answer? HARNESS. Roberts! ROBERTS. [Turning sharply.] What is it? HARNESS. [Gravely.] You're talking without the book; things have travelled past you. [He makes a sign to TENCH, who beckons the Directors. They quickly sign his copy of the terms.] Look at this, man! [Holding up his sheet of paper.] "Demands conceded, with the exception of those relating to the engineers and furnace-men. Double wages for Saturday's overtime. Night-shifts as they are." These terms have been agreed. The men go back to work again to-morrow. The strike is at an end. ROBERTS. [Reading the paper, and turning on the men. They shrink back from him, all but ROUS, who stands his ground. With deadly stillness.] Ye have gone back on me? I stood by ye to the death; ye waited for that to throw me over! [The men answer, all speaking together.] ROUS. It's a lie! THOMAS. Ye were past endurance, man. GREEN. If ye'd listen to me! BULGIN. (Under his breath.) Hold your jaw! ROBERTS. Ye waited for that! HARNESS. [Taking the Director's copy of the terms, and handing his own to TENCH.] That's enough, men. You had better go. [The men shuffle slowly, awkwardly away.] WILDER. [In a low, nervous voice.] There's nothing to stay for now, I suppose. [He follows to the door.] I shall have a try for that train! Coming, Scantlebury? SCANTLEBURY. [Following with WANKLIN.] Yes, yes; wait for me. [He stops as ROBERTS speaks.] ROBERTS. [To ANTHONY.] But ye have not signed them terms! They can't make terms without their Chairman! Ye would never sign them terms! [ANTHONY looks at him without speaking.] Don't tell me ye have! for the love o' God! [With passionate appeal.] I reckoned on ye! HARNESS. [Holding out the Director's copy of the teems.] The Board has signed! [ROBERTS looks dully at the signatures--dashes the paper from him, and covers up his eyes.] SCANTLEBURY. [Behind his hand to TENCH.] Look after the Chairman! He's not well; he's not well--he had no lunch. If there's any fund started for the women and children, put me down for--for twenty pounds. [He goes out into the hall, in cumbrous haste; and WANKLIN, who has been staring at ROBERTS and ANTHONY With twitchings of his face, follows. EDGAR remains seated on the sofa, looking at the ground; TENCH, returning to the bureau, writes in his minute-- book. HARNESS stands by the little table, gravely watching ROBERTS.] ROBERTS. Then you're no longer Chairman of this Company! [Breaking into half-mad laughter.] Ah! ha-ah, ha, ha! They've thrown ye over thrown over their Chairman: Ah-ha-ha! [With a sudden dreadful calm.] So--they've done us both down, Mr. Anthony? [ENID, hurrying through the double-doors, comes quickly to her father.] ANTHONY. Both broken men, my friend Roberts! HARNESS. [Coming down and laying his hands on ROBERTS'S sleeve.] For shame, Roberts! Go home quietly, man; go home! ROBERTS. [Tearing his arm away.] Home? [Shrinking together--in a whisper.] Home! ENID. [Quietly to her father.] Come away, dear! Come to your room [ANTHONY rises with an effort. He turns to ROBERTS who looks at him. They stand several seconds, gazing at each other fixedly; ANTHONY lifts his hand, as though to salute, but lets it fall. The expression of ROBERTS'S face changes from hostility to wonder. They bend their heads in token of respect. ANTHONY turns, and slowly walks towards the curtained door. Suddenly he sways as though about to fall, recovers himself, and is assisted out by EDGAR and ENID; UNDERWOOD follows, but stops at the door. ROBERTS remains motionless for several seconds, staring intently after ANTHONY, then goes out into the hall.] TENCH. [Approaching HARNESS.] It's a great weight off my mind, Mr. Harness! But what a painful scene, sir! [He wipes his brow.] [HARNESS, pale and resolute, regards with a grim half-smile the quavering.] TENCH. It's all been so violent! What did he mean by: "Done us both down?" If he has lost his wife, poor fellow, he oughtn't to have spoken to the Chairman like that! HARNESS. A woman dead; and the two best men both broken! TENCH. [Staring at him-suddenly excited.] D'you know, sir--these terms, they're the very same we drew up together, you and I, and put to both sides before the fight began? All this--all this--and--and what for? HARNESS. [In a slow grim voice.] That's where the fun comes in! [UNDERWOOD without turning from the door makes a gesture of assent.] The curtain falls. THE END 
35275	----	30,000 LOCKED OUT. THE GREAT STRIKE OF THE BUILDING TRADES IN CHICAGO. BY JAMES C. BEEKS. CHICAGO: PRESS OF THE FRANZ GINDELE PRINTING CO. 1887. INTRODUCTION. The attention of the world has been called to the great strike and lockout in the building trades in Chicago because it rested upon the question of individual liberty--a question which is not only vital alike to the employer and the employe, but which affects every industry, every class of people, every city, state and country. It is a principle which antagonizes no motive which has been honestly conceived, but upon which rests--or should rest--the entire social, political and industrial fabric of a nation. It underlies the very foundation of free institutions. To antagonize it is to thrust at the beginning point of that freedom for which brave men have laid down their lives in every land since the formation of society. With this question prominently in the fight, and considering the magnitude of the interests affected, it is not at all surprising that the public has manifested interest in the agitation of questions which have affected the pockets of thirty thousand artisans and laborers, hundreds of employers, scores of manufacturers and dealers in building materials, stopped the erection of thousands of structures of all classes, and driven into the vaults of a great city capital amounting to not less than $20,000,000. The labor problem is not new. Neither is it without its perplexities and its grievances. Its entanglements have puzzled the brightest intellects, and its grievances have, on many occasions, called loudly for changes which have been made for the purpose of removing fetters that have bound men in a system of oppression that resembled the worst form of slavery. These changes have come none too soon. And, no doubt, there yet remain cases in which the oppressed should be speedily relieved of burdens which have been put upon working men and women in every country under the sun. But, because these conditions exist with one class of people, it is no justification for an unreasonable, or exacting demand by another class; or, that they should be permitted to reverse the order of things and inaugurate a system of oppression that partakes of a spirit of revenge, and that one burden after another should be piled up until the exactions of an element of labor become so oppressive that they are unbearable. When this is the case, the individual who has been advocating the cause of freedom--and who has been striving for the release and the elevation of the laboring classes--becomes, in turn, an oppressor of the worst kind. He stamps upon the very foundation on which he first rested his cause. He tramples upon the great cause of individual liberty and becomes a tyrant whose remorseless system of oppression would crush out of existence not only the grand superstructure of freedom, but would bury beneath his iron heel the very germ of his free existence. The laborer is a necessity. If this is true the converse of the proposition is equally true--the employer is a necessity. Without the employer the laborer would be deprived of an opportunity to engage in the avocation to which his faculties may have been directed. Without the laborer the employer would be in no position to carry forward any enterprise of greater or less magnitude. All cannot be employers. All cannot be employes. There must be a directing hand as well as a hand to be directed. In exercising the prerogative of a director the employer would be powerless to carry to a successful termination any enterprise if liberty of action should be entirely cut off, or his directing hand should be so fettered that it could not exercise the necessary freedom of action to direct. At the same time, if the employe should be so burdened that he could not exercise his talents in a manner to compass the line of work directed to be done, it would be unreasonable to expect from him the accomplishment of the task to which he had been assigned. There is a relation between the two around which such safeguards should be thrown as will insure that free action on the part of both that will remove the possibility of oppression, and at the same time retain, in its fullest sense, the relation of employer and employe. The necessity of the one to the other should not be forgotten. That the employer should have the right to direct his business in a manner that will make it successful, and for his interest, none should have the right to question. The successful direction of an enterprise by an employer results, necessarily, in the security of employment by the employe. A business which is unsuccessfully prosecuted, or which is fettered by the employe in a manner which prevents its successful prosecution, must, of necessity, result in displacing the most trusted servant, or the most skilled artisan. An employer, in the direction of his business, should not be denied the right to decide for himself whom he shall employ, or to select those who may be best fitted to accomplish his work. An employe should expect employment according to his ability to perform the work to be done. A skillful artisan should not be expected to accept the reward of one unskilled in the same trade. An unskilled workman should not receive the same wages paid to a skilled workman. Had these rules been recognized by the bricklayers in Chicago there would have been no strike, no lockout. The fight was against the right of the employer to direct his own business. It was originated by a class of men who claimed the right to demand that all bricklayers should be paid the same rate per hour, regardless of their ability; that none should be employed except those who were members of The United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago; and that every edict issued by this union should be obeyed by the Master Masons, including the last one made viz: That the pay day should be changed from Monday, or Tuesday, to Saturday. NATIONAL ORGANIZATION. The National Association of Builders convened in Chicago March 29th, 1887, and continued in session three days. This convention was composed of representatives of the building trades from almost every section of the country. They came together for the purpose of perfecting the organization of a National Association in pursuance of a call which had been made by a committee which met in Boston the previous January. Delegates were present from twenty-seven cities, as follows: Cleveland, Ohio: Thos. Simmons, H. Kickheim, John T. Watterson, S. W. Watterson. Milwaukee, Wis.: Thos. Mason, Garrett Dunck, John Laugenberger, Richard Smith. Charleston, S. C.: D. A. J. Sullivan, Henry Oliver. Nashville, Tenn.: Daniel S. Wright. Detroit, Mich.: Thos. Fairbairn, W. E. Avery, W. J. Stapleton, Jas. Roche, W. G. Vinton. Minneapolis, Minn.: Thos. Downs, F. B. Long, H. N. Leighton, Geo. W. Libby, Herbert Chalker, F. S. Morton. Baltimore Md.: John Trainor, John J. Purcell, Geo. W. Hetzell, Wm. H. Anderson, Wm. Ferguson, Philip Walsh, Geo. Mann. Chicago, Ill.: Geo. Tapper, P. B. Wight, Geo. C. Prussing, W. E. Frost, F. V. Gindele, A. W. Murray, J. B. Sullivan. St. Paul, Minn.: Edward E. Scribner, J. B. Chapman, E. F. Osborne, G. J. Grant, J. H. Donahue, J. S. Burris, J. W. Gregg. Buffalo, N. Y.: Chas. Berrick, John Feist, Chas. A. Rupp. Cincinnati, Ohio: J. Milton Blair, L. H. McCammon, I. Graveson, Jas. Allison, H. L. Thornton, J. C. Harwood, Wm. Schuberth, Jr. Philadelphia, Pa.: John S. Stevens, Chas. H. Reeves, D. A. Woelpper, Geo. Watson, Wm. Harkness, Jr., Geo. W. Roydhouse, Wm. Gray. Columbus, Ohio: Geo. B. Parmelee. St. Louis Mo.: Andrew Kerr, H. C. Lindsley, John R. Ahrens, John H. Dunlap, Anton Wind, Richard Walsh, Wm. Gahl. Indianapolis, Ind.: John Martin, J. C. Adams, Fred Mack, G. Weaver, C. Bender, Wm. P. Jungclaus, Peter Rautier. New Orleans, La.: A. J. Muir, H. Hofield, F. H. West. Boston, Mass.: Leander Greely, Ira G. Hersey, John A. Emery, Wm. Lumb, J. Arthur Jacobs, Francis Hayden, Wm. H. Sayward. New York City: A. J. Campbell, A. G. Bogert, John Byrns, John McGlensey, Marc Eidlitz, John J. Tucker. Troy, N. Y.: C. A. Meeker. Albany, N. Y.: David M. Alexander Worcester, Mass.: E. B. Crane, O. W. Norcross, Henry Mellen, O. S. Kendall, Robt. S. Griffin, Geo. H. Cutting. Grand Rapids, Mich.: John Rawson, James Curtis, H. E. Doren, J. D. Boland, C. H. Pelton, W. C. Weatherly, C. A. Sathren. Sioux City, Iowa.: Fred F. Beck. Pittsburgh and Allegheny City, Pa.: Geo. A. Cochran, Saml. Francis, Alex. Hall, R. C. Miller, Geo. S. Fulmer. Providence, R. I.: Geo. R. Phillips, Richard Hayward. Geo. S. Ross. Rochester, N. Y.: Chas. W. Voshell. Washington, D. C.: Thos. J. King. George C. Prussing, of Chicago, presided, and William H. Sayward, of Boston, was secretary of the convention. Mr. Sayward appointed as his assistants J. Arthur Jacobs, of Boston, and W. Harkness, Jr., of Philadelphia. In adopting a constitution the objects of the organization were set forth in the following article: Article II. The fundamental objects of this association shall be to foster and protect the interests of contractors, manual workmen, and all others concerned in the erection and construction of buildings; to promote mechanical and industrial interests; to acquire, preserve and disseminate valuable information connected with the building trades; to devise and suggest plans for the preservation of mechanical skill through a more complete and practical apprenticeship system, and to establish uniformity and harmony of action among builders throughout the country. The better to accomplish these objects, this association shall encourage the establishment of builders' exchanges in every city or town of importance throughout the country, and shall aid them to organize upon some general system that will not conflict with local customs and interests, in order that through these filial associations the resolutions and recommendations of this National Association may be promulgated and adopted in all localities. Not content with setting out the objects of the association in a short section of a constitution, the convention deemed it advisable that its objects should be defined in a manner that could not be misunderstood. The members were aware of the fact that the convention was being watched by builders everywhere, and that the eye of the public was upon every movement made. But they more fully understood that the artisans and laborers connected with the building trades throughout the country would criticise their every act, and unless their position was definitely and clearly set out they might be misunderstood. To avoid this, and to place the objects fairly before the public, the convention unanimously adopted the following: DECLARATION OF PRINCIPLES. 1. This association affirms that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. While upholding this principle as an essential safeguard for all concerned, this association would appeal to employers in the building trades to recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and while condemning and opposing improper action upon their part, they should aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conferences and arbitrations are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented. When such conferences are entered into, care should be taken to state clearly in advance that this fundamental principle must be maintained, and that such conferences should only be competent to report results in the form of resolutions of recommendation to the individuals composing the various organizations participating, avoiding all forms of dictatorial authority. 2. That a uniform system of apprenticeship should be adopted by the various mechanical trades; that manual training schools should be established as a part of the public school system; and, that trade night schools should be organized by the various local trade organizations for the benefit and improvement of apprentices. 3. This association earnestly recommends all its affiliated associations to secure, as soon as possible, the adoption of a system of payment "by the hour" for all labor performed, other than "piece work" or "salary work," and to obtain the co-operation of associations of workmen in this just and equitable arrangement. 4. That all blank forms of contracts for buildings should be uniform throughout the United States. That such forms of contract, with the conditions thereof, should be such as will give the builder, as well as the owner, the protection of his rights, such as justice demands. That whenever a proper form has been approved by this association, after consultation with the American Institute of Architects, and the Western Association of Architects, we recommend its use by every builder and contractor. 5. The legislatures of the various states should be petitioned to formulate and adopt uniform lien laws and every organization represented in this association is recommended to use its best endeavors to secure the passage of the same. 6. Architects and builders should be required to adopt more effectual safeguards in buildings in process of construction, so as to lessen the danger of injury to workmen and others. 7. We recommend the adoption of a system of insurance against injuries by accident to workmen in the employ of builders, wherein the employer may participate in the payment of premiums for the benefit of his employes. Also in securing the payment of annuities to workmen who may become permanently disabled, through injuries received by accident or the infirmities of old age. When this declaration was sent out it set the laborer to thinking, and the public generally to reflecting upon the relation between the employer and the employe, especially in the building trades. The first paragraph affirming "that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed," was regarded as a declaration of right, justice and liberty that ought to be universally accepted. And yet it has not been so accepted. It is utterly rejected in practice, if not in so many words, in almost every case of strike. In one way or another the strikers prevent others from exercising that right to work and to employ, or attempt to do so, thus assuming for themselves superior rights and despotic powers. While the builders emphatically affirmed the fundamental principle of right and liberty, they did not condemn associations of workmen. On the contrary, they recognized the fact that there were "many opportunities for good" in such associations, and appealed to employers in the building trades to assist them in all just and honorable purposes. This was certainly liberal, in view of the fact that labor organizations are continually used as agencies for interfering with men in the exercise of their rights. The convention declared that upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer, or arbitrate. The members did not even stoop to notice the nonsensical notion of compulsory arbitration, or arbitration under the forms of law, which has found expression in one or two state laws and in one or two bills that have been introduced in congress, and which is not arbitration at all. But, while upon fundamental principles they perceived the uselessness of arbitration, yet they declared that there were many points upon which conferences and arbitration were perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it was a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together, to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances might be prevented. They did not, however, lose sight of the fundamental principle first affirmed, but held that the results of conferences should take the form of resolutions of recommendation, and that all forms of dictatorial authority should be avoided. They are evidently willing to meet the men half way when there is really anything to confer about. As a whole, the platform of principles upon which the convention planted itself is unassailable by the most critical objector among the disturbing element of labor. It was to be hoped that they would be fully accepted and thoughtfully regarded by the workmen in the building trades. But, such was not, generally, the case. The leading element in the labor organizations has cultivated an antagonistic spirit that rebels against every proposition or suggestion from any association that is not in strict accord with their own distorted views. This element watched the National Association of Builders very closely, and to them the fact that the constitution and the declaration of principles were eminently just and fair to the workingman, was the greater reason why they should exercise toward the whole a spirit of bitter antagonism. Otherwise, that element of labor which permits others to do their thinking, could not be moulded in the hand of the leader whose leadership depends upon the ability to make every act of the employer to appear in a hideous light. The fairness of the convention, and the justness of the principles enunciated, stimulated the leaders to renewed efforts to widen the breach between the employes and the employers in the building trades. They saw that unless the rebellious, revengeful spirit was nurtured, the thinking better, more reasonable element, might break away and follow the "master." New demands were made upon the employer with a full knowledge that they would not be acceded to, for the purpose of precipitating a general strike, and it came. THE CAUSE OF THE LOCK-OUT. The immediate cause of the great lockout dated to a proposition for Saturday as a pay-day, which was made April 11th, 1887, by the passage of a resolution by the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago, declaring that from and after that date the contracting masons should pay their employes on Saturday. The contractors were not asked to change the time of payment--from Monday or Tuesday, as had been the custom for many years--the union simply resolved that they should do so. No official notice of the passage of the resolution was sent to the Master Masons' association. They were not conferred with to see if it would be convenient, nor were they _requested_ to change the time. The resolution itself proposed to do the work for the employer without consulting him in reference to the change. The first intimation the Master Masons had of the passage of the resolution came in the shape of a demand of the foreman on each job to know if they were to be paid on Saturday. This demand was coupled with a statement that they would not work if they were not paid on that day, _as the union had changed the pay-day_. With some employers such a demand would have been a great surprise. It was not so with the Master Masons of Chicago. They had endured so much of an arbitrary character from the Bricklayers' union that they were not surprised at anything, unless it might have been the absence of a demand upon them for a change of some kind. This demand--had it come in the form of a request, or had a conference been invited to consider the proposition for a change of the pay-day--might have been conceded. But the manner in which it was presented gave notice to the Master Masons that the time had arrived for them to assert a little manhood, and to show to the great public that they had some "rights" which should be recognized. This--apparently minor--proposition dates back to "a long and distinguished line of ancestors," whose exactions have been of a character bordering upon oppression. They had their beginning with the strike of the bricklayers in the spring of 1883, when there was a stoppage of building for nine weeks on account of what were believed to be unreasonable demands of the Bricklayers' union. Jan. 1, 1883, the Union passed a resolution fixing the rate of wages at $4 a day, and another that they would not work with "Scabs." Previous to this the wages had been $3 and $3.50 per day. An attempt was made to put these resolutions in force the first week in April. The contractors had not been considered in arranging these questions, and for this reason they rebelled against what they regarded as arbitrary action. After a struggle which lasted nine weeks, three prominent architects, Messrs. D. Alder, W. W. Boyington and Julius Bauer, addressed communications to the Master Masons and the Union, requesting them to appoint committees to arbitrate their differences. The request was promptly acceded to by both sides, and on the 29th of May, 1883, the joint committee made the following award: In order to end the strike of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago (hereinafter designated as the union), who quit their work on March 31, 1883, and in the belief that, by the establishment of a standing committee of arbitration, all differences may be settled satisfactorily, and strikes and lockouts prevented in the future, and that this will lay the foundation for a better understanding and amicable relations such as should exist between employer and employe; now, therefore, We, the undersigned, Joseph J. Rince, William Ray and Peter Nelson, being a committee appointed for this purpose in special meeting of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons, held on Monday evening, May 28, at Greenebaum's hall, and empowered to act for and in behalf of said organization, and to bind its members by our action, on the one part, and Messrs. George Tapper, George C. Prussing and E. F. Gobel, being the executive committee of the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' Association, and who are fully authorized to act for the said organization in the premises, on the other part, have, and do agree that from and after this 29th day of May, 1883: 1. Foremen shall not be members of the journeymen's union, and when a member is made foreman he shall be suspended from active membership while employed in that capacity. Foremen may work on the wall. 2. Competent journeymen bricklayers and stonemasons working in the city may join the union in the regular way, should they so desire, by paying $10 as an initiation fee, but they shall not be compelled or forced to join in any way until July 1, 1883, and then only as provided in section 3 of article 4 of the by-laws of the union. 3. Former members of the union who returned to their work on or before May 26, 1883, and are for that act expelled, shall be regarded and treated in all respects like other outsiders. The members who returned to their work on and after May 28, 1883, are hereby declared in good standing. 4. The wages of competent journeymen are hereby declared to be 40 cents per hour. To such of the members of the union who can not earn the wages hereby established, their employer shall certify, upon application, this fact and the rate paid them, and the presentation of such certificate at the union shall entitle them to an "instruction card," and they shall be enrolled as "working under instructions" until they produce proof of being full and competent journeymen. 5. In January of each year a joint committee of conference and arbitration, consisting of five members of each--the Union and the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' Association--shall be appointed and serve for one year. To this joint committee shall be referred all questions of wages and any other subject in which both bodies are interested, and all grievances existing between members of one body and members of the other, or between a member of one body and a member of the other. This committee, properly constituted and assembled, shall have full power to decide all questions referred to them, and such decision shall be final and binding on all members of either organization. A majority vote shall decide. In case of a tie vote on any question, which consequently can not be decided by the committee as constituted, a judge of a United States court, or any disinterested person on whom the members thereof may agree, shall be elected umpire, who shall preside at a subsequent meeting of the committee and have the casting vote on the question at issue. All members of the union shall remain at their work continuously while said committee of arbitration is in session, subject to the decision of said committee. 6. Journeymen shall be paid by the hour for work actually rendered, with this exception: From April 1 to Nov. 1 work will be suspended at 5 o'clock on Saturdays, and all employes who have worked up to this hour on that day will receive pay for an extra hour. And we also agree and declare that the article of the constitution and by-laws of the union which refers to apprentices is wrong, and shall be referred to the joint committee of arbitration hereby provided in January next, for amendment, revision, or repeal. In witness whereof we have hereunto set our hands and seals this 29th day of May, 1883. JOSEPH J. RINCE, WILLIAM RAY, PETER NELSON, Committee of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago. GEORGE TAPPER, GEORGE C. PRUSSING, E. F. GOBEL, Committee of the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' Association. The bricklayers met May 31, and repudiated the action of the joint committee. William Ray made the remarkable announcement to the Union that section four--relating to journeymen under "instructions"--was not in the original draft, and that he never would have signed the agreement if it had been. He charged Mr. Prussing with slipping that section in after the agreement had been signed. On motion of Mr. Mulrany the agreement, or award, was referred back to the joint committee. In view of the fact that it was the award of a committee which the Union had created, its repudiation was a startling act. But, under threats of violence to the union members of the committee, this action had to be taken as a precaution of safety. The Master Masons met the same day and unanimously approved the action of the joint committee. While they were in session information was received of the charge made against Mr. Prussing. The charge was not only denied by Mr. Prussing, but he at once procured affidavits from William E. Mortimer and two others, who had heard the original draft of the agreement read, all of whom swore that the document had not been tampered with, but contained section 4 when the committee signed it. Even this did not satisfy the Union. They met again June 1, and again repudiated the action of the joint committee by adopting the following, which they addressed to George Tapper, president of the Master Masons' and Builders' association: In view of the present difficulties which have arisen from the action of a committee appointed May 28 from this Union in acting contrary to their instructions, we offer the following for your consideration: 1. On April 1, this year, we asked $4 per day from April 1, 1883, to Nov. 1, 1883, and 40 cents per hour from Nov. 1, 1883, to April 1, 1884, as the minimum wages for all members of this Union, and this we strictly adhere to. 2. We accept the situation as it is, take back all deserters from our Union, and deal with all strangers according to article 4, section 3, contained in our constitution and by-laws. 3. We believe in arbitration, and will agree to appoint a committee of five for one year to meet a like committee from your association, to which joint committee will be referred all grievances which may hereafter arise, and for the purpose of preventing strikes in the future. Instead of showing a disposition to confer and adjust differences, the Union passed upon all question and notified the employers that the ultimatum must be accepted, as the Union would "strictly adhere to" the action of April 1, notwithstanding the fact that all differences had been adjusted by arbitration. In the face of the act of repudiation the Union made this amendment: "We believe in arbitration" ... "for the purpose of preventing strikes in the future." Two days later, June 3, the Union held another meeting which was enlivened by charging the arbitration committee with treason, and threatening to lynch them. William Ray, one of the committee, made the announcement that he had done right in signing the award, and if it was to do over he would do the same thing again. This statement inflamed the crowd to such an extent that Ray was attacked and severely beaten. The other members of the committee escaped without injury. On June 5, at another meeting of the bricklayers, President Rince was deposed, the open charge being made that he had "sold them out." A resolution was then passed directing the men to go to work at $4 a day wherever they pleased, provided they did not work under a non-union foreman. This section had the effect of settling the strike. It was a drawn battle. The men were only too glad to go to work, and took advantage of the first order made on the subject. They worked by the side of non-union men for a time, but gradually drove them out of the city or took them into the Union for the purpose of increasing their strength. They then cut loose from the International association, made the initiation fee $25, and shut out every bricklayer who would not join their Union. As has been frequently remarked, "they built a wall around the city," and then demanded everything and got it, because the "bosses" were powerless to refuse their demands. While the result of the strike of 1883 was referred to as a drawn battle, it was a defeat for the Master Masons, because they then laid the groundwork for other demands and strikes, the fruits of which they have been forced to eat when they were bitter as gall. The battle should have been won then, and the troubles which have since come might have been unknown. During the strike the International union had assisted the Chicago bricklayers to the extent of $13,000, which had enabled them to hold out longer than they otherwise could have done. After they recovered from the effects of the strike they were assessed $4,600 to aid the Pittsburgh strikers, which sum they repudiated, and then withdrew from the Internationals, claiming that they were independent of any other organization, and would pay tribute to no other trade. Their base ingratitude made them objects of scorn among the honest laborers. Their assessment to aid Pittsburgh was never adjusted. Following the strike of 1883 demands were made from time to time by the union, as follows: That the hours of labor be reduced while the pay remained unchanged. That the wages be increased. Cutting down the number of apprentices. An apprentice over eighteen years of age must be the son of a journeyman. Foremen must be members of the Union, "but shall not work on a wall." No non-union bricklayer shall be employed in Chicago. An acknowledgment of the potency of the "Walking Delegate." Payment of uniform wages to all, irrespective of their qualifications. Full pay for all delays, however unavoidable. Pay for a discharged employe on a job, or for his time while waiting for his pay to be taken to him. Time and a half for all work in excess of eight hours. Double pay for work on Sunday. Establishment of the "Walking Delegate." These are a few of the more important exactions which have been made, and to avoid strikes had been granted. There were many others, and they presented themselves from time to time when least expected. It was supposed that the entire vocabulary of demands had been exhausted, and that the season of 1887 would pass without a strike, when the Saturday pay-day bobbed up as a warning to the contractor that the striker was not without resources, and that there were more to come. The demands of the bricklayers had been met from time to time by the Master Masons, and they were generally met in a weak way. Some were conceded without question, and others were agreed to, after a mild protest, in order to prevent the stoppage of some important work. The striker had always been possessed of the knowledge _when to strike_, and this had been one of the secrets of his success. The rule has been to make a demand at a time when it was believed the employer would make the concession, because he could not afford to do otherwise--that the interest of the pocket of the employer would move him when his sympathy could not be enlisted. In the last strike the strikers were disappointed. They inaugurated their movement upon the contractors at the opening of the building season and went at it in the old way, assuming that the bosses, who had so generally conceded everything, would not dare to refuse a simple proposition like that which contemplated changing the pay-day. But they struck a snag which grew to immense proportions, especially when the manufacturers of and dealers in building material stepped up and said they would quit manufacturing, and would stop selling material until there was a settlement of the trouble and the principle of "individual liberty" was recognized. They became an important and strengthening root to the old snag. They held the key to the situation, and asserted the right to handle it. They turned it and thirty thousand employes were locked out. THE CARPENTERS. The strikes of 1887 originated with the carpenters. In January steps were taken which contemplated getting every carpenter in Chicago into a union. Notice was given by publication that on and after April 4th, 1887, eight hours should constitute a day, and 35 cents an hour should be the minimum wages for a carpenter. When the time came for the new order of things to go into effect the Master Carpenters were expected to meet the demands without objection. They had not been requested to grant the concessions, and no official notice was sent to the Master Carpenters' association of the fact that the carpenters had decided to change the working hours and the rate of pay per hour. On Saturday, April 2d, 1887, the carpenters made individual demands upon their several employers for eight hours a day instead of ten hours, and 35 cents an hour instead of 25 and 30 cents an hour, which had been the rule. Not receiving favorable answers to their demands a meeting was called for Sunday, April 3d, at Battery D. At this meeting four thousand carpenters assembled. Reports were made from one hundred and twenty "bosses," of whom but twenty favored the proposed changes. Seventy-nine had positively refused to grant any concession. After a lengthy discussion of the situation in secret session the question of ordering a general strike was submitted to a vote, and it was carried by what was said to have been an overwhelming majority. This was the manner in which the strike was ordered. After the meeting adjourned the cool announcement was made that if the Master Carpenters had any propositions to submit, or desired to communicate with the striking carpenters, they "would be received" at room 8, No. 76 Fifth avenue. An order was issued to the effect that no carpenter should be allowed to work for any contractor, no matter what wages might be offered, until permission was obtained from the executive board of the Carpenters' Council, or the strike had been declared off. On Monday morning there were six thousand idle carpenters in the city, and the threat was made by the strikers that if the "bosses" did not accede to their demands all workmen engaged in the building trades would be called out, and there would be a general strike. Before 6 o'clock Monday morning, the following notice was sent out to every carpenter in the city, it being the intention to officially notify each one of the action taken before they could reach their work: DEAR SIR: The decision of the executive board of the United Carpenters' Council, ratified by mass-meeting held April 3d, is that no union carpenter be allowed to work on any job whatever until the demand is acceded to by the bosses as a body. The committee is open to conference with the bosses as a body at their earliest convenience. J. M. STERLING, J. BRENNOCK, Committee. There were hundreds who were willing to work, but they were forced to obey the mandate of the union. They were receiving good wages, and were satisfied; but, because every "wood-butcher" would not be paid the wages which a good carpenter could command, they were forced to leave their work and suffer the consequences of idleness. If they attempted to work their lives were in danger. There were three hundred contracting carpenters in the city who employed from fifteen to two hundred men each. The number of carpenters in the city working on buildings was about 7,500, and 5,800 of these belonged to the union. The wages paid ranged from $2.50 to $3.50 a day. Those who were receiving the smaller amounts were not satisfied, and the strike was originated for the ostensible purpose of bringing the so-called "wood-butcher" up to the standard of a carpenter on the question of wages. On Monday, April 7th, the Carpenters' Union met and adopted the following as their ultimatum: These are the conditions upon which we will settle this strike: That contractors conduct their work under the eight-hour system and pay the regular scale of wages--35 cents per hour, subject to discharge for incompetency, said conditions to remain in force until April 1, 1888, subject, however, to arbitration in case of grievances of any kind on either side. EXECUTIVE BOARD, UNITED CARPENTERS' COUNCIL. On the same day the Carpenters and Builders held a mass-meeting at the Builders' and Traders' exchange. The first action taken was to agree to stand together on the questions of wages and hours. A resolution was adopted that eight hours should constitute a day's work, fixing 30 cents an hour as the minimum price, and to grade the wages from that price up, according to the worth of the employe. The executive board of the United Carpenters' Council made the following announcement: In view of the fact that no communication has been received from the bosses, it is ordered that no union carpenter be allowed to go to work until further notified. The board will be in session at 8 A. M., April 7, at room 8, Nos. 76 and 78 Fifth avenue. All carpenters not on committees are requested to report at 10 A. M. The strike of the carpenters had begun to affect labor of all kinds on buildings. Many walls were advanced as far as they could be without the intervention of the carpenter. No man, other than a union carpenter, would be allowed to even set a joist. Any attempt to infringe a union rule was sure to precipitate a strike in another trade. A nervous feeling pervaded the building interests generally. Every other trade was in a state of apprehension. The Master Masons were among these. In order to guard against complications with the bricklayers and stonemasons the Master Masons' association had a meeting April 7th and adopted the following resolution: _Resolved_, That a committee of three be appointed with full power to represent this body in all matters relating to the Bricklayers' union, and with instructions to pave the way for the appointment of a standing committee of arbitration, to which all questions and controversies shall be referred for settlement, in order to prevent pecuniary losses to both sides in the future and foster a friendly feeling among the members of both bodies. There had been a few slight differences between employers and employes which were not readily adjusted, because there seemed to be nobody with whom an adjustment could be made. A copy of this resolution was sent to the Bricklayers' union. April 8th a few boss carpenters called on President Campbell, of the carpenters' union, and asked for men in order to finish a little pressing work. They were refused, the president of the union saying: "Not a man will be allowed to go to work until the bosses recognize the union and the demands that have been made." The announcement was made that two hundred and sixty non-association bosses had signified their willingness to accede to all the union had asked, and that they would meet at 3 o'clock in Greenebaum's hall to organize a new association. None of them arrived until long after the hour, and at 4 o'clock nineteen of the two hundred and sixty got into the large hall and were comparatively lost. They adjourned to a small room where they remained but a few minutes and then dispersed. They acknowledged they had been misled by the strikers, some of whom had arranged the meeting for the purpose of ascertaining how much disaffection there was in the ranks of the employers. The small attendance was a great disappointment to those in charge of the strike. But they determined to secure an organization among the "outside bosses," believing it would weaken the effort of the "bosses" who were standing out against the demands which had been made. The United Carpenters' Council held a meeting and adopted a resolution that no terms should be accepted looking toward a settlement of the difficulty other than a full recognition of the union and every demand that had been made. The Bricklayers met and decided to take a hand in the strike of the carpenters. They adopted a resolution providing that members of their union should set no window frames, handle no joists, nor do similar work on buildings in course of construction until the pending trouble was adjusted. The carpenters were delighted when they were officially notified of this action, and once more reaffirmed their determination to stand out. Similar action was taken by the Hodcarriers' union. Eight union carpenters were arrested for intimidating non-union men employed on a building on Canal street. They became so violent that the patrol wagon was called and they were taken to the Desplaines street station. They were heavily fined. Prominent Knights of Labor were of the opinion that the offer of the Master Carpenters of eight hours and 30 cents an hour should have been accepted. Believing this, they called a meeting of the Knights of Labor at Uhlich's hall for the purpose of ordering the carpenters to return to work. This meeting was held April 10th. The hall was packed by a crowd that was opposed to conceding anything. Those who called the meeting soon discovered that they would be mobbed if they presented any proposition to order the carpenters to go to work. A. Beaudry, who was one of those who called the meeting, and who strongly favored accepting the offer of the bosses, presided at the meeting, but he dared not present such a proposition. Instead of the meeting accomplishing the object for which it had been called, it reversed the expected order and advocated unity of action, expressing its sentiments by adopting the following resolution: _Resolved_, That this meeting sustains the action of the United Carpenters Council and pledges our individual support in their future efforts during the struggle. The result of this attempt to restore harmony was enough to satisfy fair-minded men that the demands were not those of reason, but were backed by an element which was composed of the rule-or-ruin class, and they were satisfied that it was uncontrollable. A feeble attempt was made to hold a meeting of the "consulting" bosses at No. 106 Randolph street for the purpose of settling the strike, but less than a half-dozen appeared on the scene, and the meeting was not held. In the evening the Carpenters' and Builders' association met at the Builders' and Traders' exchange. Vice-President William Hearson presided. A delegation of sixty representatives of the Carpenters council invaded the corridors of the exchange. A committee composed of Messrs. Frost and Woodard, was sent out to see what they wanted, and returned with the statement that the carpenters were very pleasant, but full of fight and disposed to stand out all summer. William Mavor read a communication from the United Carpenters' Council, stating that it would stand by its original proposition for 35 cents an hour, and that the union must be recognized. Mr. Mavor stated that the latter proposition was the sticker, and a great many voices said that they would never consent. They were willing to treat with the men as individuals. The report of the committee was received and laid on the table by a unanimous vote. S. H. Dempsey presented the following resolution, which was adopted by a unanimous vote, followed by loud applause: _Resolved_, That the secretary of this association be instructed to notify through the newspapers all carpenters who are willing to go to work on Monday morning at the rate of wages offered by this association to appear at their respective places of work, and that they will be protected. Otherwise the Master Carpenters will advertise for outside workmen. The following committee was appointed to look after the general interests of the association: Francisco Blair, S. H. Dempsey, J. W. Woodard, Jonathan Clark and John Ramcke. Monday, April 10th. The executive committee met and organized by electing officers as follows: J. W. Woodard, chairman; Jonathan Clark, secretary; John Ramcke, treasurer. The committee issued the following notice to the public: As a notice has been circulated to-day among the master carpenters of this city, calling a meeting of the master carpenters for this afternoon, we would respectfully ask you to publish the fact that this meeting is in no way authorized by the Master Carpenters' association, and we will not in any way voice its sentiments or recognize its action. Also, that this association will hold no meetings, except those authorized by the president or secretary of the executive committee. We would also like to make public the fact that there are now 175 members in this association, and they represent about seven eights of the carpenters in the city. Because incorrect reports are apt to be published, and the public interests will suffer if this occurs, we would be glad to receive reporters at all meetings and place all information in our possession at their disposal. An erroneous idea of the present situation, or cause of disagreement exists, not through the fault of the press, but rather through an inaccuracy in presenting the matter. What we would lay down as our statement of principles is the following, which were formulated as a part of those adopted by the National Association of Builders: This association affirms that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen are equally interested in its defense and preservation. While upholding this principle as an essential safeguard for all concerned, this association would appeal to all employers in the building trades to recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and, while condemning and opposing improper action upon their part, they should aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer and arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conferences and arbitrations are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together, to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented. When such conferences are entered into, care should be taken to state clearly in advance that this fundamental principle must be maintained, and that such conferences should only be competent to report results in the form of resolutions of recommendation to the individuals composing the various organizations participating, avoiding all forms of dictatorial authority. The present question is not one of wages or hours, but is solely upon our recognition of the union and our acceptance of the conditions proposed by the letter received from the Carpenters' Union at the meeting of this association Saturday night and printed last week. As our code of principles state, we do not oppose unions, as we affirm the right of all individuals to form associations. This body has received but one communication--that referred to--and that a week after all the carpenters in the union had struck work. This communication purported to be from the executive committee of the Carpenters' Union, but there was neither seal nor letter press on the stationery, and there were no names representing the executive committee. This association means to treat the present disagreement with all fairness, recognizing the entire rights of the journeymen, but claiming that we, as contractors, have rights as well. Very respectfully, JONATHAN CLARK, Secretary Executive Committee Carpenters' and Builders' Association. About thirty carpenters met at No. 106 Randolph street and organized an independent Master Carpenters' Association. Among them were several members of the union who were bosses in a small way. The new association at once agreed to the terms demanded by the carpenters, and a list of the members was sent to the United Carpenters' Council, after which an order was issued by the council, permitting the employes of the members of the new association to return to work. This action, it was claimed, would compel the members of the Carpenters' and Builders' Association to yield every point demanded, but it had no such effect. The agitation was kept up, and a mass-meeting was held by the strikers at No. 311 Larrabee street, at which they were urged to stand out. They were also told they never could win if the bricklayers did not support them. The council expected its action would meet the wishes of the men, but it did not. They saw that only a very few would be given work, and demanded that all remain out until the success of the strike was assured. A mass-meeting was held April 13th, at Twelfth street Turner Hall, at which the action of the council was severely criticised, and a resolution was adopted that all should remain out until their demands were recognized by every master carpenter in Chicago. The members of the new association of bosses were disappointed at the reflex action of the carpenters. They regarded it as a breach of faith, and were on the eve of breaking up their organization, but concluded to obey the mandates of the union and held together a few days longer. In the meantime a number of the carpenters had gone to work. These were immediately taken off by walking delegates, and the little bosses became satisfied that the fight was all on one side. But, as many of their members belonged to the union as well, they were forced to remain in the association and be laughed at. Many of the workmen were incensed at the breaking of the agreement and threatened to leave the union and return to their old employers. Some of them did so, and they took others with them afterwards. They lost confidence in the council and in the leaders of the strike. On Thursday, April 14th, the executive committee of the Carpenters' Council thought to heal all defection by the issuance of the following form of agreement, which, they said, they would require all master carpenters to sign before they would settle the strike: We, the undersigned contracting carpenters, agree to the following terms of settlement, and pledge ourselves to the following propositions, which shall be in force and binding upon us from this date until the 1st day of April, 1888, with the understanding that the carpenters' council pledges that there shall not be another demand for increase of wages or reduction of hours before said date--April 1, 1888. 1. We agree to pay as the minimum rate of wages to carpenters 35 cents per hour. 2. We agree that eight hours shall constitute a day's work. 3. We reserve the right to employ men of our own selection and to discharge anyone for reasons of incompetency, intemperance, or disorderly conduct, and we will co-operate with the carpenters' council in all their efforts to elevate the mechanical and moral standard of the craft. 4. We indorse the principle of arbitration as preferable to strikes, and will co-operate with the carpenters' council for the establishment of a board of arbitration. 5. The probable number of men each of us will require, at once on resumption of work is set opposite our respective names. Two hundred members of the Carpenters' and Builders' association met April 14th. William Hearson presided. Seventy new members were admitted. The executive committee submitted a basis upon which it was proposed to settle the strike. It was unanimously adopted, as follows: _Resolved_, That the Master Carpenters will, as a preliminary to any negotiations with the carpenters now on strike, require that the men now on strike without notice to their employers agree to resume work at the following scale of wages, to be agreed to by employer and employes--viz.: eight hours to constitute a day's labor, the wages to be 30 cents an hour and upward. _Resolved_, That the Master Carpenters lay down the following rules as a declaration of principles as the unquestionable rights of employers and employes, upon which there can be no arbitration or question. These rights to be conceded by both parties before any further action is taken looking toward a final settlement of differences for the future: Rule 1. The right of the employer to employ and discharge employes whether belonging to carpenters' unions or not. Rule 2. The right of the employe to work or not to work with non-union men. Rule 3. The right of the employer to hire unskilled labor that will best suit his purpose at any price at which he can get it. Rule 4: The right of the employe to get the wages he demands or not to work. Rule 5. The right of individuals to associate for all honorable purposes. After the meeting adjourned, the executive committee delivered a copy of the report to the Executive Council of the carpenters. The document was respectfully received, Mr. Parks remarking that the Master Carpenters would have to "come again," but the communication would be carefully considered. The resolutions and rules were also sent to the new carpenters' association. A motion was made to fully endorse them, especially in view of the recent action of the union in repudiating their agreement. The proposition was unanimously voted down. On Friday, April 15th, the Executive Council prepared a lengthy reply to the action of the Carpenters and Builders. It contained an extended statement of the situation, concluding as follows: In conclusion, we will agree with rule No. 1 in your document if the words "the right to discharge rests in and is confined to the individual employer and not the associated employers," were added. And you understand that under your own rule, No. 2, union men would have a right to refuse to work with non-union men, and to quit any job where such were employed, unless they were discharged when the request was made. Rule No. 3 must have the words: "But no unskilled man shall be allowed to do work which properly belongs to the trade of carpentering, or which necessitates the use of carpenter's tools," before we can accept it. The other rules in your document are immaterial and do not need review. Now, for a few words. We will state the terms upon which the journeyman carpenters of this city will return at once to work. There must be an agreement made and signed by the contractors, individually or collectively, through an authorized committee, and signed by the executive committee of the United Carpenters council on the part of the journeymen, and in addition to the two rules given as amended the following: The minimum rate of wages paid to journeymen carpenters shall be 35 cents per hour. Eight hours shall constitute a working day; overtime shall be paid as time and a half and double time for Sunday work. There shall be an arbitration board for the settling of grievances. The agreement shall be in force until the 1st day of April, 1888, and notices of desired changes at that time must be given by the party so desiring to the other party to the agreement on or before March 15, 1888. Hoping you will look at this communication from a business as well as humanitarian standpoint, and that you will keep in mind the fact that we are as desirous as you can possibly be of ending the strike, and that nothing is here set down in malice, every word being uttered in the spirit of harmony and justice. The statement was signed by J. B. Parks, Ed. Bates, Alfred A. Campbell, M. S. Moss, William Kliver, John H. McCune and William Ward, Executive Committee of the United Carpenters' council. The Executive Committee of the Carpenters' and Builders' association carefully considered the document and at once formulated and transmitted to the headquarters of the striking carpenters the following reply: TO THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE CARPENTERS NOW ON STRIKE-- _Gentlemen_: Your communication has been respectfully received and carefully considered by the executive committee of the Master Carpenters' association. We respectfully inform you that we can not in any manner deviate from the action of the association of Thursday night, which was embraced in the report delivered to you, and there is nothing in your communication which in the opinion of this committee justifies the calling of a meeting of the Master Carpenters' association. Very respectfully yours, J. W. WOODARD, JONATHAN CLARK, FRANCISCO BLAIR, JOHN RAMCKE, S. H. DEMPSEY, Executive Committee Carpenters' and Builders' Association of Chicago. The new association of bosses became exasperated at the action of the Carpenters' Council with regard to their agreement, and sent the council notice that unless the proposition for a settlement of the strike was agreed to by noon of April 16th, the association would not consider itself bound to pay 35 cents an hour, recognize the union, or make eight hours a day's work. They demanded that their employes be directed to return to work on Monday, April 18th. Early Saturday morning, April 16th, the executive committee of the Carpenters' and Builders' Association issued an address, as follows: Believing that the great majority of you are fair and honorable, the executive committee of the master carpenters take this means to address an appeal to you, as we believe you can not be reached in any other way, plainly, calmly, and without a coating of socialistic ideas being spread over by your so-called leaders, whose business it is to be agitators and disturbers of our mutual interests, and whose occupation would be gone if they could not find a constituency gullible enough to listen to and support them. It is impossible to say how much farther we would be advanced in material prosperity in this free country if we were free from the antagonistic feeling caused by this class of agitators, who are really out of their element here, and should be confined to the source of the oppression of labor, on the ground and among the institutions which support class distinction. Now we are all workers with you, our business is not speaking or writing, and we venture to say that nineteen-twentieths of the men who employ you started in from your body, and did not get where they are by listening to or following these imported ideas, but did the work they found to do, made the most of their opportunities, and we hope the same course will be left open to yourselves, and that the same spring will furnish more of the same stock, and that notwithstanding the foothold these perverted maxims (each for all and all for each) have gained among us, in the long run our plain judgment will lead us away from them and each will make his own endeavor to rise as high as his opportunities will allow him, and by doing so will stimulate his brother to follow in his footsteps. Is not this better than "each for all and all for each," which will load you down heavier than you can bear, so that none can rise, and a class will have to be furnished from some source to employ you who will surely not have your interests more at heart, and, in that event, we would be back again to whence we sprung from, or some other, where we can not tell. You surely will not be improved in your condition by wasting your time in contending with your employer for more than there is in existence to give you, for he can not give you what he has not got, nor can he give you wasted time nor the advance he has offered without risking a present loss in the hope of being able in the future to gradually increase the cost of production to cover his outlay. Men, go to work; form associations if you will; better your condition by that means if you can, but do not risk the driving away from this fair city that which supports you, nor listen, except to learn, to those born contenders who have no other gifts than "gab." Think of the $20,000 at least you are losing every day in wages, besides what you are spending, and think of those who are likely to suffer most by it. The wife and children, who have no voice in the matter, and also believe that your employers are not doing any better. Boys, this advice is from a committee of five who got every penny they possess from hard knocks and the work of their own hands and brains. J. W. WOODARD, JONATHAN CLARK, FRANCISCO BLAIR, JOHN RAMCKE, S. H. DEMPSEY, Executive Committee Carpenters' and Builders' Association of Chicago. The firmness of the employers and the disaffection among the carpenters, after two weeks of fruitless agitation, had produced no good results. No agreement was reached between the bosses and the strikers. The strike was simply declared off by what was regarded by the carpenters as competent authority. The edict which settled the strike was as follows: TO ALL ORGANIZED CARPENTERS--_Brothers_: You are ordered to report to your various jobs Monday at 8 A. M., and if your employer accedes to your demands for eight hours a day and 35 cents an hour, go to work, but on no account are you to work if your demands are not granted, neither will you work with scabs. You will make it your duty to see that every man has the working card issued by the United Carpenters' council for the months of April, May and June, and consider as a scab anyone who is not in possession of one. If your employer objects to the conditions do not stop to argue the question, but immediately report to headquarters. Some of you may not work the first nor the second day, but we will without fail win this battle if you follow instructions. Every brother in distress shall be assisted, and we pledge ourselves that not one of you shall want if only brought to our notice. Carefully take note of all jobs working more than eight hours, or employing scabs, and report to your headquarters. Also, any boss who defrauds brothers of their pay, with evidence necessary for prosecution. It shall be the duty of every man, especially foremen, to bring all influence they can to bear on their employers to induce them to join the new Builders' association. Now, brothers, with joy we say to you, go to work. You will get your demands. And we beseech you not to work for less. If you do, you will be found out. There are enough to watch those who will not do their duty, and you must be subject to a call when it is necessary. EXECUTIVE BOARD UNITED CARPENTERS' COUNCIL. When the news of the collapse of the strike reached the executive committee of the contracting carpenters at the Builders' and Traders' exchange it was at first discredited. When it was confirmed Chairman Woodard said he was glad such action had been taken, and that he knew the bosses would put the men to work Monday. "But," said he, "the members of the Carpenters' and Builders' association will not deviate from the action of Saturday night. We recognize eight hours as a day, but reserve the right to employ union or non-union men, and will pay from 30 cents an hour upward. We shall not hesitate to pay 35 cents, or more, to carpenters who are sufficiently skilled to earn such sums, but we must not be expected to employ men who are not able to earn more than 25 or 30 cents an hour. Our association has a membership that employs fully seven-eighths of the working carpenters, and we shall claim the right to employ competent men at fair wages and to discharge incompetent men at any time. I think it will be but a short time until nearly all of the carpenters will be at work, but not at 35 cents an hour." Francisco Blair said it would be unjust to require the bosses to discharge competent non-union men who had stood by them during the strike. He was satisfied that no member of the association would do so. There were plenty of bosses who would pay skilled workmen 35 cents an hour--a few men would receive 40 cents, as they had before the strike. Many of the assemblies of the carpenters met Saturday afternoon and evening and heartily endorsed the order directing them to return to work. They were tired of enforced idleness which had lasted sixteen days, and were ready to go to work on almost any terms. The following Monday--April 18th--four thousand of the striking carpenters returned to work, many of them secretly accepting the terms of the Carpenters and Builders, working for 30 cents an hour and upward, and pushing a plane or a saw by the side of a non-union carpenter who had not seen an idle day. AMALGAMATION. Trade organizations of almost every character had experienced difficulty in securing all they demanded from time to time, because of a want of co-operation--in their semi-tyrannical efforts--from kindred organizations. If the carpenters made a demand which was refused by the bosses, and non-union men should thereafter be employed on a building, they wanted the union employes in all other trades, working on the same job, to lay down their tools and walk out--a boycott must at once be established. If an employer assumed the right to carry on his own business in a manner which was distasteful to one or more employes in one trade, he must be forced to quit business until he was ready to obey the mandate of the trade affected. If he interposed an objection to such interference, he should be taught a severe lesson under the tyrannical, barbarous rule of the boycott. In order to lay the foundation for joint action in the direction indicated, a meeting was held April 10th, at which a plan of organization of the building trades was discussed. It was then deemed advisable to secure the consent of the various trade organizations in the city to the creation of a council for what was called "mutual protection." The proposition met with most hearty approval by ten trade organizations, the members of which saw at once how much more tightly the rein of tyranny could be drawn over a contractor who might be able to successfully vanquish one trade, but would have to accede to anything when employes in ten building trades were arrayed against him. Delegates were appointed to what it was proposed to call "The Amalgamated Council of the Building Trades of Chicago," from the following trade and labor organizations: Carpenters, Painters, Derrickmen, Hod-carriers, Steam-fitters, Lathers, Gas-fitters, Galvanized-iron and Cornice workers, Slaters and Stair-builders. A meeting was held at Greenebaum's hall on Sunday, April 17th. A constitution and by-laws were adopted and officers were elected as follows: President, J. H. Glenn; Vice-President, P. A. Hogan; Secretary, Ed. Bates; Financial Secretary, J. Burns; Treasurer, V. Carroll; Sergeant-at-Arms, J. Woodman. As soon as the organization was perfected it affected dictatorial powers, assuming the right to regulate nearly everything of any consequence for the unions which were represented. The objects of the Council were declared to be "to centralize the efforts and experience of the various organizations engaged in the erection and alteration of buildings, and, with common interest, prevent that which may be injurious, and also to properly perfect and carry into effect that which they deem advantageous to themselves. When any organization represented in the Council is desirous of making a demand for either an advance in wages or an abridgement of the hours of labor, it is required to make a report thereon to the Council, through its delegates, prior to the demand being made, when, if the action is concurred in by a two-thirds vote, it is to be declared binding." In effect, the Council became an offensive and defensive body, the principal business of which was to take advantage of every employer in the building trades. If one should refuse to yield a point demanded by one trade, however unjust the demand might be, it was the business of this boycott Council to "carry into effect that which they deemed advantageous to themselves," which, on ordinary occasions, would result in a stoppage of work of every kind upon a building until the employer should yield. They also expected to be in a position to compel all non-union men to obey the mandates of the organization. At a meeting of the Council, April 23d, the constitution was amended by adding the following section: It shall be the special duty of this Council to use the united strength of the organizations represented therein to compel all non-union men to conform to and obey the laws of the organizations to which they should properly belong. This stroke at personal liberty was strictly in furtherance of the "advantage" sought to be taken of the employer. The same power was to be brought to bear upon the workmen, who assumed the right to be independent, by seeking to "compel" them to "obey laws of the organizations to which they should properly belong." Not content with boycotting the employer, they must arrange a boycott upon a fellow-workman, because he might decline to join one of their unions. As if to "compel" a free man to do that against which his manhood revolts! HODCARRIERS AND LABORERS. There was comparative quiet for a week, during which time the carpenters were pushing their work rapidly. But the smooth order was soon broken. The first week in April the Hodcarriers' union had passed a resolution changing their pay from 25 to 30 cents an hour, and that of laborers from 22 to 25 cents an hour, and demanding recognition of their union. This order--for it was nothing less--was directed to take effect the first Monday in May. On Saturday, April 30th, the Hodcarriers and Laborers were instructed to make their demands, and report to a meeting to be held on Sunday, in order that the union might determine whether a strike should be ordered and the men called off on Monday. The bosses decided that under no circumstances would they recognize the Hodcarriers' union, maintaining that they were fully justified in so doing because the Bricklayers' union had refused to aid any proposition on the part of the Hodcarriers and Laborers to strike. The employers expected nothing less than a strike, as they universally refused the demands, claiming they could at once fill the places made vacant from the ranks of idle men in the city. In order to make their cause appear stronger the laborers claimed that numbers of bosses had acceded to their demands, but this was not true. Laborers in the stone yards took up the cause, concluding it was an opportune time to make some demands. They insisted upon eight hours a day, and two gangs of men when required to work overtime. The Stone-Cutters association met at once and put an end to the proposition for a strike by adopting the eight-hour day, resolving to work overtime and pay one-fourth extra for it--but not work two gangs of men--and at the same time refused to obey the dictation of the union by resolving that they would "employ men whether they belong to a union or not." This prompt action ended the strike of the laborers so far as the Stone-Cutters were concerned. The Bricklayers union met Friday night, April 29th, and discussed the proposed strike of the Hodcarriers and Laborers, and in a very peculiar manner lent assistance to their weak brethren. They passed a magnanimous resolution that "in the event of a strike no bricklayer should consent to do a hodcarrier's work." But further than this no action was taken. On the afternoon of Sunday, May 1st, four thousand hodcarriers and laborers assembled in the vicinity of Taylor street hall, near Canal street. At 3 o'clock the proposed meeting was held, but not more than one-half of those present could gain admission to the hall. The men inside and outside of the hall were discussing their grievances and "rushing the can" in a manner that promised a famine in beer on the following day. Patrick Sharkey presided at the meeting, at which there was a decided sentiment in favor of a strike. Speeches in English, German, Polish, and Bohemian were made to this effect, and a resolution was passed for a committee to wait on the contractors to see what they would do in answer to the demands that had been made. It was decided to allow men to work where the bosses acceded to the union demands, but no union man should work where there was one man employed who was not receiving the full scale of wages. It was decided that no man who could get the union wages should be asked to leave his work, but he would be asked to aid in supporting those who were compelled to take part in the strike. It was claimed, before the close of the meeting, that four thousand of the seven thousand Hodcarriers and Laborers in the city would remain at work, while the other three thousand would "be forced to strike." On Monday morning, May 2d, the promised strike of the Hodcarriers and Laborers began. More than four thousand quit work because their demands for 25 and 30 cents an hour, and recognition of their union, were not met. The men had reported at their respective jobs where they made their demands. When they were refused they were grievously disappointed, and sat and stood around waiting for the arrival of the "Walking Delegate," or for orders from the bosses to go to work at the increased rate of wages. In many instances they had to stand aside and see their places taken by non-union men. This was galling, but they remained, almost universally, quite orderly. What irritated them more than anything else was the fact that union Bricklayers offered no objection to working with non-union laborers. They had confidently expected that one union would support another, but the Bricklayers refused to recognize them as members of a union. They appeared to be too common for an aristocratic Bricklayer. Eight Walking Delegates paraded the city and endeavored to persuade non-union men to quit work and join the union. They were successful in but few instances. Non-union Laborers who had secured a good job were disposed to stick to it, and it seemed to require more than persuasion to draw them away from their work. In the treasury of the Hodcarriers' union there was the sum of $12,000, but that amount would not reach very far in a general lockout of five thousand members, each of whom was entitled to receive $5 a week while unemployed. They could expect no assistance from the Bricklayers, who had snubbed them; or the Carpenters, who had exhausted their treasury while on a strike lasting sixteen days; or the plasterers, who were not strong in numbers or finances, and had business of their own to look after. Their cause was helpless from the start, especially in view of the fact that there were thousands of idle laborers who were only too glad to step into the places made vacant without asking any questions about wages. On Tuesday the places of the four thousand strikers had been so nearly filled that but three hundred vacancies were reported. This was a hard blow to the union, but they stubbornly refused to yield a single point. A special meeting of the Master Masons' and Builders' association was held Tuesday night, May 3d, at the Builders' and Traders' exchange, at which a resolution was unanimously adopted to not accede to the demands of the Hodcarriers' and Laborers' Union for an increase in wages. There were eighty-seven of the members present, only thirty being absent. Expressions were taken from those present in regard to the course that should be pursued in reference to the strike, and there was not a dissenting voice on the proposition to refuse the demands made. The absentees were all heard from, and the president of the association said they were all of the same opinion. It was a quiet, earnest meeting, at which the members exhibited their determination to stand together, no matter what the result might be. On inquiry as to the number of Master Masons who needed laborers it was ascertained that there were but six members of the association who were without laborers, while less than a dozen others needed a few men. It was agreed that the members who had laborers to spare should lend some of them to those who most needed them until they could secure as many as they required. An executive committee was appointed, composed of Joseph Downey, Thomas E. Courtney, and Herman Mueller. This committee was instructed to hold daily sessions at the Builders' and Traders' exchange for the purpose of hearing complaints from members and supplying them with laborers, and to have a general supervision of the labor question pending a final settlement of the strike. They had no difficulty in securing all the men they wanted, the laborers being perfectly satisfied with the wages paid. On Thursday, May 5th, the Master Masons' association learned that a number of cases of intimidation had been attempted with their non-union laborers, but they passed them over because the battle had already been won. A STRIKE CLAUSE. On Friday, May 6th, Joseph Downey, President of the Master Masons' Association, sent the following communication to D. Adler, President of the Illinois Association of Architects. It was sent for the purpose of endeavoring to secure the co-operation of the Architects of the city--in view of a general strike in the building trades, which it was plain to be seen was impending: TO THE ARCHITECTS OF CHICAGO--_Gentlemen_: Owing to incessant and unreasonable demands being made upon us from time to time by our employes, causing incalculable delays, which mean disaster to those signing time contracts, the members of this association have, therefore, unanimously agreed to sign no contracts after May 1, unless the words "except in case of strikes or epidemics" are inserted in the time clause. Very respectfully, JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. PAY ON SATURDAY. The Master Masons' Association unofficially received information that the Bricklayers' union had passed a resolution fixing Saturday as pay-day, instead of Monday, or Tuesday, which had been the rule for many years. This action was not taken by the union because it was believed greater good could be accomplished, or because it was a necessary change; but was for the purpose of further testing the temper of the employers and notifying them that they were subject to the dictation of the union. On Friday Mr. Downey sent the following unofficial communication to A. E. Vorkeller, President of the Bricklayers' union, hoping to secure a rescinding of the Saturday pay-day resolution, and avoid a strike: TO THE UNITED ORDER OF AMERICAN BRICKLAYERS AND STONEMASONS-- _Gentlemen_: It has come to the knowledge of the Master Masons' and Builders' association that at your last meeting you passed a resolution that the members of your union should hereafter be paid on Saturday, instead of Monday and Tuesday, as is now and has been the custom. There has been no official action by the Master Masons' and Builders' association, but I have conferred with a number of them, and am impelled to write this letter to notify you of the fact that while we might prefer to comply with your request, we find it will be impossible to make up our pay-rolls in time to pay on Saturday, especially in the busy season, when some of us have from two hundred to three hundred men employed. We trust, gentlemen, that you will reconsider the action taken which resulted in the adoption of the resolution mentioned, as we are particularly anxious that the good feeling which has prevailed between your union and our association shall be continued without interruption. Very respectfully yours, JOSEPH DOWNEY. A DECLARATION. The evening of the same day a meeting of the Hodcarriers was held at West Twelfth street Turner Hall, at which a resolution was passed declaring it to be the duty of all employes in the building trades to go out in a body in order to support the strike which they had inaugurated, and in which they had been unsuccessful. GOING SLOW. A result of the strikes and unsettled state of affairs was to be seen in the disposition of contractors to go slow in bidding for new work, fearing they might be stopped by a strike and prevented from completing a building after the work had gotten well under way. Similar experience in past years had made them wary. THE BRICKLAYERS' STRIKE. Saturday, May 7th, was the first pay-day after the passage of the resolution by the Bricklayers' union fixing that day for payment. When the hour arrived for quitting work demand was made of the foreman on each job for payment in accordance with the resolution. It was refused, the Master Masons having determined that if the men were to strike because their demand was not conceded, they should be given an opportunity to do so at once. This general demand was taken as official notification that the resolution had passed. There was a universal expression of opinion among the Master Masons that they would refuse the demand--because of the spirit and manner in which it was made--and that they would stand firmly together upon the question. On Monday, May 9th, about two hundred bricklayers quit work because they had not been paid on the previous Saturday, but they were returned to work by President Vorkeller, of the union, because, he said, the rule for Saturday pay-day did not take effect until May 14th. Mr. Vorkeller called on President Downey and asked that a conference be held on the question of Saturday pay-day. In view of the action of the union in first resolving that the pay-day should be changed, this request was looked upon as very strange. But Mr. Downey notified him that he would present the question to the Master Masons' association. In referring to the situation Mr. Thomas Courtney voiced the sentiments of the builders when he said the only way to settle the prevailing uneasiness would be to stop all building at once and let it remain stopped until the strikers were tired of it. This seemed like a harsh measure, but it was the only sure way to success. All were tired of this labor agitation, and as the building of residence property especially was overdone, it was the best time he ever saw for a lockout. The workmen were not only fixing their own hours for work and their own pay, but now they wanted to fix their own pay-day. With so much labor disturbance it was a marvel to him that there was any disposition to erect a building in Chicago. A committee from the Amalgamated Trades Council called at the Builders' and Traders' exchange to see the executive committee of the Master Masons' association for the purpose of talking about the strike of the Hodcarriers. The committee was composed of Messrs. Brennock of the Carpenters, Carroll of the Stonecutters, and McBrearty of the Hodcarriers. They found President Downey, to whom they stated that they had called to see if the differences could be adjusted. Mr. Downey stated that the members of the executive committee were out paying their employes, and that another time would have to be fixed for the conference. He hoped the result of the conference would be satisfactory to all, and that at its conclusion they could say the strike was ended. The committee said that was what they wanted. Mr. Downey wanted to know what authority the committee had in the matter, and was told that they represented twelve of the building trades, and had the power to order every union man in those trades off a building where the union scale of wages was not paid or where non-union men were employed. But, they did not desire to exercise that power, as it was more the business of the Council to arbitrate and effect settlements than to encourage strikes. It was agreed that a conference should be had Tuesday morning, at which time the entire situation with reference to the Hodcarriers would be discussed. In order to exhibit the venomous spirit of some of the strikers an effort was made by the union Hodcarriers and Laborers to make the life of non-union Laborers a burden. A scheme was started for dropping mortar and pouring water on them in order to drive them away from any job where union men were at work. On Tuesday evening, May 10th, the Master Masons' association met. President Downey read a letter from the Bricklayers' Union which contained an unqualified statement that the union would not rescind the resolution making Saturday the pay-day. Mr. George C. Prussing submitted the draft of a communication to be sent to the Bricklayers' Union, and stated that he thought it was highly proper to send it, in the hope that by courteous treatment the differences would be settled with less difficulty. The proposition to send the communication was unanimously adopted. The communication was as follows: TO THE UNITED ORDER OF AMERICAN BRICKLAYERS AND STONEMASONS-- _Gentlemen_: Notice of your resolution fixing pay-day every Saturday two weeks has been laid before this association. We submit to your consideration that a subject of this kind can hardly be "fixed" by a resolution in a meeting of employes, but should be referred to and properly discussed by a joint committee of both employers and employes before action is taken. Thus far the rule has been to pay up to and including Saturday on the following Tuesday among the members of this association, and as far as heard from no complaint of any irregularity in paying workmen has been made. In a city as large as this, covering such immense area, and where it is not infrequent for the same firm to be engaged upon work on the North, South, and West sides at the same time, two days at least are necessary to make up pay-rolls and envelope money properly. If, therefore, the change of pay-day from Tuesday to Saturday should be adopted, it would necessitate the closing of pay-day on Thursday night preceding. This, we submit, would not serve either you or us as well as to pay to the end of the previous week. You have not given us any reasons for your arbitrary demand for a change, and we have failed to find any in our judgment good and sufficient. If any such reasons exist we shall be pleased to know them. Until then we shall continue to pay as before, regularly every second Tuesday, up to the preceding Saturday night. By order of the CHICAGO MASTER MASONS' ASSOCIATION. The communication was at once taken to the Bricklayers' Union by C. P. Wakeman, it having been stated that the union was in session and would receive any communication that should be sent. In about thirty minutes Mr. Wakeman returned from his visit to the Bricklayers, and reported that he had been received in grand shape. The hall was packed full, and when he took his place on the platform to read the communication he was loudly cheered. He asked the Bricklayers to lay the question of pay-day over and appoint a committee to see if the matter could not be settled. He was satisfied that two-thirds of those present were in favor of a compromise. They agreed to telephone the Builders' and Traders' exchange as soon as a conclusion was reached. The telephone was not used, but a committee from the Bricklayers' union called at 10:30 o'clock and notified Mr. Wakeman that the union had unanimously passed a resolution making Saturday the pay-day, and that it would not recede from it, but was willing to allow two days in which to make up the pay-roll, closing it on Thursday night. The report was received, after which a motion was made to lay the report on the table, but it was withdrawn. William O'Brien said the demand for pay on Saturday, if acceded to, would result in another demand for pay at noon on Saturday and give the men the afternoon, and then the contractors would have "blue Monday" in fact. He was in favor of acting like men and standing firmly by their principles, and they would command the respect of everybody. [Applause.] Mr. Charles W. Gindele said if the bricklayers had done the fair thing they would have conferred with the contractors before passing the resolutions, but they had made the demand arbitrarily. The community and the material men were watching the action of the association, and were ready to stand by it if it stood by its members. It was only a matter of time until the strike would have to burst, and he was in favor of bursting it then. If it was not done the community could not be expected to stand by them. If all building was stopped there were enough vacant buildings in the city to house everybody. [Applause.] A motion to not concur in the report of the committee was unanimously adopted, which was equivalent to a refusal to accede to the demands of the bricklayers in regard to making Saturday the pay-day. A resolution was then adopted refusing to comply with the demands of the bricklayers in regard to Saturday as a pay-day, fixing Monday or Tuesday of every other week as the day of payment, and agreeing to shut down all work if the bricklayers should strike on account of this action. There was but one opposing vote. President Downey submitted an agreement which had already been signed by a large majority of the members of the association. It embraced a proposition to stand together upon the question of pay-day, and to all stop work, if it should be necessary, in order to maintain their rights against unjust exactions of the laboring men. After the agreement was read an opportunity was given for members to sign it who had not done so, and twenty names were added to the list. The association then voted to approve the sentiments expressed in the agreement, the vote being unanimous. The Executive Committee submitted a report of the doings of its members in regard to the labor troubles. It was as follows: TO THE CHICAGO MASTER MASONS' ASSOCIATION--_Gentlemen_: Your executive committee does respectfully report that a committee of three, claiming to be appointed by and to represent the Amalgamated Trades council, and to be clothed by it with power to settle the existing laborers' strike, did call by appointment this morning at the exchange and met us, together with a number of members of this association whom we asked to join us for this particular purpose. After quite a lengthy and exhaustive discussion of the situation said committee of three insisted: Firstly, on the establishment of a minimum rate of wages for all masons' laborers at 23½ cents per hour. Secondly, one time and one-half to be granted for all work done over and above eight hours per day, no matter during which hours such work may be performed. Thirdly, for double pay for Sunday work, and, Lastly, on the recognition of their union. The first three propositions are debatable and might have been acceded to by your committee and this body, and if the fourth had been understood to mean an acknowledgement of the fact that a union of masons' laborers more or less numerous has been formed, and is now in existence, your committee would have been ready to go to that length. But the gentlemen wanted more--far more. They informed us that a recognition of their union means that the members of this association pledge themselves to employ henceforth none but laborers belonging to their union, to grant to it the practical control of the labor market, and to drive every laborer now employed from our buildings, and in reality out of the city all who have not now, or do not in near future, join the ranks of their union. In other words, to make ourselves the whippers-in of said union. It means that we sanction and support the aim and object of said union, which is that none shall work in Chicago at their calling except upon surrender of his manhood into its keeping and at its beck and call. It means that we sanction the employment of brute force to coerce men into their ranks. It means that we sanction and approve of the outrages committed daily against men now at work upon terms mutually satisfactory to themselves and their employers. We, the members of this association, must plead guilty, in common with the entire community, to suffering the fundamental principles underlying the very fabric of our government, and guaranteed by our constitution--principles called inalienable rights of man--to be overridden and practically abrogated by lawless bodies throughout the land. Thus far are we equally guilty with all other citizens in neglecting our duty as such. To uphold this government and constitution is the duty of all citizens. We are part of this community, and comparatively a small fraction. This community will awake from its lethargy and to its duty when that time comes, and God speed the coming. The voice of this association will give no uncertain sound. In the meantime, let us never voluntary do or sanction wrong. We may suffer, but we can not cope against it without the active support of the community. But never let it be said that we approved of the methods employed recently by trades-unions. Your committee would not make you liable to such charge by its act, and reports the whole matter to you for final action. Respectfully. JOSEPH DOWNEY, H. MUELLER, Executive Committee. We, the undersigned members, who were present at the committee meeting this morning do join in the report. G. C. PRUSSING, GEORGE TAPPER, C. P. WAKEMAN. The report was adopted by a rising vote, followed by prolonged applause. President Downey stated that he had recently seen a great many of the brick manufacturers and the officers of the stone pool in regard to selling materials in case of a lockout, and they had assured him that they would stand by the contractors in case of a general strike, and not sell a dollars' worth of building material while the strike lasted. The pulse of the manufacturers of and dealers in building materials was felt, and it was ascertained that they fully realized they were standing on a volcano that was likely to burst at any time and stop them. One of them covered the case fully when he said they were practically dependent upon the contractors, and if it became necessary for the Master Masons to shut down, the brick manufacturers and stone men would support them by shutting down their yards and stopping the manufacture of brick and the production of building stone. They were on the eve of a strike among their own employes, instances of discontent cropping out almost every day, and if the producers of building materials should elect to stand by the contractors he was satisfied the strike questions would not only be settled for the season, but for all time. The committee from the Amalgamated Building Trades Council, composed of Messrs. Brennock, Carroll and McBrearty again met the executive committee of the Master Masons' association and made its demand for the Hodcarriers. The Master Masons were asked to recognize the union, pay 25 cents an hour and agree to employ none but union hodcarriers and laborers. The executive committee of the Master Masons, composed of Messrs. Downey, Courtney and Mueller, with Mr. Prussing added, told the council committee that they would not accede to the demand. They insisted that they could not pay 25 cents an hour to laborers, and under no circumstances would they discharge the army of non-union laborers, as it would be an injustice to poor men who were dependent upon their labor for support. Mr. Courtney told them these men were not able, if inclined, to join the union, and it would be almost inhuman to throw them out of employment when they were faithful employes. Mr. Carroll admitted that the Council was not ready to order the union laborers to stop work, as there were too many non-union hodcarriers and laborers in the city, and until these were brought into the union a general strike would not accomplish what was wanted. He also remarked that the Council had decided to call off all union men on jobs where non-union men were employed, but he could not say whether it would carry out the declaration. The hodcarriers had inaugurated the strike, and might conclude to drop it until they were in better shape by having more non-union men in their assemblies. TWO THOUSAND BRICKLAYERS QUIT. On Monday, May 11th, the strike of the Bricklayers materialized. Two thousand members of the union dropped their trowels because the employers refused to recognize their edict in regard to Saturday pay-day. This act threw out of employment an equal number of Hodcarriers and Laborers, many of whom were not in sympathy with the movement of the Bricklayers. President Vorkeller of the Bricklayers' union, insisted that no strike had been ordered, but the men would not work unless the Saturday pay-day was granted. No "strike had been ordered," but the men were striking as fast as they could. Upon being informed that the pay-day would not be changed they stopped at once, all understanding that they must quit. Yet, according to the president of the union, "there was no strike ordered." They were simply "standing by the resolution." Some of the men quit work very reluctantly, remarking that it was the height of nonsense to strike on such a frivolous proposition. But they had to obey orders, and did so with military precision. The Walking Delegate was promptly on hand to see that every man obeyed orders, and the snap of his finger did its work on a great many jobs where the men were in no hurry to quit work. The president of the union claimed that they could endure a long lockout, as they had real estate and cash representing $75,000, and could make it $100,000 by assessments. But the Bricklayers were not Knights of Labor, and were not amalgamated with any other labor organization, and consequently were not in a position to give to or receive assistance from any other labor union. At the Builders' and Traders' exchange there was considerable bustle among the contractors. They realized that the strike for which they had been looking had commenced, and they put their heads together as if they were preparing for a long and hard fight. There was not a dissenting voice to be heard in regard to the question. Everyone who entered the exchange wore an earnest look, and expressed determination to not yield on the question of pay-day if the building business of the city was to stop a whole year. They had wrestled with the strike problem in almost every aspect in which it could be placed, until it had become a burden too heavy to bear. A period had been reached when the trouble could be settled for all time, and they were determined to settle it in a manner that would be effective. They realized that they might lose thousands of dollars while engaged in the effort, but with the co-operation of the material men they could reach a conclusion that would be lasting. It was not a question of hours or wages, as those had been conceded with many other exactions. It had become a question whether the contractor was to allow his employes to domineer over him and dictate everything, or whether he should have a little to do with the management of his own affairs. The building interests had been hampered for years by demand after demand, nearly all of which had been of an arbitrary character. It was more convenient for the contractors, and better for the men, that they should be paid on Monday or Tuesday. A majority of the Bricklayers did not object to the pay-day, but the leaders demanded the change, and they were forced to submit. Labor unions are generally managed by the leaders for their own interests. The Bricklayers were the best organized body in the city. They had no affiliations with other unions. If a Bricklayer entered Chicago with a card from another union in his hand he would not be permitted to work until he paid the Chicago Union $25. The result was that Bricklayers were driven from the city and the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons dictated for years rules, not only for their own government, but for the control of every Master Mason that attempted to fill a contract. Among the contractors the fight had become one for principle, and every element that was in sympathy with the maintenance of the right was invited to unite with the contracting Masons in their effort put forth to attain that object. In furtherance of the movement a committee was appointed by the Master Masons' association to confer with dealers in building materials and procure their signature to an agreement that they would not sell and deliver building material to any one pending a settlement of the labor troubles, except upon the authority of Joseph Downey, president of the Master Masons' associations. The agreement was as follows: _Whereas_, We believe the position taken by the Chicago Master Masons' association in the present building trade strike to be correct; and, _Whereas_, We believe that the more complete the cessation of all building work during the strike can be made, the shorter will be the interference with business. _Now_, _therefore_, Do we, the undersigned, hereby agree with and among one another not to sell or deliver materials to any building in Chicago or suburbs during the continuance of this strike, except as may be allowed or requested by the executive committee appointed by the Chicago Master Masons' association in charge of the strike. The committee was composed of Joseph Downey, president; Thomas Courtney, treasurer, (who went to Europe June 1st, and his place was filled by E. Earnshaw); Herman Mueller, secretary. A sub-committee was appointed, composed of C. W. Gindele, Daniel Freeman and E. S. Moss. The three divisions of the city were created "districts," and were put in charge of the following members: South side, William O'Brien; North side, John Mountain; West side, William Iliff. Visitors were then appointed and the city was thoroughly canvassed and patrolled in order to secure full co-operation of the material dealers, and to protect the interests of the members generally. Dealers in stone, brick, lime, cement, sand, architectural iron, tile, and every other class of building material, flocked to the exchange and appended their signatures to the agreement. They were only too glad to lend their assistance to break the backbone of a species of tyranny under which they had been oppressed for years. The committee reported that nearly every important dealer had signed the agreement. Backed by this element the contractors were relieved. They felt assured of success. There was joy in the camp of the Hodcarriers when it was announced that the Bricklayers had gone out. Their joy was not on account of the strike, but because it would result in throwing out of employment the non-union Hodcarriers and Laborers who had stepped into their places when they struck for an advance in pay, and were locked out. The idle men who were needy drew on the treasury of the Hodcarriers' union and took out of it nearly every dollar it contained. The Amalgamated Building Trades' Council met and attempted to order a general strike of all building trades, but discovered that they were powerless to do so, because the delegates had not been given "power to act" by their respective unions. The desire to order the general strike was present, but the authority was absent. There was no lack of willingness on the part of the leaders. They are always ready and willing to keep their positions at the sacrifice of anything and anybody. The leaders of the striking bricklayers were quietly, but actively engaged in laying plans for the future. They claimed to be ready to meet any emergency that might come. At the same time the contractors claimed to hold the key to the situation, and said they would never give up until they could have a little to say in the management of their own business. The executive committee of the Master Masons' association decided that there should be a general shutting down of all work on which bricklayers and stonemasons were engaged, and in pursuance of this decision the following notice was issued May 10th. Notice.--The members of the Master Masons' association now working men are hereby requested to stop work Friday night, May 13th, and to report to the executive committee. JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. On Friday, May 13th, the idle army was largely increased. Of bricklayers, stonemasons, hodcarriers, laborers, teamsters, helpers, carpenters, and a few in other trades, there were fifteen thousand out of employment. Many of these were willing to work, but they were forced to be idle because of the strike of the bricklayers. The strikers threatened to bring into the city building material from Michigan, thinking by such a proceeding they could force the bosses to give in. The proposition was laughed at. In support of the Master Masons the North and Northwest Brick Manufacturers' association met and resolved that from May 14th no brick should be delivered from any of the yards in the association until the strike was ended, and that the yards would stop manufacturing brick May 18th. The association yards had a capacity of 1,250,000 brick per day, and employed 1,300 men. The bricklayers attempted to hold a meeting at Greenebaum's hall Friday night to discuss what they termed "the bosses' lockout." Every member of the union was on hand, and at least half of them were prepared to express their views on the subject. Over five hundred men were unable to gain entrance to the hall owing to its crowded condition, and finding themselves thus cut off from debate proceeded to interrupt those who were inside, so that it was impossible for anyone to hear what was said. A good many who were on the floor were determined to express disapprobation at the trivial demand that had precipitated the trouble, and to request that something be done to settle the dispute, but finding that the malcontents outside were bent on stopping all discussion it was determined to close the meeting. Upon a motion to this effect another noisy faction began to oppose it, and the shouting and stamping of feet became deafening. The floor quivered under the tumultuous mob, and many left the hall for fear it would give way. President Vorkeller could not control the men, and after two hours' labor to bring order out of chaos he made a proposition that battery D, or the cavalry armory, be secured, and thus obtain room for all. This met with favor, and the meeting adjourned with the understanding that the men assemble at battery D at 10 o'clock Saturday morning, May 14th. REVOLUTIONARY TALK. In order to inflame the strikers and keep them together they were frequently regaled by such poisonous talk as the following: "In a week the men will begin to get uneasy. They will assemble on the streets. The Internationalists [red-flag bandits] will be among them, notwithstanding the fact that they are alleged to have disbanded. Do you suppose that 50,000 or 100,000 men are going to starve and allow their families to die before their eyes without lifting a hand? It is against human nature. I am going to leave Chicago. It is not safe for men of my views to be around in times like these. If the lockout is continued, the people will arise and overthrow a system which permits a few men to starve the vast majority into slavery." It was of little use to point out to angry and ignorant men the absurdity of these revolutionary predictions of their worst enemies. It availed nothing to tell them that Capital had not refused to give them employment; that Capital was ready and more than willing to employ them, and was suffering loss every day and hour of their idleness; that Capital was the best friend they have in the world, a friend that respected their rights and required of them only that they should have equal respect for its rights; and that to maintain its rights against their annoying and persistent attacks was its sole aim in meeting them on their own ground and fighting them in their own fashion. Their blatant demagogues asserted the contrary, and they continued to listen to their blatant demagogues. PECULIAR METHODS. The Bricklayers' union was such a close corporation that it not only failed and refused to affiliate with bricklayers who were members of the International union, but proposed to debar every other mechanic from earning a living and force them to assist in securing a benefit for its own members. It was attempting to oust from employment all other building trades in order to carry a trivial point for its own benefit. A meeting of the Amalgamated Trades' Council was held May 14th, at which the action of the Bricklayers was discussed. Expressions of sympathy were made for the Hodcarriers--who were represented in the Council--and condemnation of the Bricklayers,--who were not represented,--and the following resolution was unanimously adopted: _Resolved_, That the Bricklayers' union be requested to send a delegation to this Council and take part in its work, and failing so to do that this Council consider itself purposely ignored, and at liberty to support such members of the International Union of Bricklayers as may seek work in Chicago, and that the hodcarriers may supply said International men. A committee was appointed to convey the resolution to the president of the Bricklayers' union. When asked if he had received the resolution President Vorkeller at first emphatically denied it. But when James Brennock, Secretary of the Council, exhibited a reply to it from Vorkeller, he changed his manner of expression, and admitted that he had decided to send a committee to meet the members of the Council, but the union would not send delegates. He said he would have nothing to do with amalgamation, as the union was independent, and able to take care of itself. He afterwards changed his mind, however, and the Bricklayers' union, which was so independent, so powerful, so well organized--under a threat by the Hodcarriers to bring International bricklayers to Chicago--sent delegates to the Council and amalgamated. WALLING THE STRIKERS IN. The executive committee of the Master Masons' association busied itself in securing signatures to the agreement to not sell or deliver any building material pending the strike, and they were eminently successful. It divided the city into districts and appointed sub-committees to visit each job to see who were working and if any disposition was shown to violate the agreement. They daily added signatures to the document, fully realizing that by procuring a hearty co-operation from the material men they could build a wall so high that there would be no question of success in combatting the tyrannical acts of the union. The question of individual liberty was brought home to them in such a manner that they could not ignore it. A NEW PROPOSITION. Saturday, May 14th, a large meeting of representatives of the building trades met at the Builders' and Traders' exchange. The spacious rooms were crowded to their full capacity. George Tapper presided. The sentiments of the meeting were fully expressed in the following statement and resolutions, which were unanimously adopted: The members of the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago, in special meeting assembled, in their capacity as citizens and as employers of labor, believe the time ripe to protest against the arrogant interference of labor organizations with business and the rights of man as guaranteed by the constitution of the United States. From year to year this evil of foreign importation has grown worse and worse, because the people, whose duty as citizens it is to uphold and enforce the laws, have not taken the time to oppose actively the aggressions and outrages committed in the name and by the instigation of the various labor organizations. We have seen this evil brought to and planted in our soil; we have allowed it to sprout and grow, and put forth new and stronger shoots every year, until now it is plain that it must either be stamped out by the active co-operation of all law-abiding citizens or it will overwhelm and destroy our very form of government. The dividing line between the permissible and objectionable, between right and wrong, should be clearly and unmistakably drawn, and the voice of the community should be heard with proper earnestness and determination, saying to the ignorant as well as the vicious, "thus far shall you go, but go no farther." We believe that the large majority sin from ignorance. Others have seen the wrong exist and tolerated, and wrong-doers prosper, until their moral perceptions are dulled and blunted. Those who know better, whose opportunity and education is superior, have neglected their duty to their misled fellow-citizens full long enough. A crusade must be inaugurated, and should be participated in by each and all who love and desire the perpetuation of this government, founded, in the words of the immortal Lincoln, "of the people, for the people, by the people." Let all unite and stand shoulder to shoulder in solid phalanx for the right and frown down the spirit of anarchy now rampant, and ere long the rights of the individual shall again be respected, and this country shall again and in fact become the "home of the free." _Whereas_, We recognize that the Master Masons' and Builders' association has taken a proper stand in its opposition to the arbitrary dictates of organized labor, and that its battle is our battle, and in the belief that the more complete the cessation of all building work during the present strike the shorter will be the interference with business; now, therefore, be it _Resolved_, That we indorse the action of said Master Masons' association and make its position our own, and will actively aid and assist it in and during this strike. _Resolved_, That while we condemn and oppose improper actions by trades unions, we still recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and shall aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conference and arbitration are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented. _Resolved_, That this exchange do, and it does hereby, call upon all contractors and builders, be they members of this exchange or not, for co-operation and active assistance; it calls upon all architects; upon the owners of buildings in course of construction or about to be started; upon the press and pulpit; upon each and every citizen, and particularly upon all mechanics and laborers who believe that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employer and workman should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. Each association in the building trades, and the Illinois State Association of Architects, and the Chicago Real Estate board were requested to appoint three delegates to be present at a conference of building trades on Monday, May 19th. Mr. Prussing was asked to state the position of the Master Masons. In doing so he said: "It is no more walking delegate! [Cheers.] No more interference with the boy who wishes to learn a trade that he may earn an honest living. [Cheers.] But why ask for particulars? We ask that the wrongs and outrages perpetrated by the trades unions be wiped out, and we ask every minister in his pulpit and every editor in his chair to aid us. If we present a solid and united front the victory will soon be won. * * * * The spirit of anarchy is rampant and must be put down, or it will put you down." [Applause.] Just as the meeting adjourned a telegram was received from Boston, signed by William H. Sayward, secretary of the National Association of Builders. The assembly waited to hear it. It read as follows: We are watching your course with great sympathy and interest. Individual liberty must be preserved at any cost. It was received with a burst of applause, followed by three cheers and a "tiger." PRACTICAL WORK. A meeting of the directors of the Chicago stone pool was held, at which there was a full attendance. The building situation was carefully and thoroughly discussed, and without a dissenting voice it was agreed to sustain the Master Masons in the action taken relative to the strike. A resolution was adopted not to sell or deliver stone to anybody pending a settlement of the labor troubles. It was also agreed to stop work at the twenty-two quarries controlled by the pool if it should become necessary. The key to the situation was held by the stone pool, and when this action was taken the cause of the Master Masons was strengthened in a manner that caused a feeling of relief. Without stone building could not go on for any great length of time. PERMITS--ARCHITECTS. There was some work under contract which had to be done in order to protect it, or to avoid violating an agreement, and in such cases President Downey arranged for the issuance of permits for the sale of such material as was needed to complete the work. The Architects met and expressed approval of the course of the Master Masons, and the following resolution, presented by W. L. B. Jenney, was unanimously adopted: _Resolved_, That the secretary be and he is hereby instructed to send to the Builders' and Traders' exchange, through its president, the announcement of our sincere co-operation. WHIPPING THE GERMANS INTO LINE. A mass meeting of the Bricklayers was held on the same day at Battery D, ostensibly for the purpose of discussing the strike, but really for the purpose of anathematizing the employers and forcing into line the dissatisfied and discontented Germans who had been forced to strike against their will. There was a majority of the Germans present, and if they had not been frightened into following the leaders, they could have rescinded the resolution making Saturday the pay-day. But they were timid and unorganized. Mr. Richter spoke in favor of rescinding the resolution, but his own German friends were not brave enough to accord him a cheer, while the opposition howled him down. When the orators thought they had the meeting in proper temper the following resolution was presented by George Childs: _Resolved._ That we strictly abide by the resolution that was passed by our Union as to a Saturday pay-day every two weeks, and refuse to work on any other terms. It was read in six different languages that it might be understood by the "congress of nations." President Vorkeller then requested those who favored its adoption to take a position on the right of the hall. A rush was made and but one man voted against the resolution. The objecting Germans had been intimidated to such an extent on that and previous occasions that they feared to vote against the edict of the leaders. A viva voce vote was then taken and the resolution was adopted without a dissenting voice. When the result of the meeting at Battery D was announced in the committee-room of the Master Masons there was a significant smile on the faces of those present. President Downey stated that a rescinding of the Saturday pay-day resolution by the bricklayers was not expected, and if it had been done it would not have restored the building interests to their normal condition. The contractors had been forced into a fight which they had staved off for years by making concessions, but now that they were in it they would not stop short of a permanent settlement of every grievance which had been borne until they were no longer to be endured. On Monday, May 16th, there were 18,000 mechanics locked out, and 1,100 laborers were being supported by the Hodcarriers' union. Four hundred bricklayers left the city to look for work. A PLATFORM OF PRINCIPLES. Tuesday evening, May 17th, the Master Masons' association met and unanimously adopted the following platform of principles: Your committee does respectfully report in favor of the reaffirmation of the following planks from the platform of the National Association of Builders as fundamental principles upon which must be based any and all efforts at settlement of the now existing lockout in building trades: We affirm that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. We recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and, while condemning and opposing improper action upon their part, we will aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points on which conference and arbitrations are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented; or, in other language, that "the walking delegate must go;" that the laws of the state shall prevail in regard to apprentices and not the dictates of labor organizations; that "stewards" in control of the men employed at buildings will not be recognized, and that "foremen," as the agents of employers, shall not be under the control of the union while serving in that capacity. We report in favor of the above, and believe that no time should be wasted now in the discussion of details which can readily be adjusted by arbitration when an association of workmen shall be in existence which acknowledges the justice of the above principles. With such association, questions of detail or policy, such as minimum rate of wages to be paid, the hours of work per day, or any complaints or grievances now existing or hereafter arising, can readily be settled by a joint committee of arbitration, and we hold ourselves ready and willing to do so. The need of the day is a firm stand upon the question at issue--namely, the constitution-guaranteed rights of the individual. In our efforts to maintain these we have received the unanimous and hearty co-operation of the community, and we are sure of its continued support. All other questions are trivial in comparison, and the consideration thereof may well be postponed. And in this connection we take pleasure in acknowledging the receipt of sympathy and co-operation of the architects of this city, the active support of the manufacturers of and dealers in building materials, the uniform and readily-granted assistance of the building public and the many letters of sympathy with the cause received from people entirely disconnected with building interests, who feel with us that it is the duty of the American people to oppose this form of tyranny and crush it out now and forever. It is time, indeed, that the men in charge of unions should learn that they are not fighting this association, but run counter to the sentiments of the entire people and the institutions of this free country. They must learn to distinguish between liberty and license, between right and wrong. All who aid in this work deserve well by their country. In conclusion, we recommend the appointment of a committee of three by the president to represent this association at a conference to be held by representatives of all building trades at the Builders' Exchange to-morrow, and until the present lockout is finally settled. GEORGE C. PRUSSING, GEORGE TAPPER, GEORGE H. FOX, Committee. When that portion was read stating that the "walking delegate must go" there was loud applause, and every section of the platform was cheered. THE REAL ESTATE BOARD. A special meeting of the Real Estate board was held at which the labor question was fully discussed by Messrs. W. D. Kerfoot, H. L. Turner, M. R. Barnard, E. S. Dreyer, Bryan Lathrop, W. L. Pierce and others. The following resolution was presented by M. R. Barnard and adopted by the board: _Resolved_, That the Chicago Real Estate Board is in full sympathy with the Builders' and Traders' exchange, the contractors, architects, and owners in their efforts to check the evils of the labor troubles, and that the Real Estate Board expresses a willingness to co-operate with them in their efforts to devise such means as will result in an equitable and final settlement of the question. SOMEBODY WAS HURT. The Amalgamated Trades' Council held a meeting--which was attended by delegates from the Bricklayers' union--at which threats were made to prosecute Messrs. Downey, Prussing and other builders for "conspiracy" because they had been prominent in securing the co-operation of the dealers in building material, and a refusal to sell and deliver pending the strike. This movement had struck its mark. It hurt. In the meantime the poor Hodcarriers and Laborers were lost sight of. They had exhausted their treasury and were assessing members at work $1 a week to partially defray expenses of those who were idle. Very few were engaged in building, but were shoving lumber, working in ditches and sewers, and performing labor of any kind they could find to do. Their cause was lost. AN IMPORTANT MOVEMENT. The conference of Building Trades, which had been called by the Builders' and Traders' exchange, met Wednesday, May 18th. The various organizations were represented as follows: Architectural Iron-Work--Robert Vierling, A. Vanderkloof, M. Benner. Plumbers--Robert Griffith, William Sims, J. J. Wade. Steam-Fitters--H. G. Savage, L. H. Prentice, P. S. Hudson. Stone-Cutters--F. V. Gindele, T. C. Diener, John Rawle. Plasterers--J. N. Glover, A. Zander, John Sutton. Roofers--M. W. Powell. Master Masons--George C. Prussing, George Tapper, George H. Fox. Painters--J. B. Sullivan, H. J. Milligan, J. G. McCarthy. Galvanized-Iron-Work--Edward Kirk, Jr., F. A. E. Wolcott, W. B. Maypole. Carpenters--William Hearson, William Mavor, W. T. Waddell. North Side Brick Manufacturers--A. J. Weckler, F. Zapell, A. Hahne. Non-Union Stone-Cutters--C. B. Kimbell. Real Estate Board--Henry L. Turner, W. L. Pierce, E. S. Dreyer. Builders' and Traders' Exchange--F. E. Spooner, H. C. Hoyt, B. J. Moore. Architects--F. Bauman, J. W. Root, M. Pierce. Hollow-Tile Manufacturers--P. B. Wight. George Tapper was made president and F. C. Schoenthaler secretary. The members discussed the situation, all agreeing that it was necessary to stand together, and that prompt action should be taken to settle the strike. On motion of F. E. Spooner the two sections of the platform of the Master Masons, which were taken from the declaration of principles of the National Association of Builders, were read and adopted without a dissenting voice. The following committee was appointed to submit a plan for future action: George C. Prussing, Henry L. Turner, William Hearson, J. B. Sullivan and Edward Kirk, Jr. BRICK YARDS SHUT DOWN. Wednesday, May 18th, nearly all of the brick manufacturers in and adjacent to the city shut down their yards to not resume the manufacture of brick until there was a settlement of the labor troubles. Their action threw out of employment six thousand brickmakers, helpers, yardmen, and teamsters. This action was precipitated by the fact that there was a supply of brick on hand which could not be delivered until building operations were resumed, and the manufacturers saw nothing in the situation that made it necessary for them to make brick when their product could not find a market. They did not desire to invest large sums of money in making brick to store at a large expense, and few of them had an outside demand for their product. In nearly every yard in the vicinity of Chicago there had been strikes, and others were threatened. The feeling of uncertainty and insecurity was so prevalent that the brick manufacturers were more ready than ever to co-operate with the movement of the Master Masons in order to be placed in a position to begin anew on whatever basis might be adopted for a settlement of the labor question. They wanted to run full time when they did run, and not be regulated by the "gang" rule as to what should constitute a day's work for a machine and the attendant man. When a machine was guaranteed to make 50,000 brick in a day they objected to shutting it off at 35,000, and calling that number a day's work. Such rules were regarded as too arbitrary, and as the brickmaking season was limited to from 120 to 150 days it necessarily shortened the crop and prevented a fair income on the capital invested in machinery and grounds. A PLATFORM APPROVED. Thursday, May 19th, the conference of the Building Trades held a second meeting, and the committee on platform submitted a report which was discussed by the members and slightly amended. As adopted it was as follows: In order to carry into effect the platform adopted by us, your committee recommend: 1. That from this time forth the signature to the following code of principles by the employe be made a universal condition of employment by all building interests of Chicago, viz: I recognize the right of every man to decide for himself, without dictation or interference, when he shall work or cease to work, where he shall work, for whom he shall work, how many hours he shall work, and for what wages he shall work. I recognize the absolute right of the employer to decide for himself, without interference from any source, whom he shall employ or cease to employ; to regulate and manage his business with perfect independence and freedom, provided, only, that he deal lawfully, justly and honorable with all men. I recognize the right of every father to have his son taught, and of every son to learn, any lawful trade as on a plane with his right to a knowledge of reading, writing, or any other branch of learning, and should be subject to regulation only by the laws of the land. I hereby pledge myself, in all my relations and intercourse with my employers and fellow-workmen, to maintain and live up to these principles. Your committee recommend, second, that the same code of principles be presented for signature to every employer with the pledge therein changed as follows: I hereby pledge myself to maintain and live up to these principles in the prosecution of my business, and to lend my aid to the full extent of my influence and power for their maintenance and protection among my fellow employers. I further pledge myself not to employ any workmen except upon his signature of this code of principles. Your committee recommend, third, that this conference recommend to our respective organizations to request of each of its members to employ such workmen only who recognize the inalienable rights as above set forth, and evidence their position by subscribing their names thereto. Your committee recommend, fourth, that public announcement be made at once that business will be resumed on or before June 1, with this code of principles as a basis. Your committee recommend, fifth, that a standing committee of one member from each of the building trades, Real-Estate Board, and the Illinois State Association of Architects, to be known as the central council of the building interests of Chicago be appointed, whose duty it shall be to see to the carrying out of these principles; that it shall have a sub-committee of safety, whose province it shall be to see that ample protection to all is afforded; with sub-committees on grievances, strikes, arbitrations, and such as may be found necessary, but that it work always and solely for the maintenance and protection of the principles herein laid down. Your committee recommend, sixth, that an address to the workingmen of the building trades and to the general public be prepared, setting forth your action and your reasons therefor; that fifty thousand copies be printed and immediately distributed. Your committee recommend, seventh, that the declaration of principles be printed at once and circulated for signatures. Your committee recommend, eighth, that a fund be created to defray the expenses of this central council, and that we request each association here represented to transmit to the order of George Tapper, chairman, the sum of 25 cents for each of their members, and that individual contributions of people interested in this work be accepted. The committee was instructed to have the report printed in six different languages for general distribution. A meeting of the Master Masons' association was held the same day at which objections were made to that portion of the platform which require the employe to _sign_ an agreement to abide by what had been laid down as the principles of the employers. It was regarded as impracticable and the association refused to approve it, deferring action until there was a full meeting. The Carpenters' and Builders' association met in the evening and unanimously approved the platform presented by the Conference of Builders, although some objection was offered to the clause requiring the employe to sign his name. SOME OBJECTIONS. At the rooms of the Builders' and Traders' exchange the members congregated in large number and earnestly discussed the situation and platform of principles adopted by the conference committee of the building trades. Everyone seemed to be loaded with an opinion which he wanted to shoot off at everybody else. The burden of the discussion was upon the proposition to require employers and employes to append their signatures to the declaration of principles. There was no disagreement as to the correctness of the principles, but a great many questioned the ability of the employers to put the first section into practice-- requiring the employe to sign before going to work. It was generally stated that this proposition was impracticable with the building trades, because many of the men were constantly moving about from one job to another, and unless they were known to have previously signed a new signature would be required on each job, to which the men would object. Masons generally favored a proposition to require the employes to assent to the principles enunciated, and if they did not want to work then they could remain idle. Some of the bosses, however, insisted that they would not only vote against the signing clause, but would refuse to put it into execution if it should be indorsed by a full meeting. It was suggested that an arrangement could be made for opening the doors and inviting the men to go to work. Each applicant for a job could be asked if he knew the principles which had been adopted, and under which work was to be resumed. If not, he could have a copy delivered to him to read, or have them read to him, and if he was then willing to resume work, all right. If not, he could reconsign himself to idleness. It was thought this would not antagonize the unions, and that a large majority of the men would return to work within a week. AN OFFICIAL VISIT. Notice having been received by the president of the Builders' and Traders' exchange that the officers of the National Association of Builders were to be in Chicago, the board of directors of the exchange met and appointed the following committee to receive them: George Tapper, Joseph Downey, George II. Fox, James John, M. Benner, Charles A. Moses, William E. Frost, F. C. Schoenthaler, and James C. Beeks. The officials were met and were fully informed by the committee of what had occurred in Chicago from the inception of the labor trouble which had paralyzed the building trades, and were furnished with a copy of the platform of principles adopted by the Conference committee of the building trades. The situation was informally discussed by the officers of the National Association and the reception committee, in order to put the visitors in a position to fully understand the ground upon which action had been taken. They were apprised of the demands which had been made from time to time for years, and of the fact that these demands had been generally acceded to until they had become almost unbearable, and that the builders of Chicago thought the time had arrived when decisive action should be taken in order to insure a permanent settlement of the troubles which had disrupted the employers and the employes. Referring to the situation William H. Sayward said it was not alone Chicago builders who were affected by the movement, but the whole country was interested in it. The builders of Chicago and those of other cities could see the benefits which were expected to be derived from a national association. Before that, when there had been a strike of any magnitude in any city, the builders engaged in the complications received not even a word of sympathy from their associates in other parts of the country. In their troubles the Chicago builders had received messages of sympathy and approval from almost every part of the country, because all felt and had a common interest in the questions at issue. A LITTLE SYMPATHY. The Central Labor union men met Sunday, May 22d, and compassed the situation by the passage of the following sympathetic resolution: _Resolved_, That the present lockout of the bosses is in every way unjustified; that the Central Labor union declares that it is a conspiracy against the rights of the working people, and extends to the locked out workmen hearty sympathy and financial as well as moral aid. ANOTHER THREAT. The Trade and Labor assembly met the same day and threatened to prosecute the Master Masons for "conspiracy" and agreed that they should be boycotted. The proposition to prosecute the bosses did not materialize, as wiser counsel prevailed, and showed that there was no foundation upon which to build the charge. OVER THE WIRE. Telegrams were received as follows: BOSTON, Mass., May 19, 1887. GEORGE TAPPER, President Builders' and Traders' exchange--The executive board of the National Association of Builders to Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago, Greeting: We have carefully examined the position you have taken, and the conditions which have led to your action, and hereby extend to you our most hearty approval and indorsement. Your position is entirely in accord with the principles of the National association. Opportunity should always be given for amicable settlement of differences that come within the rightful province of associations on either side. But when the line of right and justice is crossed, the prerogative of employers disregarded, and attempts made to coerce and force them from the exercise of their rights in the conduct of their business, then all lovers of law and order, all believers in individual liberty, will stand together with unbroken ranks until the recognition of this fundamental principle is thoroughly acknowledged. J. MILTON BLAIR, President. WILLIAM H. SAYWARD, Secretary. BOSTON, Mass., May 19, 1887. GEORGE TAPPER, President of the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago: The Master Builders' association of Boston, in convention assembled, have unanimously adopted the following resolutions, and have ordered them sent to the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago, as follows: While we acknowledge that in Boston the situation is fortunately harmonious between the employers and employes in the building trades, owing to the fact that reason has prevailed, the proper rights of the workmen having been recognized and the distinctive rights of the employers recognized by the workmen, and as a result thereof no organized attempt has been made in this city to overstep the bounds of proper jurisdiction by either party, we can not ignore the fact that our brother builders in Chicago have had forced upon them a problem which can only be solved by a firm denial of the assumed right of voluntary associations to disregard the rights of others, trample upon individual liberty, and blockade the progress of business thereby. We therefore hereby approve of the course taken by the Builders' and Traders' exchange, and assure them of our constant support upon that line. Let the principles for which we are all fighting be clearly defined, then stand. We are with you in behalf of right and justice for all and for the untrammeled liberty of every American citizen. WILLIAM H. SAYWARD, Secretary. CINCINNATI, May 19, 1887. GEORGE TAPPER, President Builders' and Traders' exchange: The Cincinnati Builders' exchange has just passed strong resolutions heartily commending your action and guaranteeing practical support. Stand by your colors. JAMES H. FINNEGAN, President. CINCINNATI, O., May 20. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: The Builders' exchange of Cincinnati again indorse you, and if necessary will follow suit. Stand by your colors. Your cause is right. J. H. FINNEGAN, President. PHILADELPHIA, May 20. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: At a special meeting of the corporation held this day at noon the preamble and resolution adopted by the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago, together with the code of principles, was unanimously approved. WILLIAM HARKINS, JR., GEORGE WATSON, F. M. HARRIS, Committee. NEW YORK, May 20. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: At a special meeting of the Mechanics' and Traders' exchange it was resolved that we tender you our sympathy in your present difficulties and assure you of our cordial support in the position assumed. D. C. WEEKS, President. E. A. VAUGHAN, Secretary. WORCESTER, Mass., May 20. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: We heartily indorse your efforts to crush out unwarrantable dictation and exalt labor to that position of dignity to which it belongs and which is truly expressed only in individual and personal liberty. E. B. CRANE, President Worcester Mechanics' Exchange. PROVIDENCE, R. I., May 20. TO BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: The Mechanics' exchange heartily approve your action, and are in full sympathy with you. WILLIAM F. CADY, Secretary. ST. PAUL, Minn., May 20. MR. F. C. SCHOENTHALER, Secretary Builders' and Traders' Exchange, Chicago: At a meeting of the board, held yesterday, the following resolution was unanimously adopted: _Resolved_, That the Contractors' and Builders' Board of Trade of St. Paul, Minn., heartily and unreservedly approve of the stand taken by the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago in determining to transact their business in their own way and time. Respectfully, J. H. HANSON, Secretary. ALBANY, N. Y., May 21, 1887.--BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: The Master Builders' exchange, of Albany, N. Y., in meeting assembled, heartily endorse the action taken by you and trust you will manfully stand together. EDWARD A. WALSH, DAVID M. ALEXANDER, MORTON HAVENS, Committee. BALTIMORE, Md., May 21, 1887.--GEORGE C. PRUSSING: Maryland Trades exchange express their formal approval of your position in present labor troubles, and wish you success. WILLIAM F. BEVAN, Secretary. INDIANAPOLIS, Ind., May 21. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE, Chicago: The Builders' exchange of Indianapolis at its meeting to-night endorses and approves of the action of the Chicago Builders' and Traders' exchange in their existing difficulty. WILLIAM JUNGCLAUS, Secretary. CINCINNATI, Ohio, May 21. GEORGE TAPPER, President Builders' and Traders' exchange, Chicago: Every true American will indorse the sentiments promulgated in your code of principles. JAMES ALLISON, President National Association Master Plumbers. MILWAUKEE, Wis., May 23. GEORGE C. PRUSSING: The Milwaukee association wishes to convey to the Chicago exchange the fact of its full concurrent sympathy in the position it has assumed, as it believes the battle must be fought just on this line. O. H. ULBRICHT, Secretary. These telegrams were read in the exchange and were received with rounds of applause. THE PLATFORM MODIFIED. On Monday, May 23d, the Conference of the Building Trades met and modified the platform of principles which had been adopted May 19th. The principle change was in eliminating the clause requiring employes to _sign_ the code of principles, and making it necessary only for them to "_assent to_" them. The platform as amended was as follows: 1. From this time forth the assent to the following code of principles by the employe be made a universal condition of employment by all building interests of Chicago--viz.: I recognize the right of every man to decide for himself, when he shall work or cease to work, where he shall work, for whom he shall work, how many hours he shall work, and for what wages he shall work. I recognize the right of every employer to decide for himself, whom he shall employ or cease to employ; to regulate and manage his business with perfect independence, provided only that he deal lawfully, justly and honorably with all men. I recognize the right of every father to have his son taught, and of every son to learn, any lawful trade, to be the same as his right to a knowledge of reading, writing, or any other branch of learning, which should be subject to regulation only by the laws of the land. By accepting of employment I agree in all my relations and intercourse with my employers and fellow workmen, to maintain and live up to these principles. 2. That this conference recommend to our respective organizations to request each of its members to employ such workmen only who recognize the inalienable rights as above set forth. 3. That public announcement be made at once that business will be resumed on or before June 1, 1887, with this code of principles as a basis. 4. That a standing committee of one member from each of the building trades, the Chicago Real Estate board, and the Illinois State Association of Architects, to be known as the Central Council of the Building Interests of Chicago, be appointed, whose duty it shall be to see to the carrying out of these principles; that it shall have a sub-committee of safety, whose province it shall be to see that ample protection to all is afforded; with sub-committees on grievances, strikes, arbitrations and such as may be found necessary, but that it work always and solely for the maintenance and protection of the principles herein laid down. 5. That an address to the working men of the building trades and to the general public be prepared, setting forth your action and your reasons therefor; that fifty thousand copies be printed and immediately distributed. 6. That a fund be created to defray the expenses of this Central Council, and that we request each association here represented to transmit to the order of George Tapper, chairman, the sum of 25 cents for each of their members, and that individual contributions of people interested in this work be accepted. The officers of the National Association of Builders were present, and through Mr. Sayward congratulated the builders of Chicago for the noble stand that had been taken in the cause of individual liberty, adding that the whole country was looking to Chicago for a solution of the question of labor. NINE HOURS FOR BRICKLAYERS. In the evening the Master Masons met and by a rising vote unanimously adopted the amended code of principles. Working rules were adopted as follows: The following shall be the working rules for workmen employed by members of this association: Nine hours to constitute a day's work, except on Saturdays, when all work shall be suspended at 12 o'clock noon. Work to start at 7 o'clock A. M. Minimum wages for bricklayers and stonemasons to be 45 cents per hour. Pay-day to be regularly every two weeks on either Monday or Tuesday. OFFICIAL ACTION. The officers of the National Association of Builders invited the Bricklayers to meet them and to state their grievances. The invitation was accepted, and on Monday, May 23d, A. E. Vorkeller, president, and William Householder, C. J. Lindgren, James Sedlak and John Pierson, called upon the officials. After a session of three hours, during which the committee ventilated its opinions on almost every subject of grievance known to mortar-spreading humanity, the issue was finally reduced to the vexed question of a Saturday pay-day. Interrogated upon all subjects, the protesting committee acknowledged itself perfectly satisfied with every existing condition except that of being paid on Monday or Tuesday, instead of Saturday. This the committee claimed was an encroachment upon their Sabbatarian rights which no honest and industrious bricklayer would submit to with obedience or patient humility. Bankers, merchants, architects, builders, and all classes of citizens responded to an invitation to confer with the officers of the National Association, and offered suggestions in regard to the troubles which were prostrating business and unnecessarily causing losses to employer and employe which could never be recovered. After carefully considering the situation the Executive Board of the National Association made a comprehensive report, which is as follows: CHICAGO, May 24th, 1887. _To the Builders' and Traders' Exchange of Chicago and all filial bodies of the National Association of Builders, and to the general public_:-- In view of the serious disturbance to building interests in the City of Chicago, and the widespread influence likely to flow from it to other localities, affecting not only the building trades, but all branches of industry in the United States, it has been thought wise to call the Executive Board of the National Association of Builders to this city, to carefully examine the situation, investigate the causes which have produced the existing conditions, and report thereon to all filial bodies for their information, together with such suggestions for their future action as may seem wise and best. All interested parties (and every business has interests more or less directly involved in this question) should thoroughly understand that the National Association of Builders assumes no powers of a dictatorial character; it simply acts as an advisory body, and communicates its conclusions only in the form of recommendations, which its affiliated associations may or may not adopt or follow, as the circumstances by which they are surrounded demand. But it should also be borne in mind that the National Association endeavors to confine its expressions of advice and recommendation to the general principles that underlie and affect conditions in all localities, and in this especial issue and crisis which has arrived in one of the most important business centers in this country, the Executive Board intends to be particularly careful, while considering the facts that exist in this city, to avoid as much as possible in its advice or recommendations, all local or superficial issues, and deal largely with the problem that is rapidly demanding solution in every city and town in the land. It is one of the purposes of the National Association to keep watchful guard over the interests of builders everywhere throughout the country, giving its advice and assistance to all its members when difficulties arise, using its influence with them to secure and maintain just relations either in their contact with each other or in their relations to owners, architects or workmen, and prevent the encroachment of other interests upon ground that belongs to them. The exact circumstances that have brought about the present blockade of business in Chicago may not be absolutely identical with the issues that have caused similar disturbances in other cities, and they may not be exactly reproduced in the future in any other locality; but the root from which they spring has been planted everywhere, and while the plant may be good and worthy, it is a matter of the greatest concern to all that the growth from it be carefully watched and held in check, lest it assume such rank and oppressive proportions that other interests, equally valuable and necessary, be overgrown and choked. It is sometimes necessary to prune a vine of rank and unhealthy growth, in order that it may bear good fruit. We apprehend that the experience of the builders of Chicago in this crisis will be of great importance to builders in other cities, and we hope to utilize their experience in such a way that general business interests will be better protected and preserved in the future, the proper purposes, opportunities and interests of organizations of workmen maintained and encouraged, and that the individual workman himself, whether he be connected with organizations or independent of them, may be placed in a position where he may exercise unquestioned his rights as an American citizen. In this endeavor we ask the co-operation of all business men, particularly those whose affairs bring them into direct contact with the difficult and perplexing questions incident to the employment of labor, and the community generally, for the public as a whole has an immense stake in this question of individual liberty. We have endeavored to make our inquiries in a disinterested spirit, and, in pursuance of this purpose, have given hearings to the employing builders, the Bricklayers' Union, non-union workmen, manufacturers, merchants, bankers, architects and business men generally, believing that we could only consider the question fairly by listening to all sides and opinions. The result of our investigation leads us to report as follows: The demand for pay-day on Saturday by the Bricklayers' Union, which precipitated the present blockade of business in the building trades in Chicago, was in itself inconsequent and trivial, and a concession or denial of it, on its merits, would have been immaterial; but it was presented in such a manner, at a time when the hodcarriers' strike, in progress, had been supported by the Amalgamated Building Trades, and had been preceded by such concessions on the part of the employers, that they felt this to be the "last straw," and that their duty to themselves and others compelled them to make a stand and demand a surrender of the rights which had been previously abrogated. In this course, and in the manner in which the builders have presented their convictions and method of future action, we believe that nothing has been done beyond what the situation imperatively demanded, and the safe and proper conduct of business required; we are only astonished that the crisis has not been sooner reached. It seems to us that this strike or lockout was not caused by a demand that it was impossible to grant, but was the direct result of the assumption by organizations of workmen, for a number of years, of rights not properly within their jurisdiction, and the demand coming, as it did, under such aggravating circumstances, occasion was properly taken, in our opinion, for a complete cessation of business, in order that it might finally be decided and settled whether the employer should for the future be free from further encroachments, and that he might recover those rights and prerogatives which properly belong to him. It is worthy of note that this issue or demand was not made in the dull season, when it might have been more easily arranged, or at least considered, but after the busy season was reached, and in addition to and in support of existing strikes. The Union making it did not seek to consult the employers in regard to its feasibility, although after it was promulgated (the employers requesting a re-consideration), a slight alteration was made in one of the details. It appears, according to the testimony of the Bricklayers' Union, that there has been no general strike in their trade for the last four years, but they admit that during that period they have been successful in enforcing certain rules and regulations in regard to control of journeyman and apprentices (which are set forth in their printed Constitution and By-laws), and that the enforcement of these rules has caused strikes or stoppages of work in many cases, upon certain jobs. It is in the rules or regulations referred to that conditions are imposed which the builders claim are an encroachment on their peculiar rights as well as the rights of independent workmen, and that in submitting to them they have made concessions which they can no longer endure. In this opinion we entirely and heartily concur. We will cite a few of these rules, calling attention to the fact that although the employers have at least an equal interest in the matters treated, they have never been even consulted in their formulation, but have been expected to comply with them as presented, and have so complied, for the reason, as they claim, that they could not help themselves. The first rule, or regulation, or custom, which demands notice is that which prevents workmen, not members of the Union, from obtaining work. This is excused by the declaration of the Union that they do not claim that the non-union man shall not work--they simply will not work with him; but this explanation is purely a clever evasion of the point at issue, for the workman is by force of circumstances deprived of opportunity to labor, and the position taken by the Union is manifestly a conspiracy against the rights of the individual. It may truly be considered the first step towards setting up an oligarchy in the midst of a free people. This assumed right is most tenaciously held and is one of the most dangerous expedients ever adopted by a voluntary association. We believe it to be a direct attack upon individual liberty, and an evil that will re-act upon those who attempt to establish it. We also believe it to be entirely unnecessary for the welfare of Unions--that all the ends they wish to gain can be secured by legitimate measures, and that not until they cut out this cancer will harmony be restored and reforms established. This custom should be constantly and absolutely denied. The next rule which we wish to consider is that establishing a "walking delegate." Some of the functions of this officer (if he may be so designated), as explained by members of the Union, are perfectly harmless, and possibly quite a convenience; but if proper relations were permitted to exist between employer and workman these functions could be equally well sustained by the foreman on the job. There are other powers, however, with which he is invested, which are so arbitrary in their character, which deprive the employer so completely of that control of workmen necessary to the prosecution of his work, that it is simply ridiculous to submit to it. For instance, "He shall be empowered to use his personal judgment on all points of disagreement between employer and employe, between regular meetings."--ARTICLE V., SEC 4. The simplest mind can readily see how little control the employer has left him, when a man not in his employ is permitted to come upon his work and "use his personal judgment" in questions of disagreement, the workman being obliged to then obey his orders. The employer seems to be a mere cipher under this arrangement, and can only fold his hands and wait till the "regular meeting" (at which he has no opportunity to be heard) settles whether the "personal judgment" exercised be just and fair. The result can be imagined. In the hands of an exceptionally honest and discreet person such a power would be dangerous enough, but in the control of a man who may not possess these qualities, or possess one of them without the other, the chances of stoppage of work under his orders, the constant annoyances to which employers, architects and owners may be subjected, makes this infliction too grievous to be borne. The thousands of unnecessary strikes, stoppages and obstructions to work for every conceivable cause, or no cause, which have occurred in all parts of the country in the name of justice and the walking delegate, are evidence enough that to owner, architect, employer and workman, he is an abomination not to be tolerated. As an adjunct to the walking delegate comes the "steward," who, like him, has some functions perfectly unobjectionable, but who in other ways is empowered to assume certain direction and control which surely is not consistent with the duties of a workman, that is, if the workman is considered to have any duty to his employer. It is noticeable that in the description of the duties of these two gentlemen, it is the "interests of the Union" only that they are directed to observe; it is true that the walking delegate is not an employe, but he is to have free access to the work, can interfere and obstruct as he pleases, but the interest of the employer seems to have been omitted in the recital of his duties. When it is considered how much is taken off the hands of the employer by these two persons, it is somewhat a matter of surprise that owner and architect burden themselves with the useless middle man, the nominal employer, when they can have the whole matter handled by the Union and its agents. The rules in relation to apprentices are peculiarly restrictive and leave nothing whatever that is worth possessing in the hands of the employer. We cannot imagine why any contractor would care to have apprentices at all, if their direction and control is to be so completely out of his hands. These rules declare that "no contractor shall be allowed to have more than two apprentices at a time;" "he will not be allowed to have any more until their time is completed;" "he may then replace them." The contractor must sign such indentures as are prepared by the Union without consultation with him. "No contractor will be allowed to have an apprentice over eighteen years of age unless he be the son of a journeyman who is a member of the Union." Apprentices must also be members. The contractor is thus debarred from putting his own son at apprenticeship if he happens to be eighteen years of age. This appears to be most emphatic special legislation. In fact the whole management and control of apprentices is virtually in the hands of the Union, and we submit again that such action as this is most indefensive and pernicious. It has already caused a tremendous reduction in the number of young men learning the trade, and, if practiced in other branches of business, would create a state of revolt among the people, and would be denounced throughout the length and breadth of the land as a violation of rights heretofore supposed to be secured when this country became a Republic. Foremen upon the work must be members of the Union. Inspectors upon public buildings must be practical bricklayers in the opinion of the Union, and members of it; in fact there are so many points that demonstrate the development of this one-sided power of the Union, and showing abuse of their place and mission that we cannot take time or space to enlarge upon them. To our mind the Constitution of this Union, and many others, is framed upon the assumption that all employers are dishonest and bad men, so all are to suffer alike. The Union seem to have come to the conclusion that the laws of the land are not sufficient, and they propose to be not only a law unto themselves but a law unto all others who come in contact with them. This assumption, if permitted to stand and grow, will tend to disintegrate the whole social and political fabric upon which citizens of this country depend for protection; and we believe it to be our duty to call upon all good citizens to deny it in unequivocal terms. We submit that these "rules" which we have quoted, and other customs which have naturally grown from such development of power (which are neither written or admitted by the Union, but which nevertheless exist), are distinctly an encroachment upon the province of the employer; that under them he is robbed of that control and authority absolutely essential to the proper conduct of his business. Submission to such dictation as this simply opens the door wider for interference, and the employer is not secure from day to day from new and harassing demands, so that eventually he will have practically nothing left to him but the "privilege" of paying the bills. The crisis here in Chicago is of tremendous importance and significance to every builder and every business man, not alone in this great and rapidly growing city, but in every city of the country, for here is seen a demonstration of the tyranny which becomes possible when improper methods are submitted to; a tyranny which holds the workman in its grasp quite as surely as the employer, and this experience and demonstration should be a timely warning to all. Labor Unions have gone too far. They have mistaken their functions and over-stepped their boundaries. The time has come to "call a halt," and to demand a surrender of that which has been improperly obtained. To do this will require some patience and some sacrifice, but the end to be gained is but justice and right, and worth all that it may cost. Better that not another brick be laid or another nail be driven in Chicago for a year than this opportunity be lost to regain the rights and prerogatives which make it possible for employer and workman to be independent and successful. Let nothing be done to injure the Union in the prosecution of their rightful purposes; they have a most important mission and a great field for usefulness. Aid and assist them in these things by every means in your power, but for their own good, as well as your own safety, stand constantly and steadfastly opposed to any and every attempt to take away that which makes you an employer, or from the workman himself the right to work. Trade Unionism in theory, and as it may be consistently and intelligently carried out, can be a most useful aid to all concerned; but, as at present managed, clinging fast as it does to the cardinal principle of the right to prevent any and every man from working who does not happen to belong to the order, it is a bane to society and a curse to its members. We approve of the position taken by the builders of Chicago in this emergency, and we congratulate them that other branches of business, whose interests are so closely interwoven with theirs, have had the courage and willingness to make common cause with them, recognizing, as they evidently do, that if this sort of dictation is permitted to grow, that their own position will become undermined and security vanish. We congratulate them also that general business interests have given them such hearty co-operation and support, and we feel assured that will continue until the victory is won. We recommend all filial associations of this body to assume the same attitude in the event of an issue being forced upon them by further encroachments, and we suggest to them, as well as to the Builders' and Traders' exchange of Chicago, that, in order to encourage all workmen who wish to have an opportunity to freely work, untrammelled by the improper requirements and rules of voluntary associations (membership in which, as far as most workmen are concerned, have become involuntary), and be protected in their work, it will be wise to create and establish at once a Bureau of Record in connection with their associations, where any and all workmen may put themselves on record as assenting to the principles of individual liberty, announced here in Chicago, and by and through which the workmen so assenting will be kept at work, and protected in it, in preference to those who deny these principles. Let steps be taken, after a certain time given to develop the honest purpose, good character, skill and ability of the workmen, to make them members of your own associations, and so institute, for the first time, a union wherein employer and employe shall be joined, and their interests considered in common, as they properly should be. We believe this would be a step in the right direction, and the dawn of the day when the two branches of workmen--the directing workman and the manual workman--will not be arrayed against each other, but will consider and act in concert for their mutual benefit. Closing now our report to filial associations, we wish to address a few words to the public at large, whose servants we are. We believe that the builders of this country stand to-day in a position which commands the attention of all kinds and classes of business men everywhere. We wish to do only that which is right and in accordance with the principles upon which this Republic was founded. Individual liberty is the dearest possession of the American people; we intend to stand by it and protect it in every emergency, and, to our mind, there has never been before presented an occasion more significant and decisive than the present, and in doing all we can to sustain it we feel that we are fighting not for our selfish ends alone, but for the welfare and protection of every individual in the land. Individual liberty is not incompatible with associations, and associations are not incompatible with individual liberty; on the contrary, they should go hand in hand. We call upon all to sustain us in maintaining all that is good and in defeating all that is bad in this difficult problem of labor. Liberty is our watchword, and this struggle is but a continuation of that endeavor which began a hundred years ago, when a little band of patriots, at Concord Bridge, "fired that shot heard round the world," which was the first blow in establishing American independence. Signed, J. M. BLAIR, JOHN S. STEVENS, EDWARD E. SCRIBNER, WM. H. SAYWARD, JOHN J. TUCKER, Executive Board of the National Association of Builders. PERMISSION TO RESUME. It having been decided by the conference of building trades that work might be resumed by any contractor on or before June 1st, and the Master Masons' association having approved of the platform of principles and adopted rules for the government of its members, the executive committee of the Master Masons' association adopted the following form of notification for its members of their readiness to resume work and their willingness to adhere to the principles approved by the association at its last meeting: JOSEPH DOWNEY, President Master Masons' Association --_Sir:_ We are ready to start work, and hereby agree on our honor to abide by the rules and platform adopted by the Master Masons' association. ____________________________ In pursuance of this action a number of contracting masons notified President Downey of their readiness to resume work, and they were given permits for the purchase of building material, the following form being used: PERMIT, No. ______ | PERMIT. | | EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE, _Granted_ ______________ | | Master Masons' and Builders' Association, _to deliver_ ___________ |______________________ | _to_ ___________________ | _You are hereby requested_ | _to deliver to_ ____________________ _at No._ _______________ | ____________________________________ | _Purpose_ ______________ | _No_ ________________ | _________________________| _for the purpose of_ _______________ | ______________________ This form of permit was continued in use to contractors who were not members of the Master Masons' association. A different course was pursued with members, who were required to sign a request for a general permit, the form of the request being as follows: Chicago, May 24th, 1887. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE MASTER MASONS' ASSOCIATION. _Gents_:--I hereby make application for permit to resume work, and I agree on my honor to adopt the rules and platform as passed by the Master Masons' and Builders' Association, May 23d, 1887. HERMANN MUELLER. Upon the presentation of such an application to the executive committee a general permit was issued, which was in form as follows: MASTER MASONS' AND BUILDERS' ASSOCIATION. Chicago, May 24th, 1887. HERMANN MUELLER.--In consideration of your signing an agreement to adhere to the Platform and Code of Working Principles adopted by the Master Masons' and Builders' Association May 23d, 1887, you are hereby granted a permit to resume work. JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. In attempting to resume work the mason contractors were disposed to give preference to such bricklayers and stonemasons as had been working in Chicago, and who evinced a willingness to return to work under the code of principles and the rules of the association which had been adopted. A few workmen took advantage of the proposition at once, and went to work, but fear of fines by the union and assaults from the members of the union, deterred a great many from going to work who were perfectly willing to subscribe to the principles enunciated. The leaders of the strikers announced that under no conditions would the union accept the offer of 45 cents an hour and nine hours a day. By May 25th more than one thousand of the union bricklayers had left the city and were working in outside towns ten hours a day for $2.50 to $3 pay, rather than accept the offer of the Master Masons. Not being able to secure a large number of the home workmen the Master Masons' caused to be published in important towns in Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio and Missouri, a notice that there were wanted in Chicago one thousand bricklayers who would be given steady work at 45 cents an hour and would be guaranteed protection. They did not expect that the whole number would be secured, as it was the busy season for building everywhere, but they looked for a sufficient number of responses to meet the immediate demand. In this they were disappointed. The experience of outside bricklayers in Chicago had been of an unsavory character, and they respectfully declined to advance upon the city in a body. A few bold fellows made their appearance, but they numbered less than one hundred. Many of those who went to work were put under police protection in order to keep the strikers from committing depredations. DISCONTENTED LABORERS. The Hodcarriers became disgusted. Their feeling against the Bricklayers was very strong, and they said if the Bricklayers were possessed of more sense all the employes in the building trades would be at work at good wages and the Hodcarriers would be getting all they asked for. They were out of work and out of means, and the funds of the union were so low that little or no relief could be obtained from that source. The union funds had been exhausted for some time, and the weekly assessments upon men employed did not average over $200, while there was a demand for more than $10,000 per week to pay the $5 weekly, which was guaranteed to every member of the Hodcarriers' union who was on strike and in need. The outcome to the most of the men looked bad, and serious trouble was expected. Men with starving families and no prospect of getting work were not likely to long keep quiet. Only a few men showed themselves at headquarters, but there was an undercurrent of discontent that could not be kept down. Fears were entertained that it might lead to riot, and efforts were put forth to keep the rougher element out of the way. There were good grounds for apprehension, and it required careful manipulation to keep the dangerous element subdued. LISTING THE JOBS. On Friday, May 27th, the executive committee of the Master Masons' association appointed a sub-committee to make a list of jobs in the city giving the names of all the contractors, the location of the work, the number of bricklayers, stonemasons and laborers required, and the number at work, and this sub-committee rapidly got its work in shape. It also kept a memoranda of the character of material needed, and the quantity supplied from time to time, with the names of the dealers from whom it was procured. It was empowered to designate members of the association to visit jobs as often as necessary for the purpose of rendering any service that would facilitate the work, and contractors who were resuming business were requested to report to the committee what progress was being made. The executive committee realized that it would take no little time to get the business in good running order, and the organization was put in such shape as to make it effective in a long or short campaign. FALSE STATEMENTS. In order to create a break in the ranks of the material dealers, who were bravely supporting the Master Masons, the strikers circulated a report that permits for the purchase of building materials would only be issued to members of the Master Masons' association. When the attention of President Downey was called to the fact he said with considerable earnestness: "It is not so. I can not understand how such an impression got out, as there has been no thought of making or enforcing such a rule. There is no disposition on the part of the executive committee to take such action and there never has been. The fact is that more permits for material have been issued to builders who are not members of the Master Masons' association than have been issued to members. All that is required of an applicant for a permit is that he will agree to abide by the code of principles and the rules adopted and sign the card which has been prepared setting forth these facts." The only discrimination made by the executive committee was in its positive refusal to issue permits to small contractors or jobbers who were members of the Bricklayers' and Stonemasons' union. They were told that when they resigned from the union and brought evidence of the fact, and agreed to the code of principles and the rules, they could have all the material they wanted. ANOTHER TELEGRAM. The following telegram was received at the Builders' and Traders' exchange: ROCHESTER, N. Y., May 27. JOSEPH DOWNEY, President Master Masons' Association, Chicago: On behalf of the New York State Masons' association I wish you Godspeed in your code of principles. H. GORSLINE, President. BLACKMAIL. On Saturday, May 29th, the Master Masons' association met and talked over the situation, congratulating each other on the promised success of their movement for freedom. At the request of Mr. Tapper Mr. Victor Falkenau made a statement to show the corrupt methods of the walking delegate. He said that in October, 1886, he was erecting a building on Astor street for Mr. Post, when Walking Delegate Healy appeared on the scene and objected to some pressed brick being put into arches that had been cut at the manufactory, insisting that they should be cut on the job. Healy insisted on calling the men off the job, but in consideration of $5, which was then paid to him, he let the work proceed. A committee from the Bricklayers' union had called on him to ascertain what had been done, and he had put it in possession of the facts in the case. The money was paid to Healy Oct. 21st. In the face of this statement, which was backed by ample proof, the walking delegate was not removed from his high position. Other members referred to similar cases in which walking delegates had shown themselves to be walking blackmailers. When Delegate Healy heard of the statement of Mr. Falkenau he threatened to bring suit against him for $10,000 damages. Mr. Falkenau remarked that he was glad he was to be sued as a hearing of the cause in a court would bring out the facts under oath in a manner that would satisfy anyone as to the truth or falsity of the charge. A contractor who was familiar with the facts in the case said the statement of Mr. Falkenau would be supported by other testimony when the time came, but he was satisfied there would be no libel suit. And there was none. METAL WORKERS. The Association of Manufacturers in Metals met Saturday, May 28th, and unanimously adopted the following resolutions: _Whereas_, We know there are organizations existing which deny the rights of the individual as guaranteed by the constitution of the United States; and _Whereas_, We believe it our duty as citizens to range ourselves with others in the assertion and defense of the rights of man, be he employer or workman; now, therefore, We affirm that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. We recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and we will aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conferences and arbitrations are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to avail ourselves of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented. We recognize that permanent harmony between employer and workman can only exist when both agree on the justice and right of the principles set forth. Now, therefore, be it _Resolved_, That all members of the Association of Manufacturers in Metals be, and they are hereby requested to display in office and workshop, the above declaration and the following code of principles: "I recognize the right of every man to decide for himself, with employers, without dictation or interference, when he shall work or cease to work, where he shall work, how many hours he shall work, and for what wages he shall work. "I recognize the right of the employer to decide for himself whom he shall employ or cease to employ, and regulate and manage his business with perfect independence, provided only that he deal lawfully, justly and honorably with all men. "I recognize the right of every father to have his son taught, and of every son to learn any lawful trade, to be the same as his right to a knowledge of reading and writing, or any other branch of learning, which should be subject to regulations only by the laws of the land. "By accepting employment I agree in all my relations and intercourse with my employers and fellow-workmen to maintain and live up to these principles." _Resolved_, That full powers be and they are hereby granted to the executive committee to take all steps by them deemed necessary to carry into effect the principles heretofore set forth and to express the concurrence of this association with the position taken by the Master Masons' and Builders' Association. This action, it was stated during the discussion of the resolutions, was not the outgrowth of sympathy only, but caused by the fact that Metal men were suffering just as much as anybody under the then existing trouble in the building trades. There were not cast seventy-five tons of building ironwork a day in the city when there ought to have been three hundred tons at least. The depression of trade was so marked that two foundries shut down, throwing 250 men out of work, and all the establishments were glad to have a pretext for closing. DARK WAYS. At the headquarters of the Bricklayers the statement was made that there had been an important meeting of the dealers in Building material, May 30th, at the Builders' and Traders' exchange, at which it was agreed that the material men would not wait longer than June 1st for the Master Masons to get to work, as their agreement to not sell and deliver building material only extended to that date. When asked about the meeting, Mr. Mulrany, of the Union, could not say how many attended, or give the names of any who were present. He insisted that the Bricklayers would break the backs of the Master Masons, and would make them give up for good. He was sure the lockout would not last long, because there was so much disaffection among the bosses. Diligent inquiry was made at the Exchange to learn if such a meeting had been held as the one mentioned by Mr. Mulrany, but assurance was given that none had been. A dozen dealers in building material protested that such a meeting had not been held and would not be. The agreement to not sell or deliver material was limited only by the duration of the strike. The statement was on a par with many that emanated from the strikers. A LOST CAUSE. The Hodcarriers' Union, as a body, seemed to have entirely collapsed. The funds of the Union having entirely run out, the men found no attraction to the headquarters on West Taylor street. A great portion of the men found work in other quarters, and those still out were ready to go to work at the first opportunity which might offer, regardless of the demands which were made when the men struck six weeks previously. THE PLUMBERS. May 31st the Chicago Master Plumbers' association met and adopted the following resolution, which was sent to the Council of Building Interests: _Resolved_, That we, the Chicago Master Plumbers' association of Chicago, recognizing the right of employers heretofore jeopardized by the arbitrary interference of trades unions, do hereby tender our hearty sympathy and support to the Master Masons in their present struggle for the individual rights of employers. ROBERT GRIFFITH, President. J. R. ALCOCK, Secretary. THE BRICK YARDS. The Chicago Brickmakers' association, which represents all brick yards in the South and West Divisions of the city, met May 31st and adopted the following rules: We the brick manufacturers of the South and West divisions, believe the adoption of the following rules will tend to establish a system that strikes may be avoided in the manufacturing of brick in our divisions of the city: 1. By the appointment of a committee of three members from the Brick Manufacturers' association and three from the Brick Laborers' union, with full power to act in all matters pertaining to the interests of those they represent. 2. To hold regular meetings on the second and fourth Tuesdays of each month for the transaction of any business that may come before them. 3. No member of the organization represented shall strike or cease operation of their work for any individual grievance pending a meeting of any committee. 4. Any question said committee fails to agree upon they shall call in outside assistance and use all honorable means for a settlement before ordering a strike or lockout. 5. When said committee, after due care, fails to agree, they shall, before ordering a strike or lockout, give one week's notice. 6. All brick manufactured up to date of said strike or lockout shall be cared for by the men before abandoning their work. 7. The committee shall in no way interfere in any difficulty arising between the brick manufacturers and any other organization other than the one from which they were appointed. AN ADDRESS. June 1st. The executive committee of the Master Masons' association issued an address to their former employes, as follows: TO THE BRICKLAYERS AND STONEMASONS OF CHICAGO--_Gentlemen_: To those of you who have families to support; who, by frugal saving, have laid by a store for rainy days; who, perhaps, have invested surplus earnings in a house and lot or made partial payments on a piece of land for a future homestead, and thereby have acquired an interest in Chicago--to you we speak. To those of you who have joined the now existing union under compulsion, and are to-day afraid of personal injury, should you in any way assert your independence; to those of you who feel the abuses practiced, who are not in accord with the ruling clique, who have informed us time and again that you are not granted a hearing when your opinion is not in harmony with that of "the gang," and that you consequently do not attend the meeting of said "union"--to you we appeal. To those of you who believe in arbitration as a better mode of redressing grievances or adjusting differences than the strike or lockout; to those of you who are old enough to remember that the members of our organization have all been journeymen bricklayers and stonemasons, that there are none among us who may not be compelled to take up tools again, nor any among you who may not at any time become employers, and that, consequently, there are no questions concerning one branch which are not of interest to the other--to you we address ourselves. This association, together with other associations of builders, has issued a platform affirming our adherence to the fundamental principle of individual liberty. Read it, discuss it, digest it. It is right. It is guaranteed by the constitution of the United States, and he who denies the rights of man is not an American citizen, and by his denial affirms that he does not intend to become such, although he may have gone through the form of acquiring citizenship. We are not opposed to all unions. In the second paragraph of our platform we recognize the right of organization among workmen for all just and honorable purposes. But we are opposed to the methods employed by the present union. Brute force is used in all directions to compel fellow-workmen to join and keep them in line in support of any action taken, no matter how unreasonable; to enforce the assumed control of the business of employers; to arbitrarily keep boys from learning the trade; to deny the right of mechanics to support their families by working at their trade in this city, etc. In all directions brute force is the foundation of the present union. This is wrong. Brute force can only be opposed by brute force, the strike on the one hand opposed by the lockout on the other, resulting in loss and suffering to both, and without any permanent results, for no matter which side is successful, the only thing proven is that it had the strongest organization, not that its position is right. Strikes and lockouts, with all the train of resulting evils, can only be prevented by organizations among both workmen and employers, both recognizing the same fundamental principles and agreeing to refer any question of temporary policy, such as the amount of wages to be paid, number of hours to be worked, pay-day, and others, or any grievances or differences arising in the future, to a joint committee of arbitration--work to continue without interruption, and questions at issue to be decided definitely by the committee. The "walking delegate" has proved himself an unmitigated nuisance. To give into the hands of one man power so absolute will always be dangerous and sure to be abused. Nor will the necessity exist for a "walking delegate." His place will be filled by the arbitration committee. That the laws of the state shall prevail in regard to apprentices, as well as on other subjects by them covered, needs no argument. All must recognize that foremen are hired to be the agents and representatives of the employer for the faithful and economic performance of the work, and, as such, should be under his exclusive control. Of "stewards" we not treat here. Acting for an organization which acknowledges as right and just the principles contained in our platform, their duties can not interfere with the proper prosecution of the work. To sum up, form a union on the same platform we uphold and men will join it because of the benefits to be derived--brute force will not be necessary in any direction,--and whenever one hundred, yes, fifty, members shall have enrolled themselves we will gladly recognize it and appoint members to serve on a joint committee of arbitration to have charge of all matters of mutual interests. We mean what we say. Fault has been found with the "working rules" adopted. These will be subject to joint discussion and adjustment when a joint committee of arbitration shall be in existence. Until then we have agreed to nine hours as a working day, because that is the rule adopted by other large cities, and Chicago should not be at a disadvantage as a point for investment in comparison with them. We believe the Saturday half-holiday has come to stay with us as one of the recognized institutions of the country, and we have adopted it freely and voluntarily. By agreeing to 45 cents per hour as a minimum rate of wages we trust to have proved that we do not desire to lower rates. A regular fortnightly pay-day has been guaranteed. These are our conditions. Discuss them as to their fairness, and if you find them just come to work, and we shall be glad to employ you as far as still in our power, for it is true that each day of continued strike does lessen the chance for a busy season. The situation in brief is as follows: The general public recognizes the present necessity of coming to a fair understanding between employer and workman--and thereby laying the foundation for future harmonious action--by refusing to build under present circumstances. Some work must be done, no matter what the conditions. But there is not one-fourth of the work on hand now there was last year at this time. For its future growth and prosperity Chicago needs manufacturing enterprises. In the selection of a site for such people with money to invest look for security from violent and arbitrary interruption to their business. Abolish the "walking delegates;" show that you have profited by the lessons of the past, and establish arbitration; lay the foundation for peace and harmony between employer and workmen, and Chicago will be the place selected; business, now dull and dragging, will revive, and steady employment will reward both you and us for sense and moderation shown. Fraternally yours, THE CHICAGO MASTER MASONS' ASSOCIATION. By Executive Committee. THE CONFERENCE ADJOURNED. A final meeting of the Conference Committee of the Building Trades was held June 1st. Reports were made showing that every organization represented had unqualifiedly endorsed the platform of principles which had been enunciated. The cut-stone contractors, through Mr. T. C. Diener, made the following report, premising it by saying that the members of the association were in accord with the principles which had been enunciated by the conference committee: TO THE CONFERENCE OF THE BUILDING TRADES: The Cut-Stone Contractors' association has carefully considered the code of principles adopted by your committee, and, although approving of the principles laid down, we could not adopt them as a whole, and therefore deem it not advisable to ask the assent of our employes as a condition of further employment after June 1st for the reasons hereafter mentioned: Fully endorsing the right of an employe to work for whom he chooses, we do not concede that individually he can regulate the number of hours he desires to work, but in that respect must comply with the established rule of number of hours per day. In our trade eight hours per day for stone-cutters has been the system for the last twenty years. It has been a success in every respect, for to-day, with improved machinery, cut-stone is fully 50 to 100 per cent cheaper than during the ten hour time. Conceding the right to each man for what wages he will work--we maintain that it is to the interest of the building trade generally that a rate of wages be adopted at the opening of the season, thus making it a standard basis for contractors to estimate by. In the matter of apprenticeship we also maintain that it is to the interest of the boy and the employer of the same. For by employing too many boys in our trade a foreman would not have the opportunity to train the boy, and he would turn out a poor mechanic. It is a rule and regulation similar to educational institutions. To make these rules has been the motive which has prompted employes and employers to organize. In the cut-stone trade we have an association of stone-cutters and an association of cut-stone contractors. These two bodies recognize each other, and at the beginning of the season, as has been done heretofore for years, they have agreed on a rate of wages, number of hours per day, and number of apprentices to a yard (which is about one to six men), and, therefore, we are in duty bound to abide by the same. We have, furthermore, a written agreement between our two organizations, of which article 1 is as follows: "All disputes or misunderstandings of any kind that may arise shall be submitted to committees, who shall report to their respective associations before final action shall be taken." And article 6 is as follows: "These rules not to be changed or altered except by the consent of each association, and in that case a thirty days' notice to be given by the party desiring to terminate said agreement." In our discussions and conclusions we have also been guided to a certain extent by the press, to avoid, if possible, a general lockout, and by that part of the platform of the National Association of Builders, "that good may be derived from proper organizations," and it is our aim that our associations shall not only be a benefit to themselves, but to the general public. Respectfully submitted. T. C. DIENER, Secretary. The conference then adjourned sine die. CENTRAL COUNCIL OF BUILDERS. Immediately after the adjournment of the Conference Committee the Central Council of Builders--which had been recommended by the Conference Committee--met, the various interests being represented as follows: Metal-Workers, Robert Vierling. Steam-Fitters, H. G. Savage. Cut-Stone Contractors, T. C. Diener. Master Plasterers, John Sutton. Gravel Roofers, M. W. Powell. Master Masons, George Tapper. Master Painters, J. B. Sullivan. Galvanized-Iron Cornice, Edward Kirk, Jr. Carpenters and Builders, William Hearson. North-Side Brick Manufacturers, A. J. Weckler. Fire-Proofers, P. B. Wight. Non-Union Stone-Cutters, C. B. Kimbell. Builders' and Traders' Exchange, F. C. Schoenthaler. Real Estate Board, Henry L. Turner. A delegate from the Master Plumbers was not present, because none had yet been appointed. On motion of William Hearson, George Tapper was elected chairman and F. C. Schoenthaler secretary. At the suggestion of Mr. Vierling a committee of three was appointed to prepare a plan of organization, with instructions to report at the next meeting. The committee was as follows: H. G. Savage, Edward Kirk, Jr., William Hearson. A DOLLAR A BRICK. A union bricklayer appeared in the corridor of the exchange and was boasting that he could buy all the brick he wanted of A. J. Weckler, a north-side manufacturer. The statement was denied by a contractor. About that time Mr. Weckler appeared on the scene and was informed of the statement that had been made. His reply was: "The only price I have had brick at my yard since the strike began was $1 a brick, and I think Mr. Downey would give a permit for me to sell every brick in the yard at that price. But, if a man thinks he can get any brick from me at the regular price, or for less than $1 a brick at present, he is very much mistaken." The bricklayer subsided and had no more statements to make. "WE'LL NEVER GIVE IN." Groups of idle bricklayers gathered in and around their headquarters, at Greenebaum's Hall, discussing the situation, and sometimes branching off into earnest conversation on the natural outcome of the labor movement. They claimed that they were a conservative body, seeking all reforms through the ballot, and all demands by legal and peaceful organization; yet it was plain that socialistic ideas were not uncommon to many of the talkers. All of them were determined to hold to their position to the end, and seemed confident that the bosses would have to give way, and that their combination was weakening and disintegrating. When it became known among them that the union had been called in to complete a large building at the corner of Chicago and Milwaukee avenues, and a four-story structure near the corner of Madison and Union streets, they became very jubilant and pointed them out as evidences that contractors were powerless. "They must come to our terms," was the general comment, "for they can not get men from abroad to fill our places." The opinion prevailed among them that they were the only bricklayers in the country that could work on a Chicago building. NINE HOURS FOR CARPENTERS. The Carpenters' and Builders' association met June 2d and adopted the following working rules: We agree to begin on the 13th day of June to work nine hours in each working day, beginning at 7 o'clock A. M. and ending at 5 o'clock P. M., with the usual hour at noon for dinner; under payment by the hour. All work done before 7 o'clock A. M. and after 5 o'clock P. M. to be paid for as overtime at such price as may be agreed upon by the workman and employer. The above number of working hours per day applies only to workmen engaged at buildings in course of construction or repair. THE DIFFERENCE. The consistency of the union bricklayers was exhibited in a case where a building was taken from a contractor and given to bricklayers to complete. The moment they became "bosses" they showed their regard for union principles by employing non-union hodcarriers and laborers. This action incensed the hodcarriers, and they forced the "union" bosses to discharge their non-union helpers and employ members of the laborers' union. STUBBORN BRICKLAYERS. June 3d the Bricklayers' union met at Berry's hall. An attempt was made to read a proposition to return to work, leaving the question of pay-day and hours to arbitration; but the proposition was howled down, and not even permitted to be read. The following resolutions were adopted: _Whereas_, The Bricklayers' and Stonemasons' union of Chicago, on May 11th, in special meeting assembled, adopted Saturday as their regular pay-day, and _Whereas_, The so-called Master Masons' union of this city have refused to grant our reasonable request, and have entered into a conspiracy with the Builders' and Traders' exchange, the object of which is to disrupt our organization; therefore, be it _Resolved_, That we, United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons, in regular meeting assembled, pledge our honor to stand firmly by the resolutions adopted May 11th. _Resolved_, That we condemn the Builders' and Traders' exchange for their cowardly action in locking up the building materials and forcing a lockout, thereby paralyzing the business interests of this city, and causing loss and suffering among thousands of our citizens who are in no way responsible for the differences existing between our organization and the master masons, so-called. THE CENTRAL COUNCIL ORGANIZED. The Central Council of the Building Interests of Chicago met Friday, June 3d, for the purpose of hearing a report from the committee appointed to prepare a working plan for the Council. Mr. H. G. Savage, of the committee, submitted the report, which was considered by sections and adopted as follows: 1. This body shall be known as the Central Council of the Building Interests of Chicago. 2. The object of this Council shall be to promote the building interests of Chicago, harmonize the different branches, and adopt such measures as from time to time may be found beneficial, carrying out the following platform of principles, which has been adopted by the various associations herein represented: We affirm that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. We recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and, while condemning and opposing improper action on their part, we will aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conferences and arbitrations are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together, to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances may be prevented. 3. All associations of building-trade employers, the Real Estate board, the Illinois Association of Architects, and the Builders' and Traders' exchange shall be entitled to one representative each. 4. The officers shall be elected at the annual meeting, and shall consist of a president, vice-president, and financial secretary, to hold office for one year, or until their successors are duly qualified. 5. Regular meetings shall be held the first Friday of each month at 2 o'clock P. M. The first regular meeting in June shall be the annual meeting. Special meetings may be called by the president or any three members of the Council. 6. The following standing committees, consisting of three members each, shall be appointed by the president at the annual meeting, to hold office for one year, or until their successors are appointed: Credentials--To whom shall be referred all applications for membership. Safety--Whose duty it shall be to see that ample protection to all is afforded against unlawful interference. Strikes and Grievances--Whose duty it shall be to investigate all strikes and grievances and to report to the Council fully in regard to the same, with such recommendations as they may deem necessary. Arbitration--To whom shall be referred all questions of differences between employers and employes. 7. Annual dues shall be 25 cents for each member of the various associations belonging to the Council, and assessments may be made upon the same basis of representation. Officers were elected as follows: President, George Tapper; Vice President, H. G. Savage; Financial Secretary, F. C. Schoenthaler. Standing committees were appointed by the president as follows: Credentials--J. B. Sullivan, T. C. Diener, A. J. Weckler. Safety--H. L. Turner, C. B. Kimbell, Robert Vierling. Strikes and Grievances--P. B. Wight, H. G. Savage, M. W. Powell. Arbitration--Edward Kirk, Jr., William Hearson, John Sutton. AID FROM THE ARCHITECTS. Saturday, June 4th, the Illinois State Association of Architects met. In calling the meeting to order President D. Adler read a letter from the executive committee of the Builders' and Traders' exchange thanking the Association for the stand it had taken upon the labor troubles. He said that those present knew the demoralized condition of the building trades and the low character that they were drifting to in regard to the workmanship of mechanics engaged therein. It was becoming almost impossible to replace good men, because the trades-unions arbitrarily prevented the education of a sufficient number of apprentices to replace the good and competent mechanics, who appeared to be rapidly dying out. The difficulty was staring them in the face that soon they would not be able to secure competent mechanical skill at all. It was the architects' duty to assert the right of every American citizen to work at any trade he pleased, without interference from the walking delegate. It was the architects' duty to assist every young man who desired to learn a trade. There was more at stake in the contest than their own immediate interest as architects--more than the mere stoppage of work. The architects should strengthen the hands of those who were battling for the freedom of American citizens. Mr. John W. Root offered the following resolution, which was adopted: _Resolved_, That the Illinois State Association of Architects heartily indorse the general principles set forth in the recently published "platform and code of principles" adopted by the Builders' association and the Real Estate board of Chicago, and that we will use our utmost endeavors to see that these principles prevail in all building operations in Chicago. PROTECTION GUARANTEED. The committee of safety of the Central Council of Building Interests met June 4th and issued the following document: The Central Council of the Building Interests of Chicago having appointed, among other committees, a committee of safety, whose duty it is to "see that ample protection to all is afforded against unlawful interference," the committee desires to announce to all concerned in the building interests of the city that they are prepared to follow up and prosecute all offenders unlawfully interfering with or intimidating any workman or employer in the legitimate performance of his business. This announcement is hastened by the publication in the morning papers of an unlawful and unprovoked attack upon peaceable workmen at a job at the corner of Harrison street and Western avenue on Friday, June 3d. The committee will promptly investigate any such case when reported to Secretary Schoenthaler at the Builders' and Traders' exchange, where the committee will be in daily session at 2 o'clock P. M. MASS MEETING OF CARPENTERS. Monday, June 6th, a mass meeting of carpenters was held to receive P. J. McGuire, of Philadelphia, grand secretary of the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America. Mr. McGuire made an inflammatory speech, in which he said he came to Chicago to throw down the gauntlet to the master builders and was ready to make Chicago the battle ground for the fight on the nine-hour question. He came to stand by the carpenters. J. Milton Blair, of Cincinnati; William H. Sayward, of Boston; George C. Prussing, of Chicago, and other leaders in the Carpenters' and Builders' association were attempting to stamp out the carpenters' organizations, but they would find they had a bigger job on hand than any contractor in this country ever undertook. The master builders combined for mutual protection, and yet they denied the carpenters the same right. The speaker then took occasion to abuse the master builders for assuming the title of "masters." The contractors, he asserted, had not brains enough to carry out their work without the assistance of the foreman, who did the actual work, and yet the master builders assumed to dictate to their employes in such a manner as to place them on the same level with the slaves who were freed by Abraham Lincoln. Workingmen in 1887 ought to receive some of the benefits which machinery had brought. They did not believe in socialistic theories, or that the property of railroad companies, for instance, should be divided up and each man given a tie; but workingmen wanted to be given some of the benefits which they produced but which were appropriated entirely by the employers. Every carpenter who applied for work in Chicago after Monday, June 13th, should ask for 35 cents an hour and an eight-hour day, and if that was refused he ought not to go to work. STRIKES DEFINED. Tuesday, June 7th, the Central Council of the Building Interests met, and the committee on strikes and grievances, through P. B. Wight, its chairman, submitted a lengthy report. It defined strikes of two kinds--general and special. The general strike, which was more frequent, was a demand by a number of employes, acting in concert, for an increase in wages, or a change in working rules, or methods of conducting business, followed by a united refusal to work. A special strike was concerted refusal to work on a particular job, or for a particular employer, based on the assumption of a contract between employer and employe which never existed, and a pretense of a violation of a contract. A general strike was legitimate, in a business sense. A special was based on false premises, and was practically an attempt to regulate an employer's way of doing business by visiting upon him embarrassment in a temporary stoppage of his business. It was often settled by the employers paying a "fine" to the offended "union" as a condition of the men returning to work in a body. This was nothing less than blackmail, and a receipt of the fine was a criminal act. It was in the nature of conspiracy. It might be an attempt on the part of the strikers to obtain some advantage, which might occasion great annoyance or damage to the employers. Such was the demand of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons on the 29th of April last for a Saturday pay-day, which was resisted and refused by many employers. The report then gave a detailed account of the immediate and consequent results of the strike, with a statement of action taken by all building organizations to date, showing the manner in which the question affected all building trades, and resulting in locking out thousands of well-trained and well-behaved artisans, who obeyed the dictates of the handful of officials, committeemen, and a small army of walking delegates, who were to be seen daily at the union headquarters and who were paid by contributions from men whose dues were really filched from their wives and children. The report concluded as follows: We believe that the Master Masons' association has acted with the purest motives toward their employes, and in the spirit of self-sacrifice with regard to their own interest. They have gone so far as to encourage their men to form a union devoted to higher principles than the rule-or-ruin policy which actuates the present organization. This may all be well in the future, but it does not help to do away with the objection of the men to taking up their tools. A contract for labor differs from a contract for anything else only in that the confidence of him who disposes of his labor must be unqualified to the last degree. If the employer appeals to the man as an individual he must inspire him with confidence in his representations. If the Master Masons' association intends never again to recognize the union rules, let it say so in terms so unqualified that no one can misunderstand it. If the individual workman fully believes it, he will be only too glad to come out like a man, and there will be a scramble to see who gets there first. If the master mason intends to live up to his profession, let him guarantee his employe work for a stated time--long enough to convince him that it is more to his interest to go to work than to cling to his union and stand still. If no one mason feels confident that he can guarantee steady work, say, for six months, let the master masons agree among themselves to provide work, so that, if a man is laid off on one job he can be sure of work on another where he will not meet with any interference. If the employer expects his men to work he must guarantee them full protection in case of interference. But more than all things he must guarantee his employe that he will never be displaced in consequence of any future compromise with any labor organization. If the master masons have faith in the stand they have taken, and mean to maintain it at all hazards, they will get all the help they want. If they have any idea that a strike is on their hands to be settled by compromise with any body of men, they may as well surrender to the union at once. We do not believe that this weakness exists among them, but the public and their unemployed mechanics must be convinced by their acts that they are thoroughly in earnest--as we believe they are--and that guarantees, such as have been suggested, will be carried out in good faith to the very letter, and at all hazards. The public, which must sustain us or we fall, will then be convinced that there is no strike, except a strike for right and justice. And if needs be that the employers must be responsible for it, let them glory in it as our forefathers did. There was a strike, as we admit. A strike did we say, for a Saturday pay-day? It was so called. It was resisted, and the men who were expected to pay on Saturday have not done so. It was a strike aimed at the Master Masons' association. It was not for any great benefit that Saturday pay-day should confer. It was a strike to show the power of the striker. It was an exhibition of strength from those whose strength has not been resisted or questioned for four years; a power which knew no resistance, but which must be periodically exhibited to make its presence felt. It is that same power which is still so strong that it makes your mechanics blind to all your heaven-born principles and deaf to all your promises. You, gentlemen of the Master Masons' association, and all you who have nailed our banner of liberty upon your walls, have strength also. In a battle of endurance you can win, but if you do win by extermination, then your sin will be greater than the fruit of your victory. But remember that those who live by the sword, if they die so living, shall also die by the sword. Your weapon is the olive branch. Your principles are just. Let your faith be strong, and in the end you will find your best friends in the camp of your enemy. The report was signed by P. B. Wight, H. G. Savage and M. W. Powell, who composed the committee. It was unanimously approved, and a copy was directed to be sent to the Master Masons' association. A NATIONAL CONVENTION CALLED. The Amalgamated Building Trades Council decided to call a national convention to form a federation of journeymen builders in the United States. An "Important Call" was issued which recited the fact that there was a national organization of employers in the building industry which proposed to regulate all matters relative to that interest, and that to successfully defend their rights the wage-workers in the building industry must be thoroughly organized and ever on the alert. The following two reasons were given why a national federation of the building trades should be at once perfected: 1. It has been proved beyond all doubt that the interests of a craft can be best protected by the complete unification of those engaged therein; and so we have formed our unions and trades-assemblies of Knights of Labor. It is also an undeviating fact that the closer those whose interests are identical are drawn together the easier and more satisfactory is the management of those interests. And realizing the identity of the interests of the building trades we, therefore, necessarily believe in their thorough federation upon such basis as will not interfere with the complete autonomy of each distinctive trade. [There are scores of reasons why such a move would be beneficial, which are apparent to all men of experience in labor organizations, and they need not be enumerated here.] 2. Because it being a recognized idea that all large industries shall be regulated by organizations of the employers on the one hand and the employes upon the other hand, and there already being in existence a national organization of the employers, or contractors, under the name of the National Builders' association, we believe that further delay in perfecting a national organization upon our side would be suicidal to the best interests of the men of the building trades, and fraught with danger to our separate trade organizations. We believe that steps should at once be taken to bring about this greatly-desired amalgamation, and that a convention looking to that end should be called together in this city as soon as practicable. The date for the convention was fixed upon Tuesday, June 28th. A CARPENTERS' COMMITTEE. June 9th the Carpenters' and Builders' association appointed a committee to take charge of all matters of the association, to furnish men, protect them, and look after the interests of the members. The chairman appointed the following on the committee: North side, Messrs. J. L. Diez, John Ramcke and M. Bender; South side, Messrs. Wm. Goldie, Wm. Jackson and S. H. Dempsey; West side, Messrs. M. Campbell, J. F. Tregay and Peter Kauff. The committee retired and elected Mr. Goldie chairman, and agreed to meet daily at the Builders' and Traders' exchange. A SCHEME THAT FAILED. June 9th a special meeting of the Bricklayers union, was held, at which an attempt was again made to have the code of principles of the Master Masons approved, but it was unsuccessful. The most that could be done was to secure the appointment of a committee to take steps looking to a settlement of the strike. This committee was composed of A. E. Vorkeller, John Pierson, C. J. Lindgren, P. J. Miniter and Fred Rebush. On Friday, June 10th, this committee met, after which Mr. Vorkeller, president of the union, called upon Mr. Downey, president of the Master Masons' association, and asked him when he would have a committee ready to meet his committee. Mr. Downey notified him that if he had any communication to make it should be presented in writing, in order that he might be able to submit it to his association. Mr. Vorkeller returned to his office and prepared a letter, which he delivered in person to Mr. Downey in the afternoon. Shortly after the delivery of the letter the Master Masons' association met in special session, with George Tapper in the chair. Five new members were admitted, which occasioned a remark from a member that it did not look like the association was falling to pieces, or that the members were weakening. The report of the committee on strikes and grievances of the Central Council of the Building Interests, adopted on Tuesday, June 7th, was read. It was received with applause. Mr. Downey then announced that he had received a letter from the president of the Bricklayers' Union, but before it was read he desired to make a statement in order that his position and the letter might be better understood. He said that on Monday evening, June 6th, Mr. A. E. Vorkeller, president of the Union, had called at his house, where they had a friendly chat. Mr. Vorkeller had then asked him how the strike could be settled, and he had informed Mr. Vorkeller that when the Union indorsed the platform of principles adopted by the builders they could arbitrate all questions of difference that were subjects of arbitration. On the following morning Mr. Vorkeller had called on him and suggested that he would bring with him four Union men to meet a like number of the Master Masons at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, to have an unofficial talk on the subject, it being agreed that no members of either executive committee should be present. Finding that he could not have one person present at that hour he had sent Mr. Vorkeller the following note: FRIEND VORKELLER: It will be impossible for me to meet you before 3:30, owing to one of the men I appointed not being able to meet before that time. I trust this will not inconvenience you in any way. Yours, respectfully, JOSEPH DOWNEY. They met at 3:30 o'clock Tuesday afternoon, there being present the following representatives: Master Masons--Joseph Downey, George Tapper, George H. Fox, C. W. Hellman, William O'Brien and Charles W. Gindele. Bricklayers--A. E. Vorkeller and Messrs. Taylor, Charles, Householder and Kraus. At the conference it was distinctly understood that the code of principles was to be first adopted and then they would arbitrate other questions. The whole talk was agreed and understood to be unofficial. Mr. Vorkeller then stated that he would call a special meeting of the union and see what could be done. Mr. Downey then read the following letter, which he had received from President Vorkeller: CHICAGO, June 10, 1887. MR. JOSEPH DOWNEY, President Master Masons' Association--_Dear Sir_: In accordance with interview with you on the 7th inst. in relation to appointing a committee with power to act, for the purpose of arbitration, and, if possible, end the differences which exist between our associations, and which are causing increased uneasiness, not only to those on both sides who are immediately concerned, but also to the public at large, who have been patient witnesses to this uncalled for and unnecessary lockout, so far as we are concerned we court the fullest investigation from the public of our side of the case without having the least fear of the result; but we are willing, and have agreed in special meeting, to send a committee to settle this difficulty honorably to ourselves as well as to you, according to the aforesaid interview. If this suits your convenience you will please notify us immediately, if possible, and oblige yours respectfully, A. E. VORKELLER, President. Mr. Charles W. Gindele remarked that when he entered the room where the meeting was held he made the announcement that the talk should be unofficial, which all acceded to. After a long conference they were led to conclude that the bricklayers would concede nearly everything but nine hours a day. The bricklayers were informed that they must adopt the platform of principles before there could be any arbitration. Mr. George H. Fox said Mr. Gindele's statement was correct, and it was distinctly understood that the representatives of the bricklayers should go before their own people and adopt the platform of principles. Mr. George Tapper, who was also at the meeting, said his impression of the conference was decidedly unfavorable. He had then called the attention of Mr. Vorkeller to the clause in the constitution of the Union in regard to apprentices, and told him that if he (Tapper) had a son who did not get his schooling before he was 18 years of age he would be debarred from learning the trade of a bricklayer. In reply to this Vorkeller had made the astounding statement that there was no trouble in such a case. All the boy had to do was to say he was 18 years old and he was all right, as they had boys come to them with long mustaches and had fixed them all right. Mr. Tapper said he replied by saying that was teaching boys to lie, and gave them the first steps toward the penitentiary, and if that was their way of doing business he wanted nothing more to do with them. He also said that Vorkeller had agreed that the section of the platform of principles providing for the free right to employ or to work was right, but when asked if his men would work alongside a non-union man he had said: "No; they would quit and carry off their tools." Mr. Tapper said he was disgusted with the whole business. Mr. C. P. Wakeman thought it would be no harm to appoint a committee to confer with the Union committee. He thought also that the appointment of the committee by the Union was an acknowledgment of the code of principles. If the Master Masons demanded more than partial justice they would lose. Mr. A. J. Hageman said if the Bricklayers' Union had not acknowledged the principles of the Master Masons there was nothing yet to arbitrate. Mr. C. W. Gindele said he understood the Bricklayers were to submit what they wanted to arbitrate, but they had not done so. Mr. E. Earnshaw said from the reading of the letter the Union had nothing to concede. It was endeavoring to lead the Masons into a trap in order to make capital out of it. By saying they "court the fullest investigation" the unionists emphatically claimed that they were right and the Master Masons were all wrong. Mr. Downey stated that Mr. Vorkeller had frequently stated to him that he was in favor of the code of principles, but would have to "shin around" to induce the union to recognize them, fearing he would not be successful. Mr. George C. Prussing said the arbitration movement had been instituted to keep the Union men together, as many of them were leaving, and an effort was being made to make these men understand that if a settlement should be reached they would be shut out. No arbitration should be had which meant only partial justice. There were principles that could not be arbitrated. When the Union amended its constitution so as to conform to their principles the Builders would be ready to join hands with them. Or, if a new Union should be organized on such a basis, it would be met with open hands. Compromise they would not. It would be stultification. The vote on the motion to appoint the committee was lost, only eight voting in favor of it. A motion was made to lay the communication on the table, which prevailed, only ten voting against it. Mr. G. C. Prussing submitted the following, which was adopted as the sense of the meeting, with but one dissenting vote: The position of this Association can hardly be misunderstood at this late day. It has been laid down in our platform in unmistakable language, and is further contained in an address to the Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago and published by the public press. We have addressed them as individuals, and shall continue to treat them as individuals, not an organization. Principles can never be subject to arbitration. And such matters as can properly be arbitrated--such as hours of work, wages, or other working rules--can not be discussed with any committee until an organization is in existence which has adopted the principle of individual liberty freely and fully, and is governed by constitution and by-laws based thereon. This community has suffered too often and too long, and the sacrifices brought have been too great to listen to any hint of a possible arbitration or compromise. We owe it to ourselves; to the other building trades who have taken the position held by us, we owe it to the entire community to settle the present troubles right. That is, on a basis that promises security against future arbitrary interruptions of business. To individuals we are ready to give work; we guarantee them steady employment as far as in our power, and will protect them in every way, and if the men who now take up their tools should choose to form an organization for mutual protection and any other honorable and lawful purposes, based on the principles we acknowledge, we will aid and assist them in perfecting such organization, and will treat with them, and arbitrate any and all questions properly subject to arbitration. After the meeting adjourned Mr. Downey sent a communication to Mr. Vorkeller in reply to his letter, of which the following is a copy: A. E. VORKELLER, President, etc.--_Dear Sir_: Your letter of this day contained more than a surprise for me. Any and all interviews held with you by me and other members of our Association were at your seeking and request, and with the distinct understanding that we were acting in our own individual capacity, without any authority from any organized body, and that I, as president of the Master Masons' association, have no authority to appoint any committee for purposes set forth in your communication. Nor is your letter written in the spirit you proposed, or your position as given by yourself in interviews with me. You certainly must have understood, for it was repeated over and over again, that I would not consent to any effort at arbitration until your body shall have adopted, plainly and fairly, the principles held by us as an Association. I refer to principles as stated in our platform. Nor can such agreement be expressed by a simple vote, but must be shown by eliminating all sections of your constitution and by-laws in conflict therewith. Your letter has been placed before our Association, and by it was laid on the table. Our position is again outlined by resolution adopted, and will be found in the daily papers. Very respectfully yours, JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. IT WORKED WELL. Monday, June 13th, the rule of the Carpenter bosses for a nine-hour day was put into effect. It occasioned no such break with the men as had been promised. Nearly all acceded to the rule, and those who quit had their places filled at once by non-union men who were only too anxious to get a job. OUT OF FUNDS. Tuesday evening, June 14th, a special meeting of the Bricklayers' Union was held, at which the depleted condition of the treasury was made known. The men working were asked to divide their earnings with the idle men, which they flatly refused to do. A resolution was passed requiring the men to work alternate weeks. This occasioned trouble, the men refusing to obey the order. They were willing to pay the regular assessment of $1 a week, but no more. The executive committee was authorized to sell a lot owned by the Union at the corner of Monroe and Peoria streets, to raise funds to meet the demands of the idlers. In order to keep up a show with the men the officers continued to claim that money was plenty, and more could be had; yet their demands for a few dollars were not met in cash--only promises. INFLUENCE. The following invitation was sent to fifty prominent citizens of Chicago: UNION LEAGUE CLUB, CHICAGO, June 11th, 1887. _Dear Sir_:--You are requested to meet a number of gentlemen in the parlors of the Union League club, next Monday evening, June 13th, at 8 o'clock, P. M., sharp, to consider the present labor troubles, in our city and elsewhere, and to discuss the propriety of inaugurating a movement, the object and aim of which will be to harmonize existing and imaginary differences between employers and employes, and to restore and re-establish every and all rights of citizenship guaranteed by the constitution of the United States, and to maintain the supremacy of the law throughout the length and breadth of the land. The vital questions of the day must be met, calmly considered and settled. You are earnestly invited to respond to this call. By order of COMMITTEE ON POLITICAL ACTION. The guests assembled in the parlors of the club and were escorted to the library, where Mr. G. F. Bissell presided during a lengthy discussion of the labor question. At the close of the meeting resolutions were adopted for the appointment of a committee of seven whose duty it was to procure signatures of citizens to a paper endorsing the action of the Master Masons and Builders in the stand they had taken against the tyranny of the unions, and to request the press to keep the subject before the public. On Tuesday the committee met and prepared a heading for signatures, which contained extracts from the code of principles of the builders, in regard to the right of every man to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, and the right of every boy to learn a trade. To these extracts were appended the following: We, the undersigned, endorse the action of the Master Masons and other organizations of Builders and agree to use our best endeavors to bring about a resumption of building operations based on the Code of Principles at the head of this paper. Signatures were procured to these papers in large numbers and were presented to the Master Masons' association. They had a good effect, as some of the weaker members needed just such endorsement to make them strong. ANGRY BRICKLAYERS. Applications for the small stipend promised by the Union to men out of employment grew to be more frequent. The demands were not met with the promptitude which the idle men thought should characterize the occasion, and some of them became loud and emphatic in their protestations against what they said was unfair treatment. They became so earnest in their expressions that they were called to one side and cautioned to not be so bold as to give the Union away. Many of them heeded the caution for the time being, but as they filed out of the office they were very angry because they got no money, claiming that they were needy and had as much right to assistance as anybody. One of them boldly and rather roughly asserted that "the whole thing was bursted," and the managers were "making a play to keep the men together," but he thought it would play out in a few days. One of them who was well posted on some historical facts, made the following statement: "In 1883, at the time of the strike, the Bricklayers of Chicago got $13,000 from the International union in aid of the strikers. During the same year the Chicago union was assessed $4,600 to assist the strikers in Pittsburgh, but the assessment was never paid. The union then withdrew from the International union and became an independent organization. The cash in the treasury of the union has been exhausted, and if the lot is sold there will not be enough money to pay up the claims for relief to date. The International union has refused financial aid to the Chicago union until the Pittsburgh assessment is paid, and all other assessments made since then, amounting to about $17,000. President Darrow, of the International union, has written a letter to the Chicago union notifying the officers that if they will join the International union again and agree to make good all back assessments, he will send the Chicago union $5,000. If they do not accept this proposition and join now he will establish a branch of the International union in Chicago as soon as the present strike is over, if not sooner. The Chicago union will not accept the offer, and where is it to get assistance from? If it kept faith with the idle men it would require $10,000 a week to sustain itself. Under such pressure the union can not be expected to hold out very long." A BID FOR SYMPATHY. A mass meeting was called at Battery D by the Bricklayers' union for the purpose of eliciting sympathy from the public. It was held Thursday evening, June 16th, there being three thousand workingmen present. Revs. Lorimer and Goss and Gen. Beem were invited to be present, but they were not there. Persons who favored the builders' side of the question were conspicuous by their absence. One builder who was bold enough to get as far as the door was knocked down and driven away. Edward Mulrany, of the Bricklayers' union, presided, and the exercises were conducted by members of the union. The following lengthy preamble and resolutions were read and adopted unanimously, followed by great applause and loud cheers: The United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of the city of Chicago, in mass-meeting assembled at the armory of battery D, June 16, 1887, do adopt and declare the following preamble and resolutions: _Whereas_, Certain questions and matters of difference have arisen between us and the Master Masons' and Builders' association of Chicago, and the controversy over the same has resulted in a widespread suspension of building operations in this city, to the immense injury of both the employers and the employed, and to the great damage of the community at large; and _Whereas_, There is no adequate remedy for any such case under any existing law; and _Whereas_, The working people have often been admonished through the public press and otherwise that they should not resort to a strike or boycott to obtain their rights, but should appeal to the law for protection and relief, and in case the existing laws are insufficient to the lawmaking power for new and better enactments; and _Whereas_, In pursuance of such admonitions they earnestly appealed to the legislature at the last session to provide an adequate remedy for conflicts of employers and the employed; and _Whereas_, The legislature nevertheless wholly neglected and refused to provide any such remedy, or even to consider and discuss the subject in any open and public manner; and _Whereas_, There is now no other mode in which relief can be sought than retaliation by strike or boycott on the one hand, or by voluntary arbitration on the other; and _Whereas_, The same legislature that refused to provide any remedy for such cases, has sought to make every participant in any strike or boycott punishable as a criminal, without extending the same penalties to the corresponding offense of a lockout, so far as we are yet informed; and _Whereas_, We have heretofore offered and proposed, and do now again and openly and publicly offer and propose, to submit to the full and final decision of arbitrators, to be chosen in the usual manner, every question and matter of difference or controversy pending between us and said Master Masons' and Builders' association, and to abide by and perform such decision, and would be willing to have one of the judges of Cook county chosen to act as umpire in case of disagreement of the arbitrators; and _Whereas_, The power of public opinion is the only force by which we can compel such submission to arbitration; and _Whereas_, The public at large are deeply interested in the matter, and would be greatly benefited by an early resumption of the suspended building operations; and _Whereas_, We are willing and desire that a decision by arbitration should extend over and include the entire residue of the building season of the present year, that any future difficulty may be avoided; now, therefore, be it _Resolved_, As follows: 1. That we condemn in strong terms the neglect of the legislature to provide any adequate legal remedy by a state board of labor and capital, or otherwise, for conflicts between employers and the employed, and that we will continue the agitation of this subject till proper laws have been enacted providing such a remedy. 2. That we condemn in equally strong terms the refusal of said Master Masons' and Builders' association to submit to arbitration whatever claims, charges, questions, controversies, or differences they may have with or against us; and we appeal to the mighty power of public opinion to uphold our cause, and to compel the submission to the arbitration we desire. 3. That we purposely abstain from attempting to argue in the present preamble and resolutions the justice of the points for which we contend with the Master Masons' and Builders' association, because that is the matter which should be discussed before and determined by the arbitrators whose appointment we desire. 4. That we appeal to the two great organs of public opinion, the pulpit and the public press, to advocate the righteousness of our demands, or to point out to us if they can wherein the same are contrary to justice or offensive to law and order; and in that case to show us some other lawful way, if any exists, by which justice may be secured. When Drs. Lorimer and Goss and Gen. Beem could not be found in the assembly, the venerable Judge Booth, who has attended nearly every public meeting in Chicago for half a century, delivered a brief address in which he expressed himself in favor of arbitration. Other speeches of the evening were made by M. L. Crawford, of the typographical union; George Lang, a bricklayer; William Kliver, president of the trades assembly; John Pierson, ex-president, and A. E. Vorkeller, president of the Bricklayers' union; William Davidson and C. R. Temple. TO MAKE BRICK. Friday, June 17th, the Chicago brick manufacturers met and agreed to resume work in their yards Monday, June 20th, and to continue to work until they made enough brick to fill their sheds. If by that time the strike was not settled they were to close their yards for the season. AN ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. June 18th the Central Council of the Building Interests issued the following address to the public: The Central Council of the Building Interests of Chicago, which now addresses you, was organized June 1st, 1887, under the following circumstances: When, on the 29th of April last, the United Order of Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago decided, without consultation with their employers, that they would only receive their pay every two weeks on Saturdays, the Master Masons' association refused to comply with the demand, and the union men struck on their work wherever it was refused. The Master Masons' association then resolved to suspend all work on and after the 13th of May, and did so unanimously. The fire-proofing companies which employed men of the same union took the same action. The strike was made inoperative for the time being by the lockout of the employers. The Builders' and Traders' exchange met on the following day, resolved to sustain the Master Masons, and called upon each trade represented to send three representatives to a general conference to consider the situation. The conference was organized with a full representation, and on the 25th of May adopted the following platform and code of principles to be submitted and be ratified by all the building organizations: We affirm that absolute personal independence of the individual to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ, is a fundamental principle which should never be questioned or assailed; that upon it depends the security of our whole social fabric and business prosperity, and that employers and workmen should be equally interested in its defense and preservation. We recognize that there are many opportunities for good in associations of workmen, and while condemning and opposing improper action upon their part, we will aid and assist them in all just and honorable purposes; that while upon fundamental principles it would be useless to confer or arbitrate, there are still many points upon which conference and arbitration are perfectly right and proper, and that upon such points it is a manifest duty to take advantage of the opportunities afforded by associations to confer together to the end that strikes, lockouts, and other disturbances maybe prevented. Code of principles by the employe to be made a universal condition of employment by all building interests of Chicago, viz: I recognize the right of every man to decide for himself, without dictation or interference, when he shall work or cease to work, where he shall work, how many hours he shall work, and for what wages he shall work. I recognize the right of the employer to decide for himself whom he shall employ or cease to employ, and to regulate and manage his business with perfect independence, provided, only, that he deal lawfully, justly and honorably with all men. I recognize the right of every father to have his son taught, and of every son to learn any lawful trade, to be the same as his right to a knowledge of reading and writing, or any other branch of learning, which should be subject to regulation only by the laws of the land. By accepting employment I agree in all my relations and intercourse with my employers and fellow-workmen to maintain and live up to these principles. The conference also asked each organization to nominate one member to a Central Council of the Building Interests. The platform was adopted by the several organizations, and representatives were appointed to this body, which is now recognized by the trades as the representative of all the building interests collectively, and is permanently organized. At the same time the Master Masons' association resolved to resume business on or before June 1, and adopted a uniform set of working rules, defining the hours of labor and other conditions necessary to the prosecution of their business, etc., in accordance with the platform that had been adopted. The fire-proofing companies did the same thing. The action of these bodies broke the lockout, which was of but brief existence. It is naturally asked, therefore: Why this continued stoppage and stagnation in the building business? It may be briefly said, in reply, that the men have in large numbers refused the work offered to them in accordance with the dictates of the United Order of Bricklayers and Stonemasons, and upon that body rests the responsibility entirely. Whatever dispute the Master Masons have had with their employes' union, has been taken up by the whole body of trades here represented, while the employers of the associations of master masons, fire-proofers, and carpenters have officially decided to treat no more with unions as unions, but with men as reasoning beings. With these facts before us it behooves us to look the question squarely in the face and see how we stand to-day. Some of the masons have small forces of bricklayers and stonemasons at work and all the laborers they want, for there is practically no strike among the laborers. The fire-proofers are well supplied and have practically resumed business. There are a few buildings in progress, on which we are informed that the owners have employed foremen and journeymen appointed by the union. There are others again, the contractors for which are "union bosses," or members of the union, who have become employers without severing their membership, and hence are strictly bound to all union rules. But we still see many deserted buildings where the sound of the trowel is not heard. Thousands of well-trained and to their credit, be it said, well-behaved artisans may be seen in the streets and about their homes. Many are Bricklayers, obeying the dictates of the handful of officials and committeemen and small army of walking delegates who may be seen daily at the union headquarters, placed there by their votes, or, at least, allowed to be there by their indifference, and certainly well paid by their contributions. The time of these officials is partly devoted to receiving contributions from men whose dues are now really filched from their wives and children, partly to having their vanity flattered by the obsequious prayers of so-called capitalists for help to satisfy their greed and avarice in getting their own buildings finished before their neighbors, and partly to giving out fulsome accounts of their victories over the bosses, in a supposed contest that really does not exist. In consequence of this we see the public misled by the daily press into a belief that nothing is going on but a strike between the boss Masons and the Bricklayers' union on the senseless question of a Saturday pay-day, characterized by nothing but the obstinacy on both sides, while in reality the united employers in all the building trades are contending simply for the natural rights of a man whether he be employer or employe, against a score of professional agitators who temporarily control the skilled mechanics of this country. Now, last of all, what do we see at the Master Masons' headquarters? A united body of men with large interests at stake, and great responsibilities, who have not attempted to enforce a long and exhausting lockout for bringing their misguided employes to terms through poverty and distress, but calmly and deliberately leaving to us, the representatives of the sister building trades, the arbitrament of their own interests. The principles that they have adopted are those which we formulated, and they have agreed to the broad doctrine of freedom and justice. They did not seek to prolong the contest with their employes which had arisen from such a slight pretext. But as soon as the conference advised they acted (and so have the Carpenters). They have offered immediate employment on a fair basis. Is it their fault that their employes do not all come back to them? They have used every means that they can with due regards to their own dignity and self-respect to bring their men back. If they do not come it is simply because of the authority which the Union holds over its members. They are more devoted to their Union, which says "no," restraining their individual acts, than to their employers, who say "come"--more even than to their wives and families. In other words, while individually they believe in the principles which we have enunciated, they hope for a reconciliation between the union and the bosses. From all past experience many of them believe that there will be a reconciliation or compromise, and they think their own safety is in waiting. We should remember that these men stand in a dilemma. Each one of them is in a state of mental perplexity trying to decide in his own mind which course to take for his own interest. Heretofore he has not exercised his own mind on these subjects. He has left all the details of the contract for his labor to the officials of his Union. It has become a second nature to him to look to his Union for protection in all things. He has voluntarily ceased to be a free agent. There has been much talk of late on the subject of arbitration. A proper understanding of the situation will show how impossible such a course is at present. The responsibility for the prevention of the men from working has been fixed where it belongs. It is useless to talk now of a settlement. There will be no solution until the idle men take up their tools and renounce their allegiance to the present Union. There will be no yielding until that is the case. The sister trades have and will continue to sustain the Masons and other trades affected by the encroachments of labor organizations until then. In the following resolutions, passed at the regular meeting held June 10, the Central Council thus expressed its views upon the importance of uniform working hours: _Whereas_, In the opening of this Council it is of the greatest interest to all of the trades here represented that the hours of work on buildings in course of erection should be uniform in all the trades. _Resolved_, That while we recognize the right of every trade to establish its own working hours, we think those established by a large majority, not only in Chicago but in other cities, should be considered as a precedent for others to follow. At the same meeting the stand taken by the Master Masons was thus indorsed: _Resolved_, That the Association of Master Masons and Builders has the heartiest support of the building trades here represented in its battle against exactions of an unscrupulous and tyrannical trade union, which is the enemy alike to the building trades and the interests of its own members. The position they have taken under the principles adopted by the conference is a just one, they have held out the olive branch to their former employes, and it only remains to inspire them with confidence in its representations to the end that work may speedily be resumed. GEORGE TAPPER, President. F. C. SCHOENTHALER, Secretary. THE BRICKLAYERS' UNION DESPISED. Organized labor in Chicago had no sympathy for the Bricklayers' union. Members of other unions entertained for it a feeling of bitterness which was constantly being manifested. This was fully illustrated at a meeting of the Amalgamated Building Trades Council held Saturday evening, June 18th, at which delegates stated that the Bricklayers' union had taken contracts from Master Masons for the erection of buildings, and had then hired non-union hod-carriers, carpenters, cornice-makers, lathers and laborers of all classes. The Bricklayers' union was characterized as "the meanest organization on God's green footstool," and it was remarked that it would be a good thing for Chicago if it was wiped out of existence. The union was bitterly denounced for its selfish, mercenary, unjust, tyrannical conduct toward other labor organizations. On Sunday, June 19th, at a meeting of the Trade and Labor Assembly, Edward Mulrany, of the Bricklayers' union, made a vicious attack upon James Brennock, of the Building Trades council, on account of the action of the previous evening. Mr. Brennock, an old man, attempted to explain the true situation, but his voice was drowned by Mulrany, who fairly yelled: "Lies! lies! you're a liar!" and heaped abuse upon the old man to such an extent that he was forced to subside. The Bricklayers' union had for so long had everything its own way that the leaders assumed the right to not only dictate to the bosses and other unions, but they usurped the prerogative of trampling upon anything and everything that attempted to question a single act of the union. They had made servile tools of the members of every other organization until all had grievances of such a character that they were in a position to sympathize with even an employer, in a fight against the oppression of the Bricklayers' union. The Hodcarriers went so far as to threaten to take up trowels and lay brick for members of the Master Masons' association in order to aid in breaking up the Union that had been so abusive to all other labor organizations. Under these circumstances it was but reasonable to expect that the tide of the strike would turn in favor of the Master Masons. A NEW UNION. A proposition was made for the organization of a new Union of the Bricklayers' and Stonemasons' which should recognize the principles of right and justice laid down in the platform of the National Association of Builders, and approved by every organization of builders in Chicago. Blanks were printed and placed in the hands of the members of the Master Masons' association upon which to procure the signatures of their respective employes. The blanks were in the following form: We believe in the right of workmen to organize for mutual protection and all just and honorable purposes, and assert our right. We recognize the right of every man to work or not to work, to employ or not to employ. We recognize the right of every boy to learn any lawful trade. We recognize that strikes and lockouts are baneful and may be prevented by arbitration. We believe that all matters of joint interest to employers and workmen should be discussed and acted on by joint committees, representing organizations of both employers and workmen. We believe that by organizing upon the principles set forth the foundation to future harmony is laid and the best interests of all conserved. Now, therefore, do we, the undersigned, agree to attend a meeting to be called at an early day, to form ourselves into the "Chicago Union of Bricklayers and Stonemasons." This paper was circulated among the bricklayers and stonemasons who were working under the rules of the Master Masons' association, and in three days the signatures of two hundred and fifty men were procured. On Tuesday, June 21st, a committee issued a call for a meeting for the organization of a new union, which was as follows: MR. ............................ _Dear Sir_: Wednesday evening has been set for forming the Chicago Bricklayers' and Stonemasons' Union. Meeting will be held at the Builders' and Traders' Exchange at 7:30 P. M. Your presence is desired, with all the bricklayers and stonemasons in your employ, and if your men have any friends who wish to join said Union, bring them with you, for the purpose of taking your first step for liberty. THE COMMITTEE. The call had been signed by 284 bricklayers and stonemasons, 225 of which met and took the first steps necessary to an organization. All but 30 of those present were ex-members of the old union. A committee was appointed to draft a constitution and by-laws. Another meeting was held on Friday evening, at which a number of new members were received. On Wednesday, June 30th, the new union met and adopted a constitution which embraced as its basis the code of principles of the Master Masons' association and declared the objects to be as follows: The object of this Union is to carry into living effect the principles set forth; to do away with labor disturbances, such as strikes, lockouts, and boycotts; and to institute a practical mode of arbitration; to give all moral and material aid in its power to its members and those dependent upon them; to educate and elevate its members socially, morally, and intellectually; to establish and administer a fund for the relief of sick and distressed members, and for mortuary benefit. Other provisions were as follows: "Members shall consist of active, passive, and honorary members. Any bricklayer or stonemason who has worked in Chicago one week at the minimum rate of wages for competent journeymen may become an active member, or any journeyman who presents evidence of membership in any other union in the United States or Canada, which is founded on the same principles, may be enrolled as a member." "Members employed as foremen shall not be subject to the union during such employment." The initiation fee was fixed at $5 and the annual dues at the same amount. Provision was made for committees on arbitration, house and finance. The powers of the committee on arbitration were defined as follows: The arbitration committee shall have full power to adjust all grievances and make a written award after a joint meeting with the arbitration committee of the Master Masons' association. This committee shall have power to determine for the year all working rules, including the minimum rate of wages per hour for all competent mechanics, and for all overtime and Sunday work. The constitution also provided for rules for running the union, and for benefits for injuries received, and for the payment of funeral expenses of deceased members. Officers were elected as follows: President, Lewis Meyer; secretary, T. D. Price; treasurer, T. J. Fellows; sentinel, Henry Annes. The officers were directed to procure a charter. NATIONAL BUILDING TRADES COUNCIL. On Tuesday, June 28th, the first national convention of the Amalgamated Building Trades was held in Chicago. There were sixty-eight delegates present, of whom fifty were from Chicago. The others were from Detroit, 3; Washington, 1; Cincinnati, 2; New York, 3; Pennsylvania, 1; Bay City, 1; Brooklyn, 1; Denver, 1; Milwaukee, 1; Philadelphia, 2; Sioux City, 1; Pittsburgh, 1. P. W. Birk, of Brooklyn, presided during the session which lasted three days. The objects of the council were defined as follows: The objects of the Council are to assist in the organization of the journeymen workers of the building trades, and the federation of such trade organizations into building trade councils and central bodies in each locality of the United States; to create a bond of unity between the wage-working builders, and to aid by counsel and support all legitimate efforts made for the betterment of the condition of members of the building trades. The following appeal to the building trade organizations was adopted and directed to be sent all over the country: TO ALL COUNCILS, FEDERATIONS, AND ORGANIZATIONS OF THE BUILDING TRADES IN THE UNITED STATES--_Greeting_: The time has come in the wisdom of the soundest thinkers and most experienced workers in the ranks of labor when it is not only proper, but necessary, that the journeymen workers of the building industry in the United States should be thoroughly organized and federated under a national council. Such an organization, by the conservative exercise of the control delegated to it by a constitution upon which all local organizations can unite, could do a great work in looking after the interests of the various crafts and callings engaged in the building industry; and, by a timely and wise supervision in cases of wage or other difficulties, exercise an incalculable influence in directing the course of events to a solution favorable to the workers, by keeping the craftsmen of the whole country fully informed of the situation and the necessities of the case. The contractors, or "Master Builders," have formed and are endeavoring to perfect a National Association with the declared purpose of opposing the efforts of the labor organizations to regulate wages and the hours of labor. Pursuant to a call issued by the Amalgamated Building Trades' Council of Chicago, a convention of delegates from building trades organizations of the country met in this city on Tuesday June 28, and in a three days' convention perfected a national organization with the objects as set forth in the preceding paragraph. Notwithstanding the short notice given, there were in the convention delegates from fourteen of the principal cities of the union, representing one-half million journeymen builders. The result is that the National Building Trades' Council of the United States is now an established fact, working under a temporary constitution, copies of which accompany this circular. We submit the action of the convention and the constitution to the building trades organizations of the United States, and ask their prompt and active support of the movement. The convention, after due deliberation, decided, as it was hardly more than preliminary, that the first regular session of the national council should be held as soon as possible; that the delay in bringing all the building organizations under one head should not be greater than the time necessary to disseminate the work of the convention and to allow sufficient time for the many organizations to act; it was therefore decided to name the third Tuesday in September, 1887, as the date for holding such session. The place selected for the next convention is Chicago. All organizations receiving a copy of this circular are urged to take action in accordance with the constitution, and at once to open correspondence with the general secretary of the council, who will furnish information to those desiring it. Brothers, in conclusion, we urge you to give your support at once to this movement and to aid in perfecting an organization which may be made a power second to nothing of its character in the world, as its field is as broad as this great land, and its opportunities as limitless as humanity. On the last day the following resolutions were adopted: _Resolved_, That, in the event that the committee of the Chicago bricklayers do not succeed in making a satisfactory settlement with the Master Builders' association, the council declare the Chicago difficulty a national cause and appoint a committee on arbitration to meet the bosses, the power to appoint such committee resting in the hands of the president, in session or after adjournment. _Resolved_, That, in the event of failure of such committee to settle satisfactorily the trouble, the president, with the concurrence of the executive board, make an appeal to the building trades organizations of the United States, asking support--financial and moral--for the building-trades organizations of Chicago. Officers were elected as follows: President, J. S. Robinson, Cincinnati; Vice Presidents, George Keithly, Washington; William F. Abrams, Detroit; Louis Hartman, Milwaukee; Secretary, Peter A. Hogan, Chicago; Treasurer, L. C. Hutchinson, Detroit; Executive Board, W. H. Thomas, Philadelphia; Edward Farrell, New York; George E. Gray, Denver. ARBITRATION. On Tuesday, June 21st, three members of the old union met three Master Masons and told them they were ready to concede anything to preserve their union. They were advised to adopt the code of principles of the Master Masons, and agreed to have the union do so. A special meeting of the Bricklayers' union was called and held Thursday night for the purpose of endeavoring to induce the members to take a sensible view of the situation by adopting the code of principles. When the subject was proposed it met with howls of disgust, and had to be withdrawn. The members were not in proper temper to overturn their Union, even at the request of one who had been a leader. Being unable to keep their agreement in full with the contractors, the committee finally concluded to accomplish something. They introduced the following resolution: _Resolved_, That we withdraw our demand for Saturday pay-day, and declare the strike off. Even this ingenious little paper caused a bitter fight, the claim being made that there was trickery in it, and that it meant a complete "backdown" of the Union. But, with many assurances that the resolution was a "square deal" it was finally adopted by a bare majority. After the meeting it was stated that the stone pool--which held the key to the lockout--would have no excuse for refusing to deliver building material, as the strike was "declared off"; and that owners could compel them to "come to time." The action of the Bricklayers' union in rescinding the resolution in regard to Saturday pay-day, and "declaring the strike off," did not result in settling the differences between the two elements which had been at variance for nearly two months. Among the contractors this action was looked upon as a step taken toward a final settlement of the existing differences, and it inspired them with a belief that more would be done as soon as the arbitrary leaders of the union could be gotten in a proper temper. More was intended to be done, but the conservative, reasonable men in the union were not permitted to accomplish their whole purpose at once, and were forced to accept that which the union was willing at the time to concede. It was intended to fully recognize the code of principles of the Master Masons and accept the situation for the purpose of maintaining their union intact, but the temper of the men who made the most noise prevented any such action being taken. The feeling among the contractors generally was one of confidence in their ultimate success, and they expressed themselves in a manner that showed that they were as united as they had been at any time on the questions at issue. They said there had been no union bricklayers applying for work in consequence of the action rescinding the resolution in regard to Saturday pay-day, and that the adoption of such a resolution meant nothing unless the Bricklayers followed it up by going to work under the scale which had been adopted by the Master Masons' association. The executive committee of the Master Masons' association met Friday, June 24th, and decided to issue the following document, which, they said, might lead to an adjustment of the differences which had occasioned and prolonged the strike and lockout in the building trades: TO THE PUBLIC: In order to permanently settle the differences existing between employers and employes in the building trades and to show to the public that the Master Masons' association is willing to go on record as ready to do what is fair and reasonable in the present difficulty, we, the executive committee of the Master Masons' association, hereby offer to submit the platform and code of principles adopted by our association--the Bricklayers' and Stonemasons' union to submit their constitution and by-laws--to four business men and a judge of the United States court, said judge to select the four business men, who shall have full power to act as a board of arbitration as between the Master Masons' association and the bricklayers and stonemasons, and we hereby agree to abide by the decision of a majority of said board of arbitration. JOSEPH DOWNEY, HERMANN MUELLER, E. EARNSHAW, Executive Committee Master Masons' Association. When a copy of this paper was shown to some members of the executive committee of the Bricklayers' union, they grasped it eagerly, but suggested that they were afraid the four business men might not do them justice. One of them suggested that they might go so far as to agree to let the Master Masons select two and the Union two, and have a judge of the United States court for the fifth member, and then submit their constitution and by-laws and the code of principles of the Masons to them as proposed, and authorize the arbitrators to decide just what should be done by each party to settle the whole trouble. Saturday, June 25th, a committee from the Bricklayers' union, composed of A. E. Vorkeller, C. C. Scouller and C. J. Lindgren, met a committee of Master Masons, composed of C. A. Moses, Thomas Nicholson and E. S. Moss. The Union committee asked for and received an official copy of the proposition to allow a judge of the United States court to select four business men to arbitrate the case. They objected to the manner of selecting the arbitrators, and suggested that they be permitted to select their representatives, and the Master Masons do the same, and then select a judge as umpire. This action of the two committees was entirely unofficial, but the Union committeemen said they would officially present a proposition to the Master Masons on the subject. Monday, June 27th, the executive committee of the Bricklayers' union replied to the communication of President Downey, as follows: JOSEPH DOWNEY, President--_Dear Sir_: In reply to your communication of the 25th inst., submitting a proposition to settle permanently the differences existing between our union and your association, we beg leave to say that said proposition does not meet with our approval for the following reasons, viz: There is a want of confidence on the part of workingmen in such high officials as United States judges from the fact that they are not brought in close contact with workingmen in the settlement of their difficulties. Further, we believe a board of arbitration selected in the manner suggested by your committee would not be satisfactory to either side. Neither do we believe they would be as competent as a board selected from the employers and employes directly interested. We, therefore, take this opportunity to remind your association that we, on the 9th inst., appointed a committee of five from our organization to meet a like committee from your association (the joint committee to select an umpire) with full power to permanently settle the differences existing between our union and your association. By order of the executive committee of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons. A. E. VORKELLER, CHARLES J. LINDGREN, [Seal.] FRED RECKLING, JAMES SIDLAK, JOHN PEARSON. The objection to the United States judge was amusing to those who fully understood the situation. If he had been a judge whom they had helped to elect, or was a politician, there might have been no objection on the part of the executive committee of the union. But they would not submit to a United States judge because, they said, he did not come in "contact" with the laboring men. They wanted some one who did or had come in "contact" with them, because they believed such a judge or person would be afraid, for political reasons, to decide against the power of the union. The union was also afraid to submit to fair-minded men its constitution and by-laws in comparison with the code of principles of the Master Masons, because its rulers well knew that a decision would be against them, and their union would fall. It was well known that if President Vorkeller could have had his way, or could have controlled the union, a settlement would have been reached that would have been satisfactory to every builder in the city. But he was powerless, because every proposition he had made to adopt the code of principles of the builders had been howled down, and he had been threatened with violence if he persisted in his efforts to reach a settlement in that way. On one occasion, when Mr. Vorkeller insisted upon such a course, he was assaulted by an enthusiastic striker and was "struck like a dog." Wednesday, June 29th, the Master Masons' association held a meeting, and by a vote of 41 to 30 decided to appoint a committee of arbitration, and named George C. Prussing, Joseph Downey, George Tapper, William O'Brien and Charles W. Gindele. After the committee was created it was instructed to stand firmly by the code of principles of the Association and to require their recognition by the Bricklayers before proceeding to a settlement of differences. The action of the meeting did not meet the views of all the members of the Association, some of whom were fully determined that it was impolitic to appoint an arbitration committee, even when its powers were abridged by a demand for full recognition of the code of principles upon which they had been standing for weeks. The committee did not suit the Bricklayers. A dozen of them were standing outside the Exchange to hear the decision of the meeting. When they were informed that Mr. Prussing was on the committee they swore they would never arbitrate anything with a committee of which he was a member. What objection they had to Mr. Prussing they would not explain, but insisted that "it was of no use to talk of such a thing as arbitration with George C. Prussing." Some cooler heads among the party finally concluded that it would be time enough to object to the composition of the committee after they had received a communication from President Downey, and knew what they were expected to arbitrate. When it was suggested to them that they would be expected to subscribe to the code of principles of the Master Masons' Association, one of them said it made little difference who was on the committee, as that would never be done by the Union Bricklayers. Other members of the Union said this would make no difference, as the code of principles was just, but it would be very difficult to get the Union to adopt them. The conservative element on both sides of the question were encouraged by the action of the Master Masons, and said a settlement would be reached that would be satisfactory to everybody. President Downey prepared and caused to be sent to President Vorkeller official notification of the action of the association, as follows: A. E. VORKELLER, President United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons. _Sir_:--Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' Association has this day appointed a standing committee of arbitration of five of its members with full power to act for and in behalf of this organization in settlement of any and all differences existing. You have been informed of the platform and code of principles adopted by this body. On these it stands. All other questions may properly be arbitrated. Please inform this body whether your committee has been appointed with full power to bind your organization by joint action with us. If so, our committee is ready and shall be pleased to meet your committee at the earliest time convenient for the selection of an umpire and arrangement of preliminaries. The arbitration committee appointed by this association consists of Messrs. George C. Prussing, George Tapper, William O'Brien, Charles W. Gindele and Joseph Downey. Respectfully, JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. H. MUELLER, Secretary. In reply to this communication President Vorkeller sent to President Downey an acceptance of the proposition, as follows: JOSEPH DOWNEY, President--_Dear Sir_: Your communication notifying me that your Association has appointed a committee of five to meet a like committee from our organization for the purpose of settling, if possible, the present lockout, is at hand. In reply will say that we await your convenience and will hold ourselves in readiness to meet your committee at any time and place you may appoint. Yours respectfully, A. E. VORKELLER, President. The time and place of meeting was fixed by President Downey in a note to President Vorkeller, as follows: A. E. VORKELLER, President.--_Sir_: Your communication received, and would say in reply that our committee will meet your committee at 10 o'clock to-morrow morning at the Grand Pacific hotel. Respectfully, JOSEPH DOWNEY, President. Friday morning, July 1st, the joint arbitration met. The members were on hand in full force, the opposing elements being represented as follows: Master Masons' association--Joseph Downey, George Tapper, George C. Prussing, Charles W. Gindele, William O'Brien. Bricklayers' union--Albert E. Vorkeller, P. J. Miniter, John Pearson, C. J. Lindgren, Fred Rebush. They pretended to be very glad to see each other, and smiles were exchanged freely. When they entered the committee room, President Downey introduced Mr. Prussing to President Vorkeller, and requested him to introduce him to the other members of the committee from the Union. This appeared to be an assumption that Mr. Prussing was a comparative stranger to the members of the committee, but he had been so well known that the bricklayers had repeatedly asserted that they would not arbitrate if he was on the committee. It was amusing to witness the cordiality with which John Pearson grasped Mr. Prussing's hand, and to hear him say he was glad to see him, when the bitter words of denunciation of the previous day had hardly got cold on Mr. Pearson's lips. Mr. Prussing was introduced all around, after which he suggested that they at once proceed to select a chairman and get down to the business of adjusting their differences in a manner that would insure a permanent settlement of their troubles and an assurance that for all time the friendliest relations might be maintained between employer and employe. "The first thing to do," said Mr. Prussing, "is to select a chairman." Mr. Vorkeller, president of the Union, half elevated his wiry form, and, looking toward four reporters in the room, said: "The first thing to do is to put these outsiders on the outside." The reporters retired. They had previously been advised that the Master Masons were in favor of an open meeting, but a secret session having been demanded by the bricklayers it was conceded by the masons. It was apparent that the bricklayers had determined that the public should know nothing of their deliberations, and as little as possible of the result. At the morning session George Tapper was selected chairman. An effort was then made to agree upon the eleventh member of the committee. The bricklayers insisted upon the appointment of Richard Prendergast, Judge of the County court of Cook county, and the master masons urged that Walter Q. Gresham, Judge of the U. S. circuit court, should be the man. The bricklayers strenuously opposed any United States officer, and the names of both judges were dropped. An umpire was parleyed over for an hour, and a general discussion of the situation occupied the remainder of the morning session without reaching a conclusion upon anything except a chairman. The afternoon session lasted three hours. When the committee adjourned it was announced that the members had done nothing for the public, and had agreed to not make known their work until it was completed. However, the deliberations of the afternoon were of a progressive character. Many questions were discussed and some rules were agreed to, which meant that there was a strong probability that the contending elements would get close enough together to agree upon an award. During the afternoon the names of many prominent citizens were suggested for the position of umpire, but no selection was made. It seemed to be the desire of both factions to secure someone who would not be prejudiced in favor of "the other fellow." The sessions of the day were "perfectly harmonious," and as the members of the committee became "better acquainted" with each other, they gave stronger assurances of a permanent friendship, if nothing else. The members of the committee slept over the list of names of prominent citizens, who had been suggested for the position of umpire, and on Saturday when they got together Judge Tuley, of the Superior court of Cook county, was unanimously chosen umpire. The judge was officially notified of the action taken, advised of the questions at issue between the contestants, and asked if he would accept the responsibility which was sought to be put upon him. A reply was received stating that from a sense of duty he would accept. A short session of the committee was held in the afternoon to receive the reply, and an adjournment was then taken until 9 o'clock Monday morning. The Fourth of July was celebrated by the joint committee sticking right to business. They believed the questions at issue were more momentous than a remembrance of the anniversary of the birth of the nation by a display of fireworks. According to agreement the joint committee met at 9 o'clock, and Judge Tuley assumed the chair as umpire. The work began by acquainting the umpire with the situation as it was viewed from both sides, the differences and grievances being rehearsed in such a graphic manner that the judge was profoundly impressed with the importance of the questions which he had been called upon to settle, and he announced his readiness to proceed to such a conclusion as would forever put at rest all contention over the labor problem in Chicago, as far as it related to the building interests. The entire morning session was taken up in debates and the umpire discovered that he would be required to call into requisition not only his knowledge of the law, but all the parliamentary tactics with which he was familiar, with a possibility that he would have to occasionally invent a ruling to suit the special occasion. The code of principles of the Master Masons was submitted and discussed at length. The code was not adopted as a whole, but was held in abeyance in order that other questions should be submitted to ascertain what bearing the code might have upon them. It was decided that the real issue should be narrowed down to facts which directly bore upon the foundation for differences between the contestants. At the afternoon session the order of business was first defined and then the struggle began over the items of difference, which were taken up in the order agreed upon and discussed. These points embraced the many hard questions which had occasioned strikes and lockouts for five years. They included the various demands of the bricklayers, which had been objected to or conceded from time to time, from the demand for an increase of wages in 1883 to the unsatisfied insistence upon a Saturday pay-day. A sub-committee, composed of Messrs. Prussing, of the Master Masons, and Miniter, of the Bricklayers, prepared a statement showing all points upon which the contestants agreed and disagreed. Every disputed point was then so thoroughly argued by both sides that Judge Tuley was fairly saturated with facts and eloquence. The umpire was very cautious, and asked a great many leading questions of both sides. He evinced a disposition to become fully advised and enlightened, not only as to the points of difference, but as to their effect upon the contestants. He wanted to know it all, but he expressed few opinions, and made very few decisions. His idea seemed to be to endeavor to lead the contestants up to points at which they might possibly be able to agree without the necessity for his casting a vote upon a disputed question, and in this course he was upheld by both sides, because it had a strong tendency to promote and preserve harmony between the two. In fact, the umpire endeavored to show them how they could reach a conclusion without the use of an umpire. As the time for making the award drew near, the members of both organizations, and in fact, of all trades, became very anxious to know the result. They used every means within their power to obtain some information from the committeemen in regard to the manner in which points of difference had been or would be adjusted, but the mouths of the arbitrators remained sealed. They simply said: "Wait for the verdict, and you will be satisfied." On Friday, July 8th, at 6 o'clock in the evening, the joint committee concluded its labors and adjourned, after having adjusted the differences between the Master Masons and the Bricklayers which had caused a strike and lockout in the building trades lasting nine weeks. The award was made and signed by the ten arbitrators and the umpire. After the committee adjourned both factions acknowledged themselves perfectly satisfied with the award, and congratulated each other upon a result which, they said, they hoped and believed would forever settle their differences, and in the future prevent strikes and lockouts in the building trades represented by the Master Masons on the one part and he Bricklayers and Stonemasons on the other part. The members of the committee parted as friends, and seemed to understand each other so well that if they could control the destinies of the two factions there would never be an occasion for an arbitration committee between the two to settle a strike. It was agreed that the award should be submitted to the Bricklayers' union and the Master Masons' association for ratification, and that building should be resumed on Monday, July 11th. The award of the committee was as follows: TO THE UNION OF THE UNITED ORDER OF AMERICAN BRICKLAYERS AND STONEMASONS AND TO THE MASTER MASONS' AND BUILDERS' ASSOCIATION OF CHICAGO: The joint committee of arbitration, composed of an arbitration committee of five from each of your organizations, with Judge M. F. Tuley unanimously selected as umpire, have concluded their labors and respectfully report: That, recognizing the fact that organizations of employes and employers, like these from which this committee originated, do exist and have become important factors in our industrial society, and that they will, in all probability, continue to exist, we do not attempt to determine whether the motive or basis of either organization was right or wrong. They appear to be a necessity arising out of the present conditions of society, and while such combinations keep "from violence or show of violence" no great danger need be apprehended. Nor did we attempt to determine which organization was to blame for the present paralyzed condition of the building industry of this great city. We recognized the fact that the two organizations between which there should be many "bonds of sympathy and good feeling" were carrying on a bitter war with each other, by which many thousands of men were deprived of work, much suffering and privation brought upon innocent parties, and immense pecuniary losses daily sustained; and we determined, if possible, to reconcile the differences and place the relations of the two organizations upon a basis by which strikes, lookouts, and other like disturbances might in future be avoided. We discussed the relations of the contractor and the workmen, and found much in which they had a common or joint interest, and were mutually concerned. We endeavored to discuss and settle each trouble and grievance in a conciliatory spirit, not in way of compromise, to give and take, but in a spirit of fair play and upon just and equitable principles. We found that the main cause of trouble was in the separate organizations endeavoring to lay down arbitrary rules for the regulation of matters which were of joint interest and concern, and which should be regulated only by both organizations by some species of joint action. We, therefore, determined upon and submit herewith a project for the institution of a joint standing committee for that purpose. The article herewith submitted, providing for such a joint standing committee, to be elected annually in the month of January, defining its powers and duties, we request shall be incorporated into the constitution of each association. This joint committee will be constructed of an arbitration committee of five members from each organization (the president of each being one of the five) and an umpire who is neither a working mechanic nor an employer of mechanics, to be chosen by the two committees. This joint committee is given power to hear and determine all grievances of the members of one organization against members of the other, and of one organization against the other. To determine and fix all working rules governing employer and employes, such as: 1 The minimum rate of wages per hour. 2 The number of hours of work per day. 3. Uniform pay-day. 4. The time of starting and quitting work. 5. The rate to be paid for night and Sunday work, and questions of like nature. And it is also given power to determine what number of apprentices should be enrolled so as to afford all boys desiring to learn the trade an opportunity to do so without overcrowding, so as not to cause the coming workmen to be unskilled in his art or the supply of labor to grossly exceed the demand therefor. It is also given exclusive power to determine all subjects in which both organizations may be interested, and which may be brought before it by the action of either organization or the president thereof. It becomes necessary, in order that all questions and grievances which the committee has settled, and to make the constitution and by-laws of the organizations conform thereto, and to the powers given to future joint arbitration committees, that some changes should be made in such constitution and by-laws. The adoption by the Master Masons' and Builders' association of the article for the joint committee, as recommended, together with some slight changes in their constitution, will be sufficient. The United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons will be necessitated to make changes in its constitution and by-laws to make the same consistent with and to conform to the spirit and intent of the powers and duties conferred on the joint committee; and among other things the officer heretofore known as the walking delegate is to be known hereafter as the collector, and all the objectionable duties and powers of the office have been done away with. The steward will remain guardian of the men's interests and mediator for them; his arbitrary powers are taken away. The interests of the members of the union are protected by the foreman being required to be a member of the union, but he is restored to his position as the employe of the contractor, and, while so employed, is not subject to the rules of the union. The eight-hour day has been conceded to the workmen. It is in accordance with the state and, we believe, in accord with the spirit and progress of the age. The question of pay-day, whether on Saturday or on Tuesday, was not considered a question of vital importance, but, it being one of the questions left to the umpire, he decided that inasmuch as Tuesday has been the pay-day with the principal contractors in the trade of this city for more than twenty years last past, and, as experience in other trades and occupations has demonstrated that the pay-day of Monday or Tuesday has worked more beneficially to the workmen and their families than the Saturday pay-day, and, inasmuch as contractors ought not to be required to change the pay-day in the midst of the working season, having presumably made their pecuniary arrangements to meet the Tuesday pay-day, he would name Tuesday as the regular pay-day until the same should, if desired hereafter, be changed by the joint committee on arbitration. We have settled the differences between the two organizations. While every inch of the ground has been fought over, yet, having the task assigned us, we in good faith determined to do everything that was fair, just and honorable to accomplish our object. We feel we have succeeded without compromising the honor, the rights, or the dignity of either organisation, and hope that we have succeeded in establishing a basis upon which all future troubles may be settled and probably be prevented. We respectfully ask your adoption of this report and the article as to the joint arbitration committee, by immediate action, to the end that work may be commenced on Monday, July 11th, it being agreed that neither organization shall be bound by its action if the other should refuse to take similar action. A. E. VORKELLER, P. J MINNITER, JOHN PEARSON, THEODORE REBUSH, CHARLES J. LINDGREN, Arbitration Committee for the U. O. A. B. and S. M. Association. GEORGE C. PRUSSING, JOSEPH DOWNEY, GEORGE TAPPER, WILLIAM O'BRIEN, CHARLES W. GINDELE, Arbitration Committee for the Master Masons' and Builders' Association. M. F. TULEY, Umpire. One of the troublesome questions which was considered by the arbitrators was the one in relation to apprentices. On this question there was no agreement by the joint committee, but Judge Tuley made the following statement and recommendations, all of which met the approval of both organizations: A limitation upon the number of apprentices in a craft has always existed either by legislative action or by custom of the craft, and the number that should be taken must be affected to a large extent by the general principles of the demand and supply of labor. In France, in the seventeenth century, masters were limited to one apprentice. In England, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, apprentices became so numerous, and because of their numbers--when they became workmen--were so unskilled, that some crafts were for a time utterly ruined. Laws were passed from time to time limiting the number of apprentices in the trades and crafts; some to two apprentices, some to sons of master workmen and employes, and some to the sons of persons who had a £3 annual rental. It is a law of self-preservation to the craft, and also of equal interest to the responsible Master Mason, that there should be some limitation on the number of apprentices. If the number is unlimited, unscrupulous contractors may secure a large number of apprentices, and, with the help of a few journeymen, underbid all contractors who employ journeymen skilled in their craft, and also necessarily throw upon the journeymen large additions of unskilled workmen, thereby making the supply of labor largely in excess of the demand, and destroying the standard of the craft for good work. It is not a question whether everybody shall have the right to learn a trade, but whether the craft will teach every boy a trade, to its own destruction. It is a matter, however, that neither the journeymen nor the Master Masons' organizations should arbitrarily undertake to decide. It is a matter of joint interest, and should be decided from time to time by the joint arbitration committee in such a manner that the number of apprentices shall be sufficient to furnish the requisite number of journeymen to supply the demand, and also so as to prevent an abuse of the apprentice system and an injury to both employer and employe by a too large number of apprentices being secured to do work that should be done by the skilled journeymen. Three years, by common consent, is the period fixed for apprenticeship in these trades, and the Master Masons should be allowed, and if necessary required, to take one new apprentice each year. The number of apprentices can be increased from time to time as the interests of the crafts and their obligations to the youth of the country should demand. The apprentice should be allowed to join any organization of his craft, but in all respects be subject to the laws of the state and the contracts made in pursuance thereof. The joint committee also agreed upon working rules, which were established by being adopted by both organizations interested. They are as follows: SECTION 1. The minimum rate of wages shall be 40 cents per hour. SEC. 2. Eight hours shall constitute a day's work throughout the year, work to begin at 8 A. M. and end at 5 P. M., but the noon hour may be curtailed by special agreement between the foreman and the majority of the workmen, but not in such a way as to permit more than eight hours' work between the hours named. No member will be allowed to work overtime except in case of actual necessity. For such overtime time and one-half shall be allowed. SEC. 3. Eight hours shall constitute a night's work. Night work shall not commence until 7 P. M., and shall be paid for at time and a half. Sunday work shall be paid for at double time. SEC 4. Any member of this Union working for a Mason Contractor shall be paid every two weeks on Tuesday before 5 P. M. _Resolved_, That all members of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons who have, from actual necessity, taken up their work during the present strike, or lockout, and have thereby violated any rule of said organization, shall be reinstated within two weeks of the execution of the award of this arbitration committee, and shall not be fined or suffer any penalty for said violation of rules; and further _Resolved_, That all members of the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' association who have, from actual necessity, started to work with union men, and in opposition to a resolution of such organization, shall not be fined or suffer any penalty for infraction of the rules, and shall be considered in good standing. The working rules were signed by the joint committee and the umpire. The following amendments to the constitution of the two organizations were adopted, fixing a permanent board of arbitration: SECTION 1. This organization shall elect, at its annual meeting in January, a standing committee of arbitration, consisting of five members, to serve one year. The present standing committee shall continue in office until the election of its successor, in January, 1888. SEC. 2. The president shall be, ex-officio, one of said five members. He shall be chairman of committee, and in his absence the committee may designate one of its members to act in his place. SEC. 3. Within one week after the election the president of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons shall certify to the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' association, and the president of the Chicago Master Masons' and Builders' association shall certify to the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons, the fact that said committee has been regularly elected, and give the names of members thereof. SEC. 4. When notice of the selection of a committee of arbitration by the other association shall be received, or as soon thereafter as practicable, and within the month of January, the two committees shall meet and proceed to organize themselves in a joint committee of arbitration by electing an umpire, who is neither a working mechanic nor an employer of mechanics. The umpire, when present, shall preside at meetings of the joint committee, and have the casting vote on all questions. SEC. 5. Seven members, exclusive of the umpire, shall constitute a quorum of the joint arbitration committee, and in case of the absence of any member, the chairman of his committee shall cast the vote for such absent members. A majority vote shall decide all questions. SEC. 6. The joint committee of arbitration shall have all evidence in complaints and grievances of a member or members of one body against a member or members of the other, or of one organization against the other, referred to it by the president of either association, and shall finally decide all questions submitted, and shall certify by the umpire such decisions to the respective organizations. Work shall go on continuously, and all parties interested shall be governed by award made, or decisions rendered, provided, however, that work may be stopped by the joint order of the presidents of the respective associations until the decision of the joint committee is had. SEC. 7. The joint committee shall have exclusive power to determine and fix definitely from year to year all working rules. It shall also have all exclusive authority to discuss and determine all other subjects in which both organizations, or members of both organizations, may be jointly interested and concerned, which may be brought before the committee by either organization or the president thereof. SEC. 8. Working rules are rules governing employers and workmen at work, such as the establishment of a minimum rate of wages to be paid practical bricklayers and stonemasons per hour, and of a uniform pay-day, to determine the number of hours to be worked per day, the time of starting and quitting work, the remuneration to be paid for work done overtime and Sundays, and other questions of like nature. SEC. 9. The subject of apprentices being a matter of joint interest, and concern to both the union and the Master Masons' and Builders' association, the joint committee shall have power to decide from time to time the number of apprentices which master masons may take in service. Until further action by said committee all master masons shall be allowed a new apprentice each year, and the term of apprenticeship shall be three years, but any minor taken as apprentice shall be under 19 years of age. All apprentices shall be allowed to join any organization of their craft, but to be subject to the laws of this state and the contract of apprenticeship made in pursuance of such laws. SEC 10. This article having been agreed upon by the union of the United Order of American Bricklayers and Stonemasons, and the Master Masons' and Builders' association shall not be repealed or amended by either organization except upon six months' previous notice given to the other organization, and such notice shall not be given until after all honest efforts to settle the grievance or difficulty shall have been made. In addition to the provisions for changing the constitutions of the two organizations it was necessary for the Bricklayers' union to make a number of changes in its constitution in relation to the walking delegate, stewards, foremen, etc., but these could not be made at once, as there was a provision in the constitution of the union by which it could not be amended, except after two weeks' notice. This notice was given, and the amendments were made at the proper time. In the meantime the proposed changes were recognized and put into practice. The Bricklayers' union and the Master Masons' association met and ratified the action of the joint arbitration committee by unanimously indorsing the award and all accompanying recommendations. This ended the great strike and lockout. In the settlement which was made the greatest accomplishment was the securing of a standing committee on arbitration to adjust all grievances before the employes are permitted to strike, or be locked out by the employers. This is a hard blow to the agitators, whose thrift largely depended upon their ability to create strife and contention between capital and labor. The establishment of a joint council of employers and workmen secures and protects free labor. Instead of the pernicious strike, it was agreed that arbitration should be recognized as the first move in the settlement of differences, and that it was the only true solution of all misunderstandings. As nations never take up arms against each other until they have exhausted the experiments of diplomacy, so the workmen, or their leaders, were made to understand that arbitration was the true course in the adjustment of differences between employer and employe. Associations of employers, as well as associations of employes, may well profit by the experience of the building trades in Chicago. It was a hot struggle, which, after all, was brought to an end by arbitration--an experiment which, however unsatisfactory to the hot-heads, might as easily have been resorted to at the beginning. The employer, and not the Walking Delegate of the union, was given control over the employment of his own workmen. The declaration made at the first meeting of the Master Masons' association, that "the Walking Delegate must go," was put into force and effect by the award made. He has walked his last walk, and his finger has snapped its last snap in calling men off a job in Chicago. The tyrant's power was taken away. The foreman was made the servant of the contractor, who pays his wages, and is no longer the servant of the union, to which he pays taxes. The rights of the employer were recognized and harmony was secured. OUT OF POCKET. The losses to thirty thousand employes and seven hundred contractors during the lockout aggregated more than $4,000,000. They are fairly shown by the following statement: 4,000 Carpenters, 16 days, @ $2.50 $160,000 2,000 Carpenters, 30 days, @ $2.50 150,000 4,000 Hodcarriers and Laborers, 60 days, @ $2.00 480,000 3,000 Bricklayers, 54 days, @ $3.60 583,200 1,000 Brick Makers, 54 days, @ $5.00 270,000 8,000 Brick Laborers, 54 days, @ $1.75 756,000 1,000 Brick Teamsters, 54 days, @ $4.00 216,000 1,000 Stonecutters, 30 days, @ $4.00 120,000 500 Cornice men, 30 days, @ $3.00 45,000 500 Gravel Roofers, 30 days, @ $2.50 37,500 700 Plasterers, 30 days, @ $4.00 84,000 250 Lathers, 30 days, @ $2.50 18,750 600 Painters, 30 days, @ $2.50 45,000 1,000 Mill men, 30 days, @ $2.50 75,000 Iron men 10,000 Slate Roofers 5,000 Stair Builders 5,000 Lumber Yard Employes 5,000 Teamsters 5,000 Boatmen 5,000 _________ Total $3,075,450 The actual loss of the seven hundred contractors would average not less than $25 per day for sixty days, which would make their loss--exclusive of percentage on work delayed--$1,050,000. This sum, added to the loss of the idle man, makes a total loss in the building trades alone of $4,125,450. And this resulted from a demand for Saturday pay-day. This calculation does not include the percentage of losses to the builders upon work which was in hand, and which could have been pushed to completion during the pendency of the strike. They would have amounted at least to $1,000,000. These figures should be a warning to projectors of strikes in the future, but when a strike is determined upon, the results, in a financial way, are never considered. Nothing is looked to but the present imaginary wrong, which reckless leaders insist must be righted without reference to the effect upon their own pockets or those of the employer upon whom their demands are made. It is about time for the strike and boycott days to end, in order that prosperity may be assured to both the employer and the employe--at least in the building trades of this country. CONCLUSION. From the beginning to the close of the strike there were many difficulties to contend with, one of the most prominent of which was the timidity of some contractors, who were constantly exhibiting their weakness, and on the slightest pretext would have given up the battle and sacrificed principle for the sake of making a few dollars. These men were a constant care to the more earnest workers, who were compelled to put forth efforts at all times to strengthen the weak brethren and keep them in line. They believed in the correctness of the principles involved, but were ever ready to say they could not be enforced against the striking element, the strength of which at all times was made to appear in the unanimity with which the workmen seemed to stand together. If the strikers were weak they were so well drilled that they would not admit it, or show it to the contractors, while the few weak members of the Master Masons' association and material dealers who were disposed to give up, were constantly parading their cowardice to not only their associates, but to the strikers and to the public. But they were few in number. Another source of annoyance was the exhibition of selfishness by a few owners of buildings which had been projected. They would not consider the principle involved; but, looking at the dollar in sight, took their contracts from members of the Association and gave them into the hands of the strikers, thus furnishing aid and comfort to the enemy of liberty, and creating a feeling of discouragement in the ranks of the builders. All honor to the brave men who stood firm in the fight from the beginning to the end; who sacrificed everything but principle to sustain the proposition of individual liberty; who were early and late in the front to do battle alike for the strong and weak; who shirked no duty, no responsibility, but floated the banner of freedom on all occasions. Their names are enrolled on the books of the haters of free labor for a boycott in the future, but they are also enrolled in the deepest recesses of the memory of every good and true citizen, and their manly efforts for the establishment of the principle of individual liberty will never be forgotten. THE CARPENTERS AGAIN. When the Master Masons adopted the nine-hour day the Carpenters' and Builders' Association promptly backed them up by receding from the eight-hour rule and making their hours of work correspond with those of the Master Masons. The award of the arbitrators having restored to the masons the eight-hour day, the carpenters considered themselves absolved from any obligations to back up the masons, and said they would fix the hours to suit themselves. The satisfactory settlement of the strike of the bricklayers caused the working carpenters to move in the direction of arbitration. An uneasy feeling prevailed for some time among the employers and the workmen. On several occasions agitators tried to induce the men to order a strike for eight hours and 35 cents an hour as the minimum rate of wages, and the conservative element had great difficulty in preventing it. They succeeded in securing the appointment of an arbitration committee by the workmen, which was composed of Messrs. W. White, H. T. Castle, R. L. Hassell, Roscoe Palmer and A. S. F. Ballantine. This committee made several attempts to secure recognition at the hands of the Carpenters' and Builders' Association, but without success. The association met Saturday evening, July 23rd, and laid on the table three communications from the carpenters, all of which were in the direction of arbitration. The association then passed a resolution authorizing its members to work as they pleased during the remainder of the year, without reference to any rule in regard to the number of hours which should constitute a day's work, and almost universally work proceeded on the eight-hour basis. NATIONAL ORGANIZATIONS. NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF BUILDERS. J. Milton Blair, President, Cincinnati, O. John S. Stevens, First Vice President, Philadelphia, Pa. E. E. Scribner, Second Vice President, St. Paul, Minn. Wm. H. Sayward, Secretary, Boston, Mass. John J. Tucker, Treasurer, New York, N. Y. DIRECTORS. David M. Alexander, Albany, N. Y. Wm. Ferguson, Baltimore, Md. Leander Greely, Boston, Mass. Charles Berrick, Buffalo, N. Y. Henry Oliver, Charleston, S. C. George C. Prussing, Chicago, Ills. James Allison, Cincinnati, O. Thomas Simmons, Cleveland, O. Thomas Kanauss, Columbus, O. W. G. Vinton, Detroit, Mich. W. C. Weatherly, Grand Rapids, Mich. W. P. Jungclaus, Indianapolis, Ind. Thomas Mason, Milwaukee, Wis. H. N. Leighton, Minneapolis, Minn. J. N. Phillips, Nashville, Tenn. F. H. West, New Orleans, La. Mark Eidlitz, New York, N. Y. Wm. Harkness, Jr., Philadelphia, Pa. Samuel Francis, Pittsburgh, Pa. George R. Phillips, Providence, R. I. Charles W. Voshall, Rochester, N. Y. E. F. Osborne, St. Paul, Minn. F. F. Beck, Sioux City, Iowa. C. A. Meeker, Troy, N. Y. E. B. Crane, Worcester, Mass. NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF MASTER PLUMBERS. John Byrns, President, New York, N. Y. John Trainor, First Vice President, Baltimore, Md. H. G. Gabay, Recording Secretary, New York, N. Y. Walter T. Hudson, Corresponding Secretary, Brooklyn, N. Y. Enoch Remick, Financial Secretary, Philadelphia, Pa. M. J. Lyons, Treasurer, Brooklyn, N. Y. D. J. Collins, Sergeant at Arms, St. Louis, Mo. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. George D. Scott, New York, N. Y. E. J. Hannon, Washington, D. C. J. J. Sheehan, St. Louis, Mo. Wm. Harkness, Jr., Philadelphia, Pa. Rupert Coleman, Chicago, Ills. STATE VICE PRESIDENTS. Alex. W. Murray, Chicago, Ills. D. G. Finerty, Boston, Mass. D. O. McEwan, Omaha, Neb. Joseph C. Mitchell, Baltimore, Md. Richard Murphy, Cincinnati, O. T. J. White, Denver, Col. John Cameron, Detroit, Mich. John Madden, Fort Wayne, Ind. Michael J. Moran, Jersey City, N. J. Henry Goss, Kansas City, Mo. John E. Ford, Newton, Kas. Simon Shulbafer, Louisville, Ky. Wm. E. Goodwin, Milwaukee, Wis. John Shea, St. Paul, Minn. Robert Morgan, New Haven, Conn. W. E. Foster, Norfolk, Va. James E. Weldon, Pittsburgh, Pa. J. L. Park, Nashville, Tenn. Wm. Whipple, Providence, R. I. R. G. Campbell, Washington, D. C. J. L. Furman, San Francisco, Cal. Wm. Young, New York, N. Y. MASTER PAINTERS ASSOCIATION OF THE UNITED STATES. Titus Berger, President, Pittsburgh, Pa. Jesse Cornelius, Vice-President, St. Louis, Mo. J. G. McCarthy, Secretary, Chicago, Ills. Maurice Joy, Treasurer, Philadelphia, Pa. EXECUTIVE BOARD. Titus Berger, Chairman, Pittsburgh, Pa. J. B. Sullivan, Chicago, Ills. George B. Elmore, Brooklyn, N. Y. John Patterson, Philadelphia, Pa. J. B. Atkinson, Louisville, Ky. M. H. Godfrey, Detroit, Mich. George Howlett, Cleveland, Ohio. Charles H. Sefton, Boston, Mass. E. M. Gallagher, San Francisco, Cal. B. T. Collingbourne, Milwaukee, Wis. J. F. Van Brandt, Dubuque, Iowa. R. L. Hutchins, Wilmington, N. C. James S. Dowling, St. Louis, Mo. B. C. Bushell, Martinsburg, W. Va. James Marks, Bayonne, N. J. F. P. Martin, Atchinson, Kas. P. Coughlin, Bridgeport, Conn. Thomas A. Brown, Washington, D. C. A. T. Davis, Memphis, Tenn. E. W. Pyle, Wilmington, Del. NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF MASTER COMPOSITION ROOFERS. J. Wilkes Ford, President, Chicago, Ill. Samuel D. Warren, First Vice President, St. Louis, Mo. H. M. Reynolds, Second Vice President, Grand Rapids, Mich. William K. Thomas, Secretary, Chicago, Ills. H. R. Shaffer, Treasurer, Chicago, Ills. DIRECTORS. M. W. Powell, Chicago, Ills. John M. Sellers, St. Louis, Mo. E. S. Bortel, Philadelphia, Pa. J. L. Jones, Chicago, Ills. G. W. Getchell, Chicago, Ills. WESTERN ASSOCIATION OF ARCHITECTS. John W. Root, President, Chicago, Ills. J. F. Alexander, Secretary, LaFayette, Ind. Samuel A. Treat, Treasurer, Chicago, Ills. W. L. B. Jenney, Secretary Foreign Correspondence, Chicago, Ills. VICE PRESIDENTS. D. W. Millard, St. Paul, Minn. H. S. Josseyline, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. D. Adler, Chicago, Ills. J. J. McGrath, St. Louis, Mo. J. G. Haskel, Topeka, Kan. J. F. Alexander, LaFayette, Ind. George W. Rapp, Cincinnati, O. J. J. Kane, Fort Worth, Texas. BOARD OF DIRECTORS. Dankmar Adler, Chairman, Chicago, Ills. G. W. Rapp, Cincinnati, O. Charles Crapsey, Cincinnati, O. C. A. Curtin, Louisville, Ky. G. M. Goodwin, St. Paul, Minn. ILLINOIS STATE ASSOCIATION OF ARCHITECTS. D. Adler, President. S. A. Treat, } Vice-Presidents. M. S. Patton, } S. M. Randolph, Treasurer. C. L. Stiles, Secretary. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. L. D. Cleveland, C. M. Palmer, John W. Root, Wm. Halabird. CHICAGO ORGANIZATIONS. BUILDERS' AND TRADERS' EXCHANGE. George Tapper, President. Mat. Benner, First Vice-President. Alex. W. Murray, Second Vice-President. F. C. Schoenthaler, Secretary. Joseph Downey, Treasurer. DIRECTORS. Oliver Sollitt, D. V. Purington, Murdock Campbell, E. A. Thomas, F. W. H. Sundmacher, Ph. Henne, James John, S. S. Kimbell, Wm. Kinsella, George H. Fox. CENTRAL COUNCIL OF BUILDERS. George Tapper, President H. G. Savage, Vice-President. F. C. Schoenthaler, Secretary. STANDING COMMITTEES. Credentials--J. B. Sullivan, T. C. Diener, A. J. Weckler. Safety--H. L. Turner, C. B. Kimbell, Robert Vierling. Strikes and Grievances--P. B. Wight, H. G. Savage, M. W. Powell. Arbitration--Edward Kirk, Jr., William Hearson, John Sutton. CHICAGO MASTER MASONS' AND BUILDERS' ASSOCIATION. Joseph Downey, President. Thomas E. Courtney, Treasurer. Hermann Mueller, Secretary. THE CARPENTERS' AND BUILDERS' ASSOCIATION OF CHICAGO. William Grace, President. William Hearson, Vice-President. F. C. Schoenthaler, Secretary. Peter Kauff, Treasurer. DIRECTORS. C. G. Dixon, William Mavor, J. W. Woodard, W. E. Frost, John Ramcke, J. W. Cassell. THE CHICAGO BUILDING STONE COMPANY. B. J. Moore, President. H. A. Sanger, Vice-President. D. E. Corneau, Secretary. E. F. Singer, Treasurer. J. A. Pettigrew, Manager. DIRECTORS. D. E. Corneau, J. G. Bodenschatz, B. J. Moore, H. A. Sanger, E. T. Singer, H. L. Holland, G. H. Monroe. QUARRY OWNERS' ASSOCIATION OF CHICAGO. Gen. John McArthur, President. John Rawle, Vice-President. E. E. Worthington, Secretary. C. B. McGenness, Treasurer. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. E. T. Singer, John Worthy, M. B. Madden, P. G. Hale, W. Johnson. CUT-STONE CONTRACTORS' ASSOCIATION. F. V. Gindele, President. T. C. Diener, Secretary and Treasurer. TRUSTEES. John Tomlinson, John Tait, Henry Fürst. THE ASSOCIATION OF MANUFACTURERS IN METALS. R. T. Crane, President. J. McGregor Adams, First Vice-President. John T. Raffen, Second Vice President. W. J. Chalmers, Third Vice President. Robert Vierling, Secretary and Treasurer. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. R. T. Crane, W. J. Chalmers, M. C. Bullock, George Mason, J. McGregor Adams, Frank I. Pearce, Louis Wolff, John T. Raffen, A. Plamondon. CHICAGO MASTER PLUMBERS' ASSOCIATION. H. Griffith, President. J. J. Wade, First Vice President. Wm. Sims, Second Vice President. M. H. Reilly, Third Vice President. Frank E. Rush, Fourth Vice President. Wm. Wilson, Fifth Vice President. J. R. Alcock, Recording Secretary. Charles S. Wallace, Corresponding Secretary. William Sims, Finance Secretary. J. J. Hamblin, Treasurer. P. L. O'Hara, Sergeant-at-Arms. MASTER PAINTERS' ASSOCIATION OF CHICAGO. President, J. G. McCarthy. Vice-President, H. J. Milligan. Secretary, B. S. Mills. Treasurer, N. S. Lepperr. TRUSTEES. Henry G. Emmel, Wm. H. Emerson, James C. Burns. THE GRAVEL ROOFERS' EXCHANGE. H. R. Shaffer, President. D. W. C. Gooding, Vice-President. John L. Jones, Secretary. S. E. Barrett, Treasurer. DIRECTORS. M. W. Powell, G. W. Getchell, W. K. Thomas. THE GRAVEL ROOFERS' PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION. M. W. Powell, President. A. L. Barsley, Vice-President. J. J. Wheeler, Secretary. S. E. Barrett, Treasurer. DIRECTORS. C. W. Randolph, J. W. Ford, D. W. C. Gooding, A. Burke, L. Daley. NORTH AND NORTHWEST BRICK MANUFACTURERS' ASSOCIATION. A. J. Weckler, President. August Wehrheim, Vice-President. F. W. Sundmacher, Secretary. George Lill, Treasurer. TRUSTEES. Thomas Moulding, Fred. Zapell, A. J. Weckler, August Wehrheim, John Labahn. CHICAGO BRICK MAKERS' ASSOCIATION. P. Lichtenstadt, President. John McKenna, Secretary. L. H. Harland, Treasurer. CONTRACTING PLASTERERS' ASSOCIATION. William Piggott, President. A. Zander, Vice President. James John, Treasurer. Andrew Corcoran, Secretary. GALVANIZED IRON CORNICE MANUFACTURERS. Edward Kirk, Jr., President. James A. Miller, Secretary and Treasurer. CHICAGO REAL ESTATE BOARD. William D. Kerfoot, President. M. R. Barnard, Vice President. George P. Bay, Treasurer. Edward F. Getchell, Secretary. W. J. Gallup, Assistant Secretary. 
13034	----	MARY MINDS HER BUSINESS BY GEORGE WESTON Author of "Oh, Mary, Be Careful," "The Apple-Tree Girl," and "You Never Saw Such a Girl." 1920 To Karl Edwin Harriman One of the Noblest of them All G.W. MARY MINDS HER BUSINESS So that you may understand my heroine, I am going to write a preface and tell you about her forebears. In the latter part of the seventeenth century, there was a young blacksmith in our part of the country named Josiah Spencer. He had a quick eye, a quick hand and a quicker temper. Because of his quick eye he married a girl named Mary McMillan. Because of his quick hand, he was never in need of employment. And because of his quick temper, he left the place of his birth one day and travelled west until he came to a ford which crossed the Quinebaug River. There, before the week was over, he had bought from Oeneko, the Indian chief, five hundred acres on each side of the river--land in those days being the cheapest known commodity. Hewing his own timber and making his own hardware, he soon built a shop of his own, and the ford being on the main road between Hartford and the Providence Plantations, it wasn't long before he had plenty of business. Above the ford was a waterfall. Josiah put in a wheel, a grist mill and a saw mill. By that time Mary, his wife, had presented him with one of the two greatest gifts that a woman can ever bestow, and presently a sign was painted over the shop: JOSIAH SPENCER & SON In course of time young Josiah made his first horse-shoe and old Josiah made his last. On a visit to New Amsterdam, the young man had already fallen in love with a girl named Matilda Sturtevant. They were married in 1746 and had one of those round old-fashioned families when twelve children seemed to be the minimum and anything less created comment. Two of the boys were later killed in the Revolution, another became Supreme Court justice, but the likeliest one succeeded to the business of Josiah Spencer & Son, which was then making a specialty of building wagons--and building them so well that the shop had to be increased in size again and again until it began to have the appearance of quite a respectable looking factory. The third Spencer to own the business married a Yankee--Patience Babcock--but Patience's only son married a French-Canadian girl--for even then the Canadians were drifting down into our part of the country. So by that time, as you can see--and this is an important part of my preface--the Spencer stock was a thrifty mixture of Yankee, Irish, Scotch, Dutch and French blood--although you would never have guessed it if you had simply seen the name of one Josiah Spencer following another as the owner of the Quinebaug Wagon Works. In the same year that the fourth Josiah Spencer succeeded to the business, a bridge was built to take the place of the ford and the waterfall was fortified by a dam. By that time a regular little town had formed around the factory. The town was called New Bethel. It was at this stage of their history that the Spencers grew proud, making a hobby of their family tree and even possibly breathing a sigh over vanished coats-of-arms. The fifth of the line, for instance, married a Miss Copleigh of Boston. He built a big house on Bradford Hill and brought her home in a tally-ho. The number of her trunks and the size of her crinolines are spoken of to this day in our part of the country--also her manner of closing her eyes when she talked, and holding her little finger at an angle when drinking her tea. She had only one child--fortunately a son. This son was the grandfather of our heroine. So you see we are getting warm at last. The grandfather of our heroine was probably the greatest Spencer of them all. Under his ownership the factory was rebuilt of brick and stone. He developed the town both socially and industrially until New Bethel bade fair to become one of the leading cities in the state. He developed the water power by building a great dam above the factory and forming a lake nearly ten miles long. He also developed an artillery wheel which has probably rolled along every important road in the civilized world. Indeed he was so engaged in these enterprises that he didn't marry until he was well past forty-five. Then one spring, going to Charlestown to buy his season's supply of pine, he came back with a bride from one of the oldest, one of the most famous families in all America. There were three children to this marriage--one son and two daughters. I will tell you about the daughters in my first chapter--two delightful old maids who later had a baby between them--but first I must tell you about the seventh and last Josiah. In his youth he was wild. This may have been partly due to that irreducible minimum of Original Sin which (they say) is in all of us--and partly due to his cousin Stanley. Now I don't mean to say for a moment that Stanley Woodward was a natural born villain. I don't think people are born that way at all. At first the idea probably struck him as a sort of a joke. "If anything happens to young Josiah," I can imagine him thinking to himself with a grin, "I may own this place myself some day.... Who knows?" And from that day forward, he unconsciously borrowed from the spiders--if you can imagine a smiling spider--and began to spin. Did young Josiah want to leave the office early? Stanley smilingly did his work for him. Was young Josiah late the next morning? Stanley smilingly hid his absence. Did young Josiah yearn for life and adventure? Stanley spun a few more webs and they met that night in Brigg's livery stable. It didn't take much of this--unexpectedly little in fact--the last of the Spencers resembling one of those giant firecrackers of bygone days--the bigger the cracker, the shorter the fuse. Some say he married an actress, which was one of the things which were generally whispered when I was a boy. A Russian they said she was--which never failed to bring another gasp. Others say she was a beautiful bare-back rider in a circus and wore tights--which was another of the things which used to be whispered when I was a boy, and not even then unless the children had first been sent from the room and only bosom friends were present. Whatever she was, young Josiah disappeared with her, and no one saw him again until his mother died in the mansion on the hill. Some say she died of a broken heart, but I never believed in that, for if sorrow could break the human heart I doubt if many of us would be alive to smile at next year's joys. However that may be, I do believe that young Josiah thought that he was partly responsible for his mother's death. He turned up at the funeral with a boy seven years old; and bit by bit we learned that he was separated from his wife and that the court had given him custody of their only child. As you have probably noticed, there are few who can walk so straight as those who have once been saved from the crooked path. There are few so intolerant of fire as those poor, charred brands who have once been snatched from the burning. After his mother's funeral young Spencer settled down to a life of atonement and toil, till first his father and then even his cousin Stanley were convinced of the change which had taken place in the one-time black sheep of the family. By that time the patents on the artillery wheel had expired and a competition had set in which was cutting down the profits to zero. Young Josiah began experimenting on a new design which finally resulted in a patent upon a combination ball and roller bearing. This was such an improvement upon everything which had gone before, that gradually Spencer & Son withdrew from the manufacture of wagons and wheels and re-designed their whole factory to make bearings. This wasn't done in a month or two, nor even in a year or two. Indeed the returned prodigal grew middle aged in the process. He also saw the possibilities of harnessing the water power above the factory to make electric current. This current was sold so cheaply that more and more factories were drawn to New Bethel until the fame of the city's products were known wherever the language of commerce was spoken. At the height of his son's success, old Josiah died, joining those silent members of the firm who had gone before. I often like to imagine the whole seven of them, ghostly but inquisitive, following the subsequent strange proceedings with noiseless steps and eyes that missed nothing; and in particular keeping watch upon the last living Josiah Spencer--a heavy, powerfully built man with a look of melancholy in his eyes and a way of sighing to himself as though asking a question, and then answering it with a muffled "Yes... Yes..." This may have been partly due to the past and partly due to the future, for the son whom he had brought home with him began to worry him--a handsome young rascal who simply didn't have the truth in him at times, and who was buying presents for girls almost before he was out of short trousers. His name was Paul--"Paul Vionel Olgavitch Spencer," he sometimes proudly recited it, and whenever we heard of that we thought of his mother. The older Paul grew, the handsomer he grew. And the handsomer he grew, the wilder he became and the less the truth was in him. At times he would go all right for a while, although he was always too fond of the river for his aunts' peace of mind. At a bend below the dam he had found a sheltered basin, covered with grass and edged with trees. And there he liked to lie, staring up into the sky and dreaming those dreams of youth and adventure which are the heritage of us all. Or else he would sit and watch the river, although he couldn't do it long, for its swift movement seemed to fascinate him and excite him, and to arouse in him the desire to follow it--to follow it wherever it went. These were his quieter moods. Ordinarily there was something gipsy-like, something Neck-or-Nothing about him. A craving for excitement seemed to burn under him like a fire. The full progression of correction marched upon him and failed to make impression: arguments, orders, warnings, threats, threshings and the stoppage of funds: none of these seemed to improve him in the least. Josiah's two sisters did their best, but they could do nothing, either. "I wouldn't whip him again, Josiah," said Miss Cordelia one night, timidly laying her hand upon her brother's arm. "He'll be all right when he's a little older.... You know, dear ... you were rather wild, yourself ... when you were young.... Patty and I were only saying this morning that if he takes after you, there's really nothing to worry about--" "He's God's own punishment," said Josiah, looking up wildly. "I know--things I can't tell you. You remember what I say: that boy will disgrace us all...." He did. One morning he suddenly and simply vanished with the factory pay-roll and one of the office stenographers. In the next twelve months Josiah seemed to age at least twelve years--his cousin Stanley watching him closely the while--and then one day came the news that Paul Spencer had shot and killed a man, while attempting to hold him up, somewhere in British Columbia. If you could have seen Josiah Spencer that day you might have thought that the bullet had grazed his own poor heart. "It's God's punishment," he said over and over. "For seven generations there has been a Spencer & Son--a trust that was left to me by my father that I should pass it on to my son. And what have I done...!" Whereupon he made a gesture that wasn't far from despair--and in that gesture, such as only those can make who know in their hearts that they have shot the albatross, this preface brings itself to a close and at last my story begins. CHAPTER I "Patty," said Miss Cordelia one morning, "have you noticed Josiah lately?" "Yes," nodded Miss Patricia, her eyes a little brighter than they should have been. "Do you know," continued the other, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm afraid--if he keeps on--the way he is--" "Oh, no, Cordelia! You know as well as I do--there has never been anything like that in our family." Nevertheless the two sisters looked at each other with awe-stricken eyes, and then their arms went around each other and they eased their hearts in the immemorial manner. "You know, he worries because we are the last of the Spencers," said Cordelia, "and the family dies with us. Even if you or I had children, I don't think he would take it so hard--" A wistful look passed over their faces, such as you might expect to see on those who had repented too late and stood looking through St. Peter's gate at scenes in which they knew they could never take a part. "But I am forty-eight," sighed Cordelia. "And I--I am fifty--" The two sisters had been writing when this conversation started. They were busy on a new generation of the Spencer-Spicer genealogy, and if you have ever engaged on a task like that, you will know the correspondence it requires. But now for a time their pens were forgotten and they sat looking at each other over the gatelegged table which served as desk. They were still both remarkably good-looking, though marked with that delicacy of material and workmanship--reminiscent of old china--which seems to indicate the perfect type of spinster-hood. Here and there in their hair gleamed touches of silver, and their cheeks might have reminded you of tinted apples which had lightly been kissed with the frost. And so they sat looking at each other, intently, almost breathlessly, each suddenly moved by the same question and each wishing that the other would speak. For the second time it was Cordelia who broke the silence. "Patty--!" "Yes, dear?" breathed Patty, and left her lips slightly parted. "I wonder if Josiah--is too old--to marry again! Of course," she hurriedly added, "he is fifty-two--but it seems to me that one of the Spicers--I think it was Captain Abner Spicer--had children until he was sixty--although by a younger wife, of course." They looked it up and in so doing they came across an Ezra Babcock, father-in-law of the Third Josiah Spencer, who had had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. They gazed at each other then, those two maiden sisters, like two conspirators in their precious innocence. "If we could find Josiah a young wife--" said the elder at last. "Oh, Cordelia!" breathed Patty, "if, indeed, we only could!" Which was really how it started. As I think you will realize, it would be a story in itself to describe the progress of that gentle intrigue--the consultations, the gradual eliminations, the search, the abandonment of the search--(which came immediately after learning of two elderly gentlemen with young wives--but no children!)--the almost immediate resumption of the quest because of Josiah's failing health--and finally then the reward of patience, the pious nudge one Sunday morning in church, the whispered "Look, Cordelia, that strange girl with the Pearsons--no, the one with the red cheeks--yes, that one!"--the exchange of significant glances, the introduction, the invitation and last, but least, the verification of the fruitfulness of the vine. The girl's name was Martha Berger and her home was in California. She had come east to attend the wedding of her brother and was now staying with the Pearsons a few weeks before returning west. Her age was twenty-six. She had no parents, very little money, and taught French, English and Science in the high school back home. "Have you any brothers or sisters!" asked Miss Cordelia, with a side glance toward Miss Patty. "Only five brothers and five sisters," laughed Martha. For a moment it might be said that Miss Cordelia purred. "Any of them married?" she continued. "All but me." "My dear! ... You don't mean to say that they have made you an aunt already?" Martha paused with that inward look which generally accompanies mental arithmetic. "Only about seventeen times," she finally laughed again. When their guest had gone, the two sisters fairly danced around each other. "Oh, Patty!" exulted Miss Cordelia, "I'm sure she's a fruitful vine!" CHAPTER II There is something inexorable in the purpose of a maiden lady--perhaps because she has no minor domestic troubles to distract her; and when you have two maiden ladies working on the same problem, and both of them possessed of wealth and unusual intelligence--! They started by taking Martha to North East Harbor for the balance of the summer, and then to keep her from going west in the fall, they engaged her to teach them French that winter at quite a fabulous salary. They also took her to Boston and bought her some of the prettiest dresses imaginable; and the longer they knew her, the more they liked her; and the more they liked her, the more they tried to enlist her sympathies in behalf of poor Josiah--and the more they tried to throw their brother into Martha's private company. "Look here," he said one day, when his two sisters were pushing him too hard. "What's all this excitement about Martha? Who is she, anyway?" "Why, don't you know!" Cordelia sweetly asked him, and drawing a full breath she added: "Martha--is--your--future--wife--" If you had been there, you would have been pardoned for thinking that the last of the Spencers had suddenly discovered that he was sitting upon a remonstrative bee. The two sisters smiled at him--rather nervously, it is true, but still they kept their hands upon their brother's shoulders, as though they were two nurses soothing a patient and saying: "There, now ... The-e-e-ere ... Just be quiet and you'll feel better in a little while." "Yes, dear," whispered Cordelia, her mouth ever so close to his ear. "Your future wife--and the mother of your future children--" "Nonsense, nonsense--" muttered Josiah, breaking away quite flustered. "I'm--I'm too old--" Almost speaking in concert they told him about Captain Abner Spencer who had children until he was sixty, and Ezra Babcock, father-in-law of the third Josiah Spencer, who had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. "And she's such a lovely girl," said Cordelia earnestly. "Patty and I are quite in love with her ourselves--" "And think what it would mean to your peace of mind to have another son--" "And what it would mean to Spencer & Son--!" Josiah groaned at that. As a matter of fact he hadn't a chance to escape. His two sisters had never allowed themselves to be courted, but they must have had their private ideas of how such affairs should be conducted, for they took Josiah in hand and put him through his paces with a speed which can only be described as breathless. Flowers, candy, books, jewellery, a ring, the ring--the two maiden sisters lived a winter of such romance that they nearly bloomed into youth again themselves; and whenever Josiah had the least misgiving about a man of fifty-two marrying a girl of twenty-six, they whispered to him: "Think what it will mean to Spencer & Son--" And whenever Martha showed the least misgivings they whispered to her: "That's only his way, my dear; you mustn't mind that." And once Cordelia added (while Patty nodded her head): "Of course, there has to be a man at a wedding, but I want you to feel that you would be marrying us, as much as you would be marrying Josiah. You would be his wife, of course, but you would be our little sister, too; and Patty and I would make you just as happy as we could--" Later they were glad they had told her this. It was a quiet wedding and for a time nothing happened; although if you could have seen the two maiden sisters at church on a Sunday morning, you would have noticed that after the benediction they seemed to be praying very earnestly indeed--even as Sarah prayed in the temple so many years ago. There was this curious difference, however: Sarah had prayed for herself, but these two innocent spinsters were praying for another. Then one morning, never to be forgotten, Martha thought to herself at the breakfast table, "I'll tell them as soon as breakfast is over." But she didn't. She thought, "I'll take them into the garden and tell them there--" But though she took them into the garden, somehow she couldn't tell them there. "As soon as we get back into the house," she said, "I'll tell them." Even then the words didn't come, and Martha sat looking out of the window so quietly and yet with such a look of mingled fear and pride and exaltation on her face, that Cordelia suddenly seemed to divine it. "Oh, Martha," she cried. "Do you--do you--do you really think--" Miss Patty looked up, too--stricken breathless all in a moment--and quicker than I can tell it, the three of them had their arms around each other, and tears and smiles and kisses were blended--quite in the immemorial manner. CHAPTER III "We must start sewing," said Miss Cordelia. So they started sewing, Martha and the two maiden sisters, every stitch a hope, every seam the dream of a young life's journey. "We must think beautiful thoughts," spoke up Miss Patty another day. So while they sewed, sometimes one and sometimes another read poetry, and sometimes they read the Psalms, especially the Twenty-third, and sometimes Martha played the Melody in F, or the Shower of Stars or the Cinquieme Nocturne. "We must think brave thoughts, too," said Miss Cordelia. So after that, whenever one of them came to a stirring editorial in a newspaper, or a rousing passage in a book, it was put on one side to be read at their daily sewing bee; and when these failed they read Barbara Fritchie, or Patrick Henry, or Horatio at the Bridge. "Do you notice how much better Josiah is looking!" whispered Miss Cordelia to her sister one evening. "A different man entirely," proudly nodded Miss Patty. "I heard him speaking yesterday about an addition to the factory--" "I suppose it's because he's living in the future now--" "Instead of in the past. But I do wish he wouldn't be quite so sure that it's going to be a boy. I'm afraid sometimes--that perhaps he won't like it--if it's a girl--" They had grown beautiful as they spoke, but now they looked at each other in silence, the same fear in both their glances. "Oh, Cordelia," suddenly spoke Miss Patty. "Suppose it is a girl--!" "Hush, dear. Remember, we must have brave thoughts. And even if the first one is a girl, there'll be plenty of time for a boy--" "I hadn't thought of that," said Miss Patty. They smiled at each other in concert, and a faint touch of colour arose to Miss Cordelia's slightly withered cheeks. "Do you know," she said, hesitating, smiling--yes, and thrilling a little, too--"we've had so much to do with bringing it about, that somehow I feel as though it's going to be _my_ baby--" "Why, Cordelia!" whispered Miss Patty, who had been nodding throughout this confession. "That's exactly how I feel about it, too!" It wasn't long after that before they began to look up names. "If Josiah wasn't such a family name," said Miss Cordelia, "I'd like to call him Basil. That means kingly or royal." Then of course they turned to Cordelia. Cordelia meant warm-hearted. Patricia meant royal. Martha meant the ruler of the house. They were pleased at these revelations. The week before the great event was expected, Martha had a notion one day. She wished to visit the factory. Josiah interpreted this as the happiest of auguries. "After seven generations," was his cryptic remark, "you simply can't keep them away. It's bred in the bone...." He drove Martha down to the works himself, and took her through the various shops, some of which were of such a length that when you stood at one end, the other seemed to vanish into distance. Everything went well until they reached the shipping room where a travelling crane was rolling on its tracks overhead, carrying a load of boxes. This crane was hurrying back empty for another load, its chain and tackle swinging low, when Martha started across the room to look at one of the boys who had caught his thumb between a hammer and a nail and was trying to bind it with his handkerchief. The next moment the swinging tackle of the crane struck poor Martha in the back, caught in her dress and dragged her for a few horrible yards along the floor. That night the house on the hill had two unexpected visitors, the Angel of Death following quickly in the footsteps of the Angel of Life. "You poor motherless little thing," breathed Cordelia, cuddling the baby in her arms. "Look, Josiah," she said, trying to rouse her brother. "Look ...it's smiling at you--" But Josiah looked up with haggard eyes that saw nothing, and could only repeat the sentence which he had been whispering to himself, "It's God's own punishment--God's own punishment--there are things--I can't tell you--" The doctor came to him at last and, after he was quieter, the two sisters went away, carrying their precious burden with them. "Wasn't there a girl's name which means bitterness?" asked Miss Cordelia, suddenly stopping. "Yes," said Miss Patty. "That's what 'Mary' means." The two sisters looked at each other earnestly--looked at each other and nodded. "We'll call her 'Mary' then," said Miss Cordelia. And that is how my heroine got her name. CHAPTER IV I wish I had time to tell you in the fulness of detail how those two spinsters brought up Mary, but there is so much else to put before you that I dare not dally here. Still, I am going to find time to say that all the love and affection which Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty had ever woven into their fancies were now showered down upon Mary--falling softly and sweetly like petals from two full-blown roses when stirred by a breeze from the south. When she was a baby, Mary's nose had an upward tilt. One morning after Miss Cordelia had bathed her (which would have reminded you of a function at the court of the Grand Monarque, with its Towel Holder, Soap Holder, Temperature Taker and all and sundry) she suddenly sent the two maids and the nurse away and, casting dignity to the winds, she lifted Mary in a transport of love which wouldn't be denied any longer, and pretended to bite the end of the poor babe's nose off. "Oh, I know it's candy," she said, mumbling away and hugging the blessed child. "It's even got powdered sugar on it--" "That's talcum powder," said Miss Patty, watching with a jealous eye. "Powdered sugar, yes," persisted Miss Cordelia, mumbling on. "I know. And I know why her nose turns up at the end, too. That naughty Miss Patty washed it with yellow soap one night when I wasn't looking--" "I never, never did!" protested Miss Patty, all indignation in a moment. "Washed it with yellow soap, yes," still persisted Miss Cordelia, "and made it shine like a star. And that night, when Mary lay in her bed, the moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling there, and the moon said 'Little star! Little star! What are you doing there in Mary's bed? You come up here in the sky and twinkle where you belong!' And all night long, Mary's little nose tried to get up to the moon, and that's why it turns up at the end--" And then in one grand finale of cannibalistic transport, Miss Cordelia concluded, "Oh, I could eat her up!" But it was Miss Patty's turn then, because although Cordelia bathed the child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. So Miss Patty put her arms out with an authority which wouldn't take "No" for an answer, and if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard-- "Oh, where have you been My pretty young thing--?" Which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how she danced her a dance for the Dauphin of France. By that time you won't be surprised when I tell you that Miss Patty's cheeks had a downright glow on them--and I think her heart had something of the same glow, too, because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing heroine, she beamed over to her sister and said (though somewhat out of breath) "Isn't it nice!" This, of course, was all strictly private. In public, Mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. You would never dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey feather (which Miss Cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever been atomized all over with Lily of the Valley (which Miss Patty never did again because Ma'm Maynard, the old French nurse, smelled it and told the maids). But always deep down in the child was an indefinable quality which puzzled her two aunts. As Mary grew older, this quality became clearer. "I know what it is," said Miss Cordelia one night. "She has a mind of her own. Everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out." I can't tell you why, but Miss Patty looked uneasy. "Only this morning," continued Miss Cordelia, "I heard Ma'm Maynard telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the one under her bedroom window. Mary turned to her with those eyes of hers--you know the way she does--'Ma'm Maynard,' she said, 'have you seen all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' And only yesterday I said to her, 'Mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. It isn't nice.' She gave me that look--you know--and said, 'Then let us learn to whistle, Aunt T'delia, and help to make it nice.'" "Imagine you and I saying things like that when we were girls," said Miss Patty, still looking troubled. "Yes, yes, I know. And yet... I sometimes think that if you and I had been brought up a little differently...." They were both quiet then for a time, each consulting her memories of hopes long past. "Just the same," said Miss Patty at last, "there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned." In which I think you would have agreed with her, if you could have seen Mary that same evening. At the time of which I am now writing she was six years old--a rather quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was well worth going to see. For some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "Poor Josiah!" She had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and gaunter than ever. Mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night after dinner he went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard her aunts say) until long after midnight. "If he only had some cheerful company," she once heard Aunt Cordelia remark. "But that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor Martha died," sighed Miss Patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a moment that Mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "If there had only been a boy, too!" All these things Mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can, especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time without saying anything. And on the same night when Aunt Patty had come to the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned, Mary waited until she knew that dinner was over and then, escaping Ma'm Maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart skipping a beat now and then at the adventure before her. She passed through the hall and the library like a determined little ghost and then, gently turning the knob, she opened the study door. Her father was sitting at his desk. At the sound of the opening door he turned and stared at the apparition which confronted him. Mary had closed the door and stood with her back to it, screwing up her courage for the last stage of her journey. And in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old Josiah's forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the purpose of any child. It may have been this which suddenly brought the tears to Mary's eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast guessed the loneliness in her father's heart. Whatever it was, she unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on Josiah's knee, her arms tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame to pieces. What passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence with their wet cheeks pressed together, I need not tell you; but when Ma'm Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later he carried Mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance. And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a visit to old Josiah's study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin with an elastic. In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers into his hand. He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. The next minute they were walking down the drive together. As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, "After seven generations you simply can't keep them away. It's bred in the bone." A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side. "If she had only been a boy!" he breathed. At the end of the drive he stopped. "You must go back now, dear." "No," said Mary and tried to pull him on. For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there irresolute, Mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor Martha's fate pulling him the other. "And yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime. Perhaps better now--before she understands--than later--" He lifted her and sat her on his arm. "Now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other. "This is important. If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself? Will you promise me that?" This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve: Still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss. He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory. The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants. A freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses. Long lines of trucks stood on the sidings outside. Wisps of steam arose in every direction, curious, palpitating. From up the river the roar of the falls could just be heard while from the open windows of the factory came that humming note of industry which, more than anything else, is like the sound which is sometimes made by a hive of bees, immediately before a swarm. It was a scene which always gave Josiah a well-nigh oppressive feeling of pride and punishment--pride that all this was his, that he was one of those Spencers who had risen so high above the common run of man--punishment that he had betrayed the trust which had been handed down to him, that he had broken the long line of fathers and sons which had sent the Spencer reputation, with steadily increasing fame, to the corners of the earth. As he walked down the hall that Saturday morning, his sombre eyes missing no detail, he felt Mary's fingers tighten around his hand and, glancing down at her, he saw that her attention, too, was engrossed by the scene below, her eyes large and bright as children's are when they listen to a fairy tale. Arrived at the office, he placed her in a chair by the side of his desk, and you can guess whether she missed anything of what went on. Clerks, business callers, heads of departments came and went. All had a smile for Mary who gravely smiled in return and straightway became her dignified little self again. "When is Mr. Woodward expected back?" Josiah asked a clerk. "On the ten-thirty, from Boston." This was Stanley Woodward, Josiah's cousin--Cousin Stanley of the spider's web whom you have already met. He was now the general manager of the factory, and had always thought that fate was on his side since the night he had heard of Martha's death and that the child she left behind her was a girl. Josiah glanced at his watch. "Time to make the rounds," he said and, lifting Mary on his arm, he left the office and started through the plant. And, oh, how Mary loved it--the forests of belts, whirring and twisting like live things, the orderly lines of machine tools, each doing its work with more than human ingenuity and precision, the enormous presses reminding her of elephants stamping out pieces of metal, the grinders which sang to her, the drilling machines which whirred to her, the polishing machines which danced for her, the power hammers which bowed to her. Yes, and better than all was the smile that each man gave her, smiles that came from the heart, for all the quiet respect that accompanied them. "It's his daughter," they whispered as soon as Josiah was out of hearing. Here and there one would stop smiling and say, "I remember the day he brought her mother through--" At the end of one of the workshops, Mr. Spencer looked at his watch again. "We'd better get back to the office," he said. "Tired, dear?" In a rapture of denial, she kicked her little toes against his side. "Bred in the bone..." he mused. "Eh, if she had only been a boy...!" But that was past all sighing for, and in the distance he saw Cousin Stanley, just back from Boston, evidently coming to find him. Mary, too, was watching the approaching figure. She had sometimes seen him at the house and had formed against him one of those instinctive dislikes which few but children know. As Stanley drew near she turned her head and buried her face against her father's shoulder. "Good news?" asked Josiah. "Good news, of course," said Stanley, speaking as an irresistible force might speak, if it were endowed with a tongue. "When Spencer & Son start out for a thing, they get it." You could tell that what he meant was "When Stanley Woodward starts out for a thing, he gets it." His elbows suddenly grew restless. "It will take a lot of money," he added. "Of course we shall have to increase the factory here--" Still Mary kept her face hidden against her father's shoulder. "Got the little lady with you, I see." "Yes; I'm afraid I've tired her out." A murmur arose from his shoulder. "What?" said Josiah. "Not tired? Then turn around and shake hands with Uncle Stanley." Slowly, reluctantly, Mary lifted her head and began to reach out her hand. Then just before their fingers would have touched, she quickly clasped her hands around her father's neck and again she buried her face upon his shoulder. "She doesn't seem to take to you," said Josiah. "So it seems," said the other dryly. Reaching around he touched Mary's cheek with the back of his finger. "Not mad at your uncle, are you, little girl?" he asked. "Don't!" said Josiah, speaking with quick concern. "You're only making her tremble...." The two stared at each other, slightly frowning. Stanley was the first to catch himself. "I'll see you at the office later," he said, and with a bow at the little figure on Josiah's arm he added with a touch of irony, "Perhaps I had better wait until you're alone!" He turned and made his way back to the office, his elbows grown restless again. "A good thing it isn't a boy," he thought, "or he might not like me when he grows up, either. But a girl... Oh, well, as it happens, girls don't count.... And a good thing, too, they don't," he thoughtfully added. "A good thing, too, they don't...." CHAPTER V Mary grew, and grew, and grew. She never outgrew her aversion to Uncle Stanley, though. One day, when she was in Josiah's office, a young man entered and was warmly greeted by her father. He carried a walking stick, sported a white edging on his waistcoat and had just the least suspicion of perfumery on him--a faint scent that reminded Mary of raspberry jam. "He smells nice," she thought, missing nothing of this. "You've never seen my daughter, have you?" asked Josiah. "A little queen," said the young man with a brilliant smile. "I hope I'll see her often." "That's Uncle Stanley's son Burdon," said Josiah when he had left. "He's just through college; he's going to start in the office here." Mary liked to hear that, and always after that she looked for Burdon and watched him with an interest that had something of fascination in it. Before she was ten, she and Josiah had become old chums. She knew the factory by the river almost as well as she knew the house on the hill. Not only that but she could have told you most of the processes through which the bearings passed before they were ready for the shipping room. To show you how her mind worked, one night she asked her father, "What makes a machine squeak?" "Needs oil," said Josiah, "generally speaking." The next Saturday morning she not only kept her eyes open, but her ears as well. Presently her patience was rewarded. "Squee-e-eak! Squee-e-eak!" complained a lathe which they were passing. Mary stopped her father and looked her very old-fashionedest at the lathe hand. "Needs oil," said she, "gen'ly speaking." It was one of the proud moments in Josiah's life, and yet when back of him he heard a whisper, "Chip of the old block," he couldn't repress the well nigh passionate yearning, "Oh, Lord, if she had only been a boy!" That year an addition was being made to the factory and Mary liked to watch the builders. She often noticed a boy and a dog sitting under the trees and watching, too. Once they smiled at each other, the boy blushing like a sunset. After that they sometimes spoke while Josiah was talking to the foreman. His name, she learned, was Archey Forbes, his father was the foreman, and when he grew up he was going to be a builder, too. But no matter how often they saw each other, Archey always blushed to the eyes whenever Mary smiled at him. Occasionally a man would be hurt at the factory. Whenever this happened, Aunt Patty paid a weekly call to the injured man until he was well--an old Spencer custom that had never died out. Mary generally accompanied her aunts on these visits--which was a part of the family training--and in this way she saw the inside of many a home. "I wouldn't mind being a poor man," she said one Saturday morning, breaking a long silence, "but I wouldn't be a poor woman for anything." "Why not?" asked Miss Cordelia. She couldn't tell them why but for the last half hour she had been comparing the lives of the men in the factory with the lives of their wives at home. "A man can work in the factory," she tried to tell them, "and everything is made nice for him. But his wife at home-now--nobody cares--nobody cares what happens to her--" "I never saw such a child," said Miss Cordelia, watching her start with her father down the hill a few minutes later. "And the worst of it is, I think we are partly to blame for it." "Cordelia!" said Miss Patty. "How?" "I mean in keeping her surrounded so completely with old people. When everything is said and done, dear, it isn't natural." "But we would miss her so much if we sent her to school--" "Oh, I wasn't thinking of sending her to school--" Miss Patty was quiet for a time. "If we could find some one of her own age," she said at last, "whom she could play with, and talk with--some one who would lead her thoughts into more natural channels--" This question of companionship for Mary puzzled the two Miss Spencers for nearly a year, and then it was settled, as so many things are, in an unexpected manner. In looking up the genealogy of the Spicer family, Miss Patty discovered that a distant relative in Charleston had just died, leaving a daughter behind him--an orphan--who was a year older than Mary. Correspondence finally led Miss Patty to make the journey, and when she returned she brought with her a dark-eyed girl who might have been the very spirit of youthful romance. "My dear," said Miss Patty, "this is your cousin Helen. She is going to make us a long visit, and I hope you will love each other very much." The two cousins studied each other. Then in her shy way Mary held out her hand. "Oh, I love you already!" said Helen impulsively, and hugged her instead. That evening they exchanged confidences and when Miss Cordelia heard about this, she questioned Mary and enjoyed herself immensely. "And then what did she ask you?" finally inquired Miss Cordelia, making an effort to keep her face straight. "She asked me if I had a beau, and I told her 'No.'" "And then what did she say?" "She asked me if there was anything the matter with the boys around here, and I told her I didn't know." "And then?" "And then she said, 'I'll bet you I'll soon find out.' But just then Aunt Patty came in and we had to stop." Later Miss Patty came downstairs looking thoughtful and spoke to her sister in troubled secret. "I've just been in Helen's room," she said, "and what do you think she has on her dresser?" "I give it up," replied Miss Cordelia in a very rich, voice. "Three photographs of young men!" The two sisters gazed at each other, quite overcome, and if you had been there you would have seen that if they had held fans in their hands, they would have fanned themselves with vigour. "Didn't you hear anything of this--in Charleston?" asked Miss Cordelia at last. "Not a word, my dear. I heard she was very popular; that was all." "'Popular'...!" "The one thing, perhaps, that we have never been." Miss Cordelia shook her head and made a helpless gesture. "Well," she said at last, "I must confess we were looking for an antidote ... but I never thought we'd be quite so successful...." CHAPTER VI A few weeks after her arrival, Helen and Mary were walking to the post-office. Helen had a number of letters to mail, her correspondents being active and her answers prompt. They hadn't gone far when a young man appeared in the distance, approaching them. Mary gave him a look to see who it was, and after saying to Helen, "This is Bob McAllister--one of our neighbours. He's home from school," she continued the conversation and failed to give Sir Robert another thought. Not so Helen, however. One hand went to the back of her hair with a graceful gesture, and next she touched her nose with a powdered handkerchief. A moment before, she had been looking straight ahead with a rather thoughtful expression, but now she half turned to Mary, smiling and nodding. In some manner her carriage, even her walk, underwent a change. But when I try to tell you what I mean I feel as tongue-tied as a boy who is searching for a word which doesn't exist. As nearly as I can express it, she seemed to "wiggle" a little, although that isn't the word. She seemed to hang out a sign "Oh, look--look at me!"--and that doesn't quite describe it, either. Just as Master McAllister reached them, raising his hat and bowing to Mary and her friend--Helen's eyes and Helen's smile unconsciously lingered on him for a second or two until, apparently recollecting that she was looking at another, she lowered her glance and peeped at him through her eyelashes instead. Mary meanwhile was calmly continuing her conversation, never even suspecting the comedy which was going on by her side, but when Helen shot a glance over her shoulder and whispered with satisfaction "He turned to look!" even Mary began to have some slight idea of what was going on. "Helen," she demurred, "you should never turn around to look at a young man." "Why not?" laughed Helen, her arm going around her cousin's waist. And speaking in the voice of one who has just achieved a triumph, she added, "They're all such fo-oo-ools!" Mary thought that over. Helen's correspondents continued active, and as each letter arrived she read parts of it to her cousin. She was a mimic, and two of the letters she read in character one afternoon when Mary was changing her dress for dinner. "Oh, Helen, you shouldn't," said Mary, laughing in spite of herself and feeling ashamed of it the same moment. "I think it's awful to make fun of people who write you like that." "Pooh!" laughed Helen. "They're all such fo-oo-ools!" "You don't think that of all men, do you!" "Why not?" laughed Helen again, and tucking the letters into her waist she started humming. Unobserved Ma'm Maynard had entered to straighten the room and, through the mirror, Mary saw her grimly nodding her head. "Why, Ma'm Maynard," said Mary, "you don't think that all men are fools, too, do you?" "Eet is not halways safe to say what one believes," said Ma'm, pursing her lips with mystery. "Eef mademoiselles, your aunts, should get to hear--" "Oh, I won't tell." "Then, yes, ma cherie, I think at times all men are fools ... and I think it is also good at times to make a fool of man. For why? Because it is revenge. "Ah, ma cherie, I who have been three times wed--I tell you I often think the old-world view is right. Man is the natural enemy of a woman. "He is not to be trus'. "I have heard it discuss' by great minds--things I cannot tell you yet--but you will learn them as you live. And halways the same conclusion arrives: Man is the natural enemy of a woman, and the one best way to keep him from making a fool of you, is to turn 'round queeck and make it a fool of him!" "Oh, Ma'm Maynard, no!" protested Mary, who had turned from the mirror and was staring with wide eyes. "I can't believe it--never!" "What is it, ma cherie, which you cannot believe?" "That man is woman's natural enemy." "But I tell you, yes, yes.... It has halways been so and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--it is man! "Think just for a moment, ma cherie," she continued. "Why are parents so careful? Mon Dieu, you would think it at times that a tiger is out in the streets at night--such precautions are made if the girl she is out after dark. And yes, but the parents are right. There is truly a tiger who roams in the black, but his name--eet is Man! "Think just for a moment, ma cherie. Why are chaperons require'--even in the highest, most culture' society? Why is marriage require'? Is it not because all the world knows well that a man cannot be left to his own promise, but has to be bound by the law as a lion is held in a cage?" "No," said Mary, shaking her head, "I'm sure it isn't that way. You're simply turning things around and making everything seem horrid." "You think so, ma cherie? Eh, bien. Three husbands I've had. I am not without experience." "But you might as well say that woman is man's natural enemy--" "And some say that," said Ma'm nodding darkly. "Left to himself, they say, man might aspire to be as the gods; but halways at his helbow is a woman like a figure of fate--and she--she keeps him down where he belongs--" "I hate all that," said Mary quietly. "Every once in a while I read something like it in a book or a magazine, and whenever I do, I put the book down and open the window and breathe the fresh air. Of course I know some married people aren't happy. But it isn't always because they are married. Single people are unhappy, too. Aunt Patty has indigestion sometimes, and I suppose a lot of people do. But you wouldn't call food a natural enemy; would you? And some children are just as bad as they can be. But you wouldn't call children natural enemies, would you--or try to get along without them?" But Ma'm Maynard would only shrug her shoulders. "Eh, bien," she said. "When you have live' as long as me--" Through the open window a clock could be heard. "Six o'clock!" squealed Helen, "and I'm not changed yet." As she hurried to the door she said, "I heard Aunt Patty say that Uncle Stanley was coming to dinner again tonight. I hope he brings his handsome son again--don't you?" CHAPTER VII Uncle Stanley of late had been a frequent visitor on the hill, occasionally bringing his son Burdon with him, but generally coming alone. After dinner he and Josiah would sit in the den till well past midnight, going over papers and figures, and drafting out instructions for Judge Cutler, the firm's lawyer. Mary was never able to overcome her aversion to Uncle Stanley. "I wish he'd stay away," she ruefully remarked to her father one night. "Three evenings this week I haven't been able to come in the den." "Never mind, dear," said Josiah, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. "What we're doing: it's all for you." "All for me? How?" He explained to her that whereas Josiah Spencer & Son had always been a firm, it was now being changed to a corporation. "As long as there was a son," he said, "the partnership arrangement was all right. But the way things are now--Well, when I'm gone, Mary, you'll own the stock of the company, and draw your dividends, and have no responsibilities to bother you." "But who'll run the factory?" "I suppose Stanley will, as long as he lives. You'll be the owner, of course, but I don't think you'll ever find anybody to beat Uncle Stanley as a general manager." "And when Uncle Stanley dies--what then?" "I think you'll find his son Burdon the next best man." Mary felt her heart grow heavy. It may have been presentiment, or it may have been the thought of her father's possible death. "Don't let's talk any more about dying," she said. "But tell me: Is that why you are making so many additions to the factory--because we are changing to a corporation?" Josiah hesitated, struggling to speak to his daughter as though she were a young man instead of a young woman. But heredity, training and world-old custom restrained him. What would a girl know about mergers, combinations, fundamental patents, the differences between common and preferred stock, and all that? "It would only confuse her," he thought, looking at her with love in his eyes. "She would nod her pretty head to be polite, but I might as well be talking Greek to her." "No, dear," he said, at last. "I'll tell you why we are making those additions. I have bought options on some of the biggest bearing factories in the country--so you won't have so much competition when I'm gone. And instead of running those other factories, I'm going to move their machinery down here. When the changes are once made, it's more economical to run one big factory than half a dozen little ones. And of course it will make it better for New Bethel." "But it must make it bad for the towns where the factories are now," said Mary after a thoughtful pause. "I know how it would hurt New Bethel if we closed up." Josiah nodded his head. "I didn't like it myself at first." "It was Uncle Stanley's idea, then?" "Yes; he's engineering it." Again Mary felt her heart grow heavy. "It must be costing an awful lot of money," she said. "It is," said Josiah, leaning over and making a gesture. "Of course we'll get it back, and more, too--but for quite a few years now it's been taking a lot of money--a dreadful lot of money. Still, I think the end's in sight--" He was sitting at his desk with a shaded lamp in front of him, and as he leaned over and gestured with his hands, Mary's eyes caught the shadow on the wall. She seemed to see a spider--a spider that was spinning and weaving his web--and for the third time that night her heart grew heavy within her. CHAPTER VIII The next day was Saturday and Mary drove her father down to the factory. A small army of men was at work at the new improvements, and when they reached the brow of the hill which overlooked the scene below, Josiah felt that thrill of pride which always ran over him when beholding this monument to his family's genius. "The greatest of its kind in the world," he said. With her free hand, Mary patted his arm. "That's us!" she said, as proud as he. "I'll leave you at the office door, and then I'm going to drive around and see how the building's going on--" There was plenty for Mary to see. A gang of structural workers was putting up the steel frame-work for one of the new buildings. Nearby the brick-layers were busy with mortar and trowels. Carpenters were swarming over a roof, their hammers beating staccato. As they worked in the sunshine, they joked and laughed and chatted with each other, and Mary couldn't help reverting to some of her old thoughts. "How nice to be a man!" she half sighed to herself. "Back home, their wives are working in the kitchens--the same thing every day and nothing to show for it. But the men come out and do all sorts of interesting things, and when they are through they can say 'I helped build that factory' or 'I helped build that ship' or whatever it is that they have been doing. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, but I suppose it's the way it always has been, and always will be--" Near her a trench was being dug for water pipes. At one place the men had uncovered a large rock, and she was still wondering how they were going to get it out of the way, when a young man came briskly forward and gave one glance at the problem. "We'll rig up a derrick for this little beauty," he said. "Come on, boys; let's get some timbers." They were back again in no time, and before Mary knew what they were doing, they had raised a wooden tripod over the rock. The apex of this was bound together with a chain from which a pulley was hung. Other chains were slung under the rock. Then from a nearby hoisting engine, a cable was passed through the pulley and fastened to the chains below. "All right, boys?" "All right!" The young man raised his hand. "Let her go!" he shouted. "Tweet-tweet!" sounded a whistle. The engine throbbed. The cable tightened. The little beauty began to stir uneasily in its hammock of chains. Then slowly and steadily the rock arose, and nearly as quickly as I can write the words, it was lying on the side of the trench and the derrick was being dismantled. As the young man hurried away he passed Mary's car. "Why, it's Archey!" she thought. Whether or not it was due to telepathy, the young man looked up and his colour deepened under his tan. "It is Archey; isn't it?" asked Mary, leaning forward and smiling. "Yes'm," he said, awkwardly enough, and grammar deserting him in his confusion he added: "It's me all right, Miss Spencer." "I've been watching you get that rock out," she began, looking at him with frank admiration, and then they talked for a few minutes. I need not tell you what they said--it would only sound trivial--but as they talked a bond of sympathy, of mutual interest, seemed gradually to wind itself around them. They smiled, nodded, looking approvingly at each other; and each felt that feeling of warmth and satisfaction which comes to the heart when instinct whispers, "Make no mistake. You've found a friend." "But what are you doing here?" she finally asked. "Working," he grinned. "I graduated last year--construction engineer--and this is my second job. This winter I was down in old Mexico on bridge work--" "You must tell me about it some time," she said, as one of the workmen came to take him away; and driving off in her car she couldn't help thinking with a smile of amusement, "'Woman's natural enemy'--how silly it sounds in the open air ...!" CHAPTER IX Meanwhile the matter of Mary's education was receiving the attention of her aunts. "Patty," said Miss Cordelia one day, "do you know that child of ours is seventeen?" The years had dealt kindly with the Misses Spencer and as they looked at each other, with thoughtful benignity, their faces were like two studies in silver and pink. "Although I say it myself," continued Miss Cordelia, "I doubt if we could have improved her studies. Indeed she is unusually advanced in French, English and music. But I do think she ought to go to a good finishing school now for a year or two--Miss Parsons', of course--where she would not only be welcomed because of her family, but where she would form suitable friendships and learn those lessons of modern deportment which we ourselves, I fear, would never be able to teach her." But if you had been there when the subject of Miss Parsons' School for Young Ladies was broached to Mary, I think it would have reminded you of that famous recipe for rabbit pie which so wisely begins "First catch your rabbit." Mary listened to all that was said and then, quietly but unmistakably, she put her foot down on Miss Parsons' fashionable institution of learning. I doubt if she herself could have given you all her reasons. For one thing, the older she grew, the more democratic, the more American she was becoming. Deep in her heart she thought the old original Spencers had done more for the world than any leaders of fashion who ever lived; and when she read or thought of those who had made America, her mind never went to smart society and its doings, but to those great, simple souls who had braved the wilderness in search of liberty and adventure--who had toiled, and fought, and given their lives, unknown, unsung, but never in Mary's mind to be forgotten. And whenever she thought of travel, she found she would rather see the Rockies than the Alps, rather go to New Orleans than Old Orleans, rather visit the Grand Canyon than the Nile, and would infinitely rather cross the American continent and see three thousand miles of her own country, than cross the Atlantic and see three thousand miles of water that belonged to every one in general and no one in particular. "But, my dear," said Miss Cordelia, altogether taken aback, "you ought to go somewhere, you know. Let me tell you about Miss Parsons' school--" "It's no use, Aunty. I don't want to go to Miss Parsons' school--" "Where do you want to go then?" Like most inspirations, it came like a flash. "If I'm going anywhere, I want to go to college--" To college! A Spencer girl--or a Spicer--going to college! Miss Cordelia gasped. If Mary had been noticing, she might not have pursued her inspiration further, but her mind was running along a breathless panorama of Niagara Falls, Great Lakes, Chicago, the farms of the Middle West, Yellowstone Park, geysers, the Old Man of the Mountain, Aztec ruins, redwood forests, orange groves and at the end of the vista--like a statue at the end of a garden walk--she imagined a great democratic institution of learning where one might conceivably be prepared to solve some of those problems which life seems to take such deep delight in presenting to us, with the grim command, "Not one step farther shall you go until you have answered this!" "To college?" gasped Miss Cordelia. "Yes," said Mary, still intent upon her panorama, "there's a good one in California. I'll look it up." The more Mary thought of it, the fonder she grew of her idea--which is, I think, a human trait and true of nearly every one. It was in vain that her aunts argued with her, pointing out the social advantages which she would enjoy from attending Miss Parsons' School. Mary's objection was fundamental. She simply didn't care for those advantages. Indeed, she didn't regard them as advantages at all. Helen did, though. In her heart Helen had always longed to tread the stage of society--to her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign shores--"big fools," all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the smiles of Youth and Beauty. "Mary can go to California if she likes," said Helen at last, "but give me Miss Parsons' School." And Mary did go to California, although I doubt if she would have gained her point if her father hadn't taken her part. For four years she attended the university by the Golden Gate, and every time she made the journey between the two oceans, sometimes accompanied by Miss Cordelia and sometimes by Miss Patty, she seemed to be a little more serene of glance, a little more tranquil of brow, as though one by one she were solving some of those problems which I have mentioned above. Meanwhile Helen was in her glory at Miss Parsons'; and though the two aunts didn't confess it, they liked to sit and listen to her chatter of the girls whose friendship she was making, and to whose houses she was invited for the holidays. When she was home, she sang snatches from the operas, danced with imaginary partners, rehearsed parts of private theatricals and dreamed of conquests. She had also learned the knack of dressing her hair which, when done in the grand manner, isn't far from being a talent. Pulled down on one side, with a pin or two adjusted, she was a dashing young duchess who rode to hounds and made the old duke's eyes pop out. Or she could dip it over her ears, change a few pins again and--lo!--she was St. Cecilia seated at the organ, and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She is quite pretty and very clever," said Miss Cordelia one day. "I think she will marry well." "Do you think she's as pretty as Mary?" asked Miss Patty. "My dear!" said Miss Cordelia with a look that said 'What a question you are asking!' "--is pretty in a way, of course," she said, "but there is something about our Mary--" "I know," nodded Miss Patty. "Something you can't express--" "The dear child," mused Miss Cordelia, looking out toward the west. "I wonder what she is doing this very moment!" At that very moment, as it happened, Mary was in her room on the other side of the continent studying the manufacture of raisin fudge. Theretofore she had made it too soft, or too sugary, but this time she was determined to have it right. Long ago she had made all the friends that her room would hold, and most of them were there. Some were listening to a girl in spectacles who was talking socialism, while a more frivolous group, perched on the bed, was arguing the question whether the perfect lover had a moustache or a clean-shaven lip. "Money is cruel; it ought to be abolished," said the earnest girl in the spectacles. "Money is a millstone which the rich use to grind the poor. You girls know it as well as I do." Mary stirred away at the fudge. "It's a good thing she doesn't know that I'm rich," she smiled to herself. "I wonder when I shall start grinding the poor!" "And yet the world simply couldn't get along without the wage-earners," continued the young orator. "So all they have to do is strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they can have everything they want--" "So could the doctors," mused Mary to herself, stirring away at the fudge. "Imagine the doctors striking.... And so could the farmers. Imagine the farmers striking for eight hours a day, and no work Sundays and holidays, and every Saturday afternoon off...." Dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind. She stirred the fudge more reflectively than ever. "I wonder if civil wars are started that way," she thought, "one class setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows. Suppose--yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a day, and as much money as the men, and Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, and all the rest of it.... The world certainly couldn't get along without women. As Becky says, they would only have to strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they could get everything they wanted--" Although she didn't suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it. But all unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge. "I've always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with men," she nodded to herself. "Still, perhaps it's the way of the world, like ... like children have the measles ... and old folks have to wear glasses." She put the pan on the sill to cool and stood there for a time, looking out at the campus, dreamy-eyed, half occupied with her own thoughts and half listening to the conversation behind her. "There oughtn't to be any such thing as private property--" "Why, Vera, if he kissed you in the dark, you couldn't tell whether he was a man or a girl--" "--Everything should belong to the state--" "--No, listen. Kiss me both ways, and then tell me which you think is the nicest--" A squeal of laughter arose from the bed and, turning, Mary saw that one of the girls was holding the back of a toothbrush against her upper lip. "Now," she mumbled, "this is with the moustache ... Kiss me hard ..." "The greatest book in the world," continued the girl with the spectacles, "is Marx's book on Capital--" Mary turned to the window again, more dreamy-eyed than ever. "The greatest book in the world," she thought, "is the book of life.... Oh, if I could only write a few pages in it ... myself ...!" CHAPTER X Mary "came out" the winter after her graduation. If she had been left to herself she would have dispensed with the ceremony quite as cheerfully as she had dispensed with Miss Parsons' School for Young Ladies. But in the first place her aunts were adamant, and in the second place they were assisted by Helen. Helen hadn't been going to finishing school for nothing. She knew the value of a proper social introduction. Indeed it was her secret ambition to outshine her cousin--an ambition which was at once divined by her two aunts. Whereupon they groomed Mary to such good purpose that I doubt if Society ever looked upon a lovelier debutante. She was dressed in chiffon, wore the Spencer pearls, and carried herself with such unconscious charm that more than one who danced with her that night felt a rapping on the door of his heart and heard the voice of love exclaiming "Let me in!" There was one young man in particular who showed her such attention that the matrons either smiled or frowned at each other. Even Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty were pleased, although of course they didn't show it for a moment. He was a handsome, lazy-looking young rascal when he first appeared on the scene, lounging against the doorway, drawling a little as he talked to his friends--evidently a lion, bored in advance with the whole proceeding and meaning to slip away as soon as he could. But when his eye fell on Mary, he stared at her unobserved for nearly a minute and his ennui disappeared into thin air. "What's the matter, Wally?" asked one of his friends. "James," he solemnly replied, "I'm afraid it's something serious. I only hope it's catching." The next minute he was being introduced to Mary and was studying her card. "Some of these I can't dance," she warned him. "Will you mark them with a tick, please--those you can't dance?" Unsuspectingly she marked them. "Good!" said he, writing his name against each tick. "We'll sit those out. The next waltz, though, we will dance that." "But that's engaged--'Chester A. Bradford,'" she read. "Poor Brad--didn't I tell you?" asked Wally. "He fell downstairs a moment ago and broke his leg." That was the beginning of it. The first dance they sat out Wally said to himself, "I shall kiss her, if it's the last thing I ever do." But he didn't. The next dance they sat out he said to himself, "I shall kiss her if I never do another thing as long as I live--" But he didn't. The last dance they sat out he said to himself, "I shall kiss her if I hang for it." He didn't kiss her, even then, but felt himself tremble a little as he looked in her eyes. Then it was that the truth began to dawn upon him. "I'm a gone coon," he told himself, and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief ... "You've got him, all right," said Helen later, going to Mary's room ostensibly to undress, but really to exchange those confidences without which no party is complete. "Got who?" asked Mary. And she a Bachelor of Arts! "Oh, aren't you innocent! Wally Cabot, of course. Did he kiss you?" "No, he did not!" "Of course, if you don't want to tell--!" "There's nothing to tell." "There isn't? ... Oh, well, don't worry.... There soon will be." Helen was right. From that time forward Mary's own shadow was hardly less attentive than Master Wally Cabot. His high-powered roadster was generally doing one of three things. It was either going to Mary's, or coming from Mary's, or taking a needed rest under Mary's porte cochère. One day Mary suddenly said to her father, "Who was Paul?" Fortunately for Josiah the light was on his back. "Last night at the dance," she continued, "I heard a woman saying that I didn't look the least bit like Paul, and I wondered who he was." "Perhaps some one in her own family," said Josiah at last. "Must have been," Mary carelessly nodded. They went on chatting and presently Josiah was himself again. "What are you going to do about Walter Cabot?" he asked, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. Mary made a helpless gesture. "Has he asked you yet?" "Yes," she said in a muffled voice, "--often." "Why don't you take him?" Again Mary made her helpless gesture and, for a long moment she too was on the point of opening her heart. But again heredity, training and age-old tradition stood between them, finger on lip. "I sometimes have such a feeling that I want to do something in the world," she nearly told him. "And if I married Wally, it would spoil it all. I sometimes have such dreams--such wonderful dreams of doing something--of being somebody--and I know that if I married Wally I should never be able to dream like that again--" As you can see, that isn't the sort of a thing which a girl can very well say to her father--or to any one else for that matter, except in fear and hesitation. "The way I am now," she nearly told him, "there are ever so many things in life that I can do--ever so many doors that I can open. But if I marry Wally, every door is locked but one. I can be his wife; that's all." Obviously again, you couldn't expect a girl to speak like that, especially a girl with dreamy eyes and shy. Nevertheless those were the thoughts which often came to her at night, after she had said her prayers and popped into bed and lay there in the dark turning things over in her mind. One night, for instance, after Wally had left earlier than usual, she lay with her head snuggled on the pillow, full of vague dreams and visions--vague dreams of greatness born of the sunsets and stars and flowers--vague visions of proving herself worthy of the heritage of life. "I don't think it's a bit fair," she thought. "As soon as a woman marries--well, somehow, she's through. But it doesn't seem to make any difference to the man. He can go right on doing the big things--the great things--" She stopped, arrested by the sound of a mandolin under her window. The next moment the strains of Wally's tenor entered the room, mingled with the moonlight and the scent of the syringa bush. A murmuring, deep-toned trio accompanied him. "Soft o'er the fountain Ling'ring falls the southern moon--" The beauty of it brought a thrill to the roots of Mary's hair--brought quick tears to her eyes--and she was wondering if Wally was right, after all--if love (as he often told her) was indeed the one great thing of life and nothing else mattered, when her door opened and Helen came twittering in. "A serenade!" she whispered excitedly. "Im-a-gine!" She tip-toed to the window and, kneeling on the floor, watched the singers through the curtain--knowing well it wasn't for her, but drinking deep of the moment. Slowly, sweetly, the chorus grew fainter--fainter-- "Nita--Juanita Ask thy soul if we should part--" "What do you think of that!" said Helen, leaning over and giving her cousin a squeeze and a kiss. "He had the two Garde boys and Will Thompson with him. I thought he was leaving earlier than usual tonight; didn't you? But a serenade! I wonder if the others heard it, too!" Miss Patty and Miss Cordelia had both heard it, and Helen had hardly gone when they came pattering in--each as proud as Punch of Mary for having caused such miracles to perform--and gleeful, too, that they had lived in the land long enough to hear a real, live serenade. And after they had kissed her and gone, Ma'm Maynard came in with a pretty little speech in French. So that altogether Mary held quite a reception in bed. As one result, her feeling toward Wally melted into something like tenderness, and if it hadn't been for the tragic event next morning, the things which I have to tell you might never have taken place. "I wonder if your father heard it," said Miss Patty at the breakfast table next morning. "I wonder!" laughed Mary. "I think I'll run in and see." According to his custom Josiah breakfasted early and had gone to his den to look over his mail. Mary passed gaily through the library, but it wasn't long before she was back at the dining room door, looking as though she had seen a ghost. "Come--come and look," she choked. "Something--something terrible--" Josiah sat, half collapsed, in his chair. Before him, on the desk, lay his mail. Some he had read. Some he would never, never read. "He must have had a stroke," said Miss Cordelia, her arms around Mary; and looking at her brother she whispered, "I think something upset him." When they had sent for the doctor and had taken Mary away, they returned to look over the letters which Josiah had opened as his last mortal act. "I don't see anything in these that could have bothered him," said Miss Cordelia, fearfully looking. "What's this?" asked Miss Patty, picking up an empty envelope from the floor. It was post-marked "Rio de Janeiro" and the date showed that it had taken three weeks to make the journey. "I have some recollection of that writing," said Miss Cordelia. "So have I," said Miss Patty in a low voice, "but where's the letter?" Again it was she who made the discovery. "That must be it," she said. "His ash tray is cleaned out every morning." It was a large, brass tray and in it was the char of a paper that had been burned. This ash still lay in its folds and across its surface, black on black, could be seen a few lines which resembled the close of a letter. "Can you read it?" she asked. Miss Cordelia bent over, and as a new angle of light struck the tray, the words became as legible as though they had just been written. "I thought I knew the writing," whispered Miss Cordelia, and lowering her voice until her sister had to hang breathless upon the movement of her lips, she added "Oh, Patty ... We all thought he was dead ... No wonder it killed poor Josiah ..." Their arms went around each other. Their glances met. "I know," whispered Miss Patty, her lips suddenly gone dry, "....It was from Paul...!" CHAPTER XI For the first few months after her father's death, Mary's dreams seemed to fade into mist. Between her and Josiah a bond of love had existed, stronger than either had suspected--and now that he was gone the world seemed unaccountably empty--and unaccountably cruel. As her father had gone, so must Aunt Cordelia and Aunt Patty some day surely go ... Yes, and even Mary herself must just as surely follow. The immemorial doubt assailed her--that doubt which begins in helplessness and ends in despair. "What's the use?" she asked herself. "We plan and work so hard--like children making things in the sand--and then Death comes along with a big wave and flattens everything out ... like that ..." But gradually her sense of balance began to return. One day she stood on the brink of the hill looking at the great factory below, and a calmer, surer feeling slowly swept over her. "That's it," she thought. "The real things of life go on, no matter who dies, just as though nothing had happened. Take the first Josiah Spencer and look down there what he left behind him. Why, you might even say that he was alive today! And see what Washington left behind him--and Fulton, who invented the steamboat--and Morse who invented the telegraph. So it's silly to say 'What's the use?' Suppose Columbus had said it--or any of the others who have done great things in the world--" It slowly came to her then, her doubts still lingering, how many are called, how few are chosen. "That's the trouble," she said. "We can't all be Washingtons. We can't all do great things. And yet--an awful lot of people had to live so that Washington could be born when he was.... "His parents: that was two. And his grand-parents: he must have had four. And his great grand-parents: eight of them.... "Why, it's like the problem of the horse-shoe nails," she continued in growing excitement. "In twenty-eight generations there must have been millions and millions of people who lived--just so George Washington could be born one day at Mt. Vernon--and grow up to make America free! Yes, and every one of them was just as necessary as Washington himself, because if it hadn't been for every single one of them--we would never have had him!" For a moment she seemed to be in touch with the infinite plan. Down the hill she saw a woman in a black dress, crossing the street. "Mrs. Ridge going out for the day," thought Mary, recognizing the figure below. "Yes, and who knows? She may be a link in a chain which is leading straight down to some one who will be greater than Washington--greater than Shakespeare--greater than any man who ever lived...!" And her old dreams, her old visions beginning to return, she added with a sigh, "Oh, dear! I wish I could do something big and noble--so if all those millions who are back of me are watching, they'll feel proud of what I'm doing and nudge each other as if they were saying, 'You see? She's come at last. That's us!'" As you will realize, this last thought of Mary's suggested more than it told--as I believe great thoughts often do--but at least I think you'll be able to grasp the idea which she herself was groping after. At the same time you mustn't suppose that she was constantly going around dreaming, and trying to find expression for those vague strivings and yearnings which come to us all at different times in our lives, especially in the golden days of youth when the flood of ambition is rising high within us--or again in later years when we feel the tide will soon begin to turn, and we must make haste or it will be too late. No, Mary had plenty of practical matters, too, to engage her attention and keep her feet on the earth. For one thing there was Wally Cabot--he who had so lately serenaded Mary in the moonlight. But I'll tell you about him later. Then the settlement of her father's estate kept coming up for action. Judge Cutler and Mary's two aunts were the trustees--an arrangement which didn't please Uncle Stanley any too well, although he was careful not to show it. And the more Mary saw of the silvery haired judge with his hawk's eyes and gentle smile, the more she liked him. One of the first things they discovered was that Mary's heritage consisted of the factory by the river--but little else. Practically all the bonds and investments that Josiah had ever owned had been sold for the greater glory of Spencer & Son--to buy in other firms and patents--to increase the factory by the river. As her father had once confided to Mary this had taken money--"a dreadful lot of money"--she remembered the wince with which he had spoken--and a safe deposit box which was nearly empty bore evidence to the truth of what he had said. "High and low," mused the judge when the inventory was at last completed, "it's always the same. The millionaire and the mill-hand--somehow they always manage to leave less than every one expected--" "Why is that?" asked Mary. "Is it because the heirs expect too much?" "No, child. I think it's the result of pride. As a rule, man is a proud animal and he doesn't like to tell anything which doesn't redound to his credit. If a man buys bonds, for instance, he is very apt to mention it to his family. But if for any reason he has to sell those bonds, he will nearly always do it quietly and say nothing about it, hoping to buy them back again later, or something better yet-- "I've seen so many estates," he continued, "shrink into next to nothing--so many widows who thought they were well off, suddenly waking up and finding themselves at the mercy of the world--the little they have often being taken away from them by the first glib sharper who comes long--that I sometimes think every man should give his family a show-down once a year. It would surely save a lot of worries and heartaches later on-- "Still," he smiled, looking down at the inventory, with its noble line of figures at the bottom of the column, "I don't think you'll have much trouble in keeping the wolf from the door." Mary turned the pages in a helpless sort of way. "You'll have to explain some of this," she said at last. But before giving it back to him she looked out of the window for a time--one of her slow, thoughtful glances--and added, "I wonder why girls aren't brought up to know something about business--the way boys are." "Perhaps it's because they have no head for business." She thought that over. "Can you speak French?" she suddenly asked. "No." "...I can. I can speak it, and read it, and write it, and think it.... Now don't you think that if a girl can do that--if she can learn thousands and thousands of new words, how to pronounce them, and spell them, and parse them, and inflect them--how to supply hundreds of rules of grammar--and if she can learn to do this so well that she can chat away in French without giving it a thought--don't you think she might be able to learn something about the language and rules of business, too, if they were only taught to her? Then perhaps there wouldn't be so many helpless widows in the world, as you said just now, at the mercy of the first glib sharper who comes along." This time it was the judge's turn to think it over. "You're an exceptional girl, Mary," he said at last. "No, really I'm not," she earnestly told him. "Any girl can learn anything that a boy can learn--if she is only given a chance. Where boys and girls go to school together--at the grammar schools and high schools--the girls are just as quick as the boys, and their average marks are quite as high. It was true at college, too. The girls could learn anything that the men could learn--and do it just as well." As one result of this, Judge Cutler began giving Mary lessons in business, using the inventory as a text and explaining each item in the settlement of the estate. He also taught her some of the simpler maxims, beginning with that grand old caution, "Never sign a paper for a stranger--" It wasn't long after this that Uncle Stanley called at the house on the hill. He talked for a time about some of the improvements which were being made at the factory and then arose as if to go. "Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, turning back and smiling at his oversight. "We need a new director to take your father's place. When I'm away Burdon looks after things, so I suppose he may as well take the responsibility. It's a thankless position, but some one has to fill it." "Yes," murmured Mary, "I suppose they do." "They do," said Uncle Stanley. "So I'll call a stockholders' meeting right away. Meanwhile if you will sign this proxy--" But just as quietly Mary murmured, "I'd like to think it over." They looked at each other then--those two--with that careful, yet careless-appearing glance which two duellists might employ when some common instinct warns them that sooner or later they will cross their swords. Uncle Stanley was the first to lower his eye. "The law requires three directors," he said in his more usual grumpy voice, "or I wouldn't have bothered you. I'll leave it and you can sign it and send it down this afternoon." But Mary did neither. Instead she went to see Judge Cutler and when the stockholders' meeting was finally called, she attended it in person--holding practically all the stock--and Judge Cutler was elected to fill the vacancy. Uncle Stanley just managed to control himself. It took an effort, but he did it. "We've got to elect a president next," he said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to keep the tremor of testiness out of his voice. "Of course I've been here all my life--if that counts for anything--and I am now serving in the more or less humble capacity of vice-president--but if the judge would like to throw up his law business and try the manufacturing end instead--" "No," smiled the judge, lighting a bombshell--though Uncle Stanley little guessed it--"I think the position calls for some one younger than I am. Besides, my name is Cutler, whereas for eight generations this concern has been headed by a Spencer. "You know, Mr. Woodward, lawyers are sticklers for precedent, and it seems to me that as long as there is a Spencer left in the family, that good old name should stand at the head. "For the office of president I therefore cast my vote in favour of the last of the Spencers--Miss Mary--" That was the bombshell, and oh, but didn't it rock Uncle Stanley back on his heels! "Of course, if you want to make a joke of the company," he said at last, sticking out his lower lip till it made a little shelf, although it wasn't a very steady little shelf because it trembled as though from emotion. "'President, Mary Spencer'--you know as well as I do what people will think when they see that on the letterhead--" "Unfortunately, yes," said the judge, flashing him one of his hawk's glances but still speaking in his gentle voice. "Still, we can easily get around that difficulty. We can have the letter-heads lithographed 'President, M. Spencer.' Then if our correspondents have imaginations, they will think that the M stands for Matthew or Mark or Michael or Malachi. One thing sure," he smiled at the new president, "they'll never think of Mary." As in the case of the factory, Uncle Stanley had also been vice-president of the First National Bank. A few days after the proceedings above recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president. There was only one vote and when it was counted, Stanley Woodward was found to be elected. "I wonder what he'll be doing next," said Mary uneasily when she heard the news. "My dear girl," gently protested the judge, "you mustn't be so suspicious. It will poison your whole life and lead you nowhere." Mary thought that over. "You know the old saying, don't you?" he continued. "'Suspicion is the seed of discord.'" "Yes," nodded Mary, trying to smile, though she still looked troubled. "I know the old saying--but--the trouble is--I know Uncle Stanley, too, and that's what bothers me..." CHAPTER XII At this point I had meant to tell you more of Wally Cabot--most perfect, most charming of lovers--but first I find that I must describe a passage which took place one morning between Mary and Uncle Stanley's son Burdon. Perhaps you remember Burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice" and wore a white edging on the V of his waistcoat. As far back as Mary could remember him, he had appealed to her imagination. His Norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to Mary's mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama breathless with possibilities, written by Destiny and entitled Burdon Woodward. It is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. But among your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand out above the others as though they had been selected by Fate to play strenuous parts--whether Columbine, clown or star. Something is always happening to them. Wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat for a time. You think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your mind with some such thought as this--"He'll get in trouble yet," or "I wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "Something will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!" That, in short, was the sort of a character that Burdon Woodward had always been to Mary. For as long as she could remember him, she had associated him with romance and drama. To her he had been Raffles, the amateur cracksman. He had also been Steerforth in David Copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him in the wreck. In stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes Captain Morgan, sometimes Captain Kidd--or else he was Black Jack with Dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero or a villain. As Mary grew older these associations not only lingered; they strengthened. Not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a New York jeweller at the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of diamond rings. The story was made remarkable by a detail. An old woman was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup. "Oh, dad," Mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did I hear you say last night that Burdon Woodward was in New York?" "No, dear. Boston." "Mm," thought Mary. "He'd say he was going to Boston for a blind." And for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! Yet even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies. "All the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him." The encounter which I am now going to tell you about took place one morning after Mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. She had just finished breakfast when Burdon telephoned. "Your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "I was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over." "Thank you," she said. "I will." Josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was, however, never lighted. Ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added their notes of distinction. The office of any executive will generally reflect not only his own personality, but the character of the enterprise of which he stands at the head. Looking in Josiah's room, I think you would have been impressed, either consciously or not, that Spencer & Son had dignity, wealth and a history behind it. And regarding then the dark colouring of the appointments, devoid of either beauty or warmth, and feeling yourself impressed by a certain chilliness of atmosphere, I can very well imagine you saying to yourself "Not very cheerful!" But you wouldn't have thought this on the morning when Mary entered it in response to Burdon's suggestion. A fire was glowing on the andirons. New rugs gave colour and life to the floor. The mantel had been swept clear of annual reports and technical books, and graced with a friendly clock and a still more friendly pair of vases filled with flowers. The monumental swivel chair had disappeared, and in its place was one of wicker, upholstered in cretonne. On the desk was another vase of flowers, a writing set of charming design and a triple photograph frame, containing pictures of Miss Cordelia, Miss Patty and old Josiah himself. Mary was still marvelling when she caught sight of Burdon Woodward in the doorway. "Who--who did this?" she asked. He bowed low--as d'Artagnan might have bowed to the queen of France--but came up smiling. "Your humble, obedient servant," said he. "Can I come in?" It had been some time since Mary had seen him so closely, and as he approached she noticed the faultlessness of his dress, the lily of the valley in his buttonhole, and that slightly ironic but smiling manner which is generally attributed to men of the world, especially to those who have travelled far on adventurous and forbidden paths. In another age he might have worn lace cuffs and a sword, and have just returned from a gambling house where he had lost or won a fortune with equal nonchalance. "He still smells nice," thought Mary to herself, "and I think he's handsomer than ever--if it wasn't for that dark look around his eyes--and even that becomes him." She motioned to a chair and seated herself at the desk. "I thought you'd like to have a place down here to call your own," he said in his lazy voice. "I didn't make much of a hit with the governor, but then you know I seldom do--" "Where did you get the pictures?" "From the photographers'. Of course it required influence, but I am full of that--being connected, as you may know, with Spencer & Son. When I told him why I wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as I was to find the old plates." "And the fire and the rugs and everything--you don't know how I appreciate it all. I had no idea--" "I like surprises, myself," he said. "I suppose that's why I like to surprise others. The keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and I have set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer. If you want anybody or anything--to write a letter--to see the governor--or even to see your humble servant--all you have to do is to press this button." A wave of gratitude swept over her. "He's nice," she thought, as Burdon continued his agreeable drawl. "But Helen says he's wicked. I wonder if he is.... Imagine him thinking of the pictures: I'm sure that doesn't sound wicked, and... Oh, dear!....Yes, he did it again, then!... He--he's making eyes at me as much as he dares!..." She turned and opened a drawer of the desk. "I think I'll take the papers home and sort them there," she said. "You're sure there's nothing more I can do?" he asked, rising. "Nothing more; thank you." "That window behind you is open at the top. You may feel a draft; I'll shut it." In his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the evenings and hold classes which were strictly outside the regular course. "It's simply pathetic," one of the girls had once remarked, "but nearly every man you meet makes love the same way. Talk about sausage for breakfast every morning in the year. It's worse than that! "First you catch it in their eye and in their voice: 'Are you sure you're comfortable?' 'Are you sure you're warm enough?' 'Are you sure you don't feel a draft?' That's Chapter One. "Then they try to touch you--absent-mindedly putting their arms along the back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like that. That's always Chapter Two. "And then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you. Honestly, the sameness of it is enough to drive a girl wild. Sometimes I say to myself, 'The next time a man looks at me that way and asks me if I feel a draft, I'm going to say, 'Oh, please let's dispense with Chapter Two and pass directly to the nice, secluded place. It will be such a change from the usual routine!'" Mary laughed to herself at the recollection. "If Vera's right," she thought, "he'll try to touch me next--perhaps the next time I come." It happened sooner than that. After she had tied up the papers and carried them to the car, and had made a tour of the new buildings--Archey Forbes blushing like a sunset the moment he saw her--she returned to her motor which was waiting outside the office building. Burdon must have been waiting for her. He suddenly appeared and opened the door of the car. "Allow me," he said. When she stepped up, she felt the support of his hand beneath her elbow. She slipped into her place at the wheel and looked ahead as dreamy-eyed as ever. "Chapter Two..." she thought to herself as the car began to roll away, and taking a hasty mental review of Wally Cabot, and Burdon Woodward and Archey Forbes, she couldn't help adding, "If a girl's thoughts started to run that way, oh, wouldn't they keep her busy!" It relieved her feelings to make the car roar up the incline that led from the river, but when she turned into the driveway at the house on the hill, she made a motion of comic despair. Wally Cabot's car was parked by the side of the house. Inside she heard the phonograph playing a waltz. CHAPTER XIII Wally stayed for lunch, looking sheepish at first for having been caught dancing with Helen. But he soon recovered and became his charming self. Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty always made him particularly welcome, listening with approval to his chatter of Boston society, and feeling themselves refreshed as at some Hebian spring at hearing the broad a's and the brilliant names he uttered. "If I were you, Helen," said Mary when lunch was over, "I think I'd go on teaching Wally that dance." Which may have shown that it rankled a little, even if she were unconscious that it did. "I have some papers that I want to look over and I don't feel very trippy this afternoon." She went to Josiah's old study, but had hardly untied the papers when she heard the knock of penitence on the door. "Come in!" she smiled. The door opened and in came Master Wally, looking ready to weep. "Wally! Don't!" she laughed. "You'll give yourself the blues!" "Not when I hear you laugh like that. I know I'm forgiven." He drew a chair to the fire and sat down with an air of luxury. "I can almost imagine that we're an old married couple, sitting in here like this--can't you?" "No; I can't. And you've got to be quiet and let me work, or I shall send you back to Helen." "She asked me to dance with her--of course, you know that--or I never would have done it--" "Oh, fie, for shame," said Mary absently, "blaming the woman. You know you liked to do it." "Mary--!" "Hush!" He watched her for a time and, in truth, she was worth it. He looked at the colour of her cheeks, her dreamy eyes like pools of mystery, the crease in her chin (which he always wanted to kiss), the rise and fall of the pendant on her breast. He looked until he could look no longer and then he arose and leaned over the desk. "Mary--!" he breathed, taking her hand. "Now, please don't start that, Wally. We'll shake hands if you want to... There! How are you? Now go back to your chair and be good." "'Be good!'" he savagely echoed. "Why, you want to be good; don't you?" she asked in surprise. "I want you to love me. Mary; tell me you love me just a little bit; won't you?" "I like you a whole lot--but when it comes to love--the way you mean--" "It's the only thing in life that's worth a hang," he eagerly interrupted her. "The trouble is: you won't try it. You won't allow yourself to let go. I was like that once--thought it was nothing. But after I met you--! Oh, girl, it's all roses and lilies--the only thing in the world, and don't you forget it! Come on in and give it a try!" "It's not the only thing in the world," said Mary, shaking her head. "That's the reason I don't want to come in: When a man marries, he goes right on with his life as though nothing had happened. That shows it's not the only thing with him. But when a woman marries--well, she simply surrenders her future and her independence. It may be right that she should, too, for all I know--but I'm going to try the other way first. I'm going right on with my life, the same as a man does--and see what I get by it." "How long are you going to try it, do you think?" "Until I've found out whether love _is_ the only thing in a woman's life. If I find that I can't do anything else--if I find that a girl can only be as bright as a man until she reaches the marrying age, and then she just naturally stands still while he just naturally goes forward--why, then, I'll put an advertisement in the paper 'Husband Wanted. Mary Spencer. Please apply.'" "They'll apply over my dead body." "You're a dear, good boy to say it. No, please, Wally, don't or I shall go upstairs. Now sit by the fire again--that's better--and smoke if you want to, and let me finish these papers." They were for the greater part the odds and ends which accumulate in every desk. There were receipted bills, old insurance policies, letters that had once seemed worth prizing, catalogues of things that had never been bought, prospectuses, newspaper clippings, copies of old contracts. And yet they had an interest, too--an interest partly historical, partly personal. This merry letter, for instance, which Mary read and smiled over--who was the "Jack" who had written it? "Dead, perhaps, like dad," thought Mary. Yes, dead perhaps, and all his fun and drollery suddenly fallen into silence and buried with him. "Isn't life queer!" she thought. "Now why did he save this clipping?" She read the clipping and enjoyed it. Wally, watching from his chair, saw the smile which passed over her face. "She'll warm up some day," he confidently told himself, with that bluntness of thought which comes to us all at times. "See how she flared up because I danced with Helen. Maybe if I made her jealous..." At the desk Mary picked up another paper--an old cable. She read it, re-read it, and quietly folded it again; but for all her calmness the colour slowly mounted to her cheeks, as the recollection of odd words and phrases arose to her mind. "Wally," she said in her quietest voice, "I'm going to ask you a question, but first you must promise to answer me truly." "Cross my heart and hope to die!" "Are you ready?" "Quite ready." "Then did you ever hear of any one in our family named Paul?" "Y-yes--" "Who was he?" It was some time before he told the story, but trust a girl to make a man speak when she wishes it! He softened the recital in every possible way, but trust a girl again to read between the lines when she wants to! "And didn't he ever come back?" she asked. "No; you see he couldn't very well. There was an accident out West--somebody killed--anyhow, he was blamed for it. Queer, isn't it?" he broke off, trying to relieve the subject. "The Kaiser can start a war and kill millions. That's glory. But if some poor devil loses his head--" Mary wasn't through yet. "You say he's dead!" she asked. "Oh, yes, years ago. He must have been dead--oh, let me see--about fifteen or twenty years, I guess." "Poor dad!" thought Mary that night. "What he must have gone through! I'll bet he didn't think that love was the only thing in life. And--that other one," she hesitated, "who was 'wild after the girls,' Wally says, and finally ran off with one--I'll bet he didn't think so, either--before he got through--to say nothing of the poor thing who went with him. But dead fifteen or twenty years--that's the queerest part." She found the cable again. It was dated Rio Janeiro-- "Gods sake cable two hundred dollars wife children sick desperate next week too late." It was signed "Paul" and--the point to which Mary's attention was constantly returning--it wasn't fifteen or twenty years ago that this appeal had been received by her father. The date of the cable was scarcely three years old. CHAPTER XIV For days Mary could think of little else, but as week followed week, her thoughts merged into memories--memories that were stored away and stirred in their hiding places less and less often. "Dad knew best," she finally told herself. "He bore it in silence all those years, so it wouldn't worry me, and I'm not going to start now. Perhaps--he's dead, too. Anyhow," she sternly repeated, "I'm not going to worry. I've seen enough of worry to start doing that." Besides, she had too much else on her mind--"to start doing that." As the war in Europe had progressed--America drawing nearer the crimson whirlpool with every passing month--a Red Cross chapter was organized at New Bethel. Mary took active part in the work, and whenever visitors came to speak at the meetings, they seldom went away without being entertained at the house on the hill. "I love to think of it," she told Aunt Patty one day. "The greatest organization of mercy ever known--and practically all women's work! Doesn't that mean a lot to you, Aunt Patty? If women can do such wonderful things for the Red Cross, why can't they do wonderful things in other ways?" Her own question set her thinking, and something seemed to tell her that now or never she must watch her chance to make old dreams come true. Surely never before in the history of the world had woman come to the front with such a splendid arrival. "We'll get things yet, Aunt Delia," she whispered in confidence, "so that folks will be just as proud of a girl baby as a boy baby." Whereupon she wagged her finger as though to say, "You mark my words!" and went rolling away to hear a distinguished lecturer who had just returned from Europe with a message to the women in America of what their sisters were doing across the seas. The address was given at the Red Cross rooms, and as Mary listened she sewed upon a flannel swaddling robe that was later to go to Siberia lest a new-born babe might perish. At first she listened conscientiously enough to the speaker--"What our European sisters have done in agriculture--" "I do believe at times that it's the women more than the men who make a country great," she thought as she heard of the women ploughing, planting, reaping. To Mary's mind each stoical figure glowed with the light of heroism, and she nodded her head as she worked. "Just as I've always said," she mused; "there's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do." From her chair by the window she chanced to look out at an old circus poster across the street. "Now that's funny, too," she thought, her needle suspended; "I never thought of that before--but even in such things as lion taming and trapeze performing--where you would think a woman would really be at a disadvantage--she isn't at all. She's just as good as a man!" The voice of the speaker broke in upon her thoughts. "I am now going to tell you," she said, "what the women of Europe are doing in the factories--" And oh, how Mary listened, then! It was a long talk--I cannot begin to give it here--but she drank in every word, and hungered and thirsted for more. "There is not an operation in factory, foundry or laboratory," began the speaker, "where women are not employed--" As in a dream Mary seemed to see the factory of Spencer & Son. The long lines of men had vanished, and in their places were women, clear-eyed, dexterous and happy at escaping from the unpaid drudgery of housework. "It may come to that, too," she thought, "if we go into war." "In aeroplane construction," the speaker continued, "where an undetected flaw in her work might mean an aviator's life, woman is doing the carpentry work, building the frame work, making the propellers. They are welding metals, drilling, boring, grinding, milling, even working on the engines and magnetos--" A quiver ran up and down Mary's back and her eyes felt wet. "Just what I've always said," she thought. "Ah, the poor women--" "They are making telescopes, periscopes, binoculars, cameras--cutting and grinding the lenses--work so fine that the deviation of a hair's breadth would cause rejection--some of the lenses as small as a split pea. They make the metal parts that hold those lenses, assemble them, adjust them, test them. These are the eyes of the army and navy--surely no small part for the woman to supply." Mary's thoughts turned to some of the homes she had seen--the surroundings--the expression of the housewife. "All her life and no help for it," she thought. And again, "Ah, the poor women...." "To tell you the things she is making would be to give you a list of everything used in modern warfare. They are making ships, tanks, cannon, rifles, cartridges. They are operating the most wonderful trip hammers that were ever conceived by the mind of man, and under the same roof they are doing hand work so delicate that the least extra pressure of a file would spoil a week's labour. More! There isn't a process in which she has been employed where woman has failed to show that she is man's equal in speed and skill. In many operations she has shown that she is man's superior--doing this by the simple method of turning out more work in a day than the man whose place she took--" Mary invited the speaker to go home with her, and if you had gone past the house on the hill that night, you would have seen lights burning downstairs until after one o 'clock. How did they train the women? How did they find time to do their washing and ironing? What about the children? And the babies? And the home? As the visitor explained, stopping now and then to tell her young hostess where to write for government reports giving facts and figures on the subject which they were discussing, Mary's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier as one fancy after another passed through her mind. And when the clock struck one and she couldn't for shame keep her guest up any longer, she went to her room at last and undressed in a sort of a reverie, her glance inward turned, her head slightly on one side, and with such a look of thoughtful exaltation that I wish I could paint it for you, because I know I can never put it into words. Still, if you can picture Betsey Ross, it was thus perhaps that Betsey looked when first she saw the flag. Or Joan of Arc might once have gazed that way in Orleans' woods. CHAPTER XV It was in December that Mary's great idea began to assume form. She wrote to the American Ambassadors in Great Britain and France for any documents which they could send her relating to the subject so close to her heart. In due time two formidable packages arrived at the house on the hill. Mary carried them into the den and opened them with fingers that trembled with eagerness. Yes, it was all true.... All true.... Here it was in black and white, with photographs and statistics set down by impartial observers and printed by government. Generally a state report is dry reading, but to Mary at least these were more exciting than any romances--more beautiful than any poem she had ever read. At last woman had been given a chance to show what she could do. And how she had shown them! Without one single straining effort, without the least thought of doing anything spectacular, she had gently and calmly taken up men's tools and had done men's work--not indifferently well--not in any makeshift manner--but "in all cases, even the most technical, her work has equalled that previously done exclusively by man. In a number of instances, owing to her natural dexterity and colour sense, her work, indeed, has been superior." How Mary studied those papers! Never even at college had she applied herself more closely. She memorized, compared, read, thought, held arguments with herself. And finally, when she was able to pass any examination that might be set before her, she went down to the office one day and sent for Mr. MacPherson, the master mechanic. He came--grey haired, grim faced, a man who seemed to keep his mouth buttoned-and Mary asked him to shut the door behind him. Whereat Mac buttoned his mouth more tightly than before, and looked grimmer, too, if that were possible. "You don't look a day older," Mary told him with a smile. "I remember you from the days when my father used to carry me around--" "He was a grand man, Miss Mary; it's a pity he's gone," said Mac and promptly buttoned his mouth again. "I want to talk to you about something," she said, "but first I want you to promise to keep it a secret." He blinked his eyes at that, and as much as a grim faced man can look troubled, he looked troubled. "There are vera few secrets that can be kept around this place," was his strange reply. "Might I ask, Miss Mary, of what nature is the subject?" And seeing that she hesitated he added, first looking cautiously over his shoulder, "Is it anything, for instance, to do wi' Mr. Woodward? Or, say, the conduct of the business?" "No, no," said Mary, "it--it's about women--" Mac stared at her, but when she added "--about women working in the factory," he drew a breath of relief. "Aye," he said, "I think I can promise to keep quiet about that." "Isn't it true," she began, "that most of the machinery we use doesn't require a great deal of skill to run it?" "We've a lot of automatics," acknowledged Mac. "Your grandfather's idea, Miss Mary. A grand man. He was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator." "How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?" "A few weeks is generally enough. It depends on the man and the tool." Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn't think much of it until she showed him the photographs. Even then he was "michty cautious" until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work. "Think of that now," said he; "in Glasga'!" As he looked, the frost left his eye. "A grand lot of lasses," he said and cleared his throat. "If they can do it, we can do it, too--don't you think so?" "Why not?" he asked. "For let me tell you this, Miss Mary. Those old countries are all grand countries--to somebody's way of thinking. But America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them! What they can do, yes, we can do--and add something for good measure, if need be!" "Well, that's it," said Mary, eagerly. "If we go into the war, we shall have to do the same as they are doing in Europe--let women do the factory work. And if it comes to that, I want Spencer & Son to be ready--to be the first to do it--to show the others the way!" Mac nodded. "A bit of your grandfather, that," he thought with approval. "So what I want you to do," she concluded, "is to make me up a list of machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have it as soon as you can." "I'll do that," he grimly nodded. "There's far too many vacant now." "And remember, please, you are not to say anything. Because, you know, people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man's work." "I'm mute," he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth buttoned very tightly indeed. But even while his hand was stretched out to reach the knob, he paused and then returned to the desk. "Miss Mary," he said, "I'm an old man, and you're a young girl. I know nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the world. And a man's not a fool. What I'm going to tell you now, I want you to remember it, but forget who told it to you. Trust nobody. Be careful. I can say no more." "He means Uncle Stanley," thought Mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon the day. She was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose. "I'll leave these papers in the desk here," she thought, taking her keys from her handbag. She unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused and her eyes opened wide. On the top letter in her drawer--a grey tinted sheet--was a scattered mound of cigarette ash. "Somebody's been here--snooping," she thought. "Somebody with a key to the desk. He must have had a cigarette in his hand when he shut the drawer, and the ashes jarred off without being noticed--" Irresistibly her thoughts turned to Burdon Woodward, with his gold cigarette case and match box. "It was he who gave me the keys," she thought. She sighed. A sense of walking among pitfalls took possession of her. As you have probably often noticed, suspicion feeds upon suspicion, and as Mary walked through the outer office she felt that more than one pair of eyes were avoiding her. The old cashier kept his head buried in his ledger and nearly all the men were busy with their papers and books. "Perhaps it's because I'm a woman," she thought. Ma'm Maynard's words arose with a new significance, "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so, and it halways will. Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" But Mary could still smile at that. "Take Mr. MacPherson," she thought; "how is he my natural enemy? Or Judge Cutler? Or Archey Forbes? Or Wally Cabot?" She felt more normal then, but when these reflections had died away, she still occasionally felt her thoughts reverting to Mac's warning, the cigarette ash, the averted glances in the office. The nest morning, though, she thought she had found the answer to the latter puzzle. She had hardly finished breakfast when Judge Cutler was announced, his hawk's eyes frowning and never a trace of his smile. "Did you get your copy of the annual report?" he asked. "Not yet," said Mary, somehow guessing what he meant. "Why?" "I got mine in the mail this morning." He drew it from his pocket and his frown grew deeper. "Let's go in the den," he said; "we've got to talk this out." It was the annual report of Spencer & Son's business and briefly stated, it showed an alarming loss for the preceding twelve months. "Ah-ha!" thought Mary, "that's the reason they didn't look up yesterday. They had seen this, and they felt ashamed." "As nearly as I can make it out," said the judge, "there's too many improvements going on, and not enough business. We must do something to stop these big expenses, and find a way to get more bearings sold--" He checked himself then and looked at Mary, much as Mac had looked the previous day, just before issuing his warning. "Perhaps he's thinking of Uncle Stanley, too," thought Mary. "Another bad feature is this," continued the judge, "the bank is getting too strong a hold on the company. We must stop that before it gets any worse." "Why?" asked Mary, looking very innocent. "Because it isn't good business." "But Uncle Stanley is president of the bank. You don't think he'd do anything to hurt Spencer & Son; do you?" The judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise like a groan--as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was being pulled. "Many a time," he said, "I have tried to talk you out of your suspicions. But--if it was any other man than Stanley Woodward, I would say today that he was doing his best to--to--" "To 'do' me?" suggested Mary, more innocent than ever. "Yes, my dear--to do you! And another year's work like this wouldn't be far from having that result." Curiously enough it was Mary's great idea that comforted her. Instead of feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes shining at the thoughts which came to her. "All right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. I'll wait till I get my copy of the report." Wally came that afternoon, and Mary danced with him--that is to say she danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory with an envelope addressed in MacPherson's crabbed hand. Mary took one peep inside and danced no more. "If the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "I have counted 1653 places in this factory where they could be working in a few weeks time--that is, if the places were vacant. List enclosed. Respectfully. James O. MacPherson." It was a long list beginning "346 automatics, 407 grinders--" Mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she called up Judge Cutler. "I wish you would come down to the office in about half an hour," she said, ".... Directors' meeting. All right. Thank you." "What was it dad used to call me sometimes--his 'Little Hustler'?" she thought. "If he could see, I'll bet that's what he would call me now." As she passed through the hall she looked in the drawing room to tell Helen where she was going. Helen was sitting on a chaise lounge and Wally was bending over her, as though trying to get something out of her eye with the corner of a handkerchief. "I don't see anything," Mary heard him saying. "There must be something. It hurts dreadfully," said Helen. Looking again, he lightly dabbed at the eye. "Oh!" breathed Helen. "Don't, Wally!" She took hold of his hand as though to stop him. Mary passed on without saying anything, her nose rather high in the air. Half way down the hill she laughed at nothing in particular. "Yes," she told herself. "Helen--in her own way--I guess that she's a little Hustler ... too ...!" CHAPTER XVI The meeting was held in Mary's office--the first conference of directors she had ever attended. By common consent, Uncle Stanley was chosen chairman of the board. Judge Cutler was appointed secretary. Mary sat in her chair at the desk, her face nearly hidden by the flowers in the vase. It didn't take the meeting long to get down to business. "From last year's report," began the judge, "it is evident that we must have a change of policy." "In what way?" demanded Uncle Stanley. Whereupon they joined issue--the man of business and the man of law. If Mary had been paying attention she would have seen that the judge was slowly but surely getting the worst of it. To stop improvements now would be inviting ruin--They had their hands on the top rung of the ladder now; why let go and fall to the bottom--? What would everybody think if those new buildings stayed empty--? Uncle Stanley piled fact on fact, argument on argument. Faint heart never won great fortune--As soon as the war was over, and it wouldn't be long now--Before long he began to dominate the conference, the judge growing more and more silent, looking more and more indecisive. Through it all Mary sat back in her chair at the desk and said nothing, her face nearly hidden by the roses, but woman-like, she never forgot for a moment the things she had come there to do. "What do you think, Mary?" asked the judge at last. "Do you think we had better try it a little longer and see how it works out?" "No," said Mary quietly, "I move that we stop everything else but making bearings." In vain Uncle Stanley arose to his feet, and argued, and reasoned, and sat down again, and brought his fist down on his knee, and turned a rich, brown colour. After a particularly eloquent period he caught a sight of Mary's face among the roses--calm, cool and altogether unmoved--and he stopped almost on the word. "That's having a woman, in business," he bitterly told himself. "Might as well talk to the wind. Never mind ... It may take a little longer--but in the end...." Judge Cutler made a minute in the director's book that all work on improvements was to stop at once. "And now," he said, "the next thing is to speed up the manufacture of bearings." "Easily said," Uncle Stanley shortly laughed. "There must be some way of doing it," persisted the judge, taking the argument on himself again. "Why did our earnings fall down so low last year?" "Because I can manufacture bearings, but I can't manufacture men," reported Uncle Stanley. "We are over three hundred men short, and it's getting worse every day. Let me tell you what munition factories are paying for good mechanics--" Mary still sat in her wicker chair, back of the flowers, and looked around at the paintings on the walls--of the Josiah Spencers who had lived and laboured in the past. "They all look quiet, as though they never talked much," she thought. "It seems so silly to talk, anyhow, when you know what you are going to do." But still the argument across the desk continued, and again Uncle Stanley began to gain his point. "So you see," he finally concluded, "it's just as I said a few minutes ago. I can manufacture bearings, but I can't manufacture men!" From behind the roses then a patient voice spoke. "You don't have to manufacture men. We don't need them." Uncle Stanley gave the judge a look that seemed to say, "Listen to the woman of it! Lord help us men when we have to deal with women!" And aloud in quite a humouring tone he said, "We don't need men? Then who's to do the work?" Mary moved the vase so she could have a good look at him. "Women," she replied. "They can do the work. Yes, women," said she. Again they looked at each other, those two, with the careful glance with which you might expect two duellists to regard each other--two duellists who had a premonition that one day they would surely cross their swords. And again Uncle Stanley was the first to look away. "Women!" he thought. "A fine muddle there'll he!" In fancy he saw the company's organization breaking down, its output decreasing, its product rejected for imperfections. Of course he knew that women were employed in textile mills and match-box factories and gum-and-glue places like that where they couldn't afford to employ men, and had no need for accuracy. But women at Spencer & Sons! Whose boast had always been its accuracy! Where every inch was divided into a thousand parts! "She's hanging herself with her own rope," he concluded. "I'll say no more." Mary turned to the judge. "You might make a minute of that," she said. Half turning, she chanced to catch a glimpse of Uncle Stanley's satisfaction. "And you might say this," she quietly added, "that Miss Spencer was placed in charge of the women's department, with full authority to settle all questions that might arise." "That's all?" asked Uncle Stanley. "I think that's all this afternoon," she said. He turned to the judge as one man to another, and made a sweeping gesture toward the portraits on the walls, now half buried in the shadows of approaching evening. "I wonder what they would think of women working here?" he said in a significant tone. Mary thought that over. "I wonder what they would think of this?" she suddenly asked. She switched on the electric light and as though by magic a soft white radiance flooded the room. "Would they want to go back to candles?" she asked. CHAPTER XVII Later, the thing which Mary always thought of first was the ease with which the change was accomplished. First of all she called in Archey Forbes and told him her plan. "I'm going to make you chief of staff," she said; "that is--if you'd care for the place." He coloured with pleasure--not quite as gorgeously as he once did--but quite enough to be noticeable. "Anything I can do for you, Miss Mary?" he said. "Then first we must find a place to train the women workers. One of those empty buildings would be best, I think. I'll give you a list of machines to be set in place." The "school" was ready the following Monday morning. For "teachers" Mary had selected a number of elderly men whom she had picked for their quiet voices and obvious good nature. They were all expert machinists and had families. On Saturday the following advertisement had appeared in the local paper: A CALL FOR WOMEN Women wanted in machine-shop to do men's work at men's wages for the duration of the war. No experience necessary. Easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing. $21 a week and up. Apply Monday morning, 8 o'clock. JOSIAH SPENCER & SON, INC. As you have guessed, Mary composed that advertisement. It hadn't passed without criticism. "I don't think it's necessary to pay them as much as the men," Mac had suggested. "To say the least it's vera generous and vera unusual." "Why shouldn't they get as much as the men if they are going to do men's work?" asked Mary. "Besides, I'm doing it for the men's sake, even more than for the women's." Mac stared at that and buttoned his mouth very tightly. "They have been all through that in Europe," she explained. "Don't you see? If a woman can do a man's work, and do it for less money, it brings down men's wages. Because who would hire a man at $21 a week after the war if they could get a woman to do the same work for $15?" "You're richt," said Mac after a thoughtful pause. "I must pass that along. I know from myself that the men will grumble when they think the women are going to make as much money as themselves. But when they richtly understand it's for their own sake, too, they'll hush their noise." Mary was one of the first at the factory on Monday. "Won't I look silly, if nobody comes!" she had thought every time she woke in the night. But she needn't have worried. There was an argument in that advertisement, "Easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing," that appealed to many a feminine imagination, and when the fancy, thus awakened, played around the promising phrase "$21 a week--and up," hope presently turned to desire--and desire to resolution. "We'll have to set up more machines," said Mary to Archey when she saw the size of her first class. And looking them over with a proudly beating heart she called out, "Good morning, everybody! Will you please follow me?" From this point on, particularly, I like to imagine the eight Josiah Spencers who had gone before following the proceedings with ghostly steps and eyes that missed not a move--invisible themselves, but hearing all and saying nothing. And how they must have stared at each other as they followed that procession over the factory grounds, the last of the Spencers followed by a silent, winding train of women, like a new type of Moses leading her sisters into the promised land! As Mary had never doubted for a moment, the women of New Bethel proved themselves capable of doing anything that the women of Europe had done; and it wasn't long before lines of feminine figures in Turkish overalls were bending over the repetition tools in the Spencer shops--starting, stopping, reversing gears, oiling bearings--and doing it all with that deftness and assurance which is the mark of the finished workman. Indeed, if you had been near-sighted, and watching from a distance, you might have been pardoned for thinking that they were men--but if you looked closer you would have seen that each woman had a stool to sit on, when her work permitted, and if you had been there at half past ten and again at half past three, you would have seen a hand-cart going up and down the aisles, serving tea, coffee, cake and sandwiches. Again at noon you would have seen that the women had a rest room of their own where they could eat their lunch in comfort--a rest room with couches, and easy chairs, and palms and flowers, and a piano, and a talking machine, and a floor that you could dance on, if you felt like dancing immediately before or after lunch. And how the eight Josiahs would have stared at that happy, swaying throng in its Turkish overalls--especially on Friday noon just after the pay envelopes had been handed around! Meanwhile the school was adding new courses of study. The cleverest operators were brought back to learn how to run more complicated machines. Turret lathe hands, oscillating grinders, inspectors were graduated. In short, by the end of March, Mary was able to report to another special meeting of the board of directors that where Spencer & Son had been 371 men short on the first of the year, every empty place was now taken and a waiting list was not only willing but eager to start upon work which was easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing, and was guaranteed to pay $21 a week--and up! This declaration might be said to mark an epoch in the Spencer factory. Its exact date was March 31st, 1917. On April 2nd of the same year, another declaration was made, never to be forgotten by mankind. Upon that date, as you will recall, the Sixty-fifth Congress of the United States of America declared war upon the Imperial German Government. CHAPTER XVIII Wally was the first to go. On a wonderful moonlight night in May he called to bid Mary good-bye. He had received a commission in the aviation department and was already in uniform--as charming and romantic a figure as the eyes of love could ever wish to see. But Mary couldn't see him that way--not even when she tried--making a bold little experiment with herself and feeling rather sorry, if anything, that her heart beat no quicker and not a thrill ran over her, when her hand rested for a moment on Wally's shoulder. "I wonder if I'm different from other girls," she thought. "Or is it because I have other things to think about? Perhaps if I had nothing else on my mind, I'd dream of love as much as anybody, until it amounted to--what do they call it?--a fixed idea?--that thing which comes to people when they keep turning the same thing over and over in their minds, till they can't get it out of their thoughts?" But you mustn't think that Mary didn't care that Wally was going--perhaps never to return. She knew that she liked him--she knew she would miss him. And when, just before he left, he sang The Spanish Cavalier in that stirring tenor which always made her scalp tingle and her breast feel full, she turned her face to the moonlit scene outside and lived one of those minutes which are so filled with beauty and the stirring of the spirit that pleasure becomes poignant and brings a feeling which isn't far from pain. "I'm off to the war--to the war I must go, To fight for my country and you, dear; But if I should fall, in vain I would call The blessing of my country and you, dear--" All their eyes were wet then, even Wally's--moved by the sadness of his own song. Aunt Patty, Aunt Cordelia and Helen wiped their tears away unashamed, but Mary tried to hide hers. And when the time came for his departure, Aunt Cordelia kissed him and breathed in his ear a prayer, and Aunt Patty kissed him and prayed for him, and Helen kissed him, too, her arms tight around his neck. But when it came to Mary's turn, she looked troubled and gazed down at her hand which he was holding in both of his. "Come on out for a minute," he whispered, gently leading her. They went out under the moon. "Aren't you going to kiss me, too?" he asked. Mary thought it over. "If I kissed you, I would love you," she said, and tried to hide her tears no more. He soothed her then in the immemorial manner, and soon she was tranquil again. "Good-bye, Wally," she said. "Good-bye, dear. You'll promise to be here when I come back?" "I shall be here." "And you won't let anybody run away with you until I've had another chance?" "Don't worry." She watched the light of his car diminish until it vanished over the crest of the hill. A gathering sense of loneliness began to assail her, but with it was a feeling of freedom and purpose--the feeling that she was being left alone, clear of distraction, to fight her own fight and achieve her own destiny. Archey Forbes was the next to go. His going marked a curious incident. He had applied for a commission in the engineers, and his record and training being good, it wasn't long before he received the beckoning summons of Mars. Upon the morning of the day when he was to leave New Bethel, he went to the factory to say good-bye. The one he wished to see the most, however, was the first one he missed. "Miss Mary's around the factory somewhere," said a stenographer. Another spoke up, a dark girl with a touch of passion in her smile. "I think Mr. Burdon is looking for her, too." Archey missed neither the smile nor the tone--and liked neither of them. "He'll get in trouble yet," he thought, "going out with those girls," and his frown grew as he thought of Burdon's daily contact with Mary. "I'll see if I can find her," he told himself after he had waited a few minutes; and stepping out into the full beauty of the June morning, he crossed the lawn toward the factory buildings. On one of the trees a robin sang and watched him with its head atilt. A bee hummed past him and settled on a trellis of roses. In the distance murmured the falls, with their soothing, drowsy note. "These are the days, when I was a boy, that I used to dream of running away and seeing the world and having great adventures," thought Archey, his frown forgotten. He didn't consciously put it into words, but deep from his mind arose a feeling of the coming true of great dreams--of running away from the humdrum of life, of seeing the world, of taking a part in the greatest adventure ever staged by man. "What a day!" he breathed, lifting his face to the sun. "Oh, Lord, what a day!" It was indeed a day--one of those days which seem to have wine in the air--one of those days when old ambitions revive and new ones flower into splendour. Mary, for instance, on her way to the machine shop, was busy with thoughts of a nursery where mothers could bring their children who were too young to go to school. "Plenty of sun," she thought, "and rompers for them all, and sand piles, and toys, and certified milk, and trained nurses--" And while she dreamed she hummed to herself in approval, and wasn't aware that the air she hummed was the Spanish Cavalier--and wasn't aware that Burdon Woodward was near until she suddenly awoke from her dream and found they were face to face. He turned and walked with her. The wine of the day might have been working in Burdon, too, for he hadn't walked far with Mary before he was reminding her more strongly than ever, of Steerforth in David Copperfield--Baffles in the Amateur Cracksman. Indeed, that morning, listening to his drawl and looking up at the dark handsome face with its touch of recklessness, the association of Mary's ideas widened. M'sieur Beaucaire, just from the gaming table--Don Juan on the Nevski Prospekt--Buckingham on his way to the Tuileries--they all might have been talking to her, warming her thoughts not so much by what they said as by what they might say, appealing to her like a romance which must, however, be read to the end if you wish to know the full story. They were going through an empty corridor when it happened. Burdon, drawling away as agreeably as ever, gently closed his fingers around Mary's hand. "I might have known," she thought in a little panic. "It's my own fault." But when she tried to pull her hand away, her panic grew. "No, no," said Burdon, laughing low, his eyes more reckless than ever, "you might tell--if I stopped now. But you'll never tell a soul on earth--if I kiss you." Even while Mary was struggling, her head held down, she couldn't help thinking, "So that's the way he does it," and felt, I think, as feels the fly who has walked into the parlour. The next moment she heard a sharp voice, "Here--stop that!" and running steps approaching. "I think it was Archey," she thought, as she made her escape, her knees shaking, her breath coming fast. She knew it was, ten minutes later, when Archey found her in the office--knew it from the way he looked at her and the hesitation of his speech--but it wasn't until they were shaking hands in parting that she saw the cut on his knuckles. "You've hurt yourself," she said. "Wait; I have some adhesive plaster." Even then she didn't guess. "How did you do it?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know--" Mary's glance suddenly deepened into tenderness, and when Archey left a few minutes later, he walked as one who trod the clouds, his head among the stars. An hour passed, and Mary looked in Uncle Stanley's office. Burdon's desk was closed as though for the day. "Where's Burdon?" she asked. "He wasn't feeling very well," said Uncle Stanley after a long look at his son's desk, "--a sort of headache. I told him he had better go home." And every morning for the rest of the week, when she saw Uncle Stanley, she gave him such an innocent look and said, "How's Burdon's head this morning? Any better?" Uncle Stanley began to have the irritable feelings of an old mouse in the hands of a young kitten. "That's the worst of having women around,"--he scowled to himself--"they are worse than--worse than--worse than--" Searching for a simile, he thought of a flash of lightning, a steel hoop lying on its side, a hornet's nest--but none of these quite suited him. He made a helpless gesture. "Hang 'em, you never know what they're up to next!" said he. CHAPTER XIX For that matter, there were times in the next two years when Mary herself hardly knew what she was up to next, for if ever a girl suddenly found herself in deep waters, it was the last of the Spencers. Strangely enough--although I think it is true of many of life's undertakings--it wasn't the big things which bothered her the most. She soon demonstrated--if it needed any demonstration--that what the women of France and Britain had done, the women of New Bethel could do. At each call of the draft, more and more men from Spencer & Son obeyed the beckoning finger of Mars, and more and more women presently took their places in the workshops. That was simply a matter of enlarging the training school, of expanding the courses of instruction. No; it wasn't the big things which ultimately took the bloom from Mary's cheeks and the smile from her eyes. It was the small things that worried her--things so trifling in themselves that it would sound foolish to mention them--the daily nagging details, the gathering load of responsibility upon her shoulders, the indifference which she had to dispel, the inertia that had to be overcome, the ruffled feelings to be soothed, the squabbles to be settled, the hidden hostilities which she had to contend against in her own office--and yet pretend she never noticed them. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the recompensing features, Mary's enthusiasm would probably have become chilled by experience, and dreams have come to nothing. But now and then she seemed to sense in the factory a gathering impetus of efficient organization, the human gears working smoothly for a time, the whole machine functioning with that beauty of precision which is the dream of every executive. That always helped Mary whenever it happened. And the second thing which kept her going was to see the evidences of prosperity and contentment which the women on the payroll began to show--their new clothes and shoes--the hopeful confidence of their smiles--the frequency with which the furniture dealers' wagons were seen in the streets around the factory, the sounds of pianos and phonographs in the evening and, better than all, the fact that on pay day at Spencer & Sons, the New Bethel Savings Bank stayed open till half past nine at night--and didn't stay open for nothing! "If things could only keep going like this when the war ends, too," breathed Mary one day. "...I'm sure there must be some way ... some way...." For the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair. "Still," she thought, "when the men come back, I suppose most of the women will have to go. Of course, the men must have their places back, but you'd think there was some way ... some way...." In fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped. "It's silly, of course," she thoughtfully added, "and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies. But--the way some of the men act--you'd almost think they believed it...." She thought of Uncle Stanley and has son. At his own request, Burdon had been transferred to the New York office and Mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home--"with a sort of a headache." "And Uncle Stanley, too," she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness. "If I were a man, he wouldn't dare to act as he does. But because I'm a girl, I can almost see him hoping that something will happen to me--" If that, indeed, was Uncle Stanley's hope, he didn't have to wait much longer. The armistice was signed, you will remember, in the first week of November, 1918. Two months later Mary showed Judge Cutler the financial statement for the preceding year. "Another year like this," said the judge, "and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again, stronger than ever! My dear girl," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I must congratulate you!" Mary arose, too, her hand outstretched, but something in her manner caught the judge's attention. "What's the matter, Mary?" he asked. "Don't you feel well?" "Men--women," she said, unsteadily smiling and giving him her hand, "they ought to be--now--natural partners--not--not--" With a sigh she lurched forward and fell--a tired little creature--into his arms. CHAPTER XX Mary had a bad time of it the next few weeks. More than once her face seemed turned toward the Valley of the Shadow. But gradually health and strength returned, although it wasn't until April that she was anything like herself again. She liked to sit--sometimes for hours at a time--reading, thinking, dreaming--and when she was strong enough to go outside she would walk among the flowers, and look at the birds and the budding trees, and draw deep breaths as she watched the glory of the sunset appearing and disappearing in the western sky. Helen occasionally walked and sat with her--but not often. Helen's time was being more and more taken up by the younger set at the Country Club. She came home late, humming snatches of the latest dances and talking of the conquests she had made, telling Mary of the men who would dance with no one else, of the compliments they had paid her, of the things they had told her, of the competition to bring her home. One night, it appears, they had an old-fashioned country party at the club, and Helen was in high glee at the number of letters she had received in the game of post office. "You mean to say they all kissed you?" asked Mary. "You bet they did! Good and hard! That's what they were there for!" Mary thought that over. "It doesn't sound nice to me, somehow," she said at last. "It sounds--oh, I don't know--common." "That's what the girls thought who didn't get called," laughed Helen. She arranged her hair in front of the mirror, pulling it down over her forehead till it looked like a golden turban. "Oh, who do you think was there tonight?" she suddenly interrupted herself. Mary shook her head. "Burdon Woodward--as handsome as ever. Yes, handsomer, I think, if he could be. He asked after you. I told him you were nearly better." "Then he must be down at the factory every day," thought Mary. But the thought moved her only a little. Whether or not it was due to her illness, she seemed to have undergone a reaction in regard to the factory. Everything was going on well, Judge Cutler sometimes told her. As the men returned from service, the women were giving up their places. "Whatever you do," he always concluded, "don't begin worrying about things down there. If you do, you'll never get well." "I'm not worrying," she told him, and once she added, "It seems ever so long ago, somehow--that time we had down there." As the spring advanced, her thoughts took her further than ever from their old paths. Instead of thinking of something else (as she used to do), when Helen was telling of her love affairs, Mary began to listen to them--and even to sit up till Helen returned from the club. One night, as Helen was chatting of a young an from Boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him "Helen's little lamb," Mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room. "Cigarettes," she thought, "and--and raspberry jam--!" She waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, "Did Burdon Woodward ride home with you tonight?" she asked. "With Doris and me," nodded Helen, smiling at herself in the mirror. "He told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized." Nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as Helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, Mary was sure she recognized Burdon's dashing handwriting. A vague sense of uneasiness passed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail. On the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father. "Rio de Janeiro," breathed Mary, reading the post-mark. "Why, that's where the cable came from!" She opened the letter.... It was signed "Paul." "Dear Sir (it began) "This isn't begging. I am through with that. When you paid no attention to my cable, I said, 'Never again!' You might like to know that I buried my wife and two youngest that time. It hurt then, but I can see now that they were lucky. "I have one daughter left--twelve years old. She's just at the age when she ought to be looked after. This is her picture. She's a pretty girl, and a good girl, but fond of fun and good times. "I've done my best, but I'm down and out--tired--through. I guess it's up to you what sort of a granddaughter you want. There's a school near here where she could go and be brought up right. It won't cost much. You can send the money direct--if you want the right sort of a granddaughter. "If you want the other kind, all you have to do is to forget it. The crowd I go with aren't good for her. "Anyway I enclose the card and rates and references of the school. You see they give the consuls' names. "If you decide yes, you want your granddaughter to have a chance, write a letter to the name and address below. That's me. Then write the school, sending check for one year and say it is for the daughter of the name and address below. That is the name I am known by here. "I'm sorry for everything, but of course it's too late now. The truest thing in the world is this: As you make your bed, so you've got to lie in it. I made mine wrong, but you couldn't help it. I wouldn't bother you now except for Rosa's sake. "Your prodigal son who is eating husks now, "PAUL." Mary looked at the photograph--a pretty child with her hair over her shoulders and a smile in her eyes. "You poor little thing," she breathed, "and to think you're my niece--and I'm your aunt ... Aunt Mary," she thoughtfully repeated, and for the first time she realized that youth is not eternal and that years go swiftly by. "Life's the strangest thing," she thought. "It's only a sort of an accident that I'm not in her place, and she's not in mine.... Perhaps I sha'n't have any children of my own--ever--" she dreamed, "and if I don't--it will be nice to think that I did something--for this one--" For a moment the chill of caution went over her. "Suppose it isn't really Paul," she thought. "Suppose--it's some sharper. Perhaps that's why dad never wrote him--" But an instinct, deeper than anything which the mind can express, told her that the letter rang true and had no false metal in it. "Or suppose," she thought, "if he knows dad is dead--suppose he turns up and makes trouble for everybody--" Wally's story returned to her memory. "There was an accident out West--somebody killed. Anyhow he was blamed for it--so he could never come back or they'd get him--" "That agrees with his living under this Russian name," nodded Mary. "Anyhow, I'm sure there's nothing to fear in doing a good action--for a child like this--" She propped the picture on her desk and after a great deal of dipping her pen in the ink, she finally began-- "Dear Sir: "I have opened your letter to my father, Josiah Spencer. He has been dead three years. I am his daughter. "It doesn't seem right that such a nice girl as Rosa shouldn't have every chance to grow up good and happy. So I am writing the school you mentioned, and sending them the money as you suggest. "She will probably need some clothes, as they always look at a girl's clothes so when she goes to school. I therefore enclose something for that. "Trusting that everything will turn out well, I am "Yours sincerely, "MARY SPENCER. "P.S. I would like Rosa to write and tell me how she gets on at school." She wrote the school next and when that was done she sat back in her chair and looked out of the window at the birds and the flowers and the bees that flew among the flowers. "What a queer thing it is--love, or whatever they call it," she thought. "The things it has done to people--right in this house! I guess it's like fire--a good servant but a bad master--" She thought of what it had done to Josiah--and to Josiah's son. She thought of what it had done to Ma'm Maynard, what it was doing to Helen, how it had left Aunt Cordelia and Aunt Patty untouched. "It's like some sort of a fever," she told herself. "You never know whether you're going to catch it or not--or when you're going to catch, it--or what it's going to do to you--" She walked to the window and rather unsteadily her hand arose to her breast. "I wonder if I shall ever catch it...." she thought. "I wonder what it will do to me...!" CHAPTER XXI Archey Forbes came back in the beginning of May and the first call he made was to the house on the hill. He had brought with him a collection of souvenirs--a trench-made ring, shrapnel fragments of curious shapes, the inevitable helmet and a sword handle with a piece of wire attached. "It was part of our work once," he said, "to find booby traps and make them harmless. This was in a barn, looking as though some one had tried to hide his sword in the hay. It looked funny to me, so I went at it easy and found the wire connected to a fuse. There was enough explosive to blow up the barn and everybody around there, but it wouldn't blow up a hill of bears when we got through with it." He coloured a little through his bronze. "I thought you might like these things," he awkwardly continued. "Like them? I'd love them!" said Mary, her eyes sparkling. "I brought them for you." They were both silent for a time, looking at the souvenirs, but presently their glances met and they smiled at each other. "Of course you're going back to the factory," she said; and when he hesitated she continued, "I shall rely on you to let me know how things are going on." Again he coloured a little beneath his bronze and Mary found herself watching it with an indefinable feeling of satisfaction. And after he was gone and she was carrying the souvenirs to the den, she also found herself singing a few broken bars from the Blue Danube. "Is that you singing!" shouted Helen from the library. "Trying to." Helen came hurrying as though to see a miracle, for Mary couldn't sing. "Oh--oh!" she said, her eyes falling on the helmet. "Who sent it? Wally Cabot?" "No; Archey Forbes brought it." "Oh-ho!" said Helen again. "Now I see-ee-ee!" But if she did, she saw more than Mary. "Perhaps she thinks I'm in love with him," she thought, and though the reflection brought a pleasant sense of disturbance with it, it wasn't long before she was shaking her head. "I don't know what it is," she decided at last, "but I'm sure I'm not in love with him." As nearly as I can express it, Mary was in love with love, and could no more help it than she could help the crease in her chin or the dreaminess of her eyes. If Archey had had the field to himself, her heart might soon have turned to him as unconsciously and innocently as a flower turns its petals to the sun. But the day after Archey returned, Wally Cabot came back and he, too, laid his souvenirs at Mary's feet. It was the same Wally as ever. He had also brought a piece of old lace for Aunt Cordelia, a jet necklace for Aunt Patty, a prison-camp brooch for Helen. All afternoon he held them with tales of his adventures in the air, rolling up his sleeve to show them a scar on his arm, and bending his head down so they could see where a German ace had nicked a bit of his hair out. More than once Mary felt her breath come faster, and when Aunt Cordelia invited him to stay to dinner and he chanced to look at her, she gave a barely perceptible signal "Yes," and smiled to herself at the warmth of his acceptance. "I'll telephone mother," he said, briskly rising. "Where's the phone, Mary? I forget the way." She arose to show him. "Let's waltz out," he laughed. "Play something, Helen. Something lively and happy...." It was a long time before Mary went to sleep that night. The moon was nearly full and shone in her windows, a stream of its rays falling on her bed and bringing to her those immortal waves of fancy which begin where the scent of flowers stop, and end where immortal and melancholy music begins. Unbidden tears came to her eyes, though she couldn't have told you why, and again a sense of the fleeting of time disturbed her. "Aunt Mary ..." In a few years she would be old, and her hair would be white like Aunt Patty's.... And in a few years more.... But even as Wally Cabot kept her from thinking too much of Archey Forbes, so now Archey unconsciously revenged himself and kept her thoughts from centring too closely around Wally Cabot. Archey called the next afternoon and Mary sat on the veranda steps with him, while Helen made hay with Wally on a tête-à-tête above. The few women who were left in the factory were having things made unpleasant for them: that was what Archey had come to tell her. Their canteen had been stopped; the day nursery discontinued; the nurses discharged. "Of course they are not needed there any longer, so far as that is concerned," concluded Archey, "but they certainly helped us out of a hole when we did need them, and it doesn't seem right now to treat them rough." At hearing this, a guilty feeling passed over Mary and left her cheeks warm. "They'll think I've deserted them," she thought. "Well, haven't you?" something inside her asked. Some of her old dreams returned to her mind, as though to mock her. She was going to be a new Moses once, leading her sisters out of the house of bondage. Woman was to have things different. Old drudgeries were to be lifted from her shoulders. The night was over. The dawn was at hand. "Well, what can I do?" she thought uneasily. "You can stop them from being treated roughly," something inside her answered. "I can certainly do that," she nodded to herself. "I'll telephone Uncle Stanley right away." But Uncle Stanley was out, and Mary was going riding with Wally that afternoon. So she wrote a hurried note and left it at the factory as they passed by. "Dear Uncle Stanley," it read, "Please see that every courtesy and attention is shown, the women who are still working. We may need them again some day. "Sincerely, "MARY." "Now!" she said to Wally, and they started on their ride. And, oh, but that was a ride! The afternoon was perfect, the sun warm but not hot, the air crystal clear. It had showered the night before and the world, in its spring dress, looked as though it had been washed and spruced for their approval. "All roses and lilies!" laughed Wally. "That's how I like life!" They went along hillsides and looked down into the beautiful valleys; they wound around by the sides of rivers and through deep woods; they went like the wind; they loafed; they explored country lanes and lost their way, stopped at a farm-house and found it again, shouted with delight when a squirrel tried to race them along the top of a fence, gasped together when they nearly ran over a turkey, chatted, laughed, sang (though this was a solo, for Mary couldn't sing, though she tried now and then under her breath), and with every mile they rode they seemed to pass invisible milestones along the road which leads from friendship to love. It came to a crisis two weeks later, on an afternoon in June. Mary was in the garden picking a bouquet for the table, and Wally went to help her. She gave him a smile that made his heart do a trick, and when he bent over to help her break a piece of mignonette, his hand touched hers.... "Mary...." he whispered. "Yes?" "Do you love me a little bit now?" "I wonder...." said she, and they both bent over to pick another piece of mignonette. Away down deep in Mary, a voice whispered, "Somebody's watching." She looked toward the house and caught sight of Helen who was sitting sideways on the veranda rail and missing never a move. Wally followed Mary's glance. "She'll be down here in a minute," he frowned to himself. At the bottom of the lawn, overlooking the valley, was a summer house of rustic cedar, nearly covered with honeysuckle. "Let's take a stroll down there, shall we?" he asked. The tremor of his voice told Mary more than his words. "He wants to love me," she thought, and burying her face in her bouquet she said in a muffled little voice, "...I don't care." They went down to the summer house, talking, trying to appear indifferent, but both of them knowing that a truly tremendous moment in their drama of life was close at hand. They seated themselves opposite each other on the bench and Mary's dreamy eyes went out over the valley. "Mary...." he began. She looked at him for a moment and then her glance went out over the valley again. "Don't you think we've waited long enough?" he gently asked. But Mary's eyes were still upon the valley below. "In a way, I'm glad you've waited," he said. "Judge Cutler told me some of the wonderful things you did here during the war. But you don't want to be bothering with a factory as long as you live. It's grubby, narrow work, and there's so much else in life, so much that's beautiful and--and wonderful--" For a fleeting moment a picture arose before Mary's eyes: a tired woman bending over a wash-tub with a crying child tugging at her skirt. "So much that's beautiful--and wonderful"--the words were still echoing around her, and almost without thinking she said a peculiar thing. "Suppose we were poor," said she. "But we aren't poor," smiled Wally. "That's one reason why I want to take you away from this. What's the use of having things if you can't enjoy them?" She thought that over. "There is so much that I have always wanted to see," he continued, "but I've had sense enough to wait until I found the right girl--so we could go and see it together. Switzerland--and the Nile--and Japan--and the Riviera, with 'its skies for ever blue.' Any place we liked, we could stay till we were tired of it. And a house in New York--and an island in the St. Lawrence--or down near Palm Beach. There's nothing we couldn't do--nothing we couldn't have--" "But don't you think--" hesitated Mary and then stopped, timid of breaking the spell which was stealing over her. "Don't I think what, dear?" "Oh, I don't know--but you see so many married people, who seem to have lost interest in each other--nice people, too. You see them at North East Harbor--Boston--everywhere--and somehow they are bored at each other's company. Wouldn't it be awful if--if we were to be married--and then got like that, too?" "We never, never could! Oh, we couldn't! You know as well as I do that we couldn't!" "They must have felt that way once," she mused, her thoughts still upon the indifferent ones, "but I suppose if people were awfully careful to guard against it, they wouldn't get that way--" She felt Wally's arm along the back of the bench. "Don't be afraid of love, Mary," he whispered. "Don't you know by now that it's the one great thing in life?" "I wonder...." breathed Mary. "Oh, but it is. You shouldn't wonder. It's the sweetest story ever told--the greatest adventure ever lived--" But still old dreams echoed in her memory, though growing fainter with every breath she drew. "It's all right for the man," she murmured. "If he gets tired of hearing the story, he's got other thoughts to occupy his mind. He's got his work--his career. But what's the woman going to do?" Instinct told him how to answer her. "I love you," he whispered. She looked at him. Somewhere over them a robin began to sing as though its breast would burst. The scent of the honeysuckle grew intoxicating. "Your heart is beating faster," he whispered again. "'Tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'There's going to be a wedding next month'--'Tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'Lieutenant Cabot is now about to kiss his future bride--" Mary's head bent low and just as Wally was lifting it, his hand gently cupped beneath her chin, he caught sight of Helen running toward them. "Oh, Mary!" she called. With an involuntary movement, Mary freed herself from Wally's hand. "Four women to see you--from the factory, I think," Helen breathlessly announced, and pretending not to notice Wally's scowl she added, "I wouldn't have bothered you ... only one of them's crying...." CHAPTER XXII The four women were standing in the driveway by the side of the house, and if you had been there as Mary approached, they might have reminded you of four lost sheep catching sight of their shepherd. "Come and sit down," said Mary, "and tell me what's the matter." "We've been discharged," said one with a red face. "Of course I know that we shouldn't have come to bother you about it, Miss Spencer, but it was you who hired us, and I told him, said I, 'Miss Spencer's going to hear about this. She won't stand for any dirty work.'" Mary had seated herself on the veranda steps and, obeying her gesture, the four women sat on the step below her, two on one side and two on the other. "Who discharged you?" she asked. "Mr. Woodward." "Which Mr. Woodward?" "The young one--Burdon." "What did he discharge you for?" "That's it. That's the very thing I asked him." "Perhaps they need your places for some of the men who are coming back." "No, ma'm. We wouldn't mind if that was it, but there's nobody expected back this week." "Then why is it?" There was a moment's hesitation, and then the one who had been crying said, "It's because we're women." A shadow of unconscious indignation swept over Mary's face and, seeing it, the four began speaking at once. "Things have never been the same, Miss Spencer, since you were sick--" "First they shut down the nursery--" "Then the rest room--said it was a bad example for the men--" "A bad example for the men, mind you--us!" "And then the canteen was closed--" "And behind our backs, they called us 'Molls.'" "Not that I care, but 'Molls,' mind you--" "Then they began hanging signs in our locker room--" "'A woman's place is in the home' and things like that--" "And then they began putting us next to strange men--" "And, oh, their language, Miss Spencer--" "Don't tell her--" As the chorus continued, Mary began to feel hot and uncomfortable. "I had no right to leave them in the lurch like that," she thought, and her cheeks stung as she recalled her old plans, her old visions. "And now they've got to go back to their kitchens for the rest of their lives--and told they are not wanted anywhere else--because they are women--" The more she thought about it, the warmer she grew; and the higher her indignation arose, the more remote were her thoughts of Wally--Wally with his greatest adventure that was ever lived--Wally with his sweetest story ever told. She looked at the hands of the two women below her and saw three wedding rings. "The roses and lilies didn't last long with them," thought Mary grimly. "Oh, I'm sure it's all wrong, somehow.... I'm sure there's some way that things could be made happier for women...." She interrupted the quartette, in her voice a note which Wally had never heard before and which made him exchange a glance with Helen. "Now first of all," she said, "just how badly do you four women need your pay envelopes every week?" They told her, especially the one who had been crying, and who now started crying again. "Wait here a minute, please," said Mary, that note in her voice more marked than before. She arose and went in the house, and Wally guessed that she had gone to telephone the factory. For a while they couldn't hear her, except when she said "I want to speak to Mr. Burdon Woodward--yes--Mr. Burdon Woodward--" They could faintly hear her talking then, but toward the end her voice came full and clear. "I want you to set them to work again! They are coming right back! Yes, the four of them! I shall be at the office in the morning. That's all. Good-bye." She came out, then, like a young Aurora riding the storm. "You're to go right back to your work," she said, and in a gentler voice, "Wally, can I speak to you, please?" He followed her into the house and when he came out alone ten minutes later, he drew a deep sigh and sat down again by Helen, a picture of utter dejection. "Never mind, Wally," she said, and patted his arm. "I can't make her out at times," he sighed. "No, and nobody else," she whispered. "What do you think, Helen?" he asked. "Don't you think that love is the greatest thing in life?" "Why, of course it is," she whispered, and patted his arm again. CHAPTER XXIII In spite of her brave words the day before, when Mary left the house for the office in the morning, a feeling of uncertainty and regret weighed upon her, and made her pensive. More than once she cast a backward look at the things she was leaving behind--love, the joys of youth, the pleasure places of the world to see, romance, heart's ease, and "skies for ever blue." At the memory of Wally's phrase she grew more thoughtful than before. "But would they be for ever blue?" she asked herself. "I guess every woman in the world expects them to be, when she marries. Yes, and they ought to be, too, an awful lot more than they are. Oh, I'm sure there's something wrong somewhere.... I'm, sure here's something wrong...." She thought of the four women standing in the driveway by the side of the house, looking lost and bewildered, and the old sigh of pity arose in her heart. "The poor women," she thought. "They didn't look as though the sweetest story ever told had lasted long with them--" She had reached the crest of the hill and the factory came to her view. A breeze was rising from the river and as she looked down at the scene below, as her forbears had looked so many times before her, she felt as a sailor from the north might feel when after drifting around in drowsy tropic seas, he comes at last to his own home port and feels the clean wind whip his face and blow away his languor. The old familiar office seemed to be waiting for her, the pictures regarding her as though they were saying "Where have you been, young lady? We began to think you had gone." Through the window sounded the old symphony, the roar of the falls above the hum of the shops, the choruses and variations of well-nigh countless tools, each having its own particular note or song. Mary's eyes shone bright. Gone, she found, were her feeling of uncertainty, her sighs of regret. Here at last was something real, something definite, something noble and great in the work of the world. "And all mine," she thought with an almost passionate feeling of possession. "All mine--mine--mine--" Archey was the first to come in, and it only needed a glance to see that Archey was unhappy. "I'm afraid the men in the automatic room are shaping for trouble," he said, as soon as their greetings were over. "What's the matter with them?" "It's about those four women--the four who came back." Mary's eyes opened wide. "There has been quite a lot of feeling," he continued, "and when the four women turned up this morning again and started work, the men went out and held a meeting in the locker room. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if the automatic hands went on strike." "You mean to say they will go on strike before they will work with their own wives and sisters?" "That's the funny part of it. As far as I can find out, the trouble wasn't started by our own men--but by strangers--men from New York and Boston--professional agitators, they look like to me--plenty of money and plenty of talk and clever workmen, too. I don't know just how far they've gone, but--" The office boy appeared in the doorway and he, too, looked worried. "There's a committee to see you, Miss Spencer," he said, "a bunch from the lathe shops." "Have they seen Mr. Woodward?" "No'm. He referred them to you." "All right, Joe. Send them in, please." The committee filed in and Archey noted that they were still wearing their street clothes. "Looks bad," he told himself. There were three men, two of them strangers to Mary, but the third she recognized as one of the teachers in her old "school"--a thoughtful looking man well past middle age, with a long grey moustache and reflective eyes. "Mr. Edsol, isn't it?" she asked. "Yes'm," he solemnly replied. "That's me." She looked at the other two. The first had the alert glance and actions which generally mark the orator, the second was a dark, heavy man who never once stopped frowning. "Miss Spencer," immediately began the spokesman--he who looked like the orator--"we have been appointed a committee by the automatic shop to tell you that we do not believe in the dilution of labour by women. Unless the four women who are working in our department are laid off at once, the men in our shop will quit." "Just a moment, please," said Mary, ringing. "Joe, will you please tell Mr. Woodward, Sr., that I would like to see him?" "He's just gone out," said Joe. "Mr. Burdon, then." "Mr. Burdon sent word he wouldn't be down today. He's gone to New York." Mary thought that over. "Joe," she said. "There are four women working in the automatic shop. I wish you'd go and bring them here." And turning to the committee she said, "I think there must be some way of settling this to everybody's satisfaction, if we all get together and try." It wasn't long before the four women came in, and again it struck Mary how nervous and bewildered three of them looked. The fourth, however, held her back straight and seemed to walk more than upright. "Now," smiled Mary to the spokesman of the committee, "won't you tell me, please, what fault you find with these four women?" "As I understand it," he replied, "we are not here to argue the point. Same time, I don't see the harm of telling you what we think about it. First place, it isn't natural for a woman to be working in a factory." "Why not?" "Well, for one thing, if you don't mind me speaking out, because she has babies." "But the war has proved a baby is lucky to have its mother working in a modern factory," replied Mary. "The work is easier than housework, the surroundings are better, the matter is given more attention. As a result, the death rate of factory babies has been lower than the death rate of home babies. Don't you think that's a good thing? Wouldn't you like to see it go on?" "Who says factory work is easier than housework?" "The women who have tried both. These four, for instance." "Well, another thing," he said, "a woman can't be looking after her children when she's working in a factory." "That's true. But she can't be looking after them, either, when she's washing, or cooking, or doing things like that. They lie and cry--or crawl around and fall downstairs--or sit on the doorstep--or play in the street. "Now, here, during the war," she continued, "we had a day nursery. You never saw such happy children in your life. Why, almost the only time they cried was when they had to go home at night!" Mary's eyes brightened at the memory of it. "Didn't your son's wife have a baby in the nursery, Mr. Edsol?" "Two," he solemnly nodded. "For another thing," said the chairman, "a woman is naturally weaker than a man. You couldn't imagine a woman standing up under overtime, for instance." "Oh, you shouldn't say that," said Mary earnestly, "because everybody knows that in the human family, woman is the only one who has always worked overtime." Here the third member of the committee muttered a gruff aside. "No use talking to a woman," said he. "You be quiet, I'm doing this," said the chairman. "Another thing that everybody knows," he continued to Mary, "a woman hasn't the natural knack for mechanics that a man has." "During the war," Mary told him, "she mastered nearly two thousand different kinds of skilled work--work involving the utmost precision. And the women who did this weren't specially selected, either. They came from every walk of life--domestic servants, cooks, laundresses, girls who had never left home before, wives of small business men, daughters of dock labourers, titled ladies--all kinds, all conditions." She told him, then, some of the things women had made--read him reports--showed him pictures. "In fact," she concluded, "we don't have to go outside this factory to prove that a woman has the same knack for mechanics that a man has. During the war we had as many women working here as men, and every one will tell you that they did as well as the men." "Well, let's look at it another way," said the chairman, and he nodded to his colleagues as though he knew there could be no answer to this one. "There are only so many jobs to go around. What are the men going to do if the women take their jobs?" "That's it!" nodded the other two. All three looked at Mary. "I used to wonder that myself," she said, "but one day I saw that I was asking the wrong question. There is just so much work that has to be done in the world every day, so we can all be fed and clothed, and have those things which we need to make us happy. Now everybody in this room knows that 'many hands make light work.' So, don't you see? The more who work, the easier it will be for everybody." But the spokesman only smiled at this--that smile which always meant to Mary, "No use talking to a woman"--and aloud he said, "Well, as I told you before, we weren't sent to argue. We only came to tell you what the automatic hands were going to do if these four women weren't laid off." "I understand," said Mary; and turning to the four she asked, "How do you feel about it?" "I suppose we'll have to go," said Mrs. Ridge, her face red but her back straighter then ever. "I guess it was our misfortune, Miss Spencer, that we were born women. It seems to me we always get the worst end of it, though I'm sure I don't know why. I did think once, when the war was on, that things were going to be different for us women after this. But it seems not.... You've been good to us, and we don't want to get you mixed up in any strike, Miss Spencer.... I guess we'd better go...." Judge Cutler's expression returned to Mary's mind: "Another year like this and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again--" Barring strikes! Mary was under no misapprehension as to what a strike might mean.... "I want to get this exactly right," she said, turning to the chairman again. "The only reason you wish these women discharged is because they are women, is that it?" "Yes; I guess that's it, when you come right down to it." "Do you think it's fair?" "I'm sorry, Miss Spencer, but it's not a bit of use arguing any longer. If these four women stay, the men in our department quit: that's all." Mary looked up at the pictures of her forbears who seemed to be listening attentively for her answer. "Please tell the men that I shall be sorry--very sorry--to see them go," she said at last, "but these four women are certainly going to stay." CHAPTER XXIV From one of the windows of Mary's office, she could see the factory gate. "If they do go on strike," she thought, "I shall see them walk out." She didn't have to watch long. First in groups of twos and threes, and then thick and fast, the men appeared, their lunch boxes under their arms, all making for the gate. Some were arguing, some were joking, others looked serious. It struck Mary that perhaps these latter were wondering what they would tell their wives. "I don't envy them the explanation," she half smiled to herself. But her smile was short-lived. In the hallway she heard a step and, turning, she saw Uncle Stanley looking at her. "What's the matter with those men who are going out?" he asked. "As if he didn't know!" she thought, but aloud she answered, "They're going on strike." "What are they striking for?" "Because I wouldn't discharge those four women." He gave her a look that seemed to say, "You see what you've done--think you could run things. A nice hornet's nest you've stirred up!" At first he turned away as though to go back to his office, but he seemed to think better of it. "You might as well shut down the whole plant," he said. "We can't do anything without the automatics. You know that as well as I do." He waited for a time, but she made no answer. "Shall I tell the rest of the men?" he asked. "Tell them what, Uncle Stanley?" "That we're going to shut down till further notice?" Mary shook her head. "It would be a pity to do that," she said, "because--don't you see?--there wouldn't be anything then for the four women to do." At this new evidence of woman's utter inability to deal with large affairs, Uncle Stanley snorted. "We've got to do something," said he. "All right, Uncle," said Mary, pressing the button on the side of her desk, "I'll do the best I can." For in the last few minutes a plan had entered her mind--a plan which has probably already presented itself to you. "When the war was on," she thought, "nearly all the work in that room was done by women. I wonder if I couldn't get them back there now--just to show the men what we can do--" In answer to her ring, Joe knocked and entered, respectful admiration in his eye. You may remember Joe, "the brightest boy in the office." In the three years that Mary had known him, he had grown and was now in the transient stage between office boy and clerk--wore garters around his shirt sleeves to keep his cuffs up, feathered his hair in the front, and wore a large black enamel ring with the initial "J" worked out in "diamonds." "Joe," she said, "I want you to bring me the employment cards of all the women who worked here during the war. And send Miss Haskins in, please; I want to write a circular letter." She hurried him away with a nod and a quick smile. "Gee, I wish there was a lion or something out here," he thought as he hurried through the hall to the outer office, and after he had taken Mary the cards and sent Miss Haskins in, he proudly remarked to the other clerks, "Maybe they thought she'd faint away and call for the doctor when they went on strike, but, say, she hasn't turned a hair. I'll bet she's up to something, too." It wasn't a long letter that Mary sent to the list of names which she gave Miss Haskins, but it had that quiet pull and power which messages have when they come from the heart. "Oh, I know a lot will come," said Mrs. Ridge when Mary showed her a copy of it. "They would come anyhow, Miss Spencer. Most of them never made money like they made it here. They've been away long enough now to miss it and--Ha-ha-a!--Excuse me." She suddenly checked herself and looked very red and solemn. "What are you laughing at?" asked Mary. "I was thinking of my next door neighbour, Mrs. Strauss. She's never through saying that the year she was here was the happiest year of her life; and how she'd like to come back again. She'll be one of the first to come--I know she will. And her husband is one of the strikers--that's the funny part of it!" Mary smiled herself at that, and she smiled again the next morning when she saw the women coming through the gate. "Report in your old locker room," her letter had read, "and bring your working clothes." By nine o'clock more than half the automatic machines were busy, and women were still arriving. "The canteen's going again," ran the report up and down the aisles. At half past ten the old gong sounded in the lathe room, and the old tea wagon began its old-time trundling. In addition to refreshments each woman received a rose-bud--"From Miss Spencer. With thanks and best wishes." "Do you know if the piano's here yet?" asked a brisk looking matron in sky blue overalls. "Yep," nodded the tea girl. "When I came through, they were taking the cover off it, and fixing up the rest room." "Isn't it good to be back again!" said the brisk young matron to her neighbour. "Believe me or not, I haven't seen a dancing floor since I quit work here." Mrs. Ridge had been appointed forewoman. Just before noon she reported to Mary. "There'll be a lot more tomorrow," she said. "When these get home, they'll do nothing but talk about it; and I keep hearing of women who are fixing things up at home so they can come in the morning. So don't you worry, Miss Spencer, this strike isn't going to hurt you none, but--Ha-ha-ha!--Excuse me," she said, suddenly checking her mirth again and looking very red and solemn. "I like to hear you laugh," said Mary, "but what's it about this time!" "Mrs. Strauss is here. I told you she would be. She left her husband home to do the housework and today is washday--that's the funny part of it!" Whatever Mrs. Ridge's ability as a critic of humour might be, at least she was a good prophet. Nearly all the machines were busy the next morning, and new arrivals kept dropping in throughout the day. Mary began to breathe easy, but not for long. "I don't want to be a gloom," reported Archey, "but the lathe hands are trying to get the grinders to walk out. They say the men must stick together, or they'll all lose their jobs." She looked thoughtful at that. "I think we had better get the nursery ready," she said. "Let's go and find the painters." It was a pleasant place--that nursery--with its windows overlooking the river and the lawn. In less than half an hour the painters had spread their sheets and the teamster had gone for a load of white sand. The cots and mattresses were put in the sun to air. The toys had been stored in the nurse's room. These were now brought out and inspected. "I think I'll have the other end of the room finished off as a kindergarten," said Mary. "Then we'll be able to take care of any children up to school age, and their mothers won't have to worry a bit." She showed him where she wished the partition built, and as he ran his rule across the distance, she noticed a scar across the knuckles of his right hand. "That's where I dressed it, that time," she thought. "Isn't life queer! He was in France for more than a year, but the only scar that I can see is the one he got--that morning--" Something of this may have shown in her eyes for when Archey straightened and looked at her, he blushed ("He'll never get over that!" thought Mary)--and hurried off to find the carpenters. These preparations were completed only just in time. On Thursday she went to New York to select her kindergarten equipment. On Friday a truck arrived at the factory, filled with diminutive chairs, tables, blackboards, charts, modelling clay, building blocks, and more miscellaneous items than I can tell you. And on Saturday morning the grinders sent a committee to the office that they could no longer labour on bearings which had passed through the hands of women workers. Mary tried to argue with them. "When women start to take men's jobs away--" began one of the committee. "But they didn't," she said. "The men quit." "When women start to take men's jobs away from them," he repeated, "it's time for the men to assert themselves." "We know that you mean well, Miss Spencer," said another, "but you are starting something here that's bad. You're starting something that will take men's work away from them--something that will make more workers than there are jobs." "It was the war that started it," she pleaded, "not I. Now let me ask you something. There is so much work that has to be done in the world every day; isn't there?" "Yes, I guess that's right." "Well, don't you see? The more people there are to do that work, the easier it will be for everybody." But no, they couldn't see that. So Mary had to ring for Joe to bring in the old employment cards again, and that night and all day Sunday, Mrs. Ridge's company spread the news that four hundred more women were wanted at Spencer & Son's--"and you ought to see the place they've got for looking after children," was invariably added to the mothers of tots, "free milk, free nurses, free doctoring, free toys, rompers, little chairs and tables, animals, sand piles, swings, little pails and shovels--you never saw anything like it in your life--!" If the tots in question heard this, and were old enough to understand, their eyes stood out like little painted saucers, and mutely then or loudly they pleaded Mary's cause. CHAPTER XXV It sometimes seems to me that the old saying, "History repeats itself," is one of the truest ever written. At least history repeated itself in the case of the grinders. Before the week was over, the places left vacant by the men had been filled by women, and the nursery and kindergarten had proved to be unqualified successes. Many of the details I will reserve till later, including the growth of the canteen, the vanishing mirror, an improvement in overalls, to say nothing of daffodils and daisies and Mrs. Kelly's drum. And though some of these things may sound peculiar at first, you will soon see that they were all repetitions of history. They followed closely after things that had already been done by other women in other places, and were only adopted by Mary first because they added human touches to a rather serious business, and second because they had proved their worth elsewhere. Before going into these affairs, however, I must tell you about the reporters. The day the grinders went on strike, a local correspondent sent a story to his New York paper. It wasn't a long story, but the editor saw possibilities in it. He gave it a heading, "Good-bye, Man, Says She. Woman Owner of Big Machine Shop Replaces Men With Women." He also sent a special writer and an artist to New Bethel to get a story for the Sunday edition. Other editors saw the value of that "Good-bye, Man" idea and they also sent reporters to the scene. They came; they saw; they interviewed; and almost before Mary knew what was happening, New Bethel and Spencer & Son were on their way to fame. Some of the stories were written from a serious point of view, others in a lighter vein, but all of them seemed to reflect the opinion that a rather tremendous question was threatening--a question that was bound to come up for settlement sooner or later, but which hadn't been expected so soon. "Is Woman Really Man's Equal?" That was the gist of the problem. Was her equality theoretical--or real? Now that she had the ballot and could no longer be legislated against, could she hold her own industrially on equal terms with man? Or, putting it as briefly as possible, "Could she make good?" Some of these articles worried Mary at first, and some made her smile, and after reading others she wanted to run away and hide. Judge Cutler made a collection of them, and whenever he came to a good one, he showed it to Mary. "I wish they would leave us alone," she said one day. "I don't," said the judge seriously. "I'm glad they have turned the spotlight on." "Why?" "Because with so much publicity, there's very little chance of rough work. Of course the men here at home wouldn't do anything against their own women folks, but quite a few outsiders are coming in, and if they could work in the dark, they might start a whisper, 'Anything to win!'" Mary thought that over, and somehow the sun didn't shine so brightly for the next few minutes. Ma'm Maynard's old saying arose to her mind: "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" "No, sir, I don't believe it!" Mary told herself. "And I never shall believe it, either!" The next afternoon Judge Cutler brought her an editorial entitled, "We Shall See." "The women of New Bethel (it read) are trying an experiment which, carried to its logical conclusion, may change industrial history. "Perhaps industrial history needs a change. It has many dark pages where none but man has written. "If woman is the equal of man, industrially speaking, she is bound to find her natural level. If she is not the equal of man, the New Bethel experiment will help to mark her limitations. "Whatever the outcome, the question needs an answer and those who claim that she is unfitted for this new field should be the most willing to let her prove it. "By granting them the suffrage, we have given our women equal rights. Unless for demonstrated incapacity, upon what grounds shall we now deny them equal opportunities? "The New Bethel experiment should be worked out without hard feeling or rancour on either side. "Can a woman do a man's work? "Let us watch and we shall see." Mary read it twice. "I like that," she said. "I wish everybody in town could see that." "Just what I thought," said the judge. "What do you say if we have it printed in big type, and pasted on the bill-boards?" They had it done. The day after the bills were posted, Archey went around to see how they were being received. "It was a good idea," he told Mary the next morning, but she noticed that he looked troubled and absent-minded, as though his thoughts weren't in his words. "What's the matter, Archey?" she quietly asked. "Oh, I don't know," he said, and with the least possible touch of irritation he added, "Sometimes I think it's because I don't like him. Everything that counts against him sticks--and I may have been mistaken anyway--" "It's something about Burdon," thought Mary, and in the same quiet voice as before she said, "What is it, Archey?" "Well," he said, hesitating, "I went out after dinner last night--to see if they were reading the bill-boards. I thought I'd walk down Jay Street--that's where the strikers have their headquarters. I was walking along when all at once I thought I saw Burdon's old car turning a corner ahead of me. "It stopped in front of Repetti's pool-room. Two men came out and got in. "A little while later I was speaking to one of our men and he said some rough actors were drifting in town and he didn't like the way they were talking. I asked him where these men were making their headquarters and he said, 'Repetti's Pool Room.'" Mary thought that over. "Mind you, I wouldn't swear it was Burdon's old car," said Archey, more troubled than before. "I can only tell you I'm sure of it--and I might be mistaken at that. And even if it was Burdon, he'd only say that he had gone there to try to keep the strike from spreading--yes, and he might be right at that," he added, desperately trying to be fair, "but--well, he worries me--that's all." He was worrying Mary, too, although for a different reason. With increasing frequency, Helen was coming home from the Country Club unconsciously scented with that combination of cigarette smoke and raspberry jam. Burdon had a new car, a swift, piratical craft which had been built to his order, and sometimes when he called at the house on the hill for Helen, Mary amused herself by thinking that he only needed a little flag-pole and a Jolly Roger--a skirted coat and a feathered hat--and he would be the typical younger son of romance, scouring the main in search of Spanish gold. Occasionally when he rolled to the door, Wally's car was already there, for Wally--after an absence--was again coming around, pale and in need of sympathy, singing his tenor songs to Helen's accompaniment and with greater power of pathos than ever, especially when he sang the sad ones at Mary's head-- "There in the churchyard, crying, a grave I se-ee-ee Nina, that sweet dove flying was thee-ee-ee, was thee--" "Ah, I have sighed for rest--" "--And if she willeth to destroy me I can die.... I can die...." After Wally had moved them all to a feeling of imminent tears, he would hover around Helen with a vague ambition of making her cousin jealous--a proceeding which didn't bother Mary at all. But she did worry about the growing intimacy between Helen and Burdon and, one evening when Helen was driving her up to the house from the factory, Mary tried to talk to her. "If I were you, Helen," she said, "I don't think I'd go around with Burdon Woodward quite so much--or come to the office to see him quite so often." Helen blew the horn, once, twice and again. "No, really, dear, I wouldn't," continued Mary. "Of course you know he's a terrible flirt. Why he can't even leave the girls at the office alone." Quite unconsciously Helen adopted the immemorial formula. "Burdon Woodward has always acted to me like a perfect gentleman," said she. "Of course he has, dear. If he hadn't, I know you wouldn't have gone out with him last night, for instance. But he has such a reckless, headstrong way with him. Suppose last night, instead of coming home, he had turned the car toward Boston or New York, what would you have done then?" "Don't worry. I could have stopped him." "Stopped him? How could you, if he were driving very fast?" "Oh, it's easy enough to stop a car," said Helen. "One of the girls at school showed me." Leaning over, she ran her free hand under the instrument board. "Feel these wires back of the switch," she said. "All you have to do is to reach under quick and pull one loose--just a little tug like this--and you can stop the wildest man, and the wildest car on earth.... See?" In the excitement of her demonstration she tugged the wire too hard. It came loose in her hand and the engine stopped as though by magic. "It's a good thing we are up to the house," she laughed. "You needn't look worried. Robert can fix it in a minute." It wasn't that, though, which troubled Mary. "Think of her knowing such a thing!" she was saying to herself. "How her mind must run at times!" But of course she couldn't voice a thought like that. "All the same, Helen," she said aloud, "I wouldn't go out with him so much, if I were you. People will begin to notice it, and you know the way they talk." Helen tossed her head, but in her heart she knew that her cousin was right--a knowledge which only made her the more defiant. Yes ...people were beginning to notice it.... The Saturday afternoon before, when Burdon was taking her to the club in his gallant new car, they had stopped at the station to let a train pass. A girl on the sidewalk had smiled at Burdon and stared at Helen with equal intensity and equal significance. "Who was that?" asked Helen, when the train had passed. "Oh, one of the girls at the office. She's in my department--sort of a bookkeeper." Noticing Helen's silence he added more carelessly than before, "You know how some girls act if you are any way pleasant to them." It was one of those trifling incidents which occasionally seem to have the deepest effect upon life. That very afternoon, when Mary had tried to warn her cousin, Helen had gone to the factory apparently to bring Mary home, but in reality to see Burdon. She had been in his private office, perched on the edge of his desk and swinging her foot, when the same girl came in--the girl who had smiled and stared near the station. "All right, Fanny," said Burdon without looking around. "Leave the checks. I'll attend to them." It seemed to Helen that the girl went out slowly, a sudden spot of colour on each of her cheeks. "You call her Fanny!" Helen asked, when, the door shut again. "Yes," he said, busy with the checks. "They do more for you, when you are decent with them." "You think so?" He caught the meaning in her voice and sighed a little as he sprawled his signature on the next check. "I often wish I was a sour, old crab," he said, half to Helen and half to himself. "I'd get through life a whole lot better than I do." Mary had come to the door then, ready to start for home. When Helen passed through the outer office she saw the girl again, her cheek on her palm, her head bent over her desk, dipping her pen in the red ink and then pushing the point through her blotter pad. None of this was lost on Helen, nor the girl's frown, nor the row of crimson blotches that stretched across the blotter. "She'll go in now to get those checks," thought Helen, as the car started up the hill, and it was just then that Mary started to warn her about going out so much with Burdon. Once in the night Helen awoke and lay for a long time looking at the silhouette of the windows. "...I wonder what they said to each other...." she thought. The next morning Mary was going through her mail at the office when she came to an envelope with a newspaper clipping in it. This had been cut from the society notes of the New Bethel _Herald_. "Burdon Woodward has a specially designed new car which is attracting much attention." The clipping had been pasted upon a sheet of paper, and underneath it, the following two questions were typewritten: "How can a man buy $8,000 cars on a $10,000 salary? "Why don't you audit his books and see who paid for that car?" Mary's cheeks stung with the brutality of it. "What a horrible thing to do!" she thought. "If any one paid attention to things like this--why, no one would be safe!" She was on the point of tearing it to shreds when another thought struck her. "Perhaps I ought to show it to him," she uneasily thought. "If a thing like this is being whispered around, I think he ought to get to the bottom of it, and stop it.... I know I don't like him for some things," she continued, more undecided than ever, "but that's all the more reason why I should be fair to him--in things like this, for instance." She compromised by tucking the letter in her pocket, and when Judge Cutler dropped in that afternoon, she first made him promise secrecy, and then she showed it to him. "I feel like you," he said at last. "An anonymous attack like this is usually beneath contempt. And I feel all the more like ignoring it because it raises a question which I have been asking myself lately: How _can_ a man on a ten thousand dollar salary afford to buy an eight thousand dollar car?" Mary couldn't follow that line of reasoning at all. "Why do you feel like ignoring it, if it's such a natural question?" she asked. "Because it's a question that might have occurred to anybody." That puzzled Mary, too. "Perhaps Burdon has money beside his salary," she suggested. "He hasn't. I know he hasn't. He's in debt right now." They thought it over in silence. "I think if I were you, I'd tear it up," he said at last. She promptly tore it into shreds. "Now we'll forget that," he said. "I must confess, however, that it has raised another question to my mind. How long is it since your bookkeeping system was overhauled here?" She couldn't remember. "Just what I thought. It must need expert attention. Modern conditions call for modern methods, even in bookkeeping. I think I'll get a good firm of accountants to go over our present system, and make such changes as will keep you in closer touch with everything that is going on." Mary hardly knew what to think. "You're sure it has nothing to do with this?" she asked, indicating the fragments in the waste-basket. "Not the least connection! Besides," he argued, "you and I know very well--don't we?--that with all his faults, Burdon would never do anything like that--" "Of course he wouldn't!" "Very well. I think we ought to forget that part of it, and never refer to it again--or it might be said that we were fearing for him." This masculine logic took Mary's breath away, but though she thought it over many a time that day, she couldn't find the flaw in it. "Men are queer," she finally concluded. "But then I suppose they think women are queer, too. To me," she thought, "it almost seems insulting to Burdon to call accountants in now; but according to the judge it would be insulting to Burdon not to call them in--" She was still puzzling over it when Archey, that stormy petrel of bad news, came in and very soon took her mind from anonymous letters. "The finishers are getting ready to quit," he announced. "They had a vote this noon. It was close, but the strikers won." They both knew what a blow this would be. With each successive wave of the strike movement, it grew harder to fill the men's places with women. "If this keeps on, I don't know what we shall do," she thought. "By the time we have filled these empty places, we shall have as many women working here as we had during the war." Outwardly, however, she gave no signs of misgivings, but calmly set in motion the machinery which had filled the gaps before. "If you're going to put that advertisement in again," said Archey, "I think I'd add 'Nursery, Restaurant, Rest-room, Music'" She included the words in her copy, and after a moment's reflection she added "Laundry." "But we have no laundry," objected Archey, half laughing. "Are you forgetting a little detail like that?" "No, I'm not," said Mary, her eyes dancing. "You must do the same with the laundry as I did with the kindergarten. Go to Boston this afternoon.... Take a laundryman with you if you like.... And bring the things back in the morning by motor truck. We have steam and hot water and plenty of buildings, and I'm sure it won't take long to get the machines set up when you once get them here--" At such moments there was something great in Mary. To conceive a plan and put it through to an irresistible conclusion: there was nothing in which she took a deeper delight. That night, at home, she told them of her new plan. "Just think," she said, "if a woman lives seventy years, and the washing is done once a week, you might say she spent one-seventh of her life--or ten whole years--at the meanest hardest work that was ever invented--" "They don't do the washing when they're children," said Helen. "No, but they hate it just as much. I used to see them on wash days when Aunt Patty took me around, and I always felt sorry for the children." Wally came in later and listened sadly to the news of the day. "You're only using yourself up," he said, "for a lot of people who don't care a snap of the finger for you. It seems to me," he added, "that you'd be doing better to make one man happy who loves you, than try to please a thousand women who never, never will." She thought that over, for this was an angle which hadn't occurred to her before. "No," she said, "I'm not doing it to gain anything for myself, but to lift the poor women up--to give them something to hope for, something to live for, something to make them happier than they are now. Yes, and from everybody's point of view, I think I'm doing something good. Because when the woman is miserable, she can generally make her man miserable. But when the woman is happy, she can nearly always make the man happy, too." "I wish you'd make me happy," sighed poor Wally. "Here comes Helen," said Mary with just the least trace of wickedness in her voice. "She'll do her best, I'm sure." Helen was dressed for the evening, her arms and shoulders gleaming, her coiffure like a golden turban. "Mary hardly ever dresses any more," she said as she came down the stairs, "so I feel I have to do double duty." On the bottom landing she stopped and with extravagant motions of her body sang the opening lines of the Bedouin's Love Song, Wally joining in at last with his plaintive, passionate tenor. "If you ever lose your money, Wally," she said, coming down the remaining stairs, "we'll take up comic opera." Curtseying low she simpered, "My lord!" and gave him her hand to kiss. "She knows how to handle men," thought Mary watching, "just as the women at the factory know how to handle metal. I wonder if it comes natural to her, or if she studies it by herself, or if she learned any of it at Miss Parsons'." She was interrupted by a message from Hutchins, the butler. The spread of the strike had been flashed out by the news association early in the afternoon, and the eight-ten train had brought a company of reporters. "There are half a dozen of them," said Hutchins, noble in voice and deportment. "Knowing your kindness to them before, I took the liberty of showing them into the library. Do you care to see them, or shall I tell them you are out?" Mary saw them and they greeted her like old friends. It didn't take long to confirm the news of the strike's extension. "How many men are out now?" one of them asked. "About fifteen hundred." "What are you going to do when you have used up all your local women?" asked another. "What would you do?" she asked. "I don't know," he replied. "I guess I'd advertise for women in other cities-cities where they did this sort of thing during the war." "Bridgeport, for instance," suggested another. "Pittsburgh--there were a lot of women doing machine work there--" "St. Louis," said a fourth. "Some of the shops in St. Louis were half full of women--" With the help they gave her, Mary made up a list. "Even if you could fill the places locally," said the first, "I think I'd get a few women from as many places as possible. It spreads the idea--makes a bigger story--rounds out the whole scheme." After they had gone Mary sat thoughtful for a few minutes and then returned to the drawing room. When she entered, Helen and Wally were seated on the music bench, and it seemed to Mary that they suddenly drew apart--or if I may express a distinction, that Wally suddenly drew apart while Helen played a chord upon the piano. "Poor Wally," thought Mary a little later. "I wish he wouldn't look like that when he sings.... Perhaps he feels like I felt this spring.... I wonder if Ma'm was right.... I wonder if people do fall in love with love...." Her reflections took a strange turn, half serious, half humorous. "It's like a trap, almost, when you think of it that way," she thought. "When a man falls in love, he can climb out again and go on with his work, and live his life, and do wonderful things if he has a chance. But when a woman falls in the trap, she can never climb out and live her own life again. I wonder if the world wouldn't be better off if the women had been allowed to go right on and develop themselves, and do big things like the men do.... "I'm sure they couldn't do worse.... "Look at the war--the awfullest thing that ever happened: that's a sample of what men do, when they try to do everything themselves.... But they'll have to let the women out of their traps, if they want them to help.... "I wonder if they ever will let them out.... "I wonder if they ought to come out.... "I wonder...." To look at Mary as she sat there, tranquil of brow and dreamy-eyed, you would never have guessed that thoughts like these were passing through her mind, and later when Helen took Wally into the next room to show him something, and returned with a smile that was close to ownership, you would never have guessed that Mary's heart went heavy for a moment. "Helen," she said, when their visitor had gone, "do you really love Wally--or are you just amusing yourself?" "I only wish that Burdon had half his money." "Helen!" "Oh, it's easy for you to say 'Helen'! You don't know what it is to be poor.... Well, good-night, beloved-- "Good-night, good-night My love, my own--" she sang. "I've a busy day ahead of me tomorrow." Mary had a busy day, too. Nearly two hundred women responded to her new advertisement in the morning, and as many more at noon. Fortunately some of these were familiar with the work, and the most skilful were added to the corps of teachers. In addition to this, new nurses were telephoned for to take care of the rapidly growing nursery, temporary tables were improvised in the canteen, another battery of ranges was ordered from the gas company, and preparations were made for Archey's arrival with the laundry equipment. Yes, it was a busy day and a busy week for Mary; but somehow she felt a glory in every minute of it--even, I think, as Molly Pitcher gloried in her self-appointed task so many years ago. And when at the close of each day, she locked her desk, she grew into the habit of glancing up and nodding at the portraits on the walls--a glance and a nod that seemed to say, "That's us!" For myself, I like to think of that long line of Josiah Spencers, holding ghostly consultations at night; and if the spirits of the dead can ever return to the scenes of life which they loved the best, they must have spent many an hour together over the things they saw and heard. Steadily and surely the places left vacant by the men were filled with women, naturally deft of hand and quick of eye; but the more apparent it became that the third phase of the strike was being lost by the men, the more worried Archey looked--the oftener he peeped into the future and frowned at what he saw there. "The next thing we know," he said to Mary one day, "every man on the place will walk out, and what are we going to do then?" She told him of the reporter's suggestion. "A good idea, too," he said. "If I were you, I'd start advertising in those other cities right away, and get as many applications on file as you can. Don't just ask for women workers. Mention the kind you want: machine tool hands, fixers, tool makers, temperers, finishers, inspectors, packers--I'll make you up a list. And if you don't mind I'll enlarge the canteen, and change the loft above it into a big dining room, and have everything ready this time--" A few days later Spencer & Son's advertisement appeared for the first time outside of New Bethel, and soon a steady stream of applications began to come in. Although Mary didn't know it, her appeal had a stirring note like the peal of a silver trumpet. It gripped attention and warmed imagination all the way from its first line "A CALL TO WOMEN" to its signature, "Josiah Spencer & Son, Inc. Mary Spencer, President." "That's the best yet," said Archey, looking at the pile of applications on the third day. "I sha'n't worry about the future half as much now." "I don't worry at all any more," said Mary, serene in her faith. "Or at least I don't worry about this," she added to herself. She was thinking of Helen again. The night before Helen had come in late, and Mary soon knew that she had been with Burdon. Helen was quiet--for her--and rather pale as well. "Did you have a quarrel?" Mary had hopefully asked. "Quarrel with Burdon Woodward?" asked Helen, and in a low voice she answered herself, "I couldn't if I tried." "... Do you love him, Helen?" To which after a pause, Helen had answered, much as she had spoken before, "I only wish he had half of Wally's money...." And would say no more. "I have warned her so often," said Mary. "What more can I say?" She uneasily wondered whether she ought to speak to her aunts, but soon shook her head at that. "It would only bother them," she told herself, "and what good could it do?" Next day at the factory she seemed to feel a shadow around her and a weight upon her mind. "What is it?" she thought more than once, pulling herself up short. The answer was never far away. "Oh, yes--Helen and Burdon Woodward. Well, I'm glad she's going out with Wally today. She's safe enough with him." It had been arranged that Wally should drive Helen to Hartford to do some shopping, and they were expected back about nine o'clock in the evening. But nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock and midnight came--and still no sign of Wally's car. "They must have had an accident," thought Mary, and at first she pictured this as a slight affair which simply called for a few hours' delay at a local garage--perhaps the engine had overheated, or the battery had failed. But when one o'clock struck, and still no word from the absent pair, Mary's fancies grew more tragic. By two o'clock she imagined the car overturned at the bottom of some embankment, and both of them badly hurt. At three o'clock she began to have such dire forebodings that she went and woke up Aunt Cordelia, and was on the point of telephoning Wally's mother when the welcome rumbling of a car was heard under the porte cochère. It was Wally and Helen, and though Helen looked pale she had that air of ownership over her apologetic escort which every woman understands. Mary already divined the end of the story. "We were coming along all right," said Wally, "and would have been home before ten. But when we were about nine miles from nowhere and going over a bad road, I had a puncture. "Of course that delayed me a little--to change the wheels--but when I tried to start the car again, she wouldn't go. "I fussed and fixed for a couple of hours, it seems to me, and then I thought I'd better go to the nearest telephone and have a garage send a car out for us. But Helen, poor girl, was tired and of course I couldn't leave her there alone. So I tackled the engine again and just when I was giving up hope, a car came along. "They couldn't take us in--they were filled--but they promised to wake up a garage man in the next town and send him to the rescue. It was half past two when he turned up, but it didn't take him long to find the trouble, and here we are at last." He drew a full breath and turned to Helen. "Of course I wouldn't have cared a snap," he said, "if it hadn't been for poor Helen here." "Oh, I don't mind--now," she said. "I knew it!" thought Mary. "They're engaged..." And though she tried to smile at them both, for some reason which I can never hope to explain, it took an effort. Wally and Helen were still looking at each other. "Tired, dear?" he asked. Helen nodded and glanced at Mary with a look that said, "Did you hear him call me 'Dear'?" "I think if I were you, I'd go to bed," continued Wally, all gentle solicitude. She took an impulsive step toward him. He kissed her. "We're engaged," he said to Mary. What Mary said in answer, she couldn't remember herself when she tried to recall it later, for a strange thought had leaped into her mind, driving out everything else. "I almost hate to ask," she thought. "It would be too dreadful to know." But curiosity has always been one of mankind's fateful gifts, and at the breakfast table next morning, Mary had Wally to herself. "Oh, Wally," she said. "What did the garage man find was the trouble with your car?" "The simplest thing imaginable," he said. "One of the wires leading to the switch on the instrument board had worked loose--that awful road, you know." "I knew it," Mary quietly told herself, and in her mind she again saw Helen demonstrating how to quell the wildest car on earth. Mary ought to have stopped there, but a wicked imp seemed to have taken possession of her. "Did Helen cry, when she saw how late it was getting?" "She did at first," he said, looking very solemn, "but when I told her--" His confessions were interrupted by Hutchins, who whispered to Mary that she was wanted on the telephone. "It's Mr. Forbes," he said. Archey's voice was ringing with excitement when he greeted Mary over the wire. "Can you come down to the office early this morning?" he asked. "What's the matter?" "I just found out that the rest of the men had a meeting last night--and they voted to strike. There won't be a man on the place this morning ... and I think there may be trouble...." CHAPTER XXVI Afterwards, when Mary looked back at the leading incidents of the big strike it wasn't the epic note which interested her the most, although the contest had for her its moments of exaltation. Nor did her thoughts revert the oftenest to those strange things which might have engrossed the chance observer--work and happiness walking hand in hand, for instance, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Kelly's drum--or woman showing that she can acquire the same dexterity on a drilling machine as on a sewing machine, the same skill at a tempering oven as at a cook stove, the same competence and neatness in a factory as in a house. Indeed, when all is said and done, the sound of the work which women were presently doing at New Bethel was only an echo of the tasks which women had done during four years of war, and being a repetition of history, it didn't surprise Mary when she stopped to think it over. But looking back at the whole experience later, these were the two reflections which interested her the most. "They have always called woman a riddle," she thought. "I wonder if that is because she could never be natural. If woman has been a riddle in the past, I wonder if this is the answer now...." That was her first reflection. Her second was this, and in it she unconsciously worded one of the great lessons of life. "The things I worried about seldom happened. It was something which nobody ever dreamed of--that nearly ended everything." And when she thought of that, her breath would come a little quicker and soon she would shake her head, and try to put her mind on something else; although if you had been there I think you would have seen a suspicious moisture in her eye, and if she were in her room at home, she would go to a photograph on the wall-the picture of a gravely smiling girl on a convent portico--signed "With all my love, Rosa." Still, as you can see, I am running ahead of my story, and so that you may better understand Mary's two reflections and the events which led to them, I will now return to the morning when she received Archey's message that every man in the factory had gone on strike as a protest against the employment of women. As soon as she reached the office she sent a facsimile letter to the skilled women workers who had applied from out of town. "If we only get a third of them," she thought, "we'll pull through somehow." But Mary was reckoning without her book. For one thing, she was unaware of the publicity which her experiment was receiving, and for another thing perhaps it didn't occur to her that the same yearnings, the same longings, the same stirrings which moved her own heart and mind so often--the same vague feeling of imprisonment, the same vague groping for a way out--might also be moving the hearts and minds of countless other women, and especially those who had for the first time in their lives achieved economic independence by means of their labour in the war. Whatever the reason, so many skilled women journeyed to New Bethel that week, coming with the glow of crusaders, eager to write their names on this momentous page of woman's history, that Mary's worry turned into a source of embarrassment. However, by straining every effort, accommodations were found for the visitors and the work of re-organization was at once begun. The next six weeks were the busiest, I had almost said the most feverish, in Mary's life. The day after the big strike was declared, not a single bearing was made at Spencer & Son's great plant. For a factory is like a road of many bridges, and when half of these bridges are suddenly swept away, traffic is out of the question. So the first problem was to bridge the gaps. From the new arrivals, fixers, case-hardeners and temperers were set to work--women who had learned their trades during the war. Also a call was issued for local workers and the "school" was opened, larger than ever. For the first few weeks it might be said that half the factory was a school of intensive instruction; and then, one day which Mary will never forget, a few lonely looking bearings made laborious progress through the plant--only a few, but each one embodying a secret which I will tell you about later. The missing bridges weren't completed yet, you understand--not by any manner of means--but at least the foundations had been laid, and every day the roadway became a little wider and a little firmer--and the progress of the bearings became a little thicker and a little quicker. And, oh, the enthusiasm of the women--their shining eyes, their breathless attention--as they felt the roadway growing solid beneath their feet and knew it was all their work! "If we keep on at this rate," said Archey, looking at the reports in Mary's office one morning, "it won't be long before we're doing something big." There was just the least touch of astonishment in his voice--masculine, unconscious--which raised an equally unconscious touch of exultation in Mary's answer. "Perhaps sooner than you think," she said. For no one knew better than she that the new organization was rapidly finding itself now that the roadway of production had been rebuilt. Every day weak spots had been mended, curves straightened out, narrow places made wider. "Let's speed up today," she finally said, "and see what we can do." At the end of that day the reports showed that all the departments had made an improvement until the bearings reached the final assembling room and there the traffic had become congested. For the rest of the week the assembly room was kept under scrutiny, new methods were tried, more women were set to work. "Let's speed up again today," said Mary one morning, "and see if we can make it this time--" And finally came the day when they _did_ make it! For four consecutive days their output equalled the best ever done by the factory, and then just as every woman was beginning to thrill with that jubilation which only comes of a hard task well done, a weak spot developed in the hardening department. Oh, how everybody frowned and clicked their tongues! You might have thought that all the cakes in the world had suddenly burned in the ovens--that every clothes line in America had broken on a muddy washday! "Never mind," said Mary. "We're nearly there. One more good try, and over the top we'll go...." One more good try, and they _did_ go over the top. For two days, three days, four days, five days, a whole week, they equalled the best man-made records. For one week, two weeks, three weeks, the famous Spencer bearings rolled out of the final inspection room and into their wooden cases as fast as man had ever rolled them. And when Mary saw that at last the first part of her vision had come true, she did a feminine thing, that is to say a human thing. She simultaneously said, "I told you so," and sprung her secret by sending the following message to the newspapers: "The three thousand women at this factory are daily turning out the same number of bearings that three thousand men once turned out. "The new bearings are identical with the old ones in every detail but one, namely: they are one thousandth of an inch more accurate than Spencer bearings were ever made before. "Our customers appreciate this improvement and know what it means. "Our unfriendly critics, I think, will also appreciate it and know what it means." Upon consideration, Mary had that last paragraph taken out. "I'll leave that to their imaginations," she said, and after she had signed each letter, she did another feminine thing. She had a gentle little cry all by herself, and then through her tears she smiled at her silent forbears who seemed to be watching her more attentively than ever from their frames of tarnished gilt upon the walls. "It hasn't been all roses and lilies," she told them, "but--that's us!" CHAPTER XXVII Meanwhile, as you will guess, it hadn't been "all roses and lilies" either, for the men who had gone on strike. "Didn't you say you expected trouble?" Mary asked Archey one morning just after the big strike was declared. "Yes," he told her. "They were talking that way. But they are so sure now that we'll have to give in, that they are quite good natured about it." Mary said nothing, but her back grew stiff, something like Mrs. Ridge's; and when she saw Uncle Stanley in the outer office a few minutes later and he smiled without looking at her--smiled and shook his head to himself as though he were thinking of something droll--Mary went back to her room in a hurry, and stayed there until she felt tranquil again. "What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey the following week. "They are still taking it as a sort of a joke," he told her, "but here and there you catch a few who are looking thoughtful--especially those who have wives or daughters working here." That pleased her. The next time the subject was mentioned, Archey brought it up himself. "There was quite a fight on Jay Street yesterday," he said. As Mary knew, Jay Street was the headquarters of the strikers, and suddenly she became all attention. "Those out-of-town agitators are beginning to feel anxious, I guess. Two of them went around yesterday whispering that the women at the factory needed a few good scares, so they'd stay home where they belonged. They tackled Jimmy Kelly, not knowing his wife works here. 'What do you mean: good scares?' he asked. 'Rough stuff,' they told him, on the quiet. 'What do you mean, rough stuff?' he asked them. They whispered something--nobody knows what it was--but they say Jimmy fell on them both like a ton of bricks on two bad eggs. 'Try a little rough stuff, yourself,' he said, 'and maybe you'll stay home where you belong.'" Mary's eyes shone. It may be that blood called to blood, for if you remember one of those Josiah Spencers on the walls had married a Mary McMillan. "It's things like that," she said, "that sometimes make me wish I was a man," and straightway went and interviewed Mrs. James Kelly, and gave her a message of thanks to be conveyed to her double-fisted husband. The next week Mary didn't have to ask Archey what the men were doing, because one of the Sunday papers had made a special story of the subject. Some of the men were getting work elsewhere, she read. Others were on holidays, or visiting friends out of town. Some were grumpy, some were merry, one had been caught red-handed--or at least blue-aproned--cooking his own dinner. All who could be reached had been asked how they thought the strike would end, and the reply which I am quoting is typical of many. "They may bungle through with a few bearings for a while," said Mr. Reisinger, "but they won't last long. It stands to reason that a woman can't do man's work and get away with it." Mary was walking through the factory the next day when she heard two women discussing that article. "I told Sam Reisinger what I thought about him last night," said the younger. "He was over to our house for supper. "'So it stands to reason, does it?' I said to him, 'that a woman can't do a man's work and get away with it? Well, I like your nerve! What do you understand by a man's work?' I said to him. "'Do you think she ought to have all the meanest, hardest work in the world, and get paid nothing for it, working from the time she gets up in the morning till she goes to bed at night? Is that your idea of woman's work?' I said to him. 'But any nice, easy job that only has to be worked at four hours in the morning, and four hours in the afternoon, and has a pay envelope attached to it: I suppose you think that's a man's work!' I said to him. "'Listen to me, Sam Reisinger, there's no such thing as man's work, and there's no such thing as woman's work,' I said to him. 'Work's work, and it makes no difference who does it, as long as it gets done! "'Take dressmaking,' I said to him. 'I suppose you call that woman's work. Then how about Worth, and those other big men dressmakers? "'Maybe you think cooking is woman's work. Then how about the chefs at the big hotels?' I said to him. "'Maybe you think washing is woman's work. Then how about the steam laundries where nearly all the shirt ironers are men?' I said to him. "'Maybe you think that working in somebody else's house is woman's work. Then how about that butler up at Miss Spencer's?' I said to him. "'And maybe we can bungle through with a few bearings for a while, can we?' I said to him, very polite. 'Well, let me tell you one thing, Sam Reisinger, if that's the way you think of women, you can bungle over to the movies with yourself tomorrow night. I'm not going with you!'" For a long time after that when things went wrong, Mary only had to recall some of the remarks which had been made to a certain Mr. Sam Reisinger on a certain Sunday afternoon, and she always felt better for it. "What are the men saying now?" she asked Archey at the end of their first good week. "They're not saying much, but I think they're up to something. They've called a special meeting for tonight." The next morning was Sunday. Mary was hardly downstairs when Archey called. "I've found out about their meeting last night," he said. "They have appointed a committee to try to have a boycott declared on our bearings." It didn't take Mary long to see that this might be a mortal thrust unless it were parried. "But how can they?" she asked. "They are going to try labour headquarters first. 'Unfair to labour'--that's what they are going to claim it is--to allow women to do what they're doing here. They're going to try to have a boycott declared, so that no union man will handle Spencer bearings, the teamsters won't truck them, the railways won't ship them, the metal workers and mechanics won't install them, and no union man will use a tool or a machine that has a Spencer bearing in it. That's their program. That's what they are going to try to do." From over the distance came the memory of Ma'm Maynard's words: "I tell you, Miss Mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: Everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--eet is man!" "No, sir!" said Mary to herself, as resolutely as ever, "I don't believe it. They're trying to gain their point--that's all--the same as I'm trying to gain mine.... But aren't they fighting hard when they do a thing like that...!" It came to her then with a sharp sense of relief that no organization--no union--could well afford to boycott products simply because they were made by women. "Because then," she thought, "women could boycott things that were made by unions, and I'm sure the unions wouldn't want that." She mentioned this to Archey and it was decided that Judge Cutler should follow the strikers' committee to Washington and present the women's side of the case. Archey went, but the atmosphere of worry which he had brought with him stayed behind. Mary seemed to breathe it all day and to feel its oppression every time she awoke in the night. "What a thing it would be," she thought, "if they did declare a boycott! All the work we've done would go for nothing--all our hopes and plans--everything wiped right out--and every woman pushed right back in her trap--and a man sitting on the lid--with a boycott in his hand...!" The next day after a bad night, she was listlessly turning over the pages of a production report, when Mrs. Kelly came in glowing with enthusiasm, holding in her hand a book from the rest room library. "Miss Spencer," she said, "it's in this book that over on the other side the women in the factories had orchestras. I wonder if we couldn't have an orchestra now!" Mary's listlessness vanished. "I've talked it over with a lot of the women," continued Mrs. Kelly, "and they think it's great. I've come to quite a few that play different instruments. I only wish I knew my notes, so I could play something, too." Mary thought that over. It didn't seem right to her that the originator of the idea couldn't take part in it. "Couldn't you play the drum?" she suddenly asked. "Why, so I could!" beamed Mrs. Kelly in rare delight. "Do you mind then if I start a subscription for the instruments?" "No; I'll do that, if you'll promise to play the drum." "It's a promise," agreed Mrs. Kelly, and when she reached the hall outside and saw the size of Mary's subscription she joyfully smote an imaginary sheepskin, "Boom.... Boom.... Boom-boom-boom...!" That is the week that Wally was married--with a ceremony that Helen had determined should be the social event of the year. She was busy with her plans for weeks, making frequent trips to New York and Boston in the building up of her trousseau, arranging the details of the breakfast, making preparations for the decorations at the church and at the house on the hill, preparing and revising her list of those to be invited, ordering the cake and the boxes, attending to the engraving, choosing the music, keeping in touch with the bridesmaids and their dresses. "Why, she's as busy as I am," thought Mary one day, in growing surprise at Helen's knowledge and ability; and dimly she began to see that in herself and Helen were embodied two opposite ideas of feminine activity. "Of course she believes her way is the best," continued Mary thoughtfully, "just the same as I believe mine is. But I can't help thinking that it's best to be doing something useful, something that really makes a difference in the world--so that at the end of every week we can say to ourselves, 'Well, I did this' or 'I did that'--'I haven't lived this week for nothing....'" Mary started dreaming then, and the next day when she accompanied Helen up the aisle of St. Thomas's as maid of honour, her eyes went dreamier still. And yet if you had been there I think you might have seen the least trace of a shadow in their depths--just the least suspicion of a wavering, unguessed doubt. But when Wally, with his wife at his side, started his car an hour later and rolled smoothly on his wedding tour in search of the great adventure, in search of the sweetest story--Mary changed her dress and hurried back to the factory where she made a tour of her own. And as she walked through the workshops with their long lines of contented women, passing up one aisle and down another--nearly every face turning for a moment and flashing her a smile--the shadows vanished from her eyes and her doubts went with them. "This is the best," she told herself, "I'm sure I did right, choosing this instead of Wally. It's best for me, and best for these three thousand women--" Her imagination caught fire. She saw her three thousand pioneers growing into three hundred thousand, into three million. A moment of greatness fell upon her and in fancy she thus addressed her unsuspecting workers: "You are doing something useful--something that you can be proud of. Your daily labour isn't wasted. There isn't a country in the world that won't profit by it. "Because of these bearings which you are making, automobiles and trucks will carry their loads more easily, tractors will plough better, engines will run longer, water will be pumped more quickly, electric light will be sold for less money. "You are helping transportation--agriculture--commerce. And if that isn't better, nobler work than washing, ironing, getting your own meals, washing your own dishes, and doing the same old round of profitless chores day after day, and year after year, from the hour you are old enough to work, till the hour you are old enough to die--well, then, I'm wrong and Helen's right; and I ought to have married Wally--and not one of you women ought to be here today!" A whisper arose in her mind. "....Somebody's got to do the housework...." "Yes, but it needn't take up a woman's whole life," she shortly told herself, "any more than it does a man's. I'm sure there must be some way...some way...." She stopped, a sudden flush striking along her cheek as she caught the first glimpse of her golden vision--that vision which may some day change the history of the human race. "Oh, if I only could!" she breathed to herself. "If I only could!" She slowly returned to the office. Judge Cutler was waiting to see her, just back from his visit to Washington. "Well?" she asked eagerly, shutting the door. "Are they going to boycott us?" "I don't think so," he answered. "I told them how it started. As far as I can find out, the strike here is a local affair. The men I saw disclaimed any knowledge or responsibility for it. "Of course, I pointed out that women had the vote now, and that boycotts were catching.... But I don't think you need worry. "They're splendid men--all of them. I'm sure you'd like them, Mary. They are all interested in what you are doing, but I think they are marking time a little--waiting to see how things turn out before they commit themselves one way or the other." Mary thrilled at that. "More than ever now it depends on me," she thought, and another surge of greatness seemed to lift her like a flood. The judge's voice recalled her. "On my way back," he was saying, "I stopped in New York and engaged a firm of accountants to come and look over the books. They are busy now, but I told them there was no hurry--that we only wanted their suggestions--" "I had forgotten about that," said Mary. "So had I. What do you suppose reminded me of it?" She shook her head. "One of the first men I saw in Washington was Burdon Woodward." "I think it just happened that way," said Mary uneasily. "He told me he was going away for a few days, but I'm sure he only did it to get out of going to Helen's wedding." "Well, anyhow, no harm done. It was the sight of him down there that reminded me: that's all.... How has everything been running here? Smoothly, I hope?" Smoothly, yes. That was the week when Mary sent her letters to the papers, announcing that the women at Spencer & Son's had not only equalled past outputs, but were working within a closer degree of accuracy. And all that month, and the next month, and the next, the work at Spencer & Son's kept rolling out as smoothly as though it were moving on its own bearings--not only the mechanical, but the welfare work as well. The dining room was re-modelled, as you will presently see. The band progressed, as you will presently hear. The women were proud and happy in the work they were doing, and Mary was proud because they were proud, happy because they were happy, and all the time she was nursing another secret, no one dreaming what was in her mind. Along in the third month, Wally and Helen came back from their wedding tour. Mary looked once, and she saw there was something wrong with Wally. A shadow of depression hung over him--a shadow which he tried to hide with bursts of cheerfulness. But his old air of eagerness was gone--that air with which he had once looked at the future as a child might stare with delighted eyes at a conjurer drawing rabbits and roses out of old hats and empty vases. In a word, he looked disenchanted, as though he had seen how the illusion was produced, how the trick was done, and was simultaneously abating his applause for the performer and his interest in the show. "He's found her out," thought Mary, and with that terrible frankness which sometimes comes unbidden to our minds she added with a sigh, "I was always afraid he would." Wally had taken a house near the country club--one of those brick mansions surrounded by trees and lawns which are somehow reminiscent of titled society and fox hunters in buckskin and scarlet. There Helen was soon working her way to the leadership of the younger set. She seldom called at the house on the hill. "I'm generally dated up for the evening, and you're never there in the daytime. So I have to drop in and see you here," she said one afternoon, giving Mary a surprise visit at the office. "Do you, know you're getting to be fashionable?" she continued. "Who? Me?" "Yes. You. Nearly everywhere we went, they began quizzing us as soon as they found Miss Spencer was a cousin of mine." Mary noted Helen's self-promotion to the head of the cousinship, but she kept her usual tranquil expression. "It's because she's Mrs. Cabot now," she thought. "Perhaps she wouldn't have called at all if these people hadn't mentioned me!" But when Helen arose to go, Mary revised her opinion of the reason for her cousin's call. "Well, I must be going," said Helen, rising. "I'll drop in and see Burdon for a few minutes on my way out." "That's it," thought Mary, and her reflections again taking upon themselves that terrible frankness which can seldom be put in words, she added to herself, "Poor Wally.... I was always afraid of it...." She was still looking out of the window in troubled meditation when the arrival of the afternoon mail turned her thoughts into another track. As Helen had said, the New Bethel experiment had become fashionable. Taking it as their text, the women's clubs throughout the country were giving much of their time to a discussion of the changed industrial relations due to the war. Increasingly often, visitors appeared at the factory, asking if they could see for themselves--well-known, even famous figures among them. But on the afternoon when Helen Cabot made her first call, Mary received a letter which took her breath away, so distinguished, so illustrious were the names of those who were asking if they could pay a visit on the following day. Mary sent a telegram and then, her cheeks coloured with pride, she made a tour through the factory to make sure that everything would be in order, whispering the news here and there, and knowing that every woman would hear it as unmistakably as though it had been pealed from the heavens in tones of thunder. The visitors arrived at ten o'clock the next morning. There were four in the party--two men and two women. Mary recognized three of them at the first glance and felt a glow of pride warm her as they seated themselves in her office. "Not even you," she thought with a glance at the attentive figures on the walls, "not even you ever had visitors like these." And in some subtle manner which I simply cannot describe to you, she felt that the portrayed figures were proud of the visitors, too--and prouder yet of the dreamy-eyed girl who had brought it about, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, who was looking so queenly and chatting so quietly to the elect of the earth. The fourth caller was introduced as Professor Marsh, and Mary soon perceived that he was a hostile critic. "I shall have to be careful of him," she thought, "or I shall be giving him some good, hard bouncers before I know it--and that would never do today." So putting the temptation behind her she presently said, "We'll start at the nursery, if you like--any time you're ready." You have already seen something of that nursery, its long row of windows facing the south, its awnings, toys, sand-piles and white-robed nurses. Since then Mary had had time to elaborate the original theme with a kitchen for preparing their majesties' food, linen closets and a rest-room for the nurses. The chief glory of the nursery, however, was its noble line of play-rooms, each in charge of two nurses. "Let's look in here," said Mary, opening a door. They came upon an interesting scene. In this room were twelve children, about two years old. The nurses were feeding them. Each nurse sat on the inside of a kidney shaped table, large enough to accommodate six children, but low enough to avoid the necessity for high chairs with the consequent dangling between earth and heaven. In front of each child was a plate set in a recess in the table--this to guard against overturning in the excitement of the moment--and in each plate was a generous portion of chicken broth poured over broken bread. It was evidently good. Approval shone on each pink face. A brisk play of spoons and the smacking of lips seemed to be the order of the day. "Each play room has its own wash room--" said Mary. She opened another door belonging to this particular suite and disclosed a bathroom with special fixtures for babies. Large bowls, with hot and cold water, were set in porcelain tables. "What's the use of having so many bath-bowls in this table," asked Professor Marsh, "when you only have two nurses to do the bathing?" "Every woman with a baby has half an hour off in the morning, and another half hour in the afternoon," he was told. "In the morning, she bathes her baby. In the afternoon she loves it." In the next play-room which they visited, the babies were of the bottle age, and were proving this to the satisfaction of every one concerned. In the next, refreshments were over; and some of the youngsters slept while others were starting large engineering projects upon the sand pile. "I never saw such nurseries," said the most distinguished visitor. He looked at the artistic miniature furniture, the decorations, the low padded seat which ran around the walls--at once a seat and a cupboard for toys. He looked at the sunlight, the screened verandah, the awning, the flowers, the birds hopping over the lawn, the river gleaming through the trees. "Miss Spencer," he said, "I congratulate you. If they could understand me, I would congratulate these happy youngsters, too." "But don't you think it's altogether wrong," said Professor Marsh, "to deprive a child of the advantages of home life?" "I read and hear that so often," said Mary, "that I have adopted my own method of replying to it." She led her visitors into a small room with a low ceiling. It was furnished with a cookstove, a table, a small side-board, an old conch and a few chairs. The floor was splintery and only partly covered by frayed rugs and worn oil cloth. The paper on the walls was a dark mottled green. The ceiling was discoloured by smoke. "This is the kitchen of an average wage-earner," said Mary. "Some are better. Some are worse. I bought the furniture out of a room, just as it stood, and had the whole place copied in detail." Three of the visitors looked at each other. "Imagine a tired woman," continued Mary, "standing over that stove--perhaps expecting another baby before long. She has been washing all morning and now she is cooking. The room is damp with steam, the ceiling dotted with flies. Then imagine a child crawling around the floor, its mother too busy to attend to it, and you'll get an idea of where some of these children in the nursery would be--if they weren't here. Mind," she earnestly continued, "I'm not saying that home life for poor children doesn't have its advantages, but we mustn't forget that it has its disadvantages, too." She led them next to the kindergarten. A recess was on and the children were out in the play-ground--some swinging, some sliding down the chutes, others playing in a merry-go-round which was pushed around by hand. "Every other hour they have for play," said Mary. "In the alternate hours the teachers read to them, talk to them, teach them their letters, teach them to sing and give them the regular kindergarten course. If they weren't here," she said, half turning to Professor Marsh, "most of them would probably be playing on the street." The next place they visited was the dining room--which occupied the upper floor of one of the great buildings which Mary's father had planned. But to look at it, you would never have suspected the original purpose for which the place had been intended. It was a dining room that any hotel would be glad to call its own, with its forest-colour decorations, its growing palms and ferns on every side. "The compartments around the walls are for the families," explained Mary. "It is, of course, optional with those who work here whether they use the dining room or not. We supply all food at cost. This was this morning's breakfast." The bill of fare is too long to quote in full, but the visitors noted that it included a choice of fruit, choice of cereal, choice of tea, coffee, milk or cocoa--and for the main dish, either fish, ham and eggs, oyster stew or small steak. "What you have seen so far," said Mary, "is a side issue. Many of our workers are young women not yet married, others have some one at home to look after the children. In fact the woman with a baby or little children is in the minority, but I thought it only right to provide for them--for a number of reasons--" "Including sympathy?" smiled one of the ladies. Mary gave her a grateful glance. "We will now have an inspection of our real work here," she said, "--the same being the manufacture of bearings." The first room they entered was the ground floor of one of the buildings which housed the automatic department. At the nearer machines were long lines of women stamping out the metal discs which held the balls and rollers in their places. "When these machines were operated by men," said Mary, "it required considerable strength to throw the levers. But by a very simple improvement we changed the machines so that the lightest touch on the handle is sufficient to do the work. We also put backs on the stools--and elbow rests--and racks for the feet--" They followed her glances to each of these changes but their attention soon turned to the business-like speed and precision with which each woman did her work. "Women, of course, are naturally quick," said Mary as though reading their thoughts. "You know what they can do on a typewriter, for instance--or on a sewing machine. As you can see, it is much simpler to operate one of these automatic machines than it is to typewrite a legal document--or make a dress." Together they looked up the long aisle at the double line of workers in their creams and browns, their fingers deftly placing the blanks in position and removing the finished discs. Somewhere, unseen, a phonograph started playing a lively tune. "Where do they get their flowers?" asked one of the guests, noticing that each woman was wearing a rose or a carnation. "They find them in their locker rooms every morning," said Mary. "They usually sing when the phonograph plays," she added, "but perhaps they feel nervous--at having company--" This was confirmed when they left the room, for as they stood in the hallway first a hum was heard behind them here and there, and soon a mellow toned chorus arose. "They certainly seem happy," said one of the visitors. "They are," said Mary. "And, indeed, why shouldn't they be? Their work is light and interesting; they are paid well; and more than anything else, I think, they all know they are making something useful--something tangible--something they can look upon with satisfaction and pride." They ascended a stairway and suddenly the scene changed. Below, the work had been cast as though in a light staccato key, but here the music for the machinery had a more powerful note. "These are the oscillating grinders," said Mary, raising her voice above the skirling symphony. "It isn't everybody who can run them." She wondered whether her visitors caught the unconscious air of pride which many of the women wore in this department. At one end of the room a steady stream of rough castings came flowing in, while at the other end an equally steady volume of finished cones went flowing out. Mary had always liked to watch the oscillators and as she stood there, her guests temporarily forgotten, her eyes filled with the almost human movements of the whirling machines, her ears with the triumphant music of the abrasive wheels biting into the metal, that same unconscious air of pride fell upon her, too, and although she didn't know it, her glance deepened and her head went up--quite in the old Spencer manner. "Is their work fairly accurate?" asked one of the visitors, breaking the spell. "Let's go and see," said Mary, leading the way. The cones left the grinders upon an endless conveyor which carried them to an inspection room. Here at long tables were lines of attentive women, each with a set of gauges in front of her. The visitors stopped behind one of these inspectors just as she picked up a cone to put it through its course of tests. First she slipped it into a gauge to see if it was too large. A pointer on a dial before her swung to "O.K." Almost without stopping the motion of her hand, she inserted it into another gauge to see if it was too small. Again the pointer swung to "O.K." The third test was to verify the angle of the cone, and for the third time the pointer said "O.K." The next moment the cone had been dropped into a box and another was going through the same course. "How many have been rejected today?" asked one of the visitors. "Two," said the inspector. These two unfortunates lay on a rack in front of her. Interrupting her work she picked up one of them. At the second operation the pointer turned to a red segment of the dial and a bell rang. "I don't hear many bells ringing," commented the visitor, quizzically looking around the room. Mary smiled with quiet pleasure. "Next," she said, "I'm going to take you to a department where women never worked before." She led the way to one of the tempering buildings--a building equipped with long lines of ovens--each as large as a baker's oven--where metal cones were heated instead of rolls. "Here, too, as you will see," said Mary, "we have tried to reduce the element of human error as far as possible. In each oven is an electric thermometer and when the bearings have reached the proper degree of heat, an incandescent bulb is automatically lighted in front of the oven.... See?" They made their way to the oven where a white light had appeared. A woman-worker had already opened the door and was pulling a lever. As though by magic, a bunch of castings, wired together, came travelling out of their heat bath and were immediately lowered into a large tank which held the tempering liquid. "What would have happened if the oven hadn't been opened when the white light appeared?" asked another of the visitors. "In five minutes a red lamp would have been automatically lighted," said Mary "--a signal for the forewoman to come and take charge of the oven." "And suppose the red lamp had been disregarded?" "In five minutes more an alarm bell would have started. You would have heard it over half the factory--and it would have kept ringing until the superintendent herself had come and stopped it with a key which only she is allowed to carry." "Is that the bell now?" he asked, as a mellow chime came from one of the distant buildings. "No," smiled Mary, listening, "that's the lunch bell. In another ten minutes I shall have a surprise for you." At the end of that time, they made their way to the dining room, which was already filled with eager women. In one corner was a private room, glass-partitioned. As Mary followed her guests toward it, the full, subdued strains of the Crusader March suddenly sounded in harmonious greeting from the other end of the room. "Ah!" said the most distinguished visitor, turning to look. "Men at last!" Mary let him look and then she beamed with pleasure at his glance of appreciation. "Our own orchestra--one hundred pieces," she said. "This is their first public appearance." Oh, but it was a red-letter day for Mary! Whether it was the way she felt, or because the sound became softened and mellowed in travelling the length of the dining room, it seemed to her that she had never heard music so sweet, had never listened to sounds that filled her heart so full or lifted her thoughts so high. The climax came at the end of the dessert. A shy girl entered, a small leather box in her hand. "I have a souvenir for your visitor, Miss Spencer," she said, and turning to him she added, "We made it with our own hands, thinking you might like to use it as a paper weight--as a reminder of what women can do." The box was lined with blue velvet and contained a small model of the Spencer bearing, made of gold, perfect to the last ball and the last roller. The visitor examined it with admiration--every eye in the dining room (which could be brought to bear) watching him through the glass partition. "If I ever received a more interesting souvenir," he said, "I fail to recall it. Thank you, and please thank the others for me. Tell them how very much I appreciate it, and tell them, too, if you will, that here in this factory today I have had my outlook on life widened to an extent which I had thought impossible. For that, too, I thank you." Of course they couldn't hear him in the main room, but they could see when he had finished speaking. They clapped their hands; the band played; and when he arose and bowed, they clapped and played louder than before. And a few minutes later when the party left the dining room to the strains of El Capitan, it seemed to Mary that after the closing chord she heard two vigorous beats of the drum--soul expression of Mrs. Kelly, signifying "That's us!" The visitors departed at last, and Mary returned to her office to find other callers awaiting her. The first was Helen, togged to the nines. "Somehow she heard they were here," thought Mary, "and she came down thinking to meet them. She thought surely I would bring them in here again." But her next reflection made her frown a little. "--Partly that, I guess," she thought, "and partly to see Burdon, as usual." A knock on the door interrupted her, and Joe entered, bearing two cards. "These gentlemen have been waiting since noon," he announced, "but they said they didn't mind waiting when I told them who was with you." The cards bore the name of a firm of public accountants. "Oh, yes," said Mary. "Show them in, please, Joe. And ask Mr. Burdon if I can see him for a few minutes." If you had been there, you might have noticed a change pass over Helen. A moment before Burdon's name was mentioned she was sitting relaxed and rather dispirited, as you sometimes see a yacht becalmed, riding the water without life or interest. But as soon as it appeared that Burdon was about to enter, a breeze suddenly seemed to fill Helen's sails. Her beauty, passive before, became active. Her bunting fluttered. Her flags began to fly. The door opened, but Helen's smiling glance was disappointed. The two auditors entered. One was grey, the other was young; but each had the same pale, incurious air of detachment. They reminded Mary of two astronomy professors of her college days, two men who had just such an air of detachment, who always seemed to be out of their element in the daylight, always waiting for the night to come to resume the study of their beloved stars. "I have sent for our treasurer, Mr. Woodward," said Mary. "Won't you be seated for a few minutes?" They sat down in the same impersonal way and glanced around the room with eyes that seemed to see nothing. By the side of the mantel was a framed piece of history, an itemized bill of the first generation of the firm, dated June 28, 1706, and quaint with its old spelling, its triple column of pounds, shillings and pence. "May I look at that?" asked one of the accountants, rising. The other followed him. Their heads bent over the document.... It occurred to Mary that they were verifying the addition. Again the door opened and this time it was Burdon, his dashing personality immediately dominating the room. Mary introduced the accountants to him. "With our new methods," she said, "we probably need a new system of bookkeeping. I also want to compare our old costs with present costs--" Burdon stared at her, but Mary--half-ashamed of what she was doing--kept her glance upon the two accountants. "Mr. Burdon will give you all the old records, all the old books you want," she said, "and will help you in every possible way--" And still Burdon stared at her--his whole life concentrated for a moment in his glance. And still Mary looked at the two accountants who completed the triangle by looking at Burdon, as they naturally would, waiting for him to turn and speak to them. As Mary watched them, she became conscious of a change in their manner, a tenseness of interest, such as the two astronomers aforesaid might display at the sight of some disturbance in the heavens. "What do they see?" she thought, and looked at Burdon. But Burdon at the same moment had turned to the accountants, his manner as large, his air as dashing as ever. "Anything you want, gentlemen," he said, "you have only to ask for it." When Mary reached home that evening, you can imagine how Aunt Patty and Aunt Cordelia listened to her recital, their white heads nodding at the periods, their cheeks pink with pride. Now and then they exchanged glances. "Our baby!" these glances seemed to say, and then turned back to Mary with such love and admiration that finally the object of this pantomime could stand it no longer, but had to kiss them both till their cheeks turned pinker than ever and they gasped for breath. That night, when Mary went to her room and stood at the window, looking out at the world below and the sky above, she threw out her arms and, turning her face to the moonlight, she felt that world-old wish to express the inexpressible, to put immortal yearnings into mortal words. Life--thankfulness for life--a joy so deep that it wasn't far from pain--hoping--longing-yearning ... for what? Mary herself could not have told you--perhaps to be one with the starlight and the scent of flowers--to have the freedom of infinity--to express the inexpressible-- For a long time she stood at the window, the moon looking down upon her and bathing her face in its radiance.... Insensibly then the earth recalled her and her thoughts began to return to the events of the day. "Oh, yes," she suddenly said to herself, "I knew there was something.... I wonder why the accountants stared at Burdon so...." CHAPTER XXVIII Far away, that same moon was watching another scene--a ship on the Southern sea throbbing its way to New York. It was a steamer just out of Rio, its drawing rooms and upper decks filled with tourists doubly happy because they were going home. On the steerage deck below, in the apron of a kitchen worker, a man was standing with his elbows on the rail--an uncertain figure in the moonlight. Once when he turned to look at the deck above, a lamp shone upon him. If you had been there you would have seen that while a beard covered much of his face, his cheeks were wasted and his eyes looked as though he needed rest. He turned his glance out over the sea again, looking now to the north star and now to the roadway of ripples that led to the moon. "I wonder if Rosa's asleep," he thought. "Eleven o'clock. She ought to be. It's a good school. She's lucky. So was I, that the old gentleman didn't get my letter...." On the deck above, a violin and harp were accompanying a piano. "That's where I ought to be--up there," he thought, "not peeling potatoes and scouring pans down here. All I have to do is to go up and announce myself...." He smiled--a grim affair. "Yes, all I have to do is to go up and announce myself.... They'd take care of me, all right!" He lifted his hand and thoughtfully rubbed his beard. "As long as I stick to Russian, I'm safe. Nicholas Rapieff--nobody has suspected me now for fifteen years. Paul Spencer's dead--dead long ago. But, somehow or other, I have taken it into my head that I would like to see the place where he was born...." His glance were on the ripples that led to the moon. "I wonder if the orchard is still back of the house," he thought, "and the winesap tree I fell out of. I wonder if old Hutch is dead yet. I remember he carried me in the house, and the very next week I knocked the clock down on him.... I wonder if that swimming hole is still there where the river turns below the dam. That was the best of all.... I remember how I liked to lie there--an innocent kid--and dream what I was going to do when I was a man.... Lord in Heaven, what wouldn't I give to dream those dreams again...." On the upper deck the dance had come to an end. "Time to turn in," thought Paul. He crossed to the steerage door and a moment later the moon was shining on an empty deck. CHAPTER XXIX As time went on, it became increasingly clear to Mary that Wally wasn't happy--that the "one great thing in life" for him was turning out badly. Never had a Jason sailed forth with greater determination to find the Golden Fleece of Happiness, but with every passing week he seemed to be further than ever from the winning of his prize. Mary turned it over in her mind for a long time before she found a clue to the answer. "I believe it's because Helen has nothing useful to occupy her mind," she thought one day; and more quickly than words can describe the fancy, she seemed to see the wives at each end of the social scale--each group engaged from morning till night on a never-ending round of unproductive activities, walkers of treadmills, drudges of want and wealth. "They are in just the same fix--the very rich and the very poor," she thought, "grinding away all day and getting nowhere--never satisfied--never happy--because way down in their hearts they know they're not doing anything useful--not doing anything that counts--" Her mind returned to Helen's case. "I'm sure that's it," she nodded. "Helen hasn't found happiness, so she goes out looking for it, and never thinks of trying the only thing that would help her. Yes, and I believe that's why so many rich people have divorces. When you come to think of it, you hardly ever heard of divorces during the war--because for the first time in their lives a lot of people were doing something useful--" Hesitating then she asked herself if she ought not to speak to Helen. "I didn't get any thanks the last time I tried it," she ruefully remarked. "But perhaps if I used an awful lot of tact--" She had her chance that afternoon when Helen dropped in at the office on her way back from the city. "Shopping--all day--tired to death," she said, sinking into the chair by the side of the desk. "How are you getting on?" Mary felt like replying, "Very well, thank you.... But how are you getting on, Helen?.... you and Wally?" Somehow, though, it sounded dreadful, even to hint that everything wasn't as it should be between Wally and his wife. "Besides," thought Mary, "she'd only say, 'Oh, all right,' and yawn and change the subject--and what could I do then?" She answered herself, "Nothing," and thoughtfully added, "It will take a lot of tact." Indeed there are some topics which require so much tact in their presentation that the article becomes lost in its wrappings, and its presence isn't even suspected by the recipient. "How's Wally?" asked Mary. "Oh, he's all right." "When I saw him the other day, I thought he was looking a bit under." "Oh, I don't know--" As Mary had guessed, Helen patted her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. "How's Aunt Patty and Aunt Cordelia?" she asked. Mary sighed to herself. "What can I do?" she thought. "If I say, 'Helen, you know you're not happy. Folks never are unless they are doing something useful,' she would only think I was trying to preach to her. But if I don't say anything--and things go wrong--" One of the accountants entered--the elder one--with a sheaf of papers in his hand. On seeing the visitor, he drew back. "Don't let me interrupt you," whispered Helen to Mary. "I'll run in and see Burdon for a few minutes--" Absent-mindedly Mary began to look at the papers which the accountant placed before her--her thoughts elsewhere--but gradually her interest centred upon the matter in hand. "What?" she exclaimed. "A shortage as big as that last year? Never!" The accountant looked at her with the same quizzical air as an astronomer might assume in looking at a child who had just said, "What? The sun ninety million miles away from the earth? Never!" "Either that," he said, "or a good many bearings were made in the factory last year--and lost in the river--" "Oh, there's some mistake," said Mary earnestly. "Perhaps the factory didn't make as many bearings as you think." Again he gave her his astronomical smile, as though she were saying now, "Perhaps the moon isn't as round as you think it is; it doesn't always look round to me." "I thought it best to show you this, confidentially," he said, gathering the papers together, "because we have lately become conscious of a feeling of opposition--in trying to trace the source of this discrepancy. It seems to us," he suggested, speaking always in his impersonal manner, "that this is a point which needs clearing up--for the benefit of every one concerned." "Yes," said Mary after a pause "Of course you must do that. It isn't right to raise suspicions and then not clear them up.... Besides," she added, "I know that you'll find it's just a mistake somewhere--" After he had gone, Helen looked in, Burdon standing behind her, holding his cane horizontally, one hand near the handle, the other near the ferrule. In the half gloom of the hall he looked more dashing--more reckless--than Mary had ever visioned him. His cane might have been a sword ... his hat three-cornered with a sable feather in it.... "I just looked in to say good-bye," said Helen. "I'm going to take Burdon home." "I need somebody to mind me," said Burdon, flashing Mary one of his violent smiles; and turning to go he said to Helen over his shoulder, "Come, child. We're late." "He calls her 'child'..." thought Mary. That night Wally was a visitor at the house on the hill--and when Mary saw how subdued he was--how chastened he looked--her heart went out to him. "It seems so good to be here, calling again like this," he said. "Does it remind you of old times, the same as it does me?" But Mary wouldn't follow him there. As they talked it occurred to her more than once that while Wally appeared to be listening to her, his thoughts were elsewhere--his ears attuned for other sounds. "What are you listening for!" she asked him once. He answered her with a puzzle. "For the Lorelei's song," he said, and going to the piano he sang it, his clear, plaintive tenor still retaining its power to make her nose smart and the dumb chills to run up and down her back. She was sitting near the piano and when he was through, he turned around on the bench. "Have you ever been the least bit sorry," he asked, "that you turned me down--for a business career?" "I didn't turn you down," she said. "We couldn't agree on certain things: that's all." "On what, for instance?" "That love is the one great thing in life, for instance. You always said it was--especially to a girl. And I always said there were other things in a woman's life, too--that love shouldn't monopolize her any more than it does a man." "You were wrong, Mary, and you know you were wrong." "I was right, Wally, and you know I was right. Because, don't you see?--if love is the only thing in life, and love fails, a person's whole life is in ruins--and that isn't fair--" "It's true, though," he answered, more to himself than to her. Again he unconsciously assumed a listening attitude, as one who is trying to catch a sound from afar. "Wally!" said Mary. "What on earth are you listening for?" Again it pleased him to answer her with a riddle. "Italian opera," he said; and turning back to the keyboard he began-- "Woman is fickle False altogether Moves like a feather Borne on the breezes--" "Did you ever sing when you were flying?" she asked, trying to shake him out of his mood. The question proved a happy one. For nearly two hours they chatted and smiled and hummed old airs together--that is to say, Wally hummed them and Mary tried, for, as you know, she couldn't sing but could only follow the melody with a sort of a deep note far down in her throat, always pretending that she wasn't doing it and shyly laughing when Wally nodded in encouragement and tried to get her to sing up louder. "Eleven o'clock!" he exclaimed at last. "That's the first time in three months--" Whatever it was, he didn't finish it, but when he bade her good-bye he said in a low voice, "Young lady, do you know that you played the very Old Ned with my life when you turned me down?" But Mary wouldn't follow him there, either. "Good-bye, Wally," she said, and just before he went down to his car, she saw him standing on the step, his face turned toward the drive as though still listening for that distant sound--that sound which never came. The riddle was solved the next morning. Helen appeared at the office soon after nine and the moment she saw Mary she said, "Has Wally 'phoned you this morning?" "No," said Mary. Her cousin looked relieved. "I want you to fib for me," she said. "You know the way the men stick together.... Well, the women have to do it, too.... At dinner yesterday," she continued, "Wally happened to ask me where I was going that evening, and I told him I was coming over to see you. And really, dear, I meant it at the time. Instead, a little crowd of us happened to get together and we went to the club. "Well, that was all right. But it was nearly twelve when I got home, and he looked so miserable that I hated to tell him that I had been off enjoying myself, so I pretended I had been over to see you." Mary blinked at the inference, but was too breathless, too alarmed to speak. "He asked me if I got to your house early," resumed Helen, "and I said, 'Oh, about eight.' And then he said, 'What time did you leave Mary's?' and I said, 'Oh, about half-past eleven.' "Of course, I thought everything was all right, but I could tell from something he said this morning that he didn't believe me. So if he calls you up, tell him that I was over at your house last night--will you?--there's a dear--" "But I can't," said Mary, more breathless, more alarmed than ever. "Wally was over himself last night--and, oh, Helen, now I know! He was listening for your car every minute!" Helen stared ... and then suddenly she laughed--a laugh that had no mirth in it--that sound, half bitter, half mocking, which is sometimes used as ironical applause for ironical circumstance. "I guess I can square it up somehow," she said. "I'll drop in and see Burdon for a few minutes." Before her cousin knew it, she was gone. "I'll speak to her when she comes out," Mary told herself, but while she was trying to decide what to say, the morning mail was placed on her desk and the routine of the day began. Half an hour later she heard the sound of Helen's car rolling away. "She went without saying good-bye," thought Mary. "Oh, well, I'll see her again before long." To her own surprise the events of the last few days worried her less than she expected. For one reason, she had lived long enough to notice that no matter how involved things may look, Time has an astonishing faculty of straightening them out. And for another reason, having two worries to think about, each one tended to take her mind off the other. Whenever she started thinking about the accountant's report, she presently found herself wondering how Helen proposed to square it up with Wally. "Oh, well," she thought again, realizing the futility of trying to read the future, "let's hope everything will come out right in the end.... It always has, so far...." Archey came in toward noon, and Mary went with him to inspect a colony of bungalows which she was having built on the heights by the side of the lake. Another thing that she had lived long enough to notice was the different effect which different people had upon her. Although she preserved, or tried to preserve, the same tranquil air of interest toward them all--a tranquillity and interest which generally required no effort--some of the people she met in the day's work subconsciously aroused a feeling of antagonism in her, some secretly amused her, some irritated her, some made her feel under a strain, and some even had the queer, vampirish effect of leaving her washed out and listless--psychological puzzles which she had never been able to solve. But with Archey she always felt restful and contented, smiling at him and talking to him without exertion or repression and--using one of those old-fashioned phrases which are often the last word in description--always "feeling at home" with him, and never as though he had to be thought of as company. They climbed the hill together and began inspecting the bungalows. "I wouldn't mind living in one of these myself," said Archey. "What are you going to do with them?" But that was a secret. Mary smiled inscrutably and led the way into the kitchen. I have called it a kitchen, but it was just as much a living room, a dining room. A Pullman table had been built in between two of the windows and on each side of this was a settee. At the other end of the room was a gas range. When Wally opened the refrigerator door he saw that it could be iced from the porch. Electric light fixtures hung from the ceiling and the walls. "Going to have an artists' colony up here?" teased Archey, and looking around in admiration he repeated, "No, sir! I wouldn't mind living in one of these houses myself--" They went into the next room--the sitting room proper--unusual for its big bay window, its built-in cupboards and bookshelves. Then came the bathroom and three bed-rooms, all in true bungalow style on one floor. When they had first entered, Mary and Archey had chatted freely enough, but gradually they had grown quieter. There is probably no place in the world so contributive to growing intimacy as a new empty house--when viewed by a young man and a younger woman who have known each other for many years-- The place seems alive, hushed, expectant, watching every move of its visitors, breathing suggestions to them-- "Do you like it?" asked Mary, breaking the silence. Archey nodded, afraid for the moment to trust himself to speak. They looked at each other and, almost in haste, they went outside. "He'll never get over that trick of blushing," thought Mary. At the end of the hall was a closet door with a mirror set in it. She caught sight of her own cheeks. "Oh, dear!" she breathed to herself. "I wonder if I'm catching it, too!" Once outside, Archey began talking with the concentration of a man who is trying to put his mind on something else. "This work up here was a lucky turn for some of the strikers," he said. "Things are getting slack again now and men are being laid off. Here and there I begin to hear the old grumbling, 'Three thousand women keeping three thousand men out of jobs.' So whenever I hear that, I remind them how you found work for a lot of the men up here--and then of course I tell them it was their own fault--going on strike in the first place--just to get four women discharged!" "And even if three thousand women are doing the work of three thousand men," said Mary, "I don't see why any one should object--if the women don't. The wages are being spent just the same to pay rent and buy food and clothes--and the savings are going into the bank--more so than when the men were drawing the money!" "I guess it's a question of pride on the man's part--as much as anything else--" "Oh, Archey--don't you think a woman has pride, too?" "Well, you know what I mean. He feels he ought to be doing the work, instead of the woman." "Oh, Archey," she said again. "Can't you begin to see that the average woman has always worked harder than the average man? You ask any of the women at the factory which is the easiest--the work they are doing now--or the work they used to do." "I keep forgetting that. But how about this--I hear it all the time. Suppose the idea spreads and after a while there are millions of women doing work that used to be done by men--what are the men going to do?" "That's a secret," she laughed. "But I'll tell you some day--if you're good--" The friendly words slipped out unconsciously, but for some reason her tone and manner made his heart hammer away like that powerful downward passage of the Anvil Chorus. "I'll be good," he managed to say. Mary hardly heard him. "I wonder what made me speak like that," she was thinking. "I must be more dignified--or he'll think I'm bold...." And in a very dignified voice indeed, she said, "I must be getting back now. I wish you'd find the contractor and ask him when he'll be through." She went down the hill alone. On the way a queer thought came to her. I sha'n't attempt to explain it--only to report it. "Of course it isn't the only thing in life--that's ridiculous," she thought. "But sooner or later ... I guess it becomes quite important...." CHAPTER XXX A few hours later, Mary was sitting in her office, thinking of this and that (as the old phrase goes) when a knock sounded on the door and the elderly accountant entered. "We have finished the first part of our work," he said, "that dealing with factory costs. I will leave this with you and when you have read it, I would like to go over it with you in detail." It was a formidable document, nearly three hundred typewritten pages, neatly bound in hard covers. Mary hadn't looked in it far when she knew she was examining a work of art. "How he must love his work!" she thought, and couldn't help wondering what accidental turn of life had guided his career into the field of figures. "How interesting he makes it!" she thought again. "Why, it's almost like a novel." Brilliant sentences illuminated nearly every page. "This system, admirable in its way, is probably a legacy from the past, when the bookkeepers of Spencer & Son powdered their hair and used quill pens.--" "Under these conditions, a stock clerk must become a prodigy and depend upon his memory. When memory fails he must become a poet, for he has nothing but imagination to guide him." "Thus one department would corroborate another, like two witnesses independently sworn and each examined in private--" The back of the volume, she noticed, was filled with tables of figures. "This won't be so interesting," she told herself, turning the leaves. But suddenly she stopped at one of the open pages--and read it again--and again-- "Comparative Efficiency of Men's Labour and Women's Labour," the sheet was headed. And there it was in black and white, line after line, just how much it had cost to make each Spencer bearing when the men did the work, and just how much it was costing under the new conditions. "There!" said Mary, "I always knew we could do it, if the women in Europe could! There! No wonder we've been making so much money lately--!" She took the report home in triumph to show to her aunts, and when dinner was over she carried the volume to her den, and never a young lady in bye-gone days sat down to Don Juan with any more pleasurable anticipation than Mary felt when she buried herself in her easy chair and opened that report again. She was still gloating over the table of women's efficiency when Hutchins appeared. "Mr. Archibald Forbes is calling." Archey had news. "The men had a meeting this afternoon," he said. "They've been getting up a big petition, and they are going to send another committee to Washington." "What for?" "To press for that boycott. Headquarters put them off last time, but there are so many men out of work now at other factories that they hope to get a favourable decision." "I'll see Judge Cutler in the morning," promised Mary, and noticing Archey's expression, she said, "Don't worry. I'm not the least alarmed." "What bothers me," he said, "is to have this thing hanging over all the time. It's like old What's-his-name who had the sword hanging over his head by a single hair all through the dinner." The sword didn't seem to bother Mary, though. That comparative table had given her another idea--an idea that was part plan and part pride. When she reached the office in the morning she telephoned Judge Cutler and Uncle Stanley. "A directors' meeting--something important," she told them both; and after another talk with the accountant she began writing another of her advertisements. She was finishing this when Judge Cutler appeared. A minute later Uncle Stanley followed him. Lately Uncle Stanley had been making his headquarters at the bank--his attitude toward the factory being one of scornful amusement. "Women mechanics!" he sometimes scoffed to visitors at the bank. "Women foremen! Women presidents! By Judas, I'm beginning to think Old Ned himself is a woman--the sort of mischief he's raising lately!... Something's bound to crack before long, though." In that last sentence you have the picture of Uncle Stanley. Even as Mr. Micawber was always waiting for something to turn up, so Uncle Stanley was always waiting for something to go wrong. Mary opened the meeting by showing the accountants' report and then reading her proposed advertisement. If you had been there, I think you would have seen the gleam of satisfaction in Uncle Stanley's eye. "I knew I'd catch her wrong yet," he seemed to be saying to himself. "As soon as she's made a bit of money, she wants everybody to have it. It's the hen and the egg all over again--they've simply got to cackle." Thus the gleam in Uncle Stanley's eye. Looking up at the end of her reading, Mary caught it. "How he hates women!" she thought. "Still, in a way, you can't wonder at it.... If it hadn't been for women and the things they can do he would have had the factory long ago." Aloud she said, "What do you think of it?" "I think it's a piece of foolishness, myself," said Uncle Stanley promptly. "But I know you are going to do it, if you've made up your mind to do it." "I'm not so sure it's foolish," said the judge. "It seems to me it's going to bring us a lot of new business." "Got all we can handle now, haven't we?" "Well, we can expand! It wouldn't be the first time in Spencer & Son's history that the factory has been doubled, and, by Jingo, I believe Mary's going to do it, too!" Mary said nothing, but a few mornings later when the advertisement appeared in the leading newspapers throughout the country, she made a remark which showed that her co-directors had failed to see at least two of the birds at which she was throwing her stone.... She had the newspapers brought to her room that morning, and was soon reading the following quarter page announcement: THE FRUITS OF HER LABOUR For the past six months, Spencer bearings have been made exclusively by women. The first result of this is a finer degree of accuracy than had ever been attained before. The second result is a reduction in the cost of manufacture, this notwithstanding the fact that every woman on our payroll has always received man's wages, and we have never worked more than eight hours a day. To those who watched the work done by women in the war, neither of the above results will be surprising. Because of the accuracy of her work, Spencer bearings are giving better satisfaction than ever before. Because of her dexterity and quickness, we are able to make the following public announcement: We are raising the wages of every woman in our factory one dollar a day; and we are reducing the price of our bearings ten per cent. These changes go into effect immediately. JOSIAH SPENCER & SON, INC. MARY SPENCER, President. "There!" said Mary, sitting up in bed and making a gesture to the world outside. "That's what women can do! ... Are you going to boycott us now?" CHAPTER XXXI If you can imagine a smiling, dreamy-eyed bombshell that explodes in silence, aimed at men's minds instead of their bodies, rocking fixed ideas upon their foundations and shaking innumerable old notions upon their pedestals until it is hard to tell whether or not they are going to fall, perhaps you can get an idea of the first effect of Mary's advertisement. Wherever skilled workmen gathered together her announcement was discussed, and nowhere with greater interest than in her own home town. "Seems to me this thing may spread," said a thoughtful looking striker in Repetti's pool-room. "Looks to me as though we had started something that's going to be powerful hard to stop." "What makes you think it's going to spread?" asked another. "Stands to reason. If women can make bearings cheaper than men, the other bearing companies have got to hire women, too, or else go out of business. And you can bet your life they won't go out of business without giving the other thing a try." "Hang it all, there ought to be a law against women working," said a third. "You mean working for wages?" "Sure I mean working for wages." "How are you going to pass a law like that when women can vote?" impatiently demanded a fourth. "Bill's right," said another. "We've started something here that's going to be hard to stop." "And the next thing you know," continued Bill, looking more thoughtful than ever, "some manufacturer in another line of business--say automobiles--is going to get the idea of cutting his costs and lowering his prices--and pretty soon you'll see women making automobiles, too. You can go to sleep at some of those tools in a motor shop. Pie for the ladies!" "What are us men going to do after a while?" complained another. "Wash the dishes? Or sweep the streets? Or what?" "Search me. I guess it'll come out all right in the end; but, believe me, we certainly pulled a bonehead play when we went on strike because of those four women." "I was against it from the first, myself," said another. "So was I. I voted against the strike." "So did I!" "So did I!" It was a conversation that would have pleased Mary if she could have heard it, especially when it became apparent that those who had caused the strike were becoming so hard to find. But however much they might now regret the first cause, the effect was growing more irresistible with every passing hour. It began to remind Mary of the dikes in Holland. For centuries, working unconsciously more often than not, men had built walls that kept women out of certain industries. Then through their own strike, the men at New Bethel had made a small hole in the wall--and the women had started to trickle through. With the growth of the strike, the gap in the wall had widened and deepened. More and more women were pouring through, with untold millions behind them, a flowing flood of power that was beginning to make Mary feel solemn. Like William the Thoughtful, she, too, saw that she had started something which was going to be hard to stop.... All over the country, women had been watching for the outcome of her experiment, and when the last announcement appeared, a stream of letters and inquiries poured upon her desk.... The reporters returned in greater strength than ever.... It sometimes seemed to Mary that the whole dike was beginning to crack.... Even Jove must have felt a sense of awe when he saw the effect of his first thunderbolt.... "If they would only go slowly," she uneasily told herself, "it would be all right. But if they go too fast..." She made a helpless gesture--again the gesture of those who have started something which they can't stop--but just before she went home that evening she received a telegram which relieved the tension. "May we confer with you Monday at your office regarding situation at New Bethel?" That was the telegram. It was signed by three leaders of labour--the same men, Mary remembered, whom Judge Cutler had seen when he had visited headquarters. "Splendid men, all of them," she remembered him reporting. "I'm sure you'd like them, Mary." "Perhaps they'll be able to help," she told herself. "Anyhow, I'm not going to worry any more until I have seen them." That night, after dinner, two callers appeared at the house on the hill. The first was Helen. Dinner was hardly over when Mary saw her smart coupé turn in to the garage. A minute later Helen ran up the steps, a travelling bag in her hand. She kissed her cousin twice, quotation marks of affection which enclosed the whisper, "Do you mind if I stay all night?" "Of course I don't," said Mary, laughing at her earnestness. "What's the matter? Wally out of town?" "Oh, don't talk to me about Wally! ... No; he isn't out of town. That's why I'm here.... Can I have my old room?" She was down again soon, her eyes brighter than they should have been, her manner so high strung that it wasn't far from being flighty. As though to avoid conversation, she seated herself at the piano and played her most brilliant pieces. "I think you might tell me," said Mary, in the first lull. "I told you long ago. Men are fools! But if he thinks he can bully me--!" "Who?" "Wally!" Mary's exclamation of surprise was drowned in the ballet from Coppelia. "I don't allow any man to worry me!" said Helen over her shoulder. "But, Helen--don't you think it's just possible--that you've been worrying him?" A crashing series of chords was her only answer. In the middle of a run Helen topped and swung around on the bench. "Talking about worrying people," she said. "What's the matter with Burdon down at the office lately? What have you been doing to him?" "Helen! What a thing to say!" "Well, that's how it started, if you want to know! I was trying to cheer him up a little ... and Wally thought he saw more than he did...." For a feverish minute she resumed Delibes' dance, but couldn't finish it. She rose, half stumbling, blinded by her tears and Mary comforted her. "Now, go and get your bag, dear," she said at last, "and I'll go home with you, and stay all night if you like." But Helen wouldn't have that. "No," she said, "I'm going to stay here a few days. I told my maid where she could find me--but I made her promise not to tell Wally till morning--and I'm not going back till he comes for me." "I wonder what he saw..." Mary kept thinking. "Poor Wally!" And then more gently, "Poor Helen! ... It's just as I've always said." Mary was a long time going to sleep that night, thinking of Helen, and Wally and Burdon. Yes, Helen was right about Burdon. Something was evidently worrying him. For the last few days she had noticed how irritable he was, how drawn he looked. "I do believe he's in trouble of some sort," she sighed. "And he looks so reckless, too. I'm glad that Wally did speak to Helen. He isn't safe." And again the thought recurring, "I wonder what Wally saw...." A sound from the lawn beneath her window stopped her. At first she thought she was dreaming--but no, it was a mandolin being played on muted strings. She stole to the window. In the shadow stood a figure and at the first subdued note of his song, Mary knew who it was. "Soft o'er the fountain Ling'ring falls the southern moon--" "If that isn't Wally all over," thought Mary. "He thinks Helen's here, and he wants to make up." But how did he know Helen was there? And why was he singing so sadly, so plaintively just underneath Mary's window? Another possibility came to her mind and she was still wondering what to do when Helen came in, even as she had come in that night so long ago when Wally had sung Juanita before. "Wait till morning! He'll hear from me!" said Helen in indignation. Wally's song was growing fainter. He had evidently turned and was walking toward the driveway. A minute later the rumble of a car was heard. "If he thinks he can talk to me the way he did," said Helen, more indignant than before, "and then come around here like that--serenading you--!" "Oh, Helen, don't," said Mary, trembling. "...I think he was saying good-bye.... Wait till I put the light on...." The distress in her voice cheeked Helen's anger, and a moment later the two cousins were staring at each other, two tragic figures suddenly uncovered from the mantle of light. "I won't go back to my room; I'll stay here," whispered Helen at last. "Don't fret, Mary; he won't do anything." It was a long time, though, before Mary could stop trembling, but an hour later when the telephone bell began ringing downstairs, she found that her old habit of calmness had fallen on her again. "I'll answer it," she said to Helen. "Don't cry now. I'm sure it's nothing." But when she returned in a few minutes, Helen only needed one glance to tell her how far it was from being nothing. "Your maid," said Mary, hurrying to her dresser. "Wally's car ran into the Bar Harbor express at the crossing near the club.... He's terribly hurt, but the doctor says there's just a chance.... You run and dress now, as quickly as you can.... I have a key to the garage...." CHAPTER XXXII The first east-bound express that left New York the following morning carried in one of its Pullmans a famous surgeon and his assistant, bound for New Bethel. In the murk of the smoker ahead was a third passenger whose ticket bore the name of the same city--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes, whose clothes betrayed a foreign origin. This was Paul Spencer on the last stage of his journey home. Until the train drew out of the station, the seat by his side was unoccupied. But then another foreign looking passenger entered and made his way up the aisle. You have probably noticed how some instinctive law of selection seems to guide us in choosing our companion in a car where all the window seats are taken. The newcomer passed a number of empty places and sat down by the side of Paul. He was tall, blonde, with dusty looking eyebrows and a beard that was nearly the colour of dead grass. "Russian, I guess," thought Paul, "and probably thinks I am something of the same." The reflection pleased him. "If that's the way I look to him, nobody else is going to guess." When the conductor came, Paul's seat-mate tried to ask if he would have to change cars before reaching his destination, but his language was so broken that he couldn't make himself understood. "I thought he was Russian," Paul nodded to himself, catching a word here and there; and, aloud, he quietly added in his mother's tongue, "It's all right, batuchka; you don't have to change." The other gave him a grateful glance, and soon they were talking together. "A Bolshevist," thought Paul, recognizing now and then a phrase or an argument which he had heard from some of his friends in Rio, "but what's he going to New Bethel for?" As the train drew nearer the place of his birth, Paul grew quieter. Old landmarks, nearly forgotten, began to appear and remind him of the past. "What time do we get there?" he asked a passing brakeman. "Eleven-thirty-four." Paul's companion gave him a look of envy. "You speak English well," said he. Paul didn't like that, and took refuge behind one of those Slavonic indirections which are typical of the Russian mind--an indirection hinting at mysterious purpose and power. "There are times in a life," said he, "when it becomes necessary to speak a foreign language well." They looked at each other then, and simultaneously they nodded. "You are right, batuchka," said the blonde giant at last, matching indirection with indirection. "For myself, I cannot speak English well--ah, no--but I have a language that all men understand--and fear--and when I speak, the houses fall and the mountains shake their heads." His eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly--intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but Paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed. "A Bolshevist, sure enough," he thought. A familiar landscape outside attracted his attention. "We'll be there in a few minutes," he thought. "Yes, there's the road ... and there's the lower bridge.... I hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there. I'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see." At the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him. Paul stood for a few minutes on the platform, unrecognized, unheeded, jostled by the throng. "The prodigal son returns," he sighed, and slowly crossed the square.... Late in the afternoon a tired figure made its way along the river below the factory. The banks were high, but where the stream turned, a small grass-covered cove had been hollowed out by the edge of the water. "This is the best of all," thought Paul after he had climbed down the bank and, sinking upon the grass, he lay with his face to the sun, as he had so often lain when he was a boy, dreaming those golden dreams of youth which are the heritage of us all. "I was a fool to come," he told himself. "I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." For where he had hoped to find pleasure, he had found little but bitterness. The sight of the house on the hill, the factory in the hollow below the dam, even the faces which he had recognized had given him a feeling of sadness, of punishment--a feeling which only an outcast can know to the full--an outcast who returns to the scene of his home after many years, unrecognized, unwanted, afraid almost to speak for fear he will betray himself.... For a long time Paul lay there, sometimes staring up at the sky, sometimes half turning to look up the river where he could catch a glimpse of the factory grounds and, farther up, the high cascade of water falling over the dam--the bridge just above it.... Gradually a sense of rest, of relaxation took possession of him. "This is the best of all," he sighed, "but I'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." The sun shone on his face.... His eyes closed.... When he opened them again it was dark. "First time I've slept like that for years," he said, sitting up and stretching. Around him the grass was wet with dew. "Must be getting late," he thought. "I'd better get under shelter." On the bridge above the dam he saw the headlights of a car slowly moving. In the centre it stopped and the lights went out. "That's funny," he thought. "Something the matter with his wires, maybe." He stood up, idly watching. After a few minutes the lights switched on again and the car began to move forward. Behind it appeared the approaching lights of a second machine. "That first car doesn't want to be seen," thought Paul. At each end of the bridge was an arc lamp. As the first car passed under the light, he caught a glimpse of it--a grey touring car, evidently capable of speed. Paul didn't think of this again until he was near the place where he had decided to pass the night. At the corner of the street ahead of him a grey car stopped and three men got out--his blonde companion of the train among them, conspicuous both on account of his height and his beard. "That's the same car," thought Paul, watching it roll away; and frowning as he thought of his Russian acquaintance of the morning he uneasily added, "I wonder what they were doing on that bridge...." CHAPTER XXXIII The next morning Wally was a little better. He was still unconscious, but thanks to the surgeon his breathing was less laboured and he was resting more quietly. Mary had stayed with Helen overnight, and more than once it had occurred to her that even as it requires darkness to bring out the beauty of the stars, so in the shadow of overhanging disaster, Helen's better qualities came into view and shone with unexpected radiance. "I know..." thought Mary. "It's partly because she's sorry, and partly because she's busy, too. She's doing the most useful work she ever did in her life, and it's helping her as much as it's helping him--" They had a day nurse, but Helen had insisted upon doing the night work herself. There were sedatives to be given, bandages to be kept moist. Mary wanted to stay up, too, but Helen didn't like that. "I want to feel that I'm doing something for him--all myself," she said, and with a quivering lip she added, "Oh, Mary... If he ever gets over this...!" And in the morning, to their great joy, the doctor pronounced him a little better. Mary would have stayed longer, but that was the day when the labour leaders were to visit the factory; so after hearing the physician's good report, she started for the office. At ten o'clock she telephoned Helen who told her that Wally had just fallen off into his first quiet sleep. "I'm going to get some sleep myself, now, if I can," she added. "The nurse has promised to call me when he wakes." Mary breathed easier, for some deep instinct told her that Wally would come through it all right. She was still smiling with satisfaction when Joe of the Plumed Hair came in with three cards, the dignity of his manner attesting to the importance of the names. "All right, Joe, send them in," she said. "And I wish you'd find Mr. Forbes and Mr. Woodward, and tell them I would like to see them." "Mr. Woodward hasn't come down yet, but I guess I know where Mr. Forbes is--" He disappeared and returned with the three callers. Mary arose and bowed as they introduced themselves, meanwhile studying them with tranquil attentiveness. "The judge was right," she told herself. "I like them." And when they sat down, there was already a friendly spirit in the air. "This is a wonderful work you are doing here, Miss Spencer," said one. "You think so?" she asked. "You mean for the women to be making bearings?" "Yes. Weren't you surprised yourself when your idea worked out so well?" "But it wasn't my idea," she said. "It was worked out in the war--oh, ever so much further than we have gone here. We are only making bearings, but when the war was on, women made rifles and cartridges and shells, cameras and lenses, telescopes, binoculars and aeroplanes. I can't begin to tell you the things they made--every part from the tiniest screws as big as the end of this pin--to rough castings. They did designing, and drafting, and moulding, and soldering, and machining, and carpentering, and electrical work--even the most unlikely things--things you would never think of--like ship-building, for instance! "Ship-building! Imagine!" she continued. "Why, one of the members of the British Board of Munitions said that if the war had lasted a few months longer, he could have guaranteed to build a battleship from keel to crow's-nest--with all its machinery and equipment--all its arms and ammunition--everything on it--entirely by woman's labour! "So, you see, I can't very well get conceited about what we are doing here--although, of course, I am proud of it, too, in a way--" She stopped then, afraid they would think she was gossipy--and she let them talk for a while. The conversation turned to her last advertisement. "Are you sure your figures are right?" asked one. "Are you sure your women workers are turning out bearings so much cheaper than the men did?" "They are not my figures," she told them. "They are taken from an audit by a firm of public accountants." She mentioned the name of the firm and her three callers nodded with respect. "I have the report here," she said--and showed them the table of comparative efficiency. "Remarkable!" said one. "It only confirms," said Mary, "what often happened during the war." "Perhaps you are working your women too hard." "If you would like to go through the factory," said Mary, "you can judge for yourselves." Archey was in the outer office and they took him with them. They began with the nursery and went on, step by step, until they arrived at the shipping room. "Do you think they are overworked?" asked Mary then. The three callers shook their heads. They had all grown rather silent as the tour had progressed, but in their eyes was the light of those who have seen revelations. "As happy a factory as I have ever seen," said one. "In fact, it makes it difficult to say what we wanted to say." They returned to the office and when they were seated again, Mary said, "What is it you wanted to say?" "We wanted to talk to you about the strike. As we understand your principle, Miss Spencer, you regard it as unfair to bar a woman from any line of work which she may wish to follow--simply because she is a woman." "That's it," she said. "And for the same reason, of course, no man should be debarred from working, simply because he's a man." They smiled at that. "Such being the case," he continued, "I think we ought to be able to find some way of settling this strike to the satisfaction of both sides. Of course you know, Miss Spencer, that you have won the strike. But I think I can read character well enough to know that you will be as fair to the men as you wish them to be with the women." "The strike was absolutely without authority from us," said one of the others. "The men will tell you that. It was a mistake. They will tell you that, too. Worse than a mistake, it was silly." "However, that's ancient history now," said the third. "The present question is: How can we settle this matter to suit both sides?" "Of course I can't discharge any of the women," said Mary thoughtfully, "and I don't think they want to leave--" "They certainly don't look as if they did--" "I have another plan in mind," she said, more thoughtfully than before, "but that's too uncertain yet.... The only other thing I can think of is to equip some of our empty buildings and start the men to work there. Since our new prices went into effect we have been turning business away." "You'll do that, Miss Spencer?" "Of course the men would have to do as much work as the women are doing now--so we could go on selling at the new prices." "You leave that to us--and to them. If there's such a thing as pride in the world, a thousand men are going to turn out as many bearings as a thousand women!" "There's one thing more," said the second; "I notice you have raised your women's wages a dollar a day. Can we tell the men that they are going to get women's wages?" They laughed at this inversion of old ideas. "You can tell them they'll get women's wages," said Mary, "if they can do women's work!" But in spite of her smile, for the last few minutes she had become increasingly conscious of a false note, a forced conclusion in their plans--had caught glimpses of future hostilities, misunderstandings, suspicions. The next remark of one of the labour leaders cleared her thoughts and brought her back face to face with her golden vision. "The strike was silly--yes," one of the leaders said. "But back of the men's actions I think I can see the question which disturbed their minds. If women enter the trades, what are the men going to do? Will there be work enough for everybody?" Even before he stopped speaking, Mary knew that she had found herself, knew that the solid rock was under her feet again. "There is just so much useful work that has to be done in the world every day," she said, "and the more hands there are to do it, the quicker it will get done." That was as far as she had ever gone before, but now she went a step farther. "Let us suppose, for instance, that we had three thousand married men working here eight hours a day to support their families. If now we allow three thousand women to come out of those same homes and work side by side with the men--why, don't you see?--the work could be done in four hours instead of eight, and yet the same family would receive just the same income as they are getting now--the only difference being that instead of the man drawing all the money, he would draw half and his wife would draw half." "A four hour day!" said one of the leaders, almost in awe. "I'm sure it's possible if the women help," said Mary, "and I know they want to help. They want to feel that they are doing something--earning something--just the same as a man does. They want to progress--develop-- "We used to think they couldn't do men's work," she continued. "I used to think so, myself. So we kept them fastened up at home--something like squirrels in cages--because we thought housework was the only thing they could do.... "But, oh, how the war has opened our eyes!... "There's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do--nothing! And now the question is: Are we going to crowd her back into her kitchen, when if we let her out we could do the world's work in four hours instead of eight?" "Of course there are conditions where four hours wouldn't work," said one of the leaders half to himself. "I can see that in many places it might be feasible, but not everywhere--" "No plan works everywhere. No plan is perfect," said Mary earnestly. "I've thought of that, too. The world is doing its best to progress--to make people happier--to make life more worth living all the time. But no single step will mark the end of human progress. Each step is a step: that's all... "Take the eight hour day, for instance. It doesn't apply to women at all--I mean house women. And nearly half the people are house women. It doesn't apply to farmers, either; and more than a quarter of the people in America are on farms. But you don't condemn the eight hour day--do you?--just because it doesn't fit everybody?" "A four hour day!" repeated the first leader, still speaking in tones of awe. "If that wouldn't make labour happy," said the second, "I don't know what would." "Myself, I'd like to see it tried out somewhere," said the third. "It sounds possible--the way Miss Spencer puts it--but will it work?" "That's the very thing to find out," said Mary, "and it won't take long." She told them about the model bungalows. "I intended to try it with twenty-five families first," she said, taking a list from her desk. "Here are the names of a hundred women working here, whose husbands are among the strikers. I thought that out of these hundred families, I might be able to find twenty-five who would be willing to try the experiment." The three callers looked at each other and then they nodded approval. "So while we're having lunch," she said, "I'll send these women out to find their husbands, and we'll talk to them altogether." It was half past one when Mary entered the rest room with her three visitors and Archey. Nearly all the women had found their men, and they were waiting with evident curiosity. As simply as she could, Mary repeated the plan which she had outlined to the leaders. "So there you are," she said in conclusion. "I want to find twenty-five families to give the idea a trial. They will live in those new bungalows--you have probably all seen them. "There's a gas range in each to make cooking easy. They have steam heat from the factory--no stoves--no coal--no ashes to bother with. There's electric light, refrigerator, bathroom, hot and cold water--everything I could think of to save labour and make housework easy. "Now, Mrs. Strauss, suppose you and your husband decide to try this new arrangement. You would both come here and work till twelve o'clock, and the afternoons you would have to yourselves. "In the afternoons you could go shopping, or fishing, or walking, or boating, or skating, or visiting, or you could take up a course of study, or read a good book, or go to the theatre, or take a nap, or work in your garden--anything you liked.... "In short, after twelve o'clock, the whole day would be your own--for your own development, your own pleasure, your own ideas--anything you wanted to use it for. Do you understand it, Mrs. Strauss?" "Indeed I do. I think it's fine." "Is Mr. Strauss here? Does he understand it?" "Yes, I understand it," said a voice among the men. Assisted by his neighbours he arose. "I'm to work four hours a day," he said, "and so's the wife. Instead of drawing full money, I draw half and she draws half. We'd have to chip in on the family expenses. Every day is to be like Saturday--work in the morning and the afternoon off. Suits me to a dot, if it suits her. I always did think Saturday was the one sensible day in the week." A chorus of masculine laughter attested approval to this sentiment and Mr. Strauss sat down abashed. "Well, now, if you all understand it," said Mary, "I want twenty-five families who will volunteer to try this four-hour-a-day arrangement--so we can see how it works. All those who would like to try it--will they please stand up?" Presently one of the labour leaders turned to Mary with a beaming eye. "Looks as though they'll have to draw lots," said he... "They are all standing up...!" CHAPTER XXXIV The afternoon was well advanced when her callers left, and Mary had to make up her work as best she could. A violent thunder-storm had arisen, but in spite of the lightning she telephoned Helen. Wally was still improving. "I'll be over as soon as I've had dinner," said Mary, "but don't expect me early." She was hanging up the receiver when the senior accountant entered, a little more detached, a little more impersonal than she had ever seen him. "We shall have our final report ready in the morning," he said. "That's good," said Mary, starting to sign her letters. "I'll be glad to see it any time." At the door he turned, one hand on the knob. "I haven't seen Mr. Woodward, Jr., today. Do you expect him tomorrow?" At any other time she would have asked herself, "Why is he inquiring for Burdon?"--but she had so much work waiting on her desk, demanding her attention, that it might be said she was talking subconsciously, hardly knowing what was asked or answered. It was dusk when she was through, and the rain had stopped for a time. Near the entrance to the house on the hill--a turn where she always had to drive slowly--a shabby man was standing--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes. "I wonder who he is?" thought Mary. "That's twice I've seen him standing there...." Without seeming to do so, a pretence which only a woman can accomplish, she looked at him again. "How he stares!" she breathed. As you have guessed, the waiting man was Paul. For the first time that morning he had heard about the strike--had heard other things, too--in the cheap hotel where he had spent the night--obscure but alarming rumours which had led him to change his plans about an immediate return to his ship. A bit here, a bit there, he had pieced the story of the strike together--a story which spared no names, and would have made Burdon Woodward's ears burn many a time if he had heard it. "There's a bunch of Bolshevikis come in now--" this was one of the things which Paul had been told. "'Down with the capitalists who prey on women!' That's them! But it hasn't caught on. Sounds sort of flat around here to those who know the women. So this bunch of Bols has been laying low the last few days. They've hired a boat and go fishing in the lake. They don't fool me, though--not much they don't. They're up to some deviltry, you can bet your sweet life, and we'll be hearing about it before long--" Paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the station. "He was up to something--the way he spoke," thought Paul. "And last night he was in that car on the bridge.... Where do these Bols hang out?" he asked aloud. He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti's pool-room, but though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course of the day, he failed to see them. "Looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him. "Yes," said Paul. "Tall man with a light beard. Came in from New York yesterday." "Oh, that bunch," grinned the attendant. "They've gone fishing again. Going to get wet, too, if they ain't back soon." For over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the force of a cloudburst. At seven it stopped and, going out, Paul found himself drifting toward the house on the hill. It was there he saw Mary turning in at the gate. He stood for a long time looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which can only come to the Ishmaels of the world--to those sons of Hagar who may never return to their father's homes. "I was a fool for coming," he half groaned, tasting the dregs of bitterness. Unconsciously he compared the things that were with the things that might have been. "She certainly acted like a queen to Rosa," he thought once. For a moment he felt a wild desire to enter the gate, to see his home again, to make himself known--but the next moment he knew that this was his punishment--"to look, to long, but ne'er again to feel the warmth of home." He returned to the pool-room, his eyes more tired than ever, and found a seat in a far corner. Some one had left a paper in the next chair. Paul was reading it when he became conscious of some one standing in front of him, waiting for him to look up. It was his acquaintance of the day before--the Russian traveller--and Paul perceived that he was excited, and was holding himself very high. "Good evening, batuchka," said Paul, and looking at the other's wet clothes he added, "I see you were caught in the storm." "You are right, batuchka," said the other, and leaning over, his voice slightly shaking, he added, "Others, too, are about to be caught in a storm." He raised his finger with a touch of grandeur and took the chair by Paul's side, breathing hard and obviously holding himself at a tension. "Your friends aren't with you tonight?" Again the Russian spoke in parables. "Some men run from great events. Others stop to witness them." "Something in the wind," thought Paul. "I think he'll talk." Aloud he said, pretending to yawn, "Great events, batuchka? There are no more great events in the world." "I tell you, there are great events," said the other, "wherever there are great men to do them." "You mean your friends?" asked Paul. "But no. Why should I ask! For great men would not spend their days in catching little fishes--am I not right, batuchka?" "A thousand times right," said the other, his grandeur growing, "but instead of catching little fishes, what do you say of a man who can let loose a large fish--an iron fish--a fish that can speak with a loud noise and make the whole world tremble--!" Paul quickly raised his finger to his lips. "Let's go outside," he said. "Some one may hear us here..." CHAPTER XXXV At eight o'clock Mary had gone to Helen's. "If I'm not back at ten, I sha'n't be home tonight," she had told Hutchins as she left the house. At half past eight Archey called, full of the topic which had been started that afternoon. Hutchins told him what Mary had said. "All right," he said. "I'll wait." He left his car under the porte cochère, and went upstairs to chat with Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty. At twenty to ten, Hutchins was looking through the hall window up the drive when he saw a figure running toward the house. The door-bell rang--a loud, insistent peal. Hutchins opened the door and saw a man standing there, shabby and spattered with mud. "Is Miss Spencer in?" "No; she's out." The hall light shone on the visitor's face and he stared hard at the butler. "Hutch," he said in a quieter voice, "don't you remember me?" "N-n-no, sir; I think not, sir," said the other--and he, too, began to stare. "Don't you remember the day I fell out of the winesap tree, and you carried me in, and the next week I tried to climb on top of that hall clock, and knocked it over, and you tried to catch it, and it knocked you over, too?" The butler's lips moved, but at first he couldn't speak. "Is it you, Master Paul?" he whispered at last, as though he were seeing a visitor from the other world. And again "Is it you, Master Paul?" "You know it is. Listen, now. Pull yourself together. We've got to get to the dam before ten o'clock, or they'll blow it up. Put your hat on. Have you a car here?" In the hall the clock chimed a quarter to ten. The tone of its bell seemed to act as a spur to them both. "There's a young gentleman here," said Hutchins, suddenly turning. "I'll run and get him right away." As they speeded along the road which led to the bridge above the dam, Paul told what he had heard--Archey in the front seat listening as well as he could. "He didn't come right out and say so," Paul rapidly explained, "but he dropped hints that a blind man could see. I met him on a train yesterday--a Russian--a fanatic--proud of what he's done--! "As nearly as I can make it out, they have got a boat leaning against the dam with five hundred pounds of TNT in it--or hanging under it--I don't know which-- "There is a battery in the boat, and clockwork to set the whole thing off at ten o'clock tonight. He didn't come right out and say so, you understand, and I may be making a fool of myself. But if I am--God knows, it won't be the first time ... Anyhow we'll soon know." It was a circuitous road that led to the dam. The rain was pouring again, the streets deserted. Once they were held up at a railroad crossing.... The clock in the car pointed at five minutes to ten when their headlights finally fell upon the bridge. As they drew nearer they could hear nothing in the darkness but the thunder of the water. The bridge was a low one and only twenty yards up the stream from the falls; but though they strained their eyes to the uttermost they couldn't see as far as the dam. "I'll turn one of the headlights," said Archey, "and we'll drive over slow." The lamp, turned at an angle, swept over the edge of the dam like a searchlight. Half way over the bridge the car stopped. They had found what they were looking for. "Why doesn't it go over?" shouted Archey, jumping out. "Anchored to a tree up the bend, I guess," Paul shouted back. "They must have played her down the stream after dark." Nearly over the dam was a boat painted black and covered with tarpaulin. "The explosive is probably hanging from a chain underneath," thought Paul. "The current would hold it tight against the mason-work." "We ought to have brought some help," shouted Archey, suddenly realizing. "If that dam breaks, it will sweep away the factory and part of the town.... What are you going to do?" Paul had dropped his hat in the stream below the bridge and was watching to see where it went over the crest. It swept over the edge a few feet to the right of the boat. He moved up a little and tried next by dropping his coat. This caught fairly against the boat. Then before they knew what he was doing, he had climbed over the rail of the bridge and had dropped into the swiftly moving water below. "Done it!" gasped Hutchins. Paul's arms were clinging around the bow of the boat. He twisted his body, the current helping him, and gained the top of the tarpaulin. Under the spotlight thrown by the car, it was like a scene from some epic drama, staged by the gods for their own amusement--man against the elements, courage against the unknown-life against death. "He's feeling for his knife," thought Archey. "He's got it!" Paul ran his blade around the cloth and had soon tossed the tarpaulin over the dam. Then he made a gesture of helplessness. From the bridge, they could see that the stern of the boat was heavily boxed in. "It's under there!" groaned Hutchins. "He can't get to it!" Archey ran to the car for a hammer, but Paul had climbed to the bow and was looking at the ring in which was fastened the cable that held the boat in place. The strain of the current had probably weakened this, for the next thing they saw--Paul was tugging at the cable with all his strength, worrying it from side to side, kicking at the bow with the front of his heel, evidently trying to pull the ring from its socket. "If that gives way, the whole thing goes over," cried Archey. "I'll throw him the hammer." Even as he spoke the ring suddenly came out of the bow; and thrown off his balance by his own effort, Paul went over the side of the boat and in the same moment had disappeared from view. "Gone ..." gasped Hutchins. "And now that's going after him...." The boat was lurching forward--unsteadily--unevenly-- "Something chained to the bottom, all right," thought Archey, all eyes to see, the hammer still in his hand. As they watched, the boat tipped forward--lurched--vanished--followed quickly by two cylindrical objects which, in the momentary glimpse they caught of them, had the appearance of steel barrels. The two on the bridge were still looking at each other, when Archey thought to glance at the clock in his car. It was on the stroke of ten. "That may go off yet if the thing holds together," shouted Archey. "It was built good and strong...." They stood there for a minute looking down into the darkness and were just on the point of turning back to the car when an explosion arose from the racing waters far below the dam.... Presently the wind, blowing up stream, drenched their faces with spray.... Splinters of rock and sand began to fall.... CHAPTER XXXVI The next morning ushered in one of those days in June which make the spirit rejoice. When Mary left Helen's, she thought she had never known the sky so blue, the world so fair, the air so full of the breath of life, the song of birds, the scent of flowers. Wally was definitely out of danger and Helen was nursing him back to strength like a ministering angel, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. "Now if Burdon will only leave her alone," thought Mary as she turned the car toward the factory. She needn't have worried. Before she had time to look at her mail, Joe announced that the two accountants were waiting to see her. "They've been hanging around for the last half hour," he confidentially added. "I guess they want to catch a train or something." "All right, Joe," she nodded. "Show them in." They entered, and for the first time since she had known them, Mary thought she saw a trace of excitement in their manner--such, for instance, as you might expect to see in two learned astronomers who had seen Sirius the dog-star rushing over the heavens in pursuit of the Big Bear--or the Virgin seating herself in Cassiopeia's Chair. "We finished our report last night," said the elder, handing her a copy. "As you will see, we have discovered a very serious situation in the treasurer's department." It struck Mary later that she showed no surprise. Indeed, more than once in the last few days, when noticing Burdon's nervous recklessness, she had found herself connecting it with the auditors' work upon the books. "I would have asked Mr. Woodward for an explanation," continued the accountant, "but he has been absent yesterday and today. However, as you will see, no explanation can possibly cover the facts disclosed. There is a clear case for criminal action against him." "I don't think there will be any action," said Mary, looking up after a pause. "I'm sure his father will make good the shortage." But when she looked at the total she couldn't help thinking, "It will be a tight squeeze, though, even for Uncle Stanley." Now that it was over, she felt relieved, as though a load had lifted from her mind. "He'll never bother Helen again," she found herself thinking. "Perhaps I had better telephone Judge Cutler and let him handle it--" The judge promised to be down at once, and Mary turned to her mail. Near the bottom she found a letter addressed in Burdon's writing. It was unstamped and had evidently been left at the office. The date-line simply said "Midnight." It was a long letter, some of it clear enough and some of it obscure. Mary was puzzling over it when Judge Cutler and Hutchins entered. As far as she could remember, it was the first time that the butler had ever appeared at the factory. "Anything wrong?" she asked in alarm. "He was in my office when you telephoned," said the judge. "I'll let him tell his story as he told it to me.... I think I ought to ask you something first, though.... Did any one ever tell you that you had a brother Paul? ..." "Yes," said Mary, her heart contracting. Throughout the recital she sat breathless. Now and then the colour rose to her cheeks, and more than once the tears came to her eyes, especially when Hutchins' voice broke, and when he said in tones of pride, "Before we could stop him, Master Paul was over the rail and in the water--" More than once Mary looked away to hide her emotion, glancing around the room at her forebears who had never seemed so attentive as then. "You may well listen," thought Mary. "He may have been the black sheep of the family, but you see what he did in the end...." Hutchins told them about the search which he and Archey had made up and down the banks, aided with a flashlight, climbing, calling, and sometimes all but falling in the stream themselves. "But it was no use, Miss Mary," he concluded. "Master Paul is past all finding, I'm afraid." For a long time Mary sat silent, her handkerchief to her eyes. "Archey is still looking," said the judge, rising. "I'll start another searching party at once. And telephone the towns below, too. We are bound to find him if we keep on looking, you know--" They found him sooner than they expected, in the grassy basin at the bend of the river, where the high water of the night before had borne him--in the place where he had loved to dream his dreams of youth and adventure when life was young and the future full of promise. He was lying on his side, his head on his arm, his face turned to the whispering river, and there perhaps he was dreaming again--those eternal dreams which only those who have gone to their rest can know. CHAPTER XXXVII Time, quickly passing, brought Mary to another wonderful morning in the Story of her life. Even as her father's death had broadened her outlook, so now Paul's heroism gave her a deeper glance at the future, a more tolerant view of the past. On the morning in question, Helen brought Wally to the office. He was now entirely recovered, but Helen still mothered him, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. Mary grew very thoughtful as she watched them. The next morning they were leaving for a tour of the Maine woods. When they left, an architect called. Under his arm he had a portfolio of plans for a Welfare Building which he had drawn exactly according to Mary's suggestions. As long as the idea had been a nebulous one--drawn only in fancy and coloured with nothing stronger than conversation, she had liked it immensely; but seeing now precisely how the building would look--how the space would be divided, she found herself shaking her head. "It's my own fault," she said. "You have followed out every one of my ideas--but somehow--well, I don't like it: that's all. If you'll leave these drawings, I'll think them over and call you up again in a few days." At Judge Cutler's suggestion, Archey had been elected treasurer to take Burdon's place. Mary took the plans into his office and showed them to him. They were still discussing them, sitting at opposite sides of his flat-top desk, when the twelve o'clock whistle blew. A few minutes later, the four-hour workers passed through the gate, the men walking with their wives, the children playing between. "I wonder how it's going to turn out," said Archey. "I wonder ..." said Mary. "Of course it's too early to tell yet. I don't know.... Time will tell." "It was the only solution," he told her. "I wonder ..." she mused again. "Anyhow it was something definite. If women are really going to take up men's trades, it's only right that they should know what it means. As long as we just keep talking on general lines about a thing, we can make it sound as nice as we like. But when we try to put theory into practice ... it doesn't always seem the same. "Take these plans, for instance," she ruefully remarked. "I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. But now that I see it drawn out to scale, I don't like it. And that, perhaps, is what we've been doing here in the factory. We have taken a view of woman's possible future and we have drawn it out to scale. Everybody can see what it looks like now--they can think about it--and talk about it--and then they can decide whether they want it or not...." He caught a note in her voice that had a touch of emptiness in it. "Do you know what I would do if I were you?" he gently asked. She looked at him, his eyes eager with sympathy, his smile tender and touched with an admiration so deep that it might be called devotion. Never before had Archey seemed so restful to her--never before with him had she felt so much at home. "If I smile at him, he'll blush," she caught herself thinking--and experienced a rising sense of elation at the thought. "What would you do!" she asked. "I'd go away for a few weeks.... I believe the change would do you good." She smiled at him and watched his responding colour with satisfaction. "If Vera was right," she thought, "that's Chapter One the way he just spoke. Now next--he'll try to touch me." Her eyes ever so dreamy, she reached her hand over the desk and began playing with, the blotter. "Why, he's trembling a little," she thought. "And he's looking at it.... But, oh, isn't he shy!" She tried to hum then and lightly beat time with her hand. "No, it isn't the only thing in life," she repeated to herself, "but--just as I said before--sooner or later--it becomes awfully important--" She caught Archey's glance and smilingly led it back to her waiting fingers. "How dark your hand is by the side of mine," she said. He rose to his feet. "Mary!" "Yes ... Archey?" "If I were a rich man--or you were a poor girl...." Mary, too, arose. "Well," she laughed unsteadily, "we may be ... some day...." Ten minutes later Sir Joseph of the Plumed Crest opened the door with a handful of mail. He suddenly stopped ... stared ... smiled ... and silently withdrew. THE END 
3647	----	THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT By WINSTON CHURCHILL Volume 2 CHAPTER IX At certain moments during the days that followed the degree of tension her relationship with Ditmar had achieved tested the limits of Janet's ingenuity and powers of resistance. Yet the sense of mastery at being able to hold such a man in leash was by no means unpleasurable to a young woman of her vitality and spirit. There was always the excitement that the leash might break--and then what? Here was a situation, she knew instinctively, that could not last, one fraught with all sorts of possibilities, intoxicating or abhorrent to contemplate; and for that very reason fascinating. When she was away from Ditmar and tried to think about it she fell into an abject perplexity, so full was it of anomalies and contradictions, of conflicting impulses; so far beyond her knowledge and experience. For Janet had been born in an age which is rapidly discarding blanket morality and taboos, which has as yet to achieve the morality of scientific knowledge, of the individual instance. Tradition, convention, the awful examples portrayed for gain in the movies, even her mother's pessimistic attitude in regard to the freedom with which the sexes mingle to-day were powerless to influence her. The thought, however, that she might fundamentally resemble her sister Lise, despite a fancied superiority, did occasionally shake her and bring about a revulsion against Ditmar. Janet's problem was in truth, though she failed so to specialize it, the supreme problem of our time: what is the path to self-realization? how achieve emancipation from the commonplace? Was she in love with Ditmar? The question was distasteful, she avoided it, for enough of the tatters of orthodox Christianity clung to her to cause her to feel shame when she contemplated the feelings he aroused in her. It was when she asked herself what his intentions were that her resentment burned, pride and a sense of her own value convinced her that he had deeply insulted her in not offering marriage. Plainly, he did not intend to offer marriage; on the other hand, if he had done so, a profound, self-respecting and moral instinct in her would, in her present mood, have led her to refuse. She felt a fine scorn for the woman who, under the circumstances, would insist upon a bond and all a man's worldly goods in return for that which it was her privilege to give freely; while the notion of servility, of economic dependence--though she did not so phrase it--repelled her far more than the possibility of social ruin. This she did not contemplate at all; her impulse to leave Hampton and Ditmar had nothing to do with that.... Away from Ditmar, this war of inclinations possessed her waking mind, invaded her dreams. When she likened herself to the other exploited beings he drove to run his mills and fill his orders,--of whom Mr. Siddons had spoken--her resolution to leave Hampton gained such definite ascendancy that her departure seemed only a matter of hours. In this perspective Ditmar appeared so ruthless, his purpose to use her and fling her away so palpable, that she despised herself for having hesitated. A longing for retaliation consumed her; she wished to hurt him before she left. At such times, however, unforeseen events invariably intruded to complicate her feelings and alter her plans. One evening at supper, for instance, when she seemed at last to have achieved the comparative peace of mind that follows a decision after struggle, she gradually became aware of an outburst from Hannah concerning the stove, the condition of which for many months had been a menace to the welfare of the family. Edward, it appeared, had remarked mildly on the absence of beans. "Beans!" Hannah cried. "You're lucky to have any supper at all. I just wish I could get you to take a look at that oven--there's a hole you can put your hand through, if you've a mind to. I've done my best, I've made out to patch it from time to time, and to-day I had Mr. Tiernan in. He says it's a miracle I've been able to bake anything. A new one'll cost thirty dollars, and I don't know where the money's coming from to buy it. And the fire-box is most worn through." "Well, mother, we'll see what we can do," said Edward. "You're always seeing what you can do, but I notice you never do anything," retorted Hannah; and Edward had the wisdom not to reply. Beside his place lay a lengthy, close-written letter, and from time to time, as he ate his canned pears, his hand turned over one of its many sheets. "It's from Eben Wheeler, says he's been considerably troubled with asthma," he observed presently. "His mother was a Bumpus, a daughter of Caleb-descended from Robert, who went from Dolton to Tewksbury in 1816, and fought in the war of 1812. I've told you about him. This Caleb was born in '53, and he's living now with his daughter's family in Detroit.... Son-in-law's named Nott, doing well with a construction company. Now I never could find out before what became of Robert's descendants. He married Sarah Styles" (reading painfully) "`and they had issue, John, Robert, Anne, Susan, Eliphalet. John went to Middlebury, Vermont, and married '" Hannah, gathering up the plates, clattered them together noisily. "A lot of good it does us to have all that information about Eben Wheeler's asthma!" she complained. "It'll buy us a new stove, I guess. Him and his old Bumpus papers! If the house burned down over our heads that's all he'd think of." As she passed to and fro from the dining-room to the kitchen Hannah's lamentations continued, grew more and more querulous. Accustomed as Janet was to these frequent arraignments of her father's inefficiency, it was gradually borne in upon her now--despite a preoccupation with her own fate--that the affair thus plaintively voiced by her mother was in effect a family crisis of the first magnitude. She was stirred anew to anger and revolt against a life so precarious and sordid as to be threatened in its continuity by the absurd failure of a stove, when, glancing at her sister, she felt a sharp pang of self-conviction, of self-disgust. Was she, also, like that, indifferent and self-absorbed? Lise, in her evening finery, looking occasionally at the clock, was awaiting the hour set for a rendezvous, whiling away the time with the Boston evening sheet whose glaring red headlines stretched across the page. When the newspaper fell to her lap a dreamy expression clouded Lise's eyes. She was thinking of some man! Quickly Janet looked away, at her father, only to be repelled anew by the expression, almost of fatuity, she discovered on his face as he bent over the letter once more. Suddenly she experienced an overwhelming realization of the desperation of Hannah's plight,--the destiny of spending one's days, without sympathy, toiling in the confinement of these rooms to supply their bodily needs. Never had a destiny seemed so appalling. And yet Janet resented that pity. The effect of it was to fetter and inhibit; from the moment of its intrusion she was no longer a free agent, to leave Hampton and Ditmar when she chose. Without her, this family was helpless. She rose, and picked up some of the dishes. Hannah snatched them from her hands. "Leave 'em alone, Janet!" she said with unaccustomed sharpness. "I guess I ain't too feeble to handle 'em yet." And a flash of new understanding came to Janet. The dishes were vicarious, a substitute for that greater destiny out of which Hannah had been cheated by fate. A substitute, yes, and perhaps become something of a mania, like her father's Bumpus papers.... Janet left the room swiftly, entered the bedroom, put on her coat and hat, and went out. Across the street the light in Mr. Tiernan's shop was still burning, and through the window she perceived Mr. Tiernan himself tilted back in his chair, his feet on the table, the tip of his nose pointed straight at the ceiling. When the bell betrayed the opening of the door he let down his chair on the floor with a bang. "Why, it's Miss Janet!" he exclaimed. "How are you this evening, now? I was just hoping some one would pay me a call." Twinkling at her, he managed, somewhat magically, to dispel her temper of pessimism, and she was moved to reply:--"You know you were having a beautiful time, all by yourself." "A beautiful time, is it? Maybe it's because I was dreaming of some young lady a-coming to pay me a visit." "Well, dreams never come up to expectations, do they?" "Then it's dreaming I am, still," retorted Mr. Tiernan, quickly. Janet laughed. His tone, though bantering, was respectful. One of the secrets of Mr. Tiernan's very human success was due to his ability to estimate his fellow creatures. His manner of treating Janet, for instance, was quite different from that he employed in dealing with Lise. In the course of one interview he had conveyed to Lise, without arousing her antagonism, the conviction that it was wiser to trust him than to attempt to pull wool over his eyes. Janet had the intelligence to trust him; and to-night, as she faced him, the fact was brought home to her with peculiar force that this wiry-haired little man was the person above all others of her immediate acquaintance to seek in time of trouble. It was his great quality. Moreover, Mr. Tiernan, even in his morning greetings as she passed, always contrived to convey to her, in some unaccountable fashion, the admiration and regard in which he held her, and the effect of her contact with him was invariably to give her a certain objective image of herself, an increased self-confidence and self-respect. For instance, by the light dancing in Mr. Tiernan's eyes as he regarded her, she saw herself now as the mainstay of the helpless family in the clay-yellow flat across the street. And there was nothing, she was convinced, Mr. Tiernan did not know about that family. So she said:--"I've come to see about the stove." "Sure," he replied, as much as to say that the visit was not unexpected. "Well, I've been thinking about it, Miss Janet. I've got a stove here I know'll suit your mother. It's a Reading, it's almost new. Ye'd better be having a look at it yourself." He led her into a chaos of stoves, grates, and pipes at the back of the store. "It's in need of a little polish," he added, as he turned on a light, "but it's sound, and a good baker, and economical with coal." He opened the oven and took off the lids. "I'm afraid I don't know much about stoves," she told him. "But I'll trust your judgment. How much is it?" she inquired hesitatingly. He ran his hand through his corkscrewed hair, his familiar gesture. "Well, I'm willing to let ye have it for twenty-five dollars. If that's too much--mebbe we can find another." "Can you put it in to-morrow morning?" she asked. "I can that," he said. She drew out her purse. "Ye needn't be paying for it all at once," he protested, laying a hand on her arm. "You won't be running away." "Oh, I'd rather--I have the money," she declared hurriedly; and she turned her back that he might not perceive, when she had extracted the bills, how little was left in her purse. "I'll wager ye won't be wanting another soon," he said, as he escorted her to the door. And he held it open, politely, looking after her, until she had crossed the street, calling out a cheerful "Goodnight" that had in it something of a benediction. She avoided the dining-room and went straight to bed, in a strange medley of feelings. The self-sacrifice had brought a certain self-satisfaction not wholly unpleasant. She had been equal to the situation, and a part of her being approved of this,--a part which had been suppressed in another mood wherein she had become convinced that self-realization lay elsewhere. Life was indeed a bewildering thing.... The next morning, at breakfast, though her mother's complaints continued, Janet was silent as to her purchase, and she lingered on her return home in the evening because she now felt a reluctance to appear in the role of protector and preserver of the family. She would have preferred, if possible, to give the stove anonymously. Not that the expression of Hannah's gratitude was maudlin; she glared at Janet when she entered the dining-room and exclaimed: "You hadn't ought to have gone and done it!" And Janet retorted, with almost equal vehemence:--"Somebody had to do it--didn't they? Who else was there?" "It's a shame for you to spend your money on such things. You'd ought to save it you'll need it," Hannah continued illogically. "It's lucky I had the money," said Janet. Both Janet and Hannah knew that these recriminations, from the other, were the explosive expressions of deep feeling. Janet knew that her mother was profoundly moved by her sacrifice. She herself was moved by Hannah's plight, but tenderness and pity were complicated by a renewed sense of rebellion against an existence that exacted such a situation. "I hope the stove's all right, mother," she said. "Mr. Tiernan seemed to think it was a good one." "It's a different thing," declared Hannah. "I was just wondering this evening, before you came in, how I ever made out to cook anything on the other. Come and see how nice it looks." Janet followed her into the kitchen. As they stood close together gazing at the new purchase Janet was uncomfortably aware of drops that ran a little way in the furrows of Hannah's cheeks, stopped, and ran on again. She seized her apron and clapped it to her face. "You hadn't ought to be made to do it!" she sobbed. And Janet was suddenly impelled to commit an act rare in their intercourse. She kissed her, swiftly, on the cheek, and fled from the room.... Supper was an ordeal. Janet did not relish her enthronement as a heroine, she deplored and even resented her mother's attitude toward her father, which puzzled her; for the studied cruelty of it seemed to belie her affection for him. Every act and gesture and speech of Hannah's took on the complexion of an invidious reference to her reliability as compared with Edward's worthlessness as a provider; and she contrived in some sort to make the meal a sacrament in commemoration of her elder daughter's act. "I guess you notice the difference in that pork," she would exclaim, and when he praised it and attributed its excellence to Janet's gift Hannah observed: "As long as you ain't got a son, you're lucky to have a daughter like her!" Janet squirmed. Her father's acceptance of his comparative worthlessness was so abject that her pity was transferred to him, though she scorned him, as on former occasions, for the self-depreciation that made him powerless before her mother's reproaches. After the meal was over he sat listlessly on the sofa, like a visitor whose presence is endured, pathetically refraining from that occupation in which his soul found refreshment and peace, the compilation of the Bumpus genealogy. That evening the papers remained under the lid of the desk in the corner, untouched. What troubled Janet above all, however, was the attitude of Lise, who also came in for her share of implied reproach. Of late Lise had become an increased source of anxiety to Hannah, who was unwisely resolved to make this occasion an object lesson. And though parental tenderness had often moved her to excuse and defend Lise for an increasing remissness in failing to contribute to the household expenses, she was now quite relentless in her efforts to wring from Lise an acknowledgment of the nobility of her sister's act, of qualities in Janet that she, Lise, might do well to cultivate. Lise was equally determined to withhold any such acknowledgment; in her face grew that familiar mutinous look that Hannah invariably failed to recognize as a danger signal; and with it another --the sophisticated expression of one who knows life and ridicules the lack of such knowledge in others. Its implication was made certain when the two girls were alone in their bedroom after supper. Lise, feverishly occupied with her toilet, on her departure broke the silence there by inquiring:--"Say, if I had your easy money, I might buy a stove, too. How much does Ditmar give you, sweetheart?" Janet, infuriated, flew at her sister. Lise struggled to escape. "Leave me go" she whimpered in genuine alarm, and when at length she was released she went to the mirror and began straightening her hat, which had flopped to one side of her head. "I didn't mean nothin', I was only kiddie' you--what's the use of gettin' nutty over a jest?" "I'm not like-you," said Janet. "I was only kiddin', I tell you," insisted Lise, with a hat pin in her mouth. "Forget it." When Lise had gone out Janet sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock agitatedly. What had really made her angry, she began to perceive, was the realization of a certain amount of truth in her sister's intimation concerning Ditmar. Why should she have, in Lise, continually before her eyes a degraded caricature of her own aspirations and ideals? or was Lise a mirror--somewhat tarnished, indeed--in which she read the truth about herself? For some time Janet had more than suspected that her sister possessed a new lover--a lover whom she refrained from discussing; an ominous sign, since it had been her habit to dangle her conquests before Janet's eyes, to discuss their merits and demerits with an engaging though cynical freedom. Although the existence of this gentleman was based on evidence purely circumstantial, Janet was inclined to believe him of a type wholly different from his predecessors; and the fact that his attentions were curiously intermittent and irregular inclined her to the theory that he was not a resident of Hampton. What was he like? It revolted her to reflect that he might in some ways possibly resemble Ditmar. Thus he became the object of a morbid speculation, especially at such times as this, when Lise attired herself in her new winter finery and went forth to meet him. Janet, also, had recently been self-convicted of sharing with Lise the same questionable tendency toward self-adornment to please the eye of man. The very next Saturday night after she had indulged in that mad extravagance of the blue suit, Lise had brought home from the window of The Paris in Faber Street a hat that had excited the cupidity and admiration of Miss Schuler and herself, and in front of which they had stood languishing on three successive evenings. In its acquisition Lise had expended almost the whole of a week's salary. Its colour was purple, on three sides were massed drooping lilac feathers, but over the left ear the wide brim was caught up and held by a crescent of brilliant paste stones. Shortly after this purchase--the next week, in fact,--The Paris had alluringly and craftily displayed, for the tempting sum of $6.29, the very cloak ordained by providence to "go" with the hat. Miss Schuler declared it would be a crime to fail to take advantage of such an opportunity but the trouble was that Lise had had to wait for two more pay-days and endure the suspense arising from the possibility that some young lady of taste and means might meanwhile become its happy proprietor. Had not the saleslady been obdurate, Lise would have had it on credit; but she did succeed, by an initial payment the ensuing Saturday, in having it withdrawn from public gaze. The second Saturday Lise triumphantly brought the cloak home; a velvet cloak,--if the eyes could be believed,--velvet bordering on plush, with a dark purple ground delicately and artistically spotted with a lilac to match the hat feathers, and edged with a material which--if not too impudently examined and no questions asked--might be mistaken, by the uninitiated male, for the fur of a white fox. Both investments had been made, needless to say, on the strength of Janet's increased salary; and Lise, when Janet had surprised her before the bureau rapturously surveying the combination, justified herself with a defiant apology. "I just had to have something--what with winter coming on," she declared, seizing the hand mirror in order to view the back. "You might as well get your clothes chick, while you're about it--and I didn't have to dig up twenty bones, neither--nor anything like it--" a reflection on Janet's most blue suit and her abnormal extravagance. For it was Lise's habit to carry the war into the enemy's country. "Sadie's dippy about it--says it puts her in mind of one of the swells snapshotted in last Sunday's supplement. Well, dearie, how does the effect get you?" and she wheeled around for her sister's inspection. "If you take my advice, you'll be careful not to be caught out in the rain." "What's chewin' you now?" demanded Lise. She was not lacking in imagination of a certain sort, and Janet's remark did not fail in its purpose of summoning up a somewhat abject image of herself in wet velvet and bedraggled feathers--an image suggestive of a certain hunted type of woman Lise and her kind held in peculiar horror. And she was the more resentful because she felt, instinctively, that the memory of this suggestion would never be completely eradicated: it would persist, like a canker, to mar the completeness of her enjoyment of these clothes. She swung on Janet furiously. "I get you, all right!" she cried. "I guess I know what's eatin' you! You've got money to burn and you're sore because I spend mine to buy what I need. You don't know how to dress yourself any more than one of them Polak girls in the mills, and you don't want anybody else to look nice." And Janet was impelled to make a retort of almost equal crudity:--"If I were a man and saw you in those clothes I wouldn't wait for an introduction. You asked me what I thought. I don't care about the money!" she exclaimed passionately. "I've often told you you were pretty enough without having to wear that kind of thing--to make men stare at you." "I want to know if I don't always look like a lady! And there's no man living would try to pick me up more than once." The nasal note in Lise's voice had grown higher and shriller, she was almost weeping with anger. "You want me to go 'round lookin' like a floorwasher." "I'd rather look like a floorwasher than--than another kind of woman," Janet declared. "Well, you've got your wish, sweetheart," said Lise. "You needn't be scared anybody will pick you up." "I'm not," said Janet.... This quarrel had taken place a week or so before Janet's purchase of the stove. Hannah, too, was outraged by Lise's costume, and had also been moved to protest; futile protest. Its only effect on Lise was to convince her of the existence of a prearranged plan of persecution, to make her more secretive and sullen than ever before. "Sometimes I just can't believe she's my daughter," Hannah said dejectedly to Janet when they were alone together in the kitchen after Lise had gone out. "I'm fond of her because she's my own flesh and blood--I'm ashamed of it, but I can't help it. I guess it's what the minister in Dolton used to call a visitation. I suppose I deserve it, but sometimes I think maybe if your father had been different he might have been able to put a stop to the way she's going on. She ain't like any of the Wenches, nor any of the Bumpuses, so far's I'm able to find out. She just don't seem to have any notion about right and wrong. Well, the world has got all jumbled up--it beats me." Hannah wrung out the mop viciously and hung it over the sink. "I used to hope some respectable man would come along, but I've quit hopin'. I don't know as any respectable man would want Lise, or that I could honestly wish him to have her." "Mother!" protested Janet. Sometimes, in those conversations, she was somewhat paradoxically impelled to defend her sister. "Well, I don't," insisted Hannah, "that's a fact. I'll tell you what she looks like in that hat and cloak--a bad woman. I don't say she is--I don't know what I'd do if I thought she was, but I never expected my daughter to look like one." "Oh, Lise can take care of herself," Janet said, in spite of certain recent misgivings. "This town's Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one," declared Hannah who, from early habit, was occasionally prone to use scriptural parallels. And after a moment's silence she inquired: "Who's this man that's payin' her attention now?" "I don't know," replied Janet, "I don't know that there's anybody." "I guess there is," said Hannah. "I used to think that that Wiley was low enough, but I could see him. It was some satisfaction. I could know the worst, anyhow.... I guess it's about time for another flood." This talk had left Janet in one of these introspective states so frequent in her recent experience. Her mother had used the words "right" and "wrong." But what was "right," or "wrong?" There was no use asking Hannah, who--she perceived--was as confused and bewildered as herself. Did she refuse to encourage Mr. Ditmar because it was wrong? because, if she acceded to his desires, and what were often her own, she would be punished in an after life? She was not at all sure whether she believed in an after life,--a lack of faith that had, of late, sorely troubled her friend Eda Rawle, who had "got religion" from an itinerant evangelist and was now working off, in a "live" church, some of the emotional idealism which is the result of a balked sex instinct in young unmarried women of a certain mentality and unendowed with good looks. This was not, of course, Janet's explanation of the change in her friend, of whom she now saw less and less. They had had arguments, in which neither gained any ground. For the first time in their intercourse, ideas had come between them, Eda having developed a surprising self-assertion when her new convictions were attacked, a dogged loyalty to a scheme of salvation that Janet found neither inspiring nor convincing. She resented being prayed for, and an Eda fervent in good works bored her more than ever. Eda was deeply pained by Janet's increasing avoidance of her company, yet her heroine-worship persisted. Her continued regard for her friend might possibly be compared to the attitude of an orthodox Baptist who has developed a hobby, let us say, for Napoleon Bonaparte. Janet was not wholly without remorse. She valued Eda's devotion, she sincerely regretted the fact, on Eda's account as well as her own, that it was a devotion of no use to her in the present crisis nor indeed in any crisis likely to confront her in life: she had felt instinctively from the first that the friendship was not founded on, mental harmony, and now it was brought home to her that Eda's solution could never be hers. Eda would have been thrilled on learning of Ditmar's attentions, would have advocated the adoption of a campaign leading up to matrimony. In matrimony, for Eda, the soul was safe. Eda would have been horrified that Janet should have dallied with any other relationship; God would punish her. Janet, in her conflict between alternate longing and repugnance, was not concerned with the laws and retributions of God. She felt, indeed, the need of counsel, and knew not where to turn for it, --the modern need for other than supernatural sanctions. She did not resist her desire for Ditmar because she believed, in the orthodox sense, that it was wrong, but because it involved a loss of self-respect, a surrender of the personality from the very contemplation of which she shrank. She was a true daughter of her time. On Friday afternoon, shortly after Ditmar had begun to dictate his correspondence, Mr. Holster, the agent of the Clarendon Mill, arrived and interrupted him. Janet had taken advantage of the opportunity to file away some answered letters when her attention was distracted from her work by the conversation, which had gradually grown louder. The two men were standing by the window, facing one another, in an attitude that struck her as dramatic. Both were vital figures, dominant types which had survived and prevailed in that upper world of unrelenting struggle for supremacy into which, through her relation to Ditmar, she had been projected, and the significance of which she had now begun to realize. She surveyed Holster critically. He was short, heavily built, with an almost grotesque width of shoulder, a muddy complexion, thick lips, and kinky, greasy black hair that glistened in the sun. His nasal voice was complaining, yet distinctly aggressive, and he emphasized his words by gestures. The veins stood out on his forehead. She wondered what his history had been. She compared him to Ditmar, on whose dust-grey face she was quick to detect a look she had seen before--a contraction of the eyes, a tightening of the muscles of the jaw. That look, and the peculiarly set attitude of the body accompanying it, aroused in her a responsive sense of championship. "All right, Ditmar," she heard the other exclaim. "I tell you again you'll never be able to pull it off." Ditmar's laugh was short, defiant. "Why not?" he asked. "Why not! Because the fifty-four hour law goes into effect in January." "What's that got to do with it?" Ditmar demanded. "You'll see--you'll remember what I told you fellows at the conference after that bill went through and that damned demagogue of a governor insisted on signing it. I said, if we tried to cut wages down to a fifty-four hour basis we'd have a strike on our hands in every mill in Hampton,--didn't I? I said it would cost us millions of dollars, and make all the other strikes we've had here look like fifty cents. Didn't I say that? Hammond, our president, backed me up, and Rogers of the wool people. You remember? You were the man who stood out against it, and they listened to you, they voted to cut down the pay and say nothing about it. Wait until those first pay envelopes are opened after that law goes into effect. You'll see what'll happen! You'll never be able to fill that Bradlaugh order in God's world." "Oh hell," retorted Ditmar, contemptuously. "You're always for lying down, Holster. Why don't you hand over your mill to the unions and go to work on a farm? You might as well, if you're going to let the unions run the state. Why not have socialism right now, and cut out the agony? When they got the politicians to make the last cut from fifty-six to fifty-four and we kept on payin' 'em for fifty-six, against my advice, what happened? Did they thank us? I guess not. Were they contented? Not on your life. They went right on agitating, throwing scares into the party conventions and into the House and Senate Committees,--and now it's fifty-four hours. It'll be fifty in a couple of years, and then we'll have to scrap our machinery and turn over the trade to the South and donate our mills to the state for insane asylums." "No, if we handle this thing right, we'll have the public on our side. They're getting sick of the unions now." Ditmar went to the desk for a cigar, bit it off, and lighted it. "The public!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "A whole lot of good they'll do us." Holster approached him, menacingly, until the two men stood almost touching, and for a moment it seemed to Janet as if the agent of the Clarendon were ready to strike Ditmar. She held her breath, her blood ran faster,--the conflict between these two made an elemental appeal. "All right--remember what I say--wait and see where you come out with that order." Holster's voice trembled with anger. He hesitated, and left the office abruptly. Ditmar stood gazing after him for a moment and then, taking his cigar from his mouth, turned and smiled at Janet and seated himself in his chair. His eyes, still narrowed, had in them a gleam of triumph that thrilled her. Combat seemed to stimulate and energize him. "He thought he could bluff me into splitting that Bradlaugh order with the Clarendon," Ditmar exclaimed. "Well, he'll have to guess again. I've got his number." He began to turn over his letters. "Let's see, where were we? Tell Caldwell not to let in any more idiots, and shut the door." Janet obeyed, and when she returned Ditmar was making notes with a pencil on a pad. The conversation with Holter had given her a new idea of Ditmar's daring in attempting to fill the Bradlaugh order with the Chippering Mills alone, had aroused in her more strongly than ever that hot loyalty to the mills with which he had inspired her; and that strange surge of sympathy, of fellow-feeling for the operatives she had experienced after the interview with Mr. Siddons, of rebellion against him, the conviction that she also was one of the slaves he exploited, had wholly disappeared. Ditmar was the Chippering Mills, and she, somehow, enlisted once again on his side. "By the way," he said abruptly, "you won't mention this--I know." "Won't mention what?" she asked. "This matter about the pay envelopes--that we don't intend to continue giving the operatives fifty-six hours' pay for fifty-four when this law goes into effect. They're like animals, most of 'em, they don't reason, and it might make trouble if it got out now. You understand. They'd have time to brood over it, to get the agitators started. When the time comes they may kick a little, but they'll quiet down. And it'll teach 'em a lesson." "I never mention anything I hear in this office," she told him. "I know you don't," he assured her, apologetically. "I oughtn't to have said that--it was only to put you on your guard, in case you heard it spoken of. You see how important it is, how much trouble an agitator might make by getting them stirred up? You can see what it means to me, with this order on my hands. I've staked everything on it." "But--when the law goes into effect? when the operatives find out that they are not receiving their full wages--as Mr. Holster said?" Janet inquired. "Why, they may grumble a little--but I'll be on the lookout for any move. I'll see to that. I'll teach 'em a lesson as to how far they can push this business of shorter hours and equal pay. It's the unskilled workers who are mostly affected, you understand, and they're not organized. If we can keep out the agitators, we're all right. Even then, I'll show 'em they can't come in here and exploit my operatives." In the mood in which she found herself his self-confidence, his aggressiveness continued to inspire and even to agitate her, to compel her to accept his point of view. "Why," he continued, "I trust you as I never trusted anybody else. I've told you that before. Ever since you've been here you've made life a different thing for me--just by your being here. I don't know what I'd do without you. You've got so much sense about things--about people,--and I sometimes think you've got almost the same feeling about these mills that I have. You didn't tell me you went through the mills with Caldwell the other day," he added, accusingly. "I--I forgot," said Janet. "Why should I tell--you?" She knew that all thought of Holster had already slipped from his mind. She did not look up. "If you're not going to finish your letters," she said, a little faintly, "I've got some copying to do." "You're a deep one," he said. And as he turned to the pile of correspondence she heard him sigh. He began to dictate. She took down his sentences automatically, scarcely knowing what she was writing; he was making love to her as intensely as though his words had been the absolute expression of his desire instead of the commonplace mediums of commercial intercourse. Presently he stopped and began fumbling in one of the drawers of his desk. "Where is the memorandum I made last week for Percy and Company?" "Isn't it there?" she asked. But he continued to fumble, running through the papers and disarranging them until she could stand it no longer. "You never know where to find anything," she declared, rising and darting around the desk and bending over the drawer, her deft fingers rapidly separating the papers. She drew forth the memorandum triumphantly. "There!" she exclaimed. "It was right before your eyes." As she thrust it at him his hand closed over hers. She felt him drawing her, irresistibly. "Janet!" he said. "For God's sake--you're killing me--don't you know it? I can't stand it any longer!" "Don't!" she whispered, terror-stricken, straining away from him. "Mr. Ditmar--let me go!" A silent struggle ensued, she resisting him with all the aroused strength and fierceness of her nature. He kissed her hair, her neck,--she had never imagined such a force as this, she felt herself weakening, welcoming the annihilation of his embrace. "Mr. Ditmar!" she cried. "Somebody will come in." Her fingers sank into his neck, she tried to hurt him and by a final effort flung herself free and fled to the other side of the room. "You little--wildcat!" she heard him exclaim, saw him put his handkerchief to his neck where her fingers had been, saw a red stain on it. "I'll have you yet!" But even then, as she stood leaning against the wall, motionless save for the surging of her breast, there was about her the same strange, feral inscrutableness. He was baffled, he could not tell what she was thinking. She seemed, unconquered, to triumph over her disarray and the agitation of her body. Then, with an involuntary gesture she raised her hands to her hair, smoothing it, and without seeming haste left the room, not so much as glancing at him, closing the door behind her. She reached her table in the outer office and sat down, gazing out of the window. The face of the world--the river, the mills, and the bridge--was changed, tinged with a new and unreal quality. She, too, must be changed. She wasn't, couldn't be the same person who had entered that room of Ditmar's earlier in the afternoon! Mr. Caldwell made a commonplace remark, she heard herself answer him. Her mind was numb, only her body seemed swept by fire, by emotions--emotions of fear, of anger, of desire so intense as to make her helpless. And when at length she reached out for a sheet of carbon paper her hand trembled so she could scarcely hold it. Only by degrees was she able to get sufficient control of herself to begin her copying, when she found a certain relief in action--her hands flying over the keys, tearing off the finished sheets, and replacing them with others. She did not want to think, to decide, and yet she knew--something was trying to tell her that the moment for decision had come. She must leave, now. If she stayed on, this tremendous adventure she longed for and dreaded was inevitable. Fear and fascination battled within her. To run away was to deny life; to remain, to taste and savour it. She had tasted it--was it sweet?--that sense of being swept away, engulfed by an elemental power beyond them both, yet in them both? She felt him drawing her to him, and she struggling yet inwardly longing to yield. And the scarlet stain on his handkerchief--when she thought of that her blood throbbed, her face burned. At last the door of the inner office opened, and Ditmar came out and stood by the rail. His voice was queer, scarcely recognizable. "Miss Bumpus--would you mind coming into my room a moment, before you leave?" he said. She rose instantly and followed him, closing the door behind her, but standing at bay against it, her hand on the knob. "I'm not going to touch you--you needn't be afraid," he said. Reassured by the unsteadiness of his voice she raised her eyes to perceive that his face was ashy, his manner nervous, apprehensive, conciliatory,--a Ditmar she had difficulty in recognizing. "I didn't mean to frighten, to offend you," he went on. "Something got hold of me. I was crazy, I couldn't help it--I won't do it again, if you'll stay. I give you my word." She did not reply. After a pause he began again, repeating himself. "I didn't mean to do it. I was carried away--it all happened before I knew. I--I wouldn't frighten you that way for anything in the world." Still she was silent. "For God's sake, speak to me!" he cried. "Say you forgive me--give me another chance!" But she continued to gaze at him with widened, enigmatic eyes--whether of reproach or contempt or anger he could not say. The situation transcended his experience. He took an uncertain step toward her, as though half expecting her to flee, and stopped. "Listen!" he pleaded. "I can't talk to you here. Won't you give me a chance to explain--to put myself right? You know what I think of you, how I respect and--admire you. If you'll only let me see you somewhere --anywhere, outside of the office, for a little while, I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it. I'm sure you don't understand how I feel--I couldn't bear to lose you. I'll be down by the canal--near the bridge --at eight o'clock to-night. I'll wait for you. You'll come? Say you'll come, and give me another chance!" "Aren't you going to finish your letters?" she asked. He stared at her in sheer perplexity. "Letters!" he exclaimed. "Damn the letters! Do you think I could write any letters now?" As a faint ray in dark waters, a gleam seemed to dance in the shadows of her eyes, yet was gone so swiftly that he could not be sure of having seen it. Had she smiled? "I'll be there," he cried. "I'll wait for you." She turned from him, opened the door, and went out. That evening, as Janet was wiping the dishes handed her by her mother, she was repeating to herself "Shall I go--or shan't I?"--just as if the matter were in doubt. But in her heart she was convinced of its predetermination by some power other than her own volition. With this feeling, that she really had no choice, that she was being guided and impelled, she went to her bedroom after finishing her task. The hands of the old dining-room clock pointed to quarter of eight, and Lise had already made her toilet and departed. Janet opened the wardrobe, looked at the new blue suit hanging so neatly on its wire holder, hesitated, and closed the door again. Here, at any rate, seemed a choice. She would not wear that, to-night. She tidied her hair, put on her hat and coat, and went out; but once in the street she did not hurry, though she knew the calmness she apparently experienced to be false: the calmness of fatality, because she was obeying a complicated impulse stronger than herself--an impulse that at times seemed mere curiosity. Somewhere, removed from her immediate consciousness, a storm was raging; she was aware of a disturbance that reached her faintly, like the distant throbbing of the looms she heard when she turned from Faber into West Street She had not been able to eat any supper. That throbbing of the looms in the night! As it grew louder and louder the tension within her increased, broke its bounds, set her heart to throbbing too--throbbing wildly. She halted, and went on again, precipitately, but once more slowed her steps as she came to West Street and the glare of light at the end of the bridge; at a little distance, under the chequered shadows of the bare branches, she saw something move--a man, Ditmar. She stood motionless as he hurried toward her. "You've come! You've forgiven me?" he asked. "Why were you--down there?" she asked. "Why? Because I thought--I thought you wouldn't want anybody to know--" It was quite natural that he should not wish to be seen; although she had no feeling of guilt, she herself did not wish their meeting known. She resented the subterfuge in him, but she made no comment because his perplexity, his embarrassment were gratifying to her resentment, were restoring her self-possession, giving her a sense of power. "We can't stay here," he went on, after a moment. "Let's take a little walk--I've got a lot to say to you. I want to put myself right." He tried to take her arm, but she avoided him. They started along the canal in the direction of the Stanley Street bridge. "Don't you care for me a little?" he demanded. "Why should I?" she parried. "Then--why did you come?" "To hear what you had to say." "You mean--about this afternoon?" "Partly," said Janet. "Well--we'll talk it all over. I wanted to explain about this afternoon, especially. I'm sorry--" "Sorry!" she exclaimed. The vehemence of her rebuke--for he recognized it as such--took him completely aback. Thus she was wont, at the most unexpected moments, to betray the passion within her, the passion that made him sick with desire. How was he to conquer a woman of this type, who never took refuge in the conventional tactics of her sex, as he had known them? "I didn't mean that," he explained desperately. "My God--to feel you, to have you in my arms--! I was sorry because I frightened you. But when you came near me that way I just couldn't help it. You drove me to it." "Drove you to it!" "You don't understand, you don't know how--how wonderful you are. You make me crazy. I love you, I want you as I've never wanted any woman before--in a different way. I can't explain it. I've got so that I can't live without you." He flung his arm toward the lights of the mills. "That--that used to be everything to me, I lived for it. I don't say I've been a saint--but I never really cared anything about any woman until I knew you, until that day I went through the office and saw you what you were. You don't understand, I tell you. I'm sorry for what I did to-day because it offended you--but you drove me to it. Most of the time you seem cold, you're like an iceberg, you make me think you hate me, and then all of a sudden you'll be kind, as you were the other night, as you seemed this afternoon--you make me think I've got a chance, and then, when you came near me, when you touched my hand--why, I didn't know what I was doing. I just had to have you. A man like me can't stand it." "Then I'd better go away," she said. "I ought to have gone long ago." "Why?" he cried. "Why? What's your reason? Why do you want to ruin my life? You've--you've woven yourself into it--you're a part of it. I never knew what it was to care for a woman before, I tell you. There's that mill," he repeated, naively. "I've made it the best mill in the country, I've got the biggest order that ever came to any mill--if you went away I wouldn't care a continental about it. If you went away I wouldn't have any ambition left. Because you're a part of it, don't you see? You--you sort of stand for it now, in my mind. I'm not literary, I can't express what I'd like to say, but sometimes I used to think of that mill as a woman--and now you've come along--" Ditmar stopped, for lack of adequate eloquence. She smiled in the darkness at his boyish fervour,--one of the aspects of the successful Ditmar, the Ditmar of great affairs, that appealed to her most strongly. She was softened, touched; she felt, too, a responsive thrill to such a desire as his. Yet she did not reply. She could not. She was learning that emotion is never simple. And some inhibition, the identity of which was temporarily obscured still persisted, pervading her consciousness.... They were crossing the bridge at Stanley Street, now deserted, and by common consent they paused in the middle of it, leaning on the rail. The hideous chocolate factory on the point was concealed by the night,--only the lights were there, trembling on the surface of the river. Against the flushed sky above the city were silhouetted the high chimneys of the power plant. Ditmar's shoulder touched hers. He was still pleading, but she seemed rather to be listening to the symphony of the unseen waters falling over the dam. His words were like that, suggestive of a torrent into which she longed to fling herself, yet refrained, without knowing why. Her hands tightened on the rail; suddenly she let it go, and led the way toward the unfrequented district of the south side. It was the road to Silliston, but she had forgotten that. Ditmar, regaining her side, continued his pleading. He spoke of his loneliness, which he had never realized. He needed her. And she experienced an answering pang. It still seemed incredible that he, too, who had so much, should feel that gnawing need for human sympathy and understanding that had so often made her unhappy. And because of the response his need aroused in her she did not reflect whether he could fulfil her own need, whether he could ever understand her; whether, at any time, she could unreservedly pour herself out to him. "I don't see why you want me," she interrupted him at last. "I've never had any advantages, I don't know anything. I've never had a chance to learn. I've told you that before." "What difference does that make? You've got more sense than any woman I ever saw," he declared. "It makes a great deal of difference to me," she insisted--and the sound of these words on her own lips was like a summons arousing her from a dream. The sordidness of her life, its cruel lack of opportunity in contrast with the gifts she felt to be hers, and on which he had dwelt, was swept back into her mind. Self-pity, dignity, and inherent self-respect struggled against her woman's desire to give; an inherited racial pride whispered that she was worthy of the best, but because she had lacked the chance, he refrained from offering her what he would have laid at the feet of another woman. "I'll give you advantages--there's nothing I wouldn't give you. Why won't you come to me? I'll take care of you." "Do you think I want to be taken care of?" She wheeled on him so swiftly that he started back. "Is that what you think I want?" "No, no," he protested, when he recovered his speech. "Do you think I'm after--what you can give me?" she shot at him. "What you can buy for me?" To tell the truth, he had not thought anything about it, that was the trouble. And her question, instead of enlightening him, only added to his confusion and bewilderment. "I'm always getting in wrong with you," he told her, pathetically. "There isn't anything I'd stop at to make you happy, Janet, that's what I'm trying to say. I'd go the limit." "Your limit!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean?" he demanded. But she had become inarticulate --cryptic, to him. He could get nothing more out of her. "You don't understand me--you never will!" she cried, and burst into tears--tears of rage she tried in vain to control. The world was black with his ignorance. She hated herself, she hated him. Her sobs shook her convulsively, and she scarcely heard him as he walked beside her along the empty road, pleading and clumsily seeking to comfort her. Once or twice she felt his hand on her shoulders.... And then, unlooked for and unbidden, pity began to invade her. Absurd to pity him! She fought against it, but the thought of Ditmar reduced to abjectness gained ground. After all, he had tried to be generous, he had done his best, he loved her, he needed her--the words rang in her heart. After all, he did not realize how could she expect him to realize? and her imagination conjured up the situation in a new perspective. Her sobs gradually ceased, and presently she stopped in the middle of the road and regarded him. He seemed utterly miserable, like a hurt child whom she longed to comfort. But what she said was:--"I ought to be going home." "Not yet!" he begged. "It's early. You say I don't understand you, Janet--my God, I wish I did! It breaks me all up to see you cry like that." "I'm sorry," she said, after a moment. "I--I can't make you understand. I guess I'm not like anybody else I'm queer--I can't help it. You must let me go, I only make you unhappy." "Let you go!" he cried--and then in utter self-forgetfulness she yielded her lips to his. A sound penetrated the night, she drew back from his arms and stood silhouetted against the glare of the approaching headlight of a trolley car, and as it came roaring down on them she hailed it. Ditmar seized her arm. "You're not going--now?" he said hoarsely. "I must," she whispered. "I want to be alone--I want to think. You must let me." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "I don't know--I want to think. I'm--I'm tired." The brakes screamed as the car came joltingly to a stop. She flew up the steps, glancing around to see whether Ditmar had followed her, and saw him still standing in the road. The car was empty of passengers, but the conductor must have seen her leaving a man in this lonely spot. She glanced at his face, white and pinched and apathetic--he must have seen hundreds of similar episodes in the course of his nightly duties. He was unmoved as he took her fare. Nevertheless, at the thought that these other episodes might resemble hers, her face flamed--she grew hot all over. What should she do now? She could not think. Confused with her shame was the memory of a delirious joy, yet no sooner would she give herself up, trembling, to this memory when in turn it was penetrated by qualms of resentment, defiling its purity. Was Ditmar ashamed of her?... When she reached home and had got into bed she wept a little, but her tears were neither of joy nor sorrow. Her capacity for both was exhausted. In this strange mood she fell asleep nor did she waken when, at midnight, Lise stealthily crept in beside her. CHAPTER X Ditmar stood staring after the trolley car that bore Janet away until it became a tiny speck of light in the distance. Then he started to walk toward Hampton; in the unwonted exercise was an outlet for the pent-up energy her departure had thwarted; and presently his body was warm with a physical heat that found its counterpart in a delicious, emotional glow of anticipation, of exultant satisfaction. After all, he could not expect to travel too fast with her. Had he not at least gained a signal victory? When he remembered her lips--which she had indubitably given him!--he increased his stride, and in what seemed an incredibly brief time he had recrossed the bridge, covered the long residential blocks of Warren Street, and gained his own door. The house was quiet, the children having gone to bed, and he groped his way through the dark parlour to his den, turning on the electric switch, sinking into an armchair, and lighting a cigar. He liked this room of his, which still retained something of that flavour of a refuge and sanctuary it had so eminently possessed in the now forgotten days of matrimonial conflict. One of the few elements of agreement he had held in common with the late Mrs. Ditmar was a similarity of taste in household decoration, and they had gone together to a great emporium in Boston to choose the furniture and fittings. The lamp in the centre of the table was a bronze column supporting a hemisphere of heavy red and emerald glass, the colours woven into an intricate and bizarre design, after the manner of the art nouveau--so the zealous salesman had informed them. Cora Ditmar, when exhibiting this lamp to admiring visitors, had remembered the phrase, though her pronunciation of it, according to the standard of the Sorbonne, left something to be desired. The table and chairs, of heavy, shiny oak marvellously and precisely carved by machines, matched the big panels of the wainscot. The windows were high in the wall, thus preventing any intrusion from the clothes-yard on which they looked. The bookcases, protected by leaded panes, held countless volumes of the fiction from which Cora Ditmar had derived her knowledge of the great world outside of Hampton, together with certain sets she had bought, not only as ornaments, but with a praiseworthy view to future culture,--such as Whitmarsh's Library of the Best Literature. These volumes, alas, were still uncut; but some of the pages of the novels--if one cared to open them--were stained with chocolate. The steam radiator was a decoration in itself, the fireplace set in the red and yellow tiles that made the hearth. Above the oak mantel, in a gold frame, was a large coloured print of a Magdalen, doubled up in grief, with a glory of loose, Titian hair, chosen by Ditmar himself as expressing the nearest possible artistic representation of his ideal of the female form. Cora Ditmar's objections on the score of voluptuousness and of insufficient clothing had been vain. She had recognized no immorality of sentimentality in the art itself; what she felt, and with some justice, was that this particular Magdalen was unrepentant, and that Ditmar knew it. And the picture remained an offence to her as long as she lived. Formerly he had enjoyed the contemplation of this figure, reminding him, as it did, of mellowed moments in conquests of the past; suggesting also possibilities of the future. For he had been quick to discount the attitude of bowed despair, the sop flung by a sensuous artist to Christian orthodoxy. He had been sceptical about despair--feminine despair, which could always be cured by gifts and baubles. But to-night, as he raised his eyes, he felt a queer sensation marring the ecstatic perfection of his mood. That quality in the picture which so long had satisfied and entranced him had now become repellent, an ugly significant reflection of something --something in himself he was suddenly eager to repudiate and deny. It was with a certain amazement that he found himself on his feet with the picture in his hand, gazing at the empty space where it had hung. For he had had no apparent intention of obeying that impulse. What should he do with it? Light the fire and burn it--frame and all? The frame was an integral part of it. What would his housekeeper say? But now that he had actually removed it from the wall he could not replace it, so he opened the closet door and thrust it into a corner among relics which had found refuge there. He had put his past in the closet; yet the relief he felt was mingled with the peculiar qualm that follows the discovery of symptoms never before remarked. Why should this woman have this extraordinary effect of making him dissatisfied with himself? He sat down again and tried to review the affair from that first day when he had surprised in her eyes the flame dwelling in her. She had completely upset his life, increasingly distracted his mind until now he could imagine no peace unless he possessed her. Hitherto he had recognized in his feeling for her nothing but that same desire he had had for other women, intensified to a degree never before experienced. But this sudden access of morality--he did not actually define it as such--was disquieting. And in the feverish, semi-objective survey he was now making of his emotional tract he was discovering the presence of other disturbing symptoms such as an unwonted tenderness, a consideration almost amounting to pity which at times he had vaguely sensed yet never sought imaginatively to grasp. It bewildered him by hampering a ruthlessness hitherto absolute. The fierceness of her inflamed his passion, yet he recognized dimly behind this fierceness an instinct of self-protection--and he thought of her in this moment as a struggling bird that fluttered out of his hands when they were ready to close over her. So it had been to-night. He might have kept her, prevented her from taking the car. Yet he had let her go! There came again, utterly to blot this out, the memory of her lips. Even then, there had been something sorrowful in that kiss, a quality he resented as troubling, a flavour that came to him after the wildness was spent. What was she struggling against? What was behind her resistance? She loved him! It had never before occurred to him to enter into the nature of her feelings, having been so preoccupied with and tortured by his own. This realization, that she loved him, as it persisted, began to make him uneasy, though it should, according to all experience, have been a reason for sheer exultation. He began to see that with her it involved complications, responsibilities, disclosures, perhaps all of those things he had formerly avoided and resented in woman. He thought of certain friends of his who had become tangled up--of one in particular whose bank account had been powerless to extricate him.... And he was ashamed of himself. In view of the nature of his sex experience, of his habit of applying his imagination solely to matters of business rather than to affairs of the heart,--if his previous episodes may be so designated,--his failure to surmise that a wish for marriage might be at the back of her resistance is not so surprising as it may seem; he laid down, half smoked, his third cigar. The suspicion followed swiftly on his recalling to mind her vehement repudiation of his proffered gifts did he think she wanted what he could buy for her! She was not purchasable--that way. He ought to have known it, he hadn't realized what he was saying. But marriage! Literally it had never occurred to him to image her in a relation he himself associated with shackles. One of the unconscious causes of his fascination was just her emancipation from and innocence of that herd-convention to which most women--even those who lack wedding rings--are slaves. The force of such an appeal to a man of Ditmar's type must not be underestimated. And the idea that she, too, might prefer the sanction of the law, the gilded cage as a popular song which once had taken his fancy illuminatingly expressed it--seemed utterly incongruous with the freedom and daring of her spirit, was a sobering shock. Was he prepared to marry her, if he could obtain her in no other way? The question demanded a survey of his actual position of which he was at the moment incapable. There were his children! He had never sought to arrive at even an approximate estimate of the boy and girl as factors in his life, to consider his feelings toward them; but now, though he believed himself a man who gave no weight to social considerations--he had scorned this tendency in his wife--he was to realize the presence of ambitions for them. He was young, he was astonishingly successful; he had reason to think, with his opportunities and the investments he already had made, that he might some day be moderately rich; and he had at times even imagined himself in later life as the possessor of one of those elaborate country places to be glimpsed from the high roads in certain localities, which the sophisticated are able to recognize as the seats of the socially ineligible, but which to Ditmar were outward and visible emblems of success. He liked to think of George as the inheritor of such a place, as the son of a millionaire, as a "college graduate," as an influential man of affairs; he liked to imagine Amy as the wife of such another. In short, Ditmar's wife had left him, as an unconscious legacy, her aspirations for their children's social prestige.... The polished oak grandfather's clock in the hall had struck one before he went to bed, mentally wearied by an unwonted problem involving, in addition to self-interest, an element of ethics, of affection not wholly compounded of desire. He slept soundly, however. He was one of those fortunate beings who come into the world with digestive organs and thyroid glands in that condition which--so physiologists tell us--makes for a sanguine temperament. And his course of action, though not decided upon, no longer appeared as a problem; it differed from a business matter in that it could wait. As sufficient proof of his liver having rescued him from doubts and qualms he was able to whistle, as he dressed, and without a tremor of agitation, the forgotten tune suggested to his consciousness during the unpleasant reverie of the night before,--"Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage!" It was Saturday. He ate a hearty breakfast, joked with George and Amy, and refreshed, glowing with an expectation mingled with just the right amount of delightful uncertainty that made the great affairs of life a gamble, yet with the confidence of the conqueror, he walked in sunlight to the mill. In view of this firm and hopeful tone of his being he found it all the more surprising, as he reached the canal, to be seized by a trepidation strong enough to bring perspiration to his forehead. What if she had gone! He had never thought of that, and he had to admit it would be just like her. You never could tell what she would do. Nodding at Simmons, the watchman, he hurried up the iron-shod stairs, gained the outer once, and instantly perceived that her chair beside the window was empty! Caldwell and Mr. Price stood with their heads together bending over a sheet on which Mr. Price was making calculations. "Hasn't Miss Bumpus come yet?" Ditmar demanded. He tried to speak naturally, casually, but his own voice sounded strange, seemed to strike the exact note of sickening apprehension that suddenly possessed him. Both men turned and looked at him in some surprise. "Good-morning, Mr. Ditmar," Caldwell said. "Why, yes, she's in your room." "Oh!" said Ditmar. "The Boston office has just been calling you--they want to know if you can't take the nine twenty-two," Caldwell went on. "It's about that lawsuit. It comes into court Monday morning, and Mr. Sprole is there, and they say they have to see you. Miss Bumpus has the memorandum." Ditmar looked at his watch. "Damn it, why didn't they let me know yesterday?" he exclaimed. "I won't see anybody, Caldwell--not even Orcutt--just now. You understand. I've got to have a little time to do some letters. I won't be disturbed--by any one--for half an hour." Caldwell nodded. "All right, Mr. Ditmar." Ditmar went into his office, closing the door behind him. She was occupied as usual, cutting open the letters and laying them in a pile with the deftness and rapidity that characterized all she did. "Janet!" he exclaimed. "There's a message for you from Boston. I've made a note of it," she replied. "I know--Caldwell told me. But I wanted to see you before I went--I had to see you. I sat up half the night thinking of you, I woke up thinking of you. Aren't you glad to see me?" She dropped the letter opener and stood silent, motionless, awaiting his approach--a pose so eloquent of the sense of fatality strong in her as to strike him with apprehension, unused though he was to the appraisal of inner values. He read, darkly, something of this mystery in her eyes as they were slowly raised to his, he felt afraid; he was swept again by those unwonted emotions of pity and tenderness--but when she turned away her head and he saw the bright spot of colour growing in her cheek, spreading to her temple, suffusing her throat, when he touched the soft contour of her arm, his passion conquered.... Still he was acutely conscious of a resistance within her--not as before, physically directed against him, but repudiating her own desire. She became limp in his arms, though making no attempt to escape, and he knew that the essential self of her he craved still evaded and defied him. And he clung to her the more desperately--as though by crushing her peradventure he might capture it. "You're hurting me," she said at last, and he let her go, standing by helplessly while she went through the movements of readjustment instinctive to women. Even in these he read the existence of the reservation he was loth to acknowledge. "Don't you love me?" he said. "I don't know." "You do!" he said. "You--you proved it--I know it." She went a little away from him, picking up the paper cutter, but it lay idle in her hand. "For God's sake, tell me what's the matter!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand this. Janet, aren't you happy?" She shook her head. "Why not? I love you. I--I've never been so happy in my life as I was this morning. Why aren't you happy--when we love each other?" "Because I'm not." "Why not? There's nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy--you know that. Tell me!" "You wouldn't understand. I couldn't make you understand." "Is it something I've done?" "You don't love me," she said. "You only want me. I'm not made that way, I'm not generous enough, I guess. I've got to have work to do." "Work to do! But you'll share my work--it's nothing without you." She shook her head. "I knew you couldn't understand. You don't realize how impossible it is. I don't blame you--I suppose a man can't." She was not upbraiding him, she spoke quietly, in a tone almost lifeless, yet the emotional effect of it was tremendous. "But," he began, and stopped, and was swept on again by an impulse that drowned all caution, all reason. "But you can help me--when we are married." "Married!" she repeated. "You want to marry me?" "Yes, yes--I need you." He took her hands, he felt them tremble in his, her breath came quickly, but her gaze was so intent as seemingly to penetrate to the depths of him. And despite his man's amazement at her hesitation now that he had offered her his all, he was moved, disturbed, ashamed as he had never been in his life. At length, when he could stand no longer the suspense of this inquisition, he stammered out: "I want you to be my wife." "You've wanted to marry me all along?" she asked. "I didn't think, Janet. I was mad about you. I didn't know you." "Do you know me now?" "That's just it," he cried, with a flash of clairvoyance, "I never will know you--it's what makes you different from any woman I've ever seen. You'll marry me?" "I'm afraid," she said. "Oh, I've thought over it, and you haven't. A woman has to think, a man doesn't, so much. And now you're willing to marry me, if you can't get me any other way." Her hand touched his coat, checking his protest. "It isn't that I want marriage--what you can give me--I'm not like that, I've told you so before. But I couldn't live as your--mistress." The word on her lips shocked him a little--but her courage and candour thrilled him. "If I stayed here, it would be found out. I wouldn't let you keep me. I'd have to have work, you see, or I'd lose my self-respect--it's all I've got--I'd kill myself." She spoke as calmly as though she were reviewing the situation objectively. "And then, I've thought that you might come to believe you really wanted to marry me--you wouldn't realize what you were doing, or what might happen if we were married. I've tried to tell you that, too, only you didn't seem to understand what I was saying. My father's only a gatekeeper, we're poor--poorer than some of the operatives in the mill, and the people you know here in Hampton wouldn't understand. Perhaps you think you wouldn't care, but--" she spoke with more effort, "there are your children. When I've thought of them, it all seems impossible. I'd make you unhappy--I couldn't bear it, I wouldn't stay with you. You see, I ought to have gone away long ago." Believing, as he did, that marriage was the goal of all women, even of the best, the immediate capitulation he had expected would have made matters far less difficult. But these scruples of hers, so startlingly his own, her disquieting insight into his entire mental process had a momentary checking effect, summoned up the vague presage of a future that might become extremely troublesome and complicated. His very reluctance to discuss with her the problem she had raised warned him that he had been swept into deep waters. On the other hand, her splendid resistance appealed to him, enhanced her value. And accustomed as he had been to a lifelong self-gratification, the thought of being balked in this supreme desire was not to be borne. Such were the shades of his feeling as he listened to her. "That's nonsense!" he exclaimed, when she had finished. "You're a lady --I know all about your family, I remember hearing about it when your father came here--it's as good as any in New England. What do you suppose I care, Janet? We love each other--I've got to have you. We'll be married in the spring, when the rush is over." He drew her to him once more, and suddenly, in the ardour of that embrace, he felt her tenseness suddenly relax--as though, against her will--and her passion, as she gave her lips, vied with his own. Her lithe body trembled convulsively, her cheeks were wet as she clung to him and hid her face in his shoulder. His sensations in the presence of this thing he had summoned up in her were incomprehensible, surpassing any he had ever known. It was no longer a woman he held in his arms, the woman he craved, but something greater, more fearful, the mystery of sorrow and suffering, of creation and life--of the universe itself. "Janet--aren't you happy?" he said again. She released herself and smiled at him wistfully through her tears. "I don't know. What I feel doesn't seem like happiness. I can't believe in it, somehow." "You must believe in it," he said. "I can't,--perhaps I may, later. You'd better go now," she begged. "You'll miss your train." He glanced at the office clock. "Confound it, I have to. Listen! I'll be back this evening, and I'll get that little car of mine--" "No, not to-night--I don't want to go--to-night." "Why not?" "Not to-night," she repeated. "Well then, to-morrow. To-morrow's Sunday. Do you know where the Boat Club is on the River Boulevard? I'll be there, to-morrow morning at ten. I'd come for you, to your house," he added quickly, "but we don't want any one to know, yet--do we?" She shook her head. "We must keep it secret for a while," he said. "Wear your new dress--the blue one. Good-bye--sweetheart." He kissed her again and hurried out of the office.... Boarding the train just as it was about to start, he settled himself in the back seat of the smoker, lit a cigar, inhaling deep breaths of the smoke and scarcely noticing an acquaintance who greeted him from the aisle. Well, he had done it! He was amazed. He had not intended to propose marriage, and when he tried to review the circumstances that had led to this he became confused. But when he asked himself whether indeed he were willing to pay such a price, to face the revolution marriage--and this marriage in particular--would mean in his life, the tumult in his blood beat down his incipient anxieties. Besides, he possessed the kind of mind able to throw off the consideration of possible consequences, and by the time the train had slowed down in the darkness of the North Station in Boston all traces of worry had disappeared. The future would take care of itself. For the Bumpus family, supper that evening was an unusually harmonious meal. Hannah's satisfaction over the new stove had by no means subsided, and Edward ventured, without reproof, to praise the restored quality of the pie crust. And in contrast to her usual moroseness and self-absorption, even Lise was gay--largely because her pet aversion, the dignified and allegedly amorous Mr. Waiters, floor-walker at the Bagatelle, had fallen down the length of the narrow stairway leading from the cashier's cage. She became almost hysterical with glee as she pictured him lying prone beneath the counter dedicated to lingerie, draped with various garments from the pile that toppled over on him. "Ruby Nash picked a brassiere off his whiskers!" Lise shrieked. "She gave the pile a shove when he landed. He's got her number all right. But say, it was worth the price of admission to see that old mutt when he got up, he looked like Santa Claus. All the girls in the floor were there we nearly split trying to keep from giving him the ha-ha. And Ruby says, sympathetic, as she brushed him off, `I hope you ain't hurt, Mr. Waiters.' He was sore! He went around all afternoon with a bunch on his coco as big as a potato." So vivid was Lise's account of this affair which apparently she regarded as compensation for many days of drudgery-that even Hannah laughed, though deploring a choice of language symbolic of a world she feared and detested. "If I talked like you," said Lise, "they wouldn't understand me." Janet, too, was momentarily amused, drawn out of that reverie in which she had dwelt all day, ever since Ditmar had left for Boston. Now she began to wonder what would happen if she were suddenly to announce "I'm going to marry Mr. Ditmar." After the first shock of amazement, she could imagine her father's complete and complacent acceptance of the news as a vindication of an inherent quality in the Bumpus blood. He would begin to talk about the family. For, despite what might have been deemed a somewhat disillusionizing experience, in the depths of his being he still believed in the Providence who had presided over the perilous voyage of the Mayflower and the birth of Peregrine White, whose omniscient mind was peculiarly concerned with the family trees of Puritans. And what could be a more striking proof of the existence of this Providence, or a more fitting acknowledgment on his part of the Bumpus virtues, than that Janet should become the wife of the agent of the Chippering Mills? Janet smiled. She was amused, too, by the thought that Lise's envy would be modified by the prospect of a heightened social status; since Lise, it will be remembered, had her Providence likewise. Hannah's god was not a Providence, but one deeply skilled in persecution, in ingenious methods of torture; one who would not hesitate to dangle baubles before the eyes of his children--only to snatch them away again. Hannah's pessimism would persist as far as the altar, and beyond! On the whole, such was Janet's notion of the Deity, though deep within her there may have existed a hope that he might be outwitted; that, by dint of energy and brains, the fair things of life might be obtained despite a malicious opposition. And she loved Ditmar. This must be love she felt, this impatience to see him again, this desire to be with him, this agitation possessing her so utterly that all day long she had dwelt in an unwonted state like a somnambulism: it must be love, though not resembling in the least the generally accepted, virginal ideal. She saw him as he was, crude, powerful, relentless in his desire; his very faults appealed. His passion had overcome his prudence, he had not intended to propose, but any shame she felt on this score was put to flight by a fierce exultation over the fact that she had brought him to her feet, that he wanted her enough to marry her. It was wonderful to be wanted like that! But she could not achieve the mental picture of herself as Ditmar's wife--especially when, later in the evening, she walked up Warren Street and stood gazing at his house from the opposite pavement. She simply could not imagine herself living in that house as its mistress. Notwithstanding the testimony of the movies, such a Cinderella-like transition was not within the realm of probable facts; things just didn't happen that way. She recalled the awed exclamation of Eda when they had walked together along Warren Street on that evening in summer: "How would you like to live there!"--and hot with sudden embarrassment and resentment she had dragged her friend onward, to the corner. In spite of its size, of the spaciousness of existence it suggested, the house had not appealed to her then. Janet did not herself realize or estimate the innate if undeveloped sense of form she possessed, the artist-instinct that made her breathless on first beholding Silliston Common. And then the vision of Silliston had still been bright; but now the light of a slender moon was as a gossamer silver veil through which she beheld the house, as in a stage setting, softening and obscuring its lines, lending it qualities of dignity and glamour that made it seem remote, unreal, unattainable. And she felt a sudden, overwhelming longing, as though her breast would burst.... Through the drawn blinds the lights in the second storey gleamed yellow. A dim lamp burned in the deep vestibule, as in a sanctuary. And then, as though some supernaturally penetrating ray had pierced a square hole in the lower walls, a glimpse of the interior was revealed to her, of the living room at the north end of the house. Two figures chased one another around the centre table--Ditmar's children! Was Ditmar there? Impelled irresistibly by a curiosity overcoming repugnance and fear, she went forward slowly across the street, gained the farther pavement, stepped over the concrete coping, and stood, shivering violently, on the lawn, feeling like an interloper and a thief, yet held by morbid fascination. The children continued to romp. The boy was strong and swift, the girl stout and ungainly in her movements, not mistress of her body; he caught her and twisted her arm, roughly--Janet could hear her cries through the window-=when an elderly woman entered, seized him, struggling with him. He put out his tongue at her, but presently released his sister, who stood rubbing her arm, her lips moving in evident recrimination and complaint. The faces of the two were plain now; the boy resembled Ditmar, but the features of the girl, heavy and stamped with self-indulgence, were evidently reminiscent of the woman who had been his wife. Then the shade was pulled down, abruptly; and Janet, overcome by a sense of horror at her position, took to flight.... When, after covering the space of a block she slowed down and tried to imagine herself as established in that house, the stepmother of those children, she found it impossible. Despite the fact that her attention had been focussed so strongly on them, the fringe of her vision had included their surroundings, the costly furniture, the piano against the farther wall, the music rack. Evidently the girl was learning to play. She felt a renewed, intenser bitterness against her own lot: she was aware of something within her better and finer than the girl, than the woman who had been her mother had possessed--that in her, Janet, had lacked the advantages of development. Could it--could it ever be developed now? Had this love which had come to her brought her any nearer to the unknown realm of light she craved?... CHAPTER XI Though December had come, Sunday was like an April day before whose sunlight the night-mists of scruples and morbid fears were scattered and dispersed. And Janet, as she fared forth from the Fillmore Street flat, felt resurging in her the divine recklessness that is the very sap of life. The future, save of the immediate hours to come, lost its power over her. The blue and white beauty of the sky proclaimed all things possible for the strong; and the air was vibrant with the sweet music of bells, calling her to happiness. She was going to meet happiness, to meet love--to meet Ditmar! The trolley which she took in Faber Street, though lagging in its mission, seemed an agent of that happiness as it left the city behind it and wound along the heights beside the tarvia roadway above the river, bright glimpses of which she caught through the openings in the woods. And when she looked out of the window on her right she beheld on a little forested rise a succession of tiny "camps" built by residents of Hampton whose modest incomes could not afford more elaborate summer places; camps of all descriptions and colours, with queer names that made her smile: "The Cranny," "The Nook," "Snug Harbour," "Buena Vista,"--of course,--which she thought pretty, though she did not know its meaning; and another, in German, equally perplexing, "Klein aber Mein." Though the windows of these places were now boarded up, though the mosquito netting still clung rather dismally to the porches, they were mutely suggestive of contentment and domestic joy. Scarcely had she alighted from the car at the rendezvous he had mentioned, beside the now deserted boathouse where in the warm weather the members of the Hampton Rowing Club disported themselves, when she saw an automobile approaching--and recognized it as the gay "roadster" Ditmar had exhibited to her that summer afternoon by the canal; and immediately Ditmar himself, bringing it to a stop and leaping from it, stood before her in the sunlight, radiating, as it seemed, more sunlight still. With his clipped, blond moustache and his straw-coloured hair--as yet but slightly grey at the temples--he looked a veritable conquering berserker in his huge coat of golden fur. Never had he appeared to better advantage. "I was waiting for you," he said, "I saw you in the car." Turning to the automobile, he stripped the tissue paper from a cluster of dark red roses with the priceless long stems of which Lise used to rave when she worked in the flower store. And he held the flowers against her suit her new suit she had worn for this meeting. "Oh," she cried, taking a deep, intoxicating breath of their fragrance. "You brought these--for me?" "From Boston--my beauty!" "But I can't wear all of them!" "Why not?" he demanded. "Haven't you a pin?" She produced one, attaching them with a gesture that seemed habitual, though the thought of their value-revealing in some degree her own worth in his eyes-unnerved her. She was warmly conscious of his gaze. Then he turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a bright tweed motor coat warmly lined. "Oh, no!" she protested, drawing back. "I'll--I'll be warm enough." But laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the sleeves, his fingers pressing against her. Overcome by shyness, she drew away from him. "I made a pretty good guess at the size--didn't I, Janet?" he cried, delightedly surveying her. "I couldn't forget it!" His glance grew more concentrated, warmer, penetrating. "You mustn't look at me like that!" she pleaded with lowered eyes. "Why not--you're mine--aren't you? You're mine, now." "I don't know. There are lots of things I want to talk about," she replied, but her protest sounded feeble, unconvincing, even to herself. He fairly lifted her into the automobile--it was a caress, only tempered by the semi-publicity of the place. He was giving her no time to think --but she did not want to, think. Starting the engine, he got in and leaned toward her. "Not here!" she exclaimed. "All right--I'll wait," he agreed, tucking the robe about her deftly, solicitously, and she sank back against the seat, surrendering herself to the luxury, the wonder of being cherished, the caressing and sheltering warmth she felt of security and love, the sense of emancipation from discontent and sordidness and struggle. For a moment she closed her eyes, but opened them again to behold the transformed image of herself reflected in the windshield to confirm the illusion--if indeed it were one! The tweed coat seemed startlingly white in the sunlight, and the woman she saw, yet recognized as herself, was one of the fortunately placed of the earth with power and beauty at her command! And she could no longer imagine herself as the same person who the night before had stood in front of the house in Warren Street. The car was speeding over the smooth surface of the boulevard; the swift motion, which seemed to her like that of flying, the sparkling air, the brightness of the day, the pressure of Ditmar's shoulder against hers, thrilled her. She marvelled at his sure command over the machine, that responded like a live thing to his touch. On the wide, straight stretches it went at a mad pace that took her breath, and again, in turning a corner or passing another car, it slowed down, purring in meek obedience. Once she gasped: "Not so fast! I can't stand it." He laughed and obeyed her. They glided between river and sky across the delicate fabric of a bridge which but a moment before she had seen in the distance. Running through the little village on the farther bank, they left the river. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Oh, for a little spin," he answered indulgently, turning into a side road that wound through the woods and suddenly stopping. "Janet, we've got this day--this whole day to ourselves." He seized and drew her to him, and she yielded dizzily, repaying the passion of his kiss, forgetful of past and future while he held her, whispering brokenly endearing phrases. "You'll ruin my roses," she protested breathlessly, at last, when it seemed that she could no longer bear this embrace, nor the pressure of his lips. "There! you see you're crushing them!" She undid them, and buttoning the coat, held them to her face. Their odour made her faint: her eyes were clouded. "Listen, Claude!" she said at last,--it was the first time she had called him so--getting free. "You must be sensible! some one might come along." "I'll never get enough of you!" he said. "I can't believe it yet." And added irrelevantly: "Pin the roses outside." She shook her head. Something in her protested against this too public advertisement of their love. "I'd rather hold them," she answered. "Let's go on." He started the car again. "Listen, I want to talk to you, seriously. I've been thinking." "Don't I know you've been thinking!" he told her exuberantly. "If I could only find out what's always going on in that little head of yours! If you keep on thinking you'll dry up, like a New England school-marm. And now do you know what you are? One of those dusky red roses just ready to bloom. Some day I'll buy enough to smother you in 'em." "Listen!" she repeated, making a great effort to calm herself, to regain something of that frame of mind in which their love had assumed the proportions of folly and madness, to summon up the scruples which, before she had left home that morning, she had resolved to lay before him, which she knew would return when she could be alone again. "I have to think --you won't," she exclaimed, with a fleeting smile. "Well, what is it?" he assented. "You might as well get it off now." And it took all her strength to say: "I don't see how I can marry you. I've told you the reasons. You're rich, and you have friends who wouldn't understand--and your children--they wouldn't understand. I--I'm nothing, I know it isn't right, I know you wouldn't be happy. I've never lived--in the kind of house you live in and known the kind of people you know, I shouldn't know what to do." He took his eyes off the road and glanced down at her curiously. His smile was self-confident, exultant. "Now do you feel better--you little Puritan?" he said. And perforce she smiled in return, a pucker appearing between her eyebrows. "I mean it," she said. "I came out to tell you so. I know--it just isn't possible." "I'd marry you to-day if I could get a license," he declared. "Why, you're worth any woman in America, I don't care who she is, or how much money she has." In spite of herself she was absurdly pleased. "Now that is over, we won't discuss it again, do you understand? I've got you," he said, "and I mean to hold on to you." She sighed. He was driving slowly now along the sandy road, and with his hand on hers she simply could not think. The spell of his nearness, of his touch, which all nature that morning conspired to deepen, was too powerful to be broken, and something was calling to her, "Take this day, take this day," drowning out the other voice demanding an accounting. She was living--what did it all matter? She yielded herself to the witchery of the hour, the sheer delight of forthfaring into the unknown. They turned away from the river, crossing the hills of a rolling country now open, now wooded, passing white farmhouses and red barns, and ancient, weather-beaten dwellings with hipped roofs and "lean-tos" which had been there in colonial days when the road was a bridle-path. Cows and horses stood gazing at them from warm paddocks, where the rich, black mud glistened, melted by the sun; chickens scratched and clucked in the barnyards or flew frantically across the road, sometimes within an ace of destruction. Janet flinched, but Ditmar would laugh, gleefully, boyishly. "We nearly got that one!" he would exclaim. And then he had to assure her that he wouldn't run over them. "I haven't run over one yet,--have I?" he would demand. "No, but you will, it's only luck." "Luck!" he cried derisively. "Skill! I wish I had a dollar for every one I got when I was learning to drive. There was a farmer over here in Chester--" and he proceeded to relate how he had had to pay for two turkeys. "He got my number, the old hayseed, he was laying for me, and the next time I went back that way he held me up for five dollars. I can remember the time when a man in a motor was an easy mark for every reuben in the county. They got rich on us." She responded to his mood, which was wholly irresponsible, exuberant, and they laughed together like children, every little incident assuming an aspect irresistibly humorous. Once he stopped to ask an old man standing in his dooryard how far it was to Kingsbury. "Wal, mebbe it's two mile, they mostly call it two," said the patriarch, after due reflection, gathering his beard in his band. "Mebbe it's more." His upper lip was blue, shaven, prehensile. "What did you ask him for, when you know?" said Janet, mirthfully, when they had gone on, and Ditmar was imitating him. Ditmar's reply was to wink at her. Presently they saw another figure on the road. "Let's see what he'll say," Ditmar proposed. This man was young, the colour of mahogany, with glistening black hair and glistening black eyes that regarded the too palpable joyousness of their holiday humour in mute surprise. "I no know--stranger," he said. "No speaka Portugueso?" inquired Ditmar, gravely. "The country is getting filthy with foreigners," he observed, when he had started the car. "I went down to Plymouth last summer to see the old rock, and by George, it seemed as if there wasn't anybody could speak American on the whole cape. All the Portuguese islands are dumped there --cranberry pickers, you know." "I didn't know that," said Janet. "Sure thing!" he exclaimed. "And when I got there, what do you think? there was hardly enough of the old stone left to stand on, and that had a fence around it like an exhibit in an exposition. It had all been chipped away by souvenir hunters." She gazed at him incredulously. "You don't believe me! I'll take you down there sometime. And another thing, the rock's high and dry--up on the land. I said to Charlie Crane, who was with me, that it must have been a peach of a jump for old Miles Standish and Priscilla what's her name." "How I'd love to see the ocean again!" Janet exclaimed. "Why, I'll take you--as often as you like," he promised. "We'll go out on it in summer, up to Maine, or down to the Cape." Her enchantment was now so great that nothing seemed impossible. "And we'll go down to Plymouth, too, some Sunday soon, if this weather keeps up. If we start early enough we can get there for lunch, easy. We'll see the rock. I guess some of your ancestors must have come over with that Mayflower outfit--first cabin, eh? You look like it." Janet laughed. "It's a joke on them, if they did. I wonder what they'd think of Hampton, if they could see it now. I counted up once, just to tease father--he's the seventh generation from Ebenezer Bumpus, who came to Dolton. Well, I proved to him he might have one hundred and twenty-six other ancestors besides Ebenezer and his wife." "That must have jarred him some," was Ditmar's comment. "Great old man, your father. I've talked to him--he's a regular historical society all by himself. Well, there must be something in it, this family business. Now, you can tell he comes from fine old American stock-he looks it." Janet flushed. "A lot of good it does!" she exclaimed. "I don't know," said Ditmar. "It's something to fall back on--a good deal. And he hasn't got any of that nonsense in his head about labour unions--he's a straight American. And you look the part," he added. "You remind me--I never thought of it until now--you remind me of a picture of Priscilla I saw once in a book of poems Longfellow's, you know. I'm not much on literature, but I remember that, and I remember thinking she could have me. Funny isn't it, that you should have come along? But you've got more ginger than the woman in that picture. I'm the only man that ever guessed it isn't that so?" he asked jealously. "You're wonderful!" retorted Janet, daringly. "You just bet I am, or I couldn't have landed you," he asserted. "You're chock full of ginger, but it's been all corked up. You're so prim-so Priscilla." He was immensely pleased with the adjective he had coined, repeating it. "It's a great combination. When I think of it, I want to shake you, to squeeze you until you scream." "Then please don't think of it," she said. "That's easy!" he exclaimed, mockingly. At a quarter to one they entered a sleepy village reminiscent of a New England of other days. The long street, deeply shaded in summer, was bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century and a half; others were of the Mansard period. The high school, of strawberry-coloured brick, had been the pride and glory of the Kingsbury of the '70s: there were many churches, some graceful and some hideous. At the end of the street they came upon a common, surrounded by stone posts and a railing, with a monument in the middle of it, and facing the common on the north side was a rambling edifice with many white gables, in front of which, from an iron arm on a post, swung a quaint sign, "Kingsbury Tavern." In revolutionary and coaching days the place bad been a famous inn; and now, thanks to the enterprise of a man who had foreseen the possibilities of an era of automobiles, it had become even more famous. A score of these modern vehicles were drawn up before it under the bare, ancient elms; there was a scene of animation on the long porch, where guests strolled up and down or sat in groups in the rocking-chairs which the mild weather had brought forth again. Ditmar drew up in line with the other motors, and stopped. "Well, here we are!" he exclaimed, as he pulled off his gauntlets. "I guess I could get along with something to eat. How about you? They treat you as well here as any place I know of in New England." He assumed their lunching together at a public place as a matter of course to which there could not possibly be an objection, springing out of the car, removing the laprobe from her knees, and helping her to alight. She laid the roses on the seat. "Aren't you going to bring them along?" he demanded. "I'd rather not," she said. "Don't you think they'll be safe here?" "Oh, I guess so," he replied. She was always surprising him; but her solicitation concerning them was a balm, and he found all such instinctive acts refreshing. "Afraid of putting up too much of a front, are you?" he asked smilingly. "I'd rather leave them here," she replied. As she walked beside Ditmar to the door she was excited, unwontedly self-conscious, painfully aware of inspection by the groups on the porch. She had seen such people as these hurrying in automobiles through the ugliness of Faber Street in Hampton toward just such delectable spots as this village of Kingsbury--people of that world of freedom and privilege from which she was excluded; Ditmar's world. He was at home here. But she? The delusion that she somehow had been miraculously snatched up into it was marred by their glances. What were they thinking of her? Her face was hot as she passed them and entered the hall, where more people were gathered. But Ditmar's complacency, his ease and self-confidence, his manner of owning the place, as it were, somewhat reassured her. He went up to the desk, behind which, stood a burly, red-complexioned man who greeted him effusively, yet with the air of respect accorded the powerful. "Hullo, Eddie," said Ditmar. "You've got a good crowd here to-day. Any room for me?" "Sure, Mr. Ditmar, we can always make room for you. Well, I haven't laid eyes on you for a dog's age. Only last Sunday Mr. Crane was here, and I was asking him where you'd been keeping yourself." "Why, I've been busy, Eddie. I've landed the biggest order ever heard of in Hampton. Some of us have to work, you know; all you've got to do is to loaf around this place and smoke cigars and rake in the money." The proprietor of the Kingsbury Tavern smiled indulgently at this persiflage. "Let me present you to Miss Bumpus," said Ditmar. "This is my friend, Eddie Hale," he added, for Janet's benefit. "And when you've eaten his dinner you'll believe me when I say he's got all the other hotel men beaten a mile." Janet smiled and flushed. She had been aware of Mr. Hale's discreet glance. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Bumpus," he said, with a somewhat elaborate bow. "Eddie," said Ditmar, "have you got a nice little table for us?" "It's a pity I didn't know you was coming, but I'll do my best," declared Mr. Hale, opening the door in the counter. "Oh, I guess you can fix us all right, if you want to, Eddie." "Mr. Ditmar's a great josher," Mr. Hale told Janet confidentially as he escorted them into the dining-room. And Ditmar, gazing around over the heads of the diners, spied in an alcove by a window a little table with tilted chairs. "That one'll do," he said. "I'm sorry, but it's engaged," apologized Mr. Hale. "Forget it, Eddie--tell 'em they're late," said Ditmar, making his way toward it. The proprietor pulled out Janet's chair. "Say," he remarked, "it's no wonder you get along in business." "Well, this is cosy, isn't it?" said Ditmar to Janet when they were alone. He handed her the menu, and snapped his fingers for a waitress. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming to this place?" she asked. "I wanted to surprise you. Don't you like it?" "Yes," she replied. "Only--" "Only, what?" "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that--here." "All right. I'll try to be good until we get into the car again. You watch me! I'll behave as if we'd been married ten years." He snapped his fingers again, and the waitress hurried up to take their orders. "Kingsbury's still dry, I guess," he said to the girl, who smiled sympathetically, somewhat ruefully. When she had gone he began to talk to Janet about the folly, in general, of prohibition, the fuse oil distributed on the sly. "I'll bet I could go out and find half a dozen rum shops within a mile of here!" he declared. Janet did not doubt it. Ditmar's aplomb, his faculty of getting what he wanted, had amused and distracted her. She was growing calmer, able to scrutinize, at first covertly and then more boldly the people at the other tables, only to discover that she and Ditmar were not the objects of the universal curiosity she had feared. Once in a while, indeed, she encountered and then avoided the glance of some man, felt the admiration in it, was thrilled a little, and her sense of exhilaration returned as she regained her poise. She must be nice looking--more than that--in her new suit. On entering the tavern she had taken off the tweed coat, which Ditmar had carried and laid on a chair. This new and amazing adventure began to go to her head like wine.... When luncheon was over they sat in a sunny corner of the porch while Ditmar smoked his cigar. His digestion was good, his spirits high, his love-making--on account of the public nature of the place--surreptitious yet fervent. The glamour to which Janet had yielded herself was on occasions slightly troubled by some new and enigmatic element to be detected in his voice and glances suggestive of intentions vaguely disquieting. At last she said: "Oughtn't we to be going home?" "Home!" he ridiculed the notion. "I'm going to take you to the prettiest road you ever saw--around by French's Lower Falls. I only wish it was summer." "I must be home before dark," she told him. "You see, the family don't know where I am. I haven't said anything to them about--about this." "That's right," he said, after a moment's hesitation: "I didn't think you would. There's plenty of time for that--after things get settled a little--isn't there?" She thought his look a little odd, but the impression passed as they walked to the motor. He insisted now on her pinning the roses on the tweed coat, and she humoured him. The winter sun had already begun to drop, and with the levelling rays the bare hillsides, yellow and brown in the higher light, were suffused with pink; little by little, as the sun fell lower, imperceptible clouds whitened the blue cambric of the sky, distant copses were stained lilac. And Janet, as she gazed, wondered at a world that held at once so much beauty, so much joy and sorrow,--such strange sorrow as began to invade her now, not personal, but cosmic. At times it seemed almost to suffocate her; she drew in deep breaths of air: it was the essence of all things--of the man by her side, of herself, of the beauty so poignantly revealed to her. Gradually Ditmar became conscious of this detachment, this new evidence of an extraordinary faculty of escaping him that seemed unimpaired. Constantly he tried by leaning closer to her, by reaching out his hand, to reassure himself that she was at least physically present. And though she did not resent these tokens, submitting passively, he grew perplexed and troubled; his optimistic atheism concerning things unseen was actually shaken by the impression she conveyed of beholding realities hidden from him. Shadows had begun to gather in the forest, filmy mists to creep over the waters. He asked if she were cold, and she shook her head and sighed as one coming out of a trance, smiling at him. "It's been a wonderful day!" she said. "The greatest ever!" he agreed. And his ardour, mounting again, swept away the unwonted mood of tenderness and awe she had inspired in him, made him bold to suggest the plan which had been the subject of an ecstatic contemplation. "I'll tell you what we'll do," he said, "we'll take a little run down to Boston and have dinner together. We'll be there in an hour, and back by ten o'clock." "To Boston!" she repeated. "Now?" "Why not?" he said, stopping the car. "Here's the road--it's a boulevard all the way." It was not so much the proposal as the passion in his voice, in his touch, the passion to which she felt herself responding that filled her with apprehension and dismay, and yet aroused her pride and anger. "I told you I had to be home," she said. "I'll have you home by ten o'clock; I promise. We're going to be married, Janet," he whispered. "Oh, if you meant to marry me you wouldn't ask me to do this!" she cried. "I want to go back to Hampton. If you won't take me, I'll walk." She had drawn away from him, and her hand was on the door. He seized her arm. "For God's sake, don't take it that way!" he cried, in genuine alarm. "All I meant was--that we'd have a nice little dinner. I couldn't bear to leave you, it'll be a whole week before we get another day. Do you suppose I'd--I'd do anything to insult you, Janet?" With her fingers still tightened over the door-catch she turned and looked at him. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Sometimes I think you would. Why shouldn't you? Why should you marry me? Why shouldn't you try to do with me what you've done with other women? I don't know anything about the world, about life. I'm nobody. Why shouldn't you?" "Because you're not like the other women--that's why. I love you--won't you believe it?" He was beside himself with anxiety. "Listen--I'll take you home if you want to go. You don't know how it hurts me to have you think such things!" "Well, then, take me home," she said. It was but gradually that she became pacified. A struggle was going on within her between these doubts of him he had stirred up again and other feelings aroused by his pleadings. Night fell, and when they reached the Silliston road the lights of Hampton shone below them in the darkness. "You'd better let me out here," she said. "You can't drive me home." He brought the car to a halt beside one of the small wooden shelters built for the convenience of passengers. "You forgive me--you understand, Janet?" he asked. "Sometimes I don't know what to think," she said, and suddenly clung to him. "I--I forgive you. I oughtn't to suspect such things, but I'm like that. I'm horrid and I can't help it." She began to unbutton the coat he had bought for her. "Aren't you going to take it?" he said. "It's yours." "And what do you suppose my family would say if I told them Mr. Ditmar had given it to me?" "Come on, I'll drive you home, I'll tell them I gave it to you, that we're going to be married," he announced recklessly. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed in consternation. "You couldn't. You said so yourself--that you didn't want, any one to know, now. I'll get on the trolley." "And the roses?" he asked. She pressed them to her face, and chose one. "I'll take this," she said, laying the rest on the seat.... He waited until he saw her safely on the trolley car, and then drove slowly homeward in a state of amazement. He had been on the verge of announcing himself to the family in Fillmore Street as her prospective husband! He tried to imagine what that household was like; and again he found himself wondering why she had not consented to his proposal. And the ever-recurring question presented itself--was he prepared to go that length? He didn't know. She was beyond him, he had no clew to her, she was to him as mysterious as a symphony. Certain strains of her moved him intensely--the rest was beyond his grasp.... At supper, while his children talked and laughed boisterously, he sat silent, restless, and in spite of their presence the house seemed appallingly empty. When Janet returned home she ran to her bedroom, and taking from the wardrobe the tissue paper that had come with her new dress, and which she had carefully folded, she wrapped the rose in it, and put it away in the back of a drawer. Thus smothered, its fragrance stifled, it seemed emblematic, somehow, of the clandestine nature of her love.... The weeks that immediately followed were strange ones. All the elements of life that previously had been realities, trivial yet fundamental, her work, her home, her intercourse with the family, became fantastic. There was the mill to which she went every day: she recognized it, yet it was not the same mill, nor was Fillmore Street the Fillmore Street of old. Nor did the new and feverish existence over whose borderland she had been transported seem real, save in certain hours she spent in Ditmar's company, when he made her forget--hers being a temperament to feel the weight of an unnatural secrecy. She was aware, for instance, that her mother and even her father thought her conduct odd, were anxious as to her absences on certain nights and on Sundays. She offered no explanation. It was impossible. She understood that the reason why they refrained from questioning her was due to a faith in her integrity as well as to a respect for her as a breadwinner who lead earned a right to independence. And while her suspicion of Hannah's anxiety troubled her, on the occasions when she thought of it, Lise's attitude disturbed her even more. From Lise she had been prepared for suspicion, arraignment, ridicule. What a vindication if it were disclosed that she, Janet, had a lover--and that lover Ditmar! But Lise said nothing. She was remote, self-absorbed. Hannah spoke about it on the evenings Janet stayed at home. She would not consent to meet Ditmar every evening. Yet, as the days succeeded one another, Janet was often astonished by the fact that their love remained apparently unsuspected by Mr. Price and Caldwell and others in the office. They must have noticed, on some occasions, the manner in which Ditmar looked at her; and in business hours she had continually to caution him, to keep him in check. Again, on the evening excursions to which she consented, though they were careful to meet in unfrequented spots, someone might easily have recognized him; and she did not like to ponder over the number of young women in the other offices who knew her by sight. These reflections weighed upon her, particularly when she seemed conscious of curious glances. But what caused her the most concern was the constantly recurring pressure to which Ditmar himself subjected her, and which, as time went on, she found increasingly difficult to resist. He tried to take her by storm, and when this method failed, resorted to pleadings and supplications even harder to deny because of the innate feminine pity she felt for him. To recount these affairs would be a mere repetition of identical occurrences. On their second Sunday excursion he had actually driven her, despite her opposition, several miles on the Boston road; and her resistance only served to inflame him the more. It seemed, afterwards, as she sat unnerved, a miracle that she had stopped him. Then came reproaches: she would not trust him; they could not be married at once; she must understand that!--an argument so repugnant as to cause her to shake with sobs of inarticulate anger. After this he would grow bewildered, then repentant, then contrite. In contrition--had he known it--he was nearest to victory. As has been said, she did not intellectualize her reasons, but the core of her resistance was the very essence of an individuality having its roots in a self-respecting and self-controlling inheritance--an element wanting in her sister Lise. It must have been largely the thought of Lise, the spectacle of Lise--often perhaps unconsciously present that dominated her conduct; yet reinforcing such an ancestral sentiment was another, environmental and more complicated, the result in our modern atmosphere of an undefined feminism apt to reveal itself in many undesirable ways, but which in reality is a logical projection of the American tradition of liberty. To submit was not only to lose her liberty, to become a dependent, but also and inevitably, she thought, to lose Ditmar's love.... No experience, however, is emotionally continuous, nor was their intimacy by any means wholly on this plane of conflict. There were hours when, Ditmar's passion leaving spent itself, they achieved comradeship, in the office and out of it; revelations for Janet when he talked of himself, relating the little incidents she found most illuminating. And thus by degrees she was able to build up a new and truer estimate of him. For example, she began to perceive that his life outside of his interest in the mills, instead of being the romance of privileged joys she had once imagined, had been almost as empty as her own, without either unity or direction. Her perception was none the less keen because definite terms were wanting for its expression. The idea of him that first had captivated her was that of an energized and focussed character controlling with a sure hand the fortunes of a great organization; of a power in the city and state, of a being who, in his leisure moments, dwelt in a delectable realm from which she was excluded. She was still acutely conscious of his force, but what she now felt was its lack of direction--save for the portion that drove the Chippering Mills. The rest of it, like the river, flowed away on the line of least resistance to the sea. As was quite natural, this gradual discovery of what he was--or of what he wasn't--this truer estimate, this partial disillusionment, merely served to deepen and intensify the feeling he had aroused in her; to heighten, likewise, the sense of her own value by confirming a belief in her possession of certain qualities, of a kind of fibre he needed in a helpmate. She dwelt with a woman's fascination upon the prospect of exercising a creative influence--even while she acknowledged the fearful possibility of his power in unguarded moments to overwhelm and destroy her. Here was another incentive to resist the gusts of his passion. She could guide and develop him by helping and improving herself. Hope and ambition throbbed within her, she felt a contempt for his wife, for the women who had been her predecessors. He had not spoken of these, save once or twice by implication, but with what may seem a surprising leniency she regarded them as consequences of a life lacking in content. If only she could keep her head, she might supply that content, and bring him happiness! The thought of his children troubled her most, but she was quick to perceive that he got nothing from them; and even though it were partly his own fault, she was inclined to lay the heavier blame on the woman who had been their mother. The triviality, the emptiness of his existence outside of the walls of the mill made her heart beat with pure pity. For she could understand it. One of the many, and often humorous, incidents that served to bring about this realization of a former aimlessness happened on their second Sunday excursion. This time he had not chosen the Kingsbury Tavern, but another automobilists' haunt, an enlightening indication of established habits involving a wide choice of resorts. While he was paying for luncheon and chatting with the proprietor, Ditmar snatched from the change he had flung down on the counter a five dollar gold coin. "Now how in thunder did that get into my right-hand pocket? I always keep it in my vest," he exclaimed; and the matter continued to disturb him after they were in the automobile. "It's my lucky piece. I guess I was so excited at the prospect of seeing you when I dressed this morning I put it into my change. Just see what you do to me!" "Does it bring you luck?" she inquired smilingly. "How about you! I call you the biggest piece of luck I ever had." "You'd better not be too sure," she warned him. "Oh, I'm not worrying. I has that piece in my pocket the day I went down to see old Stephen Chippering, when he made me agent, and I've kept it ever since. And I'll tell you a funny thing--it's enough to make any man believe in luck. Do you remember that day last summer I was tinkering with the car by the canal and you came along?" "The day you pretended to be tinkering," she corrected him. He laughed. "So you were on to me?" he said. "You're a foxy one!" "Anyone could see you were only pretending. It made me angry, when I thought of it afterwards." "I just had to do it--I wanted to talk to you. But listen to what I'm going to tell you! It's a miracle, all right,--happening just at that time--that very morning. I was coming back to Boston from New York on the midnight, and when the train ran into Back Bay and I was putting on my trousers the piece rolled out among the bed clothes. I didn't know I'd lost it until I sat down in the Parker House to eat my breakfast, and I suddenly felt in my pocket. It made me sick to think it was gone. Well, I started to telephone the Pullman office, and then I made up my mind I'd take a taxi and go down to the South Station myself, and just as I got out of the cab there was the nigger porter, all dressed up in his glad rags, coming out of the station! I knew him, I'd been on his car lots of times. `Say, George,' I said, `I didn't forget you this morning, did I?' "`No, suh,' said George, 'you done give me a quarter.' "`I guess you're mistaken, George,' says I, and I fished out a ten dollar bill. You ought to have seen that nigger's eyes." "`What's this for, Mister Ditmar?' says he. "`For that lucky gold piece you found in lower seven,' I told him. `We'll trade.' "'Was you in lower seven?--so you was!' says George. Well, he had it all right--you bet he had it. Now wasn't that queer? The very day you and I began to know each other!" "Wonderful!" Janet agreed. "Why don't you put it on your watch chain?" "Well, I've thought of that," he replied, with the air of having considered all sides of the matter. "But I've got that charm of the secret order I belong to--that's on my chain. I guess I'll keep it in my vest pocket." "I didn't know you were so superstitious," she mocked. "Pretty nearly everybody's superstitious," he declared. And she thought of Lise. "I'm not. I believe if things are going to happen well, they're going to happen. Nothing can prevent it." "By thunder" he exclaimed, struck by her remark. "You are like that You're different from any person I ever knew...." From such anecdotes she pieced together her new Ditmar. He spoke of a large world she had never seen, of New York and Washington and Chicago, where he intended to take her. In the future he would never travel alone. And he told her of his having been a delegate to the last National Republican Convention, explaining what a delegate was. He gloried in her innocence, and it was pleasant to dazzle her with impressions of his cosmopolitanism. In this, perhaps, he was not quite so successful as he imagined, but her eyes shone. She had never even been in a sleeping car! For her delectation he launched into an enthusiastic description of these vehicles, of palatial compartment cars, of limited, transcontinental trains, where one had a stenographer and a barber at one's disposal. "Neither of them would do me any good," she complained. "You could go to the manicure," he said. There had been in Ditmar's life certain events which, in his anecdotal moods, were magnified into matters of climacteric importance; high, festal occasions on which it was sweet to reminisce, such as his visit as Delegate at Large to that Chicago Convention. He had travelled on a special train stocked with cigars and White Seal champagne, in the company of senators and congressmen and ex-governors, state treasurers, collectors of the port, mill owners, and bankers to whom he referred, as the French say, in terms of their "little" names. He dwelt on the magnificence of the huge hotel set on the borders of a lake like an inland sea, and related such portions of the festivities incidental to "the seeing of Chicago" as would bear repetition. No women belonged to this realm; no women, at least, who were to be regarded as persons. Ditmar did not mention them, but no doubt they existed, along with the cigars and the White Seal champagne, contributing to the amenities. And the excursion, to Janet, took on the complexion of a sort of glorified picnic in the course of which, incidentally, a President of the United States had been chosen. In her innocence she had believed the voters to perform this function. Ditmar laughed. "Do you suppose we're going to let the mob run this country?" he inquired. "Once in a while we can't get away with it as we'd like, we have to take the best we can." Thus was brought home to her more and more clearly that what men strove and fought for were the joys of prominence, privilege, and power. Everywhere, in the great world, they demanded and received consideration. It was Ditmar's boast that if nobody else could get a room in a crowded New York hotel, he could always obtain one. And she was fain to concede --she who had never known privilege--a certain intoxicating quality to this eminence. If you could get the power, and refused to take it, the more fool you! A topsy-turvy world, in which the stupid toiled day by day, week by week, exhausting their energies and craving joy, while others adroitly carried off the prize; and virtue had apparently as little to do with the matter as fair hair or a club foot. If Janet had ever read Darwin, she would have recognized in her lover a creature rather wonderfully adapted to his environment; and what puzzled her, perhaps, was the riddle that presents itself to many better informed than herself--the utter absence in this environment of the sign of any being who might be called God. Her perplexities--for she did have them--took the form of an instinctive sense of inadequacy, of persistently recurring though inarticulate convictions of the existence of elements not included in Ditmar's categories--of things that money could not buy; of things, too, alas! that poverty was as powerless to grasp. Stored within her, sometimes rising to the level of consciousness, was that experience at Silliston in the May weather when she had had a glimpse--just a glimpse! of a garden where strange and precious flowers were in bloom. On the other hand, this mysterious perception by her of things unseen and hitherto unguessed, of rays of delight in the spectrum of values to which his senses were unattuned, was for Ditmar the supreme essence of her fascination. At moments he was at once bewildered and inebriated by the rare delicacy of fabric of the woman whom he had somehow stumbled upon and possessed. Then there were the hours when they worked together in the office. Here she beheld Ditmar at his best. It cannot be said that his infatuation for her was ever absent from his consciousness: he knew she was there beside him, he betrayed it continually. But here she was in the presence of what had been and what remained his ideal, the Chippering Mill; here he acquired unity. All his energies were bent toward the successful execution of the Bradlaugh order, which had to be completed on the first of February. And as day after day went by her realization of the magnitude of the task he had undertaken became keener. Excitement was in the air. Ditmar seemed somehow to have managed to infuse not only Orcutt, the superintendent, but the foremen and second hands and even the workers with a common spirit of pride and loyalty, of interest, of determination to carry off this matter triumphantly. The mill seemed fairly to hum with effort. Janet's increasing knowledge of its organization and processes only served to heighten her admiration for the confidence Ditmar had shown from the beginning. It was superb. And now, as the probability of the successful execution of the task tended more and more toward certainty, he sometimes gave vent to his boyish, exuberant spirits. "I told Holster, I told all those croakers I'd do it, and by thunder I will do it, with three days' margin, too! I'll get the last shipment off on the twenty-eighth of January. Why, even George Chippering was afraid I couldn't handle it. If the old man was alive he wouldn't have had cold feet." Then Ditmar added, half jocularly, half seriously, looking down on her as she sat with her note-book, waiting for him to go on with his dictation: "I guess you've had your share in it, too. You've been a wonder, the way you've caught on and taken things off my shoulders. If Orcutt died I believe you could step right into his shoes." "I'm sure I could step into his shoes," she replied. "Only I hope he won't die." "I hope he won't, either," said Ditmar. "And as for you--" "Never mind me, now," she said. He bent over her. "Janet, you're the greatest girl in the world." Yes, she was happiest when she felt she was helping him, it gave her confidence that she could do more, lead him into paths beyond which they might explore together. She was useful. Sometimes, however, he seemed to her oversanguine; though he had worked hard, his success had come too easily, had been too uniform. His temper was quick, the prospect of opposition often made him overbearing, yet on occasions he listened with surprising patience to his subordinates when they ventured to differ from his opinions. At other times Janet had seen him overrule them ruthlessly; humiliate them. There were days when things went wrong, when there were delays, complications, more matters to attend to than usual. On one such day, after the dinner hour, Mr. Orcutt entered the office. His long, lean face wore a certain expression Janet had come to know, an expression that always irritated Ditmar--the conscientious superintendent having the unfortunate faculty of exaggerating annoyances by his very bearing. Ditmar stopped in the midst of dictating a peculiarly difficult letter, and looked up sharply. "Well," he asked, "what's the trouble now?" Orcutt seemed incapable of reading storm signals. When anything happened, he had the air of declaring, "I told you so." "You may remember I spoke to you once or twice, Mr. Ditmar, of the talk over the fifty-four hour law that goes into effect in January." "Yes, what of it?" Ditmar cut in. "The notices have been posted, as the law requires." "The hands have been grumbling, there are trouble makers among them. A delegation came to me this noon and wanted to know whether we intended to cut the pay to correspond to the shorter working hours." "Of course it's going to be cut," said Ditmar. "What do they suppose? That we're going to pay 'em for work they don't do? The hands not paid by the piece are paid practically by the hour, not by the day. And there's got to be some limit to this thing. If these damned demagogues in the legislature keep on cutting down the hours of women and children every three years or so--and we can't run the mill without the women and children--we might as well shut down right now. Three years ago, when they made it fifty-six hours, we were fools to keep up the pay. I said so then, at the conference, but they wouldn't listen to me. They listened this time. Holster and one or two others croaked, but we shut 'em up. No, they won't get any more pay, not a damned cent." Orcutt had listened patiently, lugubriously. "I told them that." "What did they say?" "They said they thought there'd be a strike." "Pooh! Strike!" exclaimed Ditmar with contemptuous violence. "Do you believe that? You're always borrowing trouble, you are. They may have a strike at one mill, the Clarendon. I hope they do, I hope Holster gets it in the neck--he don't know how to run a mill anyway. We won't have any strike, our people understand when they're well off, they've got all the work they can do, they're sending fortunes back to the old country or piling them up in the banks. It's all bluff." "There was a meeting of the English branch of the I. W. W. last night. A committee was appointed," said Orcutt, who as usual took a gloomy satisfaction in the prospect of disaster. "The I. W. W.! My God, Orcutt, don't you know enough not to come in here wasting my time talking about the I. W. W.? Those anarchists haven't got any organization. Can't you get that through your head?" "All right," replied Orcutt, and marched off. Janet felt rather sorry for him, though she had to admit that his manner was exasperating. But Ditmar's anger, instead of cooling, increased: it all seemed directed against the unfortunate superintendent. "Would you believe that a man who's been in this mill twenty-five years could be such a fool?" he demanded. "The I. W. W.! Why not the Ku Klux? He must think I haven't anything to do but chin. I don't know why I keep him here, sometimes I think he'll drive me crazy." His eyes seemed to have grown small and red, as was always the case when his temper got the better of him. Janet did not reply, but sat with her pencil poised over her book. "Let's see, where was I?" he asked. "I can't finish that letter now. Go out and do the others." Mundane experience, like a badly mixed cake, has a tendency to run in streaks, and on the day following the incident related above Janet's heart was heavy. Ditmar betrayed an increased shortness of temper and preoccupation; and the consciousness that her love had lent her a clairvoyant power to trace the source of his humours though these were often hidden from or unacknowledged by himself--was in this instance small consolation. She saw clearly enough that the apprehensions expressed by Mr. Orcutt, whom he had since denounced as an idiotic old woman, had made an impression, aroused in him the ever-abiding concern for the mill which was his life's passion and which had been but temporarily displaced by his infatuation with her. That other passion was paramount. What was she beside it? Would he hesitate for a moment to sacrifice her if it came to a choice between them? The tempestuousness of these thoughts, when they took possession of her, hinting as they did of possibilities in her nature hitherto unguessed and unrevealed, astonished and frightened her; she sought to thrust them away, to reassure herself that his concern for the successful delivery of the Bradlaugh order was natural. During the morning, in the intervals between interviews with the superintendents, he was self-absorbed, and she found herself inconsistently resenting the absence of those expressions of endearment--the glances and stolen caresses--for indulgence in which she had hitherto rebuked him: and though pride came to her rescue, fuel was added to her feeling by the fact that he did not seem to notice her coolness. Since he failed to appear after lunch, she knew he must be investigating the suspicions Orcutt had voiced; but at six o'clock, when he had not returned, she closed up her desk and left the office. An odour of cheap perfume pervading the corridor made her aware of the presence of Miss Lottie Myers. "Oh, it's you!" said that young woman, looking up from the landing of the stairs. "I might have known it you never make a get-away until after six, do you?" "Oh, sometimes," said Janet. "I stayed as a special favour to-night," Miss Myers declared. "But I'm not so stuck on my job that I can't tear myself away from it." "I don't suppose you are," said Janet. For a moment Miss Myers looked as if she was about to be still more impudent, but her eye met Janet's, and wavered. They crossed the bridge in silence. "Well, ta-ta," she said. "If you like it, it's up to you. Five o'clock for mine,"--and walked away, up the canal, swinging her hips defiantly. And Janet, gazing after her, grew hot with indignation and apprehension. Her relations with Ditmar were suspected, after all, made the subject of the kind of comment indulged in, sotto voce, by Lottie Myers and her friends at the luncheon hour. She felt a mad, primitive desire to run after the girl, to spring upon and strangle her and compel her to speak what was in her mind and then retract it; and the motor impulse, inhibited, caused a sensation of sickness, of unhappiness and degradation as she turned her steps slowly homeward. Was it a misinterpretation, after all--what Lottie Myers had implied and feared to say?... In Fillmore Street supper was over, and Lise, her face contorted, her body strained, was standing in front of the bureau "doing" her hair, her glance now seeking the mirror, now falling again to consult a model in one of those periodicals of froth and fashion that cause such numberless heart burnings in every quarter of our democracy, and which are filled with photographs of "prominent" persons at race meetings, horse shows, and resorts, and with actresses, dancers,--and mannequins. Janet's eyes fell on the open page to perceive that the coiffure her sister so painfully imitated was worn by a young woman with an insolent, vapid face and hard eyes, whose knees were crossed, revealing considerably more than an ankle. The picture was labelled, "A dance at Palm Beach--A flashlight of Mrs. 'Trudy' Gascoigne-Schell,"--one of those mysterious, hybrid names which, in connection with the thoughts of New York and the visible rakish image of the lady herself, cause involuntary shudders down the spine of the reflecting American provincial. Some such responsive quiver, akin to disgust, Janet herself experienced. "It's the very last scream," Lise was saying. "And say, if I owned a ball dress like that I'd be somebody's Lulu all right! Can I have the pleasure of the next maxixe, Miss Bumpus?" With deft and rapid fingers she lead parted her hair far on the right side and pulled it down over the left eyebrow, twisted it over her ear and tightly around her head, inserting here and there a hairpin, seizing the hand mirror with the cracked back, and holding it up behind her. Finally, when the operation was finished to her satisfaction she exclaimed, evidently to the paragon in the picture, "I get you!" Whereupon, from the wardrobe, she produced a hat. "You sure had my number when you guessed the feathers on that other would get draggled," she observed in high good humour, generously ignoring their former unpleasantness on the subject. When she had pinned it on she bent mockingly over her sister, who sat on the bed. "How d'you like my new toque? Peekaboo! That's the way the guys rubberneck to see if you're good lookin'." Lise was exalted, feverish, apparently possessed by some high secret; her eyes shone, and when she crossed the room she whistled bars of ragtime and executed mincing steps of the maxixe. Fumbling in the upper drawer for a pair of white gloves (also new), she knocked off the corner of the bureau her velvet bag; it opened as it struck the floor, and out of it rolled a lilac vanity case and a yellow coin. Casting a suspicious, lightning glance at Janet, she snatched up the vanity case and covered the coin with her foot. "Lock the doors!" she cried, with an hysteric giggle. Then removing her foot she picked up the coin surreptitiously. To her amazement her sister made no comment, did not seem to have taken in the significance of the episode. Lise had expected a tempest of indignant, searching questions, a "third degree," as she would have put it. She snapped the bag together, drew on her gloves, and, when she was ready to leave, with characteristic audacity crossed the room, taking her sister's face between her hands and kissing her. "Tell me your troubles, sweetheart!" she said--and did not wait to hear them. Janet was incapable of speech--nor could she have brought herself to ask Lise whether or not the money had been earned at the Bagatelle, and remained miraculously unspent. It was possible, but highly incredible. And then, the vanity case and the new hat were to be accounted for! The sight of the gold piece, indeed, had suddenly revived in Janet the queer feeling of faintness, almost of nausea she had experienced after parting with Lottie Myers. And by some untoward association she was reminded of a conversation she had had with Ditmar on the Saturday afternoon following their first Sunday excursion, when, on opening her pay envelope, she had found twenty dollars. "Are you sure I'm worth it?" she had demanded--and he had been quite sure. He had added that she was worth more, much more, but that he could not give her as yet, without the risk of comment, a sum commensurate with the value of her services.... But now she asked herself again, was she worth it? or was it merely--part of her price? Going to the wardrobe and opening a drawer at the bottom she searched among her clothes until she discovered the piece of tissue paper in which she had wrapped the rose rescued from the cluster he had given her. The petals were dry, yet they gave forth, still, a faint, reminiscent fragrance as she pressed them to her face. Janet wept.... The following morning as she was kneeling in a corner of the room by the letter files, one of which she had placed on the floor, she recognized his step in the outer office, heard him pause to joke with young Caldwell, and needed not the visual proof--when after a moment he halted on the threshold--of the fact that his usual, buoyant spirits were restored. He held a cigar in his hand, and in his eyes was the eager look with which she had become familiar, which indeed she had learned to anticipate as they swept the room in search of her. And when they fell on her he closed the door and came forward impetuously. But her exclamation caused him to halt in bewilderment. "Don't touch me!" she said. And he stammered out, as he stood over her:--"What's the matter?" "Everything. You don't love me--I was a fool to believe you did." "Don't love you!" he repeated. "My God, what's the trouble now? What have I done?" "Oh, it's nothing you've done, it's what you haven't done, it's what you can't do. You don't really care for me--all you care for is this mill --when anything happens here you don't know I'm alive." He stared at her, and then an expression of comprehension, of intense desire grew in his eyes; and his laugh, as he flung his cigar out of the open window and bent down to seize her, was almost brutal. She fought him, she tried to hurt him, and suddenly, convulsively pressed herself to him. "You little tigress!" he said, as he held her. "You were jealous--were you--jealous of the mill?" And he laughed again. "I'd like to see you with something really to be jealous about. So you love me like that, do you?" She could feel his heart beating against her. "I won't be neglected," she told him tensely. "I want all of you--if I can't have all of you, I don't want any. Do you understand?" "Do I understand? Well, I guess I do." "You didn't yesterday," she reproached him, somewhat dazed by the swiftness of her submission, and feeling still the traces of a lingering resentment. She had not intended to surrender. "You forgot all about me, you didn't know I was here, much less that I was hurt. Oh, I was hurt! And you--I can tell at once when anything's wrong with you--I know without your saying it." He was amazed, he might indeed have been troubled and even alarmed by this passion he had aroused had his own passion not been at the flood. And as he wiped away her tears with his handkerchief he could scarcely believe his senses that this was the woman whose resistance had demanded all his force to overcome. Indeed, although he recognized the symptoms she betrayed as feminine, as having been registered--though feebly compared to this! by incidents in his past, precisely his difficulty seemed to be in identifying this complex and galvanic being as a woman, not as something almost fearful in her significance, outside the bounds of experience.... Presently she ceased to tremble, and he drew her to the window. The day was as mild as autumn, the winter sun like honey in its mellowness; a soft haze blurred the outline of the upper bridge. "Only two more days until Sunday," he whispered, caressingly, exultantly.... CHAPTER XII It had been a strange year in Hampton, unfortunate for coal merchants, welcome to the poor. But Sunday lacked the transforming touch of sunshine. The weather was damp and cold as Janet set out from Fillmore Street. Ditmar, she knew, would be waiting for her, he counted on her, and she could not bear to disappoint him, to disappoint herself. And all the doubts and fears that from time to time had assailed her were banished by this impulse to go to him, to be with him. He loved her! The words, as she sat in the trolley car, ran in her head like the lilt of a song. What did the weather matter? When she alighted at the lonely cross-roads snow had already begun to fall. But she spied the automobile, with its top raised, some distance down the lane, and in a moment she was in it, beside him, wrapped in the coat she had now come to regard as her own. He buttoned down the curtains and took her in his arms. "What shall we do to-day," she asked, "if it snows?" "Don't let that worry you, sweetheart," he said. "I have the chains on, I can get through anything in this car." He was in high, almost turbulent spirits as he turned the car and drove it out of the rutty lane into the state road. The snow grew thicker and thicker still, the world was blotted out by swiftly whirling, feathery flakes that melted on the windshield, and through the wet glass Janet caught distorted glimpses of black pines and cedars beside the highway. The ground was spread with fleece. Occasionally, and with startling suddenness, other automobiles shot like dark phantoms out of the whiteness, and like phantoms disappeared. Presently, through the veil, she recognized Silliston--a very different Silliston from that she had visited on the fragrant day in springtime, when the green on the common had been embroidered with dandelions, and the great elms whose bare branches were now fantastically traced against the flowing veil of white --heavy with leaf. Vignettes emerged--only to fade!--of the old-world houses whose quaint beauty had fascinated and moved her. And she found herself wondering what had become of the strange man she had mistaken for a carpenter. All that seemed to have taken place in a past life. She asked Ditmar where he was going. "Boston," he told her. "There's no other place to go." "But you'll never get back if it goes on snowing like this." "Well, the trains are still running," he assured her, with a quizzical smile. "How about it, little girl?" It was a term of endearment derived, undoubtedly, from a theatrical source, in which he sometimes indulged. She did not answer. Surprisingly, to-day, she did not care. All she could think of, all she wanted was to go on and on beside him with the world shut out--on and on forever. She was his--what did it matter? They were on their way to Boston! She began, dreamily, to think about Boston, to try to restore it in her imagination to the exalted place it had held before she met Ditmar; to reconstruct it from vague memories of childhood when, in two of the family peregrinations, she had crossed it. Traces remained of emotionally-toned impressions acquired when she had walked about the city holding Edward's hand--of a long row of stately houses with forbidding fronts, set on a hillside, of a wide, tree-covered space where children were playing. And her childish verdict, persisting to-day, was one of inaccessibility, impenetrability, of jealously guarded wealth and beauty. Those houses, and the treasures she was convinced they must contain, were not for her! Some of the panes of glass in their windows were purple--she remembered a little thing like that, and asking her father the reason! He hadn't known. This purple quality had somehow steeped itself into her memory of Boston, and even now the colour stood for the word, impenetrable. That was extraordinary. Even now! Well, they were going to Boston; if Ditmar had said they were going to Bagdad it would have been quite as credible--and incredible. Wherever they were going, it was into the larger, larger life, and walls were to crumble before them, walls through which they would pass, even as they rent the white veil of the storm, into regions of beauty.... And now the world seemed abandoned to them alone, so empty, so still were the white villages flitting by; so empty, so still the great parkway of the Fells stretching away and away like an enchanted forest under the snow, like the domain of some sleeping king. And the flakes melted silently into the black waters. And the wide avenue to which they came led to a sleeping palace! No, it was a city, Somerville, Ditmar told her, as they twisted in and out of streets, past stores, churches and fire-engine houses, breasted the heights, descended steeply on the far side into Cambridge, and crossed the long bridge over the Charles. And here at last was Boston--Beacon Street, the heart or funnel of it, as one chose. Ditmar, removing one of the side curtains that she might see, with just a hint in his voice of a reverence she was too excited to notice, pointed out the stern and respectable facades of the twin Chippering mansions standing side by side. Save for these shrines--for such in some sort they were to him--the Back Bay in his eyes was nothing more than a collection of houses inhabited by people whom money and social position made unassailable. But to-day he, too, was excited. Never had he been more keenly aware of her sensitiveness to experience; and he to whom it had not occurred to wonder at Boston wondered at her, who seemed able to summon forth a presiding, brooding spirit of the place from out of the snow. Deep in her eyes, though they sparkled, was the reflection of some mystic vision; her cheeks were flushed. And in her delight, vicariously his own, he rejoiced; in his trembling hope of more delight to come, which this mentorship would enhance,--despite the fast deepening snow he drove her up one side of Commonwealth Avenue and down the other, encircling the Common and the Public Garden; stopping at the top of Park Street that she might gaze up at the State House, whose golden dome, seen through the veil, was tinged with blue. Boston! Why not Russia? Janet was speechless for sheer lack of words to describe what she felt.... At length he brought the car to a halt opposite an imposing doorway in front of which a glass roof extended over the pavement, and Janet demanded where they were. "Well, we've got to eat, haven't we?" Ditmar replied. She noticed that he was shivering. "Are you cold?" she inquired with concern. "I guess I am, a little," he replied. "I don't know why I should be, in a fur coat. But I'll be warm soon enough, now." A man in blue livery hurried toward them across the sidewalk, helping them to alight. And Ditmar, after driving the car a few paces beyond the entrance, led her through the revolving doors into a long corridor, paved with marble and lighted by bulbs glowing from the ceiling, where benches were set against the wall, overspread by the leaves of potted plants set in the intervals between them. "Sit down a moment," he said to her. "I must telephone to have somebody take that car, or it'll stay there the rest of the winter." She sat down on one of the benches. The soft light, the warmth, the exotic odour of the plants, the well-dressed people who trod softly the strip of carpet set on the marble with the air of being at home--all contributed to an excitement, intense yet benumbing. She could not think. She didn't want to think--only to feel, to enjoy, to wring the utmost flavour of enchantment from these new surroundings; and her face wore the expression of one in a dream. Presently she saw Ditmar returning followed by a boy in a blue uniform. "All right," he said. At the end of the corridor was an elevator in which they were shot to one of the upper floors; and the boy, inserting a key in a heavy mahogany door, revealed a sitting-room. Between its windows was a table covered with a long, white cloth reaching to the floor, on which, amidst the silverware and glass, was set a tall vase filled with dusky roses. Janet, drawing in a deep breath of their fragrance, glanced around the room. The hangings, the wall-paper, the carpet, the velvet upholstery of the mahogany chairs, of the wide lounge in the corner were of a deep and restful green; the marble mantelpiece, with its English coal grate, was copied--had she known it--from a mansion of the Georgian period. The hands of a delicate Georgian clock pointed to one. And in the large mirror behind the clock she beheld an image she supposed, dreamily, to be herself. The bell boy was taking off her coat, which he hung, with Ditmar's, on a rack in a corner. "Shall I light the fire, sir?" he asked. "Sure," said Ditmar. "And tell them to hurry up with lunch." The boy withdrew, closing the door silently behind him. "We're going to have lunch here!" Janet exclaimed. "Why not? I thought it would be nicer than a public dining-room, and when I got up this morning and saw what the weather was I telephoned." He placed two chairs before the fire, which had begun to blaze. "Isn't it cosy?" he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward him. His own hands trembled, the tips of his fingers were cold. "You are cold!" she said. "Not now--not now," he replied. The queer vibrations were in his voice that she had heard before. "Sweetheart! This is the best yet, isn't it? And after that trip in the storm!" "It's beautiful!" she murmured, gently drawing away from him and looking around her once more. "I never was in a room like this." "Well, you'll be in plenty more of them," he exulted. "Sit down beside the fire, and get warm yourself." She obeyed, and he took the chair at her side, his eyes on her face. As usual, she was beyond him; and despite her exclamations of surprise, of appreciation and pleasure she maintained the outward poise, the inscrutability that summed up for him her uniqueness in the world of woman. She sat as easily upright in the delicate Chippendale chair as though she had been born to it. He made wild surmises as to what she might be thinking. Was she, as she seemed, taking all this as a matter of course? She imposed on him an impelling necessity to speak, to say anything--it did not matter what--and he began to dwell on the excellences of the hotel. She did not appear to hear him, her eyes lingering on the room, until presently she asked:--"What's the name of this hotel?" He told her. "I thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a private room." "Oh!" he began--and the sudden perception that she had made this statement impartially added to his perplexity. "Well," he was able to answer, "we're as good as married, aren't we, Janet?" He leaned toward her, he put his hand on hers. "The manager here is an old friend of mine. He knows we're as good as married." "Another old friend!" she queried. And the touch of humour, in spite of his taut nerves, delighted him. "Yes, yes," he laughed, rather uproariously. "I've got 'em everywhere, as thick as landmarks." "You seem to," she said. "I hope you're hungry," he said. "Not very," she replied. "It's all so strange--this day, Claude. It's like a fairy story, coming here to Boston in the snow, and this place, and--and being with you." "You still love me?" he cried, getting up. "You must know that I do," she answered simply, raising her face to his. And he stood gazing down into it, with an odd expression she had never seen before.... "What's the matter?" she asked. "Nothing--nothing," he assured her, but continued to look at her. "You're so--so wonderful," he whispered, "I just can't believe it." "And if it's hard for you," she answered, "think what it must be for me!" And she smiled up at him. Ditmar had known a moment of awe.... Suddenly he took her face between his hands and pressed his rough cheek against it, blindly. His hands trembled, his body was shaken, as by a spasm. "Why, you're still cold, Claude!" she cried anxiously. And he stammered out: "I'm not--it's you--it's having you!" Before she could reply to this strange exclamation, to which, nevertheless, some fire in her leaped in response, there came a knock at the door, and he drew away from her as he answered it. Two waiters entered obsequiously, one bearing a serving table, the other holding above his head a large tray containing covered dishes and glasses. "I could do with a cocktail!" Ditmar exclaimed, and the waiter smiled as he served them. "Here's how!" he said, giving her a glass containing a yellow liquid. She tasted it, made a grimace, and set it down hastily. "What's the trouble?" he asked, laughing, as she hurried to the table and took a drink of water. "It's horrid!" she cried. "Oh, you'll get over that idea," he told her. "You'll be crazy about 'em." "I never want to taste another," she declared. He laughed again. He had taken his at a swallow, but almost nullifying its effect was this confirmation--if indeed he had needed it--of the extent of her inexperience. She was, in truth, untouched by the world --the world in which he had lived. He pulled out her chair for her and she sat down, confronted by a series of knives, forks, and spoons on either side of a plate of oysters. Oysters served in this fashion, needless to say, had never formed part of the menu in Fillmore Street, or in any Hampton restaurant where she had lunched. But she saw that Ditmar had chosen a little fork with three prongs, and she followed his example. "You mustn't tell me you don't like Cotuits!" he exclaimed. She touched one, delicately, with her fork. "They're alive!" she exclaimed, though the custom of consuming them thus was by no means unknown to her. Lise had often boasted of a taste for oysters on the shell, though really preferring them smothered with red catsup in a "cocktail." "They're alive, but they don't know it. They won't eat you," Ditmar replied gleefully. "Squeeze a little lemon on one." Another sort of woman, he reflected, would have feigned a familiarity with the dish. She obeyed him, put one in her mouth, gave a little shiver, and swallowed it quickly. "Well?" he said. "It isn't bad, is it?" "It seems so queer to eat anything alive, and enjoy it," she said, as she ate the rest of them. "If you think they're good here you ought to taste them on the Cape, right out of the water," he declared, and went on to relate how he had once eaten a fabulous number in a contest with a friend of his, and won a bet. He was fond of talking about wagers he had won. Betting had lent a zest to his life. "We'll roll down there together some day next summer, little girl. It's a great place. You can go in swimming three times a day and never feel it. And talk about eating oysters, you can't swallow 'em as fast as a fellow I know down there, Joe Pusey, can open 'em. It's some trick to open 'em." He described the process, but she--scarcely listened. She was striving to adjust herself to the elements of a new and revolutionary experience; to the waiters who came and went, softly, deferentially putting hot plates before her, helping her to strange and delicious things; a creamy soup, a fish with a yellow sauce whose ingredients were artfully disguised, a breast of guinea fowl, a salad, an ice, and a small cup of coffee. Instincts and tastes hitherto unsuspected and ungratified were aroused in her. What would it be like always to be daintily served, to eat one's meals in this leisurely and luxurious manner? As her physical hunger was satisfied by the dainty food, even as her starved senses drank in the caressing warmth and harmony of the room, the gleaming fire, the heavy scent of the flowers, the rose glow of the lights in contrast to the storm without,--so the storm flinging itself against the windows, powerless to reach her, seemed to typify a former existence of cold, black mornings and factory bells and harsh sirens, of toil and limitations. Had her existence been like that? or was it a dream, a nightmare from which she had awakened at last? From time to time, deep within her, she felt persisting a conviction that that was reality, this illusion, but she fought it down. She wanted--oh, how she wanted to believe in the illusion! Facing her was the agent, the genius, the Man who had snatched her from that existence, who had at his command these delights to bestow. She loved him, she belonged to him, he was to be her husband--yet there were moments when the glamour of this oddly tended to dissolve, when an objective vision intruded and she beheld herself, as though removed from the body, lunching with a strange man in a strange place. And once it crossed her mind--what would she think of another woman who did this? What would she think if it were Lise? She could not then achieve a sense of identity; it was as though she had partaken of some philtre lulling her, inhibiting her power to grasp the fact in its enormity. And little by little grew on her the realization of what all along she had known, that the spell of these surroundings to which she had surrendered was an expression of the man himself. He was the source of it. More and more, as he talked, his eyes troubled and stirred her; the touch of his hand, as he reached across the table and laid it on hers, burned her. When the waiters had left them alone she could stand the strain no longer, and she rose and strayed about the room, examining the furniture, the curtains, the crystal pendants, faintly pink, that softened and diffused the light; and she paused before the grand piano in the corner. "I'd like to be able to play!" she said. "You can learn," he told her. "I'm too old!" He laughed. And as he sat smoking his eyes followed her ceaselessly. Above the sofa hung a large print of the Circus Maximus, with crowded tiers mounting toward the sky, and awninged boxes where sat the Vestal Virgins and the Emperor high above a motley, serried group on the sand. At the mouth of a tunnel a lion stood motionless, menacing, regarding them. The picture fascinated Janet. "It's meant to be Rome, isn't it?" she asked. "What? That? I guess so." He got up and came over to her. "Sure," he said. "I'm not very strong on history, but I read a book once, a novel, which told how those old fellows used to like to see Christians thrown to the lions just as we like to see football games. I'll get the book again--we'll read it together." Janet shivered.... "Here's another picture," he said, turning to the other side of the room. It was, apparently, an engraved copy of a modern portrait, of a woman in evening dress with shapely arms and throat and a small, aristocratic head. Around her neck was hung a heavy rope of pearls. "Isn't she beautiful!" Janet sighed. "Beautiful!" He led her to the mirror. "Look!" he said. "I'll buy you pearls, Janet, I want to see them gleaming against your skin. She can't compare to you. I'll--I'll drape you with pearls." "No, no," she cried. "I don't want them, Claude. I don't want them. Please!" She scarcely knew what she was saying. And as she drew away from him her hands went out, were pressed together with an imploring, supplicating gesture. He seized them. His nearness was suffocating her, she flung herself into his arms, and their lips met in a long, swooning kiss. She began instinctively but vainly to struggle, not against him --but against a primal thing stronger than herself, stronger than he, stronger than codes and conventions and institutions, which yet she craved fiercely as her being's fulfilment. It was sweeping them dizzily --whither? The sheer sweetness and terror of it! "Don't, don't!" she murmured desperately. "You mustn't!" "Janet--we're going to be married, sweetheart,--just as soon as we can. Won't you trust me? For God's sake, don't be cruel. You're my wife, now--" His voice seemed to come from a great distance. And from a great distance, too, her own in reply, drowned as by falling waters. "Do you love me?--will you love me always--always?" And he answered hoarsely, "Yes--always--I swear it, Janet." He had found her lips again, he was pulling her toward a door on the far side of the room, and suddenly, as he opened it, her resistance ceased.... The snow made automobiling impossible, and at half past nine that evening Ditmar had escorted Janet to the station in a cab, and she had taken the train for Hampton. For a while she sat as in a trance. She knew that something had happened, something portentous, cataclysmic, which had irrevocably changed her from the Janet Bumpus who had left Hampton that same morning--an age ago. But she was unable to realize the metamorphosis. In the course of a single day she had lived a lifetime, exhausted the range of human experience, until now she was powerless to feel any more. The car was filled with all sorts and conditions of people returning to homes scattered through the suburbs and smaller cities north of Boston--a mixed, Sunday-night crowd; and presently she began, in a detached way, to observe them. Their aspects, their speech and manners had the queer effect of penetrating her consciousness without arousing the emotional judgments of approval or disapproval which normally should have followed. Ordinarily she might have felt a certain sympathy for the fragile young man on the seat beside her who sat moodily staring through his glasses at the floor: and the group across the aisle would surely have moved her to disgust. Two couples were seated vis-a-vis, the men apparently making fun of a "pony" coat one of the girls was wearing. In spite of her shrieks, which drew general attention, they pulled it from her back--an operation regarded by the conductor himself with tolerant amusement. Whereupon her companion, a big, blond Teuton with an inane guffaw, boldly thrust an arm about her waist and held her while he presented the tickets. Janet beheld all this as one sees dancers through a glass, without hearing the music. Behind her two men fell into conversation. "I guess there's well over a foot of snow. I thought we'd have an open winter, too." "Look out for them when they start in mild!" "I was afraid this darned road would be tied up if I waited until morning. I'm in real estate, and there's a deal on in my town I've got to watch every minute...." Even the talk between two slouch-hatted millhands, foreigners, failed at the time to strike Janet as having any significance. They were discussing with some heat the prospect of having their pay reduced by the fifty-four hour law which was to come into effect on Monday. They denounced the mill owners. "They speed up the machine and make work harder," said one. "I think we goin' to have a strike sure." "Bad sisson too to have strike," replied the second pessimistically. "It will be cold winter, now." Across the black square of the window drifted the stray lights of the countryside, and from time to time, when the train stopped, she gazed out, unheeding, at the figures moving along the dim station platforms. Suddenly, without premeditation or effort, she began to live over again the day, beginning with the wonders, half revealed, half hidden, of that journey through the whiteness to Boston.... Awakened, listening, she heard beating louder and louder on the shores of consciousness the waves of the storm which had swept her away--waves like crashing chords of music. She breathed deeply, she turned her face to the window, seeming to behold reflected there, as in a crystal, all her experiences, little and great, great and little. She was seated once more leaning back in the corner of the carriage on her way to the station, she felt Ditmar's hand working in her own, and she heard his voice pleading forgiveness--for her silence alarmed him. And she heard herself saying:--"It was my fault as much as yours." And his vehement reply:--"It wasn't anybody's fault--it was natural, it was wonderful, Janet. I can't bear to see you sad." To see her sad! Twice, during the afternoon and evening, he had spoken those words--or was it three times? Was there a time she had forgotten? And each time she had answered: "I'm not sad." What she had felt indeed was not sadness,--but how could she describe it to him when she herself was amazed and dwarfed by it? Could he not feel it, too? Were men so different?... In the cab his solicitation, his tenderness were only to be compared with his bewilderment, his apparent awe of the feeling he himself had raised up in her, and which awed her, likewise. She had actually felt that bewilderment of his when, just before they had reached the station, she had responded passionately to his last embrace. Even as he returned her caresses, it had been conveyed to her amazingly by the quality of his touch. Was it a lack all women felt in men? and were these, even in supreme moments, merely the perplexed transmitters of life?--not life itself? Her thoughts did not gain this clarity, though she divined the secret. And yet she loved him--loved him with a fierceness that frightened her, with a tenderness that unnerved her.... At the Hampton station she took the trolley, alighting at the Common, following the narrow path made by pedestrians in the heavy snow to Fillmore Street. She climbed the dark stairs, opened the dining-room door, and paused on the threshold. Hannah and Edward sat there under the lamp, Hannah scanning through her spectacles the pages of a Sunday newspaper. On perceiving Janet she dropped it hastily in her lap. "Well, I was concerned about you, in all this storm!" she exclaimed. "Thank goodness you're home, anyway. You haven't seen Lise, have you?" "Lise?" Janet repeated. "Hasn't she been home?" "Your father and I have been alone all day long. Not that it is so uncommon for Lise to be gone. I wish it wasn't! But you! When you didn't come home for supper I was considerably worried." Janet sat down between her mother and father and began to draw off her gloves. "I'm going to marry Mr. Ditmar," she announced. For a few moments the silence was broken only by the ticking of the old-fashioned clock. "Mr. Ditmar!" said Hannah, at length. "You're going to marry Mr. Ditmar!" Edward was still inarticulate. His face twitched, his eyes watered as he stared at her. "Not right away," said Janet. "Well, I must say you take it rather cool," declared Hannah, almost resentfully. "You come in and tell us you're going to marry Mr. Ditmar just like you were talking about the weather." Hannah's eyes filled with tears. There had been indeed an unconscious lack of consideration in Janet's abrupt announcement, which had fallen like a spark on the dry tinder of Hannah's hope. The result was a suffocating flame. Janet, whom love had quickened, had a swift perception of this. She rose quickly and took Hannah in her arms and kissed her. It was as though the relation between them were reversed, and the daughter had now become the mother and the comforter. "I always knew something like this would happen!" said Edward. His words incited Hannah to protest. "You didn't anything of the kind, Edward Bumpus," she exclaimed. "Just to think of Janet livin' in that big house up in Warren Street!" he went on, unheeding, jubilant. "You'll drop in and see the old people once in a while, Janet, you won't forget us?" "I wish you wouldn't talk like that, father," said Janet. "Well, he's a fine man, Claude Ditmar, I always said that. The way he stops and talks to me when he passes the gate--" "That doesn't make him a good man," Hannah declared, and added: "If he wasn't a good man, Janet wouldn't be marrying him." "I don't know whether he's good or not," said Janet. "That's so, too," observed Hannah, approvingly. "We can't any of us tell till we've tried 'em, and then it's too late to change. I'd like to see him, but I guess he wouldn't care to come down here to Fillmore Street." The difference between Ditmar's social and economic standing and their own suggested appalling complications to her mind. "I suppose I won't get a sight of him till after you're married, and not much then." "There's plenty of time to think about that, mother," answered Janet. "I'd want to have everything decent and regular," Hannah insisted. "We may be poor, but we come of good stock, as your father says." "It'll be all right--Mr. Ditmar will behave like a gentleman," Edward assured her. "I thought I ought to tell you about it," Janet said, "but you mustn't mention it, yet, not even to Lise. Lise will talk. Mr. Ditmar's very busy now,--he hasn't made any plans." "I wish Lise could get married!" exclaimed Hannah, irrelevantly. "She's been acting so queer lately, she's not been herself at all." "Now there you go, borrowing trouble, mother," Edward exclaimed. He could not take his eyes from Janet, but continued to regard her with benevolence. "Lise'll get married some day. I don't suppose we can expect another Mr. Ditmar...." "Well," said Hannah, presently, "there's no use sitting up all night." She rose and kissed Janet again. "I just can't believe it," she declared, "but I guess it's so if you say it is." "Of course it's so," said Edward. "I so want you should be happy, Janet," said Hannah.... Was it so? Her mother and father, the dwarfed and ugly surroundings of Fillmore Street made it seem incredible once more. And--what would they say if they knew what had happened to her this day? When she had reached her room, Janet began to wonder why she had told her parents. Had it not been in order to relieve their anxiety--especially her mother's--on the score of her recent absences from home? Yes, that was it, and because the news would make them happy. And then the mere assertion to them that she was to marry Ditmar helped to make it more real to herself. But, now that reality was fading again, she was unable to bring it within the scope of her imagination, her mind refused to hold one remembered circumstance long enough to coordinate it with another: she realized that she was tired--too tired to think any more. But despite her exhaustion there remained within her, possessing her, as it were overshadowing her, unrelated to future or past, the presence of the man who had awakened her to an intensity of life hitherto unconceived. When her head touched the pillow she fell asleep.... When the bells and the undulating scream of the siren awoke her, she lay awhile groping in the darkness. Where was she? Who was she? The discovery of the fact that the nail of the middle finger on her right hand was broken, gave her a clew. She had broken that nail in reaching out to save something--a vase of roses--that was it!--a vase of roses on a table with a white cloth. Ditmar had tipped it over. The sudden flaring up of this trivial incident served to re-establish her identity, to light a fuse along which her mind began to run like fire, illuminating redly all the events of the day before. It was sweet to lie thus, to possess, as her very own, these precious, passionate memories of life lived at last to fulness, to feel that she had irrevocably given herself and taken--all. A longing to see Ditmar again invaded her: he would take an early train, he would be at the office by nine. How could she wait until then? With a movement that had become habitual, subconscious, she reached out her hand to arouse her sister. The coldness of the sheets on the right side of the bed sent a shiver through her--a shiver of fear. "Lise!" she called. But there was no answer from the darkness. And Janet, trembling, her heart beating wildly, sprang from the bed, searched for the matches, and lit the gas. There was no sign of Lise; her clothes, which she had the habit of flinging across the chairs, were nowhere to be seen. Janet's eyes fell on the bureau, marked the absence of several knick-knacks, including a comb and brush, and with a sudden sickness of apprehension she darted to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. In the bottom were a few odd garments, above was the hat with the purple feather, now shabby and discarded, on the hooks a skirt and jacket Lise wore to work at the Bagatelle in bad weather. That was all.... Janet sank down in the rocking-chair, her hands clasped together, overwhelmed by the sudden apprehension of the tragedy that had lurked, all unsuspected, in the darkness: a tragedy, not of Lise alone, but in which she herself was somehow involved. Just why this was so, she could not for the moment declare. The room was cold, she was clad only in a nightdress, but surges of heat ran through her body. What should she do? She must think. But thought was impossible. She got up and closed the window and began to dress with feverish rapidity, pausing now and again to stand motionless. In one such moment there entered her mind an incident that oddly had made little impression at the time of its occurrence because she, Janet, had been blinded by the prospect of her own happiness--that happiness which, a few minutes ago, had seemed so real and vital a thing! And it was the memory of this incident that suddenly threw a glaring, evil light on all of Lise's conduct during the past months--her accidental dropping of the vanity case and the gold coin! Now she knew for a certainty what had happened to her sister. Having dressed herself, she entered the kitchen, which was warm, filled with the smell of frying meat. Streaks of grease smoke floated fantastically beneath the low ceiling, and Hannah, with the frying-pan in one hand and a fork in the other, was bending over the stove. Wisps of her scant, whitening hair escaped from the ridiculous, tightly drawn knot at the back of her head; in the light of the flickering gas-jet she looked so old and worn that a sudden pity smote Janet and made her dumb --pity for her mother, pity for herself, pity for Lise; pity that lent a staggering insight into life itself. Hannah had once been young, desirable, perhaps, swayed by those forces which had swayed her. Janet wondered why she had never guessed this before, and why she had guessed it now. But it was Hannah who, looking up and catching sight of Janet's face, was quick to divine the presage in it and gave voice to the foreboding that had weighed on her for many weeks. "Where's Lise?" And Janet could not answer. She shook her head. Hannah dropped the fork, the handle of the frying pan and crossed the room swiftly, seizing Janet by the shoulders. "Is she gone? I knew it, I felt it all along. I thought she'd done something she was afraid to tell about--I tried to ask her, but I couldn't--I couldn't! And now she's gone. Oh, my God, I'll never forgive myself!" The unaccustomed sight of her mother's grief was terrible. For an instant only she clung to Janet, then becoming mute, she sat down in the kitchen chair and stared with dry, unseeing eyes at the wall. Her face twitched. Janet could not bear to look at it, to see the torture in her mother's eyes. She, Janet, seemed suddenly to have grown old herself, to have lived through ages of misery and tragedy.... She was aware of a pungent odour, went to the stove, picked up the fork, and turned the steak. Now and then she glanced at Hannah. Grief seemed to have frozen her. Then, from the dining-room she heard footsteps, and Edward stood in the doorway. "Well, what's the matter with breakfast?" he asked. From where he stood he could not see Hannah's face, but gradually his eyes were drawn to her figure. His intuition was not quick, and some moments passed before the rigidity of the pose impressed itself upon him. "Is mother sick?" he asked falteringly. Janet went to him. But it was Hannah who spoke. "Lise has gone," she said. "Lise--gone," Edward repeated. "Gone where?" "She's run away--she's disgraced us," Hannah replied, in a monotonous, dulled voice. Edward did not seem to understand, and presently Janet felt impelled to break the silence. "She didn't come home last night, father." "Didn't come home? Mebbe she spent the night with a friend," he said. It seemed incredible, at such a moment, that he could still be hopeful. "No, she's gone, I tell you, she's lost, we'll never lay eyes on her again. My God, I never thought she'd come to this, but I might have guessed it. Lise! Lise! To think it's my Lise!" Hannah's voice echoed pitifully through the silence of the flat. So appealing, so heartbroken was the cry one might have thought that Lise, wherever she was, would have heard it. Edward was dazed by the shock, his lower lip quivered and fell. He walked over to Hannah's chair and put his hand on her shoulder. "There, there, mother," he pleaded. "If she's gone, we'll find her, we'll bring her back to you." Hannah shook her head. She pushed back her chair abruptly and going over to the stove took the fork from Janet's hand and put the steak on the dish. "Go in there and set down, Edward," she said. "I guess we've got to have breakfast just the same, whether she's gone or not." It was terrible to see Hannah, with that look on her face, going about her tasks automatically. And Edward, too, seemed suddenly to have become aged and broken; his trust in the world, so amazingly preserved through many vicissitudes, shattered at last. He spilled his coffee when he tried to drink, and presently he got up and wandered about the room, searching for his overcoat. It was Janet who found it and helped him on with it. He tried to say something, but failing, departed heavily for the mill. Janet began to remove the dishes from the table. "You've got to eat something, too, before you go to work," said Hannah. "I've had all I want," Janet replied. Hannah followed her into the kitchen. The scarcely touched food was laid aside, the coffee-pot emptied, Hannah put the cups in the basin in the sink and let the water run. She turned to Janet and seized her hands convulsively. "Let me do this, mother," said Janet. She knew her mother was thinking of the newly-found joy that Lise's disgrace had marred, but she released her hands, gently, and took the mop from the nail on which it hung. "You sit down, mother," she said. Hannah would not. They finished the dishes together in silence while the light of the new day stole in through the windows. Janet went into her room, set it in order, made up the bed, put on her coat and hat and rubbers. Then she returned to Hannah, who seized her. "It ain't going to spoil your happiness?" But Janet could not answer. She kissed her mother, and went out, down the stairs into the street. The day was sharp and cold and bracing, and out of an azure sky the sun shone with dazzling brightness on the snow, which the west wind was whirling into little eddies of white smoke, leaving on the drifts delicate scalloped designs like those printed by waves on the sands of the sea. They seemed to Janet that morning hatefully beautiful. In front of his tin shop, whistling cheerfully and labouring energetically with a shovel to clean his sidewalk, was Johnny Tiernan, the tip of his pointed nose made very red by the wind. "Good morning, Miss Bumpus," he said. "Now, if you'd only waited awhile, I'd have had it as clean as a parlour. It's fine weather for coal bills." She halted. "Can I see you a moment, Mr. Tiernan?" Johnny looked at her. "Why sure," he said. Leaning his shovel against the wall, he gallantly opened the door that she might pass in before him and then led the way to the back of the shop where the stove was glowing hospitably. He placed a chair for her. "Now what can I be doing to serve you?" he asked. "It's about my sister," said Janet. "Miss Lise?" "I thought you might know what man she's been going with lately," said Janet. Mr. Tiernan had often wondered how much Janet knew about her sister. In spite of a momentary embarrassment most unusual in him, the courage of her question made a strong appeal, and his quick sympathies suspected the tragedy behind her apparent calmness. He met her magnificently. "Why," he said, "I have seen Miss Lise with a fellow named Duval--Howard Duval--when he's been in town. He travels for a Boston shoe house, Humphrey and Gillmount." "I'm afraid Lise has gone away with him," said Janet. "I thought you might be able to find out something about him, and--whether any one had seen them. She left home yesterday morning." For an instant Mr. Tiernan stood silent before her, his legs apart, his fingers running through his bristly hair. "Well, ye did right to come straight to me, Miss Janet. It's me that can find out, if anybody can, and it's glad I am to help you. Just you stay here--make yourself at home while I run down and see some of the boys. I'll not be long--and don't be afraid I'll let on about it." He seized his overcoat and departed. Presently the sun, glinting on the sheets of tin, started Janet's glance straying around the shop, noting its disorderly details, the heaped-up stovepipes, the littered work-bench with the shears lying across the vise. Once she thought of Ditmar arriving at the office and wondering what had happened to her.... The sound of a bell made her jump. Mr. Tiernan had returned. "She's gone with him," said Janet, not as a question, but as one stating a fact. Mr. Tiernan nodded. "They took the nine-thirty-six for Boston yesterday morning. Eddy Colahan was at the depot." Janet rose. "Thank you," she said simply. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "I'm going to Boston," she answered. "I'm going to find out where she is." "Then it's me that's going with you," he announced. "Oh no, Mr. Tiernan!" she protested. "I couldn't let you do that." "And why not?" he demanded. "I've got a little business there myself. I'm proud to go with you. It's your sister you want, isn't it?" "Yes." "Well, what would you be doing by yourself--a young lady? How will you find your sister?" "Do you think you can find her?" "Sure I can find her," he proclaimed, confidently. He had evidently made up his mind that casual treatment was what the affair demanded. "Haven't I good friends in Boston?" By friendship he swayed his world: nor was he completely unknown--though he did not say so--to certain influential members of his race of the Boston police department. Pulling out a large nickel watch and observing that they had just time to catch the train, he locked up his shop, and they set out together for the station. Mr. Tiernan led the way, for the path was narrow. The dry snow squeaked under his feet. After escorting her to a seat on the train, he tactfully retired to the smoking car, not to rejoin her until they were on the trestle spanning the Charles River by the North Station. All the way to Boston she had sat gazing out of the window at the blinding whiteness of the fields, incapable of rousing herself to the necessity of thought, to a degree of feeling commensurate with the situation. She did not know what she would say to Lise if she should find her; and in spite of Mr. Tiernan's expressed confidence, the chances of success seemed remote. When the train began to thread the crowded suburbs, the city, spreading out over its hills, instead of thrilling her, as yesterday, with a sense of dignity and power, of opportunity and emancipation, seemed a labyrinth with many warrens where vice and crime and sorrow could hide. In front of the station the traffic was already crushing the snow into filth. They passed the spot where, the night before, the carriage had stopped, where Ditmar had bidden her good-bye. Something stirred within her, became a shooting pain.... She asked Mr. Tiernan what he intended to do. "I'm going right after the man, if he's here in the city," he told her. And they boarded a street car, which almost immediately shot into the darkness of the subway. Emerging at Scollay Square, and walking a few blocks, they came to a window where guns, revolvers, and fishing tackle were displayed, and on which was painted the name, "Timothy Mulally." Mr. Tiernan entered. "Is Tim in?" he inquired of one of the clerks, who nodded his head towards the rear of the store, where a middle-aged, grey-haired Irishman was seated at a desk under a drop light. "Is it you, Johnny?" he exclaimed, looking up. "It's meself," said Mr. Tiernan. "And this is Miss Bumpus, a young lady friend of mine from Hampton." Mr. Mulally rose and bowed. "How do ye do, ma'am," he said. "I've got a little business to do for her," Mr. Tiernan continued. "I thought you might offer her a chair and let her stay here, quiet, while I was gone." "With pleasure, ma'am," Mr. Mulally replied, pulling forward a chair with alacrity. "Just sit there comfortable--no one will disturb ye." When, in the course of half an hour, Mr. Tiernan returned, there was a grim yet triumphant look in his little blue eyes, but it was not until Janet had thanked Mr. Mulally for his hospitality and they had reached the sidewalk that he announced the result of his quest. "Well, I caught him. It's lucky we came when we did--he was just going out on the road again, up to Maine. I know where Miss Lise is." "He told you!" exclaimed Janet. "He told me indeed, but it wasn't any joy to him. He was all for bluffing at first. It's easy to scare the likes of him. He was as white as his collar before I was done with him. He knows who I am, all right he's heard of me in Hampton," Mr. Tiernan added, with a pardonable touch of pride. "What did you say?" inquired Janet, curiously. "Say?" repeated Mr. Tiernan. "It's not much I had to say, Miss Janet. I was all ready to go to Mr. Gillmount, his boss. I'm guessing he won't take much pleasure on this trip." She asked for no more details. CHAPTER XIII Once more Janet and Mr. Tiernan descended into the subway, taking a car going to the south and west, which finally came out of the tunnel into a broad avenue lined with shabby shops, hotels and saloons, and long rows of boarding--and rooming-houses. They alighted at a certain corner, walked a little way along a street unkempt and dreary, Mr. Tiernan scrutinizing the numbers until he paused in front of a house with a basement kitchen and snow-covered, sandstone steps. Climbing these, he pulled the bell, and they stood waiting in the twilight of a half-closed vestibule until presently shuffling steps were heard within; the door was cautiously opened, not more than a foot, but enough to reveal a woman in a loose wrapper, with an untidy mass of bleached hair and a puffy face like a fungus grown in darkness. "I want to see Miss Lise Bumpus," Mr. Tiernan demanded. "You've got the wrong place. There ain't no one of that name here," said the woman. "There ain't! All right," he insisted aggressively, pushing open the door in spite of her. "If you don't let this young lady see her quick, there's trouble coming to you." "Who are you?" asked the woman, impudently, yet showing signs of fear. "Never mind who I am," Mr. Tiernan declared. "I know all about you, and I know all about Duval. If you don't want any trouble you won't make any, and you'll take this young lady to her sister. I'll wait here for you, Miss Janet," he added. "I don't know nothing about her--she rented my room that's all I know," the woman replied sullenly. "If you mean that couple that came here yesterday--" She turned and led the way upstairs, mounting slowly, and Janet followed, nauseated and almost overcome by the foul odours of dead cigarette smoke which, mingling with the smell of cooking cabbage rising from below, seemed the very essence and reek of hitherto unimagined evil. A terror seized her such as she had never known before, an almost overwhelming impulse to turn and regain the air and sunlight of the day. In the dark hallway of the second story the woman knocked at the door of a front room. "She's in there, unless she's gone out." And indeed a voice was heard petulantly demanding what was wanted--Lise's voice! Janet hesitated, her hand on the knob, her body fallen against the panels. Then, as she pushed open the door, the smell of cigarette smoke grew stronger, and she found herself in a large bedroom, the details of which were instantly photographed on her mind--the dingy claret-red walls, the crayon over the mantel of a buxom lady in a decollete costume of the '90's, the outspread fan concealing the fireplace, the soiled lace curtains. The bed was unmade, and on the table beside two empty beer bottles and glasses and the remains of a box of candy--suggestive of a Sunday purchase at a drug store--she recognized Lise's vanity case. The effect of all this, integrated at a glance, was a paralyzing horror. Janet could not speak. She remained gazing at Lise, who paid no attention to her entrance, but stood with her back turned before an old-fashioned bureau with a marble top and raised sides. She was dressed, and engaged in adjusting her hat. It was not until Janet pronounced her name that she turned swiftly. "You!" she exclaimed. "What the--what brought you here?" "Oh, Lise!" Janet repeated. "How did you get here?" Lise demanded, coming toward her. "Who told you where I was? What business have you got sleuthing 'round after me like this?" For a moment Janet was speechless once more, astounded that Lise could preserve her effrontery in such an atmosphere, could be insensible to the evils lurking in this house--evils so real to Janet that she seemed actually to feel them brushing against her. "Lise, come away from here," she pleaded, "come home with me!" "Home!" said Lise, defiantly, and laughed. "What do you take me for? Why would I be going home when I've been trying to break away for two years? I ain't so dippy as that--not me! Go home like a good little girl and march back to the Bagatelle and ask 'em to give me another show standing behind a counter all day. Nix! No home sweet home for me! I'm all for easy street when it comes to a home like that." Heartless, terrific as the repudiation was, it struck a self-convicting, almost sympathetic note in Janet. She herself had revolted against the monotony and sordidness of that existence She herself! She dared not complete the thought, now. "But this!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter with it?" Lise demanded. "It ain't Commonwealth Avenue, but it's got Fillmore Street beat a mile. There ain't no whistles hereto get you out of bed at six a.m., for one thing. There ain't no geezers, like Walters, to nag you 'round all day long. What's the matter with it?" Something in Lise's voice roused Janet's spirit to battle. "What's the matter with it?" she cried. "It's hell--that's the matter with it. Can't you see it? Can't you feel it? You don't know what it means, or you'd come home with me." "I guess I know what it means as well as you do," said Lise, sullenly. "We've all got to croak sometime, and I'd rather croak this way than be smothered up in Hampton. I'll get a run for my money, anyway." "No, you don't know what it means," Janet repeated, "or you wouldn't talk like that. Do you think this man will support you, stick to you? He won't, he'll desert you, and you'll have to go on the streets." A dangerous light grew in Lise's eyes. "He's as good as any other man, he's as good as Ditmar," she said. "They're all the same, to girls like us." Janet's heart caught, it seemed to stop beating. Was this a hazard on Lise's part, or did she speak from knowledge? And yet what did it matter whether Lise knew or only suspected, if her words were true, if men were all alike? Had she been a dupe as well as Lise? and was the only difference between them now the fact that Lise was able, without illusion, to see things as they were, to accept the consequences, while she, Janet, had beheld visions and dreamed dreams? was there any real choice between the luxurious hotel to which Ditmar had taken her and this detestable house? Suddenly, seemingly by chance, her eyes fell on the box of drug-store candy from which the cheap red ribbon had been torn, and by some odd association of ideas it suggested and epitomized Lise's Sunday excursion with a mama hideous travesty on the journey of wonders she herself had taken. Had that been heaven, and this of Lise's, hell?... And was. Lise's ambition to be supported in idleness and luxury to be condemned because she had believed her own to be higher? Did not both lead to destruction? The weight that had lain on her breast since the siren had awakened her that morning and she had reached out and touched the chilled, empty sheets now grew almost unsupportable. "It's true," said Janet, "all men are the same." Lise was staring at her. "My God!" she exclaimed. "You?" "Yes-me," cried Janet.--"And what are you going to do about it? Stay here with him in this filthy place until he gets tired of you and throws you out on the street? Before I'd let any man do that to me I'd kill him." Lise began to whimper, and suddenly buried her face in the pillow. But a new emotion had begun to take possession of Janet--an emotion so strong as to give her an unlookedfor sense of detachment. And the words Lise had spoken between her sobs at first conveyed no meaning. "I'm going to have a baby...." Lise was going to have a child! Why hadn't she guessed it? A child! Perhaps she, Janet, would have a child! This enlightenment as to Lise's condition and the possibility it suggested in regard to herself brought with it an overwhelming sympathy which at first she fiercely resented then yielded to. The bond between them, instead of snapping, had inexplicably strengthened. And Lise, despite her degradation, was more than ever her sister! Forgetting her repugnance to the bed, Janet sat down beside Lise and put an arm around her. "He said he'd marry me, he swore he was rich--and he was a spender all right. And then some guy came up to me one night at Gruber's and told me he was married already." "What?" Janet exclaimed. "Sure! He's got a wife and two kids here in Boston. That was a twenty-one round knockout! Maybe I didn't have something to tell him when he blew into Hampton last Friday! But he said he couldn't help it--he loved me." Lise sat up, seemingly finding relief in the relation of her wrongs, dabbing her eyes with a cheap lace handkerchief. "Well, while he'd been away--this thing came. I didn't know what was the matter at first, and when I found out I was scared to death, I was ready to kill myself. When I told him he was scared too, and then he said he'd fix it. Say, I was a goat to think he'd marry me!" Lise laughed hysterically. "And then--" Janet spoke with difficulty, "and then you came down here?" "I told him he'd have to see me through, I'd start something if he didn't. Say, he almost got down on his knees, right there in Gruber's! But he came back inside of ten seconds--he's a jollier, for sure, he was right there with the goods, it was because he loved me, he couldn't help himself, I was his cutie, and all that kind of baby talk." Lise's objective manner of speaking about her seducer amazed Janet. "Do you love him?" she asked. "Say, what is love?" Lise demanded. "Do you ever run into it outside of the movies? Do I love him? Well, he's a good looker and a fancy dresser, he ain't a tight wad, and he can start a laugh every minute. If he hadn't put it over on me I wouldn't have been so sore. I don't know he ain't so bad. He's weak, that's the trouble with him." This was the climax! Lise's mental processes, her tendency to pass from wild despair to impersonal comment, her inability, her courtesan's temperament that prevented her from realizing tragedy for more than a moment at a time--even though the tragedy were her own--were incomprehensible to Janet. "Get on to this," Lise adjured her. "When I first was acquainted with him he handed me a fairy tale that he was taking five thousand a year from Humphrey and Gillmount, he was going into the firm. He had me razzle-dazzled. He's some hypnotizes as a salesman, too, they say. Nothing was too good for me; I saw myself with a house on the avenue shopping in a limousine. Well, he blew up, but I can't help liking him." "Liking him!" cried Janet passionately. "I'd kill him that's what I'd do." Lise regarded her with unwilling admiration. "That's where you and me is different," she declared. "I wish I was like that, but I ain't. And where would I come in? Now you're wise why I can't go back to Hampton. Even if I was stuck on the burg and cryin' my eyes out for the Bagatelle I couldn't go back." "What are you going to do?" Janet demanded. "Well," said Lise, "he's come across--I'll say that for him. Maybe it's because he's scared, but he's stuck on me, too. When you dropped in I was just going down town to get a pair of patent leathers, these are all wore out," she explained, twisting her foot, "they ain't fit for Boston. And I thought of lookin' at blouses--there's a sale on I was reading about in the paper. Say, it's great to be on easy street, to be able to stay in bed until you're good and ready to get up and go shopping, to gaze at the girls behind the counter and ask the price of things. I'm going to Walling's and give the salesladies the ha-ha--that's what I'm going to do." "But--?" Janet found words inadequate. Lise understood her. "Oh, I'm due at the doctor's this afternoon." "Where?" "The doctor's. Don't you get me?--it's a private hospital." Lise gave a slight shudder at the word, but instantly recovered her sang-froid. "Howard fixed it up yesterday--and they say it ain't very bad if you take it early." For a space Janet was too profoundly shocked to reply. "Lise! That's a crime!" she cried. "Crime, nothing!" retorted Lise, and immediately became indignant. "Say, I sometimes wonder how you could have lived all these years without catching on to a few things! What do you take me for! What'd I do with a baby?" What indeed! The thought came like an avalanche, stripping away the veneer of beauty from the face of the world, revealing the scarred rock and crushed soil beneath. This was reality! What right had society to compel a child to be born to degradation and prostitution? to beget, perhaps, other children of suffering? Were not she and Lise of the exploited, of those duped and tempted by the fair things the more fortunate enjoyed unscathed? And now, for their natural cravings, their family must be disgraced, they must pay the penalty of outcasts! Neither Lise nor she had had a chance. She saw that, now. The scorching revelation of life's injustice lighted within her the fires of anarchy and revenge. Lise, other women might submit tamely to be crushed, might be lulled and drugged by bribes: she would not. A wild desire seized her to get back to Hampton. "Give me the address of the hospital," she said. "Come off!" cried Lise, in angry bravado. "Do you think I'm going to let you butt into this? I guess you've got enough to do to look out for your own business." Janet produced a pencil from her bag, and going to the table tore off a piece of the paper in which had been wrapped the candy box. "Give me the address," she insisted. "Say, what are you going to do?" "I want to know where you are, in case anything happens to you." "Anything happens! What do you mean?" Janet's words had frightened Lise, the withdrawal of Janet's opposition bewildered her. But above all, she was cowed by the sudden change in Janet herself, by the attitude of steely determination eloquent of an animus persons of Lise's type are incapable of feeling, and which to them is therefore incomprehensible. "Nothing's going to happen to me," she whined. "The place is all right --he'd be scared to send me there if it wasn't. It costs something, too. Say, you ain't going to tell 'em at home?" she cried with a fresh access of alarm. "If you do as I say, I won't tell anybody," Janet replied, in that odd, impersonal tone her voice had acquired. "You must write me as soon--as soon as it is over. Do you understand?" "Honest to God I will," Lise assured her. "And you mustn't come back to a house like this." "Where'll I go?" Lise asked. "I don't know. We'll find out when the time comes," said Janet, significantly. "You've seen him!" Lise exclaimed. "No," said Janet, "and I don't want to see him unless I have to. Mr. Tiernan has seen him. Mr. Tiernan is downstairs now, waiting for me." "Johnny Tiernan! Is Johnny Tiernan downstairs?" Janet wrote the address, and thrust the slip of paper in her bag. "Good-bye, Lise," she said. "I'll come down again I'll come down whenever you want me." Lise suddenly seized her and clung to her, sobbing. For a while Janet submitted, and then, kissing her, gently detached herself. She felt, indeed, pity for Lise, but something within her seemed to have hardened--something that pity could not melt, possessing her and thrusting heron to action. She knew not what action. So strong was this thing that it overcame and drove off the evil spirits of that darkened house as she descended the stairs to join Mr. Tiernan, who opened the door for her to pass out. Once in the street, she breathed deeply of the sunlit air. Nor did she observe Mr. Tiernan's glance of comprehension.... When they arrived at the North Station he said:--"You'll be wanting a bite of dinner, Miss Janet," and as she shook her head he did not press her to eat. He told her that a train for Hampton left in ten minutes. "I think I'll stay in Boston the rest of the day, as long as I'm here," he added. She remembered that she had not thanked him, she took his hand, but he cut her short. "It's glad I was to help you," he assured her. "And if there's anything more I can do, Miss Janet, you'll be letting me know--you'll call on Johnny Tiernan, won't you?" He left her at the gate. He had intruded with no advice, he had offered no comment that she had come downstairs alone, without Lise. His confidence in her seemed never to have wavered. He had respected, perhaps partly imagined her feelings, and in spite of these now a sense of gratitude to him stole over her, mitigating the intensity of their bitterness. Mr. Tiernan alone seemed stable in a chaotic world. He was a man. No sooner was she in the train, however, than she forgot Mr. Tiernan utterly. Up to the present the mental process of dwelling upon her own experience of the last three months had been unbearable, but now she was able to take a fearful satisfaction in the evolving of parallels between her case and Lise's. Despite the fact that the memories she had cherished were now become hideous things, she sought to drag them forth and compare them, ruthlessly, with what must have been the treasures of Lise. Were her own any less tawdry? Only she, Janet, had been the greater fool of the two, the greater dupe because she had allowed herself to dream, to believe that what she had done had been for love, for light! because she had not listened to the warning voice within her! It had always been on the little, unpremeditated acts of Ditmar that she had loved to linger, and now, in the light of Lise's testimony, of Lise's experience, she saw them all as false. It seemed incredible, now, that she had ever deceived herself into thinking that Ditmar meant to marry her, that he loved her enough to make her his wife. Nor was it necessary to summon and marshal incidents to support this view, they came of themselves, crowding one another, a cumulative and appalling array of evidence, before which she stood bitterly amazed at her former stupidity. And in the events of yesterday, which she pitilessly reviewed, she beheld a deliberate and prearranged plan for her betrayal. Had he not telephoned to Boston for the rooms, rehearsed in his own mind every detail of what had subsequently happened? Was there any essential difference between the methods of Ditmar and Duval? Both were skilled in the same art, and Ditmar was the cleverer of the two. It had only needed her meeting with Lise, in that house, to reveal how he had betrayed her faith and her love, sullied and besmirched them. And then came the odd reflection,--how strange that that same Sunday had been so fateful for herself and Lise! The agony of these thoughts was mitigated by the scorching hatred that had replaced her love, the desire for retaliation, revenge. Occasionally, however, that stream of consciousness was broken by the recollection of what she had permitted and even advised her sister to do; and though the idea of the place to which Lise was going sickened her, though she achieved a certain objective amazement at the transformation in herself enabling her to endorse such a course, she was glad of having endorsed it, she rejoiced that Lise's child would not be born into a world that had seemed--so falsely--fair and sweet, and in reality was black and detestable. Her acceptance of the act--for Lise--was a function of the hatred consuming her, a hatred which, growing in bigness, had made Ditmar merely the personification of that world. From time to time her hands clenched, her brow furrowed, powerful waves of heat ran through her, the craving for action became so intense she could scarcely refrain from rising in her seat. By some odd whim of the weather the wind had backed around into the east, gathering the clouds once more. The brilliancy of the morning had given place to greyness, the high slits of windows seemed dirtier than ever as the train pulled into the station at Hampton, shrouded in Gothic gloom. As she left the car Janet was aware of the presence on the platform of an unusual number of people; she wondered vaguely, as she pushed her way through them, why they were there, what they were talking about? One determination possessed her, to go to the Chippering Mill, to Ditmar. Emerging from the street, she began to walk rapidly, the change from inaction to exercise bringing a certain relief, starting the working of her mind, arousing in her a realization of the necessity of being prepared for the meeting. Therefore, instead of turning at Faber Street, she crossed it. But at the corner of the Common she halted, her glance drawn by a dark mass of people filling the end of Hawthorne Street, where it was blocked by the brick-coloured facade of the Clarendon Mill. In the middle distance men and boys were running to join this crowd. A girl, evidently an Irish-American mill hand of the higher paid sort, hurried toward her from the direction of the mill itself. Janet accosted her. "It's the strike," she explained excitedly, evidently surprised at the question. "The Polaks and the Dagoes and a lot of other foreigners quit when they got their envelopes--stopped their looms and started through the mill, and when they came into our room I left. I didn't want no trouble with 'em. It's the fifty-four hour law--their pay's cut two hours. You've heard about it, I guess." Janet nodded. "They had a big mass meeting last night in Maxwell Hall," the girl continued, "the foreigners--not the skilled workers. And they voted to strike. They tell me they're walking out over at the Patuxent, too." "And the Chippering?" asked Janet, eagerly. "I don't know--I guess it'll spread to all of 'em, the way these foreigners are going on--they're crazy. But say," the girl added, "it ain't right to cut our pay, either, is it? They never done it two years ago when the law came down to fifty-six." Janet did not wait to reply. While listening to this explanation, excitement had been growing in her again, and some fearful, overpowering force of attraction emanating from that swarm in the distance drew her until she yielded, fairly running past the rows of Italian tenements in their strange setting of snow, not to pause until she reached the fruit shop where she and Eda had eaten the olives. Now she was on the outskirts of the crowd that packed itself against the gates of the Clarendon. It spread over the width of East Street, growing larger every minute, until presently she was hemmed in. Here and there hoarse shouts of approval and cheers arose in response to invisible orators haranging their audiences in weird, foreign tongues; tiny American flags were waved; and suddenly, in one of those unforeseen and incomprehensible movements to which mobs are subject, a trolley car standing at the end of the Hawthorne Street track was surrounded, the desperate clanging of its bell keeping pace with the beating of Janet's heart. A dark Sicilian, holding aloft the green, red, and white flag of Italy, leaped on the rear platform and began to speak, the Slav conductor regarding him stupidly, pulling the bellcord the while. Three or four policemen fought their way to the spot, striving to clear the tracks, bewildered and impotent in the face of the alien horde momentarily growing more and more conscious of power. Janet pushed her way deeper and deeper into the crowd. She wanted to savour to the full its wrath and danger, to surrender herself to be played upon by these sallow, stubby-bearded exhorters, whose menacing tones and passionate gestures made a grateful appeal, whose wild, musical words, just because they were uncomprehended, aroused in her dim suggestions of a race-experience not her own, but in which she was now somehow summoned to share. That these were the intruders whom she, as a native American, had once resented and despised did not occur to her. The racial sense so strong in her was drowned in a sense of fellowship. Their anger seemed to embody and express, as nothing else could have done, the revolt that had been rising, rising within her soul; and the babel to which she listened was not a confusion of tongues, but one voice lifted up to proclaim the wrongs of all the duped, of all the exploited and oppressed. She was fused with them, their cause was her cause, their betrayers her betrayers. Suddenly was heard the cry for which she had been tensely but unconsciously awaiting. Another cry like that had rung out in another mob across the seas more than a century before. "Ala Bastille!" became "To the Chippering!" Some man shouted it out in shrill English, hundreds repeated it; the Sicilian leaped from the trolley car, and his path could be followed by the agitated progress of the alien banner he bore. "To the Chippering!" It rang in Janet's ears like a call to battle. Was she shouting it, too? A galvanic thrill ran through the crowd, an impulse that turned their faces and started their steps down East Street toward the canal, and Janet was irresistibly carried along. Nay, it seemed as if the force that second by second gained momentum was in her, that she herself had released and was guiding it! Her feet were wet as she ploughed through the trampled snow, but she gave no thought to that. The odour of humanity was in her nostrils. On the left a gaunt Jew pressed against her, on the right a solid Ruthenian woman, one hand clasping her shawl, the other holding aloft a miniature emblem of New World liberty. Her eyes were fixed on the grey skies, and from time to time her lips were parted in some strange, ancestral chant that could be heard above the shouting. All about Janet were dark, awakening faces.... It chanced that an American, a college graduate, stood gazing down from a point of vantage upon this scene. He was ignorant of anthropology, psychology, and the phenomena of environment; but bits of "knowledge" --which he embodied in a newspaper article composed that evening stuck wax-like in his brain. Not thus, he deplored, was the Anglo-Saxon wont to conduct his rebellions. These Czechs and Slavs, Hebrews and Latins and Huns might have appropriately been clad in the skins worn by the hordes of Attila. Had they not been drawn hither by the renown of the Republic's wealth? And how essentially did they differ from those other barbarians before whose bewildered, lustful gaze had risen the glittering palaces on the hills of the Tiber? The spoils of Rome! The spoils of America! They appeared to him ferocious, atavistic beasts as they broke into the lumberyard beneath his window to tear the cord-wood from the piles and rush out again, armed with billets.... Janet, in the main stream sweeping irresistibly down the middle of the street, was carried beyond the lumberyard into the narrow roadway beside the canal--presently to find herself packed in the congested mass in front of the bridge that led to the gates of the Chippering Mill. Across the water, above the angry hum of human voices could be heard the whirring of the looms, rousing the mob to a higher pitch of fury. The halt was for a moment only. The bridge rocked beneath the weight of their charge, they battered at the great gates, they ran along the snow-filled tracks by the wall of the mill. Some, in a frenzy of passion, hurled their logs against the windows; others paused, seemingly to measure the distance and force of the stroke, thus lending to their act a more terrible and deliberate significance. A shout of triumph announced that the gates, like a broken dam, had given way, and the torrent poured in between the posts, flooding the yard, pressing up the towered stairways and spreading through the compartments of the mill. More ominous than the tumult seemed the comparative silence that followed this absorption of the angry spirits of the mob. Little by little, as the power was shut off, the antiphonal throbbing of the looms was stilled. Pinioned against the parapet above the canal--almost on that very spot where, the first evening, she had met Ditmar--Janet awaited her chance to cross. Every crashing window, every resounding blow on the panels gave her a fierce throb of joy. She had not expected the gates to yield--her father must have insecurely fastened them. Gaining the farther side of the canal, she perceived him flattened against the wall of the gatehouse shaking his fist in the faces of the intruders, who rushed past him unheeding. His look arrested her. His face was livid, his eyes were red with anger, he stood transformed by a passion she had not believed him to possess. She had indeed heard him give vent to a mitigated indignation against foreigners in general, but now the old-school Americanism in which he had been bred, the Americanism of individual rights, of respect for the convention of property, had suddenly sprung into flame. He was ready to fight for it, to die for it. The curses he hurled at these people sounded blasphemous in Janet's ears. "Father!" she cried. "Father!" He looked at her uncomprehendingly, seemingly failing to recognize her. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, seizing her and attempting to draw her to the wall beside him. But she resisted. There sprang from her lips an unpremeditated question: "Where is Mr. Ditmar?" She was, indeed, amazed at having spoken it. "I don't know," Edward replied distractedly. "We've been looking for him everywhere. My God, to think that this should happen with me at the gates!" he lamented. "Go home, Janet. You can't tell what'll happen, what these fiends will do, you may get hurt. You've got no business here." Catching sight of a belated and breathless policeman, he turned from her in desperation. "Get 'em out! Far God's sake, can't you get 'em out before they ruin the machines?" But Janet waited no longer. Pushing her way frantically through the people filling the yard she climbed the tower stairs and made her way into one of the spinning rooms. The frames were stilled, the overseer and second hands, thrust aside, looked on helplessly while the intruders harangued, cajoled or threatened the operatives, some of whom were cowed and already departing; others, sullen and resentful, remained standing in the aisles; and still others seemed to have caught the contagion of the strike. Suddenly, with reverberating strokes, the mill bells rang out, the electric gongs chattered, the siren screeched, drowning the voices. Janet did not pause, but hurried from room to room until, in passing through an open doorway in the weaving department she ran into Mr. Caldwell. He halted a moment, in surprise at finding her there, calling her by name. She clung to his sleeve, and again she asked the question:-- "Where's Mr. Ditmar?" Caldwell shook his head. His answer was the same as Edward's. "I don't know," he shouted excitedly above the noise. "We've got to get this mob out before they do any damage." He tore himself away, she saw him expostulating with the overseer, and then she went on. These tower stairs, she remembered, led to a yard communicating by a little gate with the office entrance. The door of the vestibule was closed, but the watchman, Simmons, recognizing her, permitted her to enter. The offices were deserted, silent, for the bells and the siren had ceased their clamour; the stenographers and clerks had gone. The short day was drawing to a close, shadows were gathering in the corners of Ditmar's room as she reached the threshold and gazed about her at the objects there so poignantly familiar. She took off her coat. His desk was littered with books and papers, and she started, mechanically, to set it in order, replacing the schedule books on the shelves, sorting out the letters and putting them in the basket. She could not herself have told why she should take up again these trivial tasks as though no cataclysmic events had intervened to divide forever the world of yesterday from that of to-morrow. With a movement suggestive of tenderness she was picking up Ditmar's pen to set it in the glass rack when her ear caught the sound of voices, and she stood transfixed, listening intently. There were footsteps in the corridor, the voices came nearer; one, loud and angered, she detected above the others. It was Ditmar's! Nothing had happened to him! Dropping the pen, she went over to the window, staring out over the grey waters, trembling so violently that she could scarcely stand. She did not look around when they entered the room Ditmar, Caldwell, Orcutt, and evidently a few watchmen and overseers. Some one turned on the electric switch, darkening the scene without. Ditmar continued to speak in vehement tones of uncontrolled rage. "Why in hell weren't those gates bolted tight?" he demanded. "That's what I want to know! There was plenty of time after they turned the corner of East Street. You might have guessed what they would do. But instead of that you let 'em into the mill to shut off the power and intimidate our own people." He called the strikers an unprintable name, and though Janet stood, with her back turned, directly before him, he gave no sign of being aware of her presence. "It wasn't the gatekeeper's fault," she heard Orcutt reply in a tone quivering with excitement and apprehension. "They really didn't give us a chance--that's the truth. They were down Canal Street and over the bridge before we knew it." "It's just as I've said a hundred times," Ditmar retorted. "I can't afford to leave this mill a minute, I can't trust anybody--" and he broke out in another tirade against the intruders. "By God, I'll fix 'em for this--I'll crush 'em. And if any operatives try to walkout here I'll see that they starve before they get back--after all I've done for 'em, kept the mill going in slack times just to give 'em work. If they desert me now, when I've got this Bradlaugh order on my hands--" Speech became an inadequate expression of his feelings, and suddenly his eye fell on Janet. She had turned, but her look made no impression on him. "Call up the Chief of Police," he said. Automatically she obeyed, getting the connection and handing him the receiver, standing by while he denounced the incompetence of the department for permitting the mob to gather in East Street and demanded deputies. The veins of his forehead were swollen as he cut short the explanations of the official and asked for the City Hall. In making an appointment with the Mayor he reflected on the management of the city government. And when Janet by his command obtained the Boston office, he gave the mill treasurer a heated account of the afternoon's occurrences, explaining circumstantially how, in his absence at a conference in the Patuxent Mill, the mob had gathered in East Street and attacked the Chippering; and he urged the treasurer to waste no time in obtaining a force of detectives, in securing in Boston and New York all the operatives that could be hired, in order to break the impending strike. Save for this untimely and unreasonable revolt he was bent on stamping out, for Ditmar the world to-day was precisely the same world it had been the day before. It seemed incredible to Janet that he could so regard it, could still be blind to the fact that these workers whom he was determined to starve and crush if they dared to upset his plans and oppose his will were human beings with wills and passions and grievances of their own. Until to-day her eyes had been sealed. In agony they had been opened to the panorama of sorrow and suffering, of passion and evil; and what she beheld now as life was a vast and terrible cruelty. She had needed only this final proof to be convinced that in his eyes she also was but one of those brought into the world to minister to his pleasure and profit. He had taken from her, as his weed, the most precious thing a woman has to give, and now that she was here again at his side, by some impulse incomprehensible to herself--in spite of the wrong he had done her!--had sought him out in danger, he had no thought of her, no word for her, no use save a menial one: he cared nothing for any help she might be able to give, he had no perception of the new light which had broken within her soul.... The telephoning seemed interminable, yet she waited with a strange patience while he talked with Mr. George Chippering and two of the most influential directors. These conversations had covered the space of an hour or more. And perhaps as a result of self-suggestion, of his repeated assurances to Mr. Semple, to Mr. Chippering, and the directors of his ability to control the situation, Ditmar's habitual self-confidence was gradually restored. And when at last he hung up the instrument and turned to her, though still furious against the strikers, his voice betrayed the joy of battle, the assurance of victory. "They can't bluff me, they'll have to guess again. It's that damned Holster--he hasn't any guts--he'd give in to 'em right now if I'd let him. It's the limit the way he turned the Clarendon over to them. I'll show him how to put a crimp in 'em if they don't turn up here to-morrow morning." He was so magnificently sure of her sympathy! She did, not reply, but picked up her coat from the chair where she had laid it. "Where are you going?" he demanded. And she replied laconically, "Home." "Wait a minute," he said, rising and taking a step toward her. "You have an appointment with the Mayor," she reminded him. "I know," he said, glancing at the clock over the door. "Where have you been?--where were you this morning? I was worried about you, I--I was afraid you might be sick." "Were you?" she said. "I'm all right. I had business in Boston." "Why didn't you telephone me? In Boston?" he repeated. She nodded. He started forward again, but she avoided him. "What's the matter?" he cried. "I've been worried about you all day --until this damned strike broke loose. I was afraid something had happened." "You might have asked my father," she said. "For God's sake, tell me what's the matter!" His desire for her mounted as his conviction grew more acute that something had happened to disturb a relationship which, he had congratulated himself, after many vicissitudes and anxieties had at last been established. He was conscious, however, of irritation because this whimsical and unanticipated grievance of hers should have developed at the moment when the caprice of his operatives threatened to interfere with his cherished plans--for Ditmar measured the inconsistencies of humanity by the yardstick of his desires. Her question as to why he had not made inquiries of her father added a new element to his disquietude. As he stood thus, worried, exasperated, and perplexed, the fact that there was in her attitude something ominous, dangerous, was slow to dawn on him. His faculties were wholly unprepared for the blow she struck him. "I hate you!" she said. She did not raise her voice, but the deliberate, concentrated conviction she put into the sentence gave it the dynamic quality of a bullet. And save for the impact of it--before which he physically recoiled--its import was momentarily without meaning. "What?" he exclaimed, stupidly. "I might have known you never meant to marry me," she went on. Her hands were busy with the buttons of her coat. "All you want is to use me, to enjoy me and turn me out when you get tired of me--the way you've done with other women. It's just the same with these mill hands, they're not human beings to you, they're--they're cattle. If they don't do as you like, you turn them out; you say they can starve for all you care." "For God's sake, what do you mean?" he demanded. "What have I done to you, Janet? I love you, I need you!" "Love me!" she repeated. "I know how men of your sort love--I've seen it--I know. As long as I give you what you want and don't bother you, you love me. And I know how these workers feel," she cried, with sudden, passionate vehemence. "I never knew before, but I know now. I've been with them, I marched up here with them from the Clarendon when they battered in the gates and smashed your windows--and I wanted to smash your windows, too, to blow up your mill." "What are you saying? You came here with the strikers? you were with that mob?" asked Ditmar, astoundedly. "Yes, I was in that mob. I belong there, with them, I tell you--I don't belong here, with you. But I was a fool even then, I was afraid they'd hurt you, I came into the mill to find you, and you--and you you acted as if you'd never seen me before. I was a fool, but I'm glad I came--I'm glad I had a chance to tell you this." "My God--won't you trust me?" he begged, with a tremendous effort to collect himself. "You trusted me yesterday. What's happened to change you? Won't you tell me? It's nothing I've done--I swear. And what do you mean when you say you were in that mob? I was almost crazy when I came back and found they'd been here in this mill--can't you understand? It wasn't that I didn't think of you. I'd been worrying about you all day. Look at this thing sensibly. I love you, I can't get along without you--I'll marry you. I said I would, I meant it I'll marry you just as soon as I can clean up this mess of a strike. It won't take long." "Don't touch me!" she commanded, and he recoiled again. "I'll tell you where I've been, if you want to know,--I've been to see my sister in--in a house, in Boston. I guess you know what kind of a house I mean, you've been in them, you've brought women to them,--just like the man that brought her there. Would you marry me now--with my sister there? And am I any different from her? You you've made me just like her." Her voice had broken, now, into furious, uncontrolled weeping--to which she paid no heed. Ditmar was stunned; he could only stare at her. "If I have a child," she said, "I'll--I'll kill you--I'll kill myself." And before he could reply--if indeed he had been able to reply--she had left the office and was running down the stairs.... CHAPTER XIV What was happening to Hampton? Some hundreds of ignorant foreigners, dissatisfied with the money in their pay envelopes, had marched out of the Clarendon Mill and attacked the Chippering and behold, the revered structure of American Government had quivered and tumbled down like a pack of cards! Despite the feverish assurances in the Banner "extra" that the disturbance was merely local and temporary, solid citizens became panicky, vaguely apprehending the release of elemental forces hitherto unrecognized and unknown. Who was to tell these solid, educated business men that the crazy industrial Babel they had helped to rear, and in which they unconsciously dwelt, was no longer the simple edifice they thought it? that Authority, spelled with a capital, was a thing of the past? that human instincts suppressed become explosives to displace the strata of civilization and change the face of the world? that conventions and institutions, laws and decrees crumble before the whirlwind of human passions? that their city was not of special, but of universal significance? And how were these, who still believed themselves to be dwelling under the old dispensation, to comprehend that environments change, and changing demand new and terrible Philosophies? When night fell on that fateful Tuesday the voice of Syndicalism had been raised in a temple dedicated to ordered, Anglo-Saxon liberty--the Hampton City Hall. Only for a night and a day did the rebellion lack both a leader and a philosophy. Meanwhile, in obedience to the unerring instinct for drama peculiar to great metropolitan dailies, newspaper correspondents were alighting from every train, interviewing officials and members of labour unions and mill agents: interviewing Claude Ditmar, the strongest man in Hampton that day. He at least knew what ought to be done, and even before his siren broke the silence of the morning hours in vigorous and emphatic terms he had informed the Mayor and Council of their obvious duty. These strikers were helots, unorganized scum; the regular unions--by comparison respectable--held aloof from them. Here, in effect, was his argument: a strong show of force was imperative; if the police and deputies were inadequate, request the Governor to call out the local militia; but above all, waste no time, arrest the ringleaders, the plotters, break up all gatherings, keep the streets clear. He demanded from the law protection of his property, protection for those whose right to continue at work was inalienable. He was listened to with sympathy and respect--but nothing was done! The world had turned upside down indeed if the City Government of Hampton refused to take the advice of the agent of the Chippering Mill! American institutions were a failure! But such was the fact. Some unnamed fear, outweighing their dread of the retributions of Capital, possessed these men, made them supine, derelict in the face of their obvious duty. By the faint grey light of that bitter January morning Ditmar made his way to the mill. In Faber Street dark figures flitted silently across the ghostly whiteness of the snow, and gathered in groups on the corners; seeking to avoid these, other figures hurried along the sidewalks close to the buildings, to be halted, accosted, pleaded with--threatened, perhaps. Picketing had already begun! The effect of this pantomime of the eternal struggle for survivals which he at first beheld from a distance, was to exaggerate appallingly the emptiness of the wide street, to emphasize the absence of shoppers and vehicles; and a bluish darkness lurked in the stores, whose plate glass windows were frosted in quaint designs. Where were the police? It was not fear that Ditmar felt, he was galvanized and dominated by anger, by an overwhelming desire for action; physical combat would have brought him relief, and as he quickened his steps he itched to seize with his own hands these foreigners who had dared to interfere with his cherished plans, who had had the audacity to challenge the principles of his government which welcomed them to its shores. He would have liked to wring their necks. His philosophy, too, was environmental. And beneath this wrath, stimulating and energizing it the more, was the ache in his soul from the loss for which he held these enemies responsible. Two days ago happiness and achievement had both been within his grasp. The only woman--so now it seemed--he had ever really wanted! What had become of her? What obscure and passionate impulse had led her suddenly to defy and desert him, to cast in her lot with these insensate aliens? A hundred times during the restless, inactive hours of a sleepless night this question had intruded itself in the midst of his scheming to break the strike, as he reviewed, word by word, act by act, that almost incomprehensible revolt of hers which had followed so swiftly--a final, vindictive blow of fate--on that other revolt of the workers. At moments he became confused, unable to separate the two. He saw her fire in that other.... Her sister, she had said, had been disgraced; she had defied him to marry her in the face of that degradation--and this suddenly had sickened him. He had let her go. What a fool he had been to let her go! Had she herself been--! He did not finish this thought. Throughout the long night he had known, for a certainty, that this woman was a vital part of him, flame of his flame. Had he never seen her he would have fought these strikers to their knees, but now the force of this incentive was doubled. He would never yield until he had crushed them, until he had reconquered her. He was approaching one of the groups of strikers, and unconsciously he slowed his steps. The whites of his eyes reddened. The great coat of golden fur he wore gave to his aspect an added quality of formidableness. There were some who scattered as he drew near, and of the less timorous spirits that remained only a few raised dark, sullen glances to encounter his, which was unflinching, passionately contemptuous. Throughout the countless generations that lay behind them the instinct of submission had played its dominant, phylogenetic role. He was the Master. The journey across the seas had not changed that. A few shivered--not alone because they were thinly clad. He walked on, slowly, past other groups, turned the corner of West Street, where the groups were more numerous, while the number of those running the gantlet had increased. And he heard, twice or thrice, the word "Scab!" cried out menacingly. His eyes grew redder still as he spied a policeman standing idly in a doorway. "Why in hell don't you do your duty?" he demanded. "What do you mean by letting them interfere with these workers?" The man flinched. He was apologetic. "So long as they're peaceable, Mr. Ditmar--those are my orders. I do try to keep 'em movin'." "Your orders? You're a lot of damned cowards," Ditmar replied, and went on. There were mutterings here; herded together, these slaves were bolder; and hunger and cold, discouragement at not being able to stop the flow toward the mills were having their effect. By the frozen canal, the scene of the onslaught of yesterday, the crowd had grown comparatively thick, and at the corner of the lodging-house row Ditmar halted a moment, unnoticed save by a few who nudged one another and murmured. He gave them no attention, he was trying to form an estimate of the effect of the picketing on his own operatives. Some came with timid steps; others, mostly women, fairly ran; still others were self-possessed, almost defiant--and such he marked. There were those who, when the picketers held them by the sleeve, broke precipitately from their annoyers, and those who hesitated, listening with troubled faces, with feelings torn between dread of hunger for themselves and their children and sympathy with the revolt. A small number joined the ranks of the picketers. Ditmar towered above these foreigners, who were mostly undersized: a student of human nature and civilization, free from industrial complexes, would from that point of vantage have had much to gather from the expressions coming within his view, but to Ditmar humanity was a means to an end. Suddenly, from the cupolas above the battlement of the mill, the bells shattered the early morning air, the remnant of the workers hastened across the canal and through the guarded gates, which were instantly closed. Ditmar was left alone among the strikers. As he moved toward the bridge they made a lane for him to pass; one or two he thrust out of his way. But there were mutterings, and from the sidewalk he heard a man curse him. Perhaps we shall understand some day that the social body, also, is subject to the operation of cause and effect. It was not what an ingenuous orthodoxy, keeping alive the fate of the ancient city from which Lot fled, would call the wrath of heaven that visited Hampton, although a sermon on these lines was delivered from more than one of her pulpits on the following Sunday. Let us surmise, rather, that a decrepit social system in a moment of lowered vitality becomes an easy prey to certain diseases which respectable communities are not supposed to have. The germ of a philosophy evolved in decadent Europe flies across the sea to prey upon a youthful and vigorous America, lodging as host wherever industrial strife has made congenial soil. In four and twenty hours Hampton had "caught" Syndicalism. All day Tuesday, before the true nature of the affection was developed, prominent citizens were outraged and appalled by the supineness of their municipal phagocytes. Property, that sacred fabric of government, had been attacked and destroyed, law had been defied, and yet the City Hall, the sanctuary of American tradition, was turned over to the alien mob for a continuous series of mass meetings. All day long that edifice, hitherto chastely familiar with American doctrine alone, with patriotic oratory, with perorations that dwelt upon the wrongs and woes of Ireland--part of our national propaganda--all day long that edifice rang with strange, exotic speech, sometimes guttural, often musical, but always impassioned, weirdly cadenced and intoned. From the raised platform, in place of the shrewd, matter-of-fact New England politician alive to the vote--getting powers of Fourth of July patriotism, in place of the vehement but fun-loving son of Erin, men with wild, dark faces, with burning black eyes and unkempt hair, unshaven, flannel skirted--made more alien, paradoxically, by their conventional, ready-made American clothes--gave tongue to the inarticulate aspirations of the peasant drudge of Europe. From lands long steeped in blood they came, from low countries by misty northern seas, from fair and ancient plains of Lombardy, from Guelph and Ghibelline hamlets in the Apennines, from vine-covered slopes in Sicily and Greece; from the Balkans, from Caucasus and Carpathia, from the mountains of Lebanon, whose cedars lined the palaces of kings; and from villages beside swollen rivers that cross the dreary steppes. Each peasant listened to a recital in his own tongue--the tongue in which the folklore, the cradle sayings of his race had been preserved--of the common wrongs of all, of misery still present, of happiness still unachieved in this land of liberty and opportunity they had found a mockery; to appeals to endure and suffer for a common cause. But who was to weld together this medley of races and traditions, to give them the creed for which their passions were prepared, to lead into battle these ignorant and unskilled from whom organized labour held aloof? Even as dusk was falling, even as the Mayor, the Hon. Michael McGrath, was making from the platform an eloquent plea for order and peace, promising a Committee of Arbitration and thinking about soldiers, the leader and the philosophy were landing in Hampton. The "five o'clock" edition of the Banner announced him, Antonio Antonelli, of the Industrial Workers of the World! An ominous name, an ominous title,--compared by a well-known publicist to the sound of a fire-bell in the night. The Industrial Workers, not of America, but of the World! No wonder it sent shivers down the spine of Hampton! The writer of the article in the Banner was unfamiliar with the words "syndicalism" and "sabotage," or the phrase "direct action," he was too young to know the history of the Knights, he had never heard of a philosophy of labour, or of Sorel or Pouget, but the West he had heard of,--the home of lawlessness, of bloodshed, rape, and murder. For obvious reasons he did not betray this opinion, but for him the I.W.W. was born in the West, where it had ravaged and wrecked communities. His article was guardedly respectful, but he ventured to remind his readers that Mr. Antonelli had been a leader in some of these titanic struggles between crude labour and capital--catastrophes that hitherto had seemed to the citizens of Hampton as remote as Kansas cyclones.... Some of the less timorous of the older inhabitants, curious to learn what doctrine this interloper had to proclaim, thrust their way that evening into the City Hall, which was crowded, as the papers said, "to suffocation." Not prepossessing, this modern Robespierre; younger than he looked, for life had put its mark on him; once, in the days of severe work in the mines, his body had been hard, and now had grown stout. In the eyes of a complacent, arm-chair historian he must have appeared one of the, strange and terrifying creatures which, in times of upheaval, are thrust from the depths of democracies to the surface, with gifts to voice the longings and passions of those below. He did not blink in the light; he was sure of himself, he had a creed and believed in it; he gazed around him with the leonine stare of the conqueror, and a hush came over the hall as he arose. His speech was taken down verbatim, to be submitted to the sharpest of legal eyes, when was discovered the possession of a power--rare among agitators--to pour forth in torrents apparently unpremeditated appeals, to skirt the border of sedition and never transgress it, to weigh his phrases before he gave them birth, and to remember them. If he said an incendiary thing one moment he qualified it the next; he justified violence only to deprecate it; and months later, when on trial for his life and certain remarks were quoted against him, he confounded his prosecutors by demanding the contexts. Skilfully, always within the limits of their intelligence, he outlined to his hearers his philosophy and proclaimed it as that of the world's oppressed. Their cause was his--the cause of human progress; he universalized, it. The world belonged to the "producer," if only he had the courage to take possession of his own.... Suddenly the inspirer was transformed into the man of affairs who calmly proposed the organization of a strike committee, three members of which were to be chosen by each nationality. And the resolution, translated into many tongues, was adopted amidst an uproar of enthusiasm. Until that moment the revolt had been personal, local, founded on a particular grievance which had to do with wages and the material struggle for existence. Now all was changed; now they were convinced that the deprivation and suffering to which they had pledged themselves were not for selfish ends alone, but also vicarious, dedicated to the liberation of all the downtrodden of the earth. Antonelli became a saviour; they reached out to touch him as he passed; they trooped into the snowy street, young men and old, and girls, and women holding children in their arms, their faces alight with something never known or felt before. Such was Antonelli to the strikers. But to those staid residents of Hampton who had thought themselves still to be living in the old New England tradition, he was the genius of an evil dream. Hard on his heels came a nightmare troop, whose coming brought to the remembrance of the imaginative the old nursery rhyme:--"Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark, The beggars are come to town." It has, indeed, a knell-like ring. Do philosophies tend also to cast those who adopt them into a mould? These were of the self-same breed, indubitably the followers of Antonelli. The men wore their hair long, affected, like their leader, soft felt hats and loose black ties that fell over the lapels of their coats. Loose morals and loose ties! The projection of these against a Puritan background ties symbolical of everything the Anglo-Saxon shudders at and abhors; of anarchy and mob rule, of bohemia and vagabondia, of sedition and murder, of Latin revolutions and reigns of terror; of sex irregularity--not of the clandestine sort to be found in decent communities--but of free love that flaunts itself in the face of an outraged public. For there were women in the band. All this, and more, the invaders suggested--atheism, unfamiliarity with soap and water, and, more vaguely, an exotic poetry and art that to the virile of American descent is saturated with something indefinable yet abhorrent. Such things are felt. Few of the older citizens of Hampton were able to explain why something rose in their gorges, why they experienced a new and clammy quality of fear and repulsion when, on the day following Antonelli's advent, these strangers arrived from nowhere to install themselves--with no baggage to speak of --in Hampton's more modest but hitherto respectable hostelries. And no sooner had the city been rudely awakened to the perilous presence, in overwhelming numbers, of ignorant and inflammable foreigners than these turned up and presumed to lead the revolt, to make capital out of it, to interpret it in terms of an exotic and degenerate creed. Hampton would take care of itself--or else the sovereign state within whose borders it was would take care of it. And his Honour the Mayor, who had proclaimed his faith in the reasonableness of the strikers, who had scorned the suggestions of indignant inhabitants that the Governor be asked for soldiers, twenty-four hours too late arranged for the assembly of three companies of local militia in the armory, and swore in a hundred extra police. The hideous stillness of Fillmore Street was driving Janet mad. What she burned to do was to go to Boston and take a train for somewhere in the West, to lose herself, never to see Hampton again. But--there was her mother. She could not leave Hannah in these empty rooms, alone; and Edward was to remain at the mill, to eat and sleep there, until the danger of the strike had passed. A messenger had come to fetch his clothes. After leaving Ditmar in the office of the mill, Janet crept up the dark stairs to the flat and halted in the hallway. Through the open doorway of the dining-room she saw Hannah seated on the horsehair sofa --for the first time within memory idle at this hour of the day. Nothing else could have brought home to her like this the sheer tragedy of their plight. Until then Janet had been sustained by anger and excitement, by physical action. She thought Hannah was staring at her; after a moment it seemed that the widened pupils were fixed in fascination on something beyond, on the Thing that had come to dwell here with them forever. Janet entered the room. She sat down on the sofa and took her mother's hand in hers. And Hannah submitted passively. Janet could not speak. A minute might have passed, and the silence, which neither had broken, acquired an intensity that to Janet became unbearable. Never had the room been so still! Her glance, raised instinctively to the face of the picture-clock, saw the hands pointing to ten. Every Monday morning, as far back as she could recall, her father had wound it before going to work--and to-day he had forgotten. Getting up, she opened the glass door, and stood trying to estimate the hour: it must be, she thought, about six. She set the hands, took the key from the nail above the shelf, wound up the weight, and started the pendulum. And the sound of familiar ticking was a relief, releasing at last her inhibited powers of speech. "Mother," she said, "I'll get some supper for you." On Hannah, these simple words had a seemingly magical effect. Habit reasserted itself. She started, and rose almost briskly. "No you won't," she said, "I'll get it. I'd ought to have thought of it before. You must be tired and hungry." Her voice was odd and thin. Janet hesitated a moment, and ceded. "Well, I'll set the dishes on the table, anyway." Janet had sought refuge, wistfully, in the commonplace. And when the meal was ready she strove to eat, though food had become repulsive. "You must take something, mother," she said. "I don't feel as if I ever wanted to eat anything again," she replied. "I know," said Janet, "but you've got to." And she put some of the cold meat, left over from Sunday's dinner, on Hannah's plate. Hannah took up a fork, and laid it down again. Suddenly she said:--"You saw Lise?" "Yes," said Janet. "Where is she?" "In a house--in Boston." "One of--those houses?" "I--I don't know," said Janet. "I think so." "You went there?" "Mr. Tiernan went with me." "She wouldn't come home?" "Not--not just now, mother." "You left her there, in that place? You didn't make her come home?" The sudden vehemence of this question, the shrill note of reproach in Hannah's voice that revealed, even more than the terrible inertia from which she had emerged, the extent of her suffering, for the instant left Janet utterly dismayed. "Oh mother!" she exclaimed. "I tried--I--I couldn't." Hannah pushed back her chair. "I'll go to her, I'll make her come. She's disgraced us, but I'll make her. Where is she? Where is the house?" Janet, terrified, seized her mother's arm. Then she said:--"Lise isn't there any more--she's gone away." "Away and you let her go away? You let your sister go away and be a--a woman of the town? You never loved her--you never had any pity for her." Tears sprang into Janet's eyes--tears of pity mingled with anger. The situation had grown intolerable! Yet how could she tell Hannah where Lise was! "You haven't any right to say that, mother!" she cried. "I did my best. She wouldn't come. I--I can't tell you where she's gone, but she promised to write, to send me her address." "Lise" Hannah's cry seemed like the uncomprehending whimper of a stricken child, and then a hidden cadence made itself felt, a cadence revealing to Janet with an eloquence never before achieved the mystery of mother love, and by some magic of tone was evoked a new image of Lise--of Lise as she must be to Hannah. No waywardness, no degradation or disgrace could efface it. The infant whom Hannah had clutched to her breast, the woman, her sister, whom Janet had seen that day were one--immutably one. This, then, was what it meant to be a mother! All the years of deadening hope had not availed to kill the craving--even in this withered body it was still alive and quick. The agony of that revelation was scarcely to be borne. And it seemed that Lise, even in the place where she was, must have heard that cry and heeded it. And yet--the revelation of Lise's whereabouts, of Lise's contemplated act Janet had nearly been goaded into making, died on her lips. She could not tell Hannah! And Lise's child must not come into a world like this. Even now the conviction remained, fierce, exultant, final. But if Janet had spoken now Hannah would not have heard her. Under the storm she had begun to rock, weeping convulsively.... But gradually her weeping ceased. And to Janet, helplessly watching, this process of congealment was more terrible even than the release that only an unmitigated violence of grief had been able to produce. In silence Hannah resumed her shrunken duties, and when these were finished sat awhile, before going to bed, her hands lying listless in her lap. She seemed to have lived for centuries, to have exhausted the gamut of suffering which, save for that one wild outburst, had been the fruit of commonplace, passive, sordid tragedy that knows no touch of fire.... The next morning Janet was awakened by the siren. Never, even in the days when life had been routine and commonplace, had that sound failed to arouse in her a certain tremor of fear; with its first penetrating shriek, terror invaded her: then, by degrees, overcoming her numbness, came an agonizing realization of tragedy to be faced. The siren blew and blew insistently, as though it never meant to stop; and now for the first time she seemed to detect in it a note of futility. There were those who would dare to defy it. She, for one, would defy it. In that reflection she found a certain fierce joy. And she might lie in bed if she wished --how often had she longed to! But she could not. The room was cold, appallingly empty and silent as she hurried into her clothes. The dining-room lamp was lighted, the table set, her mother was bending over the stove when she reached the kitchen. After the pretence of breakfast was gone through Janet sought relief in housework, making her bed, tidying her room. It was odd, this morning, how her notice of little, familiar things had the power to add to her pain, brought to mind memories become excruciating as she filled the water pitcher from the kitchen tap she found herself staring at the nick broken out of it when Lise had upset it. She recalled Lise's characteristically flippant remark. And there was the streak in the wall-paper caused one night by the rain leaking through the roof. After the bed was made and the room swept she stood a moment, motionless, and then, opening the drawer in the wardrobe took from it the rose which she had wrapped in tissue paper and hidden there, and with a perverse desire as it were to increase the bitterness consuming her, to steep herself in pain, she undid the parcel and held the withered flower to her face. Even now a fragrance, faint yet poignant, clung to it.... She wrapped it up again, walked to the window, hesitated, and then with a sudden determination to destroy this sole relic of her happiness went to the kitchen and flung it into the stove. Hannah, lingering over her morning task of cleaning, did not seem to notice the act. Janet turned to her. "I think I'll go out for a while, mother," she said. "You'd ought to," Hannah replied. "There's no use settin' around here." The silence of the flat was no longer to be endured. And Janet, putting on her coat and hat, descended the stairs. Not once that morning had her mother mentioned Lise; nor had she asked about her own plans--about Ditmar. This at least was a relief; it was the question she had feared most. In the street she met the postman. "I have a letter for you, Miss Janet," he said. And on the pink envelope he handed her, in purple ink, she recognized the unformed, childish handwriting of Lise. "There's great doings down at the City Hall," the postman added "the foreigners are holding mass meetings there." Janet scarcely heard him as she tore open the envelope. "Dear Janet," the letter ran. "The doctor told me I had a false alarm, there was nothing to it. Wouldn't that jar you? Boston's a slow burg, and there's no use of my staying here now. I'm going to New York, and maybe I'll come back when I've had a look at the great white way. I've got the coin, and I gave him the mit to-night. If you haven't anything better to do, drop in at the Bagatelle and give Walters my love, and tell them not to worry at home. There's no use trying to trail me. Your affectionate sister Lise." Janet thrust the letter in her pocket. Then she walked rapidly westward until she came to the liver-coloured facade of the City Hall, opposite the Common. Pushing through the crowd of operatives lingering on the pavement in front of it, she entered the building.... 
49181	----	THE FOOL _A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS_ [Illustration: ACT III FROM THE SELWYN PRODUCTION _Photograph by White Studio_] THE FOOL _A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS_ BY CHANNING POLLOCK "_They called me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns._" [Illustration] PUBLISHERS BRENTANO'S : : : NEW YORK BRENTANO'S LTD. : : LONDON COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY CHANNING POLLOCK _All rights reserved_ _First printing_ _December, 1922_ _Second printing_ _January, 1923_ _Third printing_ _February, 1923_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA The cast of "THE FOOL" as originally presented by Selwyn & Company, at the TIMES SQUARE THEATRE, New York, October 23, 1922 THE FOOL PRODUCED BY FRANK REICHER _Scenic Production and Decorations by_ CLIFFORD B. PEMBER THE PERSONS (_In the order in which they speak_) _Mrs. Henry Gilliam_ MAUDE TRUAX _"Dilly" Gilliam_ REA MARTIN _Mrs. Thornbury_ EDITH SHAYNE _Mr. Barnaby_ GEORGE WRIGHT _Mrs. Tice_ LILLIAN KEMBLE _"Jerry" Goodkind_ LOWELL SHERMAN _Rev. Everett Wadham_ ARTHUR ELLIOTT _Clare Jewett_ PAMELA GAYTHORNE _George F. Goodkind_ HENRY STEPHENSON _"Charlie" Benfield_ ROBERT CUMMINGS _Daniel Gilchrist_ JAMES KIRKWOOD _A Poor Man_ FRANK SYLVESTER _A Servant_ GEORGE LE SOIR _Max Stedtman_ GEOFFREY STEIN _Joe Hennig_ ROLLO LLOYD _Umanski_ FREDRIK VOGEDING "_Grubby_" ARTHUR ELLIOTT _Mack_ FRANK SYLVESTER _Mary Margaret_ SARA SOTHERN _Pearl Hennig_ ADRIENNE MORRISON _Miss Levinson_ WANDA LAURENCE _And a Number of Persons of Minor Importance_ Stage, screen and amateur rights in this play are owned and controlled by the Author, who may be reached care Selwyn & Company, at the Selwyn Theatre, New York. No performances or public readings may be given without his written consent. _THE PERSONS_ (_In the order in which they speak_) MRS. HENRY GILLIAM. "DILLY" GILLIAM. MRS. THORNBURY. MR. BARNABY. MRS. TICE. "JERRY" GOODKIND. REV. EVERETT WADHAM. CLARE JEWETT. GEORGE F. GOODKIND. "CHARLIE" BENFIELD. DANIEL GILCHRIST. A POOR MAN. A SERVANT. MAX STEDTMAN. JOE HENNIG. UMANSKI. GRUBBY. MACK. MARY MARGARET. PEARL HENNIG. AND A NUMBER OF PERSONS OF MINOR IMPORTANCE. _THE PLACES_ ACT I.--_The Church of the Nativity._ _Christmas Eve, 1918._ ACT II.--_The Goodkinds' Home._ _November, 1919._ ACT III.--"_Overcoat Hall._" _October, 1920._ ACT IV.--_Gilchrist's Room--"Upstairs."_ _Christmas Eve, 1920._ _The action takes place in New York City._ THE FOOL _ACT I._ SCENE: _The Church of the Nativity. New York._ _The set, representing only the chancel, is as deep as possible, so that, even when its foreground is brightly illuminated, the detail back of that is lost in shadows. Pierced by three fine stained glass windows, the rear wall looms above the altar, on which the candles are not lighted. In front of that is the sanctuary, and, in front of that, the communion rail, with three steps to the stage. Just right of these steps is a very tall and beautiful Christmas tree. The tree has been expensively trimmed, and has a practical connection for an electric-lighted ornament still to be placed at its top. Down R., a door to the choir room, and, down L., a door to the parish house and the street. These doors are exactly alike. Down L., two folding wooden chairs that have been brought in for temporary use. A tall stepladder L. of the tree, facing front. Down R., two wooden boxes of ornaments, that on top open and half emptied. There is a pile of tissue-wrapped and ribboned packages under the tree, and a general litter of gifts, boxes, and crumpled paper everywhere. The Church of the Nativity is fashionable and luxurious; the effect of the set must be that of a peeping into a building spacious, magnificent, and majestic._ AT RISE: _Christmas Eve, 1918. The act begins in bright day-light--about half past three in the afternoon--so that the early winter twilight may have set in before its end. The sun's rays now come through a stained-glass window above the door L., so that the R. of the stage is bathed in white, the C. in blue, and the L. in a deep straw. Two women and a girl are discovered._ MRS. HENRY GILLIAM, _bending over the box down L., is fat, forty, rich and self-satisfied. Her daughter_, DAFFODIL, _commonly called "Dilly," perched upon the ladder, is a "flapper." As regards her mind, this means that, at twenty, she is wise and witty, cynical and confident, worldly and material beyond her elders. Physically, she is pretty, and, of course, has not hesitated to help out nature wherever she has thought it advisable. Considering what has been spent on her education, she is surprisingly ignorant and discourteous, particularly to her mother, who bores her dreadfully._ LEILA THORNBURY _is a divorcee; thirty, smart, good-looking, with something feverish in her face, in her eyes, in her movements. Deliberately attractive to men, she is disliked, in proportion, by women. All three are very expensively dressed. Mrs. Thornbury has laid aside a fur coat on the cost of which twenty families might have lived a year. She is at the end of the stage, concerned with a number of dolls and other toys._ MRS. GILLIAM [_Turning with some ornament, on a level with her eyes she observes a generous view of_ DILLY'S _nether limbs_]: Dilly, for pity's sake, pull down your skirt! [_As_ DILLY _pays no attention, she continues to_ MRS. THORNBURY] I don't know what skirts are coming to! DILLY They're not coming to the ground, mother. You can be sure of _that_! MRS. GILLIAM What _I_ can't understand is why our young women want to go around looking like chorus girls! MRS. THORNBURY Perhaps they've noticed the kind of men that marry chorus girls. DILLY Salesmanship, mother, begins with a willingness to show goods. MRS. GILLIAM Dilly! _Pull down your skirt!_ DILLY I can't! That's all there is; there isn't any more! MRS. THORNBURY [_Holding up two dolls_]: What are we going to do with these? MRS. GILLIAM [_Despairingly surveying the profusion_]: Goodness knows! MRS. THORNBURY I've two engagements before dinner, and I've got to go home and undress for the opera. DILLY _I_ gave up a dance for this. MRS. GILLIAM A dance at this hour? DILLY People dance at any hour, mother. MRS. GILLIAM What do they do it for? DILLY For something to do. [_To_ MRS. THORNBURY] _We're_ young and we've got to have life and gaiety; haven't we, Mrs. Thornbury? MRS. THORNBURY We've got to have something. I don't know what it is, but I know we have to keep going to get it. MRS. GILLIAM But you all waste your time so dreadfully. I'm busy, too, but my life is given to the service of others. DILLY What could be sweeter? MRS. GILLIAM Dilly! Nobody knows better than you that I've never had a selfish thought! Mr. Gilliam---- DILLY Of the Gilliam Groceries, Inc. MRS. GILLIAM _Mr. Gilliam_ says I'm far _too_ good! MRS. THORNBURY We agree with him, Mrs. Gilliam. MRS. GILLIAM Only yesterday I gave five hundred pounds of coffee and sugar to the Salvation Army! DILLY And today father jumped the price of sugar to thirty-two cents! MRS. THORNBURY Now--Dilly! MRS. GILLIAM [_With rising emotion_]: One gets precious little reward.... I can tell you! I sent helpful thoughts from the Bible to all Mr. Gilliam's employes! Now they're on strike, and the man that got "Be content with your wages" is leading the strikers!... Where's the Star of Bethlehem? [_To conceal her agitation, she has turned to the box._] DILLY It doesn't work, mother. MRS. THORNBURY Are those your husband's men--on the front steps? MRS. GILLIAM Oh, no! Those are people from the sweat shops! They're starving, I hear, and Mr. Gilliam says it serves 'em right! [_Bringing forth a small case_] What's the matter with the Star of Bethlehem? DILLY Oh, the usual! Whoever heard of the lights working on a Christmas Tree? MRS. GILLIAM [_Holding up the star_]: But this _must_ work. Mrs. Tice had it made to order--of Parisian diamonds. It cost a hundred dollars. DILLY [_Reaching for the gewgaw_]: All right! It's better than nothing! [_She takes it, and starts to ascend_] Hold the ladder, mother! It wiggles! [MRS. GILLIAM _obeys_.] MRS. THORNBURY [_She has ribboned both dolls, and sets that just finished beside its companion on the chair_]: There! [_Rises_] I'm half dead, and there _can't_ be any more presents! [_Starts up for her coat_] I'd give my left hand for a cigarette! MRS. GILLIAM Not here! MRS. THORNBURY I don't know why not. We've had almost everything else. DILLY Mother's so _Mid-Victorian_! And ministers are finding they've got to do _something_ to make church-going attractive. What do we get out of it now? I've heard of preachers who go in for dances and movies, and they draw crowds, too. Naturally! Who wouldn't go to church to get a squint at Douglas Fairbanks? [_She has hung the star_] I'm through! MRS. GILLIAM Then come down. DILLY Believe me, I'm glad to get off this thing! [_She descends unsteadily_] When I think I broke an engagement with the best fox-trotter in New York to do a shimmy with a ladder---- [MR. BARNABY, _package-laden, enters L. He is the sexton, and of the age, manner and appearance peculiar to sextons_] Oh, Mr. Barnaby! MRS. THORNBURY [_Turns and is appalled at his burden_]: What have you got? MR. BARNABY Some more presents. MRS. GILLIAM Good Lord! MR. BARNABY [_Deposits his bundles on the steps L.C._]: Mrs. Tice brought them. She and Mr. Jerry Goodkind. [MRS. GILLIAM _nudges_ DILLY] They're just coming in. MRS. GILLIAM [_Sotto voce_]: Dilly, powder your nose! [DILLY _takes her bag from the communion rail, and obeys_] Mr. Barnaby, our star won't light. Will you see if you can fix it? [MR. BARNABY'S _mind is on_ MRS. TICE. _She is much too rich to open a door. He is edging L._] MRS. THORNBURY And Mr. Barnaby----[_Voices off L._] MR. BARNABY One moment! [_He opens the door L. Enter_ MRS. TICE _followed by_ JERRY GOODKIND. MRS. TICE _has just entered middle-age, and refuses to shut the door behind her. Her wealth, which has given her an air of great authority, has made it possible for her to look a smartly-dressed young matron. The truth is that she is clinging to youth in an ever-lessening hope of "keeping" her husband. Beneath the "air of authority" is something cowed, and worried, and unhappy. Just so, beneath the smiling, careless surface of_ JERRY _lies iron. He can be very ugly when he wishes, and he is always sufficiently determined to get what he wants, though he gets it generally by showing the urbane surface._ JERRY _would describe himself as a "kidder." He is 35; sleek, well-groomed, and perfectly satisfied with himself. His most engaging point is a perpetual smile._] MRS. TICE Hello, everybody! [_"Everybody" returns the greeting_] Who are those people on the church steps? A lot of dirty foreigners blocking the sidewalk! MR. BARNABY It's the grating, Mrs. Tice. The furnace room's underneath, and they're trying to keep warm. MRS. TICE Well, let 'em try somewhere else! [_Recollection of unpleasant contact causes her to brush her coat_] I don't mean to be unkind, but there must be missions or something! [MR. BARNABY _removes the coat, and then climbs to attend to the star_] MRS. THORNBURY We didn't hope to see _you_ here, Mr. Goodkind. MRS. TICE I met him in front of Tiffany's! JERRY The most dangerous corner in New York! MRS. TICE And lured him here by mentioning that Clare Jewett was helping us. DILLY Somebody page Mr. Gilchrist! MRS. GILLIAM Dilly! What a way of saying that Clare is engaged to the assistant rector!... Dilly's looking well today, isn't she, Mr. Goodkind? So young, and---- JERRY And fresh. DILLY Oh, boy! MRS. TICE _Do_ come and see what I've got for the girls of the Bible Class! MRS. THORNBURY Testaments? MRS. TICE That's just it; I _haven't_! Bibles are so bromidic! I want to give them something they can _really use_! And it's so hard to think of presents for those girls; they've got everything! [_Opening a small parcel she has withheld from_ MR. BARNABY] Guess how I've solved the problem! MRS. THORNBURY I can't! MRS. GILLIAM I haven't an idea! DILLY I'm dying to know! MRS. TICE [_Impressively. Displaying the gift_]: Sterling silver vanity cases! DILLY [_Taking it_]: How ducky! MRS. THORNBURY Charming! MRS. GILLIAM An inspiration! DILLY [_Showing it to_ JERRY]: All complete--lip-stick, powder and some nice, red rouge. JERRY [_Cynically_]: To put on before you pray? DILLY Precisely. To put on--before we--_prey_! MRS. THORNBURY [_Gathering up her coat_]: Well, good people, this is where I leave you! MRS. GILLIAM [_With the air of one bereft_]: Oh, Mrs. Thornbury! MRS. THORNBURY I've done my "one kind deed" today, and I've an engagement for dinner. JERRY Permit me. [_Helping her._] Some coat! MRS. THORNBURY Yes ... thanks.... See you all tomorrow at the Christmas Service! Good-bye, everybody! And Mr. Goodkind! Miss _Jewett's_ wrapping things in the choir room! [_Everybody laughs. She exits L._] MR. BARNABY I'll just try those lights. [_Exits L._] MRS. GILLIAM She has an engagement for dinner, but you notice she didn't say with whom! I don't think they ought to allow divorced women in the church! MRS. TICE [_Virtuously_]: The church _won't_ marry them! MRS. GILLIAM _That's_ the trouble! DILLY [_Indicating_]: The church _will_ let 'em give stained glass windows! MRS. GILLIAM Where does she get all her money? MRS. TICE Billy settled for thirty-six thousand a year! JERRY [_With growing amusement_]: Think of getting thirty-six thousand a year out of munitions!... Gee, what a lot of lives that coat must have cost! [_Everybody laughs, and, on the laugh, enter_ DR. WADHAM. _He is_ not _the stage clergyman. On the contrary, he is a very pleasant and plausible person--plausible because he believes implicitly in himself. He has passed sixty, and has a really kind heart. But he has had no experience with life, and he has never been uncomfortable._] DILLY [_Hearing the door closed, looks around. Surprised_]: Here's Dr. Wadham! MRS. GILLIAM Why, Doctor! MRS. TICE We didn't know you were back. JERRY _I_ didn't know you'd been away, Doctor. DR. WADHAM [_Shakes hands_]: Ten days; attending a Conference on the Proper Use of Eucharistic Candles. It's a subject on which I feel _rather_ strongly. [_Turns R._] It's pleasant to see you, Mrs. Tice. And Miss Daffodil. MRS. GILLIAM Isn't Dilly looking _wonderful_? DR. WADHAM _Quite_ wonderful! [_Glancing at the tree_] And what a beautiful tree! The star lights up, I suppose. DILLY Well, we have hopes! DR. WADHAM Don't let me interrupt. I've only dropped in to keep an appointment with the wardens. MRS. GILLIAM We're all through, except for putting these gifts under the tree. [_She busies herself with that task_] Miss Jewett will be in with hers any minute. [JERRY, _who has been contemplating an excursion to the choir room, returns from the door, and helps_ MRS. GILLIAM] The star is _real_ imitation diamonds. A gift from Mrs. Tice. MRS. TICE [_Joining_ DR. WADHAM _L.C._]: Speaking of gifts, Doctor---- DR. WADHAM Yes, dear lady. MRS. TICE My husband wanted me to have a little talk with you about his check. [_She pauses for encouragement, finding what she has been told to say a trifle difficult_] You know, he promised five thousand dollars to beautify the parlor of the Parish House. DR. WADHAM [_Foreseeing trouble_]: Oh, yes. MRS. TICE And since then--well, frankly, Doctor, John was very much upset about last Sunday's sermon. Mr. Gilchrist preached from the text about the rich man entering the Kingdom of Heaven. DR. WADHAM Always a trifle dangerous. MRS. TICE Yes, and last Sunday it seemed as if he were directing _all_ his remarks at John. We're in the first pew, you know, and John says he doesn't like to complain, but there's getting to be altogether too much of this--Bolshevism. John says the preachers are more than half to blame for the present social unrest. I heard the sermon, and I agree with John that some of it was positively insulting! DR. WADHAM Mr. Gilchrist is young. JERRY Mr. Gilchrist is a nut! MRS. TICE Do you know what he said, Doctor? He said all this--"decking the church"--was making an accomplice of God. He said we couldn't take credit to ourselves for returning a small portion of our _ill-gotten gains_! MRS. GILLIAM _Small portion!_ When I've just given away five hundred pounds of coffee! MRS. TICE He said charity wasn't giving away what you didn't want! MRS. GILLIAM It was _good_ coffee, too! Our second best coffee! MRS. TICE Of course, what John objected to was the reference to rents--to charging clerks and bookkeepers more than they could pay for "wretched little flats." John says he doesn't come here to be told how to run his business! MRS. GILLIAM Quite right! And I don't pay seven thousand dollars a year to hear my husband's coffee roasted! [_They all laugh--the more because of the previous tension._ MRS. GILLIAM, _surprised at first, sees the point, and joins in the laughter_.] Well, you understand what I mean! DR. WADHAM We understand, Mrs. Gilliam. MRS. GILLIAM Personally, I'm very fond of Mr. Gilchrist. His father had stock in our stores. But I _don't_ think he's a good influence. This used to be a really _exclusive_ church. Now, whenever Mr. Gilchrist preaches, there's such a crush of undesirable people in the galleries you can hardly get to your pew. We don't have that trouble with Dr. Wadham! [CLARE JEWETT _enters R., her arms full of parcels_. CLARE _is 28. Smartly dressed, though in a fashion that suggests thought rather than expenditure, and pretty, in spite of a certain hardness. The next sentence arrests her, and she stands in the doorway; not eavesdropping, but not interrupting._] MRS. TICE Mr. Gilchrist was such a promising young man! MRS. GILLIAM So rich, and happy! DILLY [_Tantalising_ JERRY]: And in love! DR. WADHAM He's still rich, and in love, and, I think, he's still happy. JERRY I've told you; he's a nut! MRS. GILLIAM I wonder if that's it. Don't laugh! He wasn't like this before he went overseas as chaplain. Is it possible he was _gassed_--or something? CLARE Here's another armful of presents. DR. WADHAM Oh, how do you do, Miss Jewett? CLARE I'm very well, thank you. JERRY [_Starting to her_]: Hello, Clare! This is a---- MRS. GILLIAM [_Intercepting him C._]: Surprise! Ha! And you've been waiting for her half an hour! CLARE [_To_ MRS. GILLIAM]: I'm afraid we'll have to get Mr. Barnaby. There are so many packages. DR. WADHAM Can't I help? CLARE Will you, Doctor? And Mr. Hinkle's in there praying for someone to consult about the Christmas music. DR. WADHAM I told Mr. Hinkle the choir'd better begin by singing, "Peace, Perfect Peace, With the Loved Ones Far Away." [DILLY _laughs and turns up L., chanting "My Wife's Gone to the Country." Scandalized_, MRS. GILLIAM _hushes her_.] MRS. TICE And, Doctor! About the Parish House ... shall I tell my husband you'll speak to Mr. Gilchrist? DR. WADHAM Yes, I think you may even tell him that's why we're here today. [_He exits R._] MRS. GILLIAM Dilly, _do_ hurry! MRS. TICE Can't I drive you home? MRS. GILLIAM Thank you so much! Good-bye, Miss Jewett. Good-bye, Mr. Goodkind. We must arrange for you to come up to dinner as soon as the holidays are over. [_He bows_] Dilly, say "good-bye" to Mr. Goodkind! DILLY Goodbye-ee! [MR. BARNABY _re-enters L. The door closing attracts_ MRS. GILLIAM] MRS. GILLIAM Oh, Mr. Barnaby, how about the lights? MR. BARNABY I think the trouble's outside. MRS. GILLIAM You'll be sure to fix it? [MR. BARNABY _nods_.] MRS. TICE And will you put us in the car? [MR. BARNABY _nods again, and goes L._] I rather dread that mob at the door. [_She follows, groping in her bag for a bill to give_ MR. BARNABY] Good-bye, Mr. Goodkind ... and Miss Jewett, and, if I don't see you tomorrow, a Merry, _Merry_ Christmas! [_There is a chorus of repetitions of this wish, amid which exeunt_ MRS. TICE, MRS. GILLIAM, DILLY _and_ MR. BARNABY.] CLARE It's funny to find you in church. JERRY Why? My father's the senior warden. CLARE [_Laughs and takes up a parcel_]: Whatever else you inherit, Jerry, it's not likely to be religion! JERRY Religion doesn't trouble the old man much--except Sundays. I came here to see you. CLARE Why? JERRY You've been avoiding me. CLARE Nonsense! Come help me with these parcels. JERRY I want to talk to you. CLARE That's just it, Jerry. You always want to talk to me, and always to say something I don't want to hear. JERRY Why not? CLARE [_Simply, but not very surely_]: I'm in love with someone else! JERRY You're _what_? CLARE [_Looking defiantly into the mocking face quite close to hers and, this time, with conviction_]: I'm in love with someone else! JERRY You're in love with Clare Jewett! CLARE You're very rude. I'm _engaged_ to Mr. Gilchrist, and he loves me, and believes in me, and your sense of decency and fair play ... JERRY Inherited from my father? CLARE ... should keep you from proposing to a woman who's going to marry ... JERRY You're not going to marry Mr. Gilchrist. [_He lounges against the ladder._] What's the use bluffing? We've known each other since childhood. You know I'm not going to give up anything I want because it belongs to somebody else. And I know you're not going to give up what _you_ want--comfort and luxury--for a crazy man who wears his collar hind-side before! CLARE Jerry! JERRY Now that's admitted, let's go on. CLARE Mr. Gilchrist isn't exactly poverty-stricken! JERRY No; he got quite a lot of money from his father. You like him and when you said "yes," you thought you were getting somebody you liked, and all the rest of it, too. But something's gone wrong with Gilchrist, and you know it! CLARE Why do you say that? JERRY Because, if you didn't before, you heard this afternoon. I saw you standing in the door. And I'm going to tell you a few things more! CLARE I don't want to listen! JERRY Maybe--but you will! Do you know that your young trouble-hunter has given away nearly one-tenth of his capital in three months? CLARE No, and I don't believe it! JERRY All right; ask my father! The old man has his money in trust! Gilchrist won't touch his income from Gilliam Groceries, because they're profiteering, and he's preaching such anarchy that both wardens are coming this afternoon to complain to Dr. Wadham! I don't want you to throw yourself away on a raving bug! CLARE And your advice is---- JERRY Marry me. I'm a nice fellow, too--and I can give you what you really care about. You're over your ears in debt, without any chance of paying up--or cutting down. And you are, shall we say, twenty-nine in October? I know what it cost you when your father died, and you had to come down a peg. You don't want to keep on--coming down, _do_ you? CLARE And so--you advise me to marry you? JERRY Yes. CLARE [_Looking at him squarely and significantly_]: Knowing all I _do_ know about you? JERRY I don't see how _that_ concerns you. CLARE It proves you don't love me. JERRY I want you, and I'm offering marriage to get you. CLARE You haven't said one word of love. JERRY I've said: "What's the use bluffing?" I'm no movie hero--and no crazy dreamer. I'm a little shop-worn, perhaps--maybe, a little soiled--but I'm sane, and I'm solvent. You're good-looking, and smart, and a lady. You'll help my standing and I'll help your credit. For the rest--we needn't bother each other too much.... What do you say? CLARE I say it's--_revoltingly_--sordid! JERRY [_Looks at her an instant_]: All right! [_Takes out his watch, looks at that, and crosses to L._] You think it's sordid at 3.45 on Christmas Eve. Well, keep your ears and your mind open, and see how you feel in the morning. My telephone's six nine four two Rhinelander--and this is the last time I shall ask you! [_Puts his hand on the knob_]. CLARE Wait! [_He turns back_] Whatever you believe of me, I love Mr. Gilchrist! JERRY Rhinelander six nine four two. CLARE And, what's more, I'm going to marry him! JERRY Rhinelander six nine four two. CLARE Jerry, I think you're the most detestable person I've ever known in my life! JERRY [_Laughing_]: Rhinelander six ... nine ... four ... two! [_He exits L., leaving_ CLARE _humiliated and fuming. She stands still a moment, and then starts to exit R. At the tree, she throws down the parcels she is still carrying, and, as she does so_, DR. WADHAM _re-enters R._] DR. WADHAM Why ... Miss Jewett! CLARE I'm nervous!... I want to finish up and go home! [_She exits R._ DR. WADHAM _looks after her; then picks up the parcels_. JERRY'S _father_, GEORGE GOODKIND, _enters L. He is about the Doctor's age--sixty--but he has had vast experience with life, and he enjoys comfort now because he has been very uncomfortable._ GOODKIND _is much like any other successful business man you might meet--and like--at dinner. He is brisk and economical of time, but pleasant, and, unless his interests are involved, extremely amiable. He does what he conceives to be his duty by his family, his community, and his God, and feels that all three should appreciate it._] DR. WADHAM Ah ... Mr. Goodkind! [_Glances at his watch_] You're early! GOODKIND How do you do, Doctor? [_Puts down his hat_] Walked out of a meeting. I don't like letting religion interfere with business, but I wanted to get here before Benfield. It's about young Gilchrist. DR. WADHAM Shall we go into my study? GOODKIND Benfield's coming here, and I've only a few minutes. Did you know Gilchrist proposes to preach a Christmas sermon about the strike? DR. WADHAM What strike? GOODKIND This garment strike. He announced his subject from the pulpit, and Benfield's furious. DR. WADHAM Mr. Benfield isn't interested in clothing. GOODKIND No, but he's invested heavily in my West Virginia coal mines, and down there we're on the verge of the biggest walk-out in our history. You see what I mean? DR. WADHAM Yes. GOODKIND The labor problem's none of the church's business. Or any outsider's business. It's a worrisome subject, and there's no good stirring it up. That's what you want to tell Gilchrist! DR. WADHAM I have told him ... frequently. GOODKIND And what's the answer? DR. WADHAM He says every problem ought to be the church's business, and that, until the church becomes a power in live issues, it isn't a power in life! GOODKIND He won't listen to reason? DR. WADHAM No. GOODKIND Then he'll have to listen to something else. If he persists about this Christmas sermon--[BARNABY _enters L._ GOODKIND _turns. Impatiently_] What is it, Barnaby? MR. BARNABY There's a man out there wants to see Mr. Gilchrist. GOODKIND What kind of a man? MR. BARNABY [_Indifferently_]: A poor man. I think he's a Jew. GOODKIND Who ever heard of a poor Jew? DR. WADHAM Mr. Gilchrist isn't here. MR. BARNABY I told him that, but he won't go away. I wanted to ask had I better send for the police? DR. WADHAM Oh, I wouldn't do that! MR. BARNABY Why don't he go over to the Synagogue instead of hanging around a Christian Church? Mr. Gilchrist gave this fellow his overcoat. I suppose he's come back for the gloves! DR. WADHAM Tell him I'll speak to Mr. Gilchrist. [MR. BARNABY _shakes his head despairingly and exits_.] GOODKIND Well, there you are, and what I wanted to talk about privately is ... what's got into the boy? Has he gone crazy? DR. WADHAM I've asked myself that. I've asked myself if what he saw in France---- GOODKIND Exactly. A lot of young fellows go off the handle and start out to reform the world, but this lad has run through twenty thousand dollars in less than three months! DR. WADHAM In addition to his salary? GOODKIND Yes. I could understand if he'd spent the money on himself, but he hasn't! He's given it away! [DR. WADHAM _shakes his head_] Gilchrist's father was my first partner, and I got the boy in here, and I feel responsible for him. As trustee, I can refuse to turn over another penny of his principal, and, as senior warden, I can demand his resignation from this church. But I want him to have every chance. Tell him if he'll get a grip on himself, and reconsider tomorrow's sermon----[_Enter_ BENFIELD _L._] Here's Benfield! ["CHARLIE" BENFIELD _is fifty, and a "rough diamond." He is self-made, and proud of it, though nothing really good--nothing of education, or refinement, or knowledge and appreciation of fine things--has gone into the making. He is arrogant, domineering, used to having his own way, and to sweeping aside obstacles. He comes in with his hat on his head, and it is a minute later, when_ DR. WADHAM'S _glance makes him aware of the fact, that he removes it._] BENFIELD Hello, George! Howd'y', Doctor! Am I late? DR. WADHAM [BENFIELD'S _very presence makes him nervous_]: We've been waiting for you. Hadn't we better retire to my study if we're going to discuss Mr. Gilchrist? BENFIELD We're not! We've been discussing long enough! All I got to say now is: Gilchrist leaves this church or I do! GOODKIND Now wait a minute! DR. WADHAM Isn't that a little mandatory? BENFIELD I don't know what it is, but it goes! I've worked hard all my life, and now this fellow gets up and tells me what I've worked for is nothing, and that I'm nothing, and all my ideas is wrong! DR. WADHAM He didn't say that. BENFIELD Oh, yes, he did--last Sunday and every Sunday! I've got two million dollars tied up in Black River mines, and I'm not paying to have the socialist papers down there print that my own minister is in favor of strikes! GOODKIND Wait a minute, Charlie! That's not the tone to take to Dr. Wadham! We all feel that Gilchrist has gone too far, and we're agreed---- BENFIELD Does he preach tomorrow? GOODKIND We're agreed that if he insists on preaching about the strike---- BENFIELD He goes? GOODKIND He goes! BENFIELD All right. And if he don't insist? GOODKIND He stays. BENFIELD And I go! [_He gets his hat and returns._ DANIEL GILCHRIST _enters L._] You can decide which of us is the most valu'ble to your church! Because I tell you again--and straight--this church ain't big enough for Gilchrist and me! DANIEL [_Smiling_]: A church that isn't big enough for two little men, Mr. Benfield, must be somewhat crowded for God! [BENFIELD _cannot trust himself to answer. He jams his hat upon his head, and exits L._ GILCHRIST _is 33. He was a football hero at college, and shows it. He was a gentleman before he went to college, and he has been one ever since, and he shows that, too. What he doesn't show is what one expects in a "reformer"--narrowness, hardness, something forbidding. An ascetic, beyond doubt, self-denial has only made him trim and fit. The goodness that shines in his face is partly good humor. He has honest eyes, with fire in them, and there is strength and zeal back of that--strength and zeal that will leave their mark later. As yet, his exaltation is chiefly in his smile. His great gift is charm--and sympathy. At this moment, he wears no overcoat, and is glowing from the cold. Still smiling, he looks after_ BENFIELD.] DR. WADHAM [_Embarrassed_]: Mr. Benfield is a little--ah--a little---- DANIEL Yes; a little. [GOODKIND _crosses for his hat, and observes_ DANIEL, _who is chafing his wrists_.] GOODKIND Pneumonia weather, Daniel! Where's your overcoat? DANIEL Outside. GOODKIND Oh, yes. There's a man out there, too, who says he won't go 'way until he sees you. [_He joins_ DANIEL] Dan, you're an awfully decent fellow, but I still think you made a mistake going into the church. If you ever want to talk it over with me, I'd be glad to help you--any time! You know that! Good-bye, Doctor! Good-bye, Dan, and a Merry Christmas! [_He exits L._] DR. WADHAM Daniel, you're in trouble. DANIEL [_Smiling_]: Doctor, I'm used to it. DR. WADHAM This time it's serious. I've warned you often. I don't see how you can have been so blind. DANIEL I haven't been blind. DR. WADHAM Then you don't care for your position in this church. DANIEL [_With feeling_]: There's only one thing I care for more. DR. WADHAM And that is? DANIEL To be worthy of it. DR. WADHAM When you're as old as I am, Daniel, you'll understand that being honest doesn't necessarily mean being disagreeable. DANIEL Doesn't it mean--telling the truth? DR. WADHAM Do you know the truth, Daniel? DANIEL Yes; don't you? Doesn't every man--in his heart? And if we want to keep it in our hearts, and never think about it or look it in the face, shouldn't someone pry open the door and cry: "Behold"?... I didn't tell them anything they didn't know, Doctor. I don't _know_ anything they don't know. I just reminded them---- DR. WADHAM [_Exploding on the last word_]: That we were heathen! DANIEL That we were Christians, and every man our brother, and that we were sitting, overdressed and overfed, in a Christian Church, while our brother froze and starved--outside--in a Christian World! DR. WADHAM That isn't fair! These good people have given---- DANIEL _Given_--what cost them nothing! Frumpery and trumpery and diamond stars! That's how all of us give--what we don't need; what we don't even want!... You're a good man, Doctor, and, honestly, what would you say tomorrow if your wife told you she'd sold her rings, and given the money to the poor? DR. WADHAM Why, I---- DANIEL You'd say she was crazy! DR. WADHAM But there's no necessity---- DANIEL Oh, yes, there is! There'll be people lying in the parks tonight. What would Mrs. Tice say if I invited them to sleep in her pew? DR. WADHAM That there's no reason why she should share dirt and disease! DANIEL Exactly! We may _believe_ in the brotherhood of man, but we _know_ about germs! We're not sure what is truth, but there's one thing we _are_ sure of, and _mean_ to be sure of, and that's our own comfort! You know that, and I know it, and they know it--but we mustn't say it! All right; in God's name, what _are_ we to say? DR. WADHAM [_Who has been nervously regarding this raving as confirming the worst fears of_ MR. GOODKIND]: Precisely. And that brings us to tomorrow's sermon. I understand you intend to talk about the strike. [_Dan nods "Yes"_] And that's not a very pleasant subject for Christmas. Wouldn't it be more fitting to preach from the text, "Glory to God in the Highest"? DANIEL "And on earth, Peace, good will toward men"? DR. WADHAM [_Delighted_]: Yes! You might say, "There are many kinds of peace----" DANIEL But there aren't! DR. WADHAM There is physical peace--peace that came with the end of this cruel war! DANIEL There _is_ no peace! There is only fear--and hate--and vanity--and lust, and envy, and greed--of men and nations! There are only people preying on one another, and a hungry horde at the very doors of your church!... My text will be: "And Peter followed afar off." DR. WADHAM I don't understand. DANIEL [_Into his tone, hitherto indignantly human, comes something mystic--something divine_]: We all follow--afar off. DR. WADHAM [_Alarmed; not at the words, but at that "something divine"_]: Daniel ... my dear fellow! DANIEL Don't worry. I'm quite sane. Only--I've been wondering about that for a long time. DR. WADHAM Wondering? DANIEL What would happen if anybody really tried to live like Christ. DR. WADHAM [_Shaking his head_]: It can't be done. DANIEL Isn't it worth trying? Men risk their lives--every day--in experiments far less worth while. We've had centuries of "fear, and hate, and greed"--and where have they brought us? Why not try love? DR. WADHAM How can you make them try? DANIEL By showing that it would work. DR. WADHAM It _won't_ work, Daniel. It's a beautiful ideal, but it won't work. Times have changed, and things are different. Life isn't as simple as it was two thousand years ago. The trouble with you, Daniel, is that you're not practical. DANIEL I wonder. DR. WADHAM And the great need of the church is practical men. We mustn't take the Scriptures too literally. We must try to interpret their spirit. And, above all, we must please our congregations, or we shan't have any. And then what becomes of our influence? Better fall back on my text for tomorrow, Daniel. DANIEL I can't. DR. WADHAM At least, you must promise not to discuss the strike. DANIEL I can't do that, Doctor. DR. WADHAM Or else let me take the pulpit. DANIEL I won't do that! [_A pause._] DR. WADHAM Very well! Preach your Christmas sermon, and afterward---- DANIEL Yes? DR. WADHAM I think you may find a greater field of usefulness elsewhere. [_A long pause. The men look at each other, and then_ DANIEL _turns away to conceal his emotion. He goes up for his hat, and returns._] I'm sorry, Daniel. I know you've been very happy in your work here. I know how failure hurts. But you saw it coming, and you wouldn't turn aside. DANIEL [_He looks up with flashing eyes_]: The man who turns away from his vision--lies! [_Shakes hands_] It's all right, Doctor. [_He crosses L._ CLARE JEWETT, _ready for the street, enters R._] DR. WADHAM [_Brightly_]: Well, Miss Jewett! [DANIEL _hears the name and stops. He is consoled by her very presence_] What's happened to the choir? CLARE Mr. Hinkle cut his finger. I've been applying first aid. DR. WADHAM Woman's traditional mission--to bind our wounds. [_He turns to exit, and sees_ DANIEL. _He is struck by the double significance of his remark, and the timeliness of_ CLARE'S _arrival_.] Well, I must be going! Step into my study in the morning, Daniel, and we'll have a look at your sermon! [_He exits L. From here the lights dim very slowly._] CLARE I hope I never see another doll! Got anything on your mind, Dan? DANIEL [_Quickly_]: What do you---- CLARE I mean anything special to do? DANIEL Oh!--No. CLARE Take me home. DANIEL [_He beams_]: _I'm_ getting _my_ Christmas present early! [_Gets his hat._] CLARE Where's your coat? DANIEL Outside. That is--I lent it to a friend. Oh, I've got another--somewhere! CLARE But you can't go out without a coat. [_Looks at wrist watch_] Anyway, I told the taxi man to come back at half past four. That's the worst of not having a car. Well, we may as well sit down! [_He assists her, but his mind is afar._] What's the matter with you, Dan? DANIEL Nothing important. CLARE There will be if you insist on going around without an overcoat! [_Looking at him narrowly_] You're too generous. [_He is still afar._] I say you're too generous! How are we going to be married if you go on giving things away? DANIEL [_Laughs_]: Is generosity a fault in a husband? CLARE That depends. Is it true you've been giving away--well--large sums of money? DANIEL Who told you that? CLARE A little bird. [_He laughs_] And that you've refused to take part of your income? DANIEL Little bird tell you that? CLARE Yes. DANIEL Must have been a cuckoo! CLARE Is it true? DANIEL About the money? Yes. CLARE Why? DANIEL Well, there's the strike, and a good deal of unemployment, and I've got so much. Why--_I've got you!_ CLARE [_Rises_]: Let's not talk about it now. [_She turns L. Hesitates; looks at her wrist watch; looks off L._] Yes; let's!--You're so changed. I hardly know you. We don't seem to want the same things any more. DANIEL What do _you_ want, Clare? CLARE I want to be happy. DANIEL That's exactly what I want! CLARE How can anybody be happy without money? DANIEL How can anybody be happy _with_ it? Anyway, do you think people are? Happier than the people who just have enough? CLARE In our day and age there's nothing worse than poverty! There's nothing more degrading than having to scrimp, and save, and do without, and keep up appearances! I've tried it ... ever since my father died ... and I know! I can't do it any longer, and I won't! DANIEL Clare! CLARE [_She turns away, and comes back somewhat calmer_]: I don't want to quarrel with you, Dan. I just want you to be sensible.... I love you, but I love the good things of life, too. I like to be warm and comfortable. DANIEL You can be sure of that. CLARE But that's only the beginning. I want good clothes, and furs, and my car, and money to spend when I like. I want my own house, and my own servants, and a husband who amounts to something. I'm no different from other women of my class. DANIEL I hoped you were. CLARE A year or two ago people thought you were going to be a Bishop. Today you've made an enemy of every influential man in the church. All that may be very noble, but I'm not noble, and I don't pretend to be. I don't feel any call to sacrifice myself for others, and I don't think you have any right to ask it! DANIEL I do ask it, Clare. CLARE You mean you're going on like this? DANIEL I mean I can't give you expensive clothes, and servants, and a big house while all about us people are hungry. CLARE What do you propose to give me? DANIEL A chance to help. CLARE To help wash the dishes, I suppose, in a three-room flat in a side street! DANIEL And to visit the sick, and befriend the friendless. CLARE A charming prospect! DANIEL It really is, Clare. You don't know how happy we can be with work, and our modest plenty. There's so much to do--and they won't let me do it here. We've got to get _near_ the people in trouble, and we can't with a big house and all that. I don't think we shall come to a three-room flat. [_He smiles_] We'll have five or six rooms, and our books, and each other. CLARE I can't believe you're serious. You've always been a dreamer, but I can't believe you're going through with this fantastic nonsense! DANIEL I've chosen a narrow path, dear, but I hoped it might be wide enough for us both. CLARE It isn't. With your means and opportunities, you're offering me what any bank clerk would give his wife. I thought you loved me, but you're utterly selfish, and I think a little mad. You've a right to throw away your own life, but you've no right to throw away mine. [_She hands him his ring_] Our engagement is off. [_A pause. She starts for the door, and then hesitates, looks at her wrist watch, waits for him to call her back. When he doesn't, she returns._] Don't you think you're making a terrible mistake? DANIEL [_Looks up from the ring. Simply_]: No. [CLARE _turns again, this time quickly and with resolution, and exits L. The church is quite dark, except for light streaming from the open door R._ DAN _looks at the ring, and puts it in his pocket. With his back to the audience, he looks at the altar of his church. Suddenly, from R., the organ is heard, playing "Hark the Herald Angels." He crosses and closes the door. In the blackness, he hears a step._ THE POOR MAN _has come on through the open door L._] Who's there?... Are you looking for someone? POOR MAN Yes. DANIEL I'm the assistant rector ... Mr. Gilchrist. POOR MAN I know you, Mr. Gilchrist. DANIEL Oh, yes; I remember. You're the man who was cold. Can I do anything for you? POOR MAN I think you can. DANIEL Let's have it then. POOR MAN Perhaps I can help you, too. DANIEL In what way? POOR MAN In my way. DANIEL My poor man, I wish you could! [_His despair impels him to confide in anyone_]: I was so sure of what I wanted to do, and now I begin to wonder if it can be done! POOR MAN It has been done. DANIEL But in this day--in this practical world--can any man follow the Master? POOR MAN Why not? Is this day different from any other? Was the world never practical before? Is this the first time of conflict between flesh and spirit? If it could be done then, why not now, and, if it was ever worth the doing, why not now? DANIEL But how? POOR MAN We have been told how. DANIEL "Take no thought of the morrow.... Sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor.... Love thy neighbor as thyself.... Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you." But if a man did those things today people would think him mad! POOR MAN What does it matter? DANIEL He would lose everything! POOR MAN And gain everything! DANIEL What good can one man do? POOR MAN Why don't you try? DANIEL He tried, and they crucified Him! POOR MAN Did they? And if they did, what does that matter? Is a man dead whose ideal lives? Ye crucified me, but I am with ye alway, even unto the end of the world! DANIEL In God's name, who are you? POOR MAN I am a Jew! [_As he speaks, slowly the tree and everything beneath it is illuminated by the Star of Bethlehem. The light, dim at first, grows stronger and stronger, its rays revealing sanctuary and picking out the points of the cross on the altar. But where the_ POOR MAN _stood is nothing. There is no one there. The spirit--if spirit it was--has disappeared. The man--if man it was--has gone._ DANIEL _gives a cry, and, as he does so, the light is extinguished, and suddenly, to the music that has been heard faintly through the door R. during this scene, the full choir sings: "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." In black darkness_ THE CURTAIN FALLS _ACT II._ SCENE: GEORGE F. GOODKIND'S _Library. New York._ _Ten months later. The set has only two essentials--a wide, curtained, glass door L., and an ordinary, heavy wooden door down R. The first gives entrance to the music room, which is indicated rather completely when the door is open. The second, by way of a hall and a flight of stairs, leads to the main entrance of the house. For the rest, the library is a shallow room, very much like any other library in the home of any other rich and well educated man. It is a little richer and more luxurious than most, perhaps, with--here and there--priceless things from palaces in Venice or art collections in Rome. The obsession of business is suggested by various utilities, transient and otherwise--a row of law books, a small file, and a pile of papers upon the substantial library table._ AT RISE: _It is a Saturday evening in November, 1919. The_ GOODKINDS _have been entertaining informally at dinner, and, having finished the chief business of the occasion, the company is now diverting itself in the music room. This room is brilliantly illuminated; one sees the shadow of a man leaning against the glass door._ DILLY GILLIAM, _at the piano, is playing one of the syncopations popular at the time. After a moment, a servant, with a card tray, enters R., crosses and exits L. An instant later_, GOODKIND, _in evening clothes, enters L. He has a card in his hand. The_ SERVANT _re-enters, re-crosses, and re-exits, stopping, en route, to switch on the lights_. GOODKIND _looks at the pile on the table, and turns the topmost paper face down_. BENFIELD, _also in evening clothes, enters L._ BENFIELD What the h---- GOODKIND Shut the door. [BENFIELD _does so. As he returns_, GOODKIND _gives him the card_] BENFIELD [_Reading_] "Labor conciliators." [_Throws the card on the table_] What the h---- GOODKIND What are labor conciliators? Mostly thugs. When you've been director in a coal mining company a little longer you'll know. We've got a million dollars' worth of 'em handling this strike. BENFIELD Police duty? GOODKIND No; spies and agents provocateur. I hate the breed, but what are you going to do about it? This fellow, Max Stedtman, got into the union five or six years ago, and now he's one of the delegation they've sent up to me.... Where's Jerry? BENFIELD I gave him the high sign. GOODKIND [_Offering cigars_]: Smoke? BENFIELD [_Taking one_]: Thanks.... Why didn't you go down to West Virginia? GOODKIND Had to look over that power plant in Canada. BENFIELD Oh, yes! GOODKIND Anyway, what do I know about coal mining? BENFIELD You're president of the company. GOODKIND Yes, but that means digging up money--not coal. I've never set foot in West Virginia in my life; and I don't want to! BENFIELD Yes, but in a serious situation like this-- GOODKIND I sent Jerry. Jerry has a dozen qualifications and no scruples. _And_ I sent Gilchrist. BENFIELD Who has scruples and no qualifications. GOODKIND Thus striking a balance. I mean that! Don't make any mistake about Gilchrist. He's a valuable man. I didn't hire him because I was sorry he got fired out of the church ... and only a little because I knew his father. I hired him because he had theories, and I wanted to try 'em out! BENFIELD I'll say he's got theories! GOODKIND Yes, and the remarkable part of it is ... sometimes they work. They worked up at that power plant. A year ago I wouldn't have taken it as a gift. Gilchrist applied a little soft soap-- BENFIELD Soft soap or gold dust? GOODKIND Well, both; but, damn it, Charlie, with all the increased wages and decreased working hours, the plant's making money now for the first time! [_Enter_ JERRY L. _He is a little sullen--the result of brandy and resentment. He, too, is in evening clothes, and he closes the door behind him._] GOODKIND There's something _in_ Gilchrist! JERRY Mostly bugs! GOODKIND All right! JERRY I told you what he was doing at the mines. Now he wires you, "Everything settled if you accede to rational conditions," and up comes this delegation! What are the conditions? I'll tell you now--surrender! You're crazy if you see these workmen! We've nothing to discuss! They're our mines, and we'll run 'em as we like! If this philanthropist of yours carries out instructions we've got 'em whipped!... What was the idea of the high sign? GOODKIND [_As_ BENFIELD _picks up the card to answer_]: Stedtman. JERRY Where? GOODKIND On the way up. JERRY Of course, we're leaving our guests flat! BENFIELD Your wife's in there! JERRY Clare resents our talking business at home. GOODKIND Resents--and you haven't been married a year! Palaver's a wife's job! They oil the machinery while we shovel in coal! [_The_ SERVANT _re-enters R._] SERVANT Mr. Stedtman. [_Enter_ MAX STEDTMAN. _He is a wiry little man, with the face of a ferret and the furtiveness of a rat. His nervousness does not indicate lack of self-confidence. That quality has made Stedtman the man he is today. For the rest, he is 40, and faintly Semitic. The_ SERVANT _exits_.] GOODKIND How do, Stedtman? This is Mr. Benfield--one of our new directors. [_They acknowledge the introduction_] You know my son. STEDTMAN [_Nods_]: Saw him down to Black River. [_They sit_--JERRY _down L._; BENFIELD _left of the table_; GOODKIND _back of it_; STEDTMAN _R._] GOODKIND Well? STEDTMAN Well ... the committee's on its way. GOODKIND Who's in this delegation? STEDTMAN I'm chairman. We got a Pole called Umanski. GOODKIND [_Writes_]: Umanski. STEDTMAN He's a radical. You can't do anything with him. But there's a fellow named Joe Hennig.... GOODKIND Who'll listen to reason? STEDTMAN I think so. GOODKIND Why? STEDTMAN He's got a pretty wife. BENFIELD What the he---- GOODKIND What has that to do with it? STEDTMAN Lots. Pretty wives like pretty things. Hennig's in debt, and this girl's on his neck every minute. She's a peach. You know her, Mr. Jerry! JERRY No. STEDTMAN Pearl Hennig? JERRY No. STEDTMAN Oh! I thought I saw you talking to her onct. Anyhow, Gilchrist knows her ... _well_. BENFIELD You mean.... STEDTMAN I mean I wouldn't mention Gilchrist to Joe Hennig. [BENFIELD whistles.] GOODKIND That's rot! STEDTMAN Anyhow, Hennig and me are two votes, and I figure Hennig's'll cost about.... [_He looks at them narrowly._] ... fifteen thousand dollars. [_All three show surprise._] GOODKIND I don't like bribery. BENFIELD Not when it isn't necessary. GOODKIND And Gilchrist wired yesterday: "Everything settled." JERRY On conditions. STEDTMAN Yeh--on _their_ conditions! Take it from me, this Gilchrist has double-crossed you! BENFIELD I told you! JERRY He's a.... STEDTMAN [_Goes right on, without heeding the simultaneous interruption_]: He's been at union meetings! _He_ got 'em to send this delegation, and he tried to get 'em to turn down Hennig--our one best bet! _You take it from me_-- GOODKIND [_Quietly_]: I won't take it from you, Stedtman. [_Looks around_] Or from anybody else. I know this man. STEDTMAN [_Cowed_]: Well, he's gone around talkin' compromise. Compromise ain't no way to settle a strike. Givin' 'em confidence. Why, we got a couple o' hundred representatives among the workmen tellin' 'em they got no chance. We got special police clubbin' 'em every time they try to hold a meeting. You wouldn't believe what we done down there in the way of harmony! GOODKIND It's all been done before. STEDTMAN Never no completer! We're workin' the black list and, if a man opens his mouth too wide at a meetin', somebody--he don't know who--tips the gover'ment that he's a "red." We got 'em so they ain't sure of their own brothers. We're postin' bills, in seven languages, saying: "Why should workmen mistrust the company? This is the land of opportunity! America is calling you--GO BACK TO WORK!" The boss has a scheme now to start a riot between the Poles and the Wops! And you know the end o' that! Troops, and scabs, and machine guns! What stopped it? One gent that don't know nothin' about harmony, or co-operation, or nothin'--except hangin' around after a skirt! If you got to descend to bribery now, don't blame me! Blame Gilchrist! BENFIELD [_Rises; striking the table with his open hand_]: He's absolutely right! JERRY [_Rises_]: Of course, he's right! Wha'd'ya expect of a man kicked out of his church for Bolshevism? BENFIELD He ought to be brought back right now! GOODKIND He's coming back-- [_Servant enters R._] Yes; what is it? SERVANT Two men to see Mr. Stedtman. BENFIELD Good! GOODKIND Bring them in. [_Servant exits_] STEDTMAN Now look--don't try nothin' before Umanski! Just give us an excuse to vote _right_, and then we'll go out, and get rid of him, and I'll slip back with Hennig! Now then--[_His sharp ears have heard footsteps off R. He strikes a pose_] It's very good of you gentlemen to see us! I was goin' to meet my friends outside--[_The Servant ushers in_ UMANSKI _and_ JOE HENNIG, _and retires_]--but you been so kind and agreeable--Hello, Joe! JOE Hello, Max! UMANSKI You said you be on sidewalk. STEDTMAN I just really got in myself. This is Mr. Goodkind. He's the President. And a couple o' Directors. Well, now we can get down to business! [_He sits._ UMANSKI _stares in amazement at his temerity_. UMANSKI _is a giant Pole or Russian. Whatever flesh he ever had has been starved off; he is all bone and brawn. In his face is something strangely like poetry ... something born of silence and suffering. He is in his best, which does not obliterate the picture of the man in working clothes, his sleeves rolled up over his muscular arms. Hennig is a stocky man of 45--a "grouser." His tone has none of the courage, the dignity, the independence of_ UMANSKI'S; _he blusters, emptily, an echo, without much to say, and one guesses he might be made to bluster either way. There is a pause._] GOODKIND Smoke? [_He presents the humidor to_ HENNIG, _and_ STEDTMAN, _rising, reaches out and helps himself_. GOODKIND _goes on to_ UMANSKI, _who doesn't unfold his arms; doesn't even appear to see the box_. GOODKIND _returns, and sets it lower right end of table_.] JOE [_Coming down R. of_ GOODKIND]: I guess you know all about our grievances. GOODKIND I didn't know you had any. JOE You didn't know we had any---- BENFIELD Ah, you fellows are never satisfied! GOODKIND You're getting plenty for what you do! What are you complaining about? You've left good jobs to follow a lot of idle, discontented agitators! We've got to win this fight on principle! The work's there! I pay what I can get men for, and not a cent more! Take it or leave it! JOE We got to hang together to get anything! GOODKIND You're hanging, and what have you got? [_The piano music in the next room, which ceased during the scene with_ STEDTMAN, _is succeeded now by the low tones of a violin_. UMANSKI _speaks, in a voice as unemotional as its owner is stolid_.] UMANSKI I work twelve hours--every day ... thirty years ... got nothing. BENFIELD Why should you have? An untrained man-- JERRY You don't even know English! UMANSKI How I gonna learn English--work twelve hours a day? JERRY Nobody asked you to take the job! Nobody asked you to come over here! You're not an American! UMANSKI I was American. JERRY [_Sneers_]: When? UMANSKI When I fight ... in the war. [_A short pause._] JERRY [_Turning to_ GOODKIND]: We're not getting anywhere. We've been over this a dozen times! GOODKIND What do you want? UMANSKI I wanna chance to learn! I wanna chance to live! I wanna see ... sun! JERRY Wha'd'ya mean--_son_? [_Together_] GOODKIND _Your_ son? [_Together_] UMANSKI God's sun. I never see him. Go to mines--him not up. Work in mines--him not see. Go home--him gone. Got baby five years ago. Never see _him_. Go to mines ... _him_, not up. Come back--_him_ asleep. Go home one day--_him_ gone. GOODKIND Dead? UMANSKI My wife say: "Good! Not such many to feed!" JERRY When you worked you had enough to eat, didn't you? UMANSKI Yes. Work twelve hours a day and got enough to eat--so can work some more. Always work. Get up--work--come back--sleep--get up--work. Never got time to talk to wife--never got time to talk to nobody--never got nowhere. Never save nothing. JOE [_Whining_]: It ain't fair! [JERRY _takes out his cigarette case_.] UMANSKI That little box--what you pay for him? [_Jerry turns front, not deigning to answer_] Ah, I know; gold. You pay more for him than I got from swing pick thirty years. Me and six families--we live in one house you own. We got one room upstairs; two down cellar. Sleep there. Eat--cook--wash upstairs. See nothing but brick yard, and clothes hang up to dry. Wife--she carry water from yard. Me--I carry potato peeling out front. Him rot. If I don't like that, I quit--and starve! JERRY You want to live on Fifth Avenue! BENFIELD And _then_ you'd find something to kick about! UMANSKI If I don't like other mans will. Other mans take my job. I got little girl twenty years old. Awful nice little girl. Got gold hair. Got blue eyes. Her take sick. She sorry she's sick. She wanna go church. She ask me: "Pop, buy me new dress for church. Buy me pretty _pink_ dress." Where I get him? We hire doctor once, and he say: "Air--sunshine--milk--eggs!" Where I get air--sunshine--milk--eggs? Got no job. My little girl, she cough, and cough, and one night she die. I tell you we got right to quit! We got right to hang together! We got right to fight--to live--and, by God, we gonna fight--we gonna live--_we gonna_--_BY GOD!_ [_The music stops. In the same short instant, there is a patter of applause; more music--lively this time--and, bursting into the room from L._, DILLY _runs into_ UMANSKI. She _has gold hair_; she _has blue eyes; and what is more_, she _has a new dress. It is a "pretty pink dress," too, and its owner wears jewels worth the ransom of a dozen Umanskis._] DILLY [_As she enters_]: Now, look here, Jerry; you're not going to--Oh! I'm sorry! [UMANSKI _looks at her; then covers his face, and, with a great sob, drops into a chair R. C._ STEDTMAN _puts his arm about the man's shoulders_. GOODKIND, _C., stares at him sympathetically_.] JERRY You'll have to wait, Dilly. GOODKIND Ask the ladies to stay in the drawing room. We'll join them in a few minutes. DILLY Yes.... Certainly.... I'm SO sorry! [_She exits. A pause._ STEDTMAN, _one arm about_ UMANSKI, _uses the other to signal_ GOODKIND _to go ahead_. GOODKIND _ignores him_.] GOODKIND I think we'd better let this go for tonight. UMANSKI [_Rising_]: Oh, no! Me--I'm all right! Excuse! GOODKIND You're a little upset, and I have guests. Besides, Gilchrist will be here in half an hour, and I want to talk to him before I say anything definite. Suppose we all meet here tomorrow at noon. JOE [_Who has turned down angrily at mention of the name_]: Not Gilchrist! GOODKIND No; just we six ... and, maybe, one or two more of our directors. STEDTMAN All right! UMANSKI I wanna know what we gonna do--_tonight_! GOODKIND We're going to get together. You fellows have got the wrong idea. We're not tyrants, or monsters. We're Christians, and we want to act like Christians. Only ... we've got to live, too. We've got to have the things we're used to, just as you have. But I think I can promise, if the strike's called off, you men will be kept, and put back just where you were.... Ring the bell, Jerry. [JERRY _does so. A pause._] BENFIELD I guess you don't want me any more. GOODKIND No. BENFIELD Thanks. [_Exits L. A pause._] GOODKIND [_To_ HENNIG. _Making conversation_]: You live in Black River? JOE Yes. GOODKIND Married? JOE You betcha! Prettiest girl in West Virginia! We only been married a year. I got her in the five-and-ten-cent store.... I mean, that's where she was working. She's at her sister's now ... up to Pittsburg. Left the day before I was elected to come here. [_Proudly_] I sent her a telegram! GOODKIND You don't say so! [_To_ JERRY] Anything the matter with that bell? JERRY The man's busy, I suppose. I'll show them out. GOODKIND If you will.... Well, good-night! [_He shakes hands with_ HENNIG, _and with_ STEDTMAN, _but, when he comes to_ UMANSKI, _that giant is immobile. His slow mind has been thinking out the earlier declaration._] UMANSKI What about this here twelve-hour day? GOODKIND We'll consider that after the strike's called off. UMANSKI And the twenty-four-hour shift? GOODKIND We'll consider that, too. Meanwhile--you go back just where you were! UMANSKI Then what good we gain by strike? GOODKIND Nothing's ever gained by quarreling. You'll find that out some day. UMANSKI Some day something be gain! Some day we gonna win! _This_--he don't go on always! _You_ see! JERRY [_Insolently_]: Are you ready? UMANSKI [_As_ HENNIG _slips out R._, UMANSKI _looks at_ JERRY _with contempt_.] _You_ see! [_Exits R._] STEDTMAN [_Significantly,--in a loud whisper_]: We'll be back later. [_He exits R._] JERRY Swine! [_He exits R._ GOODKIND, _obviously worried by the interview, goes to the table, and rights the topmost paper. Looks at it. Sits, and examines other papers. The_ SERVANT _enters R._] SERVANT Did you ring, sir? GOODKIND Half an hour ago. SERVANT [_Indicating a box_]: I was signing for this. [GOODKIND, _writing, doesn't look up_.] Can I do anything for you, sir? GOODKIND Yes.... Get me a drink. [_The_ SERVANT _hesitates_. GOODKIND _takes key from pocket and gives it to him. The_ SERVANT _unlocks a cellarette, up R., takes out decanter and glasses, relocks the cellarette, comes down L. of table, sets down the tray, and returns the key._] Thanks. [_The_ SERVANT _starts to exit L._] And, Riggs! [_The_ SERVANT _stops up L. C. Enter_ CLARE _L._] If Mr. Stedtman comes back tonight ... with one of the other men ... I'll see them in here. SERVANT Very good, sir. [_To_ CLARE]: This package just came for you, Madam. [_He gives her the box, and exits L. A pause._] GOODKIND Everybody gone? CLARE They're all down in the billiard room. We wanted to make up a couple of tables at bridge, but, with the men in here ... as usual.... Where's Jerry? GOODKIND I don't know. CLARE I've seen him just ten minutes this week. GOODKIND He's only been back three hours. CLARE Well ... I wish he wouldn't break up my dinner parties. GOODKIND [_Pushes back papers_]: What have you got there? CLARE [_Looking at the box_]: Another ... substitute.... GOODKIND Substitute, for what? CLARE [_As she opens it_]: For my husband's time ... and love ... and companionship. [_Holds up a sable scarf_] Sables. [_She gives it to_ GOODKIND.] GOODKIND [_Looking at it with admiration_]: Mm! You don't seem much surprised. CLARE No.... Whenever Jerry's been away longer than usual, or done something he's a little ashamed of, there's a box from Cartier or Revillon. GOODKIND Must have been a whopper this time! CLARE [_Seriously. Wondering_]: Yes. [_She takes the scarf._] GOODKIND Pretty generous husband ... if you ask _me_! CLARE Yes. [_She puts the scarf away._] GOODKIND Upon my word, I don't know what you women want!... A man works his heart and soul out to get you things, and still you're not satisfied! CLARE Maybe we'd like a little "heart and soul." GOODKIND Heart and soul, and what a man trades 'em for! You want your husband to succeed, and give all his attention to you! You want him to have plenty of money, and plenty of time! You're willing to take everything, but you're not willing to pay for it! CLARE I suppose everybody _must_ pay. GOODKIND Surest thing you know! You women are all alike. My poor wife--_she_ had everything, and I used to catch her crying in a corner. We never seemed to understand each other ... after we got _this_. She was a good wife, too, but the best of you never seem to want what you have.... Sometimes I think we don't any of us really want what we struggle so hard to get. Sometimes I think we're all wrong! [_He looks at his watch, and rises._] Well, I guess I'll go downstairs! CLARE I wish you would. GOODKIND [_Goes to her_]: You're not crying? [_She nods and looks up_] My God! Can you beat it? CLARE I'll be down in a minute. GOODKIND Tell Riggs--will you?--if any one comes, I'll be ... talking to Jerry. [_He puts his hand on her shoulder_] And ... buck up! There are people worse off than we are ... and it's a great life if you don't weaken! [_He exits L._ CLARE _goes C. She puts the box, with its contents, on the table, dries her eyes, and is powdering her nose when_ DANIEL GILCHRIST _opens the door R. He is in business clothes, and starts to retire when he sees_ CLARE. _He would a little rather avoid the interview._] CLARE Come in! I'm just powdering my nose. Does that offend your reverence? DANIEL On the contrary; I agree with the man who said, "Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry." [_They laugh._] CLARE When did you get in? DANIEL Half an hour ago. CLARE Had dinner? DANIEL On the train. I was starved. Thank goodness, they don't charge for dinner by the mile!... Riggs said your father-in-law was in here. CLARE He'll be up in a moment ... won't you sit down? We haven't had five minutes together since---- DANIEL [_Hesitates about remaining._] CLARE I understand you're very happy in your new ... profession. DANIEL [_Sits._] Yes. CLARE You've got ... everything ... you want? DANIEL No, I haven't everything I want, but I'm happy. CLARE My father-in-law says if you settle this strike you're to be--but that's a business secret. [_A pause_] I suppose I might tell you. [_A pause_] He says it'll make you a big man in the company ... with a tremendous salary.... You mustn't give it away! DANIEL The secret? CLARE The salary ... I suppose you've got over that.... So ... you don't really seem to have lost anything by giving up your church. DANIEL No. Queer as it seems, sometimes I think I've gained ... in opportunity. CLARE [_Chiefly to herself_]: Perhaps one _might_ have eaten one's cake and had it, too. DANIEL Clare! CLARE You frightened me so that night, with the bugaboo of poverty. Don't you think there might have been a compromise? Something half way? DANIEL Why open wounds that are beginning to heal? CLARE Yours seem quite healed. DANIEL And you have everything _you_ want? CLARE Yes. DANIEL You see ... I _was_ selfish ... to ask you to give up the things that count so much with you for those that count with me.... Afterward, when I knew you were to be married ... I was afraid for you ... and I was wrong again. [_He rises_] You're happy ... and I'm honestly glad! CLARE Are you ... honestly ... happy? DANIEL Honestly. CLARE In just helping others? DANIEL In just helping others. CLARE I don't understand that. DANIEL You will ... some day. [JERRY _enters R. He has added two or three brandies to a generous allowance at dinner, and though not drunk, is sullen and quarrelsome. The more so at finding_ DANIEL _with_ CLARE]. JERRY Hello, Gilchrist! In early, aren't you? [_Crosses._] I didn't mean to interrupt a tête-à-tête! CLARE You're not interrupting. JERRY Where's father? CLARE I thought he was with you. JERRY I stopped for refreshments. CLARE I see you did. JERRY [_Laughs and turns to_ DANIEL]: We've been having a genial evening with your delegation. That's why my wife's sore. CLARE I'm not "sore." I've been a little lonely. JERRY You don't look it!... I couldn't help going to Black River! I didn't go for pleasure ... did I, Gilchrist? DANIEL No. There was work, and plenty of it. I was sorry you had to leave when you did. CLARE Why, Jerry didn't leave much before you, did he? JERRY Just a few---- DANIEL [_At the same time_]: Only twenty-four hours.... He wanted to get back to you. CLARE But ... he's just _got_ back.... Where have you been, Jerry? JERRY Attending to business ... _of course_! CLARE Of course. [_She takes the scarf from the box on the table_] Good night, Dan. DANIEL [_Cheerily_]: Good night! [_She starts to door L._]. JERRY Oh ... you _got_ the furs! CLARE Yes ... thank you. JERRY Don't mention it! CLARE I'm very grateful ... but ... JERRY But what? CLARE Never mind. We'll talk about it some other time. JERRY We'll talk about it _now_! DANIEL I'll go. [_Starts R._]. JERRY No, you won't! You made a crack about my leaving twenty-four hours before you did! How do you know when I left? [_To_ CLARE] If that's what you're sore about, for heaven's sake, drop it! I'm sorry you've been alone, and I've sent you a handsome gift as an apology! CLARE I don't want it. [_She lays down the scarf._] I don't want to be paid for shutting my eyes to any insulting thing you choose to do! JERRY And I don't propose to be made a blackguard before strangers! CLARE Dan isn't a stranger. And I don't want to make you a blackguard. Only ... since you've insisted on the truth.... Dan, when _did_ my husband leave Black River? DANIEL I haven't seen him since Thursday. JERRY _There_ you have it! He hasn't _seen_ me since Thursday! Does it occur to you that may have been because _he_ wasn't in Black River? CLARE No. DANIEL As a matter of fact, I wasn't. JERRY Oh!... Where were you? DANIEL At the mines. CLARE Is that the truth? JERRY Of course it's the truth! And, if it wasn't, I don't see that you've any right to ask questions! I haven't done anything that wasn't in the bargain! I haven't done anything every man doesn't do! CLARE Every man ... perhaps ... but one! JERRY Gilchrist! My God! Now we've got it! If you'd only married him! He's good, because he says so! You ought to've been here a minute ago ... when the company detective warned us not to mention Gilchrist to Joe Hennig! DANIEL You mean---- JERRY I mean Pearl Hennig! DANIEL Pearl Hennig? Why, _you_--you _know_ that's not true! CLARE _I_ know it's not true! JERRY Do you? STEDTMAN [_Off R._]: Say ... now ... listen ... you behave yourself! JOE [_Off R._]: Behave ... hell! JERRY [_Continuing above these voices_]: Ask Stedtman! Ask Hennig! And before you make up your mind where _I_ was yesterday, ask where _he_ was---- [_Enter_ STEDTMAN _and_ HENNIG, _followed by the_ SERVANT. _There is no dead cue for this entrance. They come on_--STEDTMAN _trying to hold back_ HENNIG--_flinging open the door as_ HENNIG _says_ "Hell!" HENNIG _confronts_ GILCHRIST.] JOE You--Gilchrist! Where've you got my wife? DANIEL I haven't got your wife, Hennig. JOE The hell you haven't! DANIEL You'd better go, Clare. JERRY I want her to stay. [_To the_ SERVANT] All right! [_The_ SERVANT _exits_] What's it all about, Stedtman? STEDTMAN You can search me! Umanski stuck to us all the way home. When he left, I went in to have a little talk with Joe ... alone.... See? There was a telegram, and he read it, and---- JOE And came here to ask Gilchrist: Where's my wife? DANIEL She told me she was going to her sister's. JOE She ain't never been _near_ her sister, and you know it! I just got this from her sister! [_Holds out wire._ JERRY _snatches it_.] Read it! JERRY [_Reading_]: Pearl ain't here. We ain't seen her. Ain't she home? DANIEL Maybe she is. JOE You know she ain't! And what if she is ... now? I don't want your leavings! DANIEL Why do you say that, Hennig? JOE Why do I say it? Ain't I seen you down town with her? Ain't I found you with her when I came home unexpected? I knew you was stuck on her, and I warned you to stay away ... didn't I? DANIEL You were mistaken. JOE Didn't I warn you? DANIEL Yes. JOE And you came again ... didn't you? DANIEL Yes. JERRY Every man but one! DANIEL I went first on your account ... because they told me you were in debt ... and why. I "came again" because she asked me to. This disappearance looks queer, I admit, but people _do_ get lost, or hurt, and taken to hospitals, and aren't identified. JOE [_Half convinced_]: You think---- DANIEL I think your wife's all right, Joe. I don't think you ought to accuse her publicly until you're sure she's not. JOE [_Cries_]: How'm I gonna be sure? DANIEL Suppose we ask the police to look for her? JERRY [_Turning quickly_]: What's the use of starting a hulla-ba-loo? You don't want the woman accused publicly, but you're willing to spread the news so this man'll be ashamed to go back home. We all know the facts in the case, and the least said about it now the better. [_To_ JOE] You've found her out. Let her go ... and forget it! CLARE I don't think he ought to forget it. JERRY No? CLARE No. I don't think he ought to drop it now ... until we all know the truth. DANIEL Right! JOE I want to know the truth! I got to! I been crazy about her! Maybe that's a good idea ... the police. I _got_ to know the truth! JERRY [_At bay_]: All right! Stedtman! Where were you yesterday? STEDTMAN At the mines. JERRY What part of the mines? STEDTMAN All over. JERRY Did you see Gilchrist? STEDTMAN No. [DANIEL _never takes his eyes off_ CLARE. _He watches her, as the net tightens around him, observing, with ever-increasing agony, that he is convicted in her eyes._] JERRY When _did_ you see him last? STEDTMAN Thursday----Yes, it was Thursday. JERRY Where? STEDTMAN In Black River. JERRY Alone? STEDTMAN No. JERRY With whom? STEDTMAN With Mrs. Hennig. JOE I knew it! I'm gonna kill you! JERRY No, you're not. You're going to keep quiet. But you wanted the truth, and you've got it. I've known it all along. [_To_ CLARE] Now do you think I was lying? CLARE I don't know. I don't understand. JERRY Oh, yes, you do ... only you won't admit it! CLARE I suppose that's it. [_She takes her scarf and starts wearily to exit L._] DANIEL Clare! [_She stops_] I don't care what anyone believes but you! CLARE [_Turns_]: I'll believe you, Dan, if you'll only explain. DANIEL I---- JERRY I forbid you to speak to my wife! CLARE Go on, Dan. JERRY I forbid you to speak to my wife! DANIEL [_Exploding ... to_ JERRY]: If I hadn't anybody to think about but _you_! [_They stare at each other ... close together. Suddenly_, JERRY _lifts his open hand, and strikes_ DAN _across the mouth_. DAN _starts to retaliate, but controls himself, opens his clinched hands, and lowers his head_.] CLARE [_In almost speechless amazement_]: Dan; you're not going to take that? DANIEL I have nothing to say. CLARE I didn't think you were a coward. You see, I was wrong about everything. [_The scarf in her hand, she exits L. A short pause. Suddenly_, JOE, _emboldened by what he has witnessed, certain of_ DAN'S _cowardice, breaks from_ STEDTMAN _and rushes at_ GILCHRIST.] JOE You'll play around _my_ wife, will you? [DANIEL _merely looks at him_.] You will ... will you?... Take that! [_He strikes out._ DANIEL _seizes his wrist, and, with one powerful, dexterous movement, hurls him to the floor_]. DANIEL [_As_ HENNIG _struggles to his feet_]: I hope I didn't hurt you, Joe. STEDTMAN [_Looks from_ DANIEL _to_ JERRY]: My God! JOE [_Retreating_]: Don't worry! I'll get _you_! It may be a long time, but I'll get _you_! [_He exits._] DANIEL [_With great kindness_]: Take him home, Stedtman. [STEDTMAN _looks to_ JERRY, _who jerks his head toward the door_.] STEDTMAN Good-night, Mr. Jerry. Tell your father we'll be around ... [DANIEL _turns and looks at him. He backs toward the door._] ... in ... the ... morning! [_Quick exit. He closes the door, which has been left open by_ HENNIG. _The two men look at each other._ JERRY _goes to upper left of table, and pours himself a drink_.] JERRY Well, you've made a nice mess of it! Why can't you keep your nose out of other people's business? Why did you have to date my leaving Black River? DANIEL Why did you have to get mixed up with Pearl Hennig? JERRY I can take what I want out of life! DANIEL You can. God says: "Here is the world. Take what you want ... AND PAY FOR IT!" JERRY Rubbish! [_Drinks_] Save your preaching for those that like it! [_Comes down_] And keep away from my wife! DANIEL Why? JERRY Because you're in love with her! Aren't you? DANIEL Yes. JERRY Well, you've a hell of a nerve to preach to me about Hennig's wife while you're making a play for mine. DANIEL I'm not making a play for yours. JERRY No? You expect me to believe that when you admit---- Why did you pull that hero stuff? Why did you keep your mouth shut when I lost my temper? Why did you turn the other cheek? DANIEL You wouldn't understand, Jerry. JERRY Wouldn't I? Well, _you_ understand that I've forbidden you to speak to her and that goes. If you come here again, I'll have the servants throw you out, and I'll tell my father why. [GOODKIND _enters L._] DANIEL Here's your father now. JERRY And that's not all I'll do! [_Lowering his voice_]: Not by a damned sight! [_He wheels about and exits._] GOODKIND [_Taking cigars from humidor_]: Smoke? DANIEL Thanks. GOODKIND [_Looking off after his son_]: Jerry don't like you much, does he? DANIEL Not much. GOODKIND [_Lights his cigar_]: Well ... how are things in Black River? DANIEL I think we've got everything settled. GOODKIND Fine! Benfield'll be up in a minute, and we'll hear the conditions! [_He sits in an easy chair L._] Somehow, I knew you'd do it! Jerry says you're a philanthropist, but I knew he was wrong! DANIEL Thanks. GOODKIND If you've really settled this strike ... our way ... your salary from today is thirty thousand a year! DANIEL Thanks ... again. GOODKIND I'm dog-sick of rowing with labor! It's such utter damned waste!... _Excuse_ me! DANIEL I agree with you! GOODKIND I'd hate to figure what walk-outs have cost this country! DANIEL Yes. I often wonder why it wouldn't be cheaper to keep the men contented. GOODKIND How're you going to do it? Don't forget there are as many people paid for stirring up strikes as for crushing 'em! Paid well, too! What the laboring man _needs_ is a real interest in his job! DANIEL Why don't you give it to him? GOODKIND How? By doubling his wages? The more most of 'em get the less they want to do for it! You know that! DANIEL Yes. GOODKIND They've got a notion that you get rich by riding around in a limousine! DANIEL Don't you? GOODKIND Not often! Not unless you think while you ride ... or your father thought for you! Even then, money doesn't stay long in bad company! To hear those fellows you'd think there _wasn't_ any work, except what's done with a pick! The man that really produces is the man with the idea! DANIEL The man that produces most. GOODKIND Yes, and he ought to _get_ most! DANIEL He does! GOODKIND He always will! Show me a big man and I'll show you somebody who's done a big job! It's the little man with no capacity and no chin that cries about a conspiracy to keep him from being President! DANIEL There've got to be little men, too, Mr. Goodkind. GOODKIND And they've got to be satisfied with little rewards! We can't all have the same bank-roll any more than we can all have the same health! That's where unions go wrong! When you tell a man he's going to have the same reward, whatever he does--not because he's got ability, but because he's got a union card--down goes the standard, out goes incentive, and to hell goes the whole social structure! DANIEL Right! GOODKIND That's why I'm fighting the unions! Not because I want to starve the man who works, but because I want to fire the man who doesn't ... _and_ reward the man who does! I want to give every man a good reason for doing his best! You can talk equality and democracy all you like, Dan, but the minute the average man isn't afraid of being fired he isn't afraid of being worthless! The minute you take away incentive--the chance to get _this_--that minute you reduce the world to a common level of common indifference and common futility! DANIEL Right! GOODKIND [_Rising_]. Have another cigar! [DANIEL _shows the one he has just lighted, and shakes his head_.] Where the hell's----[_He turns, and sees_ BENFIELD _standing in the door L._] Oh, Benfield! Come in! Gilchrist has settled the strike! BENFIELD Good! DANIEL [_Giving a folded document to_ GOODKIND]: There are the terms. [GOODKIND _sits L._] They may seem a little radical, but I think I can show you they'll save money in the end! GOODKIND That's the idea! [_With the paper in his hands, being opened, he feels confident and cocky. To_ BENFIELD]: I told you I knew my man! The Lord knows he's full of theories, but sometimes they--[_His eye falls upon a disturbing line_] Wait a minute! What's this? BENFIELD What's what? GOODKIND [_Reading_]: "Hereby agreed ... the men are to be represented ... on the board of directors...." BENFIELD [_Stunned_]: No!! GOODKIND Yes! And ... look here! [_Reading_] "All disputes ... referred ... to a committee of arbitration...." BENFIELD The man's gone crazy! DANIEL When you're through.... GOODKIND [_Reading_]: "One-half of all profits, over and above a fair dividend, to be divided pro rata, according to wage and length of service." [_He rises_] Why.... [_Words fail_] What is this? BENFIELD Jerry told you; it's surrender! DANIEL No! No! It's justice! GOODKIND It's nothing! It's a scrap of paper until I sign it, and I wouldn't sign it if I had to shut up every mine in West Virginia! Why should I? We've got 'em licked! DANIEL If you'll only let me explain.... GOODKIND Explain _what_? They're licked! They sent a delegation up here, and we've won over the delegation! DANIEL You mean you've _bought_ the delegation! GOODKIND Who said so? DANIEL Jerry.... Not ten minutes ago he referred to Stedtman as the company detective. We both know Hennig's for sale. Buy him, and I'll go back and tell them he's bought, and prove it! BENFIELD You're working for us! DANIEL I'm working for---- GOODKIND Wait a minute, Benfield! We've all lost our heads! Daniel and I have just been over all this, and he admitted I was right! DANIEL Right as far as you went, but you only went part way! You have a right to a profit on your idea, and your investment, and the labor you put back of it! The public has a right to coal, and transportation, and all it needs and pays for! But, above everything else, the workman who works honestly has a right to something more than the barest kind of a bare living ... and it can all be done if you don't sink everybody's rights to accumulate a fortune you don't need and can't use!... All the argument on earth can't make you _all_ right so long as there's a Umanski in the World! GOODKIND If these people succeed there's no limit to what they'll do! DANIEL If they fail there's no limit to what you'll do! GOODKIND There's no good transferring control from the intelligent few to the ignorant mob! DANIEL There's no good in anything so long as we fight each other like beasts, instead of helping each other like brothers! There's no hope anywhere except in The Great Teacher, and the understanding that what He taught was not only good morals, but good sense and good business! BENFIELD Highfalutin nonsense! GOODKIND Daniel doesn't realize what he's costing us! DANIEL What? GOODKIND Millions! DANIEL Oh, is that all? BENFIELD All? DANIEL Am I costing you one cigar? Am I costing you one blanket from your warm beds, or one stick of furniture from your comfortable homes, or anything else you'll ever miss? I'm taking nothing from you, and I'm giving thousands of men like you a chance to live! GOODKIND You're costing yourself your last chance of success! DANIEL I don't want your kind of success! I'm through! I give you back your job, as I gave you back your church, and I give you twenty-four hours to sign that paper! GOODKIND If I do, you're finished! DANIEL I am when you've signed! [_He goes R._] GOODKIND If you walk out of that door you're throwing away the chance of your life! DANIEL I'm keeping my soul! [_He opens the door._] BENFIELD You Judas! GOODKIND You damned fool! DANIEL Good-night! [DANIEL _closes the door behind him_.] THE CURTAIN FALLS. _ACT III._ SCENE: "Overcoat Hall." New York. _This room--not too large--was the "front parlor" of a comfortable residence in down-town New York. Business, of the least attractive sort, and the slums long since have occupied the district. The building is a red-brick, low-stoop, English-basement house. The rear wall, which is the front of the dwelling, is pierced by two lofty windows, through which are seen the top of an iron railing, and a row of similar structures, fallen into decay, across the street. Between these windows, upon a low marble shelf, now holding a tray of cups and saucers, originally was a tall, gold-framed mirror. Over this hangs a blackboard, upon which has been chalked: "And so, to the end of history, hate shall breed hate, murder shall breed murder, until the gods create a race that can understand." Beneath the right window is a big radiator. Down stage R. are folding doors, partly open, or a large single door--whichever shall prove advisable. These--or this--lead to the main hall, and so to the basement, or upstairs, or to the front door, which slams solidly whenever it is closed. Left is a decrepit, white-marble mantel, with a "fake" fireplace. In front of this--in a jog, perhaps--a small platform, of the kind used in public schools. Upon this, a small table and a chair. Down stage of it, a geographical globe, suspended over which a wall-pad informing us that today is Wednesday. Above the mantel-shelf, another blackboard, upon which are some simple calculations, and the axiom, "Luck is work." In the center of the room is a long library table, with a brown cover, and with numerous kitchen chairs about it. On the table a reading lamp, a bowl of yellow, purple and brown chrysanthemums; and numerous books and magazines. Gilchrist has succeeded in making the old place comfortable and inviting. It is a combination of club, settlement house, school, reading room and lecture hall. Brown linoleum covers the floor, and there are brown denim curtains over the windows. A history chart hangs on the wall. There are book-shelves, and two or three big, comfortable chairs; a phonograph and, perhaps, even a motion picture machine._ AT RISE: _It is just after seven o'clock on a brisk evening in late October, 1920._ _Grubby, seated down stage of the center table, is concealed behind a copy of "The Woman's Home Companion," which he has opened wide, and, holds in front of him._ _Mack, a shabby ne'er-do-well, between thirty and forty years old, opens the doors R., and peers in uncertainly. Reassured by the character of the room, he enters, and looks about him curiously. Even from the rear, it is evident that Grubby is a person of no authority, so Mack dismisses him, temporarily, and warms his hands over the radiator. Next he inspects the quotation between the windows, pauses at the phonograph, and arrives in front of the platform L. The three words on this blackboard interest him. He reads them, turns away, turns back, and reads them again. At last, he sniffs contemptuously, and, completing his circuit, stops on the left of Grubby._ MACK Hello ... you! [GRUBBY _lowers his paper, and reveals a sixty-year-old face, round, very red, and framed in a scraggly gray beard_.] Is this Overcoat Hall? GRUBBY Yes. MACK I'm looking for Mr. Gilchrist. GRUBBY He ain't in, but he will be. MACK Are you working here? GRUBBY No. MACK Is _anybody_ working here? GRUBBY Mary Margaret. MACK Who's she? GRUBBY A girl. MACK What girl? GRUBBY The girl that cleans. A lame girl. Her mother's the janitor. Have a seat. Somebody'll be along in a minute. [_And he resumes his magazine ... never completely abandoned. Mack, thrown upon his own resources, picks up one periodical after another, but Fortune does not smile. They prove to be "The Atlantic Monthly" ... "The Review of Reviews" ... "The Scientific American."_] MACK What are you reading? GRUBBY A piece about "Better Babies." MACK [_Laughs_]: Are you going into the baby business? GRUBBY No. I was a hansom driver. MACK Handsome! [_The laugh becomes uproarious._] GRUBBY Ah ... hacks! I drove hacks ... man and boy ... forty years. Then taxis come in, and I went out! MACK What'd you do then? GRUBBY Took to drink. MACK Yeh; then drink went out. GRUBBY What's _your_ job? MACK Well, I was in the movies. That is, I was going to be, but the fellow that was going to put up the money, his mother didn't die, after all.... Before that, I sold bricks ... a few weeks. I sold books, too. And life insurance. I never had any luck. Who wrote that, "Luck is Work"? GRUBBY Mr. Gilchrist. MACK Well, it isn't! I've worked at _fifty_ things, and look at me! I figure the world owes _me_ a living, and here I am, waiting for a bite of grub and an overcoat! Is it true the boss'll give you an overcoat? GRUBBY He will if he's got one. MACK That's what a fellow told me. He said that's why they call this Overcoat Hall. GRUBBY Yes. MACK I suppose a hard-luck story's the proper spiel. GRUBBY You don't get no chance for a spiel. He don't ask you nothing. You just come, and help yourself, and talk things over ... if you want to. Coffee and sandwiches every night--and suppers and sermons on Wednesdays. MACK Preaching! [_Looks at the wall pad, and reaches for his hat._] Wednesday. I'll be back Thursday. GRUBBY Not regular preaching! Just talks! Sometimes they's a picture show ... but the pictures is rotten! No shooting, or nothing! But you can always sneak a little snooze 'til you get to the hand-out! [MARY MARGARET _enters through the open door R. Her two crutches are rubber-tipped, so her invasion is noiseless. She occupies herself with the cups and saucers C._ MARY MARGARET _is fifteen, and pathetically pretty. The conspicuous feature of her costume is a pair of soiled gold slippers that once set off a ball gown._] MACK Don't he try to reform you? GRUBBY Naw! The way he talks, you'd think you was as good as him. He says to me, the other night, he says, "You're a good man yet, Grubby," he says. "You're strong and healthy," he says, "and, if you learned to drive a taxi, all the best people in New York would be telephoning for your cab. I'll lend you the money," he says. Gee; he almost had me started! MACK What's the catch? GRUBBY I don't know. MACK There must be graft in it somewhere. GRUBBY If you ask me, I think the poor gent's got a few nuts in his nose-bag. A little bit batty. That's what _I_ say! MARY MARGARET [_Turning down_]: And that's what you got no right to say, Grubby! GRUBBY [_To_ MACK]: Mary Margaret. MARY MARGARET He's been good to you, ain't he? GRUBBY That's why we think he's nutty. What's he do it for? MARY MARGARET 'Cause he loves you. GRUBBY What for? MARY MARGARET God knows! [_She has brought down a cup and saucer, with other utensils, and is clearing and setting a place at one end of the table. With this exclamation, she locates the cup somewhat forcibly._] After seven o'clock now, and the meeting in half an hour, and he ain't had a bite since morning! MACK Where _is_ he? MARY MARGARET He went to see a man that killed himself. [MACK _laughs_] I mean ... tried to. It was in the papers this afternoon, and Mr. Gilchrist says: "I want to talk to that man." [MACK'S _interposition has brought his words to her mind, and reflecting on them, she explodes_.] Graft!! Why he didn't have the rent money yesterday, and he was desprit! He ain't had money to get himself a pair of shoes, and nobody helps him, or comes near him, but you bums that roast him behind his back! [GOODKIND _appears in the doorway R._] GRUBBY I didn't roast him. I just said he was crazy. GOODKIND [_Crisply_]: Mr. Gilchrist? MARY MARGARET He'll be here any minute. Won't you come in? GOODKIND Thanks. [_He comes forward a few steps, and looks at_ GRUBBY, _who, after an instant, takes refuge behind his Home Companion_. GOODKIND _crosses to_ MACK, _who turns up stage. He surveys the blackboard._ MARY MARGARET _finishes her task_.] MARY MARGARET [_Offering a periodical to_ GOODKIND]: Take a magazine, and sit down. [_With a nod, he accepts._] I got to go make the coffee. [_To_ GRUBBY] You can come and carry it up in about fifteen minutes. [_She turns and catches_ MACK _filching a loaf of sugar_.] Graft!! ... Well, you ought to know! [_She exits R., singing "I'm a Pilgrim." By now_, GOODKIND _is reading in a big chair L._ MACK _glances at him, and comes down to_ GRUBBY.] MACK Think she'll tell _him_? GRUBBY Naw! Anyway, he don't care! He says we're all brothers in God. MACK Gee! GRUBBY That's what he told Jimmie Curran--brothers in God--and Jimmie just up for pinchin' a guy's pants. Jimmie lives across from his room upstairs, and Jimmie says he's clean loco. [GOODKIND _notes name and address on the margin of his magazine_.] Guess what he's got in the back yard! MACK What? GRUBBY Tennis. And handball games for children. And, in the other two houses, he's got flats ... with bathtubs ... and the rents ain't what they ask now for stalling a horse. Why wouldn't I say he was crazy? Everybody says so but Mary Margaret! [DANIEL _enters R. He is shabby, but beaming. He carries two books, which he lays on some piece of furniture up R.; after which he removes his overcoat, and hangs it over an old umbrella already suspended from a wall-rack down stage of the door._] DANIEL Hello, Grubby! You're early! And you've brought a friend! That's fine! [_He shakes hands with_ MACK.] You're very welcome! [_Sees and crosses to_ GOODKIND] And Mr. Goodkind! Well! You're welcome, too! [_Shakes hands_] Have you come down to look us over? GOODKIND [_His eyes indicating the others_]: I've come down on personal business. DANIEL Oh, yes! [_Turns_] Grubby, there's a box of books in the hall. How would you and your friend like to---- GRUBBY I promised to help with the coffee. DANIEL I see. [GRUBBY _exits. To_ MACK, _who has been stealing surreptitious glances at the overcoat_] And you? MACK I just wanted to speak to you a minute. DANIEL All right. After the meeting. MACK I wanted to ask you---- DANIEL _After the meeting!_ [_Turns back to_ GOODKIND] Sit down. GOODKIND [_Sitting_]: Thanks. [MACK--_resentful, unobserved, uncertain of getting the coat honestly--is sorely tempted. One pull, one step, and he is safe from work and denial. During the following, standing almost in the doorway, he is drawing the garment toward him._] DANIEL [_To_ GOODKIND]: I'm glad you dropped in tonight, because I've been intending to call on you, but there's so much to do here--[_The coat comes off the rack, and with it, the umbrella, which falls with a crash. Both men rise, discovering_ MACK, _coat in hand_.] Hello! I thought you'd gone. MACK No; I--I--wanted---- DANIEL You wanted my coat. MACK [_Advancing with a glad smile of pretended relief that_ DANIEL _has found the simple explanation_]: Yes ... that's what I wanted to ask you. DANIEL I'm so glad you said so. [MACK _shows surprise_.] Because, if you hadn't and I hadn't understood, you might have been tempted to take it without asking--and then you'd've been so sorry and ashamed. A man couldn't come into another man's house, and be welcomed, and then take the other man's coat, without losing his self-respect ... could he? And, of course, if we're going to pull ourselves together, and get out of a hole, we _must_ keep our self-respect. MACK I wouldn't steal---- DANIEL You couldn't.... It's your coat.... You asked for it, and I gave it to you.... When you've worn it ... into a good job ... come back and help me give another to someone who needs it as you do. MACK I will. DANIEL Of course you will. [_Helps him into the coat, and then shakes his hand._] Good-night. MACK [_Hesitates, amazed_]: Good-night. [DANIEL _turns L., and with a gesture expressive of the conviction that this man is mad_, MACK _exits_.] GOODKIND Well, I'll be damned! [DANIEL _laughs_] He won't come back! Not one in ten would come back! DANIEL All right!... That coat cost twenty dollars. If one in ten _does_ come back, we've made a man for two hundred dollars. Isn't it worth the price? GOODKIND Maybe ... if a man's _got_ the price! Have you? DANIEL Like our friend ... that's what I wanted to ask you. GOODKIND It's not what I wanted to ask _you_. DANIEL I'm rather badly in need of money, and my father---- GOODKIND Your father understood you well enough to leave you only an income. I foolishly turned over some of the principal, and, in three months, you threw away twenty thousand dollars. You could have had a big salary, and you threw _that_ away. You're an utter damned waster--if you're no worse! DANIEL What do you mean ... worse? GOODKIND You'll soon find out what I mean! You've had my son's wife down here, haven't you? DANIEL Once or twice. GOODKIND Or three times ... or a dozen! _He_ knows! DANIEL I've asked her not to come again. GOODKIND And _he's_ asked her ... but she's coming when she likes. She says so. Because she's in love with you.... God knows what women see in your kind of man! There was Pearl Hennig---- DANIEL Please! GOODKIND Oh, my son told me! And I hear ... in the neighborhood ... that you've worse women than that running here! Women of the streets! DANIEL Not many. They're welcome, but they don't come. GOODKIND Well, that's _your_ business! And if your neighbors get sick of having a resort of this kind in their midst, and drive you out, _that's_ your business! But my son's wife---- DANIEL Is _her_ business! GOODKIND And _his_! Only Jerry's in no condition to settle the matter! He's broken down from worry and overwork, and you're partly responsible, and that puts it up to me! You can take this as a final warning! If you see Clare again, I'll act, and I'll act quick! That's all! Good-night! [_He gathers up his coat and hat, and crosses to the door._] DANIEL [_Waking from a reverie, and turning R._] Oh! Mr. Goodkind! GOODKIND [_Expecting capitulation. Comes down R._]: Yes? DANIEL How about the money? GOODKIND You've had what's coming to you! DANIEL But that's _nothing_! I pay half that for these crazy houses! And I've gone terribly in debt fitting them up! GOODKIND With bath tubs and tennis courts! DANIEL People must have baths. GOODKIND These dirty immigrants! DANIEL The dirtier they are, the worse they need 'em. I want to show them how to live, and I want to show other people that you don't have to make a pigpen to make a profit! GOODKIND Are you making a profit? DANIEL Enormous! And, to go on, I've got to have twenty-two thousand dollars. GOODKIND Oh, is that all? Twenty-two thousand dollars to go on making a fool of yourself! Well, you won't get it! DANIEL Not even as an advance? GOODKIND Not a penny! DANIEL Don't drive me to---- GOODKIND To what? DANIEL [_Rather at a loss_]: To ask for an accounting! GOODKIND [_Hardly believing his own ears_]: To ask for ... WHAT? [_This is the last straw._] Now listen to me! I've stood all I'm going to stand! You've run amuck! You've become dangerous to yourself ... and me ... and the neighborhood! You're going to stop it, and you're going to stop now! DANIEL That's your mistake. GOODKIND Is it? A year ago you gave me twenty-four hours to sign a paper, and I did it, and it cost me two million dollars! Tonight I give you thirty minutes to shut up this place, and quit seeing my daughter, and if you don't do it---- DANIEL As I won't! GOODKIND I'll be here inside of half an hour with a doctor! DANIEL And then? GOODKIND Then we'll file a petition to have you declared incompetent! [_He starts R._] DANIEL Mr. Goodkind, you don't, mean that! You don't mean that because I'm trying to help---- GOODKIND Help ... whom? Strikers, and street women, and general riff-raff! And you don't even help _them_ ... because nobody _can_! And, if you _could_, and _did_, how in the name of God would that help the Community? If I find you're still crazy in half an hour, I'll _say_ you're crazy, and _I'll prove it_! [_He goes to the door._] Think it over! [_As he is about to exit, he narrowly escapes collision with a neatly-dressed, capable-looking man, who apologizes, in nearly correct English, and, with a contemptuous glance, crosses to up C._] THE MAN Excuse me! GOODKIND All right! [_He follows the man back into the room._] Haven't I seen you somewhere before? THE MAN Yes, sir. My name's Umanski. GOODKIND Umanski? [_He remembers_] _You're_ not the Pole who came to my house last year with a delegation? UMANSKI Yes. GOODKIND Well, I'll be----[DANIEL _fills his pipe from a jar on the mantelpiece L._] UMANSKI Mr. Gilchrist tell me stay in New York. He's teach me English, and find me good job. I'm work now eight hours on the docks, and six on myself. [GOODKIND _again starts to go_.] DANIEL Mr. Goodkind! [GOODKIND _turns_] Umanski's got an invention. If you'll see it---- GOODKIND I'll see _you_ in ... half an hour! [_He exits._] UMANSKI What's _he_ doing down here, Mr. Gilchrist? DANIEL He says I'm crazy, and he's going to shut up this place. Of course, he won't. [_He opens a book._] UMANSKI Don't be too sure. DANIEL Nonsense! [_He sits_] I made him angry. [_He marks a passage._] And somebody's told him a lot of lies! UMANSKI Somebody's told a good many people lies! Yesterday I heard a man say you run this house to ... to ... [_He hesitates._ DAN _looks up_.] ... to get women! DANIEL Who said that? UMANSKI A wop named Malduca. DANIEL Oh, yes! I took his daughter in here once ... for a week ... until he got sober. UMANSKI They's a good many like that. DANIEL Oh, not a good many! UMANSKI Enough to make trouble. Why not you carry a pistol? DANIEL It's generally men with pistols that get shot. UMANSKI One of them fellows get you----[_Enter_ MARY MARGARET.] DANIEL [_Warning him_]: Sh! MARY MARGARET I s'pose you ain't had any supper. DANIEL Not yet. [GRUBBY _enters with a tray, from which_ MARY MARGARET _transfers dishes to the table_.] UMANSKI I brought you some money. DANIEL Money? UMANSKI My boss he give me another raise. He gonna make _me_ boss after while. So I like to begin pay back what you lend me. [_Takes out bills._] DANIEL Wait 'til you've sent for your family. UMANSKI I'm gonna send now. My big boy I'm gonna send school ... college, maybe. That pump I make she goes fine. I show my boss ... like you say ... because he know about coal mines ... and he say if she work she save whole lots of lives and money. She work, all right! [_He has put down the bills, and brought forth an English grammar._] How about I go upstairs and study? DANIEL Sure! Go right up to my room! I'll be along after the meeting! [UMANSKI _exits_. GRUBBY _starts to follow_.] Where are you going, Grubby? GRUBBY Sandwiches! [_He exits._] MARY MARGARET [_Down L._]: Your supper's ready! DANIEL Thanks. [_Looks up_] What's this we're wearing? Golden slippers? MARY MARGARET Uh-huh! I took 'em out of the barrel of clothes that pretty lady sent. DANIEL [_Sitting at table_]: Supper with Cinderella! MARY MARGARET [_Setting dish before him_]: Gee, I love that story! [_She sits beside him, facing front._] When you tell it to me, you make me believe I'm her. DANIEL If you believe it ... you _are_. MARY MARGARET I guess believin' ain't never goin' to make _me_ dance. DANIEL You can't tell ... if you believe hard enough. MARY MARGARET That's what you said before, and I've tried, but, somehow, it don't work. DANIEL That's the very time to go on. If we stop, just because it don't work, that isn't faith. MARY MARGARET No; I s'pose not. DANIEL And faith moves mountains. Once upon a time there was a woman who'd been sick twelve years. MARY MARGARET What was the matter with her? DANIEL I don't know. But there was a Man in that city who said He could even make the dead rise. And everybody laughed at Him ... as they would today. But the woman didn't laugh, and one morning, when He was passing her house, she got up and followed Him ... just to touch the hem of His cloak. And what do you think? MARY MARGARET I duno. DANIEL She was cured. And the Man said---- MARY MARGARET Oh, now, I know. "Thy faith hath made thee whole." DANIEL That's right. MARY MARGARET Could God do that for me? DANIEL Why not? MARY MARGARET It would be an awful big favor. DANIEL But if He doesn't, you must go on. If faith doesn't heal our hurts, it helps us to bear them. And that's almost the same thing, isn't it? MARY MARGARET [_Doubtfully_]: Yes. DANIEL Like believing you're Cinderella. MARY MARGARET Yes. DANIEL We can't decide what we want, and then be angry and doubtful because it doesn't happen our way. Because, all the time it's happening His way. The only thing we can be sure of is that He knows what's best. MARY MARGARET That's right.... You mean, if God wants me to be well, some day He'll make me well? DANIEL If you believe hard enough. MARY MARGARET And if He don't? DANIEL Then _that's_ right ... if you believe hard enough. MARY MARGARET I will, Mr. Gilchrist. [_She rises_] You ain't touched your supper. DANIEL I've had plenty. MARY MARGARET I'll send Grubby up for the tray. [_She exits._ DANIEL _finishes, and puts up his napkin. He observes that the window-shades have not been drawn. Attends to that R. Facing L., with his hand on the shade of the window L., he pauses to look out._ PEARL HENNIG _enters. Pearl is 25, and her clothes are cheaply flashy. An experienced eye should lose no time in appraising her. She has an air of alarm. She looks around for_ DAN, _and then isn't quite sure of him in the shadows up stage_.] PEARL [_Uncertainly_]: Mr. Gilchrist? [_He half turns_] Don't stand by that window! DANIEL Hello, Pearl! [_He draws the shade_] How well you're looking. [_Comes down_] What's the matter with the window? PEARL It ain't safe. DANIEL [_Smiling_]: Are _you_ going to advise me to carry a pistol? PEARL No. Just to keep out o' sight of people that do. DANIEL Meaning? PEARL Meaning Joe Hennig. DANIEL I thought Joe was in Black River. PEARL He ain't. I told you he was ashamed to go home. I told you he was gonna stay here an' get you! DANIEL [_Sits on bench in front of table_]: Well? PEARL [_Down stage R. of table_]: Well ... he stayed. I went to him ... like I told you ... an' said it wasn't you ... an' ast him to take me back. An' he said I was a liar an' he was gonna get you. I told you all that! DANIEL Yes; I guess you did. PEARL While he was workin' up town I didn't hear nothin' about him. But a little while ago he lost his job, an' began hangin' around down here. An' he's been drinkin', an' talkin' wild, an' I come in to tell you. DANIEL That's kind of you, Pearl, but I'm not afraid of Joe. PEARL I am.... He's got his gang.... I _know_. DANIEL _How_ do you know? PEARL [_Hesitates_]: Well, last night I met up with one of his pals.... An' _he'd_ been drinkin'. An' he said Joe said you was livin' on women, an' this place was a blind, an' nobody's wife was safe while you was in the neighborhood. An' this man said they was gonna get together, an' drive you out. They're dang'rous, Mr. Gilchrist. For God's sake, believe me! For God's sake, telephone the police! DANIEL There's no telephone here, Pearl. But there's always an officer at hand, and I'm among friends. Don't worry. Sit down, and wait for the meeting. I haven't seen you in ages. PEARL [_Doesn't sit. She is restless_]: Two weeks. DANIEL What are you doing? PEARL I'm workin' at Macy's. DANIEL Like it? PEARL [_Defiantly_]: Better than bein' with Joe. DANIEL If you'd stayed with Joe, maybe he wouldn't _be_ drinking. PEARL He always did. That's why I ast you to stick around in Black River. That's one reason I quit. DANIEL _One_ reason. PEARL [_Admitting it grudgingly_]: They was others.... I wanted good clothes, an' a good time ... jus' like other women. DANIEL [_Thinking of_ CLARE]: Yes ... like other women. PEARL [_Indicating her costume_]: An' I've got 'em! DANIEL Yes; you've "got 'em." But don't you think ... sometimes ... you and the other women ... that they cost you too much? PEARL I don't get you. DANIEL I only mean isn't there something worth more than good clothes and a good time? A good home, maybe, with love in it ... and little children. [PEARL _hesitates, and then the uneasiness she has never lost takes her up to peep out of the curtain_.] PEARL We oughtn't to be here talkin'. DANIEL Why not? PEARL I'm frightened of Joe. DANIEL You needn't be. PEARL I am. I can't help it. I got a hunch. I ain't told you all this man said, an' I ain't told you how he come to say it, but he said it was gonna be soon, an' I got a hunch sumpin's gonna happen _tonight_. Please let me go out an' phone! Please let me get the police! [DANIEL _laughs_] You're crazy, Mr. Gilchrist! You're just crazy! [_An infinitesimal pause. She turns._] An' I'm goin'! [_She runs to the door, which opens before her, and admits_ CLARE GOODKIND. CLARE _is smartly gowned, in street attire, but somehow, she has the appearance of being disheveled ... of having dressed in haste_.] DANIEL Clare--Mrs. Goodkind! [_A pause_] Mrs. Hennig's just going. CLARE Mrs. Hennig? DANIEL _Pearl_ Hennig. You've heard your husband mention her name. PEARL I know your husband. CLARE I know you do. [_Her tone tells how much she knows._] PEARL [_Quails_]: I guess you ain't got much use for me. CLARE Why? What's the difference between us? PEARL [_Unable to make it out_]: Well ... good-night! [_She exits._] DANIEL Clare, I asked you.... CLARE I'd nowhere else to go. I've left him. DANIEL Left ... Jerry? CLARE Yes. For good. He struck me. DANIEL No!! CLARE Here ... in the breast! And he's lying now ... brandy-soaked and half-conscious ... across the foot of my bed! DANIEL I can't ... believe.... CLARE He's been drinking ... more and more! And, of course, there've been women ... from the beginning! All kinds of women! _That_ woman, salesgirls, stenographers, women of our own class! Do you remember ... in your church ... a Mrs. Thornbury? He's been quite open about _her_! Tonight we were going out to dinner! He came to my room ... drunk ... and babbled that he'd refused to go until she was invited! Then _I_ refused to go, and he accused me ... _of you_ ... and struck me with his fist! DANIEL He accused ... _you_? CLARE Yes. And then he tried to take me in his arms! Night after night he's come to me ... drunk ... and held me in his arms. And I said once there was nothing more degrading than poverty! In the past two years I've learned what degradation means! I've come to see your way at last! I've come to realize that the material things are nothing, and that love is all! It isn't too late? DANIEL It's never too late! CLARE I knew you'd say that! I'll share your work ... your want ... if need be ... gladly! Only take me away! DANIEL [_Not yet comprehending_]: But my work is here! CLARE We can't stay here! Jerry suspects us! He's made his father suspect us! Do you know what they're planning to do now? [_He nods_] Jerry wants to send you to an asylum! He said so tonight! And he'll do it, too! The strange thing about Jerry is that, with his mind going, and his health gone, he still gets what he wants! Take me away, and "we'll have five or six rooms, and each other!" DANIEL Clare! CLARE Don't you understand that I'm offering myself to you? DANIEL Yes; I understand! CLARE I love you! I need you! I've always loved you, and needed you, even when I lied to you, and myself! This is our last chance for happiness! I've been blind, and stupid, and cruel, but it isn't too late! Take me, and hold me, and we'll both forget! DANIEL Forget? CLARE Forget everything! Won't you take me, dear? DANIEL No! CLARE Don't you want me? DANIEL No! CLARE That's not true! You love me! You've always loved me! Look at me, and deny it if you can! DANIEL I don't deny it! I love you! CLARE Then take me! DANIEL I love the good in you ... the good you're trying so hard to kill! I love you because you're big enough to do what's right! CLARE What _is_ right? DANIEL Go back to your husband! CLARE I'd rather die! DANIEL I'd rather you died ... than _this_! CLARE Oh, you fanatic! You blind fanatic! DANIEL I love you! CLARE Love! You don't know what love means! You're only half a man! DANIEL And I'm praying to God, with all my strength, to save us from the other half! CLARE For what? DANIEL For you ... and HIM ... and for MY PEOPLE. [_Off R., very softly, as she goes down the hall_, MARY MARGARET _is heard singing "I'm a Pilgrim; I'm a Stranger."_] For the little girl out there. CLARE And for them you'd send me back to degradation? DANIEL That little girl's known degradation that you and I will never know. And she's singing. Her constant companions are poverty and pain. And she's singing. She's crippled. She may never walk again. And still she can say God's will be done. She believes in me. I can't disappoint her and the rest. I'm going on with my job, and you're going back to yours! CLARE You mean to Jerry? DANIEL Yes. CLARE You think _that's_ God's will? DANIEL I know it's your job. You took it with your eyes open. It's up to you to see it through. CLARE Must I go on forever paying for one mistake? DANIEL Somebody must pay for our mistakes. That it was wrong to make a bargain doesn't make it right to break the bargain when we get tired of it. CLARE I don't know what to do. DANIEL Play the game. Go back to that poor, mistaken man lying across the foot of your bed--his mind going and his health gone. Bear your punishment and help him to bear his. That's your duty! CLARE Duty! Duty!! What about happiness? DANIEL There _is_ no other happiness. Oh, don't you see, my dear, _that's_ been your _great_ mistake? You're always crying--you and the world--"I want to be happy!" Happiness is service! Happiness is clean-living, and clear-thinking, and self-forgetfulness, and self-respect! CLARE And love? DANIEL Love _isn't_ all. Not the love you mean. You said: "Take me, and we'll both forget." Could we have forgotten promises unkept, faith disappointed, aspirations unrealized? No, my dear, love isn't all; nor even happiness. There's something bigger, and better, and more important, and that something is ... DUTY! CLARE The world doesn't think that! DANIEL That's what's wrong with the world! [_A pause._] CLARE You want me to go back? DANIEL I want you to be right! CLARE Well, then ... I'm going through. I'm going back, and play the game ... with you in my heart always. You don't forbid that, do you? DANIEL You are in mine always. CLARE And this isn't good-bye. Sometime ... somewhere ... in this world ... or out of it ... there must be a moment ... and a place ... to retrieve mistakes.... Good-night. [_She starts up. He passes her, and opens the door._] DANIEL Clare ... good-night. [_She takes his hand. Then she exits. The outer door slams. Then a cab door ... faintly. He sinks ... tired with the effort of renunciation. Afterward he comes down, slowly, and drops on the bench in front of the table._ MARY MARGARET _enters, singing "I'm a Pilgrim," in a higher key, to march tempo, keeping time with her crutches. She is down R. when she sees_ DANIEL.] MARY MARGARET Ain't you well, Mr. Gilchrist? DANIEL Just tired. MARY MARGARET Maybe you ain't believin' hard enough. [_He looks up._] It's 'most time for the meetin'. [GRUBBY _enters with a tray_.] GRUBBY I brung the sandwiches. [MRS. MULLIGAN _enters. She is the worse for liquor, and glad of a warm place to enjoy it. She slinks in rather furtively, and sits R. end of table. She is followed on by_ MR. _and_ MRS. HENCHLEY. _He is a middle-aged and respectable locksmith. She is larger than he, and somewhat formidable._] MARY MARGARET Good evening, Mrs. Mulligan. MRS. MULLIGAN [_With a hiccough_]: It is not! GRUBBY [_Aside to_ MARY MARGARET]: Bums ... like that ... ain't got no business here. MR. HENCHLEY Good evening, Mary Margaret. [_She nods._] MRS. HENCHLEY Good evening, Mr. Gilchrist. DANIEL Good evening, and welcome. MR. HENCHLEY [_To_ DANIEL]: I guess we're early. MRS. HENCHLEY [_To_ DANIEL]: Yes. I wanted to speak to you ... about Mr. Henchley's pants. DANIEL Mr. Henchley's _what_? MRS. HENCHLEY Pants. I took out a spot ... with gasoline ... and hung 'em on the fire-escape that runs across from this house, and tonight they was gone, and I think you ought to look into your lodgers. DANIEL I will. [_Enter_ MISS LEVINSON. _She is a Jewess--a garment-worker; thoughtful, studious, spectacled._] MISS LEVINSON Good evening, everybody! DANIEL Good evening, Miss Levinson. [_The others, too, acknowledge the greeting._] MISS LEVINSON I've brought back your book. MRS. HENCHLEY What've you been reading? MISS LEVINSON George Bernard Shaw. MRS. HENCHLEY I s'pose you ain't read "The Sheik"? MISS LEVINSON [_With justifiable pride_]: I've been reading "Cæsar and Cleopatra." DANIEL [_Taking the volume_]: That's where we got the quotation on the board. I've jumbled it a bit. [_Reads_] "And so, to the end of history, hate shall breed hate, murder shall breed murder, until the gods create a race that can understand." MISS LEVINSON That's it; isn't it? A race that can-- [_The door is opened violently, and enter_ PEARL HENNIG.] PEARL Mr. Gilchrist! DANIEL Oh, Pearl; I thought you'd gone. PEARL No; I've been watchin', an' I've got to speak to you ... _quick!_ DANIEL In just a few minutes. PEARL _Now!_ Joe's out there! MRS. MULLIGAN Ah, shut up! DANIEL Mrs. Mulligan!... Pearl; you're interrupting!... You were saying, Miss Levinson? MISS LEVINSON We seem always to have hated everything different from ourselves ... in station, or race, or religion. DANIEL Yes. It's stupid ... and instinctive. I've noticed we're inclined to blame a man for a pug nose ... if ours is Roman. Some day we'll get over the idea that all who differ from us are villains, and that we should hate each other instead of trying to understand each other. It was on the battlefields that I came to believe a man's life might well be given to teaching and to preaching ... love! [_A solid half-brick crashes through a practical pane of glass in the window L. Everybody screams and rises._] Don't be alarmed. It's only some hoodlum! PEARL Mr. Gilchrist ... it's Joe! I seen him in front! That's why I couldn't get out! Somebody go get the police! [_A general movement._] DANIEL No! PEARL He's got other men with him! He'll kill you! _[The front door slams. Pearl hurls herself against the door R._] Here he comes! Don't let him in! Somebody help me hold this door! [_In spite of her, the door slowly opens._] DANIEL Pearl! Stand aside! [_Enter_ GOODKIND.] It's only Mr. Goodkind! GOODKIND Yes. And your neighbors are calling. MR. HENCHLEY What's the matter? [_Together_] MRS. HENCHLEY Is there any danger? [_Together_] MARY MARGARET I'll get the cops. [_Together_] VOICES IN THE GANG [_Off stage_]: The fake! The damned pimp! Drive him out! Come on.... Rush him! [_Suddenly there is the noise of the oncoming._ PEARL _throws herself before_ DAN. MARY MARGARET _is just behind him. The others retreat to the platform. Headed by_ JOE HENNIG ... _drunk_ ... _the rowdies enter_--JIMMIE CURRAN, _a big dockman, his wife and half a dozen hangers-on of the neighborhood_.] JOE [_En route_] Come on, fellows! We'll show this guy! We'll show--[_He confronts them_] By God! Caught in the act! [_To his gang_] That's my wife! DANIEL Caught in what act, Joe? JOE Why ... caught ... in the act.... DANIEL Tell him what we're here for.... You, Grubby. GRUBBY [_Following the example of_ PETER]: I don' want to get in no trouble! MARY MARGARET I'll tell you. DANIEL No, Mary Margaret! UMANSKI [_Who has come through the crowd unobserved; claps his hand on_ JOE'S _shoulder, forcing him to his knees_]: I tell you! JOE Umanski! UMANSKI I tell you, Hennig! Mr. Gilchrist been friend to everybody! And now, when _he_ need friend, nobody knows nothing! Well, _I_ know! I know anybody hurt him gotta lick me! DANIEL No ... please ... Umanski! JOE Lickin' people ain't gonna hide facks! UMANSKI [_Threatening with his free fist_]: Shall I? DANIEL No ... no! [UMANSKI _sets_ JOE _on his feet_. JOE _turns eloquently to his gang_.] JOE I'll show you the kind of fake that's been foolin' you! He was a preacher, an' he got kicked out of his church! VOICES IN THE GANG Kicked out! They got onto you, did they? Caught him with the goods! JOE He was a spy for the people that live on labor, and he came to the mines, where we was on strike, and ran away with my wife! VOICES IN THE GANG The dirty bum! Maybe he didn't get much! PEARL It _wasn't_ him! JOE She says that 'cause she's stuck on him! PEARL I ain't! JOE Well, you're workin' for him, ain't you? PEARL No! DANIEL Your wife's working in a store uptown! VOICES IN THE GANG We know different! What's she doing here? That's a good one! What're you giving us? Everybody in the neighborhood knows what she's doing! JOE My wife's walking the streets! DANIEL That's a lie! JOE I heard from a pal she picked up las' night ... an' I _seen_ her comin' here! JIMMIE She's workin' Sixth Avenue! MRS. MULLIGAN I can't believe it! I can't believe it! DANIEL Pearl!!!... It _is_ a lie? PEARL Oh, no!... It's true. [_A momentary silence; the gang jeers; she turns on them; then a momentary defiance._] Well! Well, why wouldn't it be? I tried to live straight ... like you told me ... an' I _had_ a job ... but when the other girls got wise.... They ain't no better than I am! [_She slowly gives way before his calm, steady gaze._] Anyway ... I lied. I _am_ walkin' the streets. I ain't no good. I ain't fit to live. [_She starts to sink at his feet. He raises her._] DANIEL Pearl! PEARL For Christ's sake, ain't you done with me now? DANIEL For Christ's sake ... no! [_And he takes her in his arms._] JOE It's all fake! Ain't you fellows on? He's got every rotten woman in the neighborhood workin' for him. Your wives ain't safe! Your kids ain't safe! Ask Jimmie Curran! He knows what's goin' on here! [_Enter_ TONY MALDUCA.] Ask Tony Malduca! A VOICE Here's Tony! TONY Why you send for me? What do you want? JOE We want to know what happened to your kid! Did he bring her in here ... an' keep her ... against her will? Did he? TONY That's what he done! VOICES IN THE GANG You remember Teresa Malduca? You see! Sure; everybody knows that! She was here a week! UMANSKI You damned wop! DANIEL Umanski! VOICES IN THE GANG There ain't no woman safe! He's a damned fake! Beat him up! Kill him! JOE That's it! Don't let this big guy buffalo you! Come on! Drive him out! [_To_ DANIEL] I said I'd get you, an' I have! [_The gang presses closer, but_ UMANSKI'S _menacing bulk still holds them off_.] MARY MARGARET [_Kneeling on the platform L._]: Oh, dear God, please listen! [_And she begins the Lord's Prayer._] PEARL Get the police! MISS LEVINSON [_Crying out of the window L._]: Police! Police! JIMMIE [_To_ UMANSKI]: Get out of the way ... you! A VOICE Bust him in the jaw! GOODKIND [_Forcing his way through_]: Listen to me! No violence! You're dealing with a lunatic! Leave him alone! I've got a doctor coming in a few minutes! Leave him to me, and I give you my word I'll have this place closed tonight! VOICES IN THE GANG Yes, and he'll open another one! Sure he will! Of course he will! Ah-h-h! Beat him up! GOODKIND Leave him alone! You can't beat a crazy man! PEARL Mr. Gilchrist ain't crazy! He ain't a man! Ain't you seen what he just done to me? A WOMAN Hire a hall! [_All laugh._] PEARL Ain't you heard? I lied to him, an' he's give me another chance, an' _I'm gonna take it_! He ain't no man! He's a Saint! I tell you he's like God! A VOICE Where's his wings? [_All laugh._] JOE Like God! JIMMIE That's blasphemy! JOE That's what it is, an' that's what he's been tellin' 'em! Ain't it ... you ... Grubby? Didn't he tell you that, Jimmie? Didn't he tell you he was a Son of God? VOICES IN THE GANG Sure he did! That's right! JOE You see, that's what he's told 'em all! That's how he gets 'em! [_To_ DANIEL]: Didn't you tell 'em you was a Son of God? [_There is a momentary silence, broken only by_ MARY MARGARET'S _prayer_.] DANIEL I am! VOICES IN THE GANG He admits it! And I'm Mary Magdalene! Pipe Mary Magdalene! Son of God! DANIEL And so are we all! [_Jeers_] In you ... and me ... and all of us ... deep down ... is something of Him! We may try to hide it--[_Jeers_]--or kill it, but, in spite of ourselves, we _are_ Divine! VOICES IN THE GANG Chuck it! Hell! Cut the gab! He's crazy! Come on; smash the place! TONY [_Facing_ DANIEL]: If you're a Son of God ... save yourself! If you're ... what you say ... give us a sign! JOE Ah, hell! Come on! [_Two men have climbed upon the table, and suddenly seize_ UMANSKI _from behind. Momentarily, they bear him down, and this obstacle is removed. As they drag him up R., the rest of the gang closes in from all sides, hiding Daniel, who is forced up stage C. The table is overturned. Above the struggling mass are seen fists striking down, various improvised weapons in action. A Dockman, who, at_ JOE'S _speech, has lifted the bench from behind_ DANIEL, _to fell him with it, and whose weapon has been seized, from the rear, by the_ HENCHLEYS, _pommels madly. Above the pandemonium are distinguished voices_--PEARL: "_Help!_" UMANSKI: "_I kill somebody!_" MISS LEVINSON: "_Police!_" GOODKIND: "_Let him alone!_" _Suddenly_ UMANSKI _throws off his captors, and, attacking the mob from in front, mows his way through, tossing them to left and right. When a way is cleared, he ... and we ... see_ DANIEL, _senseless, lying in the overturned table, a tiny trickle of blood running down his face, his head supported by the table-leg R._ UMANSKI _gives a deep groan of rage and pity. Hearing this and divining that something dreadful has happened to her hero_, MARY MARGARET, _who has ceased praying, and raised herself to her feet by the aid of a neighboring chair, walks down to L. C. Before she sees_ DANIEL, MISS LEVINSON _sees_ her, _and emits a piercing scream_.] MISS LEVINSON Mary Margaret! Where are your crutches? MARY MARGARET [_Looking at her legs in tearful bewilderment_] I don't know! [_She tries them; then, in an hysterical cry_]: I kin walk! I kin walk! [_She looks for her benefactor ... to show him._] Mr. Gilchrist! Mr. Gilchrist! [_The crowd parts, and she sees the figure lying against the overturned table._] Oh, Mr. Gilchrist! [_She folds him in her arms._] UMANSKI [_Staring at_ MARY MARGARET, _and in a tone of hushed awe_]: You wanted a sign--LOOK! Down on your knees--you murderers! God's in this room! Down on your knees! [_One by one and two by two, the frightened mob obeys._ JOE _is lying senseless, but his cohorts, crossing themselves, have seen a miracle_.] THE CURTAIN FALLS _ACT IV._ SCENE: _Gilchrist's Room--"Upstairs." Two months later._ _The room is cheerful. That is its chief aspect. Cheerful, and comfortable, and homelike. Such a room ... in the rear of the fourth story ... might be had anywhere for seven dollars a week, and its contents duplicated for a couple of hundred, yet no one should be able to look in without envying the occupant. Before the warm glow of a fireplace down R. is a big, brown leather-covered armchair. An electric lamp stands on a table stage left of the chair and squarely opposite the fireplace. There are books on the table, too, and writing things, and another chair on its left. Above the grate a picture of Christ in the Temple. Conspicuous in the flat, and visible from all parts of the house, a big studio window. There are cream-colored outside curtains, and brown denim inside curtains, drawn now, but when they are pulled aside, one sees chimney-pots, and roof-tops, and a blue night-sky, with one particularly bright star. Up L., a curtained arch into a hall bedroom, and down L. a door. The walls, covered with old-gold grass-cloth, are hidden, to a height of six feet, by roughly-built bookcases, filled with much-used books. A sofa, against the wall L., now holds numerous packages. There is a brown-and-tan grass rug on the floor, and there may be a window seat, with brown cushions, beneath the window. The furniture is all old ... probably second-hand ... but, as aforesaid, the room suggests comfort and peace._ AT RISE: _It is just after eight o'clock, Christmas Eve, 1920._ DANIEL _is discovered, dreaming, in the armchair R., a pipe in his mouth and his face to the fire. He has not lighted the desk lamp, and, except for the glow of the embers, the room is in darkness. Hanging over the left arm of the chair_, DANIEL'S _hand holds a magazine, but he has not begun reading. After a pause long enough for the audience to take in his surroundings, there is a light tap at the door and, without waiting for a response_, MARY MARGARET _enters. She walks without crutches--quite briskly--but plainly is on some secret business. Daniel is lost in the darkness. A package in her hand_, MARY MARGARET _crosses quickly to the table, and turns on one and then the other of the two lights in the lamp. Instantly, of course, she sees the figure in the chair, and conceals the package beneath her apron._ MARY MARGARET Mr. Gilchrist? [_He shows himself_] Goo'ness, how you scared me! I thought you went out! DANIEL No; I just slipped up here to read a while before we put our gifts on the tree.... Where's Grubby? MARY MARGARET [_Contemptuously_]: Grubby! DANIEL He promised to help with the packages. MARY MARGARET Grubby's all swelled up with his new taxicab. Christmas Eve's the big night in his business, but he says don't worry ... he'll be here in time for the sandwiches. Am I interruptin' your readin'? DANIEL Oh, no! What have you there? MARY MARGARET Where? DANIEL Under your apron. MARY MARGARET Oh! [_She reveals the parcel_] I was gonna surprise you. It's your Christmas present. DANIEL From you? MARY MARGARET [_Handing it across the table_]: Yes. It ain't much ... _you_ know ... an' I didn't want it on the tree ... before everybody. I wanted to give it to you myself. Open it now. [_He does so. The package contains a framed picture._] DANIEL Mary Margaret! MARY MARGARET The name's on the back! [_He turns it around, revealing to the audience a cheap and highly-colored chromo_] See ... "Mama's Treasure." DANIEL It's just what I wanted. MARY MARGARET [_Delighted_]: Is it ... honest?... Let's put it in place of that one over the mantel-piece! That's an awful pretty pitcher, but mine's got colors in it! DANIEL Why not in place of the Venus who fell on her nose? MARY MARGARET Oh, yes! [_She stands "Mama's Treasure" atop a bookcase L._] It looks good, don't it? DANIEL Beautiful. I can't thank you enough. [_Takes her hand_] I can't really. MARY MARGARET _You_ can't thank _me_! You that's give me--[_She looks down at her legs, and up again with eyes full of tears_] Oh, Mr. Gilchrist! DANIEL Now! Now! Now! We mustn't cry on Christmas! MARY MARGARET What're you going to do if you're happy? DANIEL Try laughing. [_She does_] Anyway, if I'm having my Christmas now, you must have yours. Suppose you rummage on the sofa. MARY MARGARET Oh! [_She runs to obey, and holds up a parcel inquiringly._] DANIEL That's a book for Miss Levinson. MARY MARGARET [_Reads from another bundle_]: Mrs. Henchley. [_Takes up a third_] This one ain't marked. DANIEL Gloves for Mack. I wanted to show I appreciated his bringing back that coat. MARY MARGARET [_Reading from two packages_]: Peter ... Paul.... DANIEL For your brothers. MARY MARGARET [_With a fourth_]: And ... Mary Margaret! DANIEL Open it now. MARY MARGARET [_Breathless, she comes to him C. Hesitates, and then, removing the wrapping, reveals a child's set in beaver--muff and neckpiece_]: Oh, Mr. Gilchrist! [_She tries them_] Oh, Mr. Gilchrist; you oughtn't! [_Looks about for a mirror_] They're beautiful! They're the most beautifulest furs I ever seen! I've wanted a set like this always! You've made me so happy! I never was so happy before in my life! [_And she begins to cry again._] DANIEL Now! [_She remembers, and laughs._] MARY MARGARET I don't know how to thank you. DANIEL Don't try. MARY MARGARET I never expected no such a Christmas! [_Starts for door_] I gotta show mother! DANIEL [_Turning R._]: Take down a few of the packages! MARY MARGARET I'll be back in a minute! [_She opens the door, disclosing_ GOODKIND. _Seriously alarmed_] Oh!... Mr. Gilchrist! DANIEL [_Turning L._]: Well ... Mr. Goodkind! GOODKIND May I come in? DANIEL Of course! [_He enters. Dan indicates chair L. of table R._] Sit down! GOODKIND I've only a moment. Jerry's waiting for me in the car. DANIEL How is Jerry? [MARY MARGARET _arranges the chair_.] GOODKIND [_Shakes his head despairingly. Looks at_ MARY MARGARET]: I wish you could perform a miracle on _him_. DANIEL I wish I could. GOODKIND [_To_ MARY MARGARET]: You seem to walk all right. MARY MARGARET Oh, yes! GOODKIND [_To_ DAN]: Had a doctor look her over? DANIEL Three of 'em. GOODKIND Any opinion? DANIEL Three opinions. MARY MARGARET They said _he_ didn't do it, and you seen him! DANIEL [_Holds up a warning finger_]: _Ssh!_ [_Then to_ GOODKIND] They all say she suffered from hysterical paraplegia. [GOODKIND _puzzled_] Hysterical paralysis. One says she was cured by shock--you know; the riot. Another says it was suggestion ... believing ... which is another way of saying faith, isn't it? The important thing is that she's cured! MARY MARGARET God did it--God and Mr. Gilchrist! DANIEL [_Hushing her again_]: Take down an armful of those packages ... like a good girl! MARY MARGARET I will. [_She gathers them up, and, returning L. C., looks apprehensively at_ GOODKIND] You call ... if you want me! [_Exits_] GOODKIND [_Hesitates. Doesn't know how to begin. Takes cigars from his pocket_]: Smoke? DANIEL Thanks. [_Showing his pipe_] I'll stick to my old friend. [_He sits._] GOODKIND How are things with you? DANIEL [_Enthusiastically_]: Fine! GOODKIND Happy? DANIEL [_Radiantly_]: Yes!... And you? GOODKIND No. Everything's ... all wrong. My boy's very ill. Clare's wonderful to him. I can't explain it--she's like a different woman. And _she_ seems happy. But Jerry's had to give up work, and there's more trouble in Black River, and that's what brought me! DANIEL You don't want _my_ advice? GOODKIND I want _you_ ... as general manager. These strikes are such utter damned waste! We had a working compromise on your agreement, and everything was all right, but we began figuring we could make more money ... and the men walked out, and flooded the mines. I'd like you to take charge, Daniel. DANIEL I can't. GOODKIND Name your own salary. DANIEL My work is here. GOODKIND You can have anything you want. DANIEL I don't want anything. GOODKIND You want to see the men get their rights. DANIEL They'll get 'em. Nothing can stop that. GOODKIND You're not going to turn down fifty thousand dollars a year? DANIEL What can I buy with it that I haven't got? GOODKIND What can you buy with fifty---- DANIEL What have _you_ bought? GOODKIND I've got one of the finest houses in New York! DANIEL Is it any more comfortable than this? GOODKIND This one little room! DANIEL How many rooms do you live in at the same time? GOODKIND I've got half a dozen cars! DANIEL I've two legs, and I walk, and keep well. GOODKIND I've twenty servants---- DANIEL Don't tell me you enjoy that! GOODKIND And the respect of people about me---- DANIEL So have I! GOODKIND And, what's most important of all, I'm a success! DANIEL Are you? GOODKIND Huh? DANIEL Are you? What is success? Money? Yes; that's what our civilization tells us. Money! But where has that brought us? Only to the elevation of the unfit ... the merely shrewd and predatory. All around us we see men of wealth who have nothing else ... neither health nor happiness nor love nor respect. Men who can get no joy out of books, or pictures, or music, or even themselves. Tired, worried men who are afraid to quit because they have no resource except to make money--money with which to buy vulgar excitement for their own debased souls. Why, Mr. Goodkind, I have an income that you wouldn't suggest to your bookkeeper, but I have peace, and health, and friends, and time to read, and think, and dream, and help. Which of us is the rich man? GOODKIND But if everybody lived your way, what would become of the world's work? DANIEL Living that way is my contribution to the world's work. Another man's might be selling shoes, or writing plays, or digging ditches. Doing his job doesn't prevent any man from doing his bit. "From every man according to his ability, to every man according to his needs." And every man who gives his best must find his happiness. GOODKIND I'm afraid there wouldn't be much progress ... living your way. DANIEL That's the second time you've spoken of my way. It isn't _my_ way. It's the sum total of all that has been learned and taught. You, and Jerry, and the others have called me eccentric, and a fool, because I'm trying to walk a path trod hard by countless feet. Was Christ eccentric? Was Confucius a fool? And how about Buddha and Mohammed? What of St. Bernard, and St. Teresa, and St. Francis of Assisi--of Plato, and Zeno, and Lincoln, and Emerson, and Florence Nightingale, and Father Damien, and Octavia Hill, and all the saints and scientists, and poets and philosophers, who have lived and died in complete forgetfulness of self? Were they fools, or were they wise men and women who had found the way to peace and happiness? Were they failures, or were they the great successes of all Time and all Eternity? GOODKIND God knows! [JERRY _enters ... a dying man. He drags his legs with difficulty, and his speech is thick, but he is still cynical and defiant._] JERRY Well, you've been the devil of a time! I came up to see what was keeping you! GOODKIND [_Rising_]: Mr. Gilchrist. JERRY Hello, Gilchrist! DANIEL [_Crossing to C._]: How are you, Jerry? JERRY Not so damned well! But I'll be all right in the Spring! Clare's looking after me. Clare's a good sport. What I need now's a run down to Palm Beach! [_Looks around_] So you're reduced to this, are you? DANIEL Yes. JERRY Going to take my job? DANIEL No. JERRY Why not? DANIEL Your father understands. JERRY Yes ... so do I! Didn't I always say you were a nut? That's it; a nut! [_He laughs with a laugh that begins to get the better of him._] GOODKIND [_Crossing rapidly to the door_]: Come, Jerry! [_A light rap_; GOODKIND _opens. Enter_ MARY MARGARET. _She glances at him and crosses to upper L. C._ JERRY _looks at her, and turns back to_ DAN.] JERRY Who's the girl? DANIEL Your father's waiting. JERRY A' right!... [_Crosses L._] Some failure _you've_ made out of life! [_Turns back and leers at_ MARY MARGARET. _In the doorway, looks at_ DAN.] Wheels ... by God! Wheels! [_He laughs, and exits._] GOODKIND [_Goes to_ DAN _and takes his hand_]: I wonder if _you're_ the failure, after all. [_Returns to the door._] Good-night! [_He exits._] [DAN _takes his pipe from his pocket and puts it in his mouth. Some chimes, in the distance, begin the anthem "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."_ DANIEL _goes up, draws back the curtains, and throws open the window_. MARY MARGARET, _feeling the fresh air, draws her furs about her, happily. She turns up._ DANIEL _is standing with his left arm akimbo_. MARY MARGARET _slips her head through it, and nestles to him. They ... and we ... see the chimney pots, and the blue night sky, and one bright star._] MARY MARGARET Mr. Gilchrist! Is that the Star of Bethlehem? DANIEL I wonder. [_The chimes swell out, and_ THE CURTAIN FALLS * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Pages 73, 150: Original book used multi-line braces to indicate [_Together_] lines. 
20068	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 20068-h.htm or 20068-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/6/20068/20068-h/20068-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/0/6/20068/20068-h.zip) SARAH'S SCHOOL FRIEND by MAY BALDWIN Author of 'Two Schoolgirls of Florence,' 'Barbara Bellamy,' &c. With Six Illustrations by Percy Tarrant [Illustration: He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the bank. Front. PAGE 179.] London: 38 Soho Square, W. W. & R. Chambers, Limited Edinburgh: 339 High Street Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company TO MY KIND FRIENDS OF 'ALDAMS' CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. A MILL-HAND'S MANSION 1 II. A DREARY BANQUET 11 III. STALLED OXEN 20 IV. AN UNANSWERED QUESTION 31 V. A RELUCTANT INVITATION 41 VI. AN EXTRAORDINARY LETTER 51 VII. HORATIA'S ARRIVAL 61 VIII. HORATIA 71 IX. A YORKSHIRE MIXTURE 81 X. PLAIN SPEAKING CLEARS THE AIR 90 XI. HORATIA SPEAKS OUT 100 XII. A RINKING-PARTY 109 XIII. HORATIA'S INFLUENCE 119 XIV. A MILLIONAIRE FOR FIVE MINUTES 129 XV. A VISIT TO CLAY'S MILLS 139 XVI. THE MILLIONAIRE'S PICNIC 148 XVII. A DISASTROUS BONFIRE 158 XVIII. NANCY PACKS UP 167 XIX. AN UNPLEASANT MOMENT 176 XX. SARAH'S FIRST STEP TO CONQUEST 185 XXI. CLAY'S MILLS PLAYING 194 XXII. 'FURRINERS' IN OUSEBANK! 204 XXIII. OUTWITTED 214 XXIV. GOOD-BYE TO BALMORAL 224 XXV. 'A BAD BUSINESS' 234 XXVI. TRUE YORKSHIRE GRIT 244 XXVII. SARAH IS MUCH IMPROVED 254 XXVIII. SARAH BECOMES A BUSINESS WOMAN 264 XXIX. 'A MIRACLE' 274 XXX. LAST 283 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the bank _Frontispiece._ He took his young niece's arm and followed his sister-in-law into the drawing-room 21 'I'm so glad you've called me "lass"! I was so hoping some one would' 69 'Ask the band to play "La Rinka," Sarah,' cried Horatia 105 'We've come to say there's two men been turned off because they've been ill, and boys put on in their place' 132 As the two stood and watched the air-ship something dropped from it 220 Sarah's School Friend. CHAPTER I. A MILL-HAND'S MANSION. 'It's a dreadful thing to have a father you don't respect,' said Sarah Clay, as she walked into the gilded and beautifully painted drawing-room of the aforesaid father's mansion in Yorkshire. Her mother gave a little, sharp scream, and let fall the book she was holding in her hand. Sarah came forward swiftly, picked it up, and turned it over to look at the title, at sight of which she said, with a little laugh, 'What a humbug you are, mother! You know you've never read a single word of this book.' Mrs Clay's face flushed crimson. ''Ow dare you talk similar to that, Sarah?' Only she pronounced it fairly with a true cockney accent, and left out all her _h_'s. 'I don't know w'at women are comin' to nowadays, w'at wi' one thing an' another, w'en it comes to a chit o' sixteen talkin' like that about 'er mother bein' an 'umbug, let alone sayin' she doesn't respect 'er father; an' w'at 'e'd say if 'e 'eard 'er I couldn't say, I'm sure,' she said, flustered. 'Then don't say it,' observed Sarah lightly, as she threw herself lazily into one of the luxurious armchairs opposite her mother, and only then became aware that buried in the depths of another easy-chair was another figure--that of a man. For a moment she was taken aback, and started in fright, thinking that it was her father, of whom she might speak disrespectfully behind his back, but whom she did not dare to abuse to his face, fearless though she was by nature. However, to her relief, she saw it was not her father's big, burly form that filled the gold-brocaded chair, but her brother's tall, slight figure. 'Awfully bad form, Sarah,' he murmured in an effeminate voice, after which he laid his head back in an attitude of exhaustion against the chair, and gazed up at the ceiling. 'Yes; I think it must be that 'igh-class, fashionable school that's taught 'er to speak so of 'er parents, an' not respect any one,' agreed her mother in querulous accents. 'I didn't mean to speak disrespectfully to you, dear old mother,' said the girl with a kind of patronising affection. 'I don't know w'at you call it, then, callin' me an 'umbug,' objected Mrs Clay. 'I was in fun, and you know it _is_ humbug your pretending to read Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_,' persisted Sarah. At the title, the youth in the arm-chair roused himself, and said in quite a different tone, 'Were you reading that, mater? Is it my copy?' 'Well, I can't say I'd really read it, not to understand it; but I saw it was one o' the books you were studyin', an' I thought I'd take a look at it just to know a little w'at you were studyin' w'en you got back to college,' said his mother apologetically. 'That's awfully nice of you, mater; but why didn't you ask me about it? I'd have told you anything you wanted to know about my work. That's such a frightfully dry book. I should grind it up for my trip,' replied her son. 'I don't know that I want to know about "trips;" but I feel I ought to try an' educate myself now you two are comin' on, so as not to disgrace you,' began his mother. But her son, with an impatient movement--which, however, he immediately suppressed--interrupted her. 'Dear mater, what does it matter whether you are learned or not? For my part, I don't see what women want to be educated for at all.' 'Oh, you don't, don't you? You ought to have lived about the year one. You're several centuries behind the times, George!' exclaimed his sister indignantly. 'I wish I had. I'm sure the girls of that time were nicer than they are nowadays,' he replied, calmly relapsing into his nonchalant attitude. 'I'm sure they never talked about not respectin' their dads,' said Mrs Clay plaintively. She had, as will be seen, a habit of harping back to the same grievance, and this remark of her daughter's evidently rankled in her mind. 'Perhaps their fathers were more respectable than mine,' replied Sarah. 'Well, I never did!' cried Mrs Clay, scandalised. 'Draw it mild, Sarah! The pater may be a bit of a tartar sometimes, but he's respectable enough, in all conscience,' remonstrated her brother. 'I don't think so,' declared Sarah. Before her mother could utter the protests which her son saw in her face, George said, 'Oh, let her talk! She's got some maggot in her brain, and she wants to air it. It amuses her, and it doesn't hurt us, as long as the pater doesn't come in and hear her; and she'll take good care to shut up if he does,' he wound up with a laugh. His laugh exasperated his sister, and she retorted with some warmth, 'If I do shut up when he comes in, it's only because he's so violent and hateful!' 'Sarah! Sarah!' came from the mother and son simultaneously, in accents of horrified indignation; and Mrs Clay continued, 'Leave the room at once, miss. I won't sit 'ere an' 'ave my 'usband insulted like that.' Without a word, the girl rose from her seat and left the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply behind her. 'What's the governor been doing to upset her now?' inquired Mr George Clay of his mother. 'Nothin' that I know of. It's some crotchet of Sairey, now she's begun studyin' the woman's question, as she calls it, an' thinks 'e treats the women 'ere badly.' 'Oh goodness, don't you tell me she's started that! Do they go in for politics at that school, then?' cried her brother. 'I never heard of such a thing at a girls' school; it ought not to be allowed.' 'Well, I don't know that it's politics exactly; it's somethin' to do wi' women's duties to each other an' the 'ard life our mill-lasses 'ave, or somethin'. She was talkin' to me the other evenin' about it, quite beautifully; an' I will say that for Sairey, she don't mind my not understandin', but explains, an' never seems to despise me for my ignorance,' said his mother. 'I should think not, indeed! Book-learning isn't everything. With all your experience of life you could teach Sarah a precious sight more than she can teach you,' said George. 'It's very nice o' you to talk like that, dear; but I know you're both far above me wi' your beautiful manners an' ways o' talkin',' said the poor woman humbly. 'For goodness' sake, don't talk like that, mother, or I shall be sorry I ever went to Eton and Cambridge if it makes you feel any distance between us!' he cried. 'I don't feel it so much wi' you, dear. It's Sairey I feel it worse wi', an' it's not 'er fault either; it's only that she's so clever an' so beautiful.' 'She's good-looking, certainly; but, then, so are you. She's taken after you, like me.' The young man smiled at his mother in a very pretty way. He certainly had beautiful manners, as his mother said. 'But as for being clever,' he continued, 'I call her a proud peacock.' 'Oh George, I was never as good-lookin' as Sairey, nor you either; nor 'alf such a lady. W'y, she might be a duchess's daughter! Every one says so,' cried his mother, woman-like, dwelling upon the subject of good looks rather than on her son's criticism of Sarah's cleverness. 'That's only education. You'd have been just as duchessy if you'd been educated,' insisted her son, hesitating for a word to use instead of lady-like, for he would not, even to himself, own that his mother was not a lady in the world's acceptation of the word. What every one in the West Riding, or heavy woollen district, said was, what a most extraordinary thing it was that the son and daughter of that brute Clay should be so refined when their father was such a rough, uncouth man! The Clay family was one of the many instances in Yorkshire of the mill-hand who rose from being a labourer to be the owner of a large mill and enormous wealth, and who gave to his children the education he had never received himself. But though in most cases the children were better educated and superior in outward seeming to their parents, it was not often that the contrast was so marked. In this case it may have been caused by the fact that Mark Clay, instead of marrying a mill-lass, had taken to wife a very pretty, delicate-looking girl from London, who had bequeathed her good looks to her two children. She, or rather her husband--for little Mrs Clay had no voice in the matter--had sent the boy to Eton and then to Cambridge, and the girl to what her mother called a ''igh-class, fashionable school'--which, if high prices are any criterion, it certainly was. Mrs Clay shook her head at her son's last remark. 'I should never 'ave made a duchess. I was always timid, an' couldn't 'old up my 'ead as Sairey does. It's somethin' in you both, though I don't 'old wi' Sairey speakin' of 'er father in the way she does.' 'I should think not, indeed,' put in her son. 'Still, we can't expect 'er to respect us as much as she would if we 'ad the same good manners an' way o' talkin' that she an' you 'ave. It's natural she should feel superior, an' show it, too,' argued the poor woman with some shrewdness; 'an' I've told your dad that it was only w'at 'e might 'ave expected.' 'Pray, don't talk of Sarah's manners being good, nor her way of talking either; they're both as bad as bad can be,' said George Clay, with his soft drawl. 'W'y, you don't never mean to say that, George, an' after all the pounds dad's paid for 'er? For goodness' sake, don't tell 'im, or 'e'll 'alf-kill 'er--'e would! You don't know your father as I do,' cried the mother in consternation. An expression of annoyance came over her son's face at these words. 'Don't make the pater out worse than he is, my dear mother. He may be violent at times, but I hope he knows better than to use physical force. Anyway, I shall not tell him anything of the sort, and when I say her manners are bad and her language unlady-like'---- 'But that's just w'at 'e thinks it isn't; an' though 'e gets angry, 'e thinks a lot o' 'er. An' w'en I don't like the words she uses sometimes, 'e says I don't know the way o' society; that the aristocracy speak like that, an' be'ave so, too.' 'Well, so they do, some of them,' admitted her son. But before he could finish his remark his mother interrupted him. 'Well, then, that's w'at 'e wants; so if you tell 'im that, dear, 'e'll be in a good temper for the rest o' the evenin'.' She looked wistfully at her son as she made this suggestion. He laughed good-humouredly. 'All right, mother; if Sarah gives him some of her cheek to-night I'll tell him it's the fashion of the day. It's true enough; but, oh dear! I wish you wouldn't have such fearfully long dinners. That's not the fashion; it's the thing to starve.' 'It's not a bit o' good you tellin' 'im _that_, for 'e says 'e can afford a Lord Mayor's banquet every day 'e likes, an' 'e 'll 'ave it, an' 'e can't abear to see you sittin' there pickin' at a bit o' chicken, an' not even takin' whisky-an'-soda wi' him.' 'Well, I must go and dress for this Lord Mayor's banquet, and so must you, mother; so go and put on your black silk,' he remarked, as he rose lazily from his arm-chair. 'Not that old dress, dear; it's so plain an' dowdy. I've somethin' better than that;' and, looking as pleased as a young girl at his interest in her dress, she went off nodding and smiling at the thought of the pleasure she was going to give him at sight of her new finery. George Clay was just going to beg her not to put on anything better than the black silk, but on second thoughts checked himself. After all, if it pleased her that was the chief thing, not to mention that his father would probably think her choice more suited to his banquet, for such the dinners at the Clays' might well be called. On her way to her own room Mrs Clay had to pass her daughter's suite of rooms, and after a little hesitation she knocked at the door of her boudoir. 'Come in,' said a voice, and she entered. Sarah was sitting on the wide window-seat, looking out over the park towards the town, the tall factory chimneys of which could be seen, at the bottom of the hill, belching out their volumes of smoke, which made even the trees in the park unfit to touch, thanks to the soot it deposited upon their leaves, stems, and trunks. 'W'y, Sairey, ain't you goin' to begin to dress? W'y 'asn't Naomi put out your things?' exclaimed her mother. 'I'm not coming down to-night; I don't want to see your husband,' said Sarah, still staring out into the park. 'My 'usband, indeed! Who do you think you're talkin' to? You seem to forget I'm your own mother, an' that my 'usband, as you call 'im, is your father, miss! 'Usband, indeed!' cried Mrs Clay. 'You're sure there's no mistake, mother? You're sure he _is_ my father? I sometimes wonder if I could have been kidnapped as a baby, and changed.' But she got no further, for little Mrs Clay could stand no more. 'You're my child, Sairey. Though you're a deal better-lookin' than ever I was, you are like enough for any one to know I'm your mother,' she protested. 'I wish to goodness I wasn't! Oh mother, don't look like that! I didn't mean you, of course. I'm glad to be your child; but, oh, why did you marry that man? Now, if you had only married Uncle Howroyd.' 'Seein' that I 'ave married 'im, an' that 'e's your father, it's no use talkin' about such things. An', dear, 'e's not as bad as 'e might be. 'E doesn't drink nor beat me,' she said. 'Mother, you talk as if he were a coalheaver,' cried her daughter indignantly. ''E wasn't a coalheaver; but 'e was a mill-'and, an' I was a milliner's girl in a little shop in London w'en I married 'im, an' I 'adn't a farthing. An' look at the beautiful 'ouse I'm mistress o' now, an' look at the money 'e spends on you an' me both--never stints us for anythin'! I'm sure you ought to be grateful to 'im. I am, for I never expected to rise to this w'en I was a milliner's 'prentice in London.' 'You needn't talk about that. It's bad enough to be a vulgar millionaire's daughter,' replied the girl, and at the same time she dropped from the window-seat and came towards her mother; adding, 'Well, if you want me to come down to dinner I suppose I must ring for Naomi. It's an awful nuisance, and I shall probably have a row with the pater.' Mrs Clay was going to plead with her daughter as she had with her son; but Sarah, who had suggested dressing partly to get rid of her mother, pointed to the clock, and Mrs Clay hurried away to get ready for dinner herself. CHAPTER II. A DREARY BANQUET. After the mother had left the room, her daughter seemed in no hurry to get ready for dinner; she turned back to the window, and, taking up her old position on the wide window-seat, sat gazing down at the hideous view of the big manufacturing town, with blackened buildings and tall, smoky chimneys, which lay at the bottom of the hill, and seemed to have a weird fascination for her. It must certainly have been from choice that Sarah Clay looked at them, for she had only to sit at the other side of the broad window-seat, turn her back on Ousebank, and, looking out on the other side of the hill, she would have had a beautiful view over the hill of pretty vales and villages and smiling pasture, and their own fine park; but the girl deliberately turned her back upon nature, and looked not upon art--for art there was not in Ousebank except what was produced in the mills--but upon nature perverted by man, who had turned the beautiful vale into a Black Country with its big factories, which polluted earth and sky, air and water. She was still staring out with a frown on her face when a knock came to the door, and she called out, 'Come in,' without turning her head to see who the new-comer was. 'Excuse me, miss,' said the voice of the maid, 'but the mistress sent me with this, and you'll best be getting ready for dinner, for it's late.' Sarah turned her head, with the air that her mother declared was like that of a duchess's daughter, and looked at the large cardboard box which her maid held in her arms, with a gaze which, to do her justice, she was quite unconscious was haughty. 'What is it?' she asked shortly. 'You just come and see, Miss Sarah,' replied the maid quite politely, but with Yorkshire independence. Sarah did not resent the tone of the advice, but came slowly from her window-seat, and watched the maid undo the string of the box and take out, with many exclamations of admiration, a beautiful white silk frock elaborately trimmed with lace and ribbons. 'It's grand! Oh miss, make haste and let me do your hair, and put it on you!' cried the maid. 'Now? I have no time. Put it away, and get out my white muslin, Naomi,' replied Sarah, and she turned away after hardly a glance at the pretty dress. 'But you are to wear it to-night. At least, the mistress said would you, please, put it on,' corrected Naomi, as she saw her young mistress's look of indignation at the peremptory order. Sarah was just going to refuse decidedly; but the thought of her mother's disappointment made her hesitate. The girl had good enough taste to feel that the dress was far too smart for an ordinary family dinner; but, then, as she reflected, it would be in keeping with the rest, which was far too smart, all of it. So she said, 'Very well. Make haste, Naomi.' 'There, miss, you look just like a queen, and fit to live in a palace; though, to be sure, ours is one, or as good as one. Now, just look in the glass and see if you aren't lovely.' 'Yes; it's very pretty,' said Sarah impatiently. 'Are you ill, miss? You don't seem a bit pleased to have such beautiful things. I'm sure if I had everything I could wish for like you I'd be as happy as a queen,' observed Naomi, whom Sarah allowed to say what she liked; in the first place, because she was the daughter of the head mill-watchman, and her family had all--some still did--worked in Clay's Mills; and, in the second place, because they had played together as little children. 'I dare say you would; so am I, because a queen is not at all a happy person; at least, if she is, it's not because she is a queen and can have lots of new dresses and things,' remarked Sarah. 'You wouldn't talk like that if you'd ever had to do without them,' replied the girl. Sarah turned round and faced the girl. 'Naomi,' she said passionately, 'I'd give anything on earth to be poor and work for my living as you do.' 'Oh miss!' cried Naomi, and 'Oh Sal!' cried another voice, whose owner had overheard this last remark. For Mrs Clay had just entered the room, and had forgotten that her daughter objected strongly to this shortening of her name, which it was one of her father's aggravating habits to do. 'Oh Sarah,' she cried, 'don't talk such nonsense, and before Naomi, too! Some must be poor an' some rich. It's always been so, and always will be so, an' it's flyin' in the face o' Providence not to be thankful that you're not poor; an' with that lovely gown on, too. 'Ow could you earn enough money to buy a gown like that, do you suppose? W'y, Naomi doesn't earn enough in a year to pay for it, I'd have you to know.' 'Then she ought to,' began Sarah; whereupon Mrs Clay cleared her throat noisily, and said in quite a decided tone for her, 'That'll do, Naomi; you can leave the room.' And when Naomi had done so, she continued in a tone of reproof to her daughter,'What are you thinkin' of, wishin' you earned your own livin' like Naomi? A nice one you'd be if such a dreadful thing 'appened to you, wi' your 'aughty airs an' scornful ways that no one would put up wi', let alone that you could never earn a penny if you tried.' 'I'm not so sure about that. I've a good mind to try, to show you that you're wrong,' said Sarah meditatively. Her mother cast a frightened glance at her, and said soothingly, 'There, my dearie, there's no need to think about it; you're far too pretty even to do such a thing. You were born for a mansion, an' I 'ope you'll always 'ave one to live in.' 'I don't. I hope I shall one day have to work for my living, and I shall do it whether it is necessary or not, you'll see,' she declared. Fortunately both the dinner-gong and an elaborate set of chimes rang out through the house, and Mrs Clay, with a nervous start, said hurriedly, 'There's the chimes! Well, we must be goin'. Don't you look grand to-night, Sairey?' 'That's just what I feel, mother--a great deal too grand for a quiet family dinner; and so are you,' she added, as she looked critically at her mother in the elaborately trimmed, plum-coloured silk dress, so rich that it seemed to prop up the delicate little woman and almost stifle her with its heavy gold trimmings and fringes. 'It's to please your father and George, and nothing's too grand to do that,' said Mrs Clay, as she went out of the room, making a rustle as she passed along the richly carpeted passages and down the grand marble staircase into the drawing-room. Mr Clay did not trouble himself to go into the drawing-room to fetch his wife, but always walked straight to the dining-room at the first note of the chimes. George was waiting, as he did every evening, to give his arm to escort his mother to the dining-room, and took her to the dinner-table, where his wife and children found Mark Clay sitting at the top of the large table which groaned under its massive gold ornaments and plate. He was a big, bull-faced man; at first sight so different from his son and daughter that the latter might almost be forgiven her extraordinary suggestion to her mother that perhaps he was not her father at all! It would require a closer observer than Sarah to see a certain set of the chin which was common to him and his two children, though hers took the form of haughtiness, and her brother's had such a pleasant, if indolent, expression that his father had never discovered this hidden characteristic. 'Well, lass, thee'rt grand to-night. How much did tha gown cost? A pretty penny, I'll be bound. Well, lasses will be lasses, and the mills can give as many on 'em as ye like. An' your mother, too, though she's a bit old for such vanity; it's the young uns as want fine feathers. Now then, what are ye scowling at?' cried her father, all in the broadest Yorkshire. 'It's the fashion to scowl at personal remarks, my dear father,' remarked George, as he 'played,' in his mother's words, with his food. 'Then it's one fashion thee'll ha' to onlearn, dost hear? I'll ha' no lass o' mine scowling at me at my own table,' replied her father, as he brought his fist down on the table with a thump, which made his poor wife jump as well as the crystal and glass, 'which it's a wonder he don't have of gold too,' his well-bred butler observed, with a touch of contempt for his master, which he allowed himself to vent to the equally well-bred housekeeper, and to her only. George stepped into the breach again. 'How's the market, dad?' he inquired. 'Wool's going up, I hear.' 'Wool's going up, you hear? An' what might you know about wool? Nought as I know of. I wish you did; but there, thee'rt too fine for t' wool-trade, and thou'll never need to know about it, only to spend money,' said the millionaire, purposely, as his son believed, talking in such broad Yorkshire as is not often heard nowadays, and so broad as to be unintelligible to the reader of this tale, for which reason it must be taken for granted, as perhaps his wife's cockney dialect had better be. However, the inquiry had turned the mill-owner's attention from his daughter and her unbending attitude, and had apparently produced a good effect, for Mr Clay, senior, seemed to be in a better temper for the rest of the dinner, the long, wearisome dinner which he was the only one who seemed to appreciate. There was no conversation but the remarks made in a gentle tone by George to his mother, to whom he was as attentive as he would have been to the highest and most beautiful lady in the land. Sarah kept a silence which might have been considered either sulky or dignified, and Mrs Clay responded in low tones to her son's remarks. Mr Clay did not condescend to talk to any of them. His wife he never considered as a companion or a person to be conversed with, women being inferior beings in his eyes, and for this reason he did not talk to Sarah, whom he treated with the same contempt, in spite of being very proud of her looks and bearing; while George he considered a nincompoop and weakling, though he was secretly proud, too, of his fine manners and aristocratic appearance. And so the four ill-sorted people sat each at a different side of the table, with a long stretch of gold-decked and flower-laden cloth between them. 'And a good thing, too, or I think we should fight,' announced Sarah one day. Poor Mrs Clay put her hand to her head once or twice, and her ever-observant son bent towards her with solicitude as he inquired, 'Don't you feel well, mother?' 'It's only the smell of all these flowers; they make me feel faint-like,' she said. 'It's these lilies; they are too strong for a dining-table; just take them away, Sykes,' he said to the butler, who happened to be close behind George Clay's chair. The man looked hesitatingly at his master, and then at the young man, and apparently decided to obey the younger one, whom he, like the rest of the staff, liked and respected, instead of the father, whom he detested, and who now cried in a voice of thunder, 'Leave 'em alone, I say! I don't pay for lilies to be thrown away for a woman's whim. Leave 'em alone.' 'They're cheap enough, and they really never are used for table-decorating. It must have been a mistake of the maid's. Sykes had better remove them, if you don't mind,' said George. Sykes, being of the same opinion, swiftly removed the vase and handed it to one of the footmen. Mr Clay, awed by his son's superior knowledge of what was done and not done (in society, he supposed), remained silent, and at last the banquet came to an end, and with suspicious alacrity Mrs Clay and her daughter rose and left the room, followed by George after his usual murmured apology to his father for not staying with him; for George Clay was as polite, in an indolent way, to his father as he was to every one else. 'Phew, I breathe again!' cried Sarah, as she stamped her feet outside the dining-room door. 'Sh, sh, my dear! Your father might 'ear you. The flowers did make the air sickly.' 'Flowers! It wasn't the flowers. It was everything. I always think of Miss Kilmansegg and her "Gold, gold; nothing but gold!" Phew! how I loathe and detest it all!' 'Draw it mild, Sarah! Even gold has its advantages.' 'It mayn't have to every one's mind. Look what an effeminate creature it's made of you!' she cried. George Clay lit a cigarette, with a 'May I?' to his mother, and only smiled as he leant back in an armchair and puffed contentedly away. Clearly Sarah was not able to rouse her brother by her criticism. CHAPTER III. STALLED OXEN. 'Now then, now then; have I just come in time for fireworks?' said a man's voice; and Sarah felt a hearty clap of a man's firm hand on her shoulder. 'Uncle Howroyd!' she cried, as she turned and threw her arms round her uncle's neck. 'Gently there, my lass; you needn't stifle me if you can't breathe yourself.--Well, George,' turning to the youth, 'you find life very exhausting as usual, I suppose. But, I say, you haven't got company, I hope?' he inquired, as he noticed the elaborate toilettes of the ladies. 'Oh no; we're only dressed for dinner. W'y didn't you come in time for it, Bill? We've just finished; but you'll find your brother in the dinin'-room, an' he'll ring for something to be brought back for you; there's plenty,' said Mrs Clay. 'I don't doubt that; but I've had my dinner, thank you. I'm a plain man, as you know, Polly, and my dinner isn't such a big affair as yours, by a long way. And I'm not thirsty either, so I'll leave Mark to drink his wine in peace and come along with you into the drawing-room--or _salon_, is it you call it?' he added, with good-humoured banter. At that moment the voice of Mr Mark Clay could be heard raised in angry tones, apparently scolding the butler or some of his assistants, and Sarah laughed as she said, 'You mean _you_ want to be left in peace. There's not much peace in that room or anywhere else where that man is;' and she gave a wave of her hand towards the dining-room. [Illustration: He took his young niece's arm and followed his sister-in-law into the drawing-room.] Mr William Howroyd's bright, cheery face grew grave as he said kindly but seriously, 'Nay, lass, you shouldn't speak so of your father.' 'I don't see what difference that makes. I can't help his being my father. People ought to be allowed to choose. I would sooner have our watchman for my father than him.' 'Nay, lass, you don't mean that, and I can't have you speak like that of my brother,' said her uncle. 'He's only your step-brother, and you don't get on with him any too well yourself. But don't look so solemn. I'll be quite good and proper if you'll let that twinkle come into your eye again; it isn't you without a twinkle.' Her uncle laughed good-humouredly as he took his young niece's arm and followed his sister-in-law into the drawing-room. His keen eye flashed round the room, seeming to take in every detail in that one look, just as in his own mill Mr William Howroyd knew every 'hand' and everything they did or did not do, as some of them declared. 'Why, what's been doing here? Here's some fine painting!' he exclaimed, as he went up to a panel in the wall where a landscape was painted, evidently by a master-hand. 'Yes, a Royal Academician came down from London to do that; one thousand pounds it cost. Mark was goin' to 'ave 'im do the lot; but 'e wouldn't do any more after the first, so another man's got to come.' 'Ah, how's that?' inquired Mr Howroyd. 'It's well done; you won't better this. Why, I see it's by Brown--Sir John Brown. It's worth one thousand pounds, is that.' 'Sir John? 'E wasn't no Sir; just plain Mr Brown 'e was, though 'e gave 'isself airs enough for a Sir, an' wanted to dine with us--a common painter chap!' said Mrs Clay. George Clay looked annoyed, and coloured at his uncle's amused laugh; his love and loyalty to his mother were much tried when she made a speech of this kind, which, to do her justice, was not often, and generally was, as in this case, an echo of her husband's opinions. 'My dear mother, I had no idea that it was Brown you had here. Why, he's a gentleman we might be proud to see at our table. I wish I had been at home,' he said hastily. 'W'at did 'e call 'isself Mr Brown for, then? If we'd known 'e was a Sir John it would 'ave made all the difference,' objected Mrs Clay. 'It ought not to have made any difference. A man's a man, and with a talent like that even father might have known better than to treat him like a servant,' cried Sarah hotly. 'Well, it doesn't matter; it's over and past now. And he wasn't Sir John then; he's only just been made so, and I dare say he's forgotten all about Ousebank and his treatment here; and for my part I'd sooner have a picture on canvas that you can take away than a painted panel. It's a lot of money to give for that; though, to be sure, he can afford that, can Mark,' said Mr Howroyd. 'Uncle Howroyd, why do you waste time at the end of your sentences like that, when you are always saying you have no time to waste, because it is so precious?' 'What are you after now, lass?' said her uncle, bending his keen and kindly eyes upon his young niece. 'I expect it's your uncle's rough north-country tongue that's the matter. Come, out with it. What have I said wrong now?' 'Oh, I don't mind your north-country tongue, as you call it, only I don't like the way you repeat yourself. You say, "That's a fine picture, is that," or "She's a good girl, is Sarah;" and it would be quite enough and shorter to say, "That is a fine picture," or "Sarah is a good girl."' 'Sarah! There's manners, correctin' your uncle; a chit o' sixteen that's not left school yet!' protested Mrs Clay. 'Don't you be corrected, Uncle Howroyd. It's very musical the way north-countrymen repeat themselves at the end of the sentence,' said George gently. Mr Howroyd paid no attention to the last two speakers, but, with an amused twinkle in his eye, tried the two ways of expressing himself. 'You're right, lass; it's a waste of words, is that.' There was a hearty laugh at this, in which both Mrs Clay and her brother-in-law joined, as the latter said, with a shake of his head, 'I'm afraid I'm too old to get out of the habit of repeating myself. Still, as I talk very fast, perhaps I don't waste so much time after all; so I think you'll have to put up with your old uncle's ways, and try and reform some one else nearer home.' 'If you mean my father'----began Sarah. But the tone in which she said 'my father' made her uncle interrupt her sharply. 'No, I don't. I mean nearer home than that; I mean your own tongue, young woman. You let it run on too fast and too freely. I'm sure I don't know what kind of a school that is that you're at; but they don't teach you respect for your elders; and I'm beginning to wonder if you've paid the twopence extra for manners. If you have, you haven't got your two-pen'orth, that's certain.' 'Oh yes, I have; only you don't understand them up in the north,' replied Sarah airily, not in the least abashed or offended, apparently, by her uncle's candid criticism. 'No, we don't that,' he replied emphatically. But, all the same, he most evidently cared more for Sarah than he did for her mother or for her languid brother, to whom he always talked with a kind of good-natured contempt. 'The fact is, Uncle Howroyd, you're worried, and your way of showing it is by scolding me, which is not fair, as _I_ am not the person you are angry with, but some one whom you have come to see to-night, unless I'm very much mistaken,' observed Sarah, nodding her head knowingly at her uncle. 'You little witch! how dare you go guessing at your uncle's private affairs like that?' cried Mr William Howroyd, laughing at his niece. 'Oh, dear Bill, I 'ope there's nothin' wrong between you an' Mark? Per'aps you'd better not say anythin' to 'im to-night; 'e's a little put out, just for the minute,' said Mrs Clay. 'For the minute? I'd like to see him at a minute when he isn't put out! And if you're going to say anything to annoy him I wish you would say it to-night, for I'd like to myself, only'---- 'She daren't!' put in George from the depths of an arm-chair. Mr William Howroyd turned from his handsome niece, whose hair he was gently smoothing, to her equally handsome brother, who was lying back in the softest chair he could find (and they were all comfortable, 'all of the best,' as Mark Clay said of them, as of everything else he possessed). 'No; and as for you, I don't suppose you'd trouble to say anything to your father if it was to save you all from the workhouse,' he said scornfully. George Clay was nearly hidden from view by the cushions he had carefully adjusted behind his head; consequently the sudden slight start and swift opening wide of his lazy-looking eyes passed unnoticed even by the eyes of his uncle, who, indeed, would never have thought of looking for alertness or energy in his nephew. 'I might,' he replied lazily. 'I don't fancy the workhouse. Is there any chance of it?' Somehow every one seemed to think this a joke, and his uncle remarked, 'No, the workhouse would not suit you; no easy-chairs there. It might do you good, though.' 'I wish there was a chance of it! Now that _would_ be life!' cried Sarah eagerly. 'Don't talk so silly, child; you don't know w'at the work'ouse is like. It's enough to call down a judgment upon you, bein' so ungrateful to Providence for all the good things it's given you,' cried her mother. 'Fancy the work'ouse after _this_!' Mrs Clay put a world of expression into the last word, as she looked round the sumptuous drawing-room in which they were gathered. 'Yes, it would be a change; though stranger things have happened,' said Mr Howroyd in his brisk way, and again he missed the look George shot at him. 'I should like to know if there is any chance of it,' George remarked. 'You haven't answered my question yet, uncle.' 'What question? Oh, whether there's any chance of your ever going to the workhouse?' laughed his uncle. 'How can I tell? One hears of kings becoming beggars, so why not Mr George Clay?' 'There's no chance of that,' remarked George. 'How do you know?' began his uncle. 'Don't you be too sure. Our mills might be burnt down, or anything might happen,' cried Sarah. 'Oh, if you mean by a beggar being penniless, that's always possible, of course. What I meant was that I should never beg,' said her brother with quiet decision. 'What would you do? Work?' inquired his uncle. 'I fancy so,' said George; and they all laughed again, as though the idea of George working was a good joke. But Mrs Clay added, 'An' I'm sure George is clever enough to earn money in any way 'e likes; though, thank 'eaven! 'e'll never 'ave to.' 'I'm not so sure of that,' replied that youth. 'What do you mean by that?' demanded his uncle. 'Just what you meant,' replied the nephew, and this time Mr William Howroyd was struck by the expression on his nephew's face. 'I'm sure I don't know w'at you're all talkin' about--work'ouses, an' workin' for your livin', an' Sarah wishin' she was poor, an' all! W'ere's the good of 'avin' riches if you can't enjoy it?' said Mrs Clay plaintively. 'Look at this lovely 'ouse, with everythin' in it that mortal man can wish for. W'y, Mrs Haigh was 'ere to-day, and she says Bucking'am Palace isn't grander, and she's been there.' 'I dare say it isn't,' agreed her brother-in-law. 'Who's talking about Buckingham Palace?' cried Mark Clay, as he came into the room. 'We were, Mark, and saying that it wasn't any better than your place,' said his half-brother, as he shook hands with the master of the house. 'Ay, you're right there; as far as money can go you can't beat this house. But why didn't you coom to dinner, lad?' he cried, his brother's remark having, as the latter intended, put him in a good humour. 'Lad' in the north-country is as often used as 'man,' especially among relatives, and Mark Clay used the word in a friendly way, though his brother was near fifty. 'I had my dinner before I came; but I thought I'd like to have a smoke and a few minutes' talk with you, Mark,' he replied. 'Sit thee down and have a pipe,' cried Mark Clay. 'Not here,' remonstrated his brother, looking round on the delicate brocade hangings and furniture. Poor Mrs Clay did not dare to open her mouth, though she in her secret heart felt as indignant about it as Mr Howroyd. But Sarah had no such qualms. 'You'll have to redecorate this room if you're going to smoke here, and you'll have to find us another drawing-room. Ladies don't sit in a drawing-room where men smoke,' she said. 'Daughters sit where their parents tell them, if they're worthy of the name of daughters.--But, if you don't mind, Mark, we'll go into your study; we can talk better alone,' said her uncle before Sarah's father could say anything. Whether motives of economy moved him, or whether it was a certain influence which Bill Howroyd, as he was familiarly called, had over most people, Mark Clay got up from his seat, saying, 'Yes, we'll be better without that pert lass's company, Bill,' and led the way to his study. 'That's a blessing!' said Sarah. 'A nice state of things it would be if father took to smoking his horrid pipe here.' 'It would ruin the rose-coloured brocade, and the curtains would smell 'orrid,' said her mother. 'That wouldn't be so bad as not having a single room free from him,' said Sarah, and then added to her brother, who got up at the time, 'Where are you going, George?' 'To have a smoke,' he replied. 'You can smoke your cigarette here, dear; no one would smell that,' said the fond mother. 'Thank you, mother; but I thought of smoking with my father and uncle,' he replied. 'What! beard the lion in his den? What on earth for, George? You know you never do go and smoke with him,' observed Sarah. 'Don't go to-night, my dear. Your uncle 'as somethin' particular to say to 'im, an' nothin' very pleasant, I could see that; an' you'd best not be there in case 'e's upset. Not but w'at Bill manages 'im better than any one else; still, they'll get on better alone.' George Clay hesitated a minute, and then, turning back, took up his old position in his arm-chair, observing, 'Perhaps you're right, and I can go down and see him to-morrow.' 'See whom--Uncle Howroyd?' demanded Sarah. But George made no reply, and remained sunk among the cushions, his head tilted back and his eyes staring at the painted cupids on the ceiling, which did not give him much pleasure, judging by the half-frown upon his face. 'It's my belief that there's something the matter,' said Sarah after a silence. 'Nonsense, child! W'at should be the matter? There's always worries in business, an' women 'ave no right to interfere in such things nor make any remarks,' said Mrs Clay. 'Well, all I can say is, I wish something would happen. We're just stalled oxen here,' observed Sarah. 'Stalled oxen? W'atever can you mean?' asked Mrs Clay in bewilderment, for she did not recognise the allusion to the verse in Proverbs: 'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.' George gave a little chuckle. 'She certainly does not mean what she says.--You'd better read your Bible again, and you'll see that stalled oxen is what we eat, not what we are.' 'Stalled oxen?' said Mrs Clay, repeating, as was her custom, any remark which she did not understand or agree with. 'Is Sarah callin' us stalled oxen?' 'No, I'm not, mother; I'm the only one that feels like that. George hugs his golden chains, and so do you,' replied Sarah. 'And he doesn't care how doubtful the means are that give them to him.' George made no reply at all, and after some time the three got up and went to bed. And so ended an evening typical of many passed in the millionaire's house, which was only less dreary than usual owing to William Howroyd's visit. CHAPTER IV. AN UNANSWERED QUESTION. 'It's a beautiful morning, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi, as she pulled up the blinds in her young mistress's room the day after the scenes described in the foregoing chapters. Naomi's rosy face was glowing with health and happiness, and this seemed to strike Sarah, for she said, as she looked at her, 'Is it your birthday, Naomi?' 'To-day, Miss Sarah? Why, no. I was seventeen the 1st of October. I'm a year and three months older 'n you, miss.' 'What are you so pleased for, then?' she asked. 'I dunno as I'm more pleased than usual, unless it be the fine weather makes one feel happy like.' 'It doesn't make me feel very happy; at least not when I'm at home. I like a fine day at school, because we can go for a long ride or walk, or play tennis or something out of doors,' observed Sarah. 'And so you can do all them things here, miss; there's horses and carriages, and motor-cars, and a beautiful bit of grass for tennis; and if you want a nice walk you can go over the fields and through Brocklehurst coppice to Driffington, or by the Dunnings to Thornborough,' said Naomi, chattering with freedom while she prepared the bath in the little bathroom attached to Sarah's suite of rooms. Her mistress let her chatter on, and listened while she gave an enthusiastic description of the lovely country walks and rides and drives to be taken in the immediate neighbourhood; and when the maid stopped for a moment to take breath, Sarah remarked, 'Yes; but I don't care to do any of these things up here. Do you know, Naomi, when the train gets near Ousebank, and I see its horrid high chimneys and all the air black, I feel as if the smoke came and wrapped itself round me and smothered me somehow, and I don't breathe freely again till I'm in the train going back to school.' Naomi stopped short at the door of the bathroom, her mouth wide open, and stared at her young mistress. She said at last, 'You'll have had a nightmare, I'll be thinking;' then, cheering up at this explanation of Miss Sarah's unpleasant sensations, she went on cheerfully with her preparations for her mistress's toilet. 'And the very best thing you can do, Miss Sarah, is to go for a lovely ride across Cowpen, and over t' hill to Driffington. My! think of all the lasses in the mills as 'u'd give their eyes to have the chance! There's Liza Anne now, she'd be glad eno' of a holiday; these bright days make her back ache dreadful, so she says.' 'Liza Anne's in Clay's Mills, isn't she?' inquired Sarah. Liza Anne was Naomi's elder sister. 'Yes, Miss Sarah; she's a ligger-on, is Liza Anne, and so's Jane Mary,' explained Naomi. 'What's a "ligger-on," Naomi?' inquired Sarah. 'Why, she puts the wool on the carding-machine and ligs it out. She's a good, steady worker is Liza Anne.' 'Oh, I see; layer-on, you mean. I wish I were a "ligger-on," as you call it; there'd be some object to get up for, at any rate.' 'You spend one day in Liza Anne's place or Jane Mary's, and you'd talk different to that, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi. Sarah sighed impatiently. 'You all say the same thing to me, and it's all nonsense. You're much happier than I am; you have only to look in the looking-glass and you'll see that, and yet you all persist in saying that I'm happier than you.' 'You ought to be,' replied Naomi, as she gave a final adjusting pat to the lace-bedecked matinée she had just put ready for Sarah to slip into; but she did not attempt to argue with her mistress on a subject which she felt, somehow, was too difficult for her. Sarah dressed slowly; not that she was a deliberate young person at all, but because she did not see any good in making haste, as there was nothing to do, or rather, to put it truly, as she did not care to do anything. However, in about an hour Sarah went downstairs dressed in a simple but fresh and dainty print frock, and found her brother sitting at breakfast. 'Morning, Sarah. What are you going to do to-day? Anything special on?' he inquired. 'No; at least, I'm not going to do anything special. I believe there's a tennis tournament on at the Haighs'; but I don't feel inclined to go; it's going to be hot to-day, I think.' 'Piping, I should say. Well, if you don't want me to take you to the Haighs' I'll cry off myself; it's a fearful fag playing a tournament in this weather. Good-bye; I'm off,' he added, as he rose from the table. 'Where are you going, George?' inquired Sarah. 'If it's anywhere nice I'll come with you.' 'It isn't,' he replied, and was going out of the room. 'Where is it?' persisted Sarah. 'Into Ousebank,' he replied laconically. 'But that is nice. Take me with you, George.' 'You are the most perverse girl I ever met. You know you hate Ousebank, and yet you call it a nice place to go for a walk,' he scoffed. 'It's interesting. I love to see the mills turn out at twelve o'clock; it's like a living stream of human beings pouring out of a lock-gate, and I love Uncle Howroyd's mill.' 'Well, I sha'n't be there at twelve o'clock, so if that's what you want to go for you'd better stay at home,' observed her brother, who evidently was not very anxious to take his sister with him this particular morning, though, as a rule, he was a most good-natured and attentive brother. Sarah was quick to notice this, and being the girl she was it made her all the more determined to go with her brother; so she said, 'Ah, but I can go to see Uncle Howroyd, and that's always nice. I simply love going over the mill.' 'Oh!' ejaculated George, looking discomfited for a moment; and then he apparently changed his mind, and said, 'All right, I'll go there with you.' But when they got to the door of Mr William Howroyd's office he did not say good-bye, but was coming in with her, when Sarah said, 'You needn't stop for me. I may be here some time. You had better go and do your own business, and come and fetch me on your way back.' 'I think I'll come in,' said George, and in he came. 'Uncle Howroyd, do send George off, and say you'll take care of me for an hour or so; he's so dreadfully polite even to his sister that he won't leave me alone with you,' said Sarah. 'Ah, but I don't know that I can take care of such a difficult young lady,' said her uncle teasingly. 'But I should like to see Uncle Howroyd, too,' objected George. 'That's nonsense! You've only come here to bring me, so if you want to see him you can come another time by yourself, not just when I'm here,' said Sarah. 'I thought you wanted to see the mill?' observed George. 'And I thought you came to Ousebank to do some business?' retorted his sister. 'So I did.--As a matter of fact, my business was to see you, sir,' said George, turning to his uncle, who had been listening to this argument between the brother and sister with his usual amused look and twinkle in his eye. But when his nephew made this direct appeal to him, Uncle Howroyd became the alert man of business, kind and keen, and said, 'At your service, nephew.--As for you, Sarah, if your frock isn't too fine for going into a dirty blanket-mill, old Matthew will take you and show you our wonderful new engine, of which we are so proud.' 'I don't care twopence about your grand engine. I hate grand new things. I'd rather go into the old dyeing-rooms; they have such lovely new shades every time I go,' declared Sarah. 'There! isn't that just like a woman? Hates new things, and wants to go into the dear old dye-rooms to see lovely new shades!' cried her uncle. Sarah only laughed, as her uncle called old Matthew, the foreman, and told him to take Miss Clay to the dye-rooms and show her all she wished to see, and take care she didn't get her skirts dyed. 'Well, George, anything wrong?' he asked as the door shut upon Sarah, who went off talking in a most friendly manner with old Matthew, and the uncle and nephew were left alone. 'That's what I came to you about,' said George. Mr William Howroyd looked at his nephew doubtfully. He did not understand him at any time, and this morning the young man spoke in his usual lazy tones, so that his uncle did not know whether George was in any trouble or not; for, as he argued to himself, 'the boy never did show feelings, so that he might be in love or debt or goodness knows what scrape, and yet talk like that;' and Mr William Howroyd had a deeply rooted conviction that all young men did at the universities was to get into mischief of some sort. So he said, 'Come, George, be frank with me. Have you got into any mess? You know if you have I'll be ready to do all I can to get you out of it.' The young man looked gratefully at his uncle as he replied in his pleasant tones, 'I'm sure you would, uncle, and there's no one I'd sooner come to if I wanted help; but I'm in no mess that I know of. It was only'--he hesitated--'something in your manner last night that made me think there was trouble at the mill either present or looming ahead. I know my father is not popular.' Mr Howroyd looked a little surprised for a moment; then he said cheerfully, 'Dismiss that notion from your mind. I was a little put out last night by something I heard, and I dare say I said all sorts of disagreeable, sharp things; but there's no danger for your father any more than there is for all of us. Business is not like a profession; you gain more, but you stand to lose more, and it's not so certain as the law, for example. So, if you'll take my advice, you'll go back and study hard, and have a profession at your finger-tips; it never comes amiss to any of us, and there's no harm done if you never follow it.' Then he changed the conversation, and began talking of other things, and was surprised to find what a pleasant and intelligent companion his nephew could be. 'Why, I'd no idea you took such an interest in the heavy woollen trade. It's almost a pity you're not going into it,' cried his uncle at last. 'But that is what I intend doing, in spite of your advice to the contrary,' observed George quietly. His uncle cast a swift look at him. 'All the same, I should pass all my law examinations, if I were you, in case--in case you might change your mind,' he observed equally quietly; and then the two got up and went across the mill-yard to the dyeing-rooms to find Sarah, who was still there with Matthew. George noticed the kindly words of greetings and the friendly glances that passed between master and 'hands,' as all the workers are called up north. 'Now, that man's been with us thirty years; he married his wife from here, and his family all work for us; and this one has been fifty years, and only comes once a week just to say he still works at the old mill,' explained Mr Howroyd. 'That's as it should be,' said George, touching his hat at each greeting, and raising it to an old woman who hobbled past them. His uncle smiled a little, for such courtesy is not usual in mills, where kind hearts are hidden under rough exteriors and blunt speech; but though the 'hands' smiled, they said to each other, after the uncle and nephew had passed by, that 'he was a gentleman was young Clay, and took after his uncle Howroyd more'n his father, that was plain!' 'Oh uncle, why did you come so soon? I didn't want you yet,' cried Sarah when she saw the two at the door. 'Didn't you? It strikes me it's about time we did come. My word, you've got yourself into a nice state, my lass!' exclaimed Mr Howroyd, as well he might, for Sarah, in her interest in the new shades, had gone too near the huge vats and wet materials, and her dress was the colours of the rainbow, while her hands were a deep crimson. 'But just look what a lovely colour this crimson is, George!' she exclaimed, holding up a rag which she had dyed. George contemplated his sister in silence, and then said, 'We'd better get a taxi to go home, I think;' and added, 'Yes, it's a pretty shade, but I think there's a little too much blue in it to be quite becoming.' And, turning to the dyer, he began talking pleasantly about dyeing; and when he went away the man remarked to Mr William Howroyd, 'He's a sharp young gentleman is yon, and I think I'll try his advice.' Meanwhile Sarah was sitting in the cab with her brother, contemplating rather ruefully her stained hands. 'I say, will it come off?' she inquired anxiously. 'Yes, in time, if you use some acid,' replied her brother, looking at her fingers. 'Oh, but I must get them clean by lunch-time, or father will make a row,' she cried. 'I should advise you to have lunch in your boudoir, as you call it. You can't possibly get all this off at first go. I can't imagine what old Matthew was about to let you get yourself in such a mess. Really, you are very childish for your age, in some ways.' 'What were you talking to Uncle Howroyd about?' demanded Sarah, who did not want to talk about her hands any longer. 'The heavy woollen trade,' replied her brother promptly. 'That wasn't what you came down to see Uncle Howroyd about. A lot you know of the heavy woollen trade or any other trade! Besides, that came out too pat. What you came down to Ousebank for was just the same thing that I came for.' 'I should not have said so,' replied George dryly, with a significant glance at her hands. 'It was, all the same. You came to ask Uncle Howroyd what he meant by talking about the workhouse last night, and so did I; but I thought one of us was enough to ask that question, so now just tell me what he said.' If George was taken aback by her astuteness, he did not say so, but answered simply, 'He said he did not mean anything, and that there was no chance of the workhouse for us more than for him.' 'Do you believe that?' asked Sarah. 'He said there was no more chance of our going to the workhouse than his going there,' repeated George. 'Do you believe that?' repeated Sarah. 'No, I do not,' said George gravely. 'Oh George, do you think we are ruined, or anything?' cried Sarah in excitement. 'Oh, do be quiet, and don't talk so loud, or the cabby will hear you! Of course we're not ruined; but it would never astonish me any day if we came a howler. The pater goes too fast, and---- But we're all right now; and, for goodness' sake, don't say a word to mother; it would upset her dreadfully. It's only for her sake I'd mind so much.' 'We'd work for her, and she'd be happier with us, without father always shouting at her,' said Sarah. 'Probably we'd have to work for him too, and he might not be angelic as a pauper,' suggested George grimly, perhaps with a view to subdue Sarah's desire for poverty. 'Oh, I never thought of that. Let's hope his money will last as long as he lives,' she cried. CHAPTER V. A RELUCTANT INVITATION. 'We'd better go in the back way, I think,' observed George, tapping at the window of the cab as he spoke and giving the order. Sarah laughed, as she spread her hands out before her and surveyed them. 'Perhaps it would be as well, for peace' sake,' she remarked. They were just getting out of the cab at the little back-door leading into the stable-yard behind the house, when, to their dismay, they saw Mr Mark Clay's burly figure come with swaggering walk along the little path through the park towards the same door, probably coming to give some order, or more probably, his children thought, to make himself disagreeable to his stablemen and chauffeurs. 'Quick! in with you; there's the pater!' cried George, who, polite as usual, was holding the cab-door open for his sister. Sarah needed no second bidding; but, instinctively clutching the front breadth of her skirt in her hands to conceal the stains, she jumped out, ran in at the little gate, and into the house, up to her room by the back-stairs. George paid the man, who touched his hat and drove off quickly, and the young man noticed that he passed the owner of the park through which he was driving without any greeting at all. George turned to meet his father. The tall, slim young man, with his refined features, looked a fit heir to the fine home, with its vast park; but a greater contrast to the coarse man who came towards him could not be imagined. He raised his hat to his father, and greeted him pleasantly enough. No one had ever heard George Clay speak otherwise than respectfully to or of his father, in which he compared favourably with Sarah; but if he could civilly do so he avoided his company, and, if the truth be known, he only spent his vacations at home for the sake of his mother and sister. On this occasion he could not with politeness avoid meeting him, and did so with a good grace. 'Mornin', lad! Where t' been?' inquired Mark Clay, as he gave his son a nod. 'Down to Ousebank, father. It's hot, isn't it?' 'Yes, it's fine and hot. Where's Sarah? Why didn't she stop and say good-mornin' to her dad? I'm not fine enough for her. I'm only good to make money, eh?' 'On the contrary, it was Sarah who was not fine enough to meet you. She stained her hands, and was running off to wash them,' said George. 'Stained her hands! What did she stain her hands for? I won't have her pretty hands soiled; there's no call for her ever to do aught with them but fancy work.' 'Sarah isn't fond of fancy work,' observed George, avoiding a direct answer. 'I don't know what she is fond of, without it's cheekin' me. What do you think she said yesterday? That I was no better than a murderer because I didn't pay a man his high wages when he got too old to work. A nice thing it would be if I had to keep all my sick workmen in luxury, and pay some one else for doing their work. It wasn't by such means that I built this house, I can tell 'e.' Mark Clay spoke broader Yorkshire than many of his men, and even he could speak, and did speak, better English when he chose; in fact, it was only when he was annoyed or angry that he broke out into dialect. Sarah ran to her room and plunged her hands into hot water, but, as might have been expected, without any effect; and when the lunch-gong sounded they were still far too brilliant to bear her father's scrutiny. So she rang for Naomi, and said, 'Just tell Sykes to send up some lunch to me, Naomi; and if any one asks where I am, tell them I am very busy. So I am, cleaning my hands; though you needn't tell them that.' Naomi went off to do her young mistress's bidding, but came back in ten minutes looking very grave, and said, 'Please, Miss Sarah, the master says as 'ow it don't matter about your hands, and you can go down to lunch with them as they are.' Sarah stamped her foot with vexation. 'I told you not to say anything about my hands, Naomi.' 'No more I didn't; but the master knew, for he told Mr Sykes to give me that message for you. And please, miss, excuse me saying so, but Sykes he said, "Try and make Miss Sarah come down, for master he gets into such a taking if he's crossed;" and Sykes he says'---- 'Never mind what Sykes said. Get me out my pink muslin,' said Sarah shortly, with her most haughty air, and Naomi obeyed in silence. Sarah's frock was not pinker than her face when she got to the dining-room. 'So you've been to Howroyd's Mill messing with his dyes, have you? What do you want to go there for when you could come to mine, eh? What did you go to him for, and what did he say?' her father asked suspiciously. 'Nothing very interesting; at least I don't remember anything. Oh yes; he said hands weren't money-making machines, but human souls which had to be cared for,' replied Sarah. 'I don't mean that kind of talk. Did he talk business, eh?' inquired Mr Clay. 'Oh dear no; he never does to me,' she answered. 'Not been croaking, has he?' the millionaire asked with hidden anxiety. This time it was George who spoke, inquiring, 'Is there anything to croak about, then?' 'I want an answer to my question, and, by gad, I'll have it!' exclaimed his father, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash. 'No; he was very cheerful, as he always is. And now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question,' said George, who spoke very quietly but decidedly. Sarah gave her brother an approving look. 'What question? Oh, whether there's anything to croak about? Not in my opinion; but your uncle---- But there, it's no good taking any notice of him. He'd build a palace for his hands to work in and live in, and stop in that old mill all his life, would Bill Howroyd,' replied Mr Clay; and, frowning heavily, the millionaire got up from the table. 'I say, mother, would you mind if I went for a week's shooting to Scotland?' inquired her son. 'No, dearie; no. You go; it'll do you good. I suppose it's some o' your college friends as 'ave asked you? Yes, you go; there's nothin' for you to do 'ere,' said the fond mother. 'And what about me? What am I to do if you go off and leave me all alone? I shall go melancholy mad in this hole of a place!' cried Sarah. ''Ole!--w'en it's on the top o' a 'ill! W'at silly nonsense you do talk, child! 'Ole, indeed!' said Mrs Clay. 'It is rather rough luck to leave you in your holidays; but Cockburn has asked me so often. Couldn't you ask some one to stay with you--one of your schoolfellows, perhaps?' George suggested. 'Nice, comfortable house this is to ask any one to stay in!' said Sarah sarcastically. 'It's as comfortable as any o' theirs, if it isn't a great deal better,' cried her mother. 'I'd sooner live in Naomi's home if I'd my choice,' said Sarah gloomily. 'Sarah is right in one way, mother,' said George before Mrs Clay could say anything. 'It is not very comfortable to have constant disturbances in one's home; and the governor is very easily angered.' 'Yes, dear, I know,' agreed Mrs Clay, who adored her son, and thought everything he did or said perfection. 'An' it's 'ard for you an' Sarah, for you don't understan' your father, nor ain't used to 'im as I am. But that's not a bad idea o' yours that Sarah should ask one o' the young ladies at 'er school to come an' stay 'ere for a bit.--There's that Miss Cunning'am that you've got the photograph o' in your room. She's got a nice, 'omely face.' 'She's a duke's granddaughter, whether her face is homely or not. No, I couldn't ask her,' declared Sarah. 'Why not? She'd be the very one. Your father likes people o' 'igh class, though 'e was only a mill-'and 'isself. An' she's got such a nice smile on 'er photo,' persisted the mother. 'I couldn't possibly ask her; she'd never come and stay with a manufacturer,' declared Sarah again. 'I'd be bound she'd jump at it. She'd not get a better dinner at 'ome or anyw'ere, nor a better room to sleep in,' said Mrs Clay. This remark grated upon both her children, as so many of poor Mrs Clay's sayings did; but George, tactful as usual, remarked, 'Suppose you write and ask Miss Cunningham, Sarah; and if she is too proud to visit a maker of blankets, why, she will refuse, and there will be the end of it; and if she accepts, it will show that her friendship for you is stronger than class prejudices.' Sarah looked at her brother for a minute as if she wanted to say something, but did not do so, and only drummed with her crimson-dyed fingers on the white table-cloth, taking apparently great delight in their appearance. 'Yes; you do as your brother tells you, instead of sittin' there smilin' at them dreadful 'ands o' yours. I'm sure they're nothin' to be proud o'. Now, if you lived in Howroyd's Mill, w'ere your uncle Bill lives, you might be ashamed to ask the young lady to stay wi' you; but 'ere it's quite different,' said Mrs Clay. The brother and sister, it will have been noticed, always called their father's step-brother Uncle Howroyd, whereas their mother and father called him Bill or 'your uncle Bill.' The fact was that the younger people did not like 'Bill,' and George said he was thankful for one thing, and that was that his name could not be shortened; while Sarah had made violent protests against being called Sally or Sal, and would not allow any one except her father, whom she could not control, to call her anything but Sarah; and, indeed, the latter name suited her best. Sarah followed her brother into his smoking-den. 'Pshaw! What a stuffy room!' she exclaimed, as she threw herself upon the cushioned window-seat. 'If it does not please you I fail to see why you have come into it; and as for being stuffy'----Instead of completing his sentence George shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say the accusation was too absurd to be argued about. 'It _is_ stuffy, with all those cushions and carpets about, and pictures and gimcracks, for all its big windows. I can't think how you like to stuff it up with all this rubbish,' persisted Sarah. 'This rubbish, as you call it, is worth a pretty penny,' he remarked, lighting a cigarette. 'You're as bad as father, counting everything by what it costs. But, I say, George, why did you go and suggest my inviting Horatia Cunningham to come and stay here? I don't want her; and now you've started mother on it she'll give me no peace till I do ask her, and very likely say something to father, and he'll begin worrying about it, especially if he hears she's a duke's granddaughter. Besides, she wouldn't come if I did ask her,' Sarah remarked. 'In that case there'll be no harm done if you do ask her. But I can't imagine why you shouldn't; she looks a very nice girl, and you are great friends, aren't you? And what has her grandfather to do with it?' asked George. 'At school we are; but whether we should be after she'd been up here isn't so certain. And as for why I shouldn't ask her, the reason is pretty plain--father,' replied Sarah. 'You mean he might make himself unpleasant?' suggested George. 'There's no need for him to _make_ himself; Nature has made him unpleasant,' exclaimed Sarah. 'You need not see much of him. You can go for picnics or drives, and arrange to have lunch earlier or later; and you never breakfast and have tea with him, so it's only at dinner-time that they will meet. I should not think he will get into a rage before a stranger, especially a young girl.' Sarah seemed to be considering something, and suddenly she blurted out, 'It isn't only that. I don't want her to come here; can't you see why not? They don't know what my people are. Oh, they know we're manufacturers; but that's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of manufacturers are gentlemen, but we are not gentlefolks, and they--they don't guess it from me,' she wound up half-shamefacedly. 'Then I wouldn't sail under false colours. We are risen from the people, and our parents have not had the education they have been good enough to give us; but it would be contemptible to be ashamed of the fact or of them.' 'That's very fine and high-flown; but I am ashamed of my father, at any rate. I'd rather not have Horatia Cunningham come here and laugh at my mother behind her back,' said Sarah. 'I should like to see any one dare to do that,' said George, with an angrier look than his sister had ever seen him give. 'She wouldn't mean it nastily; but it's no good pretending that mother does not say the wrong thing sometimes,' said Sarah. 'The wrong thing has been sending you to that school,' said George, his loyalty and love for his mother preventing his acknowledging the truth of this remark; and then he said more kindly, for he sympathised more with his sister than he chose to say, 'I don't believe Miss Cunningham would be nasty in any way. I know her brother slightly at college, and he is "Hail, fellow! well met," with every chap he meets. You take my advice, and write and ask her to come here. You can tell her, if you like, that--well, that we are _nouveaux riches_, and have no pretensions of being gentlefolks; but that she will have a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and that's not a thing to be despised, let me tell you. Here, sit down and write the letter at once. I shall enjoy myself much more in Scotland if I know you have a companion.' 'I shouldn't mind so much if you were going to be at home,' said Sarah, only half-won over. George ignored the implied compliment, and said, 'You will get on much better alone. Sit down and write the invitation here. I'll help you.' 'No, thank you; I'd rather write my own way,' remarked Sarah, as she rose from the window-seat. When she got to the door, she turned back to say, 'I have a presentiment that she'll accept, and it will be all your fault, remember. Whatever the consequences, they will be on your head.' George only laughed, and sat down himself to accept his shooting invitation. CHAPTER VI. AN EXTRAORDINARY LETTER. It did not take George Clay five minutes to write his acceptance of his friend's invitation; but his sister did not find her letter quite so easy to write, and she sat at the pretty Chippendale table biting the end of her pen for more than that length of time before she began to write in desperation, only to tear up the letter in despair. 'It's all very well for George to talk; but it's not so easy to sit down and tell a girl you are not a lady, and, what's more, that your parents are not gentlefolks,' said Sarah aloud to herself. Then she started again, and wrote a friendly invitation, without any embarrassing explanations or apologies. 'George may be able to say that kind of thing in a gentlemanly way--he always does say the right sort of thing--but I shall just chance it,' she muttered to herself, as she sealed up the letter and sent it off by Naomi, without showing it to any one or taking any one's advice upon it. To have done so would have been quite contrary to Sarah's habits, for she was of a very independent character, and the circumstances of her whole life no doubt fostered this characteristic. 'So we've got a grand young lady from London coming up to stay with us plain folk,' said Mr Mark Clay when he saw his daughter at dinner that evening. 'I've asked one of my schoolfellows to come to stay with me; but I don't know that she will come, and I don't know that you will think her grand. She dresses very plainly,' replied Sarah. 'Then she'll be all the more willing to come if she's poor,' said Mr Clay. 'She's not in the least poor. It's not the fashion for schoolgirls to dress very grandly,' said Sarah hastily. 'Nonsense! People dress as they can afford; and, I'll be bound, I could buy up her father twice over,' said Mark Clay in his boastful way. Sarah's lips curled scornfully. 'You couldn't buy his rank. I hope to goodness she won't come,' she said. No notice was taken of this remark, which was put down to Sarah's contradictoriness, and no one knew how heartily the girl repented of her invitation. Meanwhile Horatia Cunningham opened the letter from her friend, without in the least expecting it to contain an invitation to visit the schoolfellow whom they all talked of as the millionaire's daughter. Great was her surprise on reading it, for Sarah never talked at school of her people or her home, and the girls vaguely imagined that she was unhappy in her home. 'Mamma, just listen to this letter,' Horatia cried, as she read the letter aloud at the breakfast-table: '"DEAR HORATIA,--Will you come and spend as much of the holidays as you can spare with me? We live on a hill outside Ousebank, so that you will not be in a manufacturing town, and we can go for plenty of walks or rides and drives and play tennis as much as you like. I shall be all alone, as my brother is going to stay with friends in Scotland.--Your affectionate friend, SARAH CLAY."' 'What an extraordinary letter! She is not gushing,' said Lady Grace Cunningham, as she continued to pour out the coffee. 'Is she an orphan, and what does she mean by being all alone? Has she no guardian or chaperon?' inquired Horatia's father. 'She has a father and a mother. She is the daughter of a millionaire blanket-maker named Clay.' 'I believe I've heard the name; but I don't know what I've heard of him,' said Mr Cunningham. 'That would account for her odd way of writing,' said his wife. 'What is odd about it?' demanded Horatia. 'Her writing without mentioning her mother's name, and she never says she would like to see you. Besides, to begin with, as a matter of politeness, Mrs Clay should have written to me,' objected Lady Grace Cunningham. 'Sarah is very independent, and I expect she does as she likes at home,' said Horatia. 'But she is a very nice girl, mamma, and I may go, mayn't I?' she begged. 'Do you really want to go? You know these people, though they have great riches, are very often very unrefined. What is the girl like?' 'I'll show you her photograph, and she looks like a queen when she walks,' said Horatia; and in her eagerness to get leave to pay the visit she ran upstairs to fetch the photo, and came back with a portrait of a boy and girl. 'Dear me, what a handsome couple!' exclaimed Lady Grace Cunningham; 'and most refined,' she added, as she passed the photo to her husband for his inspection and opinion. 'A very fine face--the girl's, I mean; the young fellow looks rather effeminate. I don't think you'd learn anything but good from that girl; but she looks proud. I should never have taken her for a tradesman's daughter,' he remarked, as he put the photo down. 'She is not. He is a manufacturer,' protested Horatia. 'Some of our merchants are of good old stock, and as refined as ourselves, if I may be allowed that piece of boasting,' replied his wife. 'And no doubt these people are. Well, personally, I have no objection to Horatia's going to them, if you have not,' said Mr Cunningham; and he buried himself in his newspaper. 'Hurrah!' cried Horatia, clapping her hands. 'Why this excitement? Are you so fond of this schoolfellow, or do you find home dull?' inquired Lady Grace Cunningham. 'Oh no, mamma; of course I am never dull at The Grange, and I don't know that I am so fond of Sarah. I do like her very much, but I shall see her in another month; so, if you like, I will write and refuse the invitation.' 'By no means. I wish you to grow up large-minded; but you have not explained why you were so delighted at the thought of going to spend a month with these strangers. I don't suppose their riches attract you.' 'Oh no; I don't think one could have a nicer home than this. I believe the real truth is that I should like to see a mill. I read a story about mill-girls once; how they wore pattens on their feet and shawls on their heads, and talked so broadly that you couldn't understand them, and threw mud at strangers. I would like'---- 'To have mud thrown at you?' exclaimed her mother. 'Well, there's no accounting for tastes!' Horatia gave a merry laugh, such an infectious laugh that both her mother and father joined in it. 'No; I should keep out of their way, and look at them through a window,' she remarked. 'Perhaps they'd throw a stone through the window and break it,' observed Horatia's practical sister. 'Well, I promise to duck my head if I see one coming,' she assured them, laughing. 'I don't suppose there will be any need. I fancy mill-hands, as I believe they call them, are very much civilised, and dress quite grandly now,' said her mother. 'Oh, I hope not! I shall be disappointed if they do,' cried Horatia. Thus it came about that two mornings after she had despatched her letter Sarah had an answer from Horatia Cunningham, accepting her friend's kind invitation with pleasure, and announcing her arrival at the end of the week. 'So you were right, and she is coming,' Sarah said gloomily to her brother, as she twisted the letter in her fingers. 'That's very nice. You must think of nice expeditions to take her. There is lovely scenery within reach, especially if she's fond of motoring,' he said. 'I wish to goodness the visit were over. I have a presentiment that it will be a failure,' his sister persisted. 'Don't be absurd! It won't be a failure if you try to make it a success; and, if you don't mind my giving you a hint, be civil to the governor before Miss Cunningham, at all events; it's such bad form not to be, you know,' said George. 'I wish you'd give the governor, as you call him, a hint or two. He's the one who'll make the visit a failure, if it is one. Well, she's going to come, so it's no use groaning about it now,' said Sarah. 'Now, Sally, what are you looking so glum about? I suppose you don't think we're grand enough for your duchess-friend? Never you mind, we'll put our best foot forward. She shall have the royal suite of rooms. I've made up my mind to do the thing handsome,' said Mr Clay. 'Oh Mark, that is good o' you! I 'ope the young lady won't spoil 'em,' said his wife. The royal suite of rooms, it should be explained, consisted of a bedroom, anteroom, sitting-room, and bathroom, which had been so sumptuously decorated that the workmen called them the 'royal suite;' and Mr Clay, overhearing them, had said the royal suite they should be called. Perhaps it would be prophetic, for stranger things had to come to pass than royalty coming to stay with the Mayor of Ousebank, as he had been, and probably would be again. Sarah knew she ought to express her gratitude to her father for the honour he was showing to her friend; but no words would come. Sarah Clay was, unfortunately, more in the habit of uttering unpleasant truths than making pretty speeches to her father; and, if the truth be told, she was not altogether pleased at the honour shown, for the rooms were not very suitable for a young girl, and Sarah had an idea that the grandeur would be wasted on Horatia, who, she suspected, would rather have a room near hers. George, as usual, came to the rescue. 'That is very kind of you, father; but perhaps, as Miss Cunningham is very young, and is coming for the first time among strangers, she would prefer to be in the west wing near some one she knows. There's the anteroom, next Sarah's; that is very pretty for a girl, and they could share the boudoir.' Sarah shot a grateful look at her brother; but his pains were thrown away, for Mr Clay, who was not a man to be easily turned from his plan, said, 'She'll soon get used to us, and she can have her maid to sleep next door. No; I've promised she shall have the royal rooms, and I'll not go back on my word.' 'Let's hope she'll appreciate them,' said George in a non-committal tone. Sarah spent the intervening two or three days in a state of suppressed excitement and unsuppressed irritability; and George at last began to regret, like herself, that her friend was coming, and was sorry for having made the suggestion. He would even have given up his visit to the north if Sarah had accepted his sacrifice; but the latter declared brusquely, 'You couldn't do much good; and, considering that my excuse for asking her here was that I should be alone, it would look rather odd if you didn't go away, after all.' So George went off, his parting words to Sarah being, 'Don't worry. Just be as nice to her as you can, and don't, for goodness' sake, be ashamed of being what you are, for you have nothing to be ashamed of.' 'I don't think that,' said Sarah. 'We need be ashamed of nothing in this world except doing wrong,' said George; and the motor started with a hoot of approval of this worthy sentiment. Sarah waved her hand to her brother, and stood watching him until the motor was hidden behind the trees and a bend in a long avenue, and then turned back to the house, her head bent towards the gravel-path, the pebbles of which she kicked with her feet, to the distinct disapproval of the young gardener who had just rolled it, and viewed this destruction of his work from a distance. 'Ashamed of nothing but doing wrong!' she soliloquised. 'That's not true. One is ashamed of having dirty hands or muddy boots; there's nothing wrong in that.' She turned impulsively as if to say this to her brother, and have the last word; but that being an impossibility, she was reduced to arguing the question out with herself, as Sarah had a habit of doing. The only person she ever consulted, or whose advice or criticism she accepted, was her uncle Howroyd. But this question she could not ask him, for Sarah hardly liked to own to herself that she was a little ashamed of her uncle Howroyd; at least, not exactly ashamed, but she did not mean to take Horatia Cunningham to see him or the old-fashioned mill-house in which William Howroyd and his father had lived for three or four generations. So Sarah was reduced to herself as an authority upon this question for the present, and not being by any means a safe authority, she did not get a wise answer, which might have saved her a great deal of vexation and annoyance; for Sarah decided that George was quite wrong. There were things which were not wrong, and yet one could not help being ashamed of them; and one thing Sarah was ashamed of was having parents who were not only uneducated, but had unrefined ideas. Sarah had one day-dream, absurd as it may seem, of which she never spoke. Sarah always cherished the hope that she might some day find that she and her brother were not really George and Sarah Clay, but adopted children of Mark Clay, and that by-and-by the news would be broken to them. And yet Sarah was a well-educated, intelligent girl of sixteen, and lived in the twentieth century. The fancy arose from a remark her father once made when she was quite a child: 'They are not my children; they are a cut above me. They've got their mother's features, but they'll have nothing of me but my money.' And upon this half-bitter, half-proud speech of Mark Clay's Sarah built her romance, which varied as she invented different explanations of the mystery from time to time; but her favourite one was that her mother first married a lord who was ashamed of his wife, and would not acknowledge his children until they were grown up and properly educated; and Sarah used to picture the reconciliation between them and their proud relatives, for whose benefit she composed many fine speeches full of reproof and final forgiveness. This may be a little excuse for her want of respect to her father, Mark Clay, by speaking of whom, it will be remembered, as 'your husband' she used to anger her mother. She even half-thought of telling Horatia this tale; but Horatia had a way of turning everything into ridicule, and one of the many things that Sarah could not stand was being laughed at. The same motor that took George Clay to the station took Sarah that afternoon to meet Horatia Cunningham, who was to arrive at six o'clock, and who persisted in arriving at that hour, although Sarah had written to her and warned her it was the hour when the mill-hands came out; she said she did not mind at all, and supposed that she would be quite safe in a motor with its smart chauffeur; and Sarah, looking so fresh and dainty that many a one turned and looked after the millionaire's pretty daughter, started off for the station, and not one of them guessed she was feeling nervous, and wished with all her might that she were going on another errand. The girl even wished that something might have happened to prevent her friend from coming; but when the train stopped she saw the wish was vain, for Horatia's face was smiling at her from a window, and Sarah forgot her fears for the moment, and smiled back a welcome. CHAPTER VII. HORATIA'S ARRIVAL. Sarah stepped forward to help Horatia down from the carriage, and suddenly her expression changed to one of mingled surprise and annoyance; seeing which, the young visitor, with a merry laugh, jumped from the carriage to the platform, ignoring the steps and Sarah's outstretched hand. 'There! I said so, didn't I, Nanny?' she cried, turning to her maid, a highly respectable, middle-aged woman, with as good-humoured a face as her young charge.--'Sarah, I said the minute you saw us come out of a third-class carriage you would put on that shocked face of yours. That's partly why I did it.' 'You must excuse Miss Horatia, miss. She's full of mischief, and she got into this carriage at the junction without my seeing what class it was, or I would never have allowed her to do such a thing as arrive here third, with you to meet her, and the "chauffer" and all,' said Horatia's maid. 'Oh, bother the chauffeur! It's nothing to do with him which class I travel!' exclaimed Horatia, who, to do her justice, had no idea that the chauffeur was just behind her. That individual was far too well trained to give any sign of having heard this remark, though it was very different from the way his present employers treated him. Mark Clay bullied his servants, and his timid little wife hardly dared to speak to them. Sarah was very reserved, except with Naomi; while George was as courteous to a beggar as to a lord, having but one manner with them all. When Horatia saw what she had done she made a funny little face, and said in an undertone to Sarah, 'I say, Sarah, can't we walk to your house?' 'I don't think we had better. We shall meet the mill-hands coming out, and mother does not like us to do that,' said Sarah. 'Oh, of course, if your mother does not allow it, we can't; but do you think I had better apologise to your man?' she suggested. 'Apologise? Pray, don't think of such a thing! But I suppose you are only saying that to shock me, though why that should amuse you so much I can't think,' observed Sarah. 'You would if you could see your own face; but I really didn't get into that railway-carriage only to shock you. I got in to hear Yorkshire people talk. I saw some country men and women get in, and I just followed them; and, oh Sarah, what does "ginnel" mean, and a "fettle"?' 'I don't know what a "ginnel" is; but "fettle" is a verb. A fettler is the man who cleans the machines in the mill. I have heard the people here talk of "fettling" the hearth when they mean "clean up." And old Matthew, a mill-hand, said the other day he didn't feel in a grand fettle. I suppose he meant "well."' 'A ginnel's a narrow passage, miss. Yon's a ginnel we are just passing,' said the chauffeur to Horatia, slowing down as they passed what is generally called an alley, to which he pointed. 'Oh, thank you very much,' said Horatia genially, and added to Sarah, as she squeezed her arm, 'Oh Sarah, I am enjoying myself so much!' Her happiness was infectious, and Sarah turned to her visitor with an amused smile. 'Why, what can you find to enjoy already?' she asked, with some reason, for they were going almost at walking pace through the town, because of the crowds that poured into the streets from almost every side-turning, so that it could not be the exhilarating motion of motoring that she liked so much. 'Everything! Seeing all those people and hearing people talk Yorkshire,' cried Horatia. 'The people are just like poor people anywhere, only rather dirtier; and I don't like their way of speaking--they have such rough, loud voices,' replied Sarah. 'I think that kind of sing-song they have is musical, and they are not a bit like our villagers; I don't know how, but they are not,' said Horatia, glancing about her, and almost jumping up and down in her eagerness to see all there was to be seen, as they drove slowly along the narrow, and at this time crowded, streets of the grimy manufacturing town. 'Oh, oh, look, Nanny, at that lovely river all purple!' she cried enthusiastically. 'Well, really, Miss Horatia, I can't say that I do admire that. It looks shocking dirty,' said the maid. 'It is. It's lovely before it gets to Ousebank; but it's so polluted by the mills turning all their horrid dyes and things into it that fish can't live in it,' observed Sarah in tones of disgust. 'Well, I call it a lovely colour. Just think how delightful--when you get tired of a dress one colour, you have just got to dip it into the river when the water's the colour you want, and, hey, presto! there you are with a new dress!' Even the chauffeur on the seat in front let his face relax into a smile at Horatia's chatter; but Sarah, though she laughed, said decidedly, 'I'd rather send my dresses to proper dyers than put them into that dirty water; and I'd rather see the river clean, and so would you if you lived here.' They had got clear of the town now, and Horatia, having nothing to look at except an ugly row of cottages, in which even she could not find anything to admire, turned her attention to the car, which she declared most luxurious, and ever so much better than her father's. 'We can go out in it as much as you like, if you like motoring, and go for picnics in the country,' suggested Sarah. 'That will be very nice; but I want to see your mill first,' said Horatia. 'Is it near the house?' 'No; we passed it just now, when you said, "What a big stream of people"!' answered Sarah. 'But they didn't know you,' objected the other. 'Oh yes, they did--by sight, I mean. But what difference would that make? You don't expect them to nod to me, do you?' 'All our villagers do to me, even though I don't know them by sight,' said Horatia. 'Then they are different from our people, and perhaps there are not so many. We have over eight hundred men in our mill, besides women and boys.' Horatia began to see that Sarah did not care to talk about mill-people, as she called them in her mind, and as they entered the park at the moment, and the house in another moment, she found other subjects for conversation. Horatia was a year younger than Sarah and more than a head shorter, and a greater contrast than the two presented could not be imagined: the one tall, slender, dignified, with regular features and clear complexion; and the other short, square-set, with snub-nose and freckled skin, a face only redeemed from plainness by its merry, twinkling eyes and good-humoured mouth, which was always broadening into a smile. Mrs Clay had seen Horatia Cunningham's photograph, so that she was prepared for a girl with a homely face; but most photographs flatter, and Mrs Clay had not expected to see any one quite so ordinary in appearance, 'an' that plainly dressed,' as she confided to her husband. However, she came forward with a hearty welcome, and as soon as Horatia smiled at her she forgot the slight shock her young guest's appearance had given her. Horatia jumped out of the car as she had jumped out of the train. 'It is so kind of you to have me; and what a lovely view you have! One would never think the town was so near. I suppose it is hidden behind those trees?' she said. 'No, my dear--Miss Cunningham, I mean--the town is be'ind the 'ouse. My 'usband built the mansion this way on purpose,' said Mrs Clay, in her nervousness dropping the _h's_ more than usual. Sarah kept a keen eye upon Horatia during this speech. She had been dreading this moment, and had only forgotten her anxiety, thanks to Horatia's free praise of all she saw; but not a trace of mockery could she see in her schoolfellow's smile; in fact, Horatia was more polite than she was to the teachers at school, to whom they were expected to be most courteous. 'I suppose she didn't expect her to be educated,' thought Sarah, a little bitterly. But she did her school friend an injustice, for Mrs Clay was a far greater shock to Horatia than she was to her hostess; and it said much for the girl's innate good-breeding that she showed no sign of the fact, but only answered frankly, 'Please don't call me Miss Cunningham. I'm not grown up yet, and my name is Horatia.' And here the thought came into Horatia's mind that she would certainly be ''Oratia' to her hostess, and she felt a wild desire to laugh, but valiantly repressed it; for which she was very thankful when Mrs Clay, with a pretty, pink colour in her delicate, faded cheeks, said, 'Thank you, my dear; it's a very pretty name, but it's difficult to remember. I expect I shall always call you "my dear," as you don't mind, and I am sure you are a very dear young lady.' Horatia impulsively threw her arms round Mrs Clay's neck, and, kissing her, said, 'I am sure I am going to have a lovely time here, and I think it's awfully good of you to ask me.' Mrs Clay beamed with delight, and all fears on her part that the visit would not be a success were over. Sarah's brow cleared. She was rather surprised that Horatia and her mother had taken to each other; but so far so well. The worst was--her father; and Sarah almost longed for dinner-time, so that that meeting also should be over. 'She won't like him, I know,' she murmured, with a recollection of a scene at school when a visitor had been presuming in Horatia's opinion, and she had rather surprised her companions by the frigid air she assumed. 'He'll offend her, and she will say something, and, oh dear! I'm sure there will be a scene,' sighed Sarah. However, dinner was two hours off, and Sarah took Horatia through the vast corridors and up to the royal rooms, followed by Horatia's old nurse, who had come in the capacity of maid, and was by her mistress's orders keeping near her charge till she settled down in her new surroundings. Horatia and her maid were both used to large houses, and had stayed at the ducal mansion of Horatia's relative; but when the door leading into the royal rooms was opened she gave a cry of admiration. 'But am I to sleep here? It's far too grand for me, Sarah. And what a big room! I shall lose myself in it!' she cried. 'My father wished you to have these rooms. There's a bed for your maid next door, in the dressing-room. My mother thought you might be nervous in a new house,' explained Sarah. 'How kind you all are! Fancy taking all that trouble about making me comfortable! I'm afraid I sha'n't be able to give you such a lot of rooms when you come to stay with us,' said Horatia, as she wandered from room to room, and stopped first to admire the writing-table with gold everything, and finally the bathroom with silver fittings. 'I will leave you to rest a little, and when you are ready for a walk in the park, please ring the bell and Naomi will fetch me,' said Sarah as she went off, relieved to find that Horatia took everything in a friendly spirit. 'Oh Miss Horatia, this is a funny house!' exclaimed Horatia's nurse. 'I don't see anything funny in it,' said Horatia; 'it's a very beautiful one.' 'Yes, miss, it is that; these people must have a mint of money. Why, look at these rooms; they're fit for a king. And to think that poor thing is the mistress of it all. She doesn't look hardly fit,' said the woman. Horatia let this remark pass in silence; but if her loyalty to her hostess had let her she would probably have agreed with her nurse, for she did feel, somehow, as Sarah did, that it was all too grand, and oppressed her somehow. 'My dresses are not grand enough for these rooms, Nanny, or for this house,' she replied. But this was too much for the old nurse. 'You'll look a lady and be a lady in the commonest of them, and that's more than these Clays be, for all their money,' she cried indignantly. 'That isn't very nice of you when they are so kind to us, Nanny, and have asked us here so that we may enjoy ourselves,' said Horatia reproachfully. 'No, Miss Horatia, it isn't, and I ought to be ashamed of myself that you have to teach me my duty instead of me showing you a good example; but I felt wild to think of them, perhaps, thinking themselves better than you because they have such a lot of money out of blankets,' said the good woman. 'Why, I'd sooner have The Grange than this house any day.' 'So would I, of course, because it's my home; but I wouldn't mind having a bathroom like this, all marble and silver, and all those lovely little contrivances to wash yourself without any trouble; and I will some day, when I'm rich,' declared Horatia. [Illustration: 'I'm so glad you've called me "lass"! I was so hoping some one would.' PAGE 69.] And now, being ready for dinner, Horatia rang for Sarah, and the two went down to the painted and gilded drawing-room to wait till the gong sounded, which it presently did, and the three went into the dining-room, where they found Mr Mark Clay, as was his custom, seated at the table. When they arrived, Mrs Clay, whose duty it was to introduce Horatia to her host, left that duty to Sarah, and Sarah left it to her mother, with the result that no one performed that ceremony. Horatia had to introduce herself, which she did very prettily. 'How do you do, Mr Clay? Thank you for giving me such a lovely room'--everything was lovely according to Horatia; 'it's the loveliest I have ever seen--better than the peacock-room at Hasingfield. Now, Hasingfield was the palace of Horatia's ducal relative, her grandfather, and the peacock-room was so famous that even Mark Clay had heard of it; so that Horatia could not have said anything that would have pleased her host better. He held her hand for a moment, and looked down at her bright, smiling face, as he said, 'I'm right glad to see you here, and welcome you to Yorkshire. And there's nothing here that you are not welcome to use as your own. Make yourself at home, lass.' Horatia's smile broadened as she gave a laugh of delight. 'Oh, I'm so glad you've called me "lass"! I was so hoping some one would. That shall be your name for me, and Mrs Clay will call me "my dear,"' she answered, taking her seat at the table in the best of humours. It was a sumptuous repast, and if Horatia got tired of it and of her host's boastings and unrefined remarks, she gave no sign, but seemed, as she had said when she first arrived, to be enjoying herself immensely. 'So the dreaded introductions were safely and happily over, and either she is acting or else she doesn't notice or mind anything,' Sarah said to herself. But she was wrong, for Horatia was not acting, and she did notice, and did mind some things. Later on Sarah was undeceived on this point. CHAPTER VIII. HORATIA. So the dinner was over, and Sarah heaved a great sigh of relief as the two followed Mrs Clay to the drawing-room. 'What are you sighing for, Sarah? One would think you had just discovered that you were a pauper, and had eaten your last grand dinner; for it was a grand dinner. Was it in honour of little, insignificant me? Because, you know, if it was, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling Mrs Clay that I don't come down to dinner at home, but have schoolroom supper with Nanny; and I don't think mamma would like me to eat all those things every evening,' observed Horatia, taking Sarah's arm and doing a rink step along the hall. 'Oh, we have that kind of dinner every day. There may have been extra trouble taken because of you; but father likes it. You needn't eat any more than you like; but I shouldn't sigh if I heard it was my last in this house,' replied Sarah vehemently. She spoke so vehemently that Horatia stopped her rinking and looked at her friend in surprise. 'But it is your home,' she said. 'I'd rather live in a cottage,' declared Sarah. 'You say so; but I'd just like to see you turning up your aristocratic nose at the tiny rooms; only, of course, your nose wouldn't turn up properly, not being a snub like mine. Anyway, it would look down on everything. But, I say, Sarah, what a lovely rink this hall would make! If it weren't so hot we might have a fine rink this evening.' 'Oh my dear, not in this 'all; it's real cedar-board, brought express from abroad for Mr Clay!' cried Mrs Clay in shocked accents. 'I'm sure I don't know w'at 'e'd say if you was to suggest such a thing. Pray don't name it to 'im.' Horatia laughed gaily. 'I was only in fun. Of course, I shouldn't rink on a parquet floor. I should like to see our butler's face if I did it on our polished oak. I think I'll suggest it to Mr Clay this evening,' she announced. 'You won't see him again. He never comes into the drawing-room in the evening, thank goodness!' said Sarah. The 'thank goodness' slipped out from habit, and she was rather glad that Horatia did not notice it. 'We shall just 'ave a quiet evenin'. Mr Clay likes to smoke 'is pipe after dinner in 'is study, an' I go an' talk to 'im sometimes. So per'aps you won't mind if I go an' leave you two to enjoy yourselves alone.--Your father seems quite cheerful to-night.--I think you an' 'e will get on, my dear,' said Mrs Clay, who was quite cheerful herself, owing to her husband being in a pleasant humour. It was the first peaceful dinner they had had since Sarah came home; Mark Clay was never a very pleasant companion, and the dinner-table was very often the scene of his rages, but Sarah seemed to anger her father without even opening her mouth, and her mother, much as she missed her only daughter, was generally relieved when she returned to school. But before Mrs Clay thought it was time for her husband to have finished his wine and retired to his study to smoke, to the surprise of all three he appeared in the drawing-room, without the obnoxious pipe, and with quite a pleasant expression for him. 'I'm thinking this lass will be dull with only us plain folk, and so I've got a concert for her. Now, what would you like to hear--the opera at Covent Garden, the Queen's Hall concert, or what?' 'Oh, how lovely! The opera, please. That is better than rinking in your parquet hall, Mr Clay,' cried Horatia, clapping her hands. 'Rink in my hall!' cried the millionaire, scandalised; and then, seeing Horatia's twinkling eyes, he laughed his hoarse laugh, and said, 'You'd have Sykes after you if you did. What do you want to rink for? Senseless pastime, I call it. Now, skating I can understand; it's healthy exercise, and you might make use of it in cold countries; but rinking--what's the use on't?' 'Oh, it's such fun! I do love it so!' cried Horatia. 'Well, now, if it's like that, I'll see what we can do. I am afraid I can't get a rink built for you in a day, but I'll see what we can do. For to-night, you'll have to put up with the opera,' said Mr Clay good-naturedly. Horatia thanked him profusely, and after he had left she said to Sarah, 'Oh Sarah, you _are_ rich! I'm sorry I ever came here to stay with you.' 'Why?' inquired Sarah quickly, as the colour mounted to her forehead, for she expected that Horatia was going to say that she did not like people who made such a display of wealth. 'Because I sha'n't be contented to be just middlingly well off after this, and I never wanted to be rich before; but your father can do everything he likes,' she cried enthusiastically. 'Oh no, he can't,' retorted Sarah. 'What can't he do?' demanded Horatia. Sarah paused for a moment. She could not very well say what was in her mind, which was that he could not make himself a gentleman, so she said instead, 'He can't buy people's affection, for one thing.' Horatia gave Sarah one of her quick, quizzical glances, but only replied, 'I don't know so much about that. There's cupboard-love, at any rate; but never mind, let's go and listen to this opera. It's a lovely way of spending the evening,' she added, for Sarah's face had taken on its disdainful expression again. So the two sat down at the gramophone to listen to Tetrazzini singing in the opera, and Mrs Clay went off to her husband's study to take advantage of his being in a good humour to spend the hour with the husband she worshipped, although she feared him, and had none too happy a life with him. Mr Clay was smoking a short clay-pipe. If Sarah had been there she probably would have said that another thing that he could not do was to enjoy refined things, or give himself refined tastes, for one of Mark Clay's greatest enjoyments was to smoke his short clay-pipe and the rankest of rank tobacco, though he only did so in private. 'She's a nice young lady, Mark, this friend o' Sarah's, isn't she?' Mrs Clay hazarded. 'Yes, she's a grand lass, is yon. She's always got a joke ready to crack with you, and doesn't give herself no airs; and she might, for I find they're a very high family--two dukes in it, and other titles as well,' said Mr Clay. 'Oh, I don't care about 'er titles; she's a dear young lady in 'erself, an' I'm sure Sarah'll only learn good from 'er,' said Mrs Clay. 'I wish Sarah'd learn not to give herself airs; you'd think she was a duke's granddaughter and not the other. I'm sure she looks at me sometimes as much as to say, "I'm a princess, and you're only a common man," and treats me as if I was the dirt under her feet, instead of being her father, to whom she owes everything,' said Mr Clay, with an aggrieved air. 'She's not good-lookin',' said Mrs Clay, who alluded to Horatia and was trying to put a word in indirectly for her daughter. 'No, she isn't, there's no denying that; but I'd sooner have her opposite me at table, for all her plain looks, than I would our Sally.' 'I wouldn't go so far as that. I'm sure w'en the two came in to-night, an' our girl lookin' so straight an' 'andsome, I felt proud o' 'er; but the other is a dear young lady, an' keeps us all lively,' she said, repeating her one remark about Horatia that she was a dear young lady. 'And if you'll believe me, George,' she wrote to her son two days later, 'your father's a different man since that little girl has been here, as polite to the servants since he spoke sharp to Sykes and the little lady stared at him so surprised like; and so kind to me I hardly know myself. Not that I'm not very grateful to him, and know a man like him must have his worries, and can't always be even-tempered.' But much had happened during these two days. Sarah had planned these two days, and, indeed, all the visit, as a succession of excursions in the motor, picnics, tennis-parties (for the Clays knew every one for miles round), and rides, and the next morning, accordingly, she said to Horatia, 'I thought we might go to the lakes for lunch to-day; we might start directly after breakfast, and get back for dinner in the evening.' 'Oh, haven't you seen the lakes?' asked Horatia in rather a disappointed tone. 'Yes, of course; but they are always worth going to see,' replied Sarah. 'But if you don't care to see them, or would rather go anywhere else, or do anything else, you have only to say so, and of course we'll do that.' Horatia's face brightened. 'Do you really mean that? May I do what I like just for the first day or two?' she inquired eagerly. 'Of course you may do what you like to-day and every day while you are here. I would much rather you did. I'm tired of doing what I like; and, besides, it will save me a lot of bother, because I did not want to go to the lakes at all, and I was going to please you.' 'And I should have gone to please you,' cried Horatia, 'so we should both have wasted a day; but I'm afraid you won't care for my plan. I want to go and see your mills.' 'You mean my father's,' said Sarah hastily; but, though her face fell a little, she continued, 'We shall have to ask his leave. I'll ask mother to 'phone to him.' But this plan of Horatia's was not destined to be carried out, for a message came back to say that Mr Clay would rather they came another day, as he was busy that day, and could not take them over himself. 'Then just let's go down the town and see the outsides of the mills. No; not in the motor,' for Sarah had her hand on the bell to ring for it. 'How, then? Do you want to ride?' inquired Sarah in surprise. 'No; I want to go on Shank's mare, and poke into ginnels. I want to go up a ginnel,' she declared. 'But a ginnel is only a narrow passage. The chauffeur told you so, don't you remember? You've often been up a passage, I suppose?' 'Yes; but not when it's called a ginnel. I want to say I've been up one, and I can't bring it in unless I say, "I went up a ginnel at Ousebank,"' explained Horatia. Sarah laughed. 'You are funny, Horatia,' she said. However, to please her friend she put on her hat, and the two went off to Ousebank; and whom should they meet but Uncle Howroyd, who stopped quite naturally to speak to his niece and her friend. 'And what are you two lasses doing in Ousebank alone and on foot?' he inquired. 'We've come to go up a ginnel,' said Horatia, her eyes twinkling. Mr William Howroyd's twinkled in response. 'Eh, what, are you a Yorkshire lassie, then, that you talk so pat about ginnels? And what particular one do you want to go up--the ginnel against my mill?' he inquired. 'Oh, have you got a mill, and can I come and see it?' cried Horatia eagerly. 'Why, of course I've got a mill. Didn't Sarah tell you? Surely you weren't coming to Ousebank without coming to see me?' he inquired reproachfully. Then, seeing that Sarah coloured and looked rather ashamed, he half-guessed the truth, and turned quickly to another subject, and said, 'Come along, then, both of you.--This is not the grandest mill in Ousebank, Miss Cunningham, nor the largest. My brother Clay's is much bigger; but it's the oldest, and I like it best.' 'Oh, please, say Horatia,' she cried, as the three turned towards Howroyd's Mill. 'Horatia! Any relation to the great Nelson?' he inquired, looking kindly down on the eager young face smiling up at him. 'Yes; that's why I am called it; but I like Macaulay's Horatius best, so I pretend I am named after him.' 'What! Then out spake brave Horatius... And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods? Isn't that how it goes?' he asked. 'Not quite; you've left out three lines; but that's the man I mean,' she replied. 'But I forgot. Perhaps I ought not to have asked to go over your mill? Perhaps you are busy, and don't want us, like Mr Clay?' 'No, I'm not so busy as he is, and I have always time for Sarah, as she knows,' he replied; 'though I don't know that a warm summer morning is the time to go over a mill and into hot rooms.' 'Oh, please, don't discourage me! I've longed to see a mill, and now I am really going to.' Sarah privately thought Horatia rather childish, but she did not say anything; and Mr Howroyd, who did whatever he did thoroughly, took them over his mill. 'Now, I am going to show you the whole process of making a blanket out of sacks of woollen rags or wool as it comes off the sheep's back,' he announced. 'I hope you are not going to make a lesson of it, Uncle Howroyd,' protested Sarah. 'Of course I am, and am going to question you upon it afterwards,' he said, his eyes twinkling. 'Only, I hope you won't be like a young man that came here for a newspaper once, and went away saying he was much obliged, and had learnt a lot, and then wrote in his paper that we made blankets of old newspapers.' 'And don't you?' inquired Horatia innocently. 'No, we do not,' said Mr Howroyd with emphasis; 'and it's about time you did come and see a blanket-mill if that's all you know about it.' Horatia not only joined merrily in Sarah's laugh, but listened quite intelligently to Mr William Howroyd's explanation of the material used to make blankets. 'It's most fearfully interesting,' she said with a sigh. Mr Howroyd laughed. 'You'd best have gone to the lakes, as Sarah proposed. This is a very dull holiday task you've set yourself, Miss Horatia.' 'I never enjoyed any holiday so much in my life,' she protested stoutly, and a look at her beaming, interested face confirmed her words. CHAPTER IX. A YORKSHIRE MIXTURE. 'Do you particularly want to walk home, Horatia?' inquired Sarah as they were leaving Howroyd's Mill. 'No; I particularly don't want, considering that I have been driving Shank's mare up awful break-neck steps and down precipices,' replied Horatia, who had climbed up and down funny stairs and ladders in the mill, which she called precipices. 'You are not going home, anyway, just now, for the mills are just coming out, and the streets will be crowded, and it's luncheon-time; so you're going to have a plain lunch with me, if you will honour me so far,' said Mr Howroyd, and looked for a delighted acceptance from Sarah. But, to his surprise, Sarah coloured and looked at Horatia doubtfully. 'I think they'll be expecting us at home,' she said. 'Oh, will they? Can't we send a special messenger? I should so like to stay, and I am so hungry.--You've no idea how hungry I am,' she said, turning to Mr Howroyd with a merry laugh. 'Perhaps if you did you wouldn't ask us to stay.' Mr Howroyd laughed his cheery laugh. 'It would be the first time there wasn't enough for any stranger at Howroyd's. That's not a Yorkshire failing. We've always enough and to spare for any kind visitor, and they're always sure of a Yorkshire welcome.' 'What's a Yorkshire welcome like? Is it different from any other kind of welcome?' inquired Horatia slyly. 'Well, we think it's heartier and more sincere. You see, we don't go in for show so much as they do down south; we say there's real old oak up here, and French-polished deal down there.' 'Oh, what conceit!' cried Horatia. 'Are you hitting at me?' 'No; at me,' said Sarah a little bitterly. 'I'm hitting at myself; for old oak, you know, gets worm-eaten.--And you're quite correct, Miss Horatia; that was boasting, and in very bad taste. Let's hope my cook won't have burnt up the chicken and apple-tart to punish me for it,' he said as he led the way into the cool, old parlour of the mill, with its wainscoted walls and old-fashioned furniture. Horatia sat down in a rocking-chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'I feel I deserve a rest. I've done a good day's work this morning. I'm afraid I've tired you, Mr Howroyd, and taken up a lot of your time. I'd no idea it took so long to look over a mill. Why, we must have been nearly two hours.' 'Nearer two hours and a half. I calculate one and a half for most of my visitors; but, then, they don't all want to know so much as this young lady,' he replied, laughing. 'Oh, did I ask a lot of questions?' inquired Horatia. 'You did,' said Sarah. 'Well, I _am_ enjoying myself,' repeated Horatia for the hundredth time, with always the same emphasis on the 'am.' Mr Howroyd flashed one of his bright glances at her. 'That's right!' he said. 'I do like knowing new things and doing new things, and all this is so new to me. I feel as if I were abroad, out of England somewhere; and wool-making--I mean making blankets and woollen things--is most interesting,' said Horatia. Sarah seemed to be pondering over something. Suddenly she lifted her head--'What holiday-essay are you going to write this summer?' Horatia gave a merry laugh. 'Oh, well, it wasn't for that I came to stay with you, Sarah. You mustn't think that; but, of course, it will be nice and easy to write one upon wool.' 'Oh, ho! So I have been teaching you your holiday-lesson, have I?' said Mr Howroyd, as he helped Horatia to apple-tart and handed her the cheese; for at Howroyd's Mill no maid waited at lunch. William Howroyd said he had to be careful what he said before a servant, and he could reach all he wanted himself. Sarah was just putting out her hand to stop her uncle, but decided not to interfere with him, for Mr Howroyd never understood a hint, and, with what his niece considered a lamentable want of tact, would say, 'What are you driving at, lass?' or 'Speak out, child; I like plain speaking.' So, much as Sarah would have liked to prevent her uncle from offering 'such an unfashionable mixture' as apple-tart and cheese, she abstained. Horatia stared for a moment; then, thinking it was absent-mindedness on the part of her host, burst into a merry laugh. 'You've only just given me apple-tart, Mr Howroyd. I haven't come to the cheese course yet.' 'But we eat them together in Yorkshire. Come, you like new things; just try cheese and apple-tart; it's a very good mixture, to my mind,' said Mr Howroyd as he held the plate to Horatia. 'Very well, I will try it; but I don't think it sounds very nice, and if I don't like it you must give me a lump of sugar; in fact, I think I had better have one all ready in case it's horrid,' said Horatia, with pretended resignation. 'I can do better than that,' said Mr Howroyd, as, getting up from the table, he opened a cupboard and produced a long, flat box wrapped up in white paper. 'Now, if you don't like our Yorkshire mixture, you shall have one of these; but if you do like it you shall have the box.' 'Chocolates!' cried Horatia, opening the box. Then she took a spoonful of apple-tart, put a square piece of cheese in the middle of it, and ate it; but hastily took a chocolate out of the box, put it in her mouth, and said, 'Delicious!' Both Sarah and her uncle laughed at Horatia's way out of the difficulty. 'You didn't like it a bit. I saw by your face, so you don't deserve that box of chocolates,' said the former. 'Indeed, she does, and she shall have them if she will accept them!' protested Mr Howroyd. So Horatia won her chocolates. Mr Howroyd had telephoned to Balmoral to say that the girls were staying to lunch, and a message was sent back that the motor would be sent about an hour and a half after the lunch. So, when they had finished, William Howroyd led the way into the drawing-room, a big, old-fashioned room, and, drawing two chairs up to the large window, brought out all sorts of quaint, old things for Horatia to see. 'Oh dear! I never saw anything like these things before; I can't possibly put them into my essay, because I can't describe them. It is a pity, because I really think I should get the prize. I'm sure no one else will see anything so interesting in her holidays,' cried Horatia, as she examined Mr Howroyd's family treasures with interest and reverence. 'I'm sure, I can't see what you find so interesting in these old things; every one has them,' said Sarah half-impatiently. 'Nay, lass, every one has not got a tree made of hair, nor a beautiful model of their church, a hundred years old, made of cork,' her uncle corrected her. 'They may not have exactly that; but they have things that belonged to their grandmothers,' declared Sarah. 'I know you have much grander things at home, Horatia, though you pretend to admire these so much,' she protested. Horatia coloured a little; but it was not easy to offend her, and she said, with a little laugh, 'I'm not pretending at all; and I only said what was quite true, that I had never seen such things before.' 'Then you are simply laughing at us. You are only interested because we are like savages, with their trinkets and beads, which they think fine jewels,' said Sarah. This time Horatia was really offended, but she did not say anything; and Mr Howroyd said quickly, 'I shall begin to think you are ill, Sarah, or sickening for a fever, and shall telephone to your mother to send for a doctor, if you talk such nonsense.--Now, Miss Horatia, come and see my greatest treasure of all; and he took her into an adjoining room, without asking Sarah to accompany them at all. By the time they had seen his greatest treasure, which was some wonderful needlework, the motor was announced, and the two girls got into it. 'Now, I'm just going to time ourselves. We got home in seven minutes last time; do you think we could do it in five to-day?' inquired Horatia of Sarah. 'Certainly not. It's four miles from door to door. You'd no business to do it in seven minutes; and if you incite Tom to do it in five he'll get locked up, if he lives, and he'll well deserve it,' declared Mr Howroyd. Tom Fox smiled grimly. He had known Mr Howroyd and Mr Howroyd had known him since he was a tiny boy, so he answered, 'You'll not live to see me locked up, Mr Howroyd--not for furious driving in the public road; though I'll not deny that I did put on speed the day missie speaks of, going through the park.' 'Oh, well, if you choose to risk your necks in that wretched car, you must. For my part, there's nothing like a dogcart with a good trotting horse; that's fast enough for me; but then I'm fifty years behind the times, I know. Well, off you go. Good-bye; and come and see me again, and have some more cheese to your tart,' he added, with a laugh and a twinkle of his eye, as he raised his hat to the two girls. 'I will if you'll give me chocolates to help it down,' said Horatia; and the car, with a hoot, sped away. 'And we have done it in five minutes,' cried Horatia as they drew up at the front-door. Mrs Clay met them in the hall, breathless. 'Mercy on us, Sarah, w'atever 'appened to the car or Tom? I'm sure my 'eart was in my mouth w'en I saw you comin' along the park. I ran all the way down the stairs, thinkin' I should never see you alive w'en I got to the bottom,' cried the poor woman. 'It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Mrs Clay! I begged Fox to get home in five minutes, and I made the car go when we got to the park-gates,' said Horatia penitently, as she linked her arm coaxingly in little Mrs Clay's. 'My dear, don't you go for to do such a thing again,' said Mrs Clay, smiling with indulgence at the girl; 'but it's not you I'm blamin', but Tom Fox, who ought to know better than endanger two lives, let alone takin' notice o' a child like you, if you'll excuse my speakin' so freely.' 'You are very good not to scold me; but I do so enjoy going at a tremendous speed, and the motor does run so smoothly, much better than ours, and mother is too nervous to go fast,' explained Horatia. 'I should think not, an' I don't blame 'er. For my part, I 'old on every time I go in it if my 'usband isn't lookin', an' I'd rather by 'alf walk or take the pony-chaise than go in it; but I'll stop Fox playin' such tricks. W'atever would your ma 'ave said if she'd seen you, I can't think.' They had gone upstairs by this time, and were walking along the corridor at the back of the house, which looked out on the back-yard, which was coach-yard and garage, and Mrs Clay had scarcely finished the above speech when they heard the angry voice of Mr Mark Clay in the yard below. 'How dare you drive my car at that speed, with my daughter and the Duke of Arnedale's granddaughter in the car? Don't excuse yourself, but take yourself off this moment, and never show your face in Ousebank again, or I'll have you locked up, do you hear?' stormed Mr Clay at the chauffeur. But his speech was interspersed with stronger language than that. Horatia dropped Mrs Clay's arm, and ran a little in front of her and Sarah, and both of them thought she was running to take refuge in her room from language to which she was not accustomed; but, on the contrary, she ran to the open window, and, leaning out of it, cried, 'Mr Clay, stop, please, and listen to me a moment.--Don't go, Tom Fox.' At sight of Horatia, Mr Clay's face changed a little, and perhaps he felt a little shame at the language he knew she must have heard; but he was too angry to heed her. 'Excuse me, but this is my business, and my orders must be obeyed.--Get out of this, do you hear, Tom Fox?' The man, white as a sheet, touched his hat, with a faint smile, to Horatia, and walked off. 'Tom Fox, stop!' said Horatia. 'Wait one moment. If you are really going I will go too, and you can come to the station with me.' 'Horatia!' cried Sarah; and, 'My dear!' echoed Mrs Clay. Mr Clay looked up at the flushed, determined little face at the window. He was a dogged, self-willed man, and gave way to no one; but he knew when he had met his match. 'What does this mean, Miss Cunningham?' he asked grimly, while Tom Fox stood hesitating in the doorway, and the other servants stood in the background, wondering what would be the end of the scene. 'It means that _I_ drove the car at that break-neck speed, because I turned the high-speed gear, and Tom could not help himself, and he was too much of a man to tell tales of me.' 'You can stop, Tom.--As for you, my lass'--the millionaire paused--'you're a plucky un, you are! You ought to have Yorkshire blood in you, if you haven't,' he concluded, and walked into the house without another word. 'Thank you, miss,' said the chauffeur, as he took off his hat and stood bareheaded, looking up at Horatia. 'I'm sorry I got you into a row, Tom Fox,' she said, 'and I promise you I won't interfere with the motor any more without leave.' Then she withdrew her head. 'Oh, my dear, I don't believe you'd be afraid of anything,' said Mrs Clay, looking at her with admiration. Horatia only laughed, and Sarah said nothing either. CHAPTER X. PLAIN SPEAKING CLEARS THE AIR. 'Your young lady's got a spirit,' said Sykes to Horatia's nurse, who was as popular below-stairs as her mistress was above, for it is a fact that 'Like mistress, like maid,' is a very true saying, and Miss Cunningham's old nurse behaved in the same kindly, tactful manner towards her fellow-servants that her mistress showed towards her. But on this occasion Nanny, or Mrs Nancy, as the servants called her, gave way to her feelings, which had been much ruffled on this visit. 'If by spirit you mean she don't allow injustice to be done to a poor man, you're right; but I should like you to know that this isn't what we've been used to--not by no means. Why, our last visit was to Miss Horatia's grandpa, his Grace the Duke of Arnedale, and there we didn't have no scenes; I should say not, indeed! It's not considered good form; that's what they call it.' 'It's not a bad word, isn't that? You talk of a prize-fighter being in good form,' observed Sykes. 'Well, our prize-fighter was in good form to-night, and yet Miss Cunningham knocked him out in the first round,' interposed a young footman, who went in for being a wit. 'Don't you get into the habit of making free with young ladies' names, nor making jokes on them, young man,' said Mrs Nancy severely, as she took up the work which she had been doing in the shade at the back of the house, and went indoors. 'Now, there's a funny thing; she's only a servant same as us, and yet she thinks herself our better because her family's got blood. Well, ours has got money, and, for my part, give me good wages and plenty to eat, and blood be blowed!' remarked the young footman, who had been nettled at the reproof. 'No low talk here, please,' said Sykes with dignity as he rose to see about the wine for dinner. Nanny went upstairs ostensibly to get her young lady's things out for dinner, although, as it was only three o'clock, it was rather early; but in reality she felt that Miss Horatia wanted one of her own people with her at this moment, so she knocked at her door, and found Horatia in the silver-fitted bathroom plunging her head into the marble basin. 'Miss Horatia, my dearie, what are you thinking about? This hot day it's enough to give you your death!' she cried. 'Oh Nanny, I was so hot, and my head does ache! I really couldn't help it,' exclaimed Horatia. 'You lie down on your bed, missie, and I'll lower the blinds and bathe your head with this spray. You've overdone yourself getting into such a taking with that wretched man,' said the old nurse soothingly, as she patted up the pillows for her charge and lowered the green sun-blinds. 'He wasn't a wretched man; he had nothing to do with it. I touched the high-speed gear, I tell you, and poor Tom Fox was as frightened as any one.' 'I wasn't speaking of him. I know he wasn't to blame. And I'm talking of some one else, as you very well know, whom there's no living in peace with; and I know what you're going to say, Miss Horatia--that he's our host, and my better, which he may be the first, but I don't know so much about his being the second, for my father wouldn't have demeaned himself by such language to any man, let alone before women. And as I'm speaking I may as well say it all out, which is that if the master and mistress had known what kind of place we were coming to they'd never have allowed it. And if I write and tell them'---- 'Tell them what, pray?' interrupted Horatia. 'What kind of a man Mr Clay is, which no one has a good word for him; and however you manage to keep him in good temper, Sykes says, he doesn't know,' wound up Nancy. 'I don't want to know what Sykes says; and if you can't talk of more agreeable things than that I'd rather you went away and left my headache to cure itself. I'm only tired after looking all the morning at machines turning round,' announced Horatia. 'And whatever you can find to please you in that passes me. Sykes says those woollen-mills are all one like another, and hot, dirty, greasy places!' declared Nancy. 'I believe you've fallen in love with Sykes,' said Horatia wickedly. 'Miss Horatia! Considering he's got a wife and family!' protested Nancy. But she quoted Sykes no more, which was just what Horatia wanted and expected. 'Now, Nanny, I'm quite all right, so you can get out my white muslin and blue ribbon,' she said. 'Not that white muslin, miss! You've worn it three times, and it is so plain compared with Miss Clay's,' objected the woman. 'So am I, so it's no good my trying to dress like her, and it's no use your getting angry about it, and arguing, because you know she's beautiful and I'm plain. And what's funnier still, I don't envy her a bit--oh, I don't mean her wealth, but I mean her face and figure--for she isn't a bit happy, and she doesn't enjoy life, and I do most awfully.' 'Because you try to make other people enjoy it, and you know the way to win people's hearts. Why, the way you've won Mr Clay's'---- Here Nancy paused. 'As Sykes says,' added Horatia slyly. 'Well, Miss Horatia, you will have your joke; and if I was going to say that it's no wonder, seeing that I have to sit at his right hand, as the place of honour, at the servants' hall dinner. And, oh, miss, if you did but see our table! Well, we live well at his Grace's; but here! You never saw such food--seven and eight courses we have, and fruit and wines. I'm sure I don't know how much they cost.' 'You'll be wanting to stay up here, Nanny; you will never be contented with our plain food after all these luxuries,' suggested Horatia. Nancy gave a scornful sniff. 'I suppose that is a joke, Miss Horatia; but it's a poor one. For if it were this house or the Union I'd not hesitate between them.' 'Is that a joke, or do you expect me to believe you'd rather live in the workhouse than this place?' inquired Horatia. 'It's no joke. Nothing would induce me to live here,' said Nancy. 'I wonder why,' said Horatia meditatively. It was just what Sarah said, she remembered. 'It's not half so wonderful as the way you seem to have taken to these people,' said Nancy; and then, feeling that she had gone too far, and that Horatia thought so, she changed the conversation and spoke of the dirt of Ousebank, which actually was blown to Balmoral. Then the gong rang, and Horatia, cheery and smiling as ever, went tripping down the grand staircase to the drawing-room to meet Mrs Clay and Sarah. This evening, rather to her surprise, Mr Clay was there, having departed from his usual habit of going straight to the dining-room and sitting down at the table before the ladies appeared. He came forward with a _gauche_ gallantry, and offered his arm to Horatia. 'Come, little lass, I hear you lunched at Howroyd's and went over his mill to-day. Couldn't you have waited one day more?' 'He didn't want us to,' said Horatia, taking the millionaire's arm with a simple grace, as if it was quite an ordinary thing for her to go in to dinner in this style, instead of its being the first time. 'I dare say not. Howroyd was only too proud to get you there. I'm talking of my mills, which you could have seen just by waiting a day,' explained Mr Clay. 'Oh, but I am going to see your mills too. I'll come to-morrow if you will let us. Of course they will be much grander than Mr Howroyd's, so it was better to see his first and keep the best to the last.' 'Oh ay, our stuff's much grander. We make finer cloth than Howroyd's, and turn out ten times as much, I'll warrant,' said Mr Clay, with his boastful laugh. 'I think, my dear, you'd better leave a day between. You can't spend all these fine days in factories. You look tired out, an' Sarah too, trapezing up and down greasy, slippery stairs,' protested Mrs Clay. 'The wife's right, and I'd as soon you waited a few days. I don't know that I want visitors in my mills for a day or so,' chimed in the millionaire. Sarah looked searchingly at her father, and did not seem to like what she saw in his face, for she turned away with a frown. Mrs Clay evidently did not see anything except that her husband upheld her opinion, and was kind to her, as he had been ever since Horatia had come to Balmoral. 'Why don't you want visitors, father?' inquired Sarah. 'Because I don't,' said her father shortly. 'I dare say you often don't; in fact, I shouldn't wonder if you would rather visitors never came, because they must interrupt work dreadfully,' said Horatia. 'Well, they do interrupt,' agreed the millionaire, glad to find an excuse, 'and we're just at a busy time for a special Colonial order; but I'll get you a day when everything is going smoothly.' 'But Uncle Howroyd is just as busy, and everything goes smoothly there.--Doesn't it, Horatia?--And he found time to take us round; he said it was doing his work all right, because he made a round of the mill every day, and he might as well take us with him as go alone, as it made it more agreeable.' Mr Clay gave a scornful laugh. 'I'd like to see myself go the round of all my mills daily! Why, I'd pretty soon be done for. It's easy enough in a paltry place like Howroyd's; and as for him, he spoils his people, and spoils other people's too.' And his face grew dark. Horatia felt dimly that Sarah was treading on dangerous ground, and that something was annoying her host, so she turned to Mrs Clay and said, 'Sarah says I am to choose what we do every day, so may I choose to go and fish in the Adder?' 'Why, certainly, my dear; not that you'll find any fish there; but if it amuses you, go by all means.' 'Don't you worry about an amusement for to-morrow. I've planned one for you,' said Mr Clay. 'Oh, what is it?' cried Horatia, eager as usual for novelty. 'If she wants to fish, why shouldn't she?' objected Sarah, who had no faith in her father's choice of a day's entertainment. 'But I don't want to fish if there are no fish to catch. There's nothing duller than sitting all day and catching nothing,' put in Horatia. 'What's your plan, Mr Clay?' 'You wait till to-morrow morning, and you'll see,' he replied as they rose from the table. 'It'll be something horrid, you'll see,' said Sarah after they had left the dining-room. 'Why should it be something horrid?' inquired Horatia rather sharply. 'Because my father has not the least idea what kind of thing will please you,' retorted Sarah. 'How do you know that?' demanded Horatia. 'Because he is far too ignorant,' said Sarah. 'You are not very respectful to your own father,' said Horatia rather coldly, 'and I think that's rather ignorant.' 'Why don't you say we're all ignorant and vulgar? You know you think it in your heart,' burst out Sarah. Horatia looked at Sarah for a minute. 'Would you like me to say what I really think?' she inquired. 'Yes, I would; I'd rather you said it than pretend to be enjoying everything and being at home, when you despise us all in your heart. You showed it this afternoon, and I know what you think of my father and mother and uncle, and all of us, although you are too much of a lady to say so. Oh yes; I can see your mouth curling with contempt. I know you are a lady and I am not,' said Sarah, and then stopped, breathless from her tirade. Horatia looked at her steadily. 'You are quite wrong about one thing. I am enjoying myself immensely,' she began. But Sarah interrupted her. 'Of course you are, because you make fun of everything and everybody, and you will go away home and make fun of us here as vulgar parvenus.' 'How dare you accuse me of such mean behaviour? You want to hear the truth, and you shall, Sarah. There is one person who is vulgar here, and that is yourself, and you are the only one. I am sorry I ever came to Balmoral just for that reason, because I used to like you so much at school, and be so proud that you liked me best--you seemed so superior to the other girls; but here you have quite changed and become despicable.' 'Because you have seen my parents, that is all,' said Sarah. 'No; it is not for any such reason. I like your parents very much, and I think your father is a wonderful man to have made such a position for himself without any school education; and I love your mother, and I can't see anything vulgar in them. Vulgarity, mother says, is pretending to be what you are not. Education has nothing to do with vulgarity in its bad sense.' 'I don't believe that. Do you mean to say that you thought my father's behaviour refined this afternoon?' inquired Sarah, speaking slowly. 'It was very natural. It would have been vulgar of my father; but Mr Clay is different. I can't explain very well; but if mother were here she would be able to do it. I don't want to discuss your parents; I'm sorry for you if you can't respect them. And, please, I'd rather you didn't say so to me. But I think there's nothing quite so contemptible as being ashamed of one's family. Why, I believe you are even ashamed of your uncle Howroyd, and I think he's the most splendid man I ever saw, and I am glad we met him this morning, for I verily believe you didn't mean to introduce me to him, and I should have been angry if I had missed seeing him and his mill.' Sarah did not make any reply, but said, 'Good-night, Horatia,' and turned to go. In a moment Horatia's arms were round her. 'Oh Sarah! don't be angry and horrid, and don't mind what I said. Forget it all.' Sarah turned with wet eyes. 'I dare say you're right, and I am horrid and contemptible; but you don't understand,' she said. 'Yes I do, a little; but why should you think so much about education and titles and things? They don't really matter, or make you happy; and papa says they're going quite out of fashion,' said Horatia, with a merry laugh, as she gave Sarah a final goodnight hug. CHAPTER XI. HORATIA SPEAKS OUT. One thing Sarah had learnt from Horatia, and that was to be outwardly respectful to her father, whatever she might inwardly feel towards him. It is true, she had been told the same thing by her mother and brother; but one word from her schoolfellow had had more effect than all her brother's arguments or her mother's scoldings. The next morning dawned cold and rainy; and Sarah was surprised to find that for once the bad weather did not depress her, and the prospect of a day in the house, which she generally dreaded, rather pleased her than otherwise. The fact was that Sarah was glad her father's plans for the day were put an end to. 'He's sure to have thought of something quite unsuitable, that Horatia would not like,' she said to herself. 'Isn't this horrid, Sarah?' cried Horatia when the two met at breakfast, and the rain was falling faster. 'It's a bore; but I dare say we can find something to do,' said Sarah, after looking out of the window and seeing no prospect of better weather. 'It 'as turned quite cold; one might think it was autumn,' complained Mrs Clay, rubbing her hands. 'That's the worst o' our climate, never two days alike. I'm sure I'm starved in this dress; an' so must you be, my dear,' she added to Horatia. 'Starved' is Yorkshire for 'cold.' 'I'm dreadfully sorry,' said Horatia, who was always in extremes of joy or sorrow; 'because of Mr Clay's lovely plan, which can't come off now.' 'What was it?' demanded Sarah, who imagined from her way of speaking that Horatia knew and liked the plan. 'I don't in the least know; but I'm quite sure it would have been lovely, and now we can't do it,' she replied. 'I'm not so sure about that,' remarked Mrs Clay. 'Oh, what is it? Do tell me!' cried Horatia. 'I don't think Mr Clay would like me to; but I think 'e'll be in by the time you've 'ad your breakfast, an' before it, if you go on as you're doin', my dear, not eatin' anythin',' she put in; for Horatia, in her excitement, had put down her knife and fork, and was letting her breakfast get cold while she questioned her hostess. 'Hasn't father gone to the mill?' asked Sarah. 'No; 'e's busy over this plan,' replied his wife, smiling at Horatia, and adding, 'It's not often 'e breaks 'is 'abit of goin' to the mill by nine o'clock, for all 'e's so rich, so you must take that as a compliment, my dear.' 'I do. I think it's most awfully kind of him, and I'm simply dying to know what his plan is,' cried Horatia. 'You look anything but dying,' said Sarah, with a glance at Horatia's bright, eager face. 'If you please, ma'am, the master has sent word that he'd be glad if the young ladies would come to the barn as soon as they've finished breakfast,' announced Sykes. Both girls looked in surprise at this request--which, however, they both prepared to carry out; and Sarah remarked that Sykes looked quite excited for him. 'It's the plan! What on earth can it be, Sarah? What kind of place is the barn?' 'A huge, ugly, dark, long room,' said Sarah in disgust, for the barn was the last place to amuse one's self in. 'Oh, then, your father is having a magic-lantern show for us. Well, it's very kind of him,' said Horatia in rather disappointed tones, for she was not fond of a magic-lantern. 'We'd better drive there; it will be wet across the grass. Put on your 'ats an' take wraps wi' you in case you get 'ot, for the barn may be draughty,' said Mrs Clay. 'Are you coming, mother?' said Sarah. 'Yes, my dear, if you don't mind. I sha'n't interfere wi' your pleasure, an' I'd like to see the magic-lantern, too,' said Mrs. Clay quite gaily for her. 'Of course, come along. Perhaps Nancy might come too; she'd like to see it.' 'If she goes, Naomi might as well go too; it's absurd to have a magic-lantern for three people,' said Sarah. Mrs Clay said no more, but put on the cloak her maid brought her, and sat there smiling, in what Sarah considered rather an aggravating way, till the large motor which was to take them all to the barn drove up to the door. Two minutes brought them to the barn-door. 'Why, there's a band!' cried Horatia; 'or is it a gramophone?' The door flew open as if by magic when they appeared, and even Sarah gave a cry of admiration as Horatia, clapping her hands, exclaimed, 'Why, it's a rink!--a lovely rink!' 'It is,' said Sarah, and said no more. 'It's better than a magic-lantern, isn't it, my dear?' inquired Mrs Clay with a happy smile. 'Oh Mr. Clay, you are good!' cried Horatia, as she laid her little hand in his huge, rough one. The millionaire held it for a moment as he said, 'That's all right. You're more than welcome, my little lass. Now, let's see you play this new-fangled game.' 'But how did you do it? When was it done? You must have had it done since I spoke two days ago,' declared Horatia. 'How did I do it? I did it by turning a golden key, my lass. There's few things that that can't do,' he replied with a rough laugh. 'I should never have imagined that the barn could have been made so pretty and artistic. It was very clever of you to think of it, father,' said Sarah. The millionaire looked pleased. Perhaps these few words of his proud daughter gave him more satisfaction than all Horatia's delighted thanks, for Sarah was hard to please, and her father always felt that she secretly, and sometimes openly, despised him; but he only said, 'You didn't think your rough, old father knew what dainty young ladies like you and Miss Horatia would like, did you?' Sarah coloured, for this was exactly what she had thought; but she replied, 'Then I was mistaken, for it is just the thing for this nasty, cold weather.--Isn't it, Horatia?' 'Yes; but my roller-skates! I have left them at home. I never thought I should get skating up here,' said Horatia suddenly, and her face fell. 'You can have mine. I'll send to the house for them, and we can get a pair in Ousebank for me,' said Sarah. 'I think we can manage that,' said the millionaire, as he made a sign to the footman, who brought two beautiful pairs of roller-skates, and prepared to put them on. 'It's just like Cinderella or a fairy pantomime,' cried Horatia, as she started skimming along the smooth floor. 'My!' cried Naomi to Nancy. 'However can they keep on their feet with they wheels under their boots?' 'It's habit. Miss Horatia's very fond of the pastime,' replied the nurse, as she followed her charge with admiring gaze. But in a moment Sarah joined Horatia, and then the relations between Nancy and Naomi became strained, for if Horatia rinked well, Sarah rinked much better. 'Oh, ain't she beautiful on they things? Why, it's like a bird, is that,' cried Naomi. 'It's a pastime where you want a good figger.' 'For my part, I like well-made, strong-built figures more than such thin ones,' said Nancy. 'If you'd be calling Miss Sarah thin, I'd have you to know she's not. Her arms are beautiful and round, and so is she, and it's the grapes that are sour, Mrs. Nancy,' retorted Naomi. Mrs. Nancy did not deign even to notice this remark with a look, but with a slow and dignified step walked over to where Sykes stood watching the two girls with grave, approving face; and Naomi, who was only a young servant, did not presume to join these two, and wished she'd kept her tongue still. [Illustration: 'Ask the band to play "La Rinka," Sarah,' cried Horatia. PAGE 105.] 'Ask the band to play "La Rinka," Sarah,' cried Horatia, 'and we'll go round together and dance it.' The band, a local one, struck up 'La Rinka,' and even Mr Clay exclaimed, 'That's something to look at, Polly, ain't it? There ought to be some folk asked to see 'em do it.' At that moment Horatia and Sarah, still with linked hands, skated up to them, and Sarah said, 'Horatia wishes we could have a skating-party this afternoon. It sounds rather absurd in August; but really the weather is more like November, so I dare say people will like to come.' 'They'll come right enough if I ask 'em to Balmoral,' said Mr Clay, with his usual laugh. 'There's not many refuses my invitations.' Sarah felt her lip curl; but the thought of Horatia checked her. She gave her a quick look to see if she, too, was disgusted at this boasting, and felt almost cross with her schoolfellow when, with a bright smile, she answered, 'Then do ask them, Mr. Clay. I don't wonder that your invitations are popular; you do have such good ideas for entertaining your guests. When could we have them? To-morrow?' 'You'd better have them to-day. Who knows but to-morrow may be summer again, and then it'll be too hot for rinking. We'll just 'phone up a hundred or so.' 'A hundred?' gasped Horatia, as she thought of the preparation a party of that kind would require at her own home. 'Oh, they won't all be able to come, but half will; and mother'll give orders for the spread. And now I must be off. Good-bye, and enjoy yourselves.' And the millionaire, with a brusque nod, was off. Mrs Clay soon followed him, and the girls skated for another hour, and then decided to stop, so as not to be tired for the afternoon. 'Well, mother, have you got victuals for seventy or so?' inquired Mark Clay when they all met at lunch. 'Yes, Mark, the _chef_ is seein' to all that, an' 'e is sure to 'ave everythin' to do you credit.' 'That's right. I've ordered the Ousebank band up, and I met Bill down town, and asked him up. He says he can't rink, but he supposes you'll want some to admire you, so he's coming to do that part. He's a great admirer of Miss Horatia already, it appears.' 'I like him most awfully, and everybody else seems to, too. All the people in his mill do, anyhow; they all looked glad to see him when he went into their part.' Mark Clay scowled. 'Ay, it's cheap popularity, is Bill Howroyd's; but it's bad policy and bad business. If you let sentiment come into your business you pretty soon have no business left for it to come into.' No one made any comment upon these remarks, and the millionaire went on in his harsh, dictatorial tones: 'Business is business, say I, and you've got to keep your people under. I'm not making blankets and cloth to please them, nor from philanthropy. I'm doing it to make money, and the man that can make the most money for me I keep, and the one that doesn't make enough goes, and the sooner the better.' And he gave another laugh. Mark Clay had been eating between his sentences, and had his eyes upon his plate, or he would have noticed Horatia's face. He gave a start of surprise when she said, with indignation in her voice, 'What a horrid, hard-hearted way to talk! I think Mr Howroyd's way is ten thousand times better.' Poor little Mrs Clay trembled, and even Sarah grew pale at the thought of the storm Horatia had brought down upon her devoted head. Mark Clay stared at this girl who presumed to call him horrid and hard-hearted, and to hold up as an example his bugbear and opponent, Bill Howroyd. Horatia returned his look with a perfectly fearless one. 'So you prefer Bill Howroyd's way? Perhaps you prefer his home to mine? He'll never build himself a Balmoral,' said the millionaire with a sneer. 'No; but he'll have a mansion up in heaven, and perhaps that's what he's thinking of,' said Horatia. Sarah looked at Horatia in amazement, and Mrs Clay looked anxiously at her husband, as if imploring him not to be hard on this daring child; but Mark Clay was not taking any notice of any one, not even of Sykes, who, to divert his attention from this dangerous conversation, was pressing some delicacy upon his master, who was staring moodily in front of him. Horatia had little idea that she had quoted his mother--William Howroyd's mother's last words to her sons, for they had had the same mother, though their fathers had been very different: 'I've been very happy here; but I am going to a better mansion up in heaven. Be sure and join me there, lads,' she had said. 'Ay, there's something in what you've said, my lass,' observed the millionaire after a pause, which seemed an eternity to those who were present. 'There's sommat in it.' And without another word he rose from the table. 'Oh Mrs Clay, what have I done? I'd no business to speak to Mr Clay like that. I don't know what made me,' said Horatia, rather ashamed of her plain speaking. 'I think the Almighty made you, my dear; an' may He bless you for 'avin' done so, an' bless the words to my dear 'usband,' said his faithful wife. And she, too, left the room. 'I'd no idea you were religious,' said Sarah to Horatia when they were alone. 'Do you mean you thought I was a heathen?' demanded Horatia with a laugh. 'No; but I never heard you talk like that before,' said Sarah, who could not get over her surprise at the way Horatia had come out. Truth to tell, Sarah had an idea that to talk religion was not good form. 'I never heard myself,' laughed Horatia. CHAPTER XII. A RINKING-PARTY. In spite of Horatia's laugh and her attempt to be as cheerful as ever, depression seemed to have fallen on every one, and Sarah looked the picture of melancholy. 'We'd better go and get ready for our rink-party. I expect everybody will be thankful to have something to do this horrid weather. Not that I mean that they will have accepted your invitation for that reason,' Horatia added hastily. 'Oh, they come because we're rich, of course,' said Sarah; and then she suddenly added, as if it were weighing on her mind, 'I wonder how many would come if we were to lose all our money. Would you, Horatia?' 'Thank you for the compliment. No, I don't think I should; but I should not stay away because you were poor, but because you are not what I thought you were--your character, I mean,' said Horatia, who could speak her mind at times, as will have been noticed. 'You would be the exception if you did stick to us. I expect Uncle Howroyd will, and Naomi, and she will have to be our general servant,' continued Sarah. Horatia gazed at her in amazement. 'What in the world are you talking about? How are you going to get poor? Oh,' as a thought struck her, 'is there anything the matter? Do you know, to-day I thought there was. Tell me, is there? Because, if so, I don't mean what I said. Of course I will come and see you, and help to cook, too. I can make toffee.' But instead of answering, Sarah demanded, 'Why did you think there was something the matter to-day of all days, when father has just shown you how much money he can spend merely for a few hours' amusement? What made you think anything was wrong?' 'I don't really know, now that I come to think of it. I don't think I had any reason; it was an idea that came to me while your father was talking at lunch,' replied Horatia, hesitating. 'It must have been intuition,' said Sarah solemnly. Horatia was not only a year younger than her schoolfellow, but she was far less fond of study, and she said frankly, 'What's intuition? I know what tuition is, because my brother has it--private tuition from his tutor; but what you mean I can't think, and I do wish you'd speak out plainly and tell me if you are in any trouble about money; because, you know, you need not go spending it on me. I'm quite content to play battledore and shuttlecock in the hall, and I didn't want a rink, really.' Sarah interrupted her with a smile. 'You need not mind father spending money like that; he's got more than he knows what to do with at present,' she said. 'But if he won't have any by-and-by, why don't you save it up for then?' inquired Horatia. 'He thinks he will always be a millionaire, and so did I till the other day; and then the idea came into my head, just as it came into yours--I can't tell how or why--that there was something the matter, or that there was going to be something the matter, and that one day we should not be so rich. But, Horatia, please don't ever say such a thing to anybody; it would do us great harm, even if it were quite untrue, and perhaps make it come true. And, after all, it may be only my imagination.' Horatia looked very grave. 'But, Sarah, if there is any chance of such a thing, why don't you begin to save up?' she repeated. 'But, don't you see? if the mill failed we should have to give up every penny we had, however much we had saved. But, of course, you don't understand these things, and the more I think of it the more impossible it seems. Clay's Mills are as prosperous as ever. Do let's forget about it. Not that I should mind for myself, but I should be sorry for mother, because she likes having lots of money and motors, though she is afraid to go out in them, so let us hope she will live and die in this hateful house.' Horatia did not argue with Sarah as to whether the house was hateful or not. She rather liked it, for she was too young to perceive that it was overladen with costly ornaments, and she revelled in the royal rooms in which she was installed, and of which she had written long and graphic descriptions home. 'Let us hope so, indeed,' was all she said; and added, 'But do leave off talking about miserable things and get ready for this party. What ought I to wear? One ought to have winter things for skating, but I haven't any best winter dress here.' 'Why not wear your white flannel? And, if you don't mind, I'll lend you a white feather hat and boa. I have never worn them, and I have heaps of other things to wear; mother has a mania for buying me clothes, and I have a wardrobeful never touched.' Horatia was just going to refuse, for she preferred wearing her own clothes; but she thought it might please Sarah, so she accepted, and went to her bedroom with them on. 'I've got a new hat and boa, Nanny,' she announced. Mrs Nancy looked at them, and cried, 'How well they suit you, Miss Horatia! The mistress ought to get you some like them;' for she guessed at once they were Sarah's. 'I'm going to wear them this afternoon,' replied Horatia. 'Wear Miss Clay's hat! Oh Miss Horatia! you can never do such a thing,' protested the old nurse. 'Why not?' inquired Horatia, as she pirouetted before the cheval-glass, admiring the pretty feather toque. 'It's the very thing for rinking, and so is this boa. Look how queerly it is made, with chiffon twined in; that's what makes it so becoming. Clothes make a lot of difference, Nanny. I don't look half so ugly with these on.' 'You never look ugly, Miss Horatia, and you look "distangy" whatever you put on, so there's no need for you to put on other folk's clothes to look nice; the mistress wouldn't like it at all, I'm sure,' said Nancy. 'I don't think she'd mind, Nanny, and I should vex Sarah if I refused, and that's just what I don't want to do,' said Horatia. 'Well, they do suit you, and if you've a fancy for them, and to please Miss Clay, perhaps you'd better; specially if she's got a temper anything like her father's, for they say he's fairly hated at the mills,' said Nancy. Nancy did not like Mr Clay, and not all his wealth could make her think him a fit host for her young lady; and, indeed, after his explosion in the back-yard she had taken it upon herself to write to Lady Grace Cunningham, and said: 'I feel sure, my lady, that if you knew the people we are with, you would never let us stay; for not but what this is a palace fit for a king, and we eat like fighting-cocks. Still, they are not what I've been used to since I've been in your service, and his language is shocking, except when in Miss Horatia'a presence, which she has a wonderful influence over him, every one says.' In spite of the grammar of this letter being somewhat involved, Nancy's meaning and opinions were pretty clear, and Lady Grace Cunningham took it to her husband, who had a character rather like Horatia's. 'Let the child stay where she is; it will do her all the good in the world, as, you see, she is evidently doing good--taming this boor, by all accounts. Nancy is a rank old Tory, and turns up her nose at any one not born in the purple. Times have changed, as Nancy will find out one day.' So Lady Grace Cunningham did not recall them, but only wrote and told Horatia that she must shorten her visit if she was not happy. 'I'm enjoying myself immensely. I never met kinder people,' Horatia wrote back. And so she stayed on; and as Nancy was living, as she expressed it, like a fighting-cock, she resigned herself very contentedly to her lot, as she resigned herself to Horatia's wearing Sarah's clothes. Horatia, with very mingled feelings, went down to the motor which was to take them to the barn. She wondered what kind of people would be there. She had an idea that, as the invitations were issued by Mr Clay, they would be his friends or people of his choice, and Horatia looked forward to an afternoon with a very rough and unrefined set of people. Sarah wore the daintiest of costumes, just the right thing for the day and pastime, for Sarah, if left to herself, had very good taste. 'What a lot of motors, Sarah! Does every one have one here?' inquired Horatia, as she saw a number of cars coming up the three avenues which led to Balmoral. 'Most people do,' said Sarah carelessly; 'and they'll use them to-day sooner than their horses because of the bad weather, and some have come a good distance.' Tom Fox put on speed so as to arrive at the barn before the first of the guests, which would not have been hospitable according to Yorkshire ideas; and the two girls, accompanied by Mrs Clay, had alighted, and were standing inside the door ready to receive the first guests; or, rather, Sarah and her mother were there, for Horatia had gone away under the pretext of putting on her roller-skates, and had her back to the door. The nearer the time came the less she liked the idea of this rinking-party, for though she managed to get on with Mr Clay, she felt that seventy people of that kind would be more than she could bear. 'Well, Miss Horatia, what will you touch with your fairy wand next, eh? I shall expect my old mill parlour to be turned into Aladdin's palace after your next visit,' cried a cheery, brisk voice. Horatia turned with delight to greet Mr Howroyd. 'I'm so glad you have come!' she said, with more feeling than she had any idea of. Mr William Howroyd's keen, kindly eyes gave her a quick glance, and his sympathetic nature jumped at the right conclusion. 'Yes, I'm here; and now, as I can't skate, and you don't know any one here yet, suppose we go to those raised seats there; we shall hear the band, and, I can tell you, our Ousebank band is not to be despised, and we shall see the people rinking, and if you see any one you particularly want to know we'll go down and ask Sarah to introduce her. I don't suppose I shall know half the people here. I'm not a society man, you know.' The first to arrive were two tall girls and their brother, very pleasant-looking and lady-like; and after them, people came so fast that Horatia could not look closely at them all; but she noticed that they were all well dressed and looked ladies and gentlemen. 'But, then, dress makes a lot of difference,' she repeated to herself for the second time that afternoon. 'Hallo, Horatia!' cried a boy's voice in her ear; and, turning, Horatia saw her cousin, once removed, George Cunningham, grinning at her. 'Oh George, how on earth did you get here?' she demanded, beaming with delight. 'In the Maddoxes' car, to be sure. Didn't you know I was staying there?' 'I knew you were staying somewhere in Yorkshire, but I didn't know it was near here,' she replied. 'As a matter of fact, it isn't so very near; but we came over in an hour, in spite of the beastly roads. But, I say, it's a jolly good idea of yours this,' he observed. 'Of mine? What do you mean? This isn't my party; it's Mr Clay's and Mrs and Miss Clay's idea--this rink, I mean.' 'Oh, well, he called it Miss Horatia Cunningham's party. That's what made us come. I wanted to see you, and see how you get on with these people. But I'm jolly glad I came. The old buffer does it in style.' 'This is Mr Howroyd, Mr Clay's brother,' said Horatia hastily, to warn her cousin that he must be careful what he said; but when she turned to introduce her cousin to him, Mr William Howroyd had disappeared. He had slipped away as soon as he saw that Horatia had a congenial companion. That was William Howroyd's invariable way, always doing kindly, unobtrusive acts, and then effacing himself. George Cunningham gave a hearty laugh. 'The bird has flown,' he said. 'And a good thing, too. Suppose he had heard his brother called an "old buffer"?' said Horatia reprovingly. 'He's heard him called much worse than that, by all accounts. Your host isn't too popular, for all his money.' 'Well, anyway, it's horrid of you to come and eat his food, and then criticise him,' said Horatia. 'Begging your pardon, I haven't eaten anything yet; and talking of grub, what do you say to coming and having some? There's a splendid spread behind that glass screen,' he said. 'It's much too early. Don't be so greedy, but come and rink before it gets too full,' said Horatia; and the two went off. When they had made several rounds, Horatia stopped near the two tall girls who had come in first, and they immediately complimented her on her rinking. 'You rink as if you thought no one was looking at you,' they told her. Horatia laughed. 'How should one rink when people _are_ looking? In a different way?' she asked. 'No, one shouldn't; only most people look a little self-conscious,' they replied. Horatia noticed the slight Yorkshire intonation which she thought so musical, and was inclined to laugh at her former fears, for there were no 'Mark Clays' at the party, and she soon heard many familiar names mentioned as being present. One of the Maddox party eventually asked her to have an ice. 'Come and sit in this alcove place, and I'll fetch you one,' he suggested. Horatia was tired, for she had already rinked for some time in the morning, and she sat back in the alcove, half-hidden from sight. 'I always wonder how many more entertainments Mark Clay will hold out for?' said a voice quite near her. 'Why, is he shaky?' inquired another. 'Not that I know of; but these fortunes made in a day, so to speak, generally melt away in the same way.' 'I understood he was a solid man,' said the second speaker. 'So he is--so he is, for aught I know. I only know that we all have that feeling about him. Perhaps the wish is father to the thought, for he's none too popular.' 'Still, you need not wish him to be ruined, even if you don't like him. I suppose he does some good with his money? These rich Yorkshire manufacturers are most generous as a rule,' said the other, evidently a stranger. 'He's an exception. His half-brother, Howroyd, gives twice as much, with not a quarter his money. Pity he's not the millionaire, now. He's beloved far and near.' 'What's wrong with Clay? This is a generous entertainment, for instance.' 'Oh yes, he'll do this to show off; but he's an awful brute to his workpeople--grinds them down and shows no mercy to weak or worn-out employés.' 'Here, Horatia, I've got the ice,' said young Maddox. 'Thank you. I'm glad we're not millionaires, Jack. People only hate you for it,' she remarked. 'Do they? I'd chance that if I could be one. Look what this man can do? Anything he likes! Make a rink in a day! Come on and have a turn,' said young Maddox, to whom this particular example of the power of wealth naturally appealed. Horatia was unusually quiet, for her, that afternoon, and the moment Mr Clay appeared at the door she started up to him to tell him how much they were enjoying themselves, for she wished to show him attention, and to show him, too, that she had not meant to criticise him that afternoon. CHAPTER XIII. HORATIA'S INFLUENCE. The millionaire did not look very prepossessing as he stood near the door, his tall, powerful form towering above the young skaters; his coarse, red face darkened by a scowl. 'There's an ugly-looking brute just come into the rink,' young George Cunningham had said to Horatia, who had replied, 'That's Mr Mark Clay,' and had made straight for her host, dodging the skaters very cleverly. Sarah, on the other hand, who had been near the door when her father appeared, gave one glance at his ill-tempered face, and skated in the opposite direction. She thought that he had not seen her. Not that it would have made any difference, for his family were wont to avoid their head when he was what his wife called 'put out about something'--which, alas! was only too frequently the case. Not so Horatia. She saw the danger-signals, but was no more afraid of him than she would have been of a fly, to use her own expression. 'We are enjoying ourselves so much! It was a brilliant idea of yours,' she said, beaming at him and giving his arm an approving pat. Mark Clay looked down at the eager little, freckled face, with its snub-nose; and, in spite of himself, he smiled back at her. 'I'm glad you are enjoying yourself. I did it for that. You must come and spend your winter holiday with us. It'll be a more seasonable pastime then, it seems to me,' he replied. 'But are you going to keep this as a rink? I thought you used it as a barn in the autumn and winter?' inquired Horatia. 'We can build another,' he replied lightly, as if building another huge barn was the work of a few hours. 'Come, let's see you go round.' Horatia accordingly started off, and Mark Clay followed her with approving eyes. 'She's a nice, dear girl, isn't she, Mark?' said his wife, emboldened by her husband's softer expression to approach him. 'She is that,' he replied with emphasis. 'The man seems fond of his daughter. I heard he was as harsh at home as he is abroad; but I see he has been maligned,' said a visitor, who did not know Sarah. 'That is not his daughter, I am sure, for they say she is the prettiest girl in Ousebank,' replied a friend. 'Well, that is a very nice, bright-looking girl, and a millionaire's daughter is always pretty in the eyes of the world; gold makes most things beautiful,' replied the lady; and she had hardly uttered the words when Sarah herself, noticing that the two were strangers, and had not had refreshments, came up to them. 'Won't you come and have some tea?' she asked in her dignified and rather stiff way. 'Thank you; it would be nice. Are you Miss Clay, then?' inquired the lady, who recognised that she was speaking to the prettiest girl present, at all events. 'Yes,' said Sarah gravely. 'We thought the young lady laughing and talking to Mr Clay must be his daughter; they seemed so friendly,' observed the stranger, as she and her friend skirted the barn to get to the refreshment-tables. Sarah could not help colouring slightly. 'No; she is only a schoolfellow who is staying with us,' she replied; and the lady thought she had never met with such an unapproachable girl, and wondered whether it was shyness or pride. She had no idea that she was touching on a sore point. When the party was over and the last motor had disappeared down the long avenue, Horatia gave a little sigh of relief. 'I am glad they have gone. I couldn't have skated another minute,' she said. 'You needn't have gone as long as you did. Why didn't you stop?' demanded Sarah with uplifted brows. 'I was wondering at you; you scarcely rested at all. I'm not a bit tired, because I rested at intervals.' 'I simply can't stop when I see other people. I must rink too,' she declared. There was a glorious sunset, and Tom Fox prophesied a fine day on the morrow. 'So it will be too hot to rink then, and it's just as well, as you have such a mania for it that you wear yourself out,' observed Sarah. 'Yes, my dear, you 'ave such dark circles round your eyes! I don't know w'at her ladyship would say if she could see you just now lookin' so tired,' added Mrs Clay. 'She would say I was a foolish girl, as she did last time I came from the rink dead-tired. I expect it's like taking to drink,' said Horatia, and she gave a merry laugh. Mr Clay smiled at her. He was very quiet; but he had lost the scowl he had when he arrived at the barn, for which his wife was very thankful. 'To-morrow I am going over your mills, you know, Mr Clay,' she informed him. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but only said, 'You'll be too tired; better rest a few days. You shall go over the mills before you go home. Not that there is anything so very wonderful to see, or to interest a young lady like you.' 'I haven't half-written my essay yet; I expect I shall find some more to put in after I've been round with you,' explained Horatia. 'Don't you go putting me and my mills into print,' said the millionaire, looking almost afraid. Horatia only laughed merrily as ever. 'I'll let you read my essay before I send it up. Yes'--clapping her hands--'that's an awfully good idea. You shall read it through, and tell me anything I have left out; and you shall sign at the end, "Audited and found correct.--Mark Clay, millionaire mill-owner."' It was impossible not to laugh at the girl, and equally impossible to be gloomy while Horatia was bubbling over with good spirits. The drooping line round Mrs Clay's mouth had almost disappeared since Horatia's advent. During this drive even, Horatia had managed to chase away Mr Clay's ill-humour, and his wife leant back comfortably, with a feeling that she need not fear any storms, as the dear young lady would 'keep things pleasant.' When they got out of the motor and were going together to their rooms, Horatia took Sarah's arm and began dancing along the polished surface with a rinking movement. 'I thought you said you were tired out, and I thought, too, that the rink was specially built to prevent you from rinking here,' observed the latter, who was trying, with some difficulty, to keep her balance and her dignity during this peculiar mode of progress. 'So I did. I must stop,' agreed Horatia. 'You said I had changed, and that you did not know me before you came here. And I certainly did not know you,' remarked Sarah abruptly. 'How am I changed? I feel just the same,' said Horatia, stopping short and facing Sarah. 'Didn't I always laugh and make jokes at school? Where's the difference?' Sarah did not reply directly, for it was difficult to explain what she meant. 'I did not say you were changed. I said I did not know you, and I don't now. Why are you so nice to my father?' she suddenly demanded. 'I've a good mind to ask you why you are so nasty to him,' retorted Horatia; 'but I won't, because I don't want to know. And as for my being nice to him; you don't generally go and stay in people's houses, and then be rude or disagreeable to them. Besides'----and here Horatia stopped. 'Besides what?' asked Sarah. 'Besides, it's time to go and dress for dinner. I shall feel quite dull and unimportant when I go home and have to be a schoolgirl again; no dressing for dinner, and no dinner to dress for, only schoolroom supper, and it all depends upon cook's temper whether we get anything very nice or not,' laughed Horatia. As Horatia evidently did not intend to answer her question, Sarah said no more on the subject; but she wondered very much what Horatia meant to say. Sarah knew quite well she had not meant to say, 'Besides, it is dinner-time.' Perhaps it was as well Horatia had stopped before she added that she was 'sorry for Mr Clay.' 'Because,' she observed to herself, 'she would have wanted to know why I was sorry for such a rich man, and I really could not have told her. And, besides, Sarah is so proud that she would hate to be pitied.' Sarah walked thoughtfully to her room, and there, instead of dressing for dinner, she threw herself down in her favourite place, the broad window-seat that looked towards Ousebank, her chin resting on the two palms of her hands. 'Why am I so nasty to him?' she muttered to herself. 'Why is every one nasty to him? At least, I don't know that we are any of us nasty--he wouldn't let us; but we are not "nice," like Horatia.' Sarah did not attempt to answer this question; she sat there staring out over Ousebank, and asked herself why she could not be 'nice' to her father if Horatia could. Naomi came to the door twice and knocked, and the second time she ventured to open it; but, seeing Sarah, as she thought, looking cross and staring out of the window, she went away again without daring to interrupt her. But as time went on and no call came from her young mistress, the good girl began to be anxious for fear Miss Sarah should be late for dinner and thereby 'upset' Mr Clay, a thing to be avoided. So she came in, and, standing at the door, coughed. She had to do this two or three times before Sarah woke up to the fact of her presence, which she did with a start. 'Oh Naomi, what is it?' she asked. 'Dinner, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi. 'Dinner?' Sarah started up in real fright this time. 'Has the gong gone? I never heard it,' she cried. 'No, miss, not yet, but it soon will,' said Naomi, bustling about to get Sarah ready. 'Then what do you mean by telling me such a story? I've a good mind not to get ready at all,' said Sarah irritably and rather foolishly. 'Whatever would be the good of that, Miss Sarah, upsetting of Mr Clay for nothing, let alone that I never told no story? You asked me what I came for--at least, so I understood it--and I answered you, "Dinner," and that's what I am here for. Oh, do make haste, Miss Sarah! You could keep on that white skirt, and just slip on this pretty bodice; master won't never notice. There's the gong! Oh dear, oh dear!' said Naomi, getting quite flustered in her anxiety to get Sarah ready in time. 'You needn't be in such a state, Naomi; we are not all slaves or prisoners that we have to be ready to a minute,' observed Sarah coolly, and taking extra long instead of hurrying. 'No, Miss Sarah; but there's no call to do things a purpose to annoy any one. Now, there's Miss Horatia going down as pleasant as can be,' protested Naomi. 'You see we can't all be as pleasant as Miss Horatia, Naomi,' remarked Sarah a little bitterly. 'You can be a deal pleasanter than her. Why, a word or a smile from you goes further than all Miss Horatia's smiles, if only you'd give yourself the trouble. Not that I'm saying a word against Miss Cunningham, for there's no denying she makes the house a different place; and so they all say, from the master downwards,' observed Naomi, her loyalty to her young mistress struggling with her desire to be just and truthful. 'How does she do it, Naomi? I can't make it out. The house has been much more comfortable since she came, and yet she doesn't do anything but laugh, and you know any fool can laugh,' said Sarah, as she laughed herself and ran off after Horatia. 'Miss Horatia's no fool, though,' observed Naomi, as she folded up and arranged Sarah's clothes. Before dinner was half-over, Sarah had to acknowledge to herself that she had not been fair to Horatia in saying that she made things pleasant by laughing, and it fell out in this wise. The two girls arrived in the drawing-room at the same moment, and there, according to his new practice, they found Mr Clay, who had taken to coming properly into the drawing-room and going into dinner with his women-folk. His face lightened as he saw the two girls; but instead of offering his arm to Horatia, he gave it to his wife. Mrs Clay did not take it for a moment. Such an attention had never been paid her before in all their married life, for long before Mark Clay had gained his wealth he had ceased to show any civility to his wife. Sarah was as much surprised as her mother, though she had more tact than to show it. Horatia looked pleased, but said nothing. In the middle of dinner one of the footmen, who had gone out to get a dish, came in with perturbed countenance, and said something to Sykes in an undertone. 'Impossible,' said the butler. 'Say we're at dinner, and they must wait.' 'They say they won't wait,' murmured the footman, and added something more, which apparently startled Sykes, who, giving some orders to the under-footmen, left the room, and after a short absence came back and said to Mr Clay, 'Excuse me, Mr Clay, but you're wanted just a minute.' 'Wanted?' exclaimed the millionaire, with a dark flush on his face. 'Tell them to be off, whoever it is.' 'Please, Mr Clay, sir, excuse me, but if you'd see them a minute. It's a deputation from the mill,' insisted Sykes. Mr Mark Clay turned with a face distorted by rage; but before he could say a word Horatia cried, 'Oh Mr Clay, do let me come with you and listen to the deputation. I do so want to hear real Yorkshiremen talk.' 'You can hear me. I talk broad enow at times,' said the millionaire, purposely speaking broad Yorkshire; 'and I've nowt to say to them.' 'You'd just better go,' she said, nodding her head at her host. 'Father says things are topsy-turvy now, and the poor man has more power than he used to have; and, besides, I would like to hear them talk.' 'Come forward, then,' said the millionaire, and rose from the table. Sykes cast a look of gratitude and relief at Horatia; and poor Mrs Clay, wiping away a tear, said, 'God bless her!' CHAPTER XIV. A MILLIONAIRE FOR FIVE MINUTES. 'Oh Sarah, I do 'ope they will come to an agreement! There's a lot o' discontent goin' on, an' your father is that determined,' sighed little Mrs Clay. 'Do you think he really is my father?' demanded Sarah. 'W'atever do you mean by talkin' such nonsense?' inquired Mrs Clay, indignation taking the place of anger for the time. 'Only that one would think he was Horatia's father, to see the way she goes on, as if she were a daughter of the house,' replied Sarah, her lip curling. 'Sarah, I'm ashamed o' you showin' such wicked jealousy to that dear girl. If you got on wi' your father there'd be no occasion for 'er to do as she does; but if she 'adn't interfered to-night w'at would 'ave 'appened? A strike very likely, an' we're not safe from it yet. There's a lot o' discontent,' repeated her mother. 'I hate interfering people!' was all Sarah said. Then there was silence, while both mother and daughter strained their ears to listen for any sound of voices from without, dreading to hear Mark Clay's loud, rough voice raised in angry tones. But no sound was to be heard, and Mrs Clay said after a time, 'I'm glad 'e's listenin' to 'em; it'll do 'em good if they can say their say, even if 'e don't give way to 'em.' Horatia meanwhile had tripped away with a light, dancing step, for which she was very often taken to task, not only at school, where she was told to walk properly and be more serious, but also by her mother, who said it was undignified for a girl of fifteen. Mark Clay walked heavily beside his young companion, scarcely listening to her chatter--for it must be confessed that Horatia was rather a chatterbox, or, as her father said, 'had a good deal to say for herself'--but some words she said caught his ear. 'I dare say they are envious of your riches. I never cared to be rich before; in fact, I never thought about money, because we always seem to have everything we want at home; but since I have been at Balmoral I have envied you your riches, and thought it was rather unfair that you should have such a lot.' 'Oh, you think I've more than my share, do you, like all the rest of them? Well, I s'pose it's natural; but I'm not going to share it up for all that, as they'll pretty soon find out,' replied the millionaire. Horatia had the sense not to say any more, and, indeed, there was no time, for they were at the door of the steward's room, where business was transacted in connection with the employés on the estate, and in this room were six men standing, cap in hand, near the outer door, which led into the yard. Horatia wondered to herself if they kept near that door so as to have a way of escape in case their master got into one of his passions; but these sturdy Yorkshiremen were afraid of no one and nothing. Strong, sturdy, and independent, they stood there, with civil but determined faces. They were the old mill-hands, and had been with Mark Clay from boyhood; and among them was Naomi's father. 'Well, men, is t' mill burnt down that I can't even eat my dinner in peace, but must come at once to speak with you?' inquired Mr Clay. 'Sorry to interrupt your dinner, master; but we know it's a long business, is that, up at Balmoral, and we've got to take an answer back to our mates down Ousebank by nine o'clock,' said Naomi's father, who was evidently the spokesman. 'Oh, and what may you want to know?' inquired Mark Clay in a tone which did not promise much. Luke Mickleroyd looked for a moment doubtfully at Horatia. 'It's business we want to talk, Mr Clay,' he said. 'Have your say, lad, and have done with it. This young lady is going to judge between us to-night, and the sooner you say what you've got to say the better we'll be pleased, for our dinner's cooling on the table, and that's not the way we treat guests up north,' said Mr Clay in a more conciliatory tone. The reminder of Horatia had done Luke Mickleroyd's cause a good turn, as he saw. 'Well, master, it's like this, only I doubt little missy there won't understand aught about it. The young men say there's a lot more boys taken on in the mill to what there ought to be,' began Luke. Mr Clay interrupted angrily. 'Ought to be? And who's to settle that but me?' 'I am, for to-night; you said I might. Do let me feel like a millionaire just for five minutes!' said Horatia in an undertone, pulling at the mill-owner's sleeve to make him attend to her. The millionaire threw himself into the big armchair at the top of the broad table which divided him from his men, and said with a rough laugh, 'Have your way, lass. I'm rich enough to let you have your whim, if you don't go too far. Let's see how you'd manage a mill.--Now then, Luke, let Miss Cunningham hear your tale, and see what she says to it.' 'We've got to deal with you, master,' began one of the others rather gruffly, for he thought Mark Clay was treating them and their wrongs lightly. But Luke Mickleroyd had heard from his daughter Naomi of the influence Horatia had over the mill-owner, and said, 'I'm spokesman, if you please, mates.--And this is what we've come to say. There's two men been turned off because they've been ill, and boys put on in their place.' 'They did no more work than the boys,' observed Mark Clay, 'and took double the wages.' 'They didn't do quite as much work, 'tis true; but they did it better, and we always made up by the end of the day between us what they couldn't manage when 'twas heavy work; but the men say they ain't going to do it for the boys.' 'No, of course not,' said Horatia impulsively. 'Oh, of course not, you say?--Well, go on,' said Mr Clay. 'And these men have got wives and families to support, and who'll take them on if they're turned out of Clay's Mills for not being able to do their work?' [Illustration: 'We've come to say there's two men been turned off because they've been ill, and boys put on in their place.' PAGE 132.] 'I've nought to do with that. Business is business, and you can't mix sentiment up with it,' said the master. 'But, then, some one will have to support them,' said Horatia. 'The rates will,' said Mr Clay. 'Well, you pay the rates, so you may just as well keep them at the mills; the work gets done, and it makes no difference to you whether their friends help them to do it or not, and, you see, it won't get done with those boys, because the men won't help them. So, I say, take the two men back.--And, oh! I do think it kind of you men to do their work, and come and speak up for them,' wound up Horatia. Mr Clay gave her a glance. The plain little face was lit up by animation, and he smiled. Then he turned to the men. 'Very good, lads; you hear what the young lady says. I promised her her way, and she shall have it.' Here his face grew stern. 'But it's to her I've given way, not to my men, remember that. What Mark Clay does is done, and won't be undone; and there's no parleying between master and man in Clay's Mills; so the next time the men want to come up to see me, tell them it's no good; Mark Clay receives no deputations from his men. If they don't like his ways they can leave him; it's as they like.' 'We're not likely to do that without we're forced. We've worked for you, man and boy, these thirty years, some of us, Mr Clay,' said Luke Mickleroyd. 'I sha'n't force you. I know good workers when I've got 'em, and give 'em good wages, too,' said Mr Clay. And this was quite true, and no better work was turned out of any mill than that done by Clay's Mills. 'We thank you for receiving us to-night, master.--And we are much obliged to you, miss, for your kind words,' said Luke Mickleroyd. The millionaire rose from his seat. 'And now, I suppose, we can go and have our dinner?' he said sarcastically. 'Good-night, Mr Clay.--Good-night, miss,' said the men, and they filed out into the yard. The millionaire grunted something which might be interpreted to be a farewell, and turned to walk out of the other door. He did not wait to let Horatia pass out first; indeed, he had never even offered her a seat, though he had sat down himself, these courtesies not being in his way. Horatia, however, did not seem to notice the want of politeness, but said a bright goodnight to the deputation, and followed her host out of the room. Sykes was waiting at the back-door, watching the door of the steward's room; and beside him was Naomi, and the moment the men appeared she ran forward and said, 'Has he given in, father?' Sykes followed, and came up in time to hear Luke Mickleroyd reply, 'Yes, he's given way this time, lass.' 'That's a good job! Well, go on into the servants' hall, and have a drink to celebrate the good news. I must make haste and serve the rest of the dinner. And another time do you take and come a little later and give a man a chance to have his dinner in peace,' said Sykes, hurrying off. 'I think we'll be going on to give the answer. I don't feel in no mood for drink,' said Luke. 'Why not, lad? All's well that ends well, and we've got our way this time,' said one of the others. 'Ay, we've got it this time; but we sha'n't get it next, without that young lady works miracles, same as she seems to do wi' Mark Clay,' replied the man gloomily. 'Tell us about it, father. She's really jolly, ain't she? Whatever did she go to see you for? She's a caution, is Miss Horatia!' exclaimed Naomi. 'She's a real good young lady, and wanted to do the family and us men a good turn. Now, if he'd got a daughter like that!' said Luke. 'Oh, come, father, I'm not going to have a word said against Miss Sarah. She's not gay like Miss Cunningham, 'tis true; but she's as grieved ['grieved' means 'vexed' in Yorkshire] about the way her father carries on as can be, only she's too much of a lady to go putting herself in a man's place,' said Naomi, defending her young mistress hotly. 'The other's more of a lady if you go by blood,' put in Tom Fox, who was a staunch admirer of Horatia since the affair of the motor, and had heard from Cunningham's chauffeur who Horatia was. 'We don't go by blood here; we go by money,' said Naomi scornfully; and the other servants laughed. Mrs Nancy, needless to say, was not there, or this conversation could not have taken place. Mrs Clay looked up eagerly when the two returned. Sarah, too, looked up, and, though she did not show it, she was just as anxious to hear the result. But neither of them dared to put any questions to Mr Clay. 'Here's a young lady who wanted to be a millionaire for five minutes,' he said, with a hoarse laugh. 'W'atever do you mean, Mark?' asked Mrs Clay timidly. 'It's all right, Mrs Clay. Mr Clay agreed to do what they wanted,' said Horatia hastily, to relieve her anxiety. 'Nay, lass, that I didn't. I agreed to do what you wanted, and that's a very different thing, as the men'll find out if they try it on again. There's only one will in Clay's Mills, and one person to have any wants,' said the mill-owner. 'What does he mean about your being a millionaire for five minutes?' demanded Sarah, who did not want her father to begin a tirade about Clay's Mills and his rights. 'I just wanted to be a millionaire for five minutes, and Mr Clay let me.--You _are_ good-natured to me!' Horatia said, turning to her host and beaming at him. 'And you used that five minutes' power to give the men their way? They'll always want it now,' said Sarah slowly. 'That's what I'm a bit afraid of; but I'll teach them a lesson next time,' said Mr Clay grimly. 'Oh Mark! don't be 'ard on 'em,' began Mrs Clay. But Horatia exclaimed, 'He wasn't a bit; he was very nice, and has taken two delicate men with families back into the mills.--I must see these mills, Mr Clay,' said Horatia. 'So you shall to-morrow, if you like, and then you'll see them two fettlers doing their work, as if they'd all day to fettle one machine,' replied Mr Clay. 'What's a fettler, and what is to fettle a machine?' inquired Horatia with interest. 'I think I've heard that word before.' 'Clean it up, and if they don't do it sharp while the machine is going there's an accident, and they get caught in the works, and that's what'll likely happen to them two, and you'll feel sorry then you had them back,' he replied. It was late when they had finished dinner, and the mill-owner said 'Good-night' when his wife and the girls left the dining-room. 'Oh my dear, God bless you!' cried Mrs Clay when they were in the drawing-room, as she took Horatia's hand in hers. 'I didn't do anything; I just amused myself,' said Horatia, laughing. 'But I expected to see quite different men. They looked quite quiet and respectable.' 'What did you expect them to look like?' demanded Sarah. 'They were respectable mill-hands, as my father was years ago.' 'But I expected to see wild, fierce men, like those in the French Revolution, demanding their rights, and brandishing sticks and things.' 'Oh my dear! we ain't come to that, an', please God, we never shall,' protested Mrs Clay with a shudder. 'They can look wild and fierce. You've only to watch them at a football-match to see what they'd be like in earnest if they're like that at play,' said Sarah. 'Then I 'ope I shall never see 'em so,' repeated Mrs Clay. 'And that's what you wanted to do--amuse yourself with the sight of infuriated Yorkshiremen?' said Sarah, whom some demon seemed to possess that evening. Horatia turned indignantly to her. 'I didn't do it for any such reason. I suppose you think I meddled, and perhaps I did; but I only did it as your friend, Sarah, and I don't think you're very nice,' she said. 'I can't think w'at's come to you, Sally! Don't be so disagreeable. Miss Horatia only means to be kind, and we're all much obliged to 'er,' said Mrs Clay. 'Yes, we are,' said Sarah; 'I expect the men meant mischief; but you have only done good for to-night. There'll be a row, sooner or later, and then father'll have to stand firm or lose his position. Not that I think that would be a bad thing, except for mother's sake. Still, it isn't every one that would use five minutes of being a millionaire just to do good to other people, and you're a good sort, Horatia. So don't mind what I say. I'm always cross at Balmoral. I can't breathe here.' CHAPTER XV. A VISIT TO CLAY'S MILLS. The next morning dawned bright and sunny, as Sarah saw when Naomi drew up her blinds. She also saw that the girl's face was swollen with crying. 'What is the matter, Naomi?' she asked anxiously, for Sarah was very kind-hearted, and she was very fond of her young maid. 'It's Ruth, miss; she's been took with the croup, and mother's been up all night with her, and the doctor says he doubts if we shall pull her through. And, oh, she's such--a--darling, is Ruth!' Here Naomi burst into tears again. 'Poor little Ruth! I'll go and see her to-day, Naomi, and ask if there is anything we can do for her,' said Sarah; and she dressed with more alacrity than usual, in her desire to go and visit Naomi's home. Horatia was always up earlier than Sarah, and generally went for a run in the park before breakfast. She had just come in and was sitting at the breakfast-table chattering with Mrs Clay when Sarah appeared, and, with a hurried 'Good-morning' to them both, plunged into the subject of which she was full. 'Naomi's sister is ill, mother. I'm going to see her this morning, so will you, please, go to the mills with Horatia?' she said. Mrs Clay looked a little vexed. 'Your father will be grieved if you don't go, Sarah. 'E thinks you might go to your own mills sometimes, instead of always goin' to your uncle Howroyd's,' she protested. 'They're not my own mills. I have nothing to do with them. If I had I'd soon alter them,' Sarah replied hotly. 'Besides, Uncle Howroyd's mill is a pleasure to go over; my father's are a pain.' 'Oh Sarah, you do say such things! An' w'at-ever you mean I don't know 'alf the time. I'm sure there's no need to go over more of the mills than you like. You can stop before you get a pain, if that's w'at you mean,' Mrs Clay added doubtfully, for Sarah had begun to laugh. 'It's not a pain in my body, mother; it's a pain in my mind that they give me.--But I would have gone with you to-day, Horatia,' she observed, turning to her schoolfellow, 'if my maid Naomi's sister had not been taken ill; but I must go and see how she is. And I shall take Naomi with me, and let her have a holiday for the rest of the day,' she announced. Mrs Clay did not rebuke her daughter for taking it upon herself to give a servant a holiday, any more than she did for settling her plans for the day without any reference to her mother; but only said plaintively, 'W'at's the matter with little Ruth? I suppose it's nothin' catchin', or they'd 'ave told me first; but still, I do think I should be more use than you, Sarah; you don't know anythin' about sickness. W'at 'as Ruth got?' 'Croup, and I thought I'd take her some jelly or something; children always like jelly,' said Sarah. 'Jelly--when the poor child can't swallow, very like! You'd better by 'alf let me go, Sarah; the poor mother'll not 'ave a moment to talk to you if the child's really bad, an' you'll only find yourself in the way. You go with Horatia to the mills, an' I'll call at Mickleroyd's an' do w'at I can do for 'em.' 'Martha Mickleroyd won't stand on ceremony with me, and I'm not so ignorant as you think about croup. You have to put the child in hot water. We had first-aid and domestic lessons at school. Besides, I promised Naomi I'd go, so I must,' declared Sarah in such a determined tone that Mrs Clay, who never could oppose any one for long, gave way with a sigh. Horatia had been looking from one to the other, listening with her quick, eager look to the conversation, and longing to join in it, but half-afraid for fear of vexing Sarah; but now she could no longer resist the temptation. 'Can't we all go on our way to the mills? I should like to see a mill-hand's cottage, and I needn't go into the sick-room at all.' Mrs Clay looked relieved. 'I'd far rather 'ave it so, Sarah. You don't know for certain that it isn't 'oopin'-cough or somethin' o' that sort. Women are that ignorant,' she declared. 'Martha Mickleroyd isn't ignorant; she's a very clever woman, and no more ignorant than--lots of ladies,' Sarah finished hurriedly. She had nearly said, 'than you are,' but luckily remembered in time. 'I believe that; but it isn't every lady that knows as much about illness as I do; an' as Miss 'Oratia 'ere wants to go to see a mill-'and's 'ome'----Mrs Clay was saying. But Sarah broke in with impatience, 'One would think we were Hottentots or savages, or something, by the way Horatia talks! Horatia coloured as she answered, 'Oh, but indeed I don't; you quite mistake me. Father is very much interested in the housing question, and all sorts of things that have to do with the poor, and putting stone baths in their houses, and all that will make them healthier,' she explained eagerly. 'Very kind of your father, I'm sure, my dear; but I think you'd better not talk about stone baths for the Mickleroyds. Mark won't 'ave it. 'E won't, indeed; 'e told Luke Mickleroyd so,' said Mrs Clay. Sarah's lip curled. 'If that child has no bath to be put into it will die, and it'll be his fault, then,' she observed, as she rose from the table. 'No, it won't; it'll be the fault of its mother, who hasn't a small bath in her house,' said Horatia. Horatia had spoken on the impulse of the moment, without any thought of contradicting or annoying Sarah; but the latter cast her a furious look, and then, drawing herself up, said, 'When will you be ready to start?' Horatia felt crushed by Sarah's manner; but it was so uncomfortable to start out in the morning in this way that she determined to try to conciliate her. 'Don't be horrid and up in the clouds above us all;' and she took Sarah's arm with a coaxing smile. Sarah could not help smiling, for this was an old school accusation which Horatia had made when Sarah once asked how she looked proud and haughty, and the girls had all laughed at it. 'I don't feel there; I've told you that before; but you can't or won't understand how I hate and despise it all.' 'Well, never mind; let's go and see those Mickleroyds. You don't hate and despise them,' said Horatia. Half-an-hour later the party in the motor stopped at the point of the main street from which a 'ginnel' or alley led to the Mickleroyds' house, in one of the oldest parts of the town, and quite near the mills. Luke Mickleroyd, as will be remembered, was the chief watchman of Clay's Mills, and could have afforded a nice little house in the suburbs on the tram-line, for he earned good wages; but he found it more convenient to be close to the mills, so that he could rest between his rounds, and in cold weather warm and refresh himself during the night. 'What a funny old place! I wonder they don't pull it down,' said Horatia, as she picked her way over uneven and broken paving-stones to the house, which had steps, with no balustrade, leading down to an open cellar-door and up to another door. 'It belongs to my father,' said Sarah curtly. Horatia said no more, and determined not to make any comments whatever she saw, 'not even if the paper were hanging off the walls and the place in ruins,' she said to herself. But once they were inside the cottage the scene was changed. Everything was spotlessly clean; the walls were prettily papered; the furniture was handsome and old-fashioned; and Maria Mickleroyd came forward with a pleasant smile on her tired, anxious face. 'Pleased to see you, Mrs Clay, and Miss Sarah; and you've brought Omi,' pronounced 'Oh my,' to Horatia's amusement. 'That's main kind of you. Little Ruthie's dropped off into a lovely sleep for the minute; but, thank you, I shall be glad to have Omi for the day, if Miss Sarah is sure she can spare her, for I shall be up to-night again, and I might rest a bit by-and-by. Luke's resting now.' 'No, I'm not resting, missus,' said Luke Mickleroyd, coming down a narrow staircase. 'I've had my sleep, and was coming to take a turn at watching. I ought to be good at that, seeing it's my trade; but Miss Sarah's found us some one better, I see, in Omi.' 'We're glad to know the child is better, Luke,' said Mrs Clay, as she added some suggestions about the child's treatment. 'An' now we're goin' on to the mills; but if the doctor orders anythin' special, or Ruthie fancies w'at you can't get, be sure an' send up to us. The master won't grudge you that. An' if you want Naomi the night, keep 'er, so long as we know. Jane Mary could come wi' the message after the mills are out. A walk would do her good.' 'Jane Mary won't come nigh Balmoral,' put in Naomi suddenly. 'How'd thy tongue, Omi!' said her father, and Naomi subsided. 'Jane Mary should do w'at she's told; she's too independent,' said Mrs Clay, and, with a short 'Good-morning,' they all went off. Sarah turned to wave a friendly farewell, whereupon Mrs Clay said, with some irritation, 'It seems to me, Sarah, that folk 'ave only got to be nasty to your father for you to like 'em. It's not much good goin' on like that. You know w'at the Bible says: a 'ouse divided against itself cannot stand.' 'I wonder if that's true,' said Sarah gravely. 'Sarah, 'owever dare you!' exclaimed Mrs Clay; and even Horatia looked rather shocked at this remark. 'Oh, I'm not talking about the Bible; of course I believe that. I meant what you said,' explained Sarah. But this was not much better. 'Thank you, Sarah. W'atever I said, I 'ope it was true. I'm not in the 'abit of tellin' untruths.' Mrs Clay had forgotten what she had said. 'You only said what you thought, and we can all make that kind of mistake. I only meant that I wonder whether I do like people better if they dislike father.' 'Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, for 'e's a good father. An' look at all these mills; every brick is 'is an' built by 'im--'is money, I mean--an' thousan's of poun's' worth of wool goods sent out every week--well-made goods, too, as every one will tell you. 'E's a wonderful man is your father, an' one to be proud of, not despised. Most girls would 'old their 'eads 'igh for bein' 'is daughter, not 'old it 'igh to despite 'im.--Oh, good-mornin', my men! good-mornin'!' Mrs Clay exclaimed, as the gates were thrown open for them to enter, and she saw some men crossing the yard. The men replied by a surly 'Good-morning;' one or two touched their hats, but the most of them took no notice of the master's wife and daughter at all. Mark Clay met them at the door of his private office, a plainly furnished little room, the same now as it had been thirty years before, when it had been just built. 'This is my private room,' he said. Horatia looked round with interest. 'It's a very business-like-looking room,' she said, after searching in vain for something more complimentary to say. 'That's the biggest compliment you can pay it, and it is a true one, too. There's millions have passed through my hands in this room,' he said proudly. ''Ave you 'eard that Luke Mickleroyd nearly lost his little Ruth in the night?' said Mrs Clay. 'We've just been to see 'em an' leave Naomi there.' Mrs Clay never liked to take the responsibility of doing anything herself; but Mark Clay turned to her more angrily than Horatia had ever seen him, and said, 'I won't have you go to the hands, encouraging them in independence and idleness. You call for Naomi on your way back. Do you hear? She doesn't get wages for nursing her sister. What's her mother there for?' 'But, Mark, the mother's got the 'ouse to clean an' meals to cook; they're such a large family, an' useful to us,' protested Mrs Clay. 'I don't care. I won't have it, I say. I shall have the other girl wanting her day off; so you do as I tell you. If the mother can't see to the girl, let her go to the hospital. What do I pay to the hospitals for if it isn't for them to be useful to me? You can tell her so on your way home, and take Naomi back with you to her work,' blustered Mark Clay. 'Oh, are we going straight home? I thought we could, perhaps, go to Fountains Abbey to-day, and you would come with us?' cried Horatia. Sarah shot a quick look of surprise at her friend, who added, 'You said I might choose what I liked best to do every day, didn't you, Sarah?' 'Of course,' said Sarah. 'But, my dear, w'yever didn't you mention it before we started? We would 'ave taken a picnic-basket along wi' us,' cried Mrs Clay. 'That doesn't matter, Polly; send Fox for it while we're looking over the mills. That's a good idea of the lass. We'll all go to Fountains. Do you go and telephone to them to put in plenty of champagne and lemonade for the girls,' said the mill-owner boisterously. Mrs Clay hurried off to the telephone to give her directions, while Mark Clay started with the two girls over the mills. 'I couldn't write an essay on this,' said Horatia, as they were hurried through yard after yard, on each side of which were doors which the millionaire just ordered to be opened, and into which they gave a peep as he told them, 'In there there's thousands of pounds' worth of rags and wool for blankets,' or 'cloth,' as the case might be. 'My father doesn't want you to; he only wants you to see what a huge business he has. I hope he has succeeded,' said Sarah. Horatia was saved the trouble of answering, for they now entered the room where the machinery drowned every sound. 'Doesn't it make them deaf or make their heads ache?' she shouted at length to Mark Clay. 'Make me deaf? No fear; I don't stop in here long enough,' he replied, misunderstanding her, and not imagining it was the workpeople she was thinking of. And again Horatia was silent. CHAPTER XVI. THE MILLIONAIRE'S PICNIC. 'Oh dear! my head aches, at any rate,' sighed Horatia when they came out of about the fiftieth room. 'I am glad we are going motoring; it will blow my headache away.' 'Ay, it's a big place, is Clay's,' said the millionaire with an air of satisfaction. 'There's Uncle Howroyd. I'm going to ask him to come with us to-day,' observed Sarah abruptly. 'What's he wanting?' inquired his half-brother. Whatever Mr William Howroyd wanted with the millionaire, it did not seem important, for he stopped when Sarah met him, and the two went off together, away from Clay's Mills; and Mr Clay, after waiting a moment to see if his brother was returning, turned to Horatia. 'If you'll excuse me, young lady, I'll give some orders for this afternoon, and tell them to have some pieces done, ready for me to see when I come back. That's the way to get rich, my lass; look after the pieces and the bales'll look after themselves.' And the millionaire, with a hoarse laugh, went off to 'look after the pieces.' Horatia stood at the door looking after him, and scarcely noticed a man who half-smiled and raised his hat. She supposed that he was a man with some manners, which the rest of them did not seem to possess; she had no idea that it was a personal attention to her till he said, 'We're much obliged to you for making t'master listen to us. It's saved a lot o' trouble for the minute.' Now, Horatia, as will have been noticed, acted and spoke upon impulse, so she now asked eagerly, 'What trouble has it saved? And why has it only been saved for the minute? Were you all going to strike if he hadn't seen you?' 'Can't say what we mightn't have been obliged to do,' said the man. 'I don't see how you are obliged to do anything unless you like; but was that what they wanted you to do?' persisted Horatia. 'That was one thing. But, see here, missy, if you can speak a word for us, do 'e. They say you can do a lot wi' the master; he's a bit too hard wi' us, and the young uns won't stand it. That's where the trouble will come in.' 'What kind of trouble?' inquired Horatia. The man did not look at her. He was gray-haired, and had been at Clay's Mills for twenty years, and had an affection for the place. Besides which, he was 'used to the master's ways,' and knew that a good workman earned good wages and need not fear being turned off so long as he did good work; but the younger men hated Mark Clay, and there were fewer old men there than in most mills, for the moment they got ill or showed signs of feebleness in any way they were discharged. Mark Clay lost more than he gained, for they would have kept the younger ones in order. But all this the man did not say to Horatia; he only repeated, 'I can't say what they might not do when their blood's up.' 'But tell me what they say they'll do.' 'Strike,' said the man. 'But you'd best not repeat that,' he added, almost regretting his confidence, and going off for fear of adding more. 'There's a fool's trick you've been at, Sam,' said a comrade, 'a-telling that young lady what the men say. She'll repeat it all to the master.' 'I never breathed a word of their threats. I only said they'd strike, and he knows they've threatened that before.' 'You didn't say a word about what them young lads said they'd do--you know what?' the other demanded. 'They'd be turned off to-morrow if he got wind on 't.' 'D' ye think I'm a fool? Of course I didn't. But I'll tell you what. They've got som'at in their heads at Balmoral, for that young lady kept on asking what they would do and what trouble there would be if the master didn't do what we asked him,' retorted the first speaker. The second looked gloomily before him. 'It'll be a bad day for my Tom if them words of his get repeated to the master; and it's nought but lads' hotheaded talk; they don't mean it.' 'I'm none so sure o' that, mate; but it's best to forget it. Anyway, the master's off gallivanting for the day, and mayhap it'll take his mind off the mills a bit. If he'd do that more frequent it 'u'd be better for all--better for him and better for us,' the man wound up gravely. In the meantime Sarah had gone to meet her uncle, and invited him to come motoring. 'Me! Nay, lass; I've other fish to fry. I'm not a millionaire like Mark, able to go away and amuse myself all day.' 'Now, uncle, you know that's nonsense; you can get away far more easily than father, because you are not in such a frightful hurry to get rich. Besides, you can always stop your work to do an act of charity, and it is a real act of charity to come with us to-day,' declared Sarah, tucking her arm in her uncle's. 'Indeed! How's that? Is Tom Fox, the chauffeur, ill, and have I got to do his work?' inquired Mr Howroyd. 'No; and if he were, one of the other chauffeurs could take his place. You've got to come and sit beside me, so as to prevent any one else sitting beside me, because you are the only one I can bear to have near me,' explained Sarah. 'Upon my word, if I were not your old uncle I should feel quite flattered,' said Mr Howroyd in a joking way; but he grew grave as he added, 'But as it is, my lass, I'm sorry to hear you talk like that. What's wrong with the others, eh?' 'I don't know that there's anything wrong with them. I think it's me that there's something wrong with,' replied Sarah. 'But I don't understand. Didn't you tell me Miss Horatia was to be of the party? What's gone crooked between you two?' he inquired. 'I don't know; at least, it sounds silly, but I can't bear her being such friends with father. She seems to think everything he does and says all right, and it isn't; it's all wrong, and I think it's horrid of her!' said Sarah. 'Steady there, my lass. I don't think it's the place of children to criticise their elders at all, and certainly not their fathers; and as for this you tell me about Miss Horatia, why, what would you have her do--abuse her host, and talk against him to his daughter?' 'You don't understand, Uncle Howroyd. Just you come for this picnic, and then see if I am not right,' begged Sarah. 'I sha'n't think that; but I think I'll come, only I must go home and change first, and give some orders for the men,' said her uncle. 'Then I'll come too. I feel as if I shall say something horrid to somebody if I don't.' 'Then you'd best come along with me, for you'll be poor company for the others in this mood;' and he took her back to Howroyd's Mill with him. An hour later the five started for Fountains Abbey, with a huge hamper strapped on at the back of the car. 'It's a pity you don't appreciate good liquor, Bill, for there's first-class champagne there,' said Mark Clay as they spun along. 'I don't know that it is, for I couldn't afford it very often,' remarked his brother cheerfully. 'Pshaw! I've no patience with such rubbish! You could afford it fast enough if you didn't waste all your money in pensioning off half your old incapables and keeping the others at work, and going on as if you ran a mill for the benefit of the hands,' said the millionaire. 'So I do, I hope,' replied his brother, with the same good-humoured twinkle in his eye. 'Then I suppose you'll be giving them all the profits next, and we shall see you working as a hand yourself?' said Mark Clay, in a tone that implied his expectation of such a thing, as, indeed, was the case. Mr William Howroyd laughed quietly. 'I shall keep the head of Howroyd's Mill as long as I live, as my father was before me, and his father before him, and I shall look after the old folks as they did, and, as I hope, those that'll come after me will do.' There was silence for a moment, for Mr Howroyd was not married, and they wondered who would come after him. Mark Clay thought the mill should be made into a company with his; but William Howroyd had very decidedly declined to entertain that idea. So it happened that it was with these words in their ears that they came into sight of the beautiful ruins of Fountains Abbey, built by those who acted upon the same principles. Horatia had sat between Mr and Mrs Clay all the way; but the minute they arrived she caught Sarah by the arm and said, 'Come and explore the ruins, and let us find a place and take a sketch of it.' 'We must stop with the others,' said Sarah. 'Oh no, we needn't; you are only saying that because you are cross with me, and it's no good, because I can't help the things that you don't like in me. And besides, I want to talk to you.' 'How do you know what things I don't like?' inquired Sarah. Horatia danced a queer little dance of her own, and then, coming back to Sarah, said, 'Of course I can feel when you don't like things, but I can't help that. Come and have a walk with me; I want to ask you about something.' There was no resisting Horatia's good spirits, and it was too glorious a day to quarrel or be disagreeable; so, after seeing that Mr William Howroyd had gone off with her father and mother, Sarah walked along with Horatia. 'What do you want to ask me about?' she demanded of her friend. 'Well, it's this: why do you hate being rich?' she asked. Sarah stared at her in wonder for a moment. 'Was that really what you wanted to ask me?' and as Horatia nodded her head, she continued, 'What an extraordinary question! I should think any one could see why for herself. Do you think it's any pleasure to eat off Sèvres china, so valuable that a servant goes in dread of his life lest he should break a piece, or to have gold plate one is afraid of scratching, or to be surrounded by stuffy carpets?' Horatia interrupted her with a merry little laugh. 'How can you be surrounded by carpets?' she demanded. 'You know quite well what I mean, only you choose to turn it off with a laugh, and that's one of the things I don't like about you; you turn things just the way you choose. And the carpets do seem to stifle me, though you don't believe it,' declared Sarah. 'I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to laugh; but the picture of you surrounded by stuffy carpets did amuse me so. But one thing I don't believe, and that is that you really hate being rich,' persisted Horatia. 'You mean that I tell untruths?' replied Sarah. 'No, I don't; I mean that you wouldn't really like to be poor. I don't believe you'd even like to have so little money as we have, though it's plenty for us; and as for being really poor, I'd just like to see you try it. At least, I just wouldn't, because I'd hate to see you miserable, and you would be miserable with no money and no one bowing down before you and getting you what you want before you asked for it, and everything.' 'Well, I've a kind of idea that you will have a chance of seeing who is right, you or I, one of these days,' was Sarah's answer. 'I wish you'd tell me why you say that, Sarah--I do really,' said Horatia. To say what she really felt was impossible to Sarah, for at the bottom of her hatred of her riches was the feeling that they had been unjustly, if not dishonourably, obtained, and that other people knew it and despised them for it, and this was gall and wormwood to a girl of her proud spirit. 'How can I possibly tell you why any idea comes into my head any more than I can tell you why I think it's going to rain to-night in spite of its being so lovely just now?' demanded Sarah. 'That's quite a different thing. There's a west wind blowing, and it feels like rain,' said Horatia; 'there's a reason for that.' 'Very well; there's a feeling in the air as if the home of Clay were going to fall,' retorted Sarah. 'Then there must be some reason for it; and if you know it I think you ought to try and prevent it for your mother's sake, even if you would like it to fall,' said Horatia. 'You think girls can do anything, but you are wrong; they can't, and I don't know any reason why it should fall, and I dare say it's all imagination. Why does it interest you so much?' asked Sarah. 'Sarah, tell me, why won't Naomi's sister come near Balmoral?' asked Horatia abruptly. 'Because she hates my father. Every one isn't so fond of him as you are,' said Sarah. 'Why does she hate him? Doesn't she work in his mills?' Horatia inquired. 'Yes, that's one of the reasons. Besides, her young man was a hand, and was turned off. Father is not popular with his hands,' said Sarah sarcastically. 'Are you?' demanded Horatia, turning upon her. Sarah did not answer for a minute, for the question took her aback; then she laughed. 'No, I don't fancy I am. They think me proud, and I suppose I am, though goodness knows what I have to be proud of,' she said. 'You might be proud of being so pretty, but I know you are not,' said Horatia. 'I don't see why that girl should hate your father.' 'And I don't see why you should like him,' returned Sarah. 'I know you don't, and I am sorry for it and for lots of things; but it's no good worrying about them when we are out on a picnic, especially as I am starving of hunger, as you say here, and I see Tom Fox waving the flag to show that lunch is ready.' The millionaire was in the best of humours, paying his wife attention, telling Tom Fox playfully to be sure and have a good lunch, and see that his horse had one too! and joking with Mr Howroyd and Horatia, and with Sarah when she gave him a chance. 'Have you got right yet?' inquired her uncle after lunch, as they were preparing to go back. 'Not right enough to change places with any one; but they were better to-day, I must say.' 'Oh, were they? How very condescending you are! Upon my word, Sarah, you want taking down a peg badly,' said her uncle, who, however, took his old place beside his niece. CHAPTER XVII. A DISASTROUS BONFIRE. The return journey, as return journeys after a day's pleasuring often are, was a much quieter affair than the drive on the way out. Even Horatia was rather silent as she sat between her host and hostess, and Mr William Howroyd seemed lost in thought. It was the millionaire who broke the silence with one of the hoarse laughs with which he generally prefaced his boastful remarks. 'See that speck yonder? That's Balmoral, on t' hill; you can see it for twenty miles round on a clear day like this. There's not another property in the country that comes nigh it, though I say it as shouldn't.' 'Is that really Balmoral? Oh yes, of course I see it; they are making a bonfire of weeds in the park,' exclaimed Horatia. Mr Clay leant forward. 'Bonfire of weeds? I don't see any bonfire. Your eyes must be sharper than mine,' he remarked; and then turning to Tom Fox, he said, 'Can you see aught, Tom?' 'No, sir; leastways, not at Balmoral. That fire's far enough from us,' replied the chauffeur. 'Fire?' cried Mrs Clay, starting nervously. 'Pshaw! Fire! It's a bonfire,' said Mr Clay very decidedly; adding, 'Put on steam, Tom; we're crawling. I don't go in a motor to crawl, man.' But he looked anxiously and uneasily in the direction of Balmoral, for he, too, could now see a bonfire or something. Mr William Howroyd had said never a word; but his face grew stern and grave as he leaned forward. Sarah looked at him, then towards Balmoral, and then she turned to him again. 'It's not near the house, Uncle Howroyd; it's only a bonfire.--What are you all so upset about?' she demanded; for Tom, who was noted for his cautious driving, seemed to have caught the excitement, and was driving faster than Sarah had ever known him do. Mr Howroyd took field-glasses from his pocket, and fixing them to his eyes, gazed earnestly in front of him; then he muttered something under his breath. When he took the glasses away, he had an expression in his eyes Sarah had never seen there before; but he did not answer her question, and his niece could not imagine what had come to her cheery, good-humoured uncle. The car was going pretty fast, and Mr Clay seemed satisfied with the progress they were making for the next few minutes, as well he might, for it was above legal speed. 'Uncle Howroyd, we shall be fined, if we don't get killed first,' observed Sarah, who was surprised that her uncle did not make some protest against what she considered reckless speed. Mr Howroyd did not seem to hear what she said, and she gave his arm a tug; but at that moment a red tongue of fire shot up high above the trees in Balmoral park; and now that they were nearer, all--including Mark Clay himself, whose eyesight was not very good--could see that this was no bonfire. 'Put on speed!' he roared to the frightened Tom Fox. 'We're at thirty-five now, sir,' said the man. 'Put on the highest you can,' again shouted Mr Clay, with a muttered imprecation. But Mr Howroyd leant forward, and putting his hand on his brother's arm, said kindly but firmly, 'Nay, lad, we'll be there in a short time now. Think of the wife and these two lasses. You've no right to put their lives in danger, even if you think your property's in danger.' 'They're in no danger,' he answered brusquely, as he threw off the other's restraining arm. Horatia, who did not know what fear was, and was rather enjoying the rate at which they were going, happened to glance at Mrs Clay, who was really fainting with fright. 'Oh, Mrs Clay's ill!' she cried in alarm. 'Stop--pray stop!' Whether Mr Clay would have taken any notice of her or not is doubtful; but Tom Fox, who had reluctantly put on speed at his master's repeated commands, took advantage of this excuse to slow down a little, which was just as well; for, springing up out of nowhere, as they seem to reckless drivers to do, appeared a policeman, who commanded them to stop. 'Confound you, man! can't you see my place is burning?' Mr Clay roared out to him. 'What! Mr Mark Clay is it?' exclaimed the man in surprise, and in no friendly tone. 'You've no right to endanger the public in this way, whatever trouble you may be in.' But Mr Howroyd interfered. 'And you've no right to stop us longer than to take the name when it's an urgent matter, Marmaduke,' he said. The man touched his hat. 'Beg pardon, Mr Howroyd, I didn't know you were of this party. We reap as we sow in this world, and Mr Clay's fond enough of the law when it's on his side and against others.--Go on, Tom Fox; only mind, if there's an accident I'm witness that you were warned,' he said, as he moved back and let them pass. 'Shall we be fined?' asked Sarah of her uncle. 'I don't know. No; I shouldn't think so in a case like this, especially as we had luckily slowed down a bit,' he replied. But he did not seem to care much, which surprised Sarah, who knew that he did not care for motoring at all, and was always severe on wild driving. 'I think we shall. You can't go scorching along just because some trees have caught fire. People's lives are more important than a few hundred pounds. You don't seem to care about us at all,' she protested. 'Don't be so silly and childish, Sarah; and mind you go straight into the house and stay there,' he replied. They were now near enough to see that some trees were burning; but as they were nowhere near the house, Sarah could not quite understand her uncle's 'fidgetiness,' as she called it. 'How on earth did that tree catch fire,' Horatia suddenly ejaculated as a tall poplar was seen blazing, 'and after such a wet day as yesterday?' 'I can tell you how it caught fire. It was set on fire by some of your friends of yesterday; that's how it's caught fire, and that's their way of saying "Thank you" to me for giving in to them; but they've taught me a lesson, and one I sha'n't forget, and I hope it'll satisfy you too, young lady,' replied Mark Clay grimly. 'I don't believe it. It would be too silly of them, to begin with; and, besides, why should they burn the trees? If they wanted to be wicked like that they'd burn the house,' declared Horatia. 'Ay, so they would have done before now if they'd had half a chance; but it's too well protected. Why, there's police in it day and night, and they know it!' he declared. 'All the same, I agree with Horatia, it does seem funny after yesterday,' chimed in Sarah from the back-seat. 'And I can't think how those top branches caught.' 'No, because you don't know your home as well as you might,' said her father. 'What does he mean?' asked Sarah of her uncle. 'I suppose he means that the granaries are on fire, and that they've set the trees alight,' explained Mr Howroyd, whose face was very white and set, but with a different look of determination from his brother's. They were in the park now. 'Turn off to the right, Tom,' said his master. 'Take the women-folk to the house first, Mark,' pleaded his brother. 'To the fire, Tom. I'll catch the rascals red-handed!' roared Mr Clay. 'Don't get out; go on in the car,' said Mr Howroyd to his niece in an undertone; but his advice fell on deaf ears. Sarah was excited enough now, for they had turned a sharp corner at an angle, which made Mrs Clay give a sharp cry, and there in front of them were the blazing remains of two huge barns and some charred trunks of trees, while others were still burning. In the roar and crackle of the flames and the crash of falling timber, the approach of the motor had not been heard by the excited and interested crowd who were watching the progress of the flames. 'Watching! Not one of them raising a hand to stop it!' muttered Mr Howroyd between his teeth. Mrs Clay clasped her hands in despair. The millionaire bounded from the car and was among them before any one saw him. 'You cowardly curs, that'll take my money and burn my property! Off my land, I say! I'll pay you for this! You shall all be in prison before the week's out! I see you all, and know you too well, curse you!' 'We haven't done aught to your property. You can't say we have. We saw the flames in Ousebank oop o' top o' t' hill, and we ran to see. There's no harm in that, and you can't have the law on us for't,' said a big, burly man. 'You're trespassing on my land, every one of you, and I'll prosecute you for that, if I can't for aught else. There's plenty of boards to warn you,' said Mr Clay. The crowd melted away as if by magic, and they saw the gardeners trying feebly to check the progress of the flames. Their master stood and watched them in grim silence for a little time. His presence and the disappearance of the crowd seemed to give them increased vigour, for they worked with a will now, and crash came down a tree which had just caught and would have carried on the flames to another plantation. 'That's right; rather late in the day. If you'd done that earlier it might ha' been better. And where's the rest of you? There's twenty men in the grounds somewhere, let alone the house; you could have had thirty at this, and worsted those scoundrels if you'd chosen; but you didn't, and I'll not forget it--I'll not forget it!' 'The others are guarding t' house, master' said the head-gardener. 'Sykes wouldn't let a man leave; he's there--armed, and swore he'd shoot the first hand that came nigh the house, let his business be what it might.' A grim smile relaxed the millionaire's features for a moment as he heard this news; but they grew grim again as he asked bitterly, 'And weren't the garage and stable men enough to guard the house without the rest of you, whose business is to keep my ground in order?' The man turned back to his work of chopping off smouldering branches, as he said in a surly tone, 'I'm here, sir, doing my best, and so's these lads, seven on 'em, and it's no use blaming them that has tried to help when your property is being destroyed for the fault of them that hasn't had the courage to do it.' 'Courage to do your work!' said Mark Clay in a tone of contempt. 'And where's the police?' They were there, too, now, though where they had been up to this moment did not seem certain. 'You can stand here now; the harm's done and the robbers gone,' he said when they came to him. 'Bah! you're all in the same box.' 'Excuse me, Mr Clay, you mustn't bring charges like that against us,' said one of them. But Mark Clay took no notice of him or his protest, but walked back to the motor, where Mrs Clay and Horatia still sat. 'Home, Tom, as long as I've got one,' he muttered, as he got in and sat moodily looking before him, and taking no notice of his white and shivering wife, or of Horatia, who sat there looking the picture of misery; nor did he notice, apparently, that neither Sarah nor Mr Howroyd was of the party. Tom Fox drove up to the front-door, and Sykes, irreproachable as usual, came down the steps and helped his master and mistress out of the car. He gave no sign of anything at all unusual being amiss, for he was always very grave, till his master said in a grim tone, 'Had any visitors, Sykes?' 'No, sir; but we were ready for them if they'd come,' he then replied significantly. 'Ay, you're true Yorkshire grit,' said his master, as he passed on into the house in front of his wife, who, indeed, would hardly have got up the steps but for Horatia's help and support. 'Oh Sykes! Oh, w'at a dreadful affair this is!' moaned Mrs Clay. 'We'll have to get rid of them southerners; they wouldn't face the crowd, and are skulking in the stable-yard. I told the master what it 'u'd be, but he wouldn't hearken to me. I'd got my men all ready, and not one would have disobeyed me. Even Naomi came home to help, and offered to use a gun if I'd show her how,' related Sykes, hoping by this tale of devotion to please his mistress and distract her thoughts from a sad subject. But the effect was disastrous, for Mrs Clay gave a cry of horror and burst into tears. 'Shoot! W'y should Naomi want a gun to shoot wi'? 'Oo's she goin' to shoot? Oh, 'ow dreadful it all is! Shoot, indeed! 'Oo do you want to shoot, Sykes?' she asked wildly. 'I don't want to shoot any one, ma'am; no more don't Naomi. And as the danger's all over now we'd best say no more about it,' replied Sykes. 'Are you sure the danger's over?' demanded his mistress. And Horatia asked the same question with her eyes. Sykes made her a sign, which she did not understand, and replied to Mrs Clay by saying in a soothing tone, 'Yes, ma'am, yes; the danger's quite over, if there ever was any. There's not a soul inside these park-gates except those that have a right to be; and, after all, the master can afford a little loss like this afternoon.' Mrs Clay gave a little sigh, and said, 'I think, my dear, I'll lie down a bit, if you'll stop by me. I don't fancy bein' alone.' And Horatia willingly went with her hostess. CHAPTER XVIII. NANCY PACKS UP. Poor Mrs Clay lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room and shut her eyes. Horatia sat beside her, kicking the corner of one of the rich Persian rugs that lay about the drawing-room; not that she was in a bad temper--indeed, Horatia was rarely in a bad temper--but as an outlet to her superfluous energy. It was pain and grief to Horatia Cunningham to sit still at any time; but this afternoon, when she felt so excited and wanted to hear all about the fire, it was a severe trial to her patience. Mrs Clay was evidently worn out by the events of the day. Horatia glanced at her from time to time, but did not like to break the silence. Great was her relief, therefore, when a knock came at the drawing-room door. Mrs Clay opened her eyes. 'Who can that be?' she demanded, clutching Horatia's arm in her nervousness. 'Only one of the servants, I expect,' replied Horatia, looking towards the door, in the hope that it would be some one with news of some sort. 'But they never knock at the drawing-room door,' objected Mrs Clay. 'Hadn't you better tell them to come in?' suggested Horatia, for Mrs Clay lay there, clutching her hand and talking in whispers, but not giving any answer to the person at the door. 'Oh no, my dear. I--we don't know who it is,' gasped the poor thing, who was evidently quite unnerved, and no wonder. 'Shall I go and see who it is? I dare say it is one of the servants, who did not like to come in and disturb you, because they know you are resting,' said Horatia. 'I think you'd better ring for Sykes,' objected Mrs Clay, still keeping her hold of Horatia. 'I'm sure it's only a servant, perhaps Sykes himself. I'll only open the door a little bit,' said Horatia, loosening her hand from Mrs Clay's and running to the door, which she opened, as she promised, only a little bit, and then exclaimed, 'Nanny! it's you, is it? What's the matter?' For it was against all etiquette for Mrs Nancy to come down to this part of the house. Moreover, the old nurse looked disturbed and flurried. 'Excuse my disturbing you, Miss Horatia, but I couldn't get any one to come, they're all that upset and put about; but I want to know what train you're going by. The packing's all done, and you can start as soon as you like; and the sooner the better for me,' she wound up viciously. 'What nonsense are you talking, Nanny? Why should we pack up and go away just because a granary and a few trees are burnt down? We don't live in the trees!' said Horatia, laughing. 'It's no laughing matter. If you remember, I said to you when we first came here that it was no place for us, and now you see how true my words have come?' said Mrs Nancy. 'I don't remember any words of yours that have come true, and I shouldn't advise you to say that, Nanny, or they'll think you know something about it, and, perhaps, did it yourself,' retorted Horatia jokingly. Nancy gave a kind of snort. 'Don't you go carrying your love of a joke too far, miss; and if you think there's any chance of me being accused, that's all the more reason that we should go before worse happens,' she said gloomily. 'Why, Nanny, who would have thought you'd be such a coward? It's all over now, and we can't go away all of a sudden like this, even if we wanted to, and I don't. I want to stop and see what will happen next, and help if I can.' 'Help! You'll be burnt in your bed before you can help yourself, let alone any one else,' cried Nancy. 'Be guided by me, miss, and let us take the night-mail. Sykes says there's one passes about eight o'clock. We could telegraph at once, and her ladyship would be delighted to see you. Don't pass another night under this doomed house.' 'Miss 'Oratia, w'at is it? 'Oo are you w'isperin' to out there?' asked Mrs Clay. 'It's only Nancy, my nurse; she wants to speak to me about something. I won't be a minute,' Horatia answered her; and then, stepping into the passage, she said hurriedly, 'Nancy, who told you that? Tell me at once all you know. When are they going to set fire to the house? To-night?' 'How should I know, miss? I can only say what I think,' replied the old nurse, whose usually cheery face was puckered up with anxiety and fright. Horatia took her nurse by both arms. 'Now, Nanny, you've just got to tell me. Do you know anything, or don't you?' 'I know we're among a lot of savage folk that don't respect other folk's property, and it's about time we went home,' declared the old woman. Horatia gave a stamp of the foot. 'You are aggravating, Nanny! Do you know of any plot to burn the house? Because if so'----began Horatia; but she got no further. For Nancy broke in with indignation, 'Well, I never, miss! A pretty pass things have come to when you accuse me of knowing of plots! As if I'd mix myself up with their wicked deeds! No, miss, I do not _know_ anything; but I'm not blind nor deaf, and I have heard quite enough to make me pack our trunks,' said the nurse. 'That's just what I want to know. What have you heard or seen? Do tell me, Nanny. I shall be much more comfortable if I know,' entreated Horatia. 'We shall both be much more comfortable when we are back at The Grange,' said the nurse. 'It's no good you turning it off like that, Nanny, for I'm just going to hold your arms like this till you tell me, and it's no use your wriggling like that, for you can't get away; you may be bigger, but you didn't learn gymnastics in your youth, and so you are not so strong in the arms as I am.' 'I learnt one thing that you haven't, and that is respect for my elders,' said Nancy severely, and trying to look dignified, but failing, as may be imagined. 'I shall respect you all right if you tell me the truth,' replied Horatia, unabashed by the rebuke. 'You don't want me to go carrying tales from the servants' hall, do you? What do you suppose the mistress would say to that?' said Nancy. 'Mamma would say you were quite right in this case, because I am not asking out of curiosity, but because I really ought to know,' said Horatia. 'Well, miss, if you will have it, you will; but, of course, I only know what little Naomi has told me of what she has heard down the town to-day, and of course it mayn't be true,' said Nancy. Horatia stamped her foot with impatience. 'Never mind whether it's true or not; tell me what she said,' entreated Horatia. 'Naomi says that her sister Maria Jane says'--Horatia began to think that the tale was going to be too complicated altogether, but the old woman went on--'that the men say there wouldn't have been a brick left of Balmoral this morning if they hadn't been given way to yesterday; and that's your doing, miss.' Horatia coloured a little with pleasure. 'Then what on earth are you making this fuss about? The danger is over, as you see,' she cried eagerly. Old Nancy shook her head. 'You haven't heard the rest. That old stupid--well, I beg his pardon, as we're in his house, and you seem to like him, miss; though how you can, or what you can see in him, and after how you've been used'----she said. 'Oh, never mind all that, Nanny; do tell me the rest! Mrs Clay will be calling me again, so pray make haste!' exclaimed Horatia. 'Well, he goes down to the mills and undoes all the good you've done by saying it was the last time a mill-hand would put foot in his park, for he built that to be away from them, and he isn't going to have his peace disturbed; and it wouldn't do them any good either, for he'd let them have their way this time to please you, but it was the first and last time he'd do such a thing.' Nancy stopped. 'That's not all. Go on, Nanny,' said Horatia. 'Well, Naomi's sister, you know--she hates Mr Clay, of course'----began Nancy. 'Why of course?' interrupted Horatia. 'You know that story, surely, don't you, miss?' 'What story? How should I know why Naomi's sister hates Mr Clay? It's very wrong of her,' said Horatia. 'So it is; but her young man--the young man she was going to marry, I mean--was turned off by the master, and'---- 'I expect he was a bad workman; that's his own fault,' said Horatia. 'But never mind about that story. Oh dear! I don't know which story I want to know. You are tiresome to-day, Nanny. What did Naomi say?' 'It was her sister. Naomi had nothing to do with it; she's too fond of Miss Sarah,' said Nancy. Horatia peeped into the drawing-room. Mrs Clay still had her eyes shut, and by her breathing Horatia guessed what was indeed the case--that she had fallen asleep; so Horatia gave a sigh, and resigned herself to listen to Nancy's long-winded tale in the hope of getting at the truth in time. 'Come and sit on this seat outside the front-door, it is so hot in the house; and, besides, I am afraid of some one coming and hearing you,' she said, leading her nurse to a bench outside the drawing-room window. 'Now, about Naomi's sister.' 'It wasn't Naomi's sister herself,' began Nancy. Horatia gave a groan; but so great was her anxiety to hear the truth that she made a great effort and controlled herself. Then Nancy went on: 'He said he'd burn the Clays out of Ousebank, and that they should have a taste of it this very day, to show Mark Clay what he might expect if he didn't alter his ways;' and Nancy stopped again. 'What else did Naomi say?' asked Horatia, who looked grave enough now. 'She said they'd burn the house next, or try to, and then the mills; and that's what they will do, and very likely it'll be this night; and if it isn't, it'll be to-morrow or the next day. And now perhaps you'll come home with me,' Nancy wound up. 'Indeed I won't! Fancy leaving friends when they are in such trouble!' Horatia exclaimed. 'You won't help them by staying. I know you've done some good; but it hasn't helped, after all, and Miss Sarah's gone off and left you, and it isn't the proper place for you at all.' 'I wonder where she is. Do you know, Nanny?' inquired Horatia, for she had been wondering about this ever since she had turned round in the motor to speak to Sarah, and had found that she had vanished. 'No, miss, I don't. I supposed you'd know. At any rate, she had no call to go away at such a time, and leave you alone to take charge of her ma, and all these dreadful things happening. I'm sure her ladyship will blame me for not bringing you away at once; and if anything should happen'--here Nancy threw up her hands in horror as she wound up, 'I should never forgive myself--never, whatever the mistress might do.' 'As we're both going to be burned in our beds, according to you, you won't have to try to forgive yourself,' observed Horatia. 'Don't talk so dreadful callous, Miss Horatia; and, if you don't mind for yourself, you might consider me that you're running into danger,' protested Nancy. Not that she cared about herself half so much as she did for her young charge; but because she thought this argument might have some weight with Horatia, who always thought of others before herself. 'You needn't stop if you're afraid. I shall write to mother to-night and ask her to let me stay alone,' announced Horatia. 'Miss!' cried Nancy reproachfully. Horatia gave a little laugh. 'Oh dear! there's nothing to laugh at, only it always seems easier for me to laugh than to cry, or else I should cry now. It is dreadful to think that all this money is wasted,' she said. 'It isn't wasted yet, and perhaps Mr Clay will see reason, though they say he's wonderful obstinate; and if I was you, miss, I'd not meddle any more. You meant well, no doubt; but, you see, you're very young, and it hasn't done much good, after all; and it's best not to interfere in other folk's business.' The tears rose to Horatia's eyes. 'I know that. In fact, I'm afraid I've done harm, and that's one of the reasons I must stop,' persisted Horatia. 'But you won't tell Mr Clay what I've said. Leastways, I didn't say it,' cried Nancy, in alarm. 'Naomi said that her sister said that'---- 'Oh, never mind who said it. Of course I sha'n't mention any names, but I shall certainly warn Mr Clay of what the people mean to do.' 'Then you'll do the very harm you want to stop,' said old Nancy solemnly. 'Why?' asked Horatia. 'Because it'll only make him more determined. You don't know these Yorkshire folk; there's nothing will turn them if they get a thing into their heads. And let Mr Clay hear that they've threatened to burn him out of the place, and he'll make the place too hot to hold them, and they'll pay him out,' said the old woman shrewdly. Horatia did not make any reply. She felt that there was some truth in Nancy's remarks, and she gave a little sigh as she thought to herself how difficult it was not to harm where you only meant to do good. At last she said, 'I won't say anything to Mr Clay; but I'll have a talk with Sarah, and she shall do as she likes.' 'She won't tell him; she knows him too well,' said Nancy, and she had hardly uttered the words when Mrs Clay, who had evidently been dreaming, awoke with a start, and called Horatia. 'You won't leave to-night, miss?' the nurse said, in a last attempt. 'No, no; I really couldn't, Nanny; but we're quite safe, for there are a lot of police guarding us.' Nancy groaned as she went off. CHAPTER XIX. AN UNPLEASANT MOMENT. Mr Howroyd and Sarah, it will he remembered, had not been seen since they arrived at the scene of the fire in the park. Mr Howroyd had vaulted from the car as soon as his half-brother; and when the latter made his angry speech, and sent off the townspeople, William Howroyd went after them as quickly as he could. But he had not gone far when he heard quick, light footsteps behind him; and, turning to see who it was, he saw Sarah, looking very hot, coming hurrying after him. 'What do you want, my lass? You go home. The town's no place for you to-night,' he said. 'Yes it is, Uncle Howroyd. I want to see Jane Mary. I'm sure this is some of her doing,' she panted as she came up to her uncle. 'And if it is, what good will it do you to know it, even if she owned up, which she won't, you may be sure?' inquired her uncle, stopping, rather unwillingly, to talk to his niece. 'Oh, she'll tell me; she's not afraid of me. She knows I'm on her side,' said Sarah. 'A fine statement that! Then what are you going to do? Incite them to more outrages? Because, if that's your intention, you certainly won't come; and I must say, Sarah, you don't show a very nice spirit in taking this tone.' 'What tone?' demanded Sarah, looking rather defiant. 'Why, rejoicing in your father's loss, and openly taking the part of his enemies,' said Mr Howroyd. 'I'm not rejoicing in it; I'm awfully sorry. I would have given anything to have prevented it; and it's just to prevent any more that I am going down to Ousebank,' replied Sarah. William Howroyd turned and continued his way towards Ousebank. As it was evident that Sarah meant to go to the town, it was better that she should go with him than alone, which he was convinced she would do if he did not let her come with him; so he only said testily, 'I never did pretend to understand women, but you beat every one of them. I don't know what you do mean; but I'm glad to hear you are not so undutiful as I thought you were. Not that you'll do any good by going to Ousebank, because you'll not turn these people.' 'If you think I'm going to try to turn Jane Mary because I want to save papa's property for him you are mistaken, because I don't care a fig if it is destroyed or not; but I do care about Jane Mary, and I don't want her to get into trouble, and that's why I am going to see her.' 'You're a queer girl, Sarah; but I think you'll be sorry one of these days for the part you're acting now. Why, that little schoolfellow of yours has a more friendly feeling for your father than his own daughter,' observed Mr Howroyd, as the two walked hurriedly along the path through the park, which was a short-cut to the town. 'Oh Horatia! You say you don't understand me; but I think I'm much easier to understand than Horatia. She came up here to be my friend and companion, and sympathise with me, and, lo and behold! she goes and makes friends with father, and cares much more for father and mother than for me,' complained Sarah. 'And I don't blame her,' said Mr Howroyd. Sarah laughed. 'I wonder you don't follow her example; but you don't, and you know, Uncle Howroyd, it's no use your pretending to champion my father, because you don't really care for him a bit except from duty, and you like me much better,' she announced coolly. 'I don't like you at all to-night, and I disapprove of your behaviour to your parents very strongly. As I told you before, you will be sorry for it one day,' said her uncle. They had reached the outskirts of the park and come out on the high-road as Mr Howroyd said this; and about a hundred yards to the right of them, coming down the hill, they saw a crowd of people, and heard the murmur of many voices. It was the townspeople coming from the fire, who had been longer in coming because they had kept to the drive, not daring to use the short-cut. 'It's the hands!' said Sarah. 'You'd best turn back, my lass; you can't do any good, and you're far too young to mix yourself up with this kind of thing,' her uncle entreated her. Sarah shook her head. 'I am going on; but if you want to go ahead, do; I shall be all right with these people,' she affirmed. But this was more than Mr Howroyd could bear. 'Nay, you'll not do that if I can stop it, lass. You don't want to be the talk of the town, do you? But whether you do or not, you're not going to have your way. There'll be scandal enough without Mark Clay's daughter adding to it by going marching through the town with the rabble that have just burnt her father's barns,' said Mr Howroyd; and he quickened his steps to avoid being caught up by the rabble, as he called them. But in spite of his efforts, the crowd behind gained on them, and they heard the foremost say, 'It's William Howroyd, that's who it is. He's a different man to his brother, that he is. He'd never turn us out of his park, wouldn't Mr William.' 'He's got Clay's lass with him, though. What d'ye say lads, shall we let her come into t' town if he won't let us go into his park, or shall we turn her back same as he did us?' There were mingled shouts of 'Let her be!' and 'Nay, nay, let's turn her back, same as he did us, and teach him a lesson!' They were close behind now, and Mr William Howroyd could no longer pretend not to hear what they said. The road was wide, and bordered by banks and hedges. He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the bank with him; but even in that moment he noticed that her hand did not tremble in the least, but was, as a matter of fact, steadier than his own. 'I'm not going to run away from them, Uncle Howroyd. I'm not a bit afraid of them,' she protested, as he pulled her up after him. 'You do as I tell you; but you couldn't run away from them if you wanted to,' he replied. Sarah stood on the bank beside her uncle, and waited for the crowd to come up to them. They were only about fifty in all, and mostly young men, and they seemed undecided what to do when they saw Mr Howroyd standing upon the bank by the roadside, with his niece beside him. William Howroyd's pleasant, cheery face was graver than most present had ever seen it, as he stood and watched the men come up and stand, half-sheepishly and half-defiantly, in a kind of irregular semicircle round them. As none of them spoke, except in murmurs to each other, Mr Howroyd decided to break the ice, and began, in his brisk, ringing voice, which had a very stern tone in it to-night: 'Well, men, what do you want of me? I've made way for you to go forward. Why don't you go?' 'We want a word with you first, Mr Howroyd,' said one of the foremost, who had already shown himself to be antagonistic. 'I want no words with men who break the laws of the land,' replied William Howroyd sternly, and as he said this some of the men remembered that he was a Justice of the Peace. 'We've broken no laws, Mr William. We never set the barn afire, and you can't prove that we did,' said one rather anxiously. 'You stood by and let it burn; and you forget that it was my brother's property,' he replied. 'Mark Clay's no blood-brother of yours. We've nought again' you, Mr William.--Let 'im be, lad; he've allus right on his side, and he's a good master, is Mr William,' said an older man, walking on. 'Noa; but we've summat again' Mr Clay, and I say let the Clays stop in their park--they want it to themselves, and let 'em have it; but we won't have 'em in Ousebank,' said the first speaker in a surly voice. 'The park's private property, and you've no right there, and my brother had a right to turn you out to-night. I'd have done the same if you'd come into my house; but we're all equal on the public road, and if you molest us here you'll answer for it to me in another place,' said Mr Howroyd with determination. All this time Sarah had stood beside her uncle, her eyes flashing, but giving no other sign that she was moved by the discussion; but she now said, 'The men are right, Uncle Howroyd. I will go back to Balmoral;' and she turned to go up the hill. Poor Mr Howroyd might well say he did not understand women, for this was the last thing he had expected Sarah to do, and it embarrassed him very much, for he wanted to get to the town as soon as he could and stop possible disturbances; but it was impossible to let Sarah return to her home alone on an evening like this. He stood looking first at the crowd, which was now passing on, and then at Sarah, doubtful which to accompany, when the question was decided for him by a man in the crowd, who came forward and said, 'I'll see Miss Clay home, Mr William; you'll be wanted down Ousebank to-night.' 'Mickleroyd!' cried Mr Howroyd in amazement. 'You here! I didn't expect to see you among this lot.' William Howroyd feared no man, and 'said his mind,' as he was wont to express it, and he was far too popular for it to be resented, perhaps because his 'mind' had never anything but kindness in it, though it was very truthful. 'I'll answer for my presence here if need be, Mr. William; but let me take the young lady home. She'll be safe with me, and the town'll be safer if you are there,' said the old man, with sturdy independence. 'I'll come, Luke.--Good-night, uncle,' said Sarah, deciding the question, as usual, for herself. 'Good-night, Sarah. I'm glad you're going home; your mother'll be worrying about you, I'll be bound, and she'll want some one to comfort her,' said her uncle as he turned to go down the hill. 'Oh, Horatia's doing that, I've no doubt. I can't think why she wasn't me, and I her. She'd have liked to live at Balmoral,' replied Sarah. 'She's a good young lady, Miss Sarah, and, if you'll excuse me, she's done the master a mint of good. It's what he wants, some one to say a word in season, and make him a little softer like,' said Luke Mickleroyd. 'You're all alike, Luke; you think there's no one like Horatia Cunningham, and I can't think why except that she has a pleasant way of saying things,' said Sarah a little bitterly. 'It isn't only that, miss; it's that she's got a lot of heart. But I know you've got a heart too, and a heart of gold; only I often think 'tis a pity some people cover it up so carefully that it wants a lot of digging to come at,' remarked the man. 'I suppose you are talking about me; but don't I show you any feeling, Luke?' asked Sarah rather reproachfully. 'Yes, miss, of course; and I wasn't thinking of you at the minute, as it happened. I'm sorry I said what I did about Miss Cunningham if it annoyed you, for I know from Naomi how kind you are, and what a true friend to all our family. If I said anything, it was because I was thinking 'twas a pity you didn't take things as the other young lady does, for if you had very likely matters would never have come to this pass.' Sarah did not answer a word, and the two walked on in silence. Luke Mickleroyd was thinking bitterly of the part his daughter Jane Mary had taken in the day's work, and Sarah's thoughts were not more pleasant. 'I dare say you're right, Luke; but one can't change one's character. If a person's born proud and horrid like me she can't help it; it's her nature to be so,' she said after a pause. 'There's something above nature, Miss Sarah; and though I'm not one to preach, I know you know better than me, not being a scholar, that you can be changed,' replied the man. Sarah was so surprised at such a speech from a mill-hand that she found no words to reply; but when he had left her, by her desire, at the back of the house, she made her way to her room by the back-stairs, and taking up her favourite attitude on the wide window-seat, sat and gazed out over Ousebank. 'I hate them all! I hate Ousebank, and the mills, and the hands--the ungrateful people; they turned against me even, though they know I have always taken their parts and sympathised with them,' she burst out. Then the words of her uncle came back to her that she would one day regret the attitude she had taken up, and she wondered whether she didn't regret it a little now. And then Luke Mickleroyd's remarks haunted her, and with a sudden impatient movement she got up and went to the door. There she paused irresolutely, and then, half-shamefacedly, she turned back and knelt down by her bedside; and after ten minutes she got up and walked swiftly out of the room and down the stairs, wondering rather at have said; and though she said her prayers night and morning as a matter of habit, she did not remember ever having prayed in the daytime before. CHAPTER XX. SARAH'S FIRST STEP TO CONQUEST. Sarah walked swiftly along the passages, her head erect, her colour a little brighter, and her lips half-smiling instead of being curved in a contemptuous droop; and on her way she met Naomi. 'Oh miss!' cried Naomi, and then stopped short, and looked curiously at her young mistress. 'Well, Naomi, what is it? What are you looking at me like that for? Has anything more happened?' demanded Sarah. 'No, miss; thank goodness there's nothing more than you know, and that's enough, and too much. I was only thinking you look rare and beautiful this evening,' blurted out the maid. 'What nonsense, Naomi! I'm just hot and red, and you don't like pale people,' replied Sarah; but she was pleased all the same; for though she was not in the least vain of her good looks--which she would have exchanged willingly for Horatia's parentage--she liked to be admired, and she walked on, feeling very satisfied with herself. Naomi looked after her admiringly. 'There's not a young lady can hold a candle to her in all the county. But wherever's she going? Why, that's not the way to the drawing-room; she's going to the master's room. Well, it isn't often she pays him a visit, and it mostly ends badly, if it doesn't begin so. How she comes to be his daughter I can't think; she's too good for the like of him. I'd sooner have believed she was a duke's daughter,' she soliloquised. Meanwhile Sarah, conscious that she was doing a noble action in conquering her own feelings, walked on, as Naomi had said, to her father's special sitting-room, which he called his study, but in which his only study was how to make more money. Sarah tapped at the door, and her father's voice growled something which she took to be an invitation to come in, so she opened the door and entered the room; but on the threshold she paused and hesitated. Her father was sitting in his big easy-chair in front of his bureau, writing. He did not look up at once, thinking it was a servant, who could wait his pleasure, and Sarah had time to notice his forbidding expression. It seemed to her that her father had never looked more unlovable, as he sat there with a scowl on his face, writing no doubt letters to the police or whatever authorities he wished to invoke aid from to punish the incendiaries; and as he wrote such a malignant and fierce expression came over his face that Sarah made a movement to retreat; but the noise she made in doing so attracted Mr Clay's attention, and, looking up sharply, he exclaimed, 'What! you, Sally?' and laid down his pen to hear what his daughter had to say to him. 'Yes, father; I came to tell you how sorry I am about all this affair to-day,' she said. Mr Clay looked keenly and a little suspiciously at his daughter. She stood there, looking so like a culprit apologising for her misdeeds, that the thought flashed across him that perhaps she had something to be sorry for. She made no secret of her sympathy with the 'hands,' and she had not expressed sorrow or indignation at the time, so that the mill-owner may be excused if he believed for the moment that she had had something to do with the fire. 'Are you sorry?' he asked dryly. 'I thought you didn't care if I lost every penny of my money. That's what you always say. Are you sure you're not sorry that your friends are going to get into trouble, eh? I suppose you didn't know anything about it beforehand? Because, you know, I sha'n't make any exceptions. Those that burn my property shall pay for it.' 'Father,' cried Sarah indignantly, 'how can you think such a dreadful thing of me? If that's what you think, I'm sorry I came to you at all;' and she turned to go. 'Stop a minute, my lass,' said her father. 'I'd like to get to the bottom of this. Why did you come?' 'I came to tell you I am sorry for your loss,' said Sarah half-sullenly. 'You are sure you didn't come to beg these people off their punishment?' persisted Mr Clay. 'Yes, I am quite sure of that. I should never waste my time asking you to show mercy to any one,' cried Sarah, her eyes flashing. Mark Clay looked at his daughter with an angry light in his eyes. 'I'm glad you've got so much sense, my lass,' he said coldly, and went on with his writing. Sarah hesitated a minute. She was sorry for the words the moment they were out of her mouth. It was a miserable end to her attempt at making friends with her father; but her father's head was bent over his writing, and his face had on the stubborn look she knew so well, so she reluctantly turned away, and went back to her own room. 'He means mischief,' she said as she leant her chin on her hands. 'He's more dangerous when he is quiet like that than when he blusters.' How long she sat Sarah did not know, until she was startled by hearing the dinner-gong clanging through the house. She gave a violent start, and looked round to see if Naomi had put out her dress for dinner, and saw, to her surprise, not only that she had not done so, but that it was the dinner-hour, so that either dinner must be late--an unheard-of thing in that house--or she had not heard the dressing-bell, and this must be the dinner-gong. 'But where is Naomi, and why was my dress not put out for me?' Sarah asked herself, and in answer to her unspoken question Naomi appeared. 'Oh Miss Sarah, I'm so sorry; I've fair forgot everything to-day, with all the upset! Oh miss, do let me dress you quick!' she cried, in great distress. 'It's the dinner-gong, then?' inquired Sarah. 'Yes, miss; there hasn't been any other. Sykes he forgot to ring the dressing-bell; the first time in his life, he says, that he ever did such a thing. The only one that's gone on the same as usual is the French _chef_, and, of course, he doesn't care a bit about us English folk. All he said when he heard about this was, "Vell, he got plenty money build more barns; but if his dinner isn't to the minute he'll swear, and so there it is, ready to dish." So pray make haste, Miss Sarah, for master's sure to be upset easy to-night,' Naomi wound up. 'Naomi, was Jane Mary in this?' inquired Sarah abruptly. It will be noticed that they both alluded to the incendiarism as 'this.' Naomi replied, 'I couldn't say, Miss Sarah. I couldn't say anything for certain about it, on any account.' 'You mean you won't; and that means that you don't trust me,' replied Sarah. 'No, indeed, miss; I'd trust you as soon as I would myself. But it's the real truth; I don't know anything, nor I won't know anything. And if I was you I'd do the same. It'll be the safest way and the best in this business,' Naomi told her earnestly. Sarah sighed. 'It's going to be a bad business for those that do know anything about it,' she said. 'It would have been worse if some of them had had their way,' observed Naomi. 'Then you do know something about it?' exclaimed Sarah. 'I know what they're all talking about, but what's true and what's false I couldn't tell you.' 'Is my mother dressed for dinner?' inquired Sarah suddenly, abandoning the attempt to pump Naomi. 'No, Miss Sarah; the mistress has been lying down ever since she came in, with Miss Horatia.' 'Lying down with Horatia?' ejaculated Sarah. 'I mean lying down, with Miss Horatia sitting beside her holding her hand like a daughter,' Naomi corrected herself. Sarah coloured violently, and Naomi wondered what made her do so. Poor Sarah was being made to feel all round what a poor sort of daughter she was, and she felt irritably that it was only since Horatia came that this fact had been obvious. But Sarah was wrong. Her attitude towards her parents had always been noticeable, and her brother and mother had constantly upbraided her with it; but it was Horatia's coming which had brought this home to her, and she did not like it. 'That will do, Naomi,' she said, giving an impatient tug to the sash that the maid was tying, and she ran lightly down the corridors and the wide marble staircase to the dining-room. Mr and Mrs Clay and Horatia were all there, and dinner was begun; and Sarah noticed, to her annoyance, that all three were dressed in the clothes they had worn for the picnic. 'Oh, you haven't changed! I have; that's why I am late.' 'We were all too upset to think of dress; we're not like you, above caring about these things,' said her father bitterly. 'Sarah thought you wouldn't like to see 'er in 'er dusty clothes, Mark; an' I would 'ave changed too, only I was so tired I thought you'd excuse me; an' Miss 'Oratia 'ere was too kind to leave me alone, my nerves bein' upset,' put in Mrs Clay in order to shield her daughter, and really making things worse by contrasting Sarah's conduct with Horatia's. 'Yes, she's a good, kind lass, is Miss Horatia,' said Mr Clay, giving her a friendly look, as he pressed some favourite dish of his on her. Sarah had dreaded dinner, being of the same opinion as Naomi that her father would be upset. Indeed, he had looked very much upset and ready for an explosion when she left him in his study; but it was 'Horatia again,' she said to herself, and she thought angrily that Horatia cared nothing about those poor people who had got themselves into trouble. She was angrier still when Horatia replied, 'I'm not at all good or kind at this minute, for I should like to put all those people I saw in the park into prison.' 'You'll have your wish before long, little lass, for that's where they'll all be,' said Mr Clay. 'Oh, but I shall be very sorry if they really do go to prison. I only wished it from revenge, and, of course, that's a very wrong motive,' cried Horatia. She looked across at Sarah to help her; but Sarah would not look at her friend or join in the conversation at all. 'I don't know whether it's a wrong motive or not, but I do know that it's necessary to punish those wretches for destroying my property; and punished they will be,' Mr Clay replied. 'There wasn't many o' 'em really doin' that, Mark,' said Mrs Clay timidly. 'They were doing as bad, standing by watching the destruction; and I'll have every man of them clapped into prison,' said the millionaire. Mrs Clay said no more, and Horatia began to chatter about other things, amusing both Mr and Mrs Clay by her shrewd remarks. Sarah sat sullenly by, and when dinner was over she went straight up to her room instead of joining the others in the drawing-room. 'They prefer Horatia to me, so let them have her. I'm sure she's welcome to do daughter,' Sarah said to herself. Perhaps finding her place usurped awakened Sarah to the knowledge that she had a place to fill in her home, and that she was not filling it. The next day Mr Clay went down to his mills as usual, and no word had been said about the events of the day before; but Sarah was not deceived. Her father, she was sure, was planning his revenge, and sooner or later he would, as he had said, clap his enemies into prison. Naomi could give her no information on the subject, and Mr Howroyd refused point-blank to discuss the matter. 'You'll hear all there is to hear in time; but it may come before me to be heard, and I can't discuss it with you or any one else.' The next morning came a very polite letter from Lady Cunningham to Mrs Clay, thanking her for all her kindness to Horatia, and begging that she might return in time to pay a visit to some relatives, who desired that she might accompany her parents, as she was a great favourite. 'I don't wonder at that, my dearie; you'd be welcome anywhere, with your bonny bright face,' said Mrs Clay. 'I sha'n't let you go unless you promise to come again soon,' said Mr Clay, with a heavy attempt at humour. 'Oh, but I am coming! I've enjoyed myself immensely,' cried Horatia willingly.--'Good-bye, Sarah. I shall be so glad to see you back at school. We shall be friends again then as we used to be, sha'n't we?' 'I don't feel as if anything were going to be as it used to be,' said Sarah; but she kissed Horatia very affectionately when they parted. 'I believe it's your doing that mamma sent for us, Nanny,' said Horatia when the two were in the train. 'And if it was, I'm not a bit ashamed of it,' said Nancy stoutly, 'for I couldn't have stayed another night there, starting and trembling at every sound, and dreaming shocking dreams of being burnt alive in my bed.' 'It's awfully selfish of us to come away and let them be burnt alive in their beds, if you think it's at all likely,' remarked Horatia. 'Then I'll have to be selfish, for I don't consider it's any part of my duty to stop and be burnt with them, which it's their own fault in a way, for they do say that Mr Clay's made himself fairly hated by his ways.' 'I don't hate him,' observed Horatia. 'No, miss, so I saw; but however you put up with him and his common ways, let alone his hasty temper, I can't make out. Well, we've seen the last of them, thank goodness! so I'll say nothing against them,' remarked Mrs Nancy with satisfaction. 'I've promised to go and stay with them again soon,' observed Horatia. 'That's if her ladyship allows it,' replied Nancy, in a tone that implied that the mistress wouldn't allow it. Horatia only laughed. 'It will be nice to see them all again,' she said. And this time she meant her own family. CHAPTER XXI. CLAY'S MILLS PLAYING. Sarah was sitting in her own room, rather cross with herself for feeling lonely, and trying not to acknowledge, even to herself, that she missed Horatia, or to own that her schoolfellow made things go more smoothly, somehow. It was a stormy-looking morning, and Sarah was wondering what she should do with herself, when she felt a gentle hand placed on her shoulder, and, turning in surprise, saw her brother standing behind her, with his usual pleasant smile on his face. 'Good-morning!' he said, as he kissed her. 'Goodness me, George! Where on earth did you spring from?' she cried in surprise. 'I thought you were in Scotland.' 'So I was till yesterday; in fact, I've only just arrived,' he remarked. 'You've been travelling all night, and you look as fresh and clean as if you'd just dressed for breakfast! But that's just like you. I believe you'd be miserable if you had your hair untidy or your face dirty,' she observed. 'It certainly isn't a pleasant idea. Besides, there is no need for it in this case, seeing that they provide plenty of hot water in the through sleeping-car,' remarked George, seating himself on the window-seat opposite his sister. 'All the same, I should think it would be pleasanter to travel by day. And what brought you back a week before your time?' Sarah demanded. 'I thought I should like to have a last look at the old home,' he replied dryly. 'I have more affection for it than you have, you see.' 'How did you hear about it?' inquired Sarah. 'I saw something in the papers, and wired to Uncle Howroyd, and he said I had better come back. I meant to come in any case, though, as soon as I saw the papers,' explained George. 'What did the papers say? I haven't seen one, and no one will tell me anything. Uncle Howroyd is worst of all, because, he says, he's a magistrate; but I suppose it's just because I am only a girl, since he will talk to you,' said Sarah. 'He only told me the real facts of the case, and said he thought my place was at home, if only to comfort my mother.' Here George paused a moment, and then continued, 'She seems to miss that little Miss Cunningham. She's been rather lonely these last two days.' There was a tone of reproach in his voice, and Sarah answered quickly, 'I've been too miserable and worried to talk to any one.' 'I'm afraid the pater will be in a terrific rage about it,' replied George; and, having made his reproach, did not recur to it. 'Will be in a rage? What do you mean? He has been in a rage ever since it happened. He ought to be cooling down by now; but I don't suppose he'll do that till he's got them all in prison,' replied Sarah. 'Then you don't know?' inquired George. 'Know what? Have they been tried and let off? It's too bad of Uncle Howroyd not to tell me, and I wanted so to know,' cried Sarah. 'They can't get a case against them. No one will give evidence, not even the head-gardener; he says he didn't see how the fire began, and it might have been burning weeds that caused it,' said George. Sarah laughed. 'I am glad!' she exclaimed in a tone of delight. 'I'm not. It's a very disgraceful thing that a man's property should be destroyed and no one punished,' said George, with unwonted sternness. 'But father said he'd prosecute them all for trespassing,' observed Sarah. 'You'll be glad to hear that he has been told that no magistrate would convict; it's something about a right of way,' said George. 'George, I am sorry they did it; but I do think he has provoked them, and he is hard to his workpeople,' said Sarah. 'I know; but this isn't the way to make him better. In fact, I am afraid they've enraged him so that goodness only knows what will be the end of it,' said George gloomily. 'I suppose you'd mind dreadfully if we did lose all our money?' suggested she. 'Of course I should; and so would you, whatever nonsense you may talk to the contrary!' cried George testily. 'And it's to do what I can to smooth matters down and prevent any such catastrophe that I have hurried home. Not that I can do much good,' he wound up. 'Oh George, it would be jolly to live in a little cottage, and do as one liked, and dress as one liked, and not have to sit for hours over long, stupid meals, and have to walk half a mile from your bedroom to the dining-room!' cried Sarah. 'You'd be a nice one in a cottage! You'd want the whole of it to yourself to begin with; and as for doing what you like, you would not be able to do that if you were poor any more than, or nearly as much as, if you were rich. You'd have to keep the house clean, and do the cooking, and be a drudge. How would you like that, pray?' he inquired. 'Lovely!' said Sarah with enthusiasm. George looked at her curiously, with a half-amused expression. 'I only hope you mayn't be put to the proof, but it wouldn't surprise me. However, I mustn't stop here talking; I want to see the governor. I suppose he's gone to the mills?' 'Yes; but I don't advise you to go there after him. You know he's always in a worse humour in the morning than he is in the afternoon when he's had some lunch. Wait and see him then. We might go down to the rink father had made on purpose for Horatia. I think he'd have got her the moon if she had asked for it,' observed Sarah. George laughed. 'She was very nice to mother. By the way, if you really want to skate, I'll go and tell her; she'd like to come down and watch us, and the walk would do her good.' 'All right,' agreed Sarah, as her brother went off to fetch his mother. 'It was so kind o' your father to 'ave this floor laid. 'E's good enough to people if they only take 'im the right way, only 'e mustn't be crossed; 'e never 'as been. Oh deary me! w'at 'e'll do now that they've crossed 'im in this business, I don't know. 'E says 'e'll best 'em yet, for 'e's never been bested by any man, an' doesn't mean to be,' said Mrs Clay as she walked along, clinging to her son's arm. 'I dare say he'll calm down in a day or two. It is very irritating. He can't "best" the law, as he calls it,' said George in a soothing tone. 'Well, there's no fear o' 'is goin' against the law, for 'e doesn't 'old wi' that,' said Mrs Clay. 'Then we may console ourselves that his "besting" will be legal, in which case no harm will come of it,' said George with a smile, as, having put his skates on, he gave his hand to his sister and took her for a round. Mrs Clay sat on the raised stand, and watched the two as they skated round and round, doing all sorts of figures, and performing rinking feats for her special benefit, as she was well aware. 'Beautiful, my dears--beautiful! But, oh, do be careful! Suppose you were to fall an' break your pretty noses or legs, or anythin'!' she ejaculated at intervals. The two skaters laughed heartily at this last remark. 'I believe you would care more about our noses than our legs, mother,' said Sarah, 'though they aren't half so important.' 'There's nothin' so important to a woman as good looks--except bein' good,' said Mrs Clay seriously when they stopped to rest for a few minutes beside her. After a couple of hours they went back to lunch, and found their father had just come back from the mills. He greeted George in a friendly enough manner. 'I got your telegram, my lad, thank you; and it's nice of you to hurry home to stand by your dad in his fight. For I suppose that's what you've come for, isn't it?' 'Yes, father, certainly, as I told you in my telegram. I only wish I had been there; they wouldn't have got off scot-free, the scoundrels!' replied George. 'That's the right spirit, my lad. I wish you had been there; but I've got the best of them. They didn't know Mark Clay when they tried that game on with him; but they'll know him better now,' said the mill-owner. 'What have you done, sir?' inquired George, in his calm way, which gave no sign of his secret anxiety on the subject. Mark Clay gave a chuckle, which made Sarah feel very uneasy; but only said, 'You'll see, my boy--you'll see. Just wait till the end of the week. It'll be public property then, and folks will see whether Mark Clay's an easy man to beat.' George avoided looking either at his mother or Sarah; for, truth to tell, he felt very uncomfortable. This cheerfulness on the part of his father boded no good. But he asked no more questions, and talked about the sport he had had in Scotland. 'George,' said Sarah after lunch, 'what's he up to?' 'I don't know,' replied her brother, too depressed to comment upon her mode of expression. 'Well, I believe I know. He's going to turn them all off. You see if he isn't. That's what he means by saying, "Wait till the end of the week." Oh dear! oh dear! What a business there'll be! There were at least a hundred in the park that day.' 'It's their own fault. But that would be cutting off his nose to spite his ears, wouldn't it? It would inconvenience him dreadfully to dismiss so many men at once,' objected George. George, it will be observed, knew even less of his father's business than Sarah, whose visits to her uncle Howroyd's mill and her acquaintance with the Mickleroyd family gave her some knowledge of the working of the mills; so she answered now, 'Oh, he won't care. He'll shut a workroom up and make the others work harder. You may trust him for not inconveniencing himself; it's the people who will be thrown out of employment that I am sorry for.' George did not argue the matter with her, but walked off to see his uncle, who had nothing consoling to say to him, except that he would stand by them whatever happened. 'And what do you suppose he expects to happen?' George asked his sister, rather irritably, when he returned. 'Goodness knows! All I know is that I shall be glad when this week is over,' she replied. But Sarah was wrong, for when the time came there was no gladness at Balmoral. 'You were right, Sarah,' said George, coming in and throwing himself down on a cane arm-chair in the garden, near where his sister was sitting reading. 'I generally am,' said Sarah lightly. She and her brother were great friends in spite of their abuse of each other. 'It's no joke,' he replied seriously; and Sarah, looking to see what was the matter, was struck by her brother's grave looks. He was coming out in quite a new aspect. 'What's no joke? Oh, do you mean that I was right about father's revenge?' she inquired. 'I don't know about its being a revenge; but he's turned out that crowd that looked on at the fire, and the hands have revenged themselves by striking, and Clay's Mills are "playing."' It should be explained that 'playing' in the north country means not working, and a very serious thing it is, especially in a large mill. Sarah dropped her book, and sat there, open-mouthed, looking at her brother. 'Clay's Mills "playing"! Our hands have gone out on strike?' she gasped. Her brother nodded silently. 'Of course they'll have to give in; the governor can hold out longer than they can; but it means a terrible loss,' he said at length. They were sitting there staring blankly at each other when they heard their father's voice. Both started as if they had been caught doing something wrong, and instinctively looked round to see if there was any possibility of escaping without being seen; but they saw that this was impossible, for Mr. Clay was making for them. 'Oh George! he'll be in a towering rage. You talk to him. I'm sure to say something to irritate him,' said Sarah in a hurried undertone. 'He doesn't look much upset,' observed George; and just at that minute the millionaire came within hearing, and called out a cheery 'Good-morning' to them. 'Well, my lad, I've got rid of a lot of bad material to-day,' he remarked jocosely. 'You mean the hands, father?' said George, as he rose and politely placed a chair for his father. 'Yes, I mean the hands,' said Mr Clay, mimicking, with little success it must be owned, his son's soft, drawling tones and refined accents. 'I'm sorry you found them all bad material,' George replied, without noticing this. 'I didn't say I did; but part of it was bad, and as the good wouldn't stay without the bad, out they both had to go, and bitterly they'll rue the day they did it,' declared Mr Clay. 'I hope you won't,' burst out Sarah. Her father looked as if he were going to get into one of his violent rages, but refrained, as he had done lately; and again Sarah could not help noticing the change that had taken place since Horatia's coming, though Horatia had not been able to prevent him from doing this latest act. 'I hope not; Clay's Mills sha'n't "play" for them,' he said quietly; but there was a satisfied look on his face that Sarah could not understand. It was Saturday, and all that day and all Sunday the millionaire went about looking aggressively cheerful. 'He only does it just to annoy us,' said Sarah. 'It doesn't annoy me. I'm only too glad to see one cheerful face in the midst of so many gloomy ones, though I should like to know what it means,' said George. 'So should I, for Naomi says father has a big contract on, and will lose thousands every day he stands idle,' said Sarah. George looked very serious. 'What can he be thinking of? He must be going cracky,' he opined. 'Oh no, he isn't,' said Sarah a few minutes later; 'he's done them, somehow. Look!' George looked out of the window. 'The mills are working!' he exclaimed. 'How has he done it?' CHAPTER XXII. 'FURRINERS' IN OUSEBANK! The young Clays stood and stared at each other in blank amazement. Then they looked out again at the cluster of tall chimneys which belonged to Clay's Mills, and which were belching forth great volumes of smoke as if in contemptuous defiance of those who had dared to try to stop their mighty engine. 'It is our mills!' repeated Sarah, as if she had almost disbelieved her eyes. 'Yes, there's no mistake about it; they are our mills; and yet I could have vowed I saw some of the hands pass by the park-gate this morning when I went to speak to the park-keeper. They were going away from Ousebank in search of work, I supposed.' 'I expect you are mistaken. How could the mills work without the hands? Unless they climbed down, and I'm sure they won't do that. Besides, you don't know their faces, do you?' asked Sarah. 'I guessed who they were by the way they glared at me; it made me pretty uncomfortable,' said George. Sarah looked at her brother, who was smoking a gold-tipped cigarette. 'You don't look very uncomfortable,' she observed. 'Oh George! Oh Sarah! Do you see that the mills are workin' again?' cried Mrs Clay, her lips trembling, as she came into the room where her children were. George put his arm round his mother. Even Sarah was moved to be demonstrative, and, taking her mother's hand, fondled it. 'What is it, mother? Why does that frighten you so? It is a very good thing, though I don't know how it has come about,' said George gently. Mrs Clay only shook her head. She made no reply, but stood gazing out over Ousebank, her eyes fixed on the cluster of chimneys that belonged to their mills. They had finished the firing probably, for the chimneys were not smoking so violently now, but some smoke was still coming out. Sarah seemed very thoughtful, and soon left the room to go in search of Naomi. 'Have the hands gone back, Naomi?' she asked abruptly. 'You've seen it, then? Our lads haven't, I know. I can't make it out at all. I'd give something to know what's happened; but now that none of the townspeople are allowed farther than the park-gates we hear no news at all,' replied Naomi. 'Naomi, I must know how they've managed it. I shall come down the town with you,' cried Sarah. 'Very well, miss. I'll be ready in two minutes,' said Naomi, and went off. On her way she met Mrs Clay, who looked relieved at meeting her, and remarked, 'Oh Naomi, just tell Miss Sarah that Mr Howroyd 'as 'phoned to say that none of us are to go into the town to-day.' 'None of us, ma'am? Do you mean not even me?' inquired Naomi, looking blank. 'Oh, you! No, you won't matter; they won't 'urt you,' said Mrs Clay, quite severely for her. Naomi returned slowly to Sarah's room. 'Mistress says no one is to go into the town to-day, by Mr Howroyd's orders, except me; so, please, miss, may I run down and find out what it all means?' As may be imagined, Sarah did not understand this message at all; but when Naomi had explained as well as she could, her young mistress said with decision, 'I'm coming with you, Naomi. Something dreadful is the matter. I expect they are burning up all the fuel, or doing some damage to the mill.' 'Please, Miss Sarah, don't be angry, but I daren't take you. It's as much as my place is worth, and you might get roughly handled if the lads are angry with the master,' said Naomi. 'You need not take me, but you can't prevent me from going with you. In fact, if you like you can start first. I will go alone,' persisted Sarah. Naomi would have liked to argue with Sarah; but she knew it would be a waste of time, so she went off, and instead of making herself smart, she caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and ran down the back-stairs and out at the back-door as quick as she could. 'No, you don't!' cried a voice behind her, and a strong hand grasped her shoulder none too gently. With a little cry Naomi turned, to see herself confronted by Sykes, who exclaimed, 'Whatever are you up to, Naomi? I thought you were a mill-lass, and we don't want none of them up here.' 'So I am for the moment. Let me pass, Mr Sykes. Miss Sarah wants to know what's on in Ousebank.' 'No good, I'll warrant; and don't get mixing up with it,' was the butler's parting remark as he released her. Naomi sped across the park; but what was her surprise to see ahead of her, running as fast as she could, another mill-lass! Naomi made after her quickly, meaning, if she were a friend, to ask what was doing in Ousebank, and, if not, to demand her business at Balmoral. 'Wait a bit, lass,' she called out when she got near enough to be heard; but the girl only ran on faster. She was tall and slender, and not unlike Jane Mary, Naomi's sister; and the thought struck Naomi that if it was her sister, she was after no good. 'Jane Mary,' she shouted, 'if you don't stop I'll heave this stone at you!' The figure in front stopped at this threat, and turned. 'Miss Sarah! I beg your pardon, miss; I didn't know you,' cried Naomi in surprise. 'Now that you do know me, and see that I mean to go to Ousebank, perhaps you'll drop that stone--it might have killed me if it had fallen on my head--and let me walk beside you instead of in front.' Noami looked rather guiltily at the stone in her hand, and dropped it, saying apologetically, 'I thought it might be some one up to no good. But do you suppose they won't know you, miss?' 'You didn't,' observed Sarah with a laugh. 'Not your back; but all Ousebank knows your face, and they'll maybe turn nasty to you,' Naomi warned her. 'They'll be too busy to stare at a mill-lass, and I shall keep as well behind you as I can.' Naomi looked doubtfully at her mistress. 'Perhaps if you were to tie this handkerchief round your face, as if you'd got toothache, you'd pass better,' she suggested, handing Sarah a large white pocket-handkerchief with a coloured border. Sarah took it and wrapped it round her face, saying as she did so, 'It will make me very hot. But I'll tell you what, we'll go straight to your house, Naomi; they will know all about it there, and we sha'n't mix in the crowd.' Sarah's courage, as may be seen, was oozing away with all Naomi's warnings. But Naomi proved a Job's comforter. 'I doubt we'd better not go home, Miss Sarah. There's Jane Mary fair off her head, she's that mad with the master, and she's turned against all of you. She'd think you were a spy or something, and be nasty as like as not.' Sarah said no more, and as they had come to the town now they had enough to do to pick their way through the crowded streets. 'The mills can't be working, Naomi. Here are some of the chief hands,' she said in an undertone. 'I never thought they were. It's some mischief they're doing. Hark! did you hear what yon man said?' inquired Naomi in the same tone. 'No; at least, I could not understand, he spoke such broad Yorkshire. I thought he said something about "furriners,"' replied Sarah. 'That's what he did say. Oh miss, come into the ginnel [alley] till these men pass,' cried Naomi, pulling Sarah into the said 'ginnel,' just in time to avoid a party of young men, who were evidently very excited, and were anathematising Mark Clay. 'Miss, you'd best go to Howroyd's. There's a fine to-do to-day,' entreated Naomi. 'Perhaps I'd better,' agreed Sarah, who was not very happy in her mill-lass's get-up. At no time did Sarah like meeting the 'hands;' but in this disguise she disliked it still more. It was only a mad impulse which made her don the disguise, and she rather regretted it now that she saw the state of the town. So she willingly turned towards Howroyd's Mill. 'The master's at the telephone. He's been there most of the morning, and it's no use your coming to-day; you'd best leave your message,' said the maid, who did not recognise Sarah. Indeed, she had only opened the door a few inches, taking them to be poor girls come to ask help from the ever-ready philanthropist, William Howroyd. 'Let me in, Mary,' said Sarah, coming forward and untying her disguising handkerchief. The maid gave a little shriek, and grasping Sarah by the hand, drew her inside. 'Miss Sarah, my dear! however could you? And the town all against your father! Come forward! Pray, come forward!' Sarah very willingly went 'forward,' as they say in Yorkshire, and gave a sigh of relief as she threw off the shawl which covered her head, and sank into a chair. 'What is the matter, Mary? What has my father done now?' she demanded. 'You don't know? Oh deary me!' cried the maid, with lifted hands and much shaking of the head. 'No; tell me quick,' said Sarah abruptly. Mary looked fearfully round, as if the information was dangerous to give. 'He's got in a lot of furriners--blacklegs--to run the mills,' she said in a hoarse whisper. Sarah looked at her in horror, mingled with incredulity. 'Foreigners! How could he? And how could they do the work? Besides, where did he get them from, and when did they come? It's impossible!' she cried. 'It's true for all that,' said Mary, nodding her head. 'I must see Uncle Howroyd,' said Sarah. 'Go and tell him I'm here, Mary.' 'I told you not to leave the house,' was her uncle's remark when he came in, looking graver and sadder than Sarah had ever seen him. 'Yes, I know; but I simply had to come, and no one recognised me. See, I was a mill-lass,' said Sarah, throwing her shawl over her head to show her uncle. She looked so pretty and coaxing--for Sarah could be charming to those she loved--that her uncle smiled, and said with a sigh, 'Well, you're safe enough now you're here, and I've half a mind to send for your mother and George. Anyway, I must telephone to tell them you are here.' 'Oh no, Uncle Howroyd; I must go back for lunch,' cried Sarah, not adding what was in her mind--that her father would be angry if she were not home for lunch. 'You'll have to stay now you've come, child. There'll be no going home for you to-day, so you'll have to do with a plain dinner to-night; and Naomi had better go back and fetch what you want, unless I go and fetch them and your mother myself,' replied Mr Howroyd. 'Do you mean that you think mother isn't safe at Balmoral?' cried Sarah, starting up. 'I hope so. Do you suppose I should be here and not with her if she weren't?' demanded Mr Howroyd. 'No; it's only that I doubt if your father will be able to get home to-day, and I thought she 'd feel safer with me.' 'She has George,' said Sarah quickly, for she sometimes resented other people speaking slightingly of her brother, however much she might do so herself. 'Ah yes, she has George. Well, I'll just 'phone to her;' and he went off, only to return in a few minutes to say, 'You are right; she prefers George, and George prefers Balmoral. He says I am to tell you to stop where you are, if it's any use telling you to do anything.' 'I sha'n't obey George; but as it's Hobson's choice, I will stay with you, Uncle Howroyd; but, please, tell me, how did father manage to get foreigners to do his work?' 'That's more than any one but himself knows; but he smuggled them into the mills yesterday, and they slept there all night, it seems; but who they are, or where they came from, or how they are getting on, no one knows,' replied Mr Howroyd. 'They can't stop in there always, and the people will kill them when they come out,' said Sarah. 'Your father will protect them, and so shall I, if it comes to that; but it's a bad business, a very bad business; and what will be the end of it, who can tell?' 'I know they'll burn down the mills--that's what always happens--and we shall be ruined,' said Sarah. 'That won't ruin you, because they are insured, and let us hope it won't come to that. Besides, the mills are so well guarded that they can't get near them,' said Mr Howroyd in a tone which showed that he had thought of this danger himself. Mr Howroyd was now called away, and Sarah was left to her own thoughts, which were not pleasant ones. Somehow, when it came to the point, the thought of her father being burnt in his mill or ruined by his workpeople's spite was not so lovely, and she was relieved when Naomi reappeared with a bundle in her arms. 'I didn't dare to bring a portmanteau, miss, or even your dressing-bag. I was afraid with all these folk about ready for any mischief, so I've just brought a few necessities, as the mistress says; and she sends her love, and says she's glad you are safe with your uncle, though she wishes you'd stayed with her.' 'I wish I had, Naomi. Tell her I would never have come if I had known I should not be able to get back, and that if she will tell Uncle Howroyd I may, I'll come home at once,' said Sarah. Trouble was doing Sarah good, and her affectionate message did her mother good; though she hurried off to the telephone to tell Mr Howroyd that she forbade Sarah to attempt to come home, and to inform him that Mr Clay was stopping at the mill too. And so the weary, dreary day wore on, and the excitement in the streets grew. After nightfall the older men held indignation meetings in public, where they had huge audiences of sympathisers, the entire population being on their side, as a matter of fact. 'Foreigners in Ousebank! We've never had such a thing before, and we don't want it now,' they all agreed. As for the younger men, they held meetings too; but their meetings were held within closed doors, and what was said at them was not divulged. 'They're brewing mischief they young uns, sir,' said Luke Mickleroyd to Mr Howroyd when he came in for a few minutes before he took his watch for the night. 'I'm afraid they are. We must only pray and trust that they may not carry it out,' replied Mr Howroyd. 'Ay, sir, that's all we can do. I shall keep a sharper lookout to-night than I've ever done, and, please God, they'll be kept from doing harm to others and bringing sorrow on themselves,' said the good and pious old watchman. CHAPTER XXIII. OUTWITTED. All that night Sarah lay and tossed and turned, or fell into fitful slumbers, in which she had hideous dreams of the mills being burnt down, and her father with them. After a very vivid one, in which she saw the mill-owner standing, a tall, burly figure, on the top of one of the chimneys, with flames all round him which in a minute must devour him, she woke with a muffled cry, to find Naomi standing beside her with a frightened face. 'What has happened, Naomi? Tell me the worst at once,' cried Sarah. 'There's nought to tell, good or bad, so far as I know. But are you ill, Miss Sarah?' inquired the maid. 'No; I'm quite well. But the mills, and my father--are you sure that--that he's alive and well?' asked Sarah. 'So far as I know he is, and so are the mills; but no one has seen the master since yesterday, for he never came home last night. He sent to say he should stop in the mills all night,' said Naomi. 'Naomi, I must get up. Quick, get me some hot water,' cried Sarah, jumping up as she spoke. 'It's only six o'clock, miss. I shouldn't have come in and wakened you, only I thought I heard you call. You'd best go to sleep again; you're upset with all these doings, and no wonder.' 'I can't sleep, and I want to go to the mills,' declared Sarah. But Naomi exclaimed in alarm, 'Impossible, miss! Don't you think of doing such a thing! Mr Howroyd won't hear of it, I know. Besides'--here Naomi paused, and added in a rather embarrassed manner, 'you can't, Miss Sarah.' 'I can't go to the mills--our own mills, Naomi? What do you mean? You are hiding something from me. Are they burnt down or damaged in any way?' asked Sarah anxiously. 'Not so far as I know, miss; but you can't go into them for all that. No one can,' repeated Naomi. 'Naomi, have you seen the mills to-day? Are the chimneys all standing just as usual?' demanded Sarah. 'Why, yes, to be sure they are, and smoking; and big fires they are making, too, for I saw red sparks coming out of one. Why, what's the matter, Miss Sarah? You must be getting downright nervous,' observed Naomi, for Sarah had started and given a little shiver at this last remark. 'It's nothing, only I had a horrid dream about one of the chimneys; but if you say you saw them standing, with nothing unusual about them, it's all right.' And Sarah gave a half-nervous laugh as she thought of the 'unusual' appearance they had in her dream. 'All the same, I'm going to get up; it's no use lying in bed when you can't sleep,' she continued. While she was dressing, Sarah's thoughts recurred to the conversation she had just had with Naomi, and she suddenly remembered that the girl had never explained her mysterious statement that no one could go into Clay's Mills. So she rang her bell, and telling Naomi to do her hair, sat down on a chair while this process went on, and came to the point at once. 'I suppose father has barricaded himself and the men into the mills; but I could have got through all right,' she observed. 'The master has barricaded himself in; but the pickets set by the hands to guard the mills have barricaded every one else out, and they wouldn't let you pass if it was ever so, not for life or death, for it's been tried,' replied Naomi. 'How do you mean for life or death?' asked Sarah, bewildered at this extraordinary statement. 'What I say. One of those foreigners was taken ill and wanted a doctor, and no doctor would they let through, not even Mr Howroyd; and if any one could get round Ousebank folk it would be Mr William, for he's fair worshipped by them all for his goodness.' 'What's going to be the end of it all?' cried Sarah. 'I couldn't say, Miss Sarah. I don't know what's going on, nor I don't want to. It's safest not, and so mother thinks, for she won't have a word about it in our house; and Jane Mary has to hold her tongue there, though they do say she talks like a man at the young fellows' meetings, and is as bad or worse than they, egging them on. Not that I know anything about it,' Naomi hastened to add. 'There are none so ignorant as those that won't know, eh, Naomi?' said Sarah slyly. 'Perhaps not, miss,' agreed Naomi, as she shut her lips tightly, and was not to be induced to say any more. Meanwhile the night at Balmoral had not been much more restful. In the morning George said to his mother in a decided tone which she had not heard him ever use, 'I am going into Ousebank, mother. I shall go and see Uncle Howroyd, and if he approves I shall try and see my father.' 'Oh my dear, my dear, don't you do it! I couldn't stay here alone--I couldn't really!' she cried, wringing her hands. 'Then come with me. We'll motor down, and at best they can only stop the car and make us turn back; but I don't think they will. Come, mother, that's not a bad idea; it will make a change, and bring you nearer to the governor, and you will see Sarah and give her a scolding for her disobedience.' 'I don't feel like scolding any one. I shall only be too thankful to have her safe by me; though who knows whether any of us are safe anywhere?' said poor little Mrs Clay, whom the events of the past week had frightened out of her wits. 'I think you exaggerate the danger. They may try to fire the house--in fact, I rather expect they will, only I fancy the police are guarding us too well for them to succeed; but as for touching us or attempting our lives, I don't for a moment believe they would do any such thing--not Ousebank men,' said George, composed as ever. 'Oh, but it isn't only Ousebank men; there are some agitators come down,' cried his mother. 'They'll not put their heads in a noose, catch them, however much they may incite other fellows to. Don't you worry, mother; trust to me. I'll take you safe to Uncle Howroyd's,' said George. Mrs Clay meekly did as she was bid. At bottom she was rather pleased to be going near her husband and insubordinate daughter, and by the time she got into the motor her fears were calmed. Sarah was looking out of the mill-house window when she saw the car drive up to the big gates of the little front-garden. 'Mother, oh, I am glad to see you!' she cried, as she kissed her mother affectionately. Mrs Clay's pale cheeks grew pink with pleasure at the affectionate greeting, and she clasped her tall daughter in her arms. 'My dearie, I am glad to have you again!' she exclaimed. 'You ought to scold her well, Polly, instead of petting her; but it is always the way with the prodigal--he has the fatted calf,' said Mr Howroyd. 'George says he's going to see his father,' said Mrs Clay. 'If the pickets will let him,' observed his uncle. 'Exactly so,' said George. 'You can't possibly,' cried Sarah; 'they won't even let Uncle Howroyd through, so they certainly won't let you.' 'There's no harm in trying, anyway. I half-thought they might be unpleasant when we passed through the town; but they only scowled a bit,' observed George, as, having made his mother comfortable in an easy-chair, he kissed her and took up his hat to go. 'You are really going, dear?' said his mother. Sarah expected her to protest with tears; but she did nothing of the kind. 'I believe,' mused Sarah, 'that she cares more for father's safety than she does for George's!' And this idea was so surprising to her that she, too, let her brother go without a protest. Not that arguments would have been any good, as his sister knew. 'That boy has more grit in him than I suspected,' said George's uncle, as he watched his nephew walk with his deliberate gait out at the gate towards the notorious mills. 'I'd have given something to go with him to see what will happen when they turn him back. George is awfully obstinate, uncle; I dare say he'll stand there and argue with them till they let him through because they're sick of him and his polite requests to be allowed to go into his own father's mills,' observed Sarah. Mr Howroyd laughed, though it was not his usual cheery laugh. 'He'll be a cleverer fellow than I take him for if he gets past that picket, will George.' However, half-an-hour later the telephone rang. 'It's from Clay's Mills,' Mr Howroyd informed them, 'and they're calling for you, Polly.' 'Oh dear, 'ave they 'urt 'im?' Mrs Clay cried, and flew to the telephone. 'It's George,' she announced in accents of surprise; 'an' 'e says father is quite well, an' very glad to see 'im, an' 'e shall stay a bit.' 'How did he get in? Ask him that, mother,' demanded Sarah, who was naturally curious on the point. ''E says 'e walked in,' repeated her mother. Sarah went to the receiver herself. 'Nonsense; he couldn't.--How did you get past the pickets, George?' 'Walked past, I tell you. They argued a little, but I told them I was on their business as well as my own, and they let me walk in. They're awfully good fellows, really, and you all exaggerate their ferocity.' Suddenly Naomi came running into the room. Howroyd's house was not so ceremoniously ordered as Balmoral; but still Sarah was a little surprised at Naomi, till she said, 'There's a balloon-ship up above Ousebank, and you never saw such a funny thing in your life. Come and see it, Miss Sarah.' 'I suppose she means an air-ship,' said Sarah; but as she had nothing else to do, and time was hanging heavy on her hands, she followed Naomi into the garden. 'Yes, it is an air-ship,' she said. 'I wonder what it is doing up here.' 'It's going towards the hill--over Balmoral. We shall see where it goes if we go up to the roof, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi, who had never seen such a thing before, and was all agog with curiosity. To please her, Sarah went up to the roof lookout. 'Yes, it is over Balmoral, and they seem to be descending and doing manoeuvres over the house. I suppose they are going to look at it closer; but they won't be allowed in to-day, for Sykes is suspicious of a bird even. We really might be in Russia, to judge by the state of siege we are in,' she observed. She had still more reason to make the comparison a little later, for as the two stood and watched and commented on the movements of the air-ship something dropped from it. 'What was that, Miss Sarah?' asked Naomi. 'Fire! They've outwitted us after all!' said Sarah, and she fled downstairs as hard as she could.--Uncle Howroyd, ring up the fire-brigade. They've set fire to Balmoral!' she panted. [Illustration: As the two stood and watched the air-ship something dropped from it.] 'How do you know? Who told you so?' he inquired, evidently unbelieving, as well he might, for there was a posse of police guarding the house and grounds. 'We have seen it. They dropped fire out of an air-ship. Do send for the brigade!' cried Sarah, stamping her foot with rage at the delay. For a moment her uncle stared at her in stupefaction; then he clapped his hand to his forehead. 'It's that agitator scoundrel that's put them up to it!' he cried; and he rang up the brigade, only to drop the receiver with a gesture of despair. 'They've had a call some miles off,' he cried. 'Uncle Howroyd, we must do something.' 'Yes,' he agreed. 'Wait a bit.' Presently Sarah heard the mill-bell ring, and saw her uncle standing bareheaded at a window looking on his yard, in which the hands summoned from their work were gathered. 'My friends of many years, I have to ask a favour of you. My brother's house is burning, and the brigade is away. Who'll help to save a Yorkshireman's home, however much he has blundered, for a Yorkshire family?' 'We will, Mr William,' cried a hundred voices, and five minutes later there was not a man to be seen in the yard; but Sarah and Naomi, who had climbed to the lookout, saw them hurrying up the road to the hill on which Balmoral stood. Flames were coming out of the top windows. 'They may save the lower part,' said Sarah. 'The marble staircase won't burn, will it?' asked Naomi. Sarah laughed hysterically. 'No; but it won't be much use alone,' she remarked. 'It's going to be a big fire,' observed Naomi in an awe-struck voice. 'I'm glad my father is not there,' was Sarah's apparently irrelevant reply. Naomi was surprised for the second time that day at Sarah's solicitude for her father. She did not know that her dream had something to do with it. Besides, Mr Mark Clay, boastful and blustering, was a different man from Mark Clay a prisoner in his own mills, with his beautiful house burning. 'Oh miss, the royal suite is on fire! See!' cried Naomi, as she saw the flames come out of that wing. Sarah said nothing; but her lips tightened as she saw the wanton destruction of her home, and, now that she came to think of it, there were countless treasured possessions of her own there that she wanted to save. 'I wonder if I ought to tell mother?' she asked herself. But she need not have troubled. Mrs Clay knew, and was talking about it in melancholy accents to Mary, her brother-in-law's maid. 'It's no more than I expected, Mary; an' the mills will go next,' she said. 'Let's hope not, ma'am; and now that Mr William's gone up something may be done to save it,' said Mary, who had great faith in her master. But Mrs Clay had no faith in any human help; and when Sarah came down she found her mother dry-eyed and resigned. 'Yes, my dear, I know; it's the Lord's will. The Lord gave, an' the Lord taketh away. I began poor, an' I suppose it's 'is will I should end so. Per'aps I lay too great store by riches.' 'Never mind, mother, I'll work for you, and you shall never want, even if I have to scrub floors to support you,' said Sarah. Mrs Clay shook her head; but the tears came now and relieved her. 'It's for you I care most, dearie. Your 'ands were never made to scrub floors or do any menial work,' she declared, as she stroked Sarah's soft, white hands. 'I don't believe anybody's hands were made to be idle, and I mean to use mine, you'll see,' she said. 'Per'aps it's not so bad as we think. We must 'ave patience,' said Mrs Clay. 'Go an' see 'ow it's goin', my dear.' CHAPTER XXIV. GOOD-BYE TO BALMORAL. It is always the unexpected which happens. Here was Mrs Clay taking the destruction of her cherished possessions quite calmly, and only praying silently, as Sarah saw, that her husband and son might be saved. And here was Sarah getting angrier and angrier as she watched the fire spreading, apparently unchecked, and swallowing up not only the costly treasures for which she did not much care, but her own personal treasures, for which she cared more than she expected. Naomi made matters worse by her lamentations. 'To think of all the beautiful carpets and curtains ruined; and, oh, Miss Sarah! all your dresses, and that picture in your boudoir that you are so fond of, some Italian view or something! Oh dear! oh dear! the more I think of it the worse it seems. It's wicked, is this morning's work!' 'It's a fine morning for a fire--the sun shining, and just a nice breeze blowing to fan the flames,' observed Sarah sarcastically. But Naomi did not perceive the sarcasm; and after a wondering and rather reproachful glance at her young mistress, she remarked, 'It's what I call a bad morning; but, then, I suppose you're glad, because you want to be poor; though how you can stand there quiet-like, and see all your poor ma and pa's things burnt up, let alone everything you can call your own, passes me--it does.' A smile flitted over Sarah's face as she thought how far out Naomi was in her judgment; but it passed speedily as she saw a huge tongue of flame dart up and blaze high above the trees. 'It's the garage! The petrol has taken fire!' said Naomi. 'Whatever could they have been thinking of to leave it there? Surely they've never left those beautiful cars to burn themselves up?' 'They don't seem to have done anything to stop the fire. If Uncle Howroyd hadn't been there himself, and if they had not been his hands, I should have said they had helped it, like the men the other day,' remarked Sarah. 'No fear of that. Mr William's men will stand by him and do what he says, for his sake. It's not been their fault that Barmoral's burnt to the ground, I'll lay,' declared Naomi with vehemence. 'No, I'm sure of that,' said Sarah, who felt a pang which surprised her at the words, 'Barmoral's burnt to the ground.' Not that they were quite true, for Balmoral was still burning furiously; but they soon would be. Suddenly Naomi made a terrible suggestion. 'Miss Sarah, suppose anybody is in the house?' she cried. Sarah turned on her quite angrily. 'Who should there be in the house? Of course there's no one in it. The fire began at the top, and it's not likely any one would stay up there to be burnt,' she cried, for this thought had never struck her; she had taken it for granted that the servants would have escaped at once. After the first fright she added more calmly, 'Of course they are safe. Balmoral is only three stories high, and the top story is only attics and storerooms and servants' bedrooms, and they are not likely to be up there at this time of the day. But, pray, don't go suggesting horrors of that kind to mother, or you will make her quite ill.' 'I'm sorry if I upset you, and I know you've a feeling heart, though you don't care about the house burning, so I'll say no more and hope for the best,' said Naomi. Sarah felt as if she could shake her for her determined pessimism. However, she said nothing, but stood and watched the flames in silence till they seemed to be dying down a little, and then she reluctantly turned from the absorbing sight, and went downstairs to give her mother the news. 'I think they've got the flames under, mother,' she said; but Mrs Clay took little notice. 'Mother, don't you hear? They've got the flames under at last.' 'Yes, my dear, I 'ear, an' I'm glad of it; but it's your father I'm thinkin' about. I do 'ope an' pray 'e's safe,' she replied. 'Why shouldn't he be? The mills are all right,' said Sarah. 'Yes; but I don't know if 'e's there. I keep ringin' 'im up, an' there's no answer, so 'e's not in the mills, for they always call 'im for the telephone.' 'The old hands would; but, you see, everything is different now. Let me try,' observed Sarah, taking up the receiver, and ringing, at intervals, for some minutes. 'They are all looking at the fire from the lookout,' she remarked at length, as she put the receiver down. Mrs Clay shook her head. 'It isn't like your father to stand an' watch 'is property burn; 'e'll be up an' doin' somew'ere,' she declared. 'Would you like me to go and see if he is still there?' suggested Sarah. Not that she supposed for a minute that her mother would allow her to go, for she objected to her walking through Ousebank on ordinary occasions when the mill-hands were out, so she was still less likely to let her go to-day when the town was in a state of excitement never known before, and, to crown all, their mills in a state of siege and their family so unpopular. But Sarah was mistaken. Her mother said gratefully, 'If you would just run to the mills, dear, I should be very glad. Even if they won't let you through, they'll tell you, or some one will tell you, if your father 'as come out.' Sarah was just starting for her room to fetch her hat, when she remembered that she had no hat. She had come down with a shawl over her head like the mill-lasses, for whom she hoped to be mistaken; and Naomi had not thought of bringing one with the other necessaries which she had made into a bundle. 'And I don't suppose you've got a hat to your name now, Miss Sarah,' the maid observed gloomily when consulted on the subject. Sarah gave her hair a brush, and remarked lightly, 'Well I must go bareheaded. Perhaps it will please those people to see the state of poverty they have reduced me to.' And off she started, regardless of Naomi's protests and offers to go and get a hat somewhere. 'Eh, but she's a proud lass, is yon!' said more than one whom she passed, her head high and her eyes looking straight ahead of her, not seeing or noticing the groups through which she passed. 'Ay, she counts us the dust under her feet,' said another, and the group agreed; while one of the number observed, 'Perhaps she'll think differently when she sees her property laid in the dust;' and a younger man laughed, though the others said, 'Nay, 'tis nought to laugh at. Clays are no friends of mine; but I was always agin that. 'Tis a wicked deed they've done up at Balmoral, and tricks with air-ships isn't a Yorkshire way of fighting, though 'tis a dirty trick he've played us with his foreigners.' But Sarah had not the satisfaction of hearing any of the remarks disapproving of the fire, and her heart swelled as she thought that all Ousebank was glad of their loss; for no one--not even an acquaintance, herself the wife of a mill-owner--stopped her to condole with her. Sarah had no idea that it was her own repellent bearing that prevented them, nor that this same lady went home and said to her family, with tears in her eyes, 'It made my heart ache to see her walking alone through all those crowds, with her head bare and face so grave. I'd have been glad to take her hands and say how sorry I was; but she wouldn't look at me, but passed me as if I was quite beneath her. I didn't dare to stop her.' Nor, apparently, did the pickets dare--or care--to do so either, as Sarah came straight up to the chief gate and knocked at it. A cautious face appeared at the other side of a little window, and a moment afterwards the little postern-gate was opened wide enough to let her slip in, and speedily shut to with a clang by two men who were posted there in case any one should attempt to enter with her. 'Thank you. Will you take me to my father?' she said to the men, whom she recognised as old hands. 'He's in the dye-house, miss. They 're making a beautiful new colour, and the master's rare and pleased about it,' replied the elder man. 'But the fire? Doesn't he mind about the fire?' inquired the girl. The man looked at her, not understanding. The fire's all right, miss; they made it a bit too hot this morning, but it's all right now. We've got proper stokers and all,' he assured her, evidently thinking she was afraid the engine was not being properly attended to, and alluded to that. It flashed across Sarah that they did not know of the fire at Balmoral. Then her father did not know, and she would have to tell him! She went very slowly towards the dye-house. This possibility had never struck her. Even though they could not see Balmoral from Clay's Mills, there was the telephone, and the pickets outside; but then Sarah remembered that for some reason or other the telephone had been abandoned, and naturally the pickets would not for obvious reasons choose to give the news. She found her father and George in the dye-room as she had been told, the former jubilant over the new shade, and George standing by apparently as interested as his father. 'What! Sally? There's a brave girl to come and see the prisoners! But it's an ill wind that blows no one any good. Here's George showing himself quite a business man, with the makings of a fine wool-merchant in him, and I never knew it. So that's all the strike has done--got them two Clays to fight instead of one,' cried Mr Clay, and Sarah was struck by her father's pride in George. She did not answer, but stood looking appealingly at her brother. Mr Clay misunderstood her, and said, 'You don't like the idea of a merchant-brother; but you'll have to get used to it. I don't mean to let him go back to college. He knows a lot of useful stuff, and these are ticklish times.' George understood his sister better, and, answering her look, said, 'What's the matter, Sarah? Is mother ill?' Mr Clay looked anxiously at her. In his egotism he had not thought of his timid little wife, whom all this might well have made ill; but that he was not devoid of regard for her Sarah saw by his face. 'No, it's not mother; it's Balmoral.--Father, I thought you knew,' she stammered. 'Knew what? Speak out, girl. What's happened there. Nothing short of an earthquake could harm it; it's well enough protected.' 'It's burning, father,' Sarah blurted out. The mill-owner looked at her unbelievingly, and laughed his boisterous laugh. 'Burning! Nonsense! They couldn't get near it to damage it. Why, there's fifty police up there guarding it, and a pretty penny it's costing me--a pretty penny all this.' Sarah looked pitifully at her father. 'They dropped fire from an air-ship, father; but Uncle Howroyd and all his hands have gone up there to try to put it out,' she hastened to add, for her father's face terrified her. He took no more notice of her; but turning to George, on whom he seemed all of a sudden to rely, he said,' What does the girl mean with her cock-and-bull story of an air-ship setting my house on fire? Why should an air-ship'----He paused. 'How could they get an air-ship?' he continued. 'Perhaps I'd better go to the lookout, father,' said George.--Come, Sarah;' and he took his sister by the hand and hastened along the dye-yard towards the spiral staircase to the lookout. The mill-owner let them go without a word, not attempting to follow them, for it was an arduous climb to the lookout, and the mill-owner was a stout and heavy-built man, and had not been up there for years. He stood for a little as if puzzled, then went to the entrance-yard to the porter, and asked, 'Have you seen or heard aught of any fire at Balmoral?' 'No, sir; not except what Miss Clay said,' he replied. Meanwhile Sarah was breathlessly hastening up the stairs, and telling George all that had happened. 'Why didn't you tell us before?' he demanded. 'Because we never imagined you didn't know. I thought every one in the town knew, and mother did try to telephone to you, but she couldn't make any one hear,' explained Sarah. George groaned, but made no more reproaches, and soon they came out on the lookout. The flames were still raging, though not so high. Evidently the petrol had burnt out; but not so the fire, alas! 'It will burn to the ground,' George remarked, as he stood there with glasses to his eyes. 'They are trying to save the west wing, but I doubt if they will.' 'Oh George, let me look! I never thought of using glasses! Why, you can see the people running about with buckets!' cried Sarah. 'It feels like a bit of myself gone; but you don't care, of course,' he remarked, as he reluctantly tore himself away to go down and tell his father. 'I do care. And, oh George, I'm awfully sorry for father! What will he do or say?' cried his sister. 'I don't know. But how did mother take it?' he asked. 'She said it was God's will. Somehow, I don't think it surprised her; she seemed to expect a disaster as soon as she knew about these foreigners being brought in, and I don't think she'll care if only father is safe,' said Sarah. 'Poor mother; she doesn't think of herself at all. Still, I know the place is heavily insured. Father is too cautious a man not to see to that, though he'll never get those pictures or their value back again, nor his plate. I must try to break it to him; but it isn't a thing one can break,' said George. 'Well, boy, what's this story? Any truth in it? More trees burnt?' asked Mr Clay. 'They've done worse this time, father; they have managed to set fire to the house. But Uncle Howroyd is working for all he's worth, and so are his men, so let us hope they'll save the valuables,' said George. He spoke so calmly and collectedly that his father failed to grasp the extent of the calamity. 'I don't rightly understand. Is it the house that's on fire, and which part?' he demanded. Evidently he only imagined that it was some small outbreak which would soon be got under. George hesitated. 'It's got a good hold of the house, sir--the fire, I mean; but we can build it up again.' 'Build it up again? Build up Balmoral again? You don't know what you're talking about. There's a million sunk in that house,' he cried angrily, and yet he did not believe them till he saw George's pitying look. 'It's not really bad, my lad?' he asked. 'Yes, father, it's pretty bad; but the house is insured.' The millionaire gave a yell of rage. 'If they've done it, by heaven they shall pay for it!' And he made a dash for the front entrance. CHAPTER XXV. 'A BAD BUSINESS.' After a moment of consternation, Sarah and her brother followed their father, and arrived at the front gate in time to see him dash out and down the street before the pickets on duty at the gate had seen what was happening, or had time to prevent his escape, if, indeed, they had wished to do so. Perhaps they felt that to prevent a man from going to rescue his property from destruction would be exceeding their duty, or perhaps they thought they had gone far enough, for they made no attempt to stop him, and looked after him with not unfriendly faces. 'He may run, but he'll not run so fast as the flames,' said one to the others. 'And you're a set of blackguards for what you've done, and I'd sooner be a blackleg any day than a blackguard,' shouted the watch inside the gate to the watch outside. 'I'd nought to do with it, Ben; I'm only obeying orders standing here, and there's no denying that the master's driven the lads to it. They've hot blood, and he's roused it,' replied the picket, who did not seem to resent the plain speaking of his former mate. 'No one is ever driven to setting other folk's homes on fire,' said the watchman bluntly. 'George, what do you think he's going to do?' demanded Sarah of her brother, who was standing, cigarette in mouth, listening with apparent indifference to the colloquy of the past and present hands. 'Gone to see what they are doing at Balmoral,' observed George. 'Hadn't you better go after him?' suggested his sister. 'I don't think so. Strikes me I'd better keep a lookout for possible air-ships dropping down upon us here. They'll get a warm reception if they do,' said George with significance. 'I wonder where they got the air-ships from. Naomi says it's the London agitators who have done it all,' said Sarah. 'Very likely. Well, it's a miserable business. I don't care for the men we've got here overmuch, though they do their work very well, and it was very clever of the governor to have got them here and at work so promptly,' said George. 'A good deal too clever! And see what the result has been! He tricked the hands, and the hands have tricked him, and he has come worst off so far,' retorted Sarah. 'I don't know about that! There's a proverb which says, "He laughs longest who laughs last," and we've yet to see who that will be. So far, the men have burnt Balmoral, but that loss is insured against; but they have not bettered their position, and they are losing money, whereas the governor is making money by the change.' 'One would think it was you who didn't care now; you stand there smoking, as if nothing were the matter,' remarked Sarah. 'If you will tell me what good I should do by getting excited I might try it; but I don't know of anything to be gained by making a row. You'd better go back to mother, and tell her the mills are all right, that father's gone to see what he can do at Balmoral, and that I shall stop here until further notice. Try to put a good face on it, and cheer her up, Sarah. She isn't fit for all this worry,' urged her brother. 'I'll do my best,' replied Sarah; and she went back to her mother, and left her brother in charge of the mills and of the men. The two porters at the gate were his devoted servants, and talked to him with the freedom of old workmen, as they deplored the present condition of things. 'And the sooner we see the backs of those chaps the better,' said one. 'They are quick enough, but they're not thorough; and they'd chuck it up to-morrow if it weren't for the high wages they're bribed with.' 'I shouldn't have thought that would pay,' observed George in his usual lazy, indifferent way. The man gave him a look, and said in a significant tone, 'It doesn't--at least, it wouldn't in the long-run; but it pays better than letting the mills "play," especially with this big contract on for blankets for abroad. The hands knew that, and that's why they struck. They thought the master'd have been obliged to give way to get it done. And so did I, and so he would have if he hadn't got those chaps by a miracle.' 'How did he get them?' inquired George, asking the same question that every one else was asking. The man laughed, with an evident appreciation of the smartness that could accomplish what looked like a miracle, although he shook his head disapprovingly. 'He telephoned to somewhere abroad--I don't rightly know if 'twas France or Belgium; in fact, he've been 'phoning for days; and it seems there was a wool-mill shut down, and these men out of employ, and he had the whole lot brought over and put in here by midnight on Sunday. They came in wagon-loads from a station ten miles off, and not a soul knew. Oh, he managed it well, did the master! But they laugh best who laugh last, as the saying is.' George took a whiff of his cigarette. 'So you think the men will laugh the last? Do you think they'll burn the mills down?' he inquired. 'No, sir; I don't think they could if they would, and I doubt if they would. 'Twould be wholesale murder, with all those hands inside. Besides, there'll be some arrests for this other job, and that'll cool their blood. No; what I 'm afraid of is those men in here,' said the old man, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the mill-buildings. 'What do you think they'll do?' George demanded. 'They'll go. They're getting tired of the confinement and the dullness. Besides, they are frightened. Goodness knows how they've got to know anything of what's going on outside, but they have; and if they hear of this fire it'll be all up with us. They'll go, and a sack of gold won't keep them.' George looked very thoughtful. 'Where do they sleep, and what do they eat?' he asked. 'Oh, they sleep on blankets and wool in the barns. And they've got their own cooks, and there's plenty of food of the kind they like,' replied the man, with true British contempt for foreign messes. 'What food have they, and how did you get enough in for them?' George asked. 'That's the master again! There's sacks and sacks of flour and coffee and beans, and things that we thought were bales of wool, and tins of milk; and they eat a lot of them things, and very little meat, except bacon. But they're crying out for vegetables. Mark my words, Mr George, they won't be here much longer, double pay or not.' George turned and left him, and went for a walk through the mills. The men greeted him rather surlily, from which he opined that they could not be French, though they spoke that language; but when he put any questions they declined to answer, saying that their orders were not to give any information to any one. However, they seemed to be working well, and so George remarked to their manager. 'Yes, sir; they are doing time-work. They will get a bonus each if the work they are doing is finished by a certain time,' replied the man. 'I see,' said George, and then he looked thoughtful again. They would finish the contract and go. He walked back to the office, from whence he meant to go to the lookout again to see how the fire was going, but was in time to hear the ring of the telephone. 'Halloa!' he said. 'It's Sarah! Do you see what's happened at Balmoral?' she inquired. 'No; but I imagine it's burning or burnt to the ground,' said George in a resigned tone. 'The fire's out; at least, there's only smoke to be seen. But everybody's come away, and I am afraid some one is hurt, for I saw through the glasses that they were crowding round something, and then the men made a stretcher, and they are bringing whoever it is to Ousebank,' said Sarah. 'God forbid that any life has been lost! Let me know what it is as soon as you know. I can't leave the mills till father comes back, and I don't know that I shall even then. I think I'm wanted here.' 'I wish I could be there with you!' exclaimed Sarah. 'You've got to stay where you are and look after mother. How is she?' inquired George. 'She's all right. At least, she sits quite quietly, and says it's God's will, and that she doesn't care as long as she has all of us. But it's very dull here. Women always do have the dull work to do in this world,' observed Sarah. 'They think they have; but I don't think you'd be much better off here; it's not particularly lively being with a lot of sulky foreigners who won't talk to you.' 'How can they if they're foreigners?' protested Sarah. 'They can talk French all right, some of them; but they won't answer me in their own language,' said George. 'I dare say they don't understand your French,' said Sarah. But George declined to notice this insulting remark. Sarah was evidently called away from the telephone, and ring as he might he could get no answer from her or any one at Howroyd's. He tried to get on to the office, but was told that Howroyd's was 'playing,' as they say in the north country, because the most of the men were at Balmoral. So there was nothing for it but to possess his soul in patience, and watch the men at their dinner-hour eating bacon and haricot beans, and a kind of soup made out of George could not imagine what, seeing that the cooks had no vegetables to make it with, and drinking wine and water. 'They seem to enjoy their food,' George remarked to Ben the gate-keeper. 'Yes, sir, they do; and a little seems to go a long way with them. But listen to them now that their tongues are loosened! Goodness only knows what they are saying, but they seem excited enough. I'd give a good deal to understand their jargon,' replied Ben. 'It's Flemish, I fancy. Anyway, I can't understand it. I wish I had some one to send to Howroyd's. I suppose it wouldn't be safe for one of you to leave the gate?' said George. 'Safe or not, I daren't risk it. The master's orders were not to leave it without his permission, if I wanted to stay with him. But I shouldn't worry, sir; ill news travels apace, and if there were anything wrong you'd have heard it soon enough,' said the man. He had scarcely uttered these words when their attention was attracted by a knocking at the entrance-gate; and upon Ben going to the window to look out, he saw the picket on duty making signs to him to come to the gate and speak. The man looked so disturbed, and almost ashamed, that Ben knew there was nothing to fear from him except bad news, and that he felt pretty sure he should soon hear. 'Now, what villainy have you been up to?' he asked, as he opened the gate half-way. 'It's no use making bad blood by hard words, Ben. I told you before I've had nought to do with the happenings at Balmoral. We're only fighting for our rights and our livelihood, that you're trying to take away from us; but there, I didn't come to say all that, but to see the young master, if he 'll let me have a word with him,' said the man. 'I shouldn't think he'd have anything to say to you, and I shouldn't have thought you'd the face to speak to him when you're trying to ruin him; and as for me taking your livelihood away, you've done it yourselves. Dogs in the manger, I call you; won't work yourselves, and won't let any one else.' 'Have done, Ben, and let me see Mr George. I've got a message that won't wait,' said the other. The gate-keeper went to find George, who was again at the telephone in a vain effort to communicate with his sister, with whom he felt very irritated for leaving him without news for so long. 'Wants to see me? One of the pickets, you say? Does he want to come to terms, do you think?' inquired George. 'I doubt it, sir; but you'd better see him. He says his message won't wait.' Thus entreated, George left the telephone and went to the gate. 'Excuse me, Mr George,' said the man, standing bareheaded to speak to him, which even George knew was a token of great respect--was it also sympathy?--coming from a mill-hand of his father's. 'Excuse me, but we think you're wanted at Howroyd's. There's been an accident'---- 'An accident? To whom?' interrupted George. 'To the--to Mr Clay, sir,' said the man. George was just hurrying off, but stopped for a moment. Suppose this were a ruse to get him out of the mills. He half-thought of trying to get a message to Sarah before leaving the mills. But the man, seeming to guess his thoughts, said, 'We sha'n't interfere with the mills, sir, if you'll take my word for it.' 'You can scarcely expect me to feel very secure, can you?' said George quietly. 'No, sir, I know; but I swear to you I'll fetch you if you're wanted here. But do you go to Howroyd's at once,' said the man so earnestly that George hesitated no longer. Touching his hat as he passed them, he walked rapidly to his uncle's, where he found all in confusion. The first person he saw was Sarah. 'What is the matter with father?' he asked. 'I don't know,' said Sarah. 'Don't know! Where is he?' asked George. 'In the sitting-room; that's why I couldn't get at the telephone. They disconnected it to stop the noise. The doctors are with him,' replied Sarah, who looked white and shaken. 'How did it happen? Did he get burnt? Is there no one to tell me anything?' asked George in despair. 'I don't know. He was brought on a stretcher, and Uncle Howroyd came with him, and he and mother have gone into that room. I don't know any more than you; but, oh, I am glad you've come!' cried Sarah, bursting into tears. 'Come and sit down,' said George, putting his arm round his sister's shoulder. 'Some one will come out in a minute, I hope.' It was William Howroyd who came. 'You here, my lad! That's right. You'll have to take the head of affairs now,' he said kindly but sadly. 'Is my father--dead?' asked George, with pale lips. 'No, no, not dead; but it's a stroke, and he won't be fit for business for some time. If I can help you I will; but it's a bad business, a very bad business. Well, my home is yours, as you know, and you must all stay here for the present. As for the future, why, you can stay here then if you will. It's not a mansion, but there's room enough for us all.' CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE YORKSHIRE GRIT. 'Can I see my father, sir?' said George. 'Yes, of course, my lad. Go in. He won't know you, but you may go in,' said his uncle. Mrs Clay sat watching beside her husband, who lay on his improvised couch in the sitting-room, and she looked up dully when her son came in. 'They've killed 'im this time, George,' she said. 'I hope not, mother. He'll pull through this,' replied her son. But his mother shook her head. ''E'll never get over bein' bested by the men. 'E's always been so masterful all 'is life, an' they've mastered 'im at last,' she declared. 'I don't know so much about that. Father said I was to stop at home and help him, and I mean to do it, and see if things can't be straightened out again,' said George, with youthful confidence. Mrs Clay looked at her son proudly. 'You've the same spirit as your father, though you've never shown it before; but this coil's too 'ard for you to untwist, lad. You'd best leave it to your uncle Bill; 'e'll do the best 'e can for us all, an' there'll always be a bite an' a sup for us while 'e lives. But Clay's Mills are a thing of the past now, lad.' Sarah, who, without asking leave of any one, had followed her brother into the sick-room, broke in now. 'We're not going to live on charity, mother. If we really are poor I shall just work in a mill, that's all. I won't live on any one else, not even Uncle Howroyd.' Her mother and brother both gave her a warning glance. George said in low tones, 'It's no good exaggerating the misfortune. We have met with losses, and my father may not be a millionaire at this moment; but I hope we may not long trespass on Uncle Howroyd's hospitality, though there is no talk of living on charity.' As he said this his father opened his eyes, and it seemed to George that there was a gleam of consciousness in them. He bent over the sick man, and said in low, clear tones, 'Father, I'll do my best to keep the mills going. That is your wish, is it not?' ''E can't 'ear, George,' sighed his mother. 'I think he understood,' declared George; and though the others did not agree with him, they said no more to discourage the young man. 'Come, Sarah,' George said gently to his sister, as he drew her out of the room with him, 'you'll have to help me to put all this business right.' 'I? What can I do? I know nothing about accounts, you know,' cried Sarah, secretly pleased, all the same, at the idea of being of use. 'You are often down at Uncle Howroyd's, and I hear you talking of "fettles and pieces," and goodness knows what all,' observed George. Sarah laughed. 'I suppose you mean fettlers (people who clean the machines) and piecers (those who join the pieces of wool or yarn together when it breaks),' she explained. 'There! You see I don't even know these words, and if I have to go into accounts and details I must know them, or I shall be showing my ignorance, and the people will have no confidence in me,' returned George. 'But those foreigners don't understand you. What will you do with them?' inquired Sarah. 'Nothing. I shall send them off the minute this contract is done,' said George. 'That is to say, if Uncle Howroyd approves.' 'What are you going to do with my approval, my lad?' demanded William Howroyd, coming in and putting his hand for a moment kindly on his nephew's shoulder. Sarah was struck by his serious and troubled face. She wondered whether it was anxiety for his brother's health or sorrow for the misdeeds of the Ousebank men. She did not know that there was a third reason added to these two; but she soon was to know it. 'I want to pack off those men as soon as the contract we have in hand is finished,' said George. 'They've saved you and me any trouble, George, lad. They've discharged themselves,' said Mr Howroyd gravely. George looked at his uncle aghast. 'You mean that the foreigners have gone--without a minute's warning?' he asked. 'They have that,' replied Mr Howroyd. 'But why did they suddenly do that? They seemed to go back to work willingly enough after their dinner,' said George. 'It seems they had some means of communicating with the outside world. When they heard of your poor father's illness, and were told he was ruined, and his house even burnt down, they decided to leave a sinking ship,' said Mr Howroyd. 'Uncle Howroyd, do you think it is a sinking ship?' inquired Sarah. Mr Howroyd considered a little; but, being a man who thought honesty always the best policy, he replied frankly, 'I think we shall save enough out of the wreck to keep you afloat; but I think Clay's Mills must shut.' 'I don't understand that, sir. Of course, I know that we must have lost a good deal by the fire, and this contract, too, will be a serious loss; but there is the insurance of the house, and I understand that, thanks to you and other kind helpers, a good deal was saved at Balmoral,' observed George. 'That is so, my lad; but the trouble is--and that's what caused your father's illness--the house was not insured,' said Mr Howroyd. 'Oh, but, uncle, it was. I happen to know, because father said the insurance he paid would keep a family comfortably,' interrupted Sarah. 'I know, and so I thought; but, owing to threats they received, saying it was going to be burnt down, the company asked such a heavy premium that your father refused to pay it, and said he'd take precautions instead. It was a mad thing, and no one but him would have dared to do it. And now, what are you going to do with an empty mill, whose hands have all struck, and whose head is lying unconscious?' inquired Mr Howroyd kindly but discouragingly. The brother and sister had drawn closer to each other instinctively in this their first trouble, for trouble it was to both. 'If we give up the mills, what have we to live on? I don't know my father's affairs, but I imagine he has a large capital,' said George. 'It's difficult to explain to you, but most of it was in the mills. I expect that you will have a few hundreds a year when the business is wound up. But things have not been so prosperous as they have appeared of late with your father, and he spent freely,' replied Mr Howroyd. George sat silent after this; but Sarah suddenly exclaimed, 'George, don't give it up! Open the mills again, and try to keep them going with the old hands. I know you could, with Uncle Howroyd's help, and I'll stop at home and help you all I can, and take care of mother.' George gave his sister a swift glance, and then appealed to his uncle. 'What do you say, sir? Is it any use my trying?' 'My lad,' said Mr Howroyd in a moved tone of voice, 'if you had asked me that question a month ago I should have told you to go back to your Greek and your Latin at college, and leave blanket-making to those who know what they are doing; but if you like to try, I'll not be the one to stop you. It won't be much worse if you fail.' 'Oh, but he won't fail.--Will you, George?' cried Sarah. 'I hope not; I can but try,' said George. But the two enthusiasts had a sudden check when they informed their mother. 'George run the mills! You don't know w'at you are talkin' about.--That's your doin', Sarah; you 've always some maggot in your 'ead.' 'But Uncle Howroyd said he might try,' said Sarah. 'Your uncle Howroyd's kindness itself, an' generous to a fault. Don't you see you'd be runnin' them on 'is credit? Who'd trust George if they thought 'e was responsible? An' if your uncle Howroyd stan's surety 'e runs to lose 'eavily,' said Mrs Clay, who knew something about business. 'I never thought of that,' said Sarah slowly. 'Mother, you know that a certain sum was settled on me when I came of age, and was not invested in the business,' said her son. 'Yes, dear; but don't you touch that. You'll only lose it, an' then w'ere will you be?' she protested. 'Where I am now, under the necessity of earning my own living, and that will be no hardship,' said George, with his pleasant smile. But their mother was not to be persuaded. 'Your father was a wonderful man. You 'aven't 'is talents, though you're dear, good children,' was all she would say. 'My father's talents didn't prevent him from making a horrid mess of things,' began Sarah hotly. But George silenced his sister, and said to his mother, 'Very well, dear mother, if you do not wish me to try to carry on father's business for him till he is able to take it up again himself, then I will not do so; but I shall ask Uncle Howroyd to take me into his mill to learn the business of a blanket-maker. I mean to be sooner or later.' Mrs Clay looked at her son in amazement. 'You, George! But all your book-learnin'--w'at are you goin' to do wi' all that? Is it all goin' to be wasted? All your beautiful, expensive education an' all?' she expostulated. 'An' Sarah, too, talkin' o' stayin' at 'ome an' 'elpin'! She'll 'ave to go to some school, though I doubt whether we can afford her present one.' 'I don't think that school is much loss to Sarah, though it seems to have suited Miss Cunningham. But as for my book-learning, I mean to try to apply it to manufacturing; and if it is not much use there, as I fear it won't be, still no knowledge is lost, and I shall always have my books and the pleasure of reading,' remarked George. 'Well, my dear, you must do as you think best. If you could do such a thing as keep the mills goin' till your father was about again, 'twould be a grand thing, an' give 'im new life w'en 'e came to 'imself, an' I've no right to be a 'indrance in your way; so do as you wish, dear, an' God bless you for a dear, good boy!' said his mother, after some argument. 'Come along Sarah, let's go and look at our mills. It's rather disgraceful, but, do you know, I've never been over the whole of them before,' said George. 'It will be dreadful to see them empty and "playing," as the people say,' said Sarah. 'Please, sir,' said Naomi, 'the French _chef_ is here, and wants a month's wages and compensation for loss, he says.' George paused on the threshold. 'I thought Sykes was seeing to all that, and housing the people till we could settle with them?' said George. 'He says he wishes to leave this country of savages at once,' said Naomi, with a toss of her head. 'I expect there's money in the till at the mills,' said Sarah. 'I'll write him a cheque on my own bank, and I shall be thankful to eat no more of his elaborate messes,' observed George; and he did so, though the cheque was a much bigger one than he had expected, and the operation had to be repeated till most of the servants were satisfied, after which George said, with a laugh, to his sister, 'I hope Sykes and Naomi and Tom Fox won't present their bills, for, to tell the truth, I've used up all my balance, and rather more.' 'Have you paid every one else?' asked Sarah. 'Yes; and I had no idea we had such an army to wait upon us. You've no idea what the total comes to,' said George, as he ruefully totalled it up. 'There must be lots of money somewhere,' said Sarah vaguely. 'Ah, now you begin to understand what poverty means,' said George. 'It's not quite so lovely, is it, after all?' Sarah did not choose to answer this taunt, and was saved from the necessity of doing so by the announcement that Tom Fox and Sykes the butler were outside. 'I shall have to overdraw and realise some money,' observed George to his sister, after he had told Naomi to show them in. 'And please, sir, they speak for me, if you'll excuse me,' said Naomi as she ushered them into the room. Sarah was surprised to find how disappointed and hurt she felt at this cupidity on the part of Naomi, and she would not look at her at all. 'Ah, Sykes, you want your wages? How much will that be?' said George, quiet and pleasant as usual. 'No, no, Mr George, I didn't come for them, sir. If you'll excuse me, sir, and not think it a liberty, but I've a nice house, a biggish house, though 'tis a cottage compared to Balmoral of course; but it's lying empty, and it would be convenient to have it used, and I'm going there myself to-night, and if you'd condescend for the next few months'----said Sykes, with much clearing of his throat and apologetic coughs. 'That's exceedingly kind of you, Sykes,' cried George, much touched. 'Where is this house?' 'Right opposite Balmoral, on the hill, Mr George. It touches the grounds, and what I was thinking was, you could make a gate into the grounds, and you'd be like in your own park, same as before.' 'I know the house. It's a big one, as you say. You've made money, then, Sykes?' 'Yes, sir; the master was always liberal, and I've saved, and done well in investments. I'd be pleased to wait on you, same as before. And Tom Fox here---- Why don't you speak up, Tom?' urged Sykes. 'I'd be glad to remain in your service, Mr George, and motor you down to town, as I hear you are taking on the business. I saved the motors, all on 'em,' said Tom. 'I don't know how to thank you, my friends, except by accepting your offers with all my heart; and if the mills pay all right you must take shares,' said George, with his winning smile. 'Well, we've got three servants and a motor, so far,' said Sarah; 'because, of course, Naomi is going to stay, and it will be very nice to be still on the hill instead of living in Ousebank. I hate Ousebank'. George wanted to remind Sarah that she had hated Balmoral; but he decided not to cast up the past, as she was so much improved, so he only said, 'Yes, I've often looked at that Red House, and wondered whose it was, and who would come and live in it. I little thought that it would be ourselves.' 'It reminds me of the Bible,' observed Sarah abruptly. 'What does?' asked George. 'The Red House?' 'No; all the other servants fleeing like the hireling, but our own Yorkshire servants staying with us, and offering their services and houses, and all.' 'There's another text it makes me think of,' said George reverently, 'and that is to put your trust in God.' CHAPTER XXVII. SARAH IS MUCH IMPROVED. 'George, I'm going to cheer mother up by telling her what a nice house we have had offered to us,' said Sarah, full of the new plans. 'I don't fancy anything will cheer mother while father lies there in that condition. However, she will be glad that Sykes has shown himself loyal,' replied George, who was just going down to the mills. Mrs Clay had been sitting by her husband the whole of the day, and no power could induce her to leave him; but now Mr Howroyd had persuaded her to come and take some food. The two met George and Sarah in the passage. 'Going out, George? What are you living on to-day--air or excitement? Don't you know it's dinner-time?' he exclaimed when he saw that his nephew had his hat in his hand and was evidently going out. 'I was just going to the mills, uncle. I shall be back in half-an-hour,' said George. 'What are you going to do there? They are shut up, and Luke Mickleroyd and the other watchmen are in charge. Come and have some food, lad; it will help your mother to eat if she sees you eating. You must all badly want something; you've starved all day.' George Clay put down his hat, remarking, 'I had no idea it was so late.--Come, mother, take my arm.' 'Mother, we have something so nice to tell you,' said Sarah, speaking in a gentler voice than was her wont to her mother. ''Ave you, my dear?' said Mrs Clay indifferently. 'Yes; we've got a house for you to live in already.' 'I know, Sarah. Your uncle is very kind. I'm sure I'm very grateful to 'im,' said Mrs Clay. 'Oh, but it isn't Uncle Howroyd; it's Sykes. He wants us to live in his Red House on the top of the hill,' cried Sarah, her face aglow with pleasure at the good news she was imparting. 'Sykes, our butler! I 'aven't come to sharin' my butler's 'ouse,' said Mrs Clay, bridling. 'But he's going to wait on us just as he used to do,' explained Sarah. 'Wat's the good o' talkin' nonsense, Sarah? 'Ow can I order a man about in 'is own 'ouse? An' 'ow can you want your poor father to open 'is eyes an' look upon the ruins o' 'is beautiful mansion? It's downright indecent o' you to be so glad that you've got to live in a poky little 'ouse; but, at least, you sha'n't drag your father an' me to live there, to be reminded o' the beautiful past,' said Mrs Clay. 'Nay, Polly, my dear, you are taking this quite wrong. The children are behaving as well as can be, and Sykes too; and it's not a poky house, by any means. In fact, it's as big as this, and I don't know that it would be a bad idea, after a little while,' urged Mr Howroyd. 'I'm sure, Bill, I don't want to complain; but it's all so strange without Mark, an' to think o' 'im in Syke's 'ouse, after w'at 'e's been used to,' said his sister-in-law. Sarah restrained her first impulse to reply indignantly, and said, 'I don't think father would mind, and it was partly for his sake I was glad. I thought he could still have his park and grounds, and you forget he could not see the ruins of Balmoral, because the plantations come between.' 'Besides, mother, if things go well we shall perhaps be able to build the house again,' suggested George. But he was no more successful than his sister in cheering his mother. She answered him, quite shortly for her, 'That you'll never do, George. There'll never be another Balmoral, so don't you think it. There are not many men like Mark, an' there never was a 'ouse like 'is now'ere, not even the King's, so I've 'eard, an' I'm glad an' proud to 'ave lived in it; but I'll try an' be resigned to the will o' Providence; an' if you both wish it, an' your uncle thinks it right, I'll go to Sykes's 'ouse w'en your father is able to be moved.' Mrs Clay said 'Sykes's 'ouse' in a tone of such contempt that her brother-in-law observed, with his genial laugh, 'One would think it was the workhouse by the way you talk, instead of being as big as many a manufacturer's. But I know you are thinking of the old place, and, of course, after what you've been used to it is a trial; but you must pluck up courage and be thankful that you have your family still and no lost lives to mourn over.' Mrs Clay shook her head in a melancholy way; she was not to be comforted, and the others gave it up. 'One would think he had been the best and kindest husband in the world, instead of being'----began Sarah after dinner, when her mother had hurried back to her husband's room; but here she checked herself. 'Well, there's one thing--you'll excite no envy, hatred, and malice at the Red House; and you know the proverb, "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,"' said their uncle. 'Oh!' cried Sarah, and then explained, 'That's just what I said when we lived at Balmoral; but I didn't mean it to come about in this dreadful way.' 'Ay; but things never do come about in the way we want or expect,' said Mr Howroyd as he rose from the table, leaving the brother and sister together. 'George, what are you thinking of?' asked his sister abruptly, after the former had sat for some time smoking a cigarette, and leaning back in his old indolent way. 'Thinking of? I'm thinking that I've undertaken a task too big for me, and that I should do better to accept Uncle Howroyd's offer of winding up affairs,' he replied. 'Then you are a coward! And I only wish I were your age and a man, and I'd carry on the mills myself, and show people.' George looked at his sister with an amused smile, which was his usual way of treating her outbursts, and which always exasperated her; but he hastened to say, 'Steady there, Sarah! I never said I was going to back out, only that things seem more difficult than they did when I began.' 'Why? After Sykes's offer, and Tom Fox's? I never told mother of him. It didn't seem to be any use, because she doesn't care for anything or feel grateful about anything.' 'I hope I shall have as good a wife; but she will be difficult to find,' observed George. 'You'll probably marry a virago; easy-going people like you generally do, and you'll be henpecked all your life,' was Sarah's consoling remark. Then they both laughed, which did them good. Not very long after they went to bed, and, being young and full of hope, to sleep. It seemed to them both that they had just shut their eyes when they heard the clanging of a bell; and, starting up in alarm, they recognised it as the bell of their uncle's mill calling the people to work. George decided to go down to the mills, and a very short time saw him dressed and at the gates. ''Tis young Clay,' he heard as he passed down the street, through groups of idle men, women, and girls, whom he guessed to be their former employés. They had nothing to get up for; but habit was too strong for them, and they had risen and turned out at the same hour. 'What'll he be going to do at t' old mills?' some of them inquired of each other. 'I be main sorry for him. He's a right good young gentleman, they say,' said one woman. 'I wish he'd run the mills. I'd work for him,' said another. 'If he'd have you; but I doubt he'd not have one of his father's hands after what's happened,' was the retort. 'He's but a youngster; he can't run the mills. They'll have to shut down till the old master comes to, or this one gets old enough,' said a shrewd old hand. 'Yes, 'twould never do for he to start blanket-making without experience; he'd soon run aground. I'd not work for him,' remarked another old man. Evidently no one had any idea that George intended to try his hand at the business, in spite of inexperience and youth; and, indeed, as he went down the street he found himself wondering how he was to set about it, and whether he had not better brave Sarah's scorn and give it up. But he reasoned with himself, 'I will go on till my private capital is exhausted, and if I have failed by then I'll own it and give up.' With new resolve, he walked briskly on and entered the silent mills. The clang of the gate as it shut after him struck painfully on his ears, and he went to the office and sat down to think. 'If only I knew what to do! Perhaps this room will inspire me,' he murmured. But the room did not seem to do so; on the contrary, he was oppressed with the sense of the failure in which all the business done in that room had ended. Suddenly the door opened, and Sarah, dainty and fresh in the muslin Naomi had thoughtfully brought her, almost her only possession in the way of clothes, came in. 'George, I have an inspiration,' she said. Her brother looked up with a smile. 'That's funny,' he replied, 'for that's just what I was sitting here waiting for.' 'That's a nice, useless thing to do!' said Sarah. 'On the contrary, it appears to have been answered,' he said. 'Oh, well, it wasn't your sitting there that made me come and have that inspiration; it was the clanging of Uncle Howroyd's bell. Why don't you do the same thing?' inquired Sarah. 'Do what?' demanded George, who did not think much of this inspiration. 'Ring the bell--the big bell, I mean--to call the hands in, just as if nothing had happened,' urged Sarah. 'Nothing would happen if I did, except that we should have a gaping crowd round the gate, and the fire-brigade coming to see if we had a fire. So, if that's your inspiration, I'm inclined to agree with you that my waiting for it has been useless,' returned George. 'I wish you'd try, George. I believe the hands would all come back, and we should get the contract done after all,' persisted Sarah. 'They looked at me in quite a friendly way as I passed, and lots of the men touched their hats, a thing they never did before.' George hesitated. 'But I don't feel that I could take them back again,' he said. 'Then what do you mean to do? You can't run the mills with new hands,' she protested. 'No; but I can't take back the men who have destroyed our property,' he declared. 'They are, or soon will be, taken up; so they won't apply,' began Sarah, when her brother interrupted her. 'Sarah,' he cried with sudden vigour, 'you have inspired me after all! I will have the bell rung, and when the people come, as some are sure to come, out of curiosity, I will make them a speech, and explain that those whom my father dismissed are still dismissed, but that the rest I shall be glad to have back. I'll speak to the manager, and see what he thinks.' The manager and Ben looked admiringly at George. 'There's pluck for you! Let's hope it will be rewarded. At any rate, we can but try,' they said; and they gave orders for the big mills-bell to be rung, and the few faithful ones stood in the yard, making a kind of bodyguard round George, and waited for the curious crowd to arrive. Sarah watched from the office window, and her eyes shone with excitement as she heard the sound of clogs and many footsteps coming down the street. 'I was right' she cried. 'It's our old hands! I knew they'd come.' And they did come, till the mill-yard was packed, and then George made them a speech. 'My father is stricken down by the misdeeds of some of his former employés, and in his absence I am going, with the help of my good friends here, to run my father's mills. Those of you who voluntarily left his employ are welcome to return to it; those he discharged will not be admitted.' Such, in brief, was the young man's speech. The hands noticed that he had not called them 'friends,' nor, indeed, had his tone been friendly, but only business-like and curt, in marked contradiction to the way he had spoken of 'my good friends here,' alluding to those who had remained at their posts. But they were just men, and they respected the young man all the more for bravely and boldly 'standing up to them,' and showing his loyalty to his father and those who had stood by his father. Some few slunk away. They were those Mr Clay had discharged--an act which had brought about the strike. But this time their discharge was accepted. Without exception the hands took up their old places; the engine, which had stopped, went on again; the fires, which had not yet gone out, were replenished; and before William Howroyd could get down to see what new misfortune this was, Clay's Mills had ceased to 'play.' 'Nay, my lass, you can't be serious. Men are not a flock of sheep to come back to you just because the bell rings,' he protested when Sarah told him the tale. 'Just go into the rooms and see for yourself,' she said. 'They are all setting to work with a will.' 'But I meant to have a talk with George and try to arrange things,' objected Mr Howroyd. 'One can't restart a business like this in this hap-hazard manner.' 'It's not hap-hazard; it's just natural. They're sorry for us and for everything, and they've just come back as if nothing had happened. I really think George is a born business man; he's quite left off being half-asleep all the time,' cried Sarah. 'It's my belief he's been more wide awake than we knew "all the time,"' quoted her uncle. 'Anyway, he's quite wide awake now. And, oh! it's so funny to hear him when they come and ask him some questions he doesn't know anything about. He puts up his pince-nez, looks very wise, and says, "You had better go on as you have always done for the present."' Mr Howroyd pinched her cheek. 'You are far too wide awake, especially when it comes to criticising other people. Well, I expect I can go back to my own mill. I'm not wanted here. I shall soon be coming to your George for advice. Dear, dear! who would have thought it? He looked as if it was too much trouble to live. This bad business has done you both good--you as well as him, and you badly wanted some improvement, my lass. It'll be a proud day for your father when he hears what you have both done,' said Mr Howroyd as he went off, looking bright and cheery again. CHAPTER XXVIII. SARAH BECOMES A BUSINESS WOMAN. Mr Howroyd had not been gone very long when George came in, his usually calm, unruffled brow puckered, and his face wearing a worried look. 'I say, Sarah, I'm afraid I've been very presumptuous in undertaking to carry on my father's business,' he said. 'What has happened? Aren't they behaving all right?' inquired Sarah, looking anxiously at him. 'Oh, the hands? Yes. Hurst, the manager, says they have come back in a good spirit, and are working all they know to get the contract done. He says he never saw smarter work,' George told her. 'Then I don't see what you are worrying about,' said Sarah, laughing, as she added, 'I expect they want to show that they are as good as any "Frenchies," as they call the foreigners.' 'But that isn't the trouble; it's father's customers and the people he has done business with. Some of them have called in and intimated pretty plainly that they don't mean to have any dealings with me,' he observed. 'How horrid of them! They might at least have waited to see how you got on,' exclaimed Sarah in great indignation. 'Well, it was rather my own fault. I suppose they can't afford to wait and see how things go in business. They began talking about business deals, and using all sorts of terms which, I suppose, are current in the wool-trade, and I let them see that I didn't understand anything about it,' said George. His face was so melancholy and his forehead so wrinkled that Sarah burst into a hearty laugh. 'It's no laughing matter; it spells ruin to us if our clients--customers, I mean--fight shy of us, and we shall be worse off than if I had never meddled with the matter,' he said severely. 'I am very sorry, George; but I could not help it; it is so funny for you to be so worried and fidgety. Why didn't you say Uncle Howroyd would stand surety, and refer them to Hurst? He has been manager for years, and father used to say that Hurst knew as much about the business as he did himself. If I were you I'd get him to write a circular-letter to all those people, and say that in father's temporary absence from business he is managing for you by Mr Howroyd's advice.' 'I never thought of it. I'm very unfit for all this. I like the dyeing and the chemical part of the business; but what all these men said was Chinese to me. I wish you'd just tell me what some of these words mean,' he said, as he sat down to the table and began questioning his sister. 'I can tell you a good deal, because, you see, I am always down at Uncle Howroyd's, and he lets me go into his office and talk to him while he is working. I've often seen the other merchants and buyers come in; but it seemed quite simple; they just ordered what they wanted, and Uncle Howroyd put the pieces on.' 'Put the pieces on what?' inquired George. 'Don't laugh; tell me what that means.' 'Put the pieces to be made on to the machines--the lengths of blanketing or cloth,' said Sarah. 'Excuse me, Mr George, but Mr Blakeley is here,' said Ben the gate-keeper, coming into the office. 'Who is Mr Blakeley?' inquired George. 'He's one of our buyers, sir,' replied the man. 'Oh George, I know him! Do have him shown in here,' entreated Sarah. 'He is such a nice, good-humoured man.' But circumstances alter cases, and Sarah was surprised to find that the good-natured Mr Blakeley, whom she always saw smiling and ready to complete a deal with her Uncle Howroyd, became a brusque, serious business man with her brother. 'I have an order on hand here, Mr Clay; but I should prefer if you will allow me to cancel it. I understand that there are changes in the mills, and it is rather particular that it should be woven exactly as it was,' he said, after having made some curt and perfunctory inquiries after Mr Mark Clay's health. George evidently did not understand what he meant, and was just saying, with his usual courtesy, 'Oh, certainly; we should not, of course, hold you to your word.' But Sarah broke in. She had been used to talk to these men when they came to see her uncle, and they had all admired the handsome girl, and showed her attention to please her uncle, who was evidently very fond of her and proud of his niece. So she felt no shyness with Mr Blakeley, and said, 'What difference do the changes make, Mr Blakeley? My father did not weave the cloth, and the manager and foremen who looked after these things are still here.' Mr Blakeley looked at her, and an amused smile crept over his face at her business-like tone. 'Quite true, Miss Sarah; but the weavers of this particular cloth have left, I understand, and I would rather not trust it to new ones.' 'Of course not,' began George. But Sarah interrupted again. 'You'd better hear what our manager has to say. Father won't be pleased if he finds we have sent good customers away.' 'There's a good business woman for you!' cried Mr Blakeley with a laugh. ''Tis a pity you are not a man; you could go into partnership with your brother and father.' Meanwhile George had acted on Sarah's advice, and sent for Mr Hurst, who came at once. 'There's no call for you to withdraw your order, Mr Blakeley. We've got the wools you asked for, and there's one of the weavers who has done your cloth before, so I think you may be easy in your mind about its being done as well as ever. We're turning out some fine work, and there's a new shade you might find useful, which perhaps you'd like to see.' Mr Blakeley pricked up his ears at the news of a new shade, and went off quite eagerly with the manager. George heaved a sigh of relief. 'You pulled us through that time, Sarah; but it won't always go like that. I can't push.' 'You must, or you'll get pushed to the wall; but I have had another inspiration since I came down. Why don't you weave a lot of coat-lengths of that new shade? It's much more suitable for that than for blankets.' 'I thought the same thing when I saw it, and said something of the kind to father, and he said he should try samples. They were almost the last words he said to me that day before he left me.' 'It was only yesterday,' observed Sarah. George stared at her. 'So it was! I can hardly believe it. It seems weeks ago; but I am glad you reminded me of it, for it will please father to find we have carried out his wishes, and I think it might "catch on," as he said.' 'The fact is, you've got dazed with the shock. I believe you felt it more than I did. I am very sorry for father being ill, and I think the hands who burnt our house behaved disgracefully, and I'm glad they were turned off; but I can't help feeling that it was father's own fault, and that perhaps it will do him good.' 'It's not our business to judge his treatment of his employés. He was a very liberal father to us,' said George. 'You are not so hard-hearted'----began Sarah; but a prolonged ringing at the telephone interrupted her. 'It's mother,' she announced, 'and she's calling for you.' George went and listened. 'Father is conscious, and has asked for us,' he cried, and his face lightened. 'I'm very glad,' replied Sarah quietly; but her face showed no such joy as her brother's. It is to be feared that where her father was concerned Sarah was somewhat hard-hearted. 'We must go at once,' said her brother, taking up his hat. 'I don't think you ought to leave the mill till the dinner-hour. The bell will ring in a quarter of an hour. Can't you wait till then?' objected Sarah, who, as is seen, was more business-like than her brother, thanks to her intercourse with her uncle Howroyd. 'Perhaps you are right. Then you had better go, and say I will be there almost directly,' he suggested. Sarah started with mingled feelings. She was glad, really glad, that her father had recovered consciousness, and was therefore, she supposed, getting better; but the fact was, Sarah felt very resentful and sore that he had made himself so hated, and she walked very slowly along the streets that separated her father's mills from Mr Howroyd's. ''E knows me, Sarah!' cried her mother, whose face was transfigured with joy. 'Thanks be to God, 'e knows me, my dear 'usband!' For the life of her, Sarah could not show any great joy, but only inquired, 'Has he asked for me, or is it only George he wants to see, mother?' ''E mentioned you both, an' asked w'ere Sally was,' said her mother, forgetting, in her great relief, the small detail that Sarah disliked being called so. 'Then I'd better go to him and tell him George will come in as soon as he can leave the mills,' said Sarah, preparing to go into the sitting-room, which was still being used as the stricken man's bedroom. 'Don't you say any such thing! Don't you breathe a word about the mills or Balmoral or anything. 'E's not to be excited, the doctor says. I've 'alf a mind to tell 'im 'e shall see you by-and-by; it would be a dreadful thing if you were to upset 'im. You don't always get on too well with your father, Sarah,' Mrs Clay wound up reproachfully. 'I sha'n't say anything to upset father while he is lying there so ill. I only meant to explain why George did not come at once,' explained Sarah. 'You needn't explain. Sick folk don't want explanations,' objected Mrs Clay. 'Say George is out.' 'Very well,' agreed Sarah, and she went into the sick-room. It was a relief not to see her father lying there with unseeing eyes and breathing so heavily; but, somehow, Sarah felt very uncomfortable under his keen glance to-day. Still, she managed to say, 'I am glad you are better, father.' 'Ay, I'm going to get better; but I'll never be the man I was. I've made a mess of it, Sally, and I shall not leave you the big fortune I meant you to have to match your pretty face, my little lass. I've not done right, and I shall never be able to do it now,' said the sick man. 'Yes, you will, father. You will be all right in a few weeks, and you can make another fortune, and build Balmoral again,' cried Sarah eagerly, as she impulsively took her father's hand, and then started on finding that it lay limp in hers. A spasm passed over the invalid's face at her words; and if Mrs Clay had not been too much afraid of her husband she would have stopped Sarah and sent her away. As it was, she gave a little groan from the background, as much as to say, 'You've done the very thing I told you not to do.' 'There'll never be another Balmoral. It would take me too long, and I doubt if Clay's Mills will ever be themselves again. I'd like those fellows to be sent off the minute the contract's done. It'll take them another week; but I'll be glad to see the backs of them. I wish they'd never come,' said Mr Clay, who seemed to have a feverish desire to talk. 'They've gone, father,' said Sarah. But this was too much for Mrs Clay's patience. 'That'll do, Sarah. Your father's not got to talk business w'ile 'e's so bad.--There, Mark, don't you worry; everything's going on as well as can be expected,' she said, in what she thought was a soothing tone. Her husband waved her aside. 'Let be, Polly! Let the lass speak; I must know the worst.--So they've gone, the villains! When they thought I was done for, the rats forsook the sinking ship. Ay, 'twas a bad day for us, was yon. Well, that ends it! The credit of Clay's Mills has gone for ever. I'd best not get better. You'll have a little something to live on; and that's all I've done with my toiling and moiling. I'm best dead,' he said. Mrs Clay grasped Sarah's arm in a convulsive grip. 'Don't breathe another word. I forbid you!' Sarah felt sure she should do more good by speaking; but she remained obediently silent. 'It's strange--a sick man's fancy, I suppose--but I thought I heard our bell. There's no mistaking it. And, hark! there it is again. Am I light-headed, Polly, or what's that bell I heard?' he asked. 'No, Mark, no, you're not light-headed; it is your own bell. All's goin' as well as can be expected,' replied poor Mrs Clay. 'What does she mean? Speak up, my lass; why are they ringing my bell? Speak, I tell you!' he commanded. So Sarah spoke, and told him what her brother had done. The mill-owner listened in silence, and Sarah scarcely recognised her father's voice when he said, 'Thank God, my credit's saved! I don't deserve such children; but you take after your mother, and she's brought you up right. I've been a hard man, and I'd have been your ruin if you hadn't prevented it.' Then he shut his eyes, only to open them and say, 'Tell the hands I'm glad they've come back;' and with a sigh he went off into a refreshing sleep. 'And, oh George! he was so different, so humble and gentle. It did make me feel so ashamed of myself,' cried Sarah to her brother when he came in to lunch. 'I'm glad to hear it. It's about time you were,' announced George. 'You needn't say that now,' said Sarah, 'just when everything is going all right.' 'I don't know that everything is going all right; in fact, I'm rather glad I did not come in time to talk to father, for I should not have given such a glowing account of everything as you have,' he remarked. 'You are dreadfully pessimistic. Of course there are ups and downs in business; it's only that you are not used to it,' insisted Sarah. 'It's mostly downs at present unfortunately,' said George; and he was to repeat the remark only too often in the weeks that followed. CHAPTER XXIX. 'A MIRACLE.' It was some weeks after the events related in the last chapter, and George was looking years older, so his mother told him. 'Nay, lad, you must let me help you,' said Mr Howroyd. 'I've a few thousands lying idle, and you'll want them to keep the mills going for the next few weeks.' 'Do you mean to say it costs a thousand a week to keep the mills going?' cried Sarah. 'It does that, lass, and I hear you've no orders coming in,' replied her uncle. 'Then what's the good of their doing work if no one will buy it?' said Sarah, whose enthusiasm had died out, and who was now as pessimistic as her brother. 'Have it done ready for buyers. We often have to fill our warehouses in bad times till we can find a market for our goods; and as George won't go and ask for orders'----began his uncle. 'I really could not, Uncle Howroyd. I should feel like a beggar,' protested George. 'Then you must sit here and wait till buyers come; it's only a case of holding out long enough. Hurst is a good man, and a first-rate manager. I don't know why the buyers have left you. I'm afraid it's some mischief that's been made over the trial of the young men for firing the house, and their heavy sentence. It has not done Clay's Mills any good.' 'I know that, uncle, and that's why I don't want to take your money. It's only throwing good money after bad,' said George. 'Haven't I got any money?' inquired Sarah. Mr Howroyd laughed as he said, 'Not yet. You'll have all that and more when I'm dead and gone.' 'And I hope that will be never!' cried Sarah impetuously. 'Then you'd better take this money now. I've neither chick nor child, so it's yours,' he said with his cheery smile. 'George, I think you'd better. Taking it from Uncle Howroyd is not taking charity,' said Sarah. 'I should think not,' put in her uncle. George let himself be persuaded, in spite of his firm conviction that feeling was so strong against Clay's Mills and their owners, and that they were practically being boycotted by the buyers. And he was right. The weeks dragged on, and since the big contract, which had been finished and sent off to time, thanks to the goodwill of the hands, no order of any importance had come in, and George heard of them being placed elsewhere in the town. 'It's no good, Sarah,' he said one day. 'I knew we were done for when I read that article in the paper about ill-gotten gains, and there have been others since.' 'Is Uncle Howroyd's money gone?' inquired Sarah. 'Practically, and the warehouses are full. I mind more for father and the hands; they've come back to us, and everything is going well in the mills, and Hurst is a good business man; but it's no use making good cloth if people won't buy it.' 'Hasn't the new dye taken at all?' inquired Sarah. 'Yes, to a certain extent, and it is the only thing we are selling; but it wants some fashionable person to take it up, and I really couldn't push it or ask any of my friends,' he observed. 'I might ask Horatia to get her mother to have a costume that colour,' said Sarah doubtfully; 'but she hasn't written lately. She said they were coming up north in their motor, and should call and see us all. But I expect they've read those things that have been written, and don't want to have anything to do with us now we're ruined, or going to be.' 'In that case you can't possibly write to her. But I wish I knew what to do. I have even been to see some of the buyers, only to be refused,' said George a little bitterly. 'Oh, have you really? That was plucky of you, because I know you hate it so. I do wish something would happen. I hate going into father's room and having to tell him that things are rather slack. You know the doctor says he will soon be able to go down to the mills himself, and then he'll know the truth,' said Sarah, who, it will be observed, had quite changed in her feelings towards her father. 'Well, they say when things come to the worst they will mend, and things have come to about the worst with us, so let's hope they will mend,' said George, rousing himself and trying to speak cheerfully. 'That proverb is rubbish,' said Sarah, with some of her old violence; 'things often come to the worst and just end there.' 'We've done our best, anyway, so we shall have that consolation,' remarked George. 'How much longer can you hold out?' inquired the practical Sarah. 'Practically I'm at the end of my tether, and was thinking of warning the hands that the mills may have to shut down at the end of next week.' 'Oh, wait a day, George, and don't do anything without asking father first; he ought to be asked, and he may think of a way out of the difficulty,' entreated his sister. 'All right; but a day won't make any difference, unless a miracle happens,' observed George. 'Father will have been out for his first drive, and will be stronger, for one thing,' said Sarah. 'And, who knows? a miracle may happen.' 'Lady Grace and Mr and Miss Cunningham to see you, Miss Sarah,' announced Sykes. Sarah gave a little cry of joy, and looked significantly at her brother. 'Oh George'----she began. But he said hastily, 'Don't ask a favour, Sarah. When people come to pay a call of civility they don't want to be bothered about business.' 'Very well,' said Sarah, who was not so self-willed as she used to be. Horatia rushed at her. 'Oh Sarah! I am so glad to see you, and so sorry to see Balmoral--I mean, not to see it. Father wants to look over your mills, and I want to see your father,' she cried, bubbling over with high spirits as ever. Meanwhile Lady Grace and Mr Cunningham were shaking hands with George, and congratulating him upon his energy and plucky attempt to keep on his father's business. 'Let's all go down to the mills,' cried Horatia. 'It's dinner-hour now; but if you will stop and have lunch with us we shall be very glad, and we will go after lunch. It won't be a Balmoral lunch,' said George, smiling at her. 'All the better; we shall be finished the sooner,' said Horatia,' and the mills take an awfully long time to see.' 'Then will you come and see father? He does not come down yet, and mother has her lunch with him; she can't bear to leave him,' said Sarah. Horatia accordingly went off with Sarah, and found the mill-owner looking very different; but it was Mrs Clay who seemed the most changed. She looked years younger, and so quietly happy. Horatia could not understand it at all, not being given to troubling her head about people's characters. After lunch--which, after all, was a very good one, and served in Sykes's best style, to do honour to the guests--the party drove down to the mills. Sarah could not help thinking what a good thing it would be if Lady Grace Cunningham should take a fancy to this new cloth, she was such a striking-looking woman, and a well-known figure in society; but the girl determined not to suggest it, though her heart beat a little quicker when they were coming to the dyeing-rooms. Before this they passed the warehouses, and George good-naturedly opened the doors to let Horatia see more blankets than she would ever see again in her life. 'How full it is! This place was quite empty when I last came,' she cried innocently. George blushed like a girl. 'It's a slack time with us,' he said, and hastily shut the door. But Mr Cunningham stopped a moment. 'They are not sold, then?' he inquired. 'No,' said George; 'but let me show you something more interesting.' 'Then it's rather fortunate I called, for I fancy I know a buyer. It's a large line of steamers I have a share in that are starting, and want a big consignment of blankets to be numbered and delivered by a near date,' said Mr Cunningham; and he began to go into figures with George. The two went off with the manager to do some telephoning, and Lady Grace Cunningham walked on with the two girls to the dyeing-rooms. Sarah felt more than ever that she could not say anything, though she showed the new shade and the cloth. 'Oh mother, do have a coat and skirt of it!' cried Horatia. 'It does suit you so well! Just see!' 'But I don't suppose I am allowed to buy it wholesale like this?' Lady Grace protested. 'I believe one firm in London has stocked some. George will know the name,' said Sarah; but her eyes were shining with such pleasure that Lady Grace saw that the suggestion had given great pleasure. 'If you will let me have the name I will certainly order a costume. I have never seen the shade, and I think it ought to become very popular; it is such a good winter colour,' she said. 'Thank you very much,' said Sarah quietly; but her face said a great deal more. When Mr Cunningham joined them, Horatia insisted on his looking at the new cloth. He admired it as much as his wife, and said, 'I wish you'd have a dress of that shade. I'm so sick of dull colours, and this is really becoming.' Horatia clapped her hands. 'She's going to when Mr Clay tells us the name of the place where you can buy it.' 'I can do that; but you would give me great pleasure if you would let me send you a length,' said George. And Lady Grace gracefully accepted the offer, knowing that it gave the young man, as he said, great pleasure; and adding, 'But let me know where it can be got in London, for I am sure to be asked.' When they took their leave, George and Sarah looked at each other, smiling. 'The miracle has happened, George!' the latter exclaimed. 'Thank goodness!' he said. 'Oh Sarah, if you only knew how that warehouse full of blankets has weighed upon me!' 'Then I wonder you're alive to tell the tale,' said a cheery voice behind him. They both laughed. 'Oh Uncle Howroyd, isn't it lovely? Mr Cunningham has given George such a big order, and Lady Grace is going to wear the new shade. They've been to call.' 'I know. They called on me first,' said their uncle. 'Did you ask them to help us?' cried Sarah, her face falling. 'Nay, lass; I'm as proud as you, and I never said a word except that young George was battling bravely. Mr Cunningham told me he had come on purpose to see if he could get blankets, and, as a matter of fact, he asked me; but I hadn't any ready. So, you see, it was Providence helping those who help themselves,' he replied. Meanwhile the Cunninghams were speeding south with the dress-length packed in the carrier at the back of the motor. 'I don't recognise the description I heard of that family,' observed Lady Grace Cunningham; 'and it just shows that one must never believe what one hears, for according to you and Nanny they were very different.' 'Yes; I noticed that. And young Clay, too, is not in the least like Maxwell's description of him. He said the young man was an easy-going fellow, who looked always half-asleep, as if life was a bore to live, and was only fit to lounge in fashionable drawing-rooms. I shall ask him what he means,' said her husband. 'But that's how Sarah talked of him. I expect he's changed, and so is she; in fact, they are all changed,' declared Horatia. 'But you told me Mrs Clay was a meek, trodden-down creature, and Mr Clay a rather violent man, and that Sarah could not bear him. And as for Nanny's description, it was worse still, and I find Mrs Clay very different, and Sarah is devoted to her parents, especially her father.' 'I know,' agreed Horatia, nodding her head. 'I was so astonished that my eyes nearly dropped out of my head. But it's the fire that has done it. It's burst up all their bad qualities. I can tell you it was pretty uncomfortable last time I stayed there; and when you tell Nanny your opinion of them, she'll say a miracle must have happened.' 'I think they have been having a hard struggle. The young fellow betrayed it when he showed that full warehouse. I heard something about it. There is a feeling against them. Even our shipping people objected to trading with them. But I'm glad I persuaded them; it may give them a lift, and one thing leads to another.' 'Yes; and you must make that shade the fashion, mother. Wear it at your big reception, will you?' begged Horatia. 'And get it copied at once?' laughed her mother. 'Yes, because Mr Clay was so kind to me. Think of that rink that he had made just to please me!' cried Horatia. 'Ah, that was a waste of money! They won't be able to throw their money about like that for some time to come,' said Mr Cunningham, shaking his head. 'No; and a good thing, too. I don't approve of these colossal fortunes,' said his wife. 'Unless one has it one's self,' laughed her husband. 'It just shows how quickly they can be lost,' she observed. 'Well, it seems to have done them all good, so I don't think we need regret it or pity them,' said Mr Cunningham. 'Only, I do wish you had seen Balmoral; it was like Aladdin's palace. I never saw anything like it,' cried Horatia. CHAPTER XXX. LAST. The worst had come and passed. Two days later Mr Clay announced his intention of going down to the mill. 'Not that I'm going to take things out of your hand, lad--nay, I shall never be good for much again--but just to see the old place, and say a word to some of the hands,' he explained. 'Will you wait till this afternoon, father?' asked George. 'Why? What's doing?' inquired his father. 'Only carrying bales for a big order,' said George. 'I'd like to see that; it means business,' persisted the mill-owner. And he had his way. 'I wanted to get the warehouse cleared before he came,' George explained to his sister, who was his confidante; for Mrs Clay, strange to say, took no interest in the mills or her son's proceedings except so far as it 'pleased father.' However, Mr Clay came down, and saw the huge bales being sent off to the shipping line. His quick business eye took in the whole situation at a glance. 'You've been slack. It's been a heavy pull,' he said gravely. 'Yes, father; but the worst is over, and things are looking up. We've cleared this side, and I've had two more smaller orders since Mr Cunningham's,' said his son. 'And you've borne all that worry alone, and never told me a word. You're too good to your old father, both of you, for I've brought it on you; it's me the buyers have forsaken, not you. But they'll come round again. We make good cloth and blankets, and they know it,' he said; but he did not boast as he used to do. The hands, looking rather ashamed and shy, greeted him respectfully as he walked slowly along, dragging his paralysed foot after him. 'I'm glad to see you again,' he said again and again. But when he had gone, they shook their heads and said Mark Clay would never be the man he had been, and that it was the young master they must look to now. 'And a good master he'll be, though he's a bit too polite, and down upon what he calls rudeness, which is only our way,' said one of the young men. 'You've taught them London manners, lad,' said Mark Clay, looking at his son quizzically, as he noticed how no man, woman, or child passed the young master without some greeting. George laughed. 'I couldn't stand their rough ways,' he admitted. 'Well, I've nought against it, and I see you've made some other alterations for their benefit; but I've nought against that either. You've done well by the mill and by me, and I'm proud of you, and proud of my girl, for she's got a shrewd business head, too, it seems.' 'Yes; I couldn't have done it without her. She is so quick, and seems to know the right thing by instinct,' said George. 'That's the woman's way. It's wonderful how they'll see things we can't. Your mother's the same,' replied Mark Clay. And George made no comment on this change of front, though he remembered the times without number that his blood had boiled when the millionaire had spoken contemptuously of his wife, and told her that she did not know what she was talking about. * * * * * It is two years later, and a motor-car drove up to a beautiful house that stood on the place that Balmoral formerly occupied. Out of the motor stepped a young man with a good-humoured, freckled face, very like Horatia, whom he handed out, and who was now a very nice-looking girl of seventeen. 'We've come to your house-warming, Sarah,' she cried. 'And, oh, what a beautiful house! It's almost as good as the last one. And you've got a marble staircase and all. Why, it's exactly like the other!' she cried. Sarah shook her head. 'It's not so big or so grand; but we tried to make it like the last to please father and mother. Poor mother was always talking of her marble staircase, so that's exactly copied, and so is the parquetry flooring, and her rooms are as like as we could make them; but we have no royal apartments for you this time,' she said. 'I'm glad of it. I don't mind telling you now that I used to have a nightmare every night, dreaming that burglars had come in and murdered me for my wealth--thinking it was mine, you know,' Horatia confided to her. 'Father is in the drawing-room waiting to see you. He is still rather an invalid,' said Sarah as she led the way to it. 'It's almost the same, Sarah!' Horatia cried again. 'Yes; and we still have the gold plate and Sèvres china. Sykes saved a lot of things, we found afterwards; but it's not so palatial, and father wouldn't have it called Balmoral any more. He said that was boastful.' 'Oh! What is the name of the house, then?' inquired Horatia. 'Father will tell you,' said Sarah. 'So you've kept your promise, and come to stay with us again; only, this time it's my son's house,' said Mr Mark Clay. 'Oh no, father; he says not,' cried Sarah. Mr Clay shook his head. 'I lost my all when I lost Balmoral, and he built up the fortune again. I'll never have a mansion here; but I'm content to stay in my son's till I get a mansion in the sky,' he said. Horatia smiled at the allusion to her speech. 'What is the name of the house?' she asked. 'Horatia House. We all wished to have something to remind us that it was your family we had to thank for having a home again. You made the tide turn and the dye take. George wanted to call it Arnedale House, after your ancestor; but Sarah said, "Call it Horatia House," and so we did.' 'And a very pretty name it is,' said little Mrs Clay, who looked very pretty herself. 'That is a very pretty compliment you have paid me! I feel I ought to make a pretty speech of thanks, but I don't know how,' cried Horatia with a merry laugh. 'Here's the mill-owner,' said his father, as George came in, looking as aristocratic as ever, with the same pleasant smile and perfect manners, only wide awake. 'I've a right to be proud of my children, haven't I? They're all I am proud of now,' said Mr Clay as he took a hand of each. And Horatia and her brother agreed with him that he had a right to be proud of his children. THE END. Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited. 
16321	----	THE BREADWINNERS A Social Study New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1901 I. A MORNING CALL A French clock on the mantel-piece, framed of brass and crystal, which betrayed its inner structure as the transparent sides of some insects betray their vital processes, struck ten with the mellow and lingering clangor of a distant cathedral bell. A gentleman, who was seated in front of the fire reading a newspaper, looked up at the clock to see what hour it was, to save himself the trouble of counting the slow, musical strokes. The eyes he raised were light gray, with a blue glint of steel in them, shaded by lashes as black as jet. The hair was also as black as hair can be, and was parted near the middle of his forehead. It was inclined to curl, but had not the length required by this inclination. The dark brown mustache was the only ornament the razor had spared on the wholesome face, the outline of which was clear and keen. The face suited the hands--it had the refinement and gentleness of one delicately bred, and the vigorous lines and color of one equally at home in field and court; and the hands had the firm, hard symmetry which showed they had done no work, and the bronze tinge which is the imprint wherewith sky and air mark their lovers. His clothes were of the fashion seen in the front windows of the Knickerbocker Club in the spring of the year 187-, and were worn as easily as a self-respecting bird wears his feathers. He seemed, in short, one of those fortunate natures, who, however born, are always bred well, and come by prescription to most of the good things the world can give. He sat in a room marked, like himself, with a kind of serious elegance--one of those apartments which seem to fit the person like a more perfect dress. All around the walls ran dwarf book-cases of carved oak, filled with volumes bound in every soft shade of brown and tawny leather, with only enough of red and green to save the shelves from monotony. Above these the wall space was covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with gold _fleurs-de-lis_ to within a yard of the top, where a frieze of palm-leaves led up to a ceiling of blue and brown and gold. The whole expression of the room was of warmth and good manners. The furniture was of oak and stamped leather. The low book-cases were covered with bronzes, casts, and figurines, of a quality so uniformly good that none seemed to feel the temptation either to snub or to cringe to its neighbor. The Owari pots felt no false shame beside the royal Satsuma; and Barbedienne's bronzes, the vases of Limoges and Lambeth and bowls from Nankin and Corea dwelt together in the harmony of a varied perfection. It was an octagon room, with windows on each side of the fire-place, in which a fire of Ohio coal was leaping and crackling with a cheerful and unctuous noisiness. Out of one window yon could see a pretty garden of five or six acres behind the house, and out of the other a carefully kept lawn, extending some hundred yards from the front door to the gates of hammered iron which opened upon a wide-paved avenue. This street was the glory of Buff-land, a young and thriving city on Lake Erie, which already counted a population of over two hundred thousand souls. The people of Clairfield, a rival town, denied that there was anything like so many inhabitants, and added that "the less we say about 'souls' the better." But this was pure malice; Buffland was a big city. Its air was filled with the smoke and odors of vast and successful trade, and its sky was reddened by night with the glare of its furnaces, rising like the hot breath of some prostrate Titan, conquered and bowed down by the pitiless cunning of men. Its people were, as a rule, rich and honest, especially in this avenue of which I have spoken. If you have ever met a Bufflander, you have heard of Algonquin Avenue. He will stand in the Champs Elysees, when all the vice and fashion of Europe are pouring down from the Place of the Star in the refluent tide that flows from Boulogne Wood to Paris, and calmly tell you that "Algonquin Avenue in the sleighing season can discount this out of sight." Something is to be pardoned to the spirit of liberty; and the avenue is certainly a fine one. It is three miles long and has hardly a shabby house in it, while for a mile or two the houses upon one side, locally called "the Ridge," are unusually line, large, and costly. They are all surrounded with well-kept gardens and separated from the street by velvet lawns which need scarcely fear comparison with the emerald wonders which centuries of care have wrought from the turf of England. The house of which we have seen one room was one of the best upon this green and park-like thoroughfare. The gentleman who was sitting by the fire was Mr. Arthur Farnham. He was the owner and sole occupant of the large stone house--a widower of some years' standing, although he was yet young. His parents had died in his childhood. He had been an officer in the army, had served several years upon the frontier, had suffered great privations, had married a wife much older than himself, had seen her die on the Plains from sheer want, though he had more money than he could get transportation for; and finally, on the death of his grandfather he had resigned, with reluctance, a commission which had brought him nothing but suffering and toil, and had returned to Buffland, where he was born, to take charge of the great estate of which he was the only heir. And even yet, in the midst of a luxury and a comfort which anticipated every want and gratified every taste, he often looked longingly back upon the life he had left, until his nose inhaled again the scent of the sage-brush and his eyes smarted with alkali dust. He regretted the desolate prairies, the wide reaches of barrenness accursed of the Creator, the wild chaos of the mountain canons, the horror of the Bad Lands, the tingling cold of winter in the Black Hills. But the Republic holds so high the privilege of serving her that, for the officer who once resigns--with a good character--there is no return forever, though he seek it with half the lobby at his heels. So Captain Farnham sat, this fine May morning, reading a newspaper which gave the stations of his friends in the "Tenth" with something of the feeling which assails the exile when he cons the court journal where his name shall appear no more. But while he is looking at the clock a servant enters. "That same young person is here again." "What young person?" There was a slight flavor of reproach in the tone of the grave Englishman as he answered: "I told you last night, sir, she have been here three times already; she doesn't give me her name nor yet her business; she is settin' in the drawin'-room, and says she will wait till you are quite at leisure. I was about to tell her," he added with still deeper solemnity, "that you were hout, sir, but she hinterrupted of me and said, 'He isn't gone, there's his 'at,' which I told her you 'ad several 'ats, and would she wait in the drawin'-room and I'd see." Captain Farnham smiled. "Very well, Budsey, you've done your best--and perhaps she won't eat me after all. Is there a fire in the drawing-room?" "No, sir." "Let her come in here, then." A moment afterward the rustle of a feminine step made Farnham raise his head suddenly from his paper. It was a quick, elastic step, accompanied by that crisp rattle of drapery which the close clinging garments of ladies produced at that season. The door opened, and as the visitor entered Farnham rose in surprise. He had expected to see the usual semi-mendicant, with sad-colored raiment and doleful whine, calling for a subscription for a new "Centennial History," or the confessed genteel beggar whose rent would be due to-morrow. But there was nothing in any way usual in the young person who stood before him. She was a tall and robust girl of eighteen or nineteen, of a singularly fresh and vigorous beauty. The artists forbid us to look for physical perfection in real people, but it would have been hard for the coolest-headed studio-rat to find any fault in the slender but powerful form of this young woman. Her color was deficient in delicacy, and her dark hair was too luxuriant to be amenable to the imperfect discipline to which it had been accustomed; but the eye of Andrea, sharpened by criticising Raphael, could hardly have found a line to alter in her. The dress of that year was scarcely more reticent in its revelations than the first wet cloth with which a sculptor swathes his kneaded clay; and pretty women walked in it with almost the same calm consciousness of power which Phryne displayed before her judges. The girl who now entered Farnham's library had thrown her shawl over one arm, because the shawl was neither especially ornamental nor new, and she could not afford to let it conceal her dress of which she was innocently proud; for it represented not only her beautiful figure with few reserves, but also her skill and taste and labor. She had cut the pattern out of an illustrated newspaper, had fashioned and sewed it with her own hands; she knew that it fitted her almost as well as her own skin; and although the material was cheap and rather flimsy, the style was very nearly the same as that worn the same day on the Boulevard of the Italians. Her costume was completed by a pair of eyeglasses with steel rims, which looked odd on her rosy young face. "I didn't send in my name," she began with a hurried and nervous utterance, which she was evidently trying to make easy and dashing. "because you did not know me from Adam----I have been trying to see you for some time," she continued. "It has been my loss that you have not succeeded. Allow me to give you a chair." She flushed and seemed not at all comfortable. This grave young man could not be laughing at her; of course not; she was good-looking and had on a new dress; but she felt all her customary assurance leaving her, and was annoyed. She tried to call up an easy and gay demeanor, but the effort was not entirely successful. She said, "I called this morning--it may surprise you to receive a visit from a young lady----" "I am too much pleased to leave room for surprise." She looked sharply at him to see if she were being derided, but through her glasses she perceived no derision in his smile. He was saying to himself, "This is a very beautiful girl who wants to beg or to borrow. I wonder whether it is for herself or for some 'Committee'? The longer she talks the more I shall have to give. But I do not believe she is near-sighted." She plucked up her courage and said: "My name is Miss Maud Matchin." Farnham bowed, and rejoined: "My name is----" She laughed outright, and said: "I know well enough what your name is, or why should I have come here? Everybody knows the elegant Mr. Farnham." The smile faded from his face. "She is more ill-bred than I suspected," he thought; "we will condense this interview." He made no reply to her compliment, but looked steadily at her, waiting to hear what she wanted, and thinking it was a pity she was so vulgar, for she looked like the huntress Diana. Her eyes fell under his glance, which was not at all reassuring. She said in almost a humble tone: "I have come to ask a great favor of you. I am in a good deal of trouble." "Let us see what it is, and what we can do," said Farnham, and there was no longer any banter in his voice. She looked up with sudden pleasure, and her glasses fell from her eyes. She did not replace them, but, clasping her hands tightly together, exclaimed: "Oh, sir, if you can do anything for me----But I don't want to make you think----" She paused in evident confusion, and Farnham kindly interposed. "What I may think is not of any consequence just now. What is it you want, and how can I be of service to you?" "Oh, it is a long story, and I thought it was so easy to tell, and I find it isn't easy a bit. I want to do something--to help my parents--I mean they do not need any help--but they can't help me. I have tried lots of things." She was now stammering and blushing in a way that made her hate herself mortally, and the innocent man in front of her tenfold more, but she pushed on manfully and concluded, "I thought may be you could help me get something I would like." "What would you like?" "Most anything. I am a graduate of the high school. I write a good hand, but I don't like figures well enough to clerk. I hear there are plenty of good places in Washington." "I could do nothing for you if there were. But you are wrong: there are no good places in Washington, from the White House down." "Well, you are president of the Library Board, ain't you?" asked the high-school graduate. "I think I would like to be one of the librarians." "Why would you like that?" "Oh, the work is light, I suppose, and you see people, and get plenty of time for reading, and the pay is better than I could get at anything else. The fact is," she began to gain confidence as she talked, "I don't want to go on in the old humdrum way forever, doing housework and sewing, and never getting a chance at anything better. I have enough to eat and to wear at home, but the soul has some claims too, and I long for the contact of higher natures than those by whom I am now surrounded. I want opportunities for self-culture, for intercourse with kindred spirits, for the attainment of a higher destiny." She delivered these swelling words with great fluency, mentally congratulating herself that she had at last got fairly started, and wishing she could have struck into that vein at the beginning. Farnham was listening to her with more of pain than amusement, saying to himself: "The high school has evidently spoiled her for her family and friends, and fitted her for nothing else." "I do not know that there is a vacancy in the library." "Oh, yes, there is," she rejoined, briskly; "I have been to see the librarian himself, and I flatter myself I made a favorable impression. In fact, the old gentleman seemed really smitten." "That is quite possible," said Farnham. "But I hope you will not amuse yourself by breaking his heart." "I can't promise. He must look out for his own heart." She had regained her saucy ease, and evidently enjoyed the turn the conversation was taking. "I find my hands full taking care of myself." "You are quite sure you can do that?" "Certainly, sir!" This was said with pouting lips, half-shut eyes, the head thrown back, the chin thrust forward, the whole face bright with smiles of provoking defiance. "Do you doubt it, Monsieur?" She pronounced this word Moshoor. Farnham thought in his heart "You are about as fit to take care of yourself as a plump pigeon at a shooting match." But he said to her, "Perhaps you are right--only don't brag. It isn't lucky. I do not know what are the chances about this place. You would do well to get some of your friends to write a letter or two in your behalf, and I will see what can be done at the next meeting of the Board." But her returning fluency had warmed up Miss Maud's courage somewhat, and instead of taking her leave she began again, blushingly, but still boldly enough: "There is something I would like much better than the library." Farnham looked at her inquiringly. She did not hesitate in the least, but pushed on energetically, "I have thought you must need a secretary. I should be glad to serve you in that capacity." The young man stared with amazement at this preposterous proposal. For the first time, he asked himself if the girl's honest face could be the ambush of a guileful heart; but he dismissed the doubt in an instant, and said, simply: "No, thank you. I am my own secretary, and have no reason for displacing the present incumbent. The library will suit you better in every respect." In her embarrassment she began to feel for her glasses, which were lying in her lap. Farnham picked up a small photograph from the table near him, and said: "Do you recognize this?" "Yes," she said. "It is General Grant." "It is a photograph of him, taken in Paris, which I received to-day. May I ask a favor of you?" "What is it?" she said, shyly. "Stop wearing those glasses. They are of no use to you, and they will injure your eyes." Her face turned crimson. Without a word of reply she seized the glasses and put them on, her eyes flashing fire. She then rose and threw her shawl over her arm, and said, in a tone to which her repressed anger lent a real dignity: "When can I learn about that place in the library?" "Any time after Wednesday," Farnham answered. She bowed and walked out of the room. She could not indulge in tragic strides, for her dress held her like a scabbard, giving her scarcely more freedom of movement than the high-born maidens of Carthage enjoyed, who wore gold fetters on their ankles until they were married. But in spite of all impediments her tall figure moved, with that grace which is the birthright of beauty in any circumstances, out of the door, through the wide hall to the outer entrance, so rapidly that Farnham could hardly keep pace with her. As he opened the door she barely acknowledged his parting salutation, and swept like a huffy goddess down the steps. Farnham gazed after her a moment, admiring the undulating line from the small hat to the long and narrow train which dragged on the smooth stones of the walk. He then returned to the library. Budsey was mending the fire. "If you please, sir," he said, "Mrs. Belding's man came over to ask, would you dine there this evening, quite informal." "Why didn't he come in?" "I told him you were engaged." "Ah, very well. Say to Mrs. Belding that I will come, with pleasure." II. A HIGH-SCHOOL GRADUATE. Miss Matchin picked up her train as she reached the gate, picked up her train as she reached the gate, and walked down the street in a state of mind by no means tranquil. If she had put her thoughts in words they would have run like this: "That was the meanest trick a gentleman ever played. How did he dare know I wasn't nearsighted? And what a fool I was to be caught by that photograph--saw it as plain as day three yards off. I had most made up my mind to leave them off anyway, though they are awful stylish; they pinch my nose and make my head ache. But I'll wear them now," and here the white teeth came viciously together, "if they kill me. Why should he put me down that way? He made me shy for the first time in my life. It's a man's business to be shy before me. If I could only get hold of him somehow! I'd pay him well for making me feel so small. The fact is, I started wrong. I did not really know what I wanted; and that graven image of an English butler set me back so; and then I never saw such a house as that. It is sinful for one man to live there all alone. Powers alive! How well that house would suit my complexion! But I don't believe I'd take it with _him_ thrown in." It is doubtful whether young girls of Miss Matchin's kind are ever quite candid in their soliloquies. It is certain she was not when she assured herself that she did not know why she went to Farnham's house that morning. She went primarily to make his acquaintance, with the hope also that by this means she might be put in some easy and genteel way of earning money. She was one of a very numerous class in large American towns. Her father was a carpenter, of a rare sort. He was a good workman, sober, industrious, and unambitious. He was contented with his daily work and wage, and would have thanked Heaven if he could have been assured that his children would fare as well as he. He was of English blood, and had never seemed to imbibe into his veins the restless haste and hunger to rise which is the source of much that is good and most that is evil in American life. In the dreams of his early married days he created a future for his children, in the image of his own decent existence. The boys should succeed him in his shop, and the daughters should go out to service in respectable families. This thought sweetened his toil. When he got on well enough to build a shop for himself, he burdened himself with debt, building it firmly and well, so as to last out his boys' time as well as his own. When he was employed on the joiner-work of some of those large houses in Algonquin Avenue, he lost himself in reveries in which he saw his daughters employed as house-maids in them. He studied the faces and the words of the proprietors, when they visited the new buildings, to guess if they would make kind and considerate employers. He put many an extra stroke of fine work upon the servants' rooms he finished, thinking: "Who knows but my Mattie may live here sometime?" But Saul Matchin found, like many others of us, that fate was not so easily managed. His boys never occupied the old shop on Dean Street, which was built with so many sacrifices and so much of hopeful love. One of them ran away from home on the first intimation that he was expected to learn his father's trade, shipped as a cabin-boy on one of the lake steamers, and was drowned in a storm which destroyed the vessel. The other, less defiant or less energetic, entered the shop and attained some proficiency in the work. But as he grew toward manhood, he became, as the old man called it, "trifling"; a word which bore with it in the local dialect no suggestion of levity or vivacity, for Luke Matchin was as dark and lowering a lout as you would readily find. But it meant that he became more and more unpunctual, did his work worse month by month, came home later at night, and was continually seen, when not in the shop, with a gang of low ruffians, whose head-quarters were in a den called the "Bird of Paradise," on the lake shore. When his father remonstrated with him, he met everything with sullen silence. If Saul lost his temper at this mute insolence and spoke sharply, the boy would retort with an evil grin that made the honest man's heart ache. "Father," he said one day, "you'd a big sight better let me alone, if you don't want to drive me out of this ranch. I wasn't born to make a nigger of myself in a free country, and you can just bet your life I ain't a-going to do it." These things grieved Saul Matchin so that his anger would die away. At last, one morning, after a daring burglary had been committed in Buffland, two policemen were seen by Luke Matchin approaching the shop. He threw open a back window, jumped out and ran rapidly down to the steep bluff overlooking the lake. When the officers entered, Saul was alone in the place. They asked after his boy, and he said: "He can't be far away. What do you want of him? He hain't been doing nothing, I hope." "Nothing, so far as we know, but we are after two fellows who go by the names of Maumee Jake and Dutch George. Luke runs with them sometimes, and he could make a pile of money by helping of us get them." "I'll tell him when he comes in," said Saul, but he never saw or heard of his son again. With his daughters he was scarcely more successful. For, though they had not brought sorrow or shame to his house, they seemed as little amenable to the discipline he had hoped to exert in his family as the boys were. The elder had married, at fifteen years of age, a journeyman printer; and so, instead of filling the place of housemaid in some good family, as her father had fondly dreamed, she was cook, housemaid, and general servant to a man aware of his rights, and determined to maintain them, and nurse and mother (giving the more important function precedence) to six riotous children. Though his child had thus disappointed his hopes, she had not lost his affection, and he even enjoyed the Sunday afternoon romp with his six grandchildren, which ordinarily took place in the shop among the shavings. Wixham, the son-in-law, was not prosperous, and the children were not so well dressed that the sawdust would damage their clothes. The youngest of Matchin's four children was our acquaintance Miss Maud, as she called herself, though she was christened Matilda. When Mrs. Matchin was asked, after that ceremony, "Who she was named for?" she said, "Nobody in partic'lar. I call her Matildy because it's a pretty name, and goes well with Jurildy, my oldest gal." She had evolved that dreadful appellation out of her own mind. It had done no special harm, however, as Miss Jurildy had rechristened herself Poguy at a very tender age, in a praiseworthy attempt to say "Rogue," and the delighted parents had never called her anything else. Thousands of comely damsels all over this broad land suffer under names as revolting, punished through life, by the stupidity of parental love, for a slip of the tongue in the cradle. Matilda got off easily in the matter of nicknames, being called Mattie until she was pretty well grown, and then having changed her name suddenly to Maud, for reasons to be given hereafter. She was a hearty, blowzy little girl. Her father delighted in her coarse vigor and energy. She was not a pretty child, and had not a particle of coquetry in her, apparently; she liked to play with the boys when they would allow her, and never presumed upon her girlhood for any favors in their rough sport; and good-natured as she was, she was able to defend herself on occasion with tongue and fists. She was so full of life and strength that, when she had no playing to do, she took pleasure in helping her mother about her work. It warmed Saul Matchin's heart to see the stout little figure sweeping or scrubbing. She went to school but did not "learn enough to hurt her," as her father said; and he used to think that here, at least, would be one child who would be a comfort to his age. In fancy he saw her, in a neat print dress and white cap, wielding a broom in one of those fine houses he had helped to build, or coming home to keep house for him when her mother should fail. But one day her fate came to her in the shape of a new girl, who sat near her on the school-bench. It was a slender, pasty young person, an inch taller and a year or two older than Mattie, with yellow ringlets, and more pale-blue ribbons on her white dress than poor Mattie had ever seen before. She was a clean, cold, pale, and selfish little vixen, whose dresses were never rumpled, and whose temper was never ruffled. She had not blood enough in her veins to drive her to play or to anger. But she seemed to poor Mattie the loveliest creature she had ever seen, and our brown, hard-handed, blowzy tomboy became the pale fairy's abject slave. Her first act of sovereignty was to change her vassal's name. "I don't like Mattie; it ain't a bit romantic. I had a friend in Bucyrus whose name was Mattie, and she found out somehow--I believe the teacher told her--that Queen Matilda and Queen Maud was the same thing in England. So you're Maud!" and Maud she was henceforward, though her tyrant made her spell it Maude. "It's more elegant with an _e_," she said. Maud was fourteen and her school-days were ending when she made this new acquaintance. She formed for Azalea Windora one of those violent idolatries peculiar to her sex and age, and in a fort-' night she seemed a different person. Azalea was rather clever at her books, and Maud dug at her lessons from morning till night to keep abreast of her. Her idol was exquisitely neat in her dress, and Maud acquired, as if by magic, a scrupulous care of her person. Azalea's blonde head was full of pernicious sentimentality, though she was saved from actual indiscretions by her cold and vaporous temperament. In dreams and fancies, she was wooed and won a dozen times a day by splendid cavaliers of every race and degree; and as she was thoroughly false and vain, she detailed these airy adventures, part of which she had imagined and part read in weekly story-papers, to her worshipper, who listened with wide eyeballs, and a heart which was just beginning to learn how to beat. She initiated Maud into that strange world of vulgar and unhealthy sentiment found in the cheap weeklies which load every news-stand in the country, and made her tenfold more the child of dreams than herself. Miss Windom remained but a few months at the common school, and then left it for the high school. She told Maud one day of her intended flitting, and was more astonished than pleased at the passion of grief into which the announcement threw her friend. Maud clung to her with sobs that would not be stilled, and with tears that reduced Miss Azalea's dress to limp and moist wretchedness, but did not move the vain heart beneath it. "I wonder if she knows," thought Azalea, "how ugly she is when she bawls like that. Few brunettes can cry stylishly anyhow." Still, she could not help feeling flattered by such devotion, and she said, partly from a habit of careless kindness and partly to rescue the rest of her raiment from the shower which had ruined her neck-ribbon,-- "There, don't be heart-broken. You will be in the high school yourself in no time." Maud lifted up her eyes and her heart at these words. "Yes, I will, darling!" She had never thought of the high school before. She had always expected to leave school that very season, and to go into service somewhere. But from that moment she resolved that nothing should keep her away from those walls that had suddenly become her Paradise. Her mother was easily won over. She was a woman of weak will, more afraid of her children than of her husband, a phenomenon of frequent occurrence in that latitude. She therefore sided naturally with her daughter in the contest which, when Maud announced her intention of entering the high school, broke out in the house and raged fiercely for some weeks. The poor woman had to bear the brunt of the battle alone, for Matchin soon grew shy of disputing with his rebellious child. She was growing rapidly and assuming that look of maturity which comes so suddenly and so strangely to the notice of a parent. When he attacked her one day with the brusque exclamation, "Well, Mattie, what's all this blame foolishness your ma's being tellin' me ?" she answered him with a cool decision and energy that startled and alarmed him. She stood straight and terribly tall, he thought. She spoke with that fluent clearness of girls who know what they want, and used words he had never met with before out of a newspaper. He felt himself no match for her, and ended the discussion by saying: "That's all moonshine--you shan't go! D'ye hear me?" but he felt dismally sure that she would go, in spite of him. Even after he had given up the fight, he continued to revenge himself upon his wife for his defeat. "We've got to have a set of gold spoons, I guess. These will never do for highfliers like us." Or, "Drop in at Swillem's and send home a few dozen champagne; I can't stummick such common drink as coffee for breakfast." Or, "I must fix up and make some calls on Algonkin Av'noo. Sence we've jined the Upper Ten, we mustn't go back on Society." But this brute thunder had little effect on Mrs. Matchin. She knew the storm was over when her good-natured lord tried to be sarcastic. It need hardly be said that Maud Matchin did not find the high school all her heart desired. Her pale goddess had not enough substantial character to hold her worshipper long. Besides, at fifteen, a young girl's heart is as variable as her mind or her person; and a great change was coming over the carpenter's daughter. She suddenly gained her full growth; and after the first awkwardness of her tall stature passed away, she began to delight in her own strength and beauty. Her pride waked at the same time with her vanity, and she applied herself closely to her books, so as to make a good appearance in her classes. She became the friend instead of the vassal of Azalea, and by slow degrees she found their positions reversed. Within a year, it seemed perfectly natural to Maud that Azalea should do her errands and talk to her about her eyes; and Miss Windom found her little airs of superiority of no avail in face of the girl who had grown prettier, cleverer, and taller than herself. It made no difference that Maud was still a vulgar and ignorant girl--for Azalea was not the person to perceive or appreciate these defects. She saw her, with mute wonder, blooming out before her very eyes, from a stout, stocky, frowzy child, with coarse red cheeks and knuckles like a bootblack, into a tall, slender girl, whose oval face was as regular as a conic section, and whose movements were as swift, strong, and graceful, when she forgot herself, as those of a race-horse. There were still the ties of habit and romance between them. Azalea, whose brother was a train-boy on the Lake Shore road, had a constant supply of light literature, which the girls devoured in the long intervals of their studies. But even the romance of Miss Matchin had undergone a change. While Azalea still dreamed of dark-eyed princes, lords of tropical islands, and fierce and tender warriors who should shoot for her the mountain eagle for his plumes, listen with her to the bulbul's song in valleys of roses, or hew out a throne for her in some vague and ungeographical empire, the reveries of Miss Maud grew more and more mundane and reasonable. She was too strong and well to dream much; her only visions were of a rich man who should love her for her fine eyes. She would meet him in some simple and casual way; he would fall in love at sight, and speedily prosper in his wooing; they would be married,--privately, for Maud blushed and burned to think of her home at such times,--and then they would go to New York to live. She never wasted conjecture on the age, the looks, the manner of being of this possible hero. Her mind intoxicated itself with the thought of his wealth. She went one day to the Public Library to read the articles on Rothschild and Astor in the encyclopedias. She even tried to read the editorial articles on gold and silver in the Ohio papers. She delighted in the New York society journals. She would pore for hours over those wonderful columns which described the weddings and the receptions of rich tobacconists and stock-brokers, with lists of names which she read with infinite gusto. At first, all the names were the same to her, all equally worshipful and happy in being printed, black on white, in the reports of these upper-worldly banquets. But after a while her sharp intelligence began to distinguish the grades of our republican aristocracy, and she would skip the long rolls of obscure guests who figured at the: "coming-out parties" of thrifty shop-keepers of fashionable ambition, to revel among the genuine swells whose fathers were shop-keepers. The reports of the battles of the Polo Club filled her with a sweet intoxication. She knew the names of the combatants by heart, and had her own opinion as to the comparative eligibility of Billy Buglass and Tim Blanket, the young men most in view at that time in the clubs of the metropolis. Her mind was too much filled with interests of this kind to leave any great room for her studies. She had pride enough to hold her place in her classes, and that was all. She learned a little music, a little drawing, a little Latin, and a little French--the French of "Stratford-atte-Bowe," for French of Paris was not easy of attainment at Buffland. This language had an especial charm for her, as it seemed a connecting link with that elysium of fashion of which her dreams were full. She once went to the library and asked for "a nice French book." They gave her "La Petite Fadette." She had read of George Sand in newspapers, which had called her a "corrupter of youth." She hurried home with her book, eager to test its corrupting qualities, and when, with locked doors and infinite labor, she had managed to read it, she was greatly disappointed at finding in it nothing to admire and nothing to shudder at. "How could such a smart woman as that waste her time writing about a lot of peasants, poor as crows, the whole lot!" was her final indignant comment. By the time she left the school her life had become almost as solitary as that of the bat in the fable, alien both to bird and beast. She made no intimate acquaintances there; her sordid and selfish dreams occupied her too completely. Girls who admired her beauty were repelled by her heartlessness, which they felt, but could not clearly define. Even Azalea fell away from her, having found a stout and bald-headed railway conductor, whose adoration made amends for his lack of romance. Maud knew she was not liked in the school, and being, of course, unable to attribute it to any fault of her own, she ascribed it to the fact that her father was a mechanic and poor. This thought did not tend to make her home happier. She passed much of her time in her own bedroom, looking out of her window on the lake, weaving visions of ignoble wealth and fashion out of the mists of the morning sky and the purple and gold that made the north-west glorious at sunset. When she sat with her parents in the evening, she rarely spoke. If she was not gazing in the fire, with hard bright eyes and lips, in which there was only the softness of youth, but no tender tremor of girlhood's dreams, she was reading her papers or her novels with rapt attention. Her mother was proud of her beauty and her supposed learning, and loved, when she looked up from her work, to let her eyes rest upon her tall and handsome child, whose cheeks were flushed with eager interest as she bent her graceful head over her book. But Saul Matchin nourished a vague anger and jealousy against her. He felt that his love was nothing to her; that she was too pretty and too clever to be at home in his poor house; and yet he dared not either reproach her or appeal to her affections. His heart would fill with grief and bitterness as he gazed at her devouring the brilliant pages of some novel of what she imagined high life, unconscious of his glance, which would travel from her neatly shod feet up to her hair, frizzed and banged down to her eyebrows, "making her look," he thought, "more like a Scotch poodle-dog than an honest girl." He hated those books which, he fancied, stole away her heart from her home. He had once picked up one of them where she had left it; but the high-flown style seemed as senseless to him as the words of an incantation, and he had flung it down more bewildered than ever. He thought there must be some strange difference between their minds when she could delight in what seemed so uncanny to him, and he gazed at her, reading by the lamp-light, as over a great gulf. Even her hands holding the book made him uneasy; for since she had grown careful of them, they were like no hands he had ever seen on any of his kith and kin. The fingers were long and white, and the nails were shaped like an almond, and though the hands lacked delicacy at the articulations, they almost made Matchin reverence his daughter as his superior, as he looked at his own. One evening, irritated by the silence and his own thoughts, he cried out with a sudden suspicion: "Where do you git all them books, and what do they cost?" She turned her fine eyes slowly upon him and said: "I get them from the public library, and they cost nothing." He felt deeply humiliated that he should have made a blunder so ridiculous and so unnecessary. After she had left the school--where she was graduated as near as possible to the foot of the class--she was almost alone in the world. She rarely visited her sister, for the penury of the Wixham household grated upon her nerves, and she was not polite enough to repress her disgust at the affectionate demonstrations of the Wixham babies. "There, there! get along, you'll leave me not fit to be seen!" she would say, and Jurilda would answer in that vicious whine of light-haired women, too early overworked and overprolific: "Yes, honey, let your aunt alone. She's too tiffy for poor folks like us"; and Maud would go home, loathing her lineage. The girls she had known in her own quarter were by this time earning their own living: some in the manufactories, in the lighter forms of the iron trade, some in shops, and a few in domestic service. These last were very few, for the American blood revolts against this easiest and best-paid of all occupations, and leaves it to more sensible foreigners. The working bees were clearly no company for this poor would-be butterfly. They barely spoke when they met, kept asunder by a mutual embarrassment. One girl with whom she had played as a child had early taken to evil courses. Her she met one day in the street, and the bedraggled and painted creature called her by her name. "How dare you?" said Maud, shocked and frightened. "All right!" said the shameless woman. "You looked so gay, I didn't know." Maud, as she walked away, hardly knew whether to be pleased or not. "She saw I looked like a lady, and thought I could not be one honestly. I'll show them!" She knew as few men as women. She sometimes went to the social gatherings affected by her father's friends, Odd Fellows' and Druids' balls and the festivities with which the firemen refreshed themselves after their toils and dangers. But her undeniable beauty gained her no success. She seemed to take pains to avoid pleasing the young carpenters, coachmen, and journeyman printers she met on these occasions. With her head full of fantastic dreams, she imagined herself a mere visitor at these simple entertainments of the common people, and criticised the participants to herself with kindly sarcasm. If she ever consented to dance, it was with the air with which she fancied a duchess might open a ball of her servants. Once, in a round game at a "surprise" party, it came her turn to be kissed by a young blacksmith, who did his duty in spite of her struggles with strong arms and a willing heart. Mr. Browning makes a certain queen, mourning over her lofty loneliness, wish that some common soldier would throw down his halberd and clasp her to his heart. It is doubtful if she would really have liked it better than Miss Maud did, and she was furious as a young lioness. She made herself so disagreeable about it that she ceased to be invited to those lively entertainments; and some of the most eligible of the young "Cariboos"--a social order of a secret and mysterious rite, which met once a week in convenient woodsheds and stable-lofts--took an oath with hands solemnly clasped in the intricate grip of the order, that "they would never ask Miss Matchin to go to party, picnic, or sleigh-ride, as long as the stars gemmed the blue vault of heaven," from which it may be seen that the finer sentiments of humanity were not unknown to the Cariboos. Maud came thus to be eighteen, and though she was so beautiful and so shapely that no stranger ever saw her without an instant of glad admiration, she had had no suitor but one, and from him she never allowed a word of devotion. Samuel Sleeny, a carpenter who worked with her father, and who took his meals with the family, had fallen in love with her at first sight, and, after a year of dumb hopelessness, had been so encouraged by her father's evident regard that he had opened his heart to Saul and had asked his mediation. Matchin undertook the task with pleasure. Pie could have closed his eyes in peace if he had seen his daughter married to so decent a man and so good a joiner as Sleeny. But the interview was short and painful to Matchin. He left his daughter in possession of the field, and went to walk by the lake shore to recover his self-possession, which had given way beneath her firm will and smiling scorn. When he returned to the shop Sleeny was there, sitting on a bench and chewing pine shavings. "What did she say?" asked the young fellow. "But never mind--I see plain enough it's no use. She's too good for me, and she knows it." "Too good!" roared Saul. "She's the golderndest----" "Hold on there," said Sleeny. "Don't say nothin' you'll have to take back. Ef you say anything ag'in her, you'll have to swaller it, or whip me." Saul looked at him with amazement. "Well! you beat me, the pair of you! You're crazy to want her, and she's crazy not to want you. She liked to a' bit my head off for perposin' you, and you want to lick me for calling her a fool." "She ain't no fool," said Sleeny with sullen resignation; "she knows what she's about," and lie picked up another shaving and ruminated upon it. The old man walked to and fro, fidgeting with his tools. At last he came back to the young man and said, awkwardly dusting the bench with his hand: "Sam, you wasn't 'lowin' to leave along o' this here foolishness?" "That's just what I was 'lowin' to do, sir." "Don't you be a dern fool, Sam!" and Saul followed up this judicious exhortation with such cogent reasons that poor Sleeny was glad to be persuaded that his chance was not over yet, and that he would much better stay where he was. "How'll _she_ like it?" "Oh! it won't make a mite o' difference to her," said the old man airily, and poor Sam felt in his despondent heart that it would not. He remained and became like the least of her servants. She valued his attachment much as a planter valued the affection of his slaves, knowing they would work the better for it. He did all her errands; fetched and carried for her; took her to church on evenings when she did not care to stay at home. One of the few amusements Saul Matchin indulged in was that of attending spiritualist lectures and seances, whenever a noted medium visited the place. Saul had been an unbeliever in his youth, and this grotesque superstition had rushed in at the first opportunity to fill the vacuum of faith in his mind. He had never succeeded, however, in thoroughly indoctrinating his daughter. She regarded her father's religion with the same contempt she bestowed upon the other vulgar and narrow circumstances of her lot in life, and so had preferred her mother's sober Presbyterianism to the new and raw creed of her sire. But one evening, when she was goaded by more than usual restlessness, Sleeny asked her if she would go with him to a "sperritual lectur." To escape from her own society, she accepted, and the wild, incoherent, and amazingly fluent address she heard excited her interest and admiration. After that, she often asked him to take her, and in the long walk to and from the Harmony Hall, where the long-haired brotherhood held their sessions, a sort of confidential relation grew up between them, which meant nothing to Maud, but bound the heart of Sleeny in chains of iron. Yet he never dared say a word of the feeling that was consuming him. He feared he should lose her forever, if he opened his lips. Of course, she was not at ease in this life of dreamy idleness. It did not need the taunts of her father to convince her that she ought to be doing something for herself. Her millionaire would never come down to the little house on Dean Street to find her, and she had conscience enough to feel that she ought to earn her own clothes. She tried to make use of the accomplishments she had learned at school, but was astonished to find how useless they were. She made several attempts to be a teacher, but it was soon found that her high-school diploma covered a world of ignorance, and no board, however indulgent, would accept her services. She got a box of colors, and spoiled many fans and disfigured many pots by decorations which made the eyes of the beholder ache; nobody would buy them, and poor Maud had no acquaintances to whom she might give them away. So they encumbered the mantels and tables of her home, adding a new tedium to the unhappy household. She answered the advertisements of several publishing companies, and obtained agencies for the sale of subscription books. But her face was not hard enough for this work. She was not fluent enough to persuade the undecided, and she was too proud to sue _in forma pauperis_; she had not the precious gift of tears, by which the travelling she-merchant sells so many worthless wares. The few commissions she gained hardly paid for the wear and tear of her high-heeled boots. One day at the public library she was returning a novel she had read, when a gentleman came out of an inner room and paused to speak to the librarian's assistant, with whom Maud was at the moment occupied--a girl whom she had known at school, and with whom she had renewed acquaintance in this way. It was about a matter of the administration of the library, and only a few words were exchanged. He then bowed to both the ladies, and went out. "Who was that?" Maud asked. "Don't you know?" rejoined the other. "I thought everybody knew the elegant Captain Farnham. He is president of our board, you know, and he is just lovely. I always manage to stop him as he leaves a board meeting and get a word or two out of him. It's worth the trouble if I only get a bow." "I should think so," assented Maud. "He is as sweet as a peach. Is there any chance of getting one of those places? I should like to divide those bows with you." "That would be perfectly splendid," said her friend, who was a good-natured girl. "Come, I will introduce you to the old Doctor now." And in a moment Maud was in the presence of the librarian. She entered at a fortunate moment. Dr. Buchlieber was a near-sighted old gentleman who read without glasses, but could see nothing six feet away. He usually received and dismissed his visitors without bothering himself to discover or imagine what manner of people they were. "I do not care how they look," he would say. "They probably look as they talk, without form and void." But at the moment when Maud entered his little room, he had put on his lenses to look out of the window, and he turned to see a perfect form in a closely fit ting dress, and a face pretty enough to look on with a critical pleasure. He received her kindly, and encouraged her to hope for an appointment, and it was in accordance with his suggestion that she called upon Farnham, as we have related. She did not go immediately. She took several days to prepare what she called "a harness" of sufficient splendor, and while she was at work upon it she thought of many things. She was not even yet quite sure that she wanted a place in the library. The Doctor had been very kind, but he had given her clearly to understand that the work required of her would be severe, and the pay very light. She had for a long time thought of trying to obtain a clerkship at Washington,--perhaps Farnham would help her to that,--and her mind wandered off among the possibilities of chance acquaintance with bachelor senators and diplomats. But the more she thought of the coming interview, the more her mind dwelt upon the man himself whom she was going to see--his bow and his smile, his teeth and his mustache, and the perfect fit of his clothes. One point in regard to him was still vague in her mind, and as to that her doubts were soon resolved. One evening she said to her father: "Did you ever see Captain Farnham?" "Now, what a foolish question that is I'd like to know who built his greenhouses, ef I didn't?" "He is pretty well off, ain't he?" Saul laughed with that satisfied arrogance of ignorant men when they are asked a question they can answer easily. "I rather guess he is; that is, ef you call three, four, five millions well off. I don't know how it strikes you" (with a withering sarcasm), "but _I_ call Arthur Farnham pretty well fixed." These words ran in Maud's brain with a ravishing sound. She built upon them a fantastic palace of mist and cloud. When at last her dress was finished and she started, after three unsuccessful attempts, to walk to Algonquin Avenue, she was in no condition to do herself simple justice. She hardly knew whether she wanted a place in the library, a clerkship at Washington, or the post of amanuensis to the young millionaire. She was confused by his reception of her; his good-natured irony made her feel ill at ease; she was nervous and flurried; and she felt, as she walked away, that the battle had gone against her. III. THE WIDOW AND HER DAUGHTER. Mrs. Belding's house was next to that of Mr. Farnham, and the neighborly custom of Algonquin Avenue was to build no middle walls of partition between adjoining lawns. A minute's walk, therefore, brought the young man to the door of Mrs. Belding's cottage. She called it a cottage, and so we have no excuse for calling it anything else, though it was a big three-storied house, built of the soft creamy stone of the Buffland quarries, and it owed its modest name to an impression in the lady's mind that gothic gables and dormer windows were a necessary adjunct of cottages. She was a happy woman, though she would have been greatly surprised to hear herself so described. She had not been out of mourning since she was a young girl. Her parents, as she sometimes said, "had put her into black"; and several children had died in infancy, one after the other, until at last her husband, Jairus Belding, the famous bridge-builder, had perished of a malarial fever caught in the swamps of the Wabash, and left her with one daughter and a large tin box full of good securities. She never afterward altered the style of her dress, and she took much comfort in feeling free from all further allegiance to milliners. In fact, she had a nature which was predisposed to comfort. She had been fond of her husband, but she had been a little afraid of him, and, when she had wept her grief into tranquillity, she felt a certain satisfaction in finding herself the absolute mistress of her income and her bedroom. Her wealth made her the object of matrimonial ambition once or twice, and she had sufficient beauty to flatter herself that she was loved more for her eyes than her money; but she refused her suitors with an indolent good-nature that did not trouble itself with inquiries as to their sincerity. "I have been married once, thank you, and that is enough"; this she said simply without sighing or tears. Perhaps the unlucky aspirant might infer that her heart was buried in the grave of Jairus. But the sober fact was that she liked her breakfast at her own hours. Attached to the spacious sleeping-room occupied in joint tenancy by herself and the bridge-builder were two capacious closets. After the funeral of Mr. Belding, she took possession of both of them, hanging her winter wardrobe in one and her summer raiment in the other, and she had never met a man so fascinating as to tempt her to give up to him one of these rooms. She was by no means a fool. Like many easy-going women, she had an enlightened selfishness which prompted her to take excellent care of her affairs. As long as old Mr. Farnham lived, she took his advice implicitly in regard to her investments, and after his death she transferred the same unquestioning confidence to his grandson and heir, although he was much younger than herself and comparatively inexperienced in money matters. It seemed to her only natural that some of the Farnham wisdom should have descended with the Farnham millions. There was a grain of good sense in this reasoning, founded as it was upon her knowledge of Arthur's good qualities; for upon a man who is neither a sot nor a gambler the possession of great wealth almost always exercises a sobering and educating influence. So, whenever Mrs. Belding was in doubt in any matter of money, she asked Arthur to dine with her, and settle the vexing questions somewhere between the soup and the coffee. It was a neighborly service, freely asked and willingly rendered. As Farnham entered the widow's cosey library, he saw a lady sitting by the fire whom he took to be Mrs. Belding; but as she rose and made a step toward him, he discovered that she was not in mourning. The quick twilight was thickening into night, and the rich glow of the naming coal in the grate, deepening the shadows in the room, while it prevented him from distinguishing the features of her face, showed him a large full form with a grace of movement which had something even of majesty in it. "I see you have forgotten me," said a voice as rich and full as the form from which it came. "I am Alice Belding." "Of course you are, and you have grown as big and beautiful as you threatened to," said Farnham, taking both the young girl's hands in his, and turning until she faced the fire-light. It was certainly a bonny face which the red light shone upon, and quite uncommon in its beauty. The outline was very pure and noble; the eyes were dark-brown and the hair was of tawny gold, but the complexion was of that clear and healthy pallor so rarely met with among blonde women. The finest thing about her face was its expression of perfect serenity. Even now, as she stood looking at Farnham, with her hands in his, her cheek flushed a little with the evident pleasure of the meeting, she received his gaze of unchecked admiration with a smile as quiet and unabashed as that of a mother greeting a child. "Well, well!" said Farnham, as they seated themselves, "how long has it taken you to grow to that stature? When did I see you last?" "Two years ago," she answered, in that rich and gentle tone which was a delight to the ear. "I was at home last summer, but you were away--in Germany, I think." "Yes, and we looked for you in vain at Christmases and Thanksgivings." "Mamma came so often to New York that there seemed no real necessity of my coming home until I came for good. I had so much to learn, you know. I was quite old and very ignorant when I started away." "And you have come back quite young and very learned, I dare say." She laughed a little, and her clear and quiet laugh was as pleasant as her speech. Mrs. Belding came in with gliding footsteps and cap-strings gently fluttering. "Why, you are all in the dark! Arthur, will you please light that burner nearest you?" In the bright light Miss Alice looked prettier than ever; the jet of gas above her tinged her crisp hair with a lustre of twisted gold wire and threw tangled shadows upon her low smooth forehead. "We have to thank Madame de Veaudrey for sending us back a fine young woman," said Farnham. "Yes, she _is_ improved," the widow assented calmly. "I must show you the letter Madame de Veaudrey wrote me. Alice is first in languages, first----" "In peace, and first in the hearts of her countrywomen," interrupted Miss Alice, not smartly, but with smiling firmness. "Let Mr. Farnham take the rest of my qualities for granted, please." "There will be time enough for you two to get acquainted. But this evening I wanted to talk to you about something more important. The 'Tribune' money article says the Dan and Beersheba Railroad is not really earning its dividends. What am I to do about that, I should like to know?" "Draw your dividends, with a mind conscious of rectitude, though the directors rage and the 'Tribune' imagine a vain thing," Farnham answered, and the talk was of stocks and bonds for an hour afterward. When dinner was over, the three were seated again in the library. The financial conversation had run its course, and had perished amid the arid sands of reference to the hard times and the gloomy prospects of real estate. Miss Alice, who took no part in the discussion, was reading the evening paper, and Farnham was gratifying his eyes by gazing at the perfect outline of her face, the rippled hair over the straight brows, and the stout braids that hung close to the graceful neck in the fashion affected by school-girls at that time. A servant entered and handed a card to Alice. She looked at it and passed it to her mother. "It is Mr. Furrey," said the widow. "He has called upon _you_." "I suppose he may come in here?" Alice said, without rising. Her mother looked at her with a mute inquiry, but answered in an instant, "Certainly." When Mr. Furrey entered, he walked past Mrs. Belding to greet her daughter, with profuse expressions of delight at her return, "of which he had just heard this afternoon at the bank; and although he was going to a party this evening, he could not help stopping in to welcome her home." Miss Alice said "Thank you," and Mr. Furrey turned to shake hands with her mother. "You know my friend Mr. Farnham?" "Yes, ma'am--that is, I see him often at the bank, but I am glad to owe the pleasure of his acquaintance to you." The men shook hands. Mr. Furrey bowed a little more deeply than was absolutely required. He then seated himself near Miss Alice and began talking volubly to her about New York. He was a young man of medium size, dressed with that exaggeration of the prevailing mode which seems necessary to provincial youth. His short fair hair was drenched with pomatum and plastered close to his head. His white cravat was tied with mathematical precision, and his shirt-collar was like a wall of white enamel from his shoulders to his ears. He wore white kid gloves, which he secured from spot or blemish as much as possible by keeping the tips of the fingers pressed against each other. His speech was quicker than is customary with Western people, but he had their flat monotone and their uncompromising treatment of the letter R. Mrs. Belding crossed over to where Farnham was seated and began a conversation with him in an undertone. "You think her really improved?" "In every way. She has the beauty and stature of a Brunhild; she carries herself like a duchess, I was going to say--but the only duchess I ever knew was at Schwalbach, and she was carried in a wicker hand-cart. But mademoiselle is lovely, and she speaks very pretty English; and knows how to wear her hair, and will be a great comfort to you, if you can keep the boys at bay for awhile." "No danger there, I imagine; she will keep them at bay herself. Did you notice just now? Mr. Furrey called especially to see her. He was quite attentive to her last summer. Instead of going to the drawing-room to see him, she wants him to come in here, where he is in our way and we are in his. That is one of Madame de Veaudrey's notions." "I should fancy it was," said Farnham, dryly; "I have heard her spoken of as a lady of excellent principles and manners." "Now you are going to side against me, are you? I do not believe in importing these European ideas of surveillance into free America. I have confidence in American girls." "But see where your theories lead you. In Algonquin Avenue, the young ladies are to occupy the drawing-room, while the parents make themselves comfortable in the library. But the houses in Dean Street are not so spacious. Most citizens in that quarter have only two rooms below stairs. I understand the etiquette prevailing there is for parents, when their daughters receive calls, to spend the evening in the kitchen." "Oh, dear! I see I'm to get no help from you. That's just the way Alice talks. When she came home to-day, there were several invitations for her, and some notes from young gentlemen offering their escort. She told me in that quiet way of hers, that reminds me of Mr. Belding when he was dangerous, that she would be happy to go with me when I cared to go, and happy to stay at home if I stayed. So I imagine I am booked for a gay season." "Which I am sure you will greatly enjoy. But this Madame de Veaudrey must be a sensible woman." "Because I disagree with her? I am greatly obliged. But she is a saint, although you admire her," pursued the good-tempered woman. "She was a Hamilton, you know, and married Veaudrey, who was secretary of legation in Washington. He was afterward minister in Sweden, and died there. She was returning to this country with her three girls, and was shipwrecked and they all three perished. She was picked up unconscious and recovered only after a long illness. Since then she has gone very little into the world, but has devoted herself to the education of young ladies. She never has more than three or four at a time, and these she selects herself. Alice had heard of her from Mrs. Bowman, and we ventured to write to ask admission to her household, and our request was civilly but peremptorily declined. This was while we were in New York two years ago. But a few days afterward we were at church with Mrs. Bowman, and Madame de Veaudrey saw us. She called the next day upon Mrs. Bowman and inquired who we were, and then came to me and begged to withdraw her letter, and to take Alice at once under her charge. It seems that Alice resembled one of her daughters--at all events, she was completely fascinated by her, and Alice soon came to regard her in return as the loveliest of created beings. I must admit I found her a little still--though she _was_ lovely. But still, I cannot help being afraid that she has made Alice a little to particular; you know the young gentlemen don't like a girl to be too stiff." Farnham felt his heart grow hot with something like scorn for the worthy woman, as she prattled on in this way. He could hardly trust himself to reply and soon took his leave. Alice rose and gave him her hand with frank and winning cordiality. As he felt the warm soft pressure of her strong fingers, and the honest glance of her wide young eyes, his irritation died away for a moment, but soon came back with double force. "Gracious heavens!" he exclaimed, as he closed the door behind him, and stepped into the clear spring starlight, hardly broken as yet by the budding branches of the elms and limes. "What a crazy woman that mother is! Her daughter has come home to her a splendid white swan, and she is waddling and quacking about with anxiety and fear lest the little male ducklings that frequent the pond should find her too white and too stately." Instead of walking home he turned up the long avenue, and went rapidly on, spurred by his angry thoughts. "What will become of that beautiful girl? She cannot hold out forever against the universal custom. She will be led by her friends and pushed by her mother, until she drops to the level of the rest and becomes a romping flirt; she will go to parties with young Furrey, and to church with young Snevel. I shall see her tramping the streets with one, and waltzing all night with another, and sitting on the stairs with a third. She is too pretty to be let alone, and her mother is against her. She is young and the force of nature is strong, and women are born for sacrifice--she will marry one of these young shrimps, and do her duty in the sphere whereto she has been called." At this thought so sharp a pang of disgust shot through him, that he started with surprise. "Oh, no, this is not jealousy; it is a protest against what is probable in the name of the eternal fitness of things." Nevertheless, he went on thinking very disagreeably about Mr. Furrey. "How can a nice girl endure a fellow who pomatums his hair in that fashion, and sounds his R's in that way, and talks about Theedore Thommus and Cinsunnatta? Still, they do it, and Providence must be on the side of that sort of men. But what business is all this of mine? I have half a mind to go to Europe again." He stopped, lighted a cigar, and walked briskly homeward. As he passed by the Belding cottage, he saw that the lower story was in darkness, and in the windows above the light was glowing behind the shades. "So Furrey is gone, and the tired young traveller is going early to rest." He went into his library and sat down by the dying embers of the grate. His mind had been full of Alice and her prospects during his long walk in the moonlight; and now as he sat there, the image of Maud Matchin suddenly obtruded itself upon him, and he began to compare and contrast the two girls, both so beautiful and so utterly unlike; and then his thoughts shifted all at once back to his own early life. He thought of his childhood, of his parents removed from him so early that their memory was scarcely more than a dream; he wondered what life would have been to him if they had been spared. Then his school-days came up before him; his journey to France with his grandfather; his studies at St. Cyr; his return to America during the great war, his enlistment as a private in the regular cavalry, his promotion to a lieutenancy three days afterward, his service through the terrible campaign of the Peninsula, his wounds at Gettysburg, and at last the grand review of the veterans in front of the White House when the war was over. But this swift and brilliant panorama did not long delay his musing fancy. A dull smart like that of a healing wound drew his mind to a succession of scenes on the frontier. He dwelt with that strange fascination which belongs to the memory of hardships--and which we are all too apt to mistake for regret--upon his life of toil and danger in the wide desolation of the West. There he met, one horrible winter, the sister-in-law of a brother captain, a tall, languid, ill-nourished girl of mature years, with tender blue eyes and a taste for Byron. She had no home and no relatives in the world except her sister, Mrs. Keefe, whom she had followed into the wilderness. She was a heavy burden on the scanty resources of poor Keefe, but he made her cordially welcome like the hearty soldier that he was. She was the only unmarried white woman within a hundred miles, and the mercury ranged from zero to -20 degrees all winter. In the spring, she and Farnham were married; he seemed to have lost the sense of there being any other women in the world, and he took her, as one instinctively takes to dinner the last lady remaining in a drawing-room, without special orders. He had had the consolation of reflecting that he made her perfectly proud and happy every day of her life that was left. Before the autumn ended, she died, on a forced march one day, when the air was glittering with alkali, and the fierce sun seemed to wither the dismal plain like the vengeance of heaven. Though Farnham was even then one of the richest men in the army, so rigid are the rules imposed upon our service, by the economy of an ignorant demagogy, that no transportation could be had to supply this sick lady with the ordinary conveniences of life, and she died in his arms, on the hot prairie, in the shade of an overloaded baggage wagon. He mourned her with the passing grief one gives to a comrade fallen on the field of honor. Often since he left the army, he reproached himself for not have grieved for her more deeply. "Poor Nellie," he would sometimes say, "how she would have enjoyed this house, if she had lived to possess it." But he never had that feeling of widowhood known to those whose lives have been torn in two. IV. PROTECTOR AND PROTEGEE. A few days later, Mr. Farnham attended a meeting of the library board, and presented the name of Miss Matchin as a candidate for a subordinate place in the library. There were several such positions, requiring no special education or training, the duties of which could be as well filled by Miss Maud as by any one else. She had sent several strong letters of recommendation to the board, from prominent citizens who knew and respected her father, for when Maud informed him of her new ambition, Matchin entered heartily into the affair, and bestirred himself to use what credit he had in the ward to assist her. Maud had not exaggerated the effect of her blandishments upon Dr. Buchlieber. The old gentleman spoke in her favor with great fluency; "she was young, healthy, active, intelligent, a graduate of the high school." "And very pretty, is she not?" asked a member of the board, maliciously. The Doctor colored, but was not abashed. He gazed steadily at the interrupter through his round glasses, and said: "Yes, she is very fine looking--but I do not see that that should stand in her way." Not another word was said against her, and a ballot was taken to decide the question. There were five members of the board, three besides Farnham and Buchlieber. Maud had two votes, and a young woman whose name had not been mentioned received the other three. Buchlieber counted the ballots, and announced the vote. Farnham flushed with anger. Not only had no attention been paid to his recommendation, but he had not even been informed that there was another candidate. In a few sarcastic words he referred to the furtive understanding existing among the majority, and apologized for having made such a mistake as to suppose they cared to hear the merits of appointees discussed. The three colleagues sat silent. At last, one of them crossed his legs anew and said: "I'm sure nobody meant any offence. We agreed on this lady several days ago. I know nothing about her, but her father used to be one of our best workers in the seventh ward. He is in the penitentiary now, and the family is about down to bedrock. The reason we didn't take part in the discussion was we wanted to avoid hard feelings." The other two crossed their legs the other way, and said they "concurred." Their immovable phlegm, their long, expressionless faces, the dull, monotonous twang of their voices, the oscillation of the three large feet hung over the bony knees had now, as often before, a singular effect upon Farnham's irritation. He felt he could not irritate them in return; they could not appreciate his motives, and thought too little of his opinion to be angry at his contempt. He was thrown back upon himself now as before. It was purely a matter of conscience whether he should stay and do what good he could, or resign and shake the dust of the city hall from his feet. Whatever he recommended in regard to the administration of the library was always adopted without comment; but, whenever a question of the sort which the three politicians called "practical" arose, involving personal patronage in any form, they always arranged it for themselves, without even pretending to ask his or Buchlieber's opinion. The very fact of his holding the position of chairman of the board was wounding to his self-love, as soon as he began to appreciate the purpose with which the place had been given him. He and some of his friends had attempted a movement the year before, to rescue the city from the control of what they considered a corrupt combination of politicians. They had begun, as such men always do, too late, and without any adequate organization, and the regular workers had beaten them with ridiculous ease. In Farnham's own ward, where he possessed two thirds of the real estate, the candidates favored by him and his friends received not quite one tenth of the votes cast. The loader of the opposing forces was a butcher, one Jacob Metzger, who had managed the politics of the ward for years. He was not a bad man so far as his lights extended. He sold meat on business principles, so as to get the most out of a carcass; and he conducted his political operations in the same way. He made his bargains with aspirants and office-holders, and kept them religiously. He had been a little alarmed at the sudden irruption of such men as Farnham and his associates into the field of ward politics; he dreaded the combined effect of their money and their influence. But he soon found he had nothing to fear--they would not use their money, and they did not know how to use their influence. They hired halls, opened committee-rooms, made speeches, and thundered against municipal iniquities in the daily press; but Jacob Metzger, when he discovered that this was all, possessed his soul in peace, and even got a good deal of quiet fun out of the canvass. He did not take the trouble to be angry at the men who were denouncing him, and supplied Farnham with beefsteaks unusually tender and juicy, while the young reformer was seeking his political life. "Lord love you," he said to Budsey, as he handed him a delicious rib-roast the day before election. "There's nothing I like so much as to see young men o' property go into politics. We need 'em. Of course, I wisht the Cap'n was on my side; but anyhow, I'm glad to see him takin' an interest." He knew well enough the way the votes would run; that every grog-shop in the ward was his recruiting station; that all Farnham's tenants would vote against their landlord; that even the respectable Budsey and the prim Scotch gardener were sure for him against their employer. Farnham's conscience which had roused him to this effort against Metzger's corrupt rule, would not permit him to ask for the votes of his own servants and tenants, and he would have regarded it as simply infamous to spend money to secure the floating crowd of publicans and sinners who formed the strength of Jacob. His failure was so complete and unexpected that there seemed to him something of degradation in it, and in a fit of uncontrollable disgust he sailed for Europe the week afterward. Metzger took his victory good-naturedly as a matter of course, and gave his explanation of it to a reporter of the "Bale-Fire" who called to interview him. "Mr. Farnham, who led the opposition to our organize-ation, is a young gen'l'man of fine talents and high character. I ain't got a word to say against him. The only trouble is, he lacks practical experience, and he ain't got no pers'nal magn'tism. Now I'm one of the people, I know what they want, and on that line I carried the ward against a combine-ation of all the wealth and aristocracy of Algonkin Av'noo." Jacob's magnanimity did not rest with merely a verbal acknowledgment of Farnham's merits. While he was abroad some of the city departments were reorganized, and Farnham on his return found himself, through Metzger's intervention, chairman of the library board. With characteristic sagacity the butcher kept himself in the background, and the committee who waited upon Farnham to ask him to accept the appointment placed it entirely upon considerations of the public good. His sensitive conscience would not permit him to refuse a duty thus imposed, and so with many inward qualms he assumed a chair in the vile municipal government he had so signally failed to overthrow. He had not long occupied it, when he saw to what his selection was attributable. He was a figure-head and he knew it, but he saw no decent escape from the position. As long as they allowed him and the librarian (who was also a member of the board) to regulate the library to their liking, he could not inquire into their motives or decline association with them. He was perfectly free to furnish what mental food he chose to two hundred thousand people, and he felt it would be cowardice to surrender that important duty on any pitiful question of patronage or personal susceptibility. So once more he stifled the impulse to resign his post, and the meeting adjourned without further incident. As he walked home, he was conscious of a disagreeable foreboding of something in the future which he would like to avoid. Bringing his mind to bear upon it, it resolved itself into nothing more formidable than the coming interview with Miss Matchin. It would certainly be unpleasant to tell her that her hopes were frustrated, when she had seemed so confident. At this thought, he felt the awakening of a sense of protectorship; she had trusted in him; he ought to do something for her, if for nothing else, to show that he was not dependent upon those ostrogoths. But what could be done for such a girl, so pretty, so uncultivated, so vulgarly fantastic? Above all, what could be done for her by a young and unmarried man? Providence and society have made it very hard for single men to show kindness to single women in any way but one. At his door he found Sam Sleeny with a kit of tools; he had just rung the bell. He turned, as Farnham mounted the steps, and said: "I come from Matchin's--something about the greenhouse." "Yes," answered Farnham. "The gardener is over yonder at the corner of the lawn. He will tell you what is to be done." Sam walked away in the direction indicated, and Farnham went into the house. Some letters were lying on the table in the library. He had just begun to read them when Budsey entered and announced: "That young person." Maud came in flushed with the fresh air and rapid walking. Farnham saw that she wore no glasses, and she gained more by that fact in his good-will than even by the brilliancy of her fine eyes which seemed to exult in their liberation. She began with nervous haste: "I knew you had a meeting to-day, and I could not wait. I might as well own up that I followed you home." Farnham handed her a chair and took her hand with a kindly earnestness, saying, "I am very glad to see you." "Yes, yes," she continued; "but have you any good news for me?" The anxious eagerness which spoke in her sparkling eyes and open lips touched Farnham to the heart. "I am sorry I have not. The board appointed another person." The tears sprang to her eyes. "I really expected it. I hoped you would interest yourself." "I did all I possibly could," said Farnham. "I have never tried so hard for anybody before, but a majority were already pledged to the other applicant." She seemed so dejected and hopeless that Farnham, forgetting for a moment how hard it is for a young man to assist a young woman, said two or three fatal words, "We must try something else." The pronoun sounded ominous to him as soon as he had uttered it. But it acted like magic upon Maud. She lifted a bright glance through her tears and said, like a happy child to whom a new game has been proposed, "What shall we try?" Simple as the words were, both of them seemed to feel that a certain relation--a certain responsibility--had been established between them. The thought exhilarated Maud; it seemed the beginning of her long-expected romance; while the glow of kind feeling about the heart of Farnham could not keep him from suspecting that he was taking a very imprudent step. But they sat a good while, discussing various plans for Maud's advantage, and arriving at nothing definite; for her own ideas were based upon a dime-novel theory of the world, and Farnham at last concluded that he would be forced finally to choose some way of life for his protegee, and then persuade her to accept it. He grew silent and thoughtful with this reflection, and the conversation languished. He was trying to think how he could help her without these continued interviews at his house, when she disposed of the difficulty by rising briskly and saying, "Well, I will call again in a day or two, about this hour?" "Yes, if it suits you best," he answered, with a troubled brow. He followed her to the door. As she went out, she said, "May I pick a flower as I go?" He seized his hat, and said, "Come with me to the rose-house in the garden, and you shall have something better." They walked together down the gravel paths, through the neat and well-kept garden, where the warm spring sunshine was calling life out of the tender turf, and the air was full of delicate odors. She seemed as gay and happy as a child on a holiday. Her disappointment of an hour ago was all gone in the feeling that Arthur was interested in her, was caring for her future. Without any definite hopes or dreams, she felt as if the world was suddenly grown richer and wider. Something good was coming to her certainly, something good had come; for was she not walking in this lovely garden with its handsome proprietor, who was, she even began to think, her friend? The turf was as soft, the air as mild, the sun as bright as in any of her romances, and the figure of Farnham's wealth which she had heard from her father rang musically in her mind. They went into the rose-house, and he gave her two or three splendid satiny Marechal Niels, and then a Jacqueminot, so big, so rich and lustrous in its dark beauty, that she could not help crying out with delight. He was pleased with her joy, and gave her another, "for your hair," he said. She colored with pleasure till her cheek was like the royal flower. "Hallo!" thought Farnham to himself, "she does not take these things as a matter of course." When they came into the garden again, he made the suggestion which had been in his mind for the last half hour. "If you are going home, the nearest way will be by the garden gate into Bishop's Lane. It is only a minute from there to Dean Street." "Why, that would be perfectly lovely. But where is the gate?" "I will show you." They walked together to the lower end of the lawn, where a long line of glass houses built against the high wall which separated the garden from the street called Bishop's Lane, sheltered the grapes and the pine-apples. At the end of this conservatory, in the wall, was a little door of thin but strong steel plates, concealed from sight by a row of pear trees. Farnham opened it, and said, "If you like, you can come in by this way. It is never locked in the daytime. It will save you a long walk." "Thanks," she replied. "That will be perfectly lovely." Her resources of expression were not copious, but her eyes and her mouth spoke volumes of joy and gratitude. Her hands were full of roses, and as she raised her beautiful face to him with pleasure flashing from her warm cheeks and lips and eyes, she seemed to exhale something of the vigorous life and impulse of the spring sunshine. Farnham felt that he had nothing to do but stoop and kiss the blooming flower-like face, and in her exalted condition she would have thought little more of it than a blush-rose thinks of the same treatment. But he refrained, and said "Good morning," because she seemed in no mood to say it first. "Good-by, for a day or two," she said, gayly, as she bent her head to pass under the low lintel of the gate. Farnham walked back to the house not at all satisfied with himself. "I wonder whether I have mended matters? She is certainly too pretty a girl to be running in and out of my front door in the sight of all the avenue. How much better will it be for her to use the private entrance, and come and go by a sort of stealth! But then she does not regard it that way. She is so ignorant of this wicked world that it seems to her merely a saving of ten minutes' walk around the block. Well! all there is of it, I must find a place for her before she domesticates herself here." The thought of what should be done with her remained persistently with him and kept him irritated by the vision of her provoking and useless beauty. "If she were a princess," he thought, "all the poets would be twanging their lyres about her, all the artists would be dying to paint her; she would have songs made to her, and sacred oratorios given under her patronage. She would preside at church fairs and open the dance at charity balls. If I could start her in life as a princess, the thing would go on wheels. But to earn her own living--that is a trade of another complexion. She has not breeding or education enough for a governess: she is not clever enough to write or paint; she is not steady enough, to keep accounts,--by the Great Jornada! I have a grievous contract on my hands." He heard the sound of hoofs outside his window, and, looking out, saw his groom holding a young brown horse by the bridle, the well-groomed coat of the animal shining in the warm sunlight. In a few moments Farnham was in the saddle and away. For awhile he left his perplexities behind, in the pleasure of rapid motion and fresh air. But he drew rein half an hour afterward at Acland Falls, and the care that had sat on the crupper came to the front again. "As a last resort," he said, "I can persuade her she has a voice, and send her to Italy, and keep her the rest of her life cultivating it in Milan." All unconscious of the anxiety she was occasioning, Maud walked home with her feet scarcely aware of the pavement. She felt happy through and through. There was little thought, and we may say little selfishness in the vague joy that filled her. The flowers she held in her hands recalled the faint odors she had inhaled in Farnham's house; they seemed to her a concrete idea of luxury. Her mind was crowded and warmed with every detail of her visit: the dim, wide hall; the white cravat of Budsey; the glimpse she caught of the dining-room through the open door; the shimmer of cut glass and porcelain; the rich softness of the carpets and rugs, the firelight dancing on the polished brass, the tender glow of light and repose of shadow on the painted walls and ceilings; the walk in the trim garden, amid the light and fragrance of the spring; the hot air of the rose-house, which held her close, and made her feel faint and flushed, like a warm embrace; and through all the ever-present image of the young man, with his pleasant, unembarrassed smile, the white teeth shining under the dark mustache; the eyes that seemed to see through her, and yet told her nothing; and more than all this to poor Maud, the perfect fit and fashion of his clothes, filled her with a joyous trouble. She could not dwell upon her plans for employment. She felt as if she had found her mission, her true trade,--which was to walk in gardens and smell hot-house roses. The perplexities which filled Farnham's head as to what he should do with her found no counterpart in hers. She had stopped thinking and planning; things were going very well with her as it was. She had lost the place she had wished and expected, and yet this was the pleasantest day of her life. Her responsibility seemed shifted to stronger hands. It had become Farnham's business to find something nice for her: this would be easy for him; he belonged to the class to whom everything is easy. She did not even trouble herself to think what it would be as she loitered home in the sunshine. She saw her father and informed him in a few words of her failure; then went to her room and sat down by her window, and looked for hours at the sparkling lake. She was called to supper in the midst of her reverie. She was just saying to herself, "If there was just one man and one woman in the world, and I had the picking out of the man and the woman, this world would suit me pretty well." She resented being called into other society than that of her idle thoughts, and sat silent through supper, trying to keep the thread of her fancies from breaking. But she was not allowed to go back undisturbed to her fool's paradise. Sleeny, who had scarcely removed his eyes from her during the meal, rose with a start as she walked into the little sitting-room of the family, and followed her. She went to the window with a novel to make use of the last moments of daylight. He stood before her without speaking, until she raised her eyes, and said sharply: "Well, Sam, what's the matter?" He was not quick either of thought or speech. He answered: "Oh! nothin'. Only----" "Only what?" she snapped. "Won't you go and take a walk by the Bluff?" She threw down her book at once. She liked exercise and fresh air, and always walked with pleasure by the lake. Sam was to her such a nullity that she enjoyed his company almost as much as being alone. She was ready in a moment, and a short walk brought them to the little open place reserved for public use, overlooking the great fresh-water sea. There were a few lines of shade trees and a few seats, and nothing more; yet the plantation was called Bluff Park, and it was much frequented on holidays and Sundays by nurses and their charges. It was in no sense a fashionable resort, or Maud would never have ventured there in company with her humble adorer. But among the jovial puddlers and brake-men that took the air there, it was well enough to have an escort so devoted and so muscular. So pretty a woman could scarcely have walked alone in Bluff Park without insulting approaches. Maud would hardly have nodded to Sleeny on Algonquin Avenue, for fear some millionaire might see it casually, and scorn them both. But on the Bluff she was safe from such accidents, and she sometimes even took his arm, and made him too happy to talk. They would walk together for an hour, he dumb with audacious hopes that paralyzed his speech, and she dreaming of things thousands of miles away. This evening he was even more than usually silent. Maud, after she had worn her reverie threadbare, noticed his speechlessness, and, fearing he was about to renew the subject which was so tiresome, suddenly stopped and said: "What a splendid sunset! Did you ever see anything like it?" "Yes," he said, with his gentle drawl. "Less set here, and look at it." He took his seat on one of the iron benches painted green, and decorated with castings of grapes and vine leaves. She sat down beside him and gazed out over the placid water, on which the crimson clouds cast a mellow glory. The sky seemed like another sea, stretching off into infinite distance, and strewn with continents of fiery splendor. Maud looked straight forward to the clear horizon line, marking the flight of ships whose white sails were dark against the warm brightness of the illumined water. But no woman ever looked so straight before her as not to observe the man beside her, and she knew, without moving her eyes from the spectacle of the sunset, that Sam was gazing fixedly at her, with pain and trouble in his face. At last, he said, in a timid, choking voice, "Mattie!" She did not turn her face, but answered: "If it ain't too much trouble, I'd like to have you call me Miss when we're alone. You'll be forgetting yourself, and calling me Mattie before other people, before you know it." "Hold on," he burst out. "Don't talk to me that way to-night--I can't stand it." She glanced at him in surprise. His face was pale and disordered; he was twisting his fingers as if he would break them. "Your temper seems to be on the move, Mr. Sleeny. We'd better go home," she said quietly, drawing her shawl about her. "Don't go till I tell you something," he stammered hastily. "I have no curiosity to hear what you have to say," she said, rising from her seat. "It ain't what you think--it ain't about me!" Her curiosity awoke, and she sat down again. Sleeny sat twisting his fingers, growing pale and red by turns. At last, in a tremulous voice, he said: "_I_ was there to-day." She stared at him an instant and said: "Where?" "Oh, I was there, and I seen you. I was at work at the end of the greenhouse there by the gate when you come out of the rose-house. I was watchin' for you. I was on the lawn talkin' with the gardener when you went in the house. About an hour afterward I seen you comin' down the garden with him to the rose-house. If you had stayed there a minute more, I would ha' went in there. But out you come with your hands full o' roses, and him and you come to the gate. I stopped workin' and kep' still behind them pear trees, and I heard everything." He uttered each word slowly, like a judge delivering sentence. His face had grown very red and hot, and as he finished his indictment he drew a yellow handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his forehead, his chin, and the back of his neck. "Oh!" answered Maud, negligently, "you heard everything, did you? Well, you didn't hear much." "I tell you," he continued, with a sullen rage, "I heard every word. Do you hear me? I heard every word." The savage roughness of his voice made her tremble, but her spirits rose to meet his anger, and she laughed as she replied: "Well, you heard 'Thank you, sir,' and 'Good-morning.' It wasn't much, unless you took it as a lesson in manners, and goodness knows you need it." "Now, look'ye here. It's no use foolin' with me. You know what I heard. If you don't, I'll tell you!" "Very well, Mr. Paul Pry, what was it?" said the angry girl, who had quite forgotten that any words were spoken at the gate. "I heard him tell you you could come in any time the back way," Sam hoarsely whispered, watching her face with eyes of fire. She turned crimson as the sunset she was gazing at, and she felt as if she could have torn her cheeks with her fingernails for blushing. She was aware of having done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. She had been all day cherishing the recollection of her visit to Farnham as something too pleasant and delicate to talk about. No evil thought had mingled with it in her own mind. She had hardly looked beyond the mere pleasure of the day. She had not given a name or a form to the hopes and fancies that were fluttering at her heart. And now to have this sweet and secret pleasure handled and mauled by such a one as Sam Sleeny filled her with a speechless shame. Even yet she hardly comprehended the full extent of his insinuation. He did not leave her long in doubt. Taking her silence and her confusion as an acknowledgment, he went on, in the same low, savage tone: "I had my hammer in my hand. I looked through the pear trees to see if he kissed you. If he had 'a' done it, I would have killed him as sure as death." At this brutal speech she turned pale a moment, as if suddenly struck a stunning blow. Then she cried out: "Hold your vile tongue, you----" But she felt her voice faltering and the tears of rage gushing from her eyes. She buried her face in her hands and sat a little while in silence, while Sam was dumb beside her, feeling like an awkward murderer. She was not so overcome that she did not think very rapidly during this moment's pause. If she could have slain the poor fellow on the spot, she would not have scrupled to do so; but she required only an instant to reflect that she had better appease him for the present, and reserve her vengeance for a more convenient season. She dried her eyes and turned them on him with an air of gentle, almost forgiving reproach. "Sam! I could not have believed you had such a bad, wicked heart. I thought you knew me better. I won't make myself so cheap as to explain all that to you. But I'll ask yon to do one thing for me. When we go home this evening, if you see my father alone, you tell him what you saw--and if you've got any shame in you you'll be ashamed of yourself." He had been irritated by her anger, but he was completely abashed by the coolness and gentleness which followed her burst of tears. He was sorely confused and bewildered by her command, but did not dream of anything but obeying it, and as they walked silently home, he was all the time wondering what mysterious motive she could have in wishing him to denounce her to her father. They found Saul Matchin sitting by the door, smoking a cob-pipe. Maud went in and Sam seated himself beside the old man. "How'd you get along at Farnham's?" said Saul. Sam started, as if "the boss" had read his uneasy conscience. But he answered in his drawling monotone: "All right, I guess. That doggoned Scotchman thinks he knows it all; but it'll take nigh on to a week to do what I could ha' done in a day or two, if I worked my way." "Well," said Saul, "that ain't none o' your lookout. Do what Scotchee tells you, and I'll keep the time on 'em. We kin stand it, ef they kin," and the old carpenter laughed with the foolish pleasure of a small mind aware of an advantage. "Ef Art. Farnham wants to keep a high-steppin' Scotchman to run his flowers, may be he kin afford it. I ain't his gardeen." Now was Sleeny's chance to make his disclosure; but his voice trembled in spite of him, as he said: "I seen Mattie up there." "Yes," said the old man, tranquilly. "She went up to see about a place in the library. He said there wasn't none, but he'd try to think o' somethin' else that 'ud suit her. He was mighty polite to Mat--give her some roses, and telled her to run in and out when she liked, till he got somethin' fixed. Fact is, Mat is a first-rate scholar, and takes with them high-steppers, like fallin' off a log." Saul had begun to feel a certain pride in his daughter's accomplishments which had so long been an affliction to him. The moment he saw a possibility of a money return, he even began to plume himself upon his liberality and sagacity in having educated her. "I've spared nothin'--Sam--in giving her a----" he searched an instant for a suitable adjective, "a commodious education." The phrase pleased him so well that he smoked for awhile contemplatively, so as not to mar the effect of his point. Sam had listened with, a whirling brain to the old man's quiet story, which anticipated his own in every point. He could not tell whether he felt more relieved or disquieted by it. It all seemed clear and innocent enough; but he felt, with a sinking heart, that his own hopes were fading fast, in the flourishing prospects of his beloved. He hated Farnham not less in his attitude of friendly protection than in that which he had falsely attributed to him. His jealousy, deprived of its specific occasion, nourished itself on vague and torturing possibilities. He could not trust himself to talk further with Matchin, but went away with a growing fire in his breast. He hated himself for having prematurely spoken. He hated Maud for the beauty that she would not give him, and which, he feared, she was ready to give to another. He hated Saul, for his stolid ignorance of his daughter's danger. He hated most of all Farnham, for his handsome face, his easy smile, his shapely hands, his fine clothes, his unknown and occult gifts of pleasing. "'Tain't in natur," he growled. "She's the prettiest woman in the world. If he's got eyes, he knows it. But I spoke first, and he shan't have her, if I die for it." V. A PROFESSIONAL REFORMER. Sleeny walked moodily down the street, engaged in that self-torture which is the chief recreation of unhappy lovers. He steeped his heart in gall by imagining Maud in love with another. His passion stimulated his slow wits into unwonted action, until his mind began to form exasperating pictures of intimacies which drove him half mad. His face grew pale, and his fists were tightly clinched as he walked. He hardly saw the familiar street before him; he had a far clearer vision of Maud and Farnham by the garden gate: her beautiful face was turned up to the young man's with the winning sweetness of a flower, and Sam's irritated fancy supplied the kisses he had watched for in the shadow of the pear-trees. "I 'most wish't he'd 'a' done it," he growled to himself. "I had my hammer in my hand, and I could 'a' finished him then and had no more bother." He felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning, saw a face grinning a friendly recognition. It was a face whose whole expression was oleaginous. It was surmounted by a low and shining forehead covered by reeking black hair, worn rather long, the ends being turned under by the brush. The mustache was long and drooping, dyed black and profusely oiled, the dye and the grease forming an inharmonious compound. The parted lips, which were coarse and thin, displayed an imperfect set of teeth, much discolored with tobacco. The eyes were light green, with the space which should have been white suffused with yellow and red. It was one of those gifted countenances which could change in a moment from a dog-like fawning to a snaky venomousness. The man wore a black hat of soft felt; his clothes were black and glistening with use and grease. He was of medium height, not especially stout, but still strong and well knit; he moved too briskly for a tramp, and his eyes were too sly and furtive to belong to an honest man. "Well, Samivel!" he began, with a jolly facetiousness, "what's your noble game this evenin'? You look like you was down on your luck. Is the fair one unkind?" Sam turned upon him with an angry gesture. "Hold your jaw, or I'll break it for you! Ever since I was fool enough to mention that thing to you, you've been cacklin' about it. I've had enough of it." "Go slow, Quaker!" the man rejoined. "If you can't take a joke, I'll stop jokin'--that settles it. Come along and get a glass of beer, and you'll feel better." They soon came to a garden near the lake, and sat down by a little table at their beer. The consumers were few and silent. The garden was dimly lighted, for the spring came slowly up that way, and the air was not yet conducive to out-door idling. The greasy young man laid a dirty hand on the arm of Sleeny, and said: "Honor bright, now, old fellow, I didn't mean to rough, you when I said that. I don't want to hurt your feelings or lose your confidence. I want you to tell me how you are gettin' along. You ain't got no better friend than me nowhere." "Oh," said Sam, sulkily, "I got nothin' to say. She don't no more care for me than that there mug." The expression that came over his friend's face at these discouraged words was not one of sympathetic sorrow. But he put some sympathy into his voice as he said: "Jest think of that! Such a fine young fellow as you are, too. Where can her eyes be? And I seen you walking this evenin' by the lake just like two robins. And yet you don't get ahead any!" "Not a step," said Sam. "Anybody in your light, you think? Hullo there, Dutchy, swei glass. Any other fellow takin' your wind?" and his furtive eyes darted a keen interrogation. Sam did not answer at once, and his friend went on: "Why, she don't hardly know anybody but me and you, and, he-he! I wouldn't stand no chance at all against you--hum?" "Of course you wouldn't," said Sam, with slow contempt, which brought the muddy blood into the sallow cheek in front of him. "She wouldn't look at you. I'm not afraid of no man, Andy Offitt,--I'm afraid of money." He flattered his jealous heart by these words. It was too intolerable to think that any mere man should take his sweetheart away from him; and though he felt how hopeless was any comparison between himself and Farnham, he tried to soothe himself by the lie that they were equal in all but money. His words startled his friend Offitt. He exclaimed, "Why, who does she know that's got money?" But Sleeny felt a momentary revolt against delivering to even his closest confidant the name of the woman he loved coupled with the degrading suspicions by which he had been tormented all day. He gruffly answered: "That's none of your business; you can't help me in this thing, and I ain't agoin' to chin about it any more." They sat for awhile in silence, drank their beer, and ordered more. Offitt at last spoke again: "Well, I'll be hanged if you ain't the best grit of any fellow I know. If you don't want to talk, a team of Morgan horses couldn't make you. I like a man that can hold his tongue." "Then I'm your huckleberry," said Sleeny, whose vanity was soothed by the compliment. "That's so," said Offitt, with an admiring smile. "If I wanted a secret kept, I'd know where to come." Then changing his manner and tone to an expression of profound solemnity, and glancing about to guard against surprise, he said: "My dear boy, I've wanted to talk to you a long time,--to talk serious. You're not one of the common kind of cattle that think of nothin' but their fodder and stall--are you?" Now, Sam was precisely of the breed described by his friend, but what man ever lived who knew he was altogether ordinary? He grinned uneasily and answered: "I guess not." "Exactly!" said Offitt. "There are some of us laboring men that don't propose to go on all our lives working our fingers off to please a lot of vampires; we propose to have a little fairer divide than heretofore; and if there is any advantage to be gained, we propose to have it on the side of the men who do the work. What do you think of that?" "That's all solid," said Sleeny, who was indifferently interested in these abstractions. "But what you goin' to do about it?" "Do!" cried Offitt. "We are goin' to make war on capital. We are goin' to scare the blood-suckers into terms. We are goin' to get our rights-- peaceably, if we can't get them any other way. We are goin' to prove that a man is better than a moneybag." He rattled off these words as a listless child says its alphabet without thinking of a letter. But he was closely watching Sam to see if any of these stereotyped phrases attracted his attention. Sleeny smoked his cigar with the air of polite fatigue with which one listens to abstract statements of moral obligations. "What are we, anyhow?" continued the greasy apostle of labor. "We are slaves; we are Roosian scurfs. We work as many hours as our owners like; we take what pay they choose to give us; we ask their permission to live and breathe." "Oh, that's a lie!" Sleeny interrupted, with unbroken calmness. "Old Saul Matchin and me come to an agreement about time and pay, and both of us was suited. Ef he's got his heel onto me, I don't feel it" Offitt darted a glance of scorn upon the ignoble soul who was content with his bondage; but the mention of Matchin reminded him that he had a final shot in reserve, and he let it off at once. "Yes, Saul Matchin is a laborin' man himself; but look at his daughter. She would die before she would marry a workman. Why?" and his green eyes darted livid fire as they looked into the troubled ones of Sleeny. "Well, why?" he asked, slowly. "Because she loves money more than manhood. Because she puts up her beauty for a higher bidder than any------" "Now, shet up, will you?" cried Sam, thoroughly aroused. "I won't set here and hear her abused by you or any other man. What business is it of yours, anyway?" Offitt felt that his shot had gone home, and pursued his advantage. "It's my business, Sam, because I'm your friend; because I hate to see a good fellow wronged; because I know that a man is better than a moneybag. Why, that girl would marry you in a minute if you was rich. But because you're not she will strike for one of them rose-water snobs on Algonquin Avenue." Sam writhed, and his wheedling tormentor continued, watching him like a ferret. "Perhaps she has struck for one of them already--perhaps--oh, I can't say what may have happened. I hate the world when I see such doin's. I hate the heartless shams that give labor and shame to the toilers and beauty and luxury to the drones. Who is the best man," he asked, with honest frankness, "you, or some high-steppin' snob whose daddy has left him the means to be a loafer all his days? And who would the prettiest girl in Buffland prefer, you or the loafer? And you intend to let Mr. Loafer have it all his own way?" "No, I don't!" Sam roared, like a baited bull. "Ef any man crosses my path, he can find out which is the best man." "There, that's more like you. But what can you do alone? That's where they get us foul. The erristocrats, the money power, all hang together. The laborin' men fight singly, and alwuz get whipped. Now, we are goin' to change that. We are goin' to organize. Look here, Sam, I am riskin' my head in tellin' you this--but I trust you, and I like you, and I'll tell you. We _have_ organized. We've got a society in this town pledged to the cause of honest labor and against capital--for life or death. We want you. We want men of sand and men of sense, and you've got both. You must join." Sam Sleeny was by this time pretty well filled with beer and wrath. He felt himself in a certain sense bound by the weighty secret which Offitt had imparted to him and flattered by his invitation. A few touches more of adroit flattery, and the agitator's victory was complete. Sleeny felt sore and tired to the very heart. He had behaved like a brute to the girl he loved; he had been put clearly in the wrong in his quarrel with her, and yet he was certain that all was not well with either of them. The tormenting syllogism ran continually through his head: "She is the prettiest woman in the world--rich fellows like pretty women,--therefore--death and curses on him!" Or sometimes the form of it would change to this: "He is rich and handsome--girls like men who are rich and handsome,--therefore------," the same rage and imprecations, and the same sense of powerless fury. He knew and cared nothing about Offitt's Labor Reform. He could earn a good living by his trade no matter who went to Congress, and he hated these "chinny bummers," as he called them, who talked about "State help and self-help" over their beer. But to-night he was tormented and badgered to such a point that he was ready for anything which his tempter might suggest. The words of Offitt, alternately wheedling and excoriating, had turned his foolish head. His hatred of Farnham was easily extended to the class to which he belonged, and even to the money which made him formidable. He walked away from the garden with Offitt, and turned down a filthy alley to a squalid tenement house,--called by its proprietor Perry Place, and by the neighbors Rook's Ranch,--to the lodge-room of the Brotherhood of Bread-winners, which proved to be Offitt's lodging. They found there a half dozen men lounging about the entrance, who scowled and swore at Offitt for being late, and then followed him sulkily up two flights of ill-smelling stairs to his room. He turned away their wrath by soft answers, and hastily lighting a pair of coal-oil lamps, which gave forth odor more liberally than illumination, said briskly: "Gentlemen, I have brought you a recruit this evenin' that you will all be glad to welcome to our brotherhood." The brothers, who had taken seats where they could find them, on a dirty bed, a wooden trunk, and two or three chairs of doubtful integrity, grunted a questionable welcome to the new-comer. As he looked about him, he was not particularly proud of the company in which he found himself. The faces he recognized were those of the laziest and most incapable workmen in the town--men whose weekly wages were habitually docked for drunkenness, late hours, and botchy work. As the room gradually filled, it seemed like a roll-call of shirks. Among them came also a spiritual medium named Bott, as yet imperfectly developed, whose efforts at making a living by dark seances too frequently resulted in the laughter of skeptics and the confusion of his friends. His forehead and cheek were even then purple with an aniline dye, which some cold-blooded investigator had squirted in his face a few nights before while he was gliding through a twilight room impersonating the troubled shade of Pocahontas. This occurrence gave, for the moment, a peculiarly sanguinary and sinister character to his features, and filled his heart with a thirst for vengeance against an unbelieving world. After the meeting had been called to order, and Sam had taken an oath of a hot and lurid nature, in which he renounced a good many things he had never possessed, and promised to do a lot of things of which he had no idea, Mr. Offitt asked "if any brother had anything to offer for the good of the order." This called Mr. Bott to his feet, and he made a speech, on which he had been brooding all day, against the pride of so-called science, the arrogance of unrighteous wealth, and the grovelling superstition of Christianity. The light of the kerosene lamp shone full on the decorated side of his visage, and touched it to a ferocious purpose. But the brotherhood soon wearied of his oratory, in which the blasphemy of thought and phrase was strangely contrasted with the ecclesiastical whine which he had caught from the exhorters who were the terror of his youth. The brothers began to guy him without mercy. They requested him to "cheese it"; they assisted him with uncalled-for and inappropriate applause, and one of the party got behind him and went through the motion of turning a hurdy-gurdy. But he persevered. He had joined the club to practise public speaking, and he got a good half hour out of the brothers before they coughed him down. When he had brought his speech to a close, and sat down to wipe his streaming face, a brother rose and said, in a harsh, rasping voice, "I want to ask a question." "That's in order, Brother Bowersox," said Offitt. The man was a powerful fellow, six feet high. His head was not large, but it was as round as an apple, with heavy cheek-bones, little eyes, close-cut hair, and a mustache like the bristles of a blacking-brush. He had been a driver on a streetcar, but had recently been dismissed for insolence to passengers and brutality to his horses. "What I want to ask is this: I want to know if we have joined this order to listen to chin-music the rest of our lives, or to do somethin'. There is some kind of men that kin talk tell day of jedgment, lettin' Gabrel toot and then beginnin' ag'in. I ain't that kind; I j'ined to do somethin';--what's to be done?" He sat down with his hand on his hip, squarely facing the luckless Bott, whose face grew as purple as the illuminated side of it. But he opened not his mouth. Offitt answered the question: "I would state," he said glibly, "the objects we propose to accomplish: the downfall of the money power, the rehabitation of labor, the----" "Oh, yes!" Bowersox interrupted, "I know all about that,--but what are we goin' to _do?_" Offitt paled a little, but did not flinch at the savage tone of the surly brute. He began again in his smoothest manner: "I am of the opinion that the discussion of sound principles, such as we have listened to to-night, is among the objects of our order. After that, organization for mutual profit and protection against the minions of the money power,--for makin' our influence felt in elections,--for extendin' a helpin' hand to honest toil,--for rousin' our bretheren from their lethargy, which, like a leaden pall----" "I want to know," growled Bowersox, with sullen obstinacy, "what's to be done." "Put your views in the form of a motion, that they may be properly considered by the meetin'," said the imperturbable president. "Well, I motion that we stop talkin' and commence doin'----" "Do you suggest that a committee be appointed for that purpose?" "Yes, anything." And the chairman appointed Bowersox, Bott, and Folgum such a committee. All breathed more freely and felt as if something practical and energetic had been accomplished. The committee would, of course, never meet nor report, but the colloquy and the prompt action taken upon it made every one feel that the evening had been interesting and profitable. Before they broke up, Sleeny was asked for his initiation fee of two dollars, and all the brethren were dunned for their monthly dues. "What becomes of this money?" the neophyte bluntly inquired of the hierophant. "It pays room rent and lights," said Offitt, with unabashed front, as he returned his greasy wallet to his pocket. "The rest goes for propagatin' our ideas, and especially for influencin' the press." Sleeny was a dull man, but he made up his mind on the way home that the question which had so long puzzled him--how Offitt made his living--was partly solved. VI. TWO MEN SHAKE HANDS. Sleeny, though a Bread-winner in full standing, was not yet sufficiently impressed with the wrongs of labor to throw down his hammer and saw. He continued his work upon Farnham's conservatory, under the direction of Fergus Ferguson, the gardener, with the same instinctive fidelity which had always characterized him. He had his intervals of right feeling and common sense, when he reflected that Farnham had done him no wrong, and probably intended no wrong to Maud, and that he was not answerable for the ill luck that met him in his wooing, for Maud had refused him before she ever saw Farnham. But, once in a while, and especially when he was in company with Offitt, an access of jealous fury would come upon him, which found vent in imprecations which were none the less fervid for being slowly and haltingly uttered. The dark-skinned, unwholesome-looking Bread-winner found a singular delight in tormenting the powerful young fellow. He felt a spontaneous hatred for him, for many reasons. His shapely build, his curly blond hair and beard, his frank blue eye, first attracted his envious notice; his steady, contented industry excited in him a desire to pervert a workman whose daily life was a practical argument against the doctrines of socialism, by which Offitt made a part of his precarious living; and after he had met Maud Matchin and had felt, as such natures will, the force of her beauty, his instinctive hate became an active, though secret, hostility. She had come one evening with Sleeny to a spiritualist conference frequented by Offitt, and he had at once inferred that Sleeny and she were either engaged to be married or on the straight road toward it. It would be a profanation of the word to say that he loved her at first sight. But his scoundrel heart was completely captivated so far as was possible to a man of his sort. He was filled and fired with a keen cupidity of desire to possess and own such beauty and grace. He railed against marriage, as he did against religion and order, as an invention of priests and tyrants to enslave and degrade mankind; but he would gladly have gone to any altar whatever in company with Maud Matchin. He could hardly have said whether he loved or hated her the more. He loved her much as the hunter loves the fox he is chasing to its death. He wanted to destroy anything which kept her away from him: her lover, if she had one; her pride, her modesty, her honor, if she were fancy-free. Aware of Sleeny's good looks, if not of his own ugliness, he hated them both for the comeliness that seemed to make them natural mates for each other. But it was not in his methods to proceed rashly with either. He treated Maud with distant respect, and increased his intimacy with Sleeny until he found, to his delight, that he was not the prosperous lover that he feared. But he still had apprehensions that Sleeny's assiduity might at last prevail, and lost no opportunity to tighten the relations between them, to poison and pervert the man who was still a possible rival. By remaining his most intimate friend, he could best be informed of all that occurred in the Matchin family. One evening, as Sam was about leaving his work, Fergus Ferguson said: "You'll not come here the morn. You're wanted till the house--a bit o' work in the library. They'll be tellin' you there." This was faithfully reported by Sam to his confessor that same night. "Well, you are in luck. I wish I had your chance," said Offitt. Sam opened his blue eyes in mute wonder. "Well, what's the chance, and what would you do with it, ef you had it?" Offitt hesitated a moment before replying. "Oh, I was just a jokin'. I meant it was such an honor for common folks like us to git inside of the palace of a high-toned cuss like Farnham; and the fact is, Sammy," he continued, more seriously, "I _would_ like to see the inside of some of these swell places. I am a student of human nature, you know, in its various forms. I consider the lab'rin' man as the normal healthy human--that is, if he don't work too hard. I consider wealth as a kind of disease; wealth and erristocracy is a kind of dropsy. Now, the true reformer is like a doctor,--he wants to know all about diseases, by sight and handlin'! I would like to study the symptoms of erristocracy in Farnham's house--right in the wards of the hospital." "Well, that beats me," said Sam. "I've been in a lot of fine houses on Algonquin Avenue, and I never seen anything yet that favored a hospital." This dense stupidity was almost more than Offitt could bear. But a ready lie came to his aid. "Looky here!" he continued, "I'll tell you a secret. I'm writin' a story for the 'Irish Harp,' and I want to describe the residence of jess such a vampire as this here Farnham. Now, writin', as I do, in the cause of humanity, I naturally want to git my facts pretty near right. You kin help me in this. I'll call to-morrow to see you while you're there, and I'll get some p'ints that'll make Rome howl when they come out." Sam was hardly educated up to the point his friend imagined. His zeal for humanity and the "rehabitation" of labor was not so great as to make him think it a fine thing to be a spy and a sneak in the houses of his employers. He was embarrassed by the suggestion, and made no reply, but sat smoking his pipe in silence. He had not the diplomatist's art of putting a question by with a smile. Offitt had tact enough to forbear insisting upon a reply. He was, in fact, possessed of very considerable natural aptitude for political life. He had a quick smile and a ready tongue; he liked to talk and shake hands; he never had an opinion he was not willing to sell; he was always prepared to sacrifice a friend, if required, and to ask favors from his worst enemies. He called himself Andrew Jackson Offitt--a name which, in the West, is an unconscious brand. It generally shows that the person bearing it is the son of illiterate parents, with no family pride or affections, but filled with a bitter and savage partisanship which found its expression in a servile worship of the most injurious personality in American history. But Offitt's real name was worse than Andrew Jackson--it was Ananias, and it was bestowed in this way: When he was about six years old, his father, a small farmer in Indiana, who had been a sodden, swearing, fighting drunkard, became converted by a combined attack of delirium tremens and camp-meeting, and resolved to join the church, he and his household. The morning they were going to the town of Salem for that purpose, he discovered that his pocket had been picked, and the money it contained was found on due perquisition in the blue jeans trousers of his son Andrew Jackson. The boy, on being caught, was so nimble and fertile in his lies that the father, in a gust of rage, declared that he was not worthy the name of the great President, but that he should be called Ananias; and he was accordingly christened Ananias that morning in the meeting-house at Salem. As long as the old man lived, he called him by that dreadful name; but when a final attack of the trembling madness had borne him away from earth, the widow called the boy Andrew again, whenever she felt careless about her spiritual condition, and the youth behaved himself, but used the name of Sapphira's husband when the lad vexed her, or the obligations of the christening came strongly back to her superstitious mind. The two names became equally familiar to young Offitt, and always afterward he was liable to lapses of memory when called on suddenly to give his prenomen; and he frequently caused hateful merriment among his associates by signing himself Ananias. When Sam presented himself at Captain Farnham's house the next morning, he was admitted by Budsey, who took him to the library and showed him the work he was to do. The heat of the room had shrunk the wood of the heavy doors of carved oak so that the locks were all out of position. Farnham was seated by his desk, reading and writing letters. He did not look up as Sam entered, and paid no attention to the instructions Budsey was giving him. For the first time in his life, Sleeny found that this neglect of his presence was vaguely offensive to him. A week before, he would no more have thought of speaking to Farnham, or being spoken to by him, than of entering into conversation with one of the busts on the book-cases. Even now he had no desire to talk with the proprietor of the house. He had come there to do certain work which he was capable of doing well, and he preferred to do it and not be bothered by irrelevant gossip. But, in spite of himself, he felt a rising of revolt in his heart, as he laid out his tools, against the quiet gentleman who sat with his back to him, engaged in his own work and apparently unconscious of Sleeny's presence. A week before, they had been nothing to each other, but now a woman had come between them, and there is no such powerful conductor in nature. The quiet in which Farnham sat seemed full of insolent triumph to the luckless lover, and scraps of Offitt's sounding nonsense went through his mind: "A man is more than a money-bag"; "the laborer is the true gentleman"; but they did not give him much comfort. Not until he became interested in his work did he recover the even beat of his pulse and the genuine workmanlike play of his faculties. Then he forgot Farnham's presence in his turn, and enjoyed himself in a rational way with his files and chisels and screwdrivers. He had been at work for an hour at one door, and had finished it to his satisfaction, and sat down before another, when he heard the bell ring, and Budsey immediately afterward ushered a lady through the hall and into the drawing-room. His heart stood still at the rustle of the dress,--it sounded so like Maud's; he looked over his shoulder through the open door of the library and saw, to his great relief, that there were two female figures taking their seats in the softly lighted room beyond. One sat with her back to the light, and her features were not distinctly visible; the other was where he could see three-quarters of her face clearly relieved against the tapestry portiere. There is a kind of beauty which makes glad every human heart that gazes on it, if not utterly corrupt and vile, and it was such a face as this that Sam Sleeny now looked at with a heart that grew happier as he gazed. It was a morning face, full of the calm joy of the dawn, of the sweet dreams of youth untroubled by love, the face of Aurora before she met Tithonus. From the little curls of gold on the low brow to the smile that hovered forever, half formed, on the softly curving lips and over the rounded chin, there was a light of sweetness, and goodness, and beauty, to be read of all men, and perhaps in God's good time to be worshipped by one. Budsey announced "Mrs. Belding and Miss Halice," and Farnham hastened to greet them. If Sam Sleeny had few happy hours to enjoy, he could at least boast himself that one was beginning now. The lovely face bore to his heart not only the blessing of its own beauty, but also a new and infinitely consoling thought. He had imagined till this moment, in all seriousness, that Maud Matchin was the prettiest woman in the world, and that therefore all men who saw her were his rivals, the chief of whom was Farnham. But now he reflected, with a joyful surprise, that in this world of rich people there were others equally beautiful, and that here, under Farnham's roof, on terms of familiar acquaintance with him, was a girl as faultless as an angel,--one of his own kind. "Why, of course," he said to himself, with a candid and happy self-contempt, "that's _his_ girl--you dunderheaded fool--what are you botherin' about?" He took a delight which he could not express in listening to the conversation of these friends and neighbors. The ladies had come over, in pursuance of an invitation of Farnham's, to see the additions which had recently arrived from Europe to his collection of bronzes and pottery, and some little pictures he had bought at the English water-color exhibition. As they walked about the rooms, expressing their admiration of the profusion of pretty things which filled the cabinets and encumbered the tables, in words equally pretty and profuse, Sleeny listened to their voices as if it were music played to cheer him at his work. He knew nothing of the things they were talking about, but their tones were gentle and playful; the young lady's voice was especially sweet and friendly. He had never heard such voices before; they are exceptional everywhere in America, and particularly in our lake country, where the late springs develop fine high sopranos, but leave much to be desired in the talking tones of women. Alice Belding had been taught to use her fine voice as it deserved and Cordelia's intonations could not have been more "soft, gentle, and low,--an excellent thing in woman." After awhile, the voices came nearer, and he heard Farnham say: "Come in here a moment, please, and see my new netsukes; I got them at a funny little shop in Ostend. It was on a Sunday afternoon, and the man of the house was keeping the shop, and I should have got a great bargain out of him, but his wife came in before we were through, and scolded him for an imbecile and sent him into the back room to tend the baby, and made me pay twice what he had asked for my little monsters." By this time they were all in the library, and the young lady was laughing, not loudly, but musically, and Mrs. Belding was saying: "Served you right for shopping on Sunday. But they are adorable little images, for all that." "Yes," said Farnham, "so the woman told me, and she added that they were authentic of the twelfth century. I asked her if she could not throw off a century or two in consideration of the hard, times, and she laughed, and said I blagued, and honestly she didn't know how old they were, but it was _drole, tout de meme, qu'on put adorer un petit bon Dieu d'une laideur pareille._" "Really, I don't see how they can do it," said Mrs. Belden, solemnly; at which both the others laughed, and Miss Alice said, "Why, mamma, you have just called them adorable yourself." They went about the room, admiring, and touching, and wondering, with the dainty grace of ladies accustomed to rare and beautiful things, until the novelties were exhausted and they turned to go. But Budsey at that moment announced luncheon, and they yielded to Farnham's eager importunity, and remained to share his repast. They went to the dining-room, leaving Sleeny more than content. He still heard their voices, too distant to distinguish words; but he pleased himself by believing that there was a tender understanding in the tones of Farnham and Miss Belding when they addressed each other, and that it was altogether a family party. He had no longer any feeling of slight or neglect because none of them seemed aware of his presence while they were in the room with him. There was, on the contrary, a sort of comfort in the thought that he belonged to a different world from them; that he and Maud were shut out--shut out together--from the society and the interests which claimed the Beldings and the Farnhams. "You was a dunderheaded fool," he said, cheerfully apostrophizing himself again, "to think everybody was crazy after your girl." He was brought down to a lower level by hearing the door open, and the voice of Offitt asking if Mr. Sleeny was in. "No one of that name here," said Budsey. "I was told at Matchin's he was here." "Oh! the yonng man from Matchin's. He is in the library," and Offitt came in, looking more disreputable than usual, as he had greased his hair inordinately for the occasion. Budsey evidently regarded him with no favorable eye; he said to Sleeny, "This person says he comes from Matchin's; do you know him?" "Yes, it's all right," said Sam, who could say nothing less; but when Budsey had left them, he turned to Offitt with anything but welcome in his eye. "Well, you've come, after all." "Yes," Offitt answered, with an uneasy laugh. "Curiosity gets us all, from Eve down. What a lay-out this is, anyhow," and his small eyes darted rapidly around the room. "Say, Sam, you know Christy Fore, that hauls for the Safe Company? He was telling me about the safe he put into this room--said nobody'd ever guess it _was_ a safe. Where the devil is it?" "I don't know. It's none of my business, nor yours either." "I guess you got up wrong foot foremost, Sam, you're so cranky. Where can the ---- thing be? Three doors and two winders and a fire-place, and all the rest book-cases. By Jinx! there it is, I'll swear." He stepped over to one of the cases where a pair of oaken doors, rich with arabesque carving, veiled a sort of cabinet. He was fingering at them when Sam seized him by the shoulder, and said: "Look here, Andy, what _is_ your game, anyhow? I'm here on business, and I ain't no fence, and I'll just trouble you to leave." Offitt's face turned livid. He growled: "Of all Andylusian jacks, you're the beat. I ain't agoin' to hurt you nor your friend Farnham. I've got all the p'ints I want for my story, and devilish little thanks to you, neither. And say, tell me, ain't there a back way out? I don't want to go by the dinin'-room door. There's ladies there, and I ain't dressed to see company. Why, yes, this fits me like my sins," and he opened the French window, and stepped lightly to the gravel walk below, and was gone. Sleeny resumed his work, ill content with himself and his friend. "Andy is a smart fellow," he thought; "but he had no right to come snoopin' around where I was at work, jist to get points to worry Mr. Farnham with." The little party in the drawing-room was breaking up. He heard their pleasant last words, as the ladies resumed their wraps and Farnham accompanied them to the door. Mrs. Belding asked him to dinner, "with nobody but ourselves," and he accepted with a pleased eagerness. Sleeny got one more glimpse of the beautiful face under the gray hat and feather, and blessed it as it vanished out of the door. As Farnham came back to the library, he stood for a moment by Sam, and examined what he had done. "That's a good job. I like your work on the green-house, too. I know good work when I see it. I worked one winter as a boss carpenter myself." It seemed to Sleeny like the voice of a brother speaking to him. He thought the presence of the young lady had made everything in the house soft and gentle. "Where was you ever in that business?" he asked. "In the Black Hills. I sawed a million feet of lumber and built houses for two hundred soldiers. I had no carpenters; so I had to make some. I knew more about it when I got through than when I began." Sleeny laughed--a cordial laugh that wagged his golden beard and made his white teeth glisten. "I'll bet you did!" he replied. The two men talked a few minutes like old acquaintances; then Sleeny gathered up his tools and slung them over his shoulder, and as he turned to go both put out their hands at the same instant, with an impulse that surprised each of them, and said "Good-morning." VII. GHOSTLY COUNSEL. A man whose intelligence is so limited as that of Sam Sleeny is always too rapid and rash in his inferences. Because he had seen Farnham give Maud a handful of roses, he was ready to believe things about their relations that had filled him with fury; and now, because he had seen the same man talking with a beautiful girl and her mother, the conviction was fixed in his mind that Farnham's affections were placed in that direction, and that he was therefore no longer to be dreaded as a rival. He went home happier, in this belief, than he had been for many a day; and so prompt was his progress in the work of deceiving himself, that he at once came to the conclusion that little or nothing now stood between him and the crowning of his hopes. His happiness made him unusually loquacious, and at the supper-table he excited the admiration of Matchin and the surprise of Maud by his voluble history of the events of the day. He passed over Offitt's visit in silence, knowing that the Matchins detested him; but he spoke with energetic emphasis of the beauty of the house, the handsome face and kindly manners of Farnham, and the wonderful beauty and sweetness of Alice Belding. "Did that bold thing go to call on him alone?" cried Miss Maud, thoroughly aroused by this supposed offence against the proprieties of life. "Why, no, Mattie," said Sam, a little disconcerted. "Her ma was along." "Why didn't you say so, then?" asked the unappeased beauty. "I forgot all about the old lady, though she was more chinny than the young one. She just seemed like she was a-practisin' the mother-in-law, so as to do it without stumblin' when the time come." "Hullo! Do you think they are strikin' a match?" cried Saul, in high glee. "That would be first-rate. Keep the money and the property all together. There's too many of our rich girls marryin' out of the State lately--keeps buildin' dull." "I don't believe a word of it," Maud interposed. "He ain't a man to be caught by a simperin' schoolgirl. And as to money, He's got a plenty for two. He can please himself when he marries." "Yes, but may be he won't please you, Mattie, and that would be a pity," said the ironical Saul. The old man laughed loudly at his own sarcasm, and pushed his chair back from the table, and Maud betook herself to her own room, where she sat down, as her custom was, by the window, looking over the glowing lake, and striving to read her destiny as she gazed into the crimson and golden skies. She did not feel at all so sure as she pretended that there was no danger of the result that Sleeny had predicted; and now that she was brought face to face with it, she was confounded at discovering how much it meant to her. She was carrying a dream in her heart which would make or ruin her, according as it should prove true or false. She had not thought of herself as the future wife of Farnham with any clearness of hope, but she found she could not endure the thought of his marrying any one else and passing forever out of her reach. She sat there, bitterly ruminating, until the evening glow had died away from the lake and the night breeze spread its viewless wings and flapped heavily in over the dark ridge and the silent shore. Her thoughts had given her no light of consolation; her chin rested on her hands, her elbows on her knees; her large eyes, growing more luminous in the darkness, stared out at the gathering night, scarcely noting that the sky she gazed at had changed from a pompous scene of red and yellow splendor to an infinite field of tender and dark violet, fretted with intense small stars. "What shall I do?" she thought. "I am a woman. My father is poor. I have got no chance. Jurildy is happier to-day than I am, and got more sense." She heard a timid rap at her door, and asked, sharply: "Who's there?" "It's me," said Sleeny's submissive voice. "What do you want?" she asked again, without moving. "Mr. Bott give me two tickets to his seance tonight,"--Sam called it "seeuns,"--"and I thought mebbe you'd like to go." There was silence for a moment. Maud was thinking: "At any rate it will be better than to sit here alone and cry all the evening." So she said: "I'll come down in a minute." She heard Sam's heavy step descending the stairs, and thought what a different tread another person had; and she wondered whether she would ever "do better" than take Sam Sleeny; but she at once dismissed the thought. "I can't do that; I can't put my hand in a hand that smells so strong of sawdust as Sam's. But he is a good soul, and I am sorry for him, every time I look in the glass." Looking in the glass, as usual, restored her good humor, and she started off to the ghostly rendezvous with her faithful attendant. They never talked very much when they were alone together, and this evening both were thoughtful. Maud had never taken this commerce with ghosts much to heart. She had a feeling, which she could hardly have defined, that it was a common and plebeian thing to believe in it, and if she ever heard it ridiculed she joined in the cry without mercy. But it was an excitement and an interest in a life so barren of both that she could not afford to throw it away. She had not intelligence enough to be disgusted or shocked by it. If pressed to explain the amount of her faith in the whole business, she would probably have said she thought "there was something in it," and stopped at that. In minds like hers, there is no clearly drawn line between the unusual and the supernatural. An apparent miracle pleased her as it would please a child, without setting her to find out how it was done. She would consult a wizard, taking the chances of his having occult sources of information, with the same irregular faith in the unlikely with which some ladies call in homoeopathic practitioners. All the way to the rooms of Bott, she was revolving this thought in her mind: "Perhaps he could tell me something about Mr. Farnham. I don't think much of Bott; he has too many knuckles on his hands. I never saw a man with so many knuckles. I wouldn't mention Mr. Farnham to him to save his life, but I might get something out of him without telling him anything. He is certainly a very smart man, and whether it's spirits or not, he knows lots of things." It was in this mood that she entered the little apartment where Bott held what he called his "Intermundane Seances." The room was small and stuffy. A simulacrum of a chest of drawers in one corner was really Bott's bed, where the seer reposed at night, and which, tilted up against the wall during the day, contained the rank bedclothes, long innocent of the wash-tub. There were a dozen or so of cane-bottom chairs, a little table for a lamp, but no other furniture. At one side of the room was a small closet without a door, but with a dark and dirty curtain hung before its aperture. Around it was a wooden railing, breast high. A boy with a high forehead, and hair combed behind ears large and flaring like those of a rabbit, sat by the door, and took the tickets of invited guests and the half-dollars of the casuals. The seer received everybody with a nerveless shake of a clammy hand, showed them to seats, and exchanged a word or two about the weather, and the "conditions," favorable or otherwise, to spiritual activity. When he saw Maud and Sam his tallowy face flushed, in spots, with delight. He took them to the best places the room afforded, and stammered his pleasure that they had come. "Oh! the pleasure is all ours," said Maud, who was always self-possessed when she saw men stammering. "It's a great privilege to get so near to the truth as you bring us, Mr. Bott." The prophet had no answer ready; he merely flushed again in spots, and some new arrivals called him away. The room was now pretty well filled with the unmistakable crowd which always attend such meetings. They were mostly artisans, of more intellectual ambition than their fellows, whose love of the marvellous was not held in control by any educated judgment. They had long, serious faces, and every man of them wore long hair and a soft hat. Their women were generally sad, broken-spirited drudges, to whom this kind of show was like an opera or a ball. There were two or three shame-faced believers of the better class, who scoffed a little but trembled in secret, and a few avowed skeptics, young clerks on a mild spree, ready for fun if any should present itself. Bott stepped inside the railing by the closet, and placing his hands upon it, addressed the assembly. He did not know what peculiar shape the manifestations of the evening might take. They were in search of truth; all truth was good. They hoped for visitors from the unseen speers; he could promise nothing. In this very room the spirits of the departed had walked and talked with their friends; perhaps they might do it again; he knew not. How they mingled in the earth-life, he did not pretend to say; perhaps they materialized through the mejum; perhaps they dematerialized material from the audience which they rematerialized in visible forms; as to that, the opinion of another--he said with a spacious magnanimity--was as good as his. He would now request two of the audience to step up and tie him. One of the long-haired ruminant men stood up, and a young fellow, amid much nudging and giggling among the scorners, was also forced from his chair. They came forward, the believer with a business-like air, which showed practice, and the young skeptic blushing and ill at ease. Bott took a chair inside the curtain, and showed them how to tie him. They bound him hand and foot, the believer testified that the binding was solid, and the skeptic went to his seat, playfully stepping upon the toes of his scoffing friends. The curtain was lowered, and the lamp was turned down. In a few moments, a scuffling sound was heard in the closet, and Bott's coat came flying out into the room. The believer pulled back the curtain, and Botts sat in his chair, his shirt sleeves gleaming white in the dust. His coat was laid over his shoulders, and almost as soon as the curtain was lowered he yelled for light, and was disclosed sitting tied as before, clothed in his right coat. Again the curtain went down amid a sigh of satisfaction from the admiring audience, and a choking voice, which tried hard not to sound like Bott's, cried out from the closet: "Turn down the light; we want more power." The kerosene lamp was screwed down till hardly a spark illumined the visible darkness, and suddenly a fiery hand appeared at the aperture of the closet, slowly opening and shutting its long fingers. A half dozen voices murmured: "A spirit hand"; but Sam Sleeny whispered to Maud: "Them are Bott's knuckles, for coin." The hand was withdrawn and a horrible face took its place--a pallid corpse-like mask, with lambent fire sporting on the narrow forehead and the high cheek-bones. It stayed only an instant, but Sam said, "That's the way Bott will look in----" "Hush!" said Maud, who was growing too nervous to smile, for fear of laughing or crying. A sound of sobbing came from a seat to the right of them. A poor woman had recognized the face as that of her husband, who had died in the army, and she was drawing the most baleful inferences from its fiery adjuncts. A moment later, Bott came out of the closet, crouching so low that his head was hardly two feet from the ground. He had a sheet around his neck, covering his whole person, and a white cap over his head, concealing most of his face. In this constrained attitude he hopped about the clear space in front of the audience with a good deal of dexterity, talking baby-talk in a shrill falsetto. "Howdy, pappa! Howdy, mamma! Itty Tudie tum adin!" A rough man and woman, between joy and grief, were half hysterical. They talked to the toad-like mountebank in the most endearing tones, evidently believing it was their dead baby toddling before them. Two or three times the same horrible imposture was repeated. Bott never made his appearance without somebody recognizing him as a dear departed friend. The glimmering light, the unwholesome excitement, the servile credulity fixed by long habit, seemed to produce a sort of passing dementia upon the regular habitues. With these performances the first part came to an end. The light was turned on again, and the tying committee was requested to come forward and examine the cords with which Bott still seemed tightly bound. The skeptic remained scornfully in his seat, and so it was left for the believer to announce that not a cord had been touched. He then untied Bott, who came out from the closet, stretching his limbs as if glad to be free, and announced that there would be a short intermission for an interchange of views. As he came toward Maud, Sam rose and said: "Whew! he smells like a damp match. I'll go out and smoke a minute, and come back." Bott dropped into the seat which Sleeny had left. To one who has never attended one of these queer _cenacula_, it would be hard to comprehend the unhealthy and even nauseous character of the feeling and the conversation there prevalent. The usual decent restraints upon social intercourse seem removed. Subjects which the common consent of civilized creatures has banished from mixed society are freely opened and discussed. To people like the ordinary run of the believers in spiritism, the opera, the ballet, and the annual Zola are unknown, and they must take their excitements where they can find them. The dim light, the unhealthy commerce of fictitious ghosts, the unreality of act and sentiment, the unwonted abandon, form an atmosphere in which these second-hand mystics float away into a sphere where the morals and the manners are altogether different from those of their working days. Miss Matchin had not usually joined in these morbid discussions. She was of too healthy an organization to be tempted by so rank a mental feast as that, and she had a sort of fierce maidenhood about her which revolted at such exposures of her own thought. But to-night she was sorely perplexed. She had been tormented by many fancies as she looked out of her window into the deepening shadows that covered the lake. The wonders she had seen in that room, though she did not receive them with entire faith, had somewhat shaken her nerves; and now the seer sat beside her, his pale eyes shining with his own audacity, his lank hair dripping with sweat, his hands uneasily rubbing together, his whole attitude expressive of perfect subjection to her will. "Why isn't this a good chance?" she thought. "He is certainly a smart man. Horrid as he looks, he knows lots. May be he could tell me how to find out." She began in her airiest manner: "Oh, Mr. Bott, what a wonderful gift you have got! How you must look down on us poor mortals!" Bott grew spotted, and stammered: "Far from it, Miss Matchin. I couldn't look down on you." "Oh, you are flattering. That's not right, because I believe every word you say--and that ain't true." She rattled recklessly on in the same light tone. "I'm going to ask you something very particular. I don't know who can tell me, if you can't. How can a young lady find out whether a young gentleman is in love with her or not? Now, tell me the truth this time," she said with a nervous titter, "for it's very important." This question from any one else would not have disconcerted Bott in the least. Queries as absurd had frequently been put to him in perfect good faith, and answered with ready and impudent ignorance. But, at those giggling words of Maud Matchin, he turned livid and purple, and his breath came heavily. There was room for but one thought in that narrow heart and brain. He had long cherished a rather cowardly fondness for Maud, and now that this question was put to him by the agitated girl, his vanity would not suffer him to imagine that any one but himself was the subject of her dreams. There was, to him, nothing especially out of the way in this sort of indirect proposal on the part of a young woman. It was entirely in keeping with the general tone of sentiment among the people of his circle, which aimed at nothing less than the emancipation of the world from its old-fashioned decencies. But he would not answer hastily; he had a coward's caution. He looked a moment at the girl's brilliant color, her quick, high breathing, her eager eyes, with a gloating sense of his good luck. But he wanted her thoroughly committed. So he said, with an air in which there was already something offensively protecting: "Well, Miss Matchin, that depends on the speer. If the affection be unilateral, it is one thing; if it be recippercal, it is another. The currents of soul works in different ways." "But what I mean is, if a young lady likes a young gentleman pretty well, how is she going to find out for sure whether he likes her?" She went intrepidly through these words, though her cheeks were burning, and her eyes would fall in spite of her, and her head was singing. There was no longer any doubt in Bott's mind. He was filled with an insolent triumph, and thought only of delaying as long as possible the love chase of which he imagined himself the object. He said, slowly and severely: "The question is too imperious to be answered in haste. I will put myself in the hands of the sperruts, and answer it as they choose after the intermission." He rose and bowed, and went to speak a word or two to his other visitors. Sam came back and took his seat by Maud, and said: "I think the fun is about over. Less go home." "Go home yourself, if you want to," was the petulant reply. "I am going to stay for the inspirational discourse." "Oh, my!" said Sam. "That's a beautiful word. You don't know how pretty your mouth looks when you say that." Sam had had his beer, and was brave and good-natured. Bott retired once more behind the railing, but took his seat in a chair outside the curtain, in full view of the audience. He sat for some minutes motionless, staring at vacancy. He then slowly closed his eyes, and a convulsive shudder ran through his frame. This was repeated at rapid intervals, with more or less violence. He next passed his hands alternately over his forehead, as if he were wiping it, and throwing some invisible, sticky substance, with a vicious snap, to right and left. At last, after a final shudder, which stiffened him into the image of death for a moment, he rose to his feet and, leaning on the railing, began to intone, in a dismal whine, a speech of which we need give only the opening words. "Dear brothers and sisters of the earth-life! On pearly wings of gossamer-down we float down from our shining speers to bring you messages of the higher life. Let your earth-soul be lifted to meet our sperrut-soul; let your earth-heart blend in sweet accordion with our heaven-heart; that the beautiful and the true in this weary earth-life may receive the bammy influence of the Eden flowrets, and rise, through speers of disclosure, to the plane where all is beautiful and all is true." He continued in this strain for some time, to the evident edification of his audience, who listened with the same conventional tolerance, the same trust that it is doing your neighbor good, with which the ordinary audience sits under an ordinary sermon. Maud, having a special reason for being alert, listened with a real interest. But during his speech proper he made no allusion to the subject on which she had asked for light. It was after he had finished his harangue, and had gone through an _entr'acte_ of sighs and shudders, that he announced himself once more in the hands of the higher intelligences, and ready to answer questions. "It does not need," he whined, "the word of the month or the speech of the tongue to tell the sperruts what your souls desire. The burden of your soul is open to the sperrut-eye. There sits in this room a pure and lovely soul in quest of light. Its query is, How does heart meet heart in mutual knowledge?" Maud's cheek grew pale and then red, and her heart beat violently. But no one noticed her, and the seer went on. "If a true heart longs for another, there is no rest but in knowledge, there is no knowledge but in trewth, there is no trewth but in trust. Oh, my brother, if you love a female, tell your love. Oh, my sister, if you love--hum--if you love--hum--an individual of the opposite sex--oh, tell your love!--Down with the shams of a false-hearted society; down with the chains of silence that crushes your soul to the dust! If the object of your hearts' throbs is noble, he will respond. Love claims love. Love has a right to love. If he is base, go to a worthier one. But from your brave and fiery heart a light will kindle his, and dual flames will wrap two chosen natures in high-menial melodies, when once the revelating word is spoke." With these words he subsided into a deep trance, which lasted till the faithful grew tired of waiting, and shuffled slowly out of the door. When the last guest had gone, he rose from his chair, with no pretence of spiritual dignity, and counted his money and his tickets. He stretched himself in two chairs, drew his fingers admiringly through his lank locks, while a fatuous grin of perfect content spread over his face, as he said aloud to himself, "She has got it bad. I wonder whether she will have the nerve to ask me. I'll wait awhile, anyhow. I'll lose nothing by waiting." Meanwhile, Maud was walking rapidly home with Sam. She was excited and perplexed, and did not care to answer Sam's rather heavy pleasantries over the evening's performance. He ridiculed the spirit-lights, the voices, and the jugglery, without provoking a reply, and at last he said: "Well, what do you think of his advising the girls to pop? This ain't leap year!" "What of that?" she answered, hastily. "I don't see why a girl hasn't as good a right to speak her mind as a man." "Why, Mattie," said Sam, with slow surprise, "no decent girl would do that." They had come to Matchin's gate. She slipped in, then turned and said: "Well, don't be frightened, Mr. Sleeny; I'm not going to propose to you," and she was gone from his sight. She went directly to her room, and walked up and down a few moments without taking off her hat, moving with the easy grace and the suppressed passion of an imprisoned panther. Then she lighted her lamp and placed it on her bureau at one side of her glass. She searched in her closet and found a candle, which she lighted and placed on the other side of the glass. She undressed with reckless haste, throwing her clothes about on the floor, and sat down before her mirror with bare arms and shoulders, and nervously loosened her hair, watching every movement with blazing eyes. The thick masses of her blue-black curls fell down her back and over her sloping shoulders, which glowed with the creamy light of old ivory. The unequal rays of the lamp and candle made singular effects of shadow on the handsome face, the floating hair, and the strong and wholesome color of her neck and arms. She gazed at herself with eager eyes and parted lips, in an anxiety too great to be assuaged by her girlish pride in her own beauty. "This is all very well," she said, "but he will not see me this way. Oh! if I only dared to speak first. I wonder if it would be as the spirits said. 'If he is noble he will respond!' He _is_ noble, that's sure. 'Love claims love,' they said. But I don't know as I love him. I _would_, if that would fetch him, quick enough;" and the hot blood came surging up, covering neck and brow with crimson. VIII. A BUD AND A BLOSSOM. Farnham was sitting the next evening in his library, when Budsey entered and said Mr. Ferguson desired to see him. The gaunt Scotchman came in and said with feverish haste: "The cereus grandiflorus will be goin' to bloom the night. The buds are tremblin' and laborin' now." Farnham put on his hat and went to the conservatory, which was separated from the house by the entire extent of the garden. Arriving there, the gardener took him hurriedly to an inner room, dimly lighted,--a small square piece between the ferns and the grapes,--where the regal flower had a wall to itself. Two or three garden chairs were disposed about the room. Ferguson mounted on one of them, and turned up the gas so that its full light shone upon the plant. The bud was a very large one, perfect and symmetrical; the strong sheath, of a rich and even brown, as yet showed only a few fissures of its surface, but even now a faint odor stole from the travailing sphere, as from a cracked box of alabaster filled with perfume. The face of the canny Fergus was lighted up with an eager joy. He had watched the growth and progress of this plant from its infancy. He had leaned above its cradle and taken pride in its size and beauty. He had trained it over the wall--from which he had banished every rival--in large and graceful curves, reaching from the door of the fernery to the door of the grapery, till it looked, in the usual half light of the dim chamber, like a well-regulated serpent maturing its designs upon the neighboring paradise; and now the time was come when he was to see the fruit of his patience and his care. "Heaven be thankit," he murmured devoutly, "that I was to the fore when it came." "I thank you, Fergus, for calling me," said Farnham, smiling. "I know it must have cost you an effort to divide such a sight with any one." "It's your siller bought it," the Scotchman answered sturdily; "but there's nobody knows it, or cares for it, as I do,--and that's the truth." His glance was fixed upon the bud, which seemed to throb and stir as he spoke. The soft explosive force within was at work so strongly that the eye could watch its operation. The fissures of the sheath widened visibly and turned white as the two men looked at them. "It is a shame to watch this beautiful thing happening for only us," Farnham said to the gardener. "Go and tell Mrs. Belding, with my compliments, and ask her and Miss Belding to come down." But observing his crestfallen expression, he took compassion on him and said: "No, you had better remain, for fear something should happen in your absence. I will go for the ladies." "I hope ye'll not miss it," said Fergus, but his eyes and his heart were fixed upon the bud, which was slowly gaping apart, showing a faint tinge of gold in its heart. Farnham walked rapidly up the garden, and found the Beldings at the door, starting for evening service with their prayer-books in their hands. "Do you wish to see the prettiest thing you ever saw in your lives? of course I except your mirrors when in action," he began, without salutation. "If so, come this moment to my conservatory. My night-blooming cereus has her coming-out party tonight." They both exclaimed with delight, and were walking with him toward the garden. Suddenly, Mrs. Belding stopped and said: "Alice, run and get your sketch-book and pencil. It will be lovely to draw the flower." "Why, mamma! we shall not have time for a sketch." "There, there! do as I tell you, and do not waste time in disputing." The young girl hesitated a moment, and then, with instinctive obedience, went off to fetch the drawing materials, while her mother said to Farnham: "Madame de Veaudrey says Alice is very clever with her pencil; but she is so modest I shall have to be severe with her to make her do anything. She takes after me. I was very clever in my lessons, but never would admit it." Alice came down the steps. Farnham, seeing her encumbered by her books, took them from her, and they went down the walks to the conservatory. They found Ferguson sitting, with the same rapt observation, before his tropical darling. As the ladies entered, he rose to give them seats, and then retired to the most distant corner of the room, where he spent the rest of the evening entirely unaware of any one's presence, and given up to the delight of his eyes. The bud was so far opened that the creamy white of the petals could be seen within the riven sheath, whose strong dark color exquisitely relieved the pallid beauty it had guarded so long. The silky stamens were still curled about the central style, but the splendor of color which was coming was already suggested, and a breath of intoxicating fragrance stole from the heart of the immaculate flower. They spoke to each other in low tones, as if impressed with a sort of awe at the beautiful and mysterious development of fragrant and lovely life going forward under their sight. The dark eyes of Alice Belding were full of that vivid happiness which strange and charming things bring to intelligent girlhood. She was looking with all her soul, and her breath was quick and high, and her soft red lips were parted and tremulous. Farnham looked from her to the flower, and back again, gazing on both with equal safety, for the one was as unconscious of his admiring glances as the other. Suddenly, the sound of bells floated in from the neighboring street, and both of the ladies started. "No, don't you go," said Mrs. Belding to her daughter. "I must, because I have to see my 'Rescue the Perishing.' But you can just as well stay here and make your sketch. Mr. Farnham can take care of you, and I will be back in an hour." "But, mamma!" cried Miss Alice, too much scandalized to speak another word. "I won't have you lose this chance," her mother continued. "I am sure Mr. Farnham will not object to taking care of you a little while; and if he hasn't the time, Fergus will bring you home--hm, Fergus?" "Ay, madam, with right guid will," the gardener said, his hard face softening into a smile. "There, sit down in that chair and begin your sketch. It is lovely just as it is." She waited until Alice, whose confusion had turned her face crimson, had taken her seat, opened her sketch-book, and taken her pencils in her trembling hands, and then the brisk and hearty woman drew her shawl about her and bustled to the door. "I will walk to the church door with you," said Farnham, to the infinite relief of Alice, who regained her composure at the instant, and began with interest to sketch the flower. She thought, while her busy fingers were at work, that she had perhaps been too prudish in objecting to her mother's plan. "He evidently thinks nothing of it, and why should I?" By the time Farnham returned, the cereus had attained its full glory of bloom. Its vast petals were thrown back to their fullest extent, and shone with a luminous beauty in which its very perfume seemed visible; the countless recurved stamens shot forth with the vigorous impulse and vitality of sun rays; from the glowing centre to the dark fringe with which the shattered sheath still accented its radiant outline it blazed forth, fully revealed; and its sweet breath seemed the voice of a pride and consciousness of beauty like that of the goddess on Mount Ida, calmly triumphant in the certainty of perfect loveliness. Alice had grown interested in her task, and looked up for only an instant with her frank, clear eyes as Farnham entered. "Now, where shall I sit?" he asked. "Here, behind your right elbow, where I can look over your shoulder and observe the work as it goes on?" "By no means. My hand would lose all its little cunning in that case." "Then I will sit in front of you and study the artistic emotions in your face." "That would be still worse, for you would hide my subject. I am sure you are very well as you are," she added, as he seated himself in a chair beside her, a little way off. "Yes, that is very well. I have the flower three-quarters and you in profile. I will study the one for a panel and the other for a medal." Miss Alice laughed gently. She laughed often from sheer good humor, answering the intention of what was said to her better than by words. "Can you sketch and talk too?" asked Farnham. "I can sketch and listen," she said. "You will talk and keep me amused." "Amusement with malice aforethought! The order affects my spirits like a Dead March. How do the young men amuse young ladies nowadays? Do they begin by saying, 'Have you been very gay lately?'" Again Miss Alice laughed. "She is an easy-laughing girl," thought Farnham. "I like easy-laughing girls. When she laughs, she always blushes a very little. It is worth while talking nonsense to see a girl laugh so pleasantly and blush so prettily." It is not worth while, however, to repeat all the nonsense Farnham uttered in the next hour. He got very much interested in it himself, and was so eager sometimes to be amusing that he grew earnest, and the gentle laugh would cease and the pretty lips would come gravely together. Whenever he saw this he would fall back upon his trifling again. He had the soldier's fault of point-blank compliment, but with it an open sincerity of manner which relieved his flattery of any offensiveness. He had practised it in several capitals with some success. A dozen times this evening, a neat compliment came to his lips and stopped there. He could hardly understand his own reserve before this laughing young lady. Why should he not say something pretty about her hair and eyes, about her graceful attitude, about the nimble play of her white fingers over the paper? He had uttered frank flatteries to peeresses without rebuke. But he held his hand before this school-girl, with the open dark-brown eyes and a club of yellow hair at the back of her neck. He could not help feeling that, if he talked to her with any forcing of the personal accent, she would stop laughing and the clear eyes would be troubled. He desired anything rather than that, and so the conversation went rattling on as free from personalities as the talk of two light-hearted and clever schoolboys. At one moment he was describing a bill of fare in a Colorado hotel. "With nice bread, though, one can always get on," she said. "True," Farnham answered; "but this bread was of a ghostly pallor and flatness, as if it had been baked by moonlight on a grave-stone." "The Indian women cook well, do they not?" she asked. "Some are not so bad as others. One young chief boasted to me of his wife's culinary accomplishments. He had been bragging all the morning about his own exploits, of the men he had killed and the horses he had stolen, and then to establish his standing clearly in my mind, he added: 'My squaw same white squaw--savey pie.'" "Even there, then, the trail of the pie-crust is over them all." "No! only over the aristocracy." "I should like so much to see that wonderful country." "It is worth seeing," he said, with a curious sinking of the heart, "if you are not under orders." He could not help thinking what a pleasant thing a journey through that Brobdingnaggian fairy-land would be with company like the young girl before him. Nature would be twice as lovely reflected from those brown eyes. The absurdities and annoyances of travel would be made delightful by that frank, clear laugh. The thought of his poor Nellie flitted by him an instant, too gentle and feeble for reproach. Another stronger thought had occupied his mind. "You ought to see it. Your mother will need rest before long from her Rescue-the-Perishings, and you are overworking yourself dreadfully over that sketch-book. There is a touch of malaria about the fountain in Bluff Park. Colorado will do you both no end of good. I feel as if I needed it myself. I haven't energy enough to read Mr. Martin's 'Life of the Prince Consort.' I shall speak to Mrs. Belding as soon as she returns." "Do, by all means. I should like to go, but mamma would not spend three nights in a sleeping-car to see the Delectable Mountains themselves." He rose and walked about the room, looking at the flower and the young artist from different points of view, and seeing new beauties in each continually. There were long lapses of conversation, in which Alice worked assiduously and Farnham lounged about the conservatory, always returning with a quick word and a keen look at the face of the girl. At last he said to himself: "Look here! She is not a baby. She is nearly twenty years old. I have been wondering why her face was so steady and wise." The thought that she was not a child tilled his heart with pleasure and his face with light. But his volubility seemed to die suddenly away. He sat for a good while in silence, and started a little as she looked up and said: "Now, if you will be very gentle, you can see my sketch and tell me what to do next." It was a pretty and unpretentious picture that she had made. The flower was faithfully though stiffly given, and nothing especially remarkable had been attempted or achieved. Farnham looked at the sketch with eyes in which there was no criticism. He gave Alice a word or two of heartier praise for her work than she knew she deserved. It was rather more than she expected, and she was not altogether pleased to be so highly commended, though she could hardly have said why. Perhaps it was because it made her think less of his critical faculty. This was not agreeable, for her admiration of him from her childhood had been one of the greatest pleasures of her life. She had regarded him as children regard a brilliant and handsome young uncle. She did not expect from him either gallantry or equality of treatment. "There! Do not say too much about it--you will make me ashamed of it. What does it lack?" "Nothing, except something on the right to balance the other side. You might sketch in roughly a half-opened flower on the vine about there," indicating the place. She took her pencils and began obediently to do what he had suggested. He leaned over her shoulder, so near her she could feel his breath on the light curls that played about her ear. She wished he would move. She grew nervous, and at last said: "I am tired. You put in that flower." He took the book and pencils from her, as she rose from her chair and gave him her place, and with a few strong and rapid strokes finished the sketch. "After all," she said to herself, with hearty appreciation, "men do have the advantage of girls. He bothered me dreadfully, and I did not bother him in the least. And yet I stood as near to him as he did to me." Mrs. Belding came in a moment later. She was in high spirits. They had had a good meeting--had converted a Jew, she thought. She admired the sketch very much; hoped Alice had been no trouble to Farnham. He walked home with the ladies, and afterward smoked a cigar with great deliberation under the limes. Mrs. Belding asked Alice how they had got on. "He did not eat you, you see. You must get out of your ideas of men, especially men of Arthur Farnham's age. He never thinks of you. He is old enough to be your father." Alice kissed her mother and went to her own room, calculating on the way the difference between her age and Captain Farnham's. IX. A DRAMA WITH TWO SPECTATORS. The words of Bott lingered obstinately in Maud Matchin's mind. She gave herself no rest from dwelling on them. Her imagination was full, day after day, of glowing pictures of herself and Farnham in tete-a-tete; she would seek in a thousand ways to tell her love--but she could never quite arrange her avowal in a satisfactory manner. Long before she came to the decisive words which were to kindle his heart to flame in the imaginary dialogue, he would himself take fire by spontaneous combustion, and, falling on his knees, would offer his hand, his heart, and his fortune to her in words taken from "The Earl's Daughter" or the "Heir of Ashby." "Oh, pshaw! that's the way it ought to be," she would say to herself. "But if he won't--I wonder whether I ever could have the brass to do it? I don't know why I shouldn't. We are both human. Bott wouldn't have said that if there was nothing in it, and he's a mighty smart man." The night usually gave her courage. Gazing into her glass, she saw enough to inspire her with an idea of her own invincibility; and after she had grown warm in bed she would doze away, resolving with a stout heart that she would try her fate in the morning. But when day came, the enterprise no longer seemed so simple. Her scanty wardrobe struck her with cowardice as she surveyed it. The broad daylight made everything in the house seem poor and shabby. When she went down-stairs, her heart sank within her as she entered the kitchen to help her mother, and when she sat with the family at the breakfast-table, she had no faith left in her dreams of the rosy midnight. This alternation of feeling bred in her, in the course of a few days, a sort of fever, which lent a singular beauty to her face, and a petulant tang to her speech. She rose one morning, after a sleepless night, in a state of anger and excitement in which she had little difficulty in charging upon Farnham all responsibility for her trouble of mind. "I won't stand it any longer," she said aloud in her chamber. "I shall go to him this day and have it out. I shall ask him what he means by treating me so." She sat down by her bureau and began to crimp her hair with grim resolution. Her mother came and knocked at her door. "I'm not coming to breakfast, I've got a headache," she said, and added to herself, "I sha'n't go down and get the smell of bacon on me this morning." She continued her work of personal adornment for two hours, going several times over her whole modest arsenal of finery before she was ready for the fray. She then went down in her street costume, and made a hasty meal of bread and butter, standing by the pantry. Her mother came in and found her there. "Why, Mattie, how's your head?" "I'm going to take a walk and see what that will do." As she walked rapidly out of Dean Street, the great clock of the cathedral was striking the hour of nine. "Goodness!" she exclaimed, "that's too early to call on a gentleman. What shall I do?" She concluded to spend the time of waiting in the library, and walked rapidly in that direction, the fresh air flushing her cheeks, and blowing the frizzed hair prettily about her temples. She went straight to the reference rooms, and sat down to read a magazine. The girl who had prompted her to apply for a place was there on duty. She gave a little cry of delight when she saw Maud, and said: "I was just crazy to see you. I have got a great secret for you. I'm engaged!" The girls kissed each other with giggles and little screams, and the young woman told who _he_ was--in the lightning-rod business in Kalamazoo, and doing very well; they were to be married almost immediately. "You never saw such a fellow, he just won't wait;" and consequently her place in the library would be vacant. "Now, you must have it, Maud! I haven't told a soul. Even the Doctor don't know it yet." Maud left the library and walked up the avenue with an easier mind. She had an excuse for her visit now, and need not broach, unless she liked, the tremendous subject that made her turn hot and cold to think of. She went rustling up the wide thoroughfare at a quick pace; but before arriving at Farnham's, moved by a momentary whim, she turned down a side street leading to Bishop's Lane. She said to herself, "I will go in by that little gate once, if I never do again." As she drew near, she thought, "I hope Sam isn't there." Sam was there, just finishing his work upon the greenhouse. Farnham was there also; he had come down to inspect the job, and he and Sleeny were chatting near the gate as Maud opened it and came in. Farnham stepped forward to meet her. The unexpected rencounter made her shy, and she neither spoke to Sam nor looked toward him, which filled him with a dull jealousy. "Could I have a few moments' conversation with you, sir?" she asked, with stiff formality. "Certainly," said Farnham, smiling. "Shall we go into the house?" "Thank you, sir," she rejoined, severely decorous. They walked up the garden-path together, and Sam looked after them with an unquiet heart. She was walking beside Farnham with a stately step, in spite of the scabbard-like narrowness of the dress she wore. She was nearly as tall as he, and as graceful as a young pine blown to and fro by soft winds. The carpenter, with his heart heavy with love and longing, felt a bitter sense that she was too fine for him. They passed into the house, and he turned to his work with a sigh, often dropping his busy hands and looking toward the house with a dumb questioning in his eyes. After a half hour which seemed endless to him, they reappeared and walked slowly down the lawn. There was trouble and agitation in the girl's face, and Farnham was serious also. As they came by the rose-house, Maud paused and looked up with a sorrowful smile and a question. Farnham nodded, and they walked to the open door of the long, low building. He led the way in, and Maud, looking hastily around, closed the door behind them. "He's goin' to give her some more of them roses," said Sam, explaining the matter to himself. But he worked for some time with his blond beard on his shoulder in his impatience to see them come out. At last, he could resist no longer. He knew a point where he could look through the glass and see whatever was taking place among the roses. He walked swiftly across the turf to that point. He looked in and saw Maud, whose back was turned toward him, talking as if she were pleading for her life, while Farnham listened with a clouded brow. Sleeny stood staring with stupid wonder while Maud laid her hand upon Farnham's shoulder. At that moment he heard footsteps on the gravel walk at some distance from him, and he looked up and saw Mrs. Belding approaching. Confused at his attitude of espionage, he walked away from his post, and, as he passed her, Mrs. Belding asked him if he knew where Mr. Farnham was. "Yes," he answered, "he's in there. Walk right in;" and in the midst of his trouble of spirit he could hardly help chuckling at his own cleverness as he walked, in his amazement, back to the conservatory. While she was in the house, Maud had confined herself to the subject of the vacancy in the library. She rushed at it, as a hunter at a hedge, to get away from the other matter which had tormented her for a week. When she found herself alone with Farnham she saw that it would be "horrid" to say what she had so long been rehearsing. "Now I can get that place, if you will help me. No earthly soul knows anything about it, and Minnie said she would give me a good chance before she let it out." Farnham tried to show her the difficulties in the way. He was led by her eagerness into a more detailed account of his differences with the rest of the board than he had ever given to any one, a fuller narrative than was perhaps consistent with entire prudence. Whenever he paused, she would insist with a woman's disconcerting directness: "But they don't know anything about it this time--they can't combine on anybody. You can certainly get one of them." Farnham still argued against her sanguine hopes, till he at last affected her own spirits, and she grew silent and despondent. As she rose to go, he also took his hat to return to the garden, where he had left Sleeny, and they walked over the lawn together. As they approached the rose-house, she thought of her former visit and asked to repeat it. The warm breath of the flowers saluted her as she crossed the threshold, bringing so vivid a reminiscence of the enchantment of that other day, that there came with it a sudden and poignant desire to try there, in that bewitched atmosphere, the desperate experiment which would decide her fate. There was no longer any struggle in her mind. She could not, for her life, have kept silent now. She walked slowly beside him to the place where the pots of roses stood ranged on their frames, filling the air with dense fragrance. Her hands were icy cold and quick flushes passed through her, while her face reddened and paled like a horizon smitten by heat-lightning in a sultry night of summer. She looked at the moist brick pavement at her feet, her eyelids seemed too heavy to lift, and the long lashes nearly touched her cheeks. "What sort will you have?" said Farnham, reaching for the gardener's shears. "Never mind the roses," she said, in a dry voice which she hardly recognized as her own. "I have something to say to you." He turned and looked at her with surprise. She raised her eyes to his with a great effort, and then, blushing fiery red, she said, in a clear, low voice, "I love you." Like many another daughter and son of Eve, she was startled at the effect of these momentous words upon herself. Of all forms of speech these three words are the most powerful, the most wonderworking upon the being who utters them. It was the first time they had ever passed her lips, and they exalted and inebriated her. She was suddenly set free from the bashful constraint which had held her, and with a leaping pulse and free tongue she poured out her heart to the astonished and scandalized young man. "Yes, I love you. You think it's horrid that I should say so, don't you? But I don't care, I love you. I loved you the first time I saw you, though you made me so angry about my glasses. But you were my master, and I knew it, and I never put them on again. And I thought of you day and night, and I longed for the day to come when I might see you once more, and I was glad when I did not get that place, so that I could come again and see you and talk with you. I can tell you over again every word you ever said to me. You were not like other men. You are the first real man I ever knew. I was silly and wild when I wanted to be your secretary. Of course, that wouldn't do. If I am not to be your wife, I must never see you again; you know that, don't you?" and, carried away by her own reckless words, she laid her hand on his shoulder. His frown of amazement and displeasure shook her composure somewhat. She turned pale and trembled, her eyes fell, and it seemed for an instant as if she would sink to the floor at his feet. He put his arm around her, to keep her from falling and pressed her closely to him. She threw her head back upon his shoulder and lifted her face to him. He looked down on her, and the frown passed from his brow as he surveyed her flushed cheeks, her red full lips parted in breathless eagerness; her dark eyes were wide open, the iris flecked with golden sparks and the white as clear and blue-tinged as in the eyes of a vigorous infant; her head lay on his shoulder in perfect content, and she put up her mouth to him as simply and as sure of a response as a pretty child. He was entirely aware of the ridiculousness of his position, but he stooped and kissed her. Her work seemed all done; but her satisfaction lasted only a second. Her face broke into happy smiles. "You do love me, do you not?" she asked. "I certainly do not," he answered; and at that instant the door opened and Mrs. Belding saw this pretty group of apparent lovers on a rich background of Jacqueminot roses. Startled more at the words of Farnham than at the entry of Mrs. Belding, Maud had started up, like Vivien, "stiff as a viper frozen." Her first thought was whether she had crushed her hat on his shoulder, and her hands flew instinctively to her head-gear. She then walked tempestuously past the astonished lady out into the garden and brushed roughly by Sleeny, who tried to detain her. "Hold your tongue, Sam! I hate you and all men"; and with this general denunciation, she passed out of the place, flaming with rage and shame. Mrs. Belding stood for a moment speechless, and then resorted to the use of that hard-worked and useful monosyllable, "Well!" with a sharp, falling inflection. "Well!" returned Farnham, with an easy, rising accent; and then both of them relieved the strained situation with a laugh. "Come, now," said the good-natured woman, "I am a sort of guardian of yours. Give an account of yourself." "That is easily given," said Farnham. "A young woman, whose name I hardly know, came to me in the garden this morning to ask for help to get some lady-like work to do. After discussing that subject threadbare, she came in here for a rose, and, apropos of nothing, made me a declaration and a proposal of honorable wedlock, _dans toutes les formes_." "The forms were evident as I entered," said Mrs. Belding, dryly. "I could not let her drop on the damp floor," said Farnham, who was astonished to find himself positively blushing under the amused scrutiny of his mother-confessor. "Consider, if you please, my dear madam, that this is the first offer I have ever received, and I was naturally somewhat awkward about declining it. We shall learn better manners as we go along." "You did decline, then?" said Mrs. Belding, easily persuaded of the substantial truth of the story, and naturally inclined, as is the way of woman, to the man's side. Then, laughing at Arthur's discomfiture, she added, "I was about to congratulate you." "I deserve only your commiseration." "I must look about and dispose of you in some way. You are evidently too rich and too fascinating. But I came over to-day to ask you what I ought to do about my Lake View farm. I have two offers for it; if I had but one, I would take either--well, you know what I mean;" and the conversation became practical. After that matter was disposed of, she said, with a keen side-glance at Farnham, "That was a very pretty girl. I hope you will not be exposed to such another attack; I might not be so near the next time." "That danger, thanks to you, is over; Mademoiselle will never return," he answered, with an air of conviction. Mrs. Belding went home with no impression left of the scene she had witnessed but one of amusement. She thought of it only as "a good joke on Arthur Farnham." She kept chuckling to herself over it all day, and if she had had any especial gossip in the town, she would have put on her hat and hurried off to tell it. But she was a woman who lived very much at home, and, in fact, cared little for tattling. She was several times on the point of sharing the fun of it with her daughter, but was prevented by an instinctive feeling that it was hardly the sort of story to tell a young girl about a personal acquaintance. So she restrained herself, though the solitary enjoyment of it irritated her. They were sitting on the wide porch which ran around two sides of the house just as twilight was falling. The air was full of drowsy calls and twitters from the grass and the trees. The two ladies had been sitting ever since dinner, enjoying the warm air of the early summer, talking very little, and dropping often into long and contented silences. Mrs. Belding had condescended to grenadine in consideration of the weather, and so looked less funereal than usual. Alice was dressed in a soft and vapory fabric of creamy bunting, in the midst of which her long figure lay reclined in an easy chair of Japanese bamboo; she might have posed for a statue of graceful and luxurious repose. There was light enough from the rising moon and the risen stars to show the clear beauty of her face and the yellow lustre of her hair; and her mother cast upon her from time to time a glance of pride and fondness, as if she were a recovered treasure to which the attraction of novelty had just been added anew. "They say she looks as I did at her age," thought the candid lady; "but they must flatter me. My nose was never so straight as that: her nose is Belding all over. I wonder whom she will care about here? Mr. Furrey is a nice young man, but she is hardly polite to him. There he is now." The young man came briskly up the walk, and ran up the steps so quickly that he tripped on the last one and dropped his hat. He cleverly recovered it, however, and made very elaborate bows to both the ladies, hoping that he found them quite well. Mrs. Belding bustled about to give him a chair, at which Alice knitted her pretty brows a little. She had scarcely moved her eyelashes to greet her visitor; but when Mrs. Belding placed a light chair near her daughter and invited Mr. Furrey to take it, the young lady rose from her reclining attitude and sat bolt upright with a look of freezing dignity. The youth was not at all abashed, but took his seat, with his hat held lightly by the brim in both hands. He was elegantly dressed, in as faithful and reverent an imitation as home talent could produce of the costume of the gentlemen who that year were driving coaches in New York. His collar was as stiff as tin; he had a white scarf, with an elaborate pin constructed of whips and spurs and horseshoes. He wore dog-skin gloves, very tight and red. His hair was parted in the middle with rigorous impartiality and shed rather rank fragrance on the night. He began conversation with an easy air, in which there was something of pleasurable excitement mixed. "I come to receive your congratulations, ladies!" "What, you are engaged?" said Mrs. Belding, and even the placid face of Miss Alice brightened with a look of pleased inquiry. "Oh, dear, no; how could you think so?" he protested, with an arch look at Alice which turned her to marble again. "I mean I have this day been appointed assistant cashier of our bank!" Napoleon, informing Madame de Beauharnais [* - Perhaps Josephine told Napoleon herself, but I think she was clever enough to let him imagine he owed the appointment to his merits.] that he was to command the army of Italy, probably made less ado about it. Mrs. Belding made haste to murmur her congratulations. "Very gratifying, I am sure,--at your age;" to which Alice responded like a chorus, but without any initiative warmth, "Very gratifying, I am sure." Furrey went on at some length to detail all the circumstances of the event: how Mr. Lathers, the president of the bank, had sent for him, and how he complimented him; how he had asked him where he learned to write such a good hand; and how he had replied that it came sort of natural to him to write well, that he could make the American eagle with pen and ink before he was fifteen, all but the tail-feathers, and how he discovered a year later that the tail-feathers had to be made by holding the pen between the first and second fingers; with much more to the like innocent purpose, to which Mrs. Belding listened with nods and murmurs of approval. This was all the amiable young man needed to encourage him to indefinite prattle. He told them all about the men in the bank, their habits and their loves and their personal relations to him, and how he seemed somehow to be a general favorite among them all. Miss Alice sat very still and straight in her chair, with an occasional smile when the laughter of Mr. Furrey seemed to require it, but with her eyes turned to the moonlit night in vagrant reverie, and her mind in those distant and sacred regions where we cannot follow the minds of pure and happy girls. "Now, you would hardly understand, if I did not tell you," said Mr. Furrey, "how it is that I have gained the confidence----" At this moment Alice, who had been glancing over Mr. Furrey's shoulder for a moment with a look of interest in her eyes, which he thought was the legitimate result of his entertaining story, cried: "Why, there comes Mr. Farnham, mamma." "So it is," said her mother. "I suppose he wants to see me. Don't move, Mr. Furrey. Mr. Farnham and I will go into the house." "By no means," said that gentleman, who by this time had mounted the steps. "I was sitting all alone on my porch and saw by the moon that yours was inhabited; and so I came over to improve my mind and manners in your society." "I will get a chair for you," said Mrs. Belding. "No, thank you; this balustrade will bear my weight, and my ashes will drop harmless on the flower-bed, if you will let me finish my cigar." And he seated himself between the chair of Furrey and the willow fabric in which Alice had resumed her place. This addition to the company was not at all to the taste of the assistant cashier, who soon took his leave, shaking hands with the ladies, with his best bow. "After all, I do prefer a chair," said Farnham, getting down from his balustrade, and throwing away his cigar. He sat with his back to the moonlight. On his left was Alice, who, as soon as Furrey took his departure, settled back in her willow chair in her former attitude of graceful ease. On the right was Mrs. Belding, in her thin, cool dress of gauzy black. Farnham looked from one to the other as they talked, and that curious exercise, so common to young men in such circumstances, went through his mind. He tried to fancy how Mrs. Belding looked at nineteen, and how Miss Belding would look at fifty, and the thought gave him singular pleasure. His eyes rested with satisfaction on the kindly and handsome face of the widow, her fine shoulders and arms, and comfortable form, and then, turning to the pure and exquisite features of the tall girl, who was smiling so freshly and honestly on him, his mind leaped forward through corning years, and he said to himself: "What a wealth of the woman there is there--for somebody." An aggressive feeling of disapproval of young Furrey took possession of him, and he said, sharply: "What a very agreeable young man Mr. Furrey is?" Mrs. Belding assented, and Miss Alice laughed heartily, and his mind was set at rest for the moment. They passed a long time together. At first Mrs. Belding and Arthur "made the expenses" of the conversation; but she soon dropped away, and Alice, under the influence of the night and the moonlight and Farnham's frank and gentle provocation, soon found herself talking with as much freedom and energy as if it were a girls' breakfast. With far more, indeed,--for nature takes care of such matters, and no girl can talk to another as she can to a man, under favoring stars. The conversation finally took a personal turn, and Alice, to her own amazement, began to talk of her life at school, and with sweet and loving earnestness sang the praises of Madame de Veaudrey. "I wish you could know her," she said to Farnham, with a sudden impulse of sympathy. He was listening to her intently, and enjoying her eager, ingenuous speech as much as her superb beauty, as the moon shone full on her young face, so vital and so pure at once, and played, as if glad of the privilege, about the curved lips, the flashing teeth, the soft eyes under their long lashes, and the hair over the white forehead, gleaming as crisply brilliant as fine-spun wire of gold. "By her fruits I know her, and I admire her very much," he said, and was sorry for it the moment afterward, for it checked the course of the young girl's enthusiasm and brought a slight blush to her cheek. "I ought to have known better," he said to himself with real penitence, "than to utter a stupid commonplace to such a girl when she was talking so earnestly." And he tried to make amends, and succeeded in winning back her attention and her slow unconscious smiles by talking to her of things a thousand miles away. The moon was silvering the tops of the linden-trees at the gates before they thought of the flight of time, and they had quite forgotten the presence of Mrs. Belding when her audible repose broke in upon their talk. They looked at each other, and burst into a frank laugh, full of confidence and comradeship, which the good lady heard in her dreams and waked, saying, "What are you laughing at? I did not catch that last witticism." The young people rose from their chairs. "I can't repeat my own mots," said Arthur: "Miss Belding will tell you." "Indeed I shall not," replied Alice. "It was not one of his best, mamma." She gave him her hand as he said "Good-night," and it lay in his firm grasp a moment without reserve or tremor. "You are a queer girl, Alice," said Mrs. Belding, as they walked into the drawing-room through the open window. "You put on your stiffest company manners for Mr. Furrey, and you seem entirely at ease with Mr. Farnham, who is much older and cleverer, and is noted for his sarcastic criticisms." "I do not know why it is, mamma, but I do feel very much at home with Mr. Farnham, and I do not want Mr. Furrey to feel at home with me." Upon this, Mrs. Belding laughed aloud. Alice turned in surprise, and her mother said, "It is too good to keep. I must tell you. It is such a joke on Arthur;" and, sitting in a low arm-chair, while Alice stood before her leaning upon the back of another, she told the whole story of the scene of the morning in the rose-house. She gave it in the fullest detail, interrupting herself here and there for soft cachinnations, unmindful of the stern, unsmiling silence with which her daughter listened. She finished, with a loud nourish of merriment, and then asked: "Did you ever hear anything so funny in your life?" The young lady was turning white and red in an ominous manner, and was biting her nether lip. Her answer to her mother's question was swift and brief: "I never heard anything so horrid," and she moved majestically away without another word. Mrs. Belding sat for a moment abashed. "There!" she said to herself, "I knew very well I ought not to tell her. But it was too good to keep, and I had nobody else to tell." She went to bed, feeling rather ill-used. As she passed her daughter's door, she said, "Good-night, Alice!" and a voice riot quite so sweet as usual replied, "Good-night, mamma," but the door was not opened. Alice turned down her light and sat upon a cushioned seat in the embrasure of her open window. She looked up at the stars, which swam and glittered in her angry eyes. With trembling lips and clinched hands she communed with herself. "Why, why, why did mamma tell me that horrid story? To think there should be such women in the world! To take such a liberty with him, of all men! She could not have done it without some encouragement--and he could not have encouraged her. He is not that kind of a vulgar flirt at all. But what do I know about men? They may all be--but I did not think--what business have I thinking about it? I had better go to bed. I have spent all the evening talking to a man who--Oh! I wish mamma had not told me that wretched story. I shall never speak to him again. It is a pity, too, for we are such near neighbors, and he is so nice, if he were not--But I don't care how nice he is, she has spoiled him. I wonder who she was. Pretty, was she? I don't believe a word of it--some bold-faced, brazen creature. Oh! I shall hate myself if I cry;" but that was past praying for, and she closed her lattice and went to bed for fear the stars should witness her unwelcome tears. X. A WORD OUT OF SEASON. Arthur Farnham awoke the next day with a flight of sweet hopes and fancies singing in his heart and brain. He felt cheerfully and kindly toward the whole human race. As he walked down into the city to transact some business he had there with his lawyer, he went out of his way to speak to little children. He gave all his acquaintances a heartier "Good-morning" than usual. He even whistled at passing dogs. The twitter of the sparrows in the trees, their fierce contentions on the grass, amused him. He leaned over the railing of the fountain in the square with the idlers, and took a deep interest in the turtles, who were baking their frescoed backs in the warm sun, as they floated about on pine boards, amid the bubbles of the clear water. As he passed by the library building, Dr. Buchlieber was standing in the door. "Good luck," he said; "I was just wishing to see you. One of our young women resigned this morning, and I think there may be a chance for our handsome friend. The meeting, you remember, is this afternoon." Farnham hardly recalled the name of the young lady in whose success he had been so interested, although recent intimate occurrences might have been expected to fix it somewhat permanently in his remembrance. But all female images except one had become rather vague in his memory. He assented, however, to what the doctor proposed, and going away congratulated himself on the possibility of doing Maud a service and ridding himself of the faintest tinge of remorse. He was not fatuous or conceited. He did not for a moment imagine that the girl was in love with him. He attributed her demonstration in the rose-house to her "congenital bad breeding," and thought it only one degree worse than other match-making manoeuvres of which he had been the object in the different worlds he had frequented. He gave himself no serious thought about it, and yet he was glad to find an apparent opportunity to be of use to her. She was poor and pretty. He had taken an interest in her welfare. It had not turned out very well. She had flung herself into his arms and been heartily kissed. He could not help feeling there was a balance against him. As he turned the corner of the street which led to the attorney's office where he was going, he saw a man standing by the wall with his hat off, bowing to him. He returned the unusual salutation and passed on; it was some moments before he remembered that it was one of his colleagues on the Library Board. He regretted not having stopped and made the effort to engage his vote for Maud; but, on second thought, he reflected that it would be as well to rely upon the surprise of the three to prevent a combination at the meeting. When he reached the entrance of the building where his lawyer's offices were, he turned, with a sense of being pursued by a shuffling footstep which had hastened its speed the last few paces, and saw his colleague coming up the steps after him with a perspiring but resolute face. "Hold on, Cap," he said, coming into the shade of the passage. "I was thinkin' o' comin' to see you, when I sighted you comin' round the corner." "I am glad to see you, Mr. Pennybaker," said Arthur, taking the clumsy hand which was held out to him. "Gettin' pretty hot, ain't it?" said Pennybaker, wiping his brow with his forefinger and dexterously sprinkling the floor with the proceeds of the action. "No danger of frost, I think," Arthur assented, admiring the dexterity of Pennybaker, but congratulating himself that the shake-hands was disposed of. "You bet your life. We're going to have it just sizzling from now on." "Were you wishing to see me about anything in particular?" asked Farnham, who saw no other way of putting an end to a meteorological discussion which did not interest him. "Well, yes," answered Pennybaker, getting around beside Farnham, and gazing at the wall opposite. "I heerd this mornin' that Minnie Bell was goin' to get married. My daughter is doing some sewing for her, and it slipped out that way. She was trying to keep it secret. Some girls is mighty funny that way. They will do anything to get engaged, and then they will lie like Sam Hill to make believe they ain't. Well, that makes a vacancy." He did not turn his head, but he cast a quick glance sideways at Farnham, who made no answer, and Pennybaker resumed: "So I thought I would come to you, honor bright, and see if we couldn't agree what to do. That's me. I'm open and square like a bottle of bitters." Farnham gave no indication of his surprise at this burst of candor, but asked: "What do you propose?" "That's it," said Pennybaker, promptly. "I don't propose nothing--I _ex_pose. You hear me--I _ex_pose." He said this with great mystery, one eye being shut fast and the other only half open. He perceived that he had puzzled Farnham, and enjoyed it for a moment by repeating his mot with a chuckle that did not move a muscle of his face. "I'll tell you the whole thing. There's no use, between gentlemen, of playing the thing too fine." He took his knife from one pocket and from another a twist of tobacco, and, cutting off a mouthful, began his story: "You see, me and Bud Merritt and Joe Dorman have most generally agreed on paternage, and that was all right. You are well fixed. You don't want the bother of them little giblets of paternage. We've 'tended to 'em for what there was in 'em and for the good of the party. Now Bud he wants to be auditor, and he's got Joe to go in with him, because, if he gits there, Joe's brother-in-law, Tim Dolan, will be his debbity. Bud is weak in the Third Ward, and he knows it, and he knows that Jake Runckel can swing that ward like a dead cat; and so they have fixed it all up to give the next vacancy to Jake for his sister. She's been turned out of the school for some skylarking, and weighs pretty heavy on Jake's hands. Very well. That's the game, and I'm a-kickin'! Do you hear me? I'm a-kickin'!" Pennybaker pushed up his hat and looked Farnham fairly in the face. The assertion of his independence seemed to give him great gratification. He said once more, slowly closing one eye and settling back in his former attitude against the wall, while he aimed a deluge of tobacco-juice at the base of the wall before him: "I'm a-kickin' like a Texas steer." He waited a moment to allow these impressive words to have their full effect, while Farnham preserved a serious and attentive face. "Well, this bein' the case," continued Pennybaker, "I comes to you, as one gentleman to another, and I asks whether we can't agree against this selfish and corrupt game of Merritt and Dorman. For, you see, I don't get a smell out of what they're doin'. I'm out in the cold if their slate goes through." "I don't see that I can be of any service to you, Mr. Pennybaker. If I have any influence in the matter, it shall be given to Miss Matchin, whom I proposed once before." "Exactly! Now you're talkin'. Miss Matchin shall have it, on one little proviso that won't hurt you nor me nor nobody. Say the word, and it's a whack." And he lifted up his hand to strike the bargain. "What is it?" asked Farnham, in a tone which was severe and contemptuous, in spite of him. "Namely, just this," answered Pennybaker, "You ain't on the make; you're fixed. You don't care about these d---- little things except to help a friend once 'n awhile," he said, in a large and generous way. "But I ain't that kind yet. I've got to look out for myself--pretty lively, too. Now, I'll tell you what's my racket. You let me perpose Miss Matchin's name and then go and tell her father that I put it through, and it'll be done slick as a whistle. That's all solid, ain't it?" Farnham's brow clouded. He did not answer at once. Pennybaker repeated his question a little anxiously: "That's all solid, ain't it?" "You will excuse me, Mr. Pennybaker, if I do not quite understand your racket, as you call it. I do not see how you make anything out of this. Matchin is a poor man. You surely do not intend----" "To strike Saul for a divvy? Nothing of the sort," said Pennybaker, without the least offence. "The whole thing lies just here. Among gentlemen there's no use being shy about it. My brother wants to be assessor in Saul Matchin's ward. Saul's got a lot of influence among the boys in the planing-mills, and I want his help. You see?" Farnham thought he saw, and, after assenting to Pennybaker's eager demand, "That's all solid?" he walked away, too much relieved by the thought that Maud was provided for to question too closely the morality of the proceeding which the sordid rascal had exposed to him. In the afternoon, at the meeting of the board, the programme agreed upon was strictly carried out. Pennybaker proposed Miss Matchin's name as soon as the vacancy was announced, to the amazement of his late confederates. They moved a postponement, but to no purpose; Maud was elected; and the angry politicians had no better revenge than to say spitefully to Pennybaker on the stairs, as they went away, "How much did the Captain give you for that sell-out?"--a jeer which he met by a smile of conscious rectitude and a request to be informed the next time they organized a freeze-out against him. It must be said, however, that he lost no time in going to Matchin, informing him that he had succeeded in carrying Maud in by unheard-of exertions, and demanding and receiving on the spot five per cent of her year's salary, which he called "the usual commission." Saul announced the appointment that evening at supper. Maud flushed crimson, and the tears started to her eyes. She was about to declare she would not have it, when her father's next words put a different face on the matter. "And it's no thanks to Cap'n Farnham, neither. He tried it oncet, and couldn't make the riffle. But me and Joel Pennybaker got together and done it. And now I hope, Mattie, you'll behave yourself and save money. It's like a fortun' comin' to you, if you're smart." Maud found no reply ready. She could not wholly believe her father's story. She still fancied the appointment came from Farnham, and there was a certain bitterness in it; but, on the whole, she received it not without a secret complacency. Mrs. Matchin's pleasure was checked by her daughter's morose confusion. Sam made no pretence of being pleased, but sat, unmoved by Matchin's speech, in scowling silence, and soon went out without a word of comment. The scene he had witnessed in the rose-house had poisoned his mind; yet, whenever he looked at Maud, or tried to speak to her, he was met with an air of such fierce and beautiful defiance, that his eyes fell and his voice stuck in his throat. So the piece of good fortune, so anxiously awaited in the household, brought little delight when it came. Maud reported for duty next day, and soon learned the routine of her work; but she grew more and more silent at home, and Saul's hope of a wedding in the family died away. Arthur Farnham walked away from the meeting with the feeling of a school-boy who has finished a difficult task and who thinks he deserves some compensating pleasure. The day had been fine and warm, but the breeze of the late afternoon was already blowing in from the lake, lending freshness and life to the air. The sky was filled with soft gray clouds, which sailed along at a leisurely rate, evidently on very good terms with the breeze. As Farnham walked up the avenue, he cast about in his mind for the sort of dissipation with which he would reward himself for the day's work and he decided for a ride. But as he was drawing on his boots, it occurred to him, for the first time in his life, that it was a churlish and unneighborly proceeding for him to go riding alone day after day, and that he would be doing no more than his duty to offer his escort to Miss Belding. He said Miss Belding to his own thought--making it as formal and respectful as possible. So, sending an order to his groom to keep his horse at the stable for a moment, he walked over the lawn to the Belding cottage and asked for the ladies. "I believe they are upstairs, sir. Walk into the drawing-room, and I will see," said the neat housemaid, smiling at Farnham, as indeed was the general custom of women. He took his seat in the cool and darkened room facing the door-way, which commanded a view of the stairs. He sat in a large willow chair very much at his ease, looking about the pretty salon, enjoying its pictures and ornaments and the fragrance of the roses in the vases, as if he had a personal interest in them. The maid came back and said the ladies would be down in a moment. She had announced Farnham to Mrs. Belding, who had replied, "Tell him, in a moment." She was in the summer afternoon condition which the ladies call "dressing-sack," and after an inspection at the glass, which seemed unsatisfactory, she walked across the hall to her daughter's room. She found Alice standing by the window, looking out upon the lake. "There, I am glad you are all dressed. Arthur Farnham has called, and you must go down and excuse me. I said I would come, but it will take me so long to dress, he will get tired of waiting. You run down and see him. I suppose there is nothing particular." "Oh, mamma," said Alice, "I don't want to see him, and especially not alone." Mrs. Belding made large eyes in her surprise. "Why, Alice, what has got into you?" Alice blushed and cast down her eyes. "Mamma," she said, in a low voice, "do not ask me to go down. You know what you told me last night." "There, that will do," said the mother, with a tone of authority. "Perhaps I was foolish to tell you that silly little story, but I am the judge of who shall visit this house. You are too young to decide these questions for me, and I insist that what I told you shall make no difference in your treatment of Mr. Farnham. You think too much of your own part in the matter. He has come to see me, and not you, and I wish you to go down and make my excuses for keeping him waiting. Will you go?" "Yes, I will go," said the young girl. The blush had left her cheek and she had become a trifle pale. She had not raised her eyes from the floor during her mother's little speech; and when it was over and her mother had gone back to her room, Alice cast one glance at her mirror, and with a firm face walked down the stairs to the drawing-room. Farnham heard the rustle of her dress with a beating of the heart which filled him with a delicious surprise. "I am not past it, then," was the thought that came instantly to his mind, and in that one second was a singular joy. When she came in sight on the stairs, it was like a sudden enchantment to him. Her beautiful head, crowned with its masses of hair drawn back into a simple Greek knot; her tall, strong figure, draped in some light and clinging stuff which imposed no check on her natural grace and dignity, formed a charming picture as she came down the long stairs; and Farnham's eyes fastened eagerly upon her white hand as it glided along the dark walnut baluster. His heart went out to meet her. He confessed to himself, with a lover's instantaneous conviction, that there was nothing in the world so utterly desirable as that tall and fair-haired girl slowly descending the stairs. In the midst of his tumultuous feeling a trivial thought occurred to him: "I am shot through the heart by the blind archer," he said to himself; and he no longer laughed at the old-fashioned symbol of the sudden and fatal power of love. But with all this tumult of joy in the senses waking up to their allegiance, there came a certain reserve. The goddess-like creature who had so suddenly become the mistress of his soul was a very serious personage to confront in her new majesty. He did not follow the impulse of his heart and rush forward as she entered the room. He merely rose and bowed. She made the faintest possible salutation, and, without taking a seat, conveyed her mother's excuses in a tone of such studied coldness that it amused Farnham, who took it as a school-girl's assumption of a grand and ceremonious manner suitable to a tete-a-tete with man. "Thank you," he said, "but I did not come especially to see your mother. My object was rather to see you." She did not smile or reply, and he went on, with a slight sensation of chill coming upon him from this stony dignity, which, the more he observed it, seemed less and less amusing and not at all artificial. "I came to ask if you would not like to go to ride this afternoon. It is just gray enough for comfort." "I thank you very much for being so kind as to think of me," she replied, "but it will not be convenient for me to go." "Perhaps the morning will suit better. I will come to-morrow at any hour you say." "I shall not be able to go to-morrow either, I think." Even while exchanging these few words, Alice felt herself growing slightly embarrassed, and it filled her with dismay. "I am a poor creature," she thought, "if I cannot get this self-satisfied gentleman out of the house without breaking down. I can't stand here forever though," and so she took a seat, and as Arthur resumed his willow chair with an air of content, she could not but feel that as yet the skirmish was not in her favor. She called her angry spirit to her aid, and nerved herself to say something which would promptly close the interview. His next words gave her the opportunity. "But you surely do not intend to give up riding altogether?" "Certainly not. I hope to ride a good deal. Andrews will go with me." "Ah! Your objection to me as a groom is entirely personal, then." "Now for it!" she thought to herself, and she said firmly, "Yes." But the effort was too great, and after the word was launched her mouth broke up into a nervous smile, for which she despised herself, but which she could not control for her life. Farnham was so pleased with the smile that he cared nothing for the word, and so he continued in a tone of anxious and coaxing good-nature, every word increasing her trouble: "You are wrong as you can be. I am a much better groom than Andrews. He has rather more style, I admit, on account of his Scotch accent and his rheumatism. But I might acquire these. I will be very attentive and respectful. I will ride at a proper distance behind you, if you will occasionally throw a word and a smile over your shoulder at me." As he spoke, a quick vision flashed upon him of the loveliness of the head and shoulder, and the coil of fair hair which he should have before him if he rode after her, and the illumination of the smile and the word which would occasionally be thrown back to him from these perfect lips and teeth and eyes. His voice trembled with love and eagerness as he pleaded for the privilege of taking her servant's place. Alice no longer dared to interrupt him, and hardly ventured to lift her eyes from the floor. She had come down with the firm purpose of saying something to him which would put an end to all intimacy, and here, before she had been five minutes in his presence, he was talking to her in a way that delighted her ears and her heart. He went rattling on as if fearful that a pause might bring a change of mood. As she rarely looked up, he could feast his eyes upon her face, where now the color was coming and going, and on her shapely hands, which were clasped in her lap. He talked of Colorado as if it were settled that they were to go there together, and they must certainly have some preliminary training in rough riding; and then, merely to make conversation, he spoke of other places that should only be visited on horseback, always claiming in all of them his post of groom. Alice felt her trouble and confusion of spirit passing away as the light stream of talk rippled on. She took little part in it at first, but from monosyllables of assent she passed on to a word of reply from time to time; and before she knew how it happened she was engaged in a frank and hearty interchange of thoughts and fancies, which brought her best faculties into play and made her content with herself, in spite of the occasional intrusion of the idea that she had not been true to herself in letting her just anger die so quickly away. If Farnham could have seen into the proud and honest heart of the young girl he was talking to, he would have rested on the field he had won, and not tempted a further adventure. Her anger against him had been dissipated by the very effort she had made to give it effect, and she had fallen insensibly into the old relation of good neighborhood and unreserved admiration with which she had always regarded him. She had silenced her scruples by the thought that in talking pleasantly with him she was obeying her mother, and that after all it was not her business to judge him. If he could have known his own best interest, he would have left her then, when her voice and her smile had become gay and unembarrassed according to their wont, with her conscience at ease about his faults, and her mind filled with a pleasant memory of his visit. But such wisdom was beyond his reach. He had felt suddenly, and once for all, in the last hour, the power and visible presence of his love. He had never in his life been so moved by any passion as he was by the joy that stirred his heart when he heard the rustle of her dress in the hall and saw her white hand resting lightly on the dark wood of the stairs. As she walked into the parlor, from her face and her hair, from every movement of her limbs, from every flutter of her soft and gauzy garments, there came to him an assertion of her power over him that filled him with a delicious awe. She represented to him, as he had never felt it before, the embodied mystery and majesty of womanhood. During all the long conversation that had followed, he had been conscious of a sort of dual operation of his mind, like that familiar to the eaters of hashish. With one part of him he had been carrying on a light and shallow conversation, as an excuse to remain in her presence and to keep his eyes upon her, and with all the more active energies of his being he had been giving himself up to an act of passionate adoration of her. The thoughts that uttered themselves to him, as he chatted about all sorts of indifferent things, were something like these: How can it have ever happened that such beauty, such dignity, such physical perfection could come together in one person, and the best and sweetest heart have met them there? If she knew her value, her pride would ruin her. In her there is everything, and everything else beside: Galatea, the statue, with a Christian soul. She is the best that could fall to any man, but better for me than for any one else. Anybody who sees her must love her, but I was made for nothing else but to love her. This is what mythologies meant. She is Venus: she loves laughter, and her teeth and lips are divine. She is Diana: she makes the night beautiful; she has the eye and the arm of an athlete goddess. But she is a woman: she is Mrs. Belding's daughter Alice. Thank heaven, she lives here. I can call and see her. To-morrow, I shall ride with her. She will love and marry some day like other women. Who is the man who shall ever kiss her between those straight brows? And fancies more audacious and extravagant fed the fever of his heart as he talked deliberate small talk, still holding his hat and whip in his hand. He knew it was time he should go, but could not leave the joy of his eyes and ears. At last his thoughts, like a vase too full, ran over into speech. It was without premeditation, almost without conscious intention. The under-tone simply became dominant and overwhelmed the frivolous surface talk. She had been talking of her mother's plans of summer travel, and he suddenly interrupted her by saying in the most natural tone in the world: "I must see your mother before she decides. I hope you will make no plans without me. I shall go where you go. I shall never be away from you again, if I can help it. No, no, do not frown about it. I must tell you. I love you; my whole life is yours." She felt terribly shocked and alarmed, not so much at his words as at her own agitation. She feared for a moment she could not rise from her seat, but she did so with an effort. He rose and approached her, evidently held in check by her inflexible face; for the crisis had brought a momentary self-control with it, and she looked formidable with her knit brows and closed lips. "Do not go," he pleaded. "Do not think I have been wanting in respect and consideration. I could not help saying what I did. I cannot live without you any more than I can without light and sunshine. I ought to have waited and not startled you. But I have only begun to live since I loved you, and I feel I must not waste time." She was deeply disturbed at these wild and whirling words, but still bore herself bravely. She felt her heart touched by the vibration of his ardent speech, but her maiden instinct of self defence enabled her to stand on her guard. Though beaten by the storm of his devotion, she said to herself that she could get away if she could keep from crying or sobbing, and one thought which came to her with the swiftness of lightning gave her strength to resist. It was this: "If I cry, he will take me in his arms, and we shall repeat the tableau mamma saw in the rose-house." Strong in that stimulating thought, she said: "I am too sorry to hear you say these things. You know how much we have always thought of you. If you forget all this, and never repeat it, we may still be friends. But if you renew this subject, I will never speak to you again alone, as long as I live." He began to protest; but she insisted, with the calm cruelty of a woman who sees her advantage over the man she loves. "If you say another word, it is the end of our acquaintance, and perhaps it is best that it should end. We can hardly be again as we were." Farnham was speechless, like one waked in the cold air out of a tropical dream. He had been carried on for the last hour in a whirlwind of emotion, and now he had met an obstacle against which it seemed that nothing could be done. If he had planned his avowal, he might have been prepared for rejection; but he had been hurried into it with no thought of what the result would be, and he was equally unprovided for either issue. In face of the unwavering voice and bearing of Alice, who seemed ten times more beautiful than ever as she stood before him as steady and unresponsive as a young Fate, his hot speech seemed suddenly smitten powerless. He only said: "It shall be as you wish. If I ever offend you again, I will take my punishment upon myself and get out of your way." She did not dare to say another word, for fear it would be too kind. She gave him her hand; it was soft and warm as he pressed it; and if he had only known how much softer and warmer her heart was, he would have covered her hand with a thousand kisses. But he bowed and took his leave, and she stood by the lattice and saw him go away, with eyes full of tears and a breast filled with the tenderest ruth and pity--for him and for herself. XI. THE SANTA RITA SHERRY. Farnham walked down the path to the gate, then turned to go to his own house, with no very definite idea of what direction he was taking. The interview he had just had was still powerfully affecting his senses, he was conscious of no depression from the prompt and decided refusal he had received. He was like a soldier in his first battle who has got a sharp wound which does not immediately cripple him, the perception of which is lost in the enjoyment of a new, keen, and enthralling experience. His thoughts were full of his own avowal, of the beauty of his young mistress, rather than of her coldness. Seeing his riding-whip in his hand, he stared at it an instant, and then at his boots, with a sudden recollection that he had intended to ride. He walked rapidly to the stable, where his horse was still waiting, and rode at a brisk trot out of the avenue for a few blocks, and then struck off into a sandy path that led to the woods by the river-side. As he rode, his thoughts were at first more of himself than of Alice. He exulted over the discovery that he was in love as if some great and unimagined good fortune had happened to him. "I am not past it, then," he said to himself, repeating the phrase which had leaped from his heart when he saw Alice descending the stairs. "I hardly thought that such a thing could ever happen to me. She is the only one." His thoughts ran back to a night in Heidelberg, when he sat in the shadow of the castle wall with a German student of his acquaintance, and looked far over the valley at the lights of the town and the rippling waves of the Neckar, silvered by the soft radiance of the summer moon. "Poor Hammerstein! How he raved that night about little Bertha von Eichholz. He called her _Die Einzige_ something like a thousand times. It seemed an absurd thing to say; I knew dozens just like her, with blue eyes and Gretchen braids. But Hammerstein meant it, for he shot himself the week after her wedding with the assessor. But mine _is_ the Only One--though she is not mine. I would rather love her without hope than be loved by any other woman in the world." A few days before he had been made happy by perceiving that she was no longer a child; now he took infinite pleasure in the thought of her youth; he tilled his mind and his senses with the image of her freshness, her clear, pure color, the outline of her face and form. "She is young and fragrant as spring; she has every bloom and charm of body and soul," he said to himself, as he galloped over the shady woodland road. In his exalted mood, he had almost forgotten how he had left her presence. He delighted in his own roused and wakened passion, as a devotee in his devotions, without considering what was to come of it all. The blood was surging through his veins. He was too strong, his love was too new and wonderful to him, to leave any chance for despair. It was not that he did not consider himself dismissed. He felt that he had played a great stake foolishly, and lost. But the love was there, and it warmed and cheered his heart, like a fire in a great hall, making even the gloom noble. He was threading a bridle-path which led up a gentle ascent to a hill overlooking the river, when his horse suddenly started back with a snort of terror as two men emerged from the thicket and grasped at his rein. He raised his whip to strike one of them down; the man dodged, and his companion said, "None o' that, or I'll shoot your horse." The sun had set, but it was yet light, and he saw that the fellow had a cocked revolver in his hand. "Well, what do you want?" he asked. "I want you to stop where you are and go back," said the man sullenly. "Why should I go back? My road lies the other way. You step aside and let me pass." "You can't pass this way. Go back, or I'll make you," the man growled, shifting his pistol to his left hand and seizing Farnham's rein with his right. His intention evidently was to turn the horse around and start him down the path by which he had come. Farnham saw his opportunity and struck the hand that held the pistol a smart blow. The weapon dropped, but went off with a sharp report as it fell. The horse reared and plunged, but the man held firmly to the rein. His companion, joined by two or three other rough-looking men who rushed from the thicket, seized the horse and held him firmly, and pulled Farnham from the saddle. They attempted no violence and no robbery. The man who had held the pistol, a black-visaged fellow with a red face and dyed mustache, after rubbing his knuckles a moment, said: "Let's take it out o' the ---- whelp!" But another, to whom the rest seemed to look as a leader, said: "Go slow, Mr. Bowersox; we want no trouble here." Farnham at this addressed the last speaker and said, "Can you tell me what all this means? You don't seem to be murderers. Are you horse-thieves?" "Nothing of the kind," said the man. "We are Reformers." Farnham gazed at him with amazement. He was a dirty-looking man, young and sinewy, with long and oily hair and threadbare clothes, shiny and unctuous. His eyes were red and furtive, and he had a trick of passing his hand over his mouth while he spoke. His mates stood around him, listening rather studiedly to the conversation. They seemed of the lower class of laboring men. Their appearance was so grotesque, in connection with the lofty title their chief had given them, that Farnham could not help smiling, in spite of his anger. "What is your special line of reform?" he asked,--"spelling, or civil service?" "We are Labor Reformers," said the spokesman. "We represent the toiling millions against the bloated capitalists and grinding monopolies; we believe that man is better----" "Yes, no doubt," interrupted Farnham; "but how are you going to help the toiling millions by stopping my horse on the highway?" "We was holding a meeting which was kep' secret for reasons satisfactory to ourselves. These two gentlemen was posted here to keep out intruders from the lodge. If you had 'a' spoke civil to them, there would have been no harm done. None will be done now if you want to go." Farnham at once mounted his horse. "I would take it as a great favor," he said, "if you would give me your name and that of the gentleman with the pistol. Where is he, by the way?" he continued. The man they called Bowersox had disappeared from the group around the spokesman. Farnham turned and saw him a little distance away directly behind him. He had repossessed himself of his pistol and held it cocked in his hand. "What do you want of our names?" the spokesman asked. Farnham did not again lose sight of Bowersox. It occurred to him that the interview might as well be closed. He therefore said, carelessly, without turning: "A man has a natural curiosity to know the names of new acquaintances. But no matter, I suppose the police know you," and rode away. Bowersox turned to Offitt and said, "Why in ---- did you let him go? I could have knocked his head off and nobody knowed it." "Yes," said Offitt, coolly. "And got hung for it." "It would have been self-defence," said Bowersox. "He hit me first." "Well, gentlemen," said Offitt, "that closes up Greenwood Lodge. We can't meet in this grass any more. I don't suppose he knows any of us by sight, or he'd have us up to-morrow." "It was a piece of ---- nonsense, comin' out here, anyhow," growled Bowersox, unwilling to be placated. "You haven't done a ---- thing but lay around on the grass and eat peanuts and hear Bott chin." "Brother Bott has delivered a splendid address on 'The Religion of Nature,' and he couldn't have had a better hall than the Canopy to give it under," said Offitt. "And now, gentlemen, we'd better get back our own way." As Farnham rode home he was not much puzzled by his adventure in the woods. He remembered having belonged, when he was a child of ten, to a weird and mysterious confraternity called "Early Druids," which met in the depths of groves, with ill-defined purposes, and devoted the hours of meeting principally to the consumption of confectionery. He had heard for the past few months of the existence of secret organizations of working-men--wholly outside of the trades-unions and unconnected with them--and guessed at once that he had disturbed a lodge of one of these clubs. His resentment did not last very long at the treatment to which he had been subjected; but still he thought it was not a matter of jest to have the roads obstructed by ruffians with theories in their heads and revolvers in their hands, neither of which they knew how to use. He therefore promised himself to consult with the chief of police the next morning in regard to the matter. As he rode along, thinking of the occurrence, he was dimly conscious of a pleasant suggestion in something he had seen among the hazel brush, and searching tenaciously in his recollection of the affair, it all at once occurred to him that, among the faces of the men who came out of the thicket in the scuffle, was that of the blonde-bearded, blue-eyed young carpenter who had been at work in his library the day Mrs. Belding and Alice lunched with him. He was pleased to find that the pleasant association led him to memories of his love, but for a moment a cloud passed over him at the thought of so frank and hearty a fellow and such a good workman being in such company. "I must see if I cannot get him out of it," he said to himself, and then reverted again to thoughts of Alice. Twilight was falling, and its melancholy influence was beginning to affect him. He thought less and less of the joy of his love and more of its hopelessness. By the time he reached his house he had begun to confront the possibility of a life of renunciation, and, after the manner of Americans of fortune who have no special ties, his mind turned naturally to Europe. "I cannot stay here to annoy her," he thought, and so began to plot for the summer and winter, and, in fancy, was at the second cataract of the Nile before his horse's hoofs, ringing on the asphalt of the stable-yard, recalled him to himself. The next day, he was compelled to go to New York to attend to some matters of business. Before taking the train, he laid his complaint of being stopped on the road before the chief of police, who promised to make vigorous inquisition. Farnham remained several days in New York, and on his return, one warm, bright evening, he found his table prepared and the grave Budsey waiting behind his chair. He ate his dinner hastily and in silence, with no great zest. "You have not forgot, sir," said Budsey, who was his external conscience in social matters, "that you are going this evening to Mrs. Temple's?" "I think I shall not go." "Mr. Temple was here this afternoon, sir, which he said it was most particular. I asked him would he call again. He said no, he was sure of seeing you to-night. But it was most particular, he said." Budsey spoke in the tone of solemn and respectful tyranny which he always assumed when reminding Farnham of his social duties, and which conveyed a sort of impression to his master that, if he did not do what was befitting, his butler was quite capable of picking him up and deferentially carrying him to the scene of festivity, and depositing him on the door-step. "What could Temple want to see me about 'most particular'?" Farnham asked himself. "After all, I may as well pass the evening there as anywhere." Mr. Temple was one of the leading citizens of Buffland. He was the vice-president of the great rolling-mill company, whose smoke darkened the air by day and lighted up the skies at night as with the flames of the nether pit. He was very tall and very slender, with reddish-brown hair, eyes and mustache. Though a man of middle age, his trim figure, his fashionable dress, and his clean shaven cheek and chin gave him an appearance of youth. He was president of the local jockey club, and the joy of his life was to take his place in the judges' stand, and sway the destinies of the lean, keen-faced trainers who drove the trotting horses. He had the eye of a lynx for the detection of any crookedness in driving, and his voice would ring out over the track like the trump of doom, conveying fines and penalties to the luckless trickster who was trying to get some unfair advantage in the start. His voice, a deep basso, rarely was heard, in fact, anywhere else. Though excessively social, he was also extremely silent. He gave delightful dinner-parties and a great many of them, but rarely spoke, except to recommend an especially desirable wine to a favored guest. When he did speak, however, his profanity was phenomenal. Every second word was an oath. To those who were not shocked by it there was nothing more droll and incongruous than to hear this quiet, reserved, well-dressed, gentleman-like person pouring out, on the rare occasions when he talked freely, in a deep, measured, monotonous tone, a flood of imprecations which would have made a pirate hang his head. He had been, as a boy, clerk on a Mississippi River steamboat, and a vacancy occurring in the office of mate, he had been promoted to that place. His youthful face and quiet speech did not sufficiently impose upon the rough deck-hands of that early day. They had been accustomed to harsher modes of address, and he saw his authority defied and in danger. So he set himself seriously to work to learn to swear; and though at first it made his heart shiver a little with horror and his cheek burn with shame, he persevered, as a matter of business, until his execrations amazed the roustabouts. When he had made a fortune, owned a line of steamboats, and finally retired from the river, the habit had been fastened upon him, and oaths became to him the only form of emphatic speech. The hardest work he ever did in his life was, while courting his wife, a Miss Flora Ballston, of Cincinnati, to keep from mingling his ordinary forms of emphasis in his asseverations of affection. But after he was married, and thrown more and more into the company of women, that additional sense, so remarkable in men of his mould, came to him, and he never lapsed, in their presence, into his natural way of speech. Perhaps this was the easier, as he rarely spoke at all when they were by--not that he was in the least shy or timid, but because they, as a rule, knew nothing about stocks, or pig-iron, or wine, or trotting horses,--the only subjects, in his opinion, which could interest any reasonable creature. When Farnham arrived at his house, it was already pretty well filled with guests. Mr. and Mrs. Temple were at the door, shaking hands with their friends as they arrived, she with a pleasant smile and word from her black eyes and laughing mouth, and he in grave and speechless hospitality. "Good-evening, Mr. Farnham!" said the good-natured lady. "So glad to see you. I began to be alarmed. So did the young ladies. They were afraid you had not returned. Show yourself in the drawing-room and dispel their fears. Oh, Mr. Harrison, I am so glad you resolved to stay over." Farnham gave way to the next comer, and said to Mr. Temple, who had pressed his hand in silence: "Did you want to see me for anything special to-day?" Mrs. Temple looked up at the word, and her husband said: "No; I merely wanted you to take a drive with me." Another arrival claimed Mrs. Temple's attention, and as Farnham moved away, Temple half-whispered in his ear, "Don't go away till I get a chance to speak to you. There is merry and particular bloom of h---- to pay." The phrase, while vivid, was not descriptive, and Farnham could not guess what it meant. Perhaps something had gone wrong in the jockey club; perhaps Goldsmith Maid was off her feed; perhaps pig-iron had gone up or down a dollar a ton. These were all subjects of profound interest to Temple and much less to Farnham; so he waited patiently the hour of revelation, and looked about the drawing-room to see who was there. It was the usual drawing-room of provincial cities. The sofas and chairs were mostly occupied by married women, who drew a scanty entertainment from gossip with each other, from watching the proceedings of the spinsters, and chiefly, perhaps, from a consciousness of good clothes. The married men stood grouped in corners and talked of their every-day affairs. The young people clustered together in little knots, governed more or less by natural selection-- only the veterans of several seasons pairing off into the discreet retirement of stairs and hall angles. At the further end of the long drawing-room, Farnham's eyes at last lighted upon the object of his quest. Alice sat in the midst of a group of young girls who had intrenched themselves in a corner of the room, and defied all the efforts of skirmishing youths, intent upon flirtation, to dislodge them. They seemed to be amusing themselves very well together, and the correct young men in white cravats and pointed shoes came, chatted, and drifted away. They were the brightest and gayest young girls of the place; and it would have been hard to detect any local color in them. Young as they were, they had all had seasons in Paris and in Washington; some of them knew the life of that most foreign of all capitals, New York. They nearly all spoke French and German better than they did English, for their accent in those languages was very sweet and winning in its incorrectness, while their English was high-pitched and nasal, and a little too loud in company. They were as pretty as girls are anywhere, and they wore dresses designed by Mr. Worth, or his New York rivals, Loque and Chiffon; but they occasionally looked across the room with candid and intelligent envy at maidens of less pretensions, who were better dressed by the local artists. Farnham was stopped at some distance from the pretty group by a buxom woman standing near the open window, cooling the vast spread of her bare shoulders in a current of air, which she assisted in its office with a red-and-gold Japanese fan. "Captain Farnham," she said, "when are you going to give that lawn-tennis party you promised so long ago? My character for veracity depends on it. I have told everybody it would be soon, and I shall be disgraced if it is delayed much longer." "That is the common lot of prophets, Mrs. Adipson," replied Farnham. "You know they say in Wall Street that early and exclusive information will ruin any man. But tell me, how is your club getting on?" he continued disingenuously, for he had not the slightest interest in the club; but he knew that once fairly started on the subject, Mrs. Adipson would talk indefinitely, and he might stand there and torture his heart and delight his eyes with the beauty of Alice Belding. He carried his abstraction a little too far, however, for the good lady soon perceived, from his wandering looks and vague replies, that she was not holding his attention. So she pettishly released him after following the direction of his eyes, and said, "There, I see you are crazy to go and talk to Miss Dallas. I won't detain you. She _is_ awfully clever, I suppose, though she never took the trouble to be brilliant in my presence; and she is pretty when she wears her hair that way--I never liked those frizzes." Farnham accepted his release with perhaps a little more gratitude than courtesy, and moved away to take a seat which had just been vacated beside Miss Dallas. He was filled with a boyish delight in Mrs. Adipson's error. "That she should think I was worshipping Miss Dallas from afar! Where do women keep their eyes? To think that anybody should look at Miss Dallas when Alice Belding was sitting beside her." It was pleasant to think, however, that the secret of his unhappy love was safe. Nobody was gossiping about it, and using the name of his beloved in idle conjectures. That was as it should be. His love was sacred from rude comment. He could go and sit by Miss Dallas, so near his beloved that he could see every breath move the lace on her bosom. He could watch the color come and go on her young cheek. He could hear every word her sweet voice uttered, and nobody would know he was conscious of her existence. Full of this thought, he sat down by Miss Dallas, who greeted him warmly and turned her back upon her friends. By looking over her shining white shoulder, he could see the clear, pure profile of Alice just beyond, so near that he could have laid his hand on the crinkled gold of her hair. He then gave himself up to that duplex act to which all unavowed lovers are prone--the simultaneous secret worship of one woman and open devotion to another. It never occurred to him that there was anything unfair in this, or that it would be as reprehensible to throw the name of Miss Dallas into the arena of gossip as that of Miss Belding. That was not his affair; there was only one person in the universe to be considered by him. And for Miss Dallas's part, she was the last person in the world to suspect any one of being capable of the treason and bad taste of looking over her shoulder at another woman. She was, by common consent, the belle of Buffland. Her father was a widowed clergyman, of good estate, of literary tendencies, of enormous personal vanity, who had abandoned the pulpit in a quarrel with his session several years before, and now occupied himself in writing poems and sketches of an amorous and pietistic nature, which in his opinion embodied the best qualities of Swinburne and Chalmers combined, but which the magazines had thus far steadily refused to print. He felt himself infinitely superior to the society of Buffland,--with one exception,--and only remained there because his property was not easily negotiable and required his personal care. The one exception was his daughter Euphrasia. He had educated her after his own image. In fact, there was a remarkable physical likeness between them, and he had impressed upon her every trick of speech and manner and thought which characterized himself. This is the young lady who turns her bright, keen, beautiful face upon Farnham, with eyes eager to criticise, a tongue quick to flatter and to condemn, a head stuffed full of poetry and artificial passion, and a heart saved from all danger by its idolatry of her father and herself. "So glad to see you--one sees so little of you--I can hardly believe my good fortune--how have I this honor?" All this in hard, rapid sentences, with a brilliant smile. Farnham thought of the last words of Mrs. Adipson, and said, intrepidly, "Well, you know the poets better than I do, Miss Euphrasia, and there is somebody who says, 'Beauty draws us by the simple way she does her hair'--or something like it. That classic fillet was the first thing I saw as I entered the room, and _me voici!_" We have already said that the fault of Farnham's conversation with women was the soldier's fault of direct and indiscriminate compliment. But this was too much in Euphrasia's manner for her to object to it. She laughed and said, "You deserve a _pensum_ of fifty lines for such a misquotation. But, _dites-donc, monsieur_"--for French was one of her favorite affectations, and when she found a man to speak it with, she rode the occasion to death. There had been a crisis in the French ministry a few days before, and she now began a voluble conversation on the subject, ostensibly desiring Farnham's opinion on the crisis, but really seizing the opportunity of displaying her familiarity with the names of the new cabinet. She talked with great spirit and animation, sometimes using her fine eyes point-blank upon Farnham, sometimes glancing about to observe the effect she was creating; which gave Farnham his opportunity to sigh his soul away over her shoulder to where Alice was sweetly and placidly talking with her friends. She had seen him come in, and her heart had stood still for a moment; but her feminine instinct sustained her, and she had not once glanced in his direction. But she was conscious of every look and action of his; and when he approached the corner where she was sitting, she felt as if a warm and embarrassing ray of sunshine was coming near her, She was at once relieved and disappointed when he sat down by Miss Dallas. She thought to herself: "Perhaps he will never speak to me again. It is all my fault. I threw him away. But it was not my fault. It was his--it was hers. I do not know what to think. He might have let me alone. I liked him so much. I have only been a month out of school. What shall I do if he never speaks to me again?" Yet such is the power which, for self-defence, is given to young maidens that, while these tumultuous thoughts were passing through her mind, she talked and laughed with the girls beside her, and exchanged an occasional word with the young men in pointed shoes, as if she had never known a grief or a care. Mr. Furrey came up to say good-evening, with his most careful bow. Lowering his voice, he said: "There's Miss Dallas and Captain Farnham flirting in Italian." "Are you sure they are flirting?" "Of course they are. Just look at them!" "If you are sure they are flirting, I don't think it is right to look at them. Still, if you disapprove of it very much, you might speak to them about it," she suggested, in her sweet, low, serious voice. "Oh, that would never do for a man of my age," replied Furrey, in good faith. He was very vain of his youth. "What I wanted to speak to you about was this," he continued. "There is going to be a Ree-gatta on the river the day after to-morrow, and I hope you will grant me the favor of your company. The Wissagewissametts are to row with the Chippagowaxems, and it will be the finest race this year. Billy Raum, you know, is stroke of the------" Her face was still turned to him, but she had ceased to listen. She was lost in contemplation of what seemed to her a strange and tragic situation. Farnham was so near that she could touch him, and yet so far away that he was lost to her forever. No human being knew, or ever would know, that a few days ago he had offered her his life, and she had refused the gift. Nobody in this room was surprised that he did not speak to her, or that she did not look at him. Nobody dreamed that he loved her, and she would die, she resolved deliberately, before she would let anybody know that she loved him. "For I do love him with my whole heart," she said to herself, with speechless energy, which sent the blood up to her temples, and left her, in another instant, as pale as a lily. Furrey at that moment had concluded his enticing account of the regatta, and she had quietly declined to accompany him. He moved away, indignant at her refusal, and puzzled by the blush which accompanied it. "What did that mean?" he mused. "I guess it was because I said the crews rowed in short sleeves." Farnham also saw the blush, in the midst of a disquisition which Miss Dallas was delivering upon a new poem of Francois Coppee. He saw the clear, warm color rise and subside like the throbbing of an auroral light in a starry night. He thought he had never seen anything so lovely, but he wondered "what that oaf could have said to make her blush like that. Can it be possible that he----" His brow knitted with anger and contempt. "_Mais, qu'est-ce que vous avez donc?_" asked Euphrasia. Farnham was saved from the necessity of an explanation by Mr. Temple, who came up at that moment, and, laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder, said: "Now we will go into my den and have a glass of that sherry. I know no less temptation than Tio Pepe could take you away from Miss Dallas." "Thank you awfully," said the young lady. "Why should you not give Miss Dallas herself an opportunity to decline the Tio Pepe?" "Miss Dallas shall have some champagne in a few minutes, which she will like very much better. Age and wickedness are required to appreciate sherry." "Ah! I congratulate your sherry; it is about to be appreciated," said the deserted beauty, tartly, as the men moved away. They entered the little room which Temple called his den, which was a litter of letter-books, stock-lists, and the advertising pamphlets of wine-merchants. The walls were covered with the portraits of trotting horses; a smell of perpetual tobacco was in the air. Temple unlocked a cupboard, and took out a decanter and some glasses. He filled two, and gave one to Arthur, and held the other under his nose. "Farnham," he said, with profound solemnity, "if you don't call that the"--(I decline to follow him in the pyrotechnical combination of oaths with which he introduced the next words)--"best sherry you ever saw, then I'm a converted pacer with the ringbone." Arthur drank his wine, and did not hesitate to admit all that its owner had claimed for it. He had often wondered how such a man as Temple had acquired such an unerring taste. "Temple," he said, "how did you ever pick up this wine; and, if you will excuse the question, how did you know it when you got it?" Temple smiled, evidently pleased with the question. "You've been in Spain, haven't you?" "Yes," said Farnham. "You know this is the genuine stuff, then?" "No doubt of it." "_How_ do you know?" "The usual way--by seeing and drinking it at the tables of men who know what they are about." "Well, I have never been out of the United States, and yet I have learned about wine in just the same way. I commenced in New Orleans among the old Spanish and French Creoles, and have kept it up since, here and there. I can see in five minutes whether a man knows anything about his wine. If he does, I remember every word he says--that is my strong point--head and tongue. I can't remember sermons and speeches, but I can remember every syllable that Sam Ward said one night at your grandfather's ten years ago; and if I have once tasted a good wine, I never forget its fashion of taking hold." This is an expurgated edition of what he said; his profanity kept up a running accompaniment, like soft and distant rolling thunder. "I got this wine at the sale of the Marquis of Santa Rita. I heard you speak of him, I don't know how long ago, and the minute I read in the paper that he had turned up his toes, I cabled the consul at Cadiz--you know him, a wild Irishman named Calpin--to go to the sale of his effects and get this wine. He cabled back, 'What shall I pay?' I answered, 'Head your dispatch again: Get means get!' Some men have got no sense. I did not mind the price of the wine, but it riled me to have to pay for the two cables." He poured out another glass and drank it drop by drop, getting, as he said, "the worth of his money every time." "Have some more?" he said to Farnham. "No, thank you." "Then I'll put it away. No use of giving it to men who would prefer sixty-cent whiskey." Having done this, he turned again to Farnham, and said, "I told you the Old Boy was to pay. This is how. The labor unions have ordered a general strike; day not fixed; they are holding meetings all over town to-night. I'll know more about it after midnight." "What will it amount to?" asked Farnham. "Keen savey?" replied Temple, in his Mississippi River Spanish. "The first thing will be the closing of the mills, and putting anywhere from three thousand to ten thousand men on the streets. Then, if the strike gains the railroad men, we shall be embargoed, ---- boiling, and safety-valve riveted down." Farnham had no thought of his imperilled interests. He began instantly to conjecture what possibility of danger there might be of a disturbance of public tranquillity, and to wish that the Beldings were out of town. "How long have you known this?" he asked. "Only certainly for a few hours. The thing has been talked about more or less for a month, but we have had our own men in the unions and did not believe it would come to an extremity. To-day, however, they brought ugly reports; and I ought to tell you that some of them concern you." Farnham lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. "We keep men to loaf with the tramps and sleep in the boozing kens. One of them told me to-day that at the first serious disturbance a lot of bad eggs among the strikers--not the unionists proper, but a lot of loose fish--intend to go through some of the principal houses on Algonquin Avenue, and they mentioned yours as one of them." "Thank you. I will try to be ready for them," said Farnham. But, cool and tried as was his courage, he could not help remembering, with something like dread, that Mrs. Belding's house was next to his own, and that in case of riot the two might suffer together. "There is one thing more I wanted to say," Mr. Temple continued, with a slight embarrassment. "If I can be of any service to you, in case of a row, I want to be allowed to help." "As to that," Farnham said with a laugh, "you have your own house and stables to look after, which will probably be as much as you can manage." "No," said Temple, earnestly, "that ain't the case. I will have to explain to you"--and a positive blush came to his ruddy face. "They won't touch me or my property. They say a man who uses such good horses and such bad language as I do--that's just what they say--is one of them, and sha'n't be racketed. I ain't very proud of my popularity, but I am willing to profit by it and I'll come around and see you if anything more turns up. Now, we'll go and give Phrasy Dallas that glass of champagne." XII. A HOLIDAY NOT IN THE CALENDAR. The next morning while Farnham was at breakfast he received a note from Mr. Temple in these words: "Strikes will begin to-day, but will not be general. There will be no disturbance, I think. They don't seem very gritty." After breakfast he walked down to the City Hall. On every street corner he saw little groups of men in rather listless conversation. He met an acquaintance crossing the street. "Have you heard the news?" The man's face was flushed with pleasure at having something to tell--"The firemen and stokers have all struck, and run their engines into the round-house at Riverley, five miles out. There won't be a train leave or come in for the present." "Is that all?" "No, that ain't a start. The Model Oil men have struck, and are all over the North End, shutting up the other shops. They say there won't be a lick of work done in town the rest of the week." "Except what Satan finds for idle hands," Farnham suggested, and hastened his steps a little to the municipal buildings. He found the chief of police in his office, suffering from nervousness and a sense of importance. He began by reminding him of the occurrence of the week before in the wood. The chief waited with an absent expression for the story to end, and then said, "My dear sir, I cannot pay any attention to such little matters with anarchy threatening our city. I must protect life and property, sir--life and property." "Very well," rejoined Farnham, "I am informed that life and property are threatened in my own neighborhood. Can you detail a few policemen to patrol Algonquin Avenue, in case of a serious disturbance?" "I can't tell you, my dear sir; I will do the best I can by all sections. Why, man," he cried, in a voice which suddenly grew a shrill falsetto in his agitation, "I tell you I haven't a policeman for every ten miles of street in this town. I can't spare but two for my own house!" Farnham saw the case was hopeless, and went to the office of the mayor. That official had assumed an attitude expressive of dignified and dauntless energy. He sat in a chair tilted back on its hind feet; the boots of the municipal authority were on a desk covered with official papers; a long cigar adorned his eloquent lips; a beaver hat shaded his eyes. He did not change his attitude as Farnham entered. He probably thought it could not be changed for the better. "Good-morning, Mr. Quinlin." "Good-morning, sirr, to you." This salutation was uttered through teeth shut as tightly as the integrity of the cigar would permit. "There is a great deal of talk of possible disturbance to-night, in case the strikes extend. My own neighborhood, I am told, has been directly threatened. I called to ask whether, in case of trouble, I could rely on any assistance from the city authorities, or whether we must all look out for ourselves." The mayor placed his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and threw his head back so that he could stare at Farnham from below his hat brim. He then said, in a measured voice, as if addressing an assembly: "Sirr! I would have you to know that the working-men of Buffland are not thieves and robbers. In this struggle with capital they have my profound sympathy. I expect their conduct to be that of perr-fect gentlemen. I, at least, will give no orders which may tend to array one class of citizens against another. That is my answer, sirr; I hope it does not disappoint you." "Not in the least," said Farnham, putting on his hat. "It is precisely what I should have expected of you." "Thank you, sirr. Call again, sirr." As Farnham disappeared, the chief magistrate of the city tilted his hat to one side, shut an eye with profoundly humorous significance, and said to the two or three loungers who had been enjoying the scene: "That is the sort of T-rail I am. That young gentleman voted agin me, on the ground I wasn't high-toned enough." Farnham walked rapidly to the office of the evening newspaper. He found a man in the counting-room, catching flies and trimming their wings with a large pair of office shears. He said, "Can you put an advertisement for me in your afternoon editions?" The man laid down his shears, but held on to his fly, and looked at his watch. "Have you got it ready?" "No, but I will not be a minute about it." "Be lively! You haven't got but a minute." He picked up his scissors and resumed his surgery, while Farnham wrote his advertisement. The man took it, and threw it into a tin box, blew a whistle, and the box disappeared through a hole in the ceiling. A few minutes later the boys were crying the paper in the streets. The advertisement was in these words: "Veterans, Attention! All able-bodied veterans of the Army of the Potomac, and especially of the Third Army Corps, are requested to meet at seven this evening, at No. -- Public Square." From the newspaper office Farnham went to a gunsmith's. The dealer was a German and a good sportsman, whom Farnham knew very well, having often shot with him in the marshes west of the city. His name was Leopold Grosshammer. There were two or three men in the place when Farnham entered. He waited until they were gone, and then said: "Bolty, have you two dozen repeating rifles?" "Ja wohl! Aber, Herr Gott, was machen Sie denn damit?" "I don't know why I shouldn't tell you. They think there may be a riot in town, and they tell me at the City Hall that everybody must look out for himself. I am going to try to get up a little company of old soldiers for patrol duty." "All right, mine captain, and I will be the first freiwilliger. But I don't dink you wants rifles. Revolvers and clubs--like the pleecemen-- dat's de dicket." "Have you got them?" "Oh, yes, and the belts thereto. I got der gondract to furnish 'em to de city." "Then you will send them, wrapped up in bundles, to my office in the Square, and come yourself there at seven." "Freilich," said Leopold, his white teeth glistening through his yellow beard at the prospect of service. Farnham spent an hour or two visiting the proprietors of the large establishments affected by the strikes. He found, as a rule, great annoyance and exasperation, but no panic. Mr. Temple said, "The poor ------ fools! I felt sorry for them. They came up here to me this morning,--their committee, they called it,--and told me they hated it, but it was orders! 'Orders from where?' I asked. 'From the chiefs of sections,' they said; and that was all I could get out of them. Some of the best fellows in the works were on the committee. They put 'em there on purpose. The sneaks and lawyers hung back." "What will they do if the strike should last?" asked Farnham. "They will be supported for awhile by the other mills. Our men are the only ones that have struck so far. They were told off to make the move, just as they march out a certain regiment to charge a battery. If we give in, then another gang will strike." "Do you expect to give in?" "Between us, we want nothing better than ten days' rest. We want to repair our furnaces, and we haven't a ---- thing to do. What I told you this morning holds good. There won't be any riot. The whole thing is solemn fooling, so far." The next man Farnham saw was in a far less placid frame of mind. It was Jimmy Nelson, the largest grocer in the city. He had a cargo of perishable groceries at the station, and the freight hands would not let them be delivered. "I talked to the rascals," he said. "I asked them what they had against _me_; that they was injuring Trade!" a deity of which Mr. Nelson always spoke with profound respect. "They laughed in my face, sir. They said, 'That's just our racket. We want to squeeze you respectable merchants till you get mad and hang a railroad president or two!' Yes, sir; they said that to me, and five thousand dollars of my stuff rotting in the depot." "Why don't you go to the mayor?" asked Farnham, though he could not suppress a smile as he said it. "Yes, I like that!" screamed Jimmy. "You are laughing at me. I suppose the whole town has heard of it. Well, it's a fact. I went and asked that infernal scoundrel what he was going to do. He said his function was to keep the peace, and there wasn't a word in the statutes about North Carliny water-melons. If I live till he gets out of office, I'll lick him." "Oh, I think you won't do that, Jimmy." "You think I won't!" said Nelson, absolutely incandescent with the story of his wrongs. "I'll swear by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, that I will thrash the hide off him next spring--if I don't forget it." Farnham went home, mounted his horse, and rode about the city to see what progress the strike was making. There was little disorder visible on the surface of things. The "sections" had evidently not ordered a general cessation of labor; and yet there were curious signs of demoralization, as if the spirit of work was partially disintegrating and giving way to something not precisely lawless, but rather listless. For instance, a crowd of workmen were engaged industriously and, to all appearance, contentedly upon a large school-building in construction. A group of men, not half their number, approached them and ordered them to leave off work. The builders looked at each other and then at their exhorters in a confused fashion for a moment, and ended by obeying the summons in a sullen and indifferent manner. They took off their aprons, went to the hydrant and washed their hands, then put on their coats and went home in silence and shamefacedness, amid the angry remonstrances of the master-builder. A little farther on Farnham saw what seemed like a burlesque of the last performance. Several men were at work in a hole in the street; the tops of their heads were just visible above the surface. A half-grown, ruffianly boy, with a boot-black's box slung over his shoulder, came up and shouted, "You ---- ---- rats, come out of that, or we'll knock the scalps off'n you." The men, without even looking to see the source of the summons, threw down their tools and got out of the hole. The boy had run away; they looked about for a moment, as if bewildered, and then one of them, a gray-headed Irishman, said, "Well, we'd better be a lavin' off, if the rest is," and they all went away. In this fashion it came about that by nightfall all the squares and public places were thronged with an idle and expectant crowd, not actively mischievous or threatening, but affording a vast mass of inflammable material in case the fire should start in any quarter. They gathered everywhere in dense groups, exchanging rumors and surmises, in which fact and fiction were fantastically mingled. "The rolling-mills all close to-morrow," said a sallow and hollow-eyed tailor. "That'll let loose twenty thousand men on the town,--big, brawny fellows. I'm glad my wife is in Clairfield." "All you know about it! Clairfield is twice as bad off as here. The machine shops has all struck there, and the men went through the armory this afternoon. They're camped all along Delaware street, every man with a pair of revolvers and a musket." "You don't say so!" said the schneider, turning a shade more sallow. "I'd better telegraph my wife to come home." "I wouldn't hurry," was the impassive response. "You don't know where we'll be to-morrow. They have been drilling all day at Riverley, three thousand of 'em. They'll come in to-morrow, mebbe, and hang all the railroad presidents. That may make trouble." Through these loitering and talking crowds Farnham made his way in the evening to the office which he kept, on the public square of the town, for the transaction of the affairs of his estate. He had given directions to his clerk to be there, and when he arrived found that some half-dozen men had already assembled in answer to his advertisement. Some of them he knew; one, Nathan Kendall, a powerful young man, originally from the north of Maine, now a machinist in Buffland, had been at one time his orderly in the army. Bolty Grosshammer was there, and in a very short time some twenty men were in the room. Farnham briefly explained to them his intention. "I want you," he said, "to enlist for a few days' service under my orders. I cannot tell whether there will be any work to do or not; but it is likely we shall have a few nights of patrol at least. You will get ten dollars apiece anyhow, and ordinary day's wages besides. If any of you get hurt, I will try to have you taken care of." All but two agreed to the proposition. These two said "they had families and could not risk their skins. When they saw the advertisement they had thought it was something about pensions, or the county treasurer's office. They thought soldiers ought to have the first chance at good offices." They then grumblingly withdrew. Farnham kept his men for an hour longer, arranging some details of organization, and then dismissed them for twenty-four hours, feeling assured that there would be no disturbance of public tranquillity that night. "I will meet you here to morrow evening," he said, "and you can get your pistols and sticks and your final orders." The men went out one by one, Bolty and Kendall waiting for a while after they had gone and going out on the sidewalk with Farnham. They had instinctively appointed themselves a sort of bodyguard to their old commander, and intended to keep him in sight until he got home. As they reached the door, they saw a scuffle going on upon the sidewalk. A well-dressed man was being beaten and kicked by a few rough fellows, and the crowd was looking on with silent interest. Farnham sprang forward and seized one of the assailants by the collar; Bolty pulled away another. The man who had been cuffed turned to Kendall, who was standing by to help where help was needed, and cried, "Take me away somewhere; they will have my life;" an appeal which only excited the jeers of the crowd. "Kendall, take him into my office," said Farnham, which was done in an instant, Farnham and Bolty following. A rush was made,--not very vicious, however,--and the three men got safely inside with their prize, and bolted the door. A few kicks and blows shook the door, but there was no movement to break it down; and the rescued man, when he found himself in safety, walked up to a mirror there was in the room and looked earnestly at his face. It was a little bruised and bloody, and dirty with mud, but not seriously injured. He turned to his rescuers with an air more of condescension than gratitude. "Gentlemen, I owe you my thanks, although I should have got the better of those scoundrels in a moment. Can you assist me in identifying them?" "Oh! it is Mayor Quinlin, I believe," said Farnham, recognizing that functionary more by his voice than by his rumpled visage. "No, I do not know who they were. What was the occasion of this assault?" "A most cowardly and infamous outrage, sir," said the Mayor. "I was walking along the sidewalk to me home, and I came upon this gang of ruffians at your door. Impatient at being delayed,--for my time is much occupied,--I rebuked them for being in me way. One of them turned to me and insolently inquired, 'Do you own this street, or have you just got a lien on it?' which unendurable insult was greeted with a loud laugh from the other ruffians. I called them by some properly severe name, and raised me cane to force a passage,--and the rest you know. Now, gentlemen, is there anything I can do?" Farnham did not scruple to strike while the iron was hot. He said: "Yes, there is one thing your Honor may do, not so much for us as for the cause of order and good government, violated to-night in your own person. Knowing the insufficiency of the means at your disposal, a few of us propose to raise a subsidiary night-patrol for the protection of life and property during the present excitement. We would like you to give it your official sanction." "Do I understand it will be without expense to my--to the city government?" Mr. Quinlin was anxious to make a show of economy in his annual message. "Entirely," Farnham assured him. "It is done, sir. Come to-morrow morning and get what papers you want. The sperrit of disorder must be met and put down with a bold and defiant hand. Now, gentlemen, if there is a back door to this establishment, I will use it to make me way home." Farnham showed him the rear entrance, and saw him walking homeward up the quiet street; and, coming back, found Bolty and Kendall writhing with merriment. "Well, that beats all," said Kendall. "I guess I'll write home like the fellow did from Iowa to his daddy, 'Come out here quick. Mighty mean men gits office in this country.'" "Yes," assented Bolty. "Dot burgermeister ish better as a circus mit a drick mule." "Don't speak disrespectfully of dignitaries," said Farnham. "It's a bad habit in soldiers." When they went out on the sidewalk the crowd had dispersed. Farnham bade his recruits good night and went up the avenue. They waited until he was a hundred yards away, and then, without a word to each other, followed him at that distance till they saw him enter his own gate. XIII. A BUSY SUNDAY FOR THE MATCHINS. Matters were not going on pleasantly in the Matchin cottage. Maud's success in gaining an eligible position, as it was regarded among her friends, made her at once an object of greater interest than ever; but her temper had not improved with her circumstances, and she showed herself no more accessible than before. Her father, who naturally felt a certain satisfaction at having, as he thought, established her so well, regarded himself as justified in talking to her firmly and seriously respecting her future. He went about it in the only way he knew. "Mattie," he said one evening, when they happened to be alone together, "when are you and Sam going to make a match?" She lifted her eyes to him, and shot out a look of anger and contempt from under her long lashes that made her father feel very small and old and shabby. "Never!" she said, quietly. "Come, come, now," said the old man; "just listen to reason. Sam is a good boy, and with what he makes and what you make----" "That has nothing to do with it. I won't discuss the matter any further. We have had it all out before. If it is ever mentioned again, Sam or I will leave this house." "Hoity-toity, Missy! is that the way you take good advice----" but she was gone before he could say another word. Saul walked up and down the room a few moments, taking very short steps, and solacing his mind by muttering to himself: "Well, that's what I get by having a scholar in the family. Learning goes to the head and the heels--makes 'em proud and skittish." He punctually communicated his failure to Sam, who received the news with a sullen quietness that perplexed still more the puzzled carpenter. On a Sunday afternoon, a few days later, he received a visit from Mr. Bott, whom he welcomed, with great deference and some awe, as an ambassador from a ghostly world of unknown dignity. They talked in a stiff and embarrassed way for some time about the weather, the prospect of a rise in wages, and other such matters, neither obviously taking any interest in what was being said. Suddenly Bott drew nearer and lowered his voice, though the two were alone in the shop. "Mr. Matchin," he said, with an uneasy grin, "I have come to see you about your daughter." Matchin looked at him with a quick suspicion. "Well, who's got anything to say against my daughter?" "Oh, nobody that I know of," said Bott, growing suspicious in his turn. "Has anything ever been said against her?" "Not as I know," said Saul. "Well, what _have_ you got to say?" "I wanted to ask how you would like me as a son-in-law?" said Bott, wishing to bring matters to a decision. Saul stood for a moment without words in his astonishment. He had always regarded Bott as "a professional character," even as a "litrary man"; he had never hoped for so lofty an alliance. And yet he could not say that he wholly liked it. This was a strange creature--highly gifted, doubtless, but hardly comfortable. He was too "thick" with ghosts. One scarcely knew whether he spent most of his time "on earth or in hell," as Saul crudely phrased it. The faint smell of phosphorus that he carried about with him, which was only due to his imperfect ablutions after his seances, impressed Saul's imagination as going to show that Bott was a little too intimate with the under-ground powers. He stood chewing a shaving and weighing the matter in his mind a moment before he answered. He thought to himself, "After all, he is making a living. I have seen as much as five dollars at one of his seeunses." But the only reply he was able to make to Bott's point-blank question was: "Well, I dunno." The words were hardly encouraging, but the tone was weakly compliant. Bott felt that his cause was gained, and thought he might chaffer a little. "Of course," he said, "I would like to have a few things understood, to start with. I am very particular in business matters." "That's right," said Saul, who began to think that this was a very systematic and methodical man. "I am able to support a wife, or I would not ask for one," said Bott. "Exactly," said Saul, with effusion; "that's just what I was saying to myself." "Oh, you was!" said Bott, scowling and hesitating. "You was, was you?" Then, after a moment's pause, in which he eyed Saul attentively, he continued, "Well--that's so. At the same time, I am a business man, and I want to know what you can do for your girl." "Not much of anything, Mr. Bott, if you must know. Mattie is makin' her own living." "Yes. That's all right. Does she pay you for her board?" "Look here, Mr. Bott, that ain't none of your business yet, anyhow. She don't pay no board while she stays here; but that ain't nobody's business." "Oh, no offence, sir, none in the world. Only I am a business man, and don't want misunderstandings. So she don't. And I suppose you don't want to part with your last child--now, do you? It's like breaking your heart-strings, now, ain't it?" he said, in his most sentimental lecture voice. "Well, no, I can't say it is. Mattie's welcome in my house while I live, but of course she'll leave me some day, and I'll wish her joy." "Why should that be? My dear sir, why should that be?" Bott's voice grew greasy with sweetness and persuasion. "Why not all live together? I will be to you as a son. Maud will soothe your declining years. Let it be as it is, Father Saul." The old carpenter looked up with a keen twinkle of his eye. "You and your wife would like to board with us when you are married? Well, mebbe we can arrange that." This was not quite what Bott expected, but he thought best to say no more on that subject for the moment. Saul then asked the question that had all along been hovering on his lips. "Have you spoke to Mattie yet?" The seer blushed and simpered, "I thought it my duty to speak first to you; but I do not doubt her heart." "Oh! you don't," said Saul, with a world of meaning. "You better find out. You'll find her in the house." Bott went to the house, leaving Saul pondering. Girls were queer cattle. Had Mattie given her word to this slab-sided, lanky fellow? Had she given Sam Sleeny the mitten for him? Perhaps she wanted the glory of being Mrs. Professor Bott. Well, she could do as she liked; but Saul swore softly to himself, "If Bott comes to live offen me, he's got to pay his board." Meanwhile, the seer was walking, not without some inward perturbation, to the house, where his fate awaited him. It would have been hard to find a man more confident and more fatuous; but even such fools as he have their moments of doubt and faltering when they approach the not altogether known. He had not entertained the slightest question of Maud's devotion to him, the night she asked from him the counsel of the spirits. But he had seen her several times since that, and she had never renewed the subject. He was in two minds about it. Sometimes he imagined she might have changed her purpose; and then he would comfort himself with the more natural supposition that maiden modesty had been too much for her, and that she was anxiously awaiting his proffer. He had at last girded up his loins like a man and determined to know his doom. He had first ascertained the amount of Maud's salary at the library, and then, as we see, had endeavored to provide for his subsistence at Saul's expense; and now nothing was wanting but the maiden's consent. He trembled a little, but it was more with hope than fear. He could not make himself believe that there was any danger--but he wished it were over and all were well. He paused as he drew near the door. He was conscious that his hands were disagreeably cold and moist. He took out his handkerchief and wiped them, rubbing them briskly together, though the day was clear and warm, and the perspiration stood beaded on his forehead. But there was no escape. He knocked at the door, which was opened by Maud in person, who greeted him with a free and open kindness that restored his confidence. They sat down together, and Maud chatted gayly and pleasantly about the weather and the news. A New York girl, the daughter of a wealthy furrier, was reported in the newspaper as about to marry the third son of an English earl. Maud discussed the advantages of the match on either side as if she had been the friend from childhood of both parties. Suddenly, while she was talking about the forthcoming wedding, the thought occurred to Bott, "Mebbe this is a hint for me," and he plunged into his avowal. Turning hot and cold at once, and wringing his moist hands as he spoke, he said, taking everything for granted: "Miss Maud, I have seen your father and he gives his consent, and you have only to say the word to make us both happy." "What?" Anger, surprise, and contempt were all in the one word and in the flashing eyes of the young woman, as she leaned back in her rocking-chair and transfixed her unhappy suitor. "Why, don't you understand me? I mean----" "Oh, yes, I see what you mean. But I _don't_ mean; and if you had come to me, I'd have saved you the trouble of going to my father." "Now, look here," he pleaded, "you ain't a-going to take it that way, are you? Of course, I'd have come to you first if I had 'a' thought you'd preferred it. All I wanted was----" "Oh," said Maud, with perfect coolness and malice,--for in the last moment she had begun heartily to hate Bott for his presumption,--"I understand what _you_ want. But the question is what _I_ want--and I don't want you." The words, and still more the cold monotonous tone in which they were uttered, stung the dull blood of the conjurer to anger. His mud-colored face became slowly mottled with red. "Well, then," he said, "what did you mean by coming and consulting the sperrits, saying you was in love with a gentleman------" Maud flushed crimson at the memory awakened by these words. Springing from her chair, she opened the door for Bott, and said, "Great goodness! the impudence of some men! You thought I meant _you?_" Bott went out of the door like a whipped hound, with pale face and hanging head. As he passed by the door of the shop, Saul hailed him and said with a smile, "What luck?" Bott did not turn his head, he growled out a deep imprecation and walked away. Matchin was hardly surprised. He mused to himself, "I thought it was funny that Mattie should sack Sam Sleeny for that fellow. I guess he didn't ask the sperrits how the land lay," chuckling over the discomfiture of the seer. Spiritualism is the most convenient religion in the world. You may disbelieve two-thirds of it and yet be perfectly orthodox. Matchin, though a pillar of the faith, always keenly enjoyed the defeat and rout of a medium by his tricksy and rebellious ghosts. He was still laughing to himself over the retreat of Bott, thinking with some paternal fatuity of the attractiveness and spirit of his daughter, when a shadow fell across him, and he saw Offitt standing before him. "Why, Offitt. is that you? I did not hear you. You always come up as soft as a spook!" "Yes, that's me. Where's Sam?" "Sam's gone to Shady Creek on an excursion with his lodge. My wife went with him." "I wanted to see him. I think a heap of Sam." "So do I. Sam is a good fellow." "Excuse my making so free, Mr. Matchin, but I once thought Sam was going to be a son-in-law of yours." "Well, betwixt us, Mr. Offitt, I hoped so myself. But you know what girls is. She jest wouldn't." "So it's all done, is it? No chance for Sam?" Offitt asked eagerly. "Not as much as you could hold sawdust in your eye," the carpenter answered. "Well, now, Mr. Matchin, I have got something to say." ("Oh, Lordy," groaned Saul to himself, "here's another one.") "I wouldn't take no advantage of a friend; but if Sam's got no chance, as you say, why shouldn't I try? With your permission, sir, I will." "Now look ye here, Mr. Offitt. I don't know as I have got anything against you, but I don't know nothing _fur_ you. If it's a fair question, how do you make your livin'?" "That's all right. First place, I have got a good trade. I'm a locksmith." "So I have heard you say. But you don't work at it." "No," Offitt answered; and then, assuming a confidential air, he continued, "As I am to be one of the family, I'll tell you. I don't work at my trade, because I have got a better thing. I am a Reformer." "You don't say!" exclaimed Saul. "I never heard o' your lecturin'." "I don't lecture. I am secretary of a grand section of Labor Reformers, and I git a good salary for it." "Oh, I see," said Saul, not having the least idea of what it all meant. But, like most fathers of his kind, he made no objection to the man's proposal, and told him his daughter was in the house. As Offitt walked away on the same quest where Bott had so recently come to wreck, Saul sat smiling, and nursing his senile vanity with the thought that there were not many mechanics' daughters in Buffland that could get two offers in one Sunday from "professional men." He sat with the contented inertness of old men on his well-worn bench, waiting to see what would be the result of the interview. "I don't believe she'll have him," he thought. "He ain't half the man that Sam is, nor half the scholar that Bott is." It was well he was not of an impatient temperament. He sat quietly there for more than an hour, as still as a knot on a branch, wondering why it took Offitt so much longer than Bott to get an answer to a plain question; but it never once occurred to him that he had a right to go into his own house and participate in what conversation was going on. To American fathers of his class, the parlor is sacred when the daughter has company. There were several reasons why Offitt stayed longer than Bott. The seer had left Maud Matchin in a state of high excitement and anger. The admiration of a man so splay and ungainly was in itself insulting, when it became so enterprising as to propose marriage. She felt as if she had suffered the physical contact of something not clean or wholesome. Besides, she had been greatly stirred by his reference to her request for ghostly counsel, which had resulted in so frightful a failure and mortification. After Bott had gone, she could not dismiss the subject from her mind. She said to herself, "How can I live, hating a man as I hate that Captain Farnham? How can I breathe the same air with him, blushing like a peony whenever I think of him, and turning pale with shame when I hear his name? That ever I should have been refused by a living man! What _does_ a man want," she asked, with her head thrown back and her nostrils dilated, "when he don't want me?" As she was walking to and fro, she glanced out of the window and saw Offitt approaching from the direction of the shop. She knew instantly what his errand would be, though he had never before said a word to her out of the common. "I wonder if father has sent him to me--and how many more has he got in reserve there in the shop? Well, I will make short work of this one." But when he had come in and taken his seat, she found it was not so easy to make short work of him. Dealing with this one was very different from dealing with the other-- about the difference between handling a pig and a panther. Offitt was a human beast of prey--furtive, sly, and elusive, with all his faculties constantly in hand. The sight of Maud excited him like the sight of prey. His small eyes fastened upon her; his sinewy hands tingled to lay hold of her. But he talked, as any casual visitor might, of immaterial things. Maud, while she chatted with him, was preparing herself for the inevitable question and answer. "What shall I say to him? I do not like him. I never did. I never can. But what shall I do? A woman is of no use in the world by herself. He is not such a dunce as poor Sam, and is not such a gawk as Bott. I wonder whether he would make me mind? I am afraid he would, and I don't know whether I would like it or not. I suppose if I married him I would be as poor as a crow all my days. I couldn't stand that. I won't have him. I wish he would make his little speech and go." But he seemed in no hurry to go. He was talking volubly about himself, lying with the marvellous fluency which interest and practice give to such men, and Maud presently found herself listening intently to his stories. He had been in Mexico, it seemed. He owned a silver mine there. He got a million dollars out of it, but took it into his head one day to overturn the Government, and was captured and his money taken; barely escaped the garrote by strangling his jailer; owned the mine still, and should go back and get it some day, when he had accomplished certain purposes in this country. There were plenty of people who wished he was gone now. The President had sent for him to come, to Washington; he went, and was asked to breakfast; nobody there but them two; they ate off gold plates like he used to in Mexico; the President then offered him a hundred thousand to leave, was afraid he would make trouble; told the President to make it a million and then he wouldn't. His grandfather was one of the richest men in Europe; his father ran away with his mother out of a palace. "You must have heard of my father, General Offitt, of Georgy? No? He was the biggest slaveholder in the State. I have got a claim against the Government, now, that's good for a million if it's worth a cent; going to Washington next winter to prosecute it." Maud was now saying to herself, "Why, if half this is true, he is a remarkable man," like many other credulous people, not reflecting that, when half a man says is false, the other half is apt to be also. She began to think it would be worth her while, a red feather in her cap, to refuse such a picturesque person; and then it occurred to her that he had not proposed to marry her, and possibly had no such intention. As his stream of talk, dwelling on his own acts of valor and craft, ran on, she began to feel slightly piqued at its lack of reference to herself. Was this to be a mere afternoon call after all, with no combat and no victory? She felt drawn after awhile to bring her small resources of coquetry into play. She interrupted him with saucy doubts and questions; she cast at him smiles and glances, looking up that he might admire her eyes, and down that her lashes might have their due effect. He interpreted all these signs in a favorable sense, but still prudently refrained from committing himself, until directly challenged by the blush and simper with which she said: "I suppose you must have seen a great many pretty ladies in Mexico?" He waited a moment, looking at her steadily until her eyelids trembled and fell, and then he said, seriously and gravely: "I used to think so; but I never saw there or anywhere else as pretty a lady as I see at this minute." This was the first time in her life that Maud had heard such words from a man. Sam Sleeny, with all his dumb worship, had never found words to tell her she was beautiful, and Bott was too grossly selfish and dull to have thought of it. Poor Sleeny, who would have given his life for her, had not wit enough to pay her a compliment. Offitt, whose love was as little generous as the hunger of a tiger, who wished only to get her into his power, who cared not in the least by what means he should accomplish this, who was perfectly willing to have her find out all his falsehoods the day after her wedding, relying upon his brute strength to retain her then,--this conscienceless knave made more progress by these words than Sam by months of the truest devotion. Yet the impression he made was not altogether pleasant. Thirsting for admiration as she did, there was in her mind an indistinct conscious ness that the man was taking a liberty; and in the sudden rush of color to her cheek and brow at Offitt's words, there was at first almost as much anger as pleasure. But she had neither the dignity nor the training required for the occasion, and all the reply she found was: "Oh, Mr. Offitt, how can you say so?" "I say so," he answered, with the same unsmiling gravity, "because it's the fact. I have been all over the world. I have seen thousands of beautiful ladies, even queens and markisses, and I never yet saw and I never expect to see such beauty as yours, Miss Maud Matchin, of Buffland." She still found no means to silence him or defend herself. She said, with an uneasy laugh, "I am sure I don't see where the wonderful beauty is." "That's because your modesty holds over your beauty. But I see where it is. It's in your eyes, that's like two stars of the night; in your forehead, that looks full of intellect and sense; in your rosy cheeks and smiling lips; in your pretty little hands and feet----" Here she suddenly rolled up her hands in her frilled white apron, and, sitting up straight, drew her feet under her gown. At this performance, they both laughed loud and long, and Maud's nerves were relieved. "What geese we are," she said at last. "You know I don't believe a word you say." "Oh, yes, you do. You've got eyes and a looking-glass. Come now, be honest. You know you never saw a girl as pretty as yourself, and you never saw a man that didn't love you on sight." "I don't know about that." "Don't all the men you know love you?" "There is one man I know hates me, and I hate him." "Who is it? This is very interesting." Maud was suddenly seized with a desire to tell an adventure, something that might match Offitt's tales of wonder. "You'll never tell?" "Hope I may die." "It's Arthur Farnham!" She had succeeded in her purpose, for Offitt stared at her with looks of amazement. "He once wanted to be rather too attentive to me, and I did not like it. So he hates me, and has tried to injure me." "And you don't like him very well?" "I don't. I would owe a good deal to the man who would give him a beating." "All right. You give me--what?--a kiss, or a lock of your hair, and he shall have his thrashing." "You do it and bring me the proofs, and we will talk about it." "Well, I must be off," he said, picking tip his hat. He saw on her face a slight disappointment. He put out his hand to take leave. She folded her arms. "You needn't be in such a hurry," she said, poutingly. "Mother won't be back for ever so long, and I was half asleep over my book when you came in." "Oh, very well," he said. "That suits me." He walked deliberately across the room, picked up a chair, and seated himself very near to Maud. She felt her heart beat with something like terror, and regretted asking him to stay. He had been very agreeable, but she was sure he was going to be disagreeable now. She was afraid that if he grew disagreeable she could not manage him as she could the others. Her worst fears were realized with his first words. "Miss Matchin, if you ask me to stay longer, you must take the consequences. I am going to say to you what I never said to mortal woman before: I love you, and I want you for my wife." She tried to laugh. "Oh, you do?" but her face grew pale, and her hands trembled. "Yes, I do; and I am going to have you, too." He tried to speak lightly, but his voice broke in spite of him. "Oh, indeed!" she replied, recovering herself with an effort. "Perhaps _I'll_ have something to say about that, Mr. Confidence." "Of course; excuse me for talking like a fool. Only have me, and you shall have everything else. All that wealth can buy shall be yours. We'll leave this dull place and go around the world seeking pleasure where it can be found, and everybody will envy me my beauteous bride." "That's very pretty talk, Mr. Offitt; but where is all this wealth to come from?" He did not resent the question, but heard it gladly, as imposing a condition he might meet. "The money is all right. If I lay the money at your feet, will you go with me? Only give me your promise." "I promise nothing," said Maud; "but when you are ready to travel, perhaps you may find me in a better humor." The words seemed to fire him. "That's promise enough for me," he cried, and put out his arms toward her. She struck down his hands, and protested with sudden, cattish energy: "Let me alone. Don't you come so near me. I don't like it. Now you can go," she added. "I have got a lot to think about." He thought he would not spoil his success by staying. "Good-by, then," he said, kissing his fingers to her. "Good-by for a little while, my own precious." He turned at the door. "This is between us, ain't it?" "Yes, what there is of it," she said, with a smile that took all sting from the words. He walked to the shop, and wrung the old man's hand. His look of exultation caused Saul to say, "All settled, eh?" "No," said Offit; "but I have hopes. And now, Mr. Matchin, you know young ladies and the ways of the world. I ask you, as a gentleman, not to say nothing about this, for the present, to nobody." Saul, proud of his secret, readily promised. XIV. CAPTAIN FARNHAM SEES ACTIVE SERVICE AGAIN. Farnham lost no time in calling upon the Mayor to fulfil his engagement. He found his Honor a little subdued by the news of the morning. None of the strikers of the day before had gone back to work, and considerable accessions were reported from other trades. The worst symptoms seemed to be that many shops were striking without orders. The cessation of work was already greater than seemed at first contemplated by the leading agitators themselves. They seemed to be losing their own control of the workingmen, and a few tonguey vagrants and convicts from the city and from neighboring towns, who had come to the surface from nobody knew where, were beginning to exercise a wholly unexpected authority. They were going from place to place, haranguing the workmen, preaching what they called socialism, but what was merely riot and plunder. They were listened to without much response. In some places the men stopped work; in others they drove out the agitators; in others they would listen awhile, and then shout, "Give us a rest!" or "Hire a hall!" or "Wipe off your chir!" But all the while the crowds gradually increased in the streets and public places; the strike, if it promised nothing worse, was taking the dimensions of a great, sad, anxious holiday. There was not the slightest intention on the part of the authorities to interfere with it, and to do them justice, it is hard to see what they could have done, with the means at their disposal. The Mayor, therefore, welcomed Farnham with great cordiality, made him a captain of police, for special duty, on the spot, and enrolled his list of recruits of the night before as members of the police force of the city, expressly providing that their employment should cost the city nothing, now or hereafter. Farnham again made his rounds of the city, but found nothing especially noteworthy or threatening. The wide town, in spite of the large crowds in the streets, had a deserted look. A good many places of business were closed. There was little traffic of vehicles. The whistle of the locomotives and the rush of trains--sounds which had grown so familiar in that great railroad centre that the ear ceased to be affected by them--being suddenly shut off, the silence which came in their place was startling to the sense. The voices of the striking employees, who retained possession of the Union Passenger Depot, resounded strangely through the vast building, which was usually a babel of shrill and strident sounds. On the whole, the feature which most struck him in this violent and unnatural state of things was the singular good-nature of almost all classes. The mass of the workingmen made no threats; the greater number of employers made no recriminations. All hoped for an arrangement, though no one could say how it was to come. The day passed away in fruitless parleys, and at night the fever naturally rose, as is the way of fevers. When nightfall came, the crowd had become so great, in the public square that Farnham thought it might be better not to march his improvised policemen in a body up-town. He therefore dispatched orders to Kendall to send them up with their arms, singly or by twos and threes, to his house. By eight o'clock they were all there, and he passed an hour or so in putting them through a rude form of drill and giving them the instructions which he had prepared during the day. His intention was to keep them together on his own place during the early part of the night, and if, toward midnight, all seemed quiet, to scatter them as a patrol about the neighborhood; in case of serious disturbance anywhere else, to be ready to take part in restoring order. About nine o'clock a man was seen coming rapidly from the house to the rear garden, where Farnham and his company were. The men were dispersed about the place; some on the garden seats, some lying on the grass in the clear moonlight. Farnham was a little apart, talking with Kendall and Grosshammer. He started up to meet the intruder; it was Mr. Temple. "What's all this?" said Temple. "The manly art of self-defence," said Farnham, smiling. "I see, and I am glad to see it, too," answered Temple, warmly. "One of my men told me an hour ago that in the Tramps' Lodging House, last night, it was the common talk that there would be a rush on the houses in this region to-night. I went to the Mayor and tried to see him, but he was hiding, I think. I went to the Chief of Police, and he was in a blue funk. So I thought I would come up myself and see you. I knew you could raise a few men among your servants over here, and I would bring half a dozen, and we could answer for a few tramps, anyhow. But you are all right, and there is nothing to do but wait for them." "Yes, thank you!" said Farnham, "though I am a thousand times obliged to you for your good-will. I won't forget it in a hurry, old man. Are you going home now? I will walk a block or two with you." "No, I am not going home--not by"--[we draw the veil over Temple's language at this point]. "I have come to spend the evening. Have you any tools for me?" "Nonsense, my dear fellow! there is not the least use of it. There is not one chance in a million that there will be anything to do." The two men were walking toward the house. Temple said: "Don't be too sure of it. As I passed by the corner of the Square ten minutes ago, there was a fellow in front of Mouchem's gin-mill, a longhaired, sallow-looking pill, who was making as ugly a speech to a crowd of ruffians as I ever heard. One phrase was something like this: 'Yes, my fellow-toilers'--he looked like he had never worked a muscle in his life except his jaw-tackle,--'the time has come. The hour is at hand. The people rule. Tyranny is down. Enter in and take possession of the spoilers' gains. Algonquin Avenue is heaped with riches wrung from the sweat of the poor. Clean out the abodes of blood guiltiness.' And you ought to have heard the ki-yi's that followed. That encouraged him, and he went on: 'Algonquin Avenue is a robbers' cave, It's very handsome, but it needs one thing more.' 'What's that?' some fellows yelled. 'An aristocrat hung to every lamppost.' This was very popular too, you can bet your boots. On that I toddled off, so as to get you a chance to say your peccavy, anyhow." Walking and talking together, they had passed the house and come to the gate opening on the Avenue. "You might shut these wide gates," said Temple. "I do not think they have been shut in ten years," Farnham answered. "Let's try it." The effort was unsuccessful. The heavy gates would not budge. Suddenly a straggling, irregular cheer was heard from the direction of the Square. "There!" said Temple, "my friend the orator has got off another good thing." But Farnham, who had stepped outside at the sound and gazed on the moon-lighted avenue, said, "There they come now!" They both ran back to the house, Farnham blowing his watchman's whistle. "See here," said Temple, "I must have some tools. You have a club and revolver. Give me the club," which he took without more ceremony. The men came up from the garden in an instant, and quickly fell in at Farnham's word of command. Masked by the shadows of the trees and the shrubbery, they were not discernible from the street. "Remember," said Farnham. "Use your clubs as much as you see fit, if you come to close quarters; but do not fire without orders, unless to save your own lives. I don't think it is likely that these fellows are armed." The clattering of feet grew louder on the sidewalk, and in a moment the leaders of the gang--it could hardly be called a mob--stopped by the gates. "Here's the place. Come along boys!" one of them shouted, but no one stirred until the whole party came up. They formed a dense crowd about the gates and half-filled the wide avenue. There was evidently a moment of hesitation, and then three or four rushed through the gate, followed by a larger number, and at last by the bulk of the crowd. They had come so near the porch that it could now be seen by the light of the moon that few of them carried arms. Some had sticks; one or two men carried heavy stones in their hands; one young man brandished an axe; one had a hammer. There was evidently no attempt at organization whatever. Farnham waited until they were only a few feet away, and then shouted: "Forward! Guide right! Double time! March!" The men darted out from the shadow and began to lay about them with their clubs. A yell of dismay burst from the crowd. Those in front turned and met those behind, and the whole mass began striking out wildly at each other. Yelling and cursing, they were forced back over the lawn to the gate. Farnham, seeing that no shots had been fired, was confirmed in his belief that the rioters were without organization and, to a great extent, without arms. He therefore ordered his men to the right about and brought them back to the house. This movement evidently encouraged the mob. Loud voices were distinctly heard. "Who's afraid of half a dozen cops?" said a burly ruffian, who carried a slunfg-shot. "There's enough of us to eat 'em up." "That's the talk, Bowersox," said another. "You go in and get the first bite." "That's my style," said Bowersox. "Come along, Offitt. Where's Bott? I guess he don't feel very well. Come along, boys! We'll slug 'em this time!" And the crowd, inspirited by this exhortation and the apparent weakness of the police force, made a second rush for the house. Temple was standing next to Farnham. "Arthur," he whispered, "let's change weapons a moment," handing Farnham his club and taking the revolver from his hand. Farnham hardly noticed the exchange, so intently was he watching the advance of the crowd, which he saw, in a moment, was far more serious than the first. They were coming up more solidly, and the advantage of the surprise was now gone. He waited, however, until they were almost as near as they had been before, and then gave the order to charge, in the same words as before, but in a much sharper and louder tone, which rang out like a sudden blast from a trumpet. The improvised policemen darted forward and attacked as vigorously as ever, but the assailants stood their ground. There were blows given as well as taken this time. There was even a moment's confusion on the extreme right of the line, where the great bulk of Bowersox bore down one of the veterans. Farnham sprang forward and struck the burly ruffian with his club; but his foot slipped on the grass, and he dropped on one knee. Bowersox raised his slung-shot; a single report of a pistol rang out, and he tumbled forward over Farnham, who sprang to his feet and shouted, "Now, men, drive 'em!" Taking the right himself and profiting by the momentary shock of the shot, they got the crowd started again, and by vigorous clubbing drove them once more into the street. Returning to the shadow by the house, Farnham's first question was, "Is anybody hurt?" "I've got a little bark knocked off," said one quiet fellow, who came forward showing a ghastly face bathed in blood from a wound in his forehead. Farnham looked at him a moment, and then, running to his door, opened it and called Budsey, who had been hiding in the cellar, praying to all his saints. "Here, Budsey, take this man down to the coachman's house, and then go round the corner and bring Dr. Cutts. If he isn't there, get somebody else. It does not amount to much, but there will be less scar if it is attended to at once." The man was starting away with Budsey, when Temple said, "Look here! You won't need that arsenal any more to-night. Pass it over," and took the man's belt, with club and pistol, and buckled them around his own slim waist. Handing Farnham his own pistol, he said: "Thanks, Arthur. I owe you one cartridge." "And I owe you, God knows how much!" Farnham then briefly announced to his men that the shot which had just been fired was not by a member of the company, and was, therefore, not a disobedience of orders. Catching sight of Bowersox lying motionless on the grass, he ordered, "Two file-closers from the right, go and bring in that man!" But at that moment Bowersox moved, sat up and looked about him, and, suddenly remembering where he was, struggled to his feet and half-ran, half staggered to his friends in the street. They gathered about him for a moment, and then two of them were seen supporting him on his way into the town. Farnham was standing behind his men, and a little apart. He was thinking whether it might not be best to take them at once into the street and disperse the crowd, when he felt a touch at his elbow. He turned, and saw his gardener, Ferguson. "If I might speak a word, sir!" "Certainly--what is it? But be quick about it." "I think all is not right at the Widow Belding's. I was over there but now, and a dozen men--I did not count them,--but--" "Heavens! why did I not think of that? Kendall, you take command of these men for a moment. Bolty, you and the three files on the left come with me. Come, Temple,--the back way." And he started at a pace so rapid that the others could hardly keep him in sight. After the first repulse of the crowd, Offitt, Bott, and a few more of the Bread-winners, together with some of the tramps and jail-birds who had come for plunder, gathered together across the street and agreed upon a diversion. It was evident, they said, that Farnham had a considerable police force with him to protect his property; it was useless to waste any more time there; let the rest stay there and occupy the police; they could have more fun and more profit in some of the good houses in the neighborhood. "Yes," one suggested, "Jairus Belding's widder lives just a step off. Lots o' silver and things. Less go there." They slipped away in the confusion of the second rush, and made their way through the garden to Mrs. Belding's. They tried the door, and, finding it locked, they tore off the shutters and broke the windows, and made their way into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Belding and Alice were sitting. They had been alarmed by the noise and tumult in front of Farnham's house, and had locked and bolted their own doors in consequence. Passing through the kitchen in their rounds, they found Ferguson there in conversation with the cook. "Why, Fergus!" said the widow: "why are you not at home? They are having lively times over there, are they not?" "Yes," said the gardener; "but they have a plenty of men with arms, and I thought I'd e'en step over here and hearten up Bessie a bit." "I'm sure she ought to be very much obliged," responded Mrs. Belding, dryly, though, to speak the truth, she was not displeased to have a man in the house, however little she might esteem his valor. "I have no doubt he sneaked away from the fuss," she said to Alice; "but I would rather have him in the kitchen than nothing." Alice assented. "That is what they mean by moral support, I suppose." She spoke with a smile, but her heart was ill at ease. The man she loved was, for all she knew, in deadly danger, and she could not show that she cared at all for him, for fear of showing that she cared too much. "I am really anxious about Arthur Farnham," continued Mrs. Belding. "I hope he will not get himself into any scrape with those men." The tumult on the street and on the lawn had as yet presented itself to her in no worse light than as a labor demonstration, involving cheers and rude language. "I am afraid he won't be polite enough to them. He might make them a little speech, complimenting Ireland and the American flag, and then they would go away. That's what your father did, in that strike on the Wabash. It was in the papers at the time. But these soldiers--I'm afraid Arthur mayn't be practical enough." "Fortunately, we are not responsible for him," said Alice, whose heart was beating violently. "Why, Alice! what a heartless remark!" At this instant the windows came crashing in, and a half-dozen ruffians burst into the room. Alice sprang, pale and silent, to the side of her mother, who sat, paralyzed with fright, in her rocking-chair. A man came forward from the group of assailants. His soft hat was drawn down over his eyes, and a red handkerchief concealed the lower part of his face. His voice was that of Offitt, as he said, "Ladies, we don't want to do no violence; but, in the name of the Revolutionary Committee, we have called to collect an assessment on you." This machinery was an invention of the moment, and was received with great satisfaction by the Bread-winners. "That's what's the matter," they said, in chorus. "Your assessment, and be lively about it. All you've got handy." "I have no money in the house," Mrs. Belding cried. "What shall I do?" "You forget, mamma," said Alice. "There is some upstairs. If these gentlemen will wait here a moment, I will go and get it." Offitt looked at her sharply. "Well, run and get it. Bott, you go with her." Bott turned angrily upon his chief. "What's the use of calling names? What if I said your name was----" "There, there, don't keep the lady waiting." Alice turned from the room, closely followed by Bott. Reaching the stairs, she swept up the long flight with the swift grace of a swallow. Bott hurried after her as fast as he could; but she gained her bedroom door enough in advance to shut and lock it between them, leaving him kicking and swearing in the hall. She ran to her open window, which looked toward Farnham's, and sent the voice of her love and her trouble together into the clear night in one loud cry, "Arthur!" She blushed crimson as the word involuntarily broke from her lips, and cried again as loudly as she could, "Help!" "I hope he did not hear me at first," she said, covering her face with her hands, and again she cried, "Help!" "Shut up that noise," said Bott, who was kicking violently at the door, but could not break it down. "Shut up, or I'll wring your neck." She stopped, not on account of his threats, which suddenly ceased, but because she heard the noise of footsteps on the porch, and of a short but violent scuffle, which showed that aid of some sort had arrived. In a few moments she heard Bott run away from her door. He started toward the stairs, but finding his retreat cut off ran to the front window, closely pursued. She heard a scramble. Then a voice which made her heart beat tumultuously said. "Look out below there." A moment after, the same voice said, "Have you got him?" and then, "All right! keep him." A light knock on her door followed, and Farnham said, "Miss Belding." Alice stood by the door a moment before she could open it. Her heart was still thumping, her voice failed her, she turned white and red in a moment. The strongest emotion of which she was conscious was the hope that Arthur had not heard her call him by his name. She opened the door with a gravity which was almost ludicrous. Her first words were wholly so. "Good-evening, Captain Farnham," was all she could find to say. Then, striving desperately to add something more gracious, she stammered, "Mamma will be very----" "Glad to see me in the drawing room?" Farnham laughed. "I have no doubt of it. She is quite safe there; and your visitors have gone. Will you join her now?" She could not help perceiving the slight touch of sarcasm in his tone. She saw he was hurt by her coldness and shyness, and that made her still more cold and shy. Without another word she walked before him to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Belding still sat in her rocking-chair, moaning and wringing her hands. Mr. Temple was standing beside her trying to soothe her, telling her it was all over. Bolty was tying the arms of one of the ruffians behind him, who lay on the floor on his face. There was no one else in the room. Alice knelt on the floor by her mother and took her in her arms. "You are not hurt, are you, mamma dear?" she said, in a soft, tender tone, as if she were caressing a crying child. "Oh, no! I suppose not," said the widow; "but I am not used to such doings at this time of night, and I don't like them. Captain Farnham, how shall I ever thank you? and you, Mr. Temple? Goodness knows what we should have done without you. Alice, the moment you left the room, some of them ran to the sideboard for the silver, another one proposed to set the house afire, and that vile creature with the red handkerchief asked me for my ear-rings and my brooch. I was trying to be as long as I could about getting them off, when these gentlemen came in. I tell you they looked like angels, and I'll tell your wife so when I see her, Mr. Temple; and as for Arthur----" At this moment Bolty, having finished the last knot to his satisfaction, rose and touched his prisoner with his foot. "Captain," he said, saluting Farnham, "vot I shall do mit dis schnide?" "They have got the one I dropped from the window?" "Jawohl! on de gravel-walk draussen!" "Very well. Take them both to the stable behind my house for the present, and make them fast together. Then come back here and stand guard awhile with the men on the porch, till I relieve you." "All right. Git up mid yourself," he said, touching his prostrate foe not so gently, "and vorwaerts." As they went out, Farnham turned to Mrs. Belding, and said, "I think you will have no more trouble. The men I leave as a guard will be quite sufficient, I have no doubt. I must hurry back and dismiss the friends who have been serenading me." She gazed at him, not quite comprehending, and then said, "Well, if you must go, good-night, and thank you a thousand times. When I have my wits about me I will thank you better." Arthur answered laughingly as he shook hands. "Oh, that is of no consequence. It was merely neighborly. You would have done as much for me, I am sure." And the gentlemen took their leave. When the ladies were alone, Mrs. Belding resumed her story of the great transaction. "Why, it will be something to tell about as long as I live," she said. "You had hardly got upstairs when I heard a noise of fighting outside on the walk and the porch. Then Arthur and Mr. Temple came through that window as if they were shot out of a cannon. The thief who stood by me, the red handkerchief one, did not stop, but burst through the hall into the kitchen and escaped the back way. Then Mr. Temple took another one and positively threw him through the window, while Arthur, with that policeman's club, knocked the one down whom you saw the German tying up. It was all done in an instant, and I just sat and screamed for my share of the work. Then Arthur came and caught me by the shoulder, and almost shook me, and said, 'Where is Alice?' Upon my word, I had almost forgotten you. I said you were upstairs, and one of those wretches was there too. He looked as black as a fury, and went up in about three steps. I always thought he had such a sweet temper, but to-night he seemed just to _love_ to fight. Now I think of it, Alice, you hardly spoke to him. You must not let him think we are ungrateful. You must write him a nice note to-morrow." Alice laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, where her wet eyes could not be seen. "Mamma," she asked, "did he say 'Where is Alice?' Did he say nothing but 'Alice'?" "Now, don't be silly," said Mrs. Belding. "Of course he said 'Alice.' You wouldn't expect a man to be Miss Beldinging you at such a time. You are quite too particular." "He called me Miss Belding when he came upstairs," said Alice, still hiding her face. "And what did you say to him--for saving this house and all our lives?" The girl's overwrought nerves gave way. She had only breath enough to say, "I said 'Good evening, Captain Farnham!' Wasn't it too perfectly ridiculous?" and then burst into a flood of mingled laughter and tears, which nothing could check, until she had cried herself quiet upon her mother's bosom. XV. THE WHIP OF THE SCYTHIANS. Farnham and Temple walked hastily back to where they had left Kendall with the rest of the company. They found him standing like a statute just where he had been placed by Farnham. The men were ranged in the shadow of the shrubbery and the ivy-clad angle of the house. The moon shone full on the open stretch of lawn, and outside the gates a black mass on the sidewalk and the street showed that the mob had not left the place. But it seemed sluggish and silent. "Have they done anything new?" asked Farnham. "Nothin', but fire a shot or two--went agin the wall overhead; and once they heaved a lot of rocks, but it was too fur--didn't git more'n half way. That's all." "We don't want to stand here looking at each other all night," said Farnham. "Let's go out and tell them it's bed-time," suggested Temple. "Agreed!" said Farnham. He turned to his men, and in a voice at first so low that it could not have been heard ten feet away, yet so clear that every syllable was caught by his soldiers, he gave the words of command. "Company, attention! Eight, forward. Fours right. Double time. March!" The last words rang out clear and loud, and startled the sullen crowd in the street. There was a hurried, irresolute movement among them, which increased as the compact little corps dashed out of the shadow into the clear moonlight, and rushed with the rapid but measured pace of veterans across the lawn. A few missiles were thrown, without effect. One or two shots were heard, followed by a yell in the street-- which showed that some rioter in his excitement had wounded one of his own comrades. Farnham and his little band took only a moment to reach the gate, and the crowd recoiled as they burst through into the street. At the first onslaught the rioters ran in both directions, leaving the street clear immediately in front of the gates. The instant his company reached the middle of the avenue, Arthur, seeing that the greater number of the divided mob had gone to the left, shouted: "Fours left. March--guide right." The little phalanx wheeled instantly and made rapid play with their clubs, but only for a moment. The crowd began to feel the mysterious power which discipline backed by law always exerts, and they ran at full speed up the street to the corner and there dispersed. The formation of the veterans was not even broken. They turned at Farnham's order, faced to the rear, and advanced in double time upon the smaller crowd which still lingered a little way beyond the gate. In this last group there was but one man who stood his ground and struck out for himself. It was a tall young fellow with fair hair and beard, armed with a carpenter's hammer, with which he maintained so formidable an attitude that, although two or three policemen were opposed to him, they were wary about closing in upon him. Farnham, seeing that this was all there was left of the fight, ordered the men to fall back, and, approaching the recalcitrant, said sharply: "Drop that hammer, and surrender! We are officers of the law, and if you resist any longer you'll be hurt." "I don't mind that. I was waiting for _you_," the man said, and made a quick and savage rush and blow at Farnham. In all his campaigns, he had never before had so much use for his careful broadsword training as now. With his policeman's club against the workman's hammer, he defended himself with such address, that in a few seconds, before his men could interfere, his adversary was disarmed and stretched on the sidewalk by a blow over the head. He struggled to rise, but was seized by two men and held fast. "Don't hit him," said Farnham. "I think I have seen this man somewhere." "Why," said Kendall, "that's Sam Sleeny, a carpenter in Dean Street. He orter be in better business." "Yes, I remember," said Farnham; "he is a Reformer. Put him with the others." As they were tying his hands, Sam turned to Farnham and said, in a manner which was made dignified by its slow, energetic malice, "You've beat me to-night, but I will get even with you yet--as sure as there's a God." "That's reasonably sure," said Farnham; "but in the meanwhile, we'll put you where you can cool off a little." The street was now cleared; the last fugitives were out of sight. Farnham returned to his garden, and then divided his men into squads for patrolling the neighborhood. They waited for half an hour, and, finding all was still quiet, then made arrangements for passing the night. Farnham made Temple go into the house with him, and asked Budsey to bring some sherry. "It is not so good as your Santa Rita," he said; "but the exercise in the night air will give it a relish." When the wine came, the men filled and drank, in sober American fashion, without words; but in the heart of each there was the thought of eternal friendship, founded upon brave and loyal service. "Budsey," said Farnham, "give all the men a glass of this wine." "Not this, sir?" said Budsey, aghast. "I said this," replied Farnham. "Perhaps they won't enjoy it, but I shall enjoy giving it to them." Farnham and Temple were eating some bread and cheese and talking over the evening, when Budsey came back with something which approached a smile upon his grave countenance. "Did they like it?" asked Farnham. "Half of 'em said they was temperance and wouldn't 'ave any. Some of the rest said--you will excuse me, sir--as it was d---- poor cider," and Budsey went out of the room with a suspicious convulsion of the back. "I'll go on that," said Mr. Temple. "Goodnight. I think we will have good news in the morning. There will be an attack made on those men at Riverley to-morrow which will melt them like an iceberg in Tartarus." Mr. Temple was not classical, and, of course, did not say Tartarus. Farnham was left alone. The reaction from the excitement of the last few hours was settling upon him. The glow of the fight and his success in it were dying away. Midnight was near, and a deep silence was falling upon the city. There was no sound of bells, of steam-whistles, or of rushing trains. The breeze could be heard in the quiet, stirring the young, soft leaves. Farnham felt sore, beaten, discomfited. He smiled a little bitterly to himself when he considered that the cause of his feeling of discouragement was that Alice Belding had spoken to him with coldness and shyness when she opened her door. He could not help saying to himself, "I deserved a kinder greeting than she gave me. She evidently wished me to understand that I am not to be permitted any further intimacy. I have forfeited that by presuming to love her. But how lovely she is! When she took her mother in her arms, I thought of all the Greek heroines I ever read about. Still, 'if she be not fair for me'--if I am not to be either lover or friend--this is no place for me." The clock on the mantel struck midnight. "A strange night," he mused. "There is one sweet and one bitter thing about it. I have done her a service, and she did not care." He went to the door to speak to Kendall. "I think our work is over for to-night. Have our prisoners taken down to the Refrigerator and turned over to the ordinary police. I will make charges to-morrow. Then divide the men into watches and make yourself as comfortable as you can. If anything happens, call me. If nothing happens, good-night." He returned to his library, turned down the gas, threw himself on the sofa, and was soon asleep; even before Alice, who sat, unhappy, as youth is unhappy, by an open window, her eyes full of tears, her heart full of remorse. "It is too wretched to think of," she bemoaned herself. "He is the only man in the world I could ever care for, and I have driven him away. It never can be made right again; I am punished justly. If I thought he would take me, I believe I could go this minute and throw myself at his feet. But he would smile, and raise me up, and make some pretty speech, very gentle, and very dreadful, and bring me back to mamma, and then I should die." But at nineteen well-nourished maidens do not pass the night in mourning, however heavy their hearts may be, and Alice slept at last, and perhaps was happier in her innocent dreams. The night passed without further incident, and the next day, though it may have shown favorable signs to practised eyes, seemed very much, to the public, like the day which had preceded it. There were fewer shops closed in the back streets; there were not so many parties of wandering apostles of plunder going about to warn laborers away from their work. But in the principal avenues and in the public squares there were the same dense crowds of idlers, some listless and some excited, ready to believe the wildest rumors and to applaud the craziest oratory. Speakers were not lacking; besides the agitators of the town, several had come in from neighboring places, and they were preaching, with fervor and perspiration, from street corners and from barrel-heads in the beer-houses, the dignity of manhood and the overthrow of tyrants. Bott, who had quite distinguished himself during the last few days, was not to be seen. He had passed the night in the station-house, and, on brief examination before a police-justice at an early hour of the morning, on complaint of Farnham and Temple, had been, together with the man captured in Mrs. Belding's drawing-room, bound over to stand his trial for house-breaking at the next term of court. He displayed the most abject terror before his trial, and would have made a full confession of the whole affair had Offitt not had the address to convey to him the assurance that, if he stood firm, the Brotherhood of Bread-winners would attend to his case and be responsible for his safety. Relying upon this, he plucked up his spirits and bore himself with characteristic impudence in the presence of the police-justice, insisting upon being called Professor Bott, giving his profession as inspirational orator, his religion the divinity of humanity. When bound over for trial, he rose and gained a round of applause from the idlers in the court-room by shouting, "I appeal from this outrage to the power of the people and the judgment of history." This was his last recorded oration; for we may as well say at once that, a month later, he stood his trial without help from any Brotherhood, and passed away from public life, though not entirely from public employment, as he is now usefully and unobtrusively engaged in making shoes in the State penitentiary--and is said "to take serious views of life." The cases of Sleeny and the men who were taken in the street by Farnham's policemen were also disposed of summarily through his intervention. He could not help liking the fair-bearded carpenter, although he had been caught in such bad company, and so charged him merely with riotous conduct in the public streets, for which the penalty was a light fine and a few days' detention. Sleeny seemed conscious of his clemency, but gave him no look or expression of gratitude. He was too bitter at heart to feel gratitude, and too awkward to feign it. About noon, a piece of news arrived which produced a distinct impression of discouragement among the strikers. It was announced in the public square that the railway blockade was broken in Clairfield, a city to the east of Buffland about a hundred miles. The hands had accepted the terms of the employers and had gone to work again. An orator tried to break the force of this announcement by depreciating the pluck of the Clairfield men. "Why, gentlemen!" he screamed, "a ten-year-old boy in this town has got twice the sand of a Clairfield man. They just leg the bosses to kick 'em. When they are fired out of a shop door, they sneak down the chimbley and whine to be took on again. We ain't made of that kind of stuff." But this haughty style of eloquence did not avail to inspirit the crowd, especially as the orator was just then interrupted to allow another dispatch to be read, which said that the citizens of a town to the south had risen in mass and taken the station there from the hands of the strikers. This news produced a feeling of isolation and discouragement which grew to positive panic, an hour later, on the report that a brigade of regular troops was on its way to Buffland to restore order. The report was of course unfounded, as a brigade of regular troops could not be got together in this country in much less time than it would take to build a city; but even the name of the phantom army had its effect, and the crowds began to disperse from that time. The final blow was struck, however, later in the day. Farnham learned it from Mr. Temple, at whose counting-room he had called, as usual, for news. Mr. Temple greeted him with a volley of exulting oaths. "It's all up. You know what I told you last night about the attack that was preparing on Riverley. I went out there myself, this forenoon. I knew some of the strikers, and I thought I would see if the -- -- -- -- would let me send my horse Blue Ruin through to Rochester to-morrow. He is entered for the races there, you know, and I didn't want, by -- -- -- --, to miss my engagements, understand? Well, as I drove out there, after I got about half way, it began to occur to me that I never saw so many women since the Lord made me. The road was full of them in carts, buggies, horseback, and afoot. I thought a committee of 'em was going; but I suppose they couldn't trust a committee, and so they all went. There were so many of 'em I couldn't drive fast, and so I got there about the same time the head of the column began to arrive. You never saw anything like it in your life. The strikers had been living out there in a good deal of style--with sentries and republican government and all that. By the great hokey-pokey! they couldn't keep it up a minute when their wives came. They knew 'em too well. They just bulged in without rhyme or rule. Every woman went for her husband and told him to pack up and go home. Some of 'em--the artful kind--begged and wheedled and cried; said they were so tired--wanted their sweethearts again. But the bigger part talked hard sense,--told 'em their lazy picnic had lasted long enough, that there was no meat in the house, and that they had got to come home and go to work. The siege didn't last half an hour. The men brazened it out awhile; some were rough; told their wives to dry up, and one big fellow slapped his wife for crying. By jingo! it wasn't half a flash before another fellow slapped _him_, and there they had it, rolling over and over on the grass, till the others pulled them apart by the legs. It was a gone case from the start. They held a meeting off-hand; the women stayed by to watch proceedings, and, not to make a long story about it, when I started back a delegation of the strikers came with me to see the president of the roads, and trains will run through to-night as usual. I am devilish glad of it, for my part. There is nothing in Rochester of any force but Rosin-the-Bow, and my horse can show him the way around the track as if he was getting a dollar an hour as a guide." "That _is_ good news certainly. Is it generally known in the city?" "I think not. It was too late for the afternoon papers. I told Jimmy Nelson, and he tore down to the depot to save what is left of his fruit. He swore so about it that I was quite shocked." "What about the mill hands?" asked Farnham. "The whole thing will now collapse at once. We shall receive the proposition of the men who left us to-morrow, and re-engage on our own terms, next day, as many as we want. We shan't be hard on them. But one or two gifted orators will have to take the road. They are fit for nothing but Congress, and they can't all go from this district. If I were you, Arthur, by the way, I wouldn't muster out that army of yours till to-morrow. But I don't think there will be any more calls in your neighborhood. You are too inhospitable to visitors." The sun was almost setting as Farnham walked through the public square on his way home. He could hardly believe so sudden a change could have fallen upon the busy scene of a few hours before. The square was almost deserted. Its holiday appearance was gone. A few men occupied the benches. One or two groups stood beneath the trees and conversed in under-tones. The orators had sought their hiding-places, unnecessarily--too fearful of the vengeance which never, in this happy country, attends the exercise of unbridled "slack jaw." As Arthur walked over the asphalt pavement there was nothing to remind him of the great crowds of the last few days but the shells of the pea-nuts crunching under his feet. It seems as if the American workman can never properly invoke the spirit of liberty without a pocketful of this democratic nut. As he drew near his house, Farnham caught a glimpse of light drapery upon Mrs. Belding's piazza, and went over to relieve her from anxiety by telling her the news of the day. When he had got half way across the lawn, he saw Alice rise from beside her mother as if to go. Mrs. Belding signed for her to resume her seat. Farnham felt a slight sensation of anger. "It is unworthy of her," he thought, "to avoid me in that manner. I must let her see she is in no danger from me." He gave his hand cordially to Mrs. Belding and bowed to Alice without a word. He then briefly recounted the news to the elder lady, and assured her that there was no probability of any farther disturbance of the peace. "But we shall have our policemen here all the same to-night, so that you may sleep with a double sense of security." "I am sure you are very good," she said. "I don't know what we should have done without you last night, _and_ Mr. Temple. When it comes to ear-rings, there's no telling what they wouldn't have done." "Two of your guests are in jail, with good prospects of their remaining there. The others, I learn, were thieves from out of town; I doubt if we shall capture them." "For goodness' sake, let them run. I never want to see them again. That ugly creature who went up with Alice for the money--you caught him? I am so glad. The impudence of the creature! going upstairs with my daughter, as if she was not to be trusted. Well," she added candidly, "she wasn't that time, but it was none of _his_ business." Here Alice and Farnham both laughed out, and the sound of the other's voice was very pleasant to each of them, though they did not look toward each other. "I am beginning to think that the world is growing too wicked for single women," Mrs. Belding continued, philosophically. "Men can take care of themselves in so many ways. They can use a club as you do----" "Daily and habitually," assented Arthur. "Or they can make a speech about Ireland and the old flag, as Mr. Belding used to; or they can swear like Mr. Temple. By the way, Alice, you were not here when Mr. Temple swore so at those thieves. I was scandalized, but I had to admit it was very appropriate." "I was also away from the room," said Farnham; "but I can readily believe the comminatory clauses must have been very cogent." "Oh, yes! and such a nice woman _she_ is." "Yes, Mrs. Temple is charming," said Farnham, rising. "Arthur, do not go! Stay to dinner. It will be ready in one moment. It will strengthen our nerves to have a man dine with us, especially a liberating hero like you. Why, you seemed to me last night like Perseus in the picture, coming to rescue What's-her-name from the rock." Farnham glanced at Alice. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground; her fingers were tightly clasped. She was wishing with all her energy that he would stay, waiting to catch his first word of assent, but unable to utter a syllable. "Alice," said Mrs. Belding rather sharply, "I think Arthur does not regard my invitation as quite sufficient. Will you give it your approval?" Alice raised her face at these words and looked up at Farnham. It was a beautiful face at all times, and now it was rosy with confusion, and the eyes were timid but kind. She said with lips that trembled a little: "I should be very glad to have Captain Farnham stay to dinner." She had waited too long, and the words were a little too formal, and Arthur excused himself on the plea of having to look out for his cohort, and went home to a lonely dinner. XVI. OFFITT DIGS A PIT. A week had passed by; the great strike was already almost forgotten. A few poor workmen had lost their places. A few agitators had been dismissed for excellent reasons, having no relation with the strike. The mayor had recovered from his panic, and was beginning to work for a renomination, on the strength of his masterly dealing with the labor difficulties, in which, as he handsomely said in a circular composed by himself and signed by his friends, he "nobly accomplished the duty allotted him of preserving the rights of property while respecting the rights of the people, of keeping the peace according to his oath, and keeping faith with the masses, to which he belonged, in their struggle against monopoly." The rich and prosperous people, as their manner is, congratulated themselves on their escape, and gave no thought to the questions which had come so near to an issue of fire and blood. In this city of two hundred thousand people, two or three dozen politicians continued as before to govern it, to assess and to spend its taxes, to use it as their property and their chattel. The rich and intelligent kept on making money, building fine houses, and bringing up children to hate politics as they did, and in fine to fatten themselves as sheep which should be mutton whenever the butcher was ready. There was hardly a millionaire on Algonquin Avenue who knew where the ward meetings of his party were held. There was not an Irish laborer in the city but knew his way to his ward club as well as to mass. Among those who had taken part in the late exciting events and had now reverted to private life was Sam Sleeny. His short sentence had expired; he had paid his fine and come back to Matchin's. But he was not the quiet, contented workman he had been. He was sour, sullen, and discontented. He nourished a dull grudge against the world. He had tried to renew friendly relations with Maud, but she had repulsed him with positive scorn. Her mind was full of her new prospects, and she did not care to waste time with him. The scene in the rose-house rankled in his heart; he could not but think that her mind had been poisoned by Farnham, and his hate gained intensity every hour. In this frame of mind he fell easily into the control of Offitt. That worthy had not come under the notice of the law for the part he took in the attack on the Belding house; he had not been recognized by Farnham's men, nor denounced by his associates; and so, after a day or two of prudential hiding, he came to the surface again. He met Sam at the very door of the House of Correction, sympathized with him, flattered him, gained his full confidence at last, and held him ready for some purpose which was vague even in his own brain. He was determined to gain possession of Maud, and he felt it must be through some crime, the manner of which was not quite clear to him. If he could use Sam to accomplish his purpose and save his own skin, that would be best. His mind ran constantly upon theft, forgery, burglary, and murder; but he could frame no scheme which did not involve risks that turned him sick. If he could hit upon something where he might furnish the brains, and Sam the physical force and the risk! He dwelt upon this day and night. He urged Sam to talk of his own troubles; of the Matchins; at last, of Maud and his love, and it was not long before the tortured fellow had told him what he saw in the rose-house. Strangely enough, the thought of his fiancee leaning on the shoulder of another man did not in the least diminish the ardor of Offitt. His passion was entirely free from respect or good-will. He used the story to whet the edge of Sam's hatred against Farnham. "Why, Sam, my boy," he would say, "your honor is at stake." "I would as soon kill him as eat," Sam answered. "But what good would that do me? She cares no more for me than she does for you." Offitt was sitting alone in his room one afternoon; his eyes were staring blankly at the opposite wall; his clinched hands were cold as ice. He had been sitting in that way motionless for an hour, a prey to a terrible excitement. It had come about in this way. He had met in one of the shops he frequented a machinist who rented one of Farnham's houses. Offitt had asked him at noon-time to come out and drink a glass of beer with him. The man complied, and was especially careful to bring his waistcoat with him, saying with a laugh, "I lose my shelter if I lose that." "What do you mean?" asked Offitt. "I've got a quarter's rent in there for Cap. Farnham." "Why are you carrying it around all day?" "Well, you know, Farnham is a good sort of fellow, and to keep us from losing time he lets us come to his house in the evening, after working hours, on quarter-day, instead of going to his office in the day-time. You see, I trot up there after supper and get rid of this wad." Offitt's eyes twinkled like those of an adder. "How many of you do this?" "Oh, a good many,--most everybody in our ward and some in the Nineteenth." "A good bit of money?" said Offitt carelessly, though his mouth worked nervously. "You bet your boots! If I had all the cash he takes in to-night, I'd buy an island and shoot the machine business. Well, I must be gettin' back. So long." Offitt had walked directly home after this conversation, looking neither to the right nor the left, like a man asleep. He had gone to his room, locked his door behind him, and sat down upon the edge of his bed and given himself up to an eager dream of crime. His heart beat, now fast, now slow; a cold sweat enveloped him; he felt from time to time half suffocated. Suddenly he heard a loud knocking at his door--not as if made by the hand, but as if some one were hammering. He started and gasped with a choking rattle in his throat. His eyes seemed straining from their sockets. He opened his lips, but no sound came forth. The sharp rapping was repeated, once and again. He made no answer. Then a loud voice said: "Hello, Andy, you asleep?" He threw himself back on his pillow and said yawningly, "Yes. That you, Sam? Why don't you come in?" "'Cause the door's locked." He rose and let Sleeny in; then threw himself back on the bed, stretching and gaping. "What did you make that infernal racket with?" "My new hammer," said Sam. "I just bought it to day. Lost my old one the night we give Farnham the shiveree." "Lemme see it." Offitt took it in his hand and balanced and tested it. "Pretty good hammer. Handle's a leetle thick, but--pretty good hammer." "Ought to be," said Sam. "Paid enough for it." "Where d'you get it?" "Ware & Harden's." "Sam," said Offitt,--he was still holding the hammer and giving himself light taps on the head with it,--"Sam." "Well, you said that before." Offitt opened his mouth twice to speak and shut it again. "What are you doin'?" asked Sleeny. "Trying to catch flies?" "Sam," said Offitt at last, slowly and with effort, "if I was you, the first thing I did with that hammer, I'd crack Art Farnham's cocoa-nut." "Well, Andy, go and crack it yourself if you are so keen to have it done. You're mixing yourself rather too much in my affairs, anyhow," said Sam, who was nettled by these too frequent suggestions of Offitt that his honor required repair. "Sam Sleeny," said Offitt, in an impressive voice, "I'm one of the kind that stands by my friends. If you mean what you have been saying to me, I'll go up with you this very night, and we will together take it out of that aristocrat. Now, that's business." Sleeny looked at his friend in surprise and with some distrust. The offer was so generous and reckless, that he could not help asking himself what was its motive. He looked so long and so stupidly at Offitt, that the latter at last divined his feeling. He thought that, without telling Sleeny the whole scheme, he would test him one step farther. "I don't doubt," he said carelessly, "but what we could pay ourselves well for the job,--spoil the 'Gyptians, you know,--forage on the enemy. Plenty of portables in them houses, eh!" "I never said"--Sam spoke slowly and deliberately--"I wanted to 'sassinate him, or rob him, or burgle him. If I could catch him and lick him, in a fair fight, I'd do it; and I wouldn't care how hard I hit him, or what with." "All right," said Offitt, curtly. "You met him once in a fair fight, and he licked you. And you tried him another way,--courtin' the same girl,--and he beat you there. But it's all right. I've got nothin' against him, if you hain't. Lemme mark your name on this hammer," and, turning the conversation so quickly that Sleeny had no opportunity to resent the last taunt, he took his knife and began dexterously and swiftly to cut Sam's initials in the handle of his hammer. Before, however, he had half completed his self-imposed task, he exclaimed, "This is dry work. Let's go out and get some beer. I'll finish your hammer and bring it around after supper." "There's one S on it," said Sam; "that's enough." "One S enough! It might mean Smith, or Schneider, or Sullivan. No, sir. I'll put two on in the highest style of art, and then everybody will know and respect Sam Sleeny's tool." They passed out of the room together, and drank their beer at a neighboring garden. They were both rather silent and preoccupied. As they parted, Offitt said, "I've got a scheme on hand for raising the wind, I want to talk to you about. Be at my room to-night between nine and ten, and wait till I come, if I am out. Don't fail." Sam stared a little, but promised, asking no questions. When Offitt came back, he locked the door again behind him. He bustled about the room as if preparing to move. He had little to pack; a few shabby clothes were thrown into a small trunk, a pile of letters and papers were hastily torn up and pitched into the untidy grate. All this while he muttered to himself as if to keep himself in company. He said: "I had to take the other shoot--he hadn't the sand to help--I couldn't tell him any more. . . . I wonder if she will go with me when I come tonight--ready? I shall feel I deserve her anyhow. She don't treat me as she did him, according to Sam's story. She makes me keep my distance. She hasn't even shook hands with me since we was engaged. I'll pay her for that after awhile." He walked up and down his room breathing quick and hard. "I shall risk my neck, I know; but it won't be the first time, and I never will have such a reason again. She beats anything I ever saw. I've _got_ to have the money--to suit such a woman. . . . I'm almost sorry for Sam--but the Lord made some men to be other men's fools. . . ." This was the staple of his musings; other things less edifying still may be omitted. While he was engaged in this manner he heard a timid knock at his door. "Another visitor? I'm getting popular," he said, and went to open the door. A seedy, forlorn-looking man came in; he took off his shabby hat and held it under his arm. He said, "Good-evenin'," in a tone a little above a whisper. "Well, what's the matter?" asked Offitt. "Have you heered about Brother Bowersox?" "Never mind the brothering--that's played out. What is there about Bowersox?" "He's dangerous; they don't think he'll live through the night." "Well, what of it?" This was not encouraging, but the poor Bread-winner ventured to say, "I thought some of the Brothers----" But Offitt closed the subject by a brutal laugh. "The Brothers are looking out for themselves these times. The less said about the Brotherhood the better. It's up the spout, do you hear?" The poor fellow shrunk away into his ragged clothes, and went out with a submissive "Good-evenin'." "I'll never found another Brotherhood," Offitt said to himself. "It's more trouble than it brings in." It was now growing dark. He took his hat and went down the stairs and out into the street. He entered a restaurant and ordered a beefsteak, which he ate, paid for, and departed after a short chat with the waiter, whom he knew. He went around the corner, entered another eating-house, called for a cup of coffee and a roll. There also he was careful to speak with the man who served him, slapping him on the shoulder with familiarity. He went into a drug store a little later and bought a glass of soda-water, dropping the glass on the marble floor, and paying for it after some controversy. He then walked up to Dean Street. He found the family all together in the sitting-room. He chatted awhile with them, and asked for Sleeny. "I don't really know where Sam is. He ain't so reg'lar in his hours as he used to be," said Saul. "I hope he ain't gettin' wild." "I hope not," said Offitt, in a tone of real distress--then, after a pause, "You needn't mention my havin' asked for him. He may be sensitive about it." As he came away, Maud followed him to the door. He whispered, "Be ready, my beauty, to start at a moment's notice. The money is on the way. You shall live like a queen before many days are gone." "We shall see," she answered, with a smile, but shutting the door between them. He clinched his fists and muttered, "I'll figure it all up and take my pay, Missy. She's worth it. I will have to do some crooked things to get her; but by ----, I'd kill a dozen men and hang another, just to stand by and see her braid her hair." Returning to his house, he ran nimbly up the stairs, half fearing to find Sleeny there, but he had not yet arrived. He seized the hammer, put it in his pocket, and came down again. Still intent upon accounting for as much of the evening as possible, he thought of a variety-show in the neighborhood, and went there. He spoke to some of the loafers at the door. He then walked to the box-office and asked for a ticket, addressing the man who sold it to him as "Jimmy," and asking how business was. The man handed him his ticket without any reply, but turned to a friend beside him, and said, "Who is that cheeky brother that knows me so well?" "Oh! that's a rounder by the name of Offitt. He is a sort of Reformer-- makes speeches to the puddlers on the rights of man." "Seems rather fresh," said Jimmy. "A little brine wouldn't hurt him." Offitt strolled into the theatre, which was well filled. The curtain was down at the moment, and he walked the full extent of the centre aisle to the orchestra, looking about him as if in search of some one. He saw one or two acquaintances and nodded to them. He then walked back and took a seat near the door. The curtain rose, and the star of the evening bounded upon the stage,--a strapping young woman in the dress of an army officer. She was greeted with applause before she began her song, and with her first notes Offitt quietly went out. He looked at the clock on the City Hall, and saw that he had no more time to kill. He walked, without hurrying or loitering, up the shady side of the street till he came to the quarter where Farnham lived. He then crossed into the wide avenue, and, looking swiftly about him, approached the open gates of Farnham's place. Two or three men were coming out, one or two were going in. He waited till the former had turned down the street, and the latter were on the door-step. He then walked briskly up the path to the house; but instead of mounting the steps, he turned to the left and lay down under the library windows behind a clump of lilacs. "If they catch me here," he thought, "they can only take me for a tramp and give me the grand bounce." The windows opened upon a stone platform a few feet from the ground. He could hear the sound of voices within. At last he heard the men rise, push back their chairs, and say "Good-night." He heard their heavy shoes on the front steps. "Now for it," he whispered. But at that moment a belated tenant came in. He wanted to talk of some repairs to his house. Offitt lay down again, resting his head on his arm. The soft turf, the stillness, the warmth of the summer night lulled him into drowsiness. In spite of the reason he had for keeping awake, his eyes were closing and his senses were fading, when a shrill whistle startled him into broad wakefulness. It was the melancholy note of a whippoorwill in the branches of a lime-tree in the garden. Offitt listened for the sound of voices in the library. He heard nothing. "Can I have slept through----no, there is a light." A shadow fell across the window. The heavy tread of Budsey approached. Farnham's voice was heard: "Never mind the windows, Budsey. I will close them and the front door. I will wait here awhile; somebody else may come. You can go to bed." "Good-night, sir." "Good-night." Offitt waited only a moment. He rose and looked cautiously in at the window. Farnham was seated at his desk. He had sorted, in the methodical way peculiar to men who have held command in the army, the papers which he had been using with his tenants and the money he had received from them. They were arranged on the desk before him in neat bundles, ready to be transferred to the safe, across the room. He had taken up his pen to make some final indorsement. Offitt drew off his shoes, leaped upon the platform, and entered the library as swiftly and noiselessly as a panther walking over sand. XVII. IN AND OUT OF WINDOWS. Alice Belding was seated before her glass braiding her long hair. Her mother had come in from her own room, as her custom often was, to chat with her daughter in the half hour before bed-time. It gratified at once her maternal love and her pride to watch the exquisite beauty of her child, as she sat, dressed in a white wrapper that made her seem still taller than she was brushing and braiding the luxuriant tresses that gave under the light every tint and reflection of which gold is capable. The pink and pearl of the round arm as the loose sleeve would slip to the elbow, the poise of the proud head, the full white column of the neck, the soft curve of cheek and chin,--all this delighted her as it would have delighted a lover. But with all her light-headedness, there was enough of discretion, or perhaps of innate New England reserve, to keep her from ever expressing to Alice her pleasure in her beauty. So the wholesome-minded girl never imagined the admiration of which she was the object, and thought that her mother only liked to chat a little before sleeping. They talked of trivial matters, of the tea at Mrs. Hyson's, of Formosa Hyson's purple dress which made her sallower than ever, of rain and fair weather. "I think," said Mrs. Bekling, "that Phrasy Dallas gets more and more stylish every day. I don't wonder at Arthur Farnham's devotion. That would make an excellent match--they are both so dreadfully clever. By the way, he has not been here this week. And I declare! I don't believe you have ever written him that note of thanks." "No," said Alice, smiling--she had schooled herself by this time to speak of him carelessly. "I was too much frightened to thank him on the spot, and now it would be ancient history. We must save our thanks till we see him." "I want to see him about other things. You must write and ask him to dinner to-morrow or next day." "Don't you think he would like it better if you would write?" "There you are again--as if it mattered. Write that 'Mamma bids me.' There, your hair is braided. Write the note now, and I will send it over in the morning before he gets away." Alice rose and walked to her escritoire, her long robe trailing, her thick braids hanging almost to the floor, her fair cheek touched with a delicate spot of color at the thought of writing a formal note to the man she worshipped. She took a pen and wrote "My dear Mr. Farnham," and the conventional address made her heart flutter and her eyes grow dim. While she was writing, she heard her mother say: "What a joke!" She looked up, and saw that Mrs. Belding, having pushed open the shutters, had picked up her opera-glass and was looking through it at something out of the window. "Do you know, Alice," she said, laughing, "since that ailantus tree was cut down, you can see straight into his library from here. There he is now, sitting at his desk." "Mamma!" pleaded Alice, rising and trying to take the glass away from her. "Don't do that, I beg!" "Nonsense," said her mother, keeping her away with one hand and holding the glass with the other. "There comes Budsey to close the blinds. The show is over. No; he goes away, leaving them open." "Mamma, I will leave the room if----" "My goodness! look at that!" cried the widow, putting the glass in her daughter's hand and sinking into a chair with fright. Alice, filled with a nameless dread, saw her mother was pale and trembling, and took the glass. She dropped it in an instant, and leaning from the window sent forth once more that cry of love and alarm, which rang through the stillness of night with all the power of her young throat: "Arthur!" She turned, and sped down the stairs, and across the lawn like an arrow shot for life or death from a long-bow. Farnham heard the sweet, strong voice ringing out of the stillness like the cry of an angel in a vision, and raised his head with a startled movement from the desk where he was writing. Offitt heard it, too, as he raised his hand to strike a deadly blow; and though it did not withhold him from his murderous purpose, it disturbed somewhat the precision of his hand. The hammer descended a little to the right of where he had intended to strike. It made a deep and cruel gash, and felled Farnham to the floor, but it did not kill him. He rose, giddy and faint with the blow and half-blinded with the blood that poured down over his right eye. He clapped his hand, with a soldier's instinct, to the place where his sword-hilt was not, and then staggered, rather than rushed, at his assailant, to grapple him with his naked hands. Offitt struck him once more, and he fell headlong on the floor, in the blaze of a myriad lights that flashed all at once into deep darkness and silence. The assassin, seeing that his victim no longer moved, threw down his reeking weapon, and, seizing the packages of money on the desk, thrust them into his pockets. He stepped back through the open window and stooped to pick up his shoes. As he rose, he saw a sight which for an instant froze him with terror. A tall and beautiful form, dressed all in white, was swiftly gliding toward him over the grass. It drew near, and he saw its pale features set in a terrible expression of pity and horror. It seemed to him like an avenging spirit. He shut his eyes for a moment in abject fright, and the phantom swept by him and leaped like a white doe upon the platform, through the open window, and out of his sight. He ran to the gate, quaking and trembling, then walked quietly to the nearest corner, where he sat down upon the curb-stone and put on his shoes. Mrs. Belding followed, as rapidly as she could, the swift flight of her daughter; but it was some minutes after the young girl had leaped through the window that her mother walked breathlessly through the front door and the hall into the library. She saw there a sight which made her shudder and turn faint. Alice was sitting on the floor, holding in her lap the blood-dabbled head of Farnham. Beside her stood a glass of water, a pitcher, and several towels. Some of them were red and saturated, some were still fresh and neatly folded. She was carefully cleansing and wiping the white forehead of the lifeless man of the last red drop. "Oh, Alice, what is this?" cried her mother. "He is dead!" she answered, in a hoarse, strained voice. "I feared so when I first came in. He was lying on his face. I lifted him up, but he could not see me. I kissed him, hoping he might kiss me again. But he did not. Then I saw this water on the stand over there. I remembered there were always towels there in the billiard-room. I ran and got them, and washed the blood away from his face. See, his face is not hurt. I am glad of that. But there is a dreadful wound in his head." She dropped her voice to a choking whisper at these words. Her mother gazed at her with speechless consternation. Had the shock deprived her of reason? "Alice," she said, "this is no place for you. I will call the servants and send for a surgeon, and you must go home." "Oh, no, mamma. I see I have frightened you, but there is no need to be frightened. Yes, call the servants, but do not let them come in here for awhile, not till the doctors come. They can do no good. He is dead." Mrs. Belding had risen and rung the bell violently. "Do, mamma, see the servants in the hall outside. Don't let them come in for a moment. Do! I pray! I pray! I will do anything for you." There was such intensity of passion in the girl's prayer that her mother yielded, and when the servants came running in, half-dressed, in answer to the bell, she stepped outside the door and said, "Captain Farnham has been badly hurt. Two of you go for the nearest doctors. You need not come in at present. My daughter and I will take care of him." She went back, closing the door behind her. Alice was smiling. "There, you are a dear! I will love you forever for that! It is only for a moment. The doctors will soon be here, and then I must give him up." "Oh, Alice," the poor lady whimpered, "why do you talk so wildly? What do you mean?" "Don't cry, mamma! It is only for a moment. It is all very simple. I am not crazy. He was my lover!" "Heaven help us!" "Yes, this dear man, this noble man offered me his love, and I refused it. I may have been crazy then, but I am not now. I can love him now. I will be his widow--if I was not his wife. We will be two widows together--always. Now you know I am doing nothing wrong or wild. He is mine. "Give me one of those towels," she exclaimed, suddenly. "I can tie up his head so that it will stop bleeding till the doctors come." She took the towels, tore strips from her own dress, and in a few moments, with singular skill and tenderness, she had stopped the flow of blood from the wound. "There! He looks almost as if he were asleep, does he not? Oh, my love, my love!" Up to this moment she had not shed one tear. Her voice was strained, choked, and sobbing, but her eyes were dry. She kissed him on his brow and his mouth. She bent over him and laid her smooth cheek to his. She murmured: "Good-by, good-by, till I come to you, my own love!" All at once she raised her head with a strange light in her eyes. "Mamma!" she cried, "see how warm his cheek is. Heaven is merciful! perhaps he is alive." She put both arms about him, and, gently but powerfully lifting his dead weight of head and shoulders, drew him to her heart. She held him to her warm bosom, rocking him to and fro. "Oh, my beloved!" she murmured, "if you will live, I will be so good to you." She lowered him again, resting his head on her lap. A drop of blood, from the napkin in which his head was wrapped, had touched the bosom of her dress, staining it as if a cherry had been crushed there. She sat, gazing with an anguish of hope upon his pale face. A shudder ran through him, and he opened his eyes--only for a moment. He groaned, and slowly closed them. The tears could no longer be restrained. They fell like a summer shower from her eyes, while she sobbed, "Thank God! my darling is not dead." Her quick ear caught footsteps at the outer door. "Here, mamma, take my place. Let me hide before all those men come in." In a moment she had leaped through the window, whence she ran through the dewy grass to her home. An hour afterward her mother returned, escorted by one of the surgeons. She found Alice in bed, peacefully sleeping. As Mrs. Belding approached the bedside, Alice woke and smiled. "I know without your telling me, mamma. He will live. I began to pray for him,--but I felt sure he would live, and so I gave thanks instead." "You are a strange girl," said Mrs. Belding, gravely. "But you are right. Dr. Cutts says, if he escapes without fever, there is nothing very serious in the wound itself. The blow that made that gash in his head was not the one which made him unconscious. They found another, behind his ear; the skin was not broken. There was a bump about as big as a walnut. They said it was concussion of the brain, but no fracture anywhere. By the way, Dr. Cutts complimented me very handsomely on the way I had managed the case before his arrival. He said there was positively a professional excellence about my bandage. You may imagine I did not set him right." Alice, laughing and blushing, said, "I will allow you all the credit." Mrs. Belding kissed her, and said, "Good-night," and walked to the door. There she paused a moment, and came back to the bed. "I think, after all, I had better say now what I thought of keeping till to-morrow. I thank you for your confidence to-night, and shall respect it. But you will see, I am sure, the necessity of being very circumspect, under the circumstances. If you should want to do anything for Arthur while he is ill, I should feel it my duty to forbid it." Alice received this charge with frank, open eyes. "I should not dream of such a thing," she said. "If he had died, I should have been his widow; but, as he is to live, he must come for me if he wants me. I was very silly about him, but I must take the consequences. I can't now take advantage of the poor fellow, by saving his life and establishing a claim on it. So I will promise anything you want. I am so happy that I will promise easily. But I am also very sleepy." The beautiful eyelids were indeed heavy and drooping. The night's excitement had left her wearied and utterly content. She fell asleep even as her mother kissed her forehead. The feeling of Offitt as he left Algonquin Avenue and struck into a side street was one of pure exultation. He had accomplished the boldest act of his life. He had shown address, skill, and courage. He had done a thing which had appalled him in the contemplation, merely on account of its physical difficulties and dangers. He had done it successfully. He had a large amount of money in his pocket--enough to carry his bride to the ends of the earth. When it was gone--well, at worst, he could leave her, and shift for himself again. He had not a particle of regret or remorse; and, in fact, these sentiments are far rarer than moralists would have us believe. A ruffian who commits a crime usually glories in it. It exalts him in his own eyes, all the more that he is compelled to keep silent about it. As Offitt walked rapidly in the direction of Dean Street, the only shadow on his exultation was his sudden perception of the fact that he had better not tell Maud what he had done. In all his plans he had promised himself the pleasure of telling her that she was avenged upon her enemy by the hands of her lover; he had thought he might extort his first kiss by that heroic avowal; but now, as he walked stealthily down the silent street, he saw that nobody in the universe could be made his confidant. "I'll never own it, in earth or hell," he said to himself. When he reached Matchin's cottage, all was dark and still. He tried to attract Maud's attention by throwing soft clods of earth against her window, but her sleep was too sound. He was afraid to throw pebbles for fear of breaking the panes and waking the family. He went into the little yard adjoining the shop, and found a ladder. He brought it out, and placed it against the wall. He perceived now for the first time that his hands were sticky. He gazed at them a moment. "Oh, yes," he said to himself, "when he fell I held out my hands to keep his head from touching my clothes. Careless trick! Ought to have washed them, first thing." Then, struck by a sudden idea, he went to the well-curb, and slightly moistened his fingers. He then rubbed them on the door-knob, and the edge of the door of the cottage, and pressed them several times in different places on the ladder. "Not a bad scheme," he said, chuckling. He then went again to the well, and washed his hands thoroughly, afterward taking a handful of earth, and rubbing them till they were as dirty as usual. After making all these preparations for future contingencies, he mounted the ladder, and tried to raise the window. It was already open a few inches to admit the air, but was fastened there, and he could not stir it. He began to call and whistle in as low and penetrating a tone as he could manage, and at last awoke Maud, whose bed was only a few feet away. She started up with a low cry of alarm, but saw in a moment who it was. "Well, what on earth are you doing here? Go away this minute, or I'll call my father." "Let me in, and I will tell you." "I'll do nothing of the sort. Begone this instant." "Maud, don't be foolish," he pleaded, in real alarm, as he saw that she was angry and insulted. "I have done as you told me. I have wealth for us both, and I have"--he had almost betrayed himself, but he concluded--"I have come to take you away forever." "Come to-morrow, at a decent hour, and I will talk to you." "Now, Maud, my beauty, don't believe I am humbugging. I brought a lot of money for you to look at--I knew you wanted to be sure. See here!" He drew from his pocket a package of bank bills--he saw a glittering stain on them. He put them in the other pocket of his coat and took out another package. "And here's another, I've got a dozen like them. Handle 'em yourself." He put them in through the window. Maud was so near that she could take the bills by putting out her hand. She saw there was a large amount of money there--more than she had ever seen before. "Come, my beauty," he said, "this is only spending-money for a bridal tour. There are millions behind it. Get up and put on your dress. I will wait below here. We can take the midnight train east, be married at Clairfield, and sail for Paris the next day. That's the world for you to shine in. Come! Waste no time. No tellin' what may happen tomorrow." She was strongly tempted. She had no longer any doubt of his wealth. He was not precisely a hero in appearance, but she had never insisted upon that--her romance having been always of a practical kind. She was about to assent--and to seal her doom--when she suddenly remembered that all her best clothes were in her mother's closet, which was larger than hers, and that she could not get them without passing through the room where her parents were asleep. That ended the discussion. It was out of the question that she should marry this magnificent stranger in her every-day dress and cotton stockings. It was equally impossible that she should give that reason to any man. So she said, with dignity: "Mr. Offitt, it is not proper for me to continue this conversation any longer. You ought to see it ain't. I shall be happy to see you to-morrow." Offitt descended the ladder, grinding out curses between his set teeth. A hate, as keen as his passion, for the foolish girl fired him. "Think," he hissed, "a man that killed, half an hour ago, the biggest swell in Buffland, to be treated that way by a carpenter's wench." "Wait awhile, Miss; it'll come my innings." He lifted up the ladder, carried it carefully around the house, and leaned it against the wall under the window of the room occupied by Sleeny. He hurried back to his lodging in Perry Place, where he found Sam Sleeny lying asleep on his bed. He was not very graciously greeted by his drowsy visitor. "Why didn't you stay out all night?" Sam growled. "Where have you been, anyhow?" "I've been at the variety-show, and it was the boss fraud of the season." "You stayed so long you must have liked it." "I was waiting to see just how bad a show could be and not spoil." "What did you want to see me about tonight?" "The fact is, I expected to meet a man around at the Varieties who was to go in with us into a big thing. But he wasn't there. I'll nail him to-morrow, and then we can talk. It's big money, Sammy, and no discount. What would you think of a thousand dollars a month?" "I'd a heap rather see it than hear you chin about it. Give me my hammer, and I'll go home." "Why, I took it round to your shop this evening, and I tossed it in through the window. I meant to throw it upon the table, but it went over, I think from the sound, and dropped on the floor. You will find it among the shavings, I reckon," "Well, I'm off," said Sam, by way of good-night. "All right. Guess I'll see you to-morrow." Offitt waited till he could hear the heavy tread of Sleeny completing the first flight of stairs and going around to the head of the second. He then shut and locked his door, and hung his hat over the keyhole. He turned up his lamp and sat down by the table to count his night's gains. The first package he took from his pocket had a shining stain upon the outside bill. He separated the stained bill carefully from the rest, and held it a moment in his hand as if in doubt. He walked to his wash-stand, but at the moment of touching his pitcher he stopped short. He took out his handkerchief, but shook his head and put it back. Finally, he lighted a match, applied it to the corner of the bill, and watched it take fire and consume, until his fingers were scorched by the blaze. "Pity!" he whispered--"good money like that." He seated himself again and began with a fierce, sustained delight to arrange and sort the bank-bills, laying the larger denominations by themselves, smoothing them down with a quick and tender touch, a kindling eye and a beating heart. In his whole life, past and future, there was not such another moment of enjoyment. Money is, of course, precious and acceptable to all men except idiots. But, if it means much to the good and virtuous, how infinitely more it means to the thoroughly depraved--the instant gratification of every savage and hungry devil of a passion which their vile natures harbor. Though the first and principal thing Offitt thought of was the possession of Maud Matchin, his excited fancy did not stop there. A long gallery of vicious pictures stretched out before his flaming eyes, as he reckoned up the harvest of his hand. The mere thought that each bill represented a dinner, where he might eat and drink what he liked, was enough to inebriate a starved rogue whose excesses had always been limited by his poverty. When he had counted and sorted his cash, he took enough for his immediate needs and put it in his wallet. The rest he made up into convenient packages, which he tied compactly with twine and disposed in his various pockets. "I'll chance it," he thought, after some deliberation. "If they get me, they can get the money, too. But they sha'n't get it without me." He threw himself on his bed, and slept soundly till morning. XVIII. OFFITT PLANS A LONG JOURNEY. The bright sun and the morning noises of the city waked Offitt from his sleep. As he dressed himself the weight of the packages in his pockets gave him a pleasant sensation to begin the day with. He felt as if he were entering upon a new state of existence--a life with plenty of money. He composed in his mind an elaborate breakfast as he walked down-stairs and took his way to a restaurant, which he entered with the assured step of a man of capital. He gave his order to the waiter with more decision than usual, and told him in closing "not to be all day about it, either." While waiting for his breakfast, he opened the morning "Bale Fire" to see if there was any account of "The Algonquin Avenue Tragedy." This was the phrase which he had arranged in his mind as the probable head-line of the article. He had so convinced himself of the efficacy of his own precautions, that he anticipated the same pleasure in reading the comments upon his exploit that an author whose incognito is assured enjoys in reading the criticisms of his anonymous work. He was at first disappointed in seeing no allusion to the affair in the usual local columns; but at last discovered in a corner of the paper this double-leaded postscript: "We stop the press to state that an appalling crime was last night committed in Algonquin Avenue. The mansion of Arthur Farnham, Esq., was entered by burglars between ten and eleven o'clock, and that gentleman assaulted and probably murdered. "Full particulars in a later edition." "LATER. Captain Farnham is still living, and some hopes are entertained of his recovery. The police have found the weapon with which the almost fatal blow was struck--a carpenter's hammer marked with a letter S. It is thought this clew will lead to the detection of the guilty parties." Offitt was not entirely pleased with the tone of this notice. He had expected some reference to the address and daring of the burglar. But he smiled to himself, "Why should I care for Sam's reputation?" and ate his breakfast with a good appetite. Before he had finished, however, he greatly modified his plan, which was to have the threads of evidence lead naturally, of themselves, to the conviction of Sleeny. He determined to frighten Sam, if possible, out of the city, knowing that his flight would be conclusive evidence of guilt. He swallowed his coffee hurriedly and walked down to Dean Street, where by good fortune he found Sam alone in the shop. He was kicking about a pile of shavings on the floor. He turned as Offitt entered and said: "Oh, there you are. I can't find that hammer anywhere." Offitt's face assumed a grieved expression. "Come, come, Sam, don't stand me off that way. I'm your friend, if you've got one in the world. You mustn't lose a minute more. You've got time now to catch the 8.40. Come, jump in a hack and be off." His earnestness and rapidity confused Sleeny, and drove all thoughts of the hammer from his mind. He stared at Offitt blankly, and said, "Why, what are you givin' me now?" "I'm a-givin' you truth and friendship, and fewest words is best. Come, light out, and write where you stop. I'll see you through." "See here," roared Sam, "are you crazy or am I? Speak out! What's up?" "Oh! I've got to speak it out, raw and plain, have I? Very well! Art. Farnham was attacked and nearly murdered last night, and if you didn't do it who did? Now come, for the Lord's sake, get off before the police get here. I never thought you had the sand--but I see you've got too much. Don't lose time talking any more. I'm glad you've killed him. You done just right--but I don't want to see you hung for it." His excitement and feigned earnestness had brought the tears to his eyes. Sam saw them and was convinced. "Andy," he said solemnly. "I know you're my friend, and mean right. I'll swear before God it wasn't me, and I know nothing about it, and I won't run away." "But how will we prove it," said Offitt, wringing his hands in distress. "Where was you last night from ten to eleven?" "You know where I was--in your room. I went there just after nine and fell asleep waiting for you." "Yes, of course, but who knows it? Sam, I believe you are innocent since you say so. But see the circumstances. You _have_ talked about goin' for him. You _have_ had a fight with him, and got put in jail for it, and--" he was about to mention the hammer, but was afraid--"I wish you would take my advice and go off for a week or so till the truth comes out. I'll lend you all the money you want. I'm flush this week." "No, Andy," said Sleeny, "nobody could be kinder than you. But I won't run away. They can't put a man where he wasn't." "Very well," replied Offitt, "I admire your pluck, and I'll swear a blue streak for you when the time comes. And perhaps I had better get away now so they won't know I've been with you." He went without a moment's delay to the chief of police and told him that he had a disagreeable duty to perform; that he knew the murderer of Captain Farnham; that the criminal was an intimate friend of his, a young man hitherto of good character named Sleeny. "Ah-ha!" said the chief. "That was the fellow that Captain Farnham knocked down and arrested in the riot." "The same," said Offitt. "He has since that been furious against the Captain. I have reasoned with him over and over about it. Yesterday he came to see me; showed me a hammer he had just bought at Ware & Harden's; said he was going to break Arthur Farnham's skull with it. I didn't believe he would, he had said it so often before. While we were talking, I took the hammer and cut his initial on it, a letter S." The chief nodded, with a broad smile. "He then left me, and when I came back to my room a little before midnight, I found him there. He looked excited, and wanted me to go and get a drink with him. I declined, and he went off. This morning when I heard about the murder I said: 'He's the man that did the deed.'" "You have not seen him since last night?" "No; I suppose, of course, he has run away." "Where did he live?" "Dean Street, at Matchin's the carpenter." The chief turned to his telegraphic operator and rapidly gave orders for the arrest of Sleeny by the police of the nearest station. He also sent for the clerks who were on duty the day before at Ware & Harden's. "Mr. ----, I did not get your name," he said to Offitt, who gave him his name and address. "You have acted the part of a good citizen." "The most painful act of my life," Offitt murmured. "Of course. But duty before everything. I will have to ask you to wait a little while in the adjoining room till we see whether this man can be found." Offitt was shown into a small room, barely furnished, with two doors; the one through which he had just come, and one opening apparently into the main corridor of the building. Offitt, as soon as he was alone, walked stealthily to the latter door and tried to open it. It was locked, and there was no key. He glanced at the window; there was an iron grating inside the sash, which was padlocked. A cold sweat bathed him from head to foot. He sank into a chair, trembling like a leaf. He felt for his handkerchief to wipe his wet forehead. His hand touched one of the packages of money. He bounded from his chair in sudden joy. "They did not search me, so they don't suspect. It is only to make sure of my evidence that they keep me here." Nevertheless, the time went heavily. At last an officer came in and said he was to come to the police justice's for the preliminary examination of Sleeny. "They have caught him, then?" he asked, with assumed eagerness and surprise. "He had not got away?" "No," the man answered curtly. They came to the court-room in a few steps. Sam was there between two policemen. As Offitt entered, he smiled and slightly nodded. One or two men who had been summoned as witnesses were standing near the justice. The proceedings were summary. One of the policemen said that he had gone to Matchin's shop to arrest the prisoner; that the prisoner exhibited no surprise; his first words were, "Is Mr. Farnham dead yet?" Offitt was then called upon, and he repeated, clearly and concisely, the story he had told the chief of police. When he had concluded he was shown the hammer which had been picked up on the floor at Farnham's, and was asked, "Is that the hammer you refer to?" "Yes, that is it." These words were the signal for a terrible scene. When Sleeny saw Offitt step forward and begin to give his evidence, he leaned forward with a smile of pleased expectation upon his face. He had such confidence in his friend's voluble cleverness that he had no doubt Offitt would "talk him free" in a few minutes. He was confused a little by his opening words, not clearly seeing his drift; but as the story went on, and Offitt's atrocious falsehood became clear to his mind, he was dumb with stupefaction, and felt a strange curiosity wakening in him to see how the story would end. He did not, for the moment, see what object Offitt could have in lying so, until the thought occurred to him: "May be there's a reward out!" But when the blood-stained hammer was shown and identified by Offitt, all doubt was cleared away in a flash from the dull brain of Sleeny. He saw the whole horrible plot of which he was the victim. He rose from his seat before the officer could stop him, and roared like a lion in the toils, in a voice filled equally with agony and rage: "You murdering liar! I'll tear your heart out of you!" There was a wide table and several chairs between them, but Sleeny was over them in an instant. Offitt tried to escape, but was so hemmed in, that the infuriated man had him in his hands before the officers could interpose. If they had delayed a moment longer all would have been over, for already Sleeny's hands were at the throat of his betrayer. But two powerful policemen with their clubs soon separated the combatants, and Sleeny was dragged back and securely handcuffed. Offitt, ghastly pale and trembling, had sunk upon a bench. The justice, looking at him narrowly, said: "The man is going to faint; loosen his collar." "No," said Offitt, springing to his feet. "I am perfectly well." In his struggle with Sleeny a button of his coat had been torn away. He asked a by-stander for a pin, and carefully adjusted the garment. The thought in his mind was, "I don't mind being killed; but I thought he might tear off my coat, and show them my money." From this moment he kept his hand in such position that he might feel the packages in his pockets. Sleeny was still panting and screaming execrations at Offitt. The justice turned to him with sternness, and said, "Silence there! Have you not sense enough to see how your ferocious attack on the witness damages you? If you can't restrain your devilish temper while your friend is giving his evidence, it will be all the worse for you." "Judge," cried Sam, now fairly beside himself, "that's the murderer! I know it. I can prove it. He ain't fit to live. I'll break his neck yet!" Offitt raised his hands and eyes in deprecating sorrow. "This is the wild talk of a desperate man," said the justice. "But you may as well tell us how you passed last evening." "Certainly," said Offitt, consulting his memory. "Let me see. I took supper about seven at Duffer's; I went to Glauber's drug-store next and got a glass of soda water; if they don't know me, they'll remember my breaking a glass; then I made a visit at Mr. Matchin's on Dean Street; then I went to the Orleans theatre; I come out between the acts and got a cup of coffee at Mouchem's--then I went back and stayed till the show was over, that was about half-past eleven. Then I went home and found Mr. Sleeny there." "You had better go with Mr. Fangwell, and let him verify this statement," said the justice. He then called the policeman who arrived first at Farnham's house the night before. He told his story and identified the hammer which had been shown to Offitt. A young man from Ware & Harden's swore that he had sold the hammer the day before to Sleeny, whom he knew. The justice held this evidence sufficient to justify Sleeny's detention. "I should think so," said some of the by-standers. "If it don't hang him, there's a loud call for Judge Lynch." "Silence!" said the justice. "The prisoner will be taken for the present to the city jail." Sam was led out, and Offitt accompanied the chief of police back to the room he had just quitted. He remained there several hours which seemed to him interminable. At last, however, the detective who had been sent to inquire as to the truth of the account he had given of himself, returned with a full confirmation of it, and Offitt was suffered to go, on his own engagement to give further evidence when called upon. He left the City Hall with a great load off his mind. It was not without an effort that he had sworn away the character, the freedom, and perhaps the life of his comrade. If he could have accomplished his purpose without crushing Sleeny he would have preferred it. But the attack which his goaded victim had made upon him in the court-room was now a source of lively satisfaction to him. It created a strong prejudice against the prisoner; it caused the justice at once to believe him guilty, and gave Offitt himself an injured feeling that was extremely comforting in view of what was to happen to Sleeny. He went along the street tapping his various pockets furtively as he walked. He was hungry. His diverse emotions had given him an appetite. He went into an eating-house and commanded a liberal supper. He had an odd fancy as he gave his order. "That's the sort of supper I would have, if it was my last--if I was to be hanged tomorrow." He thought of Sleeny and hoped they would treat him well in jail. He felt magnanimously toward him. "Who would have thought," he mused, "that Sam had such a devil of a temper? I most hope that Farnham won't die--it would be rough on Sam. Though perhaps that would be best all round," he added, thinking of Sam's purple face in the court-room and the eager grip of his fingers. He came out of the eating-house into the gathering twilight. The lamps were springing into light in long straight lines down the dusky streets. The evening breeze blew in from the great lake tempering the stale heat of the day. Boys were crying the late editions of the newspapers with "Full account arrest o' the Farnham burglar!" He bought one, but did not stop to open it. He folded it into the smallest possible compass, and stuffed it into his pocket, "along with the other documents in the case," as he chuckled to himself; "I'll read all about it in the train to-morrow--business before pleasure," he continued, pleased with his wit. Every moment he would put his hand into his side pocket and feel the package containing the largest bills. He knew it was imprudent--that it might attract the attention of thieves or detectives; but to save his life he could not have kept from doing it. At last he scratched his hand on the pin which was doing duty for the button he had lost in his scuffle with Sleeny. "Ah!" he said to himself, with humorous banter, "it won't do to be married in a coat with the buttons off." He went into a little basement shop where a sign announced that "Scouring and Repairing" were done. A small and bald Hamburger stepped forward, rubbing his hands. Offitt told him what he wanted, and the man got a needle and thread and selected from a large bowl of buttons on a shelf one that would suit. While he was sewing it on, he said: "Derrible news apout Gabben Farnham." "Yes," said Offitt. "Is he dead?" "I don't know off he ish tet. Dey say he ish oud mid his het, und tat looksh mighty pad. But one ting ish goot; dey cotch de murterer." "They have?" asked Offitt, with languid interest. "What sort of fellow is he?" "Mutter Gottes!" said the little German. "De vorst kind. He would radder gill a man as drink a glass bier. He gome mighty near gillin' his pest vrient to-day in de gourt-house droben, ven he vas dellin' vat he knowed apout it alleweil." "A regular fire-eater," said Offitt. "So you've finished, have you? How much for the job!" The German was looking at a stain on the breast of the coat. "Vot's dish?" he said. "Looksh like baint. Yust lemme take your coat off a minute and I gleans dot up like a nudel soup." "Say, mind your own business, won't you?" growled Offitt. "Here's your money, and when I want any of your guff I'll let you know." He hurried out, leaving the poor German amazed at the ill result of his effort to turn an honest penny and do a fellow-creature a service. "Vunny beebles!" he said to himself. "But I got a kevarter off a tollar for a den-cent chob." Offitt came out of the shop and walked at a rapid pace to Dean Street. He was determined to make an end at once of Maud's scruples and coquetry. He said to himself: "If we are both alive to-morrow, we shall be married." He believed if he could have her to himself for half an hour, he could persuade her to come with him. He was busy all the way plotting to get her parents out of the house. It would be easy enough to get them out of the room; but he wanted them out of hearing, out of reach of a cry for help even. He found them all together in the sitting-room. The arrest of Sleeny had fallen heavily upon them. They had no doubt of his guilt, from the reports they had heard, and their surprise and horror at his crime were not lessened but rather increased by their familiar affection for him. "To think," said Saul to his wife, "that that boy has worked at the same bench, and slept in the same house with me for so many years, and I never knowed the Satan that was in him!" "It's in all of us, Saul," said Mrs. Matchin, trying to improve the occasion for the edification of her unbelieving husband. Maud had felt mingled with her sorrow a suspicion of remorse. She could not help remembering that Sam considered Farnham his rival, with how little reason she knew better than any one. She could understand how her beauty might have driven him to violence; but when the story of the robbery transpired also--as it did in the course of the morning,--she was greatly perplexed. When she joined in the lamentations of her parents and said she never could have believed that of Sam Sleeny, she was thinking of the theft, and not of the furious assault. When they had all, however, exhausted their limited store of reflections, a thing took place which increased the horror and the certainty of Mr. and Mrs. Matchin, and left Maud a prey to a keener doubt and anxiety than ever. Late in the afternoon a sharp-faced man, with a bright eye and a red mustache, came to the house and demanded in the name of the law to be shown Sam's bedroom. He made several notes and picked up some trifling articles, for which he gave Mr. Matchin receipts. Corning out of the room, he looked carefully at the door-knob. "Seems all right," he said. Then turning to Matchin, he said, with professional severity, "What door did he generally come in by?" "Sometimes one and sometimes another," said Saul, determined not to give any more information than he must. "Well, I'll look at both," the detective said. The first one stood his scrutiny without effect, but at the second his eye sparkled and his cheek flushed with pleasure, when he saw the faint, red-dish-brown streaks which Offitt had left there the night before. He could not express his exultation; turning to Saul, "There's where he came in last night, any way." "He didn't do no such a thing," replied Saul. "That door I locked myself last night before he came in." "Oh, you did? So you're sure he came in at the other door, are you. We will see if he could get in any other way." Walking around the corner, he saw the ladder where Offitt had left it. "Hello! that's his window, ain't it?" Without waiting for an answer the detective ran up the ladder, studying every inch of its surface as he ran. He came down positively radiant, and slapped Saul heartily on the shoulder. "All right, old man. I'll trouble you to keep that ladder and that door just as they are. They are important papers. Why don't you see?" he continued--"bless your innocent old heart, he comes home with his hands just reg'larly dripping with murder. He fumbles at that door, finds it locked, and so gets that ladder, histes it up to the window, and hops into bed as easy as any Christian schoolboy in town, and he thinks he's all right--but he never thinks of Tony Smart, your humble servant." This view of the case was perfectly convincing to Saul and also to his wife when he repeated it at the supper-table; but it struck Maud with a sudden chill. She remembered that when she had dismissed Offitt from that midnight conference at her casement, he had carefully taken the ladder away from her window, and had set it against the house some distance off. She had admired at the time his considerate chivalry, and thought how nice it was to have a lover so obedient and so careful of her reputation. But now, the detective's ghastly discovery turned her thought in a direction which appalled her. Could it be possible--and all that money--where did it come from? As she sat with her parents in the gathering darkness, she kept her dreadful anxiety to herself. She had been hoping all day to see her lover--now she feared to have him come, lest her new suspicions might be confirmed. She quickly resolved upon one thing: she would not go away with him that night--not until this horrible mystery was cleared up. If she was worth having she was worth waiting for a little while. They all three started as the door opened and Offitt came in. He wasted no time in salutations, but said at once, "It's a funny thing, but I have got a message for each of you. The district attorney saw me coming up this way, Mr. Matchin, and asked me to tell you to come down as quick as you can to his office--something very important, he said. And, stranger than that, I met Mr. Wixham right out here by the corner, and he asked me if I was comin' here, and if I would ask you, Mrs. Matchin, to come right up to their house. Jurildy is sick and wants to see you, and he has run off for the doctor." Both the old people bustled up at this authoritative summons, and Offitt as they went out said, "I'll stay a while and keep Miss Maud from gettin' lonesome." "I wish you would," said Mrs. Matchin. "The house seems creepy-like with Sam where he is." Maud felt her heart sink at the prospect of being left alone with the man she had been longing all day to see. She said, "Mother, I think I ought to go with you!" "No, indeed," her mother replied. "You ain't wanted, and it wouldn't be polite to Mr. Offitt." The moment they were gone, Offitt sprang to the side of Maud, and seized her hands. "Now, my beauty, you will be mine. Put on your hat and we will go." She struggled to free her hands. "Let go," she said, "you hurt me. Why are you in such a terrible hurry?" "Why can you ask? Your parents will be back in a few minutes. Of course you know that story was only to get them out of our way. Come, my beautiful Maud! my joy, my queen! To-morrow New York! next day the sea, and then Europe and love and pleasure all your life." "I want to talk with you a minute," said Maud, in a voice which trembled in spite of her efforts. "I can't talk in the dark. Wait here, till I get a lamp." She slipped from the room before he could prevent her and left him pacing the floor in a cold rage. It was only a moment, however, until she returned, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a table, and then asked him to be seated, in a stiff, formal way, which at once irritated and enchanted him. He sat down and devoured her with his eyes. He was angry when she went for the lamp; but, as its light fell on her rich, dark hair, her high color, and her long, graceful figure, as she leaned back in her chair, he felt that the tenderest conversation with her in the darkness would lose something of the pleasure that the eyes took in her. This he said to her, in his coarse but effective way. She answered him with coquettish grace, willing to postpone the serious talk she dreaded so. But the conversation was in stronger hands than hers, and she found herself forced, in a few minutes, to either go with him, or give a reason why. "The fact is, then," she stammered, with a great effort, "I don't know you well enough yet. Why cannot you wait a while?" He laughed. "Come with me, and you will know me better in a day than you would here in a year. Do not waste these precious moments. Our happiness depends upon it. We have everything we can desire. I cannot be myself here. I cannot disclose my rank and my wealth to these people who have only known me as an apostle of labor. I want to go where you will be a great lady. Oh, come!" he cried, with an outburst of pent-up fire, throwing himself on the floor at her feet, and laying his head upon her knee. She was so moved by this sudden outbreak, which was wholly new to her experience, that she almost forgot her doubts and fears. But a remnant of practical sense asserted itself. She rose from her chair, commanded him once more to be seated, and said: "I am afraid I am going to offend you, but I must ask you something." "Ask me anything," he said, with a smile, "except to leave you." She thought the phrase so pretty that she could hardly find courage to put her question. She blushed and stammered, and then, rushing at it with desperation, she said: "That money--where did you get it?" "I will tell you when we are married. It is a secret." He tried still to smile, but she saw the laughter dying away from his face. Her blood turned cold in her veins, but her heart grew stronger, and she determined to know the worst. She was not a refined or clever woman; but the depth of her trouble sharpened her wits, and she instinctively made use of her woman's wiles to extort the truth from the man who she knew was under the spell of her beauty, whatever else he was. "Come here!" she said. Her face was pale, but her lips were smiling. "Get down there where you were!" she continued, with tender imperiousness. He obeyed her, hardly daring to trust his senses. "Now put your hands between my hands," she said, still with that pale, singular smile, which filled him with unquiet transports, "and tell me the truth, you bad boy!" "The truth," with a beating of the heart which made his utterance thick, "the truth is, that you are the most glorious woman in the world, and that you will be mine to-morrow." "Perhaps," she almost whispered. "But you must tell me something else. I am afraid you are a naughty boy, and that you love me too much. I once told you I had an enemy, and that I wanted somebody to punish him. Did you go and punish him for me--tell me that?" Her voice was soft and low and beguiling. She still smiled on him, leaving one hand in his, while she raised the forefinger of the other in coquettish admonition. The ruffian at her feet was inebriated with her beauty and her seductive playfulness. He thought she had divined his act--that she considered it a fine and heroic test of love to which she had subjected him. He did not hesitate an instant, but said: "Yes, my beauty, and I am ready to do the same for anybody who gives you a cross look." Now that she had gained the terrible truth, a sickening physical fear of the man came over her, and she felt herself growing faint. His voice sounded weak and distant as he said: "Now you will go with me, won't you?" She could make no answer. So he continued: "Run and get your hat. Nothing else. We can buy all you want. And hurry. They may come back any moment." She perceived a chance of escape and roused herself. She thought if she could only get out of the room she might save herself by flight or by outcry. "Wait here," she whispered, "and be very quiet." He kissed his fingers to her without a word. She opened the door into the next room, which was the kitchen and dining-room of the family, and there, not three feet from her, in the dim light, haggard and wan, bareheaded, his clothes in rags about him, she saw Sam Sleeny. XIX. A LEAP FOR SOMEBODY'S LIFE. When Sleeny was led from the room of the police justice in the afternoon, he was plunged in a sort of stupor. He could not recover from the surprise and sense of outrage with which he had listened to Offitt's story. What was to happen to him he accepted with a despair which did not trouble itself about the ethics of the transaction. It was a disaster, as a stroke of lightning might be. It seemed to him the work had been thoroughly and effectually done. He could see no way out of it; in fact, his respect for Offitt's intelligence was so great that he took it for granted Andy had committed no mistakes, but that he had made sure of his ruin. He must go to prison; if Farnham died, he must be hanged. He did not weary his mind in planning for his defence when his trial should come on. He took it for granted he should be convicted. But if he could get out of prison, even if it were only for a few hours, and see Andy Offitt once more--he felt the blood tingling through all his veins at the thought. This roused him from his lethargy and made him observant and alert. He began to complain of his handcuffs; they were in truth galling his wrists. It was not difficult for him to twist his hands so as to start the blood in one or two places. He showed these quietly to the policemen, who sat with him in a small anteroom leading to the portion of the city jail, where he was to be confined for the night. He seemed so peaceable and quiet that they took off the irons, saying good-naturedly, "I guess we can handle you." They were detained in this room for some time waiting for the warden of the jail to come and receive their prisoner. There were two windows, both giving view of a narrow street, where it was not bright at noonday, and began to grow dark at sunset with the shade of the high houses and the thick smoke of the quarter. The windows were open, as the room was in the third story, and was therefore considered absolutely safe. Sleeny got up several times and walked first to one window and then to another, casting quick but searching glances at the street and the walls. He saw that some five feet from one of the windows a tin pipe ran along the wall to the ground. The chances were ten to one that any one risking the leap would be dashed to pieces on the pavement below. But Sleeny could not get that pipe out of his head. "I might as well take my chance" he said to himself. "It would be no worse to die that way than to be hanged." He grew afraid to trust himself in sight of the window and the pipe: it exercised so strong a fascination upon him. He sat down with his back to the light and leaned his head on his hands. But he could think of nothing but his leap for liberty. He felt in fancy his hands and knees clasping that slender ladder of safety; he began to think what he would do when he struck the sidewalk, if no bones were broken. First, he would bide from pursuit, if possible. Then he would go to Dean Street and get a last look at Maud, if he could; then his business would be to find Offitt. "If I find him," he thought, "I'll give them something to try me for." But finally he dismissed the matter from his mind,--for this reason. He remembered seeing a friend, the year before, fall from a scaffolding and break his leg. The broken bone pierced through the leg of his trousers. This thought daunted him more than death on the gallows. The door opened, and three or four policemen came in, each leading a man by the collar, the ordinary riffraff of the street, charged with petty offences. One was very drunk and abusive. He attracted the attention of everybody in the room by his antics. He insisted on dancing a breakdown which he called the "Essence of Jeems' River"; and in the scuffle which followed, first one and then the other policeman in charge of Sleeny became involved. Sleeny was standing with his back to the window, quite alone. The temptation was too much for him. He leaped upon the sill, gave one mighty spring, caught the pipe, and slid safely to the ground. One or two passers-by saw him drop lightly to the sidewalk, but thought nothing of it. It was not the part of the jail in which prisoners were confined, and he might have been taken for a carpenter or plumber who chose that unusual way of coming from the roof. His hat blew off in his descent, but he did not waste time in looking for it. He walked slowly till he got to the corner, and then plunged through the dark and ill-smelling streets of the poor and crowded quarter, till he came by the open gate of a coal-yard. Seeing he was not pursued he went in, concealed himself behind a pile of boards and lay there until it was quite dark. He then came out and walked through roundabout ways, avoiding the gas-lights and the broad thoroughfares, to Dean Street. He climbed the fence and crept through the garden to the back door of the house. He had eaten nothing since early morning, and was beginning to be hungry. He saw there were no lights in the rear of the house, and thought if he could enter the kitchen he might get a loaf of bread without alarming the household. He tried the back door and found it fastened. But knowing the ways of the house, he raised the cellar door, went down the steps, shut the door down upon himself, groped his way to the inner stairs, and so gained the kitchen. He was walking to the cupboard when the door opened and he saw Maud coming toward him. She did not seem in the least startled to see him there. In the extremity of her terror, it may have seemed to her that he had been sent especially to her help. She walked up to him, laid her hands on his shoulders and whispered, "Oh, Sam, I am so glad to see you. Save me! Don't let him touch me! He is in there." Sam hardly knew if this were real or not. A wild fancy assailed him for an instant--was he killed in jumping from the window? Surely this could never happen to him on the earth; the girl who had always been so cold and proud to him was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her warm breath on his cheek. She was asking his help against some danger. "All right, Mattie," he whispered. "Nobody shall hurt you. Who is it?" He thought of no one but the police. "Offitt," she said. He brushed her aside as if she had been a cobweb in his path, and with a wild cry of joy and vengeance he burst through the half-open door. Offitt turned at the noise, and saw Sam coming, and knew that the end of his life was there. His heart was like water within him. He made a feeble effort at defence; but the carpenter, without a word, threw him on the floor, planted one knee on his chest, and with his bare hands made good the threat he uttered in his agony in the court-room, twisting and breaking his neck. Sleeny rose, pulled the cover from the centre-table in the room, and threw it over the distorted face of the dead man. Maud, driven out of her wits by the dreadful scene, had sunk in a rocking-chair, where, with her face in her hands, she was sobbing and moaning. Sam tried to get her to listen to him. "Good-by, Mattie, I shall never see you again, I suppose. I must run for my life. I want you to know I was innocent of what they charged me with----" "Oh, I know that, Sam," she sobbed. "God bless you, Mattie, for saying so. I don't care so much for what happens, now. I am right glad I got here to save you from that----" he paused, searching for a word which would be descriptive and yet not improper in the presence of a lady, but his vocabulary was not rich and he said at last, "that snide. But I should have done that to him anyhow; so don't cry on that account. Mattie, will you tell me good-by?" he asked with bashful timidity. She rose and gave him her hand; but her eyes happening to wander to the shapeless form lying in the corner, she hid her face again on his shoulder and said with a fresh burst of tears. "Oh, Sam, stay with me a little while. Don't leave me alone." His mind travelled rapidly through the incidents that would result from his staying--prison, trial, and a darker contingency still, rearing its horrible phantom in the distance. But she said, "You will stay till father comes, won't you?" and he answered simply: "Yes, Mattie, if you want me to." He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, to wait for his doom. In a few minutes, they heard a loud altercation outside the door. The voice of Saul Matchin was vehemently protesting, "I tell ye he ain't here," and another voice responded, "He was seen to climb the fence and to enter the house. We've got it surrounded, and there's no use for you to get yourself into trouble aidin' and abettin'." Sam walked to the door and said to the policeman, with grim humor, "Come in! you'll find two murderers here, and neither one will show any fight." The policemen blew their whistles to assemble the rest, and then came in warily, and two of them seized him at once. "It's all very well to be meek and lowly, my friend," said one of them, "but you'll not play that on us twice--least ways," he added with sarcastic intention, "not twice the same day. See here, Tony Smart," addressing a third, who now entered, "lend a hand with these bracelets," and in a moment Sam was handcuffed and pinioned. "Where's the other one you was talking about?" asked the policeman. Sam pointed with his foot in the direction where Offitt lay. The policeman lifted the cloth, and dropped it again with a horror which his professional phlegm could not wholly disguise. "Well, of all the owdacious villains ever I struck ---- Who do you think it is?" he asked, turning to his associates. "Who?" "The witness this afternoon,--Offitt. Well, my man," he said, turning to Sam, "you wanted to make a sure thing of it, I see. If you couldn't be hung for one, you would for the other." "Sam!" said Saul Matchin who, pale and trembling, had been a silent spectator of the scene so far, "for heaven's sake, tell us what all this means." "Mind now," said the officer, "whatever you say will be reported." "Very well, I've got nothing to hide," said Sam. "I'll tell you and Mother Matchin" (who had just come in and was staring about her with consternation, questioning Maud in dumb show) "the whole story. I owe that to you for you've always used me well. It's a mighty short one. That fellow Offitt robbed and tried to murder Captain Farnham last night, and then swore it onto me. I got away from the officers to-night, and come round here and found him 'saulting Mattie, and I twisted his neck for him. If it's a hanging matter to kill snakes, I'll have to stand it--that's all." "Now, who do you think is going to believe that?" said the captain of the squad. Maud rose and walked up to where Sam was standing and said, "I know every word he has said is true. That man was the burglar at Captain Farnham's. He told me so himself to-night. He said he had the money in his pocket and wanted to make me go with him." She spoke firmly and resolutely, but she could not bring herself to say anything of previous passages between them; and when she opened her lips to speak of the ladder, the woman was too strong within her, and she closed them again. "I'll never tell that unless they go to hang Sam, and then I won't tell anybody but the Governor," she swore to herself. "It's easy to see about that story," said the officer still incredulous. They searched the clothing of Offitt, and the face of the officer, as one package of money after another was brought to light, was a singular study. The pleasure he felt in the recovery of the stolen goods was hardly equal to his professional chagrin at having caught the wrong man. He stood for a moment silent, after tying up all the packages in one. "It's no use dodging," he said at last. "We have been barking up the wrong tree." "I don't know about that," said the one called Tony Smart. "Who has identified this money? Who can answer for this young lady? How about them marks on the door and the ladder? Anyhow there's enough to hold our prisoner on." "Of course there is," said the captain. "He hadn't authority to go twisting people's necks in this county." At this moment the wagon which had been sent for arrived. The body of Offitt was lifted in. The captain gathered up the money, notified Matchin that he and his family would be wanted as witnesses in the morning, and they all moved toward the door. Sam turned to say "Farewell." Pinioned as he was, he could not shake hands, and his voice faltered as he took leave of them. Maud's heart was not the most feeling one in the world, but her emotions had been deeply stirred by the swift succession of events; and as she saw this young fellow going so bravely to meet an unknown fate, purely for her sake, the tears came to her eyes. She put out her hand to him; but she saw that his hands were fastened and, seized with sudden pity, she put her arms about his neck and kissed him, whispering, "Keep up a good heart, Sam!" and he went away, in all his danger and ignominy happier than he had been for many a day. The probabilities of the case were much discussed that night at police head-quarters, in conferences from which the reporters were rigorously excluded, and the next morning the city newspapers revelled in the sensation. They vied with each other in inventing attractive head-lines and startling theories. The _Bale-Fire_ began its leader with the impressive sentence: "Has a carnival of crime set in amongst us? Last night the drama of Algonquin Avenue was supplemented by the tragedy of Dean Street, and the public, aghast, demands 'What next?' A second murder was accomplished by hands yet dripping with a previous crime. The patriotic witness who, yesterday, with a bleeding heart, denounced the criminality of his friend, paid last night with his life for his fidelity." In another column called for a "monument, by popular subscription for Andrew Jackson Offitt, who died because would not tell a lie." On the other hand, _The Morning Astral_, representing the conservative opinion of the city, called for a suspension of judgment on the part of its candid readers; said that there were shady circumstances about the antecedents of Offitt, and intimated that documents of a compromising character had been found on his person; congratulated the city on the improved condition of Captain Farnham; and, trusting in the sagacity and diligence of the authorities, confidently awaited from them a solution of the mystery. Each of them, nevertheless, gave free space and license to their reporters, and Offitt was a saint, a miscreant, a disguised prince, and an escaped convict, according to the state of the reporter's imagination or his digestion; while the stories told of Sleeny varied from cannibalism to feats of herculean goodness. They all agreed reasonably well, however, as to the personal appearance of the two men, and from this fact it came about that, in the course of the morning, evidence was brought forward, from a totally unexpected quarter, which settled the question as to the burglary at Farnham's. Mrs. Belding had been so busy the day before, in her constant attendance upon Farnham, that she had paid no attention to the story of the arrest. She had heard that the man had been caught and his crime clearly established, and that he had been sent to jail for trial. Her first thought was, "I am glad I was not called upon to give evidence. It would have been very disagreeable to get up before a court-room full of men and say I looked with an opera-glass out of my daughter's window into a young man's house. I should have to mention Alice's name, too,-- and a young girl's name cannot be mentioned too seldom in the newspapers. In fact, twice in a life-time is often enough, and one of them should be a funeral notice." But this morning, after calling at Farnham's and finding that he was getting on comfortably, she sat down to read the newspapers. Alice was sitting near her, with hands and lap full of some feminine handiwork. A happy smile played about her lips, for her mother had just repeated to her the surgeon's prediction that Captain Farnham would be well in a week or two. "He said the scalp wound was healing 'by the first intention,' which I thought was a funny phrase. I thought the maxim was that second thoughts were best." Alice had never mentioned Farnham's name since the first night, but he was rarely out of her mind, and the thought that his life was saved made every hour bright and festal. "He will be well," she thought. "He will have to come here to thank mamma for her care of him. I shall see him again and he shall not complain of me. If he should never speak to me again, I shall love him and be good to him always." She was yet too young and too innocent to know how impossible was the scheme of life she was proposing to herself, but she was thoroughly happy in it. Mrs. Belding, as she read, grew perplexed and troubled. She threw down one newspaper and took up another, but evidently got no more comfort out of that. At last she sighed and said, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I shall have to go down there after all. They have got the wrong man!" Alice looked up with wondering eyes. "These accounts all agree that the assassin is a tall, powerful young man, with yellow hair and beard. The real man was not more than medium height, very dark. Why, he was black and shiny as a cricket. I must go and tell them. I wonder who the lawyer is that does the indicting of people?" "It must be the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Dalton," said Alice. "I heard he was elected this spring. You know him very well. You meet him everywhere." "That elegant young fellow who leads germans? Well, if that is not too absurd! I never should have thought of him, outside of a dress-coat. I don't mind a bit going to see _him_. Order the carriage, while I get my things on." She drove down to the City Hall, and greatly astonished Mr. Dalton by walking into his office and requesting a moment's private conversation with him. Dalton was a dapper young man, exceedingly glib and well dressed, making his way in political and official, as he had already made it in social life. He greeted Mrs. Belding with effusion, and was anxious to know how he might serve her, having first cleared the room of the half-dozen politicians who did their lounging there. "It is a most delicate matter for a lady to appear in, and I must ask you to keep my name as much in reserve as possible." "Of course, you may count upon me," he answered, wondering where this strange exordium would lead to. "You have got the wrong man. I am sure of it. It was not the blonde one. He was black as a cricket. I saw him as plainly as I see you. You know we live next door to Captain Farnham----" "Ah!" Dalton cried. "Certainly. I understand. This is most important. Pray go on." With a few interruptions from him, full of tact and intelligence, she told the whole story, or as much of it as was required. She did not have to mention Alice's name, or the opera-glass; though the clever young man said to himself, "She is either growing very far-sighted, or she was scouring the heavens with a field-glass that night--perhaps looking for comets." He rang his bell and gave a message to an usher who appeared. "I will not ask you to wait long," he said, and turned the conversation upon the weather and social prospects for the season. In a few minutes the door opened, and Sleeny was brought into the room by an officer. "Was this the man you saw, Mrs. Belding?" asked Dalton. "Not the slightest resemblance. This one is much taller, and entirely different in color." "That will do"; and Sleeny and the officer went out. "Now may I ask you to do a very disagreeable thing? To go with me to the Morgue and see the remains of what I am now sure is the real criminal?" Dalton asked. "Oh, mercy! I would rather not. Is it necessary?" "Not positively necessary, but it will enable me to dismiss the burglary case absolutely against young Sleeny." "Very well. I'll go. I am so glad," she said to herself, "that I did not bring Alice." They went in her carriage to the Morgue. Dalton said, "I want to make it as easy as I can for you. Please wait a moment in your carriage." He went in and arranged that the face of Offitt, which was horrible, should be turned away as much as possible; the head, and shoulders and back being left exposed, and the hat placed on the head. He then brought Mrs. Belding in. "That is the man," she said, promptly, "or at least some one exactly like him." "Thank you," he said, reconducting her to her carriage. "The first charge against Sleeny will be dismissed, though of course he must be held for this homicide." A few weeks later Sleeny was tried for the killing of Offitt, on which occasion most of the facts of this history were given in evidence. Mrs. Belding had at last to tell what she knew in open court, and she had an evil quarter of an hour in the hands of Mr. Dalton, who seemed always on the point of asking some question which would bring her opera-glass into the newspapers; but he never proceeded to that extremity, and she came away with a better opinion of the profession than she had ever before entertained. "I suppose leading germans humanizes even a lawyer somewhat," she observed, philosophically. Maud Matchin was, however, the most important witness for the defence. She went upon the stand troubled with no abstract principles in regard to the administration of justice. She wanted Sam Sleeny to be set free, and she testified with an eye single to that purpose. She was perhaps a trifle too zealous--even the attorney for the defence bit his lip occasionally at her dashing introduction of wholly irrelevant matter in Sleeny's favor. But she was throughout true to herself also, and never gave the least intimation that Offitt had any right to consider himself a favored suitor. Perhaps she had attained the talent, so common in more sophisticated circles than any with which she was familiar, of forgetting all entanglements which it is not convenient to remember, and of facing a discarded lover with a visage of insolent unconcern and a heart unstirred by a memory. The result of it all was, of course, that Sleeny was acquitted, though it came about in a way which may be worth recording. The jury found a verdict of "justifiable homicide," upon which the judge very properly sent them back to their room, as the verdict was flatly against the law and the evidence. They retired again, with stolid and unabashed patience, and soon reappeared with a verdict of acquittal, on the ground of "emotional insanity." But this remarkable jury determined to do nothing by halves, and fearing that the reputation of being queer might injure Sam in his business prospects, added to their verdict these thoughtful and considerate words, which yet remain on the record, to the lasting honor and glory of our system of trial by jury: "And we hereby state that the prisoner was perfectly sane up to the moment he committed the rash act in question, and perfectly sane the moment after, and that, in our opinion, there is no probability that the malady will ever recur." After this memorable deliverance, Sam shook hands cordially and gravely with each of the judicious jurymen, and then turned to where Maud was waiting for him, with a rosy and happy face and a sparkling eye. They walked slowly homeward together through the falling shadows. Their lives were henceforth bound together for good or evil. We may not say how much of good or how much of evil was to be expected from a wedlock between two natures so ill-regulated and untrained, where the woman brought into the partnership the wreck of ignoble ambitions and the man the memory of a crime. XX. "NOW DO YOU REMEMBER?" Farnham's convalescence was rapid. When the first danger of fever was over, the wound on the head healed quickly, and one morning Mrs. Belding came home with the news that he was to drive out that afternoon. Alice sat in the shade by the front porch for an hour, waiting to see him pass, and when at last his carriage appeared, she rose and waved her handkerchief by way of greeting and congratulation. He bowed as he went by, and Alice retired to her own room, where she used her handkerchief once more to dry her wet and happy eyes. It was not long after, that Farnham came to dine with them. They both looked forward to this dinner as an occasion of very considerable importance. Each felt that much depended upon the demeanor of the other. Each was conscientiously resolved to do and to say nothing which should pain or embarrass the other. Each was dying to fall into the other's arms, but each only succeeded in convincing the other of his or her entire indifference and friendship. As Farnham came in, Mrs. Belding went up to him with simple kindliness, kissed him, and made him sit down. "You dear boy," she said, "you do not know how glad I am to see you here once more." Alice looked on, almost jealous of her mother's privilege. Then she advanced with shy grace and took Arthur's hand, and asked: "Do you begin to feel quite strong again?" Farnham smiled, and answered, "Quite well, and the strength will soon come. The first symptom of returning vitality, Mrs. Belding, was my hostility to gruel and other phantom dishes. I have deliberately come to dinner to-day to dine." "I am delighted to hear of your appetite," said Mrs. Belding; "but I think you may bear a little watching at the table yet," she added, in a tone of kindly menace. She was as good as her word, and exercised rather a stricter discipline at dinner than was agreeable to the convalescent, regulating his meat and wine according to ladylike ideas, which are somewhat binding on carnivorous man. But she was so kindly about it, and Alice aided and abetted with such bashful prettiness, that Farnham felt he could endure starvation with such accessories. Yet he was not wholly at ease. He had hoped, in the long hours of his confinement, to find the lady of his love kinder in voice and manner than when he saw her last; and now, when she was sweeter and more tender than he had ever seen her before, the self-tormenting mind of the lover began to suggest that if she loved him she would not be so kind. He listened to the soft, caressing tones of her voice as she spoke to him, which seemed to convey a blessing in every syllable; he met the wide, clear beauty of her glance, so sweet and bright that his own eyes could hardly support it; he saw the ready smile that came to the full, delicate mouth whenever he spoke; and instead of being made happy by all this, he asked himself if it could mean anything except that she was sorry for him, and wanted to be very polite to him, as she could be nothing more. His heart sank within him at the thought; he became silent and constrained; and Alice wondered whether she had not gone too far in her resolute kindness. "Perhaps he has changed his mind," she thought, "and wishes me not to change mine." So these two people, whose hands and hearts were aching to come together, sat in the same drawing-room talking of commonplace things, while their spirits grew heavy as lead. Mrs. Belding was herself conscious of a certain constraint, and to dispel it asked Alice to sing, and Farnham adding his entreaties, she went to the piano, and said, as all girls say, "What shall I sing?" She looked toward Farnham, but the mother answered, "Sing 'Douglas'----" "Oh, no, Mamma, not that." "Why not? You were singing it last night. I like it better than any other of your songs." "I do not want to sing it to-night." Mrs. Belding persisted, until at last Alice said, with an odd expression of recklessness, "Oh, very well, if you must have it, I will sing it. But I hate these sentimental songs, that say so much and mean nothing." Striking the chords nervously she sang, with a voice at first tremulous but at last full of strong and deep feeling, that wail of hopeless love and sorrow: "Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true." There had been tears of vexation in her eyes when her mother had forced her to sing this song of all others; but after she had begun, the music took her own heart by storm, and she sang as she had never sung before--no longer fearing, but hoping that the cry of her heart might reach her lover and tell him of her love. Farnham listened in transport; he had never until now heard her sing, and her beautiful voice seemed to him to complete the circle of her loveliness. He was so entranced by the full rich volume of her voice, and by the rapt beauty of her face as she sang, that he did not at first think of the words; but the significance of them seized him at last, and the thought that she was singing these words to him ran like fire through his veins. For a moment he gave himself up to the delicious consciousness that their souls were floating together upon that tide of melody. As the song died away and closed with a few muffled chords, he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, and getting the prize which was waiting for him. But he suddenly bethought himself that she had sung the song unwillingly and had taken care to say that the words meant nothing. He rose and thanked her for the music, complimented her singing warmly, and bidding both ladies good night, went home, thrilled through and through with a deeper emotion than he had yet known, but painfully puzzled and perplexed. He sat for a long time in his library, trying to bring some order into his thoughts. He could not help feeling that his presence was an embarrassment and a care to Alice Belding. It was evident that she had a great friendship and regard for him, which he had troubled and disturbed by his ill-timed declaration. She could no longer be easy and natural with him; he ought not to stay to be an annoyance to her. It was also clear that he could not be himself in her presence; she exercised too powerful an influence upon him to make it possible that he could go in and out of the house as a mere friend of the family. He was thus driven to the thought which always lay so near to the surface with him, as with so many of his kind; he would exile himself for a year or two, and take himself out of her way. The thought gave him no content. He could not escape a keen pang of jealousy when he thought of leaving her in her beautiful youth to the society of men who were so clearly inferior to her. "I am inferior to her myself," he thought with genuine humility; "but I feel sure I can appreciate her better than any one else she will ever be likely to meet." By and by he became aware that something was perplexing him, which was floating somewhere below the surface of his consciousness. A thousand thoughts, more or less puzzling, had arisen and been disposed of during the hour that had elapsed since he left Mrs. Belding's. But still he began to be sure that there was one groping for recognition which as yet he had not recognized. The more ho dwelt upon it, the more it seemed to attach itself to the song Alice had sung, but he could not give it any definiteness. After he had gone to bed, this undefined impression of something significant attaching itself to the song besieged him, and worried him with tantalizing glimpses, until he went to sleep. But Farnham was not a dreamer, and the morning, if it brought little comfort, brought at least decision. He made up his mind while dressing that he would sail by an early steamer for Japan. He sent a telegram to San Francisco, as soon as he had breakfasted, to inquire about accommodations, and busied himself during the day with arranging odds and ends of his affairs. Coming and going was easy to him, as he rarely speculated and never touched anything involving anxious risks. But in the afternoon an irresistible longing impelled him to the house of his neighbor. "Why should I not allow myself this indulgence?" he thought. "It will be only civil to go over there and announce my departure. As all is over, I may at least take this last delight to my eyes and heart. And I want to hear that song again." All day the song had been haunting him, not on account of anything in itself, but because it vaguely reminded him of something else-- something of infinite importance, if he could only grasp it. It hung about him so persistently, this vague glimmer of suggestion, that he became annoyed, and said at last to himself, "It is time for me to be changing my climate, if a ballad can play like that on my nerves." He seized his hat and walked rapidly across the lawn, with the zest of air and motion natural to a strong man in convalescence. The pretty maidservant smiled and bowed him into the cool, dim drawing-room, where Alice was seated at the piano. She rose and said instinctively to the servant, "Tell mamma Captain Farnham is here," and immediately repented as she saw his brow darken a little. He sat down beside her, and said: "I come on a twofold errand. I want to say good-by to you, and I want you to sing 'Douglas' for me once more." "Why, where are you going?" she said, with a look of surprise and alarm. "To Japan." "But not at once, surely?" "The first steamer I can find." Alice tried to smile, but the attempt was a little woful. "It will be a delightful journey, I am sure," she faltered, "but I can't get used to the idea of it, all at once. It is the end of the world." "I want to get there before the end comes. At the present rate of progress there is not more than a year's purchase of bric-a-brac left in the empire. I must hurry over and get my share. What can I do for you?" he continued, seeing that she sat silent, twisting her white fingers together. "Shall I not bring you the loot of a temple or two? They say the priests have become very corruptible since our missionaries got there--the false religion tumbling all to pieces before the true." Still she made no answer, and the fixed smile on her face looked as if she hardly heard what he was saying. But he went on in the same light, bantering tone. "Shall I bring you back a Jinrickishaw?" "What in the world is that--but, no matter what it is--tell me, are you really going so soon?" If Farnham had not been the most modest of men, the tone in which this question was asked would have taught him that he need not exile himself. But he answered seriously: "Yes, I am really going." "But why?" The question came from unwilling lips, but it would have its way. The challenge was more than Farnham could endure. He spoke out with quick and passionate earnestness: "Must I tell you then? Do you not know? I am going because you send me." "Oh, no," she murmured, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes. "I am going because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you day by day, and know that you are not for me. You are too young and too good to understand what I feel. If I were a saint like you, perhaps I might rejoice in your beauty and your grace without any selfish wish--but I cannot. If you are not to be mine, I cannot enjoy your presence. Every charm you have is an added injury, if I am to be indifferent to you." Her hands flew up and covered her eyes. She was so happy that she feared he would see it and claim her too soon and too swiftly. He mistook the gesture, and went on in his error. "There! I have made you angry, or wounded you again. It would be so continually, if I should stay. I should be giving you offence every hour in the day. I cannot help loving you, any more than I can help breathing. This is nothing to you or worse than nothing, but it is all my life to me. I do not know how it will end. You have filled every thought of my mind, every vein of my body. I am more you than myself. How can I separate myself from you?" As he poured out these words, and much more, hot as a flood of molten metal, Alice slowly recovered her composure. She was absolutely and tranquilly happy--so perfectly at rest that she hardly cared for the pain her lover was confessing. She felt she could compensate him for everything, and every word he said filled her with a delight which she could not bear to lose by replying. She sat listening to him with half-shut eyes, determined not to answer until he had made an end of speaking. But she said to herself, with a tenderness which made her heart beat more than her lover's words, "How surprised he will be when I tell him he shall not go." The rustling of Mrs. Belding's ample approach broke in upon her trance and Farnham's litany. He rose, not without some confusion, to greet her, and Alice, with bright and even playful eyes, said, "Mamma, what do you think this errant young cavalier has come to say to us?" Mrs. Belding looked with puzzled inquiry from one to the other. "Simply," continued Alice, "that he is off for Japan in a day or two, and he wants to know if we have any commissions for him." "Nonsense! Arthur, I won't listen to it. Come over to dinner this evening and tell me all about it. I've got an appointment this very minute at our Oriental Gospel rooms and cannot wait to talk to you now. But this evening, you must tell me what it all means, and I hope you will have changed your mind by that time." The good lady did not even sit down, but rustled briskly away. Perhaps she divined more of what was toward than appeared--but she did as she would have wished to be done by, when she was young, and left the young people to their own devices. Farnham turned to Alice, who was still standing, and said, "Alice, my own love, can you not give me one word of hope to carry with me? I cannot forget you. My mind cannot change. Perhaps yours may, when the ocean is between us, and you have time to reflect on what I have said. I spoke too soon and too rashly. But I will make amends for that by long silence. Then perhaps you will forgive me--perhaps you will recall me. I will obey your call from the end of the world." He held out his hand to her. She gave him hers with a firm warm grasp. He might have taken courage from this, but her composure and her inscrutable smile daunted him. "You are not going yet," she said. "You have forgotten what you came for." "Yes--that song. I must hear it again. You must not think I am growing daft, but that song has haunted me all day in the strangest way. There is something in the way _you_ sing it--the words and your voice together--that recall some association too faint for me to grasp. I can neither remember what it is, nor forget it. I have tried to get it out of my mind, but I have an odd impression that I would better cherish it--that it is important to me--that life or death are not more important. There! I have confessed all my weakness to you, and now you will say that I need a few weeks of salt breeze." "I will sing you the song first. Perhaps we may pluck out its mystery." She preluded a moment and sang, while Farnham waited with a strained sense of expectancy, as if something unspeakably serious was impending. She sang with far more force and feeling than the night before. Her heart was full of her happy love, as yet unspoken, and her fancy was pleased with that thought that, under the safe cover of her music, she could declare her love without restraint. She sang with the innocent rapture of a mavis in spring, in notes as rich and ardent as her own maiden dreams. Farnham listened with a pleasure so keen that it bordered upon pain. When she came to the line, "I would be so tender, so loving, Douglas," he started and leaned forward in his chair, holding his hands to his temples, and cried, "Can't you help me to think what that reminds me of?" Alice rose from the piano, flushing a pink as sweet and delicate as that of the roses in her belt. She came forward a few paces and then stopped, bent slightly toward him, with folded hands. In her long, white, clinging drapery, with her gold hair making the dim room bright, with her red lips parted in a tender but solemn smile, with something like a halo about her of youth and purity and ardor, she was a sight so beautiful that Arthur Farnham as he gazed up at her felt his heart grow heavy with an aching consciousness of her perfection that seemed to remove her forever from his reach. But the thought that was setting her pulses to beating was as sweetly human as that of any bride since Eve. She was saying to herself in the instant she stood motionless before him, looking like a pictured angel, "I know now what he means. He loves me. I am sure of him. I have a right to give myself to him." She held out her hands. He sprang up and seized them. "Come," she said, "I know what you are trying to remember, and I will make you remember it." He was not greatly surprised, for love is a dream, and dreams have their own probabilities. She led him to a sofa and seated him beside her. She put her arms around his neck and pressed his head to her beating heart, and said in a voice as soft as a mother's to an ailing child, "My beloved, if you will live, I will be so good to you." She kissed him and said gently, "Now do you remember?" THE END. * * * * * * Harper's Popular 12mo series Cloth, Ornamental, 75 Cents Each With Frontispiece Portraits of Authors THE HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS. Illustrated. THE PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE-BOAT. By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS. Illustrated. THE WAR OF THE WORLDS. By H. G. WELLS. Illustrated. A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. By MARY E. WILKINS. PEMBROKE. By MARY E. WILKINS. THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS. By FRANK R. STOCKTON. LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. By MARK TWAIN. LORRAINE. By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. By W. D. HOWELLS. A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD. By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. THE DESCENDANT. By ELLEN GLASGOW. THE REFUGEES. By A. CONAN DOYLE. A TRANSPLANTED ROSE. By MRS. JOHN SHERWOOD. ROWENY IN BOSTON. By MARIA LOUISE POOL. A STRANGE MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A COPPER CYLINDER. By JAMES DE MILLE. Illustrated. THE RED AXE. By S. R. CROCKETT. Illustrated. PETER IBBETSON. By GEORGE DU MAURIER. Illustrated. THE PRINCESS ALINE. By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. Illustrated. JUPITER LIGHTS. By CONSTANCE FEINMORE WOOLSON. ANNE. By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. THE BREADWINNERS. ANONYMOUS. Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico on receipt of the price. 
3646	----	THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT By WINSTON CHURCHILL Volume 1. 1917 CHAPTER I In this modern industrial civilization of which we are sometimes wont to boast, a certain glacier-like process may be observed. The bewildered, the helpless--and there are many--are torn from the parent rock, crushed, rolled smooth, and left stranded in strange places. Thus was Edward Bumpus severed and rolled from the ancestral ledge, from the firm granite of seemingly stable and lasting things, into shifting shale; surrounded by fragments of cliffs from distant lands he had never seen. Thus, at five and fifty, he found himself gate-keeper of the leviathan Chippering Mill in the city of Hampton. That the polyglot, smoky settlement sprawling on both sides of an historic river should be a part of his native New England seemed at times to be a hideous dream; nor could he comprehend what had happened to him, and to the world of order and standards and religious sanctions into which he had been born. His had been a life of relinquishments. For a long time he had clung to the institution he had been taught to believe was the rock of ages, the Congregational Church, finally to abandon it; even that assuming a form fantastic and unreal, as embodied in the edifice three blocks distant from Fillmore Street which he had attended for a brief time, some ten years before, after his arrival in Hampton. The building, indeed, was symbolic of a decadent and bewildered Puritanism in its pathetic attempt to keep abreast with the age, to compromise with anarchy, merely achieving a nondescript medley of rounded, knob-like towers covered with mulberry-stained shingles. And the minister was sensational and dramatic. He looked like an actor, he aroused in Edward Bumpus an inherent prejudice that condemned the stage. Half a block from this tabernacle stood a Roman Catholic Church, prosperous, brazen, serene, flaunting an eternal permanence amidst the chaos which had succeeded permanence! There were, to be sure, other Protestant churches where Edward Bumpus and his wife might have gone. One in particular, which he passed on his way to the mill, with its terraced steeple and classic facade, preserved all the outward semblance of the old Order that once had seemed so enduring and secure. He hesitated to join the decorous and dwindling congregation,--the remains of a social stratum from which he had been pried loose; and--more irony--this street, called Warren, of arching elms and white-gabled houses, was now the abiding place of those prosperous Irish who had moved thither from the tenements and ruled the city. On just such a street in the once thriving New England village of Dolton had Edward been born. In Dolton Bumpus was once a name of names, rooted there since the seventeenth century, and if you had cared to listen he would have told you, in a dialect precise but colloquial, the history of a family that by right of priority and service should have been destined to inherit the land, but whose descendants were preserved to see it delivered to the alien. The God of Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards had been tried in the balance and found wanting. Edward could never understand this; or why the Universe, so long static and immutable, had suddenly begun to move. He had always been prudent, but in spite of youthful "advantages," of an education, so called, from a sectarian college on a hill, he had never been taught that, while prudence may prosper in a static world, it is a futile virtue in a dynamic one. Experience even had been powerless to impress this upon him. For more than twenty years after leaving college he had clung to a clerkship in a Dolton mercantile establishment before he felt justified in marrying Hannah, the daughter of Elmer Wench, when the mercantile establishment amalgamated with a rival--and Edward's services were no longer required. During the succession of precarious places with decreasing salaries he had subsequently held a terrified sense of economic pressure had gradually crept over him, presently growing strong enough, after two girls had arrived, to compel the abridgment of the family ....It would be painful to record in detail the cracking-off process, the slipping into shale, the rolling, the ending up in Hampton, where Edward had now for some dozen years been keeper of one of the gates in the frowning brick wall bordering the canal,--a position obtained for him by a compassionate but not too prudent childhood friend who had risen in life and knew the agent of the Chippering Mill, Mr. Claude Ditmar. Thus had virtue failed to hold its own. One might have thought in all these years he had sat within the gates staring at the brick row of the company's boarding houses on the opposite bank of the canal that reflection might have brought a certain degree of enlightenment. It was not so. The fog of Edward's bewilderment never cleared, and the unformed question was ever clamouring for an answer--how had it happened? Job's cry. How had it happened to an honest and virtuous man, the days of whose forebears had been long in the land which the Lord their God had given them? Inherently American, though lacking the saving quality of push that had been the making of men like Ditmar, he never ceased to regard with resentment and distrust the hordes of foreigners trooping between the pillars, though he refrained from expressing these sentiments in public; a bent, broad shouldered, silent man of that unmistakable physiognomy which, in the seventeenth century, almost wholly deserted the old England for the new. The ancestral features were there, the lips--covered by a grizzled moustache moulded for the precise formation that emphasizes such syllables as el, the hooked nose and sallow cheeks, the grizzled brows and grey eyes drawn down at the corners. But for all its ancestral strength of feature, it was a face from which will had been extracted, and lacked the fire and fanaticism, the indomitable hardness it should have proclaimed, and which have been so characteristically embodied in Mr. St. Gaudens's statue of the Puritan. His clothes were slightly shabby, but always neat. Little as one might have guessed it, however, what may be called a certain transmuted enthusiasm was alive in him. He had a hobby almost amounting to an obsession, not uncommon amongst Americans who have slipped downward in the social scale. It was the Bumpus Family in America. He collected documents about his ancestors and relations, he wrote letters with a fine, painful penmanship on a ruled block he bought at Hartshorne's drug store to distant Bumpuses in Kansas and Illinois and Michigan, common descendants of Ebenezer, the original immigrant, of Dolton. Many of these western kinsmen answered: not so the magisterial Bumpus who lived in Boston on the water side of Beacon, whom likewise he had ventured to address,--to the indignation and disgust of his elder daughter, Janet. "Why are you so proud of Ebenezer?" she demanded once, scornfully. "Why? Aren't we descended from him?" "How many generations?" "Seven," said Edward, promptly, emphasizing the last syllable. Janet was quick at figures. She made a mental calculation. "Well, you've got one hundred and twenty-seven other ancestors of Ebenezer's time, haven't you?" Edward was a little surprised. He had never thought of this, but his ardour for Ebenezer remained undampened. Genealogy--his own--had become his religion, and instead of going to church he spent his Sunday mornings poring over papers of various degrees of discolouration, making careful notes on the ruled block. This consciousness of his descent from good American stock that had somehow been deprived of its heritage, while a grievance to him, was also a comfort. It had a compensating side, in spite of the lack of sympathy of his daughters and his wife. Hannah Bumpus took the situation more grimly: she was a logical projection in a new environment of the religious fatalism of ancestors whose God was a God of vengeance. She did not concern herself as to what all this vengeance was about; life was a trap into which all mortals walked sooner or later, and her particular trap had a treadmill,--a round of household duties she kept whirling with an energy that might have made their fortunes if she had been the head of the family. It is bad to be a fatalist unless one has an incontrovertible belief in one's destiny,--which Hannah had not. But she kept the little flat with its worn furniture,--which had known so many journeys--as clean as a merchant ship of old Salem, and when it was scoured and dusted to her satisfaction she would sally forth to Bonnaccossi's grocery and provision store on the corner to do her bargaining in competition with the Italian housewives of the neighborhood. She was wont, indeed, to pause outside for a moment, her quick eye encompassing the coloured prints of red and yellow jellies cast in rounded moulds, decked with slices of orange, the gaudy boxes of cereals and buckwheat flour, the "Brookfield" eggs in packages. Significant, this modern package system, of an era of flats with little storage space. She took in at a glance the blue lettered placard announcing the current price of butterine, and walked around to the other side of the store, on Holmes Street, where the beef and bacon hung, where the sidewalk stands were filled, in the autumn, with cranberries, apples, cabbages, and spinach. With little outer complaint she had adapted herself to the constantly lowering levels to which her husband had dropped, and if she hoped that in Fillmore Street they had reached bottom, she did not say so. Her unbetrayed regret was for the loss of what she would have called "respectability"; and the giving up, long ago, in the little city which had been their home, of the servant girl had been the first wrench. Until they came to Hampton they had always lived in houses, and her adaptation to a flat had been hard--a flat without a parlour. Hannah Bumpus regarded a parlour as necessary to a respectable family as a wedding ring to a virtuous woman. Janet and Lise would be growing up, there would be young men, and no place to see them save the sidewalks. The fear that haunted her came true, and she never was reconciled. The two girls went to the public schools, and afterwards, inevitably, to work, and it seemed to be a part of her punishment for the sins of her forefathers that she had no more control over them than if they had been boarders; while she looked on helplessly, they did what they pleased; Janet, whom she never understood, was almost as much a source of apprehension as Lise, who became part and parcel of all Hannah deemed reprehensible in this new America which she refused to recognize and acknowledge as her own country. To send them through the public schools had been a struggle. Hannah used to lie awake nights wondering what would happen if Edward became sick. It worried her that they never saved any money: try as she would to cut the expenses down, there was a limit of decency; New England thrift, hitherto justly celebrated, was put to shame by that which the foreigners displayed, and which would have delighted the souls of gentlemen of the Manchester school. Every once in a while there rose up before her fabulous instances of this thrift, of Italians and Jews who, ignorant emigrants, had entered the mills only a few years before they, the Bumpuses, had come to Hampton, and were now independent property owners. Still rankling in Hannah's memory was a day when Lise had returned from school, dark and mutinous, with a tale of such a family. One of the younger children was a classmate. "They live on Jordan Street in a house, and Laura has roller skates. I don't see why I can't." This was one of the occasions on which Hannah had given vent to her indignation. Lise was fourteen. Her open rebellion was less annoying than Janet's silent reproach, but at least she had something to take hold of. "Well, Lise," she said, shifting the saucepan to another part of the stove, "I guess if your father and I had put both you girls in the mills and crowded into one room and cooked in a corner, and lived on onions and macaroni, and put four boarders each in the other rooms, I guess we could have had a house, too. We can start in right now, if you're willing." But Lise had only looked darker. "I don't see why father can't make money--other men do." "Isn't he working as hard as he can to send you to school, and give you a chance?" "I don't want that kind of a chance. There's Sadie Howard at school--she don't have to work. She liked me before she found out where I lived..." There was an element of selfishness in Hannah's mania for keeping busy, for doing all their housework and cooking herself. She could not bear to have her daughters interfere; perhaps she did not want to give herself time to think. Her affection for Edward, such as it was, her loyalty to him, was the logical result of a conviction ingrained in early youth that marriage was an indissoluble bond; a point of views once having a religious sanction, no less powerful now that--all unconsciously--it had deteriorated into a superstition. Hannah, being a fatalist, was not religious. The beliefs of other days, when she had donned her best dress and gone to church on Sundays, had simply lapsed and left--habits. No new beliefs had taken their place.... Even after Janet and Lise had gone to work the household never seemed to gain that margin of safety for which Hannah yearned. Always, when they were on the verge of putting something by, some untoward need or accident seemed to arise on purpose to swallow it up: Edward, for instance, had been forced to buy a new overcoat, the linoleum on the dining-room floor must be renewed, and Lise had had a spell of sickness, losing her position in a flower shop. Afterwards, when she became a saleslady in the Bagatelle, that flamboyant department store in Faber Street, she earned four dollars and a half a week. Two of these were supposed to go into the common fund, but there were clothes to buy; Lise loved finery, and Hannah had not every week the heart to insist. Even when, on an occasional Saturday night the girl somewhat consciously and defiantly flung down the money on the dining-room table she pretended not to notice it. But Janet, who was earning six dollars as a stenographer in the office of the Chippering Mill, regularly gave half of hers. The girls could have made more money as operatives, but strangely enough in the Bumpus family social hopes were not yet extinct. Sharply, rudely, the cold stillness of the winter mornings was broken by agitating waves of sound, penetrating the souls of sleepers. Janet would stir, her mind still lingering on some dream, soon to fade into the inexpressible, in which she had been near to the fulfilment of a heart's desire. Each morning, as the clamour grew louder, there was an interval of bewilderment, of revulsion, until the realization came of mill bells swinging in high cupolas above the river,--one rousing another. She could even distinguish the bells: the deep-toned, penetrating one belonged to the Patuxent Mill, over on the west side, while the Arundel had a high, ominous reverberation like a fire bell. When at last the clangings had ceased she would lie listening to the overtones throbbing in the air, high and low, high and low; lie shrinking, awaiting the second summons that never failed to terrify, the siren of the Chippering Mill,--to her the cry of an insistent, hungry monster demanding its daily food, the symbol of a stern, ugly, and unrelenting necessity. Beside her in the bed she could feel the soft body of her younger sister cuddling up to her in fright. In such rare moments as this her heart melted towards Lise, and she would fling a protecting arm about her. A sense of Lise's need of protection invaded her, a sharp conviction, like a pang, that Lise was destined to wander: Janet was never so conscious of the feeling as in this dark hour, though it came to her at other times, when they were not quarreling. Quarreling seemed to be the normal reaction between them. It was Janet, presently, who would get up, shivering, close the window, and light the gas, revealing the room which the two girls shared together. Against the middle of one wall was the bed, opposite this a travel-dented walnut bureau with a marble top, with an oval mirror into which were stuck numerous magazine portraits of the masculine and feminine talent adorning the American stage, a preponderance of the music hall variety. There were pictures of other artists whom the recondite would have recognized as "movie" stars, amazing yet veridic stories of whose wealth Lise read in the daily press: all possessed limousines--an infallible proof, to Lise, of the measure of artistic greatness. Between one of these movie millionaires and an ex-legitimate lady who now found vaudeville profitable was wedged the likeness of a popular idol whose connection with the footlights would doubtless be contingent upon a triumphant acquittal at the hands of a jury of her countrymen, and whose trial for murder, in Chicago, was chronicled daily in thousands of newspapers and followed by Lise with breathless interest and sympathy. She was wont to stare at this lady while dressing and exclaim:--"Say, I hope they put it all over that district attorney!" To such sentiments, though deeply felt by her sister, Janet remained cold, though she was, as will be seen, capable of enthusiasms. Lise was a truer daughter of her time and country in that she had the national contempt for law, was imbued with the American hero-worship of criminals that caused the bombardment of Cora Wellman's jail with candy, fruit and flowers and impassioned letters. Janet recalled there had been others before Mrs. Wellman, caught within the meshes of the law, who had incited in her sister a similar partisanship. It was Lise who had given the note of ornamentation to the bedroom. Against the cheap faded lilac and gold wall-paper were tacked photo-engravings that had taken the younger sister's fancy: a young man and woman, clad in scanty bathing suits, seated side by side in a careening sail boat,--the work of a popular illustrator whose manly and womanly "types" had become national ideals. There were other drawings, if not all by the same hand, at least by the same school; one, sketched in bold strokes, of a dinner party in a stately neo-classic dining-room, the table laden with flowers and silver, the bare-throated women with jewels. A more critical eye than Lise's, gazing upon this portrayal of the Valhalla of success, might have detected in the young men, immaculate in evening dress, a certain effort to feel at home, to converse naturally, which their square jaws and square shoulders belied. This was no doubt the fault of the artist's models, who had failed to live up to the part. At any rate, the sight of these young gods of leisure, the contemplation of the stolid butler and plush footmen in the background never failed to make Lise's heart beat faster. On the marble of the bureau amidst a litter of toilet articles, and bought by Lise for a quarter at the Bagatelle bargain counter, was an oval photograph frame from which the silver wash had begun to rub off, and the band of purple velvet inside the metal had whitened. The frame always contained the current object of Lise's affections, though the exhibits--as Janet said--were subject to change without notice. The Adonis who now reigned had black hair cut in the prevailing Hampton fashion, very long in front and hanging down over his eyes like a Scottish terrier's; very long behind, too, but ending suddenly, shaved in a careful curve at the neck and around the ears. It had almost the appearance of a Japanese wig. The manly beauty of Mr. Max Wylie was of the lantern-jawed order, and in his photograph he conveyed the astonished and pained air of one who has been suddenly seized by an invisible officer of the law from behind. This effect, one presently perceived, was due to the high, stiff collar, the "Torture Brand," Janet called it, when she and her sister were engaged in one of their frequent controversies about life in general: the obvious retort to this remark, which Lise never failed to make, was that Janet could boast of no beaux at all. It is only fair to add that the photograph scarcely did Mr. Wylie justice. In real life he did not wear the collar, he was free and easy in his manners, sure of his powers of conquest. As Lise observed, he had made a home-run with her at Slattery's Riverside Park. "Sadie Hartmann was sure sore when I tangoed off with him," she would observe reminiscently.... It was Lise's habit to slight her morning toilet, to linger until the last minute in bed, which she left in reluctant haste to stand before the bureau frantically combing out kinks of the brown hair falling over her shoulders before jamming it down across her forehead in the latest mode. Thus occupied, she revealed a certain petulant beauty. Like the majority of shop-girls, she was small, but her figure was good, her skin white; her discontented mouth gave her the touch of piquancy apt to play havoc with the work of the world. In winter breakfast was eaten by the light of a rococo metal lamp set in the centre of the table. This was to save gas. There was usually a rump steak and potatoes, bread and "creamery" butterine, and the inevitable New England doughnuts. At six thirty the whistles screeched again,--a warning note, the signal for Edward's departure; and presently, after a brief respite, the heavy bells once more began their clamour, not to die down until ten minutes of seven, when the last of the stragglers had hurried through the mill gates. The Bumpus flat included the second floor of a small wooden house whose owner had once been evilly inspired to paint it a livid clay-yellow--as though insisting that ugliness were an essential attribute of domesticity. A bay ran up the two stories, and at the left were two narrow doorways, one for each flat. On the right the house was separated from its neighbour by a narrow interval, giving but a precarious light to the two middle rooms, the diningroom and kitchen. The very unattractiveness of such a home, however, had certain compensations for Janet, after the effort of early rising had been surmounted, felt a real relief in leaving it; a relief, too, in leaving Fillmore Street, every feature of which was indelibly fixed in her mind, opposite was the blind brick face of a warehouse, and next to that the converted dwelling house that held the shop of A. Bauer, with the familiar replica of a green ten-cent trading stamp painted above it and the somewhat ironical announcement--when boar frost whitened the pavement--that ice-cold soda was to be had within, as well as cigars and tobacco, fruit and candy. Then came a tenement, under which two enterprising Greeks by the name of Pappas--spelled Papas lower down--conducted a business called "The Gentleman," a tailoring, pressing, and dyeing establishment. Janet could see the brilliantined black heads of the two proprietors bending over their boards, and sometimes they would be lifted to smile at her as she passed. The Pappas Brothers were evidently as happy in this drab environment as they had ever been on the sunny mountain slopes of Hellas, and Janet sometimes wondered at this, for she had gathered from her education in the Charming public school that Greece was beautiful. She was one of the unfortunate who love beauty, who are condemned to dwell in exile, unacquainted with what they love. Desire was incandescent within her breast. Desire for what? It would have been some relief to know. She could not, like Lise, find joy and forgetfulness at dance halls, at the "movies," at Slattery's Riverside Park in summer, in "joy rides" with the Max Wylies of Hampton. And beside, the Max Wylies were afraid of her. If at times she wished for wealth, it was because wealth held the magic of emancipation from surroundings against which her soul revolted. Vividly idealized but unconfided was the memory of a seaside village, the scene of one of the brief sojourns of her childhood, where the air was fragrant with the breath of salt marshes, where she recalled, through the vines of a porch, a shining glimpse of the sea at the end of a little street.... Next to Pappas Brothers was the grey wooden building of Mule Spinners' Hall, that elite organization of skilled labour, and underneath it the store of Johnny Tiernan, its windows piled up with stoves and stovepipes, sheet iron and cooking utensils. Mr. Tiernan, like the Greeks, was happy, too: unlike the Greeks, he never appeared to be busy, and yet he throve. He was very proud of the business in which he had invested his savings, but he seemed to have other affairs lying blithely on his mind, affairs of moment to the community, as the frequent presence of the huge policemen, aldermen, and other important looking persons bore witness. He hailed by name Italians, Greeks, Belgians, Syrians, and "French"; he hailed Janet, too, with respectful cheerfulness, taking off his hat. He possessed the rare, warm vitality that is irresistible. A native of Hampton, still in his thirties, his sharp little nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed the wisdom that is born and not made; his stiff hair had a twist like the bristles in the cleaning rod of a gun. He gave Janet the odd impression that he understood her. And she did not understand herself! By the time she reached the Common the winter sun, as though red from exertion, had begun to dispel the smoke and heavy morning mists. She disliked winter, the lumpy brown turf mildewed by the frost, but one day she was moved by a quality, hitherto unsuspected, in the delicate tracery against the sky made by the slender branches of the great elms and maples. She halted on the pavement, her eyes raised, heedless of passers-by, feeling within her a throb of the longing that could be so oddly and unexpectedly aroused. Her way lay along Faber Street, the main artery of Hampton, a wide strip of asphalt threaded with car tracks, lined on both sides with incongruous edifices indicative of a rapid, undiscriminating, and artless prosperity. There were long stretches of "ten foot" buildings, so called on account of the single story, their height deceptively enhanced by the superimposition of huge and gaudy signs, one on top of another, announcing the merits of "Stewart's Amberine Ale," of "Cooley's Oats, the Digestible Breakfast Food," of graphophones and "spring heeled" shoes, tobacco, and naphtha soaps. "No, We don't give Trading Stamps, Our Products are Worth all You Pay." These "ten foot" stores were the repositories of pianos, automobiles, hardware, and millinery, and interspersed amongst them were buildings of various heights; The Bagatelle, where Lise worked, the Wilmot Hotel, office buildings, and an occasional relic of old Hampton, like that housing the Banner. Here, during those months when the sun made the asphalt soft, on a scaffolding spanning the window of the store, might be seen a perspiring young man in his shirt sleeves chalking up baseball scores for the benefit of a crowd below. Then came the funereal, liver-coloured, long-windowed Hinckley Block (1872), and on the corner a modern, glorified drugstore thrusting forth plate glass bays--two on Faber Street and three on Stanley--filled with cameras and candy, hot water bags, throat sprays, catarrh and kidney cures, calendars, fountain pens, stationery, and handy alcohol lamps. Flanking the sidewalks, symbolizing and completing the heterogeneous and bewildering effect of the street were long rows of heavy hemlock trunks, unpainted and stripped of bark, with crosstrees bearing webs of wires. Trolley cars rattled along, banging their gongs, trucks rumbled across the tracks, automobiles uttered frenzied screeches behind startled pedestrians. Janet was always galvanized into alertness here, Faber Street being no place to dream. By night an endless procession moved up one sidewalk and down another, staring hypnotically at the flash-in and flash-out electric, signs that kept the breakfast foods and ales, the safety razors, soaps, and soups incessantly in the minds of a fickle public. Two blocks from Faber Street was the North Canal, with a granite-paved roadway between it and the monotonous row of company boarding houses. Even in bright weather Janet felt a sense of oppression here; on dark, misty mornings the stern, huge battlements of the mills lining the farther bank were menacing indeed, bristling with projections, towers, and chimneys, flanked by heavy walls. Had her experience included Europe, her imagination might have seized the medieval parallel,--the arched bridges flung at intervals across the water, lacking only chains to raise them in case of siege. The place was always ominously suggestive of impending strife. Janet's soul was a sensitive instrument, but she suffered from an inability to find parallels, and thus to translate her impressions intellectually. Her feeling about the mills was that they were at once fortress and prison, and she a slave driven thither day after day by an all-compelling power; as much a slave as those who trooped in through the gates in the winter dawn, and wore down, four times a day, the oak treads of the circular tower stairs. The sound of the looms was like heavy rain hissing on the waters of the canal. The administrative offices of a giant mill such as the Chippering in Hampton are labyrinthine. Janet did not enter by the great gates her father kept, but walked through an open courtyard into a vestibule where, day and night, a watchman stood; she climbed iron-shod stairs, passed the doorway leading to the paymaster's suite, to catch a glimpse, behind the grill, of numerous young men settling down at those mysterious and complicated machines that kept so unerring a record, in dollars and cents, of the human labour of the operatives. There were other suites for the superintendents, for the purchasing agent; and at the end of the corridor, on the south side of the mill, she entered the outer of the two rooms reserved for Mr. Claude Ditmar, the Agent and general-in-chief himself of this vast establishment. In this outer office, behind the rail that ran the length of it, Janet worked; from the window where her typewriter stood was a sheer drop of eighty feet or so to the river, which ran here swiftly through a wide canon whose sides were formed by miles and miles of mills, built on buttressed stone walls to retain the banks. The prison-like buildings on the farther shore were also of colossal size, casting their shadows far out into the waters; while in the distance, up and down the stream, could be seen the delicate web of the Stanley and Warren Street bridges, with trolley cars like toys gliding over them, with insect pedestrians creeping along the footpaths. Mr. Ditmar's immediate staff consisted of Mr. Price, an elderly bachelor of tried efficiency whose peculiar genius lay in computation, of a young Mr. Caldwell who, during the four years since he had left Harvard, had been learning the textile industry, of Miss Ottway, and Janet. Miss Ottway was the agent's private stenographer, a strongly built, capable woman with immense reserves seemingly inexhaustible. She had a deep, masculine voice, not unmusical, the hint of a masculine moustache, a masculine manner of taking to any job that came to hand. Nerves were things unknown to her: she was granite, Janet tempered steel. Janet was the second stenographer, and performed, besides, any odd tasks that might be assigned. There were, in the various offices of the superintendents, the paymaster and purchasing agent, other young women stenographers whose companionship Janet, had she been differently organized, might have found congenial, but something in her refused to dissolve to their proffered friendship. She had but one friend,--if Eda Rawle, who worked in a bank, and whom she had met at a lunch counter by accident, may be called so. As has been admirably said in another language, one kisses, the other offers a cheek: Janet offered the cheek. All unconsciously she sought a relationship rarely to be found in banks and business offices; would yield herself to none other. The young women stenographers in the Chippering Mill, respectable, industrious girls, were attracted by a certain indefinable quality, but finding they made no progress in their advances, presently desisted they were somewhat afraid of her; as one of them remarked, "You always knew she was there." Miss Lottie Meyers, who worked in the office of Mr. Orcutt, the superintendent across the hall, experienced a brief infatuation that turned to hate. She chewed gum incessantly, Janet found her cheap perfume insupportable; Miss Meyers, for her part, declared that Janet was "queer" and "stuck up," thought herself better than the rest of them. Lottie Meyers was the leader of a group of four or five which gathered in the hallway at the end of the noon hour to enter animatedly into a discussion of waists, hats, and lingerie, to ogle and exchange persiflages with the young men of the paymaster's corps, to giggle, to relate, sotto voce, certain stories that ended invariably in hysterical laughter. Janet detested these conversations. And the sex question, subtly suggested if not openly dealt with, to her was a mystery over which she did not dare to ponder, terrible, yet too sacred to be degraded. Her feelings, concealed under an exterior of self-possession, deceptive to the casual observer, sometimes became molten, and she was frightened by a passion that made her tremble--a passion by no means always consciously identified with men, embodying all the fierce unexpressed and unsatisfied desires of her life. These emotions, often suggested by some hint of beauty, as of the sun glinting on the river on a bright blue day, had a sudden way of possessing her, and the longing they induced was pain. Longing for what? For some unimagined existence where beauty dwelt, and light, where the ecstasy induced by these was neither moiled nor degraded; where shame, as now, might not assail her. Why should she feel her body hot with shame, her cheeks afire? At such moments she would turn to the typewriter, her fingers striking the keys with amazing rapidity, with extraordinary accuracy and force,--force vaguely disturbing to Mr. Claude Ditmar as he entered the office one morning and involuntarily paused to watch her. She was unaware of his gaze, but her colour was like a crimson signal that flashed to him and was gone. Why had he never noticed her before? All these months, for more than a year, perhaps,--she had been in his office, and he had not so much as looked at her twice. The unguessed answer was that he had never surprised her in a vivid moment. He had a flair for women, though he had never encountered any possessing the higher values, and it was characteristic of the plane of his mental processes that this one should remind him now of a dark, lithe panther, tensely strung, capable of fierceness. The pain of having her scratch him would be delectable. When he measured her it was to discover that she was not so little, and the shoulder-curve of her uplifted arms, as her fingers played over the keys, seemed to belie that apparent slimness. And had he not been unacquainted with the subtleties of the French mind and language, he might have classed her as a fausse maigre. Her head was small, her hair like a dark, blurred shadow clinging round it. He wanted to examine her hair, to see whether it would not betray, at closer range, an imperceptible wave,--but not daring to linger he went into his office, closed the door, and sat down with a sensation akin to weakness, somewhat appalled by his discovery, considerably amazed at his previous stupidity. He had thought of Janet--when she had entered his mind at all--as unobtrusive, demure; now he recognized this demureness as repression. Her qualities needed illumination, and he, Claude Ditmar, had seen them struck with fire. He wondered whether any other man had been as fortunate. Later in the morning, quite casually, he made inquiries of Miss Ottway, who liked Janet and was willing to do her a good turn. "Why, she's a clever girl, Mr. Ditmar, a good stenographer, and conscientious in her work. She's very quick, too. "Yes, I've noticed that," Ditmar replied, who was quite willing to have it thought that his inquiry was concerned with Janet's aptitude for business. "She keeps to herself and minds her own affairs. You can see she comes of good stock." Miss Ottway herself was proud of her New England blood. "Her father, you know, is the gatekeeper down there. He's been unfortunate." "You don't say--I didn't connect her with him. Fine looking old man. A friend of mine who recommended him told me he'd seen better days ...." CHAPTER II In spite of the surprising discovery in his office of a young woman of such a disquieting, galvanic quality, it must not be supposed that Mr. Claude Ditmar intended to infringe upon a fixed principle. He had principles. For him, as for the patriarchs and householders of Israel, the seventh commandment was only relative, yet hitherto he had held rigidly to that relativity, laying down the sound doctrine that women and business would not mix: or, as he put it to his intimates, no sensible man would fool with a girl in his office. Hence it may be implied that Mr. Ditmar's experiences with the opposite sex had been on a property basis. He was one of those busy and successful persons who had never appreciated or acquired the art of quasi-platonic amenities, whose idea of a good time was limited to discreet excursions with cronies, likewise busy and successful persons who, by reason of having married early and unwisely, are strangers to the delights of that higher social intercourse chronicled in novels and the public prints. If one may conveniently overlook the joys of a companionship of the soul, it is quite as possible to have a taste in women as in champagne or cigars. Mr. Ditmar preferred blondes, and he liked them rather stout, a predilection that had led him into matrimony with a lady of this description: a somewhat sticky, candy-eating lady with a mania for card parties, who undoubtedly would have dyed her hair if she had lived. He was not inconsolable, but he had had enough of marriage to learn that it demands a somewhat exorbitant price for joys otherwise more reasonably to be obtained. He was left a widower with two children, a girl of thirteen and a boy of twelve, both somewhat large for their ages. Amy attended the only private institution for the instruction of her sex of which Hampton could boast; George continued at a public school. The late Mrs. Ditmar for some years before her demise had begun to give evidence of certain restless aspirations to which American ladies of her type and situation seem peculiarly liable, and with a view to their ultimate realization she had inaugurated a Jericho-like campaign. Death had released Ditmar from its increasing pressure. For his wife had possessed that admirable substitute for character, persistence, had been expert in the use of importunity, often an efficient weapon in the hands of the female economically dependent. The daughter of a defunct cashier of the Hampton National Bank, when she had married Ditmar, then one of the superintendents of the Chippering and already a marked man, she had deemed herself fortunate among women, looking forward to a life of ease and idleness and candy in great abundance,--a dream temporarily shattered by the unforeseen discomfort of bringing two children into the world, with an interval of scarcely a year between them. Her parents from an excess of native modesty having failed to enlighten her on this subject, her feelings were those of outraged astonishment, and she was quite determined not to repeat the experience a third time. Knowledge thus belatedly acquired, for a while she abandoned herself to the satisfaction afforded by the ability to take a commanding position in Hampton society, gradually to become aware of the need of a more commodious residence. In a certain kind of intuition she was rich. Her husband had meanwhile become Agent of the Chippering Mill, and she strongly suspected that his prudent reticence on the state of his finances was the best indication of an increasing prosperity. He had indeed made money, been given many opportunities for profitable investments; but the argument for social pre-eminence did not appeal to him: tears and reproaches, recriminations, when frequently applied, succeeded better; like many married men, what he most desired was to be let alone; but in some unaccountable way she had come to suspect that his preference for blondes was of a more liberal nature than at first, in her innocence, she had realized. She was jealous, too, of his cronies, in spite of the fact that these gentlemen, when they met her, treated her with an elaborate politeness; and she accused him with entire justice of being more intimate with them than with her, with whom he was united in holy bonds. The inevitable result of these tactics was the modern mansion in the upper part of Warren Street, known as the "residential" district. Built on a wide lot, with a garage on one side to the rear, with a cement driveway divided into squares, and a wall of democratic height separating its lawn from the sidewalk, the house may for the present be better imagined than described. A pious chronicler of a more orthodox age would doubtless have deemed it a judgment that Cora Ditmar survived but two years to enjoy the glories of the Warren Street house. For a while her husband indulged in a foolish optimism, only to learn that the habit of matrimonial blackmail, once acquired, is not easily shed. Scarcely had he settled down to the belief that by the gratification of her supreme desire he had achieved comparative peace, than he began to suspect her native self-confidence of cherishing visions of a career contemplating nothing less than the eventual abandonment of Hampton itself as a field too limited for her social talents and his business ability and bank account--at which she was pleased to hint. Hampton suited Ditmar, his passion was the Chippering Mill; and he was in process of steeling himself to resist, whatever the costs, this preposterous plan when he was mercifully released by death. Her intention of sending the children away to acquire a culture and finish Hampton did not afford,--George to Silliston Academy, Amy to a fashionable boarding school,--he had not opposed, yet he did not take the idea with sufficient seriousness to carry it out. The children remained at home, more or less--increasingly less--in the charge of an elderly woman who acted as housekeeper. Ditmar had miraculously regained his freedom. And now, when he made trips to New York and Boston, combining business with pleasure, there were no questions asked, no troublesome fictions to be composed. More frequently he was in Boston, where he belonged to a large and comfortable club, not too exacting in regard to membership, and here he met his cronies and sometimes planned excursions with them, automobile trips in summer to the White Mountains or choice little resorts to spend Sundays and holidays, generally taking with them a case of champagne and several bags of golf sticks. He was fond of shooting, and belonged to a duck club on the Cape, where poker and bridge were not tabooed. To his intimates he was known as "Dit." Nor is it surprising that his attitude toward women had become in general one of resentment; matrimony he now regarded as unmitigated folly. At five and forty he was a vital, dominating, dust-coloured man six feet and half an inch in height, weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and thus a trifle fleshy. When relaxed, and in congenial company, he looked rather boyish, an aspect characteristic of many American business men of to-day. His head was large, he wore his hair short, his features also proclaimed him as belonging to a modern American type in that they were not clear-cut, but rather indefinable; a bristling, short-cropped moustache gave him a certain efficient, military look which, when introduced to strangers as "Colonel," was apt to deceive them into thinking him an army officer. The title he had once received as a member of the staff of the governor of the state, and was a tribute to a gregariousness and political influence rather than to a genius for the art of war. Ex officio, as the agent of the Chippering Mill and a man of substance to boot, he was "in" politics, hail fellow well met with and an individual to be taken into account by politicians from the governor and member of congress down. He was efficient, of course; he had efficient hands and shrewd, efficient eyes, and the military impression was deepened by his manner of dealing with people, his conversation being yea, yea and nay, nay,--save with his cronies and those of the other sex from whom he had something to gain. His clothes always looked new, of pronounced patterns and light colours set aside for him by an obsequious tailor in Boston. If a human being in such an enviable position as that of agent of the Chippering Mill can be regarded as property, it might be said that Mr. Claude Ditmar belonged to the Chipperings of Boston, a family still owning a controlling interest in the company. His loyalty to them and to the mill he so ably conducted was the great loyalty of his life. For Ditmar, a Chippering could do no wrong. It had been the keen eye of Mr. Stephen Chippering that first had marked him, questioned him, recognized his ability, and from the moment of that encounter his advance had been rapid. When old Stephen had been called to his fathers, Ditmar's allegiance was automatically, as it were, transferred to the two sons, George and Worthington, already members of the board of directors. Sometimes Ditmar called on them at their homes, which stood overlooking the waters of the Charles River Basin. The attitude toward him of the Chipperings and their wives was one of an interesting adjustment of feudalism to democracy. They were fond of him, grateful to him, treating him with a frank camaraderie that had in it not the slightest touch of condescension, but Ditmar would have been the first to recognize that there were limits to the intimacy. They did not, for instance--no doubt out of consideration--invite him to their dinner parties or take him to their club, which was not the same as that to which he himself belonged. He felt no animus. Nor would he, surprising though it may seem, have changed places with the Chipperings. At an early age, and quite unconsciously, he had accepted property as the ruling power of the universe, and when family was added thereto the combination was nothing less than divine. There were times, especially during the long winters, when life became almost unbearable for Janet, and she was seized by a desire to run away from Fillmore Street, from the mills, from Hampton itself. Only she did not know where to go, or how to get away. She was convinced of the existence in the world of delightful spots where might be found congenial people with whom it would be a joy to talk. Fillmore Street, certainly, did not contain any such. The office was not so bad. It is true that in the mornings, as she entered West Street, the sight of the dark facade of the fortress-like structure, emblematic of the captivity in which she passed her days, rarely failed to arouse in her sensations of oppression and revolt; but here, at least, she discovered an outlet for her energies; she was often too busy to reflect, and at odd moments she could find a certain solace and companionship in the river, so intent, so purposeful, so beautiful, so undisturbed by the inconcinnity, the clatter and confusion of Hampton as it flowed serenely under the bridges and between the mills toward the sea. Toward the sea! It was when, at night, she went back to Fillmore Street--when she thought of the monotony, yes, and the sordidness of home, when she let herself in at the door and climbed the dark and narrow stairway, that her feet grew leaden. In spite of the fact that Hannah was a good housekeeper and prided herself on cleanliness, the tiny flat reeked with the smell of cooking, and Janet, from the upper hall, had a glimpse of a thin, angular woman with a scrawny neck, with scant grey hair tightly drawn into a knot, in a gingham apron covering an old dress bending over the kitchen stove. And occasionally, despite a resentment that fate should have dealt thus inconsiderately with the family, Janet felt pity welling within her. After supper, when Lise had departed with her best young man, Hannah would occasionally, though grudgingly, permit Janet to help her with the dishes. "You work all day, you have a right to rest." "But I don't want to rest," Janet would declare, and rub the dishes the harder. With the spirit underlying this protest, Hannah sympathized. Mother and daughter were alike in that both were inarticulate, but Janet had a secret contempt for Hannah's uncomplaining stoicism. She loved her mother, in a way, especially at certain times,--though she often wondered why she was unable to realize more fully the filial affection of tradition; but in moments of softening, such as these, she was filled with rage at the thought of any woman endowed with energy permitting herself to be overtaken and overwhelmed by such a fate as Hannah's: divorce, desertion, anything, she thought, would have been better--anything but to be cheated out of life. Feeling the fires of rebellion burning hotly within her,--rebellion against environment and driving necessity she would glance at her mother and ask herself whether it were possible that Hannah had ever known longings, had ever been wrung by inexpressible desires,--desires in which the undiscovered spiritual was so alarmingly compounded with the undiscovered physical. She would have died rather than speak to Hannah of these unfulfilled experiences, and the mere thought of confiding them to any person appalled her. Even if there existed some wonderful, understanding being to whom she might be able thus to empty her soul, the thought of the ecstasy of that kenosis was too troubling to be dwelt upon. She had tried reading, with unfortunate results,--perhaps because no Virgil had as yet appeared to guide her through the mysteries of that realm. Her schooling had failed to instil into her a discriminating taste for literature; and when, on occasions, she had entered the Public Library opposite the Common it had been to stare hopelessly at rows of books whose authors and titles offered no clue to their contents. Her few choices had not been happy, they had failed to interest and thrill... Of the Bumpus family Lise alone found refuge, distraction, and excitement in the vulgar modern world by which they were surrounded, and of whose heedlessness and remorselessness they were the victims. Lise went out into it, became a part of it, returning only to sleep and eat,--a tendency Hannah found unaccountable, and against which even her stoicism was not wholly proof. Scarce an evening went by without an expression of uneasiness from Hannah. "She didn't happen to mention where she was going, did she, Janet?" Hannah would query, when she had finished her work and put on her spectacles to read the Banner. "To the movies, I suppose," Janet would reply. Although well aware that her sister indulged in other distractions, she thought it useless to add to Hannah's disquietude. And if she had little patience with Lise, she had less with the helpless attitude of her parents. "Well," Hannah would add, "I never can get used to her going out nights the way she does, and with young men and women I don't know anything about. I wasn't brought up that way. But as long as she's got to work for a living I guess there's no help for it." And she would glance at Edward. It was obviously due to his inability adequately to cope with modern conditions that his daughters were forced to toil, but this was the nearest she ever came to reproaching him. If he heard, he acquiesced humbly, and in silence: more often than not he was oblivious, buried in the mazes of the Bumpus family history, his papers spread out on the red cloth of the dining-room table, under the lamp. Sometimes in his simplicity and with the enthusiasm that demands listeners he would read aloud to them a letter, recently received from a distant kinsman, an Alpheus Bumpus, let us say, who had migrated to California in search of wealth and fame, and who had found neither. In spite of age and misfortunes, the liberal attitude of these western members of the family was always a matter of perplexity to Edward. "He tells me they're going to give women the ballot,--doesn't appear to be much concerned about his own womenfolks going to the polls." "Why shouldn't they, if they want to?" Janet would exclaim, though she had given little thought to the question. Edward would mildly ignore this challenge. "He has a house on what they call Russian Hill, and he can watch the vessels as they come in from Japan," he would continue in his precise voice, emphasizing admirably the last syllables of the words "Russian," "vessels," and "Japan." "Wouldn't you like to see the letter?" To do Hannah justice, although she was quite incapable of sharing his passion, she frequently feigned an interest, took the letter, presently handing it on to Janet who, in deciphering Alpheus's trembling calligraphy, pondered over his manifold woes. Alpheus's son, who had had a good position in a sporting goods establishment on Market Street, was sick and in danger of losing it, the son's wife expecting an addition to the family, the house on Russian Hill mortgaged. Alpheus, a veteran of the Civil War, had been for many years preparing his reminiscences, but the newspapers nowadays seemed to care nothing for matters of solid worth, and so far had refused to publish them.... Janet, as she read, reflected that these letters invariably had to relate tales of failures, of disappointed hopes; she wondered at her father's perennial interest in failures,--provided they were those of his family; and the next evening, as he wrote painfully on his ruled paper, she knew that he in turn was pouring out his soul to Alpheus, recounting, with an emotion by no means unpleasurable, to this sympathetic but remote relative the story of his own failure! If the city of Hampton was emblematic of our modern world in which haphazardness has replaced order, Fillmore Street may be likened to a back eddy of the muddy and troubled waters, in which all sorts of flotsam and jetsam had collected. Or, to find perhaps an even more striking illustration of the process that made Hampton in general and Fillmore Street in particular, one had only to take the trolley to Glendale, the Italian settlement on the road leading to the old New England village of Shrewsbury. Janet sometimes walked there, alone or with her friend Eda Rawle. Disintegration itself--in a paradoxically pathetic attempt at reconstruction--had built Glendale. Human hands, Italian hands. Nor, surprising though it may seem, were these descendants of the people of the Renaissance in the least offended by their handiwork. When the southern European migration had begun and real estate became valuable, one by one the more decorous edifices of the old American order had been torn down and carried piecemeal by sons of Italy to the bare hills of Glendale, there to enter into new combinations representing, to an eye craving harmony, the last word of a chaos, of a mental indigestion, of a colour scheme crying aloud to heaven for retribution. Standing alone and bare amidst its truck gardens, hideous, extreme, though typical of the entire settlement, composed of fragments ripped from once-appropriate settings, is a house with a tiny body painted strawberry-red, with scroll-work shutters a tender green; surmounting the structure and almost equalling it in size is a sky-blue cupola, once the white crown of the Sutter mansion, the pride of old Hampton. The walls of this dwelling were wrested from the sides of Mackey's Tavern, while the shutters for many years adorned the parsonage of the old First Church. Similarly, in Hampton and in Fillmore Street, lived in enforced neighbourliness human fragments once having their places in crystallized communities where existence had been regarded as solved. Here there was but one order,--if such it may be called,--one relationship, direct, or indirect, one necessity claiming them all--the mills. Like the boards forming the walls of the shacks at Glendale, these human planks torn from an earlier social structure were likewise warped, which is to say they were dominated by obsessions. Edward's was the Bumpus family; and Chris Auermann, who lived in the flat below, was convinced that the history of mankind is a deplorable record of havoc caused by women. Perhaps he was right, but the conviction was none the less an obsession. He came from a little village near Wittenburg that has scarcely changed since Luther's time. Like most residents of Hampton who did not work in the mills, he ministered to those who did, or to those who sold merchandise to the workers, cutting their hair in his barber shop on Faber Street. The Bumpuses, save Lise, clinging to a native individualism and pride, preferred isolation to companionship with the other pieces of driftwood by which they were surrounded, and with which the summer season compelled a certain enforced contact. When the heat in the little dining-room grew unbearable, they were driven to take refuge on the front steps shared in common with the household of the barber. It is true that the barber's wife was a mild hausfrau who had little to say, and that their lodgers, two young Germans who worked in the mills, spent most of their evenings at a bowling club; but Auermann himself, exhaling a strong odour of bay rum, would arrive promptly at quarter past eight, take off his coat, and thus, as it were stripped for action, would turn upon the defenceless Edward. "Vill you mention one great man--yoost one--who is not greater if the vimmen leave him alone?" he would demand. "Is it Anthony, the conqueror of Egypt and the East? I vill show you Cleopatra. Und Burns, and Napoleon, the greatest man what ever lived--vimmen again. I tell you there is no Elba, no St. Helena if it is not for the vimmen. Und vat vill you say of Goethe?" Poor Edward could think of nothing to say of Goethe. "He is great, I grant you," Chris would admit, "but vat is he if the vimmen leave him alone? Divine yoost that." And he would proceed to cite endless examples of generals and statesmen whose wives or mistresses had been their bane. Futile Edward's attempts to shift the conversation to the subject of his own obsession; the German was by far the more aggressive, he would have none of it. Perhaps if Edward had been willing to concede that the Bumpuses had been brought to their present lowly estate by the sinister agency of the fair sex Chris might conditionally have accepted the theme. Hannah, contemptuously waving a tattered palm leaf fan, was silent; but on one occasion Janet took away the barber's breath by suddenly observing:--"You never seem to think of the women whose lives are ruined by men, Mr. Auermann." It was unheard-of, this invasion of a man's argument by a woman, and by a young woman at that. He glared at her through his spectacles, took them off, wiped them, replaced them, and glared at her again. He did not like Janet; she was capable of what may be called a speaking silence, and he had never been wholly unaware of her disapproval and ridicule. Perhaps he recognized in her, instinctively, the potential qualities of that emerging modern woman who to him was anathema. "It is somethings I don't think about," he said. He was a wizened little man with faience-blue eyes, and sat habitually hunched up with his hands folded across his shins. "Nam fuit ante Helenam"--as Darwin quotes. Toward all the masculine residents of Fillmore Street, save one, the barber's attitude was one of unconcealed scorn for an inability to recognize female perfidy. With Johnny Tiernan alone he refused to enter the lists. When the popular proprietor of the tin shop came sauntering along the sidewalk with nose uptilted, waving genial greetings to the various groups on the steps, Chris Auermann's expression would suddenly change to one of fatuous playfulness. "What's this I hear about giving the girls the vote, Chris?" Johnny would innocently inquire, winking at Janet, invariably running his hand through the wiry red hair that resumed its corkscrew twist as soon as he released it. And Chris would as invariably reply:--"You have the dandruffs--yes? You come to my shop, I give you somethings...." Sometimes the barber, in search of a more aggressive adversary than Edward, would pay visits, when as likely as not another neighbour with profound convictions and a craving for proselytes would swoop down on the defenceless Bumpuses: Joe Shivers, for instance, who lived in one of the tenements above the cleaning and dyeing establishment kept by the Pappas Bros., and known as "The Gentleman." In the daytime Mr. Shivers was a model of acquiescence in a system he would have designated as one of industrial feudalism, his duty being to examine the rolls of cloth as they came from the looms of the Arundel Mill, in case of imperfections handing them over to the women menders: at night, to borrow a vivid expression from Lise, he was "batty in the belfry" on the subject of socialism. Unlike the barber, whom he could not abide, for him the cleavage of the world was between labour and capital instead of man and woman; his philosophy was stern and naturalistic; the universe--the origin of which he did not discuss--just an accidental assemblage of capricious forces over which human intelligence was one day to triumph. Squatting on the lowest step, his face upturned, by the light of the arc sputtering above the street he looked like a yellow frog, his eager eyes directed toward Janet, whom he suspected of intelligence. "If there was a God, a nice, kind, all-powerful God, would he permit what happened in one of the loom-rooms last week? A Polak girl gets her hair caught in the belt pfff!" He had a marvellously realistic gift when it came to horrors: Janet felt her hair coming out by the roots. Although she never went to church, she did not like to think that no God existed. Of this Mr. Shivers was very positive. Edward, too, listened uneasily, hemmed and hawed, making ineffectual attempts to combat Mr. Shivers's socialism with a deeply-rooted native individualism that Shivers declared as defunct as Christianity. "If it is possible for the workingman to rise under a capitalistic system, why do you not rise, then? Why do I not rise? I'm as good as Ditmar, I'm better educated, but we're all slaves. What right has a man to make you and me work for him just because he has capital?" "Why, the right of capital," Edward would reply. Mr. Shivers, with the manner of one dealing with an incurable romanticism and sentimentality, would lift his hands in despair. And in spite of the fact that Janet detested him, he sometimes exercised over her a paradoxical fascination, suggesting as he did unexplored intellectual realms. She despised her father for not being able to crush the little man. Edward would make pathetic attempts to capture the role Shivers had appropriated, to be the practical party himself, to convict Shivers of idealism. Socialism scandalized him, outraged, even more than atheism, something within him he held sacred, and he was greatly annoyed because he was unable adequately to express this feeling. "You can't change human nature, Mr. Shivers," Edward would insist in his precise but ineffectual manner. "We all want property, you would accept a fortune if it was offered to you, and so should I. Americans will never become socialists." "But look at me, wasn't I born in Meriden, Connecticut? Ain't that Yankee enough for you?" Thus Mr. Shivers sought blandly to confound him. A Yankee Shades of the Pilgrim fathers, of seven, generations of Bumpuses! A Yankee who used his hands in that way, a Yankee with a nose like that, a Yankee with a bald swathe down the middle of his crown and bunches of black, moth-eaten hair on either side! But Edward, too polite to descend to personalities, was silent.... In brief, this very politeness of Edward's, which his ancestors would have scorned, this consideration and lack of self-assertion made him the favourite prey of the many "characters" in Fillmore Street whose sanity had been disturbed by pressure from above, in whose systems had lodged the germs of those exotic social doctrines floating so freely in the air of our modern industrial communities .... Chester Glenn remains for a passing mention. A Yankee of Yankees, this, born on a New Hampshire farm, and to the ordinary traveller on the Wigmore branch of the railroad just a good-natured, round-faced, tobacco-chewing brakeman who would take a seat beside ladies of his acquaintance aid make himself agreeable until it was time to rise and bawl out, in the approved manner of his profession, the name of the next station. Fillmore Street knew that the flat visored cap which his corporation compelled him to wear covered a brain into which had penetrated the maggot of the Single Tax. When he encountered Mr. Shivers or Auermann the talk became coruscating.. Eda Rawle, Janet's solitary friend of these days, must also be mentioned, though the friendship was merely an episode in Janet's life. Their first meeting was at Grady's quick-lunch counter in Faber Street, which they both frequented at one time, and the fact that each had ordered a ham sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a confection--new to Grady's--known as a Napoleon had led to conversation. Eda, of course, was the aggressor; she was irresistibly drawn, she would not be repulsed. A stenographer in the Wessex National Bank, she boarded with a Welsh family in Spruce Street; matter-of-fact, plodding, commonplace, resembling--as Janet thought--a horse, possessing, indeed many of the noble qualities of that animal, she might have been thought the last person in the world to discern and appreciate in Janet the hidden elements of a mysterious fire. In appearance Miss Rawle was of a type not infrequent in Anglo-Saxon lands, strikingly blonde, with high malar bones, white eyelashes, and eyes of a metallic blue, cheeks of an amazing elasticity that worked rather painfully as she talked or smiled, drawing back inadequate lips, revealing long, white teeth and vivid gums. It was the craving in her for romance Janet assuaged; Eda's was the love content to pour out, that demands little. She was capable of immolation. Janet was by no means ungrateful for the warmth of such affection, though in moments conscious of a certain perplexity and sadness because she was able to give such a meagre return for the wealth of its offering. In other moments, when the world seemed all disorder and chaos,--as Mr. Shivers described it,--or when she felt within her, like demons, those inexpressible longings and desires, leaping and straining, pulling her, almost irresistibly, she knew not whither, Eda shone forth like a light in the darkness, like the beacon of a refuge and a shelter. Eda had faith in her, even when Janet had lost faith in herself: she went to Eda in the same spirit that Marguerite went to church; though she, Janet, more resembled Faust, being--save in these hours of lowered vitality--of the forth-faring kind .... Unable to confess the need that drove her, she arrived in Eda's little bedroom to be taken into Eda's arms. Janet was immeasurably the stronger of the two, but Eda possessed the masculine trait of protectiveness, the universe never bothered her, she was one of those persons--called fortunate--to whom the orthodox Christian virtues come as naturally as sun or air. Passion, when sanctified by matrimony, was her ideal, and now it was always in terms of Janet she dreamed of it, having read about it in volumes her friend would not touch, and never having experienced deeply its discomforts. Sanctified or unsanctified, Janet regarded it with terror, and whenever Eda innocently broached the subject she recoiled. Once Eda exclaimed:--"When you do fall in love, Janet, you must tell me all about it, every word!" Janet blushed hotly, and was silent. In Eda's mind such an affair was a kind of glorified fireworks ending in a cluster of stars, in Janet's a volcanic eruption to turn the world red. Such was the difference between them. Their dissipations together consisted of "sundaes" at a drug-store, or sometimes of movie shows at the Star or the Alhambra. Stereotyped on Eda's face during the legitimately tender passages of these dramas was an expression of rapture, a smile made peculiarly infatuate by that vertical line in her cheeks, that inadequacy of lip and preponderance of white teeth and red gums. It irritated, almost infuriated Janet, to whom it appeared as the logical reflection of what was passing on the screen; she averted her glance from both, staring into her lap, filled with shame that the relation between the sexes should be thus exposed to public gaze, parodied, sentimentalized, degraded.... There were, however, marvels to stir her, strange landscapes, cities, seas, and ships,--once a fire in the forest of a western reserve with gigantic tongues of orange flame leaping from tree to tree. The movies brought the world to Hampton, the great world into which she longed to fare, brought the world to her! Remote mountain hamlets from Japan, minarets and muezzins from the Orient, pyramids from Egypt, domes from Moscow resembling gilded beets turned upside down; grey houses of parliament by the Thames, the Tower of London, the Palaces of Potsdam, the Tai Mahal. Strange lands indeed, and stranger peoples! booted Russians in blouses, naked Equatorial savages tattooed and amazingly adorned, soldiers and sailors, presidents, princes and emperors brought into such startling proximity one could easily imagine one's self exchanging the time of day! Incredible to Janet how the audiences, how even Eda accepted with American complacency what were to her never-ending miracles; the yearning to see more, to know more, became acute, like a pain, but even as she sought to devour these scenes, to drink in every detail, with tantalizing swiftness they were whisked away. They were peepholes in the walls of her prison; and at night she often charmed herself to sleep with remembered visions of wide, empty, treeshaded terraces reserved for kings. But Eda, however complacent her interest in the scenes themselves, was thrilled to the marrow by their effect on Janet, who was her medium. Emerging from the vestibule of the theatre, Janet seemed not to see the slushy street, her eyes shone with a silver light like that of a mountain lake in a stormy sunset. And they walked in silence until Janet would exclaim: "Oh Eda, wouldn't you love to travel!" Thus Eda Rawle was brought in contact with values she herself was powerless to detect, and which did not become values until they had passed through Janet. One "educative" reel they had seen had begun with scenes in a lumber camp high in the mountains of Galicia, where grow forests of the priceless pine that becomes, after years of drying and seasoning, the sounding board of the Stradivarius and the harp. Even then it must respond to a Player. Eda, though failing to apply this poetic parallel, when alone in her little room in the Welsh boarding-house often indulged in an ecstasy of speculation as to that man, hidden in the mists of the future, whose destiny it would be to awaken her friend. Hampton did not contain him,--of this she was sure; and in her efforts to visualize him she had recourse to the movies, seeking him amongst that brilliant company of personages who stood so haughtily or walked so indifferently across the ephemeral brightness of the screen. By virtue of these marvels of the movies: Hampton ugly and sordid Hampton!--actually began for Janet to take on a romantic tinge. Were not the strange peoples of the earth flocking to Hampton? She saw them arriving at the station, straight from Ellis Island, bewildered, ticketed like dumb animals, the women draped in the soft, exotic colours many of them were presently to exchange for the cheap and gaudy apparel of Faber Street. She sought to summon up in her mind the glimpses she had had of the wonderful lands from which they had come, to imagine their lives in that earlier environment. Sometimes she wandered, alone or with Eda, through the various quarters of the city. Each quarter had a flavour of its own, a synthetic flavour belonging neither to the old nor to the new, yet partaking of both: a difference in atmosphere to which Janet was keenly sensitive. In the German quarter, to the north, one felt a sort of ornamental bleakness--if the expression may be permitted: the tenements here were clean and not too crowded, the scroll-work on their superimposed porches, like that decorating the Turnverein and the stem Lutheran Church, was eloquent of a Teutonic inheritance: The Belgians were to the west, beyond the base-ball park and the car barns, their grey houses scattered among new streets beside the scarred and frowning face of Torrey's hill. Almost under the hill itself, which threatened to roll down on it, and facing a bottomless, muddy street, was the quaint little building giving the note of foreign thrift, of socialism and shrewdness, of joie de vivre to the settlement, the Franco-Belgian co-operative store, with its salle de reunion above and a stage for amateur theatricals. Standing in the mud outside, Janet would gaze through the tiny windows in the stucco wall at the baskets prepared for each household laid in neat rows beside the counter; at the old man with the watery blue eyes and lacing of red in his withered cheeks who spoke no English, whose duty it was to distribute the baskets to the women and children as they called. Turning eastward again, one came to Dey Street, in the heart of Hampton, where Hibernian Hall stood alone and grim, sole testimony of the departed Hibernian glories of a district where the present Irish rulers of the city had once lived and gossiped and fought in the days when the mill bells had roused the boarding-house keepers at half past four of a winter morning. Beside the hall was a corner lot, heaped high with hills of ashes and rubbish like the vomitings of some filthy volcano; the unsightliness of which was half concealed by huge signs announcing the merits of chewing gums, tobaccos, and cereals. But why had the departure of the Irish, the coming of the Syrians made Dey Street dark, narrow, mysterious, oriental? changed the very aspect of its architecture? Was it the coffee-houses? One of these, in front of which Janet liked to linger, was set weirdly into an old New England cottage, and had, apparently, fathomless depths. In summer the whole front of it lay open to the street, and here all day long, beside the table where the charcoal squares were set to dry, could be seen saffron-coloured Armenians absorbed in a Turkish game played on a backgammon board, their gentleness and that of the loiterers looking on in strange contrast with their hawk-like profiles and burning eyes. Behind this group, in the half light of the middle interior, could be discerned an American soda-water fountain of a bygone fashion, on its marble counter oddly shaped bottles containing rose and violet syrups; there was a bottle-shaped stove, and on the walls, in gilt frames, pictures evidently dating from the period in American art that flourished when Franklin Pierce was President; and there was an array of marble topped tables extending far back into the shadows. Behind the fountain was a sort of cupboard--suggestive of the Arabian Nights, which Janet had never read--from which, occasionally, the fat proprietor emerged bearing Turkish coffee or long Turkish pipes. When not thus occupied the proprietor carried a baby. The street swarmed with babies, and mothers nursed them on the door-steps. And in this teeming, prolific street one could scarcely move without stepping on a fat, almond eyed child, though some, indeed, were wheeled; wheeled in all sorts of queer contrivances by one another, by fathers with ragged black moustaches and eagle noses who, to the despair of mill superintendents, had decided in the morning that three days' wages would since to support their families for the week .... In the midst of the throng might be seen occasionally the stout and comfortable and not too immaculate figure of a shovel bearded Syrian priest, in a frock coat and square-topped "Derby" hat, sailing along serenely, heedless of the children who scattered out of his path. Nearby was the quarter of the Canadian French, scarcely now to be called foreigners, though still somewhat reminiscent of the cramped little towns in the northern wilderness of water and forest. On one corner stood almost invariably a "Pharmacie Francaise"; the signs were in French, and the elders spoke the patois. These, despite the mill pallor, retained in their faces, in their eyes, a suggestion of the outdoor look of their ancestors, the coureurs des bois, but the children spoke English, and the young men, as they played baseball in the street or in the corner lots might be heard shouting out derisively the cry of the section hands so familiar in mill cities, "Doff, you beggars you, doff!" Occasionally the two girls strayed into that wide thoroughfare not far from the canal, known by the classic name of Hawthorne, which the Italians had appropriated to themselves. This street, too, in spite of the telegraph poles flaunting crude arms in front of its windows, in spite of the trolley running down its middle, had acquired a character, a unity all its own, a warmth and picturesqueness that in the lingering light of summer evenings assumed an indefinable significance. It was not Italy, but it was something--something proclaimed in the ornate, leaning lines of the pillared balconies of the yellow tenement on the second block, in the stone-vaulted entrance of the low house next door, in fantastically coloured walls, in curtained windows out of which leaned swarthy, earringed women. Blocking the end of the street, in stern contrast, was the huge Clarendon Mill with its sinister brick pillars running up the six stories between the glass. Here likewise the sidewalks overflowed with children, large-headed, with great, lustrous eyes, mute, appealing, the eyes of cattle. Unlike American children, they never seemed to be playing. Among the groups of elders gathered for gossip were piratical Calabrians in sombre clothes, descended from Greek ancestors, once the terrors of the Adriatic Sea. The women, lingering in the doorways, hemmed in by more children, were for the most part squat and plump, but once in a while Janet's glance was caught and held by a strange, sharp beauty worthy of a cameo. Opposite the Clarendon Mill on the corner of East Street was a provision store with stands of fruit and vegetables encroaching on the pavement. Janet's eye was attracted by a box of olives. "Oh Eda," she cried, "do you remember, we saw them being picked--in the movies? All those old trees on the side of a hill?" "Why, that's so," said Eda. "You never would have thought anything'd grow on those trees." The young Italian who kept the store gave them a friendly grin. "You lika the olives?" he asked, putting some of the shining black fruit into their hands. Eda bit one dubiously with her long, white teeth, and giggled. "Don't they taste funny!" she exclaimed. "Good--very good," he asserted gravely, and it was to Janet he turned, as though recognizing a discrimination not to be found in her companion. She nodded affirmatively. The strange taste of the fruit enhanced her sense of adventure, she tried to imagine herself among the gatherers in the grove; she glanced at the young man to perceive that he was tall and well formed, with remarkably expressive eyes almost the colour of the olives themselves. It surprised her that she liked him, though he was an Italian and a foreigner: a certain debonnair dignity in him appealed to her--a quality lacking in many of her own countrymen. And she wanted to talk to him about Italy,--only she did not know how to begin,--when a customer appeared, an Italian woman who conversed with him in soft, liquid tones that moved her .... Sometimes on these walks--especially if the day were grey and sombre--Janet's sense of romance and adventure deepened, became more poignant, charged with presage. These feelings, vague and unaccountable, she was utterly unable to confide to Eda, yet the very fear they inspired was fascinating; a fear and a hope that some day, in all this Babel of peoples, something would happen! It was as though the conflicting soul of the city and her own soul were one.... CHAPTER III Lise was the only member of the Bumpus family who did not find uncongenial such distractions and companionships as were offered by the civilization that surrounded them. The Bagatelle she despised; that was slavery--but slavery out of which she might any day be snatched, like Leila Hawtrey, by a prince charming who had made a success in life. Success to Lise meant money. Although what some sentimental sociologists might call a victim of our civilization, Lise would not have changed it, since it produced not only Lise herself, but also those fabulous financiers with yachts and motors and town and country houses she read about in the supplements of the Sunday newspapers. It contained her purgatory, which she regarded in good conventional fashion as a mere temporary place of detention, and likewise the heaven toward which she strained, the dwelling-place of light. In short, her philosophy was that of the modern, orthodox American, tinged by a somewhat commercialized Sunday school tradition of an earlier day, and highly approved by the censors of the movies. The peculiar kind of abstinence once euphemistically known as "virtue," particularly if it were combined with beauty, never failed of its reward. Lise, in this sense, was indeed virtuous, and her mirror told her she was beautiful. Almost anything could happen to such a lady: any day she might be carried up into heaven by that modern chariot of fire, the motor car, driven by a celestial chauffeur. One man's meat being another's poison, Lise absorbed from the movies an element by which her sister Janet was repelled. A popular production known as "Leila of Hawtrey's" contained her creed,--Hawtrey's being a glittering metropolitan restaurant where men of the world are wont to gather and discuss the stock market, and Leila a beautiful, blonde and orphaned waitress upon whom several of the fashionable frequenters had exercised seductive powers in vain. They lay in wait for her at the side entrance, followed her, while one dissipated and desperate person, married, and said to move in the most exclusive circles, sent her an offer of a yearly income in five figures, the note being reproduced on the screen, and Leila pictured reading it in her frigid hall-bedroom. There are complications; she is in debt, and the proprietor of Hawtrey's has threatened to discharge her and in order that the magnitude of the temptation may be most effectively realized the vision appears of Leila herself, wrapped in furs, stepping out of a limousine and into an elevator lifting her to an apartment containing silk curtains, a Canet bed, a French maid, and a Pomeranian. Virtue totters, but triumphs, being reinforced by two more visions the first of these portrays Leila, prematurely old, dragging herself along pavements under the metallic Broadway lights accosting gentlemen in evening dress; and the second reveals her in the country, kneeling beside a dying mother's bed, giving her promise to remain true to the Christian teachings of her childhood. And virtue is rewarded, lavishly, as virtue should be, in dollars and cents, in stocks and bonds, in pearls and diamonds. Popular fancy takes kindly to rough but honest westerners who have begun life in flannel shirts, who have struck gold and come to New York with a fortune but despising effeteness; such a one, tanned by the mountain sun, embarrassed in raiment supplied by a Fifth Avenue tailor, takes a table one evening at Hawtrey's and of course falls desperately in love. He means marriage from the first, and his faith in Leila is great enough to survive what appears to be an almost total eclipse of her virtue. Through the machinations of the influential villain, and lured by the false pretence that one of her girl friends is ill, she is enticed into a mysterious house of a sinister elegance, and apparently irretrievably compromised. The westerner follows, forces his way through the portals, engages the villain, and vanquishes him. Leila becomes a Bride. We behold her, at the end, mistress of one of those magnificent stone mansions with grilled vestibules and negro butlers into whose sacred precincts we are occasionally, in the movies, somewhat breathlessly ushered--a long way from Hawtrey's restaurant and a hall-bedroom. A long way, too, from the Bagatelle and Fillmore Street--but to Lise a way not impossible, nor even improbable. This work of art, conveying the moral that virtue is an economic asset, made a great impression on Lise. Good Old Testament doctrine, set forth in the Book of Job itself. And Leila, pictured as holding out for a higher price and getting it, encouraged Lise to hold out also. Mr. Wiley, in whose company she had seen this play, and whose likeness filled the plush and silver-plated frame on her bureau, remained ironically ignorant of the fact that he had paid out his money to make definite an ambition, an ideal hitherto nebulous in the mind of the lady whom he adored. Nor did Lise enlighten him, being gifted with a certain inscrutableness. As a matter of fact it had never been her intention to accept him, but now that she was able concretely to visualize her Lochinvar of the future, Mr. Whey's lack of qualifications became the more apparent. In the first place, he had been born in Lowell and had never been west of Worcester; in the second, his salary was sixteen dollars a week: it is true she had once fancied the Scottish terrier style of hair-cut abruptly ending in the rounded line of the shaven neck, but Lochinvar had been close-cropped. Mr. Wiley, close-cropped, would have resembled a convict. Mr. Wiley was in love, there could be no doubt about that, and if he had not always meant marriage, he meant it now, having reached a state where no folly seems preposterous. The manner of their meeting had had just the adventurous and romantic touch that Lise liked, one of her favourite amusements in the intervals between "steadies" being to walk up and down Faber Street of an evening after supper, arm in arm with two or three other young ladies, all chewing gum, wheeling into store windows and wheeling out again, pretending the utmost indifference to melting glances cast in their direction. An exciting sport, though incomprehensible to masculine intelligence. It was a principle with Lise to pay no attention to any young man who was not "presented," those venturing to approach her with the ready formula "Haven't we met before?" being instantly congealed. She was strict as to etiquette. But Mr. Wiley, it seemed, could claim acquaintance with Miss Schuler, one of the ladies to whose arm Lise's was linked, and he had the further advantage of appearing in a large and seductive touring car, painted green, with an eagle poised above the hood and its name, Wizard, in a handwriting rounded and bold, written in nickel across the radiator. He greeted Miss Schuler effusively, but his eye was on Lise from the first, and it was she he took with, him in the front seat, indifferent to the giggling behind. Ever since then Lise had had a motor at her disposal, and on Sundays they took long "joy rides" beyond the borders of the state. But it must not be imagined that Mr. Whey was the proprietor of the vehicle; nor was he a chauffeur,--her American pride would not have permitted her to keep company with a chauffeur: he was the demonstrator for the Wizard, something of a wizard himself, as Lise had to admit when they whizzed over the tarvia of the Riverside Boulevard at fifty or sixty miles an hour with the miner cut out--a favourite diversion of Mr. Whey's, who did not feel he was going unless he was accompanied by a noise like that of a mitrailleuse in action. Lise, experiencing a ravishing terror, hung on to her hat with one hand and to Mr. Wiley with the other, her code permitting this; permitting him also, occasionally, when they found themselves in tenebrous portions of Slattery's Riverside Park, to put his arm around her waist and kiss her. So much did Lise's virtue allow, and no more, the result being that he existed in a tantalizing state of hope and excitement most detrimental to the nerves. He never lost, however,--in public at least, or before Lise's family,--the fine careless, jaunty air of the demonstrator, of the free-lance for whom seventy miles an hour has no terrors; the automobile, apparently, like the ship, sets a stamp upon its votaries. No Elizabethan buccaneer swooping down on defenceless coasts ever exceeded in audacity Mr. Wiley's invasion of quiet Fillmore Street. He would draw up with an ear-splitting screaming of brakes in front of the clay-yellow house, and sometimes the muffler, as though unable to repress its approval of the performance, would let out a belated pop that never failed to jar the innermost being of Auermann, who had been shot at, or rather shot past, by an Italian, and knew what it was. He hated automobiles, he hated Mr. Wiley. "Vat you do?" he would demand, glaring. And Mr. Wiley would laugh insolently. "You think I done it, do you, Dutchie--huh!" He would saunter past, up the stairs, and into the Bumpus dining-room, often before the family had finished their evening meal. Lise alone made him welcome, albeit demurely; but Mr. Wiley, not having sensibilities, was proof against Hannah's coldness and Janet's hostility. With unerring instinct he singled out Edward as his victim. "How's Mr. Bumpus this evening?" he would genially inquire. Edward invariably assured Mr. Wiley that he was well, invariably took a drink of coffee to emphasize the fact, as though the act of lifting his cup had in it some magic to ward off the contempt of his wife and elder daughter. "Well, I've got it pretty straight that the Arundel's going to run nights, starting next week," Lise's suitor would continue. And to save his soul Edward could not refrain from answering, "You don't say so!" He feigned interest in the information that the Hampton Ball Team, owing to an unsatisfactory season, was to change managers next year. Mr. Wiley possessed the gift of gathering recondite bits of news, he had confidence in his topics and in his manner of dealing with them; and Edward, pretending to be entertained, went so far in his politeness as to ask Mr. Wiley if he had had supper. "I don't care if I sample one of Mis' Bumpus's doughnuts," Mr. Wiley would reply politely, reaching out a large hand that gave evidence, in spite of Sapolio, of an intimacy with grease cups and splash pans. "I guess there's nobody in this burg can make doughnuts to beat yours, Miss Bumpus." If she had only known which doughnut he would take; Hannah sometimes thought she might have been capable of putting arsenic in it. Her icy silence did not detract from the delights of his gestation. Occasionally, somewhat to Edward's alarm, Hannah demanded: "Where are you taking Lise this evening?" Mr. Wiley's wisdom led him to be vague. "Oh, just for a little spin up the boulevard. Maybe we'll pick up Ella Schuler and one or two other young ladies." Hannah and Janet knew very well he had no intention of doing this, and Hannah did not attempt to conceal her incredulity. As a matter of fact, Lise sometimes did insist on a "party." "I want you should bring her back by ten o'clock. That's late enough for a girl who works to be out. It's late enough for any girl." "Sure, Mis' Bumpus," Wiley would respond easily. Hannah chafed because she had no power to enforce this, because Mr. Wiley and Lise understood she had no power. Lise went to put on her hat; if she skimped her toilet in the morning, she made up for it in the evening when she came home from the store, and was often late for supper. In the meantime, while Lise was in the bedroom adding these last touches, Edward would contemptibly continue the conversation, fingering the Evening Banner as it lay in his lap, while Mr. Wiley helped himself boldly to another doughnut, taking--as Janet observed--elaborate precautions to spill none of the crumbs on a brown suit, supposed to be the last creation in male attire. Behind a plate glass window in Faber Street, belonging to a firm of "custom" tailors whose stores had invaded every important city in the country, and who made clothes for "college" men, only the week before Mr. Wiley had seen this same suit artistically folded, combined with a coloured shirt, brown socks, and tie and "torture" collar--lures for the discriminating. Owing to certain expenses connected with Lise, he had been unable to acquire the shirt and the tie, but he had bought the suit in the hope and belief that she would find him irresistible therein. It pleased him, too, to be taken for a "college" man, and on beholding in the mirror his broadened shoulders and diminished waist he was quite convinced his money had not been spent in vain; that strange young ladies--to whom, despite his infatuation for the younger Miss Bumpus, he was not wholly indifferent--would mistake him for an undergraduate of Harvard,--an imposition concerning which he had no scruples. But Lise, though shaken, had not capitulated..... When she returned to the dining-room, arrayed in her own finery, demure, triumphant, and had carried off Mr. Whey there would ensue an interval of silence broken only by the clattering together of the dishes Hannah snatched up. "I guess he's the kind of son-in-law would suit you," she threw over her shoulder once to Edward. "Why?" he inquired, letting down his newspaper nervously. "Well, you seem to favour him, to make things as pleasant for him as you can." Edward would grow warm with a sense of injustice, the inference being that he was to blame for Mr. Wiley; if he had been a different kind of father another sort of suitor would be courting Lise. "I have to be civil," he protested. He pronounced that, word "civil" exquisitely, giving equal value to both syllables. "Civil!" Hannah scoffed, as she left the room; and to Janet, who had followed her into the kitchen, she added: "That's the trouble with your father, he's always be'n a little too civil. Edward Bumpus is just as simple as a child, he's afraid of offending folks' feelings .... Think of being polite to that Whey!" In those two words Hannah announced eloquently her utter condemnation of the demonstrator of the Wizard. It was characteristic of her, however, when she went back for another load of dishes and perceived that Edward was only pretending to read his Banner, to attempt to ease her husband's feelings. She thought it queer because she was still fond of Edward Bumpus, after all he had "brought on her." "It's Lise," she said, as though speaking to Janet, "she attracts 'em. Sometimes I just can't get used to it that she's my daughter. I don't know who she takes after. She's not like any of my kin, nor any of the Bumpuses." "What can you do?" asked Edward. "You can't order him out of the house. It's better for him to come here. And you can't stop Lise from going with him--she's earning her own money...." They had talked over the predicament before, and always came to the same impasse. In the privacy of the kitchen Hannah paused suddenly in her energetic rubbing of a plate and with supreme courage uttered a question. "Janet, do you calculate he means anything wrong?" "I don't know what he means," Janet replied, unwilling to give Mr. Wiley credit for anything, "but I know this, that Lise is too smart to let him take advantage of her." Hannah ruminated. Cleverness as the modern substitute for feminine virtue did not appeal to her, but she let it pass. She was in no mood to quarrel with any quality that would ward off disgrace. "I don't know what to make of Lise--she don't appear to have any principles...." If the Wiley affair lasted longer than those preceding it, this was because former suitors had not commanded automobiles. When Mr. Wiley lost his automobile he lost his luck--if it may be called such. One April evening, after a stroll with Eda, Janet reached home about nine o'clock to find Lise already in their room, to remark upon the absence of Mr. Wiley's picture from the frame. "I'm through with him," Lise declared briefly, tugging at her hair. "Through with him?" Janet repeated. Lise paused in her labours and looked at her sister steadily. "I handed him the mit--do you get me?" "But why?" "Why? I was sick of him--ain't that enough? And then he got mixed up with a Glendale trolley and smashed his radiator, and the Wizard people sacked him. I always told him he was too fly. It's lucky for him I wasn't in the car." "It's lucky for you," said Janet. Presently she inquired curiously: "Aren't you sorry?" "Nix." Lise shook her head, which was now bowed, her face hidden by hair. "Didn't I tell you I was sick of him? But he sure was some spender," she added, as though in justice bound to give him his due. Janet was shocked by the ruthlessness of it, for Lise appeared relieved, almost gay. She handed Janet a box containing five peppermint creams--all that remained of Mr. Wiley's last gift. One morning in the late spring Janet crossed the Warren Street bridge, the upper of the two spider-like structures to be seen from her office window, spanning the river beside the great Hampton dam. The day, dedicated to the memory of heroes fallen in the Civil War, the thirtieth of May, was a legal holiday. Gradually Janet had acquired a dread of holidays as opportunities never realized, as intervals that should have been filled with unmitigated joys, and yet were invariably wasted, usually in walks with Eda Rawle. To-day, feeling an irresistible longing for freedom, for beauty, for adventure, for quest and discovery of she knew not what, she avoided Eda, and after gazing awhile at the sunlight dancing in the white mist below the falls, she walked on, southward, until she had left behind her the last straggling houses of the city and found herself on a wide, tarvia road that led, ultimately, to Boston. So read the sign. Great maples, heavy with leaves, stood out against the soft blue of the sky, and the sunlight poured over everything, bathing the stone walls, the thatches of the farmhouses, extracting from the copses of stunted pine a pungent, reviving perfume. Sometimes she stopped to rest on the pine needles, and walked on again, aimlessly, following the road because it was the easiest way. There were spring flowers in the farmhouse yards, masses of lilacs whose purple she drank in eagerly; the air, which had just a tang of New England sharpness, was filled with tender sounds, the clucking of hens, snatches of the songs of birds, the rustling of maple leaves in the fitful breeze. A chipmunk ran down an elm and stood staring at her with beady, inquisitive eyes, motionless save for his quivering tail, and she put forth her hand, shyly, beseechingly, as though he held the secret of life she craved. But he darted away. She looked around her unceasingly, at the sky, at the trees, at the flowers and ferns and fields, at the vireos and thrushes, the robins and tanagers gashing in and out amidst the foliage, and she was filled with a strange yearning to expand and expand until she should become a part of all nature, be absorbed into it, cease to be herself. Never before had she known just that feeling, that degree of ecstasy mingled with divine discontent .... Occasionally, intruding faintly upon the countryside peace, she was aware of a distant humming sound that grew louder and louder until there shot roaring past her an automobile filled with noisy folk, leaving behind it a suffocating cloud of dust. Even these intrusions, reminders of the city she had left, were powerless to destroy her mood, and she began to skip, like a schoolgirl, pausing once in a while to look around her fearfully, lest she was observed; and it pleased her to think that she had escaped forever, that she would never go back: she cried aloud, as she skipped, "I won't go back, I won't go back," keeping time with her feet until she was out of breath and almost intoxicated, delirious, casting herself down, her heart beating wildly, on a bank of ferns, burying her face in them. She had really stopped because a pebble had got into her shoe, and as she took it out she looked at her bare heel and remarked ruefully:--"Those twenty-five cent stockings aren't worth buying!" Economic problems, however, were powerless to worry her to-day, when the sun shone and the wind blew and the ferns, washed by the rill running through the culvert under the road, gave forth a delicious moist odour reminding her of the flower store where her sister Lise had once been employed. But at length she arose, and after an hour or more of sauntering the farming landscape was left behind, the crumbling stone fences were replaced by a well-kept retaining wall capped by a privet hedge, through which, between stone pillars, a driveway entered and mounted the shaded slope, turning and twisting until lost to view. But afar, standing on the distant crest, through the tree trunks and foliage Janet saw one end of the mansion to which it led, and ventured timidly but eagerly in among the trees in the hope of satisfying her new-born curiosity. Try as she would, she never could get any but disappointing and partial glimpses of a house which, because of the mystery of its setting, fired her imagination, started her to wondering why it was that some were permitted to live in the midst of such beauty while she was condemned to spend her days in Fillmore Street and the prison of the mill. She was not even allowed to look at it! The thought was like a cloud across the sun. However, when she had regained the tarvia road and walked a little way the shadow suddenly passed, and she stood surprised. The sight of a long common with its ancient trees in the fullness of glory, dense maples, sturdy oaks, strong, graceful elms that cast flickering, lacy shadows across the road filled her with satisfaction, with a sense of peace deepened by the awareness, in the background, ranged along the common on either side, of stately, dignified buildings, each in an appropriate frame of foliage. With the essence rather than the detail of all this her consciousness became steeped; she was naturally ignorant of the great good fortune of Silliston Academy of having been spared with one or two exceptions--donations during those artistically lean years of the nineteenth century when American architecture affected the Gothic, the Mansard, and the subsequent hybrid. She knew this must be Silliston, the seat of that famous academy of which she had heard. The older school buildings and instructors' houses, most of them white or creamy yellow, were native Colonial, with tall, graceful chimneys and classic pillars and delicate balustrades, eloquent at once of the racial inheritance of the Republic and of a bygone individuality, dignity, and pride. And the modern architect, of whose work there was an abundance, had graciously and intuitively held this earlier note and developed it. He was an American, but an American who had been trained. The result was harmony, life as it should proceed, the new growing out of the old. And no greater tribute can be paid to Janet Bumpus than that it pleased her, struck and set exquisitely vibrating within her responsive chords. For the first time in her adult life she stood in the presence of tradition, of a tradition inherently if unconsciously the innermost reality of her being a tradition that miraculously was not dead, since after all the years it had begun to put forth these vigorous shoots.... What Janet chiefly realized was the delicious, contented sense of having come, visually at least, to the home for which she had longed. But her humour was that of a child who has strayed, to find its true dwelling place in a region of beauty hitherto unexplored and unexperienced, tinged, therefore, with unreality, with mystery,--an effect enhanced by the chance stillness and emptiness of the place. She wandered up and down the Common, whose vivid green was starred with golden dandelions; and then, spying the arched and shady vista of a lane, entered it, bent on new discoveries. It led past one of the newer buildings, the library--as she read in a carved inscription over the door--plunged into shade again presently to emerge at a square farmhouse, ancient and weathered, with a great square chimney thrust out of the very middle of the ridge-pole,--a landmark left by one of the earliest of Silliston's settlers. Presiding over it, embracing and protecting it, was a splendid tree. The place was evidently in process of reconstruction and repair, the roof had been newly shingled, new frames, with old-fashioned, tiny panes had been put in the windows; a little garden was being laid out under the sheltering branches of the tree, and between the lane and the garden, half finished, was a fence of an original and pleasing design, consisting of pillars placed at intervals with upright pickets between, the pickets sawed in curves, making a line that drooped in the middle. Janet did not perceive the workman engaged in building this fence until the sound of his hammer attracted her attention. His back was bent, he was absorbed in his task. "Are there any stores near here?" she inquired. He straightened up. "Why yes," he replied, "come to think of it, I have seen stores, I'm sure I have." Janet laughed; his expression, his manner of speech were so delightfully whimsical, so in keeping with the spirit of her day, and he seemed to accept her sudden appearance in the precise make-believe humour she could have wished. And yet she stood a little struck with timidity, puzzled by the contradictions he presented of youth and age, of shrewdness, experience and candour, of gentility and manual toil. He must have been about thirty-five; he was hatless, and his hair, uncombed but not unkempt, was greying at the temples; his eyes--which she noticed particularly--were keen yet kindly, the irises delicately stencilled in a remarkable blue; his speech was colloquial yet cultivated, his workman's clothes belied his bearing. "Yes, there are stores, in the village," he went on, "but isn't it a holiday, or Sunday--perhaps--or something of the kind?" "It's Decoration Day," she reminded him, with deepening surprise. "So it is! And all the storekeepers have gone on picnics in their automobiles, or else they're playing golf. Nobody's working today." "But you--aren't you working?" she inquired. "Working?" he repeated. "I suppose some people would call it work. I--I hadn't thought of it in that way." "You mean--you like it," Janet was inspired to say. "Well, yes," he confessed. "I suppose I do." Her cheeks dimpled. If her wonder had increased, her embarrassment had flown, and he seemed suddenly an old acquaintance. She had, however, profound doubts now of his being a carpenter. "Were you thinking of going shopping?" he asked, and at the very ludicrousness of the notion she laughed again. She discovered a keen relish for this kind of humour, but it was new to her experience, and she could not cope with it. "Only to buy some crackers, or a sandwich," she replied, and blushed. "Oh," he said. "Down in the village, on the corner where the cars stop, is a restaurant. It's not as good as the Parker House in Boston, I believe, but they do have sandwiches, yes, and coffee. At least they call it coffee." "Oh, thank you," she said. "You'd better wait till you try it," he warned her. "Oh, I don't mind, I don't want much." And she was impelled to add: "It's such a beautiful day." "It's absurd to get hungry on such a day--absurd," he agreed. "Yes, it is," she laughed. "I'm not really hungry, but I haven't time to get back to Hampton for dinner." Suddenly she grew hot at the thought that he might suspect her of hinting. "You see, I live in Hampton," she went on hurriedly, "I'm a stenographer there, in the Chippering Mill, and I was just out for a walk, and--I came farther than I intended." She had made it worse. But he said, "Oh, you came from Hampton!" with an intonation of surprise, of incredulity even, that soothed and even amused while it did not deceive her. Not that the superior intelligence of which she had begun to suspect him had been put to any real test by the discovery of her home, and she was quite sure her modest suit of blue serge and her $2.99 pongee blouse proclaimed her as a working girl of the mill city. "I've been to Hampton," he declared, just as though it were four thousand miles away instead of four. "But I've never been here before, to Silliston," she responded in the same spirit: and she added wistfully, "it must be nice to live in such a beautiful place as this!" "Yes, it is nice," he agreed. "We have our troubles, too,--but it's nice." She ventured a second, appraising glance. His head, which he carried a little flung back, his voice, his easy and confident bearing--all these contradicted the saw and the hammer, the flannel shirt, open at the neck, the khaki trousers still bearing the price tag. And curiosity beginning to get the better of her, she was emboldened to pay a compliment to the fence. If one had to work, it must be a pleasure to work on things pleasing to the eye--such was her inference. "Why, I'm glad you like it," he said heartily. "I was just hoping some one would come along here and admire it. Now--what colour would you paint it?" "Are you a painter, too?" "After a fashion. I'm a sort of man of all work--I thought of painting it white, with the pillars green." "I think that would be pretty," she answered, judicially, after a moment's thought. "What else can you do?" He appeared to be pondering his accomplishments. "Well, I can doctor trees," he said, pointing an efficient finger at the magnificent maple sheltering, like a guardian deity, the old farmhouse. "I put in those patches." "They're cement," she exclaimed. "I never heard of putting cement in trees." "They don't seem to mind." "Are the holes very deep?" "Pretty deep." "But I should think the tree would be dead." "Well, you see the life of a tree is right under the bark. If you can keep the outer covering intact, the tree will live." "Why did you let the holes get so deep?" "I've just come here. The house was like the tree the shingles all rotten, but the beams were sound. Those beams were hewn out of the forest two hundred and fifty years ago." "Gracious!" said Janet. "And how old is the tree?" "I should say about a hundred. I suppose it wouldn't care to admit it." "How do you know?" she inquired. "Oh, I'm very intimate with trees. I find out their secrets." "It's your house!" she exclaimed, somewhat appalled by the discovery. "Yes--yes it is," he answered, looking around at it and then in an indescribably comical manner down at his clothes. His gesture, his expression implied that her mistake was a most natural one. "Excuse me, I thought--" she began, blushing hotly, yet wanting to laugh again. "I don't blame you--why shouldn't you?" he interrupted her. "I haven't got used to it yet, and there is something amusing about--my owning a house. When the parlour's finished I'll have to wear a stiff collar, I suppose, in order to live up to it." Her laughter broke forth, and she tried to imagine him in a stiff collar.... But she was more perplexed than ever. She stood balancing on one foot, poised for departure. "I ought to be going," she said, as though she had been paying him a formal visit. "Don't hurry," he protested cordially. "Why hurry back to Hampton?" "I never want to go back!" she cried with a vehemence that caused him to contemplate her anew, suddenly revealing the intense, passionate quality which had so disturbed Mr. Ditmar. She stood transformed. "I hate it!" she declared. "It's so ugly, I never want to see it again." "Yes, it is ugly," he confessed. "Since you admit it, I don't mind saying so. But it's interesting, in a way." Though his humorous moods had delighted her, she felt subtly flattered because he had grown more serious. "It is interesting," she agreed. She was almost impelled to tell him why, in her excursions to the various quarters, she had found Hampton interesting, but a shyness born of respect for the store of knowledge she divined in him restrained her. She was curious to know what this man saw in Hampton. His opinion would be worth something. Unlike her neighbours in Fillmore Street, he was not what her sister Lise would call "nutty"; he had an air of fine sanity, of freedom, of detachment,--though the word did not occur to her; he betrayed no bitter sense of injustice, and his beliefs were uncoloured by the obsession of a single panacea. "Why do you think it's interesting?" she demanded. "Well, I'm always expecting to hear that it's blown up. It reminds me of nitro-glycerine," he added, smiling. She repeated the word. "An explosive, you know--they put it in dynamite. They say a man once made it by accident, and locked up his laboratory and ran home--and never went back." "I know what you mean!" she cried, her eyes alight with excitement. "All those foreigners! I've felt it that something would happen, some day, it frightened me, and yet I wished that something would happen. Only, I never would have thought of--nitro-glycerine." She was unaware of the added interest in his regard. But he answered lightly enough:--"Oh, not only the foreigners. Human chemicals--you can't play with human chemicals any more than you can play with real ones--you've got to know something about chemistry." This remark was beyond her depth. "Who is playing with them?" she asked. "Everybody--no one in particular. Nobody seems to know much about them, yet," he replied, and seemed disinclined to pursue the subject. A robin with a worm in its bill was hopping across the grass; he whistled softly, the bird stopped, cocking its head and regarding them. Suddenly, in conflict with her desire to remain indefinitely talking with this strange man, Janet felt an intense impulse to leave. She could bear the conversation no longer, she might burst into tears--such was the extraordinary effect he had produced on her. "I must go,--I'm ever so much obliged to you," she said. "Drop in again," he said, as he took her trembling hand .... When she had walked a little way she looked back over her shoulder to see him leaning idly against the post, gazing after her, and waving his hammer in friendly fashion. For a while her feet fairly flew, and her heart beat tumultuously, keeping time with her racing thoughts. She walked about the Common, seeing nothing, paying no attention to the passers-by, who glanced at her curiously. But at length as she grew calmer the needs of a youthful and vigorous body became imperative, and realizing suddenly that she was tired and hungry, sought and found the little restaurant in the village below. She journeyed back to Hampton pondering what this man had said to her; speculating, rather breathlessly, whether he had been impelled to conversation by a natural kindness and courtesy, or whether he really had discovered something in her worthy of addressing, as he implied. Resentment burned in her breast, she became suddenly blinded by tears: she might never see him again, and if only she were "educated" she might know him, become his friend. Even in this desire she was not conventional, and in the few moments of their contact he had developed rather than transformed what she meant by "education." She thought of it not as knowledge reeking of books and schools, but as the acquirement of the freemasonry which he so evidently possessed, existence on terms of understanding, confidence, and freedom with nature; as having the world open up to one like a flower filled with colour and life. She thought of the robin, of the tree whose secrets he had learned, of a mental range including even that medley of human beings amongst whom she lived. And the fact that something of his meaning had eluded her grasp made her rebel all the more bitterly against the lack of a greater knowledge .... Often during the weeks that followed he dwelt in her mind as she sat at her desk and stared out across the river, and several times that summer she started to walk to Silliston. But always she turned back. Perhaps she feared to break the charm of that memory.... CHAPTER IV Our American climate is notoriously capricious. Even as Janet trudged homeward on that Memorial Day afternoon from her Cinderella-like adventure in Silliston the sun grew hot, the air lost its tonic, becoming moist and tepid, white clouds with dark edges were piled up in the western sky. The automobiles of the holiday makers swarmed ceaselessly over the tarvia. Valiantly as she strove to cling to her dream, remorseless reality was at work dragging her back, reclaiming her; excitement and physical exercise drained her vitality, her feet were sore, sadness invaded her as she came in view of the ragged outline of the city she had left so joyfully in the morning. Summer, that most depressing of seasons in an environment of drab houses and grey pavements, was at hand, listless householders and their families were already, seeking refuge on front steps she passed on her way to Fillmore Street. It was about half past five when she arrived. Lise, her waist removed, was seated in a rocking chair at the window overlooking the littered yards and the backs of the tenements on Rutger Street. And Lise, despite the heaviness of the air, was dreaming. Of such delicate texture was the fabric of Janet's dreams that not only sordid reality, but contact with other dreams of a different nature, such as her sister's, often sufficed to dissolve them. She resented, for instance, the presence in the plush oval of Mr. Eustace Arlington; the movie star whose likeness had replaced Mr. Wiley's, and who had played the part of the western hero in "Leila of Hawtrey's." With his burning eyes and sensual face betraying the puffiness that comes from over-indulgence, he was not Janet's ideal of a hero, western or otherwise. And now Lise was holding a newspaper: not the Banner, whose provinciality she scorned, but a popular Boston sheet to be had for a cent, printed at ten in the morning and labelled "Three O'clock Edition," with huge red headlines stretched across the top of the page:-- "JURY FINDS IN MISS NEALY'S FAVOR." As Janet entered Lise looked up and exclaimed:--"Say, that Nealy girl's won out!" "Who is she?" Janet inquired listlessly. "You are from the country, all right," was her sister's rejoinder. "I would have bet there wasn't a Reub in the state that wasn't wise to the Ferris breach of promise case, and here you blow in after the show's over and want to know who Nelly Nealy is. If that doesn't beat the band!" "This woman sued a man named Ferris--is that it?" "A man named Ferris!" Lise repeated, with the air of being appalled by her sister's ignorance. "I guess you never heard of Ferris, either--the biggest copper man in Boston. He could buy Hampton, and never feel it, and they say his house in Brighton cost half a million dollars. Nelly Nealy put her damages at one hundred and fifty thousand and stung him for seventy five. I wish I'd been in court when that jury came back! There's her picture." To Janet, especially in the mood of reaction in which she found herself that evening, Lise's intense excitement, passionate partisanship and approval of Miss Nealy were incomprehensible, repellent. However, she took the sheet, gazing at the image of the lady who, recently an obscure stenographer, had suddenly leaped into fame and become a "headliner," the envied of thousands of working girls all over New England. Miss Nealy, in spite of the "glare of publicity" she deplored, had borne up admirably under the strain, and evidently had been able to consume three meals a day and give some thought to her costumes. Her smile under the picture hat was coquettish, if not bold. The special article, signed by a lady reporter whose sympathies were by no means concealed and whose talents were given free rein, related how the white-haired mother had wept tears of joy; how Miss Nealy herself had been awhile too overcome to speak, and then had recovered sufficiently to express her gratitude to the twelve gentlemen who had vindicated the honour of American womanhood. Mr. Ferris, she reiterated, was a brute; never as long as she lived would she be able to forget how she had loved and believed in him, and how, when at length she unwillingly became convinces of his perfidy, she had been "prostrated," unable to support her old mother. She had not, naturally, yet decided how she would invest her fortune; as for going on the stage, that had been suggested, but she had made no plans. "Scores of women sympathizers" had escorted her to a waiting automobile.... Janet, impelled by the fascination akin to disgust, read thus far, and flinging the newspaper on the floor, began to tidy herself for supper. But presently, when she heard Lise sigh, she could contain herself no longer. "I don't see how you can read such stuff as that," she exclaimed. "It's--it's horrible." "Horrible?" Lise repeated. Janet swung round from the washbasin, her hands dripping. "Instead of getting seventy five thousand dollars she ought to be tarred and feathered. She's nothing but a blackmailer." Lise, aroused from her visions, demanded vehemently "Ain't he a millionaire?" "What difference does that make?" Janet retorted. "And you can't tell me she didn't know what she was up to all along--with that face." "I'd have sued him, all right," declared Lise, defiantly. "Then you'd be a blackmailer, too. I'd sooner scrub floors, I'd sooner starve than do such a thing--take money for my affections. In the first place, I'd have more pride, and in the second place, if I really loved a man, seventy five thousand or seventy five million dollars wouldn't help me any. Where do you get such ideas? Decent people don't have them." Janet turned to the basin again and began rubbing her face vigorously--ceasing for an instance to make sure of the identity of a sound reaching her ears despite the splashing of water. Lise was sobbing. Janet dried her face and hands, arranged her hair, and sat down on the windowsill; the scorn and anger, which had been so intense as completely to possess her, melting into a pity and contempt not unmixed with bewilderment. Ordinarily Lise was hard, impervious to such reproaches, holding her own in the passionate quarrels that occasionally took place between them yet there were times, such as this, when her resistance broke down unexpectedly, and she lost all self control. She rocked to and fro in the chair, her shoulders bowed, her face hidden in her hands. Janet reached out and touched her. "Don't be silly," she began, rather sharply, "just because I said it was a disgrace to have such ideas. Well, it is." "I'm not silly," said Lise. "I'm sick of that job at the Bagatelle" --sob--"there's nothing in it--I'm going to quit--I wish to God I was dead! Standing on your feet all day till you're wore out for six dollars a week--what's there in it?"--sob--"With that guy Walters who walks the floor never lettin' up on you. He come up to me yesterday and says, `I didn't know you was near sighted, Miss Bumpus' just because there was a customer Annie Hatch was too lazy to wait on"--sob--"That's his line of dope--thinks he's sarcastic--and he's sweet on Annie. Tomorrow I'm going to tell him to go to hell. I'm through I'm sick of it, I tell you"--sob--"I'd rather be dead than slave like that for six dollars." "Where are you going?" asked Janet. "I don't know--I don't care. What's the difference? any place'd be better than this." For awhile she continued to cry on a ridiculously high, though subdued, whining note, her breath catching at intervals. A feeling of helplessness, of utter desolation crept over Janet; powerless to comfort herself, how could she comfort her sister? She glanced around the familiar, sordid room, at the magazine pages against the faded wall-paper, at the littered bureau and the littered bed, over which Lise's clothes were flung. It was hot and close even now, in summer it would be stifling. Suddenly a flash of sympathy revealed to her a glimpse of the truth that Lise, too, after her own nature, sought beauty and freedom! Never did she come as near comprehending Lise as in such moments as this, and when, on dark winter mornings, her sister clung to her, terrified by the siren. Lise was a child, and the thought that she, Janet, was powerless to change her was a part of the tragic tenderness. What would become of Lise? And what would become of her, Janet?... So she clung, desperately, to her sister's hand until at last Lise roused herself, her hair awry, her face puckered and wet with tears and perspiration. "I can't stand it any more--I've just got to go away anywhere," she said, and the cry found an echo in Janet's heart.... But the next morning Lise went back to the Bagatelle, and Janet to the mill.... The fact that Lise's love affairs had not been prospering undoubtedly had something to do with the fit of depression into which she had fallen that evening. A month or so before she had acquired another beau. It was understood by Lise's friends and Lise's family, though not by the gentleman himself, that his position was only temporary or at most probationary; he had not even succeeded to the rights, title, and privileges of the late Mr. Wiley, though occupying a higher position in the social scale--being the agent of a patent lawn sprinkler with an office in Faber Street. "Stick to him and you'll wear diamonds--that's what he tries to put across," was Lise's comment on Mr. Frear's method, and thus Janet gained the impression that her sister's feelings were not deeply involved. "If I thought he'd make good with the sprinkler I might talk business. But say, he's one of those ginks that's always tryin' to beat the bank. He's never done a day's work in his life. Last year he was passing around Foley's magazine, and before that he was with the race track that went out of business because the ministers got nutty over it. Well, he may win out," she added reflectively, "those guys sometimes do put the game on the blink. He sure is a good spender when the orders come in, with a line of talk to make you holler for mercy." Mr. Frear's "line of talk" came wholly, astonishingly, from one side of his mouth--the left side. As a muscular feat it was a triumph. A deaf person on his right side would not have known he was speaking. The effect was secretive, extraordinarily confidential; enabling him to sell sprinklers, it ought to have helped him to make love, so distinctly personal was it, implying as it did that the individual addressed was alone of all the world worthy of consideration. Among his friends it was regarded as an accomplishment, but Lise was critical, especially since he did not look into one's eyes, but gazed off into space, as though he weren't talking at all. She had once inquired if the right side of his face was paralyzed. She permitted him to take her, however, to Gruber's Cafe, to the movies, and one or two select dance halls, and to Slattery's Riverside Park, where one evening she had encountered the rejected Mr. Wiley. "Say, he was sore!" she told Janet the next morning, relating the incident with relish, "for two cents he would have knocked Charlie over the ropes. I guess he could do it, too, all right." Janet found it curious that Lise should display such vindictiveness toward Mr. Wiley, who was more sinned against than sinning. She was moved to inquire after his welfare. "He's got one of them red motorcycles," said Lise. "He was gay with it too--when we was waiting for the boulevard trolley he opened her up and went right between Charlie and me. I had to laugh. He's got a job over in Haverhill you can't hold that guy under water long." Apparently Lise had no regrets. But her premonitions concerning Mr. Frear proved to be justified. He did not "make good." One morning the little office on Faber Street where the sprinklers were displayed was closed, Hampton knew him no more, and the police alone were sincerely regretful. It seemed that of late he had been keeping all the money for the sprinklers, and spending a good deal of it on Lise. At the time she accepted the affair with stoical pessimism, as one who has learned what to expect of the world, though her moral sense was not profoundly disturbed by the reflection that she had indulged in the delights of Slattery's and Gruber's and a Sunday at "the Beach" at the expense of the Cascade Sprinkler Company of Boston. Mr. Frear inconsiderately neglected to prepare her for his departure, the news of which was conveyed to her in a singular manner, and by none other than Mr. Johnny Tiernan of the tin shop,--their conversation throwing some light, not only on Lise's sophistication, but on the admirable and intricate operation of Hampton's city government. About five o'clock Lise was coming home along Fillmore Street after an uneventful, tedious and manless holiday spent in the company of Miss Schuler and other friends when she perceived Mr. Tiernan seated on his steps, grinning and waving a tattered palm-leaf fan. "The mercury is sure on the jump," he observed. "You'd think it was July." And Lise agreed. "I suppose you'll be going to Tim Slattery's place tonight," he went on. "It's the coolest spot this side of the Atlantic Ocean." There was, apparently, nothing cryptic in this remark, yet it is worth noting that Lise instantly became suspicious. "Why would I be going out there?" she inquired innocently, darting at him a dark, coquettish glance. Mr. Tiernan regarded her guilelessly, but there was admiration in his soul; not because of her unquestioned feminine attractions,--he being somewhat amazingly proof against such things,--but because it was conveyed to him in some unaccountable way that her suspicions were aroused. The brain beneath that corkscrew hair was worthy of a Richelieu. Mr. Tiernan's estimate of Miss Lise Bumpus, if he could have been induced to reveal it, would have been worth listening to. "And why wouldn't you?" he replied heartily. "Don't I see all the pretty young ladies out there, including yourself, and you dancing with the Cascade man. Why is it you'll never give me a dance?" "Why is it you never ask me?" demanded Lise. "What chance have I got, against him?" "He don't own me," said Lise. Mr. Tiernan threw back his head, and laughed. "Well, if you're there to-night, tangoin' with him and I come up and says, `Miss Bumpus, the pleasure is mine,' I'm wondering what would happen." "I'm not going to Slattery's to-night," she declared having that instant arrived at this conclusion. "And where then? I'll come along, if there's a chance for me." "Quit your kidding," Lise reproved him. Mr. Tiernan suddenly looked very solemn: "Kidding, is it? Me kiddin' you? Give me a chance, that's all I'm asking. Where will you be, now?" "Is Frear wanted?" she demanded. Mr. Tiernan's expression changed. His nose seemed to become more pointed, his eyes to twinkle more merrily than ever. He didn't take the trouble, now, to conceal his admiration. "Sure, Miss Bumpus," he said, "if you was a man, we'd have you on the force to-morrow." "What's he wanted for?" "Well," said Johnny, "a little matter of sprinklin'. He's been sprinklin' his company's water without a license." She was silent a moment before she exclaimed:--"I ought to have been wise that he was a crook!" "Well," said Johnny consolingly, "there's others that ought to have been wise, too. The Cascade people had no business takin' on a man that couldn't use but half of his mouth." This seemed to Lise a reflection on her judgment. She proceeded to clear herself. "He was nothing to me. He never gave me no rest. He used to come 'round and pester me to go out with him--" "Sure!" interrupted Mr. Tiernan. "Don't I know how it is with the likes of him! A good time's a good time, and no harm in it. But the point is" and here he cocked his nose--"the point is, where is he? Where will he be tonight?" All at once Lise grew vehement, almost tearful. "I don't know--honest to God, I don't. If I did I'd tell you. Last night he said he might be out of town. He didn't say where he was going." She fumbled in her bag, drawing out an imitation lace handkerchief and pressing it to her eyes. "There now!" exclaimed Mr. Tiernan, soothingly. "How would you know? And he deceivin' you like he did the company--" "He didn't deceive me," cried Lise. "Listen," said Mr. Tiernan, who had risen and laid his hand on her arm. "It's not young ladies like you that works and are self-respecting that any one would be troublin', and you the daughter of such a fine man as your father. Run along, now, I won't be detaining you, Miss Bumpus, and you'll accept my apology. I guess we'll never see him in Hampton again...." Some twenty minutes later he sauntered down the street, saluting acquaintances, and threading his way across the Common entered a grimy brick building where a huge policeman with an insignia on his arm was seated behind a desk. Mr. Tiernan leaned on the desk, and reflectively lighted a Thomas-Jefferson-Five-Cent Cigar, Union Label, the excellencies of which were set forth on large signs above the "ten foot" buildings on Faber Street. "She don't know nothing, Mike," he remarked. "I guess he got wise this morning." The sergeant nodded.... CHAPTER V To feel potential within one's self the capacity to live and yet to have no means of realizing this capacity is doubtless one of the least comfortable and agreeable of human experiences. Such, as summer came on, was Janet's case. The memory of that visit to Silliston lingered in her mind, sometimes to flare up so vividly as to make her existence seem unbearable. How wonderful, she thought, to be able to dwell in such a beautiful place, to have as friends and companions such amusing and intelligent people as the stranger with whom she had talked! Were all the inhabitants of Silliston like him? They must be, since it was a seat of learning. Lise's cry, "I've just got to go away, anywhere," found an echo in Janet's soul. Why shouldn't she go away? She was capable of taking care of herself, she was a good stenographer, her salary had been raised twice in two years,--why should she allow consideration for her family to stand in the way of what she felt would be self realization? Unconsciously she was a true modern in that the virtues known as duty and self sacrifice did not appeal to her,--she got from them neither benefit nor satisfaction, she understood instinctively that they were impeding to growth. Unlike Lise, she was able to see life as it is, she did not expect of it miracles, economic or matrimonial. Nothing would happen unless she made it happen. She was twenty-one, earning nine dollars a week, of which she now contributed five to the household,--her father, with characteristic incompetence, having taken out a larger insurance policy than he could reasonably carry. Of the remaining four dollars she spent more than one on lunches, there were dresses and underclothing, shoes and stockings to buy, in spite of darning and mending; little treats with Eda that mounted up; and occasionally the dentist--for Janet would not neglect her teeth as Lise neglected hers. She managed to save something, but it was very little. And she was desperately unhappy when she contemplated the grey and monotonous vista of the years ahead, saw herself growing older and older, driven always by the stern necessity of accumulating a margin against possible disasters; little by little drying up, losing, by withering disuse, those rich faculties of enjoyment with which she was endowed, and which at once fascinated and frightened her. Marriage, in such an environment, offered no solution; marriage meant dependence, from which her very nature revolted: and in her existence, drab and necessitous though it were, was still a remnant of freedom that marriage would compel her to surrender.... One warm evening, oppressed by such reflections, she had started home when she remembered having left her bag in the office, and retraced her steps. As she turned the corner of West Street, she saw, beside the canal and directly in front of the bridge, a new and smart-looking automobile, painted crimson and black, of the type known as a runabout, which she recognized as belonging to Mr. Ditmar. Indeed, at that moment Mr. Ditmar himself was stepping off the end of the bridge and about to start the engine when, dropping the crank, he walked to the dashboard and apparently became absorbed in some mechanisms there. Was it the glance cast in her direction that had caused him to delay his departure? Janet was seized by a sudden and rather absurd desire to retreat, but Canal Street being empty, such an action would appear eccentric, and she came slowly forward, pretending not to see her employer, ridiculing to herself the idea that he had noticed her. Much to her annoyance, however, her embarrassment persisted, and she knew it was due to the memory of certain incidents, each in itself almost negligible, but cumulatively amounting to a suspicion that for some months he had been aware of her: many times when he had passed through the outer office she had felt his eyes upon her, had been impelled to look up from her work to surprise in them a certain glow to make her bow her head again in warm confusion. Now, as she approached him, she was pleasantly but rather guiltily conscious of the more rapid beating of the blood that precedes an adventure, yet sufficiently self-possessed to note the becoming nature of the light flannel suit axed rather rakish Panama he had pushed back from his forehead. It was not until she had almost passed him that he straightened up, lifted the Panama, tentatively, and not too far, startling her. "Good afternoon, Miss Bumpus," he said. "I thought you had gone." "I left my bag in the office," she replied, with the outward calmness that rarely deserted her--the calmness, indeed, that had piqued him and was leading him on to rashness. "Oh," he said. "Simmons will get it for you." Simmons was the watchman who stood in the vestibule of the office entrance. "Thanks. I can get it myself," she told him, and would have gone on had he not addressed her again. "I was just starting out for a spin. What do you think of the car? It's good looking, isn't it?" He stood off and surveyed it, laughing a little, and in his laugh she detected a note apologetic, at variance with the conception she had formed of his character, though not alien, indeed, to the dust-coloured vigour of the man. She scarcely recognized Ditmar as he stood there, yet he excited her, she felt from him an undercurrent of something that caused her inwardly to tremble. "See how the lines are carried through." He indicated this by a wave of his hand, but his eyes were now on her. "It is pretty," she agreed. In contrast to the defensive tactics which other ladies of his acquaintance had adopted, tactics of a patently coy and coquettish nature, this self-collected manner was new and spicy, challenging to powers never as yet fully exerted while beneath her manner he felt throbbing that rare and dangerous thing in women, a temperament, for which men have given their souls. This conviction of her possession of a temperament,--he could not have defined the word, emotional rather than intellectual, produced the apologetic attitude she was quick to sense. He had never been, at least during his maturity, at a loss with the other sex, and he found the experience delicious. "You like pretty things, I'm sure of that," he hazarded. But she did not ask him how he knew, she simply assented. He raised the hood, revealing the engine. "Isn't that pretty? See how nicely everything is adjusted in that little space to do the particular work for which it is designed." Thus appealed to, she came forward and stopped, still standing off a little way, but near enough to see, gazing at the shining copper caps on the cylinders, at the bright rods and gears. "It looks intricate," said Mr. Ditmar, "but really it's very simple. The gasoline comes in here from the tank behind--this is called the carburetor, it has a jet to vaporize the gasoline, and the vapour is sucked into each of these cylinders in turn when the piston moves--like this." He sought to explain the action of the piston. "That compresses it, and then a tiny electric spark comes just at the right moment to explode it, and the explosion sends the piston down again, and turns the shaft. Well, all four cylinders have an explosion one right after another, and that keeps the shaft going." Whereupon the most important personage in Hampton, the head of the great Chippering Mill proceeded, for the benefit of a humble assistant stenographer, to remove the floor boards behind the dash. "There's the shaft, come here and look at it." She obeyed, standing beside him, almost touching him, his arm, indeed, brushing her sleeve, and into his voice crept a tremor. "The shaft turns the rear wheels by means of a gear at right angles on the axle, and the rear wheels drive the car. Do you see?" "Yes," she answered faintly, honesty compelling her to add: "a little." He was looking, now, not at the machinery, but intently at her, and she could feel the blood flooding into her cheeks and temples. She was even compelled for an instant to return his glance, and from his eyes into hers leaped a flame that ran scorching through her body. Then she knew with conviction that the explanation of the automobile had been an excuse; she had comprehended almost nothing of it, but she had been impressed by the facility with which he described it, by his evident mastery over it. She had noticed his hands, how thick his fingers were and close together; yet how deftly he had used them, without smearing the cuffs of his silk shirt or the sleeves of his coat with the oil that glistened everywhere. "I like machinery," he told her as he replaced the boards. "I like to take care of it myself." "It must be interesting," she assented, aware of the inadequacy of the remark, and resenting in herself an inarticulateness seemingly imposed by inhibition connected with his nearness. Fascination and antagonism were struggling within her. Her desire to get away grew desperate. "Thank you for showing it to me." With an effort of will she moved toward the bridge, but was impelled by a consciousness of the abruptness of her departure to look back at him once--and smile, to experience again the thrill of the current he sped after her. By lifting his hat, a little higher, a little more confidently than in the first instance, he made her leaving seem more gracious, the act somehow conveying an acknowledgment on his part that their relationship had changed. Once across the bridge and in the mill, she fairly ran up the stairs and into the empty office, to perceive her bag lying on the desk where she had left it, and sat down for a few minutes beside the window, her heart pounding in her breast as though she had barely escaped an accident threatening her with physical annihilation. Something had happened to her at last! But what did it mean? Where would it lead? Her fear, her antagonism, of which she was still conscious, her resentment that Ditmar had thus surreptitiously chosen to approach her in a moment when they were unobserved were mingled with a throbbing exultation in that he had noticed her, that there was something in her to attract him in that way, to make his voice thicker and his smile apologetic when he spoke to her. Of that "something-in-her" she had been aware before, but never had it been so unmistakably recognized and beckoned to from without. She was at once terrified, excited--and flattered. At length, growing calmer, she made her way out of the building. When she reached the vestibule she had a moment of sharp apprehension, of paradoxical hope, that Ditmar might still be there, awaiting her. But he had gone.... In spite of her efforts to dismiss the matter from her mind, to persuade herself there had been no significance in the encounter, when she was seated at her typewriter the next morning she experienced a renewal of the palpitation of the evening before, and at the sound of every step in the corridor she started. Of this tendency she was profoundly ashamed. And when at last Ditmar arrived, though the blood rose to her temples, she kept her eyes fixed on the keys. He went quickly into his room: she was convinced he had not so much as glanced at her.... As the days went by, however, she was annoyed by the discovery that his continued ignoring of her presence brought more resentment than relief, she detected in it a deliberation implying between them a guilty secret: she hated secrecy, though secrecy contained a thrill. Then, one morning when she was alone in the office with young Caldwell, who was absorbed in some reports, Ditmar entered unexpectedly and looked her full in the eyes, surprising her into answering his glance before she could turn away, hating herself and hating him. Hate, she determined, was her prevailing sentiment in regard to Mr. Ditmar. The following Monday Miss Ottway overtook her, at noon, on the stairs. "Janet, I wanted to speak to you, to tell you I'm leaving," she said. "Leaving!" repeated Janet, who had regarded Miss Ottway as a fixture. "I'm going to Boston," Miss Ottway explained, in her deep, musical voice. "I've always wanted to go, I have an unmarried sister there of whom I'm very fond, and Mr. Ditmar knows that. He's got me a place with the Treasurer, Mr. Semple." "Oh, I'm sorry you're going, though of course I'm glad for you," Janet said sincerely, for she liked and respected Miss Ottway, and was conscious in the older woman of a certain kindly interest. "Janet, I've recommended you to Mr. Ditmar for my place." "Oh!" cried Janet, faintly. "It was he who asked about you, he thinks you are reliable and quick and clever, and I was very glad to say a good word for you, my dear, since I could honestly do so." Miss Ottway drew Janet's arm through hers and patted it affectionately. "Of course you'll have to expect some jealousy, there are older women in the other offices who will think they ought to have the place, but if you attend to your own affairs, as you always have done, there won't be any trouble." "Oh, I won't take the place, I can't!" Janet cried, so passionately that Miss Ottway looked at her in surprise. "I'm awfully grateful to you," she added, flushing crimson, "I--I'm afraid I'm not equal to it." "Nonsense," said the other with decision. "You'd be very foolish not to try it. You won't get as much as I do, at first, at any rate, but a little more money won't be unwelcome, I guess. Mr. Ditmar will speak to you this afternoon. I leave on Saturday. I'm real glad to do you a good turn, Janet, and I know you'll get along," Miss Ottway added impulsively as they parted at the corner of Faber Street. "I've always thought a good deal of you." For awhile Janet stood still, staring after the sturdy figure of her friend, heedless of the noonday crowd that bumped her. Then she went to Grady's Quick Lunch Counter and ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk, which she consumed slowly, profoundly sunk in thought. Presently Eda Rawle arrived, and noticing her preoccupation, inquired what was the matter. "Nothing," said Janet.... At two o'clock, when Ditmar returned to the office, he called Miss Ottway, who presently came out to summon Janet to his presence. Fresh, immaculate, yet virile in his light suit and silk shirt with red stripes, he was seated at his desk engaged in turning over some papers in a drawer. He kept her waiting a moment, and then said, with apparent casualness:--"Is that you, Miss Bumpus? Would you mind closing the door?" Janet obeyed, and again stood before him. He looked up. A suggestion of tenseness in her pose betraying an inner attitude of alertness, of defiance, conveyed to him sharply and deliciously once more the panther-like impression he had received when first, as a woman, she had come to his notice. The renewed and heightened perception of this feral quality in her aroused a sense of danger by no means unpleasurable, though warning him that he was about to take an unprecedented step, being drawn beyond the limits of caution he had previously set for himself in divorcing business and sex. Though he was by no means self-convinced of an intention to push the adventure, preferring to leave its possibilities open, he strove in voice and manner to be business-like; and instinct, perhaps, whispered that she might take alarm. "Sit down, Miss Bumpus," he said pleasantly, as he closed the drawer. She seated herself on an office chair. "Do you like your work here?" he inquired. "No," said Janet. "Why not?" he demanded, staring at her. "Why should I?" she retorted. "Well--what's the trouble with it? It isn't as hard as it would be in some other places, is it?" "I'm not saying anything against the place." "What, then?" "You asked me if I liked my work. I don't." "Then why do you do it?" he demanded. "To live," she replied. He smiled, but his gesture as he stroked his moustache implied a slight annoyance at her composure. He found it difficult with this dark, self-contained young woman to sustain the role of benefactor. "What kind of work would you like to do?" he demanded. "I don't know. I haven't got the choice, anyway," she said. He observed that she did her work well, to which she made no answer. She refused to help him, although Miss Ottway must have warned her. She acted as though she were conferring the favour. And yet, clearing his throat, he was impelled to say:--"Miss Ottway's leaving me, she's going into the Boston office with Mr. Semple, the treasurer of the corporation. I shall miss her, she's an able and reliable woman, and she knows my ways." He paused, fingering his paper knife. "The fact is, Miss Bumpus, she's spoken highly of you, she tells me you're quick and accurate and painstaking--I've noticed that for myself. She seems to think you could do her work, and recommends that I give you a trial. You understand, of course, that the position is in a way confidential, and that you could not expect at first, at any rate, the salary Miss Ottway has had, but I'm willing to offer you fourteen dollars a week to begin with, and afterwards, if we get along together, to give you more. What do you say?" "I'd like to try it, Mr. Ditmar," Janet said, and added nothing, no word of gratitude or of appreciation to that consent. "Very well then," he replied, "that's settled. Miss Ottway will explain things to you, and tell you about my peculiarities. And when she goes you can take her desk, by the window nearest my door." Ditmar sat idle for some minutes after she had gone, staring through the open doorway into the outer office.... To Ditmar she had given no evidence of the storm his offer had created in her breast, and it was characteristic also that she waited until supper was nearly over to inform her family, making the announcement in a matter-of-fact tone, just as though it were not the unique piece of good fortune that had come to the Bumpuses since Edward had been eliminated from the mercantile establishment at Dolton. The news was received with something like consternation. For the moment Hannah was incapable of speech, and her hand trembled as she resumed the cutting of the pie: but hope surged within her despite her effort to keep it down, her determination to remain true to the fatalism from which she had paradoxically derived so much comfort. The effect on Edward, while somewhat less violent, was temporarily to take away his appetite. Hope, to flower in him, needed but little watering. Great was his faith in the Bumpus blood, and secretly he had always regarded his eldest daughter as the chosen vessel for their redemption. "Well, I swan!" he exclaimed, staring at her in admiration and neglecting his pie, "I've always thought you had it in you to get on, Janet. I guess I've told you you've always put me in mind of Eliza Bumpus--the one that held out against the Indians till her husband came back with the neighbours. I was just reading about her again the other night." "Yes, you've told us, Edward," said Hannah. "She had gumption," he went on, undismayed. "And from what I can gather of her looks I calculate you favour her--she was dark and not so very tall--not so tall as you, I guess. So you're goin'" (he pronounced it very slowly) "you're goin' to be Mr. Ditmar's private stenographer! He's a smart man, Mr. Ditmar, he's a good man, too. All you've got to do is to behave right by him. He always speaks to me when he passes by the gate. I was sorry for him when his wife died--a young woman, too. And he's never married again! Well, I swan!" "You'd better quit swanning," exclaimed Hannah. "And what's Mr. Ditmar's goodness got to do with it? He's found-out Janet has sense, she's willing and hard working, he won't" (pronounced want) "he won't be the loser by it, and he's not giving her what he gave Miss Ottway. It's just like you, thinking he's doing her a good turn." "I'm not saying Janet isn't smart," he protested, "but I know it's hard to get work with so many folks after every job." "Maybe it ain't so hard when you've got some get-up and go," Hannah retorted rather cruelly. It was thus characteristically and with unintentional sharpness she expressed her maternal pride by a reflection not only upon Edward, but Lise also. Janet had grown warm at the mention of Ditmar's name. "It was Miss Ottway who recommended me," she said, glancing at her sister, who during this conversation had sat in silence. Lise's expression, normally suggestive of a discontent not unbecoming to her type, had grown almost sullen. Hannah's brisk gathering up of the dishes was suddenly arrested. "Lise, why don't you say something to your sister? Ain't you glad she's got the place?" "Sure, I'm glad," said Lise, and began to unscrew the top of the salt shaker. "I don't see why I couldn't get a raise, too. I work just as hard as she does." Edward, who had never got a "raise" in his life, was smitten with compunction and sympathy. "Give 'em time, Lise," he said consolingly. "You ain't so old as Janet." "Time!" she cried, flaring up and suddenly losing her control. "I've got a picture of Waiters giving me a raise I know the girls that get raises from him." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," Hannah declared. "There--you've spilled the salt!" But Lise, suddenly bursting into tears, got up and left the room. Edward picked up the Banner and pretended to read it, while Janet collected the salt and put it back into the shaker. Hannah, gathering up the rest of the dishes, disappeared into the kitchen, but presently returned, as though she had forgotten something. "Hadn't you better go after her?" she said to Janet. "I'm afraid it won't be any use. She's got sort of queer, lately--she thinks they're down on her." "I'm sorry I spoke so sharp. But then--" Hannah shook her head, and her sentence remained unfinished. Janet sought her sister, but returned after a brief interval, with the news that Lise had gone out. One of the delights of friendship, as is well known, is the exchange of confidences of joy or sorrow, but there was, in Janet's promotion, something intensely personal to increase her natural reserve. Her feelings toward Ditmar were so mingled as to defy analysis, and several days went by before she could bring herself to inform Eda Rawle of the new business relationship in which she stood to the agent of the Chippering Mill. The sky was still bright as they walked out Warren Street after supper, Eda bewailing the trials of the day just ended: Mr. Frye, the cashier of the bank, had had one of his cantankerous fits, had found fault with her punctuation, nothing she had done had pleased him. But presently, when they had come to what the Banner called the "residential district," she was cheered by the sight of the green lawns, the flowerbeds and shrubbery, the mansions of those inhabitants of Hampton unfamiliar with boardinghouses and tenements. Before one of these she paused, retaining Janet by the arm, exclaiming wistfully: "Wouldn't you like to live there? That belongs to your boss." Janet, who had been dreaming as she gazed at the facade of rough stucco that once had sufficed to fill the ambitions of the late Mrs. Ditmar, recognized it as soon as Eda spoke, and dragged her friend hastily, almost roughly along the sidewalk until they had reached the end of the block. Janet was red. "What's the matter?" demanded Eda, as soon as she had recovered from her surprise. "Nothing," said Janet. "Only--I'm in his office." "But what of it? You've got a right to look at his house, haven't you?" "Why yes,--a right," Janet assented. Knowing Eda's ambitions for her were not those of a business career, she was in terror lest her friend should scent a romance, and for this reason she had never spoken of the symptoms Ditmar had betrayed. She attempted to convey to Eda the doubtful taste of staring point-blank at the house of one's employer, especially when he might be concealed behind a curtain. "You see," she added, "Miss Ottway's recommended me for her place--she's going away." "Janet!" cried Eda. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Well," said Janet guiltily, "it's only a trial. I don't know whether he'll keep me or not." "Of course he'll keep you," said Eda, warmly. "If that isn't just like you, not saying a word about it. Gee, if I'd had a raise like that I just couldn't wait to tell you. But then, I'm not smart like you." "Don't be silly," said Janet, out of humour with herself, and annoyed because she could not then appreciate Eda's generosity. "We've just got to celebrate!" declared Eda, who had the gift, which Janet lacked, of taking her joys vicariously; and her romantic and somewhat medieval proclivities would permit no such momentous occasion to pass without an appropriate festal symbol. "We'll have a spree on Saturday--the circus is coming then." "It'll be my spree," insisted Janet, her heart warming. "I've got the raise...." On Saturday, accordingly, they met at Grady's for lunch, Eda attired in her best blouse of pale blue, and when they emerged from the restaurant, despite the torrid heat, she beheld Faber Street as in holiday garb as they made their way to the cool recesses of Winterhalter's to complete the feast. That glorified drug-store with the five bays included in its manifold functions a department rivalling Delmonico's, with electric fans and marble-topped tables and white-clad waiters who took one's order and filled it at the soda fountain. It mattered little to Eda that the young man awaiting their commands had pimples and long hair and grinned affectionately as he greeted them. "Hello, girls!" he said. "What strikes you to-day?" "Me for a raspberry nut sundae," announced Eda, and Janet, being unable to imagine any more delectable confection, assented. The penetrating odour peculiar to drugstores, dominated by menthol and some unnamable but ancient remedy for catarrh, was powerless to interfere with their enjoyment. The circus began at two. Rather than cling to the straps of a crowded car they chose to walk, following the familiar route of the trolley past the car barns and the base-ball park to the bare field under the seared face of Torrey's Hill, where circuses were wont to settle. A sirocco-like breeze from the southwest whirled into eddies the clouds of germ-laden dust stirred up by the automobiles, blowing their skirts against their legs, and sometimes they were forced to turn, clinging to their hats, confused and giggling, conscious of male glances. The crowd, increasing as they proceeded, was in holiday mood; young men with a newly-washed aspect, in Faber Street suits, chaffed boisterously groups of girls, who retorted with shrill cries and shrieks of laughter; amorous couples strolled, arm in arm, oblivious, as though the place were as empty as Eden; lady-killers with exaggerated square shoulders, wearing bright neckties, their predatory instincts alert, hovered about in eager search of adventure. There were men-killers, too, usually to be found in pairs, in startling costumes they had been persuaded were the latest Paris models,--imitations of French cocottes in Hampton, proof of the smallness of our modern world. Eda regarded them superciliously. "They'd like you to think they'd never been near a loom or a bobbin!" she exclaimed. In addition to these more conspicuous elements, the crowd contained sober operatives of the skilled sort possessed of sufficient means to bring hither their families, including the baby; there were section-hands and foremen, slashers, mule spinners, beamers, French-Canadians, Irish, Scotch, Welsh and English, Germans, with only an occasional Italian, Lithuanian, or Jew. Peanut and popcorn men, venders of tamales and Chile-con-carne hoarsely shouted their wares, while from afar could be heard the muffled booming of a band. Janet's heart beat faster. She regarded with a tinge of awe the vast expanse of tent that rose before her eyes, the wind sending ripples along the heavy canvas from circumference to tent pole. She bought the tickets; they entered the circular enclosure where the animals were kept; where the strong beams of the sun, in trying to force their way through the canvas roof, created an unnatural, jaundiced twilight, the weirdness of which was somehow enhanced by the hoarse, amazingly penetrating growls of beasts. Suddenly a lion near them raised a shaggy head, emitting a series of undulating, soul-shaking roars. "Ah, what's eatin' you?" demanded a thick-necked youth, pretending not to be awestricken by this demonstration. "Suppose he'd get out!" cried Eda, drawing Janet away. "I wouldn't let him hurt you, dearie," the young man assured her. "You!" she retorted contemptuously, but grinned in spite of herself, showing her gums. The vague feeling of terror inspired by this tent was a part of its fascination, for it seemed pregnant with potential tragedies suggested by the juxtaposition of helpless babies and wild beasts, the babies crying or staring in blank amazement at padding tigers whose phosphorescent eyes never left these morsels beyond the bars. The two girls wandered about, their arms closely locked, but the strange atmosphere, the roars of the beasts, the ineffable, pungent odour of the circus, of sawdust mingled with the effluvia of animals, had aroused an excitement that was slow in subsiding. Some time elapsed before they were capable of taking a normal interest in the various exhibits. "`Adjutant Bird,'" Janet read presently from a legend on one of the compartments of a cage devoted to birds, and surveying the somewhat dissolute occupant. "Why, he's just like one of those tall mashers who stay at the Wilmot and stand on the sidewalk,--travelling men, you know." "Say-isn't he?" Eda agreed. "Isn't he pleased with himself, and his feet crossed!" "And see this one, Eda--he's a 'Harpy Eagle.' There's somebody we know looks just like that. Wait a minute--I'll tell you--it's the woman who sits in the cashier's cage at Grady's." "If it sure isn't!" said Eda. "She has the same fluffy, light hair--hairpins can't keep it down, and she looks at you in that same sort of surprised way with her head on one side when you hand in your check." "Why, it's true to the life!" cried Eda enthusiastically. "She thinks she's got all the men cinched,--she does and she's forty if she's a day." These comparisons brought them to a pitch of risible enjoyment amply sustained by the spectacle in the monkey cage, to which presently they turned. A chimpanzee, with a solicitation more than human, was solemnly searching a friend for fleas in the midst of a pandemonium of chattering and screeching and chasing, of rattling of bars and trapezes carried on by their companions. "Well, young ladies," said a voice, "come to pay a call on your relations--have ye?" Eda giggled hysterically. An elderly man was standing beside them. He was shabbily dressed, his own features were wizened, almost simian, and by his friendly and fatuous smile Janet recognized one of the harmless obsessed in which Hampton abounded. "Relations!" Eda exclaimed. "You and me, yes, and her," he answered, looking at Janet, though at first he had apparently entertained some doubt as to this inclusion, "we're all descended from them." His gesture triumphantly indicated the denizens of the cage. "What are you giving us?" said Eda. "Ain't you never read Darwin?" he demanded. "If you had, you'd know they're our ancestors, you'd know we came from them instead of Adam and Eve. That there's a fable." "I'll never believe I came from them," cried Eda, vehement in her disgust. But Janet laughed. "What's the difference? Some of us aren't any better than monkeys, anyway." "That's so," said the man approvingly. "That's so." He wanted to continue the conversation, but they left him rather ruthlessly. And when, from the entrance to the performance tent, they glanced back over their shoulders, he was still gazing at his cousins behind the bars, seemingly deriving an acute pleasure from his consciousness of the connection.... CHAPTER VI Modern business, by reason of the mingling of the sexes it involves, for the playwright and the novelist and the sociologist is full of interesting and dramatic situations, and in it may be studied, undoubtedly, one phase of the evolution tending to transform if not disintegrate certain institutions hitherto the corner-stones of society. Our stage is set. A young woman, conscious of ability, owes her promotion primarily to certain dynamic feminine qualities with which she is endowed. And though she may make an elaborate pretense of ignoring the fact, in her heart she knows and resents it, while at the same time, paradoxically, she gets a thrill from it,--a sustaining and inspiring thrill of power! On its face it is a business arrangement; secretly,--attempt to repudiate this as one may,--it is tinged with the colours of high adventure. When Janet entered into the intimate relationship with Mr. Claude Ditmar necessitated by her new duties as his private stenographer her attitude, slightly defiant, was the irreproachable one of a strict attention to duty. All unconsciously she was a true daughter of the twentieth century, and probably a feminist at heart, which is to say that her conduct was determined by no preconceived or handed-down notions of what was proper and lady-like. For feminism, in a sense, is a return to atavism, and sex antagonism and sex attraction are functions of the same thing. There were moments when she believed herself to hate Mr. Ditmar, when she treated him with an aloofness, an impersonality unsurpassed; moments when he paused in his dictation to stare at her in astonishment. He, who flattered himself that he understood women! She would show him!--such was her dominating determination. Her promotion assumed the guise of a challenge, of a gauntlet flung down at the feet of her sex. In a certain way, an insult, though incredibly stimulating. If he flattered himself that he had done her a favour, if he entertained the notion that he could presently take advantage of the contact with her now achieved to make unbusinesslike advances--well, he would find out. He had proclaimed his desire for an able assistant in Miss Ottway's place--he would get one, and nothing more. She watched narrowly, a l'affut, as the French say, for any signs of sentiment, and indeed this awareness of her being on guard may have had some influence on Mr. Ditmar's own attitude, likewise irreproachable.... A rather anaemic young woman, a Miss Annie James, was hired for Janet's old place. In spite of this aloofness and alertness, for the first time in her life Janet felt the exuberance of being in touch with affairs of import. Hitherto the mill had been merely a greedy monster claiming her freedom and draining her energies in tasks routine, such as the copying of meaningless documents and rows of figures; now, supplied with stimulus and a motive, the Corporation began to take on significance, and she flung herself into the work with an ardour hitherto unknown, determined to make herself so valuable to Ditmar that the time would come when he could not do without her. She strove to memorize certain names and addresses, lest time be lost in looking them up, to familiarize herself with the ordinary run of his correspondence, to recall what letters were to be marked "personal," to anticipate matters of routine, in order that he might not have the tedium of repeating instructions; she acquired the faculty of keeping his engagements in her head; she came early to the office, remaining after hours, going through the files, becoming familiar with his system; and she learned to sort out his correspondence, sifting the important from the unimportant, to protect him, more and more, from numerous visitors who called only to waste his time. Her instinct for the detection of book-agents, no matter how brisk and businesslike they might appear, was unerring--she remembered faces and the names belonging to them: an individual once observed to be persona non grata never succeeded in passing her twice. On one occasion Ditmar came out of his office to see the back of one of these visitors disappearing into the corridor. "Who was that?" he asked. "His name is McCalla," she said. "I thought you didn't want to be bothered." "But how in thunder did you get rid of him?" he demanded. "Oh, I just wouldn't let him in," she replied demurely. And Ditmar went away, wondering.... Thus she studied him, without permitting him to suspect it, learning his idiosyncrasies, his attitude toward all those with whom daily he came in contact, only to find herself approving. She was forced to admit that he was a judge of men, compelled to admire his adroitness in dealing with them. He could be democratic or autocratic as occasion demanded; he knew when to yield, and when to remain inflexible. One morning, for instance, there arrived from New York a dapper salesman whose jauntily tied bow, whose thin hair--carefully parted to conceal an incipient baldness--whose wary and slightly weary eyes all impressively suggested the metropolitan atmosphere of high pressure and sophistication from which he had emerged. He had a machine to sell; an amazing machine, endowed with human intelligence and more than human infallibility; for when it made a mistake it stopped. It was designed for the express purpose of eliminating from the payroll the skilled and sharp-eyed women who are known as "drawers-in," who sit all day long under a north light patiently threading the ends of the warp through the heddles of the loom harness. Janet's imagination was gradually fired as she listened to the visitor's eloquence; and the textile industry, which hitherto had seemed to her uninteresting and sordid, took on the colours of romance. "Now I've made up my mind we'll place one with you, Mr. Ditmar," the salesman concluded. "I don't object to telling you we'd rather have one in the Chippering than in any mill in New England." Janet was surprised, almost shocked to see Ditmar shake his head, yet she felt a certain reluctant admiration because he had not been swayed by blandishments. At such moments, when he was bent on refusing a request, he seemed physically to acquire massiveness,--and he had a dogged way of chewing his cigar. "I don't want it, yet," he replied, "not until you improve it." And she was impressed by the fact that he seemed to know as much about the machine as the salesman himself. In spite of protests, denials, appeals, he remained firm. "When you get rid of the defects I've mentioned come back, Mr. Hicks--but don't come back until then." And Mr. Hicks departed, discomfited.... Ditmar knew what he wanted. Of the mill he was the absolute master, familiar with every process, carrying constantly in his mind how many spindles, how many looms were at work; and if anything untoward happened, becoming aware of it by what seemed to Janet a subconscious process, sending for the superintendent of the department: for Mr. Orcutt, perhaps, whose office was across the hall--a tall, lean, spectacled man of fifty who looked like a schoolmaster. "Orcutt, what's the matter with the opener in Cooney's room?" "Why, the blower's out of order." "Well, whose fault is it?".... He knew every watchman and foreman in the mill, and many of the second hands. The old workers, men and women who had been in the Chippering employ through good and bad times for years, had a place in his affections, but toward the labour force in general his attitude was impersonal. The mill had to be run, and people to be got to run it. With him, first and last and always it was the mill, and little by little what had been for Janet a heterogeneous mass of machinery and human beings became unified and personified in Claude Ditmar. It was odd how the essence and quality of that great building had changed for her; how the very roaring of the looms, as she drew near the canal in the mornings, had ceased to be sinister and depressing, but bore now a burden like a great battle song to excite and inspire, to remind her that she had been snatched as by a miracle from the commonplace. And all this was a function of Ditmar. Life had become portentous. And she was troubled by no qualms of logic, but gloried, womanlike, in her lack of it. She did not ask herself why she had deliberately enlarged upon Miss Ottway's duties, invaded debatable ground in part inevitably personal, flung herself with such abandon into the enterprise of his life's passion, at the same time maintaining a deceptive attitude of detachment, half deceiving herself that it was zeal for the work by which she was actuated. In her soul she knew better. She was really pouring fuel on the flames. She read him, up to a certain point--as far as was necessary; and beneath his attempts at self-control she was conscious of a dynamic desire that betrayed itself in many acts and signs,--as when he brushed against her; and occasionally when he gave evidence with his subordinates of a certain shortness of temper unusual with him she experienced a vaguely alarming but delicious thrill of power. And this, of all men, was the great Mr. Ditmar! Was she in love with him? That question did not trouble her either. She continued to experience in his presence waves of antagonism and attraction, revealing to her depths and possibilities of her nature that frightened while they fascinated. It never occurred to her to desist. That craving in her for high adventure was not to be denied. On summer evenings it had been Ditmar's habit when in Hampton to stroll about his lawn, from time to time changing the position of the sprinkler, smoking a cigar, and reflecting pleasantly upon his existence. His house, as he gazed at it against the whitening sky, was an eminently satisfactory abode, his wife was dead, his children gave him no trouble; he felt a glow of paternal pride in his son as the boy raced up and down the sidewalk on a bicycle; George was manly, large and strong for his age, and had a domineering way with other boys that gave Ditmar secret pleasure. Of Amy, who was showing a tendency to stoutness, and who had inherited her mother's liking for candy and romances, Ditmar thought scarcely at all: he would glance at her as she lounged, reading, in a chair on the porch, but she did not come within his range of problems. He had, in short, everything to make a reasonable man content, a life nicely compounded of sustenance, pleasure, and business,--business naturally being the greatest of these. He was--though he did not know it--ethically and philosophically right in squaring his morals with his occupation, and his had been the good fortune to live in a world whose codes and conventions had been carefully adjusted to the pursuit of that particular brand of happiness he had made his own. Why, then, in the name of that happiness, of the peace and sanity and pleasurable effort it had brought him, had he allowed and even encouraged the advent of a new element that threatened to destroy the equilibrium achieved? an element refusing to be classified under the head of property, since it involved something he desired and could not buy? A woman who was not property, who resisted the attempt to be turned into property, was an anomaly in Ditmar's universe. He had not, of course, existed for more than forty years without having heard and read of and even encountered in an acquaintance or two the species of sex attraction sentimentally called love that sometimes made fools of men and played havoc with more important affairs, but in his experience it had never interfered with his sanity or his appetite or the Chippering Mill: it had never made his cigars taste bitter; it had never caused a deterioration in the appreciation of what he had achieved and held. But now he was experiencing strange symptoms of an intensity out of all proportion to that of former relations with the other sex. What was most unusual for him, he was alarmed and depressed, at moments irritable. He regretted the capricious and apparently accidental impulse that had made him pretend to tinker with his automobile that day by the canal, that had led him to the incomparable idiocy of getting rid of Miss Ottway and installing the disturber of his peace as his private stenographer. What the devil was it in her that made him so uncomfortable? When in his office he had difficulty in keeping his mind on matters of import; he would watch her furtively as she went about the room with the lithe and noiseless movements that excited him the more because he suspected beneath her outward and restrained demeanour a fierceness he craved yet feared. He thought of her continually as a panther, a panther he had caught and could not tame; he hadn't even caught her, since she might escape at any time. He took precautions not to alarm her. When she brushed against him he trembled. Continually she baffled and puzzled him, and he never could tell of what she was thinking. She represented a whole set of new and undetermined values for which he had no precedents, and unlike every woman he had known--including his wife--she had an integrity of her own, seemingly beyond the reach of all influences economic and social. All the more exasperating, therefore, was a propinquity creating an intimacy without substance, or without the substance he craved for she had magically become for him a sort of enveloping, protecting atmosphere. In an astonishingly brief time he had fallen into the habit of talking things over with her; naturally not affairs of the first importance, but matters such as the economy of his time: when, for instance, it was most convenient for him to go to Boston; and he would find that she had telephoned, without being told, to the office there when to expect him, to his chauffeur to be on hand. He never had to tell her a thing twice, nor did she interrupt--as Miss Ottway sometimes had done--the processes of his thought. Without realizing it he fell into the habit of listening for the inflections of her voice, and though he had never lacked the power of making decisions, she somehow made these easier for him especially if, a human equation were involved. He had, at least, the consolation--if it were one--of reflecting that his reputation was safe, that there would be no scandal, since two are necessary to make the kind of scandal he had always feared, and Miss Bumpus, apparently, had no intention of being the second party. Yet she was not virtuous, as he had hitherto defined the word. Of this he was sure. No woman who moved about as she did, who had such an effect on him, who had on occasions, though inadvertently, returned the lightning of his glances, whose rare laughter resembled grace notes, and in whose hair was that almost imperceptible kink, could be virtuous. This instinctive conviction inflamed him. For the first time in his life he began to doubt the universal conquering quality of his own charms,--and when such a thing happens to a man like Ditmar he is in danger of hell-fire. He indulged less and less in the convivial meetings and excursions that hitherto had given him relaxation and enjoyment, and if his cronies inquired as to the reasons for his neglect of them he failed to answer with his usual geniality. "Everything going all right up at the mills, Colonel?" he was asked one day by Mr. Madden, the treasurer of a large shoe company, when they met on the marble tiles of the hall in their Boston club. "All right. Why?" "Well," replied Madden, conciliatingly, "you seem kind of preoccupied, that's all. I didn't know but what the fifty-four hour bill the legislature's just put through might be worrying you." "We'll handle that situation when the time comes," said Ditmar. He accepted a gin rickey, but declined rather curtly the suggestion of a little spree over Sunday to a resort on the Cape which formerly he would have found enticing. On another occasion he encountered in the lobby of the Parker House a more intimate friend, Chester Sprole, sallow, self-made, somewhat corpulent, one of those lawyers hail fellows well met in business circles and looked upon askance by the Brahmins of their profession; more than half politician, he had been in Congress, and from time to time was retained by large business interests because of his persuasive gifts with committees of the legislature--though these had been powerless to avert the recent calamity of the women and children's fifty-four hour bill. Mr. Sprole's hair was prematurely white, and the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes were not the result of legal worries. "Hullo, Dit," he said jovially. "Hullo, Ches," said Ditmar. "Now you're the very chap I wanted to see. Where have you been keeping yourself lately? Come out to the farm to-night,--same of the boys'll be there." Mr. Sprole, like many a self-made man, was proud of his farm, though he did not lead a wholly bucolic existence. "I can't, Ches," answered Ditmar. "I've got to go back to Hampton." This statement Mr. Sprole unwisely accepted as a fiction. He took hold of Ditmar's arm. "A lady--eh--what?" "I've got to go back to Hampton," repeated Ditmar, with a suggestion of truculence that took his friend aback. Not for worlds would Mr. Sprole have offended the agent of the Chippering Mill. "I was only joking, Claude," he hastened to explain. Ditmar, somewhat mollified but still dejected, sought the dining-room when the lawyer had gone. "All alone to-night, Colonel?" asked the coloured head waiter, obsequiously. Ditmar demanded a table in the corner, and consumed a solitary meal. Very naturally Janet was aware of the change in Ditmar, and knew the cause of it. Her feelings were complicated. He, the most important man in Hampton, the self-sufficient, the powerful, the hitherto distant and unattainable head of the vast organization known as the Chippering Mill, of which she was an insignificant unit, at times became for her just a man--a man for whom she had achieved a delicious contempt. And the knowledge that she, if she chose, could sway and dominate him by the mere exercise of that strange feminine force within her was intoxicating and terrifying. She read this in a thousand signs; in his glances; in his movements revealing a desire to touch her; in little things he said, apparently insignificant, yet fraught with meaning; in a constant recurrence of the apologetic attitude--so alien to the Ditmar formerly conceived--of which he had given evidence that day by the canal: and from this attitude emanated, paradoxically, a virile and galvanic current profoundly disturbing. Sometimes when he bent over her she experienced a commingled ecstasy and fear that he would seize her in his arms. Yet the tension was not constant, rising and falling with his moods and struggles, all of which she read--unguessed by him--as easily as a printed page by the gift that dispenses with laborious processes of the intellect. On the other hand, a resentment boiled within her his masculine mind failed to fathom. Stevenson said of John Knox that many women had come to learn from him, but he had never condescended to become a learner in return--a remark more or less applicable to Ditmar. She was, perforce, thrilled that he was virile and wanted her, but because he wanted her clandestinely her pride revolted, divining his fear of scandal and hating him for it like a thoroughbred. To do her justice, marriage never occurred to her. She was not so commonplace. There were times, however, when the tension between them would relax, when some incident occurred to focus Ditmar's interest on the enterprise that had absorbed and unified his life, the Chippering Mill. One day in September, for instance, after an absence in New York, he returned to the office late in the afternoon, and she was quick to sense his elation, to recognize in him the restored presence of the quality of elan, of command, of singleness of purpose that had characterized him before she had become his stenographer. At first, as he read his mail, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. She stood by the window, awaiting his pleasure, watching the white mist as it rolled over the floor of the river, catching glimpses in vivid, saffron blurs of the lights of the Arundel Mill on the farther shore. Autumn was at hand. Suddenly she heard Ditmar speaking. "Would you mind staying a little while longer this evening, Miss Bumpus?" "Not at all," she replied, turning. On his face was a smile, almost boyish. "The fact is, I think I've got hold of the biggest single order that ever came into any mill in New England," he declared. "Oh, I'm glad," she said quickly. "The cotton cards--?" he demanded. She knew he referred to the schedules, based on the current prices of cotton, made out in the agent's office and sent in duplicate to the selling house, in Boston. She got them from the shelf; and as he went over them she heard him repeating the names of various goods now become familiar, pongees, poplins, percales and voiles, garbardines and galateas, lawns, organdies, crepes, and Madras shirtings, while he wrote down figures on a sheet of paper. So complete was his absorption in this task that Janet, although she had resented the insinuating pressure of his former attitude toward her, felt a paradoxical sensation of jealousy. Presently, without looking up, he told her to call up the Boston office and ask for Mr. Fraile, the cotton buyer; and she learned from the talk over the telephone though it was mostly about "futures"--that Ditmar had lingered for a conference in Boston on his way back from New York. Afterwards, having dictated two telegrams which she wrote out on her machine, he leaned back in his chair; and though the business for the day was ended, showed a desire to detain her. His mood became communicative. "I've been on the trail of that order for a month," he declared. "Of course it isn't my business to get orders, but to manage this mill, and that's enough for one man, God knows. But I heard the Bradlaughs were in the market for these goods, and I told the selling house to lie low, that I'd go after it. I knew I could get away with it, if anybody could. I went to the Bradlaughs and sat down on 'em, I lived with 'em, ate with 'em, brought 'em home at night. I didn't let 'em alone a minute until they handed it over. I wasn't going to give any other mill in New England or any of those southern concerns a chance to walk off with it--not on your life! Why, we have the facilities. There isn't another mill in the country can turn it out in the time they ask, and even we will have to go some to do it. But we'll do it, by George, unless I'm struck by lightning." He leaned forward, hitting the desk with his fist, and Janet, standing beside him, smiled. She had the tempting gift of silence. Forgetting her twinge of jealousy, she was drawn toward him now, and in this mood of boyish exuberance, of self-confidence and pride in his powers and success she liked him better than ever before. She had, for the first time, the curious feeling of being years older than he, yet this did not detract from a new-born admiration. "I made this mill, and I'm proud of it," he went on. "When old Stephen Chippering put me in charge he was losing money, he'd had three agents in four years. The old man knew I had it in me, and I knew it, if I do say it myself. All this union labour talk about shorter hours makes me sick--why, there was a time when I worked ten and twelve hours a day, and I'm man enough to do it yet, if I have to. When the last agent--that was Cort--was sacked I went to Boston on my own hook and tackled the old gentleman--that's the only way to get anywhere. I couldn't bear to see the mill going to scrap, and I told him a thing or two,--I had the facts and the figures. Stephen Chippering was a big man, but he had a streak of obstinacy in him, he was conservative, you bet. I had to get it across to him there was a lot of dead wood in this plant, I had to wake him up to the fact that the twentieth century was here. He had to be shown--he was from Boston, you know--" Ditmar laughed--"but he was all wool and a yard wide, and he liked me and trusted me. "That was in nineteen hundred. I can remember the interview as well as if it had happened last night--we sat up until two o'clock in the morning in that library of his with the marble busts and the leather-bound books and the double windows looking out over the Charles, where the wind was blowing a gale. And at last he said, `All right, Claude, go ahead. I'll put you in as agent, and stand behind you.' And by thunder, he did stand behind me. He was quiet, the finest looking old man I ever saw in my life, straight as a ramrod, with a little white goatee and a red, weathered face full of creases, and a skin that looked as if it had been pricked all over with needles--the old Boston sort. They don't seem to turn 'em out any more. Why, I have a picture of him here." He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a photograph. Janet gazed at it sympathetically. "It doesn't give you any notion of those eyes of his," Ditmar said, reminiscently. "They looked right through a man's skull, no matter how thick it was. If anything went wrong, I never wasted any time in telling him about it, and I guess it was one reason he liked me. Some of the people up here didn't understand him, kow-towed to him, they were scared of him, and if he thought they had something up their sleeves he looked as if he were going to eat 'em alive. Regular fighting eyes, the kind that get inside of a man and turn the light on. And he sat so still--made you ashamed of yourself. Well, he was a born fighter, went from Harvard into the Rebellion and was left for dead at Seven Oaks, where one of the company found him and saved him. He set that may up for life, and never talked about it, either. See what he wrote on the bottom--'To my friend, Claude Ditmar, Stephen Chippering.' And believe me, when he once called a man a friend he never took it back. I know one thing, I'll never get another friend like him." With a gesture that gave her a new insight into Ditmar, reverently he took the picture from her hand and placed it back in the drawer. She was stirred, almost to tears, and moved away from him a little, as though to lessen by distance the sudden attraction he had begun to exert: yet she lingered, half leaning, half sitting on the corner of the big desk, her head bent toward him, her eyes filled with light. She was wondering whether he could ever love a woman as he loved this man of whom he had spoken, whether he could be as true to a woman. His own attitude seemed never to have been more impersonal, but she had ceased to resent it; something within her whispered that she was the conductor, the inspirer.. "I wish Stephen Chippering could have lived to see this order," he exclaimed, "to see the Chippering Mill to-day! I guess he'd be proud of it, I guess he wouldn't regret having put me in as agent." Janet did not reply. She could not. She sat regarding him intently, and when he raised his eyes and caught her luminous glance, his expression changed, she knew Stephen Chippering had passed from his mind. "I hope you like it here," he said. His voice had become vibrant, ingratiating, he had changed from the master to the suppliant--and yet she was not displeased. Power had suddenly flowed back into her, and with it an exhilarating self-command. "I do like it," she answered. "But you said, when I asked you to be my stenographer, that you didn't care for your work." "Oh, this is different." "How?" "I'm interested, the mill means something to me now you see, I'm not just copying things I don't know anything about." "I'm glad you're interested," he said, in the same odd, awkward tone. "I've never had any one in the office who did my work as well. Now Miss Ottway was a good stenographer, she was capable, and a fine woman, but she never got the idea, the spirit of the mill in her as you've got it, and she wasn't able to save me trouble, as you do. It's remarkable how you've come to understand, and in such a short time." Janet coloured. She did not look at him, but had risen and begun to straighten out the papers beside her. "There are lots of other things I'd like to understand," she said. "What?" he demanded. "Well--about the mill. I never thought much about it before, I always hated it," she cried, dropping the papers and suddenly facing him. "It was just drudgery. But now I want to learn everything, all I can, I'd like to see the machinery." "I'll take you through myself--to-morrow," he declared. His evident agitation made her pause. They were alone, the outer office deserted, and the Ditmar she saw now, whom she had summoned up with ridiculous ease by virtue of that mysterious power within her, was no longer the agent of the Chippering Mill, a boy filled with enthusiasm by a business achievement, but a man, the incarnation and expression of masculine desire desire for her. She knew she could compel him, if she chose, to throw caution to the winds. "Oh no!" she exclaimed. She was afraid of him, she shrank from such a conspicuous sign of his favour. "Why not?" he asked. "Because I don't want you to," she said, and realized, as soon as she had spoken, that her words might imply the existence of a something between them never before hinted at by her. "I'll get Mr. Caldwell to take me through." She moved toward the door, and turned; though still on fire within, her manner had become demure, repressed. "Did you wish anything more this evening?" she inquired. "That's all," he said, and she saw that he was gripping the arms of his chair.... CHAPTER VII Autumn was at hand. All day it had rained, but now, as night fell and Janet went homeward, the white mist from the river was creeping stealthily over the city, disguising the familiar and sordid landmarks. These had become beautiful, mysterious, somehow appealing. The electric arcs, splotches in the veil, revealed on the Common phantom trees; and in the distance, against the blurred lights from the Warren Street stores skirting the park could be seen phantom vehicles, phantom people moving to and fro. Thus, it seemed to Janet, invaded by a pearly mist was her own soul, in which she walked in wonder,--a mist shot through and through with soft, exhilarating lights half disclosing yet transforming and etherealizing certain landmark's there on which, formerly, she had not cared to gaze. She was thinking of Ditmar as she had left him gripping his chair, as he had dismissed her for the day, curtly, almost savagely. She had wounded and repelled him, and lingering in her was that exquisite touch of fear--a fear now not so much inspired by Ditmar as by the semi-acknowledged recognition of certain tendencies and capacities within herself. Yet she rejoiced in them, she was glad she had hurt Ditmar, she would hurt him again. Still palpitating, she reached the house in Fillmore Street, halting a moment with her hand on the door, knowing her face was flushed, anxious lest her mother or Lise might notice something unusual in her manner. But, when she had slowly mounted the stairs and lighted the gas in the bedroom the sight of her sister's clothes cast over the chairs was proof that Lise had already donned her evening finery and departed. The room was filled with the stale smell of clothes, which Janet detested. She flung open the windows. She took off her hat and swiftly tidied herself, yet the relief she felt at Lise's absence was modified by a sudden, vehement protest against sordidness. Why should she not live by herself amidst clean and tidy surroundings? She had begun to earn enough, and somehow a vista had been opened up--a vista whose end she could not see, alluring, enticing.... In the dining-room, by the cleared table, her father was reading the Banner; her mother appeared in the kitchen door. "What in the world happened to you, Janet?" she exclaimed. "Nothing," said Janet. "Mr. Ditmar asked me to stay--that was all. He'd been away." "I was worried, I was going to make your father go down to the mill. I've saved you some supper." "I don't want much," Janet told her, "I'm not hungry." "I guess you have to work too hard in that new place," said Hannah, as she brought in the filled plate from the oven. "Well, it seems to agree with her, mother," declared Edward, who could always be counted on to say the wrong thing with the best of intentions. "I never saw her looking as well--why, I swan, she's getting real pretty!" Hannah darted at him a glance, but restrained herself, and Janet reddened as she tried to eat the beans placed before her. The pork had browned and hardened at the edges, the gravy had spread, a crust covered the potatoes. When her father resumed his reading of the Banner and her mother went back into the kitchen she began to speculate rather resentfully and yet excitedly why it was that this adventure with a man, with Ditmar, made her look better, feel better,--more alive. She was too honest to disguise from herself that it was an adventure, a high one, fraught with all sorts of possibilities, dangers, and delights. Her promotion had been merely incidental. Both her mother and father, did they know the true circumstances,--that Mr. Ditmar desired her, was perhaps in love with her--would be disturbed. Undoubtedly they would have believed that she could "take care" of herself. She knew that matters could not go on as they were, that she would either have to leave Mr. Ditmar or--and here she baulked at being logical. She had no intention of leaving him: to remain, according to the notions of her parents, would be wrong. Why was it that doing wrong agreed with her, energized her, made her more alert, cleverer, keying up her faculties? turned life from a dull affair into a momentous one? To abandon Ditmar would be to slump back into the humdrum, into something from which she had magically been emancipated, symbolized by the home in which she sat; by the red-checked tablecloth, the ugly metal lamp, the cherry chairs with the frayed seats, the horsehair sofa from which the stuffing protruded, the tawdry pillow with its colours, once gay, that Lise had bought at a bargain at the Bagatelle.... The wooden clock with the round face and quaint landscape below--the family's most cherished heirloom--though long familiar, was not so bad; but the two yellowed engravings on the wall offended her. They had been wedding presents to Edward's father. One represented a stupid German peasant woman holding a baby, and standing in front of a thatched cottage; its companion was a sylvan scene in which certain wooden rustics were supposed to be enjoying themselves. Between the two, and dotted with flyspecks, hung an insurance calendar on which was a huge head of a lady, florid, fluffy-haired, flirtatious. Lise thought her beautiful. The room was ugly. She had long known that, but tonight the realization came to her that what she chiefly resented in it was the note it proclaimed--the note of a mute acquiescence, without protest or struggle, in what life might send. It reflected accurately the attitude of her parents, particularly of her father. With an odd sense of detachment, of critical remoteness and contempt she glanced at him as he sat stupidly absorbed in his newspaper, his face puckered, his lips pursed, and Ditmar rose before her--Ditmar, the embodiment of an indomitableness that refused to be beaten and crushed. She thought of the story he had told her, how by self-assertion and persistence he had become agent of the Chippering Mill, how he had convinced Mr. Stephen Chippering of his ability. She could not think of the mill as belonging to the Chipperings and the other stockholders, but to Ditmar, who had shaped it into an expression of himself, since it was his ideal. And now it seemed that he had made it hers also. She regretted having repulsed him, pushed her plate away from her, and rose. "You haven't eaten anything," said Hannah, who had come into the room. "Where are you going?" "Out--to Eda's," Janet answered.... "It's late," Hannah objected. But Janet departed. Instead of going to Eda's she walked alone, seeking the quieter streets that her thoughts might flow undisturbed. At ten o'clock, when she returned, the light was out in the diningroom, her sister had not come in, and she began slowly to undress, pausing every now and then to sit on the bed and dream; once she surprised herself gazing into the glass with a rapt expression that was almost a smile. What was it about her that had attracted Ditmar? No other man had ever noticed it. She had never thought herself good looking, and now--it was astonishing!--she seemed to have changed, and she saw with pride that her arms and neck were shapely, that her dark hair fell down in a cascade over her white shoulders to her waist. She caressed it; it was fine. When she looked again, a radiancy seemed to envelop her. She braided her hair slowly, in two long plaits, looking shyly in the mirror and always seeing that radiancy.... Suddenly it occurred to her with a shock that she was doing exactly what she had despised Lise for doing, and leaving the mirror she hurried her toilet, put out the light, and got into bed. For a long time, however, she remained wakeful, turning first on one side and then on the other, trying to banish from her mind the episode that had excited her. But always it came back again. She saw Ditmar before her, virile, vital, electric with desire. At last she fell asleep. Gradually she was awakened by something penetrating her consciousness, something insistent, pervasive, unescapable, which in drowsiness she could not define. The gas was burning, Lise had come in, and was moving peculiarly about the room. Janet watched her. She stood in front of the bureau, just as Janet herself had done, her hands at her throat. At last she let them fall, her head turning slowly, as though drawn, by some irresistible, hypnotic power, and their eyes met. Lise's were filmed, like those of a dog whose head is being stroked, expressing a luxuriant dreaminess uncomprehending, passionate. "Say, did I wake you?" she asked. "I did my best not to make any noise--honest to God." "It wasn't the noise that woke me up," said Janet. "It couldn't have been." "You've been drinking!" said Janet, slowly. Lise giggled. "What's it to you, angel face!" she inquired. "Quiet down, now, and go bye-bye." Janet sprang from the bed, seized her by the shoulders, and shook her. She was limp. She began to whimper. "Cut it out--leave me go. It ain't nothing to you what I do--I just had a highball." Janet released her and drew back. "I just had a highball--honest to God!" "Don't say that again!" whispered Janet, fiercely. "Oh, very well. For God's sake, go to bed and leave me alone--I can take care of myself, I guess--I ain't nutty enough to hit the booze. But I ain't like you--I've got to have a little fun to keep alive." "A little fun!" Janet exclaimed. The phrase struck her sharply. A little fun to keep alive! With that same peculiar, cautious movement she had observed, Lise approached a chair, and sank into it,--jerking her head in the direction of the room where Hannah and Edward slept. "D'you want to wake 'em up? Is that your game?" she asked, and began to fumble at her belt. Overcoming with an effort a disgust amounting to nausea, Janet approached her sister again, little by little undressing her, and finally getting her into bed, when she immediately fell into a profound slumber. Janet, too, got into bed, but sleep was impossible: the odour lurked like a foul spirit in the darkness, mingling with the stagnant, damp air that came in at the open window, fairly saturating her with horror: it seemed the very essence of degradation. But as she lay on the edge of the bed, shrinking from contamination, in the throes of excitement inspired by an unnamed fear, she grew hot, she could feel and almost hear the pounding of her heart. She rose, felt around in the clammy darkness for her wrapper and slippers, gained the door, crept through the dark hall to the dining-room, where she stealthily lit the lamp; darkness had become a terror. A cockroach scurried across the linoleum. The room was warm and close, it reeked with the smell of stale food, but at least she found relief from that other odour. She sank down on the sofa. Her sister was drunk. That in itself was terrible enough, yet it was not the drunkenness alone that had sickened Janet, but the suggestion of something else. Where had Lise been? In whose company had she become drunk? Of late, in contrast to a former communicativeness, Lise had been singularly secretive as to her companions, and the manner in which her evenings were spent; and she, Janet, had grown too self-absorbed to be curious. Lise, with her shopgirl's cynical knowledge of life and its pitfalls and the high valuation at which she held her charms, had seemed secure from danger; but Janet recalled her discouragement, her threat to leave the Bagatelle. Since then there had been something furtive about her. Now, because that odour of alcohol Lise exhaled had destroyed in Janet the sense of exhilaration, of life on a higher plane she had begun to feel, and filled her with degradation, she hated Lise, felt for her sister no strain of pity. A proof, had she recognized it, that immorality is not a matter of laws and decrees, but of individual emotions. A few hours before she had seen nothing wrong in her relationship with Ditmar: now she beheld him selfish, ruthless, pursuing her for one end, his own gratification. As a man, he had become an enemy. Ditmar was like all other men who exploited her sex without compunction, but the thought that she was like Lise, asleep in a drunken stupor, that their cases differed only in degree, was insupportable. At last she fell asleep from sheer weariness, to dream she was with Ditmar at some place in the country under spreading trees, Silliston, perhaps--Silliston Common, cleverly disguised: nor was she quite sure, always, that the man was Ditmar; he had a way of changing, of resembling the man she had met in Silliston whom she had mistaken for a carpenter. He was pleading with her, in his voice was the peculiar vibrancy that thrilled her, that summoned some answering thing out of the depths of her, and she felt herself yielding with a strange ecstasy in which were mingled joy and terror. The terror was conquering the joy, and suddenly he stood transformed before her eyes, caricatured, become a shrieking monster from whom she sought in agony to escape.... In this paralysis of fear she awoke, staring with wide eyes at the flickering flame of the lamp, to a world filled with excruciating sound--the siren of the Chippering Mill! She lay trembling with the horror of the dream-spell upon her, still more than half convinced that the siren was Ditmar's voice, his true expression. He was waiting to devour her. Would the sound never end?... Then, remembering where she was, alarmed lest her mother might come in and find her there, she left the sofa, turned out the sputtering lamp, and ran into the bedroom. Rain was splashing on the bricks of the passage-way outside, the shadows of the night still lurked in the corners; by the grey light she gazed at Lise, who breathed loudly and stirred uneasily, her mouth open, her lips parched. Janet touched her. "Lise--get up!" she said. "It's time to get up." She shook her. "Leave me alone--can't you?" "It's time to get up. The whistle has sounded." Lise heavily opened her eyes. They were bloodshot. "I don't want to get up. I won't get up." "But you must," insisted Janet, tightening her hold. "You've got to--you've got to eat breakfast and go to work." "I don't want any breakfast, I ain't going to work any more." A gust of wind blew inward the cheap lace curtains, and the physical effect of it emphasized the chill that struck Janet's heart. She got up and closed the window, lit the gas, and returning to the bed, shook Lise again. "Listen," she said, "if you don't get up I'll tell mother what happened last night." "Say, you wouldn't--!" exclaimed Lise, angrily. "Get up!" Janet commanded, and watched her rather anxiously, uncertain as to the after effects of drunkenness. But Lise got up. She sat on the edge of the bed and yawned, putting her hand to her forehead. "I've sure got a head on me," she remarked. Janet was silent, angrier than ever, shocked that tragedy, degradation, could be accepted thus circumstantially. Lise proceeded to put up her hair. She seemed to be mistress of herself; only tired, gaping frequently. Once she remarked:--"I don't see the good of getting nutty over a highball." Seeing that Janet was not to be led into controversy, she grew morose. Breakfast in Fillmore Street, never a lively meal, was more dismal than usual that morning, eaten to the accompaniment of slopping water from the roofs on the pavement of the passage. The indisposition of Lise passed unobserved by both Hannah and Edward; and at twenty minutes to eight the two girls, with rubbers and umbrellas, left the house together, though it was Janet's custom to depart earlier, since she had farther to go. Lise, suspicious, maintained an obstinate silence, keeping close to the curb. They reached the corner by the provision shop with the pink and orange chromos of jellies in the window. "Lise, has anything happened to you?" demanded Janet suddenly. "I want you to tell me." "Anything happened--what do you mean? Anything happened?" "You know very well what I mean." "Well, suppose something has happened?" Lise's reply was pert, defiant. "What's it to you? If anything's happened, it's happened to me--hasn't it?" Janet approached her. "What are you trying to do?" said Lise. "Push me into the gutter?" "I guess you're there already," said Janet. Lise was roused to a sudden pitch of fury. She turned on Janet and thrust her back. "Well, if I am who's going to blame me?" she cried. "If you had to work all day in that hole, standing on your feet, picked on by yaps for six a week, I guess you wouldn't talk virtuous, either. It's easy for you to shoot off your mouth, you've got a soft snap with Ditmar." Janet was outraged. She could not restrain her anger. "How dare you say that?" she demanded. Lise was cowed. "Well, you drove me to it--you make me mad enough to say anything. Just because I went to Gruber's with Neva Lorrie and a couple of gentlemen--they were gentlemen all right, as much gentlemen as Ditmar--you come at me and tell me I'm all to the bad." She began to sob. "I'm as straight as you are. How was I to know the highball was stiff? Maybe I was tired--anyhow, it put me on the queer, and everything in the joint began to tango 'round me--and Neva came home with me." Janet felt a surge of relief, in which were mingled anxiety and resentment: relief because she was convinced that Lise was telling the truth, anxiety because she feared for Lise's future, resentment because Ditmar had been mentioned. Still, what she had feared most had not come to pass. Lise left her abruptly, darting down a street that led to a back entrance of the Bagatelle, and Janet pursued her way. Where, she wondered, would it all end? Lise had escaped so far, but drunkenness was an ominous sign. And "gentlemen"? What kind of gentlemen had taken her sister to Gruber's? Would Ditmar do that sort of thing if he had a chance? The pavement in front of the company boarding-houses by the canal was plastered with sodden leaves whipped from the maples by the driving rain in the night. The sky above the mills was sepia. White lights were burning in the loom rooms. When she reached the vestibule Simmons, the watchman, informed her that Mr. Ditmar had already been there, and left for Boston. Janet did not like to acknowledge to herself her disappointment on learning that Ditmar had gone to Boston. She knew he had had no such intention the night before; an accumulated mail and many matters demanding decisions were awaiting him; and his sudden departure seemed an act directed personally against her, in the nature of a retaliation, since she had offended and repulsed him. Through Lise's degrading act she had arrived at the conclusion that all adventure and consequent suffering had to do with Man--a conviction peculiarly maddening to such temperaments as Janet's. Therefore she interpreted her suffering in terms of Ditmar, she had looked forward to tormenting him again, and by departing he had deliberately balked and cheated her. The rain fell ceaselessly out of black skies, night seemed ever ready to descend on the river, a darkness--according to young Mr. Caldwell--due not to the clouds alone, but to forest fires many hundreds of miles away, in Canada. As the day wore on, however, her anger gradually gave place to an extreme weariness and depression, and yet she dreaded going home, inventing things for herself to do; arranging and rearranging Ditmar's papers that he might have less trouble in sorting them, putting those uppermost which she thought he would deem the most important. Perhaps he would come in, late! In a world of impending chaos the brilliantly lighted office was a tiny refuge to which she clung. At last she put on her coat and rubbers, faring forth reluctantly into the wet. At first when she entered the bedroom she thought it empty, though the gas was burning, and them she saw Lise lying face downward on the bed. For a moment she stood still, then closed the door softly. "Lise," she said. "What?" Janet sat down on the bed, putting out her hand. Unconsciously she began to stroke Lise's hand, and presently it turned and tightened on her own. "Lise," she said, "I understand why you--" she could not bring herself to pronounce the words "got drunk,"--"I understand why you did it. I oughtn't to have talked to you that way. But it was terrible to wake up and see you." For awhile Lise did not reply. Then she raised herself, feeling her hair with an involuntary gesture, regarding her sister with a bewildered look, her face puckered. Her eyes burned, and under them were black shadows. "How do you mean--you understand?" she asked slowly. "You never hit the booze." Even Lise's language, which ordinarily offended her, failed to change her sudden impassioned and repentant mood. She was astonished at herself for this sudden softening, since she did not really love Lise, and all day she had hated her, wished never to see her again. "No, but I can understand how it would be to want to," Janet said. "Lise, I guess we're searching--both of us for something we'll never find." Lise stared at her with a contracted, puzzled expression, as of a person awaking from sleep, all of whose faculties are being strained toward comprehension. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "You and me? You're all right--you've got no kick coming." "Life is hard, it's hard on girls like us--we want things we can't have." Janet was at a loss to express herself. "Well, it ain't any pipe dream," Lise agreed. Her glance turned involuntarily toward the picture of the Olympian dinner party pinned on the wall. "Swells have a good time," she added. "Maybe they pay for it, too," said Janet. "I wouldn't holler about paying--it's paying and not getting the goods," declared Lise. "You'll pay, and you won't get it. That kind of life is--hell," Janet cried. Self-centered as Lise was, absorbed in her own trouble and present physical discomfort, this unaccustomed word from her sister and the vehemence with which it was spoken surprised and frightened her, brought home to her some hint of the terror in Janet's soul. "Me for the water wagon," she said. Janet was not convinced. She had hoped to discover the identity of the man who had taken Lise to Gruber's, but she did not attempt to continue the conversation. She rose and took off her hat. "Why don't you go to bed?" she asked. "I'll tell mother you have a headache and bring in your supper." "Well, I don't care if I do," replied Lise, gratefully. Perhaps the most disconcerting characteristic of that complex affair, the human organism, is the lack of continuity of its moods. The soul, so called, is as sensitive to physical conditions as a barometer: affected by lack of sleep, by smells and sounds, by food, by the weather--whether a day be sapphire or obsidian. And the resolutions arising from one mood are thwarted by the actions of the next. Janet had observed this phenomenon, and sometimes, when it troubled her, she thought herself the most inconsistent and vacillating of creatures. She had resolved, far instance, before she fell asleep, to leave the Chippering Mill, to banish Ditmar from her life, to get a position in Boston, whence she could send some of her wages home: and in the morning, as she made her way to the office, the determination gave her a sense of peace and unity. But the northwest wind was blowing. It had chased away the mist and the clouds, the smoke from Canada. The sun shone with a high brilliancy, the elms of the Common cast sharp, black shadow-patterns on the pavements, and when she reached the office and looked out of his window she saw the blue river covered with quicksilver waves chasing one another across the current. Ditmar had not yet returned to Hampton. About ten o'clock, as she was copying out some figures for Mr. Price, young Mr. Caldwell approached her. He had a Boston newspaper in his hand. "Have you seen this article about Mr. Ditmar?" he asked. "About Mr. Ditmar? No." "It's quite a send-off for the Colonel," said Caldwell, who was wont at times to use the title facetiously. "Listen; `One of the most notable figures in the Textile industry of the United States, Claude Ditmar, Agent of the Chippering Mill.'" Caldwell spread out the page and pointed to a picture. "There he is, as large as life." A little larger than life, Janet thought. Ditmar was one of those men who, as the expression goes, "take" well, a valuable asset in semi-public careers; and as he stood in the sunlight on the steps of the building where they had "snap-shotted" him he appeared even more massive, forceful, and preponderant than she had known him. Beholding him thus set forth and praised in a public print, he seemed suddenly to have been distantly removed from her, to have reacquired at a bound the dizzy importance he had possessed for her before she became his stenographer. She found it impossible to realize that this was the Ditmar who had pursued and desired her; at times supplicating, apologetic, abject; and again revealed by the light in his eyes and the trembling of his hand as the sinister and ruthless predatory male from whom--since the revelation in her sister Lise she had determined to flee, and whom she had persuaded herself she despised. He was a bigger man than she had thought, and as she read rapidly down the column the fascination that crept over her was mingled with disquieting doubt of her own powers: it was now difficult to believe she had dominated or could ever dominate this self-sufficient, successful person, the list of whose achievements and qualities was so alluringly set forth by an interviewer who himself had fallen a victim. The article carried the implication that the modern, practical, American business man was the highest type as yet evolved by civilization: and Ditmar, referred to as "a wizard of the textile industry," was emphatically one who had earned the gratitude of the grand old Commonwealth. By the efforts of such sons she continued to maintain her commanding position among her sister states. Prominent among the qualities contributing to his success was open-mindedness, "a willingness to be shown," to scrap machinery when his competitors still clung to older methods. The Chippering Mill had never had a serious strike, --indication of an ability to deal with labour; and Mr. Ditmar's views on labour followed: if his people had a grievance, let them come to him, and settle it between them. No unions. He had consistently refused to recognize them. There was mention of the Bradlaugh order as being the largest commission ever given to a single mill, a reference to the excitement and speculation it had aroused in trade circles. Claude Ditmar's ability to put it through was unquestioned; one had only to look at him,--tenacity, forcefulness, executiveness were written all over him.... In addition, the article contained much material of an autobiographical nature that must--Janet thought--have been supplied by Ditmar himself, whose modesty had evidently shrunk from the cruder self-eulogy of an interview. But she recognized several characteristic phrases. Caldwell, watching her as she read, was suddenly fascinated. During a trip abroad, while still an undergraduate, he had once seen the face of an actress, a really good Parisian actress, light up in that way; and it had revealed to him, in a flash, the meaning of enthusiasm. Now Janet became vivid for him. There must be something unusual in a person whose feelings could be so intense, whose emotions rang so true. He was not unsophisticated. He had sometimes wondered why Ditmar had promoted her, though acknowledging her ability. He admired Ditmar, but had no illusions about him. Harvard, and birth in a social stratum where emphasis is superfluous, enabled him to smile at the reporter's exuberance; and he was the more drawn toward her to see on Janet's flushed face the hint of a smile as she looked up at him when she had finished. "The Colonel hypnotized that reporter," he said, as he took the paper; and her laugh, despite its little tremor, betrayed in her an unsuspected, humorous sense of proportion. "Well, I'll take off my hat to him," Caldwell went on. "He is a wonder, he's got the mill right up to capacity in a week. He's agreed to deliver those goods to the Bradlaughs by the first of April, you know, and Holster, of the Clarendon, swears it can't be done, he says Ditmar's crazy. Well, I stand to lose twenty-five dollars on him." This loyalty pleased Janet, it had the strange effect of reviving loyalty in her. She liked this evidence of Dick Caldwell's confidence. He was a self-contained and industrious young man, with crisp curly hair, cordial and friendly yet never intimate with the other employer; liked by them--but it was tacitly understood his footing differed from theirs. He was a cousin of the Chipperings, and destined for rapid promotion. He went away every Saturday, it was known that he spent Sundays and holidays in delightful places, to return reddened and tanned; and though he never spoke about these excursions, and put on no airs of superiority, there was that in his manner and even in the cut of his well-worn suits proclaiming him as belonging to a sphere not theirs, to a category of fortunate beings whose stumbles are not fatal, who are sustained from above. Even Ditmar was not of these. "I've just been showing a lot of highbrows through the mill," he told Janet. "They asked questions enough to swamp a professor of economics." And Janet was suddenly impelled to ask:--"Will you take me through sometime, Mr. Caldwell?" "You've never been through?" he exclaimed. "Why, we'll go now, if you can spare the time." Her face had become scarlet. "Don't tell Mr. Ditmar," she begged. "You see--he wanted to take me himself." "Not a word," Caldwell promised as they left the office together and went downstairs to the strong iron doors that led to the Cotton Department. The showing through of occasional visitors had grown rather tiresome; but now his curiosity and interest were aroused, he was conscious of a keen stimulation when he glanced at Janet's face. Its illumination perplexed him. The effect was that of a picture obscurely hung and hitherto scarcely noticed on which the light had suddenly been turned. It glowed with a strange and disturbing radiance.... As for Janet, she was as one brought suddenly to the realization of a miracle in whose presence she had lived for many years and never before suspected; the miracle of machinery, of the triumph of man over nature. In the brief space of an hour she beheld the dirty bales flung off the freight cars on the sidings transformed into delicate fabrics wound from the looms; cotton that only last summer, perhaps, while she sat typewriting at her window, had been growing in the fields of the South. She had seen it torn by the bale-breakers, blown into the openers, loosened, cleansed, and dried; taken up by the lappers, pressed into batting, and passed on to the carding machines, to emerge like a wisp of white smoke in a sliver and coil automatically in a can. Once more it was flattened into a lap, given to a comber that felt out its fibres, removing with superhuman precision those for the finer fabric too short, thrusting it forth again in another filmy sliver ready for the drawing frames. Six of these gossamer ropes were taken up, and again six. Then came the Blubbers and the roving frames, twisting and winding, the while maintaining the most delicate of tensions lest the rope break, running the strands together into a thread constantly growing stronger and finer, until it was ready for spinning. Caldwell stood close to her, shouting his explanations in her ear, while she strained to follow them. But she was bewildered and entranced by the marvellous swiftness, accuracy and ease with which each of the complex machines, fed by human hands, performed its function. These human hands were swift, too, as when they thrust the bobbins of roving on the ring-spinning frames to be twisted into yarn. She saw a woman, in the space of an instant, mend a broken thread. Women and boys were here, doffer boys to lift off the full bobbins of yarn with one hand and set on the empty bobbins with the other: while skilled workmen, alert for the first sign of trouble, followed up and down in its travels the long frame of the mule-spinner. After the spinning, the heavy spools of yarn were carried to a beam-warper, standing alone like a huge spider's web, where hundreds of threads were stretched symmetrically and wound evenly, side by side, on a large cylinder, forming the warp of the fabric to be woven on the loom. First, however, this warp must be stiffened or "slashed" in starch and tallow, dried over heated drums, and finally wound around one great beam from which the multitude of threads are taken up, one by one, and slipped through the eyes of the loom harnesses by women who sit all day under the north windows overlooking the canal--the "drawers-in" of whom Ditmar had spoken. Then the harnesses are put on the loom, the threads attached to the cylinder on which the cloth is to be wound. The looms absorbed and fascinated Janet above all else. It seemed as if she would never tire of watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the harnesses,--each rapid movement making a V in the warp, within the angle of which the tiny shuttles darted to and fro, to and fro, carrying the thread that filled the cloth with a swiftness so great the eye could scarcely follow it; to be caught on the other side when the angle closed, and flung back, and back again! And in the elaborate patterns not one, but several harnesses were used, each awaiting its turn for the impulse bidding it rise and fall!... Abruptly, as she gazed, one of the machines halted, a weaver hurried up, searched the warp for the broken thread, tied it, and started the loom again. "That's intelligent of it," said Caldwell, in her ear. But she could only nod in reply. The noise in the weaving rooms was deafening, the heat oppressive. She began to wonder how these men and women, boys and girls bore the strain all day long. She had never thought much about them before save to compare vaguely their drudgery with that from which now she had been emancipated; but she began to feel a new respect, a new concern, a new curiosity and interest as she watched them passing from place to place with indifference between the whirling belts, up and down the narrow aisles, flanked on either side by that bewildering, clattering machinery whose polished surfaces continually caught and flung back the light of the electric bulbs on the ceiling. How was it possible to live for hours at a time in this bedlam without losing presence of mind and thrusting hand or body in the wrong place, or becoming deaf? She had never before realized what mill work meant, though she had read of the accidents. But these people--even the children--seemed oblivious to the din and the danger, intent on their tasks, unconscious of the presence of a visitor, save occasionally when she caught a swift glance from a woman or girl a glance, perhaps, of envy or even of hostility. The dark, foreign faces glowed, and instantly grew dull again, and then she was aware of lurking terrors, despite her exaltation, her sense now of belonging to another world, a world somehow associated with Ditmar. Was it not he who had lifted her farther above all this? Was it not by grace of her association with him she was there, a spectator of the toil beneath? Yet the terror persisted. She, presently, would step out of the noise, the oppressive moist heat of the drawing and spinning rooms, the constant, remorseless menace of whirling wheels and cogs and belts. But they?... She drew closer to Caldwell's side. "I never knew--" she said. "It must be hard to work here." He smiled at her, reassuringly. "Oh, they don't mind it," he replied. "It's like a health resort compared to the conditions most of them live in at home. Why, there's plenty of ventilation here, and you've got to have a certain amount of heat and moisture, because when cotton is cold and dry it can't be drawn or spin, and when it's hot and dry the electricity is troublesome. If you think this moisture is bad you ought to see a mill with the old vapour-pot system with the steam shooting out into the room. Look here!" He led Janet to the apparatus in which the pure air is forced through wet cloths, removing the dust, explaining how the ventilation and humidity were regulated automatically, how the temperature of the room was controlled by a thermostat. "There isn't an agent in the country who's more concerned about the welfare of his operatives than Mr. Ditmar. He's made a study of it, he's spent thousands of dollars, and as soon as these machines became practical he put 'em in. The other day when I was going through the room one of these shuttles flew off, as they sometimes do when the looms are running at high speed. A woman was pretty badly hurt. Ditmar came right down." "He really cares about them," said Janet. She liked Caldwell's praise of Ditmar, yet she spoke a little doubtfully. "Of course he cares. But it's common sense to make 'em as comfortable and happy as possible--isn't it? He won't stand for being held up, and he'd be stiff enough if it came to a strike. I don't blame him for that. Do you?" Janet was wondering how ruthless Ditmar could be if his will were crossed.... They had left the room with its noise and heat behind them and were descending the worn, oaken treads of the spiral stairway of a neighbouring tower. Janet shivered a little, and her face seemed almost feverish as she turned to Caldwell and thanked him. "Oh, it was a pleasure, Miss Bumpus," he declared. "And sometime, when you want to see the Print Works or the Worsted Department, let me know--I'm your man. And--I won't mention it." She did not answer. As they made their way back to the office he glanced at her covertly, astonished at the emotional effect in her their tour had produced. Though not of an inflammable temperament, he himself was stirred, and it was she who, unaccountably, had stirred him: suggested, in these processes he saw every day, and in which he was indeed interested, something deeper, more significant and human than he had guessed, and which he was unable to define.... Janet herself did not know why this intimate view of the mills, of the people who worked in them had so greatly moved her. All day she thought of them. And the distant throb of the machinery she felt when her typewriter was silent meant something to her now--she could not say what. When she found herself listening for it, her heart beat faster. She had lived and worked beside it, and it had not existed for her, it had had no meaning, the mills might have been empty. She had, indeed, many, many times seen these men and women, boys and girls trooping away from work, she had strolled through the quarters in which they lived, speculated on the lands from which they had come; but she had never really thought of them as human beings, individuals, with problems and joys and sorrows and hopes and fears like her own. Some such discovery was borne in upon her. And always an essential function of this revelation, looming larger than ever in her consciousness, was Ditmar. It was for Ditmar they toiled, in Ditmar's hands were their very existences, his was the stupendous responsibility and power. As the afternoon wore, desire to see these toilers once more took possession of her. From the white cupola perched above the huge mass of the Clarendon Mill across the water sounded the single stroke of a bell, and suddenly the air was pulsing with sounds flung back and forth by the walls lining the river. Seizing her hat and coat, she ran down the stairs and through the vestibule and along the track by the canal to the great gates, which her father was in the act of unbarring. She took a stand beside him, by the gatehouse. Edward showed a mild surprise. "There ain't anything troubling you--is there, Janet?" he asked. She shook her head. "I wanted to see the hands come out," she said. Sometimes, as at present, he found Janet's whims unaccountable. "Well, I should have presumed you'd know what they look like by this time. You'd better stay right close to me, they're a rough lot, with no respect or consideration for decent folks--these foreigners. I never could see why the government lets 'em all come over here." He put on the word "foreigners" an emphasis of contempt and indignation, pathetic because of its peculiar note of futility. Janet paid no attention to him. Her ears were strained to catch the rumble of feet descending the tower stairs, her eyes to see the vanguard as it came from the doorway--the first tricklings of a flood that instantly filled the yard and swept onward and outward, irresistibly, through the narrow gorge of the gates. Impossible to realize this as the force which, when distributed over the great spaces of the mills, performed an orderly and useful task! for it was now a turbid and lawless torrent unconscious of its swollen powers, menacing, breathlessly exciting to behold. It seemed to Janet indeed a torrent as she clung to the side of the gatehouse as one might cling to the steep bank of a mountain brook after a cloud-burst. And suddenly she had plunged into it. The desire was absurd, perhaps, but not to be denied,--the desire to mix with it, feel it, be submerged and swept away by it, losing all sense of identity. She heard her father call after her, faintly--the thought crossed her mind that his appeals were always faint,--and then she was being carried along the canal, eastward, the pressure relaxing somewhat when the draining of the side streets began. She remembered, oddly, the Stanley Street bridge where the many streams met and mingled, streams from the Arundel, the Patuxent, the Arlington and the Clarendon; and, eager to prolong and intensify her sensations, hurried thither, reaching it at last and thrusting her way outward until she had gained the middle, where she stood grasping the rail. The great structure was a-tremble from the assault, its footpaths and its roadway overrun with workers, dodging between trolleys and trucks,--some darting nimbly, dinner pails in hand, along the steel girders. Doffer boys romped and whistled, young girls in jaunty, Faber Street clothes and flowered hats, linked to one another for protection, chewed gum and joked, but for the most part these workers were silent, the apathy of their faces making a strange contrast with the hurry, hurry of their feet and set intentness of their bodies as they sped homeward to the tenements. And the clothes of these were drab, save when the occasional colour of a hooded peasant's shawl, like the slightly faded tints of an old master, lit up a group of women. Here, going home to their children, were Italian mothers bred through centuries to endurance and patience; sallow Jewesses, gaunt, bearded Jews with shadowy, half-closed eyes and wrinkled brows, broad-faced Lithuanians, flat-headed Russians; swarthy Italian men and pale, blond Germans mingled with muddy Syrians and nondescript Canadians. And suddenly the bridge was empty, the army vanished as swiftly as it came! Janet turned. Through the haze of smoke she saw the sun drop like a ball of fire cooled to redness, whose course is spent. The delicate lines of the upper bridge were drawn in sepia against crimson-gilt; for an instant the cupola of the Clarendon became jasper, and far, far above floated in the azure a cloud of pink jeweller's cotton. Even as she strove to fix these colours in her mind they vanished, the western sky faded to magenta, to purple-mauve; the corridor of the river darkened, on either side pale lights sparkled from the windows of the mills, while down the deepened blue of the waters came floating iridescent suds from the washing of the wools. It was given to her to know that which an artist of living memory has called the incommunicable thrill of things.... CHAPTER VIII The after-effects of this experience of Janet's were not what ordinarily are called "spiritual," though we may some day arrive at a saner meaning of the term, include within it the impulses and needs of the entire organism. It left her with a renewed sense of energy and restlessness, brought her nearer to high discoveries of mysterious joys which a voice out of the past called upon her to forego, a voice somehow identified with her father! It was faint, ineffectual. In obeying it, would she not lose all life had to give? When she came in to supper her father was concerned about her because, instead of walking home with him she had left him without explanation to plunge into the crowd of workers. Her evident state of excitement had worried him, her caprice was beyond his comprehension. And how could she explain the motives that led to it? She was sure he had never felt like that; and as she evaded his questions the something within her demanding life and expression grew stronger and more rebellious, more contemptuous of the fear-precepts congenial to a nature timorous and less vitalized. After supper, unable to sit still, she went out, and, filled with the spirit of adventure, hurried toward Faber Street, which was already thronging with people. It was bright here and gay, the shops glittered, and she wandered from window to window until she found herself staring at a suit of blue cloth hung on a form, beneath which was a card that read, "Marked down to $20." And suddenly the suggestion flashed into her mind, why shouldn't she buy it? She had the money, she needed a new suit for the winter, the one she possessed was getting shabby...but behind the excuse of necessity was the real reason triumphantly proclaiming itself--she would look pretty in it, she would be transformed, she would be buying a new character to which she would have to live up. The old Janet would be cast off with the old raiment; the new suit would announce to herself and to the world a Janet in whom were released all those longings hitherto disguised and suppressed, and now become insupportable! This was what the purchase meant, a change of existence as complete as that between the moth and the butterfly; and the realization of this fact, of the audacity she was resolved to commit made her hot as she gazed at the suit. It was modest enough, yet it had a certain distinction of cut, it looked expensive: twenty dollars was not cheap, to be sure, but as the placard announced, it had the air of being much more costly--even more costly than thirty dollars, which seemed fabulous. Though she strove to remain outwardly calm, her heart beat rapidly as she entered the store and asked for the costume, and was somewhat reassured by the comportment of the saleswoman, who did not appear to think the request preposterous, to regard her as a spendthrift and a profligate. She took down the suit from the form and led Janet to a cabinet in the back of the shop, where it was tried on. "It's worth every bit of thirty dollars," she heard the woman say, "but we've had it here for some time, and it's no use for our trade. You can't sell anything like that in Hampton, there's no taste here, it's too good, it ain't showy enough. My, it fits you like it was made for you, and it's just your style--and you can see it wants a lady to wear it. Your old suit is too tight--I guess you've filled out some since you bought it." She turned Janet around and around, patting the skirt here and there, and then stood off a little way, with clasped hands, her expression almost rapturous. Janet's breath came fast as she gazed into the mirror and buttoned up the coat. Was the woman's admiration cleverly feigned? this image she beheld an illusion? or did she really look different, distinguished? and if not beautiful--alluring? She had had a momentary apprehension, almost sickening, that she would be too conspicuous, but the saleswoman had anticipated that objection with the magical word "lady." "I'll take it," she announced. "Well, you couldn't have done better if you'd gone to Boston," declared the woman. "It's one chance in a thousand. Will you wear it?" "Yes," said Janet faintly.... "Just put my old suit in a box, and I'll call for it in an hour." The woman's sympathetic smile followed her as she left the shop. She had an instant of hesitation, of an almost panicky desire to go back and repair her folly, ere it was too late. Why had she taken her money with her that evening, if not with some deliberate though undefined purpose? But she was ashamed to face the saleswoman again, and her elation was not to be repressed--an elation optically presented by a huge electric sign on the farther side of the street that flashed through all the colours of the spectrum, surrounded by running fire like the running fire in her soul. Deliciously self-conscious, her gaze fixed ahead, she pressed through the Wednesday night crowds, young mill men and women in their best clothes, housewives and fathers of families with children and bundles. In front of the Banner office a group blocked the pavement staring up at the news bulletin, which she paused to read. "Five Millionaire Directors Indicted in New York," "State Treasurer Accused of Graft," "Murdock Fortune Contested by Heirs." The phrases seemed meaningless, and she hurried on again.... She was being noticed! A man looked at her, twice, the first glance accidental, the second arresting, appealing, subtly flattering, agitating--she was sure he had turned and was following her. She hastened her steps. It was wicked, what she was doing, but she gloried in it; and even the sight, in burning red letters, of Gruber's Cafe failed to bring on a revulsion by its association with her sister Lise. The fact that Lise had got drunk there meant nothing to her now. She gazed curiously at the illuminated, orange-coloured panes separated by curving leads, at the design of a harp in green, at the sign "Ladies' Entrance"; listened eagerly to the sounds of voices and laughter that came from within. She looked cautiously over her shoulder, a shadow appeared, she heard a voice, low, insinuating.... Four blocks farther down she stopped. The man was no longer following her. She had been almost self-convinced of an intention to go to Eda's--not quite. Of late her conscience had reproached her about Eda, Janet had neglected her. She told herself she was afraid of Eda's uncanny and somewhat nauseating flair for romance; and to show Eda the new suit, though she would relish her friend's praise, would be the equivalent of announcing an affair of the heart which she, Janet, would have indignantly to deny. She was not going to Eda's. She knew now where she was going. A prepared but hitherto undisclosed decree of fate had bade her put money in her bag that evening, directed her to the shop to buy the dress, and would presently impel her to go to West Street--nay, was even now so impelling her. Ahead of her were the lights of the Chippering Mill, in her ears was the rhythmic sound of the looms working of nights on the Bradlaugh order. She reached the canal. The white arc above the end of the bridge cast sharp, black shadows of the branches of the trees on the granite, the thousand windows of the mill shone yellow, reflected in the black water. Twice she started to go, twice she paused, held by the presage of a coming event, a presage that robbed her of complete surprise when she heard footsteps on the bridge, saw the figure of a man halting at the crown of the arch to look back at the building he had left, his shoulders squared, his hand firmly clasping the rail. Her heart was throbbing with the looms, and yet she stood motionless, until he turned and came rapidly down the slope of the arch and stopped in front of her. Under the arc lamp it was almost as bright as day. "Miss Bumpus!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Ditmar" she said. "Were you--were you coming to the office?" "I was just out walking," she told him. "I thought you were in Boston." "I came home," he informed her, somewhat superfluously, his eyes never leaving her, wandering hungrily from her face to her new suit, and back again to her face. "I got here on the seven o'clock train, I wanted to see about those new Blubbers." "They finished setting them up this afternoon," she said. "How did you know?" "I asked Mr. Orcutt about it--I thought you might telephone." "You're a wonder," was his comment. "Well, we've got a running start on that order," and he threw a glance over his shoulder at the mill. "Everything going full speed ahead. When we put it through I guess I'll have to give you some of the credit." "Oh, I haven't done anything," she protested. "More than you think. You've taken so much off my shoulders I couldn't get along without you." His voice vibrated, reminding her of the voices of those who made sentimental recitations for the graphophone. It sounded absurd, yet it did not repel her: something within her responded to it. "Which way were you going?" he inquired. "Home," she said. "Where do you live?" "In Fillmore Street." And she added with a touch of defiance: "It's a little street, three blocks above Hawthorne, off East Street." "Oh yes," he said vaguely, as though he had not understood. "I'll come with you as far as the bridge--along the canal. I've got so much to say to you." "Can't you say it to-morrow?" "No, I can't; there are so many people in the office--so many interruptions, I mean. And then, you never give me a chance." She stood hesitating, a struggle going on within her. He had proposed the route along the canal because nobody would be likely to recognize them, and her pride resented this. On the other hand, there was the sweet allurement of the adventure she craved, which indeed she had come out to seek and by a strange fatality found--since he had appeared on the bridge almost as soon as she reached it. The sense of fate was strong upon her. Curiosity urged her, and, thanks to the eulogy she had read of him that day, to the added impression of his power conveyed by the trip through the mills, Ditmar loomed larger than ever in her consciousness. "What do you want to say?" she asked. "Oh, lots of things." She felt his hand slipping under her arm, his fingers pressing gently but firmly into her flesh, and the experience of being impelled by a power stronger than herself, a masculine power, was delicious. Her arm seemed to burn where he touched her. "Have I done something to offend you?" she heard him say. "Or is it because you don't like me?" "I'm not sure whether I like you or not," she told him. "I don't like seeing you--this way. And why should you want to know me and see me outside of the office? I'm only your stenographer." "Because you're you--because you're different from any woman I ever met. You don't understand what you are--you don't see yourself." "I made up my mind last night I wouldn't stay in your office any longer," she informed him. "For God's sake, why?" he exclaimed. "I've been afraid of that. Don't go--I don't know what I'd do. I'll be careful--I won't get you talked about." "Talked about!" She tore herself away from him. "Why should you get me talked about?" she cried. He was frightened. "No, no," he stammered, "I didn't mean--" "What did you mean?" "Well--as you say, you're my stenographer, but that's no reason why we shouldn't be friends. I only meant--I wouldn't do anything to make our friendship the subject of gossip." Suddenly she began to find a certain amusement in his confusion and penitence, she achieved a pleasurable sense of advantage, of power over him. "Why should you want me? I don't know anything, I've never had any advantages--and you have so much. I read an article in the newspaper about you today--Mr. Caldwell gave it to me--" "Did you like it?" he interrupted, naively. "Well, in some places it was rather funny." "Funny? How?" "Oh, I don't know." She had been quick to grasp in it the journalistic lack of restraint hinted at by Caldwell. "I liked it, but I thought it praised you too much, it didn't criticize you enough." He laughed. In spite of his discomfort, he found her candour refreshing. From the women to whom he had hitherto made love he had never got anything but flattery. "I want you to criticize me," he said. But she went on relentlessly:--"When I read in that article how successful you were, and how you'd got everything you'd started out to get, and how some day you might be treasurer and president of the Chippering Mill, well--" Despairing of giving adequate expression to her meaning, she added, "I didn't see how we could be friends." "You wanted me for a friend?" he interrupted eagerly. "I couldn't help knowing you wanted me--you've shown it so plainly. But I didn't see how it could be. You asked me where I lived--in a little flat that's no better than a tenement. I suppose you would call it a tenement. It's dark and ugly, it only has four rooms, and it smells of cooking. You couldn't come there--don't you see how impossible it is? And you wouldn't care to be talked about yourself, either," she added vehemently. This defiant sincerity took him aback. He groped for words. "Listen!" he urged. "I don't want to do anything you wouldn't like, and honestly I don't know what I'd do if you left me. I've come to depend on you. And you may not believe it, but when I got that Bradlaugh order I thought of you, I said to myself 'She'll be pleased, she'll help me to put it over.'" She thrilled at this, she even suffered him, for some reason unknown to herself, to take her arm again. "How could I help you?" "Oh, in a thousand ways--you ought to know, you do a good deal of thinking for me, and you can help me by just being there. I can't explain it, but I feel somehow that things will go right. I've come to depend on you." He was a little surprised to find himself saying these things he had not intended to say, and the lighter touch he had always possessed in dealing with the other sex, making him the envied of his friends, had apparently abandoned him. He was appalled at the possibility of losing her. "I've never met a woman like you," he went on, as she remained silent. "You're different--I don't know what it is about you, but you are." His voice was low, caressing, his head was bent down to her, his shoulder pressed against her shoulder. "I've never had a woman friend before, I've never wanted one until now." She wondered about his wife. "You've got brains--I've never met a woman with brains." "Oh, is that why?" she exclaimed. "You're beautiful," he whispered. "It's queer, but I didn't know it at first. You're more beautiful to-night than I've ever seen you." They had come almost to Warren Street. Suddenly realizing that they were standing in the light, that people were passing to and fro over the end of the bridge, she drew away from him once more, this time more gently. "Let's walk back a little way," he proposed. "I must go home--it's late." "It's only nine o'clock." "I have an errand to do, and they'll expect me. Good night." "Just one more turn!" he pleaded. But she shook her head, backing away from him. "You'll see me to-morrow," she told him. She didn't know why she said that. She hurried along Warren Street without once looking over her shoulder; her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground, the sound of music was in her ears, the lights sparkled. She had had an adventure, at last, an adventure that magically had transformed her life! She was beautiful! No one had ever told her that before. And he had said that he needed her. She smiled as, with an access of tenderness, in spite of his experience and power she suddenly felt years older than Ditmar. She could help him!... She was breathless when she reached the shop in Faber Street. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting," she said. "Oh no, we don't close until ten," answered the saleswoman. She was seated quietly sewing under the lamp. "I wonder whether you'd mind if I put on my old suit again, and carried this?" Janet asked. The expression of sympathy and understanding in the woman's eyes, as she rose, brought the blood swiftly to Janet's face. She felt that her secret had been guessed. The change effected, Janet went homeward swiftly, to encounter, on the corner of Faber Street, her sister Lise, whose attention was immediately attracted by the bundle. "What have you got there, angel face?" she demanded. "A new suit," said Janet. "You don't tell me--where'd you get it? at the Paris?" "No, at Dowling's." "Say, I'll bet it was that plain blue thing marked down to twenty!" "Well, what if it was?" Lise, when surprised or scornful, had a peculiarly irritating way of whistling through her teeth. "Twenty bucks! Gee, you'll be getting your clothes in Boston next. Well, as sure as I live when I went by that window the other day when they first knocked it down I said to Sadie, `those are the rags Janet would buy if she had the ready.' Have you got another raise out of Ditmar?" "If I have, it isn't any business of yours," Janet retorted. "I've got a right to do as I please with my own money." "Oh sure," said Lise, and added darkly: "I guess Ditmar likes to see you look well." After this Janet refused obstinately to speak to Lise, to answer, when they reached home, her pleadings and complaints to their mother that Janet had bought a new suit and refused to exhibit it. And finally, when they had got to bed, Janet lay long awake in passionate revolt against this new expression of the sordidness and lack of privacy in which she was forced to live, made the more intolerable by the close, sultry darkness of the room and the snoring of Lise. In the morning, however, after a groping period of semiconsciousness during the ringing of the bells, the siren startled her into awareness and alertness. It had not wholly lost its note of terror, but the note had somehow become exhilarating, an invitation to adventure and to life; and Lise's sarcastic comments as to the probable reasons why she did not put on the new suit had host their power of exasperation. Janet compromised, wearing a blouse of china silk hitherto reserved for "best." The day was bright, and she went rapidly toward the mill, glorying in the sunshine and the autumn sharpness of the air; and her thoughts were not so much of Ditmar as of something beyond him, of which he was the medium. She was going, not to meet him, but to meet that. When she reached the office she felt weak, her fingers trembled as she took off her hat and jacket and began to sort out the mail. And she had to calm herself with the assurance that her relationship with Ditmar had undergone no change. She had merely met him by the canal, and he had talked to her. That was all. He had, of course, taken her arm: it tingled when she remembered it. But when he suddenly entered the room her heart gave a bound. He closed the door, he took off his hat, and stood gazing at her--while she continued arranging letters. Presently she was forced to glance at him. His bearing, his look, his confident smile all proclaimed that he, at least, believed things to be changed. He glowed with health and vigour, with an aggressiveness from which she shrank, yet found delicious. "How are you this morning?" he said at last--this morning as distinguished from all other mornings. "I'm well, as usual," she answered. She herself was sometimes surprised by her ability to remain outwardly calm. "Why did you run away from me last night?" "I didn't run away, I had to go home," she said, still arranging the letters. "We could have had a little walk. I don't believe you had to go home at all. You just wanted an excuse to get away from me." "I didn't need an excuse," she told him. He moved toward her, but she took a paper from the desk and carried it to a file across the room. "I thought we were going to be friends," he said. "Being friends doesn't mean being foolish," she retorted. "And Mr. Orcutt's waiting to see you." "Let him wait." He sat down at his desk, but his blood was warm, and he read the typewritten words of the topmost letter of the pile without so much as grasping the meaning of them. From time to time he glanced up at Janet as she flitted about the room. By George, she was more desirable than he had ever dared to imagine! He felt temporarily balked, but hopeful. On his way to the mill he had dwelt with Epicurean indulgence on this sight of her, and he had not been disappointed. He had also thought that he might venture upon more than the mere feasting of his eyes, yet found an inspiring alleviation in the fact that she by no means absolutely repulsed him. Her attitude toward him had undergone a subtle transformation. There could be no doubt of that. She was almost coquettish. His eyes lingered. The china silk blouse was slightly open at the neck, suggesting the fullness of her throat; it clung to the outline of her shoulders. Overcome by an impulse he could not control, he got up and went toward her, but she avoided him. "I'll tell Mr. Orcutt you've come," she said, rather breathlessly, as she reached the door and opened it. Ditmar halted in his steps at the sight of the tall, spectacled figure of the superintendent on the threshold. Orcutt hesitated, looking from one to the other. "I've been waiting for you," he said, after a moment, "the rest of that lot didn't come in this morning. I've telephoned to the freight agent." Ditmar stared at him uncomprehendingly. Orcutt repeated the information. "Oh well, keep after him, get him to trace them." "I'm doing that," replied the conscientious Orcutt. "How's everything else going?" Ditmar demanded, with unlooked-for geniality. "You mustn't take things too hard, Orcutt, don't wear yourself out." Mr. Orcutt was relieved. He had expected an outburst of the exasperation that lately had characterized his superior. They began to chat. Janet had escaped. "Miss Bumpus told me you wanted to see me. I was just going to ring you up," Ditmar informed him. "She's a clever young woman, seems to take such an interest in things," Orcutt observed. "And she's always on the job. Only yesterday I saw her going through the mill with young Caldwell." Ditmar dropped the paper-weight he held. "Oh, she went through, did she?" After Orcutt departed he sat for awhile whistling a tune, from a popular musical play, keeping time by drumming with his fingers on the desk. That Mr. Semple, the mill treasurer, came down from Boston that morning to confer with Ditmar was for Janet in the nature of a reprieve. She sat by her window, and as her fingers flew over the typewriter keys she was swept by surges of heat in which ecstasy and shame and terror were strangely commingled. A voice within her said, "This can't go on, this can't go on! It's too terrible! Everyone in the office will notice it--there will be a scandal. I ought to go away while there is yet time--to-day." Though the instinct of flight was strong within her, she was filled with rebellion at the thought of leaving when Adventure was flooding her drab world with light, even as the mill across the waters was transfigured by the heavy golden wash of the autumn sun. She had made at length the discovery that Adventure had to do with Man, was inconceivable without him. Racked by these conflicting impulses of self-preservation on the one hand and what seemed self-realization on the other, she started when, toward the middle of the afternoon, she heard Ditmar's voice summoning her to take his letters; and went palpitating, leaving the door open behind her, seating herself on the far side of the desk, her head bent over her book. Her neck, where her hair grew in wisps behind her ear, seemed to burn: Ditmar's glance was focussed there. Her hands were cold as she wrote.... Then, like a deliverer, she saw young Caldwell coming in from the outer office, holding a card in his hand which he gave to Ditmar, who sat staring at it. "Siddons?" he said. "Who's Siddons?" Janet, who had risen, spoke up. "Why, he's been making the Hampton `survey.' You wrote him you'd see him--don't you remember, Mr. Ditmar?" "Don't go!" exclaimed Ditmar. "You can't tell what those confounded reformers will accuse you of if you don't have a witness." Janet sat down again. The sharpness of Ditmar's tone was an exhilarating reminder of the fact that, in dealing with strangers, he had come more or less to rely on her instinctive judgment; while the implied appeal of his manner on such occasions emphasized the pleasurable sense of his dependence, of her own usefulness. Besides, she had been curious about the `survey' at the time it was first mentioned, she wished to hear Ditmar's views concerning it. Mr. Siddons proved to be a small and sallow young man with a pointed nose and bright, bulbous brown eyes like a chipmunk's. Indeed, he reminded one of a chipmunk. As he whisked himself in and seized Ditmar's hand he gave a confused impression of polite self-effacement as well as of dignity and self-assertion; he had the air of one who expects opposition, and though by no means desiring it, is prepared to deal with it. Janet smiled. She had a sudden impulse to drop the heavy book that lay on the corner of the desk to see if he would jump. "How do you do, Mr. Ditmar?" he said. "I've been hoping to have this pleasure." "My secretary, Miss Bumpus," said Ditmar. Mr. Siddons quivered and bowed. Ditmar, sinking ponderously into his chair, seemed suddenly, ironically amused, grinning at Janet as he opened a drawer of his desk and offered the visitor a cigar. "Thanks, I don't smoke," said Mr. Siddons. Ditmar lit one for himself. "Now, what can I do for you?" he asked. "Well, as I wrote you in my letter, I was engaged to make as thorough an examination as possible of the living conditions and housing of the operatives in the city of Hampton. I'm sure you'd be interested in hearing something of the situation we found." "I suppose you've been through our mills," said Ditmar. "No, the fact is--" "You ought to go through. I think it might interest you," Ditmar put a slight emphasis on the pronoun. "We rather pride ourselves on making things comfortable and healthy for our people." "I've no doubt of it--in fact, I've been so informed. It's because of your concern for the welfare of your workers in the mills that I ventured to come and talk to you of how most of them live when they're at home," replied Siddons, as Janet thought, rather neatly. "Perhaps, though living in Hampton, you don't quite realize what the conditions are. I know a man who has lived in Boston ten years and who hasn't ever seen the Bunker Hill monument." "The Bunker Hill monument's a public affair," retorted Ditmar, "anybody can go there who has enough curiosity and interest. But I don't see how you can expect me to follow these people home and make them clean up their garbage and wash their babies. I shouldn't want anybody to interfere with my private affairs." "But when you get to a point where private affairs become a public menace?" Siddons objected. "Mr. Ditmar, I've seen block after block of tenements ready to crumble. There are no provisions for foundations, thickness of walls, size of timbers and columns, and if these houses had been deliberately erected to make a bonfire they couldn't have answered the purpose better. If it were not for the danger to life and the pity of making thousands of families homeless, a conflagration would be a blessing, although I believe the entire north or south side of the city would go under certain conditions. The best thing you could do would be to burn whole rows of these tenements, they are ideal breeding grounds for disease. In the older sections of the city you've got hundreds of rear houses here, houses moved back on the lots, in some extreme cases with only four-foot courts littered with refuse,--houses without light, without ventilation, and many of the rooms where these people are cooking and eating and sleeping are so damp and foul they're not fit to put dogs in. You've got some blocks with a density of over five hundred to the acre, and your average density is considerably over a hundred." "Are things any worse than in any other manufacturing city?" asked Ditmar. "That isn't the point," said Siddons. "The point is that they're bad, they're dangerous, they're inhuman. If you could go into these tenements as I have done and see the way some of these people live, it would make you sick the Poles and Lithuanians and Italians especially. You wouldn't treat cattle that way. In some households of five rooms, including the kitchen, I found as many as fourteen, fifteen, and once seventeen people living. You've got an alarming infant death-rate." "Isn't it because these people want to live that way?" Ditmar inquired. "They actually like it, they wouldn't be happy in anything but a pig-sty--they had 'em in Europe. And what do you expect us to do? Buy land and build flats for them? Inside of a month they'd have all the woodwork stripped off for kindling, the drainage stopped up, the bathtubs filled with ashes. I know, because it's been tried." Tilted back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and his eyes sought Janet's. She avoided them, resenting a little the assumption of approval she read in them. Her mind, sensitive to new ideas, had been keenly stimulated as she listened to Siddons, who began patiently to dwell once more on the ill effect of the conditions he had discovered on the welfare of the entire community. She had never thought of this. She was surprised that Ditmar should seem to belittle it. Siddons was a new type in her experience. She could understand and to a certain extent maliciously enjoy Ditmar's growing exasperation with him; he had a formal, precise manner of talking, as though he spent most of his time presenting cases in committees: and in warding off Ditmar's objections he was forever indulging in such maddening phrases as, "Before we come to that, let me say a word just here." Ditmar hated words. His outbursts, his efforts to stop the flow of them were not unlike the futile charges of a large and powerful animal harassed by a smaller and more agile one. With nimble politeness, with an exasperating air of deference to Ditmar's opinions, Mr. Siddons gave ground, only to return to the charge; yet, despite a manner and method which, when contrasted to Ditmar's, verged on the ludicrous, Mr. Siddons had a force and fire of his own, nervous, almost fanatical: when he dwelt on the misery he had seen, and his voice trembled from the intensity of his feeling, Janet began to be moved. It was odd, considering the struggle for existence of her own family, that these foreigners had remained outside the range of her sympathy. "I guess you'll find," Ditmar had interrupted peremptorily, "I guess you'll find, if you look up the savings banks statistics, these people have got millions tucked away. And they send a lot of it to the other side, they go back themselves, and though they live like cattle, they manage to buy land. Ask the real estate men. Why, I could show you a dozen who worked in the mills a few years ago and are capitalists to-day." "I don't doubt it, Mr. Ditmar," Siddons gracefully conceded. "But what does it prove? Merely the cruelty of an economic system based on ruthless competition. The great majority who are unable to survive the test pay the price. And the community also pays the price, the state and nation pay it. And we have this misery on our consciences. I've no doubt you could show me some who have grown rich, but if you would let me I could take you to families in desperate want, living in rooms too dark to read in at midday in clear weather, where the husband doesn't get more than seven dollars a week when the mills are running full time, where the woman has to look out for the children and work for the lodgers, and even with lodgers they get into debt, and the woman has to go into the mills to earn money for winter clothing. I've seen enough instances of this kind to offset the savings bank argument. And even then, when you have a family where the wife and older children work, where the babies are put out to board, where there are three and four lodgers in a room, why do you suppose they live that way? Isn't it in the hope of freeing themselves ultimately from these very conditions? And aren't these conditions a disgrace to Hampton and America?" "Well, what am I to do about it?" Ditmar demanded. "I see that these operatives have comfortable and healthful surroundings in the mill, I've spent money to put in the latest appliances. That's more than a good many mills I could mention attempt." "You are a person of influence, Mr. Ditmar, you have more influence than any man in Hampton. You can bring pressure to bear on the city council to enforce and improve the building ordinances, you can organize a campaign of public opinion against certain property owners." "Yes," retorted Ditmar, "and what then? You raise the rents, and you won't get anybody to live in the houses. They'll move out to settlements like Glendale full of dirt and vermin and disease and live as they're accustomed to. What you reformers are actually driving at is that we should raise wages--isn't it? If we raised wages they'd live like rats anyway. I give you credit for sincerity, Mr. Siddons, but I don't want you to think I'm not as much interested in the welfare of these people as you and the men behind you. The trouble is, you only see one side of this question. When you're in my position, you're up against hard facts. We can't pay a dubber or a drawing tender any more than he's worth, whether he has a wife or children in the mills or whether he hasn't. We're in competition with other mills, we're in competition with the South. We can't regulate the cost of living. We do our best to make things right in the mills, and that's all we can do. We can't afford to be sentimental about life. Competition's got to be the rule, the world's made that way. Some are efficient and some aren't. Good God, any man who's had anything to do with hiring labour and running a plant has that drummed into him hard. You talk about ordinances, laws--there are enough laws and ordinances in this city and in this state right now. If we have any more the mills will have to shut down, and these people will starve--all of 'em." Ditmar's chair came down on its four legs, and he flung his cigar away. "Send me a copy of your survey when it's published. I'll look it over." "Well, what do you think of the nerve of a man like that?" Ditmar exploded, when Mr. Siddons had bowed himself out. "Comes in here to advise me that it's my business to look out for the whole city of Hampton. I'd like to see him up against this low-class European labour trying to run a mill with them. They're here one day and there the next, they don't know what loyalty is. You've got to drive 'em--if you give 'em an inch they'll jump at your throat, dynamite your property. Why, there's nothing I wouldn't do for them if I could depend on them, I'd build 'em houses, I'd have automobiles to take 'em home. As it is, I do my best, though they don't deserve it,--in slack seasons I run half time when I oughtn't to be running at all." His tone betrayed an effort of self-justification, and his irritation had been increased by the suspicion in Janet of a certain lack of the sympathy on which he had counted. She sat silent, gazing searchingly at his face. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "You don't mean to say you agree with that kind of talk?" "I was wondering--" she began. "What?" "If you were--if you could really understand those who are driven to work in order to keep alive?" "Understand them! Why not?" he asked. "Because--because you're on top, you've always been successful, you're pretty much your own master--and that makes it different. I'm not blaming you--in your place I'd be the same, I'm sure. But this man, Siddons, made me think. I've lived like that, you see, I know what it is, in a way." "Not like these foreigners!" he protested. "Oh, almost as bad," she cried with vehemence, and Ditmar, stopped suddenly in his pacing as by a physical force, looked at her with the startled air of the male who has inadvertently touched off one of the many hidden springs in the feminine emotional mechanism. "How do you know what it is to live in a squalid, ugly street, in dark little rooms that smell of cooking, and not be able to have any of the finer, beautiful things in life? Unless you'd wanted these things as I've wanted them, you couldn't know. Oh, I can understand what it would feel like to strike, to wish to dynamite men like you!" "You can!" he exclaimed in amazement. "You!" "Yes, me. You don't understand these people, you couldn't feel sorry for them any more than you could feel sorry for me. You want them to run your mills for you, you don't want to know how they feel or how they live, and you just want me--for your pleasure." He was indeed momentarily taken aback by this taunt, which no woman in his experience had had the wit and spirit to fling at him, but he was not the type of man to be shocked by it. On the contrary, it swept away his irritation, and as a revelation of her inner moltenness stirred him to a fever heat as he approached and stood over her. "You little--panther!" he whispered. "You want beautiful things, do you? Well, I'll give 'em to you. I'll take care of you." "Do you think I want them from you?" she retorted, almost in tears. "Do you think I want anybody to take care of me? That shows how little you know me. I want to be independent, to do my work and pay for what I get." Janet herself was far from comprehending the complexity of her feelings. Ditmar had not apologized or feigned an altruism for which she would indeed have despised him. The ruthlessness of his laugh--the laugh of the red-blooded man who makes laws that he himself may be lawless shook her with a wild appeal. "What do I care about any others--I want you!" such was its message. And against this paradoxical wish to be conquered, intensified by the magnetic field of his passion, battled her self-assertion, her pride, her innate desire to be free, to escape now from a domination the thought of which filled her with terror. She felt his cheek brushing against her hair, his fingers straying along her arm; for the moment she was hideously yet deliciously powerless. Then the emotion of terror conquered--terror of the unknown--and she sprang away, dropping her note-book and running to the window, where she stood swaying. "Janet, you're killing me," she heard him say. "For God's sake, why can't you trust me?" She did not answer, but gazed out at the primrose lights beginning to twinkle fantastically in the distant mills. Presently she turned. Ditmar was in his chair. She crossed the room to the electric switch, turning on the flood of light, picked up her tote-book and sat down again. "Don't you intend to answer your letters?" she asked. He reached out gropingly toward the pile of his correspondence, seized the topmost letter, and began to dictate, savagely. She experienced a certain exultation, a renewed and pleasurable sense of power as she took down his words. 
30447	----	SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT BY CY WARMAN _A Story of the Great Burlington Strike_ 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD (_The Story of the West Series._) Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 D. APPLETON & COMPANY NEW YORK SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT A Story of the Great Burlington Strike BY CY WARMAN AUTHOR OF THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD, THE EXPRESS MESSENGER, TALES OF AN ENGINEER, FRONTIER STORIES, ETC. NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY MDCCCXCIX Copyright, 1899, by D. Appleton & Co. PREFACE _Here is a Decoy Duck stuffed with Oysters. The Duck is mere Fiction: The Oysters are Facts._ _If you find the Duck wholesome, and the Oysters hurt you, it is probably because you had a hand in the making of this bit of History, and in the creation of these Facts._ THE AUTHOR SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT CHAPTER FIRST Good managers are made from messenger boys, brakemen, wipers and telegraphers; just as brave admirals are produced in due time by planting a cadet in a naval school. From two branches of the service come the best equipped men in the railroad world--from the motive-power department and from the train service. This one came from the mechanical department, and he spent his official life trying to conceal the fact--striving to be just to all his employees and to show no partiality towards the department from whence he sprang--but always failing. "These men will not strike," he contended: "The brains of the train are in the engine." "O, I don't think," Mr. Josler, the general superintendent, would say; and if you followed his accent it would take you right back to the heart of Germany: "Giff me a goot conductor, an' I git over the roat." No need to ask where he came from. As the grievance grew in the hands of the "grief" committee, and the belief became fixed in the minds of the officials that the employees were looking for trouble, the situation waxed critical. "Might as well make a clean job of it," the men would say; and then every man who had a grievance, a wound where there had been a grievance or a fear that he might have something to complain of in the future, contributed to the real original grievance until the trouble grew so that it appalled the officials and caused them to stiffen their necks. In this way the men and the management were being wedged farther and farther apart. Finally, the general manager, foreseeing what war would cost the company and the employees, made an effort to reach a settlement, but the very effort was taken as evidence of weakness, and instead of yielding something the men took courage, and lengthened the list of grievances. His predecessor had said to the president of the company when the last settlement was effected: "This is our last compromise. The next time we shall have to fight--my back is to the wall." But, when the time came for the struggle, he had not the heart to make the fight, and so resigned and went west, where he died shortly afterwards, and dying, escaped the sorrow that must have been his had he lived to see how his old, much-loved employees were made to suffer. Now the grievance committee came with an ultimatum to the management. "Yes, or No?" demanded the chairman with a Napoleonic pose. But the general superintendent was loth to answer. "Yes, or No?" Mr. Josler hesitated, equivocated, and asked to be allowed to confer with his chief. "Yes, or No?" demanded the fearless leader, lifting his hand like an auctioneer. "Vell, eef you put it so, I must say No," said the superintendent and instantly the leader turned on his heel. He did not take the trouble to say good-day, but snapped his finger and strode away. Now the other members of the committee got up and went out, pausing to say good morning to the superintendent who stood up to watch the procession pass out into the wide hall. One man, who confirmed the general manager's belief that there were brains among the engine-men, lingered to express his regrets that the conference should have ended so abruptly. The news of this man's audacity spread among the higher officials, so that when the heads of the brotherhoods came--which is a last resort--the company were almost as haughty and remote as the head of the grievance committee had been. From that moment the men and the management lost faith in each other. More, they refused even to understand each other. Whichever side made a slight concession it was made to suffer for it, for such an act was sure to be interpreted by the other side as a sign of weakening. In vain did the heads of the two organizations, representing the engine-men, strive to overcome the mischief done by the local committee, and to reach a settlement. They showed, by comparison, that this, the smartest road in the West, was paying a lower rate of wages to its engine-men than was paid by a majority of the railroads of the country. They urged the injustice of the classification of engineers, but the management claimed that the system was just, and later received the indorsement, on this point, of eight-tenths of the daily press. Eight out of ten of these editors knew nothing of the real merits or demerits of the system, but they thought they knew, and so they wrote about it, the people read about it and gave or withheld their sympathy as the news affected them. When the heads of the brotherhoods announced their inability to reach an agreement they were allowed to return to their respective homes, beyond the borders of the big state, and out of reach of the Illinois conspiracy law. A local man "with sand to fight" was chosen commander-in-chief, and after one more formal effort to reach a settlement he called the men out. On a blowy Sunday afternoon in February the chief clerk received a wire calling him to the office of the general manager. He found his chief pacing the floor. As the secretary entered, the general manager turned, faced him, and then, waving a hand over the big flat-topped desk that stood in the centre of his private office, said: "Take this all away, John. The engineers are going to strike and I want nothing to come to my desk that does not relate to that, until this fight is over." Noting the troubled, surprised look upon the secretary's face the manager called him. "Come here John. Are you afraid? Does the magnitude of it all appal you--do you want to quit? If you do say so now." As he spoke the piercing, searching eyes of the general manager swept the very soul of his secretary. The two men looked at each other. Instantly the shadow passed from the long, sad face of the clerk, and in its place sat an expression of calm determination. Now the manager spoke not a word, but reaching for the hand of his faithful assistant, pressed it firmly, and turned away. There was no spoken pledge, no vow, no promise of loyalty, but in that mute handclasp there was an oath of allegiance. At four o'clock on the following morning--Monday, February the 27th, 1888,--every locomotive engineer and fireman in the service of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad Company quit work. The fact that not one man remained in the service an hour after the order went out, shows how firmly fixed was the faith of the men in the ability of the "Twin Brotherhoods" to beat the company, and how universal was the belief that their cause was just. All trains in motion at the moment when the strike was to take effect were run to their destination, or to divisional stations, rather, and there abandoned by the crew. The conductors, brakemen and baggagemen were not in the fight, and when directed by the officials to take the engines and try to run them or fire them, they found it hard to refuse to obey the order. Some of them had no thought of refusing, but cheerfully took the engines out, and--drowned them. That was a wild, exciting day for the officials, but it was soon forgotten in days that made that one seem like a pleasant dream. The long struggle that had been going on openly between the officials and the employees was now enacted privately, silently, deep in the souls of men. Each individual must face the situation and decide for himself upon which side he would enlist. Hundreds of men who had good positions and had, personally, no grievance, felt in honor bound to stand by their brothers, and these men were the heroes of the strike, for it is infinitely finer to fight for others than for one's self. When a man has toiled for a quarter of a century to gain a comfortable place it is not without a struggle that he throws it all over, in an unselfish effort to help a brother on. The Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers had grown to be respected by the public because of almost countless deeds of individual heroism. It was deferred to--and often encouraged by railway officials, because it had improved the service a thousand per cent. The man who climbed down from the cab that morning on the "Q" was as far ahead of the man who held the seat twenty years earlier, as an English captain is ahead of the naked savage whose bare feet beat the sands of the Soudan. By keeping clear of entangling alliances and carefully avoiding serious trouble, the Brotherhood had, in the past ten years, piled up hundreds of thousands of dollars. This big roll of the root of all evil served now to increase the confidence of the leaders, and to encourage the men to strike. At each annual convention mayors, governors and prominent public men paraded the virtues of the Brotherhood until its members came to regard themselves as just a little bit bigger, braver and better than ordinary mortals. Public speakers and writers were for ever predicting that in a little while the Brotherhood would be invincible.[1] And so, hearing only good report of itself the Brotherhood grew over-confident, and entered this great fight top-heavy because of an exaggerated idea of its own greatness. [1] "_I dare say that the engineers' strike will end, as all strikes have hitherto ended, in disaster to the strikers. But I am sure that strikes will not always end so. It is only a question of time, and of a very little time, till the union of labor shall be so perfect that nothing can defeat it. We may say this will be a very good time or a very bad time; all the same it is coming._"--_W. D. Howells, in Harper's Weekly, April 21, 1888._ The Engineers' Brotherhood was not loved by other organizations. The conductors disliked it, and it had made itself offensive to the firemen because of its persistent refusal to federate or affiliate in any manner with other organizations having similar aims and objects. But now, finding itself in the midst of a hard fight, it evinced a desire to combine. The brakemen refused to join the engine-men, though sympathizing with them, but the switchmen were easily persuaded. The switchman of a decade ago could always be counted upon to fight. In behind his comb, tooth-brush and rabbit's foot, he carried a neatly folded, closely written list of grievances upon which he was ready to do battle. Peace troubled his mind. Some one signed a solemn compact in which the engineers bound themselves to support the switchmen--paying them as often as the engine-men drew money--and the switchmen went out. They struck vigorously, and to a man, and remained loyal long after the Brotherhood had broken its pledge and cut off the pay of the strikers.[2] In this battle the switchmen were the bravest of the brave. [2] _At the annual convention held at Atlanta, in the autumn of that year (1888) the engineers dropped the sympathy-striking switchmen from the pay roll, at the same time increasing the pay of striking engineers from $40.00 to $50.00 a month._ At the end of the first month of the strike the lines were pretty well drawn. There was no neutral ground for employees. A man was either with the company or with the strikers. CHAPTER SECOND "Good morning, John," said the general manager coming softly through the little gate that fenced off a small reservation in the outer office, and beyond which the secretary and his assistants worked: "How goes the battle?" "Well, on the whole," said the chief clerk, gathering up a batch of telegrams that made up the official report from the various division superintendents; "it was a rough night. Three yard engines disabled in the Chicago yards, freight train burned at Burlington, head-end collision on the B. & M. Division, two engineers and one fireman killed, ware-house burned at Peoria, two bridges blown up in Iowa, two trains ditched near Denver, three--" "Well! well!" broke in the general manager, "that will do." The clerk stopped short, the office boy passed out through the open door and a great swell of silence surged into the room. After taking a few turns up and down the office, the manager stopped at the secretary's desk and added: "We must win this strike. The directors meet to-day and those English share-holders are getting nervous. They can't understand that this fight is necessary--that we are fighting for peace hereafter; weeding out a pestilence that threatens, not only the future of railway corporations, but the sacred rights of American citizens--the right to engage in whatever business or calling one cares to follow, and to employ whom he will at whatever wages the employer and employed may agree upon. Let these strikers win and we shall have a strike as often as the moon changes. When I endeavor to reach an agreement with them, they take it that the company is weakening, and the leaders will listen to nothing. I shudder to think what is in store for them and what they must suffer before they can understand." With that the general manager passed into the private office and the chief clerk, who had been at his post all night, turned to a steaming breakfast which the porter had just brought from a café across the street. The postman came in, grave-faced and silent, and left a big bundle of letters on the secretary's desk. Most of the mail was official, but now and then there came letters from personal friends who held similar positions on other roads, assuring the general manager of their sympathy, and that they would aid his company whenever they could do so secretly and without exciting their own employees. Many letters came from stockholders protesting vigorously against a continuation of the strike. Some anonymous letters warned the company that great calamity awaited the management, unless the demands of the employees were acceded to and the strike ended. A glance into the newspapers that came in, showed that three-fourths of the press of the country praised the management and referred to the strikers as dynamiters and anarchists. The other fourth rejoiced at each drop in the stocks and called every man a martyr who was arrested at the instigation of the railroad company. The reports sent out daily by the company and those collected at the headquarters of the strikers agreed exactly as to date, but disagreed in all that followed. The secretary, somewhat refreshed by a good breakfast, waded through the mail, making marks and notations occasionally with a blue pencil on the turned down corners of letters. Some of the communications were referred to the general traffic manager, some to the general passenger agent, others to the superintendent of motive power and machinery. They were all sorted carefully and deposited in wicker baskets, bearing the initials of the different departments. Many were dropped into the basket marked "G. M." but most of the matter was disposed of by the secretary himself, for the chief clerk of a great railway system, having the signature of the General Manager, is one of the busiest, and usually one of the brightest men in the company's employ. The general manager in his private office pored over the morning papers, puffing vigorously now and then as he perused a paragraph that praised the strikers, but, when the literature was to his liking, smoked slowly and contentedly, like a man without a care. Such were the scenes and conditions in and about the general offices of the Chicago Burlington & Quincy Railroad Company when a light foot-step was heard in the hall and a gentle voice came singing: "_Always together in sunshine and rain. Facing the weather_--" "Good morning, Patsy," said the chief clerk, looking up as Patsy paused at the gate, removed his hat and bowed two or three short quick bows with his head without bowing his body. "I beg your pardon," said Patsy, "I thought you were alone." "Well, I am alone." "No you're not--I'm here. Always together--" "Come! Come! Patsy don't get funny this morning." "Get funny! how can I get funny when I'm already funny? I was born funny--they had fun with me at the christening, and I expect they'll have the divil's own time with me at the wake. Always--" "Sh! Sh!--Be quiet," said the secretary, nodding his head and his thumb in the direction of the door of the private office. "Is the governor in?" asked Patsy. "Yes." "Now that's lucky for me, for I wanted to ask a favor and I want it to-day, and if the governor was not in you would say, 'I'll have to see the governor;' then when I came back you would say 'The governor has left the office, and I forgot it,' but now that the governor is here you can do it yourself. I want to go to Council Bluffs." "All right, Patsy, you can go if you can persuade those friends of yours to allow us to run a train." "On the Q?" "That's the only line we control." "Not on your salary." "Then you can't go," said the clerk, as he resumed the work before him. "What's the matter with the North Western?" asked Patsy in an earnest, pleading tone. "You ought to know that we can't give passes over a competing line." "I do know it, but you can give me a letter over there. Just say: 'Please give Patsy Daly transportation, Chicago to Council Bluffs and return;' that'll do the business. You might add a paragraph about me being an old and trusted employee and--" "A bold and mistrusted striker, Patsy, would be nearer the card." "Now don't bring up unpleasant recollections," said Patsy with a frown that didn't make him look as cross as some men look when they laugh: "It will be a neat way of showing that the Q is big enough to be good to her old employees, even if her stock is a little down. What do you say--do I get the pass--does mother see her railroad boy to-night?" The door that was marked "Private" opened slowly and the general manager came in. The chief clerk shuffled the letters while Patsy made a desperate effort to look serious and respectful. "What brings you here, Patsy?" asked the head of the road, for he was by no means displeased at seeing one of the old employees in the office who was not a member of a grievance committee. "I want to get a pass, if you please sir, to run down to the Bluffs and see the folks." "Patsy wants a request for a pass over the North Western," said the clerk, taking courage now that the subject was opened. "Ah! is that all? now suppose I ask you to take a passenger train out to-night, will you do it?" asked the general manager, turning to Patsy. "What's the matter with the regular conductor?" "Joined the strikers," was the reply. "But the papers say the strike is over." "It is! but a lot of you fellows don't seem to know it." "I'm glad of it, and now I must hurry back, so as to be ready to take my run out. Do I get the pass?" "And you expect, when the strike is off, to go back to your old place?" "Sure," said Patsy, "I don't intend to quit you as long as you have a brake for me to turn." "There's a lot of brakes that nobody is turning right now; come, you young rascal, will you go to work?" "Now," said the young rascal, "you know what it says at the bottom of the time-card: 'In case of doubt take the safe side.' I'm waiting to see which side is safe." With that the manager went back to his desk and closed the door behind him, and the secretary went on with his work. Patsy stood and looked out at the window for a while, and then said half to himself, but so the clerk could hear him: "Poor little mother, how she will miss me to-night." The secretary said nothing, but leaving his desk entered the office of his chief, and when they had talked over the business of the hour and read the story prepared by the passenger department for the press that day, he asked what should be done for Patsy. "Oh! give him the letter, I suppose, but he's the only employee on the road I would do so much for." "And he's the only one with nerve enough to ask it," said the secretary. "Yes, he is a bit nervy, John; but it isn't an offensive sort of nerve; and then he's so happy. Why, he really rests me when he comes in. He's smart, too, too smart to be a striker and he may be of some use to us yet." In a little while Patsy went singing himself out just as he had sung himself in. The general manager sat watching the happy youth from the outer door of his room until the song and the sound of footsteps died away in the wide hall. Turning to his desk he sighed and said: "Ah, well! the English poet was right when he wrote: '_The world that knows itself too sad Is proud to keep some faces glad!_'" CHAPTER THIRD Patsy, the postman and the newsgatherers, who left the headquarters of the company and wandered over to the Grand Pacific where the strikers held forth, must have been struck forcibly by the vast difference in the appearance of the two places upon this particular morning. At the first place all was neatness and order in spite of the deplorable condition of affairs outside; and a single man handled the almost endless flood of letters and telegrams that fell like autumn leaves upon his desk. In fact, the office boy and the colored porter were the only people about the company's headquarters who showed any real anxiety. At the headquarters of the strikers all was confusion and disorder. The outer offices and ante-rooms were filled with a vast crowd of men who idled about, smoked, swapped stories and swore; and some of them, I'm sorry to say, chewed tobacco and flooded the floor with inexcusable filth. Even Mr. Hogan's private office was not private. Leading strikers and men prominent in the Brotherhood loafed there as the others loafed outside. Not more than half the men about the building had ever been employed by the Burlington company. There were scores of "tramp" switchmen and travelling trainmen, made reckless by idleness, as men are sometimes made desperate by hunger, with an alarmingly large representation of real criminals, who follow strikes as "grafters" follow a circus. If a striker lost his temper and talked as he ought not to talk, this latter specimen was always ready to encourage him; for whatever promised trouble for others promised profitable pastime for the criminal. If the real workers could keep clear of this class, as well as the idle, loafing element in their own profession, ninety per cent. of the alleged labor outrages would never be committed. Very likely there were a number of detectives moving among the strikers, and they, too, have been known to counsel violence in order to perpetuate a struggle between labor and capital that they themselves might not be idle. It is only in the best organized agencies that detectives can be relied upon to take no undue advantage of those whom they are sent out to detect. Over in another part of the same building, where the firemen held forth, the scene was about the same, save that the men there were younger in years and louder in their abuse of the railway officials; and generally less discreet. "_Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train_," sang Patsy as he strolled into the private office of Chairman Borphy, who was in charge of the firemen's end of the strike. Borphy greeted Patsy pleasantly as did the others in the office, with one exception. Over in a window sat fireman George Cowels, a great striker, and in the eyes of some of his enthusiastic friends a great man, and in his own estimation a great orator. Removing his cigar in order to give the proper effect to the expression he was about to assume, Cowels gave Patsy a hard searching look as he asked: "Does that song of yours mean yourself and the general manager?" "An' if it does," said Patsy, stepping close in front of his questioner: "What's it _to_ you?" "Just this," said Cowels: "You have been watched. You went to the general office this morning the moment it was open, and took a message for Mr. Stonaker to the general manager of the C. & N. W. Does that fit your case? Perhaps you will favor us with the result of your mission! Come, will the North Western help your friend out?" At the conclusion of this eloquent burst of indignation Cowels smiled triumphantly, for, as Patsy paled into silence, the big fellow thought he had his man scared; but when Patsy took another step forward, forcing his opponent back to the window, and asked between his closed teeth, if Cowels meant to accuse him of betraying the strikers to the company every one in the room realized that something was about to happen. Perhaps Cowels thought so, too, but he was in a hole and could only answer Yes. The next instant Patsy drove his fist up under the orator's chin, and the back of that gentleman's head made a hole in the window. The bystanders, knowing the temper of both the men, sprang between them before any further damage could be done. If Patsy had the best of the fight he had the worst of the argument. He had been openly accused of being a "spotter" and had made no explanation of his conduct; so when it was reported that he had gone to Council Bluffs over the North Western, the more ignorant and noisy of his associates were easily persuaded that such a favor to a striker could only be secured upon the request of Mr. Stonaker and that request would be given only for services rendered; and Patsy Daly was from that day doomed to walk under a cloud. * * * * * The long struggle was beginning to tell on the strikers. It was evidenced in the shiny suits worn by the men who met daily at the hall in town to discuss the strike. It was seen again in the worn wraps of many a mother and in the torn shoes of school-children. These were only the outer signs, the real suffering was carefully covered up--hidden in the homes where home comfort had become a reminiscence. The battle at first had been with the strong but now the brunt of it was being shifted to the shoulders of the women, the wives and mothers of the strikers. These patient martyrs, whose business it had been to look after the home, now suffered the humiliation of having door after door closed to them and their children. Of a morning you might see them tramping through the snow from shop to shop trying to secure credit for the day. The strike would be over in a little while, they argued, but the struggling shop-keeper had his own to look after. The wholesale houses were refusing him credit and so he was powerless to help the hungry wives of worthy workmen. The men themselves were beginning to lose heart. Many a man who had not known what it was to be without a dollar now saw those dearest to him in actual want and went away to look for work on other roads. Finally, a monster union meeting was called for the purpose of getting an expression of opinion as to the advisability of making the best possible terms with the company and calling the strike off. Here the engine-men, trainmen and switchmen met, but the radical element was in the majority, and the suggestions of the heads of the various Brotherhoods that the strike be called off were howled down by the unterrified. It was at this meeting that a tall, powerful, but mild mannered man, stood up in the face of all the opposing elements and advised that the strike be ended at once. He did not suggest this from a selfish motive, he said. He was a single man and had money enough to keep himself in idleness for a year, but there were hundreds of families who were in want, and it was for these he was pleading. The speaker was interrupted repeatedly, but he kept his place and continued to talk until the mob became silent and listened out of mere curiosity. "You can never hold an army of hungry men together," said the speaker; "you can't fight gold with a famine. The company, we are told, has already lost a million dollars. What of it? You forget that it has been making millions annually for the past ten years. What have we been making? Lots of money, I'll admit, but none of it has been saved. The company is rich, the brotherhoods are bankrupt. From the remotest corners of the country comes the cry of men weary of paying assessments to support us in idleness. To-day some sort of settlement might be made--to-morrow it may be too late." At this juncture the mob howled the speaker down again. Men climbed over benches to get at the "traitor." A man who had been persuaded to leave the company, and who had been taken into the order only the day before, tried to strike the engineer in the face. In the midst of the excitement, George Cowels of the Fireman's Brotherhood leaped upon the platform and at sight of him and the sound of his powerful voice the rioters became quiet. "I think," he began slowly to show how easy it was for a truly great leader to keep cool in the hottest of the fight, "I think I can explain the action of the last speaker." Here he paused and looked down into the frank face of Dan Moran and continued: "Mr. Moran, as many of you know, has one of the best runs on the road. He has had it for a good many years and he loathes to leave it. By denying himself the luxury of a cigar and never taking a drink he has managed to save up some money. He is a money-getter--a money-saver and it hurts him to be idle. I have been firing for him for five years and in all that time he has never been the man to say: 'Come, George, let's have a drink or a cigar.' Now I propose that we chip in and pay Mr. Dan Moran his little four dollars a day. Let us fight this fight to a finish. Let there be no retreat until the proud banner of our Brotherhood waves above the blackened ruins of the once powerful Burlington route. Down with all traitors: on with the fight." At the conclusion of this speech the audience went wild. When order had been partially restored a vote was taken, when it was shown that seven-eighths of the men were in favor of continuing the strike. The engineers had really been spoiled by success. At the last annual convention they had voted to exterminate the classification system, and had passed a law making it impossible for the head of the organization to make any settlement that included a continuation of classification. The scalps of the Atchison, the Alton, the Louisville and Nashville, and a number of other strong companies dangled at the belt of the big chief of the Engineers' Brotherhood. These were all won by diplomacy, but the men did not know it. They believed that the show of strength had awed the railway officials of the country and that the railway labor organizations were invincible. A little easing off by the Brotherhood, and a little forbearance on the part of the management might, at the start, have averted the great struggle; but when once war had been declared the generals on both sides had no choice but to fight it out to a finish. CHAPTER FOURTH "Can you spare me a little money, George?" asked Mrs. Cowels, adjusting her last year's coat. "What do you want of money?" "Well--it's Christmas eve, and I thought we ought to have something for Bennie. He has been asking me all evening what I expected from Santa Claus, never hinting, of course, that he expected anything." "Well, here's a dollar." Mrs. Cowels took the money and went over to the little store. There were so many things to choose from that she found it difficult to make a selection. Finally she paid a quarter for a tin whistle and two bunches of noise--that was for the boy. With the remaining seventy-five cents she bought a pair of gloves for her husband. "Anybody been here to-day?" asked Cowels of his wife when she came back from the store. "Yes, Mr. Squeesum, secretary of the Benevolent Building Association, was here to see you about the last two payments which are over-due, on the house." "What did you tell him?" "I told him that we had no money." "What did he say?" "He said that was very strange, as the Brotherhoods were pouring thousands of dollars into Chicago to aid the strikers. What becomes of all this money, George? You never seem to get any of it." "We pour it out again," said Cowels, "to the army of engine-men who are coming here from the Reading and everywhere to take our places. We hire them--buy them off--bribe them, to prevent them from taking service with the company, and yet it seems there is no end to the supply. For every man we secure the company brings a score, and we are losing ground. Members of the Brotherhood everywhere are growing weary of the long struggle. They have good jobs and object to paying from six to twelve dollars a month to support the strikers. Some have even refused to pay assessments and have surrendered their charters. Anybody else here?" "Yes, a man named Hawkins. He wanted room and board." "What did you tell him?" "I told him we had never kept roomers or boarders, but he said he liked the place--for me to speak to you, and he would call again." "Huh! he must like the place. Well, I guess we can get along some way," said Cowels, and then he sat and looked into the fire for a while without saying anything. When Mrs. Cowels had put the baby down she came and sat near her husband and they began to discuss the future. They had bought their little home a year and a half ago for twelve hundred dollars. They had lived economically and had been able to reduce the debt to six hundred dollars. But when the strike came they were unable to keep up the payments and now the association had begun to push them. If they did not pay within the next thirty days the real estate company with the soft sounding title would foreclose the mortgage. When they had talked this all over, Mrs. Cowels proposed that they take the stranger in, but her husband objected. "I didn't want to tell you, George," said the brave little woman, "but there was another caller. The grocer and butcher was here this morning and we can get no more meat or groceries until we pay. He is a poor man, you know, and he can't keep up the families of all the strikers. I didn't want to worry you with this, George, but since you are opposed to me helping by taking a lodger I will tell you that something must be done." Cowels lighted a fresh cigar. That was the third one since supper. They cost all the way from two to five cents apiece, but Mrs. Cowels knew that he was worried about lodge matters and if she thought anything about it at all, she probably reasoned that it was a good thing to be able to smoke and forget. "I made the speech of my life to-day," said the striker, brushing the ashes lightly from his cigar. "The hall was packed and the fellows stood up on their chairs and yelled. One fellow shouted, 'Three cheers for the next Grand Master,' and the gang threw up their hats and hollered till I thought they'd gone wild. Nora, if there was a convention to-morrow I'd win, hands down." Mrs. Cowels smiled faintly, for to her way of thinking there were other things as important as her husband's election to the position of Grand Master of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen, and she changed the subject. Presently the door-bell sounded, so loud and piercing that the sound of it waked the baby. The man who had pulled the bell knew at once that he had made no mistake. He had noticed when he called that morning that the bell upon the door had once done service in the cab of a locomotive, and had made a note of the fact. While Mrs. Cowels hushed the baby her husband answered the bell and when Mr. Hawkins gave his name and made his wants known, Cowels told him shortly that they did not keep lodgers. He knew that, he said, and that was one of the reasons why he was so anxious to come, but Cowels, who liked to show his authority at all times, shut the door, and the stranger was not taken in. That night when the orator was dreaming that he had been chosen Grand Master of the Brotherhood, his wife stole out of the room and put the things in Bennie's sock, and then, just to please Bennie, she put a rubber rattle in the baby's little stocking. Her husband, being a great thinker, would not consent to having his hosiery hung up, so she would wait till breakfast time and hide the gloves under his plate. Then she went over to tuck the cover in around Bennie. He was smiling--dreaming, doubtless, of red sleds and firecrackers--and his mother smiled, too, and kissed him and went back to bed. CHAPTER FIFTH It was a rough, raw, Chicago day. The snow came in spurts, cold and cutting from the north and the scantily dressed strikers were obliged to dance about and beat their hands to keep warm. Special mounted police were riding up and down the streets that paralleled the Burlington tracks, and ugly looking armed deputies were everywhere in evidence. The forced quiet that pervaded the opposing armies served only to increase the anxiety of the observing. Every man who had any direct interest in the contest seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. At ten o'clock the strike was to be extended to all connecting lines, the switching yards and stock yards. When the hour arrived the switchmen threw up their caps and quit. Now the different companies made an effort to replace the strikers and trouble commenced. The deputies, who had been aching to get a whack at the strikers for countless cursings which they had received, now used their guns unmercifully upon the unprotected heads of the men, and the police, who disliked and refused to associate with the deputies, used their clubs upon all who resisted them. By eleven o'clock the whole city was in a state of riot and men bruised and bleeding were loaded into wagons and hurried away until the jails were filled with criminals, bums, deputies and strikers. The police courts were constantly grinding out justice, or decisions intended to take the place of justice. Mothers were often seen begging the magistrates to release their boys and wives praying for the pardon of their husbands. These prayers were often unanswered and the poor women were forced to return to a lonely home, to an empty cupboard and a cold hearth. In the midst of the rioting on this wild day came Patsy Daly strolling up the track singing: "_Always together in sunshine and rain Facing the weather atop o' th' train. Watching the meadows move under the stars Always together atop o' th' cars._" "Hello! there!" came from a box car. "Hello to you," said Patsy as he turned out to see what the fellow was in for. "Now, what the divil you doin' caged up in this car?" "I'm hidin' from the strikers," said the man, peeping cautiously out. "Faith, and I'm one of them myself," says Patsy, "and I suppose you're after takin' my place, ye spalpeen; I have a right to swat your face for you, so I have." "You couldn't do it if I was opposed," said the stranger opening the door. "Oh! couldn't I? then let yourself drop to the ground till I take a little of the conceit out of you." "No, I won't fight you," said the man, "I like your face and I want you to help me out." "And I like your nerve; now, what's your pleasure? Have you been working in this strike?" "I started to work this morning only to get something to eat on." "Are you a railroad man?" "I'm a switchman. I was foreman in the yards at Buffalo, had a scrap with the yard-master who had boasted that he would not have a switchman he couldn't curse, an' got fired." "Did you lick him?" "Yes." "Good and plenty?" "Yes." "Go on with your story." "Well," said the man, seating himself in the door of the car, "I started out to get work--had my card from the Union and felt sure of success. I had only been married a year, but of course I had to leave my wife in Buffalo until I got located. When I applied for work I was asked for references and I had none. I told them where I had worked; they asked me to call later, and I called, only to learn that they didn't need any more men. This performance was repeated in every town I struck, until I began to believe that I had been blacklisted. In time my money gave out. I wrote to my wife and she sent me money. When that was gone I sent for more, not stopping to think that she had to eat, too, and that I had given her but ten dollars when I left home; but she sent me money. "Then there came a time when she could not send me anything; I could not keep up my dues in the Union, so was expelled. After that I found it hard to get passes. Lots of times I had to steal them, and finally--for the first time in my life--I stole something to eat. Say, pardner, did you ever get so hungry that the hunger cramped you like cholera morbus?" "No." "Then I reckon you've never stole, or what's worse, scabbed?" "No." "Well--I've done both, though this is the first time I've scabbed. As I was sayin' I got down so low that I had to steal, and then I thought of my wife, of how terrible it would be if she should have to steal, or maybe worse, and the thought of it drove me almost crazy. She was a pretty girl when I married her, an orphan only eighteen and I was twenty-eight. I determined to go home at once, but before I could get out of town I was arrested as a vag and sent up for sixty days. I thought at that time that my punishment was great,--that the mental and physical suffering that I endured in the workhouse was all that I could stand,--but I've seen it beaten since. At last they told me that I could go, but that I would be expected to shake the city of Chicago before the sun rose on the following day, and I did. I hung myself up on the trucks of a Pullman on the Lake Shore Limited and landed in Buffalo just before dawn. As I hurried along the old familiar streets I noticed a crowd of people standing by a narrow canal and stopped to see what the excitement was. I saw them fish the limp and lifeless form of a woman out of the muddy water and when the moonlight fell upon her face it startled me, for it was so like her face. A moment later I got near enough to see that the victim was a blonde, and my wife was brunette. Presently I came to the house where we had lived, but it was closed and dark. I aroused a number of the neighbors, but none of them knew where the little woman had gone. "'Shure,' said an old woman who was peddling milk, 'I don't know phere she's at at all, at all. That big good-fur-nothin' man o' hern has gone along and deserted of her an' broke the darlint's heart, so 'e 'as an' the end uv it all will be that she'll be afther drownin' 'erself in the canal beyant wan uv these foine nights.' "All through the morning I searched the place for her, but not a trace could I find. It seemed that she had dropped out of the world, utterly, and that no one had missed her. Finally I was so hungry that I begged a bite to eat and went down by the canal and fell asleep. Here a strange thing happened. I had a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I saw my wife being dragged from the dark waters of the canal. She had the same sad, sweet face, but not the same hair. I awoke in a cold sweat. I was now seized with an irresistible longing to look once more upon the face of the dead woman whom I had seen them fish from the foul waters that morning, and I set out for the morgue. I entered unnoticed and there lay the dead woman with her white hands folded upon her dead breast. She had the same sad, sweet face, but not the same hair, but it was she--it was my wife." The vag let his head fall so that his eyes rested upon the ground. Patsy fished something from his vest and holding it out to the man, said: "Here's a one-dollar bill and a three-dollar meal ticket--which will you have?" "Gi' me the pie-card." "Which shows you're not a regular bum," said Patsy. "No," said the man, eyeing the meal ticket with its twenty-one unpunched holes. "I never cared for liquor, only once in a while when a bum makes a lift I take a nip just to stop the awful gnawing, cramping pain of hunger, but it only makes you feel worse afterwards. But it's interesting," said the tramp, thoughtfully. "If it were not for the hunger and cold this new life that I have dropped into wouldn't be half bad. You get a closer glimpse of the miseries of mankind and a better notion of the causes that bring it all about. It educates you. Now take this fight for instance. You fellows feel sure of success, but I know better. Only two men of all the vast army of strikers have deserted so far, but wait. Wait till the pain of hunger hits you and doubles you up like a jack-knife, and it's sure to come. Behind the management there are merciless millions of money: behind the strikers the gaunt wolf of hunger stalks in the snow. Can you beat a game like that? Never. And after all what right have you and your people to expect mercy at the hands of organized capital? Does the Union show mercy to men like me? To escape the blight of the black-list I changed my name. Three times I found work, but in each instance the company were forced to discharge me or have a strike. I was not a Union man and so had to steal a ride out of town. Once I asked a farmer for work and he set me to digging post holes and every time a man came by I hid myself in the grass. 'What you hidin' fur?' the farmer asked. Then I told him that I didn't belong to the Union. "'What Union?' says he. "'The post-hole Union' says I--'in fact, I don't belong to any Union.' "'They ain't no post-hole Union,' says the farmer indignantly, 'an' you know it. What you're givin' me is hog-wash--you've been stealin'. Here's a quarter fur what you've done--now git.' "I tried to reason with him, but he only shook his thick head and began whistling for his dog, and I got. Yes, pardner, it seems to me that the tyranny of organized capital and the tyranny of organized labor are close competitors, and in their wake come the twin curses--the black-list and the boycot. Hand in hand they go, like red liquor and crime. But you can't right these wrongs the way you're headed now," said the philosopher. "Everything is against you. Wealth works wonders. The press, the telephone through which the public talks back to itself, is hoarse with the repetition of the story of your wrong-doings. Until the Government puts a limit to the abuses of trusts and monopolies, and organized labor has learned that there are other interests which have rights under the Constitution, there will be no peace on earth, no good will toward man. When the trusts are controlled, and labor submits its grievances to an impartial, unbiased board of arbitration, then there will be peace and plenty. The wages that you are now losing and the money squandered by vulgar and ignorant leaders, will then be used in building up and beautifying homes. The time thrown away in useless agitation and in idleness will be spent for the intellectual advancement of working men, and the millions of money lost in wrecked railroads will find its way to the pockets of honest investors." While this lecture, which interested Patsy, was being delivered the two men had become oblivious of their surroundings, but now the wild cry of a mob in a neighboring street, the rattle of sticks and stones and the occasional bark of a six-shooter brought them back to the business before them. Wave after wave the rioters rolled against the little band of officers, but like billows that break upon a stony shore they were forced to roll back again. Like the naked minions of Montezuma, who hurled themselves against the armored army of the Spaniards, the strikers and their abetters were invariably beaten back with bruised heads and broken bones. If a luckless striker fell he was trampled upon by the horses of the mounted police or kicked into unconsciousness by the desperate deputies. "Can you get me out of this so I can have a go at this pie-card?" asked the man. "Yas," said Patsy, leaping into the car. "Skin off your coat." When the two men had exchanged coats and caps the vag strolled leisurely down the track and in a little while Patsy followed. He had not gone three cars before the mob saw him and with the cry of "The scab! the scab!" sent a shower of sticks and stones after the flying brakeman. A rock struck Patsy on the head and he fell to the ground. The cap, which he had worn well over his eyes, fell off, and he was recognized by one of the strikers before his ribs could be kicked in. "Begad," said the leader of the mob, "it's the singin' brakeman. Th' bum have robbed 'im uv 'es clothes an' giv' us the slip," and they picked Patsy up and carried him away to the hospital. CHAPTER SIXTH Three kinds of meetings were held by the strikers. Public meetings, open to everybody, union meetings, open to any member of the several organizations engaged in the strike, and secret sessions held by the various Brotherhoods, to which only members of that particular order were admitted. Many things were said and done at these secret sessions that were never printed, or even mentioned outside the lodge-room, save when a detective happened to be a member, or when a member happened to be a detective. At one of these meetings, held by the striking firemen, the head of that organization startled the audience with the declaration that the strike was going to end disastrously for the strikers. In fact, he said, the strike was already lost. They were beaten. The only point to be determined was as to the extent of the thrashing. This red rag, flung in the faces of the "war faction," called forth hisses and hoots from the no-surrender element. A number of men were on their feet instantly, but none with the eloquence, or even the lung power to shut the chief off. Many of the outraged members glanced over at Cowels, who always sat near the little platform at the end of the hall in order that he might not keep his admirers waiting when they called for a speech. The greatest confusion prevailed during the address of the head of the house. Cowels, the recognized leader of the war party, sat silently in his place, though frequently called upon to defend the fighters. As their chief went on telling them of the inevitable ruin that awaited the strikers, the more noisy began to accuse him of selling them out. One man wanted to know what he got for the job, but the master, feeling secure in that he was doing his duty, gave no heed to what his traducers were saying. Amid all the turmoil Cowels sat so quietly that some of the more suspicious began to guess, audibly, that he was "in with the play." But there was no play, and if there had been Cowels would not have been in with it. Cowels was thinking. Suddenly he leaped upon his chair and yelled: "Throw 'im out!" He did not use the finger of scorn upon the master, or even look in his direction. He merely glared at the audience and commanded it to "Throw 'im out!" "We are fighting a losing fight," repeated the chief, "and you who fight hardest here will be first to fall," and he looked at Cowels as he spoke. "It could not be pleasant to me, even with your respectful attention, to break this news to you. I do it because it is my duty. But now, having said what I had to say, let me assure you that if a majority of you elect to continue the fight, I will lead you, and I promise that every man of you shall have his fill." This last declaration was rather a cooler for Cowels. It took a vast amount of wind out of his sails, but he was on his feet and so had to make a speech. He was not very abusive, but managed to make it plain that there were others ready and able to lead if their leader failed to do his duty. When he had succeeded in getting his train of thought out over the switches his hearers, especially the no-surrenderers, began to enthuse. His speech was made picturesque by the introduction of short rhymes, misquotations from dead poets, and tales that had never been told in type. "If," he exclaimed dramatically, "to use a Shakesperian simile, the galled wench be jaded, let him surrender his sword to some one worthy of the steel." The orator worked the Shakesperian pedal so hard that some of his hearers expressed a desire to know more about the distinguished poet. Finally, when he became too deep for them, a man with a strong clear voice shouted a single word--the name of a little animal whose departure from a sinking ship makes sailors seek the shore--and Cowels closed like a snuff-box. Now the casual observer would say of the great orator: he has money; his family is not in want. But the statement would have been incorrect. The Cowelses, like hundreds of other families, were without money, without credit, and would shortly be without food. The last money they had received from the Brotherhood had gone to pay the interest on the money due the Benevolent Building Association, for fuel, and to pay the milkman who was bringing milk for the baby. It would be forty or fifty days before another assessment could be made and the money collected. The outlook was gloomy. Mr. Hawkins had called again and offered ten dollars a month for the little spare room on the second floor, but Cowels would not consent. But at the very moment when he was making this speech his wife was returning empty-handed from the bakery. Bennie had been watching, waiting at the window for her, and when she saw him staring at her, saw the tears come into his innocent eyes, she took him in her arms and wept as she had not wept before. They had breakfasted on bread and water. It was now past noon and they were all hungry. She gave Bennie some of the baby's milk, and then sat down to think. The door-bell rung. "I was just passing by," said Mr. Hawkins, "and thought I'd stop and see if there was any show to get that room. I work for the plumber in the next block, so you see it would be handy for me." "Would you pay in advance?" asked Mrs. Cowels. "I shouldn't mind," said the plumber, "if it would be of any advantage to you." "Then you can have the room." "Very well," said the man, apparently delighted with his bargain, and he gave her a crisp ten-dollar note. He also gave Bennie a big, red apple, and looked surprised when the boy began to bite great chunks out of it. That evening when Cowels came home he found the house filled with the fumes of boiled beef, and it put him in a good humor at once. He was hungry, having had nothing all day but a glass of beer and a free lunch. "They's a man up-stairs," said Bennie, shoving his empty plate up for another load of boiled beef. Mrs. Cowels smiled a faint smile, and her husband asked: "Who is this fellow?" "He's a plumber," was the reply, "and he seems like a very nice man." "Did he pay a month in advance?" "Yes." "Well, I don't like the idea of having strangers in the house," said Cowels, "and I wish you had not taken him in." "I dislike it too, George," said Mrs. Cowels, "but the baker had refused me a loaf of bread, the children were hungry and you might as well know now that I can never see my babies suffer for want of food, and you need not be surprised at anything I may do to supply their wants." Cowels had never seen his wife display so much spirit and it surprised him. "It's all very well," she went on, "to prate about honor and loyalty to the Brotherhood, but an obligation that entails the suffering of innocent women and children is not an honorable obligation and ought not to exist. A man's first duty is to his family. My advice to you would be to miss a few meetings and go and try to find something to do. Think how we have denied ourselves in order to have a place of our own, and now it's all to be taken from us, and all because of this senseless and profitless strike." "By George, she's a cracker-jack!" said Hawkins, who had been listening down the stove-pipe. Cowels made no reply to his wife, but he was thinking. In fact, he had been thinking all the way home. He had been interrupted twice that day while addressing the meeting. One fellow had asked who the devil Shakespeare was, and if he had ever done anything for the Union. Another man had said "rats," and the orator was sore. Now, when he had thought it all over, he surprised his wife as much as she had surprised him. "They're all a lot of unliterate ingrates," said Cowels, "and for two cents I'd shake the whole show and go to work. If they turn me down at the convention, and this strike is not settled, I'll take an engine." Mr. Hawkins gave a low whistle. "No, you must never do that, George, after all you've said against such things; it would not do." "Then they must not drive me to it," said Cowels. "I've tried to show them the way to success, even to lead them, and they have the nerve to guy me. I'll fool 'em yet if they trifle with me." "That's what I thought all along," mused Hawkins. "It was not the Brotherhood that Mr. Cowels was working so hard for, but Mr. Cowels. Well, he will be just as eager to succeed in another direction--he's ambitious." CHAPTER SEVENTH The great strike, like a receding sea, revealed heaps of queer wreckage. Men who had once been respected by their fellows, but who had drifted down the river of vice now came to claim the attention of the strikers or the company. Most conspicuous among them was drunken Bill Greene. Three months ago he would have been kicked out of a company section house or passed by a Brotherhood man without a nod. Then he was "Old Bill;" now they called him Billy. In his palmy days he had wooed, and won the heart of Maggie Crogan, a pretty waitress in the railway eating-house at Zero Junction. Maggie was barely eighteen then, a strawberry blonde with a sunny smile and a perpetual blush. In less than a year he had broken her heart, wrecked her life and sent her adrift in the night. His only excuse was that he was madly in love with Nora Kelly, but Nora, having heard the story of Maggie's miserable life, turned her back on Greene and married George Cowels, then a young apprentice in the shops. Inasmuch as it was about the only commendable thing he ever did, it should be put to Greene's credit that he did really love Nora Kelly; but, being a coward with an inherited thirst, he took to drink the day she turned him down; and now, after a few wasted years he and Maggie--old red-headed Mag they called her--had drifted together, pooled their sorrows and often tried to drown them in the same can of beer. She worked, when she worked at all, at cleaning coaches. He borrowed her salary and bought drink with it. Once he proposed marriage, and ended by beating her because she laughed at him. Before the strike he had been forced to keep sober four days out of a week. Now he was comfortably tanked at all times. He had been a machinist and round-house foreman, and the company saw in him a fair "emergency" engineer, and was constantly watching for an opportunity to try him on one of the fast express trains. At last he was called to take out a passenger run. The round-house foreman had gone personally to fetch "Billy" from the bar-room near the Grand Pacific where he was waiting for a Brotherhood man to drop in and buy him a drink. When told that he was wanted to take out the Pacific express, the bum straightened up, hitched his suspenderless trousers and asked: "Who're you?" "I'm the foreman; come and have a bite o' breakfast and let's be off." "Well--folks gen'ly drink afore they eat--come on, le's have a horn. Here, bar-keep, give us a couple o' slugs." "Got any dough?" "Now don't git gay--I'm goin' down to take me run out--here's me foreman." "But you must not drink," broke in the official, "when you are going out on an express train." "What?" "You must not drink." "Then I don't work. Th' Brotherhood 'll pay me four dollars a day to sit right here and keep three gages an' a flutter in the stack--go on with yer damn ol' railroad--" "Come now, Billy," pleaded the foreman, "this is an opportunity--" "Billy! Month ago Stonaker's nigger threw me down the steps." "Give 'm a drink," said the foreman, and the bar-keeper set out two glasses and a large red bottle. While the foreman's back was turned and the bar-man waited upon another customer, Billy did the honors. He filled both glasses and had emptied one when the foreman, having unearthed a quarter, turned and remarked to the liquor man that he did not drink. The man was in the act of removing the glass when Billy grabbed it, and with a quick crook of his elbow pitched the whiskey down his neck. "Now will you go and eat?" "Naw--go t' work," said Greene, hitching up his trousers. Off they went together, but at every saloon (and there are dozens of them in Chicago), the new engineer of the Pacific express insisted upon drinking. By hard coaxing the foreman had succeeded in passing three or four of them when they were met by a couple of strikers. "Hello Billy," said one of the men. "Where you goin'?" "Goin' t' take me run out," said Greene, with another hitch. "Now you fellows break away," said the foreman, for the strikers had turned and were walking with the others. "Reckon you don't own the sidewalk, do you?" said one of the men, and the foreman was silent. "Didn't think you'd shake us like this Billy," began the striker. "We intended to take you into the order to-day an' end up with a good big blow-out to-night. It's all right Billy. You go out on your run and when you get in come round to the Pacific an' we'll square you with the boys." "An' we'll have a bowl together, eh?" said Billy, for the liquor was beginning to make him happy. The foreman was white with rage, but he was powerless. "You bet we will, Billy," said the man who had done the talking. "Hur--what's this, boss?" "Come along now," urged the foreman, tugging at Billy's arm. "Never run by a tank," said Billy, setting the air and coming to a dead stall at the open door of a beer saloon. The silent striker had entered the saloon, the other paused in the door, looked back, nodded and asked: "Have something, Billy, b'fore you go?" "Will I?" cried Billy, as he twisted from the foreman's grasp. "Police--here--officer!" cried the foreman, and when the copper came he found Billy just swallowing his second straight. "Here," said the foreman, excitedly, "I want you to arrest these men." "Better get a warrant first," said one of the strikers coolly. "We simply came in here to have a drink," he explained to the officer. "Phat's th' row hier, Tony?" asked the policeman. "Th' ain't no row as I can see," said the bar-keeper, "these gents is 'aving a quiet drink w'en 'ees nibs there pips in an' calls fer a cop." "This is one of our engineers," explained the foreman, "and I was on the way to the station with him when these strikers took him away." "Begad, he's a bute," said the officer, folding his arms over his ample stomach and gazing with mirthful curiosity at the bum. "Now, ye's fellies must not interfere with men as wants to make an honest living--let th' ingineer go t' 'is ingine," and he gave Billy a shove that sent him into the arms of the waiting foreman. "What's it _to_ you," shouted the angry engine-driver, "who wants to work--who said I wanted t' make a' honest livin'?--Go t' 'ell," and he struck the foreman in the face. "Here! Here!!" cried the officer, seizing the fighter, "you'll go to work or go to jail," and Billy went away between the copper and the foreman with his wheels sliding. After much coaxing and cursing by the foreman, who was often asked to come out in the alley and settle it, Billy was loaded into an engine cab. While the foreman was selecting a fireman from the hard-looking herd of applicants sent down from the office of the master-mechanic, the gentle warmth of the boiler-head put Billy to sleep. It was a sound, and apparently dreamless sleep, from which he did not wake the while they rolled him from the engine, loaded him into a hurry-up wagon and carried him away to the cooler. When he had sobered up Greene went to the round-house and offered his services to the company, but the foreman would not talk to him. Finally Greene became abusive, and the foreman kicked him out of the round-house and across the turntable. From that day Greene was a striker, and a very troublesome one. CHAPTER EIGHTH Two weeks had passed when the Philosopher met Patsy, now in deep disgrace. Patsy had been expelled from the Brotherhood for aiding a scab. "O! it's nothing," said Patsy. "That's right. It won't be worth much to belong to the Union when this cruel war is over." "Only a fellow hates to get the worst of it when he really tries to tote fair." "The best you can get is the worst of it when you are bound by oath to an organization that is engaged in a hopeless fight. The president offered yesterday to take back seventy-five per cent. of the men, and immediately they said he was running. This morning the offer is for sixty per cent., but they won't have it. Have they offered to balm you with promotion?" "Yes." "Varnished cars, eh?" "Yep--finest train on the road." "And you told them?--" "No." "Well, I think you did right. Shall we go and peck?" "Have you been working?" "No. I've been vag'd. When the police got through with me, and returned my pie-card I turned it in for a commutation ticket, and there are still a few feeds to the good on it. The commutation ticket is the proper card for a gentleman in straitened circumstances. You are not obliged to gorge yourself at early morn with a whole twenty-cent breakfast when all you really need is a cup of black coffee and a roll. Besides, when a man is not working he should not eat so much. I frequently edge in with a crowd of other gentlemen and procure a nice warm lunch at one of the beer saloons, omitting the beer. By the way, the free lunch room is a good place for the study of human nature. There you will see the poor working man fish up his last five cents to pay for a beer in order to get a hot lunch, and if you look closely, spot a two-by-four-shopkeeper, for instance, as he enters the front door, and keep your eye on him until he goes out again, you will observe that he hasn't lost a cent. A little dark man who runs a three-ball in La Salle Street makes a business of this, and of loaning money at fifty per cent. and seems to be doing quite well." When they had reached a "Kohlsaat" the two men sat down, or up, and when they had finished Patsy paid for the meal. "If you see a man who has wood to saw or a piano to tune or anything that isn't scabbin' I wish you'd give me a character and get me the job," said the Philosopher when they had reached the sidewalk. "You follow my smoke," said Patsy, after a moment's meditation, and he strolled down the crowded street, turning and twisting through the multitude like a man trying to lose a dog, but he couldn't lose the Philosopher. Presently he stepped in front of a big building, waited for his companion, and they went in together. "Mr. Stonaker," said Patsy when he had been admitted to the general manager's private office, "I have a favor to ask. I want you to give a friend of mine a job. He's a switchman, and a good trainman, but he will not take the place of a striker." "Can you vouch for his honesty, Patsy?" asked the official. "I think I can." "Very well, we want a reliable watchman here in the building; bring your friend in." When the Philosopher had been informed as to his new duties, and learned that he was to have charge of the entire building, he asked if Patsy had given his history. "I have vouched for you," said Patsy, a little embarrassed. The general manager pressed a button and when the stenographer came in instructed him to take the man's personal record, in accordance with a well-known rule. This information is intended chiefly as a guide to the management in notifying the relatives or friends of an employee in case of accident or death. The manager did the questioning and when the man had given his name and declared that he had no relatives, no home, no friends--except Patsy--the official showed some surprise and asked: "Where did you work last?" "In the workhouse." "When?" queried the general manager, casting a quick glance at Patsy, who was growing nervous. "'Bout a year ago now." "At what particular place have you lived or lodged since that time?" "In jail." "What were you in jail for?" "Stealing a meal-ticket, this coat and cap from Patsy." "I gave the things to him, sir," said Patsy, "and he was discharged." "Where have you been living since you left the workhouse?" "In the streets and in the fields." "Do you drink?" "No, sir." "Do you mean to tell me that an experienced yardman, strong and intelligent as you appear to be, can sink so low without being a drunkard?" "Yes, sir." "And you have been foreman in the Buffalo yards? What else have you been?" "A Union man, tramp, bum, vag, thief, and a scab." "Huh!" said the general manager, pushing out his lips, "is this your notion of a reliable man, Patsy?" "Yes, sir, I still vouch for him." The general manager looked puzzled. "But you could hardly expect me to employ, in a responsible position, a self-confessed criminal?" "And yet," said the Philosopher, "if I had lied to you I might have gained a good place, but having told the truth I suppose I must go." The general manager, who had left his seat, began to pace the floor. "It may be possible for an honest man to be a tramp--even a vag, but why did you steal?" "For the same reason that I took the place of a striker the other day--because I was hungry," said the Philosopher looking the general manager full in the face. "But what brought you to this condition? that's what I want to know," said the official earnestly. "And if you can explain that, you can have the place, provided you really want to reform." "I'm not so anxious to reform," said the Philosopher. "What I want is a show to earn an honest living, and let the balance of the world reform. But if you want to know what brought me to my present condition I can tell you--this is the instrument." And the man lifted from the manager's desk a slip of paper, full of names, across the top of which was printed "Black List." "It's the blight of the black-list that is upon me, sir, and it gives me pleasure to be able to present to you a sample of the class of citizens you and your associates are turning out," said the Philosopher with much feeling, and he turned to go. "Stay," said Patsy. "Mr. Stonaker, you told me yesterday that if I ever needed your assistance in any way to make my wants known." "And do you still vouch for this man?" "I do." "Very well, then--he can have the place!" CHAPTER NINTH Mr. Hawkins had been in his new lodgings nearly a week and had frequently discussed the strike with the great labor leader, when he made bold one evening to state that he had no use for the Brotherhood and that he had it from inside sources that a number of the old engineers were going to return to work, and that the strike would soon be a thing of the past, as would the comfortable jobs that the strikers had left. Cowels, of course, was indignant, but he was interested. Mr. Hawkins had expected as much. "I'm going out firing myself," he went on, "and I'm promised promotion as soon as I can start and stop. If I had your experience and your ability, generally, I could get the best run on the road with a cinch on a job as M. M. at the first opening. A good man who goes to the company's rescue now won't want for anything. If he's hard up he can get all the money he needs--that is a few hundred at least--advanced to him." Cowels listened attentively. Mr. Hawkins lighted a fresh ten-cent cigar and gave one to his landlord. "Of course, it's different with you," resumed the lodger, "you own your home and have saved your money, perhaps, but a whole lot of the strikers are being pinched and they're going to weaken. They'll be cursed a little bit by the Brotherhood, but the public is dead against the strikers--read the Chicago papers to-day." "But the papers are owned body and soul by the Burlington," said Cowels. "Well, what do you fellows own? That only shows which is the winning side. You take my advice and let go while you've got plenty." "Plenty?" echoed Cowels. "Do you suppose I'd take a stranger into my home--do you think for a minute that I would sit here and let you talk to me as you have done if I could help myself? Plenty! I'm a beggar." Hawkins knew that, but he expressed surprise. When they had smoked in silence for a while the plumber handed an unsealed letter to his landlord and watched his face closely as he read it. The letter was from one of the Burlington officials and it stated plainly that the bearer was empowered to make terms with the gentleman addressed looking to his return to the service of the company. Mr. Cowels was very indignant, at first, but finally consented to discuss the matter. Mr. Hawkins was very cool, explaining that it made no difference with him one way or the other. The official happened to be a personal friend of his and had trusted him with this commission. "If you ask my advice," said the plumber, "I should say take whatever they offer and go to work. No man can hold out against such odds for any great length of time; sooner or later you will be as hard up as the rest, your wife will be in need of the actual necessaries of life, your children will be crying for food, and how can you answer them if you let this opportunity pass? To-morrow, I am told, is to be the last day of grace, so you might better heel yourself and let the Brotherhood walk the floor for a while. The probabilities are that the strike will simply be declared off, the old employees to be taken back only as their services are required, and as new men. Every day that passes adds to the strength of the company. Labor organizations, like bands of Indians, are ever at each other's throats. When the Knights of Labor struck on the Reading those haughty aristocrats of the working world, the Engineers' Brotherhood, took their places, and now the Knights of Labor engineers are coming here in carload lots to fill the cabs of the Burlington. If the engineers were offered their old places back to-day they would bolt for the round-house nor cast one longing, lingering look for their old friends. Finally, when the strike is settled it will be by the engineers. If it is to be declared off, the unconditional surrender of all the forces will be made by them. If the terms of settlement suit them, your followers will take their medicine and look pleasant. Bring the matter nearer home,--to your own experience. You have given your time, neglected your family, and worked unceasingly for the advancement of the cause. Your eloquence, your genius and your influence have held the men in line when they have wavered and would have broken, and what has your own order done for you, and what will it do at the coming convention? They have guyed you in public and they will throw you down hard when the time comes. It's nothing to me, only I hate to see a good man turned down. I dislike to see real talent and personal worth wasted upon a lot of loud-mouthed, uneducated coyotes who don't know who Shakespeare is. You're too big a man, Cowels, that's the trouble; you're out of your sphere. When you are master-mechanic, with your hands full of promotions, they will look up to you, and it is all within easy reach. If you will report for duty to-morrow morning you can go out on Blackwings to-morrow night, with the Denver Limited, the finest train in the West, behind you. The best run on the road will be the meanest position you will ever be asked to fill. But I must say no more, for I don't want to persuade you to take a step which you might regret in after years. I only ask you to think it over to-night and choose between what you call loyalty to the Brotherhood, and your plain duty to your family--Good-night." Hawkins possessed, in a remarkable degree, the rare faculty of knowing how and when to let go. When Cowels had made the foregoing facts known to his wife, she was greatly surprised that he would entertain such a proposition for the smallest fraction of a second, for she had always regarded him as the soul of honor, and wholly unselfish. Now each pondered in silence over the proposition. From her point of view it was a choice between the Brotherhood and her home. Between temporary disgrace for her husband, and hunger for her children, and she was not long in making up her mind. The baby had been without milk that day. It had gone to bed hungry for the first time in its life, and the thought of it made her desperate. To Cowels's way of reasoning it was simply a question of choice between the position of master of the Brotherhood and master-mechanic. Which was nearest, and which would last longest and pay best? These were the points he was considering, and he chose what appeared to him to be the surest and quickest way. To be sure, he suffered not a little at the thought of deserting his comrades, but his personal ambition and selfishness helped him to determine to report on the following morning, and to go out with the fast express behind him on the following night. He tried not to think of the Brotherhood, and to fashion to himself the glory of success, of fast runs with Blackwings, and future promotion. CHAPTER TENTH The night winds moaned among the empty freight cars. The arc lamps hummed and sputtered, making the flying frost look like diamond dust dropping from the grinding stars. Out of a shadowy alley a bent man crept, crouching under the snow-hung eaves. Far down the track, at a crossing, the man saw the flash of a helmet and the glint of brass buttons, and dodged among the cars. The man had committed no crime against the law, but he was willing to, and so avoided the silent guardian of the peace, pacing his beat. Beyond the track he came to the street door of a two-story building, struck a match, read the number on the transom, and entered the hall. At the top of the first flight of stairs a door stood open. Beneath a gas jet in the open room Dan Moran sat reading a book. He had heard the unsteady footsteps on the stair, but had not allowed them to disturb him. Now the prowler paused, steadied himself against the door-jamb, coughed, hiccoughed, hello'd in a whisper, and Moran looked up. "Well, Greene," said Dan, "what brings you abroad on a night like this?" "Business!" was the half-whispered reply, "Business, ol' man." Now the rum-crazed rambler left the door, put a trembling hand on the table in the centre of the room, glanced back toward the stairs, and peered into the face of the old engineer. "We are betrayed!" he whispered, leaning heavily upon the stand. His wrist shook violently, causing the table to quiver. The smoking outfit upon the table made a low, rumbling noise. "What's that?" he asked, glaring about. Having satisfied himself that all was right he put both hands upon the table, and gazing again into the face of Moran, repeated: "We are betrayed. Cowels is goin' out with Blackwings on the Denver Limited to-morrow night. The plumber told the foreman an hour ago--I heard 'im. Least they think he's goin', but he ain't. He's goin' to--" "Oh, Greene, you're drunk. Go home and have a good sleep." "Home! Did you say home? I ain't got no home. Drunk? Yes, I been drunk lots o' times, but I ain't drunk now. Honest, I ain't teched a drop to-day. Got a bot about you, ol' man? Say, if you have, fur th' love o' life gimme a drop--half a drop--Dan, I'm all afire inside." It was an awful picture that Moran looked upon now. The bloated face, the sunken, blood-shot eyes, the blazing, hideous nose, burning in the iron-gray stubble, all topped by a shock of tousled, unkempt hair, made a picture horrible in the extreme. "Say!" Greene began again, glancing toward the door, "meet me at seven thirty to-morrow night, on the 'rep' track near the round-house, an' I'll show you a trick." "What sort of trick will you show me?" With another look over his shoulder at the door the drunkard leaned over the table and whispered. When the old engineer had gathered what the man had said he got to his feet, took his midnight caller by the collar and lead him to the top of the stairs. Greene was opposed to leaving the cheerful room, so Moran was obliged to go with him to the street door. Having put the wreck out into the frosty night the engineer went back to his book. But he could not read. That awful face into which he had looked, and the black soul that he had seen as well, haunted him. He sat with his feet upon the table and smoked pipe after pipe, in a vain effort to drive the frightful picture from his mind. The news that Greene had brought disturbed him also. His fireman was going to desert the Brotherhood, and take their old engine out. Blackwings! How he loved that locomotive, and how absurd it seemed now for a man to become so attached to a mere machine! But she was not inanimate. She lived, moved, breathed. How often, as they swept beneath the stars of an autumn night, had he felt her hot breath upon his face, heard the steel singing beneath her feet and felt her tremble, responsive to his lightest touch. How wild and free and glad she had seemed, let loose in the moonlight with the Limited behind her. How gracefully, easily, she lifted the huge, vestibuled train from swale to swell. How she always passed station after station on the tick of the clock, keeping to the time-card, unvarying as the sun. Proud and queenly, yet gentle, she always answered the signals of the less fortunate locomotives that stood panting on the side tracks, with their heavy loads. Even the Meteor, the engine that wore white flags and pulled the president's private car, always took the siding and saluted Blackwings as she swept by majestically with the Limited. More than once Moran had refused promotion that would take him from his engine--from the open fields and free, wide world in which they lived and moved together--to the cares and anxieties of a stuffy office. He had been contented and happy with Blackwings, his books and his briar-root pipe. He did not share the troubles of his less fortunate brothers, who hugged and exaggerated their grievances until they became, to them, unbearable. But when they quit he climbed down, took off his overclothes, folded them carefully and carried them away with him. He had nothing to gain by the strike, but he had much to lose by remaining at his post--the confidence and respect of his fellow-toilers. Besides he, in common with the rest, regarded the classification of engineers as unfair to the men and to the travelling public. If a man were competent to handle a passenger train, said the strikers, he ought to have first-class pay. If he were incompetent he ought to be taken off, for thousands of lives were in the hands of the engineer during the three years through which, at reduced pay, he was becoming competent. These were the arguments advanced by the men. This business upon the one hand, and a deep longing upon the part of the management to learn just how far the men could go in the way of dictating to the officials, in fixing the load for a locomotive, and the pay of employees, caused the company, after years of sparing, to undertake the chastisement of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers.[3] [3] _The Burlington officials claim that, by resolutions in the lodge room at Lincoln, the engineers fixed the load for certain classes of engines, together with the penalty for pulling more. They argue that if allowed to do this the men would want to make the time-cards and fix freight rates. They certainly had as much right to do the one as the other._ It is to be presumed that the generals, colonels and captains in the two armies fought for what they considered right. At all events they were loyal and obedient to their superiors. But each had found a foe vastly more formidable than had been expected. They had not dreamed that the fight could become so bitter. Life-long friends became enemies. Family ties were severed, homes were ruined, men's lives were wrecked, women's hearts were broken, and out of the shadow of the awful strife came men fit for murder. It was these things that had kept Dan Moran awake far into the morning. Presently he heard a whistle, opened his eyes, looked at his watch and then undressed and went to bed, while other workmen, more happily situated, passed under his window on the way to work. CHAPTER ELEVENTH "Brush the snow off the headlight!" "What?" "Brush the snow off the headlight!" It was the first time the engineer had spoken to the fireman since they left Chicago. When they crossed the last switch and left the lights of the city behind them he had settled down in his place, his eyes, with a sort of dazed look in them, fixed upon the front window. The snow was driving from the north-west so hard that it was impossible for the engineer, even when running slowly through the country towns, to put his head outside the cab, and now they were falling out into the night at the rate of a mile a minute. It was Barney Guerin's first trip as a fireman. He was almost exhausted by the honest effort he had been making to keep the engine hot, and now he looked at the engineer in mingled surprise and horror. He could not believe that the man expected him to go out over the wet and slippery running-board to the pilot and wipe the snow from the headlight glass. He stood and stared so long that the fire burned low and the pointer on the steam gauge went back five pounds. For the next two or three minutes he busied himself at the furnace door, and when he finally straightened up, half-blinded by the awful glare of the fire-box, half-dazed by being thrown and beaten against the sides of the coal tank, the engineer said: "Brush the snow off the _headlight_!" The fireman opened the narrow door in front of him and the storm came in so furiously that he involuntarily closed it again. Again he tried and again was beaten back by the wind. Pulling his cap tight down he faced about and stepped out with his back to the storm. Holding to the hand railing he worked his way to the front end. One sweep of his gloved hand swept the snow away and the great glare of the headlight flashed up the track. "My God! how she rolls!" exclaimed the engineer. And she did roll. Never before in the history of the road had the Denver Limited been entrusted to a green crew, for the engineer was also making his maiden trip. The day coach was almost empty. In the chair car, with four chairs turned together, the newly-made conductor, the head brakeman, a country editor, and the detective sent out to spot the crew, played high five. The three or four passengers in the sleeper were not asleep. They were sitting silently at the curtained windows and occasionally casting anxious glances at the Pullman conductor who seemed to be expecting something to happen. Where were all the people who used to travel by this splendid train? The road was now considered, by most people, as unsafe and the people were going round it. Public opinion, at the beginning of the strike, was about equally divided between the men and the company. Now and then a reckless striker or sympathizer would blow up a building, dope a locomotive or ditch a train, and the stock of the strikers would go down in the estimation of the public. Burlington stock was falling rapidly--the property was being wrecked. On nearly every side track could be seen two or three dead engines that had been ruined and abandoned by amateur engine-drivers, and now and then at way-stations the smouldering ruins of a freight train, whose blackened skeleton still clung to the warped and twisted track. At every station great crowds of people blocked the platforms, for the Limited had not been able to leave Chicago for more than a month. The engineer had scarcely touched the whistle, deeming it safer to slip quietly through the night, and the light train was now speeding noiselessly over the snow-muffled earth. They had left Chicago two hours late, and as they had a clear track, so far as other trains were concerned, the young driver was letting her go regardless of danger. At any moment they might expect to be blown into eternity, and it was just as safe at seventy miles an hour as at seventeen. Besides, George Cowels was desperate. For five long years he had fired this run with the same locomotive. He knew all her tricks and whims, her speed and power, and the road was as familiar to him as was his mother's face. He knew where the "old man" used to cut her back and ease off on the down grades. He knew that he ought to do the same, but he did not. "Let her roll," he would say to himself; and she did roll, and with every swing the bell sounded a single note, low and mournful, like a church bell tolling for the dead. It seemed to the unhappy engineer that it tolled for him, for that day he had died to all his friends. Although he had only been out a little over an hour now, he knew that in that hour the story of his desertion had flashed out to every division of the various brotherhoods in the United States, Canada and Mexico, and that a hundred thousand men and women would curse him that night before they slept. He recollected what a vigorous striker he had been in the beginning, how he had shouted, "Put him out" when the grand master had said: "We are fighting a losing fight." He recalled with some bitterness that their leader had looked him straight in the face when he added: "And you who fight hardest here will be first to fall." Then the face of his ten-year-old boy rose up before him, as it had appeared from the street as he was leaving his home that evening, all bruised and bleeding, with soiled and torn clothes, and he heard the brave child's explanation: "Mamma, I wouldn't 'ave fit, but Dugan's boy said my papa was a scab."[4] [4] _The reader must pardon the use of this vulgar word, for we must use it here or spoil this story._ Ordinarily it would require a great deal of "sand" to enable a man to take out a train of this kind and run at such a high rate of speed through a country full of anarchy, but in Cowels's case it required nothing in the way of bravery. The great sacrifice he had made in abandoning all that he held to be honorable,--the breaking of his vow, the violation of his oath, had left him utterly indifferent to personal danger. It will be difficult for those unacquainted with the vast army of daily toilers to appreciate the sufferings of this youthful engine-driver. A king, who in a night's debauch loses an empire, loses no more than the man who abandons all that he holds sacred. The struggles and disappointments of the poor mean as much to them as similar sorrows mean to the rich. The heart of a Bohemian milkmaid beats as wildly, aches as sorely and breaks as surely as does the heart of the proudest princess. This man and his wife, on the day they abandoned the cause of his comrades--of the Brotherhood of which he had been so proud, of whose strength he had boasted in many a crowded hall--made a great sacrifice. To stand disgraced in their little world was to be disgraced before all the people of all the earth, for in that world were the only people they knew and cared about. When the fireman returned to the cab he was almost overcome with terror. More than once, as he worked his way along the side of the rolling, plunging engine, he had nearly been dashed to death. The very machine, he fancied, was striving to shake him from her. Once he had lost his footing on the running board and only saved himself by clinging to the hand rail while the rolling steed beat and thrashed him against her iron side. "Never ask me to do that again," he shouted, as he shook his clenched fist at the engineer. The latter laughed, then asked: "Why?" "Because it is dangerous; I nearly lost my life." "And what if you had?" said the engineer, and he laughed again. "Why, don't you know that thousands would rejoice at the news of your death and scarcely a man would mourn? Don't you know that at thousands of supper-tables to-night, working men who could afford to buy an evening paper read your name and cursed you before their wives and children? Nearly lost your life! Poor, miserable, contemptible scab." "Never apply that name to me again!" shouted Guerin, and this time it was not his fist but the coal-pick he shoved up into the very face of the engineer. "Why?" "Because it is dangerous; you nearly lost _your_ life." The engineer made no reply. "And what if you had?" the fireman went on, for it was his turn to talk now. "If my action makes me contemptible in the eyes of men, how much more contemptible must yours make you? I take the place of a stranger--you the place of a friend; a man who has educated you, who has taught you all you know about this machine. Right well I know how I shall be hated by the dynamiters who are blowing up bridges and burning cars, and I tell you now that it does not grieve me. Can you say as much? Here's a copy of the message that went out to your miserable little world to-night--read it, it will do you good. I fancy your friends will be too busy cursing you this evening to devote any time to mere strangers." Cowels took the message with a jerk, turned the gauge lamp to his corner and read: The Denver Limited left to-night, two hours late, Fireman George Cowels as engineer, and Time-keeper Guerin as fireman. Cowels is the man who wanted the grand master thrown out of a hall in Chicago. He was a great labor agitator and his desertion is a great surprise. HOGAN. _Later_--It is now understood that Cowels, the scab who went out on engine Blackwings to-night, was bought outright by a Burlington detective. This fact makes his action all the more contemptible. He is now being burned in effigy on the lake front, and the police are busy trying to keep an infuriated mob from raiding and burning his house. The action of Guerin was no surprise, as he was employed in the office of the master-mechanic, and has always been regarded as a company man--almost as an official. HOGAN. Guerin, having put in a fresh fire, stood watching the face of his companion, and when the engineer crumpled the message in his hand and ground his teeth together the fireman shoved another message under the nose of the unhappy man. This message was on the same subject, but from quite another source, and varied slightly from those we have just read. OFFICIAL BULLETIN: _Burlington Route_ The Denver Limited went out on time to-night with a reasonably well-filled train, Engineer Cowels in the cab. Mr. Cowels has been many years in the service of the company and is highly esteemed by the officials. Although he was, for a time, a prominent striker, he saw the folly of further resistance on the part of the employees, and this morning came to the company's office and begged to be allowed to return to his old run, which request was granted. Cowels is a thoroughly competent engineer and has been on this same run for five years, and up to the time of the strike had never missed a trip. It is expected that his return to his engine will be the signal for a general stampede. The company has generously agreed to reïnstate all old employees (unless guilty of some lawless act) who return before noon to-morrow. STONAKER. It would be difficult to say which of these dispatches distressed him most. The first said he had sold himself for so much money, the second that he had gone to the company and begged to be reïnstated. Slowly he opened the first crumpled message and read down to the word "scab." "George Cowels, the scab,--burned in effigy--a great mob about his house." All these things passed swiftly before him, and the thought of his wife and baby being in actual danger, his boy being kicked and cuffed about, almost made him mad. He crushed the crumpled messages in his right hand while with his left he pulled the throttle wide open. The powerful Blackwings, built to make time with ten cars loaded, leaped forward like a frightened deer. The speed of the train was now terrific, and the stations, miles apart, brushed by them like telegraph poles. At Mendota a crowd of men hurled sticks and stones at the flying train. As the stones hailed into the cab, and the broken glass rained over him, the desperate driver never so much as glanced to either side, but held his place, his hand on the throttle and his eye on the track. For the first time he looked at his watch. He was still more than an hour late. He remembered how the old engineer had said, an hundred times perhaps: "George, an express train should never be late; she should be on time or in the ditch." It was the first time Blackwings had ever been an hour late anywhere, and with all his greater sorrows this grieved the young engineer. Now at the way stations the crowd that awaited them invariably fell back as the wild train dashed by, or, if they hurled their missiles, those aimed at the locomotive struck the sleeper or flew across the track behind it, so great was the speed of the train. Cowels yielded at last to the irresistible desire to see how his companion was taking it, but as he bent his gaze in that direction it encountered the grinning face of the fireman, into which he threw the crumpled paper. Then, as he continued to grin, the infuriated engineer grabbed a hard-hammer and hurled it murderously at Guerin's head. The latter saved his life by a clever dodge, and springing to the driver's side caught him by the back of the neck and shoved his head out at the window and held it there. They were just at that moment descending a long grade down which the most daring driver always ran with a closed throttle. Blackwings was wide open, and now she appeared to be simply rolling and falling through space. Although we have no way of knowing how fast she fell, it is safe to say she was making ninety miles an hour. While the fireman held on to the engineer, squeezing and shaking away at the back of his neck, the speed of the train was increasing with every turn of the wheels. Gradually the resistance of the engineer grew feebler until all at once he dropped across the arm-rest, limp and lifeless. Guerin, finding himself alone on the flying engine, had presence of mind enough to close the throttle, but with that his knowledge of the locomotive ended. He reasoned that in time she must run down and stop of herself, and then the train crew would come forward and relieve his embarrassment. It never occurred to him for a moment that he might be regarded as a murderer, for he had only held the engineer down to the seat, with no more violence than boys use toward each other in play. And while he stood staring at the still form of the driver that hung out of the window like a pair of wet overalls, the engine rolled, the snow drifted deeper and deeper on the headlight, and with every roll the bell tolled! tolled!! like a church bell tolling for the dead. The train, slowing down, rolled silently over the shrouded earth, the fire in the open furnace blackened and died, the cold air chilled her flues and the stream of water from the open injector flooded the boiler of Blackwings and put the death-rattle in her throat. When at last the train rolled slowly into Galesburg the fireman stood on the deck of a dead locomotive, with snow on her headlight, and, as the crowd surged round him, pointed to the limp form of the young engineer that hung in the window, dead. CHAPTER TWELFTH Judge Meyer's court was crowded when the three big policemen, formed like a football team, wedged their way into the building. In the centre of the "A" walked the prisoner, handcuffed and chained like a murderer. When they had arrived in front of the judge and the officers stepped back they left the prisoner exposed to the gaze of the spectators. Standing six feet two, strong and erect, he looked as bold and defiant as a Roman warrior, and at sight of him there ran a murmur through the court room which was promptly silenced by the judge. In response to the usual questions the prisoner said his name was Dan Moran, that his occupation was that of a locomotive engineer. He had been in the employ of the Burlington for a quarter of a century--ever since he was fifteen years old--but being one of the strikers he was now out of employment. "You are charged," said the clerk, "with trespassing upon the property of the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad Company, inciting a riot, attempting to blow up a locomotive and threatening the life of the engineer. How do you plead?" "Not guilty," said the old engine-driver, and as he said this he seemed to grow an inch and looked grander than ever. Being asked if he desired counsel the prisoner said he did not, that the whole matter could be explained by a single witness--an employee of the company. The company detective and the police officers exchanged glances, the judge coughed, the crowd of loafers shifted ballast and rested on the other foot. Only the prisoner stood motionless and erect. The detective, the first witness for the prosecution, testified that he had followed the prisoner into the yards from among the freight cars, watched him approach the engine Blackwings and talk with the engineer. He could not make out all that passed, but knew that the men had quarrelled. He had seen the prisoner stoop down and fumble about the air-pump on the engineer's side of the engine. He then rose and as he moved off made some threat against the life of the engineer and about "ditching" the train. Being asked to repeat this important part of his testimony, the witness admitted that he could not repeat the threat exactly, but he was positive that the prisoner had threatened the life of the engineer of the Denver Limited. He was positive that the last words uttered by the prisoner as he left the engine were these: "This train, by this time, ought to be in the ditch." The witness followed the statement with the explanation that the train was then nearly two hours late. "This," said the witness, still addressing the court, "was found in the prisoner's inside coat pocket," and he held up a murderous looking stick of dynamite. After landing the would-be dynamiter safely in jail the detective had hastened back to the locomotive, which was then about to start out on her perilous run, and had found a part of the fuse, which had been broken, attached to the air brake apparatus. This he exhibited, also, and showed that the piece of fuse found on the engine fitted the piece still on the dynamite. It looked like a clear case of intent to kill somebody, and even the prisoner's friends began to believe him guilty. Three other witnesses were called for the prosecution. The company's most trusted detective, and a Watchem man testified that the prisoner had, up to now, borne a good reputation. He had been one of the least noisy of the strikers and had often assisted the police in protecting the company's property. The master-mechanic under whom Dan Moran had worked as a locomotive engineer for twenty years took the stand and said, with something like tears in his voice, that Dan _had been_ one of the best men on the road. Being questioned by the company's attorney he gave it as his opinion that no dynamite was attached to the air-pump of Blackwings when she crossed the table, and that if it was there at all it must have been put there after the engine was coupled on to the Denver Limited. Then he spoiled all this and shocked the prosecuting attorney by expressing the belief that there must be some mistake. "Do you mean to say that you disbelieve this gentleman, who, at the risk of his life, arrested this ruffian and prevented murder?" the lawyer demanded. "I mean to say," said the old man slowly, "that I don't believe Dan put the dynamite on the engine." When the master-mechanic had been excused and was passing out Dan put out his hand--both hands in fact, for they were chained together--and the company's officer shook the manacled hands of the prisoner and hurried on. When the prosecution had finished, the prisoner was asked to name the witness upon whom he relied. "George Cowels," said the accused, and there ran through the audience another murmur, the judge frowned, and the standing committee shifted back to the other foot. "Your Honor, please," said the attorney rising, "we are only wasting time with this incorrigible criminal. He must know that George Cowels is dead for he undoubtedly had some hand in the murder, and now to show you that he had not, he has the temerity to stand up here and pretend to know nothing whatever about the death of the engineer. I must say that, quiet and gentle as he is, he is a cunning villain to try to throw dust in the eyes of the people by pretending to be ignorant of Cowels's death. I submit, your Honor, there is no use in wasting time with this man, and we ask that he be held without bail, to await the action of the grand jury." Dan Moran appeared to pay little or no attention to what the lawyer was saying, for the news of Cowels's death had been a great shock to him. The fact that he had been locked up over night and then brought from the jail to the court in a closed van might have accounted for his ignorance of Cowels's death, but no one appeared to think of that. But now, finding himself at the open door of a prison, with a strong chain of circumstantial evidence wound about him, he began to show some interest in what was going on. The judge, having adjusted his glasses, and opened and closed a few books that lay on his desk, was about to pronounce sentence when the prisoner asked to be allowed to make a statement. This the attorney for the company objected to as a waste of time, for he was satisfied of the prisoner's guilt, but the judge over-ruled the objection and the prisoner testified. He admitted having had the dynamite in his pocket when arrested, but said he had taken it from the engine to prevent its exploding and wrecking the locomotive. He said he had quarrelled with the engineer of Blackwings at first, but later they came to an understanding. He then gave the young runner some fatherly advice, and started to leave when he was arrested. Although he told his story in a straightforward honest way, it was, upon the face of it, so inconsistent that even the loafers, changing feet again, pitied the prisoner and many of them actually left the room before the judge could pronounce sentence. Moran was held, of course, and sent to jail without bail. He had hosts of friends, but somehow they all appeared to be busy that evening and only a few called to see him. One man, not of the Brotherhood, said to himself that night as he went to his comfortable bed: "I will not forsake the company, neither will I forsake Dan Moran until he has been proven guilty." CHAPTER THIRTEENTH While Dan Moran was being examined in Judge Meyer's ill-smelling court in Chicago a coroner's jury was sitting on the body of the dead engineer at Galesburg. Hundreds of people had been at the station and witnessed the arrival of the express train that came in with a dead engine, with snow on her headlight, and a dead engineer hanging out of the window. Hundreds of people could testify that this had happened, but none of them knew what had caused the death of the engine-driver. Medical experts who were called in to view the body could find no marks of violence upon it and, in order to get out of a close place without embarrassment, agreed that the engineer had died of heart failure. This information, having been absorbed by the jury, they gave in a verdict to that effect. If the doctors had said, "He died for want of breath," the verdict would no doubt have agreed perfectly with what the doctors said. After the train had arrived and the coroner was called and had taken the dead man from the engine, Barney Guerin had wandered into a small hotel near the station and engaged a room for the night. Being the only person on the engine at the time of the engineer's death, Guerin was very naturally attracting the attention of the railway officials, and calling about him, unconsciously, all the amateur detectives and newspaper reporters in the place. Fortunately for him, he was arrested, upon a warrant sworn out by the station agent, and lodged in jail before the reporters got at him. Here he was visited by a local lawyer, for the company, and instructed to say nothing whatever about the death of Cowels. Upon the announcement of the verdict of the coroner's jury the prisoner was released, and returned to Chicago by the same train that bore the remains of the dead engineer. Guerin, whose heart was as big as his body and as tender as a woman's, hastened to the home of his late companion and begged the grief-sick widow to allow him to be of some service to her. His appearance (she had known him by sight) excited her greatly for she knew he had been arrested as the murderer of her husband. The news he brought of the verdict of the coroner's jury, which his very presence corroborated, quieted her and she began to ask how it had all happened. Guerin began cautiously to explain how the engineer had died, still remembering the lawyer's advice, but before he had gone a dozen words the poor woman wept so bitterly that he was obliged to discontinue the sad story. Then came the corpse, borne by a few faithful friends--some of the Brotherhood and some of the railway company--who met thus on neutral ground and in the awful presence of death forgot their feud. Not an eye was dry while the little company stood about as the mother and boy bent over the coffin and poured out their grief, and the little girl, not old enough to understand, but old enough to weep, clung and sobbed at her mother's side. The next day they came again and carried Cowels away and buried him in the new and thinly settled side of the grave-yard, where the lots were not too high, and where for nearly four years their second son, a baby boy, had slept alone. Another day came and the men who had mixed their tears at the engineer's grave passed one another without a nod of recognition, and, figuratively speaking, stood again to their respective guns. One man had been greatly missed at the funeral, and the recollection that he had been greatly wronged by the dead man did not excuse him in the eyes of the widow. Dan Moran had been a brother, a father, everything to her husband and now when he was needed most, he came not at all. Death, she reasoned, should level all differences and he should forgive all and come to her and the children in their distress. At the end of a week this letter came: _County Jail, ---- 1888._ _My dear Mrs. Cowels_: _Every day since George's death I have wanted to write you to assure you of my innocence and of my sympathy for you in this the hour of your sorrow. These are dreadful times. Be brave, and believe me_ _Your friend,_ _Dan Moran._ This letter, and the information it contained, was as great a surprise to Mrs. Cowels as the news of Cowels's death had been to Moran. She began at the beginning and read it carefully over again, as women always do. She determined to go at once to the jail. She was shrewd enough to say "Yes" when asked if the prisoner were related in any way to her, and was shortly in the presence of the alleged dynamiter. She did not find him walking the floor impatiently, or lying idly on his back counting the cracks in the wall, but seated upon his narrow bed with a book resting on his cocked-up knees, for, unlike most railway employees, Moran was a great reader. "I'm glad to see you, Mrs. Cowels," he said in his easy, quiet way, as he arose and took her hand, "but sorry we are compelled to meet under such melancholy circumstances." At sight of their old friend her woman's heart sent forth a fresh flood of tears, and for some moments they stood thus with heads bowed in silent grief. "I'm sorry I can't offer you a chair," said the prisoner after she had raised her head and dried her eyes. "This only chair I have is wrecked, but if you don't mind the iron couch--" and then they sat down side by side and began to talk over the sad events of the past week. "Your presence here is a great surprise," began Moran, "and a great pleasure as well, for it leads me to hope that you believe me innocent." "How could I believe you otherwise, for I do not know now of what you are accused, nor did I know, until I received your note, that you were imprisoned." "But the papers have been full of--" "Perhaps," she said interrupting him, "but I have not looked at a paper since I read of the death of George." Here she broke down again and sobbed so that the guard outside the cell turned his back; and the old engineer, growing nervous, a thing unusual for him, decided to scold her. "You must brace up now, Nora,--Mrs. Cowels, and close your sand valve. You've got a heavy load and a bad rail, and you mustn't waste water in this way." "Oh! I shall never be able to do it, Dan, I shall die--I don't want to live and I shall die." "You'll do nothing of the sort--women don't die so easy; thousands of others, not half as brave as you are, have made the same run, hard as it seems, and have come in on time. There are few sorrows that time will not heal. Engine-men are born to die, and their wives to weep over them and live on--you will not die." "But I--I _shall_ die," sobbed the woman. Before he could reply the door opened and an elderly man, plainly, but comfortably dressed, stood before them. Moran gave his hand to the newcomer in silence and it was taken in silence; then, turning to the veiled figure he said: "Mrs. Cowels, this is our master-mechanic." When the visitor had taken her hand and assured her of his sympathy, Moran asked them to be seated, and standing before them said: "Mrs. Cowels has just asked me why I am here, and I was at the point of replying when you came in. Now, with your permission I will tell her, for I am afraid, my friend, that you did not quite understand me that day in court. I am charged with trespassing upon the property of the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad Company, inciting a riot (although there was no riot), attempting to blow up Blackwings and threatening to kill George Cowels." "Oh! how could they say such dreadful things?" said Mrs. Cowels, "and I suppose that you were not even on the company's ground!" "Oh yes, I was. I went to the engine, and quarrelled with George, just as the detective said I did, but we only quarrelled for a moment because George could not know why I came." "But you did not threaten to kill George?" said the woman excitedly. "No." "Tell me, Dan," said the master-mechanic, "had you that stick of dynamite when the detective arrested you? Tell us truly, for you are talking to friends." "There is something about the dynamite that I may not explain, but I will say this to you, my friends, that I went to the engine, not to kill Cowels, but to save his life, and I believe I did save it, for a few hours at least." Mrs. Cowels looked at the man, who still kept his seat on the narrow bed, as though she wished him to speak. "Dan," he began, "I don't believe you put that dynamite on the engine; I have said so, and if I don't prove it I am to be dismissed. That conclusion was reached to-day at a meeting of the directors of the road. I have been accused of sympathy with the strikers, it seems, before, and now, after the statement by the attorney that I used my influence to have you discharged after he had made out a clear case against you, I have been informed by the general manager that I will be expected to prove your innocence or look for another place. "I have been with the Burlington all my life and don't want to leave them, particularly in this way, but it is on your account, more than on my own, that I have come here to-night to ask you to tell the whole truth about this matter and go from this place a free man." "To do that I must become an informer, the result of which would be to put another in my place. No, I can't do that; I've nothing to do at present and I might as well remain here." "And let your old friend here be discharged, if not disgraced?" asked Mrs. Cowels. "No, that must not be," said Moran, and he was then silent for a moment as if trying to work out a scheme to prevent that disaster to his much-loved superior. "You must let me think it over," he said, presently. "Let me think it over to-night." "And let the guilty one escape," Mrs. Cowels added. "Some people seem to think," said Moran, with just a faint attempt at a smile, "that the guilty one is quite secure." "Don't talk nonsense, Dan," she said, "you know I believe you." "And you, my friend?" he said as he extended his hand to the official. "You know what I believe," said the visitor; "and now good-night--I shall see you again soon." "I hope so," said Dan. "It is indeed very good of you to call, and of you, too," he added, as he turned to his fairer visitor. "I shall not forget your kindness to me, and only hope that I may be of some help to you in some way, and do something to show my appreciation of this visit and of your friendship. But," he added, glancing about him, "one can't be of much use to his friends shut up in a hole like this." "You can do me a great favor, even while in prison," she said. "Only say what it is and I shall try." "Tell us who put the dynamite on Blackwings." "I shall try," he said, "only let me have time to think what is best to do." "What is right is what is best to do," said Mrs. Cowels, holding out her hand--"Good-night." "Good-night," said the prisoner, "come again when you can, both of you." And the two visitors passed out into the clear, cold night, and when the prisoner had seen them disappear he turned to his little friend, the book. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH "Mr. Scouping of _The London Times_ would like to see you for a few minutes," said the jailor. "I don't care to see any newspaper man," said Moran, closing his book. "I knew that," said the jailor, "but this man is a personal friend of mine and in all the world there is not his equal in his chosen profession, and if you will see him just for a few minutes it will be a great favor to me. I feel confident, Dan, that he can be of service to you--to the public at least--will you see him?" The jailor had been extremely kind to the engineer and when he put the matter as a personal request, Moran assented at once and Mr. Scouping was ushered in. He was a striking figure with a face that was rather remarkable. "Now, what are you thinking about?" asked the visitor, as Moran held his hand and looked him full in the face. "Oh!" said the prisoner, motioning the reporter to a chair which the jailor had just brought in, "I was thinking what a waste of physical strength it was for you to spend your time pushing a pencil over a sheet of paper." "Are you sure?" "Quite sure. What were you thinking about?" "The trial of the robbers who held up the Denver Limited at Thorough-cut some eight or ten years ago. You look like the man who gave one of them a black eye, and knocked him from the engine, branding him so that the detectives could catch him." Moran smiled. He had been thinking on precisely the same subject, but, being modest, he did not care to open a discussion of a story of which he was the long-forgotten hero. "It strikes me," said Moran, "as rather extraordinary that we should both recall the scene at the same time." "Not at all," said the reporter. "The very fact that one of us thought of it at the moment when our hands and eyes met would cause the other to remember." "Perhaps you reported the case for your paper, that we saw each other from day to day during the long trial, and that I remembered your face faintly, as you remembered mine. Wouldn't that be a better explanation?" "No," said the journalist cheerfully. "I must decline to yield to your argument, and stick to my decision. What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Moran, is not your own case, save as it may please you, but about the mysterious death of Engineer Cowels." "I know less about that, perhaps, than any man living," said Moran frankly. "But you know the fireman's story?" "No." "Well, he claims that they were running at a maddening rate of speed, that he and the engineer had quarrelled as to their relative positions in the estimation of the public in general, the strikers in particular. Cowels threw a hammer at the fireman, whereupon Guerin, as he claims, caught the man by the left arm and by the back of the neck and shoved his head out of the window. The engineer resisted, but Guerin, who is something of an athlete, held him down and in a few moments the man collapsed." "How fast were they going?" "Well, that is a question to be settled by experts. How fast will Blackwings go with four cars empty?" "Ninety miles an hour." "How fast would she go, working 'wide open in the first notch,' as you people say, down Zero Hill?" "She would go in the ditch--she could hardly be expected to hold the rail for more than two minutes." "But she did hold it." "I don't believe it," said the old driver; "but if she did, she must have made a hundred miles an hour, and in that case the mystery of Cowels's death is solved--he was drowned." "But his clothes were not wet, and he was still in the window when they reached Galesburg." "I do not mean," said Moran, "that he was drowned in the engine-tank, but in the cab window--in the air." "That sounds absurd." "Try it," said the prisoner. "Get aboard of Blackwings, strike the summit at Zero Hill with her lever hooked back and her throttle wide open, let a strong man hold your head out at the window, and if she hangs to the rail your successor will have the rare opportunity of writing you up." "Do you mean that seriously?" "I do. If what you tell me is true, there can be no shade of doubt as to the cause of Cowels's death." "I believe," said the reporter, "that you predicted his death, or that the train would go in the ditch, did you not?" "No." "I was not present at the examination, but it occurs to me that the man who claimed to be a detective, and who made the arrest, swore that you had made such a prediction." "Perhaps," said Moran. "The truth is when that fellow was giving his testimony I was ignorant of Cowels's death, upon whose evidence I hoped to prove that the fellow was lying wilfully, or that he had misunderstood me, and later, I was so shocked and surprised at the news of my old fireman's death that I forgot to make the proper explanation to the magistrate." "Why not make that explanation now? These are trying times and men are not expected to be as guarded in their action as in times of peace." "If you hope to learn from me that I had anything to do with Cowels's death, or with the placing of the dynamite upon the locomotive, I am afraid you are wasting your time. Suppose you are an army officer, the possessor of a splendid horse--one that has carried you through hundreds of battles, but has finally been captured by the enemy. You are fighting to regain possession of the animal with the chances of success and failure about equally divided, but you have an opportunity, during the battle, to slay this horse, thereby removing the remotest chance of ever having it for yourself again, to say nothing of the wickedness of the act,--would you do it?" "I should say not." "And yet, I venture to say," said the prisoner, "that there is no love for a living thing that is not human, to equal the love of a locomotive engineer for his engine. To say that he would wilfully and maliciously wreck and ruin the splendid steed of steel that had carried him safely through sun and storm is utterly absurd." "But what was it, Mr. Moran, that you said about the train going in the ditch?" "I have a little motto of my own," said the engineer, with his quiet smile, "which makes the delay of an express train inexcusable, and I was repeating it to George, as I had done scores of times before. It is that there are only two places for an express train; she should either be on time or in the ditch. It may have been rather reckless advice to a new runner, but I was feeling a mite reckless myself; but, above all the grief and disappointments (for the disgrace of my fireman's downfall was in a measure mine) arose the desire that Blackwings should not be disgraced; such is the love of the engineer for his engine." The old engineer had shown much feeling, more than was usual for him to display, while talking about his engine, and the reporter was impressed very favorably. "This has been most interesting to me," said the journalist; "and now I must leave you to your book, or to your bed," and then the two men shook hands again and parted. * * * * * It was almost midnight when a closed carriage stopped at the general office of the Burlington Company, and the man who had been representing _The London Times_ stepped out. The Philosopher, who was still on duty, touched his cap and led the visitor to the private office of the general manager. "By Jove, Watchem," said the railway man, advancing to meet his visitor, "I had nearly given you up--what success?" "Well," said the great detective, removing his heavy coat, "I have had a talk with Moran. Why, I know that fellow; he is the hero of the celebrated Thorough-cut train robbery, and he ought to be wearing a medal instead of irons." "What! for attempting to blow up an engine?" asked the general manager. "He never did it," said the dark man positively. "He may know who did do it, but he will not tell, and he ought to be discharged." "He will never be until he is proved innocent," said the railroad man. "One of the conditions," began the detective deliberately, "upon which I took charge of this business was that I should have absolute control of all criminal matters and I am going to ask you to instruct the prosecuting attorney's office to bring this man before Judge Meyer to-morrow morning and ask that he be discharged." "The prosecuting attorney will never consent," said the general manager. "He believes the man guilty." "And what do I care for his opinion or his prejudice? What does it matter to the average attorney whether he convicts or acquits, so long as his side wins? Before we proceed further with this discussion, I want it distinctly understood that Dan Moran shall be released at once. The only spark of pleasure that comes into the life of an honest detective, to relieve the endless monotony of punishing the wicked, is the pleasure of freeing those wrongfully accused. Dan Moran is innocent; release him and I will be personally responsible for him and will agree to produce him within twenty-four hours at any time when he may be wanted." The general manager was still inclined to hold his ground, but upon being assured that the Watchem detective agency would throw the whole business over unless the demands of the chief were acceded to, he yielded, and after a brief conference the two men descended, the Philosopher closed the offices and went his way. CHAPTER FIFTEENTH Scores of criminals, deputies and strikers were rounded up for a hearing before Judge Meyer. So great was the crowd of defendants that little room was left for the curious. The first man called was a laborer, a freight handler, whose occupation had gone when the company ceased to handle freight. The charge against him was a peculiar one. His neighbor, a driver for one of the breweries, owned a cow, which, although she gave an abundance of milk at night, had ceased almost entirely to produce at the morning milking. The German continued to feed her and she waxed fat, but there was no improvement, and finally it was decided that the cow should be watched. About four A. M. on the following morning a small man came and leaned a ladder against the high fence between the driver's back-yard, and that of the laborer. Then the small man climbed to the top of the fence, balanced himself carefully, hauled the ladder up and slid it down in the Dutchman's lot. All this was suspicious, but what the driver wanted was positive proof, so he choked his dog and remained quiet until the man had milked the cow and started for the fence. Now the bull-dog, being freed from his master's grasp, coupled into the climber's caboose and hauled him back down the ladder. It was found upon examination that a rubber hot-water bag, well filled with warm milk, was dangling from a strap that encircled the man's shoulders, shot-pouch fashion. Upon being charged, the man pleaded guilty. At first, he said, he had only taken enough milk for the baby, who had been without milk for thirty-six hours. The thought of stealing had not entered his mind until near morning of the second night of the baby's fast. They had been up with the starving child all night, and just before day he had gone into the back-yard to get some fuel to build a fire, when he heard his neighbor's cow tramping about in the barn lot, and instantly it occurred to him that there was milk for the baby; that if he could procure only a teacupful, it might save the child's life. He secured a ladder and went over the fence, but being dreadfully afraid he had taken barely enough milk to keep the baby during the day and that night they were obliged to walk the floor again. It was only a little past midnight when he went over the fence for the second time. Upon this occasion he took more milk, so that he was not obliged to return on the following night, but another day brought the same condition of affairs and over the fence he went, and he continued to go every night, and the baby began to thrive as it had not done in all its life. Finally the food supply began to dwindle, he was idle, and his wife was unable to do hard work; they had other small children who now began to cry for milk, and the father's heart ached for them and he went over the fence one night prepared to bring all he could get. That day all the children had milk, but it was soon gone and then came the friendly night and the performance at the back fence was repeated. Emboldened by success the man had come to regard it as a part of his daily or nightly duty to milk his neighbor's cow, but alas! for the wrong-doer there comes a day of reckoning, and it had come at last to the freight handler. The freight agent who was called as a witness testified as to the good character of the man previously, but he was a thief. Put to the test it had been proven that he would steal from his neighbor simply to keep his baby from starving, so he went to the workhouse, his family went to the poor-house, and the strike went on. "If you were to ask who is responsible for this strike," said the philosophic tramp to Patsy, "which has left in its wake only waste, want, misery, and even murder, the strikers would answer 'the company'; the company, 'the strikers'; and if Congress came in a private car to investigate, the men on either side would hide behind one another, like cattle in a storm, and the guilty would escape. The law intends to punish, but the law finds it so hard to locate the real criminals in a great soulless corporation, or in a conglomeration of organizations whose aggregate membership reaches into the hundreds of thousands, that the blind goddess grows weary, groping in the dark, and finally falls asleep with the cry of starving children still ringing in her ears." Now an officer brought engineer Dan Moran, the alleged dynamiter, into court for a special hearing. He wore no manacles, but stood erect in the awful presence of the judge, unfettered and unafraid. Mr. Alexander, the lawyer for the strikers, having had a hint from Billy Watchem, the detective, asked that the prisoner be discharged, but the young man who had been sent down from the office of the prosecuting attorney, being behind the procession, protested vigorously. In the midst of a burning argument, in which the old engineer was unmercifully abused, the youthful attorney was interrupted to receive a message from the general manager of the Burlington route. Pausing only long enough to read the signature, the orator continued to pour his argument into the court until a second messenger arrived with a note from his chief. It was brief and he read it: "Let go; the house is falling in on you"; and he let go. It was a long, hard fall, so he thought he would drop a little at a time. The court was surprised to see the attorney stop short in what he doubtless considered the effort of his life, and ask that the prisoner be released on bail. Now the prosecuting attorney glanced at Mr. Alexander, but that gentleman was looking the other way. "Does that proposition meet with the approval of the eminent counsel on the other side?" "No," said the other side. "Then will you take the trouble to make your wishes known to the court?" "No, you will do that for me," said the eminent counsel, with a coolness that was exasperating. "It would be unsafe to shut off such a flow of eloquence all at once. Ask the court, please, to discharge the prisoner." "Never," said the young lawyer, growing red to the roots of his perfectly parted hair. The counsel for the defence reached over the table and flipped the last message toward the lawyer, at the same time advising the young man to read it again. Then the young man coughed, the old lawyer laughed, the judge fidgeted on his bench, but he caught the prayer of the youthful attorney, it was answered, and Dan Moran received his freedom. "Do you observe how the law operates?" asked the Philosopher, who had been the bearer of the message from the general manager, of Patsy Daly as they were leaving the court. "I must confess," said Patsy, "that I am utterly unable to understand these things. Here is a lawyer abusing a man--an honest man at that--unmercifully, and all of a sudden he asks the court to discharge the prisoner. It's beyond me." "But the side play! Didn't you get on to the message that blackguard received? He had a hunch from the prosecuting attorney who had been hunched by the general manager, who, as I happened to know, was severely, but very successfully hunched by Billy Watchem, to the effect that this man was innocent and must be released. It was the shadow-hand of old 'Never Sleep,' that did the business and set an innocent man free, and hereafter, when I cuss a copper I'll say a little prayer for this man whose good deeds are all done in the dark, and therefore covered up." "Thank you," said Patsy, "I should never have been able to work it out myself." "Well, it is not all worked out yet," said the Philosopher, "and will not be until we come up for a final hearing, in a court that is infallible and unfoolable; and what a lot of surprises are in store for some people. It is not good to judge, and yet I can't help picturing it all to myself. I see a sleek old sinner, who has gone through this life perfectly satisfied with himself, edging his way in and sidling over where the sheep are. Then in comes this poor devil who went to jail this morning--that was his first trip, but the road is easy when you have been over it once--and he, having been herding all along with the goats, naturally wanders over that way. Then at the last moment I see the Good Shepherd shooing the sleek old buck over where the goats are and bringing the milk-thief back with him, and I see the look of surprise on the old gentleman's face as he drops down the 'goat-chute.'" CHAPTER SIXTEENTH In time people grew tired of talking and reading about the strike, and more than one man wished it might end. The strikers wished it too, for hundreds of them were at the point of starvation. The police courts were constantly crowded, and often overflowed and filled the morgue. Misery, disappointment, want, and hunger made men commit crimes the very thought of which would have caused them to shudder a year ago. One day a desolate looking striker was warming his feet in a cheap saloon when a well-dressed stranger came and sat near him and asked the cause of his melancholia. "I'm a striker," said the man; "and I have had no breakfast. More than that, my wife is hungry at home and she is sick, too. She's been sick ever since we buried the baby, three weeks ago. All day yesterday I begged for work, but there was nothing for me to do. To-day I have begged for money to buy medicine and food for her, but I have received nothing, and now my only hope is that she may be dead when I go home to-night, empty-handed and hungry." The stranger drew his chair yet nearer to that of the miserable man and asked in a low tone why he did not steal. "I don't know how," said the striker, looking his questioner in the face. "I have never stolen anything and I should be caught at my first attempt. If not, it would only be a question of time, and if I must become a thief to live we might as well all die and have done with it. It'll be easier anyway after she's gone, and that won't be long; she don't want to live. Away in the dead of night she wakes me praying for death. And she used to be about the happiest woman in the world, and one of the best, but when a mother sits and sees her baby starve and die, it is apt to harden her heart against the people who have been the cause of it all. I think she has almost ceased to care for me, for of course she blames me for going out with the strikers, but how's a man to know what to do? If I could raise the price I think I'd take a couple of doses of poison home with me and put an end to our misery. She'd take it in a holy minute." "Don't do that," said the stranger, dabbing a silk handkerchief to his eyes, one after the other. "And don't steal, for if you do once you will steal again, and by and by you'll get bolder and do worse. I've heard men tell how they had begun by lifting a dicer in front of a clothing store, or stealing a loaf of bread, and ended by committing murder. They can't break this way always--brace up." The switchman went over to the bar where a couple of non-union men were shaking dice for the drinks. He recognized one of them as the man who had taken his place in the yards, but he scarcely blamed him now. Perhaps the fellow had been hungry, and the striker knew too well what that meant. Presently, the switchman went back to the stove and began to button his thin coat up about his throat. "I'm dead broke myself," said the well-dressed stranger, "but I'm going to help you if you'll let me." As the striker stared at the stranger the man took off a sixty-dollar overcoat and hung it over the switchman's arm. "Take it," he said, "it's bran new; I just got it from the tailor this morning. Go out and sell it and bring the money to me and I'll help you." When the striker had been gone a quarter of an hour the well-dressed man strolled up to the bar and ordered a cocktail. Fifteen minutes later he took another drink and went out in front of the saloon. It was cold outside and after looking anxiously up and down the street the philanthropist reëntered the beer-shop and warmed himself by the big stove. At the end of an hour he ordered another dose of nerve food and sat down to think. It began to dawn upon him that he had been "had," as the English say. Perhaps this fellow was an impostor, a professional crook from New York, and he would sell the overcoat and have riotous pastime upon the proceeds. "The wife and baby story was a rank fake--I'm a marine," said the well-dressed man taking another drink. It seemed to him that the task of helping the needy was a thankless one, and he wished he had the overcoat back again. He had been waiting nearly two hours when the switchman came in. "I had a hard time finding a purchaser," explained the striker, "and finally when I did sell it I could only get twelve dollars and they made me give my name and tell how I came to have such a coat. I suppose they thought I had stolen it and I dare say I looked guilty for it is so embarrassing to try to sell something that really doesn't belong to you, and to feel yourself suspected of having stolen it." "And you told them that a gentleman had given the coat to you to sell because he was sorry for you?" "Yes, I gave them a description of you and told them the place." "That was right," said the gentleman, glancing toward the door. "Here are two dollars; come back here to-morrow and I'll have something more for you--good-by." And the philanthropist passed out by a side door which opened on an alley. The striker gripped the two-dollar bill hard in his hand and started for the front door. All thought of hunger had left him now, and he was thinking only of his starving wife, and wondering what would be best for her to eat. Two or three men in citizens' dress, accompanied by a policeman, were coming in just as he was going out, but he was looking at the money and did not notice them. "There goes the thief," said one of the men, and an officer laid a heavy hand on the striker's shoulder. The man looked up into the officer's face with amazement, and asked what the matter was. "Did you sell an overcoat to this gentleman a little while ago?" asked the policeman. "Yes," said the striker glancing down at the two dollars he still held in his hand. "Und yer sthold dot coats fum mine vindo'," said a stout man shoving his fist under the switchman's nose. "A gentleman gave me the coat in this saloon," urged the striker. "Why, he was here a moment ago." "Ah! dot's too tin," laughed the tailor, "tak' 'im avay, Meester Bleasman, tak' 'im avay," and the miserable man was hurried away to prison. That night while the switchman sat in a dark cell his young wife lay dying of cold and hunger in a fireless room, and when an enterprising detective came to search the house for stolen goods on the following morning, he found her there stiff and cold. Of course no one was to blame in particular, unless it was the well-dressed gentleman who had "helped" the striker, for no one, in particular, was responsible for the strike. It may have been the company and it may have been the brotherhood, or both, but you can't put a railroad company or a brotherhood in jail. CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH Mr. Watchem's plumber, as might have been expected, had the good taste to leave his modest lodgings after the downfall and death of his landlord, and now the widow was left alone with her two children. She was a gentle soul, who had always been esteemed by her neighbors, but since her husband's desertion to the enemy, she had been shamefully slighted. One would have thought that her present helpless condition would have shielded her from such slights, but it did not. A few dollars still remained from the last rent money received from the plumber, who always paid in advance, and upon this she lived for a week or more after the death of her husband. She wondered how long it would be before the Benevolent Building Association would sell the house, and then how long before they would put her and the children into the street. Upon visiting the undertaker she was surprised to learn that all the expenses of her husband's funeral had been paid. It must have been done by the company, since, having left the Brotherhood, her husband could have had no claim upon the organization. Well, she was glad it was paid, for the road that led into the future was rough and uncertain. One evening, when the baby had gone to sleep and the lone widow was striving to entertain little Bennie, and at the same time to hide her tears from him, for he had been asking strange questions about his father's death, the bell rang and two of the neighbors came in. They were striking firemen and she knew them well. One of the men handed her a large envelope with an enormous seal upon it. She opened the letter and found a note addressed to her and read it: _Dear Mrs. Cowels:_ _Although your husband had deserted us, he had not been expelled, but was still a member in good standing at the moment of his death, and therefore legally entitled to the benefits of the order. For your sake I am glad that it is so, and I take pleasure in handing you a cheque for two thousand dollars, the amount of his insurance, less the amount paid by the local lodge for funeral expenses._ _Very truly yours_, EUGENE V. DEBSON, _Grand Secretary and Treasurer_. She thanked them as well as she could and the men tried to say it was all right, but they were awkward and embarrassed and after a few commonplace remarks withdrew. Mrs. Cowels sat for a long while looking at the cheque, turning it over and reading the figures aloud to Bennie and explaining to him what an enormous amount of money it was. And what a load had thus been lifted from the slender shoulders of this lone woman! Now she could pay off the mortgage and have nearly fourteen hundred dollars left. It seemed to her that that amount ought to keep them almost for a lifetime. This relief, coming so unexpectedly, had made her forget for the moment her great sorrow. She even smiled when telling Bennie how very rich they were, but when the boy looked up, with tears swimming in his big, blue eyes, and said, through the sobs that almost choked him: "But I'd ruther have papa back again," it pierced her heart and made the old wound bleed anew. Patsy Daly and his friend, the Philosopher, were at that moment approaching the Cowels's house where they lodged--they were room-mates now. They had seen the two men leaving the house, and having caught sight of the lonely woman and her child, stood looking beneath the window shade upon the pathetic scene. When they saw the official envelope, with the big, red seal, they readily guessed the errand of the men, for they knew the rules and ways of the Brotherhood, and that the dead engineer's family was entitled to the insurance upon his life. They saw the little mother smiling upon her boy, saw him turn a tearful face up to hers, and the change that came, and the look of anguish upon the unhappy woman's face touched them deeply. "O God!" said the Philosopher, laying a hand upon the shoulder of his friend, "if it be true that we, who are so wicked, must suffer for our sins, it is pleasant to feel that these martyrs--the millions of mothers whose hearts are torn in this world--will have a pleasant place in the world to come." CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH Mr. Watchem, chief of the famous Watchem detective agency, was pacing his private office. He was a heavy man with heavy features and a heavy, dark mustache, at which he tugged vigorously as he walked. In his left hand he carried a dozen or more sheets of closely written note paper. Presently the door opened, and a small man, slightly stooped, entered and removed his hat. "Is this your report, sir?" asked the chief. The man said it was. "And can you substantiate these charges? Mind you, if an innocent man suffers I shall hold you accountable, do you understand?" "I understand, and I am willing to swear to that statement." "Have the men been arrested?" "They have, and are now on their way to Chicago." "They will probably be arraigned to-morrow morning," observed the great detective. "See that your witnesses are on hand--you may go now." When the small man had stolen softly out, down the stair and into the street, the chief detective descended, entered a closed carriage and was driven to his home. It was now past midnight, and all over the city printers were setting up the story of the arrest of a number of dynamiters on a Burlington train. The wires were singing it across the country, and cables were carrying to the ends of the earth the story of the disgrace and downfall of the Brotherhood. The headquarters of the strikers were crowded with a host of anxious men, unwilling to believe that their brothers had been guilty of so dastardly a crime. On the following morning, when the daily press had announced the arrest of the alleged dynamiters, the city was thrown into a fever of excitement, and thousands who had been in sympathy with the men now openly denounced them, and by so doing gave aid and encouragement to the company. The most conservative papers now condemned the strikers, while the editor of _The Chicago Times_ dipped his quill still deeper into the gallstand. Following close upon the heels of the arrest of these strikers came the sensational arrest of Mr. Hogan, director general of the strike, charged with conspiracy. The private secretaries of the strike committee turned out to have been all along in the employ of the Watchem detective agency, but the charges of conspiracy were never pushed. The men who were charged with having and using dynamite, however, were less fortunate. Two were imprisoned, one was fined, the others proved to be detectives, and of course were released. The effect of all this was very satisfactory to the company, and disheartening to the men. The daily meetings in the hall in town were less crowded, and the speeches of the most radical and optimistic members of the fraternity failed to create the old-time enthusiasm. The suits worn by the strikers were becoming shiny, and the suffering in hundreds of homes was enough to cause men to forget the commandments. The way cars and cabs of out-going freight trains were crowded with old Burlington men starting out to find work on other roads. They had been losing heart for some time, and now the shame and disgrace caused by the conviction of the dynamiters made them long to be away; to have a place in the world where they might be allowed to win an honest living, and forget the long struggle of which they had grown weary. Unlike the Philosopher, they were always sure of a ride, but they found that nearly all the roads in the country had all the men they needed to handle their trains. The very fact that a man had once been a Burlington engineer was a sufficient recommendation, and the fact that he had been a striker seems not to have injured him in the estimation of railway officials generally, but the main trouble was that there was no place for him. While the boycott on Burlington cars had kept all roads, not operating under a receiver, from handling Burlington business, it made it all the easier for the company to handle the little traffic that came to them and gave the road the appearance of running trains. All this was discouraging to the men, and at last, having exhausted all fair means, and some that were unfair, the strike was declared off. While the company refused to the last to accept anything short of unconditional surrender it is pleasing to be able to record here that the moment the men gave in the officials did all they could, consistent with the policy of the company and past events, to lessen the pain of defeat. The following letter, which was sent by the president to the vice-president and general manager, reminds us of the gentleness of Grant, in receiving the surrender of a brave and noble general: _Boston, Jan. 3, 1889._ _To ----, Vice-President C. B. & Q. Railroad, Chicago._ _The company will not follow up, black-list, or in any manner attempt to proscribe those who were concerned in the strike, but on the contrary, will cheerfully give to all who have not been guilty of violence, or other improper conduct, letters of introduction, showing their record in our service, and will in all proper ways assist them in finding employment._ In making this letter known to the public the general manager said: "It is important that no question should arise as to the good faith of the company, and it is our desire and intention that there should be no opportunity for such question." He even offered to shield, as far as was consistent, those who, in the heat of the fight, had committed unlawful acts. He was a generous conqueror. It was humane, and manly, and noble in him to help those unfortunate ones who were now in so much need of help, and to protect them from the persecution of the few little-souled officials who were loath to stop fighting. It is all the more creditable because he was not bound to do it. He wrote: "While men who have been guilty of improper conduct during the late strike cannot be re-employed, and while we cannot give letters to them, no officer or employee should continue the animosities of the conflict after it is over, or interfere to prevent the employment of such men elsewhere." CHAPTER NINETEENTH At last the agony was over--at least the agony of suspense. The poor misguided men knew now that all hope had died. They would be re-employed when the company needed them, but it was January--the dullest month in the year. Every railroad in the West was laying men off. Hundreds of the new men were standing in line waiting for business to pick up, and this line must be exhausted before any of the old employees could be taken back. The management considered that the first duty of the company was to the men who had helped to win the strike. There was no disposition on the part of the officials to make it harder for the vanquished army. They admired the loyalty and self-sacrifice, though deploring the judgment of the mismanaged men; but they were only officers in an opposing army, and so fought the fight for the interest they represented, and for the principles in which they believed. Nothing in the history of the strike shows more conclusively that the men were out-generalled than the manner in which the company handled the press. It is not to be supposed for a moment that the daily papers of Chicago, with possibly one exception, willfully misrepresented the men, but the story of the strikers was never told. Mr. Paul, the accomplished "bureau of information," stood faithfully at the 'phone and saw that the public received no news that would embarrass the company or encourage the men. The cold, tired reporter found a warm welcome and an easy chair in Mr. Paul's private office, and while he smoked a fragrant cigar the stenographer brought in the "news" all neatly type-written and ready for the printer. Mr. Paul was a sunny soul, who, in the presence of the reporter laughed the seemingly happy laugh of the actor-man, and when alone sighed, suffered and swore as other men did. Mr. Paul was a genius. By his careful manipulation of the press the public was in time persuaded that the only question was whether the company, who owned the road, should run it, or whether the brotherhoods, who did not own it, should run it for them. Every statement given out by the company was printed and accepted, generally, as the whole thing, while only two papers in all the town pretended to print the reports issued by the strikers. The others cut them and doctored them so that they lost their point. But all is fair in love and war, and this was war--war to the knife and the knife to the hilt--so Mr. Paul should not be hated but admired, even by his foes. He was a brilliant strategist. Many there are who argue to this day that Mr. Paul won the strike for the company, but Mr. Paul says Watchem, the detective, did it. At all events they each earned the deathless hatred of the strikers. But, leaving this question open, the fact remains that the general in command--the now dead hero of that fierce fight--deserves a monument at the expense of American railroads, if, as American railroad managers argue, that war was an holy war. There had never been a moment when the management feared defeat. They had met and measured the amateur officials who were placed in command of the strikers. They were but children in the hands of the big brainy men who were handling the company's business. They could fire a locomotive, "ride a fly," or make time on the tick of the clock. They could awe a convention of car-hands or thrill an audience at a union meeting, but they had not the experience, or mental equipment to cope with the diplomatic officials who stood for the company. Their heads had been turned by the magnitude of their position. They established themselves at a grand hotel where only high-salaried railroad officials could afford to live. They surrounded themselves with a luxury that would have been counted extravagant by the minister of many a foreign land. They dissipated the strength of the Brotherhood and wasted their substance in high living. They had gotten into clothes that did not fit them, and, saddest of all, they did not know it. The good gray chief of the Brotherhood, who was perfectly at home in the office of a president or a general manager, who knew how to meet and talk with a reporter, who was at ease either in overalls or evening dress, was kept in the background. He would sell out to the company, the deep-lunged leaders said. He could not be trusted, and so from the men directly interested in the fight the strikers chose a leader, and he led them to inglorious defeat; though defeat was inevitable. At last, made desperate by the shadow of coming events, this man, so the officials say, issued a circular advising old employees to return to work and when out on the road to disable and destroy the company's locomotives, abandoning them where they were wrecked and ruined. The man accused of this crime declared that the circular was a forgery, committed by his secretary, who was a detective. But that the circular went out properly signed and sealed is beyond dispute, and in reply to it there came protests from hundreds of honest engine-drivers all up and down the land. The chief of a local division came to Chicago with a copy of the circular and protested so vigorously that he was expelled from the Brotherhood, to the Brotherhood's disgrace. Smarting under what he deemed a great wrong, he gave the letter into the hands of the officials, and now whenever he secures a position the road that employs him is forced to let him go again or have a strike. He is an outcast--a vagabond, so far as the union is concerned. Ah, the scars of that conflict are deep in the souls of men. The blight of it has shadowed hundreds of happy homes, and ruined many a useful life. With this "sal-soda" circular in their possession the managers caused the arrest of its author, charging him with conspiracy--a serious offense in Illinois. A sunny-faced man, with big, soulful blue eyes and a blond mustache, had been living on the same floor occupied by the strike committee. He had conceived a great interest in the struggle. For a man of wealth and culture he showed a remarkable sympathy for the strikers, and so won the heart and confidence of the striker-in-chief. It was perfectly natural, then, that in the excitement incidental to the arrest, the accused should rush into the apartments of the sympathetic stranger and thrust into his keeping an armful of letters and papers. As the officers of the law led the fallen hero away the blond man selected a number of letters and papers from the bundle, abandoned the balance and strolled forth. For weeks, months, he had been planning the capture of some of these letters, and now they had all come to him as suddenly as fame comes to a man who sinks a ship under the enemy's guns. This blond man was a detective. His victim was a child. Yes, the great struggle that had caused so much misery and cost so many millions was at an end, but it was worth to labor and capital all it had cost. The lesson has lasted ten years, and will last ten more. It had been a long, bitter fight in which even the victorious had lost. They had lost at least five million dollars in wrecked and ruined rolling stock, bridges and buildings. The loss in net earnings alone was nearly five millions in the first five months of the strike that lasted nearly a year. It would cost five millions more to put the property in the same excellent condition in which the opening of hostilities had found it. It would cost another five millions to win back the confidence of the travelling and shipping public. Twenty millions would not cover the cost, directly and indirectly, to the company, for there were no end of small items--incidentals. To a single detective agency they paid two hundred thousand dollars. And there were others. It has taken nearly ten years to restore the road to its former condition, and to man the engines as they were manned before the strike. It would have taken much longer had the owners of the property not settled upon the wise policy of promoting men who had been all their lives in the employ of the Burlington road, to fill the places as fast as they became vacant, of men--the heroes of the strike--who were now sought out by other companies for loftier positions. In this way the affairs of the company were constantly in the hands of men who had gone through it all, who could weed out the worthless among the new men, and select the best of those who had left the road at the beginning of the strike. The result is that there is scarcely an official of importance in the employ of the company to-day who has not been with it for a quarter of a century. The man who took the first engine out at the beginning of the strike--taking his life in his hands, as many believed--is now the general manager of the road. There was something admirable, even heroic, in the action of the owners in standing calmly by while the officials melted down millions of gold. As often as a directors' meeting was called the strikers would take heart. "Surely," they would say, "when they see what it costs to fight us they will surrender." The men seem never to have understood that all this was known to the directors long before the sad news reached the public. And then, when the directors would meet and vote to stand by the president, and the president would approve and endorse all that the general manager had done, the disheartened striker would turn sadly away to break the melancholy news to a sorrowing wife, who was keeping lonely vigil in a cheerless home. CHAPTER TWENTIETH Dan Moran had not applied for re-employment when the strike was off, but chose rather to look for work elsewhere, and he had looked long and faithfully, and found no place. First of all he had gone west, away to the coast, but with no success. Then he swung around the southern route, up the Atlantic coast and home again. Three years,--one year with the strikers,--four years in all of idleness, and he was discouraged. "It's the curse of the prison," he used to say to his most intimate friends; "the damp of that dungeon clings to me like a plague. It's a blight from which I can't escape. Every one seems to know that I was arrested as a dynamiter, and even my old friends shun me." He had been saying something like that to Patsy Daly the very day he returned to Chicago. They were walking down through the yards, for Patsy, who was close to the officials, had insisted upon going personally to the master-mechanic, and interceding for the old engineer who had carried him thousands of miles while the world slept, and the wild storm raged around them. Patsy had been telling the old engineer the news of the road, but was surprised that Moran should seem to know all that had taken place, the changes and promotions, the vast improvements that had been made by the company, and the rapidly growing traffic. Patsy stopped short, and looking his companion in the eye, began to laugh. "Now what in thunder are you laughing at?" asked Moran. "At Patsy Daly, the luny," said the conductor (Patsy had been promoted); "why, of course you know everything. I've been rooming at the house, and I remember now that _she_ always knew just where you were at all times. Ah! ye sly old rogue--" "Patsy," said Moran, seriously, putting up his hand as a signal for silence. "That's all right, old man. She deserves a decent husband, but it'll be something new to her. Say, Dan, a fool has less sense than anybody, an' Patsy Daly's a fool. Here have I been at the point of making love to her myself, and only her tears and that big boy of hers have kept me from it. And all the time I thought she was wastin' water on that blatherskite of a Cowels, but I think better of her now." "And why should she weep for any one else?" asked the old engineer. "And why shouldn't she weep for you, Dannie? wandering up and down the earth, homeless and alone. Why I remember now. She would cry in her coffee at the mention of your name. And Dan, she's growin' prettier every day, and she's that gentle and--" Just then the wild scream of a yard engine close behind them caused them to step aside. "Wope!" cried a switchman, bang bang went the bell--"Look out there," yelled Patsy, for as the two pedestrians looked back they saw a drunken man reel out from among the cars. The driver of the switch-engine saw the man as the engine struck him, and, reversing, came to a quick stop and leaped to the ground. The man lay with his lower limbs beneath the machine, and a blind driver (those broad wheels that have no flanges) resting on the pit of his stomach, holding him to the rail. The young engineer, having taken in the situation, leaped upon his engine, and was about to back off when Moran signalled him to stand still. "Don't move," said the old engineer, "he may want to say a word before he dies, and if you move that wheel he will be dead." "Why, hello Greene, old hoss; is this you?" asked Moran, lifting the head of the unfortunate man and pushing the unkept hair back from his forehead. Greene opened his eyes slowly, looked at his questioner, glanced all about and, as Moran lifted his head, gazed at the great wheel that had almost cut his body into two pieces. He was perfectly sober now, and asked why they didn't back up and look him over. "We shall presently," said Moran, "only we were afraid we might hurt you. You are not in any pain now, are you?" "No," said the man, "I don't know when I've felt more comfortable; but for all that I guess I'm clean cut in two, ain't I, Dan?" "Oh no, not so bad as that." "Oh yes, I guess there's no use holdin' out on me. Is the foreman here?" "Yes, here I am, Billy." "Billy!" said Greene, "now wouldn't that drive you to cigarettes? Billy!--why don't you call me drunken Bill? I'm used to that." "Well, what is it, old man?" asked the foreman, bending down. "You know this man? This is Dan Moran, the dynamiter." And the foreman of the round-house, recognizing the old engineer for the first time, held out his hand, partly to show to Moran and others that the strike was off, and partly to please the dying man. "That's right," said Greene to the foreman, "it'll be good for you to touch an honest hand." By this time a great crowd had gathered about the engine. Some police officers pushed in and ordered the engineer to "back away." "An' what's it _to_ ye?" asked Greene with contempt, for he hated the very buttons of a policeman. "It's no funeral uf yours. Ye won't grudge me a few moments with me friend, will ye? Move on ye tarrier." The big policeman glanced about and recognizing the foreman asked why the devil he didn't "git th' felly out?" Now a red-haired woman came to the edge of the crowd, put her bucket and scrubbing brush down, and asked what had happened. "Drunk man under the engine," said one of the curious, snappishly. The woman knew that Greene had passed out that way only a few moments ago. She had given him a quarter and he had promised not to come back to her again, and now she put her head down and ploughed through the crowd like a football player. "Hello Mag," said Greene, as the woman threw herself upon her knees beside him. "Here's yer money--I won't get to spend it," and he opened his clinched fist and there was the piece of silver that she had given him. The big policeman now renewed his request to have the man taken out, but the foreman whispered something to him. "Oh! begorry, is that so? All right, all right," said the officer. "Am I delayin' traffic?" asked Greene of the foreman. "It takes a little time to die ye know, but ye only have to do it onct." "Have ye's anythin' to say?" asked the officer. "Yes," said Greene, for his hatred for a policeman stayed with him to the end, "ye can do me a favor." "An' phot is it?" "Jist keep your nose out of this business, an' don't speak to me again till after I'm dead. Do ye mind that, ye big duffer?" It was the first time in all his life when he could say what was on his mind to a policeman without the dread of being arrested. "Come closer, Mag--whisper, Dan. Here, you," said Greene to the foreman, and that official bent down to catch the words which were growing fainter every moment. "I'm goin' to die. Ye mind the time ye kicked me out at the round-house? Well, ye don't need to say; I mind, an' that's sufficient. I swore to git even with the Burlington for that. I hated George Cowels because he married a woman that was too good fur 'im,--she was too good for me, for that matter. Well, when he went back on the Brotherhood and took his old engineer's job I went to this man Moran and offered to blow the engine up, and he put me out of his room. I then put the dynamite on the engine myself an' Moran followed me and took it off, and saved Cowels's life, prevented me from becoming a murderer, and went to jail. Good-by, Mag. Give me your hand Dan, old man. Back up." The old engineer nodded to the foreman, who signalled the man on the engine, and the great wheel moved from above the body. More than one man turned his back to the machine. The woman fainted. Moran had covered the eyes of the unfortunate man with his hand, and now when he removed it slowly the man's eyes were still closed. He never moved a finger nor uttered a sound. It was as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST The Denver Limited had backed into the depot shed at Chicago, and was loading when the Philosopher came through the gate. He was going down to Zero Junction where he was serving the company in the capacity of station agent. Patsy Daly was taking the numbers of the cars, and at his elbow walked a poorly-dressed man, and the Philosopher knew in a moment that the man wanted to ride. The Philosopher, with a cigar in his mouth, strolled up and down catching snatches of the man's talk. In a little while he had gathered that the anxious stranger's wife lay dying in Cheyenne, and that he had been tramping up and down the land for six months looking for work. If Patsy could give him a lift to Omaha he could work his way over the U. P. where he knew some of the trainmen, having worked on the Kansas Pacific out of Denver in the early days of the road. His story was so lifelike and pathetic that Patsy was beginning to look troubled. If he could help a fellow-creature up the long, hard hill of life--three or four hundred miles in a single night--without straining the capacity of the engine, he felt that he ought to do it. Patsy had gone to the head end (the stranger standing respectfully apart) to ask the engineer to slow down at the Junction, and let the agent off. He hoped the man might go away and try a freight train, but as the conductor turned back the unfortunate traveller joined him. Now the eyes of Patsy fell upon the face of the Philosopher, and a brilliant thought flashed through his mind. He marvelled, afterwards, that he had not thought of it sooner. "Here, old man," said Patsy, "take this fellow's testimony, try his case, and let me have your opinion in nine minutes--it's just ten minutes to leaving time." Now it was the Philosopher to whom the prospective widower rehearsed his tale of woe. There was not much time, so the station agent at Zero began by offering the man a cigar, which was accepted. In the midst of his sorrowful story the man paused to observe a handsome woman, who was at that moment lifting her dainty, silken skirts to step into the sleeper. The Philosopher had his eyes fastened to the face of the man, and he thought he saw the man's mustache quiver as though it had been agitated by the passing of a smothered smile. "Well," the man was saying, "we had been married only a year when I lost my place and started out to look for work." By this time he had taken a small pocket knife from his somewhat ragged vest, clipped the end off the cigar neatly, put the cut end between his teeth, and the knife back into his pocket. Without pausing in his narrative (he knew he had but nine minutes) he held out a hand for a match. The Philosopher pretended not to notice the movement, which was graceful and perfectly natural. As they turned, up near the engine, the sorrowful man went into his vest again and brought up a small, silver match-box which he held carefully in his closed fist, but which snapped sharply, as the knife had done when he closed it. "Excuse me," said the Philosopher, reaching for the match-box, "I've lost my fire." The melancholy man made a move towards his vest, paused, changed his mind, and passed over his lighted cigar. "Go on," said the examining judge, when he had got his cigar going again. Now at each turn the Philosopher quickened his pace, and the man, eager to finish his sad story, walked beside him with a graceful, springy walk. The man's story was so like his own--so like the tale he had told to Patsy when the strikers had chased him into a box car--that his heart must have melted, had it not been for the fact that he was becoming more and more convinced, as the story grew upon him, that the man was lying. Now and then he said to himself in spite of himself, "This must be true," for there were tears in the man's voice, and yet there were things about him that must be explained before he could ride. "Patsy," said the Philosopher, pausing before the conductor, "if you'll stand half the strain, I'll go buy a ticket for this man to Cheyenne." "N' no," said the man, visibly affected by this unexpected generosity, "n' no, I can't let you do that. I should be glad of a ride that would cost you nothing and the company nothing; but I can't--I can't take your money," and he turned away, touching the cuff of his coat, first to his right and then to his left eye. Patsy sighed, and the two men walked again. Five minutes more and the big engine would begin to crawl from the great shed, and the voyager began wondering whether he would be on board. The engineer was going round the engine for the last time. The fireman had spread his fire and was leaning leisurely on the arm-rest. The Pullman conductors, with clean cuffs and collars, were putting away their people. The black-faced porters were taking the measures of men as they entered the car. Here comes a gray-haired clergyman, carrying a heavy hand-satchel, and by his side an athletic looking commercial tourist. One of the black porters glides forward, takes the light hand-grip, containing the travelling man's tooth-brush, nightshirt, and razor, and runs up the step with it. Now a train arrives from the West, and the people who are going away look into the faces of the people who are coming home, who look neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead at the open gates, and in three minutes the empty cars are being backed away, to be washed and dusted, and made ready for another voyage. How sad and interesting would be the story of the life of a day coach. Beaten, bumped, battered, and banged about in the yards, trampled and spat upon by vulgar voyagers, who get on and off at flag stations, and finally, in a head-end collision, crushed between the heavy vestibuled sleepers and the mighty engine. But sadder still is the story of a man who has been buffeted about and walked upon by the arrogant of this earth, and to such a story the Philosopher was now listening. The man was talking so rapidly that he almost balled up at times, and had to go back and begin again. At times it seemed to him that the Philosopher, to whom he was talking, was giving little or no attention to his tale; but he was. He was making up his mind. It is amazing the amount of work that can be done in ten minutes, when all the world is working. Tons of trunks had passed in and out, the long platform had been peopled and depopulated twice since the two men began their walk, and now another train gave up its human freight to the already crowded city. Now, as they went up and down, the Philosopher, at each turn, went a little nearer to the engine. Only three minutes remained to him in which to render his decision, which was to help the unhappy man a half-thousand miles on the way to his dying wife, or leave him sadder still because of the failure--to pine and ponder upon man's inhumanity to man. Patsy, glancing now and then at the big clock on the station wall, searched the sad face of his friend and tried to read there the answer to the man's prayer. It would be that the man should ride, he had no doubt, for this story was so like the story of this same man, the Philosopher, with which he had come into Patsy's life, and Patsy had resolved never to turn his back upon a man who was down on his luck. The Philosopher's face was indecipherable. Finally when they had come to the turning point in the shadow of the mail car, he stopped, leaned against the corner of the tank and said: "I can't make you out, and you haven't made out your case." "I don't follow you," said the man. "No? Well suppose I say, for answer, that I'll let you go--sneak away up through the yards and lose yourself; provided you promise not to do it again." "You talk in riddles. What is it that I am not to do again? You say you have hit the road yourself, and you ought to have sympathy for a fellow out o' luck." "I have, and that's why I'm going to let you go. Your story is a sad one, and it has softened my heart. It's the story of my own life." "Then how can you refuse me this favor, that will cost you nothing?" "Hadn't you better go?" "No, I want you to answer me." "Well, to be frank with you, you are not a tramp. You've got money, and you had red wine with your supper, or your dinner, as you would say." The man laughed, a soundless laugh, and tried to look sad. "You've got a gold signet ring in your right trousers pocket." The man worked his fingers and when the Philosopher thought he must have the ring in his hand, he caught hold of the man's wrist, jerked the hand from his pocket, and the ring rolled upon the platform. When the man cut off the end of his cigar the Philosopher had seen a white line around one of the fingers of the man's sea-browned hand. Real tramps, thought the Philosopher, don't cut off the ends of their cigars. They bite them off, and save the bite. They don't throw a half-smoked cigar away, but put it, burning if necessary, in their pocket. "What do you mean?" demanded the man, indignantly. "Pick up your ring." "I have a mind to smash you." "Do, and you can ride." "You've got your nerve." "You haven't. Why did you stare at that lady's feet, when she was climbing into the car?" "That's not your business." "It's all my business now." "I'll report you for this." The man started to walk past the big station master, but a strong hand was clapped to the man's breast pocket and when it came away it held a small pocket memorandum. "See what's in that, Patsy," said the Philosopher, passing the book to the conductor, who had gone forward for the decision. The man made a move, as if he would snatch the book, but the big hand at his throat twisted the flannel shirt, and choked him. Patsy, holding the book in the glare of his white light, read the record of a man who had been much away from home. He had, according to the book, ridden with many conductors, whose names were familiar to Patsy, and had, upon divers occasions, noticed that sometimes some people rode without paying fare. In another place Patsy learned that trainmen and other employees drank beer, or other intoxicating beverages. A case in point was a couple of brakemen on local who, after unloading a half-dozen reapers and a threshing machine at Mendota, had gone into a saloon with the shipper and killed their thirst. While Patsy was gleaning this interesting information the man writhed and twisted, fought and fumed, but it was in vain, for the hand of the Philosopher was upon his throat. "Let me go," gasped the man, "an' we'll call it square, an' I won't report you." "Oh! how good of you." "Let me go, I say, you big brute." "I wanted to let you go a while ago, and you wouldn't have it." The man pulled back like a horse that won't stand hitched and the button flew from his cheap flannel shirt. "I'm a goat," said the Philosopher, stroking the man's chest with his big right hand, "if he hasn't got on silk underwear." "Come now, you fellahs," said the man changing his tune, "let me go and you'll always have a friend at Court." "Be quiet," said the Philosopher, "I'm going to let you go, but tell me, why did you want to do little Patsy, that everybody likes?" "Because Mr. Paul was so cock sure I couldn't. He bet me a case of champagne that I couldn't ride on the Omaha Limited without paying fare." "And now you lose the champagne." "It looks that way." "Poor tramp!" Patsy had walked to the rear of the train, shouted "All aboard," and the cars were now slipping past the two men. "Have you still a mind to smash me?" "I may be a wolf but this is not my night to howl." "Every dog has his day, eh?" "Curse you." "Good night," said the Philosopher, reaching for a passing car. "Go to--" said the tramp, and the train faded away out over the switches. CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND The old master-mechanic, who had insisted that Dan Moran was innocent, from the first, had gone away; but the new man was willing to give him an engine after the confession of Bill Greene. Having secured work the old engineer called upon the widow, for he could tell her, now, all about the dynamite. Three years had brought little change to her. She might be a little bit stouter, but she was handsomer than ever, Dan thought. The little girl, whom he remembered as a toddling infant, was a sunny child of four years. Bennie was now fourteen and was employed as caller at the round-house, and his wages, thirty dollars a month, kept up the expenses of the home. He had inherited the splendid constitution of his father with the gentleness and honesty of his mother. The foreman was very fond of him, and having been instructed by the old general manager to take good care of the boy, for his mother's sake, he had arranged to send him out firing, which would pay better, as soon as he was old enough. So Moran found the little family well, prosperous, and reasonably happy. Presently, when she could wait no longer, Mrs. Cowels asked the old engineer if he had come back to stay, and when he said he had, her face betrayed so much joy that Moran felt half embarrassed, and his heart, which had been so heavy for the past four years, gave a thump that startled him. "Oh! I'm _so_ glad," she said earnestly, looking down and playing with her hands; and while her eyes were not upon his, Moran gazed upon the gentle face that had haunted him day and night in his three years' tramp about the world. "Yes," he said at length, "I'm going back to the 'Q.' It's not Blackwings, to be sure, and the Denver Limited, but it's work, and that's something, for it seems to me that I can bear this idleness no longer. It's the hardest work in the world, just to have nothing to do, month in and month out, and to be compelled to do it. I can't stand it, that's all, and I'm going out on a gravel train to-morrow." Moran remembered now that Bennie had come to him that morning in the round-house and begged the engineer to "ask for him," to go out as fireman on the gravel train, for it was really a boy's work to keep an engine hot on a side track, but he would not promise, and the boy had been greatly disappointed. "I'd like to ask for the boy," said Moran, "with your permission. He's been at me all morning, and I'm sure the foreman won't object if you consent." "But he's so young, Dan; he could never do the work." "I'll look out for him," said the engineer, nodding his head. "I'll keep him busy waiting on me when we lay up, and when we have a hard run for a meeting-point there's always the head brakeman, and they can usually fire as well as a fireman." "I will consent only to please him," she said, "and because I should like to have him with you." He thanked her for the compliment, and took up his hat to go. "And how often shall I see you now? I mean--how soon--when will Bennie be home again?" They were standing close together in the little hall, and when he looked deep into her eyes, she became confused and blushed like a school-girl. "Well, to be honest, we never know on a run of this sort when we may get back to town. It may be a day, a week, or a month," said Moran. "But I'll promise you that I will not keep him away longer than is necessary. We don't work Sundays, of course, and I'll try and dead-head him in Saturday nights, and you can send him back on the fast freight Sunday evenings. The watchman can fire the engine in an emergency, you know." "But the watchman couldn't run her in an emergency?" queried the little woman. "I'm afraid not," said Moran, catching the drift of her mind, and feeling proud of the compliment concealed in the harmless query. "But I shall enjoy having him come to you once a week to show you that I have not forgotten my promise." "And I shall know," she answered, putting up a warning finger, "by his actions whether you have been good to him." "And by the same token I can tell whether you are happy," rejoined the engineer, taking both her hands in his to say good-bye. Moran went directly to the round-house and spoke to the foreman, and when Bennie came home that evening he threw himself upon his mother's neck and wept for very joy. His mother wept, too, for it means something to a mother to have her only boy go out to begin life on the rail. After supper they all went over to the little general store, where she had once been refused credit--where she had spent their last dollar for Christmas presents for little Bennie and his father, chiefly his father--and bought two suits of bright blue overclothes for the new fireman. "Mother, I once heard the foreman say that Dan Moran had been like a father to papa," said Bennie that evening. "Guess he'll start in being a father to me now, eh! mother?" Mrs. Cowels smiled and kissed him, and then she cried a little, but only a little, for in spite of all her troubles she felt almost happy that night. It was nearly midnight when Bennie finished trying on his overclothes and finally fell asleep. It was only four A. M. when he shook his mother gently and asked her to get up and get breakfast. "What time is it, Bennie?" "I don't know, exactly," said Bennie, "but it must be late. I've been up a long, long time. You know you have to put up my lunch, and I want to get down and draw my supplies. Couldn't do it last night 'cause they didn't know what engine we were going to have." Mrs. Cowels got up and prepared breakfast and Bennie ate hurriedly and then began to look out for the caller. He would have gone to the round-house at once but he wanted to sign the callbook at home. How he had envied the firemen who had been called by him. He knew just how it would be written in the callbook: _Extra West, Eng.--Leave 8:15 A. M._ _Engineer Moran,--D. Moran 7:15._ _Fireman Cowels._-- And there was the blank space where he would write his name. At six o'clock he declared to his mother that he must go down and get his engine hot, and after a hasty good-bye he started. Ten minutes later he came into the round-house and asked the night foreman where his engine was. "Well," said the foreman, "we haven't got _your_ engine yet," and the boy's chin dropped down and rested upon his new blue blouse. "I guess we'll have to send you out on one of the company's engines this trip." There was a great roar of laughter from the wiping gang and Bennie looked embarrassed. He concluded to say no more to the foreman, but went directly to the blackboard, got the number and found the engine which had been assigned to the gravel train because she was not fit for road work. A sorry old wreck she was, covered with ashes and grease, but it made little difference to Bennie so long as she had a whistle and a bell, and he set to work to stock her up with supplies. He had drawn supplies for many a tired fireman in his leisure moments and knew very nearly what was needed. But the first thing he did was to open the blower and "get her hot." He got the foreman hot, too, and in a little while he heard that official shout to the hostler to "run the scrap heap out-doors, and put that fresh kid in the tank." Bennie didn't mind the reference to the "fresh kid," but he thought the foreman might have called her something better than a scrap heap, but he was a smart boy and knew that it would be no use to "kick." It was half-past seven when Mrs. Cowels opened the door in answer to the bell, and blushed, and glanced down at her big apron. "I thought I'd look in on my way to the round-house," said Moran, removing his hat, "for Bennie." "Why, the dear boy has been gone an hour and a half, but I'm glad (won't you come in?) you called for he has forgotten his gloves." "Thank you," said the engineer, "the fact is I'm a little late, for I don't know what sort of a scrap pile I have to take out and I'd like, of course, to go underneath her before she leaves the round-house, so I can't come in this morning." When Mrs. Cowels had given him the gloves he took her hand to say good-bye, and the wife of one of the new men, who saw it, said afterwards that he held it longer than was necessary, just to say good-bye. When Dan reached the round-house Bennie was up on top of the old engine oiling the bell. What would an engine without a bell be to a boy? And yet in Europe they have no bells, but there is a vast difference between the American and the European boy. Moran stopped in the round-house long enough to read the long list of names on the blackboard. They were nearly all new to him, as were the faces about, and he turned away. The orders ran them extra to Aurora, avoiding regular trains. Moran glanced at the faces of all the incoming engineers as he met and passed them, but with one exception they were all strangers to him. He recognized young Guerin, who had been fireman on Blackwings the night George Cowels was killed, and he was now running a passenger engine. "How the mushrooms have vegetated hereabouts," thought Moran, as he glanced up at the stack of the old work engine, but he was never much of a kicker, so he would not kick now. This wasn't much of a run, but it beat looking for a better one. "Not so much coal, Bennie. Take your clinker hook and level it off. That's it,--see the black smoke? Keep your furnace door shut. Now look at your stack again. See the yellow smoke hanging 'round? Rake her down again. Now it's black, and if it burns clear--see there? There is no smoke at all; that shows that her fire is level. Sweep up your deck now while you rest." CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD One night when the Limited was roaring up from the Missouri River against one of those March rains that come out of the east, there came to Patsy one of the temptations that are hardest for a man of his kind nature to withstand. The trial began at Galesburg. Patsy was hugging the rear end of the day coach in order to keep out of the cruel storm, when his eyes rested upon the white face of a poorly clad woman. She stood motionless as a statue, voiceless as the Sphinx, with the cold rain beating upon her uplifted face, until Patsy cried "All aboard." Then she pulled herself together and climbed into the train. The conductor, leaving his white light upon the platform of the car, stepped down and helped the dripping woman into the coach. When the train had dashed away again up the rain-swept night, Patsy found the wet passenger rocking to and fro on the little seat that used to run lengthwise of the car up near the stove, before the use of steam heat. "Ticket," said the conductor. The woman lifted her eyes to his, but seemed to be staring at something beyond. "Ticket, please." "Yes--y-e-a-s," she spoke as though the effort caused her intense pain. "I want--to--go to Chicago." "Yes. Have you a ticket?" "Yes." "Where is it?" "Where's what?" "Where's your ticket?" "I ain't got no ticket." "Have you got money?" "No. I do' want money. I jist want you to take me to Chicago." "But I can't take you without you pay fare." "Can't you? I've been standin' there in the rain all night, but nobody would let me on the train--all the trains is gone but this one. I'd most give up when you said, 'Git on,' er somethin'." "Why do you want to go to Chicago?" "Oh! I must be there fur the trial." "Who's trial?" "Terrence's. They think my boy, Terrence, killed a man, an' I'm goin' up to tell th' judge. Of course, they don't know Terrence. He's wild and runs around a heap, but he's not what you may call bad." The poor woman was half-crazed by her grief, and her blood was chilled by the cold rain. She could not have been wetter at the bottom of Lake Michigan. When she ceased speaking, she shivered. "It was good in you to let me git on, an' I thank you very kindly." "But I can't carry you unless you can pay." "Oh! I kin walk soon's we git ther." "But you can't get there. I'll have to stop and put you off." The unhappy woman opened her eyes and mouth and stared at the conductor. "Put--me--off?" "Yes." "It's rainin' ain't it?" She shivered again, and tried to look out into the black night. "Don't you know better than to get onto a train without a ticket or money to pay your fare?" "Yes; but they'll hang Terrence, they'll hang 'im, they'll hang 'im," and she moaned and rocked herself. Patsy went on through the train and when he came back the woman was still rocking and staring blankly at the floor, as he had found her before. She had to look at him for some time before she could remember him. "Can't you go no faster?" Patsy sighed. "What time is it?" "Six o'clock." "Will we git there by half after nine?--th' trial's at ten." "Yes." Patsy sat down and looked at the wreck. "Now, a man who could put such a woman off, in such a storm, at such an hour, and with a grief like that," said Patsy to himself, "would pasture a goat on his grandmother's grave." * * * * * When Patsy woke at two o'clock that afternoon, he picked up a noon edition of an all-day paper, and the very first word he read was "Not guilty." That was the heading of the police news. "There was a pathetic scene in Judge Meyer's court this morning at the preliminary hearing of the case of Terrence Cassidy, charged with the murder of the old farmer at Spring Bank on Monday last. All efforts to draw a confession from Cassidy had failed, and the detectives had come to the conclusion that he was either very innocent or very guilty--there was no purgatory for Terrence; it was heaven or the hot place, according to the detectives. For once the detectives were right. Terrence was very innocent. It appears that the tramp who was killed on the Wabash last night made a confession to the trainmen, after being hit by the engine, to the effect that he had murdered the old farmer, and afterwards, at the point of an empty pistol, forced a young Irishman, whom he met upon the railroad track, to exchange clothes with him. That accounts for the blood stains upon Cassidy's coat, but, of course, nobody credited his story. "The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager of the Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with a description of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with that given of those garments worn by Cassidy. "This good news did not reach the court, however, until after the prisoner had been arraigned. When asked the usual question, 'Guilty, or not guilty?' the boy stood up and was about to address some remarks to the court, when suddenly there rushed into the room about the sorriest looking woman who ever stood before a judge. She was poorly clad, wet as a rat, haggard and pale. Her voice was hoarse and unearthly. Nobody seemed to see her enter. Suddenly, as if she had risen from the floor, she stood at the railing, raised a trembling hand and shouted, as well as she could shout, 'Not guilty!' "Before the bewildered judge could lift his gavel, the prosecuting attorney rose, dramatically, and asked to be allowed to read a telegram that had just been received, which purported to be the signed confession of a dying man. "As might be expected, there were not many dry eyes in that court when, a moment later, the boy was sobbing on his mother's wet shoulder, and she, rocking to and fro, was saying softly 'Poor Terrence, my poor Terrence.'" * * * * * As Patsy was walking back from Hooley's Theatre, where he had gone to get tickets (this was his night off), he met the acting chief clerk in one of the departments to which, under the rules then in vogue, he owed allegiance. "I want to see you at the office," said the amateur official, and Patsy was very much surprised at the brevity of the speech. He went up to his room and tried to read, but the ever recurring thought that he was "wanted at the office" disturbed him and he determined to go at once and have it out. The conductor removed his hat in the august presence and asked, timidly, what was wanted. "You ought to know," said the great judge. "But I don't," said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with a clear conscience, on the defensive. "Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who have no transportation?" "No, sir." "Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg to Chicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know? It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a special agent before me, and--" "I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is your business." "What?" yelled the official. "I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but what I wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you no explanation." "I stand for the company, sir." "So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I have handled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment the management loses confidence in me, and with the assurance of a better job. Can all the great men say as much?" The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishman caused the "management" to pause in its young career. "Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?" "No. I have rendered unto Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. For further particulars, see my report," and with that Patsy walked out. "Let's see, let's see," said the "management"; "'Two passengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare.' What an ass I've made of myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw." CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH "_Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train, Watching the meadows move under the stars; Always together atop o' the cars._" Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinking of the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his arm run through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was taking the numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was a handsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had passed lightly over his head since he came singing himself into the office of the general manager to ask for a pass over a competing line, had rounded out his figure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just a shade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used to visit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, and he would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run. And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light, held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen, and set his buttons ablaze. "Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?" Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out his hand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?" "The junction." "But we don't stop there." "I know, but I thought Moran might slow her down to about twenty posts, and I can fall off--I missed the local." "I've got a new man," said Patsy, "and he'll be a bit nervous to-night, but if we hit the top of Zero Hill on the dot we'll let you off; if not, we'll carry you through, and you can come back on No. 4." "Thank you," said the Philosopher, "but I'm sorry to trouble you." "And I don't intend you shall; just step back to the outside gate and flag Mr. and Mrs. Moran, and don't let him buy a ticket for the sleeper; I've got passes for him right through to the coast." As the Philosopher went back to "flag," Patsy went forward to the engine. "If you hit Zero Junction on time, Guerin, I wish you'd slow down and let the agent off," said the conductor. "And if I'm late?" "Don't stop." "Well," said the young driver, "we'll not be apt to stop, for it's a wild night, Patsy; a slippery rail and almost a head wind." "Nothing short of a blizzard can check Blackwings," said Patsy, going to the rear. The day coaches were already well filled, and the sleeping-car conductors were busy putting their people away when the Philosopher came down the platform accompanied by the veteran engineer, his pretty wife, and her bright little girl. Mrs. Moran and her daughter entered the sleeper, while her husband and the station master remained outside to finish their cigars. "What a magnificent train," observed the old engineer, as the two men stood looking at the Limited. "Finest in all the West," the Philosopher replied. "Open from the tank to the tail-lamps: all ablaze with electric lights; just like the Atlantic liners we read about in the magazines. Ever been on one of those big steamers, Dan?" "No, and I never want to be. Never get me out o' sight o' land. Then they're too blamed slow; draggin' along in the darkness, eighteen and twenty miles an hour, and nowhere to jump." "And yet they say we kill more people than they do." "I know they say so," said the engineer, "but they kill 'em so everlastingly dead. A man smashed up in a wreck on the road _may_ recover, but a man drowned a thousand miles from anywhere has no show." Patsy, coming from the station, joined the two dead-heads, and Moran, glancing at his watch, asked the cause of delay. "Waiting for a party of English tourists," said Patsy; "they're coming over the Grand Trunk, and the storm has delayed them." "And that same storm will delay you to-night, my boy, if I'm any guesser," observed the old engineer. "I'd go over and ride with Guerin, but I'm afraid he wouldn't take it well. That engine is as quick as chain-lightning, and with a greasy rail like this she'll slip going down hill, and the more throttle he gives her the slower she'll go. And what's more, she'll do it so smoothly, that, blinded by the storm, he'll never know she's slipping till she tears her fire all out and comes to a dead stall." The old engineer knew just how to prevent all that, but he was afraid that to offer any suggestion might wound the pride of the young man, whom he did not know very well. True, he had asked the master-mechanic to put Guerin on the run, but only because he disliked the Reading man who was next in line. Mrs. Moran came from the car now, and asked to be taken to the engine where she and her daughter might say good-bye to Bennie who was now the regular fireman on Blackwings. "Bennie," said his stepfather, "see that your sand-pipes are open." While Bennie talked with his mother and sister, Moran chatted with the engineer. "I want to thank you," said Guerin, "for helping me to this run during your absence, and I shall try to take good care of both Bennie and Blackwings." "It isn't worth mentioning," said Moran with a wave of his hand, "they do these things to suit themselves." "Now, if she's got any tricks," said Guerin, "I'd be glad to know them, for I don't want to disgrace the engine by losing time. I've been trying to pump the boy, but he's as close as a clam." "Well, that's not a common fault with firemen," said Moran, with his quiet smile. "The only thing I can say about Blackwings," he went on, for he had been aching to say it, "is that she's smart, and on a rail like this you'll have to humor her a little--drop her down a notch and ease up on the throttle, especially when you have a heavy train. She's mighty slippery." Guerin thanked him for the tip, and the old engineer, feeling greatly relieved, went back to where Patsy and the Philosopher were "railroading." They had been discussing the vestibule. The Philosopher had remarked that recently published statistics established the fact that when a solid vestibuled train came into collision with an old-fashioned open train of the same weight, the latter would go to splinters while the vestibuled train would remain intact, on the principle that a sleeping car is harder to wreck when the berths are down, because they brace the structure. "The vestibule," continued the Philosopher, "is a life-saver, and a great comfort to people who travel first class, but this same inventor, who has perfected so many railway appliances, has managed in one way or another to help all mankind. He has done as much for the tramp as for the millionaire. Take the high wheel, for instance. Why, I remember when I was 'on the road' that you had to get down and crawl to get under a sleeper, and sit doubled up like a crawfish all the while. I remember when the Pennsylvania put on a lot of big, twelve-wheeled cars. A party of us got together under a water tank down near Pittsburgh and held a meeting. It was on the Fourth of July and we sent a copy of our resolutions to the president of the sleeping car company at Chicago. The report was written with charcoal upon some new shingles which we found near, and sent by express, 'collect.' I remember how it read: 'At the First Annual Convention of the Tramps' Protective Association of North America, it was '_Resolved:_ That this union feels itself deeply indebted to the man who has introduced upon American railways the high wheel and the triple truck. And be it further '_Resolved:_ That all self-respecting members of this fraternity shall refrain from riding on, or in any way encouraging, such slow-freight lines as may still hold to the old-fashioned, eight-wheeled, dirt-dragging sleeper, blind to their own interest and dead to the world.'" "All aboard," cried Patsy, and the Denver Limited left Chicago just ten minutes late. The moment they had passed beyond the shed the storm swept down from the Northwest and plastered the wet snow against the windows. Slowly they worked their way out of the crowded city, over railway crossings, between guarded gates, and left the lights of Chicago behind them. The scores of passengers behind the double-glassed windows chatted or perused the evening papers. Nearly all the male members of the English party had crowded into the smoking-rooms of the sleepers to enjoy their pipes. Patsy, after working the train, sat down to visit with the Morans. The old engineer had been hurt in a wreck and the company had generously given him a two months' leave of absence, with transportation and full pay, and he was going to spend the time in Southern California. The officials were beginning to share the opinion of Mr. Watchem, the famous detective who had declared, when Moran was in prison, that he ought to be wearing a medal instead of handcuffs. He had battled, single-handed and alone, with a desperado who was all fenced about with firearms, saved the company's property and, it might be, the lives of passengers. Later he had taken the dynamite from the engine to prevent its exploding, wrecking the machine and killing the crew. And rather than inform upon the wretch who had committed the crime he had gone to prison, and had borne disgrace. With the exception of Patsy, Moran, and his wife, none of the passengers gave a thought to the "fellows up ahead." Before leaving Chicago Guerin had advised the youthful fireman to stretch a piece of bell-rope from the cab to the tank to prevent him from falling out through the gangway, for he intended to make up the ten minutes if it were in the machine. The storm had increased so that the rail had passed the slippery stage, for it is only a damp rail that is greasy. A very wet rail is almost as good as a dry one, and Blackwings was picking her train up beautifully. This was the engine upon which Guerin had made his maiden trip as fireman, and the thought of that dreadful night saddened him. Here was where Cowels sat when he showed him the cruel message. Here in this very window he had held him, and there was the identical arm-rest over which hung the body of the dead engineer. And this was his boy. How the years fly! He looked at the boy, and the boy was looking at him with his big, sad eyes. The furnace door was ajar, and the cab was as light as day. Guerin had always felt that in some vague way he was responsible for Cowels's death, and now the boy's gaze made him uncomfortable. Already the snow had banked against the windows on his side and closed them. He crossed over to the fireman's side, and looked ahead. The headlight was almost covered, but they were making good time. He guessed, from the vibration that marked the revolutions of the big drivers, that she must be making fifty miles an hour. Now she began to roll, and her bell began to toll, like a distant church-bell tolling for the dead, and he crossed back to his own side. Both Moran and Patsy were pleased for they knew the great engine was doing her work. "When one of these heavy sleepers stops swinging," said Patsy, "and just seems to stand still and shiver, she's going; and when she begins to slam her flanges up against the rail, first one side and then the other, she has passed a sixty-mile gait, and that's what this car is doing now." Mrs. Moran said good-night, and disappeared behind the silken curtain of "lower six," where her little girl was already sound asleep. Only a few men remained in the smoking-rooms, and they were mostly English. Steam began to flutter from the dome above the back of Blackwings. The fireman left the door on the latch to keep her cool and save the water; the engineer opened the injector a little wider to save the steam; the fireman closed the door again to keep her hot; and that's the way men watch each other on an engine, to save a drop of water or an ounce of steam, and that's the best trick of the trade. Guerin looked out at the fireman's window again. The headlight was now entirely snowed in and the big black machine was poking her nose into the night at the rate of a mile a minute. "My God! how she rolls," said Guerin, going back to his place again. Of a sudden she began to quicken her pace, as though the train had parted. She might be slipping--he opened the sand lever. No, she was holding the rail, and then he knew that they had tipped over Zero Hill. He cut her back a notch, but allowed the throttle to remain wide open. Bennie saw the move and left the door ajar again. He knew where they were and wondered that Guerin did not ease off a bit, but he had been taught by Moran to fire and leave the rest to the engineer. Guerin glanced at his watch. He was one minute over-due at Zero Junction, a mile away. At the end of another minute he would have put that station behind him, less than two minutes late. He was making a record for himself. He was demonstrating that it is the daring young driver who has the sand to go up against the darkness as fast as wheels can whirl. He wished the snow was off the headlight. He knew the danger of slamming a train through stations without a ray of light to warn switchmen and others, but he could not bring himself to send the boy out to the front end in that storm the way she was rolling. And she did roll; and with each roll the bell tolled! tolled!! like a church bell tolling for the dead. The snow muffled the rail, and the cry of the whistle would not go twenty rods against that storm; and twenty rods, when you're making a mile and a half in a minute, gives barely time to cross yourself. About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came from the telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light at a switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an empty express car. "Back up," he shouted: "and kick that car in on the house track." "The Limited's due in a minute," said the switch engineer, turning the gauge lamp upon his watch. "Well, you're runnin' the engine--I'm runnin' the yard," said the official, giving his lamp another whirl, and the engine with the express car backed away. The yard master unbent sufficiently to say to the switchman on the engine that the Limited was ten minutes late, adding, that she would probably be fifteen at the junction, for it was storming all along the line. The snow had packed in about the switch-bridle and made it hard to move, but finally, with the help of the fireman, the switch was turned, and the yard engine stood on the main track. The engineer glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind him save the storm-swept night. Suddenly he felt the earth tremble, and, filled with indescribable horror, he pulled the whistle open and leaped through the window. The cry of the yard engine was answered by a wild shriek from Blackwings. Guerin closed the throttle, put on the air and opened the sand-valves. The sound of that whistle, blown back over the train, fell upon the ears of Patsy and the two dead-heads, and filled them with fear. A second later they felt the clamp of brake-shoes applied with full force; felt the grinding of sand beneath the wheels, and knew that something was wrong. The old engineer tore the curtains back from "lower six," and spread out his arms, placing one foot against the foot of the berth, and threw himself on top of the two sleepers. Patsy and the Philosopher braced themselves against the seat in front of them, and waited the shock. Bennie heard the whistle, too, and went out into the night, not knowing where or how he would light. Young Guerin had no time to jump. He had work to do. His left hand fell from the whistle-rope to the air-brake, and it was applied even while his right hand shoved the throttle home, and opened the sand-valves--and then the crash came. Being higher built, Blackwings shot right over the top of the yard engine, turned end for end, and lay with her pilot under the mail car, which was telescoped into the express car. The balance of the train, surging, straining, and trembling, came to a stop, with all wheels on the rail, thanks to the faithful driver, and the open sand-pipes. The train had scarcely stopped when the conductor and the two dead-heads were at the engine, searching, amid the roar of escaping steam, for the engine crew. A moment later Bennie came limping in from a neighboring field where he had been wallowing in a snow-drift. The operator, rushing from the station, stumbled over the body of a man. It was Guerin. When the engine turned over he had been hurled from the cab and slammed up against the depot, fifty feet away. The rescuers, searching about the wreck, shouted and called to the occupants of the mail car, but the wail of the wounded engine drowned their voices. In a little while both men were rescued almost unhurt. Now all the employees and many passengers gathered about the engineer. The station master held Guerin's head upon his knee, while Moran made a hasty examination of his hurt. There was scarcely a bone in his body that was not broken, but he was still alive. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked about. "I'm cold!" he said distinctly. Patsy held his white light close to the face of the wounded man. His eyes seemed now to be fixed upon something far away. "Mercy, but I'm cold!" he said pathetically. Now all the women were weeping, and there were tears in the eyes of most of the men. "Raise him up a little," said Moran. "It's getting dark," said the dying man, "Oh, _so_ dark! It must be the snow--" and he closed his eyes again--"snow--on--the headlight." THE END THE STORY OF THE WEST SERIES. _Edited by_ RIPLEY HITCHCOCK. _Each, Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, $1.50._ THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD. _By_ CY WARMAN, _author of "The Express Messenger," etc. With Maps, and many Illustrations by B. West Clinedinst and from Photographs_. As we understand it, the editor's ruling idea in this series has not been to present chronology or statistics or set essays on the social and political development of the great West, but to give to us vivid pictures of the life and the times in the period of great development, and to let us see the men at their work, their characters, and their motives. The choice of an author has been fortunate. In Mr. Warman's book we are kept constantly reminded of the fortitude, the suffering, the enterprise, and the endurance of the pioneers. We see the glowing imagination of the promoter, and we see the engineer scouting the plains and the mountains, fighting the Indians, freezing and starving, and always full of a keen enthusiasm for his work and of noble devotion to his duty. The construction train and the Irish boss are not forgotten, and in the stories of their doings we find not only courage and adventure, but wit and humor.--_The Railroad Gazette._ THE STORY OF THE COWBOY. _By_ E. HOUGH, _author of "The Singing Mouse Stories," etc. Illustrated by William L. Wells and C. M. Russell_. Mr. Hough is to be thanked for having written so excellent a book. The cowboy story, as this author has told it, will be the cowboy's fitting eulogy. This volume will be consulted in years to come as an authority on past conditions of the far West. For fine literary work the author is to be highly complimented. Here, certainly, we have a choice piece of writing.--_New York Times._ THE STORY OF THE MINE. _As Illustrated by the Great Comstock Lode of Nevada._ _By_ CHARLES HOWARD SHINN. Mr. Shinn writes from ... such acquaintance as could only be gained by familiarity with the men and the places described, ... and by the fullest appreciation of the pervading spirit of the Western mining camps of yesterday and to-day. Thus his book has a distinctly human interest, apart from its value as a treatise on things material.--_Review of Reviews._ THE STORY OF THE INDIAN. _By_ GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, _author of "Pawnee Hero Stories," "Blackfoot Lodge Tales," etc._ Only an author qualified by personal experience could offer us a profitable study of a race so alien from our own as is the Indian in thought, feeling, and culture. Only long association with Indians can enable a white man measurably to comprehend their thoughts and enter into their feelings. Such association has been Mr. Grinnell's.--_New York Sun._ _Books by Graham Travers._ WINDYHAUGH. _A Novel. By_ GRAHAM TRAVERS, _author of "Mona Maclean. Medical Student," "Fellow Travellers," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50_. "Windyhaugh" shows an infinitely more mature skill and more subtle humor than "Mona Maclean" and a profounder insight into life. The psychology in Dr. Todd's remarkable book is all of the right kind; and there is not in English fiction a more careful and penetrating analysis of the evolution of a woman's mind than is given in Wilhelmina Galbraith; but "Windyhaugh" is not a book in which there is only one "star" and a crowd of "supers." Every character is limned with a conscientious care that bespeaks the true artist, and the analytical interest of the novel is rigorously kept in its proper place and is only one element in a delightful story. It is a supremely interesting and wholesome book, and in an age when excellence of technique has reached a remarkable level, "Windyhaugh" compels admiration for its brilliancy of style. Dr. Todd paints on a large canvas, but she has a true sense of proportion.--_Blackwood's Magazine._ For truth to life, for adherence to a clear line of action, for arrival at the point toward which it has aimed from the first, such a book as "Windyhaugh" must be judged remarkable. There is vigor and brilliancy. It is a book that must be read from the beginning to the end and that it is a satisfaction to have read.--_Boston Journal._ Its easy style, its natural characters, and its general tone of earnestness assure its author a high rank among contemporary novelists.--_Chicago Tribune._ MONA MACLEAN. _Medical Student. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1.00._ A pleasure in store for you if you have not read this volume. The author has given us a thoroughly natural series of events, and drawn her characters like an artist. It is the story of a woman's struggles with her own soul. She is a woman of resource, a strong woman, and her career is interesting from beginning to end.--_New York Herald._ "Mona Maclean" is a bright, healthful, winning story.--_New York Mail and Express._ A high-bred comedy.--_New York Times._ FELLOW TRAVELLERS. _12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1.00._ The stories are well told; the literary style is above the average, and the character drawing is to be particularly praised. ... Altogether, the little book is a model of its kind, and its reading will give pleasure to people of taste.--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._ "Fellow Travellers" is a collection of very brightly written tales, all dealing, as the title implies, with the mutual relations of people thrown together casually while travelling.--_London Saturday Review._ "_A Book that will Live._" DAVID HARUM. _A Story of American Life. By_ EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT. _12mo. Cloth, $1.50._ Thoroughly a pure, original, and fresh American type. David Harum is a character whose qualities of mind and heart, eccentricities, and dry humor will win for his creator noble distinction. Buoyancy, life, and cheerfulness are dominant notes. In its vividness and force the story is a strong, fresh picture of American life. Original and true, it is worth the same distinction which is accorded the _genre_ pictures of peculiar types and places sketched by Mr. George W. Cable, Mr. Joel Chandler Harris, Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, Miss Wilkins, Miss Jewett, Mr. Garland, Miss French, Miss Murfree, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. Owen Wister, and Bret Harte.--_Boston Herald._ Mr. Westcott has done for central New York what Mr. Cable, Mr. Page, and Mr. Harris have done for different parts of the South, and what Miss Jewett and Miss Wilkins are doing for New England, and Mr. Hamlin Garland for the West.... "David Harum" is a masterly delineation of an American type.... Here is life with all its joys and sorrows.... David Harum lives in these pages as he will live in the mind of the reader.... He deserves to be known by all good Americans; he is one of them in boundless energy, in large-heartedness, in shrewdness, and in humor.--_The Critic._ True, strong, and thoroughly alive, with a humor like that of Abraham Lincoln and a nature as sweet at the core.--_Boston Literary World._ We give Edward Noyes Westcott his true place in American letters--placing him as a humorist next to Mark Twain, as a master of dialect above Lowell, as a descriptive writer equal to Bret Harte, and, on the whole, as a novelist on a par with the best of those who live and have their being in the heart of hearts of American readers. If the author is dead--lamentable fact--his book will live.--_Philadelphia Item._ The main character ... will probably take his place in time beside Joel Chandler Harris's and Thomas Nelson Page's and Miss Wilkins's creations.--_Chicago Times-Herald._ D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. _D. B. Updike The Merrymount Press 104 Chestnut St. Boston_ 
3648	----	THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT By WINSTON CHURCHILL Volume 3. CHAPTER XV Occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the method of the movies. Another night has passed, and we are called upon to imagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering through bare trees on the heads of a multitude. A large portion of Hampton Common is black with the people of sixteen nationalities who have gathered there, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and eagerly to a new doctrine of salvation. In the centre of this throng on the bandstand--reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights--are the itinerant apostles of the cult called Syndicalism, exhorting by turns in divers tongues. Antonelli had spoken, and many others, when Janet, impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her way little by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stood almost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a language she recognized as Italian. Her curiosity was aroused, she was unable to classify this tall man whose long and narrow face was accentuated by a pointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he spoke, whose slim hands were eloquent. The artist as propagandist--the unsuccessful artist with more facility than will. The nose was classic, and wanted strength; the restless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her were smouldering windows of a burning house: the fire that stirred her was also consuming him. Though he could have been little more than five and thirty, his hair was thinned and greying at the temples. And somehow emblematic of this physiognomy and physique, summing it up and expressing it in terms of apparel, were the soft collar and black scarf tied in a flowing bow. Janet longed to know what he was saying. His phrases, like music, played on her emotions, and at last, when his voice rose in crescendo at the climax of his speech, she felt like weeping. "Un poeta!" a woman beside her exclaimed. "Who is he?" Janet asked. "Rolfe," said the woman. "But he's an Italian?" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "It is his name that is all I know." He had begun to speak again, and now in English, with an enunciation, a distinctive manner of turning his phrases new to such gatherings in America, where labour intellectuals are little known; surprising to Janet, diverting her attention, at first, from the meaning of his words. "Labour," she heard, "labour is the creator of all wealth, and wealth belongs to the creator. The wage system must be abolished. You, the creators, must do battle against these self-imposed masters until you shall come into your own. You who toil miserably for nine hours and produce, let us say, nine dollars of wealth--do you receive it? No, what is given you is barely enough to keep the slave and the slave's family alive! The master, the capitalist, seizes the rightful reward of your labour and spends it on luxuries, on automobiles and fine houses and women, on food he can't eat, while you are hungry. Yes, you are slaves," he cried, "because you submit like slaves." He waited, motionless and scornful, for the noise to die down. "Since I have come here to Hampton, I have heard some speak of the state, others of the unions. Yet the state is your enemy, it will not help you to gain your freedom. The legislature has shortened your hours,--but why? Because the politicians are afraid of you, and because they think you will be content with a little. And now that the masters have cut your wages, the state sends its soldiers to crush you. Only fifty cents, they say--only fifty cents most of you miss from your envelopes. What is fifty cents to them? But I who speak to you have been hungry, I know that fifty cents will buy ten loaves of bread, or three pounds of the neck of pork, or six quarts of milk for the babies. Fifty cents will help pay the rent of the rat-holes where you live." Once more he was interrupted by angry shouts of approval. "And the labour unions, have they aided you? Why not? I will tell you why--because they are the servile instruments of the masters. The unions say that capital has rights, bargain with it, but for us there can be only one bargain, complete surrender of the tools to the workers. For the capitalists are parasites who suck your blood and your children's blood. From now on there can be no compromise, no truce, no peace until they are exterminated. It is war." War! In Janet's soul the word resounded like a tocsin. And again, as when swept along East Street with the mob, that sense of identity with these people and their wrongs, of submergence with them in their cause possessed her. Despite her ancestry, her lot was cast with them. She, too, had been precariously close to poverty, had known the sordidness of life; she, too, and Lise and Hannah had been duped and cheated of the fairer things. Eagerly she had drunk in the vocabulary of that new and terrible philosophy. The master class must be exterminated! Was it not true, if she had been of that class, that Ditmar would not have dared to use and deceive her? Why had she never thought of these things before?... The light was beginning to fade, the great meeting was breaking up, and yet she lingered. At the foot of the bandstand steps, conversing with a small group of operatives that surrounded him, she perceived the man who had just spoken. And as she stood hesitating, gazing at him, a desire to hear more, to hear all of this creed he preached, that fed the fires in her soul, urged her forward. Her need, had she known it, was even greater than that of these toilers whom she now called comrades. Despite some qualifying reserve she felt, and which had had to do with the redness of his lips, he attracted her. He had a mind, an intellect, he must possess stores of the knowledge for which she thirsted; he appeared to her as one who had studied and travelled, who had ascended heights and gained the wider view denied her. A cynical cosmopolitanism would have left her cold, but here, apparently, was a cultivated man burning with a sense of the world's wrongs. Ditmar, who was to have led her out of captivity, had only thrust her the deeper into bondage.... She joined the group, halting on the edge of it, listening. Rolfe was arguing with a man about the labour unions, but almost at once she knew she had fixed his attention. From time to time, as he talked, his eyes sought hers boldly, and in their dark pupils were tiny points of light that stirred and confused her, made her wonder what was behind them, in his soul. When he had finished his argument, he singled her out. "You do not work in the mills?" he asked. "No, I'm a stenographer--or I was one." "And now?" "I've given up my place." "You want to join us?" "I was interested in what you said. I never heard anything like it before." He looked at her intently. "Come, let us walk a little way," he said. And she went along by his side, through the Common, feeling a neophyte's excitement in the freemasonry, the contempt for petty conventions of this newly achieved doctrine of brotherhood. "I will give you things to read, you shall be one of us." "I'm afraid I shouldn't understand them," Janet replied. "I've read so little." "Oh, you will understand," he assured her, easily. "There is too much learning, too much reason and intelligence in the world, too little impulse and feeling, intuition. Where do reason and intelligence lead us? To selfishness, to thirst for power-straight into the master class. They separate us from the mass of humanity. No, our fight is against those who claim more enlightenment than their fellowmen, who control the public schools and impose reason on our children, because reason leads to submission, makes us content with our station in life. The true syndicalist is an artist, a revolutionist!" he cried. Janet found this bewildering and yet through it seemed to shine for her a gleam of light. Her excitement grew. Never before had she been in the presence of one who talked like this, with such assurance and ease. And the fact that he despised knowledge, yet possessed it, lent him glamour. "But you have studied!" she exclaimed. "Oh yes, I have studied," he replied, with a touch of weariness, "only to learn that life is simple, after all, and that what is needed for the social order is simple. We have only to take what belongs to us, we who work, to follow our feelings, our inclinations." "You would take possession of the mills?" she asked. "Yes," he said quickly, "of all wealth, and of the government. There would be no government--we should not need it. A little courage is all that is necessary, and we come into our own. You are a stenographer, you say. But you--you are not content, I can see it in your face, in your eyes. You have cause to hate them, too, these masters, or you would not have been herein this place, to-day. Is it not so?" She shivered, but was silent. "Is it not so?" he repeated. "They have wronged you, too, perhaps,--they have wronged us all, but some are too stupid, too cowardly to fight and crush them. Christians and slaves submit. The old religion teaches that the world is cruel for most of us, but if we are obedient and humble we shall be rewarded in heaven." Rolfe laughed. "The masters approve of that teaching. They would not have it changed. But for us it is war. We'll strike and keep on striking, we'll break their machinery, spoil their mills and factories, and drive them out. And even if we do not win at once, it is better to suffer and die fighting than to have the life ground out of us--is it not?" "Yes, it is better!" she agreed. The passion in her voice did not escape him. "Some day, perhaps sooner than we think, we shall have the true Armageddon, the general strike, when the last sleeping toiler shall have aroused himself from his lethargy to rise up and come into his inheritance." He seemed to detach himself from her, his eyes became more luminous. "`Like unseen music in the night,'--so Sorel writes about it. They may scoff at it, the wise ones, but it will come. `Like music in the night!' You respond to that!" Again she was silent. They had walked on, through familiar streets that now seemed strange. "You respond--I can tell," he said. "And yet, you are not like these others, like me, even. You are an American. And yet you are not like most of your countrywomen." "Why do you say that?" "I will tell you. Because they are cold, most of them, and trivial, they do not feel. But you--you can feel, you can love and hate. You look calm and cold, but you are not--I knew it when I looked at you, when you came up to me." She did not know whether to resent or welcome his clairvoyance, his assumption of intimacy, his air of appropriation. But her curiosity was tingling. "And you?" she asked. "Your name is Rolfe, isn't it?" He assented. "And yours?" She told him. "You have been in America long--your family?" "Very long," she said. "But you speak Italian, and Rolfe isn't an Italian name." "My father was an Englishman, an artist, who lived in Italy--my mother a peasant woman from Lombardy, such as these who come to work in the mills. When she was young she was beautiful--like a Madonna by an old master." "An old master?" "The old masters are the great painters who lived in Italy four hundred years ago. I was named after one of them--the greatest. I am called Leonard. He was Leonardo da Vinci." The name, as Rolfe pronounced it, stirred her. And art, painting! It was a realm unknown to her, and yet the very suggestion of it evoked yearnings. And she recalled a picture in the window of Hartmann's book-store, a coloured print before which she used to stop on her way to and from the office, the copy of a landscape by a California artist. The steep hillside in the foreground was spread with the misty green of olive trees, and beyond--far beyond--a snow-covered peak, like some high altar, flamed red in the sunset. She had not been able to express her feeling for this picture, it had filled her with joy and sadness. Once she had ventured to enter and ask its price--ten dollars. And then came a morning when she had looked for it, and it was gone. "And your father--did he paint beautiful pictures, too?" "Ah, he was too much of a socialist. He was always away whey I was a child, and after my mother's death he used to take me with him. When I was seventeen we went to Milan to take part in the great strike, and there I saw the soldiers shooting down the workers by the hundreds, putting them in prison by the thousands. Then I went to live in England, among the socialists there, and I learned the printer's trade. When I first came to this country I was on a labour paper in New York, I set up type, I wrote articles, and once in a while I addressed meetings on the East Side. But even before I left London I had read a book on Syndicalism by one of the great Frenchmen, and after a while I began to realize that the proletariat would never get anywhere through socialism." "The proletariat?" The word was new to Janet's ear. "The great mass of the workers, the oppressed, the people you saw here to-day. Socialism is not for them. Socialism--political socialism --betrays them into the hands of the master class. Direct action is the thing, the general strike, war,--the new creed, the new religion that will bring salvation. I joined the Industrial Workers of the World that is the American organization of Syndicalism. I went west, to Colorado and California and Oregon, I preached to the workers wherever there was an uprising, I met the leaders, Ritter and Borkum and Antonelli and Jastro and Nellie Bond, I was useful to them, I understand Syndicalism as they do not. And now we are here, to sow the seed in the East. Come," he said, slipping his arm through hers, "I will take you to Headquarters, I will enlist you, you shall be my recruit. I will give you the cause, the religion you need." She longed to go, and yet she drew back, puzzled. The man fired and fascinated her, but there were reservations, apprehensions concerning him, felt rather than reasoned. Because of her state of rebellion, of her intense desire to satisfy in action the emotion aroused by a sense of wrong, his creed had made a violent appeal, but in his voice, in his eyes, in his manner she had been quick to detect a personal, sexual note that disturbed and alarmed her, that implied in him a lack of unity. "I can't, to-night," she said. "I must go home--my mother is all alone. But I want to help, I want to do something." They were standing on a corner, under a street lamp. And she averted her eyes from his glance. "Then come to-morrow," he said eagerly. "You know where Headquarters is, in the Franco-Belgian Hall?" "What could I do?" she asked. "You? You could help in many ways--among the women. Do you know what picketing is?" "You mean keeping the operatives out of the mills?" "Yes, in the morning, when they go to work. And out of the Chippering Mill, especially. Ditmar, the agent of that mill, is the ablest of the lot, I'm told. He's the man we want to cripple." "Cripple!" exclaimed Janet. "Oh, I don't mean to harm him personally." Rolfe did not seem to notice her tone. "But he intends to crush the strike, and I understand he's importing scabs here to finish out an order--a big order. If it weren't for him, we'd have an easier fight; he stiffens up the others. There's always one man like that, in every place. And what we want to do is to make him shut down, especially." "I see," said Janet. "You'll come to Headquarters?" Rolfe repeated. "Yes, I'll come, to-morrow," she promised. After she had left him she walked rapidly through several streets, not heeding her direction--such was the driving power of the new ideas he had given her. Certain words and phrases he had spoken rang in her head, and like martial music kept pace with her steps. She strove to remember all that he had said, to grasp its purport; and because it seemed recondite, cosmic, it appealed to her and excited her the more. And he, the man himself, had exerted a kind of hypnotic force that partially had paralyzed her faculties and aroused her fears while still in his presence: her first feeling in escaping had been one of relief--and then she began to regret not having gone to Headquarters. Hadn't she been foolish? In the retrospect, the elements in him that had disturbed her were less disquieting, his intellectual fascination was enhanced: and in that very emancipation from cant and convention, characteristic of the Order to which he belonged, had lain much of his charm. She had attracted him as a woman, there was no denying that. He, who had studied and travelled and known life in many lands, had discerned in her, Janet Bumpus, some quality to make him desire her, acknowledge her as a comrade! Tremblingly she exulted in the possession of that quality --whatever it might be. Ditmar, too, had perceived it! He had not known how to value it. With this thought came a flaming suggestion--Ditmar should see her with this man Rolfe, she would make him scorch with the fires of jealousy. Ditmar should know that she had joined his enemies, the Industrial Workers of the World. Of the world! Her shackles had been cast off at last!... And then, suddenly, she felt tired. The prospect of returning to Fillmore Street, to the silent flat--made the more silent by her mother's tragic presence--overwhelmed her. The ache in her heart began to throb again. How could she wait until the dawn of another day?... In the black hours of the morning, with the siren dinning in her ears a hoarse call to war, Janet leaped from her bed and began to dress. There is a degree of cold so sharp that it seems actually to smell, and as she stole down the stairs and out of the door she shivered, assailed by a sense of loneliness and fear. Yet an insistent voice urged her on, whispering that to remain at home, inactive, was to go mad; salvation and relief lay in plunging into the struggle, in contributing her share toward retribution and victory. Victory! In Faber Street the light of the electric arcs tinged the snow with blue, and the flamboyant advertisements of breakfast foods, cigarettes and ales seemed but the mockery of an activity now unrealizable. The groups and figures scattered here and there farther down the street served only to exaggerate its wide emptiness. What could these do, what could she accomplish against the mighty power of the mills? Gradually, as she stood gazing, she became aware of a beating of feet upon the snow; over her shoulder she caught the gleam of steel. A squad of soldiers muffled in heavy capes and woolen caps was marching along the car-tracks. She followed them. At the corner of West Street, in obedience to a sharp command she saw them halt, turn, and advance toward a small crowd gathered there. It scattered, only to collect again when the soldiers had passed on. Janet joined them. She heard men cursing the soldiers. The women stood a little aside; some were stamping to keep warm, and one, with a bundle in her arms which Janet presently perceived to be a child, sank down on a stone step and remained there, crouching, resigned. "We gotta right to stay here, in the street. We gotta right to live, I guess." The girl's teeth were chattering, but she spoke with such vehemence and spirit as to attract Janet's attention. "You worked in the Chippering, like me--yes?" she asked. Janet nodded. The faded, lemon-coloured shawl the girl had wrapped about her head emphasized the dark beauty of her oval face. She smiled, and her white teeth were fairly dazzling. Impulsively she thrust her arm through Janet's. "You American--you comrade, you come to help?" she asked. "I've never done any picketing." "I showa you." The dawn had begun to break, revealing little by little the outlines of cruel, ugly buildings, the great mill looming darkly at the end of the street, and Janet found it scarcely believable that only a little while ago she had hurried thither in the mornings with anticipation and joy in her heart, eager to see Ditmar, to be near him! The sight of two policemen hurrying toward them from the direction of the canal aroused her. With sullen murmurs the group started to disperse, but the woman with the baby, numb with cold, was slow in rising, and one of the policemen thrust out his club threateningly. "Move on, you can't sit here," he said. With a lithe movement like the spring of a cat the Italian girl flung herself between them--a remarkable exhibition of spontaneous inflammability; her eyes glittered like the points of daggers, and, as though they had been dagger points, the policeman recoiled a little. The act, which was absolutely natural, superb, electrified Janet, restored in an instant her own fierceness of spirit. The girl said something swiftly, in Italian, and helped the woman to rise, paying no more attention to the policeman. Janet walked on, but she had not covered half the block before she was overtaken by the girl; her anger had come and gone in a flash, her vivacity had returned, her vitality again found expression in an abundant good nature and good will. She asked Janet's name, volunteering the information that her own was Gemma, that she was a "fine speeder" in the Chippering Mill, where she had received nearly seven dollars a week. She had been among the first to walk out. "Why did you walk out?" asked Janet curiously. "Why? I get mad when I know that my wages is cut. I want the money--I get married." "Is that why you are striking?" asked Janet curiously. "That is why--of course." "Then you haven't heard any of the speakers? They say it is for a cause --the workers are striking for freedom, some day they will own the mills. I heard a man named Rolfe yesterday--" The girl gave her a radiant smile. "Rolfe! It is beautiful, what Rolfe said. You think so? I think so. I am for the cause, I hate the capitalist. We will win, and get more money, until we have all the money. We will be rich. And you, why do you strike?" "I was mad, too," Janet replied simply. "Revenge!" exclaimed the girl, glittering again. "I understan'. Here come the scabs! Now I show you." The light had grown, but the stores were still closed and barred. Along Faber Street, singly or in little groups, anxiously glancing around them, behind them, came the workers who still clung desperately to their jobs. Gemma fairly darted at two girls who sought the edge of the sidewalk, seizing them by the sleeves, and with piteous expressions they listened while she poured forth on them a stream of Italian. After a moment one tore herself away, but the other remained and began to ask questions. Presently she turned and walked slowly away in the direction from which she had come. "I get her," exclaimed Gemma, triumphantly. "What did you say?" asked Janet. "Listen--that she take the bread from our mouths, she is traditore--scab. We strike for them, too, is it not so?" "It is no use for them to work for wages that starve. We win the strike, we get good wages for all. Here comes another--she is a Jewess--you try, you spik." Janet failed with the Jewess, who obstinately refused to listen or reply as the two walked along with her, one on either side. Near West Street they spied a policeman, and desisted. Up and down Faber Street, everywhere, the game went on: but the police were watchful, and once a detachment of militia passed. The picketing had to be done quickly, in the few minutes that were to elapse before the gates should close. Janet's blood ran faster, she grew excited, absorbed, bolder as she perceived the apologetic attitude of the "scabs" and she began to despise them with Gemma's heartiness; and soon she had lost all sense of surprise at finding herself arguing, pleading, appealing to several women in turn, fluently, in the language of the industrial revolution. Some--because she was an American--examined her with furtive curiosity; others pretended not to understand, accelerating their pace. She gained no converts that morning, but one girl, pale, anemic with high cheek bones evidently a Slav--listened to her intently. "I gotta right to work," she said. "Not if others will starve because you work," objected Janet. "If I don't work I starve," said the girl. "No, the Committee will take care of you--there will be food for all. How much do you get now?" "Four dollar and a half." "You starve now," Janet declared contemptuously. "The quicker you join us, the sooner you'll get a living wage." The girl was not quite convinced. She stood for a while undecided, and then ran abruptly off in the direction of West Street. Janet sought for others, but they had ceased coming; only the scattered, prowling picketers remained. Over the black rim of the Clarendon Mill to the eastward the sky had caught fire. The sun had risen, the bells were ringing riotously, resonantly in the clear, cold air. Another working day had begun. Janet, benumbed with cold, yet agitated and trembling because of her unwonted experience of the morning, made her way back to Fillmore Street. She was prepared to answer any questions her mother might ask; as they ate their dismal breakfast, and Hannah asked no questions, she longed to blurt out where she had been, to announce that she had cast her lot with the strikers, the foreigners, to defend them and declare that these were not to blame for the misfortunes of the family, but men like Ditmar and the owners of the mills, the capitalists. Her mother, she reflected bitterly, had never once betrayed any concern as to her shattered happiness. But gradually, as from time to time she glanced covertly at Hannah's face, her resentment gave way to apprehension. Hannah did not seem now even to be aware of her presence; this persistent apathy filled her with a dread she did not dare to acknowledge. "Mother!" she cried at last. Hannah started. "Have you finished?" she asked. "Yes." "You've b'en out in the cold, and you haven't eaten much." Janet fought back her tears. "Oh yes, I have," she managed to reply, convinced of the futility of speech, of all attempts to arouse her mother to a realization of the situation. Perhaps--though her heart contracted at the thought perhaps it was a merciful thing! But to live, day after day, in the presence of that comfortless apathy!... Later in the morning she went out, to walk the streets, and again in the afternoon; and twice she turned her face eastward, in the direction of the Franco-Belgian Hall. Her courage failed her. How would these foreigners and the strange leaders who had come to organize them receive her, Ditmar's stenographer? She would have to tell them she was Ditmar's stenographer; they would find it out. And now she was filled with doubts about Rolfe. Had he really thought she could be of use to them! Around the Common, in front of the City Hall men went about their affairs alertly, or stopped one another to talk about the strike. In Faber Street, indeed, an air of suppressed excitement prevailed, newsboys were shouting out extras; but business went on as though nothing had happened to disturb it. There was, however, the spectacle, unusual at this time of day, of operatives mingling with the crowd, while policemen stood watchfully at the corners; a company of soldiers marched by, drawing the people in silence to the curb. Janet scanned the faces of these idle operatives; they seemed for the most part either calm or sullen, wanting the fire and passion of the enthusiasts who had come out to picket in the early hours of the day; she sought vainly for the Italian girl with whom she had made friends. Despondency grew in her, a sense of isolation, of lacking any one, now, to whom she might turn, and these feelings were intensified by the air of confidence prevailing here. The strike was crushed, injustice and wrong had triumphed--would always triumph. In front of the Banner office she heard a man say to an acquaintance who had evidently just arrived in town:--"The Chippering? Sure, that's running. By to-morrow Ditmar'll have a full force there. Now that the militia has come, I guess we've got this thing scotched..." Just how and when that order and confidence of Faber Street began to be permeated by disquietude and alarm, Janet could not have said. Something was happening, somewhere--or about to happen. An obscure, apparently telepathic process was at work. People began to hurry westward, a few had abandoned the sidewalk and were running; while other pedestrians, more timid, were equally concerned to turn and hasten in the opposite direction. At the corner of West Street was gathering a crowd that each moment grew larger and larger, despite the efforts of the police to disperse it. These were strikers, angry strikers. They blocked the traffic, halted the clanging trolleys, surged into the mouth of West Street, booing and cursing at the soldiers whose threatening line of bayonets stretched across that thoroughfare half-way down toward the canal, guarding the detested Chippering Mill. Bordering West Street, behind the company's lodging-houses on the canal, were certain low buildings, warehouses, and on their roofs tense figures could be seen standing out against the sky. The vanguard of the mob, thrust on by increasing pressure from behind, tumbled backward the thin cordon of police, drew nearer and nearer the bayonets, while the soldiers grimly held their ground. A voice was heard on the roof, a woman in the front rank of the mob gave a warning shriek, and two swift streams of icy water burst forth from the warehouse parapet, tearing the snow from the cobbles, flying in heavy, stinging spray as it advanced and mowed the strikers down and drove them like flies toward Faber Street. Screams of fright, curses of defiance and hate mingled with the hissing of the water and the noise of its impact with the ground--like the tearing of heavy sail-cloth. Then, from somewhere near the edge of the mob, came a single, sharp detonation, quickly followed by another--below the watchmen on the roof a window crashed. The nozzles on the roof were raised, their streams, sweeping around in a great semi-circle, bowled down the rioters below the tell-tale wisps of smoke, and no sooner had the avalanche of water passed than the policemen who, forewarned, had sought refuge along the walls, rushed forward and seized a man who lay gasping on the snow. Dazed, half drowned, he had dropped his pistol. They handcuffed him and dragged him away through the ranks of the soldiers, which opened for him to pass. The mob, including those who had been flung down, bruised and drenched, and who had painfully got to their feet again, had backed beyond the reach of the water, and for a while held that ground, until above its hoarse, defiant curses was heard, from behind, the throbbing of drums. "Cossacks! More Cossacks!" The cry was taken up by Canadians, Italians, Belgians, Poles, Slovaks, Jews, and Syrians. The drums grew louder, the pressure from the rear was relaxed, the throng in Faber Street began a retreat in the direction of the power plant. Down that street, now in double time, came three companies of Boston militia, newly arrived in Hampton, blue-taped, gaitered, slouch-hatted. From columns of fours they wheeled into line, and with bayonets at charge slowly advanced. Then the boldest of the mob, who still lingered, sullenly gave way, West Street was cleared, and on the wider thoroughfare the long line of traffic, the imprisoned trolleys began to move again.... Janet had wedged herself into the press far enough to gain a view down West Street of the warehouse roofs, to see the water turned on, to hear the screams and the curses and then the shots. Once more she caught the contagious rage of the mob; the spectacle had aroused her to fury; it seemed ignominious, revolting that human beings, already sufficiently miserable, should be used thus. As she retreated reluctantly across the car tracks her attention was drawn to a man at her side, a Slovak. His face was white and pinched, his clothes were wet. Suddenly he stopped, turned and shook his fist at the line of soldiers. "The Cossack, the politzman belong to the boss, the capitalist!" he cried. "We ain't got no right to live. I say, kill the capitalist--kill Ditmar!" A man with a deputy's shield ran toward them. "Move on!" he said brutally. "Move on, or I'll roil you in." And Janet, once clear of the people, fled westward, the words the foreigner had spoken ringing in her ears. She found herself repeating them aloud, "Kill Ditmar!" as she hurried through the gathering dusk past the power house with its bottle-shaped chimneys, and crossed the little bridge over the stream beside the chocolate factory. She gained the avenue she had trod with Eda on that summer day of the circus. Here was the ragpicker's shop, the fence covered with bedraggled posters, the deserted grand-stand of the base-ball park spread with a milky-blue mantle of snow; and beyond, the monotonous frame cottages all built from one model. Now she descried looming above her the outline of Torrey's Hill blurred and melting into a darkening sky, and turned into the bleak lane where stood the Franco-Belgian Hall--Hampton Headquarters of the Industrial Workers of the World. She halted a moment at sight of the crowd of strikers loitering in front of it, then went on again, mingling with them excitedly beside the little building. Its lines were simple and unpretentious, and yet it had an exotic character all its own, differing strongly from the surrounding houses: it might have been transported from a foreign country and set down here. As the home of that odd, cooperative society of thrifty and gregarious Belgians it had stimulated her imagination, and once before she had gazed, as now, through the yellowed, lantern-like windows of the little store at the women and children waiting to fill their baskets with the day's provisions. In the middle of the building was an entrance leading up to the second floor. Presently she gathered the courage to enter. Her heart was pounding as she climbed the dark stairs and thrust open the door, and she stood a moment on the threshold almost choked by the fumes of tobacco, bewildered by the scene within, confused by the noise. Through a haze of smoke she beheld groups of swarthy foreigners fiercely disputing among themselves--apparently on the verge of actual combat, while a sprinkling of silent spectators of both sexes stood at the back of the hall. At the far end was a stage, still set with painted, sylvan scenery, and seated there, alone, above the confusion and the strife, with a calmness, a detachment almost disconcerting, was a stout man with long hair and a loose black tie. He was smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper which he presently flung down, taking up another from a pile on the table beside him. Suddenly one of the groups, shouting and gesticulating, surged toward him and made an appeal through their interpreter. He did not appear to be listening; without so much as lowering his newspaper he spoke a few words in reply, and the group retired, satisfied. By some incomprehensible power he dominated. Panting, fascinated, loath to leave yet fearful, Janet watched him, breathing now deeply this atmosphere of smoke, of strife, and turmoil. She found it grateful, for the strike, the battle was in her own soul as well. Momentarily she had forgotten Rolfe, who had been in her mind as she had come hither, and then she caught sight of him in a group in the centre of the hall. He saw her, he was making his way toward her, he was holding her hands, looking down into her face with that air of appropriation, of possession she remembered. But she felt no resentment now, only a fierce exultation at having dared. "You've come to join us!" he exclaimed. "I thought I'd lost you." He bent closer to her that she might hear. "We are having a meeting of the Committee," he said, and she smiled. Despite her agitation, this struck her as humorous. And Rolfe smiled back at her. "You wouldn't think so, but Antonelli knows how to manage them. He is a general. Come, I will enlist you, you shall be my recruit." "But what can I do?" she asked. "I have been thinking. You said you were a stenographer--we need stenographers, clerks. You will not be wasted. Come in here." Behind her two box-like rooms occupying the width of the building had been turned into offices, and into one of these Rolfe led her. Men and women were passing in and out, while in a corner a man behind a desk sat opening envelopes, deftly extracting bills and post-office orders and laying them in a drawer. On the wall of this same room was a bookcase half filled with nondescript volumes. "The Bibliotheque--that's French for the library of the Franco-Belgian Cooperative Association," explained Rolfe. "And this is Comrade Sanders. Sanders is easier to say than Czernowitz. Here is the young lady I told you about, who wishes to help us--Miss Bumpus." Mr. Sanders stopped counting his money long enough to grin at her. "You will be welcome," he said, in good English. "Stenographers are scarce here. When can you come?" "To-morrow morning," answered Janet. "Good," he said. "I'll have a machine for you. What kind do you use?" She told him. Instinctively she took a fancy to this little man, whose flannel shirt and faded purple necktie, whose blue, unshaven face and tousled black hair seemed incongruous with an alert, business-like, and efficient manner. His nose, though not markedly Jewish, betrayed in him the blood of that vital race which has triumphantly survived so many centuries of bondage and oppression. "He was a find, Czernowitz--he calls himself Sanders," Rolfe explained, as they entered the hall once more. "An Operative in the Patuxent, educated himself, went to night school--might have been a capitalist like so many of his tribe if he hadn't loved humanity. You'll get along with him." "I'm sure I shall," she replied. Rolfe took from his pocket a little red button with the letters I.W.W. printed across it. He pinned it, caressingly, on her coat. "Now you are one of us!" he exclaimed. "You'll come to-morrow?" "I'll come to-morrow," she repeated, drawing away from him a little. "And--we shall be friends?" She nodded. "I must go now, I think." "Addio!" he said. "I shall look for you. For the present I must remain here, with the Committee." When Janet reached Faber Street she halted on the corner of Stanley to stare into the window of the glorified drugstore. But she gave no heed to the stationery, the cameras and candy displayed there, being in the emotional state that reduces to unreality objects of the commonplace, everyday world. Presently, however, she became aware of a man standing beside her. "Haven't we met before?" he asked. "Or--can I be mistaken?" Some oddly familiar quizzical note in his voice stirred, as she turned to him, a lapsed memory. The hawklike yet benevolent and illuminating look he gave her recalled the man at Silliston whom she had thought a carpenter though he was dressed now in a warm suit of gray wool, and wore a white, low collar. "In Silliston!" she exclaimed. "Why--what are you doing here?" "Well--this instant I was just looking at those notepapers, wondering which I should choose if I really had good taste. But it's very puzzling--isn't it?--when one comes from the country. Now that saffron with the rough edges is very--artistic. Don't you think so?" She looked at him and smiled, though his face was serious. "You don't really like it, yourself," she informed him. "Now you're reflecting on my taste," he declared. "Oh no--it's because I saw the fence you were making. Is it finished yet?" "I put the last pineapple in place the day before Christmas. Do you remember the pineapples?" She nodded. "And the house? and the garden?" "Oh, those will never be finished. I shouldn't have anything more to do." "Is that--all you do?" she asked. "It's more important than anything else. But you have you been back to Silliston since I saw you? I've been waiting for another call." "You haven't even thought of me since," she was moved to reply in the same spirit. "Haven't I?" he exclaimed. "I wondered, when I came up here to Hampton, whether I mightn't meet you--and here you are! Doesn't that prove it?" She laughed, somewhat surprised at the ease with which he had diverted her, drawn her out of the tense, emotional mood in which he had discovered her. As before, he puzzled her, but the absence of any flirtatious suggestion in his talk gave her confidence. He was just friendly. "Sometimes I hoped I might see you in Hampton," she ventured. "Well, here I am. I heard the explosion, and came." "The explosion! The strike!" she exclaimed; suddenly enlightened. "Now I remember! You said something about Hampton being nitro-glycerine--human nitro-glycerine. You predicted this strike." "Did I? perhaps I did," he assented. "Maybe you suggested the idea." "I suggested it! Oh no, I didn't--it was new to me, it frightened me at the time, but it started me thinking about a lot of things that had never occurred to me." "You might have suggested the idea without intending to, you know. There are certain people who inspire prophecies--perhaps you are one." His tone was playful, but she was quick to grasp at an inference--since his glance was fixed on the red button she wore. "You meant that I would explode, too!" "Oh no--nothing so terrible as that," he disclaimed. "And yet most of us have explosives stored away inside of us--instincts, impulses and all that sort of thing that won't stand too much bottling-up." "Yes, I've joined the strike." She spoke somewhat challengingly, though she had an uneasy feeling that defiance was somewhat out of place with him. "I suppose you think it strange, since I'm not a foreigner and haven't worked in the mills. But I don't see why that should make any difference if you believe that the workers haven't had a chance." "No difference," he agreed, pleasantly, "no difference at all." "Don't you sympathize with the strikers?" she insisted. "Or--are you on the other side, the side of the capitalists?" "I? I'm a spectator--an innocent bystander." "You don't sympathize with the workers?" she cried. "Indeed I do. I sympathize with everybody." "With the capitalists?" "Why not?" "Why not? Because they've had everything their own way, they've exploited the workers, deceived and oppressed them, taken all the profits." She was using glibly her newly acquired labour terminology. "Isn't that a pretty good reason for sympathizing with them?" he inquired. "What do you mean?" "Well, I should think it might be difficult to be happy and have done all that. At any rate, it isn't my notion of happiness. Is it yours?" For a moment she considered this. "No--not exactly," she admitted. "But they seem happy," she insisted vehemently, "they have everything they want and they do exactly as they please without considering anybody except themselves. What do they care how many they starve and make miserable? You--you don't know, you can't know what it is to be driven and used and flung away!" Almost in tears, she did not notice his puzzled yet sympathetic glance. "The operatives, the workers create all the wealth, and the capitalists take it from them, from their wives and children." "Now I know what you've been doing," he said accusingly. "You've been studying economics." Her brow puckered. "Studying what?" "Economics--the distribution of wealth. It's enough to upset anybody." "But I'm not upset," she insisted, smiling in spite of herself at his comical concern. "It's very exciting. I remember reading a book once on economics and such things, and I couldn't sleep for a week. It was called `The Organization of Happiness,' I believe, and it described just how the world ought to be arranged--and isn't. I thought seriously of going to Washington and telling the President and Congress about it." "It wouldn't have done any good," said Janet. "No, I realized that." "The only thing that will do any good is to strike and keep on striking until the workers own the mills--take everything away from the capitalists." "It's very simple," he agreed, "much simpler than the book I read. That's what they call syndicalism, isn't it?" "Yes." She was conscious of his friendliness, of the fact that his skepticism was not cynical, yet she felt a strong desire to convince him, to vindicate her new creed. "There's a man named Rolfe, an educated man who's lived in Italy and England, who explains it wonderfully. He's one of the I.W.W. leaders--you ought to hear him." "Rolfe converted you? I'll go to hear him." "Yes--but you have to feel it, you have to know what it is to be kept down and crushed. If you'd only stay here awhile." "Oh, I intend to," he replied. She could not have said why, but she felt a certain relief on hearing this. "Then you'll see for yourself!" she cried. "I guess that's what you've come for, isn't it?" "Well, partly. To tell the truth, I've come to open a restaurant." "To open a restaurant!" Somehow she was unable to imagine him as the proprietor of a restaurant. "But isn't it rather a bad time?" she gasped. "I don't look as if I had an eye for business--do I? But I have. No, it's a good time--so many people will be hungry, especially children. I'm going to open a restaurant for children. Oh, it will be very modest, of course--I suppose I ought to call it a soup kitchen." "Oh!" she exclaimed, staring at him. "Then you really--" the sentence remained unfinished. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "You made me think--" "Oh, you mustn't pay any attention to what I say. Come 'round and see my establishment, Number 77 Dey Street, one flight up, no elevator. Will you?" She laughed tremulously as he took her hand. "Yes indeed, I will," she promised. And she stood awhile staring after him. She was glad he had come to Hampton, and yet she did not even know his name. CHAPTER XVI She had got another place--such was the explanation of her new activities Janet gave to Hannah, who received it passively. And the question dreaded about Ditmar was never asked. Hannah had become as a child, performing her tasks by the momentum of habituation, occasionally talking simply of trivial, every-day affairs, as though the old life were going on continuously. At times, indeed, she betrayed concern about Edward, wondering whether he were comfortable at the mill, and she washed and darned the clothes he sent home by messenger. She hoped he would not catch cold. Her suffering seemed to have relaxed. It was as though the tortured portion of her brain had at length been seared. To Janet, her mother's condition when she had time to think of it--was at once a relief and a new and terrible source of anxiety. Mercifully, however, she had little leisure to reflect on that tragedy, else her own sanity might have been endangered. As soon as breakfast was over she hurried across the city to the Franco-Belgian Hall, and often did not return until nine o'clock at night, usually so tired that she sank into bed and fell asleep. For she threw herself into her new labours with the desperate energy that seeks forgetfulness, not daring to pause to think about herself, to reflect upon what the future might hold for her when the strike should be over. Nor did she confine herself to typewriting, but, as with Ditmar, constantly assumed a greater burden of duty, helping Czernowitz--who had the work of five men--with his accounts, with the distribution of the funds to the ever-increasing number of the needy who were facing starvation. The money was paid out to them in proportion to the size of their families; as the strike became more and more effective their number increased until many mills had closed; other mills, including the Chippering, were still making a desperate attempt to operate their looms, and sixteen thousand operatives were idle. She grew to know these operatives who poured all day long in a steady stream through Headquarters; she heard their stories, she entered into their lives, she made decisions. Some, even in those early days of the strike, were frauds; were hiding their savings; but for the most part investigation revealed an appalling destitution, a resolution to suffer for the worker's cause. A few complained, the majority were resigned; some indeed showed exaltation and fire, were undaunted by the task of picketing in the cold mornings, by the presence of the soldiery. In this work of dealing with the operatives Janet had the advice and help of Anna Mower, a young woman who herself had been a skilled operative in the Clarendon Mill, and who was giving evidence of unusual qualities of organization and leadership. Anna, with no previous practise in oratory, had suddenly developed the gift of making speeches, the more effective with her fellow workers because unstudied, because they flowed directly out of an experience she was learning to interpret and universalize. Janet, who heard her once or twice, admired and envied her. They became friends. The atmosphere of excitement in which Janet now found herself was cumulative. Day by day one strange event followed another, and at times it seemed as if this extraordinary existence into which she had been plunged were all a feverish dream. Hither, to the absurd little solle de reunion of the Franco-Belgian Hall came notables from the great world, emissaries from an uneasy Governor, delegations from the Legislature, Members of the Congress of the United States and even Senators; students, investigators, men and women of prominence in the universities, magazine writers to consult with uncouth leaders of a rebellion that defied and upset the powers which hitherto had so serenely ruled, unchallenged. Rolfe identified these visitors, and one morning called her attention to one who he said was the nation's foremost authority on social science. Janet possessed all unconsciously the New England reverence for learning, she was stirred by the sight of this distinguished-looking person who sat on the painted stage, fingering his glasses and talking to Antonelli. The two men made a curious contrast. But her days were full of contrasts of which her mood exultingly approved. The politicians were received cavalierly. Toward these, who sought to act as go-betweens in the conflict, Antonelli was contemptuous; he behaved like the general of a conquering army, and his audacity was reflected in the other leaders, in Rolfe, in the Committee itself. That Committee, a never-ending source of wonder to Janet, with its nine or ten nationalities and interpreters, was indeed a triumph over the obstacles of race and language, a Babel made successful; in a community of Anglo-Saxon traditions, an amazing anomaly. The habiliments of the west, the sack coats and sweaters, the slouch hats and caps, the so-called Derbies pulled down over dark brows and flashing eyes lent to these peasant types an incongruity that had the air of ferocity. The faces of most of them were covered with a blue-black stubble of beard. Some slouched in their chairs, others stood and talked in groups, gesticulating with cigars and pipes; yet a keen spectator, after watching them awhile through the smoke, might have been able to pick out striking personalities among them. He would surely have noticed Froment, the stout, limping man under whose white eyebrows flashed a pair of livid blue and peculiarly Gallic eyes; he held the Belgians in his hand: Lindtzki, the Pole, with his zealot's face; Radeau, the big Canadian in the checked Mackinaw; and Findley, the young American-less by any arresting quality of feature than by an expression suggestive of practical wisdom. Imagine then, on an afternoon in the middle phase of the strike, some half dozen of the law-makers of a sovereign state, top-hatted and conventionally garbed in black, accustomed to authority, to conferring favours instead of requesting them, climbing the steep stairs and pausing on the threshold of that hall, fingering their watch chains, awaiting recognition by the representatives of the new and bewildering force that had arisen in an historic commonwealth. A "debate" was in progress. Some of the debaters, indeed, looked over their shoulders, but the leader, who sat above them framed in the sylvan setting of the stage, never so much as deigned to glance up from his newspaper. A half-burned cigar rolled between his mobile lips, he sat on the back of his neck, and yet he had an air Napoleonic; Nietzschean, it might better be said--although it is safe to assert that these moulders of American institutions knew little about that terrible philosopher who had raised his voice against the "slave morals of Christianity." It was their first experience with the superman.... It remained for the Canadian, Radeau, when a lull arrived in the turmoil, to suggest that the gentlemen be given chairs. "Sure, give them chairs," assented Antonelli in a voice hoarse from speech-making. Breath-taking audacity to certain spectators who had followed the delegation hither, some of whom could not refrain from speculating whether it heralded the final scrapping of the machinery of the state; amusing to cynical metropolitan reporters, who grinned at one another as they prepared to take down the proceedings; evoking a fierce approval in the breasts of all rebels among whom was Janet. The Legislative Chairman, a stout and suave gentleman of Irish birth, proceeded to explain how greatly concerned was the Legislature that the deplorable warfare within the state should cease; they had come, he declared, to aid in bringing about justice between labour and capital. "We'll get justice without the help of the state," remarked Antonelli curtly, while a murmur of approval ran through the back of the hall. That was scarcely the attitude, said the Chairman, he had expected. He knew that such a strike as this had engendered bitterness, there had been much suffering, sacrifice undoubtedly on both sides, but he was sure, if Mr. Antonelli and the Committee would accept their services here he was interrupted. Had the mill owners accepted their services? The Chairman cleared his throat. The fact was that the mill owners were more difficult to get together in a body. A meeting would be arranged--"When you arrange a meeting, let me know," said Antonelli. A laugh went around the room. It was undoubtedly very difficult to keep one's temper under such treatment. The Chairman looked it. "A meeting would be arranged," he declared, with a long-suffering expression. He even smiled a little. "In the meantime--" "What can your committee do?" demanded one of the strike leaders, passionately--it was Findley. "If you find one party wrong, can your state force it to do right? Can you legislators be impartial when you have not lived the bitter life of the workers? Would you arbitrate a question of life and death? And are the worst wages paid in these mills anything short of death? Do you investigate because conditions are bad? or because the workers broke loose and struck? Why did you not come before the strike?" This drew more approval from the rear. Why, indeed? The Chairman was adroit, he had pulled himself out of many tight places in the Assembly Chamber, but now he began to perspire, to fumble in his coat tails for a handkerchief. The Legislature, he maintained, could not undertake to investigate such matters until called to its attention.... Later on a tall gentleman, whom heaven had not blessed with tact, saw fit to deplore the violence that had occurred; he had no doubt the leaders of the strike regretted it as much as he, he was confident it would be stopped, when public opinion would be wholly and unreservedly on the side of the strikers. "Public opinion!" savagely cried Lindtzki, who spoke English with only a slight accent. "If your little boy, if your little girl come to you and ask for shoes, for bread, and you say, `I have no shoes, I have no bread, but public opinion is with us,' would that satisfy you?" This drew so much applause that the tall law-maker sat down again with a look of disgust on his face.... The Committee withdrew, and for many weeks thereafter the state they represented continued to pay some four thousand dollars daily to keep its soldiers on the streets of Hampton.... In the meanwhile Janet saw much of Rolfe. Owing to his facile command of language he was peculiarly fitted to draft those proclamations, bombastically worded in the French style, issued and circulated by the Strike Committee--appeals to the polyglot army to withstand the pangs of hunger, to hold out for the terms laid down, assurances that victory was at hand. Walking up and down the bibliotheque, his hands behind his back, his red lips gleaming as he spoke, he dictated these documents to Janet. In the ecstasy of this composition he had a way of shaking his head slowly from side to side, and when she looked up she saw his eyes burning, down at her. A dozen times a day, while she was at her other work, he would come in and talk to her. He excited her, she was divided between attraction and fear of him, and often she resented his easy assumption that a tie existed between them--the more so because this seemed to be taken for granted among certain of his associates. In their eyes, apparently, she was Rolfe's recruit in more senses than one. It was indeed a strange society in which she found herself, and Rolfe typified it. He lived on the plane of the impulses and intellect, discarded as inhibiting factors what are called moral standards, decried individual discipline and restraint. And while she had never considered these things, the spectacle of a philosophy--embodied in him--that frankly and cynically threw them overboard was disconcerting. He regarded her as his proselyte, he called her a Puritan, and he seemed more concerned that she should shed these relics of an ancestral code than acquire the doctrines of Sorel and Pouget. And yet association with him presented the allurement of a dangerous adventure. Intellectually he fascinated her; and still another motive--which she partially disguised from herself--prevented her from repelling him. That motive had to do with Ditmar. She tried to put Ditmar from her mind; she sought in desperation, not only to keep busy, but to steep and lose herself in this fierce creed as an antidote to the insistent, throbbing pain that lay ambushed against her moments of idleness. The second evening of her installation at Headquarters she had worked beyond the supper hour, helping Sanders with his accounts. She was loath to go home. And when at last she put on her hat and coat and entered the hall Rolfe, who had been talking to Jastro, immediately approached her. His liquid eyes regarded her solicitously. "You must be hungry," he said. "Come out with me and have some supper." But she was not hungry; what she needed was air. Then he would walk a little way with her--he wanted to talk to her. She hesitated, and then consented. A fierce hope had again taken possession of her, and when they came to Warren Street she turned into it. "Where are you going?" Rolfe demanded. "For a walk," she said. "Aren't you coming?" "Will you have supper afterwards?" "Perhaps." He followed her, puzzled, yet piqued and excited by her manner, as with rapid steps she hurried along the pavement. He tried to tell her what her friendship meant to him; they were, he declared, kindred spirits--from the first time he had seen her, on the Common, he had known this. She scarcely heard him, she was thinking of Ditmar; and this was why she had led Rolfe into Warren Street they might meet Ditmar! It was possible that he would be going to the mill at this time, after his dinner! She scrutinized every distant figure, and when they reached the block in which he lived she walked more slowly. From within the house came to her, faintly, the notes of a piano--his daughter Amy was practising. It was the music, a hackneyed theme of Schubert's played heavily, that seemed to arouse the composite emotion of anger and hatred, yet of sustained attraction and wild regret she had felt before, but never so poignantly as now. And she lingered, perversely resolved to steep herself in the agony. "Who lives here" Rolfe asked. "Mr. Ditmar," she answered. "The agent of the Chippering Mill?" She nodded. "He's the worst of the lot," Rolfe said angrily. "If it weren't for him, we'd have this strike won to-day. He owns this town, he's run it to suit himself, He stiffens up the owners and holds the other mills in line. He's a type, a driver, the kind of man we must get rid of. Look at him --he lives in luxury while his people are starving." "Get rid of!" repeated Janet, in an odd voice. "Oh, I don't mean to shoot him," Rolfe declared. "But he may get shot, for all I know, by some of these slaves he's made desperate." "They wouldn't dare shoot him," Janet said. "And whatever he is, he isn't a coward. He's stronger than the others, he's more of a man." Rolfe looked at her curiously. "What do you know about him?" he asked. "I--I know all about him. I was his stenographer." "You! His stenographer! Then why are you herewith us?" "Because I hate him!" she cried vehemently. "Because I've learned that it's true--what you say about the masters--they only think of themselves and their kind, and not of us. They use us." "He tried to use you! You loved him!" "How dare you say that!" He fell back before her anger. "I didn't mean to offend you," he exclaimed. "I was jealous--I'm jealous of every man you've known. I want you. I've never met a woman like you." They were the very words Ditmar had used! She did not answer, and for a while they walked along in silence, leaving Warren Street and cutting across the city until they canoe in sight of the Common. Rolfe drew nearer to her. "Forgive me!" he pleaded. "You know I would not offend you. Come, we'll have supper together, and I will teach you more of what you have to know." "Where?" she asked. "At the Hampton--it is a little cafe where we all go. Perhaps you've been there." "No," said Janet. "It doesn't compare with the cafes of Europe--or of New York. Perhaps we shall go to them sometime, together. But it is cosy, and warm, and all the leaders will be there. You'll come--yes?" "Yes, I'll come," she said.... The Hampton was one of the city's second-class hotels, but sufficiently pretentious to have, in its basement, a "cafe" furnished in the "mission" style of brass tacks and dull red leather. In the warm, food-scented air fantastic wisps of smoke hung over the groups; among them Janet made out several of the itinerant leaders of Syndicalism, loose-tied, debonnair, giving a tremendous impression of freedom as they laughed and chatted with the women. For there were women, ranging from the redoubtable Nellie Bond herself down to those who may be designated as camp-followers. Rolfe, as he led Janet to a table in a corner of the room, greeted his associates with easy camaraderie. From Miss Bond he received an illuminating smile. Janet wondered at her striking good looks, at the boldness and abandon with which she talked to Jastro or exchanged sallies across the room. The atmosphere of this tawdry resort, formerly frequented by shop girls and travelling salesmen, was magically transformed by the presence of this company, made bohemian, cosmopolitan, exhilarating. And Janet, her face flushed, sat gazing at the scene, while Rolfe consulted the bill of fare and chose a beefsteak and French fried potatoes. The apathetic waiter in the soiled linen jacket he addressed as "comrade." Janet protested when he ordered cocktails. "You must learn to live, to relax, to enjoy yourself," he declared. But a horror of liquor held her firm in her refusal. Rolfe drank his, and while they awaited the beefsteak she was silent, the prey of certain misgivings that suddenly assailed her. Lise, she remembered, had sometimes mentioned this place, though preferring Gruber's: and she was struck by the contrast between this spectacle and the grimness of the strike these people had come to encourage and sustain, the conflict in the streets, the suffering in the tenements. She glanced at Rolfe, noting the manner in which he smoked cigarettes, sensually, as though seeking to wring out of each all there was to be got before flinging it down and lighting another. Again she was struck by the anomaly of a religion that had indeed enthusiasms, sacrifices perhaps, but no disciplines. He threw it out in snatches, this religion, while relating the histories of certain persons in the room: of Jastro, for instance, letting fall a hint to the effect that this evangelist and bliss Bond were dwelling together in more than amity. "Then you don't believe in marriage?" she demanded, suddenly. Rolfe laughed. "What is it," he exclaimed, "but the survival of the system of property? It's slavery, taboo, a device upheld by the master class to keep women in bondage, in superstition, by inducing them to accept it as a decree of God." "Did the masters themselves ever respect it, or any other decrees of God they preached to the slaves? Read history, and you will see. They had their loves, their mistresses. Read the newspapers, and you will find out whether they respect it to-day. But they are very anxious to have you and me respect it and all the other Christian commandments, because they will prevent us from being discontented. They say that we must be satisfied with the situation in this world in which God has placed us, and we shall have our reward in the next." She shivered slightly, not only at the ideas thus abruptly enunciated, but because it occurred to her that those others must be taking for granted a certain relationship between herself and Rolfe.... But presently, when the supper arrived, these feelings changed. She was very hungry, and the effect of the food, of the hot coffee was to dispel her doubt and repugnance, to throw a glamour over the adventure, to restore to Rolfe's arguments an exciting and alluring appeal. And with renewed physical energy she began to experience once more a sense of fellowship with these free and daring spirits who sought to avenge her wrongs and theirs. "For us who create there are no rules of conduct, no conventions," Rolfe was saying, "we do not care for the opinions of the middle class, of the bourgeois. With us men and women are on an equality. It is fear that has kept the workers down, and now we have cast that off--we know our strength. As they say in Italy, il mondo e a chi se lo piglia, the world belongs to him who is bold." "Italian is a beautiful language," she exclaimed. "I will teach you Italian," he said. "I want to learn--so much!" she sighed. "Your soul is parched," he said, in a commiserating tone. "I will water it, I will teach you everything." His words aroused a faint, derisive echo: Ditmar had wish to teach her, too! But now she was strongly under the spell of the new ideas hovering like shining, gossamer spirits just beyond her reach, that she sought to grasp and correlate. Unlike the code which Rolfe condemned, they seemed not to be separate from life, opposed to it, but entered even into that most important of its elements, sex. In deference to that other code Ditmar had made her his mistress, and because he was concerned for his position and the security of the ruling class had sought to hide the fact.... Rolfe, with a cigarette between his red lips, sat back in his chair, regarding with sensuous enjoyment the evident effect of his arguments. "But love?" she interrupted, when presently he had begun to talk again. She strove inarticulately to express an innate feminine objection to relationships that were made and broken at pleasure. "Love is nothing but attraction between the sexes, the life-force working in us. And when that attraction ceases, what is left? Bondage. The hideous bondage of Christian marriage, in which women promise to love and obey forever." "But women--women are not like men. When once they give themselves they do not so easily cease to love. They--they suffer." He did not seem to observe the bitterness in her voice. "Ah, that is sentiment," he declared, "something that will not trouble women when they have work to do, inspiring work. It takes time to change our ideas, to learn to see things as they are." He leaned forward eagerly. "But you will learn, you are like some of those rare women in history who have had the courage to cast off traditions. You were not made to be a drudge...." But now her own words, not his, were ringing in her head--women do not so easily cease to love, they suffer. In spite of the new creed she had so eagerly and fiercely embraced, in which she had sought deliverance and retribution, did she still love Ditmar, and suffer because of him? She repudiated the suggestion, yet it persisted as she glanced at Rolfe's red lips and compared him with Ditmar. Love! Rolfe might call it what he would--the life-force, attraction between the sexes, but it was proving stronger than causes and beliefs. He too was making love to her; like Ditmar, he wanted her to use and fling away when he should grow weary. Was he not pleading for himself rather than for the human cause he professed? taking advantage of her ignorance and desperation, of her craving for new experience and knowledge? The suspicion sickened her. Were all men like that? Suddenly, without apparent premeditation or connection, the thought of the stranger from Silliston entered her mind. Was he like that?... Rolfe was bending toward her across the table, solicitously. "What's the matter?" he asked. Her reply was listless. "Nothing--except that I'm tired. I want to go home." "Not now," he begged. "It's early yet." But she insisted.... CHAPTER XVII The next day at the noon hour Janet entered Dey Street. Cheek by jowl there with the tall tenements whose spindled-pillared porches overhung the darkened pavements were smaller houses of all ages and descriptions, their lower floors altered to accommodate shops; while in the very midst of the block stood a queer wooden building with two rows of dormer windows let into its high-pitched roof. It bore a curious resemblance to a town hall in the low countries. In front of it the street was filled with children gazing up at the doorway where a man stood surveying them --the stranger from Silliston. There was a rush toward him, a rush that drove Janet against the wall almost at his side, and he held up his hands in mock despair, gently impeding the little bodies that strove to enter. He bent over them to examine the numerals, printed on pasteboard, they wore on their breasts. His voice was cheerful, yet compassionate. "It's hard to wait, I know. I'm hungry myself," he said. "But we can't all go up at once. The building would fall down! One to one hundred now, and the second hundred will be first for supper. That's fair, isn't it?" Dozens of hands were raised. "I'm twenty-nine!" "I'm three, mister!" "I'm forty-one!" He let them in, one by one, and they clattered up the stairs, as he seized a tiny girl bundled in a dark red muffler and set her on the steps above him. He smiled at Janet. "This is my restaurant," he said. But she could not answer. She watched him as he continued to bend over the children, and when the smaller ones wept because they had to wait, he whispered in their ears, astonishing one or two into laughter. Some ceased crying and clung to him with dumb faith. And after the chosen hundred had been admitted he turned to her again. "You allow visitors?" "Oh dear, yes. They'd come anyway. There's one up there now, a very swell lady from New York--so swell I don't know what to say to her. Talk to her for me." "But I shouldn't know what to say, either," replied Janet. She smiled, but she had an odd desire to cry. "What is she doing here?" "Oh, thrashing 'round, trying to connect with life--she's one of the unfortunate unemployed." "Unemployed?" "The idle rich," he explained. "Perhaps you can give her a job--enlist her in the I.W.W." "We don't want that kind," Janet declared. "Have pity on her," he begged. "Nobody wants them--that's why they're so pathetic." She accompanied him up the narrow stairway to a great loft, the bareness of which had been tempered by draped American flags. From the trusses of the roof hung improvised electric lights, and the children were already seated at the four long tables, where half a dozen ladies were supplying them with enamelled bowls filled with steaming soup. They attacked it ravenously, and the absence of the talk and laughter that ordinarily accompany children's feasts touched her, impressed upon her, as nothing else had done, the destitution of the homes from which these little ones had come. The supplies that came to Hampton, the money that poured into Headquarters were not enough to allay the suffering even now. And what if the strike should last for months! Would they be able to hold out, to win? In this mood of pity, of anxiety mingled with appreciation and gratitude for what this man was doing, she turned to speak to him, to perceive on the platform at the end of the room a lady seated. So complete was the curve of her back that her pose resembled a letter u set sidewise, the gap from her crossed knee to her face being closed by a slender forearm and hand that held a lorgnette, through which she was gazing at the children with an apparently absorbed interest. This impression of willowy flexibility was somehow heightened by large, pear-shaped pendants hanging from her ears, by a certain filminess in her black costume and hat. Flung across the table beside her was a long coat of grey fur. She struck an odd note here, presented a strange contrast to Janet's friend from Silliston, with his rough suit and fine but rugged features. "I'm sorry I haven't a table for you just at present," he was saying. "But perhaps you'll let me take your order,"--and he imitated the obsequious attitude of a waiter. "A little fresh caviar and a clear soup, and then a fish--?" The lady took down her lorgnette and raised an appealing face. "You're always joking, Brooks," she chided him, "even when you're doing things like this! I can't get you to talk seriously even when I come all the way from New York to find out what's going on here." "How hungry children eat, for instance?" he queried. "Dear little things, it's heartrending!" she exclaimed. "Especially when I think of my own children, who have to be made to eat. Tell me the nationality of that adorable tot at the end." "Perhaps Miss Bumpus can tell you," he ventured. And Janet, though distinctly uncomfortable and hostile to the lady, was surprised and pleased that he should have remembered her name. "Brooks," she had called him. That was his first name. This strange and sumptuous person seemed intimate with him. Could it be possible that he belonged to her class? "Mrs. Brocklehurst, Miss Bumpus." Mrs. Brocklehurst focussed her attention on Janet, through the lorgnette, but let it fall immediately, smiling on her brightly, persuasively. "How d'ye do?" she said, stretching forth a slender arm and taking the girl's somewhat reluctant hand. "Do come and sit down beside me and tell me about everything here. I'm sure you know--you look so intelligent." Her friend from Silliston shot at Janet an amused but fortifying glance and left them, going down to the tables. Somehow that look of his helped to restore in her a sense of humour and proportion, and her feeling became one of curiosity concerning this exquisitely soigneed being of an order she had read about, but never encountered--an order which her newly acquired views declared to be usurpers and parasites. But despite her palpable effort to be gracious perhaps because of it--Mrs. Brocklehurst had an air about her that was disconcerting! Janet, however, seemed composed as she sat down. "I'm afraid I don't know very much. Maybe you will tell me something, first." "Why, certainly," said Mrs. Brocklehurst, sweetly when she had got her breath. "Who is that man?" Janet asked. "Whom do you mean--Mr. Insall?" "Is that his name? I didn't know. I've seen him twice, but he never told me." "Why, my dear, do you mean to say you haven't heard of Brooks Insall?" "Brooks Insall." Janet repeated the name, as her eyes sought his figure between the tables. "No." "I'm sure I don't know why I should have expected you to hear of him," declared the lady, repentantly. "He's a writer--an author." And at this Janet gave a slight exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "You admire writers? He's done some delightful things." "What does he write about?" Janet asked. "Oh, wild flowers and trees and mountains and streams, and birds and humans--he has a wonderful insight into people." Janet was silent. She was experiencing a swift twinge of jealousy, of that familiar rebellion against her limitations. "You must read them, my dear," Mrs. Brocklehurst continued softly, in musical tones. "They are wonderful, they have such distinction. He's walked, I'm told, over every foot of New England, talking to the farmers and their wives and--all sorts of people." She, too, paused to let her gaze linger upon Insall laughing and chatting with the children as they ate. "He has such a splendid, `out-door' look don't you think? And he's clever with his hands he bought an old abandoned farmhouse in Silliston and made it all over himself until it looks as if one of our great-great-grandfathers had just stepped out of it to shoot an Indian only much prettier. And his garden is a dream. It's the most unique place I've ever known." Janet blushed deeply as she recalled how she had mistaken him for a carpenter: she was confused, overwhelmed, she had a sudden longing to leave the place, to be alone, to think about this discovery. Yet she wished to know more. "But how did he happen to come here to Hampton--to be doing this?" she asked. "Well, that's just what makes him interesting, one never can tell what he'll do. He took it into his head to collect the money to feed these children; I suppose he gave much of it himself. He has an income of his own, though he likes to live so simply." "This place--it's not connected with any organization?" Janet ejaculated. "That's the trouble, he doesn't like organizations, and he doesn't seem to take any interest in the questions or movements of the day," Mrs. Brocklehurst complained. "Or at least he refuses to talk about them, though I've known him for many years, and his people and mine were friends. Now there are lots of things I want to learn, that I came up from New York to find out. I thought of course he'd introduce me to the strike leaders, and he tells me he doesn't know one of them. Perhaps you know them," she added, with sudden inspiration. "I'm only an employee at Strike Headquarters," Janet replied, stiffening a little despite the lady's importuning look--which evidently was usually effective. "You mean the I.W.W.?" "Yes." Meanwhile Insall had come up and seated himself below them on the edge of the platform. "Oh, Brooks, your friend Miss Bumpus is employed in the Strike Headquarters!" Mrs. Brocklehurst cried, and turning to Janet she went on. "I didn't realize you were a factory girl, I must say you don't look it." Once more a gleam of amusement from Insall saved Janet, had the effect of compelling her to meet the affair somewhat after his own manner. He seemed to be putting the words into her mouth, and she even smiled a little, as she spoke. "You never can tell what factory girls do look like in these days," she observed mischievously. "That's so," Mrs. Brocklehurst agreed, "we are living in such extraordinary times, everything topsy turvy. I ought to have realized --it was stupid of me--I know several factory girls in New York, I've been to their meetings, I've had them at my house--shirtwaist strikers." She assumed again the willowy, a position, her fingers clasped across her knee, her eyes supplicatingly raised to Janet. Then she reached out her hand and touched the I.W.W. button. "Do tell me all about the Industrial Workers, and what they believe," she pleaded. "Well," said Janet, after a slight pause, "I'm afraid you won't like it much. Why do you want to know?" "Because I'm so interested--especially in the women of the movement. I feel for them so, I want to help--to do something, too. Of course you're a suffragist." "You mean, do I believe in votes for women? Yes, I suppose I do." "But you must," declared Mrs. Brocklehurst, still sweetly, but with emphasis. "You wouldn't be working, you wouldn't be striking unless you did." "I've never thought about it," said Janet. "But how are you working girls ever going to raise wages unless you get the vote? It's the only way men ever get anywhere--the politicians listen to them." She produced from her bag a gold pencil and a tablet. "Mrs. Ned Carfax is here from Boston--I saw her for a moment at the hotel she's been here investigating for nearly three days, she tells me. I'll have her send you suffrage literature at once, if you'll give me your address." "You want a vote?" asked Janet, curiously, gazing at the pearl earrings. "Certainly I want one." "Why?" "Why?" repeated Mrs. Brocklehurst. "Yes. You must have everything you want." Even then the lady's sweet reasonableness did not desert her. She smiled winningly, displaying two small and even rows of teeth. "On principle, my dear. For one reason, because I have such sympathy with women who toil, and for another, I believe the time has come when women must no longer be slaves, they must assert themselves, become individuals, independent." "But you?" exclaimed Janet. Mrs. Brocklehurst continued to smile encouragingly, and murmured "Yes?" "You are not a slave." A delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell, spread over Mrs. Brocklehurst's cheeks. "We're all slaves," she declared with a touch of passion. "It's hard for you to realize, I know, about those of us who seem more fortunate than our sisters. But it's true. The men give us jewels and automobiles and clothes, but they refuse to give us what every real woman craves --liberty." Janet had become genuinely interested. "But what kind of liberty?" "Liberty to have a voice, to take part in the government of our country, to help make the laws, especially those concerning working-women and children, what they ought to be." Here was altruism, truly! Here were words that should have inspired Janet, yet she was silent. Mrs. Brocklehurst gazed at her solicitously. "What are you thinking?" she urged--and it was Janet's turn to flush. "I was just thinking that you seemed to have everything life has to give, and yet--and yet you're not happy." "Oh, I'm not unhappy," protested the lady. "Why do you say that?" "I don't know. You, too, seem to be wanting something." "I want to be of use, to count," said Mrs. Brocklehurst,--and Janet was startled to hear from this woman's lips the very echo of her own desires. Mrs. Brocklehurst's feelings had become slightly complicated. It is perhaps too much to say that her complacency was shaken. She was, withal, a person of resolution--of resolution taking the form of unswerving faith in herself, a faith persisting even when she was being carried beyond her depth. She had the kind of pertinacity that sever admits being out of depth, the happy buoyancy that does not require to feel the bottom under one's feet. She floated in swift currents. When life became uncomfortable, she evaded it easily; and she evaded it now, as she gazed at the calm but intent face of the girl in front of her, by a characteristic inner refusal to admit that she had accidentally come in contact with something baking. Therefore she broke the silence. "Isn't that what you want--you who are striking?" she asked. "I think we want the things that you've got," said Janet. A phrase one of the orators had used came into her mind, "Enough money to live up to American standards"--but she did not repeat it. "Enough money to be free, to enjoy life, to have some leisure and amusement and luxury." The last three she took from the orator's mouth. "But surely," exclaimed Mrs. Brocklehurst, "surely you want more than that!" Janet shook her head. "You asked me what we believed, the I.W.W., the syndicalists, and I told you you wouldn't like it. Well, we believe in doing away with you, the rich, and taking all you have for ourselves, the workers, the producers. We believe you haven't any right to what you've got, that you've fooled and cheated us out of it. That's why we women don't care much about the vote, I suppose, though I never thought of it. We mean to go on striking until we've got all that you've got." "But what will become of us?" said Mrs. Brocklehurst. "You wouldn't do away with all of us! I admit there are many who don't--but some do sympathize with you, will help you get what you want, help you, perhaps, to see things more clearly, to go about it less--ruthlessly." "I've told you what we believe," repeated Janet. "I'm so glad I came," cried Mrs. Brocklehurst. "It's most interesting! I never knew what the syndicalists believed. Why, it's like the French Revolution--only worse. How are you going to get rid of us? cut our heads off?" Janet could not refrain from smiling. "Let you starve, I suppose." "Really!" said Mrs. Brocklehurst, and appeared to be trying to visualize the process. She was a true Athenian, she had discovered some new thing, she valued discoveries more than all else in life, she collected them, though she never used them save to discuss them with intellectuals at her dinner parties. "Now you must let me come to Headquarters and get a glimpse of some of the leaders--of Antonelli, and I'm told there's a fascinating man named Rowe." "Rolfe," Janet corrected. "Rolfe--that's it." She glanced down at the diminutive watch, set with diamonds, on her wrist, rose and addressed Insall. "Oh dear, I must be going, I'm to lunch with Nina Carfax at one, and she's promised to tell me a lot of things. She's writing an article for Craven's Weekly all about the strike and the suffering and injustice--she says it's been horribly misrepresented to the public, the mill owners have had it all their own way. I think what you're doing is splendid, Brooks, only--" here she gave him an appealing, rather commiserating look--"only I do wish you would take more interest in--in underlying principles." Insall smiled. "It's a question of brains. You have to have brains to be a sociologist," he answered, as he held up for her the fur coat. With a gesture of gentle reproof she slipped into it, and turned to Janet. "You must let me see more of you, my dear," she said. "I'm at the best hotel, I can't remember the name, they're all so horrible--but I'll be here until to-morrow afternoon. I want to find out everything. Come and call on me. You're quite the most interesting person I've met for a long time--I don't think you realize how interesting you are. Au revoir!" She did not seem to expect any reply, taking acquiescence for granted. Glancing once more at the rows of children, who had devoured their meal in an almost uncanny silence, she exclaimed, "The dears! I'm going to send you a cheque, Brooks, even if you have been horrid to me--you always are." "Horrid!" repeated Insall, "put it down to ignorance." He accompanied her down the stairs. From her willowy walk a sophisticated observer would have hazarded the guess that her search for an occupation had included a course of lessons in fancy dancing. Somewhat dazed by this interview which had been so suddenly forced upon her, Janet remained seated on the platform. She had the perception to recognize that in Mrs. Brocklehurst and Insall she had come in contact with a social stratum hitherto beyond the bounds of her experience; those who belonged to that stratum were not characterized by the possession of independent incomes alone, but by an attitude toward life, a manner of not appearing to take its issues desperately. Ditmar was not like that. She felt convicted of enthusiasms, she was puzzled, rather annoyed and ashamed. Insall and Mrs. Brocklehurst, different though they were, had this attitude in common.... Insall, when he returned, regarded her amusedly. "So you'd like to exterminate Mrs. Brocklehurst?" he asked. And Janet flushed. "Well, she forced me to say it." "Oh, it didn't hurt her," he said. "And it didn't help her," Janet responded quickly. "No, it didn't help her," Insall agreed, and laughed. "But I'm not sure it isn't true," she went on, "that we want what she's got." The remark, on her own lips, surprised Janet a little. She had not really meant to make it. Insall seemed to have the quality of forcing one to think out loud. "And what she wants, you've got," he told her. "What have I got?" "Perhaps you'll find out, some day." "It may be too late," she exclaimed. "If you'd only tell me, it might help." "I think it's something you'll have to discover for yourself," he replied, more gravely than was his wont. She was silent a moment, and then she demanded: "Why didn't you tell me who you were? You let me think, when I met you in Silliston that day, that you were a carpenter. I didn't know you'd written books." "You can't expect writers to wear uniforms, like policemen--though perhaps we ought to, it might be a little fairer to the public," he said. "Besides, I am a carpenter, a better carpenter than a writer.." "I'd give anything to be an author!" she cried. "It's a hard life," he assured her. "We have to go about seeking inspiration from others." "Is that why you came to Hampton?" "Well, not exactly. It's a queer thing about inspiration, you only find it when you're not looking for it." She missed the point of this remark, though his eyes were on her. They were not like Rolfe's eyes, insinuating, possessive; they had the anomalistic quality, of being at once personal and impersonal, friendly, alight, evoking curiosity yet compelling trust. "And you didn't tell me," he reproached her, "that you were at I.W.W. Headquarters." A desire for self-justification impelled her to exclaim: "You don't believe in Syndicalism--and yet you've come here to feed these children!" "Oh, I think I understand the strike," he said. "How? Have you seen it? Have you heard the arguments?" "No. I've seen you. You've explained it." "To Mrs. Brocklehurst?" "It wasn't necessary," he replied--and immediately added, in semi-serious apology: "I thought it was admirable, what you said. If she'd talked to a dozen syndicalist leaders, she couldn't have had it put more clearly. Only I'm afraid she doesn't know the truth when she hears it." "Now you're making fun of me!" "Indeed I'm not," he protested. "But I didn't give any of the arguments, any of the--philosophy," she pronounced the word hesitatingly. "I don't understand it yet as well as I should." "You are it," he said. "It's not always easy to understand what we are --it's generally after we've become something else that we comprehend what we have been." And while she was pondering over this one of the ladies who had been waiting on the table came toward Insall. "The children have finished, Brooks," she informed him. "It's time to let in the others." Insall turned to Janet. "This is Miss Bumpus--and this is Mrs. Maturin," he said. "Mrs. Maturin lives in Silliston." The greeting of this lady differed from that of Mrs. Brocklehurst. She, too, took Janet's hand. "Have you come to help us?" she asked. And Janet said: "Oh, I'd like to, but I have other work." "Come in and see us again," said Insall, and Janet, promising, took her leave.... "Who is she, Brooks?" Mrs. Maturin asked, when Janet had gone. "Well," he answered, "I don't know. What does it matter?" Mrs. Maturin smiled. "I should say that it did matter," she replied. "But there's something unusual about her--where did you find her?" "She found me." And Insall explained. "She was a stenographer, it seems, but now she's enlisted heart and soul with the syndicalists," he added. "A history?" Mrs. Maturin queried. "Well, I needn't ask--it's written on her face." "That's all I know," said Insall. "I'd like to know," said Mrs. Maturin. "You say she's in the strike?" "I should rather put it that the strike is in her." "What do you mean, Brooks?" But Insall did not reply. Janet came away from Dey Street in a state of mental and emotional confusion. The encounter with Mrs. Brocklehurst had been upsetting; she had an uneasy feeling of having made a fool of herself in Insall's eyes; she desired his approval, even on that occasion when she had first met him and mistaken him for a workman she had been conscious of a compelling faculty in him, of a pressure he exerted demanding justification of herself; and to-day, because she was now pledged to Syndicalism, because she had made the startling discovery that he was a writer of some renown, she had been more than ever anxious to vindicate her cause. She found herself, indeed, wondering uneasily whether there were a higher truth of which he was in possession. And the fact that his attitude toward her had been one of sympathy and friendliness rather than of disapproval, that his insight seemed to have fathomed her case, apprehended it in all but the details, was even more disturbing--yet vaguely consoling. The consolatory element in the situation was somehow connected with the lady, his friend from Silliston, to whom he had introduced her and whose image now came before her the more vividly, perhaps, in contrast with that of Mrs. Brocklehurst. Mrs. Maturin--could Janet have so expressed her thought! had appeared as an extension of Insall's own personality. She was a strong, tall, vital woman with a sweet irregularity of feature, with a heavy crown of chestnut hair turning slightly grey, quaintly braided, becomingly framing her face. Her colour was high. The impression she conveyed of having suffered was emphasized by the simple mourning gown she wore, but the dominant note she had struck was one of dependability. It was, after all, Insall's dominant, too. Insall had asked her to call again; and the reflection that she might do so was curiously comforting. The soup kitchen in the loft, with these two presiding over it, took on something of the aspect of a sanctuary.... Insall, in some odd manner, and through the medium of that frivolous lady, had managed to reenforce certain doubts that had been stirring in Janet--doubts of Rolfe, of the verity of the doctrine which with such abandon she had embraced. It was Insall who, though remaining silent, just by being there seemed to have suggested her manner of dealing with Mrs. Brocklehurst. It had, indeed, been his manner of dealing with Mrs. Brocklehurst. Janet had somehow been using his words, his method, and thus for the first time had been compelled to look objectively on what she had deemed a part of herself. We never know what we are, he had said, until we become something else! He had forced her to use an argument that failed to harmonize, somehow, with Rolfe's poetical apologetics. Stripped of the glamour of these, was not Rolfe's doctrine just one of taking, taking? And when the workers were in possession of all, would not they be as badly off as Mrs. Brocklehurst or Ditmar? Rolfe, despite the inspiring intellectual creed he professed, lacked the poise and unity that go with happiness. He wanted things, for himself: whereas she beheld in Insall one who seemed emancipated from possessions, whose life was so organized as to make them secondary affairs. And she began to wonder what Insall would think of Ditmar. These sudden flashes of tenderness for Ditmar startled and angered her. She had experienced them before, and always had failed to account for their intrusion into a hatred she cherished. Often, at her desk in the bibliotheque, she had surprised herself speculating upon what Ditmar might be doing at that moment; and it seemed curious, living in the same city with him, that she had not caught a glimpse of him during the strike. More than once, moved by a perverse impulse, she had ventured of an evening down West Street toward the guard of soldiers in the hope of catching sight of him. He had possessed her, and the memory of the wild joy of that possession, of that surrender to great strength, refused to perish. Why, at such moments, should she glory in a strength that had destroyed her and why, when she heard him cursed as the man who stood, more than any other, in the way of the strikers victory, should she paradoxically and fiercely rejoice? why should she feel pride when she was told of the fearlessness with which he went about the streets, and her heart stop beating when she thought of the possibility of his being shot? For these unwelcome phenomena within herself Janet could not account. When they disturbed and frightened her, she plunged into her work with the greater zeal.... As the weeks went by, the strain of the strike began to tell on the weak, the unprepared, on those who had many mouths to feed. Shivering with the cold of that hardest of winters, these unfortunates flocked to the Franco-Belgian Hall, where a little food or money in proportion to the size of their families was doled out to them. In spite of the contributions received by mail, of the soup kitchens and relief stations set up by various organizations in various parts of the city, the supply little more than sufficed to keep alive the more needy portion of the five and twenty thousand who now lacked all other means of support. Janet's heart was wrung as she gazed at the gaunt, bewildered faces growing daily more tragic, more bewildered and gaunt; she marvelled at the animal-like patience of these Europeans, at the dumb submission of most of them to privations that struck her as appalling. Some indeed complained, but the majority recited in monotonous, unimpassioned tones their stories of suffering, or of ill treatment by the "Cossacks" or the police. The stipends were doled out by Czernowitz, but all through the week there were special appeals. Once it was a Polish woman, wan and white, who carried her baby wrapped in a frayed shawl. "Wahna littel money for milk," she said, when at length their attention was drawn to her. "But you get your money, every Saturday," the secretary informed her kindly. She shook her head. "Baby die, 'less I have littel milk--I show you." Janet drew back before the sight of the child with its sunken cheeks and ghastly blue lips .... And she herself went out with the woman to buy the milk, and afterwards to the dive in Kendall Street which she called home--in one of those "rear" tenements separated from the front buildings by a narrow court reeking with refuse. The place was dank and cold, malodorous. The man of the family, the lodgers who lived in the other room of the kennel, were out on the streets. But when her eyes grew used to the darkness she perceived three silent children huddled in the bed in the corner.... On another occasion a man came running up the stairs of the Hall and thrust his way into a meeting of the Committee--one of those normally happy, irresponsible Syrians who, because of a love for holidays, are the despair of mill overseers. Now he was dazed, breathless, his great eyes grief-stricken like a wounded animal's. "She is killidd, my wife--de polees, dey killidd her!" It was Anna Mower who investigated the case. "The girl wasn't doing nothing but walk along Hudson Street when one of those hirelings set on her and beat her. She put out her hand because she thought he'd hit her --and he gave her three or four with his billy and left her in the gutter. If you'd see her you'd know she wouldn't hurt a fly, she's that gentle looking, like all the Syrian women. She had a `Don't be a scab' ribbon on--that's all she done! Somebody'll shoot that guy, and I wouldn't blame 'em." Anna stood beside Janet's typewriter, her face red with anger as she told the story. "And how is the woman now?" asked Janet. "In bed, with two ribs broken and a bruise on her back and a cut on her head. I got a doctor. He could hardly see her in that black place they live."... Such were the incidents that fanned the hatred into hotter and hotter flame. Daily reports were brought in of arrests, of fines and imprisonments for picketing, or sometimes merely for booing at the remnant of those who still clung to their employment. One magistrate in particular, a Judge Hennessy, was hated above all others for giving the extreme penalty of the law, and even stretching it. "Minions, slaves of the capitalists, of the masters," the courts were called, and Janet subscribed to these epithets, beheld the judges as willing agents of a tyranny from which she, too, had suffered. There arrived at Headquarters frenzied bearers of rumours such as that of the reported intention of landlords to remove the windows from the tenements if the rents were not paid. Antonelli himself calmed these. "Let the landlords try it!" he said phlegmatically.... After a while, as the deadlock showed no signs of breaking, the siege of privation began to tell, ominous signs of discontent became apparent. Chief among the waverers were those who had come to America with visions of a fortune, who had practised a repulsive thrift in order to acquire real estate, who carried in their pockets dog-eared bank books recording payments already made. These had consented to the strike reluctantly, through fear, or had been carried away by the eloquence and enthusiasm of the leaders, by the expectation that the mill owners would yield at once. Some went back to work, only to be "seen" by the militant, watchful pickets--generally in their rooms, at night. One evening, as Janet was walking home, she chanced to overhear a conversation taking place in the dark vestibule of a tenement. "Working to-day?" "Yah." "Work to-morrow?" Hesitation. "I d'no." "You work, I cut your throat." A significant noise. "Naw, I no work." "Shake!" She hurried on trembling, not with fear, but exultingly. Nor did she reflect that only a month ago such an occurrence would have shocked and terrified her. This was war.... On her way to Fillmore Street she passed, at every street corner in this district, a pacing sentry, muffled in greatcoat and woollen cap, alert and watchful, the ugly knife on the end of his gun gleaming in the blue light of the arc. It did not occur to her, despite the uniform, that the souls of many of these men were divided also, that their voices and actions, when she saw them threatening with their bayonets, were often inspired by that inner desperation characteristic of men who find themselves unexpectedly in false situations. Once she heard a woman shriek as the sharp knife grazed her skirt: at another time a man whose steps had been considerably hurried turned, at a safe distance, and shouted defiantly: "Say, who are you working for? Me or the Wool Trust?" "Aw, get along," retorted the soldier, "or I'll give you yours." The man caught sight of Janet's button as she overtook him. He was walking backward. "That feller has a job in a machine shop over in Barrington, I seen him there when I was in the mills. And here he is tryin' to put us out --ain't that the limit?" The thud of horses' feet in the snow prevented her reply. The silhouettes of the approaching squad of cavalry were seen down the street, and the man fled precipitately into an alleyway.... There were ludicrous incidents, too, though never lacking in a certain pathos. The wife of a Russian striker had her husband arrested because he had burned her clothes in order to prevent her returning to the mill. From the police station he sent a compatriot with a message to Headquarters. "Oye, he fix her! She no get her jawb now--she gotta stay in bed!" this one cried triumphantly. "She was like to tear me in pieces when I brought her the clothes," said Anna Mower, who related her experience with mingled feelings. "I couldn't blame her. You see, it was the kids crying with cold and starvation, and she got so she just couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand it, neither." Day by day the element who wished to compromise and end the strike grew stronger, brought more and more pressure on the leaders. These people were subsidized, Antonelli declared, by the capitalists.... CHAPTER XVIII A more serious atmosphere pervaded Headquarters, where it was realized that the issue hung in the balance. And more proclamations, a la Napoleon, were issued to sustain and hearten those who were finding bread and onions meagre fare, to shame the hesitating, the wavering. As has been said, it was Rolfe who, because of his popular literary gift, composed these appeals for the consideration of the Committee, dictating them to Janet as he paced up and down the bibliotheque, inhaling innumerable cigarettes and flinging down the ends on the floor. A famous one was headed "Shall Wool and Cotton Kings Rule the Nation?" "We are winning" it declared. "The World is with us! Forced by the unshaken solidarity of tens of thousands, the manufacturers offer bribes to end the reign of terror they have inaugurated.... Inhuman treatment and oppressive toil have brought all nationalities together into one great army to fight against a brutal system of exploitation. In years and years of excessive labour we have produced millions for a class of idle parasites, who enjoy all the luxuries of life while our wives have to leave their firesides and our children their schools to eke out a miserable existence." And this for the militia: "The lowest aim of life is to be a soldier! The `good' soldier never tries to distinguish right from wrong, he never thinks, he never reasons, he only obeys--" "But," Janet was tempted to say, "your syndicalism declares that none of us should think or reason. We should only feel." She was beginning to detect Rolfe's inconsistencies, yet she refrained from interrupting the inspirational flow. "The soldier is a blind, heartless, soulless, murderous machine." Rolfe was fond of adjectives. "All that is human in him, all that is divine has been sworn away when he took the enlistment oath. No man can fall lower than a soldier. It is a depth beyond which we cannot go." "All that is human, all that is divine," wrote Janet, and thrilled a little at the words. Why was it that mere words, and their arrangement in certain sequences, gave one a delicious, creepy feeling up and down the spine? Her attitude toward him had become more and more critical, she had avoided him when she could, but when he was in this ecstatic mood she responded, forgot his red lips, his contradictions, lost herself in a medium she did not comprehend. Perhaps it was because, in his absorption in the task, he forgot her, forgot himself. She, too, despised the soldiers, fervently believed they had sold themselves to the oppressors of mankind. And Rolfe, when in the throes of creation, had the manner of speaking to the soldiers themselves, as though these were present in the lane just below the window; as though he were on the tribune. At such times he spoke with such rapidity that, quick though she was, she could scarcely keep up with him. "Most of you, Soldiers, are workingmen!" he cried. "Yesterday you were slaving in the mills yourselves. You will profit by our victory. Why should you wish to crush us? Be human!" Pale, excited, he sank down into the chair by her side and lit another cigarette. "They ought to listen to that!" he exclaimed. "It's the best one I've done yet." Night had come. Czernowitz sat in the other room, talking to Jastro, a buzz of voices came from the hall through the thin pine panels of the door. All day long a sixty-mile gale had twisted the snow of the lane into whirling, fantastic columns and rattled the windows of Franco-Belgian Hall. But now the wind had fallen.... Presently, as his self-made music ceased to vibrate within him, Rolfe began to watch the girl as she sat motionless, with parted lips and eyes alight, staring at the reflection of the lamp in the blue-black window. "Is that the end?" she asked, at length. "Yes," he replied sensitively. "Can't you see it's a climax? Don't you think it's a good one?" She looked at him, puzzled. "Why, yes," she said, "I think it's fine. You see, I have to take it down so fast I can't always follow it as I'd like to." "When you feel, you can do anything," he exclaimed. "It is necessary to feel." "It is necessary to know," she told him. "I do not understand you," he cried, leaning toward her. "Sometimes you are a flame--a wonderful, scarlet flame I can express it in no other way. Or again, you are like the Madonna of our new faith, and I wish I were a del Sarto to paint you. And then again you seem as cold as your New England snow, you have no feeling, you are an Anglo-Saxon--a Puritan." She smiled, though she felt a pang of reminiscence at the word. Ditmar had called her so, too. "I can't help what I am," she said. "It is that which inhibits you," he declared. "That Puritanism. It must be eradicated before you can develop, and then--and then you will be completely wonderful. When this strike is over, when we have time, I will teach you many things--develop you. We will read Sorel together he is beautiful, like poetry--and the great poets, Dante and Petrarch and Tasso--yes, and d'Annunzio. We shall live." "We are living, now," she answered. The look with which she surveyed him he found enigmatic. And then, abruptly, she rose and went to her typewriter. "You don't believe what I say!" he reproached her. But she was cool. "I'm not sure that I believe all of it. I want to think it out for myself--to talk to others, too." "What others?" "Nobody in particular--everybody," she replied, as she set her notebook on the rack. "There is some one else!" he exclaimed, rising. "There is every one else," she said. As was his habit when agitated, he began to smoke feverishly, glancing at her from time to time as she fingered the keys. Experience had led him to believe that he who finds a woman in revolt and gives her a religion inevitably becomes her possessor. But more than a month had passed, he had not become her possessor--and now for the first time there entered his mind a doubt as to having given her a religion! The obvious inference was that of another man, of another influence in opposition to his own; characteristically, however, he shrank from accepting this, since he was of those who believe what they wish to believe. The sudden fear of losing her--intruding itself immediately upon an ecstatic, creative mood--unnerved him, yet he strove to appear confident as he stood over her. "When you've finished typewriting that, we'll go out to supper," he told her. But she shook her head. "Why not?" "I don't want to," she replied--and then, to soften her refusal, she added, "I can't, to-night." "But you never will come with me anymore. Why is it?" "I'm very tired at night. I don't feel like going out." She sought to temporize. "You've changed!" he accused her. "You're not the same as you were at first--you avoid me." The swift gesture with which she flung over the carriage of her machine might have warned him. "I don't like that Hampton Hotel," she flashed back. "I'm--I'm not a vagabond--yet." "A vagabond!" he repeated. She went on savagely with her work.. "You have two natures," he exclaimed. "You are still a bourgeoise, a Puritan. You will not be yourself, you will not be free until you get over that." "I'm not sure I want to get over it." He leaned nearer to her. "But now that I have found you, Janet, I will not let you go." "You've no rights over me," she cried, in sudden alarm and anger. "I'm not doing this work, I'm not wearing myself out here for you." "Then--why are you doing it?" His suspicions rose again, and made him reckless. "To help the strikers," she said.... He could get no more out of her, and presently, when Anna Mower entered the room, he left it.... More than once since her first visit to the soup kitchen in Dey Street Janet had returned to it. The universe rocked, but here was equilibrium. The streets were filled with soldiers, with marching strikers, terrible things were constantly happening; the tension at Headquarters never seemed to relax. Out in the world and within her own soul were strife and suffering, and sometimes fear; the work in which she sought to lose herself no longer sufficed to keep her from thinking, and the spectacle --when she returned home--of her mother's increasing apathy grew more and more appalling. But in Dey Street she gained calmness, was able to renew something of that sense of proportion the lack of which, in the chaos in which she was engulfed, often brought her to the verge of madness. At first she had had a certain hesitation about going back, and on the occasion of her second visit had walked twice around the block before venturing to enter. She had no claim on this man. He was merely a chance acquaintance, a stranger--and yet he seemed nearer to her, to understand her better than any one else she knew in the world. This was queer, because she had not explained herself; nor had he asked her for any confidences. She would have liked to confide in him--some things: he gave her the impression of comprehending life; of having, as his specialty, humanity itself; he should, she reflected, have been a minister, and smiled at the thought: ministers, at any rate, ought to be like him, and then one might embrace Christianity--the religion of her forefathers that Rolfe ridiculed. But there was about Insall nothing of religion as she had grown up to apprehend the term. Now that she had taken her courage in her hands and renewed her visits, they seemed to be the most natural proceedings in the world. On that second occasion, when she had opened the door and palpitatingly climbed to the loft, the second batch of children were finishing their midday meal,--rather more joyously, she thought, than before,--and Insall himself was stooping over a small boy whom he had taken away from the table. He did not notice her at once, and Janet watched them. The child had a cough, his extreme thinness was emphasized by the coat he wore, several sizes too large for him. "You come along with me, Marcus, I guess I can fit you out," Insall was saying, when he looked up and saw Janet. "Why, if it isn't Miss Bumpus! I thought you'd forgotten us." "Oh no," she protested. "I wanted to come." "Then why didn't you?" "Well, I have come," she said, with a little sigh, and he did not press her further. And she refrained from offering any conventional excuse, such as that of being interested in the children. She had come to see him, and such was the faith with which he inspired her--now that she was once more in his presence--that she made no attempt to hide the fact. "You've never seen my clothing store, have you?" he asked. And with the child's hand in his he led the way into a room at the rear of the loft. A kit of carpenter's tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat lettering indicating the articles contained therein. "Shoes?" he repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer. "Here we are, Marcus. Sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes you have on." The boy had one of those long faces of the higher Jewish type, intelligent, wistful. He seemed dazed by Insall's kindness. The shoes he wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton stocking and here and there the skin. His little blue hands fumbled with the knotted strings that served for facings until Insall, producing a pocket knife, deftly cut the strings. "Those are summer shoes, Marcus--well ventilated." "They're by me since August," said the boy. "And now the stockings," prompted Insall. The old ones, wet, discoloured, and torn, were stripped off, and thick, woollen ones substituted. Insall, casting his eye over the open drawer, chose a pair of shoes that had been worn, but which were stout and serviceable, and taking one in his hand knelt down before the child. "Let's see how good a guesser I am," he said, loosening the strings and turning back the tongue, imitating good-humouredly the deferential manner of a salesman of footwear as he slipped on the shoe. "Why, it fits as if it were made for you! Now for the other one. Yes, your feet are mates--I know a man who wears a whole size larger on his left foot." The dazed expression remained on the boy's face. The experience was beyond him. "That's better," said Insall, as he finished the lacing. "Keep out of the snow, Marcus, all you can. Wet feet aren't good for a cough, you know. And when you come in to supper a nice doctor will be here, and we'll see if we can't get rid of the cough." The boy nodded. He got to his feet, stared down at the shoes, and walked slowly toward the door, where he turned. "Thank you, Mister Insall," he said. And Insall, still sitting on his heels, waved his hand. "It is not to mention it," he replied. "Perhaps you may have a clothing store of your own some day--who knows!" He looked up at Janet amusedly and then, with a spring, stood upright, his easy, unconscious pose betokening command of soul and body. "I ought to have kept a store," he observed. "I missed my vocation." "It seems to me that you missed a great many vocations," she replied. Commonplaces alone seemed possible, adequate. "I suppose you made all those drawers yourself." He bowed in acknowledgment of her implied tribute. With his fine nose and keen eyes--set at a slightly downward angle, creased at the corners --with his thick, greying hair, despite his comparative youth he had the look one associates with portraits of earlier, patriarchal Americans.... These calls of Janet's were never of long duration. She had fallen into the habit of taking her lunch between one and two, and usually arrived when the last installment of youngsters were finishing their meal; sometimes they were filing out, stopping to form a group around Insall, who always managed to say something amusing--something pertinent and good-naturedly personal. For he knew most of them by name, and had acquired a knowledge of certain individual propensities and idiosyncrasies that delighted their companions. "What's the trouble, Stepan--swallowed your spoon?" Stepan was known to be greedy. Or he would suddenly seize an unusually solemn boy from behind and tickle him until the child screamed with laughter. It was, indeed, something of an achievement to get on terms of confidence with these alien children of the tenements and the streets who from their earliest years had been forced to shift for themselves, and many of whom had acquired a precocious suspicion of Greeks bearing gifts. Insall himself had used the phrase, and explained it to Janet. That sense of caveat donor was perhaps their most pathetic characteristic. But he broke it down; broke down, too, the shyness accompanying it, the shyness and solemnity emphasized in them by contact with hardship and poverty, with the stark side of life they faced at home. He had made them--Mrs. Maturin once illuminatingly remarked--more like children. Sometimes he went to see their parents,--as in the case of Marcus--to suggest certain hygienic precautions in his humorous way; and his accounts of these visits, too, were always humorous. Yet through that humour ran a strain of pathos that clutched--despite her smile--at Janet's heartstrings. This gift of emphasizing and heightening tragedy while apparently dealing in comedy she never ceased to wonder at. She, too, knew that tragedy of the tenements, of the poor, its sordidness and cruelty. All her days she had lived precariously near it, and lately she had visited these people, had been torn by the sight of what they endured. But Insall's jokes, while they stripped it of sentimentality of which she had an instinctive dislike--made it for her even more poignant. One would have thought, to have such an insight into it, that he too must have lived it, must have been brought up in some dirty alley of a street. That gift, of course, must be a writer's gift. When she saw the waifs trooping after him down the stairs, Mrs. Maturin called him the Pied Piper of Hampton. As time went on, Janet sometimes wondered over the quiet manner in which these two people, Insall and Mrs. Maturin, took her visits as though they were matters of course, and gave her their friendship. There was, really, no obvious excuse for her coming, not even that of the waifs for food--and yet she came to be fed. The sustenance they gave her would have been hard to define; it flowed not so much from what they said, as from what they were; it was in the atmosphere surrounding them. Sometimes she looked at Mrs. Maturin to ask herself what this lady would say if she knew her history, her relationship with Ditmar--which had been her real reason for entering the ranks of the strikers. And was it fair for her, Janet, to permit Mrs. Maturin to bestow her friendship without revealing this? She could not make up her mind as to what this lady would say. Janet had had no difficulty in placing Ditmar; not much trouble, after her first surprise was over, in classifying Rolfe and the itinerant band of syndicalists who had descended upon her restricted world. But Insall and Mrs. Maturin were not to be ticketed. What chiefly surprised her, in addition to their kindliness, to their taking her on faith without the formality of any recommendation or introduction, was their lack of intellectual narrowness. She did not, of course, so express it. But she sensed, in their presence, from references casually let fall in their conversation, a wider culture of which they were in possession, a culture at once puzzling and exciting, one that she despaired of acquiring for herself. Though it came from reading, it did not seem "literary," according to the notion she had conceived of the term. Her speculations concerning it must be focussed and interpreted. It was a culture, in the first place, not harnessed to an obvious Cause: something like that struck her. It was a culture that contained tolerance and charity, that did not label a portion of mankind as its enemy, but seemed, by understanding all, to forgive all. It had no prejudices; nor did it boast, as the Syndicalists boasted, of its absence of convention. And little by little Janet connected it with Silliston. "It must be wonderful to live in such a place as that," she exclaimed, when the Academy was mentioned. On this occasion Insall had left for a moment, and she was in the little room he called his "store," alone with Mrs. Maturin, helping to sort out a batch of garments just received. "It was there you first met Brooks, wasn't it?" She always spoke of him as Brooks. "He told me about it, how you walked out there and asked him about a place to lunch." Mrs. Maturin laughed. "You didn't know what to make of him, did you?" "I thought he was a carpenter!" said Janet. "I--I never should have taken him for an author. But of course I don't know any other authors." "Well, he's not like any of them, he's just like himself. You can't put a tag on people who are really big." Janet considered this. "I never thought of that. I suppose not," she agreed. Mrs. Maturin glanced at her. "So you liked Sflliston," she said. "I liked it better than any place I ever saw. I haven't seen many places, but I'm sure that few can be nicer." "What did you like about it, Janet?" Mrs. Maturin was interested. "It's hard to say," Janet replied, after a moment. "It gave me such a feeling of peace--of having come home, although I lived in Hampton. I can't express it." "I think you're expressing it rather well," said Mrs. Maturin. "It was so beautiful in the spring," Janet continued, dropping the coat she held into the drawer. "And it wasn't just the trees and the grass with the yellow dandelions, it was the houses, too--I've often wondered why those houses pleased me so much. I wanted to live in every one of them. Do you know that feeling?" Mrs. Maturin nodded. "They didn't hurt your eyes when you looked at them, and they seemed to be so much at home there, even the new ones. The new ones were like the children of the old." "I'll tell the architect. He'll be pleased," said Mrs. Maturin. Janet flushed. "Am I being silly?" she asked. "No; my dear," Mrs. Maturin replied. "You've expressed what I feel about Silliston. What do you intend to do when the strike is over?" "I hadn't thought." Janet started at the question, but Mrs. Maturin did not seem to notice the dismay in her tone. "You don't intend to--to travel around with the I. W. W. people, do you?" "I--I hadn't thought," Janet faltered. It was the first time Mrs. Maturin had spoken of her connection with Syndicalism. And she surprised herself by adding: "I don't see how I could. They can get stenographers anywhere, and that's all I'm good for." And the question occurred to her--did she really wish to? "What I was going to suggest," continued Mrs. Maturin, quietly, "was that you might try Silliston. There's a chance for a good stenographer there, and I'm sure you are a good one. So many of the professors send to Boston." Janet stood stock still. Then she said: "But you don't know anything about me, Mrs. Maturin." Kindliness burned in the lady's eyes as she replied: "I know more now --since you've told me I know nothing. Of course there's much I don't know, how you, a stenographer, became involved in this strike and joined the I. W. W. But you shall tell me or not, as you wish, when we become better friends." Janet felt the blood beating in her throat, and an impulse to confess everything almost mastered her. From the first she had felt drawn toward Mrs. Maturin, who seemed to hold out to her the promise of a woman's friendship--for which she had felt a life-long need: a woman friend who would understand the insatiate yearning in her that gave her no rest in her search for a glittering essence never found, that had led her only to new depths of bitterness and despair. It would destroy her, if indeed it had not already done so. Mrs. Maturin, Insall, seemed to possess the secret that would bring her peace--and yet, in spite of something urging her to speak, she feared the risk of losing them. Perhaps, after all, they would not understand! perhaps it was too late! "You do not believe in the Industrial Workers of the World," was what she said. Mrs. Maturin herself, who had been moved and excited as she gazed at Janet, was taken by surprise. A few moments elapsed before she could gather herself to reply, and then she managed to smile. "I do not believe that wisdom will die with them, my dear. Their--their doctrine is too simple, it does not seem as if life, the social order is to be so easily solved." "But you must sympathize with them, with the strikers." Janet's gesture implied that the soup kitchen was proof of this. "Ah," replied Mrs. Maturin, gently, "that is different to understand them. There is one philosophy for the lamb, and another for the wolf." "You mean," said Janet, trembling, "that what happens to us makes us inclined to believe certain things?" "Precisely," agreed Mrs. Maturin, in admiration. "But I must be honest with you, it was Brooks who made me see it." "But--he never said that to me. And I asked him once, almost the same question." "He never said it to me, either," Mrs. Maturin confessed. "He doesn't tell you what he believes; I simply gathered that this is his idea. And apparently the workers can only improve their condition by strikes, by suffering--it seems to be the only manner in which they can convince the employers that the conditions are bad. It isn't the employers' fault." "Not their fault!" Janet repeated. "Not in a large sense," said Mrs. Maturin. "When people grow up to look at life in a certain way, from a certain viewpoint, it is difficult, almost impossible to change them. It's--it's their religion. They are convinced that if the world doesn't go on in their way, according to their principles, everything will be destroyed. They aren't inhuman. Within limits everybody is more than willing to help the world along, if only they can be convinced that what they are asked to do will help." Janet breathed deeply. She was thinking of Ditmar. And Mrs. Maturin, regarding her, tactfully changed the subject. "I didn't intend to give you a lecture on sociology or psychology, my dear," she said. "I know nothing about them, although we have a professor who does. Think over what I've said about coming to Silliston. It will do you good--you are working too hard here. I know you would enjoy Silliston. And Brooks takes such an interest in you," she added impulsively. "It is quite a compliment." "But why?" Janet demanded, bewildered. "Perhaps it's because you have--possibilities. You may be typewriting his manuscripts. And then, I am a widow, and often rather lonely--you could come in and read to me occasionally." "But--I've never read anything." "How fortunate!" said Insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear Janet's exclamation. "More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read." Mrs. Maturin laughed. But Insall waved his hand deprecatingly. "That isn't my own," he confessed. "I cribbed it from a clever Englishman. But I believe it's true." "I think I'll adopt her," said Mrs. Maturin to Insall, when she had repeated to him the conversation. "I know you are always convicting me of enthusiasms, Brooks, and I suppose I do get enthusiastic." "Well, you adopt her--and I'll marry her," replied Insall, with a smile, as he cut the string from the last bundle of clothing. "You might do worse. It would be a joke if you did--!" His friend paused to consider this preposterous possibility. "One never can tell whom a man like you, an artist, will marry." "We've no business to marry at all," said Insall, laughing. "I often wonder where that romantic streak will land you, Augusta. But you do have a delightful time!" "Don't begrudge it me, it makes life so much more interesting," Mrs. Maturin begged, returning his smile. "I haven't the faintest idea that you will marry her or any one else. But I insist on saying she's your type--she's the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry--only better than most of them, far better." "Dig up?" said Insall. "Well, you know I'm not a snob--I only mean that she seems to be one of the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in--what shall I say?--in the working-classes. I do feel like a snob when I say that. But what is it? Where does that spark come from? Is it in our modern air, that discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light --something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small institutions of learning like Silliston?" "Now you're getting beyond me." "Oh no, I'm not," Mrs. Maturin retorted confidently. "If you won't talk about it, I will, I have no shame. And this girl has it--this thing I'm trying to express. She's modern to her finger tips, and yet she's extraordinarily American--in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some queer way our tradition. She loves our old houses at Silliston--they make her feel at home--that's her own expression." "Did she say that?" "Exactly. And I know she's of New England ancestry, she told me so. What I can't make out is, why she joined the I.W.W. That seems so contradictory." "Perhaps she was searching for light there," Insall hazarded. "Why don't you ask her?" "I don't know," replied Mrs. Maturin, thoughtfully. "I want to, my curiosity almost burns me alive, and yet I don't. She isn't the kind you can ask personal questions of--that's part of her charm, part of her individuality. One is a little afraid to intrude. And yet she keeps coming here--of course you are a sufficient attraction, Brooks. But I must give her the credit of not flirting with you." "I've noticed that, too," said Insall, comically. "She's searching for light," Mrs. Maturin went on, struck by the phrase. "She has an instinct we can give it to her, because we come from an institution of learning. I felt something of the kind when I suggested her establishing herself in Silliston. Well, she's more than worth while experimenting on, she must have lived and breathed what you call the `movie atmosphere' all her life, and yet she never seems to have read and absorbed any sentimental literature or cheap religion. She doesn't suggest the tawdry. That part of her, the intellectual part, is a clear page to be written upon." "There's my chance," said Insall. "No, it's my chance--since you're so cynical." "I'm not cynical," he protested. "I don't believe you really are. And if you are, there may be a judgment upon you," she added playfully. "I tell you she's the kind of woman artists go mad about. She has what sentimentalists call temperament, and after all we haven't any better word to express dynamic desires. She'd keep you stirred up, stimulated, and you could educate her." "No, thanks, I'll leave that to you. He who educates a woman is lost. But how about Syndicalism and all the mysticism that goes with it? There's an intellectual over at Headquarters who's been talking to her about Bergson, the life-force, and the World-We-Ourselves-Create." Mrs. Maturin laughed. "Well, we go wrong when we don't go right. That's just it, we must go some way. And I'm sure, from what I gather, that she isn't wholly satisfied with Syndicalism." "What is right?" demanded Insall. "Oh, I don't intend to turn her over to Mr. Worrall and make a sociologist and a militant suffragette out of her. She isn't that kind, anyhow. But I could give her good literature to read--yours, for instance," she added maliciously. "You're preposterous, Augusta," Insall exclaimed. "I may be, but you've got to indulge me. I've taken this fancy to her --of course I mean to see more of her. But--you know how hard it is for me, sometimes, since I've been left alone." Insall laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder. "I remember what you said the first day I saw her, that the strike was in her," Mrs. Maturin continued. "Well, I see now that she does express and typify it--and I don't mean the `labour movement' alone, or this strike in Rampton, which is symptomatic, but crude. I mean something bigger --and I suppose you do--the protest, the revolt, the struggle for self-realization that is beginning to be felt all over the nation, all over the world today, that is not yet focussed and self-conscious, but groping its way, clothing itself in any philosophy that seems to fit it. I can imagine myself how such a strike as this might appeal to a girl with a sense of rebellion against sordidness and lack of opportunity--especially if she has had a tragic experience. And sometimes I suspect she has had one." "Well, it's an interesting theory," Insall admitted indulgently. "I'm merely amplifying your suggestions, only you won't admit that they are yours. And she was your protegee." "And you are going to take her off my hands." "I'm not so sure," said Mrs. Maturin. CHAPTER XIX The Hampton strike had reached the state of grim deadlock characteristic of all stubborn wars. There were aggressions, retaliations on both sides, the antagonism grew more intense. The older labour unions were accused by the strikers of playing the employers' game, and thus grew to be hated even more than the "capitalists." These organizations of the skilled had entered but half-heartedly into a struggle that now began to threaten, indeed, their very existence, and when it was charged that the Textile Workers had been attempting to secure recruits from the ranks of the strikers, and had secretly offered the millowners a scale of demands in the hope that a sufficient number of operatives would return to work, and so break the strike; a serious riot was barely averted. "Scab-hunting agencies," the unions were called. One morning when it was learned that the loom-fixers, almost to a man, had gone back to the mills, a streetcar was stopped near the power house at the end of Faber Street, and in a twinkling, before the militia or police could interfere, motorman, conductor, and passengers were dragged from it and the trolley pole removed. This and a number of similar aggressive acts aroused the mill-owners and their agents to appeal with renewed vigour to the public through the newspapers, which it was claimed they owned or subsidized. Then followed a series of arraignments of the strike leaders calculated to stir the wildest prejudices and fears of the citizens of Hampton. Antonelli and Jastro--so rumour had it--in various nightly speeches had advised their followers to "sleep in the daytime and prowl like wild animals at night"; urged the power house employees to desert and leave the city in darkness; made the declaration, "We will win if we raise scaffolds on every street!" insisted that the strikers, too, should have "gun permits," since the police hirelings carried arms. And the fact that the mill-owners replied with pamphlets whose object was proclaimed to be one of discrediting their leaders in the eyes of the public still further infuriated the strikers. Such charges, of course, had to be vehemently refuted, the motives behind them made clear, and counter-accusations laid at the door of the mill-owners. The atmosphere at Headquarters daily grew more tense. At any moment the spark might be supplied to precipitate an explosion that would shake the earth. The hungry, made more desperate by their own sufferings or the spectacle of starving families, were increasingly difficult to control: many wished to return to work, others clamoured for violence, nor were these wholly discouraged by a portion of the leaders. A riot seemed imminent--a riot Antonelli feared and firmly opposed, since it would alienate the sympathy of that wider public in the country on which the success of the strike depended. Watchful, yet apparently unconcerned, unmoved by the quarrels, the fierce demands for "action," he sat on the little stage, smoking his cigars and reading his newspapers. Janet's nerves were taut. There had been times during the past weeks when she had been aware of new and vaguely disquieting portents. Inexperience had led her to belittle them, and the absorbing nature of her work, the excitement due to the strange life of conflict, of new ideas, into which she had so unreservedly flung herself, the resentment that galvanized her--all these had diverted her from worry. At night, hers had been the oblivious slumber of the weary.... And then, as a desperate wayfarer, pressing on, feels a heavy drop of rain and glances up to perceive the clouds that have long been gathering, she awoke in the black morning hours, and fear descended upon her. Suddenly her brain became hideously active as she lay, dry-upped, staring into the darkness, striving to convince herself that it could not be. But the thing had its advocate, also, to summon ingeniously, in cumulative array, those omens she had ignored: to cause her to piece together, in this moment of torture, portions of the knowledge of sexual facts that prudery banishes from education, a smattering of which reaches the ears of such young women as Janet in devious, roundabout ways. Several times, in the month just past, she had had unwonted attacks of dizziness, of faintness, and on one occasion Anna Mower, alarmed, had opened the window of the bibliotheque and thrust her into the cold air. Now, with a pang of fear she recalled what Anna had said:--"You're working too hard--you hadn't ought to stay here nights. If it was some girls I've met, I'd know what to think." Strange that the significance of this sentence had failed to penetrate her consciousness until now! "If it was some girls I've met, I'd know what to think!" It had come into her mind abruptly; and always, when she sought to reassure herself, to declare her terror absurd, it returned to confront her. Heat waves pulsed through her, she grew intolerably warm, perspiration started from her pores, and she flung off the blankets. The rain from the roofs was splashing on the bricks of the passage.... What would Mr. Insall say, if he knew? and Mrs. Maturin? She could never see them again. Now there was no one to whom to turn, she was cut off, utterly, from humanity, an outcast. Like Lise! And only a little while ago she and Lise had lain in that bed together! Was there not somebody --God? Other people believed in God, prayed to him. She tried to say, "Oh God, deliver me from this thing!" but the words seemed a mockery. After all, it was mechanical, it had either happened or it hadn't happened. A life-long experience in an environment where only unpleasant things occurred, where miracles were unknown, had effaced a fleeting, childhood belief in miracles. Cause and effect were the rule. And if there were a God who did interfere, why hadn't he interfered before this thing happened? Then would have been the logical time. Why hadn't he informed her that in attempting to escape from the treadmill in which he had placed her, in seeking happiness, she had been courting destruction? Why had he destroyed Lise? And if there were a God, would he comfort her now, convey to her some message of his sympathy and love? No such message, alas, seemed to come to her through the darkness. After a while--a seemingly interminable while--the siren shrieked, the bells jangled loudly in the wet air, another day had come. Could she face it--even the murky grey light of this that revealed the ashes and litter of the back yard under the downpour? The act of dressing brought a slight relief; and then, at breakfast, a numbness stole over her--suggested and conveyed, perchance, by the apathy of her mother. Something had killed suffering in Hannah; perhaps she herself would mercifully lose the power to suffer! But the thought made her shudder. She could not, like her mother, find a silly refuge in shining dishes, in cleaning pots and pans, or sit idle, vacant-minded, for long hours in a spotless kitchen. What would happen to her?... Howbeit, the ache that had tortured her became a dull, leaden pain, like that she had known at another time--how long ago--when the suffering caused by Ditmar's deception had dulled, when she had sat in the train on her way back to Hampton from Boston, after seeing Lise. The pain would throb again, unsupportably, and she would wake, and this time it would drive her--she knew not where. She was certain, now, that the presage of the night was true.... She reached Franco-Belgian Hall to find it in an uproar. Anna Mower ran up to her with the news that dynamite had been discovered by the police in certain tenements of the Syrian quarter, that the tenants had been arrested and taken to the police station where, bewildered and terrified, they had denied any knowledge of the explosive. Dynamite had also been found under the power house, and in the mills--the sources of Hampton's prosperity. And Hampton believed, of course, that this was the inevitable result of the anarchistic preaching of such enemies of society as Jastro and Antonelli if these, indeed, had not incited the Syrians to the deed. But it was a plot of the mill-owners, Anna insisted--they themselves had planted the explosive, adroitly started the rumours, told the police where the dynamite was to be found. Such was the view that prevailed at Headquarters, pervaded the angrily buzzing crowd that stood outside--heedless of the rain--and animated the stormy conferences in the Salle de Reunion. The day wore on. In the middle of the afternoon, as she was staring out of the window, Anna Mower returned with more news. Dynamite had been discovered in Hawthorne Street, and it was rumoured that Antonelli and Jastro were to be arrested. "You ought to go home and rest, Janet," she said kindly. Janet shook her head. "Rolfe's back," Anna informed her, after a moment. "He's talking to Antonelli about another proclamation to let people know who's to blame for this dynamite business. I guess he'll be in here in a minute to dictate the draft. Say, hadn't you better let Minnie take it, and go home?" "I'm not sick," Janet repeated, and Anna reluctantly left her. Rolfe had been absent for a week, in New York, consulting with some of the I.W.W. leaders; with Lockhart, the chief protagonist of Syndicalism in America, just returned from Colorado, to whom he had given a detailed account of the Hampton strike. And Lockhart, next week, was coming to Hampton to make a great speech and look over the ground for himself. All this Rolfe told Janet eagerly when he entered the bibliotheque. He was glad to get back; he had missed her. "But you are pale!" he exclaimed, as he seized her hand, "and how your eyes burn! You do not take care of yourself when I am not here to watch you." His air of solicitude, his assumption of a peculiar right to ask, might formerly have troubled and offended her. Now she was scarcely aware of his presence. "You feel too much--that is it you are like a torch that consumes itself in burning. But this will soon be over, we shall have them on their knees, the capitalists, before very long, when it is known what they have done to-day. It is too much--they have overreached themselves with this plot of the dynamite." "You have missed me, a little?" "I have been busy," she said, releasing her hand and sitting down at her desk and taking up her notebook. "You are not well," he insisted. "I'm all right," she replied. He lit a cigarette and began to pace the room--his customary manner of preparing himself for the creative mood. After a while he began to dictate--but haltingly. He had come here from Antonelli all primed with fervour and indignation, but it was evident that this feeling had ebbed, that his mind refused to concentrate on what he was saying. Despite the magnificent opportunity to flay the capitalists which their most recent tactics afforded him, he paused, repeated himself, and began again, glancing from time to time reproachfully, almost resentfully at Janet. Usually, on these occasions, he was transported, almost inebriated by his own eloquence; but now he chafed at her listlessness, he was at a loss to account for the withdrawal of the enthusiasm he had formerly been able to arouse. Lacking the feminine stimulus, his genius limped. For Rolfe there had been a woman in every strike--sometimes two. What had happened, during his absence, to alienate the most promising of all neophytes he had ever encountered? "The eyes of the world are fixed on the workers of Hampton! They must be true to the trust their fellows have placed in them! To-day the mill-owners, the masters, are at the end of their tether. Always unscrupulous, they have descended to the most despicable of tactics in order to deceive the public. But truth will prevail!..." Rolfe lit another cigarette, began a new sentence and broke it off. Suddenly he stood over her. "It's you!" he said. "You don't feel it, you don't help me, you're not in sympathy." He bent over her, his red lips gleaming through his beard, a terrible hunger in his lustrous eyes--the eyes of a soul to which self-denial was unknown. His voice was thick with uncontrolled passion, his hand was cold. "Janet, what has happened? I love you, you must love me--I cannot believe that you do not. Come with me. We shall work together for the workers--it is all nothing without you." For a moment she sat still, and then a pain shot through her, a pain as sharp as a dagger thrust. She drew her hand away. "I can't love--I can only hate," she said. "But you do not hate me!" Rolfe repudiated so gross a fact. His voice caught as in a sob. "I, who love you, who have taught you!" She dismissed this--what he had taught her--with a gesture which, though slight, was all-expressive. He drew back from her. "Shall I tell you who has planned and carried out this plot?" he cried. "It is Ditmar. He is the one, and he used Janes, the livery stable keeper, the politician who brought the dynamite to Hampton, as his tool. Half an hour before Janes got to the station in Boston he was seen by a friend of ours talking to Ditmar in front of the Chippering offices, and Janes had the satchel with him then. Ditmar walked to the corner with him." Janet, too, had risen. "I don't believe it," she said. "Ah, I thought you wouldn't! But we have the proof that dynamite was in the satchel, we've found the contractor from whom it was bought. I was a fool--I might have known that you loved Ditmar." "I hate him!" said Janet. "It is the same thing," said Rolfe. She did not answer.... He watched her in silence as she put on her hat and coat and left the room. The early dusk was gathering when she left the hall and made her way toward the city. The huge bottle-shaped chimneys of the power plant injected heavy black smoke into the wet air. In Faber Street the once brilliant signs above the "ten-foot" buildings seemed dulled, the telegraph poles starker, nakeder than ever, their wires scarcely discernible against the smeared sky. The pedestrians were sombrely garbed, and went about in "rubbers"--the most depressing of all articles worn by man. Sodden piles of snow still hid the curb and gutters, but the pavements were trailed with mud that gleamed in the light from the shop windows. And Janet, lingering unconsciously in front of that very emporium where Lisehad been incarcerated, the Bagatelle, stared at the finery displayed there, at the blue tulle dress that might be purchased, she read, for $22.99. She found herself repeating, in meaningless, subdued tones, the words, "twenty-two ninety-nine." She even tried--just to see if it were possible--to concentrate her mind on that dress, on the fur muffs and tippets in the next window; to act as if this were just an ordinary, sad February afternoon, and she herself once more just an ordinary stenographer leading a monotonous, uneventful existence. But she knew that this was not true, because, later on, she was going to do something--to commit some act. She didn't know what this act would be. Her head was hot, her temples throbbed.... Night had fallen, the electric arcs burned blue overhead, she was in another street--was it Stanley? Sounds of music reached her, the rumble of marching feet; dark, massed figures were in the distance swimming toward her along the glistening line of the car tracks, and she heard the shrill whistling of the doffer boys, who acted as a sort of fife corps in these parades--which by this time had become familiar to the citizens of Hampton. And Janet remembered when the little red book that contained the songs had arrived at Headquarters from the west and had been distributed by thousands among the strikers. She recalled the words of this song, though the procession was as yet too far away for her to distinguish them:-- "The People's flag is deepest red, It shrouded oft our martyred dead, And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold, Their life-blood dyed its every fold." The song ceased, and she stood still, waiting for the procession to reach her. A group of heavy Belgian women were marching together. Suddenly, as by a simultaneous impulse, their voices rang out in the Internationale--the terrible Marseillaise of the workers:-- "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! Arise, ye wretched of the earth!" And the refrain was taken up by hundreds of throats:-- "'Tis the final conflict, Let each stand in his place!" The walls of the street flung it back. On the sidewalk, pressed against the houses, men and women heard it with white faces. But Janet was carried on.... The scene changed, now she was gazing at a mass of human beings hemmed in by a line of soldiers. Behind the crowd was a row of old-fashioned brick houses, on the walls of which were patterned, by the cold electric light, the branches of the bare elms ranged along the sidewalk. People leaned out of the windows, like theatregoers at a play. The light illuminated the red and white bars of the ensign, upheld by the standard bearer of the regiment, the smaller flags flaunted by the strikers--each side clinging hardily to the emblem of human liberty. The light fell, too, harshly and brilliantly, on the workers in the front rank confronting the bayonets, and these seemed strangely indifferent, as though waiting for the flash of a photograph. A little farther on a group of boys, hands in pockets, stared at the soldiers with bravado. From the rear came that indescribable "booing" which those who have heard never forget, mingled with curses and cries:--"Vive la greve!" "To hell with the Cossacks!" "Kahm on--shoot!" The backs of the soldiers, determined, unyielding, were covered with heavy brown capes that fell below the waist. As Janet's glance wandered down the line it was arrested by the face of a man in a visored woollen cap--a face that was almost sepia, in which large white eyeballs struck a note of hatred. And what she seemed to see in it, confronting her, were the hatred and despair of her own soul! The man might have been a Hungarian or a Pole; the breadth of his chin was accentuated by a wide, black moustache, his attitude was tense,--that of a maddened beast ready to spring at the soldier in front of him. He was plainly one of those who had reached the mental limit of endurance. In contrast with this foreigner, confronting him, a young lieutenant stood motionless, his head cocked on one side, his hand grasping the club held a little behind him, his glance meeting the other's squarely, but with a different quality of defiance. All his faculties were on the alert. He wore no overcoat, and the uniform fitting close to his figure, the broad-brimmed campaign hat of felt served to bring into relief the physical characteristics of the American Anglo-Saxon, of the individualist who became the fighting pioneer. But Janet, save to register the presence of the intense antagonism between the two, scarcely noticed her fellow countryman.... Every moment she expected to see the black man spring,--and yet movement would have marred the drama of that consuming hatred.... Then, by one of those bewildering, kaleidoscopic shifts to which crowds are subject, the scene changed, more troops arrived, little by little the people were dispersed to drift together again by chance--in smaller numbers--several blocks away. Perhaps a hundred and fifty were scattered over the space formed by the intersection of two streets, where three or four special policemen with night sticks urged them on. Not a riot, or anything approaching it. The police were jeered, but the groups, apparently, had already begun to scatter, when from the triangular vestibule of a saloon on the corner darted a flame followed by an echoing report, a woman bundled up in a shawl screamed and sank on the snow. For an instant the little French-Canadian policeman whom the shot had missed gazed stupidly down at her.... As Janet ran along the dark pavements the sound of the shot and of the woman's shriek continued to ring in her ears. At last she stopped in front of the warehouse beyond Mr. Tiernan's shop, staring at the darkened windows of the flat--of the front room in which her mother now slept alone. For a minute she stood looking at these windows, as though hypnotized by some message they conveyed--the answer to a question suggested by the incident that had aroused and terrified her. They drew her, as in a trance, across the street, she opened the glass-panelled door, remembering mechanically the trick it had of not quite closing, turned and pushed it to and climbed the stairs. In the diningroom the metal lamp, brightly polished, was burning as usual, its light falling on the chequered red table-cloth, on her father's empty chair, on that somewhat battered heirloom, the horsehair sofa. All was so familiar, and yet so amazingly unfamiliar, so silent! At this time Edward should be reading the Banner, her mother bustling in and out, setting the table for supper. But not a dish was set. The ticking of the ancient clock only served to intensify the silence. Janet entered, almost on tiptoe, made her way to the kitchen door, and looked in. The stove was polished, the pans bright upon the wall, and Hannah was seated in a corner, her hands folded across a spotless apron. Her scant hair was now pure white, her dress seemed to have fallen away from her wasted neck, which was like a trefoil column. "Is that you, Janet? You hain't seen anything of your father?" The night before Janet had heard this question, and she had been puzzled as to its meaning--whether in the course of the day she had seen her father, or whether Hannah thought he was coming home. "He's at the mill, mother. You know he has to stay there." "I know," replied Hannah, in a tone faintly reminiscent of the old aspersion. "But I've got everything ready for him in case he should come--any time--if the strikers hain't killed him." "But he's safe where he is." "I presume they will try to kill him, before they get through," Hannah continued evenly. "But in case he should come at any time, and I'm not here, you tell him all those Bumpus papers are put away in the drawer of that old chest, in the corner. I can't think what he'd do without those papers. That is," she added, "if you're here yourself." "Why shouldn't you be here?" asked Janet, rather sharply. "I dunno, I seem to have got through." She glanced helplessly around the kitchen. "There don't seem to be much left to keep me alive.... I guess you'll be wanting your supper, won't you? You hain't often home these days--whatever it is you're doing. I didn't expect you." Janet did not answer at once. "I--I have to go out again, mother," she said. Hannah accepted the answer as she had accepted every other negative in life, great and small. "Well, I guessed you would." Janet made a step toward her. "Mother!" she said, but Hannah gazed at her uncomprehendingly. Janet stooped convulsively, and kissed her. Straightening up, she stood looking down at her mother for a few moments, and went out of the room, pausing in the dining-room, to listen, but Hannah apparently had not stirred. She took the box of matches from its accustomed place on the shelf beside the clock, entered the dark bedroom in the front of the flat, closing the door softly behind her. The ghostly blue light from a distant arc came slanting in at the window, glinting on the brass knobs of the chest of drawers-another Bumpus heirloom. She remembered that chest from early childhood; it was one of the few pieces that, following them in all their changes of residence, had been faithful to the end: she knew everything in it, and the place for everything. Drawing a match from the box, she was about to turn on the gas--but the light from the arc would suffice. As she made her way around the walnut bed she had a premonition of poignant anguish as yet unrealized, of anguish being held at bay by a stronger, fiercer, more imperative emotion now demanding expression, refusing at last to be denied. She opened the top drawer of the chest, the drawer in which Hannah, breaking tradition, had put the Bumpus genealogy. Edward had never kept it there. Would the other things be in place? Groping with her hands in the left-hand corner, her fingers clasped exultantly something heavy, something wrapped carefully in layers of flannel. She had feared her father might have taken it to the mill! She drew it out, unwound the flannel, and held to the light an old-fashioned revolver, the grease glistening along its barrel. She remembered, too, that the cartridges had lain beside it, and thrusting her hand once more into the drawer found the box, extracting several, and replacing the rest, closed the drawer, and crept through the dining-room to her bedroom, where she lit the gas in order to examine the weapon --finally contriving, more by accident than skill, to break it. The cartridges, of course, fitted into the empty cylinder. But before inserting them she closed the pistol once more, cocked it, and held it out. Her arm trembled violently as she pulled the trigger. Could she do it? As though to refute this doubt of her ability to carry out an act determined upon, she broke the weapon once more, loaded and closed it, and thrust it in the pocket of her coat. Then, washing the grease from her hands, she put on her gloves, and was about to turn out the light when she saw reflected in the glass the red button of the I.W.W. still pinned on her coat. This she tore off, and flung on the bureau. When she had kissed her mother, when she had stood hesitatingly in the darkness of the familiar front bedroom in the presence of unsummoned memories of a home she had believed herself to resent and despise, she had nearly faltered. But once in the street, this weakness suddenly vanished, was replaced by a sense of wrong that now took complete and furious possession of her, driving her like a gale at her back. She scarcely felt on her face the fine rain that had begun to fall once more. Her feet were accustomed to the way. When she had turned down West Street and almost gained the canal, it was with a shock of surprise that she found herself confronted by a man in a long cape who held a rifle and barred her path. She stared at him as at an apparition. "You can't get by here," he said. "Don't you know that?" She did not reply. He continued to look at her, and presently asked, in a gentler tone:--"Where did you wish to go, lady?" "Into the mill," she replied, "to the offices." "But there can't anybody go through here unless they have a pass. I'm sorry, but that's the order." Her answer came so readily as to surprise her. "I was Mr. Ditmar's private stenographer. I have to see him." The sentry hesitated, and then addressed another soldier, who was near the bridge. "Hi, sergeant!" he called. The sergeant came up--a conscientious Boston clerk who had joined the militia from a sense of duty and a need for exercise. While the sentry explained the matter he gazed at Janet. Then he said politely:--"I'm sorry, Miss, but I can't disobey orders." "But can't you send word to Mr. Ditmar, and tell him I want to see him?" she asked. "Why, I guess so," he answered, after a moment. "What name shall I say?" "Miss Bumpus." "Bumpus," he repeated. "That's the gatekeeper's name." "I'm his daughter--but I want to see Mr. Ditmar." "Well," said the sergeant, "I'm sure it's all right, but I'll have to send in anyway. Orders are orders. You understand?" She nodded as he departed. She saw him cross the bridge like a ghost through the white mist rising from the canal. And through the mist she could make out the fortress-like mass of the mill itself, and the blurred, distorted lights in the paymaster's offices smeared on the white curtain of the vapour. "Nasty weather," the sentry remarked, in friendly fashion. He appeared now, despite his uniform, as a good-natured, ungainly youth. Janet nodded. "You'd ought to have brought an umbrella," he said. "I guess it'll rain harder, before it gets through. But it's better than ten below zero, anyhow." She nodded again, but he did not seem to resent her silence. He talked about the hardship of patrolling in winter, until the sergeant came back. "It's all right, Miss Bumpus," he said, and touched his hat as he escorted her to the bridge. She crossed the canal and went through the vestibule without replying to the greeting of the night-watchman, or noticing his curious glance; she climbed the steel-clad stairway, passed the paymaster's offices and Mr. Orcutt's, and gained the outer office where she had worked as a stenographer. It was dark, but sufficient light came through Ditmar's open door to guide her beside the rail. He had heard her step, and as she entered his room he had put his hands heavily on his desk, in the act of rising from his chair. "Janet!" he said, and started toward her, but got no farther than the corner of the desk. The sight of her heaving breast, of the peculiar light that flashed from beneath her lashes stopped him suddenly. Her hands were in her pockets. "What is it?" he demanded stupidly. But she continued to stand there, breathing so heavily that she could not speak. It was then that he became aware of an acute danger. He did not flinch. "What is it?" he repeated. Still she was silent. One hand was thrust deeper into its pocket, he saw a shudder run through her, and suddenly she burst into hysterical weeping, sinking into a chair. He stood for some moments helplessly regarding her before he gained the presence of mind to go to the door and lock it, returning to bend over her. "Don't touch me!" she said, shrinking from him. "For God's sake tell me what's the matter," he begged. She looked up at him and tried to speak, struggling against the sobs that shook her. "I--I came here to--to kill you--only I can't do it." "To kill me!" he said, after a pause. In spite of the fact that he had half divined her intention, the words shocked him. Whatever else may be said of him, he did not lack courage, his alarm was not of a physical nature. Mingled with it were emotions he himself did not understand, caused by the unwonted sight of her loss of self-control, of her anger, and despair. "Why did you want to kill me?" And again he had to wait for an answer. "Because you've spoiled my life--because I'm going to have a child!" "What do you mean? Are you?... it can't be possible." "It is possible, it's true--it's true. I've waited and waited, I've suffered, I've almost gone crazy--and now I know. And I said I'd kill you if it were so, I'd kill myself--only I can't. I'm a coward." Her voice was drowned again by weeping. A child! He had never imagined such a contingency! And as he leaned back against the desk, his emotions became chaotic. The sight of her, even as she appeared crazed by anger, had set his passion aflame--for the intensity and fierceness of her nature had always made a strong appeal to dominant qualities in Ditmar's nature. And then--this announcement! Momentarily it turned his heart to water. Now that he was confronted by an exigency that had once vicariously yet deeply disturbed him in a similar affair of a friend of his, the code and habit of a lifetime gained an immediate ascendency--since then he had insisted that this particular situation was to be avoided above all others. And his mind leaped to possibilities. She had wished to kill him--would she remain desperate enough to ruin him? Even though he were not at a crisis in his affairs, a scandal of this kind would be fatal. "I didn't know," he said desperately, "I couldn't guess. Do you think I would have had this thing happen to you? I was carried away--we were both carried away--" "You planned it!" she replied vehemently, without looking up. "You didn't care for me, you only--wanted me." "That isn't so--I swear that isn't so. I loved you I love you." "Oh, do you think I believe that?" she exclaimed. "I swear it--I'll prove it!" he protested. Still under the influence of an acute anxiety, he was finding it difficult to gather his wits, to present his case. "When you left me that day the strike began--when you left me without giving me a chance--you'll never know how that hurt me." "You'll never know how it hurt me!" she interrupted. "Then why, in God's name, did you do it? I wasn't myself, then, you ought to have seen that. And when I heard from Caldwell here that you'd joined those anarchists--" "They're no worse than you are--they only want what you've got," she said. He waved this aside. "I couldn't believe it--I wouldn't believe it until somebody saw you walking with one of them to their Headquarters. Why did you do it?" "Because I know how they feel, I sympathize with the strikers, I want them to win--against you!" She lifted her head and looked at him, and in spite of the state of his feelings he felt a twinge of admiration at her defiance. "Because you love me!" he said. "Because I hate you," she answered. And yet a spark of exultation leaped within him at the thought that love had caused this apostasy. He had had that suspicion before, though it was a poor consolation when he could not reach her. Now she had made it vivid. A woman's logic, or lack of logic--her logic. "Listen!" he pleaded. "I tried to forget you--I tried to keep myself going all the time that I mightn't think of you, but I couldn't help thinking of you, wanting you, longing for you. I never knew why you left me, except that you seemed to believe I was unkind to you, and that something had happened. It wasn't my fault--" he pulled himself up abruptly. "I found out what men were like," she said. "A man made my sister a woman of the streets--that's what you've done to me." He winced. And the calmness she had regained, which was so characteristic of her, struck him with a new fear. "I'm not that kind of a man," he said. But she did not answer. His predicament became more trying. "I'll take care of you," he assured her, after a moment. "If you'll only trust me, if you'll only come to me I'll see that no harm comes to you." She regarded him with a sort of wonder--a look that put a fine edge of dignity and scorn to her words when they came. "I told you I didn't want to be taken care of--I wanted to kill you, and kill myself. I don't know why I can't what prevents me." She rose. "But I'm not going to trouble you any more--you'll never hear of me again." She would not trouble him, she was going away, he would never hear of her again! Suddenly, with the surge of relief he experienced, came a pang. He could not let her go--it was impossible. It seemed that he had never understood his need of her, his love for her, until now that he had brought her to this supreme test of self-revelation. She had wanted to kill him, yes, to kill herself--but how could he ever have believed that she would stoop to another method of retaliation? As she stood before him the light in her eyes still wet with tears--transfigured her. "I love you, Janet," he said. "I want you to marry me." "You don't understand," she answered. "You never did. If I had married you, I'd feel just the same--but it isn't really as bad as if we had been married." "Not as bad!" he exclaimed. "If we were married, you'd think you had rights over me," she explained, slowly. "Now you haven't any, I can go away. I couldn't live with you. I know what happened to me, I've thought it all out, I wanted to get away from the life I was leading--I hated it so, I was crazy to have a chance, to see the world, to get nearer some of the beautiful things I knew were there, but couldn't reach.... And you came along. I did love you, I would have done anything for you--it was only when I saw that you didn't really love me that I began to hate you, that I wanted to get away from you, when I saw that you only wanted me until you should get tired of me. That's your nature, you can't help it. And it would have been the same if we were married, only worse, I couldn't have stood it any more than I can now--I'd have left you. You say you'll marry me now, but that's because you're sorry for me--since I've said I'm not going to trouble you any more. You'll be glad I've gone. You may--want me now, but that isn't love. When you say you love me, I can't believe you." "You must believe me! And the child, Janet,--our child--" "If the world was right," she said, "I could have this child and nobody would say anything. I could support it--I guess I can anyway. And when I'm not half crazy I want it. Maybe that's the reason I couldn't do what I tried to do just now. It's natural for a woman to want a child --especially a woman like me, who hasn't anybody or anything." Ditmar's state of mind was too complicated to be wholly described. As the fact had been gradually brought home to him that she had not come as a supplicant, that even in her misery she was free, and he helpless, there revived in him wild memories of her body, of the kisses he had wrung from her--and yet this physical desire was accompanied by a realization of her personality never before achieved. And because he had hitherto failed to achieve it, she had escaped him. This belated, surpassing glimpse of what she essentially was, and the thought of the child their child--permeating his passion, transformed it into a feeling hitherto unexperienced and unimagined. He hovered over her, pitifully, his hands feeling for her, yet not daring to touch her. "Can't you see that I love you?" he cried, "that I'm ready to marry you now, to-night. You must love me, I won't believe that you don't after --after all we have been to each other." But even then she could not believe. Something in her, made hard by the intensity of her suffering, refused to melt. And her head was throbbing, and she scarcely heard him. "I can't stay any longer," she said, getting to her feet. "I can't bear it." "Janet, I swear I'll care for you as no woman was ever cared for. For God's sake listen to me, give me a chance, forgive me!" He seized her arm; she struggled, gently but persistently, to free herself from his hold. "Let me go, please." All the passionate anger had gone out of her, and she spoke in a monotone, as one under hypnosis, dominated by a resolution which, for the present at least, he was powerless to shake. "But to-morrow?" he pleaded. "You'll let me see you to-morrow, when you've had time to think it over, when you realize that I love you and want you, that I haven't meant to be cruel--that you've misjudged me --thought I was a different kind of a man. I don't blame you for that, I guess something happened to make you believe it. I've got enemies. For the sake of the child, Janet, if for nothing else, you'll come back to me! You're--you're tired tonight, you're not yourself. I don't wonder, after all you've been through. If you'd only come to me before! God knows what I've suffered, too!" "Let me go, please," she repeated, and this time, despairingly, he obeyed her, a conviction of her incommunicability overwhelming him. He turned and, fumbling with the key, unlocked the door and opened it. "I'll see you to-morrow," he faltered once more, and watched her as she went through the darkened outer room until she gained the lighted hallway beyond and disappeared. Her footsteps died away into silence. He was trembling. For several minutes he stood where she had left him, tortured by a sense of his inability to act, to cope with this, the great crisis of his life, when suddenly the real significance of that strange last look in her eyes was borne home to him. And he had allowed her to go out into the streets alone! Seizing his hat and coat, he fairly ran out of the office and down the stairs and across the bridge. "Which way did that young lady go?" he demanders of the sergeant. "Why--uh, West Street, Mr. Ditmar." He remembered where Fillmore Street was; he had, indeed, sought it out one evening in the hope of meeting her. He hurried toward it now, his glance strained ahead to catch sight of her figure under a lamp. But he reached Fillmore Street without overtaking her, and in the rain he stood gazing at the mean houses there, wondering in which of them she lived, and whether she had as yet come home.... After leaving Ditmar Janet, probably from force of habit, had indeed gone through West Street, and after that she walked on aimlessly. It was better to walk than to sit alone in torment, to be gnawed by that Thing from which she had so desperately attempted to escape, and failed. She tried to think why she had failed.... Though the rain fell on her cheeks, her mouth was parched; and this dryness of her palate, this physical sense of lightness, almost of dizziness, were intimately yet incomprehensibly part and parcel of the fantastic moods into which she floated. It was as though, in trying to solve a problem, she caught herself from time to time falling off to sleep. In her waking moments she was terror-stricken. Scarce an hour had passed since, in a terrible exaltation at having found a solution, she had gone to Ditmar's office in the mill. What had happened to stay her? It was when she tried to find the cause of the weakness that so abruptly had overtaken her, or to cast about for a plan to fit the new predicament to which her failure had sentenced her, that the fantasies intruded. She heard Ditmar speaking, the arguments were curiously familiar--but they were not Ditmar's! They were her father's, and now it was Edward's voice to which she listened, he was telling her how eminently proper it was that she should marry Ditmar, because of her Bumpus blood. And this made her laugh.... Again, Ditmar was kissing her hair. He had often praised it. She had taken it down and combed it out for him; it was like a cloud, he said--so fine; its odour made him faint--and then the odour changed, became that of the detested perfume of Miss Lottie Myers! Even that made Janet smile! But Ditmar was strong, he was powerful, he was a Fact, why not go back to him and let him absorb and destroy her? That annihilation would be joy.... It could not have been much later than seven o'clock when she found herself opposite the familiar, mulberry-shingled Protestant church. The light from its vestibule made a gleaming square on the wet sidewalk, and into this area, from the surrounding darkness, came silhouetted figures of men and women holding up umbrellas; some paused for a moment's chat, their voices subdued by an awareness of the tabernacle. At the sight of this tiny congregation something stirred within her. She experienced a twinge of surprise at the discovery that other people in the world, in Hampton, were still leading tranquil, untormented existences. They were contented, prosperous, stupid, beyond any need of help from God, and yet they were going to prayer-meeting to ask something! He refused to find her in the dark streets. Would she find Him if she went in there? and would He help her? The bell in the tower began to clang, with heavy, relentless strokes --like physical blows from which she flinched--each stirring her reluctant, drowsy soul to a quicker agony. From the outer blackness through which she fled she gazed into bright rooms of homes whose blinds were left undrawn, as though to taunt and mock the wanderer. She was an outcast! Who henceforth would receive her save those, unconformed and unconformable, sentenced to sin in this realm of blackness? Henceforth from all warmth and love she was banished.... In the middle of the Stanley Street bridge she stopped to lean against the wet rail; the mill lights were scattered, dancing points of fire over the invisible swift waters, and she raised her eyes presently to the lights themselves, seeking one unconsciously--Ditmar's! Yes, it was his she sought; though it was so distant, sometimes it seemed to burn like a red star, and then to flicker and disappear. She could not be sure.... Something chill and steely was in the pocket of her coat--it made a heavy splash in the water when she dropped it. The river could not be so very cold! She wished she could go down like that into forgetfulness. But she couldn't.... Where was Lise now?... It would be so easy just to drop over that parapet and be whirled away, and down and down. Why couldn't she? Well, it was because--because--she was going to have a child. Well, if she had a child to take care of, she would not be so lonely--she would have something to love. She loved it now, as though she felt it quickening within her, she wanted it, to lavish on it all of a starved affection. She seemed actually to feel in her arms its soft little body pressed against her. Claude Ditmar's child! And she suddenly recalled, as an incident of the remote past, that she had told him she wanted it! This tense craving for it she felt now was somehow the answer to an expressed wish which had astonished her. Perhaps that was the reason why she had failed to do what she had tried to do, to shoot Ditmar and herself! It was Ditmar's child, Ditmar's and hers! He had loved her, long ago, and just now--was it just now?--he had said he loved her still, he had wanted to marry her. Then why had she run away from him? Why had she taken the child into outer darkness, to be born without a father,--when she loved Ditmar? Wasn't that one reason why she wanted the child? why, even in her moments of passionate hatred she recalled having been surprised by some such yearning as now came over her? And for an interval, a brief interval, she viewed him with startling clarity. Not because he embodied any ideal did she love him, but because he was what he was, because he had overcome her will, dominated and possessed her, left his mark upon her indelibly. He had been cruel to her, willing to sacrifice her to his way of life, to his own desires, but he loved her, for she had seen, if not heeded in his eyes the look that a woman never mistakes! She remembered it now, and the light in his window glowed again, like a star to guide her back to him. It was drawing her, irresistibly.... The sentry recognized her as she came along the canal. "Mr. Ditmar's gone," he told her. "Gone!" she repeated. "Gone!" "Why, yes, about five minutes after you left he was looking for you--he asked the sergeant about you." "And--he won't be back?" "I guess not," answered the man, sympathetically. "He said good-night." She turned away dully. The strength and hope with which she had been so unexpectedly infused while gazing from the bridge at his window had suddenly ebbed; her legs ached, her feet were wet, and she shivered, though her forehead burned. The world became distorted, people flitted past her like weird figures of a dream, the myriad lights of Faber Street were blurred and whirled in company with the electric signs. Seeking to escape from their confusion she entered a side street leading north, only to be forcibly seized by some one who darted after her from the sidewalk. "Excuse me, but you didn't see that automobile," he said, as he released her. Shaken, she went on through several streets to find herself at length confronted by a pair of shabby doors that looked familiar, and pushing one of them open, baited at the bottom of a stairway to listen. The sound of cheerful voices camp to her from above; she started to climb--even with the help of the rail it seemed as if she would never reach the top of that stairway. But at last she stood in a loft where long tables were set, and at the end of one of these, sorting out spoons and dishes, three women and a man were chatting and laughing together. Janet was troubled because she could not remember who the man was, although she recognized his bold profile, his voice and gestures.... At length one of the women said something in a low tone, and he looked around quickly and crossed the room. "Why, it's you!" he said, and suddenly she recalled his name. "Mr. Insall!" But his swift glance had noticed the expression in her eyes, the sagged condition of her clothes, the attitude that proclaimed exhaustion. He took her by the arm and led her to the little storeroom, turning on the light and placing her in a chair. Darkness descended on her.... Mrs. Maturin, returning from an errand, paused for an instant in the doorway, and ran forward and bent over Janet. "Oh, Brooks, what is it--what's happened to her?" "I don't know," he replied, "I didn't have a chance to ask her. I'm going for a doctor." "Leave her to me, and call Miss Hay." Mrs. Maturin was instantly competent .... And when Insall came back from the drug store where he had telephoned she met him at the head of the stairs. "We've done everything we can, Edith Hay has given her brandy, and gone off for dry clothes, and we've taken all the children's things out of the drawers and laid her on the floor, but she hasn't come to. Poor child,--what can have happened to her? Is the doctor coming?" "Right away," said Insall, and Mrs. Maturin went back into the storeroom. Miss Hay brought the dry clothes before the physician arrived. "It's probably pneumonia," he explained to Insall a little later. "She must go to the hospital--but the trouble is all our hospitals are pretty full, owing to the sickness caused by the strike." He hesitated. "Of course, if she has friends, she could have better care in a private institution just now." "Oh, she has friends," said Mrs. Maturin. "Couldn't we take her to our little hospital at Silliston, doctor? It's only four miles--that isn't much in an automobile, and the roads are good now." "Well, the risk isn't much greater, if you have a closed car, and she would, of course, be better looked after," the physician consented. "I'll see to it at once," said Insall.... CHAPTER XX The Martha Wootton Memorial Hospital was the hobby of an angel alumnus of Silliston. It was situated in Hovey's Lane, but from the window of the white-enameled room in which she lay Janet could see the bare branches of the Common elms quivering to the spring gusts, could watch, day by day, the grass changing from yellow-brown to vivid green in the white sunlight. In the morning, when the nurse opened the blinds, that sunlight swept radiantly into the room, lavish with its caresses; always spending, always giving, the symbol of a loving care that had been poured out on her, unasked and unsought. It was sweet to rest, to sleep. And instead of the stringent monster-cry of the siren, of the discordant clamour of the mill bells, it was sweet yet strange to be awakened by silvertoned chimes proclaiming peaceful hours. At first she surrendered to the spell, and had no thought of the future. For a little while every day, Mrs. Maturin read aloud, usually from books of poetry. And knowing many of the verses by heart, she would watch Janet's face, framed in the soft dark hair that fell in two long plaits over her shoulders. For Janet little guessed the thought that went into the choosing of these books, nor could she know of the hours spent by this lady pondering over library shelves or consulting eagerly with Brooks Insall. Sometimes Augusta Maturin thought of Janet as a wildflower--one of the rare, shy ones, hiding under its leaves; sprung up in Hampton, of all places, crushed by a heedless foot, yet miraculously not destroyed, and already pushing forth new and eager tendrils. And she had transplanted it. To find the proper nourishment, to give it a chance to grow in a native, congenial soil, such was her breathless task. And so she had selected "The Child's Garden of Verses." "I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow"... When she laid down her book it was to talk, perhaps, of Silliston. Established here before the birth of the Republic, its roots were bedded in the soil of a racial empire, to a larger vision of which Augusta Maturin clung: an empire of Anglo-Saxon tradition which, despite disagreements and conflicts--nay, through them--developed imperceptibly toward a sublimer union, founded not on dominion, but on justice and right. She spoke of the England she had visited on her wedding journey, of the landmarks and literature that also through generations have been American birthrights; and of that righteous self-assertion and independence which, by protest and even by war, America had contributed to the democracy of the future. Silliston, indifferent to cults and cataclysms, undisturbed by the dark tides flung westward to gather in deposits in other parts of the land, had held fast to the old tradition, stood ready to do her share to transform it into something even nobler when the time should come. Simplicity and worth and beauty--these elements at least of the older Republic should not perish, but in the end prevail. She spoke simply of these things, connecting them with a Silliston whose spirit appealed to all that was inherent and abiding in the girl. All was not chaos: here at least, a beacon burned with a bright and steady flame. And she spoke of Andrew Silliston, the sturdy colonial prototype of the American culture, who had fought against his King, who had spent his modest fortune to found this seat of learning, believing as he did that education is the cornerstone of republics; divining that lasting unity is possible alone by the transformation of the individual into the citizen through voluntary bestowal of service and the fruits of labour. Samuel Wootton, the Boston merchant who had given the hospital, was Andrew's true descendant, imbued with the same half-conscious intuition that builds even better that it reeks. And Andrew, could he have returns to earth in his laced coat and long silk waistcoat, would still recognize his own soul in Silliston Academy, the soul of his creed and race. "Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore."... Janet drew in a great breath, involuntarily. These were moments when it seemed that she could scarcely contain what she felt of beauty and significance, when the ecstasy and pain were not to be borne. And sometimes, as she listened to Mrs. Maturin's voice, she wept in silence. Again a strange peace descended on her, the peace of an exile come home; if not to remain, at least to know her own land and people before faring forth. She would not think of that faring yet awhile, but strive to live and taste the present--and yet as life flowed back into her veins that past arose to haunt her, she yearned to pour it out to her new friend, to confess all that had happened to her. Why couldn't she? But she was grateful because Mrs. Maturin betrayed no curiosity. Janet often lay watching her, puzzled, under the spell of a frankness, an ingenuousness, a simplicity she had least expected to find in one who belonged to such a learned place as that of Silliston. But even learning, she was discovering, could be amazingly simple. Freely and naturally Mrs. Maturin dwelt on her own past, on the little girl of six taken from her the year after her husband died, on her husband himself, once a professor here, and who, just before his last illness, had published a brilliant book on Russian literature which resulted in his being called to Harvard. They had gone to Switzerland instead, and Augusta Maturin had come back to Silliston. She told Janet of the loon-haunted lake, hemmed in by the Laurentian hills, besieged by forests, where she had spent her girlhood summers with her father, Professor Wishart, of the University of Toronto. There, in search of health, Gifford Maturin had come at her father's suggestion to camp. Janet, of course, could not know all of that romance, though she tried to picture it from what her friend told her. Augusta Wishart, at six and twenty, had been one of those magnificent Canadian women who are most at home in the open; she could have carried Gifford Maturinout of the wilderness on her back. She was five feet seven, modelled in proportion, endowed by some Celtic ancestor with that dark chestnut hair which, because of its abundance, she wore braided and caught up in a heavy knot behind her head. Tanned by the northern sun, kneeling upright in a canoe, she might at a little distance have been mistaken for one of the race to which the forests and waters had once belonged. The instinct of mothering was strong in her, and from the beginning she had taken the shy and delicate student under her wing, recognizing in him one of the physically helpless dedicated to a supreme function. He was forever catching colds, his food disagreed with him, and on her own initiative she discharged his habitant cook and supplied him with one of her own choosing. When overtaken by one of his indispositions she paddled him about the lake with lusty strokes, first placing a blanket over his knees, and he submitted: he had no pride of that sort, he was utterly indifferent to the figure he cut beside his Amazon. His gentleness of disposition, his brilliant conversations with those whom, like her father, he knew and trusted, captivated Augusta. At this period of her life she was awakening to the glories of literature and taking a special course in that branch. He talked to her of Gogol, Turgenief, and Dostoievsky, and seated on the log piazza read in excellent French "Dead Souls," "Peres et Enfants," and "The Brothers Karamazoff." At the end of August he went homeward almost gaily, quite ignorant of the arrow in his heart, until he began to miss Augusta Wishart's ministrations--and Augusta Wishart herself.... Then had followed that too brief period of intensive happiness.... The idea of remarriage had never occurred to her. At eight and thirty, though tragedy had left its mark, it had been powerless to destroy the sweetness of a nature of such vitality as hers. The innate necessity of loving remained, and as time went on had grown more wistful and insistent. Insall and her Silliston neighbours were wont, indeed, gently to rally her on her enthusiasms, while understanding and sympathizing with this need in her. A creature of intuition, Janet had appealed to her from the beginning, arousing first her curiosity, and then the maternal instinct that craved a mind to mould, a soul to respond to her touch.... Mrs. Maturin often talked to Janet of Insall, who had, in a way, long been connected with Silliston. In his early wandering days, when tramping over New England, he used unexpectedly to turn up at Dr. Ledyard's, the principal's, remain for several weeks and disappear again. Even then he, had been a sort of institution, a professor emeritus in botany, bird lore, and woodcraft, taking the boys on long walks through the neighbouring hills; and suddenly he had surprised everybody by fancying the tumble-down farmhouse in Judith's Lane, which he had restored with his own hands into the quaintest of old world dwellings. Behind it he had made a dam in the brook, and put in a water wheel that ran his workshop. In play hours the place was usually overrun by boys.... But sometimes the old craving for tramping would overtake him, one day his friends would find the house shut up, and he would be absent for a fortnight, perhaps for a month--one never knew when he was going, or when he would return. He went, like his hero, Silas Simpkins, through the byways of New England, stopping at night at the farm-houses, or often sleeping out under the stars. And then, perhaps, he would write another book. He wrote only when he felt like writing. It was this book of Insall's, "The Travels of Silas Simpkins", rather than his "Epworth Green" or "The Hermit of Blue Mountain," that Mrs. Maturin chose to read to Janet. Unlike the sage of Walden, than whom he was more gregarious, instead of a log house for his castle Silas Simpkins chose a cart, which he drove in a most leisurely manner from the sea to the mountains, penetrating even to hamlets beside the silent lakes on the Canadian border, and then went back to the sea again. Two chunky grey horses with wide foreheads and sagacious eyes propelled him at the rate of three miles an hour; for these, as their master, had learned the lesson that if life is to be fully savoured it is not to be bolted. Silas cooked and ate, and sometimes read under the maples beside the stone walls: usually he slept in the cart in the midst of the assortment of goods that proclaimed him, to the astute, an expert in applied psychology. At first you might have thought Silos merely a peddler, but if you knew your Thoreau you would presently begin to perceive that peddling was the paltry price he paid for liberty. Silos was in a way a sage--but such a human sage! He never intruded with theories, he never even hinted at the folly of the mortals who bought or despised his goods, or with whom he chatted by the wayside, though he may have had his ideas on the subject: it is certain that presently one began to have one's own: nor did he exclaim with George Sand, "Il n'y a rien de plus betement mechant que l'habitant des petites villes!" Somehow the meannesses and jealousies were accounted for, if not excused. To understand is to pardon. It was so like Insall, this book, in its whimsicality, in its feeling of space and freedom, in its hidden wisdom that gradually revealed itself as one thought it over before falling off to sleep! New England in the early summer! Here, beside the tender greens of the Ipswich downs was the sparkling cobalt of the sea, and she could almost smell its cool salt breath mingling with the warm odours of hay and the pungent scents of roadside flowers. Weathered grey cottages were scattered over the landscape, and dark copses of cedars, while oceanward the eye was caught by the gleam of a lighthouse or a lonely sail. Even in that sandy plain, covered with sickly, stunted pines and burned patches, stretching westward from the Merrimac, Silas saw beauty and colour, life in the once prosperous houses not yet abandoned.... Presently, the hills, all hyacinth blue, rise up against the sunset, and the horses' feet are on the "Boston Road"--or rud, according to the authorized pronunciation of that land. Hardly, indeed, in many places, a "rud" to-day, reverting picturesquely into the forest trail over which the early inland settlers rode their horses or drove their oxen with upcountry produce to the sea. They were not a people who sought the easiest way, and the Boston Road reflects their characters: few valleys are deep enough to turn it aside; few mountains can appal it: railroads have given it a wide berth. Here and there the forest opens out to reveal, on a knoll or "flat," a forgotten village or tavern-stand. Over the high shelf of Washington Town it runs where the air is keen and the lakes are blue, where long-stemmed wild flowers nod on its sunny banks, to reach at length the rounded, classic hills and sentinel mountain that mark the sheep country of the Connecticut.... It was before Janet's convalescence began that Mrs. Maturin had consulted Insall concerning her proposed experiment in literature. Afterwards he had left Silliston for a lumber camp on a remote river in northern Maine, abruptly to reappear, on a mild afternoon late in April, in Augusta Maturin's garden. The crocuses and tulips were in bloom, and his friend, in a gardening apron, was on her knees, trowel in hand, assisting a hired man to set out marigolds and snapdragons. "Well, it's time you were home again," she exclaimed, as she rose to greet him and led him to a chair on the little flagged terrace beside the windows of her library. "I've got so much to tell you about our invalid." "Our invalid!" Insall retorted. "Of course. I look to you to divide the responsibility with me, and you've shirked by running off to Maine. You found her, you know--and she's really remarkable." "Now see here, Augusta, you can't expect me to share the guardianship of an attractive and--well, a dynamic young woman. If she affects you this way, what will she do to me? I'm much too susceptible." "Susceptible" she scoffed. "But you can't get out of it. I need you. I've never been so interested and so perplexed in my life." "How is she?" Insall asked. "Frankly, I'm worried," said Mrs. Maturin. "At first she seemed to be getting along beautifully. I read to her, a little every day, and it was wonderful how she responded to it. I'll tell you about that I've got so much to tell you! Young Dr. Trent is puzzled, too, it seems there are symptoms in the case for which he cannot account. Some three weeks ago he asked me what I made out of her, and I can't make anything--that's the trouble, except that she seems pathetically grateful, and that I've grown absurdly fond of her. But she isn't improving as fast as she should, and Dr. Trent doesn't know whether or not to suspect functional complications. Her constitution seems excellent, her vitality unusual. Trent's impressed by her, he inclines to the theory that she has something on her mind, and if this is so she should get rid of it, tell it to somebody--in short, tell it to me. I know she's fond of me, but she's so maddeningly self-contained, and at moments when I look at her she baffles me, she makes me feel like an atom. Twenty times at least I've almost screwed up my courage to ask her, but when it comes to the point, I simply can't do it." "You ought to be able to get at it, if any one can," said Insall. "I've a notion it may be connected with the strike," Augusta Maturin continued. "I never could account for her being mixed up in that, plunging into Syndicalism. It seemed so foreign to her nature. I wish I'd waited a little longer before telling her about the strike, but one day she asked me how it had come out--and she seemed to be getting along so nicely I didn't see any reason for not telling her. I said that the strike was over, that the millowners had accepted the I.W.W. terms, but that Antonelli and Jastro had been sent to jail and were awaiting trial because they had been accused of instigating the murder of a woman who was shot by a striker aiming at a policeman. It seems that she had seen that! She told me so quite casually. But she was interested, and I went on to mention how greatly the strikers were stirred by the arrests, how they paraded in front of the jail, singing, and how the feeling was mostly directed against Mr. Ditmar, because he was accused of instigating the placing of dynamite in the tenements." "And you spoke of Mr. Ditmar's death?" Insall inquired. "Why yes, I told her how he had been shot in Dover Street by a demented Italian, and if it hadn't been proved that the Italian was insane and not a mill worker, the result of the strike might have been different." "How did she take it?" "Well, she was shocked, of course. She sat up in bed, staring at me, and then leaned back on the pillows again. I pretended not to notice it--but I was sorry I'd said anything about it." "She didn't say anything?" "Not a word." "Didn't you know that, before the strike, she was Ditmar's private stenographer?" "No!" Augusta Maturin exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?" "It never occurred to me to tell you," Insall replied. "That must have something to do with it!" said Mrs. Maturin. Insall got up and walked to the end of the terrace, gazing at a bluebird on the edge of the lawn. "Well, not necessarily," he said, after a while. "Did you ever find out anything about her family?" "Oh, yes, I met the father once, he's been out two or three times, on Sunday, and came over here to thank me for what I'd done. The mother doesn't come--she has some trouble, I don't know exactly what. Brooks, I wish you could see the father, he's so typically unique--if one may use the expression. A gatekeeper at the Chippering Mills!" "A gatekeeper?" "Yes, and I'm quite sure he doesn't understand to this day how he became one, or why. He's delightfully naive on the subject of genealogy, and I had the Bumpus family by heart before he left. That's the form his remnant of the intellectual curiosity of his ancestors takes. He was born in Dolton, which was settled by the original Bumpus, back in the Plymouth Colony days, and if he were rich he'd have a library stuffed with gritty, yellow-backed books and be a leading light in the Historical Society. He speaks with that nicety of pronunciation of the old New Englander, never slurring his syllables, and he has a really fine face, the kind of face one doesn't often see nowadays. I kept looking at it, wondering what was the matter with it, and at last I realized what it lacked--will, desire, ambition,--it was what a second-rate sculptor might have made of Bradford, for instance. But there is a remnant of fire in him. Once, when he spoke of the strike, of the foreigners, he grew quite indignant." "He didn't tell you why his daughter had joined the strikers?" Insall asked. "He was just as much at sea about that as you and I are. Of course I didn't ask him--he asked me if I knew. It's only another proof of her amazing reticence. And I can imagine an utter absence of sympathy between them. He accounts for her, of course; he's probably the unconscious transmitter of qualities the Puritans possessed and tried to smother. Certainly the fires are alight in her, and yet it's almost incredible that he should have conveyed them. Of course I haven't seen the mother." "It's curious he didn't mention her having been Ditmar's stenographer," Insall put in. "Was that reticence?" "I hardly think so," Augusta Maturin replied. "It may have been, but the impression I got was of an incapacity to feel the present. All his emotions are in the past, most of his conversation was about Bumpuses who are dead and buried, and his pride in Janet--for he has a pride--seems to exist because she is their representative. It's extraordinary, but he sees her present situation, her future, with extraordinary optimism; he apparently regards her coming to Silliston, even in the condition in which we found her, as a piece of deserved fortune for which she has to thank some virtue inherited from her ancestors! Well, perhaps he's right. If she were not unique, I shouldn't want to keep her here. It's pure selfishness. I told Mr. Bumpus I expected to find work for her." Mrs. Maturin returned Insall's smile. "I suppose you're too polite to say that I'm carried away by my enthusiasms. But you will at least do me the justice to admit that they are rare and--discriminating, as a connoisseur's should be. I think even you will approve of her." "Oh, I have approved of her--that's the trouble." Mrs. Maturin regarded him for a moment in silence. "I wish you could have seen her when I began to read those verses of Stevenson's. It was an inspirations your thinking of them." "Did I think of them?" "You know you did. You can't escape your responsibility. Well, I felt like--like a gambler, as though I were staking everything on a throw. And, after I began, as if I were playing on some rare instrument. She lay there, listening, without uttering a word, but somehow she seemed to be interpreting them for me, giving them a meaning and a beauty I hadn't imagined. Another time I told her about Silliston, and how this little community for over a century and a half had tried to keep its standard flying, to carry on the work begun by old Andrew, and I thought of those lines, "Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore." That particular application just suddenly, occurred to me, but she inspired it." "You're a born schoolma'am," Insall laughed. "I'm much too radical for a schoolmam," she declared. "No board of trustees would put up with me--not even Silliston's! We've kept the faith, but we do move slowly, Brooks. Even tradition grows, and sometimes our blindness here to changes, to modern, scientific facts, fairly maddens me. I read her that poem of Moody's--you know it:-- 'Here, where the moors stretch free In the high blue afternoon, Are the marching sun and the talking sea.' and those last lines:-- 'But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbour town for thee? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard, ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, While the many broken souls of me Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do?'" "I was sorry afterwards, I could see that she was tremendously excited. And she made me feel as if I, too, had been battened down in that hold and bruised and almost strangled. I often wonder whether she has got out of it into the light--whether we can rescue her." Mrs. Maturin paused. "What do you mean?" Insall asked. "Well, it's difficult to describe, what I feel--she's such a perplexing mixture of old New England and modernity, of a fatalism, and an aliveness that fairly vibrates. At first, when she began to recover, I was conscious only of the vitality--but lately I feel the other quality. It isn't exactly the old Puritan fatalism, or even the Greek, it's oddly modern, too, almost agnostic, I should say,--a calm acceptance of the hazards of life, of nature, of sun and rain and storm alike--very different from the cheap optimism one finds everywhere now. She isn't exactly resigned--I don't say that--I know she can be rebellious. And she's grateful for the sun, yet she seems to have a conviction that the clouds will gather again.... The doctor says she may leave the hospital on Monday, and I'm going to bring her over here for awhile. Then," she added insinuatingly, "we can collaborate." "I think I'll go back to Maine," Insall exclaimed. "If you desert me, I shall never speak to you again," said Mrs. Maturin. "Janet," said Mrs. Maturin the next day, as she laid down the book from which she was reading, "do you remember that I spoke to you once in Hampton of coming here to Silliston? Well, now we've got you here, we don't want to lose you. I've been making inquiries; quite a number of the professors have typewriting to be done, and they will be glad to give their manuscripts to you instead of sending them to Boston. And there's Brooks Insall too--if he ever takes it into his head to write another book. You wouldn't have any trouble reading his manuscript, it's like script. Of course it has to be copied. You can board with Mrs. Case --I've arranged that, too. But on Monday I'm going to take you to my house, and keep you until you're strong enough to walk." Janet's eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "You'll stay?" "I can't," answered Janet. "I couldn't." "But why not? Have you any other plans?" "No, I haven't any plans, but--I haven't the right to stay here." Presently she raised her face to her friend. "Oh Mrs. Maturin, I'm so sorry! I didn't want to bring any sadness here--it's all so bright and beautiful! And now I've made you sad!" It was a moment before Augusta Maturin could answer her. "What are friends for, Janet," she asked, "if not to share sorrow with? And do you suppose there's any place, however bright, where sorrow has not come? Do you think I've not known it, too? And Janet, I haven't sat here all these days with you without guessing that something worries you. I've been waiting, all this time, for you to tell me, in order that I might help you." "I wanted to," said Janet, "every day I wanted to, but I couldn't. I couldn't bear to trouble you with it, I didn't mean ever to tell you. And then--it's so terrible, I don't know what you'll think." "I think I know you, Janet," answered Mrs. Maturin. "Nothing human, nothing natural is terrible, in the sense you mean. At least I'm one of those who believe so." Presently Janet said, "I'm going to have a child." Mrs. Maturin sat very still. Something closed in her throat, preventing her immediate reply. "I, too, had a child, my dear," she answered. "I lost her." She felt the girl's clasp tighten on her fingers. "But you--you had a right to it--you were married. Children are sacred things," said Augusta Maturin. "Sacred! Could it be that a woman like Mrs. Maturity thought that this child which was coming to her was sacred, too? "However they come?" asked Janet. "Oh, I tried to believe that, too! At first--at first I didn't want it, and when I knew it was coming I was driven almost crazy. And then, all at once, when I was walking in the rain, I knew I wanted it to have--to keep all to myself. You understand?" Augusta Maturity inclined her head. "But the father?" she managed to ask, after a moment. "I don't wish to pry, my dear, but does he--does he realize? Can't he help you?" "It was Mr. Ditmar." "Perhaps it will help you to tell me about it, Janet." "I'd--I'd like to. I've been so unhappy since you told me he was dead --and I felt like a cheat. You see, he promised to marry me, and I know now that he loved me, that he really wanted to marry me, but something happened to make me believe he wasn't going to, I saw--another girl who'd got into trouble, and then I thought he'd only been playing with me, and I couldn't stand it. I joined the strikers--I just had to do something." Augusta Maturity nodded, and waited. "I was only a stenographer, and we were very poor, and he was rich and lived in a big house, the most important man in Hampton. It seemed too good to be true--I suppose I never really thought it could happen. Please don't think I'm putting all the blame on him, Mrs. Maturity--it was my fault just as much as his. I ought to have gone away from Hampton, but I didn't have the strength. And I shouldn't have--" Janet stopped. "But--you loved him?" "Yes, I did. For a long time, after I left him, I thought I didn't, I thought I hated him, and when I found out what had happened to me--that night I came to you--I got my father's pistol and went to the mill to shoot him. I was going to shoot myself, too." "Oh!" Mrs. Maturity gasped. She gave a quick glance of sheer amazement at Janet, who did not seem to notice it; who was speaking objectively, apparently with no sense of the drama in her announcement. "But I couldn't," she went on. "At the time I didn't know why I couldn't, but when I went out I understood it was because I wanted the child, because it was his child. And though he was almost out of his head, he seemed so glad because I'd come back to him, and said he'd marry me right away." "And you refused!" exclaimed Mrs. Maturity. "Well, you see, I was out of my head, too, I still thought I hated him --but I'd loved him all the time. It was funny! He had lots of faults, and he didn't seem to understand or care much about how poor people feel, though he was kind to them in the mills. He might have come to understand--I don't know--it wasn't because he didn't want to, but because he was so separated from them, I guess, and he was so interested in what he was doing. He had ambition, he thought everything of that mill, he'd made it. I don't know why I loved him, it wasn't because he was fine, like Mr. Insall, but he was strong and brave, and he needed me and just took me." "One never knows!" Augusta Maturity murmured. "I went back that night to tell him I'd marry him--and he'd gone. Then I came to you, to the soup kitchen. I didn't mean to bother you, I've never quite understood how I got there. I don't care so much what happens to me, now that I've told you," Janet added. "It was mean, not to tell you, but I'd never had anything like this--what you were giving me--and I wanted all I could get." "I'm thankful you did come to us!" Augusta Maturin managed to reply. "You mean--?" Janet exclaimed. "I mean, that we who have been more--fortunate don't look at these things quite as we used to, that the world is less censorious, is growing to understand situations it formerly condemned. And--I don't know what kind of a monster you supposed me to be, Janet." "Oh, Mrs. Maturin!" "I mean that I'm a woman, too, my dear, although my life has been sheltered. Otherwise, what has happened to you might have happened to me. And besides, I am what is called unconventional, I have little theories of my own about life, and now that you have told me everything I understand you and love you even more than I did before." Save that her breath came fast, Janet lay still against the cushions of the armchair. She was striving to grasp the momentous and unlooked-for fact of her friend's unchanged attitude. Then she asked:--"Mrs. Maturin, do you believe in God?" Augusta Maturin was startled by the question. "I like to think of Him as light, Janet, and that we are plants seeking to grow toward Him--no matter from what dark crevice we may spring. Even in our mistakes and sins we are seeking Him, for these are ignorances, and as the world learns more, we shall know Him better and better. It is natural to long for happiness, and happiness is self-realization, and self-realization is knowledge and light." "That is beautiful," said Janet at length. "It is all we can know about God," said Mrs. Maturin, "but it is enough." She had been thinking rapidly. "And now," she went on, "we shall have to consider what is to be done. I don't pretend that the future will be easy, but it will not be nearly as hard for you as it might have been, since I am your friend, and I do not intend to desert you. I'm sure you will not let it crush you. In the first place, you will have something to go on with--mental resources, I mean, for which you have a natural craving, books and art and nature, the best thoughts and the best interpretations. We can give you these. And you will have your child, and work to do, for I'm sure you're industrious. And of course I'll keep your secret, my dear." "But--how?" Janet exclaimed. "I've arranged it all. You'll stay here this spring, you'll come to my house on Monday, just as we planned, and later on you may go to Mrs. Case's, if it will make you feel more independent, and do typewriting until the spring term is over. I've told you about my little camp away up in Canada, in the heart of the wilderness, where I go in summer. We'll stay there until the autumn, until your baby comes, and, after that, I know it won't be difficult to get you a position in the west, where you can gain your living and have your child. I have a good friend in California who I'm sure will help you. And even if your secret should eventually be discovered--which is not probable--you will have earned respect, and society is not as stern as it used to be. And you will always have me for a friend. There, that's the bright side of it. Of course it isn't a bed of roses, but I've lived long enough to observe that the people who lie on roses don't always have the happiest lives. Whenever you want help and advice, I shall always be here, and from time to time I'll be seeing you. Isn't that sensible?" "Oh, Mrs. Maturin--if you really want me--still?" "I do want you, Janet, even more than I did--before, because you need me more," Mrs. Maturin replied, with a sincerity that could not fail to bring conviction.... CHAPTER XXI As the spring progressed, Janet grew stronger, became well again, and through the kindness of Dr. Ledyard, the principal, was presently installed with a typewriter in a little room in an old building belonging to the Academy in what was called Bramble Street, and not far from the Common. Here, during the day, she industriously copied manuscripts' or, from her notebook, letters dictated by various members of the faculty. And she was pleased when they exclaimed delightedly at the flawless copies and failed to suspect her of frequent pilgrimages to the dictionary in the library in order to familiarize herself with the meaning and manner of spelling various academic words. At first it was almost bewildering to find herself in some degree thus sharing the Silliston community life; and an unpremeditated attitude toward these learned ones, high priests of the muses she had so long ignorantly worshipped, accounted perhaps for a great deal in their attitude toward her. Her fervour, repressed yet palpable, was like a flame burning before their altars--a flattery to which the learned, being human, are quick to respond. Besides, something of her history was known, and she was of a type to incite a certain amount of interest amongst these discerning ones. Often, after she had taken their dictation, or brought their manuscripts home, they detained her in conversation. In short, Silliston gave its approval to this particular experiment of Augusta Maturin. As for Mrs. Maturin herself, her feeling was one of controlled pride not unmixed with concern, always conscious as she was of the hidden element of tragedy in the play she had so lovingly staged. Not that she had any compunction in keeping Janet's secret, even from Insall; but sometimes as she contemplated it the strings of her heart grew tight. Silliston was so obviously where Janet belonged, she could not bear the thought of the girl going out again from this sheltered spot into a chaotic world of smoke and struggle. Janet's own feelings were a medley. It was not, of course, contentment she knew continually, nor even peace, although there were moments when these stole over her. There were moments, despite her incredible good fortune, of apprehension when she shrank from the future, when fear assailed her; moments of intense sadness at the thought of leaving her friends, of leaving this enchanted place now that miraculously she had found it; moments of stimulation, of exaltation, when she forgot. Her prevailing sense, as she found herself again, was of thankfulness and gratitude, of determination to take advantage of, to drink in all of this wonderful experience, lest any precious memory be lost. Like a jewel gleaming with many facets, each sunny day was stored and treasured. As she went from Mrs. Case's boarding-house forth to her work, the sweet, sharp air of these spring mornings was filled with delicious smells of new things, of new flowers and new grass and tender, new leaves of myriad shades, bronze and crimson, fuzzy white, primrose, and emerald green. And sometimes it seemed as though the pink and white clouds of the little orchards were wafted into swooning scents. She loved best the moment when the Common came in view, when through the rows of elms the lineaments of those old houses rose before her, lineaments seemingly long familiar, as of old and trusted friends, and yet ever stirring new harmonies and new visions. Here, in their midst, she belonged, and here, had the world been otherwise ordained, she might have lived on in one continuous, shining spring. At the corner of the Common, foursquare, ample, painted a straw colour trimmed with white, with its high chimneys and fan-shaped stairway window, its balustraded terrace porch open to the sky, was the eighteenth century mansion occupied by Dr. Ledyard. What was the secret of its flavour? And how account for the sense of harmony inspired by another dwelling, built during the term of the second Adams, set in a frame of maples and shining white in the morning sun? Its curved portico was capped by a wrought-iron railing, its long windows were touched with purple, and its low garret--set like a deckhouse on the wide roof--suggested hidden secrets of the past. Here a Motley or a Longfellow might have dwelt, a Bryant penned his "Thanatopsis." Farther on, chequered by shade, stood the quaint brick row of professors' houses, with sloping eaves and recessed entrances of granite--a subject for an old English print.... Along the border of the Common were interspersed among the ancient dormitories and halls the new and dignified buildings of plum-coloured brick that still preserved the soul of Silliston. And to it the soul of Janet responded. In the late afternoon, when her tasks were finished, Janet would cross the Common to Mrs. Maturin's--a dwelling typical of the New England of the past, with the dimensions of a cottage and something of the dignity of a mansion. Fluted white pilasters adorned the corners, the windows were protected by tiny eaves, the roof was guarded by a rail; the classically porched entrance was approached by a path between high clipped hedges of hemlock; and through the library, on the right, you reached the flagged terrace beside a garden, rioting in the carnival colours of spring. By September it would have changed. For there is one glory of the hyacinth, of the tulip and narcissus and the jonquil, and another of the Michaelmas daisy and the aster. Insall was often there, and on Saturdays and Sundays he took Mrs. Maturin and Janet on long walks into the country. There were afternoons when the world was flooded with silver light, when the fields were lucent in the sun; and afternoons stained with blue,--the landscape like a tapestry woven in delicate grins on a ground of indigo. The arbutus, all aglow and fragrant beneath its leaves, the purple fringed polygala were past, but they found the pale gold lily of the bellwort, the rust-red bloom of the ginger. In the open spaces under the sky were clouds of bluets, wild violets, and white strawberry flowers clustering beside the star moss all a-shimmer with new green. The Canada Mayflower spread a carpet under the pines; and in the hollows where the mists settled, where the brooks flowed, where the air was heavy with the damp, ineffable odour of growing things, they gathered drooping adder's-tongues, white-starred bloodroots and foam-flowers. From Insall's quick eye nothing seemed to escape. He would point out to them the humming-bird that hovered, a bright blur, above the columbine, the woodpecker glued to the trunk of a maple high above their heads, the red gleam of a tanager flashing through sunlit foliage, the oriole and vireo where they hid. And his was the ear that first caught the exquisite, distant note of the hermit. Once he stopped them, startled, to listen to the cock partridge drumming to its mate.... Sometimes, of an evening, when Janet was helping Mrs. Maturin in her planting or weeding, Insall would join them, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and kneeling beside them in the garden paths. Mrs. Maturin was forever asking his advice, though she did not always follow it. "Now, Brooks," she would say, "you've just got to suggest something to put in that border to replace the hyacinths." "I had larkspur last year--you remember--and it looked like a chromo in a railroad folder." "Let me see--did I advise larkspur?" he would ask. "Oh, I'm sure you must have--I always do what you tell me. It seems to me I've thought of every possible flower in the catalogue. You know, too, only you're so afraid of committing yourself." Insall's comic spirit, betrayed by his expressions, by the quizzical intonations of his voice, never failed to fill Janet with joy, while it was somehow suggestive, too, of the vast fund of his resource. Mrs. Maturin was right, he could have solved many of her questions offhand if he had so wished, but he had his own method of dealing with appeals. His head tilted on one side, apparently in deep thought over the problem, he never answered outright, but by some process of suggestion unfathomable to Janet, and by eliminating, not too deprecatingly, Mrs. Maturin's impatient proposals, brought her to a point where she blurted out the solution herself. "Oriental poppies! How stupid of me not to think of them!" "How stupid of me!" Insall echoed--and Janet, bending over her weeding, made sure they had been in his mind all the while. Augusta Maturin's chief extravagance was books; she could not bear to await her turn at the library, and if she liked a book she wished to own it. Subscribing to several reviews, three English and one American, she scanned them eagerly every week and sent in orders to her Boston bookseller. As a consequence the carved walnut racks on her library table were constantly being strained. A good book, she declared, ought to be read aloud, and discussed even during its perusal. And thus Janet, after an elementary and decidedly unique introduction to worth-while literature in the hospital, was suddenly plunged into the vortex of modern thought. The dictum Insall quoted, that modern culture depended largely upon what one had not read, was applied to her; a child of the new environment fallen into skilful hands, she was spared the boredom of wading through the so-called classics which, though useful as milestones, as landmarks for future reference, are largely mere reminders of an absolute universe now vanished. The arrival of a novel, play, or treatise by one of that small but growing nucleus of twentieth century seers was an event, and often a volume begun in the afternoon was taken up again after supper. While Mrs. Maturin sat sewing on the other side of the lamp, Janet had her turn at reading. From the first she had been quick to note Mrs. Maturin's inflections, and the relics of a high-school manner were rapidly eliminated. The essence of latter-day realism and pragmatism, its courageous determination to tear away a veil of which she had always been dimly aware, to look the facts of human nature in the face, refreshed her: an increasing portion of it she understood; and she was constantly under the spell of the excitement that partially grasps, that hovers on the verge of inspiring discoveries. This excitement, whenever Insall chanced to be present, was intensified, as she sat a silent but often quivering listener to his amusing and pungent comments on these new ideas. His method of discussion never failed to illuminate and delight her, and often, when she sat at her typewriter the next day, she would recall one of his quaint remarks that suddenly threw a bright light on some matter hitherto obscure.... Occasionally a novel or a play was the subject of their talk, and then they took a delight in drawing her out, in appealing to a spontaneous judgment unhampered by pedagogically implanted preconceptions. Janet would grow hot from shyness. "Say what you think, my dear," Mrs. Maturin would urge her. "And remember that your own opinion is worth more than Shakespeare's or Napoleon's!" Insall would escort her home to Mrs. Case's boarding house.... One afternoon early in June Janet sat in her little room working at her letters when Brooks Insall came in. "I don't mean to intrude in business hours, but I wanted to ask if you would do a little copying for me," he said, and he laid on her desk a parcel bound with characteristic neatness. "Something you've written?" she exclaimed, blushing with pleasure and surprise. He was actually confiding to her one of his manuscripts! "Well--yes," he replied comically, eyeing her. "I'll be very careful with it. I'll do it right away." "There's no particular hurry," he assured her. "The editor's waited six months for it--another month or so won't matter." "Another month or so!" she ejaculated,--but he was gone. Of course she couldn't have expected him to remain and talk about it; but this unexpected exhibition of shyness concerning his work--so admired by the world's choicer spirits--thrilled yet amused her, and made her glow with a new understanding. With eager fingers she undid the string and sat staring at the regular script without taking in, at first, the meaning of a single sentence. It was a comparatively short sketch entitled "The Exile," in which shining, winged truths and elusive beauties flitted continually against a dark-background of Puritan oppression; the story of one Basil Grelott, a dreamer of Milton's day, Oxford nurtured, who, casting off the shackles of dogma and man-made decrees, sailed with his books to the New England wilderness across the sea. There he lived, among the savages, in peace and freedom until the arrival of Winthrop and his devotees, to encounter persecution from those who themselves had fled from it. The Lord's Brethren, he averred, were worse than the Lord's Bishops--Blackstone's phrase. Janet, of course, had never heard of Blackstone, some of whose experiences Insall had evidently used. And the Puritans dealt with Grelott even as they would have served the author of "Paradise Lost" himself, especially if he had voiced among them the opinions set forth in his pamphlet on divorce. A portrait of a stern divine with his infallible Book gave Janet a vivid conception of the character of her ancestors; and early Boston, with yellow candlelight gleaming from the lantern-like windows of the wooden, Elizabethan houses, was unforgettably etched. There was an inquisition in a freezing barn of a church, and Basil Grelott banished to perish amid the forest in his renewed quest for freedom.... After reading the manuscript, Janet sat typewriting into the night, taking it home with her and placing it besides her bed, lest it be lost to posterity. By five the next evening she had finished the copy. A gentle rain had fallen during the day, but had ceased as she made her way toward Insall's house. The place was familiar now: she had been there to supper with Mrs. Maturin, a supper cooked and served by Martha Vesey, an elderly, efficient and appallingly neat widow, whom Insall had discovered somewhere in his travels and installed as his housekeeper. Janet paused with her hand on the gate latch to gaze around her, at the picket fence on which he had been working when she had walked hither the year before. It was primly painted now, its posts crowned with the carved pineapples; behind the fence old-fashioned flowers were in bloom, lupins and false indigo; and the retaining wall of blue-grey slaty stone, which he had laid that spring, was finished. A wind stirred the maple, releasing a shower of heavy drops, and she opened the gate and went up the path and knocked at the door. There was no response--even Martha must be absent, in the village! Janet was disappointed, she had looked forward to seeing him, to telling him how great had been her pleasure in the story he had written, at the same time doubting her courage to do so. She had never been able to speak to him about his work and what did her opinion matter to him? As she turned away the stillness was broken by a humming sound gradually rising to a crescendo, so she ventured slowly around the house and into the orchard of gnarled apple trees on the slope until she came insight of a little white building beside the brook. The weathervane perched on the gable, and veering in the wet breeze, seemed like a live fish swimming in its own element; and through the open window she saw Insall bending over a lathe, from which the chips were flying. She hesitated. Then he looked up, and seeing her, reached above his head to pull the lever that shut off the power. "Come in," he called out, and met her at the doorway. He was dressed in a white duck shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of faded corduroy trousers. "I wasn't looking for this honour," he told her, with a gesture of self-deprecation, "or I'd have put on a dinner coat." And, despite her eagerness and excitement, she laughed. "I didn't dare to leave this in the house," she explained. Mrs. Vesey wasn't home. And I thought you might be here." "You haven't made the copy already!" "Oh, I loved doing it!" she replied, and paused, flushing. She might have known that it would be simply impossible to talk to him about it! So she laid it down on the workbench, and, overcome by a sudden shyness, retreated toward the door. "You're not going!" he exclaimed. "I must--and you're busy." "Not at all," he declared, "not at all, I was just killing time until supper. Sit down!" And he waved her to a magisterial-looking chair of Jacobean design, with turned legs, sandpapered and immaculate, that stood in the middle of the shop. "Oh, not in that!" Janet protested. "And besides, I'd spoil it--I'm sure my skirt is wet." But he insisted, thrusting it under her. "You've come along just in time, I wanted a woman to test it--men are no judges of chairs. There's a vacuum behind the small of your back, isn't there? Augusta will have to put a cushion in it." "Did you make it for Mrs. Maturin? She will be Pleased!" exclaimed Janet, as she sat down. "I don't think it's uncomfortable." "I copied it from an old one in the Boston Art Museum. Augusta saw it there, and said she wouldn't be happy until she had one like it. But don't tell her." "Not for anything!" Janet got to her feet again. "I really must be going." "Going where?" "I told Mrs. Maturin I'd read that new book to her. I couldn't go yesterday--I didn't want to go," she added, fearing he might think his work had kept her. "Well, I'll walk over with you. She asked me to make a little design for a fountain, you know, and I'll have to get some measurements." As they emerged from the shop and climbed the slope Janet tried to fight off the sadness that began to invade her. Soon she would have to be leaving all this! Her glance lingered wistfully on the old farmhouse with its great centre chimney from which the smoke was curling, with its diamond-paned casements Insall had put into the tiny frames. "What queer windows!" she said. "But they seem to go with the house, beautifully." "You think so?" His tone surprised her; it had a touch more of earnestness than she had ever before detected. "They belong to that type of house the old settlers brought the leaded glass with them. Some people think they're cold, but I've arranged to make them fairly tight. You see, I've tried to restore it as it must have been when it was built." "And these?" she asked, pointing to the millstones of different diameters that made the steps leading down to the garden. "Oh, that's an old custom, but they are nice," he agreed. "I'll just put this precious manuscript inside and get my foot rule," he added, opening the door, and she stood awaiting him on the threshold, confronted by the steep little staircase that disappeared into the wall half way up. At her left was the room where he worked, and which once had been the farmhouse kitchen. She took a few steps into it, and while he was searching in the table drawer she halted before the great chimney over which, against the panel, an old bell-mouthed musket hung. Insall came over beside her. "Those were trees!" he said. "That panel's over four feet across, I measured it once. I dare say the pine it was cut from grew right where we are standing, before the land was cleared to build the house." "But the gun?" she questioned. "You didn't have it the night we came to supper." "No, I ran across it at a sale in Boston. The old settler must have owned one like that. I like to think of him, away off here in the wilderness in those early days." She thought of how Insall had made those early days live for her, in his story of Basil Grelott. But to save her soul, when with such an opening, she could not speak of it. "He had to work pretty hard, of course," Insall continued, "but I dare say he had a fairly happy life, no movies, no Sunday supplements, no automobiles or gypsy moths. His only excitement was to trudge ten miles to Dorset and listen to a three hour sermon on everlasting fire and brimstone by a man who was supposed to know. No wonder he slept soundly and lived to be over ninety!" Insall was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes stilt seemingly fixed on the musket that had suggested his remark--a pose eloquent, she thought, of the mental and physical balance of the man. She wondered what belief gave him the free mastery of soul and body he possessed. Some firm conviction, she was sure, must energise him yet she respected him the more for concealing it. "It's hard to understand such a terrible religion!" she cried. "I don't see how those old settlers could believe in it, when there are such beautiful things in the world, if we only open our eyes and look for them. Oh Mr. Insall, I wish I could tell you how I felt when I read your story, and when Mrs. Maturin read me those other books of yours." She stopped breathlessly, aghast at her boldness--and then, suddenly, a barrier between them seemed to break down, and for the first time since she had known him she felt near to him. He could not doubt the sincerity of her tribute. "You like them as much as that, Janet?" he said, looking at her. "I can't tell you how much, I can't express myself. And I want to tell you something else, Mr. Insall, while I have the chance--how just being with you and Mrs. Maturin has changed me. I can face life now, you have shown me so much in it I never saw before." "While you have the chance?" he repeated. "Yes." She strove to go on cheerfully, "Now I've said it, I feel better, I promise not to mention it again. I knew--you didn't think me ungrateful. It's funny," she added, "the more people have done for you-when they've given you everything, life and hope,--the harder it is to thank them." She turned her face away, lest he might see that her eyes were wet. "Mrs. Maturin will be expecting us." "Not yet," she heard him say, and felt his hand on her arm. "You haven't thought of what you're doing for me." "What I'm doing for you!" she echoed. "What hurts me most, when I think about it, is that I'll never be able to do anything." "Why do you say that?" he asked. "If I only could believe that some day I might be able to help you--just a little--I should be happier. All I have, all I am I owe to you and Mrs. Maturin." "No, Janet," he answered. "What you are is you, and it's more real than anything we could have put into you. What you have to give is --yourself." His fingers trembled on her arm, but she saw him smile a little before he spoke again. "Augusta Maturin was right when she said that you were the woman I needed. I didn't realize it then perhaps she didn't--but now I'm sure of it. Will you come to me?" She stood staring at him, as in terror, suddenly penetrated by a dismay that sapped her strength, and she leaned heavily against the fireplace, clutching the mantel-shelf. "Don't!" she pleaded. "Please don't--I can't." "You can't!... Perhaps, after a while, you may come to feel differently --I didn't mean to startle you," she heard him reply gently. This humility, in him, was unbearable. "Oh, it isn't that--it isn't that! If I could, I'd be willing to serve you all my life--I wouldn't ask for anything more. I never thought that this would happen. I oughtn't to have stayed in Silliston." "You didn't suspect that I loved you?" "How could I? Oh, I might have loved you, if I'd been fortunate--if I'd deserved it. But I never thought, I always looked up to you--you are so far above me!" She lifted her face to him in agony. "I'm sorry--I'm sorry for you--I'll never forgive myself!" "It's--some one else?" he asked. "I was--going to be married to--to Mr. Ditmar," she said slowly, despairingly. "But even then--" Insall began. "You don't understand!" she cried. "What will you think of me?--Mrs. Maturin was to have told you, after I'd gone. It's--it's the same as if I were married to him--only worse." "Worse!" Insall repeated uncomprehendingly.... And then she was aware that he had left her side. He was standing by the window. A thrush began to sing in the maple. She stole silently toward the door, and paused to look back at him, once to meet his glance. He had turned. "I can't--I can't let you go like this!" she heard him say, but she fled from him, out of the gate and toward the Common.... When Janet appeared, Augusta Maturin was in her garden. With an instant perception that something was wrong, she went to the girl and led her to the sofa in the library. There the confession was made. "I never guessed it," Janet sobbed. "Oh, Mrs. Maturin, you'll believe me--won't you?" "Of course I believe you, Janet," Augusta Maturity replied, trying to hide her pity, her own profound concern and perplexity. "I didn't suspect it either. If I had--" "You wouldn't have brought me here, you wouldn't have asked me to stay with you. But I was to blame, I oughtn't to have stayed, I knew all along that something would happen--something terrible that I hadn't any right to stay." "Who could have foreseen it!" her friend exclaimed helplessly. "Brooks isn't like any other man I've ever known--one can never tell what he has in mind. Not that I'm surprised as I look back upon it all!" "I've hurt him!" Augusta Maturity was silent awhile. "Remember, my dear," she begged, "you haven't only yourself to think about, from now on." But comfort was out of the question, the task of calming the girl impossible. Finally the doctor was sent for, and she was put to bed.... Augusta Maturity spent an agonized, sleepless night, a prey of many emotions; of self-reproach, seeing now that she had been wrong in not telling Brooks Insall of the girl's secret; of sorrow and sympathy for him; of tenderness toward the girl, despite the suffering she had brought; of unwonted rebellion against a world that cheated her of this cherished human tie for which she had longed the first that had come into her life since her husband and child had gone. And there was her own responsibility for Insall's unhappiness--when she recalled with a pang her innocent sayings that Janet was the kind of woman he, an artist, should marry! And it was true--if he must marry. He himself had seen it. Did Janet love him? or did she still remember Ditmar? Again and again, during the summer that followed, this query was on her lips, but remained unspoken.... The next day Insall disappeared. No one knew where he had gone, but his friends in Silliston believed he had been seized by one of his sudden, capricious fancies for wandering. For many months his name was not mentioned between Augusta Maturity and Janet. By the middle of June they had gone to Canada.... In order to reach the camp on Lac du Sablier from the tiny railroad station at Saint Hubert, a trip of some eight miles up the decharge was necessary. The day had been when Augusta Maturity had done her share of paddling and poling, with an habitant guide in the bow. She had foreseen all the needs of this occasion, warm clothes for Janet, who was wrapped in blankets and placed on cushions in the middle of a canoe, while she herself followed in a second, from time to time exclaiming, in a reassuring voice, that one had nothing to fear in the hands of Delphin and Herve, whom she had known intimately for more than twenty years. It was indeed a wonderful, exciting, and at moments seemingly perilous journey up the forested aisle of the river: at sight of the first roaring reach of rapids Janet held her breath--so incredible did it appear that any human power could impel and guide a boat up the white stairway between the boulders! Was it not courting destruction? Yet she felt a strange, wild delight in the sense of danger, of amazement at the woodsman's eye that found and followed the crystal paths through the waste of foam.... There were long, quiet stretches, hemmed in by alders, where the canoes, dodging the fallen trees, glided through the still water... No such silent, exhilarating motion Janet had ever known. Even the dipping paddles made no noise, though sometimes there was a gurgle, as though a fish had broken the water behind them; sometimes, in the shining pools ahead, she saw the trout leap out. At every startling flop Delphin would exclaim: "Un gros!" From an upper branch of a spruce a kingfisher darted like an arrow into the water, making a splash like a falling stone. Once, after they had passed through the breach of a beaver dam, Herve nodded his head toward a mound of twigs by the bank and muttered something. Augusta Maturin laughed. "Cabane de castor, he says--a beaver cabin. And the beavers made the dam we just passed. Did you notice, Janet, how beautifully clean those logs had been cut by their sharp teeth?" At moments she conversed rapidly with Delphin in the same patois Janet had heard on the streets of Hampton. How long ago that seemed! On two occasions, when the falls were sheer, they had to disembark and walk along little portages through the green raspberry bushes. The prints of great hooves in the black silt betrayed where wild animals had paused to drink. They stopped for lunch on a warm rock beside a singing waterfall, and at last they turned an elbow in the stream and with suddenly widened vision beheld the lake's sapphire expanse and the distant circle of hills. "Les montagnes," Herve called them as he flung out his pipe, and this Janet could translate for herself. Eastward they lay lucent in the afternoon light; westward, behind the generous log camp standing on a natural terrace above the landing, they were in shadow. Here indeed seemed peace, if remoteness, if nature herself might bestow it. Janet little suspected that special preparations had been made for her comfort. Early in April, while the wilderness was still in the grip of winter, Delphin had been summoned from a far-away lumber camp to Saint Hubert, where several packing-cases and two rolls of lead pipe from Montreal lay in a shed beside the railroad siding. He had superintended the transportation of these, on dog sledges, up the frozen decharge, accompanied on his last trip by a plumber of sorts from Beaupre, thirty miles down the line; and between them they had improvised a bathroom, and attached a boiler to the range! Only a week before the arrival of Madame the spring on the hillside above the camp had been tapped, and the pipe laid securely underground. Besides this unheard-of luxury for the Lac du Sablier there were iron beds and mattresses and little wood stoves to go in the four bedrooms, which were more securely chinked with moss. The traditions of that camp had been hospitable. In Professor Wishart's day many guests had come and gone, or pitched their tents nearby; and Augusta Maturin, until this summer, had rarely been here alone, although she had no fears of the wilderness, and Delphin brought his daughter Delphine to do the housework and cooking. The land for miles round about was owned by a Toronto capitalist who had been a friend of her father, and who could afford as a hobby the sparing of the forest. By his permission a few sportsmen came to fish or shoot, and occasionally their campfires could be seen across the water, starlike glows in the darkness of the night, at morning and evening little blue threads of smoke that rose against the forest; "bocane," Delphin called it, and Janet found a sweet, strange magic in these words of the pioneer. The lake was a large one, shaped like an hourglass, as its name implied, and Augusta Maturin sometimes paddled Janet through the wide, shallow channel to the northern end, even as she had once paddled Gifford. Her genius was for the helpless. One day, when the waters were high, and the portages could be dispensed with, they made an excursion through the Riviere des Peres to the lake of that name, the next in the chain above. For luncheon they ate the trout Augusta caught; and in the afternoon, when they returned to the mouth of the outlet, Herve, softly checking the canoe with his paddle, whispered the word "Arignal!" Thigh deep in the lush grasses of the swamp was an animal with a huge grey head, like a donkey's, staring foolishly in their direction--a cow moose. With a tremendous commotion that awoke echoes in the forest she tore herself from the mud and disappeared, followed by her panic-stricken offspring, a caricature of herself.... By September the purple fireweed that springs up beside old camps, and in the bois brute, had bloomed and scattered its myriad, impalpable thistledowns over crystal floors. Autumn came to the Laurentians. In the morning the lake lay like a quicksilver pool under the rising mists, through which the sun struck blinding flashes of light. A little later, when the veil had lifted, it became a mirror for the hills and crags, the blue reaches of the sky. The stinging air was spiced with balsam. Revealed was the incredible brilliance of another day,--the arsenic-green of the spruce, the red and gold of the maples, the yellow of the alders bathing in the shallows, of the birches, whose white limbs could be seen gleaming in the twilight of the thickets. Early, too early, the sun fell down behind the serrated forest-edge of the western hill, a ball of orange fire.... One evening Delphin and Herve, followed by two other canoes, paddled up to the landing. New visitors had arrived, Dr. McLeod, who had long been an intimate of the Wishart family, and with him a buxom, fresh-complexioned Canadian woman, a trained nurse whom he had brought from Toronto. There, in nature's wilderness, Janet knew the supreme experience of women, the agony, the renewal and joy symbolic of nature herself. When the child was bathed and dressed in the clothes Augusta Maturin herself had made for it, she brought it into the room to the mother. "It's a daughter," she announced. Janet regarded the child wistfully. "I hoped it would be a boy," she said. "He would have had--a better chance." But she raised her arms, and the child was laid in the bed beside her. "We'll see that she has a chance, my dear," Augusta Maturin replied, as she kissed her. Ten days went by, Dr. McLeod lingered at Lac du Sablier, and Janet was still in bed. Even in this life-giving air she did not seem to grow stronger. Sometimes, when the child was sleeping in its basket on the sunny porch, Mrs. Maturin read to her; but often when she was supposed to rest, she lay gazing out of the open window into silver space listening to the mocking laughter of the loons, watching the ducks flying across the sky; or, as evening drew on, marking in the waters a steely angle that grew and grew--the wake of a beaver swimming homeward in the twilight. In the cold nights the timbers cracked to the frost, she heard the owls calling to one another from the fastnesses of the forest, and thought of life's inscrutable mystery. Then the child would be brought to her. It was a strange, unimagined happiness she knew when she felt it clutching at her breasts, at her heart, a happiness not unmixed with yearning, with sadness as she pressed it to her. Why could it not remain there always, to comfort her, to be nearer her than any living thing? Reluctantly she gave it back to the nurse, wistfully her eyes followed it.... Twice a week, now, Delphin and Herve made the journey to Saint Hubert, and one evening, after Janet had watched them paddling across the little bay that separated the camp from the outlet's mouth, Mrs. Maturin appeared, with an envelope in her hand. "I've got a letter from Brooks Insall, Janet," she said, with a well-disguised effort to speak naturally. "It's not the first one he's sent me, but I haven't mentioned the others. He's in Silliston--and I wrote him about the daughter." "Yes," said Janet. "Well--he wants to come up here, to see you, before we go away. He asks me to telegraph your permission." "Oh no, he mustn't, Mrs. Maturin!" "You don't care to see him?" "It isn't that. I'd like to see him if things had been different. But now that I've disappointed him--hurt him, I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his kindness." After a moment Augusta Maturin handed Janet a sealed envelope she held in her hand. "He asked me to give you this," she said, and left the room. Janet read it, and let it fall on the bedspread, where it was still lying when her friend returned and began tidying the room. From the direction of the guide's cabin, on the point, came the sounds of talk and laughter, broken by snatches of habitant songs. Augusta Maturin smiled. She pretended not to notice the tears in Janet's eyes, and strove to keep back her own. "Delphin and Herve saw a moose in the decharge," she explained. "Of course it was a big one, it always is! They're telling the doctor about it." "Mrs. Maturin," said Janet, "I'd like to talk to you. I think I ought to tell you what Mr. Insall says." "Yes, my dear," her friend replied, a little faintly, sitting down on the bed. "He asks me to believe what--I've done makes no difference to him. Of course he doesn't put it in so many words, but he says he doesn't care anything about conventions," Janet continued slowly. "What I told him when he asked me to marry him in Silliston was a shock to him, it was so --so unexpected. He went away, to Maine, but as soon as he began to think it all over he wanted to come and tell me that he loved me in spite of it, but he felt he couldn't, under the circumstances, that he had to wait until--now. Although I didn't give him any explanation, he wants me to know that he trusts me, he understands--it's because, he says, I am what I am. He still wishes to marry me, to take care of me and the child. We could live in California, at first--he's always been anxious to go there, he says." "Well, my dear?" Augusta Maturin forced herself to say at last. "It's so generous--so like him!" Janet exclaimed. "But of course I couldn't accept such a sacrifice, even if--" She paused. "Oh, it's made me so sad all summer to think that he's unhappy because of me!" "I know, Janet, but you should realize, as I told you in Silliston, that it isn't by any deliberate act of your own, it's just one of those things that occur in this world and that can't be foreseen or avoided." Augusta Maturin spoke with an effort. In spite of Janet's apparent calm, she had never been more acutely aware of the girl's inner suffering. "I know," said Janet. "But it's terrible to think that those things we unintentionally do, perhaps because of faults we have previously committed, should have the same effect as acts that are intentional." "The world is very stupid. All suffering, I think, is brought about by stupidity. If we only could learn to look at ourselves as we are! It's a stupid, unenlightened society that metes out most of our punishments and usually demands a senseless expiation." Augusta Maturin waited, and presently Janet spoke again. "I've been thinking all summer, Mrs. Maturin. There was so much I wanted to talk about with you, but I wanted to be sure of myself first. And now, since the baby came, and I know I'm not going to get well, I seem to see things much more clearly." "Why do you say you're not going to get well, Janet? In this air, and with the child to live for!" "I know it. Dr. McLeod knows it, or he wouldn't be staying here, and you've both been too kind to tell me. You've been so kind, Mrs. Maturin --I can't talk about it. But I'm sure I'm going to die, I've really known it ever since we left Silliston. Something's gone out of me, the thing that drove me, that made me want to live--I can't express what I mean any other way. Perhaps it's this child, the new life--perhaps I've just been broken, I don't know. You did your best to mend me, and that's one thing that makes me sad. And the thought of Mr. Insall's another. In some ways it would have been worse to live--I couldn't have ruined his life. And even if things had been different, I hadn't come to love him, in that way--it's queer, because he's such a wonderful person. I'd like to live for the child, if only I had the strength, the will left in me--but that's gone. And maybe I could save her from--what I've been through." Augusta Maturin took Janet's hand in hers. "Janet," she said, "I've been a lonely woman, as you know, with nothing to look forward to. I've always wanted a child since my little Edith went. I wanted you, my dear, I want your child, your daughter--as I want nothing else in the world. I will take her, I will try to bring her up in the light, and Brooks Insall will help me...." 
41242	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) [Transcribers notes: Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained. Unusual spellings in dialogue have also been retained. Page 147 "." added ("BISHOP HARDBROOKE.") Page 170 "And" replacing "nd" ("And now a living thing.") Page 198 "." added ("EGERTON.") Page 252 "Harry" replacing "arry" ("HARRY EGERTON.") Page 259 "." added ("Bishop Hardbrooke.") Page 259 "." added ("We have been busy.")] THE AMERICANS THE AMERICANS By EDWIN DAVIES SCHOONMAKER NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY 1913 COPYRIGHT 1913 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY PRESS OF J. J. LITTLE & IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK TO MY FATHER AND MY BROTHER FRANK AUTHOR'S NOTE The drama here published is logically the third in a series of racial dramas, as follows: 1. _The Saxons_ 2. _The Slavs_ 3. _The Americans_ 4. _The Hindoos_ Of this series _The Saxons_, dealing with man's struggle for religious liberty, has already been published. For reasons that need not be given, it has been thought best to postpone _The Slavs_, which will present man's battle for political liberty, and offer _The Americans_, the theme of which is the industrial conflict that is now raging. _The Hindoos_, a drama of spiritual unfoldment, will come in its order. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA J. DONALD EGERTON Lumber king and mill-owner AUGUSTUS JERGENS A partner SAM WILLIAMS Leader of the strikers GENERAL CHADBOURNE In command of the State Militia CAPTAIN HASKELL Second in command REV. EZRA HARDBROOKE Bishop of the Diocese JOHN. W. BRADDOCK Governor of the State RALPH ARDSLEY Editor of the Foreston Courier CHIEF OF POLICE Coöperating with the Militia GEORGE EGERTON Son of Donald Egerton HARRY EGERTON Son of Donald Egerton HARVEY ANDERSON Former cowboy and Rough Rider BUCK BENTLEY One of the Militia WES DICEY A walking delegate JIM KING Supporter of Dicey ROME MASTERS Supporter of Dicey CAP SAUNDERS An old miner BILL PATTEN Striker, off in search of work SILAS MAURY Striker, off in search of work WILLIE MAURY Son of Silas Maury MARY EGERTON Wife of Donald Egerton GLADYS EGERTON Daughter of Donald Egerton SYLVIA ORR Friend of Mrs. Egerton A chauffeur, a butler, a doctor, a nurse, two maids, two detectives, two sentries, strikers, strike-breakers, militiamen, guests at the reception, etc. A land is not its timber but its people, And not its Art, my father, but its men. --HARRY EGERTON. THE AMERICANS ACT I THE MINE _Scene: On the mountains in a timber region of north-western America. In every direction, as far as the eye can see, a wilderness of stumps with piles of brush black with age and sinking from sheer rottenness into the ground. Here and there a dead pine stands up high against the horizon. In the distance, left, cleaving the range and extending on back under an horizon of cold gray clouds, is seen the line of a river of which this whole region is apparently the watershed, for everywhere the land slopes toward it. In the remote distance, beyond the river, innumerable bare buttes, and beyond these a gray stretch of plains. Down the mountains, left, six or seven miles away, the river loops in and a portion of a town is seen upon its banks. At this end of the town, upon a hill overlooking the river, a large white mansion conspicuous for the timber about it. At the farther end, a huge red saw-mill occupies the centre of a vast field of yellow lumber piles, the tall black stack of the mill clearly outlined against the gray of the land beyond._ _Back, a hundred yards or so, a road, evidently constructed years ago when the logs were being taken out, comes up on the flats from the direction of the town, turns sharply to the right and goes toward the ridge. Beyond this road, just at the curve, standing out among the stumps, an old stationary engine eaten up with rust and an abandoned logging-wagon, the hind part resting upon the ground, the two heavy wheels lying upon it. Farther back a small cabin falling into decay. Here and there patches of creeping vines and rank grass cover the ground, hiding in some places to a considerable depth the bases of the stumps. But to the left, where it is evident a steep slope plunges down, and also in the foreground, are open spaces with boulders and, scattered about under a thin loam of rotted needles and black cones, the outlines of a few flat stones. In the immediate foreground, left, a huge boulder, weighing possibly four or five tons, barely hangs upon the slope, ready at any moment, one would think, to slip and plunge down._ _Two men, Cap Saunders and Harvey Anderson, the latter down left, the former to the right and farther back, are slowly coming forward. Each has a camping outfit, a roll of blankets, etc., upon his back, and carries in his hands a plaster cast of what would seem to be a cross-section of a log. It is about two feet in diameter and three inches thick. As they come along they try the casts on the various stumps and carefully turn them about to see if they fit, then chip the stump with a hatchet to indicate that it has been tried._ _Time: The evening of a day early in November in the present time._ HARVEY ANDERSON. And say two dollars profit on each log. CAP SAUNDERS. That's low enough. HARVEY ANDERSON. Suppose a man could walk Over the mountains with a great big sack And pick two silver dollars from each stump. It's forty miles to where the trees begin, And on each side the river eight or ten. Think what he'd have. CAP SAUNDERS. He's made work for them, Harvey. HARVEY ANDERSON. Have millions, wouldn't he? Cap Saunders. I suppose he would. But where would this land be? There'd be no homes. And what are forests for but to cut down? HARVEY ANDERSON. You wouldn't hear him say, 'Now, Harvey, you Go in and get your sack full; I'll stay out'; Or 'Now it's your turn, Cap.' Not on your life. He'd walk his legs off, but he'd have them all. Or what's more likely, he'd let others walk, And send his wagons out and get the sacks And have them brought in to him. CAP SAUNDERS. For myself I'd rather be out here though on the mountains Than live in his big mansion. HARVEY ANDERSON. So would I. But that don't mean I'd rather tramp the flats Picking up dollars for some other man. And I suppose the mill-boys feel the same. CAP SAUNDERS. A fellow has to do the best he can. If he can stake himself, then off, I say, And pan for his own self. That's been my way. Sometimes I've struck pay dirt and sometimes not. And then I'd go and dig for a month or two For the other boys until I'd got my stake---- HARVEY ANDERSON. Here is another like the one back there; Goes half way round as clean as anything; And the bark seems the same; but on this side---- CAP SAUNDERS. (_Who has left his cast and is hurrying forward excitedly_) Hold her a minute! HARVEY ANDERSON. No, it don't fit, Cap. The same old finger width it's always been. When the curve matches, then there's some damn knot; And when the knot's not there, it's something else. No, you can't stretch it. Now it's this side; see? 'Twas best the way I had it. There you are. Might as well mark her. CAP SAUNDERS. It's a close miss, sure. It's like the one I found upon the ridge Week before last. HARVEY ANDERSON. The place where it don't match Is always on the side that you don't see Until your heart's jumped up. (_Chips the stump_) That ends the day. CAP SAUNDERS. I think I'll work a while. (_Starts back_) HARVEY ANDERSON. The sun's gone down. CAP SAUNDERS. I haven't heard the whistle of the mill. HARVEY ANDERSON. Nor like to. CAP SAUNDERS. Ah! I keep forgetting that. When a man's heard her blow for years and years He can't be always thinking that she's stopped. I wonder how the strike is getting on. HARVEY ANDERSON. As everything gets on that's Egerton's. He'll cut them down as he's cut down the trees. (_Sits upon a stump and looks off up the valley, then turns and watches the old man busy with his cast_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Your old bones must be tired, Cap. CAP SAUNDERS. How so? HARVEY ANDERSON. How long have you been hunting for this thing? CAP SAUNDERS. Before this search, you mean? HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes. CAP SAUNDERS. Off and on, Thirty or forty years. HARVEY ANDERSON. And won't give up? CAP SAUNDERS. Not till I'm dead. HARVEY ANDERSON. You ought to have been an ox. You've got the wrong form, Cap. You think you'd be As patient if the prize was for yourself? CAP SAUNDERS. When one's been on a trail for years and years It ain't the game he cares for; it's the chase. And like as not when he's brought down the buck He'll leave the carcass lying on the rocks, Taking a piece or two, then off again. As for what's done with it, I don't care that. But I would like to know where that tree stood. HARVEY ANDERSON. And you think the boys down there should be the same, The boys that saw the dollars from the logs, Sacking the silver up, be satisfied To have him take the silver, leaving them The bark on either side? CAP SAUNDERS. I don't say that. HARVEY ANDERSON. Give me the carcass when you find it, Cap, And you can have the chase. I'd like to know For one time in my life just how it feels To have your pockets full and taste the towns. And I think the boys that saw the logs down there Are more like me, Cap, than they are like you. (_Picks up his cast and comes forward_) CAP SAUNDERS. Egerton ain't a-holdin' them. They can go If they ain't satisfied. HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes, they can go. They're like the red men, they can always go. (_In an open space in the foreground he puts his things down upon the ground. He goes right to a pile of brush, pulls out a black limb, and proceeds to break it across his knee, throwing the pieces in a little heap upon the ground_) They've got a Mayor down there, I suppose. What if he said, 'If you don't like my way, If you ain't satisfied, there's the road off there?' Or say the lad we've got in Washington-- What if he said, 'If you don't like my way, There's ships there in the harbor?' Think we'd leave? You've had your eyes, Cap, on the ground so long That you've forgotten there's such things as men. (_The old man comes down to the stump which he and Anderson tried earlier in the scene. Anderson picks up his kindling and goes left and proceeds to start a fire. The night gathers quickly_) CAP SAUNDERS. (_Trying the stump_) Be careful, Harvey, or they'll see the flame And think it's found already. HARVEY ANDERSON. I don't care. 'Twould serve them right. CAP SAUNDERS. They're watching at this hour. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'Now we've got millions!' then say 'April Fool.' God, I don't blame them though; I'd do it too. (_Picks up a blanket and, sticking pieces of brush in the ground, hangs it between the fire and the town_) CAP SAUNDERS. Aug. Jergens he'd be mighty mad, I tell you. HARVEY ANDERSON. If I could put men out, you bet I would. And when I found the gold I'd make her fly. You wouldn't catch me quarrelling with a lot Of fellows for the bones, I tell you that. I'd take a rump or two, then say, 'Light in And fill your bellies'; or, 'Come on; I'm rich; Let's take a turn together.' And I'd buy A train or two and we'd all take a spin Around the world. I'd make their hair stand up. I'd show those eastern fellows once or twice. (_Goes left and climbs up on the boulder and looks back over the waste_) CAP SAUNDERS. (_Coming forward_) You'll have that rolling down if you don't mind. HARVEY ANDERSON. And that's one reason I'll be always broke, For I know how to spend, while Egerton And Jergens and those fellows down there don't, In spite of their big houses. They know how To quarrel with men and squeeze their last dime out, But they don't know how to say, 'By God, come on; Let's have a drink together; we're all friends.' (_The old man busies himself about the fire, preparing the evening meal. Anderson sits down on the boulder and looks off up the valley. Where the town was seen, lights begin to appear_) HARVEY ANDERSON. You'll wake up some day, Cap, and look about And Harvey will be gone. CAP SAUNDERS. You don't mean that! You ain't took no offence at what I said? HARVEY ANDERSON. Mad as the Devil, Cap. CAP SAUNDERS. Don't you know, Harvey, About the rolling stone? HARVEY ANDERSON. There's some stones, Cap, Would rather have the motion than the moss. CAP SAUNDERS. You're sure a wild one, Harvey; that you are. You'd stir a muss up, that's what you would do. (_Goes to the boulder and stands beside Anderson, and they both look off up the valley_) HARVEY ANDERSON. The mansion all lit up--what's going on? (_They are silent_) It's a strange world, Cap, it's a funny world. You throw a piece of bread down; it draws ants, Red ants and black ants, little ants and big, And if you'll keep it up you'll have them here Building their hills about you; you know that. CAP SAUNDERS. (_Returning to the fire_) It's wonderful how much some men can do. HARVEY ANDERSON. Well, men are ants, and Egerton he's had bread. And he's kept throwing it down there in the valley, First crumb by crumb and later chunk by chunk, Until he's drawn them round him, thousands of them, And when they've come he's put them all to work. And to see them at it! I could spend my life Sitting upon the mountains on some rock That hangs above the town, watching them drudge. 'Get me my logs out;' and they get his logs. 'Now saw them; make me lumber;' and they do it, 'Build me my railroad;' and they blast the rocks. 'Now up with my big mansion on the hill, And carve me all my ants upon the walls, Some sawing logs, others with axes raised Hard at the big round boles, some half cut down; Make her look like a forest through and through.' And they've tugged at it till they've got it done. And all they've chopped and sawed and built is his, And he puts it in his pocket and sits down And they can't help themselves. They've got to eat, And Egerton he's the man that's---- (_He has risen and stands looking back through the darkness_) CAP SAUNDERS. What do you say, Harvey, let's spend the night back in the cabin. It ain't the cold I mind, but from the air I wouldn't be surprised if it would snow. HARVEY ANDERSON. By God, Cap! CAP SAUNDERS. Eh? HARVEY ANDERSON. Looks like the boys had found it. CAP SAUNDERS. You don't, don't say! (_Goes to the boulder_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Off there, beyond the knob. (_Bill Patten comes through the darkness, rear right. He looks about, then spies the men_) BILL PATTEN. You got some grub that you can spare, boys? (_Goes near the men and gets their line of vision_) That? It's the moon rising. CAP SAUNDERS. Ah, I'm glad, I'm glad! HARVEY ANDERSON. Against the sky it looked like some far fire. (_Gets down from the boulder_) BILL PATTEN. You're of the force that's huntin' for the mine? HARVEY ANDERSON. That's 'hunting' for it, yes. BILL PATTEN. You'll find it. HARVEY ANDERSON. Why? BILL PATTEN. Egerton's luck. (_Calls back_) O Silas! (_To Anderson_) 'Tain't no use A-fightin' that old wolf or 'spectin' God To put his hand between J. D. and gold. He's got a devil that takes care of him. (_Silas Maury and his son Willie, a boy of twelve or thirteen, enter rear_) BILL PATTEN. And the same devil blacks Aug. Jergens' boots. I'd like to get that man in some lone spot. (_They sit down. The workmen seize food and eat ravenously_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Mill-hands? (_Patten nods_) How's the strike? BILL PATTEN. I ain't a man To show the white while there's a chance to win. SILAS MAURY. They've got till sun-down to report for work. BILL PATTEN. They'll feel like dogs, too, goin' in that gate, After the bluff they've made, lickin' his hand. Me for some other town. I'd rather starve. SILAS MAURY. They're 'ranging to bring in a lot of scabs To-morrow, when the Governor will be there. BILL PATTEN. Much as to say, 'Now knock 'em!' Son of a bitch! HARVEY ANDERSON. The Governor? CAP SAUNDERS. What's the trouble? BILL PATTEN. Cakes and pies. SILAS MAURY. It's Egerton's big reception. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To Cap Saunders_) Explains the lights. They're getting things in shape. SILAS MAURY. Yes. (_He and Anderson walk a little way left and look back toward the mansion_) BILL PATTEN. When the boys First talked of strikin' when they made the cut I said, 'Don't do it. Egerton's a man-- You'd better fight the Devil than fight him. He'll show no mercy on you if you cross him.' I guess they know by now that Bill was right. Sam Williams though he thinks he knows. 'Hang on.' All right, hang on; but you will see what comes. It's hell. I'd rather die out on some rock. SILAS MAURY. There ain't no room for poor men in this world. I don't know what God ever made us for. (_He and Anderson return to the fire_) BILL PATTEN. The man that's got no home's a lucky man. SILAS MAURY. I said to Willie, 'I'm glad mother's dead.' (_A pause_) WILLIE MAURY. Think she can see us, pa? SILAS MAURY. I don't think so. BILL PATTEN. She's better off. SILAS MAURY. That's true. I hope she can't. She died a-thinkin' Willie would be rich Some day, if they ever found the mine. BILL PATTEN. (_Bitterly_) Give 'em your apples and expect the core. SILAS MAURY. It came so quick, though, Bill; he didn't think. BILL PATTEN. If he had just kept still and called to Chris And had him help and roll the log aside And then at night let some of us men know, We could have slipped it out and hidden it, And gone to Egerton and said, 'See here, We've found the log that you've been lookin' for These years and haven't found it----' CAP SAUNDERS. You don't mean---- BILL PATTEN. 'And if you'll do the square thing we'll cough up; If not, we'll go and find the mine ourselves.' CAP SAUNDERS. You don't mean 'twas the boy that found the log! SILAS MAURY. Willie here found it. CAP SAUNDERS. Well, well, well! H-u-rrah! Hurrah, I say! (_Throws his hat into the air. Harry Egerton comes through the darkness rear right_) CAP SAUNDERS. If I could call the men, Call up the men, my son, who've spent their lives Tryin' to get a peep of that there trunk-- You hear that, boys, you up there in the air? BILL PATTEN. He'd come to terms, all right, you bet your life. HARRY EGERTON. Good evening, men. I'm turned around a bit, Or seem to be. Just where is Foreston? HARVEY ANDERSON. You see those lights down there? (_He walks back, left. Harry Egerton joins him, going across rear_) HARRY EGERTON. That's east? HARVEY ANDERSON. Correct. HARRY EGERTON. And how far am I from it? HARVEY ANDERSON. About six miles. HARRY EGERTON. From Foreston, I mean? HARVEY ANDERSON. Six miles or more. HARRY EGERTON. So far! (_He walks back a little way, then stops and looks off up the valley. Harvey Anderson comes forward and begins to break some brush to replenish the fire_) CAP SAUNDERS. Who is it, Harvey? HARVEY ANDERSON. I don't know. CAP SAUNDERS. And it had the sign cut in the bark, eh? SILAS MAURY. Yes. WILLIE MAURY. Two X's and a spade. CAP SAUNDERS. That's it, that's it! 'Two X's and a spade, then dig nine feet.' There's two bits, son. How did it happen, dad? SILAS MAURY. It came up into the mill with the other logs, Lookin' just like 'em, but Willie spied the sign-- WILLIE MAURY. Just as it was goin' into the saws. SILAS MAURY. And shouted to Chris Knudson. Chris shut down; There was a crowd; and then Aug. Jergens come And had it hauled away. CAP SAUNDERS. If you and me Had been out here, son, when all these were trees And you'd a-spied that sign, I tell you what, I'd hung some nuggets round this little neck. HARVEY ANDERSON. You'd better wait until the moon comes out. It's a rough road back there. HARRY EGERTON. There is a road? HARVEY ANDERSON. A logging road. HARRY EGERTON. (_Coming forward, notices the casts upon the ground_) You're searching for the mine? HARVEY ANDERSON. Cap and I here. These men are from the mill. HARRY EGERTON. (_With interest_) From the mill down in Foreston, you mean? HARVEY ANDERSON. Leaving in search of work. HARRY EGERTON. Are things so bad Down at the mill, my friends, that you must leave? Are others leaving? Have the men gone back? (_The men glare at him_) CAP SAUNDERS. They'll have to soon, they say; their grub's give out. HARVEY ANDERSON. The Company has given them till to-morrow night To come to work or be shut out for good. HARRY EGERTON. Have they brought in more men? HARVEY ANDERSON. They're arranging to. HARRY EGERTON. I do not see, friends, what you hope to gain By leaving Foreston and wandering off In search of work. In the first place I know, As you perhaps do not, that Egerton Has given orders to the neighboring plants To take on no more men until this strike Is settled, till it's won. And, as you know, For forty miles around the mills are his, The camps are his. And where his power ends, Others begin that work in harmony With Egerton and Company. They are one, And have an understanding in some things Far more than you suspect. (_Patten and Maury rise and walk aside and whisper together_) And they all know Whatever be the outcome of this strike The effect of it will reach them all at last. If you men win, mill-workers everywhere Will take new heart and stand for better things. But if the Company wins, others will say-- And with no little weight--'We cannot pay The present scale of wages and compete With Egerton and Company.' So it will go Until the farthest mill in all this land Puts in its hand and takes a ten per cent Out of the wages of its workingmen. And there's no power on earth that can prevent it. (_Willie Maury rises and joins his father and Patten_) But even were this not true, were places open, The same conditions would confront you there As now confront you here. At any time Those who employ you have you in their power And can reduce your wages when they choose, Lay on you what conditions they see fit, And you must either yield or be turned forth To wander on again. I do not know Whether you men have families or not, But others have, and their cause is your own. You cannot wander on for evermore, Picking up here and there a chance day's work And hoping that to-morrow things will change, For changes do not come except through men. (_The men return to the fire_) And so I do not see just what it is You hope to gain by leaving Foreston. You cannot spend your lives on highways, friends. Where will you go? Have you some place in mind? BILL PATTEN. It's none of your damn business where we go. We don't wear no man's collar. SILAS MAURY. Bill is right. BILL PATTEN. Nor Egerton's, nor no man's on this earth. HARRY EGERTON. I beg your pardon, friends, I did not mean---- BILL PATTEN. We're twenty-one years old and we're free men. HARRY EGERTON. I did not mean you had no right to go. You have. BILL PATTEN. You bet we have. SILAS MAURY. You can't get men And want to scare us back, that's what you want, Talkin' as how the mills will shut us out. HARRY EGERTON. I have no wish to scare you back, my friend. BILL PATTEN. Then what's your proposition? HARRY EGERTON. I have none. BILL PATTEN. Come up to shake hands, eh, and say, Good-bye? HARRY EGERTON. I chanced upon you here. BILL PATTEN. 'Chanced' hell! We know. SILAS MAURY. If it's my rent you're after, if it's that, I think you might at least let that much go For what my boy did, findin' of the log. HARRY EGERTON. Friends, you misunderstand me if you think That I am here to speak for any man, Or round you up, or lift one hand to stay Your coming or your going. You are free And can do what you please. BILL PATTEN. You bet we can, For all your bayonets. HARRY EGERTON. _My_ bayonets? BILL PATTEN. Yes. SILAS MAURY. Think we don't know you, eh? HARRY EGERTON. I do not know, I do not know what I can say to you. I understand just how you---- SILAS MAURY. (_Plucks him by the sleeve and points off up the valley_) There's your home, Off there in that big mansion on the hill. Go there and live your life; you're none of us. HARRY EGERTON. My father is my father; I am I. (_The men prepare to leave. Cap Saunders rises and begins to pack up the things_) HARRY EGERTON. We do not choose the gates through which we come Into this world, my friends. Nor you nor I Selected who should cradle us nor what home Should give us shelter. 'Tis what we do that counts, Not whence we come. Do not misjudge me, friends. Because I am a son of Egerton Deny me not the right to be a man. SILAS MAURY. You wear our sweat in your fine clothes all right. HARRY EGERTON. I wear, my friend, what my own hands have earned. Where will you go? SILAS MAURY. We'll go where we can find---- BILL PATTEN. Don't tell him, Si. Don't you see through his game? Keeps askin' where we're goin'. Don't you see? He's a spy of the Company. HARRY EGERTON. Ah, you do not know Why I am here. God knows I did not come---- WILLIE MAURY. Thought we wouldn't know him. SILAS MAURY. Poor men are fools. WILLIE MAURY. He's been Doggin' our footsteps. BILL PATTEN. You've been followin' us To find out where---- CAP SAUNDERS. Don't quarrel, men. BILL PATTEN. It's a good thing Your old man crushed me till I pawned my gun, Or, God, I'd kill you. Do you understand? HARRY EGERTON. Hold on there, pard. BILL PATTEN. So he could have the mills Blacklist us. Curse you! And curse all your kind! You've ground us down until we're dogs, damn you. SILAS MAURY. Come sneakin' round to---- HARRY EGERTON. Friend, I did not come To spy on any man or seek you out Here on the mountains. For my hope has been---- BILL PATTEN. We'll blow you up some day, you mark my word. HARRY EGERTON. That never one of you would leave the ranks In your great struggle in the valley there, But that you would stand fast, and somehow win In spite of everything, starvation, death. And I have done all that I could to help you. But you, my friends, O you must understand, As there are some things that you cannot do, So there are things I cannot. CAP SAUNDERS. Get the pot. (_The boy picks up the coffee pot_) HARRY EGERTON. How I came here I do not know myself. Some Power has led me though I know not why. I half remember that I could not sleep For voices round me in my father's hall, And rose and wandered forth, fleeing from something That seemed to follow me across the waste, A sighing and a thundering of men. All day, it seems, I've wandered over the mountains And all last night. Then from afar I spied Your fire here and came to learn my way. SILAS MAURY. Your way lies that way and our way lies this. (_Patten, Maury, Cap Saunders and the boy go off through the darkness, right rear_) HARVEY ANDERSON. You must be hungry, pard. HARRY EGERTON. No, thank you, no, Nothing to eat. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'Tain't much, but what it is You're welcome to it. HARRY EGERTON. (_Calling after the men_) And you will go away And leave this great cause hanging in mid air? VOICE OF SILAS MAURY. Tend to your business and we'll tend to ours. HARVEY ANDERSON. Don't mind them; they're damn fools. HARRY EGERTON. _You_ understand What I have tried to say unto these men; You understand, I know. HARVEY ANDERSON. I think I do. HARRY EGERTON. And something tells me we shall meet again. HARVEY ANDERSON. Who knows? I'm tramping round, to-day one place, To-morrow another. I'm a rolling stone. I never have been one to keep the trails. Just knock about the States and watch the plains For something--I don't know--and yet 'twill come, And when she comes she'll shake her good and hard. I don't know what you're rolling in your mind, But, as you say, it's a great land we've got. I like to lie and feel her under my back And know she tumbles to the double seas Up to her hips in mile on mile of wheat. Beyond that moon are cities packed with men That overflow. The fields are filling up. They're climbing up the mountains of the West---- HARRY EGERTON. (_Looking after the men_) And going on beyond them. HARVEY ANDERSON. It's all right. They'll reach the coast off there or reach the ice, And then they'll have to turn or jump on off. And they won't jump off. It's too fine a land. Men throw away the hoofs but not the haunch. I sometimes see them in the dead of night Crawling like ants along her big broad back, With axe and pick and plow, building their hills And pushing on and on. It's a great land. And bread tastes good that's eaten in her air. And there's enough for all here---- HARRY EGERTON. Yes, ah, yes! HARVEY ANDERSON. If we could just turn something upside down. I don't know what you've heard along the waste, But when you think it's time to ring a change, And when you draft your men and call the roll, Write Harvey Anderson up near the top. And here's my hand, pard. You can count on me. HARRY EGERTON. We'll meet again. HARVEY ANDERSON. Hope so. I like your face, And like the way you talk. Good-night. HARRY EGERTON. Good-night. (_Harvey Anderson takes up his pack and cast and goes off through the darkness after the other men. For a long time Harry Egerton stands looking after him. The fire has burned low_) HARRY EGERTON. Not that, not that! And yet I know 'twill come. My God! my God! Is there no way, no way? (_Walks left and looks off up the valley_) My father! O my father! (_He breaks out crying and, staggering about, falls first upon his knees, then face forward upon the ground. Instantly it becomes pitch dark_) THE DREAM VISION (_During the following, a shaft of light, falling upon Harry Egerton, shows him lying near the boulder. As he cries out, he partially rises, his form and face convulsed with anguish_) FIRST VOICE. (_From up the mountain, full of pleasure_) Harry! Harry! Come to the heights! SECOND VOICE. (_From the valley, full of sorrow_) Harry! Harry! Come to the valley! THIRD VOICE. (_From far back, full of peace_) Harry! Harry! plunge into the darkness, The abysses and the waterfalls and silence! THE THREE VOICES. (_In chorus_) We are Realities! We are Realities! VOICE. (_From above_) One life to live! FIRST VOICE. Come to me, Harry! SECOND AND THIRD VOICES. She will grow old. VOICE. (_From above_) One life to live! SECOND VOICE. Come to me, Harry! FIRST AND THIRD VOICES. You cannot help them; you've no power. VOICE. (_From above_) One life to live! THIRD VOICE. Come to me, Harry! FIRST VOICE. (_Gayly_) Fool! fool! SECOND VOICE. You cannot die; there is no death. VOICE. (_From above_) Decide! HARRY EGERTON. My God! VOICE. (_From above_) Decide! HARRY EGERTON. My God! VOICE. (_As of a drunkard singing_) If you was in the gutter, Bill, And I was on the roof---- VOICES. You're going mad! You're going mad! HARRY EGERTON. Mother! mother! (_Presently, about twenty feet up in the rear and on either side, faint lights begin to appear and faint sounds of music are heard. Gradually the lights brighten a little and the sounds of music become more and more audible until one becomes conscious that on the left an orchestra is playing and to the right a piano. One also becomes conscious of a vast and beautiful hall over the floor of which, as the music plays, the forms of dancers are gliding. Occasionally from here and there flashes a sparkle as of diamonds, and low rippling laughter is heard. In the foreground for a space of twelve or fifteen feet, cut off from the main hall by the faintest outlines of an immense arch, small groups of elderly people stand about watching the dancers, or saunter right and left into the adjoining apartments. In these apartments also people are seen moving about, and there is a hum of voices as of men and women in conversation. At no time does it become very light, and all that passes seems to pass in a dim shadow world._ _It is sufficiently light, however, to enable one to discern the grotesque richness of the hall which, as one sees at a glance, is an elaborate representation of a pine forest, the boles of the trees standing out in beautiful irregularity along the walls, the boughs above in the semi-darkness seeming to disappear in some sort of cathedral roof. There, all about, singly and in clusters, innumerable small globes as though the cones were illuminated. Between the trees, also in relief and life-sized, figures of men at work getting out timber. Forward right, teams dragging logs, and, on the opposite wall, a distant view of a river with rafts floating down. Standing on stumps, huge figures support the arched doorways, of which there is one in the rear wall right, and one centre in each of the side walls. Left rear, the grand staircase with the glow of some hidden lamp shining upon the landing. Here the carved scene upon the wall is that of an inclined trestle-work, with logs going up apparently into some mill above. Below, crouched upon the newel-post and the lower rail, the carved figure of a large mountain lion with a frosted light in its open mouth. Forward from the arched doorway, left, there is no wall from about four feet up, and through this open space, faintly illumined by small hidden lamps, a greenness as of palms and flowers._ _The music ceases and the couples break up. Later, the piano begins again, and just inside the main hall Gladys Egerton, in low décolleté and holding her skirts above her ankles, appears dancing ravishingly to the music of the piano_) FIRST LADY. Isn't she charming! SECOND LADY. And that's George that's playing. (_Holding her skirts high the girl executes a graceful high kick and there is a clapping of hands_) MEN'S VOICES. Bravo! bravo! Once more like that, my kitten! THIRD LADY. Dear, you may have my Chester! (_Laughter_) FOURTH LADY. You dance superbly. GLADYS EGERTON. I'll take your husband. (_Continues dancing_) MRS. EGERTON. Why, Gladys Egerton! A MAN'S VOICE. Just any time you want him, Gladys. GLADYS EGERTON. All right. A MAN. (_Appearing forward right_) Ladies, the Governor is telling stories. Out of politeness let's give him a crowd. (_Some of the ladies start right, others begin to move about_) FIFTH LADY. She'd make a good catch. SIXTH LADY. Either she or George would. THIRD LADY. (_Calling aloud_) Here is another! Now there are thirteen of us. (_Laughter_) FOURTH LADY. There you're on my toes. Marjorie's after George. SIXTH LADY. Your Marge, my dear---- (_Glances in the direction of Mrs. Egerton, then whispers_) Your Marge may have the other. FOURTH LADY. Thank you, dear Mrs. Casper, we'll have--gander. (_Laughter. They go out right_) SEVENTH LADY. To have a son like that! EIGHTH LADY. Yes, what a pity. NINTH LADY. He hasn't anything like the grace of George. SEVENTH LADY. Nor the accomplishments. EIGHTH LADY. Nor the education. SEVENTH LADY. He belongs down in the mill among the men. EIGHTH LADY. One would have thought, though, at the first reception-- If only for his mother's sake. SEVENTH LADY. That's true. NINTH LADY. How old she looks to-night. GLADYS EGERTON. (_Who has been skipping to the music, whirls in from the main hall_) Mother is old. NINTH LADY. I did not mean for you to overhear that. GLADYS EGERTON. O that's all right. We always do that way. (_Continues dancing_) If you had on your heart what mother has You'd look old, too. EIGHTH LADY. What did she mean by that? GLADYS EGERTON. Leave us alone here just a little while. (_The women go out right_) GLADYS EGERTON. Mother! MRS. EGERTON. Yes, darling. GLADYS EGERTON. Mother, where is Harry? (_Dances_) MRS. EGERTON. I do not know. GLADYS EGERTON. It's very embarrassing. People are whispering. Mother, has no word come? MRS. EGERTON. Have you asked your father? GLADYS EGERTON. Yes. (_Dances_) Mother, I'm sure Something has happened to him. MRS. EGERTON. Don't, my child, Don't say that. GLADYS EGERTON. (_Mysteriously_) Why? MRS. EGERTON. Go, child; people are watching us. GLADYS EGERTON. _I_ know why! _I_ know why! (_Dances_) Let go! let go! MRS. EGERTON. And please tell Donald that I'm waiting for him. GLADYS EGERTON. You're going after flowers, mother; _I_ know. MRS. EGERTON. Flowers, my child? What for? GLADYS EGERTON. For Harry's grave. MRS. EGERTON. Why Gladys, Gladys Egerton! GLADYS EGERTON. (_Whirling back into the main hall_) _I_ know. (_She disappears into the conservatory, left. Alone, Mrs. Egerton stands a pathetic figure. She walks back into the deserted hall and stops and listens as though to the upper part of the walls. She then turns slowly and comes forward again. George Egerton enters quickly from the conservatory_) GEORGE EGERTON. Mother! MRS. EGERTON. Yes, George. GEORGE EGERTON. This is disgraceful, mother. MRS. EGERTON. I cannot help it, George. GEORGE EGERTON. Where did he go? MRS. EGERTON. I've told you, George. Now please don't bother me. GEORGE EGERTON. People are whispering. MRS. EGERTON. But what can I do? GEORGE EGERTON. Call to them that he's up in bed with fever, Or say that he was brought home from the river drowned. MRS. EGERTON. (_Calling aloud_) It's none of your business, people! Harry's my son. (_She comes forward_) GEORGE EGERTON. That wasn't what I said. You are just like him. (_He turns back and re-enters the conservatory. Mrs. Egerton passes into the room forward right. The lights in the hall become dimmer_) VOICES. (_From the walls_) Sam! Sam! Sam! (_There is a silence, then a sigh as of innumerable voices, then a silence and another sigh and still another_) HARRY EGERTON. My father! O my father! (_From the conservatory comes a sound of laughter, and a beautiful girl runs in. A moment later the bloom of a large white chrysanthemum is thrown in after her. A young man enters. Other couples come in. George Egerton, evidently master of ceremonies, moves about here and there. A tuning of instruments is heard. People come from the side rooms. When all is in readiness, while the dancers, who have taken their positions, stand waiting for the music to begin, the sighing is again heard_) GEORGE EGERTON. (_Exasperated by the delay_) What's the matter there, Melazzini? (_Excusing himself to his partner, he goes toward the conservatory, where the orchestra is stationed. As the sigh is repeated the couples gather together. At the third sigh they scatter, some of them running out through the middle door right, others hurrying forward, one or two of the girls laughing hysterically_) GEORGE EGERTON. It's just the wind that's blowing through somewhere. (_The people disappear into the apartment right. Charles, the butler, and two maids, badly frightened, come in rear_) GEORGE EGERTON. Close that door, Charles. CHARLES. There's no door open, sir. (_The four come forward, the butler and maids briskly, George Egerton more slowly and with a sort of defiance. They, too, pass out right_) VOICES. (_From the walls_) Sam! Sam! Sam! (_The sighs are repeated_) HARRY EGERTON. My father! O my father! (_The mountain lion upon the newel-post spits the light from his mouth and it breaks upon the floor. The monster then gets down_) LION. Chris! A VOICE. Yes. LION. Mike! A VOICE. Here. LION. Wes Dicey! A VOICE. Sure. HARRY EGERTON. (_As though a roll were being called_) Harvey Anderson! LION. Whose voice was that? A VOICE. Who's Harvey Anderson? SECOND VOICE. There's some spy here. LION. Come down, comrades! VOICES. (_Above_) We're fast! we're fast! Nails in our hands and feet! THIRD VOICE. Who's that? VOICES. (_Below_) They've danced upon my face! And mine! And mine! And mine! And mine! And mine! A VOICE. I've been a door-jamb years and years! VOICES. (_From round the walls_) We've held these arches up for ages! VOICES. (_From far below_) We're the foundations! Help us, comrades! Down on the rock here--deeper! deeper! VOICES. Help us, Sam Williams! Help us, Sam Williams! LION. Come down, comrades! VOICES. (_From far away_) We're the windows! They made us sand, then made us shine! We've touched their faces and their hair! VOICES. (_From up the stairs_) We're coming, and there's thousands of us! VOICES. (_Far up_) We're holding up the roof! LION. Come down! You've held her up too long already! (_There has been a pounding of hammers and a creaking as of timbers being loosened. Sighs and groans fill the hall. The lights burn unsteadily, flashing or going out or glowing with a tint of blue_) VOICES. Help us, Sam Williams! Help _us_! Help _us_! OTHER VOICES. Let 'em alone! They're scabs! They're scabs! (_Carven figures, still rigid, come from the walls. From everywhere they come, in the most fantastic postures, some hopping with one leg lifted, some gliding with raised axes, others bent and in pairs carrying cross-cut saws, still others with peavies in their hands. Up through the floor all round come dark figures with torches in their caps. Stealthily and with muffled voices they gather about the Lion. Suddenly the pounding ceases and all is still_) A VOICE. He's coming, and the Powers are with him! SECOND VOICE. Justice is all we want! SEVERAL VOICES. Right! Right! LION. Are we one, comrades? ALL. We're one! We're one! A VOICE. Ask him to release us, Sam! (_Donald Egerton, with Governor Braddock and Bishop Hardbrooke at his heels, comes hurriedly through the centre door right_) DONALD EGERTON. (_Peering about, sees the Figures_) What does this mean? Back to the walls! LION. We are the walls! FIGURES. We are the walls! DONALD EGERTON. I made you what you are! LION. That's true! And we made you! FIGURES. And we made you! LION. We made each other! You are our father and we your mother! FIGURES. That's true! That's true! LION. And now make us as we made you! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Be careful, Colonel Egerton. See that one there with axe uplifted! DONALD EGERTON. Braddock, as a citizen of this commonwealth I call upon you to enforce the laws! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. My friends and fellow citizens. This is unwise, this course you are pursuing, And cannot in the end but injure you. The laws were made for these disputes, And you like others must obey. LION. He made the laws! FIGURES. He made the laws! DONALD EGERTON. Hear that, Braddock! This is anarchy! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. I urge you to go peaceably to your homes! LION. Our homes? FIGURES. What homes? LION. We have no homes! (_Egerton says something to the Governor_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Then by the---- BISHOP HARDBROOKE. One moment, brother Egerton; One moment, Governor; let me say a word. (_Steps toward the Figures_) My brothers, If hunger hath driven you here, then know I speak For one whose self was hungry, Jesus Christ; Yet was he meek and lamb-like. Why do you not Go to those places that have been prepared By charitable, Christian men and women For this very purpose, to relieve distress? If you are worthy you will there be fed. FIGURES. Whited sepulchre! He's a whited sepulchre! (_They advance toward him_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. How dare you, armed with Labor's sacred tools Which our Lord's father sanctified when he Wrought at his wood in Nazareth, how dare you, With envy in your hearts, on murder bent, Intrude upon the quiet social hour Of honorable, law-abiding men? God sees you with your axes lifted there. And though you fear not law nor anything Of man, fear God, for he hath power And he can reach you in the uttermost Parts of the earth or air, as David saith. FIGURES. The rich man's friend! The rich man's friend! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Then by the power vested in me---- FIGURES. We are the power! We are the power! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. As Governor of this commonwealth I will call out the military! FIGURES. We are the military! We are the military! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. (_Calls_) General Chadbourne! PEOPLE. (_Who have been peering in forward right_) Chadbourne! Chadbourne! (_Egerton and the Bishop follow the Governor out centre right, and the people disappear_) FIGURES. (_Aloud_) Release, release us from this spell! LION. Release yourselves! FIGURES. (_With tremendous surprise_) We can! We can! (_There are shouts and a thunder of tools falling upon the floor_) SHOUTS. We're free! We're free! OTHER SHOUTS. And seize the throats that nailed us fast! HARRY EGERTON. Forget the past! Forget the past! SHOUTS. An enemy! He's an enemy! HARRY EGERTON. Release your brothers! SHOUTS. To hell with the scabs! (_They rush through the house, right_) VOICE OF DONALD EGERTON. Fire on them! VOICE OF MRS. EGERTON. No, no, Donald! Shed no blood! Think of their children! VOICE OF DONALD EGERTON. Fire, I say! MEN'S VOICES. We are your fathers and your brothers! A DEEP VOICE. Fire! (_A pause_) CRIES. Treason! Treason! THE DEEP VOICE. Shoot them down! (_Shots are heard and noises as of a riot_) HARRY EGERTON. My God! My God! (_The noises die away. In the darkness the walls are heard sighing_) HARRY EGERTON. My father! O my father! (_A pause_) VOICE. (_Forward right, in the darkness_) It's mine! SECOND VOICE. It's mine! FIRST VOICE. Let go that hand! SECOND VOICE. I had it first! FIRST VOICE. Hain't you the rubies? (_Sounds of quarrelling here and there_) THIRD VOICE. (_Centre right_) Shut up your mouths! You'll have the police here! VOICES. (_From the walls_) Brothers, help! We're fast! We're fast! FOURTH VOICE. Pick up the rug, Pete! Let's be off! (_Forms of men loaded with the spoil of the mansion are seen hurrying out left_) VOICES. (_Entering right_) 'Tain't fair! 'Tain't fair! FIFTH VOICE. (_Left_) Make for the river! SIXTH VOICE. Sam, this ain't fair! SAM. (_Entering right_) Hold on there, comrades! VOICES. Some's got it all and some ain't none! SAM. Put down that stuff! CRIES. That's right! That's right! An equal divvy! An equal divvy! OTHER CRIES. No, no, you don't! That's mine! That's ours! SAM. Comrades, we're one! CRIES. (_Of those who have nothing_) We're one! We're one! OTHER CRIES. (_Of those with their arms full_) Every man for himself! Every man for himself! (_Sounds of scuffling and fighting_) CRIES. Let loose, God damn you! Knock him down! (_The sounds die away left_) CRIES. (_Far left_) 'Tain't fair! 'Tain't fair! (_The walls are heard sighing_) VOICE. (_From above_) Who will go down Where all is sorrow, woe, and strife, Where unshaped things are jostling into life? Who will go down? HARRY EGERTON. I will. VOICE OF MRS. EGERTON. (_Full of anguish_) Harry! Harry! (_There is a thundering and crashing in the darkness_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Quickly staggering to his knees, then to his feet_) Here! here! Mother! mother! (_Instantly the darkness disappears. Morning is breaking over the mountains_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Looks about. Clasps his head in his hands_) Horrible! horrible! HARRY EGERTON. (_Sees the ashes of the fire. Recalls the incidents of the early night_) And went away. (_Notices that the boulder is gone. Looks down the slope, left_) The boulder thundering down the steep. I must have slept upon the ground. Ah, what is this? (_Gets down on his knees where the boulder lay_) The Mine! _The Mine!_ THE MINE! ACT II THE MILL _Scene: A street showing, right, the great lumber plant of the Egerton Company. Centre, occupying the greater part of the space between left and right, a sort of common, overstrewn, as such places usually are, with sawdust and waste sawings of the mill, extends back a hundred yards or so to where the river sweeps in from behind a rising slope on the left and disappears behind the high fence of the mill-yard on the right. Across the river, right, the same denuded mountains as were seen in the preceding Act, and, centre, the alluvial stretches of the valley widening out into the plains. Left rear, on this side of the river, a sort of hill comes in and upon its rather steep slope are rows of roughly built plank houses which have evidently been standing many years. They are all of one design and rest in the rear upon the ground, the front being propped up on posts, in some cases six or eight feet high. Of two or three of these shacks it would seem that the occupants had tried to have a garden, for here and there are small green patches as of late turnips, also tall stakes with withered bean vines clinging to them. From the numerous footpaths that come down toward the mill-gate it is evident that these shacks are the homes of the employees of the Egerton Company. The mill-yard on the right is surrounded by a high board-fence. New planks have recently been put in here and there, and on top of the fence, apparently just strung, are several rows of bright new barbed wire. Over the top of the fence and through the open gates of the driveway which is in the corner, a portion of the latter having been cut off for this purpose, are seen countless lumber stacks, and beyond these, far back and facing left, a section of an enormous mill. Along the comb of the roof, doubtless running its full length, is a large red sign with white letters of which one sees only: RTON AND CO._ _Before the entrance to the mill-yard two of the State militia with rifles upon their shoulders patrol the property, one of them pacing right and left along the street in the foreground, the other backwards and forwards in the open space that goes toward the river. About twenty feet from the entrance stands a large red automobile, under which, stretched upon his back, lies the chauffeur, with his hands up fixing something._ _As the Scene opens, the two sentries, one of them rolling a cigarette, the other with his gun behind his head and with his arms hanging over it, stand listening back toward the mill, where a number of voices are singing, 'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night.' When the song is finished a cheer goes up._ _Time: The afternoon of the next day about four o'clock._ FIRST SENTRY. All I say is, keep your tobacco dry And don't go wiring the folks at home To have your supper warm to-morrow night. CHAUFFEUR. They'll be to work, all right, you take my word. FIRST SENTRY. There's such a thing as eating words until Your belly cries for something solider. CHAUFFEUR. (_Pointing toward the mill_) You see that smoke back there. FIRST SENTRY. That's all right, too. A kid can start a fire. CHAUFFEUR. Wait and see. A MILITIAMAN. (_Who, half way back toward the mill, has climbed upon a lumber stack_) I nominate J. D. for Governor. A VOICE. (_Farther back, commandingly_) Shut up your mouth up there! SECOND VOICE. _Will_ you be good? (_The militiaman gets down from the stack_) SECOND SENTRY. How large a force is it they're counting on? CHAUFFEUR. It's not the force. It's the effect 'twill have. You let a dog run for another's bone, You'll see the last dog do some running too. FIRST SENTRY. And do some fighting, maybe. CHAUFFEUR. That's up to you. The law protects men in their right to work. (_The sentries whisper together_) CHAUFFEUR. The old man knows his business. All he says Is simply this, 'I'm bringing in the men. It's up to you to get them to the mill.' You see you don't know everything, my boy. FIRST SENTRY. You work for Egerton, and I don't blame you, But when you come right down to solid facts-- And if you'll clear your eye a bit you'll see it-- He's got his match in this man Williams. CHAUFFEUR. What! SECOND SENTRY. He's got his match in this man Williams. CHAUFFEUR. C-h-rist! FIRST SENTRY. Figure it out yourself. (_He sees Wes Dicey who, with Jim King and Rome Masters, has just come in, right_) What do you want? DICEY. He knows me. CHAUFFEUR. He's all right. (_Careful to keep out of sight of the shacks on the slope, Dicey and his companions whisper together near the fence. The Second Sentry, as though he had been neglecting his duty, goes out right, patrolling his beat_) FIRST SENTRY. It's easy enough To figure it out, I say. There's thirteen men Returned to work in five weeks. In an hour You calculate four hundred will return. You fellows couldn't count nine pins for me. (_Dicey and his companions pull their hats down over their eyes, their collars up about their necks, and make briskly for the gate_) FIRST SENTRY. (_Starts back on his beat_) Talk of a man like that running the State. He'd better learn to run his business first. (_George Egerton, looking spick and span, comes out of the mill-yard, putting on one of his gloves. He glances at Dicey and his companions as they pass in. Suddenly he turns and whistles after them and saunters back into the mill-yard as if to speak with them_) GEORGE EGERTON. (_Coming out a little later_) O Jack, will you tell mother---- CHAUFFEUR. Yes, sir. GEORGE EGERTON. (_Provoked_) What? Why do you put it that way? Now I've forgot. (_Continues putting on his glove_) Tell mother I've inquired of the men And they've seen nothing of him. CHAUFFEUR. Yes, sir. GEORGE EGERTON. What? CHAUFFEUR. Nothing of Harry, sir. GEORGE EGERTON. (_Walks left, then comes back_) Jack. CHAUFFEUR. Yes, sir. GEORGE EGERTON. Jack. (_Looks over in the car_) Did you find any hair-pins in the car This morning? CHAUFFEUR. Not this morning. GEORGE EGERTON. (_Takes a coin from his pocket and hands it to the chauffeur_) You'll take care. (_He goes out left, examining his face in a small mirror which he has taken out with the coin. The Second Sentry has come in right and stands reading a notice which is tacked on the fence_) CHAUFFEUR. By sun-down, don't it? SECOND SENTRY. Something of the sort. CHAUFFEUR. And the wind sharpening up across the plains. They'll think twice, won't they, before they stay out? SECOND SENTRY. Who signed this name here? CHAUFFEUR. Eg--the boss himself. SECOND SENTRY. Hell of a hand he writes. CHAUFFEUR. Your partner there Knows about as much of the situation here As a sea-turtle knows of sassafras. Talks of a match. There's been no match at all. The old man's never tried to start the mill. But let a thing like that go up some day. (_Buck Bentley with an empty nail keg in his hand comes from the mill-yard and sits down with his back to the farther gate-post and begins to fill his pipe_) CHAUFFEUR. If you've heard thunder, one of those loud claps That ends the winter, and if you'd lived here And knew the old man's power, then you'd know I'm shooting low when I say they'll be here, If they don't all fall dead upon the way. They've got to make hay now. Days don't stand still When the old man is moving to and fro. (_Goes about oiling the machine_) FIRST SENTRY. (_Coming forward_) If Williams comes, I'll tell you what he'll do. With the big force he'll have behind his back, He'll lock these gates and coop the old man up With Jergens and the Chief and all the rest. Then say, 'Now take me home.' You know the way. You'll take him to the big house on the hill. (_The Chauffeur turns and looks at him half in anger, half in contempt_) FIRST SENTRY. You won't dare look at him that way. SECOND SENTRY. Dan's right. You fellows, you that shove those things about, You have a way of knowing who's the lord. FIRST SENTRY. Exactly. And this man Williams up and down Is big as Egerton. And the old man's 'spike' Will touch him where the tailors say it should. And if it's lined with silk Williams won't care. He'll steer the big blow-out this afternoon And they won't know the difference. It's the front And the big planet here that people see; And Williams is as broad as Egerton. (_A militiaman comes hurrying from the mill-yard_) MILITIAMAN. Who's got a cigarette to trade for news? You couldn't guess it in a thousand years. SECOND SENTRY. We're going home. MILITIAMAN. Guess high; guess something great. FIRST SENTRY. The boys have met the strikers at the station And we're all going into action. MILITIAMAN. Nope. Something the old man's done. SECOND SENTRY. What? MILITIAMAN. Put her there. (_The Sentry gives him a cigarette_) Ordered us down a big red tub of punch, With six or eight kegs of the foaming stuff. (_The Sentries stare comically at one another_) MILITIAMAN. Well, my tin soldiers? Under a shot like that To stand as cold as you do! (_Shouts in the ear of the First Sentry_) Punch, old man! (_To himself_) The wind of liquor and they've gone dead drunk! FIRST SENTRY. (_Starts for the mill-gate, then turns_) Who said 'shut up' when some man back there cried 'Hurrah for Egerton'? MILITIAMAN. Cap. Haskell. FIRST SENTRY. (_To the Second Sentry_) Eh? SECOND SENTRY. Haskell to hell. FIRST SENTRY. (_Shouting toward the mill_) Hurrah for Egerton For Governor! SECOND SENTRY. Hip hurrah! FIRST SENTRY. Up with you, Buck! We'll have no traitors in the camp, by God. Up on your pins and shout 'Hurrah!' three times. (_He seizes Bentley and they wrestle into the mill-yard_) SECOND SENTRY. Eight kegs, you say? MILITIAMAN. (_Slapping him on the back_) And punch, old man, and punch! Reception punch! (_He hurries out toward the mill. Bentley enters, followed by the First Sentry_) SECOND SENTRY. What do you think of that? FIRST SENTRY. (_To the Chauffeur, with affected disdain_) Talk about Williams downing such a man! FIRST SENTRY. (_Nodding toward the Chauffeur_) And he, too, in the employ of Egerton! CHAUFFEUR. Fine pair of knaves! You'll drink his wine all right. SECOND SENTRY. (_On his way out, points to the notice_) Look what a damn fine hand the old man writes. (_Goes out right_) FIRST SENTRY. (_On his way back, to the Chauffeur_) It's a good thing that some men never tell. (_Walks slowly, rifle up; then from rear_) Hurrah for Egerton for Governor! VOICE OF SECOND SENTRY. (_Out right_) Halt! (_A pause_) _Halt!_ (_Buck Bentley rises from the keg and comes forward_) DO YOU HEAR! (_The Chauffeur leaps from the car and hurries forward. There is a shot_) FIRST SENTRY. (_Running forward_) Who is it? MILITIAMAN. (_Hurrying from the mill-yard_) What was that? (_Voices are heard right. A moment later the Second Sentry enters with Harvey Anderson, who carries in his arms fragments of the cast that has been broken by the shot_) SECOND SENTRY. Where in the hell have you been living That you don't know enough to stop when---- HARVEY ANDERSON. Pard, If I'd stop every time some man said stop, I'd still be standing somewhere. (_He walks left, away from the others, who exchange glances as if amazed at the man's audacity. He lays the largest of the pieces upon the ground, then looks among the others in his arms. Donald Egerton and General Chadbourne, both evidently dressed for a function, the latter being in full military uniform, brand new, come quickly from the mill-yard, followed by Jergens and the Chief of Police_) CHADBOURNE. What's the trouble? SECOND SENTRY. This man came through the line. I called three times. CHADBOURNE. (_To Harvey Anderson_) Don't you know better than do such a thing? CAPTAIN HASKELL. (_Comes from the mill-yard, then turns and calls back_) Stay where you are. We'll attend to this affair. EGERTON. What business have you here? HARVEY ANDERSON. I just came down To look about a bit. JERGENS. To look about! You think we're running a menagerie? Didn't you see these soldiers? What do you mean? HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To the Chief of Police_) Just step back, pard. I'm neither dog nor bear. (_Back in the mill-yard militiamen are seen climbing on top of lumber piles to see what the trouble is_) EGERTON. Came down from where? HARVEY ANDERSON. From up there on the mountains. JERGENS. To look about for what? HARVEY ANDERSON. Just anything-- Just anything that's 'round to see. (_He gets down and begins to fit the pieces together. The men watch him. Suddenly he stops and looks about him_) Did I---- (_He rises and goes right to where a piece of the cast lies upon the ground_) CHIEF OF POLICE. Shall I take charge of him, Mr. Egerton? I'll lock him up if you say so. CHADBOURNE. (_As Anderson returns_) Don't you know That when a sentry challenges a man He's got the right to shoot him in his tracks? HARVEY ANDERSON. The risk's on me, pard. CHADBOURNE. Eh! HARVEY ANDERSON. The risk's on me. CHADBOURNE. You take care, sir, how you're addressing me. (_Jergens walks rear, takes from his pocket some field glasses, which he polishes with a handkerchief. The Chauffeur joins him. Chadbourne turns and says something vicious to the Second Sentry_) EGERTON. How came you by this thing? HARVEY ANDERSON. I'm of the men That Egerton sent out. EGERTON. Jergens, is he One of our men? HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Glancing up_) You Egerton? CHIEF OF POLICE. He is. JERGENS. There's many of them that I never saw; But he's got that, so I suppose he is. (_He searches the mountains with his glasses. The rest contemplate him in silence. In Anderson's eyes, as he watches them, there is a strange, glad light. Indeed throughout the Scene his manner is that of a man who is hiding a tremendous triumph_) HASKELL. He's out here with his glasses every day. CHADBOURNE. One of the richest mines in all the West---- EGERTON. Very rich mine. CHADBOURNE. So I have been informed. CHIEF OF POLICE. Been lost for fifty years. CHADBOURNE. But with this thing---- (_Indicating the cast_) You're almost sure to find it. SECOND SENTRY. (_To First Sentry, evidently meaning Chadbourne_) A damn fool. EGERTON. Yes, we expect the signal any day. (_Dicey, King, and Masters appear just inside the mill-yard and, catching the eye of the Chauffeur, point to Jergens, who, later, hands the glasses to the Chauffeur and goes to Dicey in the mill-yard_) CHIEF OF POLICE. The citizens had arranged a demonstration. Flags were to go up that day and cannon boom, And Colonel Egerton was to make a speech. EGERTON. Yes, Clayton, and I'll tell them something, too. CHIEF OF POLICE. I guess they'll be ashamed to have it now. EGERTON. Why didn't you stay out on the mountains? HARVEY ANDERSON. Well---- EGERTON. Get tired? JERGENS. Chief! HARVEY ANDERSON. Can't say---- EGERTON. Then what's the trouble? (_The Chief of Police joins Jergens and with the three men they disappear in the mill-yard_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Well, you see, Mr. Egerton, it's this way: A man can piece together things like this, But somehow you can't get hold of that in here That goes to pieces when your faith breaks up. EGERTON. What do you mean? HARVEY ANDERSON. I never could find gold; It don't run in our family. EGERTON. Rather late In your discovery, it seems to me. Why didn't you think of it when you first went out? HARVEY ANDERSON. Well, you know how it is. You've seen a stone Hang on a mountain side for years sometimes; You don't know why; you just don't notice it Until some morning--jump! she thunders down And wakes a whole town up; then you remember. (_He comes forward and looks off in the direction from which he came as though he were expecting someone_) EGERTON. (_To Chadbourne_) A sort of luck, you see, this getting on. CHADBOURNE. Predestination. EGERTON. Yes; if a man's rich He couldn't help but be. There's some old lamp, An heirloom in his family, that he rubs. And if he's poor, 'Hard luck.' CHADBOURNE. Or been 'ground down.' EGERTON. They're told so. CHADBOURNE. Egerton's heel. EGERTON. _Old_ Egerton's. (_They walk toward the automobile_) CHADBOURNE. I don't know what the country's coming to. EGERTON. Merchants are merchants, Chadbourne. CHADBOURNE. I suppose. Captain, will you get my overcoat? (_Haskell, who with the Chauffeur has been looking through the glasses, goes into the mill-yard. A number of militiamen who have been hanging around the gate gather about Anderson and they are soon having a good time together_) EGERTON. What do they care for Country or for Art, Or any of the higher things of life? 'Give us this day our daily trade.' We live, We manufacturers, to fill their tills. CHADBOURNE. They're sowing dragons' teeth and they don't know it. EGERTON. You'll see them to-morrow when I start the mill; They'll tip their hats when I pass through the streets. And you could comb the town: they never heard of Any petition to the Governor, Nor any contributions, not a one. They're all staunch friends of mine, and always have been. 'Why, Colonel Egerton, he built this town, Our leading citizen.' I'll get them though. CHADBOURNE. If you could shut down for a season, say. EGERTON. That's just what I've been wanting to do, Chadbourne. Unfortunately, just now we're in a place Where we can't do as we would like to do; Or rather Jergens is. CHADBOURNE. He told me. EGERTON. Yes, He's got to meet his margins. CHADBOURNE. It's too bad. (_The militiamen laugh out at some story Anderson is telling them_) EGERTON. So I can't strike them without striking him. CHADBOURNE. I hope you'll find the mine. A MILITIAMAN. (_Appearing at the gate_) 'Phone, General. EGERTON. I'll show them though that J. D. don't forget. CHADBOURNE. Pardon me. (_He starts for the mill-yard. With a wave of his hand he orders the militiamen back through the gate_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Aloud, as they draw away_) And we charging up that Hill As if we didn't know what canned beef was, We, when we'd had slow elk[*] out on the plains. [*] _Stolen cattle_ (_Egerton goes rear to the Chauffeur and himself adjusts the glasses to his eyes_) A MILITIAMAN. (_As they pass through the gate_) Stay and have one with us. HARVEY ANDERSON. After business hours. EGERTON. Where did you leave off? HARVEY ANDERSON. Where the big rock hangs On the south slope up yonder. (_Dicey, King, and Masters come from the mill-yard, followed by Jergens. Dicey is dividing money with his companions_) DICEY. Thank you, boss. JERGENS. Then call me up. DICEY. I will. HARVEY ANDERSON. It ain't there now. (_The three men go out around the corner right. Jergens joins Egerton and the Chauffeur. Harvey Anderson watches them in silence_) HARVEY ANDERSON. And that's another reason I came down To hear those cannon boom and see those flags. You'll have a band play too? (_With his eyes fixed upon them he slowly shoves his foot through the cast and it falls to pieces. He stands still for a moment. He then picks up his hatchet and roll of blankets, and, going to the gate, throws them into the mill-yard. He does the same with the fragments of the cast, first carrying an armful which he empties inside, then coming back and picking up the last two or three pieces, which he jerks in after the others._ _The First Sentry, coming from rear, signals to the Second Sentry, who is passing on his beat. The latter waits and, having heard what the former had to say, starts off_) SECOND SENTRY. (_Evidently quoting Chadbourne_) 'Tried to get smart And hit the cast to see the pieces fly.' (_The First Sentry starts back on his beat, laughing_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_As the Second Sentry passes him_) It's steel you're shooting, ain't it? SECOND SENTRY. Go to hell. (_Goes out_) HARVEY ANDERSON. It's all right, partner. (_Like a great boy he stands tossing his hat into the air and trying to catch it. Egerton and Jergens regard him and seem to be saying something about him. Jergens goes into the mill-yard_) EGERTON. (_Comes to Anderson_) In the line of work, What have you ever done? HARVEY ANDERSON. Most everything, From punching cattle down to hunting gold. But chiefly knocked about among the States. EGERTON. Drinking and gambling? HARVEY ANDERSON. Some of that in too. (_The Chauffeur goes into the mill-yard_) EGERTON. There's something in you that I like, my man. You go about things in a way. And then The daring that you showed. You're full of life; A man can see that. Tended cattle, eh? Think you could govern men and round them up If need be? HARVEY ANDERSON. I don't know. (_Tosses his hat into the air_) EGERTON. You don't belong To a Union? HARVEY ANDERSON. No. EGERTON. You're not the sort of man To stand dictation. You've a work to do, Men of your type. I think I heard you say That you were with the rangers at San Juan? HARVEY ANDERSON. I did some time down there. EGERTON. Well spent, my boy. I had a brother in the Civil War. (_Watches Anderson catching his hat_) That was a good one. I know how you feel; So full of life you don't care what comes on. 'Out of the way!' It's rare enough these days. You'd be surprised what cowards most men are, Big six foot fellows who want to go to work; Offer it to them and they shake their heads Because they see some pickets round the corner. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'Fraid of your soldiers? EGERTON. Pickets; Union men. They'd fly to arms quick enough if Charlie Hare-- Charlie's our Mayor--said 'No more free speech.' But Williams he can say, 'No more free work.' They'd rather talk, you see, than be free men. HARVEY ANDERSON. That's a good phrase, 'Free Work.' EGERTON. A good 'phrase,' yes. HARVEY ANDERSON. We ought to put that in our Bill of Rights. EGERTON. Our Bill of Rights, my boy, 's no more than air. It's men to back it up. We've gone to seed In Sabbath speculations on men's rights. What we need now is Monday morning's work. HARVEY ANDERSON. This Williams, I suppose, has gotten rich Controlling all these men? EGERTON. That I don't know. It's not so much the few that he controls As the large numbers they intimidate. HARVEY ANDERSON. Got to accept his terms or not work, eh? EGERTON. They have a thing they call the 'Union Scale.' (_Looks at his watch_) HARVEY ANDERSON. And these men that can't work, they stand for that, Having no voice at all in their affairs? EGERTON. They don't see; they're a lot of ignorant men. HARVEY ANDERSON. Why don't you show them? (_Egerton smiles, walks to the gate and listens, then comes back_) EGERTON. Out on the plains, my boy, Tending your cattle, did you speak with them And reason with them? HARVEY ANDERSON. With the cattle? EGERTON. Yes. HARVEY ANDERSON. It all depends upon the mood they're in. Sometimes a man can just sit on his horse, If the feed's good; and sometimes in the night, If a storm's brewing, then it's best to sing; Go round them this way-- (_Circles and sings one of the strange melodies of the cowboys_) for they're restless then. EGERTON. Sing to your cattle? HARVEY ANDERSON. Let them know you're friends All out together and a big storm on. EGERTON. That's interesting. (_Anderson comes forward and looks off right, the direction from which he came, as though he were expecting some one_) EGERTON. We've got an opening here I think would suit you. HARVEY ANDERSON. Well. EGERTON. In half an hour, Or less than that, there'll be a lot of men Come from the station, the force I'm bringing in, Guarded by soldiers; then, if I guess right, The Union--they'll be crowding here for work, Wanting to go to work, you understand, But with their eye on Williams. He'll say 'No.' But there's another faction will say 'Yes.' HARVEY ANDERSON. And while they're balanced---- EGERTON. That's just what I want. You've got a good cool head, and you know men. And then you have a way of putting things. HARVEY ANDERSON. Make 'em a little speech? EGERTON. I don't care how. HARVEY ANDERSON. Just get 'em in your pen, eh? EGERTON. It's their last chance. And I can say, my boy, if you make good And prove to be the man we're looking for, I'll push you on as fast as you can go. My partner here was one that proved himself. And then next year we'll take my other mills And break this Union thing or we'll know why. A shot or two for your own land, you see. HARVEY ANDERSON. Free Work. EGERTON. Free Mills. HARVEY ANDERSON. Free men. (_Starts left_) EGERTON. You know the way? (_Egerton turns and goes into the mill-yard_) SECOND SENTRY. (_Comes in right and meets the First Sentry, who has just come forward_) Damn stuck-up fool! Just because Egerton Invites him to his house. FIRST SENTRY. He's got a corn. SECOND SENTRY. I hope they'll tramp it off. (_The First Sentry quickly signals that some one is coming toward the gate_) SECOND SENTRY. God, I don't care. (_The Chauffeur comes hurriedly from the mill-yard and goes and gets into the car. A moment later General Chadbourne and Captain Haskell appear_) CHADBOURNE. And I'll be there till nine or ten o'clock, Or even later, for we've some important Matters to attend to. And besides It's going to be a very fine affair. HASKELL. All right, sir. CHADBOURNE. You won't need me, though, I'm sure. Things seem to be all quiet at the station. SECOND SENTRY. (_As he goes out_) Ass! HASKELL. We'll break camp to-morrow, I suppose CHADBOURNE. _That's_ what I had in mind a while ago! I'm glad you spoke of it. When they pass these gates, You be here, Haskell, and you get me word. I want to be the first to break the news To Egerton and the Governor; want to say: 'I have the honor to report to you, Your Excellency, And it gives me pleasure to announce to you Upon the occasion of the opening Of your new mansion, Colonel Egerton, This bit of news, sir, from the military, And I offer it with our congratulations, The strike is over----' VOICE OF JERGENS. (_Back in the mill-yard_) General Chadbourne! CHADBOURNE. Yes!-- 'The men have yielded and have gone to work; And all's been done without one drop of bloodshed, Thanks to the Governor and to your co-operation And to the splendid service of the boys. To-morrow we break camp and go our ways. Health to you and long life and peace hereafter In your new home.' Or something of the sort. I haven't whipped it into final shape. HASKELL. And got off, I suppose, with glasses lifted. 'Twill be a nice green feather in our cap. CHADBOURNE. And duty done, it's well to have big friends. There's that old question of the armory; I'm going to try to jam it through this session. And besides that-- (_Calls toward the gate_) What's up? JERGENS. (_Enters with the Chief of Police_) How large a force Did you send to the station? CHADBOURNE. Why do you ask? JERGENS. There's talk of violence among the men. CHIEF OF POLICE. Some even go so far as to advocate Marching upon---- JERGENS. That, Chief, may all be bluster. For this man Dicey--these men have a way Of making things look bad to extort money And earn them credit if they turn out well. CHIEF OF POLICE. As a precaution though. JERGENS. I've no objection. (_Egerton comes from the mill-yard_) CHIEF OF POLICE. You'd better throw a guard about the house. You see it's out of my jurisdiction. EGERTON. Coming to see me, eh? JERGENS. I don't believe it. (_Chadbourne talks aside with Haskell_) CHIEF OF POLICE. To see the Governor, they say. EGERTON. All right. (_Gets into the automobile_) They'll find him in the southwest room upstairs When the train comes. Have them clean off their feet. RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Who has just come in, left_) Clean off whose feet? EGERTON. Yours, Ardsley. Step right in. (_The Chief of Police goes out, left_) RALPH ARDSLEY. What's the news now? EGERTON. The news is that you've got Barely an hour to get on your togs. (_Ardsley unbuttons his light overcoat and shows his full dress_) EGERTON. You editors are smart men. (_Chadbourne gets in behind with Egerton, Ardsley in front with the Chauffeur_) CHADBOURNE. (_As they go out right_) Don't forget, Haskell. (_Jergens lingers about as though undecided what to do. Finally he goes left and saunters down the street. Haskell enters the mill-yard. Later an old woman, who has evidently been waiting till the mill-owners left, comes down the hill-side rear left and begins to pick up sticks that lie scattered about in the sawdust_) FIRST SENTRY. (_Who finally sees her_) Get out! OLD WOMAN. They're thrown away. BUCK BENTLEY. (_Who has come from the mill-yard and resumed his seat on the keg_) Let her alone. OLD WOMAN. God help us if we can't have even sticks That's thrown out. FIRST SENTRY. Let your old man go to work. OLD WOMAN. Then let 'em pay fair wages. Ain't they all Wantin' to work? What's the poor to do, Things goin' up an' wages goin' down? What's the poor to do? FIRST SENTRY. That's your look-out. Move on! (_He starts toward the old woman. Buck Bentley knocks the ashes from his pipe and goes toward the First Sentry_) SECOND SENTRY. (_Who has been watching_) Know what you're doing, Buck? (_There is a fight. Bentley takes the rifle from the First Sentry who, in a rage, starts for the gate_) FIRST SENTRY. If this goes by I'll show the regiment a thing or two, I'll jump the Service, that's what I'll do. (_He hurries into the mill-yard. Bentley helps the old woman pick up the sticks_) OLD WOMAN. I thought they'd never go. God bless you, son. (_Starts up the slope_) SECOND SENTRY. We'll see, by God, who's running this shebang. OLD WOMAN. You ain't heard nothin' from the station yet? BUCK BENTLEY. No, mother. (_The old woman goes out. Bentley comes to the gate and sets the rifle against the fence_) SECOND SENTRY. (_Talking into the mill-yard_) He even helped her fill her apron. HASKELL. (_Entering with the First Sentry_) Have you gone crazy, Buck? What do you mean? BUCK BENTLEY. (_Fills his pipe_) Is this the Company's property out here? HASKELL. We've got our orders and that settles it. Don't settle it with you, eh? A MILITIAMAN. (_From the top of a lumber stack_) Here they come! FIRST SENTRY. In other words you'll do as you damn please. (_Haskell comes forward and looks down the street, left_) HASKELL. Now shut your mouths. FIRST SENTRY. I'm not through with this yet. (_Picks up his rifle and goes back on his beat_) SECOND SENTRY. Damn pretty soldier you are. HASKELL. Do you hear? (_Militiamen are seen climbing on top of the lumber stacks. Others appear at the gate. Captain Haskell walks left where a noise is heard down the street. Presently a squad of militia enters with fifteen or twenty strike-breakers. Behind them, with the officer in charge, comes Jergens, who is speaking to the crowd of strikers that follows. In front of the crowd walks Sam Williams. Mingling among the men are seen Dicey, King, and Masters. Some women and children straggle in and linger, left. On this side of the crowd, silent, watching everything, is Harvey Anderson_) JERGENS. The world is big and we can get the men. SAM WILLIAMS. That's all right, Mr. Jergens. JERGENS. All we want, And more too. SAM WILLIAMS. That's all right. JERGENS. We've shown you that. If not, stick it out; that's all I've got to say. SAM WILLIAMS. The point is now about the saws. Will you Put the guards on? VOICE. (_From the crowd_) There where the boys were killed. JERGENS. We will or will not, as it suits ourselves. VOICE. (_From the crowd_) About our places, Sam. SAM WILLIAMS. If they come back, You'll give the boys the places that they had, All of them? (_The militia, with the strike-breakers, pass into the mill-yard_) VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Will we get our places back? JERGENS. The places that have not been filled are yours. As for discharging men that we've brought here, Not one. (_He says something to Haskell, then turns to the crowd_) Now just one word. When these gates close, You're out. You understand that, do you? Out Not for to-day, to-morrow, or six weeks, But all time. You've got just ten minutes left. Then, Captain, close these gates. HASKELL. All right, sir. (_Jergens passes into the mill-yard_) VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Well? ANOTHER VOICE. What do you say, Sam? JIM KING. Williams has had his say. And you see where we are. ROME MASTERS. Hear Wes! JIM KING. Wes! SEVERAL. Sam! SAM WILLIAMS. I don't know, comrades, as I ought to say, Seeing as I don't gain or lose in this. For I'm of them that have no place in there. But if you want my---- CRIES. Yes, go on! Go on! SAM WILLIAMS. Well, comrades, it's the Union first with me. That props the rest. You take that prop away And everything comes down. We've climbed a bit Since we first organized. And what we've won, What is it that keeps it won? The Union, comrades, Is just another name for all of us. JERGENS. (_Appearing at the gate_) Another thing. If you don't come to work We'll want those shacks up there. Remember that. (_Goes out_) SAM WILLIAMS. And we need something bigger than we are, Don't we, if they do with their mills and lands? You heard Aug. Jergens what he said just now When Chris here called to him, 'But you unite.' You heard him say, 'That's none of your affair.' Then how's it their affair if we unite? Logs you can't handle, but you saw them up, Then you can handle them. It's the same with us; They want to handle us to suit themselves. Comrades, I don't see if you go in there How you'll not have to come out here again; Unless you mean to bear whatever comes. You'll hear no big voice, 'Then we'll all go out,' That's kept their hands from off you many a time. Or is it their mercy that you're counting on? Poor hold you've got there. One window yonder Of Egerton's big house would put the guards About the saws. But you hear what he says. And it's our lives he's talking of. A WOMAN. (_To another who begins to cry_) Never mind. SAM WILLIAMS. What is it that gives him power to talk that way? Why is it he can do that, (_Lifts his hand_) and trains come in With soldiers? We can't do it. And they're two And we're four hundred. JIM KING. That don't get us bread. SAM WILLIAMS. Is it because they own the mills and lands? It's only when they own us that they're strong. Comrades, you've come now where the ways divide. There's bigger gates than these stand open here If you'll just stick together. 'Tain't to-day I'm thinking of. There's a green shore somewhere If you'll just turn your faces from that gate. But if you're going to give your Union up When they say if you don't we'll close these gates, You'll have no peace. They'll hold it over you To force you down. Comrades, the day will come When you'll regret it if you go in there, Giving your Union up. But that's with you. CHRIS KNUDSON. Sam's right. We can't be slaves, men. KING AND MASTERS. Wes! Hear Wes! CHRIS KNUDSON. Let's march on out to Egerton's big house And call the Governor out and lay our case Before him. CRIES. Right! That's right! A VOICE. First let's go home And get the women folk and all march out. MIKE HAWLEY. You talk like fools. Ain't Braddock, too, a slave? He's 'bout as big to Egerton as your thumb. WES DICEY. It seems to me like, boys, we're in a boat. We've pulled together hard as any men Tryin' to make the shore off there. But here She's leakin' and our biscuits have give out. The question now is, hadn't we better make For this shore here? It ain't the one we want; But here there's bread and water. But they say-- And this it is that seems to rub Sam most-- 'Scuttle your boat or you don't land here.' Well, Scuttle her, then I say. (_Hisses from the crowd_) Now you hold on. I love the Union much as any man. And I've stood by her, too, through thick and thin. Ain't I stood by her, boys? JIM KING. Wes is our friend. WES DICEY. And will again. Then what do I mean? Just this: It's a queer shore ain't got a cove or two Where you can hide her. I don't mean to say That Sam ain't done his best to captain us; He has. But here she is, she's goin' down, So I say land. For bread tastes mighty good, And air this time o' year won't keep you warm If you're turned out. Later, we get our strength, We'll patch her up and make for that green shore Sam talks of. But just now it's this or this. (_Points toward the mill, then to the ground_) And if we go down, then where's your Union? Eh? A VOICE. He's right. ROME MASTERS. But if we live, then it lives too. WES DICEY. So it's the Union that I'm speakin' for. JIM KING. He's speakin' for our wives and children too. A VOICE. What about us whose places have been filled? ANOTHER VOICE. You want us all to go down, eh? SAM WILLIAMS. No! SEVERAL. No! HARVEY ANDERSON. Pards, I'm one of Egerton's men, if you'll let me Butt in here just a minute with a word. You've seen two sides of this thing, but there's three. There's one big black one you don't face at all, Even your Captain here. You're all right, pard, In what you say about their mills and lands Not giving them power; it's their owning you. And if you'll just tear up that bill of sale And call the deal off, Egerton's big shadow That fills the valley, lengthening year by year Until your hair stands up, you'll be surprised How you can cover it with a six-foot pole. For it's on you he's standing. WES DICEY. Who are you? HARVEY ANDERSON. But look here, pards, are you calling off this sale Or simply trying, as it seems to me, To make him take the goods at the old price? HASKELL. What have you got to do with it? HARVEY ANDERSON. And what's the price? Where's all that gone? (_Points to the mountains_) Were those just weeds up there That's been cleared off to get a better view? Or Christmas trees? JIM KING. Who are you? HARVEY ANDERSON. And loaded, too, With food and clothes and homes and silks and gems And punch that bubbles till she runs down here, Flushing the soldier boys until they're gay And on their mettle. Is his name Egerton That planted all those pines? (_Points to the sky_) WES DICEY. What's it to you? HARVEY ANDERSON. Worked all these years and yet you've got no bread? HASKELL. (_Coming toward him_) What business is it of yours what these men do? HARVEY ANDERSON. Handled all that and yet you've got no roof To cover you! BUCK BENTLEY. (_Following Haskell_) Look here, Cap. HARVEY ANDERSON. And this man comes And cracks his whip, 'We'll oust you.' What do you say? BUCK BENTLEY. We came down here to see the square thing done, Not to take sides and try to break this strike. (_Haskell stares at him in amazement_) HARVEY ANDERSON. What's your name? BUCK BENTLEY. Bentley. HARVEY ANDERSON. I'll remember that. And my name's Anderson. (_They shake hands_) HASKELL. (_Beckoning to the militiamen about the gate_) Three or four of you. I give you ten days in the guard house, Buck. HARVEY ANDERSON. You won't be there two hours, pard, take my word. There's something going to drop here pretty soon. HASKELL. (_Calls after the militiamen_) Tell Mr. Jergens to step here a minute. (_Bentley is led away into the mill-yard_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To the crowd_) God playing Santa Claus among the pines-- Why ain't you fellows had your stockings up? Or if you have, what are you doing here Weighing yourselves out on the same old scales, Men against bread? Pard, let me ask you this: Suppose you do land with your Union boat, The bosses on the shore saying all right; What is it you land for? Grub for another cruise? And you'll go back then to the fishing grounds And sink your nets again? Who'll get the catch This time? Them that's had it all these years? You've made a big haul here, it seems to me, Minnows and all. Hundreds of miles like that. When are you fellows going to dry your nets, Haul up your boat and say, 'Let's weigh the fish'? What do you say, pard? SAM WILLIAMS. You a Union man? HARVEY ANDERSON. I don't know much about your Union, pard. It's all right, I suppose, far as it goes. But tell me this--and here's your black side, men-- Long as they own the sea (_Points to the mountains and the plains_) and own the shore, (_Points to the mill_) You think they'll care much, pard, who owns the boat? And how'll they not own you? You tell me that. (_Williams and the crowd stand silent_) HARVEY ANDERSON. What do you say? HASKELL. (_Watch in hand_) You've got two minutes left. HARVEY ANDERSON. Two minutes left of freedom. What do you say? You've got no North to look to, you white men. A WOMAN. (_With a child in her arms_) If you go in there, John, don't you come home. HARVEY ANDERSON. Bully for you, sister! THE WOMAN. Don't you dare come home. We ain't starved with you, you to sell yourself. WES DICEY. It's either go back, boys, or we'll be tramps. HARVEY ANDERSON. There's thousands of them off there good as you. You'd sell your soul to Egerton for bread. They keep theirs and go round the back door. VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Well? JIM KING. Listen to me. SAM WILLIAMS. Comrades, they can't start up; They've not the men. WES DICEY. Suppose they _don't_ start up? Suppose they shut down till the ice blocks there? Then where'll we be? JIM KING. You'll hear the children cry. HARVEY ANDERSON. Shut up your mouths or, if you're married men, Let your wives speak. 'You'll hear the children cry!' Where in the hell do you hail from any way? Or have they starved you till you've lost your grit? HASKELL. One minute. VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Bread! ANOTHER. What will we do, Sam? ANOTHER. Vote! SAM WILLIAMS. I've said my last word. WES DICEY. We've no time to vote. VOICE. (_From afar, right_) Wait! JIM KING. Be quick. HARVEY ANDERSON. Hold on! WES DICEY. Boys, suppose they say, 'First come, first served, and we don't need the rest'? JIM KING. (_Calling attention to the first flakes of snow_) Look at these flakes, men! (_There is a stampede for the gate_) AN OLD WOMAN. Run, Tommy! HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Drawing from his pocket a long blue revolver_) Halt! The first man puts his foot inside that gate I'll kill him. VOICE. (_Right as before, now near by_) One word before you go in there! (_Harry Egerton enters breathless_) HARRY EGERTON. Pardon me; I have run some seven miles To be here ere the sun went down, for I Knew what it meant to you. (_Stands for a moment collecting himself_) Men, my friends, What is it you are about to do? HARVEY ANDERSON. They're going back. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_As Harry Egerton seems about to speak_) Now listen, boys, for now you'll hear a word That you'll remember till the crack o' doom. HARRY EGERTON. I wouldn't do it, friends, if I were you. What will to-morrow be and the next day And years to come if you surrender now? You have your strength and right is on your side. I in my father's offices have struck The balances between you men and him. I know what part you've had of all these trees And what part he has had, and in my heart I know there is a balance on your side. Things can't go on forever in this way. HARVEY ANDERSON. Now the snow falls they're afraid the wolf will howl. HARRY EGERTON. Will you be stronger then a year from now, Your Union broken up, your wages less, And this defeat behind you dampening all? Or do you intend henceforth never to lift The voice of protest, silent whatever comes? God will provide, my friends. Do not give up. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Comes to him_) Tell 'em about it, partner. HARRY EGERTON. Not yet. HARVEY ANDERSON. Why? HARRY EGERTON. Their enemies would say it was the gold. And we must show them that they're wrong. A WORKMAN. Look out! JERGENS. (_With a stick he has picked up comes from the mill-yard_) What do you mean by interfering here? (_He discovers Harvey Anderson talking with Harry Egerton and turns, evidently for an explanation, to Haskell_) HARVEY ANDERSON. You've filed your claim though? HARRY EGERTON. Yes. (_Jubilant, Harvey Anderson turns and, catching up one of the mill-boys, lifts him over his head and slides him down his back, holding him by the feet. Jergens advances toward him_) A WORKMAN. Look out, comrade! HARVEY ANDERSON. I wouldn't try it, pard, if I were you. JERGENS. (_To the men_) You'll rue this day! (_To Harvey Anderson_) We'll fix you! (_To the militia_) Close these gates! (_Glowers at Harry Egerton_) Clear these streets, Captain! HARRY EGERTON. Stand where you are, my friends. JERGENS. Captain, I order you to clear these streets. HARRY EGERTON. Be careful, Captain Haskell, what you do. This is a public place. A MILITIAMAN. What's the word, Cap.? HASKELL. (_To the militiaman, irritably_) Who's in command here, I should like to know? JERGENS. Your father will attend to you, young man. (_Beside himself with rage, disappears down the street, left_) HARRY EGERTON. Now then go quietly to your homes, my friends, And I to-night will see what I can do. SAM WILLIAMS. (_Comes toward him_) Mr. Egerton. (_Holds out his hand_) HARRY EGERTON. Yes, Sam. (_Takes his hand_) SAM WILLIAMS. (_To the crowd_) Comrades, I never thought we'd live to see this day. (_The men crowd about them_) HARRY EGERTON. Some of you men are hungry. THE MEN. We're all right! We're all right, Mr. Egerton! HARRY EGERTON. But never mind. We will begin a new age in this land. HARVEY ANDERSON. Up with your hats, pards! God's on the mountains! (_Tosses his hat into the air. The workmen, in an almost religious ecstasy, go out left, crowding around Harry Egerton and Harvey Anderson. Dicey, King and Masters remain behind, whispering together, then follow the crowd. The militiamen, most of them silent with amazement at the scene they have witnessed, gradually disappear into the mill-yard_) FIRST MILITIAMAN. I'm for young Egerton if it comes to that. SECOND MILITIAMAN. Most of us boys are sons of workingmen. THIRD MILITIAMAN. I never thought of that. FOURTH MILITIAMAN. Buck's about right, too, kids. We came here to see the square thing done, Not to be half-sole to the old man's boot. FIRST MILITIAMAN. Let's set Buck free. SECOND MILITIAMAN. What do you say, kids? (_They go into the mill-yard, talking earnestly_) SECOND SENTRY. Dan! (_The First Sentry joins him and they whisper together_) FIRST SENTRY. (_Starts with the other for the gate_) I've nothing against Buck. SECOND SENTRY. Haskell's too fast. (_They enter the mill-yard_) ACT III THE MANSION _Scene: The great reception hall in the Egerton mansion. One sees at a glance that this is the original of the shadow hall shown in the Dream-Vision in the First Act. The carved mountain lion crouches upon the newel-post, and upon the walls the figures of men at work among the pines are identical with those of the Vision. But here, seen under a natural light, the grotesque grandeur of it all stands out in clear relief. Forward, left and right, just where the great arch separating the main hall comes down, groups of little pines in tubs lend a freshness to the scene._ _A brilliant company is gathered. Everywhere, from gestures and lifted eyes, it is evident that the mansion, especially the strange scene upon the walls, is the chief topic of talk among the guests. Centre right, about the piano, a number of young people are watching a couple that is out upon the floor, apparently practising a new step. Near the pines, forward left, General Chadbourne turns from the butler, with whom he has been speaking, to shake hands with some ladies. Later, Ralph Ardsley appears just inside the door, forward right, and holds up a glass of wine. Two or three men notice him and nudge their companions, and one after another saunter past Ardsley into the side room._ _Time: The same afternoon about five o'clock._ RALPH ARDSLEY. Get me the eye of Chadbourne. FIRST MAN. General! (_Out on the floor the couple that is waltzing jostles an elderly lady_) LADY IN BLACK. Why can't they wait until---- ELDERLY LADY. Now run away. You've got all night for this tomfoolery. MRS. EGERTON. George! (_The young people gradually drift out into the conservatory_) CHADBOURNE. (_Rejoining the Butler_) For it's something that concerns the strike. BUTLER. Yes, sir. CHADBOURNE. And it's important. BUTLER. Yes, sir. SECOND MAN. General! CHADBOURNE. And I'll be right out---- (_Sees the lifted hand_) I'll be right in here. (_Joins the Second Man, and the two, with Ardsley, disappear into the side room_) YOUNG MATRON. Why do you men keep going out that way? THIRD MAN. (_With a wink_) The Governor wants to see us. (_They go into the room, forward right_) LADY WITH CONSPICUOUS COIFFURE. (_Entering forward left with Pale Lady_) Indeed it would; To just have all the money that you want. PALE LADY. And her new necklace, did you notice it? LADY WITH CONSPICUOUS COIFFURE. Her mother's plain enough. PALE LADY. There she goes now. (_They pass rear and mingle with the throng_) FIRST MAN. (_Appearing forward right with a glass of wine_) You ladies, I presume, are temperance workers. (_'The punch! The punch!' is whispered about, and the people begin to pass out centre and forward right_) FAT LADY. I mean to just taste everything there is. (_Goes out_) LADY IN BLACK. Isn't it just too grand for anything! PALE LADY. At night, though, I should think 'twould scare a body With all those horrid things upon the walls. (_They go out. A moment later Mrs. Egerton comes in and looks about as though she were seeking some one_) MRS. EGERTON. (_To her daughter, who passes toward the conservatory_) Please don't keep showing it, Gladys. GLADYS EGERTON. Marjorie! (_She enters the conservatory_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Beckons to some one in the room forward left. The Butler appears_) Has no word come? BUTLER. Jack says that Mr. George inquired And they've seen nothing of him. (_He goes back into the room, forward left. Mrs. Egerton lingers a while, then returns to the room, forward right. Here, a moment later Ralph Ardsley appears_) RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Calls to a group of four men back near the stairs_) Laggards! laggards! (_Bishop Hardbrooke and a fellow-townsman, each with a man who is evidently a stranger, come slowly forward_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Isn't there aspiration in all this, (_Indicating the house_) A reaching out toward God, and a love, too, Of all that God hath made? FELLOW-TOWNSMAN. The river there. RALPH ARDSLEY. The walls will be here when the wine is gone. FIRST STRANGER. But public sentiment. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. _Vox populi_. FELLOW-TOWNSMAN. People don't stop to think of what he's done. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Exactly. When an axe falls on one's toes, The service that it's been, that's out of mind. And yet you throw the bruise, the moment's pain, In one side, and in the other a cleared land With homes and fields---- SECOND STRANGER. That's true. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And populous towns. The balance will be struck up yonder, brother. RALPH ARDSLEY. Show me one man that's in the public eye Because he stands for something, towers above them, That hasn't had them yelping at his heels. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. You know the Editor of the Courier? (_The Strangers shake hands with Ardsley_) SECOND STRANGER. You didn't come back. RALPH ARDSLEY. I've troubles of my own. (_Walks back in the hall_) SECOND STRANGER. We were together in the Legislature. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. (_Stopping near the door, forward right, as if for a final word_) Speaking of Egerton, some years ago I saw that statue in the New York harbor, The sea mists blown about it, now the head And now an outflash of tremendous bronze About the waist. 'Is that the thing,' said I, 'They talk so much about?' Next day 'twas clear. FIRST STRANGER. Looked very different. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. It's the same with men. (_They go out_) SECOND STRANGER. You going in? RALPH ARDSLEY. I've got to find a man. (_The stranger goes out_) (_Ardsley calls toward the room, forward left_) What's the news from the mill, Charles? BUTLER. (_Appears at the door_) I haven't heard, sir. You reckon they'll go back, sir? RALPH ARDSLEY. Sure. Where's Gladys? (_The Butler walks back toward the conservatory_) Just tell her I asked about her. BUTLER. Yes, sir. RALPH ARDSLEY. Thank you. (_He goes into the room, forward right. The Butler returns to the opposite room. All the people have now withdrawn with the exception of Mrs. Orr, who has come in, centre right, and who lingers about as though she were listening to the upper part of the walls. Later, Mrs. Egerton re-enters, forward right, and glances back into the room from which she has come, to satisfy herself that her guests are occupied. Seeing her, Mrs. Orr comes forward, shaking her head_) MRS. EGERTON. No? MRS. ORR. No. MRS. EGERTON. Nothing at all? MRS. ORR. Nothing at all. MRS. EGERTON. I never have been sure myself. Sometimes I've thought I heard it. MRS. ORR. I can understand How one could easily imagine it. MRS. EGERTON. If you could be here when the house is still, Alone---- MRS. ORR. In certain moods, perhaps I should. For certainly the trees seem most alive. I never would have thought it possible To make a forest live and life go on In wood as it does here. 'Tis wonderful. (_Mrs. Egerton glances across into the room, forward right, from which comes a sound of merriment_) MRS. ORR. The very squirrels upon the limbs--see there, The young one with the pine cone in its mouth. And the faint far-awayness of the wood. MRS. EGERTON. (_Confidentially_) Sylvia---- MRS. ORR. Just now as the couple passed Practising, I overheard the girl, 'It almost seems the real pines are here Dropping their needles on us while we dance. As Lillian says, you feel them in your hair.' Now, to my way of thinking, it would be Far easier to hear the pine trees sigh Than feel the needles. MRS. EGERTON. It was not the pines. MRS. ORR. You said a sighing. (_Mrs. Egerton says something to her_) Why, Mary Egerton! How horrible! MRS. EGERTON. It worries me at times. MRS. ORR. You do not mean it! And the house just built! You foolish dear. MRS. EGERTON. I know. MRS. ORR. (_Aside_) How horrible! MRS. EGERTON. Harry has always been a strange, strange boy; So different from the rest. What is it you hear? MRS. ORR. Why, nothing, nothing at all. My dear, this is Really ridiculous. If it were old And there were cobwebs here and musty walls And rumors had come down of some old crime But with the timber, every stick of it Fresh from the forest, you might almost say Picked from your very garden, a pure bloom, Fashioned and shaped by your own husband's hand: How any one could fancy such a thing Is past my comprehension. (_A medley of voices is heard, forward right_) MRS. EGERTON. Here they come. A VOICE. Cover his eyes, some of you. MRS. EGERTON. Let's not be seen. (_She starts back for the door, centre right_) MRS. ORR. But we can't talk in there. MRS. EGERTON. I'll slip away. (_They go out centre right. Amid laughter and a confusion of voices Ralph Ardsley and a fellow-townsman enter forward right leading Governor Braddock, whose eyes are blindfolded. Following these come Donald Egerton, General Chadbourne, Bishop Hardbrooke, members of the Governor's staff in uniform, and other guests_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. You'll pay for this, gentlemen, you'll pay for this. RALPH ARDSLEY. Further, Great Master? (_Egerton points back toward the centre of the hall. Himself and the group about him remain more in the foreground_) EGERTON. That will do. (_They remove the handkerchief from the Governor's eyes_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Hi yi! RALPH ARDSLEY. You see you wake in Paradise. FIRST GUEST. Didn't expect it? (_Laughter_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Your incorruptible administration. FIRST STAFF MEMBER. You mean to tell us that you planned all this? EGERTON. No, I conceived it, Weston; it's alive As I hope to show you. But more of that anon. (_Calls back to the Governor_) Does it meet your expectations? STAFF MEMBERS. (_Who have gone rear_) Splendid! Splendid! FELLOW-TOWNSMAN. And in the second story he's got his mill. SECOND STAFF MEMBER. (_To Egerton_) You don't have strikes up there? GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Well, Egerton, This is the grandest thing I ever saw. EGERTON. I made my mind up, Braddock, years ago That when I'd sawed my fortune out of lumber I'd build a mansion where a man could see Just how I'd done it, starting with the raw, The standing timber, every phase of it; A sort of record of these busy times: For they won't last forever, these great days. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. We never see the giants till they're gone. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. The day will come when we'll appreciate them. RALPH ARDSLEY. Three cheers for one of them. GUESTS. Hurrah! Hurrah! EGERTON. (_Goes back a little, the group following him, and points right rear_) Back there you see the swamper clearing brush, Man's first assault upon primeval forests. And then the feller with his broader stroke Hewing a way for apple trees and cities, And incidentally moving on himself. And here you see my teams. And, by the way, They talk of how the horse has followed man In his march across the ages, but the tree That sheltered the lost saurian, think of that! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. You must have been a tree in some past life; You seem to love them so and understand them. EGERTON. There's nothing in this world so beautiful As a pine forest, gentlemen, just at dawn; The infant breathing of a million needles. It's like our organ, Bishop, those soft tones. (_Comes forward_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. He ought to have lived in old cathedral days. EGERTON. And here the rising rollways; then the drive, The river man. (_Points across left_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Come out to get a view, A broader view. THIRD STAFF MEMBER. You had men pose for this? EGERTON. I'm following the tree. FOURTH STAFF MEMBER. That fellow's face. EGERTON. These 'broader views' don't interest me much. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. And you think this idea's capable of extension? EGERTON. How do you mean? GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_Returning from a word with the Butler, to Ardsley who comes to meet him_) I don't see what's the matter. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. A while ago you said---- RALPH ARDSLEY. O it's all right. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. You were the first Captain of Industry In all America to build a house. That has a meaning in it. EGERTON. That's what I said; That has the least relation to the land. RALPH ARDSLEY. This snow you'll see will bring them to their senses. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Suppose you'd made your fortune out of copper? FIRST STAFF MEMBER. Yes, we all build our houses out of timber. SECOND STAFF MEMBER. Or cotton? GUESTS. Ha, ha, ha! RALPH ARDSLEY. Or oil? SEVERAL. Yes. RALPH ARDSLEY. How would you spiritualize the oil business? EGERTON. Ardsley here wants to quote me in his paper. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. The Lumber King upon the late decision. EGERTON. It's Art, not rebates, that I'm speaking of. Couldn't I show my derricks on the walls? And back there red-skins striking fire from flint? Then our forefathers with their tallow-dips Watching the easy drills slip up and down? The tanks here--Ah, you laugh, you dilettanti. I'll tell you gentlemen what the trouble is: You're frightened by our natural resources, And you despise the life of your own land, The crude, tremendous life we're living here. The force is too much for you. You want polish. O I can prove it to you. RALPH ARDSLEY. Now you'll get it. EGERTON. Yes, Braddock, there's that Capitol Commission. I'd be ashamed. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. I knew 'twould come. EGERTON. And we Breathing the electric air of this great West, As rich in life as timber, herds and hops, Wheat fields and mines, and all these things to be Raised and translated by the brains of men. Think of a State dotted with lumber camps And buzzing day and night with saws and saws, And as far as the North Pole from old world customs, Wearing a capitol with Grecian columns With an old Roman Justice on her comb! You'd scorn to come here in a gaberdine Made by some dago in the days of Pompey. And yet you dress the State up in these things. No independence. RALPH ARDSLEY. Governor? FIRST STAFF MEMBER. Call the troops! EGERTON. I'd rather cut the timber of this land And coin its spirit in a thing like this Than be a Roman Cæsar. RALPH ARDSLEY. Hip hurrah! That's what I call a fellow countryman. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. You see we're all Americans down here. SECOND STAFF MEMBER. Now, Governor Braddock, show your stars and stripes. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Yet you don't seem to dwell in unity. I recollect, and it's not years ago, Receiving a petition, and a large one-- Some six or seven thousand? THIRD STAFF MEMBER. About that. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Demanding a withdrawal of some troops. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. We're not responsible for our lower classes. EGERTON. (_Significantly_) You didn't withdraw them. (_An embarrassing silence_) RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Slaps the Governor on the shoulder_) Good American! FOURTH STAFF MEMBER. (_To Bishop Hardbrooke_) Jesus of Nazareth was a foreigner. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. The Bishop would hardly say so though. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And you, You, Governor, do you go before the people With all you know? No secrets, not a one? GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. O I'm not saying. EGERTON. Editor Ardsley? RALPH ARDSLEY. Here. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. It eases the heart, brother, to confess. RALPH ARDSLEY. It's my stockholders, Bishop. (_Points to Egerton_) EGERTON. General Chadbourne? GENERAL CHADBOURNE. I, Colonel, get my orders from above. (_Points to the Governor_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. We all do. (_Points to Egerton_) RALPH ARDSLEY. Egerton? EGERTON. Then come along. I've got some good Americans up here Who don't send in petitions. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. A model mill. FIRST STAFF MEMBER. Non-Union? RALPH ARDSLEY. They're united in the walls. (_Laughter_) EGERTON. (_As they start for the stairs_) Never you mind, gentlemen, 'twill not be long Until the model that I've built up here Will be the model everywhere. GUESTS. (_Led by Ralph Ardsley_) Hurray! (_Attracted by the shouting, some ladies look in, forward right_) A LADY. They do have such good times. (_They withdraw_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_From the steps to the Butler_) I'll be upstairs. (_Seeing the hall empty, the young people who have looked in occasionally from the conservatory, enter and take possession_) RALPH ARDSLEY. (_From the landing_) Hello, Gladys! GLADYS EGERTON. Hello, Ardsley! RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Touching his throat_) Stunning. GLADYS EGERTON. Thank you. (_Ardsley disappears after the others. Mrs. Orr enters, forward right, and is later joined by Mrs. Egerton_) MRS. ORR. You surely have not spoken of this to him? MRS. EGERTON. The other night I started to. MRS. ORR. How could you! (_Mrs. Egerton glances back uneasily into the room_) MRS. ORR. They're all right. Let's go here behind the pines. MRS. EGERTON (_Beckons to the Butler_) Serve them the lunch now, Charles. (_The Butler goes into the room, forward right. The two women pass left, where they are somewhat shut in by the pines_) MRS. ORR. What did he say? MRS. EGERTON And then--I don't know--something in his face-- Perhaps the wonder that I knew would come That such a thing--If people only knew-- Donald is not the hard unfeeling man-- And knowing this---- (_She hesitates_) MRS. ORR. And knowing what, my dear? MRS. EGERTON. My heart rose up and I--I simply said That Harry had heard a sighing from the walls. I told him so much, for it's worried me. And he at once---- MRS. ORR. (_With spirit_) I know. 'The pines!' MRS. EGERTON. 'The pines!' MRS. ORR. I knew it! MRS. EGERTON. 'The pines!' And walked the floor and laughed; And such a heart-free laugh I have not heard In twenty years. 'The pines!' MRS. ORR. 'The pines!' Of course. MRS. EGERTON. Feeling---- MRS. ORR. Yes, yes! MRS. EGERTON. He had caught the very soul Of the forest. MRS. ORR. And the triumph of it all! MRS. EGERTON. Ah, no one knows how many, many years Donald has dreamed of this, how all his thought And all his---- (_Stands regarding the young people dancing_) MRS. ORR. One has but to look at it. MRS. EGERTON. Yet not for it as his, not that at all, But for the building of it. MRS. ORR. Of course. MRS. EGERTON. And now That it has taken form you cannot think How like a boy he is, how eagerly He flees here from the business of the day And how he walks about enjoying it. 'Tis like the sea. When he is here alone The burden of his great business falls away And he is young again. I sometimes feel, Lying in bed at night and knowing he Is walking here alone, the lights turned low, And listening for the sighing of the pines, That somehow 'tis a woman he has made And that she whispers to him in these hours, Comes to him beautiful from out the pines After his long, long wooing of her---- MRS. ORR. I see! Beautiful, beautiful! I see! I see! It needed that one breath to make it live. MRS. EGERTON. To Donald, yes. MRS. ORR. Before it was a house, And now a living thing. I see! I see! (_Kisses the little pines_) MRS. EGERTON. If one could only know it is not God Whispering through the walls of our new home Some dreadful word, and yet with voice so low. MRS. ORR. My dear, your words are perfect Greek to me. MRS. EGERTON. You know they say the men are suffering so. And Donald does not seem to see. MRS. ORR. (_Vaguely_) The men? MRS. EGERTON. Yes; Harry says that some are without bread. And we here--and the music and the lights. MRS. ORR. (_In utter astonishment_) Why, Mary Egerton! You do not mean-- You cannot mean that that suggested this, That vulgar thing, this beautiful idea! MRS. EGERTON. If one could only help them, only help them! MRS. ORR. The hunger of a lot of stupid men Who wish to tell your husband what to do, And he with a brain like this, and they with claws! MRS. EGERTON. It all depends upon such little things, Things that we've never earned---- MRS. ORR. (_Mysteriously_) Harry, you say? MRS. EGERTON. That fall right at our feet we don't know how. The chance of birth! What right have I to this Who've never done one thing to help the world, While they who work their lives out---- MRS. ORR. 'Help the world!' MRS. EGERTON. Can't even have the food and clothes they need. People have asked me why--that's why it is I've done my shopping in the city lately. You meet them in the stores and on the streets. And they're so thin, so worn with the long strike. Just think of children crying for mere bread! It's horrible. I thought this afternoon As I stood at the window looking out-- Through the first snow the motor cars came up. I don't believe they even noticed it. It means so little to them. It's just snow. But in the workers' homes--I just can't think Of God as looking down with unconcern. I couldn't love Him if I thought He could. MRS. ORR. I don't know what we're ever going to do. MRS. EGERTON. If only some strong, gifted man would come And show us how, show us all how to live. We'd all be so much happier than we are. MRS. ORR. I wish to goodness I could shut my ears And never hear that 'Help the world' again. You can't pick up a book or magazine, Even a fashion journal, or go out To see your friends, it seems---- (_The men are seen coming down the stairs, the Governor and the Bishop on either side of Egerton. They are all laughing and having a good time_) MRS. EGERTON. I'm very sorry. It isn't the place. But I've been so distraught. Let us go in and put it all away. And you must never mention it. I can't bear To think of people talking. MRS. ORR. Hear them laugh! I wouldn't live with such a wicked man. MRS. EGERTON. That isn't kind in you. MRS. ORR. In twenty years We'll all be wearing grave-clothes. MRS. EGERTON. Sylvia! MRS. ORR. There'll not be one retreat where we can go, We ladies of the _ancien régime_; We'll all be out, with not a single place Where we can make the tables ring with cards And laugh and just be gay. Even the pines, The beautiful pines, are tainted, and the snow. The winter long I'll never dare go out. I'll be afraid I'll catch this 'Help the world' And come home hearing things. You precious goose! You just shan't give way to this silly mood. And at the moment when you have about you The money and the best names in the State; Just everything that mortal heart can wish. (_They watch the men coming down the steps_) You ought to be so proud. MRS. EGERTON. I am. (_The piano stops_) A GIRL. (_Who has been waltzing_) O pshaw! MRS. ORR. Even the Governor--don't you see, when he's with Donald And when his wife's with you, how they both show How all they are and all they hope to be They owe to Donald? MRS. EGERTON. I know, I know. A YOUNG MAN. Come on! MRS. EGERTON. And he's so good, so good in many ways. (_The young people make for the conservatory_) MRS. ORR. And yet so gay, so sensible with it all. MRS. EGERTON. It isn't that I'm ungrateful, Sylvia. I'm never done with thanking God for all The blessings that I have. MRS. ORR. Children and wealth. MRS. EGERTON. And Donald, too. MRS. ORR. O really! A YOUNG MAN. Bring the score! MRS. EGERTON. I can't help wishing, though, that he would see And do for others as he does for us. (_They stand listening_) EGERTON. Just let your minds go out about the mountains. (_A pause_) Have you had too much punch, or what's the trouble? (_Laughter_) MRS. ORR. Just hear how joyous hearted! Promise me---- MRS. EGERTON. (_In alarm_) He's telling them of the pines! MRS. ORR. What would you do? MRS. EGERTON. (_Beckons to the Butler, who is passing_) Tell Donald that I wish to speak with---- MRS. ORR. Stop! EGERTON. It's something, gentlemen, that we all have need of. MRS. ORR. Dear, if you ever dare tell Donald this And pass this ghastly whisper to his heart, I'll be the Secret Lady of the Pines; I'll whisper something. What if Donald knew Who's kept the strike afoot? The great unknown Contributor to the Citizens' Relief? Who had twelve hundred dollars in the bank, A present from a Christmas long ago? Twelve hundred and twelve hundred----! MRS. EGERTON. It can't be! MRS. ORR. We bankers' wives---- MRS. EGERTON. A mere coincidence. MRS. ORR. It's not; he's checked it out. So! If you care Nothing for Donald's happiness, I do. (_She leaves Mrs. Egerton standing near the pines. Other ladies have begun to come in_) RALPH ARDSLEY. What's underneath the forest? MRS. ORR. (_With a strange smile, calling back_) I really will. EGERTON. You give it up? MRS. EGERTON. My noble, noble son! GENERAL CHADBOURNE. He's waiting, gentlemen, till he finds the mine. EGERTON. The man of parts! SEVERAL. Of course. EGERTON. That's why I can't Take you down now. But when I find the mine And get the gold to puddling in the pots, If I can find me plastic metal workers That I can mould and hammer while they mould And hammer out my vision on the walls, I'll show you through some subterranean chambers Will set your eyes a-dazzle. In the dark, Lit by the torches in the miners' caps, You'll see the world of metals moving up Through human hands as here you see the tree. That's why my basement isn't finished yet. CRIES. Good luck! Good luck! EGERTON. I hope you'll be alive. (_He leaves the group and comes forward_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Magnificent conception. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. A great man. EGERTON. (_To the Butler_) Call them in, Charles. Have all of them come in. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. Metals, then trees, then mills, then books and pictures. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Raw matter on its spiral up to spirit. EGERTON. While we're at riddles, gentlemen---- (_Ladies come in, centre and forward right_) EGERTON. Come right in. If you'll allow me, friends, suppose you stand Where you can have my forest in your eye. (_He arranges them to face right_) I don't see, ladies, how you ever endure The dulness of these males. We've been at riddles. Come in. I've kept my best wine for the last. (_He steps back near the door, centre right_) Suppose you'd made an Adam out of clay, Worked years to get it to your satisfaction, And now you're looking at it, hands all washed And mind confronting, weighing what's been done. Suddenly you're aware of something standing by you That whispers in your left ear: 'Make a wish Within the power of God.' What would it be? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. To see it walk about the garden, brother. EGERTON. Suppose your Adam was a pine-wood, Bishop, That couldn't walk. MRS. ORR. (_Ardently_) Then just to hear it breathe. EGERTON. A woman's intuition! (_Looks to see who it is_) Sylvia Orr! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. _Sylva_ a forest. EGERTON. An old friend of mine. (_He gives a signal to some one_) A clear day in the pine-wood. (_Suddenly the hall is beautifully illuminated_) GUESTS. Ah! EGERTON. With clouds, The dawn just breaking. (_The hall becomes gray and shadowy_) Ancient silence. MRS. EGERTON. (_Half in terror_) Donald! EGERTON. Let us be quiet now. (_The silence is broken by the ringing of a telephone bell in the room forward left_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Ah! MRS. ORR. (_Across to Mrs. Egerton_) Don't you dare! (_The Butler goes out to answer the telephone_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. This age of bells and whistles. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_Comes forward and takes his stand near the door forward left_) Just in time! EGERTON. They don't concern me. We are far away With quiet all about us and the woods. (_The silence is intense_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_Rehearsing his speech_) ... And it gives me pleasure to announce to you Upon the occasion of the opening Of your new mansion, Colonel Egerton, This bit of news, sir, from the military; And I offer it with our congratulations: The strike is over; The men have yielded and have gone to work. And all's been done without one---- (_Enter the Butler hurriedly_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Here I am. BUTLER. (_Passing him_) For Mr. Egerton. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. No! BUTLER. (_In a low voice over the crowd_) Mr. Egerton! GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Isn't that Captain Haskell? BUTLER. Mr. Jergens. (_Egerton comes forward, making his way through the crowd_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Butler! (_The Butler goes to him and they talk_) RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Calls after Egerton as he goes out left_) Good luck! (_Calls to Chadbourne_) This probably ends it. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. What's your opinion of these mysteries, Bishop? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I'm one of those that simply stand and wait. GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. You don't believe in modern miracles. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. There are miracles and miracles, Governor Braddock. I try to keep elastic in these things, Steering a middle course with open mind. RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Calls to Chadbourne_) Needed just this to crown the time we're having. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. We are living in an age in many ways Without a parallel. I sometimes think-- If I may say it not too seriously-- Of those last days we read of when the world Goes on its way unconscious of the end. We give and take in marriage, eat and drink, And meet our friends in social intercourse, And all the while a Spirit walks beside us, Enters our homes and writes upon our walls. There are whispers everywhere if we could hear them; And some of them grow louder with the days; And pools of quiet ruffle and show storms. You, Governor, feel the popular unrest As it manifests itself in politics, The shift of parties and of principles, Rocks that we used to think would never change. And brother Egerton in industry; He feels it. EGERTON. (_Appearing at the door, excited, and keeping back so as not to be seen by the people_) Chadbourne! (_The General joins him and they disappear_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I sincerely hope We're on the eve, however, of a day When trouble-makers in the ranks of Labor, Not only here in Foreston but elsewhere, May find it to their interest to respect, Nay, reverence as a thing ordained by God, The right of men to earn their daily bread, As well as profitable to obey the laws Without the unseemly presence of armed men. (_There is a clapping of hands. General Chadbourne appears just inside the door and beckons to Ardsley, who goes in to him_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And I will take occasion here and now To say what you've been thinking all this while, And in the presence of the man himself: We are fortunate, my friends---- RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Appears and calls to one of the guests farther back_) The Governor. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. In having at the helm of our great State One who loves order more than he loves votes. (_General clapping of hands_) SEVERAL. Good! GUEST. (_In a low voice over the crowd_) Governor! SEVERAL. That's good! (_The Governor bows_) CRIES. Speech! Speech! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. My friends, I quite agree with the Bishop. SEVERAL. Ha, ha, ha! GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. I don't mean in his estimate of me. (_More laughter. The Governor catches sight of the guest beckoning to him_) GOVERNOR BRADDOCK. But here's my better half. You might ask her. Pardon me till I see---- RALPH ARDSLEY. (_Calls urgently to the Bishop in a voice that is barely heard_) Go on! Go on! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Society, my friends, is like this house, This mansion that we all so much admire. (_Ardsley stands impassive till the Governor has gone out and the Bishop has again got the attention of the people, then goes quickly into the side room_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Imagine what a state of things we'd have If every wooden fellow in these walls, Not only here but in the mill upstairs, Should lend his heart to tongues of discontent Until his very tools became a burden. A VOICE. Anarchy. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Very true. Where would this be, This beautiful thing that Colonel Egerton Has built with so much labor and so much taste? And out there in the world where we all dwell, Where all of us have places in the walls, Some working with their hands on farms, in mines; Some building; some at forges; at machines Weaving our garments; others more endowed Loaned to us from the higher planes of being, Men of the Over-Soul, inventors, dreamers, Planners of longer railroads, bigger mills, The great preparers for the finer souls That build the dome, the finishers of things, Prophets of God, musicians, artists, poets, As we've all seen how Colonel Egerton In his third story has his books and pictures-- Suppose a bitter wind of discontent Should shake the great walls of this social order, Set the first story men against the second, The second against the third, until the mass, Throwing their tools down on the world's great floor, Should clamor up the dome for pens and brushes, Shutting their eyes to the cold facts of life That we climb up Life's ladder by degrees-- (_His attention is attracted for a moment to a group of men that has been collecting forward centre, evidently concerned with whatever it is that is going on in the side room_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. (_Recovering himself quickly_) But I'm afraid, my friends---- SEVERAL. Go on! Go on! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I'm wasting good material for a sermon. A MAN'S VOICE. Pearls before swine. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I started to say brethren. (_Laughter_) A LADY. (_In the foreground_) Isn't he just too bright for anything! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. But now---- A MAN. (_Joining the group_) What's up? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. To come home to the task That brother Egerton lays upon our ears. We have all of us read stories and seen things. (_Laughter_) A VOICE. But ghosts of trees? (_General laughter_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. That, I admit, is rare. (_Mrs. Egerton, who, since the ringing of the telephone bell, has shown an increasing anxiety as to the message that has come, unable longer to contain herself, comes hurriedly forward through the people_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Don't let us scare you, sister Egerton. (_Laughter. The people turn just in time to see Governor Braddock, General Chadbourne, and Ralph Ardsley with overcoats on and hats in their hands, stealing across to get out forward right. Mrs. Egerton hurries into the room from which they came_) RALPH ARDSLEY. It's nothing. (_The three go out_) VOICES. What's the matter? What's the matter? PALE LADY. It's something terrible, I know it is. LADY IN BLACK. We always have to pay for our good times. (_George Egerton and Gladys Egerton come quickly from the conservatory and enter the side room_) ELDERLY LADY. I shouldn't wonder if those horrid strikers Were burning the mill. LADY IN BLACK. Or may be some one's hurt. LADY WITH THE CONSPICUOUS COIFFURE. Provoking, isn't it? FAT LADY. What would we better do? YOUNG MATRON. (_Calling out_) Please tell us what's the trouble. (_A silence_) PALE LADY. I shall faint. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. (_Coming forward_) It has been suggested, friends, in view of this Personal something that has happened here-- I don't know what it is, but we all know In trouble how we like to be alone. Later I'll call them up and for us all Extend our sympathy when we know the cause. (_There is a movement of people departing_) PINK LADY. I wonder who it is? FAT LADY. They've shut the door. LADY WITH THE CONSPICUOUS COIFFURE. 'Twas more like anger; didn't you see his face? LADY IN BLACK. When everything was so, so beautiful! (_They vanish with the other guests. A minute or so later the Butler enters, right rear, and walks as though dazed through the empty hall_) A MAID. (_Appearing right rear_) Charlie! SECOND MAID. (_Appears beside her_) What is it? BUTLER. (_Without turning_) Trouble at the mill. FIRST MAID. Charlie! BUTLER. That's all I know. SECOND MAID. A riot? GLADYS EGERTON. (_Appearing forward left_) Gone! Father, they've gone! GEORGE EGERTON. (_Comes in quickly_) Look in the rooms. (_Goes rear_) GLADYS EGERTON. (_Looks in the room forward right_) They've gone! GEORGE EGERTON. (_Calls into the conservatory_) Chester! Marjorie! Well, I'll be damned! GLADYS EGERTON. I hate him, O I hate him! GEORGE EGERTON. That's what comes! GLADYS EGERTON. What will we ever do! Just think of it! GEORGE EGERTON. (_To the Butler_) Why do you stand that way? (_Comes to the door forward left_) O do shut up, Mother. (_Donald Egerton comes in, putting on his overcoat_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Following him_) Remember, Donald, he's our son. GEORGE EGERTON. Always defending him! You make me sick. MRS. EGERTON. You've always said you never in your life Lost hold upon yourself. GLADYS EGERTON. No dance to-night. EGERTON. (_To the Butler_) Tell Jack to bring the car to the front door. (_The Butler goes out centre right_) GEORGE EGERTON. Wait, father, till I get my---- (_Starts for the room forward left_) MRS. EGERTON. If he's done it-- He has some reason, Donald. And you know Jergens has never liked him. (_Harry Egerton comes in right rear, his hat and shoulders covered with snow_) MRS. EGERTON. Harry! Harry! (_She hurries to him and embraces him_) HARRY EGERTON. Mother! MRS. EGERTON. My son! HARRY EGERTON. I'm sorry. (_George Egerton reappears_) GLADYS EGERTON. I just hate you! You selfish thing! See what you've done! HARRY EGERTON. I'm sorry. GEORGE EGERTON. (_With a sneer_) He's very sorry, sister. EGERTON. A pretty son! HARRY EGERTON. I hadn't the least intention, father---- GEORGE EGERTON. Damn you! HARRY EGERTON. Who 'phoned it in? MRS. EGERTON. What is it you've done, Harry? GEORGE EGERTON. (_To the Butler and the Maids who have appeared at the doors_) Get away from there! HARRY EGERTON. Father---- (_Egerton Tosses His Overcoat Into the Side Room_) MRS. EGERTON. Harry, is it true You kept the men from going back to work? HARRY EGERTON. I wanted to have a talk with father first. EGERTON. Um! GEORGE EGERTON. (_To his mother_) There! MRS. EGERTON. But hear him, Donald. HARRY EGERTON. All my life I've wanted to say something to you, father; Especially since I went to work. You once, When I came home from college, you remember, And hadn't made my mind up what to do, What my life work should be---- EGERTON. A pretty son! HARRY EGERTON. We talked together and you said that now Three things lay open to me, that I could choose And that you'd back me up. First, there was Art. And though you didn't say so, I could see You'd have been glad if I had chosen that. I had a talent for it, so you said, And I could study with the best of them. You'd set aside a hundred thousand dollars; And I could finish up by travelling, Seeing the beautiful buildings of the world; That I could take my time, then settle down And glorify my land: that's what you said. Then there was Public Life. You'd start me in By giving me the Courier. That, you said, Would give me at once a standing among men And training in political affairs. And that if I made good you'd see to it I had a seat in Congress, and in the end That probably I'd be Governor of the State. And then you paused. You didn't like the third. Business, you said, was an unpleasant life. 'Twas all right as you'd used it, as a means, But as an end--And then you used words, father, That changed my life although you didn't know it-- 'Business, my son, is war; needful at times, But as a life,--you shook your head and sighed. With that we ended it, for some one came And I went out. Six years ago last June, The seventh of June; I can't forget the day. The sun was shining but a strange new light Lay over everything. All of a sudden It dawned upon my mind that I'd been reared Inside a garden full of flowers and trees, And only now had chanced upon the gate And stepped out. There was smoke upon the skies And a rumbling of strange wagons in the street. I was afraid. For every man I met Seemed just about to ask, 'What side are you on?' And I was twenty-one and didn't know. EGERTON. You seem to have found out since you've been away. HARRY EGERTON. I'd always thought 'twas garden everywhere. I walked on up the river and sat down Upon the logs up there, and night came on. And in the waters flowing at my feet The lighted land went by, cities and towns And the vast murmur and the daily life Of those that toil, the hunger and the care. And in my heart I knew that it was true, That what you said was true. And I came back Filled with such peace as I had never known. 'I'll enter business, father.' And I did. I started at the bottom in the mill Helping the engineer, and from the saws Carried the lumber with the other men. Then in the yard. You always praised my work. I'm in the office now at twenty-seven, And Secretary of the Company. I think I know the business pretty well. You've said so. But somehow---- (_He pauses_) MRS. EGERTON. What is it, Harry? HARRY EGERTON. In Public Life, if I had chosen that, And after six years' work that you approved, If one day I had come---- EGERTON. You want the mill. HARRY EGERTON. 'Father, I can't go on; my way is blocked And all my hopes are falling to the ground.' There's nothing, not one thing you wouldn't have done. Or if I had a building half way up, My masterpiece, a mighty capitol That finished would be known throughout the land, And I had met with interference, men Who had no vision--you know what I mean-- And I had come to you, 'Father, I'm thwarted,' O I can see with one sweep of your hand How you would clear the skies. EGERTON. You want the mill. HARRY EGERTON. Yes, father. EGERTON. I thought so. HARRY EGERTON. I want the mill. GEORGE EGERTON. And thought you'd blackmail father. HARRY EGERTON. Listen to me! For probably in all my life I'll never Speak to you as I'm speaking now, my father. MRS. EGERTON. Donald, I beg of you---- GEORGE EGERTON. Well, I'll be---- MRS. EGERTON. George! HARRY EGERTON. In these six years for one cause or another There've been three strikes that have cost the Company thousands In money, to say nothing of those things That all the money in the world can't buy. Now let me ask, my father, if this loss, Instead of springing from these strikes, had come Through breakdowns of the machinery, or in the camps Through failure to get the timber out in time, Wouldn't you have dismissed the man in charge? Then why do you let Jergens run the mill? Hasn't he failed, and miserably, with the men? GEORGE EGERTON. What have you to do with it? EGERTON. I'll attend to this. (_George Egerton walks away and stands by the pine trees, picking off and biting the needles_) HARRY EGERTON. Is it because the earnings have increased? Think what it's cost you, father. In every mill Jergens has touched he's left a cursing there That's all come back on us. Why, my father, Our name's become a by-word through the State, 'As hard as Egerton.' And when I think Of what might be, the good-will and the peace, The happiness! There's not the least excuse For this cut in wages, father, and you know it. EGERTON. Um! HARRY EGERTON. You can't help but know it. You've the books; You know what you've been making. But that aside: To come to what I would say: You've won this strike. You have the men in your power and you can say, 'Go back,' and they'll go back. But you won't do it. EGERTON. Won't I? HARRY EGERTON. Will you, when you know you're wrong? When you know you're losing friends who love what's right? Think of the sentiment against you, father. No, father, you don't know what's going on. EGERTON. It seems I don't. HARRY EGERTON. If you knew how they live And the hard time they have to get along. It isn't fair, my father, it isn't fair. GLADYS EGERTON. (_In tears, to her mother_) Yes, you don't care. HARRY EGERTON. Father, you love this land. There's never been a day in all your life, If there'd been war, you wouldn't have closed the mill And gone and died upon the field of battle If the country had called to you in her need. And I can see you how you'd scorn the man, If he were serving as a General, Who'd keep his rank and file as poorly fed And ragged as he could. (_The telephone bell rings_) GLADYS EGERTON. They're calling up To know about it! GEORGE EGERTON. (_Starts for the room, then stops_) What shall I tell them, father? GLADYS EGERTON. O have them come back, papa, have them come back! EGERTON. (_Keeping his eye on Harry_) Tell them what you please. (_George goes out_) HARRY EGERTON. Father, buy Jergens out. GLADYS EGERTON. (_Calling into the room_) Tell them it's all right, brother, that it's nothing. HARRY EGERTON. Give him his price and let him go his way---- EGERTON. (_Calling toward the room_) A misunderstanding. HARRY EGERTON. And let me run the mill. And let us see, my father, you and I, If we can't make that place of work down there As famous for its harmony as this house. A land is not its timber but its people, And not its Art, my father, but its men. Let's try to make this town a place of peace And helpfulness. What do you say, my father? EGERTON. And that's your life work! (_Gladys goes into the room_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Approaching him_) Donald---- EGERTON. Go away. MRS. EGERTON. You've asked me why it is I cannot sleep. It's that, Donald, it's that! Give him the mill. They're human beings, Donald, like ourselves. EGERTON. And you've been planning this! HARRY EGERTON. I had hoped, my father, That things would so arrange themselves that I-- That you would make me manager of the mill. MRS. EGERTON. Donald, it's your nobler self you hear. EGERTON. (_Looks at him a long time_) What a fool---- (_Turns away_) what a fool I've been! (_Walks about_) VOICES OF GEORGE AND GLADYS. The mine! Father! (_They come running in_) The mine! A rumor that the mine's been found! EGERTON. Who is it? GEORGE EGERTON. I don't know. They're on the wire. (_Egerton goes out_) GEORGE EGERTON. All over town, they say. (_Brother and sister wait near the door, tense, listening_) MRS. EGERTON. (_With a sigh_) Everything! GLADYS EGERTON. (_Under her breath_) George, Think of the things we'll have! GEORGE EGERTON. Be still! MRS. EGERTON. (_Turns and looks at Harry, whose face shows the sadness he feels at his father's refusal_) Harry. Harry, are you well? HARRY EGERTON. Yes, mother. (_A pause_) Mother---- (_Distant cannon are heard_) GEORGE EGERTON. Hark! GLADYS EGERTON. (_Starting back through the house_) The mine! the mine! (_The servants appear_) Father has found the mine! (_Further booming is heard_) GEORGE EGERTON. There go the guns! They're celebrating, father! (_He starts for the stairs and goes bounding up three steps at a time_) GLADYS EGERTON. (_Calling after him_) We'll have them back and announce it! We'll have them back! HARRY EGERTON. Mother, I've found the mine. GLADYS EGERTON. (_Whirling round on her toe_) Now, now you see! HARRY EGERTON. This morning on the mountains. MRS. EGERTON. Can it be! GLADYS EGERTON. (_Comes running forward_) I'll have my car now, won't I, daddy, daddy? (_She disappears into the room, forward left_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Strangely_) I knew it! O I knew that He would come! (_Turns upon her son a look of awe_) Harry! Harry! HARRY EGERTON. Father must do what's right. MRS. EGERTON. You'll build a mill. HARRY EGERTON. The ground is white with snow. (_Egerton appears in the doorway and stands looking at his son_) GLADYS EGERTON. (_Clinging to his hand_) What is it, papa? What's the matter, daddy? GEORGE EGERTON. (_Appearing upon the stairs_) They've run the flag up on the Court House, father! EGERTON. That's what it means! HARRY EGERTON. Father, I'll buy the mill. EGERTON. That's what it means! GLADYS EGERTON. What, daddy? EGERTON. You'll hold my men! HARRY EGERTON. I'll mortgage the mine and pay you, father. GLADYS EGERTON. Oh! EGERTON. And if I don't you'll back the men, eh? GLADYS EGERTON. Oh! (_She backs toward George, who has come down the stairs_) HARRY EGERTON. I'll pay you twice its value, father. GEORGE EGERTON. (_At a word from Gladys_) What! (_Egerton drops his eyes for a moment and stands as though in deep thought_) MRS. EGERTON. Be careful, Donald! GLADYS EGERTON. (_To Harry_) I hate you! GEORGE EGERTON. (_With a sneer_) Big man! EGERTON. George, Get Jergens. GEORGE EGERTON. (_To Harry_) Mill-hand! (_Goes out left_) EGERTON. Tell him to lock the mill And have this notice tacked up on the gate, 'Closed for a year.' VOICE OF GEORGE. Good! GLADYS EGERTON. Good! EGERTON. I'll let her rot. HARRY EGERTON. And winter coming on! GLADYS EGERTON. I'm glad! I'm glad! EGERTON. War or submission, eh? HARRY EGERTON. (_Goes to his mother_) Mother. (_Kisses her_) EGERTON. I'll show you---- HARRY EGERTON. (_Starting for the door_) Father, you'll remember in the years to be How I came to you one November day And asked your help to give this country peace. EGERTON. Go to your rabble! GLADYS EGERTON. (_Breaks out crying_) Think of it! EGERTON. I'll show you How you can buy me and my property! HARRY EGERTON. (_From back in the hall_) Property was made for men. EGERTON. And don't you ever Darken that door! HARRY EGERTON. And you can't keep it idle While men depend upon it for their bread. (_He goes out_) EGERTON. (_Roaring after him_) You dare to lay your hands upon that mill! (_He stands staring at the door_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Wonderingly_) It wasn't our son! It wasn't our son! (_The cannon are heard in volley upon volley as of a town giving itself up to celebration_) EGERTON. (_Calls into the room, left_) Tell him to go right down, that probably There'll be an attack upon it. GLADYS EGERTON. (_Shaken with sobs_) Think of it! MRS. EGERTON. (_As before_) That gleam about his brow! And now he's gone! (_She wanders back in the hall as in a dream_) EGERTON. And to see Chadbourne----Are you listening? VOICE OF GEORGE. Yes. EGERTON. To Chadbourne that he has authority from me-- From Egerton, to treat them all alike. MRS. EGERTON. (_Vacantly, to her husband_) What have you done, Donald! EGERTON. That I expect The mill defended, let it cost what may. GLADYS EGERTON. I hate him, O I hate him! MRS. EGERTON. (_Who has come forward and stands facing him_) What have you done! ACT IV THE LIVING MILL _Scene: Inside the mill, showing in front a sort of half storeroom, half office shut in from the main body of the mill by a railing in the centre of which is a gate that swings in and out. Far back in this main body of the mill one sees a number of great gang saws from which off-carriers, with freshly sawed slabs and lumber upon their rollers, branch right from the main line that runs the full length of the mill. Through an opening in the far end, whence the logs are drawn up an incline to the saws, one sees as through a telescope a portion of the river and of the mountains on the opposite bank. Up toward the front, left, in this main body of the mill is a wide door that opens outside. In the foreground, within the space partitioned off by the railing, a pair of stairs, evidently connecting with the outdoors on the ground floor, comes up rear left. Centre, against this left wall, a pole six or eight inches in diameter, and to all appearances only recently set, goes up through a hole in the roof. Upon the floor at the foot of the pole, from which two long ropes hang down, lies a large American flag partially strung upon the rope. Forward from the pole is a door which apparently is no longer in use, a strip being nailed across it. About this end of the enclosure are piles of window sash and kegs of nails. Centre rear, at right angles to the side walls, so that one sitting upon a stool may look back into the mill, is a long checkers' desk with two or three stools before it and with the usual litter of papers, books, and a telephone upon it. In the right wall, rear, where one coming up the stairs may walk straight on and enter, is a door connecting with the main office._ _As the Scene opens, something very important seems to be going on in this main office. A crowd of men, workmen and militiamen together, are packed about the door, intent upon whatever it is that is transpiring inside. Forward, away from the crowd, a small group, mostly of militiamen, is gathered about two guards with rifles in their hands, who have evidently just come in. Back, beyond the railing and close to the crowd, a group of workmen about Wes Dicey is engaged in a heated argument. And farther back in the mill, especially about the large door, left, are bodies of men talking together. As the Scene opens, and for a few minutes afterwards, some one up the pole is heard singing._ _Time: Saturday afternoon the week following the preceding Act._ A WORKMAN. (_Comes from the crowd to the militiamen_) Servin' the papers on the mine, you think? MILITIAMAN. He's too damn proud to play the constable. SECOND MILITIAMAN. Maybe it's terms from Egerton. THIRD MILITIAMAN. (_To Fourth Militiaman, who has just come up the stairs with his shoulders hung with knapsacks_) Chadbourne's here. SECOND WORKMAN. Egerton makes no terms till he's on top. FIFTH MILITIAMAN. He'll have his hands full. Seen the evening papers? (_He unfolds a paper and a group gathers about him_) CRIES. (_Near the door_) That's right! that's right! THIRD WORKMAN. (_From the edge of the crowd_) What are they sayin', Mike? FOURTH WORKMAN. (_On the edge of the crowd, looking toward the group about Dicey_) We can't hear nothin' with that racket there. FIRST MILITIAMAN. It's his lost sheep he's after. SECOND MILITIAMAN. Let him bark. FOURTH WORKMAN. You've stood by us, boys, and we'll stand by you. VOICE. (_From back in the mill_) Tell him we won't, no matter what he says! (_The Sixth Militiaman comes up the stairs, with four or five bugles, and shows surprise to see the crowd gathered_) THIRD MILITIAMAN. (_In the group about the paper_) And Smith and Balding Brothers! FOURTH WORKMAN. Lemme see it. FIFTH MILITIAMAN. Give him a rouse. What say you. One, two, three. SEVERAL. Hurrah for Harry Egerton! Hurrah! VOICE. (_Rear_) Hurrah for the Living Mill! A GENERAL SHOUT. (_Back in the mill_) The Living Mill! FIFTH MILITIAMAN. I guess, by God, he knows where we stand now. (_They join the crowd about the door. Jim King comes through the gate in the railing, followed by Rome Masters, who is considerably intoxicated_) JIM KING. And hug 'em round the neck, if I was you. That's what I'd do. ROME MASTERS. Now you just stop that, Jim. JIM KING. Why did you tell Aug. Jergens that you would? ROME MASTERS. I ain't said nothin' about backin' down. But I ain't nothin' agin him. JIM KING. There you go! It does beat hell. You just keep saying that, That you ain't nothin' agin him, and you'll see. VOICE. (_Near the door_) Who's to be judge what's for the Public Good? ROME MASTERS. I ain't said that I wouldn't do the job. JIM KING. (_Stands on tip-toe and looks over the crowd, then turns back to Masters_) Didn't you think and didn't I think and Wes That when they cut the pie we'd get our share, One big long table with no head and tail But all the boys the same, and everything Piled on it and divided? (_The group about Dicey become more noisy_) VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Put him out! (_Dicey comes from the centre of the group and catches sight of King, who beckons to him_) FIRST WORKMAN. (_From the group_) If you don't like it, Wes, why don't you leave? SECOND WORKMAN. (_Following Dicey_) Why in the hell don't you leave? We're free men. (_Dicey, King and Masters walk over to the pile of sash, left_) THIRD WORKMAN. (_Of the Dicey faction_) Offer 'em coppers for their Union cards. FOURTH WORKMAN. And where's the mine that you was goin' to share? FIFTH WORKMAN. You want old Egerton to have it, eh? VOICE. (_Back in the mill_) Bring on the Constitution and let's vote! CHRIS KNUDSON. (_Comes out of the crowd_) Don't use that name. (_To the Dicey faction_) Let's have no trouble, men. This ain't no time to quarrel among ourselves. (_To the other party_) Try to remember, boys, it's his name, too. (_Suddenly there is a tremendous cheering by those about the door. A militiaman hurries from the crowd, grabs a bugle from the Sixth Militiaman and, darting out centre, starts to blow it_) SIXTH MILITIAMAN. (_Excitedly_) Don't do that! Here! MILITIAMAN. (_With the knapsacks_) Don't do that! (_The crowd begins to break up, many of the men climbing back over the railing into the mill proper_) MILITIAMAN. (_Comes sliding down the pole_) What's the trouble? JIM KING. (_Returning with Dicey and Masters_) They're out for their selves, damn 'em; we'll be too. SEVENTH MILITIAMAN. (_Coming away with two or three others_) Young Egerton's pure gold if ever was. WES DICEY. Don't make no move, though, Jim, till we see first. (_He separates himself from the other two, and they mingle with the men_) EIGHTH MILITIAMAN. That's just the way they did the old man's farm. We had a place and didn't want to sell. That made no difference. Eminent Domain. 'Out of the way there, home!' VOICE. (_From back in the mill_) What did he say? VOICE. (_Near the door_) Then if the Company can take men's lands To build their railroads through---- SECOND VOICE. That's a good point! FIRST VOICE. And if you say the Law's the same for all, Then why can't we take theirs when we need bread? FIFTH MILITIAMAN. (_Getting a group together_) Be smoking when he comes out. FIRST MILITIAMAN. Stamper! Kids! THIRD VOICE. (_Rear_) What Egerton wants, that's for the Public Good! CHRIS KNUDSON. There, there you're not remembering it again! (_General Chadbourne comes from the office, followed by Captain Haskell, and after these Harry Egerton, Sam Williams, Harvey Anderson, Buck Bentley, and others. The militiamen make a big smoke_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You'll not lay hands on property in this State. HARRY EGERTON. The right of men to work is just as sacred As is the right of property, General Chadbourne, And more important to the general welfare. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. These gates have stood wide open here for weeks. SAM WILLIAMS. And on whose terms? WORKMEN. That's the point; on whose terms? GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Of course you'd like to make the terms yourselves. HARVEY ANDERSON. Why shouldn't they? HARRY EGERTON. What would you have men do? HARVEY ANDERSON. You say the State's been fair with them. All right. But it ain't the State that feeds them, it's the Mill; And it ain't the State that clothes them, it's the Mill; And it ain't the State they think of when they think Of better homes hereafter, it's the Mill. And there ain't no fairness that ain't fair in here, And there ain't no freedom that ain't free in here, Though there ain't no use of saying that to you. SAM WILLIAMS. We have to live. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_Ignoring Anderson, as he does throughout_) Employers have the right To buy their labor in the open market, And if you fellows here can't meet the price---- VOICE. (_From the crowd_) You'd have us starve? GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You'll have to step aside And give way to some stronger men that can SAM WILLIAMS. And you expect men to obey a law That gives no hope of anything but this? GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You'd been to work and you'd been satisfied If some outsiders hadn't come along And fired your ignorant minds. (_Murmurs in the crowd_) CHRIS KNUDSON. Hold your tongues, men. HARRY EGERTON. Pardon me, General Chadbourne-- HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To Buck Bentley_) Land o' the free! HARRY EGERTON. We are all of us outsiders in a way, Yourself as well as Harvey here and I. But in a way there's no such thing. We're men, And that which injures one injures us all. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. I'm here on duty; quite a different thing. HARRY EGERTON. What I have done I have done not without cause Nor hastily. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You know yourself these men Would have been to work. SAM WILLIAMS. We'd had to---- GENERAL CHADBOURNE. There you are! SAM WILLIAMS. If it hadn't been for Mr. Egerton. HARRY EGERTON. Yes, probably they would. HARVEY ANDERSON. That's just the point. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Then who is responsible? HARVEY ANDERSON. They'd gone to work. HARRY EGERTON. For this, I am. But for conditions here---- GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_To Captain Haskell_) Remember that. WORKMEN. No! We! We seized the mill! HARRY EGERTON. I led them. BUCK BENTLEY. It was we unlocked the gates. WORKMEN. But we marched in, so we're responsible. HARVEY ANDERSON. We won't dispute about who did it, partners. There's glory enough for all. (_Cheers_) I'm in it too. (_He laughs_) HARRY EGERTON. But for conditions that produced this strike God knows and I know it was not these men. I only wish that that was farther off. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. If wrong's been done there's legal remedies. HARRY EGERTON. Conditions, General, that outreach the law. SAM WILLIAMS. For it's that 'open market'---- VOICE. (_From the crowd_) Who makes the law? SAM WILLIAMS. Their legal right to buy the cheapest men And drive them just as hard and just as long As they can stand it. BUCK BENTLEY. And no troops are sent. CRIES. (_Some militiamen joining in_) That's right! WORKMEN. No troops for us! No troops for us! (_This cry is caught up by the crowd and is carried on back through the mill. Chadbourne looks at the militiamen and unbuttons his overcoat and feels about in his pockets_) HARRY EGERTON. Pardon me, General, if I speak right out, But I've seen wages lowered to buy lands, And I've seen bread taken from these men here To gamble with. There are some things, General Chadbourne, That can't go on. We've but one life to live And we just can't stand by and see some things And live. It's not worth while, it's not worth while. BUCK BENTLEY. And while you're here I want to say a word, For possibly we won't see you any more, And they'll be asking of us up the State. I never thought of it---- GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_Handing Haskell a notebook_) Take down their names. BUCK BENTLEY. Till Mr. Egerton made his talk that day; But it's a fact and it stares you in the face: When Companies are wronged, or think they are, They touch the wires and the troops are sent, But when the men are wronged, or think they are, It's 'legal remedies.' SAM WILLIAMS. That's well put, Comrade. HARVEY ANDERSON. That don't mean anything. FIRST MILITIAMAN. (_To Haskell_) John Stamper. FIRST GUARD. I Guess you know me. SECOND MILITIAMAN. And you can take mine, too. HARVEY ANDERSON. Who ever saw the like of this before! THIRD MILITIAMAN. Kelley. SECOND GUARD. And mine. HARRY EGERTON. A hundred years from now They'll write them in the larger book of Fame. FOURTH MILITIAMAN. This is the third time we've been out this year. HARVEY ANDERSON. You look like Israel Putnam and Paul Jones. BUCK BENTLEY. We came down here to see the square thing done; But it's got to work both ways. SIXTH MILITIAMAN. And mine. SEVENTH MILITIAMAN. And mine. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To Chadbourne_) You're all right, partner, only you don't see The inside of this thing that's happened here. The day's gone by when two or three big men Could ride her to and fro for their own gain And lay her up and starve the crew. That's past. We're going to take the flags down of the Kings, Kings of Lumber, Kings of Cotton, Kings of Coal, From one end to the other of this land, And we'll all be Americans, North and South And East and West until you touch the seas. And there's the thing that's going to fly the mast. (_Points to the flag on the floor_) And when she climbs you'll hear the guns go off Announcing a new Independence here. (_Tremendous cheering_) (_Two militiamen are seen coming up the stairs, the one loaded with blankets, the other with ten or twelve rifles_) GENERAL CHADBOURNE. (_To Harry Egerton_) And this is final, eh? VOICE. (_From the crowd_) We'll hold the mill! WORKMEN. (_Catching sight of the two militiamen_) And the mine too! That's right! And the mine too! (_Tremendous cheering_) HARRY EGERTON. If you have any way to guarantee That these men who have worked here many years And faithfully, as I know, will have their right To work respected and at an honest wage, And that while there are profits to be shared There'll be no starving time among these men---- GENERAL CHADBOURNE. Don't think because you're Mr. Egerton That you're immune. You'll find the laws the same Whether you're Mr. Egerton or not. (_Starts for the stairs_) If need be I'll call out ten thousand men. VOICE. (_Back in the mill_) Bring on the Constitution and let's vote! FIFTH MILITIAMAN. (_With the paper_) You'll have your hands full if reports are true. HARRY EGERTON. We none of us can tell what men will do. The times are changing and the days bring light. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You mean you'll stir up mutiny again? HARRY EGERTON. I'll see they get the truth, then let them choose. That is a right we all have, General Chadbourne. GENERAL CHADBOURNE. You'll have no chance to see them. (_Goes down the stairs, the two guards leading the way_) HARRY EGERTON. Very well. Just say to Governor Braddock it's with him. We'll keep right on at work. The gates shall be Open and the men shall come and go. CAPTAIN HASKELL. (_To two militiamen who are busy stringing the flag on the rope_) Damn pretty men you are to raise a flag. You ought to have a red one. FIRST MILITIAMAN. Go on, Haskell. SECOND MILITIAMAN. We'll see what kind of men dare take it down. CAPTAIN HASKELL. Wait till Court Martial sits. (_Disappears down the stairs. There is a movement of the workmen back into the mill_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Shouting_) Now let's to work! (_The militiamen gather left, and to some of them the rifles, knapsacks, etc., are distributed. Buck Bentley, who has taken the bugles in his hands, walks to and fro_) HARVEY ANDERSON. You'd better be off, Bentley, don't you think? They'll turn Hell upside down to get that mine. BUCK BENTLEY. He wanted to say something to me. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Calls rear left to Harry Egerton, who is engaged with Dicey, a number of workmen being gathered about them_) Partner! (_They stand silent, watching the group_) BUCK BENTLEY. Harry's too easy with him. A WORKMAN. (_Leaving the group and passing rear, calls to Anderson_) The same old sore. HARVEY ANDERSON. You've noticed any change these past few days? BUCK BENTLEY. In Egerton, you mean? Ain't it the strain Of breaking with his family? (_Harry Egerton starts toward them, but Dicey keeps after him, the men following_) BUCK BENTLEY. (_To Anderson, who has turned aside and half pulled from his inside pocket a legal looking document_) What---- HARVEY ANDERSON. His will. HARRY EGERTON. (_To Dicey_) It's a new day, my friend, a glorious day. VOICE. (_Back in the mill_) 'Twill soon be night! HARRY EGERTON. Try to forget the past And everything except that we are men Working together for the good of all. WES DICEY. That ain't the point though, Mr. Egerton. SAM WILLIAMS. You've got your vote, Wes, same as we have ours, You and your friends have. Why ain't that enough? Or is it that you think the few should rule? WES DICEY. There's got to be good feelin' all around If it's to hold together as you say; It's got to be plumbed well. And I don't see, If it's to be a workers' commonwealth, How you can keep the mine out. Course it's yours And in a way you can do as you please, That is, if you was like most men you could; But bein' different, standin' for the right, We don't just see how you can say 'We'll keep The mine out and devote it to the Cause.' If the boys ain't the Cause, tell us what is. Maybe it's as we're ignorant and don't know. HARRY EGERTON. Please do not put things in this bitter way. The Cause is what you've fought for all these years, A chance to live a freer, larger life. But in this struggle are you men alone? And shall we as we climb to better things Reach down no help to others, but hold fast To all we get? SEVERAL. No! No! HARRY EGERTON. Would that be right? WES DICEY. Another point. For years and years we've had A Union here, and when the fight came on, 'Twas as a Union that we made the fight. And Sam knows this is true, 'twas not so much The cut in wages, though, that took our strength, As 'twas their breakin' of the Union up As made us say 'By God, we'll fight or die.' Ain't that true, boys? TWO OR THREE. That's true. WES DICEY. And then you come And took the stand you did as they'd no right To make slaves of us, closin' of the gates To make us knuckle down. And you said 'Come,' And the boys followed you, and here they are. And many of 'em, if I sound 'em right, Are wonderin' what we're here for. I'll ask Sam If he's in favor of the Open Shop. SAM WILLIAMS. We formed our Union, Wes, when we were slaves, Same as in war times armies are called out. But when the war is over they go back. WES DICEY. 'Go back.' SAM WILLIAMS. We're free men now. CHRIS KNUDSON. We've no foe now Except ourselves. WES DICEY. All of which means you'll vote In favor of admittin' every man To full rights here. HARVEY ANDERSON. Look here, pard---- WES DICEY. Are you Sam? HARVEY ANDERSON. If it's the soldier boys you're knocking at, They don't intend to stay, most of them don't. But as I think they'll be invited to. (_Cheers_) Didn't they leave _their_ Union? A MILITIAMAN. The damned dog. SAM WILLIAMS. I mean to vote, Wes, for that Living Mill That Mr. Egerton has told us of. For that's the thing, or something like that thing, We've worked for all these years. And now it's come, A place where we can work and be free men, Having a say in things, as Harvey says, God help us if we can't get on as friends. (_Jim King takes Dicey aside, where Masters joins them_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Coming to Bentley and the militiamen_) I want to thank you, Bentley, and you men, I want to thank you for the help you've been. You've played the noblest part I ever knew. BUCK BENTLEY. We followed you. HARRY EGERTON. No. We have interests here, The rest of us have interests here; we've homes And families, and the fight was ours. But you, You'd never seen a one of us before. And you came here honorable men, and now You're traitors through the State, and mutineers. BUCK BENTLEY. It's all right. HARRY EGERTON. Yes, indeed, it is all right. FIFTH MILITIAMAN. They'll be more, too. SIXTH MILITIAMAN. He'll never call them out. HARRY EGERTON. You've helped to make the history of this land, And there's not one of you will not be known And honored for it. A MILITIAMAN. Half as much as you. HARRY EGERTON. And now a little toast before you go. (_Shakes hands with them_) Bentley, Kelley, Stamper, and you all, Sam, and you, Harvey, Chris, and Mike, and Wes, You'll join us, you and Jim and Rome? (_The three remain aside talking together_) HARRY EGERTON. And you, And you back there, you of the Living Mill-- For all time, shall we say it? SUBDUED VOICES. For all time. HARRY EGERTON. (_With a swift glance toward Dicey, King and Masters_) And give our lives, if need be, for this thing? SUBDUED VOICES. And give our lives, if need be, for this thing. HARRY EGERTON. This is a glorious day. MILITIAMEN. (_Leaving_) So long! So long! HARRY EGERTON. Wherever men get free they'll think of us. WORKMEN. So long! So long! BUCK BENTLEY. And there was something else. The General came while you were speaking. HARRY EGERTON. Ah! BUCK BENTLEY. Something about some bugles you said get. HARRY EGERTON. Yes, I forgot. I meant to show you these That a Committee brought this afternoon. (_Takes a paper from his pocket_) Read them in the meeting, Harvey. CRIES. Read them now! HARRY EGERTON. Some resolutions of the citizens, Who are glad we've gone on peaceably to work. And if at any time we need their help---- SAM WILLIAMS. (_Taking a bugle and holding it up to the crowd_) The citizens say blow these if we need help! Because we've gone on peaceably to work. (_Cheers_) It's work, you see, that wins, comrades. CHRIS KNUDSON. That's right. HARRY EGERTON. I trust, though, that they'll never need to blow. BUCK BENTLEY. 'Twill set the land on fire if they do. A WORKMAN. The workingmen throughout the State will hear. HARVEY ANDERSON. They'll blow in relay, pards, from sea to sea. (_Harry Egerton stands and watches the militiamen depart. As Bentley goes down the stairs he turns and looks at Harry Egerton, who lifts his hand to his head in a sort of military salute_) CHRIS KNUDSON. That's what they say about us, Wes, you know That when the thing we've fought is taken away We'll fight among ourselves. WES DICEY. (_To Harry Egerton_) I ain't a man, And never have been one, to set my views Against the boys' views. If they're satisfied And think the new way's better than the old, And if they'll vote for it, Wes and his friends Will have no grouch. SEVERAL. That's all right. A VOICE. Then come on. HARRY EGERTON. To get along together, as Sam says, That's what we seek, my friend. The rest will come. WES DICEY. It's for the boys I took the stand I did. (_The workmen go back into the mill. Harry Egerton watches Dicey until he is lost among the men that pass out rear_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Who has been watching him_) Partner. HARRY EGERTON. (_Who has started to follow the men_) What is it, Harvey? HARVEY ANDERSON. What's this mean? HARRY EGERTON. We cannot be too patient with these men. It's a free mill we're trying to build, Harvey. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'Tain't that I mean. (_Takes the will from his pocket_) Why did you give me this? HARRY EGERTON. As a precaution, Harvey. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To Jim King, who lingers about beyond the railing_) We'll be there. HARRY EGERTON. If anything should happen to me, you know, My father would inherit everything. HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes. HARRY EGERTON. And God meant the mine for other things. And as administrators you and Sam And Buck I knew would carry on the work. HARVEY ANDERSON. But why just now? Come on and tell me, partner. There's something up. You ain't been like yourself. There's something on your heart. What is it, partner? It ain't the faction? HARRY EGERTON. No. HARVEY ANDERSON. About the mine-- That lie they told is eating in your heart. HARRY EGERTON. Have I done anything that you know, Harvey, That could have wronged the men or any of them? HARVEY ANDERSON. You wronged them? What you mean? HARRY EGERTON. In any way? HARVEY ANDERSON. Why they'd die for you, partner. What you mean? HARRY EGERTON. Come here to-night when we can be alone. There are some things I want to tell you, Harvey, That you and Sam and Buck must carry out. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Looks at him a long while, then lays his hands upon his shoulders_) We're on the eve of seeing things come true And there ain't nothing that can stop it, partner. HARRY EGERTON. I don't know what I'd do without you, Harvey. (_They go back through the gate in the railing and out through the great door, left, whence the crowd has passed. Rome Masters comes furtively up the stairs and looks about. He then comes past the sash to the door, forward left, and begins to pull off the strip that is nailed across it. He has just loosened it when Jim King appears upon the stairs and gives a low whistle. Rome Masters quickly joins him and together they hurry back through the mill and out the great door, left. A moment later the First Guard comes up the stairs, followed by Ralph Ardsley and Bishop Hardbrooke_) FIRST GUARD. I'll find him. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. If you please. (_The Guard goes back through the mill_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I don't like this. The atmosphere's too charged with victory. RALPH ARDSLEY. I don't believe they even know it's cold. (_Looks about_) It's wonderful the way he's handled things. It's that, I think, as much as anything That's won the confidence of the citizens. I was just sure they'd have a riot here. (_He gets up on one of the stools before the desk and takes from his overcoat pocket a newspaper which he spreads out before him_) I've thought about it, Bishop; don't you think That that injunction Egerton got out Against the mine, considering everything, The public feeling--if he has good grounds For claiming that his own men found the mine-- Aside from the reflection on his son-- A tactical mistake, don't you think so? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Best not allude to that. RALPH ARDSLEY. I think so too. (_He reads the paper. The Bishop stands listening to the indistinct noises that come from the crowd outside_) RALPH ARDSLEY. And yet you can't blame Jergens very much. Something has got to happen pretty soon. Amalgamated's off again, I see. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Who is this Harvey Anderson? RALPH ARDSLEY. He's the rough That kept the men from going back that day. Drew his revolver. Big man here now. You see He'd been out on the mountains with a cast, One of the men the Company had out. So it's quite possible, as Jergens claims, That Anderson found the mine. For gold these days-- To get possession of a mine like that-- Men have been killed for less. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. But Harry---- RALPH ARDSLEY. That, That's what I can't get down me, his collusion---- (_Cheers outside_) It's probably Anderson haranguing them. I don't myself believe that Harry'd do it. (_Tremendous cheering_) There's certainly enthusiasm there. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. What is it, Editor Ardsley? RALPH ARDSLEY. I don't know. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. What's it all mean? What's underneath it all? RALPH ARDSLEY. We're neither of us, Bishop, what we were. We've lost our power. Something's happening That we don't understand. (_A pause_) And done by men That live right here and walk the streets and talk, Buy vegetables and pass the time of day. I tell you, Bishop Hardbrooke, you can't tell. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. (_Half to himself_) As though they had the Ark of the Covenant. RALPH ARDSLEY. If any one had said to me last week That that despondent crowd of shabby men, After six weeks of battle against odds, And beaten into silence, starved and cold, Had in them the capacity for this-- Who was it said we're always in a flux, That nothing's fixed? We don't know anything. It's like a case of type; to-day it spells Egerton and to-morrow M-o-b. To think of Donald Egerton at bay! Egad! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. These shouts once rose about the Church, But somehow we don't hear them any more. RALPH ARDSLEY. Don't think for a moment, Bishop, that you're alone. We never had the tumult and the shout That you had in old days, but it's all the same. The 'Power of the Press'! It makes me laugh. If I could find a little farm somewhere, I'd sell my stock to Egerton and get out And let the world go hang. I'm tired of it. (_Cheers outside_) Yes, there's a ring about it you don't hear Even in Conventions. (_The Guard enters the mill, back left, and comes through the gate in the railing_) GUARD. In a moment. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Thank you. (_The Guard goes out down the stairs_) RALPH ARDSLEY. What's your opinion of the trouble, Bishop? (_To himself_) To think of Donald Egerton at bay! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. We've had the matter up in Conference Several times. RALPH ARDSLEY. Yes. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. But I somehow feel We don't get hold of it. The lower classes-- They're going off. I don't believe it's Christ. You say they're leaving you; and General Chadbourne-- Two thirds, I think you said, of his command. RALPH ARDSLEY. Facing State's prison, too (_Cheers outside. The two men remain silent_) RALPH ARDSLEY. And Egerton-- They certainly have left him. I thought last night As I sat looking up toward that new home-- (_Cheers outside_) They'll never light it up again that way, The way it was that day. Did you ever see Anything to equal that reception hall? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. What's in the boy that these men follow him, And all his life so quiet, almost timid? RALPH ARDSLEY. 'What go ye out into the wilderness for to see?' BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Yes, if his cause were better. RALPH ARDSLEY. There you are. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. But this audacious, this deliberate Stealing--though I hate to use the word-- This seizing of the mill---- RALPH ARDSLEY. Here he comes now. (_He gets down from the stool_) You do the talking, Bishop, the heavy part. (_Harry Egerton enters_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Harry. HARRY EGERTON. Bishop Hardbrooke. RALPH ARDSLEY. You don't seem To mind the cold or anything down here. HARRY EGERTON. We have been busy. RALPH ARDSLEY. I should think so. Yes It's wonderful the way you've plunged right in To business. HARRY EGERTON. Yes. RALPH ARDSLEY. Things going pretty well? HARRY EGERTON. Yes. RALPH ARDSLEY. I'm glad. HARRY EGERTON. You sent for me. RALPH ARDSLEY. Yes. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Harry, We've come to see if something can't be done To end this controversy and bring peace, An honorable peace to all concerned. A permanent state of strife is far from pleasant. There's nothing sadder in the life of man Than to see towns disrupted, classes arrayed Against each other, to say nothing, Harry, Of this far dearer tie that's straining here, That pains us all far more than we can tell. We've often had these troubles in the Church, Mostly in the past, of course, men differing Upon some point of doctrine or government. And my experience is that at the bottom There's something that at first was overlooked, Then, in the strife that followed, overwhelmed. There's common ground, there must be in these things. Look at the world; we pass along the street. We don't confront each other and block the way. Each yields a bit and so we all pass on. And in relationships it must be the same. We're one, my brother. RALPH ARDSLEY. Like our fingers here. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And when we're not, when interests seem to clash, It's just as sure as Death or anything Some law of God is being tampered with. And so we thought we'd come---- RALPH ARDSLEY. And now's the time. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. For, as you know, in town the feeling's growing That there's a sword impending over us Which the least breath will bring down on our heads. RALPH ARDSLEY. And not in the town alone, but the whole State-- They seem to have their eyes upon us here. You've seen the papers how the strikes are spreading. The mills at Upton and the plant at Sawyer, And down the State there's Smith and Balding Brothers, Heacox and Knight, twelve hundred men gone out, Demanding unconditionally the mills. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Think of it, Harry, think of what this means! RALPH ARDSLEY. Not satisfied with wages any more. HARRY EGERTON. Pardon me. (_Walks rear and listens_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. He doesn't listen to what I say. RALPH ARDSLEY. Not that you are to blame for it, we don't say that. But probably without your knowing it A fire or something's going out of you That's kindling this industrial upheaval; For it's your name they've made the war-cry, Harry. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. He even smiled when you spoke of the mills Closing. RALPH ARDSLEY. I don't think he meant it so. His heart's out there, though, that's as plain as day. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Harry, if these shouts mean a final step, A closing up of things which if once closed Will render of no use any labor of ours, I beg of you to call this meeting off, At least until we see what we can do. RALPH ARDSLEY. Postpone it, Harry, say till Monday morning. You know yourself how dangerous it is To wake men's hopes to a wild dream of power. They're never afterwards content with less Than that wild something that could never be. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Yes, brother, let the Lord's day with its peace Breathe on this quarrel. Why do you say too late? HARRY EGERTON. (_Who has come forward_) Because it's up there, Bishop, it's up there Above mere bread. RALPH ARDSLEY. What does he mean by that? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I trust, my brother, that it is up there. RALPH ARDSLEY. We don't just see what it is you are trying to do. HARRY EGERTON. The statement I gave out last Saturday---- RALPH ARDSLEY. That was a week ago. HARRY EGERTON. Yes. RALPH ARDSLEY. And since then Reports have come out that there's a move on foot To organize--I know not what to call it---- HARRY EGERTON. A Commonwealth of Workers. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Then it's true! RALPH ARDSLEY. Your purpose then is to retain the mill? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Purchase it? HARRY EGERTON. I don't know. We'll do what's fair. We've had to think first of supplying bread. That's left but little time for other things. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. But if the Company shouldn't choose to sell? HARRY EGERTON. That is with them. RALPH ARDSLEY. You mean you'll still hold on? HARRY EGERTON. That will be my advice, yes. RALPH ARDSLEY. But the Law. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. 'Thou shalt not steal.' (_Harry Egerton walks rear and listens_) RALPH ARDSLEY. Doesn't that beat the world! BISHOP HARDBROOKE. It's his association with these roughs. RALPH ARDSLEY. And they'll never dare lay hands upon them, Bishop. I tell you the Commonwealth's afraid to move. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Has God no place in business, my young brother? HARRY EGERTON. (_Returning_) Yes, Bishop Hardbrooke, and it's very strange You've never thought of that until to-day. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. A hidden meaning couched in that, I think. HARRY EGERTON. This is the first time you've been in this mill Or near these workingmen in all these years. And now you come to plead my father's cause. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I come for peace. HARRY EGERTON. Then why not weeks ago When there was strife? You heard the cry of the poor For six weeks, Bishop, and you never came. Why wait until the starving time is past? BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I've rather arduous duties, my young brother. Besides my Church work there are Boards and Boards And meetings of this Charity and that That you in business know but little of. My interest in the poor is not unknown. HARRY EGERTON. You've been in father's confidence for years. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I'm proud to say I have. HARRY EGERTON. There's seldom passed A Sunday that he's not been in his pew. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. A creditable record. RALPH ARDSLEY. I should say. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And one that any son might emulate With profit, I should think. HARRY EGERTON. It's very strange My father doesn't know some things are wrong. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. You mean he doesn't see things as you do. HARRY EGERTON. Yes, all my life I've wondered when I've seen Check after check go out with father's name To help along some Mission over sea Or roof some rising Charity at home, I've often wondered that he's never seen Those little shacks upon the hill out there Nor heard the cry of widows from these saws. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I would suggest, my brother, that we leave The deeper things of God for quiet times And turn our minds to something nearer home. HARRY EGERTON. I know of nothing nearer home than this, The cry of men for justice at our doors. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Suppose we get the Company to agree To let bygones be bygones with the men, And to restore conditions as they were---- RALPH ARDSLEY. In other words to meet the men's demands. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. And put the guards they ask about the saws. That would remove the causes, would it not, Of the misunderstanding? RALPH ARDSLEY. Every one. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Would there be any valid reason then Why Peace should not return and all be friends As formerly? HARRY EGERTON. For weeks they waited for it. (_Listens back_) BISHOP HARDBROOKE. What's time to do with right and wrong, my brother? HARRY EGERTON. But men in misery often have a vision Beyond the eye of prosperous days to see. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. If it was fair last week, then why not now? HARRY EGERTON. They're building something fairer. (_Walks back_) RALPH ARDSLEY. It's no use. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. On what foundations, Harry? All about I see the wreck and ruin of our land; Her altars down, her sacred institutions---- (_Cheering outside_) Harry, I beg of you to stop and think What it has cost, this Law that you defy And cast before the swine of riotous feet. (_Continuous cheering_) I appeal to you, my brother---- HARRY EGERTON. Bishop Hardbrooke---- BISHOP HARDBROOKE. In the name of everything that you hold dear---- HARRY EGERTON. There's nothing you could say that could persuade me---- BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Think of your country plunged in civil war! HARRY EGERTON. To stay even with a word what's rising there. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Think of your mother, think of how she feels Sitting---- RALPH ARDSLEY. Here's Anderson! HARRY EGERTON. What is it, Harvey? HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Hurrying in_) Well, President of Free Mill Number One And many more hereafter! (_Goes quickly left and, seizing the rope, pulls the flag up on the pole_) Up the mast, My beauty! Now you'll hear 'em raise the roof. HARRY EGERTON. And Dicey----? HARVEY ANDERSON. Moved to make it unanimous. No opposition. (_Tremendous cheering outside_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Comes right and takes Harry Egerton's two hands in his_) Well, boy? RALPH ARDSLEY. It's no use, Bishop. HARVEY ANDERSON. You've dreamed it and it's a fact now, partner. HARRY EGERTON. Yes. HARVEY ANDERSON. The years will multiply 'em. HARRY EGERTON. Hear! Just hear! (_Prolonged cheering_) RALPH ARDSLEY. Let's leave 'em and let 'em stew in their own juice. HARRY EGERTON. The Living Mill! (_A volley of shots_) HARVEY ANDERSON. There goes the boys' salute! (_Seizes Harry Egerton by the shoulders and lifts him off his feet_) Up with you, up into the skies with you! We've lived to see a day will live forever. And you come right on out and make your speech. (_Hurries back through the mill_) HARRY EGERTON. I'll be there shortly, Harvey. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. I suppose There's no use in our talking any more. HARRY EGERTON. I'm sorry, Bishop. BISHOP HARDBROOKE. Then--Good-bye. HARRY EGERTON. Good-bye. (_The Bishop and Ardsley go out down the stairs. Harry Egerton starts back toward the gate_) JIM KING. (_Suddenly appears just beyond the railing_) There was a call just now 'fore you came in. I think it was your mother. (_Harry Egerton turns back to the desk and takes up the telephone. Jim King vanishes through the great door, left_) HARRY EGERTON. Forty-nine Grand View, please. Yes. (_A pause_) Mother? I knew your voice. You called me up, one of the men said. No? (_A pause_) Or some one else. (_A pause_) Yes, mother, very well. You're going to the city? (_A pause_) That was it. I thought perhaps you had called me up to ask. (_A pause_) Four or five hundred pounds. (_A pause_) Mixed, I should say. And such toys as you think children would like. (_A pause_) O you know more about such things than I. (_A pause_) Yes. (_A pause_) Mother, while I think of it, has father Had any trouble with Jergens? (_A pause_) Ah, I'm glad. I overheard him talking with some men The other night, and thought from what he said It might be father they were talking of. (_A pause. The door, forward left, opens slowly and Rome Masters comes stealthily in with a bar of iron in his hand, and moves toward Harry Egerton, whose back is to him_) HARRY EGERTON. I'm very glad. You might ask father though. (_Cheering outside_) I'll have some news for you when you return. (_A pause_) Here in the mill. And I'll be Santa Claus. (_A pause_) That will be beautiful. (_A pause_) And, mother---- (_Masters strikes him_) HARRY EGERTON. Ah! (_He sinks to the floor. Masters, iron in hand, flees down the stairs. The cheering outside continues. Then, as the noise subsides, there is heard a steady buzzing of the telephone as though some one were trying to get connection_) ACT V CHRISTMAS EVE _Scene: Inside the large room of a newly built board cabin up at the mine. Centre, rear, the open mouth of the tunnel, with the wall resting upon the rocks above. Left, in this same wall, near the corner, a door opening outside. Right, near the other corner, about four feet up from the floor, a small oblong window through which one sees the snow lying thick upon the mountains, and beyond the snow the dark of the sky with the winter stars shining brightly. In the right wall, well back, a door opens into a bedroom. Centre, in the opposite wall, a second door opens into a sort of woodshed. Left, a little way to the rear from the centre of the room, a heavy iron stove with chairs standing about. A woodbox is over near the wall, left. Forward right, a table with a bugle lying upon two or three sheets of loose paper, and, farther over, a heap of ore samples in which, with the light of the near-by lamp falling upon them, the gold is plainly visible._ _Harvey Anderson, his hat pulled low over his eyes, sits with his back to the bedroom, staring at the stove. The only motion discernible is an occasional pressing of the lip when he bites his moustache. Later, Mrs. Egerton, careworn and evidently in deep distress, enters from the bedroom and starts to say something to Harvey Anderson, but decides not to. Instead she goes to the window and stands looking out as though she were anxiously waiting for some one._ _Time: Christmas Eve._ MRS. EGERTON. (_In a low voice_) It's after midnight, for the lights are out Down in the town. It must be after one. (_Speaks back as though into the bedroom_) You think the guard would let him come right through? HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes, mother. MRS. EGERTON. I didn't mean to wake you, Harvey. HARVEY ANDERSON. I ain't been sleeping. MRS. EGERTON. But it seems so long. (_Turns again to the window_) HARVEY ANDERSON. The snow's so deep upon the mountains, mother. And Sam and Chris--I know they'd hurry on-- They ain't come either. NURSE. (_Entering from the bedroom_) It's stopped snowing now. HARVEY ANDERSON. It's getting colder. How's he seem to be? NURSE. There's very little change. What time is it? HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Looks at his watch_) Going on half past three. (_They look at one another_) NURSE. Don't think such things. (_Anderson goes to the woodbox and looks in_) MRS. EGERTON. (_At the window, to herself_) If I only knew! If I only knew he'd come! NURSE. (_As Anderson goes into the woodshed_) He may have telegraphed for specialists. (_She glances toward Mrs. Egerton, then goes quietly to the door, rear left, and looks out_) NURSE. (_Comes back_) I wish that there was something that I could do. MRS. EGERTON. You made it plain that he must come at once? NURSE. Yes, Mrs. Egerton. I told the truth. Some think it's better to deceive. I don't. And I find that people thank you in the end. MRS. EGERTON. And they've been gone since nine. NURSE. Lie down a while, Won't you? I wish you would. MRS. EGERTON. Isn't that some one? NURSE. (_Goes to the window_) It's Mr. Bentley with the guard, I think. (_Mrs. Egerton leaves the window and walks about the room_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Half to herself_) The stars are so low down, so beautiful; And the world so full of joy. Isn't it strange? To-day we're here and to-morrow somewheres else. (_She stops by the bedroom door and stands looking in_) NURSE. He's so your boy. MRS. EGERTON. Yes, yes. NURSE. And he loves you so. It's always 'mother' when he speaks at all; You and the mill. (_A pause_) And then you'll always know There's never been a man in Foreston Been loved as he has been. MRS. EGERTON. But he's so young! And his work--He'd just begun. So little chance! NURSE. I've nursed so many cases of old men, And men in prosperous circumstances, too, Who've had no friends at all, just relatives. (_Mrs. Egerton walks about_) NURSE. And friends are so much closer, don't you think? MRS. EGERTON. Has he never, never mentioned Donald's name In his delirium? NURSE. (_Shakes her head_) But then you know Those first weeks at the Hospital were a blank, Or almost so. And then when he came to After the operation---- MRS. EGERTON. Donald! Donald! NURSE. I being a stranger, just a nurse, you know. In delirium of course it's different. But then I'd left the case. (_Harvey Anderson enters with an armful of wood_) NURSE. I was surprised When I got word from Mr. Anderson That you had let him--It's so far up here. MRS. EGERTON. He wanted to so much. NURSE. They always do. But they don't always know what's best for them. HARVEY ANDERSON. But he was getting on so well. NURSE. I know. HARVEY ANDERSON. There was no fever till four days ago. NURSE. (_To Mrs. Egerton_) When I got here he was quite rational. HARVEY ANDERSON. And talked about the mine here and the mill. And figured out the timber that we'd need For next year's run. I don't know what it was. (_Quietly replenishes the fire_) MRS. EGERTON. (_At the bedroom door_) He hasn't moved. NURSE. It quite exhausted him. MRS. EGERTON. You think he recognized me? NURSE. I don't know. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Who has come to the table, picks up one of the sheets of paper_) And he was planning homes here for the men Upon the valley land, with flowers and trees. NURSE. Wasn't it strange that he should hear the bells? HARVEY ANDERSON. I hadn't heard them till he spoke. NURSE. Nor I. HARVEY ANDERSON. He seemed to know that it is Christmas Eve. MRS. EGERTON. His speaking of the toys! NURSE. Lie down a while. HARVEY ANDERSON. It's all right, mother, it's all right. NURSE. Won't you? We'll call you when he comes. BUCK BENTLEY. (_Entering hurriedly from outside_) Here comes a light. MRS. EGERTON. (_Collecting herself_) If there's anything, Harvey, anything I can do To help the work along, you'll come to me. Promise me that. And you must keep right on. HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes, mother. We talked of that. (_Mrs. Egerton kisses him and goes into the bedroom_) BUCK BENTLEY. How is he now? NURSE. About the same. (_She goes to the window_) BUCK BENTLEY. You didn't think he'd come. HARVEY ANDERSON. He's been six weeks, almost. But that's all right. Is the Doctor with him? BUCK BENTLEY. Yes. (_Starts for the door_) I'll tell the boys. HARVEY ANDERSON. Then come back, Buck. BUCK BENTLEY. I will. (_He goes out. Anderson stands staring at the door_) NURSE. I'm so, so glad. These weeks and weeks----It's been so hard to bear. You see when Death comes, Mr. Anderson-- It ought to be a lesson to us all. You'll stay, of course. HARVEY ANDERSON. I? Sure. NURSE. He's felt so hard, So bitter toward you. (_Buck Bentley enters quickly. Looks from Harvey to the Nurse_) HARVEY ANDERSON. What?---- BUCK BENTLEY. It's Sam and Chris. (_Sam Williams and Chris Knudson come in with a lantern_) HARVEY ANDERSON. See anything of Egerton coming up? (_The men show surprise_) BUCK BENTLEY. They sent for him. SAM WILLIAMS. Is he as bad as that? HARVEY ANDERSON. He hasn't been himself. (_To Bentley, who starts out_) Then come back. BUCK BENTLEY. Yes. (_Anderson turns and shakes his head at the Nurse, who goes into the bedroom, closing the door after her_) HARVEY ANDERSON. He spoke of both of you. CHRIS KNUDSON. Too bad! too bad! HARVEY ANDERSON. I thought you'd like to be here. (_They sit silent about the stove_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Colder. CHRIS KNUDSON. Yes. (_They are silent_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Things going all right, Sam? (_Sam Williams nods_) HARVEY ANDERSON. And in the camps? CHRIS KNUDSON. Hundred and fifty men. (_They are silent_) SAM WILLIAMS. There's a report That Masters will turn State's evidence. HARVEY ANDERSON. Good news. CHRIS KNUDSON. The citizens are pressing on the case. HARVEY ANDERSON. They'll find the trail leads where we said. CHRIS KNUDSON. That's sure. SAM WILLIAMS. His throwing down the silver don't help though. (_They are silent_) HARVEY ANDERSON. You see about those young pines, Chris. With spring We'll begin setting out as partner wished, And start all over with the land all green. (_They are silent_) CHRIS KNUDSON. The boys will be so sorry. HARVEY ANDERSON. I don't mind, Now that it can't be, telling you of a plan---- (_There is a slight noise in the bedroom. Anderson turns and listens; but everything becomes quiet again_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Of a surprise he had for Christmas day, For all of us and the families of the men. NURSE. (_Appears at the door and calls quickly_) Harvey! (_Anderson starts for the bedroom. Suddenly Harry Egerton appears struggling with his mother and the Nurse. His head is bandaged and his face is covered with a six weeks' beard_) HARRY EGERTON. No, no! See there! see there! see there! They're here already! (_A shadowy line of workmen with their wives and children in their Sunday clothes comes in left_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Shouting right_) In the dry-kiln, Sam! And fetch the other barrel, Harvey. MRS. EGERTON. Harry! HARRY EGERTON. A Merry Christmas, friends, to all of you! I'm glad you've come! (_Shaking himself free_) It's all right, it's all right! Candy, candy, candy, children! (_The children crowd about him_) MRS. EGERTON. Harry! HARRY EGERTON. Let them come! let them come! There! there! there! HARVEY ANDERSON. Partner! HARRY EGERTON. (_Laughing_) Isn't it wonderful! MRS. EGERTON. It's mother, Harry! HARRY EGERTON. And here's a little doll and here's a sled! I brought them down over the chimney tops! (_Laughs. A little boy remains after the other children have gone back to their parents_) HARRY EGERTON. A little horn? HARVEY ANDERSON. Partner! HARRY EGERTON. What golden hair! (_The little boy returns to the others_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Advancing and shaking hands with the men and women, who file by him and pass out rear_) Next year, my friends, if everything goes well, We'll have some homes to hang up on the tree With big yards where the little ones can play. But this is children's day. (_Last in the line comes a figure in the garb of a workman, but with the tender, bearded face of the Christ_) HARRY EGERTON. (_Looking at his brow_) Have you been hurt? (_The figure holds out both hands to him_) HARRY EGERTON. (_At first wildly, but with growing calmness_) Harvey! Buck! Mother! (_The figure looks back one moment, then vanishes. Harry Egerton is seen falling into the arms of Harvey Anderson, who carries him into the bedroom. His mother and the Nurse follow. Sam Williams and Chris Knudson stand staring across at the door_) SAM WILLIAMS. Our leader's gone, Chris. CHRIS KNUDSON. Yes, I fear so. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Coming in and closing the bedroom door after him_) Partner's gone. A GUARD. (_Pushing open the outside door_) Egerton's come. (_Donald Egerton enters, followed by the Doctor and two strange men, apparently surgeons, one of them carrying an instrument case. Egerton glances about and instinctively locates the bedroom, and at once goes toward it_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To the Doctor_) Too late. DOCTOR. Dead! HARVEY ANDERSON. Just this moment. VOICE OF MRS. EGERTON. (_As Egerton opens the bedroom door_) Donald! Donald! (_The Doctor follows Egerton into the bedroom_) CHRIS KNUDSON. (_Looking toward the door that the Doctor has shut_) Peace and good will on earth. HARVEY ANDERSON. He stood for that. (_They stand silent about the stove. Anderson picks up two chairs, which he takes over to the two strangers, who are standing by the table_) CHRIS KNUDSON. There's things about us here that we don't see. SAM WILLIAMS. (_Looking toward the bedroom_) I'm sorry--for his sake. CHRIS KNUDSON. What will we do? SAM WILLIAMS. You'll not desert us, comrade, now he's gone. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'For all time; shall we say it?' CHRIS KNUDSON. That last day. HARVEY ANDERSON. 'And give our lives, if need be?' SAM WILLIAMS. He gave his. (_Takes up the lantern_) HARVEY ANDERSON. He hasn't left the Cause, Sam. SAM WILLIAMS. True. CHRIS KNUDSON. That's true; He hasn't left the Cause. HARVEY ANDERSON. Here just last week, Sitting about the table, planning things, 'The Cause will be here, Harvey, when we're gone, A beautiful river flowing through the land.' CHRIS KNUDSON. There was the noblest boy this land's brought forth. HARVEY ANDERSON. And we must make it wider, Sam. SAM WILLIAMS. Yes, yes. HARVEY ANDERSON. Till the whole land is free. That's our work now. SAM WILLIAMS. Yes, we must keep right on. HARVEY ANDERSON. That was his wish, That we should keep right on; and his mother's, too. Tell the boys that. SAM WILLIAMS. We will. CHRIS KNUDSON. There ought to be A public funeral so the men could march. HARVEY ANDERSON. I'll speak to Mr. Egerton. FIRST STRANGER. (_Indicating Anderson_) That's him. (_The two workmen go out_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Stop by the cabins and tell Buck. Good-night. (_He shuts the door and walks about, stopping occasionally by the stove, absorbed in thought_) SECOND STRANGER. He'll hardly use us now. FIRST STRANGER. Probably not. (_They take up pieces of the ore_) FIRST STRANGER. (_To Anderson, who is walking about_) How much does this assay? SECOND STRANGER. He didn't hear you. EGERTON. (_Enters with the Doctor and speaks with him aside_) Drive down a mile or so and wait for me. (_Mrs. Egerton and the Nurse come in. Both are dressed for travelling_) MRS. EGERTON. (_Walks toward the outer door, then suddenly turns_) O Donald, Donald, this is Christmas Eve! Think of this night in years gone by! EGERTON. (_Tenderly_) Mary! NURSE. 'Thy will be done.' HARVEY ANDERSON. It's all right, mother. MRS. EGERTON. Harvey! (_She embraces him and goes out with the Nurse_) EGERTON. (_To the Doctor_) And you'll attend to everything? DOCTOR. Yes, Colonel. (_The Doctor goes out. Egerton shuts the door and stands for a moment apparently waiting till those who have just left get farther from the cabin. He then starts pacing to and fro as though he were undecided what to do. As he walks left toward Harvey Anderson his brow darkens. But as he turns right and draws near the bedroom the hard lines of his face relax. It is clear that a terrible struggle is going on within him_) EGERTON. (_To Harvey Anderson_) You here alone? HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes, Mr. Egerton. But that don't matter if there's anything---- (_Egerton stands for a moment, then resumes his walk_) HARVEY ANDERSON. Is there something I can do? EGERTON. (_Stopping midway between the bedroom and Anderson, to the strangers_) What do you say? FIRST STRANGER. We'll do the best we can. (_The Second Stranger removes his overcoat. The First lifts the instrument case upon the table and begins to open it. Egerton walks toward the bedroom_) HARVEY ANDERSON. (_Following him_) I don't believe-- I don't believe, though, Mr. Egerton, It's any use. FIRST STRANGER. (_Suddenly covering Anderson with pistols which he has taken from the case_) Keep those hands where they are. Bolt that door, Ned. (_The Second Detective bolts the outside door. He then comes to the table and takes from the case two pairs of handcuffs, a long black mackintosh, and a black cap_) FIRST DETECTIVE. Search him. SECOND DETECTIVE. (_Feels about Anderson's hips and sides_) Slip on this coat. HARVEY ANDERSON. (_To Egerton, while the detective puts the coat on him_) Well, partner, I've seen men where Hell was loud Shoot from behind dead bodies but, by God, I've never seen them shoot from such as him. (_Nodding toward the bedroom_) FIRST DETECTIVE. Quick now. EGERTON. You know the way? HARVEY ANDERSON. You beat them all. FIRST DETECTIVE. We keep the road to the left. EGERTON. Over the mountains. You'll probably have some trouble. FIRST DETECTIVE. We'll get there. EGERTON. I'll have the Express wait for you at Lucasville. You ought to reach there---- (_Looks at his watch_) It's now five o'clock---- By ten or eleven. FIRST DETECTIVE. At the outside. (_The Second Detective hands to Egerton his son's will, which, in buttoning the coat up about Anderson, he has found in the latter's pocket_) EGERTON. (_Looks into it a moment_) Um! SECOND DETECTIVE. The guard will be off duty? FIRST DETECTIVE. I think so, But we've no time to lose. (_The Second Detective handcuffs himself to Anderson on the left side. The First Detective puts the cap on Anderson so that with the high collar of the coat turned up, only his eyes are visible under the poke_) HARVEY ANDERSON. The black cap, eh? (_The First Detective then handcuffs himself to Anderson on the right side_) EGERTON. You wire me when you reach the Capitol. FIRST DETECTIVE. Yes, Mr. Egerton. EGERTON. Go briskly now. FIRST DETECTIVE. (_Showing Anderson his pistol_) Now not a word from you, you understand. (_He puts the pistol in his side overcoat pocket and keeps his hand on it_) EGERTON. 'Twill soon be morning. HARVEY ANDERSON. Yes, you'd better leave Before the land wakes up. (_The detectives, with Anderson between them, go out_) EGERTON. We'll see, my man-- (_Puts the key on the outside of the door_) How you'll shake down the pillars of this land. (_He goes out and locks the door after him. A few moments pass. Suddenly at some distance outside a shot is heard. Again a few moments pass. Then, with a crash, the door is broken in and Buck Bentley, with the will in his hand, pulls himself hurriedly through the hole. He staggers to the table and seizes the bugle and blows a loud blast, then reels and, trying to steady himself, falls dead upon the floor, taking the table down with him. There is a clattering of the ore samples and a breaking of glass, and the lamp goes out, leaving the room in darkness. A half mile or so away, in the direction of Foreston, a bugle is heard, then, farther away, another, and fainter, another, and still another. And out through the window in the starlight of the Christmas morning soldiers with rifles in their hands are seen running rear left through the snow_) 
38832	----	A LIFE'S SECRET. A Novel. By MRS. HENRY WOOD, AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC. [Illustration: Logo] _EIGHTH EDITION._ LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty. 1879. [_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved._] CONTENTS. PART THE FIRST. CHAP. PAGE I. WAS THE LADY MAD? 11 II. CHANGES 32 III. AWAY TO LONDON 39 IV. DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT 52 V. MISS GWINN'S VISIT 67 VI. TRACKED HOME 83 VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME 103 VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS! 116 IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER 127 PART THE SECOND. I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN 136 II. CALLED TO KETTERFORD 153 III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS 168 IV. AGITATION 186 PART THE THIRD. I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL 204 II. MR. COX 221 III. 'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL' 238 IV. SOMEBODY 'PITCHED INTO' 256 V. A GLOOMY CHAPTER 274 VI. THE LITTLE BOY AT REST 288 VII. MR. DUNN'S PIGS BROUGHT TO MARKET 294 VIII. A DESCENT FOR MR. SHUCK 309 IX. ON THE EVE OF BANKRUPTCY 326 X. THE YEARS GONE BY 342 XI. RELIEF 359 XII. CONCLUSION 369 A LIFE'S SECRET PART THE FIRST. CHAPTER I. WAS THE LADY MAD? On the outskirts of Ketterford, a town of some note in the heart of England, stood, a few years ago, a white house, its green lawn, surrounded by shrubs and flowers, sloping down to the high road. It probably stands there still, looking as if not a day had passed over its head since, for houses can be renovated and made, so to say, new again, unlike men and women. A cheerful, bright, handsome house, of moderate size, the residence of Mr. Thornimett. At the distance of a short stone's-throw, towards the open country, were sundry workshops and sheds--a large yard intervening between them and the house. They belonged to Mr. Thornimett; and the timber and other characteristic materials lying about the yard would have proclaimed their owner's trade without the aid of the lofty sign-board--'Richard Thornimett, Builder and Contractor.' His business was extensive for a country town. Entering the house by the pillared portico, and crossing the black-and-white floor-cloth of the hall to the left, you came to a room whose windows looked towards the timber-yard. It was fitted up as a sort of study, or counting-house, though the real business counting-house was at the works. Matting was on its floor; desks and stools stood about; maps and drawings, plain and coloured, were on its walls; not finished and beautiful landscapes, such as issue from the hands of modern artists, or have descended to us from the great masters, but skeleton designs of various buildings--churches, bridges, terraces--plans to be worked out in actuality, not to be admired on paper. This room was chiefly given over to Mr. Thornimett's pupil: and you may see him in it now. A tall, gentlemanly young fellow, active and upright; his name, Austin Clay. It is Easter Monday in those long-past years--and yet not so very long past, either--and the works and yard are silent to-day. Strictly speaking, Austin Clay can no longer be called a pupil, for he is twenty-one, and his articles are out. The house is his home; Mr. and Mrs. Thornimett, who have no children of their own, are almost as his father and mother. They have said nothing to him about leaving, and he has said nothing to them. The town, in its busy interference, gratuitously opined that 'Old Thornimett would be taking him into partnership.' Old Thornimett had given no indication of what he might intend to do, one way or the other. Austin Clay was of good parentage, of gentle birth. Left an orphan at the age of fourteen, with very small means, not sufficient to complete his education, Ketterford wondered what was to become of him, and whether he had not better get rid of himself by running away to sea. Mr. Thornimett stepped in and solved the difficulty. The late Mrs. Clay--Austin's mother--and Mrs. Thornimett were distantly related, and perhaps a certain sense of duty in the matter made itself heard; that, at least, combined with the great fact that the Thornimett household was childless. The first thing they did was to take the boy home for the Christmas holidays; the next, was to tell him he should stay there for good. Not to be adopted as their son, not to leave him a fortune hereafter, Mr. Thornimett took pains to explain to him, but to make him into a man, and teach him to earn his own living. 'Will you be apprenticed to me, Austin?' subsequently asked Mr. Thornimett. 'Can't I be articled, sir?' returned Austin, quickly. 'Articled?' repeated Mr. Thornimett, with a laugh. He saw what was running in the boy's mind. He was a plain man himself; had built up his own fortunes just as he had built the new house he lived in; had risen, in fact, as many a working man does rise: but Austin's father was a gentleman. 'Well, yes, you can be articled, if you like it better,' he said; 'but I shall never call it anything but apprenticed; neither will the trade. You'll have to work, young sir.' 'I don't care how hard I work, or what I do,' cried Austin, earnestly. 'There's no degradation in work.' Thus it was settled; and Austin Clay became bound pupil to Richard Thornimett. 'Old Thornimett and his wife have done it out of charity,' quoth Ketterford. No doubt they had. But as the time passed on they grew very fond of him. He was an open-hearted, sweet-tempered, generous boy, and one of them at least, Mr. Thornimett, detected in him the qualities that make a superior man. Privileges were accorded him from the first: the going on with certain of his school duties, for which masters came to him out of business hours--drawing, mathematics, and modern languages chiefly--and Austin went on himself with Latin and Greek. With the two latter Mrs. Thornimett waged perpetual war. What would be the use of them to him, she was always asking, and Austin, in his pleasant, laughing way, would rejoin that they might help to make him a gentleman. He was that already: Austin Clay, though he might not know it, was a true gentleman born. Had they repented their bargain? He was twenty-one now, and out of his articles, or his time, as it was commonly called. No, not for an instant. Never a better servant had Richard Thornimett; never, he would have told you, one so good. With all his propensity to be a 'gentleman,' Austin Clay did not shrink from his work; but did it thoroughly. His master in his wisdom had caused him to learn his business practically; but, that accomplished, he kept him to overlooking, and to other light duties, just as he might have done by a son of his own. It had told well. Easter Monday, and a universal holiday Mr. Thornimett had gone out on horseback, and Austin was in the pupil's room. He sat at a desk, his stool on the tilt, one hand unconsciously balancing a ruler, the other supporting his head, which was bent over a book. 'Austin!' The call, rather a gentle one, came from outside the door. Austin, buried in his book, did not hear it. 'Austin Clay!' He heard that, and started up. The door opened in the same moment, and an old lady, dressed in delicate lavender print, came briskly in. Her cap of a round, old-fashioned shape, was white as snow, and a bunch of keys hung from her girdle. It was Mrs. Thornimett. 'So you are here!' she exclaimed, advancing to him with short, quick steps, a sort of trot. 'Sarah said she was sure Mr. Austin had not gone out. And now, what do you mean by this?' she added, bending her spectacles, which she always wore, on his open book. 'Confining yourself indoors this lovely day over that good-for-nothing Hebrew stuff!' Austin turned his eyes upon her with a pleasant smile. Deep-set grey eyes they were, earnest and truthful, with a great amount of thought in them for a young man. His face was a pleasing, good-looking face, without being a handsome one, its complexion pale, clear, and healthy, and the hair rather dark. There was not much of beauty in the countenance, but there was plenty of firmness and good sense. 'It is not Hebrew, Mrs. Thornimett. Hebrew and I are strangers to each other. I am only indulging myself with a bit of old Homer.' 'All useless, Austin. I don't care whether it is Greek or Hebrew, or Latin or French. To pore over those rubbishing dry books whenever you get the chance, does you no good. If you did not possess a constitution of iron, you would have been laid upon a sick-bed long ago.' Austin laughed outright. Mrs. Thornimett's prejudices against what she called 'learning,' had grown into a proverb. Never having been troubled with much herself, she, like the Dutch professor told of by George Primrose, 'saw no good in it.' She lifted her hand and closed the book. 'May I not spend my time as I like upon a holiday?' remonstrated Austin, half vexed, half in good humour. 'No,' said she, authoritatively; 'not when the day is warm and bright as this. We do not often get so fair an Easter. Don't you see that I have put off my winter clothing?' 'I saw that at breakfast.' 'Oh, you did notice that, did you? I thought you and Mr. Thornimett were both buried in that newspaper. Well, Austin, I never make the change till I think warm weather is really coming in: and so it ought to be, for Easter is late this year. Come, put that book up.' Austin obeyed, a comical look of grievance on his face. 'I declare you order me about just as you did when I came here first, a miserable little muff of fourteen. You'll never get another like me, Mrs. Thornimett. As if I had not enough outdoor work every day in the week! And I don't know where on earth to go to. It's like turning a fellow out of house and home!' 'You are going out for me, Austin. The master left a message for the Lowland farm, and you shall take it over, and stay the day with them. They will make as much of you as they would of a king. When Mrs. Milton was here the other day, she complained that you never went over now; she said she supposed you were growing above them.' 'What nonsense!' said Austin, laughing. 'Well, I'll go there for you at once, without grumbling. I like the Miltons.' 'You can walk, or you can take the pony gig: whichever you like.' 'I will walk,' replied Austin, with alacrity, putting his book inside the large desk. 'What is the message, Mrs. Thornimett?' 'The message----' Mrs. Thornimett came to a sudden pause, very much as if she had fallen into a dream. Her eyes were gazing from the window into the far distance, and Austin looked in the same direction: but there was not anything to be seen. 'There's nothing there, lad. It is but my own thoughts. Something is troubling me, Austin. Don't you think the master has seemed very poorly of late?' 'N--o,' replied Austin, slowly, and with some hesitation, for he was half doubting whether something of the sort had not struck him. Certainly the master--as Mr. Thornimett was styled indiscriminately on the premises both by servants and workpeople, so that Mrs. Thornimett often fell into the same habit--was not the brisk man he used to be. 'I have not noticed it particularly.' 'That is like the young; they never see anything,' she murmured, as if speaking to herself. 'Well, Austin, I have; and I can tell you that I do not like the master's looks, or the signs I detect in him. Especially did I not like them when he rode forth this morning.' 'All that I have observed is that of late he seems to be disinclined for business. He seems heavy, sleepy, as though it were a trouble to him to rouse himself, and he complains sometimes of headache. But, of course----' 'Of course, what?' asked Mrs. Thornimett. 'Why do you hesitate?' 'I was going to say that Mr. Thornimett is not as young as he was,' continued Austin, with some deprecation. 'He is sixty-six, and I am sixty-three. But, you must be going. Talking of it, will not mend it. And the best part of the day is passing.' 'You have not given me the message,' he said, taking up his hat which lay beside him. 'The message is this,' said Mrs. Thornimett, lowering her voice to a confidential tone, as she glanced round to see that the door was shut. 'Tell Mr. Milton that Mr. Thornimett cannot answer for that timber merchant about whom he asked. The master fears he might prove a slippery customer; he is a man whom he himself would trust as far as he could see, but no farther. Just say it into Mr. Milton's private ear, you know.' 'Certainly. I understand,' replied the young man, turning to depart. 'You see now why it might not be convenient to despatch any one but yourself. And, Austin,' added the old lady, following him across the hall, 'take care not to make yourself ill with their Easter cheesecakes. The Lowland farm is famous for them.' 'I will try not,' returned Austin. He looked back at her, nodding and laughing as he traversed the lawn, and from thence struck into the open road. His way led him past the workshops, closed then, even to the gates, for Easter Monday in that part of the country is a universal holiday. A few minutes, and he turned into the fields; a welcome change from the dusty road. The field way might be a little longer, but it was altogether pleasanter. Easter was late that year, as Mrs. Thornimett observed, and the season was early. The sky was blue and clear, the day warm and lovely; the hedges were budding into leaf, the grass was growing, the clover, the buttercups, the daisies were springing; and an early butterfly fluttered past Austin. 'You have taken wing betimes,' he said, addressing the unconscious insect. 'I think summer must be at hand.' Halting for a moment to watch the flight, he strode on the quicker afterwards. Supple, active, slender, his steps--the elastic, joyous, tread of youth--scarcely seemed to touch the earth. He always walked fast when busy with thought, and his mind was buried in the hint Mrs. Thornimett had spoken, touching her fears for her husband's health. 'If he is breaking, it's through his close attention to business,' decided Austin, as he struck into the common and was nearing the end of his journey. 'I wish he would take a jolly good holiday this summer. It would set him up; and I know I could manage things without him.' A large common; a broad piece of waste land, owned by the lord of the manor, but appropriated by anybody and everybody; where gipsies encamped and donkeys grazed, and geese and children were turned out to roam. A wide path ran across it, worn by the passage of farmer's carts and other vehicles. To the left it was bordered in the distance by a row of cottages; to the right, its extent was limited, and terminated in some dangerous gravel pits--dangerous, because they were not protected. Austin Clay had reached the middle of the path and of the common, when he overtook a lady whom he slightly knew. A lady of very strange manners, popularly supposed to be mad, and of whom he once stood in considerable awe, not to say terror, at which he laughed now. She was a Miss Gwinn, a tall bony woman of remarkable strength, the sister of Gwinn, a lawyer of Ketterford. Gwinn the lawyer did not bear the best of characters, and Ketterford reviled him when they could do it secretly. 'A low, crafty, dishonest practitioner, whose hands couldn't have come clean had he spent his days and nights in washing them,' was amidst the complimentary terms applied to him. Miss Gwinn, however, seemed honest enough, and but for her rancorous manners Ketterford might have grown to feel a sort of respect for her as a woman of sorrow. She had come suddenly to the place many years before and taken up her abode with her brother. She looked and moved and spoke as one half-crazed with grief: what its cause was, nobody knew; but it was accepted by all, and mysteriously alluded to by herself on occasion. 'You have taken a long walk this morning, Miss Gwinn,' said Austin, courteously raising his hat as he came up with her. She threw back her grey cloak with a quick, sharp movement, and turned upon him. 'Oh, is it you, Austin Clay? You startled me. My thoughts were far away: deep upon another. _He_ could wear a fair outside, and accost me in a pleasant voice, like you.' 'That is rather a doubtful compliment, Miss Gwinn,' he returned, in his good-humoured way. 'I hope I am no darker inside than out. At any rate, I don't try to appear different from what I am.' 'Did I accuse you of it? Boy! you had better go and throw yourself into one of those gravel pits and die, than grow up to be deceitful,' she vehemently cried. 'Deceit has been the curse of my days. It has made me what I am; one whom the boys hoot after, and call----' 'No, no; not so bad as that,' interrupted Austin, soothingly. 'You have been cross with them sometimes, and they are insolent, mischievous little ragamuffins. I am sure every thoughtful person respects you, feeling for your sorrow.' 'Sorrow!' she wailed. 'Ay. Sorrow, beyond what falls to the ordinary lot of man. The blow fell upon _me_, though I was not an actor in it. When those connected with us do wrong, we suffer; we, more than they. I may be revenged yet,' she added, her expression changing to anger. 'If I can only come across _him_.' 'Across whom?' naturally asked Austin. 'Who are you, that you should seek to pry into my secrets?' she passionately resumed. 'I am five-and-fifty to-day--old enough to be your mother, and you presume to put the question to _me_! Boys are coming to something.' 'I beg your pardon; I but spoke heedlessly, Miss Gwinn, in answer to your remark. Indeed I have no wish to pry into anybody's business. And as to "secrets," I have eschewed them, since, a little chap in petticoats, I crept to my mother's room door to listen to one, and got soundly whipped for my pains.' 'It is a secret that you will never know, or anybody else; so put its thoughts from you. Austin Clay,' she added, laying her hand upon his arm, and bending forward to speak in a whisper, 'it is fifteen years, this very day, since its horrors came out to me! And I have had to carry it about since, as I best could, in silence and in pain.' She turned round abruptly as she spoke, and continued her way along the broad path; while Austin Clay struck short off towards the gravel pits, which was his nearest road to the Lowland farm. Silent and abandoned were the pits that day; everybody connected with them was enjoying holiday with the rest of the world. 'What a strange woman she is!' he thought. It has been said that the gravel pits were not far from the path. Austin was close upon them, when the sound of a horse's footsteps caused him to turn. A gentleman was riding fast down the common path, from the opposite side to the one he and Miss Gwinn had come, and Austin shaded his eyes with his hand to see if it was any one he knew. No; it was a stranger. A slender man, of some seven-and-thirty years, tall, so far as could be judged, with thin, prominent aquiline features, and dark eyes. A fine face; one of those that impress the beholder at first sight, as it did Austin, and, once seen, remain permanently on the memory. 'I wonder who he is?' cried Austin Clay to himself. 'He rides well.' Possibly Miss Gwinn might be wondering the same. At any rate, she had fixed her eyes on the stranger, and they seemed to be starting from her head with the gaze. It would appear that she recognised him, and with no pleasurable emotion. She grew strangely excited. Her face turned of a ghastly whiteness, her hands closed involuntarily, and, after standing for a moment in perfect stillness, as if petrified, she darted forward in his pathway, and seized the bridle of his horse. 'So! you have turned up at last! I knew--I knew you were not dead!' she shrieked, in a voice of wild raving. 'I knew you would some time be brought face to face with me, to answer for your wickedness.' Utterly surprised and perplexed, or seeming to be, at this summary attack, the gentleman could only stare at his assailant, and endeavour to get his bridle from her hand. But she held it with a firm grasp. 'Let go my horse,' he said. 'Are you mad?' '_You_ were mad,' she retorted, passionately. 'Mad in those old days; and you turned another to madness. Not three minutes ago, I said to myself that the time would come when I should find you. Man! do you remember that it is fifteen years ago this very day that the--the--crisis of the sickness came on? Do you know that never afterwards----' 'Do not betray your private affairs to me,' interrupted the gentleman. 'They are no concern of mine. I never saw you in my life. Take care! the horse will do you an injury.' 'No! you never saw me, and you never saw somebody else!' she panted, in a tone that would have been mockingly sarcastic, but for its wild passion. 'You did not change the current of my whole life! you did not turn another to madness! These equivocations are worthy of _you_.' 'If you are not insane, you must be mistaking me for some other person,' he replied, his tone none of the mildest, though perfectly calm. 'I repeat that, to my knowledge, I never set eyes upon you in my life. Woman! have you no regard for your own safety? The horse will kill you! Don't you see that I cannot control him?' 'So much the better if he kills us both,' she shrieked, swaying up and down, to and fro, with the fierce motions of the angry horse. 'You will only meet your deserts: and, for myself, I am tired of life.' 'Let go!' cried the rider. 'Not until you have told me where you live, and where you may be found. I have searched for you in vain. I will have my revenge; I will force you to do justice. You----' In her sad temper, her dogged obstinacy, she still held the bridle. The horse, a spirited animal, was passionate as she was, and far stronger. He reared bolt upright, he kicked, he plunged; and, finally, he shook off the obnoxious control, to dash furiously in the direction of the gravel pits. Miss Gwinn fell to the ground. To fall into the pit would be certain destruction to both man and horse. Austin Clay had watched the encounter in amazement, though he could not hear the words of the quarrel. In the humane impulse of the moment, disregarding the danger to himself, he darted in front of the horse, arrested him on the very brink of the pit, and threw him back on his haunches. Snorting, panting, the white foam breaking from him, the animal, as if conscious of the doom he had escaped, now stood in trembling quiet, obedient to the control of his master. That master threw himself from his back, and turned to Austin. 'Young gentleman, you have saved my life.' There was little doubt of that. Austin accepted the fact without any fuss, feeling as thankful as the speaker, and quite unconscious at the moment of the wrench he had given his own shoulder. 'It would have been an awkward fall, sir. I am glad I happened to be here.' 'It would have been a _killing_ fall,' replied the stranger, stepping to the brink, and looking down. 'And your being here must be owing to God's wonderful Providence.' He lifted his hat as he spoke, and remained a minute or two silent and uncovered, his eyes closed. Austin, in the same impulse of reverence, lifted his. 'Did you see the strange manner in which that woman attacked me?' questioned the stranger. 'Yes.' 'She must be insane.' 'She is very strange at times,' said Austin. 'She flies into desperate passions.' 'Passions! It is madness, not passion. A woman like that ought to be shut up in Bedlam. Where would be the satisfaction to my wife and family, if, through her, I had been lying at this moment at the bottom there, dead? I never saw her in my life before; never.' 'Is she hurt? She has fallen down, I perceive.' 'Hurt! not she. She could call after me pretty fiercely when my horse shook her off. She possesses the rage and strength of a tiger. Good fellow! good Salem! did a mad woman frighten and anger you?' added the stranger, soothing his horse. 'And now, young sir,' turning to Austin, 'how shall I reward you?' Austin broke into a smile at the notion. 'Not at all, thank you,' he said. 'One does not merit reward for such a thing as this. I should have deserved sending over after you, had I not interposed. To do my best was a simple matter of duty--of obligation; but nothing to be rewarded for.' 'Had he been a common man, I might have done it,' thought the stranger; 'but he is evidently a gentleman. Well, I may be able to repay it in some manner as you and I pass through life,' he said, aloud, mounting the now subdued horse. 'Some neglect the opportunities, thrown in their way, of helping their fellow-creatures; some embrace them, as you have just done. I believe that whichever we may give--neglect or help--will be returned to us in kind: like unto a corn of wheat, that must spring up what it is sown; or a thistle, that must come up a thistle.' 'As to embracing the opportunity--I should think there's no man living but would have done his best to save you, had he been standing here.' 'Ah, well; let it go,' returned the horseman. 'Will you tell me your name? and something about yourself?' 'My name is Austin Clay. I have few relatives living, and they are distant ones, and I shall, I expect, have to make my own way in the world.' 'Are you in any profession? or business?' 'I am with Mr. Thornimett, of Ketterford: the builder and contractor.' 'Why, I am a builder myself!' cried the stranger, a pleasing accent of surprise in his tone. 'Shall you ever be visiting London?' 'I daresay I shall, sir. I should like to do so.' 'Then, when you do, mind you call upon me the first thing,' he rejoined, taking a card from a case in his pocket and handing it to Austin. Come to me should you ever be in want of a berth: I might help you to one. Will you promise?' 'Yes, sir; and thank you.' 'I fancy the thanks are due from the other side, Mr. Clay. Oblige me by not letting that Bess o' Bedlam obtain sight of my card. I might have her following me.' 'No fear,' said Austin, alluding to the caution. 'She must be lying there to regain the strength exhausted by passion, carelessly remarked the stranger. 'Poor thing! it is sad to be mad, though! She is getting up now, I see: I had better be away. That town beyond, in the distance, is Ketterford, is it not?' 'It is.' 'Fare you well, then. I must hasten to catch the twelve o'clock train. They have horse-boxes, I presume, at the station?' 'Oh, yes.' 'All right,' he nodded. 'I have received a summons to town, and cannot afford the time to ride Salem home. So we must both get conveyed by train, old fellow'--patting his horse, as he spoke to it. 'By the way, though--what is the lady's name?' he halted to ask. 'Gwinn. Miss Gwinn.' 'Gwinn? Gwinn?' Never heard the name in my life. Fare you well, in all gratitude.' He rode away. Austin Clay looked at the card. It was a private visiting card--'Mr. Henry Hunter' with an address in the corner. 'He must be one of the great London building firm, "Hunter and Hunter,"' thought Austin, depositing the card in his pocket. 'First class people. And now for Miss Gwinn.' For his humanity would not allow him to leave her unlooked-after, as the molested and angry man had done. She had risen to her feet, though slowly, as he stepped back across the short worn grass of the common. The fall had shaken her, without doing material damage. 'I hope you are not hurt?' said Austin, kindly. 'A ban light upon the horse!' she fiercely cried. 'At my age, it does not do to be thrown on the ground violently. I thought my bones were broken; I could not rise. And he has escaped! Boy! what did he say to you of me--of my affairs?' 'Not anything. I do not believe he knows you in the least. He says he does not.' The crimson passion had faded from Miss Gwinn's face, leaving it wan and white. 'How dare you say you believe it?' 'Because I do believe it,' replied Austin. 'He declared that he never saw you in his life; and I think he spoke the truth. I can judge when a man tells truth, and when he tells a lie. Mr. Thornimett often says he wishes he could read faces--and people--as I can read them.' Miss Gwinn gazed at him; contempt and pity blended in her countenance. 'Have you yet to learn that a bad man can assume the semblance of goodness?' 'Yes, I know that; and assume it so as to take in a saint,' hastily spoke Austin. 'You may be deceived in a bad man; but I do not think you can in a good one. Where a man possesses innate truth and honour, it shines out in his countenance, his voice, his manner; and there can be no mistake. When you are puzzled over a bad man, you say to yourself, "He _may_ be telling the truth, he _may_ be genuine;" but with a good man you know it to be so: that is, if you possess the gift of reading countenances. Miss Gwinn, I am sure there was truth in that stranger.' 'Listen, Austin Clay. That man, truthful as you deem him, is the very incarnation of deceit. I know as much of him as one human being can well know of another. It was he who wrought the terrible wrong upon my house; it was he who broke up my happy home. I'll find him now. Others said he must be dead; but I said, "No, he lives yet." And, you see he does live. I'll find him.' Without another word she turned away, and went striding back in the direction of Ketterford--the same road which the stranger's horse had taken. Austin stood and looked after her, pondering over the strange events of the hour. Then he proceeded to the Lowland farm. A pleasant day amidst pleasant friends spent he; rich Easter cheesecakes being the least of the seductions he did _not_ withstand; and Ketterford clocks were striking half-past ten as he approached Mrs. Thornimett's. The moonlight walk was delightful; there was no foreboding of ill upon his spirit, and he turned in at the gate utterly unconscious of the news that was in store for him. Conscious of the late hour--for they were early people--he was passing across the lawn with a hasty step, when the door was drawn silently open, as if some one stood there watching, and he saw Sarah, one of the two old maid-servants, come forth to meet him. Both had lived in the family for years; had scolded and ordered Austin about when a boy, to their heart's content, and for his own good. 'Why, Sarah, is it you?' was his gay greeting. 'Going to take a moonlight ramble?' 'Where _have_ you stayed?' whispered the woman in evident excitement. 'To think you should be away this night of all others, Mr. Austin! Have you heard what has happened to the master?' 'No. What?' exclaimed Austin, his fears taking alarm. 'He fell down in a fit, over at the village where he went; and they brought him home, a-frightening us two and the missis almost into fits ourselves. Oh, Master Austin!' she concluded, bursting into tears, 'the doctors don't think he'll live till morning. Poor dear old master!' Austin, half paralysed at the news, stood for a moment against the wall inside the hall. 'Can I go and see him?' he presently asked. 'Oh, you may go,' was the answer; 'the mistress has been asking for you, and nothing rouses _him_. It's a heavy blow; but it has its side of brightness. God never sends a blow but he sends mercy with it.' 'What is the mercy--the brightness?' Austin waited to ask, thinking she must allude to some symptom of hope. Sarah put her shrivelled old arm on his in solemnity, as she answered it. 'He was fit to be taken. He had lived for the next world while he was living in this. And those that do, Master Austin, never need shrink from sudden death.' CHAPTER II. CHANGES. To reflect upon the change death makes, even in the petty every-day affairs of life, must always impart a certain awe to the thoughtful mind. On the Easter Monday, spoken of in the last chapter, Richard Thornimett, his men, his contracts, and his business in progress, were all part of the life, the work, the bustle of the town of Ketterford. In a few weeks from that time, Richard Thornimett--who had not lived to see the morning light after his attack--was mouldering in the churchyard; and the business, the workshops, the artisans, all save the dwelling-house, which Mrs. Thornimett retained for herself, had passed into other hands. The name, Richard Thornimett, as one of the citizens of Ketterford, had ceased to be: all things were changed. Mrs. Thornimett's friends and acquaintances had assembled to tender counsel, after the fashion of busybodies of the world. Some recommended her to continue the business; some, to give it up; some, to take in a gentleman as partner; some, to pay a handsome salary to an efficient manager. Mrs. Thornimett listened politely to all, without the least intention of acting upon anybody's opinion but her own. Her mind had been made up from the first. Mr. Thornimett had died fairly well off, and everything was left to her--half of the money to be hers for life, and then to go to different relatives; the other half was bequeathed to her absolutely, and was at her own disposal. Rumours were rife in the town, that, when things came to be realized, she would have about twelve thousand pounds in money, besides other property. But before making known her decision abroad, she spoke to Austin Clay. They were sitting together one evening when she entered upon the subject, breaking the silence that reigned with some abruptness. 'Austin, I shall dispose of the business; everything as it stands. And the goodwill.' 'Shall you?' he exclaimed, taken by surprise, and his voice betraying a curious disappointment. Mrs. Thornimett nodded in answer. 'I would have done my best to carry it on for you, Mrs. Thornimett. The foreman is a man of experience; one we may trust.' 'I do not doubt you, Austin; and I do not doubt him. You have got your head on your shoulders the right way, and you would be faithful and true. So well do I think of your abilities, that, were you in a position to pay down only half the purchase-money, I would give you the refusal of the business, and I am certain success would attend you. But you are not; so that is out of the question.' 'Quite out of the question,' assented Austin. 'If ever I get a business of my own, it must be by working for it. Have you quite resolved upon giving it up?' 'So far resolved, that the negotiations are already half concluded,' replied Mrs. Thornimett. 'What should I, a lone woman, do with an extensive business? When poor widows are left badly off, they are obliged to work; but I possess more money than I shall know how to spend. Why should I worry out my hours and days trying to amass more? It would not be seemly. Rolt and Ransom wish to purchase it.' Austin lifted his head with a quick movement. He did not like Rolt and Ransom. 'The only difference we have in the matter, is this: that I wish them to take you on, Austin, and they think they shall find no room for you. Were you a common workman, it would be another thing, they say.' 'Do not allow that to be a difference any longer, Mrs. Thornimett,' he cried, somewhat eagerly. 'I should not care to be under Rolt and Ransom. If they offered me a place to-morrow, and _carte blanche_ as to pay, I do not think I could bring myself to take it.' 'Why?' asked Mrs. Thornimett, in surprise. 'Well, they are no favourites of mine. I know nothing against them, except that they are hard men--grinders; but somehow I have always felt a prejudice against that firm. We do have our likes and dislikes, you are well aware. Young Rolt is prominent in the business, too, and I am sure there's no love lost between him and me; we should be at daggers drawn. No, I should not serve Rolt and Ransom. If they succeed to your business, I think I shall go to London and try my fortune there.' Mrs. Thornimett pushed back her widow's cap, to which her head had never yet been able to get reconciled--something like Austin with regard to Rolt and Ransom. 'London would not be a good place for you, Austin. It is full of pitfalls for young men.' 'So are other places,' said Austin, laughingly, 'if young men choose to step into them. I shall make my way, Mrs. Thornimett, never fear. I am thorough master of my business in all its branches, higher and lower as you know, and I am not afraid of putting my own shoulder to the wheel, if there's necessity for it. As to pitfalls--if I do stumble in the dark into any, I'll manage to scramble out again; but I will try and take care not to step into them wilfully. Had you continued the business, of course I would have remained with you; otherwise, I should like to go to London.' 'You can be better trusted, both as to capabilities and steadiness, than some could at your age,' deliberated Mrs. Thornimett. 'But they are wrong notions that you young men pick up with regard to London. I believe there's not one of you but thinks its streets are sprinkled with diamonds.' '_I_ don't,' said Austin. 'And while God gives me hands and brains to work with, I would rather earn my diamonds, than stoop to pick them up in idleness.' Mrs. Thornimett paused. She settled her spectacles more firmly on her eyes, turned them full on Austin, and spoke sharply. 'Were you disappointed when you heard the poor master's will read?' Austin, in return, turned his eyes upon her, and opened them to their utmost width in his surprise. 'Disappointed! No. Why should I be?' 'Did it never occur to you to think, or to expect, that he might leave you something?' 'Never,' earnestly replied Austin. 'The thought never so much as crossed my mind. Mr. Thornimett had near relatives of his own--and so have you. Who am I, that I should think to step in before them?' 'I wish people would mind their own business!' exclaimed the old lady, in a vexed tone. 'I was gravely assured, Austin, that young Clay felt grievously ill-used at not being mentioned in the will.' 'Did you believe it?' he rejoined. 'No, I did not.' 'It is utterly untrue, Mrs. Thornimett, whoever said it. I never expected Mr. Thornimett to leave me anything; therefore, I could not have been disappointed at the will.' 'The poor master knew I should not forget you, Austin; that is if you continue to be deserving. Some time or other, when my old bones are laid beside him, you may be the better for a trifle from me. Only a trifle, mind; we must be just before we are generous.' 'Indeed, you are very kind,' was Austin Clay's reply; 'but I should not wish you to enrich me at the expense of others who have greater claims.' And he fully meant what he said. 'I have not the least fear of making my own way up the world's ladder. Do you happen to know anything of the London firm, Hunter and Hunter?' 'Only by reputation,' said Mrs. Thornimett. 'I shall apply to them, if I go to London. They would interest themselves for me, perhaps.' 'You'd be sure to do well if you could get in there. But why should they help you more than any other firm would?' 'There's nothing like trying,' replied Austin, too conscious of the evasive character of his reply. He was candour itself; but he feared to speak of the circumstances under which he had met Mr. Henry Hunter, lest Miss Gwinn should find out it was to him he had gone, and so track Mr. Henry Hunter home. Austin deemed that it was no business of his to help her to find Mr. Hunter, whether he was or not the _bête noire_ of whom she had spoken. He might have told of the encounter at the time, but for the home calamity that supervened upon it; that drove away other topics. Neither had he mentioned it at the Lowland farm. For all Miss Gwinn's violence, he felt pity for her, and could not expose the woman. 'A first-rate firm, that of Hunter and Hunter,' remarked Mrs. Thornimett. 'Your credentials will be good also, Austin.' 'Yes; I hope so.' It was nearly all that passed upon the subject. Rolt and Ransom took possession of the business, and Austin Clay prepared to depart for London. Mrs. Thornimett felt sure he would get on well--always provided that he kept out of 'pit-falls.' She charged him not to be above his business, but to _work_ his way upwards: as Austin meant to do. A day or two before quitting Ketterford, it chanced that he and Mrs. Thornimett, who were out together, encountered Miss Gwinn. There was a speaking acquaintance between the two ladies, and Miss Gwinn stopped to say a kind word or two of sympathy for the widow and her recent loss. She could be a lady on occasion, and a gentle one. As the conversation went on, Mrs. Thornimett incidentally mentioned that Mr. Clay was going to leave and try his fortune in London. 'Oh, indeed,' said Miss Gwinn, turning to him, as he stood quietly by Mrs. Thornimett's side. 'What does he think of doing there?' 'To get a situation, of course. He means first of all to try at Hunter and Hunter's.' The words had left Mrs. Thornimett's lips before Austin could interpose--which he would have given the world to do. But there was no answering emotion on Miss Gwinn's face. 'Hunter and Hunter?' she carelessly repeated. 'Who are they?' '"Hunter Brothers," they are sometimes called,' observed Mrs. Thornimett. 'It is a building firm of eminence.' 'Oh,' apathetically returned Miss Gwinn. 'I wish you well,' she added, to Austin. He thanked her as they parted. The subject, the name, evidently bore for her no interest whatever. Therefore Austin judged, that although she might have knowledge of Mr. Henry Hunter's person, she could not of his name. CHAPTER III. AWAY TO LONDON. A heavy train, drawn by two engines, was dashing towards London. Whitsuntide had come, and the public took advantage of the holiday, and the trains were crammed. Austin Clay took advantage of it also; it was a saving to his pocket, the fares having been lowered; and he rather liked a cram. What he did not like, though, was the being stuffed into a first-class carriage with its warm mats and cushions. The crowd was so great that people sat indiscriminately in any carriage that came first. The day was intensely hot, and he would have preferred one open on all sides. They were filled, however, before he came. He had left Ketterford, and was on his road to London to seek his fortune--as old stories used to say. Seated in the same compartment as himself was a lady with a little girl. The former appeared to be in very delicate health; she remarked more than once, that she would not have travelled on so crowded a day, had she given it proper thought. The little girl was chiefly remarkable for making herself troublesome to Austin; at least, her mamma perpetually reproached her with doing so. She was a lovely child, with delicately carved features, slightly aquiline, but inexpressibly sweet and charming. A bright colour illumined her cheeks, her eyes were large and dark and soft, and her brown curls were flowing. He judged her to be perhaps eleven years old; but she was one of those natural, unsophisticated children, who appear much younger than they are. The race has pretty nearly gone out of the world now: I hope it will come back again. 'Florence, how _can_ you be so tiresome? Pushing yourself before the gentleman against that dangerous door! it may fly open at any moment. I am sure he must be tired of holding you.' Florence turned her bright eye--sensible, honest eyes, bright though they were--and her pretty hot cheeks upon the gentleman. 'Are you tired, sir?' Austin smiled. 'It would take rather more than this to tire me,' he said. 'Pray allow her to look out,' he added, to the lady, opposite to whom he sat; 'I will take every care of her.' 'Have you any little girls of your own?' questioned the young damsel. Austin laughed outright. 'No.' 'Nor any sisters?' 'Nor any sisters. I have scarcely any relatives in the world. I am not so fortunate as you.' 'I have a great many relatives, but no brothers or sisters. I had a little sister once, and she died when she was three years old. Was it not three, mamma?' 'And how old are you?' inquired Austin. 'Oh, pray do not ask,' interposed the lady. 'She is so thoroughly childish, I am ashamed that anybody should know her age. And yet she does not want sense.' 'I was twelve last birthday,' cried the young lady, in defiance of all conventionalism. 'My cousin Mary is only eleven, but she is a great deal bigger than I.' 'Yes,' observed the lady, in a tone of positive resentment. 'Mary is quite a woman already in ideas and manners: you are a child, and a very backward one.' 'Let her be a child, ma'am, while she may,' impulsively spoke Austin; 'childhood does not last too long, and it never comes again. Little girls are women nowadays: I think it is perfectly delightful to meet with one like this.' Before they reached London other passengers had disappeared from the carriage, and they were alone. As they neared the terminus, the young lady was peremptorily ordered to 'keep her head in,' or perhaps she might lose it. 'Oh dear! if I must, I must,' returned the child. 'But I wanted to look out for papa; he is sure to be waiting for us.' The train glided into its destination. And the bright quick eyes were roving amidst the crowd standing on the platform. They rested upon a gentleman. 'There's Uncle Henry! there's Uncle Henry! But I don't see papa. Where's papa?' she called out, as the gentleman saw them and approached. 'Papa's not come; he has sent me instead, Miss Florence.' And to Austin Clay's inexpressible surprise, he recognised Mr. Henry Hunter. 'There is nothing the matter? James is not ill?' exclaimed the lady, bending forward. 'No, no; nothing of that. Being a leisure day with us, we thought we would quietly go over some estimates together. James had not finished the calculations, and did not care to be disturbed at them. Your carriage is here.' Mr. Henry Hunter was assisting her to alight as he spoke, having already lifted down Florence. A maid with a couple of carpet-bags appeared presently, amidst the bustle, and Austin saw them approach a private carriage. He had not pushed himself forward. He did not intend to do so then, deeming it not the most fitting moment to challenge the notice of Mr. Henry Hunter; but that gentleman's eye happened to fall upon him. Not at first for recognition. Mr. Hunter felt sure it was a face he had seen recently; was one he ought to know; but his memory was puzzled. Florence followed his gaze. 'That gentleman came up in the same carriage with us, Uncle Henry. He got in at a place they called Ketterford. I like him so much.' Austin came forward as he saw the intent look; and recollection flashed over the mind of Mr. Henry Hunter. He took both the young man's hands in his and grasped them. 'You like him, do you, Miss Florence?' cried he, in a half-joking, half-fervent tone. 'I can tell you what, young lady; but for this gentleman, you would no longer have possessed an Uncle Henry to plague; he would have been dead and forgotten.' A word or two of explanation from Austin, touching what brought him to London, and his intention to ask advice of Mr. Henry Hunter. That gentleman replied that he would give it willingly, and at once, for he had leisure on his hands that day, and he could not answer for it that he would have on another. He gave Austin the address of his office. 'When shall I come, sir?' asked Austin. 'Now, if you can. A cab will bring you. I shall not be there later in the day.' So Austin, leaving his portmanteau, all the luggage he had at present brought with him, in charge at the station, proceeded in a cab to the address named, Mr. Henry Hunter having driven off in the carriage. The offices, yards, buildings, sheds, and other places pertaining to the business of Hunter and Hunter, were situated in what may be considered a desirable part of the metropolis. They encroached neither upon the excessive bustle of the City, nor upon the aristocratic exclusiveness of the gay West end, but occupied a situation midway between the two. Sufficiently open was the district in their immediate neighbourhood, healthy, handsome, and near some fine squares; but a very, very little way removed, you came upon swarming courts, and close dwellings, and squalor, and misery, and all the bad features of what we are pleased to call Arab life. There are many such districts in London, where wealth and ease contrast with starvation and improvidence, _all but_ within view of each other; the one gratifying the eye, the other causing it pain. The yard and premises were of great extent. Austin had thought Mr. Thornimett's pretty fair for size; but he could laugh at them, now that he saw the Messrs. Hunters'. They were enclosed by a wall, and by light iron gates. Within the gates on the left-hand side were the offices, where the in-door business was transacted. A wealthy, important, and highly considered firm was that of the Messrs. Hunter. Their father had made the business what it was, and had bequeathed it to them jointly at his death. James, whose wife and only child you have seen arriving by the train, after a week's visit to the country, was the elder brother, and was usually styled Mr. Hunter; the younger was known as Mr. Henry Hunter, and he had a large family. Each occupied a handsome house in a contiguous square. Mr. Henry Hunter came up almost as Austin did, and they entered the offices. In a private room, warmly carpeted, stood two gentlemen. The one, had he not been so stout, would have borne a great likeness to Mr. Henry Hunter. It was Mr. Hunter. In early life the likeness between the brothers had been remarkable; the same dark hair and eyes; the well-formed acquiline features, the same active, tall, light figure; but, of late years, James had grown fat, and the resemblance was in part lost. The other gentleman was Dr. Bevary, a spare man of middle height, the brother of Mrs. James Hunter. Mr. Henry Hunter introduced Austin Clay, speaking of the service rendered him, and broadly saying as he had done to Florence, that but for him he should not now have been alive. 'There you go, Henry,' cried Dr. Bevary. 'That's one of your exaggerations, that is: you were always given to the marvellous, you know. Not alive!' Mr. Henry Hunter turned to Austin. 'Tell the truth, Mr. Clay. Should I, or not?' And Austin smiled, and said he believed _not_. 'I cannot understand it,' exclaimed Dr. Bevary, after some explanation had been given by Mr. Henry Hunter. 'It is incredible to suppose a strange woman would attack you in that manner, unless she was mad.' 'Mad, or not mad, she did it,' returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'I was riding Salem--you know I took him with me, in that week's excursion I made at Easter--and the woman set upon me like a tigress, clutching hold of Salem, who won't stand such jokes. In his fury, he got loose from her, dashing he neither knew nor cared whither, and this fine fellow saved us on the very brink of the yawning pit--risking the chance of getting killed himself. Had the horse not been arrested, I don't see how he could have helped being knocked over with us.' Mr. Hunter turned a warm grateful look on Austin. 'How was it you never spoke of this, Henry?' he inquired of his brother. 'There's another curious phase of the affair,' laughed Mr. Henry Hunter. 'I have had a dislike to speak of it, even to think of it. I cannot tell you why; certainly not on account of the escaped danger. And it was over: so, what signified talking of it?' 'Why did she attack you?' pursued Dr. Bevary. 'She evidently, if there was reason in her at all, mistook me for somebody else. All sorts of diabolical things she was beginning to accuse me of; that of having evaded her for some great number of years, amongst the rest. I stopped her; telling her I had no mind to be the depository of other people's secrets.' 'She solemnly protested to me, after you rode away, sir, that you _were_ the man who had done her family some wrong,' interposed Austin. 'I told her I felt certain she was mistaken; and so drew down her anger upon me.' 'Of what nature was the wrong?' asked Dr. Bevary. 'I cannot tell,' said Austin. 'I seemed to gather from her words that the wrong was upon her family, or upon some portion of her family, rather than upon her. I remember she made use of the expression, that it had broken up her happy home.' 'And you did not know her?' exclaimed the doctor, looking at Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Know her?' he returned, 'I never set eyes on her in all my life until that day. I never was in the place before, or in its neighbourhood. If I ever did work her wrong, or ill, I must have done it in my sleep; and with miles of distance intervening. Who is she? What is her name? You told it me, Mr. Clay, but I forget what it was.' 'Her name is Gwinn,' replied Austin. 'The brother is a lawyer and has scraped together a business. One morning, many years ago, a lady arrived at his house, without warning, and took up her abode with him. She turned out to be his sister, and the people at Ketterford think she is mad. It is said they come from Wales. The little boys call after her, "the mad Welsh woman." Sometimes Miss Gwinn.' 'What did you say the name was?' interrupted Dr. Bevary, with startling emphasis. 'Gwinn?--and from Wales?' 'Yes.' Dr. Bevary paused, as if in deep thought. 'What is her Christian name?' he presently inquired. 'It is a somewhat uncommon one,' replied Austin. 'Agatha.' The doctor nodded his head, as if expecting the answer. 'A tall, spare, angular woman, of great strength,' he remarked. 'Why, what do you know of her?' exclaimed Mr. Henry Hunter to the doctor, in a surprised tone. 'Not a great deal. We medical men come across all sorts of persons occasionally,' was the physician's reply. And it was given in a concise, laconic manner, as if he did not care to be questioned further. Mr. Henry Hunter pursued the subject. 'If you know her, Bevary, perhaps you can tell whether she is mad or sane.' 'She is sane, I believe: I have no reason to think her otherwise. But she is one who can allow angry passion to master her at moments: I have seen it do so. Do you say her brother is a lawyer?' he continued, to Austin Clay. 'Yes, he is. And not one of the first water, as to reputation; a grasping, pettifogging practitioner, who will take up any dirty case that may be brought to him. And in that, I fancy, he is a contrast to his sister; for, with all her strange ways, I should not judge her to be dishonourable. It is said he speculates, and that he is not over particular whose money he gets to do it with.' 'I wonder that she never told me about this brother,' dreamily exclaimed the doctor, in an inward tone, as if forgetting that he spoke aloud. 'Where did you meet with her? When did you know her?' interposed Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Are you sure that _you_ know nothing about her?' was the doctor's rejoinder, turning a searching glance upon Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Come, Bevary, what have you got in your head? I do _not_ know her. I never met with her until she saw and accosted me. Are you acquainted with her history?' 'With a dark page in it.' 'What is the page?' Dr. Bevary shook his head. 'In the course of a physician's practice he becomes cognisant of many odds and ends of romance, dark or fair; things that he must hold sacred, and may not give utterance to.' Mr. Henry Hunter looked vexed. 'Perhaps you can understand the reason of her attacking me?' 'I could understand it, but for your assertion of being a stranger to her. If it is so, I can only believe that she mistook you for another.' '_If_ it is so,' repeated Mr. Henry Hunter. 'I am not in the habit of asserting an untruth, Bevary.' 'Nor, on the other hand, is Miss Gwinn one to be deceived. She is keen as a razor.' 'Bevary, what are you driving at?' 'At nothing. Don't be alarmed, Henry. I have no cause to suppose you know the woman, or she you. I only thought--and think--she is one whom it is almost impossible to deceive. It must, however, have been a mistake.' 'It was a mistake--so far as her suspicion that she knew me went,' decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Ay,' acquiesced Dr. Bevary. 'But here am I gossiping my morning away, when a host of patients are waiting for me. We poor doctors never get a holiday, as you more favoured mortals do.' He laughed as he went out, nodding a friendly farewell to Austin. Mr. Henry Hunter stepped out after him. Then Mr. Hunter, who had not taken part in the discussion, but had stood looking from the window while they carried it on, wheeled round to Austin and spoke in a low, earnest tone. 'What _is_ this tale--this mystery--that my brother and the doctor seem to be picking up?' 'Sir, I know no more than you have heard me say. I witnessed her attack on Mr. Henry Hunter.' 'I should like to know further about it: about her. Will you----Hush! here comes my brother back again. Hush!' His voice died away in the faintest whisper, for Mr. Henry Hunter was already within the room. Was Mr. Hunter suspecting that his brother had more cognisance of the affair than he seemed willing to avow? The thought, that it must be so, crossed Austin Clay; or why that warning 'hush' twice repeated? It happened that business was remarkably brisk that season at Hunter and Hunter's. They could scarcely get hands enough, or the work done. And when Austin explained the cause which had brought him to town, and frankly proffered the question of whether they could recommend him to employment, they were glad to offer it themselves. He produced his credentials of capacity and character, and waited. Mr. Henry Hunter turned to him with a smile. 'I suppose you are not above your work, Mr. Clay?' 'I am not above anything in the world that is right, sir. I have come to seek work.' He was engaged forthwith. His duties at present were to lie partly in the counting-house, partly in overlooking the men; and the salary offered was twenty-five pounds per quarter. 'I can rise above that in time, I suppose,' remarked Austin, 'if I give satisfaction?' Mr. Hunter smiled. 'Ay, you can rise above that, if you choose. But when you get on, you'll be doing, I expect, as some of the rest do.' 'What is that, sir?' 'Leaving us, to set up for yourself. Numbers have done so as soon as they have become valuable. I do not speak of the men, you understand, but of those who have been with us in a higher capacity. A few of the men, though, have done the same; some have risen into influence.' 'How can they do that without capital?' inquired Austin. 'It must take money, and a good deal of it, to set up for themselves.' 'Not so much as you may think. They begin in a small way--take piece-work, and work early and late, often fourteen and fifteen hours a day, husbanding their earnings, and getting a capital together by slow but sure degrees. Many of our most important firms have so risen, and owe their present positions to sheer hard work, patience, and energy.' 'It was the way in which Mr. Thornimett first rose,' observed Austin. 'He was once a journeyman at fourteen shillings a week. _He_ got together money by working over hours.' 'Ay, there's nothing like it for the industrious man,' said Mr. Hunter. Preliminaries were settled, advice given to him where he might find lodgings, and Austin departed, having accepted an invitation to dine at six at Mr. Henry Hunter's. And all through having performed an unpremeditated but almost necessary act of bravery. CHAPTER IV. DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT. Turning to the right after quitting the business premises of the Messrs. Hunter, you came to an open, handsome part, where the square in which those gentlemen dwelt was situated, with other desirable squares, crescents, and houses. But, if you turned to the left instead of to the right, you very speedily found yourself in the midst of a dense locality, not so agreeable to the eye or to the senses. And yet some parts of this were not much to be complained of, unless you instituted a comparison between them and those open places; but in this world all things are estimated by comparison. Take Daffodil's Delight, for example. 'Daffodil's Delight! what's that?' cries the puzzled reader, uncertain whether it may be a fine picture or something to eat. Daffodil's Delight was nothing more than a tolerably long street, or lane, or double row of houses--wide enough for a street, dirty enough for a lane, the buildings irregular, not always contiguous, small gardens before some, and a few trees scattered here and there. When the locality was mostly fields, and the buildings on them were scanty, a person of the name of Daffodil ran up a few tenements. He found that they let well, and he ran up more, and more, and more, until there was a long, long line of them, and he growing rich. He called the place Daffodil's Delight--which we may suppose expressed his own complacent satisfaction at his success--and Daffodil's Delight it had continued, down to the present day. The houses were of various sizes, and of fancy appearance; some large, some small; some rising up like a narrow tower, some but a storey high; some were all windows, some seemed to have none; some you could only gain by ascending steps; to others you pitched down as into a cellar; some lay back, with gardens before their doors, while others projected pretty nearly on to the street gutter. Nothing in the way of houses could be more irregular, and what Mr. Daffodil's motive could have been in erecting such cannot be conjectured--unless he formed an idea that he would make a venture to suit various tastes and diverse pockets. Nearly at the beginning of this locality, in its best part, before the road became narrow, there stood a detached white house; one of only six rooms, but superior in appearance, and well kept; indeed, it looked more like a gentleman's cottage residence than a working man's. Verandah blinds were outside the windows, and green wire fancy stands held geraniums and other plants on the stone copings, against their lower panes, obviating the necessity for inside blinds. In this house lived Peter Quale. He had begun life carrying hods of mortar for masons, and covering up bricks with straw--a half-starved urchin, his feet as naked as his head, and his body pretty nearly the same. But he was steady, industrious, and persevering--just one of those men that _work on_ for decent position, and acquire it. From two shillings per week to four, from four to six, from six to twelve--such had been Peter Quale's beginnings. At twelve shillings he remained for some time stationary, and then his advance was rapid. Now, he was one of the superior artisans of the Messrs. Hunters' yard; was, in fact, in a post of trust, and his wages had grown in proportion. Daffodil's Delight said that Quale's earnings could not be less than 150_l._ per annum. A steady, sensible, honest, but somewhat obstinate man, well-read, and intelligent; for Peter, while he advanced his circumstances, had not neglected his mind. He had cultivated that far more than he had his speech or his manner; a homely tone and grammar, better known to Daffodil's Delight than to polite ears, Peter favoured still. In the afternoon of Whit Monday, the day spoken of already, Peter sat in the parlour of his house, a pipe in his mouth, and a book in his hand. He looked about midway between forty and fifty, had a round bald head, surmounted just now by a paper cap, a fair complexion, grey whiskers, and a well-marked forehead, especially where lie the perceptive faculties. His eyes were deeply sunk in his head, and he was by nature a silent man. In the kitchen behind, 'washing up' after dinner, was his helpmate, Mrs. Quale. Although so well to do, and having generally a lodger, she kept no servant--'wouldn't be bothered with 'em,' she said--but did her own work; a person coming in once a week to clean. A rattling commotion in the street caused Peter Quale to look up from his book. A large pleasure-van was rumbling down it, drawing up at the next door to his. 'Nancy!' called out he to his wife. 'Well?' came forth the answer, in a brisk, bustling voice, from the depths of the kitchen. 'The Shucks, and that lot, be actually going off now?' The news appeared to excite the curiosity of Mrs. Quale, and she came hastily in; a dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked little woman, with black curls. She wore a neat white cap, a fresh-looking plum-coloured striped gown of some thin woollen material, and a black apron; a coarse apron being pinned round her. Mrs. Quale was an inveterate busybody, knew every incident that took place in Daffodil's Delight, and possessed a free-and-easy tongue; but she was a kindly woman withal, and very popular. She put her head outside the window above the geraniums, to reconnoitre. 'Oh, they be going, sure enough! Well, they are fools! That's just like Slippery Sam! By to-morrow they won't have a threepenny piece to bless themselves with. But, if they must have went, they might have started earlier in the day. There's the Whites! And--why!--there's the Dunns! The van won't hold 'em all. As for the Dunns, they'll have to pinch for a month after it. She has got on a dandy new bonnet with pink ribbons. Aren't some folks idiots, Peter?' Peter rejoined, with a sort of a grunt, that it wasn't no business of his, and applied himself again to his pipe and book. Mrs. Quale made everybody's business hers, especially their failings and shortcomings; and she unpinned the coarse apron, flung it aside, and flew off to the next house. It was inhabited by two families, the Shucks and the Baxendales. Samuel Shuck, usually called Slippery Sam, was an idle, oily-tongued chap, always slipping from work--hence the nickname--and spending at the 'Bricklayers' Arms' what ought to have been spent upon his wife and children. John Baxendale was a quiet, reserved man, living respectably with his wife and daughter, but not saving. It was singular how improvident most of them were. Daffodil's Delight was chiefly inhabited by the workmen of the Messrs. Hunter; they seemed to love to congregate there as in a nest. Some of the houses were crowded with them, a family on a floor--even in a room; others rented a house to themselves, and lived in comfort. Assembled inside Sam Shuck's front room, which was a kitchen and not a parlour, and to which the house door opened, were as many people as it could well hold, all in their holiday attire. Abel White, his wife and family; Jim Dunn, and his; Patrick Ryan and the childer (Pat's wife was dead); and John Baxendale and his daughter, besides others; the whole host of little Shucks, and half-a-dozen outside stragglers. Mrs. Quale might well wonder how all the lot could be stuffed into the pleasure-van. She darted into their midst. 'You never mean to say you be a-going off, like simpletons, at this time o' day?' quoth she. 'Yes, we be,' answered Sam Shuck, a lanky, serpent sort of man in frame, with a prominent black eye, a turned-up nose, and, as has been said, an oily tongue. 'What have you got to say again it, Mrs. Quale? Come!' 'Say!' said that lady, undauntedly, but in a tone of reason rather than rebuke, 'I say you may just as well fling your money in the gutter as to go off to Epping at three o'clock in the afternoon. Why didn't you start in the morning? If I hired a pleasure-van I'd have my money's worth out of it.' 'It's just this here,' said Sam. 'It was ordered to be here as St. Paul's great bell was a striking break o' day, but the wheels wasn't greased; and they have been all this time a greasing 'em with the best fresh butter at eighteen-pence a pound, had up from Devonshire on purpose.' 'You hold your tongue, Sam,' reprimanded Mrs. Quale. 'You have been a greasing your throat pretty strong, I see, with an extra pot or two; you'll be in for it as usual before the day's out. How is it you are going now?' she added, turning to the women. 'It's just the worst managed thing as I ever had to do with,' volubly spoke up Jim Dunn's wife, Hannah. 'And it's all the fault o' the men: as everything as goes wrong always is. There was a quarrel yesterday over it, and nothing was settled, and this morning when we met they began a jawing again. Some would go, and some wouldn't; some 'ud have a van to the Forest, and some 'ud take a omnibus ride to the Zoological Gardens, and see the beasts, and finish up at the play; some 'ud sit at home, and smoke, and drink, and wouldn't go nowhere; and most of the men got off to the "Bricklayers' Arms" and stuck there; and afore the difference was settled in favour of the van and the Forest, twelve o'clock struck, and then there was dinner to be had, and us to put ourselves to rights and the van to be seen after. And there it is, now three o'clock's gone.' 'It'll be just a ride out, and a ride in,' cried Mrs. Quale; 'you won't have much time to stop. Money must be plentiful with you, a fooling it away like that. I thought some of you had better sense.' 'We spoke against it, father and I,' said quiet Mary Baxendale, in Mrs. Quale's ear; 'but as we had given our word to join in it and share in the expense, we didn't like to go from it again. Mother doesn't feel strong to-day, so she's stopping at home.' 'It does seem stupid to start at this late hour,' spoke up a comely woman, mild in speech, Robert Darby's wife. 'Better to have put it off till to-morrow, and taken another day's holiday, as I told my master. But when it was decided to go, we didn't say nay, for I couldn't bear to disappoint the children.' The children were already being lifted into the van. Sundry baskets and bundles, containing provisions for tea, and stone bottles of porter for the men, were being lifted in also. Then the general company got in; Daffodil's Delight, those not bound on the expedition, assembling to witness the ceremony, and Peter casting an eye at it from his parlour. After much packing, and stowing, and laughing, and jesting, and the gentlemen declaring the ladies must sit upon their laps three deep, the van and its four horses moved off, and went lumbering down Daffodil's Delight. Mrs. Quale, after watching the last of it, was turning into her own gate, when she heard a tapping at the window of the tenement on the _other_ side of her house. Upon looking round, it was thrown open, and a portly matron, dressed almost well enough for a lady, put out her head. She was the wife of George Stevens, a very well-to-do workman, and most respectable man. 'Are they going off to the Forest at this hour, that lot?' 'Ay,' returned Mrs. Quale; 'was ever such nonsense known? I'd have made a day of it, if I had went. They'll get home at midnight, I expect, fit to stand on their heads. Some of the men have had a'most as much as is good for them now.' 'I say,' continued Mrs. Stevens, 'George says, will you and your master come in for an hour or two this evening, and eat a bit of supper with us? We shall have a nice dish o' beefsteaks and onions, or some relishing thing of that sort, and the Cheeks are coming.' 'Thank ye,' said Mrs. Quale. 'I'll ask Peter. But don't go and get anything hot.' 'I must,' was the answer. 'We had a shoulder of lamb yesterday, and we finished it up to-day for dinner, with a salad; so there's nothing cold in the house, and I'm forced to cook a bit of something. I say, don't make it late; come at six. George--he's off somewhere, but he'll be in.' Mrs. Quale nodded acquiescence, and went indoors. Her husband was reading and smoking still. 'I'd have put it off till ten at night, and went then!' ironically cried she, in allusion to the departed pleasure-party. 'A bickering and contending they have been over it, Hannah Dunn says; couldn't come to an agreement what they'd do, or what they wouldn't do! Did you ever see such a load! Them poor horses 'll have enough of it, if the others don't. I say, the Stevenses want us to go in there to supper to-night. Beefsteaks and onions.' Peter's head was bent attentively over a map in his book, and it continued so bent for a minute or two. Then he raised it. 'Who's to be there?' 'The Cheeks,' she said. 'I'll make haste and put the kettle on, and we'll have our tea as soon as it boils. She says don't go in later than six.' Pinning on the coarse apron, Mrs. Quale passed into the kitchen to her work. From the above slight sketch, it may be gathered that Daffodil's Delight was, take it for all in all, in tolerably comfortable circumstances. But for the wasteful mode of living generally pervading it; the improvidence both of husbands and wives; the spending where they need not have spent, and in things they would have been better without--it would have been in _very_ comfortable circumstances: for, as is well known, no class of operatives earn better wages than those connected with the building trade. 'Is this Peter Quale's?' The question proceeded from a stranger, who had entered the house passage, and thence the parlour, after knocking at its door. Peter raised his eyes, and beheld a tall, young, very gentleman-like man, in grey travelling clothes and a crape band on his black hat. Of courteous manners also, for he lifted his hat as he spoke, though Peter was only a workman and had a paper cap on his head. 'I am Peter Quale,' said Peter, without moving. Perhaps you may have already guessed that it was Austin Clay. He stepped forward with a frank smile. 'I am sent here,' he said, 'by the Messrs. Hunter. They desired me to inquire for Peter Quale.' Peter was not wont to put himself out of the way for strangers: had a Duke Royal vouchsafed him a visit, I question if Peter would have been more than barely civil; but he knew his place with respect to his employers, and what was due to them--none better; and he rose up at their name, and took off his paper cap, and laid his pipe inside the fender, and spoke a word of apology to the gentleman before him. 'Pray do not mention it; do not disturb yourself,' said Austin, kindly. 'My name is Clay. I have just entered into an engagement with the Messrs. Hunter, and am now in search of lodgings as conveniently near their yard as may be. Mr. Henry Hunter said he thought you had rooms which might suit me: hence my intrusion.' 'Well, sir, I don't know,' returned Peter, rather dubiously. He was one of those who are apt to grow bewildered with any sudden proposition; requiring time, as may be said, to take it in, before he could digest it. 'You are from the country, sir, maybe?' 'I am from the country. I arrived in London but an hour ago, and my portmanteau is yet at the station. I wish to settle where I shall lodge, before I go to get it. Have you rooms to let?' 'Here, Nancy, come in!' cried Peter to his wife. 'The rooms are in readiness to be shown, aren't they?' Mrs. Quale required no second call. Hearing a strange voice, and gifted in a remarkable degree with what we are taught to look upon as her sex's failing--curiosity--she had already discarded again the apron, and made her appearance in time to receive the question. 'Ready and waiting,' answered she. 'And two better rooms for their size you won't find, sir, search London through,' she said, volubly, turning to Austin. 'They are on the first floor--a nice sitting-room, and a bedchamber behind it. The furniture is good, and clean, and handsome; for, when we were buying of it, we didn't spare a few pounds, knowing such would keep good to the end. Would you please step up, sir, and take a look at them?' Austin acquiesced, motioning to her to lead the way. She dropped a curtsey as she passed him, as if in apology for taking it. He followed, and Peter brought up the rear, a dim notion penetrating Peter's brain that the attention was due from him to one sent by the Messrs. Hunter. Two good rooms, as she had said; small, but well fitted up. 'You'd be sure to be comfortable, sir,' cried Mrs. Quale to Austin. 'If _I_ can't make lodgers comfortable, I don't know who can. Our last gentleman came to us three years ago, and left but a month since. He was a barrister's clerk, but he didn't get well paid, and he lodged in this part for cheapness.' 'The rooms would suit me, so far as I can judge,' said Austin, looking round; 'suit me very well indeed, if we can agree upon terms. My pocket is but a shallow one at present,' he laughed. 'I would make _them_ easy enough for any gentleman sent by the masters,' struck in Peter. 'Did you say your name was Clay, sir?' 'Clay,' assented Austin. Mrs. Quale wheeled round at this, and took a free, full view of the gentleman from head to foot. 'Clay? Clay?' she repeated to herself. 'And there _is_ a likeness, if ever I saw one! Sir,' she hastily inquired, 'do you come from the neighbourhood of Ketterford?' 'I come from Ketterford itself,' replied he. 'Ah, but you were not born right in the town. I think you must be Austin Clay, sir; the orphan son of Mr. Clay and his wife--Miss Austin that used to be. They lived at the Nash farm. Sir, I have had you upon my lap scores of times when you were a little one.' 'Why----who are you?' exclaimed Austin. 'You can't have forgot old Mr. Austin, the great-uncle, sir? though you were only seven years old when he died. I was Ann Best, cook to the old gentleman, and I heard all the ins and outs of the marriage of your father and mother. The match pleased neither family, and so they just took the Nash farm for themselves, to be independent and get along without being beholden for help to anybody. Many a fruit puff have I made for you, Master Austin; many a currant cake: how things come round in this world! Do take our rooms, sir--it will seem like serving my old master over again.' 'I will take them willingly, and be glad to fall into such good hands. You will not require references now?' Mrs. Quale laughed. Peter grunted resentfully. References from anybody sent by the Messrs. Hunter! 'I would say eight shillings a week, sir,' said Peter, looking at his wife. 'Pay as you like; monthly, or quarterly, or any way.' 'That's less than I expected,' said Austin, in his candour. 'Mr. Henry Hunter thought they would be about ten shillings.' Peter was candid also. 'There's the neighbourhood to be took into consideration, sir, which is not a good one, and we can only let according to it. In some parts--and not far off, neither--you'd pay eighteen or twenty shillings for such rooms as these; in Daffodil's Delight it is different, though this is the best quarter of it. The last gentleman paid us nine. If eight will suit you, sir, it will suit us.' So the bargain was struck; and Austin Clay went back to the station for his luggage. Mrs. Quale, busy as a bee, ran in to tell her next-door neighbour that she could not be one of the beef-steak-and-onion eaters that night, though Peter might, for she should have her hands full with their new lodger. 'The nicest, handsomest young fellow,' she wound up with; 'one it will be a pleasure to wait on.' 'Take care what you be at, if he's a stranger,' cried cautious Mrs. Stevens. 'There's no trusting those country folks: they run away sometimes. It looks odd, don't it, to come after lodgings one minute, and enter upon 'em the next?' 'Very odd,' assented Mrs. Quale, with a laugh. 'Why, it was Mr. Henry Hunter sent him round here; and he has got a post in their house.' 'What sort of one?' asked Mrs. Stevens, sceptical still. 'Who knows? Something superior to the best of us workpeople, you may be sure. He belongs to gentlefolks,' concluded Mrs. Quale. 'I knew him as a baby. It was in his mother's family I lived before I married. He's as like his mother as two peas, and a handsome woman was Mrs. Clay. Good-bye: I'm going to get the sheets on to his bed now.' Mrs. Quale, however, found that she was, after all, able to assist at the supper; for, when Austin came back, it was only to dress himself and go out, in pursuance of the invitation he had accepted to dine at Mr. Henry Hunter's. With all his haste it had struck six some minutes when he got there. Mrs. Henry Hunter, a very pretty and very talkative woman, welcomed him with both hands, and told her children to do the same, for it was 'the gentleman who saved papa.' There was no ceremony; he was received quite _en famille_; no other guest was present, and three or four of the children dined at table. He appeared to find favour with them all. He talked on business matters with Mr. Henry Hunter; on lighter topics with his wife; he pointed out some errors in Mary Hunter's drawings, which she somewhat ostentatiously exhibited to him, and showed her how to rectify them. He entered into the school life of the two young boys, from their classics to their scrapes; and nursed a pretty little lady of five, who insisted on appropriating his knee--bearing himself throughout all with the modest reticence--the refinement of the innate gentleman. Mrs. Henry Hunter was charmed with him. 'How do you think you shall like your quarters?' she asked. 'Mr. Hunter told me he recommended you to Peter Quale's.' 'Very well. At least they will do. Mrs. Quale, it appears, is an old friend of mine.' 'An old friend! Of yours!' 'She claims me as one, and says she has nursed me many a time when I was a child. I had quite forgotten her, and all about her, though I now remember her name. She was formerly a servant in my mother's family, near Ketterford.' Thus Austin Clay had succeeded without delay or difficulty in obtaining employment, and was, moreover, received on a footing of equality in the house of Mr. Henry Hunter. We shall see how he gets on. CHAPTER V. MISS GWINN'S VISIT. Were there space, it might be well to trace Austin Clay's progress step by step--his advancements and his drawbacks--his smooth-sailing and his difficulties; for, that his course was not free from difficulties and drawbacks you may be very sure. I do not know whose is. If any had thought he was to be represented as perfection, they were mistaken. Yet he managed to hold on his way without moral damage, for he was high-principled in every sense of the word. But there is neither time nor space to give to these particulars that regard himself alone. Austin Clay sat one day in a small room of the office, making corrections in a certain plan, which had been roughly sketched. It was a hot day for the beginning of autumn, some three or four months having elapsed since his installation at Hunter and Hunter's. The office boy came in to interrupt him. 'Please, sir, here's a lady outside, asking if she can see young Mr. Clay.' 'A lady!' repeated Austin, in some wonder. 'Who is it?' 'I think she's from the country, sir,' said the sharp boy. 'She have got a big nosegay in her hand and a brown reticule.' 'Does she wear widow's weeds?' questioned Austin hastily, an idea flashing over him that Mrs. Thornimett might have come up to town. 'Weeds?' replied the boy, staring, as if at a loss to know what 'weeds' might mean. 'She have got a white veil on, sir.' 'Oh,' said Austin. 'Well, ask her to come in. But I don't know any lady that can want me. Or who has any business to come here if she does,' he added to himself. The lady came in: a very tall one. She wore a dark silk dress, a shepherd's plaid shawl, a straw bonnet, and a white veil. The reticule spoken of by the boy was in her hand; but the nosegay she laid down on a bench just outside the door. Austin rose to receive her. 'You are doubtless surprised to see me, Austin Clay. But, as I was coming to London on business--I always do at this season of the year--I got your address from Mrs. Thornimett, having a question to put to you.' Without ceremony, without invitation, she sat herself down on a chair. More by her voice than her features--for she kept her veil before her face--did Austin recognise her. It was Miss Gwinn. He recognised her with dismay. Mr. Henry Hunter was about the premises, liable to come in at any moment, and then might occur a repetition of that violent scene to which he had been a witness. Often and often had his mind recurred to the affair; it perplexed him beyond measure. Was Mr. Henry Hunter the stranger to her he asserted himself to be, or was he not? 'What shall I do with her?' thought Austin. 'Will you shut the door?' she said, in a peremptory, short tone, for the boy had left it open. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Gwinn,' interrupted Austin, necessity giving him courage. 'Though glad to see you myself, I am at the present hour so busy that it is next to impossible for me to give you my attention. If you will name any place where I can wait upon you after business hours, this, or any other evening, I shall be happy to meet you.' Miss Gwinn ranged her eyes round the room, looking possibly, for confirmation of his words. 'You are not so busy as to be unable to spare a minute to me. You were but looking over a plan.' 'It is a plan that is being waited for.' Which was true. 'And you must forgive me for reminding you--I do it in all courtesy--that my time and this room do not belong to me, but to my employers.' 'Boy! what is your motive for seeking to get rid of me?' she asked, abruptly. 'That you have one, I can see.' Austin was upon thorns. He had not taken a seat. He stood near the door, pencil in hand, hoping it would induce her to move. At that moment footsteps were heard, and the office-door was pushed wide open. It was Mr. Hunter. He stopped on the threshold, seeing a lady, an unusual sight there, and came to the conclusion that it must be some stranger for Mr. Clay. Her features, shaded by the thick white veil, were indistinct, and Mr. Hunter but glanced at her. Miss Gwinn on the contrary looked full at him, as she did at most people, and bent her head as a slight mark of courtesy. He responded by lifting his hat, and went out again. 'One of the principals, I suppose?' she remarked. 'Yes,' he replied, feeling thankful that it was not Mr. Henry. 'I believe he wants me, Miss Gwinn.' 'I am not going to keep you from him. The question I wish to put to you will be answered in a sentence. Austin Clay, have you, since----' 'Allow me one single instant first, then,' interrupted Austin, resigning himself to his fate, 'just to speak a word of explanation to Mr. Hunter.' He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Standing at the outer door, close by, open to the yard, was Mr. Hunter. Austin, in his haste and earnestness, grasped his arm. 'Find Mr. Henry, sir,' he whispered. 'Wherever he may be, let him keep there--out of sight--until she--this person--has gone. It is Miss Gwinn.' 'Who? What do you say?' cried Mr. Hunter, staring at Austin. 'It is that Miss Gwinn. The woman who set upon Mr. Henry in that strange manner. She----' Miss Gwinn opened the door at this juncture, and looked out upon them. Mr. Hunter walked briskly away in search of his brother. Austin turned back again. She closed the door when he was inside the room, keeping her hand upon it. She did not sit down, but stood facing Austin, whom she held before her with the other hand. 'Have you, since you came to London, seen aught of my enemy?--that man whom you saved from his death in the gravel pits? Boy! answer me truthfully.' He remained silent, scarcely seeing what his course ought to be; or whether in such a case a lie of denial might not be justifiable. But the hesitation spoiled that, for she read it arightly. 'No need of your affirmative,' she said. 'I see you have met him. Where is he to be found?' There was only one course for him now; and he took it, in all straightforward openness. 'It is true I have seen that gentleman, Miss Gwinn, but I can tell you nothing about him.' She looked fixedly at him. 'That you cannot, or that you will not? Which?' 'That I will not. Forgive the seeming incivility of the avowal, but I consider that I ought not to comply with your request--that I should be doing wrong?' 'Explain. What do you mean by "wrong?"' 'In the first place, I believe you were mistaken with regard to the gentleman: I do not think he was the one for whom you took him. In the second place, even if he be the one, I cannot make it my business to bring you into contact with him, and so give rise--as it probably would--to further violence.' There was a pause. She threw up her veil and looked fixedly at him, struggling for composure, her lips compressed, her face working. 'You know who he is, and where he lives,' she jerked forth. 'I acknowledge that.' 'How dare you take part against me?' she cried, in agitation. 'I do not take part against you, Miss Gwinn,' he replied, wishing some friendly balloon would come and whirl her away; for Mr. Hunter might not find his brother to give the warning. 'I do not take his part more than I take yours, only in so far as that I decline to tell you who and where he is. Had he the same ill-feeling towards you, and wished to know where you might be found, I would not tell him.' 'Austin Clay, you _shall_ tell me.' He drew himself up to his full height, speaking in all the quiet consciousness of resolution. 'Never of my own free will. And I think, Miss Gwinn, there are no means by which you can compel me.' 'Perhaps the law might?' She spoke dreamily, not in answer to him, but in commune with herself, as if debating the question. 'Fare you well for the present, young man; but I have not done with you.' To his intense satisfaction she turned out of the office, catching up the flowers as she went. Austin attended her to the outer gate. She strode straight on, not deigning to cast a glance to the busy yard, with its sheds, its timber, its implements of work, and its artisans, all scattered about it. 'Believe me,' he said, holding out his hand as a peace-offering, 'I am not willingly discourteous. I wish I could see my way clear to help you.' She did not take the hand; she walked away without another word or look, and Austin went back again. Mr. Hunter advanced to meet him from the upper end of the yard, and went with him into the small room. 'What was all that, Clay? I scarcely understood.' 'I daresay not, sir, for I had no time to be explanatory. It seems she--Miss Gwinn--has come to town on business. She procured my address from Mrs. Thornimett, and came here to ask of me if I had seen anything of her enemy--meaning Mr. Henry Hunter. I feared lest he should be coming in; I could only beg of you to find Mr. Henry, and warn him not. That is all, sir.' Mr. Hunter stood with his back to Austin, softly whistling--his habit when in deep thought. 'What can be her motive for wanting to find him?' he presently said. 'She speaks of revenge. Of course I do not know for what: I cannot give a guess. There's no doubt she is mistaken in the person, when she accuses Mr. Henry Hunter.' 'Well,' returned Mr. Hunter, 'I said nothing to my brother, for I did not understand what there was to say. It will be better not to tell him now; the woman is gone, and the subject does not appear to be a pleasant one. Do you hear?' 'Very well, sir.' 'I think I understood, when the affair was spoken of some time ago, that she does not know him as Mr. Hunter?' 'Of course she does not,' said Austin. 'She would have been here after him before now if she did. She came this morning to see me, not suspecting she might meet him.' 'Ah! Better keep the visit close,' cried Mr. Hunter, as he walked away. Now, it had occurred to Austin that it would be better to do just the opposite thing. _He_ should have told Mr. Henry Hunter, and left that gentleman to seek out Miss Gwinn, or not, as he might choose. A sudden meeting between them in the office, in the hearing of the yard, and with the lady in excitement, was not desirable; but that Mr. Henry Hunter should clear himself, now that she was following him up, and convince her it was not he who was the suspected party, was, Austin thought, needful--that is, if he could do it. However, he could only obey Mr. Hunter's suggestions. Austin resumed his occupation. His brain and fingers were busy over the plan, when he saw a gig drive into the yard. It contained the great engineer, Sir Michael Wilson. Mr. Henry Hunter came down the yard to meet him; they shook hands, and entered the private room together. In a few minutes Mr. Henry came to Austin. 'Are you particularly engaged, Clay?' 'Only with this plan, sir. It is wanted as soon as I can get it done.' 'You can leave it for a quarter of an hour. I wish you to go round to Dr. Bevary. I was to have been at his house now--half-past eleven--to accompany him on a visit to a sick friend. Tell him that Sir Michael has come, and I have to go out with him, therefore it is impossible for me to keep my engagement. I am very sorry, tell Bevary: these things always happen crossly. Go right into his consulting-room, Clay; never mind patients; or else he will be chafing at my delay, and grumble the ceiling off.' Austin departed. Dr. Bevary occupied a good house in the main street, to the left of the yard, to gain which he had to pass the turning to Daffodil's Delight. Had Dr. Bevary lived to the right of the yard, his practice might have been more exclusive; but doctors cannot always choose their localities, circumstances more frequently doing that for them. He had a large connexion, and was often pressed for time. Down went Austin, and gained the house. Just inside the open door, before which a close carriage was standing, was the doctor's servant. 'Dr. Bevary is engaged, sir, with a lady patient,' said the man. 'He is very particularly engaged for the moment, but I don't think he'll be long.' 'I'll wait,' said Austin, not deeming it well strictly to follow Mr. Henry Hunter's directions; and he turned, without ceremony, to the little box of a study on the left of the hall. 'Not there, sir,' interposed the man hastily, and he showed him into the drawing-room on the right; Dr. Bevary and his patient being in the consulting-room. Ten minutes of impatience to Austin. What could any lady mean by keeping him so long, in his own house? Then they came forth. The lady, a very red and portly one, rather old, was pushed into her carriage by the help of her footman, Austin watching the process from the window. The carriage then drove off. The doctor did not come in. Austin concluded the servant must have forgotten to tell him he was there. He crossed the hall to the little study, the doctor's private room, knocked and entered. 'I am not to care for patients,' called out he gaily, believing the doctor was alone; 'Mr. Henry Hunter says so.' But to his surprise, a patient was sitting there--at least, a lady; sitting, nose and knees together, with Dr. Bevary, and talking hurriedly and earnestly, as if they had the whole weight of the nation's affairs on their shoulders. It was Miss Gwinn. The flowers had apparently found their home, for they were in a vase on the table. Austin took it all in at a glance. 'So it is you, is it, Austin Clay?' she exclaimed. 'I was acquainting Dr. Bevary with your refusal to give me that man's address, and asking his opinion whether the law could compel you. Have you come after me to say you have thought better of it?' Austin was decidedly taken aback. It might have been his fancy, but he thought he saw a look of caution go out to him from Dr. Bevary's eyes. 'Was your visit to this lady, Mr. Clay?' 'No, sir, it was to you. Sir Michael Wilson has come down on business, and Mr. Henry Hunter will not be able to keep his appointment with you. He desired me to say that he was sorry, but that it was no fault of his.' Dr. Bevary nodded. 'Tell him I was about to send round to say that I could not keep mine with him so it's all right. Another day will----' A sharp cry. A cry of passion, of rage, almost of terror. It came from Miss Gwinn; and the doctor, breaking off his sentence, turned to her in amazement. It was well he did so; it was well he caught her hands. Another moment, and she would have dashed them through the window, and perhaps herself also. Driving by, in the gig, were Sir Michael Wilson and Mr. Henry Hunter. It was at the latter she gazed, at him she pointed. 'Do you see him? Do you see him?' she panted to the doctor. 'That's the man; not the one driving; the other--the one sitting this way. Oh, Dr. Bevary, will you believe me now? I told you I met him at Ketterford; and there he is again! Let me go!' She was strong almost as a wild animal, wrestling with the doctor to get from him. He made a motion to Austin to keep the door, and there ensued a sharp struggle. Dr. Bevary got her into an arm-chair at last, and stood before her, holding her hands, at first in silence. Then he spoke calmly, soothingly, as he would to a child. 'My dear lady, what will become of you if you give way to these fits of violence? But for me, I really believe you would have been through the window. A pretty affair of spikes that would be! I should have had you laid up in my house for a month, covered over with sticking-plaster.' 'If you had not stopped me I might have caught that gig,' was her passionate rejoinder. 'Caught that gig! A gig going at the rate of ten miles an hour, if it was going one! By the time you had got down the steps of my door it would have been out of sight. How people can drive at that random rate in London streets, _I_ can't think.' '_How_ can I find him? How can I find him?' Her tone was quite a wail of anguish. However they might deprecate her mistaken violence, it was impossible but that both her hearers should feel compassion for her. She laid her hand on the doctor's arm. 'Will you not help me to find him, Dr. Bevary? Did you note him?' 'So far as to see that there were two persons in the gig, and that they were men, not women. Do you feel sure it was the man you speak of? It is so easy to be mistaken in a person who is being whirled along swiftly.' 'Mistaken!' she returned, in a strangely significant tone. 'Dr. Bevary, I am sure it was he. I have not kept him in my mind for years, to mistake him now. Austin Clay,' she fiercely added, turning round upon Austin, '_you_ speak; speak the truth; I saw you look after them. Was it, or was it not, the man whom I met at Ketterford?' 'I believe it was,' was Austin's answer. 'Nevertheless, Miss Gwinn, I do not believe him to be the enemy you spoke of--the one who worked you ill. He denies it just as solemnly as you assert it; and I am sure he is a truthful man.' 'And that I am a liar?' 'No. That you believe what you assert is only too apparent. I think it a case, on your side, of mistaken identity.' Happening to raise his eyes, Austin caught those of Dr. Bevary fixed upon him with a keen, troubled, earnest gaze. It asked, as plainly as a gaze could ask, '_Do_ you believe so? or is the falsehood on _his_ side?' 'Will you disclose to Dr. Bevary the name of that man, if you will not to me?' Again the gentlemen's eyes met, and this time an unmistakeable warning of caution gleamed forth from Dr. Bevary's. Austin could only obey it. 'I must decline to speak of him in any way, Miss Gwinn,' said he; 'you had my reasons before. Dr. Bevary, I have given you the message I was charged with. I must wish you both good day.' Austin walked back, full of thought, his belief somewhat wavering. 'It is very strange,' he reflected. 'Could a woman, could any one be so positive as she is, unless thoroughly sure? What _is_ the mystery, I wonder? That it was no sentimental affair between them, or rubbish of that sort, is patent by the difference of their ages; she looks pretty nearly old enough to be his mother. Mr. Henry Hunter's is a remarkable face--one that would alter little in a score of years.' The bell was ringing twelve as he approached the yard, and the workmen were pouring out of it, on their way home to dinner. Plentiful tables awaited them; little care was on their minds; flourishing was every branch of the building trade then. Peter Quale came up to Austin. 'Sam Shuck have just been up here, sir, a-eating humble pie, and praying to be took on again. But the masters be both absent; and Mr. Mills, he said he didn't choose, in a thing like this, to act on his own responsibility, for he heard Mr. Hunter say Shuck shouldn't again be employed.' 'I would not take him on,' replied Austin, 'if it rested with me; an idle, skulking, deceitful vagabond, drunk and incapable at one time, striving to spread discontent among the men at another. He has been on the loose for a fortnight now. But it is not my affair, Quale; Mr. Mills is manager.' The yard, between twelve and one, was pretty nearly deserted. The gentleman, spoken of as Mr. Mills, and Austin, usually remained; the principals would sometimes be there, and an odd man or two. The timekeeper lived in the yard. Austin rather liked that hour; it was quiet. He was applying to his plan with a zest, when another interruption came, in the shape of Dr. Bevary. Austin began to think he might as well put the drawing away altogether. 'Anybody in the offices, Mr. Clay, except you?' asked the doctor. 'Not indoors. Mills is about somewhere.' Down sat the doctor, and fixed his keen eyes upon Austin. 'What took place here this morning with Miss Gwinn?' 'No harm, sir,' replied Austin, briefly explaining. 'As it happened, Mr. Henry kept away. Mr. Hunter came in and saw her; but that was all.' 'What is your opinion?' abruptly asked the doctor. 'Come, give it freely. You have your share of judgment, and of discretion too, or I should not ask it. Is she mistaken, or is Henry Hunter false?' Austin did not immediately reply. Dr. Bevary mistook the cause of his silence. 'Don't hesitate, Clay. You know I am trustworthy; and it is not I who would stir to harm a Hunter. If I seek to come to the bottom of this affair, it is that I may do what I can to repair damage; to avert some of the fruits of wrong-doing.' 'If I hesitated, Dr. Bevary, it was that I am really at a loss what answer to give. When Mr. Henry Hunter denies that he knows the woman, or that he ever has known her, he appears to me to speak open truth. On the other hand, these recognitions of Miss Gwinn's, and her persistency, are, to say the least of them, suspicious and singular. Until within an hour I had full trust in Mr. Henry Hunter; now I do not know what to think. She seemed to recognise him in the gig so surely.' 'He does not appear'--Dr. Bevary appeared to be speaking to himself, and his head was bent--'like one who carries about with him some dark secret.' 'Mr. Henry Hunter? None less. Never a man whose outside gave indications of a clearer conscience. But, Dr. Bevary, if her enemy be Mr. Henry Hunter, how is it she does not know him by name?' 'Ay, there's another point. She evidently attaches no importance to the name of Hunter.' 'What was the name of--of the enemy she talks of?' asked Austin. 'We must call him "enemy" for want of a better name. Do you know it, doctor?' 'No. Can't get it out of her. Never could get it out of her. I asked her again to-day, but she evaded the question.' 'Mr. Hunter thought it would be better to keep her visit this morning a secret from his brother, as they had not met. I, on the contrary, should have told him of it.' 'No,' hastily interposed Dr. Bevary, putting up his hand with an alarmed, warning gesture. 'The only way is, to keep her and Henry Hunter apart.' 'I wonder,' mused Austin, 'what brings her to town?' The doctor threw his penetrating gaze into Austin's eyes. 'Have you no idea what it is?' 'None, sir. She seemed to intimate that she came every year.' 'Good. Don't try to form any, my young friend. It would not be a pleasant secret, even for you to hold!' He rose as he spoke, nodded, and went out, leaving Austin Clay in a state of puzzled bewilderment. It was not lessened when, an hour later, Austin encountered Dr. Bevary's close carriage, driving rapidly along the street, the doctor seated inside it, and Miss Gwinn beside him. CHAPTER VI. TRACKED HOME. I think it has been mentioned that the house next door to the Quales', detached from it however, was inhabited by two families: the lower part by Mr. Samuel Shuck, his wife, and children; the upper and best part by the Baxendales. No two sets of people could be more dissimilar; the one being as respectable as the other was disreputable. John Baxendale's wife was an invalid; she had been so, on and off, for a long while. There was an only daughter, and she and her mother held themselves very much aloof from the general society of Daffodil's Delight. On the morning following the day spoken of in the last chapter as distinguished by the advent of Miss Gwinn in London, Mrs. Baxendale found herself considerably worse than usual. Mr. Rice, the apothecary, who was the general attendant in Daffodil's Delight, and lived at its corner, had given her medicine, and told her to 'eat well and get up her strength.' But, somehow, the strength and the appetite did not come; on the contrary, she got weaker and weaker. She was in very bad spirits this morning, was quite unable to get up, and cried for some time in silence. 'Mother, dear,' said Mary Baxendale, going into her room, 'you'll have the doctor gone out, I fear.' 'Oh, Mary! I cannot get up--I cannot go,' was the answer, delivered with a burst of sobbing sorrow. 'I shall never rise from my bed again.' The words fell on the daughter with a terrible shock. Her fears in regard to her mother's health had long been excited, but this seemed like a confirmation of a result she had never dared openly to face. She was not a very capable sort of girl--the reverse of what is called strong-minded; but the instinct imparted by all true affection warned her to make light of her mother's words. 'Nay, mother, it's not so bad as that,' she said, checking her tears. 'You'll get up again fast enough. You are feeling low, maybe, this morning.' 'Child, I am too weak to get up--too ill. I don't think I shall ever be about again.' Mary sat down in a sort of helpless perplexity. 'What is to be done?' she cried. Mrs. Baxendale asked herself the same question as she lay. Finding herself no better under Mr. Rice's treatment, she had at length determined to do what she ought to have done at first--consult Dr. Bevary. From half-past eight to ten, three mornings in the week, Dr. Bevary gave advice gratis; and Mrs. Baxendale was on this one to have gone to him--rather a formidable visit, as it seemed to her, and perhaps the very thought of it had helped to make her worse. 'What is to be done?' repeated Mary. 'Could you not wait upon him, child, and describe my symptoms?' suggested the sick woman, after weighing the dilemma in her mind. 'It might do as well. Perhaps he can write for me.' 'Oh, mother, I don't like to go!' exclaimed Mary, in the impulse of the moment. 'But, my dear, what else is to be done?' urged Mrs. Baxendale. 'We can't ask a great gentleman like that to come to me.' 'To be sure--true. Oh, yes, I'll go, mother.' Mary got herself ready without another word. Mrs. Baxendale, a superior woman for her station in life, had brought up her daughter to be thoroughly dutiful. It had seemed a formidable task to the mother, the going to this physician, this 'great gentleman;' it seemed a far worse to the daughter, and especially the having to explain symptoms and ailments at second-hand. But the great physician was a very pleasant man, and would nod good-humouredly to Mary, when by chance he met her in the street. 'Tell him, with my duty, that I am not equal to coming myself,' said Mrs. Baxendale, when Mary stood ready in her neat straw bonnet and light shawl. 'I ought to have gone weeks ago, and that's the truth. Don't forget to describe the pain in my right side, and the flushings of heat.' So Mary went on her way, and was admitted to the presence of Dr. Bevary, where she told her tale with awkward timidity. 'Ah! a return of the old weakness that she had years ago,' remarked the doctor. 'I told her she must be careful. Too ill to get up? Why did she not come to me before?' 'I suppose, sir, she did not much like to trouble you,' responded Mary. 'She has been hoping from week to week that Mr. Rice would do her good.' '_I_ can't do her good, unless I see her,' cried the doctor. 'I might prescribe just the wrong thing, you know.' Mary repressed her tears. 'I am afraid, then, she must die, sir. She said this morning she thought she should never get up from her bed again.' 'I'll step round some time to-day and see her,' said Dr. Bevary. 'But now, don't you go chattering that to the whole parish. I should have every sick person in it expecting me, as a right, to call and visit them.' He laughed pleasantly at Mary as he spoke, and she departed with a glad heart. The visit had been so much less formidable in reality than in anticipation. As she reached Daffodil's Delight, she did not turn into it, but continued her way to the house of Mrs. Hunter. Mary Baxendale took in plain sewing, and had some in hand at present from that lady. She inquired for Dobson. Dobson was Mrs. Hunter's own maid, and a very consequential one. 'Not able to get Miss Hunter's night-dresses home on Saturday!' grumbled Dobson, when she appeared and heard what Mary had to say. 'But you must, Mary Baxendale. You promised them, you know.' 'I should not have promised had I known that my mother would have grown worse,' said Mary. 'A sick person requires a deal of waiting on, and there's only me. I'll do what I can to get them home next week, if that will do.' 'I don't know that it will do,' snapped Dobson. 'Miss Florence may be wanting them. A promise is a promise, Mary Baxendale.' 'Yes, it will do, Mary,' cried Florence Hunter, darting forward from some forbidden nook, whence she had heard the colloquy, and following Mary down the steps into the street. A fair sight was that child to look upon, with her white muslin dress, her blue ribbons, her flowing hair, and her sweet countenance, radiant as a summer's morning. 'Mamma is not downstairs yet, or I would ask her--she is ill, too--but I know I do not want them. Never you mind them, and never mind Dobson either, but nurse your mother.' Dobson drew the young lady back, asking her if such behaviour was not enough to 'scandalize the square;' and Mary Baxendale returned home. Dr. Bevary paid his visit to Mrs. Baxendale about mid-day. His practised eye saw with certainty what others were only beginning to suspect--that Death had marked her. He wrote a prescription, gave some general directions, said he would call again, and told Mrs. Baxendale she would be better out of bed than in it. Accordingly, after his departure, she got up and went into the front room, which they made their sitting-room. But the exertion caused her to faint; she was certainly on this day much worse than usual. John Baxendale was terribly concerned, and did not go back to his work after dinner. When the bustle was over, and she seemed pretty comfortable again, somebody burst into the room, without knocking or other ceremony. It was one of the Shucks, a young man of eight, in tattered clothes, and a shock head of hair. He came to announce that Mrs. Hunter's maid was asking for Mary, and little Miss Hunter was there, too, and said, might she come up and see Mrs. Baxendale. Both were requested to walk up. Dobson had brought a gracious message from her mistress (not graciously delivered, though), that the sewing might wait till it was quite convenient to do it; and Florence produced a jar, which she had insisted upon carrying herself, and had thereby split her grey kid gloves, it being too large for her hands. 'It is black-currant jelly, Mrs. Baxendale,' she said, with the prettiest, kindest air, as she freely sat down by the sick woman's side. 'I asked mamma to let me bring some, for I remember when I was ill I only liked black-currant jelly. Mamma is so sorry to hear you are worse, and she will come to see you soon.' 'Bless your little heart, Miss Florence!' exclaimed the invalid. 'The same dear child as ever--thinking of other people and not of yourself.' 'I have no need to think for myself,' said Florence. 'Everything I want is got ready for me. I wish you did not look so ill. I wish you would have my uncle Bevary to see you. He cures everybody.' 'He has been kind enough to come round to-day, Miss,' spoke up John Baxendale, 'and he'll come again, he says. I hope he will be able to do the missis good. As you be a bit better,' he added to his wife, 'I think I'll go back to my work.' 'Ay, do, John. There's no cause for you to stay at home. It was some sort of weakness, I suppose, that came over me.' John Baxendale touched his hair to Florence, nodded to Dobson, and went downstairs and out. Florence turned to the open window to watch his departure, ever restless, as a healthy child is apt to be. 'There's Uncle Henry!' she suddenly called out. Mr. Henry Hunter was walking rapidly down Daffodil's Delight. He encountered John Baxendale as the man went out of his gate. 'Not back at work yet, Baxendale?' 'The missis has been taken worse, sir,' was the man's reply. 'She fainted dead off just now, and I declare I didn't know what to think about her. She's all right again, and I am going round.' At that moment there was heard a tapping at the window panes, and a pretty little head was pushed out beneath them, nodding and laughing, 'Uncle Henry! How do you do, Uncle Henry?' Mr. Henry Hunter nodded in reply, and pursued his way, unconscious that the lynx eye of Miss Gwinn was following him, like a hawk watching its prey. It happened that she had penetrated Daffodil's Delight, hoping to catch Austin Clay at his dinner, which she supposed he might be taking about that hour. She held his address at Peter Quale's from Mrs. Thornimett. Her object was to make a further effort to get from him what he knew of the man she sought to find. Scarcely had she turned into Daffodil's Delight, when she saw Mr. Henry Hunter at a distance. Away she tore after him, and gained upon him considerably. She reached the house of John Baxendale just as he, Baxendale, was re-entering it; for he had forgotten something he must take with him to the yard. Turning her head upon Baxendale for a minute as she passed, Miss Gwinn lost sight of Mr. Henry Hunter. How had he disappeared? Into the ground? or into a house? or down any obscure passage that might be a short cut between Daffodil's Delight, and some other Delight? or into that cab that was now whirling onwards at such a rate? That he was no longer visible, was certain: and Miss Gwinn was exceeding wroth. She came to the conclusion that he had seen her, and hid himself in the cab, though she had not heard it stop. But she had seen him spoken to from the window of that house, where the workman had just gone in, and she determined to make inquiries there, and so strode up the path. In the Shucks' kitchen there were only three or four children, too young to give an answer. Miss Gwinn picked her way through them, over the dirt and grease of the floor, and ascended to the sitting-room above. She stood a minute to take in its view. John Baxendale was on his knees, hunting among some tools at the bottom of a closet; Mary was meekly exhibiting the progress of the nightgowns to Dobson, who sat in state, sour enough to turn milk into curd; the invalid was lying, pale, in her chair; while the young lady appeared to be assisting at the tool-hunting, on her knees also, and chattering as fast as her tongue could go. All looked up at the apparition of the stranger, who stood there gazing in upon them. 'Can you tell me where a gentleman of the name of Lewis lives?' she began, in an indirect, diplomatic, pleasant sort of way, for she no doubt deemed it well to discard violence for tact. In the humour she was in yesterday, she would have said, sharply and imperiously, 'Tell me the name of that man I saw now pass your gate.' John Baxendale rose. 'Lewis, ma'am? I don't know anybody of the name.' A pause. 'It is very unfortunate,' she mildly resumed. 'I am in search of the gentleman, and have not got his address. I believe he belongs to this neighbourhood. Indeed, I am almost sure I saw him talking to you just now at the gate--though my sight is none of the clearest from a distance. The same gentleman to whom that young lady nodded.' 'That was my uncle Henry,' called out the child. 'Who?' cried she, sharply. 'It was Mr. Henry Hunter, ma'am, that was,' spoke up Baxendale. 'Mr. Henry Hunter!' she repeated, as she knit her brow on John Baxendale. 'That gentleman is Mr. Lewis.' 'No, that he is not,' said John Baxendale. 'I ought to know, ma'am; I have worked for him for some years.' Here the mischief might have ended; there's no telling; but that busy little tongue of all tongues--ah! what work they make!--began clapping again. 'Perhaps you mean my papa? Papa's name is Lewis--James Lewis Hunter. But he is never called Mr. Lewis. He is brother to my uncle Henry.' A wild flush of crimson flashed over Miss Gwinn's sallow face. Something within her seemed to whisper that her search was over. 'It is possible I mistook the one for the other in the distance,' she observed, all her new diplomacy in full play. 'Are they alike in person?' she continued to John Baxendale. 'Not so much alike now, ma'am. In years gone by they were the very model of one another; but Mr. Hunter has grown stout, and it has greatly altered him. Mr. Henry looks just like what Mr. Hunter used to look.' 'And who are you, did you say?' she asked of Florence with an emphasis that would have been quite wild, but that it was in a degree suppressed. 'You are not Mr. Lewis Hunter's daughter?' 'I am,' said Miss Florence. 'And----you have a mother?' 'Of course I have,' repeated the child. A pause: the lady looked at John Baxendale. 'Then Mr. Lewis Hunter is a married man?' 'To be sure he is,' said John, 'ever so many years ago. Miss Florence is twelve.' 'Thank you,' said Miss Gwinn abruptly turning away. 'Good morning.' She went down the stairs at a great rate, and did not stay to pick her steps over the grease of the Shucks' floor. 'What a mistake to make!' was her inward comment, and she laughed as she said it. 'I did not sufficiently allow for the lapse of years. If that younger one had lost his life in the gravel pits, he would have died an innocent man.' Away to the yard now, as fast as her legs would carry her. In turning in, she ran against Austin Clay. 'I want to speak with Mr. Hunter,' she imperiously said. 'Mr. Lewis Hunter--not the one I saw in the gig.' 'Mr. Hunter is out of town, Miss Gwinn,' was Austin's reply. 'We do not expect him at the yard to-day; he will not be home in time to come to it.' 'Boy! you are deceiving me!' 'Indeed I am not,' he returned. 'Why should I? Mr. Hunter is not in the habit of being denied to applicants. You might have spoken to him yesterday when you saw him, had it pleased you so to do.' 'I never saw him yesterday.' 'Yes, you did, Miss Gwinn. That gentleman who came into the office and bowed to you was Mr. Hunter.' She stared Austin full in the face, as if unable to believe what he said. '_That_ Mr. Hunter?--Lewis Hunter?' 'It was.' 'If so, _how_ he is altered!' And, throwing up her arms with a strange, wild gesture, she turned and strode out of the yard. The next moment Austin saw her come into it again. 'I want Mr. Lewis Hunter's private address, Austin Clay.' But Austin was on his guard now. He did not relish the idea of giving anybody's private address to such a person as Miss Gwinn, who might or might not be mad. She detected his reluctance. 'Keep it from me if you choose, boy,' she said, with a laugh that had a ring of scorn. 'Better for you perhaps to be on the safe side. The first workman I meet will give it me, or a court guide.' And thus saying, she finally turned away. At any rate for the time being. Austin Clay resumed his work, and the day passed on to evening. When business was over, he went home to make some alteration in his dress, for he had to go by appointment to Mr. Hunter's, and on these occasions he generally remained with them. It was beginning to grow dusk, and a chillness seemed to be in the air. The house occupied by Mr. Hunter was one of the best in the west-central square. Ascending to it by a flight of steps, and passing through a pillared portico, you found yourself in a handsome hall, paved in imitation of mosaic. Two spacious sitting-rooms were on the left: the front one was used as a dining-room, the other opened to a conservatory. On the right of the hall, a broad flight of stairs led to the apartments above, one of which was a fine drawing-room, fitted up with costly elegance. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter were seated in the dining-room. Florence was there likewise, but not seated; it may be questioned if she ever did sit, except when compelled. Dinner was over, but they frequently made this their evening sitting-room. The drawing-room upstairs was grand, the room behind was dull; this was cheerful, and looked out on the square. Especially cheerful it looked on this evening, for a fire had been lighted in the grate, and it cast a warm glow around in the fading twilight. Austin Clay was shown in, and invited to a seat by the fire, near Mrs. Hunter. He had come in obedience to orders from Mr. Hunter, issued to him when he, Mr. Hunter, had been going out that morning. His journey had been connected with certain buildings then in process, and he thought he might have directions to give with respect to the following morning's early work. A few minutes given by Austin and his master to business matters, and then the latter left the room, and Austin turned to Mrs. Hunter. Unusually delicate she looked, as she half sat, half lay back in her chair, the firelight playing on her features. Florence had dragged forth a stool, and was sitting on it in a queer sort of fashion, one leg under her, at Austin's feet. He was a great favourite of hers, and she made no secret of the liking. 'You are not looking well this evening,' he observed, in a gentle tone, to Mrs. Hunter. 'I am not feeling well. I scarcely ever do feel well; never strong. I sometimes think, Mr. Clay, what a mercy it is that we are not permitted to foresee the future. If we could, some of us might be tempted to--to--' she hesitated, and then went on in a lower tone--'to pray that God might take us in youth.' 'The longer we live, the more we become impressed with the wonderful wisdom that exists in the ordering of all things,' replied Austin. 'My years have not been many, comparatively speaking; but I see it always, and I know that I shall see it more and more.' 'The confirmed invalid, the man of care and sorrow, the incessant battle for existence with those reduced to extreme poverty--had they seen their future, as in a mirror, how could they have borne to enter upon it?' dreamily observed Mrs. Hunter. 'And yet, I have heard people exclaim, "How I wish I could foresee my destiny, and what is to happen to me!"' 'But the cares and ills of the world do not come near you, Mrs. Hunter,' spoke Austin, after a pause of thought. Mrs. Hunter smiled. 'From the cares and crosses of the world, as we generally estimate cares and crosses, I am free. God has spared them to me. He does not overwhelm us with ills; if one ill is particularly our portion, we are generally spared from others. Mine lie in my want of health, and in the thought that--that--I am rarely free from pain and suffering,' she concluded. But Austin felt that it was not what she had been about to say. 'What should we do if _all_ the ills came to us, mamma?' cried Florence, who had been still, and was listening. 'My dear, if all the ills came to us, God would show us a way to bear them. You know that He has promised so much; and His promises cannot fail.' 'Clay,' cried Mr. Hunter, returning to the room and resuming his seat, 'did any one in particular call and want me to-day?' 'No, sir. Several came, but Mr. Henry saw them.' 'Did Arkwright come?' resumed Mr. Hunter. 'I think not; I did not see him. That--lady--who was there yesterday, came again. She asked for you.' A pause. Then Mr. Hunter spoke up sharply. 'For my brother, you mean. She must have wanted him.' 'She certainly asked for you, sir. For Mr. Lewis Hunter.' Those little ears pricked themselves up, and their owner unceremoniously wheeled herself round on her stool, holding on by Austin's knee, as she faced her father. 'There was a lady came to John Baxendale's rooms to-day, when I and Dobson were there, and she asked for Mr. Lewis Hunter. At least--it was the funniest thing, papa--she saw Uncle Henry talking to John Baxendale, and she came up and said he was Mr. Lewis, and asked where he lived. John Baxendale said it was Mr. Henry Hunter, and she said no, it was not Mr. Henry Hunter, it was Mr. Lewis. So then we found out that she had mistaken him for you, and that it was you she wanted. Who was she, papa?' 'She--she--her business was with Henry,' spoke Mr. Hunter, in so confused, so startled a sort of tone, not as if answering the child, more as if defending himself to any who might be around, that Austin looked up involuntarily. His face had grown lowering and angry, and he moved his position, so that his wife's gaze should not fall upon it. Austin's did, though. At that moment there was heard a knock and ring at the house door, the presumable announcement of a visitor. Florence, much addicted to acting upon natural impulse, and thereby getting into constant hot water with her governess, who assured her nothing could be more unbefitting a young lady, quitted her stool and flew to the window. By dint of flattening her nose and crushing her curls against a corner of one of its panes, she contrived to obtain a partial view of the visitor. 'Oh dear! I hoped it was Uncle Bevary. Mamma's always better when he comes; he tells her she is not so ill as she fancies. Papa!' 'What?' cried Mr. Hunter, quickly. 'I do believe it is that same lady who came to John Baxendale's. She is as tall as a house.' What possessed Mr. Hunter? He started up; he sprung half way across the room, hesitated there, and glided back again. Glided stealthily as it were; and stealthily touching Austin Clay, motioned him to follow him. His hands were trembling; and the dark frown, full of embarrassment, was still upon his features. Mrs. Hunter noticed nothing unusual; the apartment was shaded in twilight, and she sat with her head turned to the fire. 'Go to that woman, Clay!' came forth in a whisper from Mr. Hunter's compressed lips, as he drew Austin outside the room. 'I cannot see her. _You_ go.' 'What am I to say?' questioned Austin, feeling surprised and bewildered. 'Anything; anything. Only keep her from me.' He turned back into the room as he spoke, and closed the door softly, for Miss Gwinn was already in the hall. The servant had said his master was at home, and was conducting her to the room where his master and mistress sat, supposing it was some friend come to pay an hour's visit. Austin thought he heard Mr. Hunter slip the bolt of the dining-room, as he walked forward to receive Miss Gwinn. Austin's words were quick and sharp, arresting the servant's footsteps. 'Not there, Mark! Miss Gwinn,' he courteously added, presenting himself before her, 'Mr. Hunter is unable to see you this evening.' 'Who gave _you_ authority to interfere, Austin Clay?' was the response, not spoken in a raving, angry tone, but in one of cold, concentrated determination. 'I demand an interview with Lewis Hunter. That he is at home, I know, for I saw him through the window, in the reflection of the firelight, as I stood on the steps; and here I will remain until I obtain speech of him, be it until to-morrow morning, be it until days to come. Do you note my words, meddling boy? I _demand_ the interview; I do not crave it: he best knows by what right.' She sat deliberately down on one of the hall chairs. Austin, desperately at a loss what to do, and seeing no means of getting rid of her save by forcible expulsion, knocked gently at the room door again. Mr. Hunter drew it cautiously open to admit him; then slipped the bolt, entwined his arm within Austin's, and drew him to the window. Mrs. Hunter's attention was absorbed by Florence, who was chattering to her. 'She has taken a seat in the hall, sir,' he whispered. 'She says she will remain there until she sees you, though she should have to wait until the morning. I am sure she means it: stop there, she will. She says she demands the interview as a right.' 'No,' said Mr. Hunter, 'she possesses no _right_. But--perhaps I had better see her, and get it over: otherwise she may make a disturbance. Tell Mark to show her into the drawing-room, Clay; and you stay here and talk to Mrs. Hunter.' 'What is the matter, that you are whispering? Does any one want you?' interrupted Mrs. Hunter, whose attention was at length attracted. 'I am telling Clay that people have no right to come to my private house on business matters,' was the reply given by Mr. Hunter. 'However, as the person is here, I must see her, I suppose. Do not let us be interrupted, Louisa.' 'But what does she want?--it was a lady, Florence said. Who is she?' reiterated Mrs. Hunter. 'It is a matter of business of Henry's. She ought to have gone to him.' Mr. Hunter looked at his wife and at Austin as he spoke. The latter was leaving the room to do his bidding, and Miss Gwinn suffered herself to be conducted quietly to the drawing-room. A full hour did the interview last. The voices seemed occasionally to be raised in anger, so that the sound penetrated to their ears downstairs, from the room overhead. Mrs. Hunter grew impatient; the tea waited on the table, and she wanted it. At length they were heard to descend, and to cross the hall. 'James is showing her out himself,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'Will you tell him we are waiting tea, Mr. Clay?' Austin stepped into the hall, and started when he caught sight of the face of Mr. Hunter. He was turning back from closing the door on Miss Gwinn, and the bright rays of the hall-lamp fell full upon his countenance. It was of ghastly whiteness; its expression one living aspect of terror, of dread. He staggered, rather than walked, to a chair, and sank into it. Austin hastened to him. 'Oh, sir, what is it? You are ill?' The strong man, the proud master, calm hitherto in his native self-respect, was for the moment overcome. He leaned his forehead upon Austin's arm, hiding its pallor, and put up his finger for silence. 'I have had a stab, Clay,' he whispered. 'Bear with me, lad, for a minute. I have had a cruel stab.' Austin really did not know whether to take the words literally. 'A stab?' he hesitatingly repeated. 'Ay; here,' touching his heart. 'I wish I was dead, Clay. I wish I had died years ago; or that _she_ had. Why was she permitted to live?--to live to work me this awful wrong?' he dreamily wailed. 'An awful wrong to me and mine!' 'What is it?' spoke Austin, upon impulse. 'A wrong? Who has done it?' 'She has. The woman now gone out. She has done it all.' He rose, and appeared to be looking for his hat. 'Mrs. Hunter is waiting tea, sir,' said the amazed Austin. 'Tea!' repeated Mr. Hunter, as if his brain were bewildered; 'I cannot go in again to-night; I cannot see them. Make some excuse for me, Clay--anything. _Why_ did that woman work me this crying wrong?' He took his hat, opened the hall door, and shut it after him with a bang, leaving Austin in wondering consternation. He returned to the dining-room, and said Mr. Hunter had been obliged to go out on business; he did not know what else to say. Florence was sent to bed after tea, but Austin sat a short while longer with Mrs. Hunter. Something led back to the previous conversation, when Mrs. Hunter had been alluding to her state of health, and to some sorrow that was her daily portion. 'What is it?' said Austin, in his impulsive manner. 'The thought that I shall have to leave Florence without a mother.' 'Dear Mrs. Hunter, surely it is not so serious as that! You may get better.' 'Yes; I know I may. Dr. Bevary tells me that I shall. But, you see, the very fear of it is hard to bear. Sometimes I think God is reconciling me to it by slow degrees.' Later in the evening, as Austin was going home, he passed a piece of clear ground, to be let for building purposes, at the end of the square. There, in its darkest corner, far back from the road, paced a man as if in some mental agony, his hat carried in his hands, and his head bared to the winds. Austin peered through the night with his quick sight, and recognised Mr. Hunter. CHAPTER VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME. Daffodil's Delight was in a state of commotion. It has often been remarked that there exists more real sympathy between the working classes, one for another, than amongst those of a higher grade; and experience generally seems to bear it out. From one end of Daffodil's Delight to the other, there ran just now a deep feeling of sorrow, of pity, of commiseration. Men made inquiries of each other as they passed in the street; women congregated at their doors to talk, concern on their faces, a question on their lips--'How is she? What does the doctor say?' Yes; the excitement had its rise in one cause alone--the increased illness of Mrs. Baxendale. The physician had pronounced his opinion (little need to speak it, though, for the fact was only too apparent to all who used their eyes), and the news had gone forth to Daffodil's Delight--Mrs. Baxendale was past recovery; was, in fact, dying! The concern, universal as it was, showed itself in various ways. Visits and neighbourly calls were so incessant, that the Shucks openly rebelled at the 'trampling up and down through their living-room,' by which route the Baxendale apartments could alone be gained. The neighbours came to help; to nurse; to shake up the bed and pillows; to prepare condiments over the fire; to condole; and, above all, to gossip: with tears in their eyes and lamentation in their tones, and ominous shakes of the head, and uplifted hands; but still, to gossip: _that_ lies in human female nature. They brought offerings of savoury delicacies; or things that, in their ideas, stood for delicacies--dainties likely to tempt the sick. Mrs. Cheek made a pint jug of what she called 'buttered beer,' a miscellaneous compound of scalding-hot porter, gin, eggs, sugar, and spice. Mrs. Baxendale sipped a little; but it did not agree with her fevered palate, and she declined it for the future, with 'thanks, all the same,' and Mrs. Cheek and a crony or two disposed of it themselves with great satisfaction. All this served to prove two things--that good feeling ran high in Daffodil's Delight, and that means did not run low. Of all the visitors, the most effectual assistant was Mrs. Quale. She gossiped, it is true, or it had not been Mrs. Quale; but she gave efficient help; and the invalid was always glad to see her come in, which could not be said with regard to all. Daffodil's Delight was not wrong in the judgment it passed upon Mary Baxendale--that she was a 'poor creature.' True; poor as to being clever in a domestic point of view, and in attending upon the sick. In mind, in cultivation, in refinement, in gentleness, Mary Baxendale beat Daffodil's Delight hollow; she was also a beautiful seamstress; but in energy and capability Mary was sadly wanting. She was timid always--painfully timid in the sick-room; anxious to do for her mother all that was requisite, but never knowing how to set about it. Mrs. Quale remedied this; she did the really efficient part; Mary gave love and gentleness; and, between the two, Mrs. Baxendale was thankful and happy. John Baxendale, not a demonstrative man, was full of concern and grief. His had been a very happy home, free from domestic storms and clouds; and, to lose his wife, was anything but a cheering prospect. His wages were good, and they had wanted for nothing, not even for peace. To such, when trouble comes, it seems hard to bear--it almost seems as if it came as a _wrong_. 'Just hold your tongue, John Baxendale,' cried Mrs. Quale one day, upon hearing him express something to this effect. 'Because you have never had no crosses, is it any reason that you never shall? No. Crosses come to us all sometime in our lives, in one shape or other.' 'But it's a hard thing for it to come in this shape,' retorted Baxendale, pointing to the bed. 'I'm not repining or rebelling against what it pleases God to do; but I can't _see_ the reason of it. Look at some of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight; shrieking, raving trollops, turning their homes into a bear-garden with their tempers, and driving their husbands almost mad. If some of them were taken they'd never be missed: just the contrary.' 'John,' interposed Mrs. Baxendale, in her quiet voice, 'when I am gone up there'--pointing with her finger to the blue October sky--'it may make you think more of the time when you must come; may help you to be preparing for it, better than you have done.' Mary lifted her wan face, glowing now with the excitement of the thought. 'Father, _that_ may be the end--the reason. I think that troubles are sent to us in mercy, not in anger.' 'Think!' ejaculated Mrs. Quale, tossing back her head with a manner less reverent than her words. 'Before you shall have come to my age, girl, it's to be hoped you'll _know_ they are. Isn't it time for the medicine?' she continued, seeing no other opening for a reprimand just then. It was time for the medicine, and Mrs. Quale poured it out, raised the invalid from her pillow, and administered it. John Baxendale looked on. Like his daughter Mary, he was in these matters an incapable man. 'How long is it since Dr. Bevary was here?' he asked. 'Let's see?' responded Mrs. Quale, who liked to have most of the talking to herself, wherever she might be. 'This is Friday. Tuesday, wasn't it, Mary? Yes, he was here on Tuesday.' 'But why does he not come oftener?' cried John, in a tone of resentment. 'That's what I was wanting to ask about. When one is as ill as she is--in danger of dying--is it right that a doctor should never come a near for three or four days?' 'Oh, John! a great physician like Dr. Bevary!' remonstrated his wife. 'It is so very good of him to come at all. And for nothing, too! He as good as said to Mary he didn't mean to charge.' 'I can pay him; I'm capable of paying him, I hope,' spoke John Baxendale. 'Who said I wanted my wife to be attended out of charity?' 'It's not just that, father, I think,' said Mary. 'He comes more in a friendly way.' 'Friendly or not, it isn't come to the pass yet, that I can't pay a doctor,' said John Baxendale. 'Who has let it go abroad that I couldn't?' Taking up his hat, he went out on the spur of the moment, and bent his steps to Dr. Bevary's. There he was civil and humble enough, for John Baxendale was courteous by nature. The doctor was at home, and saw him at once. 'Listen, my good man,' said Dr. Bevary, when he had caught somewhat of his errand. 'If, by going round often, I could do any good to your wife, I should go. Twice a day; three times a day--by night, too, if necessary. But I cannot do her good: had she a doctor over her bed constantly, he could render no service. I step round now and then, because I see that it is a satisfaction to her, and to those about her; not for any use I can be. I told you a week ago the end was not very far off, and that she would meet it calmly. She will be in no further pain--no worse than she is now.' 'I am able to pay you, sir.' 'That is not the question. If you paid me a guinea every time I came round, I should visit her no more frequently than I do.' 'And, if you please, sir, I'd rather pay you,' continued the man. 'I'm sure I don't grudge it; and it goes against the grain to have it said that John Baxendale's wife is attended out of charity. We English workmen, sir, are independent, and proud of being so.' 'Very good,' said Dr. Bevary. 'I should be sorry to see the day come when English workmen lost their independence. As to "charity," we will talk a bit about that. Look here, Baxendale,' the doctor added, laying his hand upon his shoulder, in his kind and familiar way, 'you and I can speak reasonably together, as man to man. We both have to work for our living--you with the hands, I chiefly with the head--so, in that, we are equal. I go twice a week to see your wife; I have told you why it is useless to go oftener. When patients come to me, they pay me a guinea, and I see them twice for it, which is equivalent to half a guinea a visit; but, when I go to patients at their own houses, my fee is a guinea each time. Now, would it seem to you a neighbourly act that I should take two guineas weekly from your wages?--quite as much, or more, than you gain. What does my going round cost me? A few minutes' time; a gossip with Mrs. Quale, touching the doings of Daffodil's Delight, and a groan at those thriftless Shucks, in their pigsty of a room. That is the plain statement of facts; and I should like to know what there is in it that need put your English spirit up. Charity! We might call it by that name, John Baxendale, if I were the guinea each time out of pocket, through medicines or other things furnished to you.' John Baxendale smiled; but he looked only three parts convinced. 'Tush, man!' said the doctor; 'I may be asking you to do me some friendly service, one of these days, and then, you know, we should be quits. Eh, John?' John Baxendale half put out his hand, and the doctor shook it. 'I think I understand now, sir; and I thank you heartily for what you have said. I only wish you could do some good to the wife.' 'I wish I could, Baxendale,' he replied, throwing a kindly glance after the man as he was moving away. 'I shan't bring an action against you in the county court for these unpaid fees, Baxendale, for it wouldn't stand,' called out the doctor. 'I never was called in to see your wife--I went of my own accord, and have so continued to go, and shall so continue. Good day.' As John Baxendale was descending the steps of the house door, he encountered Mrs. Hunter. She stopped him to inquire after his wife. 'Getting weaker daily, ma'am, thank you. The doctor has just told me again that there's no hope.' 'I am truly sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I will call in and see her. I did intend to call before, but something or other has caused me to put it off.' John Baxendale touched his hat, and departed. Mrs. Hunter went in to her brother. 'Oh, is it you, Louisa?' he exclaimed. 'A visit from you is somewhat a rarity. Are you feeling worse?' 'Rather better, I think, than usual. I have just met John Baxendale,' continued Mrs. Hunter, sitting down, and untying her bonnet strings. 'He says there is no hope for his wife. Poor woman! I wish it had been different. Many a worse woman could have been better spared.' 'Ah,' said the doctor, 'if folks were taken according to our notions of whom might be best spared, what a world this would be! Where's Miss Florence?' 'I did not bring her out with me, Robert. I came round to say a word to you about James,' resumed Mrs. Hunter, her voice insensibly lowering itself to a tone of confidence. 'Something is the matter with him, and I cannot imagine what.' 'Been eating too many cucumbers again, no doubt,' cried the doctor. 'He _will_ go in at that cross-grained vegetable, let it be in season, or out.' 'Eating!' returned Mrs. Hunter, 'I wish he did eat. For at least a fortnight--more, I think--he has not eaten enough to support a bird. That he is ill is evident to all--must be evident; but when I ask him what is the matter, he persists in it that he is quite well; that I am fanciful: seems annoyed, in short, that I should allude to it. Has he been here to consult you?' 'No,' replied Dr. Bevary; 'this is the first I have heard of it. How does he seem? What are his symptoms?' 'It appears to me,' said Mrs. Hunter, almost in a whisper, 'that the malady is more on the mind. There is no palpable disorder. He is restless, nervous, agitated; so restless at night, that he has now taken to sleep in a room apart from mine--not to disturb me, he says. I fear--I fear he may have been attacked with some dangerous inward malady, that he is concealing. His father, you know, died of----' 'Pooh! Nonsense! You are indeed becoming fanciful, Louisa,' interrupted the doctor. 'Old Mr. Hunter died of an unusual disorder, I admit; but, if the symptoms of such appeared in either James or Henry, they would come galloping to me in hot haste, asking if my skill could suggest a preventive. It is no "inward malady," depend upon it. He has been smoking too much: or going in at the cucumbers.' 'Robert, it is something far more serious than that,' quietly rejoined Mrs. Hunter. 'When did you first notice him to be ill?' 'It is, I say, about a fortnight since. One evening there came a stranger to our house, a lady, and she _would_ see him. He did not want to see her: he sent young Clay to her, who happened to be with us; but she insisted upon seeing James. They were closeted together a long while before she left; and then James went out--on business, Mr. Clay said.' 'Well?' cried Dr. Bevary. 'What has the lady to do with it?' 'I am not sure that she has anything to do with it. Florence told an incomprehensible story about the lady's having gone into Baxendale's that afternoon, after seeing her uncle Henry in the street and mistaking him for James. A Miss--what was the name?--Gwinn, I think.' Dr. Bevary, who happened to have a small glass phial in his hand, let it fall to the ground: whether by inadvertence, or that the words startled him, he best knew. 'Well?' was all he repeated, after he had gathered the pieces in his hand. 'I waited up till twelve o'clock, and James never came in. I heard him let himself in afterwards with his latch-key, and came up into the dressing-room. I called out to know where he had been, it is so unusual for him to stay out, and he said he was much occupied, and that I was to go to sleep, for he had some writing to do. But, Robert, instead of writing, he was pacing the house all night, out of one room into another; and in the morning--oh, I wish you could have seen him!--he looked wild, wan, haggard, as one does who has got up out of a long illness; and I am positive he had been weeping. From that time I have noticed the change I tell you of. He seems like one going into his grave. But, whether the illness is upon the body or the mind, I know not.' Dr. Bevary appeared intent upon putting together the pieces of his phial, making them fit into each other. 'It will all come right, Louisa; don't fret yourself: something must have gone cross in his business. I'll call in at the office and see him.' 'Do not say that I have spoken to you. He seems to have quite a nervous dread of its being observed that anything is wrong with him; has spoken sharply, not in anger, but in anguish, when I have pressed the question.' 'As if the lady could have anything to do with it!' exclaimed Dr. Bevary, in a tone of satire. 'I do not suppose she had. I only mentioned the circumstances because it is since that evening he has changed. You can see what you think of him, and tell me afterwards.' The answer was only a nod; and Mrs. Hunter went out. Dr. Bevary remained in a brown study. His servant came in with an account that patient after patient was waiting for him, but the doctor replied by a repelling gesture, and the man did not again dare to intrude. Perplexity and pain sat upon his brow; and, when at last he did rouse himself, he raised aloft his hands, and gave utterance to words that sounded very like a prayer: 'I pray heaven it may not be so! It would kill Louisa.' The pale, delicate face of Mrs. Hunter was at that moment bending over the invalid in her bed. In her soft grey silk dress and light shawl, her simple straw bonnet with its white ribbons, she looked just the right sort of visitor for a sick-chamber; and her voice was sweet, and her manner gentle. 'No, ma'am, don't speak of hope to me,' murmured Mrs. Baxendale. 'I know that there is none left, and I am quite reconciled to die. I have been an ailing woman for years, dear lady; and it is wonderful how those that are so get to look upon death, if they can but presume to hope their soul is safe, with satisfaction, rather than with dread. Though I dare not say as much yet to my poor husband.' 'I have long been ailing, too,' softly replied Mrs. Hunter. 'I am rarely free from pain, and I know that I shall never be healthy and strong again. But still--I do fear it would give me pain to die, were the fiat to come forth.' 'Never fear, dear lady,' cried the invalid, her eyes brightening. 'Before the fiat does come, be assured that God will have reconciled you to it. Ah, ma'am, what matters it, after all? It is a journey we must take; and, when once we are prepared, it seems but the setting off a little sooner or a little later. I got Mary to read me the burial service on Sunday: I was always fond of it; but I am past reading now. In one part thanks are given to God for that he has been pleased to deliver the dead out of the miseries of this sinful world. Ma'am, if He did not remove us to a better and a happier home, would the living be directed to give thanks for our departure from this?' 'A spirit ripe for heaven,' thought Mrs. Hunter, when she took her leave. It was Mrs. Quale who piloted her through the room of the Shucks. Of all scenes of disorder and discomfort, about the worst reigned there. Sam had been--you must excuse the inelegance of the phrase, but it was much in vogue in Daffodil's Delight--'on the loose' again for a couple of days. He sat sprawling across the hearth, a pipe in his mouth, and a pot of porter at his feet. The wife was crying with her hair down; the children were quarrelling in tatters; the dirt in the place, as Mrs. Quale expressed it, stood on end; and Mrs. Hunter wondered how people could bear to live so. 'Now, Sam Shuck, don't you see who is a standing in your presence?' sharply cried Mrs. Quale. Sam, his back to the staircase door, really had not seen. He threw his pipe into the grate, started up, and pulled his hair to Mrs. Hunter in a very humble fashion. In his hurry he turned over a small child, and the contents of the pewter pot upon it. The child roared; the wife took it up and shook its clothes in Sam's face, restraining her tongue till the lady should be gone; and Mrs. Hunter stepped into the garden out of the _mêlée_--glad to get there: Sam following her in a spirit of politeness. 'How is it you are not at work to-day, Shuck?' she asked. 'I am going to-morrow--I shall go for certain, ma'am.' 'You know, Shuck, I never do interfere with Mr. Hunter's men,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I consider that intelligent workmen, as you are, ought to be above any advice that I could offer. But I cannot help saying how sad it is that you should waste your time. Were you not discharged a little while ago, and taken on again under a specific promise, made by you to Mr. Henry Hunter, that you would be diligent in future?' 'I am diligent,' grumbled Sam. 'But why, ma'am--a chap must take holiday now and then. 'Tain't in human nature to be always having the shoulder at the wheel.' 'Well, pray be cautious,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'If you offend again, and get discharged, I know they will not be so ready to take you back. Remember your little children, and be steady for their sakes.' Sam went indoors to his pipe, to his wife's tongue, and to despatch a child to get the pewter pot replenished. CHAPTER VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS! Mrs. Hunter, turning out of Mr. Shuck's gate, stepped inside Mrs. Quale's, who was astonishing her with the shortcomings of the Shucks, and prophesying that their destiny would be the workhouse, when Austin Clay came forth. He had been home to dinner, and was now going back to the yard. Mrs. Hunter said good morning to her talkative friend, and walked away by Austin's side--Mrs. Baxendale, Sam Shuck, and Daffodil's Delight generally, forming themes of converse. Austin raised his hat to her when they came to the gates of the yard. 'No, I am not about to part; I am going in with you,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I want to speak just a word to my husband, if he is at liberty. Will you find him for me?' 'He has been in his private room all the morning, and is probably there still,' said Austin. 'Do you know where Mr. Hunter is?' he inquired of a man whom they met. 'In his room, sir,' was the reply, as the man touched his cap to Mrs. Hunter. Austin led the way down the passage, and knocked at the door, Mrs. Hunter following him. There was no answer; and believing, in consequence, that it was empty, he opened it. Two gentlemen stood within it, near a table, paper and pens and ink before them, and what looked like a cheque-book. They must have been deeply absorbed not to have heard the knock. One was Mr. Hunter: the other--Austin recognised him--Gwinn, the lawyer of Ketterford. 'I will not sign it!' Mr. Hunter was exclaiming, with passionate vehemence. 'Five thousand pounds! it would cripple me for life.' 'Then you know the alternative. I go this moment and----' 'Mrs. Hunter wishes to speak to you, sir,' interposed Austin, drowning the words and speaking loudly. The gentlemen turned sharply round: and when Mr. Hunter caught sight of his wife, the red passion of his face turned to a livid pallor. Lawyer Gwinn nodded familiarly to Austin. 'How are you, Clay? Getting on, I hope. _Who_ is this person, may I ask?' 'This lady is Mrs. Hunter,' haughtily replied Austin, after a pause, surprised that Mr. Hunter did not take up the words--the offensive manner in which they were spoken--the insulting look that accompanied them. But Mr. Hunter did not appear in a state to take anything up just then. Gwinn bent his body to the ground. 'I beg the lady's pardon. I had no idea she was Mrs. Hunter.' But so ultra-courteous were the tones, so low the bow, that Austin Clay's cheeks burnt at the covert irony. 'James, you are ill,' said Mrs. Hunter, advancing in her quiet, composed manner, but taking no notice whatever of the stranger. 'Can I get anything for you? Shall we send for Dr. Bevary?' 'No, don't do that; it is going off. You will oblige me by leaving us,' he whispered to her. 'I am very busy.' 'You seem too ill for business,' she rejoined. 'Can you not put it off for an hour? Rest might be of service to you.' 'No, madam, the business cannot be put off,' spoke up Lawyer Gwinn. And down he sat in a chair, with a determined air of conscious power--just as his sister had sat _her_self down, a fortnight before, in Mr. Hunter's hall. Mrs. Hunter quitted the room at once, leaving her husband and the stranger in it. Austin followed her. Her face wore a puzzled, vexed look, as she turned it upon Austin. 'Who is that person?' she asked. 'His manner to me appeared to be strangely insolent.' An instinct, for which Austin perhaps could not have accounted had he tried, caused him to suppress the fact that it was the brother of the Miss Gwinn who had raised a commotion at Mr. Hunter's house. He answered that he had not seen the person at the office previously, his tone being as careless a one as he could assume. And Mrs. Hunter, who was of the least suspicious nature possible, let it pass. Her mind, too, was filled with the thought of her husband's suffering state. 'Does Mr. Hunter appear to you to be ill?' she asked of Austin, somewhat abruptly. 'He looked so, I think.' 'Not now; I am not alluding to the present moment,' she rejoined. 'Have you noticed before that he does not seem well?' 'Yes,' replied Austin; 'this week or two past.' There was a brief pause. 'Mr. Clay,' she resumed, in a quiet, kind voice, 'my health, as you are aware, is not good, and any sort of uneasiness tries me much. I am going to ask you a confidential question. I would not put it to many, and the asking it of you proves that my esteem for you is great. That Mr. Hunter is ill, there is no doubt; but whether mentally or bodily I am unable to discover. To me he observes a most unusual reticence, his object probably being to spare me pain; but I can battle better with a known evil than with an unknown one. Tell me, if you can, whether any vexation has arisen in business matters?' 'Not that I am aware of,' promptly replied Austin. 'I feel sure that nothing is amiss in that quarter.' 'Then it is as I suspected, and he must be suffering from some illness that he is concealing.' She wished Austin good morning. He saw her out of the gate, and then proceeded to the room he usually occupied when engaged indoors. Presently he heard Mr. Hunter and his visitor come forth, and saw the latter pass the window. Mr. Hunter came into the room. 'Is Mrs. Hunter gone?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Do you know what she wanted?' 'I do not think it was anything particular. She said she should like to say a word to you, if you were disengaged.' Mr. Hunter did not speak immediately. Austin was making out certain estimates, and his master looked over his shoulder. Not _to look_; his mind was evidently all pre-occupied. 'Did Mrs. Hunter inquire who it was that was with me?' he presently said. 'She inquired, sir. I did not say. I told her I had not seen the person here before.' '_You_ knew?' in a quick, sharp accent. 'Oh, yes.' 'Then why did you not tell her? What was your motive for concealing it?' The inquiry was uttered in a tone that could not be construed as proceeding from any emotion but that of fear. A flush came into Austin's ingenuous face. 'I beg your pardon, sir. I never wish to be otherwise than open. But, as you had previously desired me not to speak of the lady who came to your house that night, I did not know but the same wish might apply to the visit of to-day.' 'True, true,' murmured Mr. Hunter; 'I do _not_ wish this visit of the man's spoken of. Never mention his name, especially to Mrs. Hunter. I suppose he did not impose upon me,' added he, with a poor attempt at a forced smile: 'it _was_ Gwinn, of Ketterford, was it not?' 'Certainly,' said Austin, feeling surprised. 'Did you not know him previously, sir?' 'Never. And I wish I had not known him now.' 'If--if--will you forgive my saying, sir, that, should you have any transaction with him, touching money matters, it is necessary to be wary. Many a one has had cause to rue the getting into the clutches of Lawyer Gwinn.' A deep, heavy sigh, burst from Mr. Hunter. He had turned from Austin. The latter spoke again in his ardent sympathy. 'Sir, is there any way in which I can serve you?--_any_ way? You have only to command me.' 'No, no, Clay. I fell into that man's clutches--as you have aptly termed it--years ago, and the penalty must be paid. There is no help for it.' 'Not knowing him, sir?' 'Not knowing him. And not knowing that I owed it, as I certainly did not know, until a week or two back. I no more suspected that--that I was indebted there, than I was indebted to you.' Mr. Hunter had grown strangely confused and agitated, and the dew was rising on his livid face. He made a hollow attempt to laugh it off, and seemed to shun the gaze of his clerk. 'This comes of the freaks of young men,' he observed, facing Austin after a pause, and speaking volubly. 'Austin Clay, I will give you a piece of advice. Never put your hand to a bill. You may think it an innocent bit of paper, which can cost you at most but the sum that is marked upon it: but it may come back to you in after years, and you must purchase it with thousands. Have nothing to do with bills, in any way; they will be a thorn in your side.' 'So, it is a money affair!' thought Austin. 'I might have known it was nothing else, where Gwinn was concerned. Here's Dr. Bevary coming in, sir,' he added aloud. The physician was inside the room ere the words had left Austin's lips. Mr. Hunter had seized upon a stray plan, and seemed bent upon its examination. 'Rather a keen-looking customer, that, whom I met at your gate,' began the doctor. 'Who was it?' 'Keen-looking customer?' repeated Mr. Hunter. 'A fellow dressed in black, with a squint and a white neckerchief; an ill-favoured fellow, whoever he is.' 'How should I know about him?' replied Mr. Hunter, carelessly. 'Somebody after the men, I suppose.' But Austin Clay felt that Mr. Hunter _did_ know; that the description could only apply to Gwinn of Ketterford. Dr. Bevary entwined his arm within his brother-in-law's, and led him from the room. 'James, do you want doctoring?' he inquired, as they entered the one just vacated by Lawyer Gwinn. 'No, I don't. What do you mean?' 'If you don't, you belie your looks; that's all. Can you honestly affirm to me that you are in robust health?' 'I am in good health. There is nothing the matter with me.' 'Then there's something else in the wind. What's the trouble?' A flush rose to the face of Mr. Hunter. 'I am in no trouble that you can relieve; I am quite well. I repeat that I do not understand your meaning.' The doctor gazed at him keenly, and his tone changed to one of solemn earnestness. 'James, I suspect that you _are_ in trouble. Now, I do not wish to pry into it unnecessarily; but I would remind you of the sound wisdom that lies in the good old proverb: "In the multitude of counsellors there is safety."' 'And if there is?' returned Mr. Hunter. 'If you will confide the trouble to me, I will do what I can to help you out of it--_whatever it may be_--to advise with you as to what is best to be done. I am your wife's brother; could you have a truer friend?' 'You are very kind, Bevary. I am in no danger. When I am, I will let you know.' The tone--one of playful mockery--grated on the ear of Dr. Bevary. 'Is it assumed to hide what he dare not betray?' thought he. Mr. Hunter cut the matter short by crossing the yard to the time-keeper's office; and Dr. Bevary went out talking to himself: 'A wilful man must have his own way.' Austin Clay sat up late that night, reading one of the quarterly reviews; he let the time slip by till the clock struck twelve. Mr. and Mrs. Quale had been in bed some time; when nothing was wanted for Mr. Clay, Mrs. Quale was rigid in retiring at ten. Early to bed, and early to rise, was a maxim she was fond of, both in precept and practice. The striking of the church clock aroused him; he closed the book, left it on the table, pulled aside the crimson curtain, and opened the window to look out at the night before going into his chamber. A still, balmy night. The stars shone in the heavens, and Daffodil's Delight, for aught that could be heard or seen just then, seemed almost as peaceful as they. Austin leaned from the window; his thoughts ran not upon the stars or upon the peaceful scene around, but upon the curious trouble which seemed to be overshadowing Mr. Hunter. 'Five thousand pounds!' His ears had caught distinctly the ominous sum. 'Could he have fallen into Lawyer Gwinn's "clutches" to _that_ extent?' There was much in it that Austin could not fathom. Mr. Hunter had hinted at 'bills;' Miss Gwinn had spoken of the 'breaking up of her happy home;' two calamities apparently distinct and apart. And how was it that they were in ignorance of his name, his existence, his---- A startling interruption came to Austin's thoughts. Mrs. Shuck's door was pulled hastily open, and some one panting with excitement, uttering faint, sobbing cries, came running down their garden into Peter Quale's. It was Mary Baxendale. She knocked sharply at the door with nervous quickness. 'What is it, Mary?' asked Austin. She had not seen him; but, of course, the words caused her to look up. 'Oh! sir,' the tears streaming from her eyes as she spoke, 'would you please call Mrs. Quale, and ask her to step in? Mother's on the wing.' 'I'll call her. Mary!'--for she was speeding back again--'can I get any other help for you? If I can be of use, step back and tell me.' Sam Shuck came out of his house as Austin spoke, and went flying up Daffodil's Delight. He had gone for Dr. Bevary. The doctor had desired to be called, should there be any sudden change. Of course, he did not mean the change of _death_. He could be of no use in that; but how could they discriminate? Mrs. Quale was dressed and in the sick chamber with all speed. Dr. Bevary was not long before he followed her. Neighbours on either side put their heads out. Ten minutes at the most, and Dr. Bevary was out again. Austin was then leaning over Peter Quale's gate. He had been in no urgent mood for bed before, and this little excitement, though it did not immediately concern him, afforded an excuse for not going to it. 'How is she, sir?' 'Is it you?' responded Dr. Bevary. 'She is gone. I thought it would be sudden at the last.' 'Poor thing!' ejaculated Austin. 'Poor thing? Ay, that's what we are all apt to say when our friends die. But there is little cause when the change has been prepared for, the spirit made ripe for heaven. She's gone to a world where there's neither sickness nor pain.' Austin made no reply. The doctor spoke again after a pause. 'Clay--to go from a solemn subject to one that--that may, however, prove not less solemn in the end--you heard me mention a stranger I met at the gates of the yard to-day, and Mr. Hunter would not take my question. Was it Gwinn of Ketterford?' The doctor had spoken in a changed, low tone, laying his hand, in his earnestness, on Austin's shoulder. Austin paused. He did not know whether he ought to answer. 'You need not hesitate,' said the doctor, divining his scruples. 'I can understand that Mr. Hunter may have forbidden you to mention it, and that you would be faithful to him. Don't speak; your very hesitation has proved it to me. Good night, my young friend; we would both serve him if we only knew how.' Austin watched him away, and then went indoors, for Daffodil's Delight began to be astir, and to collect itself around him, Sam Shuck having assisted in spreading the news touching Mrs. Baxendale. Daffodil's Delight thought nothing of leaving its bed, and issuing forth in shawls and pantaloons upon any rising emergency, regarding such interludes of disturbed rest as socially agreeable. CHAPTER IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER. Austin Clay sat at his desk at Hunter and Hunter's, sorting the morning letters, which little matter of employment formed part of his duties. It was the morning subsequent to the commotion in Daffodil's Delight. His thoughts were running more on that than on the letters, when the postmark 'Ketterford' on two of them caught his eye. The one was addressed to himself, the other to 'Mr. Lewis Hunter,' and the handwriting of both was the same. Disposing of the rest of the letters as usual, placing those for the Messrs. Hunter in their room, against they should arrive, and dealing out any others there might be for the hands employed in the firm, according to their address, he proceeded to open his own. To the very end of it Austin read; and then, and not till then, he began to suspect that it could not be meant for him. No name whatever was mentioned in the letter; it began abruptly, and it ended abruptly; not so much as 'Sir,' or 'Dear Sir,' was it complimented with, and it was simply signed 'A. G.' He read it a second time, and then its awful meaning flashed upon him, and a red flush rose to his brow and settled there, as if burnt into it with a branding iron. He had become possessed of a dangerous secret. There was no doubt that the letter was written by Miss Gwinn to Mr. Hunter. By some extraordinary mischance, she had misdirected it. Possibly the letter now lying on Mr. Hunter's desk, might be for Austin. Though, what could she be writing about to him? He sat down. He was quite overcome with the revelation; it was, indeed, of a terrible nature, and he would have given much not to have become cognizant of it. 'Bills!' 'Money!' So that had been Mr. Hunter's excuse for the mystery! No wonder he sought to turn suspicion into any channel but the real one. Austin was poring over the letter like one in a nightmare, when Mr. Hunter interrupted him. He crushed it into his pocket with all the aspect of a guilty man; any one might have taken him in his confusion so to be. Not for himself was he confused, but he feared lest Mr. Hunter should discover the letter. Although certainly written for him, Austin did not dare hand it to him, for it would never do to let Mr. Hunter know that he possessed the secret. Mr. Hunter had come in, holding out the other letter from Ketterford. 'This letter is for you, Mr. Clay. It has been addressed to me by mistake, I conclude.' Austin took it, and glanced his eyes over it. It contained a few abrupt lines, and a smaller note, sealed, was inside it. 'My brother is in London, Austin Clay. I have reason to think he will be calling upon the Messrs. Hunter. Will you watch for him, and give him the inclosed note? Had he told me where he should put up in town, I should have had no occasion to trouble you. A. GWINN.' Austin did not lift his eyes to Mr. Hunter's in his usual candid open manner. He could not bear to look him in the face; he feared lest his master might read in his the dreadful truth. 'What am I to do, sir?' he asked. 'Watch for Gwinn, and give him the note?' 'Do this with them,' said Mr. Hunter. Striking a wax match, he held both Austin's note and the sealed one over the flame until they were consumed. 'You could not fulfil the request if you wished, for the man went back to Ketterford last night.' He said no more. He went away again, and Austin lighted another match, and burnt the crushed letter in his pocket, thankful, so far, that it had escaped Mr. Hunter. Trouble came. Ere many days had elapsed, there was dissension in the house of Hunter and Hunter. Thoroughly united and cordial the brothers had always been; but now a cause of dispute arose, and it seemed that it could not be arranged. Mr. Hunter had drawn out five thousand pounds from the bank, and refused to state for what, except that it was for a 'private purpose.' The business had been a gradually increasing one, and nearly all the money possessed by both was invested in it; so much as was not actually out, lay in the bank in their joint names, 'Hunter and Hunter.' Each possessed a small private account, but nothing like sufficient to meet a cheque for five thousand pounds. Words ran high between them, and the sound penetrated to ears outside their private room. His face pale, his lips compressed, his tone kept mostly subdued, James Hunter sat at his desk, his eyes falling on a ledger he was not occupied with, and his hand partially shading his face. Mr. Henry, more excited, giving way more freely to his anger, paced the carpet, occasionally stopping before the desk and before his brother. 'It is the most unaccountable thing in the world,' he reiterated, 'that you should refuse to say what it has been applied to. Draw out, surreptitiously, a formidable sum like that, and not account for it! It is monstrous.' 'Henry, I have told you all I can tell you,' replied Mr. Hunter, concealing his countenance more than ever. 'An old debt was brought up against me, and I was forced to satisfy it.' Mr. Henry Hunter curled his lip. 'A debt to that amount! Were you mad?' 'I did not--know--I--had--contracted it,' stammered Mr. Hunter, very nearly losing his self possession. 'At least, I thought it had been paid. Youth's errors do come home to us sometimes in later life.' 'Not to the tune of five thousand pounds,' retorted Mr. Henry Hunter. 'It will cripple the business; you know it will. It is next door to ruin.' 'Nonsense, Henry! The loss of five thousand pounds will neither cripple the business nor bring ruin. It will be my own loss: not yours.' 'How on earth could you think of giving it away? Five thousand pounds!' 'I could not help myself. Had I refused to pay it----' 'Well?' for Mr. Hunter had stopped in embarrassment. 'I should have been compelled to do so. There. Talking of it will not mend it.' Mr. Henry Hunter took a few turns, and then wheeled round sharply. 'Perhaps there are other claims for "youth's follies" to come behind it?' The words seemed to arouse Mr. Hunter. Not to anger; but to what looked very like fear--almost to an admission that it might be so. 'Were any such further claim to come, I would not satisfy it,' he cried, wiping his face. 'No, I would not; I would go into exile first.' 'We must part,' said Mr. Henry Hunter the expression of his brother's face quite startling him. 'There is no alternative. I cannot risk the beggaring of my wife and children.' 'If it must be so, it must,' was all the reply given. 'Tell me the truth, James,' urged Mr. Henry in a more conciliatory tone. I don't want to part. Tell me all, and let me be the judge. Surely, man! it can't be anything so very dreadful. You didn't set fire to your neighbour's house, I suppose?' 'I never thought the claim could come upon me. That is all I can tell you.' 'Then we part,' decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Yes, it may be better. If I am to go to ruin, it is of no use to drag you down into it.' 'If you are to go to ruin!' echoed Mr. Henry, regarding his brother attentively. 'James! is that an admission that other mysterious claims may really follow this one?' 'No, I think they will not. But we had better part. Only--let the cause of our separation be kept from the world.' 'I should be clever to betray the cause, seeing that you leave me in ignorance of what it may be,' answered Mr. Henry Hunter, who was feeling vexed, puzzled, and very angry. 'I mean--let no shadow of the truth get abroad. The business is large enough for two firms, and we have agreed to carry it on apart. Let that be the plea.' 'You take it coolly, James.' A strange expression--a _wrung_ expression--passed over the face of James Hunter. 'I cannot help myself, Henry. The five thousand pounds are gone, and of course it is right that I should bear the loss alone--or any other loss it may bring in its train.' 'But why not impart to me the facts?' 'No. It could not possibly do good; and it might make matters infinitely worse. One advantage our separation will have; there is a great deal of money owing to us from different quarters, and this will call it in.' 'Or I don't see how you would carry anything on for your part, minus your five thousand pounds,' retorted Mr. Henry, in a spirit of satire. 'Will you grant me a favour, Henry?' 'That depends upon what it may be.' 'Let the real grounds of our separation--this miserable affair that has led to it--be equally a secret from your wife, as from the world. I should not ask it without an urgent reason.' 'Don't you mean to tell Louisa?' 'No. The matter is one entirely my own; I do not wish to talk of it even to my wife. Will you give me the promise?' 'Very well. If it be of the consequence you seem to intimate. I cannot fathom you, James.' 'Let us apply ourselves now to the ways and means of the dissolution. That, at any rate, may be amicable.' It was quite evident that he fully declined further allusion to the subject. And Mr. Henry Hunter obtained no better elucidation, then or later. It fell upon the world like a thunderbolt--that is, the world connected with Hunter and Hunter. _They_ separate? so flourishing a firm as that? The world at first refused to believe it; but the world soon found it was true. Mr. Hunter retained the yard where the business was at present carried on. Mr. Henry Hunter found other premises to suit him; not far off; a little more to the west. Considerably surprised were Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Henry Hunter; but the same plausible excuse was given to them; and they were left in ignorance of the true cause. 'Will you remain with me?' pointedly asked Mr. Hunter of Austin Clay. 'I particularly wish it.' 'As you and Mr. Henry may decide, sir,' was the reply given. 'It is not for me to choose.' 'We could both do with you, I believe. I had better talk it over with him.' 'That will be the best plan,' sir. 'What do you part for?' abruptly inquired Dr. Bevary one day of the two brothers, coming into the counting-house and catching them together. Mr. Henry raised his eyebrows. Mr. Hunter spoke volubly. 'The business is getting too large. It will be better divided.' 'Moonshine!' cried the doctor, quietly. 'That's what you have been cramming your wives with; it won't do for me. When a concern gets unwieldy, a man takes a partner to help him on with it; _you_ are separating. There's many a firm larger than yours. Do you remember the proverb of the bundle of sticks?' But neither Dr. Bevary nor anybody else got at a better reason than that for the measure. The dissolution of partnership took place; it was duly gazetted, and the old firm became two. Austin remained with Mr. Hunter, and he was the only living being who gave a guess, or who could give a guess, at the real cause of separation--the drawing out of that five thousand pounds. And yet--it was not the drawing out of that first five thousand pounds, that finally decided Mr. Henry Hunter to enforce the step, so much as the thought that other thousands might perhaps be following it. He could not divest his mind of the fear. PART THE SECOND. CHAPTER I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN. For several years after the separation of Hunter and Hunter, things went on smoothly; at least there was no event sufficiently marked that we need linger to trace it. Each had a flourishing business, though Mr. Hunter had some difficulty in staving off embarrassment in the financial department: a fact which was well known to Austin Clay, who was now confidential manager--head of all, under Mr. Hunter. He, Austin Clay, was getting towards thirty years of age. He enjoyed a handsome salary, and was putting by money yearly. He still remained at Peter Quale's, though his position would have warranted a style of living far superior. Not that it could have brought him more respect: of that he enjoyed a full share, both from master and men. Clever, energetic, firm, and friendly, he was thoroughly fitted for his post--was liked and esteemed. But for him, Mr. Hunter's business might not have been what it was, and Mr. Hunter knew it. _He_ was a broken-spirited man, little capable now of devoting energy to anything. The years, in their progress, had terribly altered James Hunter. A hot evening in Daffodil's Delight; and Daffodil's Delight was making it a busy one. Uninterrupted prosperity is sometimes nearly allied to danger; or, rather, danger may grow out of it. Prosperity begets independence, and independence often begets assumption--very often, a selfish, wrong view of surrounding things. If any workmen had enjoyed of late years (it may be said) unlimited prosperity, they were those connected with the building trade. Therefore, being so flourishing, it struck some of their body, who in a degree gave laws to the rest, that the best thing they could do was to make themselves more flourishing still. As a preliminary, they began to agitate for an increase of wages: this was to be accomplished by reducing the hours of labour, the proposition being to work nine hours per day instead of ten. They said nothing about relinquishing the wages of the extra hour: they would be paid for ten hours and work nine. The proposition was first put by the men of a leading metropolitan firm to their principals, and, failing to obtain it, they threatened to strike. This it was that was just now agitating Daffodil's Delight. In the front room of one of the houses that abutted nearly on the gutter, and to which you must ascend by steps, there might be read in the window, inscribed on a piece of paper, the following notice: 'The Misses Dunn's, Milliner and Dressmakers. Ladies own materiels made up.' The composition of the _affiche_ was that of the two Miss Dunns jointly, who prided themselves upon being elegant scholars. A twelvemonth's apprenticeship had initiated them into the mysteries of dressmaking; millinery had come to them, as Mark Tapley would say, spontaneous, or by dint of practice. They had set up for themselves in their father's house, and could boast of a fair share of the patronage of Daffodil's Delight. Showy damsels were they, with good-humoured, turned-up noses, and light hair; much given to gadding and gossiping, and fonder of dressing themselves than of getting home the dresses of their customers. On the above evening, they sat in their room, an upper one, stitching away. A gown was in progress for Mrs. Quale, who often boasted that she could do any work in the world, save make her own gowns. It had been in progress for two weeks, and that lady had at length come up in a temper, as Miss Jemima Dunn expressed it, and had demanded it to be returned, done or undone. They, with much deprecation, protested it should be home the first thing in the morning, and went to work. Four or five visitors, girls of their own age, were performing the part of lookers-on, and much laughter prevailed. 'I say,' cried out Martha White--a pleasant-looking girl, who had perched herself aloft on the edge of a piece of furniture, which appeared to be a low chest of drawers by day, and turn itself into a bed at night--'Mary Baxendale was crying yesterday, because of the strike; saying, it would be bad for all of us, if it came. Ain't she a soft?' 'Baxendale's again it, too,' exclaimed Miss Ryan, Pat Ryan's eldest trouble. 'Father says he don't think Baxendale 'll go in for it all.' 'Mary Baxendale's just one of them timid things as is afraid of their own shadders,' cried Mary Ann Dunn. 'If she saw a cow a-coming at the other end of the street, she'd turn tail and run. Jemimer, whatever are you at? The sleeves is to be in plaits, not gathers.' 'She do look ill, though, does Mary Baxendale,' said Jemima, after some attention to the sleeve in hand. 'It's my belief she'll never live to see Christmas; she's going the way her mother went. Won't it be prime when the men get ten hours' pay for nine hours' work? I shall think about getting married then.' 'You must find somebody to have you first,' quoth Grace Darby. 'You have not got a sweetheart yet.' Miss Jemima tossed her head. 'I needn't to wait long for that. The chaps be as plentiful as sprats in winter. All you have got to do is to pick and choose.' 'What's that?' interrupted Mrs. Dunn, darting into the room, with her sharp tongue and her dirty fine cap. 'What's that as you're talking about, miss?' 'We are a-talking of the strike,' responded Jemima, with a covert glance to the rest. 'Martha White and Judy Ryan says the Baxendales won't go in for it.' 'Not go in for it? What idiots they must be!' returned Mrs. Dunn, the attractive subject completely diverting her attention from Miss Jemima and her words. 'Ain't nine hours a-day enough for the men to be at work? I can tell the Baxendales what--when we have got the nine hours all straight and sure, we shall next demand eight. 'Taint free-born Englishers as is going to be put upon. It'll be glorious times, girls, won't it? We shall get a taste o' fowls and salmon, may be, for dinner then!' 'My father says he does not think the masters will come-to, if the men do strike,' observed Grace Darby. 'Of course they won't--till they are forced,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, in a spirit of satire. 'But that's just what they are a-going to be. Don't you be a fool, Grace Darby!' Lotty Cheek rushed in, a girl with a tongue almost as voluble as Mrs. Dunn's, and rough hair, the colour of a tow-rope. 'What d'ye think?' cried she, breathlessly. 'There's a-going to be a meeting of the men to-night in the big room of the Bricklayers' Arms. They are a-filing in now. I think it must be about the strike.' 'D'ye suppose it would be about anything else?' retorted Mrs. Dunn. 'I'd like to be one of 'em! I'd hold out for the day's work of eight hours, instead of nine, I would. So 'ud they, if they was men.' Mrs. Dunn's speech was concluded to an empty room. All the girls had flown down into the street, leaving the parts of Mrs. Quale's gown in closer contact with the dusty floor than was altogether to their benefit. The agitation in the trade had hitherto been chiefly smouldering in an under-current: now, it was rising to the surface. Lotty Cheek's inference was right; the meeting of this evening had reference to the strike. It had been hastily arranged in the day; was quite an informal sort of affair, and confined to the operatives of Mr. Hunter. Not in a workman's jacket, but in a brown coat dangling to his heels, with a slit down the back and ventilating holes for the elbows, first entered he who had been chiefly instrumental in calling the meeting. It was Mr. Samuel Shuck; better known, you may remember, as Slippery Sam. Somehow, Sam and prosperity could not contrive to pull together in the same boat. He was one of those who like to live on the fat of the land, but are too lazy to work for their share of it. And how Sam had contrived to exist until now, and keep himself and his large family out of the workhouse, was a marvel to all. In his fits of repentance, he would manage to get in again at one or other of the yards of the Messrs. Hunter; but they were growing tired of him. The room at the Bricklayers' Arms was tolerably commodious, and Sam took up a conspicuous position in it. 'Well,' began Sam, when the company had assembled, and were furnished with pipes and pewter pots, 'you have heard that that firm won't accept the reduction in the hours of labour, so the men have determined on a strike. Now, I have got a question to put to you. Is there most power in one man, or in a few dozens of men?' Some laughed, and said, 'In the dozens.' 'Very good,' glibly went on Sam, whose tongue was smoother than oil, and who was gifted with a sort of oratory and some learning when he chose to put it out. 'Then, the measure I wish to urge upon you is, make common cause with those men; we are not all obliged to strike at the same time; it will be better not; but by degrees. Let every firm in London strike, each at its appointed time,' he continued, raising his voice to vehemence. 'We must stand up for ourselves; for our rights; for our wives and children. By making common cause together, we shall bowl out the masters, and bring them to terms.' 'Hooroar!' put in Pat Ryan. 'Hooroar!' echoed a few more. An aged man, Abel White's father, usually called old White, who was past work, and had a seat at his son's chimney corner, leaned forward and spoke, his voice tremulous, but distinct. 'Samuel Shuck, did you ever know strikes do any good, either to the men or the masters? Friends,' he added, turning his venerable head around, 'I am in my eightieth year: and I picked up some experience while them eighty years was passing. Strikes have ruined some masters, in means; but they have ruined men wholesale, in means, in body, and in soul.' 'Hold there,' cried Sam Shuck, who had not brooked the interruption patiently. 'Just tell us, old White, before you go on, whether coercion answers for British workmen?' 'It does not,' replied the old man, lifting his quiet voice to firmness. 'But perhaps you will tell me in your turn, Sam Shuck, whether it's likely to answer for masters?' 'It _has_ answered for them,' returned Sam, in a tone of irony. 'I _have_ heard of back strikes, where the masters were coerced and coerced, till the men got all they stood out for.' 'And so brought down ruin on their own heads,' returned the old man, shaking his. 'Did you ever hear of a lock-out, Shuck?' 'Ay, ay,' interposed quiet, respectable Robert Darby. 'Did you ever hear of that, Slippery Sam?' Slippery Sam growled. 'Let the masters lock-out if they dare! Let 'em. The men would hold out to the death.' 'And death it will be, with some of us, if the strike comes, and lasts. I came down here to-night, on my son's arm, just for your good, my friends, not for mine. At your age, I thought as some of you do; but I have learnt experience now. I can't last long, any way; and it's little matter to me whether famine from a strike be my end, or----' 'Famine' derisively retorted Slippery Sam. 'Yes, famine,' was the quiet answer. 'Strikes never yet brought nothing but misery in the end. Let me urge upon you all not to be led away. My voice is but a feeble one; but I think the Lord is sometimes pleased to show out things clearly to the aged, almost as with a gift of prophecy; and I could only come and beseech you to keep upon the straight-forrard path. Don't have anything to do with a strike; keep it away from you at arm's length, as you would keep away the evil one.' 'What's the good of listening to him?' cried Slippery Sam, in anger. 'He is in his dotage.' 'Will you listen to me then?' spoke up Peter Quale; 'I am not in mine. I didn't intend to come here, as may be guessed; but when I found so many of you bending your steps this way to listen to Slippery Sam, I thought it time to change my mind, and come and tell you what _I_ thought of strikes.' '_You!_' rudely replied Slippery Sam. 'A fellow like you, always in full work, earning the biggest wages, is sure not to favour strikes. You can't be much better off than you are.' 'That admission of yours is worth something, Slippery Sam, if there's any here have got the sense to see it,' nodded Peter Quale. 'Good workmen, on full wages, _don't_ favour strikes. I have rose up to what I am by sticking to my work patiently, and getting on step by step. It's open to every living man to get on as I have done, if he have got skill and pluck to work. But if I had done as you do, Sam, gone in for labour one day and for play two, and for drinking, and strikes, and rebellion, because money, which I was too lazy to work for didn't drop from the skies into my hands, then I should just have been where you be.' 'Is it right to keep a man grinding and sweating his life out for ten hours a-day?' retorted Sam. The masters would be as well off if we worked nine, and the surplus men would find employment.' 'It isn't much of your life that you sweat out, Sam Shuck,' rejoined Peter Quale, with a cough that especially provoked his antagonist. 'And, as to the masters being as well off, you had better ask them about that. Perhaps they'd tell you that to pay ten hours' wages for nine hours' work would be the hour's wage dead loss to their pockets.' 'Are you rascal enough to go in for the masters?' demanded Sam, in a fiery heat. 'Who'd do that, but a traitor?' 'I go in for myself, Sam,' equably responded Peter Quale. 'I know on which side my bread's buttered. No skilful workman, possessed of prudent thought and judgment, ever yet went blindfold into a strike. At least, not many such.' Up rose Robert Darby. 'I'd just say a word, if I can get my meaning out, but I'm not cute with the tongue. It seems to me, mates, that it would be a great boon if we could obtain the granting of the nine hours' movement; and perhaps in the end it would not affect the masters, for they'd get it out of the public. I'd agitate for this in a peaceful way, in the shape of reason and argument, and do my best in that way to get it. But I'd not like, as Peter Quale says, to plunge blindfold into a strike.' 'I look at it in this light, Darby,' said Peter Quale, 'and it seems to me it's the only light as 'll answer to look at it in. Things in this world are estimated by comparison. There ain't nothing large nor small _in itself_. I may say, this chair's big: well, so it is, if you match it by that there bit of a stool in the chimbley corner; but it's very small if you put it by the side of a omnibus, or of one of the sheds in our yard. Now, if you compare our wages with those of workmen in most other trades, they are large. Look at a farm labourer, poor fellow, with his ten shillings (more or less) a-week, hardly keeping body and soul together. Look at what a man earns in the malting districts in the country; fifteen shillings and his beer, is reckoned good wages. Look at a policeman, with his pound a-week. Look at a postman. Look at----' 'Look at ourselves,' intemperately interrupted Jim Dunn. 'What's other folks to us? We work hard, and we ought to be paid according.' 'So I think we are,' said Peter Quale. 'Thirty-three shillings is _not_ bad wages, and it is only a delusion to say it is. Neither is ten hours a-day an unfair or oppressive time to work. I'd be as glad as anybody to have the hour took off, if it could be done pleasantly; but I am not going to put myself out of work and into trouble to stand out for it. It's a thing that I am convinced the masters never will give; and if Pollock's men strike for it, they'll do it against their own interests----' Hisses, and murmurs of disapprobation from various parts of the room, interrupted Peter Quale. 'You'd better wait and understand, afore you begin to hiss,' phlegmatically recommended Peter Quale, when the noise had subsided. 'I say it will be against their interests to strike, because, I think, if they stop on strike for twelve months, they'll be no nearer getting their end. I may be wrong, but that's my opinion. There's always two sides to a question--our own, and the opposite one; and the great fault in most folks is, that they look only at their own side, and it causes them to see things in a partial view. I have looked as fair as I can at our own side, trying to put away my bias _for it_; and I have put myself in thought on the master's side, asking myself, what would _I_ do, were I one of them. Thus I have tried to judge between them and us, and the conclusion I have drawed is, that they won't give in.' 'The masters have been brought to grant demands more unreasonable than this,' rejoined Sam Shuck. 'If you know anything about back strikes, you must know that, Quale.' 'And that's one of the reasons why I argue they won't grant this,' said Peter. 'If they go on granting and granting, they may get asking themselves where the demands 'll stop.' 'Let us go back to 1833,' spoke up old White again, and the man's age and venerable aspect caused him to be listened to with respect. 'I was then working in Manchester, and belonged to the Trades' Union; a powerful Union as ever was formed. In our strength, we thought we should like a thing or two altered, and we made a formal demand upon the master builders, requiring them to discontinue the erection of buildings on sub-contracts. The masters fell in with it. You'll understand, friends,' he broke off to say, 'that, looking at things now, and looking at 'em then, is just as if I saw 'em in two opposite aspects. Next, we gave out a set of various rules for the masters, and required them to abide by such--about the making of the wages equal; the number of apprentices they should take; the machinery they should or should not use, and other things. Well, the masters gave us that also, and it put us all cock-a-hoop, and we went on to dictate to 'em more and more. If they--the masters--broke any of our rules, we levied fines on 'em, and made 'em pay up; we ordered them before us at our meetings, found fault with 'em, commanded 'em to obey us, to take on such men as we pointed out, and to turn off others; in short, forced 'em to do as we chose. People might have thought that we was the masters and they the operatives. Pretty well, that, wasn't it?' The room nodded acquiescence. Slippery Sam snapped his fingers in delight. 'The worst was, it did not last,' resumed the old man. 'Like too many other folks emboldened with success, we wasn't content to let well alone, but went on a bit too far. The masters took up their own defence at last; and the wonder to me now, looking back, is, that they didn't do it before. They formed themselves into a Union, and passed a resolve to employ no man unless he signed a pledge not to belong to a Trades' Union. Then we all turned out. Six months the strike was on, and the buildings was at a standstill, and us out of work.' 'Were wages bad at that time?' inquired Robert Darby. 'No. The good workmen among us had been earning in the summer thirty-five shillings a-week; and the bricklayers had just had a rise of three shillings. We was just fools: that's my opinion of it now. Awful misery we were reduced to. Every stick we had went to the pawn-shop; our wives was skin and bone, our children was in rags; and some of us just laid our heads down on the stones, clammed to death.' 'What was the trade in other places about, that it didn't help you?' indignantly demanded Sam Shuck. 'They did help us. Money to the tune of eighteen thousand pounds came to us; but we was a large body--many mouths to feed, and the strike was prolonged. We had to come-to at last, for the masters wouldn't; and we voted our combination a nuisance, and went humbly to 'em, like dogs with their tails between their legs, and craved to be took on again upon their own terms. But we couldn't get took back; not all of us: the masters had learnt a lesson. They had got machinery to work, and had collected workmen from other parts, so that we was not wanted. And that's all the good the strike brought to us! I came away on the tramp with my family, and got work in London after a deal of struggle and privation: and I made a vow never to belong willingly to a strike again.' 'Do you see where the fault lay in that case?--the blame?--the whole gist of the evil?' The question came from a gentleman who had entered the room as old White was speaking. The men would have risen to salute him, but he signed to them to be still and cause no interruption--a tall, noble man, with calm, self-reliant countenance. 'It lay with the masters,' he resumed, nobody replying to him. 'Had those Manchester masters resisted the first demand of their men--a demand made in the insolence of power, not in need--and allowed them fully to understand that they were, and would be, masters, we should, I believe, have heard less of strikes since, than we have done. I never think of those Manchester masters but my blood boils. When a principal suffers himself to be dictated to by his men, he is no longer a master, or worthy of the name.' 'Had you been one of them, and not complied, you might have come to ruin, sir,' cried Robert Darby. 'There's a deal to be said on both sides.' 'Ruin!' was the answer. 'I never would have conceded an inch, though I had known that I must end my days in the workhouse through not doing it.' 'Of course, sir, you'd stand up for the masters, being hand in glove with 'em, and likely to be a master yourself,' grumbled Sam Shuck, a touch of irony in his tone. 'I should stand up for whichever side I deemed in the right, whether it was the masters' or the men's,' was the emphatic answer. 'Is it well--is it in accordance with the fitness of things, that a master should be under the control of his men? Come! I ask it of your common sense.' 'No.' It was readily acknowledged. 'Those Manchester masters and those Manchester operatives were upon a par as regards shame and blame.' 'Sir! Shame and blame?' 'They were upon a par as regards shame and blame,' was the decisive repetition; 'and I make no doubt that both equally deemed themselves to have been so, when they found their senses. The masters came to them: the men were brought to theirs.' 'You speak strongly, sir.' 'Because I feel strongly. When I become a master, I shall, if I know anything of myself, have my men's interest at heart; but none of them shall ever presume to dictate to me. If a master cannot exercise his own authority in firm self-reliance, let him give up business.' 'Have masters a right to oppress us, sir?--to grind us down?--to work us into our coffins?' cried Sam Shuck. The gentleman raised his eyebrows, and a half smile crossed his lips. 'Since when have you been oppressed, and ground down into your coffins?' Some of the men laughed--at Sam's oily tongue. 'If you _are_--if you have any complaint of that sort to make, let me hear it now, and I will convey it to Mr. Hunter. He is ever ready, you know, to----What do you say, Shuck? The nine hours' concession is all you want? If you can get the masters to give you ten hours' pay for nine hours' work, so much the better for you. _I_ would not: but it is no affair of mine. To be paid what you honestly earn, be it five pounds per week or be it one, is only justice; but to be paid for what you don't earn, is the opposite thing. I think, too, that the equalization of wages is a mistaken system, quite wrong in principle: one which can bring only discontent in the long run. Let me repeat that with emphasis--the equalization of wages, should it ever take place, can bring only discontent in the long run.' There was a pause. No one spoke, and the speaker resumed-- 'I conclude you have met here to discuss this agitation at the Messrs. Pollocks?' Pollocks' men are a-going to strike,' said Slippery Sam. 'Oh, they are, are they?' returned the gentleman, some mockery in his tone. 'I hope they may find it to their benefit. I don't know what the Messrs. Pollocks may do in the matter; but I know what I should.' 'You'd hold out to the last against the men?' 'I should; to the last and the last: were it for ten years to come. Force a measure upon _me_! coerce _me_!' he reiterated, drawing his fine form to its full height, while the red flush mantled in his cheeks. 'No, my men, I am not made of that yielding stuff. Only let me be persuaded that my judgment is right, and no body of men on earth should force me to act against it.' The speaker was Austin Clay, as I daresay you have already guessed. He had not gone to the meeting to interrupt it, or to take part in it, but in search of Peter Quale. Hearing from Mrs. Quale that her husband was at the Bricklayers' Arms--a rare occurrence, for Peter was not one who favoured public-houses--Austin went thither in search of him, and so found himself in the midst of the meeting. His business with Peter related to certain orders he required to give for the early morning. Once there, however, the temptation to have his say was too great to be resisted. That over, he went out, making a sign to the man to follow him. 'What are those men about to rush into, Quale?' he demanded, when his own matter was over. 'Ah, what indeed?' returned the man. 'If they do get led into a strike, they'll repent it, some of them.' 'You are not one of the malcontents, then?' 'I?' retorted Peter, utter scorn in his tone. 'No, sir. There's a proverb which I learnt years ago from an old book as was lent me, and I've not forgotten it, sir--"Let well alone." But you must not think all the men you saw sitting there be discontented agitators, Mr. Clay. It's only Shuck and a few of that stamp. The rest be as steady and cautious as I am.' 'If they don't get led away,' replied Austin Clay, and his voice betrayed a dubious tone. 'Slippery Sam, in spite of his loose qualifications, is a ringleader more persuasive than prudent. Hark! he is at it again, hammer and tongs. Are you going back to them?' 'No, sir. I shall go home now.' 'We will walk together, then,' observed Austin. 'Afterwards I am going on to Mr. Hunter's.'[1] FOOTNOTE: [1] 'It need scarcely be remarked, that Sam Shuck and his followers represent only the ignorant and unprincipled section of those who engage in strikes. Working men are perfectly right in combining to seek the best terms they can get, both as to wages and time; provided there be no interference with the liberty either of masters or fellow-workmen.--_Ed._ L. H., February, 1862.' CHAPTER II. CALLED TO KETTERFORD. Austin Clay was not mistaken. Rid of Peter Quale, who was a worse enemy of Sam's schemes than even old White, Sam had it nearly his own way, and went at it 'hammer and tongs.' He poured his eloquent words into the men's ears--and Sam, as you have heard, really did possess the gift of eloquence: of a rough and rude sort: but that tells well with the class now gathered round him. He brought forth argument upon argument, fallacious as they were plausible; he told the men it depended upon _them_, whether the boon they were standing out for should be accorded, not upon the masters. Not that Sam called it a boon; he spoke of it as a _right_. Let them only be firm and true to themselves, he said, and the masters must give in: there was no help for it, they would have no other resource. Sam finally concluded by demanding, with fierce looks all round, whether they were men, or whether they were slaves, and the men answered, with a cheer and a shout, that Britons never should be slaves: and the meeting broke up in excitement and glorious spirits, and went home elated, some with the anticipation of the fine time that was dawning for them, others with having consumed a little too much half-and-half. Slippery Sam reeled away to his home. A dozen or so attended him, listening to his oratory, which was continued still: though not exactly to the gratification of Daffodil's Delight, who were hushing their unruly babies to sleep, or striving to get to sleep themselves. Much Sam cared whom he disturbed! He went along, flinging his arms and his words at random--inflammatory words, carrying poisoned shafts that told. If somebody came down upon you and upon me, telling us that, with a little exertion on our part, we should inevitably drop into a thousand a year, and showing plausible cause for the same, should we turn a deaf ear? The men shook hands individually with Slippery Sam, and left him propped against his own door; for Sam, with all deference be it spoken, was a little overcome himself--with the talking, of course. Sam's better half greeted him with a shrill tongue: she and Mrs. Dunn might be paired in that respect! and Sam's children, some in the bed in the corner, some sitting up, greeted him with a shrill cry also, clamouring for a very common-place article, indeed--'some _bread_!' Sam's family seemed inconveniently to increase; for the less there appeared to be to welcome them with, the surer and faster they arrived. Thirteen Sam could number now; but several of the elder ones were out in the world 'doing for themselves'--getting on, or starving, as it might happen to be. 'You old sot! you have been at that drinking-can again,' were Mrs. Sam's words of salutation; and I wish I could soften them down to refinement for polite ears; but if you are to have the truth, you must take them as they were spoken. 'Drinking-can!' echoed Sam, who was in too high glee to lose his temper, 'never mind the drinking-can, missis: my fortian's made. I drawed together that meeting, as I telled ye I should,' he added, discarding his scholarly eloquence for the familiar home phraseology, 'and they come to it, every man jack on 'em, save thin-skinned Baxendale upstairs. Never was such a full meeting knowed in Daffodil's Delight.' 'Who cares for the meeting!' irascibly responded Mrs. Sam. 'What we wants is, some'at to fill our insides with. Don't come bothering home here about a meeting, when the children be a starving. If you'd work more and talk less, it 'ud become ye better.' 'I got the ear of the meeting,' said Sam, braving the reproof with a provoking wink. 'A despicable set our men is, at Hunter's, a humdrumming on like slaves for ever, taking their paltry wages and making no stir. But I've put the brand among 'em at last, and sent 'em home all on fire, to dream of short work and good pay. Quale, he come, and put in his spoke again' it; and that wretched old skeleton of a White, what's been cheating the grave this ten year, he come, and put in his; and Mr. Austin Clay, he must thrust his nose among us, and talk treason to the men: but I think my tongue have circumvented the lot. If it haven't, my name's not Sam Shuck.' 'If you and your circumventions and your tongue was all at the bottom of the Thames, 'twouldn't be no loss, for all the good they does above it,' sobbed Mrs. Shuck, whose anger generally ended in tears. 'Here's me and the children a clemming for want o' bread, and you can waste your time over a idle good-for-nothing meeting. Ain't you ashamed, not to work as other men do?' 'Bread!' loftily returned Sam, with the air of a king, ''tisn't bread I shall soon be furnishing for you and the children: it's mutton chops. My fortian's made, I say.' 'Yah!' retorted Mrs. Sam. 'It have been made forty times in the last ten year, to listen to you. What good has ever come of the boast? I'd shut up my mouth if I couldn't talk sense.' Sam nodded his head oracularly, and entered upon an explanation. But for the fact of his being a little 'overcome'--whatever may have been its cause--he would have been more guarded. 'I've had overtures,' he said, bending forward his head and lowering his voice, 'and them overtures, which I accepted, will be the making of you and of me. Work!' he exclaimed, throwing his arms gracefully from him with a repelling gesture, 'I've done with work now; I'm superior to it; I'm exalted far above that lowering sort of toil. The leaders among the London Trade Union have recognised eloquence, ma'am, let me tell you; and they've made me one of their picked body--appointed me agitator to the firms of Hunter. "You get the meeting together, and prime 'em with the best of your eloquence, and excite 'em to recognise and agitate for their own rights, and you shall have your appointment, and a good round weekly salary." Well, Mrs. S., I did it. I got the men together, and I _have_ primed 'em, and some of 'em's a busting to go off; and all I've got to do from henceforth is to keep 'em up to the mark, by means of that tongue which you are so fond of disparaging, and to live like a gentleman. There's a trifling instalment of the first week's money.' Sam threw a sovereign on the table. Mrs. Shuck, with a grunt of disparagement still, darted forward to seize upon it through her tears. The children, uttering a wild shriek of wonder, delight, and disbelief, born of incipient famine, darted forward to seize it too. Sam burst into a fit of laughter, threw himself back to indulge it, and not being just then over steady on his legs, lost his equilibrium, and toppled over the fender into the ashes. Leaving Mrs. Shuck to pick him up, or to leave him there--which latter negative course was the one she would probably take--let us return to Austin Clay. At Peter Quale's gate he was standing a moment to speak to the man before proceeding onwards, when Mrs. Quale came running down the garden path. 'I was coming in search of you, sir,' she said to Austin Clay. 'This has just been brought, and the man made me sign my name to a paper.' Austin took what she held out to him--a telegraphic despatch. He opened it; read it; then in the prompt, decisive manner usual with him, requested Mrs. Quale to put him up a change of things in his portmanteau, which he would return for; and walked away with a rapid step. 'Whatever news is it that he has had?' cried Mrs. Quale, as she stood with her husband, looking after him. 'Where can he have been summoned to?' ''Tain't no business of ours,' retorted Peter; 'if it had been, he'd have enlightened us. Did you ever hear of that offer that's always pending?--Five hundred a year to anybody as 'll undertake to mind his own business, and leave other folks's alone.' Austin was on his way to Mr. Hunter's. A very frequent evening visitor there now, was he. But this evening he had an ostensible motive for going; a boon to crave. That alone may have made his footsteps fleet. In the soft twilight of the summer evening, in the room of their own house that opened to the conservatory, sat Florence Hunter--no longer the impulsive, charming, and somewhat troublesome child, but the young and lovely woman. Of middle height and graceful form, her face was one of great sweetness; the earnest, truthful spirit, the pure innocence, which had made its charm in youth, made it now: to look on Florence Hunter, was to love her. She appeared to be in deep thought, her cheek resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Some movement in the house aroused her, and she arose, shook her head, as if she would shake care away, and bent over a rare plant in the room's large opening, lightly touching the leaves. 'I fear that mamma is right, and I am wrong, pretty plant!' she murmured. 'I fear that you will die. Is it that this London, with its heavy atmosphere----' The knock of a visitor at the hall door resounded through the house. Did Florence _know_ the knock, that her voice should falter, and the soft pink in her cheeks should deepen to a glowing crimson? The room door opened, and a servant announced Mr. Clay. In that early railway journey when they first met, Florence had taken a predilection for Austin Clay. 'I like him so much!' had been her gratuitous announcement to her uncle Harry. The liking had ripened into an attachment, firm and lasting--a child's attachment: but Florence grew into a woman, and it could not remain such. Thrown much together, the feeling had changed, and love mutually arose: they fell into it unconsciously. Was it quite prudent of Mr. Hunter to sanction, nay, to court the frequent presence at his house of Austin Clay? Did he overlook the obvious fact, that he was one who possessed attractions, both of mind and person, and that Florence was now a woman grown? Or did Mr. Hunter deem that the social barrier, which he might assume existed between his daughter and his dependent, would effectually prevent all approach of danger? Mr. Hunter must himself account for the negligence: no one else can do it. It was certain that he did have Austin very much at his house, but it was equally certain that he never cast a thought to the possibility that his daughter might be learning to love him. The strange secret, whatever it may have been, attaching to Mr. Hunter, had shattered his health to that extent that for days together he would be unequal to go abroad or to attend to business. Then Austin, who acted as principal in the absence of Mr. Hunter, would arrive at the house when the day was over, to report progress, and take orders for the next day. Or, rather, consult with him what the orders should be; for in energy, in capability, Austin was now the master spirit, and Mr. Hunter bent to it. That over, he passed the rest of the evening in the society of Florence, conversing with her freely, confidentially; on literature, art, the news of the day; on topics of home interest; listening to her music, listening to her low voice, as she sang her songs; guiding her pencil. There they would be. He with his ready eloquence, his fund of information, his attractive manners, and his fine form, handsome in its height and strength; she with her sweet fascinations, her gentle loveliness. What could be the result? But, as is almost invariably the case, the last person to give a suspicion to it was he who positively looked on, and might have seen all--Mr. Hunter. Life, in the presence of the other, had become sweet to each as a summer's dream--a dream that had stolen over them ere they knew what it meant. But consciousness came with time. Very conscious of it were they both as he entered this evening. Austin took her hand in greeting; a hand always tremulous now in his. She bent again over the plant she was tending, her eyelids and her damask cheeks drooping. 'You are alone, Florence!' 'Just now. Mamma is very poorly this evening, and keeps her room. Papa was here a few minutes ago.' He released her hand, and stood looking at her, as she played with the petals of the flower. Not a word had Austin spoken of his love; not a word was he sure that he might speak. If he partially divined that it might be acceptable to her, he did not believe it would be to Mr. Hunter. 'The plant looks sickly,' he observed. 'Yes. It is one that thrives in cold and wind. It came from Scotland. Mamma feared this close London atmosphere would not suit it; but I said it looked so hardy, it would be sure to do well. Rather than it should die, I would send it back to its bleak home.' 'In tears, Florence? for the sake of a plant?' 'Not for that,' she answered, twinkling the moisture from her eyelashes, as she raised them to his with a brave smile. 'I was thinking of mamma; she appears to be fading rapidly, like the plant.' 'She may grow stronger when the heat of summer shall have passed.' Florence slightly shook her head, as if she could not share in the suggested hope. 'Mamma herself does not seem to think she shall, Austin. She has dropped ominous words more than once latterly. This afternoon I showed her the plant, that it was drooping. "Ay, my dear," she remarked, "it is like me--on the wane." And I think my uncle Bevary's opinion has become unfavourable.' It was a matter on which Austin could not urge hope, though, for the sake of tranquillizing Florence, he might suggest it, for he believed that Mrs. Hunter was fading rapidly. All these years she seemed to have been getting thinner and weaker; it was some malady connected with the spine, causing her at times great pain. Austin changed the subject. 'I hope Mr. Hunter will soon be in, Florence. I am come to ask for leave of absence.' 'Papa is not out; he is sitting with mamma. That is another reason why I fear danger for her. I think papa sees it; he is so solicitous for her comfort, so anxious to be with her, as if he would guard her from surprise or agitating topics. He will not suffer a visitor to enter at hazard; he will not let a note be given her until he has first seen it.' 'But he has long been thus anxious,' replied Austin, who was aware that what she spoke of had lasted for years. 'I know. But still, latterly--however, I must hope against hope,' broke off Florence. 'I think I do: hope is certainly a very strong ingredient in my nature, for I cannot realize the parting with my dear mother. Did you say you have come for leave of absence? Where is it that you wish to go?' 'I have had a telegraphic despatch from Ketterford,' he replied, taking it from his pocket. 'My good old friend, Mrs. Thornimett, is dying, and I must hasten thither with all speed.' 'Oh!' uttered Florence, almost reproachfully. 'And you are wasting the time with me!' 'Not so. The first train that goes there does not start for an hour yet, and I can get to Paddington in half of one. The news has grieved me much. The last time I was at Ketterford--you may remember it--Mrs. Thornimett was so very well, exhibiting no symptoms whatever of decay.' 'I remember it,' answered Florence. 'It is two years ago. You stayed a whole fortnight with her.' 'And had a battle with her to get away then,' said Austin, smiling with the reminiscence, or with Florence's word 'whole'--a suggestive word, spoken in that sense. 'She wished me to remain longer. I wonder what illness can have stricken her? It must have been sudden.' 'What is the relationship between you?' 'A distant one. She and my mother were second cousins. If I----' Austin was stopped by the entrance of Mr. Hunter. _So_ changed, _so_ bent and bowed, since you, reader, last saw him! The stout, upright figure had grown thin and stooping, the fine dark hair was grey, the once calm, self-reliant face was worn and haggard. Nor was that all; there was a constant _restlessness_ in his manner and in the turn of his eye, giving a spectator the idea that he lived in a state of ever-present, perpetual fear. Austin put the telegraphic message in his hand. 'It is an inconvenient time, I know, sir, for me to be away, busy as we are, and with this agitation rising amongst the men; but I cannot help myself. I will return as soon as it is possible.' Mr. Hunter did not hear the words. His eyes had fallen on the word 'Ketterford,' in the despatch, and that seemed to scare away his senses. His hands shook as he held the paper, and for a few moments he appeared incapable of collected thought, of understanding anything. Austin exclaimed again. 'Oh, yes, yes, it is only--it is Mrs. Thornimett who is ill, and wants you--I comprehend now.' He spoke in an incoherent manner, and with a sigh of the most intense relief. 'I--I--saw the word "dying," and it startled me,' he proceeded, as if anxious to account for his agitation. 'You can go, Austin; you must go. Remain a few days there--a week, if you find it necessary.' 'Thank you, sir. I will say farewell now, then.' He shook hands with Mr. Hunter, turned to Florence, and took hers. 'Remember me to Mrs. Hunter,' he said in a low tone, which, in spite of himself, betrayed its own tenderness, 'and tell her I hope to find her better on my return.' A few paces from the house, as he went out, Austin encountered Dr. Bevary. 'Is she much worse?' he exclaimed to Austin, in a hasty tone. 'Is who much worse, doctor?' 'Mrs. Hunter. I have just had a message from her.' 'Not very much, I fancy. Florence said her mamma was poorly this evening. I am off to Ketterford, doctor, for a few days.' 'To Ketterford!' replied Dr. Bevary, with an emphasis that showed the news had startled him. 'What are you going there for? For--for Mr. Hunter?' 'For myself,' said Austin. 'A good old friend is ill--dying, the message says--and has telegraphed for me.' The physician looked at him searchingly. 'Do you speak of Miss Gwinn?' 'I should not call her a friend,' replied Austin. 'I allude to Mrs. Thornimett.' 'A pleasant journey to you, then. And, Clay, steer clear of those Gwinns; they would bring you no good.' It was in the dawn of the early morning that Austin entered Ketterford. He did not let the grass grow under his feet between the railway terminus and Mrs. Thornimett's, though he was somewhat dubious about disturbing the house. If she was really 'dying,' it might be well that he should do so; if only suffering from a severe illness, it might not be expected of him; and the wording of the message had been ambiguous, leaving it an open question. As he drew within view of the house, however, it exhibited signs of bustle; lights not yet put out in the dawn, might be discerned through some of the curtained windows, and a woman, having much the appearance of a nurse, was coming out at the door, halting on the threshold a moment to hold converse with one within. 'Can you tell me how Mrs. Thornimett is?' inquired Austin, addressing himself to her. The woman shook her head. 'She is gone, sir. Not more than an hour ago.' Sarah, the old servant whom we have seen before at Mrs. Thornimett's, came forward, weeping. 'Oh, Mr. Austin! oh, sir: why could not you get here sooner?' 'How could I, Sarah?' was his reply. 'I received the message only last evening, and came off by the first train that started.' 'I'd have took a engine to myself, and rode upon its chimbley, but what I'd have got here in time,' retorted Sarah. 'Twice in the very last half hour of her life she asked after you. "Isn't Austin come?" "Isn't he yet come?" My dear old mistress!' 'Why was I not sent for before?' he asked, in return. 'Because we never thought it was turning serious,' sobbed Sarah. 'She caught cold some days ago, and it flew to her throat, or her chest, I hardly know which. The doctor was called in; and it's my belief _he_ didn't know: the doctors nowadays bain't worth half what they used to be, and they call things by fine names that nobody can understand. However it may have been, nobody saw any danger, neither him nor us. But at mid-day yesterday there was a change, and the doctor said he'd like further advice to be brought in. And it was had; but they could not do her any good; and she, poor dear mistress, was the first to say that she was dying. "Send for Austin," she said to me; and one of the gentlemen, he went to the wire telegraph place, and wrote the message.' Austin made no rejoinder: he seemed to be swallowing down a lump in his throat. Sarah resumed. 'Will you see her, sir? She is just laid out.' He nodded acquiescence, and the servant led the way to the death chamber. It had been put straight, so to remain until all that was left of its many years' occupant should be removed. She lay on the bed in placid stillness; her eyes closed, her pale face calm, a smile upon it; the calm of a spirit at peace with heaven. Austin leaned over her, losing himself in solemn thoughts. Whither had the spirit flown? to what bright unknown world? Had it found the company of sister spirits? had it seen, face to face, its loving Saviour? Oh! what mattered now the few fleeting trials of this life that had passed over her! how worse than unimportant did they seem by the side of death! A little, more or less, of care; a lot, where shade or sunshine shall have predominated; a few friends gained or lost; struggle, toil, hope--all must merge in the last rest. It was over; earth, with its troubles and its petty cares, with its joys and sorrows, and its 'goods stored up for many years;' as completely over for Mary Thornimett, as though it had never, been. In the higher realms whither her spirit had hastened---- 'I told Mrs. Dubbs to knock up the undertaker, and desire him to come here at once and take the measure for the coffin.' Sarah's interruption recalled Austin to the world. It is impossible, even in a death-chamber, to run away from the ordinary duties of daily life. CHAPTER III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS. 'You will stay for the funeral, Mr. Clay?' 'It is my intention to do so.' 'Good. Being interested in the will, it may be agreeable to you to hear it read.' 'Am I interested?' inquired Austin, in some surprise. 'Why, of course you are,' replied Mr. Knapley, the legal gentleman with whom Austin was speaking, and who had the conduct of Mrs. Thornimett's affairs. 'Did you never know that you were a considerable legatee?' 'I did not,' said Austin. 'Some years ago--it was at the death of Mr. Thornimett--Mrs. Thornimett hinted to me that I might be the better some time for a trifle from her. But she has never alluded to it since: and I have not reckoned upon it.' 'Then I can tell you--though it is revealing secrets beforehand--that you are the better to the tune of two thousand pounds.' 'Two thousand pounds!' uttered Austin, in sheer amazement. 'How came she to leave me so much as that?' 'Do you quarrel with it, young sir?' 'No, indeed: I feel all possible gratitude. But I am surprised, nevertheless.' 'She was a clever, clear-sighted woman, was Mrs. Thornimett,' observed the lawyer. 'I'll tell you about it--how it is you come to have so much. When I was taking directions for Mr. Thornimett's will--more than ten years back now--a discussion arose between him and his wife as to the propriety of leaving a sum of money to Austin Clay. A thousand pounds was the amount named. Mr. Thornimett was for leaving you in his wife's hands, to let her bequeath it to you at her death; Mrs. Thornimett wished it should be left to you then, in the will I was about to make, that you might inherit it on the demise of Mr. Thornimett. He took his own course, and did _not_ leave it, as you are aware.' 'I did not expect him to leave me anything,' interrupted Austin. 'My young friend, if you break in with these remarks, I shall not get to the end of my story. After her husband's burial, Mrs. Thornimett spoke to me. "I particularly wished the thousand pounds left now to Austin Clay," she said, "and I shall appropriate it to him at once." "Appropriate it in what manner?" I asked her. "I should like to put it out to interest, that it may be accumulating for him," she replied, "so that at my death he may receive both principal and interest." "Then, if you live as long as it is to be hoped you will, madam, you may be bequeathing him two thousand pounds instead of one," I observed to her. "Mr. Knapley," was her answer, "if I choose to bequeath him three, it is my own money that I do it with; and I am responsible to no one." She had taken my remark to be one of remonstrance, you see, in which spirit it was not made: had Mrs. Thornimett chosen to leave you the whole of her money she had been welcome to do it for me. "Can you help me to a safe investment for him?" she resumed; and I promised to look about for it. The long and the short of it is, Mr. Clay, that I found both a safe and a profitable investment, and the one thousand pounds _has_ swollen itself into two--as you will hear when the will is read.' 'I am truly obliged for her kindness, and for the trouble you have taken,' exclaimed Austin, with a glowing colour. 'I never thought to get rich all at once.' 'You only be prudent and take care of it,' said Mr. Knapley. 'Be as wise in its use as I and Mrs. Thornimett have been. It is the best advice I can give you.' 'It is good advice, I know, and I thank you for it,' warmly responded Austin. 'Ay. I can tell you that less than two thousand pounds has laid the foundation of many a great fortune.' To a young man whose salary is only two hundred a year, the unexpected accession to two thousand pounds, hard cash, seems like a great fortune. Not that Austin Clay cared so very much for a 'great fortune' in itself; but he certainly did hope to achieve a competency, and to this end he made the best use of the talents bestowed upon him. He was not ambitious to die 'worth a million;' he had the rare good sense to know that excess of means cannot bring excess of happiness. The richest man on earth cannot eat two dinners a day, or wear two coats at a time, or sit two thoroughbred horses at once, or sleep on two beds. To some, riches are a source of continual trouble. Unless rightly used, they cannot draw a man to heaven, or help him on his road thither. Austin Clay's ambition lay in becoming a powerful man of business; such as were the Messrs. Hunter. He would like to have men under him, of whom he should be the master; not to control them with an iron hand, to grind them to the dust, to hold them at a haughty distance, as if they were of one species of humanity and he of another. No; he would hold intact their relative positions of master and servant--none more strictly than he; but he would be their considerate friend, their firm advocate, regardful ever of their interests as he was of his own. He would like to have capital sufficient for all necessary business operations, that he might fulfil every obligation justly and honourably: so far, money would be welcome to Austin. Very welcome did the two thousand pounds sound in his ears, for they might be the stepping-stone to this. Not to the 'great fortune' talked of by Mr. Knapley, who avowed freely his respect for millionaires: he did not care for that. They might also be a stepping-stone to something else--the very thought of which caused his face to glow and his veins to tingle--the winning of Florence Hunter. That he would win her, Austin fully believed now. On the day previous to the funeral, in walking through the streets of Ketterford, Austin found himself suddenly seized by the shoulder. A window had been thrown open, and a fair arm (to speak with the gallantry due to the sex in general, rather than to that one arm in particular) was pushed out and laid upon him. His captor was Miss Gwinn. 'Come in,' she briefly said. Austin would have been better pleased to avoid her, but as she had thus summarily caught him, there was no help for it: to enter into a battle of contention with _her_ might be productive of neither honour nor profit. He entered her sitting-room, and she motioned him to a chair. 'So you did not intend to call upon me during your stay in Ketterford, Austin Clay?' 'The melancholy occasion on which I am here precludes much visiting,' was his guarded reply. 'And my sojourn will be a short one.' 'Don't be a hypocrite, young man, and use those unmeaning words. "Melancholy occasion!" What did you care for Mrs. Thornimett, that her death should make you "melancholy?"' 'Mrs. Thornimett was my dear and valued friend,' he returned, with an emotion born of anger. 'There are few, living, whom I would not rather have spared. I shall never cease to regret the not having arrived in time to see her before she died.' Miss Gwinn peered at him from her keen eyes, as if seeking to know whether this was false or true. Possibly she decided in favour of the latter, for her face somewhat relaxed its sternness. 'What has Dr. Bevary told you of me and of my affairs?' she rejoined, passing abruptly to another subject. 'Not anything,' replied Austin. He did not lift his eyes, and a scarlet flush dyed his brow as he spoke; nevertheless it was the strict truth. Miss Gwinn noted the signs of consciousness. 'You can equivocate, I see.' 'Pardon me. I have not equivocated to you. Dr. Bevary has disclosed nothing; he has never spoken to me of your affairs. Why should he, Miss Gwinn?' 'Your face told a different tale.' 'It did not tell an untruth, at any rate,' he said, with some hauteur. 'Do you never see Dr. Bevary?' 'I see him sometimes.' 'At the house of Mr. Hunter, I presume. How is _she_?' Again the flush, whatever may have called it up, crimsoned Austin Clay's brow. 'I do not know of whom you speak,' he coldly said. 'Of Mrs. Hunter.' 'She is in ill-health.' 'Ill to be in danger of her life? I hear so.' 'It may be. I cannot say.' 'Do you know, Austin Clay, that I have a long, long account to settle with you?' she resumed, after a pause: 'years and years have elapsed since, and I have never called upon you for it. Why should I?' she added, relapsing into a dreamy mood, and speaking to herself rather than to Austin; 'the mischief was done, and could not be recalled. I once addressed a brief note to you at the office of the Messrs. Hunter, requesting you to give a letter, enclosed in it, to my brother. Why did you not?' Austin was silent. He retained only too vivid a remembrance of the fact. 'Why did you not give it him, I ask?' 'I could not give it him, Miss Gwinn. When your letter reached me, your brother had already been at the office of the Messrs. Hunter, and was then on his road back to Ketterford. The enclosure was burnt unopened.' 'Ay!' she passionately uttered, throwing her arms upwards in mental pain, as Austin had seen her do in the days gone by, and holding commune with herself, regardless of his presence, 'such has been my fate through life. Thwarted, thwarted on all sides. For years and years I had lived but in the hope of finding him; the hope of it kept life in me: and when the time came, and I did find him, and was entering upon my revenge, then this brother of mine, who has been the second bane of my existence, stepped in and reaped the benefit. It was my fault. Why, in my exultation, did I tell him the man was found? Did I not know enough of his avarice, his needs, to have made sure that he would turn it to his own account? Why,' she continued, battling with her hands as at some invisible adversary, 'was I born with this strong principle of justice within me? Why, because he stepped in with his false claims and drew gold--a fortune--of the man, did I deem it a reason for dropping _my_ revenge?--for letting it rest in abeyance? In abeyance it is still; and its unsatisfied claims are wearing out my heart and my life----' 'Miss Gwinn,' interrupted Austin, at length, 'I fancy you forget that I am present. Your family affairs have nothing to do with me, and I would prefer not to hear anything about them. I will wish you good day.' 'True. They have nothing to do with you. I know not why I spoke before you, save that your sight angers me.' 'Why so?' Austin could not forbear asking. 'Because you live on terms of friendship with that man. You are as his right hand in business; you are a welcome guest at his house; you regard and respect the house's mistress. Boy! but that she has not wilfully injured me; but that she is the sister of Dr. Bevary, I should----' 'I cannot listen to any discussion involving the name of Hunter,' spoke Austin, in a repellant, resolute tone, the colour again flaming in his cheeks. 'Allow me to bid you good day.' 'Stay,' she resumed, in a softer tone, 'it is not with you personally that I am angry----' An interruption came in the person of Lawyer Gwinn. He entered the room without his coat, a pen behind each ear, and a dirty straw hat on his head. It was probably his office attire in warm weather. 'I thought I heard a strange voice. How do you do, Mr. Clay?' he exclaimed, with much suavity. Austin bowed. He said something to the effect that he was on the point of departing, and retreated to the door, bowing his final farewell to Miss Gwinn. Mr. Gwinn followed. 'Ketterford will have to congratulate you, Mr. Clay,' he said. 'I understand you inherit a very handsome sum from Mrs. Thornimett.' 'Indeed!' frigidly replied Austin. 'Mrs. Thornimett's will is not yet read. But Ketterford always knows everybody's business better than its own.' 'Look you, my dear Mr. Clay,' said the lawyer, holding him by the button-hole. 'Should you require a most advantageous investment for your money--one that will turn you in cent. per cent. and no risk--I can help you to one. Should your inheritance be of the value of a thousand pounds, and you would like to double it--as all men, of course, do like--just trust it to me; I have the very thing now open.' Austin shook himself free--rather too much in the manner that he might have shaken himself from a serpent. 'Whether my inheritance may be of the value of one thousand pounds or of ten thousand, Mr. Gwinn, I shall not require your services in the disposal of it. Good morning.' The lawyer looked after him as he strode away. 'So, you carry it with a high hand to me, do you, my brave gentleman! with your vain person, and your fine clothes, and your imperious manner! Take you care! I hold your master under my thumb; I may next hold you!' 'The vile hypocrite!' ejaculated Austin to himself, walking all the faster to leave the lawyer's house behind him. 'She is bad enough, with her hankering after revenge, and her fits of passion; but she is an angel of light compared to him. Heaven help Mr. Hunter! It would have been sufficient to have had _her_ to fight, but to have _him_! Ay, Heaven help him!' 'How d'ye do, Mr. Clay?' Austin returned the nod of the passing acquaintance, and continued his way, his thoughts reverting to Miss Gwinn. 'Poor thing! there are times when I pity her! Incomprehensible as the story is to me, I can feel compassion; for it was a heavy wrong done her, looking at it in the best light. She is not all bad; but for the wrong, and for her evil temper, she might have been different. There is something good in the hint I gathered now from her lips, if it be true--that she suffered her own revenge to drop into abeyance, because her brother had pursued Mr. Hunter to drain money from him: she would not go upon him in both ways. Yes, there was something in it both noble and generous, if those terms can ever be applied to----' 'Austin Clay, I am sure! How are you?' Austin resigned his hand to the new comer, who claimed it. His thoughts could not be his own to-day. The funeral of Mrs. Thornimett took place. Her mortal remains were laid beside her husband, there to repose peacefully until the last trump shall sound. On the return of the mourners to the house, the will was read, and Austin found himself the undoubted possessor of two thousand pounds. Several little treasures, in the shape of books, drawings, and home knicknacks, were also left to him. He saw after the packing of these, and the day following the funeral he returned to London. It was evening when he arrived; and he proceeded without delay to the house of Mr. Hunter--ostensibly to report himself, really to obtain a sight of Florence, for which his tired heart was yearning. The drawing-room was lighted up, by which he judged that they had friends with them. Mr. Hunter met him in the hall: never did a visitor's knock sound at his door but Mr. Hunter, in his nervous restlessness, strove to watch who it might be that entered. Seeing Austin, his face acquired a shade of brightness, and he came forward with an outstretched hand. 'But you have visitors,' Austin said, when greetings were over, and Mr. Hunter was drawing him towards the stairs. He wore deep mourning, but was not in evening dress. 'As if anybody will care for the cut of your coat!' cried Mr. Hunter. 'There's Mrs. Hunter wrapped up in a woollen shawl.' The room was gay with light and dress, with many voices, and with music. Florence was seated at the piano, playing, and singing in a glee with others. Austin, silently greeting those whom he knew as he passed, made his way to Mrs. Hunter. She was wrapped in a warm shawl, as her husband had said; but she appeared better than usual. 'I am so glad to see you looking well,' Austin whispered, his earnest tone betraying deep feeling. 'And I am glad to see you here again,' she replied, smiling, as she held his hand. 'We have missed you, Austin. Yes, I feel better! but it is only a temporary improvement. So you have lost poor Mrs. Thornimett. She died before you could reach her.' 'She did,' replied Austin, with a grave face. 'I wish we could get transported to places, in case of necessity as quickly as the telegraph brings us news that we are wanted. A senseless and idle wish, you will say; but it would have served me in this case. She asked after me twice in her last half hour.' 'Austin,' breathed Mrs. Hunter, 'was it a happy death-bed? Was she ready to go?' 'Quite, quite,' he answered, a look of enthusiasm illumining his face. 'She had been ready long.' 'Then we need not mourn for her; rather praise God that she is taken. Oh, Austin, what a happy thing it must be for such to die! But you are young and hopeful; you cannot understand that, yet.' So, Mrs. Hunter had learnt that great truth! Some years before, she had not so spoken to the wife of John Baxendale, when _she_ was waiting in daily expectation of being called on her journey. It had come to her ere her time of trial--as the dying woman had told her it would. The singing ceased, and in the movement which it occasioned in the room, Austin left Mrs. Hunter's side, and stood within the embrasure of the window, half hidden by the curtains. The air was pleasant on that warm summer night, and Florence, resigning her place at the instrument to some other lady, stole to the window to inhale its freshness. There she saw Austin. She had not heard him enter the room--did not know, in fact, that he was back from Ketterford. 'Oh!' she uttered, in the sudden revulsion of feeling that the sight brought to her, 'is it you?' He quietly took her hands in his, and looked down at her. Had it been to save her life, she could not have helped betraying emotion. 'Are you glad to see me, Florence?' he softly whispered. She coloured even to tears. Glad! The time might come when she should be able to tell him so; but that time was not yet. 'Mrs. Hunter is glad of my return,' he continued, in the same low tone, sweeter to her ear than all music. 'She says I have been missed. Is it so, Florence?' 'And what have you been doing?' asked Florence, not knowing in the least what she said in her confusion, as she left his question unanswered, and drew her hands away from him. 'I have not been doing much, save the seeing a dear old friend laid in the earth. You know that Mrs. Thornimett is dead. She died before I got there.' 'Papa told us that. He heard from you two or three times, I think. How you must regret it! But why did they not send for you in time?' 'It was only the last day that danger was apprehended,' replied Austin. 'She grew worse suddenly. You cannot think, Florence, how strangely this gaiety'--he half turned to the room--'contrasts with the scenes I have left: the holy calm of her death-chamber, the laying of her in the grave.' 'An unwelcome contrast, I am sure it must be.' 'It jars on the mind. All events, essentially of the world, let them be ever so necessary or useful, must do so, when contrasted with the solemn scenes of life's close. But how soon we forget those solemn scenes, and live in the world again!' 'Austin,' she gently whispered, 'I do not like to talk of death. It reminds me of the dread that is ever oppressing me.' 'She looks so much better as to surprise me,' was his answer, unconscious that it betrayed his undoubted cognisance of the 'dread' she spoke of. 'If it would but last!' sighed Florence. 'To prolong mamma's life, I think I would sacrifice mine.' 'No, you would not, Florence--in mercy to her. If called upon to lose her you would grow reconciled to it; to do so, is in the order of nature. _She_ could not spare _you_.' Florence believed that she never could grow reconciled to it: she often wondered _how_ she should bear it when the time came. But there rose up before her now, as she spoke with Austin, one cheering promise, 'As thy day is, so shall thy strength be.' 'What should you say, if I tell you I have come into a fortune!' resumed Austin, in a lighter tone. 'I should say--But, is it true?' broke off Florence. 'Not true, as you and Mr. Hunter would count fortunes,' smiled Austin; 'but true, as poor I, born without silver spoons in my mouth, and expecting to work hard for all I shall ever possess, have looked upon them. Mrs. Thornimett has behaved to me most kindly, most generously; she has bequeathed to me two thousand pounds.' 'I am delighted to hear it,' said Florence, her glad eyes sparkling. 'Never call yourself poor again.' 'I cannot call myself rich, as Mr. and Mrs. Hunter compute riches. But, Florence, it may be a stepping-stone to become so.' 'A stepping-stone to become what?' demanded Dr. Bevary, breaking in upon the conference. 'Rich,' said Austin, turning to the doctor. 'I am telling Florence that I have come into some money since I went away.' Mr. Hunter and others were gathering around them, and the conversation became general. 'What is that, Clay?' asked Mr. Hunter. 'You have come into a fortune, do you say?' 'I said, _not_ into a fortune, sir, as those accustomed to fortune would estimate it. That great physician, standing there and listening to me, he would laugh at the sum: I daresay he makes more in six months. But it may prove a stepping-stone to fortune, and to--to other desirable things.' 'Do not speak so vaguely,' cried the doctor, in his quaint fashion. 'Define the "desirable things." Come! it's my turn now.' 'I am not sure that they have taken a sufficiently tangible shape as yet, to be defined,' returned Austin, in the same tone. 'You might laugh at them for day-dreams.' Unwittingly his eye rested for a moment upon Florence. Did she deem the day-dreams might refer to her, that her eye-lids should droop, and her cheeks turn scarlet? Dr. Bevary noticed both the look and the signs; Mr. Hunter saw neither. 'Day-dreams would be enchanting as an eastern fairy-tale, only that they never get realized,' interposed one of the fair guests, with a pretty simper, directed to Austin Clay and his attractions. 'I will realize mine,' he returned, rather too confidently, 'Heaven helping me!' 'A better stepping-stone, that help, to rely upon, than the money you have come into,' said Dr. Bevary, with one of his peculiar nods. 'True, doctor,' replied Austin. 'But may not the money have come from the same helping source? Heaven, you know, vouchsafes to work with humble instruments.' The last few sentences had been interchanged in a low tone. They now passed into the general circle, and the evening went on to its close. Austin and Dr. Bevary were the last to leave the house. They quitted it together, and the doctor passed his arm within Austin's as they walked on. 'Well,' said he, 'and what have you been doing at Ketterford?' 'I have told you, doctor. Leaving my dear old friend and relative in her grave; and, realizing the fact that she has bequeathed to me this money.' 'Ah, yes; I heard that,' returned the doctor. 'You've been seeing friends too, I suppose. Did you happen to meet the Gwinns?' 'Once. I was passing the house, and Miss Gwinn laid hands upon me from the window, and commanded me in. I got out again as soon as I could. Her brother made his appearance as I was leaving.' 'And what did he say to you?' asked the doctor, in a tone meant to be especially light and careless. 'Nothing; except that he told me if I wanted a safe and profitable investment for the money I had inherited under Mrs. Thornimett's will, he could help me to one. I cut him very short, sir.' 'What did _she_ say?' resumed Dr. Bevary. 'Did she begin upon her family affairs--as she is rather fond of doing?' 'Well,' said Austin, his tone quite as careless as the doctor's, 'I did not give her the opportunity. Once, when she seemed inclined to do so, I stopped her; telling her that her private affairs were no concern of mine, neither should I listen to them.' 'Quite right, my young friend,' emphatically spoke the doctor. Not another word was said until they came to Daffodil's Delight. Here they wished each other good night The doctor continued his way to his home, and Austin turned down towards Peter Quale's. But what could be the matter? Had Daffodil's Delight miscalculated the time, believing it to be day, instead of night? Women leaned out of their windows in night-caps; children had crept from their beds and come forth to tumble into the gutter naked, as some of them literally were; men crowded the doorway of the Bricklayers' Arms, and stood about with pipes and pint pots; all were in a state of rampant excitement. Austin laid hold of the first person who appeared sober enough to listen to him. It happened to be a woman, Mrs. Dunn. 'What is this?' he exclaimed. 'Have you all come into a fortune?' the recent conversation at Mr. Hunter's probably helping him to the remark. 'Better nor that,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'Better nor _that_, a thousand times! We have circumvented the masters, and got our ends, and now we shall just have all we want--roast goose and apple pudding for dinner, and plenty of beer to wash it down with.' 'But what is it that you have got?' pursued Austin, who was completely at sea. 'Got! why, we have got the STRIKE,' she replied, in joyful excitement. 'Pollocks' men struck to-day. Where have you been, sir, not to have heered on it?' At that moment a fresh crowd came jostling down Daffodil's Delight, and Austin was parted from the lady. Indeed, she rushed up to the mob to follow in their wake. Many other ladies followed in their wake--half Daffodil's Delight, if one might judge by numbers. Shouting, singing, exulting, dancing; it seemed as if they had, for the nonce, gone mad. Sam Shuck, in his long-tailed coat, ornamented with its holes and its slits, was leading the van, his voice hoarse, his face red, his legs and arms executing a war-dance of exaltation. He it was who had got up the excitement and was keeping it up, shouting fiercely: 'Hurrah for the work of this day! Rule Britanniar! Britons never shall be slaves! The Strike has begun, friends! H--o--o--o--o--o--r--rah! Three cheers for the Strike!' Yes. The Strike had begun. CHAPTER IV. AGITATION. The men of an influential metropolitan building firm had struck, because their employers declined to accede to certain demands, and Daffodil's Delight was, as you have seen, in a high state of excitement, particularly the female part of it. The men said they struck for a diminution in the hours of labour; the masters told them they struck for an increase of wages. Seeing that the non-contents wanted the hours reduced and _not_ the pay, it appears to me that you may call it which you like. The Messrs. Hunters' men--with whom we have to do, for it was they who chiefly filled Daffodil's Delight--though continuing their work as usual, were in a most unsettled state; as was the case in the trade generally. The smouldering discontent might have died away peacefully enough, and probably would, but that certain spirits made it their business to fan it into a flame. A few days went on. One evening Sam Shuck posted himself in an angle formed by the wall at the top of Daffodil's Delight. It was the hour for the men to quit work; and, as they severally passed him on their road home, Sam's arm was thrust forward, and a folded bit of paper put into their hands. A mysterious sort of missive apparently; for, on opening the paper, it was found to contain only these words, in the long, sprawling hand of Sam himself: 'Barn at the back of Jim Dunn's. Seven o'clock.' Behind the house tenanted by the Dunns were premises occupied until recently by a cowkeeper. They comprised, amidst other accommodation, a large barn, or shed. Being at present empty, and to let, Sam thought he could do no better than take French leave to make use of it. The men hurried over their tea, or supper (some took one on leaving work for the night, some the other, some a mixture of both, and some neither), that they might attend to the invitation of Sam. Peter Quale was seated over a substantial dish of batter pudding, a bit of neck of mutton baked in the midst of it, when he was interrupted by the entrance of John Baxendale, who had stepped in from his own rooms next door. 'Be you a going to this meeting, Quale?' Baxendale asked, as he took a seat. 'I don't know nothing about it,' returned Peter. 'I saw Slippery Sam a giving out papers, so I guessed there was something in the wind. He took care to pass me over. I expect I'm the greatest eyesore Sam has got just now. Have a bit?' added Peter, unceremoniously, pointing to the dish before him with his knife. 'No, thank ye; I have just had tea at home. That's the paper'--laying it open on the table-cloth. 'Sam Shuck is just now cock-a-hoop with this strike.' 'He is no more cock-a-hoop than the rest of Daffodil's Delight is,' struck in Mrs. Quale, who had finished her own meal, and was at leisure to talk. 'The men and women is all a going mad together, I think, and Slippery Sam's leading 'em on. Suppose you all do strike--which is what they are hankering after--what good 'll it bring?' 'That's just it,' replied Baxendale. 'One can't see one's way clear. The agitation might do us some good, but it might do us a deal of harm; so that one doesn't know what to be at. Quale, I'll go to the meeting, if you will?' 'If I go, it will be to give 'em a piece of my mind,' retorted Peter. 'Well, it's only right that different sides should be heard. Sam 'll have it all his own way else.' 'He'll manage to get that, by the appearance things wears,' said Mrs. Quale, wrathfully. 'How you men can submit to be led by such a fellow as him, just because his tongue is capable of persuading you that black's white, is a marvel to me. Talk of women being soft! let the men talk of theirselves. Hold up a finger to 'em, and they'll go after it: like the Swiss cows Peter read of the other day, a flocking in a line after their leader, behind each other's tails.' 'I wish I knew what was right,' said Baxendale, 'or which course would turn out best for us.' 'I'd be off and listen to what's going on, at any rate,' urged Mrs. Quale. The barn was filling. Sam Shuck, perched upon Mrs. Dunn's washing-tub turned upside down, which had been rolled in for the occasion, greeted each group as it arrived with a gracious nod. Sam appeared to be progressing in the benefits he had boasted to his wife he should derive, inasmuch as that the dilapidated clothes had been discarded for better ones: and he stood on the tub's end in all the glory of a black frock coat, a crimson neck-tie with lace ends, and peg-top pantaloons: the only attire (as a ready-made outfitting shop had assured him) that a gentleman could wear. Sam's eye grew less complacent when it rested on Peter Quale, who was coming in with John Baxendale. 'This is a pleasure we didn't expect,' said he. 'Maybe not,' returned Peter Quale, drily. 'The barn's open to all.' 'Of course it is,' glibly said Sam, putting a good face upon the matter. 'All fair and above board, is our mottor: which is more than them native enemies of ours, the masters, can say: they hold their meetings in secret, with closed doors.' 'Not in secret--do they?' asked Robert Darby. 'I have not heard of that.' 'They meet in their own homes, and they shut out strangers,' replied Sam. 'I'd like to know what you call that, but meeting in secret?' 'I should not call it secret; I should call it private,' decided Darby, after a minute's pause, given to realize the question. 'We might do the same. Our homes are ours, and we can shut out whom we please.' 'Of course we _might_,' contended Sam. 'But we like better to be open; and if a few of us assemble together to consult on the present aspect of affairs, we do it so that the masters, if they choose, might come and hear us. Things are not equalized in this world. Let us attempt secret meetings, and see how soon we should be looked up by the law, and accused of hatching treason and sedition, and all the rest of it. That sharp-eyed _Times_ newspaper would be the first to set on us. There's one law for the masters, and another for the men.' 'Is that Slippery Sam?' ejaculated a new comer, at this juncture. 'Where did you get that fine new toggery, Shuck?' The disrespectful interruption was spoken in simple surprise: no insidious meaning prompting it. Sam Shuck had appeared in ragged attire so long, that the change could not fail to be remarkable. Sam loftily turned a deaf ear to the remark, and continued his address. 'I am sure that most of you can't fail to see that things have come to a crisis in our trade. The moment that brought it, was when that great building firm refused the reasonable demands of their men; and the natural consequence of which was a strike. Friends, I have been just _riled_ ever since. I have watched you go to work day after day like tame cats, the same as if nothing had happened; and I have said to myself: "Have those men of Hunter's got souls within them, or have they got none?"' 'I don't suppose we have parted from our souls,' struck in a voice. 'You have parted with the feelings of them, at any rate,' rejoined Sam, beginning to dance in the excitement of contention, but remembering in time that his _terra firma_ was only a creaky tub. 'What's that you ask me? How have you parted with them? Why, by not following up the strike. If you possessed a grain of the independence of free men, you'd have hoisted your colours before now; what would have been the result? Why, the men of other firms in the trade would have followed suit, and all struck in a body. It's the only way that will bring the masters to reason: the only way by which we can hope to obtain our rights.' 'You see there's no knowing what would be the end of a strike, Shuck,' argued John Baxendale. 'There's no knowing what may be the inside of a pie until you cut him open,' said Jim Dunn, whose politics were the same as Mr. Shuck's, red-hot for a strike. 'But 'tain't many as 'ud shrink from putting in the knife to see.' The men laughed, and greeted Jim Dunn with applause. 'I put it to you all,' resumed Sam, who took his share of laughing with the rest, 'whether there's sense or not in what I say. Are we likely to get our grievances redressed by the masters, unless we force it? Never: not if we prayed our hearts out.' 'Never,' and 'never,' murmured sundry voices. 'What _are_ our grievances?' demanded Peter Quale, putting the question in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he really asked for information. 'Listen!' ironically ejaculated Sam. 'He asks what our grievances are! I'll answer you, Quale. They are many and great. Are we not kept to work like beasts of burden, ten hours a day? Does that leave us time for the recreation of our wearied bodies, for the improvement of our minds, for the education of our children, for the social home intercourse in the bosoms of our families? By docking the day's labour to nine hours--or to eight, which we shall get, may be, after awhile,' added Sam, with a wink--'it would leave us the extra hour, and be a blessing.' Sam carried the admiring room with him. That hard, disbelieving Peter Quale, interrupted the cheering. 'A blessing, or the conterairy, as it might turn out,' cried he. 'It's easy to talk of education, and self-improvement; but how many is there that would use the accorded hour that way?' 'Another grievance is our wages,' resumed Sam, drowning the words, not caring to court discussion on what might be a weak point. 'We call ourselves men, and Englishmen, and yet we lie down contented with five-and-sixpence a day. Do you know what our trade gets in Australia? Oh, you do, some of you? then I'll tell those that don't. From twelve to fifteen shillings per day: and even more than that. _Twelve shillings!_ and that's the minimum rate of pay,' slowly repeated Sam, lifting up his arm and one peg-top to give emphasis to the words. A murmur of envy at the coveted rate of pay in Australia shook the room to the centre. 'But the price of provisions and other necessaries is enormous in that quarter,' debated Abel White. 'So it may come to the same in the end--be about as broad as long. Old father and me was talking about it last night.' 'If everybody went in for your old father's sentiments, we should soon be like him--in our dotage,' loftily observed Sam. 'But things are dear there,' persisted Sam's antagonist. 'I have heard what is sometimes given for shoes there; but I'm afraid to say, it was so much. The wages in Australia can't be any guide for us.' 'No, they can't,' said Peter Quale. 'Australia is one place, and this is another. Where's the use of bringing up that?' 'Oh, of course not,' sarcastically uttered Sam. 'Anything that tends to show how we are put upon, and how we might be made more comfortable, it's of no use bringing up. The long and the short of it is this: we want to be regarded as MEN: to have our voices considered, and our plaints attended to; to be put altogether upon a better footing. Little enough is it we ask at present: only for a modicum of ease in our day's hard labour, just the thin end of the wedge inserted to give it. That's all we are agitating for. It depends upon ourselves whether we get it or not. Let us display manly courage and join the strike, and it is ours to-morrow.' The response did not come so quickly as Sam deemed it ought. He went on in a persuasive, ringing tone. 'Consider the wives of your bosoms; consider your little children; consider yourselves. Were you born into the world to be slaves--blackymoors; to be ground into the dust with toil? Never.' 'Never,' uproariously echoed three parts of the room. 'The motto of a true man is, or ought to be, "Do as little as you can, and get as much for it;"' said Sam, dancing in his enthusiasm, and thereby nearly losing his perch on the tub. 'With an hour's work less a day, and the afternoon holiday on the Saturday, we shall----' 'What's the good of a afternoon Saturday holiday? We don't want that, Sam Shuck.' This ignominious interruption to the proceedings came from a lady. Buzzing round the entrance door and thrusting in their heads at a square hole, which might originally have been intended for a window were a dozen or two of the gentler sex. This irregularity had not been unobserved by the chairman, who faced them: the chairman's audience, densely packed, had their backs that way. It was not an orthodox adjunct to a trade meeting, that was certain, and the chairman would probably have ordered the ladies away, had he deemed there was a chance of his getting obeyed; but too many of them had the reputation of being the grey mares. So he winked at the irregularity, and had added one or two flourishes of oratory for their especial ears. The interruption came from Mrs. Cheek, Timothy Cheek's wife. 'What's the good of a afternoon Saturday holiday? We don't want that, Sam Shuck. Just when we be up to our eyes in muck and cleaning, our places routed out till you can't see the colour of the boards, for brooms, and pails, and soap and water, and the chairs and things is all topsy-turvy, one upon another, so as the children have to be sent out to grub in the gutter, for there ain't no place for 'em indoors, do you think we want the men poking their noses in? No; and they'd better not try it on. Women have got tempers given to 'em as well as you.' 'And tongues too,' rejoined Sam, unmindful of the dignity of his office. 'It is to be hoped they have,' retorted Mrs. Cheek, not inclined to be put down; and her sentiments appeared to be warmly joined in by the ladies generally. 'Don't you men go a agitating for the Saturday's half-holiday! What 'ud you do with it, do you suppose? Why, just sot it away at the publics.' Some confusion ensued; and the women were peremptorily ordered to mind their own business, and 'make theirselves scarce,' which not one of them attempted to obey. When the commotion had subsided, a very respectable man took up the discourse--George Stevens. 'The gist of the whole question is this,' he said: 'Will agitation do us good, or will it do us harm? We look upon ourselves as representing one interest; the masters consider they represent another. If it comes to open warfare between the two, the strongest would win.' 'In other words, whichever side's funds held out the longest,' said Robert Darby. 'That is as I look upon it.' 'Just so,' returned Stevens. 'I cannot say, seeing no farther than we can see at present, that a strike would be advisable.' 'Stevens, do you want to better yourself, or not?' asked Sam Shuck. 'I'd be glad enough to better myself, if I saw my way clear to do it,' was the reply. 'But I don't.' 'We don't want no strikes,' struck in a shock-headed hard-working man. 'What is it we want to strike for? We have got plenty of work, and full wages. A strike won't fill our pockets. Them may vote for strikes that like 'em; I'll keep to my work.' Partial applause. 'It is as I said,' cried Sam. 'There's poor, mean-spirited creatures among you, as won't risk the loss of a day's pay for the common good, or put out a hand to help the less fortunate. I'd rather be buried alive, five feet under the earth, than I'd show cat so selfish.' 'What is the interest of one of us is the interest of all,' observed Stevens. 'And a strike, if we went into it, would either benefit us all in the end, or make us all suffer. It is sheer nonsense to attempt to make out that one man's interest is different from another's; our interests are the same. I'd vote for striking to-morrow, if I were sure we should come out of it with whole skins, and get what we struck for: but I must see that a bit clearer first.' 'How can we get it, unless we try for it?' demanded Sam. 'If the masters find we're all determined, they'll give in to us. I appeal to you all'--raising his hands over the room--'whether the masters can do without us?' 'That has got to be seen,' said Peter Quale, significantly. 'One thing is plain: we could not do without them.' 'Nor they without us--nor they without us,' struck in voices from various parts of the barn. 'Then why shilly-shally about the question of a strike?' asked Sam of the barn, in a glib tone of reason. 'If a universal strike were on, the masters would pretty soon make terms that would end it. Why, a six months' strike would drive half of them into the _Gazette_----' 'But it might drive us into the workhouse at the same time,' interrupted John Baxendale. 'Let me finish,' went on Sam; 'it's not perlite to take up a man in the middle of a sentence. I say that a six months' strike would send many of the masters to the bankruptcy court. Well now, there has been a question debated among us'--Sam lowered his voice--'whether it would not be policy to let things go on quietly, as they are, till next spring----' 'A question among who?' interposed Peter Quale, regardless of the reproof just administered to John Baxendale. 'Never you mind who,' returned Sam, with a wink: 'among those that are hard at work for your interest. With their contracts for the season signed, and their works in full progress, say about next May, then would be the time for a strike to tell upon the masters. However, it has been thought better not to delay it. The future's but an uncertainty: the present is ours, and so must the strike be. _Have_ you wives?' he pathetically continued; '_have_ you children? _have_ you spirits of your own? Then you will all, with one accord, go in for the strike.' 'But what are our wives and children to do while the strike is on?' asked Robert Darby. 'You say yourself it might last six months, Shuck. Who would support them?' 'Who!' rejoined Sam, with an indignant air, as if the question were a superfluous one. 'Why the Trades' Unions, of course. _That's_ all settled. The Unions are prepared to take care of all who are out on strike, standing up, like brave Britons, for their privileges, and keep 'em like fighting-cocks. Hooroar for that blessed boon, the Trades' Unions!' 'Hooroar for the Trades' Unions!' was shouted in chorus. 'Keep us like fighting-cocks, will they! Hooroar!' 'Much good you'll get from the Trades' Unions!' burst forth a dissentient voice. 'They are the greatest pests as ever was allowed in a free country.' The opposition caused no little commotion. Standing by the door, having pushed his way through the surrounding women, who had _not_ made themselves 'scarce,' was a man in a flannel jacket, a cap in his hand, and his head white with mortar. He was looking excited as he spoke. 'This is not regular,' said Sam Shuck, displaying authority. 'You have no business here: you don't belong to us.' 'Regular or irregular, I'll speak my mind,' was the answer. 'I have been at work for Jones the builder, down yonder. I have done my work steady and proper, and I have had my pay. A man comes up to me yesterday and says, "You must join the Trades' Union." "No," says I, "I shan't; I don't want nothing of the Trades' Union, and the Union don't want nothing of me." So they goes to my master. "If you keep on employing this man, your other men will strike," they says to him; and he, being in a small way, got intimidated, and sent me off to-day. And here I am, throwed out of work, and I have got a sick wife and nine young children to keep. Is that justice? or is it tyranny? Talk about emancipating the slaves! let us emancipate ourselves at home.' 'Why don't you join the Union?' cried Sam. 'All do, who are good men and true.' 'All good men and true _don't_,' dissented the man. 'Many of the best workmen among us won't have anything to do with Unions; and you know it, Sam Shuck.' 'Just clear out of this,' said Sam. 'When I've had my say,' returned the man, 'not before. If I would join the Union, I can't. To join it, I must pay five shillings, and I have not got them to pay. With such a family as mine, you may guess every shilling is forestalled afore it comes in. I kept myself to myself, doing my work in quiet, and interfering with nobody. Why should they interfere with me?' 'If you have been in full work, five shillings is not much to pay to the Union,' sneered Sam. 'If I had my pockets filled with five-shilling pieces, I would not pay one to it,' fearlessly retorted the man. 'Is it right that a free-born Englishman should give in to such a system of intimidation? No: I never will. You talk of the masters being tyrants: it's you who are the tyrants, one to another. What is one workman better than his fellow, that he should lay down laws and say, You shall do this, and you shall do that, or you shan't be allowed to work at all? That rule you want to get passed--that a skilled, thorough workman shouldn't do a full day's work because some of his fellows can't--who's agitating for it? Why, naturally those that can't or won't do the full work. Would an honest, capable man go in for it? Of course he'd not. I tell you what'--turning his eyes on the room--'the Trades' Unions have been called a protection to the working man; but, if you don't take care, they'll grow into a curse. When Sam Shuck, and other good-for-naughts like him, what never did a full week's work for their families yet, are paid in gold and silver to spread incendiarism among you, it's time you looked to yourselves.' He turned away as he spoke; and Sam, in a dance of furious passion, danced off his tub. The interlude had not tended to increase the feeling of the men in Sam's favour--that is, in the cause he advocated. Not a man present but wanted to better himself could he do so with safety, but they were afraid to enter on aggressive measures. Indiscriminate talking ensued; diverse opinions were disputed, and the meeting was prolonged to a late hour. Finally the men dispersed as they came, nothing having been resolved upon. A few set their faces resolutely against the proposed strike; a few were red-hot for it; but the majority were undecided, and liable to be swayed either way. 'It will come,' nodded Sam Shuck, as he went home to a supper of pork chops and gin-and-water. But Sam was destined to be--as he would have expressed it--circumvented. It cannot be supposed that this unsatisfactory state of things was unnoticed by the masters: and they took their measures accordingly. Forming themselves into an association, they discussed the measures best to be adopted, and determined upon a lock-out; that is, to close their yards until the firm, whose workmen had struck, should resume work. They also resolved to employ only those men who would sign an agreement, or memorandum, affirming that they were not connected with any society which interfered with the arrangements of the master whose service they entered, or with the hours of labour, and acknowledging the rights both of masters and men to enter into any trade arrangements on which they might mutually agree. This paper of agreement was not relished by the men at all; they styled it 'the odious document.' Neither was the lock-out relished: it was of course equivalent, in one sense, to a strike; only that the initiative had come from the masters' side, and not from theirs. It commenced early in August. Some of the masters closed their works without a word of explanation to their men: in one sense it was not needed, for the men knew of the measure beforehand. Mr. Hunter chose to assemble them together, and state what he was about to do. Somewhat of his old energy appeared to have been restored to him for the moment, as he stood before them and spoke--Austin Clay by his side. 'You have brought it upon yourselves,' he said, in answer to a remark from one who boldly, but respectfully, asked whether it was fair to resort to a lock-out, and so punish all alike, contents and non-contents. 'I will meet the question upon your own grounds. When the Messrs. Pollocks' men struck because their demands, to work nine hours a day, were not acceded to, was it not in contemplation that you should join them--that the strike should be universal? Come, answer me candidly.' The men, true and honest, did not deny it. 'And possibly by this time you would have struck,' said Mr. Hunter. 'How much more "fair" would that have been towards us, than this locking-out is towards you? Do you suppose that you alone are to meet and pass your laws, saying you will coerce the masters, and that the masters will not pass laws in return? Nonsense, my men!' A pause. 'When have the masters attempted to interfere with your privileges, either by saying that your day's toil shall consist of longer hours, or by diminishing your wages, and threatening to turn you off if you do not fall in with the alteration? Never. Masters have rights as well as men; but some of you, of late, have appeared to ignore the fact. Let me ask you another question: Were you well treated under me, or were you not? Have I shown myself solicitous for your interests, for your welfare? Have I ever oppressed you, ever put upon you?' No, Mr. Hunter had never sought to oppress them: they acknowledged it freely. He had ever been a good master. 'My men, let me give you my opinion. While condemning your conduct, your semblance of discontent--it has been semblance rather than reality--I have been sorry for you, for it is not with you that the chief blame lies. You have suffered evil persuaders to get access to your ears, and have been led away by their pernicious counsels. The root of the evil lies there. I wish you could bring your own good sense to bear upon these points, and to see with your own eyes. If so, there will be nothing to prevent our resuming together amicable relations; and, for my own part, I care not how soon the time shall come. The works are for the present closed. PART THE THIRD. CHAPTER I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL. Daffodil's Delight was in all the glory of the lock-out. The men, having nothing to do, improved their time by enjoying themselves; they stood about the street, or lounged at their doors, smoking their short pipes and quaffing draughts of beer. Let money run ever so short, you will generally see that the beer and the pipes can be found. As yet, the evils of being out of work were not felt; for weekly pay, sufficient for support, was supplied them by the Union Committee. The men were in high spirits--in that sort of mood implied by the words 'Never say die,' which phrase was often in their mouths. They expressed themselves determined to hold out; and this determination was continually fostered by the agents of the Union, of whom Sam Shuck was the chief: chief as regarded Daffodil's Delight--inferior as regarded other agents elsewhere. Many of the more temperate of the men, who had not particularly urged the strike, were warm supporters now of the general opinion, for they regarded the lock-out as an unwarrantable piece of tyranny on the part of the masters. As to the ladies, they were over-warm partisans, generally speaking, making the excitement, the unsettled state of Daffodil's Delight, an excuse for their own idleness (they are only too ready to do so when occasion offers), and collected in groups round the men, or squatted themselves on door steps, proclaiming their opinion of existing things, and boasting that they'd hold out for their rights till death. It was almost like a summer's day. Seated in a chair at the bottom of her garden, just within the gate, was Mary Baxendale. Not that she was there to join in the gossip of the women, little knots of whom were dotting the street, or had any intention of joining in it: she was simply sitting there for air. Mary Baxendale was fading. Never very strong, she had, for the last year or two, been gradually declining, and, with the excessive heat of the past summer, her remaining strength appeared to have gone out. Her occupation, that of a seamstress, had not tended to keep her in health; she had a great deal of work offered her, her skill being superior, and she had sat at it early and late. Mary was thoughtful and conscientious, and she was anxious to contribute a full share to the home support. Her father had married again, had now two young children, and it almost appeared to Mary as if she were an interloper in the paternal home. Not that the new Mrs. Baxendale made her feel this: she was a bustling, hearty woman, fond of show and spending, and of setting off her babies; but she was kind to Mary. The capability of exertion appeared to be past, and Mary's days were chiefly spent in a quiescent state of rest, and in frequently sitting out of doors. This day--it was now the beginning of September--was an unusually bright one, and she drew her invalid shawl round her, and leaned back in her seat, looking out on the lively scene, at the men and women congregating in the road, and inhaling the fresh air. At least, as fresh as it could be got in Daffodil's Delight. 'How do you feel to-day, Mary?' The questioner was Mrs. Quale. She had come out of her house in her bonnet and shawl, bent on some errand and stopped to accost Mary. 'I am pretty well to-day. That is, I should be, if it were not for the weakness.' 'Weakness, ay!' cried Mrs. Quale, in a snapping sort of tone, for she was living in a state of chronic tartness, not approving of matters in general just now. 'And what have you had this morning to fortify you against the weakness?' A faint blush rose to Mary's thin face. The subject was a sore one to the mind of Mrs. Quale, and that lady was not one to spare her tongue. The fact was, that at the present moment, and for some little time past, Mary's condition and appetite had required unusual nourishment; but, since the lock-out, this had not been procurable by John Baxendale. Sufficient food the household had as yet, but it was of a plain coarse sort, not suitable for Mary; and Mrs. Quale, bitter enough against the existing condition of things before, touching the men and their masters, was not by this rendered less so. Poor Mary, in her patient meekness, would have subsided into her grave with famine, rather than complain of what she saw no help for. 'Did you have an egg at eleven o'clock?' 'Not this morning. I did not feel greatly to care for it.' 'Rubbish!' responded Mrs. Quale. 'I may say I don't care for the moon, because I know I can't get it.' 'But I really did not feel to have any appetite just then,' repeated Mary. 'And if you had an appetite, I suppose you couldn't have been any the nearer satisfying it!' returned Mrs. Quale, in a raised voice. 'You let your stomach get empty, and, after a bit, the craving goes off and sickness comes on, and then you say you have no appetite. But, there! it is not your fault; where's the use of my----' 'Why, Mary, girl, what's the matter?' The interruption to Mrs. Quale proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He was passing the gate with Miss Hunter. They stopped, partly at sight of Mary, who was looking strikingly ill, partly at the commotion Mrs. Quale was making. Neither of them had known that Mary was in this state. Mrs. Quale was the first to take up the discourse. 'She don't look over flourishing, do she, sir?--do she Miss Florence? She have been as bad as this--oh, for a fortnight, now.' 'Why did you not send my uncle word, Mary?' spoke Florence, impulsive in the cause of kindness, as she had been when a child. 'I am sure he would have come to see you.' 'You are very kind, Miss, and Dr. Bevary, also,' said Mary. 'I could not think of troubling him with my poor ailments, especially as I feel it would be useless. I don't think anybody can do me good on this side the grave, sir.' 'Tush, tush!' interposed Dr. Bevary. 'That's what many sick people say; but they get well in spite of it. Let us see you a bit closer,' he added, going inside the gate. 'And now tell me how you feel.' 'I am just sinking, sir, as it seems to me; sinking out of life, without much ailment to tell of. I have a great deal of fever at night, and a dry cough. It is not so much consumption as----' 'Who told you it was consumption?' interrupted Dr. Bevary. 'Some of the women about here call it so, sir. My step-mother does: but I should say it was more of a waste.' 'Your step-mother is fond of talking of what she knows nothing about, and so are the women,' remarked Dr. Bevary. 'Have you much appetite?' 'Yes, and that's the evil of it,' struck in Mrs. Quale, determined to lose no opportunity of propounding her view of the case. 'A pretty time this is for folks to have appetites, when there's not a copper being earned. I wish all strikes and lock-outs was put down by law, I do. Nothing comes of 'em but empty cubbarts.' 'Your cupboard need not be any the emptier for a lock-out,' said Dr. Bevary, who sometimes, when conversing with the women of Daffodil's Delight, would fall familiarly into their mode of speech. 'No, I know that; we have been providenter than that, sir,' returned Mrs. Quale. 'A pity but what others could say the same. You might take a walk through Daffodil's Delight, sir, from one end of it to the other, and not find half a dozen cubbarts with plenty in 'em just now. Serve 'em right! they should have put by for a rainy day.' 'Ah!' returned Dr. Bevary, 'rainy days come to most of us as we go through life, in one shape or other. It is well to provide for them when we can.' 'And it's well to keep out of 'em where it's practicable,' wrathfully remarked Mrs. Quale. 'There no more need have been this disturbance between masters and men, than there need be one between you and me, sir, this moment, afore you walk away. They be just idiots, are the men; the women be worse, and I'm tired of telling 'em so. Look at 'em,' added Mrs. Quale, directing the doctor's attention to the female ornaments of Daffodil's Delight. 'Look at their gowns in jags, and their dirty caps! they make the men's being out of work an excuse for their idleness, and they just stick theirselves out there all day, a crowing and a gossiping.' 'Crowing?' exclaimed the doctor. 'Crowing; every female one of 'em, like a cock upon its dunghill,' responded Mrs. Quale, who was not given to pick her words when wrath was moving her. 'There isn't one as can see an inch beyond her own nose. If the lock-out lasts, and starvation comes, let 'em see how they'll crow then. It'll be on t'other side their mouths, I fancy!' 'Money is dealt out to them by the Trades' Union, sufficient to live,' observed Dr. Bevary. 'Sufficient not to starve,' independently corrected Mrs. Quale. 'What is it, sir, the bit of money they get, to them that have enjoyed their thirty-five shillings a-week, and could hardly make that do, some of 'em? Look at the Baxendales. There's Mary, wanting more food than she did in health; ay, and craving for it. A good bit of meat once or twice in the day, an egg now and then, a cup of cocoa and milk, or good tea--not your wishy-washy stuff, bought in by the ounce--how is she to get it all? The allowance dealt out to John Baxendale keeps 'em in bread and cheese; I don't think it does in much else.' They were interrupted by John Baxendale himself. He came out of his house, touching his hat to the doctor and to Florence. The latter had been leaning over Mary, inquiring softly into her ailments, and the complaint of Mrs. Quale, touching the short-comings of Mary's comforts, had not reached her ears; that lady, out of regard to the invalid, having deemed it well to lower her tone. 'I am sorry, sir, you should see her so poorly,' said Baxendale, alluding to his daughter. 'She'll get better, I hope.' 'I must try what a little of my skill will do towards it,' replied the doctor. 'If she had sent me word she was ill, I would have come before.' 'Thank ye, sir. I don't know as I should have been backward in asking you to come round and take a look at her; but a man don't like to ask favours when he has got no money in his pocket; it makes him feel little, and look little. Things are not in a satisfactory state with us all just now.' 'They are not indeed.' 'I never thought the masters would go to the extreme of a lock-out,' resumed Baxendale. 'It was a harsh measure.' 'On the face of it it does seem so,' responded Dr. Bevary. 'But what else could they have done? Have kept open their works, that those on strike might have been supported from the wages they paid their men, and probably have found those men also striking at last? If you and others had wanted to escape a lock-out, Baxendale, you should have been cautious not to lend yourselves to the agitation that was smouldering.' 'Sir, I know there's a great deal to be said on both sides,' was the reply. 'I never was for the agitation; I did not urge the strike; I set my face nearly dead against it. The worst is, we all have to suffer for it alike.' 'Ay, that is the worst of things in this world,' responded the doctor. 'When people do wrong, the consequences are rarely confined to themselves, they extend to the innocent. Come, Florence. I will see you again later, Mary.' The doctor and his niece walked away. Mrs. Quale had already departed on her errand. 'He was always a kind man,' observed John Baxendale, looking after Dr. Bevary. 'I hope he will be able to cure you, Mary.' 'I don't feel that he will, father,' was the low answer. But Baxendale did not hear it; he was going out at the gate, to join a knot of neighbours, who were gathered together at a distance. 'Will Mary Baxendale soon get well, do you think, uncle?' demanded Florence, as they went along. 'No, my dear, I do not think she will.' There was something in the doctor's tone that startled Florence. 'Uncle Bevary! you do not fear she will die?' 'I do fear it, Florence; and that she will not be long first.' 'Oh!' Then, after she had gone a few paces further, Florence withdrew her arm from his. 'I must go back and stay with her a little while. I had no idea of this.' 'Mind you don't repeat it to her in your chatter,' called out the doctor; and Florence shook her head by way of answer. 'I am in no hurry to go home, Mary; I thought I would return and stay a little longer with you,' was her greeting, when she reached the invalid. 'You must feel it dull, sitting here alone.' 'Dull! oh no, Miss Florence. I like sitting by myself and thinking.' Florence smiled. 'What do you think about?' 'Oh, miss, I quite lose myself in thinking. I think of my Saviour, of how kind he was to everybody; and I think of the beautiful life we are taught to expect after this life. I can hardly believe that I shall soon be there.' Florence paused, feeling as if she did not know what to say. 'You do not seem to fear death, Mary. You speak rather as if you wished it.' 'I do not fear it, Miss Florence; I have been learning not to fear it ever since my poor mother died. Ah, miss! it is a great thing to learn; a great boon, when once it's learnt.' 'But surely you do not want to die!' exclaimed Florence, in surprise. 'Miss Florence, as to that, I feel quite satisfied to let it be as God pleases. I know I am in His good hands. The world now seems to me to be full of care and trouble.' 'It is very strange,' murmured Florence. 'Mamma, too, believes she is near death, and she expresses no reluctance, no fear. I do not think she feels any.' 'Miss Florence, it is only another proof of God's mercies,' returned the sick girl. 'My mother used to say that you could not be quite ripe for death until you felt it; that it came of God's goodness and Christ's love. To such, death seems a blessing instead of a terror, so that when their time is drawing near, they are glad to die. There's a gentleman waiting to speak to you, miss.' Florence lifted her head hastily, and encountered the smile and the outstretched hand of Austin Clay. But that Mary Baxendale was unsuspicious, she might have gathered something from the vivid blush that overspread her cheeks. 'I thought it was you, Florence,' he said. 'I caught sight of a young lady from my sitting-room window; but you kept your head down before Mary.' 'I am sorry to see Mary looking so ill. My uncle was here just now, but he has gone. I suppose you were deep in your books?' she said, with a smile, her face regaining its less radiant hue. 'This lock-out must be a fine time for you.' 'So fine, that I wish it were over,' he answered. 'I am sick of it already, Florence. A fortnight's idleness will tire out a man worse than a month's work.' 'Is there any more chance of its coming to an end, sir?' anxiously inquired Mary Baxendale. 'I do not see it,' gravely replied Austin. 'The men appear to be too blind to come to any reasonable terms.' 'Oh, sir, don't cast more blame on them than you can help!' she rejoined, in a tone of intense pain. 'They are all led away by the Trades' Unions; they are, indeed. If once they enrol under them, they must only obey.' 'Well, Mary, it comes to what I say--that they are blinded. They should have better sense than to be led away.' 'You speak as a master, sir.' 'Probably I do; but I have brought my common sense to bear upon the question, both on the side of the masters and of the men; and I believe that this time the men are wrong. If they had laboured under any real grievance, it would have been different; but they did not labour under any. Their wages were good, work was plentiful----' 'I say, Mary, I wish you'd just come in and sit by the little ones a bit, while I go down to the back kitchen and rinse out the clothes.' The interruption came from Mrs. Baxendale, who had thrown up her window to speak. Mary rose at once, took her pillow from the chair, wished Florence good day, and went indoors. Austin held the gate open for Florence to pass out: he was not intending to accompany her. She stood a moment, speaking to him, when some one, who had come up rapidly and stealthily, laid his great hand on Austin's arm. Absorbed in Florence, Austin had not observed him, and he looked up with a start. It was Lawyer Gwinn, of Ketterford, and he appeared to be in some anger or excitement. 'Young Clay, where is your master to-day?' Neither the salutation nor the manner of the man pleased Austin; his appearance, there and then, especially displeased him. His answer was spoken in haughty defiance. Not in policy: and in a cooler moment he would have remembered the latter to have been the only safe diplomacy. A strangely bitter smile of conscious power parted the man's lips. 'So you take part with him, do you, sir! It may be better for both you and him, that you bring me face to face with him. They have denied me to him at his house; their master is out of town, they say; but I know it to be a lie: I know that the message was sent out to me by Hunter himself. I had a great mind to force----' Florence, who was looking deadly white, interrupted, her voice haughty as Austin's had been. 'You labour under a mistake, sir. My father is out of town. He went this morning.' Mr. Gwinn wheeled round to her. Neither her tone nor Austin's was calculated to abate his anger. 'You are his daughter, then!' he uttered, with the same insolent stare, the same displayed irony he had once used to her mother. 'The young lady whom people envy as that spoiled and only child, Miss Hunter! What if I tell you a secret?--that you----' 'Be still!' shouted Austin, in uncontrollable emotion. 'Are you a man, or a demon? Miss Hunter, allow me,' he cried, grasping the hand of Florence, and drawing her peremptorily towards Peter Quale's door, which he threw open. 'Go upstairs, Florence, to my sitting-room: wait there until I come to you. I must be alone with this man.' Florence looked at him in amazement, as he pushed her into the passage. He was evidently in the deepest agitation: every vestige of colour had forsaken his face, and his manner was authoritative as any father's could have been. She bowed to its power unconsciously, not a thought of resistance crossing her mind, and went straight upstairs to his sitting room--although it might not be precisely correct for a young lady so to do. Not a soul, save herself, appeared to be in the house. A short colloquy and an angry one, and then Mr. Gwinn was seen returning the way he had come. Austin came springing up the stairs three at a time. 'Will you forgive me, Florence? I could not do otherwise.' What with the suddenness of the proceedings, their strangeness, and her own doubts and emotion, Florence burst into tears. Austin lost his head: at least, all of prudence that was in it. In the agitation of the moment he suffered his long-controlled feelings to get the better of him, and spoke words that he had hitherto successfully repressed. 'My darling!' he whispered, taking her hand, 'I wish I could have shielded you from it! Florence, you know--you must long have known--that my dearest object in life is you--your happiness, your welfare. I had not intended to say this so soon; it has been forced from me: you must pardon me for saying it here and now.' She gently disengaged the hand, and he did not attempt to retain it. Her wet eyelashes fell on her blushing cheeks; they were like a damask rose glistening in the morning dew. 'But this mystery?--it certainly seems one,' she exclaimed, striving to speak with matter-of-fact calmness. 'Is not that man Gwinn, of Ketterford?' 'Yes.' 'Brother to the lady who seemed to cause so much emotion to papa. Ah! I was but a child at the time, but I noticed it. Austin, I think there must be some dreadful secret. What is it? He comes to our house at periods and is closeted with papa, and papa is more miserable than ever after it.' 'Whether there is or not, it is not for us to inquire into it. Men engaged in business often have troublesome people to deal with. I hastened you in,' he quickly went on, not caring to be more explanatory, and compelled to speak with reserve. 'I know the man of old, and his language is sometimes coarse, not fitted for a young lady's ears: so I sent you away. Florence,' he whispered, his tone changing to one of deepest tenderness, 'this is neither the time nor the place to speak, but I must say one word. I shall win you if I can.' Florence made no answer. She only ran downstairs as quickly as she could, she and her scarlet cheeks. Austin laughed at her haste, as he followed her. Mrs. Quale was coming in then, and met them at the door. 'See what it is to go gadding out!' cried Austin, to her. 'When young ladies pay you the honour of a morning visit, they might find an empty house, but for my stay-at-home propensities.' Mrs. Quale turned her eyes from one to the other of them in puzzled doubt. 'The truth is,' said Austin, vouchsafing an explanation, 'there was a rude man in the road, talking nonsense, so I sent Miss Hunter indoors, and stopped to deal with him.' 'I am sure I am sorry, Miss Florence,' cried unsuspicious Mrs. Quale. 'We often have rude men in this quarter: they get hold of a drop too much, the simpletons. And when the wine's in, the wit's out, you know, Miss.' Austin piloted her through Daffodil's Delight, possibly lest any more 'rude men' should molest her, leaving her at her own door. But when he came to reflect on what he had done, he was full of contrition and self-blame. The time had _not_ come for him to aspire to the hand of Florence Hunter, at least in the estimation of the world, and he ought not to have spoken to her. There was only one course open to him now in honour; and that was, to tell the whole truth to her mother. That same evening at dusk he was sitting alone with Mrs. Hunter. Mr. Hunter had not returned: that he had gone out of town for the day was perfect truth: and Florence escaped from the room when she heard Austin's knock. After taking all the blame on himself for having been premature, he proceeded to urge his cause and his love, possibly emboldened to do so by the gentle kindness with which he was listened to. 'It has been my hope for years,' he avowed, as he held Mrs. Hunter's hands in his, and spoke of the chance of Mr. Hunter's favour. 'Dear Mrs. Hunter, do you think he will some time give her to me!' 'But, Austin----' 'Not yet; I do not ask for her yet; not until I have made a fitting home for her,' he impulsively continued, anticipating what might have been the possible objection of Mrs. Hunter. 'With the two thousand pounds left to me by Mrs. Thornimett, and a little more added to it, which I have myself saved, I believe I shall be able to make my way.' 'Austin, you will make your way,' she replied, in a tone of the utmost confidence and kindness. 'I have heard Mr. Hunter himself anticipate a successful career for you. Even when you were, comparatively speaking, penniless, Mr. Hunter would say that talent and energy, such as yours, could not fail to find its proper outlet. Now that you have inherited the money, your success is certain. But--I fear you cannot win Florence.' The words fell on his heart like an icebolt. He had reckoned on Mrs. Hunter's countenance, though he had not been sure of her husband's. 'What do you object to in me?' he inquired, in a tone of pain. 'I am of gentle birth.' 'Austin, _I_ do not object. I have long seen that your coming here so much--and it was Mr. Hunter's pleasure to have you--was likely to lead to an attachment between you and Florence. Had I objected to you, I should have pointed out to Mr. Hunter the impolicy of your coming. I like _you_: there is no one in the world to whom I would so readily intrust the happiness of Florence. Other mothers might look to a higher alliance for her: but, Austin, when we get near the grave, we judge with a judgment not of this world. Worldly distinctions lose their charm.' 'Then where lies the doubt--the objection?' he asked. 'I once--it is not long ago--hinted at this to Mr. Hunter,' she replied. 'He would not hear me out; he would not suffer me to conclude. It was an utter impossibility that you could ever marry Florence,' he said: 'neither was it likely that either of you would wish it.' 'But we do wish it; the love has already arisen,' he exclaimed, in agitation. Dear Mrs. Hunter----' 'Hush, Austin! calm yourself. Mr. Hunter must have some private objection. I am sure he has; I could see so far; and one that, as was evident, he did not choose to disclose to me. I never inquire into his reasons when I perceive this. You must try and forget her.' A commotion was heard in the hall. Austin went out to ascertain its cause. There stood Gwinn of Ketterford, insisting upon an interview with Mr. Hunter. Austin contrived to get rid of the man by convincing him Mr. Hunter was really not at home. Gwinn went out grumbling, promising to be there the first thing in the morning. The interlude had broken up the confidence between Austin and Mrs. Hunter; and he went home in despondency: but vowing to win her, all the same, sooner or later. CHAPTER II. MR. COX. Time had gone on. It was a gloomy winter's evening. Not that, reckoning by the seasons, it could be called winter yet; but it was getting near it, and the night was dark and sloppy, and blowing and rainy. The wind went booming down Daffodil's Delight, sending the fierce rain before it in showers, and the pools gleamed in the reflected light of the gas-lamps, as wayfarers splashed through them and stirred up their muddy waters. The luxurious and comfortable in position--those at ease in the world, who could issue their orders to attentive tradespeople at their morning's leisure--had no necessity to be abroad on that inclement Saturday night. Not so Daffodil's Delight; there was not much chance (taking it collectively) of a dinner for the morrow, at the best; but, unless they went abroad, there was none. The men had not gone to work yet, and times were bad. Down the street, to one particular corner shop, which had three gilt-coloured balls hanging outside it, flocked the stream--chiefly females. Not together. They mostly walked in units, and, some of them at least, in a covert sort of manner, keeping in the shade of dead walls, and of dark houses, as if not caring to be seen. Amongst the latter, stole one who appeared more especially fearful of being recognised. She was a young woman, comely once, but pale and hollow-eyed now, her bones too sharp for her skin. Well wrapped up, was she, against the weather; her cloth cloak warm, a fur round her neck, and india-rubber shoes. Choosing her time to approach the shop when the coast should be tolerably clear, she glanced cautiously in at the window and door, and entered. Laying upon the counter a small parcel, which she carried folded in a handkerchief, she displayed a cardboard box to the sight of the shop's master, who came forward to attend to her. It contained a really handsome set of corals, fashioned like those worn in the days when our mothers were young; a necklace of six rows of small beads, with a gold snap made to imitate a rose, a long coral bead set in it. A pair of gold earrings, with large pendant coral drops, lay beside it, and a large and handsome gold brooch, set likewise with corals. 'What, is it _you_, Miss Baxendale?' he exclaimed, his tone expressive of some surprise. 'It is, indeed, Mr. Cox,' replied Mary. 'We all have to bend to these hard times. It's share and share alike in them. Will you please to look at these jewels?' She tenderly drew aside the cotton which was over the trinkets--tenderly and reverently, almost as if a miniature live baby were lying there. Very precious were they to Mary. They were dear to her from association; and she also believed them to be of great value. The pawnbroker glanced at them slightly, carelessly lifting one of the earrings in his hand, to feel its weight. The brooch he honoured with a closer inspection. 'What do you want upon them?' he asked. 'Nay,' said Mary, 'it is not for me to name a sum. What will you lend?' 'You are not accustomed to our business, or you would know that we like borrowers to mention their own ideas as to sum; and we give it if we can,' he rejoined with ready words. 'What do you ask?' 'If you would let me have four pounds upon them, began Mary, hesitatingly. But he snapped up the words. 'Four pounds! Why, Miss Baxendale, you can't know what you are saying. The fashion of these coral things is over and done with. They are worth next to nothing.' Mary's heart beat quicker in its sickness of disappointment. 'They are genuine, sir, if you'll please to look. The gold is real gold, and the coral is the best coral; my poor mother has told me so many a time. Her godmother was a lady, well-to-do in the world, and the things were a present from her.' 'If they were not genuine, I'd not lend as many pence upon them,' said the man. 'With a little alteration the brooch might be made tolerably modern; otherwise their value would be no more than old gold. In selling them, I----' 'It will not come to that, Mr. Cox,' interrupted Mary. 'Please God spares me a little while--and, since the hot weather went out, I feel a bit stronger--I shall soon redeem them.' Mr. Cox looked at her thin face; he listened to her short breath; and he drew his own conclusions. There was a line of pity in his hard face, for he had long respected Mary Baxendale. 'By the way the strike seems to be lasting on, there doesn't seem much promise of a speedy end to it,' quoth he, in answer. 'I never was so over-done with pledges.' 'My work does not depend upon that,' said Mary. 'Let me get up a little strength, and I shall have as much work as I can do. And I am well paid, Mr. Cox: I have a private connection. I am not like the poor seamstresses who make skirts for fourpence a-piece.' Mr. Cox made no immediate reply to this, and there was a pause. The open box lay before him. He took up the necklace and examined its clasp. 'I will lend you a sovereign upon them.' She lifted her face pitiably, and the tears glistened in her eyes. 'It would be of no use to me,' she whispered. 'I want the money for a particular purpose, otherwise I should never have brought here these gifts of my mother's. She gave them to me the day I was eighteen, and I have tenderly kept them from desecration.' Poor Mary! From desecration! 'I have heard her say what they cost; but I forget now. I know it was over ten pounds.' 'But the day for this fashion has gone by. To ask four pounds upon them was preposterous; and you would know it to be so, were you acquainted with the trade.' 'Will you lend me two pounds, then?' The tone was tremblingly eager, the face beseeching--a wan face, telling of the coming grave. Possibly the thought struck the pawnbroker, and awoke some humanity within him. 'I shall lose by it, I know, if it comes to a sale. I'd not do it for anybody else, Miss Baxendale.' He proceeded to write out the ticket, his thoughts running upon whether--if it did come to a sale--he could not make three pounds by the brooch alone. As he was handing her the money, somebody rushed in, close to the spot occupied by Mary, and dashed down a large-sized paper parcel on the counter. She wore a black lace bonnet, which had once been white, frayed, and altogether the worse for wear, independent of its dirt. It was tilted on the back of her head, displaying a mass of hair in front, half grey, half black, and exceedingly in disorder; together with a red face. It was Mrs. Dunn. 'Well, to be sure! if it's not Mary Baxendale! I thought you was too much of the lady to put your nose inside a pop-shop. Don't it go again the grain?' she ironically added, for she did not appear to be in the sweetest of tempers. 'It does indeed, Mrs. Dunn,' was the girl's meek answer, as she took her money and departed. 'Now then, old Cox, just attend to me,' began Mrs. Dunn. 'I have brought something as you don't get offered every day.' Mr. Cox, accustomed to the scant ceremony bestowed upon him by some of the ladies of Daffodil's Delight, took the speech with indifference, and gave his attention to the parcel, from which Mrs. Dunn was rapidly taking off the twine. 'What's this--silk?' cried he, as a roll of dress-silk, brown, cross-barred with gold, came forth to view. 'Yes, it is silk; and there's fourteen yards of it; and I want thirty shillings upon it,' volubly replied Mrs. Dunn. He took the silk between his fingers, feeling its substance, in his professionally indifferent and disparaging manner. 'Where did you get it from?' he asked. 'Where did I get it from?' retorted Mrs. Dunn. 'What's that to you!' D'ye think I stole it?' 'How do I know?' returned he. 'You insolent fellow! Is it only to-day as you have knowed me, Tom Cox? My name's Hannah Dunn; and I don't want you to testify to my honesty; I can hold up my head in Daffodil's Delight just as well as you can--perhaps a little better. Concern yourself with your own business. I want thirty shillings upon that.' 'It isn't worth thirty shillings in the shop, new,' was the rejoinder. 'What?' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'It cost three-and-fourpence halfpenny a yard, every yard of it, and there's fourteen of 'em, I tell you.' 'I don't care if it cost six-and-fourpence halfpenny, it's not worth more than I say. I'll lend you ten shillings upon it, and I should lose then.' 'Where do you expect to go to when you die?' demanded Mrs. Dunn, in a tone that might be heard half over the length and breadth of Daffodil's Delight. 'I wouldn't tell such lies for the paltry sake of grinding folks down; no, not if you made me a duchess to-morrow for it.' 'Here, take the silk off. I have not got time to bother: it's Saturday night.' He swept the parcel, silk, paper, and string, towards her, and was turning away. She leaned over the counter and seized upon him. 'You want a opposition in the place, that's what you want, Master Cox! You have been cock o' the walk over Daffodil's Delight so long, that you think you can treat folks as if they was dirt. You be over-done with business, that's what you be; you're a making gold as fast as they makes it in Aurstraliar; we shall have you a setting up your tandem next. What'll you give me upon that silk?' 'I'll give you ten shillings; I have said so. You may take it or not; it's at your own option.' More contending; but the pawnbroker was firm; and Mrs. Dunn was forced to accept the offer, or else take away her silk. 'How long is this strike going to last?' he asked, as he made out the duplicate. The words excited the irascibility of Mrs. Dunn. 'Strike!' she uttered, in a flaming passion. 'Who dares to call it a strike? It's not a strike; it's a lock-out.' 'Lock-out, then. The two things come to the same, don't they? Is there a chance of its coming to an end?' 'No, they don't come to the same,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'A strike's what it is--a strike; a act of noble independence which the British workman may be proud on. A lock-out is a nasty, mean, overbearing tyranny on the part of the masters. Now, old Cox! call it a strike again.' 'But I hear the masters' shops are open again--for anybody to go to work that likes,' replied Mr. Cox, quite imperturbable. 'They be open for slaves to go to work, not for free-born men,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, her shrieking voice at a still higher pitch. 'I hope the men'll hold out for ever, I do! I hope the masters 'll be drove, everyone of 'em, into the dust and dregs of the bankruptcy court! I hope their sticks and stones 'll be sold up, down to their children's cradles----' 'There, that's enough,' interposed the pawnbroker, as he handed her what he had to give. 'You'll be collecting a crowd round the door, if you go on like that. Here's somebody else waiting for your place.' It was Mrs. Cheek, an especial friend of the lady's now being dismissed. Mrs. Cheek was carefully carrying a basket which contained various chimney ornaments--pretty enough in their places, but not of much value. The pawnbroker, after some haggling, not so intemperately carried on as the bargain just concluded, advanced six shillings on them. 'I had wanted twelve,' she said; 'and I can't do with less.' 'I am willing to lend it,' returned he, 'if you bring goods accordingly.' 'I have stripped the place of a'most all the light things as can be spared,' said Mrs. Cheek. 'One doesn't care to begin upon the heavy furniture and the necessaries.' 'Is there no chance of the present state of affairs coming to an end?' inquired Mr. Cox, putting the same question to which he had not got a direct answer from Mrs. Dunn. 'The men can go back to work if they like; the masters' yards are open again.' 'Open!' returned Mrs. Cheek, in a guttural tone, as she threw back her head in disdain; 'they have been open some time, if you call _that_ opening 'em. If a man likes to go as a sneaking coward, and work upon the terms offered now, knuckling down to the masters, and putting his hand to their mean old odious document, severing himself from the Union, he can do it. It ain't many of our men as you'll find do that dirty work. If my husband was to attempt it, I'd be ready to skin him alive.' 'But the men have gone back in some parts of the metropolis.' '_Men_, do you call 'em. A few may; one black sheep out of a flock. They ain't men, they are half-castes. Let them look to theirselves,' concluded Mrs. Cheek significantly, as she quitted the pawnbroker's shop with a fling. At the butcher's stall, a few paces further, she came up to Mrs. Dunn, who was standing in the glare of the blazing gaslight, in the incessant noise of the 'Buy, buy, buy! what'll you buy?' Not less than a dozen women were congregated there, elbowing each other, as they turned over the scraps of meat set out for sale in small heaps--sixpence the lot, a shilling the lot, according to quality and quantity. In the prosperous time when their husbands were in full work, these ladies had scornfully disdained such heaps on a Saturday night. They had been wont then to buy a good joint for the Sunday's dinner. One of the women nudged another in her vicinity, directing her attention to the inside of the shop. 'Just twig Mother Shuck; she's a being served, I hope!' 'Mother Shuck,' Slippery Sam's better half, was making her purchases in the agreeable confidence of possessing money to pay for them--liver and bacon for the present evening's supper, and a breast of veal, to be served with savoury herbs, for the morrow's dinner. In the old times, while the throng of women now outside had been able to make the same or similar purchases, _she_ had hovered without like a hungry hyena, hanging over the cheap portions with covetous eyes and fingers, as many another poor wife had done, whose husband could not or would not work. Times were changed. 'I can't afford nothing, hardly, I can't,' grumbled Mrs. Cheek. 'What's the good of six shillings for a Saturday night, when everything's wanted, from the rent down to a potater? The young 'uns have got their bare feet upon the boards, as may be said, for their shoes be without toes and heels; and who is to get 'em others? I wish that Cox was a bit juster. He's a getting rich upon our spoils. Six shillings for that lot as I took him in!' 'I wish he was smothered!' struck in Mrs. Dunn. 'He took and asked me if I'd stole the silk. It was that lovely silk, you know, as I was fool enough to go and choose the week of the strike, on the strength of the good times a coming. We have had something else to do since, instead of making up silk gownds.' 'The good times ain't come yet,' said Mrs. Cheek, shortly. 'I wish the old 'uns was back again, if we could get 'em without stooping to the masters.' 'It was at the shop where Mary Ann and Jemimar deals, when they has to get in things for their customers' work,' resumed Mrs. Dunn, continuing the subject of the silk. 'I shouldn't have had credit at any other place. Fourteen yards I bought of it, and three-and-fourpence halfpenny I gave for every yard of it; I did, I protest to you, Elizar Cheek; and that swindling old screw had the conscience to offer me ten shillings for the whole!' 'Is the silk paid for?'--'Paid for!' wrathfully repeated Mrs. Dunn; 'has it been a time to pay for silk gownds when our husbands be under a lock-out? Of course it's not paid for, and the shop's a beginning to bother for it; but they'll be none the nearer getting it. I say, master, what'll you weigh in these fag ends of mutton and beef at--the two together?' It will be readily understood, from the above conversation and signs, that in the several weeks that had elapsed since the commencement of the lock-out, things, socially speaking, had been going backwards. The roast goose and other expected luxuries had not come yet. The masters' works were open--open to any who would go to work in them, provided they renounced all connection with the Trades' Unions. Daffodil's Delight, taking it collectively, would not have this at any price, and held out. The worst aspect in the affair--I mean for the interests of the men--was, that strange workmen were assembling from different parts of the country, accepting the work which they refused. Of course this feature in the dispute was most bitter to the men; they lavished their abuse upon the masters for employing strange hands; and they would have been glad to lavish something worse than abuse up on the hands themselves. One of the masters compared them to the fable of the dog in the manger--they would not take the work, and they would not let (by their good will) anybody else take it. Incessant agitation was maintained. The workmen were in a sufficiently excited state, as it was; and, to help on that which need not have been helped, the agents of the Trades' Union kept the ball rolling--an incendiary ball, urging obstinacy and spreading discontent. But this little history has not so much to do with the political phases of the unhappy dispute, as with its social effects. As Mary Baxendale was returning home from the pawnbroker's, she passed Mrs. Darby, who was standing at her own door looking at the weather. 'Mary, girl,' was the salutation, 'this is not a night for you to be abroad.' 'I was obliged to go,' was the reply. 'How are the children?' 'Come in and see them,' said Mrs. Darby. She led the way into a back room, which, at the first glance, seemed to be covered with mattresses and children. A large family had Robert Darby--indeed, it was a complaint prevalent in Daffodil's Delight. They were of various ages; these, lying on the mattresses, six of them, were from four to twelve years. The elder ones were not at home. The room had a close, unhealthy smell, which struck especially on the senses of Mary, rendered sensitive from illness. 'What have you got them all in this room for?' she exclaimed, in the impulse of the moment. 'I have given up the rooms above,' was Mrs. Darby's reply. 'But--when the children were ill--was it a time to give up rooms?' debated Mary. 'No,' replied Mrs. Darby, who spoke as if she were heart-broken, in a sad, subdued tone, the very reverse of Mesdames Dunn and Cheek. 'But how could we keep on the top rooms when we were unable to get together the rent, to pay for them? I spoke to the landlord, and he is letting the back rent stand a bit, not to sell us up; and I gave up to him the two top rooms; and we all sleep in here together.' 'I wish the men would go back to work!' said Mary, with a sigh. 'Mary my heart's just failing within me,' said Mrs. Darby, her tone a sort of wail. 'Here's winter coming on, and all of them out of work. If it were not for my daughter, who is in service, and brings us her wages as she gets them, I believe we should just have starved. I _must_ get medicine, for the children, though we go without bread.' 'It is not medicine they want: it is nourishment,' said Mary. 'It is both. Nourishment would have done when they were first ailing, but now that it has turned to low fever, they must have medicine, or it will grow into typhus. It's bark they have to take, and it costs----' 'Mother! mother!' struck up a plaintive voice, that of the eldest of the children lying there, 'I want more of that nice drink!' 'I have not got it, Willy. You know that you had it all. Mrs. Quale brought me round a pot of black currant jelly,' she explained to Mary, 'and I poured boiling water on it to make drink. Their little parched throats did so relish it, poor things.' Mary knelt on the floor and put her hand on the child's moist brow. He was a pretty boy; fair and delicate, with light curls falling round his face. A gentle, thoughtful, intelligent boy he had ever been, but less healthy than some. 'You are thirsty, Willy?' He opened his heavy eyelids, and the large round blue eyes glistened with fever, as they were lifted to see who spoke. 'How do you do, Mary?' he meekly said. 'Yes, I am so thirsty. Mother said perhaps she should have a sixpence to-night to buy a pot of jelly like Mrs. Quale's.' Mrs. Darby coloured slightly; she thought Mary must reflect on the extravagance implied. Sixpence for jelly, when they were wanting money for a loaf! 'I did say it to him,' she whispered, as she was quitting the room with Mary. 'I thought I might spare a sixpence out of what Darby got from the society. But I can't; I can't. There's so many things we cannot do without, unless we just give up, and lie down and don't even try at keeping body and soul together. Rent, and coals, and candles, and soap; and we must eat something. Darby, too, of course he wants a trifle for beer and tobacco. Mary, I say I am just heart-faint. If the poor boy should die, it'll be upon my mind for ever, that the drink he craved for in his last illness couldn't be got for him.' 'Does he crave for it?' 'Nothing was ever like it. All day long it has been his sad, pitiful cry. "Have you got the jelly yet, mother? Oh, mother, if I could but have the drink!"' As Mary went through the front room, Robert Darby was in it then. His chin rested on his hands, his elbows were on the table; altogether he looked very down-hearted. 'I have been to see Willy,' she cried. 'Ah, poor little chap!' It was all he said; but the tone implied more. 'Things seem to be getting pretty low with us all. I wish there could be a change,' continued Mary. 'How can there be, while the masters and the Unions are at loggerheads?' he asked. 'Us men be between the two, and between the two we come to the ground. It's like sitting on two stools at once.' Mary proceeded to the shop where jelly was sold, an oilman's, bought a sixpenny pot, and took it back to Mrs. Darby's, handing it in at the door. 'Why did you do it, Mary? You cannot afford it.' 'Yes, I can. Give it to Willy, with my love.' 'He will only be out of a world of care, if God does take him,' sighed Mary to herself, as she bent her steps homeward. 'Oh, father!' she continued aloud, encountering John Baxendale at their own gate, 'I wish this sad state of things could be ended. There's the poor little Darbys worse instead of better. They are all lying in one room, down with fever.' 'God help us if fever should come!' was the reply of John Baxendale. 'It is not catching fever yet. They have given up their top chambers, and are all sleeping in that back room. Poor Willie craved for a bit of jelly, and Mrs. Darby could not get it him.' 'Better crave for that than for worse things,' returned John Baxendale. 'I am just a walking about here, because I can't bear to stop indoors. I _can't_ pay the rent, and the things must go.' 'No, father, they need not. He said if you would get up two pounds towards it, he would give time for the rest. If----' 'Two pounds!' ejaculated John Baxendale, 'where am I to get two pounds from? Borrow of them that have been provident, and so are better off, in this distress, than me? No, that I never will.' Mary opened her hand, and displayed two sovereigns held in its palm. They sparkled in the gaslight. 'The money is my own, father. Take it.' A sudden revulsion of feeling came over Baxendale--he seemed to have passed from despair to hope.--'Child,' he gently said, 'did an angel send it?' And Mary, worn with weakness, with long-continued insufficient food, sad with the distress around her, burst into tears, and, bending her head upon his arm, sobbed aloud. CHAPTER III. 'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL.' The Shucks had got a supper party. On this same Saturday night, when the wind was blowing outside, and the rain was making the streets into pools, two or three friends had dropped into Sam Shuck's--idlers like Sam himself--and were hospitably invited to remain. Mrs. Shuck was beginning to fry the liver and bacon she had just brought in, with the accompaniment of a good peck of onions, and Sam and his friends were staying their appetites with pipes and porter. When Mary Baxendale and her father entered--Mary having lingered a minute outside, until her emotion had passed, and her eyes were dry--they could scarcely find their way across the kitchen, what with the clouds from the pipes, and the smoke from the frying-pan. There was a great deal of laughter going on. Prosperity had not yet caused the Shucks to change their residence for a better one. Perhaps that was to come: but Sam's natural improvidence stood in the way of much change. 'You are merry to-night,' observed Mary, by way of being sociable. 'It's merrier inside nor out, a-wading through the puddles and the sharp rain,' replied Mrs. Shuck, without turning round from her employment. 'It's some'at new to see you out such a night as this, Mary Baxendale! Don't you talk about folks wanting sense again.' 'I don't know that I ever do talk of it,' was the inoffensive reply of Mary, as she followed her father up the stairs. Mrs. Baxendale was hushing a baby when they entered their room. She looked very cross. The best-tempered will do so, under the long-continued embarrassment of empty purses and empty stomachs. 'Who has been spreading it up and down the place that _we_ are in trouble about the rent?' she abruptly demanded, in no pleasant voice. 'That girl of Ryan's was here just now--Judy. She knew it, it seems, and she didn't forget to speak of it. Mary, what a simpleton you are, to be out in this rain!' 'Never mind who speaks of the rent, Mrs. Baxendale, so long as it can be paid,' said Mary, sitting down in the first chair to get her breath up, after mounting the stairs. 'Father is going to manage it, so that we shan't have any trouble at present. It's all right.' 'However have you contrived it?' demanded Mrs. Baxendale of her husband, in a changed tone. 'Mary has contrived it--not I. She has just put two pounds into my hand. Where did you get it, child?'--'It does not signify your knowing that, father.' 'If I don't know it, I shan't use the money,' he answered, shortly.--'Why, surely, father, you can trust me!' she rejoined. 'That is not it, Mary,' said John Baxendale. 'I don't like to use borrowed money, unless I know who it has been borrowed from.' 'It was not borrowed, in your sense of the word, father. I have only done what you and Mrs. Baxendale have been doing lately. I pledged that set of coral ornaments of my mother's. Had you forgotten them?' 'Why, yes, I had forgot 'em,' cried he. 'Coral ornaments! I declare they had as much slipped my memory, as if she had never possessed them.' 'Cox would only lend me two pounds upon them. Father, I hope I shall some time get them redeemed.' John Baxendale made no reply. He turned to pace the small room, evidently in deep thought. Mary, her poor short breath gathered again, took off her wet cloak and bonnet. Presently, Mrs. Baxendale put the loaf upon the table, and some cold potatoes. 'Couldn't you have brought in a sausage or two for yourself, Mary, or a red herring?' she said. 'You had got a shilling in your pocket.' 'I can eat a potato,' said Mary; 'it don't much matter about me.' 'It matters about us all, I think,' cried Mrs. Baxendale. 'What a delicious smell of onions!' she added in a parenthesis. 'Them Shucks have got the luck of it just now. Us, and the children, and you, are three parts starved--I know that, Mary. _We_ may weather it--it's to be hoped we shall; but it will just kill you.' 'No, it shan't,' said John Baxendale, turning to them with a strangely stern decision marked upon his countenance. 'This night has decided me, and I'll go and do it.' 'Go and do what?' exclaimed his wife, a sort of fear in her tone. 'I'll go to WORK, please God, Monday morning comes,' he said, with emphasis. 'The thought has been hovering in my mind this week past.' 'It's just the thing you ought to have done weeks ago,' observed Mrs. Baxendale. 'You never said it.'--'Not I. It's best to let men come to their senses of their own accord. You mostly act by the rules of contrary, you men; if I had advised your going to work next Monday morning, you'd just have stopped away.' Passing over this conjugal compliment in silence, John Baxendale descended the stairs. He possessed a large share of the open honesty of the genuine English workman. He disdained to do things in a corner. It would not suit him to return to work the coming Monday morning on what might be called 'the sly;' he preferred to act openly, and to declare it to the Trades' Union previously, in the person of their paid agent, Sam Shuck. This he would do at once, and for that purpose entered the kitchen. The first instalment of the supper was just served: which was accomplished by means of a tin dish placed on the table, and the contents of the frying-pan being turned unceremoniously into it. Sam and the company deemed the liver and bacon were best served hot and hot, so they set themselves to eat, while Mrs. Shuck continued to fry. 'I have got just a word to say, Shuck; I shan't disturb you,' began John Baxendale. But Shuck interrupted him. 'It's of no use, Baxendale, your remonstrating about the short allowance. Think of the many mouths there is to feed. It's hard times, we all know, thanks to the masters; but our duty, ay, and our pride too, must lie in putting up with them, like men.' 'It's not very hard times with you, at any rate,' said John Baxendale, sniffing involuntarily the savoury odour, and watching the tempting morsels consumed. 'My business here is not to remonstrate at anything, but to inform you that I shall resume work on Monday.' The announcement took Sam by surprise. He dropped the knife with which he was cutting the liver, held upon his bread--for the repast was not served fashionably, with a full complement of plates and dishes--and stared at Baxendale--'What!' he uttered. 'I have had enough of it. I shall go back on Monday morning.' 'Are you a fool, Baxendale? Or a knave?' 'Sometimes I think I must be a fool,' was the reply, given without irritation. 'Leastways, I have wondered lately whether I am or not: when there has been full work and full wages to be had for the asking, and I have not asked, but have let my wife and children and Mary go down to starvation point.' 'You have been holding out for principle,' remonstrated Sam. 'I know; and principle is a very good thing when you are sure it's the right principle. But flesh and blood can't stand out for ever.' 'After standing out as long as this, I'd try and stand out a bit longer,' cried Sam. 'You _must_, Baxendale; you can't turn traitor now.' 'You say "a bit," longer, Sam Shuck. It has been "a bit longer," and "a bit longer," for some time past; but the bit doesn't come to any ending. There's no more chance of the masters' coming to, than there was at first, but a great deal less. The getting of these men from the country will render them independent of us. What is to become of us then?' 'Rubbish!' said Sam Shuck. 'The masters must come to: they can't stand against the Unions. Because a sprinkling of poor country workmen have thrust in their noses, and the masters are keeping open their works on the show of it, is that a reason why we should knuckle down? They are doing it to frighten us.' 'Look here,' said Baxendale. 'I have two women and two children on my hands, and one of the women is next door to the grave; I am threatened--_you_ know it, Sam Shuck--with a lodging for them in the street next week, because I have not been able to pay the rent; I have parted by selling and pledging, with nearly all there is to part with, of my household goods. There was what they call a Bible reader round last week, and he says, pleasantly, "Why don't you kneel down and ask God to consider your condition, Mr. Baxendale?" Very good. But how can I do that? Isn't it just a mockery for me to pray for help to provide for me and mine? If God was pleased to answer us in words, would not the answer be, "There is work, and to spare; you have only got to do it?"' 'Well, that's grand,' put in one of Sam's guests, most of whom had been staring with open mouths. 'As if folks asked God about such things as this!' 'Since my late wife died, I have thought about it more than I used to,' said Baxendale, simply, 'and I have got to see that there's no good to be done in anything without it. But how can I in reason ask for help now, when I don't help myself? The work is ready to my hand, and I don't take it. So, Sam, my mind's made up at last. You'll tell the Union.' 'No, I shan't. You won't go to work.' 'You'll see. I shall be glad to go. I haven't had a proper meal this----' 'You'll think better of it between now and Monday morning,' interrupted Sam, drowning the words. 'I'll have a talk with you to-morrow. Have a bit of supper, Baxendale?' 'No, thank ye. I didn't come in to eat your victuals,' he added, moving to the door. 'We have got plenty,' said Mrs. Shuck, turning round from the frying-pan. 'Here, eat it up-stairs, if you won't stop, Baxendale.' She took out a slice of liver and of bacon, and handed them to him on a saucer. What a temptation it was to the man, sick with hunger! However, he was about to refuse, when he thought of Mary. 'Thank ye, Mrs. Shuck. I'll take it, then, if you can spare it. It will be a treat to Mary.' Like unto the appearance of water in the arid desert to the parched and exhausted traveller, was the sight of that saucer of meat to Mary. Terribly did she often crave for it. John Baxendale positively refused to touch any; so Mary divided it into two portions, giving one to Mrs. Baxendale. The woman's good-nature--her sense of Mary's condition--would have led her to refuse it; but she was not quite made up of self-denial, and she felt faint and sinking. John Baxendale cut a thick slice of bread, rubbed it over the remains of gravy in the saucer, and ate that. 'Please God, this shall have an end,' he mentally repeated. 'I think I _have_ been a fool!' Mr. Hunter's yard--as it was familiarly called in the trade--was open just as were other yards, though as yet he had but few men at work in it; in fact, so little was doing that it was almost equivalent to a stand-still. Mr. Henry Hunter was better off. A man of energy, determined to stand no nonsense, as he himself expressed it, he had gone down to country places, and engaged many hands. On the Monday following the above Saturday night, John Baxendale presented himself to Austin Clay and requested to be taken on again. Austin complied at once, glad to do so, and told the man he was wise to come to his senses. Mr. Hunter was not at business that day; 'too unwell to leave home' was the message carried to Austin Clay. In the evening Austin went to the house: as was usual when Mr. Hunter did not make his appearance at the works in the day. Florence was alone when he entered. Evidently in distress; though she strove to hide it from him, to turn it off with gay looks and light words. But he noted the signs. 'What is your grief, Florence?' he asked, speaking in an earnest tone of sympathy. It caused the tears to come forth again. Austin took her hands and drew her to him, as either a lover or a brother might have done, leaving her to take it as she pleased. 'Let me share it, Florence, whatever it may be.' 'It is nothing more than usual,' she answered; 'but somehow my spirits are low this evening. I try to bear up bravely; and I do bear up: but, indeed, this is an unhappy home. Mamma is sinking fast; I see it daily. While papa----' But for making the abrupt pause, she would have broken down. Austin turned away: he did not choose that she should enter upon any subject connected with Mr. Hunter. This time Florence would not be checked: as she had been hitherto. 'Austin, I cannot bear it any longer. What is it that is overshadowing papa?' she continued, her voice, her whole manner full of dread. 'I am sure that some misfortune hangs over the house.' 'I wish I could take you out of it,' was the impulsive and not very relevant answer. 'I can tell you nothing, Florence,' he concluded more soberly. 'Mr. Hunter has many cares in business; but the cares are his own.' 'Austin, is it kind of you to try to put me off so? I can bear reality, whatever it may be, better than suspense. It is for papa I grieve. See how ill he is! And yet he has no ailment of body, only of mind. Night after night he paces his room, never sleeping.' 'How do you know that?' Austin inquired. 'Because I listen to it.'--'You should not do so.' 'I cannot _help_ listening to him. How is it possible? His room is near mine, and when his footsteps are sounding in it, in the midnight silence, hour after hour, my ears grow sensitively quick. I say that loving him, I cannot help it. Sometimes I think that if I only knew the cause, the nature of his sorrow, I might soothe it--perhaps help to remove it.' 'As if young ladies could ever help or remove the cares of business!' he cried, speaking lightly. 'I am not a child, Austin,' she resumed: 'it is not kind of you to make pretence that I am, and try to put me off as one. Papa's trouble is _not_ connected with business, and I am sure you know that as well as I do. Will you not tell me what it is?' 'Florence, you can have no grounds for assuming that I am cognisant of it.' 'I feel very sure that you are. Can you suppose that I should otherwise speak of it to you?' 'I say that you can have no grounds for the supposition. By what do you so judge?' 'By signs,' she answered. 'I can read it in your countenance, your actions. I was pretty sure of it before that day when you sent me hastily into your rooms, lest I should hear what the man Gwinn was about to say; but I have been fully sure since. What he would have said related to it; and, in some way, the man is connected with the ill. Besides, you have been on confidential terms with papa for years.' 'On business matters only: not on private ones. My dear Florence, I must request you to let this subject cease, now and always. I know nothing of its nature from your father; and if my own thoughts have in any way strayed towards it, it is not fitting that I should give utterance to them.' 'Tell me one thing: could I be of any service, in any way?' 'Hush, Florence,' he uttered, as if the words had struck upon some painful cord. 'The only service you can render is, by taking no notice of it. Do not think of it if you can help; do not allude to it to your mother.' 'I never do,' she interrupted.--'That is well.' 'You have sometimes said you cared for me.' 'Well?' he rejoined, determined to be as contrary as he could. 'If you did, you would not leave me in this suspense. Only tell me the nature of papa's trouble, I will not ask further.' Austin gathered his wits together, thinking what plea he should invent. 'It is a debt, Florence. Your papa contracted a debt many years ago; he thought it was paid; but by some devilry--pardon the word; I forgot I was talking to you--a lawyer, Gwinn of Ketterford, has proved that it was not paid, and he comes to press for instalments of it. That is all I know. And now you must give me your promise not to speak of this. I'll never tell you anything more if you do.' Florence had listened attentively, and was satisfied. 'I will never speak of it,' she said. 'I think I understand it now. Papa fears he shall have no fortune left for me. Oh, if he only knew----' 'Hush, Florence!' came the warning whisper, for Mrs. Hunter was standing at the door. 'Is it you, Austin? I heard voices here, and wondered who had come in.' 'How are you, dear Mrs. Hunter?' he said to her as she entered. 'Better this evening?' 'Not better,' was Mrs. Hunter's answer, as she retained Austin's hand, and drew him on the sofa beside her. 'There will be no "better" for me in this world. Austin, I wish I could have gone from it under happier circumstances. Florence, I hear your papa calling.' 'If _you_ are not happy in the prospect of the future, who can be?' murmured Austin, as Florence left the room. 'I spoke not of myself. My concern is for Mr. Hunter. Austin, I would give every minute of my remaining days to know what terrible grief it is that has been so long upon him.' Austin was silent. Had Mrs. Hunter and Florence entered into a compact to annoy him? 'It has been like a dark shade upon our house for years. Florence and I have kept silence upon it to him, and to each other; to him we dare not speak, to each other we would not. Latterly it has seemed so much worse, that I was forced to whisper of it to her: I could not keep it in; the silence was killing me. We both agree that you are in his confidence; if so, perhaps you will satisfy me?' Austin Clay felt himself in a dilemma. He could not speak of it in the light manner he had to Florence, or put off so carelessly Mrs. Hunter. 'I am not in his confidence, indeed, Mrs. Hunter,' he broke forth, glad to be able to say so much. 'That I have observed the signs you speak of in Mr. Hunter, his embarrassment, his grief----' 'Say his fear, Austin.' 'His fear. That I have noticed this it would be vain to deny. But, Mrs. Hunter, I assure you he has never given me his confidence upon the subject. Quite the contrary; he has particularly shunned it with me. Of course I can give a very shrewd guess at the cause--he is pressed for money. Times are bad; and when a man of Mr. Hunter's thoughtful temperament begins to be really anxious on the score of money matters, it shows itself in various ways.' Mrs. Hunter quitted the subject, perhaps partially reassured; at any rate convinced that no end would be answered by continuing it. 'I was mistaken, I suppose,' she said, with a sigh. 'At least you can tell me, Austin, how business is going on. How will it go on?' Very grave turned Austin's face now. This was an open evil--one to be openly met and grappled with; and what his countenance gained in seriousness it lost in annoyance. 'I really do not see how it will go on,' was his reply, 'unless we can get to work soon. I want to speak to Mr. Hunter. Can I see him?' 'He will be in directly. He has not been down to-day yet. But I suppose you will wish to see him in private; I know he and you like to be alone when you talk upon business matters.' At present it was expedient that Mrs. Hunter, at any rate, should not be present, if she was to be spared annoyance; for Mr. Hunter's affairs were growing ominous. This was chiefly owing to the stoppage of works in process, and partly to the effect of a diminished capital. Austin as yet did not know all the apprehension, for Mr. Hunter contrived to keep some of it from him. That the diminishing of the capital was owing to Gwinn of Ketterford, Austin did know; at least, his surmises amounted to certainty. When a hundred pounds, or perhaps two hundred pounds, mysteriously went out, and Austin was not made acquainted with the money's destination, he drew his own conclusions. 'Are the men not learning the error of their course yet?' Mrs. Hunter resumed. 'They seem further off learning it than ever. One of them, indeed, came back to-day: Baxendale.' 'I felt sure he would be amongst the first to do so. He is a sensible man: how he came to hold out at all, is to me a matter of surprise.' 'He told me this morning, when he came and asked to be taken on again, that he wished he never had held out,' said Austin. 'Mary is none the better for it.' 'Mary was here to-day,' remarked Mrs. Hunter. 'She came to say that she was better, and could do some work if I had any. I fear it is a deceitful improvement. She is terribly thin and wan. No; this state of things must have been bad for her. She looks as if she were half famished.' 'She only looks what she is,' said Austin. 'Oh, Austin! I should have been so thankful to help her to strengthening food during this scarcity,' Mrs. Hunter exclaimed, the tears rising in her eyes. 'But I have not dared. You know what Mr. Hunter's opinion is--that the men have brought it upon themselves, and that, to help their families, only in the least degree, would be encouraging them to hold out, and would tend to prolong the contest. He positively forbade me helping any of them: and I could only obey. I have kept indoors as much as possible; that I might avoid the sight of the distress which I must not relieve. But I ordered Mary a good meal here this morning: Mr. Hunter did not object to that. Here he is.' Mr. Hunter entered, leaning upon Florence. He looked like an old man, rather than one of middle age. 'Baxendale is back, sir,' Austin observed, after a few words on business matters had passed in an under tone. 'Come to his senses at last, has he?' cried Mr. Hunter. 'That is just what I told him he had done, sir.' 'Has he signed the declaration?' 'Of course he has. The men have to do that, you know, sir, before they get any work. He says he wishes he had come back at first.' 'So do a good many others, in their hearts,' answered Mr. Hunter, significantly. 'But they can't pluck up the courage to acknowledge it.' 'The men are most bitter against him--urged on, no doubt, by the Union. They----' 'Against Baxendale?' 'Against Baxendale. He came to speak to me before breakfast. I gave him the declaration to read and sign, and sent him to work at once. In the course of the morning it had got wind; though Baxendale told me he had given Sam Shuck notice of his intention on Saturday night. At dinner time, when Baxendale was quitting the yard, there were, I should say, a couple of hundred men assembled there----' 'The Daffodil Delight people?' interrupted Mr. Hunter. 'Yes. Our late men chiefly, and a sprinkling of Mr. Henry's. They were waiting there for Baxendale, and the moment he appeared, the yells, the hisses, the groans, were dreadful. I suspected what it was, and ran out. But for my doing so, I believe they would have set upon him.' 'Mark you, Clay! I will protect my workmen to the very limit of the law. Let the malcontents lay but a finger upon any one of them, and they shall assuredly be punished to the uttermost,' reiterated Mr. Hunter, bringing down his hand forcibly. 'What did you do?' 'I spoke to them just as you have now spoken,' said Austin. 'Their threatenings to the man were terrible. I dared them to lay a finger upon him; I assured them that the language they were using was punishable. Had the police been in the way--but the more you want them, the less they are to be seen--I should have handed a few into custody.' 'Who were the ringleaders?'--'I can scarcely tell. Ryan, the Irishman, was busy, and so was Jim Dunn; Cheek, also, backed by his wife.' 'Oh, you had women also!' 'In plenty,' said Austin. 'One of them--I think it was Cooper's wife--roared out a challenge to fight _Mrs._ Baxendale, if her man, Cooper, as she expressed it, was too much of a woman to fight _him_. There will be bloodshed, I fear, sir, before the thing is over.' 'If there is, let they who cause it look to themselves,' said Mr. Hunter, speaking as sternly as he felt. 'How did it end?' 'I cleared a passage for Baxendale, and they yelled and hooted him home,' replied Austin. "I suppose they'd like to take my life, sir," he said to me; "but I think I am only doing right in returning to work. I could not let my family and Mary quite starve." This afternoon all was quiet; Quale told me the men were holding a meeting.' Florence was sitting with her hands clasped, her colour gradually rising. 'If they should--set upon Baxendale, and--and injure him!' she breathed. 'Then the law would see what it could do towards getting some of them punished,' sternly spoke Mr. Hunter. 'Oh, James!' interposed his wife, her pale cheeks flushing, as the words grated on her ears. 'Can nothing be done to prevent it? Prevention is better than cure. Austin, will you not give notice to the police, and tell them to be on the alert?' 'I have done it,' answered Austin. 'Papa,' said Florence, 'have you heard that Robert Darby's children are ill?--likely to die? They are suffering dreadfully from want. Mary Baxendale said so when she was here this morning.' 'I know nothing about Robert Darby or his children,' was the uncompromising reply of Mr. Hunter. 'If a man sees his children starving before him, and will not work to feed them, he deserves to find them ill. Florence, I see what you mean--you would like to ask me to permit you to send them relief. _I will not._' Do not judge of Mr. Hunter's humanity by the words, or deem him an unfeeling man. He was far from that. Had the men been out of work through misfortune, he would have been the first to forward them succour; many and many a time had he done it in cases of sickness. He considered, as did most of the other London masters, that to help the men or their families in any way, would but tend to prolong the dispute. And there was certainly reason in their argument--if the men wished to feed their children, why did they not work for them? 'Sir,' whispered Austin, when he was going, and Mr. Hunter went with him into the hall, 'that bill of Lamb's came back to us to-day, noted.' 'No!'--'It did, indeed. I had to take it up.' Mr. Hunter lifted his hands. 'This wretched state of things! It will bring on ruin, it will bring on ruin. I heard one of the masters curse the men the other day in his perplexity and anger; there are times when I am tempted to follow his example. Ruin! for my wife and for Florence!' 'Mr. Hunter,' exclaimed Austin, greatly agitated, and speaking in the moment's impulse, 'why will you not give me the hope of winning her? I will make her a happy home----' 'Be silent!' sternly interrupted Mr. Hunter. 'I have told you that Florence can never be yours. If you cannot put away this unthankful subject, at once and for ever, I must forbid you the house.' 'Good night, sir,' returned Austin. And he went away, sighing heavily. CHAPTER IV. SOMEBODY 'PITCHED INTO.' How do the poor manage to pull through illness? Through distress, through hunger, through cold, through nakedness; above all, through the close, unwholesome atmosphere in which too many of them are obliged to live, they struggle on from sickness back to health. Look at the children of Robert Darby. The low fever which attacked them had in some inexplicable way been subdued, without its going on to the dreaded typhus. If typhus had appeared at that untoward time in Daffodil's Delight, why, then, no earthly power could have kept many from the grave. Little pale, pinched forms, but with the disease gone, there sat Darby's children. Colder weather had come, and they had gathered round the bit of fire in their close room: fire it could scarcely be called, for it was only a few decaying embers. All sat on the floor, save Willy; he was in a chair, leaning his head back on a pillow. The boy had probably never been fitted by constitution for a prolonged life, though he might have lasted some years more under favourable surroundings; as it was, fever and privation had done their work with him, and the little spirit was nearly worn out. Mrs. Darby had taken him round to Mr. Rice. 'He does not want me, he wants good nourishment, and plenty of it,' was the apothecary's announcement! And Mrs. Darby took him home again. 'Mother, the fire's nearly out.' 'I can't help it, Willy. There's no coal, and nothing to buy it with.'--'Take something, mother.' You may or may not, as you are acquainted or not with the habits of the poor, be aware that this sentence referred to the pawnbroker: spoken out fully it would have been, 'Take something and pledge it, mother.' In cases of long-continued general distress, the children of a family know just as much about its ways and means as the heads do. Mrs. Darby cast her eyes round the kitchen. There was nothing to take, nothing that would raise them help, to speak of. As she stood over Willy, parting the hair with her gentle finger upon his little pale brow, her tears dropped upon his face. The pillow on which his head leaned? Ay; she had thought of that with longing; but how would his poor aching head do without it? The last things put in pledge had been Darby's tools. The latch of the door opened, and Grace entered. She appeared to be in some deep distress. Flinging herself on a chair, she clasped hold of her mother, sobbing wildly, clinging to her as if for protection. 'Oh, mother, they have accused me of theft; the police have been had to me!' were the confused words that broke from her lips. Grace had taken a service in a baker's family, where there was an excessively cross mistress. She was a well-conducted, honest girl, and, since the distress had commenced at home, had brought her wages straight to her mother, whenever they were paid her. For the last week or two, the girl had brought something more. On the days when she believed she could get a minute to run home in the evening, she had put by her allowance of meat at dinner--they lived well at the baker's--and made it upon bread and potatoes. Had Grace for a moment suspected there was anything wrong or dishonest in this, she would not have done it: she deemed the meat was hers, and she took it to Willy. On this day, two good slices of mutton were cut for her; she put them by, ate her potatoes and bread, and after dinner, upon being sent on an errand past Daffodil's Delight, was taking them out with her. The mistress pounced upon her. She abused her, she reproached her with theft, she called her husband to join in the accusation; and finally, a policeman was brought in from the street, probably more to frighten the girl than to give her in charge. It did frighten her in no measured degree. She protested, as well as she could do it for her sobs, that she had no dishonest thought; that she had believed the meat to be hers to eat it or not as she pleased, and that she was going to take it to her little brother, who was dying. The policeman decided that it was not a case for charge at the police-court, and the baker's wife ended the matter by turning her out. All this, with sobs and moans, she by degrees explained now. Robert Darby, who had entered during the scene, placed his hand, more in sorrow than in anger, upon Grace's shoulder, in his stern honesty. 'Daughter, I'd far rather we all dropped down here upon the floor and died out with starvation, than that you should have brought home what was not yours to bring.' 'There's no need for _you_ to scold her, Robert,' spoke Mrs. Darby, with more temper than she, meek woman that she was, often betrayed: and her conscience told her that she had purposely kept these little episodes from her husband. 'It is the bits of meat she has fed him with twice or thrice a week that has just kept life in him; that's my firm belief.' 'She shouldn't have done it; it was not hers to bring,' returned Robert Darby. 'What else has he had to feed him?' proceeded the wife, determined to defend the girl. 'What do any of us have? _You_ are getting nothing.' The tone was a reproachful one. With her starving children before her, and one of them dying, the poor mother's wrung heart could but speak out. 'I know I am getting nothing. Is it my fault? I wish I could get something. I'd work my fingers to the bone to keep my children.' 'Robert, let me speak to you,' she said in an imploring tone, the tears gushing from her eyes. 'I have sat here this week and asked myself, every hour of it, what we shall do. All our things, that money can be made on, are gone; the pittance we get allowed by the society does not keep body and soul together; and this state of affairs gets worse, and will get worse. What is to become of us? What are we to do?' Robert Darby leaned in his old jacket--one considerably the worse for wear--against the kitchen wall, his countenance gloomy, his attitude bespeaking misery. He knew not what they were to do, therefore he did not attempt to say. Grace had laid down her inflamed face upon the edge of Willy's pillow and was sobbing silently. The others sat on the floor: very quiet; as semi-starved little ones are apt to be. 'You have just said you would work your fingers to the bone to keep your children,' resumed Mrs. Darby to her husband. 'I'd work for them till the flesh dropped off me. I'd ask no better than to do it,' he vehemently said. 'But where am I to get work to do now?' 'Baxendale has got it,' she rejoined in a low tone. Grace started from her leaning posture. 'Oh, father, do as Baxendale has done! don't let the children quite starve. If you had been in work, this dreadful thing would not have happened. It will be a slur upon me for life.' 'So I would work, girl, but for the Trades' Unions.' 'Father, the Trades' Unions seem to bring you no good; nothing but harm. Don't trust them any longer; trust the masters now.' Never was there a better meaning man than Robert Darby; but he was too easily swayed by others. Latterly it had appeared to him that the Trades' Unions did bring him harm, and his trust in them was shaken. He stood for a few moments, revolving the question in his own mind. 'They'd cast me off, you see, the Trades' Unions would,' he observed to his wife, in an irresolute tone. 'What if they did? The masters would take you on. Stand right with the masters----' Mrs. Darby was interrupted by a shriek from Grace. Little Willy, whom nobody had been giving attention to, was lying back with a white face, senseless. Whether from the weakness of his condition, or from the unusual excitement of the scene going on around him, certain it was that the child had fainted. There was some little bustle in bringing him to, and Mrs. Darby sat down, the boy upon her lap. 'What ailed you, deary?' said Robert Darby, bending down to him. 'I don't know, father,' returned the child. And his voice was fainter than ever. Mrs. Darby pulled her husband's ear close to her lips. 'When the boy's dead, you'll wish you had cared for him more than for the Trades' Unions; and worked for him.' The words told upon the man. Perhaps for the first time he had fully realized to his imagination the moment when he should see his boy lying dead before him. 'I will work,' he exclaimed. 'Willy, boy, father will go and get work; and he'll soon bring you home something good to eat, as he used to.' Willy's hot lips parted with a pleasant smile of response; his blue eyes glistened brightly. Robert Darby bent his rough, unshaven face, and took a kiss from the child's smooth one. 'Yes, my boy; father _will_ work.' He went out, bending his steps towards Slippery Sam's--who, by the way, had latterly tried to exact the title of 'Mr. Shuck.' There was a code of honour--as they regarded it--amidst these operatives of the Hunters, to do nothing underhanded. That is, not to resume work without first speaking to the Unions' man, Sam Shuck--as was mentioned in the case of Baxendale. It happened that Mr. Shuck was standing in the strip of garden before his house, carrying on a wordy war over the palings with Mrs. Quale, when Darby came up. Peter Quale had of course been locked out with the rest, but with the first hour that Mr. Hunter's yard was opened, Peter returned to his work. He did not belong to the Trades' Unions--he never had belonged to them and never would; therefore, he was a free man. Strange to say, he was left to do as he liked in peace; somehow the Union did not care to interfere with Peter Quale--for one thing, he occupied a better position in the yard than most of the men. Peter pursued his own course quietly--going to his work and returning from it, saying little to the malcontents of Daffodil's Delight. Not so Mrs. Quale; she exercised her tongue upon them whenever she got the chance. Her motive was a good one: she was at heart sorry for the privation at present existing in Daffodil's Delight, and would have liked to shame the men into going to work again. 'Now, Robert Darby! how are them children of your'n?' began she. 'Starved out yet?' 'Next door to it,' was Darby's answer. 'And whose is the fault?' she went on. 'If I had children, and my husband wouldn't work to keep 'em out of their graves, through getting some nasty mistaken crotchet in his head, and holding out when the work was going a-begging, I'd go before a magistrate and see if I couldn't have the law of him.' 'You'd do a good many things if you wore the breeches,' interposed Sam Shuck, with a sneer; 'but you don't, you know.' 'You be wearing whole breeches now, which you get out of the blood and marrow of the poor misguided men,' retorted Mrs. Quale. 'They won't last out whole for ever, Slippery Sam.' 'They'll last out as long as I want 'em to, I dare say,' said Sam. 'Have you come up for anything particular, Darby?' 'I have come to talk a bit, Shuck,' answered Darby, inwardly shrinking from his task, and so deferring for a minute the announcement. 'There seems no chance of this state of things coming to an end.' 'No, that there doesn't. You men are preventing that.'--'Us men!' exclaimed Robert Darby in surprise. 'What do you mean?' 'I don't mean you; I don't mean the sturdy, honest fellows who hold out for their rights like men--I mean the other lot. If every operative in the kingdom had held out, to a man, the masters would have given in long ago--they must have done it; and you would all be back, working in triumph the nine hours per day. I spoke of those rats who sneak in, and take the work, to the detriment of the honest man.' 'At any rate, the rats are getting the best of it just now,' said Robert Darby. 'That they are,' said Mrs. Quale, exultingly, who would not lose an opportunity of putting in her word. She stood facing the men, her arms resting on the palings that divided the gardens. 'It isn't _their_ children that are dropping into their winding-sheets through want of food.' 'If I had my way, I'd hang every man who in this crisis is putting his hand to a stroke of work,' exclaimed Sam Shuck. 'Traitors! to turn and work for the masters after they had resorted to a lock-out! It was that lock-out floored us.' 'Of course it was,' assented Mrs. Quale, with marked complaisance. 'If the Union only had money coming in from the men, they'd hold out for ever. But the general lock-out stopped that.' 'Ugh!' growled Sam, with the addition of an ugly word. 'Well, Shuck, as things seem to be getting worse instead of better, and prospects look altogether so gloomy, I shall go back to work myself,' resumed Darby, plucking up courage to say it. 'Chut,' said Shuck. 'Will you tell me what I _am_ to do? I'd rather turn a thousand miles the other way than I'd put my foot indoors at home, and see things as they are there. If a man can clam himself, he can't watch those belonging to him clam. Every farthing of allowance I had from the society last week was----' 'You had your share,' interrupted Sam, who never cared to contend about the amount received. 'Think of the thousands there is to divide it among. The subscriptions have come in very well as yet, but they be falling off now.' 'And think of the society's expenses,' interposed Mrs. Quale, with suavity. 'The scores of gentlemen, like Mr. Shuck, there is to pay, and keep on the fat of the land. He'll be going into Parliament next!' 'You shut up, will you?' roared Sam. 'Ryan,' called out he to the Irishman, who was lounging up, 'here's Darby saying he thinks he shall go to work.' 'Oh, but that would be rich,' said Ryan, with a laugh, as he entered the garden, and took his standing beside Sam Shuck. 'Darby, man, you'd never desert the society! It couldn't spare you.' 'I want to do for the best,' said Darby; 'and it seems to me that to hold out is for the worse. Shuck, just answer me a question or two, as from man to man. If the masters fill their yards with other operatives, what is to become of us?' 'They can't fill their yards with other operatives,' returned Shuck. 'Where's the use of talking nonsense?' 'But they can. They are doing it.' 'They are not. They have just got a sprinkling of men for show--not many. Where are they to get them from?' 'Do you know what I heard? That Mr. Henry Hunter has been over to Belgium, and one or two of the other masters have also been, and----' 'There's no fear of the Beljim workmen,' interrupted Ryan. 'What English master 'ud employ them half-starved frogs?' 'I heard that Mr. Henry Hunter was quite thunderstruck at their skill,' continued Darby, paying no attention to the interruption. Their tools are bad: they are not to be called tools, compared to ours; but they turn out finished work. Their decorative work is beautiful. Mr. Henry Hunter put the question to them, whether they would like to come to England and earn five-and-sixpence per day, instead of three shillings as they do there, and they jumped at it. He told them that perhaps he might be sending for them.' 'Where did you bear that fine tale?' asked Slippery Sam?' 'It's going about among us. I dare say you have heard it also, Shuck. Mr. Henry was away somewhere for nine or ten days.' 'Let 'em come, them Beljicks,' sneered Ryan. 'Maybe they'd go back with their heads off. It couldn't take much to split the skull of them French beggars.' 'Not when an Irishman holds the stick,' cried Mrs. Quale, looking the man steadily in the face, as she left the palings. Ryan watched her away, and resumed. 'How dare the masters think of taking on forringers? Leaving us to starve!' 'The preventing of it lies with us,' said Darby. 'If we go back to work, there'll be no room for them.' 'Listen, Darby,' rejoined Shuck, in a persuasive tone of confidence, the latter in full force, now that his enemy, Mrs. Quale, had gone. 'The bone of contention is the letting us work nine hours a day instead of ten: well, why should they not accord it? Isn't there every reason why they should? Isn't there men, outsiders, willing to work a full day's work, but can't get it? This extra hour, thrown up by us, would give employment to them. Would the masters be any the worse off?' 'They say they'd be the hour's wages out of pocket.' 'Flam!' ejaculated Sam. 'It would come out of the public's pocket, not out of the masters'. They would add so much the more on to their contracts, and nobody would be the worse. It's just a dogged feeling of obstinacy that's upon 'em; it's nothing else. They'll come-to in the end, if you men will only let them; they can't help doing it. Hold out, hold out, Darby! If we are to give into them now, where has been the use of this struggle? Haven't you waited for it, and starved for it, and hoped for it?' 'Very true,' replied Darby, feeling in a perplexing maze of indecision. 'Don't give in, man, at the eleventh hour,' urged Shuck, with affectionate eloquence: and to hear him you would have thought he had nothing in the world at heart so much as the interest of Robert Darby. 'A little longer, and the victory will be ours. You see, it is not the bare fact of your going back that does the mischief, it's the example it sets. But for that scoundrel Baxendale's turning tail, you would not have thought about it.' 'I don't know that,' said Darby. 'One bad sheep will spoil a flock,' continued Sam, puffing away at a cigar which he was smoking. He would have enjoyed a pipe a great deal more; but gentlemen smoked cigars, and Sam wanted to look as much like a gentleman as he could; it had been suggested to him that it would add to his power over the operatives. 'Why, Darby, we have got it all in our own hands--if you men could but be brought to see it. It's as plain as the nose before you. Us, builders, taking us in all our branches, might be the most united and prosperous body of men in the world. Only let us pull together, and have consideration for our fellows, and put away selfishness. Binding ourselves to work on an equality, nine hours a day being the limit; eight, perhaps, after a while----' 'It's a good thing you have not got much of an audience here, Sam Shuck! That doctrine of yours is false and pernicious; its in opposition to the laws of God and man.' The interruption proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He had come into the garden unperceived by Sam, who was lounging on the side palings, his back to the gate. The doctor was on his way to pay a visit to Mary Baxendale. Sam started up. 'What did you say, sir?' 'What did I say!' repeated Dr. Bevary. 'I think it should be, what did you say? You would dare to circumscribe the means of usefulness God has given to man--to set a limit to his talents and his labour! You would say, "So far shall you work, and no farther!" Who are you, and all such as you, that you should assume such power, and set yourselves up between your fellow-men and their responsibilities?' 'Hear, hear,' interrupted Mrs. Quale, putting her head out at her window--for she had gone indoors. 'Give him a bit of truth, sir.' 'I have been a hard worker for years,' continued Dr. Bevary, paying no attention, it must be confessed, to Mrs. Quale. 'Mentally and practically I have toiled--_toiled_, Sam Shuck--to improve and make use of the talents entrusted to me. My days are spent in alleviating, so far as may be, the sufferings of my fellow-creatures; when I go to rest, I often lie awake half the night, pondering difficult questions of medical science. What man living has God endowed with power to come and say to me, "You shall not do this; you shall only work half your hours; you shall only earn a limited amount of fees?" Answer me.' 'It's not a parallel case, sir, with ours,' returned Sam. 'It is a parallel case,' said Dr. Bevary. 'There's your friend next door, Peter Quale; take him. By diligence he has made himself into a finished artizan; by dint of industry in working over hours, he is amassing a competence that will keep him out of the workhouse in his old age. What reason or principle of justice can there be in your saying, "He shall not do this; he shall receive no more than I do, or than Ryan, there, does? Because Ryan is an inferior workman, and I love idleness and drink and agitation better than work, Quale and others shall not work to have an advantage over us; we will share and fare alike." Out upon you, Slippery Sam, for promulgating doctrines so false! You must be the incarnation of selfishness, or you could not do it. If ever they obtain sway in free and enlightened England, the independence of the workman will be at an end.' The Doctor stepped in to Shuck's house, on his way to Mary Baxendale, leaving Sam on the gravel. Sam put his arm within Darby's, and led him down the street, out of the Doctor's way, who would be coming forth again presently. There he set himself to undo what the Doctor's words had done, and to breathe persuasive arguments into Darby's ear. Later, Darby went home. It had grown dusk then, for Sam had treated him to a glass at the Bricklayers' Arms, where sundry other friends were taking their glasses. There appeared to be a commotion in his house as he entered; his wife, Grace, and the young ones were standing round Willy. 'He has had another fainting fit,' said Mrs. Darby to her husband, in explanation. 'And now--I declare illness is the strangest thing!--he says he is hungry.' The child put out his hot hand. 'Father!' Robert Darby advanced and took it. 'Be you better, dear? What ails you this evening?' 'Father,' whispered the child, hopefully, 'have you got the work?' 'When do you begin, Robert?' asked the wife. 'To-morrow?' Darby's eyes fell, and his face clouded. 'I can't ask for it; I can't go back to work,' he answered. 'The society won't let me.' A great cry. A cry from the mother, from Grace, from the poor little child. Hope, sprung up once more within them, had been illumining the past few hours. 'You shall soon have food; father's going to work again, darlings,' the mother had said to the hungry little ones. And now the hopes were dashed! The disappointment was hard to bear. 'Is he to _die_ of hunger?' exclaimed Mrs. Darby, in bitterness, pointing to Willy. 'You said you would work for him.' 'So I would, if they'd let me. I'd work the life out of me, but what I'd get a crust for ye all; but the Trades' Union won't have it,' panted Darby, his breath short with excitement. 'What am I to do?' 'Work without the Trades' Union, father,' interposed Grace, taking courage to speak. She had always been a favourite with her father. 'Baxendale has done it.' 'They are threatening Baxendale awfully,' he answered. 'But it is not that I'd care for; it's this. The society would put a mark upon me: I should be a banned man: and when this struggle's over, they say I should be let get work by neither masters nor men. My tools are in pledge, too,' he added, as if that climax must end the contest. Mrs. Darby threw her apron over her eyes and burst into tears; Grace was already crying silently, and the boy had his imploring little hands held up. 'Robert, they are your own children!' said the wife, meekly. 'I never thought you'd see them starve.' Another minute, and the man would have cried with them. He went out of doors, perhaps to sob his emotion away. Two or three steps down the street he encountered John Baxendale. The latter slipped five shillings into his hand. Darby would have put it back again. 'Tut, man; don't be squeamish. Take it for the children. You'd do as much for mine, if you had got it and I hadn't. Mary and I have been talking about you. She heard you having an argument with that snake, Shuck.' 'They be starving, Baxendale, or I wouldn't take it,' returned the man, the tears running down his pinched face. 'I'll pay you back with the first work I get. You call Shuck a snake; do you think he is one?' 'I'm sure of it,' said Baxendale. 'I don't know that he means ill, but can't you see the temptation it is?--all this distress and agitation that's ruining us, is making a gentleman of him. He and the other agents are living on the fat of the land, as Quale's wife calls it, and doing nothing for their pay, except keeping up the agitation. If we all went to work again quietly, where would they be? Why, they'd have to go to work also, for their pay must cease. Darby, I think the eyes of you union men must be blinded, not to see this.' 'It seems plain enough to me at times,' assented Darby. 'I say, Baxendale,' he added, wishing to speak a word of warning to his friend ere he turned away, 'have a care of yourself; they are going on again you at a fine rate.' Come what would, Darby determined to furnish a home meal with this relief, which seemed like a very help from heaven. He bought two pounds of beef, a pound of cheese, some tea, some sugar, two loaves of bread, and a lemon to make drink for Willy. Turning home with these various treasures, he became aware that a bustle had arisen in the street. Men and women were pressing down towards one particular spot. Tongues were busy; but he could not at first obtain an insight into the cause of the commotion. 'An obnoxious man had been set upon in a lonely corner, under cover of the night's darkness, and pitched into,' was at length explained. 'Beaten to death.' Away flew Darby, a horrible suspicion at his heart. Pushing his way amidst the crowd collected round the spot, as only a resolute man can do, he stood face to face with the sight. One, trampled on and beaten, lay in the dust, his face covered with blood. 'Is it Baxendale?' shouted Darby, for he was unable to recognise him. 'It's Baxendale, as sure as a trivet. Who else should it be? He have caught it at last.' But there were pitying faces around. Humanity revolted at the sight; and quiet, inoffensive John Baxendale, had ever been liked in Daffodil's Delight. Robert Darby, his voice rising to a shriek with emotion, held out his armful of provisions. 'Look here! I wanted to work, but the Union won't let me. My wife and children be a starving at home, one of them dying: I came out, for I couldn't bear to stop indoors in the misery. There I met a friend--it seemed to me more like an angel--and he gave me money to feed my children; made me take it; he said if I had money and he had not, I'd do as much for him. See what I bought with it: I was carrying it home for my poor children when this cry arose. Friends, the one to give it me was Baxendale. And you have murdered him!' Another great cry, even as Darby concluded, arose to break the deep stillness. No stillness is so deep as that caused by emotion. 'He is not dead!' shouted the crowd. 'See! he is stirring! Who could have done this!' CHAPTER V. A GLOOMY CHAPTER. The winter had come in, intensely hard. Frost and snow lay early upon the ground. Was that infliction in store--a bitter winter--to be added to the already fearful distress existing in this dense metropolis? The men held out from work, and the condition of their families was something sad to look upon. Distress of a different nature existed in the house of Mr. Hunter. It was a house of sorrow; for its mistress lay dying. The spark of life had long been flickering, and now its time to depart had come. Haggard, worn, pale, stood Mr. Hunter in his drawing-room. He was conversing with his brother Henry. Their topic was business. In spite of existing domestic woes, men of business cannot long forget their daily occupation. Mr. Henry Hunter had come in to inquire news of his sister-in-law, and the conversation insensibly turned on other matters. 'Of course I shall weather it,' Mr. Henry was saying, in answer to a question. 'It will be a fearful loss, with so much money out, and buildings in process standing still. Did it last very much longer, I hardly know that I could. And you, James?' Mr. Hunter evaded the question. Since the time, years back, when they had dissolved partnership, he had shunned all allusion to his own prosperity, or non-prosperity, with his brother. Possibly he feared that it might lead to that other subject--the mysterious paying away of the five thousand pounds. 'For my part, I do not feel so sure of the strike's being near its end,' he remarked. 'I have positive information that the eligibility of withdrawing the strike at the Messrs. Pollocks' has been mooted by the central committee of the Union,' said Mr. Henry. 'If nothing else has brought the men to their senses, this weather must do it. It will end as nearly all strikes have ended--in their resuming work upon our terms.' 'But what an incalculable amount of suffering they have brought upon themselves!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'I do not see what is to become of them, either, in future. How are they all to find work again? We shall not turn off the stranger men who have worked for us in this emergency, to make room for them.' 'No, indeed,' replied Mr. Henry. 'And those strangers amount to nearly half my complement of hands. Do you recollect a fellow of the name of Moody?' 'Of course I do. I met him the other day, looking like a walking skeleton. I asked him whether he was not tired of the strike. He said _he_ had been tired of it long ago; but the Union would not let him be.' 'He hung himself yesterday.' Mr. Hunter replied only by a gesture. 'And left a written paper behind him, cursing the strike and the Trades' Unions, which had brought ruin upon him and his family. 'I saw the paper,' continued Mr. Henry. 'A decent, quiet man he was; but timorous, and easily led away.' 'Is he dead?' 'He had been dead two hours when he was found. He hung himself in that shed at the back of Dunn's house, where the men held some meetings in the commencement of the strike. I wonder how many more souls this wretched state of affairs will send, or has sent, out of the world!' 'Hundreds, directly or indirectly. The children are dying off quickly, as the Registrar-General's returns show. A period of prolonged distress always tells upon the children. And upon us also, I think,' Mr. Hunter added, with a sigh. 'Upon us in a degree,' Mr. Henry assented, somewhat carelessly. He was a man of substance; and, upon such, the ill effects fall lightly. 'When the masters act in combination, as we have done, it is not the men who can do us permanent injury. They must give in, before great harm has had time to come. James, I saw that man this morning: your _bête noire_, as I call him. Mr. Hunter changed countenance. He could not be ignorant that his brother alluded to Gwinn of Ketterford. It happened that Mr. Henry Hunter had been cognisant of one or two of the unpleasant visits forced by the man upon his brother during the last few years. But Mr. Henry had avoided questions: he had the tact to perceive that they would only go unanswered, and be deemed unpleasant into the bargain. 'I met him near your yard. Perhaps he was going in there.' The sound of the muffled knocker, announcing a visitor, was heard the moment after Mr. Henry spoke, and Mr. Hunter started as though struck by a pistol-shot. At a calmer time he might have had more command over himself; but the sudden announcement of the presence of the man in town--which fact he had not been cognisant of--had startled him to tremor. That Gwinn, and nobody else, was knocking for admittance, seemed a certainty to his shattered nerves. 'I cannot see him: I cannot see him!' he exclaimed, in agitation; and he backed away from the room door, unconscious what he did in his confused fear, his lips blanching to a deadly whiteness. Mr. Henry moved up and took his hand. 'James, there has been estrangement between us on this point for years. As I asked you once before, I now ask you again: confide in me and let me help you. Whatever the dreadful secret may be, you shall find me your true brother.' 'Hush!' breathed Mr. Hunter, moving from his brother in his scared alarm. 'Dreadful secret! who says it? There is no dreadful secret. Oh Henry! hush! hush! The man is coming in! You must leave us.' Not the dreaded Gwinn, but Austin Clay. He was the one who entered. Mr. Hunter sat down, breathing heavily, the blood coming back to his face; he nearly fainted in the revulsion of feeling brought by the relief. Broken in spirit, health and nerves alike shattered, the slightest thing was now sufficient to agitate him. 'You are ill, sir!' exclaimed Austin, advancing with concern. 'No--no--I am not ill. A momentary spasm; that's all. I am subject to it.' Mr. Henry moved to the door in vexation. There was to be no more brotherly confidence between them now than there had formerly been. He spoke as he went, without turning round. 'I will come in again by-and-by, James, and see how Louisa is.' The departure seemed a positive relief to Mr. Hunter. He spoke quietly enough to Austin Clay. 'Who has been at the office to-day?' 'Let me see,' returned Austin, with a purposed carelessness. 'Lyall came, and Thompson----' 'Not men on business, not men on business,' Mr. Hunter interrupted with feverish eagerness. 'Strangers.' 'Gwinn of Ketterford,' answered Austin, with the same assumption of carelessness. 'He came twice. No other strangers have called, I think.' Whether his brother's request, that he should be enlightened as to the 'dreadful secret,' had rendered Mr. Hunter suspicious that others might surmise there was a secret, certain it is that he looked up sharply as Austin spoke, keenly regarding his countenance, noting the sound of his voice. 'What did he want?' 'He wanted you, sir. I said you were not to be seen. I let him suppose that you were too ill to be seen. Bailey, who was in the counting-house at the time, gave him the gratuitous information that Mrs. Hunter was very ill--in danger.' Why this answer should have increased Mr. Hunter's suspicions, he best knew. He rose from his seat, grasped Austin's arm, and spoke with menace. 'You have been prying into my affairs! You sought out those Gwinns when you last went to Ketterford! You----' Austin withdrew from the grasp, and stood before his master, calm and upright. 'Mr. Hunter!' 'Was it not so?' 'No, sir. I thought you had known me better. I should be the last to "pry" into anything that you might wish to keep secret.' 'Austin, I am not myself to-day, I am not myself,' cried the poor gentleman, feeling how unjustifiable had been his suspicions. 'This grief, induced by the state of Mrs. Hunter, unmans me.' 'How is she, sir, by this time?' 'Calm and collected, but sinking fast. You must go up and see her. She said she should like to bid you farewell.' Through the warm corridors, so well protected from the bitter cold reigning without, Austin was conducted to the room of Mrs. Hunter. Florence, her eyes swollen with weeping, quitted it as he entered. She lay in bed, her pale face raised upon pillows; save for that pale face and the laboured breathing, you would not have suspected the closing scene to be so near. She lifted her feeble hand and made prisoner of Austin's. The tears gathered in his eyes as he looked down upon her. 'Not for me, dear Austin,' she whispered, as she noted the signs of sorrow. 'Weep rather for those who are left to battle yet with this sad world.' The words caused Austin to wonder whether she could have become cognisant of the nature of Mr. Hunter's long-continued trouble. He swallowed down the emotion that was rising in his throat. 'Do you feel no better?' he gently inquired. 'I feel well, save for the weakness. All pain has left me. Austin, I shall be glad to go. I have only one regret, the leaving Florence. My husband will not be long after me; I read it in his face.' 'Dear Mrs. Hunter, will you allow me to say a word to you on the subject of Florence?' he breathed, seizing on the swiftly-passing opportunity. 'I have wished to do it before we finally part.' 'Say what you will.' 'Should time and perseverance on my part be crowned with success, so that the prejudices of Mr. Hunter become subdued, and I succeed in winning Florence, will you not say that you bless our union?' Mrs. Hunter paused. 'Are we quite alone?' she asked. Austin glanced round to the closed door. 'Quite,' he answered. 'Then, Austin, I will say more. My hearty consent and blessing be upon you both, if you can, indeed, subdue the objection of Mr. Hunter. Not otherwise: you understand that.' 'Without her father's consent, I am sure that Florence would not give me hers. Have you any idea in what that objection lies?' 'I have not. Mr. Hunter is not a man who will submit to be questioned, even by me. But, Austin, I cannot help thinking that this objection to you may fade away--for, that he likes and esteems you greatly, I know. Should that time come, then tell him that I loved you--that I wished Florence to become your wife--that I prayed God to bless the union. And then tell Florence.' 'Will you not tell her yourself?' Mrs. Hunter made a feeble gesture of denial. 'It would seem like an encouragement to dispute the decision of her father. Austin, will you say farewell, and send my husband to me? I am growing faint.' He clasped her attenuated hands in both his; he bent down, and kissed her forehead. Mrs. Hunter held him to her. 'Cherish and love her always, should she become yours,' was the feeble whisper. 'And come to me, come to me, both of you, in eternity.' A moment or two in the corridor to compose himself, and Austin met Mr. Hunter on the stairs, and gave him the message. 'How is Baxendale?' Mr. Hunter stayed to ask. 'A trifle better. Not yet out of danger.' 'You take care to give him the allowance weekly?' 'Of course I do, sir. It is due to-night, and I am going to take it to him.' 'Will he ever be fit for work again?'--'I hope so.' Another word or two on the subject of Baxendale, the attack on whom Mr. Hunter most bitterly resented, and Austin departed. Mr. Hunter entered his wife's chamber. Florence, who was also entering, Mrs. Hunter feebly waved away. 'I would be a moment alone with your father, my child. James,' Mrs. Hunter said to her husband, as Florence retired--but her voice was now so reduced that he had to bend his ear to catch the sounds--'there has been estrangement between us on one point for many years: and it seems--I know not why--to be haunting my death-bed. Will you not, in this my last hour, tell me its cause?' 'It would not give you peace, Louisa. It concerns myself alone.' 'Whatever the secret may be, it has been wearing your life out. I ought to know it.' Mr. Hunter bent lower. 'My dear wife, it would not bring you peace, I say. I contracted an obligation in my youth,' he whispered, in answer to the yearning glance thrown up to him, 'and I have had to pay it off--one sum after another, one after another, until it has nearly drained me. It will soon be at an end now.' 'Is it nearly paid?'--'Ay. All but.' 'But why not have told me this? It would have saved me many a troubled hour. Suspense, when fancy is at work, is hard to bear. And you, James: why should simple debt, if it is that, have worked so terrible a fear upon you?' 'I did not know that I could stave it off: looking back, I wonder that I did do it. I could have borne ruin for myself: I could not, for you.' 'Oh, James!' she fondly said, 'should I have been less brave? While you and Florence were spared to me, ruin might have done its worst.' Mr. Hunter turned his face away: strangely wrung and haggard it looked just then. 'What a mercy that it is over!' 'All but, I said,' he interrupted. And the words seemed to burst from him in an uncontrollable impulse, in spite of himself. 'It is the only thing that has marred our life's peace, James. I shall soon be at rest. Perfect peace! perfect happiness! May all we have loved be there! I can see----' The words had been spoken disjointedly, in the faintest whisper, and, with the last one died away. She laid her head upon her husband's arm, and seemed as if she would sleep. He did not disturb her: he remained buried in his own thoughts. A short while, and Florence was heard at the door. Dr. Bevary was there. 'You can come in,' called out Mr. Hunter. They approached the bed. Florence saw a change in her mother's face, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. The physician's practised eye detected what had happened: he made a sign to the nurse who had followed him in, and the woman went forth to carry the news to the household. Mr. Hunter alone was calm. 'Thank God!' was his strange ejaculation. 'Oh, papa! papa! it is death!' sobbed Florence, in her distress. 'Do you not see that it is death?' 'Thank God also, Florence,' solemnly said Dr. Bevary. 'She is better off.' Florence sobbed wildly. The words sounded to her ears needlessly cruel--out of place. Mr. Hunter bent his face on that of the dead, with a long, fervent kiss. 'My wronged wife!' he mentally uttered. Dr. Bevary followed him as he left the room. 'James Hunter, it had been a mercy for you had she been taken years ago.' Mr. Hunter lifted his hands as if beating off the words, and his face turned white. 'Be still! be still! what can _you_ know?' 'I know as much as you,' said Dr. Bevary, in a tone which, low though it was, seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of the unhappy man. 'The knowledge has disturbed my peace by day, and my rest by night. What, then, must it have done by yours?' James Hunter, his hands held up still to shade his face, and his head down, turned away. 'It was the fault of another,' he wailed, 'and I have borne the punishment.' 'Ay,' said Dr. Bevary, 'or you would have had my reproaches long ago. Hark! whose voice is that?' It was one known only too well to Mr. Hunter. He cowered for a moment, as he had hitherto had terrible cause to do: the next, he raised his head, and shook off the fear. 'I can dare him now,' he bravely said, turning to the stairs with a cleared countenance, to meet Gwinn of Ketterford. He had obtained entrance in this way. The servants were closing up the windows of the house, and one of them had gone outside to tell the gossiping servant of a neighbour that their good lady and ever kind mistress was dead, when the lawyer arrived. He saw what was being done, and drew his own conclusions. Nevertheless, he desisted not from the visit he had come to pay. 'I wish to see Mr. Hunter,' he said, while the door stood open. 'I do not think you can see him now, sir,' was the reply of the servant. 'My master is in great affliction.' 'Your mistress is dead, I suppose.'--'Just dead.' 'Well, I shall not detain Mr. Hunter many minutes,' rejoined Gwinn, pushing his way into the hall. 'I must see him.' The servant hesitated. But his master's voice was heard. 'You can admit that person, Richard.' The man opened the door of the front room. It was in darkness; the shutters were closed; so he turned to the door of the other, and showed the guest in. The soft perfume from the odoriferous plants in the conservatory was wafted to the senses of Gwinn of Ketterford as he entered. 'Why do you seek me here?' demanded Mr. Hunter when he appeared. 'Is it a fitting time and place?' 'A court of law might perhaps be more fit,' insolently returned the lawyer. 'Why did you not remit the money, according to promise, and so obviate the necessity of my coming?' 'Because I shall remit no more money. Not another farthing, or the value of one, shall you ever obtain of me. If I have submitted to your ruinous and swindling demands, you know why I have done it----' 'Stop!' interrupted Mr. Gwinn. 'You have had your money's worth--silence.' Mr. Hunter was deeply agitated. 'As the breath went out of my wife's body, I thanked God that He had taken her--that she was removed from the wicked machinations of you and yours. But for the bitter wrong dealt out to me by your wicked sister Agatha, I should have mourned for her with regrets and tears. You have made my life into a curse: I purchased your silence that you should not render hers one. The fear and the thraldom are alike over.' Mr. Gwinn laughed significantly. 'Your daughter lives.' 'She does. In saying that I will make her cognisant of this, rather than supply you with another sixpence, you may judge how firm is my determination.' 'It will be startling news for her.' 'It will: should it come to the telling. Better that she hear it, and make the best and the worst of it, than that I should reduce her to utter poverty--and your demands, supplied, would do that. The news will not kill her--as it might have killed her mother.' Did Lawyer Gwinn feel baffled? For a minute or two he seemed to be at a loss for words. 'I will have money,' he exclaimed at length. 'You have tried to stand out against it before now.' 'Man! do you know that I am on the brink of ruin?' uttered Mr. Hunter, in deep excitement, 'and that it is you who have brought me to it?' But for the money supplied to you, I could have weathered successfully this contest with my workmen, as my brother and others are weathering it. If you have any further claim against me,' he added in a spirit of mocking bitterness, 'bring it against my bankruptcy, for that is looming near.' 'I will not stir from your house without a cheque for the money.' 'This house is sanctified by the presence of the dead,' reverently spoke Mr. Hunter. 'To have any disturbance in it would be most unseemly. Do not force me to call in a policeman.' 'As a policeman was once called into you, in the years gone by,' Lawyer Gwinn was beginning with a sneer: but Mr. Hunter raised his voice and his hand. 'Be still! Coward as I have been, in one sense, in yielding to your terms, I have never been coward enough to permit _you_ to allude, in my presence, to the past. I never will. Go from my house quietly, sir: and do not attempt to re-enter it.' Mr. Hunter broke from the man--for Gwinn made an effort to detain him--opened the door, and called to the servant, who came forward. 'Show this person to the door, Richard.' An instant's hesitation with himself whether it should be compliance or resistance, and Gwinn of Ketterford went forth. 'Richard,' said Mr. Hunter, as the servant closed the hall-door.--'Sir?' 'Should that man ever come here again, do not admit him. And if he shows himself troublesome, call a policeman to your aid.' And then Mr. Hunter shut himself in the room, and burst into heavy tears, such as are rarely shed by man. CHAPTER VI. THE LITTLE BOY AT REST. No clue whatever had been obtained to the assailants of John Baxendale. The chief injury lay in the ribs. Two or three of them were broken: the head was also much bruised and cut. He had been taken into his own home and there attended to: it was nearer than the hospital: though the latter would have been the better place. Time had gone on since, and he was now out of danger. Never would John Baxendale talk of the harshness of masters again--though, indeed, he never much talked of it. The moment Mr. Hunter heard of the assault, he sent round his own surgeon, directed Austin to give Baxendale a sovereign weekly, and caused strengthening delicacies to be served from his own house. And that was the same man whom you heard forbidding his wife and daughter to forward aid to Darby's starving children. Yes; but Mr. Hunter denied the aid upon principle: Darby would not work. It pleased him far more to accord it to Baxendale than to deny it to Darby: the one course gladdened his heart, the other pained it. The surgeon who attended was a particular friend of Dr. Bevary's, and the Doctor, in his quaint, easy manner, contrived to let Baxendale know that there would be no bill for him to pay. It was late when Austin reached Baxendale's room the evening of Mrs. Hunter's death. Tidings of which had already gone abroad. 'Oh, sir,' uttered the invalid, straining his eyes on him from the sick-bed, before Austin had well entered, 'is the news true?' 'It is,' sadly replied Austin. 'She died this afternoon.' 'It is a good lady gone from among us. Does the master take on much?' 'I have not seen him since. Death came on, I believe, rather suddenly at the last.' 'Poor Mrs. Hunter!' wailed Baxendale. 'Hers is not the only spirit that is this evening on the wing,' he added, after a pause. 'That boy of Darby's is going, Mary'--looking on the bright sovereign put into his hands by Austin--'suppose you get this changed, and go down there and take 'em a couple of shillings? It's hard to have a cupboard quite empty when death's a visitor.' Mary came up from the far end of the room, and put on her shawl with alacrity. She looked but a shadow herself. Austin wondered how Mr. Hunter would approve of any of his shillings finding their way to Darby's; but he said nothing against it. But for the strongly expressed sentiments of Mr. Hunter, Austin would have given away right and left, to relieve the distress around him: although, put him upon principle, and he agreed fully with Mr. Hunter. Mary got change for the sovereign, and took possession of a couple of shillings. It was a bitterly cold evening; but she was well wrapped up. Though not permanently better, Mary was feeling stronger of late: in her simple faith, she believed God had mercifully spared her for a short while, that she might nurse her father. She knew, just as well as did Dr. Bevary, that it would not be for long. As she went along she met Mrs. Quale. 'The child is gone,' said the latter, hearing where Mary was going. 'Poor child! Is he really dead?' Mrs. Quale nodded. Few things upset her equanimity. 'And I am keeping my eyes open to look out for Darby,' she added. 'His wife asked me if I would. She is afraid'--dropping her voice--'that he may do something rash.' 'Why?' breathed Mary, in a tone of horror, understanding the allusion. 'Why!' vehemently repeated Mrs. Quale; 'why, because he reflects upon himself--that's why. When he saw that the breath was really gone out of the poor little body--and that's not five minutes ago--he broke out like one mad. Them quiet natures in ordinary be always the worst if they get upset; though it takes a good deal to do it. He blamed himself, saying that if he had been in work, and able to get proper food for the boy, it would not have happened; and he cursed the Trades Unions for misleading him, and bringing him to what he is. There's many another cursing the Unions on this inclement night, or my name's not Nancy Quale.' She turned back with Mary, and they entered the home of the Darbys. Grace, unable to get another situation, partly through the baker's wife refusing her a character, partly because her clothes were in pledge, looked worn and thin, as she stood trying to hush the youngest child, then crying fretfully. Mrs. Darby sat in front of the small bit of fire, the dead boy on her knees, pressed to her still, just as Mrs. Quale had left her. 'He won't hunger any more,' she said, lifting her face to Mary, the hot tears running from it. Mary stooped and kissed the little cold face. 'Don't grieve,' she murmured. 'It would be well for us all if we were as happy as he.' 'Go and speak to him,' whispered the mother to Mrs. Quale, pointing to a back door, which led to a sort of open scullery. 'He has come in, and is gone out there.' Leaning against the wall, in the cold moonlight, stood Robert Darby. Mrs. Quale was not very good at consolation: finding fault was more in her line. 'Come, Darby, don't take on so: it won't do no good,' was the best she could say. 'Be a man.' He seized hold of her, his shaking hands trembling, while he spoke bitter words against the Trades Unions. 'Don't speak so, Robert Darby,' was the rejoinder of Mrs. Quale. 'You are not obliged to join the Trades' Unions; therefore there's no need to curse 'em. If you and others kept aloof from them, they'd soon die away.' 'They have proved a curse to me and mine'--and the man's voice rose to a shriek, in his violent emotion. 'But for them, I should have been at work long ago.' 'Then I'd go to work at once, if it was me, and put the curse from me that way,' concluded Mrs. Quale. With the death of the child, things had come to so low an ebb in the Darby household, as to cause sundry kind gossipers to suggest, and to spread the suggestion as a fact, that the parish would have the honour of conducting the interment. Darby would have sold himself first. He was at Mr. Hunter's yard on the following morning before daylight, and the instant the gates were opened presented himself to the foreman as a candidate for work. That functionary would not treat with him. 'We have had so many of you old hands just coming on for a day or two, and then withdrawing again, through orders of the society, or through getting frightened at being threatened, that Mr. Clay said I was to take back no more shilly-shallyers.' 'Try me!' feverishly cried Darby. 'I will not go from it again.' 'No,' said the foreman. 'You can speak to Mr. Clay.' 'Darby,' said Austin, when the man appeared before him, 'will you pass your word to me to remain? Here men come; they sign the document, they have work assigned them; and in a day or so, I hear that they have left again. It causes no end of confusion to us, for work to be taken up and laid down in that way.' 'Take me on, and try me, sir. I'll stick to it as long as there's a stroke of work to do--unless they tread me to pieces as they did Baxendale. I never was cordial for the society, sir. I obeyed it, and yet a doubt was always upon me whether I might not be doing wrong. I am sure of it now. The society has worked harm to me and mine, and I will never belong to it again.' 'Others have said as much of the society, and have returned to it the next day,' remarked Mr. Clay. 'Perhaps so, sir. They hadn't seen one of their children die, that they'd have laid down their own lives to save--but that they had not _worked_ to save. I have. Take me on, sir! He can't be buried till I have earned the wherewithal to pay for it. I'll stand to my work from henceforth--over hours, if I can get it.' Austin wrote a word on a card, and desired Darby to carry it to the foreman. 'You can go to work at once,' he said. 'I'll take work too, sir, if I can get it,' exclaimed another man, who had come up in time to hear Austin's last words. 'What! is it you, Abel White?' exclaimed Austin, with a half-laugh. 'I thought you made a boast that if the whole lot of hands came back to work, you never would, except upon your own terms.' 'So I did, sir. But when I find I have been in the wrong, I am not above owning it,' was the man's reply, who looked in a far better physical condition than the pinched, half-starved Darby. 'I could hold out longer, sir, without much inconvenience; leastways, with a deal less inconvenience than some of them could, for I and father belong to one or two provident clubs, and they have helped us weekly, and my wife and daughters don't do amiss at their umbrella work. But I have come over to my old father's views at last; and I have made my mind up, as he did long ago, never to be a Union man again--unless the masters should turn round and make themselves into a body of tyrants; I don't know what I might do then. But there's not much danger of that--as father says--in these go-a-head days. You'll give me work, sir?' 'Upon certain conditions,' replied Austin. And he sat down and proceeded to talk to the man. CHAPTER VII. MR. DUNN'S PIGS BROUGHT TO MARKET. Daffodil's Delight and its environs were in a state of bustle--of public excitement, as may be said. Daffodil's Delight, however low its condition might be, never failed to seize hold upon any possible event, whether of a general public nature, or of a private local nature, as an excuse for getting up a little steam. On that cold winter's day, two funerals were appointed to take place: the one, that of Mrs. Hunter; the other, of little William Darby: and Daffodil's Delight, in spite of the black frost, turned out in crowds to see. You could not have passed into the square when the large funeral came forth so many had collected there. It was a funeral of mutes and plumes and horses and trappings and carriages and show. The nearer Mr. Hunter had grown to pecuniary embarrassment, the more jealous was he to guard all suspicion of it from the world. Hence the display: which the poor unconscious lady they were attending would have been the first to shrink from. Mr. Hunter, his brother, and Dr. Bevary were in the first mourning-coach: in the second, with two of the sons of Henry Hunter, and another relative, sat Austin Clay. And more followed. That took place in the morning. In the afternoon, the coffin of the boy, covered by something black--but it looked like old cloth instead of velvet--was brought out of Darby's house upon men's shoulders. Part of the family followed, and pretty nearly the whole of Daffodil's Delight brought up the rear. There it is, moving slowly down the street. Not over slowly either; for there had been a delay in some of the arrangements, and the clergyman must have been waiting for half an hour. It was a week since Darby resumed work; a long while to keep the child, but the season was winter. Darby had paid part of the expense, and had been trusted for the rest. It arrived at the burial place; and the little body was buried, there to remain until the resurrection at the last day. As Darby stood over the grave, the regret for his child was nearly lost sight of in that other and far more bitter regret, the remorse of which was telling upon him. He had kept the dead starving for months, when work was to be had for the asking! 'Don't take on so,' whispered a neighbour, who knew his thoughts. 'If you had gone back to work as soon as the yards were open, you'd only have been set upon and half-killed, as Baxendale was.' 'Then it would not, in that case, have been my fault if he had starved,' returned Darby, with compressed lips. 'His poor hungry face 'll lie upon my mind for ever.' The shades of evening were on Daffodil's Delight when the attendants of the funeral returned, and Mr. Cox, the pawnbroker, was busily transacting the business that the dusk hour always brought him. Even the ladies and gentlemen of Daffodil's Delight, though they were common sufferers, and all, or nearly all, required to pay visits to Mr. Cox, imitated their betters in observing that peculiar reticence of manner which custom has thrown around these delicate negotiations. The character of their offerings had changed. In the first instance they had chiefly consisted of ornaments, whether of the house or person, or of superfluous articles of attire and of furniture. Then had come necessaries: bedding, and heavier things; and then trifles--irons, saucepans, frying-pans, gowns, coats, tools--anything; anything by which a shilling could be obtained. And now had arrived the climax when there was nothing more to take--nothing, at least, that Mr. Cox would speculate upon. A woman went banging into the shop, and Mr. Cox recognised her for the most troublesome of his customers--Mrs. Dunn. Of all the miserable households in Daffodil's Delight, that of the Dunns' was about the worst: but Mrs. Dunn's manners and temper were fiercer than ever. The non-realization of her fond hope of good cheer and silk dresses was looked upon as a private injury, and resented as such. See her as she turns into the shop: her head, a mass of torn black cap and entangled hair; her gown, a black stuff once, dirty now, hanging in jags, and clinging round her with that peculiar cling which indicates that few, if any, petticoats are underneath; her feet scuffling along in shoes tied round the instep with white rag, to keep them on! As she was entering, she encountered a poor woman named Jones, the wife of a carpenter, as badly reduced as she was. Mrs. Jones held out a small blanket for her inspection, and spoke with the tears running down her cheeks. Apparently, her errand to Mr. Cox had been unsuccessful. 'We have kept it till the last. We said we could not lie on the sack of straw this awful weather, without the blanket to cover us. But to-day we haven't got a crumb in the house, or a ember in the grate; and Jones said, says he, "There ain't no help for it, you must pledge it."' 'And Cox won't take it in?' shrilly responded Mrs. Dunn. The woman shook her head, and the tears fell fast on her thin cotton shawl, as she walked away. 'He says the moths has got into it.' 'A pity but the moths had got into him! his eyes is sharper than they need be,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'Here, Cox,' dashing up to the counter, and flinging on it a pair of boots, 'I want three shillings on them.' Mr. Cox took up the offered pledge--a thin pair of woman's boots, black cloth, with leather tips; new, they had probably cost five shillings, but they were now considerably the worse for wear. 'What is the use of bringing these old things?' remonstrated Mr. Cox. 'They are worth nothing.' 'Everything's worth nothing, according to you,' retorted Mrs. Dunn. 'Come! I want three shillings on them.' 'I wouldn't lend you eighteen-pence. They'd not fetch it at an auction.' Mrs. Dunn would have very much liked to fling the boots in his face. After some dispute, she condescended to ask what he would give. 'I'll lend a shilling, as you are a customer, just to oblige you. But I don't care to take them in at all.' More dispute; and she brought her demand down to eighteen-pence. 'Not a penny more than a shilling,' was the decisive reply. 'I tell you they are not worth that, to me.' The boots were at length left, and the shilling taken. Mrs. Dunn solaced herself with a pint of half-and-half in a beer-shop, and went home with the change. Upon no home had the strike acted with worse effects than upon that of the Dunns: and we are not speaking now as to pecuniary matters. _They_ were just as bad as they could be. Irregularity had prevailed in it at the best of times; quarrelling and contention often; embarrassment, the result of bad management, frequently. Upon such a home, distress, long continued bitter distress, was not likely to work for good. The father and a grown-up son were out of work; and the Misses Dunn were also without employment. Their patronesses, almost without exception, consisted of the ladies of Daffodil's Delight, and, as may be readily conjectured, they had no funds just now to expend upon gowns and their making. Not only this: there was, from one party or another, a good bit of money owing to the sisters for past work, and this they could not get. As a set-off to this--on the wrong side--_they_ were owing bills in various directions for materials that had been long ago made up for their customers, some of whom had paid them and some not. Any that had not been paid before the strike came, remained unpaid still. The Miss Dunns might just as well have asked for the moon as for money, owing or not owing, from the distressed wives of Daffodil's Delight. So, there they were, father, mother, sons, daughters, all debarred from earning money; while all, with the younger children in addition, had to be kept. It was wearying work, that forced idleness and that forced famine; and it worked badly, especially on the girls. Quarrelling they were accustomed to; embarrassment they did not mind; irregularity in domestic affairs they had lived in all their lives; but they could not bear the distress that had now come upon them. Added to this, the girls were unpleasantly pressed for the settlement of the bills above alluded to. Mrs. Quale had from the first recommended the two sisters to try for situations: but when was advice well taken? They tossed their heads at the idea of going out to service, thereby giving up their liberty and their idleness. They said that it might prevent them getting together again their business, when things should look up; they urged that they were not fitted for service, knowing little of any sort of housework; and, finally, they asked--and there was a great deal in the plea--how they were to go out while the chief portion of their clothes was in pledge. For the past few days certain mysterious movements on the part of Mary Ann Dunn had given rise to some talk (the usual expression for gossiping and scandal) in Daffodil's Delight. She had been almost continually out from home, and when asked where, had evaded an answer. Ever ready, as some people are, to put a bad construction upon things, it was not wanting in this case. Tales were carried home to the father and mother, and there had been a scene of attack and abuse, on Mary Ann's presenting herself at home at mid-day. The girl had a fierce temper, inherited probably from her mother; she returned abuse for abuse, and finally rushed off in a passion, without having given any satisfactory defence of herself. Dunn cared for his children after a fashion, and the fear that the reports must be true, completely beat him down; cowed his spirit, as he might have put it. Mrs. Dunn, on the contrary, ranted and raved till she was hoarse; and then, being excessively thirsty, stole off surreptitiously with the boots to Mr. Cox's, and so obtained a pint of half-and-half. She returned home again, the delightful taste of it still in her mouth. The room was stripped of all, save a few things, too old or too useless for Mr. Cox to take; and, except for a little fire, it presented a complete picture of poverty. The children lay on the boards crying; not a loud cry, but a distressed moan. Very little, indeed, even of bread, got those children; for James Dunn and his wife were too fond of beer, to expend in much else the trifle allowed them by the Trades Union. James Dunn had just come in. After the scene with his daughter, when he had a little recovered himself, he went out to keep an appointment. Some of the workmen, in a similarly distressed condition to himself, had been that day to one of the police courts, hoping to obtain pecuniary help from the magistrates. The result had been a complete failure, and Dunn sat, moody and cross, upon a bench, his depression of spirit having given place to a sort of savage anger; chiefly at his daughter Mary Ann, partly at things altogether. The pint of half-and-half upon an empty stomach had not tended to render Mrs. Dunn of a calmer temper. She addressed him snappishly. 'What, you have come in! Have you got any money?' Mr. Dunn made no reply; unless a growl that sounded rather defiant constituted one. She returned to the charge. 'Have you got any money, I ask? Or be you come home again with a empty pocket?' 'No; father hasn't got none: they didn't get any good by going there,' interposed Jemima Dunn, as though it were a satisfaction to tell out the bad news, and who appeared to be looking in all sorts of corners and places, as if in search of something. 'Ted Cheek told me, and he was one of 'em that went. The magistrate said to the men that there was plenty of work open for them if they liked to do it; and his opinion was, that if they did not like to do it, they wanted punishment instead of assistance.' 'That's just my opinion,' returned Mrs. Dunn, with intense aggravation. 'There!' James Dunn broke out intemperately, with violent words. And then he relapsed into his gloomy mood again. 'I can't think what's gone with my boots,' exclaimed Jemima. 'Mother took 'em out,' cried a little voice from the floor. 'What's that, Jacky?' asked Jemima. 'Mother took 'em out,' responded Jacky. The girl turned round, and stood still for a moment as if taking in the sense of the words. Then she attacked her mother, anger flashing from her eyes. 'If you have been and took 'em to the pawnshop, you shall fetch 'em back. How dare you interfere with my things? Aren't they my boots? Didn't I buy 'em with my own money?' 'If you don't hold your tongue, I'll box your ears,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn, with a look and gesture as menacing as her tone. 'Hold your tongue! hold your tongue, I say, miss!' 'I shan't hold my tongue,' responded Jemima, struggling between anger and tears. 'I will have my boots! I want to go out, I do! and how can I go barefoot?' 'Want to go out, do you!' raved Mrs. Dunn. 'Perhaps you want to go and follow your sister! The boots be at Cox's, and you may go there and get 'em. Now, then!' The words altogether were calculated to increase the ire of Jemima; they did so in no measured degree. She and her mother commenced a mutual contest of ranting abuse. It might have come to blows but for the father's breaking into a storm of rage, so violent as to calm them, and frighten the children. It almost seemed as if trouble had upset his brain. Long continued hunger--the hunger that for weeks and months never gets satisfied--will on occasion transform men and women into demons. In the house of the Dunns, not only hunger but misery of all sorts reigned, and this day seemed to have brought things to a climax. Added to the trouble and doubt regarding Mary Ann, was the fear of a prison, Dunn having just heard that he had been convicted in the Small Debts Court. Summonses had been out against him, hopeless though it seemed to sue anybody so helplessly poor. In truth, the man was overwhelmed with misery--as was many another man in Daffodil's Delight--and did not know where to turn. After this outburst, he sat down on the bench again, administering a final threat to his wife for silence. Mrs. Dunn stood against the bare wooden shelves of the dresser, her hair on end, her face scarlet, her voice loud enough, in its shrieking sobs, to alarm all the neighbours; altogether in a state of fury. Disregarding her husband's injunction for silence, she broke out into reproaches. 'Was he a man, that he should bring 'em to this state of starvation, and then turn round upon 'em with threats? Wasn't she his wife? wasn't they his children? If _she_ was a husband and father, she'd rather break stones till her arms rotted off, but what she'd find 'em food! A lazy, idle, drunken object! There was the masters' yards open, and why didn't he go to work? If a man cared for his own family, he'd look to his interests, and set the Trades Union at defiance. Was he a going to see 'em took off to the workhouse? When his young ones lay dead, and she was in the poorhouse, then he'd fold his hands and be content with his work. If the strike was to bring 'em all this misery, what the plague business had he to join it? Couldn't he have seen better? Let him go to work if he was a man, and bring home a few coals, and a bit of bread, and get out a blanket or two from Cox's, and her gownds and things, and Jemimar's boots----' Dunn, really a peacefully inclined man by nature, and whose own anger had spent itself, let it go on to this point. He then stood up before her, and with a clenched fist, but calm voice of suppressed meaning, asked her what she meant. What, indeed! In the midst of Mrs. Dunn's reproaches, how was it she did not cast a recollection to the past? To her own eagerness, public and private, for the strike? how she had urged her husband on to join it, boasting of the good times it was to bring them? She could ignore all that now: perhaps really had almost forgotten it. Anyway, her opinions had changed. Misery and disappointment will subdue the fiercest obstinacy; and Mrs. Dunn, casting all the blame upon her husband, would very much have liked to chastise him with hands as well as tongue. Reader! if you think this is an overdrawn picture, go and lay it before the wives of the workmen who suffered the miseries induced by the strike, and ask them whether or not it is true. Ay, and it is only part of the truth. 'I wish the strike had been buried five-fathom deep, I do!' uttered Dunn, with a catching up of the breath that told of the emotion he strove to hide. 'It have been nothing but a curse to us all along. And where's to be the ending?' 'Who brought home all this misery but you?' recommenced Mrs. Dunn. 'Have you done a day's work for weeks and months? No you haven't; you know you haven't! You have just rowed in the same boat with them nasty lazy Unionists, and let the work go a begging.' 'Who edged me on to join the Unionists? who reproached me with being no man, but a sneak, if I went to work and knuckled down to the masters?' demanded Dunn, in his sore vexation. 'It was you! You know it was you! You was fire-hot for the strike: worse than ever the men was.' 'Can we starve?' said Mrs. Dunn, choking with passion. 'Can we drop into our coffins with famine? Be our children to be drove, like Mary Ann----' An interruption--fortunately. Mrs. Cheek came into the room with a burst. She had a tongue also, on occasions. 'Whatever has been going on here this last half hour?' she inquired in a high voice. 'One would think murder was being committed. There's a dozen listeners collected outside your shutters.' 'She's a casting it in my teeth, now, for having joined the strike,' exclaimed Dunn, indicating his wife. 'She! And she was the foremost to edge us all on.' 'Can one clam?' fiercely returned Mrs. Dunn, speaking at her husband, not to him. 'Let him go to work.' 'Don't be a fool, Hannah Dunn,' said Mrs. Cheek. 'I'd stand up for my rights till I dropped: and so must the men. It'll never do to bend to the will of the masters at last. There's enough men turning tail and going back, without the rest doing of it. I should like to see Cheek attempting it: I'd be on to him.' 'Cheek don't want to; he have got no cause to,' said Mrs. Dunn. 'You get the living now, and find him in beer and bacca.' 'I do; and I am proud on it,' was Mrs. Cheek's answer. 'I goes washing, I goes chairing, I goes ironing; nothing comes amiss to me, and I manages to keep the wolf from the door. It isn't my husband that shall bend to the masters. He shall stand up with the Unionists for his rights, or he shall stand up against me.' Having satisfied her curiosity as to the cause of the disturbance, Mrs. Cheek went out as she came, with a burst and a bang, for she had been bent on some hasty errand when arrested by the noise behind the Dunn's closed shutters. What the next proceedings would have been, it is difficult to say, had not another interruption occurred. Mrs. Dunn was putting her entangled hair behind her ears, most probably preparatory to the resuming of the attack on her husband, when the offending Mary Ann entered, attended by Mrs. Quale. At it she went, the mother, hammer and tongs, turning her resentment on the girl, her language by no means choice, though the younger children were present. Dunn was quieter; but he turned his back upon his daughter and would not look at her. And then Mrs. Quale took a turn, and exercised _her_ tongue on both the parents: not with quite as much noise, but with better effect. It appeared that the whispered suspicions against Mary Ann Dunn had been mistaken ones. The girl had been doing right, instead of wrong. Mrs. Quale had recommended her to a place at a small dressmaker's, partly of service, chiefly of needlework. Before engaging her, the dressmaker had insisted on a few days of trial, wishing to see what her skill at work was; and Mary Ann had kept it secret, intending a pleasant surprise to her father when the engagement shall be finally made. The suspicions cast on her were but a poor return for this; and the girl, in her temper, had carried the grievance to Mrs. Quale, when the day's work was over. A few words of strong good sense from that talkative friend subdued Mary Ann, and she had now come back in peace. Mrs. Quale gave the explanation, interlarding it with a sharp reprimand at their proneness to think ill of 'their own flesh and blood,' and James Dunn sat down meekly in glad repentance. Even Mrs. Dunn lowered her tone for once. Mary Ann held out some money to her father after a quick glance at Mrs. Quale for approval. 'Take it, father. It'll stop your going to prison, perhaps. Mrs. Quale has lent it me to get my clothes out, for I am to enter for good on my place to-morrow. I can manage without my clothes for a bit.' James Dunn put the money back, speaking softly, very much as if he had tears in his voice. 'No, girl: it'll do you more good than it will me. Mrs. Quale has been a good friend to you. Enter on your place, and stay in it. It is the best news I've heard this many a day.' 'But if the money will keep you out of jail, father!' sobbed Mary Ann, quite subdued. 'It wouldn't do that; nor half do it; nor a quarter. Get your clothes home, child, and go into your place of service. As for me--better I was in jail than out of it,' he added with a sigh. 'In there, one does get food.' 'Are you sure it wouldn't do you good, Jim Dunn?' asked Mrs. Quale, speaking in the emergency he seemed to be driven to. Not that she would have helped him, so improvident in conduct and mistaken in opinions, with a good heart. 'Sure and certain. If I paid this debt, others that I owe would be put on to me.' 'Come along, Mary Ann,' said Mrs. Quale. 'I told you I'd give you a bed at my house to-night, and I will: so you'll know where she is, Hannah Dunn. You go on down to Cox's, girl; get out as much as you can for the money, and come straight back to me: I'm going home now, and we'll set to work and see the best we can do with the things.' They went out together. But Mrs. Quale opened the door again and put in her head for a parting word; remembering perhaps her want of civility in not having given it. 'Good night to you all. And pleasant dreams--if you can get 'em. You Unionists have brought your pigs to a pretty market.' CHAPTER VIII. A DESCENT FOR MR. SHUCK. Things were coming to a crisis. The Unionists had done their best to hold out against the masters; but they found the effort was untenable--that they must give in at last. The prospect of returning to work was eagerly welcomed by the greater portion of the men. Rather than continue longer in the wretched condition to which they were reduced, they would have gone back almost on any terms. Why, then, not have gone back before? as many asked. Because they preferred to resume work with the consent of the Union, rather than without it: and besides, the privations got worse and worse. A few of the men were bitterly enraged at the turn affairs seemed to be taking--of whom Sam Shuck was chief. With the return of the hands to work, Sam foresaw no field for the exercise of his own peculiar talents, unless it was in stirring up fresh discontent for the future. However, it was not yet finally arranged that work should be resumed: a little more agitation might be pleasant first, and possibly prevent it. 'It's a few white-livered hounds among yourselves that have spoilt it,' growled Sam to a knot of hitherto staunch friends, a day or two subsequent to that conjugal dispute between Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, which we had the gratification of assisting at in the last chapter. 'When such men as White, and Baxendale, and Darby, who have held some sway among you, turn sneaks and go over to the nobs, it's only to be expected that you'll turn sneaks and follow. One fool makes many. Did you hear how Darby got out his tools?' 'No.' 'The men opposed to the Union, opposed to us, heard of his wanting them, and they clubbed together, and made up the tin, and Darby is to pay 'em back so much a-week--two shillings I think it is. Before I'd lie under obligation to the non-Unionist men, I'd shoot myself. What good has the struggle done you?' 'None,' said a voice. 'It have done a good deal of harm.' 'Ay, it has--if it is to die out in this ignoble way,' said Sam. 'Better have been slaving like dray-horses all along, than break down in the effort to escape the slavery, and hug it to your arms again. If you had only half the spirit of men, you'd stop White's work for awhile, and Darby's too, as you did Baxendale's. Have you been thinking over what was said last night?' he continued, in a lower tone. The men nodded. One of them ventured to express an opinion that it was a 'dangerous game.' 'That depends upon how it's done,' said Shuck. 'Who has been the worse, pray, for the pitching into Baxendale? Can he, or anybody else, point a finger and say, "It was you did it?" or "It was you?" Why, of course he can't.' 'One might not come off again with the like luck.' 'Psha!' returned Sam, evincing a great amount of ridicule. 'But one mightn't, Shuck,' persisted his adversary. 'Oh, let the traitors alone, to go their own way in triumph if you like; get up a piece of plate for them, with their names wrote on it in gold,' satirically answered Sam. 'Yah! it sickens one to see you true fellows going over to the oppressionists.' 'How do you make out that White, and them, be oppressionists?' 'White, and them? they are worse than oppressionists a thousand times over,' fiercely cried Sam. 'I can't find words bad enough for _them_. It isn't of them I spoke: I spoke of the masters.' 'Well, Shuck, there's oppression on all sides, I think,' rejoined one of the men. 'I'd be glad to rise in the world if I could, and I'd work over hours to help me on to it and to educate my children a bit better than common; but if you come down upon me and say, "You shall not do it, you shall only work the stated hours laid down, and nobody shall work more," I call that oppression.' 'So it is,' assented another voice. 'The masters never oppressed us like that.' 'What's fair for one is fair for all,' said Sam. 'We must work and share alike.' 'That would be right enough if we all had talents and industry equal,' was the reply. 'But as we haven't, and never shall have, it can't be fair to put a limit on us.' 'There's one question I'd like to have answered, Shuck,' interposed a former speaker: 'but I'm afeared it never will be answered, with satisfaction to us. What is to become of those men that the masters can't find employment for? If every one of us was free to go back to work to-morrow, and sought to do so, where would we get it? Our old shops be half filled with strangers, and there'd be thousands of us rejected--no room for us. Would the Society keep us?' A somewhat difficult question to answer, even for Slippery Sam. Perhaps for that reason he suddenly called out 'Hush!' and bent his head and put up his finger in the attitude of listening. 'There's something unusual going on in the street,' cried he. 'Let's see what it is.' They hurried out to the street, Sam leading the way. Not a genial street to gaze upon, that wintry day, taking it with all its accessories. Half-clothed, half-starved emaciated men stood about in groups, their pale features and gloomy expression of despair telling a piteous tale. A different set of men entirely, to look at, from those of the well-to-do cheerful old days of work, contentment, and freedom from care. Being marshalled down the street in as polite a manner as was consistent with the occasion, was Mr. James Dunn. He was on his road to prison; and certain choice spirits of Daffodil's Delight, headed by Mrs. Dunn, were in attendance, some bewailing and lamenting aloud, others hooting and yelling at the capturers. As if this was not enough cause of disturbance, news arose that the Dunns' landlord, finding the house temporarily abandoned by every soul--a chance he had been looking for--improved the opportunity to lock the street-door and keep them out. Nothing was before Mrs. Dunn and her children now but the parish Union. 'I don't care whether it is the masters that have been in fault or whether it's us; I know which side gets the suffering,' exclaimed a mechanic, as Mr. Dunn was conveyed beyond view. 'Old Abel White told us true; strikes never brought nothing but misery yet, and they never will.' Sam Shuck seized upon the circumstance to draw around him a select audience, and to hold forth to them. Treason, false and pernicious though it was, that he spoke, his oratory fell persuasively on the public ear. He excited the men against the masters; he excited them to his utmost power against the men who had gone back to work; he inflamed their passions, he perverted their reason. Altogether, ill-feeling and excitement was smouldering in an unusual degree in Daffodil's Delight, and it was kept up through the live-long day. Evening came. The bell rang for the cessation of work at Mr. Hunter's, and the men came pouring forth, a great many of whom were strangers. The gas-lamp at the gate shed a brilliant light, as the hands dispersed--some one way, some another. Those bearing towards Daffodil's Delight became aware, as they approached an obscure portion of the road which lay past a dead wall, that it bore an unusual appearance, as if dark forms were hovering there. What could it be? Not for long were they kept in ignorance. There arose a terrific din, enough to startle the unwary. Yells, groans, hootings, hisses, threats were poured forth upon the workmen; and they knew that they had fallen into an ambush of the Society's men. Of women also, as it appeared. For shrill notes and delicate words of abuse, certainly only peculiar to ladies' throats, were pretty freely mingled with the gruff tones of the men. 'You be nice nine-hour chaps! Come on, if you're not cowards, and have it out in a fair fight----' 'A fair fight!' shrieked a female voice in interruption 'who'd fight with them? Traitors! cowards! Knock 'em down and trample upon 'em!' 'Harness 'em together with cords, and drag 'em along like beasts o' burden in the face and eyes o' London!' 'Stick 'em up on spikes!' 'Hoist 'em on to the lamp-posts!' 'Hold 'em head down'ards in a horse-trough!' 'Pitch into 'em with quicklime and rotten eggs!' 'Strip 'em and give 'em a coat o' tar!' 'Wring their necks, and have done with 'em!' While these several complimentary suggestions were thrown from as many different quarters of the assailants, one of them had quietly laid hold of Abel White. There was little doubt--according to what came out afterwards--that he and Robert Darby were the two men chiefly aimed at in this night assault. Darby, however, was not there. As it happened, he had turned the contrary way on leaving the yard, having joined one of the men who had lent him some of the money to get his tools out of pledge, and gone towards his home with him. 'If thee carest for thy life, thee'll stop indoors, and not go a-nigh Hunter's yard again to work!' Such were the words hissed forth in a hoarse whisper into the ear of Abel White, by the man who had seized upon him. Abel peered at him as keenly as the darkness would permit. White was no coward, and although aware that this attack most probably had him for its chief butt, he retained his composure. He could not recognise the man--a tall man, in a large loose blue frock, such as is sometimes worn by butchers, with a red woollen cravat wound roughly round his throat, hiding his chin and mouth, and a seal-skin cap, its dark 'ears' brought down on the sides of the face, and tied under the chin. The man may have been so wrapped up for protection against the weather, or for the purpose of disguise. 'Let me go,' said White. 'When thee hast sworn not to go on working till the Union gives leave.' 'I never will swear it. Or say it.' 'Then thee shall get every bone in th' body smashed. Thee'st been reported to Mr. Shuck, and to the Union.' 'I'd like to know your name and who you are,' exclaimed White. 'If you are not disguising your voice, it's odd to me.' 'D'ye remember Baxendale? _He_ wouldn't take the oath, and he's lying with his ribs stove in.' 'More shame for you! Look you, man, you can't intimidate me. I am made of sterner stuff than that.' 'Swear!' was the menacing retort; 'swear that thee won't touch another stroke o' work.' 'I tell you that I never will swear it,' firmly returned White. 'The Union has hoodwinked me long enough; I'll have nothing to do with it.' 'There be desperate men around ye--them as won't leave ye with whole bones. You shall swear.' 'I'll have nothing more to do with the Union; I'll never again obey it,' answered White, speaking earnestly. 'There! make your most of it. If I had but a friendly gleam of light here, I'd know who you are, and let others know.' The confusion around had increased. Hot words were passing everywhere between the assailants and the assailed--no positive assault as yet, save that a woman had shaken her fist in a man's face and spit at him. Abel White strove to get away with the last words, but the man who had been threatening him struck him a sharp blow between the eyes, and another blow from the same hand caught him behind. The next instant he was down. If one blow was dealt him, ten were from as many different hands. The tall man with the cap was busy with his feet; and it really seemed, by the manner he carried on the pastime, that his whole heart went with it, and that it was a heart of revenge. But who is this, pushing his way through the crowd with stern authority. A policeman? The men shrank back, in their fear, to give him place. No; it is only their master, Mr. Clay. 'What is this?' exclaimed Austin, when he reached the point of battery. 'Is it you, White?' he added, stooping down. 'I suspected as much. Now, my men,' he continued in a stern tone, as he faced the excited throng, 'who are you? which of you has done this?' 'The ringleader was him in the cap, sir--the tall one with the red cloth round his neck and the fur about his ears,' spoke up White, who, though much maltreated, retained the use of his brains and his tongue. 'It was him that threatened me; he was the first to set upon me.' 'Who are you?' demanded Austin of the tall man. The tall man responded by a quiet laugh of derision. He felt himself perfectly secure from recognition in the dark obscurity; and though Mr. Clay was of powerful frame, more than a match for him in agility and strength, let him only dare to lay a finger upon him, and there were plenty around to come to the rescue. Austin Clay heard the derisive laugh, subdued though it was, and thought he recognised it. He took his hand from within the breast of his coat, and raised it with a hasty motion--not to deal a blow, not with a pistol to startle or menace, but to turn on a dark lantern! No pistol could have startled them as did that sudden flash of bright light, thrown full upon the tall man's face. Off flew the fellow with a yell, and Austin coolly turned the lantern upon others. 'Bennet--and Strood--and Ryan--and Cassidy!' he exclaimed, recognising and telling off the men. 'And _you_, Cheek! I never should have suspected you of sufficient courage to join in a thing of this nature.' Cheek, midway between shaking and tears, sobbed out that it was 'the wife made him;' and Mrs. Cheek roared out from the rear, 'Yes, it was, and she'd have shook the bones out of him if he hadn't come.' But that light, turning upon them everywhere, was more than they had bargained for, and the whole lot moved away in the best manner that they could, putting the stealthiest and the quickest foot foremost; each one devoutly hoping, save the few whose names had been mentioned, that his own face had not been recognised. Austin, with some of his workmen who had remained--the greater portion of them were pursuing the vanquished--raised Abel White. His head was cut, his body bruised, but no serious damage appeared to have been done. 'Can you walk with assistance as far as Mr. Rice's shop?' asked Austin. 'I daresay I can, sir, in a minute: I'm a bit giddy now,' was White's reply, as he leaned his back against the wall, being supported on either side. 'Sir, what a mercy that you had that light with you!' 'Ay,' shortly replied Austin. 'Quale, there's the blood dripping upon your sleeve. I will bind my handkerchief round your head, White. Meanwhile, one of you go and call a cab; it may be better that we get him at once to the surgeon's.' A cab was brought, and White assisted into it. Austin accompanied him. Mr. Rice was at home, and proceeded to examine into the damage. A few days' rest from work, and a liberal application of sticking-plaster, would prove efficacious in effecting a cure, he believed. 'What a pity but the ruffians could be stopped at this game!' the doctor exclaimed to Austin. 'It will come to attacks more serious if they are not.' 'I think this will do something towards stopping it,' replied Austin. 'Why? do you know any of them?' Austin nodded. 'A few. It is not a second case of impossible identity, as was Baxendale's.' 'I'm sure I don't know how I am to go in home in this plight,' exclaimed White, catching sight of his strapped-up face and head, in a small looking-glass hanging in Mr. Rice's surgery. 'I shall frighten poor old father into a fit, and the wife too.' 'I will go on first and prepare them,' said Austin, good-naturedly. Turning out of the shop on this errand, he found the door blocked up. The door! nay, the pavement--the street; for it seemed as if all Daffodil's Delight had collected there. He elbowed his way through them, and reached White's home. There the news had preceded him, and he found the deepest distress and excitement reigning, the family having been informed that Abel was killed. Austin reassured them, made light of the matter, and departed. Outside their closed-up home, squatting on the narrow strip of pavement, their backs against the dirty wall, were Mrs. Dunn and her children, howling pitiably. They were surrounded with warm partizans, who spent their breath sympathizing with them, and abusing the landlord. 'How much better that they should go into the workhouse,' exclaimed Austin. 'They will perish with cold if they remain there.' 'And much you masters 'ud care,' cried a woman who overheard the remark. 'I hope you are satisfied now with the effects of your fine lock-out! Look at the poor creatur, a sitting there with her helpless children.' 'A sad sight,' observed Austin; 'but _not_ the effects of the lock-out. You must look nearer home.' The day dawned. Abel White was progressing very satisfactorily. So much so that Mr. Rice did not keep him in bed. It was by no means so grave a case as Baxendale's. To the intense edification of Daffodil's Delight, which had woke up in an unusually low and subdued state, there arrived, about mid-day, certain officers within its precincts, holding warrants for the apprehension of some of the previous night's rioters. Bennet, Strood, Ryan, and Cheek were taken; Cassidy had disappeared. 'It's a shame to grab us!' exclaimed timid Cheek, shaking from head to foot. 'White himself said as we was not the ringleaders.' While these were secured, a policeman entered the home of Mr. Shuck, without so much as saying, 'With your leave,' or 'By your leave.' That gentleman, who had remained in-doors all the morning, in a restless, humble sort of mood, which imparted much surprise to Mrs. Shuck, was just sitting down to dinner in the bosom of his family: a savoury dinner, to judge by the smell, consisting of rabbit and onions. 'Now, Sam Shuck, I want you,' was the startling interruption. Sam turned as white as a sheet. Mrs. Shuck stared, and the children stared. 'Want me, do you?' cried Sam, putting as easy a face as he could upon the matter. 'What do you want me for? To give evidence?' '_You_ know. It's about that row last night. I wonder you hadn't better regard for your liberty than to get into it.' 'Why, you never was such a fool as to put yourself into that!' exclaimed Mrs. Shuck, in her surprise. 'What could have possessed you?' 'I!' retorted Sam; 'I don't know anything about the row, except what I've heard. I was a good mile off from the spot when it took place.' 'All very well if you can convince the magistrates of that,' said the officer. 'Here's the warrant against you, and I must take you upon it.' 'I won't go,' said Sam, showing fight. 'I wasn't nigh the place, I say.' The officer was peremptory--officers generally are so in these cases--and Sam was very foolish to resist. But that he was scared out of his senses, he would probably not have resisted. It only made matters worse; and the result was that he had the handcuffs clapped on. Fancy Samuel Shuck, Esquire, in his crimson necktie with the lace ends, and the peg-tops, being thus escorted through Daffodil's Delight, himself and his hands prisoners, and a tail the length of the street streaming after him! You could not have got into the police-court. Every avenue, every inch of ground was occupied; for the men, both Unionists and non-Unionists, were greatly excited, and came flocking in crowds to hear the proceedings. The five men were placed at the bar--Shuck, Bennet, Cheek, Ryan, and Strood: and Abel White and his bandaged head appeared against them. The man gave his evidence. How he and others--but himself, he thought, more particularly--had been met by a mob the previous night, upon leaving work, a knot of the Society's men, who had first threatened and then beaten him. 'Can you tell what their motive was for doing this?' asked the magistrate. 'Yes, sir,' was the answer of White. 'It was because I went back to work. I held out as long as I could, in obedience to the Trades' Union; but I began to think I was in error, and that I ought to return to work; which I did, a week or two ago. Since then, they have never let me alone. They have talked to me, and threatened me, and persuaded me; but I would not listen: and last night they attacked me.' 'What were the threats they used last night?' 'It was one man did most of the talking: a tall man in a cap and comforter, sir. The rest of the crowd abused me and called me names; but they did not utter any particular threat. This man said, Would I promise and swear not to do any more work in defiance of the Union; or else I should get every bone in my body smashed. He told me to remember how Baxendale had been served, and was lying with his ribs stove in. I refused; I would not swear; I said I would never belong to the Union again. And then he struck me.' 'Where did he strike you?' 'Here,' putting his hand up to his forehead. 'The first blow staggered me, and took away my sight, and the second blow knocked me down. Half a dozen set upon me then, hitting and kicking me: the first man kicked me also.' 'Can you swear to that first man?' 'No, I can't, sir. I think he was disguised.' 'Was it the prisoner, Shuck?' White shook his head. 'It was just his height and figure, sir, but I can't be sure that it was him. His face was partially covered, and it was nearly dark, besides; there are no lights about, just there. The voice, too, seemed disguised: I said so at the time.' 'Can you swear to the others?' 'Yes, to all four of them,' said White, stoutly. 'They were not disguised at all, and I saw them after the light came, and knew their voices. They helped to beat me after I was on the ground.' 'Did they threaten you?' 'No, sir. Only the first one did that.' 'And him you cannot swear to? Is there any other witness who can swear to him?' It did not appear that there was. Shuck addressed the magistrate, his tone one of injured innocence. 'It is not to be borne that I should be dragged up here like a felon, your worship. I was not near the place at the time; I am as innocent as your worship is. Is it likely _I_ should lend myself to such a thing? My mission among the men is of a higher nature than that.' 'Whether you are innocent or not, I do not know,' said his worship; 'but I do know that this is a state of things which cannot be tolerated. I will give my utmost protection to these workmen; and those who dare to interfere with them shall be punished to the extent of the law: the ringleaders especially. A person has just as much right to come to me and say, "You shall not sit on that bench; you shall not transact the business of a magistrate," as you have to prevent these industrious men working to earn a living. It is monstrous.' 'Here's the witness we have waited for, please your worship,' spoke one of the policemen. It was Austin Clay who came forward. He bowed to the magistrate, who bowed to him: they occasionally met at the house of Mr. Hunter. Austin was sworn, and gave his evidence up to the point when he turned the light of the lantern upon the tall assailant of White. 'Did you recognise the man?' asked the Bench. 'I did, sir. It was Samuel Shuck.' Sam gave a howl, protesting that it was _not_--that he was a mile away from the spot. 'I recognised him as distinctly as I recognise him at this moment,' said Austin. 'He had a woollen scarf on his chin, and a cap covering his ears, no doubt assumed for disguise, but I knew him instantly. What is more, he saw that I knew him; I am sure he did, by the way he slunk off. I also recognised his laugh.' 'Did you take the lantern with you purposely?' asked the clerk of the court. 'I did,' replied Austin. 'A hint was given me in the course of yesterday afternoon, that an attack upon our men was in agitation. I determined to discover the ringleaders, if possible, should it take place, and not to let the darkness baffle justice, as was the case in the attack upon Baxendale. For this purpose I put the lantern in readiness, and had the men watched when they left the yard. As soon as the assault began, my messenger returned to tell me.' 'You hit upon a good plan, Mr. Clay.' Austin smiled. 'I think I did,' he answered. Unfortunately for Mr. Samuel Shuck, another witness had seen his face distinctly when the light was turned on; and his identity with 'the tall man disguised' was established beyond dispute. In an evil hour, Sam had originated this attack on White; but, not feeling altogether sure of the courage of his men, he had determined to disguise himself and take part in the business, saying not a word to anybody. He had not bargained for the revelation that might be brought by means of a dark lantern. The proceedings in court were prolonged, but they terminated at length. Bennet, Strood, and Ryan were condemned to pay a fine of £5 each, or be imprisoned for two months. Cheek managed to get off. Mr. Sam Shuck, to whom the magistrate was bitterly severe in his remarks--for he knew perfectly well the part enacted by the man from the first--was sentenced to six months at the treadmill, without the option of a fine. What a descent for Slippery Sam! CHAPTER IX. ON THE EVE OF BANKRUPTCY. These violent interruptions to the social routine, to the organised relations between masters and men, cannot take place without leaving their effects behind them: not only in the bare cupboards, the confusion, the bitter feelings while the contest is in actual progress, but in the results when the dispute is brought to an end, and things have resumed their natural order. You have seen some of its disastrous working upon the men: you cannot see it all, for it would take a whole volume to depicture it. But there was another upon whom it was promising to work badly; and that was Mr. Hunter. At this, the eleventh hour, when the dispute was dying out, Mr. Hunter knew that he would be unable to weather the short remains of the storm. Drained, as he had been at various periods, of sums paid to Gwinn of Ketterford, he had not the means necessary to support the long-continued struggle. Capital he possessed still; and, had there been no disturbance, no strike, no lock-out--had things, in short, gone on upon their usual course uninterruptedly, his capital would have been sufficient to carry him on: not as it was. His money was locked up in arrested works, in buildings brought to a standstill. He could not fulfil his contracts or meet his debts; materials were lying idle; and the crisis, so long expected by him, had come. It had not been expected by Austin Clay. Though aware of the shortness of capital, he believed that with care difficulties would be surmounted. The fact was, Mr. Hunter had succeeded in keeping the worst from him. It fell upon Austin one morning like a thunderbolt. Mr. Hunter had come early to the works. In this hour of embarrassment--ill as he might be, as he was--he could not be absent from his place of business. When Austin went into his master's private room he found him alone, poring over books and accounts, his head leaning on his hand. One glance at Austin's face told Mr. Hunter that the whispers as to the state of affairs, which were now becoming public scandal, had reached his ears. 'Yes, it is quite true,' said Mr. Hunter, before a word had been spoken by Austin. 'I cannot stave it off.' 'But it will be ruin, sir!' exclaimed Austin. 'Of course it will be ruin. I know that, better than you can tell me.' 'Oh, sir,' continued Austin, with earnest decision, 'it must not be allowed to come. Your credit must be kept up at any sacrifice.' 'Can you tell me of any sacrifice that will keep it up?' returned Mr. Hunter. Austin paused in embarrassment. 'If the present difficulty can be got over, the future will soon redeem itself,' he observed. 'You have sufficient capital in the aggregate, though it is at present locked up.' 'There it is,' said Mr. Hunter. 'Were the capital not locked up, but in my hands, I should be a free man. Who is to unlock it?' 'The men are returning to their shops,' urged Austin. 'In a few days, at the most, all will have resumed work. We shall get our contracts completed, and things will work round. It would be _needless_ ruin, sir, to stop now.' 'Am I stopping of my own accord? Shall I put myself into the Gazette, do you suppose? You talk like a child, Clay.' 'Not altogether, sir. What I say is, that you are worth more than sufficient to meet your debts; that, if the momentary pressure can be lifted, you will surmount embarrassment and regain ease.' 'Half the bankruptcies we hear of are caused by locked-up capital--not by positive non-possession of it,' observed Mr. Hunter. 'Were my funds available, there would be reason in what you say, and I should probably go on again to ease. Indeed, I know I should; for a certain heavy--heavy----' Mr. Hunter spoke with perplexed hesitation--'A heavy private obligation, which I have been paying off at periods, is at an end now.' Austin made no reply. He knew that Mr. Hunter alluded to Gwinn of Ketterford: and perhaps Mr. Hunter suspected that he knew it. 'Yes, sir; you would go on to ease--to fortune again; there is no doubt of it. Mr. Hunter,' he continued with some emotion, 'it _must_ be accomplished somehow. To let things come to an end for the sake of a thousand or two, is--is----' 'Stop!' said Mr. Hunter. 'I see what you are driving at. You think that I might borrow this "thousand or two," from my brother, or from Dr. Bevary.' 'No,' fearlessly replied Austin, 'I was not thinking of either one or the other. Mr. Henry Hunter has enough to do for himself just now--his contracts for the season were more extensive than ours: and Dr. Bevary is not a business man.' 'Henry _has_ enough to do,' said Mr. Hunter. 'And if a hundred-pound note would save me, I should not ask Dr. Bevary for its loan. I tell you, Clay, there is no help for it: ruin must come. I have thought it over and over, and can see no loophole of escape. It does not much matter: I can hide my head in obscurity for the short time I shall probably live. Mine has been an untoward fate.' 'It matters for your daughter, sir,' rejoined Austin, his face flushing. 'I cannot help myself, even for her sake,' was the answer, and it was spoken in a tone that, to a fanciful listener, might have told of a breaking heart. 'If you would allow me to suggest a plan, sir----' 'No, I will not allow any further discussion upon the topic,' peremptorily interrupted Mr. Hunter. 'The blow must come; and, to talk of it will neither soothe nor avert it. Now to business. Not another word, I say.--Is it to-day or to-morrow that Grafton's bill falls due?' 'To-day,' replied Austin. 'And its precise amount?--I forget it.' 'Five hundred and twenty pounds.' 'Five hundred and twenty! I knew it was somewhere about that. It is that bill that will floor us--at least, be the first step to it. How closely has the account been drawn at the bank?' 'You have the book by you, sir. I think there is little more than thirty pounds lying in it.' 'Just so. Thirty pounds to meet a bill of five hundred and twenty. No other available funds to pay in. And you would talk of staving off the difficulty?' 'I think the bank would pay it, were all circumstances laid before them. They have accommodated us before.' 'The bank will _not_, Austin. I have had a private note from them this morning. These flying rumours have reached their ears, and they will not let me overdraw even by a pound. It had struck me once or twice lately that they were becoming cautious.' There was a commotion, as of sudden talking, outside at that moment, and Mr. Hunter turned pale. He supposed it might be a creditor: and his nerves were so shattered, as was before remarked, that the slightest thing shook him like a woman. 'I would pay them all, if I could,' he said, his tone almost a wail. 'I wish to pay every one.' 'Sir,' said Austin, 'leave me here to-day to meet these matters. You are too ill to stay.' 'If I do not meet them to-day, I must to-morrow. Sooner or later, it is I who must answer.' 'But indeed you are ill, sir. You look worse than you have looked at all.' 'Can you wonder that I look worse? The striking of the docket against me is no pleasant matter to anticipate.' The talking outside now subsided into laughter, in which the tones of a female were distinguishable. Mr. Hunter thought he recognised them, and his fear of a creditor subsided. They came from one of his women servants, who, unconscious of the proximity of her master, had been laughing and joking with some of the men, whom she had encountered upon entering the yard. 'What can Susan want?' exclaimed Mr. Hunter, signing to Austin to open the door. 'Is that you, Susan?' asked Austin, as he obeyed. 'Oh, if you please, sir, can I speak a word to my master?' 'Come in,' called out Mr. Hunter. 'What do you want?' 'Miss Florence has sent me, sir, to give you this, and to ask you if you'd please to come round.' She handed in a note. Mr. Hunter broke the seal, and ran his eyes over it. It was from Florence, and contained but a line or two. She informed her father that the lady who had been so troublesome at the house once before, in years back, had come again, had taken a seat in the dining-room, removed her bonnet, and expressed her intention of there remaining until she should see Mr. Hunter. 'As if I had not enough upon me without this!' muttered Mr. Hunter. 'Go back,' he said aloud to the servant, 'and tell Miss Florence that I am coming.' A few minutes given to the papers before him, a few hasty directions to Austin, touching the business of the hour, and Mr. Hunter rose to depart. 'Do not come back, sir,' Austin repeated to him. 'I can manage all.' When Mr. Hunter entered his own house, letting himself in with a latch key, Florence, who had been watching for him, glided forward. 'She is in there, papa,' pointing to the closed door of the dining-room, and speaking in a whisper. 'What is her business here? what does she want? She told me she had as much right in the house as I.' 'Ha!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'Insolent, has she been?' 'Not exactly insolent. She spoke civilly. I fancied you would not care to see her, so I said she could not wait. She replied that she should wait, and I must not attempt to prevent her. Is she in her senses, papa?' 'Go up stairs and put your bonnet and cloak on, Florence,' was the rejoinder of Mr. Hunter. 'Be quick.' She obeyed, and was down again almost immediately, in her deep mourning.' 'Now, my dear, go round to Dr. Bevary, and tell him you have come to spend the day with him.' 'But, papa----' 'Florence, go! I will either come for you this evening, or send. Do not return until I do.' The tone, though full of kindness, was one that might not be disobeyed, and Florence, feeling sick with some uncertain, shadowed-forth trouble, passed out of the hall door. Mr. Hunter entered the dining-room. Tall, gaunt, powerful of frame as ever, rose up Miss Gwinn, turning upon him her white, corpse-like looking face. Without the ceremony of greeting, she spoke in her usual abrupt fashion, dashing at once to her subject. '_Now_ will you render justice, Lewis Hunter?' 'I have the greater right to ask that justice shall be rendered to me,' replied Mr. Hunter, speaking sternly, in spite of his agitation. 'Who has most cause to demand it, you or I?' 'She who reigned mistress in this house is dead,' cried Miss Gwinn. You must now acknowledge _her_.' 'I never will. You may do your best and worst. The worst that can come is, that it must reach the knowledge of my daughter.' 'Ay, there it is! The knowledge of the wrong must not even reach her; but the wrong itself has not been too bad for that other one to bear.' 'Woman!' continued Mr. Hunter, growing excited almost beyond control, 'who inflicted that wrong? Myself, or you?' The reproach told home, if the change to sad humility, passing over Miss Gwinn's countenance, might be taken as an indication. 'What I said, I said in self-defence; after you, in your deceit, had brought wrong upon me and my family,' she answered in a subdued voice. '_That_ was no wrong,' retorted Mr. Hunter, 'It was you who wrought all the wrong afterwards, by uttering the terrible falsehood, that she was dead.' 'Well, well, it is of no use going back to that,' she impatiently said. 'I am come here to ask that justice shall be rendered, now that it is in your power.' 'You have had more than justice--you have had revenge. Not content with rendering my days a life's misery, you must also drain me of the money I had worked hard to save. Do you know how much?' 'It was not I,' she passionately uttered, in a tone as if she would deprecate his anger. '_He_ did that.' 'It comes to the same. I had to find the money. So long as my dear wife lived, I was forced to temporize: neither he nor you can so force me again. Go home, go home, Miss Gwinn, and pray for forgiveness for the injury you have done both her and me. The time for coming to my house with your intimidations is past.' 'What did you say?' cried Miss Gwinn. 'Injury upon _you_?' 'Injury, ay! such as rarely has been inflicted upon mortal man. Not content with that great injury, you must also deprive me of my substance. This week the name of James Lewis Hunter will be in the Gazette, on the list of bankrupts. It is you who have brought me to it.' 'You know that I have had no hand in that; that it was he: my brother--and _hers_,' she said. 'He never should have done it had I been able to prevent him. In an unguarded moment I told him I had discovered you, and who you were, and--and he came up to you here and sold his silence. It is that which has kept me quiet.' 'This interview had better end,' said Mr. Hunter. 'It excites me, and my health is scarcely in a state to bear it. Your work has told upon me, Miss Gwinn, as you cannot help seeing, when you look at me. Am I like the hearty, open man whom you came up to town and discovered a few years ago?' 'Am I like the healthy unsuspicious woman whom you saw some years before that?' she retorted. 'My days have been rendered more bitter than yours.' 'It is your own evil passions which have rendered them so. But I say this interview must end. You----' 'It shall end when you undertake to render justice. I only ask that you should acknowledge her in words; I ask no more.' 'When your brother was here last--it was on the day of my wife's death--I was forced to warn him of the consequences of remaining in my house against my will. I must now warn you.' 'Lewis Hunter,' she passionately resumed, 'for years I have been told that she--who was here--was fading; and I was content to wait until she should be gone. Besides, was not he drawing money from you to keep silence? But it is all over, and my time is come.' The door of the room opened and some one entered. Mr. Hunter turned with marked displeasure, wondering who was daring to intrude upon him. He saw--not any servant, as he expected, but his brother-in-law, Dr. Bevary. And the doctor walked into the room and closed the door, just as if he had as much right there as its master. When Florence Hunter reached her uncle's house, she found him absent: the servants said he had gone out early in the morning. Scarcely had she entered the drawing-room when his carriage drove up: he saw Florence at the window and hastened in. 'Uncle Bevary, I have come to stay the day with you,' was her greeting. 'Will you have me?' 'I don't know that I will,' returned the doctor, who loved Florence above every earthly thing. 'How comes it about?' In the explanation, as she gave it, the doctor detected some embarrassment, quite different from her usual open manner. He questioned closely, and drew from her what had occurred. 'Miss Gwinn of Ketterford in town!' he exclaimed, staring at Florence as if he could not believe her. 'Are you joking?' 'She is at our house with papa, as I tell you, uncle.' 'What an extraordinary chance!' muttered the doctor. Leaving Florence, he ran out of the house and down the street, calling after his coachman, who was driving to the stables. Had it been anybody but Dr. Bevary, the passers-by might have deemed the caller mad. The coachman heard, and turned his horses again. Dr. Bevary spoke a word in haste to Florence. 'Miss Gwinn is the very person I was wanting to see; wishing some marvellous telegraph wires could convey her to London at a moment's notice. Make yourself at home, my dear; don't wait dinner for me, I cannot tell when I shall be back.' He stepped into the carriage and was driven away very quickly, leaving Florence in some doubt as to whether he had not gone to Ketterford--for she had but imperfectly understood him. Not so. The carriage set him down at Mr. Hunter's. Where he broke in upon the interview, as has been described. 'I was about to telegraph to Ketterford for you,' he began to Miss Gwinn, without any other sort of greeting. And the words, coupled with his abrupt manner, sent her at once into an agitation. Rising, she put her hand upon the doctor's arm. 'What has happened? Any ill?' 'You must come with me now and see her,' was the brief answer. Shaking from head to foot, gaunt, strong woman though she was, she turned docilely to follow the doctor from the room. But suddenly an idea seemed to strike her, and she stood still. 'It is a _ruse_ to get me out of the house. Dr. Bevary, I will not quit it until justice shall be rendered to Emma. I will have her acknowledged by him.' 'Your going with me now will make no difference to that, one way or the other,' drily observed Dr. Bevary. Mr. Hunter stepped forward in agitation. 'Are you out of your mind, Bevary? You could not have caught her words correctly.' 'Psha!' responded the doctor, in a careless tone. 'What I said was, that Miss Gwinn's going out with me could make no difference to any acknowledgment.' 'Only in words,' she stayed to say. 'Just let him say it in words.' But nobody took any notice of the suggestion. His bearing calm and self-possessed, his manner authoritative, Dr. Bevary passed out to his carriage, motioning the lady before him. Self-willed as she was by nature and by habit, she appeared to have no thought of resistance now. 'Step in,' said Dr. Bevary. She obeyed, and he seated himself by her, after giving an order to the coachman. The carriage turned towards the west for a short distance, and then branched off to the north. In a comparatively short time they were clear of the bustle of London. Miss Gwinn sat in silence; the doctor sat in silence. It seemed that the former wished, yet dreaded to ask the purport of their present journey, for her white face was working with emotion, and she glanced repeatedly at the doctor, with a sharp, yearning look. When they were clear of the bustle of the streets; and the hedges, bleak and bare, bounded the road on either side, broken by a house here and there, then she could bear the silence and suspense no longer. 'Why do you not speak?' broke from her in a tone of pain. 'First of all, tell me what brought you to town now,' was his reply. 'It is not your time for being here.' 'The recent death of your sister. I came up by the early train this morning. Dr. Bevary, you are the only living being to whom I lie under an obligation, or from whom I have experienced kindness. People may think me ungrateful; some think me mad; but I am grateful to you. But for the fact of that lady's being your sister I should have insisted upon another's rights being acknowledged long ago.' 'You told me you waived them in consequence of your brother's conduct.' 'Partially so. But that did not weigh with me in comparison with my feeling of gratitude to you. How impotent we are!' she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. 'My efforts by day, my dreams by night, were directed to one single point through long, long years--the finding James Lewis. I had cherished the thought of revenge until it became part and parcel of my very existence; I was hoping to expose him to the world. But when the time came, and I did find him, I found that he had married your sister, and that I could not touch him without giving pain to you. I hesitated what to do. I went home to Ketterford, deliberating----' 'Well?' said the doctor. For she had stopped abruptly. 'Some spirit of evil prompted me to disclose to my good-for-nothing brother that the man, Lewis, was found. I told him more than that, unhappily.' 'What else did you tell him?' 'Never mind. I was a fool: and I have had my reward. My brother came up to town and drew large sums of money out of Mr. Hunter. I could have stopped it--but I did not.' 'If I understand you aright, you have come to town now to insist upon what you call your rights?' remarked the doctor. 'Upon what _I_ call!' returned Miss Gwinn, and then she paused in marked hesitation. 'But you must have news to tell me, Dr. Bevary. What is it?' 'I received a message early this morning from Dr. Kerr, stating that something was amiss. I lost no time in going over.' 'And what was amiss?' she hastily cried. 'Surely there was no repetition of the violence? Did you see her?' 'Yes, I saw her.' 'But of course you would see her,' resumed Miss Gwinn, speaking rather to herself. 'And what do you think? Is there danger?' 'The danger is past,' replied Dr. Bevary. 'But here we are.' The carriage had driven in through an inclosed avenue, and was stopping before a large mansion: not a cheerful mansion, for its grounds were surrounded by dark trees, and some of its windows were barred. It was a lunatic asylum. It is necessary, even in these modern days of gentle treatment, to take some precaution of bars and bolts; but the inmates of this one were thoroughly well cared for, in the best sense of the term. Dr. Bevary was one of its visiting inspectors. Dr. Kerr, the resident manager, came forward, and Dr. Bevary turned to Miss Gwinn. 'Will you see her, or not?' he asked. Strange fears were working within her, Dr. Bevary's manner was so different from ordinary. 'I think I see it all,' she gasped. 'The worst has happened.' 'The best has happened,' responded Dr. Bevary. 'Miss Gwinn, you have requested me more than once to bring you here without preparation should the time arrive--for that you could bear certainty, but not suspense. Will you see her?' Her face had grown white and rigid as marble. Unable to speak, she pointed forward with her hand. Dr. Bevary drew it within his own to support her. In a clean, cool chamber, on a pallet bed, lay a dead woman. Dr. Kerr gently drew back the snow-white sheet, with which the face was covered. A pale, placid face, with a little band of light hair folded underneath the cap. She--Miss Gwinn--did not stir: she gave way to neither emotion nor violence; but her bloodless lips were strained back from her teeth, and her face was as white as that of the dead. 'God's ways are not as our ways,' whispered Dr. Bevary. 'You have been acting for revenge: He has sent peace. Whatsoever He does is for the best.' She made no reply: she remained still and rigid. Dr. Bevary stroked the left hand of the dead, lying in its utter stillness--stroked, as if unconsciously, the wedding-ring on the third finger. He had been led to believe that it was placed on that finger, years and years ago, by his brother-in-law, James Lewis Hunter. And had been led to believe a lie! And she who had invented the lie, who had wrought the delusion, who had embittered Mr. Hunter's life with the same dread belief, stood there at the doctor's side, looking at the dead. It is a solemn thing to persist though but tacitly in the acting of a vile falsehood, in the mysterious presence of death. Even Miss Gwinn was not strong-minded enough for that. As Dr. Bevary turned to her with a remark upon the past, she burst forth into a cry, and gave utterance to words that fell upon the physician's ear like a healing balm, soothing and binding up a long-open wound. CHAPTER X. THE YEARS GONE BY. Those readers will be disappointed who look for any very romantic _dénoûment_ of 'A Life's Secret.' The story is a short and sad one. Suggesting the wretchedness and evil that may result when truth is deviated from; the lengths to which a blind, unholy desire for revenge will carry an ill-regulated spirit; and showing how, in the moral government of the world, sin casts its baleful consequences upon the innocent as well as the guilty. When the carriage of Dr. Bevary, containing himself and Miss Gwinn, drove from Mr. Hunter's door on the unknown errand, he--Mr. Hunter--staggered to a seat, rather than walked to it. That he was very ill that day, both mentally and bodily, he was only too conscious of. Austin Clay had said to him, 'Do not return: I will manage,' or words to that effect. At present Mr. Hunter felt himself incapable of returning. He sank down in the easy chair, and closed his eyes, his thoughts thrown back to the past. An ill-starred past: one that had left its bane on his after life, and whose consequences had clung to him. It is impossible but that ill-doing must leave its results behind: the laws of God and man alike demand it. Mr. Hunter, in early life, had been betrayed into committing a wrong act; and Miss Gwinn, in the gratification of her passionate revenge, had visited it upon him all too heavily. Heavily, most heavily was it pressing upon him now. That unhappy visit to Wales, which had led to all the evil, was especially present to his mind this day. A handsome young man, in the first dawn of manhood, he had gone to the fashionable Welsh watering-place--partly to renew a waste of strength more imaginary than real; partly in the love of roving natural to youth; partly to enjoy a few weeks' relaxation. 'If you want good and comfortable lodgings, go to Miss Gwinn's house on the South Parade,' some friend, whom he encountered at his journey's end, had said to him. And to Miss Gwinn's he went. He found Miss Gwinn a cold, proud woman--it was she whom you have seen--bearing the manners of a lady. The servant who waited upon him was garrulous, and proclaimed, at the first interview, amidst other gossip, that her mistress had but a limited income--a hundred, or a hundred and fifty pounds a year, she believed; that she preferred to eke it out by letting her drawing-room and adjoining bed-room, and to live well; rather than to rusticate and pinch. Miss Gwinn and her motives were nothing to the young sojourner, and he turned a careless, if not a deaf ear, to the gossip. 'She does it chiefly for the sake of Miss Emma,' added the girl: and the listener so far roused himself as to ask apathetically who 'Miss Emma' was. It was her mistress's young sister, the girl replied: there must be twenty good years between them. Miss Emma was but nineteen, and had just come home from boarding-school: her mistress had brought her up ever since her mother died. Miss Emma was not at home now, but was expected on the morrow, she went on. Miss Emma was not without her good looks, but her mistress took care they should not be seen by everybody. She'd hardly let her go about the house when strangers were in it, lest she should be met in the passages. Mr. Hunter laughed. Good looks had attractions for him in those days, and he determined to see for himself, in spite of Miss Gwinn, whether Miss Emma's looks were so good that they might not be looked at. Now, by the merest accident--at least, it happened by accident in the first instance, and not by intention--one chief point of complication in the future ill was unwittingly led to. In this early stage of the affair, while the servant maid was exercising her tongue in these items of domestic news, the friend who had recommended Mr. Hunter to the apartments, arrived at the house and called out to him from the foot of the stairs, his high clear voice echoing through the house. 'Lewis! Will you come out and take a stroll?' Lewis Hunter hastened down, proclaiming his acquiescence, and the maid proceeded to the parlour of her mistress. 'The gentleman's name is Lewis, ma'am. You said you forgot to ask it of him.' Miss Gwinn, methodical in all she did, took a sheet of note-paper and inscribed the name upon it, 'Mr. Lewis,' as a reminder for the time when she should require to make out his bill. When Mr. Hunter found out their error--for the maid henceforth addressed him as 'Mr. Lewis,' or 'Mr. Lewis, sir'--it rather amused him, and he did not correct the mistake. He had no motive whatever for concealing his name: he did not wish it concealed. On the other hand, he deemed it of no importance to set them right; it signified not a jot to him whether they called him 'Mr. Lewis' or 'Mr. Hunter.' Thus they knew him as, and believed him to be, Mr. Lewis only. He never took the trouble to undeceive them, and nothing occurred to require the mistake to be corrected. The one or two letters only which arrived for him--for he had gone there for idleness, not to correspond with his friends--were addressed to the post-office, in accordance with his primary directions, not having known where he should lodge. Miss Emma came home: a very pretty and agreeable girl. In the narrow passage of the house--one of those shallow residences built for letting apartments at the sea-side--she encountered the stranger, who happened to be going out as she entered. He lifted his hat to her. 'Who is that, Nancy?' she asked of the chattering maid. 'It's the new lodger, Miss Emma: Lewis his name is. Did you ever see such good looks? And he has asked a thousand questions about you.' Now, the fact was, Mr. Hunter--stay, we will also call him Mr. Lewis for the time being, as they had fallen into the error, and it may be convenient to us--had not asked a single question about the young lady, save the one when her name was first spoken of, 'Who is Miss Emma?' Nancy had supplied information enough for a 'thousand' questions, unasked; and perhaps she saw no difference. 'Have you made any acquaintance with Mr. Lewis, Agatha?' Emma inquired of her sister. 'When do I make acquaintance with the people who take my apartments?' replied Miss Gwinn, in a tone of reproof. 'They naturally look down upon me as a letter of lodgings--and I am not one to bear that.' Now comes the unhappy tale. It shall be glanced at as briefly as possible in detail; but it is necessary that parts of it should be explained. Acquaintanceship sprang up between Mr. Lewis and Emma Gwinn. At first, they met in the town, or on the beach, accidentally; later, I very much fear that the meetings were tacitly, if not openly, more intentional. Both were agreeable, both were young; and a liking for each other's society arose in each of them. Mr. Lewis found his time hang somewhat heavily on his hands, for his friend had left; and Emma Gwinn was not prevented from walking out as she pleased. Only one restriction was laid upon her by her sister: 'Emma, take care that you make no acquaintance with strangers, or suffer it to be made with you. Speak to none.' An injunction which Miss Emma disobeyed. She disobeyed it in a particularly marked manner. It was not only that she did permit Mr. Lewis to make acquaintance with her, but she allowed it to ripen into intimacy. Worse still, the meetings, I say, from having been at first really accidental, grew to be sought. Sought on the one side as much as on the other. Ah! young ladies, I wish this little history could be a warning to you, never to deviate from the strict line of right--never to stray, by so much as a thoughtless step, from the straight path of duty. Once allow yourselves to do so, and you know not where it may end. Slight acts of disobedience, that appear in themselves as the merest trifles, may yet be fraught with incalculable mischief. The falling into the habit of passing a pleasant hour of intercourse with Mr. Lewis, sauntering on the beach in social and intellectual converse--and it was no worse--appeared a very venial offence to Emma Gwinn. But she did it in direct disobedience to the command and wish of her sister; and she knew that she so did it. She knew also that she owed to that sister, who had brought her up and cared for her from infancy, the allegiance that a child gives to a mother. In this stage of the affair, she was chiefly to blame. Mr. Lewis did not suppose that blame attached to him. There was no reason why he should not while away an occasional hour in pleasant chat with a young lady; there was no harm in the meetings, taking them in the abstract. The blame lay with her. It is no excuse to urge that Miss Gwinn exercised over her a too strict authority, that she kept her secluded from society with an unusually tight hand. Miss Gwinn had a motive in this: her sister knew nothing of it, and resented the restriction as a personal wrong. To elude her vigilance, and walk about with a handsome young man, seemed a return justifiable, and poor Emma Gwinn never dreamt of any ill result. At length it was found out by Miss Gwinn. She did not find out much. Indeed, there was not much to find, except that there was more friendship between Mr. Lewis and Emma than there was between Mr. Lewis and herself, and that they often met to stroll on the beach, and enjoy the agreeable benefit of the sea-breezes. But that was quite enough for Miss Gwinn. An uncontrollable storm of passionate anger ensued, which was vented upon Emma. She stood over her, and forced her to attire herself for travelling, protesting that not another hour should she pass in the house while Mr. Lewis remained. Then she started with Emma, to place her under the care of an aunt, who lived so far off as to be a day's journey. 'It's a shame!' was the comment of sympathetic Nancy, who deemed Miss Gwinn the most unreasonable woman under the sun. Nancy was herself engaged to an enterprising porter, to whom she intended to be married some fine Easter, when they had saved up sufficient to lay in a stock of goods and chattels. And she forthwith went straight to Mr. Lewis, and communicated to him what had occurred, giving him Miss Emma's new address. 'He'll follow her if he have got any spirit,' was her inward thought. 'It's what my Joe would do by me, if I was forced off to desert places by a old dragon.' It was precisely what Mr. Lewis did. Upon the return of Miss Gwinn, he gave notice to quit her house, where he had already stayed longer than he intended to do originally. Miss Gwinn had no suspicion but that he returned to his home--wherever that might be. You may be inclined to ask why Miss Gwinn had fallen into anger so great. That she loved her young sister with an intense and jealous love was certain. Miss Gwinn was of a peculiar temperament, and she could not bear that one spark of Emma's affection should stray from her. Emma, on the contrary, scarcely cared for her eldest sister: entertaining for her a very cool regard indeed, not to be called a sisterly one: and the cause may have lain in the stern manners of Miss Gwinn. Deeply, ardently as she loved Emma, her manners were to her invariably cold and stern: and this does not beget love from the young. Emma also resented the jealous restrictions imposed on her, lest she should make any acquaintance that might lead to marriage. It had been better possibly that Miss Gwinn had disclosed to her the reasons that existed against it. There was madness in the Gwinn family. One of the parents had died in an asylum, and the medical men suspected (as Miss Gwinn knew) that the children might be subject to it. She did not fear it for herself, but she did fear it for Emma: in point of fact, the young girl had already, some years back, given indications of it. It was therefore Miss Gwinn's intention and earnest wish--a very right and proper wish--that Emma should never marry. There was one other sister, Elizabeth, a year older than Emma. She had gone on a visit to Jersey some little time before; and, to Miss Gwinn's dismay and consternation, had married a farmer there, without asking leave. There was nothing for Miss Gwinn but to bury the dismay within her, and to resolve that Emma should be guarded more closely than before. But Emma Gwinn, knowing nothing of the prompting motives, naturally resented the surveillance. Mr. Lewis followed Emma to her place of retirement. He had really grown to like her: but the pursuit may have had its rise as much in the boyish desire to thwart Miss Gwinn--or, as he expressed it, 'to pay her off'--as in love. However that might have been, Emma Gwinn welcomed him all too gladly, and the walks were renewed. It was an old tale, that, which ensued. Thanks to improved manners and morals, we can say an 'old' tale, in contradistinction to a modern one. A secret marriage in these days would be looked upon askance by most people. Under the purest, the most domestic, the wisest court in the world, manners and customs have taken a turn with us, and society calls underhand doings by their right name, and turns its back upon them. Nevertheless, private marriages and run-a-way marriages were not done away with in the days when James Lewis Hunter contracted his. I wonder whether one ever took place--where it was contracted in disobedience and defiance--that did not bring, in some way or other, its own punishment? To few, perhaps, was it brought home as it was to Mr. Hunter. No apology can be offered for the step he took: not even his youth, or his want of experience, or the attachment which had grown up in his heart for Emma. He knew that his family would have objected to the marriage. In fact, he dared not tell his purpose. Her position was not equal to his--at least, old Mr. Hunter, a proud man, would not have deemed it to be so--and he would have objected on the score of his son's youth. The worst bar of all would have been the tendency to insanity of the Gwinns--but of this James Hunter knew nothing. So he took that one false, blind, irrevocable step of contracting a private marriage; and the consequences came bitterly home to him. The marriage was a strictly legal one. James Hunter was honourable enough to take care of that: and both of them guarded the secret jealously. Emma remained at her aunt's, and wore her ring inside her dress, attached to a neck ribbon. Her husband only saw her sometimes; to avoid suspicion he lived chiefly at his father's home in London. Six months afterwards, Emma Gwinn--nay, Emma Hunter--lay upon her death-bed. A fever broke out in the neighbourhood, which she caught; and a different illness also supervened. Miss Gwinn, apprised of her danger, hastened to her. She stood over her in a shock of horror--whence had those symptoms arisen, and what meant that circle of gold that Emma in her delirium kept hold of on her neck? Medical skill could not save her, and just before her death, in a lucid interval, she confessed her marriage--the bare fact only--none of its details; she loved her husband too truly to expose him to the dire wrath of her sister. And she died without giving the slightest clue to his real name--Hunter. It was the fever that killed her. Dire wrath, indeed! That was scarcely the word for it. Insane wrath would be better. In Miss Gwinn's injustice (violent people always are unjust) she persisted in attributing Emma's death to Mr. Lewis. In her bitter grief, she jumped to the belief that the secret must have preyed upon Emma's brain in the delirium of fever, and that that prevented her recovery. It is very probable that the secret did prey upon it, though, it is to be hoped, not to the extent assumed by Miss Gwinn. Mr. Lewis knew nothing of the illness. He was in France with his father at the time it happened, and had not seen his wife for three weeks. Perhaps the knowledge of his absence abroad, caused Emma not to attempt to apprise him when first seized; afterwards she was too ill to do so. But by a strange coincidence he arrived from London the day after the funeral. Nobody need envy him the interview with Miss Gwinn. On her part it was not a seemly one. Glad to get out of the house and be away from her reproaches, the stormy interview was concluded almost as soon as it had begun. He returned straight to London, her last words ringing their refrain on his ears--that his wife was dead and he had killed her: Miss Gwinn being still in ignorance that his proper name was anything but Lewis. Following immediately upon this--it was curious that it should be so--Miss Gwinn received news that her sister Elizabeth, Mrs. Gardener, was ill in Jersey. She hastened to her: for Elizabeth was nearly, if not quite, as dear to her as Emma had been. Mrs. Gardener's was a peculiar and unusual illness, and it ended in a confirmed and hopeless affection of the brain. Once more Miss Gwinn's injustice came into play. Just as she had persisted in attributing Emma's death to Mr. Lewis, so did she now attribute to him Elizabeth's insanity: that is, she regarded him as its remote cause. That the two young sisters had been much attached to each other was undoubted: but to think that Elizabeth's madness came on through sorrow for Emma's death, or at the tidings of what had preceded it, was absurdly foolish. The poor young lady was placed in an asylum in London, of which Dr. Bevary was one of the visiting physicians; he was led to take an unusual interest in the case, and this brought him acquainted with Miss Gwinn. Within a year of her being placed there, the husband, Mr. Gardener, died in Jersey. His affairs turned out to be involved, and from that time the cost of keeping her there devolved on Miss Gwinn. Private asylums are expensive, and Miss Gwinn could only maintain her sister in one at the cost of giving up her own home. Ill-conditioned though she was, we must confess she had her troubles. She gave it up without a murmur: she would have given up her life to benefit either of those, her young sisters. Retaining but a mere pittance, she devoted all her means to the comfort of Elizabeth, and found a home with her brother, in Ketterford. Where she spent her days bemoaning the lost and cherishing a really insane hatred against Mr. Lewis--a desire for revenge. She had never come across him, until that Easter Monday, at Ketterford. And that, you will say, is scarcely correct, since it was not himself she met then, but his brother. Deceived by the resemblance, she attacked Mr. Henry Hunter in the manner you remember; and Austin Clay saved him from the gravel-pit. But the time soon came when she stood face to face with _him_. It was the hour she had so longed for: the hour of revenge. What revenge? But for the wicked lie she subsequently forged, there could have been no revenge. The worst she could have proclaimed was, that James Lewis Hunter, when he was a young man, had so far forgotten his duty to himself, and to the world's decencies, as to contract a secret marriage. He might have got over that. He had mourned his young wife sincerely at the time, but later grew to think that all things were for the best--that it was a serious source of embarrassment removed from his path. Nothing more or less had he to acknowledge. What revenge would Miss Gwinn have reaped from this? None. Certainly none to satisfy one so vindictive as she. It never was clear to herself what revenge she had desired: all her efforts had been directed to the discovering of him. She found him a man of social ties. He had married Louisa Bevary; he had a fair daughter; he was respected by the world: all of which excited the anger of Miss Gwinn. Remembering her violent nature, it was only to be expected that Mr. Hunter should shrink from meeting Miss Gwinn when he first knew she had tracked him and was in London. He had never told his wife the episode in his early life, and would very much have disliked its tardy disclosure to her through the agency of Miss Gwinn. Fifty pounds would he have willingly given to avoid a meeting with her. But she came to his very home; so to say, into the presence of his wife and child; and he had to see her, and make the best of it. You must remember the interview. Mr. Hunter's agitation _previous_ to it, was caused by the dread of the woman's near presence, of the disturbance she might make in his household, of the discovery his wife was in close danger of making--that he was a widower when she married him, and not a bachelor. Any husband of the present day might show the same agitation I think under similar circumstances. But Mr. Hunter did not allow this agitation to sway him when before Miss Gwinn; once shut up with her, he was cool and calm as a cucumber; rather defied her than not, civilly; and asked what she meant by intruding upon him, and what she had to complain of: which of course was but adding fuel to the woman's flame. It was quite true, all he said, and there was nothing left to hang a peg of revenge upon. And so she invented one. The demon of mischief put it into her mind to impose upon him with the lie that his first wife, Emma, was not dead, but living. She told him that she (she, herself) had imposed upon him with a false story in that long-past day, in saying that Emma was dead and buried. It was another sister who had died, she added--not Emma: Emma had been ill with the fever, but was recovering; and she had said this to separate her from him. Emma, she continued, was alive still, a patient in the lunatic asylum. It never occurred to Mr. Hunter to doubt the tale. Her passionate manner, her impressive words, but added to her earnestness, and he came out from the interview believing that his first wife had not died. His state of mind cannot be forgotten. Austin Clay saw him pacing the waste ground in the dark night. His agony and remorse were fearful; the sun of his life's peace had set: and there could be no retaliation upon her who had caused it all--Miss Gwinn. Miss Gwinn, however, did not follow up her revenge. Not because further steps might have brought the truth to light, but because after a night's rest she rather repented of it. Her real nature was honourable, and she despised herself for what she had done. Once it crossed her to undo it; but she hated Mr. Hunter with an undying hatred, and so let it alone and went down to Ketterford. One evening, when she had been at home some days, a spirit of confidence came over her which was very unusual, and she told her brother of the revenge she had taken. That was quite enough for Lawyer Gwinn: a glorious opportunity of enriching himself, not to be missed. He went up to London, and terrified Mr. Hunter out of five thousand pounds. 'Or I go and tell your wife, Miss Bevary, that she is not your wife,' he threatened, in his coarse way. Miss Gwinn suspected that the worthy lawyer had gone to make the most of the opportunity, and she wrote him a sharp letter, telling him that if he did so--if he interfered at all--she would at once confess to Lewis Hunter that Emma was really dead. Not knowing where he would put up in London, she enclosed this note to Austin Clay, asking him to give it to Lawyer Gwinn. She took the opportunity, at the same time, of writing a reproachful letter to Mr. Hunter, in which his past ill-doings and Emma's present existence were fully enlarged upon. As the reader may remember, she misdirected the letters: Austin became acquainted with the (as he could but suppose) dangerous secret; and the note to Lawyer Gwinn was set alight, sealed. If Austin or his master had but borrowed a momentary portion of the principles of Gwinn of Ketterford, and peeped into the letter! What years of misery it would have saved Mr. Hunter! But when Miss Gwinn discovered that her brother had used the lie to obtain money, she did not declare the truth. The sense of justice within her yielded to revenge. She hated Mr. Hunter as she had ever done, and would not relieve him. A fine life, between them, did they lead Mr. Hunter. Miss Gwinn protested against every fresh aggression made by the lawyer; but protested only. In Mr. Hunter's anguish of mind at the disgrace cast on his wife and child; in his terror lest the truth (as he assumed it to be) should reach them--and it seemed to be ever looming--he had lived, as may be said, a perpetual death. And the disgrace was of a nature that never could be removed; and the terror had never left him through all these long years. Dr. Bevary had believed the worst. When he first became acquainted with Miss Gwinn, she (never a communicative woman) had not disclosed the previous history of the patient in the asylum. She had given hints of a sad tale, she even said she was living in hope of being revenged on one who had done herself and family an injury, but she said no more. Later circumstances connected with Mr. Hunter and his brother, dating from the account he heard of Miss Gwinn's attack upon Mr. Henry, had impressed Dr. Bevary with the belief that James Hunter had really married the poor woman in the asylum. When he questioned Miss Gwinn, that estimable woman had replied in obscure hints: and they had so frightened Dr. Bevary that he dared ask no further. For his sister's sake he tacitly ignored the subject in future, living in daily thankfulness that Mrs. Hunter was without suspicion. But with the dead body of Elizabeth Gardener lying before her, the enacted lie came to an end. Miss Gwinn freely acknowledged what she had done, and took little, if any, blame to herself. 'Lewis Hunter spoilt the happiness of my life,' she said; 'in return I have spoilt his.' 'And suppose my sister, his lawful wife, had been led to believe this fine tale?' questioned Dr. Bevary, looking keenly at her. 'In that case I should have declared the truth,' said Miss Gwinn. 'I had no animosity to her. She was innocent, she was also your sister, and she should never have suffered.' 'How could you know that she remained ignorant?' 'By my brother being able, whenever he would, to frighten Mr. Hunter,' was the laconic answer. CHAPTER XI. RELIEF. We left Mr. Hunter in the easy chair of his dining-room, buried in these reminiscences of the unhappy past, and quite unconscious that relief of any sort could be in store for him. And yet it was very near: relief from two evils, quite opposite in their source. How long he sat there he scarcely knew; it seemed for hours. In the afternoon he aroused himself to his financial difficulties, and went out. He remembered that he had purposed calling that day upon his bankers, though he had no hope--but rather the certainty of the contrary--that they would help him out of his financial embarrassments. There was just time to get there before the bank closed, and Mr. Hunter had a cab called and went down to Lombard Street. He was shown into the room of the principal partner. The banker thought how ill he looked. Mr. Hunter's first question was about the heavy bill that was due that day. He supposed it had been presented and dishonoured. 'No,' said the banker. 'It was presented and paid.' A ray of hope lighted up the sadness of Mr. Hunter's face. 'Did you indeed pay it? It was very kind. You shall be no eventual losers.' 'We did not pay it from our own funds, Mr. Hunter. It was paid from yours.' Mr. Hunter did not understand. 'I thought my account had been nearly drawn out,' he said; 'and by the note I received this morning from you, I understood you would decline to help me.' 'Your account was drawn very close indeed; but this afternoon, in time to meet the bill upon its second presentation, there was a large sum paid in to your credit--two thousand six hundred pounds.' A pause of blank astonishment on the part of Mr. Hunter. 'Who paid it in?' he presently asked. 'Mr. Clay. He came himself. You will weather the storm now, Mr. Hunter.' There was no answering reply. The banker bent forward in the dusk of the growing evening, and saw that Mr. Hunter was incapable of making one. He was sinking back in his chair in a fainting fit. Whether it was the revulsion of feeling caused by the conviction that he _should_ now weather the storm, or simply the effect of his physical state, Mr. Hunter had fainted, as quietly as any girl might do. One of the partners lived at the bank, and Mr. Hunter was conveyed into the dwelling-house. It was quite evening before he was well enough to leave it. He drove to the yard. It was just closed for the night, and Mr. Clay was gone. Mr. Hunter ordered the cab home. He found Austin waiting for him, and he also found Dr. Bevary. Seeing the latter, he expected next to see Miss Gwinn, and glanced nervously round. 'She is gone back to Ketterford,' spoke out Dr. Bevary, divining the fear. 'The woman will never trouble you again. I thought you must be lost, Hunter. I have been here twice; been home to dinner with Florence; been round at the yard worrying Clay; and could not come upon you anywhere.' 'I went to the bank, and was taken ill there,' said Mr. Hunter, who still seemed anything but himself, and looked round in a bewildered manner. 'The woman, Bevary--are you sure she's gone quite away? She--she wanted to beg, I think,' he added, as if in apology for pressing the question. 'She is _gone_: gone never to return; and you may be at rest,' repeated the doctor, impressively. 'And so you have been ill at the bankers', James! Things are going wrong, I suppose.' 'No, they are going right. Austin'--laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder--'what am I to say? This money can only have come from you.' 'Sir!' said Austin, half laughing. Mr. Hunter drew Dr. Bevary's attention, pointing to Austin. 'Look at him, Bevary. He has saved me. But for him, I should have borne a dishonoured name this day. I went down to Lombard Street, a man without hope, believing that the blow had been already struck in bills dishonoured--that my name was on its way to the _Gazette_. I found that he, Austin Clay, had paid in between two and three thousand pounds to my credit.' 'I could not put my money to a better use, sir. The two thousand pounds were left to me, you know: the rest I saved. I was wishing for something to turn up that I could invest it in.' 'Invest!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter, deep feeling in his tone. 'How do you know you will not lose it?' 'I have no fear, sir. The strike is at an end, and business will go on well now.' 'If I did not believe that it would, I would never consent to use it,' said Mr. Hunter. It was true. Austin Clay, a provident man, had been advancing his money to save the credit of his master. Suspecting some such a crisis as this was looming, he had contrived to hold his funds in available readiness. It had come, though, sooner than he anticipated. 'How am I to repay you?' asked Mr. Hunter. 'I don't mean the money: but the obligation.' A red flush mounted to Austin's brow. He answered hastily, as if to cover it. 'I do not require payment, sir. I do not look for any.' Mr. Hunter stood in deep thought, looking at him, but vacantly. Dr. Bevary was near the mantelpiece, apparently paying no attention to either of them. 'Will you link your name to mine?' said Mr. Hunter, moving towards Austin. 'In what manner, sir?' 'By letting the firm be from henceforth Hunter and Clay. I have long wished this; you are of too great use to me to remain anything less than a partner, and by this last act of yours, you have earned the right to be so. Will you object to join your name to one which was so near being dishonoured?' He held out his hand as he spoke, and Austin clasped it. 'Oh, Mr. Hunter!' he exclaimed, in the strong impulse of the moment, 'I wish you would give me hopes of a dearer reward.' 'You mean Florence,' said Mr. Hunter. 'Yes,' returned Austin, in agitation. 'I care not how long I wait, or what price you may call upon me to pay for her. As Jacob served Laban seven years for Rachel, so would I serve for Florence, and think it but a day, for the love I bear her. Sir, Mrs. Hunter would have given her to me.' 'My objection is not to you, Austin. Were I to disclose to you certain particulars connected with Florence--as I should be obliged to do before she married--you might yourself decline her.' 'Try me, sir,' said Austin, a bright smile parting his lips. 'Ay, try him,' said Dr. Bevary, in his quaint manner. 'I have an idea that he may know as much of the matter as you do, Hunter. You neither of you know too much,' he significantly added. Austin's cheek turned red; and there was that in his tone, his look, which told Mr. Hunter that he had known the fact, known it for years. 'Oh, sir,' he pleaded, 'give me Florence.' 'I tell you that you neither of you know too much,' said Dr. Bevary. 'But, look here, Austin. The best thing you can do is, to go to my house and ask Florence whether she will have you. Then--if you don't find it too much trouble--escort her home.' Austin laughed as he caught up his hat. A certain prevision, that he should win Florence, had ever been within him. Dr. Bevary watched the room-door close, and then drew a chair in front of his brother-in-law. 'Did it ever strike you that Austin Clay knew your secret, James?' he began. 'How should it?' returned Mr. Hunter, feeling himself compelled to answer. 'I do not know how,' said the doctor, 'any more than I know how the impression, that he did, fixed itself upon me. I have felt sure, this many a year past, that he was no stranger to the fact, though he probably knew nothing of the details.' To the fact! Dr. Bevary spoke with strange coolness. 'When did _you_ become acquainted with it?' asked Mr. Hunter, in a tone of sharp pain. 'I became acquainted with your share in it at the time Miss Gwinn discovered that Mr. Lewis was Mr. Hunter. At least, with as much of the share as I ever was acquainted with until to-day.' Mr. Hunter compressed his lips. It was no use beating about the bush any longer. 'James,' resumed the doctor, 'why did you not confide the secret to me? It would have been much better.' 'To you! Louisa's brother!' 'It would have been better, I say. It might not have lifted the sword that was always hanging over Louisa's head, or have eased it by one jot; but it might have eased _you_. A sorrow kept within a man's own bosom, doing its work in silence, will burn his life away: get him to talk of it, and half the pain is removed. It is also possible that I might have made better terms than you, with the rapacity of Gwinn.' 'If you knew it, why did you not speak openly to me?' Dr. Bevary suppressed a shudder. 'It was one of those terrible secrets that a third party cannot interfere in uninvited. No: silence was my only course, so long as you observed silence to me. Had I interfered, I might have said "Louisa shall leave you!"' 'It is over, so far as she is concerned,' said Mr. Hunter, wiping his damp brow. 'Let her name rest. It is the thought of her that has well nigh killed me.' 'Ay, it's over,' responded Dr. Bevary; 'over, in more senses than one. Do you not wonder that Miss Gwinn should have gone back to Ketterford without molesting you again?' 'How can I wonder at anything she does? She comes and she goes, with as little reason as warning.' Dr. Bevary lowered his voice. 'Have you ever been to see that poor patient in Kerr's asylum?' The question excited the anger of Mr. Hunter. 'What do you mean by asking it?' he cried. 'When I was led to believe her dead, I shaped my future course according to that belief. I have never acted, nor would I act, upon any other--save in the giving money to Gwinn, for my wife's sake. If Louisa was not my wife legally, she was nothing less in the sight of God.' 'Louisa was your wife,' said Dr. Bevary, quietly. And Mr. Hunter responded by a sharp gesture of pain. He wished the subject at an end. The doctor continued-- 'James, had you gone, though it had been but for an instant, to see that unhappy patient of Kerr's, your trammels would have been broken. It was not Emma, your young wife of years ago.' 'It was not!----What do you say?' gasped Mr. Hunter. 'When Agatha Gwinn found you out, here, in this house, she startled you nearly to death by telling you that Emma was alive--was a patient in Kerr's asylum. She told you that, when you had been informed in those past days of Emma's death, you were imposed upon by a lie--a lie invented by herself. James, the lie was uttered _then_, when she spoke to you here. Emma, your wife, did die; and the young woman in the asylum was her sister.' Mr. Hunter rose. His hands were raised imploringly, his face was stretched forward in its sad yearning. What!--which was true? which was he to believe?--'In the gratification of her revenge, Miss Gwinn concocted the tale that Emma was alive,' resumed Dr. Bevary, 'knowing, as she spoke it, that Emma had been dead years and years. She contrived to foster the same impression upon me; and the same impression, I cannot tell how, has, I am sure, clung to Austin Clay. Louisa was your lawful wife, James.' Mr. Hunter, in the plenitude of his thankfulness, sank upon his chair, a sobbing burst of emotion breaking from him, and the drops of perspiration gathering again on his brow. 'That other one, the sister, the poor patient, is dead,' pursued the doctor. 'As we stood together over her, an hour ago, Miss Gwinn confessed the imposition. It appeared to slip from her involuntarily, in spite of herself. I inquired her motive, and she answered, "To be revenged on you, Lewis Hunter, for the wrong you had done." As you had marred the comfort of her life, so she in return had marred that of yours. As she stood in her impotence, looking on the dead, I asked her which, in her opinion, had inflicted the most wrong, she or you?' Mr. Hunter lifted his eager face. 'It was a foolish deceit. What did she hope to gain by it? A word at any time might have exposed it.' 'It seems she did gain pretty well by it,' significantly replied Dr. Bevary. 'There's little doubt that it was first spoken in the angry rage of the moment, as being the most effectual mode of tormenting you: and the terrible dread with which you received it--as I conclude you so did receive it--must have encouraged her to persist in the lie. James, you should have confided in me; I might have brought light to bear on it in some way or other. Your timorous silence has kept me quiet.' 'God be thanked that it is over!' fervently ejaculated Mr. Hunter. 'The loss of my money, the loss of my peace, they seem to be little in comparison with the joy of this welcome revelation.' He sat down as he spoke and bent his head upon his hand. Presently he looked at his brother-in-law. 'And you think that Clay has suspected this? And that--suspecting it, he has wished for Florence?' 'I am sure of one thing--that Florence has been his object, his dearest hope. What he says has no exaggeration in it--that he would serve for her seven years, and seven to that, for the love he bears her.' 'I have been afraid to glance at such a thing as marriage for Florence, and that is the reason I would not listen to Austin Clay. With this slur hanging over her----' 'There is no slur--as it turns out,' interrupted Dr. Bevary. 'Florence loves him, James; and your wife knew it.' 'What a relief is all this!' murmured Mr. Hunter. 'The woman gone back to Ketterford! I think I shall sleep to-night.' 'She is gone back, never more to trouble you. We must see how her worthy brother can be brought to account for obtaining money under false pretences.' 'I'll make him render back every shilling he has defrauded me of: I'll bring him to answer for it before the laws of his country,' was the wronged man's passionate and somewhat confused answer. But that is more easy to say than to do, Mr. Hunter! For, a few days subsequent to this, Lawyer Gwinn, possibly scenting that unpleasant consequences might be in store for him, was quietly steaming to America in a fine ship; taking all his available substance with him; and leaving Ketterford and his sister behind. CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION. With outward patience and inward wonder, Florence Hunter was remaining at Dr. Bevary's. That something must be wrong at home, she felt sure: else why was she kept away from it so long? And where was her uncle? Invalids were shut up in the waiting-room, like Patience on a monument, hoping minute by minute to see him appear. And now here was another, she supposed! No. He had passed the patients' room and was opening the door of this. Austin Clay! 'What have you come for?' she exclaimed, in the glad confusion of the moment. 'To take you home, for one thing,' he answered, as he approached her. 'Do you dislike the escort, Florence?' He bent forward as he asked the question. A strange light of happiness shone in his eyes; a sweet smile parted his lips. Florence Hunter's heart stood still, and then began to beat as if it would have burst its bounds. 'What has happened?' she faltered. 'This,' he said, taking both her hands and drawing her gently before him. 'The right to hold your hands in mine; the right--soon--to take you to my heart and keep you there for ever. Your father and uncle have sent me to tell you this.' The words, in their fervent earnestness carried instant truth to her heart, lighting it as with the brightness of sunshine. 'Oh, what a recompense!' she impulsively murmured from the depths of her great love. 'And everything lately has seemed so dark with doubt, so full of trouble!' 'No more doubt, no more trouble,' he fondly whispered. 'It shall be my life's care to guard my wife from all such, Florence--heaven permitting me.' Anything more that was said may as well be left to the reader's lively imagination. They arrived at home after awhile; and found Dr. Bevary there, talking still. 'How you must have hurried yourselves!' quoth he, turning to them. 'Clay, you ought to be ill from walking fast. What has kept him, Florence?' 'Not your patients, Doctor,' retorted Austin, laughing; 'though you are keeping them. One of them says you made an appointment with him. By the way he spoke, I think he was inwardly vowing vengeance against you for not keeping it.' 'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'we medical men do get detained sometimes. One patient has had the most of my time this day, poor lady!' 'Is she better?' quickly asked Florence, who always had ready sympathy for sickness and suffering: perhaps from having seen so much of it in her mother. 'No, my dear, she is dead,' was the answer, gravely spoken. 'And, therefore,' added the doctor in a different tone, 'I have no further excuse for absenting myself from those other patients who are alive and grumbling at me. Will you walk a few steps with me, Mr. Clay?' Dr. Bevary linked his arm within Austin's as they crossed the hall, and they went out together. 'How did you become acquainted with that dark secret' he breathed. 'Through a misdirected letter of Miss Gwinn's,' replied Austin. 'After I had read it, I discovered that it must have been meant for Mr. Hunter, though addressed to me. It told me all. Dr. Bevary, I have had to carry the secret all these years, bearing myself as one innocent of the knowledge; before Mrs. Hunter, before Florence, before him. I would have given half my savings not to have known it.' 'You believed that--that--one was living who might have replaced Mrs. Hunter?' 'Yes; and that she was in confinement. The letter, a reproachful one, was too explanatory.' 'She died this morning. It is with her--at least with her and her affairs--that my day has been taken up.' 'What a mercy!' ejaculated Austin. 'Ay; mercies are showered down every day: a vast many more than we, self-complaisant mortals, acknowledge or return thanks for,' responded Dr. Bevary, in the quaint tone he was fond of using. And then, in a few brief words, he enlightened Austin as to the actual truth. 'What a fiend she must be!' cried Austin, alluding to Miss Gwinn of Ketterford. 'Oh, but this is a mercy indeed! And I have been planning how to guard the secret always from Florence.' Dr. Bevary made no reply. Austin turned to him, the ingenuous look upon his face that it often wore. 'You approve of me for Florence? Do you not, sir?' 'Be you very sure, young gentleman, that you should never have got her, had I not approved,' oracularly nodded Dr. Bevary. 'I look upon Florence as part of my belongings; and, if you mind what you are about, perhaps I may look upon you as the same.' Austin laughed. 'How am I to avoid offence?' he asked.--'By loving your wife with an earnest, lasting love; by making her a better husband than James Hunter has been enabled to make her poor mother.' The tears rose to Austin's eyes with the intensity of his emotion. 'Do you think there is cause to ask me to do this, Dr. Bevary?' 'No, my boy, I do not. God bless you both! There! leave me to get home to those patients of mine. You can be off back to her.' But Austin Clay had work on his hands, as well as pleasure, and he turned towards Daffodil's Delight. It was the evening for taking Baxendale his week's money, and Austin was not one to neglect it. He picked his way down amidst the poor people, standing about hungry and half-naked. All the works were open again, but numbers and numbers of men could not obtain employment, however good their will was: the masters had taken on strangers, and there was no room for the old workmen. John Baxendale was sitting by his bedside dressed. His injuries were yielding to skill and time: and in a short while he looked to be at work again. 'Well, Baxendale?' cried Austin, in his cheery voice. 'Still getting better?' 'Oh yes, sir, I'm thankful to say it. The surgeon was here to-day, and told me there would be no further relapse. I am a bit tired this evening; I stood a good while at the window, watching the row opposite. She was giving him such a basting.' 'What! do you mean the Cheeks? I thought the street seemed in a commotion.' Baxendale laughed. 'It is but just over, sir. She set on and shook him soundly, and then she scratched him, and then she cuffed him--all outside the door. I do wonder that Cheek took it from her; but he's just like a puppy in her hands, and nothing better. Two good hours they were disputing there.' 'What was the warfare about?' inquired Austin. 'About his not getting work, sir. Cheek's wife was just like many of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight--urging their husbands not to go to work, and vowing _they'd_ strike if they didn't stand out. I don't know but Mother Cheek was about the most obstinate of all. The very day that I was struck down I heard her blowing him up for not "standing firm upon his rights;" and telling him she'd rather go to his hanging than see him go back to work. And now she beats him because he can't get any to do.' 'Is Cheek one that cannot get any?' 'Cheek's one, sir. Mr. Henry took on more strangers than did you and Mr. Hunter; so, of course, there's less room for his old men. Cheek has walked about London these two days, till he's foot-sore, trying different shops, but he can't get taken on: there are too many men out, for him to have a chance.' 'I think some of the wives in Daffodil's Delight are the most unreasonable women that ever were created,' ejaculated Austin. '_She_ is--that wife of Cheek's,' rejoined Baxendale. 'I don't know how they'll end it. She has shut the door in his face, vowing he shall not put a foot inside it until he can bring some wages with him. Forbidding him to take work when it was to be had, and now that it can't be had turning upon him for not getting it! If Cheek wasn't a donkey, he'd turn upon her again. There's other women just as contradictory. I think the bad living has soured their tempers.' 'Where's Mary this evening?' inquired Austin, quitting the unsatisfactory topic. Since her father's illness, Mary's place had been by his side: it was something unusual to find her absent. Baxendale lowered his voice to reply. 'She is getting ill again, sir. All her old symptoms have come back, and I am sure now that she is going fast. She is on her bed, lying down.' As he spoke the last word, he stopped, for Mary entered. She seemed scarcely able to walk; a hectic flush shone on her cheeks, and her breath was painfully short. 'Mary,' Austin said, with much concern, 'I am sorry to see you thus.' 'It is only the old illness come back again, sir,' she answered, as she sunk back in the pillowed chair. 'I knew it had not gone for good--that the improvement was but temporary. But now, sir, look how good and merciful is the hand that guides us--and yet we sometimes doubt it! What should I have been spared for, and had this returning glimpse of strength, but that I might nurse my father in his illness, and be a comfort to him? He is nearly well--will soon be at work again and wants me no more. Thanks ever be to God!' Austin went out, marvelling at the girl's simple and beautiful trust. It appeared that she would be happy in her removal whenever it should come. As he was passing up the street he met Dr. Bevary. Austin wondered what had become of his patients. 'All had gone away but two; tired of waiting,' said the Doctor, divining his thoughts. 'I am going to take a look at Mary Baxendale. I hear she is worse.' 'Very much worse,' replied Austin. 'I have just left her father.' At that moment there was a sound of contention and scolding, a woman's sharp tongue being uppermost. It proceeded from Mrs. Cheek, who was renewing the contest with her husband. Austin gave Dr. Bevary an outline of what Baxendale had said. 'And if, after a short season of prosperity, another strike should come, these women would be the first again to urge the men on to it--to "stand up for their rights!"' exclaimed the Doctor. 'Not all of them.' 'They have not all done it now. Mark you, Austin! I shall settle a certain sum upon Florence when she marries, just to keep you in bread and cheese, should these strikes become the order of the day, and you get engulfed in them.' Austin smiled. 'I think I can take better care than that, Doctor.' 'Take all the care you please. But you are talking self-sufficient nonsense, my young friend. I shall put Florence on the safe side, in spite of your care. I have no fancy to see her reduced to one maid and a cotton gown. You can tell her so,' added the Doctor, as he continued on his way. Austin turned on his, when a man stole up to him from some side entry--a cadaverous-looking man, pinched and careworn. It was James Dunn; he had been discharged out of prison by the charity of some fund at the disposal of the governor. He humbly begged for work--'just to keep him from starving.' 'You ask what I have not to give, Dunn,' was the reply of Austin. 'Our yard is full; and consider the season! Perhaps when spring comes on----' 'How am I to exist till spring, sir?' he burst forth in a voice that was but just kept from tears. 'And the wife and the children?' 'I wish I could help you, Dunn. Your case is but that of many others.' 'There have been so many strangers took on, sir!' 'Of course there have been. To do the work that you and others refused.' 'I have not a place to lay my head in this night, sir. I have not so much as a slice of bread. I'd do the meanest work that could be offered to me.' Austin felt in his pocket for a piece of money, and gave it him. 'What misery they have brought upon themselves!' he thought. When the announcement reached Mrs. Henry Hunter of Florence's engagement, she did not approve of it. Not that she had any objection to Austin Clay; he had from the first been a favourite with her, though she had sometimes marked her preference by a somewhat patronizing manner; but for Florence to marry her father's clerk, though that clerk had now become partner, was more than she could at the first moment quietly yield to. 'It is quite a descent for her,' she said to her husband privately. 'What can James be thinking of? The very idea of her marrying Austin Clay!' 'But if she likes him?' 'That ought not to go for anything. Suppose it had been Mary? I would not have let her have him.' 'I would,' decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter. 'Clay's worth his weight in gold.' Some short while given to preliminaries, and to the re-establishment (in a degree) of Mr. Hunter's shattered health, and the new firm 'Hunter and Clay' was duly announced to the business world. Upon an appointed day, Mr. Hunter stood before his workmen, his arm within Austin's. He was introducing him to them in his new capacity of partner. The strike was quite at an end, and the men--so many as could be made room for--had returned; but Mr. Hunter would not consent to discharge the hands that had come forward to take work during the emergency. 'What has the strike brought you?' inquired Mr. Hunter, seizing upon the occasion to offer a word of advice. 'Any good?' Strictly speaking, the men could not reply that it had. In the silence that ensued after the question, one man's voice was at length raised. 'We look back upon it as a subject of congratulation, sir.' 'Congratulation!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'Upon what point?' 'That we have had the pluck to hold out so long in the teeth of difficulties,' replied the voice. 'Pluck is a good quality when rightly applied,' observed Mr. Hunter. 'But what good has the "pluck," or the strike, brought to you in this case?--for that was the question we were upon.' 'It was a lock-out, sir; not a strike.' 'In the first instance it was a strike,' said Mr. Hunter. 'Pollocks' men struck, and you had it in contemplation to follow their example. Oh, yes! you had, my men; you know as well as I do, that the measure was under discussion. Upon that state of affairs becoming known, the masters determined upon a general lock-out. They did it in self-defence; and if you will put yourselves in thought into their places, judging fairly, you will not wonder that it was considered the only course open to them. The lock-out lasted but a short period, and then the yards were again opened--open to all who would resume work upon the old terms, and sign a declaration not to be under the dominion of the Trades' Unions. How very few availed themselves of this you do not need to be reminded.' 'We acted for what we thought the best,' said another. 'I know you did,' replied Mr. Hunter. 'You are--speaking of you collectively--steady, hard-working, well-meaning men, who wish to do the best for yourselves, your wives, and families. But, looking back now, do you consider that it was for the best? You have returned to work upon the same terms that you were offered then. Here we are, in the depth of winter, and what sort of homes do you possess to fortify yourselves against its severities!' What sort indeed! Mr. Hunter's delicacy shrank from depicting them. 'I am not speaking to you now as your master,' he continued, conscious that men do not like this style of converse from their employers. 'Consider me for the moment as your friend only; let us talk together as man and man. I wish I could bring you to see the evil of these convulsions; I do not wish it from motives of self-interest, but for your sole good. You may be thinking, "Ah, the master is afraid of another contest; this one has done him so much damage, and that's why he is going on at us against them." You are mistaken; that is not why I speak. My men, were any further contests to take place between us, in which you held yourselves aloof from work, as you have done in this, we should at once place ourselves beyond dependence upon you, by bringing over foreign workmen. In the consultations which have been held between myself and Mr. Clay, relative to the terms of our partnership, this point has been fully discussed, and our determination taken. Should we have a repetition of the past, Hunter and Clay would then import their own workmen.' 'And other firms as well?' interrupted a voice. 'We know nothing of what other firms might do: to attend to our own interests is enough for us. I hope we shall never have to do this; but it is only fair to inform you that such would be our course of action. If you, our native workmen, brothers of the soil, abandon your work from any crotchets----' 'Crotchets, sir!' 'Ay, crotchets--according to my opinion,' repeated Mr. Hunter. 'Could you show me a real grievance, it might be a different matter. But let us leave motives alone, and go to effects. When I say that I wish you could see the evil of these convulsions, I speak solely with reference to your good, to the well-being of your families. It cannot have escaped your notice that my health has become greatly shattered--that, in all probability, my life will not be much prolonged. My friends'--his voice sunk to a deep, solemn tone--'believing, as I do, that I shall soon stand before my Maker, to give an account of my doings here, could I, from any paltry motive of self-interest, deceive you? Could I say one thing and mean another? No; when I seek to warn you against future troubles, I do it for your own sakes. Whatever may be the urging motive of a strike, whether good or bad, it can only bring ill in the working. I would say, were I not a master, "Put up with a grievance, rather than enter upon a strike;" but being a master, you might misconstrue the advice. I am not going into the merits of the measures--to say this past strike was right, or that was wrong; I speak only of the terrible amount of suffering they wrought. A man said to me the other day--he was from the factory districts--"I have a horror of strikes, they have worked so much evil in our trade." You can get books which tell of them, and read for yourselves. How many orphans, and widows, and men in prisons are there, who have cause to rue this strike that has only now just passed? It has broken up homes that, before it came, were homes of plenty and content, leaving in them despair and death. Let us try to go on better for the future. I, for my part, will always be ready to receive and consider any reasonable proposal from my men; my partner will do the same. If there is no attempt at intimidation, and no interference on the part of others, there ought to be little difficulty in discussing and settling matters, with the help of "the golden rule." Only--it is my last and earnest word of caution to you--abide by your own good sense, and do not yield it to those agitators who would lead you away.' Every syllable spoken by Mr. Hunter, as to the social state of the people, Daffodil's Delight, and all other parts of London where the strike had prevailed, could echo. Whether the men had invoked the contest needlessly, or whether they were justified, according to the laws of right and reason, it matters not here to discuss; the effects were the same, and they stood out broad, and bare, and hideous. Men had died of want; had been cast into prison, where they still lay; had committed social crimes, in their great need, against their fellow-men. Women had been reduced to the lowest extremes of misery and suffering, had been transformed into viragos, where they once had been pleasant and peaceful; children had died off by scores. Homes were dismantled; Mr. Cox had cart-loads of things that stood no chance of being recalled. Families, united before, were scattered now; young men were driven upon idleness and evil courses; young women upon worse, for they were irredeemable. Would wisdom for the future be learnt by all this? It was uncertain. When Austin Clay returned home that evening, he gave Mrs. Quale notice to quit. She received it in a spirit of resignation, intimating that she had been expecting it--that lodgings such as hers were not fit for Mr. Clay, now that he was Mr. Hunter's partner. Austin laughed. 'I suppose you think I ought to set up a house of my own.' 'I daresay you'll be doing that one of these days, sir,' she responded. 'I daresay I shall,' said Austin. 'I wonder whether what Mr. Hunter said to-day will do any of 'em any service?' interposed Peter Quale. 'What do you think, sir?' 'I think it ought,' replied Austin. 'Whether it will, is another question.' 'It mostly lies in this--in the men's being let alone,' nodded Peter. 'Leave 'em to theirselves, and they'll go on steady enough; but if them Trade Union folks, Sam Shuck and his lot, get over them again, there'll be more outbreaks.' 'Sam Shuck is safe for some months to come.' 'But there's others of his persuasion that are not, sir. And Sam, he'll be out some time.' 'Quale, I give the hands credit for better sense than to suffer themselves to fall under his yoke again, now that he has shown himself in his true colours.' 'I don't give 'em credit for any sense at all, when they get unsettled notions into their heads,' phlegmatically returned Peter Quale. 'I'd like to know if it's the Union that's helping Shuck's wife and children.' 'Do they help her?' 'There must be some that help her, sir. The woman lives and feeds her family. But there was a Trades' Union secretary here this morning, inquiring about all this disturbance there has been, and saying that the men were wrong to be led to violence by such a fellow as Sam Shuck: over eager to say it, he seemed to me. I gave him my opinion back again,' concluded Peter, pushing the pipe, which he had laid aside at his young master's entrance, further under the grate. 'That Sam Shuck, and such as he, that live by agitation, were uncommon 'cute for their own interests, and those that listen to them were fools. That took him off, sir.' 'To think of the fools this Daffodil's Delight has turned out this last six months!' Mrs. Quale emphatically added. 'To have lived upon their clothes and furniture, their saucepans and kettles, their bedding and their children's shoes; when they might, most of 'em, have earned thirty-three shillings a week at their ordinary work! When folks can be so blind as that, it is of no use talking to them: black looks white, and white black.' Mr. Clay smiled at the remark, though it had some rough reason in it, and went out. Taking his way to Mr. Hunter's. 'Austin! You must live with me.' The words came from Mr. Hunter. Seated in his easy chair, apparently asleep, he had overheard what Austin was saying in an undertone to Florence--that he had just been giving Mrs. Quale notice, and should begin house-hunting on the morrow. They turned to him at the remark. He had half risen from his chair in his eager earnestness. 'Do you think I could spare Florence? Where my home is, yours and hers must be. Is not this house large enough for us? Why should you seek another?' 'Quite large enough, sir. But--but I had not thought of it. It shall be as you and Florence wish.' They both looked at her; she was standing underneath the light of the chandelier, the rich damask colour mantling in her cheeks. 'I could not give you to him, Florence, if it involved your leaving me.' The tears glistened on her eyelashes. In the impulse of the moment she stretched out a hand to each. 'There is room here for us all, papa,' she softly whispered. Mr. Hunter took both their hands in one of his; he raised the other in the act of benediction; the tears, which only glistened in the eyes of Florence, were falling fast from his own. 'Yes, it shall be the home of all; and--Florence!--the sooner he comes to it the better. Bless, oh, bless my children!' he murmured. 'And grant that this may prove a happier, a more peaceful home for them, than it has for me!' 'Amen!' answered Austin, in his inmost heart. THE END. J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C. * * * * * MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS. Uniformly bound, 6s. each. EAST LYNNE. (85th thousand.) THE CHANNINGS. (35th thousand.) ROLAND YORKE. A Sequel to "The Channings." MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. VERNER'S PRIDE. LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. MILDRED ARKELL. ST. MARTIN'S EVE. THE RED COURT FARM. WITHIN THE MAZE. LADY ADELAIDE. ELSTER'S FOLLY. ANNE HEREFORD. TREVLYN HOLD. OSWALD CRAY. A LIFE'S SECRET. DENE HOLLOW. BESSY RANE. THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. ORVILLE COLLEGE. PARKWATER. EDINA. LONDON: R. BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, W. (_Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty._) 
21361	----	Patience Wins; or, War in the Works, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ The boy hero of the book, his father and his three uncles live in Canonbury, London, and run a factory in Bermondsey, the other side of the Thames in London. But they feel they need to expand, and they buy a steel working business in the North of England. Here they try to introduce various profitable practices, such as improved methods for working the steel, and various ingenious and new items of factory equipment. But these new ideas are objected-to by the Trades Unions, and the despicable behaviour of the work-force is due to this attitude. All sorts of the most dreadful and wicked deeds are perpetrated, and unpleasant things are done to the few workmen who seem to be coming round to sense. The Uncles reflect on how much more amenable and sensible a London workforce would have been in the same circumstances. But eventually various incidents occur in which it can be seen what excellent people the hero and his Uncles really are, and the whole town starts to welcome them. Hence the title of the book--"Patience Wins". It's not a long book, but there is plenty of action. It is not in the general tradition of Manville Fenn books, but it is a very good read. ________________________________________________________________________ PATIENCE WINS; OR, WAR IN THE WORKS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. A FAMILY COUNCIL. "I say, Uncle Dick, do tell me what sort of a place it is." "Oh, you'll see when you get there!" "Uncle Jack, you tell me then; what's it like?" "Like! What, Arrowfield? Ask Uncle Bob." "There, Uncle Bob, I'm to ask you. Do tell me what sort of a place it is?" "Get out, you young nuisance!" "What a shame!" I said. "Here are you three great clever men, who know all about it; you've been down half a dozen times, and yet you won't answer a civil question when you are asked." I looked in an ill-used way at my three uncles, as they sat at the table covered with papers; and except that one would be a little darker than the other, I could not help thinking how very much they were alike, and at the same time like my father, only that he had some grey coming at the sides of his head. They were all big fine-looking men between thirty and forty, stern enough when they were busy, but wonderfully good-tempered and full of fun when business was over; and I'm afraid they spoiled me. When, as I say, business was over, they were ready for anything with me, and though I had a great feeling of reverence, almost dread, for my father, my three big uncles always seemed to me like companions, and they treated me as if I were their equal. Cricket! Ah! Many's the game we've had together. They'd take me fishing, and give me the best pitch, and see that I caught fish if they did not. Tops, marbles, kite-flying, football; insect and egg collecting; geology, botany, chemistry; they were at home with all, and I shared in the game or pursuit as eagerly as they. I've known the time when they'd charge into the room at Canonbury, where I was busy with the private tutor--for I did not go to school--with "Mr Headley, Mr Russell would like to speak to you;" and as soon as he had left the room, seize hold of me, and drag me out of my chair with, "Come along, Cob: work's closed for the day. _Country_!" Then away we'd go for a delicious day's collecting, or something of the kind. They used to call it slackening their bands, and mine. Time had glided on very happily till I was sixteen, and there was some talk of my being sent to a great engineer's establishment for five or six years to learn all I could before being taken on at our own place in Bermondsey, where Russell and Company carried on business, and knocked copper and brass and tin about, and made bronze, and gun-metal, and did a great deal for other firms with furnaces, and forges, and steam-engines, wheels, and lathes. My father was "Russell"--Alexander--and Uncle Dick, Uncle Jack, and Uncle Bob were "Company." The business, as I say, was in Bermondsey, but we lived together and didn't live together at Canonbury. That sounds curious, but I'll explain:--We had two houses next door to each other. Captain's quarters, and the barracks. My father's house was the Captain's quarters, where I lived with my mother and sister. The next door, where my uncles were, they called the barracks, where they had their bedrooms and sitting-room; but they took all their meals at our table. As I said before things had gone on very happily till I was sixteen--a big sturdy ugly boy. Uncle Dick said I was the ugliest boy he knew. Uncle Jack said I was the most stupid. Uncle Bob said I was the most ignorant. But we were the best of friends all the same. And now after a great deal of discussion with my father, and several visits, my three uncles were seated at the table, and I had asked them about Arrowfield, and you have read their answers. I attacked them again. "Oh, I say," I cried, "don't talk to a fellow as if he were a little boy! Come, Uncle Dick, what sort of a place is Arrowfield?" "Land of fire." "Oh!" I cried. "Is it, Uncle Jack?" "Land of smoke." "Land of fire and smoke!" I cried excitedly. "Uncle Bob, are they making fun of me?" "Land of noise, and gloom, and fog," said Uncle Bob. "A horrible place in a hole." "And are we going there?" "Don't know," said Uncle Bob. "Wait and see." They went on with their drawings and calculations, and I sat by the fire in the barrack room, that is, in their sitting-room, trying to read, but with my head in a whirl of excitement about Arrowfield, when my father came in, laid his hand on my head, and turned to my uncles. "Well, boys," he said, "how do you bring it in? What's to be done?" "Sit down, and let's settle it, Alick," said Uncle Dick, leaning back and spreading his big beard all over his chest. "Ah, do!" cried Uncle Jack, rubbing his curly head. "Once and for all," said Uncle Bob, drawing his chair forward, stooping down, taking up his left leg and holding it across his right knee. My father drew forward an easy-chair, looking very serious, and resting his hand on the back before sitting down, he said without looking at me: "Go to your mother and sister, Jacob." I rose quickly, but with my forehead wrinkling all over, and I turned a pitiful look on my three uncles. "What are you going to send him away for?" said Uncle Dick. "Because this is not boys' business." "Oh, nonsense!" said Uncle Jack. "He'll be as interested in it as we are." "Yes, let him stop and hear," said Uncle Bob. "Very good. I'm agreeable," said my father. "Sit down, Jacob." I darted a grateful look at my uncles, spreading it round so that they all had a glance, and dropped back into my seat. "Well," said my father, "am I to speak?" "Yes." This was in chorus; and my father sat thinking for a few minutes, during which I exchanged looks and nods with my uncles, all of which was very satisfactory. "Well," said my father at last, "to put it in short, plain English, we four have each our little capital embarked in our works." Here there were three nods. "We've all tried everything we knew to make the place a success, but year after year goes by and we find ourselves worse off. In three more bad years we shall be ruined." "And Jacob will have to set to work and keep us all," said Uncle Dick. My father looked round at me and nodded, smiling sadly, and I could see that he was in great trouble. "Here is our position, then, boys: Grandison and Company are waiting for our answer in Bermondsey. They'll buy everything as it stands at a fair valuation; that's one half. The other is: the agents at Arrowfield are waiting also for our answer about the works to let there." Here he paused for a few moments and then went on: "We must look the matter full in the face. If we stay as we are the trade is so depreciating that we shall be ruined. If we go to Arrowfield we shall have to begin entirely afresh; to fight against a great many difficulties; the workmen there are ready to strike, to turn upon you and destroy." Uncle Dick made believe to spit in his hands. "To commit outrages." Uncle Jack tucked up his sleeves. "And ratten and blow up." Uncle Bob half took off his coat. "In short, boys, we shall have a terribly hard fight; but there is ten times the opening there, and we may make a great success. That is our position, in short," said my father. "What do you say?" My three uncles looked hard at him and then at one another, seemed to read each other's eyes, and turned back to him. "You're oldest, Alick, and head of the firm," said Uncle Dick; "settle it." "No," said my father, "it shall be settled by you three." "I know what I think," said Uncle Jack; "but I'd rather you'd say." "My mind's made up," said Uncle Bob, "but I don't want to be speaker. You settle it, Alick." "No," said my father; "I have laid the case before you three, who have equal stakes in the risk, and you shall settle the matter." There was a dead silence in the room, which was so still that the sputtering noise made by the big lamp and the tinkle of a few cinders that fell from the fire sounded painfully loud. They looked at each other, but no one spoke, till Uncle Dick had fidgeted about in his chair for some time, and then, giving his big beard a twitch, he bent forward. I heard my other uncles sigh as if they were relieved, and they sat back farther in their seats listening for what Uncle Dick, who was the eldest, might wish to say. "Look here," he cried at last. Everybody did look there, but saw nothing but Uncle Dick, who kept tugging at one lock of his beard, as if that was the string that would let loose a whole shower-bath of words. "Well!" he said, and there was another pause. "Here," he cried, as if seized by a sudden fit of inspiration, "let's hear what Cob has to say." "Bravo! Hear, hear, hear!" cried my two uncles in chorus, and Uncle Dick smiled and nodded and looked as if he felt highly satisfied with himself; while I, with a face that seemed to be all on fire, jumped up excitedly and cried: "Let's all go and begin again." "That's it--that settles it," cried Uncle Bob. "Yes, yes," said Uncle Dick and Uncle Jack. "He's quite right. We'll go." Then all three beat upon the table with book and pencil and compasses, and cried, "Hear, hear, hear!" while I shrank back into my chair, and felt half ashamed of myself as I glanced at my father and wondered whether he was angry on account of what I had proposed. "That is settled then," he said quietly. "Jacob has been your spokesman; and now let me add my opinion that you have taken the right course. What I propose is this, that one of us stays and carries on the business here till the others have got the Arrowfield affair in full swing. Who will stay?" There was no answer. "Shall I?" said my father. "Yes, if you will," they chorused. "Very good," said my father. "I am glad to do so, for that will give me plenty of time to make arrangements for Jacob here." "But he must go with us," said Uncle Dick. "Yes, of course," said Uncle Jack. "Couldn't go without him." "But his education as an engineer?" "Now, look here, Alick," said Uncle Dick, "don't you think he'll learn as much with us down at the new works as in any London place?" My father sat silent and thoughtful, while I watched the play of his countenance and trembled as I saw how he was on the balance. For it would have been terrible to me to have gone away now just as a new life of excitement and adventure was opening out. "Do you really feel that you would like Jacob to go with you?" said my father at last. There was a unanimous "Yes!" at this, and my heart gave a jump. "Well, then," said my father, "he shall go." That settled the business, except a general shaking of hands, for we were all delighted, little thinking, in our innocence, of the troubles, the perils, and the dangers through which we should have to go. CHAPTER TWO. A FIERY PLACE. No time was lost. The agreements were signed, and Uncle Dick packed up his traps, as he called them, that is to say, his books, clothes, and models and contrivances, so as to go down at once, take possession of the works, and get apartments for us. I should have liked to go with him, but I had to stay for another week, and then, after a hearty farewell, we others started, my father, mother, and sister seeing us off by rail; and until I saw the trees, hedges, and houses seeming to fly by me I could hardly believe that we were really on our way. Of course I felt a little low-spirited at leaving home, and I was a little angry with myself for seeming to be so glad to get away from those who had been so patient and kind, but I soon found myself arguing that it would have been just the same if I had left home only to go to some business place in London. Still I was looking very gloomy when Uncle Jack clapped me on the shoulder, and asked me if I didn't feel like beginning to be a man. "No," I said sadly, as I looked out of the window at the flying landscape, so that he should not see my face. "I feel more as if I was beginning to be a great girl." "Nonsense!" said Uncle Bob; "you're going to be a man now, and help us." "Am I?" said I sadly. "To be sure you are. There, put that gloomy face in your pocket and learn geography." They both chatted to me, and I felt a little better, but anything but cheerful, for it was my first time of leaving home. I looked at the landscape, and the towns and churches we passed, but nothing seemed to interest me till, well on in my journey, I saw a sort of wooden tower close to the line, with a wheel standing half out of the top. There was an engine-house close by--there was no doubt about it, for I could see the puffs of white steam at the top, and a chimney. There was a great mound of black slate and rubbish by the end; but even though the railway had a siding close up to it, and a number of trucks were standing waiting, I did not realise what the place was till Uncle Jack said: "First time you've seen a coal-pit, eh?" "Is that a coal-pit?" I said, looking at the place more eagerly. "Those are the works. Of course you can't see the shaft, because that's only like a big square well." "But I thought it would be a much more interesting place," I said. "Interesting enough down below; but of course there is nothing to see at the top but the engine, cage, and mouth of the shaft." That brightened me up at once. There was something to think about in connection with a coal-mine--the great deep shaft, the cage going up and down, the miners with their safety-lamps and picks. I saw it all in imagination as we dashed by another and another mine. Then I began to think about the accidents of which I had read; when men unfastened their wire-gauze lamps, so that they might do that which was forbidden in a mine, smoke their pipes. The match struck or the opened lamp set fire to the gas, when there was an awful explosion, and after that the terrible dangers of the after-damp, that fearful foul air which no man could breathe for long and live. There were hundreds of thoughts like this to take my attention as we raced on by the fast train till, to my surprise, I found that it was getting dark, and the day had passed. "Here we are close to it," said Uncle Jack; "look, my lad." I gazed out of the window on our right as the train glided on, to see the glare as of a city on fire: the glow of a dull red flickered and danced upon the dense clouds that overhung the place. Tall chimneys stood up like black stakes or posts set up in the reflection of open furnace doors. Here a keen bright light went straight up through the smoke with the edges exactly defined--here it was a sharp glare, there a dull red glow, and everywhere there seemed to be fire and reflection, and red or golden smoke mingled with a dull throbbing booming sound, which, faintly heard at first, grew louder and louder as the train slackened speed, and the pant and pulsation of the engine ceased. "Isn't something dreadful the matter?" I said, as I gazed excitedly from the window. "Matter!" said Uncle Jack laughing. "Yes, isn't the place on fire? Look! Look! There there!" I pointed to a fierce glare that seemed to reach up into the sky, cutting the dense cloud like millions of golden arrows shot from some mighty engine all at once. "Yes, I see, old fellow," said Uncle Jack. "They have just tapped a furnace, and the molten metal is running into the moulds, that's all." "But the whole town looks as if it were in a blaze," I said nervously. "So did our works sometimes, didn't they? Well, here we are in a town where there are hundreds upon hundreds of works ten times as big as ours. Nearly everybody is either forging, or casting, or grinding. The place is full of steam-engines, while the quantity of coal that is burnt here every day must be prodigious. Aha! Here's Uncle Dick." He had caught sight of us before we saw him, and threw open the carriage-door ready to half haul us out, as he shook hands as if we had not met for months. "That's right," he cried. "I _am_ glad you've come. I've a cab waiting. Here, porter, lay hold of this baggage. Well, Cob, what do you think of Arrowfield?" "Looks horrible," I said in the disappointed tones of one who is tired and hungry. "Yes, outside," said Uncle Dick; "but wait till you see the inside." Uncle Dick was soon standing in what he called the inside of Arrowfield--that is to say the inside of the comfortable furnished lodgings he had taken right up a hill, where, over a cosy tea-table with hot country cakes and the juiciest of hot mutton chops, I soon forgot the wearisome nature of our journey, and the dismal look of the town. "Eat away, my boys," cried Uncle Dick. "Yeat, as they call it here. The place is all right; everything ready for work, and we'll set to with stout hearts, and make up for lost time." "When do we begin, uncle--to-morrow?" "No, no: not till next Monday morning. To-morrow we'll have a look over the works, and then we'll idle a bit--have a few runs into the country round, and see what it's like." "Black dismal place," I said dolefully. "Says he's tired out and wants to go to bed," said Uncle Jack, giving his eye a peculiar cock at his brothers. "I didn't," I cried. "Not in words, my fine fellow, but you looked it." "Then I won't look so again," I cried. "I say, don't talk to me as if I were a little boy to be sent to bed." "Well, you're not a man yet, Cob. Is he, boys?" Uncle Dick was in high spirits, and he took up a candle and held it close to my cheek. "What's the matter?" I said. "Is it black? I shouldn't wonder." "Not a bit, Cob," he said seriously. "You can't even see a bit of the finest down growing." "Oh, I say," I cried, "it's too bad! I don't pretend to be a man at sixteen; but now I've come down here to help you in the new works, you oughtn't to treat me as if I were a little boy." "Avast joking!" said Uncle Dick quietly, for the comely landlady came in to clear away the tea-things, and she had just finished when there was a double knock at the front door. We heard it opened, and a deep voice speaking, and directly after the landlady came in with a card. "Mr Tomplin, gentlemen," she said. "He's at the door, and I was to say that if it was inconvenient for you to see him to-night, perhaps you would call at his office when you were down the town." "Oh, ask him in, Mrs Stephenson," cried Uncle Dick; and as she left the room--"it's the solicitor to whom I brought the letter of introduction from the bank." It was a short dark man in black coat and waistcoat and pepper-and-salt trousers who was shown in. He had little sharp eyes that seemed to glitter. So did his hair, which was of light-grey, and stood up all over his head as if it was on white fire. He had not a particle of hair on his face, which looked as if he was a very good customer to the barber. He shook hands very heartily with all of us, nodding pleasantly the while; and when he sat down he took out a brown-and-yellow silk handkerchief and blew his nose like a horn. "Welcome to Yorkshire, gentlemen!" he said. "My old friends at the bank send me a very warm letter of recommendation about you, and I'm at your service. Professional consultations at the usual fee, six and eight or thirteen and four, according to length. Friendly consultations--Thank you, I'm much obliged. This is a friendly consultation. Now what can I do for you?" He looked round at us all, and I felt favourably impressed. So did my uncles, as Uncle Dick answered for all. "Nothing at present, sir. By and by we shall be glad to come to you for legal and friendly advice too." "That's right," said Mr Tomplin. "You've taken the Rivulet Works, I hear." "Yes, down there by the stream." "What are you going to do?--carry on the old forging and grinding?" "Oh, dear, no!" said Uncle Dick. "We are going in for odds and ends, sir. To introduce, I hope, a good many improvements in several branches of the trades carried on here, principally in forging." Mr Tomplin drew in his lips and filled his face with wrinkles. "Going to introduce new inventions, eh?" he said. "Yes, sir, but only one at a time," said Uncle Jack. "And have you brought a regiment of soldiers with you, gentlemen?" "Brought a what?" said Uncle Bob, laughing. "Regiment of soldiers, sir, and a company of artillerymen with a couple of guns." "Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Uncle Dick, showing his white teeth. "Mr Tomplin means to besiege Arrowfield." "No, I don't, my dear sir. I mean to turn your works into a fort to defend yourselves against your enemies." "My dear sir," said Uncle Jack, "we haven't an enemy in the world." "Not at the present moment, sir, I'll be bound," said Mr Tomplin, taking snuff, and then blowing his nose so violently that I wondered he did not have an accident with it and split the sides. "Not at the present moment, gentlemen; but as soon as it is known that you are going to introduce new kinds of machinery, our enlightened townsmen will declare you are going to take the bread out of their mouths and destroy everything you make." "Take the bread out of their mouths, my dear Mr Tomplin!" said Uncle Jack. "Why, what we do will put bread in their mouths by making more work." "Of course it will, my dear sirs." "Then why should they interfere?" "Because of their ignorance, gentlemen. They won't see it. Take my advice: there's plenty to be done by clever business men. Start some steady manufacture to employ hands as the work suggests. Only use present-day machinery if you wish to be at peace." "We do wish to be at peace, Mr Tomplin," said Uncle Bob; "but we do not mean to let a set of ignorant workmen frighten us out of our projects." "Hear, hear!" said Uncle Dick and Uncle Jack; and I put in a small "hear" at the end. "Well, gentlemen, I felt it to be my duty to tell you," said Mr Tomplin, taking more snuff and making more noise. "You will have attacks made upon you to such an extent that you had better be in the bush in Queensland among the blacks." "But not serious attacks?" said Uncle Jack. "Attempts to frighten us?" "Attempts to frighten you! Well, you may call them that," said Mr Tomplin; "but there have been two men nearly beaten to death with sticks, one factory set on fire, and two gunpowder explosions during the past year. Take my advice, gentlemen, and don't put yourself in opposition to the workmen if you are going to settle down here." He rose, shook hands, and went away, leaving us looking at each other across the table. "Cheerful place Arrowfield seems to be," said Uncle Dick. "Promises to be lively," said Uncle Jack. "What do you say, Cob?" cried Uncle Bob. "Shall we give up, be frightened, and run away like dogs with our tails between our legs?" "No!" I cried, thumping the table with my fist. "I wouldn't be frightened out of anything I felt to be right." "Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!" cried my uncles. "At least I don't think I would," I said. "Perhaps I really am a coward after all." "Well," said Uncle Dick, "I don't feel like giving up for such a thing as this. I'd sooner buy pistols and guns and fight. It can't be so bad as the old gentleman says. He's only scaring us. There, it's ten o'clock; you fellows are tired, and we want to breakfast early and go and see the works, so let's get to bed." We were far enough out of the smoke for our bedrooms to be beautifully white and sweet, and I was delighted with mine, as I saw what a snug little place it was. I said "Good-night!" and had shut my door, when, going to my window, I drew aside the blind, and found that I was looking right down upon the town. "Oh!" I ejaculated, and I ran out to the next room, which was Uncle Dick's. "Look!" I cried. "Now you'll believe me. The town is on fire." He drew up the blind, and threw up his window, when we both looked down at what seemed to be the dying out of a tremendous conflagration--dying out, save in one place, where there was a furious rush of light right up into the air, with sparks flying and flickering tongues of flame darting up and sinking down again, while the red and tawny-yellow smoke rolled away. "On fire, Cob!" he said quietly. "Yes, the town's on fire, but in the proper way. Arrowfield is a fiery place--all furnaces. There's nothing the matter, lad." "But there! There!" I cried, "where the sparks are roaring and rushing out with all that flame." "There! Oh! That's nothing, my boy. The town is always like this." "But you don't see where I mean," I cried, still doubting, and pointing down to our right. "Oh, yes! I do, my dear boy. That is where they are making the Bessemer steel." CHAPTER THREE. A BAD BEGINNING. I thought when I lay down, after putting out my candle, that I should never get a wink of sleep. There was a dull glow upon my window-blind, and I could hear a distant clangour and a curious faint roar; but all at once, so it seemed to me, I opened my eyes, and the dull glow had given place to bright sunshine on my window-blind, and jumping out of bed I found that I had slept heartily till nearly breakfast time, for the chinking of cups in saucers fell upon my ear. I looked out of the window, and there lay the town with the smoke hanging over it in a dense cloud, but the banging of a wash-jug against a basin warned me that Uncle Dick was on the move, and the next moment _tap, tap, tap_, came three blows on my wall, which I knew as well as could be were given with the edge of a hair-brush, and I replied in the same way. "Ha, ha!" cried Uncle Bob, "if they are going to give us fried ham like that for breakfast--" "And such eggs!" cried Uncle Jack. "And such bread!" said Uncle Dick, hewing off a great slice. "And such coffee and milk!" I said, taking up the idea that I was sure was coming, "we won't go back to London." "Right!" said Uncle Dick. "Bah! Just as if we were going to be frightened away by a set of old women's tales. They've got police here, and laws." The matter was discussed until breakfast was over, and by that time my three giants of uncles had decided that they would not stir for an army of discontented workmen, but would do their duty to themselves and their partner in London. "But look here, boys," said Uncle Dick; "if we are going to war, we don't want women in the way." "No," said Uncle Jack. "So you had better write and tell Alick to keep on the old place till the company must have it, and by that time we shall know what we are about." This was done directly after breakfast, and as soon as the letter had been despatched we went off to see the works. "I shall never like this place," I said, as we went down towards the town. "London was smoky enough, but this is terrible." "Oh, wait a bit!" said Uncle Dick, and as we strode on with me trying to take long steps to keep up with my companions, I could not help seeing how the people kept staring at them. And though there were plenty of big fine men in the town, I soon saw that my uncles stood out amongst them as being remarkable for their size and frank handsome looks. This was the more plainly to be seen, since the majority of the work-people we passed were pale, thin, and degenerate looking little men, with big muscular arms, and a general appearance of everything else having been sacrificed to make those limbs strong. The farther we went the more unsatisfactory the town looked. We were leaving the great works to the right, and our way lay through streets and streets of dingy-looking houses all alike, and with the open channels in front foul with soapy water and the refuse which the people threw out. I looked up with disgust painted on my face so strongly that Uncle Bob laughed. "Here, let's get this fellow a bower somewhere by a beautiful stream," he cried, laughing. Then more seriously, "Never mind the dirt, Cob," he cried. "Dirty work brings clean money." "Oh, I don't mind," I said. "Which way now?" "Down here," said Uncle Dick; and he led us down a nasty dirty street, worse than any we had yet passed, and so on and on, for about half an hour, till we were once more where wheels whirred, and we could hear the harsh churring noise of blades being held upon rapidly revolving stones. Now and then, too, I caught sight of water on our right, down through lanes where houses and works were crowded together. "Do you notice one thing, Cob?" said Uncle Dick. "One thing!" I said; "there's so much to notice that I don't know what to look at first." "I'll tell you what I mean," he said. "You can hear the rush and rumble of machinery, can't you?" "Yes," I said, "like wheels whizzing and stones rolling, as if giant tinkers were grinding enormous scissors." "Exactly," he said; "but you very seldom hear the hiss of steam out here." "No. Have they a different kind of engines?" "Yes, a very different kind. Your steam-engine goes because the water is made hot: these machines go with the water kept cold." "Oh, I see! By hydraulic presses." "No, not by hydraulic presses, Cob; by hydraulic power. Look here." We were getting quite in the outskirts now, and on rising ground, and, drawing me on one side, he showed me that the works we were by were dependent on water-power alone. "Why, it's like one of those old flour-mills up the country rivers," I exclaimed, "with their mill-dam, and water-wheel." "And without the willows and lilies and silver buttercups, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "And the great jack and chub and tench we used to fish out," said Uncle Bob. "Yes," I said; "I suppose one would catch old saucepans, dead cats, and old shoes in a dirty pool like this." "Yes," said Uncle Dick, "and our wheel-bands when the trades'-union people attack us." "Why should they throw them in here?" I said, as I looked at the great deep-looking piece of water held up by a strong stone-built dam, and fed by a stream at the farther end. "Because it would be the handiest place. These are our works." I looked at the stone-built prison-like place in disgust. It was wonderfully strongly-built, and with small windows protected by iron bars, but such a desolate unornamental spot. It stood low down by the broad shallow stream that ran on toward the town in what must once have been the bed of the river; but the steep banks had been utilised by the builders on each side, and everywhere one saw similar-looking places so arranged that their foundation walls caught and held up the water that came down, and was directed into the dam, and trickled out at the lower end after it had turned a great slimy water-wheel. "This is our place, boys; come and have a look at it." He led us down a narrow passage half-way to the stream, and then rang at a gate in a stone wall; and while we waited low down there I looked at the high rough stone wall and the two-storied factory with its rows of strong iron-barred windows, and thought of what Mr Tomplin had said the night before, coming to the conclusion that it was a pretty strong fortress in its way. For here was a stout high wall; down along by the stream there was a high blank wall right from the stones over which the water trickled to the double row of little windows; while from the top corner by the water-wheel, which was fixed at the far end of the works, there was the dam of deep water, which acted the part of a moat, running off almost to a point where the stream came in, so that the place was about the shape of the annexed triangle: the works occupying the whole of the base, the rest being the deep stone-walled dam. "I think we could keep out the enemy if he came," I said to Uncle Bob; and just then a short-haired, palefaced man, with bent shoulders, bare arms, and an ugly squint, opened the gate and scowled at us. "Is your master in?" said Uncle Dick. "No-ah," said the man sourly; "and he wean't be here to-day." "That's a bad job," said Uncle Dick. "Well, never mind; we want to go round the works." "Nay, yow wean't come in here." He was in the act of banging the gate, but Uncle Dick placed one of his great brown hands against it and thrust it open, driving the man back, but only for a moment, for he flew at my uncle, caught him by the arm and waist, thrust forward a leg, and tried to throw him out by a clever wrestling trick. But Uncle Dick was too quick for him. Wrenching himself on one side he threw his left arm over the fellow's neck, as he bent down, the right arm under his leg, and whirled him up perfectly helpless, but kicking with all his might. "Come inside and shut that gate," said Uncle Dick, panting with his exertion. "Now look here, my fine fellow, it would serve you right if I dropped you into that dam to cool you down. But there, get on your legs," he cried contemptuously, "and learn to be civil to strangers when they come." The scuffle and noise brought about a dozen workmen out of the place, each in wooden clogs, with a rough wet apron about him, and his sleeves rolled up nearly to the shoulder. They came forward, looking very fierce and as if they were going to attack us, headed by the fellow with the squint, who was no sooner at liberty than he snatched up a rough piece of iron bar and rolled up his right sleeve ready for a fresh attack. "Give me that stick, Cob," said Uncle Dick quickly; and I handed him the light Malacca cane I carried. He had just seized it when the man raised the iron bar, and I felt sick as I saw the blow that was aimed at my uncle's head. I need not have felt troubled though, for, big as he was, he jumped aside, avoided the bar with the greatest ease, and almost at the same moment there was a whizz and a cut like lightning delivered by Uncle Dick with my light cane. It struck the assailant on the tendons of the leg beneath the knee, and he uttered a yell and went down as if killed. "Coom on, lads!" cried one of the others; and they rushed towards us, headed by a heavy thick-set fellow; but no one flinched, and they hesitated as they came close up. "Take that fellow away," said Uncle Jack sternly; "and look here, while you stay, if any gentleman comes to the gate don't send a surly dog like that." "Who are yow? What d'ye want? Happen yow'll get some'at if yo' stay." "I want to go round the place. I am one of the proprietors who have taken it." "Eh, you be--be you? Here, lads, this is one o' chaps as is turning us out. We've got the wheels ti' Saturday, and we wean't hev no one here." "No, no," rose in chorus. "Open gate, lads, and hev 'em out." "Keep back!" said Uncle Dick, stepping forward; "keep back, unless you want to be hurt. No one is going to interfere with your rights, which end on Saturday night." "Eh! But if it hedn't been for yow we could ha kep' on." "Well, you'll have to get some other place," said Uncle Dick; "we want this." He turned his back on them and spoke to his brothers, who both, knowing their great strength, which they cultivated by muscular exercise, had stood quite calm and patient, but watchful, and ready to go to their brother's aid in an instant should he need assistance. "Come on and look round," said Uncle Dick coolly; and he did not even glance at the squinting man, who had tried to get up, but sank down again and sat grinning with pain and holding his injured leg. The calm indifference with which my three uncles towered above the undersized, pallid-looking fellows, and walked by them to the entrance to the stone building had more effect than a score of blows, and the men stopped clustered round their companion, and talked to him in a low voice. But I was not six feet two like Uncle Bob, nor six feet one like Uncle Jack, nor six feet three like Uncle Dick. I was only an ordinary lad of sixteen, and much easier prey for their hate, and this they saw and showed. For as I followed last, and was about to enter the door, a shower of stones and pieces of iron came whizzing about me, and falling with a rattle and clangour upon the cobble stones with which the place was paved. Unfortunately, one piece, stone or iron, struck me on the shoulder, a heavy blow that made me feel sick, and I needed all the fortitude I could call up to hide my pain, for I was afraid to say or do anything that would cause fresh trouble. So I followed my uncles into the spacious ground-floor of the works, all wet and dripping with the water from the grindstones which had just been left by the men, and were still whizzing round waiting to be used. "Plenty of room here," said Uncle Dick, "and plenty of power, you see," he continued, pointing to the shaft and wheels above our heads. "Ugly-looking place this," he went on, pointing to a trap-door at the end, which he lifted; and I looked down with a shudder to see a great shaft turning slowly round; and there was a slimy set of rotten wooden steps going right down into the blackness, where the water was falling with a curiously hollow echoing sound. As I turned from looking down I saw that the men had followed us, and the fellow with the squint seemed to have one of his unpleasant eyes fixed upon me, and he gave me a peculiar look and grin that I had good reason to remember. "This is the way to the big wheel," said Uncle Dick, throwing open a door at the end. "They go out here to oil and repair it when it's out of gear. Nasty spot too, but there's a wonderful supply of cheap power." With the men growling and muttering behind us we looked through into a great half-lit stone chamber that inclosed the great wheel on one side, leaving a portion visible as we had seen it from the outside; and here again I shuddered and felt uncomfortable, it seemed such a horrible place to fall into and from which there would be no escape, unless one could swim in the surging water below, and then clamber into the wheel, and climb through it like a squirrel. The walls were dripping and green, and they echoed and seemed to whisper back to the great wheel as it turned and splashed and swung down its long arms, each doubling itself on the wall by making a moving shadow. The place had such a fascination for me that I stood with one hand upon the door and a foot inside looking down at the faintly seen black water, listening to the echoes, and then watching the wheel as it turned, one pale spot on the rim catching my eye especially. As I watched it I saw it go down into the darkness with a tremendous sweep, with a great deal of splashing and falling of water; then after being out of sight for a few moments it came into view again, was whirled round, and dashed down. I don't know how it was, but I felt myself thinking that suppose anyone fell into the horrible pit below me, he would swim round by the slimy walls trying to find a place to cling to, and finding none he would be swept round to the wheel, to which in his despair he would cling. Then he would be dragged out of the water, swung round, and-- "Do you hear, Cob?" cried Uncle Jack. "What is there to attract you, my lad? Come along." I seemed to be roused out of a dream, and starting back, the door was closed, and I followed the others as they went to the far end of the great ground-floor to a door opening upon a stone staircase. We had to pass the men, who were standing about close to their grindstones, beside which were little piles of the articles they were grinding--common knives, sickles, and scythe blades, ugly weapons if the men rose against us as they seemed disposed to do. They muttered and talked to themselves, but they did not seem inclined to make any farther attack; while as we reached the stairs I heard the harsh shrieking of blades that were being held upon the stones, and I knew that some men must have begun work. The upper floor was of the same size as the lower, but divided into four rooms by partitions, and here too were shafts and wheels turning from their connection with the great water-wheel. Over that a small room had been built supported by an arch stretching from the works to a stone wall, and as we looked out of the narrow iron-barred window down upon the deep dam, Uncle Bob said laughingly: "What a place for you, Cob! You could drop a line out of the window, and catch fish like fun." I laughed, and we all had a good look round before examining the side buildings, where there were forges and furnaces, and a tall chimney-shaft ran up quite a hundred feet. "Plenty of room to do any amount of work," cried Uncle Jack. "I think the place a bargain." "Yes," said Uncle Bob, "where we can carry out our inventions; and if anybody is disagreeable, we can shut ourselves up like knights in a castle and laugh at all attacks." "Yes," said Uncle Dick thoughtfully; "but I wish we had not begun by quarrelling with those men." "Let's try and make friends as we go out," said Uncle Jack. It was a good proposal; and, under the impression that a gallon or two of beer would heal the sore place, we went into the big workshop or mill, where all the men had now resumed their tasks, and were grinding away as if to make up for lost time. One man was seated alone on a stone bench, and as we entered he half turned, and I saw that it was Uncle Dick's opponent. He looked at us for a moment and then turned scowling away. My uncles whispered together, and then Uncle Dick stepped forward and said: "I'm sorry we had this little upset, my lads. It all arose out of a mistake. We have taken these works, and of course wanted to look round them, but we do not wish to put you to any inconvenience. Will you--" He stopped short, for as soon as he began to speak the men seemed to press down their blades that they were grinding harder and harder, making them send forth such a deafening churring screech that he paused quite in despair of making himself heard. "My lads!" he said, trying again. Not a man turned his head, and it was plain enough that they would not hear. "Let me speak to him," said Uncle Bob, catching his brother by the arm, for Uncle Dick was going to address the man on the stone. Uncle Dick nodded, for he felt that it would be better for someone else to speak; but the man got up, scowled at Uncle Bob, and when he held out a couple of half-crowns to him to buy beer to drink our healths the fellow made a derisive gesture, walked to his stone, and sat down. "Just as they like," said Uncle Dick. "We apologised and behaved like gentlemen. If they choose to behave like blackguards, let them. Come along." We turned to the door, my fate, as usual, being to come last; and as we passed through not a head was turned, every man pressing down some steel implement upon his whirling stone, and making it shriek, and, in spite of the water in which the wheel revolved, send forth a shower of sparks. The noise was deafening, but as we passed into the yard on the way to the lane the grinding suddenly ceased, and when we had the gate well open the men had gathered at the door of the works, and gave vent to a savage hooting and yelling which continued after we had passed through, and as we went along by the side of the dam we were saluted by a shower of stones and pieces of iron thrown from the yard. "Well," said Uncle Bob, "this is learning something with a vengeance. I didn't think we had such savages in Christian England." By this time we were out of the reach of the men, and going on towards the top of the dam, when Uncle Dick, who had been looking very serious and thoughtful, said: "I'm sorry, very sorry this has happened. It has set these men against us." "No," said Uncle Jack quietly; "the mischief was done before we came. This place has been to let for a long time." "Yes," said Uncle Bob, "that's why we got it so cheaply." "And," continued Uncle Jack, "these fellows have had the run of the works to do their grinding for almost nothing. They were wild with us for taking the place and turning them out." "Yes," said Uncle Dick, "that's the case, no doubt; but I'm very sorry I began by hurting that fellow all the same." "I'm not, Uncle Dick," I said, as I compressed my lips with pain. "They are great cowards or they would not have thrown a piece of iron at me;" and I laid my hand upon my shoulder, to draw it back wet with blood. CHAPTER FOUR. OUR ENGINE. "Bravo, Spartan!" cried Uncle Bob, as he stood looking on, when, after walking some distance, Uncle Dick insisted upon my taking off my jacket in a lane and having the place bathed. "Oh, it's nothing," I said, "only it was tiresome for it to bleed." "Nothing like being prepared for emergencies," said Uncle Jack, taking out his pocket-book, and from one of the pockets a piece of sticking-plaster and a pair of scissors. "I'm always cutting or pinching my fingers. Wonder whether we could have stuck Cob's head on again if it had been cut off?" I opined not as I submitted to the rough surgery that went on, and then refusing absolutely to be treated as a sick person, and go back, I tramped on by them, mile after mile, to see something of the fine open country out to the west of the town before we settled down to work. We were astonished, for as we got away from the smoky pit in which Arrowfield lay, we found, in following the bank of the rivulet that supplied our works, that the country was lovely and romantic too. Hill, dale, and ravine were all about us, rippling stream, hanging wood, grove and garden, with a thousand pretty views in every direction, as we climbed on to the higher ground, till at last cultivation seemed to have been left behind, and we were where the hills towered up with ragged stony tops, and their slopes all purple heather, heath, and moss. "Look, look!" I cried, as I saw a covey of birds skim by; "partridges!" "No," said Uncle Bob, watching where they dropped; "not partridges, my lad--grouse." "What, here!" I said; "and so near the town." "Near! Why we are seven or eight miles away." "But I thought grouse were Scotch birds." "They are birds of the moors," said Uncle Bob; "and here you have them stretching for miles all over the hills. This is about as wild a bit of country as you could see. Why, the country people here call those hills mountains." "But are they mountains?" I said; "they don't look very high." "Higher than you think, my lad, with precipice and ravine. Why, look-- you can see the top of that one is among the clouds." "I should have thought it was a mist resting upon it." "Well, what is the difference?" said Uncle Bob, smiling. Just then we reached a spot where a stream crossed the road, and the sight of the rippling water, clear as crystal, took our attention from the hills and vales that spread around. My first idea was to run down to the edge of the stream, which was so dotted with great stones that I was soon quite in the middle, looking after the shadowy shapes that I had seen dart away. My uncles followed me, and we forgot all about the work and troubles with the rough grinders, as we searched for the trout and crept up to where we could see some good-sized, broad-tailed fellow sunning himself till he caught sight of the intruders, and darted away like a flash of light. But Uncle Dick put a stop to our idling there, leading us back to the road and insisting upon our continuing along it for another mile. "I want to show you our engine," he said. "Our engine out here!" I cried. "It's some trick." "You wait and see," he replied. We went on through the beautiful breezy country for some distance farther, till on one side we were looking down into a valley and on the other side into a lake, and I soon found that the lake had been formed just as we schoolboys used to make a dam across a ditch or stream when we were going to bale it out and get the fish. "Why," I cried, as we walked out on to the great embankment, "this has all been made." "To be sure," said Uncle Dick. "Just the same as our little dam is at the works. That was formed by building a strong stone wall across a hollow streamlet; this was made by raising this great embankment right across the valley here and stopping the stream that ran through it. That's the way some of the lakes have been made in Switzerland." "What, by men?" "No, by nature. A great landslip takes place from the mountains, rushes down, and fills up a valley, and the water is stopped from running away." We walked right out along what seemed like a vast railway embankment, on one side sloping right away down into the valley, where the remains of the stream that had been cut off trickled on towards Arrowfield. On the other side the slope went down into the lake of water, which stretched away toward the moorlands for quite a mile. "This needs to be tremendously strong," said Uncle Jack thoughtfully, as we walked on till we were right in the middle and first stood looking down the valley, winding in and out, with its scattered houses, farms, and mills, and then turned to look upward towards the moorland and along the dammed-up lake. "Why, this embankment must be a quarter of a mile long," said Uncle Jack thoughtfully. "What a pond for fishing!" I cried, as I imagined it to be peopled by large jack and shoals of smaller fish. "How deep is it, I wonder?" Did you ever know a boy yet who did not want to know how deep a piece of water was, when he saw it? "Deep!" said Uncle Dick; "that's easily seen. Deep as it is from here to the bottom of the valley on the other side: eighty or ninety feet. I should say this embankment is over a hundred in perpendicular height." "Look here," said Uncle Jack suddenly; "if I know anything about engineering, this great dam is not safe." "Not safe!" I said nervously. "Let's get off it at once." "I daresay it will hold to-day," said Uncle Dick dryly, "but you can run off if you like, Cob." "Are you coming?" "Not just at present," he said, smiling grimly. I put my hands in my pockets and stood looking at the great embankment, which formed a level road or path of about twelve feet wide where we stood, and then sloped down, as I have said, like a railway embankment far down into the valley on our left, and to the water on our right. "I don't care," said Uncle Jack, knitting his brows as he scanned the place well, "I say it is not safe. Here is about a quarter of a mile of earthen wall that has no natural strength for holding together like a wall of bonded stone or brick." "But look at its weight," said Uncle Bob. "Yes, that is its only strength--its weight; but look at the weight of the water, about a mile of water seventy or eighty feet deep just here. Perhaps only sixty. The pressure of this water against it must be tremendous." "Of course," said Uncle Dick thoughtfully; "but you forget the shape of the wall, Jack. It is like an elongated pyramid: broad at the base and coming up nearly to a point." "No," said Uncle Jack, "I've not forgotten all that. Of course it is all the stronger for it, the wider the base is made. But I'm not satisfied, and if I had made this dam I should have made this wall twice as thick or three times as thick; and I don't know that I should have felt satisfied with its stability then." "Well done, old conscientious!" cried Uncle Bob, laughing. "Let's get on." "Stop a moment," I cried. "Uncle Dick said he would show us our engine." "Well, there it is," said Uncle Dick, pointing to the dammed-up lake. "Isn't it powerful enough for you. This reservoir was made by a water company to supply all our little dams, and keep all our mills going. It gathers the water off the moorlands, saves it up, and lets us have it in a regular supply. What would be the consequences of a burst, Jack?" he said, turning to his brother. "Don't talk about it man," said Uncle Jack frowning. "Why, this body of water broken loose would sweep down that valley and scour everything away with it--houses, mills, rocks, all would go like corks." "Why, it would carry away our works, then," I cried. "The place is right down by the water side." "I hope not," said Uncle Jack. "No I should say the force would be exhausted before it got so far as that, eight or nine miles away." "Well, it does look dangerous," said Uncle Bob. "The weight must be tremendous. How would it go if it did burst?" "I say, uncle, I'm only a coward, please. Hadn't we better go off here?" They all laughed, and we went on across the dam. "How would it go!" said Uncle Jack thoughtfully. "It is impossible to say. Probably the water would eat a little hole through the top somewhere and that would rapidly grow bigger, the water pouring through in a stream, and cutting its way down till the solidity of the wall being destroyed by the continuity being broken great masses would crumble away all at once, and the pent-up waters would rush through." "And if they came down and washed away our works just as we were making our fortunes, you would say I was to blame for taking such a dangerous place." "There, come along," cried Uncle Bob, "don't let's meet troubles half-way. I want a ramble over those hills. There, Cob, now we're safe," he said, as we left the great dam behind. "Now, then, who's for some lunch, eh?" This last question was suggested by the sight of a snug little village inn, where we had a hearty meal and a rest, and then tramped off to meet with an unexpected adventure among the hills. As soon as one gets into a hilly country the feeling that comes over one is that he ought to get up higher, and I had that sensation strongly. But what a glorious walk it was! We left the road as soon as we could and struck right away as the crow flies for one of several tremendous hills that we saw in the distance. Under our feet was the purple heath with great patches of whortleberry, that tiny shrub that bears the little purply grey fruit. Then there was short elastic wiry grass and orange-yellow bird's-foot trefoil. Anon we came to great patches of furze of a dwarf kind with small prickles, and of an elegant growth, the purple and yellow making the place look like some vast wild garden. "We always seem to be climbing up," said Uncle Dick. "When we are not sliding down," said Uncle Jack, laughing. "I've been looking for a bit of level ground for a race," said Uncle Bob. "My word! What a wild place it is!" "But how beautiful!" I cried, as we sat down on some rough blocks of stone, with the pure thyme-scented air blowing on our cheeks, larks singing above our heads, and all around the hum of insects or bees hurrying from blossom to blossom; while we saw the grasshoppers slowly climbing up to the top of some strand of grass, take a look round, and then set their spring legs in motion and take a good leap. "What a difference in the hills!" said Uncle Jack, looking thoughtfully from some that were smooth of outline to others that were all rugged and looked as if great jagged masses of stone had been piled upon their tops. "Yes," said Uncle Dick. "Two formations. Mountain limestone yonder; this we are on, with all these rough pieces on the surface and sticking out everywhere, is millstone-grit." "Which is millstone-grit?" I cried. "This," he said, taking out a little hammer and chipping one of the stones by us to show me that it was a sandstone full of hard fragments of silica. "You might open a quarry anywhere here and cut millstones, but of course some of the stone is better for the purpose than others." "Yes," said Uncle Jack thoughtfully. "Arrowfield is famously situated for its purpose--plenty of coal for forging, plenty of water to work mills, plenty of quarries to get millstones for grinding." "Come along," cried Uncle Bob, starting up; and before we had gone far the grouse flew, skimming away before us, and soon after we came to a lovely mountain stream that sparkled and danced as it dashed down in hundreds of little cataracts and falls. Leaving this, though the sight of the little trout darting about was temptation enough to make me stay, we tramped on over the rugged ground, in and out among stones or piled-up rocks, now skirting or leaping boggy places dotted with cotton-rush, where the bog-roots were here green and soft, there of a delicate pinky white, where the water had been dried away. To a London boy, accustomed to country runs among inclosed fields and hedges, or at times into a park or upon a common, this vast stretch of hilly, wild uncultivated land was glorious, and I was ready to see any wonder without surprise. It seemed to me, as we tramped on examining the bits of stone, the herbs and flowers, that at any moment we might come upon the lair of some wild beast; and so we did over and over again, but it was not the den of wolf or bear, but of a rabbit burrowed into the sandy side of some great bank. Farther on we started a hare, which went off in its curious hopping fashion to be out of sight in a few moments. Almost directly after, as we were clambering over a steep slope, Uncle Bob stopped short, and stood there sniffing. "What is it?" I cried. "Fox," he said, looking round. "Nonsense!" cried Uncle Dick. "You wouldn't find, eh? What a nasty, dank, sour odour!" cried Uncle Jack, in his quiet, thoughtful way. "A fox has gone by here during the last few minutes, I'm sure," cried Uncle Bob, looking round searchingly. "I'll be bound to say he is up among those tufts of ling and has just taken refuge there. Spread out and hunt." The tufts he pointed to were right on a ridge of the hill we were climbing, and separating we hurried up there just in time to see a little reddish animal, with long, drooping, bushy tail, run in amongst the heath fifty yards down the slope away to our left. "That's the consequence of having a good nose," said Uncle Bob triumphantly; and now, as we were on a high eminence, we took a good look round so as to make our plans. "Hadn't we better turn back now?" said Uncle Jack. "We shall have several hours' walk before we get to Arrowfield, and shall have done as much as Cob can manage." "Oh, I'm not a bit tired!" I cried. "Well," said Uncle Dick, "I think we had better go forward. I'm not very learned over the topography of the district, but if I'm not much mistaken that round hill or mountain before us is Dome Tor." "Well?" said Uncle Jack. "Well, I propose that we make straight for it, go over it, and then ask our way to the nearest town or village where there is a railway-station, and ride back." "Capital!" I cried. "Whom will you ask to direct us?" said Uncle Jack dryly. "Ah! To be sure," said Uncle Bob. "I've seen nothing but a sheep or two for hours, and they look so horribly stupid I don't think it is of any use to ask them." "Oh! We must meet some one if we keep on," said Uncle Dick. "What do you say? Seems a pity not to climb that hill now we are so near." "Yes, as we are out for a holiday," said Uncle Bob. "After to-day we must put our necks in the collar and work. I vote for Dick." "So do I," said Uncle Jack. "Come along then, boys," cried Uncle Dick; and now we set ourselves steadily to get over the ground, taking as straight a line as we could, but having to deviate a good deal on account of streams and bogs and rough patches of stone. But it was a glorious walk, during which there was always something to examine; and at last we felt that we were steadily going up the great rounded mass known as Dome Tor. We had not been plodding far before I found that it was entirely different to the hills we had climbed that day, for, in place of great masses of rugged, weatherworn rock, the stone we found here and there was slaty and splintery, the narrow tracks up which we walked being full of slippery fragments, making it tiresome travelling. These tracks were evidently made by the sheep, of which we saw a few here and there, but no shepherd, no houses, nothing to break the utter solitude of the scene, and as we paused for a rest about half-way up Uncle Dick looked round at the glorious prospect, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. "Ah!" he said, "this is beautiful nature. Over yonder, at Arrowfield, we shall have nature to deal with that is not beautiful. But come, boys, I want a big meat tea, and we've miles to go yet before we can get it." We all jumped up and tramped on, with a curious sensation coming into my legs, as if the joints wanted oiling. But I said nothing, only trudged away, on and on, till at last we reached the rounded top, hot, out of breath, and glad to inhale the fresh breeze that was blowing. The view was splendid, but the sun had set, and there were clouds beginning to gather, while, on looking round, though we could see a house here and a house there in the distance, it did not seem very clear to either of us which way we were to go. "We are clever ones," said Uncle Dick, "starting out on a trip like this without a pocket guide and a map: never mind, our way must be west, and sooner or later we shall come to a road, and then to a village." "But we shall never be able to reach a railway-station to-night," said Uncle Bob. "Not unless we try," said Uncle Jack in his dry way. "Then let's try," said Uncle Dick, "and--well, that is strange." As we reached the top the wind had been blowing sharply in our faces, but this had ceased while we had been lying about admiring the prospect, and in place a few soft moist puffs had come from quite another quarter; and as we looked there seemed to be a cloud of white smoke starting up out of a valley below us. As we watched it we suddenly became aware of another rolling along the short rough turf and over the shaley paths. Then a patch seemed to form here, another there, and these patches appeared to be stretching out their hands to each other all round the mountain till they formed a grey bank of mist, over the top of which we could see the distant country. "We must be moving," said Uncle Dick, "or we shall be lost in the fog. North-west must be our way, but let's push down here where the slope's easy, and get beyond the mist, and then we can see what we had better do." He led the way, and before we could realise it the dense white steamy fog was all around us, and we could hardly see each other. "All right!" said Uncle Dick; "keep together." "Can you see where you are going, Dick?" said Uncle Jack. "No, I'm as if I was blindfolded with a white crape handkerchief." "No precipices here, are there?" I cried nervously, for it seemed so strange to be walking through this dense mist. "No, I hope not," cried Uncle Dick out of the mist ahead. "You keep talking, and follow me, I'll answer you, or else we shall be separated, and that won't do now. All right!" "All right!" we chorused back. "All right!" cried Uncle Dick; "nice easy slope here, but slippery." "All right!" we chorused. "All ri--Take--" We stopped short in horror wondering what had happened, for Uncle Dick's words seemed cut in two, there was a rustling scrambling sound, and then all was white fog and silence, broken only by our panting breath. "Dick! Where are you?" cried Uncle Jack taking a step forward. "Mind!" cried Uncle Bob, catching him by the arm. It was well he did, for that was the rustling scrambling noise again falling on my ears, with a panting struggle, and two voices in the dense fog seeming to utter ejaculations of horror and dread. CHAPTER FIVE. A NIGHT OF ANXIETY. I looked in the direction from which the sounds came, but there was nothing visible, save the thick white fog, and in my excitement and horror, thinking I was looking in the wrong direction, I turned sharply round. White fog. I looked in another direction. White fog. Then I seemed to lose my head altogether, and hurried here and there with my hands extended, completely astray. It only took moments, swift moments, for all this to take place, and then I heard voices that I knew, but sounding muffled and as if a long way off. "Cob! Where are you, Cob?" "Here," I shouted. "I'll try and come." "No, no!"--it was Uncle Jack who spoke--"don't stir for your life." "But," I shouted, with my voice sounding as if I was covered with a blanket, "I want to come to you." "Stop where you are," he cried. "I command you." I stayed where I was, and the next moment a fresh voice cried to me, as if pitying my condition: "Cob, lad." "Yes," I cried. "There is a horrible precipice. Don't stir." It was Uncle Bob who said this to comfort me, and make me safe from running risks, but he made me turn all of a cold perspiration, and I stood there shivering, listening to the murmur of voices that came to me in a stifled way. At last I could bear it no longer. It seemed so strange. Only a minute or two ago we were all together on the top of a great hill admiring the prospect. Now we were separated. Then all seemed open and clear, and we were looking away for miles: now I seemed shut-in by this pale white gloom that stopped my sight, and almost my hearing, while it numbed and confused my faculties in a way that I could not have felt possible. "Uncle Jack!" I cried, as a sudden recollection came back of a cry I had heard. "He is not here," cried Uncle Bob. "He is trying to find a way down." "Where is Uncle Dick?" "Hush, boy! Don't ask." "But, uncle, I may come to you, may I not?" I cried, trembling with the dread of what had happened, for in spite of my confused state I realised now that Uncle Dick must have fallen. "My boy," he shouted back, "I daren't say yes. The place ends here in a terrible way. We two nearly went over, and I dare not stir, for I cannot see a yard from my feet. I am on a very steep slope too." "But where has Uncle Jack gone then?" "Ahoy!" came from somewhere behind me, and apparently below. "Ahoy! Uncle Jack," I yelled. "Ahoy, boy! I want to come to you. Keep shouting _here_--_here_--_here_." I did as he bade me, and he kept answering me, and for a minute or two he seemed to be coming nearer. Then his voice sounded more distant, and more distant still; then ceased. "Cob, I can't hear him," came from near me out of the dense gloom. "Can you?" "No!" I said with a shiver. "Ahoy, Jack!" roared Uncle Bob. "Ahoy-oy!" came from a distance in a curiously stifled way. "Give it up till the fog clears off. Stand still." There was no reply, and once more the terrible silence seemed to cling round me. The gloom increased, and I sank on my knees, not daring to stand now, but listening, if I may say so, with all my might. What had happened? What was going to happen? Were we to stay there all night in the darkness, shivering with cold and damp? Only a little while ago I had been tired and hot; now I did not feel the fatigue, but was shivering with cold, and my hands and face were wet. I wanted to call out to Uncle Bob again, but the sensation came over me--the strange, wild fancy that something had happened to him, and I dared not speak for fear of finding that it was true. All at once as I knelt there, listening intently for the slightest sound, I fancied I heard some one breathing. Then the sound stopped. Then it came nearer, and the dense mist parted, and a figure was upon me, crawling close by me without seeing me; and crying "Uncle Bob!" I started forward and caught at him as I thought. My hands seized moist wool for a moment, and then it was jerked out of my hands, as, with a frightened _Baa_! Its wearer bounded away. "What's that?" came from my left and below me, in the same old suffocated tone. "A sheep," I cried, trembling with the start the creature had given me. "Did you see which way it went?" "Yes--beyond me." "Then it must be safe your way, Cob. I'll try and crawl to you, lad, but I'm so unnerved I can hardly make up my mind to stir." "Let me come to you," I cried. "No, no! I'll try and get to you. Where are you?" "Here," I cried. "All right!" came back in answer; but matters did not seem all right, for Uncle Bob's voice suddenly seemed to grow more distant, and when I shouted to him my cry came back as if I had put my face against a wall and spoken within an inch or two thereof. "I think we'd better give it up, Cob," he shouted now from somewhere quite different. "It is not safe to stir." I did not think so, and determined to make an attempt to get to him. For, now that I had grown a little used to the fog, it did not seem so appalling, though it had grown thicker and darker till I seemed quite shut-in. "I'll stop where I am, Cob," came now as if from above me; "and I daresay in a short time the wind will rise." I answered, but I felt as if I could not keep still. I had been scared by the sudden separation from my companions, but the startled feeling having passed away I did not realise the extent of our danger. In fact it seemed absurd for three strong men and a lad like me to be upset in this way by a mist. Uncle Dick had had a fall, but I would not believe it had been serious. Perhaps he had only slipped down some long slope. I crouched there in the darkness, straining my eyes to try and pierce the mist, and at last, unable to restrain my impatience, I began to crawl slowly on hands and knees in the direction whence my uncle's voice seemed to come. I crept a yard at a time very carefully, feeling round with my hands before I ventured to move, and satisfying myself that the ground was solid all around. It seemed so easy, and it was so impossible that I could come to any harm this way, that I grew more confident, and passing my hand over the rough shale chips that were spread around amongst the short grass, I began to wonder how my uncles could have been so timid, and not have made a brave effort to escape from our difficulty. I kept on, growing more and more confident each moment in spite of the thick darkness that surrounded me, for it seemed so much easier than crouching there doing nothing for myself. But I went very cautiously, for I found I was on a steep slope, and that very little would have been required to send me sliding down. Creep, creep, creep, a yard in two or three minutes, but still I was progressing somewhere, and even at this rate I thought that I could join either of my companions when I chose. I had made up my mind to go a few yards further and then speak, feeling sure that I should be close to Uncle Bob, and that then we could go on together and find Uncle Jack. I had just come to this conclusion, and was thrusting out my right hand again, when, as I tried to set it down, there was nothing there. I drew it in sharply and set it down close to the other as I knelt, and then passed it slowly from me over the loose scraps of slaty stone to find it touch the edge of a bank that seemed to have been cut off perpendicularly, and on passing my hand over, it touched first soft turf and earth and then scrappy loose fragments of shale. This did not startle me, for it appeared to be only a little depression in the ground, but thrusting out one foot I found that go over too, so that I knew I must be parallel with the edge of the trench or crack in the earth. I picked up a piece of shale and threw it from me, listening for its fall, but no sound came, so I sat down with one leg over the depression and kicked with my heel to loosen a bit of the soil. I was a couple of feet back, and as I kicked I felt the ground I sat upon quiver; then there was a loud rushing sound, and I threw myself down clinging with my hands, for a great piece of the edge right up to where I sat had given way and gone down, leaving me with my legs hanging over the edge, and but for my sudden effort I should have fallen. "What was that?" cried a voice some distance above me. "It is I, Uncle Bob," I panted. "Come and help me." I heard a fierce drawing in of the breath, and then a low crawling sound, and little bits of stone seemed to be moved close by me. "Where are you, boy?" came again. "Here." "Can you crawl to me? I'm close by your head." "No," I gasped. "If I move I'm afraid I shall fall." There was the same fierce drawing in of the breath, the crawling sound again, and a hand touched my face, passed round it, and took a tight hold of my collar. "Lie quite still, Cob," was whispered; "I'm going to draw you up. Now!" I felt myself dragged up suddenly, and at the same moment the earth and stones upon which I had been lying dropped from under me with a loud hissing rushing sound, and then I was lying quite still, clinging to Uncle Bob's hand, which was very wet and cold. "How did you come there?" he said at length. "Crawled there, trying to get to you," I said. "And nearly went down that fearful precipice, you foolish fellow. But there: you are safe." "I did not know it was so dangerous," I faltered. "Dangerous!" he cried. "It is awful in this horrible darkness. The mountain seems to have been cut in half somewhere about here, and this fog confuses so that it is impossible to stir. We must wait till it blows off I think we are safe now, but I dare not try to find a better place. Dare you?" "Not after what I have just escaped from," I said dolefully. "Are you cold?" "Ye-es," I said with a shiver. "It is so damp." "Creep close to me, then," he said. "We shall keep each other warm." We sat like that for hours, and still the fog kept as dense as ever, only that overhead there was a faint light, which grew stronger and then died out over and over again. The stillness was awful, but I had a companion, and that made my position less painful. He would not talk, though as a rule he was very bright and chatty; now he would only say, "Wait and see;" and we waited. The change came, after those long terrible hours of anxiety, like magic. One moment it was thick darkness; the next I felt, as it were, a feather brush across my cheek. "Did you feel that?" I said quickly. "Feel what, Cob?" "Something breathing against us?" "No--yes!" he cried joyfully. "It was the wind." The same touch came again, but stronger. There was light above our heads. I could dimly see my companion, and then a cloud that looked white and strange in the moonlight was gliding slowly away from us over what seemed to be a vast black chasm whose edge was only a few yards away. It was wonderful how quickly that mist departed and went skimming away into the distance, as if a great curtain were being drawn, leaving the sky sparkling with stars and the moon shining bright and clear. "You see now the danger from which you escaped?" said Uncle Bob with a shudder. "Yes," I said; "but did--do you think--" He looked at me without answering, and just then there came from behind us a loud "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" shouted back Uncle Bob; and as we turned in the direction of the cry we could see Uncle Jack waving his white handkerchief to us, and we were soon after by his side. They gripped hands without a word as they met, and then after a short silence Uncle Jack said: "We had better get on and descend on the other, side." "But Uncle Dick!" I cried impetuously; "are you not going to search for Uncle Dick?" The brothers turned upon me quite fiercely, but neither of them spoke; and for the next hour we went stumbling on down the steep slope of the great hill, trying to keep to the sheep-tracks, which showed pretty plainly in the moonlight, but every now and then we went astray. My uncles were wonderfully quiet, but they kept steadily on; and I did not like to break their communings, and so trudged behind them, noting that they kept as near as seemed practicable to the place where the mountain ended in a precipice; and now after some walking I could look back and see that the moon was shining full upon the face of the hill, which looked grey and as if one end had been dug right away. On we went silently and with a settled determined aim, about which no one spoke, but perhaps thought all the more. I know that I thought so much about the end of our quest that I kept shuddering as I trudged on, with sore feet, feeling that in a short time we should be turning sharp round to our left so as to get to the foot of the great precipice, where the hill had been gnawed away by time, and where the loose earth still kept shivering down. It was as I expected; we turned sharp off to the left and were soon walking with our faces towards the grey-looking face, that at first looked high, but, as we went on, towered up more and more till the height seemed terrific. It was a weary heart-rending walk before we reached the hill-like slope where the loose shaley rock and earth was ever falling to add to the _debris_ up which we climbed. "There's no telling exactly where he must have come over," said Uncle Jack, after we had searched about some time, expecting moment by moment to come upon the insensible form of our companion. "We must spread out more." For we neither of us would own to the possibility of Uncle Dick being killed. For my part I imagined that he would have a broken leg, perhaps, or a sprained ankle. If he had fallen head-first he might have put out his shoulder or broken his collar-bone. I would not imagine anything worse. The moon was not so clear now, for fleecy clouds began to sail across it and made the search more difficult, as we clambered on over the shale, which in the steepest parts gave way under our feet. But I determinedly climbed on, sure that if I got very high up I should be able to look down and see where Uncle Dick was lying. To this end I toiled higher and higher, till I could fairly consider that I was touching the face of the mountain where the slope of _debris_ began; and I now found that the precipice sloped too, being anything but perpendicular. "Can you see him, Cob?" cried Uncle Jack from below. "No," I said despondently. "Stay where you are," he cried again, "quite still." That was impossible, for where I stood the shale was so small and loose that I was sliding down slowly; but I made very little noise, and just then Uncle Jack uttered a tremendous-- "Dick, ahoy!" There was a pause and he shouted again: "Dick, ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back faintly from somewhere a long way off. "There he is!" I cried. "No--an echo," said Uncle Jack. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back. "There, you see--an echo." "Ahoy!" came again. "That's no echo," cried Uncle Bob joyfully. "Dick!" He shouted as loudly as he could. "Ahoy!" "There! It was no echo. He's all right; and after falling down here he has worked his way out and round the other side, where we went up first, while we came down the other way and missed him." "Dick, ahoy!" he shouted again; "where away?" "Ahoy!" came back, and we had to consult. "If we go up one way to meet him he will come down the other," said Uncle Bob. "There's nothing for it but to wait till morning or divide, and one of us go up one side while the other two go up the other." Uncle Jack snapped his watch-case down after examining the face by the pale light of the moon. "Two o'clock," he said, throwing himself on the loose shale. "Ten minutes ago, when we were in doubt, I felt as if I could go on for hours with the search. Now I know that poor old Dick is alive I can't walk another yard." I had slipped and scrambled down to him now, and Uncle Bob turned to me. "How are you, Cob?" he said. "The skin is off one of my heels, and I have a blister on my big toe." "And I'm dead beat," said Uncle Bob, sinking down. "You're right, Jack, we must have a rest. Let's wait till it's light. It will be broad day by four o'clock, and we can signal to him which way to come." I nestled down close to him, relieved in mind and body, and I was just thinking that though scraps of slaty stone and brashy earth were not good things for stuffing a feather-bed, they were, all the same, very comfortable for a weary person to lie upon, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and opening my eyes found the sun shining brightly and Uncle Dick looking down in my face. "Have I been asleep?" I said confusedly. "Four hours, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "You lay down at two. It is now six." "But I dreamed something about you, Uncle Dick," I said confusedly. "I thought you were lost." "Well, not exactly lost, Cob," he said; "but I slipped over that tremendous slope up yonder, and came down with a rush, stunning myself and making a lot of bruises that are very sore. I must have come down a terrible distance, and I lay, I suppose, for a couple of hours before I could get up and try to make my way back." "But you are not--not broken," I cried, now thoroughly awake and holding his hand. "No, Cob," he said smiling; "not broken, but starving and very faint." A three miles' walk took us to where we obtained a very hearty breakfast, and here the farmer willingly drove us to the nearest station, from whence by a roundabout way we journeyed back to Arrowfield, and found the landlady in conference with Mr Tomplin, who had come to our place on receiving a message from Mrs Stephenson that we had gone down to the works and not returned, her impression being that the men had drowned us all in the dam. CHAPTER SIX. "DO LET ME COME." The rest of the week soon slipped by, and my uncles took possession of the works, but not peaceably. The agent who had had the letting went down to meet my uncles and give them formal possession. When he got there he was attacked by the work-people, with words first, and then with stones and pails of water. The consequence was that he went home with a cut head and his clothes soaked. "But what's to be done?" said Uncle Dick to him. "We want the place according to the agreement." The agent looked up, holding one hand to his head, and looking white and scared. "Call themselves men!" he said, "I call them wild beasts." "Call them what you like," said Uncle Dick; "wild beasts if you will, but get them out." "But I can't," groaned the man dismally. "See what a state I'm in! They've spoiled my second best suit." "Very tiresome," said Uncle Dick, who was growing impatient; "but are you going to get these people out? We've two truck-loads of machinery waiting to be delivered." "Don't I tell you I can't," said the agent angrily. "Take possession yourself. There, I give you leave." "Very well," said Uncle Dick. "You assure me that these men have no legal right to be there." "Not the slightest. They were only allowed to be there till the place was let." "That's right; then we take possession at once, sir." "And good luck to you!" said the agent as we went out. "What are you going to do?" asked Uncle Bob. "Take possession." "When?" "To-night. Will you come?" "Will I come?" said Uncle Bob with a half laugh. "You might as well ask Jack." "It may mean trouble to-morrow." "There's nothing done without trouble," said Uncle Bob coolly. "I like ease better, but I'll take my share." I was wildly excited, and began thinking that we should all be armed with swords and guns, so that I was terribly disappointed when that evening I found Uncle Dick enter the room with a brown-paper parcel in his hand that looked like a book, and followed by Uncle Jack looking as peaceable as could be. "Where's Uncle Bob?" I said. "Waiting for us outside." "Why doesn't he come in?" "He's busy." I wondered what Uncle Bob was busy about; but I noticed that my uncles were preparing for the expedition, putting some tools and a small lantern in a travelling-bag. After this Uncle Jack took it open downstairs ready for starting. "Look here, Cob," said Uncle Dick; "we are going down to the works." "What! To-night?" "Yes, my lad, to-night." "But you can't get in. The men have the key." "I have the agent's keys. There are two sets, and I am going down now. Look here; take a book and amuse yourself, and go to bed in good time. Perhaps we shall be late." "Why, you are going to stop all night," I cried, "so as to be there before the men?" "I confess," he said, laughing in my excited face. "And I sha'n't see any of the fun," I cried. "There will not be any fun, Cob." "Oh, yes, there will, uncle," I said. "I say, do let me come." He shook his head, and as I could make no impression on him I gave up, and slipped down to Uncle Jack, who was watching Mrs Stephenson cut some huge sandwiches for provender during the night. "I say, uncle," I whispered, "I know what you are going to do. Take me." "No, no," he said. "It will be no work for boys." He was so quiet and stern that I felt it was of no use to press him, so I left the kitchen and went to the front door to try Uncle Bob for my last resource. I opened the door gently, and started back, for there was a savage growl, and I just made out the dark form of a big-headed dog tugging at a string. "Down, Piter!" said Uncle Bob. "Who is it? You, Cob? Here, Piter, make friends with him. Come out." I went out rather slowly, for the dog was growling ominously; but at a word from Uncle Bob he ceased, and began to smell me all round the legs, stopping longest about my calves, as if he thought that would be the best place for a bite. "Pat him, Cob, and pull his ears." I stooped down rather unwillingly, and began patting the ugliest head I ever saw in my life. For Piter--otherwise Jupiter--was a brindled bull-dog with an enormous head, protruding lower jaw, pinched-in nose, and grinning teeth. The sides of his head seemed swollen, and his chest broad, his body lank and lean, ending in a shabby little thin tail. "Why, he has no ears," I said. "They are cut pretty short, poor fellow. But isn't he a beauty, Cob?" "Beauty!" I said, laughing. "But where did you get him?" "Mr Tomplin has lent him to us." "But what for?" "Garrison for the fort," my boy. "I think we can trust him." I commenced my attack then. "I should so like to go!" I said. "It isn't as if I was a nuisance. I wasn't so bad when we were out all night by Dome Tor." "Well, there, I'll talk them over," he said. "Here, you stop and hold the dog, while I go in." "What, hold him?" "Yes, to be sure. I won't be long." "But, uncle," I said, "he looks such a brute, as if he'd eat a fellow." "My dear Cob, I sha'n't be above a quarter of an hour. He couldn't get through more than one leg by that time." "Now you're laughing at me," I said. "Hold the dog, then, you young coward!" "I'm not," I said in an injured tone; and I caught at the leather thong, for if it had been a lion I should have held on then. I wanted to say, "Don't be long," but I was ashamed, and I looked rather wistfully over my shoulder as he went in, leaving me with the dog. Piter uttered a low whine as the door closed, and then growled angrily and gave a short deep-toned bark. This done, he growled at me, smelled me all round, making my legs seem to curdle as his blunt nose touched them, and then after winding the thong round me twice he stood up on his hind-legs, placing his paws against my chest and his ugly muzzle between them. My heart was beating fast, but the act was so friendly that I patted the great head; and the end of it was, that I sat down on the door-step, and when Uncle Bob came out again Piter and I had fraternised, and he had been showing me as hard as he could that he was my born slave, that he was ready for a bit of fun at any time, and also to defend me against any enemy who should attack. Piter's ways were simple. To show the first he licked my hand. For the second, he turned over on his back, patted at me with his paws, and mumbled my legs, took a hold of my trousers and dragged at them, and butted at me with his bullet head. For the last, he suddenly sprang to his feet as a step was heard, crouched by me ready for a spring, and made some thunder inside him somewhere. This done, he tried to show me what fun it was to tie himself up in a knot with the leathern thong, and strangle himself till his eyes stood out of his head. "Why, you have made friends," said Uncle Bob, coming out. "Good dog, then." "May I go?" I said eagerly. "Yes. They've given in. I had a hard fight, sir, so you must do me credit." Half an hour after, we four were on our way to our own works, just as if we were stealing through the dark to commit a burglary, and I noticed that though there were no swords and guns, each of my uncles carried a very stout heavy stick, that seemed to me like a yard of bad headache, cut very thick. The streets looked very miserable as we advanced, leaving behind us the noise and roar and glow of the panting machinery which every now and then whistled and screamed as if rejoicing over the metal it was cutting and forming and working into endless shapes. There behind us was the red cloud against which the light from a thousand furnaces was glowing, while every now and then came a deafening roar as if some explosion had taken place. I glanced down at Piter expecting to see him startled, but he was Arrowfield born, and paid not the slightest heed to noise, passing through a bright flash of light that shot from an open door as if it were the usual thing, and he did not even twitch his tail as we walked on by a wall that seemed to quiver and shake as some great piece of machinery worked away, throbbing and thudding inside. "Here we are at last," said Uncle Dick, as we reached the corner of our place, where a lamp shed a ghastly kind of glow upon the dark triangular shaped dam. The big stone building looked silent and ghostly in the gloom, while the great chimney stood up like a giant sentry watching over it, and placed there by the men whom it was our misfortune to have to dislodge. We had a perfect right to be there, but one and all spoke in whispers as we looked round at the buildings about, to see in one of a row of houses that there were lights, and in a big stone building similar to ours the faint glow of a fire left to smoulder till the morning. But look which way we would, there was not a soul about, and all was still. As we drew closer I could hear the dripping of the water as it ran in by the wheel where it was not securely stopped; and every now and then there was an echoing plash from the great shut-in cave, but no light in any of the windows. "Come and hold the bag, Jack," whispered Uncle Dick; and then laughingly as we grouped about the gate with the dog sniffing at the bottom: "If you see a policeman coming, give me fair warning. I hope that dog will not bark. I feel just like a burglar." Piter uttered a low growl, but remained silent, while Uncle Dick opened the gate and we entered. As soon as we were inside the yard the bag was put under requisition again, a great screw-driver taken out, the lantern lit, and with all the skill and expedition of one accustomed to the use of tools, Uncle Dick unscrewed and took off the lock, laid it aside, and fitted on, very ingeniously, so that the old key-hole should do again, one of the new patent locks he had brought with him in the brown-paper parcel I had seen. This took some little time, but it was effected at last, and Uncle Dick said: "That is something towards making the place our own. Their key will not be worth much now." Securing the gate by turning the key of the new lock, we went next to the door leading into the works, which was also locked, but the key the agent had supplied opened it directly, and this time Uncle Dick held box and lantern while Uncle Jack took off the old and fitted on the second new lock that we had brought. It was a curious scene in the darkness of that great stone-floored echoing place, where an observer who watched would have seen a round glass eye shedding a bright light on a particular part of the big dirty door, and in the golden ring the bull's-eye made, a pair of large white hands busy at work fixing, turning a gimlet, putting in and fastening screws, while only now and then could a face be seen in the ring of light. "There," said Uncle Jack at last, as he turned the well-oiled key and made the bolt of the lock play in and out of its socket, "now I think we can call the place our own." "I say, Uncle Bob," I whispered--I don't know why, unless it was the darkness that made me speak low--"I should like to see those fellows' faces when they come to the gate to-morrow morning." "Especially Old Squintum's," said Uncle Bob laughing. "Pleasant countenance that man has, Cob. If ever he is modelled I should like to have a copy. Now, boys, what next?" "Next!" said Uncle Dick; "we'll just have a look round this place and see what there is belonging to the men, and we'll put all together so as to be able to give it up when they come." "The small grindstones are theirs, are they not?" said Uncle Bob. "No; the agent says that everything belongs to the works and will be found in the inventory. All we have to turn out will be the blades they are grinding." Uncle Dick went forward from grindstone to grindstone, but only in one place was anything waiting to be ground, and that was a bundle of black-looking, newly-forged scythe blades, neatly tied up with bands of wire. He went on from end to end, making the light play on grindstone, trough, and the rusty sand that lay about; but nothing else was to be seen, and after reaching the door leading into the great chamber where the water-wheel revolved, he turned back the light, looking like some dancing will-o'-the-wisp as he directed it here and there, greatly to the puzzlement of Piter, to whom it was something new. He tugged at the stout leathern thong once or twice, but I held on and he ceased, contenting himself with a low uneasy whine now and then, and looking up to me with his great protruding eyes, as if for an explanation. "Now let's have a look round upwards," said Uncle Dick. "I'm glad the men have left so few of their traps here. Cob, my lad, you need not hold that dog. Take the swivel off his collar and let him go. He can't get away." "Besides," said Uncle Bob, "this is to be his home." I stooped down and unhooked the spring swivel, to Piter's great delight, which he displayed by scuffling about our feet, trying to get himself trodden upon by all in turn, and ending by making a rush at the bull's-eye lantern, and knocking his head against the round glass. "Pretty little creature!" said Uncle Bob. "Well, I should have given him credit for more sense than a moth." Piter growled as if he were dissatisfied with the result, and then his hideous little crinkled black nose was seen as he smelt the lantern all round, and, apparently gratified by the odour of the oil, he licked his black lips. "Now then, upstairs," said Uncle Dick, leading the way with the lantern. But as soon as the light fell upon the flight of stone stairs Piter went to the front with a rush, his claws pattered on the stones, and he was up at the top waiting for us, after giving a scratch at a rough door, his ugly countenance looking down curiously out of the darkness. "Good dog!" said Uncle Dick as he reached the landing and unlatched the door. Piter squeezed himself through almost before the door was six inches open, and the next moment he burst into a furious deep-mouthed bay. "Someone there!" cried Uncle Dick, and he rushed in, lantern in hand, to make the light play round, while my uncles changed the hold of their stout sticks, holding them cudgel fashion ready for action. The light rested directly on the face and chest of a man sitting up between a couple of rusty lathes, where a quantity of straw had been thrown down, and at the first glimpse it was evident that the dog had just aroused him from a heavy sleep. His eyes were half-closed, bits of oat straw were sticking in his short dark hair, and glistened like fragments of pale gold in the light cast by the bull's-eye, while two blackened and roughened hands were applied to his eyes as if he were trying to rub them bright. Piter's was an ugly face; but the countenance of an ugly animal is pleasanter to look upon than that of an ugly degraded human being, and as I saw the rough stubbly jaws open, displaying some yellow and blackened teeth that glistened in the light as their owner yawned widely, I began to think our dog handsome by comparison. The man growled as if not yet awake, and rubbed away at his eyes with his big fists, as if they, too, required a great deal of polishing to make them bright enough to see. At last he dropped his fists and stared straight before him--no, that's a mistake, he stared with the range of his eyes crossing, and then seemed to have some confused idea that there was a light before him, and a dog making a noise, for he growled out: "Lie down!" Then, bending forward, he swept an arm round, as if in search of something, which he caught hold of at last, and we understood why he was so confused. For it was a large stone bottle he had taken up. From this he removed the cork with a dull _Fop_! Raised the bottle with both hands, took a long draught, and corked the bottle again with a sigh, set it down beside him, and after yawning loudly shouted once more at the dog, "Get out! Lie down!" Then he settled himself as if about to do what he had bidden the dog, but a gleam of intelligence appeared to have come now into his brain. There was no mistaking the man: it was the squinting ruffian who had attacked us when we came first, and there was no doubt that he had been staying there to keep watch and hold the place against us, for a candle was stuck in a ginger-beer bottle on the frame of the lathe beyond him, and this candle had guttered down and gone out. We none of us spoke, but stood in the black shadow invisible to the man, who could only see the bright light of the bull's-eye staring him full in the face. "Lie down, will yer!" he growled savagely. "Makin' shut a row! Lie down or--" He shouted this last in such a fierce tone of menace that it would have scared some dogs. It had a different effect on Piter, who growled angrily. "Don't, then," shouted the man; "howl and bark--make a row, but if yer touch me I'll take yer down and drownd yer in the wheel-pit. D'yer hear? In the wheel-pit!" This was said in a low drowsy tone and as if the fellow were nearly asleep, and as the light played upon his half-closed dreamy eyes he muttered and stared at it as if completely overcome by sleep. It was perfectly ridiculous, and yet horrible, to see that rough head and hideous face nodding and blinking at the light as the fellow supported himself on both his hands in an ape-like attitude that was more animal than human. All this was a matter of a minute or so, and then the ugly cross eyes closed, opened sharply, and were brought to bear upon the light one after the other by movements of the head, just as a magpie looks at a young bird before he kills it with a stroke of his bill. Then a glimpse of intelligence seemed to shoot from them, and the man sat up sharply. "What's that light?" he said roughly. "Police! What do you want?" "What are you doing here?" said Uncle Jack in his deep voice. "Doing, p'liceman! Keeping wetch. Set o' Lonnoners trying to get howd o' wucks, and me and my mates wean't hev 'em. Just keeping wetch. Good-night!" He sat up, staring harder at the light, and then tried to see behind it. "Well," he cried, "why don't you go, mate? Shut door efter you." "Hold the dog, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "Bob, you take the lantern and open the door and the gate. Lay hold of one side, Dick, I'll take the other, and we'll put him out." But the man was wide-awake now; and as I darted at Piter and got my hands in his collar and held him back, the fellow made a dash at something lying on the lathe, and as the lantern was changed from hand to hand I caught sight of the barrel of an old horse-pistol. "Take care!" I shouted, as I dragged Piter back. "Pistol." "Yes, pistol, do yer hear?" roared the fellow starting up. "Pistol! And I'll shute the first as comes anigh me." There was a click here, and all was in darkness, for Uncle Bob turned the shade of the lantern and hid it within his coat. "Put that pistol down, my man, and no harm shall come to you; but you must get out of this place directly." "What! Get out! Yes, out you go, whoever you are," roared the fellow. "I can see you, and I'll bring down the first as stirs. This here's a good owd pistol, and she hits hard. Now then open that light and let's see you go down. This here's my place and my mates', and we don't want none else here. Now then." I was struggling in the dark with Piter, and only held him back, there was such strength in his small body, by lifting him by his collar and holding him against me standing on his hind-legs. But, engaged as I was, I had an excited ear for what was going on, and I trembled, as I expected to see the flash of the pistol and feel its bullet strike me or the dog. As the man uttered his threats I heard a sharp whispering and a quick movement or two in the dark, and then all at once I saw the light open, and after a flash here and there shine full upon the fellow, who immediately turned the pistol on the holder of the lantern. "Now then," he cried, "yer give in, don't yer? Yes or no 'fore I fires. Yah!" He turned sharply round in my direction as I struggled with Piter, whom the sight of the black-looking ruffian had made furious. But the man had not turned upon me. He had caught sight of Uncle Jack springing at him, the light showing him as he advanced. There was a flash, a loud report, and almost preceding it, if not quite, the sound of a sharp rap given with a stick upon flesh and bone. The next instant there was a hoarse yell and the noise made by the pistol falling upon the floor. "Hurt, Jack?" cried Uncle Dick, as my heart seemed to stand still. "Scratched, that's all," was the reply. "Here, come and tie this wild beast's hands. I think I can hold him now." It almost sounded like a rash assertion, as the light played upon the desperate struggle that was going on. I could see Uncle Jack and the man, now down, now up, and at last, after wrestling here and there, the man, in spite of Uncle Jack's great strength, seeming to have the mastery. There was a loud panting and a crushing fall, both going down, and Uncle Jack rising up to kneel upon his adversary's chest. "Like fighting a bull," panted Uncle Jack. "What arms the fellow has! Got the rope?" "Yes," said Uncle Dick, rattling the things in the bag. "Can you turn him over?" No sooner said than done. The man heard the order, and prepared to resist being turned on one side. Uncle Jack noted this and attacked the other side so quickly that the man was over upon his face before he could change his tactics. "Keep that dog back, Cob, or he'll eat him," said Uncle Bob, making the lantern play on the prostrate man, whose arms were dexterously dragged behind him and tightly tied. "There," said Uncle Jack. "Now you can get up and go. Ah, would you, coward!" This was in answer to a furious kick the fellow tried to deliver as soon as he had regained his feet. "If he attempts to kick again, loose the dog at him, Cob," cried Uncle Dick sharply. Then in an undertone to me: "No: don't! But let him think you will." "You'll hev it for this," cried the man furiously. "Right," said Uncle Jack. "Now, then, have you anything here belonging to you? No! Down you come then." He collared his prisoner, who turned to kick at him; but a savage snarl from Piter, as I half let him go, checked the fellow, and he suffered himself to be marched to the door, where he stopped. "Ma beer," he growled, looking back at the stone bottle. "Beer! No, you've had enough of that," said Uncle Dick. "Go on down." The man walked quietly down the stairs; but when he found that he was to be thrust out into the lane he began to struggle again, and shout, but a fierce hand at his throat stopped that and he was led down to the gate in the wall, where it became my task now to hold the lantern while Uncles Dick and Bob grasped our prisoner's arms and left Uncle Jack free to untie the cord. "Be ready to unlock the gate, Cob," whispered Uncle Jack, as he held his prisoner by one twist of the rope round his arms like a leash. "Now, then, ready! Back, dog, back!" Piter shrank away, and then at a concerted moment the gate was thrown open, the three brothers loosed their hold of the prisoner at the same moment, and just as he was turning to try and re-enter, a sharp thrust of the foot sent him flying forward, the gate was banged to, and locked, and we were congratulating ourselves upon having ridded ourselves of an ugly customer, when the gate shook from the effect of a tremendous blow that sounded as if it had been dealt with a paving-stone. CHAPTER SEVEN. A USEFUL ALLY. "Take no notice," said Uncle Dick. We listened, and I laughed as I heard the rattling noise made by a key as if our friend was trying to get in, after which he seemed to realise what had been done, and went away grumbling fiercely. "Now for a quiet look round upstairs," said Uncle Dick; and all being quiet and we in possession we turned in at the dark door to inspect our fort. There was something creepy and yet thoroughly attractive in the business. The place looked dark and romantic in the gloom; there was a spice of danger in the work, and the excitement made my blood seem to dance in my veins. "Hallo!" I cried, as we were entering the door; "there's something wrong," for I heard a rustling noise and a dull thud as if someone had jumped down from a little height. At the same moment we found out how useful Piter was going to be, for he started off with a furious rush, barking tremendously, and as we followed him to the end of the yard we were in time for a scuffle, a savage burst of expressions, and then my heart, which had been throbbing furiously, seemed to stand still, for there was a howl, a tremendous splash, then silence. "Quick, boys!" cried Uncle Jack. "Here, join hands. I'll go in and fetch him out. Take the light, Cob." I gladly seized the lantern and made the light play on the surface of the water where it was disturbed, and as I did so Piter came up from the edge whining softly and twitching his little stump of a tail. Then a head and shoulders appeared, and the surface of the dam was beaten tremendously, but so close to the edge that by standing on the stonework and holding by Uncle Bob's hand Uncle Jack was able to stretch out his stick to the struggling man, to have it clutched directly, and the fellow was drawn ashore. He gave himself a shake like a dog as soon as he was on dry land, and stood for a moment or two growling and using ugly language that seemed to agree with his mouth. Then he turned upon us. "Aw right!" he said, "I'll pay thee for this. Set the dawg on me, you did, and then pitched me into the watter. Aw reight! I'll pay thee for this." "Open the gate, Bob," said Uncle Jack, who now took the fellow by the collar and thrust him forward while I held the light as the man went on threatening and telling us what he meant to do. But the cold water had pretty well quenched his fierce anger, and though he threatened a great deal he did not attempt to do anything till he was by the gate, where a buzz of voices outside seemed to inspirit him. "Hey, lads!" he cried, "in wi' you when gate's opened." "Take care," whispered Uncle Dick. "Be ready to bang the gate. We must have him out. Here, Piter." The dog answered with a bark, and then our invader being held ready the gate was opened by me, and the three brothers thrust the prisoner they were going to set at liberty half-way out. Only half-way, for he was driven back by a rush of his companions, who had been aroused by his shouting. The stronger outside party would have prevailed no doubt had not our four-footed companion made a savage charge among the rough legs, with such effect that there was a series of yells from the front men, who became at once on our side to the extent of driving their friends back; and before they could recover from the surprise consequent upon the dog's assault, the gate was banged to and locked. "Show the light, and see where that fellow came over the wall, Cob," whispered Uncle Dick; and I made the light play along the top, expecting to see a head every moment. But instead of a head a pair of hands appeared over the coping-stones--a pair of great black hands, whose nails showed thick and stubby in the lantern light. "There, take that," said Uncle Dick, giving the hands a quick tap with his stick. "I don't want to hurt you, though I could." By that he meant do serious injury, for he certainly hurt the owner of the hands to the extent of giving pain, for there was a savage yell and the hands disappeared. Then there was a loud scuffling noise and a fresh pair of hands appeared, but they shared the fate of the others and went out of sight. "Nice place this," said Uncle Bob suddenly. "Didn't take return tickets, did you?" "Return tickets! No," said Uncle Jack in a low angry voice. "What! Are you tired of it already?" "Tired! Well, I don't know, but certainly this is more lively than Canonbury. There's something cheerful about the place. Put up your umbrellas, it hails." I was nervous and excited, but I could not help laughing at this, for Uncle Bob's ideas of hailstones were peculiar. The first that fell was a paving-stone as big as a half-quartern loaf, and it was followed by quite a shower of the round cobbles or pebbles nearly the size of a fist that are used so much in some country places for paths. Fortunately no one was hit, while this bombardment was succeeded by another assault or attempt to carry the place by what soldiers call a _coup de main_. But this failed, for the hands that were to deal the _coup_ received such ugly taps from sticks as they appeared on the top of the wall that their owners dropped back and began throwing over stones and angry words again. Only one of our assailants seemed to have the courage to persevere, and this proved to be our old friend. For as I directed the light along the top of the wall a pair of hands appeared accompanied by the usual scuffing. Uncle Dick only tapped them, but possibly not hard enough, for the arms followed the hands, then appeared the head and fierce eyes of the man we had found asleep. "Coom on, lads; we've got un now," he shouted, and in another minute he would have been over; but Uncle Dick felt it was time for stronger measures than tapping hands, and he let his stick come down with such a sharp rap on the great coarse head that it disappeared directly, and a yelling chorus was succeeded by another shower of stones. We went into shelter in the doorway, with Piter playing the part of sentry in front, the dog walking up and down looking at the top of the wall growling as he went, and now and then opening and shutting his teeth with a loud snap like a trap. On the other side of the wall we could hear the talking of the men, quite a little crowd having apparently assembled, and being harangued by one of their party. "So it makes you think of Canonbury, does it, Bob?" said Uncle Jack. "Well, yes," said my uncle. "It makes me feel angry," said Uncle Jack, "and as if the more these scoundrels are obstinate and interfere with me, the more determined I shall grow." "We must call in the help of the police," said Uncle Dick. "And they will be watched away," said Uncle Jack. "No, we must depend upon ourselves, and I dare say we can win. What's that?" I listened, and said that I did not hear anything. "I did," said Uncle Jack. "It was the tap made by a ladder that has been reared against a house." I made the light play against the top of the wall and along it from end to end. Then Uncle Jack took it and examined the top, but nothing was visible and saying it was fancy he handed the lantern to me, when all at once there was a double thud as of two people leaping down from the wall; and as I turned the light in the direction from which the sounds came there was our squinting enemy, and directly behind him a great rough fellow, both armed with sticks and charging down upon us where we stood. I heard my uncles draw a long breath as if preparing for the fight. Then they let their sticks fall to their sides, and a simultaneous roar of laughter burst forth. It did not take a minute, and the various little changes followed each other so quickly that I was confused and puzzled. One moment I felt a curious shrinking as I saw the faces of two savage men rushing at us to drive us out of the place; the next I was looking at their backs as they ran along the yard. For no sooner did Piter see them than he made a dash at their legs, growling like some fierce wild beast, and showing his teeth to such good effect that the men ran from him blindly yelling one to the other; and the next thing I heard was a couple of splashes in the dam. "Why, they're trying to swim across," cried Uncle Dick; and we at once ran to the end of the yard to where it was bounded by the stone-bordered dam. "Show the light, Cob," cried Uncle Jack; and as I made it play upon the water there was one man swimming steadily for the other side, with Piter standing at the edge baying him furiously, but the other man was not visible. Then the surface of the water was disturbed and a hand appeared, then another, to begin beating and splashing. "Why, the fellow can't swim," cried Uncle Jack; and catching his brother's hand he reached out, holding his stick ready for the man to grasp. It was an exciting scene in the darkness, with the ring of light cast by the lantern playing upon the dark surface of the water, which seemed to be black rippled with gold; and there in the midst was the distorted face of the workman, as he yelled for help and seemed in imminent danger of drowning. He made two or three snatches at the stick, but missed it, and his struggles took him farther from the edge into the deep water close by, where the wall that supported the great wheel was at right angles to where we stood. It was a terribly dangerous and slippery place, but Uncle Jack did not hesitate. Walking along a slippery ledge that was lapped by the water, he managed to reach the drowning man, holding to him his stick; and then as the fellow clutched it tightly he managed to guide him towards the edge, where Uncle Dick knelt down, and at last caught him by the collar and drew him out, dripping and half insensible. "Down, dog!" cried Uncle Dick as Piter made a dash at his enemy, who now lay perfectly motionless. Piter growled a remonstrance and drew back slowly, but as he reached the man's feet he made a sudden dart down and gave one of his ankles a pinch with his trap-like jaws. The effect was instantaneous. The man jumped up and shook his fist in our faces. "Yow'll get it for this here," he roared. "Yow threw me in dam and then set your dawg at me. Yow'll hev it for this. Yow'll see. Yow'll--" "Look here," said Uncle Bob, mimicking the fellow's broad rough speech, "hadn't yow better go home and take off your wet things?" "Yow pitched me in dam and set dawg at me," cried the fellow again. "Go home and get off your wet things and go to bed," said Uncle Jack, "and don't come worrying us again--do you hear?" "Yow pitched me in dam and set dawg at me," cried the man again; and from the other side of the pool the man who had swum across and been joined by some companions yelled out: "Gi'e it to un, Chawny--gi'e it to un." "Yow pitched me in dam and set dawg--" "Look here," roared Uncle Bob, "if you're not out of this place in half a minute I will pitch you in the dam, and set the dog at you as well. Here, Piter." "Give's leg over the wall," growled the man. "No. Go out of the gate," said Uncle Jack; and standing ready to avoid a rush we opened the gate in the wall and let the fellow go free. We got him out and escaped a rush, for the little crowd were all up by the side of the dam, whence they could see into the yard; but as we sent Chawny, as he was called, out through the gate, and he turned to stand there, dripping, and ready to shake his fist in our faces, they came charging down. Uncle Bob banged the door to, though, as our enemy repeated his angry charge: "Yow pitched me in dam and set dawg at me." Then the door was closed and we prepared for the next attack from the murmuring crowd outside. But none came, and the voices gradually grew fainter and died away, while, taking it in turns, we watched till morning began to break without any farther demonstration on the part of the enemy. "We're safe for this time, boys," said Uncle Dick. "Now go and have a few hours' rest. I'll call you when the men come." We were only too glad, and ten minutes later we were all asleep on some shavings and straw in the upper workshop, while Uncle Dick and Piter kept guard. CHAPTER EIGHT. ON GUARD. It seemed as if it had all been a dream when I awoke and found Uncle Bob was shaking me. "Come, young fellow," he cried; "breakfast's ready." I did not feel ready for my breakfast if it was, especially a breakfast of bread and meat with no chair, no table, no cloth, no tea, coffee, or bread and butter. Such a good example was shown me, though, that I took the thick sandwich offered to me, and I was soon forgetting my drowsiness and eating heartily. We were not interrupted, and when we had ended our meal, went round the place to see what was to be done. The first thing was placing the property that could be claimed by the men close by the gate ready for them, and when this was done Piter and I walked up and down the yard listening to the steps outside, and waiting to give a signal if any of the men should come. No men came, however, and there was not a single call till afternoon, when a sharp rapping at the gate was answered by two of my uncles, and the dog, who seemed puzzled as to the best pair of legs to peer between, deciding at last in favour of Uncle Bob's. To our surprise, when the gate was opened, there were no men waiting, but half a dozen women, one of whom announced that they had came for their masters' "traps," and the said "traps" being handed to them, they went off without a word, not even condescending to say "Thank you." "Come," said Uncle Bob, after the various things had been carried off, and Piter had stood looking on twitching his ears and blinking at them, as if he did not war with women, "Come, we've won the game." "Don't be too sure, my boy," said Uncle Dick. "But they have, given up." "Given up expecting to use the works. But what are they going to do in revenge?" "Revenge!" "Yes. You may depend upon it we are marked men, and that we shall have to fight hard to hold our own." As the day went on--a day busily spent in making plans for the future of our factory, we had one or two applications from men who were seeking work, and if we had any doubt before of how our coming was to be received, we realised it in the yells and hootings that greeted the men who came in a friendly spirit. Uncle Dick went off directly after breakfast to see about the machinery waiting at the railway being delivered, and it was late in the afternoon before he returned. "One of us will have to stay always on the premises for the present," he said, "so I have ordered some furniture and a carpenter to come and board up and make that corner office comfortable. We must make shift." The matter was discussed, and finally it was settled that two of our party were to be always on the premises, and until we were satisfied that there was no more fear of interference, one was to keep watch half the night with the dog, and then be relieved by the other. "We shall have to make a man of you, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "You must take your turn with us." "I'm ready," I replied; and very proud I felt of being trusted. Of course I felt nervous, but at the same time rather disappointed, for everything went on in the most business like way. Carpenters and fitters were set to work, and, helped by the indomitable perseverance and energy of my uncles, a great deal of fresh machinery was soon in position. New shafts and bands, a new furnace for preparing our own steel after a fashion invented by Uncle Dick. New grindstones and polishing-wheels, new forges with tilt-hammers, and anvils. By degrees I found what was going to be our chief business, and that was the production of cutlery of a peculiar temper especially for surgical instruments and swords, Uncle Dick having an idea that he could produce blades equal to Damascus or the finest Spanish steel. The days glided by with the works growing more complete, and each night half our party on guard at Fort Industry, as Uncle Bob christened the place. And though the couple who had slept at the lodgings went down to the place every morning feeling nervous, and wondering whether anything had happened in the night, it was always to find that all was going on perfectly smoothly, and that there was nothing to mind. Piter had a kennel just inside the entry, and as each new hand was engaged he was introduced to the dog, who inspected him, and never afterwards so much as growled. Uncle Dick took the lead, and under his orders the change rapidly took place. There was one hindrance, though, and that occurred in connection with the furnaces, for the chimney-shaft needed some repair at the top. This, however, proved to be an easy task, scaffolding not being necessary, projecting bars answering the purpose of the rounds of a ladder having been built in when the shaft was erected, with this end in view. At last everything was, as Uncle Dick called it, complete for the present. There was a good supply of water, and one morning the furnace was lit, so were the forges, and step by step we progressed till there was quite a busy scene, the floors and rafters in the forge and furnace building glowing and seeming turned to gold; while from out of the chimney there rose every morning a great volume of smoke that rolled out and bent over, and formed itself into vast feathery plumes. I could hardly believe it true when it was announced that we had been down in Arrowfield a month: but so it was. But little had been done beyond getting the machinery at the works ready for work to come; now, however, some of the projects were to be put in action. "For," said Uncle Dick, "if we should go on forging and grinding as other manufacturers do, we only enter into competition with them, and I dare say we should be beaten. We must do something different and better, and that's why we have come. To-morrow I begin to make my new tempered steel." Uncle Dick kept his word, and the next morning men were at work arranging fire-bricks for a little furnace which was duly made, and then so much blistered steel was laid in a peculiar way with so much iron, and a certain heat was got up and increased and lowered several times till Uncle Dick was satisfied. He told me that the colour assumed by the metal was the test by which he judged whether it was progressing satisfactorily, and this knowledge could only come by experience. Everything was progressing most favourably. The men who had been engaged worked well; we had seen no more of those who had had to vacate the works, and all was as it should be. In fact our affairs were so prosperous that to me it seemed great folly for watch to be kept in the works night after night. I thought it the greatest nonsense possible one night when I had been very busy all day, and it had come to my turn, and I told Uncle Jack so. "Those fellows were a bit cross at having to turn out," I said. "Of course they were, and they made a fuss. You don't suppose they will come again?" "I don't know, Cob," said Uncle Jack quietly. "But is it likely?" I said pettishly. "I can't say, my boy--who can? Strange things have been done down in Arrowfield by foolish workmen before now." "Oh, yes!" I said; "but that's in the past. It isn't likely that they will come and annoy us. Besides, there's Piter. He'd soon startle any one away." "You think then that there is no occasion for us to watch, Cob?" "Yes," I cried eagerly, "that's just what I think. We can go to bed and leave Piter to keep guard. He would soon give the alarm." "Then you had better go to bed, Cob," said Uncle Jack quietly. "And of course you won't get up when it comes to your turn." "No," he said; "certainly not." "That's right," I cried triumphantly. "I am glad we have got over this scare." "Are you?" he said dryly. "Am I, Uncle Jack! Why, of course I am. All is locked up. I'll go and unchain Piter, and then we'll go and get a good night's rest." "Yes," he said; "you may as well unchain Piter." I ran and set the dog at liberty, and he started off to make the circuit of the place, while I went back to Uncle Jack, who was lighting the bull's-eye lantern that we always used when on guard. "Why, uncle," I said wonderingly; "we sha'n't want that to-night." "I shall," he said. "Good-night!" "No, no," I cried. "We arranged to go to bed." "You arranged to go to bed, Cob, but I did not. You don't suppose I could behave so unfairly to my brothers as to neglect the task they placed in my hands." He did not say any more. It was quite sufficient. I felt the rebuff, and was thoroughly awake now and ashamed of what I had proposed. Without a word I took the lantern and held out my hand. "Good-night, Uncle Jack!" I said. He had seemed cold and stern just before. Now he was his quiet old self again, and he took my hand, nodded, and said: "Two o'clock, Cob. Good-night!" I saw him go along the great workshop, enter the office and close the door, and then I started on my rounds. It was anything but a cheerful task, that keeping watch over the works during the night, and I liked the first watch from ten to two less than the second watch from two to six, for in the latter you had the day breaking about four o'clock, and then it was light until six. For, however much one might tell oneself that there was no danger--no likelihood of anything happening, the darkness in places, the faint glow from partly extinct fires, and the curious shadows cast on the whitewashed walls were all disposed to be startling; and, well as I knew the place, I often found myself shrinking as I came suddenly upon some piece of machinery that assumed in the darkness the aspect of some horrible monster about to seize me as I went my rounds. Upon the other hand, there was a pleasant feeling of importance in going about that great dark place of a night, with a lantern at my belt, a stout stick in my hand, and a bull-dog at my heels, and this sensation helped to make the work more bearable. On this particular night I had paced silently all about the place several times, thinking a good deal about my little encounter with Uncle Jack, and about the last letters I had had from my father. Then, as all seemed perfectly right, I had seated myself by the big furnace, which emitted a dull red glow, not sufficient to light the place, but enough to make it pleasantly warm, and to show that if a blast were directed in the coals, a fierce fire would soon be kindled. I did not feel at all sleepy now; in fact, in spite of the warmth this furnace-house would not have been a pleasant place to sleep in, for the windows on either side were open, having no glass, only iron bars, and those on one side looked over the dam, while the others were in the wall that abutted on the lane leading down to the little river. Piter had been with me all through my walk round, but, seeing me settle down, he had leaped on to the hot ashes and proceeded to curl himself up in a nice warm place, where the probabilities were that he would soon begin to cook. Piter had been corrected for this half a dozen times over, but he had to be bullied again, and leaping off the hot ashes he had lowered his tail and trotted back to his kennel, where he curled himself up. All was very still as I sat there, except that the boom and throb of the busy town where the furnaces and steam-engines were at work kept going and coming in waves of sound; and as I sat, I found myself thinking about the beauty of the steel that my uncles had set themselves to produce; and how, when a piece was snapped across, breaking like a bit of glass, the fracture looked all of a silvery bluish-grey. Then I began thinking about our tall chimney, and what an unpleasant place mine would be to sit in if there were a furious storm, and the shaft were blown down; and then, with all the intention to be watchful, I began to grow drowsy, and jumping up, walked up and down the furnace-house and round the smouldering fire, whose chimney was a great inverted funnel depending from the open roof. I grew tired of walking about and sat down again, to begin thinking once more. How far is it from thinking to sleeping and dreaming? Who can answer that question? To me it seemed that I was sitting thinking, and that as I thought there in the darkness, where I could see the fire throwing up its feeble glow on to the dim-looking open windows on either side, some great animal came softly in through the window on my left, and then disappeared for a few moments, to appear again on my right where the wall overlooked the lane. That window seemed to be darkened for a minute or two, and then became light again, while once more that on my left grew dark, and I saw the figure glide out. I seemed, as I say, to have been thinking, and as I thought it all appeared to be a dream, for it would have been impossible for any one to have crept in at one window, passing the furnace and back again without disturbing me. Yes; I told myself it was all fancy, and as I thought I told myself that I started awake, and looked sharply at first one window, and then at the other, half expecting to see someone there. "I was asleep and dreaming," I said to myself; and, starting up impatiently, I walked right out of the furnace-house across the strip of yard, and in at the door, making Piter give his stumpy tail a sharp rapping noise upon the floor of his kennel. I went on all through the grinding workshop, and listened at the end of the place to the water trickling and dripping down in the great water-floored cellar. That place had an attraction for me, and I stood listening for some minutes before walking back, thoroughly awake now. I was so used to the place that I had no need to open the lantern, but threaded my way here and there without touching a thing, and I was able to pass right through to the upper floor in the same way. Everything was correct, and Uncle Jack sleeping soundly, as I hoped to be after another hour or so's watching. I would not disturb him, but stole out again, and along the workshop to the head of the stairs, where I descended and stooped to pat Piter again before looking about the yard, and then walking slowly into the warm furnace-house. Then, after a glance at the windows where I had fancied I had seen someone creep in, I sat down in my old place enjoying the warmth, and once more the drowsy sensation crept over me. How long it was before I dropped asleep I can't tell, but, bad watchman that I was, I did drop asleep, and began dreaming about the great dam miles away up the valley; and there it seemed to me I was fishing with a long line for some of the great pike that lurked far down in the depths. As I fished my line seemed to pass over a window-sill and scraped against it, and made a noise which set me wondering how large the fish must be that was running away with it. And then I was awake, with the perspiration upon my forehead and my hands damp, listening. It was no fishing-line. I was not by the great dam up the river, but there in our own furnace-house, and something was making a strange rustling noise. For some few moments I could not tell where the noise was. There was the rustling, and it seemed straight before me. Then I knew it was there, for immediately in front on the open fire something was moving and causing a series of little nickers and sparkles in the glowing ashes. What could it be? What did it mean? I was so startled that I was ready to leap up and run out of the place, and it was some time before I could summon up courage enough to stretch out a hand, and try to touch whatever it was that moved the glowing ashes. Wire! Yes; there was no doubt of it--wire. A long thin wire stretched pretty tightly reached right across me, and evidently passed from the window overlooking the lane across the furnace and out of the window by the side of the dam. What did it mean--what was going to happen? I asked myself these questions as I bent towards the furnace, touching the wire which glided on through my hand towards the window by the dam. It was all a matter of moments, and I could feel that someone must be drawing the wire out there by the dam, though how I could not tell, for it seemed to me that there was nothing but deep water there. "Some one must have floated down the dam in a boat," I thought in a flash; but no explanation came to the next part of my question, what was it for? As I bent forward there wondering what it could mean, I began to understand that there must be some one out in the lane at the other end of the wire, and in proof of this surmise I heard a low scraping noise at the window on my right, and then a hiss as if someone had drawn his breath in between his lips. What could it mean? I was one moment for shouting, "Who's there?" the next for turning on my bull's-eye; and again the next for running and rousing up Uncle Jack. Then I thought that I would shout and call to Piter; but I felt that if I did either of these things I should lose the clue that was gliding through my hands. What could it mean? The wire, invisible to me, kept softly stirring the glowing ashes, and seemed to be visible there. Elsewhere it was lost in the black darkness about me, but I felt it plainly enough, and in my intense excitement, hundreds of yards seemed to have passed through my hand before I felt a check and in a flash knew what was intended. For, all at once, as the wire glided on, something struck against my hand gently, and raising the other it came in contact with a large canister wrapped round and round with stout soft cord. What for? I knew in an instant; I had read of such outrages, and it was to guard against them that we watched, and kept that dog. I had hold of a large canister of gunpowder, and the soft cord wrapped around it was prepared fuse. I comprehended too the horrible ingenuity of the scheme, which was to draw, by means of the wire, the canister of gunpowder on to the furnace, so that the fuse might catch fire, and that would give the miscreants who were engaged time to escape before the powder was fired and brought the chimney-shaft toppling down. For a moment I trembled and felt ready to drop the canister, and run for my life. Then I felt strong, for I knew that if I kept the canister in my hands the fuse could not touch the smouldering ashes and the plan would fail. But how to do this without being heard by the men who must be on either side of the furnace-house. It was easy enough; I had but to hold the canister high up above the fire, and pass it over till it was beyond the burning ashes and then let it continue its course to the other window. It was a great risk, not of explosion, but of being heard; but with a curious feeling of reckless excitement upon me I held up the canister, stepping softly over the ash floor, and guiding the terrible machine on till the danger was passed. Then stealing after it I climbed gently on to the broad bench beneath the clean window, and with my head just beneath it touched the wire, and waited till the canister touched my hand again. I had made no plans, but, urged on by the spirit of the moment, I seized the canister with both hands, gave it a tremendous jerk, and with my face at the window roared out: "Now, fire! Fire! Shoot 'em down!" I stood on the work-bench then, astounded at the effect of my cry. Behind me there was a jerk at the wire, which snapped, and I heard the rush of feet in the lane, while before me out from the window there came a yell, a tremendous splash, and then the sound of water being beaten, and cries for help. At the same moment Piter came rushing into the furnace house, barking furiously, and directly after there was the noise of feet on the stairs, and Uncle Jack came in. "What is it, Cob? Where's your light?" he cried. I had forgotten the lantern, but I turned it on now as I tucked the canister beneath my arm. "There's a man or two men drowning out here in the dam," I panted hoarsely; and Uncle Jack leaped on to the bench by my side. "Give me the lantern," he cried; and, taking it from my wet hands, he turned it on, held it to the open window, and made it play upon the surface of the dam. "There are two men there, swimming to the side," he cried. "Stop, you scoundrels!" he roared; but the beating noise in the water increased. One seemed to get his footing and held out his hand to his companion in distress. The next minute I saw that they had gained the stone wall at the side, over which they clambered, and from there we heard them drop down on to the gravel stones. "They're gone, Cob," said my uncle. "Shall we run after them?" I said. "It would be madness," he replied. "Down, Piter! Quiet, good dog!" "Now what's the meaning of it all?" he said after turning the light round the place. "What did you hear? Were they getting in?" "No," I said; "they were trying to draw this canister on to the fire with the wire; but I heard them and got hold of it." Uncle Jack turned the light of the bull's-eye on to the canister I held, and then turned it off again, as if there were danger of its doing some harm with the light alone, even after it had passed through glass. "Why, Cob," he said huskily, "did you get hold of that?" "Yes, I stopped it," I said, trembling now that the excitement had passed. "But was the fuse alight?" "No," I said; "they were going to draw it over the fire there, only I found it out in time." "Why, Cob," he whispered, "there's a dozen pounds of powder here wrapped round with all this fuse. Come with me to put it in a place of safety: why, it would have half-wrecked our works." "Would it?" I said. "Would it, boy! It would have been destruction, perhaps death. Cob," he whispered huskily, "ought we to go on watching?" "Oh, Uncle Jack," I said, "I suppose I am foolish because I am so young!" "Cob, my boy," he said softly; "if you had been ten times as old you could not have done better than you have done to-night. Here, let's place this dreadful canister in the water chamber: it will be safer there." "But the men; will they come again?" "Not to-night, my lad. I think we are safe for a few hours to come. But what of the future, if these blind savages will do such things as this?" CHAPTER NINE. DROWNING AN ENEMY. I did not sleep that morning, but kept watch with Uncle Jack, and as soon as the men came to work I hurried off to Mrs Stephenson's to tell the others of the night's adventures. Half an hour later they were with me at the works, where a quiet examination was made, everything being done so as not to take the attention of the work-people, who were now busy. We had first of all a good look round outside, and found that beneath the window of the furnace-house there were some half dozen great nails or spikes carefully driven into the wall, between the stones, so as to make quite a flight of steps for an active man, and across the window lay a tangled-together length of thin wire. We did not stop to draw out the nails for fear of exciting attention, but strolled back at once into the works. And now once for all, when I say _we_, please to understand that it is not out of conceit, for my share in our adventures was always very small, but to avoid uncling you all too much, and making so many repetitions of the names of Uncle Dick, Uncle Jack, and Uncle Bob. I saw several of the men look up from their work as we went through the grinding-shop, but they went on again with their task, making the blades they ground shriek as they pressed them against the swiftly revolving stones. "They must know all about it, Uncle Bob," I whispered, and he gave me a meaning look. "Yes," he said softly; "that's the worst of it, my lad. Master and man ought to shake hands and determine to fight one for the other; but, as you see, they take opposite sides, and it is war." We went next into the wheel-pit and had a look round, after which Uncle Jack spoke aloud to the man who acted as general engineer, and said he thought that the great axle wanted seeing to and fresh cleaning. The man nodded, and said gruffly that he would see to it, and then, as he turned away, I saw him wink at one of the men grinding at a stone and thrust his tongue into his cheek. Just then he caught my eye, his countenance changed, and he looked as foolish as a boy found out in some peccadillo, but the next instant he scowled at me, and his fierce dark eyes said as plainly as if they spoke: "Say a word about that and I'll half kill you." I read the threat aright, as will be seen; and, turning to follow my uncles, I saw that the man was coming on close behind me, with a look in his countenance wonderfully like that with which he was being followed by Piter, who, unobserved, was close at his heels, sniffing quietly at his legs and looking as if he would like to fix his teeth in one or the other. Seeing this I stopped back, half expecting that Piter, if left behind, might be kicked by the man's heavy clogs. The others did not notice my absence, but went on out of the grinding-shop, and the engineer came close up to me, stooping down as I waited, and putting his face close to mine. "Look here, mester," he began in a low threatening tone, "do you know what's meant by keeping thy tongue atween thy teeth?" "Yes," I cried; and in the same breath, "Mind the dog! Down, Piter! Down!" The man made a convulsive leap as he caught sight of the dog, and his intention was to alight upon the frame-work of one of the large grindstones close by his side--one that had just been set in motion, but though he jumped high enough he did not allow for the lowness of the ceiling, against which he struck his head, came down in a sitting position on the grindstone, and was instantly hurled off to the floor. This was Piter's opportunity, and with a low growl and a bound he was upon the man's chest. Another moment and he would have had him by the throat, but I caught him by the collar and dragged him off, amidst the murmur of some, and the laughter of others of the men. I did not want to look as if I was afraid, but this seemed to be a good excuse for leaving the grinding-shop, and, holding on by Piter's collar, I led him out. Just before I reached the door, though, I heard one of the men say to his neighbour--heard it plainly over the whirr and churring of the stones: "I've know'd dawgs poisoned for less than that." "What shall I do?" I asked myself as soon as I was outside; but the answer did not come. I could only think that my uncles had trouble enough on their hands, and that though it was very evident that the men at work for them were not very well affected, it was not likely that we had any one who would wilfully do us an injury. After all, too, nobody had threatened to poison the dog; it was only a remark about what had been known to happen. All this had taken but a very short time, and by the time I had joined my uncles they were just entering the office on the upper floor that looked over the dam. There were several men at work here at lathes and benches, and their tools made so much noise that they did not notice my entrance, closely followed by the dog; and so it was that I found out that they, too, must have known all about the cowardly attempt of the night, for one said to another: "Didn't expect to be at work here this morning; did you, mate?" "No," growled the man addressed; "but why can't they leave un aloan. They pay reg'lar, and they're civil." "What do you mean?" said the first speaker sharply. "You going to side wi' un! What do we want wi' a set o' inventing corckneys here!" Just then he caught sight of me, and swung round and continued his work, while I walked straight to the office door and went in, where Uncle Jack was just opening a window that looked out upon the dam. "Yes," he said, "here we are." He pointed to a sort of raft formed of a couple of planks placed about five feet apart and across which a dozen short pieces of wood had been nailed, forming a buoyant platform, on which no doubt our enemies had floated themselves down from the head of the dam, where there was a timber yard. "All plain enough now," said Uncle Jack, grinding his teeth. "Oh, if I could have had hold of those two fellows by the collar when they fell in!" "Well," said Uncle Bob, "what would you have done--drowned them?" "Not quite," said Uncle Jack; "but they would have swallowed a great deal more water than would have been good for them." "Never mind about impossible threats," said Uncle Dick. "Let's examine the powder canister now." This was taken from its resting-place during the time the men were at breakfast and carried into the office, where the dangerous weapon of our enemies was laid upon the desk and examined. It was a strong tin canister about ten inches high and six across, and bound round and round, first with strong string and afterwards loosely with some soft black-looking cord, which Uncle Dick said was fuse; and he pointed out where one end was passed through a little hole punched through the bottom of the canister, while the loosely-twisted fuse was held on by thin wire, which allowed the soft connection with the powder to hang out in loops. "Yes," said Uncle Dick; "if that is good fuse, the very fact of any part touching a spark or smouldering patch of ash would be enough to set it alight, and there is enough, I should say, to burn for a quarter of an hour before it reaches the powder. Yes, a good ten pounds of it," he added, balancing the canister in his hands. "But it may be a scare," said Uncle Bob: "done to frighten us. We don't know yet that it is powder." "Oh, we'll soon prove that," cried Uncle Jack, taking out his knife. "Uncle! Take care!" I cried in agony, for I seemed to see sparks flying from his knife, and the powder exploding and blowing us to atoms. "If you are afraid, Cob, you had better go back home," he said rather gruffly, as he cut the fuse through and tore it off, to lie in a little heap as soon as he had freed it from the wire. Then the string followed, and the canister stood upright before us on the desk. "Looks as harmless as if it were full of arrow-root or mustard," said Uncle Bob coolly. "Perhaps, after all, it is a scare." I stood there with my teeth closed tightly, determined not to show fear, even if the horrible stuff did blow up. For though there was no light in the room, and the matches were in a cupboard, I could not get out of my head the idea that the stuff _might_ explode, and it seemed terrible to me for such a dangerous machine to be handled in what appeared to be so reckless a way. "Lid fits pretty tight," said Uncle Jack, trying to screw it off. "Don't do that, old fellow," said Uncle Dick. "It would be grinding some of the dust round, and the friction might fire it." "Well, yes, it might," replied Uncle Jack. "Not likely though, and I want to examine the powder." "That's easily done, my boy. Pull that bit of fuse out of the hole, and let some of the powder trickle out." "Bravo! Man of genius," said Uncle Jack; and he drew out the plug of fuse that went through the bottom of the canister. As he did this over a sheet of paper a quantity of black grains like very coarse dry sand began to trickle out and run on to the paper, forming quite a heap, and as the powder ran Uncle Jack looked round at his brother and smiled sadly. "Not done to frighten us, eh, Bob!" he said. "If that stuff had been fired the furnace-house and chimney would have been levelled." "Why, Cob," said Uncle Dick, laying his hand affectionately upon my shoulder. "You must be a brave fellow to have hauled that away from the furnace." "I did not feel very brave just now," I said bitterly. "When Uncle Jack began to handle that tin I felt as if I must run away." "But you didn't," said Uncle Bob, smiling at me. "Is that gunpowder?" I said hastily, so as to change the conversation. "No doubt of it, my lad," said Uncle Jack, scooping it up in his hand, so that it might trickle through his fingers. "Strong blasting powder. Shall I fire some and try?" "If you like," I said sulkily, for it was, I knew, said to tease me. "Well, what's to be done, boys?" said Uncle Jack. "Are we going to lay this before the police? It is a desperate business!" "Desperate enough, but we shall do no good, and only give ourselves a great deal of trouble if we go to the law. The police might trace out one of the offenders; but if they did, what then? It would not stop the attempts to harm us. No: I'm of opinion that our safety lies in our own watchfulness. A more terrible attempt than this could not be made." "What shall we do with the powder, then?" asked Uncle Bob; "save it to hoist some of the scoundrels with their own petard?" "Oh, of course if you like," said Uncle Jack. "Fancy Bob trying to blow anybody up with gunpowder!" "When he can't even do it with his breath made into words." "Ah! Joke away," said Uncle Bob; "but I want to see you get rid of that horrible stuff." "We don't want to save it then?" said Uncle Jack. "No, no; get rid of it." "That's soon done then," said Uncle Jack, tying a piece of the cord round the canister; and, going to the open window, he lowered it down over the deep water in the dam, where it sank like a stone, and drew the cord after it out of sight. "There," he cried, "that will soon be so soaked with water that it will be spoiled." "Who's that," I said, "on the other side of the dam? He's watching us." "Squintum the grinder. What's his name--Griggs. Yes, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if that scoundrel had a hand--" "Both hands," put in Uncle Bob. "Well, both hands in this ugly business." "But couldn't you prove it against him?" I said. "No, my lad," said Uncle Jack; "and I don't know that we want to. Wretched misguided lumps of ignorance. I don't want to help to transport the villains." We had drawn back from the window to where there was still a little heap of powder on the desk as well as the fuse. "Come, Bob," said Uncle Jack; "you may not be quite convinced yet, so I'll show you an experiment." He took about a teaspoonful of the powder, and placed it in a short piece of iron pipe which he laid on the window-sill, and then taking the rest of the explosive, he gave it a jerk and scattered it over the water. Then taking about a yard of the black soft cord that he said was fuse, he tucked one end in the pipe so that it should rest upon the powder, laid the rest along the window-sill, and asked me to get the matches. "Now," he said, "if that's what I think--cleverly made fuse, and good strong powder--we shall soon see on a small scale what it would have done on a large. Strike a match, Cob." I did as I was told, feeling as if I was going to let off a very interesting firework, and as soon as the splint was well alight I was about to hold the little flame to the end of the fuse, but Uncle Jack stopped me. "No," he said, "I want to see if a spark would have lit it. I mean I want to see if just drawing the canister over the remains of the furnace-fire would have started the fuse. That's it, now just touch the end quickly with the match." There was only a little spark on the wood, and no flame, as I touched the side of the fuse. The effect was instantaneous. The soft black-looking cord burst into scintillations, tiny sparks flew off on all sides, and a dull fire began to burn slowly along the fuse. "Capitally made," said Uncle Jack. "That would have given the scoundrels plenty of warning that the work was well done, and they would have been able to get to a distance before the explosion took place." "And now we shall see whether the powder is good," said Uncle Dick. "But how slowly it burns!" said Uncle Bob. "But how surely," I had it on my lips to say. I did not speak though, for I was intently watching the progress of the sparks as they ran along the fuse slowly and steadily; and as I gazed I seemed to see what would have gone on in the great dark building if I had not been awakened by the scraping sound of the canister being hauled over bench and floor. I shuddered as I watched intently, for the fuse seemed as if it would never burn through, and even when, after what in my excitement seemed a long space of time, it did reach the iron pipe, though a few sparks came from inside, the powder did not explode. "Uncle Bob's right!" I cried with an intense feeling of relief; "that was not powder, and they only tried to frighten us." _Puff_! There was a sharp flash from each end of the iron tube, and one little ball of white smoke came into the office, while another darted out into the sunny morning air. "Wrong, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "Splendidly-made fuse and tremendously-strong powder. We have had a very narrow escape. Now, lads, what's to be done?" "What do you say, Jack?" said Uncle Dick. "Do our duty--be always on the watch--fight it out." "That's settled," said Uncle Dick. "Now let's get to work again. Cob, you can come and see us cast some steel ingots if you like." "Cast!" I said. "Yes, cast. You know what that is?" "Yes, of course." "But you never saw it liquid so that it could be poured out like water." "No," I said, as I followed him, wondering whether I had not better tell him that I had overheard a strange remark about poisoning a dog, and ask if he thought there was any risk about Piter, who seemed to grow much uglier every day, and yet I liked him better. The end of it was that I saw the steel lifted out of the furnace in crucibles and poured forth like golden-silver water into charcoal moulds, but I did not speak about the dog. CHAPTER TEN. "'NIGHT, MATE." As it happened, Mr Tomplin came in that evening, and when he asked how matters were progressing at the works, Uncle Dick looked round and seemed to be asking his brothers whether he should speak. "Ah! I see," said Mr Tomplin; "they have been up to some tricks with you." "Tricks is a mild term," said Uncle Jack bitterly. "They have not tried to blow you up?" "Indeed but they did!" said Uncle Jack fiercely; "and if it had not been for the coolness and bravery of my nephew there the place would have been destroyed." "Tut! Tut! Tut!" ejaculated Mr Tomplin; and putting on his spectacles he stared at me in the most provoking way, making me feel as if I should like to knock his glasses off. "Is it customary for your people here to fire canisters of gunpowder in the workshops of those who are newcomers?" "Sometimes," said Mr Tomplin coolly. "But such things would destroy life." "Well, not always life, my dear sir," said Mr Tomplin, "but very often great bodily injury is done." "Very often?" "Well, no, not very often now, but we have had a great many trade outrages in our time." "But what have we done beyond taking possession of a building for which we have paid a large sum of money?" "It is not what you have done, my dear sirs; it is what you are about to do. The work-people have got it into their heads that you are going to invent some kind of machinery that will throw them out of work." "Nothing of the kind, my dear sir. We are trying to perfect an invention that will bring a vast deal of trade to Arrowfield." "But you will not be able to make them believe that till the business comes." "And before then, I suppose, we are to be killed?" Mr Tomplin looked very serious, and stared hard at me, as if it was all my fault. "My dear sirs," he said at last, "I hardly know how to advise you. It is a most unthankful task to try and invent anything, especially down here. People are so blindly obstinate and wilful that they will not listen to reason. Why not go steadily on with manufacturing in the regular way? What do you say, my young friend?" he added, turning to me. "Why not ask the world to stand still, sir?" I exclaimed impetuously. "I say it's a shame!" He looked very hard at me, and then pursed up his lips, while I felt that I had been speaking very rudely to him, and could only apologise to myself by thinking that irritation was allowable, for only last night we had been nearly blown up. "Would you put the matter in the hands of the police?" said Uncle Dick. "Well, you might," said Mr Tomplin. "But you would not," said Uncle Bob. "No, I don't think I should, if it were my case. I should commence an action for damages if I could find an enemy who had any money, but it is of no use fighting men of straw." Mr Tomplin soon after went away, and I looked at my uncles, wondering what they would say. But as they did not speak I broke out with: "Why, he seemed to think nothing of it." "Custom of the country," said Uncle Bob, laughing. "Come, Dick, it's our turn now." "Right!" said Uncle Dick; but Uncle Jack laid hold of his shoulder. "Look here," he said. "I don't like the idea of you two going down there." "No worse for us than for you," said Uncle Bob. "Perhaps not, but the risk seems too great." "Never mind," said Uncle Dick. "I'm not going to be beaten. It's war to the knife, and I'm not going to give up." "They are not likely to try anything to-night," said Uncle Bob. "There, you two can walk down with us and look round to see if everything is all right and then come back." "Don't you think you ought to have pistols?" said Uncle Jack. "No," replied Uncle Dick firmly. "We have our sticks, and the dog, and we'll do our best with them. If a pistol is used it may mean the destruction of a life, and I would rather give up our adventure than have blood upon our hands." "Yes, you are right," said Uncle Jack. "If bodily injury or destruction is done let them have the disgrace on their side." We started off directly, and I could not help noticing how people kept staring at my uncles. It was not the respectably-dressed people so much as the rough workmen, who were hanging about with their pipes, or standing outside the public-house doors. These scowled and talked to one another in a way that I did not like, and more than once I drew Uncle Dick's attention to it, but he only smiled. "We're strangers," he said. "They'll get used to us by and by." There was not a soul near the works as we walked up to the gate and were saluted with a furious fit of barking from Piter, who did not know our steps till the key was rattled in the gate. Then he stopped at once and gave himself a shake and whined. It was growing dusk as we walked round the yard, to find everything quite as it should be. A look upstairs and down showed nothing suspicious; and after a few words regarding keeping a sharp look-out and the like we left the watchers of the night and walked back. "Cob," said Uncle Jack as we sat over our supper, "I don't like those two poor fellows being left there by themselves." "Neither do I, uncle," I said. "Why not give up watching the place and let it take its chance?" "Because we had such an example of the safety of the place and the needlessness of the task?" "Don't be hard on me, uncle," I said quickly. "I meant that it would be better to suffer serious loss than to have someone badly injured in defending the place." "You're right, Cob--quite right," cried Uncle Jack, slapping the table. "Here, you make me feel like a boy. I believe you were born when you were an old man." "Nonsense!" I said, laughing. "But you don't talk nonsense, sir. What are you--a fairy changeling? Here, let's go down to the works." "Go down?" I said. "To be sure. I couldn't go to bed to-night and sleep. I should be thinking that those two poor fellows were being blown up, or knob-sticked, or turned out. We'll have them back and leave Piter to take care of the works, and give him a rise in his wages." "Of an extra piece of meat every day, uncle?" "If you had waited a few minutes longer, sir, I should have said that," he replied, laughing; and taking his hat and stick we went down the town, talking about the curious vibrations and throbbings we could hear; of the heavy rumbling and the flash and glow that came from the different works. Some were so lit up that it seemed as if the windows were fiery eyes staring out of the darkness, and more than once we stopped to gaze in at some cranny where furnaces were kept going night and day and the work never seemed to stop. As we left the steam-engine part behind, the solitary stillness of our district seemed to be more evident; and though we passed one policeman, I could not help thinking how very little help we should be able to find in a case of great emergency. Uncle Jack had chatted away freely enough as we went on; but as we drew nearer to the works he became more and more silent, and when we had reached the lane he had not spoken for fully ten minutes. Eleven o'clock was striking and all seemed very still. Not a light was visible on that side, and the neighbouring works were apparently quite empty as we stood and listened. "Let's walk along by the side of the dam, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "I don't suppose we shall see anything, but let's have a look how the place seems by night." I followed close behind him, and we passed under the one gas lamp that showed the danger of the path to anyone going along; for in the darkness there was nothing to prevent a person from walking right into the black dam, which looked quite beautiful and countrified now, spangled all over, as it was, with the reflections of the stars. I was going to speak, but Uncle Jack raised his hand for me to be silent, and I crept closer to him, wondering what reason he had for stopping me; and then he turned and caught my arm, for we had reached the end of the dam where it communicated with the river. Just then two men approached, and one said to the other: "Tell 'ee, they changes every night. Sometimes it's one and the boy, sometimes two on 'em together. The boy was there last night, and-- Hullo! 'Night, mate!" "'Night!" growled Uncle Jack in an assumed voice as he slouched down and gave me a shake. "Coom on, wilt ta!" he said hoarsely; and I followed him without a word. "I tried it, Cob," he whispered as we listened to the retreating steps of the men. "I don't think they knew us in the dark." "They were talking about us," I said. "Yes; that made me attempt to disguise my voice. Here, let's get back. Hark! There's the dog. Quick! Something may be wrong." We set off at a trot in the direction that the men had taken, but we did not pass them, for they had gone down to their right; but there was no doubt existing that the affairs at the works were well known and that we were surrounded by enemies; and perhaps some of them were busy now, for Jupiter kept on his furious challenge, mingling it with an angry growl, that told of something being wrong. CHAPTER ELEVEN. PANNELL'S PET. "Who's there?" "All right--open the door! Cob and I have come down to see how you are getting on," said Uncle Jack. The gate was unlocked and a stout iron bar that had been added to the defences taken down. "Why, what brings you two here?" cried Uncle Dick. "What's the matter?" "That's what we want to know. How long has the dog been uneasy?" "For the past hour. I had gone to lie down; Bob was watchman. All at once Piter began barking furiously, and I got up directly." "Let's have another look round," said Uncle Jack. "Here, Piter!" I cried; "what's the matter, old fellow?" The dog whined and laid his great jowl in my hand, blinking up at me and trying to make his savage grin seem to be a pleasant smile; but all at once he started away, threw up his head, and barked again angrily. "What is it, old fellow?" I said. "Here, show us them. What is it?" Piter looked at me, whined, and then barked again angrily as if there was something very wrong indeed; but he could only smell it in the air. What it was or where it was he did not seem to know. We had a good look round, searching everywhere, and not without a great deal of trepidation; for after the past night's experience with the powder it was impossible to help feeling nervous. That's what Uncle Jack called it. I felt in a regular fright. "Everything seems quite satisfactory," Uncle Jack was fain to say at last. And then, "Look here, boys," he cried, "Cob and I have been talking this matter over, and we say that the works must take care of themselves. You two have to come back with us." "What! And leave the place to its fate?" said Uncle Dick. "Yes. Better do that than any mishap should come to you." "What do you say, Bob?" "I've a very great objection to being blown up, knocked on the head, or burned," said Uncle Bob quietly. "It's just so with a soldier; he does not want to be shot, bayoneted, or sabred, but he has to take his chance. I'm going to take mine." "So am I," said Uncle Dick. "But, my dear boys--" "There, it's of no use; is it, Bob?" cried Uncle Dick. "If we give way he'll always be bouncing over us about how he kept watch and we daren't." "Nonsense!" cried Uncle Jack. "Well, if you didn't," said Uncle Bob, "that cocky consequential small man of a boy, Cob, will be always going about with his nose in the air and sneering. I shall stay." "Then we will stay with you." My uncles opposed this plan, but Uncle Jack declared that he could not sleep if he went back; so the others gave in and we stayed, taking two hours turns, and the night passed slowly by. Every now and then Piter had an uneasy fit, bursting out into a tremendous series of barks and howls, but there seemed to be no reason for the outcry. He was worst during the watch kept by Uncle Jack and me after we had had a good sleep, and there was something very pathetic in the way the poor dog looked at us, as much as to say, "I wish I could speak and put you on your guard." But the night passed without any trouble; the men came in to their work, and with the darkness the fear seemed to have passed away. For there in the warm sunshine the water of the dam was dancing and sparkling, the great wheel went round, and inside the works the grindstones were whizzing and the steel being ground was screeching. Bellows puffed, and fires roared, and there was the _clink clank_ of hammers sounding musically upon the anvils, as the men forged blades out of the improved steel my uncles were trying to perfect. Business was increasing, and matters went so smoothly during the next fortnight that our troubles seemed to be at an end. In one week six fresh men were engaged, and after the sluggish times in London, where for a couple of years past business had been gradually dying off, everything seemed to be most encouraging. Some of the men engaged were queer characters. One was a great swarthy giant with hardly any face visible for black hair, and to look at he seemed fit for a bandit, but to talk to he was one of the most gentle and amiable of men. He was a smith, and when he was at the anvil he used almost to startle me, he handled a heavy hammer so violently. I often stood at the door watching him seize a piece of steel with the tongs, whisk it out of the forge with a flourish that sent the white-hot scintillations flying through the place, bang it down on the anvil, and then beat it savagely into the required shape. Then he would thrust it into the fire again, begin blowing the bellows with one hand and stroke a kitten that he kept at the works with his unoccupied hand, talking to it all the time in a little squeaking voice like a boy's. He was very fond of swinging the sparkling and sputtering steel about my head whenever I went in, but he was always civil, and the less I heeded his queer ways the more civil he became. There was a grinder, too, taken on at the same time, a short round-looking man, with plump cheeks, and small eyes which were often mere slits in his face. He had a little soft nose, too, that looked like a plump thumb, and moved up and down and to right and left when he was intent upon his work. He was the best-tempered man in the works, and seemed to me as if he was always laughing and showing his two rows of firm white teeth. I somehow quite struck up an acquaintance with these two men, for while the others looked askant at me and treated me as if I were my uncle's spy, sent into the works to see how the men kept on, Pannell the smith and Gentles the grinder were always ready to be civil. My friendliness with Pannell began one morning when I had caught a mouse up in the office overlooking the dam, where I spent most of my time making drawings and models with Uncle Bob. This mouse I took down as a _bonne bouche_ for Pannell's kitten, and as soon as he saw the little creature seize it and begin to spit and swear, he rested upon his hammer handle and stopped to watch it. Next time I went into the smithy he did not flourish the white-hot steel round my head, but gave it a flourish in another direction, banged it down upon the anvil, and in a very short time had turned it into the blade of a small hand-bill. "You couldn't do that," he said smiling, as he cooled the piece of steel and threw it down on the floor before taking out another. "Not like that," I said. "I could do it roughly." "Yah! Not you," he said. "Try." I was only too eager, and seizing the pincers I took out one of the glowing pieces of steel lying ready, laid it upon the anvil and beat it into shape, forming a rough imitation of the work I had been watching, but with twice as many strokes, taking twice as long, and producing work not half so good. When I had done he picked up the implement, turned it over and over, looked at me, threw it down, and then went and stroked his kitten, staring straight before him. "Why, I couldn't ha' done a bit o' forging like that when I'd been at it fower year," he said in his high-pitched voice. "But my uncles have often shown me how," I said. "What! Can they forge?" he said, staring very hard at me. "Oh, yes, as well as you can!" He blew hard at the kitten and then shook his head in a dissatisfied way, after which it seemed as if I had offended him, for he seized his hammer and pincers and began working away very hard, finishing a couple of the steel bill-hooks before he spoke again. "Which on 'em 'vented this here contrapshion?" he said, pointing to an iron bar, by touching which he could direct a blast of air into his fire without having the need of a man or boy to blow. "Uncle John," I said. "What! Him wi' the biggest head?" I nodded. "Yes; he said that with the water-wheel going it was easy to contrive a way to blow the fires." "Humph! Can he forge a bill-hook or a scythe blade?" "Oh, yes!" "Who's 'venting the noo steel?" "Oh, they are all helping! It was Uncle Richard who first started it." "Oh, Uncle Richard, was it?" he said thoughtfully. "Well, it won't niver do." "Why?" "Snap a two, and never bear no edge." "Who says so?" "Traade," he cried. "Steel was good enough as it weer." Just then, as luck had it, Uncle Jack came into the smithy, and stood and watched the man as he scowled heavily and flourished out the hot steel as if he resented being watched. "You are not forging those hand-bills according to pattern, my man," said Uncle Jack, as he saw one finished, Pannell beating the steel with savage vehemence, and seeming as if he wished it were Uncle Jack's head. "That's way to forge a hand-bill," said the man sourly. "Your way," said Uncle Jack quietly. "Not mine. I gave you a pattern. These are being made of a new steel." "Good for nought," said the man; but Uncle Jack paid no heed, assuming not to have heard the remark. "And I want them to look different to other people's." "Do it yoursen then," said the great fellow savagely; and he threw down the hammer and pincers. "Yes, perhaps I had better," said Uncle Jack, rolling up his white shirt-sleeves, after taking off his coat and throwing it to me. I saw Pannell glower at the pure white skin that covered great muscles as big and hard as his own, while, after unhooking a leather apron from where it hung, the lever was touched, the fire roared, and at last Uncle Jack brought out a piece of white-hot steel, banged it on the anvil, and rapidly beat it into shape. Every stroke had its object, and not one unnecessary blow fell, while in a short time he held in the water, which hissed angrily, a hand-bill that was beautifully made, and possessed a graceful curve and hook that the others wanted. "There," said Uncle Jack. "That's how I want them made." The man's face was set in a savage vindictive look, full of jealous annoyance, at seeing a well-dressed gentleman strip and use the smith's hammer and pincers better than he could have used them himself. "Make me one now after that pattern," said Uncle Jack. It seemed to me that the giant was going to tear off his leather apron furiously and stride out of the place; but just then Uncle Jack stretched out his great strong hand and lifted up Pannell's kitten, which had sprung upon the forge and was about to set its little paws on the hot cinders. "Poor pussy!" he said, standing it in one hand and stroking it with the other. "You mustn't burn those little paws and singe that coat. Is this the one that had the mouse, Cob?" Just as I answered, "Yes," I saw the great smith change his aspect, pick up the still hot hand-bill that Uncle Jack had forged, stare hard at it on both sides, and then, throwing it down, he seized the pincers in one hand, the forge shovel in the other, turned on the blast and made the fire glow, and at last whisked out a piece of white-hot steel. This he in turn banged down on the anvil--_stithy_ he called it--and beat into shape. It was not done so skilfully as Uncle Jack had forged his, but the work was good and quick, and when he had done, the man cooled it and held it out with all the rough independence of the north-countryman. "Suppose that may do, mester," he said, and he stared at where Uncle Jack still stroked the kitten, which made a platform of his broad palm, and purred and rubbed itself against his chest. "Capitally!" said Uncle Jack, setting down the kitten gently. "Yes; I wouldn't wish to see better work." "Aw raight!" said Pannell; and he went on with his work, while Uncle Jack and I walked across the yard to the office. "We shall get all right with the men by degrees, Cob," he said. "That fellow was going to be nasty, but he smoothed himself down. You see now the use of a master being able to show his men how to handle their tools." "Yes," I said, laughing; "but that was not all. Pannell would have gone if it had not been for one thing." "What was that?" he said. "You began petting his kitten, and that made him friends." I often used to go into the smithy when Pannell was at work after that, and now and then handled his tools, and he showed me how to use them more skilfully, so that we were pretty good friends, and he never treated me as if I were a spy. The greater part of the other men did, and no matter how civil I was they showed their dislike by having accidents as they called them, and these accidents always happened when I was standing by and at no other time. For instance a lot of water would be splashed, so that some fell upon me; a jet of sparks from a grindstone would flash out in my face as I went past; the band of a stone would be loosened, so that it flapped against me and knocked off my cap. Then pieces of iron fell, or were thrown, no one knew which, though they knew where, for the place was generally on or close by my unfortunate body. I was in the habit of frequently going to look down in the wheel chamber or pit, and one day, as I stepped on to the threshold, my feet glided from under me, and, but for my activity in catching at and hanging by the iron bar that crossed the way I should have plunged headlong in. There seemed to be no reason for such a slip, but the men laughed brutally, and when I looked I found that the sill had been well smeared with fat. There was the one man in the grinders' shop, though, whom I have mentioned, and who never seemed to side with his fellow workers, but looked half pityingly at me whenever I seemed to be in trouble. I went into the grinding-shop one morning, where all was noise and din, the wheels spinning and the steel shrieking as it was being ground, when all at once a quantity of water such as might have been thrown from a pint pot came all over me. I turned round sharply, but every one was at work except the stout grinder, who, with a look of disgust on his face, stood wiping his neck with a blue cotton handkerchief, and then one cheek. "Any on it come on you, mester?" he said. "Any come on me!" I cried indignantly--"look." "It be a shaam--a reg'lar shaam," he said slowly; "and I'd like to know who throwed that watter. Here, let me." He came from his bench, or horse as the grinders call their seat, and kindly enough brushed the water away from my jacket with his handkerchief. "Don't tak' no notice of it," he said. "They're nobbut a set o' fullish boys as plays they tricks, and if you tell on 'em they'll give it to you worse." I took his advice, and said nothing then, but naturally enough, spoke to my uncles about it when we were alone at night. "Never mind," said Uncle Dick. "I daresay we shall get the fellows to understand in time that we are their friends and not their enemies." "Yes," said Uncle Jack; "they are better. I dare say it will all come right in time." It was soon after this that I went into the grinding-shop one day while the men were at dinner, and going to the door that opened into the wheel chamber, which always had a fascination for me, I stood gazing down into its depths and listening to the splashing water. "Iver try to ketch any o' them long eels, Mester Jacob?" said a familiar voice; and, starting and looking back, I saw that Gentles, the fat little grinder, was sitting down close to his wet grindstone eating his dinner, and cutting it with a newly ground knife blade forged out of our new steel. "Eels, Gentles!" I said. "I didn't know there were any there." "Oh, but there are," he said; "straange big 'uns. You set a line with a big bait on, and you'll soon hev one." "What, down there by the wheel?" "Ay, or oop i' the dam. Plenty o' eels, lad, theer." "I'll have a try," I said eagerly, for the idea of catching one or two of the creatures was attractive. From that I got talking to the man about his work, and he promised to let me have a few turns at grinding. "On'y, what am I to say if thee coots theesen?" he cried with a chuckle. "Oh, but you'll show me how to do it without!" I said laughing. "Nay, but what's good o' thee wanting to grind? Want to tak' work out o' poor men's hands?" "Nonsense!" I cried angrily. "Why, Gentles, you know better than that. All I want is to understand thoroughly how it is done, so that I can talk to the men about their work, and show them if it isn't right." "Oh!" he said in a curious tone of voice. "Well, you coom any time when watter-wheel's going, and I'll show thee all that I know. 'Tain't much. Keeps men fro' starving." "Why, Gentles," I cried; "you drew three pounds five last week, and I saw you paid." "Three pun' five! Did I?" he said. "Ah, but that was a partic'lar good week. I've got a missus and a lot o' bairns to keep, and times is very bad, mester." "I'm sorry for it," I said; and I went away and had a look in the books as soon as I reached the office, to find that Master Gentles never drew less than three pounds a-week; but I did not remind him of it, and during the next few days he very civilly showed me how his work was done--that is, the knack of holding and turning the blades, so that I rapidly acquired the way, and was too busy to notice the peculiar looks I received from the other men. Of course I know how that I was a mere bungler, and clumsy, and slow in the extreme; but at the time I felt as if I must be very clever, and there was something very satisfactory in seeing a blackened hammered blade fresh from the forge turn bright and clean in my hands, while the edge grew sharp and even. It was playing with edged tools with a vengeance, but I did not understand it then. CHAPTER TWELVE. PANNELL'S SECRET. Every day the works grew more busy, and prosperity seemed to be coming upon us like sunshine. The men worked steadily and well, and the old opposition had apparently died out; but all the same the watching was kept up as regularly as if it was during war time, though, saving an occasional burst of barking from Piter, who used to have these fits apparently without cause, there was nothing to alarm the watchers. It was my turn at home, and I was up early the next morning, wondering how Uncle Jack and Uncle Bob had got on during the night, when I came down and found Mrs Stephenson and Martha the maid enjoying themselves. Their way of enjoying themselves was peculiar, but that it afforded them pleasure there could be no doubt. It might have been considered a religious ceremony, but though there was a kind of worship or adoration about it, there was nothing religious in the matter at all. What they did was this:--To mix up a certain quantity of black-lead in a little pie-dish, and then kneel down before a stove, and work and slave at it till there was a tremendous gloss all over the iron. In effecting this Mrs Stephenson used to get a little smudgy, but Martha seemed to have an itching nose which always itched most on these occasions, and as you watched her you saw her give six scrubs at the grate with the front of the brush, and then one rub with the back on her face or nose. This act must have been pleasant, for as she bent down and scrubbed she frowned, as she sat up and rubbed her nose with the back of the brush she smiled. Now if Martha had confined her rubs to her nose it would not have much mattered, but in rubbing her nose she also rubbed her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, and the consequence was a great waste of black-lead, and her personal appearance was not improved. I was standing watching the black-leading business, an affection from which most north-country people suffer very badly, when Uncle Jack came hurrying in, looking hot and excited. "Where's Dick?" he cried. "In his room drawing plans," I cried. "What's the matter? Is Uncle Bob hurt?" "No, not a bit!" "Then Piter is?" "No, no, no. Here, Dick!" he shouted up the stairs. There was a sound on the upper floor as if some one had just woke an elephant, and Uncle Dick came lumbering down. "What's wrong?" he cried. Uncle Jack glanced round and saw that Mrs Stephenson was looking up from where she knelt in the front room, with her eyes and mouth wide open as the door, and Martha was slowly rubbing her nose with the black-lead brush and waiting for him to speak. "Put on your hat and come down to the works," he said. We moved by one impulse into the passage, and as we reached the door Mrs Stephenson cried: "Brackfass won't be long;" and then the sound of black-leading went on. "Now, then," said Uncle Dick as we reached the street, "what is it? Anything very wrong?" "Terribly," said Uncle Jack. "Well, what is it? Why don't you speak?" "Come and see for yourself," said Uncle Jack bitterly. "I thought matters were smoothing down, but they are getting worse, and I feel sometimes that we might as well give up as carry on this unequal war." "No: don't give up, Uncle Jack," I cried. "Let's fight the cowards." "Bring them into the yard then so that we can fight them," he cried angrily. "The cowardly back-stabbers; sneaks in the dark. I couldn't have believed that such things could go on in England." "Well, but we had heard something about what the Arrowfield men could do, and we knew about how in the Lancashire district the work-people used to smash new machinery." "There, wait till you've seen what has happened," cried Uncle Jack angrily. "You've just risen after a night's rest. I've come to you after a night's watching, and you and I feel differently about the same thing." Very little more was said before we reached the works, where the first thing I saw was a group of men round the gate, talking together with their hands in their pockets. Gentles was among them, smoking a short black pipe, and he shut his eyes at me as we passed, which was his way of bestowing upon me a smile. When we passed through the gate the men followed as if we were a set of doctors about to put something right for them, and as if they had been waiting for us to come. Uncle Bob was standing by the door as we came across the yard, and as soon as we reached him he turned in and we followed. There was no occasion for him to speak; he just walked along the great workshop, pointing to right and left, and we saw at once why the men were idling about. Few people who read this will have any difficulty in understanding what wheel-bands are. They used to be very common in the streets, joining the wheels of the knife-grinders' barrows, and now in almost every house they are seen in the domestic treadle sewing-machine. Similar to these, but varying in size, are the bands in a factory. They may be broad flat leather straps of great weight and size, formed by sewing many lengths together, or they may be string-like cords of twisted catgut. They all come under the same name, and there were scores in our works connecting the shaft wheels of the main shaft turned by the water-power with the grindstones of the lower floor and the lathes and polishers of the upper. By these connections wheel, stone, and chuck were set spinning-round. Without them everything was at a stand-still. As we walked down between the grindstones it was plain enough to see-- every wheel-band had been cut. It was the same upstairs--broad bands and cords all had been divided with a sharp knife, and Uncle Bob held a piece of whetstone in his hand which had been thrown down by the door, evidently after being used by the miscreant who had done this cowardly trick. As we went upstairs and saw the mischief there the men followed us like a flock of sheep, waiting to see what we should do, for they were perforce idle. Only the smiths could work, for by accident or oversight the band which connected the shaft with the blowing apparatus had escaped, and as we stood there by the office door we could hear the _clink clink_ of the hammers upon the anvils and the pleasant roar of each forge. "Hallo! What's this?" cried Uncle Jack as he caught sight of something white on the office door, which proved to be a letter stuck on there by a common wooden-handled shoemakers' knife having been driven right through it. "I did not see that before," said Uncle Bob excitedly. "No, because it was not there," said Uncle Jack. "I should have seen it if it had been there when I came out of the office first." "And _I_ am sure that I should have seen it," said Uncle Bob. The letter was opened and read by Uncle Jack, who passed it on to his brothers. They read it in turn, and it was handed to me, when I read as follows: "_This hear's the nif as coot them weel-bans. Stope makhin noo kine steel, or be strang and bad for wurks_." "Come in the office and let's talk it over," said Uncle Bob. "This must have been placed here by someone in the works." "Yes," said Uncle Jack bitterly. "It is plain enough: the wheel-bands have been cut by one of the men who get their living by us, and who take our pay." "And you see the scoundrel who wrote that letter threatens worse treatment if we do not give up making the new silver steel." "Yes," said Uncle Jack sternly as he turned to Uncle Dick; "what do you mean to do?" "Begin a fresh batch to-day, and let the men know it is being done. Here, let's show them that we can be as obstinate as they." Then aloud as we approached the men where they had grouped together, talking about the "cooten bands," as they termed it. "You go at once to the machinist's and get a couple of men sent on to repair such of these bands as they can, and put new ones where they are shortened too much by the mending." Uncle Bob smiled at once. "Look here," said Uncle Dick sharply, "some of you men can make shift by tying or binding your bands till they are properly done." "Ay, mester," came in a growl, and shortly after the sound of steel being ground upon the sharply-spinning stones was heard. An hour later a couple of men were fitting bands to some of the wheels, and mending others by lacing them together. I was standing watching them as they fitted a new band to Gentles' wheel, while he stood with his bared arms folded, very eager to begin work again. "Ain't it a cruel shaame?" he whispered. "Here's me, a poor chap paid by the piece, and this morning half gone as you may say. This job's a couple o' loaves out o' my house." He wiped a tear out of the corner of each half-closed eye as he stared at me in a miserable helpless kind of way, and somehow he made me feel so annoyed with him that I felt as if I should like to slap his fat face and then kick him. I went away very much exasperated and glad to get out of the reach of temptation, leaving my uncles busily superintending the fitting of the bands, and helping where they could do anything to start a man on again with his work. And all the time they seemed to make very light of the trouble, caring for nothing but getting the men started again. I went down into the smithy, where Pannell was at work, and as I entered the place he looked for a moment from the glowing steel he was hammering into a shape, to which it yielded as if it had been so much tough wax, and then went on again as if I had not been there. His kitten was a little more friendly, though, for it ran from the brickwork of the forge, leaped on to a bench behind me, and bounded from that on to my back, and crept to my shoulder, where it could rub its head against my ear. "Well, Pannell," I said, "you've heard about the cowardly trick done in the shops?" "Ay, I heered on't," he cried, as he battered away at the steel on his anvil. "Who did it?" "Did it!" he cried, nipping the cherry-red steel in a fresh place and thrusting it back in the fire. "Don't they know? Didn't they hear in the night?" "No," I said; "they heard nothing, not a sound. The dog did not even bark, they say." "Would he bite a man hard?" "He'd almost eat a man if he attacked him." "Ay, he looks it," said Pannell, patting the black coal-dust down over a glowing spot. "Well, who do you think did it?" I said. "Someone as come over the wall, I s'pose; but you'd better not talk about it." "But I like to talk about it," I said. "Oh, I should like to find out who it was! It was someone here." "Here!" he cried, whisking out the steel. "Yes, the sneaking, blackguardly, cowardly hound!" I cried. "Hush!" he whispered sharply; "some one may hear again." I stared at the great swarthy fellow, for he looked sallow and seared, and it seemed, so strange to me that, while I only felt annoyance, he should be alarmed. "Why, Pannell," I cried, "what's the matter?" "Best keep a still tongue," he said in a whisper. "You never know who may hear you." "I don't care who hears me. It was a coward and a scoundrel who cut our bands, and I should like to tell him so to his face." "Howd thee tongue, I say," he cried, hammering away at his anvil, to drown my words in noise. "What did I tell thee?" "That some one might hear me. Well, let him. Why, Pannell, you look as if you had done it yourself. It wasn't you, was it?" He turned upon me quite fiercely, hammer in hand, making me think about Wat Tyler and the tax-gatherer; but he did not strike me: he brought his hammer down upon the anvil with a loud clang. "Nay," he said; "I nivver touched no bands. It warn't my wuck." "Well, I never thought it was," I said. "You don't look the sort of man who would be a coward." "Oh, that's what you think, is it, lad?" "Yes," I said, seating myself on the bench and stroking the kitten. "A blacksmith always seems to me to be a bold manly straightforward man, who would fight his enemy fairly face to face, and not go in the dark and stab him." "Ah!" he said; "but I arn't a blacksmith, I'm a white-smith, and work in steel." "It's much the same," I said thoughtfully; and then, looking him full in the face: "No, Pannell, I don't think you cut the bands, but I feel pretty sure you know who did." The man's jaw dropped, and he looked quite paralysed for a moment or two. Then half recovering himself he plunged his tongs into the fire, pulled out a sputtering white piece of glowing steel, gave it his regular whirl through the air like a firework, and, instead of banging it on to the anvil, plunged it with a fierce toss into the iron water-trough, and quenched it. "Why, Pannell!" I cried, "what made you do that?" He scratched his head with the hand that held the hammer, and stared at me for a few moments, and then down at the black steel that he had taken dripping from the trough. "Dunno," he said hoarsely, "dunno, lad." "I do," I said to myself as I set down the kitten and went back to join my uncles, who were in consultation in the office. They stopped short as I entered, and Uncle Bob turned to me. "Well, Philosopher Cob," he said, "what do you say? Who did this cowardly act--was it someone in the neighbourhood, or one of our own men?" "Yes, who was it?" said Uncle Dick. "We are all divided in our opinions," said Uncle Jack. "One of our own men," I said; "and Pannell the smith knows who it was." "And will he tell?" "No. I think the men are like schoolboys in that. No one would speak for fear of being thought a sneak." "Yes," said Uncle Dick, "and not only that; in these trades-unions the men are all bound together, as it were, and the one who betrayed the others' secrets would be in peril of his life." "How are we to find out who is the scoundrel?" I said. Uncle Dick shook his head, and did what he always found to be the most satisfactory thing in these cases, set to work as hard as he could, and Uncles Jack and Bob followed his example. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. ONLY A GLASS OF WATER. The keeping watch of a night had now grown into a regular business habit, and though we discovered nothing, the feeling was always upon us that if we relaxed our watchfulness for a few hours something would happen. The paper stuck on the door was not forgotten by my uncles, but the men went on just as usual, and the workshops were as busy as ever, and after a good deal of drawing and experimenting Uncle Dick or Uncle Jack kept producing designs for knives or tools to be worked up out of the new steel. "But," said I one day, "I don't see that this reaping-hook will be any better than the old-fashioned one." "The steel is better and will keep sharp longer, my lad, but people would not believe that it was in the slightest degree different, unless they had something to see," said Uncle Dick. So the men were set to forge and grind the different shaped tools and implements that were designed, and I often heard them laughing and jeering at what they called the "contrapshions." My turn came round to keep the morning watch about a week after the new bands had been fitted. Uncle Bob had been on guard during the night, and just as I was comfortably dreaming of a pleasant country excursion I was awakened by a cheery, "Tumble up, Tumble up!" I sat up confused and drowsy, but that soon passed off as Uncle Bob laughingly told me, in sham nautical parlance, that all was well on deck; weather hazy, and no rocks ahead as far as he knew. "Oh," I said yawning, "I do wish all this watching was over!" "So do I, Cob," he cried; "but never mind, we shall tire the rascals out yet." I thought to myself that they would tire us out first, as I went down grumpily and disposed to shiver; and then, to thoroughly waken and warm myself, I had a good trot round the big furnace, where the men had tried to fire the powder. It was circus-horse sort of work, that running round on the black ashes and iron scales, but it warmed me, and as the miserable shivery feeling went off I felt brighter and more ready for my task. Piter was with me trotting close behind, as I ran round and round; and when at last I was pretty well out of breath I sat down on a bench, and took the dog's fore-paws on my knees, as I thought about how different my life here seemed from what I had expected. There had been some unpleasant adventures, and a good deal of work, but otherwise my daily career seemed to be very monotonous, and I wondered when our old country trips were to be renewed. Then I had a good look round the place upstairs and down; and, so sure as I passed an open window, I felt about with my hands for wires, the memory of that powder-tin being too vivid to be forgotten. I went and listened by the office door, and could hear my uncle breathing heavily. I went and looked out at the dam, which was always worth looking at for its reflections of the heavens, but it was perfectly still. There was no raft gliding down towards the building. Down in the grinders' shop all was still, and in the darkness the different shafts and wheels looked very curious and threatening, so much so that it only wanted a little imagination for one to think that this was some terrible torture chamber, the door at the end leading into the place where the water torment was administered, for the curious musical dripping and plashing sounded very thrilling and strange in the solemnity of the night. That place always attracted me, and though there in the darkness I did not care to open the door and look down at the black water, I went and listened, and as I did so it seemed that there was something going on there. Every now and then, came a splash, and then a hurrying as of something being drawn over wet bars of wood. Then there were a series of soft thuds at irregular intervals, and as I listened all this was magnified by imagination, and I was ready to go and call for Uncle Bob to descend when a faint squeaking noise brought me to my senses and I laughed. "Why, Piter," I said, "what a dog you are! Don't you hear the rats?" Piter rubbed his great head against me and whined softly. "Don't care for rats?" I said. "All right, old fellow. I forgot that you were a bull-dog and did not care for anything smaller than a bull, unless it were a man." I stood listening for a few minutes longer, wondering whether some of the sounds I could hear down by the stonework were made by eels, and, recalling what Gentles had said, I determined that some evening I would have a try for the slimy fellows either down below the great water-wheel or out of the office-window, where I could drop a line into the deepest part of the dam. Then I went into the smiths' shops and thought about how sulky Pannell had been ever since I had talked to him about the wheel-bands. "This won't do, Piter," I said, trying to rouse myself, for I was dreadfully sleepy; and I had another trot with the dog after me in his solid, silent way--for he rarely barked unless it was in anger--but trotted close behind me wherever I might go. I cannot tell you what a fight I had that night--for it was more like night than morning. I walked fast; I tried all sorts of gymnastic attitudes; I leaped up, caught hold of an iron bar and swung by my arms, and whenever I did these things I grew as lively as a cricket; but as soon as, from utter weariness, I ceased, the horrible drowsiness came on again, and as I walked I actually dreamed that there was a man creeping along the ground towards the building. This seemed to wake me, and it was so real that I went out to see-- nothing. Then I had another tour of the place; stood leaning against door-posts, and up in corners, ready to drop down with sleep, but fighting it off again. I went out across the yard and had a look at the dam, lay down on the stone edge, and bathed my face with the fresh cold water, turned my handkerchief into a towel, and walked back in the dim, grey light, seeing that morning was breaking, and beginning to rejoice that I had got rid of my drowsy fit, which seemed unaccountable. Piter seemed as drowsy as I, holding his head down in a heavy way as if it were more than he could bear. "Poor old boy! Why, you seem as sleepy as I am, Piter!" I said, as I seated myself on the stairs leading up to the office; and he whined softly and laid his head in my lap. I thought I heard a noise just then, and looked up, but there was no repetition of the sound, and I sat there at a turn of the stairs, leaning against the wall, and wondering why the dog had not started up instead of letting his heavy head drop lower in my lap. "Why, you are as drowsy as I am, Piter," I cried again, playing with his ears; "anyone would think you had been taking a sleeping draught or something of that kind." He answered with a heavy snore, just like a human being, and I sat gazing down and out through the open doorway into the yard, thinking that it would not be long now before it was broad daylight instead of that half darkness that seemed so strange and misty that I could only just see through the doorway and distinguish the stones. Then I could hardly see them at all, and then they seemed to disappear, and I could see all over the yard, and the dam and the works all at once. It was a wonderful power of sight that I seemed to possess, for I was looking through the walls of the upper shop, and all through the lower shop, and down into the water-pit. Then I was looking round the furnace, and in at the smiths' forges, and at the great chimney-shaft, and at the precipice by Dome Tor. What a place that seemed! Since my uncle slipped over it the slaty, shaley face appeared to have grown twice as big and high, and over it and down the steep slope a man was crawling right in from the Dome Tor slip to our works. I saw him come along the stone edge of the dam and over the wheel with the water, to bob up and down in the black pit like a cork float when an eel is biting at a bait. There he went--bob--bob-- bob--and down out of sight. It seemed such a splendid bite, that, being fond of fishing, I was about to strike, the absurdity of the idea of fishing with a man for a float never striking me for a moment; but, just as I was going to pull up, the man was crawling over the floor of the grinders' shop, and the water was not there, though the wheel seemed to be going round and uttering a heavy groan at every turn for want of grease. There he was again, creeping and writhing up the stairs, and higher and higher along the floor among the lathes; then he was in the office, and over the bed where Uncle Bob lay making a snoring noise like the great water-wheel as it turned. What a curiously-long, thin, writhing man he seemed to be as he crawled and wriggled all over the floor and lathes and polishing-wheels. Down, too, into the smiths' shops, and over the half-extinct fires without burning himself, and all the time the wheel went round with its snoring noise, and the man--who was really a big eel--was ringing a loud bell, and-- I jumped up wide-awake, upsetting Piter, and throwing his head out of my lap, when, instead of springing up, he rolled heavily half-way down the stairs as if he were dead. "Why, I've been to sleep," I said angrily to myself, "and dreaming all sorts of absurd nonsense! That comes of thinking about fishing for eels." I was cold and stiff, and there was a bell ringing in the distance at some works, where the men began an hour sooner than ours. But I took no notice of that, for I was thinking about Piter, and wondering how he could lie so still. "Is he dead?" I thought; and I went down and felt him. He did not move; but it was evident that he was not dead, for he snored heavily, and felt warm enough; but he was too fast asleep to be roused, even when I took hold of his collar and shook him. I was puzzled, and wondered whether he could have had anything to make him so sleepy. But if he had had anything to make him sleepy I had not, and yet I must have been soundly asleep for two or three hours. I remembered, though, that when I last went round the yard Piter had been sniffing about at something, and perhaps he might have eaten what had not agreed with him then. "Poor old boy! He'll wake up presently," I said to myself as I lifted him up; and heavy enough he seemed as I carried him down to his kennel, just inside the door, where he lay motionless, snoring heavily still. "Lucky thing that no one has been," I said to myself, as, feeling thoroughly ashamed of my breach of trust, I went down to the dam, taking a towel with me this time from out of my office-drawer, and there, kneeling on the stones, I had a good bathe at my face and forehead, and went back feeling ever so much fresher. The sounds of toil were rising in the distance, and over the great town the throb and hum and whirr of the busy hive was rising in the sunny morning air, as, with the events of the night fading away, I went in to my office to put away the towel and use the comb and brush I kept there. That done, I was going to call Uncle Bob and walk back with him to our home, for the men would soon be there. Just then the water-bottle and glass upon my desk caught my eye, and, like a flash, I remembered that I had filled the glass and drunk a little water, leaving the glass nearly full so as to take some more if I wanted it, for a glass of water was, I found, a capital thing to keep off drowsiness when one was watching. I was sure I had left that glass nearly full, and standing on the desk; but I had not been and drunk any more, of that I was sure. I don't know why I had not gone back to have some, considering how sleepy I was, but I certainly had not. I was sure of it. Then the water-bottle! It was a common plain bottle such as is used on a wash-stand, and we had three of them always filled with fresh cold water on the desks. Mine was full when I poured some out in the night, and now it was quite empty; and as I stared at it and then about the room I saw a great patch of wet on the carpet. I looked farther and there was another patch--a smaller patch or big splash, as if the contents of the glass had been thrown down. It was very strange, and I could not understand it. I had not thrown the water down. If I had wanted to get rid of it, I should have gone to the sink outside or have opened the window, and thrown it out into the dam. The matter was of small consequence, and I paid no more attention to it, but went to Uncle Bob, where he was lying, fighting with myself as to whether I should tell him that I had been to sleep. I did not like to speak, for I felt--well I felt as most boys would under the circumstances; but I mastered my moral cowardice, as I thought, and determined to tell him--after breakfast. "Ah, Cob, old chap," he cried, jumping up as I laid my hand on his shoulder, "what a delicious sleep! What a morning too--Hah! That's better." He was dressed, for though whoever lay down, so to speak, went to bed, he never undressed; so that after a plunge of the face and hands in the cool fresh water, and a scrub and brush, Uncle Bob was ready. "I want my breakfast horribly, Cob," he said; "and we've an hour to wait. Let's have a walk round by the hill as we go home. Have you unlocked the gate?" "Yes," I said; "before I came up to call you." "That's right. Ah, here the men come!" for there was the trampling of feet, and the noise of voices crossing the yard. "Fed Piter?" "No; not yet," I said. "He's asleep." "Asleep!" "Yes; he has been asleep these three hours past--asleep and snoring. He's in his kennel now. I couldn't wake him." "Nice sort of a watch-dog, Cob!" "Yes," I said, feeling very guilty and shrinking from my confession. "Do you say you tried to wake him?" "Yes," I said, "I took him up in my arms, and carried him down to his kennel, and he was snoring all the time." "Carried him down! Where from?" "The stairs. He went to sleep there." "Cob!" he cried, making the blood flush to my face, and then run back to my heart--"why, what's the matter, boy, aren't you well?" "My head aches a little, and my mouth feels rather hot and dry." "And you've got dark marks under your eyes, boy. You've not been asleep too, have you?" I stared at him wildly, and felt far more unwell now. "Why don't you speak?" he cried angrily. "You haven't been to sleep, have you?" "I was going to confess it, uncle, if you had given me time," I said. "I never did such a thing before; but I couldn't keep awake, and fell asleep for over two hours." "Oh, Cob! Cob!" "I couldn't help it, uncle," I cried passionately. "I did try so hard. I walked and ran about. I stood up, and danced and jumped, and went in the yard, but it was all of no use, and at last I dropped down on the stairs with Piter, and before I knew it I was fast." "Was the dog asleep too?" "He went to sleep before I did," I said bitterly. "Humph!" "Don't be angry with me, Uncle Bob," I cried. "I did try so hard." "Did you take anything last night after I left you?" "No, uncle. You know I was very sleepy when you called me." "Nothing at all?" "Only a drop of water out of the bottle." "Go and fetch what is left," he said. "Or no, I'll come. But Piter; what did he have?" "I don't know, only that he seemed to pick up something just as we were walking along the yard. That's all." "There's some fresh mischief afoot, Cob," cried Uncle Bob, "and--ah, here it is! Well, my man, what is it?" This was to Gentles, whose smooth fat face was full of wrinkles, and his eyes half-closed. He took off his cap--a soft fur cap, and wrung it gently as if it were full of water. Then he began shaking it out, and brushing it with his cuff, and looked from one to the other, giving me a salute by jerking up one elbow. "Well, why don't you speak, man; what is it?" cried Uncle Bob. "Is anything wrong?" "No, mester, there aren't nought wrong, as you may say, though happen you may think it is. Wheel-bands hev been touched again." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. UNCLE BOB'S PATIENT. Uncle Bob gave me a sharp look that seemed to go through me, and then strode into the workshop, while I followed him trembling with anger and misery, to think that I should have gone to sleep at such a time and let the miscreants annoy us again like this. "Not cut this time," said Uncle Bob to me, as we went from lathe to lathe, and from to stone. Upstairs and downstairs it was all the same; every band of leather, gutta-percha, catgut, had been taken away, and, of course, the whole of this portion of the works would be brought to a stand. I felt as if stunned, and as guilty as if I had shared in the plot by which the bands had been taken away. The men were standing about stolidly watching us. They did not complain about their work being at a stand-still, nor seem to mind that, as they were paid by the amount they did, they would come short at the end of the week: all they seemed interested in was the way in which we were going to bear the loss, or act. "Does not look like a walk for us, Cob," said Uncle Bob. "What a cruel shame it is!" "Uncle," I cried passionately, for we were alone now, "I can't tell you how ashamed I am. It's disgraceful. I'm not fit to be trusted. I can never forgive myself, but I did try so very very hard." "Try, my boy!" he said taking my hand; "why, of course, you did. I haven't blamed you." "No, but I blame myself," I cried. "Nonsense, my boy! Let that rest." "But if I had kept awake I should have detected the scoundrel." "No, you would not, Cob, because if you had been awake he would not have come; your being asleep was his opportunity." "But I ought not, being on sentry, to have gone to sleep." "But, my dear Cob, people who are drugged cannot help going to sleep." "Drugged!" "To be sure. Didn't you say that you drank a little water and afterwards grew sleepy?" "But I did not know it was the water." "Here, let me look at your bottle and glass." I took him into the office and showed him the empty receptacles and the two patches on the floor. "Clumsily done, Cob," he said after looking at and smelling them. "This was done to keep anyone suspicious from examining the water. Yes, Cob, you were drugged." "Oh, Uncle Bob," I cried excitedly, "I hope I was!" "I don't see why you need be so hopeful, but it is very evident that you were. There, don't worry yourself about it, my boy. You always do your duty and we've plenty to think of without that. We shall spoil two breakfasts at home." "But, uncle," I cried, clinging to his arm, "do you really think I may believe that my sleepiness came from being drugged?" "Yes, yes, yes," he cried half angrily. "Now are you satisfied? Come and let's have a look at the dog." I felt quite guilty at having forgotten poor Piter so long, and descending with my uncle we were soon kneeling by the kennel. He had not stirred since I put him in, but lay snoring heavily, and no amount of shaking seemed to have the least effect. "The poor brute has had a strong dose, Cob," said Uncle Bob, "and if we don't do something he will never wake again." "Oh, uncle!" I cried, for his words sent a pang through me. I did not know how much I had grown to like the faithful piece of ugliness till my uncle had spoken as he did. "Yes, the wretches have almost done for him, and I'm glad of it." "Glad!" I cried as I lifted poor Piter's head in my hand and stroked it. "Glad it was that which made the poor brute silent. I thought he had turned useless through his not giving the alarm." "Can't we do something, uncle?" I cried. "I'm thinking, Cob," he replied, "it's not an easy thing to give dogs antidotes, and besides we don't know what he has taken. Must be some narcotic though. I know what we'll do. Here, carry him down to the dam." A number of the workmen were looking on stolidly and whispering to one another as if interested in what we were going to do about the dog. Some were in the yard smoking, some on the stairs, and every man's hands were deep in his pockets. "Say," shouted a voice as I carried the dog out into the yard, following Uncle Bob while the men made room for us, "they're a goin' to drown bull-poop." I hurried on after my uncle and heard a trampling of feet behind me, but I took no notice, only as I reached the dam there was quite a little crowd closing in. "Wayert a minute, mester," said one of the grinders. "I'll get 'ee bit o' iron and a bit o' band to tie round poop's neck." For answer, Uncle Bob took the dog by his collar and hind-legs, and kneeling down on the stone edge of the dam plunged him head-first into the water, drew him out, and plunged him in again twice. "Yow can't drownd him like that," cried one. "He's dowsing on him to bring him round," said another; and then, as Uncle Bob laid the dog down and stood up to watch him, there was a burst of laughter in the little crowd, for all our men were collected now. "Yes, laugh away, you cowardly hounds," said Uncle Bob indignantly, and I looked at him wonderingly, for he had always before seemed to be so quiet and good-tempered a fellow. "It's a pity, I suppose, that you did not kill the dog right out the same as, but for a lucky accident, you might have poisoned this boy here." "Who poisoned lad?" said a grinder whom I had seen insolent more than once. "I don't know," cried Uncle Bob; "but I know it was done by the man or men who stole those bands last night; and I know that it was done by someone in these works, and that you nearly all of you know who it was." There was a low growl here. "And a nice cowardly contemptible trick it was!" cried Uncle Bob, standing up taller than any man there, and with his eyes flashing. "I always thought Englishmen were plucky, straightforward fellows, above such blackguards' tricks as these. Workmen! Why, the scoundrels who did this are unworthy of the name." There was another menacing growl here. "Too cowardly to fight men openly, they come in the night and strike at boys, and dogs, and steal." "Yow lookye here," said the big grinder, taking off his jacket and baring his strong arms; "yow called me a coward, did you?" "Yes, and any of you who know who did this coward's trick," cried Uncle Bob angrily. "Then tek that!" cried the man, striking at him full in the face. I saw Uncle Bob catch the blow on his right arm, dart out his left and strike the big grinder in the mouth; and then, before he could recover himself, my uncle's right fist flashed through the air like lightning, and the man staggered and then fell with a dull thud, the back of his head striking the stones. There was a loud yell at this, and a chorus rose: "In wi' 'em. Throost 'em i' th' dam," shouted a voice, and half a dozen men advanced menacingly; but Uncle Bob stood firm, and just then Fannell the smith strode before them. "Howd hard theer," he cried in his shrill voice. "Six to one, and him one o' the mesters." Just then Uncles Jack and Dick strode in through the gates, saw the situation at a glance, and ran to strengthen our side. "What's this?" roared Uncle Dick furiously, as Uncle Jack clenched his fists and looked round, as it seemed to me, for some one to knock down. "In to your work, every man of you." "Bands is gone," said a sneering voice. "Then get off our premises, you dogs!" he roared. "Out of that gate, I say, every man who is against us." "Oh, we're not agen you, mester," said Gentles smoothly. "I'm ready for wuck, on'y the bands is gone. Yow mean wuck, eh, mates?" "Then go and wait till we have seen what is to be done. Do you hear?-- go." He advanced on the men so fiercely that they backed from him, leaving Pannell only, and he stooped to help up the big grinder, who rose to his feet shaking his head like a dog does to get the water out of his ears, for there must have been a loud singing noise there. "Off with you!" said Uncle Dick turning upon these two. "Aw reight, mester," said Pannell. "I were on'y helping the mate. Mester Robert there did gie him a blob." Pannell was laughing good-humouredly, and just then Uncle Bob turned upon him. "Thank you, Pannell," he said quickly. "I'm glad we have one true man in the place." "Oh, it's aw reight, mester," said the smith. "Here, coom along, thou'st had anew to last thee these two months." As he spoke he half dragged the big grinder away to the workshop, and Uncle Bob rapidly explained the state of affairs. "It's enough to make us give up," cried Uncle Dick angrily. "We pay well; we're kind to our men; we never overwork them; and yet they serve us these blackguard tricks. Well, if they want to be out of work they shall be, for I'll agree to no more bands being bought till the scoundrels come to their senses." "But we will not be beaten," cried Uncle Jack, who looked disappointed at there being no more fighting. "No," said Uncle Bob, wiping his bleeding knuckles. "I feel as if I had tasted blood, as they say, and I'm ready to fight now to the end." "And all the time we are talking and letting that poor dog perish! The cowards!" cried Uncle Dick fiercely. "Is he dead?" "No," I said; "I saw one of his ears quiver a little, but he is not breathing so loudly." "Give him another plunge," said Uncle Jack. Uncle Bob took the dog as before and plunged him once more in the cold clean water; and this time, as soon as he was out, he struggled slightly and choked and panted to get his breath. "We must get him on his legs if we can," said Uncle Bob; and for the next half hour he kept trying to make the dog stand, but without avail, till he had almost given up in despair. Then all at once poor Piter began to whine, struggled to his feet, fell down, struggled up again, and then began rapidly to recover, and at last followed us into the office--where, forgetful of breakfast, we began to discuss the present state of the war. The first thing that caught my eye as we went in was a letter stuck in the crack of the desk, so that it was impossible for anyone to pass without seeing it. Uncle Jack took the letter, read it, and passed it round, Uncle Bob reading last. I asked what it was as I stooped over poor Piter, who seemed stupid and confused and shivered with the wet and cold. "Shall I tell him?" said Uncle Bob, looking at his brothers. They looked at one another thoughtfully, nodded, and Uncle Bob handed me the note; and a precious composition it was. "_You London Cockneys_," it began, "_you've had plenty warnings 'bout your gimcracks and contrapshions, and wouldn't take 'em. Now look here, we won't hev 'em in Arrowfield, robbing hard-workin' men of toil of their hard earns and takin' bread out o' wife and childers mouths and starvin' families, so look out. If you three an' that sorcy boy don't pack up your traps and be off, we'll come and pack 'em up for you. So now you know_." "What does this mean?" I said, looking from one to the other. "It means war, my lad," said Uncle Dick fiercely. "You will not take any notice of this insolent letter?" I said. "Oh yes, but we will!" said Uncle Jack. "Not give up and go like cowards?" "I don't think we shall, Cob," said Uncle Jack laughing. "No; we're in the right and they are in the wrong. We've got a strong tower to fight in and defend ourselves; they've got to attack us here, and I think they'll be rather badly off if they do try anything more serious." "This has been bad enough," said Uncle Bob. "You did not fully understand how narrow an escape Cob had." And he related all. "The scoundrels!" said Uncle Jack, grinding his teeth. "And now this means threatenings of future attacks." "Well," said Uncle Dick, "if they do come I'm afraid someone will be very much hurt--more so than that man Stevens you knocked down." "And made a fresh enemy for us," said Uncle Jack, laughing. "And showed who was a friend," I said, remembering Pannell's action. "To be sure," said Uncle Jack. "Well, if anyone is hurt it will be the attacking party, for I am beginning to feel vicious." "Well, what about the wheels?" said Uncle Bob. "Every band has gone, and it will be a heavy expense to restore them." "Let's go and have breakfast and think it over," said Uncle Dick. "It's bad to decide in haste. Listen! What are the men doing?" "Going out in the yard, evidently," said Uncle Bob. "Yes, and down to the gate." So it proved, for five minutes later the place was completely empty. "Why, they've forsaken us," said Uncle Dick bitterly. "Never mind," said Uncle Bob. "Let's have our breakfast. We can lock up the place." And this we did, taking poor old Piter with us, who looked so helpless and miserable that several dogs attacked him on our way home, anticipating an easy victory. But they did Piter good, rousing him up to give a bite here and another there--one bite being all his enemies cared to receive before rushing off, yelping apologies for the mistake they had made in attacking the sickly-looking heavy-eyed gentleman of their kind. Piter had jaws like a steel trap, as others beside dogs found before long. When we went back to the works the gate-keeper left in charge said that several of the men had been back, but had gone again, it having been settled that no more work was to be done till the wheel-bands were restored; so the fires were going out, and the smiths, who could have gone on, had to leave their forges. "Well," said Uncle Dick, laughing bitterly, as he gave his beard a sharp tug, "I thought that we were masters here." "Quite a mistake," said Uncle Jack; "the men are the masters; and if we do anything that they in their blind ignorance consider opposed to their interests they punish us." "Well, you see, sir," said the gate-keeper, "it's like this here, sir-- work's quite scarce enough, and the men are afraid, that new steel or new machinery will make it worse." "Tell them to take the scales off their eyes, then," said Uncle Dick. "Oppose machinery, do they?" "Yes, sir." "Then if someone invented a new kind of grindstone to grind tools and blades in a quarter of the time, what would they do?" "Smash it, sir, or burn the place it was in," said the man with a grin. "Then why don't they smash up the grindstones they use now? They are machinery." "What! Grindstones, sir? Oh, no!" "But they are, man, I tell you," cried Uncle Dick angrily. "The first men who ground knives or shears rubbed, them on a rough piece of stone; then I dare say a cleverer man found it was handier to rub the blade with the stone instead of the stone with the blade; and then someone invented the round grindstone which turned and ground whatever was held against it." "Come along," said Uncle Jack sharply. "You are wasting breath. They will not believe till they find all this out for themselves." We went in and had a good look round the place, but there was not a band to be found. There had been no cutting--every one had been carried away, leaving no trace behind; and I wanted a good deal of comforting to make me satisfied that it was not my fault. But my uncles were very kind to me, and told me at once that I was to say no more, only to be thankful that I had not drunk more heartily of the water, and been made ill as the dog, who, in spite of seeming better, kept having what I may call relapses, and lying down anywhere to have a fresh sleep. The look round produced no result, and the day was spent in the silent works writing letters, book-keeping, and talking rather despondently about the future. It seemed so strange to me as I went about. No roaring fires and puffing bellows; no clink of hammer or anvil, and no churr and screech of steel being held against the revolving stones. There was no buzz of voices or shouting from end to end of the workshop, and instead of great volumes of smoke rolling out of the top of the tall chimney-shaft, a little faint grey cloud slowly curled away into the air. Then there was the great wheel. The dam was full and overflowing, but the wheel was still; and when I looked in, the water trickled and plashed down into the gloomy chamber with its mossy, slimy stone sides, while the light shone in at the opening, and seemed to make bright bands across the darkness before it played upon the slightly agitated waters. Then a long discussion took place, in which it was asked whether it would be wise to buy new bands, and to ask the men to come back and work; but opinion was against this. "No," said Uncle Jack. "I'm for being as obstinate as they are. We've had our bands injured once; now let's show them that if they can afford to wait so can we. We can't, neither can they, but there must be a little obstinacy practised, and perhaps it will bring them to their senses." "And make them bring back our bands?" I ventured to say. "Ah, I'm not so hopeful about that!" cried Uncle Bob. "I'm afraid that we shall have to buy new ones." "Yes," said Uncle Dick; "but I would not mind that if by so doing we could get the men to behave well to us in the future." "And we never shall," said Uncle Jack, "till Cob here ceases to be such a tyrant. The men are afraid of him." "Why, uncle!" I exclaimed; and they all laughed at my look of injury. That night Uncle Jack and Uncle Dick kept watch; next night we took our turn again, and so matters went on for a week. Now and then we saw some of our men idling about, but they looked at us in a heavy stolid way, and then slouched off. The works seemed to be very melancholy and strange, but we went there regularly enough, and when we had a fire going and stayed in there was no doubt about the matter; we were watched. Piter grew quite well again, and in his thick head there seemed to be an idea that he had been very badly used, for, as he walked close at my heels, I used to see him give the workmen very ugly looks in a side wise fashion that I used to call measuring legs. One morning my uncles said that they should not go to the works that day, and as they did not seem to want me I thought I would go back and put a project I had in my mind in force. I had passed the night at the works in company with Uncle Jack, and all had been perfectly quiet, so, putting some bones in the basket for Piter, I also thrust in some necessaries for the task I had in hand, and started. About half-way there I met Gentles, the fat-faced grinder, and he shut his eyes at me and slouched up in his affectionate way. "Ah! Mester Jacob," he said, "when's this here unhappy strike going to end?" "When the rascals who stole our bands bring them back," I said, "and return to their work." "Ah!" he sighed, "I'm afraid they wean't do that, my lad. Hedn't the mesters better give in, and not make no more noofangle stoof?" "Oh, that's what you think, is it, Gentles?" I said. "Who? Me, mester? Oh, no: I'm only a pore hardworking chap who wants to get back to his horse. It's what the other men say. For my part I wishes as there was no unions, stopping a man's work and upsetting him; that I do. Think the mesters'll give in, Mester Jacob, sir?" "I'm sure they will not, Gentles," I said, "and you had better tell the men so." "Nay, I durstn't tell 'em. Oh, dear, no, Mester Jacob, sir. I'm a quiet peaceable man, I am. I on'y wants to be let alone." I went on, thinking, and had nearly reached the lane by the works, when I met Pannell, who was smoking a short black pipe. "Hello!" he cried. "Hello! Pannell," I said. "Goin' to open wucks, and let's get on again, lad?" "Whenever you men like to bring back the bands and apologise, Pannell." "Nay, I've got nowt to 'pologise for. I did my wuck, and on'y wanted to be let alone." "But you know who took the bands," I cried. "You know who tried to poison our poor dog and tried to blow up the furnace, now don't you?" He showed his great teeth as he looked full at me. "Why, my lad," he said, "yow don't think I'm going to tell, do 'ee?" "You ought to tell," I cried. "I'm sure you know; and it's a cowardly shame." "Ay, I s'pose that's what you think," he said quietly. "But, say, lad, isn't it time wuck began again?" "Time! Yes," I said. "Why don't you take our side, Pannell; my uncles are your masters?" "Ay, I know that, lad," said the big smith quietly; "but man can't do as he likes here i' Arrowfield. Eh, look at that!" "Well, mate," said a rough voice behind me; and I saw the smith start as Stevens, the fierce grinder, came up, and without taking any notice of me address the smith in a peculiar way, fixing him with his eye and clapping him on the shoulder. "Here, I want to speak wi' thee," he said sharply. "Coom and drink." It seemed to me that he regularly took the big smith into custody, and marched him off. This set me thinking about how they must be all leagued together; but I forgot all about the matter as I opened the gate, and Piter came charging down at me, delighted to have company once more in the great lonely works. The next minute he was showing his intelligence by smelling the basket as we walked up to the door together. I gave him some of the contents to amuse him, and then entering the deserted grinding-shop, walked straight to the door at the end opening into the great wheel-pit, and throwing it back stood upon the little platform built out, and looked down at the black water, which received enough from the full dam to keep it in motion and make the surface seem to be covered with a kind of thready film that was always opening and closing, and spreading all over the place to the very walls. It looked rather black and unpleasant, and seemed to be a place that might contain monsters of eels or other fish, and it was to try and catch some of these that I had taken advantage of the holiday-time and come. For I had several times called to mind what Gentles had said about the fish in the dam and pit, and meant to have a turn; but now I was here everything was so silent and mysterious and strange, that I rather shrank from my task, and began to wonder what I should do if I hooked some monster too large to draw out. "What a coward I am!" I said aloud; and taking the stout eel-line I had brought, and baiting the two hooks upon it with big worms, I gathered up the cord quite ready and then made a throw, so that my bait went down right beneath the wheel, making a strange echoing splash that whispered about the slimy walls. "Looks more horrible than ever," I said to myself, as I shook off my dislike, and sat down on the little platform with my legs dangling over the water. But I could not quite shake off my dread, for the feeling came over me: suppose some horrible serpentlike water creature were to raise its head out of the black depths, seize me by the foot, and drag me down. It was an absurd idea, but I could not fight against it, and I found myself drawing my legs up and sitting down tailor fashion with my feet beneath me. And there I sat with not a sound but the dripping water to be heard, and a curious rustling that I soon after made out to be Piter busy with his bone. A quarter of an hour, half an hour, passed away, and I did not get a touch, so drawing up my line I restored the baits and threw in again, choosing the far-off corner of the pit close by where the water escaped to the stream below. The bait had not been down a minute, and I was just wondering whether Gentles was correct about there being any fish there, when I felt the line softly drawn through my fingers, then there was a slight quivering vibration, and a series of tiny jerks, and the line began to run faster, while my heart began to beat with anticipation. "He was right," I exclaimed, as I tightened the line with a jerk, and then a sharp little struggle began, as the fish I had hooked rushed hither and thither, and fought back, and finally was dragged out of the water, tying itself up in a knot which bobbed and slipped about upon the floor as I dragged it into the grinding-room, and cut the line to set it free, for it was impossible to get the hook out of the writhing creature's jaws. It was an eel of about a pound weight, and, excited now by the struggle, I fastened on a fresh hook, baited it, and threw in the same place again. Quite half an hour elapsed before I had another bite, and knowing how nocturnal these creatures are in their habits, I was just thinking that if I liked next time I was on the watch I might throw a line in here, and keep catching an eel every now and then, when-- Check! A regular sharp jerk at the line, and I knew that I had hooked a good one, but instead of the line tightening it suddenly grew quite slack. For a moment I was afraid that the fish had broken away, but I realised directly that it had rushed over to my side of the wheel-pit, and it had come so swiftly that I began to think that it could not be an eel. I had not much line to gather in, though, before I felt the check again, and a furious tug given so hard that I let the line run, and several yards were drawn through my fingers before I began to wonder where the eel or other fish I had hooked had gone. "Perhaps there is a passage or drain under the works," I thought as I dragged at the line, now to feel some answering throbs; but the fish did not run any farther, only remained stationary. "What a monster!" I cried, as I felt what a tremendous weight there was against me. I drew the line and gained a little, but gave way for fear it should break. This went on for ten minutes or so. I was in a state of the greatest excitement, for I felt that I had got hold of a monster, and began to despair of dragging it up to where I was. Such a thing seemed impossible, for the line would give way or the hook break from its hold I was sure. In place of jerking about now, the fish was very still, exercising a kind of inert force against its captor; but I was in momentary expectation of a renewal of the battle, and so powerful did the creature seem, so enormously heavy was it, that I began to regret my success, and to wonder what the consequences would be if I were to get the large eel up there on the floor. One moment I saw myself flying for my life from a huge writhing open-mouthed creature, and saved by a gallant attack made by Piter, who, hearing the noise, had dashed in open-jawed to seize the fierce monster by the neck; the next I was calling myself a donkey. "Why, of course!" I cried. "When I hooked it the creature ran in towards me, and has darted in and out of some grating and wound the line tightly there." That could not be the case, I felt as I pulled, for though it was evident that the fish had entangled the line, it was in something loose which I got nearly to the surface several times, as I gazed down there in the darkness till all at once, just as I was straining my eyes to make out what it was that was entangled with my hook, the cord snapped, there was a dull plash below me, the water rippled and babbled against the side, and all was still once more. I stood gazing down for a few minutes, and then a flash of intelligence shot through me, and I darted back, rapidly coiling up my wet line and taking it and my basket up into the office, from whence I came hurrying out, and ready to dash down two steps at a time. "Why, of course," I kept on saying to myself; "what stupids!" I ran across the yard, unlocked and relocked the gate, leaving Piter disappointed and barking, and hurried back to the house, where my uncles were busy over some correspondence. "Hurrah!" I cried. "I've found it all out. Come along! Down to the works!" "You've found out!" cried Uncle Dick starting. "Found it all out!" I cried excitedly. "Now, then, all of you! Come on and see." I slipped down to Mrs Stephenson after telling my uncles to go slowly on and that I would overtake them, and that lady smiled in my face as soon as she saw me. "Don't say a word!" she cried. "I know what you want. Tattsey, get out the pork-pie." "No, no," I cried; "you mistake. I'm not hungry." "Nonsense, my dear! And if you're not hungry now, you will be before long. I've a beautiful raised pie of my own making. Have a bit, my dear. Bring it, Tattsey." It was, I found, one of the peculiarities of these people to imagine everybody was hungry, and their hospitality to their friends was without stint. Tattsey had not so much black-lead on her face as usual. In fact it was almost clean, while her hands were beautifully white, consequent upon its being peggy day; that is to say, the day in which clothes were washed in the peggy tub, and kept in motion by a four-legged peggy, a curious kind of machine with a cross handle. So before I could say another word the pork-pie was brought out on the white kitchen-table, and Mrs Stephenson began to cut out a wedge. "May I take it with me," I said, "and eat it as I go along?" "Bless the boy; yes, of course," said our homely landlady. "Boys who are growing want plenty to eat. I hate to see people starve." "But I want you to do me a favour," I said. "Of course, my dear. What is it?" "I want you to lend me your clothes-line." "What, that we are just going to put out in the yard for the clean clothes? I should just think not indeed." "How tiresome!" I cried. "Well, never mind; I must buy a bit. But will you lend me a couple of meat-hooks?" "Now, what in the world are you going to do with a clothes-line and two meat-hooks?" "I'm going fishing," I said impatiently. "Now don't you talk nonsense, my dear," said our plump landlady, looking rather red. "Do you think I don't know better than that?" "But I am going fishing," I cried. "Where?" "In our wheel-pit." "Then there's someone drownded, and you are going to fish him out." "No, no," I cried. "Will you lend me the hooks?" "Yes, I'll lend you the hooks," she said, getting them out of a drawer. "We sha'n't want the old clothes-line," said Tattsey slowly. "No, we sha'n't want the old clothes-line," said Mrs Stephenson, looking at me curiously. "There, you can have that." "I'll tell you all about it when I come back," I cried as the knot of clean cord was handed to me; and putting an arm through it and the hooks in my pocket I started off at a run, to find myself face to face with Gentles before I overtook my uncles. "Going a wallucking, Mester Jacob?" he said. "No; I'm going a-fishing." "What, wi' that line, Mester?" "Yes." "Arn't it a bit too thick, Mester?" "Not in the least, Gentles," I said; and leaving him rubbing his face as if to smooth it after being shaved, I ran on and overtook my uncles just before we reached the works. "Thought you weren't coming, Cob," said Uncle Dick. "What are you going to do with the rope?" "Have patience," I said laughing. Just then we passed Stevens, who scowled at us as he saw me with the rope, while Pannell, who was with him, stared, and his face slowly lit up with a broad grin. They turned round to stare after us as we went to the gate, and then walked off quickly. "What does that mean, oh, boy of mystery?" said Uncle Jack. "They suspect that I have discovered their plans," I cried joyfully. "And have you--are you sure?" "Only wait five minutes, uncle, and you shall see," I cried. We entered the works, fastened the gate after us, and then, taking the end of my fishing-line as soon as we reached the grinding-shop, I began to bind the two meat-hooks one across the other. "What, are you going to try for eels that way?" said Uncle Bob laughing, as my uncles seemed to be gradually making out what was to come. "Well," I said, "they broke my other line." By this time I had fastened the hooks pretty firmly, and to the cross I now secured the end of the clothes-line. "Fine eel that, Cob," said Uncle Dick, hunting the one I had caught into a corner, for it had been travelling all over the place. "Yes," I said; "and now the tackle's ready, throw in and see if you can't get another." Uncle Dick went straight to the doorway, stepped on to the platform, and threw in the hook, which seemed to catch in something and gave way again. "Come, I had a bite," he said laughing. "What has been thrown in here-- some bundles of wire or steel rods?" "Try again," I said laughing, and he had another throw, this time getting tight hold of something which hung fast to the hooks, and came up dripping and splashing to the little platform, where it was seized, and Uncle Bob gave a shout of delight. "Why, I never expected to catch that," cried Uncle Dick. "I thought it was some stolen rings of wire," said Uncle Jack, as he seized hold, and together they dragged a great tangle of leather and catgut bands over the platform into the grinding-shop, fully half falling back with a tremendous splash. "Cob, you're a hero," cried Uncle Dick. "The malicious scoundrels!" cried Uncle Jack. "Throw in again," said Uncle Bob. And then Uncle Dick fished and dragged and hauled up tangle after tangle till there was quite a heap of the dripping bands, with rivulets of water streaming away over the stone floor, and right in the middle a monster of an eel, the gentleman I had hooked, and which had wound itself in and out of the catgut bands till it was held tight by the mouth. "He deserves to have his freedom," said Uncle Dick, as he gave the bands a shake so that the hook came out of the eel's mouth, and it began to writhe and twine about the floor. "And he shall have it," I cried, taking a walking-stick, and for the next five minutes I was employed trying to guide my prisoner to the doorway leading into the pit. I suppose you never tried to drive an eel? No? Well, let me assure you that pig-driving is a pleasant pastime in comparison. We have it on good authority that if you want to drive a pig in a particular direction all you have to do is to point his nose straight and then try to pull him back by the tail. Away he goes directly. Try and drive a big thick eel, two feet six inches long, with a walking-stick, and you'll find it a task that needs an education first. Put his head straight, and he curves to right or left. Pull his tail, and he'll turn round and bite you, and hold fast too. Mine turned round and bit, but it was the walking-stick he seized with his strong jaws, and it wanted a good shake to get it free. Every way but the right would that eel squirm and wriggle. I chased him round grindstones, in and out of water-troughs, from behind posts and planks, from under benches, but I could not get him to the door; and I firmly believe that night would have fallen with me still hunting the slimy wriggling creature if Uncle Bob had not seized it with his hands after throwing his pocket-handkerchief over its back. The next instant it was curled up in the silk, writhing itself into a knot, no doubt in an agony of fear, if eels can feel fear. Then it was held over the pit, the handkerchief taken by one corner, and I expected to hear it drop with a splash into the water; but no, it held on, and though the handkerchief was shaken it was some time before it would quit its hold of the silk, a good piece of which was tight in its jaws. At last: an echoing splash, and we turned back to where my Uncles Jack and Dick were busy with the bands. "The best day's fishing I ever saw, Cob," cried Uncle Jack. "It was stupid of us not to drag the pit or the dam before." "I don't know about stupid," said Uncle Bob. "You see we thought the bands were stolen or destroyed. We are learning fast, but we don't understand yet all the pleasant ways of the Arrowfield men." The rest of the day was spent over the tiresome job of sorting out the different bands and hanging them on their own special wheels to drain or dry ready for use, and when this was done there was a feeling of satisfaction in every breast, for it meant beginning work again, and Uncle Bob said so. "Yes," said Uncle Jack; "but also means a fresh attempt to stop our work as soon as the scoundrels know." "Never mind," replied Uncle Dick. "It's a race to see who will tire first: the right side or the wrong, and I think I know." "What's to be done next?" said Uncle Bob. "Let the men know that we are ready for them to come back to work if they like to do so," said Uncle Jack. "Why not get fresh hands altogether?" "Because they would be just as great children as those we have now. No; let us be manly and straightforward with them in everything. We shall fight for our place, but we will not be petty." "But they will serve us some other scurvy trick," said Uncle Bob. "Let them," said Uncle Dick; "never mind. There," he cried, "those bands will be fit to use to-morrow with this clear dry air blowing through. Let's go home now and have a quiet hour or two before we come to watch." "I wish," said Uncle Jack, "that the works joined our house." "Go on wishing," said Uncle Bob, "and they won't join. Now, how about telling the men?" "Let's call and see Dunning and tell him to start the fires," said Uncle Dick; and as we went back the gate-keeper was spoken to, and the old man's face lit up at the idea of the place being busy again. "And I hope, gentlemen," he whispered from behind his hand, "that you will be let alone now." "To which," said Uncle Bob as we walked on, "I most devoutly say, Amen." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. I HAVE AN IDEA. The work was started the next morning, and for a fortnight or so everything went on in the smoothest manner possible. The men were quite cheerful and good-tempered, doing their tasks and taking their wages, and though we kept our regular watch nothing disturbed us in the slightest degree. "An' so you fun 'em in the wheel-pit, did you, Mester Jacob?" said Gentles to me one dinner-hour as he sat by his grindstone eating his bread and meat off a clean napkin spread over his knees. "Yes," I said, looking at him keenly. "But how came you to find 'em, mester?" I told him. "Did you, now?" he cried, shutting his eyes and grinning. "Think o' that! Why, I put you up to the eels, and so I might say it was me as found the bands, only you see it was not you nor yet me--it was the eel." He nearly choked himself with laughing, but my next words sobered him, and he sat up looking painfully solemn and troubled of face. "I'll be bound you know who threw those bands into the water, Gentles," I said. One of his eyes quivered, and he looked at me as if he were going to speak. He even opened his mouth, and I could see his tongue quivering as if ready to begin, but he shut it with a snap and shook his head. "Don't tell any stories about it," I said; "but you do know." "Don't ask me, mester," he cried with a groan. "Don't ask me." "Then you do know," I cried. "I don't know nowt," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Why, man alive, it wouldn't be safe for a chap like me to know owt. They'd put a brick round my neck and throw me in the watter." "But you do know, Gentles," I persisted. "I don't know nowt, I tell 'ee," he cried angrily. "Such friends as we've been, Mester Jacob, and you to want to get me into a scrarp." "Why, Gentles!" I cried. "If you know, why don't you speak out like a man?" "'Cause I'm a man o' peace, Mester Jacob, and don't want to harm nobody, and I don't want nobody to harm me. Nay, I know nowt at all." "Well, I think you are a contemptible coward, Gentles," I said warmly. "You're taking my uncles' money and working on their premises, and though you know who has been base enough to injure them you are not man enough to speak." "Now don't--don't--don't, my lad," he cried in a hoarse whisper. "Such friends as we've been too, and you go on like that. I tell 'ee I'm a man of peace, and I don't know nowt at all. On'y give me my grinstone and something to grind--that's all I want." "And to see our place blown up and the bands destroyed. There, I'm ashamed of you, Gentles," I cried. "But you'll be friends?" he said; and there were tears in his eyes. "Friends! How can I be friends," I cried, "with a man like you?" "Oh dear, oh dear!" I heard him groan as I left the workshop; and going to Piter's kennel I took off his collar and led him down to the dam to give him a swim. He was a capital dog for the water, and thoroughly enjoyed a splash, so that before the men came back he had had a swim, shaken himself, and was stretched out in the sunshine under the wall drying himself, when, as I stooped to pat him, I noticed something about the wall that made me look higher in a hurried way, and then at the top, and turn off directly. I had seen enough, and I did not want to be noticed, for some of the men were beginning to come back, so stooping down I patted Piter and went off to the office. As soon as the men were well at work I went into one of the sheds, where there were two or three holes under the benches where the rats came up from the dam, and where it was the custom to set a trap or two, which very rarely snared one of the busy little animals, though now and then we did have that luck, and Piter had the pleasure of killing the mischievous creature if the trap had not thoroughly done its work. I soon found what I wanted--an old rusty spring trap with its sharp teeth, and, shaking off the dust, I tucked it under my jacket and strolled off to the smith's shops, where I found Pannell hammering away as hard as ever he could. He was making reaping-hooks of my uncles' patent steel, and as I stood at the door and watched him I counted the blows he gave, and it was astonishing how regular he was, every implement taking nearly the same number of blows before he threw it down. "Well, Pannell," I said, "arn't you sorry to have to work so hard again?" He whisked a piece of hot steel from his forge and just glanced at me as he went on with his work, laying the glowing sparkling steel upon the anvil. "Sorry!"--_bang_--"no"--_bang_--"not a"--_bing, bang_, _bang_--"not a"--_bang, bang, bing, bang, bang_--"bit of it." That was how it sounded to me as he worked away. "Wife"--_bang_--"bairns"--_bing, bang, bang, bing, chinger, chinger, bing, bang_--"eight"--_bang_--"of 'em. I hate"--_bang_--"to do"--_bang_--"nowt"--_bang_--"but"--_bang_--"smoke all"--_bang_--"day." "I say, Pannell," I said, after glancing round and seeing that we were quite alone, "how came you to throw our bands in the wheel-pit?" "What!" he cried, pincers in one hand, hammer in the other; and he looked as if he were going to seize me with one tool and beat me with the other. "Yah! Get out, you young joker! You know it warn't me." "But you know who did it." Pannell looked about him, through the window, out of the door, up the forge chimney, and then he gave me a solemn wink. "Then why don't you speak?" The big smith took a blade of steel from the fire as if it were a flaming sword, and beat it into the reaping-hook of peace before he said in a hoarse whisper: "Men's o' one side, lad--unions. Mesters is t'other side. It's a feight." "But it's so cowardly, Pannell," I said. "Ay, lad, it is," he cried, banging away. "But I can't help it. Union says strike, and you hev to strike whether you like it or whether you don't like it, and clem till it's over." "But it's such a cowardly way of making war, to do what you men do." "What they men do, lad," he whispered. "What you men do," I repeated. "Nay, they men," he whispered. "You are one of them, and on their side, so what they do you do." "Is that so?" he said, giving a piece of steel such a hard bang that he had to repeat it to get it into shape. "Of course it is." "Well, I s'pose you're right, lad," he said, thoughtfully. "Why don't you tell me, then, who threw the bands in the wheel-pit, so that he could be discharged?" "Me! Me tell! Nay. Look at that now." _That_ was a piece of steel spoiled by the vehemence of his blows, and it was thrust back into the fire. "I will not say who gave me the information," I said. He shook his head. "Nobody shall ever know that you told me." He took a little hook he was forging and made a motion with it as if I were a stalk of wheat and he wanted to draw me to him. "Lad," he said, "man who tells on his mate aren't a man no longer. I _am_ a man." We stood looking at each other for some time, and then he said in his rough way: "It aren't no doing o' mine, lad, and I don't like it. It aren't manly. One o' the mesters did owt to me as I didn't like I'd go up to him and ask him to tek off his coat like a man and feight it out, or else I'd go away; but man can't do as he likes i' Arrowfield. He has to do what trade likes." "And it was the trade who threw our bands away, and tried to blow us up, and half-poisoned me and Piter." "Hah!" he said with a sigh. "That's it, lad." "Ah, well, I didn't expect you'd tell me, Pannell," I said, smiling. "You see I can't, my lad. Now can I?" "No; it wouldn't be honourable. But I say, Pannell, I mean to do all I can to find out who plays us these dirty tricks." The big smith looked about him before speaking again. "Don't, my lad," he whispered. "Yow might get hurt, and I shouldn't like that i'deed." "Oh, I won't get hurt!" I said. "Look here, Pannell, do you see this?" "Ay, lad. Trap for the rats. I've sin scores on em." "We set them to catch the rats," I said, hesitating a moment or two before making my venture. "I say, Pannell," I said, "we're very good friends you and I." "Course we are, lad; for a Londoner you're quite a decent chap." "Thank you," I said, smiling. "Well, on the quiet, I want you to do me a favour." "Long as it aren't to tell on my mates, lad, I'll do owt for you. There!" That _there_ was as emphatic as a blow from his hammer on the anvil. "I thought you would, Pannell," I said. "Well, look here. My uncles are as good and kind-hearted men as ever lived." "And as nyste to work for as ever was," said Pannell, giving an emphatic bang on his work as he hammered away. "Well, I'm very fond of them," I said. "Nat'rally, lad, nat'rally." "And as I know they're trying to do their best for everybody who works for them, as well as for themselves, so as to find bread for all--" I stopped just then, for the big smith's face was very red, and he was making a tremendous clangour with his hammer. "Well," I said, "it worries me very much to see that every now and then a big rat gets to their sack of wheat and gnaws a hole in it and lets the grain run out." "Where do they keep their wheat?" said Pannell, leaving off for awhile. "Here," I said. "Ah! There's part rats about these here rezzywors," he said, thoughtfully. "Why don't you set that trap?" "Because it isn't half big enough--not a quarter big enough," I said; "but I wish to catch that rat, and I want you to make me a big trap-like this, only four times as large, and with a very strong spring." "Eh?" "I want to set that trap, and I want to catch that, great cowardly rat, and I want you to make me a trap that will hold him." "Eh?" "Don't you understand?" I said, looking at him meaningly as he stood wiping the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. "Yow want to set a trap to catch the big rat as comes and makes a hole in the mester's sack." "Yes," I said. "I want to catch him." "What! Here about the works?" "Yes," I said. "Now do you see?" _Poof_! Pannell gave vent to a most curious sound that was like nothing so much as one that might have been emitted if his forge bellows had suddenly burst. To give vent to that sound he opened his mouth wide, clapped his hands on his leather apron, and bent nearly double. "Why, Pannell!" I exclaimed. _Poof_! He stamped first one leg on the black iron dust and ashes, and then the other, going round his anvil and grumbling and rumbling internally in the most extraordinary manner. Then he looked me in the face and exploded once more, till his mirth and the absurdity of his antics grew infectious, and I laughed too. "And you're going to set a big trap to catch that there"--_poof_--"that theer very big rat, eh?" "Yes," I said, "if I can." "And you want me," he whispered, with his eyes starting with suppressed mirth, "to make you that theer big trap." "Yes." "Then I'll do it," he whispered, becoming preternaturally solemn. "Stop! 'Tween man an' man you know." He held out his great black hard hand, which I grasped. "On my honour, Pannell, I'll never tell a soul that you made the trap, not for ten years, or twenty, if you like." "That's enough," he said, giving his leg a slap. "Haw, haw, haw, haw, haw! Here, give us the model. When dyer want it, lad?" "As soon as ever you can get it made, Pannell." He looked at me with his face working, and scraping a hole in the ashes he buried the trap, seized hammer and pincers, and worked away again, but stopped every now and then to laugh. "I say," he said suddenly, "it'll sarve 'em right; but if they knowed as I did it they'd wait for me coming home and give me the knobsticks. Ay, that they would." "But they will not know, Pannell," I said. "It's our secret, mind." "Hey, but I'd like to see the rat i' the trap!" he whispered, after exploding with another fit of mirth. "Let's have the trap first," I said. "I don't know that I shall catch him then." "What are you going to bait with?" he said between two fierce attacks upon a piece of steel. "Oh, I have not settled that yet!" "I'll tell 'ee," he whispered with his face working. "Bait it with a wheel-band." He roared with laughter again, and if I had had any doubts before of his understanding that I wanted a very strong man-trap, I had none now. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. SOMETHING FOR ME. Rash--cruel--unwise. Well, I'm afraid it was all those, but I was only a boy, and I was stung by the injustice and cowardly cruelty of the outrages perpetrated on us by the men who earned their bread in our works; and hence it was, that, instead of feeling any compunction in doing what I proposed, I was delighted with the idea, and longed for an opportunity to put it in force. I was, then, very eager to begin, for the present calm, I felt sure, was only going before the storm, and after what I had found out I was anxious to be ready. Pannell did not keep me waiting long. Two days after I had made my plans with him I went into his smithy, and in answer to my inquiring look he said, in a heavy, unmoved way: "Theer's summut for you hung up i' the forge chimney. She goes hard, but theer's a steel bar 'long wi' her as you can prise down the spring till she's set. On'y mind thysen, lad--mind thysen." "And will it hold a man, Pannell?" I cried. "Ay; this here's noo pattern. I haven't got into it yet I've got a rare lot of 'em to do." "But tell me," I whispered, "will it?" "Think this here noo steel's better than owd fashion stoof?" he said. "Bother the steel!" I said, speaking lower still. "I want you to tell me whether--" "Bull-poop's gettin' too fat, Mester Jacob," said Pannell. "Don't give 'im so much meat. Spoils a dorg. Give un bones as he can break oop and yeat. That's the stoof for dorgs. Gives un such a coat as never was." "Will you tell me?" I began, angrily. "Nay, I wean't tell thee nowt," he growled. "I've telled thee enew as it is. Tek it when I'm not here, and good luck to thee!" I could get no more from him, for he would not say another word about the trap, so I waited impatiently for the night so that I might smuggle it from the forge chimney into my desk. When the time came it was quite absurd how many hindrances there were to my little task. I did not want to set it that night. I only wanted to get it in safety to my desk; but first there were men hanging about the smithies as if they were watching me; then there were my uncles; and lastly, there was Gentles, who made signs that he wished to speak to me, and I didn't care to say anything to the sleek, oily fellow, who only wanted to what he called make it up. At last, though, everyone had gone but Uncle Jack, who was busy writing a letter or two, and I was to wait for him, and we were going back together. I slipped off to the smithy, and just as I was half-way there I turned quickly round, feeling quite cold, and as if I was found out, for I heard a curious yawning noise behind me. It was only Piter, who looked up in my face and gave his tail a wag, and then butted his great head against my leg, holding it tightly there as if it was so heavy that he was glad to give it a rest. I went on at once impatiently, and Piter's head sank down, the dog uttering a low, discontented whine on being left. I glanced up at the wall, half expecting to see some one looking over and watching me; then up at the windows, fearing that one of the men might still be left. But all was perfectly quiet, and though I half anticipated such an accident there was no one seated on the top of either of the great chimney-shafts in the neighbourhood watching me with a telescope. I had a few more absurdly impossible ideas of this kind as I went along the yard, feeling horribly guilty and ready to give up my undertaking. The very silence and solitariness of the place startled me, but I went on and turned in at the open door of the smithy where Pannell worked, and breathed more freely as I looked round and saw that I was alone. But to make sure I stepped up on to the work-bench and looked out of the window, but there was nothing but the dam to be seen there, and I leaped down and climbed on to the forge, with the coal-dust crushing under my feet, gave a last glance round, and was about to peer up the funnel-like, sheet-iron chimney, when there was a loud clang, and I bounded down, with my heart beating furiously. I stamped my foot directly after and bit my lips angrily because I had been such a coward, for I had moved a pair of smiths' tongs when I stepped up, and they had slid off on to the ground. "I'm doing what I ought not to do," I said to myself as I jumped on to the forge again, "but now I've gone so far I must go on." I peered up in the dark funnel and could see nothing, but I had come prepared, and striking a match I saw just before me, resting on a sooty ledge, the object of my quest. I lifted it down, astounded at its size and weight, and found that it was an exact imitation of the rat-trap, but with blunt teeth, and a short steel lever with a point like a crowbar was attached to it by means of a bit of wire. It was enormous, and I quite trembled at the idea of carrying it to the office; but after a sharp glance out of the doorway I took hold of the trap by the iron chain bound round it, and walked quickly to my own place, hoping that even if I had been seen, the watcher would not have been able to make out what I was carrying. There was not much room to spare when I had laid the great trap in my desk, the lid of which would only just shut down over it; but once safely there, and with the key in the lock ready for me to turn if I heard steps, I had a good look at my treasure. I was nervous now, and half repentant, for the instrument looked so formidable that I felt that I should not dare to use it. I had a good look though, and found that it was very complete with chain and ring, and that the lever had a head to it like a pin, evidently so that after it had been used, it could be placed through the ring at the end of the chain, and driven down to act as a peg in the ground. I had hardly arrived at all this when I heard Uncle Jack's cough, and hastily closing the desk and locking it, I went to meet him. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long, my boy," he said; "but I wanted to send word to your father how we are going on." It was on the second night that I put my plan into practice. I had thought it all well out, and inspected my ground, which was just below the wall, pretty close to the edge of the dam, where I had seen some marks which had made me suspicious. So as soon as Uncle Bob had gone to lie down, and I had begun my half of the watch, I fastened up Piter, took out my heavy trap, carried it down to the edge of the dam, and carefully felt the wall for the place I had marked by driving in a little nail. I soon found it, placed my trap exactly beneath it, and wrenching down the spring by means of the lever, I tried to set it. I had practised doing this in my own place, and could manage it pretty well, but in the darkness and excitement that troubled me now, it proved to be an exceedingly difficult job. Twice I managed to get it set, and was moving away when it went off with a startling clang that made me jump, and expect to see Uncle Bob come running out, especially as the dog set up a furious bark. I quieted Piter though each time, and went and tried again till I managed my task, having to take great care that I did not hoist myself with my own petard, for it was a terribly dangerous engine that I was setting, though I did not think so then. It was now set to my satisfaction, and being quite prepared with a big hammer, my next task was to drive in the lever like a peg right through the ring and up to the head, so that if I did catch my bird, there would be no chance of his getting away. I felt about in the dark for a suitable place, and the most likely seemed to be just at the extent of the five feet of chain, which reached to the edge of the dam, where, between two of the big stones of the embankment, I fancied I could drive in the lever so that it could not be drawn out. So taking the steel bar with the sharp edge I ran it through the ring, directed the point between two blocks of stone, and then began to drive. As I said I was well prepared, having carefully thought out the whole affair, and I had bound several thicknesses of cloth over the head of the hammer like a pad so as to muffle the blows, and thus it was that I was able to drive it home without much noise. At first it went in so easily that I was about to select a fresh place, but it soon became harder and firmer, and when I had done and felt the head it was quite immovable, and held the ring close down to the stones. My idea had been to cover the trap with a handful or two of hay, but it was so dark that I thought I would leave it, as it was impossible to see it even from where I looked. I left it, meaning to come the next morning and set it free with a file, for I did not want to take up the peg, and I could get another for lever and join the chain with a strong padlock the next time. It was about eleven o'clock when I had finished my task, and I did not know whether to be pleased or alarmed. I felt something like a boy might who had set a bait at the end of a line to catch a crocodile, and was then very much alarmed for fear he should have any luck. I crept away and waited, thinking a great deal about Piter, and what would be the consequences if he walked over the trap, but I argued that the chances were a hundred thousand to one against his going to that particular spot. Besides, if I left him chained up Uncle Bob was not likely to unloose him, so I determined to run the risk, and leave the trap set when I went off guard. The time went slowly by without any alarm, and though I went now and then cautiously in the direction of my trap it had not been disturbed, and I came away more and more confident that it was in so out of the way a part of the yard that it might be there for weeks unseen. I felt better after this, and at the appointed time called Uncle Bob, who took his watch, and when he called me in the morning the wheel was turning, and the men were coming up to their work. "I thought you were tired, Cob, so I let you lie till the last moment." I was so stupid and confused with sleep that I got up yawning; and we were half-way back home before, like a flash, there came to me the recollection of my trap. I could not make an excuse and go back, though I tried hard to invent one; but went on by my uncle's side so quiet and thoughtful that he made a remark. "Bit done up, Cob! You ought to have another nap after dinner." "Oh, I'm all right, uncle," I said, and I went on home with him to have steel-traps for breakfast and think of nothing else save what they had caught. For I felt perfectly sure that someone had come over the wall in the night--Stevens I expected it would prove to be--and had put his foot right in the trap, which had sprung, caught him by the leg, and cut it right off, and I felt sure that when I got back I should find him lying there where he had bled to death. The next thing that struck me was that I was a murderer, and that I should be tried and condemned to death, but respited and sentenced to transportation for life on account of my youth. With such thoughts as these rushing through my brain it was not likely that I should enjoy the breakfast with the brown and pink ham so nicely fried, and the eggs that were so creamy white, and with such yolks of gold. I did _not_ enjoy that breakfast, and I was feverishly anxious to get back to the works, and though first one and then another advised me to go and lie down, I insisted upon going. I was all in a tremble as I reached the gate, and saw old Dunning's serious face. I read in it reproach, and he seemed to be saying to me, "Oh, how could you do it?" Seemed, for what he did say was, "Nice pleasant morning, Mester Jacob!" I told a story, for I said, "Yes, it is," when it was to me the most painful and miserable morning I had ever experienced; but I dared not say a word, and for some time I could not find an opportunity for going down the yard. Nobody ever did go down there, unless it was to wheel a worn-out grindstone to a resting-place or to carry some broken wood-work of the machinery to throw in a heap. There was the heap of coal and the heap of slack or coal-dust, both in the yard; but those who fetched the coal and slack fetched them from this side, and they never went on the other. The last time I could recall the men going down there to the dam, was when we threw in Piter to give him a bath. Piter! Had he been let loose? The thought that had come of him was startling, but easily set right, for there was the bull-dog fast asleep in his kennel. Then there was Stevens! The thought was horrible. He ought to be in the grinding-shop, and if he were not--I knew! It would have been easy to go and look, but I felt that I could not, and I walked back to the gate and spoke to old Dunning. "All the men come yet?" I said. "No, Mester Jacob, they hevn't all come yet," he said. I dare not ask any more. All had not come, and one of those who had not come was, of course, Stevens, and he was lying there dead. I walked back with Dunning's last words ringing in my ears. "Ain't you well, Mester Jacob?" No, I was not well. I felt sick and miserable, and I would have given anything to have gone straight down the yard and seen the extent of the misery I had caused. Oh! If I could have recalled the past, and undone everything; but that was impossible, and in a state of feverish anxiety I went upstairs to where the men were busy at lathe and dry grindstones, to try and get--a glimpse of my trap, as I hoped I could from one of the windows. To my horror there were two men looking out, and I stopped dumb-foundered as I listened for their words, which I knew must be about the trapped man lying there. "Nay, lad," said one, "yow could buy better than they at pit's mouth for eight shillings a chaldron." Oh, what a relief! It was like life to me, and going to one window I found that they could only see the heap of coals. From the other windows there was no better view. Even from the room over the water-wheel there was no chance of a glimpse of the trap. I could not stop up there, for I was all of a fret, and at last, screwing up my nerves to the sticking point, I went down determined to go boldly into the grinder's shop, and see if Stevens was there. What an effort it was! I have often wondered since whether other boys would have suffered what I did under the circumstances, or whether I was a very great coward. Well, coward or no, I at last went straight into the grinder's shop, and there was the plashing rumble of the great water-wheel beyond the door, the rattle of the bands and the whirr and whirl and screech of the grindstones as they spun round, and steel in some form or other was held to their edge. There were half a dozen faces I knew, and there was Gentles ready to smile at me with his great mouth and closed eyes. But I could only just glance at him and nod, for to my horror Stevens' wheel was not going, and there was no one there. I felt the cold sweat gather all over my face, and a horrible sensation of dread assailed me; and then I turned and hurried out of the building, so that my ghastly face and its changes should not be seen. For just then I saw Stevens rise up from behind his grindstone with an oil-can in his hand--he had been busy oiling some part or other of the bearings. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. Somehow or another I could not get to that trap all that day, and night came, and still I could not get to it. I tried, but unless I had wanted to draw people's attention to the fact that I had something there of great interest, I could not go. Even at leaving time it was as bad, and I found myself in the position that I must either tell one of my uncles what I had done, or leave the trap to take its chance. I chose the latter plan, and calling myself weak coward, went home, arguing to myself that no one would go in the spot where I had placed the trap, but some miscreant, and that it would serve him right. To my utter astonishment, directly after tea Uncle Dick turned to me. "Cob," he said; "we have a special letter to send to Canonbury to your father, and a more particular one to bring back in answer, so we have decided that you shall take it up. You can have three or four days' holiday, and it will be a pleasant change. Your mother and father will be delighted to see you, and, of course, you will be glad to see them." "But when should I have to go?" I said. "To-night by the last train. Quarter to eleven--You'll get to London about three in the morning. They expect one of us, so you will find them up." "But--" "Don't you want to go?" said Uncle Jack severely. "Yes," I said; "but--" "But me no buts, as the man said in the old play. There, get ready, boy, and come back to us as soon as you can. Don't make the worst of our troubles here, Cob." "No, no," said Uncle Dick, "because we are getting on famously as soon as we can manage the men." "And that we are going to do," said Uncle Bob. "I say I wish I were coming with you." "Do, then," I cried. "Get out, you young tempter! No," said Uncle Bob. "Go and take your pleasure, and have pity upon the three poor fellows who are toiling here." I was obliged to go, of course, but I must tell them about the trap first. Tell _them_! No, I could not tell Uncle Dick or Uncle Jack. I was afraid that they would be angry with me, so I resolved to speak to Uncle Bob before I went--to take him fully into my confidence, and ask him to move the trap and put it safely away. It is so easy to make plans--so hard to carry them out. All through that evening I could not once get a chance to speak to Uncle Bob alone; and time went so fast that we were on our way to the station, and still I had not spoken. There was only the chance left--on the platform. "Don't look so solid about it, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "They'll be delighted to see you, boy, and it will be a pleasant trip. But we want you back." "I should think we do," said Uncle Dick, laying his great hand on my shoulder and giving me an affectionate grip. "Yes, we couldn't get on without our first lieutenant, Philosopher Cob," said Uncle Bob. I tried to look bright and cheerful; but that trap had not got me by the leg--it seemed to be round my neck and to choke me from speaking. What was I to do? I could not get a chance. I dare not go away and leave that trap there without speaking, and already there was the distant rumble of the coming train. In a few minutes I should be on my way to London; and at last in despair I got close to Uncle Bob to speak, but in vain--I was put off. In came the train, drawing up to the side of the platform, and Uncle Bob ran off to find a comfortable compartment for me, looking after me as kindly as if I had been a woman. "Oh," I thought, "if he would but have stayed!" "Good-bye, my lad!" said Uncle Dick. "Take care of yourself, Cob, and of the packet," whispered Uncle Jack. I was about to slap my breast and say, "All right here!" but he caught my hand and held it down. "Don't," he said in a low half-angry voice. "Discretion, boy. If you have something valuable about you, don't show people where it is." I saw the wisdom of the rebuke and shook hands. "I'll try and be wiser," I whispered; "trust me." He nodded, and this made me forget the trap for the moment. But Uncle Bob grasped my hand and brought it back. "Stand away, please," shouted the guard; but Uncle Bob held on by my hand as the train moved. "Take care of yourself, lad. Call a cab the moment you reach the platform if your father is not there." "Yes," I said, reaching over a fellow-passenger to speak. "Uncle Bob," I added quickly, "big trap in the corner of the yard; take it up at once--to-night." "Yes, yes," he said as he ran along the platform. "I'll see to it. Good-bye!" We were off and he was waving his hand to me, and I saw him for a few moments, and then all was indistinct beneath the station lamps, and we were gliding on, with the glare and smoke and glow of the busy town lighting up the sky. It had all come to me so suddenly that I could hardly believe I was speeding away back to London; but once more comfortable in my mind with the promise that Uncle Bob had made to take up the trap, I sat back in the comfortable corner seat thinking of seeing my father and mother again, and of what a series of adventures I should have to relate. Then I had a look round at my fellow-passengers, of whom there were three--a stout old gentleman and a young lady who seemed to be his daughter, and a dark-eyed keen-looking man who was seated opposite to me, and who held a newspaper in his hand and had a couple of books with him. "I'd offer to lend you one," he said, touching his books and smiling; "but you couldn't read--I can't. Horrible lights." Just then a heavy snore from the old gentleman made the young lady lean over to him and touch him, waking him up with a start. The keen-looking man opposite to me raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, shading his face from the other occupants with his newspaper. Three or four times over the old gentleman dropped asleep and had to be roused up, and my fellow-passenger smiled good-humouredly and said: "Might as well have let him sleep." This was in a whisper, and he made two or three remarks to me. He seemed very much disposed to be friendly and pointed out the lights of a distant town or two. "Got in at Arrowfield, didn't you?" he said at last. I replied that I did; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say, "So did you," but I did not. "I'm going on to London," he said. "Nasty time to get in--three in the morning. I hate it. No one about. Night cabs and milk carts, police and market wagons. People at the hotel always sleepy. Ah! Here we are at Westernbow." For the train was stopping, and when it did draw up at the platform the old gentleman was roused up by the young lady, and they got out and left us alone. "Ha! Ha!" said my companion, "that's better. Give us room to stretch our legs. Do you bet?" "No," I said, "never." "Good, lad! Don't; very bad habit. I do; I've lots of bad habits. But I was going to say, I'll bet you an even half-crown that we don't have another passenger from here to London." "I hope we shall not," I said as I thought of a nap on the seat. "So do I, sir--so do I," he said, nodding his head quickly. "I vote we lie down and make the best of it--by and by. Have a cigar first?" "Thank you; I don't smoke," I said. "I do. Will you excuse me if I have a cigar? Not a smoking carriage-- more comfortable." I assured him that I should not mind; and he took out a cigar, lit it, and began to smoke. "Better have one," he said. "Mild as mild. They won't hurt you." I thanked him again and declined, sitting back and watching him as he smoked on seeming to enjoy his cigar, and made a remark or two about the beautiful night and the stars as the train dashed on. After a time he took out a flask, slipped off the plated cup at the bottom, and unscrewed the top, pouring out afterward some clear-looking liquid. "Have a drink?" he said, offering me the flask-cup; but I shook my head. "No, thank you," I said; and somehow I began thinking of the water I had drunk at the works, and which had made me so terribly sleepy. I don't know how it was, but I did think about that, and it was in my mind as he said laughingly: "What! Not drink a little drop of mild stuff like that? Well, you are a fellow! Why it's like milk." He seemed to toss it off. "Better have a drop," he said. I declined. "Nonsense! Do," he cried. "Do you good. Come, have a drink." He grew more persistent, but the more persistent he was the more I shrank from the cup he held in his hand; and at last I felt sorry, for he seemed so kind that it was ungracious of me to refuse him so simple a request. "Oh, very well!" he said, "just as you like. There will be the more for me." He laughed, nodded, and drank the contents of the cup before putting the screw-top on the flask, thrusting it in his breast-pocket, and then making a cushion of his railway wrapper he lay at full length upon the cushion, and seemed to compose himself to sleep. It was such a good example that, after a few minutes' silence, I did the same, and lay with my eyes half-closed, listening to the dull rattle of the train, and thinking of the works at Arrowfield, and what a good job it was that I spoke to Uncle Bob about the trap. Then I hoped he would not be incautious and hurt himself in letting off the spring. I looked across at my fellow-traveller, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, and the sight of his closed eyes made mine heavy, and no wonder, for every other night I had been on guard at the works, and that seemed to shorten my allowance of sleep to a terrible degree. I knew there could be no mistake, for I was going as far as the train went, and the guard would be sure to wake me up if I was fast asleep. And how satisfactory it seemed to be lying there on the soft cushions instead of walking about the works and the yard the previous night. I was growing more and more sleepy, the motion of the train serving to lull me; and then, all at once, I was wide-awake staring at the bubble of glass that formed the lamp in the ceiling, and wondering where I was. I recollected directly and glanced at my fellow-traveller, to see that he was a little uneasy, one of his legs being off the seat; but he was breathing heavily, and evidently fast asleep. I lay watching him for a few minutes, and then the sweet restful feeling mastered me again, and I went off fast asleep. One moment there was the compartment with its cushions and lamp with the rush and sway of the carriage that made me think it must be something like this on board ship; the next I was back at the works keeping watch and wondering whether either of the men would come and make any attempt upon the place. I don't know how long I had been asleep, but all at once, without moving, I was wide-awake with my eyes closed, fully realising that I had a valuable packet of some kind in my breast-pocket, and that my fellow-traveller was softly unbuttoning my overcoat so as to get it out. I lay perfectly still for a moment or two, and then leaped up and bounded to the other side of the carriage. "There, it is of no use," said my fellow-traveller; "pull that letter out of your pocket and give it to me quietly or--" He said no more, but took a pistol out of his breast, while I shrank up against the farther door, the window of which was open, and stared at him aghast. "Do you hear?" he said fiercely. "Come; no nonsense! I want that letter. There, I don't want to frighten you, boy. Come and sit down; I sha'n't hurt you." The train was flying along at forty miles an hour at least, and this man knew that the packet I had was valuable. How he knew it I could not tell, but he must have found out at Arrowfield. He was going to take it from me, and if he got it what was he going to do? I thought it all over as if in a flash. He was going to steal the packet, and he would know that I should complain at the first station we reached; and he would prevent this, I felt sure. But how? There was only one way. He had threatened me with a pistol, but I did not think he would use that. No; there was only one way, and it was this--he would rob me and throw me out of the train. My legs shook under me as I thought this, and the light in the carriage seemed to be dancing up and down, as I put my right arm out of the window and hung to the side to keep myself up. All this was a matter of moments, and it seemed to be directly after my fellow-passenger had spoken first that he roared out, "Do you hear, sir? Come here!" I did not move, and he made a dash at me, but, as he did, my right hand rested on the fastening of the door outside, turned the handle, and clinging to it, I swung out into the rushing wind, turning half round as the door banged heavily back, when, by an instinctive motion, my left hand caught at anything to save me from falling, grasped the bar that ran along between door and door, and the next moment, how I know not, I was clinging to this bar with my feet on the foot-board, and my eyes strained back at the open door, out of which my fellow-passenger leaned. "You young idiot, come back!" he roared; but the effect of his words was to make me shrink farther away, catching at the handle of the next door, and then reaching on to the next bar, so that I was now several feet away. The wind seemed as if it would tear me from the foot-board, and I was obliged to keep my face away to breathe; but I clung to the bar tightly, and watched the fierce face that was thrust out of the door I had left. "Am I to come after you?" he roared. "Come back!" My answer was to creep past another door, to find to my horror that this was the last, and that there was a great gap between me and the next carriage. What was I to do? Jump, with the train dashing along at such a rate that it seemed as if I must be shaken down or torn off by the wind. I stared back horror-stricken and then uttered a cry of fear, as the window I had just passed was thrown open and a man leaned out. "I'll swear I heard someone shout," he said to a travelling companion, and he looked back along the train. "Yes," he continued, "there's someone three compartments back looking out. Oh, he's gone in now. Wonder what it was!" Just then he turned his head in my direction, and saw my white face. I saw him start as I clung there just a little way below him to his right, and within easy reach, and, for I should think a minute, we stared hard at each other. Then he spoke in a quiet matter-of-fact way. "Don't be scared, my lad," he said; "it's alright. I can take hold of you tightly. Hold fast till I get you by the arms. That's it; now loose your right hand and take hold of the door; here pass it in. That's the way; edge along. I've got you tight. Come along; now the other hand in. That's the way." I obeyed him, for he seemed to force me to by his firm way, but the thought came over me, "Suppose he is that man's companion." But even if he had been, I was too much unnerved to do anything but what he bade me, so I passed one hand on to the window-frame of the door, then edged along and stood holding on with the other hand, for he had me as if his grasp was a vice, and then his hands glided down to my waist. He gripped me by my clothes and flesh, and before I could realise it he had dragged me right in through the window and placed me on the seat. Then dragging up the window he sank back opposite to me and cried to a gentleman standing in the compartment: "Give me a drop of brandy, Jem, or I shall faint!" I crouched back there, quivering and unable to speak. I was so unnerved; but I saw the other gentleman hand a flask to the bluff-looking man who had saved me, and I saw him take a hearty draught and draw long breath, after which he turned to me. "You young scoundrel!" he cried; "how dare you give me such a fright!" I tried to speak, but the words would not come. I was choking, and I believe for a minute I literally sobbed. "There, there, my lad," said the other kindly, "You're all right. Don't speak to him like that now, Jordan. The boy's had a horrible scare." "Scare!" said the big bluff man; "and so have I. Why, my heart was in my mouth. I wouldn't go through it again for a hundred pounds. How did you come there, sir?" "Let him be for a few minutes," said the other gently. "He'll come round directly, and tell us." I gave him a grateful look and held out my wet hand, which he took and held in his. "The boy has had a terrible shock," he said. "He'll tell us soon. Don't hurry, my lad. There, be calm." I clung to his hand, for he seemed to steady me, my hand jerking and twitching, and a curious sensation of horror that I had never felt before seeming to be upon me; but by degrees this passed off, the more quickly that the two gentlemen went on talking as if I were not there. "I'm so much obliged," I said at last, and the big bluff man laughed. "Don't name it," he said, nodding good-humouredly. "Five guineas is my fee." I shivered. "And my friend here, Doctor Brown, will have a bigger one for his advice." "He's joking you, my lad," said the other gentleman smiling. "I see you are not hurt." "No, sir," I said; "I--" The trembling came over me again, and I could not speak for a minute or two, but sat gazing helplessly from one to the other. "Give him a drop of brandy," said the big bluff man. "No, let him be for a few minutes; he's mastering it," was the reply. This did me good, and making an effort I said quickly: "A man in the carriage tried to rob me, and I got on to the foot-board and came along here." "Then you did what I dare not have done," said the one who dragged me in. "But a pretty state of affairs this. On the railway, and no means of communicating." "But there are means." "Tchah! How was the poor lad to make use of them? Well, we shall have the scoundrel, unless he gets out of the train and jumps for it. We must look out when we stop for taking the tickets. We shall not halt before." By degrees I grew quite composed, and told them all. "Yes," said my big friend, "it was very brave of you; but I think I should have parted with all I had sooner than have run such a risk." "If it had been your own," said the other gentleman. "In this case it seems to me the boy would have been robbed, and probably thrown out afterwards upon the line. I think you did quite right, my lad, but I should not recommend the practice to anyone else." They chatted to me pleasantly enough till the train began at last to slacken speed preparatory to stopping for the tickets to be taken, and at the first symptom of this my two new friends jumped up and let down the windows, each leaning out so as to command a view of the back of the train. I should have liked to look back as well, but that was impossible, so I had to be content to sit and listen; but I was not kept long in suspense, for all at once the quieter and more gentlemanly of my companions exclaimed: "I thought as much. He has just jumped off, and run down the embankment. There he goes!" I ran to the side, and caught a glimpse of a figure melting away into the darkness. Then it was gone. "There goes all chance of punishing the scoundrel," said the big bluff man, turning to me and smiling good-temperedly. "I should have liked to catch him, but I couldn't afford to risk my neck in your service, young man." I thanked him as well as I could, and made up my mind that if my father was waiting on the platform he should make a more satisfactory recognition of the services that had been performed. This did not, however, prove so easy as I had hoped, for in the confusion of trying to bring them together when I found my father waiting, I reached the spot where I had left my travelling-companions just in time to see them drive off in a cab. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. AGAINST THE LAW. The next day, after recounting plenty of my adventures to my mother, but, I am afraid, dressing some of them up so that they should not alarm her, a letter reached me from Uncle Bob. It was very short. He hoped I had reached town safely, and found all well. The night had passed quite quietly at the works, and he ended by saying: "I took up the trap. All right!" That was a great relief to me, and made my stay in town quite pleasant. I went down to the old works with my father, and it made me smile to see how quiet and orderly everything was, and how different to the new line of business we had taken up. The men here never thought of committing outrages or interfering with those who employed them, and I could not help thinking what a contrast there was between them and the Arrowfield rough independence of mien. My father questioned me a great deal about matters upon which my uncles had dwelt lightly, but I found that he thoroughly appreciated our position there and its risks. "Not for another six months, Cob," he said in answer to an inquiry as to when he was coming down. "You four must pacify the country first," he added laughing, "and have the business in good going order." My visit was very pleasant, and I could not help feeling proud of the treatment I received at home; but all the same I was glad to start again for Arrowfield and join my uncles in their battle for success. For there was something very exciting in these struggles with the men, and now I was away all this seemed to be plainer, and the attraction grew so that there was a disposition on my part to make those at home quite at their ease as to the life I was leading down at Arrowfield. At last the day came for me to start on my return journey, when once more I had a packet to bear. "I need not tell you that it is of great value, Cob," said my father. "Button it up in your pocket, and then forget all about it. That is the safest way. It takes off all the consciousness." "I don't suppose I shall meet my friend this time," I said. My father shuddered slightly. "It is not likely," he said; "but I should strongly advise you to change carriages if you find yourself being left alone with a stranger." Word had been sent down as to the train I should travel by, and in due time I found myself on the Arrowfield platform and back at our new home, where Mrs Stephenson and Tattsey were ready with the most friendly of smiles. "Everything has been going on splendidly," was the report given to me. Piter had been carefully attended to, and the works watched as well as if I had been at Arrowfield. I felt annoyed, and, I suppose, showed it, for it seemed as if my uncles were bantering me, but the annoyance passed off directly under the influence of the warmth displayed by all three. "I'm beginning to be hopeful now that work will go on steadily, that this watching can be given up, and that we can take to a few country excursions, some fishing, and the like." That was Uncle Dick's expressed opinion; and I was glad enough to hear it, for though I did not mind the work I liked some play. Uncle Jack was just as hopeful; but Uncle Bob evidently was not, for he said very little. This time I had travelled by a day train, and I was quite ready to take my turn at the watching that night. Uncle Jack, whose turn it was, opposed my going, as I had been travelling so far; but I insisted, saying that I had had my regular night's rest ever since I had left them, and was consequently quite fresh. I wanted to ask Uncle Bob where he had hidden the trap, but I had no opportunity, and as neither Uncle Dick nor Uncle Jack made any allusion to it I did not start the subject. Perhaps Uncle Bob had not told them, meaning to have a few words with me first. It almost seemed like coming home to enter the works again, where Piter was most demonstrative in his affection, and carried it to such an extent that I could hardly get away. I had a look round the gloomy old place at once, and felt quite a thrill of pride in the faintly glowing furnaces and machinery as I thought of the endless things the place was destined to produce. "Look here, Cob," said Uncle Jack, "I shall lie down for three hours, mind; and at the end of that time you are to wake me. It is only nine o'clock now, and you can get over that time with a book. There will be no need to walk round the place." "Would Piter warn us, do you think?" I said. "Oh, yes! It is getting quite a form our being here. The men are toning down." He threw himself on the bed, and I took up a book and read for an hour, after which I had a walk through the gloomy workshops, and in and out of the furnace-houses and smithies, where all was quiet as could be. After this I felt disposed to go and open the big door and look down into the wheel-pit. I don't know why, only that the place attracted me. I did not, however, but walked back to the doorway to look at the glow which overhung the town, with the heavy canopy of ruddy smoke, while away behind me the stars were shining brightly, and all was clear. I patted Piter, who came to the full length of his chain, and then I had a look about with the lantern to see if I could find where Uncle Bob had put the trap. I felt that it must be under lock and key somewhere, but the cupboards had nothing to show, and, try how I would, I could think of no likely place for it to be hidden in. So I gave up the task of trying to find it, and walked back to the door, where I found Piter lying down hard at work trying to push his collar over his head. The patient, persevering way in which he tried, getting both his fore-paws against it, was most amusing, the more so that there was not the slightest possibility of success attending his efforts, for his neck, which the collar fitted pretty closely, was small, and his bullet head enormous by comparison. "Come," I said, as I bent over him; "shall I undo it for you?" He looked up at me as I put the dark lantern down, and whined softly. Then he began working at the collar again. "Look here," I said, as I sat on the bottom step. "Shall I undo it?" Dogs must have a good deal of reason, for Piter leaped up and laid his head in my lap directly, holding it perfectly still while I unbuckled the strap collar, when he gave a sniff or two at my hands, licked them, and bounded off to have a regular good run all over the place before he came back and settled down close to me in the little office where I was trying to read. Twelve o'clock at last, and I awoke Uncle Jack, who rose at once, fresh and clear as if he were amply rested, and soon after I was fast asleep, dreaming away and fancying I could hear the rattle and the throb of the train. Then I was talking to that man again, and then swinging out on the carriage-door with the wind rushing by, and the bluff man leaning out over me, and Piter on the carriage with him, barking at my aggressor, who was shrieking for mercy. Then I was awake, to see that it was Uncle Jack who was leaning over me, and the window was open, admitting a stream of cold air and a curious yelling noise, mingled with the barking of a dog. "What is the matter?" I cried. "That's what I want to know," said Uncle Jack. "I went with a candle, but the wind puffed it out. Where did you put the lantern?" "Lantern--lantern!" I said in a confused way, "did I have it?" "Yes; you must have had it. Can't you think? Gracious, what a noise! Piter must have got someone by the throat." "Oh, I know!" I cried as I grew more fully awake. "On the shelf in the entry." We ran down together, and a faint glow showed its whereabouts, still alight, but with the dark shade turned over the bull's-eye. "Where does the noise come from?" I said, feeling startled at the alarming nature of the cries, freshly awakened as I was from sleep. "I can hardly tell," he said, seizing the lantern and taking a sharp hold, of his stick. "Bring a stick with you, my boy, for there may be enemies in the way." "Why, uncle," I cried, "some poor creature has fallen from the side path into the dam." "Some wretched drunken workman then," he said, as we hurried in the direction, and there seemed to be no doubt about it now, for there was the splashing of water, and the cry of "Help!" while Piter barked more furiously than ever. We ran down to the edge of the dam, the light of the bull's-eye flashing and dancing over the ground, so that we were able to avoid the different objects lying about; and directly after the light played on the water, and then threw into full view the figure of the bull-dog as he stood on the stone edge of the dam barking furiously at a man's head that was just above the surface of the water. "Help! Help!" he cried as we drew near, and then I uttered a prolonged "Oh!" and stood still. "Quiet, Piter! Down, dog! Can't you see it is a friend!" But the dog seemed to deny it, and barked more furiously than ever. "Quiet, sir! Here, Cob, lay hold of the lantern. Will you be quiet, dog! Lay hold of him, Cob, and hold him." I obeyed in a half stupid way, holding the lantern with one hand, as I went on my knees, putting my arm round Piter's neck to hold him back; and in that way I struggled back from the edge, watching my uncle as I made the light fall upon the head staring wildly at us, a horrible white object just above the black water of the dam. "Help! Help!" it cried. "Save me! Oh!" "Catch hold of the stick. That's right; now your hand. Well done! What's holding you down? Have you got your foot entangled? That's better: how did you fall in?" As my uncle rapidly asked these questions he got hold of the man, and dragged him on to the stone edge of the dam, when there was a horrible clanking noise, the rattle of a chain, the man uttered a hideous yell, and as Piter set up a tremendous barking again I turned off the light. "Here, don't do that," cried my uncle. I hardly know what induced me to turn off the light, unless it was a shamefaced feeling on being, as I thought, found out. And yet it did not seem that I was the guilty party. Uncle Bob had said he had taken up the trap, and it was all right. He must have altered his mind and set it again. "That's better," said my uncle as I turned on the light once more; and then Piter made such a struggle that I could not hold him. There was a bit of a scuffle, and he was free to rush at the man, upon whom he fixed himself as he lay there howling and dripping with water. The man yelled again horribly, sprang up with Piter holding on to him; there was the same horrible clanking noise on the stones, and down he fell once more groaning. "Help! Murder! Take away the dorg. Oh, help!" he cried. "Good gracious! What is the matter?" cried Uncle Jack, telling me what I knew. "The man's leg's in a trap." He sprang up again, for by main force Uncle Jack had dragged Piter away with his mouth full of trouser leg; but there were only two clanks and a sprawl, for the poor wretch fell headlong again on the stones, praying for mercy. "Why, his leg's in a great trap, and it's held by a chain," cried Uncle Jack. "Here, how came you in this condition?" "Eh mester, aw doan know. Deed aw doan know," the fellow groaned. "Hey, but it's biting my leg off, and I'll be a lame man to the end o' my days." "Why, it's Gentles!" cried Uncle Jack, taking the lantern from me, for I had enough to do to hold the dog. "Tek off the thing; tek off the thing," groaned the man. "It's a-cootin' my leg i' two, I tell'ee." "Hold your noise, and don't howl like that," cried Uncle Jack angrily, for he seemed to understand now that the man must have climbed over into the yard and been caught, though he was all the more surprised, for quiet smooth-faced Gentles was the last man anyone would have suspected. "But I tell'ee its tekkin off my leg," groaned the man, and he made another trial to escape, but was checked by the peg driven tightly into the ground between the stones, and he fell again, hurting himself horribly. "I shall be a dead man--murdered in a minute," he groaned. "Help! Oh, my poor missus and the bairns! Tek off that thing, and keep away yon dorg." "Look here," said Uncle Jack, making the light play on the poor wretch's miserable face. "How came you here?" "Your dorg flew at me, mester, and drove me in t'watter." "Yes, exactly; but how came you in the yard?" "I d'know, mester, I d'know." "I suppose not," said Uncle Jack. "Tek off that thing, mester; tek off that thing. It's most cootin off my leg." I was ready to add my supplications, for I knew the poor wretch must be in terrible agony; but I felt as if I could not speak. "I'll take it off by and by, when I know how you came here." "I tell'ee it's 'gen the law to set they montraps," cried the fellow in a sudden burst of anger, "and I'll have the law o' thee." "I would," said Uncle Jack, still making the light play over the dripping figure, and then examining the trap, and tracing the chain to the peg. "Hullo!" he cried, "what's this?" He was holding the lantern close to a dark object upon the ground quite close, and Gentles uttered a fresh yell, bounded up, made a clanking noise, and fell again groaning. "Doan't! Doan't! Thou'lt blow us all to bits." "Oh, it's powder, then, is it?" cried Uncle Jack. "Hey, I d'know, mester, I d'know." "Didn't bring it with you, I suppose?" said Uncle Jack. "Nay, mester, I didn't bring it wi' me." "Then how do you know it's powder?" "Hey, I d'know it's powder," groaned the miserable wretch. "It only looks like it. Tek off this trap thing. Tek away the light. Hey, bud I'm being killed." "Let me see," said Uncle Jack with cool deliberation. "You climbed over the wall with that can of powder and the fuse." "Nay, nay, mester, not me." "And fell into a trap." "Yes, mester. Tek it off." "Where did you mean to put that can of powder?" "Nay, mester, I--" "Tell me directly," cried Uncle Jack, giving the chain a drag and making Gentles yell out; "tell me directly, or I'll pitch you into the dam." Uncle Jack's manner was so fierce that the man moaned out feebly: "If I tell'ee wilt tek off the trap?" "Perhaps I will. Speak out. Where did you mean to put the powder can?" "Under big watter-wheel, mester." "And fire the fuse?" "Yes, mester." "How long would it have burned?" "Twenty minutes, mester." "Same length as the one that was run in the furnace-house?" "Yes, mester." "You cowardly scoundrel! You were in that too, then," cried Uncle Jack, going down on one knee and seizing the man by the throat and shaking him till he realised how horribly he was punishing him, when he loosed his hold. "Don't kill me, mester. Oh, my wife and bairns!" "A man with a wife and children, and ready to do such a dastardly act as that! Here, you shall tell me this, who set you on?" The man set his teeth fast. "Who set you on, I say?" "Nay, mester, I canna tell," groaned Gentles. "But you shall tell," roared Uncle Jack. "You shall stay here till you do." "I can't tell; I weant tell," groaned the man. "We'll see about that," cried Uncle Jack. "Pah! What a brute I am! Hold the light, Cob. Piter! You touch him if you dare. Let's see if we can't get this trap open." He took hold of it gently, and tried to place it flat upon the stones, but the poor trapped wretch groaned dismally till he was placed in a sitting posture with his knee bent, when Piter, having been coerced into a neutral state, Uncle Jack pressed with all his might upon the spring while I worked the ring upon it half an inch at a time till the jaws yawned right open and Gentles' leg was at liberty. He groaned and was evidently in great pain; but as soon as it was off, his face was convulsed with passion, and he shook his fists at Uncle Jack. "I'll hev the law of ye for this here. I'll hev the law of ye." "Do," said Uncle Jack, picking up the can of powder; "and I shall bring this in against you. Let me see. You confessed in the presence of this witness that you came over the wall with this can of powder to blow up our water-wheel so as to stop our works. Mr Gentles, I think we shall get the better of you this time." The man raised himself to his feet, and stood with great difficulty, moaning with pain. "Now," said Uncle Jack, "will you go back over the wall or out by the gate." "I'll pay thee for this. I'll pay thee for this," hissed the man. Uncle Jack took him again by the throat. "Look here," he said fiercely. "Have a care what you are doing, my fine fellow. You have had a narrow escape to-night. If we had not been carefully watching you would by now have been hanging by that chain-- drowned. Mind you and your cowardly sneaking scoundrels of companions do not meet with some such fate next time they come to molest us. Now go. You can't walk? There's a stick for you. I ought to break your thick skull with it, but I'm going to be weak enough to give it to you to walk home. Go home and tell your wife and children that you are one of the most treacherous, canting, hypocritical scoundrels in Arrowfield, and that you have only got your deserts if you are lamed for life." He gave Gentles his stick and walked with him to the gate, which he unlocked and held open for him to pass out groaning and suffering horribly. "Good-night, honest faithful workman!" he said; "friendly man who only wanted to be left alone. Do you want your can of powder? No: I'll keep it as a memento of your visit, and for fear you might have an accident at home." The man groaned again as he passed out and staggered. "Poor wretch!" said Uncle Jack, so that I alone heard him. "Ignorance and brutality. Here," he said aloud, "take my arm. I'll help you on to your house. One good turn deserves another." Uncle Jack went to him and took his stick in his hand, when, fancying I heard something, I turned on the light just in time to show Uncle Jack his danger, for half a dozen men armed with sticks came out of the shadow of the wall and rushed at him. It was fortunate for him that he had taken back the stout oak walking-stick that he made his companion on watching nights, or he would have been beaten down. As it was he received several heavy blows, but he parried others, and laid about him so earnestly that two men went down, and another fell over Gentles. By that time my uncle had retreated to the gate, darted through, and banged and locked it in his enemies' face. "Rather cowardly to retreat, Cob," he panted; "but six to one are long odds. Where's the powder can?" "I have it, uncle," I said. "Ah, well, suppose you give it to me, or else the light! The two don't go well together. They always quarrel, and it ends in what Mr O'Gallagher in _Perceval Keene_ called a blow up." I gave him the can, and then listened to the muttering of voices outside, half expecting that an attempt might be made to scale the wall. "No," said Uncle Jack; "they will not do that. They don't make open attacks." "Did you see who the others were?" "No, it was too dark. There, let's get inside. But about that trap. I won't leave it there." I walked with him in silence, and lighted him while he dragged the iron peg out of the ground, and carried all back to the office, where he examined the trap, turning it over and over, and then throwing it heavily on the floor. He looked hard at me then, and I suppose my face told tales. "I thought so," he said; "that was your game, Master Cob." "Yes," I said; "but I thought it was taken up. I told Uncle Bob to take it up when I went to London." "He thought you meant the trap of the drain," cried Uncle Jack, roaring with laughter. "He had the bricklayer to it, and said there was a bad smell, and it was well cleaned out." "Oh!" I exclaimed; "and I made sure that it was all right again." "How came you to set the trap there?" "I had seen marks on the wall," I said, "where someone came over, but I never thought it could be Gentles." "No, my lad, one don't know whom to trust here; but how came you to think of that?" "It was the rat-trap set me thinking of it, and when I made up my mind to do it I never thought it would be so serious as it was. Are you very angry with me?" Uncle Jack looked at me with his forehead all in wrinkles, and sat down on a high stool and tapped the desk. I felt a curious flinching as he looked so hard at me, for Uncle Jack was always the most stern and uncompromising of my uncles. Faults that Uncle Dick would shake his head at, and Uncle Bob say, "I say, come, this won't do, you know," Uncle Jack would think over, and talk about perhaps for two or three days. "I ought to be very angry with you, Cob," he said. "This was a very rash thing to do. These men are leading us a horrible life, and they deserve any punishment; but there is the law of the land to punish evildoers, and we are not allowed to take that law in our own hands. You might have broken that fellow's leg with the trap." "Yes, I see now," I said. "As it is I expect you have done his leg serious injury, and made him a worse enemy than he was before. But that is not the worst part of it. What we want here is co-operation--that's a long word, Cob, but you know what it means." "Working together," I said. "Of course. You are only a boy, but you are joined with us three to mutually protect each other, and our strength lies in mutual dependence, each knowing exactly what the other has done." "Yes, I see that, Uncle," I said humbly. "How are we to get on then if one of the legs on which we stand--you, sir, gives way? It lets the whole machine down; it's ruin to us, Cob." "I'm very sorry, uncle." "We are four. Well, suppose one of us gets springing a mine unknown to the others, what a position the other three are in!" "Yes," I said again. "I see it all now." "You didn't spring a mine upon us, Cob, but you sprang a trap." I nodded. "It was a mistake, lad, though it has turned out all right as it happened, and we have been saved from a terrible danger; but look here, don't do anything of the kind again." "Shall you go to the police about this?" I said. "No, and I'm sure the others will agree with me. We must be our own police, Cob, and take care of ourselves; but I'm afraid we have rough times coming." CHAPTER NINETEEN. PANNELL SAYS NOTHING. "Better and better!" cried Uncle Dick, waving a letter over his head one morning after the post had come in. "All we have to do is to work away. Our steel is winning its way more and more in London, and there is already a greater demand than we can supply." "It seems funny too," I said. "I went through Norton's works yesterday with Mr Tomplin, and saw them making steel, and it seemed almost exactly your way." "Yes, Cob," said Uncle Dick, "_almost_. It's that trifling little difference that does it. It is so small that it is almost imperceptible; but still it is enough to make our steel worth half as much again as theirs." "You didn't show them the difference, did you, Cob?" said Uncle Jack, laughing. "Why, how could I?" "Ah! I forgot; you don't know. But never mind, you'll arrive at years of discretion some day, Cob, and then you will be trusted with the secret." "I consider that he could be trusted now," cried Uncle Dick. "I am quite willing to show him whenever he likes. We make a fresh batch to-morrow." "No," I said; "I don't want to be shown yet. I can wait." "Is that meant sulkily, or is it manly frankness?" said Uncle Jack sharply. "Oh, I'll answer that," replied Uncle Dick--"certainly not sulkily." "I endorse that," said Uncle Bob; and I gave them both a grateful look. "He shall learn everything we know," said Dick. "It is his right as his father's son. If we have not shown him sooner it is on account of his father's interests, and because we felt that a secret that means property or nothing is rather a weighty one for a lad of his years to bear. Well, once more, Cob, you will not mind being left?" "No," I said, "you will not be away many hours. The men will hardly know that you have gone, and if they were to turn disagreeable I'm sure Pannell would help me." "Oh, there's no fear of any open annoyance," said Uncle Jack; "the men have been remarkably quiet since we caught Master Gentles. By the way, anyone know how he is?" "I know," I said. "I've seen Mrs Gentles every day, and he leaves the infirmary to-morrow." "Cured?" "Yes; only he will walk a little lame, that's all, and only for a month or two." "Well, take care of the place, Cob," said Uncle Jack. "I don't suppose the men will interfere with you, but if they do you can retreat." "If you thought they would interfere with me," I said, "you would not go." They all laughed, and, as we had arranged, they left the works one by one, and I went on just as usual, looking in at one place, and then another, to see how the men were going on, before returning to the office and copying some letters left for me to do. It was a month since the adventure with the trap, and to see the men no one could have imagined that there was the slightest discontent among them. Pannell had said very little, though I had expected he would; in fact he seemed to have turned rather surly and distant to me. As for the other men, they did their work in their regular independent style, and I had come to the conclusion that my best way was to treat all alike, and not make special friends, especially after the melancholy mistake I had made in putting most faith in one who was the greatest scoundrel in the place. My uncles had gone to the next town to meet a firm of manufacturers who had been making overtures that seemed likely to be profitable, and this day had been appointed for the meeting. After a time I went into Pannell's smithy, to find him hammering away as earnestly as ever, with his forehead covered with dew, his throat open, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, so as to give his great muscles full play. "Well," he said all at once, "want another trap?" "No," I said, smiling. "I say, Pannell, what did the men think about it?" He opened his lips to speak, but closed them directly. "No," he said shortly; "won't do. I'm on t'other side, you see." "But you might tell me that," I cried. "I say, I should as soon have thought of catching you as old Gentles." "Hush! Say rat," he whispered. "Don't name names. And say, lad, don't talk about it. You don't want to get me knocked on the head?" "No, Pannell," I said; "indeed I don't. You're too good a fellow." "Nay, I'm not," he said, shaking his head. "I'm a downright bad un." "Not you." "Ay, but I am--reg'lar down bad un." "What have you been doing?" "Nowt," he said; and he brought down his hammer with a tremendous bang as if he meant to make a full stop at the end of his sentence. "Then why are you a bad one?" He looked at me, then out of the window, then front the door, and then back at me. "I'm going to Lunnon to get work," he said. "No, don't; we like you--you're such a good steady workman. Why are you going?" "Don't like it," he said. "Man can't do as he pleases." "Uncle John says he can't anywhere, and the masters are the men's servants here." "Nay, lad," he whispered as he hammered away. "Men's worse off than the masters. Wuckman here hev to do what the trade tells him, or he'd soon find out what was what. Man daren't speak." "For fear of getting into trouble with his mates?" "Nay, his mates wouldn't speak. It's the trade; hish!" He hammered away for some time, and his skill with his hammer fascinated me so that I stopped on watching him. A hammer to me had always seemed to be a tool to strike straightforward blows; but Pannell's hammer moulded and shaped, and always seemed to fall exactly right, so that a piece of steel grew into form. And I believe he could have turned out of the glowing metal anything of which a model had been put before his eyes. "Well," I said, "I must go to my writing." "Nay, stop a bit. We two ain't said much lately. They all gone to Kedham?" "Yes; how did you know?" "Oh, we knows a deal. There aren't much goes on as we don't know. Look ye here; I want to say summat, lad, and I can't--yes, I can." "Well, say it, then," I said, smiling at his eagerness. "Going to--look here, there was a rat once as got his leg caught in a trap." "Yes, I know there was," I replied with a laugh. "Nay, it's nowt to laugh at, lad. Rats has sharp teeth; and that there rat--a fat smooth rat he were--he said he'd bite him as set that trap." "Pannell!" I cried, as a curious feeling of dread came over me for a moment and then passed away. "Ay, lad." "You don't mean to say that?" "Me!--I mean to say! Nay, lad, not me. I never said nothing. 'Tain't likely!" I looked at him searchingly, but his face seemed to turn as hard as the steel he hammered; and finding that he would not say any more, I left him, to go thoughtfully back to my desk and try to write. But who could write situated as I was--left alone with about thirty workmen in the place, any one of whom might be set to do the biting in revenge for the trap-setting? For there was no misunderstanding Pannell's words; they were meant as a sort of warning for me. And now what was I to do? I wished my uncles had not gone or that they had taken me, and I nearly made up my mind to go for a walk or run back home. But it seemed so cowardly. It was not likely that anyone would touch me there, though the knowledge the men evidently had of their masters' movements was rather startling; and I grew minute by minute more nervous. "What a coward I am!" I said to myself as I began writing, but stopped to listen directly, for I heard an unusual humming down in the grinders' shop; but it ceased directly, and I heard the wheel-pit door close. "Something loose in the gear of the great wheel, perhaps," I thought; and I went on writing. All at once the idea came upon me. Suppose they were to try and blow me up! I slipped off my stool and examined all the papers beneath my desk and in the waste-paper basket, and then I felt so utterly ashamed that I forced myself back into my seat and tried to go on writing. But it was impossible. The day was bright and sunny and the water in the dam was dancing and glittering, for the wind was off the hills and blew the smoke in the other direction--over the town. There was a great patch of dancing light on the ceiling reflected from the dam, and some flowers in the window looked bright and sent out a sweet perfume; but I could see nothing but men crawling in the dark with powder-cans and fuses; and to make myself worse, I must go to Uncle Jack's cupboard and look at the can that we had found by Gentles that night, just as it had been picked up, with a long fuse hanging out of the neck and twisted round and round. I went back after locking it up and taking out the key, and after opening the window I stood looking out to calm myself, wishing the while that I was right away among the hills far from the noise of whirring stones and shrieking metal. I knew the sun was shining there, and the grass was green, and the view was spread out for miles; while from where I stood there were the great black buildings, the tall shafts, and close beneath me the dam which, in spite of the sunshine, suggested nothing but men coming down from the head on rafts of wood to work some mischief. The situation became intolerable; I could not write; I could not get calm by walking up and down; and every time there was a louder noise than usual from the upper or lower workshop I started, and the perspiration came out upon my face. What a coward! You will say. Perhaps so; but a boy cannot go through such adventures as fell to my lot and not have some trace left behind. I stood at last in the middle of the little office, and thought of what would be the best thing to do. Should I run away? No; that would be too cowardly. I came to the right conclusion, I am sure, for I decided to go and face the danger, if there was any; for I said to myself, "Better to see it coming than to be taken unawares." Now, please, don't think me conceited. In place of being conceited, I want to set down modestly and truthfully the adventures that befell me while my lot was cast among a number of misguided men who, bound together in what they considered a war against their masters, were forced by their leaders into the performance of deeds quite opposed to their ordinary nature. It was a mad and foolish combination as then conducted, and injured instead of benefiting their class. Urged by my nervous dread of coming danger, I, as I have said, determined to see it if I could, and so be prepared; and in this spirit I put as bold a face on the matter as possible, and went down the long workshop where the men were grinding and working over the polishing-wheels, which flew round and put such a wonderful gloss upon a piece of metal. Then I went down and into the furnace-house, where the fires were glowing, and through the chinks the blinding glare of the blast-fed flame seemed to flash and cut the gloom. The men there gave me a civil nod, and so did the two smiths who were forging knives, while, when I went next into Pannell's smithy, feeling all the more confident for having made up my mind to action, the big fellow stared at me. "Yow here agen?" he said. "Yes." "Well, don't stay, lad; and if I was you I should keep out of wet grinders' shop." "Why?" I said. He banged a piece of steel upon his anvil, and the only answers I could get from him were raps of the hammer upon the metal; so I soon left him, feeling highly indignant with his treatment, and walked straight to his window, stepped up on the bench, and looked down, wondering whether it would be any good to fish from there. The water after some hours' working was much lower, so that a ledge about nine inches wide was laid bare and offered itself as a convenient resting-place; but I thought I would not fish while my uncles were away, especially since they had left me in charge. So I walked right to the very place I had been warned to avoid, and found the men as busy as usual, and ready enough to say a few civil words. And so the afternoon wore away, and telling myself that I had been scared at shadows, I felt a great deal more confident by tea-time when the men were leaving. I sat in the office then as important as if I were the master, and listened to their leaving and crossing the yard. I could hear them talking to the gate-keeper, and then I fancied I heard a rustling noise outside the building, but it was not repeated, and I began listening to the last men going, and soon after, according to his custom, old Dunning the gate-keeper came to bring his key. I heard the old fellow's halting step on the stairs, and trying to look very firm I answered his tap with a loud and important "Come in!" "All gone, Mester Jacob, sir," he said. "I s'pose you'll tek a look round?" "Yes; I'll do that, Dunning," I replied. "Then, good-night, sir!" "One moment, Dunning," I cried, as he turned to go. "I know you don't mix with the quarrels between masters and men." "Not I, Mester Jacob. I just do my bit o' work here, which just suits me, being a worn-out sort o' man, and then goes back home to my tea and my garden. You've nivver seen my bit o' garden, Mester Jacob, sir. You must come." "To be sure I will, Dunning; but tell me, how do the men seem now?" "Bit tired, sir. End o' the day's wuck." "No, no; I mean as to temper. Do you think they are settling down?" "O ay; yes, sir. They'd be quiet enew if the trade would let 'em alone." "No threats or anything of that sort?" "Well, you see, sir, I've no right to say a word," he replied, sinking his voice. "If they thought I was a talker, mebbe they'd be falling upon me wi' sticks; but you've always been a kind and civil young gentleman to me, so I will tell you as Gentles says he means to pay you when he gets a chance." "Then I must keep out of Mr Gentles's way," I said, laughing outside, for I felt very serious in. "Ay, but that arn't it, Mester Jacob, sir," said old Dunning, to make me more comfortable. "You see, sir, you nivver know where to hev a man like that. He might hit at you wi' his own fisty, but it's more'n likely as he'll do it wi' some one else's, or wi' a clog or a knobstick. You can nivver tell. Good-night, Mester Jacob, sir. Keep a sharp look-out, sir, and so will I, for I shouldn't like to see a nice well-spoken young gentleman like you spoiled." I followed Dunning down to the gate, and turned the key after him, feeling horribly alarmed. Spoiled--not like to see a boy like me spoiled. What did spoiling mean? I shuddered at the thought, and though for a moment I thought of rushing out and getting home as quickly as I could, there was a sort of fear upon me that a party of men might be waiting at one of the corners ready to shoot me. "I must wait a bit, and get cool," I said; and then looking about me, I shivered, for the great works looked strange and deserted, there was a horrible stillness in the place, and I had never felt so lonely and unpleasantly impressed even when watching in the middle of the night. Just then there was a whine and a bark, and Piter gave his chain a jerk. There was society for me at all events, and, going to the kennel, I unhooked the spring swivel and set the dog free, when, as usual, he showed his pleasure by butting his great head at me and trying to force it between my legs. I was used to it and knew how to act, but with a stranger it would have been awkward and meant sitting down heavily upon the dog unless he leaped out of the way. Of course I did not sit down on Piter, but lifted a leg over him, and as soon as he had become steady made a sort of inspection of the place to see that nothing was wrong, feeling that it was a sort of duty to do, as I was left alone. Piter kept close to me, rubbing my leg with one ear as we went all over the place, and as I found no powder-cans and fuses, no bottles full of fulminating silver, or any other deadly implement, my spirits rose and I began to laugh at myself for my folly. There was only the lower workshop with its grindstones to look through, and lit up as it was by the evening sun there did not seem to be anything very terrible there. The floor was wet, and the stones and their frames and bands cast broad shadows across the place and on the opposite wall, but nothing seemed to be wrong, only I could hear the hollow echoing plash of the water falling from the wheel sluice down into the stone-walled pit. There was nothing new in this, only that it seemed a little plainer than usual, and as I looked I saw that the door had been left open. That was nothing particular, but I went on to close it, not being able to see the bottom, the view being cut off by a great solid bench in the middle of the floor. On passing round this, though, I saw that there was something wrong; two or three bands had gone from as many grindstones, and had evidently been hastily thrown into the wheel-pit, whoever had done this having left one on the floor, half in and half out, and keeping the door from shutting close. "That couldn't be Gentles," I said aloud as I threw back the door, and my words echoed in the great black place, where the sunlight was cutting the shadow in a series of nearly horizontal rays as it came in past the wheel. I could see at a glance the amount of the mischief done: one band was evidently down in the water, and hung hitched in some way on to the band upon the floor. It had been intended to be dragged in as well, but it had caught against the iron of the rail that surrounded the bracket-like platform the width of the door and projecting over the water, which was ten feet below. I recalled standing upon it to catch eels, when I contrived to catch the lost bands as well, and thinking that perhaps after all there were several of the straps sunken below me, I stooped down, took hold of the band, and pulled. It would not come, being caught somehow at the edge of the platform; so gathering it closely in my hands rather unwillingly, for it was a wet oily affair, I stepped on to the platform, uttered a shriek, and fell with a tremendous splash into the water below. I felt the platform give way, dropping at once from beneath my feet, and though I snatched at it my hands glided over the boards in an instant and I was down amidst a tangle of bands in the deep black water. CHAPTER TWENTY. A COMPANION IN TROUBLE. I can't tell you the horrors of those moments as they appeared to me. No description could paint it all exactly; but one moment I was down in darkness with the current thundering in my ears, the next I was up at the surface beating and splashing, listening to the echoing of the water, which sounded hollow and strange, looking up at the sunshine that streamed in past the wheel, and then I went under. It is a strange admission to make, but in those first few moments of surprise and horror I forgot that I knew how to swim, and all my movements were instinctive and only wearied and sent me down again after I had risen. Then reason came to my help, and I began to strike out slowly and swam to the side of the great stone chamber, passing one hand along the slimy wall trying to get some hold, but finding none; and then swimming straight across to the other side and trying there, for I dared not approach the wheel, which looked horrible and dangerous, and I felt that if I touched it the great circle would begin to revolve, and perhaps take me down under the water, carry me up on the other side, and throw me over again. It looked too horrible, all wet, slimy, and dripping as it was, or possibly I might have climbed up it and reached the edge of the dam, so I swam right beyond it and felt along the other side, but without avail. There was nothing but the slimy stonework, try where I would, and the chill of horror began to have a numbing effect on my arms. I swam on to and fro beneath the doorway, with the little platform hanging by one end far above my had, and once as I swam my foot seemed to touch something, which might have been a piece of the sunken wood or iron work, but which made me shrink as if some horrible monster had made a snatch at me. I shouted, but there was only the hollow echoing of the stone chamber and the lapping and whispering of the water; and, knowing that I was alone locked in the works, the terrible idea began to dance before me that I was going to die, for unless I could save myself I need not expect help. The thought unnerved me more and more and made me swim more rapidly in the useless fashion I was pursuing, and once more I stared in a shrinking way at the great wheel, which, innocent enough in itself, seemed a more terrible engine than ever. I knew it would move if I swam across and clung to it, and I really dared not go near. There was always something repellent and strange even in a big water cistern in a house, and as a mere boy I have often started back in terror at the noise made by the pipes when the water was coming driving the air before it with a snorting gurgle, and then pouring in, while to climb up a ladder or set of steps and look down into the black watery place always gave me a shudder and made me glad to get away. It is easy to imagine, then, what my feelings were, suddenly cast into that great stone-walled place, with I did not know what depth of water beneath me, and inhabited as I knew by large twining eels. I daresay the eels were as much afraid of me as I was of them; but that made no difference to my feelings as I swam here and there trying in vain for something to which to cling; but in the darkest parts as well as the lightest it was always the same, my hand glided over the stones and splashed down again into the water. I was too much confused to think much, and moment by moment I was growing more helpless. I can remember making a sort of bound to try and get a hold of the broken platform above my head, but the effect of that effort was only to send me below the surface. I can recall, too, thinking that if I let my feet down I might find bottom, but this I dared not do for fear of what might be below; and so, each moment growing more feeble, I stared at the opened doorway through which I had come, at the iron-barred grating through which the water escaped, and which was the entrance to a tunnel or drain that ran beneath the works. Then I turned my eyes up at the sunlit opening through which seemed to come hope surrounding the black tooth-like engine that was hung there ready to turn and grind me down. My energy was nearly exhausted, the water was above my lips, and after a wild glare round at the slimy walls the whispering lapping echoes were changed for the thunderous roar and confusion felt by one plunged beneath the surface; and in my blind horror I began beating the water frantically in my last struggle for life. Natural instinct seems to have no hesitation in seizing upon the first help that comes. It was so here. I might have swum to the wheel at first and clung to it, but I was afraid; but now, after going under once or twice--I'm sure I don't know which--I came up in close proximity to the great mass of slimy wood-work, one of my hands touched it, the other joined it directly, and I clung panting there, blind, confused, helpless, but able to breathe. Almost at the same moment, and before I knew what I was holding on by, there came a sound which sent hope and joy into my heart. It was the whimpering whine of Piter, who directly after set up a short yapping kind of bark, and I had a kind of idea that he must be somewhere on the wood-work inside the wheel. I did not know that he had fallen in at the same time as I; and though once or twice I had heard him whining, I did not realise that he was also in danger; in fact the horrible overwhelming selfishness of the desire for self-preservation had swept away everything but the thought of how I was to get out of my trouble. Every moment now gave me a little confidence, though it was nearly driven away when, able to see clearly again, I found myself holding on by one of the wooden pocket-like places formed with boards on the outer circumference of the engine--the places in fact into which, when the sluice was opened, the water rushed, and by its weight bore the wheel round. After a few minutes' clinging there, beginning to feel numbed and chilled by the cold, I realised that the sun was setting, that the patches of light were higher, and that in a very few minutes the horrors of this place would be increased tenfold by my being plunged in profound darkness. I dreaded moving, but I knew that the water could not come down upon me unless the sluice was opened, and that was turned off when the men left work, so that the water was saved for the next day, and the wheel ceased to turn. I determined then to try and climb up from pocket to pocket of the wheel and so reach the stone-race at the opening, along which the water poured. My courage revived at this, and drawing my legs under me I got them upon one of the edges of the pocket beneath the water, raised myself up and caught hold of one higher than I had hold of before, and was about to take a step higher when, to my horror, the huge wheel began to feel the effect of my weight, and gradually the part I held descended. At the same moment there was a loud splash, a beating of the water, a whining barking noise, and I knew I had shaken Piter off the bar or spoke to which he had been clinging inside. "Here, Piter; here dog," I shouted; and he swam round to me, whining piteously and seeming to ask me for help. This I was able to give him, for, holding tightly with one hand, I got my right arm round him and helped him to scramble up into one of the pockets, though the effort had weighed down the wheel and I sank deeper in the water. I made another trial to climb up, but though the resistance of the great wheel was sufficient to support me partly it soon began to revolve, and I knew that it would go faster if I tried to struggle up. I heaved a despairing sigh, and for the first time began to think of Gentles. "This must be his doing," I said to myself. He had set some one to take out the support of the little platform, and I was obliged to own that after all he had only set a trap for me just as I had set one for him. Still there was a great difference: he was on his way to do harm when he was caught--I was engaged in my lawful pursuits and trying to do good. I had another trial, and another, but found it would, in my exhausted state, be impossible to climb up, and as I clung there, up to my chest in the water, and with the dog close to me, he whined piteously and licked my face. The next minute he began to bark, stood up with his hind feet on the edge of one bar, his fore-paws on the one above, and made a bound. To my surprise he reached his aim, and his weight having no effect on the wheel, he scrambled up and up till I knew he must have reached the top. There was no doubt about it. The next minute I heard the rattling shaking noise made by a dog when getting rid of the water in its coat. Then a loud and joyous barking. Then only the dripping, plashing sound of the water that escaped through the sluice and came running in and falling about the wheel. What time was it? About half-past six, and the men would not come to work till the next morning. Could I hang there till then? I knew it was impossible--that in perhaps less than half an hour I should be compelled to loose my hold and fall back into the black water without strength to stir a paralysed arm. I shouted again and again, but the walls echoed back my cry, and I knew it was of no use, for it was impossible for any one to hear me outside the place. It was only wasting strength, and that was wanted to sustain me as long as possible. There was one hope for me, though: my uncles would be returning from Redham at ten or eleven o'clock, and, not finding me at home, they would come in search of me. When it is too late! I must have said that aloud, for the word _late_ came echoing back from the wall, and for a time I hung there, feeling numbed, as it were, in my head, and as slow at thinking or trying to imagine some way of escape as I was at movement. But I made one more effort. It seemed to be so pitiful that a wretched, brainless dog, when placed in a position like this, should be able to scramble out, while I, with the power of thinking given to me, with reason and some invention, was perfectly helpless. This thought seemed to send a current like electricity through me, nerving me to make another effort, and loosening one hand I caught at the bar above me as before, changed the position of my feet, and began to climb. I gave up with a groan, for I was only taking the place of the water and turning the wheel just as a turnspit dog would work, or a squirrel in its cage, only that I was outside the wheel and they would have been in. I came down with a splash; and as I clung there I could hear the water go softly lapping against the wall and whispering in the corners as if it were talking to itself about how soon I should have to loose my hold, sink down, and be drowned. I was weakened by this last effort as well as by the strain upon my nerves, and as the water ceased to lap and whisper a horrible silence crept down into the place in company with the darkness. Only a few minutes before all was bright where the sun rays flashed in; now there was only a soft glow to be seen, and all about me black gloom. I grew more and more numbed and helpless, and but for the fact that I hung there by my hands being crooked over the edge of the board across the wheel, I believe I must have fallen back, but my fingers stiffened into position and helped me to retain my hold, till at last they began to give way. I had been thinking of home and of my uncles, and wondering how soon they would find me, and all in a dull nerveless way, for I suppose I was too much exhausted to feel much mental or bodily pain, when all at once I began to recall stories I had read about the Saint Bernard dogs and the travellers in the snow; and then about the shepherds' collies in the north and the intelligence they displayed. Several such tales came to my memory, and I was just thinking to myself that they were all nonsense, for if dogs had so much intelligence, why had not Piter, who had a head big enough for a double share of dogs' brains, gone and fetched somebody to help me, instead of making his own escape, and then going and curling himself up by one of the furnaces to get dry--a favourite place of his if he had the chance. Just then, as I seemed to be half asleep, I heard a sharp bark at a distance, then another nearer, and directly after Piter was on the top of the wheel, where he had stepped from the sluice trough, barking with all his might. "Wheer is he then, boy? Wheer is he then?" said a gruff hoarse voice. Piter barked more furiously than ever, and the glow seemed to give way to darkness overhead, as the voice muttered: "Dear, dear! Hey! Think o' that now. Mester Jacob, are you theer?" "Help!" I said, so faintly that I was afraid I should not be heard. "Wheerabouts? In the watter?" "I'm--on--the wheel," I cried weakly, and then, as I heard the sound of someone drawing in his breath, I strove to speak once more and called out: "Turn the wheel." It began to move directly, but taking me down into the water, and I uttered a cry, when the wheel turned in the other direction, drawing me out and up. My arms straightened out; I was drawn closer to the wood-work. I felt that I should slip off, when my toes rested upon one of the bars, while, as I rose higher, the tension on my arms grew less, and then less, and at last, instead of hanging, I was lying upon my chest. Then a pair of great hands laid hold of me, and Piter was licking my face. Pannell told me afterwards that he had to carry me all along the narrow stone ledge to the window of his smithy, and thrust me through there before climbing in after me, for it was impossible to get into the yard the other way without a boat. I must have fainted, I suppose, for when I opened my eyes again, though it was in darkness, the icy water was not round me, but I was lying on the warm ashes down in one of the stoke-holes; and the faint glow of the half-extinct fire was shining upon the shiny brown forehead of the big smith. "Pannell!" I exclaimed, "where am I?" "Get out!" he growled. "Just as if yow didn' know." "Did you save me?" "'Sh, will yo'!" he whispered. "How do we know who's a-watching an' listening? Yow want to get me knob-sticked, that's what yow want." "No, no," I said, shivering. "Yow know where we are, o' course. Down in the big stokul; but be quiet. Don't shout." "How did you know I was in there?" "What, in yonder?" "Yes, of course; oh how my arms ache and throb!" "Let me give 'em a roob, my lad," he said; and strongly, but not unkindly, he rubbed and seemed to knead my arms, especially the muscles above my elbows, talking softly in a gruff murmur all the while. "I did give you a wink, lad," he said, "for I know'd that some'at was on the way. I didn' know what, nor that it was so bad as that theer. Lor' how can chaps do it! Yow might hev been drowned." "Yes," I said with a shiver. "The cowards!" "Eh! Don't speak aloud, lad. How did you get in? Some un push thee?" "Push me! No; the platform was broken loose, and a trap set for me, baited with a wheel-band," I added angrily. Pannell burst into a laugh, and then checked himself. "I weer not laughing at yow, lad," he whispered, "but at owd Gentles. So yow got in trap too?" "Trapped! Yes; the cowardly wretches!" "Ay, 'twere cowardly. Lucky I came. Couldn't feel bottom, eh?" "No." "Nay, yow wouldn't; there's seven foot o' watter there, wi'out mood." "How did you know I was there?" "What! Didn' I tell ye?" "No." "I were hanging about like, as nigh as I could for chaps, a waitin' to see yow go home; but yow didn't coom, and yow didn't coom; and I got crooked like wi' waiting, and wondering whether yow'd gone another way, when all at once oop comes the bull-poop fierce like, and lays holt o' me by the leg, and shakes it hard. I was going to kick un, but he'd on'y got holt of my trowsis, and he kep on' shacking. Then he lets go and barks and looks at me, and takes holt o' my trowsis agin, and hangs away, pulling like, till I seemed to see as he wanted me to coom, and I followed him." "Good old Piter!" I said; and there was a whine. I did not know it, but Piter was curled up on the warm ashes close by me, and as soon as he heard his name he put up his head, whined, and rapped the ashes with his stumpy tail. "He went to the wucks fast as he could, and slipped in under the gate; but I couldn't do that, you see, Mester, and the gate was locked, so I was just thinking what I'd best do, and wondering where you might be, when I see Stivens come along, looking as if he'd like to howd my nose down again his grindstone, and that made me feel as if I'd like to get one of his ears in my tongs, and his head on my stithy. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I come away and waited till he'd gone." "It seemed as if help would never come," I said. "Ay, it weer long time," said Pannell; "but I found no one about at last, and I slipped over the wall." "Yes, and I know where," I said. "And there was Piter waiting and wanting me to follow him. But there was no getting in--the doors were locked. I seemed to know, though, that the dog wanted to get me to the wheel-pit, and when I tried to think how to get to you I found there was no way 'cept through my forge. So I got out o' my window, and put the dorg down, and--well, I came. Arn't much of a fire here, but if I blow it up Stivens or some on 'em will hear it, or see it, or something; and I s'pose I shall have it for to-night's work." I did feel warmer and better able to move, and at last I rose to make the best of my way back. "Nobody will notice my wet things," I said, "now it's dark. I don't know what to say to thank you, Pannell." "Say I was a big boompkin for meddling ower what didn't consarn me. If I don't come to wuck to-morrow you'll know why." "No; I shall not," I cried wonderingly. "Ah, then, you'll have time to find out," he muttered. "Good-night, lad!" "Stop a moment and I'll open the gate," I cried. "Nay, I shall go out as I come in. Mayn't be seen then. Mebbe the lads'll be watching by the gate." He stalked out, and as I followed him I saw his tall gaunt figure going to the corner of the yard where the trap was set, and then there was a scuffling noise, and he had gone. I left the place soon after, and as I fastened the gate I fancied I saw Stevens and a man who limped in his walk; but I could not be sure, for the gas lamp cast but a very feeble light, and I was too eager to get home and change my things to stop and watch. The run did me good, and by the time I had on a dry suit I was very little the worse for my immersion, being able to smile as I told my uncles at their return. They looked serious enough, though, and Uncle Jack said it was all owing to the trap. The question of putting the matter in the hands of the police was again well debated, but not carried out--my uncles concluding that it would do no good even if the right man were caught, for in punishing him we should only have the rest who were banded together more bitter against us. "Better carry on the war alone," said Uncle Dick; "we must win in the end." "If we are not first worn-out," said the others. "Which we shall not be," cried Uncle Dick, laughing. "There are three of us to wear out, and as one gets tired it will enrage the others; while when all three of us are worn-out we can depute Cob to carry on the war, and he is as obstinate as all three of us put together." They looked at me and laughed, but I felt too much stirred to follow their example. "It is too serious," I said, "to treat like that; for I am obstinate now much more than I was, and I should like to show these cowards that we are not going to be frightened out of the town." "Cob don't know what fear is," said Uncle Jack with a bit of a sneer. "Indeed but I do," I replied. "I was horribly frightened when I fell into that place; but the more they frighten me, the more I want for us to make them feel that we are not to be beaten by fear." "Bravo!" cried Uncle Bob, clapping his hands. "There! Let's go on with our work," said Uncle Dick; "we must win in the end." To have seen the works during the next few days, anyone would have supposed that there had never been the slightest trouble there. After due consideration the little platform had been replaced and the bands taken from the grindstone gear duly put in position, the men taking not the slightest notice, but working away most industriously. Pannell, however, did not come back, and his forge was cold, very much to my uncles' annoyance. On inquiry being made we were told that his mother was dying, and that he had been summoned to see her. I felt a little suspicious, but could hardly believe that anything was wrong, till one evening Uncle Jack proposed that we two should have a walk out in the country for a change. I was only too glad, for the thought of getting away from the smoke and dirt and noise was delightful. So as to get out sooner we took a short cut and were going down one of the long desolate-looking streets of rows of houses all alike, and built so as to be as ugly as possible, when we saw on the opposite side a man seated upon a door-step in his shirt-sleeves, and with his head a good deal strapped and bandaged. "That's one of the evils of a manufacturing trade where machinery is employed," said Uncle Jack. "I'm afraid that, generally speaking, the accidents are occasioned by the men's carelessness or bravado; but even then it is a painful thing to know that it is your machinery that has mutilated a poor fellow. That poor fellow has been terribly knocked about, seemingly." "Yes," I said, looking curiously across the road. "So far we have been wonderfully fortunate, but--here, this way! Where are you going?" "Over here," I said, already half across the road; for the brawny arms and long doubled-up legs of the man seemed familiar. "Why?" cried Uncle Jack; but he followed me directly. "Pannell!" I exclaimed. "What, Mester Jacob!" he cried, lifting up his head with his face in my direction, but a broad bandage was over his eyes. "Why, what's all this?" I cried; "have you had some accident?" "Yes, met wi' acciden' done o' purpose." "But they said your mother was dying," I cried as I held the great hard hand, which was now quite clean. "Ay, so I heard say," replied the great fellow. "Is she better?" "Better! Well, she ain't been badly." "Not dying?" said Uncle Jack. "What's that yow, Mester?" said Pannell. "Sarvice to you, sir. My mother!--dying! Well, I suppose she be, slowly, like the rest of us." "But what have you been doing?" I cried. "What a state you are in!" "State I'm in! Yow should have seen me a fortnit ago, my lad. I'm splendid now--coming round fast." "But how was it?" cried Uncle Jack, while I turned white as I seemed to see it all. "How was it, Mester!" said Pannell laughing. "Well, you see, I weer heving bit of a walluck, wi' my pipe in my mooth, and it being bit dusk like that night I didn't see which way I were going, and run my head again some bits o' wood." "Sticks!" I said excitedly. He turned his head towards me smiling. "Couldn't see rightly as to that, Mester Jacob," he said; "I dessay they weer." "And a set of cowards had hold of them!" I cried. "Nay, I can't say," replied the great fellow. "Yow see, Mester, when owt hits you on the head it wuzzles you like, and you feel maazed." Uncle Jack stood frowning. "You know very well, Pannell," I cried angrily, "that you have been set upon by some of these treacherous cowards for helping me that evening. Oh, Uncle Jack!" I cried, passionately turning to him, "why don't you go to the police?" "Howd thee tongue, lad!" cried Pannell fiercely. "Yow don't know nowt about it. Don't yow do nowt o' t' sort, Mester. Let well alone, I say." "But I cannot stand still and see these outrages committed," said Uncle Jack in a low angry voice. "Hey, but thou'lt hev to, 'less you give up maakin' 'ventions. Trade don't like 'em, and trade will hev its say." "But that you should have been so brutally used for doing a manly action for this boy," began Uncle Jack. "Theer, theer, theer," said Pannell; "I don't kick agen it. I s'pected they'd do some'at. I know'd it must coom. Chap as breaks the laws has to tek his bit o' punishment. Chaps don't bear no malice. I'm comin' back to work next week." "Look here," said Uncle Jack, who was a good deal moved by the man's calm patience, "what are we to do to come to terms with the workmen, and have an end to these outrages?" "Oh, that's soon done," replied Pannell, rubbing one great muscular arm with his hand, "yow've just got to give up all contrapshions, and use reg'lar old-fashioned steel, and it'll be all right." "And would you do this, my man?" said Uncle Jack, looking down at the great muscular fellow before him. "Ay, I'd do it for sake o' peace and quiet. I should nivver go agen trade." "And you would advise me to give up at the command of a set of ignorant roughs, and make myself their slave instead of master." "Mester Jacob," said Pannell, "I can't see a bit wi' this towel round my head; look uppards and downards; any o' the chaps coming?" "No," I said. "Then look here, Mester, I will speak if I nivver do again. No, I wouldn't give up if I was you, not if they did a hundred worse things than they've done yet. Theer!" Uncle Jack looked down on the man, and then said quickly: "And you, what will you do?" "Get to wuck again, Mester, as soon as I can." "And the men who beat you like that?" "Eh, what about 'em?" "Shall you try and punish them?" "Punish 'em, Mester! Why, how can I? They punished me." "But you will turn upon them for this, Pannell, will you not?" "Nay, Mester; I went again 'em, and they knob-sticked me for it, and it's all done and over. I shall soon be back at my stithy, if you'll hev me again." "Have you! Yes, my man, of course," said Uncle Jack. "I wish we could have more like you." "Cob," said Uncle Jack as we strode on and got well out into the country, "we've got a very strong confederation to fight, and I do not feel at all hopeful of succeeding; but, there: we've put our hands to the plough, and we can't look back. Now never mind business, let's listen to the birds and enjoy the fresh country air for a time." We were going up the valley, passing every now and then "a wheel" as it was called, that is a water-wheel, turning a number of grindstones, the places being remarkably like ours, only that as we got farther out the people who ground and forged did their work under the shade of trees, while the birds piped their songs, and air and water were wonderfully different from what they were about our place on the edge of the great town. "Let's get back, Cob," said Uncle Jack despondently. "It makes me miserable to hear the birds, and see the beauty of the hills and vales, and the sparkling water, and know that men toiling together in towns can be such ruffians and so full of cruelty to their fellow creatures." "And so strong and true and brave and ready to help one another." "As who are, Cob?" said my uncle. "Well, for want of thinking of anyone else just now," I said, "there's poor Pannell; he saved me, and he has just shown us that he is too faithful to his fellow-workmen to betray them." Uncle Jack laid his hand upon my shoulder and gave it a hearty grip. "You're right, my lad," he said. "You're the better philosopher after all. There's good and bad, and like so many more I think of the bad and overlook the good. But all the same, Cob, I'm very uneasy. These men have a spiteful feeling against you, and we shall not be doing right if we trust you out of our sight again." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. WHAT I CAUGHT AND HEARD. "I should say you will very likely have some sport," said Uncle Dick. "Try by all means." "I hardly like to, uncle," I said. "Nonsense, my lad! All work and no play makes Jack--I mean Jacob--a dull boy." "But it will seem as if I am neglecting my work." "By no means. Besides, we shall not be busy for a day or two. Have a few hours' fishing, and I daresay one of us will come and see how you are getting on." The opportunity was too tempting to be lost, so I got a cheap rod and a dear line--a thoroughly good one, asked a gardener just outside to dig up some small red worms for me, and, furnishing myself with some paste and boiled rice, I one morning took my place up at the head of the dam where the stream came in, chose a place where the current whirled round in a deep hole and began fitting my tackle together prior to throwing in. I had been longing for this trial, for I felt sure that there must be some big fish in the dam. It was quite amongst the houses and factories, but all the same it was deep, there was a constant run of fresh water through it, and I had more than once seen pieces of bread sucked down in a curiously quiet way, as if taken by a great slow moving fish, a carp or tench, an old inhabitant of the place. Certainly it was not the sort of spot I should have selected for a day's fishing had I been offered my choice, but it was the best I could obtain then, and I was going to make the most of it. I laughed to myself as I thought of the eels, and the great haul I had made down in the wheel-pit, and then I shuddered as I thought of the horrors I had suffered down there, and wondered whether our troubles with the men were pretty well over. I hoped so, for from what I heard the business was succeeding beyond the hopes of the most sanguine of my uncles, and if we were left alone success on the whole was assured. Of course it was this brilliant prospect that induced them to stay on and dare the perils that lurked around, though, during the past few weeks, everything had been so quiet that once more we were indulging in the hope that the war was at an end. In spite of Dr Johnson's harsh saying about a fisherman, I know of no more satisfactory amusement than is to be found in company with a rod and line. The sport may be bad, but there is the country, the bright sky, the waving trees, the dancing waters, and that delicious feeling of expectation of the finest bite and the biggest fish that never comes but always may. I was in this state of expectancy that day. The sport was not good certainly, for the fish I caught were small, but I argued that where there were small fish there must be large, and sooner or later some of the monsters of the dam would see and take my bait. I fished till dinner-time, varying my position, and when the bell rang some of the men came and sat on the edge and watched me, chatting civilly enough as they smoked their pipes. As luck had it I caught a couple of good-sized silvery roach, and Stevens gave his leg a regular slap as he exclaimed: "Well if they'd towd me there was fish like that i' th' dam I wouldn't hev believed it." The bell rang for work to be resumed, and the men slowly moved along the dam edge, Stevens being left, and he stopped to fill and light his pipe--so it seemed to me; but as he stooped over it, puffing away large clouds of smoke, I heard him say: "Don't look. Soon as men's gone in, yow go and stand on ledge close under grinding-shop windows, and see what you catch." "It's such an awkward place to get to," I said. "I suppose it's deep, but--" "You do what I tell'ee, and don't talk," growled Stevens, and he strolled off with his hands in his pockets after his mates. "I sha'n't go," I said. "It's a very awkward place to get to; the ledge is not above nine inches wide, and if I got hold of a big fish, how am I to land him!" The very idea of getting hold of a fish that would be too hard to land was too much for me, and I should have gone to the ledge if it had only been four and a half inches wide. So, waiting to have a few more throws, which were without result, I picked up my basket, walked right round the end of the dam, and then along the top of a narrow wall till I reached the end of the works at the far side, and from there lowered myself gently down on the ledge, along which Pannell had brought me when he rescued me from the wheel-pit, right at the other end, and towards which I was slowly making my way. It was slow travelling, and my feet were not above a couple of inches above the water, while the windows of the grinding-shop were about four feet above my head. I made no special selection, but stopped right in the middle, just where I imagined that the dam head would be deepest, and softly dropped in my line after setting down my basket and leaning my back against the stone building. As I did so I wished that there had been a place to sit down, but there was of course only just room to stand, and there I was with the water gliding on and over the great wheel a few yards to my left; to my right the windows, out of which poured the black smoke of the forges, and from which came the _clink chink_ of hammer upon anvil, while above me came throbbing and vibrating, screeching and churring, the many varied sounds made by the grinders as they pressed some piece of steel against the swiftly revolving stone, while, in spite of dripping drenching water, the least contact drew from the stone a shower of sparks. I fished on, after making a few alterations in the depth of my bait, finding the water far deeper than I expected. I renewed that bait, too, but no monstrous fish came to take it, to hook itself, and to make a rush and drag me off my ledge. The sounds buzzed and rattled overhead; there was the echoing plash of the water over the wheel, and the whispering echoes which did not sound at all terrible now, and above all from the windows overhead, in intervals of the grinding, I could hear the men talking very earnestly at times. I paid very little heed, for I was interested in my fishing and the water across which the spiders were skating. I wanted a big bite--that big bite--but still it did not come, and I began to wonder whether there were any fish of size in the place. "There's every reason why there should be," I thought. Deep clear water fed by the great dam up in the hills, and of course that dam was fed by the mountain streams. This place was all amongst buildings, and plenty of smuts fell on the surface; in fact the wind used to send a regular black scum floating along to the sides. _Plop_! My heart gave a throb of excitement, for there was a rise evidently made by a big fish over to my right close inshore. "Now if I had been there," I thought, "I should have most likely been able to catch that fish and then--" Bah! Who wanted to catch a great water-rat that had plumped off the bank into the water? I could see the sleek-coated fellow paddling about close inshore. Then he dived down, and there were a lot of tiny bubbles to show his course before he went right in under the bank, which was full of holes. I could almost fancy I was in the country, for there were a few rushes and some sedgy growth close to where the rat had been busy. Farther off, too, there was the sound that I had heard down in a marshy part of Essex with my uncles, during one of our excursions. "_Quack, quack, quack! Wuck, wuck, wuck_!"--a duck and a drake just coming down to the water to drink and bathe and feed on the water-weed and snails. Yes; it quite put me in mind of the country to have wild ducks coming down to the pool, and--there were the two wild ducks! One, as the cry had told me, was a drake, and he had once been white, but old age and Arrowfield soot and the dirty little black yard where he generally lived had changed his tint most terribly, and though he plunged in, and bobbed and jerked the water all over his back, and rubbed the sides of his head and his beak all among his feathers, they were past cleaning. As to his wife, who expressed herself with a loud quack, instead of saying _wuck, wuck_ in more smothered tones, she was possibly quite as dirty as her lord, but being brown the dirt did not show. Her rags did, for a more disreputable bird I never saw, though she, too, washed and napped her wings, and dived and drenched herself before getting out on the bank to preen and beak over her feathers. Alas! As people say in books, it was not the country, but dingy, smoke-bewithered Arrowfield, and I wondered to myself why a couple of birds with wings should consent to stay amongst factories and works. I knew the top of my float by heart; so must that skating spider which had skimmed up to it, running over the top of the water as easily as if it were so much ice. I was growing drowsy and tired. Certainly I leaned my back up against the wall, but it was quite upright, and there was no recompense. Whatever is the use of watching a float that will not bob? It may be one of the best to be got in a tackle-shop, with a lovely subdivision of the paint--blue at the bottom and white at the top, or green and white, or blue and red, but if it obstinately persists in sitting jauntily cocked up on the top of the water immovable, fishing no longer becomes a sport. But I did not fish all that time for nothing. As I said, I was becoming drowsy with looking so long at the black cap at the top of my float. Perhaps it was the whirr and hum of the machinery, and the faint sound of plashing water; even the buzz and churr and shriek of the steel upon the fast spinning stones may have had something to do with it. At any rate I was feeling sleepy and stupid, when all at once I was wide-awake and listening excitedly, for the shrieking of blade held upon grindstone ceased, and I heard a voice that was perfectly familiar to me say: "Tell 'ee what. Do it at once if you like; but if I had my wayer I'd tie lump o' iron fast on to that theer dorg's collar and drop 'im in dam." "What good ud that do?" said another voice. "Good! Why we'd be shut on him." "Ay, but they'd get another." "Well, they wouldn't get another boy if we got shut o' this one," said the first voice. "But yow wouldn't go so far as to--" The man stopped short, and seemed to give his stone a slap with the blade that he was grinding. "I d'know. He's a bad un, and allus at the bottom of it if owt is found out." "Ay, but yow mustn't." "Well, p'r'aps I wouldn't then, but I'd do something as would mak him think it were time to go home to his mother." My face grew red, then white, I'm sure, for one moment it seemed to burn, the next it felt wet and cold. I did not feel sleepy any longer, but in an intense state of excitement, for those words came from the window just above my head, so that I could hear them plainly. "It's all nonsense," I said to myself directly after. "They know I'm here, and it's done to scare me." Just then the churring and screeching of the grinding steel burst out louder than ever, and I determined to go away and treat all I had heard with silent contempt. Pulling up my line just as a fisher will, I threw in again for one final try, and hardly had the bait reached the bottom before the float bobbed. I could not believe it at first. It seemed that I must have jerked the line--but no, there it was again, another bob, and another, and then a series of little bobs, and the float moved slowly off over the surface, carrying with it a dozen or so of blacks. I was about to strike, but I thought I would give the fish a little more time and make sure of him, and, forgetting all about the voices overhead, I was watching the float slowly gliding away, bobbing no longer, but with the steady motion that follows if a good fish has taken the bait. And what a delight that was! What a reward to my patience! That it was a big one I had no doubt. If it had been a little fish it would have jigged and bobbed the float about in the most absurd way, just as if the little fish were thoughtless, and in a hurry to be off to play on the surface, whereas a big fish made it a regular business, and was calm and deliberate in every way. "Now for it," I thought, and raising the point of the rod slowly I was just going to strike when the grinding above my head ceased, and one of the voices I had before heard said: "Well, we two have got to go up to the _Pointed Star_ to-night to get our orders, and then we shall know what's what." I forgot all about the fish and listened intently. "Nay, they can't hear," said the voice again, as if in answer to a warning; "wheels makes too much noise. I don't care if they did. They've had warnings enew. What did they want to coom here for?" "Ay," said another, "trade's beginning to feel it a'ready. If we let 'em go on our wives and bairns 'll be starving next winter." "That's a true word, lad; that's a true word. When d'yow think it'll be?" "Ah, that's kept quiet. We shall know soon enew." "Ay, when it's done." "Think this 'll sattle 'em?" "Sattle! Ay, that it will, and pretty well time. They'll go back to Lonnon wi' their tails twix' their legs like the curs they are. Say, think they've got pistols?" "Dunno. Sure to hev, ah sud say." "Oh!" "Well, s'pose they hev? You aren't the man to be scarred of a pop-gun, are yo'?" "I d'know. Mebbe I should be if I hev the wuck to do. I'm scarred o' no man." "But you're scarred of a pistol, eh lad? Well, I wunner at yo'." "Well, see what a pistol is." "Ay, I know what a pistol is, lad. Man's got a pistol, and yo' hit 'im a tap on the knuckles, and he lets it fall. Then he stoops to pick it up, and knobstick comes down on his head. Nowt like a knobstick, lad, whether it be a man or a bit o' wood. Wants no loading, and is allus safe." "Well, all I've got to say is, if I have the wuck to do I shall--" _Churr, churry, screech, and grind_. The noise drowned the words I was eager to hear, and I stood bathed with perspiration, and hot and cold in turn. That some abominable plot was in hatching I was sure, and in another minute I might have heard something that would have enabled us to be upon our guard; but the opportunity had passed, for the men were working harder than ever. I was evidently in very bad odour with them, and I thought bitterly of the old proverb about listeners never hearing any good of themselves. What should I do--stop and try to hear more? _Jig, jig, tug, tug_ at the top of my rod, and I looked down to see that the float was out of sight and the rod nearly touching the water. My fisherman's instinct made me strike at once, and in spite of the agitation produced by the words I had heard I was ready for the exciting struggle I expected to follow. I had certainly hooked a fish which struggled and tugged to get away; but it was not the great carp or tench I expected to capture, only a miserable little eel which I drew through the water as I walked slowly along the ledge towards the end of the works farthest from the wheel, where I climbed on the wall, and, still dragging my prize, I went right on to the far end, where the water came in from the stream. There I crossed the wooden plank that did duty for a bridge, and glanced furtively back at the windows of the works looking out upon the dam. As far as I could make out I had not been seen, and I had obtained some very valuable information that might be useful for our protection. When I had reached the spot where I had begun fishing I drew in my capture; but it was not a long eel, but a mass of twined-up, snake-like fish which had wreathed itself into a knot with my line. To get it free seemed to be impossible, so I cut off the piece of line just above the knot and let it fall into the water to extricate itself, while I went back to the office to have a few words with my uncles about what I had heard. "I think we are in duty bound to send you home, Cob," said Uncle Jack, and the others murmured their acquiescence. "Send me home!" I cried. "What! Just when all the fun is going to begin!" "Fun!" said Uncle Dick, "Fun that the frogs suffered when the boys stoned them, eh?" "Oh, but you know what I mean, uncle. I don't want to go." "But we have run you into terrible risks already," cried Uncle Bob, "and if you were hurt I should feel as if I could never face your father and mother again." "Oh, but I sha'n't be hurt," I cried. "There, I'm ready for anything, and shall always try to get on the safe side." "As you always do," said Uncle Jack grimly. "No, my boy, you must not stay. It is evident from what you overheard that the men have some design against us on hand. Above all, they have taken a great dislike to you, and in their blind belief that you are one of the causes of their trouble they evidently feel spiteful and will not shrink from doing you harm. And that's rather a long-winded speech," he added, smiling. "Can't we make them see that we are working for them instead of against them?" said Uncle Dick. "No," said Uncle Bob. "No one can teach prejudiced workmen. The light comes to them some day, but it takes a long time to get through their dense brains. I think Cob must go." "Oh! Uncle Bob," I exclaimed. "I can't help it," my lad. "There seems to be no help for it. I shall regret it horribly, for your uncles are very poor company." "Thankye," said Uncle Dick. "Nice remark from the most stupid of three brothers," grumbled Uncle Jack. "But you ought not to be exposed to these risks," continued Uncle Bob, "and now that by your own showing there is something worse on the way." "Oh, it can't be worse than it has been; and besides, the men said I was always the first to find anything out. You see I have this time-- again." "Yes, with a vengeance," said Uncle Jack. "And I'm sure you can't spare me." "No, we can ill spare you, Cob," said Uncle Dick, "but we should not be doing our duty if we kept you here." "Now, uncle," I cried, "I believe if I went home--though, of course, they would be very glad to see me--my father would say I ought to be ashamed of myself for leaving you three in the lurch." "Look here! Look here! Look here!" cried Uncle Bob. "We can't sit here and be dictated to by this boy. He has run risks enough, and he had better go back to them at once." "Oh, you see if I would have said a word if I had known that you would have served me like this!" I cried angrily. "Anyone would think I was a schoolgirl." "Instead of a man of sixteen," said Uncle Bob. "Never mind," I cried, "you were sixteen once, Uncle Bob." "Quite right, my boy, so I was, and a conceited young rascal I was, almost as cocky as you are." "Thank you, uncle." "Only I had not been so spoiled by three easy-going, good-natured uncles, who have made you think that you are quite a man." "Thank you, uncle," I said again, meaning to be very sarcastic. "Instead of a soft stripling full of sap." "And not fit to stand against the blows of oak cudgels and the injured Arrowfield workmen," said Uncle Dick. "Oh, all right! Banter away," I said. "I don't mind. I shall grow older and stronger and more manly, I hope." "Exactly," said Uncle Jack; "and that's what we are aiming at for you, my lad. We don't want to see you scorched by an explosion, or hurt by blows, or made nervous by some horrible shock." "I don't want to be hurt, of course," I said, "and I'm not at all brave. I was terribly frightened when I found the powder canister, and when I fell in the wheel-pit. I believe I was alarmed when I heard the men talking about what they were going to do; but I should be ashamed of myself, after going through so much, if I ran away, as they said you three would do." "How was that?" cried Uncle Bob. "With your tails between your legs, regularly frightened away like curs." "They may carry us to the hospital without a leg to stand upon, or take us somewhere else without heads to think, but they will not see us running away in such a fashion as that," quoth Uncle Dick. "Boy," said Uncle Jack, in his sternest way, "I would give anything to keep you with us, but I feel as if it has been a lapse of duty towards you to let you run these risks." "But suppose I had been made a midshipman, uncle," I argued, "I should have always been running the risks of the sea, and the foreign climate where I was sent, and of being killed or wounded by the enemy." "If there was war," suggested Uncle Bob. "Yes, uncle, if there was war." "Cob, my lad," said Uncle Dick, "that's a strong argument, but it does not convince us. Your Uncle Jack speaks my feelings exactly. I would give anything to keep you with us, for your young elastic nature seems to send off or radiate something brightening on to ours; and, now that you are going away, I tell you frankly that your courage has often encouraged us." "Has it, uncle?" I cried. "Often, my lad." "Ay that it has," said Uncle Jack. "I've often felt down-hearted and ready to throw up our adventure; but I've seen you so fresh and eager, and so ready to fight it out, that I've said to myself--If a boy like that is ready to go on it would be a shame for a man to shrink." "Yes," said Uncle Bob, "I confess to the same feeling." "Well, that is shabby," I cried. "What is, boy?" said Uncle Jack. "To send me off like this. Why, you'll all break down without me." "No, no; that does not follow," said Uncle Bob. "Ah, won't it! You'll see," I said. "Look here, Cob, be reasonable," exclaimed Uncle Jack, walking up and down the room in a very excited way. "You see, ever since you were born we've made a sort of playmate of you, and since you grew older, and have been down here with us, you know we have not treated you as if you were a boy." "Well, no, uncle, I suppose you have not." "We have talked with you, consulted with you, and generally behaved towards you as if you were a young man." "And now all at once you turn round and punish me by treating me as if I were a little boy." "No, no, my lad; be reasonable. We have been consulting together." "Without me." "Yes, without you; because we felt that we were not doing you justice-- that we were not behaving as good brothers to your mother, in letting you go on sharing these risks." "But there may be no more, uncle." "But there will be a great many more, my boy," said Uncle Jack solemnly; "and what would our feelings be if some serious accident were to happen to you?" "Just the same, Uncle Jack," I cried, "as mine would be, and my father's and mother's, if some accident were to happen to you." Uncle Jack wrinkled up his broad forehead, stared hard at me, and then, in a half-angry, half amused way, he went to the table, took up an imaginary piece of soap and began to rub it in his palms. "I wash my hands of this fellow, boys," he said. "Dick, you are the oldest; take him in hand, dress him down, give him sixpence to buy hardbake and lollipops, and send him about his business." "Make it half-a-crown, uncle," I cried, with my cheeks burning with anger; "and then you might buy me a toy-horse too--one with red wafers all over it, and a rabbit-skin tail." "My dear Cob," said Uncle Jack, "why will you be so wilfully blind to what is good for you?" My cheeks grew hotter, and if I had been alone I should have burst into a passion of tears, but I could not do such a thing then, when I wanted to prove to these three that I was fit to be trusted and too old to be sent home. "We do not come to this conclusion without having carefully thought it out, boy," cried Uncle Bob. "Very well, then!" I cried, almost beside myself with passion. "Confess now," said Uncle Bob; "haven't you often felt very much alarmed at having to keep watch of a night in that lonely factory?" "Of course I have." "And wished yourself at home?" said Uncle Dick. "Scores of times, uncle." "Well, then, now we wish you to go, feeling that it is best for you, and you turn restive as that jackass we hired for you to ride down in Essex." "Haven't you three fellows been teaching me ever since I was a little tot, to try and be a man?" "Yes," said Uncle Dick. "When I've tumbled down and knocked the skin off my knees haven't you said `don't cry: be a man!'" "Oh yes! Guilty!" said Uncle Dick. "If I fell out of the swing didn't you hold your cool hand to the great lump on my head and tell me that I must try to bear it without howling: like a man?" "Yes, boy, yes." "And when I broke my arm, after getting up the rock after the gulls' eggs, didn't you tell me about the Spartan boys?" "I did, Cob, I did." "Yes, of course you did," I cried indignantly. "You were all three alike: always teaching me to bear pain and be courageous, and master my natural cowardice and be a man. Now didn't you?" "Ay, ay, ay! Captain Cob," they chorused. "And here," I cried passionately, "after fighting all these years and making myself miserable so as to do exactly what you all taught me, now that there is a chance of showing that I know my lesson and have done well, you all treat me like a mollycoddle, and say to me by your looks: `you're a poor cowardly little cub; go home to your mother and be nursed.'" "Have you done with the soap?" said Uncle Dick, turning to Uncle Jack, as I stood there, feeling angry, passionate, excited, and carried out of myself. "Eh?" said Uncle Jack staring. "I say, have you done with the metaphorical soap? I want to wash my hands of him too." "It's too bad, uncle," I cried. "Here, Bob," said Uncle Dick in his grim way, "you take him in hand." "No, thank you," said Uncle Bob. "I'll trouble you for the soap when you've done." "And now," I cried, speaking to them as I had never done before, "you make worse of it by laughing at me." "No, no," cried Uncle Dick; "we were not laughing at you, but we do now;" and starting with a tremendous "Ha-ha-ha!" the others joined in, and I stalked out of the parlour and went up to my room, where I set to work, and in about ten minutes had all my belongings carefully packed in my little carpet-bag--the new one that had been bought for me--and the little brass padlock on and locked. Just then the parlour door opened as I was looking out of my bed-room window at the smoke and glow over the town, and thinking that after all I liked the noise and dirt and busy toil always going on, knowing, as I did, how much it had to do with the greatness of our land. "Cob!" came up Uncle Dick's big voice. "Yes, uncle," I said quietly. "Tea's ready." "I don't want any tea," I said. "Yes, you do, lad. Fried ham and eggs." "Come," I said to myself, "I'll let them see that I can behave like a man. Perhaps I shall have to go home by the last train to-night or the first in the morning. Poor old Piter," I thought, "I should like to have taken you!" So I went down quite coolly and walked into the parlour, where my uncles were waiting for me before seating themselves at the table. That touched me; it was so full of consideration and respect for the boy they were going to send away. Plump, comfortable Mrs Stephenson was just ready to take off the bright tin dish-cover, and as she did so there was a perfect pile of fried ham and eggs, looking brown and white and pink and orange, and emitting a most appetising odour. "Is Mr Jacob a bit sadly, gentlemen?" said Mrs Stephenson, looking at me with interest. "Oh no," I said quickly; and a bit touched too by Mrs Stephenson's respectful way and the _Mr_ "Only tired. I shall be all right when I've had my tea." "That's bonnie," she cried nodding. "I'd better butter a couple more cakes, hadn't I, gentlemen?" "That you had," said Uncle Bob. "Let's eat well, or we shall never be able to fight it out with your fellow-townsmen." "Ah, deary me, gentlemen," she cried; "it's sore work, that it is! I'm sure if they only knew what I do they'd behave better to you. Them trades is doing more harm than good." She bustled out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed Uncle Dick turned to me. "Shake hands, Cob, my boy," he said. I held mine out frankly, for I had had my say, and I was determined to show them that I could act like a man. "Now with me," said Uncle Jack in his hard stern way. "And with me," said Uncle Bob. I shook hands all round; but in spite of every effort my lip would quiver, and I had to bite it hard to keep down the emotion I felt. "Shall I speak?" said Uncle Jack. Uncle Dick nodded. "Why not wait till after tea?" said Uncle Bob. "No, I shall tell him now," said Uncle Jack grimly. "I'm hungry, and we may as well spoil his tea and get his share, for he will not be able to eat after what I've said. Cob, my lad, we've been talking this over again very seriously." "All right, uncle!" I said quietly. "I'm quite ready to go. I've packed up, but I'd rather go to-morrow morning. I want to go and shake hands with Pannell and bid Piter `good-bye.'" "You have packed up?" he said rather sternly. "Yes, uncle." "Did you do that in a fit of passion or sulks?" "No," I said sharply; "but because I wanted to show you to the very last that I had not forgotten what you taught me about self-denial and all that." "God bless you, my lad!" he cried, hurting me horribly as he shook hands exceedingly hard. "I'm glad to hear you say that, for we've been saying that if we want to win in this fight we can't afford to part with one quarter of the Company. Cob, my lad, we want you to stay." "Uncle!" I cried. "Yes, my lad, you are older in some things than your years, and though I'd do anything rather than run risks for you, I do feel that with right on our side, please God, we shall win yet, and that it would be cowardly for us even to let you turn tail." I don't know what I should have said and done then, as Uncle Jack exclaimed: "Have I said right, Dick, Bob?" "Yes, quite," said Uncle Dick warmly; "and for my part--" "Hush! Sit down," cried Uncle Bob, hastily setting the example so as to end the scene. "Yes, two eggs, please. Quick, here's Mrs Stephenson coming with the cakes." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. STEVENS HAS A WORD WITH ME. Next morning I went down to the works, feeling as if I had grown in one night a year older, and after giving Piter the bones I always took him down, and receiving the ram-like butt he always favoured me with to show his gratitude, I was going round the place, when I heard a familiar clinking and saw a glow out of the little smithy that had for some time been cold. I ran in, and there, looking rather pale and with a bit or two of sticking-plaster about his temples, was Pannell hammering away as if he were trying to make up for lost time. "Why, Pannell, old man," I cried, running in with outstretched hand, "back again at work! I am glad to see you." He looked up at me with a scowl, and wiped his brow with the arm that was terminated by a fist and hammer--a way, I have observed, much affected by smiths. His was not a pleasant face, and it was made more repulsive by the scars and sticking-plaster. As our eyes met it almost seemed as if he were going to strike me with his hammer; but he threw it down, gave his great hand a rub back and front upon his apron, probably to make it a little blacker, and then gripped mine as badly as Uncle Jack had on the previous night. In fact, you see, I suffered for people liking me. "Are you glad, mun?" he said at last hoarsely; "are you glad? Well that's cheering anyhow, and thank ye." He nodded and went on with his work again while I went to mine about the books, but with a suspicious feeling of impending trouble on my mind, as I passed two of the men who saw me come out of the smithy, and who must have seen me shaking hands with Pannell. I don't know why they should have minded, for I should have done the same with either of them had we been on as friendly terms. As I entered my little office my eyes lit on the common fishing-rod I had used, and that set me thinking about the conversation I had heard as I stood on the ledge. I recalled what had been said overnight in a long discussion with my uncles, and the advice they had given. "Don't show suspicion," Uncle Dick had said, "but meet every man with a frank fearless look in the eye, as if you asked no favour of him, were not afraid of him, and as if you wanted to meet him in a straightforward way." I thought a good deal about it all, and how my uncles said they meant to be just and kind and stern at the same time; and it certainly did seem as if this was the most likely way to win the men's respect. "For now that we have concluded to keep you with us, Cob, I must warn that we mean business, and that we have made up our minds that we shall win." That morning went off quietly enough, and though we all kept a quiet searching look-out, there was nothing to excite suspicion. Then evening came, and the watching, in which again that night I had no share, but it was an understood thing that I was to be at the works at the same time as the men next day. It was a lovely autumn morning with the wind from the country side, and as I hurried up and off to the works there was a feeling in the air that seemed to tempt me away to the hills and vales, and made me long for a change. "I'll see if one of them won't go for a day," I said to myself; and hopeful of getting the holiday, and perhaps a run up to the great dam, I reached the works before the men. "Well done, industrious!" cried Uncle Bob, who opened the gate to me. "You are first." "That's right," I said. "No, it isn't. Where's Uncle Dick? Why, you look pale." "Uncle Dick isn't awake," he said quickly. "Fact is, Cob, I've had a scare. As you say, I found that they'd been at Piter again. The poor dog has been drugged, and that must mean something wrong." Sure enough, poor Piter lay fast asleep and breathing heavily; but after our last experience we did not feel so despondent about bringing him to again, so, leaving him in his kennel where he had crept, we roused Uncle Dick and told him. "We can't look round now," he said. "The men are coming in to their work, but we shall soon hear if there is anything wrong. The bands again, I expect." Just then we heard the noise made by the drawing of the sluice, the wheel went plashing round, the shaft rumbled, connections were being made, and in a very few minutes the first grindstone was sending forth its loud churring noise. Then there was more and more, and at last the works were in full swing. "There's nothing wrong, then, with the bands," said Uncle Dick; and then we waited, wondering what trick had been played, till about an hour had passed, during which the same remedies as were tried before were put into force with poor old Piter, and he recovered sufficiently to wag his tail. Just about that time Uncle Jack arrived, and was put in possession of our fresh trouble. "And you can find nothing wrong?" he said. "Nothing." "Have you looked under the desks, and in the cupboards?" "We've quietly searched everywhere," replied Uncle Bob earnestly. "Then we must go on as usual," said Uncle Jack. "There, you two go home: Cob and I will chance the risks." "It may have been an attempt to get rid of the dog," I said, "and nothing more." "That's what I've been thinking," said Uncle Jack; and soon after we were left alone. Towards mid-day I went down to have a chat with Pannell, and to ask him how he had got on during his long illness. "Tidy," he said sourly. "There was the club helped me, but the mesters did most." "What! My uncles?" "Ay, didn't you know?" he cried, busying himself about lighting a smaller forge at the back of the first. I shook my head. "Paid me pound a-week all the time I was badly, my lad." "And very kind of them too," I said warmly. "Ay, 'twas. Felt at times, lad, as if I warn't worth the money, that I did." Just then Stevens made his appearance, crossing from the grinders' shop to one of the smithies at the end; and as he went along at some distance I saw him look curiously over at where I was standing talking to Pannell. "Theer it is again," said the latter. "You mean well, lad, and it's very kind on you; but I shall hev it 'fore long on account o' talking to thee." "Oh, surely not!" I cried angrily. "The men will never be such cowards as to attack you for that." "Men weant, but trade will," said Pannell. "Mates can't do as they like about it. Look ye yonder; what did I say?" He nodded in the direction of Stevens, who had returned directly, stopped opposite the smithy, but at some distance, and as soon as I looked up he began to signal to me to go to him. I never liked the man, for he always seemed to dislike me, and I gave him the credit of being one of the active parties in the outrages that had been committed upon us. But I remembered what our plans were to be--frank, straightforward, and fearless--and I walked right up to Stevens, whose brow was lowering and full of menace. "Here, I want a word with you," he said fiercely. "All right, Stevens!" I said. "What is it?" "Come over here," he replied, "and I'll tell ye." He led the way along the yard to the other side of the great coal heap, which lay there massive and square, through its sides being carefully built up with big blocks of coal. We were quite out of sight there, and, as I thought, how easy it would be for him to knock me down with one of the lumps. I was perfectly cool though, till he suddenly seized me by the jacket. I struck up at his hand, but he held on tightly, and there was a curious smile on his face as he said: "Nay, you don't, lad; I'm stronger than thou." "What do you want?" I cried, making a virtue of necessity and standing firm. "What do I want, eh?" he said slowly. "Oh, just a word or two wi' thee, my lad. There, you needn't call thee uncle." "I was not going to call him," I retorted. "Why should I?" "Because you're scarred about what I'm going to do to thee." "No, I'm not," I replied boldly; "because you daren't do anything unless it's in the dark, when you can attack a man behind his back." He winced at this and scowled, but turned it off with a laugh. "'Tack a what?" he said. "A boy, then," I cried. "I know I'm a boy; but I meant people generally." "Nivver you mind that," he said. "You don't understand trade. But joost you look there. Yow've been saying I did some'at to the dog." "That I have not," I cried. "Ay, but you did say it," he repeated fiercely. "I did not say so," I cried almost as angrily; "but if I had said it, I don't suppose I should have been far wrong." "Nay, lad, I did nowt to the dog. I did nowt--I--" He let his hand fall, and a feeling of relief from some expectation came over his face. He had been talking to me, but it was in a curious way, and all the time he talked he seemed to be looking over my shoulder more than in my face. But now he drew a long breath and seemed satisfied with the explanation; and just then I uttered a cry of horror, for there was a loud report, and the yard seemed to be filled with flying cinders and smoke. Stevens gave me a grim look and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Lucky yow weern't theer," he said. "Might have been hurt. Come and see." We joined the men who were hurrying in the direction of the smoke that obscured one end of the yard. "What is it, Uncle Jack?" I cried, as I ran to his side. "I don't know yet," he said. "It was somewhere by the smithies." "Yes; that's plain enough," said my uncle, and we pressed on in front of the men, to come upon Pannell, tending down and rubbing his eyes. "Pannell!" I cried; "you are not hurt?" "Nay, not much," he said sourly. "Got the cinder and stuff in my eyes, but they missed me this time." "What! Was it not an accident?" "Oh, ay!" he replied, "reg'lar accident. Powder got into my little forge, and when I started her wi' some hot coal from t'other one she blew up." "But you are not hurt?" "Nay, lad, I weer stooping down, and were half behind the forge, so I didn't ketch it that time." The smoke was by this time pretty well cleared away, and we walked into the smithy to see what mischief had befallen us. Fortunately no harm had been done to the structure of the building, and there being no glass in the windows there was of course none to blow out. The coal ashes and cinders had been scattered far and wide, and the iron funnel-shaped chimney knocked out of place, while some of the smiths' tools, and the rods of steel upon which Pannell had been working, were thrown upon the floor. The walls, forge, and pieces of iron about told tales for themselves without the odour of the explosive, for everything had been covered with a film of a greyish-white, such as gunpowder gives to iron or brickwork when it is fired. "Where was the powder?" cried Uncle Jack, after satisfying himself that Pannell had not the slightest burn even upon his beard. "In little forge all ready for me when I fired up," growled Pannell sourly, as he scowled round at the little crowd of men; "but they missed me that time." Uncle Jack had a good look round the place, and the workmen stared at us as if in full expectation of being taken to task as the cause of the explosion. I watched their faces cautiously in search of a look of regret, but the only peculiar expression I could see was on the countenance of Stevens, who stood softly rolling up his shirt-sleeves closer and closer to his shoulders, and there was such a curious smile in his eyes that he inspired me with a thought. "Oh, if I have been deceived in him!" That was my thought. For I seemed to see at a glance that he had known the explosion would take place, and that the talk about the dog was an excuse to get me away and save me from the consequences. Just then Uncle Jack turned round to me and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Look here," he said quietly, as if he were showing me a curiosity, but loud enough for all the men to hear--"down in the south of England, my boy, when a workman is disliked it generally comes to a settlement with fists, and there is a fair, honest, stand-up fight. Down here in Arrowfield, Jacob, when another workman does something to offend his fellows--" "Traade," shouted a voice. "To offend his fellow-workmen," repeated Uncle Jack. "Traade," shouted the voice again, and there was a murmur of assent. "Well, have it your own way," said Uncle Jack. "To offend the trade, they try to blind him for life by filling his forge with powder, so that it may explode in his face. Jacob, my lad, next time I go anywhere, and hear people talk about what brave strong manly fellows the Englishmen are, I shall recommend them to come down and stay in Arrowfield for a month and see what is done." There was a low murmur among the men; but we did not stop to listen, and they all returned to their work except Pannell, who went down to the dam and bathed his eyes, after which he went as coolly as could be back to his smithy, took a shovel and borrowed some glowing fire from the next forge, lit up his own, and was soon after hammering his funnel chimney back in its place, and working up rods of steel as if nothing whatever had been amiss. About the middle of the afternoon, though, he came up through the workshop straight to the office, with his hammer in his hand, and gave a loud thump at the door. I opened it and admitted him; for I was in the big office with my uncles, who were talking about this last trouble. "Well, my man, what is it?" said Uncle Jack. Pannell began to lift up his hammer-head slowly and let it fall back again into his left hand, staring straight before him with his dark eyes, which were surrounded with the black marks of the gunpowder which clung still to the skin. "What do you want, Pannell?" I said, giving him a touch on the arm; but the hammer rose and fell still by the contraction of his right hand, and went on tap--tap--falling into his left. "Why don't you speak?" I said again, quite impatiently. "I know," he growled. "I want to speak." "We are listening," said Uncle Dick. "What have you to say?" "Look here," cried Pannell, giving his hammer a flourish round his head as if he were about to attack us. "I'm a man--I am." "And a good big one, Pannell," said Uncle Bob smiling. "Wish I were twyste as big, mester! Theer!" cried Pannell. "I wish you were if it would be any comfort to you," said Uncle Bob to himself. "I've been a-thinking o' this out while I've been hammering yonder, and I want to speak." "Yes," said Uncle Jack. "Go on." "Look ye here, then," cried Pannell, flourishing his hammer round as if he were a modern edition or an angry Thor; "does anyone say I telled on 'em? Did I tell on 'em, mesters? Answer me that." "What! About the outrages?" said Uncle Dick firmly. "Outrages, mester!" "Well, the attempts to blow us up." "Ay!--the trade business. Did I ivver come and say word to anny of you?" "Never." "Or to yow, youngster?" "Never, Pannell. You always went against us," I said, "when a word from you would--" "Theer, that'll do. Tell me this--Did I ivver tell on anny on 'em?" "No; you have always been true to your party, Pannell--if that is what you mean." "And that is what I mean," said the great fellow, throwing his head about and jerking out his words, each with a menacing flourish of the hammer or a mock blow, as if they were steel words that he wanted to strike into shape. "Nobody accused you of tale-bearing to us," said Uncle Dick. "Didn't they, mester?" he roared. "What's this, then, and this, and this?" He touched the scars upon his head and brow, and the sticking-plaster left on. "Don't you call that saying I telled on 'em, wi'out the poother in my forge this morning?" "A cowardly brutal thing to have done, my man." "Ay, so 'twas. I'd done nowt but be civil to young mester here. Say," he cried fiercely, "yow telled 'em I forged that trap!" and he turned on me. "Oh, Pannell!" I cried, flushing indignantly. That was all I said, but it was enough. "Beg pardon, young gentleman!--yow didn't, I can see that. Nay, it was the altogetherishness o' the whole thing. They set me down--me, a mate in the union--as hevvin' telled on 'em and gone agen 'em, and being friends wi' the mesters; and yow see what they've done." "Indeed we do, Pannell--" "Howd hard, mester," said the big smith, flourishing about his hammer. "I hevn't had my spell yet. I want to speak." Uncle Dick nodded, as much as to say, "Go on." "Look here, then, mesters--I've thowt this out. It's cowards' business, ivvery bit on it, 'cept Matt Stivvins this morning coming and fetching young mester out of the way." "Yes," I said, "he did." "And they'll knobstick 'im for it if they know--see if they don't!" "Then they mustn't know," I cried eagerly. "I don't like Stevens, but he did save me this morning." "Ay, he did, 'cause he said once yow weer a trump, my lad; but he didn't give me a word. I sha'n't tell on him, but I sha'n't hev nought more to do wi' anny on 'em. I've been union man all these years and paid, and here's what I've got for it. I says to mysen, I says: If this here's what comes o' sticking to union through all their games I've done wi' 'em, and I'm a master's man--that's all." He turned short round to go, but Uncle Dick stopped him. "I don't quite understand what you mean, Pannell." "What I mean! Why, what I said--that's what I mean." "That you have done with the trades-union, Pannell," I cried, "and mean to be on our side?" "That's so, mester. Now I mun go or my fire'll be out." He strode out of the place and banged the door after him; and as he went along the shop I could see him in imagination staring defiantly from side to side, in answer to the savage murmur that greeted him from the men whom he had made up his mind to defy. "What do you think of that?" said Uncle Dick, as soon as we heard the farther door close with a crash. "It's the beginning of the end," said Uncle Jack with an eager look in his eyes. "Keep firm, boys, and we shall have them all honestly on our side, and we can laugh at all trades-unions in Arrowfield that fight with cowardly weapons. The men do not do what their own feelings prompt, but obey the law of a secret society which forces them to do these cruel wrongs." It must have been intentional on his part, for as I went down into the furnace house about half an hour after, at my usual time, to take down an account of work done, I met Stevens coming towards me. We were in the big empty building, the furnace being cold, and no work going on that day, and he slouched towards me as if he were going by, but I stopped him and held out my hand. "Thank you, Stevens," I said. "I didn't understand it then, but you saved me from something terrible to-day." He gave a quick glance or two about, and then regularly snatched my hand, gave it a squeeze, and threw it away. "All right, my lad!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "You're on'y one o' the mesters, but I couldn't abear to see thee in for it too." He went on his away and I went mine, feeling that Uncle Jack was right, and that though it might be a long journey first, it was the beginning of the end. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. I START FOR A WALK. "Who's for a walk?" said Uncle Dick one morning. "I'm going up the hills to the millstone-grit quarry." I started, and my heart gave a throb, but I did not look up. "I can't go," said Uncle Jack. "And I'm busy," said Uncle Bob. "Then I shall have to put up with Cob," said Uncle Dick gloomily. "Will you come, my lad?" "Will I come!" I cried, jumping and feeling as if I should like to shout for joy, so delightful seemed the idea of getting away into the hills, and having one of our old walks. "Well, it must be at mid-day, and you will have to meet me out at Ranflitt." "Two miles on the road?" I said. "Yes; you be there, and if I'm not waiting I sha'n't be long, and we'll go on together." "What time shall I start?" I asked. "When the men go to their dinner will do. I have some business at the far end of the town, and it will not be worth while for me to come back. I'll take the other road." So it was settled, and I took my big stick down to the office, and a net satchel that was handy for anything when slung from the right shoulder and under my left arm. Before now it had carried fish, partridges, fruits, herbs, roots of plants, and oftener than anything else, lunch. That seemed to be a long morning, although I wrote hard all the time so as to get a good day's work over first; but at last the dinner-bell rang, and, saying good-bye to the others, I slipped the satchel into my pocket, took my stick, and started. We had not thought of those who would be loitering about during their dinner-hour, but I soon found that they were thinking of me, for not only were our own men about the streets, but the men of the many other works around; and to my dismay I soon found that they all knew me by sight, and that they were ready to take notice of me in a very unpleasant way. I was walking steadily on when a stone hit me in the leg, and instead of making haste and getting out of range, I stopped short and looked round angrily for my assailant. I could see a dozen grinning faces, but it was of course impossible to tell who threw, and before I turned back an oyster-shell struck me in the back. I turned round angrily and found myself the object of a tremendous shout of laughter. Almost at the same moment I was struck by an old cabbage-stump and by a potato, while stones in plenty flew by my head. "The cowards!" I said to myself as I strode on, looking to right and left, and seeing that on both sides of the way a number of rough boys were collecting, encouraged by the laughter and cheers of their elders. We had not a single boy at our works, but I could see several of our men were joining in the sport, to them, of having me hunted. To have a good hunt, though, it is necessary to have a good quarry, that is to say, the object hunted must be something that will run. Now, in imagination I saw myself rushing away pursued by a mob of lads, hooting, yelling, and pelting me; but I felt not the slightest inclination to be hunted in this fashion, and hence it was that I walked steadily and watchfully on, stick in hand, and prepared to use it too, if the necessity arose. Unfortunately I was in a road where missiles were plentiful, and these came flying about me, one every now and then giving me such a stinging blow that I winced with pain. The boys danced round me, too, coming nearer as they grew bolder from my non-resistance, and before long they began to make rushes, hooting and yelling to startle me, no doubt, into running away. But so far they did not succeed; and as I continued my walking they changed their tactics, keeping out of reach of my stout stick, and taking to stones and anything that came to hand. I could do nothing. To have turned round would only have been to receive the objects thrown in my face; and when at last, stung into action by a harder blow than usual, I did turn and make a rush at the boy I believed to have thrown, he gave way and the others opened out to let me pass, and then closed up and followed. It was a foolish movement on my part, and I found I had lost ground, for to get on my way again I had to pass through a body of about a dozen lads, and the only way to do this as they gathered themselves ready to receive me, was by making a bold rush through them. They were already whispering together, and one of them cried "Now!" when I made a rush at them, stick in hand, running as fast as I could. They made a show of stopping me, but opened out directly, and as soon as I had passed yelled to their companions to come on, with the result that I found I could not stop unless I stood at bay, and that I was doing the very thing I had determined not to do--racing away from my pursuers, who, in a pack of about forty, were yelling, crying, and in full chase. To stop now was impossible: all that was open to me was to run hard and get into the more open suburb, leaving them behind, while I had the satisfaction of knowing that before long the bells at the different works would be ringing, and the young vagabonds obliged to hurry back to their places, leaving me free to maintain my course. So that, now I was involuntarily started, I determined to leave my pursuers behind, and I ran. I don't think I ever ran so fast before, but fast as I ran I soon found that several of the lightly clothed old-looking lads were more than my equals, and they kept so close that some half a dozen were ready to rush in on me at any moment and seize me and drag me back. I was determined, though, that they should not do that, and, grasping my stick, I ran on, more blindly, though, each moment. 'Tis true, I thought of making for the outskirts and tiring the boys out; but to my dismay I found that fresh lads kept joining in the chase, all eager and delighted to have something to run down and buffet, while my breath was coming thickly, my heart beat faster and faster, and there was a terrible burning sensation in my chest. I looked to right for some means of escape, but there was none; to left was the same; behind me the tolling pack; while before me stretched the lanes, and mill after mill with great dams beyond them similar to ours. I should have stopped at bay, hoping by facing the lads to keep them off; but I was streaming with perspiration, and so weak that I knew, in spite of my excitement, that I should hardly be able to lift my arm. On and on, more and more blindly, feeling moment by moment as if my aching legs would give way beneath me. I gazed wildly at my pursuers to ask for a little mercy, but unfortunately for me they, excited and hot with their chase, were as cruel as boys can be, and men too at such a time. There was nothing for it but to rush on at a pace that was fast degenerating into a staggering trot, and in imagination, as the boys pushed me and buffeted me with their caps, I saw myself tripped up, thrown down, kicked, and rolled in the dust, and so much exhausted that I could not help myself. One chance gave me a little more energy. It must be nearly time for the bells to ring, and then they would be bound to give up the pursuit; but as I struggled I caught sight of a clock, and saw that it wanted a quarter of an hour yet. There were some men lounging against a wall, and I cried out to them, but they hardly turned their heads, and as I was hurried and driven by I saw that they only laughed as if this were excellent sport. Next we passed a couple of well-dressed ladies, but they fled into a gateway to avoid my pursuers, and the next minute I was hustled round a corner, the centre of the whooping, laughing crowd, and, to my horror, I found that we were in a narrow path with a row of stone cottages on one side, the wall of a dam like our own, and only a few inches above the water on the other. I had felt dazed and confused before. Now I saw my danger clearly enough and the object of the lads. I was streaming with perspiration, and so weak that I could hardly stand, but, to avoid being thrust in, and perhaps held under water and ducked and buffeted over and over again, I felt that I must make a plunge and try and swim to the other side. But I dared not attempt it, even if I could have got clear; and blindly struggling on I had about reached the middle of the dam path when a foot was thrust out, and I fell. Sobbing for my breath, beaten with fists, buffeted and blinded with the blows of the young savages' caps, I struggled to my feet once more, but only to be tripped and to fall again on the rough stony path. I could do no more. I had no strength to move, but I could think acutely, and feel, as I longed for the strength of Uncle Jack, and to hold in my hand a good stout but limber cane. Yes, I could feel plainly enough the young ruffians dragging at me, and in their eagerness and number fighting one against the other. "In wi' him!" "Dook him, lads!" "Now, then, all together!" I heard all these cries mingled together, and mixed up with the busy hands and faces, I seemed to see the row of houses, the clear sky, the waters of the dam, and Gentles the grinder leaning against a door and looking on. I was being lifted amidst shouts and laughter, and I knew that the next moment I should be in the dam, when there was a tremendous splash, and some drops of water sprinkled my face. Then there was the rattle of the handle of a bucket, and another splash heard above all the yelling and shouting of the boys. There was the hollow sound of a pail banged against something hard, and mingled with cries, shouts, laughter, and ejaculations of pain I felt myself fall upon the path, to be kicked and trampled on by someone contending, for there were slaps, and thuds, and blows, the panting and hissing of breath; and then the clanging of bells near and bells far, buzzing in ears, the rush and scuffling of feet, with shouts of derision, defiance, and laughter, and then, last of all, a curious cloud of mist seemed to close me in like the fog on the Dome Tor, and out of this a shrill angry voice cried: "Ah, ye may shout, but some on ye got it. Go and dry yourselves at the furnace, you cowardly young shacks. Hey, bud I wish I'd hed holt o' yon stick!" "Yon stick!" I felt must be mine; but my head was aching, and I seemed to go to sleep. "I wish you'd be quiet," I remember saying. "Let me be." "Fetch some more watter, mester," said a pleasant voice, and a rough hand was laid upon my forehead, but only to be taken away again, and that which had vexed and irritated we went on again, and in a dreamy way I knew it was a sponge that was being passed over my face. "I fetched Mester Tom one wi' bottom o' the boocket, and I got one kick at Tom, and when the two boys come home to-night they'll get such a leathering as they never hed before." "Nay, let 'em be," said a familiar voice. "Let 'em be! D'ye think I'm going to hev my bairns grow up such shacks? Nay, that I wean't, so yo' may like it or no. I'd be shamed o' my sen to stand by and let that pack o' boys half kill the young gentleman like that." "I warn't going to stop 'em." "Not you, mester. Yow'd sooner set 'em on, like you do your mates, and nice things come on it wi' your strikes and powder, and your wife and bairns wi' empty cupboard. Yow on'y let me know o' next meeting, and if I don't come and give the men a bit o' my mind, my name arn't Jane Gentles." "Yow'd best keep thy tongue still." "Mebbe you think so, my man, but I don't." My senses had come back, and I was staring about at the clean kitchen I was in, with carefully blackleaded grate and red-brick floor. Against the open door, looking out upon the dam, and smoking his pipe, stood-- there was no mistaking him--our late man, Gentles; while over me with a sponge in her hand, and a basin of water by her on a chair, was a big broad-shouldered woman with great bare arms and a pleasant homely face, whose dark hair was neatly kept and streaked with grey. She saw that I was coming to, and smiled down at me, showing a set of very white teeth, and her plump face looked motherly and pleasant as she bent down and laid her hand upon my forehead. "That's bonny," she said, nodding her head at me. "You lie still a bit and I'll mak you a cup o' tea, and yo'll be aw reight again. I'm glad I caught 'em at it. Some on 'em's going to hev sore bones for that job, and so I tell 'em." I took her hand and held it in mine, feeling very weak and dreamy still, and I saw Gentles shift round and give me a hasty glance, and then twist himself more round with his back to me. "Howd up a minute," she said, passing one strong arm under me and lifting me as if I had been a baby; and almost before I had realised it she slipped off my jacket and placed a cushion beneath my head. "There, now, lie still," she said, dabbing my wet hair with a towel. "Go to sleep if you can." By this time she was at the other end of the common print-covered couch on which I lay and unlacing my boots, which she drew off. "There, now thou'lt be easy, my lad. What would thy poor moother say if she saw thee this how?" I wanted to thank her, but I was too dreamy and exhausted to speak; but I had a strange feeling of dread, and that was, that if I were left alone with Gentles he would, out of revenge, lay hold of me and throw me into the dam, and to strengthen my fancy I saw him keep turning his head in a furtive way to glance at me. "Here," exclaimed the woman sharply, "take these here boots out to the back, mester, and clean 'em while I brush his coat." "Eh?" said Gentles. "Tak them boots out and brush 'em. Are yo' deaf?" "Nay, I'm not going to clean his boots," growled Gentles. "Not going to clean the bairn's boots!" said the woman sharply; "but I think thou art." She left me, went to the door, took Gentles' pipe from his mouth, and then thrust the boots under his arm, laying a great hand upon his shoulder directly after, and seeming to lead him to a door behind me, through which she pushed him, with an order to make haste. "Yes," she said, tightening her lips, and smiling, as she nodded to me, "I'm mester here, and they hev to mind. Was it thou as set the big trap ketched my mester by the leg?" I never felt more taken aback in my life; but I spoke out boldly, and said that it was I. "And sarve him right. Be a lesson to him. Mixing himself up wi' such business. I towd him if he crep into people's places o' neets, when he owt to hev been fast asleep i' bed wi' his wife and bairns, he must reckon on being ketched like a rat. I'd like to knock some o' their heads together, I would. They're allus feitin' agen the mesters, and generally for nowt, and it's ooz as has to suffer." Mrs Gentles had told me to try and sleep, and she meant well; but there were two things which, had I been so disposed, would thoroughly have prevented it, and they were the dread of Gentles doing something to be revenged upon me, and his wife's tongue. For she went on chattering away to me in the most confidential manner, busying herself all the time in brushing my dusty jacket on a very white three-legged table, after giving the cloth a preliminary beating outside. "There," she said, hanging it on a chair; "by and by you shall get up and brush your hair, and I'll give you a brush down, and then with clean boots you will not be so very much the worse." She then sat down to some needlework, stitching away busily, and giving me all sorts of information about her family--how she had two boys out at work at Bandy's, taking it for granted that I knew who Bandy's were; that she had her eldest girl in service, and the next helping her aunt Betsey, and the other four were at school. All of which was, no doubt, very interesting to her; but the only part that took my attention was about her two boys, who had, I knew, from what I overheard, been in the pack that had so cruelly hunted me down. And all this while I could hear the slow _brush, brush_ at my boots, evidently outside the back-door, and I half expected to have them brought back ripped, or with something sharp inside to injure me when I put them on. At last, after Mrs Gentles had made several allusions to how long "the mester" was "wi' they boots," he came in, limping slightly, and after closing the door dropped them on the brick floor. "Why, Sam!" exclaimed Mrs Gentles, "I'd be ashamed o' mysen--that I would!" But Gentles did not seem to be in the slightest degree ashamed of himself, but took his pipe from the shelf, where his wife had laid it, struck a match, relit it, and went off with his hands in his pockets. Mrs Gentles rose and followed him to the door, and then returned, with her lips tightened and an angry look in her face. "Now he's gone off to booblic," she said angrily, "to hatch up and mess about and contrive all sorts o' mischief wi' them as leads him on. Oh the times I've telled him as they might make up all the differ by spending the time in work that they do in striking again' a sixpence took off or to get one putt on! Ay, but we missuses have but a sorry time!" The absence of Gentles' furtive look sent back at me from the door seemed to change the effect of his wife's voice, which by degrees grew soothing and soft, and soon after I dropped off asleep, and dreamed of a curious clinking going on, from which dream I awoke, with my head cooler, and Mrs Gentles bending over me and fanning my face with what looked like an old copy-book. I looked at her wonderingly. "That's better," she said. "Now set up and I'll help thee dress; and here's a nice cup of tea ready." "Oh, thank you!" I said. "What time is it?" "Close upon five, and I thowt you'd be better now after some tea." She helped me on with my jacket, and I winced with pain, I was so stiff and sore. After this she insisted upon putting on my boots. "Just as if I heven't done such things hundreds of times," she said cheerfully. "Why, I used to put on the mester's and tak 'em off all the time his leg was bad." "I'm sorry I set that trap," I said, looking up at her rough, pleasant face, and wondering how such a sneaking, malignant fellow could have won so good a wife. "I'm not," she said laughing. "It sarved him right, so say no more about it." That tea was like nectar, and seemed to clear my head, so that I felt nearly recovered save when I tried to rise, and then I was in a good deal of pain. But I deemed myself equal to going, and was about to start when I missed my cap. "Hey, but that'll be gone," she said. "Oh, they boys! Well, yow must hev Dick's." Before I could protest she went upstairs, and returned with a decent-looking cap, which I promised to return, and then, bidding my Samaritan-like hostess good-bye, I walked firmly out of her sight, and then literally began to hobble, and was glad as soon as I could get into the main road to hail one of the town cabs and be driven home, not feeling strong enough to go to the works and tell of my mishap. Mr Tomplin came in that evening after Uncle Dick had heard all my narrative and Uncle Bob had walked up and down the room, driving his fist into his hand every now and then with a loud _pat_. We had had a long conversation, in which I had taken part with a terribly aching head, and I should have gone to bed only I would not show the white feather. For they all three made this a reason why I should give up to them, and after all go back. "You see the men are dead against us, Cob, and the boys follow suit, and are against you." So said Uncle Dick. "All the men are not against you," I said. "Look at Pannell! He has come round, and," I added, with a laugh that hurt me horribly, "I shall have some of the boys come round and help me." "The young scoundrels!" cried Uncle Bob. _Pat_--that was his fist coming down into his hand. "The young scoundrels!" "Well, you've said that twenty times at least, Bob," said Uncle Jack. "Enough to make me!" said Uncle Bob sharply. "The young scoundrels!" _Pat_. "I only wish I'd been there with a good handy riding-whip," said Uncle Jack. "There would have been some wailing among them." "Yes; and summonses for assault, and all that bother," said Uncle Dick. "We don't want to come to blows, Jack, if we can help it." "They are beyond bearing," cried Uncle Bob, keeping up his walk; "the young scoundrels!" _Pat_. "My dear Bob," cried Uncle Dick, who was very much out of temper; "if you would be kind enough to leave off that trot up and down." "Like a hungry lion," said Uncle Jack. "In the Zoo," cried Uncle Dick, "you would very much oblige me." "I can't sit down," said Uncle Bob, thumping his hand. "I feel too much excited." "Then bottle it up for future use," said Uncle Dick. "You really must." "To attack and hurt the boy in that way! It's scandalous. The young ruffians--the young savages!" Just then Mr Tomplin came in, looked sharply round, and saw there was something wrong. "I beg your pardon," he said quickly; "I'll look in another time." "No, no," said Uncle Bob. "Pray sit down. We want your advice. A cruel assault upon our nephew here"--and he related the whole affair. "Humph!" ejaculated Mr Tomplin, looking hard at me. "What should you advise--warrants against the ringleaders?" "Summonses, Mr Robert, I presume," said Mr Tomplin. "But you don't know who they were?" "Yes; oh, yes!" cried Uncle Bob eagerly. "Two young Gentles." "But you said the mother saved our young friend here from the lads, dowsed them and trounced them with a pail, and made her husband clean his boots, while she nursed him and made him tea." "Ye-es," said Uncle Bob. "Well, my dear sir, when you get summonses out against boys--a practice to which I have a very great objection--it is the parents who suffer more than their offspring." "And serve them right, sir, for bringing their boys up so badly." "Yes, I suppose so; but boys will be boys," said Mr Tomplin. "I don't mind their being boys," said Uncle Bob angrily; "what I do object to is their being young savages. Why, sir, they half-killed my nephew." "But he has escaped, my dear sir, and, as I understand it, the mother has threatened to--er--er--leather the boys well, that was, I think, her term--" "Yes," I said, rather gleefully, "leather them." "And judging from the description I have heard of this Amazon-like lady, who makes her husband obey her like a sheep, the young gentlemen's skins will undergo rather a severe tanning process. Now, don't you think you had better let the matter stand as it is? And, speaking on the _lex talionis_ principle, our young friend Jacob here ought to be able to handle his fists, and on the first occasion when he met one of his enemies he might perhaps give him a thrashing. I don't advise it, for it is illegal, but he might perhaps by accident. It would have a good effect." "But you are always for letting things drop, Mr Tomplin," said Uncle Bob peevishly. "Yes; I don't like my friends to go to law--or appeal to the law, as one may say. I am a lawyer, and I lose by giving such advice, I know." "Mr Tomplin's right, Bob," said Uncle Jack. "You think of that boy as if he were sugar. I'm sure he does not want to take any steps; do you, Cob?" "No," I said; "if I may--" I stopped short. "May what?" "Have a few lessons in boxing. I hate fighting; but I should like to thrash that big boy who kept hitting me most." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. UNCLE JACK AND I HAVE A RUN. I did not have any lessons in boxing, in spite of my earnest desire. "We do not want to be aggressors, Cob," said my Uncle Dick. "But we want to defend ourselves, uncle." "To be sure we do, my lad," he said; "and we'll be ready as we can when we are attacked; but I don't see the necessity for training ourselves to fight." So I did not meet and thrash my enemy, but went steadily on with my duties at the works. In fact I was very little the worse for my adventure, thanks to Mrs Gentles, to whom I returned the cap she had lent me and thanked her warmly for her goodness. She seemed very pleased to see me, and told me that her "mester" was quite well, only his leg was a little stiff, and that he was at work now with her boys. The matters seemed now to have taken a sudden turn, as Mr Tomplin said they would: the men were evidently getting over their dislike to us and the new steel, making it up and grinding it in an ill-used, half contemptuous sort of way, and at last the necessity for watching by night seemed so slight that we gave it up. But it was felt that it would not be wise to give up the air of keeping the place looked after by night, so old Dunning the gate-keeper was consulted, and he knew of the very man--one who had been a night watchman all his life and was now out of work through the failure of the firm by whom he had been employed. In due time the man came--a tall, very stout fellow, of about sixty, with a fierce look and a presence that was enough to keep away mischief by the fact of its being known that he was there. He came twice, and was engaged to be on duty every night at nine; and in the conversation that ensued in the office he took rather a gruff, independent tone, which was mingled with contempt as he was told of the attempts that had been made. "Yes," he said coolly; "it's a way the hands have wherever new folk come and don't hev a reg'lar watchman. There wouldn't hev been none of that sort o' thing if I had been here." "Then you don't expect any more troubles of this kind?" "More! Not likely, mester. We've ways of our own down here; and as soon as the lads know that Tom Searby's on as watchman there'll be no more trouble." "I hope there will not," said Uncle Dick as soon as the man had gone. "It will be worth all his wages to be able to sleep in peace." About this time there had been some talk of my father and mother coming down to Arrowfield, but once more difficulties arose in town which necessitated my father's stay, and as my mother was rather delicate, it was decided that she should not be brought up into the cold north till the springtime came again. "All work and no play makes--you know the rest," said Uncle Jack one morning at breakfast. "I won't say it, because it sounds egotistic. Cob, what do you say? Let's ask for a holiday." "Why not all four go?" I said eagerly; for though the works were very interesting and I enjoyed seeing the work go oil, I was ready enough to get away, and so sure as the sun shone brightly I felt a great longing to be off from the soot and noise to where the great hills were a-bloom with heather and gorse, and tramp where I pleased. Uncle Dick shook his head. "No," he said; "two of us stay--two go. You fellows have a run to-day, and we'll take our turn another time." We were too busy to waste time, and in high glee away we went, with no special aim in view, only to get out of the town as soon as possible, and off to the hills. Uncle Jack was a stern, hard man in the works, but as soon as he went out for a holiday he used to take off twenty years, as he said, and leave them at home, so that I seemed to have a big lad of my own age for companion. It was a glorious morning, and our way lay by the works and then on past a series of "wheels" up the valley, in fact the same route I had taken that day when I was hunted by the boys. But I had Uncle Jack by my side, and in addition it was past breakfast time, and the boys were at work. We had nearly reached the dam into which I had so narrowly escaped a ducking, and I was wondering whether Uncle Jack would mind my just running to speak to the big honest woman in the row of houses we were about to pass, when he stood still. "What is it?" I said. "Cob, my lad," he cried, "I want a new head or a new set of brains, or something. I've totally forgotten to ask your Uncle Dick to write to the engineer about the boiler." "Let me run back," I said. "Won't do, my boy; must see him myself. There, you keep steadily on along the road as if we were bound for Leadshire, and I'll overtake you in less than half an hour." "But," I said, "I was going this way to meet Uncle Dick that day when he went to buy the stones, and what a holiday that turned out!" "I don't think history will repeat itself this time, Cob," he replied. "But will you be able to find me again?" "I can't help it if you keep to the road. If you jump over the first hedge you come to, and go rambling over the hills, of course I shall not find you." "Then there is no fear," I said; and he walked sharply back, while I strode on slowly and stopped by the open window of one factory, where a couple of men were spinning teapots. "Spinning teapots!" I fancy I hear some one say; "how's that done?" Well, it has always struck me as being so ingenious and such an example of what can be done by working on metal whirled round at a great speed, that I may interest some one in telling all I saw. The works opposite which I stopped found their motive power in a great wheel just as ours did, but instead of steel being the metal used, the firm worked in what is called Britannia metal, which is an alloy of tin, antimony, zinc, and copper, which being mixed in certain proportions form a metal having the whiteness of tin, but a solidity and firmness given by the three latter metals, that make it very durable, which tin is not. "Oh, but," says somebody, "tin is hard enough! Look at the tin saucepans and kettles in every kitchen." I beg pardon; those are all made of plates of iron rolled out very thin and then dipped in a bath of tin, to come out white and silvery and clean and ready to keep off rust from attacking the iron. What people call tin plates are really _tinned_ plates. Tin itself is a soft metal that melts and runs like lead. As I looked through into these works, one man was busy with sheets of rolled-out Britannia metal, thrusting them beneath a stamping press, and at every clang with which this came down a piece of metal like a perfectly flat spoon was cut out and fell aside, while at a corresponding press another man was holding a sheet, and as close as possible out of this he was stamping out flat forks, which, like the spoons, were borne to other presses with dies, and as the flat spoon or fork was thrust in it received a tremendous blow, which shaped the bowl and curved the handle, while men at vices and benches finished them off with files. I had seen all this before, and how out of a flat sheet of metal what seemed like beautiful silver spoons were made; but I had never yet seen a man spin a teapot, so being holiday-time, and having to wait for Uncle Jack, I stood looking on. I presume that most boys know a lathe when they see it, and how, out of a block of wood, ivory, or metal, a beautifully round handle, chess-man, or even a perfect ball can be turned. Well, it is just such a lathe as this that the teapot spinner stands before at his work, which is to make a handsome tea or coffee-pot service. But he uses no sharp tools, and he does not turn his teapot out of a solid block of metal. His tool is a hard piece of wood, something like a child's hoop-stick, and fixed to the spinning-round part of the lathe, the "chuck," as a workman would call it, is a solid block of smooth wood shaped like a deep slop-basin. Up against the bottom of this wooden sugar-basin the workman places a flat round disc or plate of Britannia metal--plate is a good term, for it is about the size or a little larger than an ordinary dinner plate. A part of the lathe is screwed up against this so as to hold the plate flat up against the bottom of the wooden sugar-basin; the lathe is set in motion and the glistening white disc of metal spins round at an inconceivable rate, and becomes nearly invisible. Then the man begins to press his wooden stick up against the centre of the plate as near as he can go, and gradually draws the wooden tool from the centre towards the edge, pressing it over the wooden block of basin shape. This he does again and again, and in spite of the metal being cold, the heat of the friction, the speed at which it goes, and the ductility of the metal make it behave as if it were so much clay or putty, and in a very short time the wooden tool has moulded it from a flat disc into a metal bowl which covers the wooden block. Then the lathe is stopped, the mechanism unscrewed, and the metal bowl taken off the moulding block, which is dispensed with now, for if the spinner were to attempt to contract the edges of his bowl, as a potter does when making a jug, the wooden mould could not be taken out. So without the wooden block the metal bowl is again fixed in the lathe, sent spinning-round, the stick applied, and in a very short time the bowl, instead of being large-mouthed, is made to contract in a beautiful curve, growing smaller and smaller, till it is about one-third of its original diameter, and the metal has seemed to be plastic, and yielded to the moulding tool till a gracefully formed tall vessel is the result, with quite a narrow mouth where the lid is to be. Here the spinner's task is at an end. He has turned a flat plate of metal into a large-bodied narrow-mouthed metal pot as easily as if the hard cold metal had been clay, and all with the lathe and a piece of wood. There are no chips, no scrapings. All the metal is in the pot, and that is now passed on to have four legs soldered on, a hole cut for the spout to be fitted; a handle placed where the handle should be, and finally hinges and a lid and polish to make it perfect and ready for someone's tray. I stopped and saw the workman spin a couple of pots, and then thinking I should like to have a try at one of our lathes, I went on past this dam and on to the next, where I meant to have a friendly word with Mrs Gentles if her lord and master were not smoking by the door. I did not expect to see him after hearing that he was away at work; but as it happened he was there. For as I reached the path along by the side of the dam I found myself in the midst of a crowd of women and crying children, all in a state of great excitement concerning something in the dam. I hurried on to see what was the matter, and to my astonishment there was Gentles on the edge of the dam, armed with an ordinary long broom, with which he was trying to hook something out of the water--what, I could not see, for there was nothing visible. "Farther in--farther in," a shrill voice cried, making itself heard over the gabble of fifty others. "My Jenny says he went in theer." I was still some distance off, but I could see Gentles the unmistakable splash the broom in again, and then over and over again, while women were wringing their hands, and giving bits of advice which seemed to have no effect upon Gentles, who kept splashing away with the broom. Just then a tall figure in bonnet and shawl came hurrying from the other end of the path, and joined the group about the same time as I did. There was no mistaking Mrs Gentles without her voice, which she soon made heard. "Whose bairn is it?" she cried loudly, and throwing off her bonnet and shawl as she spoke. "Thine--it's thy little Esau--playing on the edge--got shoved in," was babbled out by a dozen women; while Gentles did not speak, but went on pushing in the broom, giving it a mow round like a scythe, and pulling it out. "Wheer? Oh, my gracious!" panted Mrs Gentles, "wheer did he go in?" Poor woman! A dozen hands pointed to different parts of the bank many yards apart, and I saw her turn quite white as she rushed at her husband and tore the broom from his hands. "What's the good o' that, thou Maulkin," [scarecrow] she cried, giving him a push that sent him staggering away; and without a moment's hesitation she stooped, tightened her garments round her, and jumped right into the dam, which was deeper than she thought, for she went under in the great splash she made, losing her footing, and a dread fell upon all till they saw the great stalwart woman rise and shake the water from her face, and stand chest deep, and then shoulder deep, as, sobbing hysterically, she reached out in all directions with the broom, trying to find the child. "Was it anywheers about here--anywheers about here?" she cried, as she waded to and fro in a state of frantic excitement, and a storm of affirmations responded, while her husband, who seemed quite out of place among so many women, stood rubbing his head in a stolid way. "Quiet, bairns!" shrieked one of the women, stamping her foot fiercely at the group of children who had been playing about after childhood's fashion in the most dangerous place they could find. Her voice was magical, for it quelled a perfect babel of sobs and cries. And all the while poor Mrs Gentles was reaching out, so reckless of herself that she was where the water reached her chin, and could hardly keep her footing. "Call thysen a man!" shouted the woman who had silenced the children. "Go in or thou'llt lose thy wife and bairn too." But Gentles paid no heed to the admonition. He stood rubbing his ear softly, though he gave a satisfied grunt as he saw the fierce virago of a woman who had spoken, leap in after Mrs Gentles, and wade out so as to hold her left hand. Where had the child tumbled in? No one knew, for the frightened little ones who had spread the news, running away home as soon as their playmate had toppled in with a splash, were too scared to remember the exact spot. I had not been idle all this time, but as the above scene was in progress I had taken off jacket, vest, and cap, handing them to a woman to hold, and had just finished kicking off my boots and socks, carefully watching the surface of the water the while, under the impression that the poor child would rise to the surface. All at once I caught sight of something far to the right of us, and evidently being taken by the current towards the sluice where the big wheel was in motion. It might be the child, or it might only be a piece of paper floating there, but I had no time to investigate that, and, running along the path till I was opposite the place, I plunged head-first in, rose, shook the water from my eyes, and swam as rapidly as my clothes would allow towards the spot. The women set up a cry and the children shrieked, and as I swam steadily on I could hear away to my left the two women come splashing and wading through the water till they were opposite to where I was swimming. "Oh, quick! Quick, my lad!" cried Mrs Gentles; and her agonised voice sent a thrill through me far more than did the shrieking chorus of the women as they shouted words of encouragement to me to proceed. I did not need the encouragement, for I was swimming my best, not making rapid strokes, but, as Uncle Jack had often shown me in river and sea, taking a long, slow, vigorous stroke, well to the end, one that is more effective, and which can be long sustained. But though I tried my best, I was still some feet from the spot where I had seen the floating object, when it seemed to fade away, and there was nothing visible when I reached the place. "There! There!" shrieked Mrs Gentles; "can't you see him--there?" She could not see any more than I could, as I raised myself as high as possible, treading water, and then paddling round like a dog in search of something thrown in which has sunk. The little fellow had gone, and there was nothing for it but to dive, and as I had often done before, I turned over and went down into the black water to try and find the drowning child. I stayed down as long as I could, came up, and looked round amidst a tremendous chorus of cries, and then dived again like a duck. Pray, don't think I was doing anything brave or heroic, for it seemed to me nothing of the kind. I had been so drilled by my uncles in leaping off banks, and out of a boat, and in diving after eggs thrown down in the clear water, that, save the being dressed, it was a very ordinary task to me; in fact, I believe I could have swum steadily on for an hour if there had been any need, and gone on diving as often as I liked. So I went under again and again, with the current always taking me on toward the sluice, and giving way to it; for, of course, the child would, I felt, be carried that way too. Every time I rose there was the shrieking and crying of the women and the prayerful words of the mother bidding me try; and had not her woman friend clung to her arm, I believe she would have struggled into deep water and been drowned. I caught glimpses of her, and of Gentles standing on the bank rubbing his ear as I dived down again in quite a hopeless way now, and, stopping down a much shorter time, I had given a kick or two, and was rising, when my hands touched something which glided away. This encouraged me, and I just took my breath above water, heard the cries, and dived again, to have the water thundering in my ears. For a few moments I could feel nothing; then my left hand touched a bundle of clothes, and in another moment I was at the surface with the child's head above water, and swimming with all my might for the side. There was a wild shriek of excitement to greet me, and then there was very nearly a terrible catastrophe for finale to the scene, for, as soon as she saw that I had hold of her child, the frantic mother shook off her companion, and with a mingling of the tragic and ludicrous reached out with the broom to drag us both in. Her excitement was too much for her; she took a step forward to reach us, slipped into deep water, went under, and the next minute she had risen, snatched at me, and we were struggling together. I was quite paralysed, while the poor woman had lost her head completely, and was blind by trying to save herself--holding on to me with all her might. Under the circumstances it is no wonder that I became helpless and confused, and that we sank together in the deep water close now to the dam head, and then all was black confusion, for my sensations were very different to what they were when I made my voluntary dives. It was matter of moments, though, and then a strong hand gripped me by the arm, we were dragged to the side, and a dozen hands were ready to help us out on to the bank. "Give me the child," said a strange voice. "Which is the house? Here-- the mother and one woman, come. Keep the crowd away." In a confused way I saw a tall man in black take the child in his arms, and I thought how wet he would make himself; while Mrs Gentles, panting and gasping for breath, seized me by the hand; and then they passed on in the middle of the crowd, augmented by a number of workmen, and disappeared into the cottage I knew so well. "What! Was it you, Uncle Jack?" I said, looking up in his grave big eyes. "Yes, my boy; and I only just came in time. How are you?" "Horribly wet," I said grimly and with a shiver. Then forcing a laugh as he held my hands tightly in his. "Why, you're just as bad." "Yes, but you--are you all right?" "Oh, yes, uncle! There's nothing the matter with me." "Then come along and let's run home. Never mind appearances; let's get into some dry clothes. But I should like to hear about the child." It was an easy thing to say, but not to do. We wanted to go to Gentles' house, but we were surrounded by a dense crowd; and the next minute a lot of rough men were shaking both Uncle Jack's hands and fighting one with the other to get hold of them, while I-- Just fancy being in the middle of a crowd of women, and all of them wanting to throw their arms round me and kiss me at once. That was my fate then; and regardless of my resistance one motherly body after another seized me, kissing my cheeks roundly, straining me to her bosom, and calling me her "brave lad!" or her "bonny bairn!" or "my mahn!" I had to be kissed and hand-shaken till I would gladly have escaped for very shame; and at last Uncle Jack rescued me, coming to my side smiling and looking round. "If he's thy bairn, mester," cried the virago-like woman who had helped Mrs Gentles, "thou ought to be proud of him." "And so I am," cried Uncle Jack, laying his hand upon my shoulder. Here there was a loud "hurrah!" set up by the men, and the women joined in shrilly, while a couple of men with big mugs elbowed their way towards us. "Here, lay holt, mester," said one to Uncle Jack; "drink that--it'll keep out the cold." At the same moment a mug was forced into my hand, and in response to a nod from Uncle Jack I took a hearty draught of some strong mixture which I believe was gin and beer. "How is the child?" said Uncle Jack. "Doctor says he can't tell yet, but hopes he'll pull bairn through." "Now, my lads," said Uncle Jack, "you don't want us to catch cold?" "No.--Hurray!" "Nor you neither, my good women?" "Nay, God bless thee, no!" was chorused. "Then good-bye! And if one of you will run down to our place and tell us how the little child is by and by, I'll be glad." "Nay, thou'llt shake han's wi' me first," said the big virago-like woman, whose drenched clothes clung to her from top to toe. "That I will," cried Uncle Jack, suiting the action to the word by holding out his; but to his surprise the woman laid her hands upon his shoulders, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and kissed him in simple north-country fashion. "God bless thee, my mahn!" she said with a sob. "Thou may'st be a Lunnoner, but thou'rt a true un, and thou'st saved to-day as good a wife and mother as ever stepped." Here there was another tremendous cheer; and to avoid fresh demonstrations I snatched my clothes from the woman who held them, and we hurried off to get back to Mrs Stephenson's as quickly and quietly as we could. Quickly! Quietly! We were mad to expect it; for we had to go home in the midst of a rapidly-increasing crowd, who kept up volley after volley of cheers, and pressed to our sides to shake hands. That latter display of friendliness we escaped during the finish of our journey; for in spite of all Uncle Jack could do to prevent it, big as he was, they hoisted him on the shoulders of a couple of great furnacemen, a couple more carrying me, and so we were taken home. I never felt so much ashamed in my life, but there was nothing for it but to be patient; and, like most of such scenes, it came to an end by our reaching Mrs Stephenson's and nearly frightening her to death. "Bless my heart!" she cried, "I thought there'd been some accident, and you was both brought home half-killed. Just hark at 'em! The street's full, and the carts can hardly get by." And so it was; for whenever, as I towelled myself into a glow, I peeped round the blind, there was the great crowd shouting and hurrahing with all their might. For the greater part they were workmen and boys, all in their shirt-sleeves and without caps; but there was a large sprinkling of big motherly women there; and the more I looked the more abashed I felt, for first one and then another seemed to be telling the story to a listening knot, as I could see by the motion of her hands imitating swimming. Two hours after we were cheered by the news that my efforts had not been in vain, for after a long fight the doctor had brought the child to; and that night, when we thought all the fuss was over, there came six great booms from a big drum, and a powerful brass band struck up, "See, the Conquering Hero comes!" Then the mob that had gathered cheered and shouted till we went to the window and thanked them; and then they cheered again, growing quite mad with excitement as a big strapping woman, in a black silk bonnet and a scarlet shawl, came up to the door and was admitted and brought into the parlour. I was horrified, for it was big Mrs Gentles, and I had a dread of another scene. I need not have been alarmed, for there was a sweet natural quietness in the woman that surprised us all, as she said with the tears running down her cheeks: "I'm only a poor common sort of woman, gentlemen, but I think a deal o' my bairns, and I've come to say I'll never forget a prayer for the bonny boy who saved my little laddie, nor for the true brave gentleman who saved me to keep them still." Uncle Jack shook hands with her, insisting upon her having a glass of wine, but she would not sit down, and after she had drunk her wine she turned to me. I put out my hand, but she threw her arms round my neck, kissed me quickly on each cheek, and ran sobbing out of the room, and nearly oversetting Mr Tomplin, who was coming up. "Hallo, my hero!" he cried, shaking hands with me. "Please, please don't, Mr Tomplin," I cried. "I feel as if I'd never do such a thing again as long as I live." "Don't say that, my boy," he cried. "Say it if you like, though. You don't mean it. I say, though, you folks have done it now." We had done more than we thought, for the next morning when we walked down to the office and Uncle Jack was saying that we must not be done out of our holiday, who should be waiting at the gate but Gentles. "Ugh!" said Uncle Jack; "there's that scoundrel. I hate that man. I wish it had been someone else's child you had saved, Cob. Well, my man," he cried roughly, "what is it?" Gentles had taken off his cap, a piece of politeness very rare among his set, and he looked down on the ground for a minute or two, and then ended a painful silence by saying: "I've been a reg'lar bad un to you and yours, mester; but it was the traade as made me do it." "Well, that's all over now, Gentles, and you've come to apologise?" "Yes, mester, that's it. I'm down sorry, I am, and if you'll tek me on again I'll sarve you like a man--ay, and I'll feight for thee like a man agen the traade." "Are you out of work?" "Nay, mester, I can always get plenty if I like to wuck." "Do you mean what you say, Gentles?" "Why, mester, wouldn't I hev been going to club to-day for money to bury a bairn and best wife a man ivver hed if it hadn't been for you two. Mester, I'd do owt for you now." "I believe you, Gentles," said Uncle Jack in his firm way. "Go back to your stone." Gentles smiled all over his face, and ran in before us whistling loudly with his fingers, and the men all turned out and cheered us over and over again, looking as delighted as so many boys. "Mr Tomplin's right," said Uncle Dick; "we've done it at last." "No, not yet," said Uncle Jack; "we've won the men to our side and all who know us will take our part, but there is that ugly demon to exorcise yet that they call the traade." That night I was going back alone when my heart gave a sort of leap, for just before me, and apparently waylaying me, were two of the boys who had been foremost in hunting me that day. My temper rose and my cheeks flushed; but they had come upon no inimical errand, for they both laughed in a tone that bespoke them the sons of Gentles, and the bigger one spoke in a bashful sort of way. "Moother said we was to come and ax your pardon, mester. It were on'y meant for a game, and she leathered us both for it." "And will you hev this?" said the other, holding out something in a piece of brown-paper. "I sha'n't take any more notice of it," I said quietly; "but I don't want any present." "There, moother said he'd be over proud to tak it," said the younger lad resentfully to his brother. "No, I am not too proud," I said; "give it to me. What is it?" "Best knife they maks at our wucks," said the boy eagerly. "It's rare stoof. I say, we're going to learn to swim like thou." They both nodded and went away, leaving me thinking that I was after this to be friends with the Arrowfield boys as well as the men. They need not have put it in the newspaper, but there it was, a long account headed "Gallant rescue by a boy." It was dressed up in a way that made my cheeks tingle, and a few days later the tears came into my eyes as I read a letter from my mother telling me she had read in the newspaper what I had done, and-- There, I will not set that down. It was what my mother said, and every British boy knows what his mother would say of an accident like that. It was wonderful how the works progressed after this, and how differently the men met us. It was not only our own, but the men at all the works about us. Instead of a scowl or a stare there was a nod, and a gruff "good morning." In fact, we seemed to have lived down the prejudice against the "chaps fro' Lunnon, and their contrapshions;" but my uncles knew only too well that they had not mastered the invisible enemy called the trade. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A TERRIBLE RISK. "What are you staring at, Cob?" It was Uncle Jack who spoke, and Uncle Dick had just come up with him, to find me in the yard, looking up at the building. It was dinner-hour, and all the men had gone but Pannell, who was sitting on a piece of iron out in the yard calmly cutting his bread and meat into squares and then masticating them as if it were so much tilt-hammer work that he had to do by the piece. "I was thinking, Uncle, suppose they were to set fire to us some night, what should we do?" "Hah! Yes: not a bad thought," said Uncle Dick sharply. "Pannell!" "Hillo!" said that gentleman, rising slowly. "Finish eating your bread and meat as you go, will you, and buy us twenty-four buckets." "Fower-and-twenty boockets," said Pannell, speaking with his mouth full. "What do yow want wi fower-and-twenty boockets?" "I'll show you this evening," replied my uncle; and, handing the man a couple of sovereigns, Pannell went off, and both Uncle Jack and I laughed at the quick way in which Uncle Dick had determined to be provided for an emergency. The buckets came, and were run by their handles upon a pole which was supported upon two great hooks in one of the outhouses against the wall of the yard, and some of the men noticed them, but the greater part seemed to pay not the slightest heed to this addition to our defences. But at leaving time, after a few words from Uncle Dick to Uncle Jack, the latter stood in the yard as the men came out, and said sharply: "Four-and-twenty men for a window wash. Who'll help?" A few months before, such a demand would have been met with a scowl; but quite a little crowd of the men now stopped, and Pannell said with a grin: "Wonder whether there'll be a boocket o' beer efter?" "Why, of course there will, my lad," cried Uncle Jack, who ranged the men in order. "Why, 'tis like being drilled for milishy, mester," said one man, and there was a roar of laughter as the buckets were passed out of the shed, and the men were placed in two rows, with Uncle Jack at one end, Uncle Dick at the other; the two ends resting, as a soldier would say, on the dam, and on the works. It was wonderful how a little management and discipline made easy such a business as this, and I could not help smiling as I saw how my idea had been acted upon. There were a few sharp words of command given, and then Uncle Jack dipped his bucket into the dam from the stone edge where we had bathed poor Piter, filled it, passed it on to Number 1 of the first row, and took a bucket from the last man of the second row, to fill. Meanwhile the first bucket was being passed on from hand to hand through a dozen pairs when it reached Uncle Dick, who seized it, hurled it up against the grimy windows of the works, and then passed it to the first man of the second row. In a minute or two the men were working like a great machine, the pails being dipped and running, or rather being swung, from hand to hand till they reached Uncle Dick, who dashed the water over the windows, and here and there, while the empty buckets ran back to Uncle Jack. The men thoroughly enjoyed it, and Pannell shouted that this would be the way to put out a fire. But my uncles did not take up the idea, working steadily on, and shifting the line till the whole of the glazed windows had been sluiced, and a lot of the grit and rubbish washed away from the sills and places, after which the buckets were again slung in a row and the men had their beer, said "Good-night!" quite cheerily, and went away. "There," said Uncle Dick, "I call that business. How well the lads worked!" "Yes," said Uncle Jack with a sigh of content as he wiped his streaming brow; "we could not have got on with them like that three months ago." "No," said Uncle Bob, who had been looking on with me, and keeping dry; "the medicine is working faster and faster; they are beginning to find us out." "Yes," said Uncle Dick. "I think we may say it is peace now." "Don't be in too great a hurry, my boys," said Uncle Jack. "There is a good deal more to do yet." It is one of the terrible misfortunes of a town like Arrowfield that accidents among the work-people are so common. There was an excellent hospital there, and it was too often called into use by some horror or another. It would be a terrible tale to tell of the mishaps that we heard of from week to week: men burned by hot twining rods; by the falling of masses of iron or steel that were being forged; by blows of hammers; and above all in the casting-shops, when glowing fluid metal was poured into some mould which had not been examined to see whether it was free from water. Do you know what happens then? Some perhaps do not. The fluid metal runs into the mould, and in an instant the water is turned into steam, by whose mighty power the metal is sent flying like a shower, the mould rent to pieces, and all who are within range are horribly burned. That steam is a wonderful slave, but what a master! It is kept bound in strong fetters by those who force its obedience; but woe to those who give it the opportunity to escape by some neglect of the proper precautions. One accident occurred at Arrowfield during the winter which seemed to give the final touch to my uncles' increasing popularity with the work-people, and we should have had peace, if it had not been for the act of a few malicious wretches that took place a month or too later. It was one evening when we had left the works early with the intention of having a good long fireside evening, and perhaps a walk out in the frosty winter night after supper, that as we were going down one of the busy lanes with its works on either side, we were suddenly arrested by a deafening report followed by the noise of falling beams and brickwork. As far as we could judge it was not many hundred yards away, and it seemed to be succeeded by a terrible silence. Then there was the rushing of feet, the shouting of men, and a peculiar odour smote upon our nostrils. "Gunpowder!" I exclaimed as I thought of our escapes. "No," said Uncle Dick. "Steam." "Yes," said Uncle Jack. "Some great boiler has burst. Heaven help the poor men!" Following the stream of people we were not long in reaching the gateway of one of the greatest works in Arrowfield. Everything was in such a state of confusion that our entrance was not opposed; and in a few minutes we saw by the light of flaring gas-jets, and of a fire that had begun to blaze, one of the most terrible scenes of disaster I had ever witnessed. The explosion had taken place in the huge boiler-house of the great iron-works, a wall had been hurled down, part of the iron-beamed roof was hanging, one great barrel-shaped boiler had been blown yards away as if it had been a straw, and its fellow, about twenty feet long, was ripped open and torn at the rivets, just as if the huge plates of iron of which it was composed were so many postage-stamps torn off and roughly crumpled in the hand. There was a great crowd collecting, and voices shouted warning to beware of the falling roof and walls that were in a crumbling condition. But these shouts were very little heeded in the presence of the cries and moans that could be heard amongst the piled-up brickwork. Injured men were there, and my uncles were among the first to rush in and begin bearing them out--poor creatures horribly scalded and crushed. Then there was a cry for picks and shovels--some one was buried; and on these being brought the men plied them bravely till there was a warning shout, and the rescue party had only just time to save themselves from a falling wall which toppled over with a tremendous crash, and sent up a cloud of dust. The men rushed in again, though, and in an incredibly short space of time they had dug and torn away a heap of broken rubbish, beneath which moans could be heard. I stood close beside my uncles, as, blackened and covered with dust and sweat, they toiled away, Uncle Jack being the first to chase away the horrible feeling of fear that was upon me lest they should be too late. "Here he is," he cried; and in a few minutes more, standing right down in a hole, he lifted the poor maimed creature who had been crying for our help. There was a tremendous cheer raised here, and the poor fellow was carried out, while Uncle Dick, who, somehow, seemed to be taking the lead, held up his hand. "Hark!" he said. But there was no sound. "If there is no living creature here," he said, "we must get out. It is not safe to work till the roof has been blown down or fallen. If there is anyone alive, my lads, we must have him out at all risks." There was a cheer at this, and then, as soon as he could get silence, Uncle Jack shouted: "Is anyone here?" There was a low wailing cry for help far back beyond the ripped-up boiler, and in what, with tottering wall and hanging roof, was a place too dangerous to approach. "Come, lads, we must have him out," cried Uncle Dick; but a gentleman, who was evidently one of the managers, exclaimed: "No, it is too dangerous." "Volunteers!" cried Uncle Dick. Uncle Jack, Uncle Bob, Pannell, Stevens, and four more men went to his side, and in the midst of a deathly silence we saw them go softly in and disappear in the gloom of the great wrecked boiler-house. Then there was utter silence, out of which Uncle Dick's voice came loud and clear, but ominously followed by the rattling down of some fragments of brick. "Where are you? Try and speak." A low piteous moan was the reply. "All right, my lads, down here!" we heard Uncle Jack cry. "No picks-- hands, hands." "And work gently," cried Uncle Dick. Then, in the midst of the gloom we could hear the rattling of bricks and stones, and though we could see nothing we could realise that these brave men were digging down with their hands to try and get out the buried stoker. The flames burned up brightly, casting curious shadows, and though we could see nothing, lighting the men over their gallant task, while I, as I gazed in, trying to penetrate the gloom, felt as if I ought to be there by my uncles' side. This feeling grew so strong that at last I took a few steps forward, but only to be seized by a pair of strong arms and brought back. "Nay, nay, lad," said a voice that I started to hear, for it was Gentles'; "there's plenty risking their lives theer. Yow stay." Just then there was a hoarse shriek of terror, a wild yell from the crowd, for a curious rushing rumble was heard, a dull thud, and another cloud of dust came rolling out, looking like smoke as it mingled with the fire. In the midst of this the men who had been digging in the ruins came rushing out. "Part of the roof," cried Uncle Dick, panting, "and the rest's falling. Are you all here, lads?" "Ay, all," was answered as they looked from one to the other in the flickering light. "Nay, not all," shouted Stevens. "Owd lad Pannell's buried alive. I see 'un fall." There was a murmur of horror and a burst of wailing, for now a number of women had joined the throng. "Are you hurt?" I cried anxiously. "Only a few cuts and bruises, Cob," said Uncle Dick. "Now, my lads, quick. We must have them out." The men stopped short, and there was a low angry murmur like the muttering of a coming storm. "Quick, my lads, quick!" There was a hoarse cry for help from out of the ruins, and I knew it must be our poor smith. "No, sir, stop," cried the gentleman who had before spoken. "I'd dare anything, but we have sacrificed one life in trying to save others. I have just been round, and I say that at the least movement of the ruins the left wall must come down." There was a loud cry of assent to this, and amongst shouts and a confused murmur of voices there came out of the gloom that fearful cry again: "Help!" "The wall must fall, men," cried Uncle Dick loudly. "I can't stand and hear that cry and not go. Once more volunteers." Half a dozen men started out of the crowd; but the peril was too great. They shrank back, and I saw my three uncles standing together in the bright light of the burning building, blackened, bleeding, and in rags. Then Uncle Dick put out his two hands, and Uncle Jack and Uncle Bob took them. They stood together for a short minute, and then went towards the tottering wall. "Stop!" cried the gentleman. "You must not risk your lives." For answer Uncle Jack turned his great manly face towards us and waved his hand. Then they disappeared in the gloom, and a curious murmur ran along the great crowd. It was neither sigh, groan, nor cry, but a low hushed murmur of all these; and once more, as a dead silence fell, we heard that piteous cry, followed by a hoarse cheer, as if the sufferer had seen help come. Then, as we listened in dead silence, the rattling of brickwork came again, mingled with the fluttering of the flames and the crackle and roar of burning as the fire leaped up higher and higher from what had been one of the furnace-holes, and across which a number of rafters and beams had fallen, and were blazing brightly, to light up the horrible scene of ruin. Battle and crash of bricks and beams, and we all knew that my uncles must be working like giants. "I daren't go, Mester Jacob," whispered Gentles. "I'd do owt for the brave lads, but it's death to go. It's death, and I daren't." All at once, as everyone was listening for the fall of the tottering wall, some one caught sight of the moving figures, and a deafening cheer rose up as Uncle Dick appeared carrying the legs and Uncles Jack and Bob the arms of a man. They came towards where I was standing, so that I was by when poor Pannell was laid down, and I went on one knee by his side. "Much hurt?" I panted. "Nay, more scared than hurt, lad," he said. "I was buried up to my neck, and feeling's gone out of my legs." "Stop now, gentlemen, for heaven's sake!" cried the manager. "What! And leave a poor fellow we have promised to come back and help!" cried Uncle Dick with a laugh. "But it is certain death to go in, gentlemen," cried the manager passionately. "At the least vibration the roof will fall. I should feel answerable for your lives. I tell you it is death to go." "It is moral death to stay away," cried Uncle Dick. "What would you do, Cob?" "Go!" I cried proudly, and then I started up panting, almost sobbing, to try and stop them. "No, no," I cried; "the danger is too great." I saw them wave their hands in answer to the cheer that rose, and I saw Pannell wave his with a hoarse "Hooroar!" and then the gloom had swallowed them up again. "I lay close to the poor lad," whispered Pannell. "Reg'lar buried alive. Asked me to kill him out of his misery, he did, as I lay there; but I said, `howd on, my lad. Them three mesters 'll fetch us out,' and so they will." "If the roof don't fall," said a low voice close by me, and the same voice said, "Lift this poor fellow up and take him to the infirmary." "Nay, I weant go," cried Pannell, "aw want to stay here and see them mesters come out." "Let him rest," said the manager, and upon his asking me I raised Pannell's head, and let him rest against my chest. Then amidst the painful silence, and the fluttering and crackling of the fire, we heard again the rattling of bricks and stones; but it was mingled with the falling of pieces from the roof. Then there was a crash and a shriek from the women as a cloud of dust rose, and my heart seemed to stand still, for I felt that my uncles must have been buried; but no, the sound of the bricks and stones being dragged out still went on, and the men gave another cheer. The manager went round again to the back of the place, and came tearing back with three or four men shouting loudly: "Come out! Come out! She's going!" Then there was a horrible cry, for with a noise like thunder the left side and part of the roof of the building fell. The dust was tremendous, and it was some minutes before the crowd could rush in armed with shovels and picks to dig out the bodies of the brave men buried. The murmur was like that of the sea, for every man seemed to be talking excitedly, and as I knelt there by Pannell I held the poor fellow's hand, clinging to him now, and too much shocked and unnerved to speak. "They're killed--they're killed," I groaned. But as I spoke the words the people seemed to have gone mad; they burst into such a tremendous cheer, backing away from the ruins, and dividing as they reached us to make way for my uncles to bear to the side of Pannell the insensible figure of the man they had saved. That brave act performed for an utter stranger made the Arrowfield men talk of my uncles afterwards as being of what they called real grit; and all through the winter and during the cold spring months everything prospered wonderfully at the works. We could have had any number of men, and for some time it was dangerous for my uncles--and let me modestly say I seemed to share their glory--to go anywhere near a gathering of the workmen, they were so cheered and hero-worshipped. But in spite of this good feeling there was no concealing the fact that a kind of ill-will was fostered against our works on account of the new inventions and contrivances we had. From whence this ill-will originated it was impossible to say, but there it was like a smouldering fire, ready to break forth when the time should come. "Another threatening letter," Uncle Jack would say, for he generally attended to post matters. "Give it to me," said Uncle Bob. "Those letters make the best pipe-lights, they are so incendiary." "Shall we take any notice--appeal to the men--advertise a reward for the sender?" "No," said Uncle Dick. "With patience we have got the majority of the workmen with us. We'll show them we trust to them for our defence. Give me that letter." Uncle Jack passed the insulting threat, and Uncle Dick gummed it and stuck it on a sheet of foolscap, and taking four wafers, moistened them and stuck the foolscap on the office door with, written above it to order by me in a bold text hand: "_Cowards' Work_." and beneath it: "_To be Treated with the Contempt it Deserves_." But as time went on the threats received about what would be done if such and such processes were not given up grew so serious that when Mr Tomplin was told he said that we ought to put ourselves under the care of the police. "No," said Uncle Dick firmly; "we began on the principle of being just to our workmen, and of showing them that we studied their interests as well as our own, that we are their friends as well as masters, and that we want them to be our friends." "But they will not be," said Mr Tomplin, shaking his head. "But they are," said Uncle Dick. "What took place when I stuck that last threat on the door?" "The men hooted and yelled and spat upon it." "But was that an honest demonstration?" "I believe it was." "Well," said Mr Tomplin, "we shall see. You gentlemen quite upset my calculations, but I must congratulate you upon the manner in which you have made your way with the men." "I wish we could get hold of the scoundrels who send these letters." "Yes," said Mr Tomplin; "the wire-pullers who make use of the men for their own ends, and will not let the poor fellows be frank and honest when they would. They're a fine race of fellows if they are led right, but too often they are led wrong." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The days glided on, and as there were no results from these threats we began to laugh at them when they came, especially as Tom Searby the watchman also said they were good for pipe-lights, and that was all. But one night Uncle Dick took it into his head to go down to the works and see that all was right. Nothing of the kind had been done before since the watchman came, for everything went on all right; the place was as it should be, no bands were touched, and there seemed to be no reason for showing any doubt of the man; and so Uncle Jack said when Uncle Dick talked of going. "No, there is no reason," said Uncle Dick; "but I cannot help feeling that we have been lulling ourselves too much into a feeling of security about the place. I shall wait till about one o'clock, and then walk down." "No, no," said Uncle Jack; "I'm tired. Had a very heavy day, and of course you cannot go alone." "Why not?" "Because we should not let you. Even Cob would insist upon going." "Of course!" I said. "I had made up my mind to go." "It's quite right," said Uncle Bob. "We've been remiss. When sentries are set the superior officers always make a point of going their rounds to see if they are all right. Go, Dick, and we'll come with you." Uncle Dick protested, but we had our own way, and about a quarter to one on a bitter March night we let ourselves out and walked down to the works. For my part I would far rather have gone to bed, but after a few minutes the excitement of the proceeding began to assert itself, and I was bright and wakeful enough. We walked quickly and briskly on till we came to the lane by the factory wall; but instead of turning down we all walked on along the edge of the dam, which gleamed coldly beneath the frosty stars. It was very full, for there had been a good deal of rain; and though the air was frosty there was a suggestion of change and more rain before long. When we reached the top of the dam we turned and looked back. Everything was as quiet as could be, and here and there the glow from the lowered furnace-fires made a faint halo about the dark building, so quiet and still after the hurry and buzz of the day. As we went back along the dam the wavelets lapped the stone edge, and down below on the other side, as well as by the waste sluice, we could hear the water rushing along towards the lower part of the town, and onward to the big river that would finally carry it to the sea. We were very silent, for every one was watching the works, till, as Uncle Dick and I reached the lane, we stopped short, for I caught his arm. I had certainly heard whispering. There were half a dozen persons down near the gate, but whoever they were they came towards us, said "good-night!" roughly, turned the corner, and went away. It looked suspicious for half a dozen men to be down there in the middle of the night, but their manner was inoffensive and civil, and we could see nothing wrong. Uncle Dick slipped his key into the lock, and as he opened the little door in the gate there was a low growl and the rush of feet. "Piter's on the watch," I said quietly, and the growl turned to a whine of welcome. "Be on the look-out," said Uncle Dick; "we must speak or Searby may attack us." "Right," said Uncle Jack; "but he had better not." The dog did not bark, but trotted on before us, and we could just see him as we took a look round the yard before going into the buildings. Everything was quite right as far as we could tell. Nothing unusual to be seen anywhere, and we went at last to the main entrance. "Nothing could be better," said Uncle Dick. "Only there is no watchman. I say, was I right in coming?" "Right enough," replied Uncle Jack; "but look out now for squalls. Men in the dark have a suspicious look." We entered, peered in at the great grinding-shop, and then began to ascend the stairs to the upper works. "All right!" said Uncle Dick. "I wish we had a light. Can you hear him?" He had stopped short on the landing, and we could hear a low, muttering noise, like a bass saw cutting hard leather. _Score! Score! Score_! Slowly and regularly; the heavy breathing of a deep sleeper. "I'm glad we've got a good watcher," said Uncle Jack drily. "Here, Piter, dog, fetch him out. Wake him then." The dog understood him, for he burst into a furious fit of barking and charged up into the big workshop, and then there was a worrying noise as if he were dragging at the watchman's jacket. "Get out! Be off! Do you hear!" "Hi, Searby!" roared Uncle Jack. There was a plunge, and a rush to the door, and Searby's big voice cried: "Stand back, lads, or I'll blow out thee brains." "What with?" said Uncle Bob; "the forge blast? There, come down." Searby came down quickly. "Lucky for yow that one of yo' spoke," he said. "I heard you coming, and was lying wait for you. Don't do it agen, mesters. I might hev half-killed yo'." "Next time you lie in wait," said Uncle Dick, "don't breathe so loudly, my man, or you will never trap the visitors. They may think you are asleep." "Give him another chance," said Uncle Jack as we went home. "Yes," said Uncle Bob; "it is partly our fault. If we had visited him once or twice he would have been always on the watch." "Well," said Uncle Dick, "I don't want to be unmerciful, and it will be a lesson. He'll work hard to regain our confidence." Next morning there were two letters in strange hands, which Uncle Jack read and then handed round. One was a threat such as had often been received before; but the other was of a very different class. It was as follows: "_Mesters_,--_There's somewhat up. We don't kno wat, but game o' some kind's going to be played. Owd Tommy Searby gos sleep ivvery night, and he's no good. Some on us gives a look now an' then o' nights but yowd beter wetch im place yoursens_.--_Some frends_." "That's genuine," said Uncle Dick emphatically. "What's to be done?" "Go and do as they advise," said Uncle Jack. "You see we have won the fellows over, and they actually act as a sort of police for us." The consequence of this letter was that sometimes all four, sometimes only two of us went and kept watch there of a night, very much to old Searby's disgust, but we could not afford to heed him, and night after night we lost our rest for nothing. "Are we being laughed at?" said Uncle Bob wearily one night; "I'm getting very tired of this." "So we all are, my dear fellow," said Uncle Jack: "but I can't help thinking that it is serious." Uncle Jack was right, for serious it proved. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. FIRE AND WATER. One dark night at the end of March we went down to the works all four, meaning to watch two and two through the dark hours. The wind blew hard and the rain fell, and as we reached the lane we could hear the water lapping and beating against the sluice and the stones that formed the head of the dam, while the waste rushed away with a hollow roar. "Pity to lose so much good power," said Uncle Jack. "Sun and wind will bring it back to the hills," said Uncle Dick gravely. "There is no waste in nature." I half expected to see a group of men, friends or enemies, waiting about; but not a soul was in sight, and as we reached the gates I shivered involuntarily and thought that people must have very serious spite against us if they left their snug firesides to attack us on a night like that. Uncle Dick opened the little door in the gate and we stepped in, but to our surprise there was no low growl and then whine of recognition from Piter. "That's strange," said Uncle Jack suspiciously, and he walked on quickly to the door of the building and listened. There was no dog there, and his chain and collar did not hang over the kennel as if they had been taken from the dog's neck. They were gone. This seemed very strange, and what was more strange still, though we went from grinding-shop to smithy after smithy, furnace house and shed, there was no sign of the dog, and everything seemed to point to the fact that he had been led away by his chain, and was a prisoner somewhere. "Looks like mischief," whispered Uncle Bob. "Where's that scoundrel lying asleep?" We went upstairs to see, and expected to find our careful watchman carefully curled up somewhere, but there was no snoring this time, and Uncle Bob's threat of a bucket of water to wake him did not assume substance and action. For though we searched everywhere it soon became evident that Searby was not present, and that we had come to find the works deserted. "Then there is going to be some attack made," said Uncle Dick. "I'm glad we came." "Shall you warn the police?" I whispered. "No," said Uncle Jack sharply. "If we warn the police the scoundrels will get to know, and no attack will be made." "So much the better," I said. "Isn't it?" "No, my lad. If they did not come to-night they would be here some other time when we had not been warned. We are prepared now, so let them come and we may give them such a lesson as shall induce them to leave us in peace for the future." "Do you mean to fight, then?" I asked. "Most decidedly, boy. For our rights, for our place where we win our livelihood. We should be cowards if we did not. You must play the dog's part for us with your sharp eyes and ears. Recollect we have right on our side and they have wrong." "Let's put the fort in a state of defence," said Uncle Dick merrily. "Perhaps it will turn out to be all nonsense, but we must be prepared. What do you say--divide in two watches as we proposed, and take turn and turn?" "No: we'll all watch together to-night in case anything serious should be meant." It did seem so vexatious that a small party of men should be able to keep up this system of warfare in the great manufacturing town. Here had my uncles brought a certain amount of prosperity to the place by establishing these works; the men had found out their worth and respected them, and everything was going on in the most prosperous way, and yet we were being assailed with threats, and it was quite possible that at any moment some cruel blow might be struck. I felt very nervous that night, but I drew courage from my uncles, who seemed to take everything in the coolest and most matter-of-fact way. They went round to the buildings where the fires were banked up and glowing or smouldering, ready to be brought under the influence of the blast next day and fanned to white heat. Here every precaution was taken to guard against danger by fire, one of the most probable ways of attack, either by ordinary combustion or the swift explosion of gunpowder. "There," said Uncle Jack after a careful inspection, "we can do no more. If the ruffians come and blow us up it will be pretty well ruin." "While if they burn us we are handsomely insured," said Uncle Dick. "By all means then let us be burned," said Uncle Bob laughing. "There, don't let's make mountains of molehills. We shall not be hurt." "Well," said Uncle Dick, "I feel as if we ought to take every possible precaution; but, that done, I do not feel much fear of anything taking place. If the scoundrels had really meant mischief they would have done something before now." "Don't halloa till you are out of the wood," said Uncle Jack. "I smell danger." "Where, uncle?" I cried. "In the air, boy. How the wind blows! Quite a gale. Brings the smell of naphtha from those works half a mile away. Shows how a scent like that will travel." "I say, boys," said Uncle Bob, "what a trade that would be to carry on-- that or powder-mills. The scoundrels would regularly hold one at their mercy." "Wind's rising, and the water seems pretty lively," said Uncle Dick as we sat together in the office, listening to the noises of the night. We were quite in the dark, and from time to time we had a look round about the yard and wall and that side of the building, the broad dam on the other side being our protection. "What a curious gurgling the water makes!" said Uncle Bob as we sat listening; "anyone might think that half a dozen bottles were being poured out at once." "The water plays in and out of the crevices amongst the stones, driving the air forth. I've often listened to it and thought it was someone whispering out there beneath the windows," said Uncle Dick. Then came a loud gust of wind that shook the windows, and directly after there was the strong sour scent of naphtha. "They must have had an accident--upset a tank or something of the kind," said Uncle Jack. "How strong it is!" "Yes; quite stinging. It comes each time with the puffs of wind. I suppose," continued Uncle Dick, "you would consider that which we smell to be a gas." "Certainly," said Uncle Bob, who was, we considered, a pretty good chemist. "It is the evaporation of the spirit; it is so volatile that it turns of itself into vapour or gas and it makes itself evident to our nostrils as it is borne upon the air." "There must be great loss in the manufacture of such a spirit as that." "Oh, they charge accordingly!" said Uncle Bob; "but a great deal does undoubtedly pass off into--" He stopped short, for Uncle Jack laid his hand upon his knee and we all listened. "Nothing," said the latter; but I felt sure I heard a noise below. "I heard the gurgling sound very plainly," said Uncle Dick. "There it is again. One might almost think there was water trickling into the building." "Or naphtha, judging by the smell," said Uncle Bob. "It's very curious. I have it!" he cried. "What do you mean?" said Uncle Jack sharply. "There has been an accident, as we supposed, at the naphtha works, and a quantity of it has floated down the stream and into our dam." "It has been very clever then," said Uncle Jack gruffly, "for it has floated up stream a hundred yards to get into our dam, and--Good heavens!" He sprang to the window and threw it open, for at that moment a heavy dull explosion shook the room where we were, and in place of the darkness we could see each other distinctly, for the place seemed to have been filled with reflected light, which went out and then blazed up again. "Ah!" ejaculated Uncle Jack, "the cowards! If I had a gun!" I ran to his side, and in the middle of the dam, paddling towards the outer side, there was a sort of raft with three men upon it, and now they were distinctly seen, for the black water of the dam seemed to have suddenly become tawny gold, lit by a building burning furiously on our right. That building was our furnace-house and the set of smithies and sheds that connected it with the grinding-shops and offices. Uncle Jack banged to the window and took the command. "Cob," he cried, "run to the big bell and keep it going. Our lads will come. Dick, throw open the gate; Bob, follow me. Fire drill. We may nip the blaze in the bud." The fire-bell was not rung, the gate was not thrown open; for as we ran out of the office and down the stairs it was to step into a pool of naphtha, and in a few instants we found that a quantity had been poured in at the lower windows--to what extent we could not tell--but it was evident that this had been done all along the basement by the scoundrels on the raft, and that they had contrived that some should reach one of the furnaces, with the result that in an instant the furnace-house had leaped into a mass of roaring flame, which the brisk gale was fanning and making the fire run along the naphtha-soaked buildings like a wave. "Stop, stop!" roared Uncle Jack; "we can do nothing to stay this. Back to the offices and secure all books and papers." So swiftly was the fire borne along by the gale that we had hardly time to reach the staircase before it came running along, licking up the naphtha, of which a large quantity had been spilled, and as it caught there were dozens of little explosions. I do not think either of us gave a thought to how we were to get away again, for the valuable books and plans had to be saved at all hazards; so following Uncle Jack we rushed into the big office, the safe was opened, and as rapidly as possible a couple of tin boxes were filled with account-books, and a number of papers were bound round with string. "You must look sharp," said Uncle Bob. "But we must take my books, and odds and ends, and fishing-tackle," I cried. "Better try and save our lives," said Uncle Bob. "Are you ready?" "No; there are some plans we must take," said Uncle Dick. "You must leave them," shouted Uncle Bob. "There, you are too late!" he cried, banging to the door at the end of the workshop; "the flame's coming up the stairs." "We can get out of the windows," said Uncle Jack coolly. "The place beneath is all on fire," cried Uncle Bob, flinging himself on his knees. "The floor's quite hot." We should have been suffocated only that there was a perfect rush of cold air through the place, but moment by moment this was becoming hot and poisonous with the gases of combustion. The flames were rushing out of the grinding-shop windows beneath us, and the yard on one side, the dam on the other, were light as day. In one glance over the fire and smoke I saw our wall covered with workmen and boys, some watching, some dropping over into the yard. While in a similar rapid glance on the other side I saw through the flame and smoke that on one side the dam bank was covered with spectators, on the other there were three men just climbing off a rough raft and descending towards the stream just below. "Now," said Uncle Jack, seizing one box, "I can do no more. Each of you take your lot and let's go." "But where?--how?" I panted. "Phew!" Uncle Jack gave vent to a long whistle that was heard above the crackling wood, the roar of flames carried along by the wind, and the shouts and cries of the excited crowd in the yard. "It's worse than I thought," said Uncle Jack. "We can't get down. Keep cool, boys. We must save our papers. Here, there is less fire at that window than at either of the others--let's throw the boxes out there. They'll take care of them." We ran to the far corner window, but as we reached it a puff of flame and smoke curved in and drove us back. It was so with every window towards the yard, and escape was entirely cut off. The men were trying to do something to save us, for there was a tremendous noise and excitement below; but they could do absolutely nothing, so rapidly had the grinding-shop beneath us been turned into a fiery furnace. And now the flames had mastered the end door, which fell inward, and flame and black and gold clouds of smoke rolled in. "Quick, Cob!--into the office!" roared Uncle Dick; and I darted in with some of the papers, followed by the rest, Uncle Jack banging to the door. "Keep cool, all of you," he cried. "I must save these books and papers." "But we must save our lives, Jack," said Uncle Dick. "The floor's smoking. Our only chance is to jump into the dam." "Through that blaze of flame!" said Uncle Bob gloomily. "It is our only chance," said Uncle Jack; "but let's try to save our boxes as well. They will float if we take care." "Now, then, who's first?" The window was open, the tin boxes and the packets on the table, the dam beneath but invisible; for the flame and smoke that rose from the window below came like a fiery curtain between us and the water; and it was through this curtain that we should have to plunge. Certainly it would be a momentary affair, and then we should be in the clear cold water; but the idea of taking such a leap made even my stout uncles shrink and vainly look round for some other means of escape. But there were none that we could see. Above the roar and crackling of the flames we could hear the shouting of the mob and voices shrieking out more than crying, "Jump! Jump!" Everything, though, was one whirl of confusion; and I felt half-stifled with the terrible heat and the choking fumes that came up between the boards and beneath the door. It was rapidly blinding as well as confusing us; and in those exciting moments leadership seemed to have gone, and if even I had made a bold start the others would have followed. At last after what seemed to have been a long space of time, though it was doubtless only moments, Uncle Jack cried fiercely: "Look: the floor's beginning to burn. You, Dick, out first, Cob shall follow; and we'll drop the two tin boxes to you. You must save them. Now! Are you ready?" "Yes," cried Uncle Dick, climbing on a chair, and thrusting his arm out of the window. As he did so, there was a puff like some gigantic firework, and a large cloud of fiery smoke rose up full of tiny sparks; and he shrank back with an ejaculation of pain. "Hot, Dick?" cried Uncle Jack almost savagely. "Go on, lad; it will be hotter here. In five minutes the floor will be burned through." "Follow quickly, Cob," cried Uncle Dick; and then he paused, for there was a curious rushing noise, the people yelled, and there were shrieks and cries, and above all, a great trampling of feet. We could see nothing for the flame and smoke that rose before the window; and just then the roar of the flames seemed to increase, and our position became unendurable. But still that was a curious rushing noise in the air, a roar as of thunder and pouring, hissing rain, and a railway train rushing by and coming nearer and nearer every moment; and then, as Uncle Dick was about to step forth into the blaze and leap into the dam, Uncle Jack caught him and held him back. Almost at the same moment the rush and roar increased a hundred-fold, confusing and startling us, and then, as if by magic, there was a tremendous thud against the walls that shook the foundations; a fierce hissing noise, and one moment we were standing in the midst of glowing light, the next moment we were to our waists in water dashed against the opposite wall, and all was black darkness. As we struggled to our feet the water was sinking, but the horrible crashing, rushing noise was still going on--water, a huge river of water was rushing right through our factory threatening to sweep it away, and then the flood seemed to sink as quickly as it had come, and we stood holding hands, listening to the gurgling rush that was rapidly dying away. "What is it?" panted Uncle Bob. "Life. Thank heaven, we are saved!" said Uncle Dick fervently. "Amen!" exclaimed Uncle Jack. "Why, Dick," he cried, "that great dam up in the hills must have burst and come sweeping down the vale!" Uncle Jack was right, for almost as he spoke we could hear voices shouting "rezzyvoyer;" and for the moment we forgot our own troubles in the thought of the horrors that must have taken place up the vale. But we could not stay where we were, half suffocated by the steam that rose, and, opening the door, which broke away half-burned through, we stood once more in the long workshop, which seemed little changed, save that here and there a black chasm yawned in the floor, among which we had to thread our way to where the stout door had been. That and the staircase were gone, so that our only chance was to descend by lowering ourselves and dropping to the ground. Just then we heard the splashing of feet in the yard, and a voice we recognised as Pannell cried: "Mebbe they've got away. Ahoy there, mesters! Mester Jacob!" "Ahoy!" I shouted; and a ringing cheer went up from twenty throats. "We're all right," I cried, only nearly smothered. "Can you get a short ladder?" "Ay, lad," cried another familiar voice; and another shouted, "Owd Jones has got one;" and I was sure it was Gentles who spoke. "How's the place, Pannell?" cried Uncle Dick, leaning out of one of the windows. "So dark, mester, I can hardly see, but fire's put right out, and these here buildings be aw reight, but wheer the smithies and furnace was is nobbut ground." "Swept away?" "Pretty well burned through first, mester, and then the watter came and washed it all clear. Hey but theer's a sight of mischief done, I fear." A short ladder was soon brought, and the boxes and papers were placed in safety in a neighbouring house, after which in the darkness we tramped through the yard, to find that it was inches deep in mud, and that the flood had found our mill stout enough to resist its force; but the half-burned furnace-house, the smithies, and about sixty feet of tall stone wall had been taken so cleanly away that even the stones were gone, while the mill next to ours was cut right in two. There was not a vestige of fire left, so, leaving our further inspection to be continued in daylight, we left a couple of men as watchers, and were going to join the hurrying crowd, when I caught Uncle Dick's arm. "Well?" he exclaimed. "Did you see where those men went as they got off the raft?" "They seemed to be climbing down into the hollow beside the river," he said: "Yes," I whispered with a curious catching of the breath, "and then the flood came." He gripped my hand, and stood thinking for a few moments. "It is impossible to say," he cried at last. "But come along, we may be of some service to those in trouble." In that spirit we went on down to the lower part of the town, following the course of the flood, and finding fresh horrors at every turn. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. EIGHT YEARS LATER. Fancy the horrors of that night! The great dam about which one of my uncles had expressed his doubts when we visited it the previous year, and of which he had spoken as our engine, had given way in the centre of the vast earthen wall like a railway embankment. A little crack had grown and grown--the trickling water that came through had run into a stream, then into a river, and then a vast breach in the embankment was made, and a wall of water had rushed down the valley swiftly as a fast train, carrying destruction before it. The ruin of that night is historical, and when after a few hours we made our way up the valley, it was to see at every turn the devastation that had been caused. Mills and houses had been swept away as if they had been corks, strongly-built works with massive stone walls had crumbled away like cardboard, and their machinery had been carried down by the great wave of water, stones, gravel, and mud. Trees had been lifted up by their roots; rows of cottages cut in half; banks of the valley carved out, and for miles and miles, down in the bottom by the course of the little river, the face of the country was changed. Here where a beautiful garden had stretched down to the stream was a bed of gravel and sand; there where verdant meadows had lain were sheets of mud; and in hundreds of places trees, plants, and the very earth had been swept clear away down to where there was only solid rock. When we reached the great embankment the main part of the water was gone, and in the middle there was the huge gap through which it had escaped. "Too much water for so frail a dam," said Uncle Jack sententiously. "Boys, we must not bemoan our loss in the face of such a catastrophe as this." We had no right, for to us the flood, exhausted and spread by its eight-mile race, had been our saving, the greater part of our destruction being by fire, for which we should have recompense; while for the poor creatures who had been in an instant robbed of home and in many cases of relatives, what recompense could there be! The loss of life was frightful, and the scenes witnessed as first one poor creature and then another was discovered buried in sand and mud after being borne miles by the flood, are too painful to record. Suffice it that the flood had swept down those eight miles of valley, doing incalculable damage, and leaving traces that remained for years. The whole of the loss was never known, and till then people were to a great extent in ignorance of the power that water could exercise. In many cases we stood appalled at the changes made high up the valley, and the manner in which masses of stonework had been swept along. Stone was plentiful in the neighbourhood and much used in building, and wherever the flood had come in contact with a building it was taken away bodily, to crumble up as it was borne along, and augment the power of the water, which became a wave charged with stones, masses of rock, and beams of wood, ready to batter into nothingness every obstacle that stood in its way. "It seems impossible that all this could be done in a few minutes," said Uncle Dick. "No, not when you think of the power of water," said Uncle Jack quietly. "Think of how helpless one is when bathing, against an ordinary wave. Then think of that wave a million times the size, and tearing along a valley charged with _debris_, and racing at you as fast as a horse could gallop." We came back from the scene of desolation ready to make light of our own trouble, and the way in which my uncles worked to help the sufferers down in the lower part of the town gave the finishing touches to the work of many months. There was so much trouble in the town and away up the valley, so much suffering to allay, that the firing of our works by the despicable scoundrels who worked in secret over these misdeeds became a very secondary matter, and seemed to cause no excitement at all. "But you must make a stir about this," said Mr Tomplin. "The villains who did that deed must be brought to justice. The whole affair will have to be investigated, and I'm afraid we shall have to begin by arresting that man of yours--the watcher Searby." But all this was not done. Searby came and gave a good account of himself--how he had been deluded away, and then so beaten with sticks that he was glad to crawl home; and he needed no words to prove that he had suffered severely in our service. "Let's set the prosecution aside for the present," said Uncle Jack, "and repair damages. We can talk about that when the work is going again." This advice was followed out, and the insurance company proving very liberal, as soon as they were satisfied of the place having been destroyed by fire, better and more available buildings soon occupied the position of the old, the machinery was repaired, and in two months the works were in full swing once more. It might almost have been thought that the flood swept away the foul element that originated the outrages which had disgraced the place. Be that as it may, the burning of our works was almost the last of these mad attempts to stop progress and intimidate those who wished to improve upon the old style of doing things. I talked to Pannell and Stevens about the fire afterwards and about having caught sight of three men landing from a raft and going down towards the river just before the flood came. But they both tightened their lips and shook their heads. They would say nothing to the point. Pannell was the more communicative of the two, but his remarks were rather enigmatical. "Men jynes in things sometimes as they don't like, my lad. Look here," he said, holding a glowing piece of steel upon his anvil and giving it a tremendous thump. "See that? I give that bit o' steel a crack, and it was a bad un, but I can't take that back, can I?" "No, of course not, but you can hammer the steel into shape again." "That's what some on us is trying to do, my lad, and best thing towards doing it is holding one's tongue." That spring my father and mother came down, and that autumn I left Arrowfield and went to an engineering school for four years, after which I went out with a celebrated engineer who was going to build some iron railway bridges over one of the great Indian rivers. I was out there four years more, and it was with no little pleasure that I returned to the old country, and went down home, to find things very little changed. Of course my uncles were eight years older, but it was singular how slightly they were altered. The alteration was somewhere else. "By the way, Cob," said Uncle Dick, "I thought we wouldn't write about it at the time, and then it was forgotten; but just now, seeing you again, all the old struggles came back. You remember the night of the fire?" "Is it likely I could forget it?" I said. "No, not very. But you remember going down to the works and finding no watchman--no dog." "What! Did you find out what became of poor old Jupiter?" "Yes, poor fellow! The scoundrels drowned him." "Oh!" "Yes. We had to drain the dam and have the mud cleaned out three--four years ago, and we found his chain twisted round a great piece of iron and the collar still round some bones." "The cowardly ruffians!" I exclaimed. "Yes," said Uncle Jack; "but that breed of workman seems to be dying out now." "And all those troubles," said Uncle Bob, "are over." That afternoon I went down to the works, which seemed to have grown smaller in my absence; but they were in full activity; and turning off to the new range of smithies I entered one where a great bald-headed man with a grisly beard was hammering away at a piece of steel. He did not look up as I entered, but growled out: "I shall want noo model for them blades, Mester John, and sooner the better." "Why, Pannell, old fellow!" I said. He raised his head and stared at me. "Why, what hev yow been doing to theeself, Mester John?" he said. "Thou looks--thou looks--" He stopped short, and the thought suddenly came to me that last time he saw me I was a big boy, and that in eight years I had grown into a broad-shouldered man, six feet one high, and had a face bronzed by the Indian sun, and a great thick beard. "Why, Pannell, don't you know me?" He threw down the piece of steel he had been hammering, struck the anvil a clanging blow with all his might, shouted "I'm blest!" and ran out of the smithy shouting: "Hey! Hi, lads! Stivins--Gentles! The hull lot on yo'! Turn out here! Hey! Hi! Here's Mester Jacob come back." The men who had known me came running out, and those who had not known me came to see what it all meant, and it meant really that the rough honest fellows were heartily glad to see me. But first they grouped about me and stared; then their lips spread, and they laughed at me, staring the while as if I had been some great wild beast or a curiosity. "On'y to think o' this being him!" cried Pannell; and he stamped about, slapping first one knee and then the other, making his leather apron sound again. "Yow'll let a mon shek hans wi' thee, lad?" cried Pannell. "Hey, that's hearty! On'y black steel," he cried in apology for the state of his hand. Then I had to shake hands all round, and listen to the remarks made, while Gentles evidently looked on, but with his eyes screwed tight. "Say a--look at his arms, lads," cried Stevens, who was as excited as everybody. "He hev growed a big un. Why, he bets the three mesters 'cross the showthers." Then Pannell started a cheer, and so much fuss was made over me that I was glad to take refuge in the office, feeling quite ashamed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Why, Cob, you had quite an ovation," said Uncle Bob. "Yes, just because I have grown as big as my big uncles," I said in a half-vexed way. "No," said Uncle Dick, "not for that, my lad. The men remember you as being a stout-hearted plucky boy who was always ready to crush down his weakness, and fight in the cause of right." "And who always treated them in a straightforward manly way," said Uncle Jack. "What! Do you mean to say those men remember what I used to do?" "Remember!" cried Uncle Bob; "why it is one of their staple talks about how you stood against the night birds who used to play us such cowards' tricks. Why, Gentles remains _Trappy_ Gentles to this day." "And bears no malice?" I said. "Malice! Not a bit. He's one of our most trusty men." "Don't say that, Bob," said Uncle Jack. "We haven't a man who wouldn't fight for us to the end." "Not one," said Uncle Dick. "You worked wonders with them, Cob, when you were here." "Let's see, uncles," I said; "I've been away eight years." "Yes," they said. "Well, I haven't learned yet what it is not to be modest, and I hope I never shall." "What do you mean?" said Uncle Dick. "What do I mean!" I said. "Why, what did I do but what you three dear old fellows taught me? Eh?" There was a silence in the office for a few minutes. No; only a pause as to words, for wheels were turning, blades shrieking, water splashing, huge hammers thudding, and there was the hiss and whirr of steam-sped machines, added since I went away, for "Russell's," as the men called our works, was fast becoming one of the most prosperous of the small businesses in our town. Then Uncle Dick spoke gravely, and said: "Cob, there are boys who will be taught, and boys whom people try to teach and never seem to move. Now you--" No, I cannot set down what he said, for I profess to be modest still. I must leave off sometime, so it shall be here. THE END. 
31485	----	The BLUE GOOSE FRANK LEWIS NASON AUTHOR OF TO THE END OF THE TRAIL COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. NEW YORK Published, March, 1903, R Second Impression * * * * * "_So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise and behold a shaking, and the bones came together bone to bone._ "_And, lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, but there was no breath in them._ "_Son of man, prophesy unto the wind. Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these that they may live._ "_And the breath came into them and they lived._" To MY FRIEND OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS, CHARLES EMERSON BEECHER, who, with infinite skill and patience, has breathed the breath of life into the dry bones of Earth's untold ages of upward struggle, who has made them speak of the eternity of their past, and has made them prophesy hope for the eternity to come, this book is dedicated by the author. CONTENTS I. THE BLUE GOOSE II. THE OLD MAN III. ÉLISE IV. THE WATCHED POT BEGINS TO BOIL V. BENNIE OPENS THE POT AND FIRMSTONE COMES IN VI. THE FAMILY CIRCLE VII. MR. MORRISON TACKLES A MAN WITH A MIND OF HIS OWN AND A MAN WITHOUT ONE VIII. MADAME SEEKS COUNSEL IX. THE MEETING AT THE BLUE GOOSE X. ÉLISE GOES FORTH TO CONQUER XI. THE DEVIL'S ELBOW XII. FIGS AND THISTLES XIII. THE STORK AND THE CRANES XIV. BLINDED EYES XV. BENDING THE TWIG XVI. AN INSISTENT QUESTION XVII. THE BEARDED LION XVIII. WINNOWED CHAFF XIX. THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT XX. THE RIVER GIVES UP ITS PREY XXI. THE SWORD THAT TURNS XXII. GOOD INTENTIONS XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED RECRUIT XXIV. THE GATHERING TO ITS OWN XXV. A DIVIDED HOUSE XXVI. THE DAY OF RECKONING XXVII. PASSING CLOUDS THE BLUE GOOSE CHAPTER I _The Blue Goose_ "_Mais oui!_ I tell you one ting. One big ting. Ze big man wiz ze glass eyes, he is vat you call one slik stoff. Ze big man wiz ze glass eyes." "The old man?" "Zat's him! One slik stoff! _Écoutez!_ Listen! One day, you mek ze gran' trip. Look hout!" Pierre made a gesture as of a dog shaking a rat. The utter darkness of the underground laboratory was parted in solid masses, by bars of light that spurted from the cracks of a fiercely glowing furnace. One shaft fell on a row of large, unstoppered bottles. From these bottles fumes arose, mingled, and fell in stifling clouds of fleecy white. From another bottle in Pierre's hands a dense red smoke welled from a colourless liquid, crowded through the neck, wriggled through the bar of light, and sank in the darkness beneath. The darkness was uncanny, the fumes suffocating, the low hum of the furnace forcing out the shafts of light from the cracks of the imprisoning walls infernally suggestive. Luna shivered. He was ignorant, therefore superstitious, and superstition strongly suggested the unnatural. He knew that furnaces and retorts and acids and alkalies were necessary to the refinement of gold. He feared them, yet he had used them, but he had used them where the full light of day robbed them of half their terrors. In open air acids might smoke, but drifting winds would brush away the fumes. Furnaces might glow, but their glow would be as naught in sunlight. There was no darkness in which devils could hide to pounce on him unawares, no walls to imprison him. The gold he retorted on his shovel was his, and he had no fear of the law. In the underground laboratory of Pierre the element of fear was ever present. The gold that the furnace retorted was stolen, and Luna was the thief. There were other thieves, but that did not matter to him. He stole gold from the mill. Others stole gold from the mine. It all came to Pierre and to Pierre's underground furnace. He stood in terror of the supernatural, of the law, and, most of all, of Pierre. In the darkness barred with fierce jets of light, imprisoned by walls that he could not see, cut off from the free air of open day, stifled by pungent gases that stung him, throat and eye, he felt an uncanny oppression, fear of the unknown, fear of the law, most of all fear of Pierre. Pierre watched him through his mantle of darkness. He thrust forward his head, and a bar of light smote him across his open lips. It showed his gleaming teeth white and shut, his black moustache, his swarthy lips parted in a sardonic smile; that was all. A horrible grin on a background of inky black. Luna shrank. "Leave off your devil's tricks." "_Moi?_" Pierre replaced the bottle of acid on the shelf and picked up a pair of tongs. As he raised the cover of the glowing crucible a sudden transformation took place. The upper part of the laboratory blazed out fiercely, and in this light Pierre moved with gesticulating arms, the lower part of his body wholly hidden. He lifted the crucible, shook it for a moment with an oscillatory motion, then replaced it on the fire. He turned again to Luna. "Hall ze time I mek ze explain. Hall ze time you mek ze question. _Comment?_" Luna's courage was returning in the light. "You're damned thick-headed, when it suits you, all right. Well, I'll explain. Last clean-up I brought you two pounds of amalgam if it was an ounce. All I got out of it was fifty dollars. You said that was my share. Hansen brought you a chunk of quartz from the mine. He showed it to me first. If I know gold from sulphur, there was sixty dollars in it. Hansen got five out of it." Pierre interrupted. "You mek mention ze name." "There's no one to hear in this damned hell of yours." "_Non_," Pierre answered. "You mek mention in zis hell. Bimby you mek mention," Pierre gave an expressive upward jerk with his thumb, then shrugged his shoulders. "I'll look out for that," Luna answered, impatiently. "I'm after something else now. I'm getting sick of pinching the mill and bringing the stuff here for nothing. So are the rest of the boys. We ain't got no hold on you and you ain't playing fair. You've got to break even or this thing's going to stop." Pierre made no reply to Luna. He picked up the tongs, lifted the crucible from the fire, and again replaced it. Then he brought out an ingot mould and laid it on a ledge of the furnace. The crucible was again lifted from the fire, and its contents were emptied in the mould. Pierre and Luna both watched the glowing metal. As it slowly cooled, iridescent sheens of light swept over its surface like the changing colours of a dying dolphin. Pierre held up the mould to Luna. "How much she bin?" Luna looked covetously at the softly glowing metal. "Two hundred." "_Bien._ She's bin ze amalgam, ze quart', ze hozer stoff. Da's hall." Luna looked sceptical. "That's too thin. How many times have you fired up?" "Zis!" Pierre held up a single emphasizing finger. "We'll let that go," Luna answered; "but you listen now. One of the battery men is off to-night. I'm going to put Morrison on substitute. He's going to break a stem or something. The mortar's full to the dies. We're going to clean it out. I know how much it will pan. It's coming to you. You divide fair or it's the last you'll get. I'll hide it out in the usual place." "Look hout! Da's hall!" The other laughed impatiently. "Getting scared, Frenchy? Where's your nerve?" "Nerf! Nerf!" Pierre danced from foot to foot, waving his arms. "_Sacré plastron!_ You mek ze fuse light. You sit on him, heh? Bimeby, pretty soon, you got no nerf. You got noddings. You got one big gris-spot on ze rock. Da's hall." Pierre subsided, with a gesture of intense disgust. Luna snapped his watch impatiently. "It's my shift, Frenchy. I've got to go in a few minutes." "_Bien!_ Go!" Pierre spoke without spirit. "Mek of yourself one gran' _folie_. _Mais_, when ze shot go, an' you sail in ze air, don' come down on ze Blue Goose, on me, Pierre. I won't bin here, da's hall." Luna turned. "I tell you I've got to go now. I wish you'd tell me what's the matter with the old man." Pierre roused himself. "Noddings. Ze hol' man has noddings ze mattaire. It is you! You! Ze hol' man, he go roun' lak he kick by ze dev'. He mek his glass eyes to shine here an' twinkle zere, an' you mek ze gran' chuckle, 'He see noddings.' He see more in one look dan you pack in your tick head! I tol' you look hout; da's hall!" Luna jammed his watch into his pocket and rose. "It's all right, Frenchy. I'll give you another chance. To-day's Thursday. Saturday they'll clean up at the mill. It will be a big one. I want my rake-off. The boys want theirs. It all comes to the Blue Goose, one way or another. You think you're pretty smooth stuff. That's all right; but let me tell you one thing: if there's any procession heading for Cañon City, you'll be in it, too." Cañon City was the State hostelry. Occasionally the law selected unwilling guests. It was not over-large, nor was it overcrowded. Had it sheltered all deserving objects, the free population of the State would have been visibly diminished. Pierre only shrugged his shoulders. He followed Luna up the stairs to the outer door, and watched the big mill foreman as he walked down the trail to the mill. Then, as was his custom when perturbed in mind, Pierre crossed the dusty waggon trail and seated himself on a boulder, leaning his back against a scrubby spruce. He let his eyes rest contentedly on a big, square-faced building. Rough stone steps led up to a broad veranda, from which rose, in barbaric splendour, great sheets of shining plate-glass, that gave an unimpeded view of a long mahogany bar backed by tiers of glasses and bottles, doubled by reflection from polished mirrors that reached to the matched-pine ceiling. Across the room from the bar, roulette and faro tables, bright with varnish and gaudy with nickel trimmings, were waiting with invitations to feverish excitement. The room was a modern presentation of Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla, the bar, stimulated to the daring of Charybdis across the way, and Charybdis, the roulette, sent its winners to celebrate success, or its victims to deaden the pain of loss. At the far end of the room a glass-covered arcade stood in advance of doors to private club-rooms. At the arcade an obliging attendant passed out gold and silver coins, for a consideration, in exchange for crumpled time-checks and greasy drafts. Pierre grinned and rubbed his hands. Above the plate glass on the outside a gorgeous rainbow arched high on the painted front. Inscribed within, in iridescent letters, was: "The Blue Goose. Pierre La Martine." Beneath the spring of the rainbow, for the benefit of those who could not read, was a huge blue goose floating aimlessly in a sheet of bluer water. This was all of the Blue Goose that was visible to the eyes of the uninitiated; of the initiated there were not many. Beneath the floor was a large cellar, wherein was a fierce-looking furnace, which on occasion grew very red with its labours. There were pungent jars and ghostly vessels and a litter of sacks, and much sparkling dust on the earthen floor. All this Pierre knew, and a few others, though even these had not seen it. Beneath the shadow of the wings of the Blue Goose dwelt a very plain woman, who looked chronically frightened, and a very beautiful girl who did not. The scared woman was Madame La Martine; the unscared girl passed for their daughter, but about the daughter no one asked questions of Pierre. About the Blue Goose, its bar, and its gaming-tables Pierre was eloquent, even with strangers. About his daughter and other things his acquaintances had learned to keep silence; as for strangers, they soon learned. Obviously the mission of the Blue Goose was to entertain; with the multitude this mission passed current at its face value, but there were a few who challenged it. Now and then a grocer or a butcher made gloomy comments as he watched a growing accumulation of books that would not prove attractive to the most confirmed bibliophile. Men went to the Blue Goose with much money, but came out with none, for the bar and roulette required cash settlements. Their wives went in to grocers and butchers with no money but persuasive tongues, and came forth laden with spoils. Pandora could raise no taxes for schools, so there were none. Preachers came and offered their wares without money and without price, but there were no churches. For the wares of the preachers flushed no faces and burned no throats, nor were there rattles even in contribution boxes, and there was no whirr of painted wheels. Even the hundred rumbling stamps of the Rainbow mill might as well have pounded empty air or clashed their hard steel shoes on their hard steel dies for all the profit that came to the far-away stockholders of the great Rainbow mine and mill. So it came to pass that many apparently unrelated facts were gathered together by the diligent but unprosperous, and, being thus gathered, pointed to a very inevitable conclusion. Nothing and no one was prosperous, save Pierre and his gorgeous Blue Goose. For Pierre was a power in the land. He feared neither God nor the devil. The devil was the bogie-man of the priest. As for God, who ever saw him? But of some men Pierre had much fear, and among the same was "the hol' man" at the mill. CHAPTER II _The Old Man_ After leaving the Blue Goose Luna went straight to the superintendent's office. He was nettled rather than worried by Pierre's cautions. Worry implied doubt of his own wisdom, as well as fear of the old man. Superintendents had come to, and departed from, the Rainbow. Defiant fanfares had heralded their coming, confusion had reigned during their sojourn, their departure had been duly celebrated at the Blue Goose. This had been the invariable sequence. Through all these changes Pierre was complacently confident, but he never lost his head. The bottles of the Blue Goose bar were regularly drained, alike for welcoming and for speeding the departing incumbent at the Rainbow. The roulette whirred cheerfully, gold and silver coins clinked merrily, the underground furnace reddened and dulled at regular periods, and much lawful money passed back and forth between the Blue Goose and its patrons. Not that the passing back and forth was equal; Pierre attended to that. His even teeth gleamed between smiling lips, his swarthy cheeks glowed, and day by day his black hair seemed to grow more sleek and oily, and his hands smoother with much polishing. Pierre read printed words with ease. That which was neither printed nor spoken was spelled out, sometimes with wrinkling of brows and narrowing of eyes, but with unmistakable correctness in the end. From the faces and actions of men he gathered wisdom, and this wisdom was a lamp to his feet, and in dark places gave much light to his eyes. Thus it happened that with the coming of Richard Firmstone came also great caution to Pierre. The present superintendent blew no fanfares on his new trumpet, he expressed no opinion of his predecessors, and gave no hint of his future policy. Mr. Morrison, who oiled his hair and wore large diamonds in a much-starched, collarless shirt while at the bar of the Blue Goose, donned overalls and jumpers while doing "substitute" at the mill, and between times kept alive the spirit of rebellion in the bosoms of down-trodden, capitalist-ridden labour. Morrison freely voiced the opinion that the Rainbow crowd had experienced religion, and had sent out a Sunday-school superintendent to reform the workmen and to count the dollars that dropped from beneath the stamps of the big mill. In this opinion Luna, the mill foreman, concurred. He even raised the ante, solemnly averring that the old man opened the mill with prayer, sang hallelujahs at change of shift, and invoked divine blessing before chewing his grub. Whereat the down-trodden serfs of soulless corporations cheered long and loud, and called for fresh oblations at the bar of the Blue Goose. All these things Luna pondered in his mind, and his indignation waxed hot at Pierre. "The damned old frog-eater's losing his nerve; that's what! I ain't going to be held up by no frog-spawn." He opened the office door and clumped up to the railing. The superintendent looked up. "What is it, Luna?" "Long, on number ten battery, is sick and off shift. Shall we hang up ten, or put on Morrison?" The superintendent smiled. "Is it Morrison, or hang up?" he asked. The question was disconcerting. The foreman shifted his footing. "Morrison is all right," he said, doggedly. "He's a good battery man. Things ain't pushing at the Blue Goose, and he can come as well as not." "What's the matter with Morrison?" The superintendent's smile broadened. The foreman looked puzzled. "I've just been telling you--he's all right." "That's so. Only, back east, when a horse jockey gets frothy about the good points of his horse, we look sharp." The foreman grew impatient. "You haven't told me whether to hang up ten or not." "I'm not going to. You are foreman of the mill. Put on anyone you want; fire anyone you want. It's nothing to me; only," he looked hard, "you know what we're running this outfit for." The foreman appeared defiant. Guilty thoughts were spurring him to unwise defence. "If the ore ain't pay I can't get it out." "I'll attend to the ore, that's my business. Get out what there is in it, that's yours." He leaned forward to his papers. The foreman shifted uneasily. His defence was not complete. He was not sure that he had been attacked. He knew Morrison of the Blue Goose. He knew the workings of the mill. He had thought he knew the old man. He was not so sure now. He was not even sure how much or how little he had let out. Perhaps Pierre's words had rattled him. He shifted from foot to foot, twirling his hat on his fingers. He half expected, half hoped, and half waited for another opening. None came. Through the muffled roar of the stamps he was conscious of the sharp scratch of the superintendent's pen. Then came the boom of the big whistle. It was change of shift. The jar of the office door closing behind him was not heard. At the mill he found Morrison. "You go on ten, in Long's place," he said, gruffly, as he entered the mill. Morrison stared at the retreating foreman. "What in hell," he began; then, putting things together in his mind, he shook his head, and followed the foreman into the mill. The superintendent was again interrupted by the rasping of hobnailed shoes on the office floor and the startled creak of the office railing as a large, loose-jointed man leaned heavily against it. His trousers, tucked into a pair of high-laced, large-eyed shoes, were belted at the waist in a conspicuous roll. A faded gray shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, disclosed a red undershirt and muscular arms. A well-shaped head with grey streaked hair, and a smooth, imperturbable face was shaded by a battered sombrero that was thrust back and turned squarely up in front. The superintendent's smile had nothing puzzling now. "Hello, Zephyr. Got another Camp Bird?" "Flying higher'n a Camp Bird this time." "How's that?" "Right up to the golden gates this time, sure. It's straight goods. St. Peter ain't going to take no post-prandial siestas from now on. I'm timbering my shots to keep from breaking the sky. Tell you what, I'm jarring them mansions in heaven wuss'n a New York subway contractor them Fifth Avenue palaces." Zephyr paused and glanced languidly at the superintendent. Firmstone chuckled. "Go on," he said. "I've gone as far as I can without flying. It's a lead from the golden streets of the New Jerusalem. Followed it up to the foot of Bingham Pass; caught it above the slide, then it took up the cliff, and disappeared in the cerulean. Say, Goggles, how are you off for chuck? I've been up against glory, and I'm down hungrier than a she-bear that's skipped summer and hibernated two winters." "Good! Guess Bennie will fix us up something. Can you wait a few minutes?" "I think I can. I've been practising on that for years. No telling when such things will come in handy. You don't object to music, Goggles?" "Not to music, no," Firmstone answered, with an amused glance at Zephyr. Zephyr, unruffled, drew from his shirt a well-worn harmonica. "Music hath charms," he remarked, brushing the instrument on the sleeve of his shirt. "Referring to my savage breast, not yours." He placed the harmonica to his lips, holding it in hollowed hands. His oscillating breath jarred from the metal reeds the doleful strains of _Home, Sweet Home_, muffled by the hollow of his hands into mournful cadences. At last Firmstone closed his desk. "If your breast is sufficiently soothed, let's see what Bennie can do for your stomach." As they passed from the office Zephyr carefully replaced the harmonica in his shirt. "I'd rather be the author of that touching little song than the owner of the Inferno. That's my new claim," he remarked, distantly. Firmstone laughed. "I thought your claim was nearer heaven." "The two are not far apart. 'Death, like a narrow sea, divides.' But my reminiscences were getting historical, which you failed to remark. I ain't no Wolfe and Pierre ain't no Montcalm, nor the Heights of Abraham ain't the Blue Goose. Pierre's a hog. At least, he's a close second. A hog eats snakes and likewise frogs. Pierre's only got as far as frogs, last I heard. Pierre's bad. Morrison's bad. Luna ain't. He thinks he is; but he ain't. I'm not posting you nor nothing. I'm only meditating out loud. That's all." They entered the mill boarding-house. Bennie, the cook, greeted Zephyr effusively. "Goggles invited me to pay my respects to you," Zephyr remarked. "I'm empty, and I'm thinking you can satisfy my longing as nothing else can do." Zephyr addressed himself to Bennie's viands. At last he rose from the table. "To eat and to sleep are the chief ends of man. I have eaten, and now I see I am tired. With your consent, uttered or unexpressed, I'll wrap the drapery of my bunk around me and take a snooze. And say, Goggles," he added, "if, the next time you inventory stock, you are shy a sack of flour and a side of bacon, you can remark to the company that prospectors is thick around here, and that prospectors is prone to evil as the sparks fly upward. That's where the flour and bacon are going. Up to where St. Peter can smell them cooking; leastways he can if he hangs his nose over the wall and the wind's right." CHAPTER III _Élise_ Bennie was an early riser, as became a faithful cook; but, early as he usually was, this morning he was startled into wakefulness by a jarring chug, as Zephyr, with a relieved grunt, dropped a squashy sack on the floor near his bunk. Bennie sprang to a sitting posture, rubbing his sleepy eyes to clear his vision; but, before he could open his eyes or his mouth beyond a startled ejaculation, Zephyr had departed. He soon reappeared. There was another chug, another grunt, and another departure. Four times this was repeated. Then Zephyr seated himself on the bunk, and, pushing back his sombrero, mopped his perspiring brow. "What the--" Bennie started in, but Zephyr's uplifted hand restrained him. "The race is not to the swift, Julius Benjamin. The wise hound holds his yap till he smells a hot foot. Them indecisive sacks is hot footses, Julius Benjamin; but it isn't your yap, not by quite some." "What's up, Zephyr?" asked Bennie. "I'm not leaky." "Them gelatinous sacks," Zephyr went on, eyeing them meditatively, "I found hidden in the bushes near the mine, and they contain mighty interesting matter. They're an epitome of life. They started straight, but missed connections. Pulled up at the wrong station. I've thrown the switch, and now you and me, Julius, will make it personally conducted the rest of the trip." "Hm!" mused Bennie. "I see. That stuff's been pinched from the mill." "Good boy, Julius Benjamin! You're doing well. You'll go into words of two syllables next." Zephyr nodded, with a languid smile. "But, to recapitulate, as my old school-teacher used to say, there's thousands of dollars in them sacks. The Rainbow ain't coughing up no such rich stuff as that. That rock is broken; ergo, it's been under the stamps. It's coarse and fine, from which I infer it hasn't been through the screens. And furthermore----" Bennie interrupted eagerly. "They've just hung up the stamps and raked out the rich stuff that's settled between the dies!" "Naturally, gold being heavier than quartz. Julius Benjamin, you're fit for the second reader." Bennie laughed softly. "It's Luna or Morrison been robbing the mill. Won't Frenchy pull the long face when he hears of your find?" Zephyr made no farther reply than to blow _There'll Be a Hot Time_ from pursed lips as he rolled a cigarette. "So there will be," Bennie answered. "Not to-night, Bennie." Zephyr was puffing meditative whiffs in the air. "Great things move slowly. Richard Firmstone is great, Benjamin; leave it to him." Bennie was already dressed, and Zephyr, throwing the stub of his cigarette through the open window, followed him to the kitchen. He ate his specially prepared breakfast with an excellent appetite. "I think I'll raise my bet. I mentioned a sack of flour and a side of bacon. I'll take a can of coffee and a dab of sugar. St. Peter'll appreciate that. 'Tis well to keep on the right side of the old man. Some of us may have occasion to knock at his gate before the summer is over. You've heard of my new claim, Bennie?" Bennie made no reply. Between packing up Zephyr's supplies, attending to breakfast for the men, and thinking of the sacks of stolen ore, he was somewhat preoccupied. Zephyr stowed the supplies in his pack and raised it to his shoulder. Bennie looked up in surprise. "You're not going now, are you?" Zephyr was carefully adjusting the straps of his pack. "It looks pretty much that way, Benjamin. When a man's got all he wants, it's time for him to lope. If he stays, he might get more and possibly--less." "What will I do with these sacks?" Bennie asked hurriedly, as Zephyr passed through the door. Zephyr made no reply, further than softly to whistle _Break the News to Mother_ as he swung into the trail. He clumped sturdily along, apparently unmindful of the rarefied air that would ordinarily make an unburdened man gasp for breath. His lips were still pursed, though they had ceased to give forth sound. He came to the nearly level terrace whereon, among scattered boulders, were clustered the squat shanties of the town of Pandora. He merely glanced at the Blue Goose, whose polished windows were just beginning to glow with the light of the rising sun. He saw a door open at the far end of the house and Madame La Martine emerge, a broom in her hands and a dust-cloth thrown over one shoulder. Pierre's labours ended late. Madame's began very early. Both had an unvarying procession. Pierre had much hilarious company; it was his business to keep it so. He likewise had many comforting thoughts; these cost him no effort. The latter came as a logical sequence to the former. Madame had no company, hilarious or otherwise. Instead of complacent thoughts, she had anxiety. And so it came to pass that, while Pierre grew sleek and smooth with the passing of years, Madame developed many wrinkles and grey hairs and a frightened look, from the proffering of wares that were usually thrust aside with threatening snarls and many harsh words. Pierre was not alone in the unstinted pouring forth of the wine of pleasure for the good of his companions and in uncorking his vials of wrath for the benefit of his wife. Zephyr read the whole dreary life at a glance. A fleeting thought came to Zephyr. How would it have been with Madame had she years ago chosen him instead of Pierre? A smile, half pitying, half contemptuous, was suggested by an undecided quiver of the muscles of his face, more pronounced by the light in his expressive eyes. He left the waggon trail that zig-zagged up the steep grade beyond the outskirts of the town, cutting across their sharp angles in a straight line. Near the foot of an almost perpendicular cliff he again picked up the trail. Through a notch in the brow of the cliff a solid bar of water shot forth. The solid bar, in its fall broken to a misty spray, fell into a mossy basin at the cliff's foot, regathered, and then, sliding and twisting in its rock-strewn bed, gurgled among nodding flowers and slender, waving willows that were fanned into motion by the breath of the falling spray. Where the brook crossed the trail Zephyr stood still. Not all at once. There was an indescribable suggestion of momentum overcome by the application of perfectly balanced power. Zephyr did not whistle, even softly. Instead, there was a low hum-- _But the maiden in the garden Was the fairest flower of all._ Zephyr deliberately swung his pack from his shoulders, deposited it on the ground, and as deliberately seated himself on the pack. There was an unwonted commotion among the cluster of thrifty plants at which Zephyr was looking expectantly. A laughing face with large eyes sparkling with mischievous delight looked straight into his own. As the girl rose to her feet she tossed a long, heavy braid of black hair over her shoulder. "You thought you would scare me; now, didn't you?" She came forth from the tangled plants and stood before him. Zephyr's eyes were resting on the girl's face with a smile of quiet approbation. Tall and slender, she was dressed in a dark gown, whose sailor blouse was knotted at the throat with a red scarf; at her belt a holster showed a silver-mounted revolver. An oval face rested on a shapely neck, as delicately poised as the nodding flowers she held in her hand. A rich glow, born of perfect health and stimulating air, burned beneath the translucent olive skin. Zephyr made no direct reply to her challenge. "Why aren't you helping Madame at the Blue Goose?" "Because I've struck, that's why." There was a defiant toss of the head, a compressed frown on the arching brows. Like a cloud wind-driven from across the sun the frown disappeared; a light laugh rippled from between parted lips. "Daddy was mad, awfully mad. You ought to have seen him." The flowers fell from her hands as she threw herself into Pierre's attitude. "'Meenx,'" she mimicked, "'you mek to defy me in my own house? Me? Do I not have plenty ze troub', but you mus' mek ze more? _Hein?_ Ansaire!' And so I did. So!" She threw her head forward, puckered her lips, thrusting out the tip of her tongue at the appreciative Zephyr. "Oh, it's lots of fun to get daddy mad. 'Vaire is my whip, my dog whip? I beat you. I chastise you, meenx!'" The girl stooped to pick up her scattered flowers. "Only it frightens poor mammy so. Mammy never talks back only when daddy goes for me. I'd just like to see him when he comes down this morning and finds me gone. It would be lots of fun. Only, if I was there, I couldn't be here, and it's just glorious here, isn't it? What's the trouble, Zephyr? You haven't said a word to me all this time." "When your blessed little tongue gets tired perhaps I'll start in. There's no more telling when that will be than what I'll say, supposing I get the chance." "Oh, I knew there was something I wanted especially to see you about." The face grew cloudy. "What do you think? You know I was sixteen my last birthday, just a week ago?" She paused and looked at Zephyr interrogatively. "I want to know where you are all the time now. It's awfully important. I may want to elope with you at a moment's notice!" She looked impressively at Zephyr. Zephyr's jaw dropped. "What the mischief----" Élise interrupted: "No, wait; I'm not through. Daddy got very playful that day, chucked my chin, and called me _ma chère enfant_. That always means mischief. 'Élise bin seexten to-day, heh? Bimeby she tink to liv' her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy and bin gone hoff wiz anodder feller, _hein_?' Then he made another dab at my chin. I knew what he meant." She again assumed Pierre's position. "'What you say, _ma chérie_? I pick you hout one nice man! One ver' nice man! _Hein?_ M'sieu Mo-reeson. A ver' nice man. He ben took good care _ma chérie_!'" Zephyr was betrayed into a startled motion. Élise was watching him with narrowed eyes. There was a gleam of satisfaction. "That's all right, Zephyr. That's just what I did, only I did more. I told daddy I'd just like M'sieu Mo-reeson to say marry to me! I told daddy that I'd take the smirk out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's face and those pretty curls out of M'sieu Mo-reeson's head if he dared look marry at me. Only," she went on, "I'm a little girl, after all, and I thought the easiest way would be to elope with you. I would like to see M'sieu Mo-reeson try to take me away from a big, strong man like you." There was an expression of intense scorn on her face that bared the even teeth. Zephyr was not conscious of Élise. There was a hard, set look on his face. Élise noted it. She tossed her head airily. "Oh, you needn't look so terribly distressed. You needn't, if you don't want to. I dare say that the superintendent at the mill would jump at the chance. I think I shall ask him, anyway." Her manner changed. "Why do they always call him the old man? He is not such a very old man." "They'd call a baby 'the old man' if he was superintendent. Do they say much about him?" Zephyr asked, meditatively. "Oh yes, lots. M'sier Mo-reeson"--she made a wry face at the name--"is always talking about that minion of capitalistic oppression that's sucking the life-blood of the serfs of toil. Daddy hates the old man. He's afraid of him. Daddy always hates anyone he's afraid of, except me." Zephyr grunted absently. "That's so." Élise spoke emphatically. "That's why I'm here to-day. I told daddy that if I was old enough to get married I was old enough to do as I liked." In spite of his languid appearance Zephyr was very acute. He was getting a great deal that needed careful consideration. He was intensely interested, and he wanted to hear more. He half hesitated, then decided that the end justified the means. "What makes you think that Pierre hates the old man?" he ventured, without changing countenance. "Oh, lots of things. He tells Luna and M'sieu Mo-reeson"--another wry face--"to 'look hout.' He talks to the men, tells them that the 'hol' man ees sleek, ver' sleek, look hout, da's hall, an' go slow,' and a lot of things. I'm awfully hungry, Zephyr, and I don't want to go down for breakfast. Haven't you got something good in your pack? It looks awfully good." She prodded the pack with inquisitive fingers. Zephyr rose to his feet. "It will be better when I've cooked it. You'll eat a breakfast after my cooking?" Élise clapped her hands. "That will be fine. I'll just sit here and boss you. If you're good, and you are, you know, I'll tell you some more about M'sieu. Suppose we just call him M'sieu, just you and me. That'll be our secret." Zephyr gathered dry sticks and started a fire. He opened his pack, cut off some slices of bacon, and, impaling them on green twigs, hung them before the fire. A pinch of salt and baking powder in a handful of flour was mixed into a stiff paste, stirred into the frying-pan, which was propped up in front of the fire. He took some cups from his pack, and, filling them with water, put them on the glowing coals. Élise kept up a rattling chatter through it all. "Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy says M'sieu is going to be a great man, a great labour leader. That's what M'sieu says himself--that he will lead benighted labour from the galling chains of slavery into the glorious light of freedom's day." Élise waved her arms and rolled her eyes. Then she stopped, laughing. "It's awfully funny. I hear it all when I sit at the desk. You know there's only thin boards between my desk and daddy's private room, and I can't help but hear. That coffee and bacon smell good, and what a lovely bannock! Aren't you almost ready? It's as nice as when we were on the ranch, and you used to carry me round on your back. That was an awful long time ago, though, wasn't it?" Zephyr only grunted in reply. He pursed his lips for a meditative whistle, thought better of it, took the frying-pan from its prop, and sounded the browning bannock with his fingers. _For the babbling streams of youth Grow to silent pools of truth When they find a thirsty hollow On their way._ He spoke dreamily. "What are you talking about?" Élise broke in. "Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking--might have been thinking out loud." "That's you, every time, Zephyr. You think without talking, and I talk without thinking. It's lots more fun. Do you think I will ever grow into a dear, sober old thing like you? Just tell me that." She stooped down, taking Zephyr's face in both her hands and turned it up to her own. Zephyr looked musingly up into the laughing eyes, and took her hands into his. "Not for the same reasons, I guess, not if I can help it," he added, half to himself. "Now, if you'll be seated, I'll serve breakfast." He dropped the hands and pointed to a boulder. Élise ate the plain fare with the eager appetite of youth and health. From far down the gulch the muffled roar of the stamps rose and fell on the light airs that drifted up and down. Through it all was the soft swish of the falling spray, the sharp _blip! blip!_ as points of light, gathered from dripping boughs, grew to sparkling gems, then, losing their hold, fell into little pools at the foot of the cliff. High above the straggling town the great cables of the tram floated in the air like dusty webs, and up and down these webs, like black spiders, darted the buckets that carried the ore from mine to mill, then disappeared in the roaring mill, and dumping their loads of ore shot up again into sight, and, growing in size, swept on toward the cliff and passed out of sight over the falls above. Across the narrow gulch a precipice sheered up eight hundred feet, a hard green crown of stunted spruces on its retreating brow, above the crown a stretch of soft green meadow steeply barred with greener willows, above the meadow jagged spires of blackened lava, thrust up from drifts of shining snow: a triple tiara crowning this silent priest of the mountains. To the east the long brown slide was marked with clifflets mottled as was Joseph's coat of many colours, with every shade of red and yellow that rusting flecks of iron minerals could give, brightened here and there with clustered flowers which marked a seeping spring, up and up, broken at last by a jagged line of purple that lay softly against the clear blue of the arching sky. To the west the mountains parted and the vision dropped to miles of browning mesa, flecked with ranchers' squares of irrigated green. Still farther a misty haze of distant mountains rose, with the great soft bell of the curving sky hovering over all. Zephyr ate in a silence which Élise did not care to break. Her restless eyes glanced from Zephyr to the mountains, fell with an eager caress on the flowers that almost hid the brook, looked out to the distant mesa, and last of all shot defiance at the blazing windows of the Blue Goose that were hurtling back the fiery darts of the attacking sun. She sprang to her feet, brushing the crumbs from her clothes. "Much obliged, Mr. Zephyr, for your entertainment." She swept him a low courtesy. "I told you I was out for a lark to-day. Now you can wash the dishes." Zephyr had also risen. He gave no heed to her playful attitude. "I want you to pay especial attention, Élise." "Oh, gracious!" she exclaimed. "Now I'm in for it." She straightened her face, but she could not control the mischievous sparkle of her eyes. There was little of meditation but much decision in Zephyr's words. "Don't let Pierre tease you, persuade you, frighten you, or bulldoze you into marrying that Morrison. Do you hear? Get away. Run away." "Or elope," interrupted Élise. "Don't skip that." "Go to Bennie, the old man, or to anyone, if you can't find me." "What a speech, Zephyr! Did any of it get away?" Zephyr was too much in earnest even to smile. "Remember what I say." "You put in an awful lot of hard words. But then, I don't need to remember. I may change my mind. Maybe there'd be a whole lot of fun after all in marrying M'sieu. I'd just like to show him that he can't scare me the way daddy does mammy. It would be worth a whole box of chips. On the whole I think I'll take daddy's advice. Bye-bye, Zephyr." She again picked up her scattered flowers and went dancing and skipping down the trail. At the turn she paused for an instant, blew Zephyr a saucy kiss from the tips of her fingers, then passed out of sight. A voice floated back to the quiet figure by the fire. "Don't feel too bad, Zephyr. I'll probably change my mind again." CHAPTER IV _The Watched Pot Begins to Boil_ Of all classes of people under the sun, the so-called labouring man has best cause to pray for deliverance from his friends. His friends are, or rather were, of three classes. The first, ardent but wingless angels of mercy, who fail to comprehend the fact that the unlovely lot of their would-be wards is the result of conditions imposed more largely from within than from without; the second, those who care neither for lots nor conditions, regarding the labourer as a senseless tool with which to hew out his own designs; the third, those who adroitly knock together the heads of the labourer and his employer and impartially pick the pockets of each in the general _mêlée_ which is bound to follow. The past _were_ is designedly contrasted with the present _are_, for it is a fact that conditions all around are changing for the better; slowly, perhaps, but nevertheless surely. The philanthropic friend of the labourer is learning to develop balancing tail-feathers of judgment wherewith to direct the flights of wings of mercy. The employer is beginning to realise the beneficial results of mutual understanding and of considerate co-operation, and the industrious fomenter of strife is learning that bones with richer marrow may be more safely cracked by sensible adjustment than with grievous clubs wielded over broken heads. Even so, the millennium is yet far away, and now, as in the past, the path that leads to it is uphill and dim, and is beset with many obstacles. There are no short cuts to the summit. In spite of pessimistic clamours that the rich are growing richer and the poor poorer, frothy yowls for free and unlimited coinage at sixteen to one, or for fiat paper at infinity to nothing, the fact remains that, whereas kings formerly used signets for the want of knowledge to write their names, licked their greasy fingers for lack of knives and forks, and starved in Ireland with plenty in France, the poorest to-day can, if they will, indite readable words on well-sized paper, do things in higher mathematics, and avoid the thankless task of dividing eight into seven and looking for the remainder. Potatoes are worth fifty cents a bushel. Any yokel can dig a hole in the ground and plant the seed and in due time gather the ripened tubers. The engineer who drives his engine at sixty miles an hour, flashing by warning semaphores, rolling among coloured lights, clattering over frogs and switches, is no yokel. Therefore, because of this fact, with the compensation of one day he can, if he so elects, buy many potatoes, or employ many yokels. Had Sir Isaac Newton devoted to the raising of potatoes the energy which he gave to astronomy, he might have raised larger potatoes and more to the hill than his yokel neighbour. But, his conditions having been potatoes, his reward would have been potatoes, instead of the deathless glory of the discovery and enunciation of the law of gravity. The problem is very simple after all. The world has had a useless deal of trouble because no one has ever before taken the trouble to state the problem and to elaborate it. It is just as simple as is the obvious fact that _x_ plus _y_ equals _a_. There is a possibility, however, that we have been going too fast, and have consequently overlooked a few items of importance. We forgot for the moment, as often happens, that the factors in the problem are not homogeneous digits with fixed values, but complex personalities with decided opinions of their own as to their individual and relative importance, as well as pugnacious tendencies for compelling an acceptance of their assumptions by equally pugnacious factors which claim a differential valuation in their own favour. This consideration presents a somewhat different and more difficult phase of the problem. It really compels us to defer attempts at final solution, for the time being, at least; to make the best adjustment possible under present conditions, putting off to the future the final application, much on the same principle that communities bond their present public possessions for their own good and complacently bestow upon posterity the obligation of settling the bills. Considered in this light, the end of the struggle between capital and labour is not yet. Each is striving for the sole possession and control of things which belong to neither alone. Each looks upon the other not as a co-labourer but as a rival, instead of making intelligent and united effort for an object unattainable by either alone. If capital would smoke this in his cigar and labour the same in his pipe, the soothing effects might tend to more amicable and effective use of what is now dissipated energy. However, universal panaceas are not to be hoped for. The mailed fist puts irritating chips upon swaggering shoulders, and the unresentful turning of smitten cheeks is conducive to a thrifty growth of gelatinous nincompoops. The preceding _status quo_ existed in general at the Rainbow mines and mill, besides having a few individual characteristics peculiarly their own. Miners and millmen, for the most part recent importations from all countries of Europe, had come from the realms of oppression to the land of the free with very exaggerated notions of what freedom really was. The dominant expression of this idea was that everyone could do as he pleased, and that if the other fellow didn't like it, he, the other fellow, could get out. The often enunciating of abstract principles led to their liberal application to concrete facts. In this application they had able counsel in the ambitious Morrison. "Who opened these mountain wilds?" Morrison was wont to inquire, not for information, but for emphasis. "Who discovered, amidst toils and dangers and deprivations and snowslides, these rich mines of gold and silver? Who made them accessible by waggon trail and railroads and burros? Who but the honest sons of honest toil? Who, when these labours are accomplished, lolls in the luxurious lap of the voluptuous East, reaping the sweat of your brows, gathering in the harvest of hands toiling for three dollars a day or less? Who, but the purse-proud plutocrat who sits on his cushioned chair in Wall Street, sending out his ruthless minions to rob the labourer of his toil and to express his hard-won gold to the stanchless maw of the ghoulish East. Rise, noble sons of toil, rise! Stretch forth your horny hands and gather in your own! Raise high upon these mountain-peaks the banner of freedom's hope before despairing eyes raised from the greed-sodden plains of the effete East!" Whereat the sons of toil would cheer and then proceed to stretch forth hands to unripened fruits with such indiscriminating activity that both mine and mill ceased to yield expenses to the eastern plutocrat, and even the revenues of the Blue Goose were seriously impaired, to the great distress of Pierre. These rhodomontades of Morrison had grains of plausible truth as nuclei. The workmen never, or rarely, came in personal contact with their real employers. Their employers were in their minds men who reaped where others had sown, who gathered where they had not strewn. The labourer gave no heed to costly equipment which made mines possible, or at best weighed them but lightly against the daily toil of monotonous lives. They saw tons of hard-won ore slide down the long cables, crash through the pounding stamps, saw the gold gather on the plates, saw it retorted, and the shining bars shipped East. Against this gold of unknown value, and great because unknown, they balanced their daily wage, that looked pitifully small. The yield of their aggregate labour in foul-aired stopes and roaring mill they could see in one massive lump. They could not see the aggregate of little bites that reduced the imposing mass to a tiny dribble which sometimes, but not always, fell into the treasury of the company. They would not believe, even if they saw. For these reasons, great is the glory of the leaders of labour who are rising to-day, holding restraining hands on turbulent ignorance and taking wise counsel with equally glorious leaders who are striving to enforce the truth that all gain over just compensation is but a sacred trust for the benefit of mankind. These things are coming to be so to-day. But so long as sons of wealth are unmindful of their obligations, and so long as ignorance breathes forth noxious vapours to poison its victims, so long will there be battles to be fought and victories to be won. Thus was the way made ready for the feet of one of the labourer's mistaken friends. Morrison was wily, if not wise. He distinguished between oratory and logic. He kindled the flames of indignation and resentment with the one and fed them with the other. But in the performance of each duty he never lost sight of himself. Under the slack management of previous administrations, the conditions of the Rainbow mine and mill had rapidly deteriorated. In the mine a hundred sticks of powder were used or wasted where one would have sufficed. Hundreds of feet of fuse, hundreds of detonators, and pounds of candles were thrown away. Men would climb high in the mine to their work only to return later for some tool needed, or because their supplies had not lasted through their shift. If near the close of hours, they would sit and gossip with their fellow-workmen. Drills and hammers would be buried in the stope, or thrown over the dump. Rock would be broken down with the ore, and the mixed mass, half ore and half rock, would be divided impartially and sent, one-half to the dump and one-half to the mill. At the mill was the same shiftless state of affairs. Tools once used were left to be hunted for the next time they were wanted. On the night shift the men slept at their posts or deserted them for the hilarious attractions of the Blue Goose. The result was that the stamps, unfed, having no rock to crush, pounded steel on steel, so that stamps were broken, bossheads split, or a clogged screen would burst, leaving the half-broken ore to flow over the plates and into the wash-sluices with none of its value extracted. Among the evils that followed in the train of slack and ignorant management not the least was the effect upon the men. If a rich pocket of ore was struck the men stole it all. They argued that it was theirs, because they found it. The company would never miss it; the company was making enough, anyway, and, besides, the superintendent never knew when a pocket was opened, and never told them that it was not theirs. These pilfered pockets were always emptied at the Blue Goose. On these occasions the underground furnace glowed ruddily, and Pierre would stow the pilfered gold among other pilfered ingots, and would in due time emerge from his subterranean retreat in such cheerful temper that he had no heart to browbeat the scared-looking Madame. Whereupon Madame would be divided in her honest soul between horror at Pierre's wrong-doing and thankfulness for a temporary reprieve from his biting tongue. The miners stole supplies of all kinds and sold them or gave them to their friends. Enterprising prospectors, short of funds, as is usually the case, "got a job at the mine," then, having stocked up, would call for their time and go forth to hunt a mine of their own. The men could hardly be blamed for these pilferings. A slack land-owner who makes no protest against the use of his premises as a public highway, in time not only loses his property but his right to protest as well. So it happened at the Rainbow mine and mill that, as no locks were placed on magazines, as the supply-rooms were open to all, and as no protest was made against the men helping themselves, the men came to feel that they were taking only what belonged to them, whatever use was made of the appropriated supplies. These were some of the more obvious evils which Firmstone set about remedying. Magazines and supply-rooms were locked and supplies were issued on order. Workmen ceased wandering aimlessly about while on shift. Rock and ore were broken separately, and if an undue proportion of rock was delivered at the mill it was immediately known at the mine and in unmistakable terms. The effect of these changes on the men was various. Some took an honest pride in working under a man who knew his business. More chafed and fumed under unwonted restrictions. These were artfully nursed by the wily Morrison, with the result that a dangerous friction was developing between the better disposed men and the restless growlers. This feeling was also diligently stimulated by Morrison. "Go easy," was his caution; "but warm it up for them." "Warm it up for them!" indignantly protested one disciple. "Them fellers is the old man's pets." Morrison snorted. "Pets, is it? Pets be damned! It's only a matter of time when the old man will be dancing on a hot stove, if you've got any sand in your crops. The foreman's more than half with you now. Get the union organised, and we'll run out the pets and the old man too. You'll never get your rights till you're organised." At the mill, Firmstone's nocturnal visits at any unexpected hour made napping a precarious business and visits to the Blue Goose not to be thought of. The results of Firmstone's vigilance showed heavily in reduced expenses and in increased efficiency of labour; but these items were only negative. The fact remained that the yield of the mill in bullion was but slightly increased and still subject to extreme variations. The conclusion was inevitable that the mill was being systematically plundered. Firmstone knew that there must be collusion, not only among the workmen, but among outsiders as well. This was an obvious fact, but the means to circumvent it were not so obvious. He knew that there were workmen in the mill who would not steal a penny, but he also knew that these same men would preserve a sullen silence with regard to the peculations of their less scrupulous fellows. It was but the grown-up sense of honour, that will cause a manly schoolboy to be larruped to the bone before he will tell about his errant and cowardly fellow. Firmstone was well aware of the simmering discontent which his rigid discipline was arousing. He regretted it, but he was hopeful that the better element among the men would yet gain the ascendant. "He's square," remarked one of his defenders. "There was a mistake in my time, last payroll, and he looked over the time himself." "That's so," in answer to one objector. "I was in the office and saw him." "You bet he's square," broke in another. "Didn't I get a bad pair of boots out of the commissary, and didn't he give me another pair in their place? That's what." If Morrison and Pierre had not been in active evidence Firmstone would have won the day without a fight. CHAPTER V _Bennie Opens the Pot and Firmstone Comes in_ Firmstone was late to breakfast the day of Zephyr's departure, and Bennie was doing his best to restrain his impatience. When at last the late breakfaster appeared, Bennie's manner was noticeably different from the ordinary. He was a stanch defender of the rights of the American citizen, an uncompromising opponent of companies and trusts, a fearless and aggressive exponent of his own views; but withal a sincere admirer and loyal friend of Firmstone. Bennie knew that in his hands were very strong cards, and he was casting about in his mind for the most effective mode of playing them. "Good morning, Bennie," Firmstone called out, on entering the dining-room. Bennie returned the greeting with a silent nod. Firmstone glanced at the clock. "It is pretty late for good morning and breakfast, that's a fact." Bennie disappeared in the kitchen. He returned and placed Firmstone's breakfast before him. "What's the matter, Bennie?" Firmstone thought he knew, but events were soon to show him his mistake. "Matter enough, Mr. Firmstone, as you'll soon find." Bennie was getting alarming. Firmstone ate in silence. Bennie watched with impassive dignity. "Is your breakfast all right?" he finally asked, unbendingly. "All right, Bennie. Better than I deserve, pouncing on you at this hour." He again looked up at the clock. "Come when you like, late or early, you'll get the best I can give you." Bennie was still rigid. Firmstone was growing more puzzled. Bennie judged it time to support his opening. "I'm an outspoken man, Mr. Firmstone, as becomes an American citizen. If I take an honest dollar, I'll give an honest return." "No one doubts that, Bennie." Firmstone leaned back in his chair. He was going to see it out. Bennie's support was rapidly advancing. "You know, Mr. Firmstone, that I have my opinions and speak my mind about the oppression of the poor by the rich. I left my home in the East to come out here where it was less crowded and where there was more freedom. It's only change about, I find. In the East the rich were mostly Americans who oppressed the dagoes, being for their own good; but here it's the other way. Here's Mike the Finn, and Jansen the Swede, and Hansen the Dane, and Giuseppe the dago, and Pat the Irishman the boss of the whole dirty gang. Before God I take shame to myself for being an honest man and American born, and having this thieving gang to tell me how long I can work, and where I can buy, with a swat in the jaw and a knife in my back for daring to say my soul is my own and sticking to it against orders from the union." "Thunder and Mars, Bennie! What's the matter?" Bennie's reserves came up with a rush. He thrust open the door of his room and jerked a blanket from the sacks which Zephyr had left there. Firmstone gave a low whistle of surprise. "There's matter for you, Mr. Firmstone." "Where under the sun did you get these?" Firmstone had opened one of the sacks and was looking at the ore. "I didn't get them. Zephyr got them and asked me to see that you had them. There's a man for you! 'Twas little white paint the Lord had when he came West, but he put two good coats of it on Zephyr's back." Firmstone made no reply to Bennie's eulogy of Zephyr. He closed and retied the opened sacks. "There's mighty interesting reading in these sacks, Bennie." "Those were Zephyr's words, sir." "That ore was taken from the mill last night. Luna was on shift, Long was sick, and Luna put Morrison in his place." Firmstone looked at Bennie inquisitively. He was trying his facts on the cook. "That's so, sir," remarked Bennie. "But you'll never make a hen out of a rooster by pulling out his tail-feathers." Firmstone laughed. "Well, Bennie, that's about the way I sized it up myself. Keep quiet about this. I want to get these sacks down to the office some time to-day." He left the room and went to the office. Luna reported to the office that night as usual before going on shift. Firmstone gave a few directions, and then turned to his work. Shortly after twelve Luna was surprised at seeing the superintendent enter the mill. "Cut off the feed in the batteries." The order was curt, and Luna, much bewildered, hastened to obey. Firmstone followed him around back of the batteries, where automatic machines dropped the ore under the stamps. Firmstone waited until there began to come the sound of dropping stamps pounding on the naked dies, then he gave orders to hang up the stamps and shut down the mill. This was done. The rhythmic cadence of the falling stamps was broken into irregular blows as one by one the stamps were propped up above the revolving cams, till finally only the hum of pulleys and the click of belts were heard. These sounds also ceased as the engine slowed and finally stopped. "Shall I lay off the men?" asked the foreman. "No. Have them take out the screens." This also was done, and then Firmstone, accompanied by Luna, went from battery to battery. They first scraped out the loose rock, and afterward, with a long steel spoon, took samples of the crushed ore from between the dies. The operation was a long one; but at length the last battery was sampled. Firmstone put the last sample in a sack with the others. "Shall I carry the sack for you?" asked Luna. "No. Start up the mill, and then come to the office." Firmstone turned, and, with the heavy sack on his shoulder, left the mill. There were a hundred stamps in the mill. The stamps were divided into batteries of ten each. Each battery was driven separately by a belt from the main shaft. There was a man in attendance on every twenty stamps. Firmstone had taken samples from each battery, and each sample bore the number of the battery. He had taken especial care to call this to Luna's attention. The foreman saw to replacing the screens, and, when the mill was again started, he went to the superintendent's office. He knew very well that an unpleasant time awaited him; but, like the superintendent, he had his course of action mapped out. The foreman was a very wise man within a restricted circle. He knew that the battle was his, if he fought within its circumference. Outside of the circle he did not propose to be tempted. Firmstone could not force him out. Those who could, would not attempt it for very obvious and personal reasons. Luna was aware that Firmstone knew that there was thieving, and was morally certain as to who were the thieves, but lacked convincing proof. This was his protecting circle. Firmstone could not force him out of it. Morrison and Pierre knew not only of the thieving, but the thieves. They could force him out, but they would not. Luna was tranquil. Luna saw Firmstone in the laboratory as he entered the railed enclosure. He opened the railing gate, passed through the office, and entered the laboratory. Firmstone glanced at the foreman, but he met only a stolid face with no sign of confusion. "Pan these samples down." Without a word Luna emptied the sacks into little pans and carefully washed off the crushed rock, leaving the grains of gold in the pans. Eight of the pans showed rich in gold, the last two hardly a trace. Firmstone placed the pans in order. "What do you make of that?" he asked, sharply. Luna shook his head. "That's too much for me." "What batteries did these two come from?" Firmstone pointed to the two plates. "Nine and Ten," the foreman answered, promptly. "Who works on Nine and Ten?" "Clancy day and Long night," was the ready answer. "Did Long work last night?" "No. He was sick. I told you that, and I asked you if I should put on Morrison. You didn't say nothing against it." "Did Nine and Ten run all night?" "Except for an hour or two, maybe. Nine worked a shoe loose and Ten burst a screen. That's likely to happen any time. We had to hang up for that." "You say you can give no explanation of this?" Firmstone pointed to the empty pans. "No, sir." "Look this over." Firmstone went to his desk in the office and Luna followed him. He picked up a paper covered with figures marked "Mine Assays, May," and handed it to the foreman. Luna glanced over the sheet, then looked inquiringly at Firmstone. "Well?" he finally ventured. "What do you make of it?" Firmstone asked. Luna turned to the assay sheet. "The average of two hundred assays taken twice a week, twenty-five assays each time, gives twenty-five dollars a ton for the month of May." Luna read the summary. Firmstone wrote the number on a slip of paper, then took the sheet from the foreman. "You understand, then, that the ore taken from the mine and sent to the mill in May averaged twenty-five dollars a ton?" "Yes, that's right." Luna was getting puzzled. "Very good. You're doing well. Now look at this sheet." Firmstone handed him another paper. "Now read the summary." Luna read aloud: "Average loss in tailings, daily samples, May, two dollars and seventy-five cents a ton." "You understand from this, do you not, that the gold recovered from the plates should then be twenty-two dollars and twenty-five cents a ton?" "Yes, sir." Luna's face was reddening; beads of perspiration were oozing from his forehead. "Well, then," pursued Firmstone, "just look over this statement. Read it out loud." Luna took the paper offered him, and began to read. "What do you make out of that?" Firmstone was looking straight into the foreman's eyes. Luna tried his best to return the look, but his eyes dropped. "I don't know," he stammered. "Then I'll tell you. Not that I need to, but I want you to understand that I know. It means that out of every ton of ore that was delivered to this mill in May thirteen dollars and forty-five cents have been stolen." Luna fairly gasped. He was startled by the statement to a cent of the amount stolen. He and his confederates had been compelled to take Pierre's unvouched statements. Therefore he could not controvert the figures, had he chosen. He did not know the amount. "There must have been a mistake, sir." "Mistake!" Firmstone blazed out. "What do you say to this?" He pulled a canvas from the sacks of ore that had been brought to the office. He expected to see Luna collapse entirely. Instead, a look of astonishment spread over the foreman's face. "I'll give up!" he exclaimed. He looked Firmstone squarely in the face. He saw his way clearly now. "You're right," he said. "There has been stealing. It's up to me. I'll fire anyone you say, or I'll quit myself, or you can fire me. But, before God, I never stole a dollar from the Rainbow mill." He spoke the literal truth. The spirit of it did not trouble him. Firmstone was astonished at the man's affirmations, but they did not deceive him, nor divert him from his purpose. "I'm not going to tell you whom to let out or take in," he replied. "I'm holding you responsible. I've told you a good deal, but not all, by a good long measure. This stealing has got to stop, and you can stop it. You would better stop it. Now go back to your work." That very night Firmstone wrote a full account of the recovery of the stolen ore, the evils which he found on taking charge of the property, the steps which he proposed for their elimination. He closed with these words: "It must be remembered that these conditions have had a long time in which to develop. At the very least, an equal time must be allowed for their elimination; but I believe that I shall be successful." CHAPTER VI _The Family Circle_ On the morning of Élise's strike for freedom, Pierre came to breakfast with his usual atmosphere of compressed wrath. He glanced at his breakfast which Madame had placed on the table at the first sound which heralded his approach. There was nothing there to break the tension and to set free the pent-up storm within. Much meditation, with fear and trembling, had taught Madame the proper amount of butter to apply to the hot toast, the proportion of sugar and cream to add to the coffee, and the exact shade of crisp and brown to put on his fried eggs. But a man bent on trouble can invariably find a cause for turning it loose. "Where is Élise?" he demanded. "Élise," Madame answered, evasively, "she is around somewhere." "Somewhere is nowhere. I demand to know." Pierre looked threatening. "Shall I call her?" Madame vouchsafed. "If you know not where she is, how shall you call her? Heh? If you know, mek ansaire!" "I don't know where she is." "_Bien!_" Pierre reseated himself and began to munch his toast savagely. Madame was having a struggle with herself. It showed plainly on the thin, anxious face. The lips compressed with determination, the eyes set, then wavered, and again the indeterminate lines of acquiescent subjection gained their accustomed ascendency. Back and forth assertion and complaisance fled and followed; only assertion was holding its own. The eggs had disappeared, also the greater part of the toast. Pierre swallowed the last of his coffee, and, without a look at his silent wife, began to push his chair from the table. Madame's voice startled him. "Élise is sixteen," she ventured. Pierre fell back in his chair, astonished. The words were simple and uncompromising, but the intonation suggested that they were not final. "Well?" he asked, explosively. "When are you going to send Élise away to school?" "To school?" Pierre was struggling with his astonishment. "Yes." Madame was holding herself to her determination with an effort. "To school? _Baste!_ She read, she write, she mek ze figure, is it not suffice? Heh?" "That makes no difference. You promised her father that you would send her away to school." Pierre looked around apprehensively. "Shut up! Kip quiet!" "I won't shut up, and I won't keep quiet." Madame's blood was warming. The sensation was as pleasant as it was unusual. "I will keep quiet for myself. I won't for Élise." "Élise! Élise! Ain't I do all right by Élise?" Pierre asked, aggressively. "She have plenty to eat, plenty to wear, you tek good care of her. Don't I tek good care, also? Me? Pierre? She mek no complain, heh?" "That isn't what her father wanted, and it isn't what you promised him." Pierre looked thoughtful; his face softened slightly. "We have no children, you and me. We have honly Élise, one li'l girl, _la bonne_ Élise. You wan' mek me give up _la bonne_ Élise? _P'quoi?_" His face blazed again as he looked up wrathfully. "You wan' mek her go to school! _P'quoi?_ So she learn mek _teedle, teedle_ on ze piano? So she learn speak gran'? So she tink of me, Pierre, one li'l Frenchmens, not good enough for her, for mek her shame wiz her gran' friends? Heh? Who mek ze care for ze li'l babby? Who mek her grow up strong? Heh? You mek her go school. You mek ze gran' dam-zelle. You mek her go back to her pip'l. You mek me, Pierre, you, grow hol' wiz noddings? Hall ze res' ze time wiz no li'l Élise? How you like li'l Élise go away and mek ze marry, and w'en she have li'l children, she say to her li'l children, '_Mes enfants, voila!_ Pierre and Madame, _très bon_ Pierre and Madame,' and _les petits enfants_ mek big eyes at Pierre and Madame and li'l Élise? She say, '_Pauvres enfants_, Pierre and Madame will not hurt you. _Bon_ Pierre! _Bonne_ Madame!'" Pierre made a gesture of deprecating pity. Madame was touched to the quick. Starting tears dimmed the heavy eyes. Had she not thought of all this a thousand times? If Pierre cared so much for li'l Élise how much more reason had she to care? Li'l Élise had been the only bright spot in her dreary life, yet she was firm. Élise had been very dear to her in the past, but her duty was plain. Her voice was gentler. "Élise is not ours, Pierre. It is harder to do now what we ought to have done long ago." Pierre rose and walked excitedly back and forth. He was speaking half to himself, half to Madame. "Sixtin year 'go li'l Élise mammy die. Sixtin year! She no say, 'Madame Marie, tek my li'l babby back Eas' to my friend, _hein_? No. She say, 'Madame Marie, my poor li'l babby ain' got no mammy no mo'. Tek good care my poor li'l babby.' Then she go die. We mek good care of ze li'l Élise, me and you, heh? We sen' away Élise? _Sacré non!_ Nevaire!" Pierre stopped, and looked fiercely at Madame. "Yes," answered Madame. "Her mammy asked me to care for her little baby, but it was for her father. When her father died he made you promise to give her to her friends. Don't I know how hard it is?" Her tears were flowing freely now. "Every year we said, 'She is yet too young to go. Next year we will keep our promise,' and next year she was dearer to us. And now she is sixteen. She must go." Pierre broke in fiercely: "She shall not! Sixtin year? Sixtin year she know honly me, Pierre, her daddy, and you, her mammy. What you tink, heh? Élise go school in one beeg city, heh? She mek herself choke wiz ze brick house and ze stone street. She get sick and lonesome for ze mountain, for her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy, for ze grass and ze flower." "That is for her to say. Send her away as you promised. Then"--Madame's heavy eyes grew deep, almost beautiful--"then, if she comes back to us!" Pierre turned sullenly. "She is mine. Mine and yours. She shall stay." Madame's tears ceased flowing. "She shall go." Her temerity frightened her. "I will tell her all if you don't send her away." Pierre did not explode, as she expected. Instead, there was the calm of invincible purpose. He held up one finger impressively. "I settle hall zis. _Écoutez!_ She shall marry. Right away. Queek. Da's hall." He left the room before Madame had time to reply. Madame was too terrified to think. The possibility conveyed in her husband's declaration had never suggested itself to her. Élise was still the little baby nestling in her arms, the little girl prattling and playing indoors and out, on the wide ranch, and later, Madame shuddered, when Pierre had abandoned the ranch for the Blue Goose, waiting at the bar, keeping Pierre's books, redeeming checks at the desk, moving out and in among the throng of coarse, uncouth men, but through it all the same beautiful, wilful, loving little girl, so dear to Madame's heart, so much of her life. What did it matter that profanity died on the lips of the men in her presence, that at her bidding they ceased to drink to intoxication, that hopeless wives came to her for counsel, that their dull faces lighted at her words, that in sickness or death she was to them a comfort and a refuge? What if Pierre had fiercely protected her from the knowledge of the more loathsome vices of a mining camp? It was no more than right. Pierre loved her. She knew that. Pierre was hoarding every shining dollar that came to his hand. Was he lavish in his garnishment of the Blue Goose? It was only for the more effective luring of other gold from the pockets of the careless, unthinking men who worked in mines or mills, or roamed among the mountains or washed the sands of every stream, spending all they found, hoping for and talking of the wealth which, if it came, would only smite them with more rapid destruction. And all these little rivulets, small each one alone, united at the Blue Goose into a growing stream that went no farther. For what end? Madame knew. For Pierre, life began and ended in Élise. Madame knew, and sympathized with this; but her purpose was not changed. She knew little of life beyond the monotonous desolation of a western ranch, the revolting glamour of a gambling resort, where men revelled in the fierce excitement of shuffling cards and clicking chips, returning to squalid homes and to spiritless women, weighed down and broken with the bearing of many children, and the merciless, unbroken torture of thankless, thoughtless demands upon their lives. Madame saw all this. She saw and felt the dreary hopelessness of it all. Much as she loved Élise, if it parted her from all that made life endurable she would not shrink from the sacrifice. She knew nothing of life beyond her restricted circle, but anything outside this circle was a change, and any change must be for the better. "She shall marry. Right away." Pierre's words came to her again with overwhelming terror. Overwhelming, because she saw no way of averting the threatened blow. From behind, Madame felt two soft hands close on her straining eyes, and a sympathetic voice: "Has daddy been scolding you again? What was it about this time? Was it because I ran away this morning? I did run away, you know." For reply Madame only bowed her head from between the clasping hands that for the first time had distress instead of comfort for her groping soul. She did not pray for guidance. She never thought of praying. Why should she? The prisoned seed, buried in the dank and quickening soil, struggles instinctively toward the source of light and strength. But what instinct is there to guide the human soul that, quickened by unselfish love, is yet walled in by the Stygian darkness of an ignorant life? Madame's hands were clinched. Her hot eyes were dry and hard. No light! No help! Only a fierce spirit of resistance. At length she was conscious of Élise standing before her, half terrified, but wholly determined. Her eyes moistened, then grew soft. Her outstretched arms sought the girl and drew her within their convulsive grasp. "My poor Élise! My poor little girl, with no one to help her but me!" "What is it, mammy? What is it?" Madame only moaned. "My poor little Élise! My poor little girl!" Élise freed herself from the resisting arms. "Tell me at once!" She stamped her foot impatiently. Madame sprang to her feet. "You shall not marry that man. You shall not!" Her voice rose. "I will tell you all--everything. I will, if he kills me. I will! I will!" The door from the saloon was violently opened, and Pierre strode in. He pushed Élise aside, and, with narrowed eyes and uplifted hand, approached his wife. "You will? You will, heh?" The threatening blow fell heavily, but upon Élise. She thrust forth her hands. Pierre stumbled backward before the unexpected assault. His eyes, blazing with ungoverned fury, swept around the room. They rested upon a stick. He grasped it, and turned once more toward Madame. "You will! You will! I teach you bettaire. I teach you say 'I will' to me! I teach you!" Then he stopped. He was looking squarely into the muzzle of a silver-mounted revolver held in a steady hand and levelled by a steady eye. Pierre was like a statue. Another look came into his eyes. Youth toyed with death, and was not afraid. Pierre knew that. At threatening weapons in the hands of drink-crazed men Pierre smiled with scorn. The bad man stood in terror of the law as well as of Pierre. But when determined youth laid hold on death and shook it in his face Pierre knew enough to stand aside. Élise broke the tense silence. "Don't you ever dare to strike mammy again. Don't you dare!" Without a word Pierre left the room. He had loved Élise before with as unselfish a love as he could know. But hitherto he had not admired her. Now he rubbed his hands and chuckled softly, baring his teeth with unsmiling lips. "A-a-ah!" he breathed forth. "_Magnifique! Superb! La petite diable!_ She mek ze shoot in her eye! In ze fingaire! She bin shoot her hol' man, her hol' daddy, _moi!_ Pierre." Pierre thoughtfully rubbed his smooth chin. "_La petite diable!_" Poor Madame! Poor Pierre! The dog chases his tail with undiminished zest, and is blissfully rewarded if a straggling hair but occasionally brushes his nose. He licks his accessible paws, impelled alone by a sense of duty. CHAPTER VII _Mr. Morrison Tackles a Man with a Mind of His Own and a Man without One_ Mr. Morrison was a slick bird--in fact, a very slick bird. It was his soul's delight to preen his unctuous feathers and to shiver them into the most effective and comfortable position, to settle his head between his shoulders, and, with moistened lips, to view his little world from dreamy, half-closed eyes. This, however, only happened in restful moments of complacent self-contemplation. He never allowed these moods to interfere with business. He had broached the subject of marriage to Pierre, and Pierre had of course fallen in with his views. The fact that Élise evidently loathed him disturbed no whit his placid mind. He was in no hurry. He assumed Élise as his own whenever he chose to say the word. He regarded her in much the same way as a half-hungered epicure a toothsome dinner, holding himself aloof until his craving stomach should give the utmost zest to his viands without curtailing the pleasure of his palate by ravenous haste. He served Pierre with diligence and fidelity. The Blue Goose would sooner or later come to him with Élise. He had ambitions, political especially, not acquired, but instinctive. Not that he felt inspired with a mission to do good unto others, but that others should do good unto him, and also that the particular kind of good should be of his own choosing. He knew very well the temperaments of his chosen constituency, and he adapted himself to their impressionable peculiarities. To this end he dispensed heavily padded gratuities with much ostentation on selected occasions, but gathered his tolls in merciless silence. He did this without fear, for he knew that the blare of the multitude would drown the cries of the stricken few. Mr. Morrison had long meditated upon the proper course to take in order best to compass his ends. The unrest among the employees of the Rainbow Company came to him unsought, and he at once grasped the opportunity. The organisation of a miners' and millmen's union would be an obvious benefit to the rank and file; their manifestation of gratitude would naturally take the very form he most desired. To this end before the many he displayed the pyrotechnics of meaningless oratory, in much the same manner as a strutting peacock his brilliant tail; but individuals he hunted with nickel bullets and high-power guns. On various occasions he had displayed the peacock tail; this particular afternoon he took down his flat-trajectoried weapon and went forth to gun for Bennie. Bennie had washed the dinner dishes, reset his table, prepared for the coming meal, and now, as was his custom, was lying in his bunk, with an open book in his hands, prepared to read or doze, as the spirit moved him. Mr. Morrison appeared before him. "Howdy, Bennie! Taking a nap?" "I'm taking nothing but what's my own." Bennie looked meaningly at Morrison. Morrison slipped into what he mistook for Bennie's mood. "You're wise, if you get it all. Many's the ignorant devil that takes only what's given him and asks no questions, worse luck to him!" "You'll do well to go on," remarked Bennie, placidly. "There's many that gets more, and then damns the gift and the giver." "And just what might that mean, Bennie?" Morrison looked a little puzzled. "It means that, if more got what they deserved, 'twould be better for honest men." Bennie was very decided. Morrison's face cleared. He held out his hand. "Shake!" he said. Bennie took the proffered hand. "Here's hoping you'll come to your own!" he remarked, grimly. The clasped hands each fell to its own. Morrison's hands went to his pocket as he stretched out his crossed legs with a thankful look on his face. "I'm not specially troubled about myself. I've had fairly good luck looking out for Patrick Morrison, Esq. It's these poor devils around here that's troubling me. They get nipped and pinched at every turn of the cards." "It's God's truth you're talking. And you want to help them same poor devils?" "That's what." "Then listen to me. Smash your roulette and faro. Burn down the Blue Goose, first taking out your whisky that'll burn only the throats of the fools who drink it. Do that same, and you'll see fat grow on lean bones, and children's pants come out of the shade of the patches." Morrison lifted his hat, scratching his head meditatively. "That isn't exactly what I'm at." "Eagles to snowbirds 'tis not!" put in Bennie, aside. Morrison gave no heed to the interruption. "Every man has the right to spend his own money in his own way." "The poor devils get the money and the Blue Goose furnishes the way," Bennie again interpolated. Morrison was getting uneasy. He was conscious that he was not making headway. "You can't do but one thing at a time in good shape." "You're a damned liar! At the Blue Goose you're doing everyone all the time." Morrison rose impatiently. The nickel bullets were missing their billet. He began tentatively to unfold the peacock's tail. "You see," he said, "it's like this. In union is strength. What makes the rich richer? Because they hang together like swarming bees. You pick the honey of one and you get the stings of all. Learn from the rich to use the rich man's weapons. Let us poor workingmen band together like brothers in a common cause. Meet union with union, strength with strength. Then, and only then, can we get our own." "It took more than one cat to make strings for that fiddle," Bennie remarked, thoughtfully. "Just what might that mean?" Morrison again looked puzzled. He went back to his bullets. "To be specific," he spoke impressively, "as things stand now, if one workingman thinks he ought to have more pay he goes to the company and asks for it. The company says no. If he gets troublesome, they fire him. If one man works in a close breast with foul air the company tells him to go back to his work or quit. It costs money to timber bad ground. One poor workman's life doesn't count for much. It's cheaper for the company to take chances than to put in timber." He paused, looking sharply at Bennie. "You're talking sense now. How do you propose to help it?" Morrison felt solid ground beneath his feet. "Do as I said. Learn from the rich. Unite. If the men are not getting fair wages, the union can demand more." Bennie lifted an inquiring finger. "One word there. You want to organise a union?" "That's it. That's the stuff." Morrison was flatteringly acquiescent. "A company can turn down one man, but the union will shove it up to them hard." "If one man breaks five tons of ore a day, and another man breaks only one, will the union see that both get the same pay?" "A workingman is a workingman." Morrison spoke less enthusiastically. "A man that puts in his time earns all that he gets." Bennie looked musingly at the toes of his boots. "The union will equalise the pay?" "You bet it will!" "They'll make the company ventilate the mines and keep bad ground timbered?" "They'll look after these things sharp, and anything else that comes up." "The union will run the company, but who'll run the union?" Morrison waxed enthusiastic. "We'll take our turn at bossing all right. Every man in the union stands on the same floor, and when any of the boys have a grievance the president will see them through. The president and the executive committee can tie up the whole camp if the company bucks." "Is the union organised?" asked Bennie. "Not yet. It's like this." Morrison's voice had a tinge of patronage. "You see, I want to get a few of the level-headed men in the camp worked up to the idea; the rest will come in, hands down." "Who have you got strung?" "Well, there's Luna, and----" "Luna's a crowd by himself. He's got more faces than a town-clock telling time to ten streets. Who else?" "There's Thompson, the mine foreman----" "Jim Thompson? Don't I know him now? He'll throw more stunts than a small boy with a bellyful of green apples. Who else?" Morrison looked a little sulky. "Well, how about yourself. That's what I'm here to find out." Bennie glared up wrathfully. "You'll take away no doubts about me, if my tongue isn't struck by a palsy till it can't bore the wax of your ears. When it comes to bosses, I'll choose my own. I'm American and American born. I'd rather be bossed by a silk tile and kid gloves than by a Tipperary hat and a shillalah, with a damned three-cornered shamrock riding the necks of both. It's a pretty pass we've come to if we've got to go to Irish peat-bogs and Russian snow-banks to find them as will tell us our rights and how to get them, and then import dagoes with rings in their ears and Hungarians with spikes in their shoes to back us up. Let me talk a bit! I get my seventy-five dollars a month for knowing my business and attending to it, because my grub goes down the necks of the men instead of out on the dump; because I give more time to a side of bacon than I do to organising unions. And I'll tell you some more facts. The rich are growing richer for using what they have, and the poor are growing poorer because they don't know enough to handle what they've got. Organise a union for keeping damned fools out of the Blue Goose, and from going home and lamming hell out of their wives and children, and I'll talk with you. As it is, the sooner you light out the more respect I'll have for the sense of you that I haven't seen." Morrison was blazing with anger. "You'll sing another tune before long. We propose to run every scab out of the country." "Run, and be damned to you! I've got a thousand-acre ranch and five hundred head of cattle. I've sucked it from the Rainbow at seventy-five a month, and I've given value received, without any union to help me. Only take note of this. I've laid my eggs in my own nest, and not at the Blue Goose." Morrison turned and left the room. Over his shoulder he flung back: "This isn't the last word, you damned scab! You'll hear from me again." "'Tis not the nature of a pig to keep quiet with a dog at his heels." Bennie stretched his neck out of the door to fire his parting shot. Morrison went forth with a vigorous flea in each ear, which did much to disturb his complacency. Bennie had not made him thoughtful, only vengeful. There is nothing quite so discomposing as the scornful rejection of proffers of self-seeking philanthropy. Bennie's indignation was instinctive rather than analytical, the inherent instinct that puts up the back and tail of a new-born kitten at its first sight of a benevolent-appearing dog. Morrison had not gone far from the boarding-house before he chanced against Luna. Morrison was the last person Luna would have wished to meet. Since his interview with Firmstone he had scrupulously avoided the Blue Goose, and he had seen neither Morrison nor Pierre. His resolution to mend his ways was the result of fear, rather than of change of heart. Neither Morrison nor Pierre had fear. They were playing safe. Luna felt their superiority; he was doing his best to keep from their influence. "Howdy!" "Howdy!" Luna answered. "Where've you been this long time?" asked Morrison, suavely. Luna did not look up. "Down at the mill, of course." "What's going on?" pursued Morrison. "You haven't been up lately." "There's been big things going on. Pierre's little game's all off." Luna shrank from a direct revelation. "Oh, drop this! What's up?" "I'll tell you what's up." Luna looked defiant. "You know the last lot of ore you pinched? Well, the old man's got it, and, what's more, he's on to your whole business." Morrison's face set. "Look here now, Luna. You just drop that little _your_ business. It looks mighty suspicious, talking like that. I don't know what you mean. If you've been pulling the mill and got caught you'd better pick out another man to unload on besides me." "I never took a dollar from the mill, and I told the old man so. I----" But Morrison interrupted: "You've been squealing, have you? Well, you just go on, only remember this. If you're going to set in a little game of freeze-out, you play your cards close to your coat." Luna saw the drift of Morrison's remarks, and hastened to defend himself. "It's gospel truth. I haven't squealed." He gave a detailed account of his midnight interview with Firmstone, defining sharply between his facts and his inferences. He finally concluded: "The old man's sharp. There isn't a corner of the mine he doesn't know, and there isn't a chink in the mill, from the feed to the tail-sluice, that he hasn't got his eye on." Luna's mood changed from the defensive to the assertive. "I'll tell you one thing more. He's square, square as a die. He had me bunched, but he give me a chance. He told me that I could stop the stealing at the mill, that I had got to, and, by God, I'm going to, in spite of hell!" Morrison was relieved, but a sneer buried the manifestation of his relief. "Well," he exclaimed, "of all the soft, easy things I ever saw you're the softest and the easiest!" Luna only looked dogged. "Hard words break no bones," he answered, sullenly. "That may be," answered Morrison; "but it doesn't keep soft ones from gumming your wits, that's sure." "What do you mean?" "I mean just this. You say the old man had you bunched. Well, he's got you on your back now, and roped, too." Luna answered still more sullenly: "There's more'n one will be roped, then. If it comes to a show-down, I'll not be alone." "All right, Mr. Luna." Morrison spoke evenly. "When you feel like calling the game just go right ahead. I'm not going to stop you." Luna made no immediate reply. Morrison waited, ostentatiously indifferent. Luna finally broke the silence. "I don't see how the old man's got me roped." "Well, now you're acting as if you had sense. I'll tell you. I'm always ready to talk to a man that's got sense. Just answer a few straight questions. In the first place, you've been stealing from the mill." "I tell you I haven't," broke in Luna; "but I can tell you who has." He looked sharply at Morrison. Morrison waved his hand with wearied endurance. "Well, you're foreman at the mill. If there's been stealing, and you know your business, you know where it was done and how it was done. If you don't know your business what are you there for, and how long are you going to stay? You say yourself the old man is sharp, and he is. How long is he going to keep either a thief or a fool in your place?" "I'm not a thief," Luna answered, hotly. "I'm not a fool, either, and I'm not going to be made one any longer by you, either." "If you're not a fool listen to me, and keep quiet till I'm through." Morrison leaned forward, checking his words with his fingers. "The old man's sharp, and he's got you roped, any turn. There's been stealing at the mill. You say this. You're foreman there. It doesn't make any difference whether you stole or someone else. They hold you responsible. The old man's got the cards in his hands. The men saw him come in the mill, shut down, and take samples to back him up." "Well, what of it?" "What of it, you fool! This is what of it. He's got you just where he wants you. You'll walk turkey from now on, according to his orders. If there's any dirty work to be done you'll do it. You squeal or you kick, and he'll start the whole slide and bury you." "I'm not obliged to do any dirty work for him or any other man. Not even for you. I can quit." "And get another job?" Morrison asked, mockingly. "That's what." "Let me just point out a few things. You get mad and quit. Call for your time. Pack your turkey and go to another mill. They will ask your name. Then, 'Excuse me a minute.' Then they'll go to a little book, and they'll find something like this, 'Henry Luna, mill man, foreman Rainbow mill. Richard Firmstone, superintendent. Discharged on account of stealing ore from the mill.' Then they'll come back. 'No place for you, Mr. Luna,' and you'll go on till hell freezes, and that little record of yours will knock you, every clip. When you wear the skin off your feet, and the shirt off your back, you'll come back to the Rainbow, and Mr. Firmstone will politely tell you that, if you've walked the kick out of you, he'll give you another try." Luna was open-eyed. He had grasped but one thing. "What little book are you talking about?" he asked. "It's known as the Black List, little lambie. You'll know more about it if you keep on. Every company in Colorado or in the United States has one. You'll run up against it, all right, if you keep on." Luna had vague ideas of this powerful weapon; but it had never seemed so real before. He was growing suspicious. He recalled Firmstone's words, "I've told you a good deal, but not all by a good long measure." They had seemed simple and straightforward at the time, but Morrison's juggling was hazing them. "What's a fellow to do?" he asked, helplessly. "Nothing alone, except to take what's given you. You stand alone, and you'll be cut alone, worked overtime alone, kicked alone, and, when it gets unendurable, starve alone. But, if you've got any sense or sand, don't stand alone to get kicked and cuffed and robbed by a company or by a bunch of companies. Meet union with union, strength with strength, and, if worst comes to worst, fight with fight. Us workingmen have things in our own hands, if we stand together." Morrison was watching the foreman narrowly. "And there's another thing. When a long-toothed, sharp-nosed, glass-eyed company bull-dog puts up a padded deck on a workingman, he'll have the backing of the union to put him down." "The union ain't going to take up no private grievance?" Luna spoke, half questioningly. "They ain't, heh? What's it for, then? Bunching us up so they can pick us off one by one, without hunting us out like a flock of sheep. That ain't the union." Morrison paused, looking keenly at Luna. "There's no use scattering. There's nothing as skittish as a pocketful of dollars in a dress suit. If there's a grievance, private or common, go to the company in a bunch. Remonstrate. If that don't work, strike, fight, boycott! No weapons? The poor man's dollar will buy rifles and cartridges as quick as a rich man's checks. We've got this advantage, too. Rich men have to hire men to fight for them; but, by God, we can fight for ourselves!" Luna's thick wits were vibrating betwixt fear and vengeance. He had all the ignorant man's fear of superior brains, all the coward's sneaking resentment of a fancied imposition. He could see that fear had blinded his eyes to the real but covert threat of Firmstone's words. Here was his chance to free himself from Firmstone's clutches. Here his chance for revenge. Morrison was watching him closely. "Are you with us, or are you going down alone?" Luna held out his hand. "I'm with you, you bet!" "Come up to the Blue Goose some night when you're on day-shift. We'll talk things over with Pierre." Then they parted. CHAPTER VIII _Madame Seeks Counsel_ There are many evil things in the world which are best obviated by being let severely alone. The clumsy-minded Hercules had to be taught this fact. Tradition relates that at one time he met an insignificant-looking toad in his path which he would have passed by in disdain had it not been for its particularly ugly appearance. Thinking to do the world a service by destroying it he thumped the reptile with his club, when, to his surprise, instead of being crushed by the impact, the beast grew to twice its former size. Repeated and heavier blows only multiplied its dimensions and ugliness, until at length the thoroughly frightened hero divested himself of his clothing with the intention of putting an end to his antagonist. His formidable club was again raised, but before it could descend, he was counselled to wait. This he did, and to his greater surprise the ugly beast began to shrink, and finally disappeared. Pierre had no convenient goddess to instruct him in critical moments, so he depended on his own wit. Of this he had inherited a liberal portion, and this by diligent cultivation had been added to manyfold. So it happened that after Madame's surprising exhibition of an unsuspected will of her own, and her declaration of her intention to enforce it, Pierre had studiously let her alone. This course of action was as surprising to Madame as it was disconcerting. The consequences were such as her wily husband had foreseen. Encountering no externally resisting medium, its force was wasted by internal attrition, so that Madame was being reduced to a nervous wreck, all of which was duly appreciated by Pierre. This particular instance, being expanded into a general law, teaches us that oftentimes the nimble wit of an agile villain prevails against the clumsy brains of a lofty-minded hero. Madame had had long years of patient endurance to train her in waiting; but the endurance had been passive and purposeless, rather than active, and with a well-defined object. Now that an object was to be attained by action the lessons of patient endurance counted for naught. Instead of determined action against her open revolt, Pierre had been smilingly obsequious and non-resisting. She knew very well that Pierre had been neither cowed into submission nor frightened from his purpose; but his policy of non-interference puzzled and terrified her. She knew not at what moment he might confront her with a move that she would have neither time nor power to check. In this state of mind day after day passed by with wearing regularity. She felt the time going, every moment fraught with the necessity of action, but without the slightest suggestion as to what she ought to do. Pierre's toast might be burned to a crisp, his eggs scorched, or his coffee muddy, but there was no word of complaint. Regular or irregular hours for meals were passed over with the same discomposing smiles. She did not dare unburden her mind to Élise, for fear of letting drop some untimely word which would immediately precipitate the impending crisis. For the first time in her life Élise was subjected to petulant words and irritating repulses by the sorely perplexed woman. One evening, after a particularly trying day during which Élise had been stung into biting retorts, an inspiration came to Madame that rolled every threatening cloud from her mind. The next morning, after long waiting, Pierre came to the dining-room, but found neither breakfast nor Madame, and for the best of reasons. With the first grey light of morning, Madame had slipped from the door of the Blue Goose, and before the sun had gilded the head of Ballard Mountain she was far up the trail that led to the Inferno. Zephyr was moving deliberately about a little fire on which his breakfast was cooking, pursing his lips in meditative whistles, or engaged in audible discussion with himself on the various topics which floated through his mind. An unusual clatter of displaced rocks brought his dialogue to a sudden end; a sharp look down the trail shrank his lips to a low whistle; the sight of a hard knob of dingy hair, strained back from a pair of imploring eyes fringed by colourless lashes, swept his hat from his head, and sent him clattering down to Madame with outstretched hands. "You're right, Madame. You're on the right trail, and it's but little farther. It's rather early for St. Peter, it's likely he's taking his beauty sleep yet; but I'll see that it's broken, unless you have a private key to the Golden Gates, which you deserve, if you haven't got it." His address of welcome had brought him to Madame's side. Her only reply was a bewildered gaze, as she took his hands. With his help she soon reached the camp, and seated herself in a rude chair which Zephyr placed for her. Zephyr, having seen to the comfort of his guest, returned to his neglected breakfast. "It takes a pretty cute angel to catch me unawares," he glanced at Madame; "but you've got the drop on me this time. Come from an unexpected direction, too. I've heard tell of Jacob's vision of angels passing up and down, but I mostly allowed it was a pipe dream. I shall have to annotate my ideas again, which is no uncommon experience, statements to the contrary notwithstanding." Zephyr paused from his labours and looked inquiringly at Madame. Madame made no reply. Her bewildered calm began to break before the apparent necessity of saying or doing something. Not having a clear perception of the fitting thing in either case, she took refuge in a copious flood of tears. Zephyr offered no impediment to the flow, either by word or act. He was not especially acquainted with the ways of women, but being a close observer of nature and an adept at reasoning from analogy, he assumed that a sudden storm meant equally sudden clearing, so he held his peace and, for once, his whistle. Zephyr's reasoning was correct. Madame's tears dried almost as suddenly as they had started. Zephyr had filled a cup with coffee, and he tendered it deferentially to Madame. "A peaceful stomach favours a placid mind," he remarked, casually; "which is an old observation that doesn't show its age. From which I infer that it has a solid foundation of truth." Madame hesitatingly reached for the proffered coffee, then she thought better of it, and, much to Zephyr's surprise, again let loose the fountains of her tears. Zephyr glanced upward with a cocking eye, then down the steep pass to where the broken line of rock dropped sheer into Rainbow Gulch where lay Pandora and the Blue Goose. "About this time look for unsettled weather," he whispered to himself. Zephyr had dropped analogy and was reasoning from cold facts. He was thinking of Élise. Tears often clear the mind, as showers the air, and Madame's tears, with Zephyr's calm, were rapidly having a salubrious effect. This time she not only reached for the coffee on her own initiative, but, what was more to the purpose, drank it. She even ate some of the food Zephyr placed before her. Zephyr noted with approval. "Rising barometer, with freshening winds, growing brisk, clearing weather." Madame looked up at Zephyr's almost inaudible words. "How?" she ventured, timidly. "That's a fair question," Zephyr remarked, composedly. "The fact is, I get used to talking to myself and answering a fool according to his folly. It's hard sledding to keep up. You see, a fellow that gets into his store clothes only once a year or so don't know where to hang his thumbs." Madame looked somewhat puzzled, began a stammering reply, then, dropping her useless efforts, came to her point at once. "It's about Élise." Zephyr answered as directly as Madame had spoken. "Is Élise in trouble?" "Yes. I don't know what to do." Madame paused and looked expectantly at Zephyr. "Pierre wants her to marry that Morrison?" Madame gave a sigh of relief. There was no surprise in her face. "Pierre says she shall not go to school and learn to despise him and me. He says she will learn to be ashamed of us before her grand friends. Do you think she will ever be ashamed of me?" There was a yearning look in the uncomplaining eyes. Zephyr looked meditatively at the fire, pursed his lips, and, deliberately thrusting his hand into the bosom of his shirt, drew forth his harmonica. He softly blew forth a few bars of a plaintive melody, then, taking the instrument from his lips, began to speak, without raising his eyes. "If my memory serves me right, I used to know a little girl on a big ranch who had a large following of beasts and birds that had got into various kinds of trouble, owing to their limitations as such. I also remember that that same little girl on several appropriate occasions banged hell--if you will excuse a bad word for the sake of good emphasis--out of two-legged beasts for abusing their superior kind. Who would fly at the devil to protect a broken-winged gosling. Who would coax rainbows out of alkali water and sweet-scented flowers out of hot sand. My more recent memory seems to put it up to me that this same little girl, with more years on her head and a growing heart under her ribs, has sat up many nights with sick infants, and fought death from said infants to the great joy of their owners. From which I infer, if by any chance said little girl should be lifted up into heaven and seated at the right hand of God, much trouble would descend upon the Holy Family if Madame should want to be near her little Élise, and any of the said Holies should try to stand her off." Madame did not fully understand, but what did it matter? Zephyr was on her side. Of that she was satisfied. She vaguely gleaned from his words that, in his opinion, Élise would always love her and would never desert her. She hugged this comforting thought close to her cramped soul. "But," she began, hesitatingly, "Pierre said that she should not go to school, that she should marry right away." "Pierre is a very hard shell with a very small kernel," remarked Zephyr. "Which means that Pierre is going to do what he thinks is well for Élise. Élise has got a pretty big hold on Pierre." "But he promised her father that he would give back Élise to her friends, and now he says he won't." "Have you told Élise that Pierre is not her father?" "No; I dare not." "That's all right. Let me try to think out loud a little. The father and mother of Élise ran away to marry. That is why her friends know nothing of her. Her mother died before Élise was six months old, and her father before she was a yearling. Pierre promised to get Élise back to her father's family. It wasn't just easy at that time to break through the mountains and Injuns to Denver. You and Pierre waited for better times. When better times came you both had grown very fond of Élise. A year or so would make no difference to those who did not know. Now Élise is sixteen. Pierre realizes that he must make a choice between now and never. He's got a very soft spot in his heart for Élise. It's the only one he ever had, or ever will have. Élise isn't his. That doesn't make very much difference. Pierre has never had any especial training in giving up things he wants, simply because they don't belong to him. You haven't helped train him otherwise." Zephyr glanced at Madame. Madame's cheeks suddenly glowed, then as suddenly paled. A faint thought of what might have been years ago came and went. Zephyr resumed: "As long as Élise is unmarried, there is danger of his being compelled to give her up. Well," Zephyr's lips grew hard, "you can set your mind at rest. Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and when the proper time comes, which will be soon, Pierre is going to give her up." Madame had yet one more episode upon which she needed light. She told Zephyr of Pierre's threatened attack, and of Élise's holding him off at the point of her revolver. She felt, but was not sure, that Élise by her open defiance had only sealed her fate. Zephyr smiled appreciatively. "She's got her father's grit and Pierre's example. Her sense is rattling round in her head, as her nonsense is outside of it. She'll do all right without help, if it comes to that; but it won't." Madame rose, as if to depart. Zephyr waved her to her seat. "Not yet. You rest here for a while. It's a hard climb up here and a hard climb down. I'll shake things up a little on my prospect. I'll be back by dinner-time." He picked up a hammer and drills and went still farther up the mountain. Having reached the Inferno, he began his work. Perhaps he had no thought of Jael or Sisera; but he smote his drill with a determined emphasis that indicated ill things for Pierre. Jael pinned the sleeping head of Sisera to the earth. Sleeping or waking, resisting or acquiescent, Pierre's head was in serious danger, if it threatened Élise. Zephyr loaded the hole and lighted the fuse, then started for the camp. A loud explosion startled Madame from the most peaceful repose she had enjoyed for many a day. After dinner Zephyr saw Madame safely down the worst of the trail. "Pierre is not all bad," he remarked, at parting. "You just _restez tranquille_ and don't worry. It's a pretty thick fog that the sun can't break through, and, furthermore, a fog being only limited, as it were, and the sun tolerably persistent, it's pretty apt to get on top at most unexpected seasons." Madame completed the remainder of her journey with very different emotions from those with which she had begun it. She entered the back door of the Blue Goose. Pierre was not in the room, as she had half expected, half feared. She looked around anxiously, then dropped into a chair. The pendulum changed its swing. She was under the old influences again. Zephyr and the mountain-top were far away. A thousand questions struggled in her mind. Why had she not thought of them before? It was no use. Again she was groping for help. She recalled a few of Zephyr's words. "Élise isn't going to marry Morrison, and Pierre's going to give her up." They did not thrill her with hope. She could not make them do so by oft repeating. Confused recollections crowded these few words of hope. She could not revivify them. She could only cling to them with blind, uncomprehending trust, as the praying mother clings to the leaden crucifix. CHAPTER IX _The Meeting at the Blue Goose_ An algebraic formula is very fascinating, but at the same time it is very dangerous. The oft-times repeated assumption that _x_ plus _y_ equals _a_ leads ultimately to the fixed belief that a is an attainable result, whatever values may be assigned to the other factors. If we assign concrete dollars to the abstract _x_ and _y_, _a_ theoretically becomes concrete dollars as well. But immediately we do this, another factor known as the personal equation calls for cards, and from then on insists upon sitting in the game. Simple algebra no longer suffices; calculus, differential as well as integral, enters into our problem, and if we can succeed in fencing out quaternions, to say nothing of the _nth_ dimension, we may consider ourselves fortunate. Pierre was untrained in algebra, to say nothing of higher mathematics; but it is a legal maxim that ignorance of the law excuses no one, and this dictum is equally applicable to natural and to human statutes. Pierre assumed very naturally that five dollars plus five dollars equals ten dollars, and dollars were what he was after. He went even further. Without stating the fact, he felt instinctively that, if he could tip the one-legged plus to the more stable two-legged sign of multiplication, the result would be twenty-five dollars instead of ten. He knew that dollars added to, or multiplied by, dollars made wealth; but he failed to comprehend that wealth was a variable term with no definite, assignable value. In other words, he never knew, nor ever would know, when he had enough. Pierre had started in life with the questionable ambition of becoming rich. As foreman on a ranch at five dollars a day and found, he was reasonably contented with simple addition. On the sudden death of his employer he was left in full charge, with no one to call him to account, and addition became more frequent and with larger sums. His horizon widened, the Rainbow mine was opened, and the little town of Pandora sprang into existence. Three hundred workmen, with unlimited thirst and a passion for gaming, suggested multiplication, and Pierre moved from the ranch to the Blue Goose. Had he fixed upon a definition of wealth and adhered to it, a few years at the Blue Goose would have left him satisfied. As it was, his ideas grew faster than his legitimate opportunities. The miners were no more content with their wages than he with his gains, and so it happened that an underground retort was added to the above-ground bar and roulette. The bar and roulette had the sanction of law; the retort was existing in spite of it. The bar and roulette took care of themselves, and incidentally of Pierre; but with the retort, the case was different. Pierre had to look out for himself as well as the furnace. As proprietor of a saloon, his garnered dollars brought with them the protection of the nine points of the law--possession; the tenth was never in evidence. As a vender of gold bullion, with its possession, the nine points made against rather than for him. As for the tenth, at its best it only offered an opportunity for explanation which the law affords the most obviously guilty. Morrison allowed several days to pass after his interview with Luna before acquainting Pierre with the failure to land their plunder. The disclosure might have been delayed even longer had not Pierre made some indirect inquiries. Pierre had taken the disclosure in a very different manner from what Morrison had expected. Morrison, as has been set forth, was a very slick bird, but he was not remarkable for his sagacity. His cunning had influenced him to repel, with an assumption of ignorance, Luna's broad hints of guilty complicity; but his sagacity failed utterly to comprehend Pierre's more cunning silence. Pierre was actively acquainted with Morrison's weak points, and while he ceased not to flatter them he never neglected to gather rewards for his labour. If the fabled crow had had the wit to swallow his cheese before he began to sing he would at least have had a full stomach to console himself for being duped. This is somewhat prognostical; but even so, it is not safe to jump too far. It sometimes happens that the fox and the crow become so mutually engrossed as to forget the possibility of a man and a gun. Late this particular evening Luna entered the Blue Goose, and having paid tribute at the bar, was guided by the knowing winks and nods of Morrison into Pierre's private club-room, where Morrison himself soon followed. Morrison opened the game at once. "That new supe at the Rainbow is getting pretty fly." He apparently addressed Pierre. Pierre bowed, in smiling acquiescence. "Our little game is going to come to an end pretty soon, too." "To what li'l game you refer?" Pierre inquired, blandly. Pierre did not mind talking frankly with one; with two he weighed his words. Morrison made an impatient gesture. "You know. I told you about the old man's getting back that ore." Pierre rubbed his hands softly. "Meestaire Firmstone, he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff." "He's getting too smooth," interrupted Luna. "I don't mind a supe's looking out for his company. That's what he's paid for. But when he begins putting up games on the men, that's another matter, and I don't propose to stand it. Not for my part." "He's not bin populaire wiz ze boy?" inquired Pierre. "No." Pierre chuckled softly. "He keeps too much ze glass-eye on ze plate, on ze stamp, heh?" "That's not all." "No," Pierre continued; "he mek ze sample; he mek ze assay, hall ze time." "That's not all, either. He----" "A--a--ah! He bin mek ze viseete in ze mill in ze night, all hour, any hour. Ze boy can't sleep, bin keep awake, bin keep ze han'--" Pierre winked knowingly, making a scoop with his hand, and thrusting it into his pocket. Luna grinned. "At ze mine ze boy get two stick powdaire, four candle, all day, eh? No take ten, fifteen stick, ten, fifteen candle, use two, four, sell ze res'?" Pierre again winked smilingly. "You're sizing it up all right." "_Bien!_ I tol' you. Ze hol' man, he's bin hall right. I tol' you look out. Bimeby I tol' you again. Goslow. Da's hall." Morrison was getting impatient. "What's the use of barking our shins, climbing for last year's birds' nests? The facts are just as I told you. The old man's getting too fly. The boys are getting tired of it. The question is, how are we going to stop him? If we can't stop him can we get rid of him?" "I can tell you one way to stop him, and get rid of him at the same time," Luna broke in. "How is that?" asked Morrison. "Cut the cable when he goes up on the tram." "Will you take the job?" Morrison asked, sarcastically. Luna's enthusiasm waned under the question. "Such things have happened." "Some odder tings also happens." Pierre slipped an imaginary rope around his neck. Morrison passed the remark and started in on a line of his own. "I've been telling Luna and some of the other boys what I think. I don't mind their making a little on the side. It's no more than they deserve, and the company can stand it. It doesn't amount to much, anyway. But what I do kick about is this everlasting spying around all the time. It's enough to make a thief out of an honest man. If you put a man on his honour, he isn't going to sleep on shift, even if the supe doesn't come in on him, every hour of the night. Anyway, a supe ought to know when a man does a day's work. Isn't that so?" He looked at Luna. "That's right, every time." "Then there's another point. A man has some rights of his own, if he does work for $3 a day. The old man is all the time posting notices at the mine and at the mill. He tells men what days they can get their pay, and what days they can't. If a man quits, he's got to take a time-check that isn't worth face, till pay-day. Now what I want to know is this: Haven't the men just as good a right to post notices as the company has?" Morrison was industriously addressing Pierre, but talking at Luna. Pierre made no response, so Luna spoke instead. "I've been thinking the same thing." Morrison turned to Luna. "Well, I'll tell you. You fellows don't know your rights. When you work eight hours the company owes you three dollars. You have a right to your full pay any time you want to ask for it. Do you get it? Not much. The company says pay-day is the 15th of every month. You have nothing to say about it. You begin to work the first of one month. At the end of the month the company makes up the payroll. On the 15th you get pay for last month's work. The 15th, suppose you want to quit. You ask for your time. Do you get your pay for the fifteen days? Not much. They give you a time-check. If you'll wait thirty days you'll get a bank-check or cash, just as they choose. Suppose you want your money right away, do you get it?" Morrison looked fixedly at Luna. Luna shook his head in reply. "Of course not. What do you do? Why, you go to a bank, and if the company's good the bank will discount your check--one, two, three, or five per cent. Your time amounts to $60, less board. The bank gives you, instead of $60, $57, which means that you put in one hard day's work to get what's your due." "The law's done away with time-checks," objected Luna. "Oh, yes, so it has. Says you must be paid in full." Morrison called on all his sarcasm to add emphasis to his words. "So the company complies with the law. It writes out a bank-check for $60, but dates it thirty days ahead, so the bank gets in its work, just the same." Luna glanced cunningly from Morrison to Pierre. "It strikes me that the Blue Goose isn't giving the bank a fair show. I never cashed in at the bank." "What time ze bank open, eh?" Pierre asked, languidly. "Ten to four." Luna looked a trifle puzzled. "_Bien!_ Sunday an' ze holiday?" pursued Pierre. "'Tain't open at all." "_Très bien!_ Ze Blue Goose, she mek open hall ze time, day, night, Sunday, holiday." "Well, you get paid for it," answered Luna, doggedly. "Oh, that isn't all," Morrison interrupted, impatiently. "I just give you this as one example. I can bring up a thousand. You know them as well as I do. There's no use going over the whole wash." There was no reply. Morrison went on, "There's no use saying anything about short time, either. You keep your own time; but what does that amount to? You take what the company gives you. Of course, the law will take your time before the company's; but what does that amount to? Just this: You're two or three dollars shy on your time. You go to law about it, and you'll get your two or three dollars; but it will cost you ten times as much; besides, you'll be blacklisted." It may appear that Morrison was training an able-bodied Gatling on a very small corporal's guard, and so wasting his ammunition. The fact is, Morrison was an active dynamo to which Luna, as an exhausted battery, was temporarily attached. Mr. Morrison felt very sure that if Luna were properly charged he would increase to a very large extent the radius of dynamic activity. Inwardly Pierre was growing a little restless over Morrison's zeal. It was perfectly true that in the matter of paying the men the company was enforcing an arbitrary rule that practically discounted by a small per cent. the men's wages; but the men had never objected. Understanding the reason, they had never even considered it an injustice. There was no bank at Pandora, and it was not a very safe proceeding for a company, even, to carry a large amount of cash. Besides, the men knew very well that the discount did not benefit the company in the least. An enforcement of the law would interfere with Pierre's business. If Pierre found no butter on one side of his toast, he was accustomed to turn it over and examine the other side before he made a row. Recalling the fact that last impressions are the strongest, he proceeded to take a hand himself. He turned blandly to Luna. "How long you bin work in ze mill?" he asked. "About a year." "You get ze check every month?" "Why, yes; of course." "How much he bin discount?" "Nothing." "_Bien!_ You mek ze kick for noddings?" "I don't know about that," remarked Luna. "The way I size it up, that's about all that's coming my way. It's kick or nothing." There was a knock at the door. "Come in," called Morrison. The door swung open, and the mine foreman entered. "Why, howdy, Jim? You're just the fellow we've been waiting for. How's things at the mine?" "Damned if I know!" replied Jim, tossing his hat on the floor. "The old man's in the mix-up, so I don't know how much I'm supposed to know." "What are you supposed to know?" Morrison was asking leading questions. "Well, for one thing, I'm supposed to know when a man's doing a day's work." "Well, don't you?" "Not according to the old man. He snoops around and tells me that this fellow's shirking, and to push him up; that that fellow's not timbering right, doesn't know his business, that I'd better fire him; that the gang driving on Four are soldiering, that I'd better contract it." "Contract it, eh?" "Yes." "Did you?" "I had to!" "How are the contractors making out?" "Kicking like steers; say they ain't making wages." "Who measures up?" "The old man, of course." "Uses his own tape and rod, eh?" "Yes. Why?" "Oh, nothing; only, if I were you, I'd just look over his measures. You never heard of tapes that measured thirteen inches to the foot, did you? Nor of rods that made a hole three feet, when it was four?" "What are you feeding us?" the foreman asked, in surprise. "Pap. You're an infant. So's the gang of you." "What do you mean?" "Just this." Morrison looked wearied. "Thirteen inches to the foot means eight and one-third feet to the hundred. That is, it's likely the contractors are doing one hundred and eight feet and four inches, and getting pay for a hundred. No wonder they're kicking. That's $75 to the good for the company." "I never thought of that," replied the foreman. "I don't know that it's to be wondered at," answered Morrison. "After a man's pounded steel all day and got his head full of powder smoke, he's too tired and sick to think of anything. How are you coming on with the organisation?" "Oh, all right. Most of the boys will come in all right. Some are standing off, though. Say they'd as soon be pinched by the company as bled by the union." "Oh, well, don't trouble them too much. We'll attend to them later on. It's going to be a bad climate for scabs when we get our working clothes on." "It means a strike to get them out." To this sentiment Luna acquiesced with an emphatic nod. "Strike!" ejaculated Morrison. "That's just what we will do, and pretty soon, too!" He was still smarting with the memory of Bennie's words. Pierre again took a hand. "Who mek ze troub', heh? Meestaire Firmstone. I bin tol' you he's smooth stuff, ver' smooth stuff. You mek ze strike. _P'quoi?_ Mek Meestaire Firmstone quit, eh? _Bien!_ You mek ze strike, you mek Meestaire Firmstone keep his job. _P'quoi?_ Ze company say Meestaire Firmstone one good man; he mek ze boy kick. _Bien!_ Meester Firmstone, he stay." "He'll stay, anyway," growled Morrison, "unless we can get him out." Pierre shook his head softly. "Ze strike mek him to stay." "What do you propose, then?" asked Morrison, impatiently. "Meestaire Jim at ze mine bin foreman. Meestaire Luna at ze mill bin foreman. Slick men! Ver' slick men! An' two slick men bin ask hol' Pierre, one hol' Frenchmans, how mek for Meestaire Firmstone ze troub'." Pierre shook his head deprecatingly. "Mek one suppose. Mek suppose ze mill all ze time broke down. Mek suppose ze mine raise hell. _Bien!_ Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone bin no good.'" "Frenchy's hitting pay dirt all right," commented Luna. "That's the stuff!" Pierre rose to his feet excitedly. "_Bien!_ Ze mill broke down and ze mine blow hup. Bimeby ze company say, 'Meestaire Firmstone mek _beaucoup_ ze troub' all ze time!' _Bien!_ Ze steel get hin ze roll, ze stamp break, ze tram break, ze men kick. Hall ze time Meestaire Firmstone mek ze explain. _Comment!_ 'Meestaire Firmstone, you ain't bin fit for no superintend. Come hoff; we bin got anodder fel'.'" Luna expressed his comprehension of Pierre's plan. He was seconded by the mine foreman. Morrison was not wholly enthusiastic; but he yielded. "Well," he said, "warm it up for him. We'll give it a try, anyway. I'd like to see that smooth-faced, glass-eyed company minion dancing on a hot iron." The assembly broke up. The very next day the warming process began in earnest. CHAPTER X _Élise Goes Forth to Conquer_ Élise had been environed by very plebeian surroundings. Being ignorant of her birth-right, her sympathies were wholly with her associates. Not that as yet they had had any occasion for active development; only the tendencies were there. In a vague, indefinite way she had heard of kings and queens, of lords and ladies, grand personages, so far above common folk that they needs must have mongrel go-betweens to make known their royal wills. Though she knew that kings and queens had no domain beneath the eagle's wings, she had absorbed the idea that in the distant East there was springing up a thrifty crop of nobilities who had very royal wills which only lacked the outward insignia. These, having usurped that part of the eagle's territory known as the East, were now sending into the as yet free West their servile and unscrupulous minions. This was common talk among the imported citizens who flocked nightly to the Blue Goose, and in this view of the case the home-made article coincided with its imported fellows. There were, however, a few independents like Bennie, and these had a hard row of corn. By much adulation the spirit of liberty was developing tyrannical tendencies, and by a kind of cross-fertilization was inspiring her votaries with the idea that freedom meant doing as they pleased, and dissenters be damned! On this evening Élise was in attendance as usual at the little arcade, which was divided from the council-room by a thin partition only. Consequently, she had overheard every word that passed between Pierre and his visitors. She had given only passive attention to Morrison's citation of grievances; but to his proposed plan of action she listened eagerly. Her sympathies were thoroughly enlisted over his proposed strike more than over Pierre's artful suggestion of covert nagging. Not that she considered an ambushed attack, under the circumstances, as reprehensible, but rather because open attack revealed one's personality as much as the other course concealed it. The first year only of humanity is wholly satisfied, barring colic, with the consciousness of existence. The remaining years are principally concerned with impressing it upon others. Élise was very far from possessing what might be termed a retiring disposition. This was in a large measure due to a naturally vivacious temperament; for the rest, it was fostered by peculiarly congenial surroundings. In this environment individuality was free to express itself until it encountered opposition, when it was still more freely stimulated to fight for recognition, and, by sheer brute force, to push itself to the ascendant. This being the case, Élise was sufficiently inspired by the exigencies of the evening to conceive and plan an aggressive campaign on her own account. Being only a girl, she could not take part either in Morrison's open warfare, or in Pierre's more diplomatic intrigues. Being a girl, and untrammelled by conventionalities, she determined upon a raid of her own. Her objective point was none other than Firmstone himself. Having come to this laudable conclusion, she waited impatiently an opportunity for its execution. Early one morning, a few days later, Élise saw Firmstone riding unsuspiciously by, on his way to the mine. Previous observations had taught her to expect his return about noon. So without ceremony, so far as Pierre and Madame were concerned, Élise took another holiday, and followed the trail that led to the mine. At the falls, where she had eaten breakfast with Zephyr, she waited for Firmstone's return. Toward noon she heard the click of iron shoes against the rocks, and, scattering the flowers which she had been arranging, she rose to her feet. Firmstone had dismounted and was drinking from the stream. She stood waiting until he should notice her. As he rose to his feet he looked at her in astonished surprise. Above the average height, his compact, athletic figure was so perfectly proportioned that his height was not obtrusive. His beardless face showed every line of a determination that was softened by mobile lips which could straighten and set with decision, or droop and waver with appreciative humour. His blue eyes were still more expressive. They could glint with set purpose, or twinkle with quiet humour that seemed to be heightened by their polished glasses. Élise was inwardly abashed, but outwardly she showed no sign. She stood straight as an arrow, her hands clasped behind her back, every line of her graceful figure brought out by her unaffected pose. "So you are the old man, are you?" The curiosity of the child and the dignity of the woman were humorously blended in her voice and manner. "At your service." Firmstone raised his hat deliberately. The dignity of the action was compromised by a twinkle of his eyes and a wavering of his lips. Élise looked a little puzzled. "How old are you?" she asked, bluntly. "Twenty-eight." "That's awfully old. I'm sixteen," she answered, decisively. "That's good. What next?" "What's a minion?" she asked. She was trying to deploy her forces for her premeditated attack. "A minion?" he repeated, with a shade of surprise. "Oh, a minion's a fellow who licks the boots of the one above him and kicks the man below to even up." Élise looked bewildered. "What does that mean?" "Oh, I see." Firmstone's smile broadened. "You're literal-minded. According to Webster, a minion is a man who seeks favours by flattery." "Webster!" she exclaimed. "Who's Webster?" "He's the man who wrote a lexicon." "A lexicon? What's a lexicon?" "It's a book that tells you how to spell words, and tells you what they mean." Élise looked superior. "I know how to spell words, and I know what they mean, too, without looking in a--. What did you call it?" "Lexicon. I thought you just said you knew what words meant." "I didn't mean big words, just words that common folks use." "You aren't common folks, are you?" "That's just what I am," Élise answered, aggressively, "and we aren't ashamed of it, either. We're just as good as anybody," she ended, with a toss of her head. "Oh, thanks." Firmstone laughed. "I'm common folks, too." "No, you aren't. You're a minion. M'sieu Mo-reeson says so. You're a capitalistic hireling sent out here to oppress the poor workingman. You use long tape-lines to measure up, and short rods to measure holes, and you sneak in the mill at night, and go prying round the mine, and posting notices, and--er--oh, lots of things. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." She paused in breathless indignation, looking defiantly at Firmstone. Firmstone chuckled. "Looks as if I were a pretty bad lot, doesn't it? How did you find out all that?" "I didn't have to find it out. I hear M'sieu Mo-reeson and Daddy and Luna and lots of others talking about it. Daddy says you're 'smooth, ver' smooth stuff,'" she mimicked. Élise disregarded minor contradictions. "'Twon't do you any good, though. The day is not far distant when down-trodden labour will rise and smite the oppressor. Then----" her lips were still parted, but memory failed and inspiration refused to take its place. "Oh, well," she concluded, lamely, "you'll hunt your hole all right." "You're an out-and-out socialist, aren't you?" "A socialist?" Élise looked aghast. "What's a socialist?" "A socialist is one who thinks that everyone else is as unhappy and discontented as he is, and that anything that he can't get is better than what he can. Won't you be seated?" Firmstone waved her to a boulder. Élise seated herself, but without taking her eyes from Firmstone's face. "Now you're making fun of me." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are." "What makes you think so?" "Because you sit there and grin and grin all the time, and use big words that you know I can't understand. Where did you learn them?" "At school." "Oh, you've been to school, then, have you?" "Yes." "How long did you go to school?" "Ten or twelve years, altogether." "Ten or twelve years! What an awful stupid you must be!" She looked at him critically; then, with a modifying intonation, "Unless you learned a whole lot. I know I wouldn't have to go to school so long." She looked very decided. Then, after a pause, "You must have gone clear through your arithmetic. Zephyr taught me all about addition and division and fractions, clear to square root. I wanted to go through square root, but he said he didn't know anything about square root, and it wasn't any use, anyway. Did you go through square root?" "Yes. Do you want me to teach you square root?" "Oh, perhaps so, some time," Élise answered, indifferently. "What else did you study?" "Algebra, trigonometry, Latin, Greek." Firmstone teasingly went through the whole curriculum, ending with botany and zoology. Élise fairly gasped. "I never knew there was so much to learn. What's zoo--what did you call it--about?" "Zoology," explained Firmstone; "that teaches you about animals, and botany teaches you about plants." "Oh, is that all?" Élise looked relieved, and then superior. "Why, I know all about animals and plants and birds and things, and I didn't have any books, and I never went to school, either. Do all the big folks back East have to have books and go to school to learn such things? They must be awful stupids. Girls don't go to school out here, nor boys either. There aren't any schools out here. Not that I know of. Mammy says I must go to school somewhere. Daddy says I sha'n't. They have no end of times over it, and it's lots of fun to see daddy get mad. Daddy says I've got to get married right away. But I won't. You didn't tell me if girls went to school with you." "No; they have schools of their own." Élise asked many questions. Then, suddenly dropping the subject, she glanced up at the sun. "It's almost noon, and I'm awfully hungry. I think I'll have to go." "I'll walk down with you, if you'll allow me." He slipped his arm through the bridle and started down the trail. Élise walked beside him, plying him with questions about his life in the East, and what people said and did. Firmstone dropped his teasing manner and answered her questions as best he could. He spoke easily and simply of books and travel and a thousand and one things that her questions and comments suggested. Her manner had changed entirely. Her simplicity, born of ignorance of the different stations in life which they occupied, displayed her at her best. Her expressive eyes widened and deepened, and the colour of her cheeks paled and glowed under the influence of the new and strange world of which he was giving her her first glimpse. They reached the Blue Goose. Firmstone paused, raising his hat as he turned toward her. But Élise was no longer by his side. She had caught sight of Morrison, who was standing on the top step, glowering savagely, first at her, then at Firmstone. Morrison was habilitated in his usual full dress--that is, in his shirt-sleeves, unbuttoned vest, a collarless shirt flecked with irregular, yellowish dots, and a glowing diamond. Just now he stood with his hands in his pockets and his head thrust decidedly forward. His square, massive jaw pressed his protruding lips against his curled moustache. His eyes, narrowed to a slit, shot forth malignant glances, his wavy hair, plastered low upon a low forehead and fluffed out on either side, flattened and broadened his head to the likeness of a venomous serpent preparing to strike. Élise reached the foot of the stone steps, shot a look of fierce defiance at the threatening Morrison, then she turned toward Firmstone, with her head bent forward till her upturned eyes just reached him from beneath her arching brows. She swept him a low courtesy. "Good-bye, Mr. Minion!" she called. "I've had an awfully nice time." She half turned her head toward Morrison, then, as Firmstone lifted his hat in acknowledgment, she raised her hand to her laughing lips and flung him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. Gathering her skirts in her hand, she darted up the steps and nearly collided with Morrison, who had deliberately placed himself in her way. She met Morrison's indignant look with the hauteur of an offended goddess. Morrison's eyes fell from before her; but he demanded: "Where did you pick up that--that scab?" It was the most opprobrious epithet he could think of. Élise's rigid figure stiffened visibly. "It's none of your business." "What have you been talking about?" "It's none of your business. Is there any more information you want that you won't get?" "I'll make it my business!" Morrison burst out, furiously. "I'll----" "Go back to your gambling and leave me alone!" With unflinching eyes, that never left his face, she passed him almost before he was aware of it, and entered the open door. Could Morrison have seen the change that came over her face, as soon as her back was toward him, he might have gained false courage, through mistaking the cause. Loathing and defiance had departed. In their place were bewildering questionings, not definite, but suggested. For the first time in her life her hitherto spontaneous actions waited approbation before the bar of judgment. The coarse, venomous looks of Morrison ranged themselves side by side with the polished ease and deference of Firmstone. As she passed through the bar-room long accustomed sights were, for the first time, seen, not clearly, but comparatively. In the corridor that led to the dining-room she encountered Pierre. She did not speak to him. The quick eyes of the little Frenchman noted the unwonted expression, but he did not question her. At the proper time he would know all. Meantime his concern was not to forget. Élise opened the door of the dining-room and entered. Madame looked up as the door closed. Élise stood with distant eyes fixed upon the pathetically plain little woman. Never before had she noticed the lifeless hair strained from the colourless tan of the thin face, the lustreless eyes, the ill-fitting, faded calico wrapper that dropped in meaningless folds from the spare figure. Madame waited patiently for Élise to speak, or to keep silence as she chose. For a moment only Élise stood. The next instant Madame felt the strong young arms about her, felt hot, decided kisses upon her cheeks. Madame was surprised. Élise was fierce with determination. Élise was doing penance. Madame did not know it. Élise left Madame standing bewildered, and darted upstairs to her little room. She flung herself on her bed and fought--fought with ghostly, flitting shadows that elusively leered from darker shades, grasped at fleeting phantoms that ranged themselves beside the minatory demons, until at last she grew tired and slept. Élise had left the Blue Goose in the morning, a white-winged, erratic craft, skimming the sparkling, land-locked harbours of girlhood. She returned, and already the first lifting swells beyond the sheltering bar were tossing her in their arms. She had entered the shoreless ocean of womanhood. Pierre passed from the corridor to the bar-room. He glanced from the bar to the gaming-tables, where a few listless players were engaged at cards, and finally stepped out upon the broad piazza. He glanced at Morrison, who was following Firmstone with a look of malignant hatred. "Meestaire Firmstone, he bin come from ze mine?" "To hell with Firmstone!" growled Morrison. He turned and entered the saloon. Pierre followed him with knowing eyes. "To hell wiz Firmstone, heh?" He breathed softly. "_Bien!_" Pierre stood looking complacently over the broken landscape. Much understanding was coming to him. The harmlessness of the dove radiated from his beaming face, but the wisdom of the serpent was shining in his eyes. CHAPTER XI _The Devil's Elbow_ If Firmstone had flattered himself that his firm but just treatment of Luna in the case of the stolen ore had cleared his path of difficulties he would have been forced by current events to a rude awakening. He had been neither flattered nor deceived. He knew very well that a prop put under an unstable boulder may obscure the manifestation of gravity; but he never deceived himself with the thought that it had been eliminated. The warming-up process, recommended by Pierre, was being actively exploited. Scarcely a day passed but some annoying accident at the mine or mill occurred, frequently necessitating prolonged shut-downs. Day by day, by ones, by twos, by threes, his best men were leaving the mine. There was no need to ask them why, even if they would have given a truthful answer. He knew very well why. Yet he was neither disheartened nor discouraged. He realised the fact clearly, as he had written to his Eastern employers that it would take time and much patient endeavour to restore order where chaos had reigned so long undisturbed. There was another element impeding his progress which he by no means ignored--that was the Blue Goose. He had no tangible evidence against the resort beyond its obvious pretensions. He had no need of the unintentional but direct evidence of Élise's words that the habitués of the Blue Goose there aired their grievances, real or imagined, and that both Pierre and Morrison were assiduously cultivating this restlessness by sympathy and counsel. He was morally certain of another fact--that the Blue Goose was indirectly, at least, at the bottom of the extensive system of thieving, in offering a sure market for the stolen gold. This last fact had not especially troubled him, for he felt sure that the careful system of checks which he had inaugurated at the outset would eventually make the stealing so dangerous that it would be abandoned. So far in the history of the camp, when once the plates were cleaned and gold, as ingots, was in possession of the company, it had been perfectly safe. No attempts at hold-ups had ever been made. Yet Firmstone had provided, in a measure, safeguards against this possibility. The ingots had been packed in a small steel safe and shipped by stage to the nearest express office, about ten miles distant. Shipments had not been made every day, of course. But every day Firmstone had sent the safe, loaded with pigs of lead. The next day the safe was returned, and in it was the agent's receipt. Whether the safe carried gold or lead, the going and the returning weight was the same. If the safe carried gold enough lead was added by the express agent to make the returning weight the same. This fact was generally known, and even if a stage hold-up should be attempted, the chances were thirty to one that a few pounds of lead would be the only booty of the robbers. This afternoon Firmstone was at his office-desk in a meditative and relieved frame of mind. He was meditative over his troubles that, for all his care, seemed to be increasing. Relieved in that, but an hour before, $50,000 in bullion had been loaded into the stage, and was now rolling down the cañon on the way to its legitimate destination. His meditations were abruptly broken, and his sense of relief violently dissipated, when the office-door was thrust open, and hatless, with clothing torn to shreds, the stage-driver stood before him, his beard clotted with blood which flowed from a jagged cut that reached from his forehead across his cheek. Firmstone sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation. The driver swept his hand over his blood-clotted lips. "No; 'tain't a hold-up; just a plain, flat wreck. The whole outfit went over the cliff at the Devil's Elbow. I stayed with my job long's I could, but that wa'n't no decades." Firmstone dragged the man into his laboratory, and carefully began to wash the blood from his face. "That's too long a process, gov'ner." The driver soused his head into the bucket of cold water which Firmstone had drawn from the faucet. "Can you walk now?" Firmstone asked. "Reckon I'll try it a turn. Been flyin', for all I know. Must have been, to get up the cliff. I flew down; that much I know. Lit on a few places. That's where I got this." He pointed to the cut. Firmstone led the man to his own room adjoining the office, and opening a small chest, took out some rolls of plaster and bandages. He began drying the wound. The office-door again opened and the bookkeeper entered. "Go tell Bennie to come down right away," Firmstone ordered, without pausing in his work. Satisfied that the man's skull was not fractured, he drew the edges of the wound together and fastened them with strips of plaster. A few minutes later Bennie, followed by Zephyr, hurriedly entered the office. Paying no attention to their startled exclamations, Firmstone said: "I wish you would look after Jim. He's badly hurt. He'll tell you about it. You said at the Devil's Elbow?" turning to the driver. Zephyr glanced critically at the man; then, making up his mind that he was not needed, he said: "I'll go along with you. Are you heeled?" Firmstone made no audible reply, but took down his revolver and cartridge-belt, and buckled them on. "'Tain't the heels you want; it's wings and fins. They won't be much good, either. The whole outfit's in the San Miguel. I followed it that far, and then pulled out." The driver was attempting to hold out gamely, but the excitement and the severe shaking-up were evidently telling on him. Firmstone and Zephyr left the office and followed the wagon-trail down the cañon. Neither spoke a word. They reached the scene of the wreck and, still silent, began to look carefully about. A hundred feet below them the San Miguel, swollen by melting snows, foamed and roared over its boulder-strewn bed. Near the foot of the cliff one of the horses was impaled on a jagged rock; its head and shoulders in the lapping water. In mid-stream and further down the other was pressed by the current against a huge rock that lifted above the flood. No trace of the stage was to be seen. That, broken into fragments by the fall, had been swept away. The spot where the accident occurred was a dangerous one at best. For some distance after leaving the mill the trail followed a nearly level bench of hard slate rock, then, dipping sharply downward, cut across a long rock-slide that reached to the summit of the mountain a thousand feet above. On the opposite side a square-faced buttress crowded the trail to the very brink of the cañon. The trail followed along the foot of this buttress for a hundred feet or more, and at the edge it again turned from the gorge at an acute angle. At the turning-point a cleft, twenty feet wide, cut the cliff from the river-bed to a point far above the trail. A bridge had spanned the cleft, but it was gone. The accident had been caused by the giving way of the bridge when the stage was on it. "Well, what do you make of it?" Firmstone turned to Zephyr and Zephyr shook his head. "That's a superfluous interrogation. Your thinks and mine on this subject under consideration are as alike as two chicks hatched from a double-yolked egg." "This is no accident." Firmstone spoke decidedly. Zephyr nodded deliberately. "That's no iridescent dream, unless you and I have been hitting the same pipe." "The question is," resumed Firmstone, "was the safe taken from the stage before the accident?" He looked at Zephyr inquiringly. "That depends on Jim Norwood." Zephyr whistled meditatively, then spoke with earnest decision. "That safe's in the river. The Blue Goose has been setting for some time. This ain't the first gosling that's pipped its shell, and 'tain't going to be the last one, either, unless the nest is broken up." "That's what I think." Firmstone spoke slowly. "But this is a dangerous game. I didn't think it would go so far." "It's up to you hard; but that isn't the worst of it. It's going to be up to you harder yet. They never reckoned on Jim's getting out of this alive." Zephyr seated himself, and his hand wandered unconsciously to his shirt. Then, changing his mind, he spoke without looking up. "You don't need this, Goggles, but I'm going to give it to you, just the same. You're heavier calibre and longer range than the whole crowd. But I am with you, and there are others. The gang haven't landed their plunder yet, and, what's more, they aren't going to, either. I'll see to that. You just _restez tranquille_, and give your mind to other things. This little job is about my size." Firmstone made no reply to Zephyr. He knew his man, knew thoroughly the loyal sense of honour that, though sheltered in humourous, apparently indifferent cynicism, was ready to fight to the death in defence of right. "I think we might as well go back to the mill. We've seen all there is to be seen here." They walked back in silence. At the office-door Zephyr paused. "Won't you come in?" asked Firmstone. "I think not, dearly beloved. The spirit moveth me in sundry places. In other words, I've got a hunch. And say, Goggles, don't ask any embarrassing questions, if your grub mysteriously disappears. Just charge it up to permanent equipment account, and keep quiet, unless you want to inquire darkly whether anyone knows what's become of that fellow Zephyr." "Don't take any risks, Zephyr. A man's a long time dead. You know as well as I the gang you're up against. I think I know what you're up to, and I also think I can help you out." Firmstone entered the office with no further words. It was the hardest task of many that he had had, to send a report of the disaster to the company, but he did not shrink from it. He made a plain statement of the facts of the case, including the manner in which the bridge had been weakened to the point of giving way when the weight of the stage had been put upon it. He also added that he was satisfied that the purpose was robbery, and that he knew who was at the bottom of the whole business, that steps were being taken to recover the safe; but that the conviction of the plotters was another and a very doubtful proposition. Above all things, he asked to be let alone for a while, at least. The driver, he stated, had no idea that the wrecking of the stage was other than it appeared on the face, an accident pure and simple. The letter was sealed and sent by special messenger to the railroad. One thing troubled Firmstone. He was very sure that his request to be let alone would not be heeded. Hartwell, the Eastern manager of the company, was a shallow, empty-headed man, insufferably conceited. He held the position, partly through a controlling interest in the shares, but more through the nimble use of a glib tongue that so man[oe]uvred his corporal's guard of information that it appeared an able-bodied regiment of knowledge covering the whole field of mining. If Firmstone had any weaknesses, one was an open contempt of flatterers and flattery, the other an impolitic, impatient resentment of patronage. There had been no open breaks between the manager and himself; in fact, the manager professed himself an admiring friend of Firmstone to his face. At directors' meetings "Firmstone was a fairly promising man who only needed careful supervision to make in time a valuable man for the company." Firmstone had strongly opposed the shipping of bullion by private conveyance instead of by a responsible express company. In this he was overruled by the manager. Being compelled to act against his judgment, he had done his best to minimise the risk by making dummy shipments each day, as has been explained. The loss of the month's clean-up was a very serious one, and he had no doubt but that it would result in a visit from the manager, and that the manager would insist upon taking a prominent part in any attempt to recover the safe, if indeed he did not assume the sole direction. The opportunity to add to his counterfeit laurels was too good to be lost. In the event of failure, Firmstone felt that no delicate scruples would prevent the shifting of the whole affair upon his own shoulders. Firmstone had not made the mistake of minimising the crafty cunning of Pierre, nor of interpreting his troubles at the mine and mill at their obvious values. Cunningly devised as was the wreck of the stage, he felt sure that there was another object in view than the very obvious and substantial one of robbery. With the successful wrecking of the stage there were yet large chances against the schemers getting possession of the safe and its contents. Still, there was a chance in their favour. If neither Pierre nor the company recovered the bullion, Pierre's scheme would not have miscarried wholly. The company would still be in ignorance of the possibilities of the mine. Firmstone arranged every possible detail clearly in his mind, from Pierre's standpoint. His thorough grasp of the entire situation, his unwearying application to the business in hand made further stealing impossible. Pierre was bound to get him out of his position. The agitation inaugurated by Morrison was only a part of the scheme by means of which this result was to be accomplished. A whole month's clean-up had been made. If this reached the company safely, it would be a revelation to them. Firmstone's position would be unassailable, and henceforth Pierre would be compelled to content himself with the yield of the gambling and drinking at the Blue Goose. Whether the bullion ever found its way to the Blue Goose or not, the wrecking of the stage would be in all likelihood the culminating disaster in Firmstone's undoing. Firmstone's indignation did not burn so fiercely against Pierre and Morrison--they were but venomous reptiles who threatened every decent man--as at the querulous criticisms of his employers, which were a perpetual drag, clogging his every movement, and threatening to neutralise his every effort in their behalf. He recalled the words of an old and successful mine manager: "You've got a hard row of corn. When you tackle a mine you've got to make up your mind to have everyone against you, from the cook-house flunkey to the president of the company, and the company is the hardest crowd to buck against." Firmstone's face grew hard. The fight was on, and he was in it to win. That was what he was going to do. Zephyr, meantime, had gone to the cook-house. He found Bennie in his room. "How's Jim?" he asked. "Sleeping. That's good for him. He'll pull out all right. Get on to anything at the bridge?" Bennie was at sharp attention. "Nothing to get on to, Julius Benjamin. The bridge is gone. So's everything else. It's only a matter of time when Goggles will be gone, too. This last will fix him with the company." Zephyr glanced slyly at Bennie with the last words. "The jig is up. The fiddle's broke its last string, and I'm going, too." Bennie's eyes were flaming. "Take shame to yourself for those words, you white-livered frog-spawn, with a speck in the middle for the black heart of you! You're going? Well, here's the bones of my fist and the toe of my boot, to speed you!" "You'll have to put me up some grub, Benjamin." "Grub! It's grub, is it? I'll give you none. Stay here a bit and I'll grub you to more purpose. I'll put grit in your craw and bones in your back, and a sup of glue, till you can stand straight and stick to your friends. Lacking understanding that God never gave you, I'll point them out to you!" Zephyr's eyes had a twinkle that Bennie's indignation overlooked. "The Lord never passed you by on the other side, Julius. He put a heavy charge in your bell-muzzle. You're bound to hit something when you go off. If He'd only put a time-fuse on your action, 'twould have only perfect. Not just yet, Julius Benjamin!" Zephyr languidly lifted a detaining hand as Bennie started to interrupt. "I'm going a long journey for an uncertain time. This is for the public. But, Julius, if you'll take a walk in the gloaming each day, and leave an edible bundle in the clump of spruces above the Devil's Elbow you'll find it mysteriously disappears. From which you may infer that I'm travelling in a circle with a small radius. And say, Julius, heave over some of your wind ballast and even up with discretion. You're to take a minor part in a play, with Goggles and me as stars." "It's lean ore you're working in your wind-mill. Just what does it assay?" Bennie was yet a little suspicious. "For a man of abundant figures, Julius, you have a surprising appetite for ungarnished speech. But here's to you! The safe's in the river. There's fifty thousand in bullion in the safe that's in the river. The Blue Goose crowd is after the bullion that's in the safe that's in the river. Say, Julius Benjamin, this is hard sledding. It's the story of the House that Jack Built, adapted to present circumstances. I'm going to hang out in the cañon till the river goes down, or till I bag some of the goslings from the Blue Goose. Your part is to work whom it may concern into the belief that I've lit out for my health, and meantime to play raven to my Elijah. Are you on?" "Yes, I'm on," growled Bennie. "On to more than you'll ever be. You have to empty the gab from your head to leave room for your wits." CHAPTER XII _Figs and Thistles_ Though Zephyr had not explained his plan of operations in detail, Firmstone found no difficulty in comprehending it. It was of prime importance to have the river watched by an absolutely trustworthy man, and Firmstone was in no danger of having an embarrassing number from whom to choose. A day or two of cold, cloudy weather was liable to occur at any time, and this, checking the melting of the snow, would lower the river to a point where it would be possible to search for, and to recover the safe. It was with a feeling of relief that he tacitly confided the guarding of the river to Zephyr. While he offered no opposition to Zephyr's carrying out his scheme of having his mysterious disappearance reported, he was fully satisfied that it would not deceive Pierre for an instant. Firmstone, however, was deceived in another way. It was a case of harmless self-deception, the factors of which were wholly beyond his control. His reason assured him unmistakably that Hartwell would start at once for Colorado on learning of the loss of the bullion, and that the manager would be a hindrance in working out his plans, if indeed he did not upset them entirely. Firmstone's confidence in his ability to emerge finally triumphant from his troubles came gradually to strengthen his hope into the belief that he would be let alone. A telegram could have reached him within a week after he had reported the loss, but none came. He was now awaiting a letter. The bridge had been repaired, and travel resumed. A meagre account of the accident had been noted in the Denver, as well as in the local papers, but no hint was given that it was considered otherwise than as an event incidental to mountain travel. The miraculous escape of the driver was the sole item of interest. These facts gratified Firmstone exceedingly. Pierre was evidently satisfied that the cards were in his own hands to play when and as he would. He was apparently well content to sit in the game with Firmstone as his sole opponent. Firmstone was equally well content, if only---- There came the sharp click of the office gate. Inside the railing stood a slender man of medium height, slightly stooped forward. On his left arm hung a light overcoat. From a smooth face, with a mouth whose thin lips oscillated between assumed determination and cynical half-smiles, a pair of grey eyes twinkled with a humorously tolerant endurance of the frailties of his fellow-men. "Well, how are you?" The gloved right hand shot out an accompaniment to his words. Firmstone took the proffered hand. "Nothing to complain of. This is something of a surprise." This was true in regard to one mental attitude, but not of another. Firmstone voiced his hopes, not his judgment. "It shouldn't be." The eyes lost their twinkle as the mouth straightened to a line. "I'm afraid you hardly appreciate the gravity of the situation. The loss of $50,000 is serious, but it's no killing matter to a company with our resources. It's the conditions which make such losses possible." "Yes." Firmstone spoke slowly. The twinkle was in his eyes now. "As I understand it, this is the first time conditions have made such a loss possible." The significance of the words was lost on Hartwell. The possibility of a view-point other than his own never occurred to him. "We will not discuss the matter now. I shall be here until I have straightened things out. I have brought my sister with me. Her physician ordered a change of air. Beatrice, allow me to introduce my superintendent, Mr. Firmstone." A pink and white face, with a pair of frank, blue eyes, looked out from above a grey travelling suit, and acknowledged the curt introduction. "I am very happy to meet you." Firmstone took the proffered hand in his own. Miss Hartwell smiled. "Don't make any rash assertions. I am going to be here a long time. Where are you going, Arthur?" She turned to her brother, who, after fidgeting around, walked briskly across the room. "I'll be back directly. I want to look after your room. Make yourself comfortable for a few minutes." Then addressing Firmstone, "I suppose our quarters upstairs are in order?" "I think so. Here are the keys. Or will you allow me?" "No, thanks. I'll attend to it." Hartwell took the keys and left the room. Firmstone turned to Miss Hartwell. "What kind of a trip did you have out?" "Delightful! It was hot and dusty across the plains, but then I didn't mind. It was all so new and strange. I really had no conception of the size of our country before." "And here, even, you are only a little more than half way across." "I know, but it doesn't mean much to me." "Does the altitude trouble you?" "You mean Marshall Pass?" "Yes. In part, but you know Denver is over five thousand feet. Some people find it very trying at first." "Perhaps I might have found it so if I had stopped to think. But I had something else to think of. You know I had a ridiculous sensation, just as if I were going to fall off the world. Now you speak of it, I really think I did gasp occasionally." She looked up smilingly at Firmstone. "I suppose you are so accustomed to such sights that my enthusiasm seems a bore." "Do you feel like gasping here?" "No; why do you ask?" "Because you are a thousand feet higher than at Marshall Pass, and here we are three thousand feet below the mine. You would not only have the fear of falling off from the world up there, but the danger of it as well." Miss Hartwell looked from the office window to the great cliff that rose high above its steep, sloped talus. "I told Arthur that I was going to see everything and climb everything out here, but I will think about it first." "I would suggest your seeing about it first. Perhaps that will be enough." Hartwell bustled into the room with a preoccupied air. "Sorry to have kept you waiting so long." Miss Hartwell followed her brother from the room and up the stairs. "Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Beatrice. I gave you full warning as to what you might expect out here. You will have to look out for yourself now. I shall be very busy; I can see that with half an eye." "I think if Mr. Firmstone is one half as efficient as he is agreeable you are borrowing trouble on a very small margin." Miss Hartwell spoke with decided emphasis. "Smooth speech and agreeable manners go farther with women than they do in business," Hartwell snapped out. "I hope you have a good business equipment to console yourself with." Hartwell made no reply to his sister, but busied himself unstrapping her trunk. "Dress for supper as soon as you can. You have an hour," he added, looking at his watch. Hartwell did not find Firmstone on re-entering the office. He seated himself at the desk and began looking over files of reports of mine and mill. Their order and completeness should have pleased him, but, from the frown on his face, they evidently did not. Firmstone, meanwhile, had gone to the cook-house to warn Bennie of his coming guests, and to advise the garnishing of the table with the whitest linen and the choicest viands which his stores could afford. "What sort of a crowd are they?" Bennie inquired. "You'll be able to answer your own question in a little while. That will save you the trouble of changing your mind." "'Tis no trouble at all, sir! It's a damned poor lobster that doesn't know what to do when his shell pinches!" Firmstone, laughing, went to the mill for a tour of inspection before the supper hour. Entering the office a little later, he found Hartwell at his desk. "Well," he asked, "how do you find things?" Hartwell's eyes were intrenched in a series of absorbed wrinkles that threw out supporting works across a puckered forehead. "It's too soon to speak in detail. I propose to inform myself generally before doing that." "That's an excellent plan." Hartwell looked up sharply. Firmstone's eyes seemed to neutralise the emphasis of his words. "Supper is ready when you are. Will Miss Hartwell be down soon?" Miss Hartwell rustled into the room, and her brother led the way to the cook-house. Bennie had heeded Firmstone's words. Perhaps there was a lack of delicate taste in the assortment of colours, but scarlet-pinks, deep red primroses, azure columbines, and bright yellow mountain sunflowers glared at each other, each striving to outreach its fellow above a matted bed of mossy phlox. Hartwell prided himself, among other things, on a correct eye. "There's a colour scheme for you, Beatrice; you can think of it in your next study." Bennie was standing by in much the same attitude as a suspicious bumble-bee. "Mention your opinion in your prayers, Mr. Hartwell, not to me. They're as God grew them. I took them in with one sweep of my fist." Miss Hartwell's eyes danced from Firmstone to Bennie. "Your cook has got me this time, Firmstone." Hartwell grinned his appreciation of Bennie's retort. They seated themselves, and Bennie began serving the soup. Hartwell was the last. Bennie handed his plate across the table. They were a little cramped for room, and Bennie was saving steps. "It's a pity you don't have a little more room here, Bennie, so you could shine as a waiter." "Good grub takes the shortest cut to a hungry man with no remarks on style. There's only one trail when they meet." Hartwell's manner showed a slight resentment that he was trying to conceal. "This soup is excellent. It's rather highly seasoned"--he looked slyly at Bennie--"but then there's no rose without its thorns." "True for you. But there's a hell of a lot of thorns with the roses, I take note. Beg pardon, Miss!" Miss Hartwell laughed. "You have had excellent success in growing them together, Bennie." "Thank you, Miss!" Bennie was flushed with pleasure. "I've heard tell that there were roses without thorns, but you're the first of the kind I've seen." Bennie had ideas of duty, even to undeserving objects. Consequently, Hartwell's needs were as carefully attended to as his sister's or Firmstone's, but in spite of all duty there is a graciousness of manner that is only to be had by a payment in kind. Bennie paraded his duty as ostentatiously as his pleasure, and with the same lack of words. Hartwell noted, and kept silence. Hartwell looked across to the table which Bennie was preparing for the mill crew. "Do you supply the men as liberally as you do your own table, Firmstone?" "Just the same." "Don't think I want to restrict you, Firmstone. I want you to have the best you can get, but it strikes me as a little extravagant for the men." Bennie considered himself invaded. "The men pay for their extravagance, sir." "A dollar a day only, with no risks," Hartwell tendered, rather stiffly. "I'll trade my wages for your profits," retorted Bennie, "and give you a commission, and I'll bind myself to feed them no more hash than I do now!" The company rose from the table. For the benefit of Miss Hartwell and Firmstone, Bennie moved across the room with the dignity of a drum-major, and, opening the door, bowed his guests from his presence. CHAPTER XIII _The Stork and the Cranes_ In spite of Élise's declaration that she would see him again, Firmstone dropped her from his mind long before he reached his office. She had been an unexpected though not an unpleasant, incident; but he had regarded her as only an incident, after all. Her beauty and vivacity created an ephemeral interest; yet there were many reasons why it promised to be only ephemeral. The Blue Goose was a gambling, drinking resort, a den of iniquity which Firmstone loathed, a thing which, in spite of all, thrust itself forward to be taken into account. How much worse than a den of thieves and a centre of insurrection it was he had never stated to himself. He, however, would have had no hesitancy in completing the attributes of the place had he been asked. The fact that the ægis of marriage vows spread its protecting mantle over the proprietor, and its shadow over the permanent residents, would never have caused a wavering doubt, or certified to the moral respectability of the contracting parties. Firmstone was not the first to ask if any good thing could come out of Nazareth, or if untarnished purity could dwell in the tents of the Nazarenes. It occasionally happens that a stork is caught among cranes and, even innocent, is compelled to share the fate of its guilty, though accidental, associates. Thus it happened that when Élise, for the second time, met Firmstone at the falls he hardly concealed his annoyance. Élise was quick to detect the emotion, though innocence prevented her assigning it its true source. There was a questioning pain in the large, clear eyes lifted to Firmstone's. The look of annoyance on Firmstone's face melted. He spoke even more pleasantly than he felt. "Well, what I can do for you this time?" "You can go away from my place and stay away!" Élise flashed out. Firmstone's smile broadened. "I didn't know I was a trespasser." "Well, you are! I had this place before you came, and I'm likely to have it after you are gone!" The eyes were snapping. "You play Cassandra well." Firmstone was purposely tantalising. He was forgetting the cranes, nor was he displeased that the stork had other weapons than innocence. Élise's manner changed. "Who is Cassandra?" The eager, hungry look of the changing eyes smote Firmstone. The bantering smile disappeared. It occurred to him that Élise might be outdoing her prototype. "She was a very beautiful lady who prophesied disagreeable things that no one believed." Élise ignored the emphasis which Firmstone unconsciously placed on _beautiful_. She grew thoughtful, endeavouring to grasp his analogy. "I think," she said, slowly, "I'm no Cassandra." She looked sharply at Firmstone. "Daddy says you're going; Mo-reeson says you're going, and they put their chips on the right number pretty often." Firmstone laughed lightly. "Oh, well, it isn't for daddy and Morrison to say whether I'm to go or not." "Who's this Mr. Hartwell?" Élise asked, abruptly. "He's the man who can say." "Then you are up against it!" Élise spoke with decision. There was a suggestion of regret in her eyes. "These things be with the gods." Firmstone was half-conscious of a lack of dignity in seeming to be interested in personal matters, not intended for his immediate knowledge. Several times he had decided to end the episode, but the mobile face and speaking eyes, the half-childish innocence and unconscious grace restrained him. "I don't believe it." Élise looked gravely judicial. "Why not?" "Because God knows what he's about. Mr. Hartwell doesn't; he is only awfully sure he does." Firmstone chuckled softly over the unerring estimate which Élise had made. He began gathering up the reins, preparatory to resuming his way. Élise paid no attention to his motions. "Don't you want to see my garden?" she asked. "Is that an invitation?" "Yes." "You are sure I'll not trespass?" Élise looked up at him. "That's not fair. I was mad when I said that." She turned and hurriedly pushed through the matted bushes that grew beside the stream. There was a kind of nervous restlessness which Firmstone did not recall at their former meeting. They emerged from the bushes into a large arena bare of trees. It was completely hidden from the trail by a semicircle of tall spruces which, sweeping from the cliff on either side of the fall, bent in graceful curves to meet at the margin of the dividing brook. Moss-grown boulders, marked into miniature islands by cleaving threads of clear, cold water, were half hidden by the deep pink primroses, serried-massed about them. Creamy cups of marshmallows, lifted above the succulent green of fringing leaves, hid the threading lines of gliding water. On the outer border clustered tufts of delicate azure floated in the thin, pure air, veiling modest gentians. Moss and primrose, leaf and branch held forth jewelled fingers that sparkled in the light, while overhead the slanting sunbeams broke in iridescent bands against the beaten spray of the falling water. The air, surcharged with blending colours, spoke softly sibilant of visions beyond the power of words, of exaltation born not of the flesh, of opening gates with wider vistas into which only the pure in heart can enter. The girl stood with dreamy eyes, half-parted lips, an unconscious pose in perfect harmony with her surroundings. As Firmstone stood silently regarding the scene before him he was conscious of a growing regret, almost repentance, for the annoyance that he had felt at this second meeting. Yet he was right in harbouring the annoyance. He felt no vulgar pride in that at their first meeting he had unconsciously turned the girl's open hostility to admiration, or at least to tolerance of himself. But she belonged to the Blue Goose, and between the Blue Goose and the Rainbow Company there was open war. Suppose that in him Élise did find a pleasure for which she looked in vain among her associates; a stimulant to her better nature that hitherto had been denied her? That was no protection to her. Even her unconscious innocence was a weapon of attack rather than a shield of defence. She and she alone would be the one to suffer. For this reason Firmstone had put her from his mind after their first meeting, and for this reason he had felt annoyance when she had again placed herself in his path. But this second meeting had shown another stronger side in the girl before him. That deep in her nature was an instinct of right which her surroundings had not dwarfed. That this instinct was not to be daunted by fear of consequences. She had evidently come to warn him of personal danger to himself. This act carried danger--danger to her, and yet she apparently had not hesitated. Perhaps she did not realise the danger, but was he to hold it of less value on that account? Was he to accept what she gave him, and then through fear of malicious tongues abandon her to her fate without a thought? The idea was revolting, but what could he do? His lips set hard. There must be a way, and he would find it, however difficult. In some way she should have a chance. This chance must take one of two forms: to leave her in her present surroundings, and counteract their tendencies by other influences, or, in some way, to remove her from the Blue Goose. Firmstone was deeply moved. He felt that his course of action must be shaped by the calmest judgment, if Élise were to be rescued from her surroundings. He must act quickly, intelligently. If he had known of her real parentage he would have had no hesitancy. But he did not know. What he saw was Élise, the daughter of Pierre and Madame. To him they were her parents. Whatever opportunities he offered her, however much she might desire to avail herself of them, they could forbid; and he would be helpless. Élise was under age; she was Pierre's, to do with as he would. This was statute law. Firmstone rebelled against it instinctively; but it was hopeless. He knew Pierre, knew his greed for gold, his lack of scruple as to methods of acquiring it. He did not know Pierre's love for Élise; it would not have weighed with him had he known. For he was familiar with Pierre's class. Therefore he knew that Pierre would rather see Élise dead than in a station in life superior to his own, where she would either despise him or be ashamed of him. It was useless to appeal to Pierre on the ground of benefit to Élise. This demanded unselfish sacrifice, and Pierre was selfish. Firmstone tried another opening, and was confronted with another danger. If Pierre suspected that efforts were being made to weaken his hold on Élise there was one step that he could take which would forever thwart Firmstone's purpose. He had threatened to take this step. Firmstone's pulses quickened for a moment, then calmed. His course was clear. The law that declared her a minor gave her yet a minor's rights. She could not be compelled to marry against her own wishes. Élise must be saved through herself. At once he would set in motion influences that would make her present associates repugnant to her. The strength of mind, the hunger of soul, these elements that made her worth saving should be the means of her salvation. Should Pierre attempt to compel her marriage, even Firmstone could defeat him. Persuasion was all that was left to Pierre. Against Pierre's influence he pitted his own. "Where is Zephyr?" Élise broke the silence. "Why do you ask?" The Blue Goose was in the ascendant. Firmstone was casting about for time. The question had come from an unexpected direction. "Because he is in danger, and so are you." "In danger?" Firmstone did not try to conceal his surprise. "Yes." Élise made a slightly impatient gesture. "It's about the stage. They will kill him. You, too. I don't know why." "They? Who are they?" "Morrison and Daddy." "Did they know you would meet me to-day?" "I don't know, and I don't care." "You came to warn me?" "Yes." Firmstone stretched out his hand and took hers. "I cannot tell you how much I thank you. But don't take this risk again. You must not. I will be on my guard, and I'll look out for Zephyr, too." He laid his other hand on hers. At the touch, Élise looked up with hotly flaming cheeks, snatching her hand from his clasp. Into his eyes her own darted. Then they softened and drooped. Her hand reached for his. "I don't care. I can take care of myself. If I can't, it doesn't matter." Her voice said more than words. "If you are ever in trouble you will let me know?" Firmstone's hand crushed the little fingers in a tightening grasp. "Zephyr will help me." Firmstone turned to go. "I cannot express my thanks in words. In another way I can, and I will." CHAPTER XIV _Blinded Eyes_ An old proverb advises us to be sure we are right, then go ahead. To the last part of the proverb Hartwell was paying diligent heed; the first, so far as he was concerned, he took for granted. Hartwell was carrying out energetically his declared intention of informing himself generally. He was accumulating a vast fund of data on various subjects connected with the affairs of the Rainbow Company, and he was deriving great satisfaction from the contemplation of the quantity. The idea of a proper valuation of its quality never occurred to him. A caterpillar in action is a very vigorous insect; but by means of two short sticks judiciously shifted by a designing mind he can be made to work himself to a state of physical exhaustion, and yet remain precisely at the same point from whence he started. Hartwell's idea was a fairly laudable one, being nothing more nor less than to get at both sides of the question at issue individually from each of the interested parties. Early and late he had visited the mine and mill. He had interviewed men and foremen impartially, and the amount of information which these simple sons of toil instilled into his receptive mind would have aroused the suspicions of a less self-centred man. Of all the sources of information which Hartwell was vigorously exploiting, Luna, on the whole, was the most satisfactory. His guileless simplicity carried weight with Hartwell, and this weight was added to by a clumsy deference that assumed Hartwell's unquestioned superiority. "You see, Mr. Hartwell, it's like this. There's no need me telling you; you can see it for yourself, better than I can tell it. But it's all right your asking me. You've come out here to size things up generally." Luna was not particularly slow in getting on to curves, as he expressed it. "And so you are sizing me up a bit to see do I know my business and have my eyes open." He tipped a knowing wink at Hartwell. Hartwell nodded, with an appreciative grin, but made no further reply. Luna went on: "You see, it's like this, as I was saying. Us labouring men are sharp about some things. We have to be, or we would get done up at every turn. We know when a boss knows his business and when he don't. But it don't make no difference whether he does or whether he don't, we have to stand in with him. We'd lose our jobs if we didn't. I'm not above learning from anyone. I ain't one as thinks he knows it all. I'm willing to learn. I'm an old mill man. Been twenty years in a mill--all my life, as you might say--and I'm learning all the time. Just the other day I got on to a new wrinkle. I was standing watching Tommy; he's battery man on Five. Tommy was hanging up his battery on account of a loose tappet. Tommy he just hung up the stamp next the one with the loose tappet, and instead of measuring down, he just drove the tappet on a level with the other, and keyed her up, and had them dropping again inside of three minutes. I watched him, and when he'd started them, I up and says to Tommy, 'Tommy,' says I, 'I'm an old mill man, but that's a new one on me!' Tommy was as pleased as a boy with a pair of red-topped, copper-toed boots. It's too bad they don't make them kind any more; but then, they don't wear out as fast as the new kind. But, as I was saying, some bosses would have dropped on Tommy for that, and told him they didn't want no green men trying new capers." Luna paused and looked at Hartwell. Hartwell still beamed approbation, and, after casting about for a moment, Luna went on: "You see, a boss don't know everything, even if he has been to college. Most Eastern companies don't know anything. They send out a boss to superintend their work, and they get just what he tells them, and no more. None of the company men ever come out here to look for themselves. I ain't blaming them in general. They don't know. Now it's truth I'm telling you. I'm an old mill man. Been in the business twenty years, as I was telling you, and your company's the first I ever knew sending a man out to find what's the matter, who knew his business, and wa'n't too big to speak to a common workman, and listen to his side of the story." It was a strong dose, but Hartwell swallowed it without a visible gulp. Even more. He was immensely pleased. He was gaining the confidence of the honest toiler, and he would get the unvarnished truth. "This is all interesting, very interesting to me, Mr. Luna. I'm a very strict man in business, but I try to be just. I'm a very busy man, and my time is so thoroughly taken up that I am often very abrupt. You see, it's always so with a business man. He has to decide at once and with the fewest possible words. But I'm always ready to talk over things with my men. If I haven't got time, I make it." "It's a pity there ain't more like you, Mr. Hartwell. There wouldn't be so much trouble between capital and labour. But, as I was saying, we labouring men are honest in our way, and we have feelings, too." Luna was getting grim. He deemed that the proper time had arrived for putting his personal ax upon the whirling grindstone. He looked fixedly at Hartwell. "As I was saying, Mr. Hartwell, us labouring men is honest. We believe in giving a fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and it grinds us to have the boss come sneaking in on us any time, day or night, just like a China herder. He ain't running the mill all the time, and he don't know about things. Machinery won't run itself, and, as I was saying, there ain't no man knows it all. And if the boss happens to catch two or three of us talking over how to fix up a battery, or key up a loose bull-wheel, he ain't no right to say that we're loafing and neglecting our business, and jack us up for it. As I said, Mr. Hartwell, the labouring man is honest; but if we're sneaked on as if we wasn't, 'tain't going to be very long before they'll put it up that, if they're going to be hung for sheep-stealing, they'll have the sheep first, anyway." Luna paused more for emphasis than for approbation. That he could see in every line of Hartwell's face. At length he resumed: "As I said, that ain't all by a long shot. There's all sorts of pipe-dreams floating around about men's stealing from the mine and stealing from the mill. But, man to man, Mr. Hartwell, ain't the superintendent got a thousand chances to steal, and steal big, where a common workman ain't got one?" Luna laid vicious emphasis on the last words, and his expression gave added weight to his words. To do Hartwell simple justice, dishonesty had never for an instant associated itself in his mind with Firmstone. He deemed him inefficient and lacking a grasp of conditions; but, brought face to face with a question of honesty, there was repugnance at the mere suggestion. His face showed it. Luna caught the look instantly and began to mend his break. "I'm not questioning any man's honesty. But it's just like this. Why is it that a poor labouring man is always suspected and looked out for, and those as has bigger chances goes free? That's all, and, man to man, I'm asking you if that's fair." Luna's garrulity was taking a line which Hartwell had no desire to investigate, for the present, at least. He answered directly and abruptly: "When a man loses a dollar, he makes a fuss about it. When he loses a thousand, he goes on a still hunt." Luna took his cue. He winked knowingly. "That's all right. You know your business. That's plain as a squealing pulley howling for oil. But I wasn't telling you all these things because you needed to be told. Anyone can see that you can just help yourself. I just wanted to tell you so that you could see that us labouring men ain't blind, even if everyone don't see with eyes of his own the way you're doing. You are the first gentleman that has ever given me the chance, and I'm obliged to you for it. So's the men, too." Hartwell felt that, for the present, he had gained sufficient information, and prepared to go. "I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Luna, for the information you and your men have given me." He held out his hand cordially. "Don't hesitate to come to me at any time." Hartwell had pursued the same tactics at the mine, and with the same results. He had carefully refrained from mentioning Firmstone's name, and the men had followed his lead. Hartwell made a very common mistake. He underrated the mental calibre of the men. He assumed that, because they wore overalls and jumpers, their eyes could not follow the pea under the shell which he was nimbly manipulating. In plain English, he was getting points on Firmstone by the simple ruse of omitting to mention his name. There was another and far more important point that never occurred to him. By his course of action he was completely undermining Firmstone's authority. There is not a single workman who will ever let slip an opportunity to give a speeding kick to a falling boss on general principles, if not from personal motives. Hartwell never took this factor into consideration. His vanity was flattered by the deference paid to him, never for a moment dreaming that the bulk of the substance and the whole of the flavour of the incense burned under his nose was made up of resentment against Firmstone, nor that the waning stores were nightly replenished at the Blue Goose. Had Hartwell remained East, as devoutly hoped by Firmstone, it is all but certain that Firmstone's methods would have averted the trouble which was daily growing more threatening. Hartwell had occasionally dropped in for a social drink at the Blue Goose, and the deferential welcome accorded to him was very flattering. Each occasion was but the prologue to another and more extended visit. The open welcome tendered him by both Pierre and Morrison had wholly neutralised the warnings embodied in Firmstone's reports. He was certain that Firmstone had mistaken for deep and unscrupulous villains a pair of good-natured oafs who preferred to make a living by selling whisky and running a gambling outfit, to pounding steel for three dollars a day. In starting out on the conquest of the Blue Goose, Hartwell acted on an erroneous concept of the foibles of humanity. The greatness of others is of small importance in comparison with one's own. The one who ignores this truth is continually pulling a cat by the tail, and this is proverbially a hard task. Hartwell's plan was first to create an impression of his own importance in order that it might excite awe, and then, by gracious condescension, to arouse a loyal and respectful devotion. Considering the object of this attack, he was making a double error. Pierre was not at all given to the splitting of hairs, but in combing them along the line of least resistance he was an adept. Hartwell, having pacified the mine and the mill, had moved to the sanctum of the Blue Goose, with the idea of furthering his benign influence. Hartwell, Morrison, and Pierre were sitting around a table in the private office, Hartwell impatient for action, Pierre unobtrusively alert, Morrison cocksure to the verge of insolence. "Meestaire Hartwell will do me ze honaire to mek ze drink?" Pierre inquired. "Thanks." Hartwell answered the question addressed to him. "Mine is brandy." "A-a-ah! Ze good discrimination!" purred Pierre. "Not ze whisky from ze rotten grain; but ze _eau-de-vie_ wiz ze fire of ze sun and ze sweet of ze vine!" Morrison placed glasses before each, a bottle of soda, and Pierre's choicest brand of cognac on the table. "Help yourself," he remarked, as he sat down. Sipping his brandy and soda, Hartwell opened the game. "You see," he began, addressing Pierre, "things aren't running very smoothly out here, and I have come out to size up the situation. The fact is, I'm the only one of our company who knows a thing about mining. It's only a side issue with me, but I can't well get out of it. My people look to me to help them out, and I've got to do it." "Your people have ze great good fortune--ver' great." Pierre bowed smilingly. Hartwell resumed: "I'm a fair man. I have now what I consider sufficient knowledge to warrant me in making some radical changes out here; but I want to get all the information possible, and from every possible source. Then I can act with a perfectly clear conscience." He spoke decidedly, as he refilled his glass. "Then fire that glass-eyed supe of yours," Morrison burst out. "You never had any trouble till he came." Hartwell looked mild reproach. Morrison was going too fast. There was a pause. Morrison again spoke, this time sullenly and without raising his eyes. "He's queered himself with the men. They'll do him if he stays. They ain't going to stand his sneaking round and treating them like dogs. They----" "Mistaire Mo-reeson speak bad English, ver' bad." Pierre's words cut in like keen-edged steel. "On ze odder side ze door, it not mek so much mattaire." Morrison left the room without a word further. There was a look of sullen satisfaction on his face. Hartwell smiled approvingly at Pierre. "You've got your man cinched all right." "Hall but ze tongue." Pierre shrugged his shoulders, with a slight wave of his hands. "Well," Hartwell resumed, "I want to get at the bottom of this stage business. Fifty thousand doesn't matter so much to us; it's the thing back of it. What I want to know is whether it was an accident, or whether it was a hold-up." "Feefty tousand dollaire!" Pierre spoke musingly. "She bin a lot of monnaie. A whole lot." Pierre hesitated, then looked up at Hartwell. "Well?" Hartwell asked. "How you know she bin feefty tousand dollaire hin ze safe?" "Mr. Firmstone advised me of its shipment." "_Bien!_ Ze safe, where she bin now?" "In the river." "A-a-ah! You bin see her, heh?" "No. The water's too high." "When ze wattaire bin mek ze godown, you bin find her, heh?" "I suppose so." "_Bien!_ Mek ze suppose. When ze wattaire mek ze godown, you not find ze safe?" To some extent, Hartwell had anticipated Pierre's drift, but he preferred to let him take his own course. "It would look as if someone had got ahead of us." Pierre waved his hand impatiently. "Feefty tousand dollaire bin whole lot monnaie. Big lot men like feefty tousand dollaire, ver' big lot. Bimeby somebody get ze safe. Zey find no feefty tousand dollaire--only pig lead, heh?" Pierre looked up shrewdly. "Ze men no mek ze talk 'bout feefty tousand dollaire, no mek ze talk 'bout honly pig lead, heh?" "You think, then, the bullion was never put into the safe?" Hartwell had hardly gone so far as Pierre. "In other words, that Mr. Firmstone kept out the bullion, planned the wreck, caused the report to be spread that there was fifty thousand in the safe, with the idea of either putting it out of the way himself, or that someone else would get it?" Pierre looked up with well-feigned surprise. "_Moi?_" he asked. "_Moi?_" He shrugged his shoulders. "I mek ze fact, ze suppose. You mek ze conclude." Hartwell looked puzzled. "But," he said, "if what you say is true, there is no other conclusion." Pierre again shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "_Bien!_ I mek no conclude. You mek ze conclude. Ze suppose mek ze conclude. She's bin no mattaire _á moi_. I mek no conclude." Pierre's words and manner both intimated that, so far as he was concerned, the interview was closed. Pierre was a merciful man and without malice. When he felt that his dagger had made a mortal thrust he never turned it in the wound. In this interview circumstances had forced him farther than he cared to go. He was taking chances, and he knew it. Zephyr was booked to disappear. Others than Zephyr were watching the river. But Zephyr might escape; the company might recover the money. What, then? Only his scheme would have miscarried. The recovery of the money would clear Firmstone and leave him where he was before. Pierre's diagnosis of Hartwell was to the effect that, if an idea was once lodged in his mind, an earthquake would not jar it out again. Even in this event Pierre's object would be accomplished. Firmstone would have to go. Hartwell made several ineffectual attempts to draw out Pierre still farther, but the wily Frenchman baffled him at every turn. And there the matter rested. Had Hartwell taken less of Pierre's good brandy, he would hardly have taken so freely of his sinister suggestions. As it was, the mellow liquor began to impart a like virtue to his wits, and led him to clap the little Frenchman's back, as he declared his belief that Pierre was a slick bird, but that his own plumage was smoothly preened as well. Followed by Pierre, he rose to leave the room. His eyes fell upon Élise, sitting quietly at her desk, and he halted. His outstretched hand had hardly touched the unsuspecting girl when Pierre caught him by the collar, and, with a twist and shove, sent him staggering half-way across the room. Little short of murder was blazing from Pierre's eyes. "_Crapaud!_" he hissed. "You put ze fingaire hon my li'l Élise! _Sacré mille tonnerre!_ I kill you!" Pierre started as if to carry out his threat, but restraining hands held him back, while other hands and feet buffeted and kicked the dazed Hartwell into the street. The safe guarding of Élise was the one bright spot in Pierre's very shady career. To the fact that it was bright and strong his turning on Hartwell bore testimony. Every point in Pierre's policy had dictated conciliation and sufferance; but now this was cast aside. Pierre rapidly gained control of his temper, but he shifted his animus from the lust of gain to the glutting of revenge. CHAPTER XV _Bending the Twig_ Firmstone had done a very unusual thing for him in working himself up to the point where anything that threatened delay in his proposed rescue of Élise made him impatient. The necessity for immediate action had impressed itself so strongly upon him that he lost sight of the fact that others, even more deeply concerned than himself, might justly claim consideration. He knew that in some way Zephyr was more or less in touch with Pierre and Madame. Just how or why, he was in no mood to inquire. Only a self-reliant mind is capable of distinguishing between that which is an essential part and that which seems to be. So it happened that Firmstone, when for the second time he met Zephyr at the Devil's Elbow, listened impatiently to the latter's comments on the loss of the safe. When at last he abruptly closed that subject and with equal abruptness introduced the one uppermost in his mind the cold reticence of Zephyr surprised and shocked him. The two men had met by chance, almost the first day that Firmstone had assumed charge of the Rainbow properties, and each had impressed the other with a feeling of profound respect. This respect had ripened into a genuine friendship. Zephyr saw in Firmstone a man who knew his business, a man capable of applying his knowledge, whose duty to his employers never blinded his eyes to the rights of his workmen, a man who saw clearly, acted decisively, and yielded to the humblest the respect which he exacted from the highest. These characteristics grew on Zephyr until they filled his entire mental horizon, and he never questioned what might be beyond. Yet now he had fear for Élise. Firmstone was so far above her. Zephyr shook his head. Marriage was not to be thought of, only a hopeless love on the part of Élise that would bring misery in the end. This was Zephyr's limit, and this made him coldly silent in the presence of Firmstone's advances. Firmstone was not thus limited. Zephyr's silent reticence was quickly fathomed. His liking for the man grew. He spoke calmly and with no trace of resentment. "Of course, Élise is nothing to me in a way. But to think of a girl with her possibilities being dwarfed and ruined by her surroundings!" He paused, then added, "I wish my sister had come out with me. She wanted to come." Zephyr caught at the last words for an instant, then dropped them. His answer was abrupt and non-committal. "There are some things that are best helped by letting them alone." Firmstone rose. "Good night," he said, briefly, and started for the mill. Firmstone was disappointed at Zephyr's reception; but he had reasoned himself out of surprise. He had not given up the idea of freeing Élise from her associates. That was not Firmstone. The next morning, as usual, he met Miss Hartwell at breakfast. "I am going up to the mine, this morning. Wouldn't you like to go as far as the Falls? It is well worth your effort," he added. "I would like to go very much." She spoke meditatively. "If that means yes, I'll have a pony saddled for you. I'll be ready by nine o'clock." Miss Hartwell looked undecided. Firmstone divined the reason. "The trail is perfectly safe every way, and the pony is sure-footed, so you have nothing to fear." "I believe I will go. My brother will never find time to take me around." "I'll get ready at once." A seeming accident more often accomplishes desirable results than a genuine one. Firmstone was fairly well satisfied that one excursion to the Falls would incline Miss Hartwell to others. If she failed to meet Élise on one day she was almost certain to meet her on another. Promptly at nine the horses were at the door, and as promptly Miss Hartwell appeared in her riding habit. In her hand she carried a sketch-book. She held it up, smiling. "This is one weakness that I cannot conceal." "Even that needn't trouble you. I'll carry it." "You seem to have a weakness as well." She was looking at a small box which Firmstone was fastening to his saddle. "This one is common to us all. We may not be back till late, so Benny put up a lunch. The Falls are near Paradise; but yet far enough this side of the line to make eating a necessity." They mounted and rode away. Firmstone did not take the usual trail by the Blue Goose, though it was the shorter. The trail he chose was longer and easier. At first he was a little anxious about his guest; but Miss Hartwell's manner plainly showed that his anxiety was groundless. Evidently she was accustomed to riding, and the pony was perfectly safe. The trail was narrow and, as he was riding in advance, conversation was difficult, and no attempt was made to carry it on. At the Falls Firmstone dismounted and took Miss Hartwell's pony to an open place, where a long tether allowed it to graze in peace. Miss Hartwell stood with her eyes resting on reach after reach of the changing vista. She turned to Firmstone with a subdued smile. "I am afraid that I troubled you with a useless burden," she said. "I do not know to what you refer in particular; but I can truthfully deny trouble on general principles." "Really, haven't you been laughing at me, all this time? You must have known how utterly hopeless a sketch-book and water-colours would be in such a place. I think I'll try botany instead. That appeals to me as more attainable." Firmstone looked at his watch. "I must go on. You are quite sure you won't get tired waiting? I have put your lunch with your sketch-book. I'll be back by two o'clock, anyway." Miss Hartwell assured him that she would not mind the waiting, and Firmstone went on his way. Miss Hartwell gathered a few flowers, then opened her botany, and began picking them to pieces that she might attach to each the hard name which others had saddled upon it. At first absorbed and intent upon her work, at length she grew restless and, raising her eyes, she saw Élise. On the girl's face curiosity and disapprobation amounting almost to resentment were strangely blended. Curiosity, for the moment, gained the ascendency, as Miss Hartwell raised her eyes. "What are you doing to those flowers?" Élise pointed to the fragments. "I am trying to analyse them." "What do you mean by that?" "Analysis?" Miss Hartwell looked up inquiringly; but Élise made no reply, so she went on. "That is separating them into their component parts, to learn their structure." "What for?" Élise looked rather puzzled, but yet willing to hear the whole defence for spoliation. "So that I can learn their names." "How do you find their names?" It occurred to Miss Hartwell to close the circle by simply answering "analysis"; but she forebore. "The flowers are described in this botany and their names are given. By separating the flowers into their parts I can find the names." "Where did the book get the names?" If Miss Hartwell was growing impatient she concealed it admirably. If she was perplexed in mind, and she certainly was, perplexity did not show in the repose of her face. Her voice flowed with the modulated rhythm of a college professor reciting an oft-repeated lecture to ever-changing individuals with an unchanging stage of mental development. If her choice of answer was made in desperation nothing showed it. "Botanists have studied plants very carefully. They find certain resemblances which are persistent. These persistent resemblances they classify into families. There are other less comprehensive resemblances in the families. These are grouped into genera and the genera are divided into species and these again into varieties, and a name is given to each." Élise in her way was a genius. She recognised the impossible. Miss Hartwell's answers were impossible to her. "Oh, is that all?" she asked, sarcastically. "Have you found the names of these?" Again she pointed to the torn flowers. Miss Hartwell divided her prey into groups. "These are the Ranunculaceæ family. This is the Aquilegia Cærulea. This is the Delphinium Occidentale. This belongs to the Polemoniaceæ family, and is the Phlox Cæspitosa. These are Compositæ. They are a difficult group to name." Miss Hartwell was indulging in mixed emotions. Mingled with a satisfaction in reviewing her erudition was a quiet revenge heightened by the unconsciousness of her object. "You don't love flowers." There was no indecision in the statement. "Why, yes, I certainly do." "No; you don't, or you wouldn't tear them to pieces." "Don't you ever pick flowers?" "Yes; but I love them. I take them to my room, and they talk to me. They do, too!" Élise flashed an answer to a questioning look of Miss Hartwell, and then went on, "I don't tear them to pieces and throw them away. Not even to find out those hideous names you called them. They don't belong to them. You don't love them, and you needn't pretend you do." Élise's cheeks were flushed. Miss Hartwell was bewildered in mind. She acknowledged it to herself. Élise was teaching her a lesson that she had never heard of before, much less learned. Then came elusive suggestions, vaguely defined, of the two-fold aspect of nature. She looked regretfully at the evidences of her curiosity. She had not yet gone far enough along the new path to take accurate notes of her emotions; but she had an undefined sense of her inferiority, a sense of wrong-doing. "I am very sorry I hurt you. I did not mean to." Élise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her voice softened. "You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't." Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of wind was fluttering the pages. "What is that?" Élise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up flowers?" Her voice was hard again. Miss Hartwell took up the open book. "Perhaps you would like to see these. They may atone for my other wrong-doing." Élise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity or opportunity seemed to demand; but Élise forestalled her. "This is beautiful; only----" She paused. Miss Hartwell looked up. "Only what?" Élise shook her head impatiently. "You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think of the ones you tore to pieces." Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand. "Let me take them for a moment, please." Élise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the offending names were removed. "I think that is better." Élise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the reception of the sketches. "Don't you ever get mad?" she asked. "Sometimes." "That would have made me awfully mad." "But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The flowers are." "That wouldn't make any difference with me. I'd get mad before I thought, and then I'd stick to it anyway." "That is not right." Élise looked somewhat rebuked, but more puzzled. "How old are you?" she asked. This was too much. Miss Hartwell could not conceal her astonishment. She recovered quickly and answered, with a smile: "I was twenty-five, last February." Élise resumed her examination of the water-colours. There was a look of satisfaction on her face. "Oh, well, perhaps when I get to be as old as that I won't get mad, either. How did you learn to make flowers?" Her attention was fixed all the time on the colours. "I took lessons." "Is it very hard to learn?" "Not very, for some people. Would you like to have me teach you?" Élise's face was flushed and eager. "Will you teach me?" she asked. "Certainly. It will give me great pleasure." "When can you begin?" "Now, if you like." Miss Hartwell had taste, and she had been under excellent instruction. Her efforts had been praised and herself highly commended; but no sweeter incense had ever been burned under her nostrils than the intense absorption of her first pupil. It was not genius; it was love, pure and simple. There was no element of self-consciousness, only a wild love of beauty and a longing to give it expression. Nominally, at least, Miss Hartwell was the instructor and Élise the pupil; but that did not prevent her learning some lessons which her other instructors had failed to suggest. The comments of Élise on the habits and peculiarities of every plant and flower that they attempted demonstrated to Miss Hartwell that the real science of botany was not wholly dependent upon forceps and scalpel. Another demonstration was to the effect that the first and hardest step in drawing, if not in painting, was a clear-cut conception of the object to be delineated. Élise knew her object. From the first downy ball that pushed its way into the opening spring, to the unfolding of the perfect flower, every shade and variety of colour Élise knew to perfection. Miss Hartwell's lessons had been purely mechanical. She had brought to them determination and faithful application; but unconsciously the object had been herself, not her subject, and her work showed it. Élise was no genius; but she was possessed of some of its most imperative essentials, an utter oblivion of self and an abounding love of her subjects. Miss Hartwell was astonished at her easy grasp of details which had come to her after much laborious effort. They were aroused by the click of iron shoes on the stony trail as Firmstone rode toward them. He was delighted that his first attempt at bringing Élise in contact with Miss Hartwell had been so successful. There was a flush of pleasure on Miss Hartwell's face. "I believe you knew I would not be alone. Why didn't you tell me about Élise?" "Oh, it's better to let each make his own discoveries, especially if they are pleasant." Firmstone looked at the paint-smudged fingers of Élise. "You refused my help in square root, and are taking lessons in painting from Miss Hartwell." "Miss who?" Firmstone was astonished at the change in the girl's face. "Miss Hartwell," he answered. Élise rose quickly to her feet. Brush and pencil fell unheeded from her lap. "Are you related to that Hartwell at the mill?" she demanded. "He is my brother." Fierce anger burned in the eyes of Élise. Without a word, she turned and started down the trail. Miss Hartwell and Firmstone watched the retreating figure for a moment. She was first to recover from her surprise. She began to gather the scattered papers which Élise had dropped. She was utterly unable to suggest an explanation of the sudden change that had come over Élise on hearing her name. Firmstone was at first astonished beyond measure. A second thought cleared his mind. He knew that Hartwell had been going of late to the Blue Goose. Élise, no doubt, had good grounds for resentment against him. That it should be abruptly extended to his sister was no matter of surprise to Firmstone. Of course, to Miss Hartwell he could not even suggest an explanation. They each were wholly unprepared for the finale which came as an unexpected sequel. A delicate little hand, somewhat smudged with paint, was held out to Miss Hartwell, who, as she took the hand, looked up into a resolute face, with drooping eyes. "I got mad before I thought, and I've come back to tell you that it wasn't right." Miss Hartwell drew the girl down beside her. "Things always look worse than they really are when one is hungry. Won't you share our lunch?" With ready tact she directed her words to Firmstone, and she was not disappointed in finding in him an intelligent second. Before many minutes, Élise had forgotten disagreeable subjects in things which to her never lacked interest. At parting Élise followed the direct trail to the Blue Goose. As Firmstone had hoped, another series of lessons was arranged for. CHAPTER XVI _An Insistent Question_ Had Firmstone been given to the habit of self-congratulation he would have found ample opportunity for approbation in the excellent manner with which his plan for the rescue of Élise was working out. The companionship of Élise and Miss Hartwell had become almost constant in spite of the unpropitious dénouement of their first meeting. This pleased Firmstone greatly. But there was another thing which this companionship thrust upon him with renewed interest. At first it had not been prominent. In fact, it was quite overshadowed while Miss Hartwell's unconscious part in his plan was in doubt. Now that the doubt was removed, his personal feelings toward Élise came to the front. He was neither conceited nor a philanthropist with more enthusiasm than sense. He did not attempt to conceal from himself that philanthropy, incarnated in youth, culture, and a recognised position, directed toward a young and beautiful girl was in danger of forming entangling alliances, and that these alliances could be more easily prevented than obviated when once formed. Firmstone was again riding down from the mine. He expected to find Élise and Miss Hartwell at the Falls, as he had many times of late. He placed the facts squarely before himself. He was hearing of no one so much as of Élise. Whether this was due to an awakening consciousness on his part or whether his interest in Élise had attracted the attention of others he could not decide. Certain it was that Miss Hartwell was continually singing her praise. Jim, who was rapidly recovering from his wounds and from his general shaking up at the wreck of the stage, let pass no opportunity wherein he might express his opinion. "Hell!" he remarked. "I couldn't do that girl dirt by up and going dead after all her trouble. Ain't she just fed me and flowered me and coddled me general? Gawd A'mighty! I feel like a delicatessen shop 'n a flower garden all mixed up with angels." Bennie was equally enthusiastic, but his shadowing gourd had a devouring worm. His commendation of Élise only aroused a resentful consciousness of the Blue Goose. "It's the way of the world," he was wont to remark, "but it's a damned shame to make a good dog and then worry him with fleas." There was also Dago Joe, who ran the tram at the mill. Joe had a goodly flock of graduated dagoes in assorted sizes, but his love embraced them all. That the number was undiminished by disease he credited to Élise, and the company surgeon vouched for the truth of his assertions. Only Zephyr was persistently silent. This, however, increased Firmstone's perplexity, if it did not confirm his suspicions that his interest in Élise had attracted marked attention. There was only one way in which his proposed plan of rescue could be carried out that would not eventually do the girl more harm than good, especially if she was compelled to remain in Pandora. Here was his problem--one which demanded immediate solution. He was at the Falls, unconsciously preparing to dismount, when he saw that neither Élise nor Miss Hartwell was there. He looked around a moment; then, convinced that they were absent, he rode on down the trail. As he entered the town he noted a group of boys grotesquely attired in miner's clothes. Leading the group was Joe's oldest son, a boy of about twelve years. A miner's hat, many sizes too large, was on his head, almost hiding his face. A miner's jacket, reaching nearly to his feet, completed his costume. In his hand he was swinging a lighted candle. The other boys were similarly attired, and each had candles as well. Firmstone smiled. The boys were playing miner, and were "going on shift." He was startled into more active consciousness by shrill screams of agony. The boys had broken from their ranks and were flying in every direction. Young Joe, staggering behind them, was almost hidden by a jet of flame that seemed to spring from one of the pockets of his coat. The boy was just opposite the Blue Goose. Before Firmstone could spur his horse to the screaming child Élise darted down the steps, seized the boy with one hand, with the other tore the flames from his coat and threw them far out on the trail. Firmstone knew what had happened. The miner had left some sticks of powder in his coat and these had caught fire from the lighted candle. The flames from the burning powder had scorched the boy's hand, licked across his face, and the coat itself had begun to burn, when Élise reached him. She was stripping the coat from the screaming boy as Firmstone sprang from his horse. He took the boy in his arms and carried him up the steps of the Blue Goose. Élise, running up the steps before him, reappeared with oil and bandages, as he laid the boy on one of the tables. Pierre and Morrison came into the bar-room as Firmstone and Élise began to dress the burns. Morrison laid his hand roughly on Firmstone's arm. "You get back to your own. This is our crowd." "Git hout! You bin kip-still." Pierre in turn thrust Morrison aside. "You bin got hall you want, Meestaire Firmstone?" "Take my horse and go for the doctor." Pierre hastily left the room. The clatter of hoofs showed that Firmstone's order had been obeyed. Élise and Firmstone worked busily at the little sufferer. Oil and laudanum had deadened the pain, and the boy was now sobbing hysterically; Morrison standing by, glaring in helpless rage. Another clatter of hoofs outside, and Pierre and the company surgeon hurried into the room. The boy's moans were stilled and he lay staring questioningly with large eyes at the surgeon. "You haven't left me anything to do." The surgeon turned approvingly to Élise. "Mr. Firmstone did that." The surgeon laughed. "That's Élise every time. She's always laying the blame on someone else. Never got her to own up to anything of this kind in my life." Joe senior and his wife came breathless into the room. Mrs. Joe threw herself on the boy with all the abandon of the genuine Latin. Joe looked at Élise, then dragged his wife aside. "The boy's all right now, Joe. You can take him home. I'll be in to see him later." The surgeon turned to leave the room. Joe never stirred; only looked at Élise. "It's all right, Joe." The surgeon shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. "There it is again. I'm getting to be of no account." Something in Élise's face caused him to look again. Then he was at her side. Taking her arm, he glanced at the hand she was trying to hide. "It doesn't amount to anything." Élise was trying to free her arm. From the palm up the hand was red and blistered. "Now I'll show my authority. How did it happen?" "The powder was burning. I was afraid it might explode." "What if it had exploded?" Firmstone asked the question of Élise. She made no reply. He hardly expected she would. Nevertheless he did not dismiss the question from his mind. As he rode away with the company surgeon, he asked it over and over again. Then he made answer to himself. CHAPTER XVII _The Bearded Lion_ Zephyr was doing some meditation on his own account after the meeting with Firmstone at the Devil's Elbow. That not only Firmstone's reputation, but his life as well, hung in the balance, Zephyr had visible proof. This material proof he was absently tipping from hand to hand, during his broken and unsatisfactory interview with Firmstone. It was nothing more nor less than a nickel-jacketed bullet which, that very morning, had barely missed his head, only to flatten itself against the rocks behind him. The morning was always a dull time at the Blue Goose. Morrison slept late. Élise was either with Madame or rambling among the hills. Only Pierre, who seemed never to sleep, was to be counted upon with any certainty. By sunrise on the day that Firmstone and Miss Hartwell were riding to the Falls Zephyr was up and on his way to the Blue Goose. He found Pierre in the bar-room. "_Bon jour, M'sieur._" Zephyr greeted him affably as he slowly sank into a chair opposite the one in which Pierre was seated. Pierre, with hardly a movement of his facial muscles, returned Zephyr's salutation. From his manner no one would have suspected that, had someone with sufficient reason inquired as to the whereabouts of Zephyr, Pierre would have replied confidently that the sought-for person was bobbing down the San Miguel with a little round hole through his head. Zephyr's presence in the flesh simply told him that, for some unknown reason, his plan had miscarried. Zephyr lazily rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He raised his eyes languidly to Pierre's. "M'sieu Pierre mek one slick plan. Ze Rainbow Company work ze mine, ze mill. _Moi_, Pierre, mek ze gol' in mon cellaire." Zephyr blew forth the words in a cloud of smoke. Pierre started and looked around. His hand made a motion toward his hip pocket. Zephyr dropped his bantering tone. "Not yet, Frenchy. You'll tip over more soup kettles than you know of." He dropped the flattened bullet on the table and pointed to it. "That was a bad break on your part. It might have been worse for you as well as for me, if your man hadn't been a bad shot." Pierre reached for the bullet, but Zephyr gathered it in. "Not yet, M'sieur. It was intended for me, and I'll keep it, as a token of respect. I know M'sieur Pierre. Wen M'sieur Pierre bin mek up ze min' for shoot, M'sieur Pierre bin say,'_Comment!_ Zat fellaire he bin too damn smart _pour moi_.' Thanks! Me and Firmstone are much obliged." Pierre shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Zephyr noted the gesture. "Don't stop there, M'sieur. Get up to your head. You're in a mess, a bad one. Shake your wits. Get up and walk around. Explode some _sacrés_. Pull out a few handfuls of hair and scatter around. No good looking daggers. The real thing won't work on me, and you'd only get in a worse mess if it did. That's Firmstone, too. We both are more valuable to you alive than dead. Of what value is it to a man to do two others, if he gets soaked in the neck himself?" Pierre was angered. It was useless to try to conceal it. His swarthy cheeks grew livid. "_Sacré!_" he blurted. "What you mean in hell?" "That's better. Now you're getting down to business. When I find a man that's up against a thing too hard for him, I don't mind giving him a lift." "You lif' and bedam!" Pierre had concluded that pretensions were useless with Zephyr, and he gave his passion full play. Even if he made breaks with Zephyr, he would be no worse off. "I'll' lif'' all right. 'Bedam' is as maybe. Now, Frenchy, if you'll calm yourself a bit, I'll speak my little piece. You've slated Firmstone and me for over the divide. _P'quoi, M'sieur?_ For this. Firmstone understands his business and tends to it. This interferes with your cellar. So Mr. Firmstone was to be fired by the company. You steered that safe into the river to help things along. You thought that Jim would be killed and Firmstone would be chump enough to charge it to a hold-up, and go off on a wrong scent. Jim got off, and Firmstone was going to get the safe. I know you are kind-hearted and don't like to do folks; but Firmstone and me were taking unwarranted liberties with your plans. Now put your ear close to the ground, Frenchy, and listen hard and you'll hear something drop. If you do Firmstone you'll see cross-barred sunlight the rest of your days. I'll see to that. If you do us both it won't make much difference. I've been taking my pen in hand for a few months back, and the result is a bundle of papers in a safe place. It may not be much in a literary way; but it will make mighty interesting reading for such as it may concern, and you are one of them. Now let me tell you one thing more. If this little damned thing had gone through my head on the way to something harder, in just four days you'd be taking your exercise in a corked jug. My game is worth two of yours. Mine will play itself when I'm dead; yours won't." Pierre's lips parted enough to show his set teeth. "_Bien!_ You tink you bin damn smart, heh? I show you. You bin catch one rattlesnake by ze tail. _Comment?_ I show you." Pierre rose. "Better wait a bit, Frenchy. I've been giving you some information. Now I'll give you some instructions. You've been planning to have Élise married. Don't do it. You've made up your mind not to keep your promise to her dead father and mother. You just go back to your original intentions. It will be good for your body, and for your soul, too, if you've got any. You're smooth stuff, Pierre, too smooth to think that I'm talking four of a kind on a bob-tail flush. Comprenny?" Pierre's eyes lost their fierceness, but his face none of its determination. "I ain't going to give hup my li'l Élise. _Sacré, non!_" "That's for Élise to say. You've got to give her the chance." There was a moment's pause. "How you bin mek me, heh?" Pierre turned like a cat. There was a challenge in his words; but there were thoughts he did not voice. Zephyr was not to be surprised into saying more than he intended. "That's a slick game, Pierre; but it won't work. If you want to draw my fire, you'll have to hang more than an empty hat on a stick. In plain, flat English, I've got you cinched. If you want to feel the straps draw, just start in to buck." Pierre rose from the table. His eyes were all but invisible. There was no ursine clumsiness in his movements, as he walked to and fro in the bar-room. As became a feline, he walked in silence and on his toes. He was thinking of many a shady incident in his past career, and he knew that with the greater number of his shaded spots Zephyr was more or less familiar. With which of them was Zephyr most familiar, and was there any one by means of which Zephyr could thwart him by threatening exposure? Pierre's tread became yet more silent. He was half crouching, as if ready for a spring. Zephyr had referred to the cellar. There was his weakest spot. Luna, the mill foreman, dozens of men, he could name them every one--all had brought their plunder to the Blue Goose. Every man who brought him uncoined gold was a thief, and they all felt safe because in the eyes of the law he, Pierre, was one of them. He alone was not safe. Not one of the thieves was certainly known to the others; he was known to them all. It could not be helped. He had taken big chances; but his reward had been great as well. That would not help him, if--Unconsciously he crouched still lower. "If there's any procession heading for Cañon City you'll be in it, too." Someone had got frightened. Luna, probably. Firmstone was working him, and Zephyr was helping Firmstone. Pierre knew well the fickle favour of the common man. A word could destroy his loyalty, excite his fears, or arouse him to vengeance. Burning, bitter hatred raged in the breast of the little Frenchman. Exposure, ruin, the penitentiary! His hand rested on the butt of his revolver as he slowly turned. Zephyr was leaning on the table. There was a look of languid assurance, of insolent contempt in the eye that was squinting along a polished barrel held easily, but perfectly balanced for instant action. "Go it, Frenchy." Zephyr's voice was patronising. Pierre gave way to the passion that raged within him. "_Sacré nom du diable! Mille tonnerres!_ You bin tink you mek me scare, _moi_, Pierre! Come on, Meestaire Zephyr, come on! Fourtin more just like it! Strew de piece hall roun' ze dooryard!" Zephyr's boots thumped applause. "A-a-ah! Ze gran' _spectacle_! _Magnifique!_ By gar! She bin comedown firsrate. Frenchy, you have missed your cue. Take the advice of a friend. Don't stay here, putting addled eggs under a painted goose. Just do that act on the stage, and you'll have to wear seven-league boots to get out of the way of rolling dollars." CHAPTER XVIII _Winnowed Chaff_ Hartwell had a rule of conduct. It was a Procrustean bed which rarely fitted its subject. Unlike the originator of the famous couch, Hartwell never troubled himself to stretch the one nor to trim the other. If his subjects did not fit, they were cast aside. This was decision. The greater the number of the too longs or the too shorts the greater his complacence in the contemplation of his labours. There was one other weakness that was strongly rooted within him. If perchance one worthless stick fitted his arbitrary conditions it was from then on advanced to the rank of deity. Hartwell was strongly prejudiced against Firmstone, but was wholly without malice. He suspected that Firmstone was at least self-interested, if not self-seeking; therefore he assumed him to be unscrupulous. Firmstone's words and actions were either counted not at all, or balanced against him. In approaching others, if words were spoken in his favour, they were discounted or discarded altogether. Only the facts that made against him were treasured, all but enshrined. Even in his cynical beliefs Hartwell was not consistent. He failed utterly to take into account that it might suit the purpose of his advisers to break down the subject of his inquiry. For these reasons the interview with Pierre, even with its mortifying termination, left a firm conviction in his mind that Firmstone was dishonest, practically a would-be thief, and this on the sole word of a professional gambler, a rumshop proprietor, a man with no heritage, no traditions, and no associations to hold him from the extremities of crime. Not one of the men whom Hartwell had interviewed, not even Pierre himself, would for an instant have considered as probable what Hartwell was holding as an obvious truth. This, however, did not prevent Hartwell's actions from hastening to the point of precipitation the very crisis he was blindly trying to avert. He had not discredited Firmstone among the men, he had only nullified his power to manage them. Hartwell had succeeded in completing the operation of informing himself generally. Having reached this point, he felt that the only thing remaining to be done was to align his information, crush Firmstone beneath the weight of his accumulated evidence, and from his dismembered fragments build up a superintendent who would henceforth walk and act in the fear of demonstrated omniscient justice. He even grew warmly benevolent in the contemplation of the gratefully reconstructed man who was to be fashioned after his own image. Firmstone coincided with one of Hartwell's conclusions, but from a wholly different standpoint. Affairs had reached a state that no longer was endurable. Among the men there was no doubt whatever but that it was a question of time only when Firmstone, to put it in the graphic phrase of the mine, "would be shot in the ear with a time check." Firmstone had no benevolent designs as to the reconstruction of Hartwell, but he had decided ones as to the reconstruction of the company's affairs. The meeting thus mutually decided upon as necessary was soon brought about. Firmstone came into the office from a visit to the mine. It had been neither a pleasant nor a profitable one. The contemptuous disregard of his orders, the coarse insolence of the men, and especially of the foremen and shift bosses, organised into the union by Morrison, had stung Firmstone to the quick. To combat the disorders under present conditions would only expose him to insult, without any compensation whatever. Paying no attention to words or actions, he beat a dignified, unprotesting retreat. He would, if possible, bring Hartwell to his senses; if not, he would insist upon presenting his case to the company. If they failed to support him he would break his contract. He disliked the latter alternative, for it meant the discrediting of himself or the manager. He felt that it would be a fight to the death. He found Hartwell in the office. "Well," Hartwell looked up abruptly; "how are things going?" "Hot foot to the devil." "Your recognition of the fact does you credit, even if the perception is a little tardy. I think you will further recognise the fact that I take a hand none too soon." The mask on Hartwell's face grew denser. "I recognise the fact very clearly that, until you came, the fork of the trail was before me. Now it is behind and--we are on the wrong split." "Precisely. I have come to that conclusion myself. In order to act wisely, I assume that it will be best to get a clear idea of conditions, and then we can select a remedy for those that are making against us. Do you agree?" "I withhold assent until I know just what I am expected to assent to." Hartwell looked annoyed. "Shall I go on?" he asked, impatiently. "Perhaps your caution will allow that." Firmstone nodded. He did not care to trust himself to words. "Before we made our contract with you to assume charge of our properties out here I told you very plainly the difficulties under which we had hitherto laboured, and that I trusted that you would find means to remedy them. After six months' trial, in which we have allowed you a perfectly free hand, can you conscientiously say that you have bettered our prospects?" Hartwell paused; but Firmstone kept silence. "Have you nothing to say to this?" Hartwell finally burst out. "At present, no." Firmstone spoke with decision. "When will you have?" Hartwell asked. "When you are through with your side." Hartwell felt annoyed at what he considered Firmstone's obstinacy. "Well," he said; "then I shall have to go my own gait. You can't complain if it doesn't suit you. In your reports to the company you have complained of the complete disorganisation which you found here. That this disorganisation resulted in inefficiency of labour, that the mine was run down, the mill a wreck, and, worst of all, that there was stealing going on which prevented the richest ore reaching the mill, and that even the products of the mill were stolen. You laid the stealing to the door of the Blue Goose. You stated for fact things which you acknowledged you could not prove. That the proprietor of the Blue Goose was striving to stir up revolt among the men, to organise them into a union in order that through this organised union the Blue Goose might practically control the mine and rob the company right and left. You pointed out that in your opinion many of the men, even in the organisation, were honest; that it was only a scheme on the part of Morrison and Pierre to dupe the men, to blind their eyes so that, believing themselves imposed on and robbed by the company, they would innocently furnish the opportunity for the Blue Goose to carry on its system of plundering." Firmstone's steady gaze never flinched, as Hartwell swept on with his arraignment. "In all your reports, you have without exception laid the blame upon your predecessors, upon others outside the company. Never in a single instance have you expressed a doubt as to your own conduct of affairs. The assumed robbery of the stage I will pass by. Other points I shall dwell upon. You trust no one. You have demonstrated that to the men. You give orders at the mine, and instead of trusting your foremen to see that they are carried out you almost daily insist upon inspecting their work and interfering with it. The same thing I find to be true at the mill. Day and night you pounce in upon them. Now let me ask you this. If you understand men, if you know your business thoroughly, ought you not to judge whether the men are rendering an equivalent for their pay, without subjecting them to the humiliation of constant espionage?" He looked fixedly at Firmstone, as he ended his arraignment. Firmstone waited, if perchance Hartwell had not finished. "Is your case all in?" he finally asked. "For the present, yes." Hartwell snapped his jaws together decidedly. "Then I'll start." "Wait a moment, right there," Hartwell interrupted. "No. I will not wait. I am going right on. You've been informing yourself generally. Now I'm going to inform you particularly. In the first place, how did you find out that I had been subjecting the men to this humiliating espionage, as you call it?" Firmstone waited for a reply. "I don't know that I am under obligations to answer that question," Hartwell replied, stiffly. "Then I'll answer it for you. You've been to my foremen, my shift bosses, my workmen; you've been, above all other places, to the Blue Goose. You've been to anyone and everyone whose interest it is to weaken my authority and to render me powerless to combat the very evils of which you complain." Hartwell started to interrupt; but Firmstone waved him to silence. "This is a vital point. One thing more: instead of acquiring information as to the conditions that confront me and about my method of handling them, you go to my enemies, get their opinions and, what is worse, act upon them as your own." "Wait a minute right there." Hartwell spoke imperiously. "You speak of 'my foremen' and 'my shift bosses.' They are not your men; they are ours. We pay them, and we are going to see to it that we get an equivalent return, in any way we think advisable." Hartwell ignored Firmstone's last words. "That may be your position. If it is it is not a wise one, and, what is more, it is not tenable. You put me out here to manage your business, and you hold me responsible for results. I ask from you the same consideration I give to my foremen. I do not hire a single man at the mine or mill; my foremen attend to that. I give my orders direct to my foremen, and hold them strictly responsible. The men are responsible to my foremen, my foremen are responsible to me, and I in turn am wholly responsible to you. If in one single point you interfere with my organisation I not only decline to assume any responsibility whatever, but, farther, I shall tender my resignation at once." Hartwell listened impatiently, but nevertheless Firmstone's words were not without effect. They appealed to his judgment as being justified; but to accept them and act upon them meant a repudiation of his own course. For this he was not ready. In addition to his vanity, Hartwell had an abiding faith in his own shrewdness. He was casting about in his mind for a plausible delay which would afford him time to retreat from his position without a confession of defeat. He could find none. Firmstone had presented a clean-cut ultimatum. He was in an unpleasant predicament. Some one would have to be sacrificed. He was wholly determined that it should not be himself. Perhaps after all it would be better to arrange as best he might with Firmstone, rather than have it go farther. "It seems to me, Firmstone, as if you were going altogether too fast. There's no use jumping. Why not talk this over sensibly?" "There is only one thing to be considered. If you are going to manage this place I am going to put it beyond your power even to make me appear responsible." "You forget your contract with us," Hartwell interposed. "I do not forget it. If you discharge me, or force me to resign, I still demand a hearing." Hartwell was disturbed, and his manner showed it. Firmstone presented two alternatives. Forcing a choice of either of them would bring unpleasant consequences upon himself. Was it necessary to force the choice? "Suppose I do neither?" he asked. "That will not avert the consequences of what you have already done." "Are you determined to resign?" Hartwell asked, uneasily. "That is not what I meant." "What did you mean, then?" "This. Before you came out, I had things well in hand. In another month I would have had control of the men, and the property would have been paying a good dividend. As it is now----" Firmstone waved his hand, as if to dismiss a useless subject. "Well, what now?" Hartwell asked, after a pause. "It has to be done all over again, only under greater difficulties, the outcome of which I cannot foresee." "To what difficulties do you refer?" Firmstone's manner disturbed Hartwell. "The men were getting settled. Now you have played into the hands of two of the most unscrupulous rascals in Colorado. Between you, you've got the men stirred up to a point where a strike is inevitable." For a time, Hartwell was apparently crushed by Firmstone's unanswerable logic, as well as by his portentous forecasts. He could not but confess to himself that his course of action looked very different under Firmstone's analysis than from his own standpoint alone. He drummed his fingers listlessly on the desk before him. He was all but convinced that he might have been wrong in his judgment of Firmstone, after all. Then Pierre's suggestions came to him like a flash. "You are aware, of course, that I shall have to make a full report of the accident to the stage to our directors?" "I made a report of all the facts in the case, at the time. Of course, if you have discovered other facts, they will have to be given in addition." Hartwell continued, paying no attention to Firmstone. "That in the report which I shall make, I may feel compelled to arrange my data in such a manner that they will point to a conclusion somewhat at variance with yours?" "In which case," interrupted Firmstone; "I shall claim the right to another and counter statement." Hartwell looked even more intently at Firmstone. "In your report you stated positively that there were three thousand, one hundred and twenty-five ounces of bullion in your shipment; that this amount was lost in the wreck of the stage." "Exactly." Hartwell leaned forward, his eyes still fixed on Firmstone's eyes. Then, after a moment's pause, he asked, explosively,-- "Was there that amount?" Firmstone's face had a puzzled look. "There certainly was, unless I made a mistake in weighing up." His brows contracted for a moment, then cleared decisively. "That is not possible. The total checked with my weekly statements." Hartwell settled back in his chair. There was a look of satisfied cunning on his face. He had gained his point. He had attacked Firmstone in an unexpected quarter, and he had flinched. He had no further doubts. This, however, was not enough. He would press the brimming cup of evidence to his victim's lips and compel him to drink it to the last drop. "Who saw you put the bullion in the safe?" "No one." "Then, if the safe is never recovered, we have only your word that the bullion was put in there, as you stated?" Firmstone was slowly realising Hartwell's drift. Slowly, because the idea suggested appeared too monstrous to be tenable. The purple veins on his forehead were hard and swollen. "That is all," he said, from between compressed lips. "Under the circumstances, don't you think it is of the utmost importance that the safe be recovered?" "Under any circumstances. I have already taken all the steps possible in that direction." Firmstone breathed easier. He saw, as he thought, the error of his other half-formed suspicion. Hartwell was about to suggest that Zephyr should not be alone in guarding the river. Hartwell again leaned forward. He spoke meditatively, but his eyes were piercing in their intensity. "Yes. If in the event of the unexpected," he emphasised the word with a suggestive pause, "recovery of the safe, it should be found not to contain that amount, in fact, nothing at all, what would you have to say?" Every fibre of Firmstone's body crystallised into hard lines. Slowly he rose to his feet. Pale to the lips, he towered over the general manager. Slowly his words fell from set lips. "What have I to say?" he repeated. "This. That, if I stooped to answer such a question, I should put myself on the level of the brutal idiot who asked it." CHAPTER XIX _The Fly in the Ointment_ At last the union was organised at mill and mine. The men had been duly instructed as to the burden of their wrongs and the measures necessary for redress. They had been taught that all who were not for them were against them, and that scabs were traitors to their fellows, that heaven was not for them, hell too good for them, and that on earth they only crowded the deserving from their own. In warning his fellows against bending the knee to Baal, Morrison did not feel it incumbent upon him to state that there was a whole sky full of other heathen deities, and that, in turning from one deity to make obeisance to another, they might miss the one true God. He did not even take the trouble to state that there was a chance for wise selection--that it was better to worship Osiris than to fall into the hands of Moloch. With enthusiasm, distilled as much from Pierre's whisky as from Morrison's wisdom, the men had elected Morrison leader, and now awaited his commands. Morrison had decided on a strike. This would demonstrate his power and terrify his opponents. There was enough shrewdness in him to select a plausible excuse. He knew very well that even among his most ardent adherents there was much common sense and an inherent perception of justice; that, while this would not stand in the way of precipitating a strike, it might prevent its perfect fruition. Whatever his own convictions, Morrison felt intuitively that ideas in the minds of the majority of men were but characters written on sand which the first sweep of washing waves would wipe out and leave motiveless; that others must stand by with ready stylus, to write again and again that which was swept away. In other words, he must have aides; that these aides, if they were to remain steadfast, must be thinking men, impressed with the justice of their position. Hartwell had supplied just the motive that was needed. As yet, it was not apparent; but it was on the way. When it arrived there would be no doubt of its identity, or the course of action which must then be pursued. Morrison was sure that it would come, was sure of the riot that would follow. His face darkened, flattened to the similitude of a serpent about to strike. There was a flaw in Morrison's otherwise perfect fruit. Where hitherto had been the calm of undisputed possession was now the rage of baffled desire. Aside from momentary resentment at Élise's first interview with Firmstone, the fact had made little impression on him. As Pierre ruled his household, even so he intended to rule his own, and, according to Morrison's idea of the conventional, a temporary trifling with another man was one of the undeniable perquisites of an engaged girl. Morrison had been too sure of himself to feel a twinge of jealousy, rather considering such a course of action, when not too frequently indulged, an additional tribute to his own personality. What Morrison mistook for love was only passion. It was honourable, insomuch as he intended to make Élise his wife. Morrison ascribed only one motive to the subsequent meetings which he knew took place between Élise and Firmstone. Élise was drifting farther and farther from him, in spite of all that he could do. "Rowing," as he expressed it, had not been of infrequent occurrence between himself and Élise before Firmstone had appeared on the scene; but on such occasions Élise had been as ready for a "mix-up" as she was now anxious to avoid one. There was another thing to which he could not close his eyes. There had been defiance, hatred, an eager fierceness, both in attack and defence, which was now wholly lacking. On several recent occasions he had sought a quarrel with Élise; but while she had stood her ground, there was a contempt in her manner, her eyes, her voice, which could not do otherwise than attract his attention. To do Morrison the justice which he really deserved, there was in him as much of love for Élise as his nature was capable of harbouring for any one outside himself. He looked upon her as his own, and he was defending this idea of possession with the same pugnacity that he would protect his dollars from a thief. Morrison had been forced to the conclusion that Élise was lost to him. Hitherto Firmstone had been an impersonal obstacle in his path. Now--The eyes narrowed to a slit, the venomous lips were compressed. Morrison was a beast. Only the vengeance of a beast could wipe out the disgrace that had been forced upon him. In reality Élise was only a child. Unpropitious and uncongenial as had been her surroundings to her finer nature, these had only retarded development; they had not killed the germ. Her untrammelled life had been natural, but hardly neutral. To put conditions in a word, her undirected life had stored up an abundant supply of nourishing food that would thrust into vigorous life the dormant germ of noble womanhood when the proper time should come. There had been no hot-house forcing, but the natural growth of the healthy, hardy plant which would battle successfully the storms that were bound to come. In the cramped and sordid lives which had surrounded her there was much to repel and little to attract. The parental love of Pierre was strong and fierce, but it was animal, it was satiating, selfish, and undemonstrative. Hence Élise was almost wholly unconscious of its existence. As for Madame, hers was a love unselfish; but dominated and overshadowed, in terror of her husband, she stood in but little less awe of Élise. These two, the one selfish, with strength of mind sufficient to bend others to his purposes, the other unselfish, but with every spontaneous emotion repressed by stronger personalities, exerted an unconscious but corresponding influence upon their equally unconscious ward. These manifestations were animal, and in Élise they met with an animal response. She felt the domineering strength of Pierre, but without awe she defied it. She felt the unselfish and timorous love of Madame. She trampled it beneath her childish feet, or yielded to a storm of repentant emotion that overwhelmed and bewildered its timid recipient. She was surrounded and imbued with emotions, unguided, unanalysed, misunderstood, that rose supreme, or were blotted out as the strength of the individual was equal to or inferior to its opposition. They were animal emotions that one moment would lick and caress and fight to the death, the next in a moment of rage would smite to the earth. As Élise approached womanhood, these emotions were intensified, but were otherwise unmodified. There was another element which came as a natural temporal sequence. She had seen with unseeing eyes young girls given in marriage; she had no question but that a like fate was in store for her. So it happened that when Pierre, announcing to her her sixteenth birthday, had likewise broached the subject of marriage she opposed it not on rational grounds but simply on general principles. She was not at first conscious of any objections to Morrison. Being ignorant of marriage she had no grounds upon which to base a choice. To her Morrison was no better and no worse than any other man she had met. Morrison was perfectly right in his assumptions. Had not circumstances interfered, in the end he would have had his way. Morrison was also perfectly wrong. Élise was not Madame in any sense of the word. His reign would have been at least troubled, if not in the end usurped. The first circumstance which had already interfered to prevent the realisation of his desire was one which, very naturally, would be the last to appeal to him. This circumstance was Zephyr. From the earliest infancy of Élise, Zephyr had been, in a way, her constant guardian and companion. With enough strength of character to make him fearless, it was insufficient to arouse the ambition to carve out a distinctive position for himself. He absorbed and mastered whatever came in his way, but there his ambition ceased. He was respected and, to a certain extent, feared, even by those who were naturally possessed of stronger natures. There may be something in the fabled power of the human eye to cow a savage beast, but unfortunately it will probably never be satisfactorily demonstrated. A man confronted with the beast will invariably and instinctively trust to his concrete "44" rather than to the abstract force of human magnetism. Yet there is a germ of truth in the proverbial statement. Brought face to face with his human antagonist, the thinking man always stands in fear of himself, of his sense of justice, while the brute in his opponent has no scruples and no desires save those of personal triumph. These things Élise did not see. The things she saw which appealed to her and influenced her were, first of all, Zephyr's fearlessness of others who were feared, his good-natured, philosophical cynicism which ridiculed foibles that he did not feel called upon to combat, his protecting love for her which was always considerate but never obsequious, which was unrestraining yet restrained her in the end. Against his cynical stoicism the waves of her childish rage beat themselves to calm, or, hurt and wounded, she wept out her childish sorrows in his comforting arms. The protecting value of it she did not know, but in Zephyr, and that was the only name by which she knew him, was the only untrammelled outlet for every passion of her childish as well as for her maturing soul. Zephyr alone would have thwarted Morrison's designs on Élise. But Morrison despised Zephyr, even though he feared him. Zephyr in a neutral way had preserved Élise from herself and from her surroundings. Neutral, because his efforts were conserving, not developmental. Neutral, for, while he could keep her feet from straying in paths of destruction, he had through ignorance been unable to guide them in ways that led to a higher life. This mission had been left to Firmstone. Not that Zephyr's work had been less important, for the hand that fallows ground performs as high a mission as the hand that sows the chosen seed. Unconsciously at first, Firmstone had opened the eyes of Élise to vistas, to possibilities which hitherto had been undreamed of. It mattered little that as yet she saw men as trees, the great and saving fact remained, her eyes were opened and she saw. Morrison's eyes were also opened. He saw first the growing influence of Firmstone and later the association of Élise with Miss Hartwell. He could not see that Élise, with the influence of Firmstone, was an impossibility to him. Like a venomous serpent that strikes blindly at the club and not at the man who wields it, Morrison concentrated the full strength of his rage against Firmstone. Perhaps no characterisation of Élise could be stronger than the bald statement that as yet she was entirely oblivious of self. The opening vistas of a broader, higher life were too absorbing, too intoxicating in themselves, to permit the intrusion of the disturbing element of personality. Her eager absorption of the minutest detail, her keen perception of the slightest discordant note, pleased Miss Hartwell as much as it delighted Firmstone. Élise was as spontaneous and unreserved with the latter as with the former. She preferred Firmstone's company because with him was an unconscious personality that met her own on even terms. Firmstone loved strength and beauty for themselves, Miss Hartwell for the personal pleasure they gave her. She was flattered by the childish attention which was tendered her and piqued by the obvious fact that her personality had made only a slight impression upon Élise as compared with that of Firmstone. This particular afternoon Élise was returning from a few hours spent with Miss Hartwell at the Falls. It had been rather unsatisfactory to both. As the sun began to sink behind the mountain they had started down the trail together, but the walk was a silent one. Miss Hartwell had a slight flush of annoyance. Élise, sober and puzzled, was absorbed by thoughts that were as yet undifferentiated and unidentified. They parted at the Blue Goose. Élise turned at the steps and entered by the back door. Morrison was watching, unseen by either. He noted Élise's path, and as she entered he confronted her. Élise barely noticed him and was preparing to go upstairs. Morrison divined her intention and barred her way. "You're getting too high-toned for common folks, ain't you?" Élise paused perforce. There was a struggling look in her eyes. Her thoughts had been too far away from her surroundings to allow of an immediate return. She remained silent. The scowl on Morrison's face intensified. "When you're Mrs. Morrison, you won't go traipsing around with no high-toned bosses and female dudes more than once. I'll learn you." Élise came back with a crash. "Mrs. Morrison!" She did not speak the words, she shrank from them and left them hanging in their self-polluted atmosphere. "Learn me!" The words were vibrant with a low-pitched hum, that smote and bored like the impact of an electric wave. "You--you--snake; you--how dare you!" Morrison did not flinch. The blind fury of a dared beast flamed in his eyes. "Dare, you vixen! I'll make you, or break you! I've been in too many scraps and smelled too much powder to get scared by a hen that's trying to crow." The animal was dominant in Élise. Fury personified flew at Morrison. "You'll teach me; will you? I'll teach you the difference between a hen and a wild cat." The door from the kitchen was opened and Madame came in. She flung herself between Élise and Morrison. The repressed timorous love of years flamed upon the thin cheeks, flashed from the faded eyes. There was no trace of fear. Her slight form fairly shook with the intensity of her passion. "Go! Go! Go!" The last was uttered in a voice little less than a shriek. "Don't you touch Élise. She is mine. Why don't you go?" Her trembling hands pushed Morrison toward the open door. Bewildered, staggered, cowed, he slunk from the room. Madame closed the door. She turned toward Élise. The passion had receded, only the patient pleading was in her eyes. The next instant she saw nothing. Her head was crushed upon Élise's shoulder, the clasping arms caressed and bound, and hot cheeks were pressed against her own. Another instant and she was pushed into a chair. For the first time in her life, Madame's hungry heart was fed. Élise loved her. That was enough. The westward sinking sun had drawn the veil of darkness up from the greying east. Its cycles of waxing and waning were measured by the click of tensioned springs and beat of swinging pendulums. But in the growing darkness another sun was rising, its cycles measured by beating hearts to an unending day. CHAPTER XX _The River Gives up its Prey_ Because Zephyr saw a school of fishes disporting themselves in the water, this never diverted his attention from the landing of the fish he had hooked. This principle of his life he was applying to a particular event. The river had been closely watched; now, at last, his fish was hooked. The landing it was another matter. He needed help. He went for it. Zephyr found Bennie taking his usual after-dinner nap. "Julius Benjamin, it's the eleventh hour," he began, indifferently. Bennie interrupted: "The eleventh hour! It's two o'clock, and the time you mention was born three hours ago. What new kind of bug is biting you?" Zephyr studiously rolled a cigarette. "Your education is deficient, Julius. You don't know your Bible, and you don't know the special force of figurative language. I'm sorry for you, Julius, but having begun I'll see it through. Having put my hand to the plough, which is also figuratively speaking, it's the eleventh hour, but if you'll get into your working clothes and whirl in, I'll give you full time and better wages." Bennie sat upright. "What?" he began. Zephyr's cigarette was smoking. "There's no time to waste drilling ideas through a thick head. The wagon is ready and so is the block and ropes. Come on, and while we're on the way, I'll tackle your wits where the Almighty left off." Bennie's wits were not so muddy as Zephyr's words indicated. He sprang from his bed and into his shoes, and before the stub of Zephyr's cigarette had struck the ground outside the open window Bennie was pushing Zephyr through the door. "Figures be hanged, and you, too. If my wits were as thick as your tongue, they'd be guessing at the clack of it, instead of getting a wiggle on the both of us." The stableman had the wagon hooked up and ready. Zephyr and Bennie clambered in. Bennie caught the lines from the driver and cracking the whip about the ears of the horses, they clattered down the trail to the Devil's Elbow. Zephyr protested mildly at Bennie's haste. "Hold your hush," growled Bennie. "There's a hell of a fight on at the office this day. If you want to see a good man win the sooner we're back with the safe the better." There were no lost motions on their arrival at the Devil's Elbow. The actual facts that had hastened Zephyr's location of the safe were simple. He had studied the position which the stage must have occupied before the bridge fell, its line of probable descent. From these assumed data he inferred the approximate position of the safe in the river and began prodding in the muddy water. At last he was tolerably sure that he had located it. By building a sort of wing dam with loose rock, filling the interstices with fine material, the water of the pool was cut off from the main stream and began to quiet down and grow comparatively clear. Then Zephyr's heart almost stood still. By careful looking he could distinguish one corner of the safe. Without more ado he started for Bennie. The tackle was soon rigged. Taking a hook and chain, Zephyr waded out into the icy water, and after a few minutes he gave the signal to hoist. It was the safe, sure enough. Another lift with the tackle in a new position and the safe was in the wagon and headed for its starting-point. Bennie was rigid with important dignity on the way to the office and was consequently silent save as to his breath, which whistled through his nostrils. As for Zephyr, Bennie's silence only allowed him to whistle or go through the noiseless motions as seemed to suit his mood. The driver was alive with curiosity and spoiling to talk, but his voluble efforts at conversation only confirmed his knowledge of what to expect. When later interrogated as to the remarks of Zephyr and Bennie upon this particular occasion he cut loose the pent-up torrent within him. "You fellows may have heard," he concluded, "that clams is hell on keeping quiet; but they're a flock of blue jays cussin' fer a prize compared with them two fellers." As Firmstone turned to leave the office the door was thrust open and the two men entered. Bennie led, aggressive defiance radiating from every swing and pose. Zephyr, calm, imperturbable, confident, glanced at the red-faced Hartwell and at the set face of Firmstone. He knew the game, he knew his own hand. He intended to play it for its full value. He had an interested partner. He trusted in his skill, but if he made breaks it was no concern of his. "Assuming," he began; "that there's an interesting discussion going on, I beg leave to submit some important data bearing on the same." "Trim your switches," burst out Bennie. "They'll sting harder." The unruffled Zephyr bent a soothing eye on Bennie, moved his hat a little farther back from his forehead, placed his arms leisurely akimbo, and eased one foot by gradually resting his weight on the other. It was not affectation. It was the physical expression of a mental habit. "Still farther assuming," here his eyes slowly revolved and rested on Hartwell, "that truth crushed to earth sometimes welcomes a friendly boost, uninvited, I am here to tender the aforesaid assistance." He turned to Bennie. "Now, Julius, it's up to you. If you'll open the throttle, you can close your blow-off with no danger of bursting your boiler." He nodded his head toward the door. Hartwell's manner was that of a baited bull who, in the multiplicity of his assailants, knew not whom to select for first attack. For days and weeks he had been marshalling his forces for an overwhelming assault on Firmstone. He had ignored the fact that his adversary might have been preparing an able defence in spite of secrecy on his part. It is a wise man who, when contemplating the spoliation of his neighbour, first takes careful account of defensive as well as of offensive means. His personal assault on Firmstone had met with defeat. In the mental rout that followed he was casting about to find means of concealing from others that which he could not hide from himself. The irruption of Bennie and Zephyr threatened disaster even to this forlorn hope. Firmstone knew what was coming. Hartwell could not even guess. As he had seen Firmstone as his first object, so now he saw Zephyr. Blindly as he had attacked Firmstone, so now he lowered his head for an equally blind charge on the placid Zephyr. "Who are you, anyway?" he burst out, with indignant rage. "Me?" Zephyr turned to Hartwell, releasing his lips from their habitual pucker, his eyes resting for a moment on Hartwell. "Oh, I ain't much. I ain't a sack of fertilizer on a thousand-acre ranch." His eyes drooped indifferently. "But at the same time, you ain't no thousand-acre ranch." "That may be," retorted Hartwell; "but I'm too large to make it safe for you to prance around on alone." Zephyr turned languidly to Hartwell. "That's so," he assented. "I discovered a similar truth several decades ago and laid it up for future use. Even in my limited experience you ain't the first thorn-apple that I've seen pears grafted on to. In recognition of your friendly warning, allow me to say that I'm only one in a bunch." A further exchange of courtesies was prevented by the entrance of four men, of whom Bennie was one. Their entrance was heralded by a series of bumps and grunts. There was a final bump, a final grunt, and the four men straightened simultaneously; four bended arms swept the moisture from four perspiring faces. "That's all." Bennie dismissed his helpers with a wave of his hand, then stood grimly repressed, waiting for the next move. The scene was mildly theatrical; unintentionally so, so far as Zephyr was concerned, designedly so on the part of Bennie, who longed to push it to a most thrilling climax. It was not pleasant to Firmstone; but the cause was none of his creating, he was of no mind to interfere with the event. He was only human after all, and that it annoyed and irritated Hartwell afforded him a modicum of legitimate solace. Besides, Zephyr and Bennie were his stanch friends; the recovery of the safe and the putting it in evidence at the most effective moment was their work. The manner of bringing it into play, though distasteful to him, suited their ideas of propriety, and Firmstone felt that they had earned the right to an exhibition of their personalities with no interference on his part. He preserved a passive, dignified silence. As for Hartwell, openly attacked from without, within a no less violent conflict of invisible forces was crowding him to self-humiliation. To retreat from the scene meant either an open confession of wrong-doing, or a refusal on his part to do justice to the man whom he had wronged. To remain was to subject himself to the open triumph of Zephyr and Bennie, and the no less assured though silent triumph of Firmstone. Hartwell's reflections were interrupted by Zephyr's request for the keys to the safe. There was a clatter as Firmstone dropped them into his open hand. Hartwell straightened up with flushed cheeks. Pierre's words again came to him. The whole thing might be a bluff, after all. The safe might be empty. Here was a possible avenue of escape. With the same blind energy with which he had entered other paths, he entered this. He leaned back in his chair with tolerant resignation. "If it amuses you people to make a mountain out of a molehill I can afford to stand it." Bennie looked pityingly at Hartwell. "God Almighty must have it in for you bad, or he'd let you open your eyes t'other end to, once in a while." As the safe was finally opened and one by one the dull yellow bars were piled on the scales, there was too much tenseness to allow of even a show of levity. Zephyr had no doubts. No one could have got at the safe while in the river; he could swear to that. From its delivery to the driver by Firmstone there had been no time nor opportunity to tamper with its contents. As for Firmstone, he had too much at stake to be entirely free from anxiety, though neither voice nor manner betrayed it. He had had experience enough to teach him that it was not sufficient to be honest--one must at all times be prepared to prove it. The last ingot was checked off. Firmstone silently handed Hartwell the copy of his original letter of advice and the totalled figures of the recent weighing. Hartwell accepted them with a cynical smile and laid them indifferently aside. "Well," he remarked; "all I can say is, the company recovered the safe in the nick of time, from whom I don't pretend to say. We've got it, and that's enough." There was a grin of cunning defiance on his face. He had entered a covert where further pursuit was impossible. For once Bennie felt unequal to the emergency. He turned silently, but appealingly, to Zephyr. It was a new experience for Zephyr as well. For the first time in his life he felt himself jarred to the point of quick retort, wholly unconsonant with his habitual serenity. His face flushed. His hand moved jerkily to the bosom of his shirt, only to be as jerkily removed empty. The harmonica was decidedly unequal to the task. His lips puckered and straightened. His final resort was more satisfying. He deliberately seated himself on the safe and began rolling a cigarette. Placing it to his lips, he drew a match along the leg of his trousers. The shielded flame was applied to the cigarette. There came a few deliberate puffs, the cigarette was removed. His crossed leg was thrust through his clasped hands at he leaned backward. Through a cloud of soothing smoke his answer was meditatively voiced. "When the Almighty made man, he must have had a pot of sense on one hand and foolishness on the other, and he put some of each inside every empty skull. He got mighty interested in his work and so absent-minded he used up the sense first. Leastways, some skulls got an unrighteous dose of fool that I can't explain no other way. I ain't blaming the Almighty; he'd got the stuff on his hands and he'd got to get rid of it somehow. It's like rat poison--mighty good in its place, but dangerous to have lying around loose. He just forgot to mix it in, that's all, and we've got to do it for him. It's a heap of trouble and it's a nasty job, and I ain't blaming him for jumping it." CHAPTER XXI _The Sword that Turns_ As Zephyr and Bennie left the office Hartwell turned to Firmstone. There was no outward yielding, within only the determination not to recognise defeat. "The cards are yours; but we'll finish the game." The words were not spoken, but they were in evidence. Firmstone was silent for a long time. He was thinking neither of Hartwell nor of himself. "Well," he finally asked; "this little incident is happily closed. What next?" Hartwell's manner had not changed. "You are superintendent here. Don't ask me. It's up to you." Firmstone restrained himself with an effort. "Is it?" The question carried its own answer with it. It was plainly negative, only Hartwell refused to accept it. "What else are you out here for?" Firmstone's face flushed hotly. "Why can't you talk sense?" he burst out. "I am not aware that I have talked anything else." Hartwell only grew more rigid with Firmstone's visible anger. "If that's your opinion the sooner I get out the better." Firmstone rose and started to the door. "Wait a moment." Firmstone's decision was, by Hartwell, twisted into weakening. On this narrow pivot he turned his preparation for retreat. "The loss of the gold brought me out here. It has been recovered and no questions asked. That ends my work. Now yours begins. When I have your assurance that you will remain with the company in accordance with your contract, I am ready to go. What do you say?" Firmstone thought rapidly and to the point. His mind was soon made up. "I decline to commit myself." The door closed behind him, shutting off further discussion. The abrupt termination of the interview was more than disappointing to Hartwell. It carried with it an element of fear. He had played his game obstinately, with obvious defiance in the presence of Zephyr and Bennie; with their departure he had counted on a quiet discussion with Firmstone. He had no settled policy further than to draw Firmstone out, get him to commit himself definitely while he, with no outward sign of yielding, could retreat with flying colours. He now recognised the fact that the knives with which he had been juggling were sharper and more dangerous than he had thought, but he also felt that, by keeping them in the air as long as possible, when they fell he could at least turn their points from himself. Firmstone's departure brought them tumbling about his ears in a very inconsiderate manner. He must make another move, and in a hurry. Events were no longer even apparently under his control; they were controlling him and pushing him into a course of action not at all to his liking. The element of fear, before passive, was now quivering with intense activity. He closed his mind to all else and bent it toward the forestalling of an action that he could not but feel was immediate and pressing. Partly from Firmstone, partly from Pierre, he had gathered a clear idea that a union was being organised, and this knowledge had impelled him to a course that he would now have given worlds to recall. This act was none else than the engaging of a hundred or more non-union men. On their arrival, he had intended the immediate discharge of the disaffected and the installing of the new men in their places. He had chuckled to himself over the dismay which the arrival of the men would create, but even more over the thought of the bitter rage of Morrison and Pierre when they realised the fact that they had been outwitted and forestalled. The idea that he was forcing upon Firmstone a set of conditions for which he would refuse to stand sponsor had occurred to him only as a possibility so remote that it was not even considered. He was now taking earnest counsel with himself. If Firmstone had contemplated resignation under circumstances of far less moment than the vital one of which he was still ignorant--Hartwell drew his hand slowly across his moistening forehead, then sprang to his feet. Why had he not thought of it before? He caught up his hat and hurried to the door of the outer office. There was not a moment to lose. Before he laid his hand on the door he forced himself to deliberate movement. "Tell the stable boss to hitch up the light rig and bring it to the office." As the man left the room, Hartwell seated himself and lighted a cigar. In a few moments the rig was at the door and Hartwell appeared, leisurely drawing on a pair of driving-gloves. Adjusting the dust-robe over his knees, as he took the lines from the man, he said: "If Mr. Firmstone inquires for me tell him I have gone for a drive." Down past the mill, along the trail by the slide, he drove with no appearance of haste. Around a bend which hid the mill from sight, the horses had a rude awakening. The cigar was thrown aside, the reins tightened, and the whip was cracked in a manner that left no doubt in the horses' minds as to the desires of their driver. In an hour, foaming and panting, they were pulled up at the station. Hitching was really an unnecessary precaution, for a rest was a thing to be desired; but hitched they were, and Hartwell hurried into the dingy office. The operator was leaning back in his chair, his feet beside his clicking instrument, a soothing pipe perfuming the atmosphere of placid dreams. "I want to get off a message at once." Hartwell was standing before the window. The operator's placid dreams assumed an added charm by comparison with the perturbed Hartwell. "You're too late, governor." He slowly raised his eyes, letting them rest on Hartwell. "Too late!" Hartwell repeated, dazedly. "Yep. At once ain't scheduled to make no stops." The operator resumed his pipe and his dreams. "I've no time to waste," Hartwell snapped, impatiently. "Even so," drawled the man; "but you didn't give me no time at all. I don't mind a fair handicap; but I ain't no jay." "Will you give me a blank?" "Oh, now you're talking U. S. all right. I savvy that." Without rising, he pushed a packet of blanks toward the window with his foot. Hartwell wrote hurriedly for a moment, and shoved the message toward the operator. Taking his feet from the desk, he leaned slowly forward, picked up a pencil and began checking off the words. John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado. Do not send the men I asked for. Will explain by letter. Arthur Hartwell. "Things quieting down at the mine?" The operator paused, looking up at Hartwell. Hartwell could not restrain his impatience. "I'm Mr. Hartwell, general manager of the Rainbow Company. Will you attend to your business and leave my affairs alone?" "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hartwell. My name is Jake Studley, agent for R. G. S. I get fifty dollars a month, and don't give a damn for no one." He began clearing the papers from before his instrument and drumming out his call. The call was answered and the message sent. The operator picked up the paper and thrust it on a file. Hartwell's face showed conflicting emotions. He wanted to force the exasperating man to action; but his own case was urgent. He drew from his pocket a roll of bills. Selecting a ten-dollar note, he pushed it toward the operator, who was refilling his pipe. "I want that message to get to Haskins immediately, and I want an answer." The operator shoved the bill into his pocket with one hand, with the other he began another call. There was a pause, then a series of clicks which were cut off and another message sent. The man closed his instrument and winked knowingly at Hartwell. "I squirted a little electricity down the line on my own account. Told them the G. M. was in and ordered that message humped. 'Tain't up to me to explain what G. M. is here." Hartwell went out on the platform and paced restlessly up and down. In about an hour he again approached the window. "How long before I can expect an answer?" "I can't tell. It depends on their finding your man. They'll get a wiggle on 'em, all right. I'll stir them up again before long. Jehosaphat! There's my call now!" He hurriedly answered, then read, word by word, the message as it was clicked off. Arthur Hartwell, Rainbow, Colorado. Message received. Too late. Men left on special last night. John Haskins. Hartwell caught up another blank. John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado. Recall the men without fail. I'll make it worth your while. Arthur Hartwell. There was another weary wait. Finally the operator came from his office. "Sorry, Mr. Hartwell, but Leadville says Haskins left on train after sending first despatch. Says he had a ticket for Salt Lake." "When will that special be here?" Hartwell's voice was husky in spite of himself. "Ought to be here about six. It's three now." "Is there no way to stop it?" "Not now. Haskins chartered it. He's the only one that can call it off, and he's gone." Hartwell's face was pale and haggard. He again began pacing up and down, trying in vain to find a way of doing the impossible. The fact that he had temporised, resolutely set his face against the manly thing to do, only to find the same alternative facing him at every turn, more ominous and harder than ever, taught him nothing. The operator watched him as he repeatedly passed. His self-asserting independence had gone, in its place was growing a homely sympathy for the troubled man. As Hartwell passed him again he called out: "Say, governor, I know something about that business at the mine, and 'tain't up to you to worry. Your old man up there is a corker. They're on to him all right. He'll just take one fall out of that crowd that'll do them for keeps." Hartwell paused, looking distantly at the speaker. He was not actively conscious of him, hardly of his words. The operator, not understanding, went on with more assurance. "I know Jack Haskins. This ain't the first time he's been called on to help out in this kind of a racket, you bet! He's shipped you a gang that 'ud rather fight than eat. All you've got to do is to say 'sick 'em' and then lay back and see the fur fly." Hartwell turned away without a word and went to his rig. He got in and drove straight for the mill. His mind was again made up. This time it was made up aright. Only--circumstances did not allow it to avail. As he drove away he did not notice a man in miner's garb who looked at him sharply and resumed his way. The operator was still on the platform as the man came to a halt. He was deriving great satisfaction from the crackling new bill which he was caressing in his pocket. The new bill would soon have had a companion, had he kept quiet, but this he could not know. Glancing at the miner, he remarked, benevolently: "Smelling trouble, and pulling out, eh?" "What do you mean?" The new-comer looked up stupidly. "Just this. I reckon you've run up against Jack Haskins's gang before, and ain't hankering for a second round." "Jack Haskins's gang comin'?" There was an eagerness in the man's manner which the operator misunderstood. "That's what, and a hundred strong." The man turned. "Thanks, pard. Guess I'll go back and tell the boys. Perhaps they'd like a chance to git, too; then again they mightn't." Tipping a knowing wink at the open-mouthed operator, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. He too was headed for the mill. The operator's jaw worked spasmodically for a moment. "Hen's feathers and skunk oil! If he ain't a spy, I'll eat him. Oh, Lord! Old Firmstone and Jack Haskins's gang lined up against the Blue Goose crowd! Jake, my boy, listen to me. You can get another job if you lose this; but to-morrow you are going to see the sight of your life." CHAPTER XXII _Good Intentions_ Returning from the station, Hartwell drove rapidly until he came to the foot of the mountain that rose above the nearly level mesa. Even then he tried to urge his jaded team into a pace in some consonance with his anxiety; but the steep grades and the rarefied air appealed more strongly to the exhausted animals than did the stinging lash he wielded. As, utterly blown, they came to a rest at the top of a steep grade, Hartwell became aware of the presence of three men who rose leisurely as the team halted. Two of them stood close by the horses' heads, the third paused beside the wagon. "Howdy!" he saluted, with a grin. "What do you want?" A hold-up was the only thing that occurred to Hartwell. "Just a little sociable talk. You ain't in no hurry?" The grin broadened. "I am." Hartwell reached for his whip. "None of that!" The grin died away. The two men each laid a firm hand on the bridles. "Will you tell me what this means?" There was not a quaver in Hartwell's voice, no trace of fear in his eyes. "By-and-by. You just wait. You got a gun?" "No; I haven't." "I don't like to dispute a gentleman; but it's better to be safe. Just put up your hands." Hartwell complied with the request. The man passed his hands rapidly over Hartwell's body, then turned away. "All right," he said, then seated himself and began filling his pipe. "How long am I expected to wait?" Hartwell's tone was sarcastic. "Sorry I can't tell you. It just depends. I'll let you know when." He relapsed into silence that Hartwell could not break with all his impatient questions or his open threats. The men left the horses' heads and seated themselves in the road. It occurred to Hartwell to make a dash for liberty, but there was a cartridge-belt on each man and holsters with ready guns. In the deep cañon the twilight was giving way to darkness that was only held in check by the strip of open sky above and by a band of yellow light that burned with lambent tongues on the waving foliage which overhung the eastern cliff. Chattering squirrels and scolding magpies had long since ceased their bickerings; if there were other sounds that came with the night, they were overcome by the complaining river which ceased not day nor night to fret among the boulders that strewed its bed. Like a shaft of light piercing the darkness a whistle sounded, mellowed by distance. The man near the wagon spoke. "That's a special. Where in hell's Jack?" "On deck." A fourth man came to a halt. He paused, wiping the perspiration from his face. "They're coming, a hundred strong. Jakey coughed it up, and it didn't cost a cent." He laughed. "It's Jack Haskins's crowd, too." The man by the wagon addressed Hartwell. "I can tell you now. It's an all-night wait. Tumble out lively. Better take your blankets, if you've got any. It's liable to be cool before morning right here. It'll be hotter on the mountain, but you'd better stay here." Hartwell did not stir. "Out with you now, lively. We ain't got no time to waste." Hartwell obeyed. The man sprang into the wagon and, pitching out the blankets, gathered up the lines. "Come on, boys." Turning to his companion, he said, "You stay with him, Jack. He ain't heeled; but don't let him off." To Hartwell direct, "Don't try to get away. We'll deliver your message about the special." His companions were already in the wagon and they started up the trail. Jack turned to his charge. "Now, if you'll just be a good boy and mind me, to-morrow I'll take you to the circus." CHAPTER XXIII _An Unexpected Recruit_ Like the majority of men in the West, Jake Studley took the view that all men are equal, and that the interests of one are the concerns of all. A civil answer to what in other climes would be considered impertinent curiosity was the unmistakable shibboleth of the coequal fraternity. Hartwell's manner had been interpreted by Jakey as a declaration of heresy to his orthodox code and the invitation to mind his own business as a breach of etiquette which the code entailed. Jakey thereupon assumed the duties of a defender of the faith, and, being prepared for action, moved immediately upon the enemy. The attack developed the unexpected. Hartwell's bill, tendered in desperation, was accepted in error, not as a bribe, but as an apology. Jakey sounded "cease firing" to his embattled lines, and called in his attacking forces. He had taken salt, henceforth he was Hartwell's friend and the friend of his friends. Jakey took neither himself nor his life seriously. He was station agent, freight agent, express agent, and telegraph operator at Rainbow Station, R. G. S., and he performed his various duties with laudable promptness, when nothing more promising attracted his attention. Just now the "more promising" was in sight. The company had no scruples in dismissing employees without warning, and Jakey had no quixotic principles which restrained him for a moment from doing to others what they would do to him if occasion arose. Jakey did not hold that the world owed him a living, but he considered that it possessed a goodly store of desirable things and that these were held in trust for those who chose to take them. Being "broke" did not appal him, nor the loss of a job fill him with quaking. The railroad was not the whole push, and if he could not pump electric juice he could wield a pick or rope a steer with equal zeal. Just now the most desirable thing that the world held in trust was the coming fight at the Rainbow. Accordingly he wired the R. G. S. officials that there was a vacancy at Rainbow Station. The said officials, being long accustomed to men of Jakey's stamp, merely remarked, "Damn!" and immediately wired to the nearest junction point to send another man to take the vacant position. Jakey admired Firmstone, and this admiration prepossessed him in Firmstone's favour. The prepossession was by no means fixed and invulnerable, and had not Hartwell cleared himself of suspected heresy, he would have lent the same zeal, now kindling within him, to the Blue Goose rather than the Rainbow. In what he recognised as the first round of the opening fight Jakey realised that the Blue Goose had scored. But, before the special pulled in, he was ready, and this time he was sure of his move. "By the Great Spirit of the noble Red Man," Jakey was apostrophising the distant mountains in ornate language; "what kind of a low-down bird are you, to be gathered in by a goose, and a blue one at that?" Jakey paused, gazing earnestly at the retreating figure of the miner. Then, shaking his fist at the man's back, "Look here, you down-trodden serf of capitalistic oppression, I'll show you! Don't you fool yourself! Tipped me the grand ha-ha; did you? Well, you just listen to me! 'Stead of milking the old cow, you've just rubbed off a few drops from her calf's nose. That's what, as I'll proceed to demonstrate." Jakey's loyalty had been wavering, passive, and impersonal. Now his personal sympathies were enlisted, for the path of self-vindication lay through the triumph of the Rainbow. Before the special had come to a standstill its animated cargo began to disembark. Coatless men with woollen shirts belted to trousers, the belts sagging with their heavy loads of guns and cartridges, every man with a roll of blankets and many with carbines as well, testified to the recognition of the fact that the path of the miner's pick must be cleared by burning powder. Jakey, thrusting his way through the boisterous crowd, forced upon the resentful conductor his surrendered insignia of office, then mingled with his future associates. He met a hilarious welcome, as the knowledge spread from man to man that he was with them. Its practical expression was accompanied by the thrusting of uncorked bottles at his face and demands that he should "drink hearty" as a pledge of fellowship. Jakey waved them aside. "Put them up, boys, put them up. Them weapons ain't no use, not here. They're too short range, and they shoot the wrong way." The leader pushed his way through the crowd around Jakey. "That's right, boys. It's close to tally now. Where's the Rainbow trail?" With elaborate figures, punctuated by irreverent adjectives, Jakey pointed out the trail and his reasons against taking it. "It's good medicine to fight a skunk head on," he concluded; "but when you go up against a skunk, a coyote, and a grizzly wrapped up in one skin, you want to be circumspect. Morrison's a skunk, Pierre's a coyote, and the rest are grizzlies, and you don't want to fool yourselves just because the skin of the beast grows feathers instead of fur." The leader listened attentively and, from the thick husk of Jakey's figures, he stripped the hard grains of well-ripened truth. Jakey laid small emphasis on the manner in which the envoy of the Blue Goose had gained his information. He had personal reasons for that, but the fact that the information was gained sufficed. The men grew silent as they realised that the battle was on and that they were in the enemy's country. Under the guidance of Jakey they tramped up the track, turned toward what appeared as a vertical cliff, and clambered slowly and painfully over loose rocks, through stunted evergreens, and at last stood upon the rolling surface of the mesa above. From here on, the path was less obstructed. It was near midnight when the dull roar of the mill announced the proximity of their goal. As silently as they had followed the tortuous trail, so silently each wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down to sleep. CHAPTER XXIV _The Gathering to its Own_ Had Firmstone known of Hartwell's move, which was to bring affairs to an immediate and definite crisis, his actions would have been shaped along different lines. But the only one who could have given this knowledge blindly withheld it until it was beyond his power to give. At the mill Firmstone noticed a decided change in Luna. The foreman was sullen in look and act. He answered Firmstone's questions almost insolently, but not with open defiance. His courage was not equal to giving full voice to his sullen hatred. Firmstone paid little heed to the man's behaviour, thinking it only a passing mood. After a thorough inspection of the mill, he returned to the office. "Mr. Hartwell said, if you inquired for him, that I was to tell you he had gone for a drive." The man anticipated his duty before Firmstone inquired. "Very well," Firmstone replied, as he entered the office. He busied himself at his desk for a long time. Toward night he ordered his horse to be saddled. He had determined to go to the mine. He had decided to move with a strong hand, to force his authority on the rebellious, as if it had not been questioned, as if he himself had no question as to whether it would be sustained. Hartwell had refused to indicate his position; he would force him to act, if not to speak. His after course events would decide; but half-way measures were no longer to be tolerated. As he rode by the Falls, he met Zephyr on his way down. Zephyr was the first to speak. "A weather-cock," he remarked, "has a reputation for instability of character which it does not deserve. It simply pays impartial attention to a breeze or a hurricane. In fact, it's alive to anything that's going in the wind line. We call a weather-cock fickle and a man wide-awake for doing the same thing." He paused, looking inquiringly at Firmstone. Firmstone was in anything but an allegorical mood, yet he knew that Zephyr had something of interest to communicate, and so restrained any manifestation of impatience which he might have felt. "Well?" he answered. "Say, Goggles"--Zephyr continued his allegory--"I've studied weather-cocks. I take note that when one of them so-called fickle-minded inanimates goes jerking around the four cardinal points and feeling of what's between, it's just responding to the fore-running snorts of a pull-up and come-along cyclone. That's why I'm bobbing up and down like an ant looking for its long-lost brother. There's a cyclone on its way, Goggles, and it's going to light hereabouts right soon." "I guess you're right, Zephyr." Firmstone gathered his reins, preparatory to resuming his way, but Zephyr laid a detaining hand on the horse's neck. It was not in Zephyr to make haste easily. His undulating shoulders indicated a necessity for immediate speech. The words, sizzling from between closed lips, were a compromise. "You have more sense than many weather-cocks, and more sand than a gravel train." Zephyr's face began to twitch. "Wait!" The word came forth explosively; the detaining hand grasped the bridle firmly. "Say, Goggles, I was dead wrong. Do you hear? About Élise. You remember? At the Devil's Elbow. She ain't Pierre's girl. She's as much of a lady as you are. Keep still! Listen! A hurricane ain't got sense. It'll pull up a weed as quick as an oak. It's coming. For the love of God and me especially, if I get pulled, look out for her! Say yes, and go along. Don't fool with me! You'll swallow a barrel of water to get a drink of whisky." Firmstone only stretched out his hand. Zephyr took it for an instant, then flung it aside. The next moment he was striding down the trail. Firmstone heard the strain of the jarring reeds of the harmonica shrill triumphantly, penetrated now and then by louder notes as a plunging step jarred a stronger breath through his lips. At the mine, Firmstone found his work cut out for him. On the narrow platform of the mine boarding-house, the foreman was standing with his cap shoved far back on his head, his hands in his pockets. There was an insolent poise to the head that only intensified the sneering smile on the lips. He was surrounded by a dozen or more of the men whom Firmstone had marked as makers of trouble. "Well, what in hell you up here for? Think I can't run a mine?" The foreman called into play every expression of coarse contempt at his command. "Not this one for me. Go into the office, and I'll make out your time." The foreman did not move. Firmstone made no threatening gesture as he advanced. The foreman's eyes wavered, cast behind him at the gaping men, then he turned as Firmstone ordered. In the office Firmstone wrote out a time check and tendered it to the man. "Now pack up and get down the hill." There were discordant cries outside that grew nearer and more distinct. As the foreman opened the door to pass out he flung back a defiant grin, but his words were drowned by a babel of voices that were surging into the ante-room from the platform and dining-room. Firmstone closed and locked the office door behind him. In an instant he was surrounded by a crowd of gesticulating, shouting men. There was a spreading pressure on all sides, as men were pushed back from an opening ring in the centre of the room. A man with blood-stained face rose, only to be again hurled to the floor by a stunning blow. Firmstone crushed his way into the ring. "No fighting here." The man dropped his eyes. "I ain't going to be called down by no scab." "If you want to fight, get off the company's grounds!" Firmstone moved between them. "I want my time." The man's eyes were still downcast. "You'll get it." The ring closed up again. "Are we let out?" "The whole push fired?" A burly, red-faced man pushed his way to the front. "Say, Mr. Firmstone! Don't make no mistake. This ain't you. You're the whitest boss that ever looked down my shirt collar. That's so. That's what the boys all say. Just you pull out from the company and go with us. We'll carry you right up to glory on the back of a fire-snorting alligator." Firmstone paid no attention to the man. He went from end to end of the room. The men gave way in front, only closing in behind. There was a hushed silence. "There's no shut-down. Any man who wants work can have it and be taken care of. Any one who wants to quit, come for your time right now!" As Firmstone again turned toward the office he was conscious for the first time of a thick-set man with kindly eyes, now steely-hard, who followed his every motion. It was the night-shift boss. "You're with me?" "You bet, and plenty more." "Hold them down. Send the men in, one by one, who want to quit. How about the magazine?" "All right. Two men and four guns. They're with you till hell freezes, and then they'll skate." It was midnight before the last man called for his time. Firmstone laid down his pen. "I'm shy a foreman. Will you take the job?" Firmstone addressed the shift boss. "Yes, till you can do better." "All right. You better move around pretty lively for to-night. I'll stay in the office till morning." The man left the office. He had not been gone long before there was a timid knock at the office door. "Come in," Firmstone called. The door was opened hesitatingly and two men entered. They stood with lowered eyes, shifting their caps from hand to hand, and awkwardly balancing from foot to foot. "Well?" Firmstone spoke sharply. "Me and my partner want our jobs back." "You'll have to see Roner. He's foreman now." "Where is he?" "In the mine." "Can we take our bunks till morning, sir?" "Yes." The men left the office. Outside, their manner changed. Nudging elbows grated each other's ribs. The darkness hid their winks. Firmstone had made a sad mistake. He was not omniscient. The men knew what he did not. They had been down to the Blue Goose and had returned with a mission. CHAPTER XXV _A Divided House_ In her little alcove at the Blue Goose Élise was gaining information every day of the progress of affairs, but in spite of impatience, in spite of doubt, she had seen nothing, heard nothing that seemed to demand immediate action on her part. She had made up her mind that a crisis was approaching. She had also determined with whom she would cast in her lot. It was late when Hartwell's team pulled up at the Blue Goose. A crowd of excited men surrounded it, but the driver and his companions made no reply to loud questions as they sprang from the wagon and entered the door. Morrison was the first to halt them. The driver broke out with a string of oaths. "It's so. Jack Haskins's gang is coming. Hartwell is taken care of all right. If his crowd try to make it through the cañon, there won't a hundred show up, to-morrow." He ended with a coarse laugh. Morrison listened till the driver had finished. Then he turned toward Pierre. Pierre was standing just in front of the alcove, hiding Élise from Morrison. Morrison advanced, shaking his fist. "Now you've got it, you trimmer. What are you going to do? I told you they were coming, and I've fixed for it." Pierre stood with his hands in his pockets. There was the old oily smile on his face, but his eyes were dangerous. Morrison did not observe them. "Why don't you speak? You're called." Morrison glanced over his shoulder at the silent crowd. "He's got a frog in his throat! The last one he swallowed didn't go down." Morrison was very near death. He noticed the crowd part hurriedly and turned in time to look into the muzzle of Pierre's revolver. The parting of the crowd was explained. An unlighted cigar was between Pierre's teeth. They showed gleaming white under his black moustache. Only bright points of light marked his eyes between their narrowed lids. Still holding his revolver point-blank, with thumb and finger he raised and lowered the hammer. The sharp, even click pierced Morrison's nerves like electric shocks. It was not in man to endure this toying with death. Surprise gave place to fear, and this in turn to mortal agony. His face paled. Great drops stood out on his forehead, gathered and streamed down his face. He feared to move, yet he trembled. His legs shook under him. There was a final stagger, but his terrified eyes never left Pierre's face. With a shuddering groan, he sank helpless to the floor. Pierre's smile broadened horribly. He lowered his weapon and, turning aside, thrust it in his pocket. Morrison had died a thousand deaths. If he lived he would die a thousand more. This Pierre knew. For this reason and others he did not shoot. Pierre also knew other things. Morrison had refused to take heed to his words. He had gone his own way. He had made light of Pierre before the men. Last of all, he had gained courage to taunt Pierre to his face with weakening, had bitterly accused him of using Élise as a means of ingratiating himself with the Rainbow crowd. Pierre was not above taking a human life as a last resort; but even then he must see clearly that the gain warranted the risk. Morrison had been weighed and passed upon. A dead Morrison meant a divided following. A living Morrison, cowed and beaten and shamed before them all, was dead to Pierre. This was Pierre's reasoning, and he was right. The first step had been taken. The next one he was not to take; but this fact did not nullify Pierre's logic. Given time, Pierre knew that Morrison would be beaten, discredited, do what he would. Luna helped the fallen Morrison to his feet. The first thing Morrison noticed was Pierre walking away toward the private office. Luna again approached Morrison with a brimming glass of brandy. "Take this down. Lord! That was a nerve-peeler! I don't blame you for going under." Morrison swallowed the liquor at a gulp. The pallor died away and a hot flush mounted his face. "I've got him to settle with, too. I'll make him squeal before I'm done." The crowd had surged to the door to meet a swarm of howling men who had just come down from the mine. Three or four remained with Luna around Morrison. His voice was hoarse and broken. "He's thrown us over. You see that? It's up to us to play it alone. He's put it up to your face that he's with you, but he's playing against you. He can't stop us now. It's gone too far. The first tug is coming, to-morrow. We'll win out, hands down. The Rainbow first, then Pierre." He ended with a string of profanity. Luna took up Morrison's broken thread. "There's fifty men with rifles in the cañon. Hartwell's gang will never get through. The boys are going to shoot at sight." "Where's Firmstone?" Morrison's face writhed. "Up to the mine. He's getting in his work." Luna looked over his shoulder at the crowd of miners. "That's so. The foreman's fired. So am I. He is going to die boss." The man grinned, as he held out a time check. "He'll die, anyway." Morrison's jaws set. "You're sure he's at the mine?" "Dead sure. He's got his work cut out to-night. Lots of scabs held out. He's put the night boss in foreman." The man grinned again. Morrison laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're game?" "You bet I am!" "Go back to the mine to-night----" "And miss all the fun down here?" the man interrupted. Morrison's hand rested more heavily on the shoulder. "Don't get flip. Have some fun of your own up there. The supe will hear the racket down here early. He'll start down with his scabs to help out. Two men can start a racket there that will keep him guessing. If he's started it will fetch him back. If he hasn't he won't start at all." "What kind of a racket, for instance?" Morrison swung impatiently on his foot. "What's the matter with letting off a box or two of powder under the tram?" "Nothing. Is that our job?" "Yes. And see that it's done." "That's me. Come on, Joe. Let's have a drink first." These two were the penitents whom Firmstone had taken back. The greater number of the men were crowded around the gilded bar, drinking boisterously to the success of the union and death to scabs and companies. A few, more sober-minded, but none the less resolute, gathered around Morrison. They were the leaders upon whom he depended for the carrying out of his orders, or for acting independently of them on their own initiative, as occasion might demand. With logic fiendish in its cunning, he pointed out to them their right to organise, laid emphasis on their pacific intentions only to defend their rights, and having enlarged upon this, he brought into full play Hartwell's fatal error. "You see," he concluded; "right or wrong, the company's gone in to win. They ain't taking no chances, and the law's at their backs. You know Haskins's gang. You know what they're here for. They're here to shoot, and they'll shoot to kill. Suppose you go out like lambs? That won't make no difference. It'll be too tame for them, unless some one's killed. What if it is murder and one of the gang is pulled? They've got the whole gang at their back and the company's money. Suppose we go out one by one and shoot back? Self-defence?" Morrison snapped his fingers. "That's our chance to get off. We've got to pull together. In a general mix-up, we'll be in it together, and there ain't no law to string up the whole push. Stick together. That's our hold. If Haskins's gang is wiped out to-morrow, and that glass-eyed supe with them, who'll get jumped? If the mine and mill both get blowed up, who's done it? The fellows who did it ain't going to tell, and it won't be good medicine for any one else to do it, even if he wants to." "Who's going to open up?" one of the men asked, soberly. Morrison turned carelessly. "That's a fool question. Folks that ain't looking for trouble don't put caps and powder in a bag to play foot-ball with. Both sides are putting up kicks. Who's to blame?" The man looked only half convinced. "Well, we ain't, and we don't want to be. If we keep quiet, and they open up on us, we've got a right to defend ourselves. Unless," he added, meditatively, "we get out beforehand, then there won't be any questions to ask." Morrison turned fiercely. "How much did you get?" "Get for what?" "How much did the company put up to stand you off?" "I haven't been bought off by the company," the man answered, fiercely; "and I ain't going to be fooled off by you." Morrison lifted his hand, palm outward. "That's all right. Go right on, first door right. Go right in. Don't knock. You'll find Pierre. He's scab-herding now." Morrison passed among the thronging men, giving suggestions and orders for the morning's struggle. His manner was forced, rather than spontaneous. Pierre's leaven was working. To Élise at her desk it seemed as if the revel would never end. She had made up her mind what to do, she was awaiting the time to act. She did not dare to leave her place now; Morrison would be certain to notice her absence and would suspect her designs. There was nothing to do but wait. It was after one o'clock when, slipping out from the alcove, she ostentatiously closed the office-door and, locking it, walked through the passage that led to the dining-room. Her footsteps sounded loudly as she went upstairs to her room. She intended they should. In her room, she took down a dark, heavy cloak, and, throwing it over her shoulders, drew the hood over her head. A moment she stood, then turned and silently retraced her steps. As the outside door closed noiselessly behind her, there was a momentary tightening around her heart. After all, she was leaving the only friends she had ever known. They were crude, coarse, uncouth, but she knew them. She knew that they would not remain ignorant of her actions this night. It would cut her off from them forever, and what was her gain? Only those she had known for a day, those whose very words of kindness had shown her how wide was the gulf that parted her from them. How wide it was she had never realised till now when she was to attempt to cross it, with the return for ever barred. She recalled the easy grace of Miss Hartwell, considerate with a manner that plainly pointed to their separate walks in life. And Firmstone? He had been more than kind, but the friendly light in his eyes, the mobile sympathy of his lips, these did not come to her now. What if the steel should gleam in his eyes, the tense muscles draw the lips in stern rebuke, the look that those eyes and lips could take, when they looked on her, not as Élise of the Blue Goose, but Élise, a fugitive, a dependant? The colour deepened, the figure grew rigid. She was neither a fugitive nor a dependant. She was doing right; how it would be accepted was no concern of hers. The shadow of the great mountain fell across the gulch and lay sharp and clear on the flank of the slide beyond. Overhead, in the deep blue, the stars glinted and shone, steely hard. Élise shivered in a hitherto unknown terror as she crept into the still deeper shadow of the stunted spruces that fringed the talus from the mountain. She did not look behind. Had she done so she might have seen another shadow stealing cautiously, but swiftly, after her, only pausing when she passed from sight within the entrance to the office at the mill. Zephyr had despoiled the Blue Goose of its lesser prey. He had no intention of stopping at that. Élise had gained her first objective point. It was long before the light in Miss Hartwell's room over the office descended the stairs and appeared at the outer door. Her face was pale, but yet under control. Only, as she clasped the hand that had knocked for admission, she could not control the grasp that would not let go its hold, even when the door was relocked. "It was very good of you to come." CHAPTER XXVI _The Day of Reckoning_ If Miss Hartwell was a debtor she was a creditor as well. In spite of a calm exterior, the hand that so tightly clasped Élise's throbbed and pulsed with every tumultuous beat of the heart that was stirred with a strange excitement born of mortal terror. Gradually the rapid strokes slowed down till, with the restful calm that comes to strained nerves in the presence of a stronger, unquestioning will, the even ebb and flow of pulsing blood resumed its normal tenor. The bread that Élise had cast upon the waters returned to her in a manifold measure. The vague sense of oppression which she had felt on leaving the doors of the Blue Goose gave way to an equally vague sense of restful assurance. She could dissect neither emotion, nor could she give either a name. The sense of comfort was vague; other emotions stood out clearly. These demanded immediate attention. She rose gently, but decidedly. The calm beat of the clasping hand again quickened with her motion. "I must leave you now." Her voice was even, but full of sympathy. "Don't. Please don't. I can't bear it." "I must; and you must." She was gently freeing the clasping hand. "Where are you going?" "To the mine, to warn Mr. Firmstone." "Don't go! Why not telephone?" The last was spoken with eagerness born of the inspiration of despair. "The wires are cut." Her hand was free now and Miss Hartwell was also standing. There was a deathly pallor on the quiet face, only the rapid beat of the veins on her temples showed the violence of the emotion she was mastering so well. "But my brother?" "Your brother is perfectly safe." Élise told briefly the circumstances of Hartwell's capture and detention. "They have men posted in the cañon; they have men between here and the mine. Mr. Firmstone does not know it. He will try to come down. They will kill him. He must not try to come down." "How can you get up there?" Miss Hartwell clutched eagerly at this straw. Élise smiled resolutely. "I am going up on the tram. Now you must listen carefully." She unbuckled her belt and placed her revolver in Miss Hartwell's listless hands. "Keep away from the windows. If there is any firing lie down on the floor close to the wall. Nothing will get through the logs." She turned toward the door. "You must come and lock up after me." At the door Miss Hartwell stood for a moment, irresolute. She offered no further objections to Élise's going. That it cost a struggle was plainly shown in the working lines of her face. Only for a moment she stood, then, yielding to an overmastering impulse, she laid her hands on the shoulders of Élise. "Good-bye," she whispered. "You are a brave girl." Élise bent her lips to those of Miss Hartwell. "Yours is the hardest part. But it isn't good-bye." The door closed behind her, and she heard the click of the bolt shot home. There were a few resolute men in the mill. It was short-handed; but the beating stamps pounded out defiance. In the tram tower Élise spoke to the attendant. "Stop the tram." The swarthy Italian touched his hat. "Yes, miss." The grinding brake was applied and an empty bucket swung gently to and fro. "Now, Joe, do just as I tell you. I am going up in this bucket." She glanced at the number. "When three-twenty comes in stop. Don't start up again for a half hour at least." The man looked at her in dumb surprise. "You go in the tram?" he asked. "What for?" "To warn Mr. Firmstone." For reply, the man brushed her aside and began clambering into the empty bucket. "Me go," he said, grimly. Élise laid a detaining hand upon him. "No. You must run the tram. I can't." "Me go," he insisted. "Cable jump sheave? What matter? One damn dago gone. Plenty more. No more Élise." Élise pulled at him violently. He was ill-balanced. The pull brought him to the floor, but Élise did not loose her hold. Her eyes were flashing. "Do as I told you." The man brought a ladder and Élise sprang lightly up the rounds. "All right," she said. "Go ahead." The man unloosed the brake. There was a tremor along the cable; the next instant the bucket shot from the door of the tower and glided swiftly up the line. "Don't forget. Three-twenty." Already the voice was faint with distance. In spite of injunctions to the contrary, Miss Hartwell was looking out of the window. She saw, below the shafts of sunlight already streaming over the mountain, the line of buckets stop, swing back and forth, saw the cable tremble, and again the long line of buckets sway gently as the cable grew taut and the buckets again slid up and down. Her heart was beating wildly as she lifted her eyes to the dizzy height. She knew well what the stopping and the starting meant. Sharp drawn against the lofty sky, the great cable seemed a slender thread to hold a human life in trust. What if the clutch should slip that held the bucket in place? What if other clutches should slip and let the heavy masses of steel slide down the cable to dash into the one that held the girl who had grown so dear to her? In vain she pushed these possibilities aside. They returned with increased momentum and hurled themselves into her shrinking soul. There were these dangers. "All employees of the Rainbow Company are forbidden to ride on the tram. ANY EMPLOYEE VIOLATING THIS RULE WILL BE INSTANTLY DISCHARGED." These words burned themselves on her vision in characters of fire. Élise had explained all of these things to her, and now! She buried her face in her trembling hands. Not for long. Again her face, pale and drawn, was turned upward. She moaned aloud. A black mass clinging to the cable was rising and sinking, swaying from side to side, a slender figure poised in the swinging bucket, steadied by a white hand that grasped the rim of steel. She turned from the window resolved to see no more. Her resolution fled. She was again at the window with upturned face and straining eyes, white lips whispering prayers that God might be good to the girl who was risking her life for another. The slender threads even then had vanished. There was only a fleck of black floating high above the rambling town, above the rocks mercilessly waiting below. She did not see all. At the mine two stealthy men were even then stuffing masses of powder under the foundations that held the cables to their work. Even as she looked and prayed a flickering candle flame licked into fiery life a hissing, spitting fuse and two men scrambled and clambered to safety from the awful wreck that was to come. A smoking fuse eating its way to death and "320" not yet in the mill! She saw another sight. From out the shadow of the eastern mountain, a band of uncouth men emerged, swung into line and bunched on the level terrace beyond the boarding-house. Simultaneously every neighbouring boulder blossomed forth in tufts of creamy white that writhed and widened till they melted in thin air like noisome, dark-grown fungi that wilt in the light of day. Beyond and at the feet of the clustered men spiteful spurts of dust leaped high in air, then drifted and sank, to be replaced by others. Faint, meaningless cries wove through the drifting crash of rifles, blossoming tufts sprang up again and again from boulders near and far. Answering cries flew back from the opening cluster of men, other tufts tongued with yellow flame sprang out from their levelled guns. Now and then a man spun around and dropped, a huddled grey on the spurting sand. It was not in man long to endure the sheltered fire. Dragging their wounded, Jack Haskins's gang again converged, and headed in wild retreat for the office. The opposing tufts came nearer, and now and then a dark form straightened and advanced to another shelter, or was hidden from sight by a bubble of fleecy white that burst from his shoulder. Close at the heels of the fleeing men the spiteful spurts followed fast, till they died out in the thud of smitten logs and the crashing glass of the office. The answering fire of the beleaguered men died to silence. The dark, distant forms grew daring, ran from shelter and clustered at the foot of the slide, across the trail from the Blue Goose. Rambling shots, yells of defiance and triumph, broke from the gathering strikers. The shafts of sunlight had swept down the mountain, smiting hard the polished windows of the Blue Goose that blazed and flamed in their fierce glory. Suddenly the clustered throng of strikers broke and fled. Cries of terror pierced the air. "The cables! The cables!" Overhead the black webs were sinking and rising with spiteful snaps that whirled the buckets in wild confusion and sent their heavy loads of ore crashing to the earth, five hundred feet below. Then, with a rushing, dragging sweep, buckets and cables whirled downward. Full on the Blue Goose the tearing cables fell, dragging it to earth, a crushed and broken mass. Morrison's emissaries had done their work well. The tram-house at the mine had been blown up. They had accomplished more than he had hoped for. Pierre was in the bar-room when the cables fell. He had no time to escape, even had he seen or known. Momentarily forgetful, the strikers swarmed around the fallen building, tearing aside crushed timbers, tugging at the snarled cable, if perchance some of their own were within the ruins. There came the spiteful spat of a solitary bullet, then a volley. With a yell of terror, the strikers broke and fled to the talus behind the saloon. They were now the pursued. They paused to fire no return shots. Stumbling, scrambling, dodging, through tangled scrub and sheltering thicket, down by the mill, down through the cañon, spurred by zipping bullets that clipped twigs and spat on stones around them; down by the Devil's Elbow they fled, till sheltering scrub made pursuit dangerous; then, unmolested, they scattered, one by one, in pairs, in groups, never to return. Even yet the startled echoes were repeating to the peaceful mountains the tale of riot and death, but they bent not from their calm to the calm below that was looking up to them with the eyes of death. Set in its frame of splintered timbers, the body of Pierre rested, a ruined life in a ruined structure, and both still in death. Wide-open eyes stared from the swarthy face, the strained lips parted in a sardonic smile, showing for the last time the gleaming teeth. Morrison had triumphed, but the wide open eyes saw the triumph that was yet defeat. Far up on the mountain-side they looked and saw death pursuing death. They saw Morrison climbing higher and higher, saw him strain his eyes ever ahead, never behind, saw them rest on two figures, saw Morrison crouch behind a rock and a shimmer of light creep along the barrel of his levelled rifle. The eyes seemed eager as they rested on another figure above him that stretched forth a steady hand; saw jets of flame spring from two guns. Then they gleamed with a brighter light as they saw the rifle fall from Morrison's hand; saw Morrison straighten out, even as he lay, his face upturned and silent. That was all in life that Pierre cared to know. Perhaps the sun had changed, but the gleam of triumph in the staring eyes faded to the glaze of death. Élise knew well the danger that went with her up the line. It laid strong hold upon her, as the loosened brake shot the bucket up the dizzy cable. As she was swept up higher and higher she could only hope and pray that the catastrophe which she knew was coming might be delayed until the level stretch above the Falls was reached, where the cables ran so near the ground she might descend in safety. She had given Joe the right number, and she knew that nothing short of death would keep him from heeding her words. She turned her thoughts to other things. Cautiously she raised her eyes above the rim of the bucket and scanned the winding trail. She saw men crouching behind boulders, but Firmstone was not in sight, and strength and courage returned. Her bucket swept up over the crest of the Falls, and her heart stood still, as it glided along swiftly, eating up the level distance to another rise. The saddle clipped over the sheave, swung for an instant, then stood still. She clambered out, down the low tower, then sped to the trail and waited. She rose to her feet, as from behind a sheltered cliff Firmstone emerged, stern, erect, determined. He caught sight of Élise. "What are you doing here?" he asked, fiercely. "To keep you from going to the mill." There was an answering fierceness in her eyes. "Well, you are not going to." He brushed her aside. "I am." She was again in his path. He took hold of her almost harshly. "Don't be a fool." "Am I? Listen." There was the glint of steel on steel in the meeting eyes. Echoing shots dulled by distance yet smote plainly on their ears. "Morrison's men are guarding the trail. They are in the cañon. You can't get through." Firmstone's eyes softened as he looked into hers. The set line broke for an instant, then he looked down the trail. Suddenly he spun around on his heel, wavered, then sank to the ground. Élise dropped on her knees beside him, mumbling inaudible words with husky voice. The hands that loosened the reddening collar of his shirt were firm and decided. She did not hear the grate of Zephyr's shoes. She was only conscious of other hands putting hers aside. His knife cut the clothes that hid the wound. Zephyr took his hat from his head. "Water," he said, holding out the hat. Élise returned from the brook with the brimming hat. The closed eyes opened at the cooling drops. "It's not so bad." He tried to rise, but Zephyr restrained him. "Not yet." Élise was looking anxiously above the trail. Zephyr noted the direction. "No danger. 'Twas Morrison. He's done for." Three or four miners were coming down the trail. They paused at the little group. Zephyr looked up. "You're wanted. The old man's hit." A litter was improvised and slowly and carefully they bore the wounded man down the trail. Zephyr was far in advance. He returned. "It's all right. The gang's on the run." The little procession headed straight for the office, and laid their burden on the floor. The company surgeon looked grave, as he carefully exposed the wound. To Élise it seemed ages. Finally he spoke. "It's a nasty wound; but he'll pull through." CHAPTER XXVII _Passing Clouds_ In spite of the surgeon's hopeful words, the path to recovery lay fearfully near the gate of death. Firmstone had been shot from above, and the bullet, entering at the base of the neck just in front of the throat, had torn its way beneath the collar-bone, passing through the left arm below the shoulder. During the period of trying suspense, when Firmstone's life wavered in the balance, through the longer period of convalescence, he lacked not devotion, love, nor skill to aid him. Zephyr was omnipresent, but never obtrusive. Bennie, with voiceless words and aggressive manner, plainly declared that a sizzling cookstove with a hot temper that never cooled was more efficacious than a magazine of bandages and a college of surgeons. Élise cared for Firmstone, Madame for Élise. Zephyr's rod and rifle, with Bennie's stove, supplied that without which even the wisest counsel comes to an inglorious end. Over all Élise reigned an uncrowned queen, with no constitution, written or unwritten, to hamper her royal will. Even the company surgeon had to give a strict accounting. The soft, red lips could not hide the hard, straight lines beneath rounded curves, nor the liquid black of velvet eyes break the insistent glint of an active, decisive mind. Miss Hartwell was still pretty and willing, but yet helpless and oppressed. It was therefore with a regretted sense of relief that the arrival of Miss Firmstone removed the last appearance of duty that kept her in useless toleration. Hartwell's capacious sleeve held a ready card which awaited but an obvious opportunity for playing. No sooner was Firmstone pronounced out of danger than the card, in the form of urgent business, was played, and Hartwell and his sister left for the East. Like her brother, Miss Firmstone evidently had a will of her own, and, also like her brother, a well-balanced mind to control its manifestations. There was a short, sharp battle of eyes when first the self-throned queen was brought face to face with her possible rival. The conflict was without serious results, for Miss Firmstone, in addition to will and judgment, had also tact and years superior to Élise. These were mere fortuitous adjuncts which had been denied Élise. So it happened that, though a rebellious pupil, Élise learned many valuable lessons. She was ready and willing to defy the world individually and collectively; yet she stood in awe of herself. One afternoon Firmstone was sitting in his room, looking out of his window, and in spite of the grandeur of the mountain there was little of glory but much of gloom in his thoughts. The mine was in ruins; so, as far as he could see, were his labours, his ambitions, and his prospects. He tried to keep his thoughts on the gloom of the clouds and shut his eyes to their silver lining. The silver lining was in softly glowing evidence, but he could not persuade himself that it was for him. Step by step he was going over every incident of his intercourse with Élise. Their first meeting, her subsequent warning that his life was in serious danger, her calm, resolute putting aside of all thought of danger to herself, her daring ride up the tram to keep him from sure death when she knew that the tram-house was to be blown up, that the catastrophe might occur at any moment, her unremitting care of him, wounded near to death: all these came to him, filled him with a longing love that left no nerve nor fibre of heart or soul untouched with thrills that, for all their pain, were even yet not to be stilled by his own volition. Firmstone grew more thoughtful. He realised that Élise was only a girl in years, yet her natural life, untrammelled by conventional proprieties which distract and dissipate the limited energy in a thousand divergent channels, had forced her whole soul into the maturity of many waxing and waning seasons. Every manifestation of her restless, active mind had stood out clear and sharp in the purity of unconscious self. This was the disturbing element in Firmstone's anxious mind. Responsive to every mood, fiercely unsparing of herself, yet every attempted word of grateful appreciation from him had been anticipated and all but fiercely repelled. With all his acumen, Firmstone yet failed to comprehend two very salient features of a woman's heart, that, however free and spontaneous she may be, there is one emotion instinctively and jealously guarded, that she will reject, with indignation, gratitude offered as a substitute for love. Firmstone's meditations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Zephyr came in, holding out a bulky envelope. It was from the eastern office of the Rainbow Company. Firmstone's face stiffened as he broke the seals. Zephyr noted the look and, after an introductory whistle, said: "'Tisn't up to you to fret now, Goggles. Foolishness at two cents an ounce or fraction thereof is more expensive than passenger rates at four dollars a pound." Firmstone looked up absently. "What's that you're saying?" Zephyr waved his hand languidly. "I was right. Have been all along. I knew you had more sense than you could carry in your head. It's all over you, and you got some of it shot away. I'm trying to make it plain to you that foolishness on paper ain't near so fatal as inside a skull. Consequently, if them Easterners had had any serious designs on you, they'd sent the real stuff back in a Pullman instead of the smell of it by mail." Firmstone made no reply, but went on with his letter. There was amusement and indignation on his face as, having finished the letter, he handed it to Zephyr. The letter was from Hartwell and was official. Briefly, it expressed regret over Firmstone's serious accident, satisfaction at his recovery, and congratulations that a serious complication had been met and obviated with, all things considered, so slight a loss to the company. The letter concluded as follows: We have carefully considered the statement of the difficulties with which you have been confronted, as reported by our manager, and fully comprehend them. We have also given equal consideration to his plans for the rehabilitation of the mine and mill, and heartily assent to them as well as to his request that you be retained as our superintendent and that, in addition to your salary, you be granted a considerable share in the stock of our company. We feel that we are warranted in pursuing this course with you, recognising that it is a rare thing, in one having the ability which you have shown, to take counsel with and even frankly to adopt the suggestions of another. By order of the President and Board of Directors of the Rainbow Milling Company, by ARTHUR HARTWELL, Gen. Man. and Acting Secretary. Zephyr's face worked in undulations that in narrowing concentrics reached the puckered apex of his lips. "Bees," he finally remarked, "are ding-twisted, ornery insects. They have, however, one redeeming quality not common to mosquitoes and black flies. If they sting with one end they make honey with the other. They ain't neither to be cussed nor commended. They're just built on them lines." Firmstone looked thoughtful. "I'm inclined to think you're right. If you're looking for honey you've got to take chances on being stung." "Which I take to mean that you have decided to hive your bees in this particular locality." Firmstone nodded. Zephyr looked expectantly at Firmstone, and then continued: "I also wish to remark that there are certain inconveniences connected with being an uncommonly level-headed man. There's no telling when you've got to whack up with your friends." "All right." Firmstone half guessed at what was coming. "Madame," Zephyr remarked, "having been deprived by the hand of death of her legal protectors, namely, Pierre and Morrison, wishes to take counsel with you." Zephyr, waiting no further exchange of words, left the room and shortly returned with Madame. She paused at the door, darted a frightened look at Firmstone, then one of pathetic appeal to the imperturbable Zephyr. Again her eyes timidly sought Firmstone, who, rising, advanced with outstretched hand. Madame's hands were filled with bundled papers. In nervously trying to move them, in order to accept Firmstone's proffered hand, the bundles fell scattered to the floor. With an embarrassed exclamation, she hastily stooped to recover them and in her effort collided with Zephyr, who had been actuated by the same motive. Zephyr rubbed his head with one hand, gathering up the papers with the other. "If Madame wore her heart on her neck instead of under her ribs, I would have had two hands free instead of one. Which same being put in literal speech means that there's nothing against nature in having a hard head keeping step with a tender heart." Madame was at last seated with her papers in her lap. She was ill at ease in the fierce consciousness of self, but her flushed face and frightened eyes only showed the growing mastery of unselfish love over the threatening lions that waited in her path. One by one, she tendered the papers to Firmstone, who read them with absorbed attention. As the last paper was laid with its fellows Madame's eyes met fearlessly the calm look of the superintendent. Slowly, laboriously at first, but gathering assurance with oblivion of self, she told the story of Élise's birth. With the intuition of an overpowering love, she felt that she was telling the story to one absolutely trustworthy, able and willing to counsel her with powers far beyond her own. Firmstone heard far more than the stumbling words recited. His eyes dimmed, but his voice was steady. "I think I understand. You want Élise restored to her friends?" Madame's eyes slowly filled with tears that welled over the trembling lids and rolled down her cheeks. She did not try to speak. She only nodded in silent acquiescence. She sat silent for a few moments, then the trembling lips grew firm, but her voice could not be controlled. "We ought to have done it long ago, Pierre and I. But I loved her. Pierre loved her. She was all we had." It was worse than death. Death only removes the presence, it leaves the consoling sense of possession through all eternity. Zephyr started to speak, but Firmstone, turning to Madame, interrupted. "You have no need to fear. Where you cannot go Élise will not." Madame looked up suddenly. The rainbow of hope glowed softly for an instant in the tear-dimmed eyes. Then the light died out. "She will be ashamed of her hol' daddy and her hol' mammy before her gran' friends." Pierre's words came to her, laden with her own unworthiness. The door opened and Élise and Miss Firmstone came in. Miss Firmstone took in the situation at a glance. "You are reliable people to trust with a convalescent, aren't you? And after the doctor's warning that all excitement was to be avoided!" "Doctors don't know everything," Zephyr exploded, in violence to his custom. Then, more in accord with it, "It does potatoes no end of good to be hilled." Élise looked questioning surprise, as her glance fell on Madame, then on Zephyr. Her eyes rested lightly for a moment on Firmstone. There was a fleeting suggestion that quickened his pulses and deepened the flush on his face. Again her eyes were on Madame. Pity, love, glowed softly at sight of the bowed head. She advanced a step, and her hand and arm rested on Madame's shoulders. Madame shivered slightly, then grew rigid. Nothing should interfere with her duty to Élise. Élise straightened, but her arm was not removed. "What is it? What have you been saying?" She was looking fixedly at Firmstone. There was no tenderness in her eyes, only a demand that was not to be ignored. Firmstone began a brief capitulation of his interview with Madame. When he told her that she was not Madame's daughter, that she was to be restored to her unknown friends, that Madame wished it, the change that came over the girl amazed him. Her eyes were flashing. Her clinched hands thrust backward, as if to balance the forward, defiant poise of her body. "That is not so! You have frightened her into saying what she does not mean. You don't want me to leave you; do you? Tell me you don't!" She turned to Madame, fiercely. Firmstone gave Madame no time to answer. "Wait," he commanded. "You don't understand." His words were impetuous with the intensity of his emotion. "I don't want you to leave Madame. You are not going to. Don't you understand?" He laid his hand on hers, but she shook it off. He withdrew his hand. "Very well, but listen." Himself he put aside; but he was not to be diverted from his purpose. He felt that in the life of the girl before him a vital crisis was impending, that, unforeseeing of consequences, she, in the sheer delight of overcoming opposing wills, might be impelled to a step that would bring to naught all her glorious possibilities. The thought hardened his every mental fibre. He was looking into eyes that gleamed with open, resolute defiance. "You and Madame are not to be separated. You are going East with my sister and Madame is going with you: You are going to your father's friends." "Is that all?" The voice was mocking. "No. I want your word that you will do as I say." Without seeming to turn her defiant eyes, Élise laid her hand firmly on Madame. "Come." Madame rose in response to the impulse of hand and word. She cast a frightened, appealing look at Firmstone, then with Élise moved toward the door. On the threshold Firmstone barred the way. "I have not had my answer." "No?" "I can wait." Élise and Firmstone stood close. There was a measure of will opposed to will in the unflinching eyes. Élise felt a strange thrill, strange to her. With Pierre and Madame opposition only roused her anger, their commands only gave piquancy to revolt. But now, as she looked at the strong, resolute man before her, there was a new sensation fraught with subtler thrills of delight, the yielding to one who commanded and took from her even the desire to resist. She felt warm waves of blood surging to her face. The defiant poise of her head was unchanged, her eyes softened, but the drooping lids hid them from those that she acknowledged master. "May I go if I give my answer?" "If your answer is right, yes." The eyes were veiled, but the mobile lips were wavering. "Madame and I have decided to go East." The look on Firmstone's face changed from resolution to pleading. "I have no right to ask more, unless you choose to give it. Don't you know what I want to ask? Will you give me the right to ask?" The drooping head bent still lower, a softer flush suffused the quiet face. Firmstone took the girl's unresisting hands in his own. "Can't you give me my answer, dear? You have come to be all the world to me. You are going away for the sake of your friends. Will you come back some time for mine?" Élise slowly raised her eyes to his. He read his answer. There was a slight answering pressure, then her hands were gently withdrawn. Firmstone stood aside. Élise and Madame moved over the threshold, the door swinging to behind them, not quite shut; then it opened, just enough to show a flushed face, with teasing, roguish eyes. "I forgot to ask. Is that all, Mr. Minion?" Then the door closed with a decided click. THE END Other Book to Read By Arthur Stanwood Pier Author of "The Pedagogues" THE TRIUMPH The Triumph has fire and pathos and romance and exhilarating humor. It is a capital story that will keep a reader's interest from the first appearance of its hero, the young doctor Neal Robeson, to his final triumph--his triumph over himself and over the lawless, turbulent oil-drillers, his success in his profession and in his love affair. It displays a delightful appreciation of the essential points of typical American characters, a happy outlook on everyday life, a vigorous story-telling ability working in material that is thrilling in interest, in a setting that is picturesque and unusual. The action takes place in a little western Pennsylvania village at the time of the oil fever, and a better situation can scarcely be found. Mr. Pier's account of the fight between the outraged villagers and the oil-drillers around a roaring, blazing gas well is a masterpiece of story telling. _Illustrations by W. D. Stevens_ By James Weber Linn Author of "The Second Generation" THE CHAMELEON The author uses as his theme that trait in human nature which leads men and women to seek always the lime light, to endeavor always to be protagonists even at the expense of the truth. His book is a study of that most interesting and pertinent type in modern life, the sentimentalist, the man whose emotions are interesting to him merely as a matter of experience, and shows the development of such a character when he comes into contact with normal people. The action of the novel passes in a college town and the hero comes to his grief through his attempt to increase his appearance of importance by betraying a secret. His love for his wife is, however, his saving sincerity and through it the story is brought to a happy ending. By M. Imlay Taylor Author of "The House of the Wizard" THE REBELLION OF THE PRINCESS A book that is a story, and never loses the quick, on-rushing, inevitable quality of a story from the first page to the last. Stirring, exciting, romantic, satisfying all the essential requirements of a novel. The scene is laid in Moscow at the time of the election of Peter the Great, when the intrigues of rival parties overturned the existing government, and the meeting of the National Guard made the city the scene of a hideous riot. It resembles in some points Miss Taylor's successful first story, "On the Red Staircase," especially in the date, the principal scenes and the fact that the hero is a French nobleman. By Edward W. Townsend Author of "Chimmie Fadden," "Days Like These," etc. LEES AND LEAVEN No novel of New York City has ever portrayed so faithfully or so vividly our new world Gotham--the seething, rushing New York of to-day, to which all the world looks with such curious interest. Mr. Townsend, gives us not a picture, but the bustling, nerve-racking pageant itself. The titan struggles in the world of finance, the huge hoaxes in sensational news-paperdom, the gay life of the theatre, opera, and restaurant, and then the calmer and comforting domestic scenes of wholesome living, pass, as actualities, before our very eyes. In this turbulent maelstrom of ambition, he finds room for love and romance also. There is a bountiful array of characters, admirably drawn, and especially delightful are the two emotional and excitable lovers, young Bannister and Gertrude Carr. The book is unlike Mr. Townsend's "Chimmie Fadden" in everything but its intimate knowledge of New York life. By S. R. Crockett Author of "The Banner of Blue," "The Firebrand" FLOWER O' THE CORN Mr. Crockett has made an interesting novel of romance and intrigue. He has chosen a little town in the south of France, high up in the mountains, as the scene for his drama. The plot deals with a group of Calvinists who have been driven from Belgium into southern France, where they are besieged in their mountain fastness by the French troops. A number of historical characters figure in the book, among them Madame de Maintenon. "Flower o' the Corn" is probably one of Mr. Crockett's most delightful women characters. The book is notable for its fine descriptions. By Edith Wyatt Author of "Every One His Own Way" TRUE LOVE A Comedy of the Affections Here commonplace, everyday, ordinary people tread the boards. The characters whom Miss Wyatt presents are not geniuses, or heroes, or heroines of romance, but commonplace persons with commonplace tricks and commonplace manners and emotions. They do romantic things without a sense of romance in them, but weave their commonplace doings into a story of great human interest that the reader will find far from commonplace. The vein of humorous satire, keen, subtle and refined, permeating the story and the characterization, sets this work of Miss Wyatt's in a class by itself. By Pauline B. Mackie Author of "The Washingtonians" THE VOICE IN THE DESERT This is a story of subtle attractions and repulsions between men and women; of deep temperamental conflicts, accentuated and made dramatic by the tense atmosphere of the Arizona desert. The action of the story passes in a little Spanish mission town, where the hero, Lispenard, is settled as an Episcopal clergyman, with his wife Adele and their two children. The influence of the spirit of the desert is a leading factor in the story. Upon Lispenard the desert exerts a strange fascination, while upon his wife it has an opposite effect and antagonizes her. As their natures develop under the spell of their environment, they drift apart and the situation is complicated by the influence upon Lispenard of a second woman who seems to typify the spirit of the desert itself. The spiritual situation is delicately suggested and all is done with a rare and true feeling for human nature. By Shan F. Bullock Author of "The Barrys," "Irish Pastorals" THE SQUIREEN Mr. Bullock takes us into the North of Ireland among North-of-Ireland people. His story is dominated by one remarkable character, whose progress towards the subjugation of his own temperament we cannot help but watch with interest. He is swept from one thing to another, first by his dare-devil, roistering spirit, then by his mood of deep repentance, through love and marriage, through quarrels and separation from his wife, to a reconciliation at the point of death, to a return to health, and through the domination of the devil in him, finally to death. It is a strong, convincing novel suggesting, somewhat, "The House with the Green Shutters." What that book did for the Scotland of Ian Maclaren and Barrie, "The Squireen" will do for Ireland. By Seumas McManus Author of "Through the Turf Smoke" "A LAD OF THE O'FRIEL'S" This is a story of Donegal ways and customs; full of the spirit of Irish life. The main character is a dreaming and poetic boy who takes joy in all the stories and superstitions of his people, and his experience and life are thus made to reflect all the essential qualities of the life of his country. Many characters in the book will make warm places for themselves in the heart of the reader. By Joel Chandler Harris GABRIEL TOLLIVER A story filled with the true flavor of Southern life. The first important novel by the creator of "Uncle Remus." Those who have loved Mr. Harris's children's stories, will find in this story of boy and girl love in Georgia during the troublous Reconstruction period, the same genial and kindly spirit, the same quaintly humorous outlook on life that characterizes his earlier work. A host of charming people, with whom it is a privilege to become acquainted, crowd the pages, and their characters, thoughts and doings are sketched in a manner quite suggestive of Dickens. The fawn-like Nan is one of the most winsome of characters in fiction, and the dwarf negress, Tasma Tid, is a weird sprite that only Mr. Harris could have created. "A novel which ranks Mr. Harris as the Dickens of the South."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ "It is a pretty love-story, artistically wrought, a natural, healthy love-story, full of Joel Chandler Harris's inimitable naivete."--_Atlanta Constitution. 
41154	----	THE WALKING DELEGATE [Illustration: THE WALKING DELEGATE] The Walking Delegate By Leroy Scott _With Frontispiece_ New York Doubleday, Page & Company 1905 Copyright, 1905, by Doubleday, Page & Company Published May, 1905 _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ To My Wife CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ON THE ST. ETIENNE HOTEL 3 II. THE WALKING DELEGATE 14 III. THE RISE OF BUCK FOLEY 30 IV. A COUNCIL OF WAR 9 V. TOM SEEKS HELP FROM THE ENEMY 50 VI. IN WHICH FOLEY PLAYS WITH TWO MICE 59 VII. GETTING THE MEN IN LINE 72 VIII. THE COWARD 85 IX. RUTH ARNOLD 98 X. LAST DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN 111 XI. IN FOLEY'S "OFFICE" 120 XII. THE ELECTION 129 XIII. THE DAY AFTER 145 XIV. NEW COURAGE AND NEW PLANS 153 XV. MR. BAXTER HAS A FEW CONFERENCES 166 XVI. BLOWS 177 XVII. THE ENTERTAINMENT COMMITTEE 187 XVIII. THE STOLEN STRIKE 203 XIX. FOLEY TASTES REVENGE 210 XX. TOM HAS A CALLER 224 XXI. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 236 XXII. THE PROGRESS OF THE STRIKE 250 XXIII. THE TRIUMPH OF BUSINESS SENSE 257 XXIV. BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 267 XXV. IN WHICH FOLEY BOWS TO DEFEAT 279 XXVI. PETERSEN'S SIN 290 XXVII. THE THOUSANDTH CHANCE 304 XXVIII. THE EXPOSURE 313 XXIX. IN WHICH MR. BAXTER SHOWS HIMSELF A MAN OF RESOURCES 331 XXX. THE LAST OF BUCK FOLEY 338 XXXI. TOM'S LEVEE 348 XXXII. THE THORN OF THE ROSE 364 LIST OF CHARACTERS BUCK FOLEY, a walking delegate. TOM KEATING, a foreman. MAGGIE KEATING, his wife. MR. BAXTER, President of Iron Employers' Ass'n. MRS. BAXTER. MR. DRISCOLL, a contractor. RUTH ARNOLD, his secretary. MR. BERMAN, junior partner of Mr. Driscoll. MR. MURPHY, a contractor. MR. BOBBS, a contractor. MR. ISAACS, a contractor. CONNELLY, Secretary of Iron Workers' Union. NELS PETERSEN, a "scab." ANNA PETERSEN, his wife. PIG IRON PETE, a workman JOHNSON, a workman. BARRY, a workman. MRS. BARRY. JAKE HENDERSON } ARKANSAS NUMBER TWO } Members of KAFFIR BILL } "The Entertainment SMOKEY } Committee." HICKEY } THE WALKING DELEGATE Chapter I ON THE ST. ETIENNE HOTEL The St. Etienne Hotel would some day be as bulky and as garishly magnificent as four million dollars could make it. Now it was only a steel framework rearing itself into the center of the overhead grayness--a black pier supporting the grimy arch of heaven. Up on its loosely-planked twenty-first story stood Mr. Driscoll, watching his men at work. A raw February wind scraped slowly under the dirty clouds, which soiled the whole sky, and with a leisurely content thrust itself into his office-tendered flesh. He shivered, and at times, to throw off the chill, he paced across the pine boards, carefully going around the gaps his men were wont to leap. And now and then his eyes wandered from his lofty platform. On his right, below, there were roofs; beyond, a dull bar of water; beyond, more roofs: on his left there were roofs; a dull bar of water; more roofs: and all around the jagged wilderness of house-tops reached away and away till it faded into the complete envelopment of a smudgy haze. Once Mr. Driscoll caught hold of the head of a column and leaned out above the street; over its dizzy bottom erratically shifted dark specks--hats. He drew back with a shiver with which the February wind had nothing to do. It was a principle with Mr. Driscoll, of Driscoll & Co., contractors for steel bridges and steel frames of buildings, that you should not show approval of your workmen's work. "Give 'em a smile and they'll do ten per cent. less and ask ten per cent. more." So as he now watched his men, one hand in his overcoat pocket, one on his soft felt hat, he did not smile. It was singularly easy for him not to smile. Balanced on his short, round body he had a round head with a rim of reddish-gray hair, and with a purplish face that had protruding lips which sagged at each corner, and protruding eyes whose lids blinked so sharply you seemed to hear their click. So much nature had done to help him adhere to his principle. And he, in turn, had added to his natural endowment by growing mutton-chops. Long ago someone had probably expressed to him a detestation of side-whiskers, and he of course had begun forthwith to shave only his chin. His men were setting twenty-five foot steel columns into place,--the gang his eyes were now on, moving actively about a great crane, and the gang about the great crane at the building's other end. Their coats were buttoned to their chins to keep out the February wind; their hands were in big, shiny gloves; their blue and brown overalls, from the handling of painted iron, had the surface and polish of leather. They were all in the freshness of their manhood--lean, and keen, and full of spirit--vividly fit. Their work explained their fitness; it was a natural civil service examination that barred all but the active and the daring. And yet, though he did not smile, Mr. Driscoll was cuddled by satisfaction as he stood on the great platform just under the sky and watched the brown men at work. He had had a deal of trouble during the past three years--accidents, poor workmen, delays due to strikes over inconsequential matters--all of which had severely taxed his profits and his profanity. So the smoothness with which this, his greatest job, progressed was his especial joy. In his heart he credited this smoothness to the brown young foreman who had just come back to his side--but he didn't tell Keating so. "The riveters are keeping right on our heels," said Tom. "Would you like to go down and have a look at 'em?" "No," said Mr. Driscoll shortly. The foreman shrugged his shoulders slightly, and joined the gang Mr. Driscoll was watching. In the year he had worked for Mr. Driscoll he had learned to be philosophic over that gentleman's gruffness: he didn't like the man, so why should he mind his words? The men had fastened a sling about a twenty-five foot column and to this had attached the hook of the pulley. The seventy-foot arm of the crane now slowly rose and drew after it the column, dangling vertically. Directed by the signals of Tom's right hand the column sank with precision to its appointed place at one corner of the building. It was quickly fastened to the head of the column beneath it with four bolts. Later the riveters, whose hammers were now maintaining a terrific rattle two floors below, would replace the four bolts by four rows of rivets. "Get the sling, Pete," ordered Tom. At this a loosely-jointed man threw off his slouch hat, encircled the column with his arms, and mounted with little springs. Near its top he locked his legs around the column, and, thus supported and working with both hands, he unfastened the rope from the pulley hook and the column, and threw it below. He then stepped into the hook of the pulley, swung through the air to the flooring, picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg. Sometimes Mr. Driscoll forgot his principle. While Pete was nonchalantly loosening the sling, leaning out over the street, nothing between him and the pavement but the grip of his legs, there was something very like a look of admiration in Mr. Driscoll's aggravating eyes. He moved over to Pete just as the latter was pulling on his slouch hat. "I get a shiver every time I see a man do that," he said. "That? That's nothin'," said Pete. "I'd a heap ruther do that than work down in the street. Down in the street, why, who knows when a brick's agoin' to fall on your head!" "Um!" Mr. Driscoll remembered himself and his eyes clicked. He turned from Pete, and called to the young foreman: "I'll look at the riveters now." "All right. Oh, Barry!" There came toward Tom a little, stocky man, commonly known as "Rivet Head." Someone had noted the likeness of his cranium to a newly-hammered rivet, and the nickname had stuck. "Get the other four columns up out of the street before setting any more," Tom ordered, and then walked with Mr. Driscoll to where the head of a ladder stuck up through the flooring. Pete, with a sour look, watched Mr. Driscoll's round body awkwardly disappear down the ladder. "Boys, if I was a preacher, I know how I'd run my business," he remarked. "How, Pete?" queried one of the gang. "I'd stand up Driscoll in the middle o' the road to hell, then knock off workin' forever. When they seen him standin' there every blamed sinner'd turn back with a yell an' stretch their legs for the other road." "I wonder if Tom'll speak to him about them scabs," said another man, with a scowl at a couple of men working along the building's edge. "That ain't Tom's business, Bill," answered Pete. "It's Rivet Head's. Tom don't like Driscoll any more'n the rest of us do, an' he ain't goin' to say any more to him'n he has to." "Tom ought to call him down, anyhow," Bill declared. "You let Foley do that," put in Jake Henderson, a big fellow with a stubbly face and a scar across his nose. "An' let him peel off a little graft!" sneered Bill. "Close yer face!" growled Jake. "Come on there, boys, an' get that crane around!" shouted Barry. Pete, Bill, and Jake sprang to the wooden lever that extended from the base of the ninety-foot mast; and they threw their weight against the bar, bending it as a bow. The crane slowly turned on its bearings to the desired position. Barry, the "pusher" (under foreman), waved his outstretched hand. The signalman, whose eyes had been alert for this movement, pulled a rope; a bell rang in the ears of an engineer, twenty-one floors below. The big boom slowly came down to a horizontal position, its outer end twenty feet clear of the building's edge. Another signal, and the heavy iron pulley began to descend to the street. After the pulley had started to slide down its rope there was little for the men to do till it had climbed back up the rope with its burden of steel. Pete--who was usually addressed as "Pig Iron," perhaps for the reason that he claimed to be from Pittsburg--settled back at his ease among the gang, his back against a pile of columns, his legs stretched out. "I've just picked out the apartment where I'm goin' to keep my celluloid collar when this here shanty's finished," he remarked. "Over in the corner there, lookin' down in both streets. I ain't goin' to do nothin' but wear kid gloves, an' lean out the windows an' spit on you roughnecks as you go by. An' my boodwar is goin' to have about seventeen push-buttons in it. Whenever I want anything I'll just push a button, an' up'll hot-foot a nigger with it in a suit o' clothes that's nothin' but shirt front. Then I'll kick the nigger, an' push another button. That's life, boys. An' I'll have plush chairs, carpets a foot thick, an iv'ry bath-tub----" Pete's wandering gaze caught one man watching him with serious eyes, and he broke off. "Say, Johnson, wha' d'you suppose I want a bath-tub for?" Johnson was an anomaly among the iron-workers--a man without a sense of humor. He never knew when his fellows were joking and when serious; he usually took them literally. "To wash in," he answered. Pete whistled. "Wash in it! Ain't you got no respect for the traditions o' the workin' class?" "Hey, Pig Iron; talk English!" Bill demanded. "What's traditions?" Pete looked puzzled, and a laugh passed about the men. Then his sang-froid returned. "Your traditions, Bill, is the things you'd try to forget about yourself if you had enough coin to move into a place like this." He turned his lean face back on Johnson. "Don't you know what a bath-tub's for, Johnson? Don't you never read the papers? Well, here's how it is: The landlords come around wearin' about a sixteen-candle-power incandescent smile. They puts in marble bath-tubs all through all the houses. They're goin' to elevate us. The next day they come around again to see how we've improved. They throw up their hands, an' let out a few yells. There's them bath-tubs chuck full o' coal. We didn't know what they was for,--an' they was very handy for coal. That's us. It's down in the papers. An' here you, Johnson, you'd ruin our repitations by usin' the bath-tubs to bathe in." The pulley toiled into view, dragging after it two columns. Johnson was saved the necessity of response. The men hurried to their places. "O' course, Pig Iron, you'll be fixed all right when you've moved in here," began Bill, after the boom had reached out and the pulley had started spinning down for the other two columns. "But how about the rest of us fixers? Three seventy-five a day, when we get in only six or seven months a year, ain't makin' bankers out o' many of us." "Only a few," admitted Pete; "an' them few ain't the whole cheese yet. Me, I can live on three seventy-five, but I don't see how you married men do." "Especially with scabs stealin' your jobs," growled Bill, glancing again at the two men working along the building's edge. "I told you Foley'd look after them," said Barry, who had joined the group for a moment. "It hustles most of us to keep up with the game," he went on, in answer to Pete's last remark. "Some of us don't. An' rents an' everything else goin' up. I don't know what we're goin' to do." "That's easy," said Pete. "Get more money or live cheaper." "How're we goin' to live cheaper?" demanded Bill. "Yes, how?" seconded Barry. "I'm for more money," declared Bill. "Well, I reckon I wear the same size shoe," said Pete. "More money--that's me." "And me," "and me," joined in the other men, except Johnson. "It's about time we were gettin' more," Pete advanced. "The last two years the bosses have been doin' the genteel thing by their own pockets, all right." "We've got to have more if our kids are goin' to know a couple o' facts more'n we do." Barry went over to the edge of the building and watched the tiny figures attaching the columns to the pulley hook. "That's right," said Pete. "You don't stand no chance these days to climb up on top of a good job unless you ripped off a lot o' education when you was young an' riveted it on to your mem'ry. I heard a preacher once. He preached about education. He said if you wanted to get up anywhere you had to be educated like hell. He was right, too. If you left school when you was thirteen, why, by the time you're twenty-seven an' had a few drinks you ain't very likely to be just what I'd call a college on legs." "Keating, he thinks we ought to go after more this spring," said Bill. "I wonder what Foley thinks?" queried another of the men. "If Tom's for a strike, why, Foley'll be again' it," one of the gang answered. "You can place your money on that color." "Tom certainly did pour the hot shot into Foley at the meetin' last night," said Bill, grinning. "Grafter! He called Buck about thirteen diff'rent kind." "If Keating's all right in his nut he'll not go round lookin' for a head-on collision with Buck Foley," asserted Jake, with a wise leer at Bill. Bill answered by giving Jake his back. "Foley don't want no strike," he declared. "What's he want to strike for? He's gettin' his hand in the dough bag enough the way things is now." "See here, the whole bunch o' you roughnecks give me a pain!" broke out Pete. "You shoot off your faces a lot when Buck's not around, but the imitation you give on meetin' nights of a collection o' mummies can't be beat. I ain't in love with Buck--not on your life! You can tell him so, Jake. But he certainly has done the union a lot o' good. Tom'd say that, too. An' you know how much Tom likes Foley. You fixers forget when you was workin' ten hours for two dollars, an' lickin' the boots o' the bosses to hold your jobs." There was a short silence, then Johnson put forward cautiously: "I don't see the good o' strikin'." Pete stared at him. "Why?" he demanded. "Well, I've been in the business longer'n most o' you boys, an' I ain't found the bosses as bad as you make 'em out. When they're makin' more, they'll pay us more." "Oh, you go tell that to a Sunday school!" snorted Pete. "D'you ever hear of a boss payin' more wages'n he had to? Not much! Them kind 'o bosses's all doin' business up in heaven. If we was actually earnin' twenty a day, d'you suppose we'd get a cent more'n three seventy-five till we'd licked the bosses. You do--hey? That shows the kind of a nut you've got. The boss 'ud buy a tutti-frutti yacht, or a few more automobiles, or mebbe a college or two, where they learn you how to wear your pants turned up; but all the extra money you'd get wouldn't pay for the soap used by a Dago. If ever a boss offers you an extra dollar before you've licked him, yell for a cop. He's crazy." Pete's tirade completely flustered Johnson. "All the same, what I said's so." Pete snorted again. "When d'you think you're livin'? You make me tired, Johnson. Go push yourself off the roof!" The two last columns rose swinging above the chasm's brink, and there was no more talk for that afternoon. For the next hour the men were busy setting the last of the columns which were to support the twenty-second and twenty-third stories. Then they began setting in the cross beams, walking about on these five-inch beams (perhaps on one with the pavement straight beneath it) with the matter-of-fact steps of a man on the sidewalk--a circus act, lacking a safety net below, and lacking flourishes and kisses blown to a thrilled audience. Chapter II THE WALKING DELEGATE It was toward the latter part of the afternoon that a tall, angular man, in a black overcoat and a derby hat, stepped from the ladder on to the loose planking, glanced about and walked over to the gang of men about the south crane. "Hello, Buck," they called out on sight of him. "Hello, boys," he answered carelessly. He stood, with hands in the pockets of his overcoat, smoking his cigar, watching the crane accurately swing a beam to its place, and a couple of men run along it and bolt it at each end to the columns. He had a face to hold one's look--lean and long: gray, quick eyes, set close together; high cheek bones, with the dull polish of bronze; a thin nose, with a vulturous droop; a wide tight mouth; a great bone of a chin;--a daring, incisive, masterful face. When the beam had been bolted to its place, Barry, with a reluctance he tried to conceal, walked over to Foley. "How's things?" asked the new-comer, rolling his cigar into the corner of his mouth and slipping his words out between barely parted lips. Barry was the steward on the job,--the union's representative. "Two snakes come on the job this mornin'," he reported. "Them two over there,--that Squarehead an' that Guinea. I was goin' to write you a postal card about 'em to-night." "Who put 'em to work?" "They said Duffy, Driscoll's superintendent." Foley grunted, and his eyes fastened thoughtfully on the two non-union men. "When the boys seen they had no cards, o' course they said they wouldn't work with the scabs. But I said we'd stand 'em to-day, an' let you straighten it out to-morrow." "We'll fix it now." The walking delegate, with deliberate steps, moved toward the two men, who were sitting astride an outside beam fitting in bolts. He paused beside the Italian. "Clear out!" he ordered quietly. He did not take his hands from his pockets. The Italian looked up, and without answer doggedly resumed twisting a nut. Foley's eyes narrowed. His lips tightened upon his cigar. Suddenly his left hand gripped the head of a column and his right seized the shirt and coat collar of the Italian. He jerked the man outward, unseating him, though his legs clung about the beam, and held him over the street. The Italian let out a frightful yell, that the wind swept along under the clouds; and his wrench went flying from his hand. It struck close beside a mason on a scaffold seventeen stories below. The mason gave a jump, looked up and shook his fist. "D'youse see the asphalt?" Foley demanded. The man, whose down-hanging face was forced to see the pavement far below, with the little hats moving about over it, shrilled out his fear again. "In about a minute youse'll be layin' there, as flat as a picture, if youse don't clear out!" The man answered with a mixture of Italian, English, and yells; from which Foley gathered that he was willing to go, but preferred to gain the street by way of the ladders rather than by the direct route. Foley jerked him back to his seat, and a pair of frantic arms gripped his legs. "Now chase yourself, youse scab! Or----" Foley knew how to swear. The Italian rose tremblingly and stepped across to the flooring. He dropped limply to a seat on a prostrate column, and moaned into his hands. Without glancing at him or at the workmen who had eyed this measure doubtfully, Foley moved over to the Swede and gripped him as he had the Italian. "Now youse, youse sneakin' Squarehead! Get out o' here, too!" The Swede's right hand came up and laid hold of Foley's wrist with a grip that made the walking delegate start. The scab rose to his feet and stepped across to the planking. Foley was tall, but the Swede out-topped him by an inch. "I hold ma yob, yes," growled the Swede, a sudden flame coming into his heavy eyes. Foley had seen that look in a thousand scabs' eyes before. He knew its meaning. He drew back a pace, pulled his derby hat tightly down on his head and bit into his cigar, every lean muscle alert. "Get off the job! Or I'll kick youse off!" The Swede stepped forward, his shoulders hunched up. Foley crouched back; his narrowed gray eyes gleamed. The men in both gangs looked on from their places about the cranes and up on the beams in statued expectation. Barry and Pig Iron hurried up to Foley's support. "Keep back!" he ordered sharply. They fell away from him. A minute passed--the two men standing on the loosely-planked edge of a sheer precipice, watching each other with tense eyes. Suddenly a change began in the Swede; the spirit went out of him as the glow from a cooling rivet. His arms sank to his side, and he turned and fairly slunk over to where lay an old brown overcoat. The men started with relief, then burst into a jeering laugh. Foley moved toward Barry, then paused and, with hands back in his pockets, watched the two scabs make their preparation to leave, trundling his cigar about with his thin prehensile lips. As they started down the ladder, the Swede sullen, the Italian still trembling, he walked over to them with sudden decision. "Go on back to work," he ordered. The two looked at him in surprised doubt. "Go on!" He jerked his head toward the places they had left. They hesitated; then the Swede lay off his old coat and started back to his place, and the Italian followed, his fearful eyes on the walking delegate. Foley rejoined Barry. "I'm goin' to settle this thing with Driscoll," he said to the pusher, loudly, answering the amazed questioning he saw in the eyes of all the men. "I'm goin' to settle the scab question for good with him. Let them two snakes work till youse hear from me." He paused, then asked abruptly: "Where's Keating?" "Down with the riveters." "So-long, boys," he called to Barry's gang; and at the head of the ladder he gestured a farewell to the gang about the other crane. Then his long body sank through the flooring. At the bottom of the thirty-foot ladder he paused and looked around through the maze of beams and columns. This floor was not boarded, as was the one he had just left. Here and there were little platforms on which stood small portable forges, a man at each turning the fan and stirring the rivets among the red coals; and here and there were groups of three men, driving home the rivets. At regular intervals each heater would take a white rivet from his forge, toss it from his tongs sizzling through the air to a man twenty feet away, who would deftly catch it in a tin can. This man would seize the glowing bit of steel with a pair of pincers, strike it smartly against a beam, at which off would go a spray of sparks like an exploding rocket, and then thrust it through its hole. Immediately the terrific throbbing of a pneumatic hammer, held hard against the rivet by another man, would clinch it to its destiny of clinging with all its might. And then, flashing through the gray air like a meteor at twilight, would come another sparkling rivet. And on all sides, beyond the workmen calmly playing at catch with white-hot steel, and beyond the black crosswork of beams and columns, Foley could see great stretches of housetops that in sullen rivalry strove to overmatch the dinginess of the sky. Foley caught sight of Tom with a riveting gang at the southeast corner of the building, and he started toward him, walking over the five-inch beams with a practiced step, and now and then throwing a word at some of the men he passed, and glancing casually down at the workmen putting in the concrete flooring three stories below. Tom had seen him coming, and had turned his back upon his approach. "H'are you, Buck!" shouted one of the gang. Though Foley was but ten feet away, it was the man's lips alone that gave greeting to him; the ravenous din of the pneumatic hammer devoured every other sound. He shouted a reply; his lip movements signaled to the man: "Hello, fellows." Tom still kept his ignoring back upon Foley. The walking delegate touched him on the shoulder. "I'd like to trade some words with youse," he remarked. Tom's set face regarded him steadily an instant; then he said: "All right." "Come on." Foley led the way across beams to the opposite corner of the building where there was a platform now deserted by its forge, and where the noise was slightly less dense. For a space the two men looked squarely into each other's face--Tom's set, Foley's expressionless--as if taking the measure of the other;--and meanwhile the great framework shivered, and the air rattled, under the impact of the throbbing hammers. They were strikingly similar, and strikingly dissimilar. Aggressiveness, fearlessness, self-confidence, a sense of leadership, showed themselves in the faces and bearing of the two, though all three qualities were more pronounced in the older man. Their dissimilarity was summed up in their eyes: there was something to take and hold your confidence in Tom's; Foley's were full of deep, resourceful cunning. "Well?" said Tom, at length. "What's your game?" asked Foley in a tone that was neither friendly nor unfriendly. "Wha' d'youse want?" "Nothing,--from you." Foley went on in the same colorless tone. "I don't know. Youse've been doin' a lot o' growlin' lately. I've had a lot o' men fightin' me. Most of 'em wanted to be bought off." Tom recognized in these words a distant overture of peace,--a peace that if accepted would be profitable to him. He went straight to Foley's insinuated meaning. "You ought to know that's not my size," he returned quietly. "You've tried to buy me off more than once." The mask went from Foley's face and his mouth and forehead creased into harsh lines. His words came out like whetted steel. "See here. I would pass over the kind o' talkin' youse've been doin'. Somebody's always growlin'. Somebody's got to growl. But what youse said at the meetin' last night, I ain't goin' to stand for that kind o' talk. Youse understand?" Tom's legs had spread themselves apart, his black-gloved hands had placed themselves upon his hips, and his brown eyes were looking hard defiance from beneath his cap's peak. "I don't suppose you did like it," he said calmly. "If I remember rightly I didn't say it for the purpose of pleasing you." "Youse're goin' to keep your mouth goin' then?" "My mouth's my own." "Mebbe youse knows what happened to a few other gents that started on the road youse're travelin'?" the steely voice went on insinuatingly. "Duncan--Smith--O'Malley?" "Threats, huh?" Tom's anger began to pass his control. He sneered. "Save 'em for somebody that's afraid of you!" The cigar that had so far kept its place in Foley's mouth now fell out, and a few lurid words followed it. "D'youse know I can drive youse clean out o' New York? Yes, an' fix youse so youse can't get a job in the iron trade in the country? Except as a scab. Which's just about what you are!" The defiant glow in Tom's eyes flared into a blaze of anger. He stepped up to Foley, his fists still on his hips, and fairly thrust his square face into the lean one of the walking delegate. "If you think I'm afraid of you, Buck Foley, or your bunch of toughs, you're almighty mistaken! I'm going to say what I think about you, and say it whenever and wherever I please!" Foley's face tightened. His hands clenched in his pockets. But he controlled himself. He had the wisdom of a thousand fights,--which is, never to fight unless you have to, or unless there is something to gain. "I've got just one thing to say to youse, an' that's all," he said, and his low, steely voice cut distinctly through the hammer's uproar. "If I hear any more about your talk,--well, Duncan an' O'Malley'll have some new company." He turned about shortly, and stepped along beams to a ladder, and down that; leaving Tom struggling with a furious desire to follow and close with him. Out of the building, he made for the office of Mr. Driscoll as rapidly as street car could take him. On leaving the elevator in the Broadway building he strode to a door marked "Driscoll & Co.--Private--Enter Next Door," and without hesitation turned the knob. He found himself in a small room, very neat, whose principal furniture was a letter file and a desk bearing a typewriter. Over the desk was a brown print of William Morris. The room had two inner doors, one, as Foley knew, opening into the general offices, and the other into Mr. Driscoll's private room. A young woman rose from the desk. "What is it?" she asked, with a coldness drawn forth by his disregard of the sign on the door. "I want to see Mr. Driscoll. Tell him Foley wants to speak to him." She went through Mr. Driscoll's door, and Foley heard his name announced. There was a hesitant silence, then he heard the words, "Well, let him come in, Miss Arnold." Miss Arnold immediately reappeared. "Will you step in, please." As he entered the door Foley put on his hat, which he had removed in the presence of the secretary, pulling it aggressively down over one eye. "Hello, Driscoll," he greeted the contractor, who had swung about from a belittered desk; and he closed the door behind him. Mr. Driscoll pointed to a chair, but his face deepened a shade. Foley seated himself, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his bony hands clasped. "Well, what can I do for you?" queried Mr. Driscoll shortly. Foley knew his man. He had met Mr. Driscoll many times at conferences with the Executive Committee of the Iron Employers' Association, and had read him as though he were large print. He noted with satisfaction the color in the contractor's face. The walking delegate spoke with extreme deliberation. "I come around, _Mister_ Driscoll, to find out what the hell youse mean by workin' scabs on that St. Etienne job. Youse signed an agreement to work only union men, but if I didn't watch youse, youse'd have your work alive with scabs. Now, damn youse, unless youse get them scabs off that job an' do it quicker'n youse ever done anything before, youse'll wish youse had!" Foley made no mistake in his pre-calculation of the effect of this speech. Mr. Driscoll sprang to his feet, with a trembling that his reddish-gray whiskers exaggerated. His glasses tumbled from his nose, and his feet scrunched them unnoted into the rug. "If there's a scab on the job, I didn't know it. If those men're scabs Duffy must have made a mistake. If----" "If one o' youse bosses ever breaks a contract, oh, it's always a mistake!" "If you'd come around here and talked like a gentleman, I'd had 'em off inside of an hour," Mr. Driscoll roared. "But, by thunder, I don't let any walking delegate insult me and tell me what I've _got_ to do!" "Then youse ain't goin' to fire the scabs?" "Not till hell freezes over!" Mr. Driscoll's eyes clicked, and he banged his pudgy fist upon his desk. "Then the men'll go back to work on the day hell freezes over," returned Foley, rising to go. "But I have an idea youse'll want to see me a day or two before then. I've come to youse this time. The next time we talk, youse'll come to me. There's my card." And he went out with the triumphant feeling of the man who can guide events. At ten o'clock the next morning he clambered again to the top of the St. Etienne Hotel. The Italian and Swede were still at work. "Lay down your tools, boys!" he called out to the two gangs. "The job's struck!" The men crowded around him, demanding information. "Driscoll won't fire the scabs," he explained. "Kick 'em off,--settle it that-a-way!" growled one of the men. "We can't afford to lose wages on account o' two scabs." "That'd only settle this one case. We've got to settle the scab question with Driscoll for good an' all. It's hard luck, boys, I know," he said sympathetically, "but we can't do nothin' but strike. We've got to lick Driscoll into shape." Leaving the men talking hotly as they changed their clothes for the street, Foley went down the ladder to bear the same message and the same comfort to the riveters. The next morning the general contractor for the building got Mr. Driscoll on the telephone. "Why aren't you getting that ironwork up?" he demanded. Mr. Driscoll started into an explanation of his trouble with Foley, but the general contractor cut him short. "I don't care what the trouble is. What I care about is that you're not getting that ironwork up. Get your men right back to work." "How?" queried Mr. Driscoll sarcastically. "That's your business!" answered the general contractor, and rang off. Mr. Driscoll talked it over with the "Co.," a young fellow of thirty or thereabouts, of polished manner and irreproachable tailoring. "See Foley," Mr. Berman advised. "It's simply a game for graft!" "That may be," said the junior partner. "But what can you do?" "I won't pay graft!" Mr. Berman shrugged his shapely shoulders and withdrew. Mr. Driscoll paced his office floor, tugged at his whiskers, and used some language that at least had the virtue of being terse. With the consequence, that he saw there was nothing for him but to settle as best as he could. In furious mortification he wrote to Foley asking him to call. The answer was a single scrawled sentence: "If you want to see me, I live at--West One Hundred and Fifteenth Street." The instant after this note was read its fragments were in Mr. Driscoll's waste basket. He'd suffer a sulphurous fate before he'd do it! But the general contractor descended upon him in person, and there was a bitter half hour. The result was that late Saturday afternoon Mr. Driscoll locked his pride in his desk, put his checkbook in his pocket, and set forth for the number on West One Hundred and Fifteenth Street. A large woman, of dark voluptuous beauty, with a left hand like a jeweller's tray, answered his knock and led him into the parlor, on whose furnishings more money than taste had been spent. The room was a war of colors, in which the gilt of the picture frames, enclosing oblongs of high-hued sentiment, had the best of the conflict, and in which baby blue, showing in pictures, upholstery and a fancy lamp shade, was an easy second, despite its infantility. Foley sat in a swinging rocker, reading an evening paper, his coat off, his feet in slippers. He did not rise. "Hello! Are they havin' zero weather in hell?" Mr. Driscoll passed the remark. "I guess you know what I'm here for." "If youse give me three guesses, I might be able to hit it. But chair bottom's as cheap as carpet. Set down." Mr. Driscoll sank into an upholstered chair, and a skirmish began between his purple face and the baby blue of the chair's back. "Let's get to business," he said. "Won't youse have a drink first?" queried Foley, with baiting hospitality. Mr. Driscoll's hands clenched the arms of the chair. "Let's get to business." "Well,--fire away." "You know what it is." "I can't say's I do," Foley returned urbanely. The contractor's hands dug again into the upholstery. "About the strike you called on the St. Etienne." "Oh, that!--Well?" Mr. Driscoll gulped down pride and anger and went desperately to the point. "What'll I have to do to settle it?" "Um! Le's see. First of all, youse'll fire the scabs?" "Yes." "Seems to me I give youse the chance to do that before, an' end it right there. But it can't end there now. There's the wages the men's lost. Youse'll have to pay waitin' time." "Extortion, you mean," Mr. Driscoll could not refrain from saying. "Waitin' time," Foley corrected blandly. "Well,--how much?" Mr. Driscoll remarked to himself that he knew what part of the "waiting time" the men would get. Foley looked at the ceiling and appeared to calculate. "The waitin' time'll cost youse an even thousand." "What!" "If youse ain't learnt your lesson yet, youse might as well go back." He made as if to resume his paper. Mr. Driscoll swallowed hard. "Oh, I'll pay. What else can I do? You've got me in a corner with a gun to my head." Foley did not deny the similitude. "youse're gettin' off dirt cheap." "When'll the men go back to work?" "The minute youse pay, the strike's off." Mr. Driscoll drew out his check-book, and started to fill in a check with a fountain pen. "Hold on there!" Foley cried. "No checks for me." "What's the matter with a check?" "Youse don't catch me scatterin' my name round on the back o' checks. D'youse think I was born yesterday?" "Where's the danger, since the money's to go to the men for waiting time?" Mr. Driscoll asked sarcastically. "It's cash or nothin'," Foley said shortly. "I've no money with me. I'll bring it some time next week." "Just as youse like. Only every day raises the price." Mr. Driscoll made haste to promise to deliver the money Monday morning as soon as he could get it from his bank. And Foley thereupon promised to have the men ready to go back to work Monday afternoon. So much settled, Mr. Driscoll started to leave. He was suffocating. "Won't youse have a drink?" Foley asked again, at the door. Mr. Driscoll wanted only to get out of Foley's company, where he could explode without having it put in the bill. "No," he said curtly. "Well!--now me, when I got to swallow a pill I like somethin' to wash it down." The door slammed, and Mr. Driscoll puffed down the stairs leaving behind him a trail of language like a locomotive's plume. Chapter III THE RISE OF BUCK FOLEY Tom glared at Foley till the walking delegate had covered half the distance to the ladder, then he turned back to his supervision, trying to hide the fires of his wrath. But his soul flamed within him. All that Foley had just threatened, openly and by insinuation, was within his power of accomplishment. Tom knew that. And every other man in the union was as much at his mercy,--and every man's family. And many had suffered greatly, and all, except Foley's friends, had suffered some. Tom's mind ran over the injustice Foley had wrought, and over Foley's history and the union's history during the last few years ... and there was no sinking of the inward fire. And yet there was a long period in the walking delegate's history on which Tom would not have passed harsh judgment. Very early in his career, in conformity with prevailing custom, Buck Foley had had a father and a mother. His mother he did not remember at all. After she had intimated a preference for another man by eloping with him, Buck's father had become afflicted with almost constant unsteadiness in his legs, an affliction that had before victimized him only at intervals. His father he remembered chiefly from having carried a tin pail to a store around the corner where a red-faced man filled it and handed it back to him over a high counter; and also from a white scar which even now his hair did not altogether conceal. One day his father disappeared. Not long after that Buck went to live in a big house with a great lot of boys, the little ones in checked pinafores, the big ones in gray suits. After six years of life here, at the age of twelve, he considered that he was fit for graduation, and so he went out into the world,--this on a very dark night when all in the big house were fast asleep. For three years Buck was a newsboy; sleeping in a bed when he could afford one, sleeping in hallways, over warm gratings, along the docks, when he could not; winning all the newsboy's keen knowledge of human nature. At fifteen the sea fascinated him, and he lived in ships till he was twenty. Then a sailor's duties began to irk him. He came back to New York, took the first job that offered, driving a truck, and joined a political club of young men in a west side ward. Here he found himself. He rose rapidly to power in the club. Dan McGuire, the boss of the ward, had to take notice of him. He left his truck for a city job with a comfortable salary and nothing to do. At twenty-five he was one of McGuire's closest aids. Then his impatient ambition escaped his control. He plotted a revolution, which should overthrow McGuire and enthrone himself. But the Boss had thirty years of political cunning, and behind him a strong machine. For these Buck was no match. He took again to the sea. Buck shipped as second mate on a steamer carrying steel for a great bridge in South Africa. Five years of authority had unfitted him for the subordinate position of second mate, and there were many tilts with the thick-headed captain. The result was that after the steamer had discharged her cargo Foley quitted his berth and followed the steel into the interior. The contractors were in sore need of men, and, even though Foley was not a bridgeman, they gladly gave him a job. His service as a sailor had fitted him to follow, without a twinge of fear, the most expert of the bridgemen in their daring clambering about cables and over narrow steel beams; and being naturally skillful he rapidly became an efficient workman. Of the men sent out to this distant job perhaps one-half were union members. These formed a local branch of their society, and this Foley was induced to join. He rapidly won to influence and power in the affairs of the union, finding here the same keen enjoyment in managing men that he had first tasted in Dan McGuire's ward. After the completion of this job he worked in Scotland and Brazil, always active in the affairs of his union. At thirty-two he found himself back in New York,--a forceful leader ripe for an opportunity. He had not been in New York a week when he discovered his chance. The union there was wofully weak--an organization only in name. The employers hardly gave it a consideration; the members themselves hardly held it in higher esteem. The men were working ten hours a day for two dollars; lacking the support of a strong union they were afraid to seek better terms. As Foley grimly expressed it, "The bosses have got youse down an' are settin' on your heads." Here in this utter disorganization Foley perceived his opportunity. He foresaw the extent to which the erection of steel-frame buildings, then in its beginning, was certain to develop. His trade was bound to become the "fundamental trade"; until his union had put up the steel frames the contractors could do nothing--the other workmen could do nothing. A strongly organized union holding this power--there was no limit to the concessions it might demand and secure. It was a great opportunity. Foley went quietly to work on a job at twelve dollars a week, and bided his time. At the end of six months he was elected president and walking delegate of the union. He had no trouble in securing the offices. No one else wanted them. This was early in the spring. The first labor he set himself was the thorough organization of the union and the taking into its ranks of every ironworker in the city. The following spring there was a strike. Foley now came for the first time before the contractors' attention. They regarded him lightly, having remembrance of his predecessors. But they soon found they were facing a man who, though uneducated and of ungrammatical speech, was as keen and powerful as the best of them. The strike was won, and great was the name of Foley. In the next three years there were two more strikes for increases in wages, which were won. And the name of Foley waxed greater. During these first four years no man could have served the union better. But here ended the stretch of Foley's history on which Tom would not have passed harsh judgment; and here began the period whose acts of corruption and oppression were now moving in burning procession through Tom's mind. It is a matter of no moment whether Foley or the employers took the initiative in starting him on the new phase of his career as a labor leader. It is axiomatic that money is the ammunition of war; among the employers there were many who were indifferent whether this ammunition was spent in fighting or in buying. On the other hand, Foley's training on the street and in Dan McGuire's ward was not such as to produce an incorruptible integrity. It is only fair to Foley to say that the first sums he received were in return for services which did not work any injury or loss to the union. It was easy to excuse to himself these first lapses. He knew his own worth; he saw that men of much less capacity in the employ of the bosses were paid big salaries. The union paid him thirty dollars a week. "Who's hurt if I increase my salary to something like it ought to be at the expense of the bosses?" he reasoned; and took the money with an easy conscience. This first "easy money" made Foley hungry for more. He saw the many opportunities that existed for acquiring it; he saw where he could readily create other opportunities. In earlier days he had envied McGuire the chances that were his. He had no reason to envy McGuire now. During the first three or four years of his administration there was no opposition to him within the union. His work was too strenuous to be envied him by any man. But after the union had become an established power, and the position of walking delegate one of prominence, a few ambitious spirits began to aspire to his job. Also there began to be mutterings about his grafting. A party was formed which secretly busied itself with a plan to do to him what he had tried to do to Dan McGuire. He triumphed, as McGuire had triumphed. But the revolution, though unsuccessful, had a deep lesson for him. It taught him that, unless he fortified it, his position was insecure. At present he was dependent for its retention upon the favor of the members; and favor, as he knew, was not a dependable quantity. He was determined to remain the walking delegate of the union. He had made the union, and the position. They were both his by right. He rapidly took measures to insure himself against the possibility of overthrow. He became relentless to all opposition. Those who dared talk were quick to hear from him. Some fared easily--the clever ones who were not bribe-proof. After being given jobs as foremen, and presented with neat little sums, they readily saw the justice of Foley's cause. Some, who were not worth bribing, he intimidated into silence. Those whom he had threatened and who still talked found themselves out of work and unable to get new jobs; they were forced into other trades or out of the city. A few such examples lessened the necessity for such severe action. Men with families to support perceived the value of a discreet tongue. These methods were successful in quelling open opposition; but they, together with the knowledge that Foley was taking money wherever it was offered, had the effect of rapidly alienating the better element in the union. This forced him into a close alliance with the rougher members, who were greatly in the minority. But this minority, never more than five hundred out of three thousand men, Foley made immensely effective. He instructed them to make the meetings as disorderly as possible. His scheme worked to perfection. The better members came less and less frequently, and soon the meetings were entirely in the hands of the roughs. As time passed Foley grew more and more jealous of his power, and more and more harsh in the methods used to guard it. He attached to himself intimately several of the worst of his followers whom grim facetiousness soon nominated "The Entertainment Committee." If any one attacked him now, the bold one did so knowing that he would probably experience the hospitality of these gentlemen the first dark night he ventured forth alone. Such were the conditions behind the acts of tyranny that Tom furiously overhauled, as he mechanically directed the work. He had considered these conditions and acts before, but never with such fierceness as now. Hitherto he had been, as it were, merely one citizen, though a more or less prominent one, of an oppressed nation; now he, as an individual, had felt the tyrant's malevolence. He had before talked of the union's getting rid of Foley as a necessary action, and only the previous night he had gone to the length of denouncing Foley in open meeting, an adventurous act that had not been matched in the union for two years. Perhaps, in the course of time, his patriotism alone would have pushed him to take up arms against Foley. But now to his patriotic indignation there was added the selfish wrath of the outraged individual,--and the sum was an impulse there was no restraining. Tom was not one who, in a hot moment, for the assuagement of his wrath, would bang down his fist and consign himself to a purpose. Here, however, was a case where wrath made the same demand that already had been made by cool, moral judgment--the dethronement of Foley. And Tom felt in himself the power for its accomplishment. He was well furnished with self-confidence,--lacking which any man is an engine without fire. During the last five years--that is, since he was twenty-five, when he began to look upon life seriously--the knowledge had grown upon him that he was abler, and of stronger purpose, than his fellows. He had accepted this knowledge quietly, as a fact. It had not made him presumptuous; rather it had imposed upon him a serious sense of duty. He considered the risks of a fight against Foley. Personal danger,--plenty of that, yes,--but his hot mind did not care for that. Financial loss,--he drew back from thinking what his wife would say; anyhow, there were his savings, which would keep them for awhile, if worst came to worst. As the men were leaving the building at the end of the day's work, Tom drew Barry and Pete to one side. "I know you fellows don't like Foley a lot," he began abruptly, "but I don't know how far you're willing to go. For my part, I can't stand for him any longer. Can't we get together to-night and have a talk?" To this Barry and Pete agreed. "Where'bouts?" asked Barry. Tom hesitated; and he was thinking of his wife when he said, "How about your house?" "Glad to have you," was Barry's answer. Chapter IV A COUNCIL OF WAR Tom lived in the district below West Fourteenth Street, where, to the bewildered explorer venturing for the first time into that region, the jumbled streets seem to have been laid out by an egg-beater. It was almost six o'clock when, hungry and wrathful, he thrust his latch-key into the door of his four-room flat. The door opened into blackness. He gave an irritated groan and groped about for matches, in the search striking his hip sharply against the corner of the dining table. A match found and the gas lit, he sat down in the sitting-room to await his wife's coming. From the mantel a square, gilded clock, on which stood a knight in full armor, counted off the minutes with irritating deliberation. It struck six; no Maggie. Tom's impatience rapidly mounted, for he had promised to be at Barry's at quarter to eight. He was on the point of going to a restaurant for his dinner, when, at half-past six, he heard the fumble of a latch-key in the lock, and in came his wife, followed by their son, a boy of four, crying from weariness. She was a rather large, well-formed, and well-featured young woman, and was showily dressed in the extreme styles of the cheap department stores. She was pretty, with the prettiness of cheap jewelry. Tom rose as she carefully placed her packages on the table. "You really decided to come home, did you?" "Oh, I know I'm late," she said crossly, breathing heavily. "But it wasn't my fault. I started early enough. But there was such a mob in the store you couldn't get anywhere. If you'd been squeezed and pushed and punched like I was in the stores and in the street cars, well, you wouldn't say a word." "Of course you had to go!" "I wasn't going to miss a bargain of that kind. You don't get 'em often." Tom gazed darkly at the two bulky packages, the cause of his delayed dinner. "Can I have something to eat,--and quick?" By this time her hat and jacket were off. "Just as soon as I get back my breath," she said, and began to undo the packages. The little boy came to her side. "I'm so hungry, ma," he whined. "Gimme a piece." "Dinner'll be ready in a little while," she answered carelessly. "But I can't wait!"--and he began to cry. Maggie turned upon him sharply. "If you don't stop that bawling, Ferdie, you shan't have a bite of dinner." The boy cried all the louder. "Oh, you!" she ejaculated; and took a piece of coarse cake from the cupboard and handed it to him. "Now do be still!" Ferdinand filled his mouth with the cake, and she returned to the packages. "I been wanting something to fill them empty places at the ends of the mantel this long time, and when I saw the advertisement in the papers this morning, I said it was just the thing.... Now there!" Out of one pasteboard box she had taken a dancing Swiss shepherdess, of plaster, pink and green and blue, and out of the other box a dancing Swiss shepherd. One of these peasants she had put on either side of the knight, at the ends of the mantel. "Now, don't you like that?" Tom looked doubtfully at the latest adornment of his home. Somehow, he didn't just like it, though he didn't know why. "I guess it'll do," he said at length. "And they were only thirty-nine cents apiece! Now when I get a new tidy for the mantel,--a nice pink one with flowers. Just you wait!" "Well,--but let's have dinner first." "In just a minute." With temper restored by sight of her art treasures, Maggie went into the bedroom and quickly returned in an old dress. The dinner of round steak, fried potatoes and coffee was ready in a very short time. The steak avenged its hasty preparation by presenting one badly burnt side. But Tom ate the poor dinner without complaint. He was used to poor dinners; and his only desire was to get away and to Barry's. Once during the meal he looked at his wife, a question in his mind. Should he tell her? But his eyes fell back to his plate and he said nothing. She must know some time, of course--but he didn't want the scene now. But she herself approached uncomfortably near the subject. She had glanced at him hesitatingly several times while they were eating; as he was rising from the table she began resolutely: "I met Mrs. Jones this afternoon. She told me what you said about Foley last night at the meeting. Her husband told her." Tom paused. "There's no sense doing a thing of that kind," she went on. "Here we are just beginning to have things a little comfortable. You know well enough what Foley can do to you if you get him down on you." "Well?" Tom said guardedly. "Well, don't you be that foolish again. We can't afford it." "I'll see about it." He went into the sitting-room and returned with hat and overcoat on. "I'm going over to Barry's for awhile--on some business," he said, and went out. Barry and Pete, who boarded with the Barrys, were waiting in the sitting-room when Tom arrived,--and with them sat Mrs. Barry and a boy of about thirteen and a girl apparently a couple of years younger, the two children with idle school books in their laps. Mrs. Barry's sitting-room, also her parlor, would not have satisfied that amiable lady, the president of the Society for Instructing Wage-Earners in House Furnishing. There was a coarse red Smyrna rug in the middle of the floor; a dingy, blue-flowered sofa, with three chairs to match (the sort seen in the windows of cheap furniture stores on bargain days, marked "Nineteen dollars for Set"); a table in one corner, bearing a stack of photographs and a glass vase holding up a bunch of pink paper roses; a half dozen colored prints in gilt-and-white plaster frames. The room, however, quite satisfied Mrs. Barry, and the amiable president of the S. I. W. E. H. F. would needs have given benign approval to the room's utter cleanliness. Mrs. Barry, a big, red-faced woman, greeted Tom heartily. Then she turned to the boy and girl. "Come on, children. We've got to chase ourselves. The men folks want to talk." She drove the two before her wide body into the kitchen. Tom plunged into the middle of what he had to say. "We've talked about Foley a lot--all of us. We've said other unions are managed decently, honestly--why shouldn't ours be? We've said we didn't like Foley's bulldozing ways. We didn't like the tough gang he's got into the union. We didn't like the rough-house meetings. We didn't like his grafting. We've said we ought to raise up and kick him out. And then, having said that much, we've gone back to work--me, you and all the rest of us--and he's kept on bullying us, and using the union as a lever to pry off graft. I'm dead sick of this sort of business. For one, I'm tired talking. I'm ready for doing." "Sure, we're all sick o' Foley. But what d'you think we ought to do?" queried Barry. "Fire him out," Tom answered shortly. "It only takes three words to say that," said Pig Iron. "But how?" "Fire him out!" Tom was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his big, red hands interlocked. There was determination in his square face, in the set of his powerful red neck, in the hunch of his big shoulders. He gazed steadily at the two men for a brief space. "Boys, my mind's made up. I'm going to fight him." Pete and Barry looked at him in amazement. "You're goin' to fight Buck Foley!" cried Barry. "You're jokin'!" said Pig Iron. "I'm in dead earnest." "You know what'll happen to you if you lose?" queried Barry. "Yes. And I know Foley may not even give me a chance to lose," Tom added grimly. "You've got nerve to burn, Tom," said Pig Iron. "It's not an easy proposition. Myself, I'd as soon put on the gloves an' mix it up with the devil. An' to spit it right out on the carpet, Tom, I think Buck's done the union a lot o' good." "You're right there, Pete. No one knows that better than I do. As you fellows know, I left town eight years ago and was bridging in the West four years. I was pretty much of a kid when I went away, but I was old enough to see the union didn't have enough energy left to die. When I came back and saw what Foley'd done, I thought he was the greatest thing that ever happened. If he'd quit right then the union'd 'a' papered the hall with his pictures. But you know how he's changed since then. The public knows it, too. Look how the newspapers have been shooting it into him. I'm not fighting Foley as he was four or five years ago, Pete, but Foley as he is now." "There's no denyin' he's so crooked now he can't lay straight in bed," Pete admitted. "We've got to get rid of him some time, haven't we?" Tom went on. "Yes," the two men conceded. "Or sooner or later he'll smash the union. That's certain. Now there's only one way to get rid of him. That's to go out after him, and go after him hard." "But it's an awful risk for you, Tom," said Barry. "Someone's got to take it if we ever get rid of Foley." "One thing's straight, anyhow," declared Pete. "You're the best man in the union to go against Foley." "Of course," said Barry. Tom did not deny it. There was a moment's silence. Then Pete asked: "What's your plan?" "Election comes the first meeting in March. I'm going to run against him for walking delegate." "If you care anything for my opinion," said Pete, "here it is: You've got about as much chance as a snowball in hell." "You're away off, Pig Iron. You know as well as I do that five-sixths of the men in the union are against Foley. Why do they stand for him? Because they're unorganized, and he's got them bluffed out. If those men got together, Foley'd be the snowball. That's what I'm going to try to do,--get those men in line." A door opened, and Mrs. Barry looked in. "I left my glasses somewhere in there. Will I bother you men much if I look for 'em?" "Not me," said Tom. "You can stay and listen if you want to." Mrs. Barry sat down. "I suppose you don't mind tellin' us how you're goin' to get the men in line," said Pete. "My platform's going to be an honest administration of the affairs of the union, and every man to be treated like a man. That's simple enough, ain't it?--and strong enough? And a demand for more wages. I'm going to talk these things to every man I meet. If they can kick Foley out, and get honest management and decent treatment, just by all coming out and voting, don't you think they're going to do it? They'll all fall in line." "That demand for more wages is a good card. Our wage contract with the bosses expires May first, you know. The men all want more money; they need it; they deserve it. If I talk for it Foley'll be certain to oppose it, and that'll weaken him. "I wanted to talk this over with you fellows to get your opinion. I thought you might suggest something. But even if you don't like the scheme, and even if you don't want to join in the fight, I'm going to stick it out. My mind's made up." Tom sank back into his chair and waited for the two men to speak. "Well, your scheme don't sound just like an insane asylum," Pete admitted. "Count me in." Tom looked across at Barry. Barry's face was turned down and his hands were inter-gripped. Tom understood. Barry had been out of work much during the last three years, and recent illness in the family had endowed him with debts. If he actively engaged in Tom's movement, and Foley triumphed, Foley's vengeance would see to it that Barry worked no more in New York. It was too great a risk to ask of a man situated as Barry was. "I understand, Barry," said Tom. "That's all right. Don't you do it." Barry made no answer. Mrs. Barry put her hand on her husband's shoulder. "Jim, ain't we goin' to be in on this fight against Foley?" "You know why, Mary." There was a catch in his voice. "Yes. Because of me an' the kids. You, I know you've got as much nerve as anybody. We're goin' in, Jim. An' if we lose"--she tried to smile--"why, I ain't much of a consumptive, am I? I'll take in washin' to help out." Tom turned his face about. Pete did the same, and their eyes met. Pete's face was set hard. He growled out something that sounded very much like an oath. It was midnight when Tom left. The strike which Foley called on the St. Etienne Hotel the next day gave him time for much thinking about his campaign. He acquainted several of the more influential members of the union with his purpose, asking them to keep secret what he said till he was ready to begin an open fight. All gave him sympathy, but most of them hesitated when it came to promising active assistance. "Now if Foley only couldn't do us out of our jobs, in case you lose, we'd be right with you. But----" Fear inclined them to let bad enough alone. This set Tom to thinking again. On Monday evening--that afternoon Foley had ordered the men back to work on the St. Etienne Hotel--Tom announced a new plan to Barry and Pete. "We want to get every argument we can to use on the boys. It struck me we might make some use of the bosses. It's to their interest, as well as to ours, for us to have the right sort of delegate. If we could say that the bosses are sick of Foley and want us to get a decent man, and will guarantee to keep us at work no matter what Foley says,--that might have influence on some of the weak-kneed brothers." "The boys'd say the bosses ain't runnin' the union," said Pete. "If you get the bosses on your side, the boys'll all stand by Foley." "I thought of that. That's what'd happen if we got mixed up with anybody on the Executive Committee of the bosses except Baxter. The boys think Murphy, Bobbs, and Isaacs are pretty small potatoes, and they think Driscoll's not on the square. I guess it's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but you know what Foley says about Driscoll. But with Baxter it's different. He's friendly to the union, and the boys know it. A word from him might help a lot. And he hates Foley, and Foley has no use for him. I've heard Buck say as much." "It's worth tryin', anyhow," Pete and Barry agreed. "Well, I'm going to brace him to-morrow after work," said Tom. Chapter V TOM SEEKS HELP FROM THE ENEMY At the end of work the next day Tom joined the rush of men down the ladders and the narrow servants' stairways, the only ones in as yet, and on gaining the street made for the nearest saloon. Five cents invested in beer secured for him the liberty of the house. He washed himself, brushed his hair and clothing, and set forth for the office of Baxter & Co. Baxter & Co. occupied one side of the tenth floor of a big downtown office building. Tom found himself in a large waiting-room, divided by a wooden railing, beyond which at a desk sat an imperious youth in a blue uniform. "Is Mr. Baxter in?" Tom inquired. The uniform noted that Tom's clothes were worn and wrinkled. "He's busy," it said stiffly. "Is he in?" "I s'pose he is." "Well, you tell him I want to see him. Keating's my name. I'll wait if he's busy." The uniform carelessly handed him a slip of paper. "Write down yer name an' business, an' I'll see if he'll see youse." With a gleam in his eyes Tom took the printed form, wrote his name and "on business of the Iron Workers' Union." The boy accepted the slip and calmly read it. Tom gave him a push that sent him spinning. "Get a move on you, there! I'm in a hurry." The boy gave a startled look back, and walked quickly down an alley that ran between two rows of offices. Tom sat down in one of the leather-bottomed chairs and with a show of coolness, but with inward excitement, waited his interview with Mr. Baxter. He had never met an employer in his life, save regarding his own work or as a member of a strike committee. And now the first he was to meet in a private interview was the most prominent employer in his trade--head of the big firm of Baxter & Co., and president of the Iron Employers' Association. Several minutes passed before the uniform reappeared and led Tom into Mr. Baxter's office, a large, airy room with red burlap walls, cherry woodwork, cherry chairs, a long cherry table, a flat-top cherry desk. The room was absolutely without attempt at decoration, and was as clean as though it had been swept and dusted the minute before. The only piece of paper in the room was an architect's drawing of a façade, which Mr. Baxter was examining. Mr. Baxter did not look up immediately. Tom, standing with hat in hand, was impressed with his busyness. He was not yet acquainted with the devices by which men of affairs fortify their importance. Suddenly Mr. Baxter wheeled about in his chair. "I beg your pardon. Be seated. What can I do for you?" He was perhaps forty-five or fifty--slender, of high, narrow brow, steely eyes, and Vandyke beard. His neatness was equal to that of his office; he looked as though he were fresh from barber, haberdasher and tailor. Tom understood the success of the man in the first glance at his face: he was as quick to act upon the opportunity as a steel trap. Tom sat down in one of the polished chairs, and affected composure by throwing his left arm across the cherry table. "I belong to the Iron Workers' Union. To come right to the point----" "I shall be obliged if you will. I'm really very busy." Mr. Baxter's tone was a model of courtesy. A more analytical man than Tom might have felt the distinction that it was the courtesy a gentlemen owes himself, not the courtesy one man owes another. Tom merely felt a vague antagonism, and that put him at his ease. "I'm busy, too," he returned quietly. "What I've come to see you about is a matter which I consider of great importance to the bosses and the union. And I've come to see you because I know you are friendly to the union." "I believe that in most cases the interests of the employers and the interests of the union are practically the same." "And also because you don't like Foley." Mr. Baxter fingered his narrow watch chain a moment. "So you've come to see me about Mr. Foley?" "Yes. There's no use going into details with you, Mr. Baxter. You know the sort Foley is as well as I do. He bullies the union. That's nothing to you. But he's not on the square with the bosses. That is. As you said awhile ago, the interests of the bosses and the union are the same. It's to the interest of both to get rid of Foley. That's so, ain't it?" Mr. Baxter's face was inscrutable. "You're going to turn him out then?" "We're going to try to." "And what will be your policy then?--if you don't mind my asking it." "To run things on the square." "A praiseworthy purpose. Of course you'll put in a square man as delegate then." "I'm going to run myself." Tom thought he saw a significant look pass across Mr. Baxter's face. "Not because I'm anxious for his job," he hastened to explain. "But somebody's got to run against him." Mr. Baxter nodded slightly. "I see. Not a very popular risk." His keen eyes never wavered from Tom's face. "How do you propose to defeat Foley? But don't tell me anything you don't want to." Tom outlined his plans for organizing the better element against Foley. "That sounds feasible," was Mr. Baxter's comment when Tom had concluded. His eyes were still fastened on Tom's face. "And after you win, there'll be a strike?" This question, asked quietly but with electrical quickness, caught Tom unprepared. He floundered an instant. "We've got to bridge two or three rivers before we come to that one," he answered. Mr. Baxter hardly moved an eyelash. "That's obvious. And now, aside from the benefit which we are to secure by the change, how does your plan concern me?" "Since you are going to profit by the fight, if we win, I thought you might help us. And you can do it easy enough. One thing that'll keep a lot of the members from joining in the fight is that they're afraid, if Foley wins out, he'll get 'em all fired. Now if you'll simply guarantee that you'll stand by the men, why, they'll all come out against Foley and we'll beat him five to one. There'll be no chance for us to lose." Mr. Baxter's white brow wrinkled in thought. Tom waited his words in suspense. At length he spoke. "You will readily realize, Mr. Keating, that it is an almost unprecedented step for us to take such a part in the affairs of a union. Your suggestion is something I must think about." Tom had been certain Mr. Baxter would fall in with his scheme enthusiastically. It required so little, merely his word, and assured so much. Mr. Baxter's judicial reception of his plan shot him through with disappointment. "What, don't it appeal to you?" he cried. "It certainly seems full of promise." "It will clear us of Foley--certain! And it is to the interest of both of us that the union be run on the square." "That's true,--very true. But the most I can say to you now, Mr. Keating, is that I'll take the matter under advisement. Come to see me again in a few days." Mr. Baxter began to finger the drawing on his desk, whereby Tom knew the interview was at an end. Greatly dashed, but somewhat reassured by the contractor's last words, he said good-afternoon and withdrew. The uniform respectfully opened the gate in the railing. In the uniform's book of wisdom it was writ down that anyone who could be closeted with your boss was deserving of courtesy. The instant the office door closed on Tom's back Mr. Baxter quickly rose and paced the floor for several minutes. Then he sat down at his desk, took a sheet of paper from a drawer, and dashed off a note to Foley. Mr. Baxter did not rise to greet Foley when the walking delegate entered his office the next afternoon. "Mr. Foley," he said, with a short nod of his head. "Youse guessed my name," said Foley, cooly helping himself to a chair. "What's doin'?" The two men watched each other narrowly, as might two enemies who have established a truce, yet who suspect treachery on the part of the other. There was a distant superiority in the manner of Mr. Baxter,--and also the hardly concealed strain of the man who, from policy or breeding, would be polite where he loathes. Foley, tilted back in his chair, matched this manner with an air of defiant self-assertion. Mr. Baxter rapidly sketched the outline of what Tom had said to him. "And so Keating come to youse for help," grinned Foley. "That ain't bad!" Mr. Baxter did not recognize Foley's equality by smiling. "I thought it to your interest to let you know this at once, for----" "And to your interest, too." "I knew you were not particularly desirous of having Mr. Keating elected," he continued. "I'm just about as anxious as youse are," said Foley promptly. "Anyhow," he added carelessly, "I already knew what youse told me." Which he did not. "Then my sending for you and telling you has served no purpose." The coldness of his voice placed a wide distance between himself and the walking delegate. Foley perceived the distance, and took a vindictive pleasure in bridging it with easy familiarity. "Not at all, Baxter. It gives youse a chance to show how much youse like me, an' how much youse've got the interest o' the union at heart." The lean, sarcastic face nettled Mr. Baxter. "I think my reputation speaks for my interest in the union," he said stiffly. "Your interest in the union!" Foley laughed. No man had ever seen Mr. Baxter lose his self-control; but he was as near losing it now as he had ever been, else he would not have made so weak a rejoinder. "My reputation speaks for my interest," he repeated. "You won't find a man in your union but that'll say I'm the union's friend." Foley laughed again--a harsh, biting laugh. "An' why do they say it, eh? Because I told 'em so. An' youse've got the nerve, Baxter, to sit there an' talk that rot to me!--me, the man that made youse!" "Made me!" Foley's heart leaped to see the wrathful color flame in the white cheek of the suave and collected Mr. Baxter--to see the white shapely hands twitch. "Yes, made youse!" And he went on with his grim pleasure. "Youse're doin' twice the business youse were three years ago. Why did youse get the contracts for the Atwell building and the Sewanee Hotel--the two jobs that put youse at the head o' things in New York? Because Driscoll, Bobbs, an' some o' the others had failed to get the jobs they were workin' on done in contract time. An' why didn't they get done on time? Because youse didn't want 'em to get through on time. I saw that they got bum men, who made mistakes,--an' I give 'em their bellyful o' strikes." "You didn't do these things out of love for me," Mr. Baxter put in meaningly. He was getting himself in hand again. "Sure, I didn't,--not any more'n youse told me about Keating for love o' me." Foley went on. "The men who want buildings put up have found youse get through on time, an' the others don't--so youse get the business. Why do youse get through on time? Because I see youse get the fastest men in the union. An' because I see youse don't have any labor trouble." "Neither of which you do solely for love." "Sure not. Now don't youse say again I haven't made youse. An' don't give me that hot air about bein' friendly to the union. Three years ago youse seen clearer than the others that youse bosses was bound to lose the strike. Youse'd been fightin' the union till then, an' not makin' any more'n the rest o' the bosses. So youse tried a new game. Youse led the other bosses round to give in, an' got the credit o' bein' a friend o' the union. I know how much youse like the union!" "Pardon me if I fail to see the purpose of all this retrospection," said Mr. Baxter sarcastically. "I just wanted to remind youse that I'm on to youse from hair to toenails--that's all," Foley answered calmly. "I think it would be wiser to confine our conversation to the matter in hand," said Mr. Baxter coldly. "Mr. Keating said he was certain to beat you. What chance does he have of being elected?" "The same as youse." "And a strike,--how about that?" "It follows if I'm elected, don't it, there'll not be any strike." "That's according to our agreement," said Mr. Baxter. "No," said Foley, as he rose, "Keating ain't goin' to trouble youse much." A hard look came over his face. "Nor me." Chapter VI IN WHICH FOLEY PLAYS WITH TWO MICE Foley left Mr. Baxter's office with the purpose of making straight for the office of Mr. Driscoll; but his inborn desire to play with the mouse caused him to change the direct road to an acute angle having at its apex the St. Etienne Hotel. He paused a moment to look up at the great black skeleton,--a lofty scaffolding that might have been erected for some mural painter ambitious to fresco his fame upon the sky. He saw the crane swing a beam to its place between two of the outside columns, and saw a man step upon its either end to bolt it to its place. Suddenly the crane jerked up the beam, and the men frantically threw their arms around it. As suddenly the crane lowered it. It struck upon the head of a column. Foley saw one man fly from the beam, catch hold of the end of a board that extended over the edge of the building, hang there; saw the beam, freed in some manner from the pulley hook, start down, ridden by one man; and then saw it come whirling downward alone. "Look out!" he shouted with all his lungs. Pedestrians rushed wildly from beneath the shed which extended, as a protection to them, over the sidewalk. Horses were jerked rearing backwards. The black beam crashed through the shed and through the pine sidewalk. Foley dashed inside and for the ladder. Up on the great scaffolding hands had seized the wrists of the pendant man and lifted him to safety. All were now leaning over the platform's edge, gazing far down at the ragged hole in the shed. "D'you see Pete?" Tom asked at large, in a strained voice. There were several noes. "That was certainly the last o' Pig Iron," muttered one of the gang. He was not disputed. "It wasn't my fault," said the signalman, as pale as paper. "I didn't give any wrong signals. Someone below must 'a' got caught in the rope." "I'm going down," said Tom; and started rapidly for the ladder's head--to be met with an ascending current of the sort of English story books ascribe to pirates. Pete's body followed the words so closely as to suggest a possible relation between the two. Tom worked Pete's hand. The men crowded up. "Now who the"--some pirate words--"done that?" Pete demanded. "It was all an accident," Tom explained. "But I might 'a' been kilt!" "Sure you might," agreed Johnson sympathetically. "How is it you weren't?" Tom asked. "The beam, in whirlin' over, swung the end I was on into the floor below. I grabbed a beam an' let it travel alone. That's all." Foley, breathing deeply from his rapid climb, emerged this instant from the flooring, and walked quickly to the group. "Anybody kilt?" he asked. The particulars of the accident were given him. "Well, boys, youse see what happens when youse got a foreman that ain't onto his job." Tom contemptuously turned his back and walked away. "I don't see why Driscoll don't fire him," growled Jake. "Who knows what'll happen!" Foley turned a twisted, knowing look about the group. "He's been talkin' a lot!" He walked over to where Tom stood watching the gang about the north crane. "I'm dead onto your game," he said, in a hard, quiet voice, his eyes glittering. Tom was startled. He had expected Foley to learn of his plan, but thought he had guarded against such an early discovery. "Well?" he said defiantly. Foley began to play with his mouse. "I guess youse know things'll begin to happen." He greedily watched Tom's face for signs of inward squirming. "Remember the little promise I made youse t'other day? Buck Foley usually keeps his promises, don't he--hey?" But the mouse refused to be played with. "The other beam, boys," it called out to three men, and strode away toward them. Foley watched Tom darkly an instant, and then turned sharply about. At the ladder's head Jake stopped him. "Get him fired, Buck. Here's your chance to get me that foreman's job you promised me." "We'll see," Foley returned shortly, and passed down the ladder and along the other leg of the angle to the office of Driscoll & Co. He gave his name to Miss Arnold. She brought back the message that he should call again, as Mr. Driscoll was too busy to see him. "Sorry, miss, but I guess I'm as busy as he is. I can't come again." And Foley brushed coolly past her and entered Mr. Driscoll's office. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Driscoll," he said, showing his yellow teeth in a smile, and helping himself to a chair. "Nice afternoon, ain't it?" Mr. Driscoll wheeled angrily about in his chair. "I thought I sent word to you I was too busy to see you?" "So youse did, Mr. Driscoll. So youse did." "Well, I meant it!" He turned back to his desk. "I s'pose so," Foley said cheerfully. He tilted back easily in his chair, and crossed his legs. "But, youse see, I could hardly come again, an' I wanted very much to see youse." Mr. Driscoll looked as though he were going to explode. But fits of temper at a thousand dollars a fit were a relief that he could afford only now and then. He kept himself in hand, though the effort it cost him was plain to Foley. "What d'you want to see me about? Be in a hurry. I'm busy." The point of Foley's tongue ran gratified between his thin lips, as his eyes took in every squirm of this cornered mouse. "In the first place, I come just in a social way. I wanted to return the calls youse made on me last week. Youse see, I been studyin' up etiquette. Gettin' ready to break into the Four Hundred." "And in the second place?" snapped Mr. Driscoll. Foley stepped to the office door, closed it, and resumed his back-tilted seat. "In the second place, I thought I'd like to talk over one little point about the St. Etienne job." Mr. Driscoll drew a check-book out of a pigeon-hole and dipped his pen. "How much this time?" The sarcasm did not touch Foley. He made a wide negative sweep with his right arm. "What I'm goin' to tell youse won't cost youse a cent. It's as free as religion." The point of red again slipped between his lips. "Well?--I said I was busy." "Well, here it is: Don't youse think youse got a pretty bum foreman on the St. Etienne job?" "What business is that of yours?" "Won't youse talk in a little more of a Christian spirit, Mr. Driscoll?" It was half a minute before Mr. Driscoll could speak in any kind of a spirit. "Will you please come to the point!" "Why, I'm there already," the walking delegate returned sweetly. "As I was sayin', don't youse think your foreman on the St. Etienne job is a pretty bum outfit?" "Keating?--I never had a better." "D'youse think so? Now I was goin' to suggest, in a friendly way, that youse get another man in his place." "Are you running my business, or am I?" "If youse'd only talk with a little more Christian----" The eyes clicked. The members of the church to which Mr. Driscoll belonged would have stuffed fingers into their horrified ears at the language in which Foley was asked to go to a place that was being prepared for him. Foley was very apologetic. "I'm too busy now, an' I don't get my vacation till August. Then youse ain't goin' to take my advice?" "No! I'm not!" The walking delegate stopped purring. He leaned forward, and the claws pushed themselves from out their flesh-pads. "Let's me and youse make a little bet on that, Mr. Driscoll. Shall we say a thousand a side?" Driscoll's eyes and Foley's battled for a moment. "And if I don't do it?" queried Mr. Driscoll, abruptly. "I don't like to disturb youse by talkin' about unpleasant things. It would be too bad if you didn't do it. Youse really couldn't afford any more delays on the job, could youse?" Mr. Driscoll made no reply. Foley stood up, again purring. "It's really good advice, ain't it? I'll send youse round a good man in the mornin' to take his place. Good-by." As Foley passed out Mr. Driscoll savagely brushed the papers before him to one side of his desk, crushing them into a crumpled heap, and sat staring into the pigeon-holes. He sent for Mr. Berman, who after delivering an opinion in favor of Foley's proposition, departed for his own office, pausing for a moment to lean over the desk of the fair secretary. Presently, with a great gulp, Mr. Driscoll touched a button on his desk and Miss Arnold appeared within the doorway. She was slender, but not too slender. Her heavy brown hair was parted in the middle and fell over either end of her low, broad forehead. The face was sensitive, sensible, intellectual. Persons chancing into Mr. Driscoll's office for the first time wondered how he had come by such a secretary. "Miss Arnold, did you ever see a jelly fish?" he demanded. "Yes." "Well, here's another." "I can't say I see much family resemblance," smiled Miss Arnold. "It's there, all right. We ain't got any nerve." "It seems to me you are riding the transmigration of soul theory at a pretty hard pace, Mr. Driscoll. Yesterday, when you upset the bottle of ink, you were a bull in a china shop, you know." "When you know me a year or two longer, you'll know I'm several sorts of dumb animals. But I didn't call you to give you a natural history lecture. Get Duffy on the 'phone, will you, and tell him to send Keating around as soon as he can. Then come in and take some letters that I want you to let me have just as quick as you can get them off." Two hours later Tom appeared in Miss Arnold's office. She had seen him two or three times when he had come in on business, and had been struck by his square, open face and his confident bearing. She now greeted him with a slight smile. "Mr. Driscoll is waiting for you," she said; and sent him straight on through the next door. Mr. Driscoll asked Tom to be seated and continued to hold his bulging eyes on a sheet of paper which he scratched with a pencil. Tom, with a sense of impending disaster, sat waiting for his employer to speak. At length Mr. Driscoll wheeled about abruptly. "What d'you think of Foley?" "I've known worse men," Tom answered, on his guard. "You must have been in hell, then! You think better of him than I do. And better than he thinks of you. He's just been in to see me. He wants me to fire you." Tom had half-guessed this from the moment Duffy had told him Mr. Driscoll wanted him, but nevertheless he was startled by its announcement in words. He let several seconds pass, the while he got hold of himself, then asked in a hard voice: "And what are you going to do?" Mr. Driscoll knew what he was going to do, but his temper insisted on gratification before he told his plan. "What can I do?" he demanded testily. "It's your fault--the union's fault. And I don't have any sympathy to waste for anything that happens to any of you. Why don't you put a decent man in as your business agent?" Tom passed all this by. "So you're going to fire me?" "What else can I do?" Mr. Driscoll reiterated. "Hasn't my work been satisfactory?" "It isn't a question of work. If it's any satisfaction to you, I'll say that I never had a foreman that got as much or as good work out of the men." "Then you're firing me because Foley orders you to?" There were both pity and indignation in Tom's voice. Mr. Driscoll had expected to put his foreman on the defensive; instead, he found himself getting on that side. "If you want it right out, that's it. But what can I do? I'm held up." "Do?" Tom stood up before his employer, neck and face red, eyes flashing. "Why, fight him!" "I've tried that"--sarcastically--"thanks." "That's what's the matter with you bosses! You think more of dollars than you do of self-respect!" Mr. Driscoll trembled. "Young man, d'you know who you're talking to?" "I do!" Tom cried hotly. "To the man who's firing me because he's too cowardly to stand up for what's right!" Mr. Driscoll glared, his eyes clicked. Then he gave a great swallow. "I guess you're about right. But if I understand the situation, I guess there's a lot of men in your union that'd rather hold their jobs than stand up for what's right." Tom, in his turn, had his fires drawn. "And I guess you're about right, too," he had to admit. "I may be a coward," Mr. Driscoll went on, "but if a man puts a gun to my head and says he'll pull the trigger unless I do what he says, I've got to do it, that's all. And I rather guess you would, too. But let's pass this by. I've got a plan. Foley can make me put you off one job, but he can't make me fire you. Let's see; I'm paying you thirty a week, ain't I?" "That's it." "Well, I'm going to give you thirty-five a week and put you to work in the shop as a superintendent. Foley can't touch you there,--or me either. Isn't that all right?" Mr. Driscoll wore a look of half-hearted triumph. Tom had regarded Mr. Driscoll so long with dislike that even this proposal, apparently uttered in good faith, made him suspicious. He began to search for a hidden motive. "Well?" queried Mr. Driscoll impatiently. He could find no dishonest motive. "But if I took the job I'd have to go out of the union," he said finally. "It oughtn't break your heart to quit Foley's company." Tom walked to the window and looked meditatively into the street. Mr. Driscoll's offer was tempting. It was full of possibilities that appealed to his ambition. He was confident of his ability to fill this position, and was confident that he would develop capacity to fill higher positions. This chance would prove the first of a series of opportunities that would lead him higher and higher,--perhaps even to Mr. Driscoll's own desk. He knew he had it in him. And the comfort, even the little luxuries, the broader opportunities for self-development that would be his, all appealed to him. And he was aware of the joy this new career would give to Maggie. But to leave the union--to give up the fight---- He turned back to Mr. Driscoll. "I can't do it." "What!" cried the contractor in amazement. "I can't do it," Tom repeated. "Do you know what you're throwing away? If you turned out well, and I know you would, why there'd be no end of chances for advancement. I've got a lot of weak men on my pay-roll." "I understand the chance, Mr. Driscoll. But I can't take it. Do you know why Foley's got it in for me?" "He don't like you, I suppose." "Because he's found out, somehow, that I've begun a fight on him, and am going to try to put him out of business. If I take this job, I've got to drop the fight. And I'll never do that!" Tom was warming up again. "Do you know the sort Foley is? I suppose you know he's a grafter?" "Yes. So does my pocket-book." "And so does his pocket-book. His grafting alone is enough to fight him on. But there's the way he treats the union! You know what he's done to me. Well, he's done that to a lot of others. He's got some of us scared so we're afraid to breathe. And the union's just his machine. Now d'you suppose I'm going to quit the union in that shape?" He brought his big red fist thundering down on the desk before Mr. Driscoll. "No, by God! I'm going to stick by the boys. I've got a few hundred saved. They'll last me a while, if I can't get another job. And I'm going to fight that damned skate till one of us drops!" Miss Arnold had come in the moment before with letters for Mr. Driscoll's signature, and had stood through Tom's outburst. She now handed the letters to Mr. Driscoll, and Tom for the first time noticed her presence. It struck him full of confusion. "I beg pardon, miss. I didn't know you were here. I--I hope you didn't mind what I said." "If Miss Arnold objects to what you said, I'll fire her!" put in Mr. Driscoll. The secretary looked with hardly-concealed admiration at Tom, still splendid in the dying glow of his defiant wrath. "If I objected, I'd deserve to be fired," she said. Then she added, smiling: "You may say it again if you like." After Miss Arnold had gone out Mr. Driscoll looked at Tom with blinking eyes. "I suppose you think you're some sort of a hero," he growled. Tom's sudden confusion had collapsed his indignation. "No, I'm a man looking for a job," he returned, with a faint smile. "Well, I'm glad you didn't take the job I offered you. I can't afford to let fools help manage my business." Tom took his hat. "I suppose this is all," he said and started for the door. "Hold on!" Mr. Driscoll stood up. "Why don't you shake hands with a man, like a gentleman? There. That's the stuff. I want to say to you, Keating, that I think you're just about all right. If ever you want a job with me, just come around and say so and I'll give you one if I have to fire myself to make a place for you. And if your money gives out, or you need some to use in your fight, why I ain't throwing much away these days, but you can get all you want by asking for it." Chapter VII GETTING THE MEN IN LINE His dismissal had been one of the risks Tom had accepted when he had decided upon war, and though he felt it keenly now that it had come, yet its chief effect was to intensify his resolution to overturn Buck Foley. He strode on block after block, with his long, powerful steps, his resolution gripping him fiercer and fiercer,--till the thought leaped into his mind: "I've got to tell Maggie." He stopped as though a cold hand had been laid against his heart; then walked on more slowly, considering how he should give the news to her. His first thought was to say nothing of his dismissal for a few days. By then he might have found another job, and the telling that he had lost one would be an easy matter. But his second thought was that she would doubtless learn the news from some of her friends, and would use her tongue all the more freely because of his attempt at concealment; and, furthermore, he would be in the somewhat inglorious position of the man who has been found out. He decided to have done with it at once. When he entered his flat Maggie looked up in surprise from the tidy on which she was working. "What! home already!" Then she noticed his face. "Why, what's the matter?" Tom drew off his overcoat and threw it upon the couch. "I've been fired." She looked at him in astonishment. "Fired!" "Yes." He sat down, determined to get through with the scene as quickly as possible. For the better part of a minute she could not speak. "Fired? What for?" she articulated. "It's Foley's work. He ordered Driscoll to." "You've been talking about Foley some more, then?" "I have." Tom saw what he had feared, a hard, accusing look spread itself over her face. "And you've done that, Tom Keating, after what I, your wife, said to you only last week? I told you what would happen. I told you Foley would make us suffer. I told you not to talk again, and you've gone and done it!" The words came out slowly, sharply, as though it were her desire to thrust them into him one by one. Tom began to harden, as she had hardened. But at least he would give her the chance to understand him. "You know what Foley's like. You know some of the things he's done. Well, I've made up my mind that we oughtn't to stand him any longer. I'm going to do what I can to drive him out of the union." "And you've been talking this?" she cut in. "Oh, of course you have! No wonder he got you fired! Oh, my God! I see it all. And you, you never thought once of your wife or your child!" "I did, and you'll see when I tell you all," Tom said harshly. "But would you have me stand for all the dirty things he does?" "Couldn't you keep out of his way--as I asked you to? Because a wolf's a wolf, that's no reason why you should jump in his mouth." "It is if you can do him up. And I'm going to do Foley up. I'm going to run against him as walking delegate. The situation ain't so bad as you think," he went on, with a weak effort to appease her. "You think things look dark, but they're going to be brighter than they ever were. I'll get another job soon, and after the first of March I'll be walking delegate. I'm going to beat Buck Foley, sure!" For a moment the vision of an even greater elevation than the one from which they were falling made her forget her bitter wrath. Then it flooded back upon her, and she put it all into a laugh. "You beat Buck Foley! Oh, my!" Her ireful words he had borne with outward calm; he had learned they were borne more easily, if borne calmly. But her sneering disbelief in him was too much. He sprang up, his wrath tugging at its leash. She, too, came to her feet, and stood facing him, hands clenched, breast heaving, sneering, sobbing. Her words tumbled out. "Oh, you! you! Brighter days, you say. Ha! ha! You beat Buck Foley? Yes, I know how! Buck Foley'll not let you get a job in your trade. You'll have to take up some other work--if you can get it! Begin all over! We'll grow poorer and poorer. We'll have to eat anything. I'll have to wear rags. Just when we were getting comfortable. And all because you wouldn't pay any attention to what I said. Because you were such a fo-o-ol! Oh, my God! My God!" As she went on her voice rose to a scream, broken by gasps and sobs. At the end she passionately jerked Tom's coat and hat from the couch and threw herself upon it--and the frenzied words tumbled on, and on. Tom looked down upon her a moment, quivering with wrath and a nameless sickness. Then he picked up hat and coat, and glancing at Ferdinand, who had shrunk terrified into a corner, walked quickly out of the flat. He strode about the streets awhile, had dinner in a restaurant, and then, as Wednesday was the union's meeting night, he went to Potomac Hall. It fell out that he met Pete and Barry entering as he came up. "I guess you'll have another foreman to-morrow, boys," he announced; and he briefly told them of his discharge. "It'll be us next, Rivet Head," said Pete. Barry nodded, his face pale. All the men in the hall learned that evening what had happened to Tom, some from his friends, more from Foley's friends. And the manner of the latter's telling was a warning to every listener. "D'you hear Keating has been fired?" "Fired? No. What for?" A wise wink: "Well, he's been talkin' about Foley, you know." Tom grew hot under, but ignored, the open jeering of the Foleyites. The sympathy of his friends he answered with a quiet, but ominous, "Just you wait!" There were few present of the men he had counted on seeing, and soon after the meeting ended, which was unusually early, he started home. It was after ten when he came in. Maggie sat working at the tidy; she did not look up or speak; her passion had settled into resentful obstinacy, and that, he knew from experience, only time could overcome. He had not the least desire to assist time in its work of subjection, and passed straight into their bedroom. Tom felt her sustained resentment, as indeed he could not help; but he did not feel that which was the first cause of the resentment--her lack of sympathetic understanding of him. At twenty-three he had come into a man's wages, and Maggie's was the first pretty face he had seen after that. The novelty of their married life had soon worn off, and with the development of his stronger qualities and of her worst ones, it had gradually come about that the only thoughts they shared were those concerning their common existence in their home. Tom had long since become accustomed to carrying his real ideas to other ears. And so he did not now consciously miss wifely sympathy with his efforts. There was no break the next morning in Maggie's sullen resentment. After an almost wordless breakfast Tom set forth to look for another job. An opening presented itself at the first place he called. "Yes, it happens we do need a foreman," said the contractor. "What experience have you had?" Tom gave an outline of his course in his trade, dwelling on the last two years and a half that he had been a foreman. "Um,--yes. That sounds very good. You say you worked last for Driscoll on the St. Etienne job?" "Yes." "I suppose you don't mind telling why you left? Driscoll hasn't finished that job yet." Tom briefly related the circumstances. "So you're out with Foley." The contractor shook his head. "Sorry. We need a man, and I guess you're a good one. But if Foley did that to Driscoll, he'll do the same to me. I can't afford to be mixed up in any trouble with him." This conversation was a more or less accurate pattern of many that followed on this and succeeding days. Tom called on every contractor of importance doing steel construction work. None of them cared to risk trouble with Foley, and so Tom continued walking the streets. One contractor--the man for whom he had worked before he went on the St. Etienne job--offered Tom what he called some "business advice." "I'm a pretty good friend of yours, Keating, for I've found you all on the level. The trouble with you is, when you see a stone wall you think it was put there to butt your head against. Now, I'm older than you are, and had a lot more experience, and let me tell you it's a lot easier, and a lot quicker, when you see trouble across your path like a stone wall, to go round it than it is to try to butt it out of your way. Stop butting against Foley. Make up with him, or go to some other city. Go round him." In the meantime Tom was busy with his campaign against Foley. He was discharged on the fourteenth of February; the election came on the seventh of March; only three weeks, so haste was necessary. On the days he was tramping about for a job he met many members of the union also looking for work, and to these he talked wherever he found them. And every night he was out talking to the men, in the streets, in saloons, in their own homes. The problem of his campaign was a simple one--to get at least five hundred of the three thousand members of the union to come to the hall on election night and cast their votes against Foley. His campaign, therefore, could have no spectacular methods and no spectacular features. Hard, persistent work, night after night--that was all. On the evening after the meeting and on the following evening Tom had talks with several leading men in the union. A few joined in his plan with spirit. But most that he saw held back; they were willing to help him in secret, but they feared the result of an open espousal of his cause. There were only a dozen men, including Barry and Pete, who were willing to go the whole way with him, and these he formed loosely into a campaign committee. They held a caucus and nominations for all offices were made, Tom being chosen to run for walking delegate and president. The presidency was unsalaried, and during Foley's régime had become an office of only nominal importance; all real power that had ever belonged to the position had been gradually absorbed by the office of walking delegate. At the meeting on the twenty-first Tom's ticket was formally presented to the union, as was also Foley's. Even before this the dozen were busy with a canvass of the union. The members agreed heartily to the plan of demanding an increase in wages, for they had long been dissatisfied with the present scale. But to come out against Foley, that was another matter. Tom found, as he had expected, that his arguments had to be directed, not at convincing the men that Foley was bad, but at convincing them it was safe to oppose him. Reformers are accustomed to explain their failure by saying they cannot arouse the respectable element to come out and vote against corruption. They would find that even fewer would come to the polls if the voters thereby endangered their jobs. The answers of the men in almost all cases were the same. "If I was sure I wouldn't lose my job, I'd vote against Foley in a minute. But you know well enough, Tom, that we have a hard enough time getting on now. Where'd we be if Foley blacklisted us?" "But there's no danger at all, if enough of us come out," Tom would reply. "We can't lose." "But you can't count on the boys coming out. And if we lose, Foley'll make us all smart. He'll manage to find out every man that voted against him." Here was the place in which the guarantee he had sought from Mr. Baxter would fit in. Impelled by knowledge of the great value of this guarantee, Tom went to see the big contractor a few days after his first visit. The uniform traveled down the alley between the offices and brought back word that Mr. Baxter was not in. Tom called again and again. Mr. Baxter was always out. Tom was sorely disappointed by his failure to get the guarantee, but there was nothing to do but to make the best of it; and so he and his friends went on tirelessly with their nightly canvassing. The days, of course, Tom continued to spend in looking for work. In wandering from contractor to contractor he frequently passed the building in which was located the office of Driscoll & Co.; and, a week after his discharge, as he was going by near one o'clock, it chanced Miss Arnold was coming into the street. They saw each other in the same instant. Tom, with his natural diffidence at meeting strange women, was for passing her by with a lift of his hat. "Why, Mr. Keating!" she cried, with a little smile, and as they held the same direction he could but fall into step with her. "What's the latest war news?" she asked. "One man still out of a job," he answered, taking refuge in an attempt at lightness. "No actual conflict yet. I'm busy massing my forces. So far I have one man together--myself." "You ought to find that a loyal army." She was silent for a dozen paces, then asked impulsively: "Have you had lunch yet?" Tom threw a surprised look down upon her. "Yes. Twelve o'clock's our noon hour. We men are used to having our lunch then." "I thought if you hadn't we might have lunched in the same place," she hastened to explain, with a slight flush of embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you some questions. You see, since I've been in New York I've been in a way thrown in contact with labor unions. I've read a great deal on both sides. But the only persons I've had a chance to talk to have all been on the employers' side,--persons like Mr. Driscoll and my uncle, Mr. Baxter." "Baxter, the contractor--Baxter & Co.?" "Yes." Tom wondered what necessity had forced the niece of so rich a man as Mr. Baxter to earn her living as a stenographer. "I've often wanted to talk with some trade union man, but I've never had the chance. I thought you might tell me some of the things I want to know." The note of sincere disappointment in Miss Arnold's voice brought a suggestion to Tom's mind that both embarrassed and attracted. He was not accustomed to the society of women of Miss Arnold's sort, whose order of life had been altogether different from his own, and the idea of an hour alone with her filled him with a certain confusion. But her freshness and her desire to know more of the subject that was his whole life allured him; and his interest was stronger than his embarrassment. "For that matter, I'm not busy, as you know. If you would like it, I can talk to you while you eat." For the next hour they sat face to face in the quiet little restaurant to which Miss Arnold had led the way. The other patrons found themselves looking over at the table in the corner, and wondering what common subject could so engross the refined young woman in the tailored gown and the man in ill-fitting clothes, with big red hands, red neck and crude, square face. For their part these two were unconscious of the wondering eyes upon them. With a query now and then from Miss Arnold, Tom spiritedly presented the union side of mooted questions of the day,--the open shop, the strike, the sympathetic strike, the boycott. The things Miss Arnold had read had dealt coldly with the moral and economic principles involved in these questions. Tom spoke in human terms; he showed how every point affected living men, and women, and children. The difference was the difference between a treatise and life. Miss Arnold was impressed,--not alone by what Tom said, but by the man himself. The first two or three times she had seen him, on his brief visits to the office, she had been struck only by a vague bigness--a bigness that was not so much of figure as of bearing. On his last visit she had been struck by his bold spirit. She now discovered the crude, rugged strength of the man: he had thought much; he felt deeply; he believed in the justice of his cause; he was willing, if the need might be, to suffer for his beliefs. And he spoke well, for his sentences, though not always grammatical, were always vital. He seemed to present the very heart of a thing, and let it throb before the eyes. When they were in the street again and about to go their separate ways, Miss Arnold asked, with impulsive interest: "Won't you talk to me again about these things--some time?" Tom, glowing with the excitement of his own words and of her sympathetic listening, promised. It was finally settled that he should call the following Sunday afternoon. Back at her desk, Miss Arnold fell to wondering what sort of man Tom would be had he had four years at a university, and had his life been thrown among people of cultivation. His power, plus these advantages, would have made him--something big, to say the least. But had he gone to college he would not now be in a trade union. And in a trade union, Miss Arnold admitted to herself, was where he was needed, and where he belonged. Tom went on his way in the elation that comes of a new and gratifying experience. He had never before had so keen and sympathetic a listener. And never before had he had speech with a woman of Miss Arnold's type--educated, thoughtful, of broad interests. Most of the women he had known necessity had made into household drudges--tired and uninteresting, whose few thoughts rarely ranged far from home. Miss Arnold was a discovery to him. Deep down in his consciousness was a distinct surprise that a woman should be interested in the big things of the outside world. He was fairly jerked out of his elation, when, on turning a corner, he met Foley face to face in front of a skyscraper that was going up in lower Broadway. It was their first meeting since Foley had tried to have grim sport out of him on the St. Etienne Hotel. Foley planted himself squarely across Tom's path. "Hello, Keating! How're youse? Where youse workin' now?" The sneering good-fellowship in Foley's voice set Tom's blood a-tingling. But he tried to step to one side and pass on. Again Foley blocked his way. "I understand youse're goin' to be the next walkin' delegate o' the union. That's nice. I s'pose these days youse're trainin' your legs for the job?" "See here, Buck Foley, are you looking for a fight? If you are, come around to some quiet place and I'll mix it up with you all you want." "I don't fight a man till he gets in my class." "If you don't want to fight, then get out of my way!" With that Tom stepped forward quickly and butted his hunched-out right shoulder against Foley's left. Foley, unprepared, swung round as though on a pivot. Tom brushed by and continued on his way with unturned head. Again the walking delegate proved that he could swear. Chapter VIII THE COWARD Two days before his meeting with Miss Arnold Tom had been convinced that any more time was wasted that was spent in looking for a job as foreman. He had before him the choice of being idle or working in the gang. He disliked to do the latter, regarding it as a professional relapse. But he was unwilling to draw upon his savings, if that could be avoided, so he decided to go back into the ranks. The previous evening he had heard of three new jobs that were being started. The contractors on two of them he had seen during the morning; and after his encounter with Foley he set out to interview the third. The contractor was an employer of the smallest consequence--a florid man with little cunning eyes. "Yes, I do need some men," he replied to Tom's inquiry. "How much d'you want?" "Three seventy-five a day, the regular rate." The contractor shook his head. "Too much. I can only pay three." "But you signed an agreement to pay the full rate!" Tom cried. "Oh, a man signs a lot o' things." Tom was about to turn away, when his curiosity got the better of his disgust. For a union man to work under the scale was an offense against the union. For an employer to pay under the scale was an offense against the employers' association. Tom decided to draw the contractor out. "Well, suppose I go to work at three dollars, how do we keep from being discovered?" he asked. The little eyes gleamed with appreciation of their small cunning. "I make this agreement with all my men: You get the full amount in your envelope Saturday. Anybody that sees you open your envelope sees that you're gettin' full scale. Then you hand me back four-fifty later. That's for money I advanced you durin' the week. D'you understand?" "I do," said Tom. "But I'm no three dollar man!" "Hold on!" the contractor cried to Tom's back. His cunning told him in an instant that he had made a mistake; that this man, if let go, might make trouble. "I was just foolin' you. Of course, I'll pay you full rate." Tom knew the man was lying, but he had no real proof that the contractor was breaking faith both with the union and his fellow employers; so, as he needed the money, he took the offered position and went to work the next morning. The job was a fire-engine house just being started on the upper west side of the island. The isolation of the job and the insignificance of the contractor made Tom feel there was a chance Foley might overlook him for the next two weeks. On the following Saturday morning three new men began work on the job. One of them Tom was certain he knew--a tall, lank fellow, chiefly knobs and angles, with wide, drooping shoulders and a big yellow mustache. Tom left his place at the crane of the jimmy derrick and ran down a plank into the basement to where this man and four others were rolling a round column to its place. He touched the man on the shoulder. "Your name's Petersen, ain't it?" "Yah," said the big fellow. "And you worked for a couple of days on the St. Etienne Hotel?" "Yah." Tom did his duty as prescribed by the union rules. He pointed out Petersen as a scab to the steward. Straightway the men crowded up and there was a rapid exchange of opinions. Tom and the steward wanted that a demand for Petersen's discharge be made of the contractor. But the others favored summary action, and made for where the big Swede was standing. "Get out!" they ordered. Petersen glowered at the crowd. "I lick de whole bunch!" he said with slow defiance. The men were brought to a pause by his threatening attitude. His resentful eyes turned for an instant on Tom. The men began to move forward cautiously. Then the transformation that had taken place on the St. Etienne Hotel took place again. The courage faded from him, and he turned and started up the inclined plank for the street. Jeers broke from the men. Caps and greasy gloves pelted Petersen's retreating figure. One man, the smallest of the gang, ran up the plank after him. "Do him up, Kid!" the men shouted scrambling up to the sidewalk. Kid, with showy valiance, aimed an upward blow at the Swede's head. Petersen warded off the fist with automatic ease, but made no attempt to strike back. He started away, walking sidewise, one eye on his path, one on his little assailant who kept delivering fierce blows that somehow failed to reach their mark. "If he ain't runnin' from Kid!" ejaculated the men. "Good boy, Kid!" The blows became faster and fiercer. At the corner Petersen turned back, held his foe at bay an instant, and a second time Tom felt the resentment of his eyes. Then he was driven around the corner. A minute later the little man came back, puffed out and swaggering. "What an infernal coward!" the men marveled, as they went back to work. That was a hard evening for Tom. He not only had to work for votes, but he met two or three lieutenants who were disheartened by the men's slowness to promise support, and to these friends he had to give new courage. Twice, as he was talking to men on the street, he glimpsed the tall, lean figure of Petersen, standing in a doorway as though waiting for someone. The end of his exhausting evening's work found him near the Barrys', and he dropped in for an exchange of experiences. Barry and Pig Iron Pete had themselves come in but a few minutes before. "Got work on your job for a couple more men?" asked Pete after the first words had been spoken. "Hello! You haven't been fired?" "That's it," answered Pete; and Barry nodded. "Foley's work, I suppose?" "Sure. Foley put Jake Henderson up to it. Oh, Jake makes a hot foreman! Driscoll ought to pay him ten a day to keep off the job. Jake complained against us an' got us fired. Said we didn't know our business." "Well, it's only for another week, boys," Tom cheered them. "If you think that then you've had better luck with the men than me 'n' Barry has," Pete declared in disgust. "They're a bunch o' old maids! Foley's too good for 'em. I don't see why we should try to force 'em to take somethin' better." The whole blankety-blanked outfit had Pete's permission to go where they didn't need a forge to heat their rivets. "You don't understand 'em, Pete," returned Tom. "They've got to think first of all of how to earn a living for their families. Of course they're going to hesitate to do anything that will endanger their chance to earn a living. And you seem to forget that we've only got to get one man in five to win out." "An' we've got to get him!" said Barry, almost fiercely. "D'you think there's much danger of your losin', Tom?" Mrs. Barry queried anxiously. "Not if we work. But we've got to work." Mrs. Barry was silent for several moments, during which the talk of the men ran on. Suddenly, she broke in: "Don't you think the women'd have some influence with their husbands?" Tom was silent for a thoughtful minute. "Some of them, mebbe." "More'n you think, I bet!" Mrs. Barry declared. "It's worth tryin', anyhow. Here's what I'm goin' to do: I'm goin' to start out to-morrow an' begin visitin' all the union women I know. I can get the addresses of others from them. An' I'll keep at it every afternoon I can get away till the election. I'll talk to 'em good an' straight an' get 'em to talk to other women. An' we'll get a lot o' the men in line, see if we don't!" Tom looked admiringly at Mrs. Barry's homely face, flushed with determination. "The surest thing we can do to win is to put you up for walking delegate. I'll hustle for you." "Oh, g'wan with you, Tom!" She smiled with pleasure, however. "I've got a picture o' myself climbin' up ladders an' buyin' drinks for the men." "If you was the walkin' delegate," said Pete, "we'd always work on the first floor, an' never drink nothin' but tea." "You shut up, Pete!" Mrs. Barry looked at Tom. "I suppose you're wife'll help in this, too?" Tom looked steadily at the scroll in Mrs. Barry's red rug. "I'm afraid not," he said at length. "She--she couldn't stand climbing the stairs." It was after eleven o'clock when Tom left the Barrys' and started through the quiet cross street toward a car line. A man stepped from an adjoining doorway, and fell in a score of paces behind him. Tom heard rapid steps drawing nearer and nearer, but it was not till the man had gained to within a pace that it occurred to him perhaps he was being followed. Then it was too late. His arm was seized in a grip of steel. The street was dark and empty. Thoughts of Foley's entertainment committee flashed through his head. He whirled about and struck out fiercely with his free arm. His wrist was caught and held by a grip like the first. He was as helpless as if handcuffed. "I vant a yob," a savage voice demanded. Tom recognized the tall, angular figure. "Hello, Petersen! What d'you want?" "I vant a yob." "A job. How can I give you a job?" "You take to-day ma yob avay. You give me a yob!" In a flash Tom understood. The Swede held him accountable for the incident of the morning, and was determined to force another job from him. Was the man crazy? At any rate 'twould be wiser to parley than to bring on a conflict with one possessed of such strength as those hands betokened. So he made no attempt to break loose. "I can't give you a job, I say." "You take it avay!" the Swede said, with fierce persistence. "You make me leave!" "It's your own fault. If you want to work, why don't you get into the union?" Tom felt a convulsive shiver run through the man's big frame. "De union? Ah, de union! Ev'ryvare I ask for yob. Ev'ryvare! 'You b'long to union?' de boss say. 'No,' I say. De boss give me no yob. De union let me not vork! De union----!" His hands gripped tighter in his impotent bitterness. "Of course the union won't let you work." "Vy? I am strong!--yes. I know de vork." Tom felt that no explanation of unionism, however lucid, would quiet this simple-minded excitement. So he said nothing. "Vy should I not vork? Dare be yobs. I know how to vork. But no! De union! I mak dis mont' two days. I mak seven dollar. Seven dollar!" He fairly shook Tom, and a half sob broke from his lips. "How de union tank I live? My family?--me? Seven dollar?" Tom recognized with a thrill that which he was hearing. It was the man's soul crying out in resentment and despair. "But you can't blame the union," he said weakly, feeling that his answer did not answer. "You tank not?" Petersen cried fiercely. "You tank not?" He was silent a brief space, and his breath surged in and out as though he had just paused from running. Suddenly he freed Tom's wrists and set his right hand into Tom's left arm. "Come! I show you vot de union done." He started away. Those iron fingers locked about the prisoner's arm were a needless fetter. The Swede's despairing soul, glimpsed for a moment, had thrown a spell upon Tom, and he would have followed willingly. Their long strides matched, and their heel-clicks coincided. Both were silent. At the end of ten minutes they were in a narrow street, clifted on its either side with tenements that reached up darkly. Presently the Swede turned down a stairway, sentineled by garbage cans. Tom thought they were entering a basement. But Petersen walked on, and in the solid blackness Tom was glad of the hand locked on his arm. They mounted a flight of stone steps, and came into a little stone-paved court. Far above there was a roof-framed square of stars. Petersen led the way across the court and into the doorway of a rear tenement. The air was rotting. They went up two flights of stairs, so old that the wood shivered under foot. Petersen opened a door. A coal oil lamp burned on an otherwise barren table, and beside the table sat a slight woman with a quilt drawn closely about her. She rose, the quilt fell from her shoulders, and she stood forth in a faded calico wrapper. "Oh, Nels! You've come at last!" she said. Then she saw Tom, and drew back a step. "Yah," said Petersen. He dragged Tom after him into the room and swept his left arm about. "See!--De union!" The room was almost bare. The table, three wooden chairs, a few dishes, a cooking-stove without fire,--this was the furniture. Half the plastering was gone from the ceiling, the blue kalsomine was scaling leprously from the walls, in places the floor was worn almost through. In another room he saw a child asleep on a bed. There was just one picture on the walls, a brown-framed photograph of a man in the dress and pose of a prize fighter--a big, tall, angular man, with a drooping mustache. Tom gave a quick glance at Petersen. "See!--De union!" Petersen repeated fiercely. The little woman came quickly forward and laid her hand on Petersen's arm. "Nels, Nels," she said gently. "Yah, Anna. But he is de man vot drove me from ma yob." "We must forgive them that despitefully use us, the Lord says." Petersen quieted under her touch and dropped Tom's arm. She turned her blue eyes upon Tom in gentle accusation. "How could you? Oh, how could you?" Tom could only answer helplessly: "But why don't he join the union?" "How can he?" The words echoed within Tom. How could he? Everything Tom saw had not the value of half the union's initiation fee. There was an awkward silence. "Won't you sit down, brother." Mrs. Petersen offered Tom one of the wooden chairs, and all three sat down. He noted that the resentment was passing from Petersen's eyes, and that, fastened on his wife, they were filling with submissive adoration. "Nels has tried very hard," the little woman said. They had been in the West for three years, she went on; Nels had worked with a non-union crew on a bridge over the Missouri. When that job was finished they had spent their savings coming to New York, hearing there was plenty of work there. "We had but twenty dollars when we got here. How could Nels join the union? We had to live. An' since he couldn't join the union, the union wouldn't let him work. Brother, is that just? Is that the sort o' treatment you'd like to get?" Tom was helpless against her charges. The union was right in principle, but what was mere correctness of principle in the presence of such a situation? "Would you be willing to join the union?" he asked abruptly of Petersen. It was Petersen's wife who answered. "O' course he would." "Well, don't you worry any more then. He won't have any trouble getting a job." "How?" asked the little woman. "I'm going to get him in the union." "But that costs twenty-five dollars." "Yes." "But, brother, we haven't got _one_!" "I'll advance it. He can pay it back easy enough afterwards." The little woman rose and stood before Tom. Her thin white face was touched up faintly with color, and tears glistened in her eyes. She took Tom's big red hand in her two frail ones. "Brother, if you ain't a Christian, you've got a Christian heart!" she cried out, and the thin hands tightened fervently. She turned to her husband. "Nels, what did I say! The Lord would not forget them that remembered him." Tom saw Petersen stand up, nothing in his eyes now but adoration, and open his arms. He turned his head. For the second time Tom took note of the brown-framed photograph, with "The Swedish Terror" in black letters at its bottom, and rose and stood staring at it. Presently, Mrs. Petersen drew to his side. "We keep it before us to remind us what wonders the Lord can work, bless His holy name!" she explained. "Nels was a terrible fightin' man before we was married an' I left the Salvation Army. A terrible fightin' man!" Even in her awe of Petersen's one-time wickedness Tom could detect a lurking admiration of his prowess. "The Lord has saved him from all that. But he has a terrible temper. It flares up at times, an' the old carnal desire to fight gets hold o' him again. That's his great weakness. But we pray that God will keep him from fightin', an' God does!" Tom looked at the little woman, a bundle of religious ardor, looked at Petersen with his big shoulders, thought of the incident of the morning. He blinked his eyes. Tom stepped to the table and laid down a five-dollar bill. "You can pay that back later." He moved quickly to the door. "Good-night," he said, and tried to escape. But Mrs. Petersen was upon him instantly. "Brother! Brother!" She seized his hands again in both hers, and looked at him with glowing eyes. "Brother, may God bless you!" Tom blinked his eyes again. "Good-night," he said. Petersen stepped forward and without a word took Tom's arm. The grasp was lighter than when they had come up. Again Tom was glad of the guidance of that hand as they felt their way down the shivering stairs, and out through the tunnel. "Good-night," he said once more, when they had gained the street. Petersen gripped his hand in awkward silence. Chapter IX RUTH ARNOLD Ruth Arnold was known among her friends as a queer girl. Neither the new ones in New York nor the old ones of her birth town understood her "strange impulses." They were constantly being shocked by ideas and actions which they considered, to phrase it mildly, very unusual. The friends in her old home were horrified when she decided to become a stenographer. Friends in both places were horrified when, a little less than a year before, it became known she was going to leave the home of her aunt to become Mr. Driscoll's secretary. "What a fool!" they cried. "If she had stayed she might have married ever so well!" Mrs. Baxter had entreated, and with considerable elaboration had delivered practically these same opinions. But Ruth was obstinate in her queerness, and had left. However, only a few weeks before, Mrs. Baxter had had a partial recompense for Ruth's disappointing conduct. She had noted the growing intimacy between Mr. Berman, who was frequently at her house, and Ruth, and by delicate questioning had drawn the calm statement from her niece that Mr. Berman had asked her in marriage. "Of course you said 'yes,'" said Mrs. Baxter. Ruth had not. "My child! Why not?" "I don't love him." "What of that?" demanded her aunt, who loved her husband. "Love will come. He is educated, a thorough gentleman, and has money. What more do you want in a husband? And your uncle says he is very clever in business." Thus brought to bay, Ruth had taken her aunt into the secret that her refusal had not been final and that Mr. Berman had given her six months in which to make up her mind. This statement was Mrs. Baxter's partial recompense. "Then you'll marry him, Ruth!" she declared, and kissed her lightly. Ruth understood herself no better than did her friends. She was not conscious that she had in a measure that rare endowment--the clear vision which perceives the things of life in their true relation and at their true value, plus the instinct to act upon that vision. It was the manifestations of this instinct that made her friends call her queer. Her instinct, however, did not hold her in sole sway. Her training had fastened many governing conventions upon her, and she was not always as brave as her inward promptings. Her actions made upon impulse were usually in accord with this instinct. Her actions that were the result of thought were frequently in accord with convention. It was her instinct that had impelled her to ask Tom to call. It was convention that, on Sunday afternoon, made her await his coming with trepidation. She was genuinely interested in the things for which Tom stood, and her recent-born admiration of him was sincere. Nevertheless his approaching visit was in the nature of an adventure to her. This workingman, transferred from the business world to the social world, might prove himself an embarrassing impossibility. Especially, she wondered, with more than a little apprehension, how he would be dressed. She feared a flaming necktie crawling up his collar, and perhaps in it a showy pin; or a pair of fancy shoes; or a vest of assertive pattern; or, perhaps, hair oil! When word was brought her by a maid that Tom was below, she gave an order that he was to wait, and put on her hat and jacket. She did not know him well enough to ask him to her room. She could not receive him in the parlor common to all the boarding-house. Her instinctive self told her it would be an embarrassment to him to be set amid the gossiping crowd that gathered there on Sunday afternoon. Her conventional self told her that, if he were but a tenth as bad as was possible, it would be more than an embarrassment for her to sit beside him amid those curious eyes. The street was the best road out of the dilemma. He was sitting in the high-backed hall chair when she came down. "Shall we not take a walk?" she asked. "The day is beautiful for February." Tom acceded gratefully. He had glanced through the parted portières into the parlor, and his minutes of waiting had been minutes of consternation. The first thing Ruth noted when they came out into the light of the street was that his clothes were all in modest taste, and she thrilled with relief. Mixed with this there was another feeling, a glow of pleasure that he was vindicating himself to her conventional part. Ruth lived but a few doors from Central Park. As they started across Central Park West a big red automobile, speeding above the legal rate, came sweeping down upon them, tooting its arrogant warning. Tom jerked Ruth back upon the sidewalk. She glared at the bundled-up occupants of the scurrying car. "Don't it make you feel like an anarchist when people do that?" she gasped. "Not the bomb-throwing sort." "Why not? When people do that, I've got just one desire, and that's to throw a bomb!" "What good would a bomb here or there do? Or what harm?" Tom asked humorously. "What's the use trying to destroy people that're already doomed?" Ruth was silent till they gained the other side of the street. "Doomed? What do you mean?" she then asked. "Every dog has his day, you know. Them rich people are having theirs. It's a summer day, and I guess it's just about noon now. But it's passing." Ruth had learned during her conversation with him on the previous Tuesday that a large figurative statement such as this was likely to have a great many ideas behind it, so she now proceeded to lead him to the ideas' expression. The sun, drawing good-humoredly from his summer's store, had brought thousands to the Park walks, and with genial presumption had unbuttoned their overcoats. The bare gray branches of bush and tree glinted dully in the warm light, as if dreamfully smiling over the budding days not far ahead. But Tom had attention for the joy of neither the sun nor his dependents. He thought only of what he was saying, for he had been led to speech upon one of his dearest subjects. Though he had left school at thirteen to begin work, he had attended night school for a number of years, had belonged to a club whose chief aim was debating, had read a number of solid books and had done a great deal of thinking for himself. As a result of his reading, thinking and observation he had come into some large ideas concerning the future of the working class. In the past, he now said to Ruth, classes had risen to power, served their purpose, and been displaced by new classes stimulated by new ideas. The capitalist class was now in power, and was performing its mission--the development and centralization of industries. But its decline would be even more rapid than its rise. It would be succeeded by the working class. The working class was vast in numbers, and was filled with surging energy. Its future domination was certain. "And you believe this?" Ruth queried when he came to a pause. "I know it." "Admitting that all these things are coming about--which I don't--don't you honestly think it would be disastrous to the general interest for the workingman to come into power?" "You mean we would legislate solely in our own interests? What if we did? Hasn't every class that ever came into power done that? Anyhow, since we make up nine-tenths of the people we'd certainly be legislating in the interests of the majority--which can't always be said now. And as for our ability to run things, I'd rather have an honest fool than a grafter that knows it all. But if you mean we're a pretty rough lot, and haven't much education, I guess you're about right. How can we help it? We've never had a chance to be anything else. But think what the working class was a hundred years ago! Haven't we come up? Thousands of miles! That's because we've been getting more and more chances, like chances for an education, that used to belong only to the rich. And our chances are increasing. Another hundred years and we won't know ourselves. We'll be fit for anything!" "I see you're very much of a dreamer." "Dreamer? Not at all! If you were to look ahead and say in a hundred years from now it'll be 2000, would you call that a dream?" "Hardly!" Ruth admitted with a smile. "Well, what I'm telling you is just as certain as the passage of time. I'm anything but a dreamer. I believe in a present for the working class as well as a future. I believe that we, if we work hard, have the right, now, to-day, to a comfortable living, and with enough over to give our children as good an education as the children of the bosses; and with enough to buy a few books, see a little of the world, and to save a little so we'll not have ahead of us the terrible fear that we and our families may starve when we get too old to work. That's the least we ought to have. But we lack an almighty lot of having it, Miss Arnold. "Take my own trade--and we're a lot better off than most workingmen--we get three seventy-five a day. That wouldn't be so bad if we made it three hundred days a year, but you know we don't average more than six months' work. Less than seven hundred dollars a year. What can a man with a family do in New York on seven hundred dollars a year? Two hundred for rent, three hundred for food, one hundred for clothes. There's six hundred gone in three lumps. Twenty-five cents a day left for heat, light, education, books, amusement, travel, street-car fare,--and to save for your old age! "And then our trade's dangerous. I think half of our men are killed. If you saw the obituary list that's published monthly of all the branches of our union in the country, you'd think so, too! Every other name--crushed, or something broke and he fell. Only the other day on a steel bridge near Pittsburg a piece of rigging snapped and ten men dropped two hundred feet. They landed on steel beams in a barge anchored below--and were pulp. And after the other names, it's pneumonia or consumption. D'you know what that means? It means exposure at work. Killed by their work!... Well, that's our work,--and we get seven hundred a year! "And then our work takes the best part of our lives, and throws us away. So long as we're strong and active, we can be used. But the day we begin to get a little stiff--if we last that long!--we're out of it. It may be at forty. We've got to learn how to do something else, or just wait for the end. There's our families. And you know how much we've got in the bank! "Well, that's how it is in our union. Is seven hundred a year enough?--when we risk our lives every day we work?--when we're fit for work only so long as we're young men? We're human beings, Miss Arnold. We're men. We want comfortable homes, we want to keep our children in school, we'd like to save something up for the time when we can't work. Seven hundred a year! How're we going to do it, Miss Arnold? How're we going to do it?" Ruth looked up at his glowing set face, and for the moment forgot she was allied to the other side. "Demand higher wages!" her instinct answered promptly. "That's the only thing! And that's what we're going to do! More money for the time we do work!" He said no more. Now that the stimulant of his excited words was gone, Ruth felt her fatigue. Engrossed by his emotions he had swung along at a pace that had taxed her lesser stride. "Shall we not sit down," she suggested; and they found a bench on a pinnacle of rock from whence they looked down through a criss-cross of bare branches upon a sun-polished lagoon, and upon the files of people curving along the paths. Tom removed his hat, and Ruth turning to face him took in anew the details of his head--the strong, square, smooth-shaven face, the broad forehead, moist and banded with pink where his hat had pressed, the hair that clung to his head in tight brown curls. Looked,--and felt herself growing small, and the men of her acquaintance growing small. And thought.... Yes, that was it; it was his purpose that made him big. "You have kept me so interested that I've not yet asked you about your fight against Mr. Foley," she said, after a moment. Tom told her all that had been done. "But is there no other way of getting at the men except by seeing them one by one?" she asked. "That seems such a laborious way of carrying on a campaign. Can't you have mass-meetings?" Tom shook his head. "In the first place it would be hard to get the men out; they're tired when they come home from work, and then a lot of them don't want to openly identify themselves with us. And in the second place Foley'd be likely to fill the hall with his roughs and break the meeting up." "But to see the men individually! And you say there are twenty-five hundred of them. Why, that's impossible!" "Yes. A lot of the men we can't find. They're out when we call." "Why not send a letter to every member?" asked Ruth, suggesting the plan to her most obvious. "A letter?" "A letter that would reach them a day or two before election! A short letter, that drove every point home!" She leaned toward him excitedly. "Good!" Tom brought his fist down on his knee. Ruth knew the money would have to come from his pocket. "Let's see. It would cost, for stamps, twenty-five dollars; for the letters--they could be printed--about fifteen dollars; for the envelopes six or seven dollars. Say forty-five or fifty dollars." Fifty dollars was a great deal to Tom--saved little by little. But he hesitated only a moment. "All right. If we can influence a hundred men, one in twenty-five, it'll be worth the money." A thoughtful look came over his face. "What is it?" Ruth asked quickly. "I was thinking about the printing and other things. Wondering how I could get away from work to see to it." "Won't you let me look after that for you?" Ruth asked eagerly. "I look after all our printing. I can leave the office whenever I'm not busy, you know. It would take only a few minutes of my time." "It really wouldn't?" Tom asked hesitantly. "It wouldn't be any trouble at all. And I'd be glad to do it." Tom thanked her. "I wouldn't know how to go about a thing of that sort, anyhow, even if I could get away from work," he admitted. "And I could see to the addressing, too," Ruth pursued. He sat up straight. "There's the trouble! The addresses!" "The addresses? Why?" "There's only one list of the men and where they live. That's the book of the secretary and treasurer." "Won't he lend it to you?" Tom had to laugh. "Connelly lend it to me! Connelly's one of the best friends Foley's got." "Then there's no way of getting it?" "He keeps it in his office, and when he's not there the office is locked. But we'll get it somehow." "Well, then if you'll write out the letter and send it to me in a day or two, I'll see to having it printed right away." It flashed upon Tom what a strong concluding statement to the letter the guarantee from Mr. Baxter would make. He told Ruth of his idea, of his attempts to get the guarantee, and of the influence it would have on the men. "He's probably forgotten all about it," she said. "I think I may be able to help you to get it. I can speak to Aunt Elizabeth and have her speak to him." But her quick second thought was that she could not do this without revealing to her aunt a relation Mrs. Baxter could not understand. "No, after all I can't be of any use there. You might try to see him again, and if you fail then you might write him." Tom gave her a quick puzzled glance, as he had done a few days before when she had mentioned her relation to Mr. Baxter. She caught the look. "You are wondering how it is Mr. Baxter is my uncle," she guessed. "Yes," he admitted. "It's very simple. All rich people have their poor relatives, I suppose? Mrs. Baxter and my mother were sisters. Mr. Baxter made money. My father died before he had a chance. After mamma died, I decided to go to work. There was only enough money to live a shabby-genteel, pottering life--and I was sick of that. I have no talents, and I wanted to be out in the world, in contact with people who are doing real things. So I learned stenography. A little over a year ago I came to New York. I lived for awhile with my uncle and aunt; they were kind, but the part of a poor relation didn't suit me, and I made up my mind to go to work again. They were not pleased very well; they wanted me to stay with them. But my mind was made up. I offered to go to work for my uncle, but he had no place for me, and got me the position with Mr. Driscoll. And that's all." A little later she asked him for the time. His watch showed a quarter of five. On starting out she had told him that she must be home by five, so she now remarked: "Perhaps we'd better be going. It'll take us about fifteen minutes to walk back." They started homeward across the level sunbeams that were stretching themselves out beneath barren trees and over brown lawns for their night's sleep. As they drew near to Ruth's boarding-house they saw a perfectly-tailored man in a high hat go up the steps. He was on the point of ringing the bell when he sighted them, and he stood waiting their coming. A surprised look passed over his face when he recognized Ruth's companion. As they came up the steps he raised his hat to Ruth. "Good-afternoon, Miss Arnold." And to Tom he said carelessly: "Hello, Keating." Tom looked him squarely in the eyes. "Hello, Berman," he returned. Mr. Berman started at the omission of the "Mr." Tom lifted his hat to Ruth, bade her good-afternoon, and turned away, not understanding a sudden pang that shot into his heart. Mr. Berman's eyes followed Tom for a dozen paces. "A very decent sort--for a workingman," he remarked. "For any sort of a man," said Ruth, with an emphasis that surprised her. She took out her latch-key, and they entered. Chapter X LAST DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN After supper, which was eaten in the customary silence, Tom started for the Barrys' to talk over the scheme of circularizing the members of the union. He met Pete coming out of the Barrys' tenement. He joined him and, as they walked away, outlined the new plan. "That's what I call a mighty foxy scheme," Pete approved. "It's a knock-out blow. It'll come right at the last minute, an' Foley won't have time to hit back." Tom pointed out the difficulty of getting the membership list. "You leave that to me, Tom. It's as easy as fallin' off the twenty-third story an' hittin' the asphalt. You can't miss it." "But what kind of a deal will you make with Connelly? He's crooked, you know." "Yes, he has got pretty much of a bend to him," Pete admitted. "But he ain't so worse, Tom. I've traveled a lot with him. When d'you want the book?" "We've got to get it and put it back without Connelly knowing it's been gone. We'd have to use it at night. Could you get it late, and take it back the next morning?" "That'd be runnin' mighty close. What's the matter with gettin' it Saturday night an' usin' it Sunday?" "Sunday's pretty late, with the election coming Wednesday. But it'll do, I guess." Tom spent the evening at one corner of the dining-table from which he had turned back the red cloth, laboriously scratching on a sheet of ruled letter paper. He had never written when he could avoid it. His ideas were now clear enough, but they struggled against the unaccustomed confinement of written language. The words came slowly, with physical effort, and only after crossing out, and interlining, and crossing out again, were they joined into sentences. At ten o'clock Maggie, who had been calling on a friend, came in with Ferdinand. The boy made straight for the couch and was instantly asleep. Maggie was struck at once by the unwonted sight of her husband writing, but her sulkiness fought her curiosity for more than a minute, during which she removed her hat and jacket, before the latter could gain a grudged victory. "What are you doing?" she asked shortly. "Writing a letter," he answered, keeping his eyes on the paper. She leaned over his shoulder and read a few lines. Her features stiffened. "What're you going to do with that?" "Print it." "But you'll have to pay for it." "Yes." "How much?" "About fifty dollars." She gasped, and her sullen composure fled. "Fifty dollars! For that--that----" Breath failed her. Tom looked around. Her black eyes were blazing. Her hands were clenched. Her full breast was rising and falling rapidly. "Tom Keating, this is about the limit!" she broke out. "Hain't your foolishness learnt you anything yet? It's cost you seven dollars a week already. And here you are, throwing fifty dollars away all in one lump! Fifty dollars!" Her breath failed her again. "That's like you! You'll throw money away, and let me go without a decent rag to my back!" Tom arose. "Maggie," he said, in a voice that was cold and hard, "I don't expect any sympathy from you. I don't expect you to understand what I'm about. I don't think you want to understand. But I do expect you to keep still, if you've got nothing better to say than you've just said!" Maggie had lost herself. "Is that a threat?" she cried furiously. "Do you mean to threaten me? Why, you brute! D'you think you can make me keep still? You throw away money that's as much mine as yours!--you make me suffer for it!--and yet you expect me never to say a word, do you?" Tom glared at her. His hands tingled to lay hold of her and shake her. But, as he glared, he thought of the woman he had so recently left, and a sense of shame for his desire crept upon him. And, too, he began vaguely to feel, what it was inevitable he should some time feel, the contrast between his wife ... and this other. His silence added to her frenzy. "You threaten me? What do I care for your threats! You can't do anything worse than you already have done,--and are doing. You're ruining us! Well, what are you standing there for? Why----" There was but one thing for Tom to do, that which he had often had to do before,--go into the street. He put the scribbled sheets into his coat, and left her standing there in the middle of the floor pouring out her fury. He walked about till he thought she would be asleep, then returned. A glance into their bedroom showed her in bed, and Ferdinand in his cot at the bed's foot. He sat down again at the table and resumed his clumsy pencil. It was midnight before the two-hundred-word production was completed and copied. He put it into an envelope, enclosed a note saying he expected to have the list of names over the following Sunday, and took the letter down and dropped it into a mail-box. Then removing shoes, coat, and collar, he lay down on the sofa with his overcoat for covering, and presently fell asleep. Ruth's heart sank when she received the letter the next afternoon. Her yesterday's talk with him had left her with a profound impression of his power, and that impression had been fresh all the morning. This painfully written letter, with its stiff, hard sentences, headed "Save the Union!" and beginning "Brothers," recalled to her with a shock another element of his personality. It was as though his crudity had dissociated itself from his other qualities and laid itself, bare and unrelieved, before her eyes. As she read the letter a second time she felt a desire to improve upon his sentences; but she thought this might give him offense; and she thought also, and rightly, that his stilted sentences, rich with such epithets, as "tyrant," "bully," "grafter," would have a stronger effect on his readers than would more polished and controlled language. So she carried the letter to the printer as it had left Tom's hand. She wrote Tom that Mr. Driscoll was willing her office should be used for the work of Sunday. Tom's answer was on a postal card and written in pencil. She sighed. The week passed rapidly with Tom, the nights in canvassing, the days in work. Every time he went to work, he did so half expecting it would be his last day on the job. But all went well till Friday morning. Then the expected happened. As he came up to the fire-house a hansom cab, which had turned into the street behind him, stopped and Foley stepped out. "Hold on there, Keating!" the walking delegate called. Tom paused, three or four paces from the cab. Foley stepped to his side. "So this's where youse've sneaked off to work!" Tom kept his square jaw closed. "I heard youse were at work. I thought I'd look youse up to-day. So I followed youse. Now, are youse goin' to quit this job quiet, or do I have to get youse fired?" Tom answered with dangerous restraint. "I haven't got anything against the contractor. And I know what you'd do to him to get me off. I'll go." "Move then, an' quick!" "There's one thing I want to say to you first," said Tom; and instantly his right fist caught the walking delegate squarely on the chin. Foley staggered back against the wheel of the hansom. Without giving him a second look Tom turned about and walked toward the car line. When Foley recovered himself Tom was a score of paces away. Half a dozen of the workmen were looking at him in waiting silence. He glared at Tom's broad back, but made no attempt to follow. "To-day ain't the only day!" he said to the men, closing his eyes to ominous slits; and he stepped back into the cab and drove away. That evening Tom had an answer to the letter he had written Mr. Baxter, after having failed once more to find that gentleman in. It was of but a single sentence. After giving thorough consideration to your suggestion, I have decided that it would be neither wise nor in good taste for me to interfere in the affairs of your union. Tom stared at the letter in amazement. Mr. Baxter had little to risk, and much to gain. He could not understand. But, however obscure Mr. Baxter's motive, the action necessitated by his decision was as clear as a noon sun; a vital change had to be made in the letter to the members of the union. Certain of Mr. Baxter's consent, Tom had set down the guarantee to the men as the last paragraph in the letter and had held the proof awaiting Mr. Baxter's formal authorization of its use. He now cut out the paragraph that might have meant a thousand votes, and mailed the sheet to Ruth. He talked wherever he could all the next day, and the next evening. After going home he sat up till almost one o'clock expecting Pete to come in with the roster of the members. But Pete did not appear. Early Sunday morning Tom was over at the Barrys'. Pete was not yet up, Mrs. Barry told him. Tom softly opened the door of Pete's narrow room and stepped in. Pete announced himself asleep by a mighty trumpeting. Tom shook his shoulders. He stirred, but did not open his eyes. "Doan wan' no breakfas'," he said, and slipped back into unconsciousness. Tom shook him again, without response. Then he threw the covers back from Pig Iron's feet and poured a little water on them. Pete sat suddenly upright; there was a meteoric shower of language; then he recognized Tom. "Hello, Tom! What sort of a damned society call d'you call this?" "If you only worked as hard as you sleep, Pete, you could put up a building alone," said Tom, exasperated. "D'you get the book?" "Over there." Pete pointed to a package lying on the floor. Tom picked it up eagerly, sat down on the edge of the bed--Pete's clothes were sprawling over the only chair--and hastily opened it. Within the wrapping paper was the secretary's book. "How'd you get it, Pete?" "The amount o' licker I turned into spittoons last night, Tom, was certainly an immoral waste. If I'd put it where it belonged, I'd be drunk for life. Connelly, he'll never come to. Now, s'pose you chase along, Tom, an' let me finish things up with my bed." "What time d'you want the book again?" "By nine to-night." "Will you have any trouble putting it back in the office?" "Sure not. While I had Connelly's keys I made myself one to his office. I took a blank and a file with me last night." At ten o'clock, the hour agreed upon, Tom was in Ruth's office. Ruth and a business-looking woman of middle age, who was introduced as a Mrs. Somebody, were already there when he came. Five boxes of envelopes were stacked on a table, which had been drawn to the center of the room, the letters were on a smaller table against one wall, and sheets of stamps were on the top of Ruth's desk. Tom was appalled when he saw what a quantity twenty-five hundred envelopes were. "What! We can't write names on all those to-day!" "It'll take the two of us about seven hours with you reading the names to us," Ruth reassured him. "I had the letters come folded from the printers. We'll put them in the envelopes and put on the stamps to-morrow. They'll all be ready for the mail Monday night." Until five o'clock, with half an hour off for lunch, the two women wrote rapidly, Tom, on the opposite side of the table, reading the names to them alternately and omitting the names of the adherents of Foley. Now that she was with him again Ruth soon forgot all about Tom's crudity. His purposeful power, which projected itself through even so commonplace an occupation as reading off addresses, rapidly remade its first impression. It dwarfed his crudity to insignificance. When he left her at her door she gave him her hand with frank cordiality. "You'll come Thursday evening then to tell me all about it as you promised. When I see you then I'm sure it will be to congratulate you." Chapter XI IN FOLEY'S "OFFICE" Buck Foley's greatest weakness was the consciousness of his strength. Two years before he would have been a much more formidable opponent, for then he was alert for every possible danger and would have put forth his full of strength and wits to overwhelm an aspiring usurper. Now he was like the ring champion of several years' standing who has become too self-confident to train. Foley felt such security that he made light of the first reports of Tom's campaigning brought him by his intimates. "He can't touch me," he said confidently. "After he rubs sole leather on asphalt a few more weeks, he'll be so tame he'll eat out o' my hand." It was not till the meeting at which Tom's ticket was presented that Foley awoke to the possibility of danger. He saw that Tom was tremendously in earnest, that he was working hard, that he was gaining strength among the men. If Tom were to succeed in getting out the goody-goody element, or even a quarter of it----Foley saw the menacing possibility. Connelly hurried up to him at the close of the meeting. "Say, Buck, this here looks serious!" he whispered. "A lot o' the fellows are gettin' scared." "What's serious?" "Keating's game." "I'd forgotten that. I keep forgettin' little things. Well, s'pose youse get the bunch to drop in at Mulligan's." Half an hour later Foley, who knew the value of coming late, sauntered into the back room of Mulligan's saloon, which drinking-place was distant two blocks from Potomac Hall. This back room was commonly known as "Buck's Office," for here he met and issued orders to his lieutenants. It was a square room with a dozen chairs, three tables, several pictures of prize fighters and several nudes of the brewers' school of art. Connelly, Jake Henderson, and six other men sat at the tables, beer glasses before them, talking with deep seriousness. Foley paused in the doorway. "Hello, youse coffin-faces! None o' this for mine!" He started out. "Hold on, Buck!" Connelly cried, starting up. Foley turned back. "Take that crape off your mugs, then!" "We were talkin' about Keating," Connelly explained. "It strikes us he means business." It was a principle in Foley's theory of government not to ask help of his lieutenants in important affairs except when it was necessary; it fed his love of power to feel them dependent upon his action. But it was also a principle that they should feel an absolute confidence in him. He now saw dubiety on every face; an hour's work was marked out. He sat down, threw open his overcoat, put one foot on a table and tipped back in his chair. "Yes, I s'pose Keating thinks he does mean business." With his eyes fixed carelessly on the men he drew from a vest pocket a tight roll of bills, with 100 showing at either end, and struck a match; and moved the roll, held cigar-wise between the first and second fingers of his left hand, and the match toward his mouth. With a cry Connelly sprang forward and seized his wrist. "Now what the hell----" Foley began, exasperatedly. His eyes fell to his hand, and he grinned. "Well! Now I wonder where that cigar is." He went one by one through the pockets of his vest. "Well, I reckon I'll have to buy another. Jake, ask one o' the salesladies to fetch in some cabbage." Jake Henderson stepped to the door and called for cigars. Mulligan himself responded, bearing three boxes which he set down before Foley. "Five, ten and fifteen," he said, pointing in turn at the boxes. Foley picked up the cheapest box and snuffed at its contents. "These the worst youse got?" "Got some two-fers." "Um! Make youse think youse was mendin' the asphalt, I s'pose. I guess these's bad enough. Help youselves, boys." But it was the fifteen-cent box he started around. The men took one each, and the box came back to Foley. "Hain't youse fellows got no vest pockets?" he demanded, and started the box around again. When the box had completed its second circuit Mulligan took it and the two others and started out. "Hold on, Barney," said Foley. "What's the matter with your beer?" "My beer?" "Been beggin' the boys to have some more, but they don't want it." "My beer's----" "Hi, Barney! Don't youse see he's shootin' hot air into youse?" cried Jake delightedly. "Chase in the beer!" "No, youse don't have to drink nothin' youse don't like. Bring in some champagne, Barney. I'm doin' a scientific stunt. I want to see what champagne does to a roughneck." "How much?" asked Mulligan. "Oh, about a barrel." He drew from his trousers pocket a mixture of crumpled bills, loose silver, and keys. From this he untangled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Mulligan. "Fetch back what youse don't want. An' don't move like your feet was roots, neither." Two minutes later Mulligan returned with four quart bottles. Immediately behind him came a girl in the dress of the Salvation Army. "Won't you help us in our work?" she said, holding her tin box out to Foley. "Take what youse want." He pointed with his cigar to the change Mulligan had just laid upon the table. With hesitation she picked up a quarter. "This much?" she asked, smiling doubtfully. "No wonder youse're poor!" He swept all the change into his palm. "Here!" and he thrust it into her astonished hands. After she had stammered out her thanks and departed, Foley began to fill the glasses from a bottle Mulligan had opened. Jake, moistening his lips, put out his hand in mock refusal. "Only a drop for me, Buck." Foley filled Jake's glass to the brim. "Well, there's several. Pick your choice." He filled the other glasses, then lifted his own with a "Here's how!" They all raised the fragile goblets clumsily and emptied them at a gulp. "Now put about twenty dollars' worth o' grin on your faces," Foley requested. "But what about Keating?" asked Connelly anxiously, harking back to the first subject. "He's startin' a mighty hot fight. An' really, Buck, he's a strong man." "Yes, I reckon he is." Foley put one hand to his mouth and yawned mightily behind it. "But he's sorter like a big friend o' mine who went out to cut ice in July. His judgment ain't good." "Of course, he ain't got no chance." "The same my friend had o' fillin' his ice-house." "But it strikes me we ought to be gettin' busy," Connelly persisted. "See here, Connelly. Just because I ain't got a couple o' niggers humpin' to keep the sweat wiped off me, youse needn't think I'm loafin'," Foley returned calmly. The others, who had shared Connelly's anxiety, were plainly affected by Foley's large manner. "Youse can just bet Buck'll be there with the goods when the time comes," Jake declared confidently. "That's no lie," agreed the others. "Oh, I ain't doubtin' Buck. Never a once!" said Connelly. "But what's your plans, Buck?" Foley gazed mysteriously over their heads, and slowly blew out a cloud of smoke. "Youse just keep your two eyes lookin' my way." Foley knew the value of coming late. He also knew the value of leaving as soon as your point is made. His quick eyes now saw that he had restored the company's confidence; they knew he was prepared for every event. "I guess I'll pull out," he said, standing up. "Champagne ain't never been the same to me since me an' Morgan went off in his yacht, an' the water give out, an' we had to wash our shirts in it." He looked through the door into the bar-room. "Say, Barney, if these roughnecks want anything more, just put it down to me." He turned back to the men. "So-long, boys," he said, with a wave of his hand, and went out through the bar-room. "The man that beats Buck Foley's got to beat five aces," declared Jake admiringly. "Yes," agreed Connelly. "An' he don't keep a strangle holt on his money, neither." Which two sentiments were variously expressed again and again before the bottoms of the bottles were reached. If Foley was slow in getting started, he was not slow to act now that he was started. During the following two weeks any contractor that so wished could have worked non-union men on his jobs for all the trouble Foley would have given him. Buck had more important affairs than the union's affairs. Foley's method of electioneering was even more simple than Tom's. He saw the foreman on every important job in the city. To such as were his friends he said: "Any o' that Keating nonsense bein' talked on this job?" If there was not: "Well, it's up to youse to see that things stay that way." If there was: "Shut it up. If any o' the men talk too loud, fire 'em. If youse ain't got that authority, find somethin' wrong with their work an' get 'em fired. It's your business to see that not a man on your job votes again' me!" To such few as he did not count among his friends he said: "Youse know enough to know I'm goin' to win. Youse know what's the wise thing for youse to do, all right. I like my friends, an' I don't like the men that fight me. I ain't likely to go much out o' my way to help Keating an' his push. I think that's enough, ain't it?" It was--especially since it was said with a cold look straight into the other's eyes. An hour's speech could not have been more effective. Foley made it his practice to see as many of the doubtful workmen as possible during their lunch hour. He had neither hope nor desire that they should come out and vote for him. His wish was merely that they should not come out and vote for Tom. To them his speech was mainly obvious threats. And he called upon the rank and file of his followers to help him in this detail of his campaign. "Just tell 'em youse think they won't enjoy the meetin' very much," was his instruction, given with a grim smile; and this opinion, with effective elaboration, his followers faithfully delivered. When Foley dropped into his office on the Tuesday night before election he found Jake, Connelly and the other members of his cabinet anxiously awaiting him. Connelly thrust a copy of Tom's letter into his hands. "Now wha' d'you think o' that?" he demanded. "Blamed nigh every man in the union got one to-night." As Foley read the blood crept into his face. "'Bully,' 'blood-suckin' grafter', 'trade union pirate', 'come out and make him walk the plank'," Jake quoted appreciatively, watching Foley's face. By the time he reached the end Foley had regained his self-control. "Well, that's a purty nice piece o' writin', ain't it, now?" he said, looking at the sheet admiringly. "Didn't know Keating was buttin' into literchure. Encouragin', ain't it, to see authors springin' up in every walk o' life. This here'll get Keating the votes o' all the lit'ry members, sure." "It'll get him too many!" growled Connelly anxiously. "A-a-h, go count yourself, Connelly!" Foley looked at the secretary with a pity that was akin to disgust. "Youse give me an unpleasant feelin' in my abdomen!" He pushed the letter carelessly across to Connelly. "O' course it'll bring the boys out," he said, in his previous pleasant voice. "But the trouble with Keating is, he believes in the restriction o' output. He believes a man oughtn't to cast more'n one vote a day." But Foley, for all his careless jocularity, was aware of the seriousness of Tom's last move, and till long after midnight the cabinet was in session--to the great profit of Barney Mulligan's cash register. Chapter XII THE ELECTION Tom set out for Potomac Hall Wednesday evening with the emotions of a gambler who had placed his fortune on a single color; his all was risked on the event of that night. However, he had a bracing confidence running through his agitation; he felt that he controlled the arrow of fortune. The man to man canvass; the feminine influence made operative by Mrs. Barry; the letters with which Ruth had helped him,--these, he was certain, had drawn the arrow's head to the spot where rested his stake and the union's. Tom reached the hall at six-thirty. The polls did not open till seven, but already thirty or forty of Foley's men stood in knots in front of the building. "Hello, boys! Now don't he think he's It!" said one admiringly. "Poor Buck! This's the last o' him!" groaned another. There was a burst of derisive laughter, and each of the party tossed a bit of language in his way; but Tom made no answer and passed them unflinchingly. At the doorway he was stopped by the policeman who was regularly stationed at Potomac Hall on meeting nights. "Goin' to have a fist sociable to-night?" the policeman asked, anxiously watching the men in the street. "Can't say, Murphy. Ask Foley. He'll be floor manager, if there is one." As he went through the hallway toward the stairs, Tom paused to glance through a side door into the big bar-room, which, with a café, occupied the whole of the first floor. A couple of score of Foley men stood at the bar and sat about the tables. It certainly did look as if there might be festivities. Tom mounted the broad stairway and knocked at the door of the union's hall. Hogan, the sergeant-at-arms, a Foley man, gingerly admitted him. The hall in which he found himself was a big rectangular room, perhaps fifty by one hundred feet. The walls had once been maroon in color, and had a broad moulding of plaster that had been white and gilt; the ceiling had likewise once been maroon, and was decorated with plaster scroll-work and crudely painted clusters of fruits and flowers--scroll-work and paintings lacking their one-time freshness. From the center of the ceiling hung a great ball of paper roses; at the front of the room was a grand piano in a faded green cover. The sign advertising the hall, nailed on the building's front, had as its last clause: "Also available for weddings, receptions, and balls." Tom's glance swept the room. All was in readiness for the election. The floor was cleared of its folding chairs, they being now stacked at the rear of the room; down the hall's middle ran a row of tables, set end to end, with chairs on either side; Bill Jackson, one of his supporters, was at Hogan's elbow, ready to hand out the ballots as the men were admitted; the five tellers--Barry, Pete, Jake and two other Foley men--were smoking at the front of the room, Jake lolling on the piano, and the other four on the platform where the officers sat at the regular meetings. Tom joined Pete and Barry, and the three drew to one side to await the opening of the door. "Anything new?" Tom asked. "Nothin'," answered Pete. "But say, Tom, that letter was certainly hot stuff! I've heard some o' the boys talkin' about it. They think it's great. It's bringin' a lot o' them out." "That's good." "An' we're goin' to win, sure." Tom nodded. "If Foley don't work some of his tricks." "Oh, we'll look out for that," said Pete confidently. Promptly at seven o'clock Hogan unlocked the door. The men began to mount the stairway. As each man came to the door Hogan examined his membership card, and, if it showed the holder to be in good standing, admitted him. Jackson then handed him a ballot, on which the names of all the candidates were printed in a vertical row, and he walked to one of the tables and made crosses before the names of the men for whom he desired to vote. Five minutes after the door had been opened there were thirty or forty men in the room, an equal number of each party, Foley among them. Jake, who was chief teller, rose at the center table on the platform to discharge the formality of offering the ballot-box for inspection. He unlocked the box, which was about twelve inches square, and performing a slow arc presented the open side to the eyes of the tellers and the waiting members. The box was empty. "All right?" he asked. "Sure," said the men carelessly. The tellers nodded. Foley began the telling of a yarn, and was straightway the center of the group of voters. In the meantime Jake locked the box and started to carry it to its appointed place on a table at one end of the platform, to reach which he had to pass through the narrow space between the wall and the chair-backs of the other tellers. As he brushed through this alley, Tom, whose eyes had not left him, saw the ballot-box turn so that its slot was toward the wall, and glimpsed a quick motion of Jake's hand from a pocket toward the slot--a motion wholly of the wrist. He sprang after the chief teller and seized his hand. "You don't work that game!" he cried. Foley's story snapped off. His hearers pivoted to face the disturbance. Jake turned about. "What game?" "Open your hand!" Tom demanded. Jake elevated his big fist, then opened it. It held nothing. He laughed derisively, and set the box down in its place. A jeering shout rose from Foley's crowd. For an instant Tom was taken aback. Then he stepped quickly to the table and gave the box a light shake. He triumphantly raised it on high and shook it violently. From it there came an unmistakable rattle. "This's how Foley'd win!" he cried to the crowd. Jake, his derision suddenly changed to fury, would have struck Tom in another instant, for all his wits were in his fists; but the incisive voice of Foley sounded out: "A clever trick, Keating." "How's that?" asked several men. "A trick to cast suspicion on us," Foley answered quietly. "Keating put 'em in there himself." Tom stared at him, then turned sharply upon Jake. "Give me the key. I'll show who those ballots are for." Jake, not understanding, but taking his cue from Foley, handed over the key. Tom unlocked the box, and took out a handful of tightly-folded ballots. He opened several of them and held them up to the crowd. The crosses were before the Foley candidates. "Of course I put 'em in!" Tom said sarcastically, looking squarely at Foley. "O' course youse did," Foley returned calmly. "To cast suspicion on us. It's a clever trick, but it's what I call dirty politics." Tom made no reply. His eyes had caught a slight bulge in the pocket of Jake's coat from which he had before seen Jake's hand emerge ballot-laden. He lunged suddenly toward the chief teller, and thrust a hand into the pocket. There was a struggle of an instant; the crowd saw Tom's hand come out of the pocket filled with packets of paper; then Tom broke loose. It all happened so quickly that the crowd had no time to move. The tellers rose just in time to lay hands upon Jake, who was hurling himself upon Tom in animal fury. Tom held the ballots out toward Foley. They were bound in packets half an inch thick by narrow bands of papers which were obviously to be snapped as the packet was thrust into the slot of the box. "I suppose you'll say now, Buck Foley, that I put these in Henderson's pocket!" For once Foley was at a loss. Part of the crowd cursed and hissed him. His own men looked at him expectantly, but the trickery was too apparent for his wits to be of avail. He glared straight ahead, rolling his cigar from side to side of his mouth. Tom tossed the ballots into the open box. "Enough votes there already to elect Foley. Now I demand another teller instead of that man." He jerked his head contemptuously toward Jake. Foley's composure was with him again. "Anything to please youse, Tom. I guess nobody's got a kick again' Connelly. Connelly, youse take Jake's place." As the exchange was being made the Foleyites regarded their leader dubiously; not out of disapproval of his trickery, but because his attempted jugglery had failed. Foley had recourse again to his confidence-compelling glance--eyes narrowed and full of mystery. "It's only seven-thirty, boys!" he said in an impressive whisper, and turned and went out. Jake glowered at Tom and followed him. Tom transferred the ballots from the box to his pockets, locked the box, turned over the key to the tellers, and was resuming his seat when he saw a man of disordered dress at the edge of the platform, who had been anxiously awaiting the end of this episode, beckoning him. Tom quickly stepped to his side. "What's the matter?" "Hell's broke loose downstairs, Tom," said the man. "Come down." "Look out for any more tricks," Tom called to Pete, and hurried out. The stairway was held from top to bottom by a line of Foley men. Foley supporters were marching up, trading rough jests with these guardsmen; but not a single man of his was on the stairs. He saw one of his men start up, and receive a shove in the chest that sent him upon his back. A laugh rose from the line. Tom's fists knotted and his eyes filled with fire. The head guardsman tried to seize him, and got one of the fists in the face. "Look out, you----!" He swore mightily at the line, and plunged downward past the guards, who were held back by a momentary awe. The man below rose to his feet, hotly charged, and was sent staggering again. Tom, descending, caught the assailant by the collar, and with a powerful jerk sent him sprawling upon the floor. He turned fiercely upon the line. But before he could even speak, half of it charged down upon him, overbore him and swept him through the open door into the street. Then they melted away from him and returned to their posts. Tom, bruised and dazed, would have followed the men back through the doorway, but his eyes came upon a new scene. On his either hand in the street, which was weakly illumined by windows and corner lights, several scuffles were going on, six or seven in each; groups of Foley men were blocking the way of his supporters, and blows and high words were passing; farther away he could dimly see his men standing about in hesitant knots--having not the reckless courage to attempt passage through such a rowdy sea. The policeman was trying to quell one of the scuffles with his club. Tom saw it twisted from his hand. Murphy drew his revolver. The club sent it spinning. He turned and walked quickly out of the street. All this Tom saw in two glances. The man beside him swore. "Send for the police, Tom. Nothing else'll save us." His voice barely rose above the cries and oaths. "It won't do, Smith. We'd never hear the last of it." And yet Tom realized, with instant quickness, the hopelessness of the situation. Against Foley's organized ruffianism, holding hall and street, his unorganized supporters, standing on the outskirts, could do nothing. There was but one thing to be done--to get to his men, organize them in some way, wait till their number had grown, and then march in a body to the ballot-box. Ten seconds after his discharge into the street Tom was springing away on this errand, when out of the tail of his eye he saw Foley come to the door and glance about. He wheeled and strode up to the walking delegate. "Is this your only way of winning an election?" he cried hotly. "Well! well! They're mixin' it up a bit, ain't they," Foley drawled, looking over Tom's head. "That's too bad!" "Don't try any of your stage business on me! Stop this fighting!" "What could I do?" Foley asked deprecatingly. "If I tried, I'd only get my nut cracked." And he turned back into the hall. "Come on!" Tom cried to Smith; and together they plunged eastward, in which direction were the largest number of Tom's friends. Before they had gone a dozen paces they were engulfed in the fray. Several of his men swept in from the outskirts to his support; more Foley men rushed into the conflict; the fight that had before been waged in skirmishes was now a general engagement. For a space that seemed an hour to Tom, but that in reality was no more than its quarter, it was struggle at the top of his strength. He warded off blows. He stung under fists. He struck out at dim faces. He swayed fiercely in grappling arms. He sent men down. He went down again and again himself. And oaths were gasped and shouted, and deep-lunged cries battered riotously against the street's high walls.... And so it was all around him--a writhing, striking, kicking, swearing whirlpool of men, over whose fierce turbulence fell the dusky light of bar-room and tenement windows. After a time, when his breath was coming in gasps, and his strength was well-nigh gone, he saw the vindictive face of Jake Henderson, with the bar-room's light across it, draw nearer and nearer through the struggling mob. If Jake should reach him, spent as he was----He saw his limp, outstretched body as in a vision. But Jake's vengeance did not then fall. Tom heard a cry go up and run through the crowd: "Police! Police!" In an instant the whirlpool half calmed. The cry brought to their feet the two men who had last borne him down. Tom scrambled up, saw the mob untangle itself into individuals, and saw, turning the corner, a squad of policemen, clubs drawn, Murphy marching at the captain's side. The captain drew his squad up beside the doorway of the hall, and himself mounted the two steps. "If there's any more o' this rough house, I'll run in every one o' you!" he shouted, shaking his club at the men. The Foleyites laughed, and defiance buzzed among them, but they knew the better part of valor. It was a Foley principle to observe the law when the law is observing you. Five minutes later the captain's threat was made even more potent for order by the appearance of the reserves from another precinct; and in a little while still another squad leaped from clanging patrol wagons, making in all fifty policemen that had answered Murphy's call. Twenty of these were posted in the stairway, and the rest were placed on guard in the street. A new order came from the bar-room, and Foley's men withdrew to beyond the limits of police influence and intercepted the men coming to vote, using blandishment and threats, and leading some into the bar-room to be further convinced. Tom, who stood outside watching the restoration of order, now started back to the hall. On the way he glanced through the side door into the bar-room. It was heavy with smoke, and at the bar was a crowd, with Foley as its center. "I don't know what youse think about Keating callin' in the police," he was saying, "but youse can bet I know what Buck Foley thinks! A man that'll turn the police on his own union!" And then as a fresh group of men were led into the room: "Step right up to the counter, boys, an' have your measure taken for a drink. I've bought out the place, an' am givin' it away. Me an' Carnegie's tryin' to die poor." Tom mounted to the hall with a secret satisfaction in the protection of the broad-chested bluecoats that now held the stairway. A fusillade of remarks from the men marking their ballots greeted his entrance, but he passed up to the platform without making answers. Pete's mouth fell agape at sight of him. "Hello! You look like you been ticklin' a grizzly under the chin!" Tom noted the relishing grins of the Foley tellers. "The trouble downstairs is all over. I'll tell you all about it after awhile," he said shortly; and sat down just behind Pete to watch the voting. Up to this time the balloting had been light. But now the hall began to fill, and the voting proceeded rapidly--and orderly, too, thanks to the policemen on stairway and in street. Tom, his clothes "lookin' like he tried to take 'em off without unbuttonin'," as a Foley teller whispered, his battered hat down over his eyes, sat tilted against the wall scanning every man that filed past the box. As man after man had his membership card stamped "voted," and dropped in his ballot, Tom's excitement rose, for he recognized the majority of the men that marched by as of his following. At nine o'clock Pete leaned far back in his chair. "Lookin' great, ain't it?" he whispered. "If it only keeps up like this." That it might not was Tom's great fear now. "Oh, it will, don't you worry." The line of voters that marched by, and by, bore out Pete's prediction, as Tom's counting eyes saw. He had the wild exultation and throbbing weakness of the man who is on the verge of success. But the possibility of failure, the cause of his weakness, became less and less as time ticked on and the votes dropped into the ballot box. His enthusiasm grew. Dozens of plans flashed through his head. But his eyes never left that string of men who were deciding his fate and that of the union. At half past ten Tom was certain of his election. Pete leaned back and gripped his hand. "It's a cinch, Tom. It's a shame to take the money," he whispered. Tom acquiesced in Pete's conviction with a jerk of his head, and watched the passing line, now grown thin and slow, drop in their ballots, his certainty growing doubly sure. Fifteen minutes later Foley entered the hall, whispered a moment with Hogan at the door, a moment with Connelly, and then went out again. Tom thought he saw anxiety showing through Foley's ease of manner, and to him it was an advance taste of triumph. Tom wished eleven o'clock had come and the door was locked. The minutes passed with such exhausting slowness. A straggling voter dropped in his ballot--and another straggler--and another. Tom looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed since Foley's visit. Another straggling voter. And then four men appeared in a body at the hall door, all apparently the worse for Foley's hospitality. Tom saw the foremost present his card. Hogan glanced at it, and handed it back. "You can't vote that card; it's expired," Tom heard him say. "What's that?" demanded the man, threateningly. "The card's expired, I said! You can't vote it! Get out!" "I can't vote it, hey!" There was an oath, a blow--a surprisingly light blow to produce such an effect, so it seemed to Tom--and Hogan staggered back and went to the floor. There was a scuffle; the tables on which lay the ballots toppled over, and the ballots went fluttering. By this time Tom reached the door, policemen had rushed in and settled the scuffle, and the four men were being led from the room. Hogan was unhurt, but Jackson was so dazed from a blow that Tom had to put another man in his place. The minutes moved toward eleven with slow, ticking steps. Two stragglers ... at long intervals. At a few minutes before eleven the exhausting monotony was enlivened by the entrance of eight men, singing boisterously and jostling each other in alcoholic jollity. They marked their ballots and staggered in a group to the ballot-box. Two tried to deposit their ballots at once. "Leave me alone, will youse!" cried one, with an oath, and struck at the other. The ballot-box slipped across to the edge of the table. Connelly, who sat just behind the box, made no move for its safety. "Hey, stop that!" cried Pete and sprang across to seize it. But he was too late. The one blow struck, the eight were all instantly delivering blows, and pushing and swearing. The box was knocked forward upon the floor, and the eight sprawled pell-mell upon it. Tom and the tellers sprang from behind the tables upon the scuffling heap, and several policemen rushed in from the hallway. The men, once dragged apart, subsided and gave no trouble. They were allowed to drop their ballots in the box, now back in its place on the table, and were then led out in quietness by the officers. Pete turned about, struck with a sudden fear. "I wonder if that was a trick?" he whispered. Tom's face was pale. The same fear had come to him. "I wonder!" In another five minutes the door was locked and the tellers were counting the ballots. Among the first hundred there were perhaps a score that bore no mark except a cross before Foley's name. Pete looked again at Tom. With both fear had been replaced by certainty. "The box's been stuffed!" Pete whispered. Tom nodded. His only hope now was that not enough false ballots had been got into the box to carry the election. But as the count proceeded, this hope left him. And the end was equal to his worst fears. The count stood: for walking delegate, Foley 976, Keating 763; for president, Keating 763, Foley's man 595; all the other Foley candidates won by a slight margin. The apparent inconsistencies of this count Tom readily understood even in the first wild minutes. Foley's running ahead of his ticket was to be explained on the ground that the brief time permitted of a cross being put before his name alone on the false ballots; his own election to the unimportant presidency, and the failure of his other candidates, was evidently caused by several of his followers splitting their tickets and voting for the minor Foley candidates. As the count had proceeded Tom had exploded more than once, and Pete had made lurid use of his gift. When Connelly read off the final results Tom exploded again. "It's an infernal steal!" he shouted. "Even if it is, what can we do?" returned Connelly. Words ran high. But Tom quickly saw the uselessness of protests and accusations at this time. His great desire now was to take his heat and disappointment out into the street; and so he gave evasive answers to Pete and Barry, who wanted to talk it over, and made his way out of the hall alone. Cheers and laughter were ascending from the bar-room. As he was half-way down the stairs the door of the saloon opened, and Foley came out and started up, followed by a number of men. Among them Tom saw several of the drunken group that had upset the ballot-box; and he also saw that they probably had not been more sober in years. "Why, hello, Tom!" Foley cried out on sight of him. "D'youse hear the election returns?" Tom looked hard at Foley's face with its leering geniality, and he was almost overmastered by a desire to hurl himself upon Foley and annihilate him. "You infernal thief!" he burst out. Foley sidled toward him across the broad step. "I'll pass that by. I can afford to, for youse're about wiped out. I guess youse've had enough." "Enough?" cried Tom. "I've just begun!" With that he brushed by Foley and passed through the door out into the street. Chapter XIII THE DAY AFTER The distance to Tom's home was half a hundred blocks, but he chose to walk. Anger, disappointment, and underlying these the hopeless sense of being barred from his trade, all demanded the sympathy of physical exertion--and, too, there was the inevitable meeting with his wife. Walking would give him an hour before that. It was after one when he opened the hall door and stepped into his flat. Through the dining-room he could see the gas in the sitting-room was turned down to a point, and could see Maggie lying on the couch, a flowered comforter drawn over her. He guessed she had stayed up to wait for his report. He listened. In the night's dead stillness he could faintly hear her breath come deep and regular. Seizing at the chance of postponing the scene, he cautiously closed the hall door, and, sitting down on a chair beside it, removed his shoes. He crossed on tiptoe toward their bedroom, but its door betrayed him by a creak. He turned quickly about. There was Maggie, propped up on one arm, the comforter thrown back. She looked at him for a space without speaking. Through all his other feelings Tom had a sense that he made anything but a brave figure, standing in his stocking feet, his shoes in one hand, hat and overcoat on. "Well?" she demanded at length. Tom returned her fixed gaze, and made no reply to her all-inclusive query. Her hands gripped her covering. She gave a gasp. Then she threw back the comforter and slipped to her feet. "I understand!" she said. "Everything! I knew it! O-o-h!" There were more resentment and recrimination packed into that prolonged "oh" than she could have put into an hour's upbraiding. Tom kept himself in hand. He knew the futility of explanation, but he explained. "I won, fairly. But Foley robbed me. He stuffed the ballot-box." "It makes no difference how you lost! You lost! That's what I've got to face. You know I didn't want you to go into this. I knew you couldn't win. I knew Foley was full of tricks. But you went in. You lost wages. You threw away money--_our_ money! And what have you got to show for it all?" Tom let her words pass in silence. On his long walk he had made up his mind to bear her fury quietly. "Oh, you!" she cried through clenched teeth, stamping a bare foot on the floor. "You do what you please, and I suffer for it. You wouldn't take my advice. And now you're out of a job and can't get one in your trade. How are we to live? Tell me that, Tom Keating? How are we to live?" Only the word he had passed with himself enabled Tom to hold himself in after this outburst. "I'll find work." "Find work! A hod-carrier! Oh, my God!" She turned and flung herself at full length upon the couch, and lay there sobbing, her hands passionately gripping the comforter. Tom silently watched the workings of her passion for a moment. He realized the measure of right on her side, and his sense of justice made his spirit unbend. "If we have to live close, it'll only be for a time," he said. "Oh, my God!" she moaned. He grimly turned and went into the bedroom. After a while he came out again. She had drawn the comforter over her, but her irregular breathing told him she was still awake. "Aren't you coming to bed?" he asked. She made no answer, and he went back. For half an hour he tossed about. Then he came into the sitting-room again. Her breath was coming quietly and regularly. He sat down and gazed at her handsome face for a long, long time, with misty, wondering thoughts. Then he rose with a deep-drawn sigh, took part of the covering from the bed, and spread it over her sleeping figure. He tossed about long before he fell into a restless sleep. It was early when he awoke. He looked into the sitting-room. Maggie was still sleeping. He quickly dressed himself in his best suit (the one he had had on the night before was beyond further wearing), noting with surprise that his face bore few marks of conflict, and stole quietly out. Tom's disappointment and anger were too fresh to allow him to put his mind upon plans for the future. All day he wandered aimlessly about, talking over the events of the previous night with such of his friends as chance put in his path. Late in the afternoon he met Pete and Barry, who had been looking for work since morning. They sat down in a saloon and talked about the election till dinner time. It was decided that Tom should protest the election and appeal to the union--a move they all agreed had little promise. Tom found a soothing gratification in Pete's verbal handling of the affair; there was an ease, a broadness, a completeness, to Pete's profanity that left nothing to be desired; so that Tom was prompted to remark, with a half smile: "If there was a professorship of your kind of English over at Columbia University, Pete, you'd never have to put on overalls again." Tom had breakfasted in a restaurant, and lunched in a restaurant, and after Pete and Barry left he had dinner in one. It was a cheap and meager meal; with his uncertain future he felt it wise to begin to count every cent. Afterwards he walked about the streets till eight, bringing up at Ruth's boarding-house. The colored maid who answered his ring brought back the message: "Miss Arnold says will you please come up." He mounted the stairway behind the maid. Ruth was standing at the head of the stairs awaiting him. She wore a loose white gown, held in at the waist by a red girdle, and there was a knot of red in her heavy dark hair. Tom felt himself go warm at sight of her, and there began a throbbing that beat even in his ears. "You don't mind my receiving you in my room, do you?" she said, opening her door, after she had greeted him. "Why, no," said Tom, slightly puzzled. His acquaintance with the proprieties was so slight that he did not know she was then breaking one. She closed the door. "I'm glad to see you. I know what happened last night; we heard at the office." She held out her hand again. The grip was warm and full of sympathy. The hand sent a thrill through Tom. In his fresh disappointment it was just this intelligent sympathy that he was hungry for. For a moment he was unable to speak or move. She gently withdrew her hand. "But we heard only the bare fact. I want you to tell me the whole story." Tom laid his hat and overcoat upon the couch, which had a dull green cover, glancing, as he did so, about the room. There were a few prints of good pictures on the walls; a small case of books; a writing desk; and in one corner a large screen whose dominant color was a dull green. The thing that struck him most was the absence of the knick-knackery with which his home was decorated. Tom was not accustomed to give attention to his surroundings, but the room pleased him; and yet it was only an ordinary boarding-house room, plus the good taste of a tasteful woman. Tom took one of the two easy chairs in the room, and once again went over the happenings of the previous night. She interrupted again and again with indignant exclamations. "Why, you didn't lose at all!" she cried, when he had finished the episode of the eight drunken men. "You won, and it was stolen from you! Your Mr. Foley is a--a----" Whichever way she turned for an adequate word she ran against a restriction barring its use by femininity. "A robber!" she ended. "But aren't you going to protest the election?" "I shall--certainly. But there's mighty little chance of the result being changed. Foley'll see to that." He tried to look brave, but Ruth guessed the bitterness within. She yearned to have him talk over things with her; her sympathy for him now that she beheld him dispirited after a daring fight was even warmer than when she had seen him pulsing with defiant vigor. "Won't you tell me what you are going to do? If you don't mind." "I'd tell if I knew. But I hardly have my bearings yet." "Are you sure you can't work at your trade?" "Not unless I kiss Foley's shoes." She did not like to ask him if he were going to give in, but the question was in her face, and he saw it. "I'm not that bad licked yet." "There's Mr. Driscoll's offer," she suggested. "Yes. I've thought of that. I don't know what move I'll make next. I don't just see now how I'm going to keep at the fight, but I'm not ready to give it up. If I took Mr. Driscoll's job, I'd have to drop the fight, for I'd practically have to drop out of the union. If the protest fails--well, we'll see." Ruth looked at him thoughtfully, and she thrilled with a personal pride in him. He had been beaten; the days just ahead looked black for him; but his spirit, though exhausted, was unbroken. As a result of her experience she was beginning to regard business as being largely a compromise between self-respect and profit. In Tom's place she guessed what Mr. Baxter would do, and she knew what Mr. Driscoll would do; and the thing they would do was not the thing that Tom was doing. And she wondered what would be the course of Mr. Berman. At the moment of parting she said to him, in her frank, impulsive way: "I think you are the bravest man I have ever known." He could only stumble away from her awkwardly, for to this his startled brain had no proper answer. His courage began to bubble back into him; and the warmth aroused by her words grew and grew--till he drew near his home, and then a chill began to settle about him. Maggie was reading the installment of a serial story in an evening paper when he came in. She glanced up, then quickly looked back at her paper without speaking. He started into the bedroom in silence, but paused hesitant in the doorway and looked at her. "What are you reading, Maggie?" "The Scarlet Stain." He held his eyes upon her a moment longer, and then with a sigh went into the bedroom and lit the gas. The instant he was gone from the doorway Maggie took her eyes from the story and listened irresolutely. All day her brain had burnt with angry thoughts, and all day she had been waiting the chance to speak. But her obstinate pride now strove to keep her tongue silent. "Tom!" she called out, at length. He appeared in the doorway. "Yes." "What are you going to do?" He was silent for a space. "I don't just know yet." "I know," she said in a voice she tried to keep cold and steady. "There's only one thing for you to do. That's to get on the square with Foley." Their eyes met. Hers were cold, hard, rebellious. "I'll think it over," he said quietly; and went back into the bedroom. Chapter XIV NEW COURAGE AND NEW PLANS The next morning after breakfast Tom sat down to take account of his situation. But his wife's sullen presence, as she cleared away the dishes, suffocated his thoughts. He went out and walked south a few blocks to a little park that had formerly served the neighborhood as a burying-ground. A raw wind was chattering among the bare twigs of the sycamore trees; the earth was a rigid shell from the night's frost, and its little squares and oblongs of grass were a brownish-gray; the sky was overcast with gray clouds. The little park, this dull March day, was hardly more cheerful than the death it had erewhile housed, but Tom sat down in its midst with a sense of grateful relief. His mind had already passed upon Maggie's demand of the previous evening. But would it avail to continue the fight against Foley? He had slept well, and the sleep had strengthened his spirit and cleared his brain; and Ruth's recurring words, "I think you are the bravest man I have ever known," were to him a determining inspiration. He went over the situation detail by detail, and slowly a new plan took shape. Foley had beaten him by a trick. In six months there would be another election. He would run again, and this next time, profiting by his dear experience of Wednesday night, he would see that guard was set against every chance for unfair play. During the six months he would hammer at Foley's every weak spot, and emphasize to the union the discredit of Foley's discreditable acts. He would follow up his strike agitation. He had already put Foley into opposition to a demand for more money. If he could induce the union to make the demand in the face of Foley's opposition it would be a telling victory over the walking delegate. Perhaps, even, he might head the management of the strike--if it came to a strike. And if the strike were won, it would be the complete undoing of Foley. As for Maggie, she would oppose the plan, of course, but once he had succeeded she would approve what he had done. In the meantime he would have to work at some poorly paid labor, and appease her as best he could. At dinner that night little was said, till Maggie asked with a choking effort: "Did you see Foley to-day?" "No," said Tom. He ate a mouthful, then laid down knife and fork, and looked firmly into her face. "I didn't try to see him. And I might as well tell you, Maggie, that I'm not going to see him." "You'll not see him?" she asked in a dry voice. "You'll not see him?" "Most likely it would not do any good if I did see him. You mark what I say, Maggie," he went on, hopefully. "Foley thinks I'm down, and you do, too, but in a few months things'll be better than they ever were. We may see some hard times--but in the end!" "You were just that certain last week. But how'll we live?" "I'll find some sort of a temporary job." She looked at him tensely; then she rose abruptly and carried her indignant grief into the kitchen. She had decided that he must be borne with. But would he never, never come to his senses! After he had finished his dinner, which had been ready earlier than usual, Tom hurried to the Barrys', and found the family just leaving the table. He rapidly sketched his new plan. "You're runnin' again' Foley again in six months is all right, but where's the use our tryin' to get more money?" grumbled Pete. "Suppose we fight hard an' win the strike. What then? We get nothin' out of it. Foley won't let us work." "Oh, talk like a man, Pete!" requested Mrs. Barry. "You know you don't think that way." "If we win the strike, with Foley against it, it'll be the end of him," said Tom, in answer to Pete. "But suppose things turn out with Foley in control o' the strike?" questioned Barry. "That won't happen. But if it would, he'd run it all on the square. And he'd manage it well, too. You know what he has done. Well, he'd do the same again if he was forced into a fight. "It won't be hard to work the men up to make the demand for an increase," Tom went on. "All the men who voted for me are in favor of it, and a lot more, too. All we've got to do is to stir them up a bit, and get word to them to come out on a certain night. Foley'll hardly dare put up a fight against us in the open." "Whoever runs the strike, we certainly ought to have more money," said Mrs. Barry decidedly. "And the bosses can afford to give us more," declared Tom. "They've never made more than they have the last two years." "Sure, they could divide a lot o' the money we've made with us, an' still not have to button up their own clothes," averred Mrs. Barry. "Oh, I dunno," said Pete. "They're hard up, just the same as us. What's a hundred thousand when you've got to spend money on yachts, champagne an' Newport, an' other necessities o' life? The last time I was at the Baxters', Mrs. Baxter was settin' at the kitchen table figgerin' how she could make over the new dress she had last summer an' wonderin' how she'd ever pay the gas bill." Mrs. Barry grunted. "I got a picture o' her!" Tom brought the talk back to bear directly upon his scheme, and soon after left, accompanied by Pete, to begin immediately his new campaign. As soon as they had gone Mrs. Barry turned eagerly to her husband. "If we get that ten per cent. raise, Henry won't have to go to work when he's fourteen like we expected." "Yes. I was thinkin' o' that." "An' we could keep him in school mebbe till he's eighteen. Then he could get a place in some office or business. By that time Annie'll be old enough to go to normal college. She can go through there and learn to be a teacher." "An' mebbe I can get you some good clothes, like I've always wanted to." "Oh, you! D'you think you can buy everything with seventy dollars!" She leaned over with glowing eyes and kissed him. Rapid work was required by the new campaign, for Tom had settled upon the first meeting in April as the time when he would have the demand for more wages put to a vote. The new campaign, however, would be much easier than the one that had just come to so disastrous an ending. As he had said, the men were already eager to make the demand for more money; his work was to unite this sentiment into a movement, and to urge upon the men that they be out to vote on the first Wednesday in April. Tom's first step was to enlist the assistance of the nine other men who had helped him in his fight against Foley. He found that the vengeance of the walking delegate had been swift; seven had abruptly lost their jobs. When he had explained his new plan, eight of the nine were with him. The spirit of the ninth was gone. "I've had enough," he said bitterly. "If I hadn't mixed in with you, I'd be all right now." Upon this man Tom promptly turned his back. He was an excellent ally to be without. Tom, with Pete, Barry, and his eight other helpers, began regularly to put in each evening in calling upon the members of the union. Every man they saw was asked to talk to others. And so the word spread and spread. And to Foley it came among the first. Jake Henderson heard it whispered about the St. Etienne Hotel Saturday, and when the day's work was done he hurried straight to Foley's home in order to be certain of catching Buck when he came in to dinner. He had to wait half an hour, but that time was not unpleasantly spent, inasmuch as Mrs. Foley set forth a bottle of beer. When Foley caught the tenor of Jake's story his face darkened and he let out an oath. But immediately thereafter he caught hold of his excitement. While Jake talked Foley's mind worked rapidly. He did not want a strike for three sufficient reasons. First of all, that the move was being fathered by Tom was enough to make him its opponent. Secondly, he had absolutely nothing to gain from a strike; his power was great, and even a successful strike could not add to it. And last, he would lose financially by it; his arrangement with Baxter and one or two other contractors would come to an end, and in the management of a general strike so many persons were involved that he would have no chance to levy tribute. Before Jake had finished his rather long-winded account Foley cut him short. "Yes. I'm glad youse come in. I was goin' to send for youse to-night about this very thing." "What! Youse knew all about it already?" Foley looked surprise at him. "D'youse think I do nothin' but sleep?" "Nobody can't tell youse anything," said Jake admiringly. "Youse're right up to the minute." "Some folks find me a little ahead." He pulled at his cigar. "I got a little work for youse an' your bunch." Jake sprang up excitedly. "Not Keating?" "If youse could guess that well at the races youse'd always pick the winner. This business's got to stop, an' I guess that's the easiest way to stop it." And, Foley might have added, the only way. "He ought to've had it long ago," said Jake, with conviction. "He'll enjoy it all the more for havin' to wait for it." He stood up, and Jake, accepting his dismissal, took his hat. "Youse have a few o' the boys around to-night, an' I'll show up about ten. Four or five ought to be enough--say Arkansas, Smoky, Kaffir Bill, and Hickey." Foley saw Connelly and two or three other members of his cabinet during the evening, and gave orders that the word was to go forth among his followers that he was against Keating's agitation; he knew the inside facts of present conditions, and knew there was no chance of winning a strike. At ten o'clock he sauntered into the rear room of Mulligan's saloon. Five men were playing poker. With the exception of one they were a group to make an honest man fall to his knees and quickly confess his sins. Such a guileless face had the one that the honest man would have been content with him as confessor. In past days the five had worked a little, each in his own part of the world, and not liking work had procured their living in more congenial ways; and on landing in New York, in the course of their wanderings, they had been gathered in by Foley as suited to his purpose. "Hello, Buck!" they called out at sight of Foley. "Hello, gents," he answered. He locked the door with a private key, and kicked a chair up to the table. "Say, Buck, I got a thirst like a barrel o' lime," remarked he of the guileless face, commonly known as Arkansas Number Two. "D'you know anything good for it?" "The amount o' money I spend in a year on other men's drinks'd support a church," Foley answered. But he ordered a quart of whisky and glasses. "Now let's get to business," he said, when they had been placed on the table. "I guess youse've got an idea in your nuts as to what's doin'?" "Jake put us next," grinned Kaffir Bill. "Keating." "Yes. He's over-exertin' his throat. He's likely to spoil his voice, if we don't sorter step in an' stop him." "But Jake didn't tell us how much youse wanted him to have," said Kaffir Bill. "Stiff?" "Not much. Don't youse remember when youse made an undertaker's job out o' Fleischmann? An' how near youse come to takin' the trip to Sing Sing? We don't want any more risks o' that sort. Leave your guns at home." Foley gulped down the raw whisky. "A couple months' vacation'd be about right for Keating. It'd give him a chance to get acquainted with his wife." He drew out a cigar and fitted it to one corner of his mouth. "He's left handed, youse know. An' anyhow he works mostly with his mouth." "An' he's purty chesty," said Jake, following up Foley's cue with a grin. "That's the idea," said Foley. "A wing, an' say two or three slats. Or a leg." The five understood and pledged the faithful discharge of their trust in a round of drinks. "But what's in it for us?" asked Arkansas Number Two. "It's an easy job. Youse get him in a fight, he goes down; youse do the business with your feet. Say ten apiece. That's plenty." "Is that all it's worth to you?" Arkansas asked cunningly. "Make it twenty-five, Buck," petitioned Kaffir Bill. "We need the coin. What's seventy-five more to youse?" The other four joined in the request. "Well, if I don't I s'pose every son-of-a-gun o' youse'll strike," said Foley, assuming the air of a defeated employer. "All right--for this once. But this ain't to be the regular union rate." "You're all to the good, Buck!" the five shouted. Foley rose and started out. At the door he paused. "Youse can't ask me for the coin any too soon," he said meaningly. The five held divergent opinions upon many subjects, but upon one point they were as one mind--esteem for the bottle. So when Buck's quart of whisky was exhausted they unanimously decided to remove themselves to Potomac Hall, in whose bar-room there usually could be found someone that, after a dark glance or two, was delighted to set out the drinks. They quickly found a benefactor in the person of Johnson, also a devotee of the bottle. They were disposing of the third round of drinks when Pete, who had been attending a meeting of the Membership Committee of the union, passed through the bar-room on his way out. Jake saw him, and, three parts drunk, could not resist the opportunity for advance satisfaction. "Hold on, Pig Iron," he called after him. Pete stopped, and Jake walked leeringly up to him. "This here----" the best Jake could do in the way of profanity, "Keating is goin' to get what's comin' to him!" Jake ended with a few more selections from his repertoire of swear-words. Pete retorted in kind, imperatively informing Jake that he knew where he could go, and walked away. Pete recognized the full meaning of Jake's words; and a half hour later he was knocking on Tom's door. He found a tall, raw-boned man sitting in one of Tom's chairs. Maggie had gone to bed. "Shake hands with Mr. Petersen, Pete," said Tom sleepily. "He's just come into the union." "Glad to know you," said Pete, and offered a hand to the Swede, who took it without a word. He turned immediately about on Tom. "I guess you're in for your thumps, Tom." And he told about his meeting with the five members of the entertainment committee. "I expected 'em before the election. Well, I'll be ready for 'em," Tom said grimly. A light had begun to glow in Petersen's heavy eyes as Pete talked. He now spoke for the first time since Pete had come in. "Vot day do?" he asked. Pete explained in pantomine, thrusting rapid fists close to various parts of Petersen's face. "About five men on you at once." Petersen grunted. When Pete left, the Swede remained in his chair with anxiety showing through his natural stolidity. Tom gave a helpless glance at him, and followed Pete out into the hall. "For God's sake, Pete, help me out!" Tom said in a whisper. "He's the fellow I helped get into the union. I told you about him, you know. He came around to-night to tell me he's got a job. When I came in at half past ten he'd been here half an hour already. It's eleven-thirty now. And he ain't said ten words. I want to go to bed, but confound him, he don't know how to leave!" Pete opened the door. "Say, Petersen, ain't you goin' my way? Come on, we'll go together." Petersen rose with obvious relief. He shook hands with Tom in awkward silence, and together he and Pete went down the stairs. Monday morning Tom bought the first revolver he had ever possessed. If he had had any doubt as to the correctness of Pete's news, that doubt would not have been long with him. During the morning, as he went about looking for a job, he twice caught a glimpse of three members of the entertainment committee watching him from the distance; and he knew they were waiting a safe chance to close in upon him. The revolver in his inner vest pocket pressed a welcome assurance against his ribs. That night when he came down from dinner to carry his new plan from ear to ear, he found Petersen, hands in his overcoat pockets, standing patiently without the doorway of the tenement. "Hello, Petersen," he said in surprise. "Hello," said Petersen. Tom wanted no repetition of his experience of Saturday night. "Got a lot of work to do to-night," he said hurriedly. "So-long." He started away. The Swede, with no further words, fell into step beside him. For several blocks they walked in silence, then Tom came to a pause before a tenement in which lived a member of the union. "Good-by, Petersen," he said. "Goo'-by," said Petersen. They shook hands. When Tom came into the street ten minutes later there was Petersen standing just where he had left him. Again the Swede fell into step. Tom, though embarrassed and irritated by the man's silent, persistent company, held back his words. At the second stop Tom said shortly: "I'll be here a long while. You needn't wait." But when he came down from the call, which he had purposely extended, Petersen was waiting beside the steps. This was too much for Tom. "Where are you going?" he demanded. "'Long you," the Swede answered slowly. "I don't know's I need you," Tom returned shortly, and started away. For half a dozen paces there was no sound but his own heel-clicks. Then he heard the heel-clicks of the Swede. He turned about in exasperation. "See here! What's your idea in following me around like this?" Petersen shifted his feet uncomfortably. "De man, last night, he say----" He finished by placing his bony fists successively on either side of his jaw. "I tank maybe I be 'long, I be some good." A light broke in on Tom. And he thought of the photograph on Petersen's leprous wall. He shoved out his hand. "Put it there, Petersen!" he said. And all that evening Tom's silent companion marched through the streets beside him. Chapter XV MR. BAXTER HAS A FEW CONFERENCES Captains of war have it as a common practice to secure information, in such secret ways as they can, about their opponents' plans and movements, and to develop their own plans to match these; and this practice has come into usage among captains of industry. The same afternoon that Jake brought news of Tom's scheme to Foley, a man of furtive glance whom a member of the union would have recognized as Johnson requested the youth in the outer office of Baxter & Co. to carry his name to the head of the firm. "Wha' d'youse want to see him 'bout?" demanded the uniform. "A job." "No good. He don't hire nobody but the foremen." "It's a foreman's job I'm after," returned Johnson, glancing about. The debate continued, but in the end Johnson's name went in to Mr. Baxter, and Johnson himself soon followed it. When he came out Mr. Baxter's information was as complete as Buck Foley's. That evening Johnson's news came into the conversation of Mr. Baxter and his wife. After dinner she drew him into the library--a real library, booked to the ceiling on three sides, an open wood fire on the other--to tell him of a talk she had had that day with chance-met Ruth. With an aunt's privilege she had asked about the state of affairs between her and Mr. Berman. "There's no telling what she's going to do," Mrs. Baxter went on, with a gentle sigh. "I do hope she'll marry him! People are still talking about her strange behavior in leaving us to go to work. How I did try to persuade her not to do it! I knew it would involve us in a scandal. And the idea of her offering to go to work in your office!" Mr. Baxter continued to look abstractedly into the grate, as he had looked ever since she had begun her half-reminiscent strain. Now that she was ended, she could but note that his mind was elsewhere. "James!" "Yes." He turned to her with a start. "Why, you have not spoken a word to me. Is there something on your mind?" He studied the flames for a moment. "I learned this afternoon that the Iron Workers' Union will probably demand a ten per cent. increase in wages." "What! And that means a strike?" "It doubtless does, unless we grant their demand." "But can you afford to?" "We could without actually running at a loss." Mrs. Baxter was on the board of patronesses of one or two workingwomen's clubs and was a contributor to several fashionable charities, so considered herself genuinely thoughtful of the interests of wage-earners. "If you won't lose anything, I suppose you might as well increase their salaries. Most of them can use a little more money. They're respectable people who appreciate everything we do for them. And you can make it up by charging higher prices." Mr. Baxter sat silent for a space looking at his wife, quizzically, admiringly. He was inclined to scoff in his heart at his wife's philanthropic hobbies, but he indulged her in them as he did in all her efforts to attain fashionable standing. He had said, lover fashion, in their courtship days, that she should never have an ungratified wish, and after a score of years he still held warmly to this promise. He still admired her; and little wonder, for sitting with her feet stretched toward the open fire, her blonde head gracefully in one hand, her brown eyes fixed waitingly on him, looking at least eight less than her forty-three years, she was absolutely beautiful. "Elizabeth," he said at length, "do you know how much we spent last year?" "No." "About ninety-three thousand dollars." "So much as that? But really, it isn't such a big sum. A mere nothing to what some of our friends spend." "This year, with our Newport house, it'll be a good thirty thousand more; one hundred and twenty-five thousand, anyway. Now I can't make the owners pay the raise, as you seem to think." He smiled slightly at her business naïveté. "The estimates on the work I'll do this year were all made on the present scale, and I can't raise the estimates. If the ten per cent. increase is granted, it'll have to come out of our income. Our income will be cut down for this year to at least seventy-five thousand. If things go bad, to fifty thousand." Mrs. Baxter rose excitedly to her feet. "Why, that's absurd!" "We'd have to give up the Newport house," he went on, "put the yacht out of commission and lessen expenses here." She looked at her husband in consternation. After several years of effort Mrs. Baxter was just getting into the outer edge of the upper crust of New York society. At her husband's words she saw all that she had striven for, and which of late had seemed near of attainment, withdraw into the shadowy recesses of an uncertain future. "But we can't cut down!" she cried desperately. "We simply can't! We couldn't entertain here in the manner we have planned. And we'd have to go to Atlantic City this summer, or some other such place!--and who goes to Atlantic City? Why, we'd lose everything we've gained! We can never give the raise, James. It's simply out of the question!" "And we won't," said Mr. Baxter, gently tapping a forefinger upon the beautifully carved arm of his chair. "Anyhow, suppose we do spend a hundred and twenty-five thousand, why the working people get everything back in wages," she added ingeniously. Mr. Baxter realized the economic fallacy of this last statement; but he refrained from exposing her sophistry since her conscience found satisfaction in it. Monday morning, in discharge of his duty as president of the Iron Employers' Association, Mr. Baxter got Murphy, Bobbs, Isaacs, and Driscoll, the other four members of the Executive Committee, on the telephone. At eleven o'clock the five men were sitting around Mr. Baxter's cherry table. Bobbs, Murphy, and Isaacs already had knowledge of Tom's plans; Mr. Baxter was not the only one having unionists on his payroll who performed services other than handling beams and hammering rivets. Mr. Driscoll alone was surprised when Mr. Baxter stated the object of calling the committee thus hastily together. "Why, I thought we'd been assured the old schedule would be continued!" he said. "So Mr. Foley gave us to understand," answered Mr. Baxter. "But it's another man, a man named Keating, that's stirring this up." "Keating!" Mr. Driscoll's lips pouted hugely, and his round eyes snapped. For a man to whom he had taken a genuine liking to be stirring up a fight against his interest was in the nature of a personal affront to him. "I think I know him," said Mr. Murphy. "He ain't such a much!" "That shows you don't know him!" said Mr. Driscoll sharply. "Well, if there is a strike, we'll at least have the satisfaction of fighting with an honest man." "That satisfaction, of course," admitted Mr. Baxter, in his soft, rounded voice. "But what shall be our plan? It is certainly the part of wisdom for us to decide upon our attitude, and our course, in advance." "Fight 'em!" said Mr. Driscoll. "What is the opinion of you other gentlemen?" "They don't deserve an increase, so I'm against it," said Mr. Bobbs. Had he spoken his thought his answer would have been: "It'll half ruin me if we give the increase. Fact is, I've gone in pretty heavy in some real estate lately. If my profits are cut down, I can't meet my payments." "Same as Driscoll," said Mr. Murphy, a blowzed, hairy man, a Tammany member of the Board of Aldermen. He swore at the union. "Why, they're already gettin' twice what they're worth!" Mr. Baxter raised his eyebrows the least trifle at Mr. Murphy's profanity. "Mr. Isaacs." "I don't see how we can pay more. And yet if we're tied up by a strike for two or three months we'll lose more than the increase of wages would come to." Mr. Baxter answered the doubtful Mr. Isaacs in his smooth, even tones. "You seem to forget, Mr. Isaacs, that if we grant this without a fight, there'll be another demand next spring, and another the year after. We're compelled to make a stand now if we would keep wages within reasonable bounds." "Yes, I suppose so," agreed Mr. Isaacs. "Besides, if there is a strike it is not at all likely that it will last any time," Mr. Baxter continued. "We should break the strike easily, with a division in the union, as of course you see there is,--this Mr. Keating on one side, Mr. Foley on the other. I've met Mr. Keating. I dare say he's honest enough, as Mr. Driscoll says. But he is inexperienced, and I am sure we can easily outgeneral him." "Beat 'em easy, an' needn't spit on our hands to do it neither," said Mr. Murphy. He started to swing one foot upon the cherry table, but catching Mr. Baxter's eye he checked the leg in mid-career. Straightway the five plunged into an excited discussion of the chance of beating the strike, of plans for fighting it, and of preparation that should be made in anticipation of it. When they had gone Mr. Baxter sat down to his desk and began writing a note. He had listened to the talk of the four, to him mere chatter, with outward courtesy and inward chafing, not caring to mention to them the plan upon which he had already decided. His first impulse had been to fight the union, and fight it hard. He hated trade unionism for its arrogation of powers that he regarded as the natural right of the employer; it was his right, as the owner of a great business, and as the possessor of a superior intelligence, to run his affairs as he saw fit--to employ men on his own terms, work them such hours and under such conditions as he should decide--terms, hours, and conditions, of course, to be as good as he could afford. But his business training, his wholly natural instinct for gain, and later his large family expenses, had fixed upon him the profitable habit of seeking the line of least resistance. And so, succeeding this first hot impulse, was a desire that the strike be avoided--if that were possible. His first thought had been of Foley. But the fewer his meetings with the walking delegate of the iron workers, the more pleased was he. Then came the second thought that it was better to deal directly with the threatening cause--and so the letter he now wrote was to Tom Keating. The letter was delivered Tuesday morning before Tom left home. He read it in wonderment, for to him any letter was an event: "Will you please call at my office as soon as you can find it convenient. I have something to say that I think will interest you." Guessing wildly as to what this something might be, Tom presented himself at ten o'clock in the outer office of Baxter & Co. The uniform respectfully told him that Mr. Baxter would not be in before twelve. At twelve Tom was back. Yes, Mr. Baxter was in, said the uniform, and hurried away with Tom's name. Again there was a wait before the boy came back, and again a wait in a sheeny chair before Mr. Baxter looked up. "Oh, Mr. Keating," he said. "I see you got my letter." "Yes. This morning." Mr. Baxter did not lose a second. "What I wanted to see you about is this: I understand that some time ago you were inquiring here for a position. It happens that I have a place just now that I'm desirous of filling with an absolutely trustworthy man. Mr. Driscoll spoke very highly to me of you, so I've sent for you." This offer came to Tom as a surprise. His uppermost guess as to the reason for his being summoned had been that Mr. Baxter, repenting of his late non-participation, now wished to join in the fight against Foley. Under other circumstances Tom would have accepted the position, said nothing, and held the job as long as he could. But the fact that the offer was coming to him freely and in good faith prompted him to say: "You must know, Mr. Baxter, that if you give me a job Foley'll make trouble for you." "I have no fear of Mr. Foley's interference," Mr. Baxter answered him quietly. "You haven't!" Tom leaned forward in sudden admiration. "You're the first boss I've struck yet that's not afraid of Foley! He's got 'em all scared stiff. If you'd come out against him----" Tom would have said more but Mr. Baxter's cold reserve, not a change of feature, chilled his enthusiasm. He drew up in his chair. "What's the job?" "Foreman. The salary is forty a week." Tom's heart beat exultantly--and he had a momentary triumph over Maggie. "I'll take it," he said. "Can you begin at once?" "Yes." "Very well. Then I'll want you to leave to-morrow." Tom started. "Leave?" "Yes. Didn't I mention that the job is in Chicago?" Mr. Baxter watched Tom closely out of his steely gray eyes. He saw the flush die out of Tom's face, saw Tom's clasped hands suddenly tighten--and knew his answer before he spoke. "I can't do it," he said with an effort. "I can't leave New York." Mr. Baxter studied Tom's face an instant longer.... But it was too honest. He turned toward his desk with a gentle abruptness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Keating. Good-day." With Mr. Baxter there was small space between actions. He had already decided upon his course in case this plan should fail. Tom was scarcely out of his office before he was writing a note to Buck Foley. Foley sauntered in the next morning, hands in overcoat pockets, a cigar in one corner of his mouth. "What's this I hear about a strike?" Mr. Baxter asked, as soon as the walking delegate was seated. "Don't youse waste none o' the thinks in your brain-box on no strike," returned Foley. He had early discovered Mr. Baxter's dislike of uncouth expressions. "But there's a great deal of serious talk." "There's always wind comin' out o' men's mouths." Mr. Baxter showed not a trace of the irritation he felt. "Is there going to be a strike?" "Not if I know myself. And I think I do." He blew out a great cloud of smoke. "But one of your men--a Mr. Keating--is stirring one up." "He thinks he is," Foley corrected. "But he's got another think comin'. He's a fellow youse ought to know, Baxter. Nice an' cultivated; God-fearin' an' otherwise harmless." Mr. Baxter's face tightened. "I know, Mr. Foley, that this situation is much more serious than you pretend," he said sharply. Foley tilted back in his chair. "If youse seen a lion comin' at youse with a yard or so of open mouth youse'd think things was gettin' a little serious. But if youse knew the lion'd never make its last jump, youse wouldn't go into the occupation o' throwin' fits, now would youse?" "What do you mean?" "Nothin'. Only there'll be no last jump for Keating." "How's that?" "How? That's my business." He stood up, relit his cigar, striking the match on the sole of his shoe. "Results is what youse's after. The how belongs to me." At the door he paused, half closed one eye, and slowly blew forth the smoke of his cigar. "Now don't get brain-fag," he said. Chapter XVI BLOWS It was about half past twelve when Tom left Mr. Baxter's office. As he came purposeless into the street it occurred to him that he was but a few blocks from the office of Mr. Driscoll, and in the same instant his chance meeting with Ruth three weeks before as she came out to lunch flashed across his memory. He turned his steps in the direction of Mr. Driscoll's office, and on gaining the block it was in walked slowly back and forth on the opposite side of the street, eagerly watching the revolving door of the great building. At length she appeared. Tom started quickly toward her. Another quarter revolution of the door and a man was discharged at her side. The man was Mr. Berman; and they walked off together, he turning upon her glances whose meaning Tom's quickened instinct divined at once. The sight of these two together, Mr. Berman's eyes upon her with an unmistakable look, struck him through with jagged pain. He was as a man whose sealed vision an oculist's knife has just released. Amid startled anguish his eyes suddenly opened to things he, in his blindness, had never guessed. He saw what she had come to mean to him. This was so great that, at first, it well-nigh obscured all else. She filled him,--her sympathy, her intelligence, her high womanliness. And she, she that filled him, was ... only a great pain. And then (he had mechanically followed them, and now stood watching the door within which they had disappeared--the door through which he had gone with her three weeks before) he saw, his pain writhing within him the while, the double hopelessness of his love: she was educated, cultured--she could care nothing for a mere workman; and even if she could care, he was bound. And then (he was now moving slowly through the Broadway crowd, scarcely conscious of it) he saw how poor he was in his loveless married life. Since his first liking for Maggie had run its so brief course, he had lapsed by such slow degrees to his present relations with her that he had been hardly more conscious of his life's lacking than if he had been living with an unsympathetic sister. But now that a real love had discovered itself to him, with the suddenness of lightning that rips open the night, he saw, almost gaspingly, how glorious life with love could be; and, by contrast, he saw how sordid and commonplace his own life was; and he saw this life without love stretching away its flat monotony, year after year. And there were things he did not see, for he had not been made aware by the unwritten laws prevailing in a more self-conscious social stratum. And one of these things was, he did not see that perhaps in his social ignorance he had done Ruth some great injury. That night Maggie kept his dinner warm on the back of the kitchen range, to no purpose; and that night Petersen waited vainly on the tenement steps. It was after twelve when Tom came into the flat, his face drawn, his heart chilled. He had seen his course vaguely almost from the first moment of his vision's release; he had seen it clearer and more clear as hour after hour of walking had passed; and he felt himself strong enough to hold to that course. The next morning at breakfast he was gentler with Maggie than he had been in many a day; so that once, when she had gone into the kitchen to refill her coffee cup, she looked in at him for a moment in a kind of resentful surprise. Not being accustomed to peering inward upon the workings of his soul, Tom himself understood this slight change in his attitude no better than did his wife. He did not realize that the coming of the knowledge of love, and the coming of sorrow, were together beginning to soften and refine his nature. The work Tom had marked out for himself permitted him little time to brood over his new unhappiness. After breakfast he set out once more upon his twofold purpose: to find a job, if one could be found; to talk strike to as many members of the union as he could see. In seeking work he was limited to such occupations as had not yet been unionized. He walked along the docks, thinking to find something to do as a longshoreman, but the work was heavy and irregular, the hours long, the pay small; and he left the river front without asking for employment. He looked at the men in the tunnel of the underground railway; but he could not bring himself to ask employment among the low-waged Italians he saw there. He did go into three big stores and make blind requests for anything, but at none was there work for him. As he went about Tom visited the jobs near which he passed, on which members of his union were at work. One of these was a small residence hotel just west of Fifth Avenue, whose walls were up, but which was as yet unfinished on the inside. He climbed to the top in search of members employed on the iron stairways and the elevator shafts, but did not find a man. He reached the bottom of the stairway just in time to see three men enter the doorway. One of the three he recognized as Jake Henderson, and he knew the entertainment committee had him cornered. He grimly changed his revolver from his vest pocket to his left coat pocket, and filling his right coat pocket from a heap of sand beside him, quietly awaited their coming. The three paused a moment inside the door, evidently to accustom their eyes to the half darkness, for all the windows were boarded up. At length they sighted him, standing before the servants' staircase in the further corner. They came cautiously across the great room, as yet unpartitioned, Jake slightly in the lead. At ten paces away they came to a halt. "I guess we got youse good an' proper at last," said Jake gloatingly. "It won't do youse no good to yell. We'll give youse all the more if youse do. An' we can give it to youse, anyhow, before the men can get down." Tom did not answer. He had no mind to cry for help. He stood alertly watching them, his hands in his coat pockets. Jake laid off his hat and coat--there was leisure, and it enlarged his pleasure to take his time--and moved forward in advance of his two companions. "Good-by," he said leering. He was on the point of lunging at his victim, when Tom's right hand came out and a fistful of sand went stinging full into his face. He gave a cry, but before he could so much as make a move to brush away the sand Tom's fist caught him on the ear. He dropped limply. The two men sprang forward, to be met in the face by Tom's revolver. "If you fellows want button-holes put into you, just move another step!" he said. They took another step, several of them--but backward steps. Tom kept them covered for a minute, then moved toward the light, walking backward, his eyes never leaving them. On gaining the door he slipped the revolver into his vest pocket and stepped quickly into the blinding street. When Tom, entering the union hall that evening, passed Jake at his place at the door, the latter scowled fiercely, but the presence of several of Tom's friends, who had been acquainted with the afternoon's encounter, pacified his fists. "Why, what's the matter with your eyes, Jake?" asked Pig Iron Pete sympathetically. Jake consigned Pete to the usual place, and whispered in Tom's ear: "Youse just wait! I'll git youse yet!" That night Tom sat his first time in the president's chair. His situation was painfully grotesque,--instead of being the result of the chances of election, it might well have been an ironic jest of Foley: there was Connelly, two tables away, at his right; Brown, the vice-president, at the table next him; Snyder, the corresponding secretary, at his left; Jake Henderson, sergeant-at-arms, at the door;--every man of them an intimate friend of Foley. And it was not long before Tom felt the farce-tragedy of his position. Shortly after he rapped the meeting to order a man in the rear of the hall became persistently obstreperous. After two censured outbreaks he rose unsteadily amid the discussion upon a motion. "I objec'," he said. "What's your objection?" Tom asked, repressing his wrath. The man swore. "Ain't it 'nough I objec'!" "If the member is out of order again he'll have to leave the hall." Tom guessed this to be a scheme of Foley to annoy him. "Put me out, you----" And the man offered some remarks upon Tom's character. Tom pounded the table with his gavel. "Sergeant-at-arms, put that man out!" Jake, who stood at the door whispering to a man, did not even turn about. "Sergeant-at-arms!" Jake went on with his conversation. "Sergeant-at-arms!" thundered Tom, springing to his feet. Jake looked slowly around. "Put that man out!" Tom ordered. "Can't youse see I'm busy?" said Jake; and turned his broad back. Several of Tom's friends sprang up, but all in the room waited to see what he would do. For a moment he stood motionless, a statue of controlled fury, and for that moment there was stillness in the hall. Then he tossed the gavel upon the table and strode down the center aisle. He seized the offending member, who was in an end seat, one hand on his collar and one on his wrist. The man struck out, but a fierce turn of his wrist brought from him a submissive cry of pain. Tom pushed him, swearing, toward the door. No one offered interference, and his ejection was easy, for he was small and half drunken. Tom strode back to his table, brought the gavel down with a blow that broke its handle and looked about with blazing eyes. Again the union waited his action in suspense. His chest heaved; he swallowed mightily. Then he asked steadily: "Are you ready for the question?" This is but one sample of the many annoyances Tom suffered during the meeting, and of the annoyances he was to suffer for many meetings to come. A man less obstinately strong would have yielded his resignation within an hour--to force which was half the purpose of the harassment; and a man more violent would have broken into a fury of words, which, answering the other half of the purpose, would have been to Foley's crew what the tirade of a beggar is to teasing schoolboys. When "new business" was reached Tom yielded the chair to Brown, the vice-president, and rose to make the protest on which he had determined. He had no great hope of winning the union to the action he desired; but it had become a part of his nature never to give up and to try every chance. The union knew what was coming. There were cheers and hisses, but Tom stood waiting minute after minute till both had died away. "Mr. Chairman, I move we set aside last week's election of walking delegate," he began, and went on to make his charges against Foley. Cries of "Good boy, Tom!" "Right there!" came from his friends, and various and variously decorated synonyms for liar came from Foley's crowd; but Tom, raising his voice to a shout, spoke without pause through the cries of friends and foes. When he ended half the crowd was on foot demanding the right to the floor. Brown dutifully recognized Foley. Foley did not speak from where he stood in the front row, but sauntered angularly, hands in trousers pockets, to the platform and mounted it. With a couple of kicks he sent a chair from its place against the wall to the platform's edge, leisurely swung his right foot upon the chair's seat, rested his right elbow upon his knee, and with cigar in the left corner of his mouth, and his side to his audience, he began to speak. "When I was a kid about as big as a rivet I used to play marbles for keeps," he drawled, looking at the side wall. "When I won, I didn't make no kick. When I lost, a deaf man could 'a' heard me a mile. I said the other kid didn't play fair, an' I went cryin' around to make him give 'em up." He paused to puff at his cigar. "Our honorable president, it seems he's still a kid. Me an' him played a little game o' marbles last week. He lost. An' now he's been givin' youse the earache. It's the same old holler. He says I didn't play fair. He says I tried to stuff the box at the start. But that was just a game on his part, as I said then, to throw suspicion on me; an' anyhow, no ballots got in. He says I stuffed it by a trick at the last. What's his proof? He says so. Convincin'--hey? Gents, if youse want to stop his bawlin', give him back his marbles. Turn me down, an' youse'll have about what's comin' to youse--a cry baby sport." He kicked his chair back against the wall and sat down; and amidst all the talk that followed he did not once rise or turn his face direct to the crowd. But when, finally, Brown said, "Everybody in favor of the motion stand up," Foley rose to his full height with his back against the wall, and his withheld gaze now struck upon the crowd with startling effect. It was a phenomenon of his close-set eyes that each man in a crowd thought them fixed upon himself. Upon every face that gaze seemed bent--lean, sarcastic, menacing. "Everybody that likes a cry baby sport, stand up!" he shouted. Men sprang up all over the hall, and stood so till the count was made. "Those opposed," Brown called out. A number equally great rose noisily. A glance showed Tom the motion was lost, since a two-thirds' vote was necessary to rescind an action. But as his hope had been small, his disappointment was now not great. Foley's supporters broke into cheers when they saw their leader was safe, but Foley himself walked with up-tilted cigar back to his first seat in an indifferent silence. Chapter XVII THE ENTERTAINMENT COMMITTEE During the three weeks that followed Tom kept busy day and night,--by day looking for work and talking to chance-met members, by night stirring the members to appear on the first Wednesday of April to vote for the demand for higher wages. He was much of the time dogged by part of the entertainment committee, but he had become watchful, and the knowledge that he was armed made them wary, so day after day passed without another conflict. At first his committee's delay in the discharge of their duty stirred Foley's wrath. "Youse're as slow as fat angels!" he informed them in disgust. Later the delay stirred his anxiety, and he raised his offer from twenty-five dollars a man to one hundred. Every night Tom was met at his street door by Petersen and left there by him a few hours later. His frequent appearance with Tom brought Petersen into some prominence; and he was promptly nicknamed "Babe" by a facetious member who had been struck by his size, and "Rosie" by a man who saw only his awkwardness. Both names stuck. His relation to Tom had a more unpleasant result: it made the story of his discomfiture by a man of half his size, while on the fire-house job, decidedly worth the telling; and so it rapidly came into general circulation, and the sight of Petersen was the signal for jeers, even among Tom's own friends. Petersen flushed at the taunts, but bore them dumbly and kept his arms at his side. All this while Ruth was much in Tom's mind. Had it not been that he kept himself busy he could have done little else but think of her. As it was, he lay awake long hours at night, very quietly that he might not rouse his wife, in wide-eyed dreams of her; and several times by day he caught himself out of thoughts of her to find himself in a street far out of his way. And once, in the evening, he had puzzled the faithful Petersen by walking back and forth through an uptown block and gazing at a house in which no member of the Iron Workers' Union could possibly be living. But he held firmly to the course he had recognized as his only course. For three weeks he maintained his determination, against desire scarcely less strong than his strength, till the evening of the first Tuesday of April, the night before the vote upon the strike. Then, either he was weaker, or desire was stronger. He was overwhelmed. His resolve to keep away from her, his intention to spend this last evening in work, were nothing before his wish to see her again. He was fairly swept up to her door, not heeding Petersen, and not giving a thought to Jake, whom he glimpsed once in the street car behind when a brief blockade let it gain the tail of his own. "You needn't wait for me," he said mechanically to Petersen as he rang the bell. Again the maid brought back word for him to come up. This time Ruth was not waiting him at the head of the stairs. He stood before her door a moment, with burning brain, striving for mastery over himself, before he could knock. She called to him to enter, and he found her leaning against her little case of books, unusually pale, but with eyes brighter than he had ever seen them. She took a step toward him, and held out her hand. "I'm so glad you called, Mr. Keating." Tom, for his part, could make no answer; his throat had suddenly gone cracking dry. He took her hand; his grip was as loose as an unconscious man's. As was the first minute, so were the two hours that followed. In answer to her questions he told her of his new plans, without a vestige of enthusiasm; and presently, to save the situation, she began to talk volubly about nothing at all. They were hours of mutual constraint. Tom hardly had knowledge of what he said, and he hardly heard her words. His very nearness to her made more ruthlessly clear the wideness that lay between them. He felt with its first keenness the utter hopelessness of his love. Every moment that he sat with his hot eyes upon her he realized that he should forthwith go. But still he sat on in a silence of blissful agony. At length there came an interruption--a knock at the door. Ruth answered it, and when she turned about she held out an envelope to Tom. "A letter for you," she said, with a faint show of surprise. "A messenger brought it." Tom tore it open, looking first to the signature. It was from Pete. "I have got a bunch of the fellows in the hall over the saloon at--Third Avenue," read the awkward scramble of words. "On the third floor. Can't you come in and help me with the spieling?" At another time Tom might have wondered at this note: how Pete had come to be in a hall with a crowd of men, how Pete had learned where he was. But now the note did not raise a doubt in his fevered brain. He folded the note, and put it into a pocket. "I've got some work to do yet to-night," he explained, and he took up his hat. It was an unusually warm evening for the first of April and he had worn no overcoat. "You must come again soon," she said a few moments later, as he was leaving. Tom had nothing to say; he could not tell her the truth--that he expected never to see her again. And so he left her, awkwardly, without parting word of any kind. At the foot of the stairs he paused and looked up at her door, at the head of the first flight, and he looked for a long, long space before he stepped forth into the night. A little round man stood bareheaded on the stoop; Petersen was pacing slowly to and fro on the sidewalk. The little man seized Tom by the arm. "Won't you send a policeman, please," he asked excitedly, in an inconsequential voice, such as belongs properly to the husband of a boarding-house mistress. "What for?" "That man there has been walking just so, back and forth, for the last two hours. From the way he keeps looking up at the house it is certain he is contemplating some nefarious act of burglary." "I'll do better than send a cop," said Tom. "I'll take him away myself." He went down the steps, took Petersen's arm and started off with him. "Thank you exceedingly, sir!" called out the little man. They took an Eighty-sixth Street cross-town car to Third Avenue, and after five minutes' riding southward Tom, keeping watch from the end of the car, spied a number near to the one for which he was searching. They got out and easily found the place designated in Pete's note. It was that great rarity, a saloon in the middle of a New York block. The windows of the second floor were dark; a soft glow came through those of the floor above. With the rattle of the elevated trains in their ears Tom and Petersen entered the hallway which ran alongside the saloon, and mounted two flights of stairs so dark that, at the top of the second, Tom had to grope for the door. This discovered, he opened it and found himself at the rear of the hall. This was a barren, dingy room, perhaps forty feet long, with double curtains of some figured cloth at the three front windows. Four men sat at the front end of the room playing cards; there were glasses and beer bottles on the table, and the men were smoking. All this Tom saw within the time of the snapping of an instantaneous shutter; and he recognized, with the same swiftness, that he had been trapped. But before he could shift a foot to retreat, a terrific shove from behind the door sent him staggering against the side wall. The door was slammed shut by the same force, grazing Petersen as he sprang in. The bolt of the lock clicked into place. "We've got youse this time!" Tom heard a harsh voice cry out, and on the other side of Petersen, who stood on guard with clenched fists, he saw Jake Henderson, a heavy stick in his right hand. In the same instant the men at the table had sprung to their feet. "Why, if it ain't Rosie!" cried Kaffir Bill, advancing at the head of the quartette. "Say, fellows, tie my two hands behind me, so's me an' Rosie can have an even fight," requested Arkansas Number Two. "If youse want Rosie to fight, youse've got to tie his feet together," said Smoky; and this happy reference to the time Petersen ran away brought a laugh from the three others. Tom, recovering from his momentary dizziness, drew his revolver and levelled it at the four. "The first man that moves gets the first bullet." The men suddenly checked their steps. For an instant the seven made a tableau. Then Petersen sprang in at Jake. A blow from the club on his left shoulder stopped him. Again he sprang in, this time breaking through Jake's guard, but only to grasp Jake's left arm with his half-numbed left hand. This gave Jake his chance. His right hand swung backward with the club, his eyes on Tom. "Look out!" cried Petersen. Tom, guessing danger in the warning, pulled the trigger. With a cry Hickey dropped to the floor, a bullet in his leg. In the very flash of the revolver the whizzing club sent the weapon flying from Tom's hand. Tom made a rush after the pistol, and Jake, breaking from Petersen's grip, made a plunge on the same errand. Both outstretched hands closed upon it, and the two men went sprawling to the floor in a struggle for its possession. Petersen faced quickly about upon the men whom Tom's revolver had made hesitant. Hickey lay groaning and swearing, a little pool of blood beginning to form on the bare floor. The other three, in their lust for their reward now so nearly won, gave Hickey hardly a glance, but advanced upon Petersen with the confidence that comes of being three to one and of knowing that one to be a coward. Petersen slipped off his coat, threw it together with his derby hat upon the floor near the wall, and with swelling nostrils quietly awaited their onslaught. Arkansas stepped forth from his fellows. "Where'll I hit you first, Rosie? Glad to give you your pref'rence." And he spat into the V of Petersen's vest. That was the last conscious moment of Arkansas for an hour. Petersen took a step forward, his long arm shot out, and Arkansas went to the floor all a-huddle. Tom's eyes, glancing an instant from his own adversary, saw the "Swedish Terror" of the photograph: left foot advanced, fists on guard, body low-crouched. "Come on!" Petersen said, with a joyous snarl, to the two men who had fallen back a step. "Come on. I vant you bod!" Kaffir Bill looked hesitantly upon his companion. "It was only a lucky lick, Smoky; Arkansas wasn't lookin'," he explained doubtfully. "Yes," said the other. "Sure. It couldn't 'a' been nothin' else. Why, Kid Morgan done him up." "Come on then!" cried Smoky. Together they made a rush, Bill a step in advance. Petersen's right landed over Bill's heart. Bill went tottering backward and to the floor. Smoky shot in and clinched; but after Petersen's fists, like alternating hammers, had played a terrific tattoo against his two cheeks, he loosed his hold and staggered away with his arms about his ears. Bill rose dizzily to his feet, and the pair leaned against the further wall, whispering and watching Petersen with glowering irresolution. "Come on, bod! Come on vid you!" Petersen shouted, his fists moving back and forth in invitation, his indrawn breath snoring exultantly. Jake let out an oath. "Get into him!" he said. "Yah! Come on vid you!" They conferred a moment longer, and then crept forward warily. Hickey stopped his groaning and rose to his elbows to watch the second round. At five feet away the two paused. Then suddenly Smoky made a feint, keeping out of reach of the Swede's swinging return, and under cover of this Kaffir Bill ducked and lunged at Petersen's legs. Petersen went floundering to the floor, and Smoky hurled himself upon his chest. The three became a whirling, tumbling tangle,--arms striking out, legs kicking,--Petersen now in under, now half free, striking and hugging with long-untasted joy, breathing fierce grunts and strange ejaculations. The two had thought, once off his feet, the Swede would be an easy conquest. But Petersen had been a mighty rough-and-tumble scrapper before he had gone into the prize ring, and for a few tumultuous moments the astounded twain had all they could do to hold their own. "Slug him, can't youse!" gasped Bill, who was looking after Petersen's lower half, to Smoky, who was looking after the upper. Smoky likewise saw that only a blow in the right place could give them victory over this heaving force. So far it had taken his best to hold these long arms. But he now loosed his hug to get in the victorious blow. Before he could strike, Petersen's fist jammed him in the face. "Ya-a-h!" grunted the Swede. Smoky fell instantly to his old position. "Hit him yourself!" he growled from Petersen's shirt front. Bill, not having seen what had happened to Smoky, released a leg so that he might put his fist into Petersen's stomach. The leg kicked his knee. Bill, with a shriek, frantically re-embraced the leg. The two now saw they could do no more than merely hold Petersen, and so the struggle settled to a stubborn equilibrium. In the meantime the strife between Tom and Jake had been like that of two bulls which stand braced, with locked horns. Jake's right hand had gained possession of the revolver, having at first had the better hold on it; Tom had a fierce grip on his forearm. The whole effort of one was to put the weapon into use; the whole effort of the other was to prevent its use, and perhaps to seize it for himself. Neither dared strike lest the act give the other his chance. When he saw nothing was coming of the struggle between Bill and Smoky and Petersen, a glimpse of the wounded man, raised on his elbows, gave Jake an idea. With a jerk of his wrist he managed to toss the revolver a couple of feet away, beyond his own and Tom's reach. "Hickey!" he called out. "Get it!" The wounded man moved toward them, half crawling, half dragging himself. A vengeful look came into his eyes. Tom needed no one to tell him what would happen when the man he had shot laid hand upon his weapon. Hickey drew nearer and nearer, his bloody trouser leg leaving a moist trail on the bare floor. His head reached their feet--passed them--his right hand stretched out for the revolver. Tom saw his only chance. With a supreme effort he turned Jake, who in watching Hickey was momentarily off his guard, upon his back; and with all the strength of his leg he drove his foot into the crawling man's stomach. The man collapsed with a groaning outrush of breath. Tom saw that the deadlock was likely to be ended, and the victory won, by the side gaining possession of the revolver; and he saw the danger to Petersen and himself that lay in the possibility of either of the unconscious men regaining his senses. Petersen's slow mind worked rapidly enough in a fight; he, too, saw the danger Tom had seen. Anything to be done must be done at once. But a nearer danger presented itself. Jake strained his neck till his eyes were on the trio. "Can't one o' youse hold him?" he gasped. "T'other git the gun." Smoky was on his back crosswise beneath Petersen's chest, his arms tight about Petersen's neck, clamping Petersen's hot cheek against his own. Kaffir Bill lay upon the Swede's legs, arms locked about them just below the hips. Bill was the freer to obey the order of the chief, and he began to slip his arms, still embracing the legs, slowly downward. Certainly anything to be done must be done at once, for Petersen, lost to passion though he was, knew that in another moment Bill's arms would have slipped to his feet, and there would be a spring to be clear of his kick and a rush for the revolver. With a fierce grunt, he quickly placed his broad hands on either side of Smoky's chest and slowly strained upward. Bill, not knowing what this new move meant, immediately regripped Petersen's thighs. Slowly Petersen rose, lifting Smoky's stiffened body after him, cheek still tight against cheek, till his elbows locked. Then his hips gradually raised till part of his weight was on his knees. His back arched upward, and his whole body stiffened till it was like a bar of iron. Suddenly his arms relaxed, and he drove downward, his weight and strength concentrated against Smoky's cheek. Smoky's head battered the floor. His arms loosened; a quick blow on the jaw made them fall limp. Petersen whirled madly over to dispose of Bill, but in the same tick of the watch Bill sprang away, and to his feet, and made a dash for the revolver. Instantly Petersen was up and but two paces behind him. Bill's lunging hand fell upon the weapon, Petersen's fist fell upon Bill, and the revolver was Petersen's. When Jake saw Petersen come up with the pistol he took his arms from about Tom. "Youse've got me done. I give in," he growled. The two were rising when a wild voice sounded out hoarsely: "Come on! Come on now vid you!" Tom, on his feet, turned toward Petersen. The Swede, left hand gripping the revolver about its barrel, stood in challenging attitude, his eyes blazing, saliva trickling from one corner of his mouth. "Yah! Come on!" Tom recognized what he was seeing,--that wild Swedish rage that knows neither when it has beat nor when it is beaten; in this case all the less controllable from its long restraint. Pete, Smoky, and Bill were now all on their feet and leaning against the wall. Petersen strode glaring before them, shaking his great fists madly. "Come on now!" "Petersen!" Tom called. "Come on vid you! I vant all dree!" The harsh voice rose into a shriek. The three did not move. "For God's sake, Petersen! The fight's over!" Tom cried. "Afraid! Yah! Afraid! I lick you all dree!" With an animal-like roar he rushed at the three men. Smoky and Bill ducked and dashed away, but Jake stood his ground and put up his fists. A blow and he went to the floor. Petersen flung about to make for Smoky and Bill. Tom seized his arm. "God, man! Stop! They've give in!" "Look out!" A shove sent Tom staggering, and Petersen was away. "I lick 'em all, by God!" he roared. With annihilating intent he bore down upon Bill and Smoky, who stood back to wall on fearful defense. An inspiration flashed upon Tom. "Your wife, Petersen! Your wife!" he cried. Petersen's raging strides checked. He looked slowly about. "Vot?" "Your wife!" "Anna!... Anna!" Dazed, breathing heavily, he stared at Tom. Something like a convulsion went through him. His face faded to dullness, then to contrition. "Better let me have the gun," Tom said quietly, after a minute had passed. Petersen handed it over. "Now get your hat and coat, and we'll go." Without glancing at the three, who were staring at him in utter bewilderment, Petersen dully put on his hat and coat. A moment later he and Tom were backing toward the door. But before they reached it Tom's steady gaze became conscious of the curtains at the further end of the room. His square face tightened grimly with sudden purpose. "Take down those curtains, Petersen," he said. Petersen removed the six curtains, dusty and stained with tobacco juice, from their places and brought them to Tom. "Tear five of 'em into two strips." The three men, and Hickey from the floor, looked on curiously while Petersen obeyed. "Tie Jake up first; hands behind his back," was Tom's next order. "I'll see youse in hell first!" Jake backed away from Petersen and raised his fists. "If you make any trouble, I'll give you a quick chance to look around there a bit!" Jake gazed a moment at the revolver and the gleaming eye behind it, and his fists dropped. Petersen stepped behind him and went to work, twisting the strip of muslin into a rope as he wound it about Jake's wrists. The job was securely done in a minute, for Petersen had once followed the sea. "Now his feet," said Tom; and to Jake: "It'll be easier for you if you lay down." Jake hesitated, then with an oath dropped to his knees and tumbled awkwardly on his side. In another minute Jake's feet were fastened; and at the end of ten minutes the other four men had been bound, even the wounded Hickey. Tom put his revolver in his outside coat pocket, and unlocked the door. "Good-night," he said; and he and Petersen stepped out. He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "Police?" asked Petersen, when they had gained the street. "No. That's what they ought to have. But when you've been a union man longer you'll know we boys don't ask the police to mix in our affairs. When there's a strike, they're always turned against us by the bosses. So we leave 'em alone." They were but half a dozen squares from Mulligan's saloon. Tom set out in its direction, and five minutes later, with Petersen behind him, he walked into the doorway of the room beyond the bar. As he had expected, there sat Foley, and with him were three of his men. Foley started, and half rose from his chair, but settled back again. His discomposure confirmed what Tom had already guessed--that Foley's was the brain behind the evening's stratagem, and that he was awaiting his deputies' report. "I guess you were expecting somebody else," Tom said grimly from the doorway, one hand on the revolver in his coat pocket. "I just dropped in to tell you Jake Henderson and his bunch are waiting for you up over Murphy's saloon." Foley was dazed, as he could not help but be, thus learning his last plan had failed. "Youse saw 'em?" "I did." He looked Tom over. And then his eyes took in the figure of Petersen just within the doorway. He grasped instinctively at the chance to raise a laugh. "Was Rosie there?" he queried. The three dutifully guffawed. "Yes," said Tom. "Rosie was there." Foley took a bracing hold of himself, and toyed with the stem of his beer glass. "Much obliged for comin' in to tell me," he said, with a show of carelessness. "But I guess the boys ain't in no hurry." "No, I guess not," Tom agreed. "They said they'd wait till you came." With that he tossed the key upon the table, turned and strode forth from the saloon. Outside he thrust a gripping arm through Petersen's, which straightway took on an embarrassed limpness, and walked away. Chapter XVIII THE STOLEN STRIKE Tom mounted the stairs of Potomac Hall early the next evening. During the day he had told a few friends the story of the encounter of the night before. The story had spread in versions more or less vague and distorted, and now on his entry of the hall he was beset by a crowd who demanded a true and detailed account of the affair. This he gave. "Oh, come now, Tom! This's hot air you're handin' us out about Babe!" expostulated one of the men. "It's the truth." "Get out! I saw Kid Morgan chase him a block. He can't fight." "You think not? Well, there's one way you can convince yourself." "How's that?" "Try it with him for about a minute," answered Tom. There was a laugh, in which the man joined. "I tell you what, boys," he said, after it had subsided. "I hit Babe on the back o' the neck with a glove the day Kid chased him. If what Tom says is straight, I'm goin' to beg Babe's pardon in open meetin'." "Me, too," chimed in another. "It's so," said Tom, thinking with a smile of what was in store for Petersen. For some reason, perhaps one having to do with their personal pride, Jake and his fellows did not appear that night, though several hundred men waited their coming with impatient greetings. But just before Tom opened the session Petersen entered the hall and slipped into an obscure seat near the door. He was immediately recognized. "Petersen!" someone announced. Straightway men arose all over the hall and turned about to face him. "Petersen!" "Petersen!" "What's the matter with Petersen!" the cries went up, and there was a great clapping of hands. Petersen sprang to his feet in wild consternation. Yes, they were looking at him. Yes, that was his name. He didn't know what it meant---- But the next instant he had bolted out of the hall. When the shouting had died away Tom called the union to order. He was filled with an exultant sense of certain triumph; he had kept an estimating eye on the members as they had filed in; an easy majority of the men were with him, and as their decision would be by open vote there would be no chance for Foley to stuff a ballot-box. Pete, the instructed spokesman for Tom's party, was the first man on his feet. "Mr. President," he said, "I move we drop the reg'lar order o' business an' proceed at once to new business." Tom put the motion to rising vote. His confidence grew as he looked about the hall, for the rising vote on the motion showed how strong his majority really was. "Motion carried!" he shouted, and brought down his gavel. The next instant a dozen men were on their feet waving their right hands and crying, "Mr. Chairman." One was Pete, ten were good-intentioned but uninformed friends, and one was Foley. Tom's eyes fastened upon Foley, and his mind worked quickly. "Mr. Foley," he said. A murmur of surprise ran among Tom's friends. But he had his reason for this slight deviation from his set plan. He knew that Foley was opposed to a strike; if he let Foley go on record against it in a public speech, then his coming victory over the walking delegate would be all the more decisive. Foley looked slowly about upon the men, and for a moment did not speak. Then he said suddenly, in a conversational tone: "Boys, how much youse gettin'?" "Three seventy-five," several voices answered. "How long youse been gettin' it?" "Two years." "Yes," he said, his voice rising and ringing with intensity. "Two years youse've been workin' for three seventy-five. The bosses' profits have been growin' bigger an' bigger. But not a cent's raise have youse had. Not a cent, boys! Now here's what I say." He paused, and thrust out his right arm impressively. Tom regarded him in sickened, half-comprehending amazement. "Here's what I say, boys! I say it's time we had more money. I say we ought to make the blood-suckin' bosses give up a part o' what's comin' to us. That's what I say!" And he swung his doubled fist before his face in a great semi-circle. He turned to Tom, with a leer in his eyes that was for Tom alone. "Mr. President, I move we demand a ten per cent. increase o' wages, an' if the bosses won't give it, strike for it!" Tom sank stupefied back in his chair. Foley's own men were bewildered utterly. A dead silence of a minute or more reigned in the hall, while all but the walking delegate strove to recover their bearing. It was Connelly who broke the general trance. Connelly did not understand, but there was Foley's standing order, "Watch me, an' do the same." "I second the motion," he said. A little later Foley's strike measure was carried without a single dissenting vote. Foley, Connelly, Brown, Pete, and Tom, with Foley as chairman, were elected the committee to negotiate with the employers for higher wages, and, if there should be a strike, to manage it. The adoption of the strike measure meant to Foley that the income derived from Mr. Baxter, and two or three others with whom he maintained somewhat similar relations, was to be cut off. But before he reached home that night he had discovered a compensation for this loss, and he smiled with grim satisfaction. The next morning he presented himself in the office of Mr. Baxter, and this same grim smile was on his face. "Hello, Baxter! How youse stackin' up this mornin'?" And he clapped a hand on Mr. Baxter's artistically padded shoulder. The contractor started at this familiarity, and a slight frown showed itself on his brow. "Very well," he said shortly. "Really, now. Why, youse look like youse slept alongside a bad dream." Foley drew forth his cigar-case and held it out. He knew Mr. Baxter did not smoke cigars and hated their smell. "No, thank you." The walking delegate put one in his mouth and scratched a match under the edge of the cherry table. "I don't s'pose youse know there was doin's at the union last night?" "I understand the union decided to strike." "Wonderful, ain't it, how quick news travels?" Mr. Baxter disregarded Foley's look of mock surprise. "You seem to have failed utterly to keep your promise that there would be no strike," he said coldly. "It was Keating stirred it up," Foley returned, calmly biting a bit off his cigar and blowing it out upon the deep red rug. "You also failed to stop Mr. Keating," Mr. Baxter pursued. "Mr. Baxter, even the best of us makes our mistakes. I bet even youse ain't cheated every man youse've counted on cheatin'." Mr. Baxter gave another little start, as when Foley had slapped his shoulder. "Furthermore, I understand you, yourself, made the motion to strike." "The way youse talk sometimes, Baxter, makes me think youse must 'a' been born about minute before last," Foley returned blandly. "As an amachure diplomat, youse've got Mayor Low skinned to death. Sure I made the motion. An' why did I make the motion? If I hadn't 'a' made it, but had opposed it, where'd I 'a' been? About a thousand miles outside the outskirts o' nowhere,--nobody in the union, an' consequently worth about as much to youse as a hair in a bowl o' soup. I stood to lose both. I still got the union." "What do you propose that we do?" Mr. Baxter held himself in, for the reason that he supposed the old relation would merely give place to a new. "Well, there's goin' to be strike. The union'll make a demand, an' I rather guess youse'll not give up without a fight." "We shall certainly fight," Mr. Baxter assured him. "Well," he drawled, "since I've got to lead the union in a strike an' youse're goin' to fight the strike, it seems like everything'd have to be off between us, don't it?" Mr. Baxter did not reply at once, and then did not answer the question. "What are you going to do?" "To tell youse, that is just what I came here for." In a flash Foley's manner changed from the playful to the vindictive, and he leaned slowly forward in his chair. "I'm goin' to fight youse, Baxter, an' fight youse like hell!" he said, between barely parted teeth. And his gray eyes, suddenly hard, gazed maliciously into Mr. Baxter's face. "I'm goin' to fight like hell!" he went on. "For two years I've been standin' your damned manicured manners. Youse've acted like I wasn't fit to touch. Why d'youse s'pose I've stood it? Because it was money to me. Now that there's no money in it, d'youse s'pose I'm goin' to stand it any longer? Not much, by God! And d'youse think I've forgotten the past--your high-nosed, aristocratic ways? Well, youse'll remember 'em too! My chance's come, an' I'm goin' to fight youse like hell!" At the last Foley's clenched fist was under Mr. Baxter's nose. The contractor did not stir the breadth of a hair. "Mr. Foley," he said in his cold, even voice, "I think you know the shortest way out of this office." "I do," said Foley. "An' it's a damned sight too long!" He gave Mr. Baxter a long look, full of defiant hate, contemptuously flipped his half-smoked cigar on Mr. Baxter's spotless desk, and strode out. Chapter XIX FOLEY TASTES REVENGE Foley's threat that, under cover of the strike, he was going to make Mr. Baxter suffer, was anything save empty bluster. But twenty years of fighting had made him something of a connoisseur of vengeance. He knew, for instance, that a moment usually presented itself when revenge was most effective and when it tasted sweetest. So he now waited for time to bring him that moment; and he waited all the more patiently because a month must elapse ere the beginning of the strike would afford him his chance. The month passed dully. Buck had spoken from certain knowledge when he had remarked to Mr. Baxter that the contractors would not yield without a fight. During April there were no less than half a dozen meetings between the union's committee and the Executive Committee of the employers' association in a formal attempt at peaceful settlement. The public attitude of Foley and Baxter toward each other for the past two years had been openly hostile. That attitude was not changed, but it was now sincere. In these meetings the unionists presented their case; the employers gave their side; every point, pro and con, was gone over again and again. On the thirtieth of April the situation was just as it had been on the first: "We're goin' to get all we're askin' for," said Foley; "We can concede nothing," said Mr. Baxter. On the first of May not a man was at work on an iron job in New York City. During these four weeks Foley regained popularity with an astounding rapidity. He was again the Foley of four or five years ago, the Foley that had won the enthusiastic admiration of the union, fierce-tongued in his denunciation of the employers at union meetings, grimly impudent to members of the employers' Executive Committee and matching their every argument,--at all times witty, resourceful, terribly determined, fairly hurling into others a confidence in himself. He was feeling with almost its first freshness the joy of being in, and master of, a great fight. Men that for years had spoken of him only in hate, now cheered him. And even Tom himself had to yield to this new Foley a reluctant admiration, he was so tireless, so aggressive, so equal to the occasion. Tom had become, by the first of May, a figure of no importance. True, he was a member of the strike committee, but Foley gave him no chance to speak; and, anyhow, the walking delegate said what there was to be said so pointedly, albeit with a virulence that antagonized the employers all the more, that there was no reason for his saying aught. And as for his position as president, that had become pathetically ludicrous. As though in opposite pans of a balance, the higher Foley went in the union's estimation, the lower went he. Even his own friends, while not abandoning him, fell in behind Foley. He was that pitiable anomaly, a leader without a following and without a cause. Foley had stolen both. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that the walking delegate was managing the strike for the union's good; but only the millionth man has so little personal ambition that he is content to see the work he would do being well done by another.... And yet, though fallen, he hung obstinately on and waited--blindly. Tom was now in little danger from the entertainment committee, for Foley's disquiet over his influence had been dissipated by his rapid decline. And after the first of May Tom gave Foley even less concern, for he had finally secured work in the shipping department of a wholesale grocer, so could no longer show himself by day among the union men. During April the contractors had prepared for the coming fight by locating non-union ironworkers, and during the first part of May they rushed these into the city and set them to work, guarded by Pinkerton detectives, upon the most pressing jobs. The union, in its turn, picketed every building on which there was an attempt to continue work, and against the scabs the pickets waged a more or less pacific warfare. Foley was of himself as much as all the pickets. He talked to the non-union men as they came up to their work, as they left their work, as they rode away on street cars, as they sat in saloons. Some he reached by his preachment of the principles of trade unionism. And some he reached by such brief speech as this: "This strike'll be settled soon. Our men'll all go back to work. What'll happen to youse about then? The bosses'll kick youse out. If youse're wise youse'll join the union and help us in the strike." This argument was made more effective by the temporary lifting of the initiation fee of twenty-five dollars, by which act scabs were made union men without price. There was also a third method, which Foley called "transmittin' unionism to the brain by the fist," and he reached many this way, for his fist was heavy and had a strong arm behind it. The contractors, in order to retain the non-union men, raised their wages to fifty cents a day more than the union demanded, but even then they were able to hold only enough workers to keep a few jobs going in half-hearted fashion. There were many accidents and delays on these buildings, for the workers were boilermakers, and men who but half knew the trade, and men who did not know the trade at all. As Pete remarked, after watching, from a neighboring roof, the gang finishing up the work on the St. Etienne Hotel, "The shadder of an ironworker would do more'n three o' them snakes." The contractors themselves realized perfectly what poor work they were getting for so extravagant a price, and would have discharged their non-union gangs had this not been a tacit admission of partial defeat. From the first of May there of course had been several hot-heads who favored violent handling of the scabs. Tom opposed these with the remnant of his influence, for he knew the sympathy of the public has its part in the settlement of strikes, and public sympathy goes not to the side guilty of outrage. The most rabid of all these advocates of violence was Johnson, who, after being summoned to Mr. Baxter's office, began diligently to preach this substance: "If we put a dozen or two o' them snakes out o' business, an' fix a job or two, the bosses'll come right to time." "It strikes me, Johnson, that you change your ideas about as often as you ought to change your shirt," Pete remarked one day, after listening to Johnson's inflammatory words. "Not long ago you were all against a strike." For a moment Johnson was disconcerted. Then he said: "But since there is a strike I'm for measures that'll settle it quick. What you got against smashin' a few scabs?" "Oh, it's always right to smash a scab," Pete agreed. "But you ought to know that just now there's nothin' the bosses'd rather have us do. They'd pay good money to get us to give the hospitals a chance to practice up on a few snakes." Johnson looked at Pete searchingly, fearing that Pete suspected. But Pete guessed nothing, and Johnson went about his duty. There were a number of encounters between the strikers and the strike-breakers, and several of these set-tos had an oral repetition in the police courts; but nothing occurred so serious as to estrange public sympathy till the explosion in the Avon, a small apartment house Mr. Baxter was erecting as a private investment. And with this neither Johnson nor the rank and file, on whose excitable feelings he tried to play, had anything to do. Foley's patience mastered his desire for vengeance easily enough during April, but when May had reached its middle without offering the chance he wanted, his patience weakened and desire demanded its rights. At an utterly futile meeting between the committees of the union and the employers, toward the end of the month, arranged for by the Civic Federation, the desire for vengeance suddenly became the master. This was the first meeting since the strike began, and was the first time Foley had seen Mr. Baxter since then. The contractor did not once look at Foley, and did not once address speech to him; he sat with his back to the walking delegate, and put all his remarks to Brown, the least important member of the strikers' committee. Foley gave as good as he received, for he selected Isaacs, who was nothing more than a fifth man, and addressed him as head of the employers' committee; and rather better, for he made Mr. Baxter the object of a condescending affability that must have been as grateful as salt to raw and living flesh. But Foley was not appeased. When he and Connelly were clear of the meeting he swore fiercely. "He won't be so cool to-morrow!" he said, and swore again. "An' the same trick'll help bring 'em all to time," he added. Foley had already had vengeful eyes upon the Avon, which stood on a corner with a vacant lot on one side and an open space between its rear and the next building. Jake had carefully reconnoitered its premises, with the discovery that one of the two Pinkerton guards was an acquaintance belonging to the days when he himself had been in the service of the Pinkerton agency. That night Jake sauntered by the Avon, chatted awhile with the two guards, and suggested a visit to a nearby saloon. As soon as the three were safely around the corner Kaffir Bill and Arkansas Number Two slipped into the doorway of the Avon, leaving Smoky on watch without. Bill and Arkansas had their trouble: to find their way about in the darkness, to light the fuse--and then they had to cut off an unignitable portion of the fuse; and then in their nervous eagerness to get away their legs met a barrel of cement and they went sprawling behind a partition. Several moments passed ere they found the doorway, the while they could hear the sputtering of the shortened fuse, and during which they heard Smoky cry out, "Come on!" When they did come into the street it was to see the two Pinkertons not twenty paces away. Before their haste could take them to the opposite sidewalk the pavement jumped under their feet, and the building at their backs roared heavily. The guards, guessing the whole trick, began shooting at the two. A policeman appeared from around the corner with drawn pistol--and that night Jake, Bill, and Arkansas slept in a cell. The next morning, after getting on the car that carried him to his work, Tom took up his paper with a leisure that straightway left him, for his eyes were instantly caught by the big headlines sketching the explosion in the Avon. He raced through the three columns. He could see Foley behind the whole outrage, and he thrilled with satisfaction as he foresaw the beginning of Foley's undoing in the police court. There was no work for him that morning. He leaped off the car and took another that brought him near the court where the three men were to have their preliminary hearing. It was half-past eight when he reached the court. As he entered the almost empty court-room he saw Foley and a black-maned man of lego-theatric appearance standing before a police sergeant, and he heard Foley say: "This is their lawyer; we want to see 'em straight off." Tom preferred to avoid meeting Foley, so he turned quickly back and walked about for half an hour. When he returned the small court-room was crowded, the clerks were in place, the policemen and their prisoners stood in a long queue having its head at the judge's desk and its tail without the iron railing that fenced off the spectators. Tom had been in the court-room but a few minutes when an officer motioned him within the railing. The court attorney stepped to his side. "You were pointed out to me as the president of the Iron Workers' Union," said the attorney. "Yes." "And I was told you didn't care particularly for the prisoners in this explosion case." "Well?" "Would you be willing to testify against them--not upon the explosion, which you didn't see, but upon their character?" Tom looked at Jake, Arkansas, and Bill, standing at the head of the queue in charge of the two Pinkertons and a couple of policemen, and struggled a moment with his thoughts. Ordinarily it was a point of honor with a union man not to aid the law against a fellow member; but this was not an ordinary case. The papers had thrown the whole blame for the outrage upon the union. The union's innocence could be proved only by fastening the blame upon Foley and the three prisoners. "I will," he consented. There was a tiresome wait for the judge. About ten o'clock he emerged from his chambers and took his place upon his platform. He was a cold-looking man, with an aristocratic face, deeply marked with lines of hard justice, and with a time-tonsured pate. His enemies, and they were many, declared his judgments ignored the law; his answer was that he administered the law according to common sense, and not according to its sometimes stupid letter. The bailiff opened the court, and the case of Jake, Arkansas, and Bill was called. The two Pinkertons recited the details of the explosion and the two policemen added details of the arrest. Then Mr. Baxter, looking pale, but as much the self-controlled gentleman as ever, testified to the damage done by the dynamite. The Avon still stood, but its steel frame was so wrenched at the base that it was liable to fall at any moment. The building would have to be reconstructed entirely. Though much of the material could be used again, the loss, at a conservative estimate, would be seventy-five thousand dollars. Tom came next before the judge's desk. Exclamations of surprise ran among the union men in the room when it was seen Tom was to be a witness, and the bailiff had to pound with his gavel and shout for order. Tom testified that the three were known in the union as men ready for any villainy; and he managed to introduce in his answers to the questions enough to make it plain that the union was in no degree responsible for the outrage, that it abhorred such acts, that responsibility rested upon the three--"And someone else," he added meaningly. "Who's that?" quickly demanded the court attorney. "Buck Foley." "I object!" shouted the prisoners' attorney. Foley, who sat back in the crowd with crossed legs, did not alter his half-interested expression by a wrinkle. "Objection over-ruled," said the judge. "Will you please tell what you know about Mr. Foley's connection with the case," continued the court attorney. "I object, your Honor! Mr. Foley is not on trial." "It's the duty of this court to get at all the facts," returned the judge. "Does the witness speak from his own knowledge, or what he surmises?" "I'm absolutely certain he's at the bottom of this." "But is your evidence first-hand information?" "It is not," Tom had to confess. "But I couldn't be more certain if I had seen him----" "Guess-work isn't evidence," cut in the judge. Tom, however, had attached Foley to the case--he had seen the reporters start at his words as at a fresh sensation--and he gave a look of satisfaction at Foley as he stepped away from the judge's desk. Foley gave back a half-covered sneer, as if to say, "Just youse wait!" Arkansas was the first of the prisoners to be called--the reason for which priority, as Tom afterwards guessed, being his anomalous face that would not have ill-suited a vest that buttoned to the chin and a collar that buttoned at the back. Arkansas, replying to the questions of his long-haired attorney, corroborated the testimony of the policemen and the Pinkertons in every detail. When Arkansas had answered the last query the lawyer allowed several seconds to pass, his figure drawn up impressively, his right hand in the breast of his frock coat. The judge bent over his docket and began to write. "This seems a perfectly plain case. I hold the three prisoners for the grand jury, each in ten thousand----" The attorney's right hand raised itself theatrically. "Hold!" he cried. The judge looked up with a start. Tom's eyes, wandering to Foley's face, met there a malign grin. "The case is not ended, your Honor. The case is just begun." The attorney brushed back his mane with a stagy movement of his hand, and turned upon Arkansas. "You and the other prisoners did this. You do not deny it. But now tell his Honor why you did it." Arkansas, with honesty fairly obtruding from his every feature, looked nervously at Tom, and then said hesitantly: "Because we had to." "And why did you have to?" Again Arkansas showed hesitation. "Speak out," encouraged the attorney. "You're in no danger. The court will protect you." "We was ordered to. If we hadn't done it we'd been thrown out o' the union, an' been done up." "Explain to the court what you mean by 'done up'." "Slugged an' kicked--half killed." "In other words, what you did was done in fear of your life. Now who ordered you to blow up the Avon, and threatened to have you 'done up' if you didn't?" "Mr. Keating, the president o' the union." The judge, who had been leaning forward with kindling eyes, breathed a prolonged "A-a-ah!" For a moment Tom was astounded. Then he sprang to Arkansas's side. "You infernal liar!" he shouted, his eyes blazing. The judge's hammer thundered down. "Silence!" he roared. "But, your Honor, he's lying!" "Five dollars for contempt of court! Another word and I'll give you the full penalty." Two officers jerked Tom back, and surging with indignant wrath he had to listen in silence to the romance that had been spun for Arkansas's lips and which he was now respinning for the court's ears; and he quickly became aware that newspaper artists had set their pencils busy over his face. Once, glancing at Jake, he was treated with a leer of triumph. Arkansas plausibly related what had passed between Tom and himself and his two companions; and then Bill took the stand, and then Jake. Each repeated the story Arkansas, with the help of his face, had made so convincing. "And now, your Honor," the prisoners' attorney began when his evidence was all in, "I think I have made plain my clients' part in this most nefarious outrage. They are guilty--yes. But they were but the all too weak instruments of another's will, who galvanized them by mortal fear to do his dastardly bidding. He, he alone----" "Save your eloquence, councilor," the judge broke in. "The case speaks best for itself. You here." He crooked his forefinger at Tom. Tom was pushed by policemen up before the judge. "Now what have you to say for yourself?" the judge demanded. "It's one string of infernal lies!" Tom exploded. And he launched into a hot denial, strong in phrasing but weak in comparison with the inter-corroborative stones of the three, which had the further verisimilitude gained by tallying in every detail with the officers' account of the explosion. "What you say is merely denial, the denial we hear from every criminal," his Honor began when Tom had finished. "I do not say I believe every word of the testimony of the three prisoners. But it is more credible than your statements. "What has been brought out here to-day--the supreme officer of a union compelling members to commit an act of violence by threat of economic disablement and of physical injury, perhaps death--is in perfect accord with the many diabolical practices that have recently been revealed as existing among trade unions. It is such things as this that force all right-minded men to regard trade unionism as the most menacing danger which our nation now confronts." And for five minutes he continued in his arraignment of trade unions. "In the present circumstances," he ended, "it is my duty to order the arrest of this man who appears to be the chief conspirator--this president of a union who has had the supreme hardihood to appear as a witness against his own tools, doubtless hoping thereby to gain the end of the thief who cried 'stop thief.' I hold him in fifteen thousand dollars bond to await the action of the grand jury. The three prisoners are held in five thousand dollars bail each." Jake, Bill, and Arkansas were led away by their captors, and Tom, utterly dazed by this new disaster that had overtaken him when he had thought there was nothing more that could befall, was shoved over to the warrant clerk. And again he caught Foley's eyes; they were full of malicious satisfaction. As he waited before the warrant clerk's desk he saw Mr. Baxter, on his way to the door, brush by Foley, and in the moment of passing he saw Foley's lips move. He did not hear Foley's words. They were two, and were: "First round!" A few minutes later Tom was led down a stairway, through a corridor and locked in a cell. Chapter XX TOM HAS A CALLER Late in the afternoon, as Tom lay stretched in glowering melancholy on the greasy, dirt-browned board that did service as chair and bed to the transitory tenants of the cell, steps paused in the corridor without and a key rattled in his door. He rose dully out of his dejection. A scowling officer admitted a man, round and short and with side whiskers, and locked the door upon his back. "This is a pretty how-to-do!" growled the man, coming forward. Tom stared at his visitor. "Why, Mr. Driscoll!" he cried. "That's who the most of my friends say I am," the contractor admitted gruffly. He deposited himself upon the bench that had seated and bedded so much unwashed misfortune, and, his back against the cement wall, turned his sour face about the bare room. "This is what I call a pretty poor sort of hospitality to offer a visitor," he commented, in his surly voice. "Not even a chair to sit on." "There is also the floor; you may take your choice," Tom returned, nettled by the other's manner. He himself took the bench. Mr. Driscoll stared at him with blinking eyes, and he stared back defiantly. In Tom's present mood of wrath and depression his temper was tinder waiting another man's spark. "Huh!" Mr. Driscoll ran his pudgy forefinger easefully about between his collar and his neck, and removing his spectacles mopped his purple face. "What's this funny business you've been up to now?" he asked. "What do you mean?" Tom demanded, his irritation mounting. "You ought to read the papers and keep posted on what you do. I just saw a _Star_. There's half a page of your face, and about a pint of red ink." Tom groaned, and his jaws clamped ragefully. "What I read gave me the impression you'd been having a sort of private Fourth of July celebration," Mr. Driscoll pursued. Tom turned on the contractor half savagely. "See here! I don't know what you came here for, but if it was for this kind of talk--well, you can guess how welcome you are!" Mr. Driscoll emitted a little chuckling sound, or Tom thought for an instant he did. But a glance at that sour face, with its straight pouting mouth, corrected Tom's ears. "Now, what was your fool idea in blowing up the Avon?" Tom uprose wrathfully. "Do you mean to say you believe the lies those blackguards told this morning?" "I only know what I read in the papers." "If you swallow everything you see in the papers, you must have an awful maw!" "Yes, I suppose you have got some sort of a story you put up." Tom glared at his pudgy visitor who questioned with such an exasperating presumption. "Did I ask you here?" he demanded. The contractor's eyes snapped, and Tom expected hot words. But none came. "Don't get hot under the collar," Mr. Driscoll advised, running his comforting finger under his own. "Come, what's your side of the story?" Tom was of half a mind to give a curt refusal. But his wrong was too great, too burning, for him to keep silent upon it. He would have talked of it to any one--to his very walls. He took a turn in the cell, then paused before his old employer and hotly explained his innocence and Foley's guilt. While Tom spoke Mr. Driscoll's head nodded excitedly. "Just what I said!" he cried when Tom ended, and brought his fist down on his knee. "Well, we'll show him!" "Show him what?" Tom asked. Mr. Driscoll stopped his fist midway in another excited descent. He stood up, for he saw the officer's scowling face at the grated front of the cell. "Oh, a lot of things before he dies. As for you, keep your courage up. What else's it for?" He held out his hand. Tom took it with bewildered perfunctoriness. Mr. Driscoll passed through the door, held open by the officer. Outside he turned about and growled through the bars: "Now don't be blowing up any more buildings!" Tom, stung anew, would have retorted in kind, but Mr. Driscoll's footsteps had died away down the corridor before adequate words came to him. It was about an hour later that the officer appeared before his cell again and unlocked his door. "Come on," he said shortly. Tom, supposing he was at length to be removed to the county jail, put on his hat and stepped outside the cell. He had expected to find policemen in the corridor, and to be handcuffed. But the officer was alone. Two cells away he saw Jake's malignant face peering at him through the bars. "I guess this puts us about even!" Jake called out. Tom shook his fist. "Wait till the trial! We'll see!" he cried vengefully. "Shut up, youse!" shouted the surly watchman. He pushed Tom through the corridor and up a stairway. At its head Tom was guided through a door, and found himself in the general hall of the police station. "Here youse are," said the officer, starting for the sergeant's desk. "Come on and sign the bail bond." Tom caught his arm. "What's this mean?" he cried. "Don't youse know? Youse're bailed out." "Bailed out! Who by?" "Didn't he tell youse?" Surprise showed in the crabbed face of the officer. "Why, before he done anything he went down to talk it over with youse." "Not Mr. Driscoll?" "I don't know his name. That red-faced old geezer in the glasses. Huh!--his coin comes easier'n mine." Tom put his name to the bond, already signed by Mr. Driscoll, and stumbled out into the street, half blinded by the rush of sunlight into his cell-darkened eyes, and struck through with bewilderment at his unexpected liberation. He threw off a number of quizzing reporters, who had got quick news of his release, and walked several aimless blocks before he came back to his senses. Then he set out for Mr. Driscoll's office, almost choking with emotion at the prospect of meeting Ruth again. But he reached it too late to spend his thanks or to test his self-control. It was past six and the office was locked. He started home, and during the car ride posted himself upon his recent doings by reading the accounts of the trial and his part in the Avon outrage. On reaching the block in which he lived he hesitated long before he found the courage to go up to the ordeal of telling Maggie his last misfortune. When he entered his flat it was to find it empty. He sat down at the window, with its backyard view of clothes-lines and of fire-escape landings that were each an open-air pantry, and rehearsed the sentences with which he should break the news to her, his suspense mounting as the minutes passed. At length her key sounded in the lock, he heard her footsteps, then saw her dim shape come into the sitting-room. In the same instant she saw him at the window. "What--Tom!" she cried, with the tremulous relief of one who ends a great suspense. He had been nerving himself to face another mood than this. He was taken aback by the unexpected note in her voice--a sympathetic note he had not heard for such a time it seemed he had never heard it at all. He rose, embarrassed. "Yes," he said. She had come quickly to his side, and now caught his arm. "You are here, Tom?" "Why, yes," he answered, still dazed and at a loss. "Where have you been, Maggie?" Had the invading twilight not half blindfolded him, Tom could have seen the rapid change that took place in Maggie's face--the relief at finding him safe yielding to the stronger emotion beneath it. When she answered her voice was as of old. "Been? Where haven't I been? To the jail the last place." "To the jail?" He was again surprised. "Then ... you know all?" "Know all?" She laughed harshly, a tremolo beneath the harshness. "How could I help knowing all? The newsboys yelling down in the street! The neighbors coming in with their sympathy!" She did not tell him how to these visitors she had hotly defended his innocence. "I didn't know you were at the police station," he said weakly, still at a loss. "Of course not. When I got there they told me you'd been let out." Her breath was coming rapidly, deeply. "What a time I had! I didn't know how to get to the jail! Dragging myself all over town! Those awful papers everywhere! Everybody looking at me and guessing who I was! Oh, the disgrace! The disgrace!" "But, Maggie, I didn't do this!" "The world don't know that!" The rage and despair that had been held in check all afternoon by her concern for him now completely mastered her. "We're disgraced! You've been in jail! You're now only out on bail! Fifteen thousand dollars bail! Why that boss, Mr. Driscoll, went on it, heaven only knows! You're going to be tried. Even if you get off we'll never hear the last of it. Hadn't we had trouble enough? Now it's disgrace! And why's this come on us? You tell me that!" She was shaking all over, and for her to speak was a struggle with her sobs. She supported herself with arms on the table, and looked at him fiercely, wildly, through the dim light. Tom took her arm. "Sit down, Maggie," he said, and tried to push her into a chair. She repulsed him. "Answer me. Why has this trouble come on us?" He was silent. "Oh, you know! Because you wouldn't take a little advice from your wife! Other men got along with Foley and held their jobs. But you wanted to be different; you wanted to fight Foley. Well, you've had your way; you've fought him. And what of it? We're ruined! Disgraced! You're working for less than half what you used to get. We're ashamed to show our faces in the street. All because you wouldn't pay any attention to me. And me--how I've got to suffer for it! Oh, my God! My God!" Tom recognized the justice, from her point of view, in her wild phrases and did not try to dispute her. He again tried to push her into a chair. She threw off his hand, and went hysterically on, now beating her knuckles upon the table. "Leave me alone! I've made up my mind about one thing. You won't listen to reason. I've given you good advice. I've been right every time. You've paid no attention to me and we're ruined! Well, I've made up my mind. If you do this sort of thing again, I'll lock you out of the house! D'you hear? I'll lock you out of the house!" She fell of her own accord into a chair, and with her head in her hands abandoned herself to sobbing. Tom looked at her silently. In a narrow way, she was right. In a broad way, he knew he was right. But he could not make her understand, so there was nothing he could say. Presently he noticed that her hair had loosened and her hat had fallen over one cheek. With unaccustomed hands he took out the pins and laid the hat upon the table. She gave no sign that she had noted the act.... Her sobs became fewer and less violent. Tom quietly lit the gas. "Where's Ferdinand?" he asked, in his ordinary voice. "I left him with Mrs. Jones," she answered through her hands. When Tom came back with the boy she was in the kitchen, a big apron over her street dress, beginning the dinner. Tom looked in upon her, then obeying an impulse long unstirred he began to set the table. She glanced furtively at this unusual service, but said nothing. She sat through the meal with hard face, but did not again refer to the day's happenings; and, since the day was Wednesday, as soon as he had eaten Tom hurried away to Potomac Hall. Tom was surrounded by friends the minute he entered the hall. The ten o'clock edition of the evening papers, out before seven, had acquainted them with his release. The accounts in this edition played up the anomaly of this labor ruffian, shown by his act to be the arch-enemy of the employers, being bailed out by one of the very contractors with whom the union was at war. Two of the papers printed interviews with Mr. Driscoll upon the question, why had he done it? One interview was, "I don't know"; the other, "None of your business." Tom's friends had the curiosity of the papers, and put to him the question the news sheets had put to Mr. Driscoll. "If Mr. Driscoll don't know, how can I?" was all the answer he could give them. Their curiosity, however, was weak measured by their indignation over the turn events had taken in the court-room. They would stand by him at his trial, they declared, and show what his relations had been with Jake, Bill and Arkansas. Before the meeting was opened there was talk among the Foleyites against Tom being allowed to preside, but he ended their muttering by marching to his table and pounding the union to order. He immediately took the floor and in a speech filled with charges against Foley gave to the union his side of the facts that had already been presented them from a different viewpoint in the papers. When he ended Foley's followers looked to their chief to make reply, but Foley kept his seat. Connelly, seeing it his duty to defend his leader, was rising to his feet when a glance from Foley made him sink back into his chair. The talk from Tom's side went hotly on for a time, but, meeting with no resistance, and having no immediate purpose, it dwindled away. The union then turned to matters pertaining to the management of the strike. As the discussion went on followers of Foley slipped quietly about the hall whispering in the ears of their brethren. The talk became tedious. Tom's friends, wearied and uninterested, sat in silence. Foleyites spoke at great length upon unimportant details. Foley himself made a long speech, the like of which had never before come from him, it was that dull and purposeless. At half-past ten, by which time the men usually were restless to be out of the hall and bound toward their beds, adjournment seemed as far off as at eight. Sleepy and bored by the stupid discussion, members began to go out, and most of those that left were followers of Tom. The pointless talk went on; men kept slipping out. At twelve o'clock not above two hundred were in the hall, and of these not two dozen were Tom's friends. Tom saw Foley cast his eyes over the thinned crowd, and then give a short nod at Connelly. The secretary stood up and claimed Tom's recognition. "Mr. President, I move we suspend the constitution." The motion was instantly seconded. Tom promptly ruled it out of order, on the ground that it was unconstitutional to suspend the constitution. But he was over-ruled, only a score siding with him. The motion was put and was carried by the same big majority that had voted against his decision. Connelly rose a second time. "I make a motion that we remove the president from office on the charge that he is the instigator of an outrage that has blackened the fair name of our union before all the world." A hundred voices cried a second to the motion. Tom rose and looked with impotent wrath into the faces of the crowd from which Foley's cunning had removed his followers. Then he tossed the gavel upon the table. "I refuse to put the motion!" he shouted; and picking up his hat he strode down the middle aisle. Half-way to the door he heard Connelly, in the absence of the vice-president, put the motion; and turning as he passed out he glimpsed the whole crowd on its feet. The next morning Tom saw by his newspaper that Connelly was the union's new president; also that he had been dropped from the strike committee, Hogan now being in his place. The reports in the papers intimated that the union had partially exonerated itself by its prompt discardure of the principal in the Avon explosion. The editorial pages expressed surprise that the notorious Foley bore no relation to an outrage that seemed a legitimate offspring of his character. Tom had not been at work more than an hour when a boy brought him word that the superintendent of the shipping department desired to see him. He hurried to his superior's office. "You were not at work yesterday?" the superintendent said. "No," Tom admitted. The head of the department drew a morning paper from a pigeon-hole and pointed at a face on its first page. "Your likeness, I believe." "It was intended for me." He touched a button, and a clerk appeared. "Phillips, make out Keating's time check." He turned sharply back upon Tom. "That's all. We've got no use for anarchists in our business." Chapter XXI WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN When Ruth carried a handful of letters she had just finished into Mr. Driscoll's office--this while he sat talking to Tom in the latter's cell--she saw staring luridly at her from the desk the newspaper that had sent her employer to the jail on his errand of gruff mercy. There was a great drawing of Tom's face, brutalized, yet easily recognizable, and over it the heavy crimson heading: TOOLS UNION PRESIDENT OF FORCED BY BLEW UP THE AVON DEATH THREATS The stare of that brutal face and of those red words sent her sinking into Mr. Driscoll's chair, and the letters fluttered to the floor. After a moment she reached in eager revulsion for the paper, and her eyes reeled through the high-colored account of the court scene. What was printed there was the newest of news to her; she had lunched early, and the paper she had bought to learn the latest developments in the Avon case had carried her only to the beginning of the trial. As she read, a dizzy sickness ran through all her body. The case against Tom, as the papers made it out, was certainly strong; and the fact that he, the instigator of the outrage, had attempted to escape blame by seeking to help convict his own tools was emphasized as the most blackening phase of the whole black affair. But strong as the case appeared, within her sickened, bewildered self there was something that protested the story could not possibly be true. During the weeks that had passed since she had last seen Tom she had wondered much that he had not come again, guessing every reason but the right one. When ten days had passed without a visit from him she had concluded that he must be too busy in the management of the strike to spare an evening; she did not know how completely Tom had been crowded off the stage by Foley. When more days had passed, and still no call from him, her subtle woman's nature had supplied another reason, and one that was a sufficient explanation to her even to the present. She knew what Tom's feelings were toward her; a woman needs precious little insight to discover when a man loves her. For all her instinctive democracy, she was perfectly conscious of the social difference between herself and him, and with not unnatural egotism she endowed Tom with the same consciousness. He loved her, but felt their social inequality, and felt it with such keenness that he deemed it hopeless to try to win her, and so had decided to see her no more. Such was her explanation of his absence. She pitied him with a warm romantic pity for his renunciation. Held away by such a reason, she knew that if ever he came it must be at her bidding. At times she had been impelled to send for him to come. To her this was not an impulse of prohibitive unmaidenliness; she could bend to a man who thought himself beneath her as she never could to a man on her own level. But she had not sent. To do so without being prepared to give him what he desired would be to do him a great wrong, and to give him this she was neither able nor ready. She admired all that was good in him; but she could not blind her eyes to his shortcomings, and to go into his world, with its easily imagined coarseness, with its ignorance of books and music and painting, and all the little refinements that were dear to her, she could not. And yet her heart had ached that he had not come. But now as she read the story of his disgrace, and as the reflux of wits and strength began, all her heart was one protest of his innocence, and she forgot all the little differences that had before halted her desire to see him; and this desire, freed of its checks, suddenly expanded till it filled the uttermost recesses of her soul. Her first impulse, when she had reached the story's end, was to go straight to him, and she went so far as to put on her hat. But reason stopped her at the door. She could do him no good, and her call would be but an embarrassment to them both. She removed her hat, and sat down to surging thoughts. She was sitting at her desk, white and weak, reading anew the lurid story in the paper, when Mr. Driscoll passed through her room into his office with hat drawn over his eyes. She looked through his open door for several minutes--and then, obeying the desire for the relief of speech, she went in. "Did you see this article about Mr. Keating?" she asked, trying to keep her personal interest in Tom from showing in her voice. Mr. Driscoll's hat brim was still over his eyes. He did not look up. "Yes," he said gruffly. "You remember him, don't you?--one of the foremen?" The hat brim moved affirmatively. She had to summon all her strength to put her next question with calmness. "What will be done with him?" "I don't know. Blowing up buildings isn't a very innocent amusement." "But he didn't do it!" "He didn't? Hum!" Ruth burned to make a hot defense. But instead she asked: "Do you think he's the sort of a man to do a thing of that sort? He says he didn't." "What d'you suppose he'd say?" She checked her rising wrath. "But what do you think will be done with him?" "Hung," growled Mr. Driscoll. She glared at him, but his hat brim shielded off her resentment; and without another word she swept indignantly out of the room. Ruth went home in that weakening anxiety which is most felt by the helpless. On the way she bought an evening paper, but there was nothing new in it. After a dinner hardly touched she went into the street and got a ten o'clock edition. It had the story of Tom's release on bail. "Why, the dear old bear!" she gasped, as she discovered that Mr. Driscoll had gone Tom's bond. She hurried to her room and in utter abandonment to her emotion wrote Tom a note asking him to call the following evening. The next morning Tom, discharged but half an hour before, walked into Ruth's office. He had stood several minutes in front of the building before he had gained sufficient control to carry him through the certain meeting with her. She went red at sight of him, and rose in a throbbing confusion, but subdued herself to greet him with a friendly cordiality. "It's been a long time since I've seen you," she said, giving him her hand. It was barely touched, then dropped. "Yes. I've been--very--busy," Tom mumbled, his big chest heaving. It seemed that his mind, his will, were slipping away from him. He seized his only safety. "Is Mr. Driscoll in?" "Yes." Suddenly chilled, she went into Mr. Driscoll's room. "He says he's too busy to see you," she said on her return; and then a little of her greeting smile came back: "But I think you'd better go in, anyhow." As Tom entered Mr. Driscoll looked up with something that was meant to be a scowl. He had had one uncomfortable scene already that morning. "Didn't I say I was busy?" he asked sharply. "I was told you were. But you didn't think I'd go away without thanking you?" "It's a pity a man can't make a fool of himself without being slobbered over. Well, if you've got to, out with it! But cut it short." Tom expressed his thanks warmly, and obediently made them brief. "But I don't know what you did it for?" he ended. "About fifty reporters have been asking that same thing." The telephone in Ruth's office began to ring. He waited expectantly. "Mr. Bobbs wants to speak to you," said Ruth, appearing at the door. "Tell him I'm out--or dead," he ordered, and went on to Tom: "And he's about the seventeenth contractor that's asked the same question, and tried to walk on my face. Maybe because I don't love Foley. I don't know myself. A man goes out of his head now and then, I suppose." His eyes snapped crossly. "If you're sorry this morning, withdraw the bail and I'll----" "Don't you try to be a fool, too! All I ask of you is, don't skip town, and don't blow up any more buildings." Tom gave his word, smiling into the cross face; and was withdrawing, when Mr. Driscoll stood up. "When this strike you started is over come around to see me." He held out his hand; his grasp was warm and tight. "Good-by." Tom, having none of that control and power of simulation which are given by social training, knew of but one way to pass safely by the danger beyond Mr. Driscoll's door. He hurried across Ruth's office straight for the door opening into the hallway. He had his hand on the knob, when he felt how brutal was his discourtesy. He turned his head. Ruth sat before the typewriter, her white face on him. "Good-by," he said. She did not answer, and he went dazedly out. Ruth sat in frozen stillness for long after he had gone. This new bearing of Tom toward her fitted her explanation for his long absence--and did not fit it. If he had renounced her, though loving her, he probably would have borne himself in the abrupt way he had just done. And he might have acted in just this same way had he come to be indifferent to her. This last was the chilling thought. If he had received her letter then his abrupt manner could mean only that this last thought struck the truth. When she had written him she had been certain of his feeling for her; that certainty now changed to uncertainty, she would have given half her life to have called the letter back with unbroken seal. She told herself that he would not come,--told herself this as she automatically did her work, as she rode home in the car, as she made weak pretense of eating dinner. And yet, after dinner, she put on the white dress that his eyes had told her he liked so well. And later, when Mr. Berman's card was brought her, she sent down word that she was ill. Presently ... he came. He did not speak when she opened the door to him, nor did she. There was an unmastering fever burning in his throat and through all his body; and all her inner self was the prisoner of a climacteric paralysis. They held hands for a time, laxly, till one loosed, and then both swung limply back to their places. "I just got your letter to-night--when I got home," he said, driving out the words. But he said nothing of his struggle: how he had fought back his longing and determined not to come; and how, the victory won, he had madly thrown wisdom aside and rushed to her. They found seats, somehow, she in a chair, he on the green couch, and sat in a silence their heart-beats seemed to make sonant. She was the first to recover somewhat, and being society bred and so knowing the necessity of speech, she questioned him about his arrest. He started out on the story haltingly. But little by little his fever lost its invalidating control, and little by little the madness in his blood, the madness that had forced him hither, possessed his brain and tongue, and the words came rapidly, with spirit. Finishing the story of his yesterday he harked back to the time he had last seen her, and told her what had happened in the second part of that evening in the hall over the Third Avenue saloon; told her how Foley had stolen the strike; how he had declined to his present insignificance. And as he talked he eagerly drank in her sympathy, and loosed himself more and more to the enjoyment of the mad pleasure of being with her. To her his words were not the account of the more or less sordid experiences of a workingman; they were the story of the reverses of the hero who, undaunted, has given battle to one whom all others have dared not, or cared not, fight. "What will you do now?" she asked when he had ended. "I don't know. Foley says he has me down and out--if you know what that means." She nodded. "I guess he's about right. Not many people want to hire men who blow up buildings. I had thought I'd work at whatever I could till October--our next election's then--and run against Foley again. But if he wins the strike he may be too strong to beat." "But do you think he'll win the strike?" "He'll be certain to win, though this explosion will injure us a lot. He's in for the strike for all he's worth, and when he fights his best he's hard to beat. The bosses can't get enough iron-men to keep their jobs going. That's already been proved. And in a little while all the other trades will catch up to where we left off; they'll have to stop then, for they can't do anything till our work's been done. That'll be equivalent to a general strike in all the building trades. We'll be losing money, of course, but so'll the bosses. The side'll win that can hold out longest, and we're fixed to hold out." "According to all the talk I hear the victory is bound to go the opposite way." "Well, you know some people then who'll be mighty disappointed!" Tom returned. She did not take him up, and silence fell between them. Thus far their talk had been of the facts of their daily lives, and though it had been unnatural in that it was far from the matter in both their hearts, yet by help of its moderate distraction they had managed to keep their feelings under control. But now, that distraction ended, Tom's fever began to burn back upon him. He sat rigidly upright, his eyes avoiding her face, and the fever flamed higher and higher. Ruth gazed whitely at him, hands gripped in her lap, her faculties slipping from her, waiting she hardly knew what. Minutes passed, and the silence between them grew intenser and more intense. Amid her throbbing dizziness Ruth's mind held steadily to just two thoughts: she was again certain of Tom's love, and certain that his pride would never allow him to speak. These two thoughts pointed her the one thing there was for her to do; the one thing that must be done for both their sakes--and finally she forced herself to say: "It has been a long time since you have been to see me. I had thought you had quite forgotten me." "I have thought of you often?" he managed to return, eyes still fixed above her, his self-control tottering. "But in a friendly way?--No.--Or you would not have been silent through two months." His eyes came down and fastened upon that noble face, and the words escaped by the guard he tried to keep at his lips: "I have never had a friend like you." She waited. "You are my best friend," the words continued. She waited again, but he said nothing more. She drove herself on. "And yet you could--stay away two months?--till I sent for you?" He stood up, and walked to the window and stood as if looking through it--though the shade was drawn. She saw the fingers at his back writhing and knotting themselves. She waited, unwinking, hardly breathing, all her life in the tumultuous beating of her heart. He turned about. His face was almost wild. "I stayed away--because I love you----" His last word was a gasp, and he did not have the strength to say the rest. It had come! Her great strain over, she fairly collapsed in a swooning happiness. Her head drooped, and she swayed forward till her elbows were on her knees. For a moment she existed only in her great, vague, reeling joy. Then she heard a spasmodic gasp, and heard his hoarse words add: "And because--I am married." Her head uprose slowly, and she looked at him, looked at him, with a deadly stupefaction in her eyes. A sickening minute passed. "Married?" she whispered. "Yes--married." A terrified pallor overspread her face, but the face held fixedly to his own. He stood rigid, looking at her. Her strange silence began to alarm him. "What is it?" he cried. Her face did not change, and seconds passed. Suddenly a gasp, then a little groan, broke from her. "Married!" she cried. For a moment he was astounded; then he began dimly to understand. "What, you don't mean----" he commenced, with dry lips. He moved, with uncertain steps, up before her. "You don't--care for me?" The head bowed a trifle. "Oh, my God!" He half staggered backward into a chair, and his face fell into his hands. He saw, in an agonizing vision, what might have been his, and what never could be his; and he saw the wide desert of his future. "You!" He heard her voice, and he looked up. She was on her feet, and was standing directly in front of him. Her hands were clenched upon folds of her skirt. Her breath was coming rapidly. Her eyes were flashing. "You! How could you come to see me as you have, and you married?" She spoke tremulously, fiercely, and at the last her voice broke into a sob. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she did not heed them. Tom's face dropped back into his hands; he could not stand the awful accusation of that gaze. She was another victim of his tragedy, an innocent victim--and _his_ victim. He saw in a flash the whole ghastly part he, in ignorance, had played. A groan burst from his lips, and he writhed in his self-abasement. "How could you do it?" he heard her fiercely demand again. "Oh, you! you!" He heard her sweep across the little room, and then sweep back; and he knew she was standing before him, gazing down at him in anguish, anger, contempt. He groaned again. "What can I say to you--what?" There was silence. He could feel her eyes, unchanging, still on him. Presently he began to speak into his hands, in a low, broken voice. "I can make no excuse. I don't know that I can explain. But I never intended to do this. Never! Never! "You know how we met, how we came to be together the first two or three times. Afterwards ... I said awhile ago that you were my best friend. I have had few real friends--none but you who sympathized with me, who seemed to understand me. Well, afterwards I came because--I never stopped to think why I came. I guess because you understood, and I liked you. And so I came. As a man might come to see a good man friend. And I never once thought I was doing wrong. And I never thought of my wife--that is, you understand, that she made it wrong for me to see you. I never thought----If you believe in me at all, you must believe this. You must! And then--one day--I saw you with another man, and I knew I loved you. I awoke. I saw what I ought to do. I tried to do it--but it was very hard--and I came to see you again--the last time. I said once more I would not see you again. It was still hard, very hard--but I did not. And then--your letter--came----" His words dwindled away. Then, after a moment, he said very humbly: "Perhaps I don't just understand how to be a gentleman." Again silence. Presently he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He raised his eyes. She was still gazing at him, her face very white, but no anger in it. "I understand," she said. He rose--weak. "I can't ask that you forgive me." "No. Not now." "Of course. I have meant to you only grief--pain. And can mean only that to you, always." She did not deny his words. "Of course," he agreed. Then he stood, without words, unmoving. "You had better go," she said at length. He took his hat mechanically. "The future?" "You were right." "You mean--we should not meet again?" "This is the last time." Again he stood silent, unmoving. "You had better go," she said. "Good-night." "Good-night." He moved sideways to the door, his eyes never leaving her. He paused. She stood just as she had since she had touched his shoulder. He moved back to her, as in a trance. "No." She held up a hand, as if to ward him off. He took the hand--and the other hand. They were all a-tremble. And he bent down, slowly, toward her face that he saw as in a mist. The face did not recede. Their cold lips met. At the touch she collapsed, and the next instant she was sobbing convulsively in his arms. * * * * * And all that night she lay dressed on her couch.... And all that night he walked the streets. Chapter XXII THE PROGRESS OF THE STRIKE When morning began to creep into the streets, and while it was yet only a dingy mist, Tom slipped quietly into his flat and stretched his wearied length upon the couch, his anguish subdued to an aching numbness by his lone walk. He lay for a time, his eyes turned dully into the back yard, watching the dirty light grow cleaner; and presently he sank into a light sleep. After a little his eyes opened and he saw Maggie looking intently at him from their bedroom door. For a moment the two of them maintained a silent gaze. Then she asked: "You were out all night?" "Yes," he answered passively. "Why?" He hesitated. "I was walking about--thinking." "I should think you would be thinking! After what happened to you Wednesday, and after losing your job yesterday!" He did not correct her misinterpretation of his answer, and as he said nothing more she turned back into the bedroom, and soon emerged dressed. As she moved about preparing breakfast his eyes rested on her now and then, and in a not unnatural selfishness he dully wondered why they two were married. Her feeling for him, he knew, was of no higher sort than that attachment which dependence upon a man and the sense of being linked to him for life may engender in an unspiritual woman. There was no love between them; they had no ideas in common; she was not this, and not this, and not this. And all the things that she was not, the other was. And it was always to be Maggie that he was to see thus intimately. He had bowed to the situation as the ancients bowed to fate--accepted it as a fact as unchangeable as death that has fallen. And yet, as he lay watching her, thinking it was to be always so,--always!--his soul was filled with agonizing rebellion; and so it was to be through many a day to come. But later, as his first pain began to settle into an aching sense of irreparable loss, his less selfish vision showed him that Maggie was no more to blame for their terrible mistake than he, and not so much; and that she, in a less painful degree, was also a pitiable victim of their error. He became consciously considerate of her. For her part, she at first marveled at this gentler manner, then slowly yielded to it. But this is running ahead. The first days were all the harder to Tom because he had no work to share his time with his pain. He did not seek another position; as he had told Ruth, he knew it would be useless to ask for work so long as the charge of being a dynamiter rested upon him. He walked about the streets, trying to forget his pain in mixing among his old friends, with no better financial hope than to wait till the court had cleared his name. Several times he met Pig Iron Pete, who, knowing only the public cause for Tom's dejection, prescribed a few drinks as the best cure for such sorrow, and showed his faith in his remedy by offering to take the same medicine. And one evening he brought his cheerless presence to the Barrys'. "Poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Barry after he had gone. "He takes his thumps hard." One day as he walked about the streets he met Petersen, and with the Swede was a stocky, red-faced, red-necked man wearing a red necktie whose brilliance came to a focus in a great diamond pin. Petersen had continued to call frequently after nightly attendance had become unnecessary. Two weeks before Tom had gleaned from him by hard questioning that the monthly rent of twelve dollars was overdue, the landlord was raging, there was nothing with which to pay, and also nothing in the house to eat. The next day Tom had drawn fifteen dollars from his little bank account, and held it by him to give to Petersen when he next called. But he had not come again. Now on seeing him Tom's first feeling was of guilt that he had not carried the needed money to Petersen's home. The stocky man, when he saw the two were friends, withdrew himself to the curb and began to clean his nails with his pocket knife. "How are you, Petersen?" Tom asked. "I'm purty good," Petersen returned, glancing restlessly at the stocky man. "You don't need a little money, do you?" Tom queried anxiously. "No. I'm vorkin'." He again looked restlessly at his manicuring friend. "You don't say! That's good. What at?" Petersen's restlessness became painful. "At de docks." Tom saw plainly that Petersen was anxious to get away, so he said good-by and walked on, puzzled by the Swede's strange manner, by his rather unusual companion, and puzzled also as to how his work as longshoreman permitted him to roam the streets in the middle of the afternoon. When Tom met friends in his restless wanderings and stopped to talk to them, the subject was usually the injustice he had suffered or the situation regarding the strike. Up to the day of the Avon explosion the union as a whole had been satisfied with the strike's progress. That event, of course, had weakened the strikers' cause before the public. But the promptness with which the union was credited to have renounced the instigator of the outrage partially restored the ironworkers to their position. They were completely restored three days after the explosion, when Mr. Baxter, smarting under his recent loss and not being able to retaliate directly upon Foley, permitted himself to be induced by a newspaper to express his sentiments upon labor unions. The interview was an elaboration of the views which are already partly known to the reader. By reason of the rights which naturally belong to property, he said, by reason of capital's greatly superior intelligence, it was the privilege of capital, nay even its duty, to arrange the uttermost detail of its affairs without any consultation whatever with labor, whose views were always selfish and necessarily always unintelligent. The high assumption of superiority in Mr. Baxter's interview, its paternalistic, even monarchical, character, did not appeal to his more democratic and less capitalized readers, and they drew nearer in sympathy to the men he was fighting. As the last days of May passed one by one, Tom's predictions to Ruth began to have their fulfillment. By the first of June a great part of the building in the city was practically at a standstill; the other building trades had caught up with the ironworkers on many of the jobs, and so had to lay down their tools. The contractors in these trades were all checked more or less in their work. Their daily loss quickly overcame their natural sympathy with the iron contractors and Mr. Baxter was beset by them. "We haven't any trouble with our men," ran the gist of their complaint. "Why should we be losing money just because you and your men can't agree? For God's sake, settle it up so we can get to work!" Owners of buildings in process of construction, with big sums tied up in them, began to grow frantic. Their agreements with the contractors placed upon the latter a heavy fine for every day the completion of the buildings was delayed beyond the specified time; but the contracts contained a "strike clause" which exempted the bosses from penalties for delays caused by strikes. And so the loss incurred by the present delay fell solely upon the owners. "Settle this up somehow," they were constantly demanding of Mr. Baxter. "You've delayed my building a month. There's a month's interest on my money, and my natural profits for a month, both gone to blazes!" To all of these Mr. Baxter's answer was in substance the same: "The day the union gives up, on that day the strike is settled." And this he said with unchangeable resolution showing through his voice. The bosses and owners went away cursing and looking hopelessly upon an immediate future whose only view to them was a desert of loss. But Mr. Baxter did not have in his heart the same steely decision he had in his manner. Events had not taken just the course he had foreseen. The division in the union, on which he had counted for its fall, had been mended by the subsidence of Tom. The union's resources were almost exhausted, true, but it was receiving some financial assistance from its national organization, and its fighting spirit was as strong as ever. If the aid of the national organization continued to be given, and if the spirit of the men remained high, Mr. Baxter realized that the union could hold out indefinitely. The attempt to replace the strikers by non-union men had been a failure; Mr. Driscoll and himself were the only contractors who still maintained the expensive farce of keeping a few scabs at work. And despite his surface indifference to it, the pressure of the owners of buildings and of the bosses in other trades had a little effect upon Mr. Baxter, and more than a little upon some other members of the Executive Committee. A few of the employers were already eager to yield to the strikers' demand, preferring decreased profits to a long period of none at all; but when Mr. Isaacs attempted to voice the sentiments of these gentlemen in a meeting of the Executive Committee, a look from Mr. Baxter's steady gray eyes was enough to close him up disconcerted. So Buck Foley was not without a foundation in fact for his hopeful words when he said in his report to the union at the first meeting in June: "The only way we can lose this strike, boys, is to give it away." Which remark might be said, by one speaking from the vantage of later events, to have been a bit of unconscious prophecy. Chapter XXIII THE TRIUMPH OF BUSINESS SENSE Mr. Baxter had to withstand pressure from still another source--from himself. His business sense, as had owners and contractors, demanded of him an immediate settlement of the strike. In its frequent debates with him it was its habit to argue by repeating the list of evils begotten by the strike, placing its emphasis on his losses that promised to continue for months to come. Unlike most reformers and other critics of the _status quo_, Mr. Baxter's business sense was not merely destructive; it offered a practicable plan for betterment--a plan that guaranteed victory over the strikers and required only the sacrifice of his pride. But Mr. Baxter's pride refused to be sacrificed. His business sense had suggested the plan shortly after the union had voted to strike. He would have adopted the plan immediately, as the obvious procedure in the situation, had it not been for the break with Foley. But the break had come, and his pride could not forget that last visit of Foley to his private office; it had demanded that the walking delegate be humiliated--utterly crushed. His business sense, from the other side, had argued the folly of allowing mere emotion to stand in the way of victory and the profitable resumption of work. Outraged pride had been the stronger during April and May, but as the possibility of its satisfaction had grown less and less as May had dragged by, the pressure of his business sense had become greater and greater. And the Avon explosion had given business sense a further chance to greaten. "Try the plan at once," it had exhorted; "if you don't, Foley may do it again." However, for all the pressure of owners and contractors and of his business sense--owners and contractors urging any sort of settlement, so that it be a settlement, business sense urging its own private plan--in the early days of June Mr. Baxter continued to present the same appearance of wall-like firmness. But his firmness was that of a dam that can sustain a pressure of one hundred, and is bearing a pressure of ninety-nine with its habitual show of eternal fixedness. Mr. Baxter had to withstand pressure from yet another source--from his wife. When he had told her in early May that the strike was not going to be settled as quickly as he had first thought, and had asked her to practice such temporary economy as she could, she had acquiesced graciously but with an aching heart; and instead of going to Europe as she had intended, she and her daughter had run up to Tuxedo, where with two maids, carriage, and coachman, they were managing to make both ends meet on three hundred dollars a week. But when the first days of June had come, and no prospect of settlement, she began to think with swelling anxiety of the Newport season. "Why can't this thing be settled right off?" she said to her husband who had run up Friday evening--the Friday after the Wednesday Foley had assured the union of certain victory--to stay with her over Saturday and Sunday. And she acquainted him with her besetting fears. Only another unit of pressure was needed to overturn the wall of Mr. Baxter's resistance, and the stress of his wife's words was many times the force required. During his two days at Tuxedo Mr. Baxter sat much of the time apart in quiet thought. Mrs. Baxter was too considerate a wife to repeat to him her anxieties, or to harass him with pleas and questions, but just before he left early Monday morning for the city she could not refrain from saying: "You will try, won't you, dear, to end the strike soon?" "Yes, dear." She beamed upon him. "How soon?" "It will last about three more weeks." She fell on his neck with a happy cry, and kissed him. She asked him to explain, but his business sense had told him it would be better if she did not know the plan, and his love had given him the same counsel; so he merely answered, "I am certain the union will give up," and plead his haste to catch his train as excuse for saying nothing more. That afternoon a regular meeting of the Executive Committee took place in Mr. Baxter's office. It was not a very cheerful quintet that sat about the cherry table: Isaacs, in his heart ready to abandon the fight; Bobbs, Murphy, and Driscoll, determined to win, but with no more speedy plan than to continue the siege; and Baxter, cold and polite as usual, and about as inspiring as a frozen thought. There was nothing in the early part of the meeting to put enthusiasm into the committee. First of all, Mr. Baxter read a letter from the Civic Federation, asking the committee if it would be willing to meet again, in the interest of a settlement, with the strikers' committee. "Why not?" said Isaacs, trying to subdue his eagerness to a business-like calm. "We've got nothing to lose by it." "And nothing to gain!" snorted Driscoll. "Tell the Civic Federation, not on its life," advised Murphy. "And tell 'em to cut their letters out. We're gettin' tired o' their eternal buttin' in." Baxter gave Murphy a chilly glance. "We'll consider that settled then," he said quietly. In his own mind, however, he had assigned the offer of the Civic Federation to a definite use. There were several routine reports on the condition of the strike; and the members of the committee had a chance to propose new plans. Baxter was not ready to offer his--he hung back from broaching it; and the others had none. "Nothin' to do but set still and starve 'em out," said Murphy, and no one contradicted him. At the previous meeting, when pride was still regnant within him, Mr. Baxter had announced that he had put detectives on the Avon case with the hope of gaining evidence that would convict Foley of complicity in the explosion. Since then the detectives had reported that though morally certain of Foley's direct responsibility they could find not one bit of legal evidence against him. Furthermore, business sense had whispered Mr. Baxter that it would be better to let the matter drop, for if brought to trial Foley might, in a fit of recklessness, make some undesirable disclosures. So, for his own reasons, Mr. Baxter had thus far guarded the Avon explosion from the committee's talk. But at length Mr. Driscoll, restless at the dead subjects they were discussing, avoided his guard and asked: "Anything new in the Avon business?" "Nothing. My detectives have failed to find any proof at all of Mr. Foley's guilt." "Arrest him anyhow," said Driscoll. "If we can convict him, why the back of the strike's broken." "There's no use arresting a man unless you can convict him." "Take the risk! You're losing your nerve, Baxter." Baxter flushed the least trifle at Driscoll's words, but he did not retort. His eyes ran over the faces of the four with barely perceptible hesitancy. He felt this to be his opening, but the plan of his business sense was a subject difficult and delicate to handle. "I have a better use for Mr. Foley," he said steadily. "Yes?" cried the others, and leaned toward him. When Baxter said this much, they knew he had a vast deal more to say. "If we could convict him I'd be in favor of his arrest. But if we try, we'll fail; and that will be a triumph for the union. So to arrest him is bad policy." "Go on," said Murphy. "Whatever we may say to the public, we know among ourselves this strike is nowhere near its end. It may last all summer--the entire building season." The four men nodded. Baxter now spoke with apparent effort. "Why not make use of Foley and win it in three weeks?" "How?" asked Driscoll suspiciously. "How?" asked the others eagerly. "I suppose most of you have been held up by Foley?" There were four affirmative answers. "You know he's for sale?" "I've been forced to buy him!" said Driscoll. Baxter went on more easily, and with the smoothness of a book. "We have all found ourselves, I suppose, compelled to take measures in the interests of peace or the uninterrupted continuance of business that were repugnant to us. What I am going to suggest is a thing I would rather not have to do; but we are face to face with two evils, and this is the lesser. "You will bear me out, of course, when I say the demands of the union are without the bounds of reason. We can't afford to grant the demands; and yet the fight against the union may use up the whole building season. We'll lose a year's profits, and the men will lose a year's wages, and in the end we'll win. Since we are certain to win, anyhow, it seems to me that any plan that will enable us to win at once, and save our profits and the men's wages, is justifiable." "Of course," said three of the men. "What do you mean?" Driscoll asked guardedly. "Many a rebellion has been quelled by satisfying the leader." "Oh, come right out with what you mean," demanded Driscoll. "The quickest way of settling the strike, and the cheapest, for both us and the union, is to--well, see that Foley is satisfied." Driscoll sprang to his feet, his chair tumbling on its back, and his fist came down upon the table. "I thought you were driving at that! By God, I'm getting sick of this whole dirty underhand way of doing business. I'd get out if I had a half-way decent offer. The union is in the wrong. Of course it is! But I want to fight 'em on the square--in the open. I don't want to win by bribing a traitor!" "It's a case where it would be wrong not to bribe--if you want to use so harsh a word," said Baxter, his face tinged the least bit with red. "It is either to satisfy Mr. Foley or to lose a summer's work and have the men and their families suffer from the loss of a summer's wages. It's a choice between evils. I'll leave to the gentlemen here, which is the greater." "Oh, give your conscience a snooze, Driscoll!" growled Murphy. "I think Baxter's reasoning is good," said Bobbs. Isaacs corroborated him with a nod. "It's smooth reasoning, but it's rotten!--as rotten as hell!" He glared about on the four men. "Are you all in for Baxter's plan?" "We haven't heard it all yet," said Bobbs. "You've heard enough to guess the rest," snorted Driscoll. "I think it's worth tryin'," said Murphy. "Why, yes," said Bobbs. "We can do no less than that," said Isaacs. "Then you'll try it without me!" Driscoll shouted. "I resign from this committee, and resign quick!" He grabbed his hat from Baxter's desk and stamped toward the door. Mr. Baxter's smooth voice stopped him as his hand was on the knob. "Even if you do withdraw, of course you'll keep secret what we have proposed." Driscoll gulped for a moment before he could speak; his face deepened its purplish red, and his eyes snapped and snapped. "Damn you, Baxter, what sort d'you think I am!" he exploded. "Of course!" He opened the door, there was a furious slam, and he was gone. The four men looked at each other questioningly. Baxter broke the silence. "A good fellow," he said with a touch of pity. "But his ideas are too inelastic for the business world." "He ought to be runnin' a girls' boardin' school," commented Murphy. "Perhaps it's just as well he withdrew," said Baxter. "I take it we're pretty much of one mind." "Anything to settle the strike--that's me," said Murphy. "Come on now, Baxter; give us the whole plan. Just handin' a roll over to Foley ain't goin' to settle it. That'd do if it was his strike. But it ain't. It's the union's--about three thousand men. How are you goin' to bring the union around?" "The money brings Foley around; Foley brings the union around. It's very simple." "As simple as two and two makes seven," growled Murphy. "Give us the whole thing." Baxter outlined his entire plan, as he expected it to work out. "That sounds good," said Bobbs. "But are you certain we can buy Foley off?" "Sure thing," replied Murphy, answering for Baxter. "If we offer him enough." "How much do you think it'll take?" asked Isaacs. Baxter named a figure. "So much as that!" cried Isaacs. "That isn't very much, coming from the Association," said Baxter. "You're losing as much in a week as your assessment would come to." "I suppose you want the whole Association to know all about this," remarked Murphy. "Only we four are to know anything." "How'll you get the Association to give you the money then?" Murphy followed up. "I can get the emergency fund increased. We have to give no account of that, you know." "You seem to have thought o' everything, Baxter," Murphy admitted. "I say we can't see Foley any too soon." Bobbs and Isaacs approved this judgment heartily. "I'll write him, then, to meet us here to-morrow afternoon. There's one more point now." He paused to hunt for a phrase. "Don't you think the suggestion should--ah--come from him?" The three men looked puzzled. "My mind don't make the jump," said Murphy. Baxter coughed. It was not very agreeable, this having to say things right out. "Don't you see? If we make the offer, it's--well, it's bribery. But if we can open the way a little bit, and lead him on to make the demand, why we're----" "Held up, o' course!" supplied Murphy admiringly. "Yes. In that case, if the negotiations with Foley come to nothing, or there is a break later, Foley can't make capital out of it, as he might in the first case. We're safe." "We couldn't help ourselves! We were held up!" Alderman Murphy could not restrain a joyous laugh, and he held out a red hairy hand. "Put 'er there, Baxter! There was a time when I classed you with the rest o' the reform bunch you stand with in politics--fit for nothin' but to wear white kid gloves and to tell people how good you are. But say, you're the smoothest article I've met yet!" Baxter, with hardly concealed reluctance, placed his soft slender hand in Murphy's oily paw. Chapter XXIV BUSINESS IS BUSINESS It had been hard for Baxter to broach his plan to the Executive Committee. The next step in the plan was far harder--to write the letter to Foley. His revolted pride upreared itself against this act, but his business sense forced him to go on with what he had begun. So he wrote the letter--not an easy task of itself, since the letter had to be so vague as to tell Foley nothing, and yet so luring as to secure his presence--and sent it to Foley's house by messenger. The next afternoon at a quarter past two the committee was again in Baxter's office. Foley had been asked to come at half-past. The fifteen minutes before his expected arrival they spent in rehearsing the plan, so soon to be put to its severest test. "I suppose you'll do all the talking, Baxter," said Bobbs. "Sure," answered Murphy. "It's his game. I don't like to give in that any man's better than me, but when it comes to fine work o' this kind we ain't one, two, three with Baxter." Baxter took the compliment with unchanged face. Foley was not on time. At two-forty he had not come, and that he would come at all began to be doubted. At two-fifty he had not arrived. At three none of the four really expected him. "Let's go," said Murphy. "He'd 'a' been here on time if he was comin' at all. I ain't goin' to waste my time waitin' on any walkin' delegate." "Perhaps there has been some mistake--perhaps he didn't get the letter," suggested Baxter. But his explanation did not satisfy himself; he had a growing fear that he had humiliated himself in vain, that Foley had got the letter and was laughing at him--a new humiliation greater even than the first. "But let's wait a few minutes longer; he may come yet," he went on; and after a little persuasion the three consented to remain half an hour longer. At quarter past three the office boy brought word that Foley was without. Baxter ordered that he be sent in, but before the boy could turn Foley walked through the open door, derby hat down over his eyes, hands in his trousers pockets. Baxter stood up, and the other three rose slowly after him. "Good-afternoon, gents," Foley said carelessly, his eyes running rapidly from face to face. "D'I keep youse waitin'?" "Only about an hour," growled Murphy. "Is that so, now? Sorry. I always take a nap after lunch, an' I overslep' myself." Foley's eyes had fixed upon Baxter's, and Baxter's returned their gaze. For several seconds the two stood looking at each other with expressionless faces, till the other three began to wonder. Then Baxter seemed to swallow something. "Won't you please be seated, Mr. Foley," he said. "Sure," said Foley in his first careless tone. The five sat down. Foley again coolly scanned the committee. "Well?" he said. The three looked at Baxter to open the conversation. He did not at once begin, and Foley took out his watch. "I can only give youse a few minutes, gents. I've got an engagement up town at four. So if there's anything doin', s'pose we don't waste no time in silent prayer." "We want to talk over the strike with you," began Baxter. "Really. If I'd known that now I'd 'a' brought the committee along." Murphy scowled at this naïveté. "We don't want to talk to your committee." "I'm nobody without the committee. The committee's runnin' the strike." "We merely desire to talk things over in a general way with you in your capacity as an individual," said Baxter quickly, to head off other remarks from Murphy. "A general talk? Huh! Youse talk two hours; result--youse've talked two hours." He slowly rose and took his hat, covering a yawn with a bony hand. "Interestin'. I'd like it if I had the time to spare. But I ain't. Well--so-long." "Hold on!" cried Baxter hastily. Foley turned. "We thought that possibly, as the result of our talk, we might be able to reach some compromise for the settlement of the strike." "If youse've got any plans, that's different." Foley resumed his chair, resting an elbow on the table. "But remember I've got another engagement, an' cut 'em short." There were five chairs in the room. Baxter had placed his own with its back to the window, and Foley's so that the full light fell straight in the walking delegate's face. His own face, in the shadow, was as though masked. Baxter had now immediately before him the task of opening the way for Foley to make the desired demand. "This strike has been going on over five weeks now," he began, watching the walking delegate's face for any expression significant that his words were having their effect. "You have been fixed in your position; we have been fixed in ours. Your union has lost about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I won't say how much we've lost. We both seem to be as firmly fixed in our determination as ever. The strike may last all summer. The question is, do we both want to keep on losing money--indefinitely?" Foley did not take the opening. "That's the question," he said blandly. It was a few seconds before Baxter went on. "I judge that we do not. You have----" "Excuse me," said Foley, rising, "but I got weak eyes, an' this light hurts 'em. Suppose me an' youse changes chairs." He calmly stepped over to Baxter's side and waited. There was nothing for Baxter but to yield the seat, which he did. Foley sat down, tilted back against the window sill, and hooked his heels over a chair rung. "Your union has perhaps a million dollars at stake," Baxter continued at the same even pitch. "We have--a great deal, and the owners stand to lose heavily. If by talking an hour we can devise a plan by which this can be saved, it's worth while, is it not?" "Sure. Speakin' as an individual, I'm willin' to talk twice as long for half as much," Foley drawled. There was a silence. The three men, their elbows on the polished table, looked on as though spectators at a play. "I wonder if you have anything to propose?" asked Baxter guardedly. "Me? I come to use my ears, not my tongue." The two men watched each other narrowly. The advantage, if there could be advantage in the case of two faces under perfect control, was all with Foley. The contractor had caught no sign revealing whether his insinuative words were having effect. "But you perhaps have thought of some plan that is worth considering," he went on. Foley hesitated, for the first time. "Well--yes." "What is it?" "I----" He broke off, and seemed to listen with suspicion. Baxter's face quickened--the least trifle. The three men leaned further across the table, excitement tugging in their faces. "You are perfectly safe," Baxter assured him. "No one can hear." "The plan's dead simple. But mebbe it's occurred to youse." "Go on!" said Baxter. The men hardly breathed. "The quickest way o' settlin' the strike is for"--he paused--"youse bosses to give in." Baxter's face went a little pale. Something very like a snarl came from the spectators. Foley gave a prolonged chuckle. "If youse'll pay me for my time, I'm willin' to play tag in the dark so long's the coin lasts. But if youse ain't, come to business, or I'll go." "I don't understand," returned Baxter blankly. "Oh, tell the truth now an' then, Baxter. It sorter gives contrast to the other things youse say. Youse understand all right enough." Baxter continued his blank look. Foley laughed dryly. "Now why do youse keep up that little game with me, Baxter? But keep it up, if youse like it? It don't fool no one, so where's the harm. I see through youse all right, even if youse don't understand me." "Yes?" "Mebbe youse'd like to have me tell youse why youse sent for me?" There was no answer. "I'll tell then, since youse don't seem to want to. I only expect to live till I'm seventy-five, so I ain't got no time to waste on your way o' doin' business." Tilted at his ease against the window sill, he gave each of the four a slow glance from his sharp eyes. "Well, youse gents sent for me to see if I wouldn't offer to sell out the strike." This was hardly the manner in which the four had expected he would be led on to hold them up. There was a moment of suppressed disconcertment. Then Baxter remarked: "It seems to me that you are doing some very unwarranted guessing." "I may be wrong, sure." A sardonic grin showed through the shadow-mask on his face. "Well, what did youse want to talk to me about then?" Again there was a pause. The three twisted in uncomfortable suspense. Baxter had the control of a bronze. "Suppose that was our purpose?" he asked quietly. "What would you say?" "That's pretty fair; youse're gettin' out where there's daylight," Foley approved. "I'd say youse was wastin' time. It can't be done--even if anybody wanted it done." "Why?" "There's three thousand men in the union, an' every one o' them has a say in settlin' the strike. An' there's five men on the strike committee. I s'pose it's necessary to tell four such honest gents that a trick o' this sort's got to be turned on the quiet. Where's the chance for quiet? A committee might fool a union--yes. But there's the committee." Foley looked at his watch. "I've got to move if I keep that engagement." He stood up, and a malignant look came over his face. "I've give youse gents about the only sort of a reason youse're capable of appreciatin'--I couldn't if I wanted to. But there's another--I don't want to. The only way o' settlin' this strike is the one I said first, for youse bosses to give in. I've swore to beat youse out, an', by God, I'm goin' to do it!" Bobbs and Isaac blinked dazedly. Murphy rose with a savage look, but was sent to his chair by a glance from Baxter. Save for that glance, Foley's words would have made no more change on Baxter's face than had it indeed been of bronze. "When youse're ready to give in, gents, send for me, an' I'll come again. Till then, damn youse, good-by!" As his hand was on the knob Baxter's even voice reached him: "But suppose a man could fool the committee?" Foley turned slowly around. "What?" "Suppose a man could fool the committee?" "What youse drivin' at?" "Suppose a man could fool the committee?" Foley's eyes were of blazing intentness. "It can't be done." "I know of only one man who could do it." "Who?" "I think you can guess his name." Foley came slowly back to his chair, with a gaze that fairly clutched Baxter's face. "Don't youse fool with me!" he snarled. Baxter showed nothing of the angler's excitement who feels the fish on his hook. "Suppose a man could fool the committee? What would you say?" Foley held his eyes in piercing study on Baxter's face. "See here, are youse talkin' business?" he demanded. "Suppose I say I am." The shadow could not hide a wolf-like gleam of Foley's yellow teeth. "Then I might say, 'I'll listen.'" "Suppose a man could fool the committee," Baxter reiterated. "What would you say?" "S'pose I was to say, 'how'?" Baxter felt sure of his catch. Throwing cautious speech aside, he outlined the plan of his business sense, Foley watching him the while with unshifting gaze, elbows on knees, hands gripped. "Negotiations between your committee and ours might be resumed. You might be defiant for one or two meetings of the two committees. You might still be defiant in the meetings, but you might begin to drop a few words of doubt on the outside. They will spread, and have their effect. You can gradually grow a little weaker in your declarations at the meetings and a little stronger in your doubts expressed outside. Some things might happen, harmless in themselves, which would weaken the union's cause. Then you might begin to say that perhaps after all it would be better to go back to work on the old scale now, than to hold out with the possibility of having to go back at the old scale anyhow after having lost a summer's work. And so on. In three weeks, or even less, you would have the union in a mood to declare the strike off." Foley's gaze dropped to the rug, and the four waited his decision in straining suspense. The walking delegate's mind quickly ran over all the phases of this opportunity for a fortune. None of the four men present would tell of the transaction, since, if they did, they would be blackened by their own words. To the union and all outside persons it would seem nothing more than a lost strike. The prestige he would lose in the union would be only temporary; he could regain it in the course of time. Other walking delegates had lost strikes and kept their places as leaders. Even Baxter had begun to show signs of nervous strain when Foley raised his eyes and looked hesitatingly at the three men. Every man was one more mouth, so one more danger. "What is it?" asked Baxter. "I ain't used to doin' business with more'n one man." "Oh, we're all on the level," growled Murphy. "Come out with it." "Well, then, I say yes--with an 'if'." "And the 'if'?" queried Baxter. "If the price is right." "What do you think it should be?" Foley studied the men's faces from beneath lowered eyebrows. "Fifty thousand." This was the sum Baxter had mentioned the afternoon before. But Isaacs cried out, "What!" "That--or nothing!" "Half that's enough," declared Murphy. Foley sneered in Murphy's face. "As I happen to know, twenty-five thousand is just what youse got for workin' in the Board o' Aldermen for the Lincoln Avenue Traction Franchise. Good goods always comes higher." The alderman's red face paled to a pink. But Baxter cut in before he could retort. "We won't haggle over the amount, Mr. Foley. I think we can consider the sum you mention as agreed upon." Foley's yellow teeth gleamed again. He summed up his terms concisely: "Fifty thousand, then. Paid in advance. No checks. Cash only." "Pay you in advance!" snorted Murphy. "Well I rather guess not!" "Why?" "Well--we want somethin' for our money!" Foley's face grew dark. "See here, gents. We've done a little quiet business together, all of us. Now can any one o' youse say Buck Foley ever failed to keep his part o' the agreement?" The four had to vindicate his honor. But nevertheless, for their own reason, they seemed unwilling to pay now and trust that he would do the work; and Foley, for his reason, seemed unwilling to do the work and trust that they would pay. After much discussion a compromise was reached: the money was to be paid by Baxter in the morning of the day on which the union would vote upon the strike; the committee could then feel certain that Foley would press his measure through, for he would have gone too far to draw back; and Foley, if payment should not be made, could still balk the fulfillment of the plan. When this agreement had been reached Baxter was ready with another point. "I believe it would be wise if all our future dealings with Mr. Foley should be in the open, especially my dealings with him. If we were seen coming from an apparently secret meeting, and recognized--as we might be, for we are both known to many people--suspicions might be aroused and our plan defeated." The four gave approval to the suggestion. At five o'clock all was settled, and Foley rose to go. He looked irresolutely at Baxter for a moment, then said in a kind of grudging admiration: "I've never give youse credit, Baxter. I knew youse was the smoothest thing in the contractin' business, but I never guessed youse was this deep." For an instant Baxter had a fear that he would again have to shake a great hairy hand. But Foley's tribute did not pass beyond words. Chapter XXV IN WHICH FOLEY BOWS TO DEFEAT The minute after Foley had gone Mr. Baxter was talking over the telephone to the secretary of the Conciliation Committee of the Civic Federation. "We have considered your offer to try to bring our committee and the committee of the ironworkers together," he said. "We are willing to reopen negotiations with them." A letter would have been the proper and more dignified method of communication. But this was the quicker, and to Mr. Baxter a day was worth while. The secretary believed in the high mission of his committee, and was enthusiastic to make a record for it in the avoidance of strikes and assistance in their settlement. So he laid down the telephone receiver and called for a stenographer. Within twenty minutes a messenger left his office bearing a letter to Foley. When Foley got home, an hour after leaving Mr. Baxter's office, his wife handed him the letter. It read: MY DEAR MR. FOLEY: Mr. Baxter, speaking for the Executive Committee of the Iron Employers' Association, has signified their willingness to meet your committee and again discuss possible measures for the ending of the strike. Notwithstanding the barrenness of previous meetings I sincerely hope your committee will show the same willingness to resume negotiations. Permit me to urge upon your attention the extreme seriousness of the present situation: the union, the contractors, the owners, all losing money, the public discommoded by the delay in the completion of buildings; all these demand that your two committees get together and in a spirit of fairness reach some agreement whereby the present situation will be brought to an end. Our rooms are at the service of your two committees. As time is precious I have secured Mr. Baxter's consent, for his committee, to meet you here at half-past two to-morrow afternoon. I hope this will suit you. If not, a later date can be arranged. Though his appetite and dinner were both ready, Foley put on his hat and went to the home of Connelly. The secretary was just sitting down to his own dinner. "I just happened to be goin' by," said Foley, "an' I thought I'd run in an' show youse a letter I got to-day." He drew out the letter and handed it to Connelly. Foley chatted with Mrs. Connelly while the letter was being read, but all the time his eyes were watching its effect upon Connelly. When he saw the end had been reached, he remarked: "It don't amount to nothin'. I guess we might as well write 'em to go to hell." Connelly hesitated. It usually took more than a little courage to express a view contrary to Foley's. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "Baxter knows how we stand. It strikes me if he offers to talk things over with us, that means he realizes he's licked an' is willin' to make concessions." "Um! Maybe youse're right." Encouraged by this admission Connelly went on: "It might be worth our while to meet 'em, anyhow. Suppose nothin' does come of it, what have we lost?" Foley looked half-convinced. "Well, mebbe our committee might as well talk the letter over." "Sure thing." "I suppose then we ought to get together to-night. If we get word to the other three boys, we've got to catch 'em at dinner. Can youse see to that?" Connelly looked regretfully at his untasted meal. "I guess I can." "All right. In your office then, say at eight." The five men were in the office on time, though Connelly, to make it, had to content himself with what he could swallow in a few minutes at a quick lunch counter. The office was a large, square room, a desk in one corner, a few chairs along the sides, a great cuspidor in the center; at the windows were lace curtains, and on one wall was a full-length mirror in a gilt frame--for on nights when Potomac Hall was let for weddings, receptions, and balls, Connelly's office had over its door, "Ladies' Dressing Room." The five men lit cigars, Foley's cigars, and drew chairs around the cuspidor, which forthwith began to bear the relation of hub to their frequent salivary spokes. "Connelly told youse about the letter from the Civic Federation, that's gettin' so stuck on runnin' God's business they'll soon have him chased off his job," Foley began. "But I guess I might as well read the letter to youse." "Take the offer, o' course!" declared Pete, when Foley had ended. "That's what I said," Connelly joined. Hogan and Brown, knowing how opposed Foley was to the proposition, said nothing. "We've wasted enough time on the bosses' committee," Foley objected. "No use talkin' to 'em again till we've put 'em down an' out." "The trouble with you, Foley, is, you like a fight so well you can't tell when you've licked your man," said Pete in an exasperated tone. "What's the use punchin' a man after he's give in?" "We've got 'em licked, or they'd never ask to talk things over," urged Connelly. Foley looked in scowling meditation at his cigar ash. Then he raised his eyes to Brown and Hogan. "What do youse think?" Thus directly questioned; they had to admit they stood with Pete and Connelly. "Oh, well, since we ain't workin', I suppose we won't be wastin' much if we do chin a bit with 'em," he conceded. But the four easily perceived that he merely yielded to their majority, did not agree. The next afternoon Foley and his committee were led by the secretary of the Conciliation Committee into one of the rooms of the Civic Federation's suite, where Mr. Baxter and his committee were already in waiting. The secretary expressed a hope that they arrive at an understanding, and withdrew in exultation over this example of the successful work his committee was doing. There was a new member on the employers' committee--Mr. Berman. Mr. Baxter, exercising the power vested in him to fill vacancies temporarily, had chosen Mr. Berman as Mr. Driscoll's successor for two reasons: his observations of Mr. Berman had made him certain the latter had elastic ideas; and, more important, for Mr. Driscoll's own partner to take the vacant place would quiet all suspicions as to the cause of Mr. Driscoll's unexpected resignation. Of the five, Bobbs and Isaacs were rather self-conscious; Murphy, who had had previous experience in similar situations, wore a large, blustering manner; Berman, for all his comparative inexperience, was most promisingly at his ease; and Baxter was the Baxter he was three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. The strikers' committee presented the confident front of expected victory. Foley, slipped far down in his chair, eyed the contractors with a sideling, insolent glance. "If this here's to be another o' them hot air festivals, like we attended in April an' May, say so now," he growled. "We ain't got no time for talkin' unless youse mean business." Connelly, whose chair was beside Foley's, leaned over anxiously. "Don't you think you're goin' at 'em pretty rough, Buck?" he whispered. "If you get 'em mad, they'll go right back to where they stood." "Oh, youse leave 'em to me," Foley returned knowingly. It would serve no purpose to give the details of this meeting. Mr. Baxter, ignoring Foley's insolence of manner, outlined in well-balanced sentences the reasons that made it imperative to both sides for the strike to be settled, and then went on to give anew the contractors' side of the questions at issue. Now and then Foley broke in with comments which were splenetic outbursts rather than effective rejoinders. When the meeting was over and his committee was out in the street, Foley shed his roughly defiant manner. "Boys," he said with quiet confidence, "we've got 'em beat to death." The next afternoon was occupied with a debate between Mr. Baxter and Foley upon their respective claims. Foley's tongue was as sharp as ever, but his fellow committeemen had to acknowledge to their secret hearts there was more of convincing substance in what Mr. Baxter said. They wondered somewhat at the sudden declension in the effectiveness of their leader's speech, which perhaps they would not have done had they been parties to a conference that morning at which Foley had pointed out to Mr. Baxter the vulnerable spots in the union's claims, and schooled him in the most telling replies to the statements he, Foley, intended making. After the meeting Foley again declared his certainty of winning, but there was a notable decrease of confidence in his voice. "Yes," said Connelly, without much spirit. "But Baxter, he puts up a good talk." "He seems to have facts to talk from," explained Brown. "So have we," said Foley. "Yes, but somehow at the meetin's his facts seem stronger," said Connelly. "Oh, what o' that," Foley returned encouragingly. "More'n once in poker I've seen a strong bluff win over a strong hand." The next meeting was a repetition of the second. Foley was keen in his wit, and insolently defiant; but Mr. Baxter got the better of every argument. The union's committee began to admit, each man to himself, that their position was weaker, and the contractors' much stronger, than they had thought. And so, day by day, Foley continued to undermine their confidence. So skillfully did he play his part, they never guessed that he was the insinuating cause of their failing courage; more, his constant encouragement made them ashamed to speak of their sinking spirit. But on the fifth day, at a consultation in Connelly's office, it came out. There had been an hour of talk, absolutely without a touch of enthusiasm, when Connelly, who had been looking around at the men's faces for some time, said with an effort: "On the level now, boys, d'you think we've got any chance o' winnin'?" Foley swore. "What's that?" he demanded. "Why o' course we're goin' to win!" But Connelly's words had their effect; the silence broken, the men spoke hesitatingly of the growing doubts they had been trying to hide. Foley stood up. "Boys, if youse're goin' to talk this kind o' rot, youse've got to talk it without me," he said, and went out. Foley gone, they spoke freely of their doubts; and they also talked of him. "D'you notice how the ring's all gone out o' his voice?" asked Brown. "I bet he ain't got no more confidence than any o' the rest of us," said Pete. "I bet so, too," agreed Connelly. "He talks big just to cheer us up. Then it's mighty hard for Buck to give up. He'll always fight to his last drop o' blood." The decline of the committee's enthusiasm had already begun to have a disquieting effect in the union. It now rapidly spread that the committee had little confidence of winning the strike, and that Foley, for all his encouraging words, believed at heart as did the rest of the committee. The first meeting of the union after the resumption of negotiations was a bitter one. The committee made a vague report, in which Foley did not join, that made apparent their fallen courage. Immediately questioning men were on their feet all over the hall, Tom among them. The committee, cornered by queries, had to admit publicly that it had no such confidence as it had had a week before. The reasons for this were demanded. No more definite reason could be given than that the bosses were stronger in their position than the union had believed. There were sneers and hot words for the four members who participated in the report. Cries went up for Foley, who had thus far kept out of the discussion; and one voice, answering the cries, shouted: "Oh, he's lost his nerve, too, the same as the others!" Foley was on his feet in an instant, looking over the excited crowd. "If any man here has heard me say I'm for givin' in, let him get up on his two feet!" No one stood up. "I guess youse all know I'm for fightin' as long's there's anything worth fightin' for," he declared, and sank back into his seat. But there had been no wrath in his eyes as he had looked over the crowd, and no ferocity in his words of vindication. The whisper ran about that it was true, he was losing his nerve. And if Foley, Foley the fighter, were losing confidence, then the situation must indeed be desperate. The courage of a large body of men, especially of one loosely organized, is the courage of its leaders. Now that it was known the committee's confidence was well-nigh gone, and guessed that Foley's was going, the courage of the men ebbed rapidly. It began to be said: "If there's no chance of winning the strike, why don't we settle it at once, and get back to work?" And the one who spoke loudest and most often in this strain was Johnson. Two days after the meeting Foley had a conference with Mr. Baxter, at which the other members of the union's committee were not present. And that same night there was another explosion in one of Mr. Baxter's buildings that chanced to be unguarded. The explosion was slight, and small damage was done, but a search discovered two charges of dynamite in the foundation, with fuses burned almost to the fulminating caps. If the dynamite did not explode, the newspapers did. The perpetrators of this second outrage, which only fate had prevented, should be hunted down and made such an example of as would be an eternal warning against like atrocities. The chief of police should apprehend the miscreants at whatever cost, and the district attorney should see that they had full justice--and perhaps a little more. The chief of police, for his part, declared he'd have the guilty parties if it took his every man to run them down. But his men searched, days passed, and the waiting cells remained empty. Mr. Baxter, interviewed, said it was obvious that the union was now determined to stop at nothing in its efforts to drive the contractors into submission. The union, at a special meeting, disclaimed any responsibility for the attempted outrage, and intimated that this was a scheme of the contractors themselves to blacken the union's character. When a reporter "conveyed this intelligence to Mr. Baxter, that gentleman only smiled." The chief result of this second explosion was that so much as remained to the union of public sympathy was lost in what time it took the public to read its morning paper. Had a feeling of confidence prevailed in the union, instead of one of growing doubt, this charge might have incited the union to resistance all the stouter. But the union, dispirited over the weakness of its cause, saw its cause had been yet further weakened, and its courage fled precipitately. Three days after the explosion there was another joint meeting of the two committees. At this Mr. Baxter, who had before been soft courtesy, was all ultimatum. The explosion had decided them. They would not be intimidated; they would not make a single concession. The union could return to work on the old terms, if it liked; if not, they would fight till there was nothing more to fight with, or for. Foley, with much bravado, gave ultimatum for ultimatum; but when his committee met, immediately after leaving the employers', to consider Mr. Baxter's proposition, he sat in gloomy silence, hardly heeding what was being said. As they talked they turned constantly to Foley's somber face, and looking at that face their words became more and more discouraged. Finally Pete asked of him: "Where d'you stand, Buck?" He came out of his reverie with a start. "I'm against givin' up," he said. "Somethin' may turn up yet." "What's the use holdin' on?" demanded Connelly. "We're bound to be licked in the end. Every day we hold out the men lose a day's pay." Foley glanced sadly about. "Is that what youse all think?" There were four affirmative answers. "Well, I ain't goin' to stand out----" He broke off, and his face fell forward into his palm, and he was silent for a long space. The four watched him in wordless sympathy. "Boys," he said, huskily, into his hand, "this's the first time Buck Foley's ever been licked." Chapter XXVI PETERSEN'S SIN The first news of the committee's failing confidence that reached Tom's ears he discredited as being one of the rumors that are always flying about when large powers are vested in a small body of men. That the strike could fail was too preposterous for his belief. But when the committee was forced to admit in open meeting that its courage was waning, Tom, astounded, had to accept what but yesterday he had discredited. He thought immediately of treachery on Foley's part, but in his hot remarks to the union he made no mention of his suspicions; he knew the boomerang quality of an accusation he could not prove. Later, when he went over the situation with cool brain, he saw that treachery was impossible. Granting even that Foley could be bought, there was the rest of the committee,--and Pete, on whose integrity he would have staked his own, was one of its members. And yet, for all that reason told him, a vague and large suspicion persisted in his mind. A few days after the meeting he had a talk with Pete, during which his suspicion got into words. "Has it occurred to you, Pete, that maybe Foley is up to some deep trick?" he asked. "You're away off, Tom!" was the answer, given with some heat. "I ain't missed a single committee meetin', an' I know just where Foley stands. It's the rest of us that're sorter peterin' out. Buck's the only one that's standin' out for not givin' in. Mebbe he's not above dumpin' us all if he had the chance. But he couldn't be crooked here even if he wanted to. We're too many watchin' him." All this Tom had said to himself before, but his saying it had not dispelled his suspicion, and no more did the saying of it now by Pete. The negotiations seemed all open and above board; he could not lay his finger on a single flaw in them. But yet the strike seemed to him to have been on too solid a basis to have thus collapsed without apparent cause. At the union meeting following the committee conference where Foley had yielded, a broken man, the advisability of abandoning the strike came up for discussion. Foley sat back in his chair, with overcast face, and refused to speak. But his words to the committee had gone round, and now his gloomy silence was more convincing in its discouragement than any speech could have been. Tom, whose mind could not give up the suspicion that there was trickery, even though he could not see it, had a despairing thought that if action could be staved off time might make the flaw apparent. He frantically opposed the desire of a portion of the members that the strike be given up that very evening. Their defeat was not difficult; the union was not yet ready for the step. It was decided that the matter should come up for a vote at the following meeting. While Tom was at breakfast the next morning there was a knock at the door. Maggie answered it, and he heard a thin yet resonant voice that he seemed to have heard before, inquire: "Is Mr. Keating in?" He stepped to the door. In the dim hallway he saw indistinctly a small, thin woman with a child in her arms. "Yes," he answered for himself. "Don't you remember me, Brother Keating?" she asked, with a glad note in her voice, shifting the child higher on her breast and holding out a hand. "Mrs. Petersen!" he cried. "Come right in." She entered, and Tom introduced her to Maggie, who drew a chair for her up beside the breakfast table. "Thank you, sister." She sank exhausted into the chair, and turned immediately on Tom. "Have you seen Nels lately?" she asked eagerly. "Not for more than two weeks." The excitement died out of her face; Tom now saw, by the light of the gas that had to be burned in the dining-room even at midday, that the face was drawn and that there were dark rings under the eyes. "Is anything wrong?" he asked. "He ain't been home for two nights," she returned tremulously. "I said to myself last night, if he don't come to-night I'll come over to see you early this morning. Mebbe you'd know something about him." "Not a thing." He wanted to lighten that wan face, so he gave the best cheer that he could. "But I guess nothing's wrong with him." "Yes, there is, or he'd never stay away like this," she returned quickly. Her voice sank with resignation. "I suppose all I can do is to pray." "And look," Tom added. "I'll look." She rose to go. Maggie pressed her to have breakfast, but she refused, a faint returning hope in her eyes. "Mebbe the Lord's brung him home while I've been here." A half minute after the door had closed upon her Tom opened it and hurried down the three flights of stairs. He caught her just going into the street. He fumbled awkwardly in his pocket. "Do you need anything?" "No. Bless you, Brother Keating. Nels left me plenty o' money. You know he works reg'lar on the docks." Two causes for Petersen's absence occurred as possible to Tom--arrest and death. He looked through the record of arrests for the last two days at police headquarters. Petersen's name was not there, and to give a false name would never have occurred to Petersen's slow mind. So Tom knew he was not in a cell. He visited the public morgues and followed attendants who turned back sheets from cold faces. But Petersen's face he did not see. The end of the day brought also the end of Tom's search. He now had three explanations for Petersen's absence: The Swede was dead, and his body unrecovered; he had wandered off in a fit of mental aberration; he had deserted his wife. The first he did not want to believe. The third, remembering the looks that had passed between the two the night he had visited their home, he could not believe. He clung to the second; and that was the only one he mentioned to Mrs. Petersen when he called in the evening to report. "He'll come to suddenly, and come back," he encouraged her. "That's the way with such cases." "You think so?" She brightened visibly. A fourth explanation flashed upon him. "Perhaps he got caught by accident on some boat he had been helping load, and got carried away." She brightened a little more at this. "Just so he's alive!" she cried. "He'll be certain to be back in a few days," Tom said positively. He left her greatly comforted by his words, though he himself did not half believe them. There was nothing more he could do toward discovering the missing man. It must be admitted that, during the next few days, he thought of Petersen much less frequently than was the due of such a friend as the Swede had proved. The affairs of the union held his mind exclusively. Opinion was turning overwhelmingly toward giving up the strike, and giving it up immediately. Wherever there was a man who still held out, there were three or four men pouring words upon him. "Foley may not be so honest as to hurt him, but he's a fighter from 'way back, an' if he thinks we ought to stop fightin' now, then we ought to 'a' stopped weeks ago"--such was the substance of the reasoning in bar-room and street that converted many a man to yielding. And also, Tom learned, a quick settlement was being urged at home. As long as the men had stood firm for the strike, the women had skimped at every point and supported that policy. But when they discovered that the men's courage was going, the women, who feel most the fierce economy of a strike, were for the straight resumption of work and income. Maggie, Tom knew, was beginning to look forward in silent eagerness to a settlement; he guessed that she hoped, the strike ended, he might go back to work untroubled by Foley. Tom undertook to stand out against the proposal of submission, but he might as well have tried to shoulder back a Fundy tide. Men remembered it was he who had so hotly urged them into a strike that thus far had cost them seven weeks' wages. "I suppose you'd have us lose seven more weeks' money," they sneered at him. They said other things, and stronger, for your ironworker has studied English in many places. Monday evening found Tom in a chair at one of the open windows of his sitting-room, staring out at nothing at all, hardly conscious of Maggie, who was reading, or of Ferdinand, who lay dozing on the couch. He was completely discouraged--at the uttermost end of things. He had searched his mind frantically for flaws in the negotiations and in Foley's conduct, flaws which, if followed up, clue by clue, would reveal Foley's suspected treachery. But he found none. There seemed nothing more he could do. The vote would come on Wednesday evening, and its result was as certain as if the count had already been made. And so he sat staring into the line of back yards with their rows and rows of lighted windows. His mind moved over the past five months. They had held nothing for him but failure and pain. He had fought for honor in the management of the union's affairs, staking his place in his trade on the result--and honor in the contest with dishonesty had gone down in defeat. He had urged the union to strike for better wages, and now the strike was on the eve of being lost. He would have to begin life over anew, and he did not know where he could begin. Moreover, he had lost all but a few friends; and he had lost all influence. This was what his fight for right had brought him, and in five months. And this was not the sum of the bitterness the five months had brought him--no, nor its greater part. He had learned how mighty real love can be--and how hopeless! He had been sitting so, dreaming darkly, for an hour or more when Maggie asked him if he had heard whether Petersen had come back. The question brought to his mind that he had neglected Mrs. Petersen for four days. He rose, conscience-smitten, told Maggie he would be back presently, and set forth for the tenement in which the Petersens had their home. He found Mrs. Petersen, her child asleep in her lap, reading the Bible. She appeared to be even slighter and paler than when he had last seen her, but her spirit seemed to burn even higher through the lessened obscuration of her thinning flesh. No, Petersen had not yet come back. "But I fetched my trouble to God in prayer," she said. "An' He helped me, glory to His name! He told me Nels is comin' back." Tom had nothing to give to one so fired by hope, and he slipped away as soon as he could and returned home. On entering his flat, his eyes going straight through the dining-room into the sitting-room, he saw Maggie gazing in uncomfortable silence at a man--a lean, brown man, with knobby face, and wing-like mustache, who sat with bony hands in his lap and eyes fastened on his knees. Tom crossed the dining-room with long strides. Maggie, glad of the chance to escape, passed into the bedroom. "Petersen!" he cried. "Where on earth've you been?" Petersen rose with a glad light in his face and grasped the hand Tom offered. Immediately he disengaged his hand to slip it into a trousers pocket. Tom now noted that Petersen's face was slightly discolored,--dim yellows, and greens, and blues--and that his left thumb was brown, as though stained with arnica. "I come to pay vot I loan," Petersen mumbled. His hand came forth from the pocket grasping a roll of bills as big as his wrist. He unwrapped three tens and silently held them out. Tom, who had watched this action through with dumb amazement, now broke out: "Where d'you get all that money? Where've you been?" The three tens were still in Petersen's outstretched hand. "For vot you give de union, and vot you give me." "But where've you been?" Tom demanded, taking the money. Fear, shame, and contrition struggled for control of Petersen's face. But he answered doggedly: "I vorked at de docks." "You know that's not so, Petersen. You haven't been home for a week. And your wife's scared half to death." "Anna scared? Vy?" He started, and his brown face paled. "Why shouldn't she be?" Tom returned wrathfully. "You went off without a word to her, and not a word from you for a week! Now see here, Petersen, where've you been?" "Vorkin' at de docks," he repeated, but weakly. "And got that wad of money for it! Hardly." He pushed Petersen firmly back into his chair. "Now you've got to tell me all about it." All the dogged resistance faded from Petersen's manner, and he sat trembling, with face down. For a moment Tom was in consternation lest he break into tears. But he controlled himself and in shame told his story, aided by questions from Tom. Tom heard him without comment, breathing rapidly and gulping at parts of the brokenly-told story. When the account was ended Tom gripped Petersen's hand. "You're all right, Petersen!" he said huskily. Tears trickled down from Petersen's eyes, and his simple face twitched with remorse. Tom fell into thought. He understood Petersen's fear to face his wife. He, too, was uncertain how Mrs. Petersen, in her religious fervor, would regard what Petersen had done. He had to tell her, of course, since Petersen had shown he could not. But how should he tell her--how, so that the woman, and not the religious enthusiast, would be reached? Presently Tom handed Petersen his hat, and picked up his own. "Come on," he said; and to Maggie he called through the bedroom door: "I'll be back in an hour." As they passed through the tunnel Tom, who had slipped his hand through Petersen's arm for guidance, felt the Swede begin to tremble; and it was so across the little stone-paved court, with the square of stars above, and up the nervous stairway, whose February odors had been multiplied by the June warmth. Before his own door Petersen held back. Tom understood. "Wait here for me, then," he said, and knocked upon the door. "Who's there?" an eager voice questioned. "Keating." When she answered, the eagerness in the voice had turned to disappointment. "All right, Brother Keating. In just a minute." Tom heard the sounds of rapid dressing, and then a hand upon the knob. Petersen shrank back into the darkness of a corner. The door opened. "Come in, Brother Keating," she said, not quite able to hide her surprise at this second visit in one evening. A coal oil lamp on the kitchen table revealed the utter barrenness and the utter cleanness--so far as unmonied effort could make clean those scaling walls and that foot-hollowed floor--which he had seen on his first visit five months before. He was hardly within the door when her quick eyes caught the strain in his manner. One thin hand seized his arm excitedly. "What is it, brother? Have you heard from Nels?" "Ye-es," Tom admitted hesitatingly. He had not planned to begin the story so. "And he's alive? Quick! He's alive?" "Yes." She sank into a chair, clasped both hands over her heart, and turned her eyes upward. "Praise the Lord! I thank Thee, Lord! I knew Thou wouldst keep him." Immediately her wide, burning eyes were back on Tom. "Where is he?" "He's been very wicked," said Tom, shaking his head sadly, and lowering himself into the only other chair. "So wicked he's afraid you can never forgive him. And I don't see how you can. He's afraid to come home." "God forgives everything to the penitent, an' I try to follow after God," she said, trembling. A sickening fear was on her face. "Tell me, brother! What's he done? Don't try to spare me! God will help me to bear it. Not--not--murder?" "No. He's fallen in another way," Tom returned, with the sad shake of his head again. "Shall I tell you all?" "All, brother! An' quickly!" She leaned toward him, hands gripped in the lap of her calico wrapper, with such a staring, fearing attention as seemed to stand out from her gray face and be of itself a separate presence. "I'll have to tell you some things you know already, and know better than I do," Tom said, watching to see how his words worked upon her. "After Petersen got in the union he held a job for two weeks. Then Foley knocked him out, and then came the strike. It's been eleven weeks since he earned a cent at his trade. The money he'd made in the two weeks he worked soon gave out. He tried to find work and couldn't. Days passed, and weeks. They had little to eat at home. I guess they had a pretty hard time of it. He----" "We did, brother!" "He saw his wife and kid falling off--getting weaker and weaker," Tom went on, not heeding the interruption. "He got desperate; he couldn't see 'em starve. Now the devil always has temptation ready for a desperate man. About four weeks ago when his wife was so weak she could hardly move, and there wasn't a bite in the house, the devil tempted Petersen. He happened to meet a man who had been his partner in his old wicked days, his manager when he was a prize fighter. The manager said it was too bad Petersen had left the ring; he was arranging a heavy-weight bout to come off before a swell athletic club in Philadelphia, a nice purse for the loser and a big fat one for the winner. They walked along the street together for awhile, and all the time the devil was tempting Petersen, saying to him: 'Go in and fight--this once. It's right for a man to do anything rather than let his wife and kid starve.' But Petersen held out, getting weaker all the time, though. Then the devil said to him: 'He's a pretty poor sort of a man that loves his promise not to fight more than he loves his wife and kid.' Petersen fell. He decided to commit the sin." Tom paused an instant, then added in a hard voice: "But because a man loves his wife so much he's willing to do anything for her, that don't excuse the sin, does it?" "Go on!" she entreated, leaning yet further toward him. "Well, he said to the manager he'd fight. They settled it, and the man advanced some money. Petersen went into training. But he was afraid to tell us what an awful thing he was doing,--doing because he didn't want his wife to starve,--and so he told us he was working at the docks. So it was for three weeks, and his wife and kid had things to eat. The fight came off last Wednesday night----" "And who won? Who?" "Well--Petersen." "Yes! Of course!" she cried, exultation for the moment possessing her face. "He is a terrible fighter! He----" She broke off and bowed her head with sudden shame; when it came up the next instant she wore again the tense look that seemed the focus of her being. Tom had gone right on. "It was a hard fight. He was up against a fast hard hitter. But he fought better than he ever did before. I suppose he was thinking of his wife and kid. He won, and got the big purse. But after the fight was over, he didn't dare come home. His face was so bruised his wife would have known he'd been fighting,--and he knew it would break her heart for her to know he'd been at it again. And so he thought he'd stay away till his face got well. She needn't ever have the pain then of knowing how he'd sinned. He never even thought how worried she'd be at not hearing from him. So he stayed away till his face got well, almost--till to-night. Then he came back, and slipped up to his door. He wanted to come in, but he was still afraid. He listened at the door. His wife was praying for him, and one thing he heard was, she asked God to keep him wherever he was from wrong-doing. He knew then he'd have to tell her all about it, and he knew how terrible his sin would seem to her. He knew she could never forgive him. So he slipped down the stairs, and went away. Of course he was right about what his wife would think," Tom drove himself on with implacable voice. "I didn't come here to plead for him. I don't blame you. It was a terrible sin, a sin----" She rose tremblingly from her chair, and raised a thin authoritative hand. "Stop right there, brother!" she cried, her voice sob-broken. "It wasn't a sin. It--it was glorious!" Tom sprang toward the door. "Petersen!" he shouted. He flung it open, and the next instant dragged Petersen, shrinking and eager, fearful, shamefaced, and yet glowing, into the room. "Oh, Nels!" She rushed into his arms, and their mighty length tightened about the frail body. "It--was--glorious--Nels! It----" But Tom heard no more. He closed the door and groped down the shivering stairway. Chapter XXVII THE THOUSANDTH CHANCE Mr. Driscoll was the chairman of the building committee of a little independent church whose membership was inclined to regard him somewhat dubiously, notwithstanding the open liking of the pastor. The church was planning a new home, and of late the committee had been holding frequent meetings. In the afternoon of this same Monday there had been a session of the committee; and on leaving the pastor's study Mr. Driscoll had hurried to his office, but Ruth, whom he had pressed into service as the committee's secretary, had stopped to perform a number of errands. When she reached the office she walked through the open hall door--the weather was warm, so it had been wide all day--over the noiseless rug to her desk, and began to remove her hat. Voices came to her from Mr. Driscoll's room, Mr. Driscoll's voice and Mr. Berman's; but their first few sentences, on business matters, passed her ears unheeded, like the thousand noises of the street. But presently, after a little pause, Mr. Berman remarked upon a new topic: "Well, it's the same as settled that the strike will be over in two days." Almost unconsciously Ruth's ears began to take in the words, though she continued tearing the sheets of stamps, one of her purchases, into strips, preparatory to putting them away. "Another case in which right prevails," said Mr. Driscoll, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Why, yes. We are altogether in the right." "And so we win." Silence. Then, abruptly, and with more sarcasm: "But how much are we paying Foley?" Ruth started, as when amid the street's thousand noises one's own name is called out. She gazed intently at the door, which was slightly ajar. Silence. "What? You know that?" "Why do you suppose I left the committee?" "I believed what you said, that you were tired of it." "Um! So they never told you. Since you're a member of the committee I'm breaking no pledge in telling you where I stand. I left when they proposed buying Foley----" Mr. Berman made a hushing sound. "Nobody'll hear. Miss Arnold's out. Besides, I wouldn't mind much if somebody did hear, and give the whole scheme away. How you men can stand for it is more than I know." "Oh, it's all right," Mr. Berman returned easily. The talk went on, but Ruth listened for no more. She hastily pinned on her hat, passed quietly into the hall, and caught a descending elevator. After a walk about the block she came back to the office and moved around with all the legitimate noise she could make. Mr. Driscoll's door softly closed. In a few minutes Mr. Berman came out and, door knob in hand, regarded her a moment as she sat at her desk making a pretense of being at work. Then he crossed the room with a rare masculine grace and bent above her. "Miss Arnold," he said. Ruth rarely took dictation from Mr. Berman, but she now reached for her note-book in instinctive defense against conversation. "Some work for me?" She did not look up. "Something for you to make a note of, but no work," he returned in his low, well-modulated voice that had seemed to her the very vocalization of gentlemanliness. "I remember the promise you made me give--during business hours, only business. But I have been looking for a chance all day to break it. I want to remind you again that the six months are up to-morrow night." "Yes. My answer will be ready." He waited for her to say something more, but she did not; and he passed on to his own room. Ruth had two revelations to ponder; but it was to the sudden insight she had been given into the real cause of the contractors' approaching victory that she gave her first thought, and not to the sudden insight into the character of Mr. Berman. From the first minute there was no doubt as to what she should do, and yet there was a long debate in her mind. If she were to give Tom the bare fact that had been revealed to her, and, using it as a clue, he were to uncover the whole plan, there would come a disgraceful exposure involving her uncle, her employers, and, to a degree, all the steel contractors. And another sentiment threw its influence against disclosing her information: her natural shrinking from opening communication with Tom; and mixed with this was a remnant of her resentment that he had treated her so. She had instinctively placed him beside Mr. Berman, and had been compelled to admit with pain: "Mr. Berman would never have done it." But her sense of right was of itself enough to have forced her to make the one proper use of the information chance had given her; and besides this sense of right there was her love, ready for any sacrifice. So she covertly scribbled the following note to Tom: MY DEAR MR. KEATING: Are you sure Mr. Foley is not playing the union false? RUTH ARNOLD. He is. With curious femininity she had, at the last moment, tried to compromise, suggesting enough by her question to furnish a clue to Tom, and yet saying so little that she could tell herself she had really not betrayed her friends; and then, in two words, she had impulsively flung him all her knowledge. The note written, she thought of the second revelation; of the Mr. Berman she had really liked so well for his æsthetic taste, for his irreproachable gentlemanliness, for all the things Tom was not. "Oh, it's all right," he had said easily. And she placed him beside Tom, and admitted with pain-adulterated happiness: "Mr. Keating would never have done that." When her work for the day was over she hurried to the postoffice in Park Row and dropped the letter into the slot marked "Special Delivery." And when Tom came back from his second call at the Petersen home Maggie was awaiting him with it. At sight of the handwriting on the envelope the color left his face. He tore open the envelope with an eagerness he tried to conceal in an assumed carelessness, and read the score of words. When he looked up from the note, Maggie's eyes were fastened on his face. A special delivery letter had never come to their home before. "What is it?" she asked. "Just a note about the strike," he answered, and put the letter into his pocket. The explanation did not satisfy Maggie, but, as it was far past their bedtime, she turned slowly and went into the bedroom. "I'm not coming to bed for a little while," he called to her. The next minute he was lost in the excitement begotten by the letter. It was true, then, what he had suspected. Ruth, he knew, would never have written the note unless she had been certain. His head filled with a turmoil of thoughts--every third one about Ruth; but these he tried to force aside, for he was face to face with a crisis and needed all his brain. And some of his thoughts were appalling ones that the union was so perilously near its betrayal; and some were exultant, that he was right after all. But amid this mental turmoil one thought, larger than any of the others, with wild steadfastness held the central place of his brain: there was a chance that, even yet, he could circumvent Foley and save the union--that, fallen as low as he was, he might yet triumph. But by what plan? He was more certain than ever of Foley's guilt, but he could not base a denunciation of Foley upon mere certitude, unsupported by a single fact. He had to have facts. And how to get them? One wild plan after another acted itself out as a play in his excited brain, in which he had such theatric parts as descending accusingly upon Mr. Baxter and demanding a confession, or cunningly trapping Foley into an admission of the truth, or gaining it at point of pistol. As the hours passed his brain quieted somewhat, and he more quickly saw the absurdity of schemes of this sort. But he could find no practicable plan, and a frantic fear began to possess him: the meeting was less than two days off, and as yet he saw no effective way of balking the sale of the strike. He sat with head on the table, he lay on the couch, he softly paced the floor; and when the coming day sent its first dingy light into the back yards and into the little sitting-room he was still without a feasible scheme. A little later he turned down the gas and went into the street. He came back after two hours, still lacking a plan, but quieter and with better control of his mind. "I suppose you settled the strike last night?" said Maggie, who was preparing breakfast. "I can hardly say I did," he returned abstractedly. She did not immediately follow up her query, but in a few minutes she came into the sitting-room where Tom sat. Determination had marked her face with hard lines. "You're planning something," she began. "And it's about the strike. It was that letter that kept you up all night. Now you're scheming to put off settling the strike, ain't you?" "Well,--suppose I am?" he asked quietly. He avoided her eyes, and looked across at the opposite windows that framed instant-long pictures of hurrying women. "I know you are. I've been doing some thinking, too, while you were out this morning, and it was an easy guess for me to know that when you thought all night you weren't thinking about anything else except how you could put off ending up the strike." One thing that his love for Ruth had shown Tom was that mental companionship could, and should, exist between man and wife; and one phase of his gentleness with Maggie was that latterly he had striven to talk to her of such matters as formerly he had spoken of only out of his own home. "Yes, you're right; I am thinking what you say," he began, knowing he could trust her with his precious information. "But you don't understand, Maggie. I am thinking how I can defeat settling the strike because I know Foley is selling the union out." Incredulity smoothed out a few of Maggie's hard lines. "You can prove it?" "I am going to try to get the facts." "How?" "I don't know," he had to admit, after a pause. She gave a little laugh, and the hard lines came back. "Another crazy plan. You lose the best job you ever had. You try to beat Foley out as walking delegate, and get beat. You start a strike; it's the same as lost. You push yourself into that Avon business--and you're only out on bail, and we'll never live down the disgrace. You've ruined us, and disgraced us, and yet you ain't satisfied. Here you are with another scheme. And what are you going on? Just a guess, nothing else, that Foley's selling out!" Tom took it all in silence. "Now you listen to me!" Her voice was fiercely mandatory, yet it lacked something of its old-time harshness; Tom's gentleness had begun to rouse its like in her. "Everything you've tried lately has been a failure. You know that. Now don't make us any worse off than we are--and you will if you try another fool scheme. For God's sake, let the strike be settled and get back to work!" "I suppose you think you're right, Maggie. But--you don't understand," he returned helplessly. "Yes, I do understand," she said grimly. "And I not only think I'm right, but I know I'm right. Who's been right every time?" Tom did not answer her question, and after looking down on him a minute longer, she said, "You remember what I've just told you," and returned to the preparation of breakfast. As soon as he had eaten Tom escaped into the street and made for the little park that had once been a burying-ground. Here his mind set to work again. It was more orderly now, and soon he was proceeding systematically in his search for a plan by the method of elimination. Plan after plan was discarded as the morning hurried by, till he at length had this left as the only possibility, to follow Baxter and Foley every minute during this day and the next. But straightway he saw the impossibility of this only possible plan: he and any of his friends were too well known by Foley to be able to shadow him, even had they the experience to fit them for such work. A few minutes later, however, this impossibility was gone. He could hire detectives. He turned the plan over in his mind. There was, perhaps, but one chance in a thousand the detectives would discover anything--perhaps hardly that. But this fight was his fight for life, and this one chance was his last chance. At noon a private detective agency had in its safe Petersen's thirty dollars and a check for the greater part of Tom's balance at the bank. Chapter XXVIII THE EXPOSURE Tom's arrangement with the detective agency was that Baxter and Foley were to be watched day and night, and that he was to have as frequent reports as it was possible to give. Just before six o'clock that same afternoon he called at the office for his first report. It was ready--a minute account of the movements of the two men between one and five. There was absolutely nothing in it of value to him, except that its apparent completeness was a guarantee that if anything was to be found the men on the case would find it. Never before in Tom's life had there been as many hours between an evening and a morning. He dared not lessen his suspense and the hours by discussing his present move with friends; they could not help him, and, if he told them, there was the possibility that some word might slip to Foley which would rouse suspicion and destroy the thousandth chance. But at length morning came, and at ten o'clock Tom was at the detective agency. Again there was a minute report, the sum of whose worth to him was--nothing. He went into the street and walked, fear and suspense mounting higher and higher. In ten hours the union would meet to decide, and as yet he had no bit of evidence. At twelve o'clock he was at the office again. There was nothing for him. Eight more hours. At two o'clock, dizzy and shaking from suspense, he came into the office for the third time that day. A report was waiting. He glanced it through, then trying to speak calmly, said to the manager: "Send anything else to my house." Tom had said to himself that he had one chance in a thousand. But this was a miscalculation. His chance had been better than that, and had been made so by Mr. Baxter's shrewd arrangement for his dealings with Foley, based upon his theory that one of the surest ways of avoiding suspicion is to do naturally and openly the thing you would conceal. Mr. Baxter's theory overlooked the possibility that suspicion might already be roused and on watch. Tom did not look at the sheet of paper in the hallway or in the street; with three thousand union men in the street, all of whom knew him, one was likely to pounce upon him at any minute and gain his secret prematurely. With elation hammering against his ribs, he hurried through a cross street toward the little park, which in the last five months had come to be his study. The sheet of paper was buttoned tightly in his coat, but all the time his brain was reading a few jerky phrases in the detail-packed report. In the park, and on a bench having the seclusion of a corner, he drew the report from his pocket and read it eagerly, several times. Here was as much as he had hoped for--evidence that what he had suspected was true. With the few relevant facts of the report as a basis he began to reconstruct the secret proceedings of the last three weeks. At each step he tested conjectures till he found the only one that perfectly fitted all the known circumstances. Progress from the known backward to the unknown was not difficult, and by five o'clock the reconstruction was complete. He then began to lay his plans for the evening. Tom preferred not to face Maggie, with her demands certain to be repeated, so he had his dinner in a restaurant whose only virtue was its cheapness. At half past seven he arrived at Potomac Hall, looking as much his usual self as he could. He passed with short nods the groups of men who stood before the building--some of whom had once been his supporters, but who now nodded negligently--and entered the big bar-room. There were perhaps a hundred men here, all talking loudly; but comparatively few were drinking or smoking--money was too scarce. He paused an instant just within the door and glanced about. The men he looked for were not there, and he started rapidly across the room. "Hello, Keating! How's your strike?" called one of the crowd, a man whom, two months before, he himself had convinced a strike should be made. "Eat-'Em-Up Keating, who don't know when he's had enough!" shouted another, with a jeer. "Three cheers for Keating!" cried a third, and led off with a groan. The three groans were given heartily, and at their end the men broke into laughter. Tom burned at these crude insults, but kept straight on his way. There were also friends in the crowd,--a few. When the laughter died down one cried out: "What's the matter with Keating?" The set answer came, "He's all right!"--but very weak. It was followed by an outburst of groans and hisses. As Tom was almost at the door the stub of a cigar struck smartly beneath his ear, and the warm ashes slipped down inside his collar. There was another explosion of laughter. Tom whirled about, and with one blow sent to the floor the man who had thrown the cigar. The laugh broke off, and in the sudden quiet Tom passed out of the bar-room and joined the stream of members going up the broad stairway and entering the hall. The hall was more than half filled with men--some sitting patiently in their chairs, some standing with one foot on chair seats, some standing in the aisles and leaning against the walls, all discussing the same subject, the abandonment of the strike. The general mood of the men was one of bitter eagerness, as it was also the mood of the men below, for all their coarse jesting,--the bitterness of admitted defeat, the eagerness to be back at their work without more delay. Tom glanced around, and immediately he saw Petersen coming toward him, his lean brown face glowing. "Hello, Petersen. I was looking for you," he said in a whisper when the Swede had gained his side. "I want you by me to-night." "Yah." Petersen's manner announced that he wanted to speak, and Tom now remembered, what he had forgotten in his two days' absorption, the circumstances under which he had last seen the Swede. "How are things at home?" he asked. "Ve be goin' to move. A better house." After this bit of loquacity Petersen smiled blissfully--and said no more. Tom told Petersen to join him later, and then hurried over to Barry and Jackson, whom he saw talking with a couple other of his friends in the front of the hall. "Boys, I want to tell you something in a minute," he whispered. "Where's Pete?" "The committee's havin' a meetin' in Connelly's office," answered Barry. Tom hurried to Connelly's office and knocked. "Come in," a voice called, and he opened the door. The five men were just leaving their chairs. "Hello, Pete. Can I see you as soon's you're through?" Tom asked. "Sure. Right now." Connelly improved the opportunity by offering Tom some advice, emphasized in the customary manner, and ended with the request: "Now for God's sake, keep your wind-hole plugged up to-night!" Tom did not reply, but as he was starting away with Pete he heard Foley say to the secretary: "Youse can't blame him, Connelly. Some o' the rest of us know it ain't so easy to give up a fight." Tom found Barry, Petersen and the three others waiting, and with them was Johnson, who having noticed Tom whispering to them had carelessly joined the group during his absence. "If you fellows'll step back here I'll finish that little thing I was telling," he said, and led the way to a rear corner, a dozen yards away from the nearest group. When he turned to face the six, he found there were seven. Johnson had followed. Tom hesitated. He did not care to speak before Johnson; he had always held that person in light esteem because of his variable opinions. And he did not care to ask Johnson to leave; that course might beget a scene which in turn would beget suspicion. It would be better to speak before him, and then see that he remained with the group. "Don't show the least surprise while I'm talking; act like it was nothing at all," he began in a whisper. And then he told them in a few sentences what he had discovered, and what he planned to do. They stared at him in astonishment. "Don't look like that or you'll give away that we've got a scheme up our sleeves," he warned them. "Now I want you fellows to stand by me. There may be trouble. Come on, let's get our seats. The meeting will open pretty soon." He had already picked out a spot, at the front end on the right side, the corner formed by the wall and the grand piano. He now led the way toward this. Half-way up the aisle he chanced to look behind him. There were only six men. Johnson was gone. "Take the seats up there," he whispered, and hurried out of the hall, with a fear that Johnson at that minute might be revealing what he had heard to Foley. But when he reached the head of the stairway he saw at its foot Foley, Hogan, and Brown starting slowly up. With sudden relief he turned back and joined his party. A little later Connelly mounted the platform and gave a few preliminary raps on his table, and Johnson was forgotten. The men standing about the hall found seats. Word was sent to the members loitering below that the meeting was beginning, and they came up in a straggling body, two hundred strong. Every chair was filled; men had to stand in the aisles, and along the walls, and in the rear where there were no seats. It was the largest gathering of the union there had been in three years. Tom noted this, and was glad. All the windows were open, but yet the hall was suffocatingly close. Hundreds of cigars were momently making it closer, and giving the upper stratum of the room's atmosphere more and more the appearance of a solid. Few coats were on; they hung over the arms of those standing, and lay in the laps of those who sat. Connelly, putting down his gavel, took off his collar and tie and laid them on his table, an example that was given the approval of general imitation. Everywhere faces were being mopped. Connelly rapped again, and stood waiting till quiet had spread among the fifteen hundred men. "I guess you all know what we're here for," he began. "If there's no objection I guess we can drop the regular order o' business and get right to the strike." There was a general cry of "consent." "Very well. Then first we'll hear from the strike committee." Foley, as chairman of the strike committee, should have spoken for it; but the committee, being aware of the severe humiliation he was suffering, and to save him what public pain it could, had sympathetically decided that some other member should deliver its report. And Foley, with his cunning that extended even to the smallest details, had suggested Pete, and Pete had been selected. Pete now rose, and with hands on Tom's shoulders, calmly spoke what the committee had ordered. The committee's report was that it had nothing new to report. After carefully considering every circumstance it saw no possible way of winning the strike. It strongly advised the union to yield at once, as further fighting meant only further loss of wages. Pete was hardly back in his seat when it was moved and seconded that the union give up the strike. A great stamping and cries of "That's right!" "Give it up!" "Let's get back to work!" joined to give the motion a tremendous uproar of approval. "You have heard the motion," said Connelly. "Any remarks?" Men sprang up in all parts of the crowd, and for over an hour there were brief speeches, every one in favor of yielding. In substance they were the same: "Since the strike's lost, let's get back to work and not lose any more wages." Every speaker was applauded with hand-clapping, stamps, and shouts; an enthusiasm for retreat had seized the crowd. Foley was called for, but did not respond. Other speakers did, however, and the enthusiasm developed to the spirit of a panic. Through speeches, shouts, and stamping Tom sat quietly, biding his time. Several of the speakers made bitter flings at the leadership that had involved them in this disastrous strike. Finally one man, spurred to abandon by applause, ended his hoarse invective by moving the expulsion of the members who had led the union into the present predicament. So far Foley had sat with face down, without a word, in obvious dejection. But when this last speaker was through he rose slowly to his feet. At sight of him an eager quiet possessed the meeting. "I can't say's I blame youse very much for what youse've said," he began, in a voice that was almost humble, looking toward the man who had just sat down. "I helped get the union into the strike, yes, an' I want youse boys"--his eyes moved over the crowd--"to give me all the blame that's comin' to me." A pause. "But I ain't the only one. I didn't do as much to bring on the strike as some others." His glance rested on Tom. "The fact is, I really didn't go in for the strike till I saw all o' youse seemed to be in for it. Then o' course I did, for I'm always with youse. An' I fought hard, so long's there was a chance. Mebbe there's a few"--another glance at Tom--"that'd like to have us keep on fightin'--an' starve. Blame me all youse want to, boys--but Buck Foley don't want none o' youse to starve." He sank slowly back into his chair. "You did your best, Buck!" a voice shouted, and a roar of cheers went up. To those near him he seemed to brighten somewhat at this encouragement. "Three cheers for Keating!" cried the man who had raised this shout in the bar-room, springing to his feet. And again he led off with three groans, which the crowd swelled to a volume matching the cheers for Foley. Connelly, in deference to his office, pounded with his gavel and called for silence--but weakly. Tom flushed and his jaw tightened, but he kept his seat. The crowd began once more to demand Foley's views on the question before the house. He shook his head at Connelly, as he had repeatedly done before. But the meeting would not accept his negative. They added the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet to their cries. Foley came up a second time, with most obvious reluctance. "I feel sorter like the man that was run over by a train an' had his tongue cut out," he began, making what the union saw was a hard effort to smile. "I don't feel like sayin' much. "It seems to me that everything worth sayin' has been said already," he went on in his previous humble, almost apologetic, tone. "What I've got to say I'll say in the shadow of a minute. I size up the whole thing like this: We went into this strike thinkin' we'd win, an' because we needed more money. An' boys, we ought to have it! But we made a mistake somewhere. I guess youse've found out that in a fight it ain't always the man that's right that wins. It's the strongest man. The same in a strike. We're right, and we've fought our best, but the other fellows are settin' on our chests. I guess our mistake was, we wasn't as strong when we went into the fight as we thought we was. "Now the question, as I see it, is: Do we want to keep the other fellow on our chests, we all fagged out, with him mebbe punchin' our faces whenever he feels like it?--keep us there till we're done up forever? Or do we want to give in an' say we've had enough? He'll let us up, we'll take a rest, we'll get back our wind an' strength, an' when we're good an' ready, why, another fight, an' better luck! I know which is my style, an' from what youse boys've said here to-night, I can make a pretty good guess as to what's your style." He paused for a moment, and when he began again his voice was lower and there was a deep sadness in it that he could not hide. "Boys, this is the hardest hour o' my life. I ain't very used to losin' fights. I think youse can count in a couple o' days all the fights I lost for youse. [A cry, "Never a one, Buck!"] An' it comes mighty hard for me to begin to lose now. If I was to do what I want to do, I'd say, 'Let's never give in.' But I know what's best for the union, boys ... an' so I lose my first strike." He sank back into his seat, and his head fell forward upon his breast. There was a moment of sympathetic silence, then an outburst of shouts: "It ain't your fault!" "You've done your best!" "You take your lickin' like a man!" But these individual shouts were straightway lost in cries of "Foley!" "Foley!" and in a mighty cheer that thundered through the hall. Next to a game fighter men admire a game loser. This was Tom's moment. He had been waiting till Foley should place himself on record before the entire union. He now stood up and raised his right hand to gain Connelly's attention. "Mr. Chairman!" he called. "Question!" "Question!" shouted the crowd, few even noticing that Tom was claiming right of speech. "Mr. Chairman!" Tom cried again. Connelly's attention was caught, and for an instant he looked irresolutely at Tom. The crowd, following their president's eyes, saw Tom and broke into a great hiss. "D'you want any more speeches?" Connelly put to the union. "No!" "No!" "Question!" "Question!" "All in favor of the motion----" The desperate strait demanded an eminence to speak from, but the way to the platform was blocked. Tom vaulted to the top of the grand piano, and his eyes blazed down upon the crowd. "You shall listen to me!" he shouted, breaking in on Connelly. His right arm pointed across the hall to where Foley was bowed in humiliation. "Buck Foley has sold you out!" In the great din his voice did not carry more than a dozen rows, but upon those rows silence fell suddenly. "What was that?" men just behind asked excitedly, their eyes on Tom standing on the piano, his arm stretched toward Foley. A tide of explanation moved backward, and the din sank before it. Tom shouted again: "Buck Foley has sold you out!" This time his words reached the farthest man in the hall. There was an instant of stupefied quiet. Then Foley himself stood up. He seemed to have paled a shade, but there was not a quaver in his voice when he spoke. "This's a nice little stage play our friend's made up for the last minute. He's been fightin' a settlement right along, an' this is his last trick to get youse to put it off. He's sorter like a blind friend o' mine who went fishin' one day. He got turned with his back to the river, an' he fished all day in the grass. I think Keating's got turned in the wrong direction, too." A few in the crowd laughed waveringly; some began to talk excitedly; but most looked silently at Tom, still stunned by his blow-like declaration. Tom paid no attention to Foley's words. "Fifty thousand dollars was what he got!" he said in his loudest voice. For the moment it was as if those fifteen hundred men had been struck dumb and helpless. Again it was Foley who broke the silence. He reared his long body above the bewildered crowd and spoke easily. "If youse boys don't see through that lie youse're blind. If I was runnin' the strike alone an' wanted to sell it out, what Keating's said might be possible. But I ain't runnin' it. A committee is--five men. Now how d'youse suppose I could sell out with four men watchin' me--an' one o' them a friend o' Keating?" He did not wait for a response from his audience. He turned to Connelly and went on with a provoked air: "Mr. Chairman, youse know, an' the rest o' the committee knows, that it was youse who suggested we give up the strike. An' youse know I held out again' givin' in. Now ain't we had enough o' Keating's wind? S'pose youse put the question." What Foley had said was convincing; and, even at this instant, Tom himself could but admire the self-control, the air of provoked forbearance, with which he said it. The quiet, easy speech had given the crowd time to recover. As Foley sat down there was a sudden tumult of voices, and then loud cries of "Question!" "Question!" "Order, Mr. Chairman! I demand the right to speak!" Tom cried. "No one wants to hear you, and the question's called for." Tom turned to the crowd. "It's for you to say whether you'll hear me or----" "Out of order!" shouted Connelly. "I've got facts, men! Facts! Will it hurt you to hear me? You can vote as you please, then!" "Question!" went up a roar, and immediately after it a greater and increasing roar of "Keating!" "Keating!" Connelly could but yield. He pounded for order, then nodded at Tom. "Well, go on." Tom realized the theatricality of his position on the piano, but he also realized its advantage, and did not get down. He waited a moment to gain control of his mind, and his eyes moved over the rows and rows of faces that gleamed dully from sweat and excitement through the haze of smoke. What he had to say first was pure conjecture, but he spoke with the convincing decision of the man who has guessed at nothing. "You've heard the other men speak. All I ask of you is to hear me out the same way. And I have something far more important to say than anything that's been said here to-night. I am going to tell you the story of the most scoundrelly trick that was ever played on a trade union. For the union has been sold out, and Buck Foley lies when he says it has not, and he knows he lies!" Every man was listening intently. Tom went on: "About three weeks ago, just when negotiations were opened again, Foley arranged with the bosses to sell out the strike. Fifty thousand dollars was the price. The bosses were to make a million or more out of the deal, Foley was to make fifty thousand, and we boys were to pay for it all! Foley's work was to fool the committee, make them lose confidence in the strike, and they of course would make the union lose confidence and we'd give up. That was his job, and for it he was to have fifty thousand dollars. "Well, he was the man for the job. He worked the committee, and worked it so slick it never knew it was being worked. He even made the committee think it was urging him to give up the strike. How he did it, it's beyond me or any other honest man even to guess. No one could have done it but Foley. He's the smoothest crook that ever happened. I give you that credit, Buck Foley. You're the smoothest crook that ever happened!" Foley had come to his feet with a look that was more of a glaring scowl than anything else: eyebrows drawn down shaggily, a gully between them--nose drawn up and nostrils flaring--jaws clenched--the whole face clenched. "Mr. President, are youse goin' to let that man go on with his lies?" he broke in fiercely. The crowd roused from its tension. "Go on, Keating! Go on!" "If he goes on with them lies, I for one ain't goin' to stay to listen to 'em!" Foley grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and started to edge through to the aisle. "If you leave, Buck Foley, it's the same as a confession of guilt!" shouted Tom. "Stay here and defend yourself like a man, if you can!" "Against youse?" He laughed a dry cackling laugh, and his returning self-mastery smoothed out his face. And then his inherent bravado showed itself. On reaching the aisle, instead of turning toward the door, he turned toward the platform and seated himself on its edge, directing a look of insouciant calm upon the men. "Whatever lies there are, are all yours, Buck Foley," Tom went on. He looked again at the crowd, bending toward him in attention. "The trick worked. How well is shown by our being on the point of voting to give up the strike. Little by little our confidence was destroyed by doubt, and little by little Foley got nearer to his money--till to-day came. I'm speaking facts now, boys. I've got evidence for everything I'm going to tell you. I know every move Foley's made in the last thirty-six hours. "Well, this morning,--I'll only give the big facts, facts that count,--this morning he went to get the price of us--fifty thousand dollars. Where do you suppose he met Baxter? In some hotel, or some secret place? Not much. Cunning! That word don't do justice to Foley. He met Baxter in Baxter's own office!--and with the door open! Could anything be more in harmony with the smooth scheme by which he fooled the committee? He left the door wide open, so everyone outside could hear that nothing crooked was going on. He swore at Baxter. He called him every sort of name because he would not make us any concession. After a minute or two he came out, still swearing mad. His coat was buttoned up--tight. It was unbuttoned when he went in. And the people that heard thought what an awful calling-down Baxter had got. "Foley went first to the Independence Bank. He left seventeen thousand there. At the Jackson Bank he left fifteen thousand, and at the Third National eighteen thousand. Fifty thousand dollars, boys--his price for selling us out! And he comes here to-night and pretends to be broken-hearted. 'This is the hardest hour of my life,' he says; 'and so I lose my first strike.' Broken-hearted!--with fifty thousand put in the bank in one day!" There was a tense immobility through all the crowd, and a profound stillness, quickly broken by Foley before anyone else could forestall him. There was a chance that Tom's words had not caught hold--his thousandth chance. "If that fool is through ravin', better put the motion, Connelly," he remarked the instant Tom ended, in an even tone that reached the farthest edge of the hall. No one looking at him at this instant, still sitting on the edge of the platform, would have guessed his show of calmness was calling from him the supreme effort of his life. Voices buzzed, then there rose a dull roar of anger. It had been Foley's last chance, and he had lost. He threw off his control, and leaped to his feet, his face twisted with vengeful rage. He tossed his hat and coat on the platform, and without a word made a rush through the men toward Tom. "Let him through, boys!" Tom shouted, and sprang from the piano. Petersen stepped quickly to his side, but Tom pushed him away and waited in burning eagerness in the little open space. And the crowd, still dazed by the revelations of the last scene, looked fascinated upon this new one. But at this moment an interruption came from the rear of the hall. "Letter for Foley!" shouted a voice. "Letter for Foley!" Foley paused in his rush, and turned his livid face toward the cry. The sergeant-at-arms was pushing his way through the center aisle, repeating his shout, his right hand holding an envelope aloft. He gained Foley's side and laid the letter in the walking delegate's hand. "Messenger just brought it! Very important!" he cried. Foley glared at Tom, looked at the letter, hesitated, then ripped open the envelope with a bony forefinger. The crowd looked on, hardly breathing, while he read. Chapter XXIX IN WHICH MR. BAXTER SHOWS HIMSELF A MAN OF RESOURCES It was just eight o'clock when Johnson gave three excited raps with the heavy iron knocker on the door of Mr. Baxter's house in Madison Avenue. A personage in purple evening clothes drew the door wide open, but on seeing the sartorial character of the caller he filled the doorway with his own immaculate figure. "Is Mr. Baxter at home?" asked Johnson eagerly. "He is just going out," the other condescended to reply. That should have been enough to dispose of this common fellow. But Johnson kept his place. "I want to see him, for just a minute. Tell him my name. He'll see me. It's Johnson." The personage considered a space, then disappeared to search for Mr. Baxter; first showing his discretion by closing the door--with Johnson outside of it. He quickly reappeared and led Johnson across a hall that was as large as Johnson's flat, up a broad stairway, and through a wide doorway into the library, where he left him, standing, to gain what he could from sight of the rows and rows of leather-backed volumes. Almost at once Mr. Baxter entered, dressed in a dinner coat. "You have something to tell me?" he asked quickly. "Yes." "This way." Mr. Baxter led Johnson into a smaller room, opening upon the library, furnished with little else besides a flat-top walnut desk, a telephone, and a typewriter on a low table. Here Mr. Baxter sometimes attended to his correspondence, with the assistance of a stenographer sent from the office, when he did not feel like going downtown; and in here, when the mood was on him, he sometimes slipped to write bits of verse, a few of which he had published in magazines under a pseudonym. Mr. Baxter closed the door, took the chair at the desk and waved Johnson to the stenographer's. "I have only a minute. What is it?" For all his previous calls on Mr. Baxter, this refined presence made Johnson dumb with embarrassment. He would have been more at his ease had he had the comfort of fumbling his hat, but the purple personage had gingerly taken his battered derby from him at the door. "Well?" said Mr. Baxter, a bit impatiently. Johnson found his voice and rapidly told of Tom's discovery, as he had heard it from Tom twenty minutes before, and of the exposure that was going to be made that evening. At first Mr. Baxter seemed to start; the hand on the desk did certainly tighten. But that was all. "Did Mr. Keating say, in this story he proposes to tell, whether we offered Mr. Foley money to sell out, or whether Mr. Foley demanded it?" he asked, when Johnson had ended. "He didn't say. He didn't seem to know." Mr. Baxter did not speak for a little while; then he said, with a quiet carelessness: "What you have told me is of no great importance, though it probably seems so to you. It might, however, have been of great value. So I want to say to you that I thoroughly appreciate the promptness with which you have brought me this intelligence. If I can still depend upon your faithfulness, and your secrecy----" Mr. Baxter paused. "Always," said Johnson eagerly. "And your secrecy--" this with a slight emphasis, the gray eyes looking right through Johnson; "you can count upon an early token of appreciation, in excess of what regularly comes to you." "You've always found you could count on me, ain't you?" "Yes." "And you always can!" Mr. Baxter touched a button beneath his desk. "Have Mitchell show Mr. Johnson out," he said to the maid who answered the ring. "Do you know where Mrs. Baxter is?" "In her room, sir." Johnson bowed awkwardly, and backed away after the maid. "Good-night," Mr. Baxter said shortly, and followed the two out. He crossed the library with the intention of going to the room of his wife, who had come to town to be with him during the crisis of the expected victory, but he met her in the hall ready to go out. "My dear, some important business has just come up," he said. "I'm afraid there's nothing for me to do but to attend to it to-night." "That's too bad! I don't care for myself, for it's only one of those stupid musical comedies. I only cared to go because I thought it would help you through the suspense of the evening." After the exchange of a few more words he kissed her and she went quietly back to her room. He watched her a moment, wondering if she would bear herself with such calm grace if she knew what awaited him in to-morrow's papers. He passed quickly back into the little office, and locked the door behind him. Then the composure he had worn before Johnson and his wife swiftly vanished; and he sat at the desk with interlocked hands, facing the most critical situation of his life. There was no doubting what Johnson had told him. When to-morrow's papers appeared with their certain stories--first page, big headlines--of how he and other members of the Executive Committee, all gentlemen of reputation, had bribed a walking delegate, and a notoriously corrupt walking delegate, to sell out the Iron Workers' strike--the members of the committee would be dishonored forever, and he dishonored more than all. And his wife, how could she bear this? How could he explain to her, who believed him nothing but honor, once this story was out? He forced these sickening thoughts from his brain. He had no time for them. Disgrace must be avoided, if possible, and every minute was of honor's consequence. He strained his mind upon the crisis. The strike was now nothing; of first importance, of only importance, was how to escape disgrace. It was the peculiar quality of Mr. Baxter's trained mind that he saw, with almost instant directness, the best chance in a business situation. Two days before it had taken Tom from eleven to eleven, twelve hours, to see his only chance. Mr. Baxter now saw his only chance in less than twelve minutes. His only chance was to forestall exposure, by being the first to tell the story publicly. He saw his course clearly--to rush straight to the District Attorney, to tell a story almost identical with Tom's, and that varied from the facts on only two points. First of these two points, the District Attorney was to be told that Foley had come to them demanding fifty thousand dollars as the price of settlement. Second, that they had seen in this demand a chance to get the hands of the law upon this notorious walking delegate; that they had gone into the plan with the sole purpose of gaining evidence against him and bringing him to justice; that they had been able to secure a strong case of extortion against him, and now demanded his arrest. This same story was to go to the newspapers before they could possibly get Tom's. The committee would then appear to the world in no worse light than having stooped to the use of somewhat doubtful means to rid themselves and the union of a piratical blackmailer. Mr. Baxter glanced at his watch. It was half-past eight. He stepped to the telephone, found the number of the home telephone of the District Attorney, and rang him up. He was in, luckily, and soon had the receiver at his ear. Could Mr. Baxter see him in half an hour on a matter of importance--of great public importance? Mr. Baxter could. He next rang up Mr. Murphy, who had been with him in his office that morning when the money had been handed to Foley. Mr. Murphy was also at home, and answered the telephone himself. Could Mr. Baxter meet him in fifteen minutes in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria? Very important. Mr. Murphy could. As he left the telephone it struck him that while the committee must seemingly make every effort to secure Foley's arrest, it would be far better for them if Foley escaped. If arrested, he would naturally turn upon them and tell his side of the affair. Nobody would believe him, for he was one against five, but all the same he could start a most unpleasant story. One instant the danger flashed upon Mr. Baxter. The next instant his plan for its avoidance was ready. He seated himself at the typewriter, drew off its black sole-leather case, ran in a sheet of plain white paper, and, picking at the keys, slowly wrote a message to Foley. That finished, he ran in a plain envelope, which he addressed to Foley at Potomac Hall. This letter he would leave at the nearest messenger office. Five minutes later Mr. Baxter, in a business suit, passed calmly through his front door, opened for him by the purple personage, and out into the street. Chapter XXX THE LAST OF BUCK FOLEY The letter which Foley read, while the union looked on, hardly breathing, was as follows: All is over. The District Attorney will be told to-night you held them up, forcing them to give you the amount you received. They have all the evidence; you have none. Their hands are clean. Against you it is a perfect case of extortion. Though the note was unsigned, Foley knew instantly from whom it came. The contractors, then, were going to try to clear themselves, and he was to be made the scapegoat. He was to be arrested; perhaps at once. Foley had thought over his situation before, its possibilities and its dangers. His mind worked quickly now. If he came to trial, they had the witnesses as the note said--and he had none. As they would be able to make it out, it would be a plain case of extortion against him. He could not escape conviction, and conviction meant years in Sing Sing. Truly, all was over. He saw his only chance in an instant--to escape. The reading of the note, and this train of thought, used less than a minute. Foley crushed the sheet of paper and envelope into a ball and thrust them into a trousers pocket, and looked up with the determination to try his only chance. His eyes fell upon what in the tense absorption of the minute he had almost forgotten--fifteen hundred men staring at him with fixed waiting faces, and one man staring at him with clenched fists in vengeful readiness. At sight of Tom his decision to escape was swept out of him by an overmastering fury. He rushed toward Tom through the alleyway the men had automatically opened at Tom's command. But Petersen stepped quickly out, a couple of paces ahead of Tom, to meet him. "Out o' the way, youse!" he snarled. But Petersen did not get out of the way, and before Tom could interfere to save the fight for himself, Foley struck out savagely. Petersen gave back a blow, just one, the blow that had gained the fight for him a week ago. Foley went to the floor, and lay there. This flash of action released the crowd from the spell that held them. They were roused from statues to a mob. "Kill him! Kill him!" someone shouted, and instantly the single cry swelled to a tremendous roar. Had it not been for Tom, Foley would have come to his end then and there. The fifteen hundred men started forward, crushing through aisles, upsetting the folding chairs and tramping over their collapsed frames, pushing and tearing at each other to get to where Foley lay. Tom saw that in an instant the front of that vindictive mob would be stamping the limp body of the walking delegate into pulp. He sprang to Foley's side, seized him by his collar and dragged him forward into the space between the piano and the end wall, so that the heavy instrument was a breastwork against the union's fury. "Here Petersen, Pete, the rest of you!" he cried. The little group that had stood round him during the meeting rushed forward. "In there!" He pushed them, as a guard, into the gap before Foley's body. Then he faced about. The fore of that great tumult of wrath was already pressing upon him and the little guard, and the men behind were fighting forward over chairs, over each other, swearing and crying for Foley's death. "Stop!" shouted Tom. Connelly, stricken with helplessness, completely lost, pounded weakly with his gavel. "Kill him!" roared the mob. "Kill the traitor!" "Disgrace the union by murder?" Tom shouted. "Kill him?--what punishment is that? Nothing at all! Let the law give him justice!" The cries from the rear of the hall still went up, but the half dozen men who had crowded, and been crowded, upon the little guard now drew back, and Tom thought his words were having their effect. But a quick glance over his shoulder showed him Petersen, in fighting posture--and he knew why the front men had hesitated; and also showed him Foley leaning dizzily against the piano. The hesitation on the part of the front rank lasted for but an instant. They were swept forward by the hundreds behind them, and Foley's line of defenders was crushed against the wall. It was all up with Foley, Tom thought; this onslaught would be the last of him. And as his own body went against the wall under the mob's terrific pressure, he had a gasping wish that he had not interfered two minutes before. The breath was all out of him, he thought his ribs were going to crack, he was growing faint and dizzy--when the pressure suddenly released and the furious uproar hushed almost to stillness. He regained his balance and his breath and glanced dazedly about. There, calmly standing on the piano and leaning against the wall, was Foley, his left hand in his trousers pocket, his right uplifted to command attention. "Boys, I feel it sorter embarrassin' to interrupt your little entertainment like this," he began blandly, but breathing very heavily. "But I suppose I won't have many more chances to make speeches before youse, an' I want to make about a remark an' a half. What's past--well, youse know. But what I got to say about the future is all on the level. Go in an' beat the contractors! Youse can beat 'em. An' beat 'em like hell!" He paused, and gave an almost imperceptible glance toward an open window a few feet away, and moved a step nearer it. A look of baiting defiance came over his face, and he went on: "As for youse fellows. The whole crowd o' youse just tried to do me up--a thousand or two again' one. I fooled the whole bunch o' youse once. An' I can lick the whole bunch o' youse, too!--one at a time. But not just now!" With his last word he sprang across to the sill of the open window, five feet away. Tom had noted Foley's glance and his edging toward the window, and guessing that Foley contemplated some new move, he had held himself in readiness for anything. He sprang after Foley, thinking the walking delegate meant to leap to his death on the stone-paved court below, and threw his arms about the other's knees. In the instant of embracing he noticed a fire-escape landing across the narrow court, an easy jump--and he knew that Foley had had no thought of death. As Tom jerked Foley from the window sill he tripped over a chair and fell backward to the floor, the walking delegate's body upon him. Foley was on his feet in an instant, but Tom lay where he was with the breath knocked out of him. He dimly heard the union break again into cries; feet trampled him; he felt a keen shooting pain. Then he was conscious that some force was turning the edge of the mob from its path; then he was lifted up and placed at the window out of which he had just dragged Foley; and then, Petersen's arm supporting him, he stood weakly on one foot holding to the sill. For an instant he had a glimpse of Foley, on the platform, his back to the wall. During the minute Tom had been on the floor a group of Foley's roughs, moved by some strange reawakening of loyalty, had rushed to his aid, but they had gone down; and now Foley stood alone, behind a table, sneering at the crowd. "Come on!" he shouted, with something between a snarl and a laugh, shaking his clenched fist. "Come on, one at a time, an' I'll do up every one o' youse!" The next instant he went down, and at the spot where he sank the crowd swayed and writhed as the vortex of a whirlpool. Tom, sickened, turned his eyes away. Turned them to see three policemen and two men in plain clothes with badges on their lapels enter the hall, stand an instant taking in the scene, and then with drawn clubs plunge forward into the crowd. The cry of "Police!" swept from the rear to the front of the hall. "We're after Foley!" shouted the foremost officer, a huge fellow with a huge voice, by way of explanation. "Get out o' the way!" The last cry he repeated at every step. The crowd pressed to either side, and the five men shouldered slowly toward the vortex of the whirlpool. At length they gained this fiercely swaying tangle of men. "If youse kill that man, we'll arrest every one o' youse for murder!" boomed the voice of the big policeman. The vortex became suddenly less violent. The five officers pulled man after man back, and reached Foley's body. He was lying on his side, almost against the wall, eyes closed, mouth slightly gaping. He did not move. "Too late!" said the big policeman. "He's dead!" His words ran back through the crowd which had so lusted for this very event. Stillness fell upon it. The big policeman stooped and gently turned the long figure over and placed his hand above the heart. The inner circle of the crowd looked on, waiting. After a moment the policeman's head nodded. "Beatin'?" asked one of the plain clothes men. "Yes. But mighty weak." "I'll be all right in a minute," said a faint voice. The big policeman started and glanced at Foley's face. The eyes were open, and looking at him. "I s'pose youse're from Baxter?" the faint voice continued. "From the District Attorney." "Yes." A whimsical lightness appeared in the voice. "I been waitin' for youse. Lucky youse come when youse did. A few minutes later an' youse might not 'a' found me still waitin'." He placed his hands beside him and weakly tried to rise, but fell back with a little groan. The big policeman and another officer helped him to his feet. The big policeman tried to keep an arm round him for support, but Foley pushed it away and leaned against the wall, where he stood a moment gazing down on the hundreds of faces. His shirt was ripped open at the neck and down to the waist; one sleeve was almost torn off; his vest was open and hung in two halves from the back of his neck; coat he had not had on. His face was beginning to swell, his lips were bloody, and there was a dripping cut on his forehead. One of the plain clothes men drew out a pair of handcuffs. "Youse needn't put them on me," Foley said. "I'll go with youse. Anyhow----" He glanced down at his right hand. It was swollen, and was turning purple. The plain clothes man hesitated. "Oh, he can't give us no trouble," said the big policeman. The handcuffs were pocketed. "I'm ready," said Foley. It was arranged that two of the uniformed men were to lead the way out, the big policeman was to come next with Foley, and the two plain clothes men were to be the rearguard. The big policeman placed an arm round Foley's waist. "I better give youse a lift," he said. "Oh, I ain't that weak!" returned Foley. "Come on." He started off steadily. Certainly he had regained strength in the last few minutes. As the six men started a passage opened before them. The little group of roughs who had come to Foley's defense a few minutes before now fell in behind. Half-way to the door Foley stopped, and addressed the crowd at large: "Where's Keating?" "Up by the piano," came the answer. "Take me to him for a minute, won't youse?" he asked of his guard. They consulted, then turned back. Again a passage opened and they marched to where Tom sat, very pale, leaning against the piano. The crowd pressed up, eager to get a glimpse of these two enemies, now face to face for the last time. "Look out, Tom!" a voice warned, as Foley, with the policeman at his side, stepped forth from his guard. "Oh, our fight's all over," said Foley. He paused and gazed steadily down at Tom. None of those looking on could have said there was any softness in his face, yet few had ever before seen so little harshness there. "I don't know of a man that, an hour ago, I'd 'a' rather put out o' business than youse, Keating," he at length said quietly. "I don't love youse now. But the real article is scarce, an' when I meet it--well, I like to shake hands." He held out his left hand. Tom looked hesitantly up into the face of the man who had brought him to fortune's lowest ebb--and who was now yet lower himself. Then he laid his left hand in Foley's left. Suddenly Foley leaned over and whispered in Tom's ear. Then he straightened up. "Luck with youse!" he said shortly and turned to his guards. "Come on." Again the crowd made way. Foley marched through the passage, his head erect, meeting every gaze unshrinkingly. The greater part of the crowd looked on silently at the passing of their old leader, now torn and bruised and bleeding, but as defiant as in his best days. A few laughed and jeered and flung toward him contemptuous words, but Foley heeded them not, marching steadily on, looking into every face. At the door he paused, and with a lean, blood-trickled smile of mockery, and of an indefinite something else--perhaps regret?--gazed back for a moment on the men he had led for seven years. Then he called out, "So-long, boys!" and waved his left hand with an air that was both jaunty and sardonic. He turned about, and wiping the red drops from his face with his bare left hand, passed out of Potomac Hall. Just behind him and his guard came the little group of roughs, slipping covert glances among themselves. And behind them the rest of the union fell in; and the head of the procession led down the broad stairway and forth into the street. Then, without warning, there was a charge of the roughs. The five officers were in an instant overwhelmed--tripped, or overpowered and hurled to the pavement--and the roughs swept on. The men behind rushed forward, and without any such purpose entangled the policemen among their numbers. It was a minute or more before the five officers were free and had their bearings, and could begin pursuit and search. But Buck Foley was not to be found. Chapter XXXI TOM'S LEVEE It was seven o'clock the next morning. Tom lay propped up on the couch in his sitting-room, his foot on a pillow, waiting for Maggie to come back with the morning papers. A minute before he had asked Ferdinand to run down and get them for him, but Maggie, who just then had been starting out for a loaf of bread, had said shortly to the boy that she would get them herself. When Maggie had opened the door the night before, while Petersen was clumsily trying to fit Tom's key into the keyhole, the sight of Tom standing against the wall on one foot, his clothes in disorder, had been to her imagination a full explanation of what had happened. Her face had hardened and she had flung up her clenched hands in fierce helplessness. "Oh, my God! So you've been at Foley again!" she had burst out. "More trouble! My God, my God! I can't stand it any longer!" She would have gone on, but the presence of a third person had suddenly checked her. She had stood unmoving in the doorway, her eyes flashing, her breast rising and falling. For an instant Tom, remembering a former declaration, had expected her to close the door in his face, but with a gesture of infinite, rageful despair she had stepped back from the door without a word, and Petersen had supported him to the couch. Almost immediately a doctor had appeared, for whom Tom and Petersen had left a message on their way home; and by the time the doctor and Petersen had gone, leaving Tom in bed, her fury had solidified into that obdurate, resentful silence which was the characteristic second stage of her wrath. Her injustice had roused Tom's antagonism, and thus far not a word had passed between them. The nearest newsstand was only a dozen steps from the tenement's door, but minute after minute passed and still Maggie did not return. After a quarter hour's waiting Tom heard the hall door open and close, and then Maggie came into the sitting-room. He was startled at the change fifteen minutes had made in her expression. The look of set hardness was gone; the face was white and drawn, almost staring. She dropped the papers on a chair beside the couch. The top one, crumpled, explained the length of her absence and her altered look. Tom's heart began to beat wildly; she knew it then! She paused beside him, and with his eyes down-turned he waited for her to speak. Seconds passed. He could see her hands straining, and hear her deep breath coming and going. Suddenly she turned about abruptly and went into the kitchen. Tom looked wonderingly after her a moment; then his eyes were caught by a black line half across the top of the crumpled paper: "Contractors Trap Foley." He seized the paper and his eyes took in the rest of the headline at a glance. "Arrested, But Makes Spectacular Escape"; a dozen words about the contractors' plan; and then at the very end, in smallest display type: "Also Exposed in Union." He quickly glanced through the headlines of the other papers. In substance they were the same. Utterly astounded, he raced through the several accounts of Foley's exposure. They were practically alike. They told of Mr. Baxter's visit to the District Attorney, and then recited the events of the past three weeks just as Mr. Baxter had given them to the official prosecutor: How Foley had tried to hold the Executive Committee up for fifty thousand dollars; how the committee had seen in his demand a chance to get him into the hands of the law, and so rid labor and capital of a common enemy; how, after much deliberation, they had decided to make the attempt; how the sham negotiations had proceeded; how yesterday, to make the evidence perfect, Foley had been given the fifty thousand dollars he had demanded as the price of settlement--altogether a most complete and plausible story. "A perfect case," the District Attorney had called it. Tom's part in the affair was told in a couple of paragraphs under a subhead. One of the papers had managed to get in a hurried editorial on Mr. Baxter's story. "Perhaps their way of trapping Foley smacks strongly of gum-shoe detective methods," the editorial concluded; "but their end, the exposure of a notorious labor brigand, will in the mind of the public entirely justify their means. They have earned the right to be called public benefactors." Such in tone was the whole editorial. It was a prophecy of the editorial praise that was to be heaped upon the contractors in the afternoon papers and those of the next morning. Tom flung the papers from him in sickened, bewildered wrath. He had expected a personal triumph before the public. He felt there was something wrong; he felt Mr. Baxter had robbed him of his glory, just as Foley had robbed him of his strike. But in the first dazedness of his disappointment he could not understand. He hardly touched the breakfast Maggie had quietly put upon the chair while he had been reading, but sank back and, his eyes on the ceiling with its circle of clustered grapes, began to go over the situation. At the end of a few minutes he was interrupted by Ferdinand, whom Maggie had sent in with a letter that had just been delivered by a messenger. Tom took it mechanically, then eagerly tore open the envelope. The letter was from the detective agency, and its greater part was the report of the observations made the previous evening by the detectives detailed to watch Mr. Baxter. Tom read it through repeatedly. It brought Foley's whispered words flashing back upon him: "I give it to youse for what it's worth; Baxter started this trick." He began slowly to understand. But before he had fully mastered the situation there was a loud knock at the hall door. Maggie opened it, and Tom heard a hearty voice sound out: "Good-mornin', Mrs. Keating. How's your husband?" "You'll find him in the front room, Mrs. Barry," Maggie answered. "All of you go right in." There was the sound of several feet, and then Mrs. Barry came in and after her Barry and Pete. "Say, Tom, I'm just tickled to death!" she cried, with a smile of ruddy delight. She held out a stubby, pillowy hand and shook Tom's till her black straw hat, that the two preceding summers had done their best to turn brown, was bobbing over one ear. "Every rib I've got is laughin'. How're you feelin'?" "First rate, except for my ankle. How're you, boys?" He shook hands with Barry and Pete. "Well, you want to lay still as a bed-slat for a week or two. A sprain ain't nothin' to monkey with, I tell you what. Mrs. Keating, you see't your husband keeps still." "Yes," said Maggie, setting chairs for the three about the couch, and herself slipping into one at the couch's foot. Mrs. Barry sank back, breathing heavily, and wiped her moist face. "I said to the men this mornin' that I'd give 'em their breakfast, but I wouldn't wash a dish till I'd been over to see you. Tom, you've come out on top, all right! An' nobody's gladder'n me. Unless, o' course, your wife." Maggie gave a little nod, and her hands clasped each other in her lap. "It's easy to guess how proud you must be o' your man!" Mrs. Barry's red face beamed with sympathetic exultation. Maggie gulped; her strained lips parted: "Of course I'm proud." "I wish you could 'a' heard the boys last night, Tom," cried Pete. "Are they for you? Well, I should say! You'll be made walkin' delegate at the very next meetin', sure." "Well, I'd like to know what else they could do?" Mrs. Barry demanded indignantly. "With him havin' fought an' sacrificed as he has for 'em!" "He can have anything he wants now. Tokens of appreciation? They'll be givin' you a gold watch an' chain for every pocket." "But what'll they think after they've read the papers?" asked Tom. "I saw how the bosses' fairy story goes. But the boys ain't kids, an' they ain't goin' to swallow all that down. They'll think about the same as me, an' I think them bosses ain't such holy guys as they say they are. I think there was somethin' else we don't know nothin' about, or else the bosses'd 'a' gone right through with the game. An' the boys'll not give credit to a boss when they can give credit to a union man. You can bet your false teeth on that. Anyhow, Tom, you could fall a big bunch o' miles an' still be in heaven." "Now, the strike, Tom; what d'you think about the strike?" Mrs. Barry asked. Before Tom could answer there was another knock. Maggie slipped away and ushered in Petersen, who hung back abashed at this gathering. "Hello, Petersen," Tom called out. "Come in. How are you?" Petersen advanced into the room, took a chair and sat holding his derby hat on his knees with both hands. "I be purty good,--oh, yah," he answered, smiling happily. "I be movin' to-day." "Where?" Tom asked. "But you haven't met Mrs. Barry, have you?" "Glad to know you, Mr. Petersen." Mrs. Barry held out her hand, and Petersen, without getting up, took it in his great embarrassed fist. She turned quickly about on Tom. "What d'you think about the strike?" she repeated. "Yes, what about it?" echoed Barry and Pete. "We're going to win it," Tom answered, with quiet confidence. "You think so?" "I do. We're going to win--certain!" "If you do, we women'll all take turns kissin' your shoes." "You'll be, all in a jump, the biggest labor leader in New York City!" cried Pete. "What, to put Buck Foley out o' business, an' to win a strike after the union had give it up!" Within Tom responded to this by a wild exultation, but he maintained an outward calm. "Don't lay it on so thick, Pete." He stole a glance at Maggie. She was very pale. Her eyes, coming up from her lap, met his. She rose abruptly. "I must see to my work," she said, and hurried into the kitchen. Tom's eyes came back to his friends. "Have you boys heard anything about Foley?" "He ain't been caught yet," answered Pete. "He'll never be," Tom declared. Then after a moment's thought he went on with conviction: "Boys, if Foley had had a fair start and had been honest, he'd have been the biggest thing that ever happened in the labor world." Their loyalty prompted the others to take strong exception to this. "No, I wouldn't have been in his class," Tom said decidedly, and led the talk to the probabilities of the next few days. They chatted on for half an hour longer, then all four departed. Pete, however, turned at the door and came back. "I almost forgot, Tom. There was something else. O' course you didn't hear about Johnson. You know there's been someone in the union--more'n one, I bet--that's been keepin' the bosses posted on all we do. Well, Johnson got himself outside o' more'n a few last night, an' began to get in some lively jaw-work. The boys got on from what he said that he'd been doin' the spy business for a long time--that he'd seen Baxter just before the meetin'. Well, a few things happened right then an' there. I won't tell you what, but I got an idea Johnson sorter thinks this ain't just the health resort for his kind o' disease." Tom said nothing. Here was confirmation of, and addition to, one sentence in the detectives' report. Pete had been gone hardly more than a minute when he was back for the third time. "Say, Tom, guess where Petersen's movin'?" he called out from the dining-room door. "I never can." "On the floor above! A wagon load o' new furniture just pulled up down in front. I met Petersen an' his wife comin' in. Petersen was carryin' a bran' new baby carriage." Pete's news had immediate corroboration. As he was going out Tom heard a thin voice ask, "Is Mr. Keating in?" and heard Maggie answer, "Go right through the next door;" and there was Mrs. Petersen, her child in her arms, coming radiantly toward him. "Bless you, brother!" she said. "I've heard all about your glorious victory. I could hardly wait to come over an' tell you how glad I am. I'd 'a' come with Nels, but I wasn't ready an' he had to hurry here to be ready to look after the furniture when it come. I'm so glad! But things had to come out that way. The Lord never lets sin prevail!--praise His name!" "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Petersen?" Tom said, in some embarrassment, relinquishing the slight hand she had given him. "I can't stop a minute, we're so busy. You must come up an' see us. I pray God'll prosper you in your new work, an' make you a power for right. Good-by." As she passed through the dining-room Tom heard her thin vibrant voice sound out again: "You ought to be the proudest an' happiest woman in America, Mrs. Keating." There was no answer, and Tom heard the door close. In a few minutes Maggie came in and stood leaning against the back of one of the chairs. "Tom," she said; and her voice was forced and unnatural. Tom knew that the scene he had been expecting so long was now at hand. "Yes," he answered, in a kind of triumphant dread. She did not speak at once, but stood looking down on him, her throat pulsing, her face puckered in its effort to be immobile. "Well, it was about time something of this sort was happening. You know what I've had to put up with in the last five months. I suppose you think I ought to beg your pardon. But you know what I said, I said because I thought it was to our interest to do that. And you know if we'd done what I said we'd never have seen the hard times we have." "I suppose not," Tom admitted, with a dull sinking of his heart. She stood looking down on him for a moment longer, then turned abruptly about and went into the kitchen. These five sentences were her only verbal acknowledgment that she had been wrong, and her only verbal apology. She felt much more than this--grudgingly, she was proud that he had succeeded, she was proud that others praised him, she was pleased at the prospect of better times--but more than this she could not bend to admit. While Tom lay on the couch reasoning himself into a fuller and fuller understanding of Mr. Baxter's part in last night's events, out in the kitchen Maggie's resentment over having been proved wrong was slowly disappearing under the genial influence of thoughts of the better days ahead. Her mind ran with eagerness over the many things that could be done with the thirty-five dollars a week Tom would get as walking delegate--new dresses, better than she had ever had before; new things for the house; a better table. And she thought of the social elevation Tom's new importance in the union would give her. She forgot her bitterness. She became satisfied; then exultant; then, unconsciously, she began humming. Presently her new pride had an unexpected gratification. In the midst of her dreams there was a rapping at the hall door. Opening it she found before her a man she had seen only once--Tom had pointed him out to her one Sunday when they had walked on Fifth Avenue--but she recognized him immediately. "Is Mr. Keating at home?" the man asked. "Yes." Maggie, awed and embarrassed, led the way into the sitting-room. "Mr. Keating," said the man, in a quiet, even voice. "Mr. Baxter!" Tom ejaculated. "I saw in the papers this morning that you were hurt. Thank you very much, Mrs. Keating." He closed the door after Maggie had withdrawn, as though paying her a courtesy by the act, and sat down in the chair she had pushed beside the couch for him. "Your injury is not serious, I hope." Tom regarded the contractor with open amazement. "No," he managed to say. "It will keep me in the house for a while, though." "I thought so, and that's why I came. I saw from the papers that you would doubtless be the next leader of the union. As you know, it is highly important to both sides that we come to an agreement about the strike as early as possible. It seemed to me desirable that you and I have a chat first and arrange for a meeting of our respective committees. And since I knew you could not come to see me, I have come to see you." Mr. Baxter delivered these prepared sentences smoothly, showing his white teeth in a slight smile. This was the most plausible reason his brain had been able to lay hold of to explain his coming. And come he must, for he had a terrifying dread that Tom knew the facts he was trying to keep from the public. It had taxed his ingenuity frightfully that morning to make an explanation to his wife that would clear himself. If Tom did know, and were to speak--there would be public disgrace, and no explaining to his wife. Tom's control came back to him, and he was filled with a sudden exultant sense of mastery over this keen, powerful man. "It is of course desirable that we settle the strike as soon as possible," he agreed calmly, not revealing that he recognized Mr. Baxter's explanation to be a fraud. "It certainly will be a relief to us to deal with a man of integrity. I think we have both had not very agreeable experiences with one whose strong point was not his honor." "Yes." There was that in Mr. Baxter's manner which was very near frank cordiality. "Has it not occurred to you as somewhat remarkable, Mr. Keating, that both of us, acting independently, have been working to expose Mr. Foley?" Tom had never had the patience necessary to beat long about the bush. He was master, and he swept Mr. Baxter's method aside. "The sad feature of both our efforts," he said calmly, but with fierce joy, "has been that we have failed, so far, to expose the chief villain." The corners of Mr. Baxter's mouth twitched the least trifle, but when he spoke he showed the proper surprise. "Have we, indeed! Whom do you mean?" Tom looked him straight in the eyes. "I wonder if you'd care to know what I think of you?" "That's an unusual question. But--it might be interesting." "I think you are an infernal hypocrite!--and a villain to boot!" "What?" Mr. Baxter sprang to his feet, trying to look angry and amazed. "Sit down, Mr. Baxter," Tom said quietly. "That don't work with me. I'm on to you. We got Foley, but you're the man we've failed to expose--so far." Mr. Baxter resumed his chair, and for an instant looked with piercing steadiness at Tom's square face. "What do you know?--think you know?" "I'll tell you, be glad to, for I want you to know I'm thoroughly on to you. You suggested this scheme to Foley, and it wasn't a scheme to catch Foley, but to cheat the union." And Tom went on to outline the parts of the story Mr. Baxter had withheld from the newspapers. "That sounds very interesting, Mr. Keating," Mr. Baxter said, his lips trembling back from his teeth. "But even supposing that were true, it isn't evidence." "I didn't say it was--though part of it is. But suppose I gave to the papers what I've said to you? Suppose I made this point: if Baxter had really intended to trap Foley, wouldn't he have had him arrested the minute after the money had been turned over, so that he would have stood in no danger of losing the money, and so Foley would have been caught with the goods on? And suppose I presented these facts: Mr. Baxter had tickets bought for 'The Maid of Mexico,' and was on the point of leaving for the theater with his wife when a union man, his spy, who had learned of my plan to expose the scheme, came to his house and told him I was on to the game and was going to expose it. Mr. Baxter suddenly decides not to go to the theater, and rushes off to the District Attorney with his story of having trapped Foley. Suppose I said these things to the papers--they'd be glad to get 'em, for it's as good a story as the one this morning--what'd people be saying about you to-morrow? They'd say this: Up to the time he heard from his spy Baxter had no idea of going to the District Attorney. He was in the game for all it was worth, and only went to the District Attorney when he saw it was his only chance to save himself. They'd size you up for what you are--a briber and a liar!" A faint tinge of color showed in Mr. Baxter's white cheeks. "I see you're a grafter, too!" he said, yielding to an uncontrollable desire to strike back. "Well--what's _your_ price?" Tom sat bolt upright and glared at the contractor. "Damn you!" he burst out. "If it wasn't for this ankle, I'd kick you out of the room, and down to the street, a kick to every step! Now you get out of here!--and quick!" "I'm always glad to leave the presence of a blackmailer, my dear sir." Mr. Baxter turned with a bow and went out. Tom, in a fury, swung his feet off the couch and started to rise, only to sink back with a groan. At the door of the flat Mr. Baxter thought of the morrow, of what the public would say, of what his wife would say. He came back, closed the door, and stood looking steadily down on Tom. "Well--what are you going to do about it?" "Give it to the papers, that's what!" "Suppose you do, and suppose a few persons believe it. Suppose, even, people say what you think they will. What then? You will have given your--ah--your information away, and how much better off are you for it?" "Blackmailer, did you call me!" Mr. Baxter did not heed the exclamation, but continued to look steadily downward, waiting. A little while before Tom had been thinking vaguely of the possible use he could make of his power over Mr. Baxter. With lowered gaze, he now thought clearly, rapidly. The moral element of the situation did not appeal to him as strongly at that moment as did the practical. If he exposed Mr. Baxter it would bring himself great credit and prominence, but what material benefit would that exposure bring the union? Very little. Would it be right then for him, the actual head of the union, to use an advantage for his self-glorification that could be turned to the profit of the whole union? After a minute Tom looked up. "No, I shall not give this to the newspapers. I'm going to use it otherwise--as a lever to get from you bosses what belongs to us. I hate to dirty my hands by using such means; but in fighting men of your sort we've got to take every advantage we get. If I had a thief by the throat I'd hardly let go so we could fight fair. I wouldn't be doing the square thing by the union if I refused to use an advantage of this sort." He paused an instant and looked squarely into Mr. Baxter's eyes. "Yes, I have a price, and here it is. We're going to win this strike. You understand?" "I think I do." "Well?" "You are very modest in your demands,"--sarcastically. Tom did not heed the remark. Mr. Baxter half closed his eyes and thought a moment. "What guarantee have I of your silence?" "My word." "Nothing else?" "Nothing else." Mr. Baxter was again silent for a thoughtful moment. "Well?" Tom demanded. Mr. Baxter's face gave a faint suggestion that a struggle was going on within. Then his little smile came out, and he said: "Permit me to be the first to congratulate you, Mr. Keating, on having won the strike." Chapter XXXII THE THORN OF THE ROSE Shortly after lunch Mr. Driscoll called Ruth into his office. "Dr. Hall has just sent me word that he wants to meet the building committee on important business this afternoon, so if you'll get ready we'll start right off." A few minutes later the two were on a north-bound Broadway car. Presently Mr. Driscoll blinked his bulging eyes thoughtfully at his watch. "I want to run in and see Keating a minute sometime this afternoon," he remarked. "He's just been doing some great work, Miss Arnold. If we hurry we've got time to crowd it in now." A pudgy forefinger went up into the air. "Oh, conductor--let us off here!" Before Ruth had recovered the power to object they were out of the car and walking westward through a narrow cross street. Her first frantic impulse was to make some hurried excuse and turn back. She could not face him again!--and in his own home!--never! But a sudden fear restrained this impulse: to follow it might reveal to Mr. Driscoll the real state of affairs, or at least rouse his suspicions. She had to go; there was nothing else she could do. And so she walked on beside her employer, all her soul pulsing and throbbing. Soon a change began to work within her--the reassertion of her love. She would have avoided the meeting if she could, but now fate was forcing her into it. She abandoned herself to fate's irresistible arrangement. A wild, excruciating joy began to possess her. She was going to see him again! But in the last minute there came a choking revulsion of feeling. She could not go up--she could not face him. Her mind, as though it had been working all the time beneath her consciousness, presented her instantly with a natural plan of avoiding the meeting. She paused at the stoop of Tom's tenement. "I'll wait here till you come down, or walk about the block," she said. "All right; I'll be gone only a few minutes," returned the unobservant Mr. Driscoll. He mounted the stoop, but drew aside at the door to let a woman with a boy come out, then entered. Ruth's glance rested upon the woman and child, and she instinctively guessed who they were, and her conjecture was instantly made certain knowledge by a voice from a window addressing the woman as Mrs. Keating. She gripped the iron hand-rail and, swaying, stared at Maggie as she stood chatting on the top step. Her fixed eyes photographed the cheap beauty of Maggie's face, and her supreme insight, the gift of the moment, took the likeness of Maggie's soul. She gazed at Maggie with tense, white face, lips parted, hardly breathing, all wildness within, till Maggie started to turn from her neighbor. Then she herself turned about and walked dizzily away. In the meantime Mr. Driscoll had gained Tom's flat and was knocking on the door. When Maggie had gone out--the silent accusation of Tom's presence irked her so, she was glad to escape it for an hour or two--she had left the door unlocked that Tom might have no trouble in admitting possible callers. Mr. Driscoll entered in response to Tom's "Come in," and crossed heavily into the sitting-room. "Hello there! How are you?" he called out, taking Tom's hand in a hearty grasp. "Why, Mr. Driscoll!" Tom exclaimed, with a smile of pleasure. Mr. Driscoll sank with a gasp into a chair beside the couch. "Well, I suppose you think you're about everybody," he said with a genial glare. "Of course you think I ought to congratulate you. Well, I might as well, since that's one thing I came here for. I do congratulate you, and I mean it." He again grasped Tom's hand. "I've been thinking of the time, about five months ago, when you stood in my office and called me a coward and a few other nice things, and said you were going to put Foley out of business. I didn't think you could do it. But you have! You've done a mighty big thing." He checked himself, but his discretion was not strong enough to force him to complete silence, nor to keep a faint suggestion of mystery out of his manner. "And you deserve a lot more credit than you're getting. You've done a lot more than people think you have--than you yourself think you have. If you knew what I know----!" He nodded his head, with one eye closed. "There's some people I'd back any day to beat the devil. Well, well! And so you're to be walking delegate, hey? That's what I hear." "I understand the boys are talking about electing me." "Well, if you come around trying to graft off me, or calling strikes on my jobs, there'll be trouble--I tell you that." "I'll make you an exception. I'll not graft off you, and I'll let you work scabs and work 'em twenty-four hours a day, if you want to." "I know how!" Mr. Driscoll mopped his face again. "I came around here, Keating, to say about three things to you. I wanted to congratulate you, and that I've done. And I wanted to tell you the latest in the Avon affair. I heard just before I left the office that those thugs of Foley's, hearing that he'd skipped and left 'em in the lurch, had confessed that you didn't have a thing to do with the Avon explosion--that Foley'd put them up to it, and so on. It'll be in the papers this afternoon. Even if your case comes to trial, you'll be discharged in a minute. The other thing----" "Mr. Driscoll----" Tom began gratefully. Mr. Driscoll saw what was coming, and rushed on at full speed. "The other thing is this: I'm speaking serious now, and just as your father might, and it's for your own good, and nothing else. What I've got to say is, get out of the union. You're too good for it. A man's got to do the best he can for himself in this world; it's his duty to make a place for himself. And what are you doing for yourself in the union? Nothing. They've turned you down, and turned you down hard, in the last few months. It's all hip-hip-hurrah for you to-day, but they'll turn you down again just as soon as they get a chance. Mark what I say! Now here's the thing for you to do. You can get out of the union now with glory. Get out, and take the job I offered you five months ago. Or a better one, if you want it." "I can't tell you how much I thank you, Mr. Driscoll," said Tom. "But that's all been settled before. I can't." "Now you see here!"--and Mr. Driscoll leaned forward and with the help of a gesticulating fist launched into an emphatic presentation of "an old man's advice" on the subject of looking out for number one. While he had been talking Ruth had walked about the block in dazing pain, and now she had been brought back to the tenement door by the combined strength of love and duty. During the last two weeks she had often wished that she might speak a moment with Tom, to efface the impression she had given him on that tragic evening when they had been last together, that knowing him could mean to her only great pain. That she should tell him otherwise, that she should yield him the forgiveness she had withheld, had assumed to her the seriousness of a great debt she must discharge. The present was her best chance--perhaps she could see him for a moment alone. And so, duty justifying love, she entered the tenement and mounted the stairs. Tom's "Come in!" answered her knock. Clutching her self-control in both her hands, she entered. At sight of her Tom rose upon his elbow, then sank back, as pale as she, his fingers turned into his palms. "Mr. Keating," she said, with the slightest of bows, and lowered herself into a chair by the door. He could merely incline his head. "You got tired waiting, did you," said Mr. Driscoll, who had turned his short-sighted eyes about at her entrance. "I'll be through in just a minute." He looked back at Tom, and could but notice the latter's white, set face. "Why, what's the matter?" "I twisted my ankle a bit; it's nothing," Tom answered. Mr. Driscoll went on with his discourse, to ears that now heard not a word. Ruth glanced about the room. The high-colored sentimental pictures, the cheap showy furniture, the ornaments on the mantelpiece--all that she saw corroborated the revelation she had had of Maggie's character. Inspiration in neither wife nor home. Thus he had to live, who needed inspiration--whom inspiration and sympathy would help develop to a fitness for great ends. Thus he had to live!--dwarfed! She filled with frantic rebellion in his behalf. Surely it did not have to be so, always. Surely the home could be changed, the wife roused to sympathy--a little--at least a little!... There must be a way! Yes, yes; surely. There must be a way!... Later, somehow, she would find it.... In this moment of upheaving ideas and emotions she had the first vague stirring of a new purpose--the very earliest conception of the part she was to play in the future, the part of an unseen and unrecognized influence. She was brought out of her chaotic thoughts by Mr. Driscoll rising from his chair and saying: "There's no turning a fool from his folly, I suppose. Well, we'd better be going, Miss Arnold." She rose, too. Her eyes and Tom's met. He wondered, choking, if she would speak to him. "Good-by, Mr. Keating," she said--and that was all. "Good-by, Miss Arnold." With a great sinking, as though all were going from beneath him, he watched her go out ... heard the outer door close ... and lay exhausted, gazing wide-eyed at the door frame in which he had last seen her. A minute passed so, and then his eyes, falling, saw a pair of gray silk gloves on the table just before him. They were hers. He had risen upon his elbow with the purpose of getting to the table, by help of a chair back, and securing them, when he heard the hall door open gently and close. He sank back upon the couch. The next minute he saw her in the doorway again, pale and with a composure that was the balance between paroxysm and supreme repression. She paused there, one hand against the frame, and then walked up to the little table. "I came back for my gloves," she said, picking them up. "Yes," his lips whispered, his eyes fastened on her white face. But she did not go. She stood looking down upon him, one hand resting on the table, the other on a chair back. "I left my gloves on purpose; there is something I want to say to you," she said, with her tense calm. "You remember--when I saw you last--I practically said that knowing you could in the future mean nothing to me but pain. I do not feel so now. Knowing you has given me inspiration. There is nothing for me to forgive--but if it means anything to you ... I forgive you." Tom could only hold his eyes on her pale face. "And I want to congratulate you," she went on. "I know how another is getting the praise that belongs to you. I know how much more you deserve than is being given you." "Chance helped me much--at the end." "It is the man who is always striving that is ready for the chance when it comes," she returned. Tom, lying back, gazing fixedly up into her dark eyes, could not gather hold of a word. The gilded clock counted off several seconds. "Mr. Driscoll is waiting for me," she said, in a voice that was weaker and less forcedly steady. She had not changed her position all the time she had spoken. Her arms now dropped to her side, and she moved back ever so little. "I hope ... you'll be happy ... always," she said. "Yes ... and I hope you...." "Good-by." "Good-by." Their eyes held steadfastly to each other for a moment; she seemed to waver, and she caught the back of a chair; then she turned and went out.... For long he watched the door out of which she had gone; then, heedless of the pain, he rolled over and stared at one great poppy in the back of the couch. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious typographical and printer errors have been corrected without comment. In addition to obvious errors, the following changes have been made: Page 26: "virture" changed to "virtue" in the phrase, "... had the virtue of being terse...." Page 53: The word "you" was added to the phrase, "How do you propose...." Page 178: "disppeared" changed to "disappeared" in the phrase, "... they had disappeared...." Page 209: "filliped" changed to "flipped" in the phrase, "... contemptuously flipped his half-smoked cigar...." Page 320: "tremenduous" changed to "tremendous" in the phrase, "... a tremendous uproar...." Other than the above, no effort has been made to standardize internal inconsistencies in spelling, capitalization, punctuation, grammar, etc. The author's usage is preserved as found in the original publication. 
56528	----	GERMINAL BY ÉMILE ZOLA Translated and Introduced By Havelock Ellis Translated and Introduced by Havelock Ellis J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. Aldine House--Bedford St.--London 1885 Introduction By Havelock Ellis 'GERMINAL' was published in 1885, after occupying Zola during the previous year. In accordance with his usual custom--but to a greater extent than with any other of his books except _La Débâcle_--he accumulated material beforehand. For six months he travelled about the coal-mining district in northern France and Belgium, especially the Borinage around Mons, note-book in hand. 'He was inquisitive, was that gentleman', miner told Sherard who visited the neighbourhood at a later period and found that the miners in every village knew _Germinal_. That was a tribute of admiration the book deserved, but it was never one of Zola's most popular novels; it was neither amusing enough nor outrageous enough to attract the multitude. Yet _Germinal_ occupies a place among Zola's works which is constantly becoming more assured, so that to some critics it even begins to seem the only book of his that in the end may survive. In his own time, as we know, the accredited critics of the day could find no condemnation severe enough for Zola. Brunetière attacked him perpetually with a fury that seemed inexhaustible; Schérer could not even bear to hear his name mentioned; Anatole France, though he lived to relent, thought it would have been better if he had never been born. Even at that time, however, there were critics who inclined to view Germinal more favourably. Thus Faguet, who was the recognized academic critic of the end of the last century, while he held that posterity would be unable to understand how Zola could ever have been popular, yet recognized him as in Germinal the heroic representative of democracy, incomparable in his power of describing crowds, and he realized how marvellous is the conclusion of this book. To-day, when critics view Zola In the main with indifference rather than with horror, although he still retains his popular favour, the distinction of _Germinal_ is yet more clearly recognized. Seillière, while regarding the capitalistic conditions presented as now of an ancient and almost extinct type, yet sees _Germinal_ standing out as 'the poem of social mysticism', while André Gide, a completely modern critic who has left a deep mark on the present generation, observes somewhere that it may nowadays cause surprise that he should refer with admiration to _Germinal_, but it is a masterly book that fills him with astonishment; he can hardly believe that it was written in French and still less that it should have been written in any other language; it seems that it should have been created in some international tongue. The high place thus claimed for _Germinal_ will hardly seem exaggerated. The book was produced when Zola had at length achieved the full mastery of his art and before his hand had, as in his latest novels, begun to lose its firm grasp. The subject lent itself, moreover, to his special aptitude for presenting in vivid outline great human groups, and to his special sympathy with the collective emotions and social aspirations of such groups. We do not, as so often in Zola's work, become painfully conscious that he is seeking to reproduce aspects of life with which he is imperfectly acquainted, or fitting them into scientific formulas which he has imperfectly understood. He shows a masterly grip of each separate group, and each represents some essential element of the whole; they are harmoniously balanced, and their mutual action and reaction leads on inevitably to the splendid tragic dose, with yet its great promise for the future. I will not here discuss Zola's literary art (I have done so in my book of _Affirmations_); it is enough to say that, though he was not a great master of style, Zola never again wrote so finely as here. A word may be added to explain how this translation fell to the lot of one whose work has been in other fields. In 1893 the late A. Texeira de Mattos was arranging for private issue a series of complete versions of some of Zola's chief novels and offered to assign _Germinal_ to me. My time was taken up with preliminary but as yet unfruitful preparation for what I regarded as my own special task in life, and I felt that I must not neglect the opportunity of spending my spare time in making a modest addition to my income. My wife readily fell into the project and agreed, on the understanding that we shared the proceeds, to act as my amanuensis. So, in the little Cornish cottage over the sea we then occupied, the evenings of the early months of 1894 were spent over _Germinal_, I translating aloud, and she with swift efficient untiring pen following, now and then bettering my English dialogue with her pungent wit. In this way I was able to gain a more minute insight into the details of Zola's work, and a more impressive vision of the massive structure he here raised, than can easily be acquired by the mere reader. That joint task has remained an abidingly pleasant memory. It is, moreover, a satisfaction to me to know that I have been responsible, however inadequately, for the only complete English version of this wonderful book, 'a great fresco,' as Zola himself called it, a great prose epic, as it has seemed to some, worthy to compare with the great verse epics of old. PART ONE CHAPTER I Over the open plain, beneath a starless sky as dark and thick as ink, a man walked alone along the highway from Marchiennes to Montsou, a straight paved road ten kilometres in length, intersecting the beetroot fields. He could not even see the black soil before him, and only felt the immense flat horizon by the gusts of March wind, squalls as strong as on the sea, and frozen from sweeping leagues of marsh and naked earth. No tree could be seen against the sky, and the road unrolled as straight as a pier in the midst of the blinding spray of darkness. The man had set out from Marchiennes about two o'clock. He walked with long strides, shivering beneath his worn cotton jacket and corduroy breeches. A small parcel tied in a check handkerchief troubled him much, and he pressed it against his side, sometimes with one elbow, sometimes with the other, so that he could slip to the bottom of his pockets both the benumbed hands that bled beneath the lashes of the wind. A single idea occupied his head--the empty head of a workman without work and without lodging--the hope that the cold would be less keen after sunrise. For an hour he went on thus, when on the left, two kilometres from Montsou, he saw red flames, three fires burning in the open air and apparently suspended. At first he hesitated, half afraid. Then he could not resist the painful need to warm his hands for a moment. The steep road led downwards, and everything disappeared. The man saw on his right a paling, a wall of coarse planks shutting in a line of rails, while a grassy slope rose on the left surmounted by confused gables, a vision of a village with low uniform roofs. He went on some two hundred paces. Suddenly, at a bend in the road, the fires reappeared close to him, though he could not understand how they burnt so high in the dead sky, like smoky moons. But on the level soil another sight had struck him. It was a heavy mass, a low pile of buildings from which rose the silhouette of a factory chimney; occasional gleams appeared from dirty windows, five or six melancholy lanterns were hung outside to frames of blackened wood, which vaguely outlined the profiles of gigantic stages; and from this fantastic apparition, drowned in night and smoke, a single voice arose, the thick, long breathing of a steam escapement that could not be seen. Then the man recognized a pit. His despair returned. What was the good? There would be no work. Instead of turning towards the buildings he decided at last to ascend the pit bank, on which burnt in iron baskets the three coal fires which gave light and warmth for work. The labourers in the cutting must have been working late; they were still throwing out the useless rubbish. Now he heard the landers push the wagons on the stages. He could distinguish living shadows tipping over the trams or tubs near each fire. "Good day," he said, approaching one of the baskets. Turning his back to the fire, the carman stood upright. He was an old man, dressed in knitted violet wool with a rabbit-skin cap on his head; while his horse, a great yellow horse, waited with the immobility of stone while they emptied the six trains he drew. The workman employed at the tipping-cradle, a red-haired lean fellow, did not hurry himself; he pressed on the lever with a sleepy hand. And above, the wind grew stronger--an icy north wind--and its great, regular breaths passed by like the strokes of a scythe. "Good day," replied the old man. There was silence. The man, who felt that he was being looked at suspiciously, at once told his name. "I am called Étienne Lantier. I am an engine-man. Any work here?" The flames lit him up. He might be about twenty-one years of age, a very dark, handsome man, who looked strong in spite of his thin limbs. The carman, thus reassured, shook his head. "Work for an engine-man? No, no! There were two came yesterday. There's nothing." A gust cut short their speech. Then Étienne asked, pointing to the sombre pile of buildings at the foot of the platform: "A pit, isn't it?" The old man this time could not reply: he was strangled by a violent cough. At last he expectorated, and his expectoration left a black patch on the purple soil. "Yes, a pit. The Voreux. There! The settlement is quite near." In his turn, and with extended arm, he pointed out in the night the village of which the young man had vaguely seen the roofs. But the six trams were empty, and he followed them without cracking his whip, his legs stiffened by rheumatism; while the great yellow horse went on of itself, pulling heavily between the rails beneath a new gust which bristled its coat. The Voreux was now emerging from the gloom. Étienne, who forgot himself before the stove, warming his poor bleeding hands, looked round and could see each part of the pit: the shed tarred with siftings, the pit-frame, the vast chamber of the winding machine, the square turret of the exhaustion pump. This pit, piled up in the bottom of a hollow, with its squat brick buildings, raising its chimney like a threatening horn, seemed to him to have the evil air of a gluttonous beast crouching there to devour the earth. While examining it, he thought of himself, of his vagabond existence these eight days he had been seeking work. He saw himself again at his workshop at the railway, delivering a blow at his foreman, driven from Lille, driven from everywhere. On Saturday he had arrived at Marchiennes, where they said that work was to be had at the Forges, and there was nothing, neither at the Forges nor at Sonneville's. He had been obliged to pass the Sunday hidden beneath the wood of a cartwright's yard, from which the watchman had just turned him out at two o'clock in the morning. He had nothing, not a penny, not even a crust; what should he do, wandering along the roads without aim, not knowing where to shelter himself from the wind? Yes, it was certainly a pit; the occasional lanterns lighted up the square; a door, suddenly opened, had enabled him to catch sight of the furnaces in a clear light. He could explain even the escapement of the pump, that thick, long breathing that went on without ceasing, and which seemed to be the monster's congested respiration. The workman, expanding his back at the tipping-cradle, had not even lifted his eyes on Étienne, and the latter was about to pick up his little bundle, which had fallen to the earth, when a spasm of coughing announced the carman's return. Slowly he emerged from the darkness, followed by the yellow horse drawing six more laden trams. "Are there factories at Montsou?" asked the young man. The old man expectorated, then replied in the wind: "Oh, it isn't factories that are lacking. Should have seen it three or four years ago. Everything was roaring then. There were not men enough; there never were such wages. And now they are tightening their bellies again. Nothing but misery in the country; every one is being sent away; workshops closing one after the other. It is not the Emperor's fault, perhaps; but why should he go and fight in America? without counting that the beasts are dying from cholera, like the people." Then, in short sentences and with broken breath, the two continued to complain. Étienne narrated his vain wanderings of the past week: must one, then, die of hunger? Soon the roads would be full of beggars. "Yes," said the old man, "this will turn out badly, for God does not allow so many Christians to be thrown on the street." "We don't have meat every day." "But if one had bread!" "True, if one only had bread." Their voices were lost, gusts of wind carrying away the words in a melancholy howl. "Here!" began the carman again very loudly, turning towards the south. "Montsou is over there." And stretching out his hand again he pointed out invisible spots in the darkness as he named them. Below, at Montsou, the Fauvelle sugar works were still going, but the Hoton sugar works had just been dismissing hands; there were only the Dutilleul flour mill and the Bleuze rope walk for mine-cables which kept up. Then, with a large gesture he indicated the north half of the horizon: the Sonneville workshops had not received two-thirds of their usual orders; only two of the three blast furnaces of the Marchiennes Forges were alight; finally, at the Gagebois glass works a strike was threatening, for there was talk of a reduction of wages. "I know, I know," replied the young man at each indication. "I have been there." "With us here things are going on at present," added the carman; "but the pits have lowered their output. And see opposite, at the Victoire, there are also only two batteries of coke furnaces alight." He expectorated, and set out behind his sleepy horse, after harnessing it to the empty trams. Now Étienne could oversee the entire country. The darkness remained profound, but the old man's hand had, as it were, filled it with great miseries, which the young man unconsciously felt at this moment around him everywhere in the limitless tract. Was it not a cry of famine that the March wind rolled up across this naked plain? The squalls were furious: they seemed to bring the death of labour, a famine which would kill many men. And with wandering eyes he tried to pierce shades, tormented at once by the desire and by the fear of seeing. Everything was hidden in the unknown depths of the gloomy night. He only perceived, very far off, the blast furnaces and the coke ovens. The latter, with their hundreds of chimneys, planted obliquely, made lines of red flame; while the two towers, more to the left, burnt blue against the blank sky, like giant torches. It resembled a melancholy conflagration. No other stars rose on the threatening horizon except these nocturnal fires in a land of coal and iron. "You belong to Belgium, perhaps?" began again the carman, who had returned behind Étienne. This time he only brought three trams. Those at least could be tipped over; an accident which had happened to the cage, a broken screw nut, would stop work for a good quarter of an hour. At the bottom of the pit bank there was silence; the landers no longer shook the stages with a prolonged vibration. One only heard from the pit the distant sound of a hammer tapping on an iron plate. "No, I come from the South," replied the young man. The workman, after having emptied the trams, had seated himself on the earth, glad of the accident, maintaining his savage silence; he had simply lifted his large, dim eyes to the carman, as if annoyed by so many words. The latter, indeed, did not usually talk at such length. The unknown man's face must have pleased him that he should have been taken by one of these itchings for confidence which sometimes make old people talk aloud even when alone. "I belong to Montsou," he said, "I am called Bonnemort." "Is it a nickname?" asked Étienne, astonished. The old man made a grimace of satisfaction and pointed to the Voreux: "Yes, yes; they have pulled me three times out of that, torn to pieces, once with all my hair scorched, once with my gizzard full of earth, and another time with my belly swollen with water, like a frog. And then, when they saw that nothing would kill me, they called me Bonnemort for a joke." His cheerfulness increased, like the creaking of an ill-greased pulley, and ended by degenerating into a terrible spasm of coughing. The fire basket now clearly lit up his large head, with its scanty white hair and flat, livid face, spotted with bluish patches. He was short, with an enormous neck, projecting calves and heels, and long arms, with massive hands falling to his knees. For the rest, like his horse, which stood immovable, without suffering from the wind, he seemed to be made of stone; he had no appearance of feeling either the cold or the gusts that whistled at his ears. When he coughed his throat was torn by a deep rasping; he spat at the foot of the basket and the earth was blackened. Étienne looked at him and at the ground which he had thus stained. "Have you been working long at the mine?" Bonnemort flung open both arms. "Long? I should think so. I was not eight when I went down into the Voreux and I am now fifty-eight. Reckon that up! I have been everything down there; at first trammer, then putter, when I had the strength to wheel, then pikeman for eighteen years. Then, because of my cursed legs, they put me into the earth cutting, to bank up and patch, until they had to bring me up, because the doctor said I should stay there for good. Then, after five years of that, they made me carman. Eh? that's fine--fifty years at the mine, forty-five down below." While he was speaking, fragments of burning coal, which now and then fell from the basket, lit up his pale face with their red reflection. "They tell me to rest," he went on, "but I'm not going to; I'm not such a fool. I can get on for two years longer, to my sixtieth, so as to get the pension of one hundred and eighty francs. If I wished them good evening to-day they would give me a hundred and fifty at once. They are cunning, the beggars. Besides, I am sound, except my legs. You see, it's the water which has got under my skin through being always wet in the cuttings. There are days when I can't move a paw without screaming." A spasm of coughing interrupted him again. "And that makes you cough so?" said Étienne. But he vigorously shook his head. Then, when he could speak: "No, no! I caught cold a month ago. I never used to cough; now I can't get rid of it. And the queer thing is that I spit, that I spit----" The rasping was again heard in his throat, followed by the black expectoration. "Is it blood?" asked Étienne, at last venturing to question him. Bonnemort slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's coal. I've got enough in my carcass to warm me till I die. And it's five years since I put a foot down below. I stored it up, it seems, without knowing it; it keeps you alive!" There was silence. The distant hammer struck regular blows in the pit, and the wind passed by with its moan, like a cry of hunger and weariness coming out of the depths of the night. Before the flames which grew low, the old man went on in lower tones, chewing over again his old recollections. Ah, certainly: it was not yesterday that he and his began hammering at the seam. The family had worked for the Montsou Mining Company since it started, and that was long ago, a hundred and six years already. His grandfather, Guillaume Maheu, an urchin of fifteen then, had found the rich coal at Réquillart, the Company's first pit, an old abandoned pit to-day down below near the Fauvelle sugar works. All the country knew it, and as a proof, the discovered seam was called the Guillaume, after his grandfather. He had not known him--a big fellow, it was said, very strong, who died of old age at sixty. Then his father, Nicolas Maheu, called Le Rouge, when hardly forty years of age had died in the pit, which was being excavated at that time: a landslip, a complete slide, and the rock drank his blood and swallowed his bones. Two of his uncles and his three brothers, later on, also left their skins there. He, Vincent Maheu, who had come out almost whole, except that his legs were rather shaky, was looked upon as a knowing fellow. But what could one do? One must work; one worked here from father to son, as one would work at anything else. His son, Toussaint Maheu, was being worked to death there now, and his grandsons, and all his people, who lived opposite in the settlement. A hundred and six years of mining, the youngsters after the old ones, for the same master. Eh? there were many bourgeois that could not give their history so well! "Anyhow, when one has got enough to eat!" murmured Étienne again. "That is what I say. As long as one has bread to eat one can live." Bonnemort was silent; and his eyes turned towards the settlement, where lights were appearing one by one. Four o'clock struck in the Montsou tower and the cold became keener. "And is your company rich?" asked Étienne. The old man shrugged his shoulders, and then let them fall as if overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of gold. "Ah, yes! Ah, yes! Not perhaps so rich as its neighbour, the Anzin Company. But millions and millions all the same. They can't count it. Nineteen pits, thirteen at work, the Voreux, the Victoire, Crévecoeur, Mirou, St. Thomas, Madeleine, Feutry-Cantel, and still more, and six for pumping or ventilation, like Réquillart. Ten thousand workers, concessions reaching over sixty-seven communes, an output of five thousand tons a day, a railway joining all the pits, and workshops, and factories! Ah, yes! ah, yes! there's money there!" The rolling of trams on the stages made the big yellow horse prick his ears. The cage was evidently repaired below, and the landers had got to work again. While he was harnessing his beast to re-descend, the carman added gently, addressing himself to the horse: "Won't do to chatter, lazy good-for-nothing! If Monsieur Hennebeau knew how you waste your time!" Étienne looked thoughtfully into the night. He asked: "Then Monsieur Hennebeau owns the mine?" "No," explained the old man, "Monsieur Hennebeau is only the general manager; he is paid just the same as us." With a gesture the young man pointed into the darkness. "Who does it all belong to, then?" But Bonnemort was for a moment so suffocated by a new and violent spasm that he could not get his breath. Then, when he had expectorated and wiped the black froth from his lips, he replied in the rising wind: "Eh? all that belong to? Nobody knows. To people." And with his hand he pointed in the darkness to a vague spot, an unknown and remote place, inhabited by those people for whom the Maheus had been hammering at the seam for more than a century. His voice assumed a tone of religious awe; it was as if he were speaking of an inaccessible tabernacle containing a sated and crouching god to whom they had given all their flesh and whom they had never seen. "At all events, if one can get enough bread to eat," repeated Étienne, for the third time, without any apparent transition. "Indeed, yes; if we could always get bread, it would be too good." The horse had started; the carman, in his turn, disappeared, with the trailing step of an invalid. Near the tipping-cradle the workman had not stirred, gathered up in a ball, burying his chin between his knees, with his great dim eyes fixed on emptiness. When he had picked up his bundle, Étienne still remained at the same spot. He felt the gusts freezing his back, while his chest was burning before the large fire. Perhaps, all the same, it would be as well to inquire at the pit, the old man might not know. Then he resigned himself; he would accept any work. Where should he go, and what was to become of him in this country famished for lack of work? Must he leave his carcass behind a wall, like a strayed dog? But one doubt troubled him, a fear of the Voreux in the middle of this flat plain, drowned in so thick a night. At every gust the wind seemed to rise as if it blew from an ever-broadening horizon. No dawn whitened the dead sky. The blast furnaces alone flamed, and the coke ovens, making the darkness redder without illuminating the unknown. And the Voreux, at the bottom of its hole, with its posture as of an evil beast, continued to crunch, breathing with a heavier and slower respiration, troubled by its painful digestion of human flesh. CHAPTER II In the middle of the fields of wheat and beetroot, the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement slept beneath the black night. One could vaguely distinguish four immense blocks of small houses, back to back, barracks or hospital blocks, geometric and parallel, separated by three large avenues which were divided into gardens of equal size. And over the desert plain one heard only the moan of squalls through the broken trellises of the enclosures. In the Maheus' house, No. 16 in the second block, nothing was stirring. The single room that occupied the first floor was drowned in a thick darkness which seemed to overwhelm with its weight the sleep of the beings whom one felt to be there in a mass, with open mouths, overcome by weariness. In spite of the keen cold outside, there was a living heat in the heavy air, that hot stuffiness of even the best kept bedrooms, the smell of human cattle. Four o'clock had struck from the clock in the room on the ground floor, but nothing yet stirred; one heard the piping of slender respirations, accompanied by two series of sonorous snores. And suddenly Catherine got up. In her weariness she had, as usual, counted the four strokes through the floor without the strength to arouse herself completely. Then, throwing her legs from under the bedclothes, she felt about, at last struck a match and lighted the candle. But she remained seated, her head so heavy that it fell back between her shoulders, seeking to return to the bolster. Now the candle lighted up the room, a square room with two windows, and filled with three beds. There could be seen a cupboard, a table, and two old walnut chairs, whose smoky tone made hard, dark patches against the walls, which were painted a light yellow. And nothing else, only clothes hung to nails, a jug placed on the floor, and a red pan which served as a basin. In the bed on the left, Zacharie, the eldest, a youth of one-and-twenty, was asleep with his brother Jeanlin, who had completed his eleventh year; in the right-hand bed two urchins, Lénore and Henri, the first six years old, the second four, slept in each other's arms, while Catherine shared the third bed with her sister Alzire, so small for her nine years that Catherine would not have felt her near her if it were not for the little invalid's humpback, which pressed into her side. The glass door was open; one could perceive the lobby of a landing, a sort of recess in which the father and the mother occupied a fourth bed, against which they had been obliged to install the cradle of the latest comer, Estelle, aged scarcely three months. However, Catherine made a desperate effort. She stretched herself, she fidgeted her two hands in the red hair which covered her forehead and neck. Slender for her fifteen years, all that showed of her limbs outside the narrow sheath of her chemise were her bluish feet, as it were tattooed with coal, and her slight arms, the milky whiteness of which contrasted with the sallow tint of her face, already spoilt by constant washing with black soap. A final yawn opened her rather large mouth with splendid teeth against the chlorotic pallor of her gums; while her grey eyes were crying in her fight with sleep, with a look of painful distress and weariness which seemed to spread over the whole of her naked body. But a growl came from the landing, and Maheu's thick voice stammered; "Devil take it! It's time. Is it you lighting up, Catherine?" "Yes, father; it has just struck downstairs." "Quick then, lazy. If you had danced less on Sunday you would have woke us earlier. A fine lazy life!" And he went on grumbling, but sleep returned to him also. His reproaches became confused, and were extinguished in fresh snoring. The young girl, in her chemise, with her naked feet on the floor, moved about in the room. As she passed by the bed of Henri and Lénore, she replaced the coverlet which had slipped down. They did not wake, lost in the strong sleep of childhood. Alzire, with open eyes, had turned to take the warm place of her big sister without speaking. "I say, now, Zacharie--and you, Jeanlin; I say, now!" repeated Catherine, standing before her two brothers, who were still wallowing with their noses in the bolster. She had to seize the elder by the shoulder and shake him; then, while he was muttering abuse, it came into her head to uncover them by snatching away the sheet. That seemed funny to her, and she began to laugh when she saw the two boys struggling with naked legs. "Stupid, leave me alone," growled Zacharie in ill-temper, sitting up. "I don't like tricks. Good Lord! Say it's time to get up?" He was lean and ill-made, with a long face and a chin which showed signs of a sprouting beard, yellow hair, and the anaemic pallor which belonged to his whole family. His shirt had rolled up to his belly, and he lowered it, not from modesty but because he was not warm. "It has struck downstairs," repeated Catherine; "come! up! father's angry." Jeanlin, who had rolled himself up, closed his eyes, saying: "Go and hang yourself; I'm going to sleep." She laughed again, the laugh of a good-natured girl. He was so small, his limbs so thin, with enormous joints, enlarged by scrofula, that she took him up in her arms. But he kicked about, his apish face, pale and wrinkled, with its green eyes and great ears, grew pale with the rage of weakness. He said nothing, he bit her right breast. "Beastly fellow!" she murmured, keeping back a cry and putting him on the floor. Alzire was silent, with the sheet tucked under her chin, but she had not gone to sleep again. With her intelligent invalid's eyes she followed her sister and her two brothers, who were now dressing. Another quarrel broke out around the pan, the boys hustled the young girl because she was so long washing herself. Shirts flew about: and, while still half-asleep, they eased themselves without shame, with the tranquil satisfaction of a litter of puppies that have grown up together. Catherine was ready first. She put on her miner's breeches, then her canvas jacket, and fastened the blue cap on her knotted hair; in these clean Monday clothes she had the appearance of a little man; nothing remained to indicate her sex except the slight roll of her hips. "When the old man comes back," said Zacharie, mischievously, "he'll like to find the bed unmade. You know I shall tell him it's you." The old man was the grandfather, Bonnemort, who, as he worked during the night, slept by day, so that the bed was never cold; there was always someone snoring there. Without replying, Catherine set herself to arrange the bed-clothes and tuck them in. But during the last moments sounds had been heard behind the wall in the next house. These brick buildings, economically put up by the Company, were so thin that the least breath could be heard through them. The inmates lived there, elbow to elbow, from one end to the other; and no fact of family life remained hidden, even from the youngsters. A heavy step had tramped up the staircase; then there was a kind of soft fall, followed by a sigh of satisfaction. "Good!" said Catherine. "Levaque has gone down, and here is Bouteloup come to join the Levaque woman." Jeanlin grinned; even Alzire's eyes shone. Every morning they made fun of the household of three next door, a pikeman who lodged a worker in the cutting, an arrangement which gave the woman two men, one by night, the other by day. "Philoméne is coughing," began Catherine again, after listening. She was speaking of the eldest Levaque, a big girl of nineteen, and the mistress of Zacharie, by whom she had already had two children; her chest was so delicate that she was only a sifter at the pit, never having been able to work below. "Pooh! Philoméne!" replied Zacharie, "she cares a lot, she's asleep. It's hoggish to sleep till six." He was putting on his breeches when an idea occurred to him, and he opened the window. Outside in the darkness the settlement was awaking, lights were dawning one by one between the laths of the shutters. And there was another dispute: he leant out to watch if he could not see, coming out of Pierron's opposite, the captain of the Voreux, who was accused of sleeping with the Pierron woman, while his sister called to him that since the day before the husband had taken day duty at the pit-eye, and that certainly Dansaert could not have slept there that night. Whilst the air entered in icy whiffs, both of them, becoming angry, maintained the truth of their own information, until cries and tears broke out. It was Estelle, in her cradle, vexed by the cold. Maheu woke up suddenly. What had he got in his bones, then? Here he was going to sleep again like a good-for-nothing. And he swore so vigorously that the children became still. Zacharie and Jeanlin finished washing with slow weariness. Alzire, with her large, open eyes, continually stared. The two youngsters, Lénore and Henri, in each other's arms, had not stirred, breathing in the same quiet way in spite of the noise. "Catherine, give me the candle," called out Maheu. She finished buttoning her jacket, and carried the candle into the closet, leaving her brothers to look for their clothes by what light came through the door. Her father jumped out of bed. She did not stop, but went downstairs in her coarse woollen stockings, feeling her way, and lighted another candle in the parlour, to prepare the coffee. All the sabots of the family were beneath the sideboard. "Will you be still, vermin?" began Maheu, again, exasperated by Estelle's cries which still went on. He was short, like old Bonnemort, and resembled him, with his strong head, his flat, livid face, beneath yellow hair cut very short. The child screamed more than ever, frightened by those great knotted arms which were held above her. "Leave her alone; you know that she won't be still," said his wife, stretching herself in the middle of the bed. She also had just awakened and was complaining how disgusting it was never to be able to finish the night. Could they not go away quietly? Buried in the clothes she only showed her long face with large features of a heavy beauty, already disfigured at thirty-nine by her life of wretchedness and the seven children she had borne. With her eyes on the ceiling she spoke slowly, while her man dressed himself. They both ceased to hear the little one, who was strangling herself with screaming. "Eh? You know I haven't a penny and this is only Monday: still six days before the fortnight's out. This can't go on. You, all of you, only bring in nine francs. How do you expect me to go on? We are ten in the house." "Oh! nine francs!" exclaimed Maheu. "I and Zacharie three: that makes six, Catherine and the father, two: that makes four: four and six, ten, and Jeanlin one, that makes eleven." "Yes, eleven, but there are Sundays and the off-days. Never more than nine, you know." He did not reply, being occupied in looking on the ground for his leather belt. Then he said, on getting up: "Mustn't complain. I am sound all the same. There's more than one at forty-two who are put to the patching." "Maybe, old man, but that does not give us bread. Where am I to get it from, eh? Have you got nothing?" "I've got two coppers." "Keep them for a half-pint. Good Lord! where am I to get it from? Six days! it will never end. We owe sixty francs to Maigrat, who turned me out of doors day before yesterday. That won't prevent me from going to see him again. But if he goes on refusing----" And Maheude continued in her melancholy voice, without moving her head, only closing her eyes now and then beneath the dim light of the candle. She said the cupboard was empty, the little ones asking for bread and butter, even the coffee was done, and the water caused colic, and the long days passed in deceiving hunger with boiled cabbage leaves. Little by little she had been obliged to raise her voice, for Estelle's screams drowned her words. These cries became unbearable. Maheu seemed all at once to hear them, and, in a fury, snatched the little one up from the cradle and threw it on the mother's bed, stammering with rage: "Here, take her; I'll do for her! Damn the child! It wants for nothing: it sucks, and it complains louder than all the rest!" Estelle began, in fact, to suck. Hidden beneath the clothes and soothed by the warmth of the bed, her cries subsided into the greedy little sound of her lips. "Haven't the Piolaine people told you to go and see them?" asked the father, after a period of silence. The mother bit her lip with an air of discouraged doubt. "Yes, they met me; they were carrying clothes for poor children. Yes, I'll take Lénore and Henri to them this morning. If they only give me a few pence!" There was silence again. Maheu was ready. He remained a moment motionless, then added, in his hollow voice: "What is it that you want? Let things be, and see about the soup. It's no good talking, better be at work down below." "True enough," replied Maheude. "Blow out the candle: I don't need to see the colour of my thoughts." He blew out the candle. Zacharie and Jeanlin were already going down; he followed them, and the wooden staircase creaked beneath their heavy feet, clad in wool. Behind them the closet and the room were again dark. The children slept; even Alzire's eyelids were closed; but the mother now remained with her eyes open in the darkness, while, pulling at her breast, the pendent breast of an exhausted woman, Estelle was purring like a kitten. Down below, Catherine had at first occupied herself with the fire, which was burning in the iron grate, flanked by two ovens. The Company distributed every month, to each family, eight hectolitres of a hard slaty coal, gathered in the passages. It burnt slowly, and the young girl, who piled up the fire every night, only had to stir it in the morning, adding a few fragments of soft coal, carefully picked out. Then, after having placed a kettle on the grate, she sat down before the sideboard. It was a fairly large room, occupying all the ground floor, painted an apple green, and of Flemish cleanliness, with its flags well washed and covered with white sand. Besides the sideboard of varnished deal the furniture consisted of a table and chairs of the same wood. Stuck on to the walls were some violently-coloured prints, portraits of the Emperor and the Empress, given by the Company, of soldiers and of saints speckled with gold, contrasting crudely with the simple nudity of the room; and there was no other ornament except a box of rose-coloured pasteboard on the sideboard, and the clock with its daubed face and loud tick-tack, which seemed to fill the emptiness of the place. Near the staircase door another door led to the cellar. In spite of the cleanliness, an odour of cooked onion, shut up since the night before, poisoned the hot, heavy air, always laden with an acrid flavour of coal. Catherine, in front of the sideboard, was reflecting. There only remained the end of a loaf, cheese in fair abundance, but hardly a morsel of butter; and she had to provide bread and butter for four. At last she decided, cut the slices, took one and covered it with cheese, spread another with butter, and stuck them together; that was the "brick," the bread-and-butter sandwich taken to the pit every morning. The four bricks were soon on the table, in a row, cut with severe justice, from the big one for the father down to the little one for Jeanlin. Catherine, who appeared absorbed in her household duties, must, however, have been thinking of the stories told by Zacharie about the head captain and the Pierron woman, for she half opened the front door and glanced outside. The wind was still whistling. There were numerous spots of light on the low fronts of the settlement, from which arose a vague tremor of awakening. Already doors were being closed, and black files of workers passed into the night. It was stupid of her to get cold, since the porter at the pit-eye was certainly asleep, waiting to take his duties at six. Yet she remained and looked at the house on the other side of the gardens. The door opened, and her curiosity was aroused. But it could only be one of the little Pierrons, Lydie, setting out for the pit. The hissing sound of steam made her turn. She shut the door, and hastened back; the water was boiling over, and putting out the fire. There was no more coffee. She had to be content to add the water to last night's dregs; then she sugared the coffee-pot with brown sugar. At that moment her father and two brothers came downstairs. "Faith!" exclaimed Zacharie, when he had put his nose into his bowl, "here's something that won't get into our heads." Maheu shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation. "Bah! It's hot! It's good all the same." Jeanlin had gathered up the fragments of bread and made a sop of them. After having drunk, Catherine finished by emptying the coffee-pot into the tin-jacks. All four, standing up in the smoky light of the candle, swallowed their meals hastily. "Are we at the end?" said the father; "one would say we were people of property." But a voice came from the staircase, of which they had left the door open. It was Maheude, who called out: "Take all the bread: I have some vermicelli for the children." "Yes, yes," replied Catherine. She had piled up the fire, wedging the pot that held the remains of the soup into a corner of the grate, so that the grandfather might find it warm when he came in at six. Each took his sabots from under the sideboard, passed the strings of his tin over his shoulder and placed his brick at his back, between shirt and jacket. And they went out, the men first, the girl, who came last, blowing out the candle and turning the key. The house became dark again. "Ah! we're off together," said a man who was closing the door of the next house. It was Levaque, with his son Bébert, an urchin of twelve, a great friend of Jeanlin's. Catherine, in surprise, stifled a laugh in Zacharie's ear: "Why! Bouteloup didn't even wait until the husband had gone!" Now the lights in the settlement were extinguished, and the last door banged. All again fell asleep; the women and the little ones resuming their slumber in the midst of wider beds. And from the extinguished village to the roaring Voreux a slow filing of shadows took place beneath the squalls, the departure of the colliers to their work, bending their shoulders and incommoded by their arms, crossed on their breasts, while the brick behind formed a hump on each back. Clothed in their thin jackets they shivered with cold, but without hastening, straggling along the road with the tramp of a flock. CHAPTER III Étienne had at last descended from the platform and entered the Voreux; he spoke to men whom he met, asking if there was work to be had, but all shook their heads, telling him to wait for the captain. They left him free to roam through the ill-lighted buildings, full of black holes, confusing with their complicated stories and rooms. After having mounted a dark and half-destroyed staircase, he found himself on a shaky foot-bridge; then he crossed the screening-shed, which was plunged in such profound darkness that he walked with his hands before him for protection. Suddenly two enormous yellow eyes pierced the darkness in front of him. He was beneath the pit-frame in the receiving-room, at the very mouth of the shaft. A captain, Father Richomme, a big man with the face of a good-natured gendarme, and with a straight grey moustache, was at that moment going towards the receiver's office. "Do they want a hand here for any kind of work?" asked Étienne again. Richomme was about to say no, but he changed his mind and replied like the others, as he went away: "Wait for Monsieur Dansaert, the head captain." Four lanterns were placed there, and the reflectors which threw all the light on to the shaft vividly illuminated the iron rail, the levers of the signals and bars, the joists of the guides along which slid the two cages. The rest of the vast room, like the nave of a church, was obscure, and peopled by great floating shadows. Only the lamp-cabin shone at the far end, while in the receiver's office a small lamp looked like a fading star. Work was about to be resumed, and on the iron pavement there was a continual thunder, trams of coal being wheeled without ceasing, while the landers, with their long, bent backs, could be distinguished amid the movement of all these black and noisy things, in perpetual agitation. For a moment Étienne stood motionless, deafened and blinded. He felt frozen by the currents of air which entered from every side. Then he moved on a few paces, attracted by the winding engine, of which he could now see the glistening steel and copper. It was twenty-five metres beyond the shaft, in a loftier chamber, and placed so solidly on its brick foundation that though it worked at full speed, with all its four hundred horse power, the movement of its enormous crank, emerging and plunging with oily softness, imparted no quiver to the walls. The engine-man, standing at his post, listened to the ringing of the signals, and his eye never moved from the indicator where the shaft was figured, with its different levels, by a vertical groove traversed by shot hanging to strings, which represented the cages; and at each departure, when the machine was put in motion, the drums--two immense wheels, five metres in radius, by means of which the two steel cables were rolled and unrolled--turned with such rapidity that they became like grey powder. "Look out, there!" cried three landers, who were dragging an immense ladder. Étienne just escaped being crushed; his eyes were soon more at home, and he watched the cables moving in the air, more than thirty metres of steel ribbon, which flew up into the pit-frame where they passed over pulleys to descend perpendicularly into the shaft, where they were attached to the cages. An iron frame, like the high scaffolding of a belfry, supported the pulleys. It was like the gliding of a bird, noiseless, without a jar, this rapid flight, the continual come and go of a thread of enormous weight, capable of lifting twelve thousand kilograms at the rate of ten metres a second. "Attention there, for God's sake!" cried again the landers, pushing the ladder to the other side in order to climb to the left-hand rowel. Slowly Étienne returned to the receiving-room. This giant flight over his head took away his breath. Shivering in the currents of air, he watched the movement of the cages, his ears deafened by the rumblings of the trams. Near the shaft the signal was working, a heavy-levered hammer drawn by a cord from below and allowed to strike against a block. One blow to stop, two to go down, three to go up; it was unceasing, like blows of a club dominating the tumult, accompanied by the clear sound of the bell; while the lander, directing the work, increased the noise still more by shouting orders to the engine-man through a trumpet. The cages in the middle of the clear space appeared and disappeared, were filled and emptied, without Étienne being at all able to understand the complicated proceeding. He only understood one thing well: the shaft swallowed men by mouthfuls of twenty or thirty, and with so easy a gulp that it seemed to feel nothing go down. Since four o'clock the descent of the workmen had been going on. They came to the shed with naked feet and their lamps in their hands, waiting in little groups until a sufficient number had arrived. Without a sound, with the soft bound of a nocturnal beast, the iron cage arose from the night, wedged itself on the bolts with its four decks, each containing two trams full of coal. Landers on different platforms took out the trams and replaced them by others, either empty or already laden with trimmed wooden props; and it was into the empty trams that the workmen crowded, five at a time, up to forty. When they filled all the compartments, an order came from the trumpet--a hollow indistinct roar--while the signal cord was pulled four times from below, "ringing meat," to give warning of this burden of human flesh. Then, after a slight leap, the cage plunged silently, falling like a stone, only leaving behind it the vibrating flight of a cable. "Is it deep?" asked Étienne of a miner, who waited near him with a sleepy air. "Five hundred and fifty-four metres," replied the man. "But there are four levels, the first at three hundred and twenty." Both were silent, with their eyes on the returning cable. Étienne said again: "And if it breaks?" "Ah! if it breaks----" The miner ended with a gesture. His turn had arrived; the cage had reappeared with its easy, unfatigued movement. He squatted in it with some comrades; it plunged down, then flew up again in less then four minutes to swallow down another load of men. For half an hour the shaft went on devouring in this fashion, with more or less greedy gulps, according to the depth of the level to which the men went down, but without stopping, always hungry, with its giant intestines capable of digesting a nation. It went on filling and still filling, and the darkness remained dead. The cage mounted from the void with the same voracious silence. Étienne was at last seized again by the same depression which he had experienced on the pit bank. What was the good of persisting? This head captain would send him off like the others. A vague fear suddenly decided him: he went away, only stopping before the building of the engine room. The wide-open door showed seven boilers with two furnaces. In the midst of the white steam and the whistling of the escapes a stoker was occupied in piling up one of the furnaces, the heat of which could be felt as far as the threshold; and the young man was approaching, glad of the warmth, when he met a new band of colliers who had just arrived at the pit. It was the Maheu and Levaque set. When he saw Catherine at the head, with her gentle boyish air, a superstitious idea caused him to risk another question. "I say there, mate! do they want a hand here for any kind of work?" She looked at him surprised, rather frightened at this sudden voice coming out of the shadow. But Maheu, behind her, had heard and replied, talking with Étienne for a moment. No, no one was wanted. This poor devil of a man who had lost his way here interested him. When he left him he said to the others: "Eh! one might easily be like that. Mustn't complain: every one hasn't the chance to work himself to death." The band entered and went straight to the shed, a vast hall roughly boarded and surrounded by cupboards shut by padlocks. In the centre an iron fireplace, a sort of closed stove without a door, glowed red and was so stuffed with burning coal that fragments flew out and rolled on to the trodden soil. The hall was only lighted by this stove, from which sanguine reflections danced along the greasy woodwork up to the ceiling, stained with black dust. As the Maheus went into the heat there was a sound of laughter. Some thirty workmen were standing upright with their backs to the fire, roasting themselves with an air of enjoyment. Before going down, they all came here to get a little warmth in their skins, so that they could face the dampness of the pit. But this morning there was much amusement: they were joking Mouquette, a putter girl of eighteen, whose enormous breasts and flanks were bursting through her old jacket and breeches. She lived at Réquillart with her father old Mouque, a groom, and Mouquet, her brother, a lander; but their hours of work were not the same; she went to the pit by herself, and in the middle of the wheatfields in summer, or against a wall in winter, she took her pleasure with her lover of the week. All in the mine had their turn; it was a perpetual round of comrades without further consequences. One day, when reproached about a Marchiennes nail-maker, she was furiously angry, exclaiming that she respected herself far too much, that she would cut her arm off if any one could boast that he had seen her with any one but a collier. "It isn't that big Chaval now?" said a miner grinning; "did that little fellow have you? he must have needed a ladder. I saw you behind Réquillart, a token that he got up on a milestone." "Well," replied Mouquette, in a good humour, "what's that to do with you? You were not asked to push." And this gross good-natured joke increased the laughter of the men, who expanded their shoulders, half cooked by the stove, while she herself, shaken by laughter, was displaying in the midst of them the indecency of her costume, embarrassingly comical, with her masses of flesh exaggerated almost to disease. But the gaiety ceased; Mouquette told Maheu that Fleurance, big Fleurance, would never come again; she had been found the night before stiff in her bed; some said it was her heart, others that it was a pint of gin she had drunk too quickly. And Maheu was in despair; another piece of ill-luck; one of the best of his putters gone without any chance of replacing her at once. He was working in a set; there were four pikemen associated in his cutting, himself, Zacharie, Levaque, and Chaval. If they had Catherine alone to wheel, the work would suffer. Suddenly he called out: "I have it! there was that man looking for work!" At that moment Dansaert passed before the shed. Maheu told him the story, and asked for his authority to engage the man; he emphasized the desire of the Company to substitute men for women, as at Anzin. The head captain smiled at first; for the scheme of excluding women from the pit was not usually well received by the miners, who were troubled about placing their daughters, and not much affected by questions of morality and health. But after some hesitation he gave his permission, reserving its ratification for Monsieur Négrel, the engineer. "All very well!" exclaimed Zacharie; "the man must be away by this time." "No," said Catherine. "I saw him stop at the boilers." "After him, then, lazy," cried Maheu. The young girl ran forward; while a crowd of miners proceeded to the shaft, yielding the fire to others. Jeanlin, without waiting for his father, went also to take his lamp, together with Bébert, a big, stupid boy, and Lydie, a small child of ten. Mouquette, who was in front of them, called out in the black passage they were dirty brats, and threatened to box their ears if they pinched her. Étienne was, in fact, in the boiler building, talking with a stoker, who was charging the furnaces with coal. He felt very cold at the thought of the night into which he must return. But he was deciding to set out, when he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. "Come," said Catherine; "there's something for you." At first he could not understand. Then he felt a spasm of joy, and vigorously squeezed the young girl's hands. "Thanks, mate. Ah! you're a good chap, you are!" She began to laugh, looking at him in the red light of the furnaces, which lit them up. It amused her that he should take her for a boy, still slender, with her knot of hair hidden beneath the cap. He also was laughing, with satisfaction, and they remained, for a moment, both laughing in each other's faces with radiant cheeks. Maheu, squatting down before his box in the shed, was taking off his sabots and his coarse woollen stockings. When Étienne arrived everything was settled in three or four words: thirty sous a day, hard work, but work that he would easily learn. The pikeman advised him to keep his shoes, and lent him an old cap, a leather hat for the protection of his skull, a precaution which the father and his children disdained. The tools were taken out of the chest, where also was found Fleurance's shovel. Then, when Maheu had shut up their sabots, their stockings, as well as Étienne's bundle, he suddenly became impatient. "What is that lazy Chaval up to? Another girl given a tumble on a pile of stones? We are half an hour late to-day." Zacharie and Levaque were quietly roasting their shoulders. The former said at last: "Is it Chaval you're waiting for? He came before us, and went down at once." "What! you knew that, and said nothing? Come, come, look sharp!" Catherine, who was warming her hands, had to follow the band. Étienne allowed her to pass, and went behind her. Again he journeyed through a maze of staircases and obscure corridors in which their naked feet produced the soft sound of old slippers. But the lamp-cabin was glittering--a glass house, full of hooks in rows, holding hundreds of Davy lamps, examined and washed the night before, and lighted like candles in a mortuary chapel. At the barrier each workman took his own, stamped with his number; then he examined it and shut it himself, while the marker, seated at a table, inscribed on the registers the hour of descent. Maheu had to intervene to obtain a lamp for his new putter, and there was still another precaution: the workers defiled before an examiner, who assured himself that all the lamps were properly closed. "Golly! It's not warm here," murmured Catherine, shivering. Étienne contented himself with nodding his head. He was in front of the shaft, in the midst of a vast hall swept by currents of air. He certainly considered himself brave, but he felt a disagreeable emotion at his chest amid this thunder of trams, the hollow blows of the signals, the stifled howling of the trumpet, the continual flight of those cables, unrolled and rolled at full speed by the drums of the engine. The cages rose and sank with the gliding movement of a nocturnal beast, always engulfing men, whom the throat of the hole seemed to drink. It was his turn now. He felt very cold, and preserved a nervous silence which made Zacharie and Levaque grin; for both of them disapproved of the hiring of this unknown man, especially Levaque, who was offended that he had not been consulted. So Catherine was glad to hear her father explain things to the young man. "Look! above the cage there is a parachute with iron grapnels to catch into the guides in case of breakage. Does it work? Oh, not always. Yes, the shaft is divided into three compartments, closed by planking from top to bottom; in the middle the cages, on the left the passage for the ladders----" But he interrupted himself to grumble, though taking care not to raise his voice much. "What are we stuck here for, blast it? What right have they to freeze us in this way?" The captain, Richomme, who was going down himself, with his naked lamp fixed by a nail into the leather of his cap, heard him. "Careful! Look out for ears," he murmured paternally, as an old miner with a affectionate feeling for comrades. "Workmen must do what they can. Hold on! here we are; get in with your fellows." The cage, provided with iron bands and a small-meshed lattice work, was in fact awaiting them on the bars. Maheu, Zacharie, and Catherine slid into a tram below, and as all five had to enter, Étienne in his turn went in, but the good places were taken; he had to squeeze himself near the young girl, whose elbow pressed into his belly. His lamp embarrassed him; they advised him to fasten it to the button-hole of his jacket. Not hearing, he awkwardly kept it in his hand. The embarkation continued, above and below, a confused packing of cattle. They did not, however, set out. What, then, was happening? It seemed to him that his impatience lasted for many minutes. At last he felt a shock, and the light grew dim, everything around him seemed to fly, while he experienced the dizzy anxiety of a fall contracting his bowels. This lasted as long as he could see light, through the two reception stories, in the midst of the whirling by of the scaffolding. Then, having fallen into the blackness of the pit, he became stunned, no longer having any clear perception of his sensations. "Now we are off," said Maheu quietly. They were all at their ease. He asked himself at times if he was going up or down. Now and then, when the cage went straight without touching the guides, there seemed to be no motion, but rough shocks were afterwards produced, a sort of dancing amid the joists, which made him fear a catastrophe. For the rest he could not distinguish the walls of the shaft behind the lattice work, to which he pressed his face. The lamps feebly lighted the mass of bodies at his feet. Only the captain's naked light, in the neighbouring tram, shone like a lighthouse. "This is four metres in diameter," continued Maheu, to instruct him. "The tubbing wants doing over again, for the water comes in everywhere. Stop! we are reaching the bottom: do you hear?" Étienne was, in fact, now asking himself the meaning of this noise of falling rain. A few large drops had at first sounded on the roof of the cage, like the beginning of a shower, and now the rain increased, streaming down, becoming at last a deluge. The roof must be full of holes, for a thread of water was flowing on to his shoulder and wetting him to the skin. The cold became icy and they were buried in black humidity, when they passed through a sudden flash of light, the vision of a cavern in which men were moving. But already they had fallen back into darkness. Maheu said: "That is the first main level. We are at three hundred and twenty metres. See the speed." Raising his lamp he lighted up a joist of the guides which fled by like a rail beneath a train going at full speed; and beyond, as before, nothing could be seen. They passed three other levels in flashes of light. The deafening rain continued to strike through the darkness. "How deep it is!" murmured Étienne. This fall seemed to last for hours. He was suffering for the cramped position he had taken, not daring to move, and especially tortured by Catherine's elbow. She did not speak a word; he only felt her against him and it warmed him. When the cage at last stopped at the bottom, at five hundred and fifty-four metres, he was astonished to learn that the descent had lasted exactly one minute. But the noise of the bolts fixing themselves, the sensation of solidity beneath, suddenly cheered him; and he was joking when he said to Catherine: "What have you got under your skin to be so warm? I've got your elbow in my belly, sure enough." Then she also burst out laughing. Stupid of him, still to take her for a boy! Were his eyes out? "It's in your eye that you've got my elbow!" she replied, in the midst of a storm of laughter which the astonished young man could not account for. The cage voided its burden of workers, who crossed the pit-eye hall, a chamber cut in the rock, vaulted with masonry, and lighted up by three large lamps. Over the iron flooring the porters were violently rolling laden trams. A cavernous odour exhaled from the walls, a freshness of saltpetre in which mingled hot breaths from the neighbouring stable. The openings of four galleries yawned here. "This way," said Maheu to Étienne. "You're not there yet. It is still two kilometres." The workmen separated, and were lost in groups in the depths of these black holes. Some fifteen went off into that on the left, and Étienne walked last, behind Maheu, who was preceded by Catherine, Zacharie, and Levaque. It was a large gallery for wagons, through a bed of solid rock, which had only needed walling here and there. In single file they still went on without a word, by the tiny flame of the lamps. The young man stumbled at every step, and entangled his feet in the rails. For a moment a hollow sound disturbed him, the sound of a distant storm, the violence of which seemed to increase and to come from the bowels of the earth. Was it the thunder of a landslip bringing on to their heads the enormous mass which separated them from the light? A gleam pierced the night, he felt the rock tremble, and when he had placed himself close to the wall, like his comrades, he saw a large white horse close to his face, harnessed to a train of wagons. On the first, and holding the reins, was seated Bébert, while Jeanlin, with his hands leaning on the edge of the last, was running barefooted behind. They again began their walk. Farther on they reached crossways, where two new galleries opened, and the band divided again, the workers gradually entering all the stalls of the mine. Now the wagon-gallery was constructed of wood; props of timber supported the roof, and made for the crumbly rock a screen of scaffolding, behind which one could see the plates of schist glimmering with mica, and the coarse masses of dull, rough sandstone. Trains of tubs, full or empty, continually passed, crossing each other with their thunder, borne into the shadow by vague beasts trotting by like phantoms. On the double way of a shunting line a long, black serpent slept, a train at standstill, with a snorting horse, whose crupper looked like a block fallen from the roof. Doors for ventilation were slowly opening and shutting. And as they advanced the gallery became more narrow and lower, and the roof irregular, forcing them to bend their backs constantly. Étienne struck his head hard; without his leather cap he would have broken his skull. However, he attentively followed the slightest gestures of Maheu, whose sombre profile was seen against the glimmer of the lamps. None of the workmen knocked themselves; they evidently knew each boss, each knot of wood or swelling in the rock. The young man also suffered from the slippery soil, which became damper and damper. At times he went through actual puddles, only revealed by the muddy splash of his feet. But what especially astonished him were the sudden changes of temperature. At the bottom of the shaft it was very chilly, and in the wagon-gallery, through which all the air of the mine passed, an icy breeze was blowing, with the violence of a tempest, between the narrow walls. Afterwards, as they penetrated more deeply along other passages which only received a meagre share of air, the wind fell and the heat increased, a suffocating heat as heavy as lead. Maheu had not again opened his mouth. He turned down another gallery to the right, simply saying to Étienne, without looking round: "The Guillaume seam." It was the seam which contained their cutting. At the first step, Étienne hurt his head and elbows. The sloping roof descended so low that, for twenty or thirty metres at a time, he had to walk bent double. The water came up to his ankles. After two hundred metres of this, he saw Levaque, Zacharie, and Catherine disappear, as though they had flown through a narrow fissure which was open in front of him. "We must climb," said Maheu. "Fasten your lamp to a button-hole and hang on to the wood." He himself disappeared, and Étienne had to follow him. This chimney-passage left in the seam was reserved for miners, and led to all the secondary passages. It was about the thickness of the coal-bed, hardly sixty centimetres. Fortunately the young man was thin, for, as he was still awkward, he hoisted himself up with a useless expense of muscle, flattening his shoulders and hips, advancing by the strength of his wrists, clinging to the planks. Fifteen metres higher they came on the first secondary passage, but they had to continue, as the cutting of Maheu and his mates was in the sixth passage, in hell, as they said; every fifteen metres the passages were placed over each other in never-ending succession through this cleft, which scraped back and chest. Étienne groaned as if the weight of the rocks had pounded his limbs; with torn hands and bruised legs, he also suffered from lack of air, so that he seemed to feel the blood bursting through his skin. He vaguely saw in one passage two squatting beasts, a big one and a little one, pushing trams: they were Lydie and Mouquette already at work. And he had still to climb the height of two cuttings! He was blinded by sweat, and he despaired of catching up the others, whose agile limbs he heard brushing against the rock with a long gliding movement. "Cheer up! here we are!" said Catherine's voice. He had, in fact, arrived, and another voice cried from the bottom of the cutting: "Well, is this the way to treat people? I have two kilometres to walk from Montsou and I am here first." It was Chaval, a tall, lean, bony fellow of twenty-five, with strongly marked features, who was in a bad humour at having to wait. When he saw Étienne he asked, with contemptuous surprise: "What's that?" And when Maheu had told him the story he added between his teeth: "These men are eating the bread of girls." The two men exchanged a look, lighted up by one of those instinctive hatreds which suddenly flame up. Étienne had felt the insult without yet understanding it. There was silence, and they got to work. At last all the seams were gradually filled, and the cuttings were in movement at every level and at the end of every passage. The devouring shaft had swallowed its daily ration of men: nearly seven hundred hands, who were now at work in this giant ant-hill, everywhere making holes in the earth, drilling it like an old worm-eaten piece of wood. And in the middle of the heavy silence and crushing weight of the strata one could hear, by placing one's ear to the rock, the movement of these human insects at work, from the flight of the cable which moved the cage up and down, to the biting of the tools cutting out the coal at the end of the stalls. Étienne, on turning round, found himself again pressed close to Catherine. But this time he caught a glimpse of the developing curves of her breast: he suddenly understood the warmth which had penetrated him. "You are a girl, then!" he exclaimed, stupefied. She replied in her cheerful way, without blushing: "Of course. You've taken your time to find it out!" CHAPTER IV The four pikemen had spread themselves one above the other over the whole face of the cutting. Separated by planks, hooked on to retain the fallen coal, they each occupied about four metres of the seam, and this seam was so thin, scarcely more than fifty centimetres thick at this spot, that they seemed to be flattened between the roof and the wall, dragging themselves along by their knees and elbows, and unable to turn without crushing their shoulders. In order to attack the coal, they had to lie on their sides with their necks twisted and arms raised, brandishing, in a sloping direction, their short-handled picks. Below there was, first, Zacharie; Levaque and Chaval were on the stages above, and at the very top was Maheu. Each worked at the slaty bed, which he dug out with blows of the pick; then he made two vertical cuttings in the bed and detached the block by burying an iron wedge in its upper part. The coal was rich; the block broke and rolled in fragments along their bellies and thighs. When these fragments, retained by the plank, had collected round them, the pikemen disappeared, buried in the narrow cleft. Maheu suffered most. At the top the temperature rose to thirty-five degrees, and the air was stagnant, so that in the long run it became lethal. In order to see, he had been obliged to fix his lamp to a nail near his head, and this lamp, close to his skull, still further heated his blood. But his torment was especially aggravated by the moisture. The rock above him, a few centimetres from his face, streamed with water, which fell in large continuous rapid drops with a sort of obstinate rhythm, always at the same spot. It was vain for him to twist his head or bend back his neck. They fell on his face, dropping unceasingly. In a quarter of an hour he was soaked, and at the same time covered with sweat, smoking as with the hot steam of a laundry. This morning a drop beating upon his eye made him swear. He would not leave his picking, he dealt great strokes which shook him violently between the two rocks, like a fly caught between two leaves of a book and in danger of being completely flattened. Not a word was exchanged. They all hammered; one only heard these irregular blows, which seemed veiled and remote. The sounds had a sonorous hoarseness, without any echo in the dead air. And it seemed that the darkness was an unknown blackness, thickened by the floating coal dust, made heavy by the gas which weighed on the eyes. The wicks of the lamps beneath their caps of metallic tissue only showed as reddish points. One could distinguish nothing. The cutting opened out above like a large chimney, flat and oblique, in which the soot of ten years had amassed a profound night. Spectral figures were moving in it, the gleams of light enabled one to catch a glimpse of a rounded hip, a knotty arm, a vigorous head, besmeared as if for a crime. Sometimes, blocks of coal shone suddenly as they became detached, illuminated by a crystalline reflection. Then everything fell back into darkness, pickaxes struck great hollow blows; one only heard panting chests, the grunting of discomfort and weariness beneath the weight of the air and the rain of the springs. Zacharie, with arms weakened by a spree of the night before, soon left his work on the pretence that more timbering was necessary. This allowed him to forget himself in quiet whistling, his eyes vaguely resting in the shade. Behind the pikemen nearly three metres of the seam were clear, and they had not yet taken the precaution of supporting the rock, having grown careless of danger and miserly of their time. "Here, you swell," cried the young man to Étienne, "hand up some wood." Étienne, who was learning from Catherine how to manage his shovel, had to raise the wood in the cutting. A small supply had remained over from yesterday. It was usually sent down every morning ready cut to fit the bed. "Hurry up there, damn it!" shouted Zacharie, seeing the new putter hoist himself up awkwardly in the midst of the coal, his arms embarrassed by four pieces of oak. He made a hole in the roof with his pickaxe, and then another in the wall, and wedged in the two ends of the wood, which thus supported the rock. In the afternoon the workers in the earth cutting took the rubbish left at the bottom of the gallery by the pikemen, and cleared out the exhausted section of the seam, in which they destroyed the wood, being only careful about the lower and upper roads for the haulage. Maheu ceased to groan. At last he had detached his block, and he wiped his streaming face on his sleeve. He was worried about what Zacharie was doing behind him. "Let it be," he said, "we will see after breakfast. Better go on hewing, if we want to make up our share of trams." "It's because it's sinking," replied the young man. "Look, there's a crack. It may slip." But the father shrugged his shoulders. Ah! nonsense! Slip! And if it did, it would not be the first time; they would get out of it all right. He grew angry at last, and sent his son to the front of the cutting. All of them, however, were now stretching themselves. Levaque, resting on his back, was swearing as he examined his left thumb which had been grazed by the fall of a piece of sandstone. Chaval had taken off his shirt in a fury, and was working with bare chest and back for the sake of coolness. They were already black with coal, soaked in a fine dust diluted with sweat which ran down in streams and pools. Maheu first began again to hammer, lower down, with his head level with the rock. Now the drop struck his forehead so obstinately that he seemed to feel it piercing a hole in the bone of his skull. "You mustn't mind," explained Catherine to Étienne, "they are always howling." And like a good-natured girl she went on with her lesson. Every laden tram arrived at the top in the same condition as it left the cutting, marked with a special metal token so that the receiver might put it to the reckoning of the stall. It was necessary, therefore, to be very careful to fill it, and only to take clean coal, otherwise it was refused at the receiving office. The young man, whose eyes were now becoming accustomed to the darkness, looked at her, still white with her chlorotic complexion, and he could not have told her age; he thought she must be twelve, she seemed to him so slight. However, he felt she must be older, with her boyish freedom, a simple audacity which confused him a little; she did not please him: he thought her too roguish with her pale Pierrot head, framed at the temples by the cap. But what astonished him was the strength of this child, a nervous strength which was blended with a good deal of skill. She filled her tram faster than he could, with quick small regular strokes of the shovel; she afterwards pushed it to the inclined way with a single slow push, without a hitch, easily passing under the low rocks. He tore himself to pieces, got off the rails, and was reduced to despair. It was certainly not a convenient road. It was sixty metres from the cutting to the upbrow, and the passage, which the miners in the earth cutting had not yet enlarged, was a mere tube with a very irregular roof swollen by innumerable bosses; at certain spots the laden tram could only just pass; the putter had to flatten himself, to push on his knees, in order not to break his head, and besides this the wood was already bending and yielding. One could see it broken in the middle in long pale rents like an over-weak crutch. One had to be careful not to graze oneself in these fractures; and beneath the slow crushing, which caused the splitting of billets of oak as large as the thigh, one had to glide almost on one's belly with a secret fear of suddenly hearing one's back break. "Again!" said Catherine, laughing. Étienne's tram had gone off the rails at the most difficult spot. He could not roll straight on these rails which sank in the damp earth, and he swore, became angry, and fought furiously with the wheels, which he could not get back into place in spite of exaggerated efforts. "Wait a bit," said the young girl. "If you get angry it will never go." Skilfully she had glided down and thrust her buttocks beneath the tram, and by putting the weight on her loins she raised it and replaced it. The weight was seven hundred kilograms. Surprised and ashamed, he stammered excuses. She was obliged to show him how to straddle his legs and brace his feet against the planking on both sides of the gallery, in order to give himself a more solid fulcrum. The body had to be bent, the arms made stiff so as to push with all the muscles of the shoulders and hips. During the journey he followed her and watched her proceed with tense back, her fists so low that she seemed trotting on all fours, like one of those dwarf beasts that perform at circuses. She sweated, panted, her joints cracked, but without a complaint, with the indifference of custom, as if it were the common wretchedness of all to live thus bent double. But he could not succeed in doing as much; his shoes troubled him, his body seemed broken by walking in this way with lowered head. At the end of a few minutes the position became a torture, an intolerable anguish, so painful that he got on his knees for a moment to straighten himself and breathe. Then at the upbrow there was more labour. She taught him to fill his tram quickly. At the top and bottom of this inclined plane, which served all the cuttings from one level to the other, there was a trammer--the brakesman above, the receiver below. These scamps of twelve to fifteen years shouted abominable words to each other, and to warn them it was necessary to yell still more violently. Then, as soon as there was an empty tram to send back, the receiver gave the signal and the putter embarked her full tram, the weight of which made the other ascend when the brakesman loosened his brake. Below, in the bottom gallery, were formed the trains which the horses drew to the shaft. "Here, you confounded rascals," cried Catherine in the inclined way, which was wood-lined, about a hundred metres long, and resounded like a gigantic trumpet. The trammers must have been resting, for neither of them replied. On all the levels haulage had stopped. A shrill girl's voice said at last: "One of them must be on Mouquette, sure enough!" There was a roar of laughter, and the putters of the whole seam held their sides. "Who is that?" asked Étienne of Catherine. The latter named little Lydie, a scamp who knew more than she ought, and who pushed her tram as stoutly as a woman in spite of her doll's arms. As to Mouquette, she was quite capable of being with both the trammers at once. But the voice of the receiver arose, shouting out to load. Doubtless a captain was passing beneath. Haulage began again on the nine levels, and one only heard the regular calls of the trammers, and the snorting of the putters arriving at the upbrow and steaming like over-laden mares. It was the element of bestiality which breathed in the pit, the sudden desire of the male, when a miner met one of these girls on all fours, with her flanks in the air and her hips bursting through her boy's breeches. And on each journey Étienne found again at the bottom the stuffiness of the cutting, the hollow and broken cadence of the axes, the deep painful sighs of the pikemen persisting in their work. All four were naked, mixed up with the coal, soaked with black mud up to the cap. At one moment it had been necessary to free Maheu, who was gasping, and to remove the planks so that the coal could fall into the passage. Zacharie and Levaque became enraged with the seam, which was now hard, they said, and which would make the condition of their account disastrous. Chaval turned, lying for a moment on his back, abusing Étienne, whose presence decidedly exasperated him. "A sort of worm; hasn't the strength of a girl! Are you going to fill your tub? It's to spare your arms, eh? Damned if I don't keep back the ten sous if you get us one refused!" The young man avoided replying, too happy at present to have found this convict's labour and accepting the brutal rule of the worker by master worker. But he could no longer walk, his feet were bleeding, his limbs torn by horrible cramps, his body confined in an iron girdle. Fortunately it was ten o'clock, and the stall decided to have breakfast. Maheu had a watch, but he did not even look at it. At the bottom of this starless night he was never five minutes out. All put on their shirts and jackets. Then, descending from the cutting they squatted down, their elbows to their sides, their buttocks on their heels, in that posture so habitual with miners that they keep it even when out of the mine, without feeling the need of a stone or a beam to sit on. And each, having taken out his brick, bit seriously at the thick slice, uttering occasional words on the morning's work. Catherine, who remained standing, at last joined Étienne, who had stretched himself out farther along, across the rails, with his back against the planking. There was a place there almost dry. "You don't eat?" she said to him, with her mouth full and her brick in her hand. Then she remembered that this youth, wandering about at night without a sou, perhaps had not a bit of bread. "Will you share with me?" And as he refused, declaring that he was not hungry, while his voice trembled with the gnawing in his stomach, she went on cheerfully: "Ah! if you are fastidious! But here, I've only bitten on that side. I'll give you this." She had already broken the bread and butter into two pieces. The young man, taking his half, restrained himself from devouring it all at once, and placed his arms on his thighs, so that she should not see how he trembled. With her quiet air of good comradeship she lay beside him, at full length on her stomach, with her chin in one hand, slowly eating with the other. Their lamps, placed between them, lit up their faces. Catherine looked at him a moment in silence. She must have found him handsome, with his delicate face and black moustache. She vaguely smiled with pleasure. "Then you are an engine-driver, and they sent you away from your railway. Why?" "Because I struck my chief." She remained stupefied, overwhelmed, with her hereditary ideas of subordination and passive obedience. "I ought to say that I had been drinking," he went on, and when I drink I get mad--I could devour myself, and I could devour other people. Yes; I can't swallow two small glasses without wanting to kill someone. Then I am ill for two days." "You mustn't drink," she said, seriously. "Ah, don't be afraid. I know myself." And he shook his head. He hated brandy with the hatred of the last child of a race of drunkards, who suffered in his flesh from all those ancestors, soaked and driven mad by alcohol to such a point that the least drop had become poison to him. "It is because of mother that I didn't like being turned into the street," he said, after having swallowed a mouthful. "Mother is not happy, and I used to send her a five-franc piece now and then." "Where is she, then, your mother?" "At Paris. Laundress, Rue de la Goutte-d'or." There was silence. When he thought of these things a tremor dimmed his dark eyes, the sudden anguish of the injury he brooded over in his fine youthful strength. For a moment he remained with his looks buried in the darkness of the mine; and at that depth, beneath the weight and suffocation of the earth, he saw his childhood again, his mother still beautiful and strong, forsaken by his father, then taken up again after having married another man, living with the two men who ruined her, rolling with them in the gutter in drink and ordure. It was down there, he recalled the street, the details came back to him; the dirty linen in the middle of the shop, the drunken carousals that made the house stink, and the jaw-breaking blows. "Now," he began again, in a slow voice, "I haven't even thirty sous to make her presents with. She will die of misery, sure enough." He shrugged his shoulders with despair, and again bit at his bread and butter. "Will you drink?" asked Catherine, uncorking her tin. "Oh, it's coffee, it won't hurt you. One gets dry when one eats like that." But he refused; it was quite enough to have taken half her bread. However, she insisted good-naturedly, and said at last: "Well, I will drink before you since you are so polite. Only you can't refuse now, it would be rude." She held out her tin to him. She had got on to her knees and he saw her quite close to him, lit up by the two lamps. Why had he found her ugly? Now that she was black, her face powdered with fine charcoal, she seemed to him singularly charming. In this face surrounded by shadow, the teeth in the broad mouth shone with whiteness, while the eyes looked large and gleamed with a greenish reflection, like a cat's eyes. A lock of red hair which had escaped from her cap tickled her ear and made her laugh. She no longer seemed so young, she might be quite fourteen. "To please you," he said, drinking and giving her back the tin. She swallowed a second mouthful and forced him to take one too, wishing to share, she said; and that little tin that went from one mouth to the other amused them. He suddenly asked himself if he should not take her in his arms and kiss her lips. She had large lips of a pale rose colour, made vivid by the coal, which tormented him with increasing desire. But he did not dare, intimidated before her, only having known girls on the streets at Lille of the lowest order, and not realizing how one ought to behave with a work-girl still living with her family. "You must be about fourteen then?" he asked, after having gone back to his bread. She was astonished, almost angry. "What? fourteen! But I am fifteen! It's true I'm not big. Girls don't grow quick with us." He went on questioning her and she told everything without boldness or shame. For the rest she was not ignorant concerning man and woman, although he felt that her body was virginal, with the virginity of a child delayed in her sexual maturity by the environment of bad air and weariness in which she lived. When he spoke of Mouquette, in order to embarrass her, she told some horrible stories in a quiet voice, with much amusement. Ah! she did some fine things! And as he asked if she herself had no lovers, she replied jokingly that she did not wish to vex her mother, but that it must happen some day. Her shoulders were bent. She shivered a little from the coldness of her garments soaked in sweat, with a gentle resigned air, ready to submit to things and men. "People can find lovers when they all live together, can't they?" "Sure enough!" "And then it doesn't hurt any one. One doesn't tell the priest." "Oh! the priest! I don't care for him! But there is the Black Man." "What do you mean, the Black Man?" "The old miner who comes back into the pit and wrings naughty girls' necks." He looked at her, afraid that she was making fun of him. "You believe in those stupid things? Then you don't know anything." "Yes, I do. I can read and write. That is useful among us; in father and mother's time they learnt nothing." She was certainly very charming. When she had finished her bread and butter, he would take her and kiss her on her large rosy lips. It was the resolution of timidity, a thought of violence which choked his voice. These boy's clothes--this jacket and these breeches--on the girl's flesh excited and troubled him. He had swallowed his last mouthful. He drank from the tin and gave it back for her to empty. Now the moment for action had come, and he cast a restless glance at the miners farther on. But a shadow blocked the gallery. For a moment Chaval stood and looked at them from afar. He came forward, having assured himself that Maheu could not see him; and as Catherine was seated on the earth he seized her by the shoulders, drew her head back, and tranquilly crushed her mouth beneath a brutal kiss, affecting not to notice Étienne. There was in that kiss an act of possession, a sort of jealous resolution. However, the young girl was offended. "Let me go, do you hear?" He kept hold of her head and looked into her eyes. His moustache and small red beard flamed in his black face with its large eagle nose. He let her go at last, and went away without speaking a word. A shudder had frozen Étienne. It was stupid to have waited. He could certainly not kiss her now, for she would, perhaps, think that he wished to behave like the other. In his wounded vanity he experienced real despair. "Why did you lie?" he said, in a low voice. "He's your lover." "But no, I swear," she cried. "There is not that between us. Sometimes he likes a joke; he doesn't even belong here; it's six months since he came from the Pas-de-Calais." Both rose; work was about to be resumed. When she saw him so cold she seemed annoyed. Doubtless she found him handsomer than the other; she would have preferred him perhaps. The idea of some amiable, consoling relationship disturbed her; and when the young man saw with surprise that his lamp was burning blue with a large pale ring, she tried at least to amuse him. "Come, I will show you something," she said, in a friendly way. When she had led him to the bottom of the cutting, she pointed out to him a crevice in the coal. A slight bubbling escaped from it, a little noise like the warbling of a bird. "Put your hand there; you'll feel the wind. It's fire-damp." He was surprised. Was that all? Was that the terrible thing which blew everything up? She laughed, she said there was a good deal of it to-day to make the flame of the lamps so blue. "Now, if you've done chattering, lazy louts!" cried Maheu's rough voice. Catherine and Étienne hastened to fill their trams, and pushed them to the upbrow with stiffened back, crawling beneath the bossy roof of the passage. Even after the second journey, the sweat ran off them and their joints began to crack. The pikemen had resumed work in the cutting. The men often shortened their breakfast to avoid getting cold; and their bricks, eaten in this way, far from the sun, with silent voracity, loaded their stomachs with lead. Stretched on their sides they hammered more loudly, with the one fixed idea of filling a large number of trams. Every thought disappeared in this rage for gain which was so hard to earn. They no longer felt the water which streamed on them and swelled their limbs, the cramps of forced attitudes, the suffocation of the darkness in which they grew pale, like plants put in a cellar. Yet, as the day advanced, the air became more poisoned and heated with the smoke of the lamps, with the pestilence of their breaths, with the asphyxia of the fire-damp--blinding to the eyes like spiders' webs--which only the aeration of the night could sweep away. At the bottom of their mole-hill, beneath the weight of the earth, with no more breath in their inflamed lungs, they went on hammering. CHAPTER V Maheu, without looking at his watch which he had left in his jacket, stopped and said: "One o'clock directly. Zacharie, is it done?" The young man had just been at the planking. In the midst of his labour he had been lying on his back, with dreamy eyes, thinking over a game of hockey of the night before. He woke up and replied: "Yes, it will do; we shall see to-morrow." And he came back to take his place at the cutting. Levaque and Chaval had also dropped their picks. They were all resting. They wiped their faces on their naked arms and looked at the roof, in which slaty masses were cracking. They only spoke about their work. "Another chance," murmured Chaval, "of getting into loose earth. They didn't take account of that in the bargain." "Rascals!" growled Levaque. "They only want to bury us in it." Zacharie began to laugh. He cared little for the work and the rest, but it amused him to hear the Company abused. In his placid way Maheu explained that the nature of the soil changed every twenty metres. One must be just; they could not foresee everything. Then, when the two others went on talking against the masters, he became restless, and looked around him. "Hush! that's enough." "You're right," said Levaque, also lowering his voice; "it isn't wholesome." A morbid dread of spies haunted them, even at this depth, as if the shareholders' coal, while still in the seam, might have ears. "That won't prevent me," added Chaval loudly, in a defiant manner, "from lodging a brick in the belly of that damned Dansaert, if he talks to me as he did the other day. I won't prevent him, I won't, from buying pretty girls with a white skin." This time Zacharie burst out laughing. The head captain's love for Pierronne was a constant joke in the pit. Even Catherine rested on her shovel at the bottom of the cutting, holding her sides, and in a few words told Étienne the joke; while Maheu became angry, seized by a fear which he could not conceal. "Will you hold your tongue, eh? Wait till you're alone if you want to get into trouble." He was still speaking when the sound of steps was heard in the upper gallery. Almost immediately the engineer of the mine, little Négrel, as the workmen called him among themselves, appeared at the top of the cutting, accompanied by Dansaert, the head captain. "Didn't I say so?" muttered Maheu. "There's always someone there, rising out of the ground." Paul Négrel, M. Hennebeau's nephew, was a young man of twenty-six, refined and handsome, with curly hair and brown moustache. His pointed nose and sparkling eyes gave him the air of an amiable ferret of sceptical intelligence, which changed into an abrupt authoritative manner in his relations with the workmen. He was dressed like them, and like them smeared with coal; to make them respect him he exhibited a dare-devil courage, passing through the most difficult spots and always first when landslips or fire-damp explosions occurred. "Here we are, are we not, Dansaert?" he asked. The head captain, a coarse-faced Belgian, with a large sensual nose, replied with exaggerated politeness: "Yes, Monsieur Négrel. Here is the man who was taken on this morning." Both of them had slid down into the middle of the cutting. They made Étienne come up. The engineer raised his lamp and looked at him without asking any questions. "Good," he said at last. "But I don't like unknown men to be picked up from the road. Don't do it again." He did not listen to the explanations given to him, the necessities of work, the desire to replace women by men for the haulage. He had begun to examine the roof while the pikemen had taken up their picks again. Suddenly he called out: "I say there, Maheu; have you no care for life? By heavens! you will all be buried here!" "Oh! it's solid," replied the workman tranquilly. "What! solid! but the rock is giving already, and you are planting props at more than two metres, as if you grudged it! Ah! you are all alike. You will let your skull be flattened rather than leave the seam to give the necessary time to the timbering! I must ask you to prop that immediately. Double the timbering--do you understand?" And in face of the unwillingness of the miners who disputed the point, saying that they were good judges of their safety, he became angry. "Go along! when your heads are smashed, is it you who will have to bear the consequences? Not at all! it will be the Company which will have to pay you pensions, you or your wives. I tell you again that we know you; in order to get two extra trams by evening you would sell your skins." Maheu, in spite of the anger which was gradually mastering him, still answered steadily: "If they paid us enough we should prop it better." The engineer shrugged his shoulders without replying. He had descended the cutting, and only said in conclusion, from below: "You have an hour. Set to work, all of you; and I give you notice that the stall is fined three francs." A low growl from the pikemen greeted these words. The force of the system alone restrained them, that military system which, from the trammer to the head captain, ground one beneath the other. Chaval and Levaque, however, made a furious gesture, while Maheu restrained them by a glance, and Zacharie shrugged his shoulders chaffingly. But Étienne was, perhaps, most affected. Since he had found himself at the bottom of this hell a slow rebellion was rising within him. He looked at the resigned Catherine, with her lowered back. Was it possible to kill oneself at this hard toil, in this deadly darkness, and not even to gain the few pence to buy one's daily bread? However, Négrel went off with Dansaert, who was content to approve by a continual movement of his head. And their voices again rose; they had just stopped once more, and were examining the timbering in the gallery, which the pikemen were obliged to look after for a length of ten metres behind the cutting. "Didn't I tell you that they care nothing?" cried the engineer. "And you! why, in the devil's name, don't you watch them?" "But I do--I do," stammered the head captain. "One gets tired of repeating things." Négrel called loudly: "Maheu! Maheu!" They all came down. He went on: "Do you see that? Will that hold? It's a twopenny-halfpenny construction! Here is a beam which the posts don't carry already, it was done so hastily. By Jove! I understand how it is that the mending costs us so much. It'll do, won't it? if it lasts as long as you have the care of it; and then it may go smash, and the Company is obliged to have an army of repairers. Look at it down there; it is mere botching!" Chaval wished to speak, but he silenced him. "No! I know what you are going to say. Let them pay you more, eh? Very well! I warn you that you will force the managers to do something: they will pay you the planking separately, and proportionately reduce the price of the trams. We shall see if you will gain that way! Meanwhile, prop that over again, at once; I shall pass to-morrow." Amid the dismay caused by this threat he went away. Dansaert, who had been so humble, remained behind a few moments, to say brutally to the men: "You get me into a row, you here. I'll give you something more than three francs fine, I will. Look out!" Then, when he had gone, Maheu broke out in his turn: "By God! what's fair is fair! I like people to be calm, because that's the only way of getting along, but at last they make you mad. Did you hear? The tram lowered, and the planking separately! Another way of paying us less. By God it is!" He looked for someone upon whom to vent his anger, and saw Catherine and Étienne swinging their arms. "Will you just fetch me some wood! What does it matter to you? I'll put my foot into you somewhere!" Étienne went to carry it without rancour for this rough speech, so furious himself against the masters that he thought the miners too good-natured. As for the others, Levaque and Chaval had found relief in strong language. All of them, even Zacharie, were timbering furiously. For nearly half an hour one only heard the creaking of wood wedged in by blows of the hammer. They no longer spoke, they snorted, became enraged with the rock, which they would have hustled and driven back by the force of their shoulders if they had been able. "That's enough," said Maheu at last, worn out with anger and fatigue. "An hour and a half! A fine day's work! We shan't get fifty sous! I'm off. This disgusts me." Though there was still half an hour of work left he dressed himself. The others imitated him. The mere sight of the cutting enraged them. As the putter had gone back to the haulage they called her, irritated at her zeal: let the coal take care of itself. And the six, their tools under their arms, set out to walk the two kilometres back, returning to the shaft by the road of the morning. At the chimney Catherine and Étienne were delayed while the pikemen slid down. They met little Lydie, who stopped in a gallery to let them pass, and told them of the disappearance of Mouquette, whose nose had been bleeding so much that she had been away an hour, bathing her face somewhere, no one knew where. Then, when they left her, the child began again to push her tram, weary and muddy, stiffening her insect-like arms and legs like a lean black ant struggling with a load that was too heavy for it. They let themselves down on their backs, flattening their shoulders for fear of scratching the skin on their foreheads, and they walked so close to the polished rock at the back of the stalls that they were obliged from time to time to hold on to the woodwork, so that their backsides should not catch fire, as they said jokingly. Below they found themselves alone. Red stars disappeared afar at a bend in the passage. Their cheerfulness fell, they began to walk with the heavy step of fatigue, she in front, he behind. Their lamps were blackened. He could scarcely see her, drowned in a sort of smoky mist; and the idea that she was a girl disturbed him because he felt that it was stupid not to embrace her, and yet the recollection of the other man prevented him. Certainly she had lied to him: the other was her lover, they lay together on all those heaps of slaty coal, for she had a loose woman's gait. He sulked without reason, as if she had deceived him. She, however, every moment turned round, warned him of obstacles, and seemed to invite him to be affectionate. They were so lost here, it would have been so easy to laugh together like good friends! At last they entered the large haulage gallery; it was a relief to the indecision from which he was suffering; while she once more had a saddened look, the regret for a happiness which they would not find again. Now the subterranean life rumbled around them with a continual passing of captains, the come and go of the trams drawn by trotting horses. Lamps starred the night everywhere. They had to efface themselves against the rock to leave the path free to shadowy men and beasts, whose breath came against their faces. Jeanlin, running barefooted behind his tram, cried out some naughtiness to them which they could not hear amid the thunder of the wheels. They still went on, she now silent, he not recognizing the turnings and roads of the morning, and fancying that she was leading him deeper and deeper into the earth; and what specially troubled him was the cold, an increasing cold which he had felt on emerging from the cutting, and which caused him to shiver the more the nearer they approached the shaft. Between the narrow walls the column of air now blew like a tempest. He despaired of ever coming to the end, when suddenly they found themselves in the pit-eye hall. Chaval cast a sidelong glance at them, his mouth drawn with suspicion. The others were there, covered with sweat in the icy current, silent like himself, swallowing their grunts of rage. They had arrived too soon and could not be taken to the top for half an hour, more especially since some complicated manoeuvres were going on for lowering a horse. The porters were still rolling the trams with the deafening sound of old iron in movement, and the cages were flying up, disappearing in the rain which fell from the black hole. Below, the sump, a cesspool ten metres deep, filled with this streaming water, also exhaled its muddy moisture. Men were constantly moving around the shaft, pulling the signal cords, pressing on the arms of levers, in the midst of this spray in which their garments were soaked. The reddish light of three open lamps cut out great moving shadows and gave to this subterranean hall the air of a villainous cavern, some bandits' forge near a torrent. Maheu made one last effort. He approached Pierron, who had gone on duty at six o'clock. "Here! you might as well let us go up." But the porter, a handsome fellow with strong limbs and a gentle face, refused with a frightened gesture. "Impossible: ask the captain. They would fine me." Fresh growls were stifled. Catherine bent forward and said in Étienne's ear: "Come and see the stable, then. That's a comfortable place!" And they had to escape without being seen, for it was forbidden to go there. It was on the left, at the end of a short gallery. Twenty-five metres in length and nearly four high, cut in the rock and vaulted with bricks, it could contain twenty horses. It was, in fact, comfortable there. There was a pleasant warmth of living beasts, the good odour of fresh and well-kept litter. The only lamp threw out the calm rays of a night-light. There were horses there, at rest, who turned their heads, with their large infantine eyes, then went back to their hay, without haste, like fat well-kept workers, loved by everybody. But as Catherine was reading aloud their names, written on zinc plates over the mangers, she uttered a slight cry, seeing something suddenly rise before her. It was Mouquette, who emerged in fright from a pile of straw in which she was sleeping. On Monday, when she was overtired with her Sunday's spree, she gave herself a violent blow on the nose, and left her cutting under the pretence of seeking water, to bury herself here with the horses in the warm litter. Her father, being weak with her, allowed it, at the risk of getting into trouble. Just then, Mouque, the father, entered, a short, bald, worn-out looking man, but still stout, which is rare in an old miner of fifty. Since he had been made a groom, he chewed to such a degree that his gums bled in his black mouth. On seeing the two with his daughter, he became angry. "What are you up to there, all of you? Come! up! The jades, bringing a man here! It's a fine thing to come and do your dirty tricks in my straw." Mouquette thought it funny, and held her sides. But Étienne, feeling awkward, moved away, while Catherine smiled at him. As all three returned to the pit-eye, Bébert and Jeanlin arrived there also with a train of tubs. There was a stoppage for the manoeuvring of the cages, and the young girl approached their horse, caressed it with her hand, and talked about it to her companion. It was Bataille, the _doyen_ of the mine, a white horse who had lived below for ten years. These ten years he had lived in this hole, occupying the same corner of the stable, doing the same task along the black galleries without ever seeing daylight. Very fat, with shining coat and a good-natured air, he seemed to lead the existence of a sage, sheltered from the evils of the world above. In this darkness, too, he had become very cunning. The passage in which he worked had grown so familiar to him that he could open the ventilation doors with his head, and he lowered himself to avoid knocks at the narrow spots. Without doubt, also, he counted his turns, for when he had made the regulation number of journeys he refused to do any more, and had to be led back to his manger. Now that old age was coming on, his cat's eyes were sometimes dimmed with melancholy. Perhaps he vaguely saw again, in the depths of his obscure dreams, the mill at which he was born, near Marchiennes, a mill placed on the edge of the Scarpe, surrounded by large fields over which the wind always blew. Something burnt in the air--an enormous lamp, the exact appearance of which escaped his beast's memory--and he stood with lowered head, trembling on his old feet, making useless efforts to recall the sun. Meanwhile, the manoeuvres went on in the shaft, the signal hammer had struck four blows, and the horse was being lowered; there was always excitement at such a time, for it sometimes happened that the beast was seized by such terror that it was landed dead. When put into a net at the top it struggled fiercely; then, when it felt the ground no longer beneath it, it remained as if petrified and disappeared without a quiver of the skin, with enlarged and fixed eyes. This animal being too big to pass between the guides, it had been necessary, when hooking it beneath the cage, to pull down the head and attach it to the flanks. The descent lasted nearly three minutes, the engine being slowed as a precaution. Below, the excitement was increasing. What then? Was he going to be left on the road, hanging in the blackness? At last he appeared in his stony immobility, his eye fixed and dilated with terror. It was a bay horse hardly three years of age, called Trompette. "Attention!" cried Father Mouque, whose duty it was to receive it. "Bring him here, don't undo him yet." Trompette was soon placed on the metal floor in a mass. Still he did not move: he seemed in a nightmare in this obscure infinite hole, this deep hall echoing with tumult. They were beginning to unfasten him when Bataille, who had just been unharnessed, approached and stretched out his neck to smell this companion who lay on the earth. The workmen jokingly enlarged the circle. Well! what pleasant odour did he find in him? But Bataille, deaf to mockery, became animated. He probably found in him the good odour of the open air, the forgotten odour of the sun on the grass. And he suddenly broke out into a sonorous neigh, full of musical gladness, in which there seemed to be the emotion of a sob. It was a greeting, the joy of those ancient things of which a gust had reached him, the melancholy of one more prisoner who would not ascend again until death. "Ah! that animal Bataille!" shouted the workmen, amused at the antics of their favourite, "he's talking with his mate." Trompette was unbound, but still did not move. He remained on his flank, as if he still felt the net restraining him, garrotted by fear. At last they got him up with a lash of the whip, dazed and his limbs quivering. And Father Mouque led away the two beasts, fraternizing together. "Here! Is it ready yet?" asked Maheu. It was necessary to clear the cages, and besides it was yet ten minutes before the hour for ascending. Little by little the stalls emptied, and the miners returned from all the galleries. There were already some fifty men there, damp and shivering, their inflamed chests panting on every side. Pierron, in spite of his mawkish face, struck his daughter Lydie, because she had left the cutting before time. Zacharie slyly pinched Mouquette, with a joke about warming himself. But the discontent increased; Chaval and Levaque narrated the engineer's threat, the tram to be lowered in price, and the planking paid separately. And exclamations greeted this scheme, a rebellion was germinating in this little corner, nearly six hundred metres beneath the earth. Soon they could not restrain their voices; these men, soiled by coal, and frozen by the delay, accused the Company of killing half their workers at the bottom, and starving the other half to death. Étienne listened, trembling. "Quick, quick!" repeated the captain, Richomme, to the porters. He hastened the preparations for the ascent, not wishing to be hard, pretending not to hear. However, the murmurs became so loud that he was obliged to notice them. They were calling out behind him that this would not last always, and that one fine day the whole affair would be smashed up. "You're sensible," he said to Maheu; "make them hold their tongues. When one hasn't got power one must have sense." But Maheu, who was getting calm, and had at last become anxious, did not interfere. Suddenly the voices fell; Négrel and Dansaert, returning from their inspection, entered from a gallery, both of them sweating. The habit of discipline made the men stand in rows while the engineer passed through the group without a word. He got into one tram, and the head captain into another, the signal was sounded five times, ringing for the butcher's meat, as they said for the masters; and the cage flew up in the air in the midst of a gloomy silence. CHAPTER VI As he ascended in the cage heaped up with four others, Étienne resolved to continue his famished course along the roads. One might as well die at once as go down to the bottom of that hell, where it was not even possible to earn one's bread. Catherine, in the tram above him, was no longer at his side with her pleasant enervating warmth; and he preferred to avoid foolish thoughts and to go away, for with his wider education he felt nothing of the resignation of this flock; he would end by strangling one of the masters. Suddenly he was blinded. The ascent had been so rapid that he was stunned by the daylight, and his eyelids quivered in the brightness to which he had already grown unaccustomed. It was none the less a relief to him to feel the cage settle on to the bars. A lander opened the door, and a flood of workmen leapt out of the trams. "I say, Mouquet," whispered Zacharie in the lander's ear, "are we off to the Volcan to-night?" The Volcan was a café-concert at Montsou. Mouquet winked his left eye with a silent laugh which made his jaws gape. Short and stout like his father, he had the impudent face of a fellow who devours everything without care for the morrow. Just then Mouquette came out in her turn, and he gave her a formidable smack on the flank by way of fraternal tenderness. Étienne hardly recognized the lofty nave of the receiving-hall, which had before looked imposing in the ambiguous light of the lanterns. It was simply bare and dirty; a dull light entered through the dusty windows. The engine alone shone at the end with its copper; the well-greased steel cables moved like ribbons soaked in ink, and the pulleys above, the enormous scaffold which supported them, the cages, the trams, all this prodigality of metal made the hall look sombre with their hard grey tones of old iron. Without ceasing, the rumbling of the wheels shook the metal floor; while from the coal thus put in motion there arose a fine charcoal powder which powdered black the soil, the walls, even the joists of the steeple. But Chaval, after glancing at the table of counters in the receiver's little glass office, came back furious. He had discovered that two of their trams had been rejected, one because it did not contain the regulation amount, the other because the coal was not clean. "This finishes the day," he cried. "Twenty sous less again! This is because we take on lazy rascals who use their arms as a pig does his tail!" And his sidelong look at Étienne completed his thought. The latter was tempted to reply by a blow. Then he asked himself what would be the use since he was going away. This decided him absolutely. "It's not possible to do it right the first day," said Maheu, to restore peace; "he'll do better to-morrow." They were all none the less soured, and disturbed by the need to quarrel. As they passed to the lamp cabin to give up their lamps, Levaque began to abuse the lamp-man, whom he accused of not properly cleaning his lamp. They only slackened down a little in the shed where the fire was still burning. It had even been too heavily piled up, for the stove was red and the vast room, without a window, seemed to be in flames, to such a degree did the reflection make bloody the walls. And there were grunts of joy, all the backs were roasted at a distance till they smoked like soup. When their flanks were burning they cooked their bellies. Mouquette had tranquilly let down her breeches to dry her chemise. Some lads were making fun of her; they burst out laughing because she suddenly showed them her posterior, a gesture which in her was the extreme expression of contempt. "I'm off," said Chaval, who had shut up his tools in his box. No one moved. Only Mouquette hastened, and went out behind him on the pretext that they were both going back to Montsou. But the others went on joking; they knew that he would have no more to do with her. Catherine, however, who seemed preoccupied, was speaking in a low voice to her father. The latter was surprised; then he agreed with a nod; and calling Étienne to give him back his bundle: "Listen," he said: "you haven't a sou; you will have time to starve before the fortnight's out. Shall I try and get you credit somewhere?" The young man stood for a moment confused. He had been just about to claim his thirty sous and go. But shame restrained him before the young girl. She looked at him fixedly; perhaps she would think he was shirking the work. "You know I can promise you nothing," Maheu went on. "They can but refuse us." Then Étienne consented. They would refuse. Besides, it would bind him to nothing, he could still go away after having eaten something. Then he was dissatisfied at not having refused, seeing Catherine's joy, a pretty laugh, a look of friendship, happy at having been useful to him. What was the good of it all? When they had put on their sabots and shut their boxes, the Maheus left the shed, following their comrades, who were leaving one by one after they had warmed themselves. Étienne went behind. Levaque and his urchin joined the band. But as they crossed the screening place a scene of violence stopped them. It was in a vast shed, with beams blackened by the powder, and large shutters, through which blew a constant current of air. The coal trams arrived straight from the receiving-room, and were then overturned by the tipping-cradles on to hoppers, long iron slides; and to right and to left of these the screeners, mounted on steps and armed with shovels and rakes, separated the stone and swept together the clean coal, which afterwards fell through funnels into the railway wagons beneath the shed. Philoméne Levaque was there, thin and pale, with the sheep-like face of a girl who spat blood. With head protected by a fragment of blue wool, and hands and arms black to the elbows, she was screening beneath an old witch, the mother of Pierronne, the Brulé, as she was called, with terrible owl's eyes, and a mouth drawn in like a miser's purse. They were abusing each other, the young one accusing the elder of raking her stones so that she could not get a basketful in ten minutes. They were paid by the basket, and these quarrels were constantly arising. Hair was flying, and hands were making black marks on red faces. "Give it her bloody well!" cried Zacharie, from above, to his mistress. All the screeners laughed. But the Brulé turned snappishly on the young man. "Now, then, dirty beast! You'd better to own the two kids you have filled her with. Fancy that, a slip of eighteen, who can't stand straight!" Maheu had to prevent his son from descending to see, as he said, the colour of this carcass's skin. A foreman came up and the rakes again began to move the coal. One could only see, all along the hoppers, the round backs of women squabbling incessantly over the stones. Outside, the wind had suddenly quieted; a moist cold was falling from a grey sky. The colliers thrust out their shoulders, folded their arms, and set forth irregularly, with a rolling gait which made their large bones stand out beneath their thin garments. In the daylight they looked like a band of Negroes thrown into the mud. Some of them had not finished their bricks; and the remains of the bread carried between the shirt and the jacket made them humpbacked. "Hallo! there's Bouteloup." said Zacharie, grinning. Levaque without stopping exchanged two sentences with his lodger, a big dark fellow of thirty-five with a placid, honest air: "Is the soup ready, Louis?" "I believe it is." "Then the wife is good-humoured to-day." "Yes, I believe she is." Other miners bound for the earth-cutting came up, new bands which one by one were engulfed in the pit. It was the three o'clock descent, more men for the pit to devour, the gangs who would replace the sets of the pikemen at the bottom of the passages. The mine never rested; day and night human insects were digging out the rock six hundred metres below the beetroot fields. However, the youngsters went ahead. Jeanlin confided to Bébert a complicated plan for getting four sous' worth of tobacco on credit, while Lydie followed respectfully at a distance. Catherine came with Zacharie and Étienne. None of them spoke. And it was only in front of the Avantage inn that Maheu and Levaque rejoined them. "Here we are," said the former to Étienne; "will you come in?" They separated. Catherine had stood a moment motionless, gazing once more at the young man with her large eyes full of greenish limpidity like spring water, the crystal deepened the more by her black face. She smiled and disappeared with the others on the road that led up to the settlement. The inn was situated between the village and the mine, at the crossing of two roads. It was a two-storied brick house, whitewashed from top to bottom, enlivened around the windows by a broad pale-blue border. On a square sign-board nailed above the door, one read in yellow letters: _A l'Avantage, licensed to Rasseneur._ Behind stretched a skittle-ground enclosed by a hedge. The Company, who had done everything to buy up the property placed within its vast territory, was in despair over this inn in the open fields, at the very entrance of the Voreux. "Go in," said Maheu to Étienne. The little parlour was quite bare with its white walls, its three tables and its dozen chairs, its deal counter about the size of a kitchen dresser. There were a dozen glasses at most, three bottles of liqueur, a decanter, a small zinc tank with a pewter tap to hold the beer; and nothing else--not a figure, not a little table, not a game. In the metal fireplace, which was bright and polished, a coal fire was burning quietly. On the flags a thin layer of white sand drank up the constant moisture of this water-soaked land. "A glass," ordered Maheu of a big fair girl, a neighbour's daughter who sometimes took charge of the place. "Is Rasseneur in?" The girl turned the tap, replying that the master would soon return. In a long, slow gulp, the miner emptied half his glass to sweep away the dust which filled his throat. He offered nothing to his companion. One other customer, a damp and besmeared miner, was seated before the table, drinking his beer in silence, with an air of deep meditation. A third entered, was served in response to a gesture, paid and went away without uttering a word. But a stout man of thirty-eight, with a round shaven face and a good-natured smile, now appeared. It was Rasseneur, a former pikeman whom the Company had dismissed three years ago, after a strike. A very good workman, he could speak well, put himself at the head of every opposition, and had at last become the chief of the discontented. His wife already held a license, like many miners' wives; and when he was thrown on to the street he became an innkeeper himself; having found the money, he placed his inn in front of the Voreux as a provocation to the Company. Now his house had prospered; it had become a centre, and he was enriched by the animosity he had gradually fostered in the hearts of his old comrades. "This is a lad I hired this morning," said Maheu at once. "Have you got one of your two rooms free, and will you give him credit for a fortnight?" Rasseneur's broad face suddenly expressed great suspicion. He examined Étienne with a glance, and replied, without giving himself the trouble to express any regret: "My two rooms are taken. Can't do it." The young man expected this refusal; but it hurt him nevertheless, and he was surprised at the sudden grief he experienced in going. No matter; he would go when he had received his thirty sous. The miner who was drinking at a table had left. Others, one by one, continued to come in to clear their throats, then went on their road with the same slouching gait. It was a simple swilling without joy or passion, the silent satisfaction of a need. "Then, there's no news?" Rasseneur asked in a peculiar tone of Maheu, who was finishing his beer in small gulps. The latter turned his head, and saw that only Étienne was near. "There's been more squabbling. Yes, about the timbering." He told the story. The innkeeper's face reddened, swelling with emotion, which flamed in his skin and eyes. At last he broke out: "Well, well! if they decide to lower the price they are done for." Étienne constrained him. However he went on, throwing sidelong glances in his direction. And there were reticences, and implications; he was talking of the manager, M. Hennebeau, of his wife, of his nephew, the little Négrel, without naming them, repeating that this could not go on, that things were bound to smash up one of these fine days. The misery was too great; and he spoke of the workshops that were closing, the workers who were going away. During the last month he had given more than six pounds of bread a day. He had heard the day before, that M. Deneulin, the owner of a neighbouring pit, could scarcely keep going. He had also received a letter from Lille full of disturbing details. "You know," he whispered, "it comes from that person you saw here one evening." But he was interrupted. His wife entered in her turn, a tall woman, lean and keen, with a long nose and violet cheeks. She was a much more radical politician than her husband. "Pluchart's letter," she said. "Ah! if that fellow was master things would soon go better." Étienne had been listening for a moment; he understood and became excited over these ideas of misery and revenge. This name, suddenly uttered, caused him to start. He said aloud, as if in spite of himself: "I know him--Pluchart." They looked at him. He had to add: "Yes, I am an engine-man: he was my foreman at Lille. A capable man. I have often talked with him." Rasseneur examined him afresh; and there was a rapid change on his face, a sudden sympathy. At last he said to his wife: "It's Maheu who brings me this gentleman, one of his putters, to see if there is a room for him upstairs, and if we can give him credit for a fortnight." Then the matter was settled in four words. There was a room; the lodger had left that morning. And the innkeeper, who was very excited, talked more freely, repeating that he only asked possibilities from the masters, without demanding, like so many others, things that were too hard to get. His wife shrugged her shoulders and demanded justice, absolutely. "Good evening," interrupted Maheu. "All that won't prevent men from going down, and as long as they go there will be people working themselves to death. Look how fresh you are, these three years that you've been out of it." "Yes, I'm very much better," declared Rasseneur, complacently. Étienne went as far as the door, thanking the miner, who was leaving; but the latter nodded his head without adding a word, and the young man watched him painfully climb up the road to the settlement. Madame Rasseneur, occupied with serving customers, asked him to wait a minute, when she would show him his room, where he could clean himself. Should he remain? He again felt hesitation, a discomfort which made him regret the freedom of the open road, the hunger beneath the sun, endured with the joy of being one's own master. It seemed to him that he had lived years from his arrival on the pit-bank, in the midst of squalls, to those hours passed under the earth on his belly in the black passages. And he shrank from beginning again; it was unjust and too hard. His man's pride revolted at the idea of becoming a crushed and blinded beast. While Étienne was thus debating with himself, his eyes, wandering over the immense plain, gradually began to see it clearly. He was surprised; he had not imagined the horizon was like this, when old Bonnemort had pointed it out to him in the darkness. Before him he plainly saw the Voreux in a fold of the earth, with its wood and brick buildings, the tarred screening-shed, the slate-covered steeple, the engine-room and the tall, pale red chimney, all massed together with that evil air. But around these buildings the space extended, and he had not imagined it so large, changed into an inky sea by the ascending waves of coal soot, bristling with high trestles which carried the rails of the foot-bridges, encumbered in one corner with the timber supply, which looked like the harvest of a mown forest. Towards the right the pit-bank hid the view, colossal as a barricade of giants, already covered with grass in its older part, consumed at the other end by an interior fire which had been burning for a year with a thick smoke, leaving at the surface in the midst of the pale grey of the slates and sandstones long trails of bleeding rust. Then the fields unrolled, the endless fields of wheat and beetroot, naked at this season of the year, marshes with scanty vegetation, cut by a few stunted willows, distant meadows separated by slender rows of poplars. Very far away little pale patches indicated towns, Marchiennes to the north, Montsou to the south; while the forest of Vandame to the east bordered the horizon with the violet line of its leafless trees. And beneath the livid sky, in the faint daylight of this winter afternoon, it seemed as if all the blackness of the Voreux, and all its flying coal dust, had fallen upon the plain, powdering the trees, sanding the roads, sowing the earth. Étienne looked, and what especially surprised him was a canal, the canalized stream of the Scarpe, which he had not seen in the night. From the Voreux to Marchiennes this canal ran straight, like a dull silver ribbon two leagues long, an avenue lined by large trees, raised above the low earth, threading into space with the perspective of its green banks, its pale water into which glided the vermilion of the boats. Near one pit there was a wharf with moored vessels which were laden directly from the trams at the foot-bridges. Afterwards the canal made a curve, sloping by the marshes; and the whole soul of that smooth plain appeared to lie in this geometrical stream, which traversed it like a great road, carting coal and iron. Étienne's glance went up from the canal to the settlement built on the height, of which he could only distinguish the red tiles. Then his eyes rested again at the bottom of the clay slope, towards the Voreux, on two enormous masses of bricks made and burnt on the spot. A branch of the Company's railroad passed behind a paling, for the use of the pit. They must be sending down the last miners to the earth-cutting. Only one shrill note came from a truck pushed by men. One felt no longer the unknown darkness, the inexplicable thunder, the flaming of mysterious stars. Afar, the blast furnaces and the coke kilns had paled with the dawn. There only remained, unceasingly, the escapement of the pump, always breathing with the same thick, long breath, the ogre's breath of which he could now see the grey steam, and which nothing could satiate. Then Étienne suddenly made up his mind. Perhaps he seemed to see again Catherine's clear eyes, up there, at the entrance to the settlement. Perhaps, rather, it was the wind of revolt which came from the Voreux. He did not know, but he wished to go down again to the mine, to suffer and to fight. And he thought fiercely of those people Bonnemort had talked of, the crouching and sated god, to whom ten thousand starving men gave their flesh without knowing it. PART TWO CHAPTER I The Grégoires' property, Piolaine, was situated two kilometres to the east of Montsou, on the Joiselle road. The house was a large square building, without style, dating from the beginning of the last century. Of all the land that once belonged to it there only remained some thirty hectares, enclosed by walls, and easy to keep up. The orchard and kitchen garden especially were everywhere spoken of, being famous for the finest fruit and vegetables in the country. For the rest, there was no park, only a small wood. The avenue of old limes, a vault of foliage three hundred metres long, reaching from the gate to the porch, was one of the curiosities of this bare plain, on which one could count the large trees between Marchiennes and Beaugnies. On that morning the Grégoires got up at eight o'clock. Usually they never stirred until an hour later, being heavy sleepers; but last night's tempest had disturbed them. And while her husband had gone at once to see if the wind had made any havoc, Madame Grégoire went down to the kitchen in her slippers and flannel dressing-gown. She was short and stout, about fifty-eight years of age, and retained a broad, surprised, dollish face beneath the dazzling whiteness of her hair. "Mélanie," she said to the cook, "suppose you were to make the brioche this morning, since the dough is ready. Mademoiselle will not get up for half an hour yet, and she can eat it with her chocolate. Eh? It will be a surprise." The cook, a lean old woman who had served them for thirty years, laughed. "That's true! it will be a famous surprise. My stove is alight, and the oven must be hot; and then Honorine can help me a bit." Honorine, a girl of some twenty years, who had been taken in as a child and brought up in the house, now acted as housemaid. Besides these two women, the only other servant was the coachman, Francis, who undertook the heavy work. A gardener and his wife were occupied with the vegetables, the fruit, the flowers, and the poultry-yard. And as service here was patriarchal, this little world lived together, like one large family, on very good terms. Madame Grégoire, who had planned this surprise of the brioche in bed, waited to see the dough put in the oven. The kitchen was very large, and one guessed it was the most important room in the house by its extreme cleanliness and by the arsenal of saucepans, utensils, and pots which filled it. It gave an impression of good feeding. Provisions abounded, hanging from hooks or in cupboards. "And let it be well glazed, won't you?" Madame Grégoire said as she passed into the dining-room. In spite of the hot-air stove which warmed the whole house, a coal fire enlivened this room. In other respects it exhibited no luxury; a large table, chairs, a mahogany sideboard; only two deep easy-chairs betrayed a love of comfort, long happy hours of digestion. They never went into the drawing-room, they remained here in a family circle. Just then M. Grégoire came back dressed in a thick fustian jacket; he also was ruddy for his sixty years, with large, good-natured, honest features beneath the snow of his curly hair. He had seen the coachman and the gardener; there had been no damage of importance, nothing but a fallen chimney-pot. Every morning he liked to give a glance round Piolaine, which was not large enough to cause him anxiety, and from which he derived all the happiness of ownership. "And Cécile?" he asked, "isn't she up yet then?" "I can't make it out," replied his wife. "I thought I heard her moving." The table was set; there were three cups on the white cloth. They sent Honorine to see what had become of mademoiselle. But she came back immediately, restraining her laughter, stifling her voice, as if she were still upstairs in the bedroom. "Oh! if monsieur and madame could see mademoiselle! She sleeps; oh! she sleeps like an angel. One can't imagine it! It's a pleasure to look at her." The father and mother exchanged tender looks. He said, smiling: "Will you come and see?" "The poor little darling!" she murmured. "I'll come." And they went up together. The room was the only luxurious one in the house. It was draped in blue silk, and the furniture was lacquered white, with blue tracery--a spoilt child's whim, which her parents had gratified. In the vague whiteness of the bed, beneath the half-light which came through a curtain that was drawn back, the young girl was sleeping with her cheek resting on her naked arm. She was not pretty, too healthy, in too vigorous condition, fully developed at eighteen; but she had superb flesh, the freshness of milk, with her chestnut hair, her round face, and little willful nose lost between her cheeks. The coverlet had slipped down, and she was breathing so softly that her respiration did not even lift her already well-developed bosom. "That horrible wind must have prevented her from closing her eyes," said the mother softly. The father imposed silence with a gesture. Both of them leant down and gazed with adoration on this girl, in her virgin nakedness, whom they had desired so long, and who had come so late, when they had no longer hoped for her. They found her perfect, not at all too fat, and could never feed her sufficiently. And she went on sleeping, without feeling them near her, with their faces against hers. However, a slight movement disturbed her motionless face. They feared that they would wake her, and went out on tiptoe. "Hush!" said M. Grégoire, at the door. "If she has not slept we must leave her sleeping." "As long as she likes, the darling!" agreed Madame Grégoire. "We will wait." They went down and seated themselves in the easy-chairs in the dining-room; while the servants, laughing at mademoiselle's sound sleep, kept the chocolate on the stove without grumbling. He took up a newspaper; she knitted at a large woollen quilt. It was very hot, and not a sound was heard in the silent house. The Grégoires' fortune, about forty thousand francs a year, was entirely invested in a share of the Montsou mines. They would complacently narrate its origin, which dated from the very formation of the Company. Towards the beginning of the last century, there had been a mad search for coal between Lille and Valenciennes. The success of those who held the concession, which was afterwards to become the Anzin Company, had turned all heads. In every commune the ground was tested; and societies were formed and concessions grew up in a night. But among all the obstinate seekers of that epoch, Baron Desrumaux had certainly left the reputation for the most heroic intelligence. For forty years he had struggled without yielding, in the midst of continual obstacles: early searches unsuccessful, new pits abandoned at the end of long months of work, landslips which filled up borings, sudden inundations which drowned the workmen, hundreds of thousands of francs thrown into the earth; then the squabbles of the management, the panics of the shareholders, the struggle with the lords of the soil, who were resolved not to recognize royal concessions if no treaty was first made with themselves. He had at last founded the association of Desrumaux, Fauquenoix and Co. to exploit the Montsou concession, and the pits began to yield a small profit when two neighbouring concessions, that of Cougny, belonging to the Comte de Cougny, and that of Joiselle, belonging to the Cornille and Jenard Company, had nearly overwhelmed him beneath the terrible assault of their competition. Happily, on the 25th August 1760, a treaty was made between the three concessions, uniting them into a single one. The Montsou Mining Company was created, such as it still exists to-day. In the distribution they had divided the total property, according to the standard of the money of the time, into twenty-four sous, of which each was subdivided into twelve deniers, which made two hundred and eighty-eight deniers; and as the denier was worth ten thousand francs the capital represented a sum of nearly three millions. Desrumaux, dying but triumphant, received in this division six sous and three deniers. In those days the baron possessed Piolaine, which had three hundred hectares belonging to it, and he had in his service as steward Honoré Grégoire, a Picardy lad, the great-grandfather of Léon Grégoire, Cécile's father. When the Montsou treaty was made, Honoré, who had laid up savings to the amount of some fifty thousand francs, yielded tremblingly to his master's unshakable faith. He took out ten thousand francs in fine crowns, and took a denier, though with the fear of robbing his children of that sum. His son Eugéne, in fact, received very small dividends; and as he had become a bourgeois and had been foolish enough to throw away the other forty thousand francs of the paternal inheritance in a company that came to grief, he lived meanly enough. But the interest of the denier gradually increased. The fortune began with Félicien, who was able to realize a dream with which his grandfather, the old steward, had nursed his childhood--the purchase of dismembered Piolaine, which he acquired as national property for a ludicrous sum. However, bad years followed. It was necessary to await the conclusion of the revolutionary catastrophes, and afterwards Napoleon's bloody fall; and it was Léon Grégoire who profited at a stupefying rate of progress by the timid and uneasy investment of his great-grandfather. Those poor ten thousand francs grew and multiplied with the Company's prosperity. From 1820 they had brought in one hundred per cent, ten thousand francs. In 1844 they had produced twenty thousand; in 1850, forty. During two years the dividend had reached the prodigious figure of fifty thousand francs; the value of the denier, quoted at the Lille bourse at a million, had centupled in a century. M. Grégoire, who had been advised to sell out when this figure of a million was reached, had refused with his smiling paternal air. Six months later an industrial crisis broke out; the denier fell to six hundred thousand francs. But he still smiled; he regretted nothing, for the Grégoires had maintained an obstinate faith in their mine. It would rise again: God Himself was not so solid. Then with his religious faith was mixed profound gratitude towards an investment which for a century had supported the family in doing nothing. It was like a divinity of their own, whom their egoism surrounded with a kind of worship, the benefactor of the hearth, lulling them in their great bed of idleness, fattening them at their gluttonous table. From father to son it had gone on. Why risk displeasing fate by doubting it? And at the bottom of their fidelity there was a superstitious terror, a fear lest the million of the denier might suddenly melt away if they were to realize it and to put it in a drawer. It seemed to them more sheltered in the earth, from which a race of miners, generations of starving people, extracted it for them, a little every day, as they needed it. For the rest, happiness rained on this house. M. Grégoire, when very young, had married the daughter of a Marchiennes druggist, a plain, penniless girl, whom he adored, and who repaid him with happiness. She shut herself up in her household, and worshipped her husband, having no other will but his. No difference of tastes separated them, their desires were mingled in one idea of comfort; and they had thus lived for forty years, in affection and little mutual services. It was a well-regulated existence; the forty thousand francs were spent quietly, and the savings expended on Cécile, whose tardy birth had for a moment disturbed the budget. They still satisfied all her whims--a second horse, two more carriages, toilets sent from Paris. But they tasted in this one more joy; they thought nothing too good for their daughter, although they had such a horror of display that they had preserved the fashions of their youth. Every unprofitable expense seemed foolish to them. Suddenly the door opened, and a loud voice called out: "Hallo! What now? Having breakfast without me!" It was Cécile, just come from her bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She had simply put up her hair and flung on a white woollen dressing-gown. "No, no!" said the mother; "you see we are all waiting. Eh? has the wind prevented you from sleeping, poor darling?" The young girl looked at her in great surprise. "Has it been windy? I didn't know anything about it. I haven't moved all night." Then they thought this funny, and all three began to laugh; the servants who were bringing in the breakfast also broke out laughing, so amused was the household at the idea that mademoiselle had been sleeping for twelve hours right off. The sight of the brioche completed the expansion of their faces. "What! Is it cooked, then?" said Cécile; "that must be a surprise for me! That'll be good now, hot, with the chocolate!" They sat down to table at last with the smoking chocolate in their cups, and for a long time talked of nothing but the brioche. Mélanie and Honorine remained to give details about the cooking and watched them stuffing themselves with greasy lips, saying that it was a pleasure to make a cake when one saw the masters enjoying it so much. But the dogs began to bark loudly; perhaps they announced the music mistress, who came from Marchiennes on Mondays and Fridays. A professor of literature also came. All the young girl's education was thus carried on at Piolaine in happy ignorance, with her childish whims, throwing the book out of the window as soon as anything wearied her. "It is M. Deneulin," said Honorine, returning. Behind her, Deneulin, a cousin of M. Grégoire's, appeared without ceremony; with his loud voice, his quick gestures, he had the appearance of an old cavalry officer. Although over fifty, his short hair and thick moustache were as black as ink. "Yes! It is I. Good day! Don't disturb yourselves." He had sat down amid the family's exclamations. They turned back at last to their chocolate. "Have you anything to tell me?" asked M. Grégoire. "No! nothing at all," Deneulin hastened to reply. "I came out on horseback to rub off the rust a bit, and as I passed your door I thought I would just look in." Cécile questioned him about Jeanne and Lucie, his daughters. They were perfectly well, the first was always at her painting, while the other, the elder, was training her voice at the piano from morning till night. And there was a slight quiver in his voice, a disquiet which he concealed beneath bursts of gaiety. M. Grégoire began again: "And everything goes well at the pit?" "Well, I am upset over this dirty crisis. Ah! we are paying for the prosperous years! They have built too many workshops, put down too many railways, invested too much capital with a view to a large return, and today the money is asleep. They can't get any more to make the whole thing work. Luckily things are not desperate; I shall get out of it somehow." Like his cousin he had inherited a denier in the Montsou mines. But being an enterprising engineer, tormented by the desire for a royal fortune, he had hastened to sell out when the denier had reached a million. For some months he had been maturing a scheme. His wife possessed, through an uncle, the little concession of Vandame, where only two pits were open--Jean-Bart and Gaston-Marie--in an abandoned state, and with such defective material that the output hardly covered the cost. Now he was meditating the repair of Jean-Bart, the renewal of the engine, and the enlargement of the shaft so as to facilitate the descent, keeping Gaston-Marie only for exhaustion purposes. They ought to be able to shovel up gold there, he said. The idea was sound. Only the million had been spent over it, and this damnable industrial crisis broke out at the moment when large profits would have shown that he was right. Besides, he was a bad manager, with a rough kindness towards his workmen, and since his wife's death he allowed himself to be pillaged, and also gave the rein to his daughters, the elder of whom talked of going on the stage, while the younger had already had three landscapes refused at the Salon, both of them joyous amid the downfall, and exhibiting in poverty their capacity for good household management. "You see, Léon," he went on, in a hesitating voice, "you were wrong not to sell out at the same time as I did; now everything is going down. You run risk, and if you had confided your money to me you would have seen what we should have done at Vandame in our mine!" M. Grégoire finished his chocolate without haste. He replied peacefully: "Never! You know that I don't want to speculate. I live quietly, and it would be too foolish to worry my head over business affairs. And as for Montsou, it may continue to go down, we shall always get our living out of it. It doesn't do to be so diabolically greedy! Then, listen, it is you who will bite your fingers one day, for Montsou will rise again and Cécile's grandchildren will still get their white bread out of it." Deneulin listened with a constrained smile. "Then," he murmured, "if I were to ask you to put a hundred thousand francs in my affair you would refuse?" But seeing the Grégoires' disturbed faces he regretted having gone so far; he put off his idea of a loan, reserving it until the case was desperate. "Oh! I have not got to that! it is a joke. Good heavens! Perhaps you are right; the money that other people earn for you is the best to fatten on." They changed the conversation. Cécile spoke again of her cousins, whose tastes interested, while at the same time they shocked her. Madame Grégoire promised to take her daughter to see those dear little ones on the first fine day. M. Grégoire, however, with a distracted air, did not follow the conversation. He added aloud: "If I were in your place I wouldn't persist any more; I would treat with Montsou. They want it, and you will get your money back." He alluded to an old hatred which existed between the concession of Montsou and that of Vandame. In spite of the latter's slight importance, its powerful neighbour was enraged at seeing, enclosed within its own sixty-seven communes, this square league which did not belong to it, and after having vainly tried to kill it had plotted to buy it at a low price when in a failing condition. The war continued without truce. Each party stopped its galleries at two hundred metres from the other; it was a duel to the last drop of blood, although the managers and engineers maintained polite relations with each other. Deneulin's eyes had flamed up. "Never!" he cried, in his turn. "Montsou shall never have Vandame as long as I am alive. I dined on Thursday at Hennebeau's, and I saw him fluttering around me. Last autumn, when the big men came to the administration building, they made me all sorts of advances. Yes, yes, I know them--those marquises, and dukes, and generals, and ministers! Brigands who would take away even your shirt at the corner of a wood." He could not cease. Besides, M. Grégoire did not defend the administration of Montsou--the six stewards established by the treaty of 1760, who governed the Company despotically, and the five survivors of whom on every death chose the new member among the powerful and rich shareholders. The opinion of the owner of Piolaine, with his reasonable ideas, was that these gentlemen were sometimes rather immoderate in their exaggerated love of money. Mélanie had come to clear away the table. Outside the dogs were again barking, and Honorine was going to the door, when Cécile, who was stifled by heat and food, left the table. "No, never mind! it must be for my lesson." Deneulin had also risen. He watched the young girl go out, and asked, smiling: "Well! and the marriage with little Négrel?" "Nothing has been settled," said Madame Grégoire; "it is only an idea. We must reflect." "No doubt!" he went on, with a gay laugh. "I believe that the nephew and the aunt-- What baffles me is that Madame Hennebeau should throw herself so on Cécile's neck." But M. Grégoire was indignant. So distinguished a lady, and fourteen years older than the young man! It was monstrous; he did not like joking on such subjects. Deneulin, still laughing, shook hands with him and left. "Not yet," said Cécile, coming back. "It is that woman with the two children. You know, mamma, the miner's wife whom we met. Are they to come in here?" They hesitated. Were they very dirty? No, not very; and they would leave their sabots in the porch. Already the father and mother had stretched themselves out in the depths of their large easy-chairs. They were digesting there. The fear of change of air decided them. "Let them come in, Honorine." Then Maheude and her little ones entered, frozen and hungry, seized by fright on finding themselves in this room, which was so warm and smelled so nicely of the brioche. CHAPTER II The room remained shut up and the shutters had allowed gradual streaks of daylight to form a fan on the ceiling. The confined air stupefied them so that they continued their night's slumber: Lénore and Henri in each other's arms, Alzire with her head back, lying on her hump; while Father Bonnemort, having the bed of Zacharie and Jeanlin to himself, snored with open mouth. No sound came from the closet where Maheude had gone to sleep again while suckling Estelle, her breast hanging to one side, the child lying across her belly, stuffed with milk, overcome also and stifling in the soft flesh of the bosom. The clock below struck six. Along the front of the settlement one heard the sound of doors, then the clatter of sabots along the pavements; the screening women were going to the pit. And silence again fell until seven o'clock. Then shutters were drawn back, yawns and coughs were heard through the walls. For a long time a coffee-mill scraped, but no one awoke in the room. Suddenly a sound of blows and shouts, far away, made Alzire sit up. She was conscious of the time, and ran barefooted to shake her mother. "Mother, mother, it is late! you have to go out. Take care, you are crushing Estelle." And she saved the child, half-stifled beneath the enormous mass of the breasts. "Good gracious!" stammered Maheude, rubbing her eyes, "I'm so knocked up I could sleep all day. Dress Lénore and Henri, I'll take them with me; and you can take care of Estelle; I don't want to drag her along for fear of hurting her, this dog's weather." She hastily washed herself and put on an old blue skirt, her cleanest, and a loose jacket of grey wool in which she had made two patches the evening before. "And the soup! Good gracious!" she muttered again. When her mother had gone down, upsetting everything, Alzire went back into the room taking with her Estelle, who had begun screaming. But she was used to the little one's rages; at eight she had all a woman's tender cunning in soothing and amusing her. She gently placed her in her still warm bed, and put her to sleep again, giving her a finger to suck. It was time, for now another disturbance broke out, and she had to make peace between Lénore and Henri, who at last awoke. These children could never get on together; it was only when they were asleep that they put their arms round one another's necks. The girl, who was six years old, as soon as she was awake set on the boy, her junior by two years, who received her blows without returning them. Both of them had the same kind of head, which was too large for them, as if blown out, with disorderly yellow hair. Alzire had to pull her sister by the legs, threatening to take the skin off her bottom. Then there was stamping over the washing, and over every garment that she put on to them. The shutters remained closed so as not to disturb Father Bonnemort's sleep. He went on snoring amid the children's frightful clatter. "It's ready. Are you coming, up there?" shouted Maheude. She had put back the blinds, and stirred up the fire, adding some coal to it. Her hope was that the old man had not swallowed all the soup. But she found the saucepan dry, and cooked a handful of vermicelli which she had been keeping for three days in reserve. They could swallow it with water, without butter, as there could not be any remaining from the day before, and she was surprised to find that Catherine in preparing the bricks had performed the miracle of leaving a piece as large as a nut. But this time the cupboard was indeed empty: nothing, not a crust, not an odd fragment, not a bone to gnaw. What was to become of them if Maigrat persisted in cutting short their credit, and if the Piolaine people would not give them the five francs? When the men and the girl returned from the pit they would want to eat, for unfortunately it had not yet been found out how to live without eating. "Come down, will you?" she cried out, getting angry. "I ought to be gone by this!" When Alzire and the children were there she divided the vermicelli in three small portions. She herself was not hungry, she said. Although Catherine had already poured water on the coffee-dregs of the day before, she did so over again, and swallowed two large glasses of coffee so weak that it looked like rusty water. That would keep her up all the same. "Listen!" she repeated to Alzire. "You must let your grandfather sleep; you must watch that Estelle does not knock her head; and if she wakes, or if she howls too much, here! take this bit of sugar and melt it and give it her in spoonfuls. I know that you are sensible and won't eat it yourself." "And school, mother?" "School! well, that must be left for another day: I want you." "And the soup? would you like me to make it if you come back late?" "Soup, soup: no, wait till I come." Alzire, with the precocious intelligence of a little invalid girl, could make soup very well. She must have understood, for she did not insist. Now the whole settlement was awake, bands of children were going to school, and one heard the trailing noise of their clogs. Eight o'clock struck, and a growing murmur of chatter arose on the left, among the Levaque people. The women were commencing their day around the coffee-pots, with their fists on their hips, their tongues turning without ceasing, like millstones. A faded head, with thick lips and flattened nose, was pressed against a window-pane, calling out: "Got some news. Stop a bit." "No, no! later on," replied Maheude. "I have to go out." And for fear of giving way to the offer of a glass of hot coffee she pushed Lénore and Henri, and set out with them. Up above, Father Bonnemort was still snoring with a rhythmic snore which rocked the house. Outside, Maheude was surprised to find that the wind was no longer blowing. There had been a sudden thaw; the sky was earth-coloured, the walls were sticky with greenish moisture, and the roads were covered with pitch-like mud, a special kind of mud peculiar to the coal country, as black as diluted soot, thick and tenacious enough to pull off her sabots. Suddenly she boxed Lénore's ears, because the little one amused herself by piling the mud on her clogs as on the end of a shovel. On leaving the settlement she had gone along by the pit-bank and followed the road of the canal, making a short cut through broken-up paths, across rough country shut in by mossy palings. Sheds succeeded one another, long workshop buildings, tall chimneys spitting out soot, and soiling this ravaged suburb of an industrial district. Behind a clump of poplars the old Réquillart pit exhibited its crumbling steeple, of which the large skeleton alone stood upright. And turning to the right, Maheude found herself on the high road. "Stop, stop, dirty pig! I'll teach you to make mincemeat." Now it was Henri, who had taken a handful of mud and was moulding it. The two children had their ears impartially boxed, and were brought into good order, looking out of the corner of their eyes at the mud pies they had made. They draggled along, already exhausted by their efforts to unstick their shoes at every step. On the Marchiennes side the road unrolled its two leagues of pavement, which stretched straight as a ribbon soaked in cart grease between the reddish fields. But on the other side it went winding down through Montsou, which was built on the slope of a large undulation in the plain. These roads in the Nord, drawn like a string between manufacturing towns, with their slight curves, their slow ascents, gradually get lined with houses and tend to make the department one laborious city. The little brick houses, daubed over to enliven the climate, some yellow, others blue, others black--the last, no doubt, in order to reach at once their final shade--went serpentining down to right and to left to the bottom of the slope. A few large two-storied villas, the dwellings of the heads of the workshops, made gaps in the serried line of narrow facades. A church, also of brick, looked like a new model of a large furnace, with its square tower already stained by the floating coal dust. And amid the sugar works, the rope works, and the flour mills, there stood out ballrooms, restaurants, and beershops, which were so numerous that to every thousand houses there were more than five hundred inns. As she approached the Company's Yards, a vast series of storehouses and workshops, Maheude decided to take Henri and Lénore by the hand, one on the right, the other on the left. Beyond was situated the house of the director, M. Hennebeau, a sort of vast chalet, separated from the road by a grating, and then a garden in which some lean trees vegetated. Just then, a carriage had stopped before the door and a gentleman with decorations and a lady in a fur cloak alighted: visitors just arrived from Paris at the Marchiennes station, for Madame Hennebeau, who appeared in the shadow of the porch, was uttering exclamations of surprise and joy. "Come along, then, dawdlers!" growled Maheude, pulling the two little ones, who were standing in the mud. When she arrived at Maigrat's, she was quite excited. Maigrat lived close to the manager; only a wall separated the latter's ground from his own small house, and he had there a warehouse, a long building which opened on to the road as a shop without a front. He kept everything there, grocery, cooked meats, fruit, and sold bread, beer, and saucepans. Formerly an overseer at the Voreux, he had started with a small canteen; then, thanks to the protection of his superiors, his business had enlarged, gradually killing the Montsou retail trade. He centralized merchandise, and the considerable custom of the settlements enabled him to sell more cheaply and to give longer credit. Besides, he had remained in the Company's hands, and they had built his small house and his shop. "Here I am again, Monsieur Maigrat," said Maheude humbly, finding him standing in front of his door. He looked at her without replying. He was a stout, cold, polite man, and he prided himself on never changing his mind. "Now you won't send me away again, like yesterday. We must have bread from now to Saturday. Sure enough, we owe you sixty francs these two years." She explained in short, painful phrases. It was an old debt contracted during the last strike. Twenty times over they had promised to settle it, but they had not been able; they could not even give him forty sous a fortnight. And then a misfortune had happened two days before; she had been obliged to pay twenty francs to a shoemaker who threatened to seize their things. And that was why they were without a sou. Otherwise they would have been able to go on until Saturday, like the others. Maigrat, with protruded belly and folded arms, shook his head at every supplication. "Only two loaves, Monsieur Maigrat. I am reasonable, I don't ask for coffee. Only two three-pound loaves a day." "No," he shouted at last, at the top of his voice. His wife had appeared, a pitiful creature who passed all her days over a ledger, without even daring to lift her head. She moved away, frightened at seeing this unfortunate woman turning her ardent, beseeching eyes towards her. It was said that she yielded the conjugal bed to the putters among the customers. It was a known fact that when a miner wished to prolong his credit, he had only to send his daughter or his wife, plain or pretty, it mattered not, provided they were complaisant. Maheude, still imploring Maigrat with her look, felt herself uncomfortable under the pale keenness of his small eyes, which seemed to undress her. It made her angry; she would have understood before she had had seven children, when she was young. And she went off, violently dragging Lénore and Henri who were occupied in picking up nut-shells from the gutter where they were making investigations. "This won't bring you luck, Monsieur Maigrat, remember!" Now there only remained the Piolaine people. If these would not throw her a five-franc piece she might as well lie down and die. She had taken the Joiselle road on the left. The administration building was there at the corner of the road, a veritable brick palace, where the great people from Paris, princes and generals and members of the Government, came every autumn to give large dinners. As she walked she was already spending the five francs, first bread, then coffee, afterwards a quarter of butter, a bushel of potatoes for the morning soup and the evening stew; finally, perhaps, a bit of pig's chitterlings, for the father needed meat. The Curé of Montsou, Abbé Joire, was passing, holding up his cassock, with the delicate air of a fat, well-nourished cat afraid of wetting its fur. He was a mild man who pretended not to interest himself in anything, so as not to vex either the workers or the masters. "Good day, Monsieur le Curé." Without stopping he smiled at the children, and left her planted in the middle of the road. She was not religious, but she had suddenly imagined that this priest would give her something. And the journey began again through the black, sticky mud. There were still two kilometres to walk, and the little ones dragged behind more than ever, for they were frightened, and no longer amused themselves. To right and to left of the path the same vague landscape unrolled, enclosed within mossy palings, the same factory buildings, dirty with smoke, bristling with tall chimneys. Then the flat land was spread out in immense open fields, like an ocean of brown clods, without a tree-trunk, as far as the purplish line of the forest of Vandame. "Carry me, mother." She carried them one after the other. Puddles made holes in the pathway, and she pulled up her clothes, fearful of arriving too dirty. Three times she nearly fell, so sticky was that confounded pavement. And as they at last arrived before the porch, two enormous dogs threw themselves upon them, barking so loudly that the little ones yelled with terror. The coachman was obliged to take a whip to them. "Leave your sabots, and come in," repeated Honorine. In the dining-room the mother and children stood motionless, dazed by the sudden heat, and very constrained beneath the gaze of this old lady and gentleman, who were stretched out in their easy-chairs. "Cécile," said the old lady, "fulfil your little duties." The Grégoires charged Cécile with their charities. It was part of their idea of a good education. One must be charitable. They said themselves that their house was the house of God. Besides, they flattered themselves that they performed their charity with intelligence, and they were exercised by a constant fear lest they should be deceived, and so encourage vice. So they never gave money, never! Not ten sous, not two sous, for it is a well-known fact that as soon as a poor man gets two sous he drinks them. Their alms were, therefore, always in kind, especially in warm clothing, distributed during the winter to needy children. "Oh! the poor dears!" exclaimed Cécile, '"how pale they are from the cold! Honorine, go and look for the parcel in the cupboard." The servants were also gazing at these miserable creatures with the pity and vague uneasiness of girls who are in no difficulty about their own dinners. While the housemaid went upstairs, the cook forgot her duties, leaving the rest of the brioche on the table, and stood there swinging her empty hands. "I still have two woollen dresses and some comforters," Cécile went on; "you will see how warm they will be, the poor dears!" Then Maheude found her tongue, and stammered: "Thank you so much, mademoiselle. You are all too good." Tears had filled her eyes, she thought herself sure of the five francs, and was only preoccupied by the way in which she would ask for them if they were not offered to her. The housemaid did not reappear, and there was a moment of embarrassed silence. From their mother's skirts the little ones opened their eyes wide and gazed at the brioche. "You only have these two?" asked Madame Grégoire, in order to break the silence. "Oh, madame! I have seven." M. Grégoire, who had gone back to his newspaper, sat up indignantly. "Seven children! But why? good God!" "It is imprudent," murmured the old lady. Maheude made a vague gesture of apology. What would you have? One doesn't think about it at all, they come quite naturally. And then, when they grow up they bring something in, and that makes the household go. Take their case, they could get on, if it was not for the grandfather who was getting quite stiff, and if it was not that among the lot only two of her sons and her eldest daughter were old enough to go down into the pit. It was necessary, all the same, to feed the little ones who brought nothing in. "Then," said Madame Grégoire, "you have worked for a long time at the mines?" A silent laugh lit up Maheude's pale face. "Ah, yes! ah, yes! I went down till I was twenty. The doctor said that I should stay down for good after I had been confined the second time, because it seems that made something go wrong in my inside. Besides, then I got married, and I had enough to do in the house. But on my husband's side, you see, they have been down there for ages. It goes up from grandfather to grandfather, one doesn't know how far back, quite to the beginning when they first took the pick down there at Réquillart." M. Grégoire thoughtfully contemplated this woman and these pitiful children, with their waxy flesh, their discoloured hair, the degeneration which stunted them, gnawed by anaemia, and with the melancholy ugliness of starvelings. There was silence again, and one only heard the burning coal as it gave out a jet of gas. The moist room had that heavy air of comfort in which our middle-class nooks of happiness slumber. "What is she doing, then?" exclaimed Cécile impatiently. "Mélanie, go up and tell her that the parcel is at the bottom of the cupboard, on the left." In the meanwhile, M. Grégoire repeated aloud the reflections inspired by the sight of these starving ones. "There is evil in this world, it is quite true; but, my good woman, it must also be said that workpeople are never prudent. Thus, instead of putting aside a few sous like our peasants, miners drink, get into debt, and end by not having enough to support their families." "Monsieur is right," replied Maheude sturdily. "They don't always keep to the right path. That's what I'm always saying to the ne'er-do-wells when they complain. Now, I have been lucky; my husband doesn't drink. All the same, on feast Sundays he sometimes takes a drop too much; but it never goes farther. It is all the nicer of him, since before our marriage he drank like a hog, begging your pardon. And yet, you know, it doesn't help us much that he is so sensible. There are days like to-day when you might turn out all the drawers in the house and not find a farthing." She wished to suggest to them the idea of the five-franc piece, and went on in her low voice, explaining the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming. They paid regularly for many fortnights. But one day they got behind, and then it was all up. They could never catch up again. The gulf widened, and the men became disgusted with work which did not even allow them to pay their way. Do what they could, there was nothing but difficulties until death. Besides, it must be understood that a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust. It began there, and then he was always in the inn when worries came. Without complaining of any one it might be that the workmen did not earn as much as they ought to. "I thought," said Madame Grégoire, "that the Company gave you lodging and firing?" Maheude glanced sideways at the flaming coal in the fireplace. "Yes, yes, they give us coal, not very grand, but it burns. As to lodging, it only costs six francs a month; that sounds like nothing, but it is often pretty hard to pay. To-day they might cut me up into bits without getting two sous out of me. Where there's nothing, there's nothing." The lady and gentleman were silent, softly stretched out, and gradually wearied and disquieted by the exhibition of this wretchedness. She feared she had wounded them, and added, with the stolid and just air of a practical woman: "Oh! I didn't want to complain. Things are like this, and one has to put up with them; all the more that it's no good struggling, perhaps we shouldn't change anything. The best is, is it not, to try and live honestly in the place in which the good God has put us?" M. Grégoire approved this emphatically. "With such sentiments, my good woman, one is above misfortune." Honorine and Mélanie at last brought the parcel. Cécile unfastened it and took out the two dresses. She added comforters, even stockings and mittens. They would all fit beautifully; she hastened and made the servants wrap up the chosen garments; for her music mistress had just arrived; and she pushed the mother and children towards the door. "We are very short," stammered Maheude; "if we only had a five-franc piece--" The phrase was stifled, for the Maheus were proud and never begged. Cécile looked uneasily at her father; but the latter refused decisively, with an air of duty. "No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it." Then the young girl, moved by the mother's overwhelmed face, wished to do all she could for the children. They were still looking fixedly at the brioche; she cut it in two and gave it to them. "Here! this is for you." Then, taking the pieces back, she asked for an old newspaper: "Wait, you must share with your brothers and sisters." And beneath the tender gaze of her parents she finally pushed them out of the room. The poor starving urchins went off, holding the brioche respectfully in their benumbed little hands. Maheude dragged her children along the road, seeing neither the desert fields, nor the black mud, nor the great livid sky. As she passed through Montsou she resolutely entered Maigrat's shop, and begged so persistently that at last she carried away two loaves, coffee, butter, and even her five-franc piece, for the man also lent money by the week. It was not her that he wanted, it was Catherine; she understood that when he advised her to send her daughter for provisions. They would see about that. Catherine would box his ears if he came too close under her nose. CHAPTER III Eleven o'clock struck at the little church in the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement, a brick chapel to which Abbé Joire came to say mass on Sundays. In the school beside it, also of brick, one heard the faltering voices of the children, in spite of windows closed against the outside cold. The wide passages, divided into little gardens, back to back, between the four large blocks of uniform houses, were deserted; and these gardens, devastated by the winter, exhibited the destitution of their marly soil, lumped and spotted by the last vegetables. They were making soup, chimneys were smoking, a woman appeared at distant intervals along the fronts, opened a door and disappeared. From one end to the other, on the pavement, the pipes dripped into tubs, although it was no longer raining, so charged was this grey sky with moistness. And the village, built altogether in the midst of the vast plain, and edged by its black roads as by a mourning border, had no touch of joyousness about it save the regular bands of its red tiles, constantly washed by showers. When Maheude returned, she went out of her way to buy potatoes from an overseer's wife whose crop was not yet exhausted. Behind a curtain of sickly poplars, the only trees in these flat regions, was a group of isolated buildings, houses placed four together, and surrounded by their gardens. As the Company reserved this new experiment for the captains, the workpeople called this corner of the hamlet the settlement of the Bas-de-Soie, just as they called their own settlement Paie-tes-Dettes, in good-humoured irony of their wretchedness. "Eh! Here we are," said Maheude, laden with parcels, pushing in Lénore and Henri, covered with mud and quite tired out. In front of the fire Estelle was screaming, cradled in Alzire's arms. The latter, having no more sugar and not knowing how to soothe her, had decided to pretend to give her the breast. This ruse often succeeded. But this time it was in vain for her to open her dress, and to press the mouth against the lean breast of an eight-year-old invalid; the child was enraged at biting the skin and drawing nothing. "Pass her to me," cried the mother as soon as she found herself free; "she won't let us say a word." When she had taken from her bodice a breast as heavy as a leather bottle, to the neck of which the brawler hung, suddenly silent, they were at last able to talk. Otherwise everything was going on well; the little housekeeper had kept up the fire and had swept and arranged the room. And in the silence they heard upstairs the grandfather's snoring, the same rhythmic snoring which had not stopped for a moment. "What a lot of things!" murmured Alzire, smiling at the provisions. "If you like, mother, I'll make the soup." The table was encumbered: a parcel of clothes, two loaves, potatoes, butter, coffee, chicory, and half a pound of pig's chitterlings. "Oh! the soup!" said Maheude with an air of fatigue. "We must gather some sorrel and pull up some leeks. No! I will make some for the men afterwards. Put some potatoes on to boil; we'll eat them with a little butter and some coffee, eh? Don't forget the coffee!" But suddenly she thought of the brioche. She looked at the empty hands of Lénore and Henri who were fighting on the floor, already rested and lively. These gluttons had slyly eaten the brioche on the road. She boxed their ears, while Alzire, who was putting the saucepan on the fire, tried to appease her. "Let them be, mother. If the brioche was for me, you know I don't mind a bit. They were hungry, walking so far." Midday struck; they heard the clogs of the children coming out of school. The potatoes were cooked, and the coffee, thickened by a good half of chicory, was passing through the percolator with a singing noise of large drops. One corner of the table was free; but the mother only was eating there. The three children were satisfied with their knees; and all the time the little boy with silent voracity looked, without saying anything, at the chitterlings, excited by the greasy paper. Maheude was drinking her coffee in little sips, with her hands round the glass to warm them, when Father Bonnemort came down. Usually he rose late, and his breakfast waited for him on the fire. But to-day he began to grumble because there was no soup. Then, when his daughter-in-law said to him that one cannot always do what one likes, he ate his potatoes in silence. From time to time he got up to spit in the ashes for cleanliness, and, settled in his chair, he rolled his food round in his mouth, with lowered head and dull eyes. "Ah! I forgot, mother," said Alzire. "The neighbour came--" Her mother interrupted her. "She bothers me!" There was a deep rancour against the Levaque woman, who had pleaded poverty the day before to avoid lending her anything; while she knew that she was just then in comfort, since her lodger, Bouteloup, had paid his fortnight in advance. In the settlement they did not usually lend from household to household. "Here! you remind me," said Maheude. "Wrap up a millful of coffee. I will take it to Pierronne; I owe it her from the day before yesterday." And when her daughter had prepared the packet she added that she would come back immediately to put the men's soup on the fire. Then she went out with Estelle in her arms, leaving old Bonnemort to chew his potatoes leisurely, while Lénore and Henri fought for the fallen parings. Instead of going round, Maheude went straight across through the gardens, for fear lest Levaque's wife should call her. Her garden was just next to that of the Pierrons, and in the dilapidated trellis-work which separated them there was a hole through which they fraternized. The common well was there, serving four households. Beside it, behind a clump of feeble lilacs, was situated the shed, a low building full of old tools, in which were brought up the rabbits which were eaten on feast days. One o'clock struck; it was the hour for coffee, and not a soul was to be seen at the doors or windows. Only a workman belonging to the earth-cutting, waiting the hour for descent, was digging up his patch of vegetable ground without raising his head. But as Maheude arrived opposite the other block of buildings, she was surprised to see a gentleman and two ladies in front of the church. She stopped a moment and recognized them; it was Madame Hennebeau bringing her guests, the decorated gentleman and the lady in the fur mantle, to see the settlement. "Oh! why did you take this trouble?" exclaimed Pierronne, when Maheude had returned the coffee. "There was no hurry." She was twenty-eight, and was considered the beauty of the settlement, dark, with a low forehead, large eyes, straight mouth, and coquettish as well; with the neatness of a cat, and with a good figure, for she had had no children. Her mother, Brulé, the widow of a pikeman who died in the mine, after having sent her daughter to work in a factory, swearing that she should never marry a collier, had never ceased to be angry since she had married, somewhat late, Pierron, a widower with a girl of eight. However, the household lived very happily, in the midst of chatter, of scandals which circulated concerning the husband's complaisance and the wife's lovers. No debts, meat twice a week, a house kept so clean that one could see oneself in the saucepans. As an additional piece of luck, thanks to favours, the Company had authorized her to sell bon-bons and biscuits, jars of which she exhibited, on two boards, behind the window-panes. This was six or seven sous profit a day, and sometimes twelve on Sundays. The only drawback to all this happiness was Mother Brulé, who screamed with all the rage of an old revolutionary, having to avenge the death of her man on the masters, and little Lydie, who pocketed, in the shape of frequent blows, the passions of the family. "How big she is already!" said Pierronne, simpering at Estelle. "Oh! the trouble that it gives! Don't talk of it!" said Maheude. "You are lucky not to have any. At least you can keep clean." Although everything was in order in her house, and she scrubbed every Saturday, she glanced with a jealous housekeeper's eye over this clean room, in which there was even a certain coquetry, gilt vases on the sideboard, a mirror, three framed prints. Pierronne was about to drink her coffee alone, all her people being at the pit. "You'll have a glass with me?" she said. "No, thanks; I've just swallowed mine." "What does that matter?" In fact, it mattered nothing. And both began drinking slowly. Between the jars of biscuits and bon-bons their eyes rested on the opposite houses, of which the little curtains in the windows formed a row, revealing by their greater or less whiteness the virtues of the housekeepers. Those of the Levaques were very dirty, veritable kitchen clouts, which seemed to have wiped the bottoms of the saucepans. "How can they live in such dirt?" murmured Pierronne. Then Maheude began and did not stop. Ah! if she had had a lodger like that Bouteloup she would have made the household go. When one knew how to do it, a lodger was an excellent thing. Only one ought not to sleep with him. And then the husband had taken to drink, beat his wife, and ran after the singers at the Montsou café-concerts. Pierronne assumed an air of profound disgust. These singers gave all sort of diseases. There was one at Joiselle who had infected a whole pit. "What surprises me is that you let your son go with their girl." "Ah, yes! but just stop it then! Their garden is next to ours. Zacharie was always there in summer with Philoméne behind the lilacs, and they didn't put themselves out on the shed; one couldn't draw water at the well without surprising them." It was the usual history of the promiscuities of the settlement; boys and girls became corrupted together, throwing themselves on their backsides, as they said, on the low, sloping roof of the shed when twilight came on. All the putters got their first child there when they did not take the trouble to go to Réquillart or into the cornfields. It was of no consequence; they married afterwards, only the mothers were angry when their lads began too soon, for a lad who married no longer brought anything into the family. "In your place I would have done with it," said Pierronne, sensibly. "Your Zacharie has already filled her twice, and they will go on and get spliced. Anyhow, the money is gone." Maheude was furious and raised her hands. "Listen to this: I will curse them if they get spliced. Doesn't Zacharie owe us any respect? He has cost us something, hasn't he? Very well. He must return it before getting a wife to hang on him. What will become of us, eh, if our children begin at once to work for others? Might as well die!" However, she grew calm. "I'm speaking in a general way; we shall see later. It is fine and strong, your coffee; you make it proper." And after a quarter of an hour spent over other stories, she ran off, exclaiming that the men's soup was not yet made. Outside, the children were going back to school; a few women were showing themselves at their doors, looking at Madame Hennebeau, who, with lifted finger, was explaining the settlement to her guests. This visit began to stir up the village. The earth-cutting man stopped digging for a moment, and two disturbed fowls took fright in the gardens. As Maheude returned, she ran against the Levaque woman who had come out to stop Dr. Vanderhaghen, a doctor of the Company, a small hurried man, overwhelmed by work, who gave his advice as he walked. "Sir," she said, "I can't sleep; I feel ill everywhere. I must tell you about it." He spoke to them all familiarly, and replied without stopping: "Just leave me alone; you drink too much coffee." "And my husband, sir," said Maheude in her turn, "you must come and see him. He always has those pains in his legs." "It is you who take too much out of him. Just leave me alone!" The two women were left to gaze at the doctor's retreating back. "Come in, then," said the Levaque woman, when she had exchanged a despairing shrug with her neighbour. "You know, there is something new. And you will take a little coffee. It is quite fresh." Maheude refused, but without energy. Well! a drop, at all events, not to disoblige. And she entered. The room was black with dirt, the floor and the walls spotted with grease, the sideboard and the table sticky with filth; and the stink of a badly kept house took you by the throat. Near the fire, with his elbows on the table and his nose in his plate, Bouteloup, a broad stout placid man, still young for thirty-five, was finishing the remains of his boiled beef, while standing in front of him, little Achille, Philoméne's first-born, who was already in his third year, was looking at him in the silent, supplicating way of a gluttonous animal. The lodger, very kind behind his big brown beard, from time to time stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. "Wait till I sugar it," said the Levaque woman, putting some brown sugar beforehand into the coffee-pot. Six years older than he was, she was hideous and worn out, with her bosom hanging on her belly, and her belly on her thighs, with a flattened muzzle, and greyish hair always uncombed. He had taken her naturally, without choosing, the same as he did his soup in which he found hairs, or his bed of which the sheets lasted for three months. She was part of the lodging; the husband liked repeating that good reckonings make good friends. "I was going to tell you," she went on, "that Pierronne was seen yesterday prowling about on the Bas-de-Soie side. The gentleman you know of was waiting for her behind Rasseneur's, and they went off together along the canal. Eh! that's nice, isn't it? A married woman!" "Gracious!" said Maheude; "Pierron, before marrying her, used to give the captain rabbits; now it costs him less to lend his wife." Bouteloup began to laugh enormously, and threw a fragment of sauced bread into Achille's mouth. The two women went on relieving themselves with regard to Pierronne--a flirt, no prettier than any one else, but always occupied in looking after every freckle of her skin, in washing herself, and putting on pomade. Anyhow, it was the husband's affair, if he liked that sort of thing. There were men so ambitious that they would wipe the masters' behinds to hear them say thank you. And they were only interrupted by the arrival of a neighbour bringing in a little urchin of nine months, Désirée, Philoméne's youngest; Philoméne, taking her breakfast at the screening-shed, had arranged that they should bring her little one down there, where she suckled it, seated for a moment in the coal. "I can't leave mine for a moment, she screams directly," said Maheude, looking at Estelle, who was asleep in her arms. But she did not succeed in avoiding the domestic affair which she had read in the other's eyes. "I say, now we ought to get that settled." At first the two mothers, without need for talking about it, had agreed not to conclude the marriage. If Zacharie's mother wished to get her son's wages as long as possible, Philoméne's mother was enraged at the idea of abandoning her daughter's wages. There was no hurry; the second mother had even preferred to keep the little one, as long as there was only one; but when it began to grow and eat and another one came, she found that she was losing, and furiously pushed on the marriage, like a woman who does not care to throw away her money. "Zacharie has drawn his lot," she went on, "and there's nothing in the way. When shall it be?" "Wait till the fine weather," replied Maheude, constrainedly. "They are a nuisance, these affairs! As if they couldn't wait to be married before going together! My word! I would strangle Catherine if I knew that she had done that." The other woman shrugged her shoulders. "Let be! she'll do like the others." Bouteloup, with the tranquillity of a man who is at home, searched about on the dresser for bread. Vegetables for Levaque's soup, potatoes and leeks, lay about on a corner of the table, half-peeled, taken up and dropped a dozen times in the midst of continual gossiping. The woman was about to go on with them again when she dropped them anew and planted herself before the window. "What's that there? Why, there's Madame Hennebeau with some people. They are going into Pierronne's." At once both of them started again on the subject of Pierronne. Oh! whenever the Company brought any visitors to the settlement they never failed to go straight to her place, because it was clean. No doubt they never told them stories about the head captain. One can afford to be clean when one has lovers who earn three thousand francs, and are lodged and warmed, without counting presents. If it was clean above it was not clean underneath. And all the time that the visitors remained opposite, they went on chattering. "There, they are coming out," said the Levaque woman at last. "They are going all around. Why, look, my dear--I believe they are going into your place." Maheude was seized with fear. Who knows whether Alzire had sponged over the table? And her soup, also, which was not yet ready! She stammered a good-day, and ran off home without a single glance aside. But everything was bright. Alzire, very seriously, with a cloth in front of her, had set about making the soup, seeing that her mother did not return. She had pulled up the last leeks from the garden, gathered the sorrel, and was just then cleaning the vegetables, while a large kettle on the fire was heating the water for the men's baths when they should return. Henri and Lénore were good for once, being absorbed in tearing up an old almanac. Father Bonnemort was smoking his pipe in silence. As Maheude was getting her breath Madame Hennebeau knocked. "You will allow me, will you not, my good woman?" Tall and fair, a little heavy in her superb maturity of forty years, she smiled with an effort of affability, without showing too prominently her fear of soiling her bronze silk dress and black velvet mantle. "Come in, come in," she said to her guests. "We are not disturbing any one. Now, isn't this clean again! And this good woman has seven children! All our households are like this. I ought to explain to you that the Company rents them the house at six francs a month. A large room on the ground floor, two rooms above, a cellar, and a garden." The decorated gentleman and the lady in the fur cloak, arrived that morning by train from Paris, opened their eyes vaguely, exhibiting on their faces their astonishment at all these new things which took them out of their element. "And a garden!" repeated the lady. "One could live here! It is charming!" "We give them more coal than they can burn," went on Madame Hennebeau. "A doctor visits them twice a week; and when they are old they receive pensions, although nothing is held back from their wages." "A Thebaid! a real land of milk and honey!" murmured the gentleman in delight. Maheude had hastened to offer chairs. The ladies refused. Madame Hennebeau was already getting tired, happy for a moment to amuse herself in the weariness of her exile by playing the part of exhibiting the beasts, but immediately disgusted by the sickly odour of wretchedness, in spite of the special cleanliness of the houses into which she ventured. Besides, she was only repeating odd phrases which she had overheard, without ever troubling herself further about this race of workpeople who were labouring and suffering beside her. "What beautiful children!" murmured the lady, who thought them hideous, with their large heads beneath their bushy, straw-coloured hair. And Maheude had to tell their ages; they also asked her questions about Estelle, out of politeness. Father Bonnemort respectfully took his pipe out of his mouth; but he was not the less a subject of uneasiness, so worn out by his forty years underground, with his stiff limbs, deformed body, and earthy face; and as a violent spasm of coughing took him he preferred to go and spit outside, with the idea that his black expectoration would make people uncomfortable. Alzire received all the compliments. What an excellent little housekeeper, with her cloth! They congratulated the mother on having a little daughter so sensible for her age. And none spoke of the hump, though looks of uneasy compassion were constantly turned towards the poor little invalid. "Now!" concluded Madame Hennebeau, "if they ask you about our settlements at Paris you will know what to reply. Never more noise than this, patriarchal manners, all happy and well off as you see, a place where you might come to recruit a little, on account of the good air and the tranquillity." "It is marvellous, marvellous!" exclaimed the gentleman, in a final outburst of enthusiasm. They left with that enchanted air with which people leave a booth in a fair, and Maheude, who accompanied them, remained on the threshold while they went away slowly, talking very loudly. The streets were full of people, and they had to pass through several groups of women, attracted by the news of their visit, which was hawked from house to house. Just then, Levaque, in front of her door, had stopped Pierronne, who was drawn by curiosity. Both of them affected a painful surprise. What now? Were these people going to bed at the Maheus'? But it was not so very delightful a place. "Always without a sou, with all that they earn! Lord! when people have vices!" "I have just heard that she went this morning to beg at Piolaine, and Maigrat, who had refused them bread, has given them something. We know how Maigrat pays himself!" "On her? Oh, no! that would need some courage. It's Catherine that he's after." "Why, didn't she have the cheek to say just now that she would strangle Catherine if she were to come to that? As if big Chaval for ever so long had not put her backside on the shed!" "Hush! here they are!" Then Levaque and Pierronne, with a peaceful air and without impolite curiosity, contented themselves with watching the visitors out of the corners of their eyes. Then by a gesture they quickly called Maheude, who was still carrying Estelle in her arms. And all three, motionless, watched the well-clad backs of Madame Hennebeau and her guests slowly disappear. When they were some thirty paces off, the gossiping recommenced with redoubled vigour. "They carry plenty of money on their skins; worth more than themselves, perhaps." "Ah, sure! I don't know the other, but the one that belongs here, I wouldn't give four sous for her, big as she is. They do tell stories--" "Eh? What stories?" "Why, she has men! First, the engineer." "That lean, little creature! Oh, he's too small! She would lose him in the sheets." "What does that matter, if it amuses her? I don't trust a woman who puts on such proud airs and never seems to be pleased where she is. Just look how she wags her rump, as if she felt contempt for us all. Is that nice?" The visitors went along at the same slow pace, still talking, when a carriage stopped in the road, before the church. A gentleman of about forty-eight got out of it, dressed in a black frock-coat, and with a very dark complexion and an authoritative, correct expression. "The husband," murmured Levaque, lowering her voice, as if he could hear her, seized by that hierarchical fear which the manager inspired in his ten thousand workpeople. "It's true, though, that he has a cuckold's head, that man." Now the whole settlement was out of doors. The curiosity of the women increased. The groups approached each other, and were melted into one crowd; while bands of urchins, with unwiped noses and gaping mouths, dawdled along the pavements. For a moment the schoolmaster's pale head was also seen behind the school-house hedge. Among the gardens, the man who was digging stood with one foot on his spade, and with rounded eyes. And the murmur of gossiping gradually increased, with a sound of rattles, like a gust of wind among dry leaves. It was especially before the Levaques' door that the crowd was thickest. Two women had come forward, then ten, then twenty. Pierronne was prudently silent now that there were too many ears about. Maheude, one of the more reasonable, also contented herself with looking on; and to calm Estelle, who was awake and screaming, she had tranquilly drawn out her suckling animal's breast, which hung swaying as if pulled down by the continual running of its milk. When M. Hennebeau had seated the ladies in the carriage, which went off in the direction of Marchiennes, there was a final explosion of clattering voices, all the women gesticulating and talking in each other's faces in the midst of a tumult as of an ant-hill in revolution. But three o'clock struck. The workers of the earth-cutting, Bouteloup and the others, had set out. Suddenly around the church appeared the first colliers returning from the pit with black faces and damp garments, folding their arms and expanding their backs. Then there was confusion among the women: they all began to run home with the terror of housekeepers who had been led astray by too much coffee and too much tattle, and one heard nothing more than this restless cry, pregnant with quarrels: "Good Lord, and my soup! and my soup which isn't ready!" CHAPTER IV When Maheu came in after having left Étienne at Rasseneur's, he found Catherine, Zacharie, and Jeanlin seated at the table finishing their soup. On returning from the pit they were always so hungry that they ate in their damp clothes, without even cleaning themselves; and no one was waited for, the table was laid from morning to night; there was always someone there swallowing his portion, according to the chances of work. As he entered the door Maheu saw the provisions. He said nothing, but his uneasy face lighted up. All the morning the emptiness of the cupboard, the thought of the house without coffee and without butter, had been troubling him; the recollection came to him painfully while he was hammering at the seam, stifled at the bottom of the cutting. What would his wife do, and what would become of them if she were to return with empty hands? And now, here was everything! She would tell him about it later on. He laughed with satisfaction. Catherine and Jeanlin had risen, and were taking their coffee standing; while Zacharie, not filled with the soup, cut himself a large slice of bread and covered it with butter. Although he saw the chitterlings on a plate he did not touch them, for meat was for the father, when there was only enough for one. All of them had washed down their soup with a big bumper of fresh water, the good, clear drink of the fortnight's end. "I have no beer," said Maheude, when the father had seated himself in his turn. "I wanted to keep a little money. But if you would like some the little one can go and fetch a pint." He looked at her in astonishment. What! she had money, too! "No, no," he said, "I've had a glass, it's all right." And Maheu began to swallow by slow spoonfuls the paste of bread, potatoes, leeks, and sorrel piled up in the bowl which served him as a plate. Maheude, without putting Estelle down, helped Alzire to give him all that he required, pushed near him the butter and the meat, and put his coffee on the fire to keep it quite hot. In the meanwhile, beside the fire, they began to wash themselves in the half of a barrel transformed into a tub. Catherine, whose turn came first, had filled it with warm water; and she undressed herself tranquilly, took off her cap, her jacket, her breeches, and even her chemise, habituated to this since the age of eight, having grown up without seeing any harm in it. She only turned with her stomach to the fire, then rubbed herself vigorously with black soap. No one looked at her, even Lénore and Henri were no longer inquisitive to see how she was made. When she was clean she went up the stairs quite naked, leaving her damp chemise and other garments in a heap on the floor. But a quarrel broke out between the two brothers: Jeanlin had hastened to jump into the tub under the pretence that Zacharie was still eating; and the latter hustled him, claiming his turn, and calling out that he was polite enough to allow Catherine to wash herself first, but he did not wish to have the rinsings of the young urchins, all the less since, when Jeanlin had been in, it would do to fill the school ink-pots. They ended by washing themselves together, also turning towards the fire, and they even helped each other, rubbing one another's backs. Then, like their sister, they disappeared up the staircase naked. "What a slop they do make!" murmured Maheude, taking up their garments from the floor to put them to dry. "Alzire, just sponge up a bit." But a disturbance on the other side of the wall cut short her speech. One heard a man's oaths, a woman's crying, a whole stampede of battle, with hollow blows that sounded like the shock of an empty gourd. "Levaque's wife is catching it," Maheu peacefully stated as he scraped the bottom of his bowl with the spoon. "It's queer; Bouteloup made out that the soup was ready." "Ah, yes! ready," said Maheude. "I saw the vegetables on the table, not even cleaned." The cries redoubled, and there was a terrible push which shook the wall, followed by complete silence. Then the miner, swallowing the last spoonful, concluded, with an air of calm justice: "If the soup is not ready, one can understand." And after having drunk a glassful of water, he attacked the chitterlings. He cut square pieces, stuck the point of his knife into them and ate them on his bread without a fork. There was no talking when the father was eating. He himself was hungry in silence; he did not recognize the usual taste of Maigrat's provisions; this must come from somewhere else; however, he put no question to his wife. He only asked if the old man was still sleeping upstairs. No, the grandfather had gone out for his usual walk. And there was silence again. But the odour of the meat made Lénore and Henri lift up their heads from the floor, where they were amusing themselves with making rivulets with the spilt water. Both of them came and planted themselves near their father, the little one in front. Their eyes followed each morsel, full of hope when it set out from the plate and with an air of consternation when it was engulfed in the mouth. At last the father noticed the gluttonous desire which made their faces pale and their lips moist. "Have the children had any of it?" he asked. And as his wife hesitated: "You know I don't like injustice. It takes away my appetite when I see them there, begging for bits." "But they've had some of it," she exclaimed, angrily. "If you were to listen to them you might give them your share and the others', too; they would fill themselves till they burst. Isn't it true, Alzire, that we have all had some?" "Sure enough, mother," replied the little humpback, who under such circumstances could tell lies with the self-possession of a grown-up person. Lénore and Henri stood motionless, shocked and rebellious at such lying, when they themselves were whipped if they did not tell the truth. Their little hearts began to swell, and they longed to protest, and to say that they, at all events, were not there when the others had some. "Get along with you," said the mother, driving them to the other end of the room. "You ought to be ashamed of being always in your father's plate; and even if he was the only one to have any, doesn't he work, while all you, a lot of good-for-nothings, can't do anything but spend! Yes, and the more the bigger you are." Maheu called them back. He seated Lénore on his left thigh, Henri on the right; then he finished the chitterlings by playing at dinner with them. He cut small pieces, and each had his share. The children devoured with delight. When he had finished, he said to his wife: "No, don't give me my coffee. I'm going to wash first; and just give me a hand to throw away this dirty water." They took hold of the handles of the tub and emptied it into the gutter before the door, when Jeanlin came down in dry garments, breeches and a woollen blouse, too large for him, which were weary of fading on his brother's back. Seeing him slinking out through the open door, his mother stopped him. "Where are you off to?" "Over there." "Over where? Listen to me. You go and gather a dandelion salad for this evening. Eh, do you hear? If you don't bring a salad back you'll have to deal with me." "All right!" Jeanlin set out with hands in his pockets, trailing his sabots and slouching along, with his slender loins of a ten-year-old urchin, like an old miner. In his turn, Zacharie came down, more carefully dressed, his body covered by a black woollen knitted jacket with blue stripes. His father called out to him not to return late; and he left, nodding his head with his pipe between his teeth, without replying. Again the tub was filled with warm water. Maheu was already slowly taking off his jacket. At a look, Alzire led Lénore and Henri outside to play. The father did not like washing _en famille_, as was practised in many houses in the settlement. He blamed no one, however; he simply said that it was good for the children to dabble together. "What are you doing up there?" cried Maheude, up the staircase. "I'm mending my dress that I tore yesterday," replied Catherine. "All right. Don't come down, your father is washing." Then Maheu and Maheude were left alone. The latter decided to place Estelle on a chair, and by a miracle, finding herself near the fire the child did not scream, but turned towards her parents the vague eyes of a little creature without intelligence. He was crouching before the tub quite naked, having first plunged his head into it, well rubbed with that black soap the constant use of which discoloured and made yellow the hair of the race. Afterwards he got into the water, lathered his chest, belly, arms, and thighs, scraping them energetically with both fists. His wife, standing by, watched him. "Well, then," she began, "I saw your eyes when you came in. You were bothered, eh? and it eased you, those provisions. Fancy! those Piolaine people didn't give me a sou! Oh! they are kind enough; they have dressed the little ones and I was ashamed to ask them, for it crosses me to ask for things." She interrupted herself a moment to wedge Estelle into the chair lest she should tip over. The father continued to work away at his skin, without hastening by a question this story which interested him, patiently waiting for light. "I must tell you that Maigrat had refused me, oh! straight! like one kicks a dog out of doors. Guess if I was on a spree! They keep you warm, woollen garments, but they don't put anything into your stomach, eh!" He lifted his head, still silent. Nothing at Piolaine, nothing at Maigrat's: then where? But, as usual, she was pulling up her sleeves to wash his back and those parts which he could not himself easily reach. Besides, he liked her to soap him, to rub him everywhere till she almost broke her wrists. She took soap and worked away at his shoulders while he held himself stiff so as to resist the shock. "Then I returned to Maigrat's, and said to him, ah, I said something to him! And that it didn't do to have no heart, and that evil would happen to him if there were any justice. That bothered him; he turned his eyes and would like to have got away." From the back she had got down to the buttocks and was pushing into the folds, not leaving any part of the body without passing over it, making him shine like her three saucepans on Saturdays after a big clean. Only she began to sweat with this tremendous exertion of her arms, so exhausted and out of breath that her words were choked. "At last he called me an old nuisance. We shall have bread until Saturday, and the best is that he has lent me five francs. I have got butter, coffee, and chicory from him. I was even going to get the meat and potatoes there, only I saw that he was grumbling. Seven sous for the chitterlings, eighteen for the potatoes, and I've got three francs seventy-five left for a ragout and a meat soup. Eh, I don't think I've wasted my morning!" Now she began to wipe him, plugging with a towel the parts that would not dry. Feeling happy and without thinking of the future debt, he burst out laughing and took her in his arms. "Leave me alone, stupid! You are damp, and wetting me. Only I'm afraid Maigrat has ideas----" She was about to speak of Catherine, but she stopped. What was the good of disturbing him? It would only lead to endless discussion. "What ideas?" he asked. "Why, ideas of robbing us. Catherine will have to examine the bill carefully." He took her in his arms again, and this time did not let her go. The bath always finished in this way: she enlivened him by the hard rubbing, and then by the towels which tickled the hairs of his arms and chest. Besides, among all his mates of the settlement it was the hour for stupidities, when more children were planted than were wanted. At night all the family were about. He pushed her towards the table, jesting like a worthy man who was enjoying the only good moment of the day, calling that taking his dessert, and a dessert which cost him nothing. She, with her loose figure and breast, struggled a little for fun. "You are stupid! My Lord! you are stupid! And there's Estelle looking at us. Wait till I turn her head." "Oh, bosh! at three months; as if she understood!" When he got up Maheu simply put on a dry pair of breeches. He liked, when he was clean and had taken his pleasure with his wife, to remain naked for a while. On his white skin, the whiteness of an anaemic girl, the scratches and gashes of the coal left tattoo-marks, grafts as the miners called them; and he was proud of them, and exhibited his big arms and broad chest shining like veined marble. In summer all the miners could be seen in this condition at their doors. He even went there for a moment now, in spite of the wet weather, and shouted out a rough joke to a comrade, whose breast was also naked, on the other side of the gardens. Others also appeared. And the children, trailing along the pathways, raised their heads and also laughed with delight at all this weary flesh of workers displayed in the open air. While drinking his coffee, without yet putting on a shirt, Maheu told his wife about the engineer's anger over the planking. He was calm and unbent, and listened with a nod of approval to the sensible advice of Maheude, who showed much common sense in such affairs. She always repeated to him that nothing was gained by struggling against the Company. She afterwards told him about Madame Hennebeau's visit. Without saying so, both of them were proud of this. "Can I come down yet?" asked Catherine, from the top of the staircase. "Yes, yes; your father is drying himself." The young girl had put on her Sunday dress, an old frock of rough blue poplin, already faded and worn in the folds. She had on a very simple bonnet of black tulle. "Hallo! you're dressed. Where are you going to?" "I'm going to Montsou to buy a ribbon for my bonnet. I've taken off the old one; it was too dirty." "Have you got money, then?" "No! but Mouquette promised to lend me half a franc." The mother let her go. But at the door she called her back. "Here! don't go and buy that ribbon at Maigrat's. He will rob you, and he will think that we are rolling in wealth." The father, who was crouching down before the fire to dry his neck and shoulders more quickly, contented himself with adding: "Try not to dawdle about at night on the road." In the afternoon, Maheu worked in his garden. Already he had sown potatoes, beans, and peas; and he now set about replanting cabbage and lettuce plants, which he had kept fresh from the night before. This bit of garden furnished them with vegetables, except potatoes of which they never had enough. He understood gardening very well, and could even grow artichokes, which was treated as sheer display by the neighbours. As he was preparing the bed, Levaque just then came out to smoke a pipe in his own square, looking at the cos lettuces which Bouteloup had planted in the morning; for without the lodger's energy in digging nothing would have grown there but nettles. And a conversation arose over the trellis. Levaque, refreshed and excited by thrashing his wife, vainly tried to take Maheu off to Rasseneur's. Why, was he afraid of a glass? They could have a game at skittles, lounge about for a while with the mates, and then come back to dinner. That was the way of life after leaving the pit. No doubt there was no harm in that, but Maheu was obstinate; if he did not replant his lettuces they would be faded by to-morrow. In reality he refused out of good sense, not wishing to ask a farthing from his wife out of the change of the five-franc piece. Five o'clock was striking when Pierronne came to know if it was with Jeanlin that her Lydie had gone off. Levaque replied that it must be something of that sort, for Bébert had also disappeared, and those rascals always went prowling about together. When Maheu had quieted them by speaking of the dandelion salad, he and his comrade set about joking the young woman with the coarseness of good-natured devils. She was angry, but did not go away, in reality tickled by the strong words which made her scream with her hands to her sides. A lean woman came to her aid, stammering with anger like a clucking hen. Others in the distance on their doorsteps confided their alarms. Now the school was closed; and all the children were running about, there was a swarm of little creatures shouting and tumbling and fighting; while those fathers who were not at the public-house were resting in groups of three or four, crouching on their heels as they did in the mine, smoking their pipes with an occasional word in the shelter of a wall. Pierronne went off in a fury when Levaque wanted to feel if her thighs were firm; and he himself decided to go alone to Rasseneur's, since Maheu was still planting. Twilight suddenly came on; Maheude lit the lamp, irritated because neither her daughter nor the boys had come back. She could have guessed as much; they never succeeded in taking together the only meal of the day at which it was possible for them to be all round the table. Then she was waiting for the dandelion salad. What could he be gathering at this hour, in this blackness of an oven, that nuisance of a child! A salad would go so well with the stew which was simmering on the fire--potatoes, leeks, sorrel, fricasseed with fried onion. The whole house smelt of that fried onion, that good odour which gets rank so soon, and which penetrates the bricks of the settlements with such infection that one perceives it far off in the country, the violent flavour of the poor man's kitchen. Maheu, when he left the garden at nightfall, at once fell into a chair with his head against the wall. As soon as he sat down in the evening he went to sleep. The clock struck seven; Henri and Lénore had just broken a plate in persisting in helping Alzire, who was laying the table, when Father Bonnemort came in first, in a hurry to dine and go back to the pit. Then Maheude woke up Maheu. "Come and eat! So much the worse! They are big enough to find the house. The nuisance is the salad!" CHAPTER V At Rasseneur's, after having eaten his soup, Étienne went back into the small chamber beneath the roof and facing the Voreux, which he was to occupy, and fell on to his bed dressed as he was, overcome with fatigue. In two days he had not slept four hours. When he awoke in the twilight he was dazed for a moment, not recognizing his surroundings; and he felt such uneasiness and his head was so heavy that he rose, painfully, with the idea of getting some fresh air before having his dinner and going to bed for the night. Outside, the weather was becoming milder: the sooty sky was growing copper-coloured, laden with one of those warm rains of the Nord, the approach of which one feels by the moist warmth of the air, and the night was coming on in great mists which drowned the distant landscape of the plain. Over this immense sea of reddish earth the low sky seemed to melt into black dust, without a breath of wind now to animate the darkness. It was the wan and deathly melancholy of a funeral. Étienne walked straight ahead at random, with no other aim but to shake off his fever. When he passed before the Voreux, already growing gloomy at the bottom of its hole and with no lantern yet shining from it, he stopped a moment to watch the departure of the day-workers. No doubt six o'clock had struck; landers, porters from the pit-eye, and grooms were going away in bands, mixed with the vague and laughing figures of the screening girls in the shade. At first it was Brulé and her son-in-law, Pierron. She was abusing him because he had not supported her in a quarrel with an overseer over her reckoning of stones. "Get along! damned good-for-nothing! Do you call yourself a man to lower yourself like that before one of these beasts who devour us?" Pierron followed her peacefully, without replying. At last he said: "I suppose I ought to jump on the boss? Thanks for showing me how to get into a mess!" "Bend your backside to him, then," she shouted. "By God! if my daughter had listened to me! It's not enough for them to kill the father. Perhaps you'd like me to say 'thank you.' No, I'll have their skins first!" Their voices were lost. Étienne saw her disappear, with her eagle nose, her flying white hair, her long, lean arms that gesticulated furiously. But the conversation of two young people behind caused him to listen. He had recognized Zacharie, who was waiting there, and who had just been addressed by his friend Mouquet. "Are you here?" said the latter. "We will have something to eat, and then off to the Volcan." "Directly. I've something to attend to." "What, then?" The lander turned and saw Philoméne coming out of the screening-shed. He thought he understood. "Very well, if it's that. Then I go ahead." "Yes, I'll catch you up." As he went away, Mouquet met his father, old Mouque, who was also coming out of the Voreux. The two men simply wished each other good evening, the son taking the main road while the father went along by the canal. Zacharie was already pushing Philoméne in spite of her resistance into the same solitary path. She was in a hurry, another time; and the two wrangled like old housemates. There was no fun in only seeing one another out of doors, especially in winter, when the earth is moist and there are no wheatfields to lie in. "No, no, it's not that," he whispered impatiently. "I've something to say to you." He led her gently with his arm round her waist. Then, when they were in the shadow of the pit-bank, he asked if she had any money. "What for?" she demanded. Then he became confused, spoke of a debt of two francs which had reduced his family to despair. "Hold your tongue! I've seen Mouquet; you're going again to the Volcan with him, where those dirty singer-women are." He defended himself, struck his chest, gave his word of honour. Then, as she shrugged her shoulders, he said suddenly: "Come with us if it will amuse you. You see that you don't put me out. What do I want to do with the singers? Will you come?" "And the little one?" she replied. "How can one stir with a child that's always screaming? Let me go back, I guess they're not getting on at the house." But he held her and entreated. See! it was only not to look foolish before Mouquet to whom he had promised. A man could not go to bed every evening like the fowls. She was overcome, and pulled up the skirt of her gown; with her nail she cut the thread and drew out some half-franc pieces from a corner of the hem. For fear of being robbed by her mother she hid there the profit of the overtime work she did at the pit. "I've got five, you see," she said, "I'll give you three. Only you must swear that you'll make your mother decide to let us marry. We've had enough of this life in the open air. And mother reproaches me for every mouthful I eat. Swear first." She spoke with the soft voice of a big, delicate girl, without passion, simply tired of her life. He swore, exclaimed that it was a sacred promise; then, when he had got the three pieces, he kissed her, tickled her, made her laugh, and would have pushed things to an extreme in this corner of the pit-bank, which was the winter chamber of their household, if she had not again refused, saying that it would not give her any pleasure. She went back to the settlement alone, while he cut across the fields to rejoin his companion. Étienne had followed them mechanically, from afar, without understanding, regarding it as a simple rendezvous. The girls were precocious in the pits; and he recalled the Lille work-girls whom he had waited for behind the factories, those bands of girls, corrupted at fourteen, in the abandonment of their wretchedness. But another meeting surprised him more. He stopped. At the bottom of the pit-bank, in a hollow into which some large stones had slipped, little Jeanlin was violently snubbing Lydie and Bébert, seated one at his right, the other at his left. "What do you say? Eh? I'll slap each of you if you want more. Who thought of it first, eh?" In fact, Jeanlin had had an idea. After having roamed about in the meadows, along the canal, for an hour, gathering dandelions with the two others, it had occurred to him, before this pile of salad, that they would never eat all that at home; and instead of going back to the settlement he had gone to Montsou, keeping Bébert to watch, and making Lydie ring at the houses and offer the dandelions. He was experienced enough to know that, as he said, girls could sell what they liked. In the ardour of business, the entire pile had disappeared; but the girl had gained eleven sous. And now, with empty hands, the three were dividing the profits. "That's not fair!" Bébert declared. "Must divide into three. If you keep seven sous we shall only have two each." "What? not fair!" replied Jeanlin furiously. "I gathered more first of all." The other usually submitted with timid admiration and a credulity which always made him the dupe. Though older and stronger, he even allowed himself to be struck. But this time the sight of all that money excited him to rebellion. "He's robbing us, Lydie, isn't he? If he doesn't share, we'll tell his mother." Jeanlin at once thrust his fist beneath the other's nose. "Say that again! I'll go and say at your house that you sold my mother's salad. And then, you silly beast, how can I divide eleven sous into three? Just try and see, if you're so clever. Here are your two sous each. Just look sharp and take them, or I'll put them in my pocket." Bébert was vanquished and accepted the two sous. Lydie, who was trembling, had said nothing, for with Jeanlin she experienced the fear and the tenderness of a little beaten woman. When he held out the two sous to her she advanced her hand with a submissive laugh. But he suddenly changed his mind. "Eh! what will you do with all that? Your mother will nab them, sure enough, if you don't know how to hide them from her. I'd better keep them for you. When you want money you can ask me for it." And the nine sous disappeared. To shut her mouth he had put his arms around her laughingly and was rolling with her over the pit-bank. She was his little wife, and in the dark corners they used to try together the love which they heard and saw in their homes behind partitions, through the cracks of doors. They knew everything, but they were able to do nothing, being too young, fumbling and playing for hours at the games of vicious puppies. He called that playing at papa and mama; and when he chased her she ran away and let herself be caught with the delicious trembling of instinct, often angry, but always yielding, in the expectation of something which never came. As Bébert was not admitted to these games and received a cuffing whenever he wanted to touch Lydie, he was always constrained, agitated by anger and uneasiness when the other two were amusing themselves, which they did not hesitate to do in his presence. His one idea, therefore, was to frighten them and disturb them, calling out that someone could see them. "It's all up! There's a man looking." This time he told the truth; it was Étienne, who had decided to continue his walk. The children jumped up and ran away, and he passed by round the bank, following the canal, amused at the terror of these little rascals. No doubt it was too early at their age, but they saw and heard so much that one would have to tie them up to restrain them. Yet Étienne became sad. A hundred paces farther on he came across more couples. He had arrived at Réquillart, and there, around the old ruined mine, all the girls of Montsou prowled about with their lovers. It was the common rendezvous, the remote and deserted spot to which the putters came to get their first child when they dared not risk the shed. The broken palings opened to every one the old yard, now become a nondescript piece of ground, obstructed by the ruins of the two sheds which had fallen in, and by the skeletons of the large buttresses which were still standing. Derelict trams were lying about, and piles of old rotting wood, while a dense vegetation was reconquering this corner of ground, displaying itself in thick grass, and springing up in young trees that were already vigorous. Every girl found herself at home here; there were concealed holes for all; their lovers placed them over beams, behind the timber, in the trams; they even lay elbow to elbow without troubling about their neighbours. And it seemed that around this extinguished engine, near this shaft weary of disgorging coal, there was a revenge of creation in the free love which, beneath the lash of instinct, planted children in the bellies of these girls who were yet hardly women. Yet a caretaker lived there, old Mouque, to whom the Company had given up, almost beneath the destroyed tower, two rooms which were constantly threatened by destruction from the expected fall of the last walls. He had even been obliged to shore up a part of the roof, and he lived there very comfortably with his family, he and Mouquet in one room, Mouquette in the other. As the windows no longer possessed a single pane, he had decided to close them by nailing up boards; one could not see well, but it was warm. For the rest, this caretaker cared for nothing: he went to look after his horses at the Voreux, and never troubled himself about the ruins of Réquillart, of which the shaft only was preserved, in order to serve as a chimney for a fire which ventilated the neighbouring pit. It was thus that Father Mouque was ending his old age in the midst of love. Ever since she was ten Mouquette had been lying about in all the corners of the ruins, not as a timid and still green little urchin like Lydie, but as a girl who was already big, and a mate for bearded lads. The father had nothing to say, for she was considerate, and never introduced a lover into the house. Then he was used to this sort of accident. When he went to the Voreux, when he came back, whenever he came out of his hole, he could scarcely put a foot down without treading on a couple in the grass; and it was worse if he wanted to gather wood to heat his soup or look for burdocks for his rabbit at the other end of the enclosure. Then he saw one by one the voluptuous noses of all the girls of Montsou rising up around him, while he had to be careful not to knock against the limbs stretched out level with the paths. Besides, these meetings had gradually ceased to disturb either him who was simply taking care not to stumble, or the girls whom he allowed to finish their affairs, going away with discreet little steps like a worthy man who was at peace with the ways of nature. Only just as they now knew him he at last also knew them, as one knows the rascally magpies who become corrupted in the pear-trees in the garden. Ah! youth! youth! how it goes on, how wild it is! Sometimes he wagged his chin with silent regret, turning away from the noisy wantons who were breathing too loudly in the darkness. Only one thing put him out of temper: two lovers had acquired the bad habit of embracing outside his wall. It was not that it prevented him from sleeping, but they leaned against the wall so heavily that at last they damaged it. Every evening old Mouque received a visit from his friend, Father Bonnemort, who regularly before dinner took the same walk. The two old men spoke little, scarcely exchanging ten words during the half-hour that they spent together. But it cheered them thus to think over the days of old, to chew their recollections over again without need to talk of them. At Réquillart they sat on a beam side by side, saying a word and then sinking into their dreams, with faces bent towards the earth. No doubt they were becoming young again. Around them lovers were turning over their sweethearts; there was a murmur of kisses and laughter; the warm odour of the girls arose in the freshness of the trodden grass. It was now forty-three years since Father Bonnemort had taken his wife behind the pit; she was a putter, so slight that he had placed her on a tram to embrace her at ease. Ah! those were fine days. And the two old men, shaking their heads, at last left each other, often without saying good night. That evening, however, as Étienne arrived, Father Bonnemort, who was getting up from the beam to return to the settlement, said to Mouque: "Good night, old man. I say, you knew Roussie?" Mouque was silent for a moment, rocked his shoulders; then, returning to the house: "Good night, good night, old man." Étienne came and sat on the beam, in his turn. His sadness was increasing, though he could not tell why. The old man, whose disappearing back he watched, recalled his arrival in the morning, and the flood of words which the piercing wind had dragged from his silence. What wretchedness! And all these girls, worn out with fatigue, who were still stupid enough in the evening to fabricate little ones, to yield flesh for labour and suffering! It would never come to an end if they were always filling themselves with starvelings. Would it not be better if they were to shut up their bellies, and press their thighs together, as at the approach of misfortune? Perhaps these gloomy ideas only stirred confusedly in him because he was alone, while all the others at this hour were going about taking their pleasure in couples. The mild weather stifled him a little, occasional drops of rain fell on his feverish hands. Yes, they all came to it; it was something stronger than reason. Just then, as Étienne remained seated motionless in the shadow, a couple who came down from Montsou rustled against him without seeing him as they entered the uneven Réquillart ground. The girl, certainly a virgin, was struggling and resisting with low whispered supplications, while the lad in silence was pushing her towards the darkness of a corner of the shed, still upright, under which there were piles of old mouldy rope. It was Catherine and big Chaval. But Étienne had not recognized them in passing, and his eyes followed them; he was watching for the end of the story, touched by a sensuality which changed the course of his thoughts. Why should he interfere? When girls refuse it is because they like first to be forced. On leaving the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante Catherine had gone to Montsou along the road. From the age of ten, since she had earned her living at the pit, she went about the country alone in the complete liberty of the colliers' families; and if no man had possessed her at fifteen it was owing to the tardy awakening of her puberty, the crisis of which had not yet arrived. When she was in front of the Company's Yards she crossed the road and entered a laundress's where she was certain to find Mouquette; for the latter stayed there from morning till night, among women who treated each other with coffee all round. But she was disappointed; Mouquette had just then been regaling them in her turn so thoroughly that she was not able to lend the half-franc she had promised. To console her they vainly offered a glass of hot coffee. She was not even willing that her companion should borrow from another woman. An idea of economy had come to her, a sort of superstitious fear, the certainty that that ribbon would bring her bad luck if she were to buy it now. She hastened to regain the road to the settlement, and had reached the last houses of Montsou when a man at the door of the Piquette Estaminet called her: "Eh! Catherine! where are you off to so quick?" It was lanky Chaval. She was vexed, not because he displeased her, but because she was not inclined to joke. "Come in and have a drink. A little glass of sweet, won't you?" She refused politely; the night was coming on, they were expecting her at home. He had advanced, and was entreating her in a low voice in the middle of the road. It had been his idea for a long time to persuade her to come up to the room which he occupied on the first story of the Estaminet Piquette, a fine room for a household, with a large bed. Did he frighten her, that she always refused? She laughed good-naturedly, and said that she would come up some day when children didn't grow. Then, one thing leading to another, she told him, without knowing how, about the blue ribbon which she had not been able to buy. "But I'll pay for it," he exclaimed. She blushed, feeling that it would be best to refuse again, but possessed by a strong desire to have the ribbon. The idea of a loan came back to her, and at last she accepted on condition that she should return to him what he spent on her. They began to joke again: it was agreed that if she did not sleep with him she should return him the money. But there was another difficulty when he talked of going to Maigrat's. "No, not Maigrat's; mother won't let me." "Why? is there any need to say where one goes? He has the best ribbons in Montsou." When Maigrat saw lanky Chaval and Catherine coming to his shop like two lovers who are buying their engagement gifts, he became very red, and exhibited his pieces of blue ribbon with the rage of a man who is being made fun of. Then, when he had served the young people, he planted himself at the door to watch them disappear in the twilight; and when his wife came to ask him a question in a timid voice, he fell on her, abusing her, and exclaiming that he would make them repent some day, the filthy creatures, who had no gratitude, when they ought all to be on the ground licking his feet. Lanky Chaval accompanied Catherine along the road. He walked beside her, swinging his arms; only he pushed her by the hip, conducting her without seeming to do so. She suddenly perceived that he had made her leave the pavement and that they were taking the narrow Réquillart road. But she had no time to be angry; his arm was already round her waist, and he was dazing her with a constant caress of words. How stupid she was to be afraid! Did he want to hurt such a little darling, who was as soft as silk, so tender that he could have devoured her? And he breathed behind her ear, in her neck, so that a shudder passed over the skin of her whole body. She felt stifled, and had nothing to reply. It was true that he seemed to love her. On Saturday evenings, after having blown out the candle, she had asked herself what would happen if he were to take her in this way; then, on going to sleep, she had dreamed that she would no longer refuse, quite overcome by pleasure. Why, then, at the same idea to-day did she feel repugnance and something like regret? While he was tickling her neck with his moustache so softly that she closed her eyes, the shadow of another man, of the lad she had seen that morning, passed over the darkness of her closed eyelids. Catherine suddenly looked around her. Chaval had conducted her into the ruins of Réquillart and she recoiled, shuddering, from the darkness of the fallen shed. "Oh! no! oh, no!" she murmured, "please let me go!" The fear of the male had taken hold of her, that fear which stiffens the muscles in an impulse of defence, even when girls are willing, and feel the conquering approach of man. Her virginity which had nothing to learn took fright as at a threatening blow, a wound of which she feared the unknown pain. "No, no! I don't want to! I tell you that I am too young. It's true! Another time, when I am quite grown up." He growled in a low voice: "Stupid! There's nothing to fear. What does that matter?" But without speaking more he had seized her firmly and pushed her beneath the shed. And she fell on her back on the old ropes; she ceased to protest, yielding to the male before her time, with that hereditary submission which from childhood had thrown down in the open air all the girls of her race. Her frightened stammering grew faint, and only the ardent breath of the man was heard. Étienne, however, had listened without moving. Another who was taking the leap! And now that he had seen the comedy he got up, overcome by uneasiness, by a kind of jealous excitement in which there was a touch of anger. He no longer restrained himself; he stepped over the beams, for those two were too much occupied now to be disturbed. He was surprised, therefore, when he had gone a hundred paces along the path, to find that they were already standing up, and that they appeared, like himself, to be returning to the settlement. The man again had his arm round the girl's waist, and was squeezing her, with an air of gratitude, still speaking in her neck; and it was she who seemed in a hurry, anxious to return quickly, and annoyed at the delay. Then Étienne was tormented by the desire to see their faces. It was foolish, and he hastened his steps, so as not to yield to it; but his feet slackened of their own accord, and at the first lamppost he concealed himself in the shade. He was petrified by horror when he recognized Catherine and lanky Chaval. He hesitated at first: was it indeed she, that young girl in the coarse blue dress, with that bonnet? Was that the urchin whom he had seen in breeches, with her head in the canvas cap? That was why she could pass so near him without his recognizing her. But he no longer doubted; he had seen her eyes again, with their greenish limpidity of spring water, so clear and so deep. What a wench! And he experienced a furious desire to avenge himself on her with contempt, without any motive. Besides, he did not like her as a girl: she was frightful. Catherine and Chaval had passed him slowly. They did not know that they were watched. He held her to kiss her behind the ear, and she began to slacken her steps beneath his caresses, which made her laugh. Left behind, Étienne was obliged to follow them, irritated because they barred the road and because in spite of himself he had to witness these things which exasperated him. It was true, then, what she had sworn to him in the morning: she was not any one's mistress; and he, who had not believed her, who had deprived himself of her in order not to act like the other! and who had let her be taken beneath his nose, pushing his stupidity so far as to be dirtily amused at seeing them! It made him mad! he clenched his hands, he could have devoured that man in one of those impulses to kill in which he saw everything red. The walk lasted for half an hour. When Chaval and Catherine approached the Voreux they slackened their pace still more; they stopped twice beside the canal, three times along the pit-bank, very cheerful now and occupied with little tender games. Étienne was obliged to stop also when they stopped, for fear of being perceived. He endeavoured to feel nothing but a brutal regret: that would teach him to treat girls with consideration through being well brought up! Then, after passing the Voreux, and at last free to go and dine at Rasseneur's, he continued to follow them, accompanying them to the settlement, where he remained standing in the shade for a quarter of an hour, waiting until Chaval left Catherine to enter her home. And when he was quite sure that they were no longer together, he set off walking afresh, going very far along the Marchiennes road, stamping, and thinking of nothing, too stifled and too sad to shut himself up in a room. It was not until an hour later, towards nine o'clock, that Étienne again passed the settlement, saying to himself that he must eat and sleep, if he was to be up again at four o'clock in the morning. The village was already asleep, and looked quite black in the night. Not a gleam shone from the closed shutters, the house fronts slept, with the heavy sleep of snoring barracks. Only a cat escaped through the empty gardens. It was the end of the day, the collapse of workers falling from the table to the bed, overcome with weariness and food. At Rasseneur's, in the lighted room, an engine-man and two day-workers were drinking. But before going in Étienne stopped to throw one last glance into the darkness. He saw again the same black immensity as in the morning when he had arrived in the wind. Before him the Voreux was crouching, with its air of an evil beast, its dimness pricked with a few lantern lights. The three braziers of the bank were burning in the air, like bloody moons, now and then showing the vast silhouettes of Father Bonnemort and his yellow horse. And beyond, in the flat plain, shade had submerged everything, Montsou, Marchiennes, the forest of Vandame, the immense sea of beetroot and of wheat, in which there only shone, like distant lighthouses, the blue fires of the blast furnaces, and the red fires of the coke ovens. Gradually the night came on, the rain was now falling slowly, continuously, burying this void in its monotonous streaming. Only one voice was still heard, the thick, slow respiration of the pumping engine, breathing both by day and by night. PART THREE CHAPTER I On the next day, and the days that followed, Étienne continued his work at the pit. He grew accustomed to it; his existence became regulated by this labour and to these new habits which had seemed so hard to him at first. Only one episode interrupted the monotony of the first fortnight: a slight fever which kept him in bed for forty-eight hours with aching limbs and throbbing head, dreaming in a state of semi-delirium that he was pushing his tram in a passage that was so narrow that his body would not pass through. It was simply the exhaustion of his apprenticeship, an excess of fatigue from which he quickly recovered. And days followed days, until weeks and months had slipped by. Now, like his mates, he got up at three o'clock, drank his coffee, and carried off the double slice of bread and butter which Madame Rasseneur had prepared for him the evening before. Regularly as he went every morning to the pit, he met old Bonnemort who was going home to sleep, and on leaving in the afternoon he crossed Bouteloup who was going to his task. He had his cap, his breeches and canvas jacket, and he shivered and warmed his back in the shed before the large fire. Then came the waiting with naked feet in the receiving-room, swept by furious currents of air. But the engine, with its great steel limbs starred with copper shining up above in the shade, no longer attracted his attention, nor the cables which flew by with the black and silent motion of a nocturnal bird, nor the cages rising and plunging unceasingly in the midst of the noise of signals, of shouted orders, of trams shaking the metal floor. His lamp burnt badly, that confounded lamp-man could not have cleaned it; and he only woke up when Mouquet bundled them all off, roguishly smacking the girls' flanks. The cage was unfastened, and fell like a stone to the bottom of a hole without causing him even to lift his head to see the daylight vanish. He never thought of a possible fall; he felt himself at home as he sank into the darkness beneath the falling rain. Below at the pit-eye, when Pierron had unloaded them with his air of hypocritical mildness, there was always the same tramping as of a flock, the yard-men each going away to his cutting with trailing steps. He now knew the mine galleries better than the streets of Montsou; he knew where he had to turn, where he had to stoop, and where he had to avoid a puddle. He had grown so accustomed to these two kilometres beneath the earth, that he could have traversed them without a lamp, with his hands in his pockets. And every time the same meetings took place: a captain lighting up the faces of the passing workmen, Father Mouque leading a horse, Bébert conducting the snorting Bataille, Jeanlin running behind the tram to close the ventilation doors, and big Mouquette and lean Lydie pushing their trams. After a time, also, Étienne suffered much less from the damp and closeness of the cutting. The chimney or ascending passage seemed to him more convenient for climbing up, as if he had melted and could pass through cracks where before he would not have risked a hand. He breathed the coal-dust without difficulty, saw clearly in the obscurity, and sweated tranquilly, having grown accustomed to the sensation of wet garments on his body from morning to night. Besides, he no longer spent his energy recklessly; he had gained skill so rapidly that he astonished the whole stall. In three weeks he was named among the best putters in the pit; no one pushed a tram more rapidly to the upbrow, nor loaded it afterwards so correctly. His small figure allowed him to slip about everywhere, and though his arms were as delicate and white as a woman's, they seemed to be made of iron beneath the smooth skin, so vigorously did they perform their task. He never complained, out of pride no doubt, even when he was panting with fatigue. The only thing they had against him was that he could not take a joke, and grew angry as soon as any one trod on his toes. In all other respects he was accepted and looked upon as a real miner, reduced beneath this pressure of habit, little by little, to a machine. Maheu regarded Étienne with special friendship, for he respected work that was well done. Then, like the others, he felt that this lad had more education than himself; he saw him read, write, and draw little plans; he heard him talking of things of which he himself did not know even the existence. This caused him no astonishment, for miners are rough fellows who have thicker heads than engine-men; but he was surprised at the courage of this little chap, and at the cheerful way he had bitten into the coal to avoid dying of hunger. He had never met a workman who grew accustomed to it so quickly. So when hewing was urgent, and he did not wish to disturb a pikeman, he gave the timbering over to the young man, being sure of the neatness and solidity of his work. The bosses were always bothering him about the damned planking question; he feared every hour the appearance of the engineer Négrel, followed by Dansaert, shouting, discussing, ordering everything to be done over again, and he remarked that his putter's timbering gave greater satisfaction to these gentlemen, in spite of their air of never being pleased with anything, and their repeated assertions that the Company would one day or another take radical measures. Things dragged on; a deep discontent was fomenting in the pit, and Maheu himself, in spite of his calmness, was beginning to clench his fists. There was at first some rivalry between Zacharie and Étienne. One evening they were even coming to blows. But the former, a good lad though careless of everything but his own pleasure, was quickly appeased by the friendly offer of a glass, and soon yielded to the superiority of the new-comer. Levaque was also on good terms with him, talking politics with the putter, who, as he said, had his own ideas. The only one of the men in whom he felt a deep hostility was lanky Chaval: not that they were cool towards each other, for, on the contrary, they had become companions; only when they joked their eyes seemed to devour each other. Catherine continued to move among them as a tired, resigned girl, bending her back, pushing her tram, always good-natured with her companion in the putting, who aided her in his turn, and submissive to the wishes of her lover, whose caresses she now received openly. It was an accepted situation, a recognized domestic arrangement to which the family itself closed its eyes to such a degree that Chaval every evening led away the putter behind the pit-bank, then brought her back to her parents' door, where he finally embraced her before the whole settlement. Étienne, who believed that he had reconciled himself to the situation, often teased her about these walks, making crude remarks by way of joke, as lads and girls will at the bottom of the cuttings; and she replied in the same tone, telling in a swaggering way what her lover had done to her, yet disturbed and growing pale when the young man's eyes chanced to meet hers. Then both would turn away their heads, not speaking again, perhaps, for an hour, looking as if they hated each other because of something buried within them and which they could never explain to each other. The spring had come. On emerging from the pit one day Étienne had received in his face a warm April breeze, a good odour of young earth, of tender greenness, of large open air; and now, every time he came up the spring smelt sweeter, warmed him more, after his ten hours of labour in the eternal winter at the bottom, in the midst of that damp darkness which no summer had ever dissipated. The days grew longer and longer; at last, in May, he went down at sunrise when a vermilion sky lit up the Voreux with a mist of dawn in which the white vapour of the pumping-engine became rose-coloured. There was no more shivering, a warm breath blew across the plain, while the larks sang far above. Then at three o'clock he was dazzled by the now burning sun which set fire to the horizon, and reddened the bricks beneath the filth of the coal. In June the wheat was already high, of a blue green, which contrasted with the black green of the beetroots. It was an endless vista undulating beneath the slightest breeze; and he saw it spread and grow from day to day, and was sometimes surprised, as if he had found it in the evening more swollen with verdure than it had been in the morning. The poplars along the canal were putting on their plumes of leaves. Grass was invading the pit-bank, flowers were covering the meadows, a whole life was germinating and pushing up from this earth beneath which he was groaning in misery and fatigue. When Étienne now went for a walk in the evening he no longer startled lovers behind the pit-bank. He could follow their track in the wheat and divine their wanton birds' nests by eddies among the yellowing blades and the great red poppies. Zacharie and Philoméne came back to it out of old domestic habit; Mother Brulé, always on Lydie's heels, was constantly hunting her out with Jeanlin, buried so deeply together that one had to tread on them before they made up their minds to get up; and as to Mouquette, she lay about everywhere--one could not cross a field without seeing her head plunge down while only her feet emerged as she lay at full length. But all these were quite free; the young man found nothing guilty there except on the evenings when he met Catherine and Chaval. Twice he saw them on his approach tumble down in the midst of a field, where the motionless stalks afterwards remained dead. Another time, as he was going along a narrow path, Catherine's clear eyes appeared before him, level with the wheat, and immediately sank. Then the immense plain seemed to him too small, and he preferred to pass the evening at Rasseneur's, in the Avantage. "Give me a glass, Madame Rasseneur. No, I'm not going out to-night; my legs are too stiff." And he turned towards a comrade, who always sat at the bottom table with his head against the wall. "Souvarine, won't you have one?" "No, thanks; nothing." Étienne had become acquainted with Souvarine through living there side by side. He was an engine-man at the Voreux, and occupied the furnished room upstairs next to his own. He must have been about thirty years old, fair and slender, with a delicate face framed by thick hair and a slight beard. His white pointed teeth, his thin mouth and nose, with his rosy complexion, gave him a girlish appearance, an air of obstinate gentleness, across which the grey reflection of his steely eyes threw savage gleams. In his poor workman's room there was nothing but a box of papers and books. He was a Russian, and never spoke of himself, so that many stories were afloat concerning him. The colliers, who are very suspicious with strangers, guessing from his small middle-class hands that he belonged to another caste, had at first imagined a romance, some assassination, and that he was escaping punishment. But then he had behaved in such a fraternal way with them, without any pride, distributing to the youngsters of the settlement all the sous in his pockets, that they now accepted him, reassured by the term "political refugee" which circulated about him--a vague term, in which they saw an excuse even for crime, and, as it were, a companionship in suffering. During the first weeks, Étienne had found him timid and reserved, so that he only discovered his history later on. Souvarine was the latest born of a noble family in the Government of Tula. At St. Petersburg, where he studied medicine, the socialistic enthusiasm which then carried away all the youth in Russia had decided him to learn a manual trade, that of a mechanic, so that he could mix with the people, in order to know them and help them as a brother. And it was by this trade that he was now living after having fled, in consequence of an unsuccessful attempt against the tsar's life: for a month he had lived in a fruiterer's cellar, hollowing out a mine underneath the road, and charging bombs, with the constant risk of being blown up with the house. Renounced by his family, without money, expelled from the French workshops as a foreigner who was regarded as a spy, he was dying of starvation when the Montsou Company had at last taken him on at a moment of pressure. For a year he had laboured there as a good, sober, silent workman, doing day-work one week and night-work the next week, so regularly that the masters referred to him as an example to the others. "Are you never thirsty?" said Étienne to him, laughing. And he replied with his gentle voice, almost without an accent: "I am thirsty when I eat." His companion also joked him about the girls, declaring that he had seen him with a putter in the wheat on the Bas-de-Soie side. Then he shrugged his shoulders with tranquil indifference. What should he do with a putter? Woman was for him a boy, a comrade, when she had the fraternal feeling and the courage of a man. What was the good of having a possible act of cowardice on one's conscience? He desired no bond, either woman or friend; he would be master of his own life and those of others. Every evening towards nine o'clock, when the inn was emptying, Étienne remained thus talking with Souvarine. He drank his beer in small sips, while the engine-man smoked constant cigarettes, of which the tobacco had at last stained his slender fingers. His vague mystic's eyes followed the smoke in the midst of a dream; his left hand sought occupation by nervously twitching; and he usually ended by installing a tame rabbit on his knees, a large doe with young, who lived at liberty in the house. This rabbit, which he had named Poland, had grown to worship him; she would come and smell his trousers, fawn on him and scratch him with her paws until he took her up like a child. Then, lying in a heap against him, her ears laid back, she would close her eyes; and without growing tired, with an unconscious caressing gesture, he would pass his hand over her grey silky fur, calmed by that warm living softness. "You know I have had a letter from Pluchart," said Étienne one evening. Only Rasseneur was there. The last client had departed for the settlement, which was now going to bed. "Ah!" exclaimed the innkeeper, standing up before his two lodgers. "How are things going with Pluchart?" During the last two months, Étienne had kept up a constant correspondence with the Lille mechanician, whom he had told of his Montsou engagement, and who was now indoctrinating him, having been struck by the propaganda which he might carry on among the miners. "The association is getting on very well. It seems that they are coming in from all sides." "What have you got to say, eh, about their society?" asked Rasseneur of Souvarine. The latter, who was softly scratching Poland's head, blew out a puff of smoke and muttered, with his tranquil air: "More foolery!" But Étienne grew enthusiastic. A predisposition for revolt was throwing him, in the first illusions of his ignorance, into the struggle of labour against capital. It was the International Working Men's Association that they were concerned with, that famous International which had just been founded in London. Was not that a superb effort, a campaign in which justice would at last triumph? No more frontiers; the workers of the whole world rising and uniting to assure to the labourer the bread that he has earned. And what a simple and great organization! Below, the section which represents the commune; then the federation which groups the sections of the same province; then the nation; and then, at last, humanity incarnated in a general council in which each nation was represented by a corresponding secretary. In six months it would conquer the world, and would be able to dictate laws to the masters should they prove obstinate. "Foolery!" repeated Souvarine. "Your Karl Marx is still only thinking about letting natural forces act. No politics, no conspiracies, is it not so? Everything in the light of day, and simply to raise wages. Don't bother me with your evolution! Set fire to the four corners of the town, mow down the people, level everything, and when there is nothing more of this rotten world left standing, perhaps a better one will grow up in its place." Étienne began to laugh. He did not always take in his comrade's sayings; this theory of destruction seemed to him an affectation. Rasseneur, who was still more practical, like a man of solid common sense did not condescend to get angry. He only wanted to have things clear. "Then, what? Are you going to try and create a section at Montsou?" This was what was desired by Pluchart, who was secretary to the Federation of the Nord. He insisted especially on the services which the association would render to the miners should they go out on strike. Étienne believed that a strike was imminent: this timbering business would turn out badly; any further demands on the part of the Company would cause rebellion in all the pits. "It's the subscriptions that are the nuisance," Rasseneur declared, in a judicial tone. "Half a franc a year for the general fund, two francs for the section; it looks like nothing, but I bet that many will refuse to give it." "All the more," added Étienne, "because we must first have here a Provident Fund, which we can use if need be as an emergency fund. No matter, it is time to think about these things. I am ready if the others are." There was silence. The petroleum lamp smoked on the counter. Through the large open door they could distinctly hear the shovel of a stoker at the Voreux stoking the engine. "Everything is so dear!" began Madame Rasseneur, who had entered and was listening with a gloomy air as if she had grown up in her everlasting black dress. "When I tell you that I've paid twenty-two sous for eggs! It will have to burst up." All three men this time were of the same opinion. They spoke one after the other in a despairing voice, giving expression to their complaints. The workers could not hold out; the Revolution had only aggravated their wretchedness; only the bourgeois had grown fat since '89, so greedily that they had not even left the bottom of the plates to lick. Who could say that the workers had had their reasonable share in the extraordinary increase of wealth and comfort during the last hundred years? They had made fun of them by declaring them free. Yes, free to starve, a freedom of which they fully availed themselves. It put no bread into your cupboard to go and vote for fine fellows who went away and enjoyed themselves, thinking no more of the wretched voters than of their old boots. No! one way or another it would have to come to an end, either quietly by laws, by an understanding in good fellowship, or like savages by burning everything and devouring one another. Even if they never saw it, their children would certainly see it, for the century could not come to an end without another revolution, that of the workers this time, a general hustling which would cleanse society from top to bottom, and rebuild it with more cleanliness and justice. "It will have to burst up," Madame Rasseneur repeated energetically. "Yes, yes," they all three cried. "It will have to burst up." Souvarine was now tickling Poland's ears, and her nose was curling with pleasure. He said in a low voice, with abstracted gaze, as if to himself: "Raise wages--how can you? They're fixed by an iron law to the smallest possible sum, just the sum necessary to allow the workers to eat dry bread and get children. If they fall too low, the workers die, and the demand for new men makes them rise. If they rise too high, more men come, and they fall. It is the balance of empty bellies, a sentence to a perpetual prison of hunger." When he thus forgot himself, entering into the questions that stir an educated socialist, Étienne and Rasseneur became restless, disturbed by his despairing statements which they were unable to answer. "Do you understand?" he said again, gazing at them with his habitual calmness; "we must destroy everything, or hunger will reappear. Yes, anarchy and nothing more; the earth washed in blood and purified by fire! Then we shall see!" "Monsieur is quite right," said Madame Rasseneur, who, in her revolutionary violence, was always very polite. Étienne, in despair at his ignorance, would argue no longer. He rose, remarking: "Let's go to bed. All this won't save one from getting up at three o'clock." Souvarine, having blown away the cigarette-end which was sticking to his lips, was already gently lifting the big rabbit beneath the belly to place it on the ground. Rasseneur was shutting up the house. They separated in silence with buzzing ears, as if their heads had swollen with the grave questions they had been discussing. And every evening there were similar conversations in the bare room around the single glass which Étienne took an hour to empty. A crowd of obscure ideas, asleep within him, were stirring and expanding. Especially consumed by the need of knowledge, he had long hesitated to borrow books from his neighbour, who unfortunately had hardly any but German and Russian works. At last he had borrowed a French book on Co-operative Societies--mere foolery, said Souvarine; and he also regularly read a newspaper which the latter received, the Combat, an Anarchist journal published at Geneva. In other respects, notwithstanding their daily relations, he found him as reserved as ever, with his air of camping in life, without interests or feelings or possessions of any kind. Towards the first days of July, Étienne's situation began to improve. In the midst of this monotonous life, always beginning over again, an accident had occurred. The stalls in the Guillaume seam had come across a shifting of the strata, a general disturbance in the layers, which certainly announced that they were approaching a fault; and, in fact, they soon came across this fault which the engineers, in spite of considerable knowledge of the soil, were still ignorant of. This upset the pit; nothing was talked of but the lost seam, which was to be found, no doubt, lower down on the other side of the fault. The old miners were already expanding their nostrils, like good dogs, in a chase for coal. But, meanwhile, the hewers could not stand with folded arms, and placards announced that the Company would put up new workings to auction. Maheu, on coming out one day, accompanied Étienne and offered to take him on as a pikeman in his working, in place of Levaque who had gone to another yard. The matter had already been arranged with the head captain and the engineer, who were very pleased with the young man. So Étienne merely had to accept this rapid promotion, glad of the growing esteem in which Maheu held him. In the evening they returned together to the pit to take note of the placards. The cuttings put up to auction were in the Filonniére seam in the north gallery of the Voreux. They did not seem very advantageous, and the miner shook his head when the young man read out the conditions. On the following day when they had gone down, he took him to see the seam, and showed him how far away it was from the pit-eye, the crumbly nature of the earth, the thinness and hardness of the coal. But if they were to eat they would have to work. So on the following Sunday they went to the auction, which took place in the shed and was presided over by the engineer of the pit, assisted by the head captain, in the absence of the divisional engineer. From five to six hundred miners were there in front of the little platform, which was placed in the corner, and the bidding went on so rapidly that one only heard a deep tumult of voices, of shouted figures drowned by other figures. For a moment Maheu feared that he would not be able to obtain one of the forty workings offered by the Company. All the rivals went lower, disquieted by the rumours of a crisis and the panic of a lock-out. Négrel, the engineer, did not hurry in the face of this panic, and allowed the offers to fall to the lowest possible figures, while Dansaert, anxious to push matters still further, lied with regard to the quality of the workings. In order to get his fifty metres, Maheu struggled with a comrade who was also obstinate; in turn they each took off a centime from the tram; and if he conquered in the end it was only by lowering the wage to such an extent, that the captain Richomme, who was standing behind him, muttered between his teeth, and nudged him with his elbow, growling angrily that he could never do it at that price. When they came out Étienne was swearing. And he broke out before Chaval, who was returning from the wheatfields in company with Catherine, amusing himself while his father-in-law was absorbed in serious business. "By God!" he exclaimed, "it's simply slaughter! Today it is the worker who is forced to devour the worker!" Chaval was furious. He would never have lowered it, he wouldn't. And Zacharie, who had come out of curiosity, declared that it was disgusting. But Étienne with a violent gesture silenced them. "It will end some day, we shall be the masters!" Maheu, who had been mute since the auction, appeared to wake up. He repeated: "Masters! Ah! bad luck! it can't be too soon!" CHAPTER II It was Montsou feast-day, the last Sunday in July. Since Saturday evening the good housekeepers of the settlement had deluged their parlours with water, throwing bucketfuls over the flags and against the walls; and the floor was not yet dry, in spite of the white sand which had been strewn over it, an expensive luxury for the purses of the poor. But the day promised to be very warm; it was one of those heavy skies threatening storm, which in summer stifle this flat bare country of the Nord. Sunday upset the hours for rising, even among the Maheus. While the father, after five o'clock, grew weary of his bed and dressed himself, the children lay in bed until nine. On this day Maheu went to smoke a pipe in the garden, and then came back to eat his bread and butter alone, while waiting. He thus passed the morning in a random manner; he mended the tub, which leaked; stuck up beneath the clock a portrait of the prince imperial which had been given to the little ones. However, the others came down one by one. Father Bonnemort had taken a chair outside, to sit in the sun, while the mother and Alzire had at once set about cooking. Catherine appeared, pushing before her Lénore and Henri, whom she had just dressed. Eleven o'clock struck, and the odour of the rabbit, which was boiling with potatoes, was already filling the house when Zacharie and Jeanlin came down last, still yawning and with their swollen eyes. The settlement was now in a flutter, excited by the feast-day, and in expectation of dinner, which was being hastened for the departure in bands to Montsou. Troops of children were rushing about. Men in their shirt-sleeves were trailing their old shoes with the lazy gait of days of rest. Windows and doors, opened wide in the fine weather, gave glimpses of rows of parlours which were filled with movement and shouts and the chatter of families. And from one end to the other of the frontages, there was a smell of rabbit, a rich kitchen smell which on this day struggled with the inveterate odour of fried onion. The Maheus dined at midday. They made little noise in the midst of the chatter from door to door, in the coming and going of women in a constant uproar of calls and replies, of objects borrowed, of youngsters hunted away or brought back with a slap. Besides, they had not been on good terms during the last three weeks with their neighbours, the Levaques, on the subject of the marriage of Zacharie and Philoméne. The men passed the time of day, but the women pretended not to know each other. This quarrel had strengthened the relations with Pierronne, only Pierronne had left Pierron and Lydie with her mother, and set out early in the morning to spend the day with a cousin at Marchiennes; and they joked, for they knew this cousin; she had a moustache, and was head captain at the Voreux. Maheude declared that it was not proper to leave one's family on a feast-day Sunday. Beside the rabbit with potatoes, a rabbit which had been fattening in the shed for a month, the Maheus had meat soup and beef. The fortnight's wages had just fallen due the day before. They could not recollect such a spread. Even at the last St. Barbara's Day, the fete of the miners when they do nothing for three days, the rabbit had not been so fat nor so tender. So the ten pairs of jaws, from little Estelle, whose teeth were beginning to appear, to old Bonnemort, who was losing his, worked so heartily that the bones themselves disappeared. The meat was good, but they could not digest it well; they saw it too seldom. Everything disappeared; there only remained a piece of boiled beef for the evening. They could add bread and butter if they were hungry. Jeanlin went out first. Bébert was waiting for him behind the school, and they prowled about for a long time before they were able to entice away Lydie, whom Brulé, who had decided not to go out, was trying to keep with her. When she perceived that the child had fled, she shouted and brandished her lean arms, while Pierron, annoyed at the disturbance, strolled quietly away with the air of a husband who can amuse himself with a good conscience, knowing that his wife also has her little amusements. Old Bonnemort set out at last, and Maheu decided to have a little fresh air after asking Maheude if she would come and join him down below. No, she couldn't at all, it was nothing but drudgery with the little ones; but perhaps she would, all the same; she would think about it: they could easily find each other. When he got outside he hesitated, then he went into the neighbours' to see if Levaque was ready. There he found Zacharie, who was waiting for Philoméne, and the Levaque woman started again on that everlasting subject of marriage, saying that she was being made fun of and that she would have an explanation with Maheude once and for all. Was life worth living when one had to keep one's daughter's fatherless children while she went off with her lover? Philoméne quietly finished putting on her bonnet, and Zacharie took her off, saying that he was quite willing if his mother was willing. As Levaque had already gone, Maheu referred his angry neighbour to his wife and hastened to depart. Bouteloup, who was finishing a fragment of cheese with both elbows on the table, obstinately refused the friendly offer of a glass. He would stay in the house like a good husband. Gradually the settlement was emptied; all the men went off one behind the other, while the girls, watching at the doors, set out in the opposite direction on the arms of their lovers. As her father turned the corner of the church, Catherine perceived Chaval, and, hastening to join him, they took together the Montsou road. And the mother remained alone, in the midst of her scattered children, without strength to leave her chair, where she was pouring out a second glass of boiling coffee, which she drank in little sips. In the settlement there were only the women left, inviting each other to finish the dregs of the coffee-pots, around tables that were still warm and greasy with the dinner. Maheu had guessed that Levaque was at the Avantage, and he slowly went down to Rasseneur's. In fact, behind the bar, in the little garden shut in by a hedge, Levaque was having a game of skittles with some mates. Standing by, and not playing, Father Bonnemort and old Mouque were following the ball, so absorbed that they even forgot to nudge each other with their elbows. A burning sun struck down on them perpendicularly; there was only one streak of shade by the side of the inn; and Étienne was there drinking his glass before a table, annoyed because Souvarine had just left him to go up to his room. Nearly every Sunday the engine-man shut himself up to write or to read. "Will you have a game?" asked Levaque of Maheu. But he refused: it was too hot, he was already dying of thirst. "Rasseneur," called Étienne, "bring a glass, will you?" And turning towards Maheu: "I'll stand it, you know." They now all treated each other familiarly. Rasseneur did not hurry himself, he had to be called three times; and Madame Rasseneur at last brought some lukewarm beer. The young man had lowered his voice to complain about the house: they were worthy people, certainly, people with good ideas, but the beer was worthless and the soup abominable! He would have changed his lodgings ten times over, only the thought of the walk from Montsou held him back. One day or another he would go and live with some family at the settlement. "Sure enough!" said Maheu in his slow voice, "sure enough, you would be better in a family." But shouts now broke out. Levaque had overthrown all the skittles at one stroke. Mouque and Bonnemort, with their faces towards the ground, in the midst of the tumult preserved a silence of profound approbation. And the joy at this stroke found vent in jokes, especially when the players perceived Mouquette's radiant face behind the hedge. She had been prowling about there for an hour, and at last ventured to come near on hearing the laughter. "What! are you alone?" shouted Levaque. "Where are your sweethearts?" "My sweethearts! I've stabled them," she replied, with a fine impudent gaiety. "I'm looking for one." They all offered themselves, throwing coarse chaff at her. She refused with a gesture and laughed louder, playing the fine lady. Besides, her father was watching the game without even taking his eyes from the fallen skittles. "Ah!" Levaque went on, throwing a look towards Étienne: "one can tell where you're casting sheep's eyes, my girl! You'll have to take him by force." Then Étienne brightened up. It was in fact around him that the putter was revolving. And he refused, amused indeed, but without having the least desire for her. She remained planted behind the hedge for some minutes longer, looking at him with large fixed eyes; then she slowly went away, and her face suddenly became serious as if she were overcome by the powerful sun. In a low voice Étienne was again giving long explanations to Maheu regarding the necessity for the Montsou miners to establish a Provident Fund. "Since the Company professes to leave us free," he repeated, "what is there to fear? We only have their pensions and they distribute them according to their own idea, since they don't hold back any of our pay. Well, it will be prudent to form, outside their good pleasure, an association of mutual help on which we can count at least in cases of immediate need." And he gave details, and discussed the organization, promising to undertake the labour of it. "I am willing enough," said Maheu, at last convinced. "But there are the others; get them to make up their minds." Levaque had won, and they left the skittles to empty their glasses. But Maheu refused to drink a second glass; he would see later on, the day was not yet done. He was thinking about Pierron. Where could he be? No doubt at the Lenfant Estaminet. And, having persuaded Étienne and Levaque, the three set out for Montsou, at the same moment that a new band took possession of the skittles at the Avantage. On the road they had to pause at the Casimir Bar, and then at the Estaminet du Progrés. Comrades called them through the open doors, and there was no way of refusing. Each time it was a glass, two if they were polite enough to return the invitation. They remained there ten minutes, exchanging a few words, and then began again, a little farther on, knowing the beer, with which they could fill themselves without any other discomfort than having to piss it out again in the same measure, as clear as rock water. At the Estaminet Lenfant they came right upon Pierron, who was finishing his second glass, and who, in order not to refuse to touch glasses, swallowed a third. They naturally drank theirs also. Now there were four of them, and they set out to see if Zacharie was not at the Estaminet Tison. It was empty, and they called for a glass, in order to wait for him a moment. Then they thought of the Estaminet Saint-Éloi and accepted there a round from Captain Richomme. Then they rambled from bar to bar, without any pretext, simply saying that they were having a stroll. "We must go to the Volcan!" suddenly said Levaque, who was getting excited. The others began to laugh, and hesitated. Then they accompanied their comrade in the midst of the growing crowd. In the long narrow room of the Volcan, on a platform raised at the end, five singers, the scum of the Lille prostitutes, were walking about, low-necked and with monstrous gestures, and the customers gave ten sous when they desired to have one behind the stage. There was especially a number of putters and landers, even trammers of fourteen, all the youth of the pit, drinking more gin than beer. A few old miners also ventured there, and the worst husbands of the settlements, those whose households were falling into ruin. As soon as the band was seated round a little table, Étienne took possession of Levaque to explain to him his idea of the Provident Fund. Like all new converts who have found a mission, he had become an obstinate propagandist. "Every member," he repeated, "could easily pay in twenty sous a month. As these twenty sous accumulated they would form a nice little sum in four or five years, and when one has money one is ready, eh, for anything that turns up? Eh, what do you say to it?" "I've nothing to say against it," replied Levaque, with an abstracted air. "We will talk about it." He was excited by an enormous blonde, and determined to remain behind when Maheu and Pierron, after drinking their glasses, set out without waiting for a second song. Outside, Étienne who had gone with them found Mouquette, who seemed to be following them. She was always there, looking at him with her large fixed eyes, laughing her good-natured laugh, as if to say: "Are you willing?" The young man joked and shrugged his shoulders. Then, with a gesture of anger, she was lost in the crowd. "Where, then, is Chaval?" asked Pierron. "True!" said Maheu. "He must surely be at Piquette's. Let us go to Piquette's." But as they all three arrived at the Estaminet Piquette, sounds of a quarrel arrested them at the door; Zacharie with his fist was threatening a thick-set phlegmatic Walloon nail-maker, while Chaval, with his hands in his pockets, was looking on. "Hullo! there's Chaval," said Maheu quietly; "he is with Catherine." For five long hours the putter and her lover had been walking about the fair. All along the Montsou road, that wide road with low bedaubed houses winding downhill, a crowd of people wandered up and down in the sun, like a trail of ants, lost in the flat, bare plain. The eternal black mud had dried, a black dust was rising and floating about like a storm-cloud. On both sides the public-houses were crowded; there were rows of tables to the street, where stood a double rank of hucksters at stalls in the open air, selling neck-handkerchiefs and looking-glasses for the girls, knives and caps for the lads; to say nothing of sweetmeats, sugar-plums, and biscuits. In front of the church archery was going on. Opposite the Yards they were playing at bowls. At the corner of the Joiselle road, beside the Administration buildings, in a spot enclosed by fences, crowds were watching a cock-fight, two large red cocks, armed with steel spurs, their breasts torn and bleeding. Farther on, at Maigrat's, aprons and trousers were being won at billiards. And there were long silences; the crowd drank and stuffed itself without a sound; a mute indigestion of beer and fried potatoes was expanding in the great heat, still further increased by the frying-pans bubbling in the open air. Chaval bought a looking-glass for nineteen sous and a handkerchief for three francs, to give to Catherine. At every turn they met Mouque and Bonnemort, who had come to the fair and, in meditative mood, were plodding heavily through it side by side. Another meeting made them angry; they caught sight of Jeanlin inciting Bébert and Lydie to steal bottles of gin from an extemporized bar installed at the edge of an open piece of ground. Catherine succeeded in boxing her brother's ears; the little girl had already run away with a bottle. These imps of Satan would certainly end in a prison. Then, as they arrived before another bar, the Tête-Coupée, it occurred to Chaval to take his sweetheart in to a competition of chaffinches which had been announced on the door for the past week. Fifteen nail-makers from the Marchiennes nail works had responded to the appeal, each with a dozen cages; and the gloomy little cages in which the blinded finches sat motionless were already hung upon a paling in the inn yard. It was a question as to which, in the course of an hour, should repeat the phrase of its song the greatest number of times. Each nail-maker with a slate stood near his cages to mark, watching his neighbours and watched by them. And the chaffinches had begun, the _chichouïeux_ with the deeper note, the _batisecouics_ with their shriller note, all at first timid, and only risking a rare phrase, then, excited by each other's songs, increasing the pace; then at last carried away by such a rage of rivalry that they would even fall dead. The nail-makers violently whipped them on with their voices, shouting out to them in Walloon to sing more, still more, yet a little more, while the spectators, about a hundred people, stood by in mute fascination in the midst of this infernal music of a hundred and eighty chaffinches all repeating the same cadence out of time. It was a _batisecouic_ which gained the first prize, a metal coffee-pot. Catherine and Chaval were there when Zacharie and Philoméne entered. They shook hands, and all stayed together. But suddenly Zacharie became angry, for he discovered that a nail-maker, who had come in with his mates out of curiosity, was pinching his sister's thigh. She blushed and tried to make him be silent, trembling at the idea that all these nail-makers would throw themselves on Chaval and kill him if he objected to her being pinched. She had felt the pinch, but said nothing out of prudence. Her lover, however, merely made a grimace, and as they all four now went out the affair seemed to be finished. But hardly had they entered Piquette's to drink a glass, when the nail-maker reappeared, making fun of them and coming close up to them with an air of provocation. Zacharie, insulted in his good family feelings, threw himself on the insolent intruder. "That's my sister, you swine! Just wait a bit, and I'm damned if I don't make you respect her." The two men were separated, while Chaval, who was quite calm, only repeated: "Let be! it's my concern. I tell you I don't care a damn for him." Maheu now arrived with his party, and quieted Catherine and Philoméne who were in tears. The nail-maker had disappeared, and there was laughter in the crowd. To bring the episode to an end, Chaval, who was at home at the Estaminet Piquette, called for drinks. Étienne had touched glasses with Catherine, and all drank together--the father, the daughter and her lover, the son and his mistress--saying politely: "To your good health!" Pierron afterwards persisted in paying for more drinks. And they were all in good humour, when Zacharie grew wild again at the sight of his comrade Mouquet, and called him, as he said, to go and finish his affair with the nail-maker. "I shall have to go and do for him! Here, Chaval, keep Philoméne with Catherine. I'm coming back." Maheu offered drinks in his turn. After all, if the lad wished to avenge his sister it was not a bad example. But as soon as she had seen Mouquet, Philoméne felt at rest, and nodded her head. Sure enough the two chaps would be off to the Volcan! On the evenings of feast-days the fair was terminated in the ball-room of the Bon-Joyeux. It was a widow, Madame Désir, who kept this ball-room, a fat matron of fifty, as round as a tub, but so fresh that she still had six lovers, one for every day of the week, she said, and the six together for Sunday. She called all the miners her children; and grew tender at the thought of the flood of beer which she had poured out for them during the last thirty years; and she boasted also that a putter never became pregnant without having first stretched her legs at her establishment. There were two rooms in the Bon-Joyeux: the bar which contained the counter and tables; then, communicating with it on the same floor by a large arch, was the ball-room, a large hall only planked in the middle, being paved with bricks round the sides. It was decorated with two garlands of paper flowers which crossed one another, and were united in the middle by a crown of the same flowers; while along the walls were rows of gilt shields bearing the names of saints--St. Éloi, patron of the iron-workers; St. Crispin, patron of the shoemakers; St. Barbara, patron of the miners; the whole calendar of corporations. The ceiling was so low that the three musicians on their platform, which was about the size of a pulpit, knocked their heads against it. When it became dark four petroleum lamps were fastened to the four corners of the room. On this Sunday there was dancing from five o'clock with the full daylight through the windows, but it was not until towards seven that the rooms began to fill. Outside, a gale was rising, blowing great black showers of dust which blinded people and sleeted into the frying-pans. Maheu, Étienne, and Pierron, having come in to sit down, had found Chaval at the Bon-Joyeux dancing with Catherine, while Philoméne by herself was looking on. Neither Levaque nor Zacharie had reappeared. As there were no benches around the ball-room, Catherine came after each dance to rest at her father's table. They called Philoméne, but she preferred to stand up. The twilight was coming on; the three musicians played furiously; one could only see in the hall the movement of hips and breasts in the midst of a confusion of arms. The appearance of the four lamps was greeted noisily, and suddenly everything was lit up--the red faces, the dishevelled hair sticking to the skin, the flying skirts spreading abroad the strong odour of perspiring couples. Maheu pointed out Mouquette to Étienne: she was as round and greasy as a bladder of lard, revolving violently in the arms of a tall, lean lander. She had been obliged to console herself and take a man. At last, at eight o'clock, Maheude appeared with Estelle at her breast, followed by Alzire, Henri, and Lénore. She had come there straight to her husband without fear of missing him. They could sup later on; as yet nobody was hungry, with their stomachs soaked in coffee and thickened with beer. Other women came in, and they whispered together when they saw, behind Maheude, the Levaque woman enter with Bouteloup, who led in by the hand Achille and Désirée, Philoméne's little ones. The two neighbours seemed to be getting on well together, one turning round to chat with the other. On the way there had been a great explanation, and Maheude had resigned herself to Zacharie's marriage, in despair at the loss of her eldest son's wages, but overcome by the thought that she could not hold it back any longer without injustice. She was trying, therefore, to put a good face on it, though with an anxious heart, as a housekeeper who was asking herself how she could make both ends meet now that the best part of her purse was going. "Place yourself there, neighbour," she said, pointing to a table near that where Maheu was drinking with Étienne and Pierron. "Is not my husband with you?" asked the Levaque woman. The others told her that he would soon come. They were all seated together in a heap, Bouteloup and the youngsters so tightly squeezed among the drinkers that the two tables only formed one. There was a call for drinks. Seeing her mother and her children Philoméne had decided to come near. She accepted a chair, and seemed pleased to hear that she was at last to be married; then, as they were looking for Zacharie, she replied in her soft voice: "I am waiting for him; he is over there." Maheu had exchanged a look with his wife. She had then consented? He became serious and smoked in silence. He also felt anxiety for the morrow in face of the ingratitude of these children, who got married one by one leaving their parents in wretchedness. The dancing still went on, and the end of a quadrille drowned the ball-room in red dust; the walls cracked, a cornet produced shrill whistling sounds like a locomotive in distress; and when the dancers stopped they were smoking like horses. "Do you remember?" said the Levaque woman, bending towards Maheude's ear; "you talked of strangling Catherine if she did anything foolish!" Chaval brought Catherine back to the family table, and both of them standing behind the father finished their glasses. "Bah!" murmured Maheude, with an air of resignation, "one says things like that--. But what quiets me is that she will not have a child; I feel sure of that. You see if she is confined, and obliged to marry, what shall we do for a living then?" Now the cornet was whistling a polka, and as the deafening noise began again, Maheu, in a low voice, communicated an idea to his wife. Why should they not take a lodger? Étienne, for example, who was looking out for quarters? They would have room since Zacharie was going to leave them, and the money that they would lose in that direction would be in part regained in the other. Maheude's face brightened; certainly it was a good idea, it must be arranged. She seemed to be saved from starvation once more, and her good humour returned so quickly that she ordered a new round of drinks. Étienne, meanwhile, was seeking to indoctrinate Pierron, to whom he was explaining his plan of a Provident Fund. He had made him promise to subscribe, when he was imprudent enough to reveal his real aim. "And if we go out on strike you can see how useful that fund will be. We can snap our fingers at the Company, we shall have there a fund to fight against them. Eh? don't you think so?" Pierron lowered his eyes and grew pale; he stammered: "I'll think over it. Good conduct, that's the best Provident Fund." Then Maheu took possession of Étienne, and squarely, like a good man, proposed to take him as a lodger. The young man accepted at once, anxious to live in the settlement with the idea of being nearer to his mates. The matter was settled in three words, Maheude declaring that they would wait for the marriage of the children. Just then, Zacharie at last came back, with Mouquet and Levaque. The three brought in the odours of the Volcan, a breath of gin, a musky acidity of ill-kept girls. They were very tipsy and seemed well pleased with themselves, digging their elbows into each other and grinning. When he knew that he was at last to be married Zacharie began to laugh so loudly that he choked. Philoméne peacefully declared that she would rather see him laugh than cry. As there were no more chairs, Bouteloup had moved so as to give up half of his to Levaque. And the latter, suddenly much affected by realizing that the whole family party was there, once more had beer served out. "By the Lord! we don't amuse ourselves so often!" he roared. They remained there till ten o'clock. Women continued to arrive, either to join or to take away their men; bands of children followed in rows, and the mothers no longer troubled themselves, pulling out their long pale breasts, like sacks of oats, and smearing their chubby babies with milk; while the little ones who were already able to walk, gorged with beer and on all fours beneath the table, relieved themselves without shame. It was a rising sea of beer, from Madame Désir's disembowelled barrels, the beer enlarged every belly, flowing from noses, eyes, and everywhere. So puffed out was the crowd that every one had a shoulder or knee poking into his neighbour; all were cheerful and merry in thus feeling each other's elbows. A continuous laugh kept their mouths open from ear to ear. The heat was like an oven; they were roasting and felt themselves at ease with glistening skin, gilded in a thick smoke from the pipes; the only discomfort was when one had to move away; from time to time a girl rose, went to the other end, near the pump, lifted her clothes, and then came back. Beneath the garlands of painted paper the dancers could no longer see each other, they perspired so much; this encouraged the trammers to tumble the putters over, catching them at random by the hips. But where a girl tumbled with a man over her, the cornet covered their fall with its furious music; the swirl of feet wrapped them round as if the ball had collapsed upon them. Someone who was passing warned Pierron that his daughter Lydie was sleeping at the door, across the pavement. She had drunk her share of the stolen bottle and was tipsy. He had to carry her away in his arms while Jeanlin and Bébert, who were more sober, followed him behind, thinking it a great joke. This was the signal for departure, and several families came out of the Bon-Joyeux, the Maheus and the Levaques deciding to return to the settlement. At the same moment Father Bonnemort and old Mouque also left Montsou, walking in the same somnambulistic manner, preserving the obstinate silence of their recollections. And they all went back together, passing for the last time through the fair, where the frying-pans were coagulating, and by the estaminets, from which the last glasses were flowing in a stream towards the middle of the road. The storm was still threatening, and sounds of laughter arose as they left the lighted houses to lose themselves in the dark country around. Panting breaths arose from the ripe wheat; many children must have been made on that night. They arrived in confusion at the settlement. Neither the Levaques nor the Maheus supped with appetite, and the latter kept on dropping off to sleep while finishing their morning's boiled beef. Étienne had led away Chaval for one more drink at Rasseneur's. "I am with you!" said Chaval, when his mate had explained the matter of the Provident Fund. "Put it there! you're a fine fellow!" The beginning of drunkenness was flaming in Étienne's eyes. He exclaimed: "Yes, let's join hands. As for me, you know I would give up everything for the sake of justice, both drink and girls. There's only one thing that warms my heart, and that is the thought that we are going to sweep away these bourgeois." CHAPTER III Towards the middle of August, Étienne settled with the Maheus, Zacharie having married and obtained from the Company a vacant house in the settlement for Philoméne and the two children. During the first days, the young man experienced some constraint in the presence of Catherine. There was a constant intimacy, as he everywhere replaced the elder brother, sharing Jeanlin's bed over against the big sister's. Going to bed and getting up he had to dress and undress near her, and see her take off and put on her garments. When the last skirt fell from her, she appeared of pallid whiteness, that transparent snow of anaemic blondes; and he experienced a constant emotion in finding her, with hands and face already spoilt, as white as if dipped in milk from her heels to her neck, where the line of tan stood out sharply like a necklace of amber. He pretended to turn away; but little by little he knew her: the feet at first which his lowered eyes met; then a glimpse of a knee when she slid beneath the coverlet; then her bosom with little rigid breasts as she leant over the bowl in the morning. She would hasten without looking at him, and in ten seconds was undressed and stretched beside Alzire, with so supple and snake-like a movement that he had scarcely taken off his shoes when she disappeared, turning her back and only showing her heavy knot of hair. She never had any reason to be angry with him. If a sort of obsession made him watch her in spite of himself at the moment when she lay down, he avoided all practical jokes or dangerous pastimes. The parents were there, and besides he still had for her a feeling, half of friendship and half of spite, which prevented him from treating her as a girl to be desired, in the midst of the abandonment of their now common life in dressing, at meals, during work, where nothing of them remained secret, not even their most intimate needs. All the modesty of the family had taken refuge in the daily bath, for which the young girl now went upstairs alone, while the men bathed below one after the other. At the end of the first month, Étienne and Catherine seemed no longer to see each other when in the evening, before extinguishing the candle, they moved about the room, undressed. She had ceased to hasten, and resumed her old custom of doing up her hair at the edge of her bed, while her arms, raised in the air, lifted her chemise to her thighs, and he, without his trousers, sometimes helped her, looking for the hairpins that she had lost. Custom killed the shame of being naked; they found it natural to be like this, for they were doing no harm, and it was not their fault if there was only one room for so many people. Sometimes, however, a trouble came over them suddenly, at moments when they had no guilty thought. After some nights when he had not seen her pale body, he suddenly saw her white all over, with a whiteness which shook him with a shiver, which obliged him to turn away for fear of yielding to the desire to take her. On other evenings, without any apparent reason, she would be overcome by a panic of modesty and hasten to slip between the sheets as if she felt the hands of this lad seizing her. Then, when the candle was out, they both knew that they were not sleeping but were thinking of each other in spite of their weariness. This made them restless and sulky all the following day; they liked best the tranquil evenings when they could behave together like comrades. Étienne only complained of Jeanlin, who slept curled up. Alzire slept lightly, and Lénore and Henri were found in the morning, in each other's arms, exactly as they had gone to sleep. In the dark house there was no other sound than the snoring of Maheu and Maheude, rolling out at regular intervals like a forge bellows. On the whole, Étienne was better off than at Rasseneur's; the bed was tolerable and the sheets were changed every month. He had better soup, too, and only suffered from the rarity of meat. But they were all in the same condition, and for forty-five francs he could not demand rabbit to every meal. These forty-five francs helped the family and enabled them to make both ends meet, though always leaving some small debts and arrears; so the Maheus were grateful to their lodger; his linen was washed and mended, his buttons sewn on, and his affairs kept in order; in fact he felt all around him a woman's neatness and care. It was at this time that Étienne began to understand the ideas that were buzzing in his brain. Up till then he had only felt an instinctive revolt in the midst of the inarticulate fermentation among his mates. All sorts of confused questions came before him: Why are some miserable? why are others rich? why are the former beneath the heel of the latter without hope of ever taking their place? And his first stage was to understand his ignorance. A secret shame, a hidden annoyance, gnawed him from that time; he knew nothing, he dared not talk about these things which were working in him like a passion--the equality of all men, and the equity which demanded a fair division of the earth's wealth. He thus took to the methodless study of those who in ignorance feel the fascination of knowledge. He now kept up a regular correspondence with Pluchart, who was better educated than himself and more advanced in the Socialist movement. He had books sent to him, and his ill-digested reading still further excited his brain, especially a medical book entitled _Hygiéne du Mineur_, in which a Belgian doctor had summed up the evils of which the people in coal mines were dying; without counting treatises on political economy, incomprehensible in their technical dryness, Anarchist pamphlets which upset his ideas, and old numbers of newspapers which he preserved as irrefutable arguments for possible discussions. Souvarine also lent him books, and the work on Co-operative Societies had made him dream for a month of a universal exchange association abolishing money and basing the whole social life on work. The shame of his ignorance left him, and a certain pride came to him now that he felt himself thinking. During these first months Étienne retained the ecstasy of a novice; his heart was bursting with generous indignation against the oppressors, and looking forward to the approaching triumph of the oppressed. He had not yet manufactured a system, his reading had been too vague. Rasseneur's practical demands were mixed up in his mind with Souvarine's violent and destructive methods, and when he came out of the Avantage, where he was to be found nearly every day railing with them against the Company, he walked as if in a dream, assisting at a radical regeneration of nations to be effected without one broken window or a single drop of blood. The methods of execution remained obscure; he preferred to think that things would go very well, for he lost his head as soon as he tried to formulate a programme of reconstruction. He even showed himself full of illogical moderation; he often said that we must banish politics from the social question, a phrase which he had read and which seemed a useful one to repeat among the phlegmatic colliers with whom he lived. Every evening now, at the Maheus', they delayed half an hour before going up to bed. Étienne always introduced the same subject. As his nature became more refined he found himself wounded by the promiscuity of the settlement. Were they beasts to be thus penned together in the midst of the fields, so tightly packed that one could not change one's shirt without exhibiting one's backside to the neighbours? And how bad it was for health; and boys and girls were forced to grow corrupt together. "Lord!" replied Maheu, "if there were more money there would be more comfort. All the same it's true enough that it's good for no one to live piled up like that. It always ends with making the men drunk and the girls big-bellied." And the family began to talk, each having his say, while the petroleum lamp vitiated the air of the room, already stinking of fried onion. No, life was certainly not a joke. One had to work like a brute at labour which was once a punishment for convicts; one left one's skin there oftener than was one's turn, all that without even getting meat on the table in the evening. No doubt one had one's feed; one ate, indeed, but so little, just enough to suffer without dying, overcome with debts and pursued as if one had stolen the bread. When Sunday came one slept from weariness. The only pleasures were to get drunk and to get a child with one's wife; then the beer swelled the belly, and the child, later on, left you to go to the dogs. No, it was certainly not a joke. Then Maheude joined in. "The bother is, you see, when you have to say to yourself that it won't change. When you're young you think that happiness will come some time, you hope for things; and then the wretchedness begins always over again, and you get shut up in it. Now, I don't wish harm to any one, but there are times when this injustice makes me mad." There was silence; they were all breathing with the vague discomfort of this closed-in horizon. Father Bonnemort only, if he was there, opened his eyes with surprise, for in his time people used not to worry about things; they were born in the coal and they hammered at the seam, without asking for more; while now there was an air stirring which made the colliers ambitious. "It don't do to spit at anything," he murmured. "A good glass is a good glass. As to the masters, they're often rascals; but there always will be masters, won't there? What's the use of racking your brains over those things?" Étienne at once became animated. What! The worker was to be forbidden to think! Why! that was just it; things would change now because the worker had begun to think. In the old man's time the miner lived in the mine like a brute, like a machine for extracting coal, always under the earth, with ears and eyes stopped to outward events. So the rich, who governed, found it easy to sell him and buy him, and to devour his flesh; he did not even know what was going on. But now the miner was waking up down there, germinating in the earth just as a grain germinates; and some fine day he would spring up in the midst of the fields: yes, men would spring up, an army of men who would re-establish justice. Is it not true that all citizens are equal since the Revolution, because they vote together? Why should the worker remain the slave of the master who pays him? The big companies with their machines were crushing everything, and one no longer had against them the ancient guarantees when people of the same trade, united in a body, were able to defend themselves. It was for that, by God, and for no other reason, that all would burst up one day, thanks to education. One had only to look into the settlement itself: the grandfathers could not sign their names, the fathers could do so, and as for the sons, they read and wrote like schoolmasters. Ah! it was springing up, it was springing up, little by little, a rough harvest of men who would ripen in the sun! From the moment when they were no longer each of them stuck to his place for his whole existence, and when they had the ambition to take a neighbour's place, why should they not hit out with their fists and try for the mastery? Maheu was shaken but remained full of doubts. "As soon as you move they give you back your certificate," he said. "The old man is right; it will always be the miner who gets all the trouble, without a chance of a leg of mutton now and then as a reward." Maheude, who had been silent for a while, awoke as from a dream. "But if what the priests tell is true, if the poor people in this world become the rich ones in the next!" A burst of laughter interrupted her; even the children shrugged their shoulders, being incredulous in the open air, keeping a secret fear of ghosts in the pit, but glad of the empty sky. "Ah! bosh! the priests!" exclaimed Maheu. "If they believed that, they'd eat less and work more, so as to reserve a better place for themselves up there. No, when one's dead, one's dead." Maheude sighed deeply. "Oh, Lord, Lord!" Then her hands fell on to her knees with a gesture of immense dejection: "Then if that's true, we are done for, we are." They all looked at one another. Father Bonnemort spat into his handkerchief, while Maheu sat with his extinguished pipe, which he had forgotten, in his mouth. Alzire listened between Lénore and Henri, who were sleeping on the edge of the table. But Catherine, with her chin in her hand, never took her large clear eyes off Étienne while he was protesting, declaring his faith, and opening out the enchanting future of his social dream. Around them the settlement was asleep; one only heard the stray cries of a child or the complaints of a belated drunkard. In the parlour the clock ticked slowly, and a damp freshness arose from the sanded floor in spite of the stuffy air. "Fine ideas!" said the young man; "why do you need a good God and his paradise to make you happy? Haven't you got it in your own power to make yourselves happy on earth?" With his enthusiastic voice he spoke on and on. The closed horizon was bursting out; a gap of light was opening in the sombre lives of these poor people. The eternal wretchedness, beginning over and over again, the brutalizing labour, the fate of a beast who gives his wool and has his throat cut, all the misfortune disappeared, as though swept away by a great flood of sunlight; and beneath the dazzling gleam of fairyland justice descended from heaven. Since the good God was dead, justice would assure the happiness of men, and equality and brotherhood would reign. A new society would spring up in a day just as in dreams, an immense town with the splendour of a mirage, in which each citizen lived by his work, and took his share in the common joys. The old rotten world had fallen to dust; a young humanity purged from its crimes formed but a single nation of workers, having for their motto: "To each according to his deserts, and to each desert according to its performance." And this dream grew continually larger and more beautiful and more seductive as it mounted higher in the impossible. At first Maheude refused to listen, possessed by a deep dread. No, no, it was too beautiful; it would not do to embark upon these ideas, for they made life seem abominable afterwards, and one would have destroyed everything in the effort to be happy. When she saw Maheu's eyes shine, and that he was troubled and won over, she became restless, and exclaimed, interrupting Étienne: "Don't listen, my man! You can see he's only telling us fairy-tales. Do you think the bourgeois would ever consent to work as we do?" But little by little the charm worked on her also. Her imagination was aroused and she smiled at last, entering his marvellous world of hope. It was so sweet to forget for a while the sad reality! When one lives like the beasts with face bent towards the earth, one needs a corner of falsehood where one can amuse oneself by regaling on the things one will never possess. And what made her enthusiastic and brought her into agreement with the young man was the idea of justice. "Now, there you're right!" she exclaimed. "When a thing's just I don't mind being cut to pieces for it. And it's true enough! it would be just for us to have a turn." Then Maheu ventured to become excited. "Blast it all! I am not rich, but I would give five francs to keep alive to see that. What a hustling, eh? Will it be soon? And how can we set about it?" Étienne began talking again. The old social system was cracking; it could not last more than a few months, he affirmed roundly. As to the methods of execution, he spoke more vaguely, mixing up his reading, and fearing before ignorant hearers to enter on explanations where he might lose himself. All the systems had their share in it, softened by the certainty of easy triumph, a universal kiss which would bring to an end all class misunderstandings; without taking count, however, of the thick-heads among the masters and bourgeois whom it would perhaps be necessary to bring to reason by force. And the Maheus looked as if they understood, approving and accepting miraculous solutions with the blind faith of new believers, like those Christians of the early days of the Church, who awaited the coming of a perfect society on the dunghill of the ancient world. Little Alzire picked up a few words, and imagined happiness under the form of a very warm house, where children could play and eat as long as they liked. Catherine, without moving, her chin always resting in her hand, kept her eyes fixed on Étienne, and when he stopped a slight shudder passed over her, and she was quite pale as if she felt the cold. But Maheude looked at the clock. "Past nine! Can it be possible? We shall never get up to-morrow." And the Maheus left the table with hearts ill at ease and in despair. It seemed to them that they had just been rich and that they had now suddenly fallen back into the mud. Father Bonnemort, who was setting out for the pit, growled that those sort of stories wouldn't make the soup better; while the others went upstairs in single file, noticing the dampness of the walls and the pestiferous stuffiness of the air. Upstairs, amid the heavy slumber of the settlement when Catherine had got into bed last and blown out the candle, Étienne heard her tossing feverishly before getting to sleep. Often at these conversations the neighbours came in: Levaque, who grew excited at the idea of a general sharing; Pierron, who prudently went to bed as soon as they attacked the Company. At long intervals Zacharie came in for a moment; but politics bored him, he preferred to go off and drink a glass at the Avantage. As to Chaval, he would go to extremes and wanted to draw blood. Nearly every evening he passed an hour with the Maheus; in this assiduity there was a certain unconfessed jealousy, the fear that he would be robbed of Catherine. This girl, of whom he was already growing tired, had become precious to him now that a man slept near her and could take her at night. Étienne's influence increased; he gradually revolutionized the settlement. His propaganda was unseen, and all the more sure since he was growing in the estimation of all. Maheude, notwithstanding the caution of a prudent housekeeper, treated him with consideration, as a young man who paid regularly and neither drank nor gambled, with his nose always in a book; she spread abroad his reputation among the neighbours as an educated lad, a reputation which they abused by asking him to write their letters. He was a sort of business man, charged with correspondence and consulted by households in affairs of difficulty. Since September he had thus at last been able to establish his famous Provident Fund, which was still very precarious, only including the inhabitants of the settlement; but he hoped to be able to obtain the adhesion of the miners at all the pits, especially if the Company, which had remained passive, continued not to interfere. He had been made secretary of the association and he even received a small salary for the clerking. This made him almost rich. If a married miner can with difficulty make both ends meet, a sober lad who has no burdens can even manage to save. From this time a slow transformation took place in Étienne. Certain instincts of refinement and comfort which had slept during his poverty were now revealed. He began to buy cloth garments; he also bought a pair of elegant boots; he became a big man. The whole settlement grouped round him. The satisfaction of his self-love was delicious; he became intoxicated with this first enjoyment of popularity; to be at the head of others, to command, he who was so young, and but the day before had been a mere labourer, this filled him with pride, and enlarged his dream of an approaching revolution in which he was to play a part. His face changed: he became serious and put on airs, while his growing ambition inflamed his theories and pushed him to ideas of violence. But autumn was advancing, and the October cold had blighted the little gardens of the settlement. Behind the thin lilacs the trammers no longer tumbled the putters over on the shed, and only the winter vegetables remained, the cabbages pearled with white frost, the leeks and the salads. Once more the rains were beating down on the red tiles and flowing down into the tubs beneath the gutters with the sound of a torrent. In every house the stove piled up with coal was never cold, and poisoned the close parlours. It was the season of wretchedness beginning once more. In October, on one of the first frosty nights, Étienne, feverish after his conversation below, could not sleep. He had seen Catherine glide beneath the coverlet and then blow out the candle. She also appeared to be quite overcome, and tormented by one of those fits of modesty which still made her hasten sometimes, and so awkwardly that she only uncovered herself more. In the darkness she lay as though dead; but he knew that she also was awake, and he felt that she was thinking of him just as he was thinking of her: this mute exchange of their beings had never before filled them with such trouble. The minutes went by and neither he nor she moved, only their breathing was embarrassed in spite of their efforts to retain it. Twice over he was on the point of rising and taking her. It was idiotic to have such a strong desire for each other and never to satisfy it. Why should they thus sulk against what they desired? The children were asleep, she was quite willing; he was certain that she was waiting for him, stifling, and that she would close her arms round him in silence with clenched teeth. Nearly an hour passed. He did not go to take her, and she did not turn round for fear of calling him. The more they lived side by side, the more a barrier was raised of shames, repugnancies, delicacies of friendship, which they could not explain even to themselves. CHAPTER IV "Listen," said Maheude to her man, "when you go to Montsou for the pay, just bring me back a pound of coffee and a kilo of sugar." He was sewing one of his shoes, in order to spare the cobbling. "Good!" he murmured, without leaving his task. "I should like you to go to the butcher's too. A bit of veal, eh? It's so long since we saw it." This time he raised his head. "Do you think, then, that I've got thousands coming in? The fortnight's pay is too little as it is, with their confounded idea of always stopping work." They were both silent. It was after breakfast, one Saturday, at the end of October. The Company, under the pretext of the derangement caused by payment, had on this day once more suspended output in all their pits. Seized by panic at the growing industrial crisis, and not wishing to augment their already considerable stock, they profited by the smallest pretexts to force their ten thousand workers to rest. "You know that Étienne is waiting for you at Rasseneur's," began Maheude again. "Take him with you; he'll be more clever than you are in clearing up matters if they haven't counted all your hours." Maheu nodded approval. "And just talk to those gentlemen about your father's affair. The doctor's on good terms with the directors. It's true, isn't it, old un, that the doctor's mistaken, and that you can still work?" For ten days Father Bonnemort, with benumbed paws, as he said, had remained nailed to his chair. She had to repeat her question, and he growled: "Sure enough, I can work. One isn't done for because one's legs are bad. All that is just stories they make up, so as not to give the hundred-and-eighty-franc pension." Maheude thought of the old man's forty sous, which he would, perhaps, never bring in any more, and she uttered a cry of anguish: "My God! we shall soon be all dead if this goes on." "When one is dead," said Maheu, "one doesn't get hungry." He put some nails into his shoes, and decided to set out. The Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement would not be paid till towards four o'clock. The men did not hurry, therefore, but waited about, going off one by one, beset by the women, who implored them to come back at once. Many gave them commissions, to prevent them forgetting themselves in public-houses. At Rasseneur's Étienne had received news. Disquieting rumours were flying about; it was said that the Company were more and more discontented over the timbering. They were overwhelming the workmen with fines, and a conflict appeared inevitable. That was, however, only the avowed dispute; beneath it there were grave and secret causes of complication. Just as Étienne arrived, a comrade, who was drinking a glass on his return from Montsou, was telling that an announcement had been stuck up at the cashier's; but he did not quite know what was on the announcement. A second entered, then a third, and each brought a different story. It seemed certain, however, that the Company had taken a resolution. "What do you say about it, eh?" asked Étienne, sitting down near Souvarine at a table where nothing was to be seen but a packet of tobacco. The engine-man did not hurry, but finished rolling his cigarette. "I say that it was easy to foresee. They want to push you to extremes." He alone had a sufficiently keen intelligence to analyse the situation. He explained it in his quiet way. The Company, suffering from the crisis, had been forced to reduce their expenses if they were not to succumb, and it was naturally the workers who would have to tighten their bellies; under some pretext or another the Company would nibble at their wages. For two months the coal had been remaining at the surface of their pits, and nearly all the workshops were resting. As the Company did not dare to rest in this way, terrified at the ruinous inaction, they were meditating a middle course, perhaps a strike, from which the miners would come out crushed and worse paid. Then the new Provident Fund was disturbing them, as it was a threat for the future, while a strike would relieve them of it, by exhausting it when it was still small. Rasseneur had seated himself beside Étienne, and both of them were listening in consternation. They could talk aloud, because there was no one there but Madame Rasseneur, seated at the counter. "What an idea!" murmured the innkeeper; "what's the good of it? The Company has no interest in a strike, nor the men either. It would be best to come to an understanding." This was very sensible. He was always on the side of reasonable demands. Since the rapid popularity of his old lodger, he had even exaggerated this system of possible progress, saying they would obtain nothing if they wished to have everything at once. In his fat, good-humoured nature, nourished on beer, a secret jealousy was forming, increased by the desertion of his bar, into which the workmen from the Voreux now came more rarely to drink and to listen; and he thus sometimes even began to defend the Company, forgetting the rancour of an old miner who had been turned off. "Then you are against the strike?" cried Madame Rasseneur, without leaving the counter. And as he energetically replied, "Yes!" she made him hold his tongue. "Bah! you have no courage; let these gentlemen speak." Étienne was meditating, with his eyes fixed on the glass which she had served to him. At last he raised his head. "I dare say it's all true what our mate tells us, and we must get resigned to this strike if they force it on us. Pluchart has just written me some very sensible things on this matter. He's against the strike too, for the men would suffer as much as the masters, and it wouldn't come to anything decisive. Only it seems to him a capital chance to get our men to make up their minds to go into his big machine. Here's his letter." In fact, Pluchart, in despair at the suspicion which the International aroused among the miners at Montsou, was hoping to see them enter in a mass if they were forced to fight against the Company. In spite of his efforts, Étienne had not been able to place a single member's card, and he had given his best efforts to his Provident Fund, which was much better received. But this fund was still so small that it would be quickly exhausted, as Souvarine said, and the strikers would then inevitably throw themselves into the Working Men's Association so that their brothers in every country could come to their aid. "How much have you in the fund?" asked Rasseneur. "Hardly three thousand francs," replied Étienne, "and you know that the directors sent for me yesterday. Oh! they were very polite; they repeated that they wouldn't prevent their men from forming a reserve fund. But I quite understood that they wanted to control it. We are bound to have a struggle over that." The innkeeper was walking up and down, whistling contemptuously. "Three thousand francs! what can you do with that! It wouldn't yield six days' bread; and if we counted on foreigners, such as the people in England, one might go to bed at once and turn up one's toes. No, it was too foolish, this strike!" Then for the first time bitter words passed between these two men who usually agreed together at last, in their common hatred of capital. "We shall see! and you, what do you say about it?" repeated Étienne, turning towards Souvarine. The latter replied with his usual phrase of habitual contempt. "A strike? Foolery!" Then, in the midst of the angry silence, he added gently: "On the whole, I shouldn't say no if it amuses you; it ruins the one side and kills the other, and that is always so much cleared away. Only in that way it will take quite a thousand years to renew the world. Just begin by blowing up this prison in which you are all being done to death!" With his delicate hand he pointed out the Voreux, the buildings of which could be seen through the open door. But an unforeseen drama interrupted him: Poland, the big tame rabbit, which had ventured outside, came bounding back, fleeing from the stones of a band of trammers; and in her terror, with fallen ears and raised tail, she took refuge against his legs, scratching and imploring him to take her up. When he had placed her on his knees, he sheltered her with both hands, and fell into that kind of dreamy somnolence into which the caress of this soft warm fur always plunged him. Almost at the same time Maheu came in. He would drink nothing, in spite of the polite insistence of Madame Rasseneur, who sold her beer as though she made a present of it. Étienne had risen, and both of them set out for Montsou. On pay-day at the Company's Yards, Montsou seemed to be in the midst of a fete as on fine Sunday feast-days. Bands of miners arrived from all the settlements. The cashier's office being very small, they preferred to wait at the door, stationed in groups on the pavement, barring the way in a crowd that was constantly renewed. Hucksters profited by the occasion and installed themselves with their movable stalls that sold even pottery and cooked meats. But it was especially the estaminets and the bars which did a good trade, for the miners before being paid went to the counters to get patience, and returned to them to wet their pay as soon as they had it in their pockets. But they were very sensible, except when they finished it at the Volcan. As Maheu and Étienne advanced among the groups they felt that on that day a deep exasperation was rising up. It was not the ordinary indifference with which the money was taken and spent at the publics. Fists were clenched and violent words were passing from mouth to mouth. "Is it true, then," asked Maheu of Chaval, whom he met before the Estaminet Piquette, "that they've played the dirty trick?" But Chaval contented himself by replying with a furious growl, throwing a sidelong look on Étienne. Since the working had been renewed he had hired himself on with others, more and more bitten by envy against this comrade, the new-comer who posed as a boss and whose boots, as he said, were licked by the whole settlement. This was complicated by a lover's jealousy. He never took Catherine to Réquillart now or behind the pit-bank without accusing her in abominable language of sleeping with her mother's lodger; then, seized by savage desire, he would stifle her with caresses. Maheu asked him another question: "Is it the Voreux's turn now?" And when he turned his back after nodding affirmatively, both men decided to enter the Yards. The counting-house was a small rectangular room, divided in two by a grating. On the forms along the wall five or six miners were waiting; while the cashier assisted by a clerk was paying another who stood before the wicket with his cap in his hand. Above the form on the left, a yellow placard was stuck up, quite fresh against the smoky grey of the plaster, and it was in front of this that the men had been constantly passing all the morning. They entered two or three at a time, stood in front of it, and then went away without a word, shrugging their shoulders as if their backs were crushed. Two colliers were just then standing in front of the announcement, a young one with a square brutish head and a very thin old one, his face dull with age. Neither of them could read; the young one spelt, moving his lips, the old one contented himself with gazing stupidly. Many came in thus to look, without understanding. "Read us that there!" said Maheu, who was not very strong either in reading, to his companion. Then Étienne began to read him the announcement. It was a notice from the Company to the miners of all the pits, informing them that in consequence of the lack of care bestowed on the timbering, and being weary of inflicting useless fines, the Company had resolved to apply a new method of payment for the extraction of coal. Henceforward they would pay for the timbering separately, by the cubic metre of wood taken down and used, based on the quantity necessary for good work. The price of the tub of coal extracted would naturally be lowered, in the proportion of fifty centimes to forty, according to the nature and distance of the cuttings, and a somewhat obscure calculation endeavoured to show that this diminution of ten centimes would be exactly compensated by the price of the timbering. The Company added also that, wishing to leave every one time to convince himself of the advantages presented by this new scheme, they did not propose to apply it till Monday, the 1st of December. "Don't read so loud over there," shouted the cashier. "We can't hear what we are saying." Étienne finished reading without paying attention to this observation. His voice trembled, and when he had reached the end they all continued to gaze steadily at the placard. The old miner and the young one looked as though they expected something more; then they went away with depressed shoulders. "Good God!" muttered Maheu. He and his companions sat down absorbed, with lowered heads, and while files of men continued to pass before the yellow paper they made calculations. Were they being made fun of? They could never make up with the timbering for the ten centimes taken off the tram. At most they could only get to eight centimes, so the Company would be robbing them of two centimes, without counting the time taken by careful work. This, then, was what this disguised lowering of wages really came to. The Company was economizing out of the miners' pockets. "Good Lord! Good Lord!" repeated Maheu, raising his head. "We should be bloody fools if we took that." But the wicket being free he went up to be paid. The heads only of the workings presented themselves at the desk and then divided the money between their men to save time. "Maheu and associates," said the clerk, "Filonniére seam, cutting No. 7." He searched through the lists which were prepared from the inspection of the tickets on which the captains stated every day for each stall the number of trams extracted. Then he repeated: "Maheu and associates, Filonniére seam, cutting No. 7. One hundred and thirty-five francs." The cashier paid. "Beg pardon, sir," stammered the pikeman in surprise. "Are you sure you have not made a mistake?" He looked at this small sum of money without picking it up, frozen by a shudder which went to his heart. It was true he was expecting bad payment, but it could not come to so little or he must have calculated wrong. When he had given their shares to Zacharie, Étienne, and the other mate who replaced Chaval, there would remain at most fifty francs for himself, his father, Catherine, and Jeanlin. "No, no, I've made no mistake," replied the clerk. "There are two Sundays and four rest days to be taken off; that makes nine days of work." Maheu followed this calculation in a low voice: nine days gave him about thirty francs, eighteen to Catherine, nine to Jeanlin. As to Father Bonnemort, he only had three days. No matter, by adding the ninety francs of Zacharie and the two mates, that would surely make more. "And don't forget the fines," added the clerk. "Twenty francs for fines for defective timbering." The pikeman made a gesture of despair. Twenty francs of fines, four days of rest! That made out the account. To think that he had once brought back a fortnight's pay of full a hundred and fifty francs when Father Bonnemort was working and Zacharie had not yet set up house for himself! "Well, are you going to take it?" cried the cashier impatiently. "You can see there's someone else waiting. If you don't want it, say so." As Maheu decided to pick up the money with his large trembling hand the clerk stopped him. "Wait: I have your name here. Toussaint Maheu, is it not? The general secretary wishes to speak to you. Go in, he is alone." The dazed workman found himself in an office furnished with old mahogany, upholstered with faded green rep. And he listened for five minutes to the general secretary, a tall sallow gentleman, who spoke to him over the papers of his bureau without rising. But the buzzing in his ears prevented him from hearing. He understood vaguely that the question of his father's retirement would be taken into consideration with the pension of a hundred and fifty francs, fifty years of age and forty years' service. Then it seemed to him that the secretary's voice became harder. There was a reprimand; he was accused of occupying himself with politics; an allusion was made to his lodger and the Provident Fund; finally he was advised not to compromise himself with these follies, he, who was one of the best workmen in the mine. He wished to protest, but could only pronounce words at random, twisting his cap between his feverish fingers, and he retired, stuttering: "Certainly, sir--I can assure you, sir----" Outside, when he had found Étienne who waiting for him, he broke out: "Well, I am a bloody fool, I ought to have replied! Not enough money to get bread, and insults as well! Yes, he has been talking against you; he told me the settlement was being poisoned. And what's to be done? Good God! bend one's back and say thank you. He's right, that's the wisest plan." Maheu fell silent, overcome at once by rage and fear. Étienne was gloomily thinking. Once more they traversed the groups who blocked the road. The exasperation was growing, the exasperation of a calm race, the muttered warning of a storm, without violent gestures, terrible to see above this solid mass. A few men understanding accounts had made calculations, and the two centimes gained by the Company over the wood were rumoured about, and excited the hardest heads. But it was especially the rage over this disastrous pay, the rebellion of hunger against the rest days and the fines. Already there was not enough to eat, and what would happen if wages were still further lowered? In the estaminets the anger grew loud, and fury so dried their throats that the little money taken went over the counters. From Montsou to the settlement Étienne and Maheu never exchanged a word. When the latter entered, Maheude, who was alone with the children, noticed immediately that his hands were empty. "Well, you're a nice one!" she said. "Where's my coffee and my sugar and the meat? A bit of veal wouldn't have ruined you." He made no reply, stifled by the emotion he had been keeping back. Then the coarse face of this man hardened to work in the mines became swollen with despair, and large tears broke from his eyes and fell in a warm rain. He had thrown himself into a chair, weeping like a child, and throwing fifty francs on the table: "Here," he stammered. "That's what I've brought you back. That's our work for all of us." Maheude looked at Étienne, and saw that he was silent and overwhelmed. Then she also wept. How were nine people to live for a fortnight on fifty francs? Her eldest son had left them, the old man could no longer move his legs: it would soon mean death. Alzire threw herself round her mother's neck, overcome on hearing her weep. Estelle was howling, Lénore and Henri were sobbing. And from the entire settlement there soon arose the same cry of wretchedness. The men had come back, and each household was lamenting the disaster of this bad pay. The doors opened, women appeared, crying aloud outside, as if their complaints could not be held beneath the ceilings of these small houses. A fine rain was falling, but they did not feel it, they called one another from the pavements, they showed one another in the hollow of their hands the money they had received. "Look! they've given him this. Do they want to make fools of people?" "As for me, see, I haven't got enough to pay for the fortnight's bread with." "And just count mine! I should have to sell my shifts!" Maheude had come out like the others. A group had formed around the Levaque woman, who was shouting loudest of all, for her drunkard of a husband had not even turned up, and she knew that, large or small, the pay would melt away at the Volcan. Philoméne watched Maheu so that Zacharie should not get hold of the money. Pierronne was the only one who seemed fairly calm, for that sneak of a Pierron always arranged things, no one knew how, so as to have more hours on the captain's ticket than his mates. But Mother Brulé thought this cowardly of her son-in-law; she was among the enraged, lean and erect in the midst of the group, with her fists stretched towards Montsou. "To think," she cried, without naming the Hennebeaus, "that this morning I saw their servant go by in a carriage! Yes, the cook in a carriage with two horses, going to Marchiennes to get fish, sure enough!" A clamour arose, and the abuse began again. That servant in a white apron taken to the market of the neighbouring town in her master's carriage aroused indignation. While the workers were dying of hunger they must have their fish, at all costs! Perhaps they would not always be able to eat their fish: the turn of the poor people would come. And the ideas sown by Étienne sprang up and expanded in this cry of revolt. It was impatience before the promised age of gold, a haste to get a share of the happiness beyond this horizon of misery, closed in like the grave. The injustice was becoming too great; at last they would demand their rights, since the bread was being taken out of their mouths. The women especially would have liked at once to take by assault this ideal city of progress, in which there was to be no more wretchedness. It was almost night, and the rain increased while they were still filling the settlement with their tears in the midst of the screaming helter-skelter of the children. That evening at the Avantage the strike was decided on. Rasseneur no longer struggled against it, and Souvarine accepted it as a first step. Étienne summed up the situation in a word: if the Company really wanted a strike then the Company should have a strike. CHAPTER V A week passed, and work went on suspiciously and mournfully in expectation of the conflict. Among the Maheus the fortnight threatened to be more meagre than ever. Maheude grew bitter, in spite of her moderation and good sense. Her daughter Catherine, too, had taken it into her head to stay out one night. On the following morning she came back so weary and ill after this adventure that she was not able to go to the pit; and she told with tears how it was not her fault, for Chaval had kept her, threatening to beat her if she ran away. He was becoming mad with jealousy, and wished to prevent her from returning to Étienne's bed, where he well knew, he said, that the family made her sleep. Maheude was furious, and, after forbidding her daughter ever to see such a brute again, talked of going to Montsou to box his ears. But, all the same, it was a day lost, and the girl, now that she had this lover, preferred not to change him. Two days after there was another incident. On Monday and Tuesday Jeanlin, who was supposed to be quietly engaged on his task at the Voreux, had escaped, to run away into the marshes and the forest of Vandame with Bébert and Lydie. He had seduced them; no one knew to what plunder or to what games of precocious children they had all three given themselves up. He received a vigorous punishment, a whipping which his mother applied to him on the pavement outside before the terrified children of the settlement. Who could have thought such a thing of children belonging to her, who had cost so much since their birth, and who ought now to be bringing something in? And in this cry there was the remembrance of her own hard youth, of the hereditary misery which made of each little one in the brood a bread-winner later on. That morning, when the men and the girl set out for the pit, Maheude sat up in her bed to say to Jeanlin: "You know that if you begin that game again, you little beast, I'll take the skin off your bottom!" In Maheu's new stall the work was hard. This part of the Filonniére seam was so thin that the pikemen, squeezed between the wall and the roof, grazed their elbows at their work. It was, too, becoming very damp; from hour to hour they feared a rush of water, one of those sudden torrents which burst through rocks and carry away men. The day before, as Étienne was violently driving in his pick and drawing it out, he had received a jet of water in his face; but this was only an alarm; the cutting simply became damper and more unwholesome. Besides, he now thought nothing of possible accidents; he forgot himself there with his mates, careless of peril. They lived in fire-damp without even feeling its weight on their eyelids, the spider's-web veil which it left on the eyelashes. Sometimes when the flame of the lamps grew paler and bluer than usual it attracted attention, and a miner would put his head against the seam to listen to the low noise of the gas, a noise of air-bubbles escaping from each crack. But the constant threat was of landslips; for, besides the insufficiency of the timbering, always patched up too quickly, the soil, soaked with water, would not hold. Three times during the day Maheu had been obliged to add to the planking. It was half-past two, and the men would soon have to ascend. Lying on his side, Étienne was finishing the cutting of a block, when a distant growl of thunder shook the whole mine. "What's that, then?" he cried, putting down his axe to listen. He had at first thought that the gallery was falling in behind his back. But Maheu had already glided along the slope of the cutting, saying: "It's a fall! Quick, quick!" All tumbled down and hastened, carried away by an impulse of anxious fraternity. Their lamps danced at their wrists in the deathly silence which had fallen; they rushed in single file along the passages with bent backs, as though they were galloping on all fours; and without slowing this gallop they asked each other questions and threw brief replies. Where was it, then? In the cuttings, perhaps. No, it came from below; no, from the haulage. When they arrived at the chimney passage, they threw themselves into it, tumbling one over the other without troubling about bruises. Jeanlin, with skin still red from the whipping of the day before, had not run away from the pit on this day. He was trotting with naked feet behind his tram, closing the ventilation doors one by one; when he was not afraid of meeting a captain he jumped on to the last tram, which he was not allowed to do for fear he should go to sleep. But his great amusement was, whenever the tram was shunted to let another one pass, to go and join Bébert, who was holding the reins in front. He would come up slyly without his lamp and vigorously pinch his companion, inventing mischievous monkey tricks, with his yellow hair, his large ears, his lean muzzle, lit up by little green eyes shining in the darkness. With morbid precocity, he seemed to have the obscure intelligence and the quick skill of a human abortion which had returned to its animal ways. In the afternoon, Mouque brought Bataille, whose turn it was, to the trammers; and as the horse was snuffing in the shunting, Jeanlin, who had glided up to Bébert, asked him: "What's the matter with the old hack to stop short like that? He'll break my legs." Bébert could not reply; he had to hold in Bataille, who was growing lively at the approach of the other tram. The horse had smelled from afar his comrade, Trompette, for whom he had felt great tenderness ever since the day when he had seen him disembarked in the pit. One might say that it was the affectionate pity of an old philosopher anxious to console a young friend by imparting to him his own resignation and patience; for Trompette did not become reconciled, drawing his trams without any taste for the work, standing with lowered head blinded by the darkness, and for ever regretting the sun. So every time that Bataille met him he put out his head snorting, and moistened him with an encouraging caress. "By God!" swore Bébert, "there they are, licking each other's skins again!" Then, when Trompette had passed, he replied, on the subject of Bataille: "Oh, he's a cunning old beast! When he stops like that it's because he guesses there's something in the way, a stone or a hole, and he takes care of himself; he doesn't want to break his bones. To-day I don't know what was the matter with him down there after the door. He pushed it, and stood stock-still. Did you see anything?" "No," said Jeanlin. "There's water, I've got it up to my knees." The tram set out again. And, on the following journey, when he had opened the ventilation door with a blow from his head, Bataille again refused to advance, neighing and trembling. At last he made up his mind, and set off with a bound. Jeanlin, who closed the door, had remained behind. He bent down and looked at the mud through which he was paddling, then, raising his lamp, he saw that the wood had given way beneath the continual bleeding of a spring. Just then a pikeman, one Berloque, who was called Chicot, had arrived from his cutting, in a hurry to go to his wife who had just been confined. He also stopped and examined the planking. And suddenly, as the boy was starting to rejoin his train, a tremendous cracking sound was heard, and a landslip engulfed the man and the child. There was deep silence. A thick dust raised by the wind of the fall passed through the passages. Blinded and choked, the miners came from every part, even from the farthest stalls, with their dancing lamps which feebly lighted up this gallop of black men at the bottom of these molehills. When the first men tumbled against the landslip, they shouted out and called their mates. A second band, come from the cutting below, found themselves on the other side of the mass of earth which stopped up the gallery. It was at once seen that the roof had fallen in for a dozen metres at most. The damage was not serious. But all hearts were contracted when a death-rattle was heard from the ruins. Bébert, leaving his tram, ran up, repeating: "Jeanlin is underneath! Jeanlin is underneath!" Maheu, at this very moment, had come out of the passage with Zacharie and Étienne. He was seized with the fury of despair, and could only utter oaths: "My God! my God! my God!" Catherine, Lydie, and Mouquette, who had also rushed up, began to sob and shriek with terror in the midst of the fearful disorder, which was increased by the darkness. The men tried to make them be silent, but they shrieked louder as each groan was heard. The captain, Richomme, had come up running, in despair that neither Négrel, the engineer, nor Dansaert was at the pit. With his ear pressed against the rocks he listened; and, at last, said those sounds could not come from a child. A man must certainly be there. Maheu had already called Jeanlin twenty times over. Not a breath was heard. The little one must have been smashed up. And still the groans continued monotonously. They spoke to the agonized man, asking him his name. The groaning alone replied. "Look sharp!" repeated Richomme, who had already organized a rescue, "we can talk afterwards." From each end the miners attacked the landslip with pick and shovel. Chaval worked without a word beside Maheu and Étienne, while Zacharie superintended the removal of the earth. The hour for ascent had come, and no one had touched food; but they could not go up for their soup while their mates were in peril. They realized, however, that the settlement would be disturbed if no one came back, and it was proposed to send off the women. But neither Catherine nor Mouquette, nor even Lydie, would move, nailed to the spot with a desire to know what had happened, and to help. Levaque then accepted the commission of announcing the landslip up above--a simple accident, which was being repaired. It was nearly four o'clock; in less than an hour the men had done a day's work; half the earth would have already been removed if more rocks had not slid from the roof. Maheu persisted with such energy that he refused, with a furious gesture, when another man approached to relieve him for a moment. "Gently!" said Richomme at last, "we are getting near. We must not finish them off." In fact the groaning was becoming more and more distinct. It was a continuous rattling which guided the workers; and now it seemed to be beneath their very picks. Suddenly it stopped. In silence they all looked at one another, and shuddered as they felt the coldness of death pass in the darkness. They dug on, soaked in sweat, their muscles tense to breaking. They came upon a foot, and then began to remove the earth with their hands, freeing the limbs one by one. The head was not hurt. They turned their lamps on it, and Chicot's name went round. He was quite warm, with his spinal column broken by a rock. "Wrap him up in a covering, and put him in a tram," ordered the captain. "Now for the lad; look sharp." Maheu gave a last blow, and an opening was made, communicating with the men who were clearing away the soil from the other side. They shouted out that they had just found Jeanlin, unconscious, with both legs broken, still breathing. It was the father who took up the little one in his arms, with clenched jaws constantly uttering "My God!" to express his grief, while Catherine and the other women again began to shriek. A procession was quickly formed. Bébert had brought back Bataille, who was harnessed to the trams. In the first lay Chicot's corpse, supported by Étienne; in the second, Maheu was seated with Jeanlin, still unconscious, on his knees, covered by a strip of wool torn from the ventilation door. They started at a walking pace. On each tram was a lamp like a red star. Then behind followed the row of miners, some fifty shadows in single file. Now that they were overcome by fatigue, they trailed their feet, slipping in the mud, with the mournful melancholy of a flock stricken by an epidemic. It took them nearly half an hour to reach the pit-eye. This procession beneath the earth, in the midst of deep darkness, seemed never to end through galleries which bifurcated and turned and unrolled. At the pit-eye Richomme, who had gone on before, had ordered an empty cage to be reserved. Pierron immediately loaded the two trams. In the first Maheu remained with his wounded little one on his knees, while in the other Étienne kept Chicot's corpse between his arms to hold it up. When the men had piled themselves up in the other decks the cage rose. It took two minutes. The rain from the tubbing fell very cold, and the men looked up towards the air impatient to see daylight. Fortunately a trammer sent to Dr. Vanderhaghen's had found him and brought him back. Jeanlin and the dead man were placed in the captains' room, where, from year's end to year's end, a large fire burnt. A row of buckets with warm water was ready for washing feet; and, two mattresses having been spread on the floor, the man and the child were placed on them. Maheu and Étienne alone entered. Outside, putters, miners, and boys were running about, forming groups and talking in a low voice. As soon as the doctor had glanced at Chicot: "Done for! You can wash him." Two overseers undressed and then washed with a sponge this corpse blackened with coal and still dirty with the sweat of work. "Nothing wrong with the head," said the doctor again, kneeling on Jeanlin's mattress. "Nor the chest either. Ah! it's the legs which have given." He himself undressed the child, unfastening the cap, taking off the jacket, drawing off the breeches and shirt with the skill of a nurse. And the poor little body appeared, as lean as an insect, stained with black dust and yellow earth, marbled by bloody patches. Nothing could be made out, and they had to wash him also. He seemed to grow leaner beneath the sponge, the flesh so pallid and transparent that one could see the bones. It was a pity to look on this last degeneration of a wretched race, this mere nothing that was suffering and half crushed by the falling of the rocks. When he was clean they perceived the bruises on the thighs, two red patches on the white skin. Jeanlin, awaking from his faint, moaned. Standing up at the foot of the mattress with hands hanging down, Maheu was looking at him and large tears rolled from his eyes. "Eh, are you the father?" said the doctor, raising his eyes; "no need to cry then, you can see he is not dead. Help me instead." He found two simple fractures. But the right leg gave him some anxiety, it would probably have to be cut off. At this moment the engineer, Négrel, and Dansaert, who had been informed, came up with Richomme. The first listened to the captain's narrative with an exasperated air. He broke out: Always this cursed timbering! Had he not repeated a hundred times that they would leave their men down there! and those brutes who talked about going out on strike if they were forced to timber more solidly. The worst was that now the Company would have to pay for the broken pots. M. Hennebeau would be pleased! "Who is it?" he asked of Dansaert, who was standing in silence before the corpse which was being wrapped up in a sheet. "Chicot! one of our good workers," replied the chief captain. "He has three children. Poor chap!" Dr. Vanderhaghen ordered Jeanlin's immediate removal to his parents'. Six o'clock struck, twilight was already coming on, and they would do well to remove the corpse also; the engineer gave orders to harness the van and to bring a stretcher. The wounded child was placed on the stretcher while the mattress and the dead body were put into the van. Some putters were still standing at the door talking with some miners who were waiting about to look on. When the door reopened there was silence in the group. A new procession was then formed, the van in front, then the stretcher, and then the train of people. They left the mine square and went slowly up the road to the settlement. The first November cold had denuded the immense plain; the night was now slowly burying it like a shroud fallen from the livid sky. Étienne then in a low voice advised Maheu to send Catherine on to warn Maheude so as to soften the blow. The overwhelmed father, who was following the stretcher, agreed with a nod; and the young girl set out running, for they were now near. But the van, that gloomy well-known box, was already signalled. Women ran out wildly on to the paths; three or four rushed about in anguish, without their bonnets. Soon there were thirty of them, then fifty, all choking with the same terror. Then someone was dead? Who was it? The story told by Levaque after first reassuring them, now exaggerated their nightmare: it was not one man, it was ten who had perished, and who were now being brought back in the van one by one. Catherine found her mother agitated by a presentiment; and after hearing the first stammered words Maheude cried: "The father's dead!" The young girl protested in vain, speaking of Jeanlin. Without hearing her, Maheude had rushed forward. And on seeing the van, which was passing before the church, she grew faint and pale. The women at their doors, mute with terror, were stretching out their necks, while others followed, trembling as they wondered before whose house the procession would stop. The vehicle passed; and behind it Maheude saw Maheu, who was accompanying the stretcher. Then, when they had placed the stretcher at her door and when she saw Jeanlin alive with his legs broken, there was so sudden a reaction in her that she choked with anger, stammering, without tears: "Is this it? They cripple our little ones now! Both legs! My God! What do they want me to do with him?" "Be still, then," said Dr. Vanderhaghen, who had followed to attend to Jeanlin. "Would you rather he had remained below?" But Maheude grew more furious, while Alzire, Lénore, and Henri were crying around her. As she helped to carry up the wounded boy and to give the doctor what he needed, she cursed fate, and asked where she was to find money to feed invalids. The old man was not then enough, now this rascal too had lost his legs! And she never ceased; while other cries, more heart-breaking lamentations, were heard from a neighbouring house: Chicot's wife and children were weeping over the body. It was now quite night, the exhausted miners were at last eating their soup, and the settlement had fallen into a melancholy silence, only disturbed by these loud outcries. Three weeks passed. It was found possible to avoid amputation; Jeanlin kept both his legs, but he remained lame. On investigation the Company had resigned itself to giving a donation of fifty francs. It had also promised to find employment for the little cripple at the surface as soon as he was well. All the same their misery was aggravated, for the father had received such a shock that he was seriously ill with fever. Since Thursday Maheu had been back at the pit and it was now Sunday. In the evening Étienne talked of the approaching date of the 1st of December, preoccupied in wondering if the Company would execute its threat. They sat up till ten o'clock waiting for Catherine, who must have been delaying with Chaval. But she did not return. Maheude furiously bolted the door without a word. Étienne was long in going to sleep, restless at the thought of that empty bed in which Alzire occupied so little room. Next morning she was still absent; and it was only in the afternoon, on returning from the pit, that the Maheus learnt that Chaval was keeping Catherine. He created such abominable scenes with her that she had decided to stay with him. To avoid reproaches he had suddenly left the Voreux and had been taken on at Jean-Bart, M. Deneulin's mine, and she had followed him as a putter. The new household still lived at Montsou, at Piquette's. Maheu at first talked of going to fight the man and of bringing his daughter back with a kick in the backside. Then he made a gesture of resignation: what was the good? It always turned out like that; one could not prevent a girl from sticking to a man when she wanted to. It was much better to wait quietly for the marriage. But Maheude did not take things so easily. "Did I beat her when she took this Chaval?" she cried to Étienne, who listened in silence, very pale. "See now, tell me! you, who are a sensible man. We have left her free, haven't we? because, my God! they all come to it. Now, I was in the family way when the father married me. But I didn't run away from my parents, and I should never have done so dirty a trick as to carry the money I earned to a man who had no want of it before the proper age. Ah! it's disgusting, you know. People will leave off getting children!" And as Étienne still replied only by nodding his head, she insisted: "A girl who went out every evening where she wanted to! What has she got in her skin, then, not to be able to wait till I married her after she had helped to get us out of difficulties? Eh? it's natural, one has a daughter to work. But there! we have been too good, we ought not to let her go and amuse herself with a man. Give them an inch and they take an ell." Alzire nodded approvingly. Lénore and Henri, overcome by this storm, cried quietly, while the mother now enumerated their misfortunes: first Zacharie who had had to get married; then old Bonnemort who was there on his chair with his twisted feet; then Jeanlin who could not leave the room for ten days with his badly-united bones; and now, as a last blow, this jade Catherine, who had gone away with a man! The whole family was breaking up. There was only the father left at the pit. How were they to live, seven persons without counting Estelle, on his three francs? They might as well jump into the canal in a band. "It won't do any good to worry yourself," said Maheu in a low voice, "perhaps we have not got to the end." Étienne, who was looking fixedly at the flags on the floor, raised his head, and murmured with eyes lost in a vision of the future: "Ah! it is time! it is time!" PART FOUR CHAPTER I On that Monday the Hennebeaus had invited the Grégoires and their daughter Cécile to lunch. They had formed their plans: on rising from table, Paul Négrel was to take the ladies to a mine, Saint-Thomas, which had been luxuriously reinstalled. But this was only an amiable pretext; this party was an invention of Madame Hennebeau's to hasten the marriage of Cécile and Paul. Suddenly, on this very Monday, at four o'clock in the morning, the strike broke out. When, on the 1st of December, the Company had adopted the new wage system, the miners remained calm. At the end of the fortnight not one made the least protest on pay-day. Everybody, from the manager down to the last overseer, considered the tariff as accepted; and great was their surprise in the morning at this declaration of war, made with a tactical unity which seemed to indicate energetic leadership. At five o'clock Dansaert woke M. Hennebeau to inform him that not a single man had gone down at the Voreux. The settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante, which he had passed through, was sleeping deeply, with closed windows and doors. And as soon as the manager had jumped out of bed, his eyes still swollen with sleep, he was overwhelmed. Every quarter of an hour messengers came in, and dispatches fell on his desk as thick as hail. At first he hoped that the revolt was limited to the Voreux; but the news became more serious every minute. There was the Mirou, the Crévecoeur, the Madeleine, where only the grooms had appeared; the Victoire and Feutry-Cantel, the two best disciplined pits, where the men had been reduced by a third; Saint-Thomas alone numbered all its people, and seemed to be outside the movement. Up to nine o'clock he dictated dispatches, telegraphing in all directions, to the prefect of Lille, to the directors of the Company, warning the authorities and asking for orders. He had sent Négrel to go round the neighbouring pits to obtain precise information. Suddenly M. Hennebeau recollected the lunch; and he was about to send the coachman to tell the Grégoires that the party had been put off, when a certain hesitation and lack of will stopped him--the man who in a few brief phrases had just made military preparations for a field of battle. He went up to Madame Hennebeau, whose hair had just been done by her lady's maid, in her dressing-room. "Ah! they are on strike," she said quietly, when he had told her. "Well, what has that to do with us? We are not going to leave off eating, I suppose?" And she was obstinate; it was vain to tell her that the lunch would be disturbed, and that the visit to Saint-Thomas could not take place. She found an answer to everything. Why lose a lunch that was already cooking? And as to visiting the pit, they could give that up afterwards if the walk was really imprudent. "Besides," she added, when the maid had gone out, "you know that I am anxious to receive these good people. This marriage ought to affect you more than the follies of your men. I want to have it, don't contradict me." He looked at her, agitated by a slight trembling, and the hard firm face of the man of discipline expressed the secret grief of a wounded heart. She had remained with naked shoulders, already over-mature, but still imposing and desirable, with the broad bust of a Ceres gilded by the autumn. For a moment he felt a brutal desire to seize her, and to roll his head between the breasts she was exposing in this warm room, which exhibited the private luxury of a sensual woman and had about it an irritating perfume of musk, but he recoiled; for ten years they had occupied separate rooms. "Good!" he said, leaving her. "Do not make any alterations." M. Hennebeau had been born in the Ardennes. In his early life he had undergone the hardships of a poor boy thrown as an orphan on the Paris streets. After having painfully followed the courses of the École des Mines, at the age of twenty-four he had gone to the Grand' Combe as engineer to the Sainte-Barbe mine. Three years later he became divisional engineer in the Pas-de-Calais, at the Marles mines. It was there that he married, wedding, by one of those strokes of fortune which are the rule among the Corps des Mines, the daughter of the rich owner of a spinning factory at Arras. For fifteen years they lived in the same small provincial town, and no event broke the monotony of existence, not even the birth of a child. An increasing irritation detached Madame Hennebeau, who had been brought up to respect money, and was disdainful of this husband who gained a small salary with such difficulty, and who enabled her to gratify none of the satisfactions of vanity which she had dreamed of at school. He was a man of strict honesty, who never speculated, but stood at his post like a soldier. The lack of harmony had only increased, aggravated by one of those curious misunderstandings of the flesh which freeze the most ardent; he adored his wife, she had the sensuality of a greedy blonde, and already they slept apart, ill at ease and wounded. From that time she had a lover of whom he was ignorant. At last he left the Pas-de-Calais to occupy a situation in an office at Paris, with the idea that she would be grateful to him. But Paris only completed their separation, that Paris which she had desired since her first doll, and where she washed away her provincialism in a week, becoming a woman of fashion at once, and throwing herself into all the luxurious follies of the period. The ten years which she spent there were filled by a great passion, a public intrigue with a man whose desertion nearly killed her. This time the husband had not been able to keep his ignorance, and after some abominable scenes he resigned himself, disarmed by the quiet unconsciousness of this woman who took her happiness where she found it. It was after the rupture, and when he saw that she was ill with grief, that he had accepted the management of the Montsou mines, still hoping also that she would reform down there in that desolate black country. The Hennebeaus, since they had lived at Montsou, returned to the irritated boredom of their early married days. At first she seemed consoled by the great quiet, soothed by the flat monotony of the immense plain; she buried herself in it as a woman who has done with the world; she affected a dead heart, so detached from life that she did not even mind growing stout. Then, beneath this indifference a final fever declared itself, the need to live once more, and she deluded herself for six months by organizing and furnishing to her taste the little villa belonging to the management. She said it was frightful, and filled it with upholstery, bric-a-brac, and all sorts of artistic luxuries which were talked of as far as Lille. Now the country exasperated her, those stupid fields spread out to infinity, those eternal black roads without a tree, swarming with a horrid population which disgusted and frightened her. Complaints of exile began; she accused her husband of having sacrificed her to a salary of forty thousand francs, a trifle which hardly sufficed to keep the house up. Why could he not imitate others, demand a part for himself, obtain shares, succeed in something at last? And she insisted with the cruelty of an heiress who had brought her own fortune. He, always restrained, and taking refuge in the deceptive coldness of a man of business, was torn by desire for this creature, one of those late desires which are so violent and which increase with age. He had never possessed her as a lover; he was haunted by a continual image, to have her once to himself as she had given herself to another. Every morning he dreamed of winning her in the evening; then, when she looked at him with her cold eyes, and when he felt that everything within her denied itself to him, he even avoided touching her hand. It was a suffering without possible cure, hidden beneath the stiffness of his attitude, the suffering of a tender nature in secret anguish at the lack of domestic happiness. At the end of six months, when the house, being definitely furnished, no longer occupied Madame Hennebeau, she fell into the languor of boredom, a victim who was being killed by exile, and who said that she was glad to die of it. Just then Paul Négrel arrived at Montsou. His mother, the widow of a Provence captain, living at Avignon on a slender income, had had to content herself with bread and water to enable him to reach the École Polytechnique. He had come out low in rank, and his uncle, M. Hennebeau, had enabled him to leave by offering to take him as engineer at the Voreux. From that time he was treated as one of the family; he even had his room there, his meals there, lived there, and was thus enabled to send to his mother half his salary of three thousand francs. To disguise this kindness M. Hennebeau spoke of the embarrassment to a young man of setting up a household in one of those little villas reserved for the mine engineers. Madame Hennebeau had at once taken the part of a good aunt, treating her nephew with familiarity and watching over his comfort. During the first months, especially, she exhibited an overwhelming maternity with her advice regarding the smallest subjects. But she remained a woman, however, and slid into personal confidences. This lad, so young and so practical, with his unscrupulous intelligence, professing a philosopher's theory of love, amused her with the vivacity of the pessimism which had sharpened his thin face and pointed nose. One evening he naturally found himself in her arms, and she seemed to give herself up out of kindness, while saying to him that she had no heart left, and wished only to be his friend. In fact, she was not jealous; she joked him about the putters, whom he declared to be abominable, and she almost sulked because he had no young man's pranks to narrate to her. Then she was carried away by the idea of getting him married; she dreamed of sacrificing herself and of finding a rich girl for him. Their relations continued a plaything, a recreation, in which she felt the last tenderness of a lazy woman who had done with the world. Two years had passed by. One night M. Hennebeau had a suspicion when he heard naked feet passing his door. But this new adventure revolted him, in his own house, between this mother and this son! And besides, on the following day his wife spoke to him about the choice of Cécile Grégoire which she had made for her nephew. She occupied herself over this marriage with such ardour that he blushed at his own monstrous imagination. He only felt gratitude towards the young man who, since his arrival, had made the house less melancholy. As he came down from the dressing-room, M. Hennebeau found that Paul, who had just returned, was in the vestibule. He seemed to be quite amused by the story of this strike. "Well?" asked his uncle. "Well, I've been round the settlements. They seem to be quite sensible in there. I think they will first send you a deputation." But at that moment Madame Hennebeau's voice called from the first story: "Is that you, Paul? Come up, then, and tell me the news. How queer they are to make such a fuss, these people who are so happy!" And the manager had to renounce further information, since his wife had taken his messenger. He returned and sat before his desk, on which a new packet of dispatches was placed. At eleven o'clock the Grégoires arrived, and were astonished when Hippolyte, the footman, who was placed as sentinel, hustled them in after an anxious glance at the two ends of the road. The drawing-room curtains were drawn, and they were taken at once into the study, where M. Hennebeau apologized for their reception; but the drawing-room looked over the street and it was undesirable to seem to offer provocations. "What! you don't know?" he went on, seeing their surprise. M. Grégoire, when he heard that the strike had at last broken out, shrugged his shoulders in his placid way. Bah! it would be nothing, the people were honest. With a movement of her chin, Madame Grégoire approved his confidence in the everlasting resignation of the colliers; while Cécile, who was very cheerful that day, feeling that she looked well in her capuchin cloth costume, smiled at the word "strike," which reminded her of visits to the settlements and the distribution of charities. Madame Hennebeau now appeared in black silk, followed by Négrel. "Ah! isn't it annoying!" she said, at the door. "As if they couldn't wait, those men! You know that Paul refuses to take us to Saint-Thomas." "We can stay here," said M. Grégoire, obligingly. "We shall be quite pleased." Paul had contented himself with formally saluting Cécile and her mother. Angry at this lack of demonstrativeness, his aunt sent him with a look to the young girl; and when she heard them laughing together she enveloped them in a maternal glance. M. Hennebeau, however, finished reading his dispatches and prepared a few replies. They talked near him; his wife explained that she had not done anything to this study, which, in fact, retained its faded old red paper, its heavy mahogany furniture, its cardboard files, scratched by use. Three-quarters of an hour passed and they were about to seat themselves at table when the footman announced M. Deneulin. He entered in an excited way and bowed to Madame Hennebeau. "Ah! you here!" he said, seeing the Grégoires. And he quickly spoke to the manager: "It has come, then? I've just heard of it through my engineer. With me, all the men went down this morning. But the thing may spread. I'm not at all at ease. How is it with you?" He had arrived on horseback, and his anxiety betrayed itself in his loud speech and abrupt gestures, which made him resemble a retired cavalry officer. M. Hennebeau was beginning to inform him regarding the precise situation, when Hippolyte opened the dining-room door. Then he interrupted himself to say: "Lunch with us. I will tell you more at dessert." "Yes, as you please," replied Deneulin, so full of his thoughts that he accepted without ceremony. He was, however, conscious of his impoliteness and turned towards Madame Hennebeau with apologies. She was very charming, however. When she had had a seventh plate laid she placed her guests: Madame Grégoire and Cécile by her husband, then M. Grégoire and Deneulin at her own right and left; then Paul, whom she put between the young girl and her father. As they attacked the _hors-d'oeuvre_ she said, with a smile: "You must excuse me; I wanted to give you oysters. On Monday, you know, there was an arrival of Ostend oysters at Marchiennes, and I meant to send the cook with the carriage. But she was afraid of being stoned--" They all interrupted her with a great burst of gaiety. They thought the story very funny. "Hush!" said M. Hennebeau, vexed, looking at the window, through which the road could be seen. "We need not tell the whole country that we have company this morning." "Well, here is a slice of sausage which they shan't have," M. Grégoire declared. The laughter began again, but with greater restraint. Each guest made himself comfortable, in this room upholstered with Flemish tapestry and furnished with old oak chests. The silver shone behind the panes of the sideboards; and there was a large hanging lamp of red copper, whose polished surfaces reflected a palm and an aspidistra growing in majolica pots. Outside, the December day was frozen by a keen north-east wind. But not a breath of it entered; a green-house warmth developed the delicate odour of the pineapple, sliced in a crystal bowl. "Suppose we were to draw the curtains," proposed Négrel, who was amused at the idea of frightening the Grégoires. The housemaid, who was helping the footman, treated this as an order and went and closed one of the curtains. This led to interminable jokes: not a glass or a plate could be put down without precaution; every dish was hailed as a waif escaped from the pillage in a conquered town; and behind this forced gaiety there was a certain fear which betrayed itself in involuntary glances towards the road, as though a band of starvelings were watching the table from outside. After the scrambled eggs with truffles, trout came on. The conversation then turned to the industrial crisis, which had become aggravated during the last eighteen months. "It was inevitable," said Deneulin, "the excessive prosperity of recent years was bound to bring us to it. Think of the enormous capital which has been sunk, the railways, harbours, and canals, all the money buried in the maddest speculations. Among us alone sugar works have been set up as if the department could furnish three beetroot harvests. Good heavens! and to-day money is scarce, and we have to wait to catch up the interest of the expended millions; so there is a mortal congestion and a final stagnation of business." M. Hennebeau disputed this theory, but he agreed that the fortunate years had spoilt the men. "When I think," he exclaimed, "that these chaps in our pits used to gain six francs a day, double what they gain now! And they lived well, too, and acquired luxurious tastes. To-day, naturally, it seems hard to them to go back to their old frugality." "Monsieur Grégoire," interrupted Madame Hennebeau, "let me persuade you, a little more trout. They are delicious, are they not?" The manager went on: "But, as a matter of fact, is it our fault? We, too, are cruelly struck. Since the factories have closed, one by one, we have had a deuce of a difficulty in getting rid of our stock; and in face of the growing reduction in demand we have been forced to lower our net prices. It is just this that the men won't understand." There was silence. The footman presented roast partridge, while the housemaid began to pour out Chambertin for the guests. "There has been a famine in India," said Deneulin in a low voice, as though he were speaking to himself. "America, by ceasing to order iron, has struck a heavy blow at our furnaces. Everything holds together; a distant shock is enough to disturb the world. And the empire, which was so proud of this hot fever of industry!" He attacked his partridge wing. Then, raising his voice: "The worst is that to lower the net prices we ought logically to produce more; otherwise the reduction bears on wages, and the worker is right in saying that he has to pay the damage." This confession, the outcome of his frankness, raised a discussion. The ladies were not at all interested. Besides, all were occupied with their plates, in the first zest of appetite. When the footman came back, he seemed about to speak, then he hesitated. "What is it?" asked M. Hennebeau. "If there are letters, give them to me. I am expecting replies." "No, sir. It is Monsieur Dansaert, who is in the hall. But he doesn't wish to disturb you." The manager excused himself, and had the head captain brought in. The latter stood upright, a few paces from the table, while all turned to look at him, huge, out of breath with the news he was bringing. The settlements were quiet; only it had now been decided to send a deputation. It would, perhaps, be there in a few minutes. "Very well; thank you," said M. Hennebeau. "I want a report morning and evening, you understand." And as soon as Dansaert had gone, they began to joke again, and hastened to attack the Russian salad, declaring that not a moment was to be lost if they wished to finish it. The mirth was unbounded when Négrel, having asked the housemaid for bread, she replied, "Yes, sir," in a voice as low and terrified as if she had behind her a troop ready for murder and rape. "You may speak," said Madame Hennebeau complacently. "They are not here yet." The manager, who now received a packet of letters and dispatches, wished to read one of his letters aloud. It was from Pierron, who, in respectful phrases, gave notice that he was obliged to go out on strike with his comrades, in order to avoid ill-treatment; and he added that he had not even been able to avoid taking part in the deputation, although he blamed that step. "So much for liberty of work!" exclaimed M. Hennebeau. Then they returned to the strike, and asked him his opinion. "Oh!" he replied, "we have had them before. It will be a week, or, at most, a fortnight, of idleness, as it was last time. They will go and wallow in the public-houses, and then, when they are hungry, they will go back to the pits." Deneulin shook his head: "I'm not so satisfied; this time they appear to be better organized. Have they not a Provident Fund?" "Yes, scarcely three thousand francs. What do you think they can do with that? I suspect a man called Étienne Lantier of being their leader. He is a good workman; it would vex me to have to give him his certificate back, as we did of old to the famous Rasseneur, who still poisons the Voreux with his ideas and his beer. No matter, in a week half the men will have gone down, and in a fortnight the ten thousand will be below." He was convinced. His only anxiety was concerning his own possible disgrace should the directors put the responsibility of the strike on him. For some time he had felt that he was diminishing in favour. So leaving the spoonful of Russian salad which he had taken, he read over again the dispatches received from Paris, endeavouring to penetrate every word. His guests excused him; the meal was becoming a military lunch, eaten on the field of battle before the first shots were fired. The ladies then joined in the conversation. Madame Grégoire expressed pity for the poor people who would suffer from hunger; and Cécile was already making plans for distributing gifts of bread and meat. But Madame Hennebeau was astonished at hearing of the wretchedness of the Montsou colliers. Were they not very fortunate? People who were lodged and warmed and cared for at the expense of the Company! In her indifference for the herd, she only knew the lessons she had learnt, and with which she had surprised the Parisians who came on a visit. She believed them at last, and was indignant at the ingratitude of the people. Négrel, meanwhile, continued to frighten M. Grégoire. Cécile did not displease him, and he was quite willing to marry her to be agreeable to his aunt, but he showed no amorous fever; like a youth of experience, who, he said, was not easily carried away now. He professed to be a Republican, which did not prevent him from treating his men with extreme severity, or from making fun of them in the company of the ladies. "Nor have I my uncle's optimism, either," he continued. "I fear there will be serious disturbances. So I should advise you, Monsieur Grégoire, to lock up Piolaine. They may pillage you." Just then, still retaining the smile which illuminated his good-natured face, M. Grégoire was going beyond his wife in paternal sentiments with regard to the miners. "Pillage me!" he cried, stupefied. "And why pillage me?" "Are you not a shareholder in Montsou! You do nothing; you live on the work of others. In fact you are an infamous capitalist, and that is enough. You may be sure that if the revolution triumphs, it will force you to restore your fortune as stolen money." At once he lost his child-like tranquillity, his serene unconsciousness. He stammered: "Stolen money, my fortune! Did not my great-grandfather gain, and hardly, too, the sum originally invested? Have we not run all the risks of the enterprise, and do I today make a bad use of my income?" Madame Hennebeau, alarmed at seeing the mother and daughter also white with fear, hastened to intervene, saying: "Paul is joking, my dear sir." But M. Grégoire was carried out of himself. As the servant was passing round the crayfish he took three of them without knowing what he was doing and began to break their claws with his teeth. "Ah! I don't say but what there are shareholders who abuse their position. For instance, I have been told that ministers have received shares in Montsou for services rendered to the Company. It is like a nobleman whom I will not name, a duke, the biggest of our shareholders, whose life is a scandal of prodigality, millions thrown into the street on women, feasting, and useless luxury. But we who live quietly, like good citizens as we are, who do not speculate, who are content to live wholesomely on what we have, giving a part to the poor: Come, now! your men must be mere brigands if they came and stole a pin from us!" Négrel himself had to calm him, though amused at his anger. The crayfish were still going round; the little crackling sound of their carapaces could be heard, while the conversation turned to politics, M. Grégoire, in spite of everything and though still trembling, called himself a Liberal and regretted Louis Philippe. As for Deneulin, he was for a strong Government; he declared that the Emperor was gliding down the slope of dangerous concessions. "Remember '89," he said. "It was the nobility who made the Revolution possible, by their complicity and taste for philosophic novelties. Very well! the middle class to-day are playing the same silly game with their furious Liberalism, their rage for destruction, their flattery of the people. Yes, yes, you are sharpening the teeth of the monster that will devour us. It will devour us, rest assured!" The ladies bade him be silent, and tried to change the conversation by asking him news of his daughters. Lucie was at Marchiennes, where she was singing with a friend; Jeanne was painting an old beggar's head. But he said these things in a distracted way; he constantly looked at the manager, who was absorbed in the reading of his dispatches and forgetful of his guests. Behind those thin leaves he felt Paris and the directors' orders, which would decide the strike. At last he could not help yielding to his preoccupation. "Well, what are you going to do?" he asked suddenly. M. Hennebeau started; then turned off the question with a vague phrase. "We shall see." "No doubt you are solidly placed, you can wait," Deneulin began to think aloud. "But as for me, I shall be done for if the strike reaches Vandame. I shall have reinstalled Jean-Bart in vain; with a single pit, I can only get along by constant production. Ah! I am not in a very pleasant situation, I can assure you!" This involuntary confession seemed to strike M. Hennebeau. He listened and a plan formed within him: in case the strike turned out badly, why not utilize it by letting things run down until his neighbour was ruined, and then buy up his concession at a low price? That would be the surest way of regaining the good graces of the directors, who for years had dreamed of possessing Vandame. "If Jean-Bart bothers you as much as that," said he, laughing, "why don't you give it up to us?" But Deneulin was already regretting his complaints. He exclaimed: "Never, never!" They were amused at his vigour and had already forgotten the strike by the time the dessert appeared. An apple-charlotte meringue was overwhelmed with praise. Afterwards the ladies discussed a recipe with respect to the pineapple which was declared equally exquisite. The grapes and pears completed their happy abandonment at the end of this copious lunch. All talked excitedly at the same time, while the servant poured out Rhine wine in place of champagne which was looked upon as commonplace. And the marriage of Paul and Cécile certainly made a forward step in the sympathy produced by the dessert. His aunt had thrown such urgent looks in his direction, that the young man showed himself very amiable, and in his wheedling way reconquered the Grégoires, who had been cast down by his stories of pillage. For a moment M. Hennebeau, seeing the close understanding between his wife and his nephew, felt that abominable suspicion again revive, as if in this exchange of looks he had surprised a physical contact. But again the idea of the marriage, made here before his face, reassured him. Hippolyte was serving the coffee when the housemaid entered in a fright. "Sir, sir, they are here!" It was the delegates. Doors banged; a breath of terror was passing through the neighbouring rooms. Around the table the guests were looking at one another with uneasy indecision. There was silence. Then they tried to resume their jokes: they pretended to put the rest of the sugar in their pockets, and talked of hiding the plate. But the manager remained grave; and the laughter fell and their voices sank to a whisper, while the heavy feet of the delegates who were being shown in tramped over the carpet of the next room. Madame Hennebeau said to her husband, lowering her voice: "I hope you will drink your coffee." "Certainly," he replied. "Let them wait." He was nervous, listening to every sound, though apparently occupied with his cup. Paul and Cécile got up, and he made her venture an eye to the keyhole. They were stifling their laughter and talking in a low voice. "Do you see them?" "Yes, I see a big man and two small ones behind." "Haven't they ugly faces?" "Not at all; they are very nice." Suddenly M. Hennebeau left his chair, saying the coffee was too hot and he would drink it afterwards. As he went out he put a finger to his lips to recommend prudence. They all sat down again and remained at table in silence, no longer daring to move, listening from afar with intent ears jarred by these coarse male voices. CHAPTER II The previous day, at a meeting held at Rasseneur's, Étienne and some comrades had chosen the delegates who were to proceed on the following day to the manager's house. When, in the evening, Maheude learnt that her man was one of them, she was in despair, and asked him if he wanted them to be thrown on the street. Maheu himself had agreed with reluctance. Both of them, when the moment of action came, in spite of the injustice of their wretchedness fell back on the resignation of their race, trembling before the morrow, preferring still to bend their backs to the yoke. In the management of affairs he usually gave way to his wife, whose advice was sound. This time, however, he grew angry at last, all the more so since he secretly shared her fears. "Just leave me alone, will you?" he said, going to bed and turning his back. "A fine thing to leave the mates now! I'm doing my duty." She went to bed in her turn. Neither of them spoke. Then, after a long silence, she replied: "You're right; go. Only, poor old man, we are done for." Midday struck while they were at lunch, for the rendezvous was at one o'clock at the Avantage, from which they were to go together to M. Hennebeau's. They were eating potatoes. As there was only a small morsel of butter left, no one touched it. They would have bread and butter in the evening. "You know that we reckon on you to speak," said Étienne suddenly to Maheu. The latter was so overcome that he was silent from emotion. "No, no! that's too much," cried Maheude. "I'm quite willing he should go there, but I don't allow him to go at the head. Why him, more than any one else?" Then Étienne, with his fiery eloquence, began to explain. Maheu was the best worker in the pit, the most liked, and the most respected; whose good sense was always spoken of. In his mouth the miners' claims would carry decisive weight. At first Étienne had arranged to speak, but he had been at Montsou for too short a time. One who belonged to the country would be better listened to. In fact, the comrades were confiding their interests to the most worthy; he could not refuse, it would be cowardly. Maheude made a gesture of despair. "Go, go, my man; go and be killed for the others. I'm willing, after all!" "But I could never do it," stammered Maheu. "I should say something stupid." Étienne, glad to have persuaded him, struck him on the shoulder. "Say what you feel, and you won't go wrong." Father Bonnemort, whose legs were now less swollen, was listening with his mouth full, shaking his head. There was silence. When potatoes were being eaten, the children were subdued and behaved well. Then, having swallowed his mouthful, the old man muttered slowly: "You can say what you like, and it will be all the same as if you said nothing. Ah! I've seen these affairs, I've seen them! Forty years ago they drove us out of the manager's house, and with sabres too! Now they may receive you, perhaps, but they won't answer you any more than that wall. Lord! they have money, why should they care?" There was silence again; Maheu and Étienne rose, and left the family in gloom before the empty plates. On going out they called for Pierron and Levaque, and then all four went to Rasseneur's, where the delegates from the neighbouring settlements were arriving in little groups. When the twenty members of the deputation had assembled there, they settled on the terms to be opposed to the Company's, and then set out for Montsou. The keen north-east wind was sweeping the street. As they arrived, it struck two. At first the servant told them to wait, and shut the door on them; then, when he came back, he introduced them into the drawing-room, and opened the curtains. A soft daylight entered, sifted through the lace. And the miners, when left alone, in their embarrassment did not dare to sit; all of them very clean, dressed in cloth, shaven that morning, with their yellow hair and moustaches. They twisted their caps between their fingers, and looked sideways at the furniture, which was in every variety of style, as a result of the taste for the old-fashioned: Henry II easy-chairs, Louis XV chairs, an Italian cabinet of the seventeenth century, a Spanish contador of the fifteenth century, with an altar-front serving as a chimney-piece, and ancient chasuble trimming reapplied to the curtains. This old gold and these old silks, with their tawny tones, all this luxurious church furniture, had overwhelmed them with respectful discomfort. The eastern carpets with their long wool seemed to bind their feet. But what especially suffocated them was the heat, heat like that of a hot-air stove, which surprised them as they felt it with cheeks frozen from the wind of the road. Five minutes passed by and their awkwardness increased in the comfort of this rich room, so pleasantly warm. At last M. Hennebeau entered, buttoned up in a military manner and wearing on his frock-coat the correct little bow of his decoration. He spoke first. "Ah! here you are! You are in rebellion, it seems." He interrupted himself to add with polite stiffness: "Sit down, I desire nothing better than to talk things over." The miners turned round looking for seats. A few of them ventured to place themselves on chairs, while the others, disturbed by the embroidered silks, preferred to remain standing. There was a period of silence. M. Hennebeau, who had drawn his easy-chair up to the fireplace, was rapidly looking them over and endeavouring to recall their faces. He had recognized Pierron, who was hidden in the last row, and his eyes rested on Étienne who was seated in front of him. "Well," he asked, "what have you to say to me?" He had expected to hear the young man speak and he was so surprised to see Maheu come forward that he could not avoid adding: "What! you, a good workman who have always been so sensible, one of the old Montsou people whose family has worked in the mine since the first stroke of the axe! Ah! it's a pity, I'm sorry that you are at the head of the discontented." Maheu listened with his eyes down. Then he began, at first in a low and hesitating voice. "It is just because I am a quiet man, sir, whom no one has anything against, that my mates have chosen me. That ought to show you that it isn't just a rebellion of blusterers, badly-disposed men who want to create disorder. We only want justice, we are tired of starving, and it seems to us that the time has come when things ought to be arranged so that we can at least have bread every day." His voice grew stronger. He lifted his eyes and went on, while looking at the manager. "You know quite well that we cannot agree to your new system. They accuse us of bad timbering. It's true we don't give the necessary time to the work. But if we gave it, our day's work would be still smaller, and as it doesn't give us enough food at present, that would mean the end of everything, the sweep of the clout that would wipe off all your men. Pay us more and we will timber better, we will give the necessary hours to the timbering instead of putting all our strength into the picking, which is the only work that pays. There's no other arrangement possible; if the work is to be done it must be paid for. And what have you invented instead? A thing which we can't get into our heads, don't you see? You lower the price of the tram and then you pretend to make up for it by paying for all timbering separately. If that was true we should be robbed all the same, for the timbering would still take us more time. But what makes us mad is that it isn't even true; the Company compensates for nothing at all, it simply puts two centimes a tram into its pocket, that's all." "Yes, yes, that's it," murmured the other deputies, noticing M. Hennebeau make a violent movement as if to interrupt. But Maheu cut the manager short. Now that he had set out his words came by themselves. At times he listened to himself with surprise as though a stranger were speaking within him. It was the things amassed within his breast, things he did not even know were there, and which came out in an expansion of his heart. He described the wretchedness that was common to all of them, the hard toil, the brutal life, the wife and little ones crying from hunger in the house. He quoted the recent disastrous payments, the absurd fortnightly wages, eaten up by fines and rest days and brought back to their families in tears. Was it resolved to destroy them? "Then, sir," he concluded, "we have come to tell you that if we've got to starve we would rather starve doing nothing. It will be a little less trouble. We have left the pits and we don't go down again unless the Company agrees to our terms. The Company wants to lower the price of the tram and to pay for the timbering separately. We ask for things to be left as they were, and we also ask for five centimes more the tram. Now it is for you to see if you are on the side of justice and work." Voices rose among the miners. "That's it--he has said what we all feel--we only ask what's reason." Others, without speaking, showed their approval by nodding their heads. The luxurious room had disappeared, with its gold and its embroideries, its mysterious piling up of ancient things; and they no longer even felt the carpet which they crushed beneath their heavy boots. "Let me reply, then," at last exclaimed M. Hennebeau, who was growing angry. "First of all, it is not true that the Company gains two centimes the tram. Let us look at the figures." A confused discussion followed. The manager, trying to divide them, appealed to Pierron, who hid himself, stammering. Levaque, on the contrary, was at the head of the more aggressive, muddling up things and affirming facts of which he was ignorant. The loud murmurs of their voices were stifled beneath the hangings in the hot-house atmosphere. "If you all talk at the same time," said M. Hennebeau, "we shall never come to an understanding." He had regained his calmness, the rough politeness, without bitterness, of an agent who has received his instructions, and means that they shall be respected. From the first word he never took his eye off Étienne, and manoeuvred to draw the young man out of his obstinate silence. Leaving the discussion about the two centimes, he suddenly enlarged the question. "No, acknowledge the truth: you are yielding to abominable incitations. It is a plague which is now blowing over the workers everywhere, and corrupting the best. Oh! I have no need for any one to confess. I can see well that you have been changed, you who used to be so quiet. Is it not so? You have been promised more butter than bread, and you have been told that now your turn has come to be masters. In fact, you have been enrolled in that famous International, that army of brigands who dream of destroying society." Then Étienne interrupted him. "You are mistaken, sir. Not a single Montsou collier has yet enrolled. But if they are driven to it, all the pits will enroll themselves. That depends on the Company." From that moment the struggle went on between M. Hennebeau and Étienne as though the other miners were no longer there. "The Company is a Providence for the men, and you are wrong to threaten it. This year it has spent three hundred thousand francs in building settlements which only return two per cent, and I say nothing of the pensions which it pays, nor of the coals and medicines which it gives. You who seem to be intelligent, and who have become in a few months one of our most skilful workmen, would it not be better if you were to spread these truths, rather than ruin yourself by associating with people of bad reputation? Yes, I mean Rasseneur, whom we had to turn off in order to save our pits from socialistic corruption. You are constantly seen with him, and it is certainly he who has induced you to form this Provident Fund, which we would willingly tolerate if it were merely a means of saving, but which we feel to be a weapon turned against us, a reserve fund to pay the expenses of the war. And in this connection I ought to add that the Company means to control that fund." Étienne allowed him to continue, fixing his eyes on him, while a slight nervous quiver moved his lips. He smiled at the last remark, and simply replied: "Then that is a new demand, for until now, sir, you have neglected to claim that control. Unfortunately, we wish the Company to occupy itself less with us, and instead of playing the part of Providence to be merely just with us, giving us our due, the profits which it appropriates. Is it honest, whenever a crisis comes, to leave the workers to die with hunger in order to save the shareholders' dividends? Whatever you may say, sir, the new system is a disguised reduction of wages, and that is what we are rebelling against, for if the Company wants to economize it acts very badly by only economizing on the men." "Ah! there we are!" cried M. Hennebeau. "I was expecting that--the accusation of starving the people and living by their sweat. How can you talk such folly, you who ought to know the enormous risks which capital runs in industry--in the mines, for example? A well-equipped pit today costs from fifteen hundred thousand francs to two millions; and it is difficult enough to get a moderate interest on the vast sum that is thus swallowed. Nearly half the mining companies in France are bankrupt. Besides, it is stupid to accuse those who succeed of cruelty. When their workers suffer, they suffer themselves. Can you believe that the Company has not as much to lose as you have in the present crisis? It does not govern wages; it obeys competition under pain of ruin. Blame the facts, not the Company. But you don't wish to hear, you don't wish to understand." "Yes," said the young man, "we understand very well that our lot will never be bettered as long as things go on as they are going; and that is the reason why some day or another the workers will end by arranging that things shall go differently." This sentence, so moderate in form, was pronounced in a low voice, but with such conviction, tremulous in its menace, that a deep silence followed. A certain constraint, a breath of fear passed through the polite drawing-room. The other delegates, though scarcely understanding, felt that their comrade had been demanding their share of this comfort; and they began to cast sidelong looks over the warm hangings, the comfortable seats, all this luxury of which the least knick-knack would have bought them soup for a month. At last M. Hennebeau, who had remained thoughtful, rose as a sign for them to depart. All imitated him. Étienne had lightly pushed Maheu's elbow, and the latter, his tongue once more thick and awkward, again spoke. "Then, sir, that is all that you reply? We must tell the others that you reject our terms." "I, my good fellow!" exclaimed the manager, "I reject nothing. I am paid just as you are. I have no more power in the matter than the smallest of your trammers. I receive my orders, and my only duty is to see that they are executed. I have told you what I thought I ought to tell you, but it is not for me to decide. You have brought me your demands. I will make them known to the directors, then I will tell you their reply." He spoke with the correct air of a high official avoiding any passionate interest in the matter, with the courteous dryness of a simple instrument of authority. And the miners now looked at him with distrust, asking themselves what interest he might have in lying, and what he would get by thus putting himself between them and the real masters. A schemer, perhaps, this man who was paid like a worker, and who lived so well! Étienne ventured to intervene again. "You see, sir, how unfortunate it is that we cannot plead our cause in person. We could explain many things, and bring forward many reasons of which you could know nothing, if we only knew where we ought to go." M. Hennebeau was not at all angry. He even smiled. "Ah! it gets complicated as soon as you have no confidence in me; you will have to go over there." The delegates had followed the vague gesture of his hand toward one of the windows. Where was it, over there? Paris, no doubt. But they did not know exactly; it seemed to fall back into a terrible distance, in an inaccessible religious country, where an unknown god sat on his throne, crouching down at the far end of his tabernacle. They would never see him; they only felt him as a force far off, which weighed on the ten thousand colliers of Montsou. And when the director spoke he had that hidden force behind him delivering oracles. They were overwhelmed with discouragement; Étienne himself signified by a shrug of the shoulders that it would be best to go; while M. Hennebeau touched Maheu's arm in a friendly way and asked after Jeanlin. "That is a severe lesson now, and it is you who defend bad timbering. You must reflect, my friends; you must realize that a strike would be a disaster for everybody. Before a week you would die of hunger. What would you do? I count on your good sense, anyhow; and I am convinced that you will go down on Monday, at the latest." They all left, going out of the drawing-room with the tramping of a flock and rounded backs, without replying a word to this hope of submission. The manager, who accompanied them, was obliged to continue the conversation. The Company, on the one side, had its new tariff; the workers, on the other, their demand for an increase of five centimes the tram. In order that they might have no illusions, he felt he ought to warn them that their terms would certainly be rejected by the directors. "Reflect before committing any follies," he repeated, disturbed at their silence. In the porch Pierron bowed very low, while Levaque pretended to adjust his cap. Maheu was trying to find something to say before leaving, when Étienne again touched his elbow. And they all left in the midst of this threatening silence. The door closed with a loud bang. When M. Hennebeau re-entered the dining-room he found his guests motionless and silent before the liqueurs. In two words he told his story to Deneulin, whose face grew still more gloomy. Then, as he drank his cold coffee, they tried to speak of other things. But the Grégoires themselves returned to the subject of the strike, expressing their astonishment that no laws existed to prevent workmen from leaving their work. Paul reassured Cécile, stating that they were expecting the police. At last Madame Hennebeau called the servant: "Hippolyte, before we go into the drawing-room just open the windows and let in a little air." CHAPTER III A fortnight had passed, and on the Monday of the third week the lists sent up to the managers showed a fresh decrease in the number of the miners who had gone down. It was expected that on that morning work would be resumed, but the obstinacy of the directors in not yielding exasperated the miners. The Voreux, Crévecoeur, Mirou, and Madeleine were not the only pits resting; at the Victoire and at Feutry-Cantel only about a quarter of the men had gone down; even Saint-Thomas was affected. The strike was gradually becoming general. At the Voreux a heavy silence hung over the pit-mouth. It was a dead workshop, these great empty abandoned Yards where work was sleeping. In the grey December sky, along the high foot-bridges three or four empty trams bore witness to the mute sadness of things. Underneath, between the slender posts of the platforms, the stock of coal was diminishing, leaving the earth bare and black; while the supplies of wood were mouldering beneath the rain. At the quay on the canal a barge was moored, half-laden, lying drowsily in the murky water; and on the deserted pit-bank, in which the decomposed sulphates smoked in spite of the rain, a melancholy cart showed its shafts erect. But the buildings especially were growing torpid, the screening-shed with closed shutters, the steeple in which the rumbling of the receiving-room no more arose, and the machine-room grown cold, and the giant chimney too large for the occasional smoke. The winding-engine was only heated in the morning. The grooms sent down fodder for the horses, and the captains worked alone at the bottom, having become labourers again, watching over the damages that took place in the passages as soon as they ceased to be repaired; then, after nine o'clock the rest of the service was carried on by the ladders. And above these dead buildings, buried in their garment of black dust, there was only heard the escapement of the pumping-engine, breathing with its thick, long breath all that was left of the life of the pit, which the water would destroy if that breathing should cease. On the plain opposite, the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante seemed also to be dead. The prefect of Lille had come in haste and the police had tramped all the roads; but in face of the calmness of the strikers, prefect and police had decided to go home again. Never had the settlement given so splendid an example in the vast plain. The men, to avoid going to the public-house, slept all day long; the women while dividing the coffee became reasonable, less anxious to gossip and quarrel; and even the troops of children seemed to understand it all, and were so good that they ran about with naked feet, smacking each other silently. The word of command had been repeated and circulated from mouth to mouth; they wished to be sensible. There was, however, a continuous coming and going of people in the Maheus' house. Étienne, as secretary, had divided the three thousand francs of the Provident Fund among the needy families; afterwards from various sides several hundred francs had arrived, yielded by subscriptions and collections. But now all their resources were exhausted; the miners had no more money to keep up the strike, and hunger was there, threatening them. Maigrat, after having promised credit for a fortnight, had suddenly altered his mind at the end of a week and cut off provisions. He usually took his orders from the Company; perhaps the latter wished to bring the matter to an end by starving the settlements. He acted besides like a capricious tyrant, giving or refusing bread according to the look of the girl who was sent by her parents for provisions; and he especially closed his door spitefully to Maheude, wishing to punish her because he had not been able to get Catherine. To complete their misery it was freezing very hard, and the women watched their piles of coal diminish, thinking anxiously that they could no longer renew them at the pits now that the men were not going down. It was not enough to die of hunger, they must also die of cold. Among the Maheus everything was already running short. The Levaques could still eat on the strength of a twenty-franc piece lent by Bouteloup. As to the Pierrons, they always had money; but in order to appear as needy as the others, for fear of loans, they got their supplies on credit from Maigrat, who would have thrown his shop at Pierronne if she had held out her petticoat to him. Since Saturday many families had gone to bed without supper, and in face of the terrible days that were beginning not a complaint was heard, all obeyed the word of command with quiet courage. There was an absolute confidence in spite of everything, a religious faith, the blind gift of a population of believers. Since an era of justice had been promised to them they were willing to suffer for the conquest of universal happiness. Hunger exalted their heads; never had the low horizon opened a larger beyond to these people in the hallucination of their misery. They saw again over there, when their eyes were dimmed by weakness, the ideal city of their dream, but now growing near and seeming to be real, with its population of brothers, its golden age of labour and meals in common. Nothing overcame their conviction that they were at last entering it. The fund was exhausted; the Company would not yield; every day must aggravate the situation; and they preserved their hope and showed a smiling contempt for facts. If the earth opened beneath them a miracle would save them. This faith replaced bread and warmed their stomachs. When the Maheus and the others had too quickly digested their soup, made with clear water, they thus rose into a state of semi-vertigo, that ecstasy of a better life which has flung martyrs to the wild beasts. Étienne was henceforth the unquestioned leader. In the evening conversations he gave forth oracles, in the degree to which study had refined him and made him able to enter into difficult matters. He spent the nights reading, and received a large number of letters; he even subscribed to the _Vengeur_, a Belgian Socialist paper, and this journal, the first to enter the settlement, gained for him extraordinary consideration among his mates. His growing popularity excited him more every day. To carry on an extensive correspondence, to discuss the fate of the workers in the four corners of the province, to give advice to the Voreux miners, especially to become a centre and to feel the world rolling round him--continually swelled the vanity of the former engine-man, the pikeman with greasy black hands. He was climbing a ladder, he was entering this execrated middle class, with a satisfaction to his intelligence and comfort which he did not confess to himself. He had only one trouble, the consciousness of his lack of education, which made him embarrassed and timid as soon as he was in the presence of a gentleman in a frock-coat. If he went on instructing himself, devouring everything, the lack of method would render assimilation very slow, and would produce such confusion that at last he would know much more than he could understand. So at certain hours of good sense he experienced a restlessness with regard to his mission--a fear that he was not the man for the task. Perhaps it required a lawyer, a learned man, able to speak and act without compromising the mates? But an outcry soon restored his assurance. No, no; no lawyers! They are all rascals; they profit by their knowledge to fatten on the people. Let things turn out how they will, the workers must manage their own affairs. And his dream of popular leadership again soothed him: Montsou at his feet, Paris in the misty distance, who knows? The elections some day, the tribune in a gorgeous hall, where he could thunder against the middle class in the first speech pronounced by a workman in a parliament. During the last few days Étienne had been perplexed. Pluchart wrote letter after letter, offering to come to Montsou to quicken the zeal of the strikers. It was a question of organizing a private meeting over which the mechanic would preside; and beneath this plan lay the idea of exploiting the strike, to gain over to the International these miners who so far had shown themselves suspicious. Étienne feared a disturbance, but he would, however, have allowed Pluchart to come if Rasseneur had not violently blamed this proceeding. In spite of his power, the young man had to reckon with the innkeeper, whose services were of older date, and who had faithful followers among his clients. So he still hesitated, not knowing what to reply. On this very Monday, towards four o'clock, a new letter came from Lille as Étienne was alone with Maheude in the lower room. Maheu, weary of idleness, had gone fishing; if he had the luck to catch a fine fish under the sluice of the canal, they could sell it to buy bread. Old Bonnemort and little Jeanlin had just gone off to try their legs, which were now restored; while the children had departed with Alzire, who spent hours on the pit-bank collecting cinders. Seated near the miserable fire, which they no longer dared to keep up, Maheude, with her dress unbuttoned and one breast hanging out of her dress and falling to her belly, was suckling Estelle. When the young man had folded the letter, she questioned him: "Is the news good? Are they going to send us any money?" He shook his head, and she went on: "I don't know what we shall do this week. However, we'll hold on all the same. When one has right on one's side, don't you think it gives you heart, and one ends always by being the strongest?" At the present time she was, to a reasonable extent, in favour of the strike. It would have been better to force the Company to be just without leaving off work. But since they had left it they ought not to go back to it without obtaining justice. On this point she was relentless. Better to die than to show oneself in the wrong when one was right! "Ah!" exclaimed Étienne, "if a fine old cholera was to break out, that would free us of all these Company exploiters." "No, no," she replied, "we must not wish any one dead. That wouldn't help us at all; plenty more would spring up. Now I only ask that they should get sensible ideas, and I expect they will, for there are worthy people everywhere. You know I'm not at all for your politics." In fact she always blamed his violent language, and thought him aggressive. It was good that they should want their work paid for at what it was worth, but why occupy oneself with such things as the bourgeois and Government? Why mix oneself up with other people's affairs, when one would get nothing out of it but hard knocks? And she kept her esteem for him because he did not get drunk, and regularly paid his forty-five francs for board and lodging. When a man behaves well one can forgive him the rest. Étienne then talked about the Republic, which would give bread to everybody. But Maheude shook her head, for she remembered 1848, an awful year, which had left them as bare as worms, her and her man, in their early housekeeping years. She forgot herself in describing its horrors, in a mournful voice, her eyes lost in space, her breast open; while her infant, Estelle, without letting it go, had fallen asleep on her knees. And Étienne, also absorbed in thought, had his eyes fixed on this enormous breast, of which the soft whiteness contrasted with the muddy yellowish complexion of her face. "Not a farthing," she murmured, "nothing to put between one's teeth, and all the pits stopped. Just the same destruction of poor people as to-day." But at that moment the door opened, and they remained mute with surprise before Catherine, who then came in. Since her flight with Chaval she had not reappeared at the settlement. Her emotion was so great that, trembling and silent, she forgot to shut the door. She expected to find her mother alone, and the sight of the young man put out of her head the phrases she had prepared on the way. "What on earth have you come here for?" cried Maheude, without even moving from her chair. "I don't want to have anything more to do with you; get along." Then Catherine tried to find words: "Mother, it's some coffee and sugar; yes, for the children. I've been thinking of them and done overtime." She drew out of her pockets a pound of coffee and a pound of sugar, and took courage to place them on the table. The strike at the Voreux troubled her while she was working at Jean-Bart, and she had only been able to think of this way of helping her parents a little, under the pretext of caring for the little ones. But her good nature did not disarm her mother, who replied: "Instead of bringing us sweets, you would have done better to stay and earn bread for us." She overwhelmed her with abuse, relieving herself by throwing in her daughter's face all that she had been saying against her for the past month. To go off with a man, to hang on to him at sixteen, when the family was in want! Only the most degraded of unnatural children could do it. One could forgive a folly, but a mother never forgot a trick like that. There might have been some excuse if they had been strict with her. Not at all; she was as free as air, and they only asked her to come in to sleep. "Tell me, what have you got in your skin, at your age?" Catherine, standing beside the table, listened with lowered head. A quiver shook her thin under-developed girlish body, and she tried to reply in broken words: "Oh! if it was only me, and the amusement that I get! It's him. What he wants I'm obliged to want too, aren't I? because, you see, he's the strongest. How can one tell how things are going to turn out? Anyhow it's done and can't be undone; it may as well be him as another now. He'll have to marry me." She defended herself without a struggle, with the passive resignation of a girl who has submitted to the male at an early age. Was it not the common lot? She had never dreamed of anything else; violence behind the pit-bank, a child at sixteen, and then a wretched household if her lover married her. And she did not blush with shame; she only quivered like this at being treated like a slut before this lad, whose presence oppressed her to despair. Étienne had risen, however, and was pretending to stir up the nearly extinct fire in order not to interrupt the explanation. But their looks met; he found her pale and exhausted; pretty, indeed, with her clear eyes in the face which had grown tanned, and he experienced a singular feeling; his spite had vanished; he simply desired that she should be happy with this man whom she had preferred to him. He felt the need to occupy himself with her still, a longing to go to Montsou and force the other man to his duty. But she only saw pity in his constant tenderness; he must feel contempt for her to gaze at her like that. Then her heart contracted so that she choked, without being able to stammer any more words of excuse. "That's it, you'd best hold your tongue," began the implacable Maheude. "If you come back to stay, come in; else get along with you at once, and think yourself lucky that I'm not free just now, or I should have put my foot into you somewhere before now." As if this threat had suddenly been realized, Catherine received a vigorous kick right behind, so violent that she was stupefied with surprise and pain. It was Chaval who had leapt in through the open door to give her this lunge of a vicious beast. For a moment he had watched her from outside. "Ah! slut," he yelled, "I've followed you. I knew well enough you were coming back here to get him to fill you. And it's you that pay him, eh? You pour coffee down him with my money!" Maheude and Étienne were stupefied, and did not stir. With a furious movement Chaval chased Catherine towards the door. "Out you go, by God!" And as she took refuge in a corner he turned on her mother. "A nice business, keeping watch while your whore of a daughter is kicking her legs upstairs!" At last he caught Catherine's wrist, shaking her and dragging her out. At the door he again turned towards Maheude, who was nailed to her chair. She had forgotten to fasten up her breast. Estelle had gone to sleep, and her face had slipped down into the woollen petticoat; the enormous breast was hanging free and naked like the udder of a great cow. "When the daughter is not at it, it's the mother who gets herself plugged," cried Chaval. "Go on, show him your meat! He isn't disgusted--your dirty lodger!" At this Étienne was about to strike his mate. The fear of arousing the settlement by a fight had kept him back from snatching Catherine from Chaval's hands. But rage was now carrying him away, and the two men were face to face with inflamed eyes. It was an old hatred, a jealousy long unacknowledged, which was breaking out. One of them now must do for the other. "Take care!" stammered Étienne, with clenched teeth. "I'll do for you." "Try!" replied Chaval. They looked at one another for some seconds longer, so close that their hot breaths burnt each other's faces. And it was Catherine who suppliantly took her lover's hand again to lead him away. She dragged him out of the settlement, fleeing without turning her head. "What a brute!" muttered Étienne, banging the door, and so shaken by anger that he was obliged to sit down. Maheude, in front of him, had not stirred. She made a vague gesture, and there was silence, a silence which was painful and heavy with unspoken things. In spite of an effort his gaze again returned to her breast, that expanse of white flesh, the brilliance of which now made him uncomfortable. No doubt she was forty, and had lost her shape, like a good female who had produced too much; but many would still desire her, strong and solid, with the large long face of a woman who had once been beautiful. Slowly and quietly she was putting back her breast with both hands. A rosy corner was still obstinate, and she pushed it back with her finger, and then buttoned herself up, and was now quite black and shapeless in her old gown. "He's a filthy beast," she said at last. "Only a filthy beast could have such nasty ideas. I don't care a hang what he says; it isn't worth notice." Then in a frank voice she added, fixing her eyes on the young man: "I have my faults, sure enough, but not that one. Only two men have touched me--a putter, long ago, when I was fifteen, and then Maheu. If he had left me like the other, Lord! I don't quite know what would have happened; and I don't pride myself either on my good conduct with him since our marriage, because, when one hasn't gone wrong, it's often because one hasn't the chance. Only I say things as they are, and I know neighbours who couldn't say as much, don't you think?" "That's true enough," replied Étienne. And he rose and went out, while she decided to light the fire again, after having placed the sleeping Estelle on two chairs. If the father caught and sold a fish they could manage to have some soup. Outside, night was already coming on, a frosty night; and with lowered head Étienne walked along, sunk in dark melancholy. It was no longer anger against the man, or pity for the poor ill-treated girl. The brutal scene was effaced and lost, and he was thrown back on to the sufferings of all, the abominations of wretchedness. He thought of the settlement without bread, these women and little ones who would not eat that evening, all this struggling race with empty bellies. And the doubt which sometimes touched him awoke again in the frightful melancholy of the twilight, and tortured him with a discomfort which he had never felt so strongly before. With what a terrible responsibility he had burdened himself! Must he still push them on in obstinate resistance, now that there was neither money nor credit? And what would be the end of it all if no help arrived, and starvation came to beat down their courage? He had a sudden vision of disaster; of dying children and sobbing mothers, while the men, lean and pale, went down once more into the pits. He went on walking, his feet stumbling against the stones, and the thought that the Company would be found strongest, and that he would have brought misfortune on his comrades, filled him with insupportable anguish. When he raised his head he saw that he was in front of the Voreux. The gloomy mass of buildings looked sombre beneath the growing darkness. The deserted square, obstructed by great motionless shadows, seemed like the corner of an abandoned fortress. As soon as the winding-engine stopped, the soul left the place. At this hour of the night nothing was alive, not a lantern, not a voice; and the sound of the pump itself was only a distant moan, coming one could not say whence, in this annihilation of the whole pit. As Étienne gazed the blood flowed back to his heart. If the workers were suffering hunger, the Company was encroaching on its millions. Why should it prove the stronger in this war of labour against gold? In any case, the victory would cost it dear. They would have their corpses to count. He felt the fury of battle again, the fierce desire to have done with misery, even at the price of death. It would be as well for the settlement to die at one stroke as to go on dying in detail of famine and injustice. His ill-digested reading came back to him, examples of nations who had burnt their towns to arrest the enemy, vague histories of mothers who had saved their children from slavery by crushing their heads against the pavement, of men who had died of want rather than eat the bread of tyrants. His head became exalted, a red gaiety arose out of his crisis of black sadness, chasing away doubt, and making him ashamed of this passing cowardice of an hour. And in this revival of his faith, gusts of pride reappeared and carried him still higher; the joy of being leader, of seeing himself obeyed, even to sacrifice, the enlarged dream of his power, the evening of triumph. Already he imagined a scene of simple grandeur, his refusal of power, authority placed in the hands of the people, when it would be master. But he awoke and started at the voice of Maheu, who was narrating his luck, a superb trout which he had fished up and sold for three francs. They would have their soup. Then he left his mate to return alone to the settlement, saying that he would follow him; and he entered and sat down in the Avantage, awaiting the departure of a client to tell Rasseneur decisively that he should write to Pluchart to come at once. His resolution was taken; he would organize a private meeting, for victory seemed to him certain if the Montsou colliers adhered in a mass to the International. CHAPTER IV It was at the Bon-Joyeux, Widow Désir's, that the private meeting was organized for Thursday at two o'clock. The widow, incensed at the miseries inflicted on her children the colliers, was in a constant state of anger, especially as her inn was emptying. Never had there been a less thirsty strike; the drunkards had shut themselves up at home for fear of disobeying the sober word of command. Thus Montsou, which swarmed with people on feast-days, now exhibited its wide street in mute and melancholy desolation. No beer flowed from counters or bellies, the gutters were dry. On the pavement at the Casimir Bar and the Estaminet du Progrés one only saw the pale faces of the landladies, looking inquiringly into the street; then in Montsou itself the deserted doors extended from the Estaminet Lenfant to the Estaminet Tison, passing by the Estaminet Piquette and the Tête-Coupée Bar; only the Estaminet Saint-Éloi, which was frequented by captains, still drew occasional glasses; the solitude even extended to the Volcan, where the ladies were resting for lack of admirers, although they had lowered their price from ten sous to five in view of the hard times. A deep mourning was breaking the heart of the entire country. "By God!" exclaimed Widow Désir, slapping her thighs with both hands, "it's the fault of the gendarmes! Let them run me in, devil take them, if they like, but I must plague them." For her, all authorities and masters were gendarmes; it was a term of general contempt in which she enveloped all the enemies of the people. She had greeted Étienne's request with transport; her whole house belonged to the miners, she would lend her ball-room gratuitously, and would herself issue the invitations since the law required it. Besides, if the law was not pleased, so much the better! She would give them a bit of her mind. Since yesterday the young man had brought her some fifty letters to sign; he had them copied by neighbours in the settlement who knew how to write, and these letters were sent around among the pits to delegates and to men of whom they were sure. The avowed order of the day was a discussion regarding the continuation of the strike; but in reality they were expecting Pluchart, and reckoning on a discourse from him which would cause a general adhesion to the International. On Thursday morning Étienne was disquieted by the non-appearance of his old foreman, who had promised by letter to arrive on Wednesday evening. What, then, was happening? He was annoyed that he would not be able to come to an understanding with him before the meeting. At nine o'clock he went to Montsou, with the idea that the mechanic had, perhaps, gone there direct without stopping at the Voreux. "No, I've not seen your friend," replied Widow Désir. "But everything is ready. Come and see." She led him into the ball-room. The decorations were the same, the garlands which supported at the ceiling a crown of painted paper flowers, and the gilt cardboard shields in a line along the wall with the names of saints, male and female. Only the musicians' platform had been replaced by a table and three chairs in one corner; and the room was furnished with forms ranged along the floor. "It's perfect," Étienne declared. "And you know," said the widow, "that you're at home here. Yell as much as you like. The gendarmes will have to pass over my body if they do come!" In spite of his anxiety, he could not help smiling when he looked at her, so vast did she appear, with a pair of breasts so huge that one alone would require a man to embrace it, which now led to the saying that of her six weekday lovers she had to take two every evening on account of the work. But Étienne was astonished to see Rasseneur and Souvarine enter; and as the widow left them all three in the large empty hall he exclaimed: "What! you here already!" Souvarine, who had worked all night at the Voreux, the engine-men not being on strike, had merely come out of curiosity. As to Rasseneur, he had seemed constrained during the last two days, and his fat round face had lost its good-natured laugh. "Pluchart has not arrived, and I am very anxious," added Étienne. The innkeeper turned away his eyes, and replied between his teeth: "I'm not surprised; I don't expect him." "What!" Then he made up his mind, and looking the other man in the face bravely: "I, too, have sent him a letter, if you want me to tell you; and in that letter I have begged him not to come. Yes, I think we ought to manage our own affairs ourselves, without turning to strangers." Étienne, losing his self-possession and trembling with anger, turned his eyes on his mate's and stammered: "You've done that, you've done that?" "I have done that, certainly! and you know that I trust Pluchart; he's a knowing fellow and reliable, one can get on with him. But you see I don't care a damn for your ideas, I don't! Politics, Government, and all that, I don't care a damn for it! What I want is for the miner to be better treated. I have worked down below for twenty years, I've sweated down there with fatigue and misery, and I've sworn to make it easier for the poor beggars who are there still; and I know well enough you'll never get anything with all your ideas, you'll only make the men's fate more miserable still. When they are forced by hunger to go down again, they will be more crushed than ever; the Company will pay them with strokes of the stick, like a runaway dog who is brought back to his kennel. That's what I want to prevent, do you see!" He raised his voice, protruding his belly and squarely planted on his big legs. The man's whole patient, reasonable nature was revealed in clear phrases, which flowed abundantly without an effort. Was it not absurd to believe that with one stroke one could change the world, putting the workers in the place of the masters and dividing gold as one divides an apple? It would, perhaps, take thousands and thousands of years for that to be realized. There, hold your tongue, with your miracles! The most sensible plan was, if one did not wish to break one's nose, to go straight forward, to demand possible reforms, in short, to improve the lot of the workers on every occasion. He did his best, so far as he occupied himself with it, to bring the Company to better terms; if not, damn it all! they would only starve by being obstinate. Étienne had let him speak, his own speech cut short by indignation. Then he cried: "Haven't you got any blood in your veins, by God?" At one moment he would have struck him, and to resist the temptation he rushed about the hall with long strides, venting his fury on the benches through which he made a passage. "Shut the door, at all events," Souvarine remarked. "There is no need to be heard." Having himself gone to shut it, he quietly sat down in one of the office chairs. He had rolled a cigarette, and was looking at the other two men with his mild subtle eye, his lips drawn by a slight smile. "You won't get any farther by being angry," said Rasseneur judiciously. "I believed at first that you had good sense. It was sensible to recommend calmness to the mates, to force them to keep indoors, and to use your power to maintain order. And now you want to get them into a mess!" At each turn in his walks among the benches, Étienne returned towards the innkeeper, seizing him by the shoulders, shaking him, and shouting out his replies in his face. "But, blast it all! I mean to be calm. Yes, I have imposed order on them! Yes, I do advise them still not to stir! only it doesn't do to be made a joke of after all! You are lucky to remain cool. Now there are hours when I feel that I am losing my head." This was a confession on his part. He railed at his illusions of a novice, his religious dream of a city in which justice would soon reign among the men who had become brothers. A fine method truly! to cross one's arms and wait, if one wished to see men eating each other to the end of the world like wolves. No! one must interfere, or injustice would be eternal, and the rich would for ever suck the blood of the poor. Therefore he could not forgive himself the stupidity of having said formerly that politics ought to be banished from the social question. He knew nothing then; now he had read and studied, his ideas were ripe, and he boasted that he had a system. He explained it badly, however, in confused phrases which contained a little of all the theories he had successively passed through and abandoned. At the summit Karl Marx's idea remained standing: capital was the result of spoliation, it was the duty and the privilege of labour to reconquer that stolen wealth. In practice he had at first, with Proudhon, been captured by the chimera of a mutual credit, a vast bank of exchange which suppressed middlemen; then Lassalle's cooperative societies, endowed by the state, gradually transforming the earth into a single industrial town, had aroused his enthusiasm until he grew disgusted in face of the difficulty of controlling them; and he had arrived recently at collectivism, demanding that all the instruments of production should be restored to the community. But this remained vague; he knew not how to realize this new dream, still hindered by scruples of reason and good sense, not daring to risk the secretary's absolute affirmations. He simply said that it was a question of getting possession of the government first of all. Afterwards they would see. "But what has taken you? Why are you going over to the bourgeois?" he continued violently, again planting himself before the innkeeper. "You said yourself it would have to burst up!" Rasseneur blushed slightly. "Yes, I said so. And if it does burst up, you will see that I am no more of a coward than any one else. Only I refuse to be among those who increase the mess in order to fish out a position for themselves." Étienne blushed in his turn. The two men no longer shouted, having become bitter and spiteful, conquered by the coldness of their rivalry. It was at bottom that which always strains systems, making one man revolutionary in the extreme, pushing the other to an affectation of prudence, carrying them, in spite of themselves, beyond their true ideas into those fatal parts which men do not choose for themselves. And Souvarine, who was listening, exhibited on his pale, girlish face a silent contempt--the crushing contempt of the man who was willing to yield his life in obscurity without even gaining the splendour of martyrdom. "Then it's to me that you're saying that?" asked Étienne; "you're jealous!" "Jealous of what?" replied Rasseneur. "I don't pose as a big man; I'm not trying to create a section at Montsou for the sake of being made secretary." The other man wanted to interrupt him, but he added: "Why don't you be frank? You don't care a damn for the International; you're only burning to be at our head, the gentleman who corresponds with the famous Federal Council of the Nord!" There was silence. Étienne replied, quivering: "Good! I don't think I have anything to reproach myself with. I always asked your advice, for I knew that you had fought here long before me. But since you can't endure any one by your side, I'll act alone in future. And first I warn you that the meeting will take place even if Pluchart does not come, and the mates will join in spite of you." "Oh! join!" muttered the innkeeper; "that's not enough. You'll have to get them to pay their subscriptions." "Not at all. The International grants time to workers on strike. It will at once come to our help, and we shall pay later on." Rasseneur was carried beyond himself. "Well, we shall see. I belong to this meeting of yours, and I shall speak. I shall not let you turn our friends' heads, I shall let them know where their real interests lie. We shall see whom they mean to follow--me, whom they have known for thirty years, or you, who have turned everything upside down among us in less than a year. No, no! damn it all! We shall see which of us is going to crush the other." And he went out, banging the door. The garlands of flowers swayed from the ceiling, and the gilt shields jumped against the walls. Then the great room fell back into its heavy calm. Souvarine was smoking in his quiet way, seated before the table. After having paced for a moment in silence, Étienne began to relieve his feelings at length. Was it his fault if they had left that fat lazy fellow to come to him? And he defended himself from having ought popularity. He knew not even how it had happened, this friendliness of the settlement, the confidence of the miners, the power which he now had over them. He was indignant at being accused of wishing to bring everything to confusion out of ambition; he struck his chest, protesting his brotherly feelings. Suddenly he stopped before Souvarine and exclaimed: "Do you know, if I thought I should cost a drop of blood to a friend, I would go off at once to America!" The engine-man shrugged his shoulders, and a smile again came on his lips. "Oh! blood!" he murmured. "What does that matter? The earth has need of it." Étienne, growing calm, took a chair, and put his elbows on the other side of the table. This fair face, with the dreamy eyes, which sometimes grew savage with a red light, disturbed him, and exercised a singular power over his will. In spite of his comrade's silence, conquered even by that silence, he felt himself gradually absorbed. "Well," he asked, "what would you do in my place? Am I not right to act as I do? Isn't it best for us to join this association?" Souvarine, after having slowly ejected a jet of smoke, replied by his favourite word: "Oh, foolery! but meanwhile it's always so. Besides, their International will soon begin to move. He has taken it up." "Who, then?" "He!" He had pronounced this word in a whisper, with religious fervour, casting a glance towards the east. He was speaking of the master, Bakunin the destroyer. "He alone can give the thunderclap," he went on, "while your learned men, with their evolution, are mere cowards. Before three years are past, the International, under his orders, will crush the old world." Étienne pricked up his ears in attention. He was burning to gain knowledge, to understand this worship of destruction, regarding which the engine-man only uttered occasional obscure words, as though he kept certain mysteries to himself. "Well, but explain to me. What is your aim?" "To destroy everything. No more nations, no more governments, no more property, no more God nor worship." "I quite understand. Only what will that lead you to?" "To the primitive formless commune, to a new world, to the renewal of everything." "And the means of execution? How do you reckon to set about it?" "By fire, by poison, by the dagger. The brigand is the true hero, the popular avenger, the revolutionary in action, with no phrases drawn out of books. We need a series of tremendous outrages to frighten the powerful and to arouse the people." As he talked, Souvarine grew terrible. An ecstasy raised him on his chair, a mystic flame darted from his pale eyes, and his delicate hands gripped the edge of the table almost to breaking. The other man looked at him in fear, and thought of the stories of which he had received vague intimation, of mines charged beneath the tsar's palace, of chiefs of police struck down by knives like wild boars, of his mistress, the only woman he had loved, hanged at Moscow one rainy morning, while in the crowd he kissed her with his eyes for the last time. "No! no!" murmured Étienne, as with a gesture he pushed away these abominable visions, "we haven't got to that yet over here. Murder and fire, never! It is monstrous, unjust, all the mates would rise and strangle the guilty one!" And besides, he could not understand; the instincts of his race refused to accept this sombre dream of the extermination of the world, mown level like a rye-field. Then what would they do afterwards? How would the nations spring up again? He demanded a reply. "Tell me your programme. We like to know where we are going to." Then Souvarine concluded peacefully, with his gaze fixed on space: "All reasoning about the future is criminal, because it prevents pure destruction, and interferes with the progress of revolution." This made Étienne laugh, in spite of the cold shiver which passed over his flesh. Besides, he willingly acknowledged that there was something in these ideas, which attracted him by their fearful simplicity. Only it would be playing into Rasseneur's hands if he were to repeat such things to his comrades. It was necessary to be practical. Widow Désir proposed that they should have lunch. They agreed, and went into the inn parlour, which was separated from the ball-room on weekdays by a movable partition. When they had finished their omelette and cheese, the engine-man proposed to depart, and as the other tried to detain him: "What for? To listen to you talking useless foolery? I've seen enough of it. Good day." He went off in his gentle, obstinate way, with a cigarette between his lips. Étienne's anxiety increased. It was one o'clock, and Pluchart was decidedly breaking his promise. Towards half-past one the delegates began to appear, and he had to receive them, for he wished to see who entered, for fear that the Company might send its usual spies. He examined every letter of invitation, and took note of those who entered; many came in without a letter, as they were admitted provided he knew them. As two o'clock struck Rasseneur entered, finishing his pipe at the counter, and chatting without haste. This provoking calmness still further disturbed Étienne, all the more as many had come merely for fun--Zacharie, Mouquet, and others. These cared little about the strike, and found it a great joke to do nothing. Seated at tables, and spending their last two sous on drink, they grinned and bantered their mates, the serious ones, who had come to make fools of themselves. Another quarter of an hour passed; there was impatience in the hall. Then Étienne, in despair, made a gesture of resolution. And he decided to enter, when Widow Désir, who was putting her head outside, exclaimed: "But here he is, your gentleman!" It was, in fact, Pluchart. He came in a cab drawn by a broken-winded horse. He jumped at once on to the pavement, a thin, insipidly handsome man, with a large square head;--in his black cloth frock-coat he had the Sunday air of a well-to-do workman. For five years he had not done a stroke with the file, and he took care of his appearance, especially combing his hair in a correct manner, vain of his successes on the platform; but his limbs were still stiff, and the nails of his large hands, eaten by the iron, had not grown again. Very active, he worked out his ambitions, scouring the province unceasingly in order to place his ideas. "Ah! don't be angry with me," he said, anticipating questions and reproaches. "Yesterday, lecture at Preuilly in the morning, meeting in the evening at Valencay. Today, lunch at Marchiennes with Sauvagnat. Then I had to take a cab. I'm worn out; you can tell by my voice. But that's nothing; I shall speak all the same." He was on the threshold of the Bon-Joyeux, when he bethought himself. "By jingo! I'm forgetting the tickets. We should have been in a fine fix!" He went back to the cab, which the cabman drew up again, and he pulled out a little black wooden box, which he carried off under his arm. Étienne walked radiantly in his shadow, while Rasseneur, in consternation, did not dare to offer his hand. But the other was already pressing it, and saying a rapid word or two about the letter. What a rum idea! Why not hold this meeting? One should always hold a meeting when possible. Widow Désir asked if he would take anything, but he refused. No need; he spoke without drinking. Only he was in a hurry, because in the evening he reckoned on pushing as far as Joiselle, where he wished to come to an understanding with Legoujeux. Then they all entered the ball-room together. Maheu and Levaque, who had arrived late, followed them. The door was then locked, in order to be in privacy. This made the jokers laugh even more, Zacharie shouting to Mouquet that perhaps they were going to get them all with child in there. About a hundred miners were waiting on the benches in the close air of the room, with the warm odours of the last ball rising from the floor. Whispers ran round and all heads turned, while the new-comers sat down in the empty places. They gazed at the Lille gentleman, and the black frock-coat caused a certain surprise and discomfort. But on Étienne's proposition the meeting was at once constituted. He gave out the names, while the others approved by lifting their hands. Pluchart was nominated chairman, and Maheu and Étienne himself were voted stewards. There was a movement of chairs and the officers were installed; for a moment they watched the chairman disappear beneath the table under which he slid the box, which he had not let go. When he reappeared he struck lightly with his fist to call for attention; then he began in a hoarse voice: "Citizens!" A little door opened and he had to stop. It was Widow Désir who, coming round by the kitchen, brought in six glasses on a tray. "Don't put yourselves out," she said. "When one talks one gets thirsty." Maheu relieved her of the tray and Pluchart was able to go on. He said how very touched he was at his reception by the Montsou workers, he excused himself for his delay, mentioning his fatigue and his sore throat, then he gave place to Citizen Rasseneur, who wished to speak. Rasseneur had already planted himself beside the table near the glasses. The back of a chair served him as a rostrum. He seemed very moved, and coughed before starting in a loud voice: "Mates!" What gave him his influence over the workers at the pit was the facility of his speech, the good-natured way in which he could go on talking to them by the hour without ever growing weary. He never ventured to gesticulate, but stood stolid and smiling, drowning them and dazing them, until they all shouted: "Yes, yes, that's true enough, you're right!" However, on this day, from the first word, he felt that there was a sullen opposition. This made him advance prudently. He only discussed the continuation of the strike, and waited for applause before attacking the International. Certainly honour prevented them from yielding to the Company's demands; but how much misery! what a terrible future if it was necessary to persist much longer! and without declaring for submission he damped their courage, he showed them the settlements dying of hunger, he asked on what resources the partisans of resistance were counting. Three or four friends tried to applaud him, but this accentuated the cold silence of the majority, and the gradually rising disapprobation which greeted his phrases. Then, despairing of winning them over, he was carried away by anger, he foretold misfortune if they allowed their heads to be turned at the instigation of strangers. Two-thirds of the audience had risen indignantly, trying to silence him, since he insulted them by treating them like children unable to act for themselves. But he went on speaking in spite of the tumult, taking repeated gulps of beer, and shouting violently that the man was not born who would prevent him from doing his duty. Pluchart had risen. As he had no bell he struck his fist on the table, repeating in his hoarse voice: "Citizens, citizens!" At last he obtained a little quiet and the meeting, when consulted, brought Rasseneur's speech to an end. The delegates who had represented the pits in the interview with the manager led the others, all enraged by starvation and agitated by new ideas. The voting was decided in advance. "You don't care a damn, you don't! you can eat!" yelled Levaque, thrusting out his fist at Rasseneur. Étienne leaned over behind the chairman's back to appease Maheu, who was very red, and carried out of himself by this hypocritical discourse. "Citizens!" said Pluchart, "allow me to speak!" There was deep silence. He spoke. His voice sounded painful and hoarse; but he was used to it on his journeys, and took his laryngitis about with him like his programme. Gradually his voice expanded and he produced pathetic effects with it. With open arms and accompanying his periods with a swaying of his shoulders, he had an eloquence which recalled the pulpit, a religious fashion of sinking the ends of his sentences whose monotonous roll at last carried conviction. His discourse centred on the greatness and the advantages of the International; it was that with which he always started in every new locality. He explained its aim, the emancipation of the workers; he showed its imposing structure--below the commune, higher the province, still higher the nation, and at the summit humanity. His arms moved slowly, piling up the stages, preparing the immense cathedral of the future world. Then there was the internal administration: he read the statutes, spoke of the congresses, pointed out the growing importance of the work, the enlargement of the programme, which, starting from the discussion of wages, was now working towards a social liquidation, to have done with the wage system. No more nationalities. The workers of the whole world would be united by a common need for justice, sweeping away the middle-class corruption, founding, at last, a free society, in which he who did not work should not reap! He roared; his breath startled the flowers of painted paper beneath the low smoky ceiling which sent back the sound of his voice. A wave passed through the audience. Some of them cried: "That's it! We're with you." He went on. The world would be conquered before three years. And he enumerated the nations already conquered. From all sides adhesions were raining in. Never had a young religion counted so many disciples. Then, when they had the upper hand they would dictate terms to the masters, who, in their turn, would have a fist at their throats. "Yes, yes! they'll have to go down!" With a gesture he enforced silence. Now he was entering on the strike question. In principle he disapproved of strikes; it was a slow method, which aggravated the sufferings of the worker. But before better things arrived, and when they were inevitable, one must make up one's mind to them, for they had the advantage of disorganizing capital. And in this case he showed the International as providence for strikers, and quoted examples: in Paris, during the strike of the bronze-workers, the masters had granted everything at once, terrified at the news that the International was sending help; in London it had saved the miners at a colliery, by sending back, at its own expense, a ship-load of Belgians who had been brought over by the coal-owner. It was sufficient to join and the companies trembled, for the men entered the great army of workers who were resolved to die for one another rather than to remain the slaves of a capitalistic society. Applause interrupted him. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, at the same time refusing a glass which Maheu passed to him. When he was about to continue fresh applause cut short his speech. "It's all right," he said rapidly to Étienne. "They've had enough. Quick! the cards!" He had plunged beneath the table, and reappeared with the little black wooden box. "Citizens!" he shouted, dominating the disturbance, "here are the cards of membership. Let your delegates come up, and I will give them to them to be distributed. Later on we can arrange everything." Rasseneur rushed forward and again protested. Étienne was also agitated; having to make a speech. Extreme confusion followed. Levaque jumped up with his fists out, as if to fight. Maheu was up and speaking, but nobody could distinguish a single word. In the growing tumult the dust rose from the floor, a floating dust of former balls, poisoning the air with a strong odour of putters and trammers. Suddenly the little door opened, and Widow Désir filled it with her belly and breast, shouting in a thundering voice: "For God's sake, silence! The gendarmes!" It was the commissioner of the district, who had arrived rather late to prepare a report and to break up the meeting. Four gendarmes accompanied him. For five minutes the widow had delayed them at the door, replying that she was at home, and that she had a perfect right to entertain her friends. But they had hustled her away, and she had rushed in to warn her children. "Must clear out through here," she said again. "There's a dirty gendarme guarding the court. It doesn't matter; my little wood-house opens into the alley. Quick, then!" The commissioner was already knocking with his fist, and as the door was not opened, he threatened to force it. A spy must have talked, for he cried that the meeting was illegal, a large number of miners being there without any letter of invitation. In the hall the trouble was growing. They could not escape thus; they had not even voted either for adhesion or for the continuation of the strike. All persisted in talking at the same time. At last the chairman suggested a vote by acclamation. Arms were raised, and the delegates declared hastily that they would join in the name of their absent mates. And it was thus that the ten thousand colliers of Montsou became members of the International. Meanwhile, the retreat began. In order to cover it, Widow Désir had propped herself up against the door, which the butt-ends of the gendarmes' muskets were forcing at her back. The miners jumped over the benches, and escaped, one by one, through the kitchen and the wood-yard. Rasseneur disappeared among the first, and Levaque followed him, forgetful of his abuse, and planning how he could get an offer of a glass to pull himself together. Étienne, after having seized the little box, waited with Pluchart and Maheu, who considered it a point of honour to emerge last. As they disappeared the lock gave, and the commissioner found himself in the presence of the widow, whose breast and belly still formed a barricade. "It doesn't help you much to smash everything in my house," she said. "You can see there's nobody here." The commissioner, a slow man who did not care for scenes, simply threatened to take her off to prison. And he then went away with his four gendarmes to prepare a report, beneath the jeers of Zacharie and Mouquet, who were full of admiration for the way in which their mates had humbugged this armed force, for which they themselves did not care a hang. In the alley outside, Étienne, embarrassed by the box, was rushing along, followed by the others. He suddenly thought of Pierron, and asked why he had not turned up. Maheu, also running, replied that he was ill--a convenient illness, the fear of compromising himself. They wished to retain Pluchart, but, without stopping, he declared that he must set out at once for Joiselle, where Legoujeux was awaiting orders. Then, as they ran, they shouted out to him their wishes for a pleasant journey, and rushed through Montsou with their heels in the air. A few words were exchanged, broken by the panting of their chests. Étienne and Maheu were laughing confidently, henceforth certain of victory. When the International had sent help, it would be the Company that would beg them to resume work. And in this burst of hope, in this gallop of big boots sounding over the pavement of the streets, there was something else also, something sombre and fierce, a gust of violence which would inflame the settlements in the four corners of the country. CHAPTER V Another fortnight had passed by. It was the beginning of January and cold mists benumbed the immense plain. The misery had grown still greater, and the settlements were in agony from hour to hour beneath the increasing famine. Four thousand francs sent by the International from London had scarcely supplied bread for three days, and then nothing had come. This great dead hope was beating down their courage. On what were they to count now since even their brothers had abandoned them? They felt themselves separated from the world and lost in the midst of this deep winter. On Tuesday no resources were left in the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement. Étienne and the delegates had multiplied their energies. New subscriptions were opened in the neighbouring towns, and even in Paris; collections were made and lectures organized. These efforts came to nothing. Public opinion, which had at first been moved, grew indifferent now that the strike dragged on for ever, and so quietly, without any dramatic incidents. Small charities scarcely sufficed to maintain the poorer families. The others lived by pawning their clothes and selling up the household piece by piece. Everything went to the brokers, the wool of the mattresses, the kitchen utensils, even the furniture. For a moment they thought themselves saved, for the small retail shopkeepers of Montsou, killed out by Maigrat, had offered credit to try and get back their custom; and for a week Verdonck, the grocer, and the two bakers, Carouble and Smelten, kept open shop, but when their advances were exhausted all three stopped. The bailiffs were rejoicing; there only resulted a piling up of debts which would for a long time weigh upon the miners. There was no more credit to be had anywhere and not an old saucepan to sell; they might lie down in a corner to die like mangy dogs. Étienne would have sold his flesh. He had given up his salary and had gone to Marchiennes to pawn his trousers and cloth coat, happy to set the Maheus' pot boiling once more. His boots alone remained, and he retained these to keep a firm foothold, he said. His grief was that the strike had come on too early, before the Provident Fund had had time to swell. He regarded this as the only cause of the disaster, for the workers would surely triumph over the masters on the day when they had saved enough money to resist. And he recalled Souvarine's words accusing the Company of pushing forward the strike to destroy the fund at the beginning. The sight of the settlement and of these poor people without bread or fire overcame him. He preferred to go out and to weary himself with distant walks. One evening, as he was coming back and passing near Réquillart, he perceived an old woman who had fainted by the roadside. No doubt she was dying of hunger; and having raised her he began to shout to a girl whom he saw on the other side of the paling. "Why! is it you?" he said, recognizing Mouquette. "Come and help me then, we must give her something to drink." Mouquette, moved to tears, quickly went into the shaky hovel which her father had set up in the midst of the ruins. She came back at once with gin and a loaf. The gin revived the old woman, who without speaking bit greedily into the bread. She was the mother of a miner who lived at a settlement on the Cougny side, and she had fallen there on returning from Joiselle, where she had in vain attempted to borrow half a franc from a sister. When she had eaten she went away dazed. Étienne stood in the open field of Réquillart, where the crumbling sheds were disappearing beneath the brambles. "Well, won't you come in and drink a little glass?" asked Mouquette merrily. And as he hesitated: "Then you're still afraid of me?" He followed her, won by her laughter. This bread, which she had given so willingly, moved him. She would not take him into her father's room, but led him into her own room, where she at once poured out two little glasses of gin. The room was very neat and he complimented her on it. Besides, the family seemed to want for nothing; the father continued his duties as a groom at the Voreux while she, saying that she could not live with folded arms, had become a laundress, which brought her in thirty sous a day. One may amuse oneself with men but one isn't lazy for all that. "I say," she murmured, all at once coming and putting her arms round him prettily, "why don't you like me?" He could not help laughing, she had done this in so charming a way. "But I like you very much," he replied. "No, no, not like I mean. You know that I am dying of longing. Come, it would give me so much pleasure." It was true, she had desired him for six months. He still looked at her as she clung to him, pressing him with her two tremulous arms, her face raised with such supplicating love that he was deeply moved. There was nothing beautiful in her large round face, with its yellow complexion eaten by the coal; but her eyes shone with flame, a charm rose from her skin, a trembling of desire which made her rosy and young. In face of this gift which was so humble and so ardent he no longer dared to refuse. "Oh! you are willing," she stammered, delighted. "Oh! you are willing!" And she gave herself up with the fainting awkwardness of a virgin, as if it was for the first time, and she had never before known a man. Then when he left her, it was she who was overcome with gratitude; she thanked him and kissed his hands. Étienne remained rather ashamed of this good fortune. Nobody boasted of having had Mouquette. As he went away he swore that it should not occur again, but he preserved a friendly remembrance of her; she was a capital girl. When he got back to the settlement, he found serious news which made him forget the adventure. The rumour was circulating that the Company would, perhaps, agree to make a concession if the delegates made a fresh attempt with the manager. At all events some captains had spread this rumour. The truth was, that in this struggle the mine was suffering even more than the miners. On both sides obstinacy was piling up ruin: while labour was dying of hunger, capital was being destroyed. Every day of rest carried away hundreds of thousands of francs. Every machine which stops is a dead machine. Tools and material are impaired, the money that is sunk melts away like water drunk by the sand. Since the small stock of coal at the surface of the pits was exhausted, customers talked of going to Belgium, so that in future they would be threatened from that quarter. But what especially frightened the Company, although the matter was carefully concealed, was the increasing damage to the galleries and workings. The captains could not cope with the repairs, the timber was falling everywhere, and landslips were constantly taking place. Soon the disasters became so serious that long months would be needed for repairs before hewing could be resumed. Already stories were going about the country: at Crévecoeur three hundred metres of road had subsided in a mass, stopping up access to the Cinq-Paumes; at Madeleine the Maugrétout seam was crumbling away and filling with water. The management refused to admit this, but suddenly two accidents, one after the other, had forced them to avow it. One morning, near Piolaine, the ground was found cracked above the north gallery of Mirou which had fallen in the day before; and on the following day the ground subsided within the Voreux, shaking a corner of a suburb to such an extent that two houses nearly disappeared. Étienne and the delegates hesitated to risk any steps without knowing the directors' intentions. Dansaert, whom they questioned, avoided replying: certainly, the misunderstanding was deplored, and everything would be done to bring about an agreement; but he could say nothing definitely. At last, they decided that they would go to M. Hennebeau in order to have reason on their side; for they did not wish to be accused, later on, of having refused the Company an opportunity of acknowledging that it had been in the wrong. Only they vowed to yield nothing and to maintain, in spite of everything, their terms, which were alone just. The interview took place on Tuesday morning, when the settlement was sinking into desperate wretchedness. It was less cordial than the first interview. Maheu was still the speaker, and he explained that their mates had sent them to ask if these gentlemen had anything new to say. At first M. Hennebeau affected surprise: no order had reached him, nothing could be changed so long as the miners persisted in their detestable rebellion; and this official stiffness produced the worst effects, so that if the delegates had gone out of their way to offer conciliation, the way in which they were received would only have served to make them more obstinate. Afterwards the manager tried to seek a basis of mutual concession; thus, if the men would accept the separate payment for timbering, the Company would raise that payment by the two centimes which they were accused of profiting by. Besides, he added that he would take the offer on himself, that nothing was settled, but that he flattered himself he could obtain this concession from Paris. But the delegates refused, and repeated their demands: the retention of the old system, with a rise of five centimes a tram. Then he acknowledged that he could treat with them at once, and urged them to accept in the name of their wives and little ones dying of hunger. And with eyes on the ground and stiff heads they said no, always no, with fierce vigour. They separated curtly. M. Hennebeau banged the doors. Étienne, Maheu, and the others went off stamping with their great heels on the pavement in the mute rage of the vanquished pushed to extremes. Towards two o'clock the women of the settlement, on their side, made an application to Maigrat. There was only this hope left, to bend this man and to wrench from him another week's credit. The idea originated with Maheude, who often counted too much on people's good-nature. She persuaded the Brulé and the Levaque to accompany her; as to Pierronne, she excused herself, saying that she could not leave Pierron, whose illness still continued. Other women joined the band till they numbered quite twenty. When the inhabitants of Montsou saw them arrive, gloomy and wretched, occupying the whole width of the road, they shook their heads anxiously. Doors were closed, and one lady hid her plate. It was the first time they had been seen thus, and there could not be a worse sign: usually everything was going to ruin when the women thus took to the roads. At Maigrat's there was a violent scene. At first, he had made them go in, jeering and pretending to believe that they had come to pay their debts: that was nice of them to have agreed to come and bring the money all at once. Then, as soon as Maheude began to speak he pretended to be enraged. Were they making fun of people? More credit! Then they wanted to turn him into the street? No, not a single potato, not a single crumb of bread! And he told them to be off to the grocer Verdonck, and to the bakers Carouble and Smelten, since they now dealt with them. The women listened with timid humility, apologizing, and watching his eyes to see if he would relent. He began to joke, offering his shop to the Brulé if she would have him as a lover. They were all so cowardly that they laughed at this; and the Levaque improved on it, declaring that she was willing, she was. But he at once became abusive, and pushed them towards the door. As they insisted, suppliantly, he treated one brutally. The others on the pavement shouted that he had sold himself to the Company, while Maheude, with her arms in the air, in a burst of avenging indignation, cried out for his death, exclaiming that such a man did not deserve to eat. The return to the settlement was melancholy. When the women came back with empty hands, the men looked at them and then lowered their heads. There was nothing more to be done, the day would end without a spoonful of soup; and the other days extended in an icy shadow, without a ray of hope. They had made up their minds to it, and no one spoke of surrender. This excess of misery made them still more obstinate, mute as tracked beasts, resolved to die at the bottom of their hole rather than come out. Who would dare to be first to speak of submission? They had sworn with their mates to hold together, and hold together they would, as they held together at the pit when one of them was beneath a landslip. It was as it ought to be; it was a good school for resignation down there. They might well tighten their belts for a week, when they had been swallowing fire and water ever since they were twelve years of age; and their devotion was thus augmented by the pride of soldiers, of men proud of their profession, who in their daily struggle with death had gained a pride in sacrifice. With the Maheus it was a terrible evening. They were all silent, seated before the dying fire in which the last cinders were smoking. After having emptied the mattresses, handful by handful, they had decided the day before to sell the clock for three francs and the room seemed bare and dead now that the familiar tick-tack no longer filled it with sound. The only object of luxury now, in the middle of the sideboard, was the rose cardboard box, an old present from Maheu, which Maheude treasured like a jewel. The two good chairs had gone; Father Bonnemort and the children were squeezed together on an old mossy bench brought in from the garden. And the livid twilight now coming on seemed to increase the cold. "What's to be done?" repeated Maheude, crouching down in the corner by the oven. Étienne stood up, looking at the portraits of the Emperor and Empress stuck against the wall. He would have torn them down long since if the family had not preserved them for ornament. So he murmured, with clenched teeth: "And to think that we can't get two sous out of these damned idiots, who are watching us starve!" "If I were to take the box?" said the woman, very pale, after some hesitation. Maheu, seated on the edge of the table, with his legs dangling and his head on his chest, sat up. "No! I won't have it!" Maheude painfully rose and walked round the room. Good God! was it possible that they were reduced to such misery? The cupboard without a crumb, nothing more to sell, no notion where to get a loaf! And the fire, which was nearly out! She became angry with Alzire, whom she had sent in the morning to glean on the pit-bank, and who had come back with empty hands, saying that the Company would not allow gleaning. Did it matter a hang what the Company wanted? As if they were robbing any one by picking up the bits of lost coal! The little girl, in despair, told how a man had threatened to hit her; then she promised to go back next day, even if she was beaten. "And that imp, Jeanlin," cried the mother; "where is he now, I should like to know? He ought to have brought the salad; we can browse on that like beasts, at all events! You will see, he won't come back. Yesterday, too, he slept out. I don't know what he's up to; the rascal always looks as though his belly were full." "Perhaps," said Étienne, "he picks up sous on the road." She suddenly lifted both fists furiously. "If I knew that! My children beg! I'd rather kill them and myself too." Maheu had again sunk down on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, astonished that they had nothing to eat, began to moan; while old Bonnemort, in silence, philosophically rolled his tongue in his mouth to deceive his hunger. No one spoke any more; all were becoming benumbed beneath this aggravation of their evils; the grandfather, coughing and spitting out the black phlegm, taken again by rheumatism which was turning to dropsy; the father asthmatic, and with knees swollen with water; the mother and the little ones scarred by scrofula and hereditary anaemia. No doubt their work made this inevitable; they only complained when the lack of food killed them off; and already they were falling like flies in the settlement. But something must be found for supper. My God! where was it to be found, what was to be done? Then, in the twilight, which made the room more and more gloomy with its dark melancholy, Étienne, who had been hesitating for a moment, at last decided with aching heart. "Wait for me," he said. "I'll go and see somewhere." And he went out. The idea of Mouquette had occurred to him. She would certainly have a loaf, and would give it willingly. It annoyed him to be thus forced to return to Réquillart; this girl would kiss his hands with her air of an amorous servant; but one did not leave one's friends in trouble; he would still be kind with her if need be. "I will go and look round, too," said Maheude, in her turn. "It's too stupid." She reopened the door after the young man and closed it violently, leaving the others motionless and mute in the faint light of a candle-end which Alzire had just lighted. Outside she stopped and thought for a moment. Then she entered the Levaque's house. "Tell me: I lent you a loaf the other day. Could you give it me back?" But she stopped herself. What she saw was far from encouraging; the house spoke of misery even more than her own. The Levaque woman, with fixed eyes, was gazing into her burnt-out fire, while Levaque, made drunk on his empty stomach by some nail-makers, was sleeping on the table. With his back to the wall, Bouteloup was mechanically rubbing his shoulders with the amazement of a good-natured fellow who has eaten up his savings, and is astonished at having to tighten his belt. "A loaf! ah! my dear," replied the Levaque woman, "I wanted to borrow another from you!" Then, as her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, she pushed his face against the table. "Hold your row, bloody beast! So much the better if it burns your guts! Instead of getting people to pay for your drinks, you ought to have asked twenty sous from a friend." She went on relieving herself by swearing, in the midst of this dirty household, already abandoned so long that an unbearable smell was exhaling from the floor. Everything might smash up, she didn't care a hang! Her son, that rascal Bébert, had also disappeared since morning, and she shouted that it would be a good riddance if he never came back. Then she said that she would go to bed. At least she could get warm. She hustled Bouteloup. "Come along, up we go. The fire's out. No need to light the candle to see the empty plates. Well, are you coming, Louis? I tell you that we must go to bed. We can cuddle up together there, that's a comfort. And let this damned drunkard die here of cold by himself!" When she found herself outside again, Maheude struck resolutely across the gardens towards Pierron's house. She heard laughter. As she knocked there was sudden silence. It was a full minute before the door was opened. "What! is it you?" exclaimed Pierronne with affected surprise. "I thought it was the doctor." Without allowing her to speak, she went on, pointing to Pierron, who was seated before a large coal fire: "Ah! he makes no progress, he makes no progress at all. His face looks all right; it's in his belly that it takes him. Then he must have warmth. We burn all that we've got." Pierron, in fact, looked very well; his complexion was good and his flesh fat. It was in vain that he breathed hard in order to play the sick man. Besides, as Maheude came in she perceived a strong smell of rabbit; they had certainly put the dish out of the way. There were crumbs strewed over the table, and in the very midst she saw a forgotten bottle of wine. "Mother has gone to Montsou to try and get a loaf," said Pierronne again. "We are cooling our heels waiting for her." But her voice choked; she had followed her neighbour's glance, and her eyes also fell on the bottle. Immediately she began again, and narrated the story. Yes, it was wine; the Piolaine people had brought her that bottle for her man, who had been ordered by the doctor to take claret. And her thankfulness poured forth in a stream. What good people they were! The young lady especially; she was not proud, going into workpeople's houses and distributing her charities herself. "I see," said Maheude; "I know them." Her heart ached at the idea that the good things always go to the least poor. It was always so, and these Piolaine people had carried water to the river. Why had she not seen them in the settlement? Perhaps, all the same, she might have got something out of them. "I came," she confessed at last, "to know if there was more going with you than with us. Have you just a little vermicelli by way of loan?" Pierronne expressed her grief noisily. "Nothing at all, my dear. Not what you can call a grain of semolina. If mother hasn't come back, it's because she hasn't succeeded. We must go to bed supperless." At this moment crying was heard from the cellar, and she grew angry and struck her fist against the door. It was that gadabout Lydie, whom she had shut up, she said, to punish her for not having returned until five o'clock, after having been roaming about the whole day. One could no longer keep her in order; she was constantly disappearing. Maheude, however, remained standing; she could not make up her mind to leave. This large fire filled her with a painful sensation of comfort; the thought that they were eating there enlarged the void in her stomach. Evidently they had sent away the old woman and shut up the child, to blow themselves out with their rabbit. Ah! whatever people might say, when a woman behaved ill, that brought luck to her house. "Good night," she said, suddenly. Outside night had come on, and the moon behind the clouds was lighting up the earth with a dubious glow. Instead of traversing the gardens again, Maheude went round, despairing, afraid to go home again. But along the dead frontages all the doors smelled of famine and sounded hollow. What was the good of knocking? There was wretchedness everywhere. For weeks since they had had nothing to eat. Even the odour of onion had gone, that strong odour which revealed the settlement from afar across the country; now there was nothing but the smell of old vaults, the dampness of holes in which nothing lives. Vague sounds were dying out, stifled tears, lost oaths; and in the silence which slowly grew heavier one could hear the sleep of hunger coming on, the collapse of bodies thrown across beds in the nightmares of empty bellies. As she passed before the church she saw a shadow slip rapidly by. A gleam of hope made her hasten, for she had recognized the Montsou priest, Abbé Joire, who said mass on Sundays at the settlement chapel. No doubt he had just come out of the sacristy, where he had been called to settle some affair. With rounded back he moved quickly on, a fat meek man, anxious to live at peace with everybody. If he had come at night it must have been in order not to compromise himself among the miners. It was said, too, that he had just obtained promotion. He had even been seen walking about with his successor, a lean man, with eyes like live coals. "Sir, sir!" stammered Maheude. But he would not stop. "Good night, good night, my good woman." She found herself before her own door. Her legs would no longer carry her, and she went in. No one had stirred. Maheu still sat dejected on the edge of the table. Old Bonnemort and the little ones were huddled together on the bench for the sake of warmth. And they had not said a word, and the candle had burnt so low that even light would soon fail them. At the sound of the door the children turned their heads; but seeing that their mother brought nothing back, they looked down on the ground again, repressing the longing to cry, for fear of being scolded. Maheude fell back into her place near the dying fire. They asked her no questions, and the silence continued. All had understood, and they thought it useless to weary themselves more by talking; they were now waiting, despairing and without courage, in the last expectation that perhaps Étienne would unearth help somewhere. The minutes went by, and at last they no longer reckoned on this. When Étienne reappeared, he held a cloth containing a dozen potatoes, cooked but cold. "That's all that I've found," he said. With Mouquette also bread was wanting; it was her dinner which she had forced him to take in this cloth, kissing him with all her heart. "Thanks," he said to Maheude, who offered him his share; "I've eaten over there." It was not true, and he gloomily watched the children throw themselves on the food. The father and mother also restrained themselves, in order to leave more; but the old man greedily swallowed everything. They had to take a potato away from him for Alzire. Then Étienne said that he had heard news. The Company, irritated by the obstinacy of the strikers, talked of giving back their certificates to the compromised miners. Certainly, the Company was for war. And a more serious rumour circulated: they boasted of having persuaded a large number of men to go down again. On the next day the Victoire and Feutry-Cantel would be complete; even at Madeleine and Mirou there would be a third of the men. The Maheus were furious. "By God!" shouted the father, "if there are traitors, we must settle their account." And standing up, yielding to the fury of his suffering: "To-morrow evening, to the forest! Since they won't let us come to an understanding at the Bon-Joyeux, we can be at home in the forest!" This cry had aroused old Bonnemort, who had grown drowsy after his gluttony. It was the old rallying-cry, the rendezvous where the miners of old days used to plot their resistance to the king's soldiers. "Yes, yes, to Vandame! I'm with you if you go there!" Maheude made an energetic gesture. "We will all go. That will finish these injustices and treacheries." Étienne decided that the rendezvous should be announced to all the settlements for the following evening. But the fire was dead, as with the Levaques, and the candle suddenly went out. There was no more coal and no more oil; they had to feel their way to bed in the intense cold which contracted the skin. The little ones were crying. CHAPTER VI Jeanlin was now well and able to walk; but his legs had united so badly that he limped on both the right and left sides, and moved with the gait of a duck, though running as fast as formerly with the skill of a mischievous and thieving animal. On this evening, in the dusk on the Réquillart road, Jeanlin, accompanied by his inseparable friends, Bébert and Lydie, was on the watch. He had taken ambush in a vacant space, behind a paling opposite an obscure grocery shop, situated at the corner of a lane. An old woman who was nearly blind displayed there three or four sacks of lentils and haricots, black with dust; and it was an ancient dried codfish, hanging by the door and stained with fly-blows, to which his eyes were directed. Twice already he had sent Bébert to unhook it. But each time someone had appeared at the bend in the road. Always intruders in the way, one could not attend to one's affairs. A gentleman went by on horseback, and the children flattened themselves at the bottom of the paling, for they recognized M. Hennebeau. Since the strike he was often thus seen along the roads, riding alone amid the rebellious settlements, ascertaining, with quiet courage, the condition of the country. And never had a stone whistled by his ears; he only met men who were silent and slow to salute him; most often he came upon lovers, who cared nothing for politics and took their fill of pleasure in holes and corners. He passed by on his trotting mare with head directed straight forward, so as to disturb nobody, while his heart was swelling with an unappeased desire amid this gormandizing of free love. He distinctly saw these small rascals, the little boys on the little girl in a heap. Even the youngsters were already amusing themselves in their misery! His eyes grew moist, and he disappeared, sitting stiffly on his saddle, with his frock-coat buttoned up in a military manner. "Damned luck!" said Jeanlin. "This will never finish. Go on, Bébert! Hang on to its tail!" But two men once more appeared, and the child again stifled an oath when he heard the voice of his brother Zacharie narrating to Mouquet how he had discovered a two-franc piece sewn into one of his wife's petticoats. They both grinned with satisfaction, slapping each other on the shoulder. Mouquet proposed a game of crosse for the next day; they would leave the Avantage at two o'clock, and go to the Montoire side, near Marchiennes. Zacharie agreed. What was the good of bothering over the strike? as well amuse oneself, since there's nothing to do. And they turned the corner of the road, when Étienne, who was coming along the canal, stopped them and began to talk. "Are they going to bed here?" said Jeanlin, in exasperation. "Nearly night; the old woman will be taking in her sacks." Another miner came down towards Réquillart. Étienne went off with him, and as they passed the paling the child heard them speak of the forest; they had been obliged to put off the rendezvous to the following day, for fear of not being able to announce it in one day to all the settlements. "I say, there," he whispered to his two mates, "the big affair is for to-morrow. We'll go, eh? We can get off in the afternoon." And the road being at last free, he sent Bébert off. "Courage! hang on to its tail. And look out! the old woman's got her broom." Fortunately the night had grown dark. Bébert, with a leap, hung on to the cod so that the string broke. He ran away, waving it like a kite, followed by the two others, all three galloping. The woman came out of her shop in astonishment, without understanding or being able to distinguish this band now lost in the darkness. These scoundrels had become the terror of the country. They gradually spread themselves over it like a horde of savages. At first they had been satisfied with the yard at the Voreux, tumbling into the stock of coal, from which they would emerge looking like Negroes, playing at hide-and-seek amid the supply of wood, in which they lost themselves as in the depths of a virgin forest. Then they had taken the pit-bank by assault; they would seat themselves on it and slide down the bare portions still boiling with interior fires; they glided among the briers in the older parts, hiding for the whole day, occupied in the quiet little games of mischievous mice. And they were constantly enlarging their conquests, scuffling among the piles of bricks until blood came, running about the fields and eating without bread all sorts of milky herbs, searching the banks of the canals to take fish from the mud and swallow them raw and pushing still farther, they travelled for kilometres as far as the thickets of Vandame, under which they gorged themselves with strawberries in the spring, with nuts and bilberries in summer. Soon the immense plain belonged to them. What drove them thus from Montsou to Marchiennes, constantly on the roads with the eyes of young wolves, was the growing love of plunder. Jeanlin remained the captain of these expeditions, leading the troop on to all sorts of prey, ravaging the onion fields, pillaging the orchards, attacking shop windows. In the country, people accused the miners on strike, and talked of a vast organized band. One day, even, he had forced Lydie to steal from her mother, and made her bring him two dozen sticks of barley-sugar, which Pierronne kept in a bottle on one of the boards in her window; and the little girl, who was well beaten, had not betrayed him because she trembled so before his authority. The worst was that he always gave himself the lion's share. Bébert also had to bring him the booty, happy if the captain did not hit him and keep it all. For some time Jeanlin had abused his authority. He would beat Lydie as one beats one's lawful wife, and he profited by Bébert's credulity to send him on unpleasant adventures, amused at making a fool of this big boy, who was stronger than himself, and could have knocked him over with a blow of his fist. He felt contempt for both of them and treated them as slaves, telling them that he had a princess for his mistress and that they were unworthy to appear before her. And, in fact, during the past week he would suddenly disappear at the end of a road or a turning in a path, no matter where it might be, after having ordered them with a terrible air to go back to the settlement. But first he would pocket the booty. This was what happened on the present occasion. "Give it up," he said, snatching the cod from his mate's hands when they stopped, all three, at a bend in the road near Réquillart. Bébert protested. "I want some, you know. I took it." "Eh! what!" he cried. "You'll have some if I give you some. Not to-night, sure enough; to-morrow, if there's any left." He pushed Lydie, and placed both of them in line like soldiers shouldering arms. Then, passing behind them: "Now, you must stay there five minutes without turning. By God! if you do turn, there will be beasts that will eat you up. And then you will go straight back, and if Bébert touches Lydie on the way, I shall know it and I shall hit you." Then he disappeared in the shadow, so lightly that the sound of his naked feet could not be heard. The two children remained motionless for the five minutes without looking round, for fear of receiving a blow from the invisible. Slowly a great affection had grown up between them in their common terror. He was always thinking of taking her and pressing her very tight between his arms, as he had seen others do and she, too, would have liked it, for it would have been a change for her to be so nicely caressed. But neither of them would have allowed themselves to disobey. When they went away, although the night was very dark, they did not even kiss each other; they walked side by side, tender and despairing, certain that if they touched one another the captain would strike them from behind. Étienne, at the same hour, had entered Réquillart. The evening before Mouquette had begged him to return, and he returned, ashamed, feeling an inclination which he refused to acknowledge, for this girl who adored him like a Christ. It was, besides, with the intention of breaking it off. He would see her, he would explain to her that she ought no longer to pursue him, on account of the mates. It was not a time for pleasure; it was dishonest to amuse oneself thus when people were dying of hunger. And not having found her at home, he had decided to wait and watch the shadows of the passers-by. Beneath the ruined steeple the old shaft opened, half blocked up. Above the black hole a beam stood erect, and with a fragment of roof at the top it had the profile of a gallows; in the broken walling of the curbs stood two trees--a mountain ash and a plane--which seemed to grow from the depths of the earth. It was a corner of abandoned wildness, the grassy and fibrous entry of a gulf, embarrassed with old wood, planted with hawthorns and sloe-trees, which were peopled in the spring by warblers in their nests. Wishing to avoid the great expense of keeping it up, the Company, for the last ten years, had proposed to fill up this dead pit; but they were waiting to install an air-shaft in the Voreux, for the ventilation furnace of the two pits, which communicated, was placed at the foot of Réquillart, of which the former winding-shaft served as a conduit. They were content to consolidate the tubbing by beams placed across, preventing extraction, and they had neglected the upper galleries to watch only over the lower gallery, in which blazed the furnace, the enormous coal fire, with so powerful a draught that the rush of air produced the wind of a tempest from one end to the other of the neighbouring mine. As a precaution, in order that they could still go up and down, the order had been given to furnish the shaft with ladders; only, as no one took charge of them, the ladders were rotting with dampness, and in some places had already given way. Above, a large brier stopped the entry of the passage, and, as the first ladder had lost some rungs, it was necessary, in order to reach it, to hang on to a root of the mountain ash, and then to take one's chance and drop into the blackness. Étienne was waiting patiently, hidden behind a bush, when he heard a long rustling among the branches. He thought at first that it was the scared flight of a snake. But the sudden gleam of a match astonished him, and he was stupefied on recognizing Jeanlin, who was lighting a candle and burying himself in the earth. He was seized with curiosity, and approached the hole; the child had disappeared, and a faint gleam came from the second ladder. Étienne hesitated a moment, and then let himself go, holding on to the roots. He thought for a moment that he was about to fall down the whole five hundred and eighty metres of the mine, but at last he felt a rung, and descended gently. Jeanlin had evidently heard nothing. Étienne constantly saw the light sinking beneath him, while the little one's shadow, colossal and disturbing, danced with the deformed gait of his distorted limbs. He kicked his legs about with the skill of a monkey, catching on with hands, feet, or chin where the rungs were wanting. Ladders, seven metres in length, followed one another, some still firm, others shaky, yielding and almost broken; the steps were narrow and green, so rotten that one seemed to walk in moss; and as one went down the heat grew suffocating, the heat of an oven proceeding from the air-shaft which was, fortunately, not very active now the strike was on, or when the furnace devoured its five thousand kilograms of coal a day, one could not have risked oneself here without scorching one's hair. "What a dammed little toad!" exclaimed Étienne in a stifled voice; "where the devil is he going to?" Twice he had nearly fallen. His feet slid on the damp wood. If he had only had a candle like the child! but he struck himself every minute; he was only guided by the vague gleam that fled beneath him. He had already reached the twentieth ladder, and the descent still continued. Then he counted them: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, and he still went down and down. His head seemed to be swelling with the heat, and he thought that he was falling into a furnace. At last he reached a landing-place, and he saw the candle going off along a gallery. Thirty ladders, that made about two hundred and ten metres. "Is he going to drag me about long?" he thought. "He must be going to bury himself in the stable." But on the left, the path which led to the stable was closed by a landslip. The journey began again, now more painful and more dangerous. Frightened bats flew about and clung to the roof of the gallery. He had to hasten so as not to lose sight of the light; only where the child passed with ease, with the suppleness of a serpent, he could not glide through without bruising his limbs. This gallery, like all the older passages, was narrow, and grew narrower every day from the constant fall of soil; at certain places it was a mere tube which would eventually be effaced. In this strangling labour the torn and broken wood became a peril, threatening to saw into his flesh, or to run him through with the points of splinters, sharp as swords. He could only advance with precaution, on his knees or belly, feeling in the darkness before him. Suddenly a band of rats stamped over him, running from his neck to his feet in their galloping flight. "Blast it all! haven't we got to the end yet?" he grumbled, with aching back and out of breath. They were there. At the end of a kilometre the tube enlarged, they reached a part of the gallery which was admirably preserved. It was the end of the old haulage passage cut across the bed like a natural grotto. He was obliged to stop, he saw the child afar, placing his candle between two stones, and putting himself at ease with the quiet and relieved air of a man who is glad to be at home again. This gallery-end was completely changed into a comfortable dwelling. In a corner on the ground a pile of hay made a soft couch; on some old planks, placed like a table, there were bread, potatoes, and bottles of gin already opened; it was a real brigand's cavern, with booty piled up for weeks, even useless booty like soap and blacking, stolen for the pleasure of stealing. And the child, quite alone in the midst of this plunder, was enjoying it like a selfish brigand. "I say, then, is this how you make fun of people?" cried Étienne, when he had breathed for a moment. "You come and gorge yourself here, when we are dying of hunger up above?" Jeanlin, astounded, was trembling. But recognizing the young man, he quickly grew calm. "Will you come and dine with me?" he said at last. "Eh? a bit of grilled cod? You shall see." He had not let go his cod, and he began to scrape off the fly-blows properly with a fine new knife, one of those little dagger knives, with bone handles, on which mottoes are inscribed. This one simply bore the word "Amour." "You have a fine knife," remarked Étienne. "It's a present from Lydie," replied Jeanlin, who neglected to add that Lydie had stolen it, by his orders, from a huckster at Montsou, stationed before the Tête-Coupée Bar. Then, as he still scraped, he added proudly: "Isn't it comfortable in my house? It's a bit warmer than up above, and it feels a lot better!" Étienne had seated himself, and was amused in making him talk. He was no longer angry, he felt interested in this debauched child, who was so brave and so industrious in his vices. And, in fact, he tasted a certain comfort in the bottom of this hole; the heat was not too great, an equal temperature reigned here at all seasons, the warmth of a bath, while the rough December wind was chapping the skins of the miserable people on the earth. As they grew old, the galleries became purified from noxious gases, all the fire-damp had gone, and one only smelled now the odour of old fermented wood, a subtle ethereal odour, as if sharpened with a dash of cloves. This wood, besides, had become curious to look at, with a yellowish pallor of marble, fringed with whitish thread lace, flaky vegetations which seemed to drape it with an embroidery of silk and pearls. In other places the timber was bristling with toadstools. And there were flights of white butterflies, snowy flies and spiders, a decolorized population for ever ignorant of the sun. "Then you're not afraid?" asked Étienne. Jeanlin looked at him in astonishment. "Afraid of what? I am quite alone." But the cod was at last scraped. He lighted a little fire of wood, brought out the pan and grilled it. Then he cut a loaf into two. It was a terribly salt feast, but exquisite all the same for strong stomachs. Étienne had accepted his share. "I am not astonished you get fat, while we are all growing lean. Do you know that it is beastly to stuff yourself like this? And the others? you don't think of them!" "Oh! why are the others such fools?" "Well, you're right to hide yourself, for if your father knew you stole he would settle you." "What! when the bourgeois are stealing from us! It's you who are always saying so. If I nabbed this loaf at Maigrat's you may be pretty sure it's a loaf he owed us." The young man was silent, with his mouth full, and felt troubled. He looked at him, with his muzzle, his green eyes, his large ears, a degenerate abortion, with an obscure intelligence and savage cunning, slowly slipping back into the animality of old. The mine which had made him had just finished him by breaking his legs. "And Lydie?" asked Étienne again; "do you bring her here sometimes?" Jeanlin laughed contemptuously. "The little one? Ah, no, not I; women blab." And he went on laughing, filled with immense disdain for Lydie and Bébert. Who had ever seen such boobies? To think that they swallowed all his humbug, and went away with empty hands while he ate the cod in this warm place, tickled his sides with amusement. Then he concluded, with the gravity of a little philosopher: "Much better be alone, then there's no falling out." Étienne had finished his bread. He drank a gulp of the gin. For a moment he asked himself if he ought not to make a bad return for Jeanlin's hospitality by bringing him up to daylight by the ear, and forbidding him to plunder any more by the threat of telling everything to his father. But as he examined this deep retreat, an idea occurred to him. Who knows if there might not be need for it, either for mates or for himself, in case things should come to the worst up above! He made the child swear not to sleep out, as had sometimes happened when he forgot himself in his hay, and taking a candle-end, he went away first, leaving him to pursue quietly his domestic affairs. Mouquette, seated on a beam in spite of the great cold, had grown desperate in waiting for him. When she saw him she leapt on to his neck; and it was as though he had plunged a knife into her heart when he said that he wished to see her no more. Good God! why? Did she not love him enough? Fearing to yield to the desire to enter with her, he drew her towards the road, and explained to her as gently as possible that she was compromising him in the eyes of his mates, that she was compromising the political cause. She was astonished; what had that got to do with politics? At last the thought occurred to her that he blushed at being seen with her. She was not wounded, however; it was quite natural; and she proposed that he should rebuff her before people, so as to seem to have broken with her. But he would see her just once sometimes. In distraction she implored him; she swore to keep out of sight; she would not keep him five minutes. He was touched, but still refused. It was necessary. Then, as he left her, he wished at least to kiss her. They had gradually reached the first houses of Montsou, and were standing with their arms round one another beneath a large round moon, when a woman passed near them with a sudden start, as though she had knocked against a stone. "Who is that?" asked Étienne, anxiously. "It's Catherine," replied Mouquette. "She's coming back from Jean-Bart." The woman now was going away, with lowered head and feeble limbs, looking very tired. And the young man gazed at her, in despair at having been seen by her, his heart aching with an unreasonable remorse. Had she not been with a man? Had she not made him suffer with the same suffering here, on this Réquillart road, when she had given herself to that man? But, all the same, he was grieved to have done the like to her. "Shall I tell you what it is?" whispered Mouquette, in tears, as she left him. "If you don't want me it's because you want someone else." On the next day the weather was superb; it was one of those clear frosty days, the beautiful winter days when the hard earth rings like crystal beneath the feet. Jeanlin had gone off at one o'clock, but he had to wait for Bébert behind the church, and they nearly set out without Lydie, whose mother had again shut her up in the cellar, and only now liberated her to put a basket on her arm, telling her that if she did not bring it back full of dandelions she should be shut up with the rats all night long. She was frightened, therefore, and wished to go at once for salad. Jeanlin dissuaded her; they would see later on. For a long time Poland, Rasseneur's big rabbit, had attracted his attention. He was passing before the Avantage when, just then, the rabbit came out on to the road. With a leap he seized her by the ears, stuffed her into the little girl's basket, and all three rushed away. They would amuse themselves finely by making her run like a dog as far as the forest. But they stopped to gaze at Zacharie and Mouquet, who, after having drunk a glass with two other mates, had begun their big game of crosse. The stake was a new cap and a red handkerchief, deposited with Rasseneur. The four players, two against two, were bidding for the first turn from the Voreux to the Paillot farm, nearly three kilometres; and it was Zacharie who won, with seven strokes, while Mouquet required eight. They had placed the ball, the little boxwood egg, on the pavement with one end up. Each was holding his crosse, the mallet with its bent iron, long handle, and tight-strung network. Two o'clock struck as they set out. Zacharie, in a masterly manner, at his first stroke, composed of a series of three, sent the ball more than four hundred yards across the beetroot fields; for it was forbidden to play in the villages and on the streets, where people might be killed. Mouquet, who was also a good player, sent off the ball with so vigorous an arm that his single stroke brought the ball a hundred and fifty metres behind. And the game went on, backwards and forwards, always running, their feet bruised by the frozen ridges of the ploughed fields. At first Jeanlin, Bébert, and Lydie had trotted behind the players, delighted with their vigorous strokes. Then they remembered Poland, whom they were shaking up in the basket; and, leaving the game in the open country, they took out the rabbit, inquisitive to see how fast she could run. She went off, and they fled after her; it was a chase lasting an hour at full speed, with constant turns, with shouts to frighten her, and arms opened and closed on emptiness. If she had not been at the beginning of pregnancy they would never have caught her again. As they were panting the sound of oaths made them turn their heads. They had just come upon the crosse party again, and Zacharie had nearly split open his brother's skull. The players were now at their fourth turn. From the Paillot farm they had gone off to the Quatre-Chemins, then from the Quatre-Chemins to Montoire; and now they were going in six strokes from Montoire to Pré-des-Vaches. That made two leagues and a half in an hour; and, besides, they had had drinks at the Estaminet Vincent and at the Trois-Sages Bar. Mouquet this time was ahead. He had two more strokes to play, and his victory was certain, when Zacharie, grinning as he availed himself of his privilege, played with so much skill that the ball rolled into a deep pit. Mouquet's partner could not get it out; it was a disaster. All four shouted; the party was excited, for they were neck to neck; it was necessary to begin again. From the Pré-des-Vaches it was not two kilometres to the point of Herbes-Rousses, in five strokes. There they would refresh themselves at Lerenard's. But Jeanlin had an idea. He let them go on, and pulled out of his pocket a piece of string which he tied to one of Poland's legs, the left hind leg. And it was very amusing. The rabbit ran before the three young rascals, waddling along in such an extraordinary manner that they had never laughed so much before. Afterwards they fastened it round her neck, and let her run off; and, as she grew tired, they dragged her on her belly or on her back, just like a little carriage. That lasted for more than an hour. She was moaning when they quickly put her back into the basket, near the wood at Cruchot, on hearing the players whose game they had once more came across. Zacharie, Mouquet, and the two others were getting over the kilometres, with no other rest than the time for a drink at all the inns which they had fixed on as their goals. From the Herbes-Rousses they had gone on to Buchy, then to Croix-de-Pierre, then to Chamblay. The earth rang beneath the helter-skelter of their feet, rushing untiringly after the ball, which bounded over the ice; the weather was good, they did not fall in, they only ran the risk of breaking their legs. In the dry air the great crosse blows exploded like firearms. Their muscular hands grasped the strung handle; their entire bodies were bent forward, as though to slay an ox. And this went on for hours, from one end of the plain to the other, over ditches and hedges and the slopes of the road, the low walls of the enclosures. One needed to have good bellows in one's chest and iron hinges in one's knees. The pikemen thus rubbed off the rust of the mine with impassioned zeal. There were some so enthusiastic at twenty-five that they could do ten leagues. At forty they played no more; they were too heavy. Five o'clock struck; the twilight was already coming on. One more turn to the Forest of Vandame, to decide who had gained the cap and the handkerchief. And Zacharie joked, with his chaffing indifference for politics; it would be fine to tumble down over there in the midst of the mates. As to Jeanlin, ever since leaving the settlement he had been aiming at the forest, though apparently only scouring the fields. With an indignant gesture he threatened Lydie, who was full of remorse and fear, and talked of going back to the Voreux to gather dandelions. Were they going to abandon the meeting? he wanted to know what the old people would say. He pushed Bébert, and proposed to enliven the end of the journey as far as the trees by detaching Poland and pursuing her with stones. His real idea was to kill her; he wanted to take her off and eat her at the bottom of his hole at Réquillart. The rabbit ran ahead, with nose in the air and ears back; a stone grazed her back, another cut her tail, and, in spite of the growing darkness, she would have been done for if the young rogues had not noticed Étienne and Maheu standing in the middle of a glade. They threw themselves on the animal in desperation, and put her back in the basket. Almost at the same minute Zacharie, Mouquet, and the two others, with their last blow at crosse, drove the ball within a few metres of the glade. They all came into the midst of the rendezvous. Through the whole country, by the roads and pathways of the flat plain, ever since twilight, there had been a long procession, a rustling of silent shadows, moving separately or in groups towards the violet thickets of the forest. Every settlement was emptied, the women and children themselves set out as if for a walk beneath the great clear sky. Now the roads were growing dark; this walking crowd, all gliding towards the same goal, could no longer be distinguished. But one felt it, the confused tramping moved by one soul. Between the hedges, among the bushes, there was only a light rustling, a vague rumour of the voices of the night. M. Hennebeau, who was at this hour returning home mounted on his mare, listened to these vague sounds. He had met couples, long rows of strollers, on this beautiful winter night. More lovers, who were going to take their pleasure, mouth to mouth, behind the walls. Was it not what he always met, girls tumbled over at the bottom of every ditch, beggars who crammed themselves with the only joy that cost nothing? And these fools complained of life, when they could take their supreme fill of this happiness of love! Willingly would he have starved as they did if he could begin life again with a woman who would give herself to him on a heap of stones, with all her strength and all her heart. His misfortune was without consolation, and he envied these wretches. With lowered head he went back, riding his horse at a slackened pace, rendered desperate by these long sounds, lost in the depth of the black country, in which he heard only kisses. CHAPTER VII It was the Plan-des-Dames, that vast glade just opened up by the felling of trees. It spread out in a gentle slope, surrounded by tall thickets and superb beeches with straight regular trunks, which formed a white colonnade patched with green lichens; fallen giants were also lying in the grass, while on the left a mass of logs formed a geometrical cube. The cold was sharpening with the twilight and the frozen moss crackled beneath the feet. There was black darkness on the earth while the tall branches showed against the pale sky, where a full moon coming above the horizon would soon extinguish the stars. Nearly three thousand colliers had come to the rendezvous, a swarming crowd of men, women, and children, gradually filling the glade and spreading out afar beneath the trees. Late arrivals were still coming up, a flood of heads drowned in shadow and stretching as far as the neighbouring copses. A rumbling arose from them, like that of a storm, in this motionless and frozen forest. At the top, dominating the slope, Étienne stood with Rasseneur and Maheu. A quarrel had broken out, one could hear their voices in sudden bursts. Near them some men were listening: Levaque, with clenched fists; Pierron, turning his back and much annoyed that he had no longer been able to feign a fever. There were also Father Bonnemort and old Mouque, seated side by side on a stump, lost in deep meditation. Then behind were the chaffers, Zacharie, Mouquet, and others who had come to make fun of the thing; while gathered together in a very different spirit the women in a group were as serious as if at church. Maheude silently shook her head at the Levaque woman's muttered oaths. Philoméne was coughing, her bronchitis having come back with the winter. Only Mouquette was showing her teeth with laughter, amused at the way in which Mother Brulé was abusing her daughter, an unnatural creature who had sent her away that she might gorge herself with rabbit, a creature who had sold herself and who fattened on her man's cowardice. And Jeanlin had planted himself on the pile of wood, hoisting up Lydie and making Bébert follow him, all three higher up in the air than any one else. The quarrel was raised by Rasseneur, who wished to proceed formally to the election of officers. He was enraged by his defeat at the Bon-Joyeux, and had sworn to have his revenge, for he flattered himself that he could regain his old authority when he was once face to face, not with the delegates, but with the miners themselves. Étienne was disgusted, and thought the idea of officers was ridiculous in this forest. They ought to act in a revolutionary fashion, like savages, since they were tracked like wolves. As the dispute threatened to drag on, he took possession of the crowd at once by jumping on to the trunk of a tree and shouting: "Comrades! comrades!" The confused roar of the crowd died down into a long sigh, while Maheu stifled Rasseneur's protestations. Étienne went on in a loud voice. "Comrades, since they forbid us to speak, since they send the police after us as if we were robbers, we have come to talk here! Here we are free, we are at home. No one can silence us any more than they can silence the birds and beasts!" A thunder of cries and exclamations responded to him. "Yes, yes! the forest is ours, we can talk here. Go on." Then Étienne stood for a moment motionless on the tree-trunk. The moon, still beneath the horizon, only lit up the topmost branches, and the crowd, remaining in the darkness, stood above it at the top of the slope like a bar of shadow. He raised his arm with a slow movement and began. But his voice was not fierce; he spoke in the cold tones of a simple envoy of the people, who was rendering his account. He was delivering the discourse which the commissioner of police had cut short at the Bon-Joyeux; and he began by a rapid history of the strike, affecting a certain scientific eloquence--facts, nothing but facts. At first he spoke of his dislike to the strike; the miners had not desired it, it was the management which had provoked it with the new timbering tariff. Then he recalled the first step taken by the delegates in going to the manager, the bad faith of the directors; and, later on, the second step, the tardy concession, the ten centimes given up, after the attempt to rob them. Now he showed by figures the exhaustion of the Provident Fund, and pointed out the use that had been made of the help sent, briefly excusing the International, Pluchart and the others, for not being able to do more for them in the midst of the cares of their conquest of the world. So the situation was getting worse every day; the Company was giving back certificates and threatening to hire men from Belgium; besides, it was intimidating the weak, and had forced a certain number of miners to go down again. He preserved his monotonous voice, as if to insist on the bad news; he said that hunger was victorious, that hope was dead, and that the struggle had reached the last feverish efforts of courage. And then he suddenly concluded, without raising his voice: "It is in these circumstances, mates, that you have to take a decision to-night. Do you want the strike to go on? and if so, what do you expect to do to beat the Company?" A deep silence fell from the starry sky. The crowd, which could not be seen, was silent in the night beneath these words which choked every heart, and a sigh of despair could be heard through the trees. But Étienne was already continuing, with a change in his voice. It was no longer the secretary of the association who was speaking; it was the chief of a band, the apostle who was bringing truth. Could it be that any were cowardly enough to go back on their word? What! They were to suffer in vain for a month, and then to go back to the pits, with lowered heads, so that the everlasting wretchedness might begin over again! Would it not be better to die at once in the effort to destroy this tyranny of capital, which was starving the worker? Always to submit to hunger up to the moment when hunger will again throw the calmest into revolt, was it not a foolish game which could not go on for ever? And he pointed to the exploited miners, bearing alone the disasters of every crisis, reduced to go without food as soon as the necessities of competition lowered net prices. No, the timbering tariff could not be accepted; it was only a disguised effort to economize on the Company's part; they wanted to rob every man of an hour's work a day. It was too much this time; the day was coming when the miserable, pushed to extremity, would deal justice. He stood with his arms in the air. At the word "justice" the crowd, shaken by a long shudder, broke out into applause which rolled along with the sound of dry leaves. Voices cried: "Justice! it is time! Justice!" Gradually Étienne grew heated. He had not Rasseneur's easy flowing abundance. Words often failed him, he had to force his phrases, bringing them out with an effort which he emphasized by a movement of his shoulders. Only in these continual shocks he came upon familiar images which seized on his audience by their energy; while his workman's gestures, his elbows in and then extended, with his fists thrust out, his jaw suddenly advanced as if to bite, had also an extraordinary effect on his mates. They all said that if he was not big he made himself heard. "The wage system is a new form of slavery," he began again, in a more sonorous voice. "The mine ought to belong to the miner, as the sea belongs to the fisherman, and the earth to the peasant. Do you see? The mine belongs to you, to all of you who, for a century, have paid for it with so much blood and misery!" He boldly entered on obscure questions of law, and lost himself in the difficulties of the special regulations concerning mines. The subsoil, like the soil, belonged to the nation: only an odious privilege gave the monopoly of it to the Companies; all the more since, at Montsou, the pretended legality of the concession was complicated by treaties formerly made with the owners of the old fiefs, according to the ancient custom of Hainault. The miners, then, had only to reconquer their property; and with extended hands he indicated the whole country beyond the forest. At this moment the moon, which had risen above the horizon, lit him up as it glided from behind the high branches. When the crowd, which was still in shadow, saw him thus, white with light, distributing fortune with his open hands, they applauded anew by prolonged clapping. "Yes, yes, he's right. Bravo!" Then Étienne trotted out his favourite subject, the assumption of the instruments of production by the collectivity, as he kept on saying in a phrase the pedantry of which greatly pleased him. At the present time his evolution was completed. Having set out with the sentimental fraternity of the novice and the need for reforming the wage system, he had reached the political idea of its suppression. Since the meeting at the Bon-Joyeux his collectivism, still humanitarian and without a formula, had stiffened into a complicated programme which he discussed scientifically, article by article. First, he affirmed that freedom could only be obtained by the destruction of the state. Then, when the people had obtained possession of the government, reforms would begin: return to the primitive commune, substitution of an equal and free family for the moral and oppressive family; absolute equality, civil, political, and economic; individual independence guaranteed, thanks to the possession of the integral product of the instruments of work; finally, free vocational education, paid for by the collectivity. This led to the total reconstruction of the old rotten society; he attacked marriage, the right of bequest, he regulated every one's fortune, he threw down the iniquitous monument of the dead centuries with a great movement of his arm, always the same movement, the movement of the reaper who is cutting down a ripe harvest. And then with the other hand he reconstructed; he built up the future humanity, the edifice of truth and justice rising in the dawn of the twentieth century. In this state of mental tension reason trembled, and only the sectarian's fixed idea was left. The scruples of sensibility and of good sense were lost; nothing seemed easier than the realization of this new world. He had foreseen everything; he spoke of it as of a machine which he could put together in two hours, and he stuck at neither fire nor blood. "Our turn is come," he broke out for the last time. "Now it is for us to have power and wealth!" The cheering rolled up to him from the depths of the forest. The moon now whitened the whole of the glade, and cut into living waves the sea of heads, as far as the dimly visible copses in the distance between the great grey trunks. And in the icy air there was a fury of faces, of gleaming eyes, of open mouths, a rut of famishing men, women, and children, let loose on the just pillage of the ancient wealth they had been deprived of. They no longer felt the cold, these burning words had warmed them to the bone. Religious exaltation raised them from the earth, a fever of hope like that of the Christians of the early Church awaiting the near coming of justice. Many obscure phrases had escaped them, they could not properly understand this technical and abstract reasoning; but the very obscurity and abstraction still further enlarged the field of promises and lifted them into a dazzling region. What a dream! to be masters, to suffer no more, to enjoy at last! "That's it, by God! it's our turn now! Down with the exploiters." The women were delirious; Maheude, losing her calmness, was seized with the vertigo of hunger, the Levaque woman shouted, old Brulé, carried out of herself, was brandishing her witch-like arms, Philoméne was shaken by a spasm of coughing, and Mouquette was so excited that she cried out words of tenderness to the orator. Among the men, Maheu was won over and shouted with anger, between Pierron who was trembling and Levaque who was talking too much; while the chaffers, Zacharie and Mouquet, though trying to make fun of things, were feeling uncomfortable and were surprised that their mate could talk on so long without having a drink. But on top of the pile of wood, Jeanlin was making more noise than any one, egging on Bébert and Lydie and shaking the basket in which Poland lay. The clamour began again. Étienne was enjoying the intoxication of his popularity. He held power, as it were, materialized in these three thousand breasts, whose hearts he could move with a word. Souvarine, if he had cared to come, would have applauded his ideas so far as he recognized them, pleased with his pupil's progress in anarchism and satisfied with the programme, except the article on education, a relic of silly sentimentality, for men needed to be dipped in a bath of holy and salutary ignorance. As to Rasseneur, he shrugged his shoulders with contempt and anger. "You shall let me speak," he shouted to Étienne. The latter jumped from the tree-trunk. "Speak, we shall see if they'll hear you." Already Rasseneur had replaced him, and with a gesture demanded silence. But the noise did not cease; his name went round from the first ranks, who had recognized him, to the last, lost beneath the beeches, and they refused to hear him; he was an overturned idol, the mere sight of him angered his old disciples. His facile elocution, his flowing, good-natured speech, which had so long charmed them, was now treated like warm gruel made to put cowards to sleep. In vain he talked through the noise, trying to take up again his discourse of conciliation, the impossibility of changing the world by a stroke of law, the necessity of allowing the social evolution time to accomplish itself; they joked him, they hissed him; his defeat at the Bon-Joyeux was now beyond repair. At last they threw handfuls of frozen moss at him, and a woman cried in a shrill voice: "Down with the traitor!" He explained that the miner could not be the proprietor of the mine, as the weaver is of his loom, and he said that he preferred sharing in the benefits, the interested worker becoming the child of the house. "Down with the traitor!" repeated a thousand voices, while stones began to whistle by. Then he turned pale, and despair filled his eyes with tears. His whole existence was crumbling down; twenty years of ambitious comradeship were breaking down beneath the ingratitude of the crowd. He came down from the tree-trunk, with no strength to go on, struck to the heart. "That makes you laugh," he stammered, addressing the triumphant Étienne. "Good! I hope your turn will come. It will come, I tell you!" And as if to reject all responsibility for the evils which he foresaw, he made a large gesture, and went away alone across the country, pale and silent. Hoots arose, and then they were surprised to see Father Bonnemort standing on the trunk and about to speak in the midst of the tumult. Up till now Mouque and he had remained absorbed, with that air that they always had of reflecting on former things. No doubt he was yielding to one of those sudden crises of garrulity which sometimes made the past stir in him so violently that recollections rose and flowed from his lips for hours at a time. There was deep silence, and they listened to this old man, who was like a pale spectre beneath the moon, and as he narrated things without any immediate relation with the discussion--long histories which no one could understand--the impression was increased. He was talking of his youth; he described the death of his two uncles who were crushed at the Voreux; then he turned to the inflammation of the lungs which had carried off his wife. He kept to his main idea, however: things had never gone well and never would go well. Thus in the forest five hundred of them had come together because the king would not lessen the hours of work; but he stopped short, and began to tell of another strike--he had seen so many! They all broke out under these trees, here at the Plan-des-Dames, lower down at the Charbonnerie, still farther towards the Saut-du-Loup. Sometimes it froze, sometimes it was hot. One evening it had rained so much that they had gone back again without being able to say anything, and the king's soldiers came up and it finished with volleys of musketry. "We raised our hands like this, and we swore not to go back again. Ah! I have sworn; yes, I have sworn!" The crowd listened gapingly, feeling disturbed, when Étienne, who had watched the scene, jumped on to the fallen tree, keeping the old man at his side. He had just recognized Chaval among their friends in the first row. The idea that Catherine must be there had roused a new ardour within him, the desire to be applauded in her presence. "Mates, you have heard; this is one of our old men, and this is what he has suffered, and what our children will suffer if we don't have done with the robbers and butchers." He was terrible; never had he spoken so violently. With one arm he supported old Bonnemort, exhibiting him as a banner of misery and mourning, and crying for vengeance. In a few rapid phrases he went back to the first Maheu. He showed the whole family used up at the mine, devoured by the Company, hungrier than ever after a hundred years of work; and contrasting with the Maheus he pointed to the big bellies of the directors sweating gold, a whole band of shareholders, going on for a century like kept women, doing nothing but enjoy with their bodies. Was it not fearful? a race of men dying down below, from father to son, so that bribes of wine could be given to ministers, and generations of great lords and bourgeois could give feasts or fatten by their firesides! He had studied the diseases of the miners. He made them all march past with their awful details: anaemia, scrofula, black bronchitis, the asthma which chokes, and the rheumatism which paralyses. These wretches were thrown as food to the engines and penned up like beasts in the settlements. The great companies absorbed them, regulating their slavery, threatening to enrol all the workers of the nation, millions of hands, to bring fortune to a thousand idlers. But the miner was no longer an ignorant brute, crushed within the bowels of the earth. An army was springing up from the depths of the pits, a harvest of citizens whose seed would germinate and burst through the earth some sunny day. And they would see then if, after forty years of service, any one would dare to offer a pension of a hundred and fifty francs to an old man of sixty who spat out coal and whose legs were swollen with the water from the cuttings. Yes! labour would demand an account from capital: that impersonal god, unknown to the worker, crouching down somewhere in his mysterious sanctuary, where he sucked the life out of the starvelings who nourished him! They would go down there; they would at last succeed in seeing his face by the gleam of incendiary fires, they would drown him in blood, that filthy swine, that monstrous idol, gorged with human flesh! He was silent, but his arm, still extended in space, indicated the enemy, down there, he knew not where, from one end of the earth to the other. This time the clamour of the crowd was so great that people at Montsou heard it, and looked towards Vandame, seized with anxiety at the thought that some terrible landslip had occurred. Night-birds rose above the trees in the clear open sky. He now concluded his speech. "Mates, what is your decision? Do you vote for the strike to go on?" Their voices yelled, "Yes! yes!" "And what steps do you decide on? We are sure of defeat if cowards go down to-morrow." Their voices rose again with the sound of a tempest: "Kill the cowards!" "Then you decide to call them back to duty and to their sworn word. This is what we could do: present ourselves at the pits, bring back the traitors by our presence, show the Company that we are all agreed, and that we are going to die rather than yield." "That's it. To the pits! to the pits!" While he was speaking Étienne had looked for Catherine among the pale shouting heads before him. She was certainly not there, but he still saw Chaval, affecting to jeer, shrugging his shoulders, but devoured by jealousy and ready to sell himself for a little of this popularity. "And if there are any spies among us, mates," Étienne went on, "let them look out; they're known. Yes, I can see Vandame colliers here who have not left their pit." "Is that meant for me?" asked Chaval, with an air of bravado. "For you, or for any one else. But, since you speak, you ought to understand that those who eat have nothing to do with those who are starving. You work at Jean-Bart." A chaffing voice interrupted: "Oh! he work! he's got a wife who works for him." Chaval swore, while the blood rose to his face. "By God! is it forbidden to work, then?" "Yes!" said Étienne, "when your mates are enduring misery for the good of all, it is forbidden to go over, like a selfish sneaking coward, to the masters' side. If the strike had been general we should have got the best of it long ago. Not a single man at Vandame ought to have gone down when Montsou is resting. To accomplish the great stroke, work should be stopped in the entire country, at Monsieur Deneulin's as well as here. Do you understand? there are only traitors in the Jean Bart cuttings; you're all traitors!" The crowd around Chaval grew threatening, and fists were raised and cries of "Kill him! kill him!" began to be uttered. He had grown pale. But, in his infuriated desire to triumph over Étienne, an idea restored him. "Listen to me, then! come to-morrow to Jean-Bart, and you shall see if I'm working! We're on your side; they've sent me to tell you so. The fires must be extinguished, and the engine-men, too, must go on strike. All the better if the pumps do stop! the water will destroy the pits and everything will be done for!" He was furiously applauded in his turn, and now Étienne himself was outflanked. Other orators succeeded each other from the tree-trunk, gesticulating amid the tumult, and throwing out wild propositions. It was a mad outburst of faith, the impatience of a religious sect which, tired of hoping for the expected miracle, had at last decided to provoke it. These heads, emptied by famine, saw everything red, and dreamed of fire and blood in the midst of a glorious apotheosis from which would arise universal happiness. And the tranquil moon bathed this surging sea, the deep forest encircled with its vast silence this cry of massacre. The frozen moss crackled beneath the heels of the crowd, while the beeches, erect in their strength, with the delicate tracery of their black branches against the white sky, neither saw nor heard the miserable beings who writhed at their feet. There was some pushing, and Maheude found herself near Maheu. Both of them, driven out of their ordinary good sense, and carried away by the slow exasperation which had been working within them for months, approved Levaque, who went to extremes by demanding the heads of the engineers. Pierron had disappeared. Bonnemort and Mouque were both talking together, saying vague violent things which nobody heard. For a joke Zacharie demanded the demolition of the churches, while Mouquet, with his crosse in his hand, was beating it against the ground for the sake of increasing the row. The women were furious. The Levaque, with her fists to her hips, was setting to with Philoméne, whom she accused of having laughed; Mouquette talked of attacking the gendarmes by kicking them somewhere; Mother Brulé, who had just slapped Lydie on finding her without either basket or salad, went on launching blows into space against all the masters whom she would like to have got at. For a moment Jeanlin was in terror, Bébert having learned through a trammer that Madame Rasseneur had seen them steal Poland; but when he had decided to go back and quietly release the beast at the door of the Avantage, he shouted louder than ever, and opened his new knife, brandishing the blade and proud of its glitter. "Mates! mates!" repeated the exhausted Étienne, hoarse with the effort to obtain a moment's silence for a definite understanding. At last they listened. "Mates! to-morrow morning at Jean-Bart, is it agreed?" "Yes! yes! at Jean-Bart! death to the traitors!" The tempest of these three thousand voices filled the sky, and died away in the pure brightness of the moon. PART FIVE CHAPTER I At four o'clock the moon had set, and the night was very dark. Everything was still asleep at Deneulin's; the old brick house stood mute and gloomy, with closed doors and windows, at the end of the large ill-kept garden which separated it from the Jean-Bart mine. The other frontage faced the deserted road to Vandame, a large country town, about three kilometres off, hidden behind the forest. Deneulin, tired after a day spent in part below, was snoring with his face toward the wall, when he dreamt that he had been called. At last he awoke, and really hearing a voice, got out and opened the window. One of his captains was in the garden. "What is it, then?" he asked. "There's a rebellion, sir; half the men will not work, and are preventing the others from going down." He scarcely understood, with head heavy and dazed with sleep, and the great cold struck him like an icy douche. "Then make them go down, by George!" he stammered. "It's been going on an hour," said the captain. "Then we thought it best to come for you. Perhaps you will be able to persuade them." "Very good; I'll go." He quickly dressed himself, his mind quite clear now, and very anxious. The house might have been pillaged; neither the cook nor the man-servant had stirred. But from the other side of the staircase alarmed voices were whispering; and when he came out he saw his daughters' door open, and they both appeared in white dressing-gowns, slipped on in haste. "Father, what is it?" Lucie, the elder, was already twenty-two, a tall dark girl, with a haughty air; while Jeanne, the younger, as yet scarcely nineteen years old, was small, with golden hair and a certain caressing grace. "Nothing serious," he replied, to reassure them. "It seems that some blusterers are making a disturbance down there. I am going to see." But they exclaimed that they would not let him go before he had taken something warm. If not, he would come back ill, with his stomach out of order, as he always did. He struggled, gave his word of honour that he was too much in a hurry. "Listen!" said Jeanne, at last, hanging to his neck, "you must drink a little glass of rum and eat two biscuits, or I shall remain like this, and you'll have to take me with you." He resigned himself, declaring that the biscuits would choke him. They had already gone down before him, each with her candlestick. In the dining-room below they hastened to serve him, one pouring out the rum, the other running to the pantry for the biscuits. Having lost their mother when very young, they had been rather badly brought up alone, spoilt by their father, the elder haunted by the dream of singing on the stage, the younger mad over painting in which she showed a singular boldness of taste. But when they had to retrench after the embarrassment in their affairs, these apparently extravagant girls had suddenly developed into very sensible and shrewd managers, with an eye for errors of centimes in accounts. Today, with their boyish and artistic demeanour, they kept the purse, were careful over sous, haggled with the tradesmen, renovated their dresses unceasingly, and in fact, succeeded in rendering decent the growing embarrassment of the house. "Eat, papa," repeated Lucie. Then, remarking his silent gloomy preoccupation, she was again frightened. "Is it serious, then, that you look at us like this? Tell us; we will stay with you, and they can do without us at that lunch." She was speaking of a party which had been planned for the morning, Madame Hennebeau was to go in her carriage, first for Cécile, at the Grégoires', then to call for them, so that they could all go to Marchiennes to lunch at the Forges, where the manager's wife had invited them. It was an opportunity to visit the workshops, the blast furnaces, and the coke ovens. "We will certainly remain," declared Jeanne, in her turn. But he grew angry. "A fine idea! I tell you that it is nothing. Just be so good as to get back into your beds again, and dress yourselves for nine o'clock, as was arranged." He kissed them and hastened to leave. They heard the noise of his boots vanishing over the frozen earth in the garden. Jeanne carefully placed the stopper in the rum bottle, while Lucie locked up the biscuits. The room had the cold neatness of dining-rooms where the table is but meagrely supplied. And both of them took advantage of this early descent to see if anything had been left uncared for the evening before. A serviette lay about, the servant should be scolded. At last they were upstairs again. While he was taking the shortest cut through the narrow paths of his kitchen garden, Deneulin was thinking of his compromised fortune, this Montsou denier, this million which he had realized, dreaming to multiply it tenfold, and which was to-day running such great risks. It was an uninterrupted course of ill-luck, enormous and unforeseen repairs, ruinous conditions of exploitation, then the disaster of this industrial crisis, just when the profits were beginning to come in. If the strike broke out here, he would be overthrown. He pushed a little door: the buildings of the pit could be divined in the black night, by the deepening of the shadow, starred by a few lanterns. Jean-Bart was not so important as the Voreux, but its renewed installation made it a pretty pit, as the engineers say. They had not been contented by enlarging the shaft one metre and a half, and deepening it to seven hundred and eight metres, they had equipped it afresh with a new engine, new cages, entirely new material, all set up according to the latest scientific improvements; and even a certain seeking for elegance was visible in the constructions, a screening-shed with carved frieze, a steeple adorned with a clock, a receiving-room and an engine-room both rounded into an apse like a Renaissance chapel, and surmounted by a chimney with a mosaic spiral made of black bricks and red bricks. The pump was placed on the other shaft of the concession, the old Gaston-Marie pit, reserved solely for this purpose. Jean-Bart, to right and left of the winding-shaft, only had two conduits, that for the steam ventilator and that for the ladders. In the morning, ever since three o'clock, Chaval, who had arrived first, had been seducing his comrades, convincing them that they ought to imitate those at Montsou, and demand an increase of five centimes a tram. Soon four hundred workmen had passed from the shed into the receiving-room, in the midst of a tumult of gesticulation and shouting. Those who wished to work stood with their lamps, barefooted, with shovel or pick beneath their arms; while the others, still in their sabots, with their overcoats on their shoulders because of the great cold, were barring the shaft; and the captains were growing hoarse in the effort to restore order, begging them to be reasonable and not to prevent those who wanted from going down. But Chaval was furious when he saw Catherine in her trousers and jacket, her head tied up in the blue cap. On getting up, he had roughly told her to stay in bed. In despair at this arrest of work she had followed him all the same, for he never gave her any money; she often had to pay both for herself and him; and what was to become of her if she earned nothing? She was overcome by fear, the fear of a brothel at Marchiennes, which was the end of putter-girls without bread and without lodging. "By God!" cried Chaval, "what the devil have you come here for?" She stammered that she had no income to live on and that she wanted to work. "Then you put yourself against me, wench? Back you go at once, or I'll go back with you and kick my sabots into your backside." She recoiled timidly but she did not leave, resolved to see how things would turn out. Deneulin had arrived by the screening-stairs. In spite of the weak light of the lanterns, with a quick look he took in the scene, with this rabble wrapt in shadow; he knew every face--the pikemen, the porters, the landers, the putters, even the trammers. In the nave, still new and clean, the arrested task was waiting; the steam in the engine, under pressure, made slight whistling sounds; the cages were hanging motionless to the cables; the trams, abandoned on the way, were encumbering the metal floors. Scarcely eighty lamps had been taken; the others were flaming in the lamp cabin. But no doubt a word from him would suffice, and the whole life of labour would begin again. "Well, what's going on then, my lads?" he asked in a loud voice. "What are you angry about? Just explain to me and we will see if we can agree." He usually behaved in a paternal way towards his men, while at the same time demanding hard work. With an authoritative, rough manner, he had tried to conquer them by a good nature which had its outbursts of passion, and he often gained their love; the men especially respected in him his courage, always in the cuttings with them, the first in danger whenever an accident terrified the pit. Twice, after fire-damp explosions, he had been let down, fastened by a rope under his armpits, when the bravest drew back. "Now," he began again, "you are not going to make me repent of having trusted you. You know that I have refused police protection. Talk quietly and I will hear you." All were now silent and awkward, moving away from him; and it was Chaval who at last said: "Well, Monsieur Deneulin, we can't go on working; we must have five centimes more the tram." He seemed surprised. "What! five centimes! and why this demand? I don't complain about your timbering, I don't want to impose a new tariff on you like the Montsou directors." "Maybe! but the Montsou mates are right, all the same. They won't have the tariff, and they want a rise of five centimes because it is not possible to work properly at the present rates. We want five centimes more, don't we, you others?" Voices approved, and the noise began again in the midst of violent gesticulation. Gradually they drew near, forming a small circle. A flame came into Deneulin's eyes, and his fist, that of a man who liked strong government, was clenched, for fear of yielding to the temptation of seizing one of them by the neck. He preferred to discuss on the basis of reason. "You want five centimes, and I agree that the work is worth it. Only I can't give it. If I gave it I should simply be done for. You must understand that I have to live first in order for you to live, and I've got to the end, the least rise in net prices will upset me. Two years ago, you remember, at the time of the last strike, I yielded, I was able to then. But that rise of wages was not the less ruinous, for these two years have been a struggle. To-day I would rather let the whole thing go than not be able to tell next month where to get the money to pay you." Chaval laughed roughly in the face of this master who told them his affairs so frankly. The others lowered their faces, obstinate and incredulous, refusing to take into their heads the idea that a master did not gain millions out of his men. Then Deneulin, persisting, explained his struggle with Montsou, always on the watch and ready to devour him if, some day, he had the stupidity to come to grief. It was a savage competition which forced him to economize, the more so since the great depth of Jean-Bart increased the price of extraction, an unfavourable condition hardly compensated by the great thickness of the coal-beds. He would never have raised wages after the last strike if it had not been necessary for him to imitate Montsou, for fear of seeing his men leave him. And he threatened them with the morrow; a fine result it would be for them, if they obliged him to sell, to pass beneath the terrible yoke of the directors! He did not sit on a throne far away in an unknown sanctuary; he was not one of those shareholders who pay agents to skin the miner who has never seen them; he was a master, he risked something besides his money, he risked his intelligence, his health, his life. Stoppage of work would simply mean death, for he had no stock, and he must fulfil orders. Besides, his standing capital could not sleep. How could he keep his engagements? Who would pay the interest on the sums his friends had confided to him? It would mean bankruptcy. "That's where we are, my good fellows," he said, in conclusion. "I want to convince you. We don't ask a man to cut his own throat, do we? and if I give you your five centimes, or if I let you go out on strike, it's the same as if I cut my throat." He was silent. Grunts went round. A party among the miners seemed to hesitate. Several went back towards the shaft. "At least," said a captain, "let every one be free. Who are those who want to work?" Catherine had advanced among the first. But Chaval fiercely pushed her back, shouting: "We are all agreed; it's only bloody rogues who'll leave their mates!" After that, conciliation appeared impossible. The cries began again, and men were hustled away from the shaft, at the risk of being crushed against the walls. For a moment the manager, in despair, tried to struggle alone, to reduce the crowd by violence; but it was useless madness, and he retired. For a few minutes he rested, out of breath, on a chair in the receiver's office, so overcome by his powerlessness that no ideas came to him. At last he grew calm, and told an inspector to go and bring Chaval; then, when the latter had agreed to the interview, he motioned the others away. "Leave us." Deneulin's idea was to see what this fellow was after. At the first words he felt that he was vain, and was devoured by passionate jealousy. Then he attacked him by flattery, affecting surprise that a workman of his merit should so compromise his future. It seemed as though he had long had his eyes on him for rapid advancement; and he ended by squarely offering to make him captain later on. Chaval listened in silence, with his fists at first clenched, but then gradually unbent. Something was working in the depths of his skull; if he persisted in the strike he would be nothing more than Étienne's lieutenant, while now another ambition opened, that of passing into the ranks of the bosses. The heat of pride rose to his face and intoxicated him. Besides, the band of strikers whom he had expected since the morning had not arrived; some obstacle must have stopped them, perhaps the police; it was time to submit. But all the same he shook his head; he acted the incorruptible man, striking his breast indignantly. Then, without mentioning to the master the rendezvous he had given to the Montsou men, he promised to calm his mates, and to persuade them to go down. Deneulin remained hidden, and the captains themselves stood aside. For an hour they heard Chaval orating and discussing, standing on a tram in the receiving-room. Some of the men hooted him; a hundred and twenty went off exasperated, persisting in the resolution which he had made them take. It was already past seven. The sun was rising brilliantly; it was a bright day of hard frost; and all at once movement began in the pit, and the arrested labour went on. First the crank of the engine plunged, rolling and unrolling the cables on the drums. Then, in the midst of the tumult of the signals, the descent took place. The cages filled and were engulfed, and rose again, the shaft swallowing its ration of trammers and putters and pikemen; while on the metal floors the landers pushed the trams with a sound of thunder. "By God! What the devil are you doing there?" cried Chaval to Catherine, who was awaiting her turn. "Will you just go down and not laze about!" At nine o'clock, when Madame Hennebeau arrived in her carriage with Cécile, she found Lucie and Jeanne quite ready and very elegant, in spite of their dresses having been renovated for the twentieth time. But Deneulin was surprised to see Négrel accompanying the carriage on horseback. What! were the men also in the party? Then Madame Hennebeau explained in her maternal way that they had frightened her by saying that the streets were full of evil faces, and so she preferred to bring a defender. Négrel laughed and reassured them: nothing to cause anxiety, threats of brawlers as usual, but not one of them would dare to throw a stone at a window-pane. Still pleased with his success, Deneulin related the checked rebellion at Jean-Bart. He said that he was now quite at rest. And on the Vandame road, while the young ladies got into the carriage, all congratulated themselves on the superb day, oblivious of the long swelling shudder of the marching people afar off in the country, though they might have heard the sound of it if they had pressed their ears against the earth. "Well! it is agreed," repeated Madame Hennebeau. "This evening you will call for the young ladies and dine with us. Madame Grégoire has also promised to come for Cécile." "You may reckon on me," replied Deneulin. The carriage went off towards Vandame, Jeanne and Lucie leaning down to laugh once more to their father, who was standing by the roadside; while Négrel gallantly trotted behind the fleeing wheels. They crossed the forest, taking the road from Vandame to Marchiennes. As they approached Tartaret, Jeanne asked Madame Hennebeau if she knew Côte-Verte, and the latter, in spite of her stay of five years in the country, acknowledged that she had never been on that side. Then they made a detour. Tartaret, on the outskirts of the forest, was an uncultivated moor, of volcanic sterility, under which for ages a coal mine had been burning. Its history was lost in legend. The miners of the place said that fire from heaven had fallen on this Sodom in the bowels of the earth, where the putter-girls had committed abominations together, so that they had not even had the time to come to the surface, and today were still burning at the bottom of this hell. The calcined rocks, of a sombre red, were covered by an efflorescence of alum as by a leprosy. Sulphur grew like a yellow flower at the edge of the fissures. At night, those who were brave enough to venture to look into these holes declared that they saw flames there, sinful souls shrivelling in the furnace within. Wandering lights moved over the soil, and hot vapours, the poisons from the devil's ordure and his dirty kitchen, were constantly smoking. And like a miracle of eternal spring, in the midst of this accursed moor of Tartaret, Côte-Verte appeared, with its meadows for ever green, its beeches with leaves unceasingly renewed, its fields where three harvests ripened. It was a natural hot-house, warmed by the fire in the deep strata beneath. The snow never lay on it. The enormous bouquet of verdure, beside the leafless forest trees, blossomed on this December day, and the frost had not even scorched the edge of it. Soon the carriage was passing over the plain. Négrel joked over the legend, and explained that a fire often occurred at the bottom of a mine from the fermentation of the coal dust; if not mastered it would burn on for ever, and he mentioned a Belgian pit which had been flooded by diverting a river and running it into the pit. But he became silent. For the last few minutes groups of miners had been constantly passing the carriage; they went by in silence, with sidelong looks at the luxurious equipage which forced them to stand aside. Their number went on increasing. The horses were obliged to cross the little bridge over the Scarpe at walking pace. What was going on, then, to bring all these people into the roads? The young ladies became frightened, and Négrel began to smell out some fray in the excited country; it was a relief when they at last arrived at Marchiennes. The batteries of coke ovens and the chimneys of the blast furnaces, beneath a sun which seemed to extinguish them, were belching out smoke and raining their everlasting soot through the air. CHAPTER II At Jean-Bart, Catherine had already been at work for an hour, pushing trams as far as the relays; and she was soaked in such a bath of perspiration that she stopped a moment to wipe her face. At the bottom of the cutting, where he was hammering at the seam with his mates, Chaval was astonished when he no longer heard the rumble of the wheels. The lamps burnt badly, and the coal dust made it impossible to see. "What's up?" he shouted. When she answered that she was sure she would melt, and that her heart was going to stop, he replied furiously: "Do like us, stupid! Take off your shift." They were seven hundred and eight metres to the north in the first passage of the Désirée seam, which was at a distance of three kilometres from the pit-eye. When they spoke of this part of the pit, the miners of the region grew pale, and lowered their voices, as if they had spoken of hell; and most often they were content to shake their heads as men who would rather not speak of these depths of fiery furnace. As the galleries sank towards the north, they approached Tartaret, penetrating to that interior fire which calcined the rocks above. The cuttings at the point at which they had arrived had an average temperature of forty-five degrees. They were there in the accursed city, in the midst of the flames which the passers-by on the plain could see through the fissures, spitting out sulphur and poisonous vapours. Catherine, who had already taken off her jacket, hesitated, then took off her trousers also; and with naked arms and naked thighs, her chemise tied round her hips by a cord like a blouse, she began to push again. "Anyhow, that's better," she said aloud. In the stifling heat she still felt a vague fear. Ever since they began working here, five days ago, she had thought of the stories told her in childhood, of those putter-girls of the days of old who were burning beneath Tartaret, as a punishment for things which no one dared to repeat. No doubt she was too big now to believe such silly stories; but still, what would she do if she were suddenly to see coming out of the wall a girl as red as a stove, with eyes like live coals? The idea made her perspire still more. At the relay, eighty metres from the cutting, another putter took the tram and pushed it eighty metres farther to the upbrow, so that the receiver could forward it with the others which came down from the upper galleries. "Gracious! you're making yourself comfortable!" said this woman, a lean widow of thirty, when she saw Catherine in her chemise. "I can't do it, the trammers at the brow bother me with their dirty tricks." "Ah, well!" replied the young girl. "I don't care about the men! I feel too bad." She went off again, pushing an empty tram. The worst was that in this bottom passage another cause joined with the neighbourhood of Tartaret to make the heat unbearable. They were by the side of old workings, a very deep abandoned gallery of Gaston-Marie, where, ten years earlier, an explosion of fire-damp had set the seam alight; and it was still burning behind the clay wall which had been built there and was kept constantly repaired, in order to limit the disaster. Deprived of air, the fire ought to have become extinct, but no doubt unknown currents kept it alive; it had gone on for ten years, and heated the clay wall like the bricks of an oven, so that those who passed felt half-roasted. It was along this wall, for a length of more than a hundred metres, that the haulage was carried on, in a temperature of sixty degrees. After two journeys, Catherine again felt stifled. Fortunately, the passage was large and convenient in this Désirée seam, one of the thickest in the district. The bed was one metre ninety in height, and the men could work standing. But they would rather have worked with twisted necks and a little fresh air. "Hallo, there! are you asleep?" said Chaval again, roughly, as soon as he no longer heard Catherine moving. "How the devil did I come to get such a jade? Will you just fill your tram and push?" She was at the bottom of the cutting, leaning on her shovel; she was feeling ill, and she looked at them all with a foolish air without obeying. She scarcely saw them by the reddish gleam of the lamps, entirely naked like animals, so black, so encrusted in sweat and coal, that their nakedness did not frighten her. It was a confused task, the bending of ape-like backs, an infernal vision of scorched limbs, spending their strength amid dull blows and groans. But they could see her better, no doubt, for the picks left off hammering, and they joked her about taking off her trousers. "Eh! you'll catch cold; look out!" "It's because she's got such fine legs! I say, Chaval, there's enough there for two." "Oh! we must see. Lift up! Higher! higher!" Then Chaval, without growing angry at these jokes, turned on her. "That's it, by God! Ah! she likes dirty jokes. She'd stay there to listen till to-morrow." Catherine had painfully decided to fill her tram, then she pushed it. The gallery was too wide for her to get a purchase on the timber on both sides; her naked feet were twisted in the rails where they sought a point of support, while she slowly moved on, her arms stiffened in front, and her back breaking. As soon as she came up to the clay wall, the fiery torture again began, and the sweat fell from her whole body in enormous drops as from a storm-cloud. She had scarcely got a third of the way before she streamed, blinded, soiled also by the black mud. Her narrow chemise, as though dipped in ink, was sticking to her skin, and rising up to her waist with the movement of her thighs; it hurt her so that she had once more to stop her task. What was the matter with her, then, today? Never before had she felt as if there were wool in her bones. It must be the bad air. The ventilation did not reach to the bottom of this distant passage. One breathed there all sorts of vapours, which came out of the coal with the low bubbling sound of a spring, so abundantly sometimes that the lamps would not burn; to say nothing of fire-damp, which nobody noticed, for from one week's end to the other the men were always breathing it into their noses throughout the seam. She knew that bad air well; dead air the miners called it; the heavy asphyxiating gases below, above them the light gases which catch fire and blow up all the stalls of a pit, with hundreds of men, in a single burst of thunder. From her childhood she had swallowed so much that she was surprised she bore it so badly, with buzzing ears and burning throat. Unable to go farther, she felt the need of taking off her chemise. It was beginning to torture her, this garment of which the least folds cut and burnt her. She resisted the longing, and tried to push again, but was forced to stand upright. Then quickly, saying to herself that she would cover herself at the relay, she took off everything, the cord and the chemise, so feverishly that she would have torn off her skin if she could. And now, naked and pitiful, brought down to the level of the female animal seeking its living in the mire of the streets, covered with soot and mud up to the belly, she laboured on like a cab-hack. On all fours she pushed onwards. But despair came; it gave her no relief to be naked. What more could she take off? The buzzing in her ears deafened her, she seemed to feel a vice gripping her temples. She fell on her knees. The lamp, wedged into the coal in the tram, seemed to her to be going out. The intention to turn up the wick alone survived in the midst of her confused ideas. Twice she tried to examine it, and both times when she placed it before her on the earth she saw it turn pale, as though it also lacked breath. Suddenly the lamp went out. Then everything whirled around her in the darkness; a millstone turned in her head, her heart grew weak and left off beating, numbed in its turn by the immense weariness which was putting her limbs to sleep. She had fallen back in anguish amid the asphyxiating air close to the ground. "By God! I believe she's lazing again," growled Chaval's voice. He listened from the top of the cutting, and could hear no sound of wheels. "Eh, Catherine! you damned worm!" His voice was lost afar in the black gallery, and not a breath replied. "I'll come and make you move, I will!" Nothing stirred, there was only the same silence, as of death. He came down furiously, rushing along with his lamp so violently that he nearly fell over the putter's body which barred the way. He looked at her in stupefaction. What was the matter, then? was it humbug, a pretence of going to sleep? But the lamp which he had lowered to light up her face threatened to go out. He lifted it and lowered it afresh, and at last understood; it must be a gust of bad air. His violence disappeared; the devotion of the miner in face of a comrade's peril was awaking within him. He shouted for her chemise to be brought, and seized the naked and unconscious girl in his arms, holding her as high as possible. When their garments had been thrown over her shoulders he set out running, supporting his burden with one hand, and carrying the two lamps with the other. The deep galleries unrolled before him as he rushed along, turning to the right, then to the left, seeking life in the frozen air of the plain which blew down the air-shaft. At last the sound of a spring stopped him, the trickle of water flowing from the rock. He was at a square in the great haulage gallery which formerly led to Gaston-Marie. The air here blew in like a tempest, and was so fresh that a shudder went through him as he seated himself on the earth against the props; his mistress was still unconscious, with closed eyes. "Catherine, come now, by God! no humbug. Hold yourself up a bit while I dip this in the water." He was frightened to find her so limp. However, he was able to dip her chemise in the spring, and to bathe her face with it. She was like a corpse, already buried in the depth of the earth, with her slender girlish body which seemed to be still hesitating before swelling to the form of puberty. Then a shudder ran over her childish breast, over the belly and thighs of the poor little creature deflowered before her time. She opened her eyes and stammered: "I'm cold." "Ah! that's better now!" cried Chaval, relieved. He dressed her, slipped on the chemise easily, but swore over the difficulty he had in getting on the trousers, for she could not help much. She remained dazed, not understanding where she was, nor why she was naked. When she remembered she was ashamed. How had she dared to take everything off! And she questioned him; had she been seen so, without even a handkerchief around her waist to cover her? He joked, and made up stories, saying that he had just brought her there in the midst of all the mates standing in a row. What an idea, to have taken his advice and exhibited her bum! Afterwards he declared that the mates could not even know whether it was round or square, he had rushed along so swiftly. "The deuce! but I'm dying of cold," he said, dressing himself in turn. Never had she seen him so kind. Usually, for one good word that he said to her she received at once two bullying ones. It would have been so pleasant to live in agreement; a feeling of tenderness went through her in the languor of her fatigue. She smiled at him, and murmured: "Kiss me." He embraced her, and lay down beside her, waiting till she was able to walk. "You know," she said again, "you were wrong to shout at me over there, for I couldn't do more, really! Even in the cutting you're not so hot; if you only knew how it roasts you at the bottom of the passage!" "Sure enough," he replied, "it would be better under the trees. You feel bad in that stall, I'm afraid, my poor girl." She was so touched at hearing him agree with her that she tried to be brave. "Oh! it's a bad place. Then, to-day the air is poisoned. But you shall see soon if I'm a worm. When one has to work, one works; isn't it true? I'd die rather than stop." There was silence. He held her with one arm round her waist, pressing her against his breast to keep her from harm. Although she already felt strong enough to go back to the stall, she forgot everything in her delight. "Only," she went on in a very low voice, "I should like it so much if you were kinder. Yes, it is so good when we love each other a little." And she began to cry softly. "But I do love you," he cried, "for I've taken you with me." She only replied by shaking her head. There are often men who take women just in order to have them, caring mighty little about their happiness. Her tears flowed more hotly; it made her despair now to think of the happy life she would have led if she had chanced to fall to another lad, whose arm she would always have felt thus round her waist. Another? and the vague image of that other arose from the depth of her emotion. But it was done with; she only desired now to live to the end with this one, if he would not hustle her about too much. "Then," she said, "try to be like this sometimes." Sobs cut short her words, and he embraced her again. "You're a stupid! There, I swear to be kind. I'm not worse than any one else, go on!" She looked at him, and began to smile through her tears. Perhaps he was right; one never met women who were happy. Then, although she distrusted his oath, she gave herself up to the joy of seeing him affectionate. Good God! if only that could last! They had both embraced again, and as they were pressing each other in a long clasp they heard steps, which made them get up. Three mates who had seen them pass had come up to know how she was. They set out together. It was nearly ten o'clock, and they took their lunch into a cool corner before going back to sweat at the bottom of the cutting. They were finishing the double slice of bread-and-butter, their brick, and were about to drink the coffee from their tin, when they were disturbed by a noise coming from stalls in the distance. What then? was it another accident? They got up and ran. Pikemen, putters, trammers crossed them at every step; no one knew anything; all were shouting; it must be some great misfortune. Gradually the whole mine was in terror, frightened shadows emerged from the galleries, lanterns danced and flew away in the darkness. Where was it? Why could no one say? All at once a captain passed, shouting: "They are cutting the cables! they are cutting the cables!" Then the panic increased. It was a furious gallop through the gloomy passages. Their heads were confused. Why cut the cables? And who was cutting them, when the men were below? It seemed monstrous. But the voice of another captain was heard and then lost: "The Montsou men are cutting the cables! Let every one go up!" When he had understood, Chaval stopped Catherine short. The idea that he would meet the Montsou men up above, should he get out, paralysed his legs. It had come, then, that band which he thought had got into the hands of the police. For a moment he thought of retracing his path and ascending through Gaston-Marie, but that was no longer possible. He swore, hesitating, hiding his fear, repeating that it was stupid to run like that. They would not, surely, leave them at the bottom. The captain's voice echoed anew, now approaching them: "Let every one go up! To the ladders! to the ladders!" And Chaval was carried away with his mates. He pushed Catherine and accused her of not running fast enough. Did she want, then, to remain in the pit to die of hunger? For those Montsou brigands were capable of breaking the ladders without waiting for people to come up. This abominable suggestion ended by driving them wild. Along the galleries there was only a furious rush, helter-skelter; a race of madmen, each striving to arrive first and mount before the others. Some men shouted that the ladders were broken and that no one could get out. And then in frightened groups they began to reach the pit-eye, where they were all engulfed. They threw themselves toward the shaft, they crushed through the narrow door to the ladder passage; while an old groom who had prudently led back the horses to the stable, looked at them with an air of contemptuous indifference, accustomed to spend nights in the pit and certain that he could eventually be drawn out of it. "By God! will you climb up in front of me?" said Chaval to Catherine. "At least I can hold you if you fall." Out of breath, and suffocated by this race of three kilometres which had once more bathed her in sweat, she gave herself up, without understanding, to the eddies of the crowd. Then he pulled her by the arm, almost breaking it; and she cried with pain, her tears bursting out. Already he was forgetting his oath, never would she be happy. "Go on, then!" he roared. But he frightened her too much. If she went first he would bully her the whole time. So she resisted, while the wild flood of their comrades pushed them to one side. The water that filtered from the shaft was falling in great drops, and the floor of the pit-eye, shaken by this tramping, was trembling over the sump, the muddy cesspool ten metres deep. At Jean-Bart, two years earlier, a terrible accident had happened just here; the breaking of a cable had precipitated the cage to the bottom of the sump, in which two men had been drowned. And they all thought of this; every one would be left down there if they all crowded on to the planks. "Confounded dunderhead!" shouted Chaval. "Die then; I shall be rid of you!" He climbed up and she followed. From the bottom to daylight there were a hundred and two ladders, about seven metres in length, each placed on a narrow landing which occupied the breadth of the passage and in which a square hole scarcely allowed the shoulders to pass. It was like a flat chimney, seven hundred metres in height, between the wall of the shaft and the brattice of the winding-cage, a damp pipe, black and endless, in which the ladders were placed one above the other, almost straight, in regular stages. It took a strong man twenty-five minutes to climb up this giant column. The passage, however, was no longer used except in cases of accident. Catherine at first climbed bravely. Her naked feet were used to the hard coal on the floors of the passages, and did not suffer from the square rungs, covered with iron rods to prevent them from wearing away. Her hands, hardened by the haulage, grasped without fatigue the uprights that were too big for her. And it even interested her and took her out of her grief, this unforeseen ascent, this long serpent of men flowing on and hoisting themselves up three on a ladder, so that even when the head should emerge in daylight the tail would still be trailing over the sump. They were not there yet, the first could hardly have ascended a third of the shaft. No one spoke now, only their feet moved with a low sound; while the lamps, like travelling stars, spaced out from below upward, formed a continually increasing line. Catherine heard a trammer behind her counting the ladders. It gave her the idea of counting them also. They had already mounted fifteen, and were arriving at a landing-place. But at that moment she collided with Chaval's legs. He swore, shouting to her to look out. Gradually the whole column stopped and became motionless. What then? had something happened? and every one recovered his voice to ask questions and to express fear. Their anxiety had increased since leaving the bottom; their ignorance as to what was going on above oppressed them more as they approached daylight. Someone announced that they would have to go down again, that the ladders were broken. That was the thought that preoccupied them all, the fear of finding themselves face to face with space. Another explanation came down from mouth to mouth; there had been an accident, a pikeman slipped from a rung. No one knew exactly, the shouts made it impossible to hear; were they going to bed there? At last, without any precise information being obtained, the ascent began again, with the same slow, painful movement, in the midst of the tread of feet and the dancing of lamps. It must certainly be higher up that the ladders were broken. At the thirty-second ladder, as they passed a third landing-stage, Catherine felt her legs and arms grow stiff. At first she had felt a slight tingling in her skin. Now she lost the sensation of the iron and the wood beneath her feet and in her hands. A vague pain, which gradually became burning, heated her muscles. And in the dizziness which came over her, she recalled her grandfather Bonnemort's stories of the days when there was no passage, and little girls of ten used to take out the coal on their shoulders up bare ladders; so that if one of them slipped, or a fragment of coal simply rolled out of a basket, three or four children would fall down head first from the blow. The cramp in her limbs became unbearable, she would never reach the end. Fresh stoppages allowed her to breathe. But the terror which was communicated every time from above dazed her still more. Above and below her, respiration became more difficult. This interminable ascent was causing giddiness, and the nausea affected her with the others. She was suffocating, intoxicated with the darkness, exasperated with the walls which crushed against her flesh, and shuddering also with the dampness, her body perspiring beneath the great drops which fell on her. They were approaching a level where so thick a rain fell that it threatened to extinguish their lamps. Chaval twice spoke to Catherine without obtaining any reply. What the devil was she doing down there? Had she let her tongue fall? She might just tell him if she was all right. They had been climbing for half an hour, but so heavily that he had only reached the fifty-ninth ladder; there were still forty-three. Catherine at last stammered that she was getting on all right. He would have treated her as a worm if she had acknowledged her weariness. The iron of the rungs must have cut her feet; it seemed to her that it was sawing in up to the bone. After every grip she expected to see her hands leave the uprights; they were so peeled and stiff she could not close her fingers, and she feared she would fall backward with torn shoulders and dislocated thighs in this continual effort. It was especially the defective slope of the ladders from which she suffered, the almost perpendicular position which obliged her to hoist herself up by the strength of her wrists, with her belly against the wood. The panting of many breaths now drowned the sound of the feet, forming an enormous moan, multiplied tenfold by the partition of the passage, arising from the depths and expiring towards the light. There was a groan; word ran along that a trammer had just cut his head open against the edge of a stair. And Catherine went on climbing. They had passed the level. The rain had ceased; a mist made heavy the cellar-like air, poisoned with the odour of old iron and damp wood. Mechanically she continued to count in a low voice--eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three; still nineteen. The repetition of these figures supported her merely by their rhythmic balance; she had no further consciousness of her movements. When she lifted her eyes the lamps turned in a spiral. Her blood was flowing; she felt that she was dying; the least breath would have knocked her over. The worst was that those below were now pushing, and that the entire column was stampeding, yielding to the growing anger of its fatigue, the furious need to see the sun again. The first mates had emerged; there were, then, no broken ladders; but the idea that they might yet be broken to prevent the last from coming up, when others were already breathing up above, nearly drove them mad. And when a new stoppage occurred oaths broke out, and all went on climbing, hustling each other, passing over each other's bodies to arrive at all costs. Then Catherine fell. She had cried Chaval's name in despairing appeal. He did not hear; he was struggling, digging his heels into a comrade's ribs to get before him. And she was rolled down and trampled over. As she fainted she dreamed. It seemed to her that she was one of the little putter-girls of old days, and that a fragment of coal, fallen from the basket above her, had thrown her to the bottom of the shaft, like a sparrow struck by a flint. Five ladders only remained to climb. It had taken nearly an hour. She never knew how she reached daylight, carried up on people's shoulders, supported by the throttling narrowness of the passage. Suddenly she found herself in the dazzling sunlight, in the midst of a yelling crowd who were hooting her. CHAPTER III From early morning, before daylight, a tremor had agitated the settlements, and that tremor was now swelling through the roads and over the whole country. But the departure had not taken place as arranged, for the news had spread that cavalry and police were scouring the plain. It was said that they had arrived from Douai during the night, and Rasseneur was accused of having betrayed his mates by warning M. Hennebeau; a putter even swore that she had seen the servant taking a dispatch to the telegraph office. The miners clenched their fists and watched the soldiers from behind their shutters by the pale light of the early morning. Towards half-past seven, as the sun was rising, another rumour circulated, reassuring the impatient. It was a false alarm, a simple military promenade, such as the general occasionally ordered since the strike had broken out, at the desire of the prefect of Lille. The strikers detested this official; they reproached him with deceiving them by the promise of a conciliatory intervention, which was limited to a march of troops into Montsou every week, to overawe them. So when the cavalry and police quietly took the road back to Marchiennes, after contenting themselves with deafening the settlements by the stamping of their horses over the hard earth, the miners jeered at this innocent prefect and his soldiers who turned on their heels when things were beginning to get hot. Up till nine o'clock they stood peacefully about, in good humour, before their houses, following with their eyes up the streets the meek backs of the last gendarmes. In the depths of their large beds the good people of Montsou were still sleeping, with their heads among the feathers. At the manager's house, Madame Hennebeau had just been seen setting out in the carriage, leaving M. Hennebeau at work, no doubt, for the closed and silent villa seemed dead. Not one of the pits had any military guard; it was a fatal lack of foresight in the hour of danger, the natural stupidity which accompanies catastrophes, the fault which a government commits whenever there is need of precise knowledge of the facts. And nine o'clock was striking when the colliers at last took the Vandame road, to repair to the rendezvous decided on the day before in the forest. Étienne had very quickly perceived that he would certainly not find over at Jean-Bart the three thousand comrades on whom he was counting. Many believed that the demonstration was put off, and the worst was that two or three bands, already on the way, would compromise the cause if he did not at all costs put himself at their head. Almost a hundred, who had set out before daylight, were taking refuge beneath the forest beeches, waiting for the others. Souvarine, whom the young man went up to consult, shrugged his shoulders; ten resolute fellows could do more work than a crowd; and he turned back to the open book before him, refusing to join in. The thing threatened to turn into sentiment when it would have been enough to adopt the simple method of burning Montsou. As Étienne left the house he saw Rasseneur, seated before the metal stove and looking very pale, while his wife, in her everlasting black dress, was abusing him in polite and cutting terms. Maheu was of opinion that they ought to keep their promise. A rendezvous like this was sacred. However, the night had calmed their fever; he was now fearing misfortune, and he explained that it was their duty to go over there to maintain their mates in the right path. Maheude approved with a nod. Étienne repeated complacently that it was necessary to adopt revolutionary methods, without attempting any person's life. Before setting out he refused his share of a loaf that had been given him the evening before, together with a bottle of gin; but he drank three little glasses, one after the other, saying that he wanted to keep out the cold; he even carried away a tinful. Alzire would look after the children. Old Bonnemort, whose legs were suffering from yesterday's walk, remained in bed. They did not go away together, from motives of prudence. Jeanlin had disappeared long ago. Maheu and Maheude went off on the side sloping towards Montsou; while Étienne turned towards the forest, where he proposed to join his mates. On the way he caught up a band of women among whom he recognized Mother Brulé and the Levaque woman; as they walked they were eating chestnuts which Mouquette had brought; they swallowed the skins so as to feel more in their stomachs. But in the forest he found no one; the men were already at Jean-Bart. He took the same course, and arrived at the pit at the moment when Levaque and some hundreds others were penetrating into the square. Miners were coming up from every direction--the men by the main road, the women by the fields, all at random, without leaders, without weapons, flowing naturally thither like water which runs down a slope. Étienne perceived Jeanlin, who had climbed up on a foot-bridge, installed as though at a theatre. He ran faster, and entered among the first. There were scarcely three hundred of them. There was some hesitation when Deneulin showed himself at the top of the staircase which led to the receiving-room. "What do you want?" he asked in a loud voice. After having watched the disappearance of the carriage, from which his daughters were still laughing towards him, he had returned to the pit overtaken by a strange anxiety. Everything, however, was found in good order. The men had gone down; the cage was working, and he became reassured again, and was talking to the head captain when the approach of the strikers was announced to him. He had placed himself at a window of the screening-shed; and in the face of this increasing flood which filled the square, he at once felt his impotence. How could he defend these buildings, open on every side? he could scarcely group some twenty of his workmen round himself. He was lost. "What do you want?" he repeated, pale with repressed anger, making an effort to accept his disaster courageously. There were pushes and growls amid the crowd. Étienne at last came forward, saying: "We do not come to injure you, sir, but work must cease everywhere." Deneulin frankly treated him as an idiot. "Do you think you will benefit me if you stop work at my place? You might just as well fire a gun off into my back. Yes, my men are below, and they shall not come up, unless you mean to murder me first!" These rough words raised a clamour. Maheu had to hold back Levaque, who was pushing forward in a threatening manner, while Étienne went on discussing, and tried to convince Deneulin of the lawfulness of their revolutionary conduct. But the latter replied by the right to work. Besides, he refused to discuss such folly; he meant to be master in his own place. His only regret was that he had not four gendarmes here to sweep away this mob. "To be sure, it is my fault; I deserve what has happened to me. With fellows of your sort force is the only argument. The Government thinks to buy you by concessions. You will throw it down, that's all, when it has given you weapons." Étienne was quivering, but still held himself in. He lowered his voice. "I beg you, sir, give the order for your men to come up. I cannot answer for my mates. You may avoid a disaster." "No! be good enough to let me alone! Do I know you? You do not belong to my works, you have no quarrel with me. It is only brigands who thus scour the country to pillage houses." Loud vociferations now drowned his voice, the women especially abused him. But he continued to hold his own, experiencing a certain relief in this frankness with which he expressed his disciplinarian nature. Since he was ruined in any case, he thought platitudes a useless cowardice. But their numbers went on increasing; nearly five hundred were pushing towards the door, and he might have been torn to pieces if his head captain had not pulled him violently back. "For mercy's sake, sir! There will be a massacre. What is the good of letting men be killed for nothing?" He struggled and protested in one last cry thrown at the crowd: "You set of brigands, you will know what, when we are strongest again!" They led him away; the hustling of the crowd had thrown the first ranks against the staircase so that the rail was twisted. It was the women who pushed and screamed and urged on the men. The door yielded at once; it was a door without a lock, simply closed by a latch. But the staircase was too narrow for the pushing crowd, which would have taken long to get in if the rear of the besiegers had not gone off to enter by other openings. Then they poured in on all sides--by the shed, the screening-place, the boiler buildings. In less than five minutes the whole pit belonged to them; they swarmed at every story in the midst of furious gestures and cries, carried away by their victory over this master who resisted. Maheu, in terror, had rushed forward among the first, saying to Étienne: "They must not kill him!" The latter was already running; then, when Étienne understood that Deneulin had barricaded himself in the captains' room, he replied: "Well, would it be our fault? such a madman!" He was feeling anxious, however, being still too calm to yield to this outburst of anger. His pride of leadership also suffered on seeing the band escape from his authority and become enraged, going beyond the cold execution of the will of the people, such as he had anticipated. In vain he called for coolness, shouting that they must not put right on their enemies' side by acts of useless destruction. "To the boilers!" shouted Mother Brulé. "Put out the fires!" Levaque, who had found a file, was brandishing it like a dagger, dominating the tumult with a terrible cry: "Cut the cables! cut the cables!" Soon they all repeated this; only Étienne and Maheu continued to protest, dazed, and talking in the tumult without obtaining silence. At last the former was able to say: "But there are men below, mates!" The noise redoubled and voices arose from all sides: "So much the worse!--Ought not to go down!--Serve the traitors right!--Yes, yes, let them stay there!--And then, they have the ladders!" Then, when this idea of the ladders had made them still more obstinate, Étienne saw that he would have to yield. For fear of a greater disaster he hastened towards the engine, wishing at all events to bring the cages up, so that the cables, being cut above the shaft, should not smash them by falling down with their enormous weight. The engine-man had disappeared as well as the few daylight workers; and he took hold of the starting lever, manipulating it while Levaque and two other climbed up the metal scaffold which supported the pulleys. The cages were hardly fixed on the keeps when the strident sound was heard of the file biting into the steel. There was deep silence, and this noise seemed to fill the whole pit; all raised their heads, looking and listening, seized by emotion. In the first rank Maheu felt a fierce joy possess him, as if the teeth of the file would deliver them from misfortune by eating into the cable of one of these dens of wretchedness, into which they would never descend again. But Mother Brulé had disappeared by the shed stairs still shouting: "The fires must be put out! To the boilers! to the boilers!" Some women followed her. Maheude hastened to prevent them from smashing everything, just as her husband had tried to reason with the men. She was the calmest of them; one could demand one's rights without making a mess in people's places. When she entered the boiler building the women were already chasing away the two stokers, and the Brulé, armed with a large shovel, and crouching down before one of the stoves, was violently emptying it, throwing the red-hot coke on to the brick floor, where it continued to burn with black smoke. There were ten stoves for the five boilers. Soon the women warmed to the work, the Levaque manipulating her shovel with both hands, Mouquette raising her clothes up to her thighs so as not to catch fire, all looking red in the reflection of the flames, sweating and dishevelled in this witch's kitchen. The piles of coal increased, and the burning heat cracked the ceiling of the vast hall. "Enough, now!" cried Maheude; "the store-room is afire." "So much the better," replied Mother Brulé. "That will do the work. Ah, by God! haven't I said that I would pay them out for the death of my man!" At this moment Jeanlin's shrill voice was heard: "Look out! I'll put it out, I will! I'll let it all off!" He had come in among the first, and had kicked his legs about among the crowd, delighted at the fray and seeking out what mischief he could do; the idea had occurred to him to turn on the discharge taps and let off the steam. The jets came out with the violence of volleys; the five boilers were emptied with the sound of a tempest, whistling in such a roar of thunder that one's ears seemed to bleed. Everything had disappeared in the midst of the vapour, the hot coal grew pale, and the women were nothing more than shadows with broken gestures. The child alone appeared mounted on the gallery, behind the whirlwinds of white steam, filled with delight and grinning broadly in the joy of unchaining this hurricane. This lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. A few buckets of water had been thrown over the heaps to complete their extinction; all danger of a fire had gone by, but the anger of the crowd had not subsided; on the contrary, it had been whipped up. Men went down with hammers, even the women armed themselves with iron bars; and they talked of smashing boilers, of breaking engines, and of demolishing the mine. Étienne, forewarned, hastened to come up with Maheu. He himself was becoming intoxicated and carried away by this hot fever of revenge. He struggled, however, and entreated them to be calm, now that, with cut cables, extinguished fires, and empty boilers, work was impossible. He was not always listened to; and was again about to be carried away by the crowd, when hoots arose outside at a little low door where the ladder passage emerged. "Down with the traitors!--Oh! the dirty chops of the cowards!--Down with them! down with them!" The men were beginning to come up from below. The first arrivals, blinded by the daylight, stood there with quivering eyelids. Then they moved away, trying to gain the road and flee. "Down with the cowards! down with the traitors!" The whole band of strikers had run up. In less than three minutes there was not a man left in the buildings; the five hundred Montsou men were ranged in two rows, and the Vandame men, who had had the treachery to go down, were forced to pass between this double hedge. And as every fresh miner appeared at the door of the passage, covered with the black mud of work and with garments in rags, the hooting redoubled, and ferocious jokes arose. Oh! look at that one!--three inches of legs and then his arse! and this one with his nose eaten by those Volcan girls! and this other, with eyes pissing out enough wax to furnish ten cathedrals! and this other, the tall fellow without a rump and as long as Lent! An enormous putter-woman, who rolled out with her breast to her belly and her belly to her backside, raised a furious laugh. They wanted to handle them, the joking increased and was turning to cruelty, blows would soon have rained; while the row of poor devils came out shivering and silent beneath the abuse, with sidelong looks in expectation of blows, glad when they could at last rush away out of the mine. "Hallo! how many are there in there?" asked Étienne. He was astonished to see them still coming out, and irritated at the idea that it was not a mere handful of workers, urged by hunger, terrorized by the captains. They had lied to him, then, in the forest; nearly all Jean-Bart had gone down. But a cry escaped from him and he rushed forward when he saw Chaval standing on the threshold. "By God! is this the rendezvous you called us to?" Imprecations broke out and there was a movement of the crowd towards the traitor. What! he had sworn with them the day before, and now they found him down below with the others! Was he, then, making fools of people? "Off with him! To the shaft! to the shaft!" Chaval, white with fear, stammered and tried to explain. But Étienne cut him short, carried out of himself and sharing the fury of the band. "You wanted to be in it, and you shall be in it. Come on! take your damned snout along!" Another clamour covered his voice. Catherine, in her turn, had just appeared, dazzled by the bright sunlight, and frightened at falling into the midst of these savages. She was panting, with legs aching from the hundred and two ladders, and with bleeding palms, when Maheude, seeing her, rushed forward with her hand up. "Ah! slut! you, too! When your mother is dying of hunger you betray her for your bully!" Maheu held back her arm, and stopped the blow. But he shook his daughter; he was enraged, like his wife; he threw her conduct in her face, and both lost their heads, shouting louder than their mates. The sight of Catherine had completed Étienne's exasperation. He repeated: "On we go to the other pits, and you come with us, you dirty devil!" Chaval had scarcely time to get his sabots from the shed and to throw his woollen jacket over his frozen shoulders. They all dragged him on, forcing him to run in the midst of them. Catherine, bewildered, also put on her sabots, buttoning at her neck her man's old jacket, with which she kept off the cold; and she ran behind her lover, she would not leave him, for surely they were going to murder him. Then in two minutes Jean-Bart was emptied. Jeanlin had found a horn and was blowing it, producing hoarse sounds, as though he were gathering oxen together. The women--Mother Brulé, the Levaque, and Mouquette--raised their skirts to run, while Levaque, with an axe in his hand, manipulated it like a drum-major's stick. Other men continued to arrive; they were nearly a thousand, without order, again flowing on to the road like a torrent let loose. The gates were too narrow, and the palings were broken down. "To the pits!--Down with the traitors!--No more work!" And Jean-Bart fell suddenly into a great silence. Not a man was left, not a breath was heard. Deneulin came out of the captains' room, and quite alone, with a gesture forbidding any one to follow him, he went over the pit. He was pale and very calm. At first he stopped before the shaft, lifting his eyes to look at the cut cables; the steel ends hung useless, the bite of the file had left a living scar, a fresh wound which gleamed in the black grease. Afterwards he went up to the engine, and looked at the crank, which was motionless, like the joint of a colossal limb struck by paralysis. He touched the metal, which had already cooled, and the cold made him shudder as though he had touched a corpse. Then he went down to the boiler-room, walked slowly before the extinguished stoves, yawning and inundated, and struck his foot against the boilers, which sounded hollow. Well! it was quite finished; his ruin was complete. Even if he mended the cables and lit the fires, where would he find men? Another fortnight's strike and he would be bankrupt. And in this certainty of disaster he no longer felt any hatred of the Montsou brigands; he felt that all had a complicity in it, that it was a general agelong fault. They were brutes, no doubt, but brutes who could not read, and who were dying of hunger. CHAPTER IV And the troop went off over the flat plain, white with frost beneath the pale winter sun, and overflowed the path as they passed through the beetroot fields. From the Fourche-aux-Boeufs, Étienne had assumed command. He cried his orders while the crowd moved on, and organized the march. Jeanlin galloped at the head, performing barbarous music on his horn. Then the women came in the first ranks, some of them armed with sticks: Maheude, with wild eyes seemed to be seeking afar for the promised city of justice, Mother Brulé, the Levaque woman, Mouquette, striding along beneath their rags, like soldiers setting out for the seat of war. If they had any encounters, we should see if the police dared to strike women. And the men followed in a confused flock, a stream that grew larger and larger, bristling with iron bars and dominated by Levaque's single axe, with its blade glistening in the sun. Étienne, in the middle, kept Chaval in sight, forcing him to walk before him; while Maheu, behind, gloomily kept an eye on Catherine, the only woman among these men, obstinately trotting near her lover for fear that he would be hurt. Bare heads were dishevelled in the air; only the clank of sabots could be heard, like the movement of released cattle, carried away by Jeanlin's wild trumpeting. But suddenly a new cry arose: "Bread! bread! bread!" It was midday; the hunger of six weeks on strike was awaking in these empty stomachs, whipped up by this race across the fields. The few crusts of the morning and Mouquette's chestnuts had long been forgotten; their stomachs were crying out, and this suffering was added to their fury against the traitors. "To the pits! No more work! Bread!" Étienne, who had refused to eat his share at the settlement, felt an unbearable tearing sensation in his chest. He made no complaint, but mechanically took his tin from time to time and swallowed a gulp of gin, shaking so much that he thought he needed it to carry him to the end. His cheeks were heated and his eyes inflamed. He kept his head, however, and still wished to avoid needless destruction. As they arrived at the Joiselle road a Vandame pikeman, who had joined the band for revenge on his master, impelled the men towards the right, shouting: "To Gaston-Marie! Must stop the pump! Let the water ruin Jean-Bart!" The mob was already turning, in spite of the protests of Étienne, who begged them to let the pumping continue. What was the good of destroying the galleries? It offended his workman's heart, in spite of his resentment. Maheu also thought it unjust to take revenge on a machine. But the pikeman still shouted his cry of vengeance, and Étienne had to cry still louder: "To Mirou! There are traitors down there! To Mirou! to Mirou!" With a gesture, he had turned the crowd towards the left road; while Jeanlin, going ahead, was blowing louder than ever. An eddy was produced in the crowd; this time Gaston-Marie was saved. And the four kilometres which separated them from Mirou were traversed in half an hour, almost at running pace, across the interminable plain. The canal on this side cut it with a long icy ribbon. The leafless trees on the banks, changed by the frost into giant candelabra, alone broke this pale uniformity, prolonged and lost in the sky at the horizon as in a sea. An undulation of the ground hid Montsou and Marchiennes; there was nothing but bare immensity. They reached the pit, and found a captain standing on a foot-bridge at the screening-shed to receive them. They all well knew Father Quandieu, the _doyen_ of the Montsou captains, an old man whose skin and hair were quite white, and who was in his seventies, a miracle of fine health in the mines. "What have you come after here, you pack of meddlers?" he shouted. The band stopped. It was no longer a master, it was a mate; and a certain respect held them back before this old workman. "There are men down below," said Étienne. "Make them come up." "Yes, there are men there," said Father Quandieu, "some six dozen; the others were afraid of you evil beggars! But I warn you that not one comes up, or you will have to deal with me!" Exclamations arose, the men pushed, the women advanced. Quickly coming down from the foot-bridge, the captain now barred the door. Then Maheu tried to interfere. "It is our right, old man. How can we make the strike general if we don't force all the mates to be on our side?" The old man was silent a moment. Evidently his ignorance on the subject of coalition equalled the pikeman's. At last he replied: "It may be your right, I don't say. But I only know my orders. I am alone here; the men are down till three, and they shall stay there till three." The last words were lost in hooting. Fists were threateningly advanced, the women deafened him, and their hot breath blew in his face. But he still held out, his head erect, and his beard and hair white as snow; his courage had so swollen his voice that he could be heard distinctly over the tumult. "By God! you shall not pass! As true as the sun shines, I would rather die than let you touch the cables. Don't push any more, or I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!" The crowd drew back shuddering and impressed. He went on: "Where is the beast who does not understand that? I am only a workman like you others. I have been told to guard here, and I'm guarding." That was as far as Father Quandieu's intelligence went, stiffened by his obstinacy of military duty, his narrow skull, and eyes dimmed by the black melancholy of half a century spent underground. The men looked at him moved, feeling within them an echo of what he said, this military obedience, the sense of fraternity and resignation in danger. He saw that they were hesitating still, and repeated: "I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!" A great recoil carried away the mob. They all turned, and in the rush took the right-hand road, which stretched far away through the fields. Again cries arose: "To Madeleine! To Crévecoeur! no more work! Bread! bread!" But in the centre, as they went on, there was hustling. It was Chaval, they said, who was trying to take advantage of an opportunity to escape. Étienne had seized him by the arm, threatening to do for him if he was planning some treachery. And the other struggled and protested furiously: "What's all this for? Isn't a man free? I've been freezing the last hour. I want to clean myself. Let me go!" He was, in fact, suffering from the coal glued to his skin by sweat, and his woollen garment was no protection. "On you go, or we'll clean you," replied Étienne. "Don't expect to get your life at a bargain." They were still running, and he turned towards Catherine, who was keeping up well. It annoyed him to feel her so near him, so miserable, shivering beneath her man's old jacket and her muddy trousers. She must be nearly dead of fatigue, she was running all the same. "You can go off, you can," he said at last. Catherine seemed not to hear. Her eyes, on meeting Étienne's, only flamed with reproach for a moment. She did not stop. Why did he want her to leave her man? Chaval was not at all kind, it was true; he would even beat her sometimes. But he was her man, the one who had had her first; and it enraged her that they should throw themselves on him--more than a thousand of them. She would have defended him without any tenderness at all, out of pride. "Off you go!" repeated Maheu, violently. Her father's order slackened her course for a moment. She trembled, and her eyelids swelled with tears. Then, in spite of her fear, she came back to the same place again, still running. Then they let her be. The mob crossed the Joiselle road, went a short distance up the Cron road and then mounted towards Cougny. On this side, factory chimneys striped the flat horizon; wooden sheds, brick workshops with large dusty windows, appeared along the street. They passed one after another the low buildings of two settlements--that of the Cent-Quatre-Vingts, then that of the Soixante-Seize; and from each of them, at the sound of the horn and the clamour arising from every mouth, whole families came out--men, women, and children--running to join their mates in the rear. When they came up to Madeleine there were at least fifteen hundred. The road descended in a gentle slope; the rumbling flood of strikers had to turn round the pit-bank before they could spread over the mine square. It was now not more than two o'clock. But the captains had been warned and were hastening the ascent as the band arrived. The men were all up, only some twenty remained and were now disembarking from the cage. They fled and were pursued with stones. Two were struck, another left the sleeve of his jacket behind. This man-hunt saved the material, and neither the cables nor the boilers were touched. The flood was already moving away, rolling on towards the next pit. This one, Crévecoeur, was only five hundred metres away from Madeleine. There, also, the mob arrived in the midst of the ascent. A putter-girl was taken and whipped by the women with her breeches split open and her buttocks exposed before the laughing men. The trammer-boys had their ears boxed, the pikemen got away, their sides blue from blows and their noses bleeding. And in this growing ferocity, in this old need of revenge which was turning every head with madness, the choked cries went on, death to traitors, hatred against ill-paid work, the roaring of bellies after bread. They began to cut the cables, but the file would not bite, and the task was too long now that the fever was on them for moving onward, for ever onward. At the boilers a tap was broken; while the water, thrown by bucketsful into the stoves, made the metal gratings burst. Outside they were talking of marching on Saint-Thomas. This was the best disciplined pit. The strike had not touched it, nearly seven hundred men must have gone down there. This exasperated them; they would wait for these men with sticks, ranged for battle, just to see who would get the best of it. But the rumour ran along that there were gendarmes at Saint-Thomas, the gendarmes of the morning whom they had made fun of. How was this known? nobody could say. No matter! they were seized by fear and decided on Feutry-Cantel. Their giddiness carried them on, all were on the road, clanking their sabots, rushing forward. To Feutry-Cantel! to Feutry-Cantel! The cowards there were certainly four hundred in number and there would be fun! Situated three kilometres away, this pit lay in a fold of the ground near the Scarpe. They were already climbing the slope of the Platriéres, beyond the road to Beaugnies, when a voice, no one knew from whom, threw out the idea that the soldiers were, perhaps, down there at Feutry-Cantel. Then from one to the other of the column it was repeated that the soldiers were down there. They slackened their march, panic gradually spread in the country, idle without work, which they had been scouring for hours. Why had they not come across any soldiers? This impunity troubled them, at the thought of the repression which they felt to be coming. Without any one knowing where it came from, a new word of command turned them towards another pit. "To the Victoire! to the Victoire!" Were there, then, neither soldiers nor police at the Victoire? Nobody knew. All seemed reassured. And turning round they descended from the Beaumont side and cut across the fields to reach the Joiselle road. The railway line barred their passage, and they crossed it, pulling down the palings. Now they were approaching Montsou, the gradual undulation of the landscape grew less, the sea of beetroot fields enlarged, reaching far away to the black houses at Marchiennes. This time it was a march of five good kilometres. So strong an impulse pushed them on that they had no feeling of their terrible fatigue, or of their bruised and wounded feet. The rear continued to lengthen, increased by mates enlisted on the roads and in the settlements. When they had passed the canal at the Magache bridge, and appeared before the Victoire, there were two thousand of them. But three o'clock had struck, the ascent was completed, not a man remained below. Their disappointment was spent in vain threats; they could only heave broken bricks at the workmen who had arrived to take their duty at the earth-cutting. There was a rush, and the deserted pit belonged to them. And in their rage at not finding a traitor's face to strike, they attacked things. A rankling abscess was bursting within them, a poisoned boil of slow growth. Years and years of hunger tortured them with a thirst for massacre and destruction. Behind a shed Étienne saw some porters filling a wagon with coal. "Will you just clear out of the bloody place!" he shouted. "Not a bit of coal goes out!" At his orders some hundred strikers ran up, and the porters only had time to escape. Men unharnessed the horses, which were frightened and set off, struck in the haunches; while others, overturning the wagon, broke the shafts. Levaque, with violent blows of his axe, had thrown himself on the platforms to break down the foot-bridges. They resisted, and it occurred to him to tear up the rails, destroying the line from one end of the square to the other. Soon the whole band set to this task. Maheu made the metal chairs leap up, armed with his iron bar which he used as a lever. During this time Mother Brulé led away the women and invaded the lamp cabin, where their sticks covered the soil with a carnage of lamps. Maheude, carried out of herself, was laying about her as vigorously as the Levaque woman. All were soaked in oil, and Mouquette dried her hands on her skirt, laughing to find herself so dirty. Jeanlin for a joke, had emptied a lamp down her neck. But all this revenge produced nothing to eat. Stomachs were crying out louder than ever. And the great lamentation dominated still: "Bread! bread! bread!" A former captain at the Victoire kept a stall near by. No doubt he had fled in fear, for his shed was abandoned. When the women came back, and the men had finished destroying the railway, they besieged the stall, the shutters of which yielded at once. They found no bread there; there were only two pieces of raw flesh and a sack of potatoes. But in the pillage they discovered some fifty bottles of gin, which disappeared like a drop of water drunk up by the sand. Étienne, having emptied his tin, was able to refill it. Little by little a terrible drunkenness, the drunkenness of the starved, was inflaming his eyes and baring his teeth like a wolf's between his pallid lips. Suddenly he perceived that Chaval had gone off in the midst of the tumult. He swore, and men ran to seize the fugitive, who was hiding with Catherine behind the timber supply. "Ah! you dirty swine; you are afraid of getting into trouble!" shouted Étienne. "It was you in the forest who called for a strike of the engine-men, to stop the pumps, and now you want to play us a filthy trick! Very well! By God! we will go back to Gaston-Marie. I will have you smash the pump; yes, by God! you shall smash it!" He was drunk; he was urging his men against this pump which he had saved a few hours earlier. "To Gaston-Marie! to Gaston-Marie!" They all cheered, and rushed on, while Chaval, seized by the shoulders, was drawn and pushed violently along, while he constantly asked to be allowed to wash. "Will you take yourself off, then?" cried Maheu to Catherine who had also begun to run again. This time she did not even draw back, but turned her burning eyes on her father, and went on running. Once more the mob ploughed through the flat plain. They were retracing their steps over the long straight paths, by the fields endlessly spread out. It was four o'clock; the sun which approached the horizon, lengthened the shadows of this horde with their furious gestures over the frozen soil. They avoided Montsou, and farther on rejoined the Joiselle road; to spare the journey round Fourche-aux-Boeufs, they passed beneath the walls of Piolaine. The Grégoires had just gone out, having to visit a lawyer before going to dine with the Hennebeaus, where they would find Cécile. The estate seemed asleep, with its avenue of deserted limes, its kitchen garden and its orchard bared by the winter. Nothing was stirring in the house, and the closed windows were dulled by the warm steam within. Out of the profound silence an impression of good-natured comfort arose, the patriarchal sensation of good beds and a good table, the wise happiness of the proprietor's existence. Without stopping, the band cast gloomy looks through the grating and at the length of protecting walls, bristling with broken bottles. The cry arose again: "Bread! bread! bread!" The dogs alone replied, by barking ferociously, a pair of Great Danes, with rough coats, who stood with open jaws. And behind the closed blind there were only the servants. Mélanie the cook and Honorine the housemaid, attracted by this cry, pale and perspiring with fear at seeing these savages go by. They fell on their knees, and thought themselves killed on hearing a single stone breaking a pane of a neighbouring window. It was a joke of Jeanlin's; he had manufactured a sling with a piece of cord, and had just sent a little passing greeting to the Grégoires. Already he was again blowing his horn, the band was lost in the distance, and the cry grew fainter: "Bread! bread! bread!" They arrived at Gaston-Marie in still greater numbers, more than two thousand five hundred madmen, breaking everything, sweeping away everything, with the force of a torrent which gains strength as it moves. The police had passed here an hour earlier, and had gone off towards Saint-Thomas, led astray by some peasants; in their haste they had not even taken the precaution of leaving a few men behind to guard the pit. In less than a quarter of an hour the fires were overturned, the boilers emptied, the buildings torn down and devastated. But it was the pump which they specially threatened. It was not enough to stop it in the last expiring breath of its steam; they threw themselves on it as on a living person whose life they required. "The first blow is yours!" repeated Étienne, putting a hammer into Chaval's hand. "Come! you have sworn with the others!" Chaval drew back trembling, and in the hustling the hammer fell; while other men, without waiting, battered the pump with blows from iron bars, blows from bricks, blows from anything they could lay their hands on. Some even broke sticks over it. The nuts leapt off, the pieces of steel and copper were dislocated like torn limbs. The blow of a shovel, delivered with full force, fractured the metal body; the water escaped and emptied itself, and there was a supreme gurgle like an agonizing death-rattle. That was the end, and the mob found themselves outside again, madly pushing on behind Étienne, who would not let Chaval go. "Kill him! the traitor! To the shaft! to the shaft!" The livid wretch, clinging with imbecile obstinacy to his fixed idea, continued to stammer his need of cleaning himself. "Wait, if that bothers you, said the Levaque woman. "Here! here's a bucket!" There was a pond there, an infiltration of the water from the pump. It was white with a thick layer of ice; and they struck it and broke the ice, forcing him to dip his head in this cold water. "Duck then," repeated Mother Brulé. "By God! if you don't duck we'll shove you in. And now you shall have a drink of it; yes, yes, like a beast, with your jaws in the trough!" He had to drink on all fours. They all laughed, with cruel laughter. One woman pulled his ears, another woman threw in his face a handful of dung found fresh on the road. His old woollen jacket in tatters no longer held together. He was haggard, stumbling, and with struggling movements of his hips he tried to flee. Maheu had pushed him, and Maheude was among those who grew furious, both of them satisfying their old spite; even Mouquette, who generally remained such good friends with her old lovers, was wild with this one, treating him as a good-for-nothing, and talking of taking his breeches down to see if he was still a man. Étienne made her hold her tongue. "That's enough. There's no need for all to set to it. If you like, you, we will just settle it together." His fists closed and his eyes were lit up with homicidal fury; his intoxication was turning into the desire to kill. "Are you ready? One of us must stay here. Give him a knife; I've got mine." Catherine, exhausted and terrified, gazed at him. She remembered his confidences, his desire to devour a man when he had drunk, poisoned after the third glass, to such an extent had his drunkards of parents put this beastliness into his body. Suddenly she leapt forward, struck him with both her woman's hands, and choking with indignation shouted into his face: "Coward! coward! coward! Isn't it enough, then, all these abominations? You want to kill him now that he can't stand upright any longer!" She turned towards her father and her mother; she turned towards the others. "You are cowards! cowards! Kill me, then, with him! I will tear your eyes out, I will, if you touch him again. Oh! the cowards!" And she planted herself before her man to defend him, forgetting the blows, forgetting the life of misery, lifted up by the idea that she belonged to him since he had taken her, and that it was a shame for her when they so crushed him. Étienne had grown pale beneath this girl's blows. At first he had been about to knock her down; then, after having wiped his face with the movement of a man who is recovering from intoxication, he said to Chaval, in the midst of deep silence: "She is right; that's enough. Off you go." Immediately Chaval was away, and Catherine galloped behind him. The crowd gazed at them as they disappeared round a corner of the road; but Maheude muttered: "You were wrong; ought to have kept him. He is sure to be after some treachery." But the mob began to march on again. Five o'clock was about to strike. The sun, as red as a furnace on the edge of the horizon, seemed to set fire to the whole plain. A pedlar who was passing informed them that the military were descending from the Crévecoeur side. Then they turned. An order ran: "To Montsou! To the manager!--Bread! bread! bread!" CHAPTER V M. Hennebeau had placed himself in front of his study window to watch the departure of the carriage which was taking away his wife to lunch at Marchiennes. His eyes followed Négrel for a moment, as he trotted beside the carriage door. Then he quietly returned and seated himself at his desk. When neither his wife nor his nephew animated the place with their presence the house seemed empty. On this day the coachman was driving his wife; Rose, the new housemaid, had leave to go out till five o'clock; there only remained Hippolyte, the valet de chambre, trailing about the rooms in slippers, and the cook, who had been occupied since dawn in struggling with her saucepans, entirely absorbed in the dinner which was to be given in the evening. So M. Hennebeau promised himself a day of serious work in this deep calm of the deserted house. Towards nine o'clock, although he had received orders to send every one away, Hippolyte took the liberty of announcing Dansaert, who was bringing news. The manager then heard, for the first time, of the meeting in the forest the evening before; the details were very precise, and he listened while thinking of the intrigue with Pierronne, so well known that two or three anonymous letters every week denounced the licentiousness of the head captain. Evidently the husband had talked, and no doubt the wife had, too. He even took advantage of the occasion; he let the head captain know that he was aware of everything, contenting himself with recommending prudence for fear of a scandal. Startled by these reproaches in the midst of his report, Dansaert denied, stammered excuses, while his great nose confessed the crime by its sudden redness. He did not insist, however, glad to get off so easily; for, as a rule, the manager displayed the implacable severity of the virtuous man whenever an employee allowed himself the indulgence of a pretty girl in the pit. The conversation continued concerning the strike; that meeting in the forest was only the swagger of blusterers; nothing serious threatened. In any case, the settlements would surely not stir for some days, beneath the impression of respectful fear which must have been produced by the military promenade of the morning. When M. Hennebeau was alone again he was, however, on the point of sending a telegram to the prefect. Only the fear of uselessly showing a sign of anxiety held him back. Already he could not forgive himself his lack of insight in saying everywhere, and even writing to the directors, that the strike would last at most a fortnight. It had been going on and on for nearly two months, to his great surprise, and he was in despair over it; he felt himself every day lowered and compromised, and was forced to imagine some brilliant achievement which would bring him back into favour with the directors. He had just asked them for orders in the case of a skirmish. There was delay over the reply, and he was expecting it by the afternoon post. He said to himself that there would be time then to send out telegrams, and to obtain the military occupation of the pits, if such was the desire of those gentlemen. In his own opinion there would certainly be a battle and an expenditure of blood. This responsibility troubled him in spite of his habitual energy. Up to eleven o'clock he worked peacefully; there was no sound in the dead house except Hippolyte's waxing-stick, which was rubbing a floor far away on the first floor. Then, one after the other, he received two messages, the first announcing the attack on Jean-Bart by the Montsou band, the second telling of the cut cables, the overturned fires, and all the destruction. He could not understand. Why had the strikers gone to Deneulin instead of attacking one of the Company's pits? Besides, they were quite welcome to sack Vandame; that would merely ripen the plan of conquest which he was meditating. And at midday he lunched alone in the large dining-room, served so quietly by the servant that he could not even hear his slippers. This solitude rendered his preoccupations more gloomy; he was feeling cold at the heart when a captain, who had arrived running, was shown in, and told him of the mob's march on Mirou. Almost immediately, as he was finishing his coffee, a telegram informed him that Madeleine and Crévecoeur were in their turn threatened. Then his perplexity became extreme. He was expecting the postman at two o'clock; ought he at once to ask for troops? or would it be better to wait patiently, and not to act until he had received the directors' orders? He went back into his study; he wished to read a report which he had asked Négrel to prepare the day before for the prefect. But he could not put his hand on it; he reflected that perhaps the young man had left it in his room, where he often wrote at night, and without taking any decision, pursued by the idea of this report, he went upstairs to look for it in the room. As he entered, M. Hennebeau was surprised: the room had not been done, no doubt through Hippolyte's forgetfulness or laziness. There was a moist heat there, the close heat of the past night, made heavier from the mouth of the hot-air stove being left open; and he was suffocated, too, with a penetrating perfume, which he thought must be the odour of the toilet waters with which the basin was full. There was great disorder in the room--garments scattered about, damp towels thrown on the backs of chairs, the bed yawning, with a sheet drawn back and draggling on the carpet. But at first he only glanced round with an abstracted look as he went towards a table covered with papers to look for the missing report. Twice he examined the papers one by one, but it was certainly not there. Where the devil could that madcap Paul have stuffed it? And as M. Hennebeau went back into the middle of the room, giving a glance at each article of furniture, he noticed in the open bed a bright point which shone like a star. He approached mechanically and put out his hand. It was a little gold scent-bottle lying between two folds of the sheet. He at once recognized a scent-bottle belonging to Madame Hennebeau, the little ether bottle which was always with her. But he could not understand its presence here: how could it have got into Paul's bed? And suddenly he grew terribly pale. His wife had slept there. "Beg your pardon, sir," murmured Hippolyte's voice through the door. "I saw you going up." The servant entered and was thrown into consternation by the disorder. "Lord! Why, the room is not done! So Rose has gone out, leaving all the house on my shoulders!" M. Hennebeau had hidden the bottle in his hand and was pressing it almost to breaking. "What do you want?" "It's another man, sir; he has come from Crévecoeur with a letter." "Good! Leave me alone; tell him to wait." His wife had slept there! When he had bolted the door he opened his hand again and looked at the little bottle which had left its image in red on his flesh. Suddenly he saw and understood; this filthiness had been going on in his house for months. He recalled his old suspicion, the rustling against the doors, the naked feet at night through the silent house. Yes, it was his wife who went up to sleep there! Falling into a chair opposite the bed, which he gazed at fixedly, he remained some minutes as though crushed. A noise aroused him; someone was knocking at the door, trying to open it. He recognized the servant's voice. "Sir--Ah! you are shut in, sir." "What is it now?" "There seems to be a hurry; the men are breaking everything. There are two more messengers below. There are also some telegrams." "You just leave me alone! I am coming directly." The idea that Hippolyte would himself have discovered the scent-bottle, had he done the room in the morning, had just frozen him. And besides, this man must know; he must have found the bed still hot with adultery twenty times over, with madame's hairs trailing on the pillow, and abominable traces staining the linen. The man kept interrupting him, and it could only be out of inquisitiveness. Perhaps he had stayed with his ear stuck to the door, excited by the debauchery of his masters. M. Hennebeau did not move. He still gazed at the bed. His long past of suffering unrolled before him: his marriage with this woman, their immediate misunderstanding of the heart and of the flesh, the lovers whom she had had unknown to him, and the lover whom he had tolerated for ten years, as one tolerates an impure taste in a sick woman. Then came their arrival at Montsou, the mad hope of curing her, months of languor, of sleepy exile, the approach of old age which would, perhaps, at last give her back to him. Then their nephew arrived, this Paul to whom she became a mother, and to whom she spoke of her dead heart buried for ever beneath the ashes. And he, the imbecile husband, foresaw nothing; he adored this woman who was his wife, whom other men had possessed, but whom he alone could not possess! He adored her with shameful passion, so that he would have fallen on his knees if she would but have given him the leavings of other men! The leavings of the others she gave to this child. The sound of a distant gong at this moment made M. Hennebeau start. He recognized it; it was struck, by his orders, when the postman arrived. He rose and spoke aloud, breaking into the flood of coarseness with which his parched throat was bursting in spite of himself. "Ah! I don't care a bloody hang for their telegrams and their letters! not a bloody hang!" Now he was carried away by rage, the need of some sewer in which to stamp down all this filthiness with his heels. This woman was a vulgar drab; he sought for crude words and buffeted her image with them. The sudden idea of the marriage between Cécile and Paul, which she was arranging with so quiet a smile, completed his exasperation. There was, then, not even passion, not even jealousy at the bottom of this persistent sensuality? It was now a perverse plaything, the habit of the woman, a recreation taken like an accustomed dessert. And he put all the responsibility on her, he regarded as almost innocent the lad at whom she had bitten in this reawakening of appetite, just as one bites at an early green fruit, stolen by the wayside. Whom would she devour, on whom would she fall, when she no longer had complaisant nephews, sufficiently practical to accept in their own family the table, the bed, and the wife? There was a timid scratch at the door, and Hippolyte allowed himself to whisper through the keyhole: "The postman, sir. And Monsieur Dansaert, too, has come back, saying that they are killing one another." "I'm coming down, good God!" What should he do to them? Chase them away on their return from Marchiennes, like stinking animals whom he would no longer have beneath his roof? He would take a cudgel, and would tell them to carry elsewhere their poisonous coupling. It was with their sighs, with their mixed breaths, that the damp warmth of this room had grown heavy; the penetrating odour which had suffocated him was the odour of musk which his wife's skin exhaled, another perverse taste, a fleshly need of violent perfumes; and he seemed to feel also the heat and odour of fornication, of living adultery, in the pots which lay about, in the basins still full, in the disorder of the linen, of the furniture, of the entire room tainted with vice. The fury of impotence threw him on to the bed, which he struck with his fists, belabouring the places where he saw the imprint of their two bodies, enraged with the disordered coverlets and the crumpled sheets, soft and inert beneath his blows, as though exhausted themselves by the embraces of the whole night. But suddenly he thought he heard Hippolyte coming up again. He was arrested by shame. For a moment he stood panting, wiping his forehead, calming the bounds of his heart. Standing before a mirror he looked at his face, so changed that he did not recognize himself. Then, when he had watched it gradually grow calmer by an effort of supreme will, he went downstairs. Five messengers were standing below, not counting Dansaert. All brought him news of increasing gravity concerning the march of the strikers among the pits: and the chief captain told him at length what had gone on at Mirou and the fine behaviour of Father Quandieu. He listened, nodding his head, but he did not hear; his thoughts were in the room upstairs. At last he sent them away, saying that he would take due measures. When he was alone again, seated before his desk, he seemed to grow drowsy, with his head between his hands, covering his eyes. His mail was there, and he decided to look for the expected letter, the directors' reply. The lines at first danced before him, but he understood at last that these gentlemen desired a skirmish; certainly they did not order him to make things worse, but they allowed it to be seen that disturbances would hasten the conclusion of the strike by provoking energetic repression. After this, he no longer hesitated, but sent off telegrams on all sides--to the prefect of Lille, to the corps of soldiery at Douai, to the police at Marchiennes. It was a relief; he had nothing to do but shut himself in; he even spread the report that he was suffering from gout. And all the afternoon he hid himself in his study, receiving no one, contenting himself with reading the telegrams and letters which continued to rain in. He thus followed the mob from afar, from Madeleine to Crévecoeur, from Crévecoeur to the Victoire, from the Victoire to Gaston-Marie. Information also reached him of the bewilderment of the police and the troops, wandering along the roads, and always with their backs to the pit attacked. They might kill one another, and destroy everything! He put his head between his hands again, with his fingers over his eyes, and buried himself in the deep silence of the empty house, where he only heard now and then the noise of the cook's saucepans as she bustled about preparing the evening's dinner. The twilight was already darkening the room; it was five o'clock when a disturbance made M. Hennebeau jump, as he sat dazed and inert with his elbows in his papers. He thought that it was the two wretches coming back. But the tumult increased, and a terrible cry broke out just as he was going to the window: "Bread! bread! bread!" It was the strikers, now invading Montsou, while the police, expecting an attack on the Voreux, were galloping off in the opposite direction to occupy that pit. Just then, two kilometres away from the first houses, a little beyond the crossways where the main road cut the Vandame road, Madame Hennebeau and the young ladies had witnessed the passing of the mob. The day had been spent pleasantly at Marchiennes; there had been a delightful lunch with the manager of the Forges, then an interesting visit to the workshops and to the neighbouring glass works to occupy the afternoon; and as they were now going home in the limpid decline of the beautiful winter day, Cécile had had the whim to drink a glass of milk, as she noticed a little farm near the edge of the road. They all then got down from the carriage, and Négrel gallantly leapt off his horse; while the peasant-woman, alarmed by all these fine people, rushed about, and spoke of laying a cloth before serving the milk. But Lucie and Jeanne wanted to see the cow milked, and they went into the cattle-shed with their cups, making a little rural party, and laughing greatly at the litter in which one sank. Madame Hennebeau, with her complacent maternal air, was drinking with the edge of her lips, when a strange roaring noise from without disturbed her. "What is that, then?" The cattle-shed, built at the edge of the road, had a large door for carts, for it was also used as a barn for hay. The young girls, who had put out their heads, were astonished to see on the left a black flood, a shouting band which was moving along the Vandame road. "The deuce!" muttered Négrel, who had also gone out. "Are our brawlers getting angry at last?" "It is perhaps the colliers again," said the peasant-woman. "This is twice they've passed. Seems things are not going well; they're masters of the country." She uttered every word prudently, watching the effect on their faces; and when she noticed the fright of all of them, and their deep anxiety at this encounter, she hastened to conclude: "Oh, the rascals! the rascals!" Négrel, seeing that it was too late to get into their carriage and reach Montsou, ordered the coachman to bring the vehicle into the farmyard, where it would remain hidden behind a shed. He himself fastened his horse, which a lad had been holding, beneath the shed. When he came back he found his aunt and the young girls distracted, and ready to follow the peasant-woman, who proposed that they should take refuge in her house. But he was of opinion that they would be safer where they were, for certainly no one would come and look for them in the hay. The door, however, shut very badly, and had such large chinks in it, that the road could be seen between the worm-eaten planks. "Come, courage!" he said. "We will sell our lives dearly." This joke increased their fear. The noise grew louder, but nothing could yet be seen; along the vacant road the wind of a tempest seemed to be blowing, like those sudden gusts which precede great storms. "No, no! I don't want to look," said Cécile, going to hide herself in the hay. Madame Hennebeau, who was very pale and felt angry with these people who had spoilt her pleasure, stood in the background with a sidelong look of repugnance; while Lucie and Jeanne, though trembling, had placed their eyes at a crack, anxious to lose nothing of the spectacle. A sound of thunder came near, the earth was shaken, and Jeanlin galloped up first, blowing into his horn. "Take out your scent-bottles, the sweat of the people is passing by!" murmured Négrel, who, in spite of his republican convictions, liked to make fun of the populace when he was with ladies. But this witticism was carried away in the hurricane of gestures and cries. The women had appeared, nearly a thousand of them, with outspread hair dishevelled by running, the naked skin appearing through their rags, the nakedness of females weary with giving birth to starvelings. A few held their little ones in their arms, raising them and shaking them like banners of mourning and vengeance. Others, who were younger with the swollen breasts of amazons, brandished sticks; while frightful old women were yelling so loudly that the cords of their fleshless necks seemed to be breaking. And then the men came up, two thousand madmen--trammers, pikemen, menders--a compact mass which rolled along like a single block in confused serried rank so that it was impossible to distinguish their faded trousers or ragged woollen jackets, all effaced in the same earthy uniformity. Their eyes were burning, and one only distinguished the holes of black mouths singing the _Marseillaise_; the stanzas were lost in a confused roar, accompanied by the clang of sabots over the hard earth. Above their heads, amid the bristling iron bars, an axe passed by, carried erect; and this single axe, which seemed to be the standard of the band, showed in the clear air the sharp profile of a guillotine-blade. "What atrocious faces!" stammered Madame Hennebeau. Négrel said between his teeth: "Devil take me if I can recognize one of them! Where do the bandits spring from?" And in fact anger, hunger, these two months of suffering and this enraged helter-skelter through the pits had lengthened the placid faces of the Montsou colliers into the muzzles of wild beasts. At this moment the sun was setting; its last rays of sombre purple cast a gleam of blood over the plain. The road seemed to be full of blood; men and women continued to rush by, bloody as butchers in the midst of slaughter. "Oh! superb!" whispered Lucie and Jeanne, stirred in their artistic tastes by the beautiful horror of it. They were frightened, however, and drew back close to Madame Hennebeau, who was leaning on a trough. She was frozen at the thought that a glance between the planks of that disjointed door might suffice to murder them. Négrel also, who was usually very brave, felt himself grow pale, seized by a terror that was superior to his will, the terror which comes from the unknown. Cécile, in the hay, no longer stirred; and the others, in spite of the wish to turn away their eyes, could not do so: they were compelled to gaze. It was the red vision of the revolution, which would one day inevitably carry them all away, on some bloody evening at the end of the century. Yes, some evening the people, unbridled at last, would thus gallop along the roads, making the blood of the middle class flow, parading severed heads and sprinkling gold from disembowelled coffers. The women would yell, the men would have those wolf-like jaws open to bite. Yes, the same rags, the same thunder of great sabots, the same terrible troop, with dirty skins and tainted breath, sweeping away the old world beneath an overflowing flood of barbarians. Fires would flame; they would not leave standing one stone of the towns; they would return to the savage life of the woods, after the great rut, the great feast-day, when the poor in one night would emaciate the wives and empty the cellars of the rich. There would be nothing left, not a sou of the great fortunes, not a title-deed of properties acquired; until the day dawned when a new earth would perhaps spring up once more. Yes, it was these things which were passing along the road; it was the force of nature herself, and they were receiving the terrible wind of it in their faces. A great cry arose, dominating the _Marseillaise_: "Bread! bread! bread!" Lucie and Jeanne pressed themselves against Madame Hennebeau, who was almost fainting; while Négrel placed himself before them as though to protect them by his body. Was the old social order cracking this very evening? And what they saw immediately after completed their stupefaction. The band had nearly passed by, there were only a few stragglers left, when Mouquette came up. She was delaying, watching the bourgeois at their garden gates or the windows of their houses; and whenever she saw them, as she was not able to spit in their faces, she showed them what for her was the climax of contempt. Doubtless she perceived someone now, for suddenly she raised her skirts, bent her back, and showed her enormous buttocks, naked beneath the last rays of the sun. There was nothing obscene in those fierce buttocks, and nobody laughed. Everything disappeared: the flood rolled on to Montsou along the turns of the road, between the low houses streaked with bright colours. The carriage was drawn out of the yard, but the coachman would not take it upon him to convey back madame and the young ladies without delay; the strikers occupied the street. And the worst was, there was no other road. "We must go back, however, for dinner will be ready," said Madame Hennebeau, exasperated by annoyance and fear. "These dirty workpeople have again chosen a day when I have visitors. How can you do good to such creatures?" Lucie and Jeanne were occupied in pulling Cécile out of the hay. She was struggling, believing that those savages were still passing by, and repeating that she did not want to see them. At last they all took their places in the carriage again. It then occurred to Négrel, who had remounted, that they might go through the Réquillart lanes. "Go gently," he said to the coachman, "for the road is atrocious. If any groups prevent you from returning to the road over there, you can stop behind the old pit, and we will return on foot through the little garden door, while you can put up the carriage and horses anywhere, in some inn outhouse." They set out. The band, far away, was streaming into Montsou. As they had twice seen police and military, the inhabitants were agitated and seized by panic. Abominable stories were circulating; it was said that written placards had been set up threatening to rip open the bellies of the bourgeois. Nobody had read them, but all the same they were able to quote the exact words. At the lawyer's especially the terror was at its height, for he had just received by post an anonymous letter warning him that a barrel of powder was buried in his cellar, and that it would be blown up if he did not declare himself on the side of the people. Just then the Grégoires, prolonging their visit on the arrival of this letter, were discussing it, and decided that it must be the work of a joker, when the invasion of the mob completed the terror of the house. They, however, smiled, drawing back a corner of the curtain to look out, and refused to admit that there was any danger, certain, they said, that all would finish up well. Five o'clock struck, and they had time to wait until the street was free for them to cross the road to dine with the Hennebeaus, where Cécile, who had surely returned, must be waiting for them. But no one in Montsou seemed to share their confidence. People were wildly running about; doors and windows were banged to. They saw Maigrat, on the other side of the road, barricading his shop with a large supply of iron bars, and looking so pale and trembling that his feeble little wife was obliged to fasten the screws. The band had come to a halt before the manager's villa, and the cry echoed: "Bread! bread! bread!" M. Hennebeau was standing at the window when Hippolyte came in to close the shutters, for fear the windows should be broken by stones. He closed all on the ground floor, and then went up to the first floor; the creak of the window-fasteners was heard and the clack of the shutters one by one. Unfortunately, it was not possible to shut the kitchen window in the area in the same way, a window made disquietingly ruddy by the gleams from the saucepans and the spit. Mechanically, M. Hennebeau, who wished to look out, went up to Paul's room on the second floor: it was on the left, the best situated, for it commanded the road as far as the Company's Yards. And he stood behind the blinds overlooking the crowd. But this room had again overcome him, the toilet table sponged and in order, the cold bed with neat and well-drawn sheets. All his rage of the afternoon, that furious battle in the depths of his silent solitude, had now turned to an immense fatigue. His whole being was now like this room, grown cold, swept of the filth of the morning, returned to its habitual correctness. What was the good of a scandal? had anything really changed in his house? His wife had simply taken another lover; that she had chosen him in the family scarcely aggravated the fact; perhaps even it was an advantage, for she thus preserved appearances. He pitied himself when he thought of his mad jealousy. How ridiculous to have struck that bed with his fists! Since he had tolerated another man, he could certainly tolerate this one. It was only a matter of a little more contempt. A terrible bitterness was poisoning his mouth, the uselessness of everything, the eternal pain of existence, shame for himself who always adored and desired this woman in the dirt in which he had abandoned her. Beneath the window the yells broke out with increased violence: "Bread! bread! bread!" "Idiots!" said M. Hennebeau between his clenched teeth. He heard them abusing him for his large salary, calling him a bloated idler, a bloody beast who stuffed himself to indigestion with good things, while the worker was dying of hunger. The women had noticed the kitchen, and there was a tempest of imprecations against the pheasant roasting there, against the sauces that with fat odours irritated their empty stomachs. Ah! the stinking bourgeois, they should be stuffed with champagne and truffles till their guts burst. "Bread! bread! bread!" "Idiots!" repeated M. Hennebeau; "am I happy?" Anger arose in him against these people who could not understand. He would willingly have made them a present of his large salary to possess their hard skin and their facility of coupling without regret. Why could he not seat them at his table and stuff them with his pheasant, while he went to fornicate behind the hedges, to tumble the girls over, making fun of those who had tumbled them over before him! He would have given everything, his education, his comfort, his luxury, his power as manager, if he could be for one day the vilest of the wretches who obeyed him, free of his flesh, enough of a blackguard to beat his wife and to take his pleasure with his neighbours' wives. And he longed also to be dying of hunger, to have an empty belly, a stomach twisted by cramps that would make his head turn with giddiness: perhaps that would have killed the eternal pain. Ah! to live like a brute, to possess nothing, to scour the fields with the ugliest and dirtiest putter, and to be able to be happy! "Bread! bread! bread!" Then he grew angry and shouted furiously in the tumult: "Bread! is that enough, idiots!" He could eat, and all the same he was groaning with torment. His desolate household, his whole wounded life, choked him at the throat like a death agony. Things were not all for the best because one had bread. Who was the fool who placed earthly happiness in the partition of wealth? These revolutionary dreamers might demolish society and rebuilt another society; they would not add one joy to humanity, they would not take away one pain, by cutting bread-and-butter for everybody. They would even enlarge the unhappiness of the earth; they would one day make the very dogs howl with despair when they had taken them out of the tranquil satisfaction of instinct, to raise them to the unappeasable suffering of passion. No, the one good thing was not to exist, and if one existed, to be a tree, a stone, less still, a grain of sand, which cannot bleed beneath the heels of the passer-by. And in this exasperation of his torment, tears swelled in M. Hennebeau's eyes, and broke in burning drops on his cheeks. The twilight was drowning the road when stones began to riddle the front of the villa. With no anger now against these starving people, only enraged by the burning wound at his heart he continued to stammer in the midst of his tears: "Idiots! idiots!" But the cry of the belly dominated, and a roar blew like a tempest, sweeping everything before it: "Bread! bread! bread!" CHAPTER VI Sobered by Catherine's blows, Étienne had remained at the head of his mates. But while he was hoarsely urging them on to Montsou, he heard another voice within him, the voice of reason, asking, in astonishment, the meaning of all this. He had not intended any of these things; how had it happened that, having set out for Jean-Bart with the object of acting calmly and preventing disaster, he had finished this day of increasing violence by besieging the manager's villa? He it certainly was, however, who had just cried, "Halt!" Only at first his sole idea had been to protect the Company's Yards, which there had been talk of sacking. And now that stones were already grazing the facade of the villa, he sought in vain for some lawful prey on which to throw the band, so as to avoid greater misfortunes. As he thus stood alone, powerless, in the middle of the road, he was called by a man standing on the threshold of the Estaminet Tison, where the landlady had just put up the shutters in haste, leaving only the door free. "Yes, it's me. Will you listen?" It was Rasseneur. Some thirty men and women, nearly all belonging to the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante, who had remained at home in the morning and had come in the evening for news, had invaded this estaminet on the approach of the strikers. Zacharie occupied a table with his wife, Philoméne. Farther on, Pierron and Pierronne, with their backs turned, were hiding their faces. No one was drinking, they had simply taken shelter. Étienne recognized Rasseneur and was turning away, when the latter added: "You don't want to see me, eh? I warned you, things are getting awkward. Now you may ask for bread, they'll give you lead." Then Étienne came back and replied: "What troubles me is, the cowards who fold their arms and watch us risking our skins." "Your notion, then, is to pillage over there?" asked Rasseneur. "My notion is to remain to the last with our friends, quit by dying together." In despair, Étienne went back into the crowd, ready to die. On the road, three children were throwing stones, and he gave them a good kick, shouting out to his comrades that it was no good breaking windows. Bébert and Lydie, who had rejoined Jeanlin, were learning from him how to work the sling. They each sent a flint, playing at who could do the most damage. Lydie had awkwardly cracked the head of a woman in the crowd, and the two boys were loudly laughing. Bonnemort and Mouque, seated on a bench, were gazing at them behind. Bonnemort's swollen legs bore him so badly, that he had great difficulty in dragging himself so far; no one knew what curiosity impelled him, for his face had the earthy look of those days when he never spoke a word. Nobody, however, any longer obeyed Étienne. The stones, in spite of his orders, went on hailing, and he was astonished and terrified by these brutes he had unmuzzled, who were so slow to move and then so terrible, so ferociously tenacious in their rage. All the old Flemish blood was there, heavy and placid, taking months to get heated, and then giving itself up to abominable savagery, listening to nothing until the beast was glutted by atrocities. In his southern land crowds flamed up more quickly, but they did not effect so much. He had to struggle with Levaque to obtain possession of his axe, and he knew not how to keep back the Maheus, who were throwing flints with both hands. The women, especially, terrified him--the Levaque, Mouquette, and the others--who were agitated by murderous fury, with teeth and nails out, barking like bitches, and driven on by Mother Brulé, whose lean figure dominated them. But there was a sudden stop; a moment's surprise brought a little of that calmness which Étienne's supplications could not obtain. It was simply the Grégoires, who had decided to bid farewell to the lawyer, and to cross the road to the manager's house; and they seemed so peaceful, they so clearly had the air of believing that the whole thing was a joke on the part of their worthy miners, whose resignation had nourished them for a century, that the latter, in fact, left off throwing stones, for fear of hitting this old gentleman and old lady who had fallen from the sky. They allowed them to enter the garden, mount the steps, and ring at the barricaded door, which was by no means opened in a hurry. Just then, Rose, the housemaid, was returning, laughing at the furious workmen, all of whom she knew, for she belonged to Montsou. And it was she who, by striking her fists against the door, at last forced Hippolyte to set it ajar. It was time, for as the Grégoires disappeared, the hail of stones began again. Recovering from its astonishment, the crowd was shouting louder than ever: "Death to the bourgeois! Hurrah for the people!" Rose went on laughing, in the hall of the villa, as though amused by the adventure, and repeated to the terrified man-servant: "They're not bad-hearted; I know them." M. Grégoire methodically hung up his hat. Then, when he had assisted Madame Grégoire to draw off her thick cloth mantle, he said, in his turn: "Certainly, they have no malice at bottom. When they have shouted well they will go home to supper with more appetite." At this moment M. Hennebeau came down from the second floor. He had seen the scene, and came to receive his guests in his usual cold and polite manner. The pallor of his face alone revealed the grief which had shaken him. The man was tamed; there only remained in him the correct administrator resolved to do his duty. "You know," he said, "the ladies have not yet come back." For the first time some anxiety disturbed the Grégoires. Cécile not come back! How could she come back now if the miners were to prolong their joking? "I thought of having the place cleared," added M. Hennebeau. "But the misfortune is that I'm alone here, and, besides, I do not know where to send my servant to bring me four men and a corporal to clear away this mob." Rose, who had remained there, ventured to murmur anew: "Oh, sir! they are not bad-hearted!" The manager shook his head, while the tumult increased outside, and they could hear the dull crash of the stones against the house. "I don't wish to be hard on them, I can even excuse them; one must be as foolish as they are to believe that we are anxious to injure them. But it is my duty to prevent disturbance. To think that there are police all along the roads, as I am told, and that I have not been able to see a single man since the morning!" He interrupted himself, and drew back before Madame Grégoire, saying: "Let me beg you, madame, do not stay here, come into the drawing-room." But the cook, coming up from below in exasperation, kept them in the hall a few minutes longer. She declared that she could no longer accept any responsibility for the dinner, for she was expecting from the Marchiennes pastrycook some _vol-au-vent_ crusts which she had ordered for four o'clock. The pastrycook had evidently turned aside on the road for fear of these bandits. Perhaps they had even pillaged his hampers. She saw the _vol-au-vent_ blockaded behind a bush, besieged, going to swell the bellies of the three thousand wretches who were asking for bread. In any case, monsieur was warned; she would rather pitch her dinner into the fire if it was to be spoilt because of the revolt. "Patience, patience," said M. Hennebeau. "All is not lost, the pastrycook may come." And as he turned toward Madame Grégoire, opening the drawing-room door himself, he was much surprised to observe, seated on the hall bench, a man whom he had not distinguished before in the deepening shade. "What! you, Maigrat! what is it, then?" Maigrat arose; his fat, pale face was changed by terror. He no longer possessed his usual calm stolidity; he humbly explained that he had slipped into the manager's house to ask for aid and protection should the brigands attack his shop. "You see that I am threatened myself, and that I have no one," replied M. Hennebeau. "You would have done better to stay at home and guard your property." "Oh! I have put up iron bars and left my wife there." The manager showed impatience, and did not conceal his contempt. A fine guard, that poor creature worn out by blows! "Well, I can do nothing; you must try to defend yourself. I advise you to go back at once, for there they are again demanding bread. Listen!" In fact, the tumult began again, and Maigrat thought he heard his own name in the midst of the cries. To go back was no longer possible, they would have torn him to pieces. Besides, the idea of his ruin overcame him. He pressed his face to the glass panel of the door, perspiring and trembling in anticipation of disaster, while the Grégoires decided to go into the drawing-room. M. Hennebeau quietly endeavoured to do the honours of his house. But in vain he begged his guests to sit down; the close, barricaded room, lighted by two lamps in the daytime, was filled with terror at each new clamour from without. Amid the stuffy hangings the fury of the mob rolled more disturbingly, with vague and terrible menace. They talked, however, constantly brought back to this inconceivable revolt. He was astonished at having foreseen nothing; and his information was so defective that he specially talked against Rasseneur, whose detestable influence, he said, he was able to recognize. Besides, the gendarmes would come; it was impossible that he should be thus abandoned. As to the Grégoires, they only thought about their daughter, the poor darling who was so quickly frightened! Perhaps, in face of the peril, the carriage had returned to Marchiennes. They waited on for another quarter of an hour, worn out by the noise in the street, and by the sound of the stones from time to time striking the closed shutters which rang out like gongs. The situation was no longer bearable. M. Hennebeau spoke of going out to chase away the brawlers by himself, and to meet the carriage, when Hippolyte appeared, exclaiming: "Sir! sir, here is madame! They are killing madame!" The carriage had not been able to pass through the threatening groups in the Réquillart lane. Négrel had carried out his idea, walking the hundred metres which separated them from the house, and knocking at the little door which led to the garden, near the common. The gardener would hear them, for there was always someone there to open. And, at first, things had gone perfectly; Madame Hennebeau and the young ladies were already knocking when some women, who had been warned, rushed into the lane. Then everything was spoilt. The door was not opened, and Négrel in vain sought to burst it open with his shoulder. The rush of women increased, and fearing they would be carried away, he adopted the desperate method of pushing his aunt and the girls before him, in order to reach the front steps, by passing through the besiegers. But this manoeuvre led to a hustling. They were not left free, a shouting band followed them, while the crowd floated up to right and to left, without understanding, simply astonished at these dressed-up ladies lost in the midst of the battle. At this moment the confusion was so great that it led to one of those curious mistakes which can never be explained. Lucie and Jeanne reached the steps, and slipped in through the door, which the housemaid opened; Madame Hennebeau had succeeded in following them, and behind them Négrel at last came in, and then bolted the door, feeling sure that he had seen Cécile go in first. She was no longer there, having disappeared on the way, so carried away by fear, that she had turned her back to the house, and had moved of her own accord into the thick of danger. At once the cry arose: "Hurrah for the people! Death to the bourgeois! To death with them!" A few of those in the distance, beneath the veil which hid her face, mistook her for Madame Hennebeau; others said she was a friend of the manager's wife, the young wife of a neighbouring manufacturer who was execrated by his men. And besides it mattered little, it was her silk dress, her fur mantle, even the white feather in her hat, which exasperated them. She smelled of perfume, she wore a watch, she had the delicate skin of a lazy woman who had never touched coal. "Stop!" shouted Mother Brulé, "we'll put it on your arse, that lace!" "The lazy sluts steal it from us," said the Levaque. "They stick fur on to their skins while we are dying of cold. Just strip her naked, to show her how to live!" At once Mouquette rushed forward. "Yes, yes! whip her!" And the women, in this savage rivalry, struggled and stretched out their rags, as though each were trying to get a morsel of this rich girl. No doubt her backside was not better made than any one else's. More than one of them were rotten beneath their gewgaws. This injustice had lasted quite long enough; they should be forced to dress themselves like workwomen, these harlots who dared to spend fifty sous on the washing of a single petticoat. In the midst of these furies Cécile was shaking with paralysed legs, stammering over and over again the same phrase: "Ladies! please! please! Ladies, please don't hurt me!" But she suddenly uttered a shrill cry; cold hands had seized her by the neck. The rush had brought her near old Bonnemort, who had taken hold of her. He seemed drunk from hunger, stupefied by his long misery, suddenly arousing himself from the resignation of half a century, under the influence of no one knew what malicious impulse. After having in the course of his life saved a dozen mates from death, risking his bones in fire-damps and landslips, he was yielding to things which he would not have been able to express, compelled to do thus, fascinated by this young girl's white neck. And as on this day he had lost his tongue, he clenched his fingers, with his air of an old infirm animal ruminating over his recollections. "No! no!" yelled the women. "Uncover her arse! out with her arse!" In the villa, as soon as they had realized the mishap, Négrel and M. Hennebeau bravely reopened the door to run to Cécile's help. But the crowd was now pressing against the garden railings, and it was not easy to go out. A struggle took place here, while the Grégoires in terror stood on the steps. "Let her be then, old man! It's the Piolaine young lady," cried Maheude to the grandfather, recognizing Cécile, whose veil had been torn off by one of the women. On his side, Étienne, overwhelmed at this retaliation on a child, was trying to force the band to let go their prey. An inspiration came to him; he brandished the axe, which he had snatched from Levaque's hands. "To Maigrat's house, by God! there's bread in there! Down to the earth with Maigrat's damned shed!" And at random he gave the first blow of the axe against the shop door. Some comrades had followed him--Levaque, Maheu, and a few others. But the women were furious, and Cécile had fallen from Bonnemort's fingers into Mother Brulé's hands. Lydie and Bébert, led by Jeanlin, had slipped on all fours between her petticoats to see the lady's bottom. Already the women were pulling her about; her clothes were beginning to split, when a man on horseback appeared, pushing on his animal, and using his riding-whip on those who would not stand back quick enough. "Ah! rascals! You are going to flog our daughters, are you?" It was Deneulin who had come to the rendezvous for dinner. He quickly jumped on to the road, took Cécile by the waist, and, with the other hand manipulating his horse with remarkable skill and strength, he used it as a living wedge to split the crowd, which drew back before the onset. At the railing the battle continued. He passed through, however, with some bruises. This unforeseen assistance delivered Négrel and M. Hennebeau, who were in great danger amid the oaths and blows. And while the young man at last led in the fainting Cécile, Deneulin protected the manager with his tall body, and at the top of the steps received a stone which nearly put his shoulder out. "That's it," he cried; "break my bones now you've broken my engines!" He promptly pushed the door to, and a volley of flints fell against it. "What madmen!" he exclaimed. "Two seconds more, and they would have broken my skull like an empty gourd. There is nothing to say to them; what could you do? They know nothing, you can only knock them down." In the drawing-room, the Grégoires were weeping as they watched Cécile recover. She was not hurt, there was not even a scratch to be seen, only her veil was lost. But their fright increased when they saw before them their cook, Mélanie, who described how the mob had demolished Piolaine. Mad with fear she had run to warn her masters. She had come in when the door was ajar at the moment of the fray, without any one noticing her; and in her endless narrative the single stone with which Jeanlin had broken one window-pane became a regular cannonade which had crushed through the walls. Then M. Grégoire's ideas were altogether upset: they were murdering his daughter, they were razing his house to the ground; it was, then, true that these miners could bear him ill will, because he lived like a worthy man on their labour? The housemaid, who had brought in a towel and some eau-de-Cologne, repeated: "All the same it's queer, they're not bad-hearted." Madame Hennebeau, seated and very pale, had not recovered from the shock to her feelings; and she was only able to find a smile when Négrel was complimented. Cécile's parents especially thanked the young man, and the marriage might now be regarded as settled. M. Hennebeau looked on in silence, turning from his wife to this lover whom in the morning he had been swearing to kill, then to this young girl by whom he would, no doubt, soon be freed from him. There was no haste, only the fear remained with him of seeing his wife fall lower, perhaps to some lackey. "And you, my little darlings," asked Deneulin of his daughters; "have they broken any of your bones?" Lucie and Jeanne had been much afraid, but they were pleased to have seen it all. They were now laughing. "By George!" the father went on, "we've had a fine day! If you want a dowry, you would do well to earn it yourselves, and you may also expect to have to support me." He was joking, but his voice trembled. His eyes swelled with tears as his two daughters threw themselves into his arms. M. Hennebeau had heard this confession of ruin. A quick thought lit up his face. Vandame would now belong to Montsou; this was the hoped-for compensation, the stroke of fortune which would bring him back to favour with the gentlemen on the directorate. At every crisis of his existence, he took refuge in the strict execution of the orders he had received; in the military discipline in which he lived he found his small share of happiness. But they grew calm; the drawing-room fell back into a weary peacefulness, with the quiet light of its two lamps, and the warm stuffiness of the hangings. What, then, was going on outside? The brawlers were silent, and stones no longer struck the house; one only heard deep, full blows, those blows of the hatchet which one hears in distant woods. They wished to find out, and went back into the hall to venture a glance through the glass panel of the door. Even the ladies went upstairs to post themselves behind the blinds on the first floor. "Do you see that scoundrel, Rasseneur, over there on the threshold of the public-house?" said M. Hennebeau to Deneulin. "I had guessed as much; he must be in it." It was not Rasseneur, however, it was Étienne, who was dealing blows from his axe at Maigrat's shop. And he went on calling to the men; did not the goods in there belong to the colliers? Had they not the right to take back their property from this thief who had exploited them so long, who was starving them at a hint from the Company? Gradually they all left the manager's house, and ran up to pillage the neighbouring shop. The cry, "Bread! bread! bread!" broke out anew. They would find bread behind that door. The rage of hunger carried them away, as if they suddenly felt that they could wait no longer without expiring on the road. Such furious thrusts were made at the door that at every stroke of the axe Étienne feared to wound someone. Meanwhile Maigrat, who had left the hall of the manager's house, had at first taken refuge in the kitchen; but, hearing nothing there, he imagined some abominable attempt against his shop, and came up again to hide behind the pump outside, when he distinctly heard the cracking of the door and shouts of pillage in which his own name was mixed. It was not a nightmare, then. If he could not see, he could now hear, and he followed the attack with ringing ears; every blow struck him in the heart. A hinge must have given way; five minutes more and the shop would be taken. The thing was stamped on his brain in real and terrible images--the brigands rushing forward, then the drawers broken open, the sacks emptied, everything eaten, everything drunk, the house itself carried away, nothing left, not even a stick with which he might go and beg through the villages. No, he would never allow them to complete his ruin; he would rather leave his life there. Since he had been here he noticed at a window of his house his wife's thin silhouette, pale and confused, behind the panes; no doubt she was watching the blows with her usual silent air of a poor beaten creature. Beneath there was a shed, so placed that from the villa garden one could climb it from the palings; then it was easy to get on to the tiles up to the window. And the idea of thus returning home now pursued him in his remorse at having left. Perhaps he would have time to barricade the shop with furniture; he even invented other and more heroic defences--boiling oil, lighted petroleum, poured out from above. But this love of his property struggled against his fear, and he groaned in the battle with cowardice. Suddenly, on hearing a deeper blow of the axe, he made up his mind. Avarice conquered; he and his wife would cover the sacks with their bodies rather than abandon a single loaf. Almost immediately hooting broke out: "Look! look!--The tom-cat's up there! After the cat! after the cat!" The mob had just seen Maigrat on the roof of the shed. In his fever of anxiety he had climbed the palings with agility in spite of his weight, and without troubling over the breaking wood; and now he was flattening himself along the tiles, and endeavouring to reach the window. But the slope was very steep; he was incommoded by his stoutness, and his nails were torn. He would have dragged himself up, however, if he had not begun to tremble with the fear of stones; for the crowd, which he could not see, continued to cry beneath him: "After the cat! after the cat!--Do for him!" And suddenly both his hands let go at once, and he rolled down like a ball, leapt at the gutter, and fell across the middle wall in such a way that, by ill-chance, he rebounded on the side of the road, where his skull was broken open on the corner of a stone pillar. His brain had spurted out. He was dead. His wife up above, pale and confused behind the window-panes, still looked out. They were stupefied at first. Étienne stopped short, and the axe slipped from his hands. Maheu, Levaque, and the others forgot the shop, with their eyes fixed on the wall along which a thin red streak was slowly flowing down. And the cries ceased, and silence spread over the growing darkness. All at once the hooting began again. It was the women, who rushed forward overcome by the drunkenness of blood. "Then there is a good God, after all! Ah! the bloody beast, he's done for!" They surrounded the still warm body. They insulted it with laughter, abusing his fractured head, the dirty chops, hurling in the dead man's face the long venom of their starved lives. "I owed you sixty francs, now you're paid, thief!" said Maheude, enraged like the others. "You won't refuse me credit any more. Wait! wait! I must fatten you once more!" With her fingers she scratched up some earth, took two handfuls and stuffed it violently into his mouth. "There! eat that! There! eat! eat! you used to eat us!" The abuse increased, while the dead man, stretched on his back, gazed motionless with his large fixed eyes at the immense sky from which the night was falling. This earth heaped in his mouth was the bread he had refused to give. And henceforth he would eat of no other bread. It had not brought him luck to starve poor people. But the women had another revenge to wreak on him. They moved round, smelling him like she-wolves. They were all seeking for some outrage, some savagery that would relieve them. Mother Brulé's shrill voice was heard: "Cut him like a tom-cat!" "Yes, yes, after the cat! after the cat! He's done too much, the dirty beast!" Mouquette was already unfastening and drawing off the trousers, while the Levaque woman raised the legs. And Mother Brulé with her dry old hands separated the naked thighs and seized this dead virility. She took hold of everything, tearing with an effort which bent her lean spine and made her long arms crack. The soft skin resisted; she had to try again, and at last carried away the fragment, a lump of hairy and bleeding flesh, which she brandished with a laugh of triumph. "I've got it! I've got it!" Shrill voices saluted with curses the abominable trophy. "Ah! swine! you won't fill our daughters any more!" "Yes! we've done with paying on your beastly body; we shan't any more have to offer a backside in return for a loaf." "Here, I owe you six francs; would you like to settle it? I'm quite willing, if you can do it still!" This joke shook them all with terrible gaiety. They showed each other the bleeding fragment as an evil beast from which each of them had suffered, and which they had at last crushed, and saw before them there, inert, in their power. They spat on it, they thrust out their jaws, saying over and over again, with furious bursts of contempt: "He can do no more! he can do no more!--It's no longer a man that they'll put away in the earth. Go and rot then, good-for-nothing!" Mother Brulé then planted the whole lump on the end of her stick, and holding it in the air, bore it about like a banner, rushing along the road, followed, helter-skelter, by the yelling troop of women. Drops of blood rained down, and that pitiful flesh hung like a waste piece of meat on a butcher's stall. Up above, at the window, Madame Maigrat still stood motionless; but beneath the last gleams of the setting sun, the confused flaws of the window-panes distorted her white face which looked as though it were laughing. Beaten and deceived at every hour, with shoulders bent from morning to night over a ledger, perhaps she was laughing, while the band of women rushed along with that evil beast, that crushed beast, at the end of the stick. This frightful mutilation was accomplished in frozen horror. Neither Étienne nor Maheu nor the others had had time to interfere; they stood motionless before this gallop of furies. At the door of the Estaminet Tison a few heads were grouped--Rasseneur pale with disgust, Zacharie and Philoméne stupefied at what they had seen. The two old men, Bonnemort and Mouque, were gravely shaking their heads. Only Jeanlin was making fun, pushing Bébert with his elbow, and forcing Lydie to look up. But the women were already coming back, turning round and passing beneath the manager's windows. Behind the blinds the ladies were stretching out their necks. They had not been able to observe the scene, which was hidden from them by the wall, and they could not distinguish well in the growing darkness. "What is it they have at the end of that stick?" asked Cécile, who had grown bold enough to look out. Lucie and Jeanne declared that it must be a rabbit-skin. "No, no," murmured Madame Hennebeau, "they must have been pillaging a pork butcher's, it seems to be a remnant of a pig." At this moment she shuddered and was silent. Madame Grégoire had nudged her with her knee. They both remained stupefied. The young ladies, who were very pale, asked no more questions, but with large eyes followed this red vision through the darkness. Étienne once more brandished the axe. But the feeling of anxiety did not disappear; this corpse now barred the road and protected the shop. Many had drawn back. Satiety seemed to have appeased them all. Maheu was standing by gloomily, when he heard a voice whisper in his ear to escape. He turned round and recognized Catherine, still in her old overcoat, black and panting. With a movement he repelled her. He would not listen to her, he threatened to strike her. With a gesture of despair she hesitated, and then ran towards Étienne. "Save yourself! save yourself! the gendarmes are coming!" He also pushed her away and abused her, feeling the blood of the blows she had given him mounting to his cheeks. But she would not be repelled; she forced him to throw down the axe, and drew him away by both arms, with irresistible strength. "Don't I tell you the gendarmes are coming! Listen to me. It's Chaval who has gone for them and is bringing them, if you want to know. It's too much for me, and I've come. Save yourself, I don't want them to take you." And Catherine drew him away, while, at the same instant, a heavy gallop shook the street from afar. Immediately a voice arose: "The gendarmes! the gendarmes!" There was a general breaking up, so mad a rush for life that in two minutes the road was free, absolutely clear, as though swept by a hurricane. Maigrat's corpse alone made a patch of shadow on the white earth. Before the Estaminet Tison, Rasseneur only remained, feeling relieved, and with open face applauding the easy victory of the sabres; while in dim and deserted Montsou, in the silence of the closed houses, the bourgeois remained with perspiring skins and chattering teeth, not daring to look out. The plain was drowned beneath the thick night, only the blast furnaces and the coke furnaces were burning against the tragic sky. The gallop of the gendarmes heavily approached; they came up in an indistinguishable sombre mass. And behind them the Marchiennes pastrycook's vehicle, a little covered cart which had been confided to their care, at last arrived, and a small drudge of a boy jumped down and quietly unpacked the crusts for the _vol-au-vent_. PART SIX CHAPTER I The first fortnight of February passed and a black cold prolonged the hard winter without pity for the poor. Once more the authorities had scoured the roads; the prefect of Lille, an attorney, a general, and the police were not sufficient, the military had come to occupy Montsou; a whole regiment of men were camped between Beaugnies and Marchiennes. Armed pickets guarded the pits, and there were soldiers before every engine. The manager's villa, the Company's Yards, even the houses of certain residents, were bristling with bayonets. Nothing was heard along the streets but the slow movement of patrols. On the pit-bank of the Voreux a sentinel was always placed in the frozen wind that blew up there, like a look-out man above the flat plain; and every two hours, as though in an enemy's country, were heard the sentry's cries: "_Qui vive?_--Advance and give the password!" Nowhere had work been resumed. On the contrary, the strike had spread; Crévecoeur, Mirou, Madeleine, like the Voreux, were producing nothing; at Feutry-Cantel and the Victoire there were fewer men every morning; even at Saint-Thomas, which had been hitherto exempt, men were wanting. There was now a silent persistence in the face of this exhibition of force which exasperated the miners' pride. The settlements looked deserted in the midst of the beetroot fields. Not a workman stirred, only at rare intervals was one to be met by chance, isolated, with sidelong look, lowering his head before the red trousers. And in this deep melancholy calm, in this passive opposition to the guns, there was a deceptive gentleness, a forced and patient obedience of wild beasts in a cage, with their eyes on the tamer, ready to spring on his neck if he turned his back. The Company, who were being ruined by this death of work, talked of hiring miners from the Borinage, on the Belgian frontier, but did not dare; so that the battle continued as before between the colliers, who were shut up at home, and the dead pits guarded by soldiery. On the morrow of that terrible day this calm had come about at once, hiding such a panic that the greatest silence possible was kept concerning the damage and the atrocities. The inquiry which had been opened showed that Maigrat had died from his fall, and the frightful mutilation of the corpse remained uncertain, already surrounded by a legend. On its side, the Company did not acknowledge the disasters it had suffered, any more than the Grégoires cared to compromise their daughter in the scandal of a trial in which she would have to give evidence. However, some arrests took place, mere supernumeraries as usual, silly and frightened, knowing nothing. By mistake, Pierron was taken off with handcuffs on his wrists as far as Marchiennes, to the great amusement of his mates. Rasseneur, also, was nearly arrested by two gendarmes. The management was content with preparing lists of names and giving back certificates in large numbers. Maheu had received his, Levaque also, as well as thirty-four of their mates in the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante alone. And all the severity was directed against Étienne, who had disappeared on the evening of the fray, and who was being sought, although no trace of him could be found. Chaval, in his hatred, had denounced him, refusing to name the others at Catherine's appeal, for she wished to save her parents. The days passed, every one felt that nothing was yet concluded; and with oppressed hearts every one was awaiting the end. At Montsou, during this period, the inhabitants awoke with a start every night, their ears buzzing with an imaginary alarm-bell and their nostrils haunted by the smell of powder. But what completed their discomfiture was a sermon by the new curé, Abbé Ranvier, that lean priest with eyes like red-hot coals who had succeeded Abbé Joire. He was indeed unlike the smiling discreet man, so fat and gentle, whose only anxiety was to live at peace with everybody. Abbé Ranvier went so far as to defend these abominable brigands who had dishonoured the district. He found excuses for the atrocities of the strikers; he violently attacked the middle class, throwing on them the whole of the responsibility. It was the middle class which, by dispossessing the Church of its ancient liberties in order to misuse them itself, had turned this world into a cursed place of injustice and suffering; it was the middle class which prolonged misunderstandings, which was pushing on towards a terrible catastrophe by its atheism, by its refusal to return to the old beliefs, to the fraternity of the early Christians. And he dared to threaten the rich. He warned them that if they obstinately persisted in refusing to listen to the voice of God, God would surely put Himself on the side of the poor. He would take back their fortunes from those who faithlessly enjoyed them, and would distribute them to the humble of the earth for the triumph of His glory. The devout trembled at this; the lawyer declared that it was Socialism of the worst kind; all saw the curé at the head of a band, brandishing a cross, and with vigorous blows demolishing the bourgeois society of '89. M. Hennebeau, when informed, contented himself with saying, as he shrugged his shoulders: "If he troubles us too much the bishop will free us from him." And while the breath of panic was thus blowing from one end of the plain to the other, Étienne was dwelling beneath the earth, in Jeanlin's burrow at the bottom of Réquillart. It was there that he was in hiding; no one believed him so near; the quiet audacity of that refuge, in the very mine, in that abandoned passage of the old pit, had baffled search. Above, the sloes and hawthorns growing among the fallen scaffolding of the belfry filled up the mouth of the hole. No one ventured down; it was necessary to know the trick--how to hang on to the roots of the mountain ash and to let go fearlessly, to catch hold of the rungs that were still solid. Other obstacles also protected him, the suffocating heat of the passage, a hundred and twenty metres of dangerous descent, then the painful gliding on all fours for a quarter of a league between the narrowed walls of the gallery before discovering the brigand's cave full of plunder. He lived there in the midst of abundance, finding gin there, the rest of the dried cod, and provisions of all sorts. The large hay bed was excellent, and not a current of air could be felt in this equal temperature, as warm as a bath. Light, however, threatened to fail. Jeanlin, who had made himself purveyor, with the prudence and discretion of a savage and delighted to make fun of the police, had even brought him pomatum, but could not succeed in putting his hands on a packet of candles. After the fifth day Étienne never lighted up except to eat. He could not swallow in the dark. This complete and interminable night, always of the same blackness, was his chief torment. It was in vain that he was able to sleep in safety, that he was warm and provided with bread, the night had never weighed so heavily on his brain. It seemed to him even to crush his thoughts. Now he was living on thefts. In spite of his communistic theories, old scruples of education arose, and he contented himself with gnawing his share of dry bread. But what was to be done? One must live, and his task was not yet accomplished. Another shame overcame him: remorse for that savage drunkenness from the gin, drunk in the great cold on an empty stomach, which had thrown him, armed with a knife, on Chaval. This stirred in him the whole of that unknown terror, the hereditary ill, the long ancestry of drunkenness, no longer tolerating a drop of alcohol without falling into homicidal mania. Would he then end as a murderer? When he found himself in shelter, in this profound calm of the earth, seized by satiety of violence, he had slept for two days the sleep of a brute, gorged and overcome; and the depression continued, he lived in a bruised state with bitter mouth and aching head, as after some tremendous spree. A week passed by; the Maheus, who had been warned, were not able to send a candle; he had to give up the enjoyment of light, even when eating. Now Étienne remained for hours stretched out on his hay. Vague ideas were working within him for the first time: a feeling of superiority, which placed him apart from his mates, an exaltation of his person as he grew more instructed. Never had he reflected so much; he asked himself the why of his disgust on the morrow of that furious course among the pits; and he did not dare to reply to himself, his recollections were repulsive to him, the ignoble desires, the coarse instincts, the odour of all that wretchedness shaken out to the wind. In spite of the torment of the darkness, he would come to hate the hour for returning to the settlement. How nauseous were all these wretches in a heap, living at the common bucket! There was not one with whom he could seriously talk politics; it was a bestial existence, always the same air tainted by onion, in which one choked! He wished to enlarge their horizon, to raise them to the comfort and good manners of the middle class, by making them masters; but how long it would take! and he no longer felt the courage to await victory, in this prison of hunger. By slow degrees his vanity of leadership, his constant preoccupation of thinking in their place, left him free, breathing into him the soul of one of those bourgeois whom he execrated. Jeanlin one evening brought a candle-end, stolen from a carter's lantern, and this was a great relief for Étienne. When the darkness began to stupefy him, weighing on his skull almost to madness, he would light up for a moment; then, as soon as he had chased away the nightmare, he extinguished the candle, miserly of this brightness which was as necessary to his life as bread. The silence buzzed in his ears, he only heard the flight of a band of rats, the cracking of the old timber, the tiny sound of a spider weaving her web. And with eyes open, in this warm nothingness, he returned to his fixed idea--the thought of what his mates were doing above. Desertion on his part would have seemed to him the worst cowardice. If he thus hid himself, it was to remain free, to give counsel or to act. His long meditations had fixed his ambition. While awaiting something better he would like to be Pluchart, leaving manual work in order to work only at politics, but alone, in a clean room, under the pretext that brain labour absorbs the entire life and needs quiet. At the beginning of the second week, the child having told him that the police supposed he had gone over to Belgium, Étienne ventured out of his hole at nightfall. He wished to ascertain the situation, and to decide if it was still well to persist. He himself considered the game doubtful. Before the strike he felt uncertain of the result, and had simply yielded to facts; and now, after having been intoxicated with rebellion, he came back to this first doubt, despairing of making the Company yield. But he would not yet confess this to himself; he was tortured when he thought of the miseries of defeat, and the heavy responsibility of suffering which would weigh upon him. The end of the strike: was it not the end of his part, the overthrow of his ambition, his life falling back into the brutishness of the mine and the horrors of the settlement? And honestly, without any base calculation or falsehood, he endeavoured to find his faith again, to prove to himself that resistance was still possible, that Capital was about to destroy itself in face of the heroic suicide of Labour. Throughout the entire country, in fact, there was nothing but a long echo of ruin. At night, when he wandered through the black country, like a wolf who has come out of his forest, he seemed to hear the crash of bankruptcies from one end of the plain to the other. He now passed by the roadside nothing but closed dead workshops, becoming rotten beneath the dull sky. The sugar works had especially suffered: the Hoton sugar works, the Fauvelle works, after having reduced the number of their hands, had come to grief one after the other. At the Dutilleul flour works the last mill had stopped on the second Saturday of the month, and the Bleuze rope works, for mine cables, had been quite ruined by the strike. On the Marchiennes side the situation was growing worse every day. All the fires were out at the Gagebois glass works, men were continually being sent away from the Sonneville workshops, only one of the three blast furnaces of the Forges was alight, and not one battery of coke ovens was burning on the horizon. The strike of the Montsou colliers, born of the industrial crisis which had been growing worse for two years, had increased it and precipitated the downfall. To the other causes of suffering--the stoppage of orders from America, and the engorgement of invested capital in excessive production--was now added the unforeseen lack of coal for the few furnaces which were still kept up; and that was the supreme agony, this engine bread which the pits no longer furnished. Frightened by the general anxiety, the Company, by diminishing its output and starving its miners, inevitably found itself at the end of December without a fragment of coal at the surface of its pits. Everything held together, the plague blew from afar, one fall led to another; the industries tumbled each other over as they fell, in so rapid a series of catastrophes that the shocks echoed in the midst of the neighbouring cities, Lille, Douai, Valenciennes, where absconding bankers were bringing ruin on whole families. At the turn of a road Étienne often stopped in the frozen night to hear the rubbish raining down. He breathed deeply in the darkness, the joy of annihilation seized him, the hope that day would dawn on the extermination of the old world, with not a single fortune left standing, the scythe of equality levelling everything to the ground. But in this massacre it was the Company's pits that especially interested him. He would continue his walk, blinded by the darkness, visiting them one after the other, glad to discover some new disaster. Landslips of increasing gravity continued to occur on account of the prolonged abandonment of the passages. Above the north gallery of Mirou the ground sank in to such an extent, that the Joiselle road, for the distance of a hundred metres, had been swallowed up as though by the shock of an earthquake; and the Company, disturbed at the rumours raised by these accidents, paid the owners for their vanished fields without bargaining. Crévecoeur and Madeleine, which lay in very shifting rock, were becoming stopped up more and more. It was said that two captains had been buried at the Victoire; there was an inundation at Feutry-Cantel, it had been necessary to wall up a gallery for the length of a kilometre at Saint-Thomas, where the ill-kept timbering was breaking down everywhere. Thus every hour enormous sums were spent, making great breaches in the shareholders' dividends; a rapid destruction of the pits was going on, which must end at last by eating up the famous Montsou deniers which had been centupled in a century. In the face of these repeated blows, hope was again born in Étienne; he came to believe that a third month of resistance would crush the monster--the weary, sated beast, crouching down there like an idol in his unknown tabernacle. He knew that after the Montsou troubles there had been great excitement in the Paris journals, quite a violent controversy between the official newspapers and the opposition newspapers, terrible narratives, which were especially directed against the International, of which the empire was becoming afraid after having first encouraged it; and the directors not daring to turn a deaf ear any longer, two of them had condescended to come and hold an inquiry, but with an air of regret, not appearing to care about the upshot; so disinterested, that in three days they went away again, declaring that everything was going on as well as possible. He was told, however, from other quarters that during their stay these gentlemen sat permanently, displaying feverish activity, and absorbed in transactions of which no one about them uttered a word. And he charged them with affecting confidence they did not feel, and came to look upon their departure as a nervous flight, feeling now certain of triumph since these terrible men were letting everything go. But on the following night Étienne despaired again. The Company's back was too robust to be so easily broken; they might lose millions, but later on they would get them back again by gnawing at their men's bread. On that night, having pushed as far as Jean-Bart, he guessed the truth when an overseer told him that there was talk of yielding Vandame to Montsou. At Deneulin's house, it was said, the wretchedness was pitiful, the wretchedness of the rich; the father ill in his powerlessness, aged by his anxiety over money, the daughters struggling in the midst of tradesmen, trying to save their shifts. There was less suffering in the famished settlements than in this middle-class house where they shut themselves up to drink water. Work had not been resumed at Jean-Bart, and it had been necessary to replace the pump at Gaston-Marie; while, in spite of all haste, an inundation had already begun which made great expenses necessary. Deneulin had at last risked his request for a loan of one hundred thousand francs from the Grégoires, and the refusal, though he had expected it, completed his dejection: if they refused, it was for his sake, in order to save him from an impossible struggle; and they advised him to sell. He, as usual, violently refused. It enraged him to have to pay the expenses of the strike; he hoped at first to die of it, with the blood at his head, strangled by apoplexy. Then what was to be done? He had listened to the directors' offers. They wrangled with him, they depreciated this superb prey, this repaired pit, equipped anew, where the lack of capital alone paralysed the output. He would be lucky if he got enough out of it to satisfy his creditors. For two days he had struggled against the directors at Montsou, furious at the quiet way with which they took advantage of his embarrassment and shouting his refusals at them in his loud voice. And there the affair remained, and they had returned to Paris to await patiently his last groans. Étienne smelled out this compensation for the disasters, and was again seized by discouragement before the invincible power of the great capitalists, so strong in battle that they fattened in defeat by eating the corpses of the small capitalists who fell at their side. The next day, fortunately, Jeanlin brought him a piece of good news. At the Voreux the tubbing of the shaft was threatening to break, and the water was filtering in from all the joints; in great haste a gang of carpenters had been set on to repair it. Up to now Étienne had avoided the Voreux, warned by the everlasting black silhouette of the sentinel stationed on the pit-bank above the plain. He could not be avoided, he dominated in the air, like the flag of the regiment. Towards three o'clock in the morning the sky became overcast, and he went to the pit, where some mates explained to him the bad condition of the tubbing; they even thought that it would have to be done entirely over again, which would stop the output of coal for three months. For a long time he prowled round, listening to the carpenters' mallets hammering in the shaft. That wound which had to be dressed rejoiced his heart. As he went back in the early daylight, he saw the sentinel still on the pit-bank. This time he would certainly be seen. As he walked he thought about those soldiers who were taken from the people, to be armed against the people. How easy the triumph of the revolution would be if the army were suddenly to declare for it! It would be enough if the workman and the peasant in the barracks were to remember their origin. That was the supreme peril, the great terror, which made the teeth of the middle class chatter when they thought of a possible defection of the troops. In two hours they would be swept away and exterminated with all the delights and abominations of their iniquitous life. It was already said that whole regiments were tainted with Socialism. Was it true? When justice came, would it be thanks to the cartridges distributed by the middle class? And snatching at another hope, the young man dreamed that the regiment, with its posts, now guarding the pits, would come over to the side of the strikers, shoot down the Company to a man, and at last give the mine to the miners. He then noticed that he was ascending the pit-bank, his head filled with these reflections. Why should he not talk with this soldier? He would get to know what his ideas were. With an air of indifference, he continued to come nearer, as though he were gleaning old wood among the rubbish. The sentinel remained motionless. "Eh! mate! damned weather," said Étienne, at last. "I think we shall have snow." He was a small soldier, very fair, with a pale, gentle face covered with red freckles. He wore his military great-coat with the awkwardness of a recruit. "Yes, perhaps we shall, I think," he murmured. And with his blue eyes he gazed at the livid sky, the smoky dawn, with soot weighing like lead afar over the plain. "What idiots they are to put you here to freeze!" Étienne went on. "One would think the Cossacks were coming! And then there's always wind here." The little soldier shivered without complaining. There was certainly a little cabin of dry stones there, where old Bonnemort used to take shelter when it blew a hurricane, but the order being not to leave the summit of the pit-bank, the soldier did not stir from it, his hands so stiffened by cold that he could no longer feel his weapon. He belonged to the guard of sixty men who were protecting the Voreux, and as this cruel sentry-duty frequently came round, he had before nearly stayed there for good with his dead feet. His work demanded it; a passive obedience finished the benumbing process, and he replied to these questions with the stammered words of a sleepy child. Étienne in vain endeavoured during a quarter of an hour to make him talk about politics. He replied "yes" or "no" without seeming to understand. Some of his comrades said that the captain was a republican; as to him, he had no idea--it was all the same to him. If he was ordered to fire, he would fire, so as not to be punished. The workman listened, seized with the popular hatred against the army--against these brothers whose hearts were changed by sticking a pair of red pantaloons on to their buttocks. "Then what's your name?" "Jules." "And where do you come from?" "From Plogof, over there." He stretched out his arm at random. It was in Brittany, he knew no more. His small pale face grew animated. He began to laugh, and felt warmer. "I have a mother and a sister. They are waiting for me, sure enough. Ah! it won't be for to-morrow. When I left, they came with me as far as Pont-l'Abbé. We had to take the horse to Lepalmec: it nearly broke its legs at the bottom of the Audierne Hill. Cousin Charles was waiting for us with sausages, but the women were crying too much, and it stuck in our throats. Good Lord! what a long way off our home is!" His eyes grew moist, though he was still laughing. The desert moorland of Plogof, that wild storm-beaten point of the Raz, appeared to him beneath a dazzling sun in the rosy season of heather. "Do you think," he asked, "if I'm not punished, that they'll give me a month's leave in two years?" Then Étienne talked about Provence, which he had left when he was quite small. The daylight was growing, and flakes of snow began to fly in the earthy sky. And at last he felt anxious on noticing Jeanlin, who was prowling about in the midst of the bushes, stupefied to see him up there. The child was beckoning to him. What was the good of this dream of fraternizing with the soldiers? It would take years and years, and his useless attempt cast him down as though he had expected to succeed. But suddenly he understood Jeanlin's gesture. The sentinel was about to be relieved, and he went away, running off to bury himself at Réquillart, his heart crushed once more by the certainty of defeat; while the little scamp who ran beside him was accusing that dirty beast of a trooper of having called out the guard to fire at them. On the summit of the pit-bank Jules stood motionless, with eyes vacantly gazing at the falling snow. The sergeant was approaching with his men, and the regulation cries were exchanged. "_Qui vive?_--Advance and give the password!" And they heard the heavy steps begin again, ringing as though on a conquered country. In spite of the growing daylight, nothing stirred in the settlements; the colliers remained in silent rage beneath the military boot. CHAPTER II Snow had been falling for two days; since the morning it had ceased, and an intense frost had frozen the immense sheet. This black country, with its inky roads and walls and trees powdered with coal dust, was now white, a single whiteness stretching out without end. The Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement lay beneath the snow as though it had disappeared. No smoke came out of the chimneys; the houses, without fire and as cold as the stones in the street, did not melt the thick layer on the tiles. It was nothing more than a quarry of white slabs in the white plain, a vision of a dead village wound in its shroud. Along the roads the passing patrols alone made a muddy mess with their stamping. Among the Maheus the last shovelful of cinders had been burnt the evening before, and it was no use any longer to think of gleaning on the pit-bank in this terrible weather, when the sparrows themselves could not find a blade of grass. Alzire, from the obstinacy with which her poor hands had dug in the snow, was dying. Maheude had to wrap her up in the fragment of a coverlet while waiting for Dr. Vanderhaghen, for whom she had twice gone out without being able to find him. The servant had, however, promised that he would come to the settlement before night, and the mother was standing at the window watching, while the little invalid, who had wished to be downstairs, was shivering on a chair, having the illusion that it was better there near the cold grate. Old Bonnemort opposite, his legs bad once more, seemed to be sleeping; neither Lénore nor Henri had come back from scouring the roads, in company with Jeanlin, to ask for sous. Maheu alone was walking heavily up and down the bare room, stumbling against the wall at every turn, with the stupid air of an animal which can no longer see its cage. The petroleum also was finished; but the reflection of the snow from outside was so bright that it vaguely lit up the room, in spite of the deepening night. There was a noise of sabots, and the Levaque woman pushed open the door like a gale of wind, beside herself, shouting furiously from the threshold at Maheude: "Then it's you who have said that I forced my lodger to give me twenty sous when he sleeps with me?" The other shrugged her shoulders. "Don't bother me. I said nothing; and who told you so?" "They tell me you said so; it doesn't concern you who it was. You even said you could hear us at our dirty tricks behind the wall, and that the filth gets into our house because I'm always on my back. Just tell me you didn't say so, eh?" Every day quarrels broke out as a result of the constant gossiping of the women. Especially between those households which lived door to door, squabbles and reconciliations took place every day. But never before had such bitterness thrown them one against the other. Since the strike hunger exasperated their rancour, so that they felt the need of blows; an altercation between two gossiping women finished by a murderous onset between their two men. Just then Levaque arrived in his turn, dragging Bouteloup. "Here's our mate; let him just say if he has given twenty sous to my wife to sleep with her." The lodger, hiding his timid gentleness in his great beard, protested and stammered: "Oh, that? No! Never anything! never!" At once Levaque became threatening, and thrust his fist beneath Maheu's nose. "You know that won't do for me. If a man's got a wife like that, he ought to knock her ribs in. If not, then you believe what she says." "By God!" exclaimed Maheu, furious at being dragged out of his dejection, "what is all this clatter again? Haven't we got enough to do with our misery? Just leave me alone, damn you! or I'll let you know it! And first, who says that my wife said so?" "Who says so? Pierronne said so." Maheude broke into a sharp laugh, and turning towards the Levaque woman: "An! Pierronne, is it? Well! I can tell you what she told me. Yes, she told me that you sleep with both your men--the one underneath and the other on top!" After that it was no longer possible to come to an understanding. They all grew angry, and the Levaques, as a reply to the Maheus, asserted that Pierronne had said a good many other things on their account; that they had sold Catherine, that they were all rotten together, even to the little ones, with a dirty disease caught by Étienne at the Volcan. "She said that! She said that!" yelled Maheu. "Good! I'll go to her, I will, and if she says that she said that, she shall feel my hand on her chops!" He was carried out of himself, and the Levaques followed him to see what would happen, while Bouteloup, having a horror of disputes, furtively returned home. Excited by the altercation, Maheude was also going out, when a complaint from Alzire held her back. She crossed the ends of the coverlet over the little one's quivering body, and placed herself before the window, looking out vaguely. And that doctor, who still delayed! At the Pierrons' door Maheu and the Levaques met Lydie, who was stamping in the snow. The house was closed, and a thread of light came though a crack in a shutter. The child replied at first to their questions with constraint: no, her father was not there, he had gone to the washhouse to join Mother Brulé and bring back the bundle of linen. Then she was confused, and would not say what her mother was doing. At last she let out everything with a sly, spiteful laugh: her mother had pushed her out of the door because M. Dansaert was there, and she prevented them from talking. Since the morning he had been going about the settlement with two policemen, trying to pick up workmen, imposing on the weak, and announcing everywhere that if the descent did not take place on Monday at the Voreux, the Company had decided to hire men from the Borinage. And as the night came on he sent away the policemen, finding Pierronne alone; then he had remained with her to drink a glass of gin before a good fire. "Hush! hold your tongue! We must see them," said Levaque, with a lewd laugh. "We'll explain everything directly. Get off with you, youngster." Lydie drew back a few steps while he put his eye to a crack in the shutter. He stifled a low cry and his back bent with a quiver. In her turn his wife looked through, but she said, as though taken by the colic, that it was disgusting. Maheu, who had pushed her, wishing also to see, then declared that he had had enough for his money. And they began again, in a row, each taking his glance as at a peep-show. The parlour, glittering with cleanliness, was enlivened by a large fire; there were cakes on the table with a bottle and glasses, in fact quite a feast. What they saw going on in there at last exasperated the two men, who under other circumstances would have laughed over it for six months. That she should let herself be stuffed up to the neck, with her skirts in the air, was funny. But, good God! was it not disgusting to do that in front of a great fire, and to get up one's strength with biscuits, when the mates had neither a slice of bread nor a fragment of coal? "Here's father!" cried Lydie, running away. Pierron was quietly coming back from the washhouse with the bundle of linen on his shoulder. Maheu immediately addressed him: "Here! they tell me that your wife says that I sold Catherine, and that we are all rotten at home. And what do they pay you in your house, your wife and the gentleman who is this minute wearing out her skin?" The astonished Pierron could not understand, and Pierronne, seized with fear on hearing the tumult of voices, lost her head and set the door ajar to see what was the matter. They could see her, looking very red, with her dress open and her skirt tucked up at her waist; while Dansaert, in the background, was wildly buttoning himself up. The head captain rushed away and disappeared trembling with fear that this story would reach the manager's ears. Then there would be an awful scandal, laughter, and hooting and abuse. "You, who are always saying that other people are dirty!" shouted the Levaque woman to Pierronne; "it's not surprising that you're clean when you get the bosses to scour you." "Ah! it's fine for her to talk!" said Levaque again. "Here's a trollop who says that my wife sleeps with me and the lodger, one below and the other above! Yes! yes! that's what they tell me you say." But Pierronne, grown calm, held her own against this abuse, very contemptuous in the assurance that she was the best looking and the richest. "I've said what I've said; just leave me alone, will you! What have my affairs got to do with you, a pack of jealous creatures who want to get over us because we are able to save up money! Get along! get along! You can say what you like; my husband knows well enough why Monsieur Dansaert was here." Pierron, in fact, was furiously defending his wife. The quarrel turned. They accused him of having sold himself, of being a spy, the Company's dog; they charged him with shutting himself up, to gorge himself with the good things with which the bosses paid him for his treachery. In defence, he pretended that Maheu had slipped beneath his door a threatening paper with two cross-bones and a dagger above. And this necessarily ended in a struggle between the men, as the quarrels of the women always did now that famine was enraging the mildest. Maheu and Levaque rushed on Pierron with their fists, and had to be pulled off. Blood was flowing from her son-in-law's nose, when Mother Brulé, in her turn, arrived from the washhouse. When informed of what had been going on, she merely said: "The damned beast dishonours me!" The road was becoming deserted, not a shadow spotted the naked whiteness of the snow, and the settlement, falling back into its death-like immobility, went on starving beneath the intense cold. "And the doctor?" asked Maheu, as he shut the door. "Not come," replied Maheude, still standing before the window. "Are the little ones back?" "No, not back." Maheu again began his heavy walk from one wall to the other, looking like a stricken ox. Father Bonnemort, seated stiffly on his chair, had not even lifted his head. Alzire also had said nothing, and was trying not to shiver, so as to avoid giving them pain; but in spite of her courage in suffering, she sometimes trembled so much that one could hear against the coverlet the quivering of the little invalid girl's lean body, while with her large open eyes she stared at the ceiling, from which the pale reflection of the white gardens lit up the room like moonshine. The emptied house was now in its last agony, having reached a final stage of nakedness. The mattress ticks had followed the wool to the dealers; then the sheets had gone, the linen, everything that could be sold. One evening they had sold a handkerchief of the grandfather's for two sous. Tears fell over each object of the poor household which had to go, and the mother was still lamenting that one day she had carried away in her skirt the pink cardboard box, her man's old present, as one would carry away a child to get rid of it on some doorstep. They were bare; they had only their skins left to sell, so worn-out and injured that no one would have given a farthing for them. They no longer even took the trouble to search, they knew that there was nothing left, that they had come to the end of everything, that they must not hope even for a candle, or a fragment of coal, or a potato, and they were waiting to die, only grieved about the children, and revolted by the useless cruelty that gave the little one a disease before starving it. "At last! here he is!" said Maheude. A black figure passed before the window. The door opened. But it was not Dr. Vanderhaghen; they recognized the new curé, Abbé Ranvier, who did not seem surprised at coming on this dead house, without light, without fire, without bread. He had already been to three neighbouring houses, going from family to family, seeking willing listeners, like Dansaert with his two policemen; and at once he exclaimed, in his feverish fanatic's voice: "Why were you not at mass on Sunday, my children? You are wrong, the Church alone can save you. Now promise me to come next Sunday." Maheu, after staring at him, went on pacing heavily, without a word. It was Maheude who replied: "To mass, sir? What for? Isn't the good God making fun of us? Look here! what has my little girl there done to Him, to be shaking with fever? Hadn't we enough misery, that He had to make her ill too, just when I can't even give her a cup of warm gruel?" Then the priest stood and talked at length. He spoke of the strike, this terrible wretchedness, this exasperated rancour of famine, with the ardour of a missionary who is preaching to savages for the glory of religion. He said that the Church was with the poor, that she would one day cause justice to triumph by calling down the anger of God on the iniquities of the rich. And that day would come soon, for the rich had taken the place of God, and were governing without God, in their impious theft of power. But if the workers desired the fair division of the goods of the earth, they ought at once to put themselves in the hands of the priests, just as on the death of Jesus the poor and the humble grouped themselves around the apostles. What strength the pope would have, what an army the clergy would have under them, when they were able to command the numberless crowd of workers! In one week they would purge the world of the wicked, they would chase away the unworthy masters. Then, indeed, there would be a real kingdom of God, every one recompensed according to his merits, and the law of labour as the foundation for universal happiness. Maheude, who was listening to him, seemed to hear Étienne, in those autumn evenings when he announced to them the end of their evils. Only she had always distrusted the cloth. "That's very well, what you say there, sir," she replied, "but that's because you no longer agree with the bourgeois. All our other curés dined at the manager's, and threatened us with the devil as soon as we asked for bread." He began again, and spoke of the deplorable misunderstanding between the Church and the people. Now, in veiled phrases, he hit at the town curés, at the bishops, at the highly placed clergy, sated with enjoyment, gorged with domination, making pacts with the liberal middle class, in the imbecility of their blindness, not seeing that it was this middle class which had dispossessed them of the empire of the world. Deliverance would come from the country priests, who would all rise to re-establish the kingdom of Christ, with the help of the poor; and already he seemed to be at their head; he raised his bony form like the chief of a band, a revolutionary of the gospel, his eyes so filled with light that they illuminated the gloomy room. This enthusiastic sermon lifted him to mystic heights, and the poor people had long ceased to understand him. "No need for so many words," growled Maheu suddenly. "You'd best begin by bringing us a loaf." "Come on Sunday to mass," cried the priest. "God will provide for everything." And he went off to catechize the Levaques in their turn, so carried away by his dream of the final triumph of the Church, and so contemptuous of facts, that he would thus go through the settlements without charities, with empty hands amid this army dying of hunger, being a poor devil himself who looked upon suffering as the spur to salvation. Maheu continued his pacing, and nothing was heard but his regular tramp which made the floor tremble. There was the sound of a rust-eaten pulley; old Bonnemort was spitting into the cold grate. Then the rhythm of the feet began again. Alzire, weakened by fever, was rambling in a low voice, laughing, thinking that it was warm and that she was playing in the sun. "Good gracious!" muttered Maheude, after having touched her cheeks, "how she burns! I don't expect that damned beast now, the brigands must have stopped him from coming." She meant the doctor and the Company. She uttered a joyous exclamation, however, when the door once more opened. But her arms fell back and she remained standing still with gloomy face. "Good evening," whispered Étienne, when he had carefully closed the door. He often came thus at night-time. The Maheus learnt his retreat after the second day. But they kept the secret and no one in the settlement knew exactly what had become of the young man. A legend had grown up around him. People still believed in him and mysterious rumours circulated: he would reappear with an army and chests full of gold; and there was always the religious expectation of a miracle, the realized ideal, a sudden entry into that city of justice which he had promised them. Some said they had seen him lying back in a carriage, with three other gentlemen, on the Marchiennes road; others affirmed that he was in England for a few days. At length, however, suspicions began to arise and jokers accused him of hiding in a cellar, where Mouquette kept him warm; for this relationship, when known, had done him harm. There was a growing disaffection in the midst of his popularity, a gradual increase of the despairing among the faithful, and their number was certain, little by little, to grow. "What brutal weather!" he added. "And you--nothing new, always from bad to worse? They tell me that little Négrel has been to Belgium to get Borains. Good God! we are done for if that is true!" He shuddered as he entered this dark icy room, where it was some time before his eyes were able to see the unfortunate people whose presence he guessed by the deepening of the shade. He was experiencing the repugnance and discomfort of the workman who has risen above his class, refined by study and stimulated by ambition. What wretchedness! and odours! and the bodies in a heap! And a terrible pity caught him by the throat. The spectacle of this agony so overcame him that he tried to find words to advise submission. But Maheu came violently up to him, shouting: "Borains! They won't dare, the bloody fools! Let the Borains go down, then, if they want us to destroy the pits!" With an air of constraint, Étienne explained that it was not possible to move, that the soldiers who guarded the pits would protect the descent of the Belgian workmen. And Maheu clenched his fists, irritated especially, as he said, by having bayonets in his back. Then the colliers were no longer masters in their own place? They were treated, then, like convicts, forced to work by a loaded musket! He loved his pit, it was a great grief to him not to have been down for two months. He was driven wild, therefore, at the idea of this insult, these strangers whom they threatened to introduce. Then the recollection that his certificate had been given back to him struck him to the heart. "I don't know why I'm angry," he muttered. "I don't belong to their shop any longer. When they have hunted me away from here, I may as well die on the road." "As to that," said Étienne, "if you like, they'll take your certificate back to-morrow. People don't send away good workmen." He interrupted himself, surprised to hear Alzire, who was laughing softly in the delirium of her fever. So far he had only made out Father Bonnemort's stiff shadow, and this gaiety of the sick child frightened him. It was indeed too much if the little ones were going to die of it. With trembling voice he made up his mind. "Look here! this can't go on, we are done for. We must give it up." Maheude, who had been motionless and silent up to now, suddenly broke out, and treating him familiarly and swearing like a man, she shouted in his face: "What's that you say? It's you who say that, by God!" He was about to give reasons, but she would not let him speak. "Don't repeat that, by God! or, woman as I am, I'll put my fist into your face. Then we have been dying for two months, and I have sold my household, and my little ones have fallen ill of it, and there is to be nothing done, and the injustice is to begin again! Ah! do you know! when I think of that my blood stands still. No, no, I would burn everything, I would kill everything, rather than give up." She pointed at Maheu in the darkness, with a vague, threatening gesture. "Listen to this! If any man goes back to the pit, he'll find me waiting for him on the road to spit in his face and cry coward! Étienne could not see her, but he felt a heat like the breath of a barking animal. He had drawn back, astonished at this fury which was his work. She was so changed that he could no longer recognize the woman who was once so sensible, reproving his violent schemes, saying that we ought not to wish any one dead, and who was now refusing to listen to reason and talking of killing people. It was not he now, it was she, who talked politics, who dreamed of sweeping away the bourgeois at a stroke, who demanded the republic and the guillotine to free the earth of these rich robbers who fattened on the labour of starvelings. "Yes, I could flay them with my fingers. We've had enough of them! Our turn is come now; you used to say so yourself. When I think of the father, the grandfather, the grandfather's father, what all of them who went before have suffered, what we are suffering, and that our sons and our sons' sons will suffer it over again, it makes me mad--I could take a knife. The other day we didn't do enough at Montsou; we ought to have pulled the bloody place to the ground, down to the last brick. And do you know I've only one regret, that we didn't let the old man strangle the Piolaine girl. Hunger may strangle my little ones for all they care!" Her words fell like the blows of an axe in the night. The closed horizon would not open, and the impossible ideal was turning to poison in the depths of this skull which had been crushed by grief. "You have misunderstood," Étienne was able to say at last, beating a retreat. "We ought to come to an understanding with the Company. I know that the pits are suffering much, so that it would probably consent to an arrangement." "No, never!" she shouted. Just then Lénore and Henri came back with their hands empty. A gentleman had certainly given them two sous, but the girl kept kicking her little brother, and the two sous fell into the snow, and as Jeanlin had joined in the search they had not been able to find them. "Where is Jeanlin?" "He's gone away, mother; he said he had business." Étienne was listening with an aching heart. Once she had threatened to kill them if they ever held out their hands to beg. Now she sent them herself on to the roads, and proposed that all of them--the ten thousand colliers of Montsou--should take stick and wallet, like beggars of old, and scour the terrified country. The anguish continued to increase in the black room. The little urchins came back hungry, they wanted to eat; why could they not have something to eat? And they grumbled, flung themselves about, and at last trod on the feet of their dying sister, who groaned. The mother furiously boxed their ears in the darkness at random. Then, as they cried still louder, asking for bread, she burst into tears, and dropped on to the floor, seizing them in one embrace with the little invalid; then, for a long time, her tears fell in a nervous outbreak which left her limp and worn out, stammering over and over again the same phrase, calling for death: "O God! why do you not take us? O God! in pity take us, to have done with it!" The grandfather preserved his immobility, like an old tree twisted by the rain and wind; while the father continued walking between the fireplace and the cupboard, without turning his head. But the door opened, and this time it was Doctor Vanderhaghen. "The devil!" he said. "This light won't spoil your eyes. Look sharp! I'm in a hurry." As usual, he scolded, knocked up by work. Fortunately, he had matches with him, and the father had to strike six, one by one, and to hold them while he examined the invalid. Unwound from her coverlet, she shivered beneath this flickering light, as lean as a bird dying in the snow, so small that one only saw her hump. But she smiled with the wandering smile of the dying, and her eyes were very large; while her poor hands contracted over her hollow breast. And as the half-choked mother asked if it was right to take away from her the only child who helped in the household, so intelligent and gentle, the doctor grew vexed. "Ah! she is going. Dead of hunger, your blessed child. And not the only one, either; I've just seen another one over there. You all send for me, but I can't do anything; it's meat that you want to cure you." Maheu, with burnt fingers, had dropped the match, and the darkness closed over the little corpse, which was still warm. The doctor had gone away in a hurry. Étienne heard nothing more in the black room but Maheude's sobs, repeating her cry for death, that melancholy and endless lamentation: "O God! it is my turn, take me! O God! take my man, take the others, out of pity, to have done with it!" CHAPTER III On that Sunday, ever since eight o'clock, Souvarine had been sitting alone in the parlour of the Avantage, at his accustomed place, with his head against the wall. Not a single collier knew where to get two sous for a drink, and never had the bars had fewer customers. So Madame Rasseneur, motionless at the counter, preserved an irritated silence; while Rasseneur, standing before the iron fireplace, seemed to be gazing with a reflective air at the brown smoke from the coal. Suddenly, in this heavy silence of an over-heated room, three light quick blows struck against one of the window-panes made Souvarine turn his head. He rose, for he recognized the signal which Étienne had already used several times before, in order to call him, when he saw him from without, smoking his cigarette at an empty table. But before the engine-man could reach the door, Rasseneur had opened it, and, recognizing the man who stood there in the light from the window, he said to him: "Are you afraid that I shall sell you? You can talk better here than on the road." Étienne entered. Madame Rasseneur politely offered him a glass, which he refused, with a gesture. The innkeeper added: "I guessed long ago where you hide yourself. If I was a spy, as your friends say, I should have sent the police after you a week ago." "There is no need for you to defend yourself," replied the young man. "I know that you have never eaten that sort of bread. People may have different ideas and esteem each other all the same." And there was silence once more. Souvarine had gone back to his chair, with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on the smoke from his cigarette, but his feverish fingers were moving restlessly, and he ran them over his knees, seeking the warm fur of Poland, who was absent this evening; it was an unconscious discomfort, something that was lacking, he could not exactly say what. Seated on the other side of the table, Étienne at last said: "To-morrow work begins again at the Voreux. The Belgians have come with little Négrel." "Yes, they landed them at nightfall," muttered Rasseneur, who remained standing. "As long as they don't kill each other after all!" Then raising his voice: "No, you know, I don't want to begin our disputes over again, but this will end badly if you hold out any longer. Why, your story is just like that of your International. I met Pluchart the day before yesterday, at Lille, where I went on business. It's going wrong, that machine of his." He gave details. The association, after having conquered the workers of the whole world, in an outburst of propaganda which had left the middle class still shuddering, was now being devoured and slowly destroyed by an internal struggle between vanities and ambitions. Since the anarchists had triumphed in it, chasing out the earlier evolutionists, everything was breaking up; the original aim, the reform of the wage-system, was lost in the midst of the squabbling of sects; the scientific framework was disorganized by the hatred of discipline. And already it was possible to foresee the final miscarriage of this general revolt which for a moment had threatened to carry away in a breath the old rotten society. "Pluchart is ill over it," Rasseneur went on. "And he has no voice at all now. All the same, he talks on in spite of everything and wants to go to Paris. And he told me three times over that our strike was done for." Étienne with his eyes on the ground let him talk on without interruption. The evening before he had chatted with some mates, and he felt that breaths of spite and suspicion were passing over him, those first breaths of unpopularity which forerun defeat. And he remained gloomy, he would not confess dejection in the presence of a man who had foretold to him that the crowd would hoot him in his turn on the day when they had to avenge themselves for a miscalculation. "No doubt the strike is done for, I know that as well as Pluchart," he said. "But we foresaw that. We accepted this strike against our wishes, we didn't count on finishing up with the Company. Only one gets carried away, one begins to expect things, and when it turns out badly one forgets that one ought to have expected that, instead of lamenting and quarrelling as if it were a catastrophe tumbled down from heaven." "Then if you think the game's lost," asked Rasseneur, "why don't you make the mates listen to reason?" The young man looked at him fixedly. "Listen! enough of this. You have your ideas, I have mine. I came in here to show you that I feel esteem for you in spite of everything. But I still think that if we come to grief over this trouble, our starved carcasses will do more for the people's cause than all your common-sense politics. Ah! if one of those bloody soldiers would just put a bullet in my heart, that would be a fine way of ending!" His eyes were moist, as in this cry there broke out the secret desire of the vanquished, the refuge in which he desired to lose his torment for ever. "Well said!" declared Madame Rasseneur, casting on her husband a look which was full of all the contempt of her radical opinions. Souvarine, with a vague gaze, feeling about with his nervous hands, did not appear to hear. His fair girlish face, with the thin nose and small pointed teeth, seemed to be growing savage in some mystic dream full of bloody visions. And he began to dream aloud, replying to a remark of Rasseneur's about the International which had been let fall in the course of the conversation. "They are all cowards; there is only one man who can make their machine into a terrible instrument of destruction. It requires will, and none of them have will; and that's why the revolution will miscarry once more." He went on in a voice of disgust, lamenting the imbecility of men, while the other two were disturbed by these somnambulistic confidences made in the darkness. In Russia there was nothing going on well, and he was in despair over the news he had received. His old companions were all turning to the politicians; the famous Nihilists who made Europe tremble--sons of village priests, of the lower middle class, of tradesmen--could not rise above the idea of national liberation, and seemed to believe that the world would be delivered--when they had killed their despot. As soon as he spoke to them of razing society to the ground like a ripe harvest--as soon as he even pronounced the infantile word "republic"--he felt that he was misunderstood and a disturber, henceforth unclassed, enrolled among the lost leaders of cosmopolitan revolution. His patriotic heart struggled, however, and it was with painful bitterness that he repeated his favourite expression: "Foolery! They'll never get out of it with their foolery." Then, lowering his voice still more, in a few bitter words he described his old dream of fraternity. He had renounced his rank and his fortune; he had gone among workmen, only in the hope of seeing at last the foundation of a new society of labour in common. All the sous in his pockets had long gone to the urchins of the settlement; he had been as tender as a brother with the colliers, smiling at their suspicion, winning them over by his quiet workmanlike ways and his dislike of chattering. But decidedly the fusion had not taken place; he remained a stranger, with his contempt of all bonds, his desire to keep himself free of all petty vanities and enjoyments. And since this morning he had been especially exasperated by reading an incident in the newspapers. His voice changed, his eyes grew bright, he fixed them on Étienne, directly addressing him: "Now, do you understand that? These hatworkers at Marseilles who have won the great lottery prize of a hundred thousand francs have gone off at once and invested it, declaring that they are going to live without doing anything! Yes, that is your idea, all of you French workmen; you want to unearth a treasure in order to devour it alone afterwards in some lazy, selfish corner. You may cry out as much as you like against the rich, you haven't got courage enough to give back to the poor the money that luck brings you. You will never be worthy of happiness as long as you own anything, and your hatred of the bourgeois proceeds solely from an angry desire to be bourgeois yourselves in their place." Rasseneur burst out laughing. The idea that the two Marseilles workmen ought to renounce the big prize seemed to him absurd. But Souvarine grew pale; his face changed and became terrible in one of those religious rages which exterminate nations. He cried: "You will all be mown down, overthrown, cast on the dung-heap. Someone will be born who will annihilate your race of cowards and pleasure-seekers. And look here! you see my hands; if my hands were able they would take up the earth, like that, and shake it until it was smashed to fragments, and you were all buried beneath the rubbish." "Well said," declared Madame Rasseneur, with her polite and convinced air. There was silence again. Then Étienne spoke once more of the Borinage men. He questioned Souvarine concerning the steps that had been taken at the Voreux. But the engine-man was still preoccupied, and scarcely replied. He only knew that cartridges would be distributed to the soldiers who were guarding the pit; and the nervous restlessness of his fingers over his knees increased to such an extent that, at last, he became conscious of what was lacking--the soft and soothing fur of the tame rabbit. "Where is Poland, then?" he asked. The innkeeper laughed again as he looked at his wife. After an awkward silence he made up his mind: "Poland? She is in the pot." Since her adventure with Jeanlin, the pregnant rabbit, no doubt wounded, had only brought forth dead young ones; and to avoid feeding a useless mouth they had resigned themselves that very day to serve her up with potatoes. "Yes, you ate one of her legs this evening. Eh! You licked your fingers after it!" Souvarine had not understood at first. Then he became very pale, and his face contracted with nausea; while, in spite of his stoicism, two large tears were swelling beneath his eyelids. But no one had time to notice this emotion, for the door had opened roughly and Chaval had appeared, pushing Catherine before him. After having made himself drunk with beer and bluster in all the public-houses of Montsou, the idea had occurred to him to go to the Avantage to show his old friends that he was not afraid. As he came in, he said to his mistress: "By God! I tell you you shall drink a glass in here; I'll break the jaws of the first man who looks askance at me!" Catherine, moved at the sight of Étienne, had become very pale. When Chaval in his turn perceived him, he grinned in his evil fashion. "Two glasses, Madame Rasseneur! We're wetting the new start of work." Without a word she poured out, as a woman who never refused her beer to any one. There was silence, and neither the landlord nor the two others stirred from their places. "I know people who've said that I was a spy," Chaval went on swaggeringly, "and I'm waiting for them just to say it again to my face, so that we can have a bit of explanation." No one replied, and the men turned their heads and gazed vaguely at the walls. "There are some who sham, and there are some who don't sham," he went on louder. "I've nothing to hide. I've left Deneulin's dirty shop, and to-morrow I'm going down to the Voreux with a dozen Belgians, who have been given me to lead because I'm held in esteem; and if any one doesn't like that, he can just say so, and we'll talk it over." Then, as the same contemptuous silence greeted his provocations, he turned furiously on Catherine. "Will you drink, by God? Drink with me to the confusion of all the dirty beasts who refuse to work." She drank, but with so trembling a hand that the two glasses struck together with a tinkling sound. He had now pulled out of his pocket a handful of silver, which he exhibited with drunken ostentation, saying that he had earned that with his sweat, and that he defied the shammers to show ten sous. The attitude of his mates exasperated him, and he began to come to direct insults. "Then it is at night that the moles come out? The police have to go to sleep before we meet the brigands." Étienne had risen, very calm and resolute. "Listen! You annoy me. Yes, you are a spy; your money still stinks of some treachery. You've sold yourself, and it disgusts me to touch your skin. No matter; I'm your man. It is quite time that one of us did for the other." Chaval clenched his fists. "Come along, then, cowardly dog! I must call you so to warm you up. You all alone--I'm quite willing; and you shall pay for all the bloody tricks that have been played on me." With suppliant arms Catherine advanced between them. But they had no need to repel her; she felt the necessity of the battle, and slowly drew back of her own accord. Standing against the wall, she remained silent, so paralysed with anguish that she no longer shivered, her large eyes gazing at these two men who were going to kill each other over her. Madame Rasseneur simply removed the glasses from the counter for fear that they might be broken. Then she sat down again on the bench, without showing any improper curiosity. But two old mates could not be left to murder each other like this. Rasseneur persisted in interfering, and Souvarine had to take him by the shoulder and lead him back to the table, saying: "It doesn't concern you. There is one of them too many, and the strongest must live." Without waiting for the attack, Chaval's fists were already dealing blows at space. He was the taller of the two, and his blows swung about aiming at the face, with furious cutting movements of both arms one after the other, as though he were handling a couple of sabres. And he went on talking, playing to the gallery with volleys of abuse, which served to excite him. "Ah! you damned devil, I'll have your nose! I'll do for your bloody nose! Just let me get at your chops, you whore's looking-glass; I'll make a hash for the bloody swine, and then we shall see if the strumpets will run after you!" In silence, and with clenched teeth, Étienne gathered up his small figure, according to the rules of the game, protecting his chest and face by both fists; and he watched and let them fly like springs released, with terrible straight blows. At first they did each other little damage. The whirling and blustering blows of the one, the cool watchfulness of the other, prolonged the struggle. A chair was overthrown; their heavy boots crushed the white sand scattered on the floor. But at last they were out of breath, their panting respiration was heard, while their faces became red and swollen as from an interior fire which flamed out from the clear holes of their eyes. "Played!" yelled Chaval; "trumps on your carcass!" In fact his fist, working like a flail, had struck his adversary's shoulder. Étienne restrained a groan of pain and the only sound that was heard was the dull bruising of the muscles. Étienne replied with a straight blow to Chaval's chest, which would have knocked him out, had he had not saved himself by one of his constant goat-like leaps. The blow, however, caught him on the left flank with such effect that he tottered, momentarily winded. He became furious on feeling his arm grow limp with pain, and kicked out like a wild beast, aiming at his adversary's belly with his heel. "Have at your guts!" he stammered in a choked voice. "I'll pull them out and unwind them for you!" Étienne avoided the blow, so indignant at this infraction of the laws of fair fighting that he broke silence. "Hold your tongue, brute! And no feet, by God! or I take a chair and bash you with it!" Then the struggle became serious. Rasseneur was disgusted, and would again have interfered, but a severe look from his wife held him back: had not two customers a right to settle an affair in the house? He simply placed himself before the fireplace, for fear lest they should tumble over into it. Souvarine, in his quiet way, had rolled a cigarette, but he forgot to light it. Catherine was motionless against the wall; only her hands had unconsciously risen to her waist, and with constant fidgeting movements were twisting and tearing at the stuff of her dress. She was striving as hard as possible not to cry out, and so, perhaps, kill one of them by declaring her preference; but she was, too, so distracted that she did not even know which she preferred. Chaval, who was bathed in sweat and striking at random, soon became exhausted. In spite of his anger, Étienne continued to cover himself, parrying nearly all the blows, a few of which grazed him. His ear was split, a finger nail had torn away a piece of his neck, and this so smarted that he swore in his turn as he drove out one of his terrible straight blows. Once more Chaval saved his chest by a leap, but he had lowered himself, and the fist reached his face, smashing his nose and crushing one eye. Immediately a jet of blood came from his nostrils, and his eye became swollen and bluish. Blinded by this red flood, and dazed by the shock to his skull, the wretch was beating the air with his arms at random, when another blow, striking him at last full in the chest, finished him. There was a crunching sound; he fell on his back with a heavy thud, as when a sack of plaster is emptied. Étienne waited. "Get up! if you want some more, we'll begin again." Without replying, Chaval, after a few minutes' stupefaction, moved on the ground and stretched his limbs. He picked himself up with difficulty, resting for a moment curled up on his knees, doing something with his hand in the bottom of his pocket which could not be observed. Then, when he was up, he rushed forward again, his throat swelling with a savage yell. But Catherine had seen; and in spite of herself a loud cry came from her heart, astonishing her like the avowal of a preference she had herself been ignorant of: "Take care! he's got his knife!" Étienne had only time to parry the first blow with his arm. His woollen jacket was cut by the thick blade, one of those blades fastened by a copper ferrule into a boxwood handle. He had already seized Chaval's wrist, and a terrible struggle began; for he felt that he would be lost if he let go, while the other shook his arm in the effort to free it and strike. The weapon was gradually lowered as their stiffened limbs grew fatigued. Étienne twice felt the cold sensation of the steel against his skin; and he had to make a supreme effort, so crushing the other's wrist that the knife slipped from his hand. Both of them had fallen to the earth, and it was Étienne who snatched it up, brandishing it in his turn. He held Chaval down beneath his knee and threatened to slit his throat open. "Ah, traitor! by God! you've got it coming to you now!" He felt an awful voice within, deafening him. It arose from his bowels and was beating in his head like a hammer, a sudden mania of murder, a need to taste blood. Never before had the crisis so shaken him. He was not drunk, however, and he struggled against the hereditary disease with the despairing shudder of a man who is mad with lust and struggles on the verge of rape. At last he conquered himself; he threw the knife behind him, stammering in a hoarse voice: "Get up--off you go!" This time Rasseneur had rushed forward, but without quite daring to venture between them, for fear of catching a nasty blow. He did not want any one to be murdered in his house, and was so angry that his wife, sitting erect at the counter, remarked to him that he always cried out too soon. Souvarine, who had nearly caught the knife in his legs, decided to light his cigarette. Was it, then, all over? Catherine was looking on stupidly at the two men, who were unexpectedly both living. "Off you go!" repeated Étienne. "Off you go, or I'll do for you!" Chaval arose, and with the back of his hand wiped away the blood which continued to flow from his nose; with jaw smeared red and bruised eye, he went away trailing his feet, furious at his defeat. Catherine mechanically followed him. Then he turned round, and his hatred broke out in a flood of filth. "No, no! since you want him, sleep with him, dirty jade! and don't put your bloody feet in my place again if you value your skin!" He violently banged the door. There was deep silence in the warm room, the low crackling of the coal was alone heard. On the ground there only remained the overturned chair and a rain of blood which the sand on the floor was drinking up. CHAPTER IV When they came out of Rasseneur's, Étienne and Catherine walked on in silence. The thaw was beginning, a slow cold thaw which stained the snow without melting it. In the livid sky a full moon could be faintly seen behind great clouds, black rags driven furiously by a tempestuous wind far above; and on the earth no breath was stirring, nothing could be heard but drippings from the roofs, the falling of white lumps with a soft thud. Étienne was embarrassed by this woman who had been given to him, and in his disquiet he could find nothing to say. The idea of taking her with him to hide at Réquillart seemed absurd. He had proposed to lead her back to the settlement, to her parents' house, but she had refused in terror. No, no! anything rather than be a burden on them once more after having behaved so badly to them! And neither of them spoke any more; they tramped on at random through the roads which were becoming rivers of mud. At first they went down towards the Voreux; then they turned to the right and passed between the pit-bank and the canal. "But you'll have to sleep somewhere," he said at last. "Now, if I only had a room, I could easily take you----" But a curious spasm of timidity interrupted him. The past came back to him, their old longings for each other, and the delicacies and the shames which had prevented them from coming together. Did he still desire her, that he felt so troubled, gradually warmed at the heart by a fresh longing? The recollection of the blows she had dealt him at Gaston-Marie now attracted him instead of filling him with spite. And he was surprised; the idea of taking her to Réquillart was becoming quite natural and easy to execute. "Now, come, decide; where would you like me to take you? You must hate me very much to refuse to come with me!" She was following him slowly, delayed by the painful slipping of her sabots into the ruts; and without raising her head she murmured: "I have enough trouble, good God! don't give me any more. What good would it do us, what you ask, now that I have a lover and you have a woman yourself?" She meant Mouquette. She believed that he still went with this girl, as the rumour ran for the last fortnight; and when he swore to her that it was not so she shook her head, for she remembered the evening when she had seen them eagerly kissing each other. "Isn't it a pity, all this nonsense?" he whispered, stopping. "We might understand each other so well." She shuddered slightly and replied: "Never mind, you've nothing to be sorry for; you don't lose much. If you knew what a trumpery thing I am--no bigger than two ha'porth of butter, so ill made that I shall never become a woman, sure enough!" And she went on freely accusing herself, as though the long delay of her puberty had been her own fault. In spite of the man whom she had had, this lessened her, placed her among the urchins. One has some excuse, at any rate, when one can produce a child. "My poor little one!" said Étienne, with deep pity, in a very low voice. They were at the foot of the pit-bank, hidden in the shadow of the enormous pile. An inky cloud was just then passing over the moon; they could no longer even distinguish their faces, their breaths were mingled, their lips were seeking each other for that kiss which had tormented them with desire for months. But suddenly the moon reappeared, and they saw the sentinel above them, at the top of the rocks white with light, standing out erect on the Voreux. And before they had kissed an emotion of modesty separated them, that old modesty in which there was something of anger, a vague repugnance, and much friendship. They set out again heavily, up to their ankles in mud. "Then it's settled. You don't want to have anything to do with me?" asked Étienne. "No," she said. "You after Chaval; and after you another, eh? No, that disgusts me; it doesn't give me any pleasure. What's the use of doing it?" They were silent, and walked some hundred paces without exchanging a word. "But, anyhow, do you know where to go to?" he said again. "I can't leave you out in a night like this." She replied, simply: "I'm going back. Chaval is my man. I have nowhere else to sleep but with him." "But he will beat you to death." There was silence again. She had shrugged her shoulders in resignation. He would beat her, and when he was tired of beating her he would stop. Was not that better than to roam the streets like a vagabond? Then she was used to blows; she said, to console herself, that eight out of ten girls were no better off than she was. If her lover married her some day it would, all the same, be very nice of him. Étienne and Catherine were moving mechanically towards Montsou, and as they came nearer their silences grew longer. It was as though they had never before been together. He could find no argument to convince her, in spite of the deep vexation which he felt at seeing her go back to Chaval. His heart was breaking, he had nothing better to offer than an existence of wretchedness and flight, a night with no to-morrow should a soldier's bullet go through his head. Perhaps, after all, it was wiser to suffer what he was suffering rather than risk a fresh suffering. So he led her back to her lover's, with sunken head, and made no protest when she stopped him on the main road, at the corner of the Yards, twenty metres from the Estaminet Piquette, saying: "Don't come any farther. If he sees you it will only make things worse." Eleven o'clock struck at the church. The estaminet was closed, but gleams came through the cracks. "Good-bye," she murmured. She had given him her hand; he kept it, and she had to draw it away painfully, with a slow effort, to leave him. Without turning her head, she went in through the little latched door. But he did not turn away, standing at the same place with his eyes on the house, anxious as to what was passing within. He listened, trembling lest he should hear the cries of a beaten woman. The house remained black and silent; he only saw a light appear at a first-floor window, and as this window opened, and he recognized the thin shadow that was leaning over the road, he came near. Catherine then whispered very low: "He's not come back. I'm going to bed. Please go away." Étienne went off. The thaw was increasing; a regular shower was falling from the roofs, a moist sweat flowed down the walls, the palings, the whole confused mass of this industrial district lost in night. At first he turned towards Réquillart, sick with fatigue and sadness, having no other desire except to disappear under the earth and to be annihilated there. Then the idea of the Voreux occurred to him again. He thought of the Belgian workmen who were going down, of his mates at the settlement, exasperated against the soldiers and resolved not to tolerate strangers in their pit. And he passed again along the canal through the puddles of melted snow. As he stood once more near the pit-bank the moon was shining brightly. He raised his eyes and gazed at the sky. The clouds were galloping by, whipped on by the strong wind which was blowing up there; but they were growing white, and ravelling out thinly with the misty transparency of troubled water over the moon's face. They succeeded each other so rapidly that the moon, veiled at moments, constantly reappeared in limpid clearness. With gaze full of this pure brightness, Étienne was lowering his head, when a spectacle on the summit of the pit-bank attracted his attention. The sentinel, stiffened by cold, was walking up and down, taking twenty-five paces towards Marchiennes, and then returning towards Montsou. The white glitter of his bayonet could be seen above his black silhouette, which stood out clearly against the pale sky. But what interested the young man, behind the cabin where Bonnemort used to take shelter on tempestuous nights, was a moving shadow--a crouching beast in ambush--which he immediately recognized as Jeanlin, with his long flexible spine like a marten's. The sentinel could not see him. That brigand of a child was certainly preparing some practical joke, for he was still furious against the soldiers, and asking when they were going to be freed from these murderers who had been sent here with guns to kill people. For a moment Étienne thought of calling him to prevent the execution of some stupid trick. The moon was hidden. He had seen him draw himself up ready to spring; but the moon reappeared, and the child remained crouching. At every turn the sentinel came as far as the cabin, then turned his back and walked in the opposite direction. And suddenly, as a cloud threw its shadow, Jeanlin leapt on to the soldier's shoulders with the great bound of a wild cat, and gripping him with his claws buried his large open knife in his throat. The horse-hair collar resisted; he had to apply both hands to the handle and hang on with all the weight of his body. He had often bled fowls which he had found behind farms. It was so rapid that there was only a stifled cry in the night, while the musket fell with the sound of old iron. Already the moon was shining again. Motionless with stupor, Étienne was still gazing. A shout had been choked in his chest. Above, the pit-bank was vacant; no shadow was any longer visible against the wild flight of clouds. He ran up and found Jeanlin on all fours before the corpse, which was lying back with extended arms. Beneath the limpid light the red trousers and grey overcoat contrasted harshly with the snow. Not a drop of blood had flowed, the knife was still in the throat up to the handle. With a furious, unreasoning blow of the fist he knocked the child down beside the body. "What have you done that for?" he stammered wildly. Jeanlin picked himself up and rested on his hands, with a feline movement of his thin spine; his large ears, his green eyes, his prominent jaws were quivering and aflame with the shock of his deadly blow. "By God! why have you done this?" "I don't know; I wanted to." He persisted in this reply. For three days he had wanted to. It tormented him, it made his head ache behind his ears, because he thought about it so much. Need one be so particular with these damned soldiers who were worrying the colliers in their own homes? Of the violent speeches he had heard in the forest, the cries of destruction and death shouted among the pits, five or six words had remained with him, and these he repeated like a street urchin playing at revolution. And he knew no more; no one had urged him on, it had come to him of itself, just as the desire to steal onions from a field came to him. Startled at this obscure growth of crime in the recesses of this childish brain, Étienne again pushed him away with a kick, like an unconscious animal. He trembled lest the guard at the Voreux had heard the sentinel's stifled cry, and looked towards the pit every time the moon was uncovered. But nothing stirred, and he bent down, felt the hands that were gradually becoming icy, and listened to the heart, which had stopped beneath the overcoat. Only the bone handle of the knife could be seen with the motto on it, the simple word "Amour," engraved in black letters. His eyes went from the throat to the face. Suddenly he recognized the little soldier; it was Jules, the recruit with whom he had talked one morning. And deep pity came over him in front of this fair gentle face, marked with freckles. The blue eyes, wide open, were gazing at the sky with that fixed gaze with which he had before seen him searching the horizon for the country of his birth. Where was it, that Plogof which had appeared to him beneath the dazzling sun? Over there, over there! The sea was moaning afar on this tempestuous night. That wind passing above had perhaps swept over the moors. Two women perhaps were standing there, the mother and the sister, clutching their wind-blown coifs, gazing as if they could see what was now happening to the little fellow through the leagues which separated them. They would always wait for him now. What an abominable thing it is for poor devils to kill each other for the sake of the rich! But this corpse had to be disposed of. Étienne at first thought of throwing it into the canal, but was deterred from this by the certainty that it would be found there. His anxiety became extreme, every minute was of importance; what decision should he take? He had a sudden inspiration: if he could carry the body as far as Réquillart, he would be able to bury it there for ever. "Come here," he said to Jeanlin. The child was suspicious. "No, you want to beat me. And then I have business. Good night." In fact, he had given a rendezvous to Bébert and Lydie in a hiding-place, a hole arranged under the wood supply at the Voreux. It had been arranged to sleep out, so as to be there if the Belgians' bones were to be broken by stoning when they went down the pit. "Listen!" repeated Étienne. "Come here, or I shall call the soldiers, who will cut your head off." And as Jeanlin was making up his mind, he rolled his handkerchief, and bound the soldier's neck tightly, without drawing out the knife, so as to prevent the blood from flowing. The snow was melting; on the soil there was neither a red patch nor the footmarks of a struggle. "Take the legs!" Jeanlin took the legs, while Étienne seized the shoulders, after having fastened the gun behind his back, and then they both slowly descended the pit-bank, trying to avoid rolling any rocks down. Fortunately the moon was hidden. But as they passed along the canal it reappeared brightly, and it was a miracle that the guard did not see them. Silently they hastened on, hindered by the swinging of the corpse, and obliged to place it on the ground every hundred metres. At the corner of the Réquillart lane they heard a sound which froze them with terror, and they only had time to hide behind a wall to avoid a patrol. Farther on, a man came across them, but he was drunk, and moved away abusing them. At last they reached the old pit, bathed in perspiration, and so exhausted that their teeth were chattering. Étienne had guessed that it would not be easy to get the soldier down the ladder shaft. It was an awful task. First of all Jeanlin, standing above, had to let the body slide down, while Étienne, hanging on to the bushes, had to accompany it to enable it to pass the first two ladders where the rungs were broken. Afterwards, at every ladder, he had to perform the same manoeuvre over again, going down first, then receiving the body in his arms; and he had thus, down thirty ladders, two hundred and ten metres, to feel it constantly falling over him. The gun scraped his spine; he had not allowed the child to go for the candle-end, which he preserved avariciously. What was the use? The light would only embarrass them in this narrow tube. When they arrived at the pit-eye, however, out of breath, he sent the youngster for the candle. He then sat down and waited for him in the darkness, near the body, with heart beating violently. As soon as Jeanlin reappeared with the light, Étienne consulted with him, for the child had explored these old workings, even to the cracks through which men could not pass. They set out again, dragging the dead body for nearly a kilometre, through a maze of ruinous galleries. At last the roof became low, and they found themselves kneeling beneath a sandy rock supported by half-broken planks. It was a sort of long chest in which they laid the little soldier as in a coffin; they placed his gun by his side; then with vigorous blows of their heels they broke the timber at the risk of being buried themselves. Immediately the rock gave way, and they scarcely had time to crawl back on their elbows and knees. When Étienne returned, seized by the desire to look once more, the roof was still falling in, slowly crushing the body beneath its enormous weight. And then there was nothing more left, nothing but the vast mass of the earth. Jeanlin, having returned to his own corner, his little cavern of villainy, was stretching himself out on the hay, overcome by weariness, and murmuring: "Heigho! the brats must wait for me; I'm going to have an hour's sleep." Étienne had blown out the candle, of which there was only a small end left. He also was worn out, but he was not sleepy; painful nightmare thoughts were beating like hammers in his skull. Only one at last remained, torturing him and fatiguing him with a question to which he could not reply: Why had he not struck Chaval when he held him beneath the knife? and why had this child just killed a soldier whose very name he did not know? It shook his revolutionary beliefs, the courage to kill, the right to kill. Was he, then, a coward? In the hay the child had begun snoring, the snoring of a drunken man, as if he were sleeping off the intoxication of his murder. Étienne was disgusted and irritated; it hurt him to know that the boy was there and to hear him. Suddenly he started, a breath of fear passed over his face. A light rustling, a sob, seemed to him to have come out of the depths of the earth. The image of the little soldier, lying over there with his gun beneath the rocks, froze his back and made his hair stand up. It was idiotic, the whole mine seemed to be filled with voices; he had to light the candle again, and only grew calm on seeing the emptiness of the galleries by this pale light. For another quarter of an hour he reflected, still absorbed in the same struggle, his eyes fixed on the burning wick. But there was a spluttering, the wick was going out, and everything fell back into darkness. He shuddered again; he could have boxed Jeanlin's ears, to keep him from snoring so loudly. The neighbourhood of the child became so unbearable that he escaped, tormented by the need for fresh air, hastening through the galleries and up the passage, as though he could hear a shadow, panting, at his heels. Up above, in the midst of the ruins of Réquillart, Étienne was at last able to breathe freely. Since he dared not kill, it was for him to die; and this idea of death, which had already touched him, came again and fixed itself in his head, as a last hope. To die bravely, to die for the revolution, that would end everything, would settle his account, good or bad, and prevent him from thinking more. If the men attacked the Borains, he would be in the first rank, and would have a good chance of getting a bad blow. It was with firmer step that he returned to prowl around the Voreux. Two o'clock struck, and the loud noise of voices was coming from the captains' room, where the guards who watched over the pit were posted. The disappearance of the sentinel had overcome the guards with surprise; they had gone to arouse the captain, and after a careful examination of the place, they concluded that it must be a case of desertion. Hiding in the shade, Étienne recollected this republican captain of whom the little soldier had spoken. Who knows if he might not be persuaded to pass over to the people's side! The troop would raise their rifles, and that would be the signal for a massacre of the bourgeois. A new dream took possession of him; he thought no more of dying, but remained for hours with his feet in the mud, and a drizzle from the thaw falling on his shoulders, filled by the feverish hope that victory was still possible. Up to five o'clock he watched for the Borains. Then he perceived that the Company had cunningly arranged that they should sleep at the Voreux. The descent had begun, and the few strikers from the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement who had been posted as scouts had not yet warned their mates. It was he who told them of the trick, and they set out running, while he waited behind the pit-bank, on the towing-path. Six o'clock struck, and the earthy sky was growing pale and lighting up with a reddish dawn, when the Abbé Ranvier came along a path, holding up his cassock above his thin legs. Every Monday he went to say an early mass at a convent chapel on the other side of the pit. "Good morning, my friend," he shouted in a loud voice, after staring at the young man with his flaming eyes. But Étienne did not reply. Far away between the Voreux platforms he had just seen a woman pass, and he rushed forward anxiously, for he thought he recognized Catherine. Since midnight, Catherine had been walking about the thawing roads. Chaval, on coming back and finding her in bed, had knocked her out with a blow. He shouted to her to go at once by the door if she did not wish to go by the window; and scarcely dressed, in tears, and bruised by kicks in her legs, she had been obliged to go down, pushed outside by a final thrust. This sudden separation dazed her, and she sat down on a stone, looking up at the house, still expecting that he would call her back. It was not possible; he would surely look for her and tell her to come back when he saw her thus shivering and abandoned, with no one to take her in. At the end of two hours she made up her mind, dying of cold and as motionless as a dog thrown into the street. She left Montsou, then retraced her steps, but dared neither to call from the pathway nor to knock at the door. At last she went off by the main road to the right with the idea of going to the settlement, to her parents' house. But when she reached it she was seized by such shame that she rushed away along the gardens for fear of being recognized by someone, in spite of the heavy sleep which weighed on all eyes behind the closed shutters. And after that she wandered about, frightened at the slightest noise, trembling lest she should be seized and led away as a strumpet to that house at Marchiennes, the threat of which had haunted her like nightmare for months. Twice she stumbled against the Voreux, but terrified at the loud voices of the guard, she ran away out of breath, looking behind her to see if she was being pursued. The Réquillart lane was always full of drunken men; she went back to it, however, with the vague hope of meeting there him she had repelled a few hours earlier. Chaval had to go down that morning, and this thought brought Catherine again towards the pit, though she felt that it would be useless to speak to him: all was over between them. There was no work going on at Jean-Bart, and he had sworn to kill her if she worked again at the Voreux, where he feared that she would compromise him. So what was to be done?--to go elsewhere, to die of hunger, to yield beneath the blows of every man who might pass? She dragged herself along, tottering amid the ruts, with aching legs and mud up to her spine. The thaw had now filled the streets with a flood of mire. She waded through it, still walking, not daring to look for a stone to sit on. Day appeared. Catherine had just recognized the back of Chaval, who was cautiously going round the pit-bank, when she noticed Lydie and Bébert putting their noses out of their hiding-place beneath the wood supply. They had passed the night there in ambush, without going home, since Jeanlin's order was to await him; and while this latter was sleeping off the drunkenness of his murder at Réquillart, the two children were lying in each other's arms to keep warm. The wind blew between the planks of chestnut and oak, and they rolled themselves up as in some wood-cutter's abandoned hut. Lydie did not dare to speak aloud the sufferings of a small beaten woman, any more than Bébert found courage to complain of the captain's blows which made his cheeks swell; but the captain was really abusing his power, risking their bones in mad marauding expeditions while refusing to share the booty. Their hearts rose in revolt, and they had at last embraced each other in spite of his orders, careless of that box of the ears from the invisible with which he had threatened them. It never came, so they went on kissing each other softly, with no idea of anything else, putting into that caress the passion they had long struggled against--the whole of their martyred and tender natures. All night through they had thus kept each other warm, so happy, at the bottom of this secret hole, that they could not remember that they had ever been so happy before--not even on St. Barbara's day, when they had eaten fritters and drunk wine. The sudden sound of a bugle made Catherine start. She raised herself, and saw the Voreux guards taking up their arms. Étienne arrived running; Bébert and Lydie jumped out of their hiding-place with a leap. And over there, beneath the growing daylight, a band of men and women were coming from the settlement, gesticulating wildly with anger. CHAPTER V All the entrances to the Voreux had been closed, and the sixty soldiers, with grounded arms, were barring the only door left free, that leading to the receiving-room by a narrow staircase into which opened the captains' room and the shed. The men had been drawn up in two lines against the brick wall, so that they could not be attacked from behind. At first the band of miners from the settlement kept at a distance. They were some thirty at most, and talked together in a violent and confused way. Maheude, who had arrived first with dishevelled hair beneath a handkerchief knotted on in haste, and having Estelle asleep in her arms, repeated in feverish tones: "Don't let any one in or any one out! Shut them all in there!" Maheu approved, and just then Father Mouque arrived from Réquillart. They wanted to prevent him from passing. But he protested; he said that his horses ate their hay all the same, and cared precious little about a revolution. Besides, there was a horse dead, and they were waiting for him to draw it up. Étienne freed the old groom, and the soldiers allowed him to go to the shaft. A quarter of an hour later, as the band of strikers, which had gradually enlarged, was becoming threatening, a large door opened on the ground floor and some men appeared drawing out the dead beast, a miserable mass of flesh still fastened in the rope net; they left it in the midst of the puddles of melting snow. The surprise was so great that no one prevented the men from returning and barricading the door afresh. They all recognized the horse, with his head bent back and stiff against the plank. Whispers ran around: "It's Trompette, isn't it? it's Trompette." It was, in fact, Trompette. Since his descent he had never become acclimatized. He remained melancholy, with no taste for his task, as though tortured by regret for the light. In vain Bataille, the _doyen_ of the mine, would rub him with his ribs in his friendly way, softly biting his neck to impart to him a little of the resignation gained in his ten years beneath the earth. These caresses increased his melancholy, his skin quivered beneath the confidences of the comrade who had grown old in darkness; and both of them, whenever they met and snorted together, seemed to be grieving, the old one that he could no longer remember, the young one that he could not forget. At the stable they were neighbours at the manger, and lived with lowered heads, breathing in each other's nostrils, exchanging a constant dream of daylight, visions of green grass, of white roads, of infinite yellow light. Then, when Trompette, bathed in sweat, lay in agony in his litter, Bataille had smelled at him despairingly with short sniffs like sobs. He felt that he was growing cold, the mine was taking from him his last joy, that friend fallen from above, fresh with good odours, who recalled to him his youth in the open air. And he had broken his tether, neighing with fear, when he perceived that the other no longer stirred. Mouque had indeed warned the head captain a week ago. But much they troubled about a sick horse at such time as this! These gentlemen did not at all like moving the horses. Now, however, they had to make up their minds to take him out. The evening before the groom had spent an hour with two men tying up Trompette. They harnessed Bataille to bring him to the shaft. The old horse slowly pulled, dragging his dead comrade through so narrow a gallery that he could only shake himself at the risk of taking the skin off. And he tossed his head, listening to the grazing sound of the carcass as it went to the knacker's yard. At the pit-eye, when he was unharnessed, he followed with his melancholy eye the preparations for the ascent--the body pushed on to the cross-bars over the sump, the net fastened beneath a cage. At last the porters rang meat; he lifted his neck to see it go up, at first softly, then at once lost in the darkness, flown up for ever to the top of that black hole. And he remained with neck stretched out, his vague beast's memory perhaps recalling the things of the earth. But it was all over; he would never see his comrade again, and he himself would thus be tied up in a pitiful bundle on the day when he would ascend up there. His legs began to tremble, the fresh air which came from the distant country choked him, and he seemed intoxicated when he went heavily back to the stable. At the surface the colliers stood gloomily before Trompette's carcass. A woman said in a low voice: "Another man; that may go down if it likes!" But a new flood arrived from the settlement, and Levaque, who was at the head followed by his wife and Bouteloup, shouted: "Kill them, those Borains! No blacklegs here! Kill them! Kill them!" All rushed forward, and Étienne had to stop them. He went up to the captain, a tall thin young man of scarcely twenty-eight years, with a despairing, resolute face. He explained things to him; he tried to win him over, watching the effect of his words. What was the good of risking a useless massacre? Was not justice on the side of the miners? They were all brothers, and they ought to understand one another. When he came to use the world "republic" the captain made a nervous movement; but he preserved his military stiffness, and said suddenly: "Keep off! Do not force me to do my duty." Three times over Étienne tried again. Behind him his mates were growling. The report ran that M. Hennebeau was at the pit, and they talked of letting him down by the neck, to see if he would hew his coal himself. But it was a false report; only Négrel and Dansaert were there. They both showed themselves for a moment at a window of the receiving-room; the head captain stood in the background, rather out of countenance since his adventure with Pierronne, while the engineer bravely looked round on the crowd with his bright little eyes, smiling with that sneering contempt in which he enveloped men and things generally. Hooting arose, and they disappeared. And in their place only Souvarine's pale face was seen. He was just then on duty; he had not left his engine for a single day since the strike began, no longer talking, more and more absorbed by a fixed idea, which seemed to be shining like steel in the depths of his pale eyes. "Keep off!" repeated the captain loudly. "I wish to hear nothing. My orders are to guard the pit, and I shall guard it. And do not press on to my men, or I shall know how to drive you back." In spite of his firm voice, he was growing pale with increasing anxiety, as the flood of miners continued to swell. He would be relieved at midday; but fearing that he would not be able to hold out until then, he had sent a trammer from the pit to Montsou to ask for reinforcements. Shouts had replied to him: "Kill the blacklegs! Kill the Borains! We mean to be masters in our own place!" Étienne drew back in despair. The end had come; there was nothing more except to fight and to die. And he ceased to hold back his mates. The mob moved up to the little troop. There were nearly four hundred of them, and the people from the neighbouring settlements were all running up. They all shouted the same cry. Maheu and Levaque said furiously to the soldiers: "Get off with you! We have nothing against you! Get off with you!" "This doesn't concern you," said Maheude. "Let us attend to our own affairs." And from behind, the Levaque woman added, more violently: "Must we eat you to get through? Just clear out of the bloody place!" Even Lydie's shrill voice was heard. She had crammed herself in more closely, with Bébert, and was saying, in a high voice: "Oh, the pale-livered pigs!" Catherine, a few paces off, was gazing and listening, stupefied by new scenes of violence, into the midst of which ill luck seemed to be always throwing her. Had she not suffered too much already? What fault had she committed, then, that misfortune would never give her any rest? The day before she had understood nothing of the fury of the strike; she thought that when one has one's share of blows it is useless to go and seek for more. And now her heart was swelling with hatred; she remembered what Étienne had often told her when they used to sit up; she tried to hear what he was now saying to the soldiers. He was treating them as mates; he reminded them that they also belonged to the people, and that they ought to be on the side of the people against those who took advantage of their wretchedness. But a tremor ran through the crowd, and an old woman rushed up. It was Mother Brulé, terrible in her leanness, with her neck and arms in the air, coming up at such a pace that the wisps of her grey hair blinded her. "Ah! by God! here I am," she stammered, out of breath; "that traitor Pierron, who shut me up in the cellar!" And without waiting she fell on the soldiers, her black mouth belching abuse. "Pack of scoundrels! dirty scum! ready to lick their masters' boots, and only brave against poor people!" Then the others joined her, and there were volleys of insults. A few, indeed, cried: "Hurrah for the soldiers! to the shaft with the officer!" but soon there was only one clamour: "Down with the red breeches!" These men, who had listened quietly, with motionless mute faces, to the fraternal appeals and the friendly attempts to win them over, preserved the same stiff passivity beneath this hail of abuse. Behind them the captain had drawn his sword, and as the crowd pressed in on them more and more, threatening to crush them against the wall, he ordered them to present bayonets. They obeyed, and a double row of steel points was placed in front of the strikers' breasts. "Ah! the bloody swine!" yelled Mother Brulé, drawing back. But already they were coming on again, in excited contempt of death. The women were throwing themselves forward, Maheude and the Levaque shouting: "Kill us! Kill us, then! We want our rights!" Levaque, at the risk of getting cut, had seized three bayonets in his hands, shaking and pulling them in the effort to snatch them away. He twisted them in the strength of his fury; while Bouteloup, standing aside, and annoyed at having followed his mate, quietly watched him. "Just come and look here," said Maheu; "just look a bit if you are good chaps!" And he opened his jacket and drew aside his shirt, showing his naked breast, with his hairy skin tattooed by coal. He pressed on the bayonets, compelling the soldiers to draw back, terrible in his insolence and bravado. One of them had pricked him in the chest, and he became like a madman, trying to make it enter deeper and to hear his ribs crack. "Cowards, you don't dare! There are ten thousand behind us. Yes, you can kill us; there are ten thousand more of us to kill yet." The position of the soldiers was becoming critical, for they had received strict orders not to make use of their weapons until the last extremity. And how were they to prevent these furious people from impaling themselves? Besides, the space was getting less; they were now pushed back against the wall, and it was impossible to draw further back. Their little troop--a mere handful of men--opposed to the rising flood of miners, still held its own, however, and calmly executed the brief orders given by the captain. The latter, with keen eyes and nervously compressed lips, only feared lest they should be carried away by this abuse. Already a young sergeant, a tall lean fellow whose thin moustache was bristling up, was blinking his eyes in a disquieting manner. Near him an old soldier, with tanned skin and stripes won in twenty campaigns, had grown pale when he saw his bayonet twisted like a straw. Another, doubtless a recruit still smelling the fields, became very red every time he heard himself called "scum" and "riff-raff." And the violence did not cease, the outstretched fists, the abominable words, the shovelfuls of accusations and threats which buffeted their faces. It required all the force of order to keep them thus, with mute faces, in the proud, gloomy silence of military discipline. A collision seemed inevitable, when Captain Richomme appeared from behind the troop with his benevolent white head, overwhelmed by emotion. He spoke out loudly: "By God! this is idiotic! such tomfoolery can't go on!" And he threw himself between the bayonets and the miners. "Mates, listen to me. You know that I am an old workman, and that I have always been one of you. Well, by God! I promise you, that if they're not just with you, I'm the man to go and say to the bosses how things lie. But this is too much, it does no good at all to howl bad names at these good fellows, and try and get your bellies ripped up." They listened, hesitating. But up above, unfortunately, little Négrel's short profile reappeared. He feared, no doubt, that he would be accused of sending a captain in place of venturing out himself; and he tried to speak. But his voice was lost in the midst of so frightful a tumult that he had to leave the window again, simply shrugging his shoulders. Richomme then found it vain to entreat them in his own name, and to repeat that the thing must be arranged between mates; they repelled him, suspecting him. But he was obstinate and remained amongst them. "By God! let them break my head as well as yours, for I don't leave you while you are so foolish!" Étienne, whom he begged to help him in making them hear reason, made a gesture of powerlessness. It was too late, there were now more than five hundred of them. And besides the madmen who were rushing up to chase away the Borains, some came out of inquisitiveness, or to joke and amuse themselves over the battle. In the midst of one group, at some distance, Zacharie and Philoméne were looking on as at a theatre so peacefully that they had brought their two children, Achille and Désirée. Another stream was arriving from Réquillart, including Mouquet and Mouquette. The former at once went on, grinning, to slap his friend Zacharie on the back; while Mouquette, in a very excited condition, rushed to the first rank of the evil-disposed. Every minute, however, the captain looked down the Montsou road. The desired reinforcements had not arrived, and his sixty men could hold out no longer. At last it occurred to him to strike the imagination of the crowd, and he ordered his men to load. The soldiers executed the order, but the disturbance increased, the blustering, and the mockery. "Ah! these shammers, they're going off to the target!" jeered the women, the Brulé, the Levaque, and the others. Maheude, with her breast covered by the little body of Estelle, who was awake and crying, came so near that the sergeant asked her what she was going to do with that poor little brat. "What the devil's that to do with you?" she replied. "Fire at it if you dare!" The men shook their heads with contempt. None believed that they would fire on them. "There are no balls in their cartridges," said Levaque. "Are we Cossacks?" cried Maheu. "You don't fire against Frenchmen, by God!" Others said that when people had been through the Crimean campaign they were not afraid of lead. And all continued to thrust themselves on to the rifles. If firing had begun at this moment the crowd would have been mown down. In the front rank Mouquette was choking with fury, thinking that the soldiers were going to gash the women's skins. She had spat out all her coarse words at them, and could find no vulgarity low enough, when suddenly, having nothing left but that mortal offence with which to bombard the faces of the troop, she exhibited her backside. With both hands she raised her skirts, bent her back, and expanded the enormous rotundity. "Here, that's for you! and it's a lot too clean, you dirty blackguards!" She ducked and butted so that each might have his share, repeating after each thrust: "There's for the officer! there's for the sergeant! there's for the soldiers!" A tempest of laughter arose; Bébert and Lydie were in convulsions; Étienne himself, in spite of his sombre expectation, applauded this insulting nudity. All of them, the banterers as well as the infuriated, were now hooting the soldiers as though they had seen them stained by a splash of filth; Catherine only, standing aside on some old timber, remained silent with the blood at her heart, slowly carried away by the hatred that was rising within her. But a hustling took place. To calm the excitement of his men, the captain decided to make prisoners. With a leap Mouquette escaped, saving herself between the legs of her comrades. Three miners, Levaque and two others, were seized among the more violent, and kept in sight at the other end of the captains' room. Négrel and Dansaert, above, were shouting to the captain to come in and take refuge with them. He refused; he felt that these buildings with their doors without locks would be carried by assault, and that he would undergo the shame of being disarmed. His little troop was already growling with impatience; it was impossible to flee before these wretches in sabots. The sixty, with their backs to the wall and their rifles loaded, again faced the mob. At first there was a recoil, followed by deep silence; the strikers were astonished at this energetic stroke. Then a cry arose calling for the prisoners, demanding their immediate release. Some voices said that they were being murdered in there. And without any attempt at concerted action, carried away by the same impulse, by the same desire for revenge, they all ran to the piles of bricks which stood near, those bricks for which the marly soil supplied the clay, and which were baked on the spot. The children brought them one by one, and the women filled their skirts with them. Every one soon had her ammunition at her feet, and the battle of stones began. It was Mother Brulé who set to first. She broke the bricks on the sharp edge of her knee, and with both hands she discharged the two fragments. The Levaque woman was almost putting her shoulders out, being so large and soft that she had to come near to get her aim, in spite of Bouteloup's entreaties, and he dragged her back in the hope of being able to lead her away now that her husband had been taken off. They all grew excited, and Mouquette, tired of making herself bleed by breaking the bricks on her overfat thighs, preferred to throw them whole. Even the youngsters came into line, and Bébert showed Lydie how the brick ought to be sent from under the elbow. It was a shower of enormous hailstones, producing low thuds. And suddenly, in the midst of these furies, Catherine was observed with her fists in the air also brandishing half-bricks and throwing them with all the force of her little arms. She could not have said why, she was suffocating, she was dying of the desire to kill everybody. Would it not soon be done with, this cursed life of misfortune? She had had enough of it, beaten and driven away by her man, wandering about like a lost dog in the mud of the roads, without being able to ask a crust from her father, who was starving like herself. Things never seemed to get better; they were getting worse ever since she could remember. And she broke the bricks and threw them before her with the one idea of sweeping everything away, her eyes so blinded that she could not even see whose jaws she might be crushing. Étienne, who had remained in front of the soldiers, nearly had his skull broken. His ear was grazed, and turning round he started when he realized that the brick had come from Catherine's feverish hands; but at the risk of being killed he remained where he was, gazing at her. Many others also forgot themselves there, absorbed in the battle, with empty hands. Mouquet criticized the blows as though he were looking on at a game of _bouchon_. Oh, that was well struck! and that other, no luck! He joked, and with his elbow pushed Zacharie, who was squabbling with Philoméne because he had boxed Achille's and Désirée's ears, refusing to put them on his back so that they could see. There were spectators crowded all along the road. And at the top of the slope near the entrance to the settlement, old Bonnemort appeared, resting on his stick, motionless against the rust-coloured sky. As soon as the first bricks were thrown, Captain Richomme had again placed himself between the soldiers and the miners. He was entreating the one party, exhorting the other party, careless of danger, in such despair that large tears were flowing from his eyes. It was impossible to hear his words in the midst of the tumult; only his large grey moustache could be seen moving. But the hail of bricks came faster; the men were joining in, following the example of the women. Then Maheude noticed that Maheu was standing behind with empty hands and sombre air. "What's up with you?" she shouted. "Are you a coward? Are you going to let your mates be carried off to prison? Ah! if only I hadn't got this child, you should see!" Estelle, who was clinging to her neck, screaming, prevented her from joining Mother Brulé and the others. And as her man did not seem to hear, she kicked some bricks against his legs. "By God! will you take that? Must I spit in your face before people to get your spirits up?" Becoming very red, he broke some bricks and threw them. She lashed him on, dazing him, shouting behind him cries of death, stifling her daughter against her breast with the spasm of her arms; and he still moved forward until he was opposite the guns. Beneath this shower of stones the little troop was disappearing. Fortunately they struck too high, and the wall was riddled. What was to be done? The idea of going in, of turning their backs for a moment turned the captain's pale face purple; but it was no longer possible, they would be torn to pieces at the least movement. A brick had just broken the peak of his cap, drops of blood were running down his forehead. Several of his men were wounded; and he felt that they were losing self-control in that unbridled instinct of self-defence when obedience to leaders ceases. The sergeant had uttered a "By God!" for his left shoulder had nearly been put out, and his flesh bruised by a shock like the blow of a washerwoman's beetle against linen. Grazed twice over, the recruit had his thumb smashed, while his right knee was grazed. Were they to let themselves be worried much longer? A stone having bounded back and struck the old soldier with the stripes beneath the belly, his cheeks turned green, and his weapon trembled as he stretched it out at the end of his lean arms. Three times the captain was on the point of ordering them to fire. He was choked by anguish; an endless struggle for several seconds set at odds in his mind all ideas and duties, all his beliefs as a man and as a soldier. The rain of bricks increased, and he opened his mouth and was about to shout "Fire!" when the guns went off of themselves three shots at first, then five, then the roll of a volley, then one by itself, some time afterwards, in the deep silence. There was stupefaction on all sides. They had fired, and the gaping crowd stood motionless, as yet unable to believe it. But heart-rending cries arose while the bugle was sounding to cease firing. And here was a mad panic, the rush of cattle filled with grapeshot, a wild flight through the mud. Bébert and Lydie had fallen one on top of the other at the first three shots, the little girl struck in the face, the boy wounded beneath the left shoulder. She was crushed, and never stirred again. But he moved, seized her with both arms in the convulsion of his agony, as if he wanted to take her again, as he had taken her at the bottom of the black hiding-place where they had spent the past night. And Jeanlin, who just then ran up from Réquillart still half asleep, kicking about in the midst of the smoke, saw him embrace his little wife and die. The five other shots had brought down Mother Brulé and Captain Richomme. Struck in the back as he was entreating his mates, he had fallen on to his knees, and slipping on to one hip he was groaning on the ground with eyes still full of tears. The old woman, whose breast had been opened, had fallen back stiff and crackling, like a bundle of dry faggots, stammering one last oath in the gurgling of blood. But then the volley swept the field, mowing down the inquisitive groups who were laughing at the battle a hundred paces off. A ball entered Mouquet's mouth and threw him down with fractured skull at the feet of Zacharie and Philoméne, whose two youngsters were splashed with red drops. At the same moment Mouquette received two balls in the belly. She had seen the soldiers take aim, and in an instinctive movement of her good nature she had thrown herself in front of Catherine, shouting out to her to take care; she uttered a loud cry and fell on to her back overturned by the shock. Étienne ran up, wishing to raise her and take her away; but with a gesture she said it was all over. Then she groaned, but without ceasing to smile at both of them, as though she were glad to see them together now that she was going away. All seemed to be over, and the hurricane of balls was lost in the distance as far as the frontages of the settlement, when the last shot, isolated and delayed, was fired. Maheu, struck in the heart, turned round and fell with his face down into a puddle black with coal. Maheude leant down in stupefaction. "Eh! old man, get up. It's nothing, is it?" Her hands were engaged with Estelle, whom she had to put under one arm in order to turn her man's head. "Say something! where are you hurt?" His eyes were vacant, and his mouth was slavered with bloody foam. She understood: he was dead. Then she remained seated in the mud with her daughter under her arm like a bundle, gazing at her old man with a besotted air. The pit was free. With a nervous movement the captain had taken off and then put on his cap, struck by a stone; he preserved his pallid stiffness in face of the disaster of his life, while his men with mute faces were reloading. The frightened faces of Négrel and Dansaert could be seen at the window of the receiving-room. Souvarine was behind them with a deep wrinkle on his forehead, as though the nail of his fixed idea had printed itself there threateningly. On the other side of the horizon, at the edge of the plain, Bonnemort had not moved, supported by one hand on his stick, the other hand up to his brows to see better the murder of his people below. The wounded were howling, the dead were growing cold, in twisted postures, muddy with the liquid mud of the thaw, here and there forming puddles among the inky patches of coal which reappeared beneath the tattered snow. And in the midst of these human corpses, all small, poor and lean in their wretchedness, lay Trompette's carcass, a monstrous and pitiful mass of dead flesh. Étienne had not been killed. He was still waiting beside Catherine, who had fallen from fatigue and anguish, when a sonorous voice made him start. It was Abbé Ranvier, who was coming back after saying mass, and who, with both arms in the air, with the inspired fury of a prophet, was calling the wrath of God down on the murderers. He foretold the era of justice, the approaching extermination of the middle class by fire from heaven, since it was bringing its crimes to a climax by massacring the workers and the disinherited of the world. PART SEVEN CHAPTER I The shots fired at Montsou had reached as far as Paris with a formidable echo. For four days all the opposition journals had been indignant, displaying atrocious narratives on their front pages: twenty-five wounded, fourteen dead, including three women and two children. And there were prisoners taken as well; Levaque had become a sort of hero, and was credited with a reply of antique sublimity to the examining magistrate. The empire, hit in mid career by these few balls, affected the calm of omnipotence, without itself realizing the gravity of its wound. It was simply an unfortunate collision, something lost over there in the black country, very far from the Parisian boulevards which formed public opinion; it would soon be forgotten. The Company had received official intimation to hush up the affair, and to put an end to a strike which from its irritating duration was becoming a social danger. So on Wednesday morning three of the directors appeared at Montsou. The little town, sick at heart, which had not dared hitherto to rejoice over the massacre, now breathed again, and tasted the joy of being saved. The weather, too, had become fine; there was a bright sun--one of those first February days which, with their moist warmth, tip the lilac shoots with green. All the shutters had been flung back at the administration building, the vast structure seemed alive again. And cheering rumours were circulating; it was said that the directors, deeply affected by the catastrophe, had rushed down to open their paternal arms to the wanderers from the settlements. Now that the blow had fallen--a more vigorous one doubtless than they had wished for--they were prodigal in their task of relief, and decreed measures that were excellent though tardy. First of all they sent away the Borains, and made much of this extreme concession to their workmen. Then they put an end to the military occupation of the pits, which were no longer threatened by the crushed strikers. They also obtained silence regarding the sentinel who had disappeared from the Voreux; the district had been searched without finding either the gun or the corpse, and although there was a suspicion of crime, it was decided to consider the soldier a deserter. In every way they thus tried to attenuate matters, trembling with fear for the morrow, judging it dangerous to acknowledge the irresistible savagery of a crowd set free amid the falling structure of the old world. And besides, this work of conciliation did not prevent them from bringing purely administrative affairs to a satisfactory conclusion; for Deneulin had been seen to return to the administration buildings, where he met M. Hennebeau. The negotiations for the purchase of Vandame continued, and it was considered certain that Deneulin would accept the Company's offers. But what particularly stirred the country were the great yellow posters which the directors had stuck up in profusion on the walls. On them were to be read these few lines, in very large letters: "Workers of Montsou! We do not wish that the errors of which you have lately seen the sad effects should deprive sensible and willing workmen of their livelihood. We shall therefore reopen all the pits on Monday morning, and when work is resumed we shall examine with care and consideration those cases in which there may be room for improvement. We shall, in fact, do all that is just or possible to do." In one morning the ten thousand colliers passed before these placards. Not one of them spoke, many shook their heads, others went away with trailing steps, without changing one line in their motionless faces. Up till now the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante had persisted in its fierce resistance. It seemed that the blood of their mates, which had reddened the mud of the pit, was barricading the road against the others. Scarcely a dozen had gone down, merely Pierron and some sneaks of his sort, whose departure and arrival were gloomily watched without a gesture or a threat. Therefore a deep suspicion greeted the placard stuck on to the church. Nothing was said about the returned certificates in that. Would the Company refuse to take them on again? and the fear of retaliations, the fraternal idea of protesting against the dismissal of the more compromised men, made them all obstinate still. It was dubious; they would see. They would return to the pit when these gentlemen were good enough to put things plainly. Silence crushed the low houses. Hunger itself seemed nothing; all might die now that violent death had passed over their roofs. But one house, that of the Maheus, remained especially black and mute in its overwhelming grief. Since she had followed her man to the cemetery, Maheude kept her teeth clenched. After the battle, she had allowed Étienne to bring back Catherine muddy and half dead; and as she was undressing her, before the young man, in order to put her to bed, she thought for a moment that her daughter also had received a ball in the belly, for the chemise was marked with large patches of blood. But she soon understood that it was the flood of puberty, which was at last breaking out in the shock of this abominable day. Ah! another piece of luck, that wound! A fine present, to be able to make children for the gendarmes to kill; and she never spoke to Catherine, nor did she, indeed, talk to Étienne. The latter slept with Jeanlin, at the risk of being arrested, seized by such horror at the idea of going back to the darkness of Réquillart that he would have preferred a prison. A shudder shook him, the horror of the night after all those deaths, an unacknowledged fear of the little soldier who slept down there underneath the rocks. Besides, he dreamed of a prison as of a refuge in the midst of the torment of his defeat; but they did not trouble him, and he dragged on his wretched hours, not knowing how to weary out his body. Only at times Maheude looked at both of them, at him and her daughter, with a spiteful air, as though she were asking them what they were doing in her house. Once more they were all snoring in a heap. Father Bonnemort occupied the former bed of the two youngsters, who slept with Catherine now that poor Alzire no longer dug her hump into her big sister's ribs. It was when going to bed that the mother felt the emptiness of the house by the coldness of her bed, which was now too large. In vain she took Estelle to fill the vacancy; that did not replace her man, and she wept quietly for hours. Then the days began to pass by as before, always without bread, but without the luck to die outright; things picked up here and there rendered to the wretches the poor service of keeping them alive. Nothing had changed in their existence, only her man was gone. On the afternoon of the fifth day, Étienne, made miserable by the sight of this silent woman, left the room, and walked slowly along the paved street of the settlement. The inaction which weighed on him impelled him to take constant walks, with arms swinging idly and lowered head, always tortured by the same thought. He tramped thus for half an hour, when he felt, by an increase in his discomfort, that his mates were coming to their doors to look at him. His little remaining popularity had been driven to the winds by that fusillade, and he never passed now without meeting fiery looks which pursued him. When he raised his head there were threatening men there, women drawing aside the curtains from their windows; and beneath this still silent accusation and the restrained anger of these eyes, enlarged by hunger and tears, he became awkward and could scarcely walk straight. These dumb reproaches seemed to be always increasing behind him. He became so terrified, lest he should hear the entire settlement come out to shout its wretchedness at him, that he returned shuddering. But at the Maheus' the scene which met him still further agitated him. Old Bonnemort was near the cold fireplace, nailed to his chair ever since two neighbours, on the day of the slaughter, had found him on the ground, with his stick broken, struck down like an old thunder-stricken tree. And while Lénore and Henri, to beguile their hunger, were scraping, with deafening noise, an old saucepan in which cabbages had been boiled the day before, Maheude, after having placed Estelle on the table, was standing up threatening Catherine with her fist. "Say that again, by God! Just dare to say that again!" Catherine had declared her intention to go back to the Voreux. The idea of not gaining her bread, of being thus tolerated in her mother's house, like a useless animal that is in the way, was becoming every day more unbearable; and if it had not been for the fear of Chaval she would have gone down on Tuesday. She said again, stammering: "What would you have? We can't go on doing nothing. We should get bread, anyhow." Maheude interrupted her. "Listen to me: the first one of you who goes to work, I'll do for you. No, that would be too much, to kill the father and go on taking it out of the children! I've had enough of it; I'd rather see you all put in your coffins, like him that's gone already." And her long silence broke out into a furious flood of words. A fine sum Catherine would bring her! hardly thirty sous, to which they might add twenty sous if the bosses were good enough to find work for that brigand Jeanlin. Fifty sous, and seven mouths to feed! The brats were only good to swallow soup. As to the grandfather, he must have broken something in his brain when he fell, for he seemed imbecile; unless it had turned his blood to see the soldiers firing at his mates. "That's it, old man, isn't it? They've quite done for you. It's no good having your hands still strong; you're done for." Bonnemort looked at her with his dim eyes without understanding. He remained for hours with fixed gaze, having no intelligence now except to spit into a plate filled with ashes, which was put beside him for cleanliness. "And they've not settled his pension, either," she went on. "And I'm sure they won't give it, because of our ideas. No! I tell you that we've had too much to do with those people who bring ill luck." "But," Catherine ventured to say, "they promise on the placard--" "Just let me alone with your damned placard! More birdlime for catching us and eating us. They can be mighty kind now that they have ripped us open." "But where shall we go, mother? They won't keep us at the settlement, sure enough." Maheude made a vague, terrified gesture. Where should they go to? She did not know at all; she avoided thinking, it made her mad. They would go elsewhere--somewhere. And as the noise of the saucepan was becoming unbearable, she turned round on Lénore and Henri and boxed their ears. The fall of Estelle, who had been crawling on all fours, increased the disturbance. The mother quieted her with a push--a good thing if it had killed her! She spoke of Alzire; she wished the others might have that child's luck. Then suddenly she burst out into loud sobs, with her head against the wall. Étienne, who was standing by, did not dare to interfere. He no longer counted for anything in the house, and even the children drew back from him suspiciously. But the unfortunate woman's tears went to his heart, and he murmured: "Come, come! courage! we must try to get out of it." She did not seem to hear him, and was bemoaning herself now in a low continuous complaint. "Ah! the wretchedness! is it possible? Things did go on before these horrors. We ate our bread dry, but we were all together; and what has happened, good God! What have we done, then, that we should have such troubles--some under the earth, and the others with nothing left but to long to get there too? It's true enough that they harnessed us like horses to work, and it's not at all a just sharing of things to be always getting the stick and making rich people's fortunes bigger without hope of ever tasting the good things. There's no pleasure in life when hope goes. Yes, that couldn't have gone on longer; we had to breathe a bit. If we had only known! Is it possible to make oneself so wretched through wanting justice?" Sighs swelled her breast, and her voice choked with immense sadness. "Then there are always some clever people there who promise you that everything can be arranged by just taking a little trouble. Then one loses one's head, and one suffers so much from things as they are that one asks for things that can't be. Now, I was dreaming like a fool; I seemed to see a life of good friendship with everybody; I went off into the air, my faith! into the clouds. And then one breaks one's back when one tumbles down into the mud again. It's not true; there's nothing over there of the things that people tell of. What there is, is only wretchedness, ah! wretchedness, as much as you like of it, and bullets into the bargain." Étienne listened to this lamentation, and every tear struck him with remorse. He knew not what to say to calm Maheude, broken by her terrible fall from the heights of the ideal. She had come back to the middle of the room, and was now looking at him; she addressed him with contemptuous familiarity in a last cry of rage: "And you, do you talk of going back to the pit, too, after driving us out of the bloody place! I've nothing to reproach you with; but if I were in your shoes I should be dead of grief by now after causing such harm to the mates." He was about to reply, but then shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was the good of explaining, for she would not understand in her grief? And he went away, for he was suffering too much, and resumed his wild walk outside. There again he found the settlement apparently waiting for him, the men at the doors, the women at the windows. As soon as he appeared growls were heard, and the crowd increased. The breath of gossip, which had been swelling for four days, was breaking out in a universal malediction. Fists were stretched towards him, mothers spitefully pointed him out to their boys, old men spat as they looked at him. It was the change which follows on the morrow of defeat, the fatal reverse of popularity, an execration exasperated by all the suffering endured without result. He had to pay for famine and death. Zacharie, who came up with Philoméne, hustled Étienne as he went out, grinning maliciously. "Well, he gets fat. It's filling, then, to live on other people's deaths?" The Levaque woman had already come to her door with Bouteloup. She spoke of Bébert, her youngster, killed by a bullet, and cried: "Yes, there are cowards who get children murdered! Let him go and look for mine in the earth if he wants to give it me back!" She was forgetting her man in prison, for the household was going on since Bouteloup remained; but she thought of him, however, and went on in a shrill voice: "Get along! rascals may walk about while good people are put away!" In avoiding her, Étienne tumbled on to Pierronne, who was running up across the gardens. She had regarded her mother's death as a deliverance, for the old woman's violence threatened to get them hanged; nor did she weep over Pierron's little girl, that street-walker Lydie--a good riddance. But she joined in with her neighbours with the idea of getting reconciled with them. "And my mother, eh, and the little girl? You were seen; you were hiding yourself behind them when they caught the lead instead of you!" What was to be done? Strangle Pierronne and the others, and fight the whole settlement? Étienne wanted to do so for a moment. The blood was throbbing in his head, he now looked upon his mates as brutes, he was irritated to see them so unintelligent and barbarous that they wanted to revenge themselves on him for the logic of facts. How stupid it all was! and he felt disgust at his powerlessness to tame them again; and satisfied himself with hastening his steps as though he were deaf to abuse. Soon it became a flight; every house hooted him as he passed, they hastened on his heels, it was a whole nation cursing him with a voice that was becoming like thunder in its overwhelming hatred. It was he, the exploiter, the murderer, who was the sole cause of their misfortune. He rushed out of the settlement, pale and terrified, with this yelling crowd behind his back. When he at last reached the main road most of them left him; but a few persisted, until at the bottom of the slope before the Avantage he met another group coming from the Voreux. Old Mouque and Chaval were there. Since the death of his daughter Mouquette, and of his son Mouquet, the old man had continued to act as groom without a word of regret or complaint. Suddenly, when he saw Étienne, he was shaken by fury, tears broke out from his eyes, and a flood of coarse words burst from his mouth, black and bleeding from his habit of chewing tobacco. "You devil! you bloody swine! you filthy snout! Wait, you've got to pay me for my poor children; you'll have to come to it!" He picked up a brick, broke it, and threw both pieces. "Yes! yes! clear him off!" shouted Chaval, who was grinning in excitement, delighted at this vengeance. "Every one gets his turn; now you're up against the wall, you dirty hound!" And he also attacked Étienne with stones. A savage clamour arose; they all took up bricks, broke them, and threw them, to rip him open, as they would like to have done to the soldiers. He was dazed and could not flee; he faced them, trying to calm them with phrases. His old speeches, once so warmly received, came back to his lips. He repeated the words with which he had intoxicated them at the time when he could keep them in hand like a faithful flock; but his power was dead, and only stones replied to him. He had just been struck on the left arm, and was drawing back, in great peril, when he found himself hemmed in against the front of the Avantage. For the last few moments Rasseneur had been at his door. "Come in," he said simply. Étienne hesitated; it choked him to take refuge there. "Come in; then I'll speak to them." He resigned himself, and took refuge at the other end of the parlour, while the innkeeper filled up the doorway with his broad shoulders. "Look here, my friends, just be reasonable. You know very well that I've never deceived you. I've always been in favour of quietness, and if you had listened to me, you certainly wouldn't be where you are now." Rolling his shoulders and belly, he went on at length, allowing his facile eloquence to flow with the lulling gentleness of warm water. And all his old success came back; he regained his popularity, naturally and without an effort, as if he had never been hooted and called a coward a month before. Voices arose in approval: "Very good! we are with you! that is the way to put it!" Thundering applause broke out. Étienne, in the background, grew faint, and there was bitterness at his heart. He recalled Rasseneur's prediction in the forest, threatening him with the ingratitude of the mob. What imbecile brutality! What an abominable forgetfulness of old services! It was a blind force which constantly devoured itself. And beneath his anger at seeing these brutes spoil their own cause, there was despair at his own fall and the tragic end of his ambition. What! was it already done for! He remembered hearing beneath the beeches three thousand hearts beating to the echo of his own. On that day he had held his popularity in both hands. Those people belonged to him; he felt that he was their master. Mad dreams had then intoxicated him. Montsou at his feet, Paris beyond, becoming a deputy perhaps, crushing the middle class in a speech, the first speech ever pronounced by a workman in a parliament. And it was all over! He awakened, miserable and detested; his people were dismissing him by flinging bricks. Rasseneur's voice rose higher: "Never will violence succeed; the world can't be remade in a day. Those who have promised you to change it all at one stroke are either making fun of you or they are rascals!" "Bravo! bravo!" shouted the crowd. Who then was the guilty one? And this question which Étienne put to himself overwhelmed him more than ever. Was it in fact his fault, this misfortune which was making him bleed, the wretchedness of some, the murder of others, these women, these children, lean, and without bread? He had had that lamentable vision one evening before the catastrophe. But then a force was lifting him, he was carried away with his mates. Besides, he had never led them, it was they who led him, who obliged him to do things which he would never have done if it were not for the shock of that crowd pushing behind him. At each new violence he had been stupefied by the course of events, for he had neither foreseen nor desired any of them. Could he anticipate, for instance, that his followers in the settlement would one day stone him? These infuriated people lied when they accused him of having promised them an existence all fodder and laziness. And in this justification, in this reasoning, in which he tried to fight against his remorse, was hidden the anxiety that he had not risen to the height of his task; it was the doubt of the half-cultured man still perplexing him. But he felt himself at the end of his courage, he was no longer at heart with his mates; he feared this enormous mass of the people, blind and irresistible, moving like a force of nature, sweeping away everything, outside rules and theories. A certain repugnance was detaching him from them--the discomfort of his new tastes, the slow movement of all his being towards a superior class. At this moment Rasseneur's voice was lost in the midst of enthusiastic shouts: "Hurrah for Rasseneur! he's the fellow! Bravo, bravo!" The innkeeper shut the door, while the band dispersed; and the two men looked at each other in silence. They both shrugged their shoulders. They finished up by having a drink together. On the same day there was a great dinner at Piolaine; they were celebrating the betrothal of Négrel and Cécile. Since the previous evening the Grégoires had had the dining-room waxed and the drawing-room dusted. Mélanie reigned in the kitchen, watching over the roasts and stirring the sauces, the odour of which ascended to the attics. It had been decided that Francis, the coachman, should help Honorine to wait. The gardener's wife would wash up, and the gardener would open the gate. Never had the substantial, patriarchal old house been in such a state of gaiety. Everything went off beautifully, Madame Hennebeau was charming with Cécile, and she smiled at Négrel when the Montsou lawyer gallantly proposed the health of the future household. M. Hennebeau was also very amiable. His smiling face struck the guests. The report circulated that he was rising in favour with the directors, and that he would soon be made an officer of the Legion of Honour, on account of the energetic manner in which he had put down the strike. Nothing was said about recent events; but there was an air of triumph in the general joy, and the dinner became the official celebration of a victory. At last, then, they were saved, and once more they could begin to eat and sleep in peace. A discreet allusion was made to those dead whose blood the Voreux mud had yet scarcely drunk up. It was a necessary lesson: and they were all affected when the Grégoires added that it was now the duty of all to go and heal the wounds in the settlements. They had regained their benevolent placidity, excusing their brave miners, whom they could already see again at the bottom of the mines, giving a good example of everlasting resignation. The Montsou notables, who had now left off trembling, agreed that this question of the wage system ought to be studied, cautiously. The roasts came on; and the victory became complete when M. Hennebeau read a letter from the bishop announcing Abbé Ranvier's removal. The middle class throughout the province had been roused to anger by the story of this priest who treated the soldiers as murderers. And when the dessert appeared the lawyer resolutely declared that he was a free-thinker. Deneulin was there with his two daughters. In the midst of the joy, he forced himself to hide the melancholy of his ruin. That very morning he had signed the sale of his Vandame concession to the Montsou Company. With the knife at his throat he had submitted to the directors' demands, at last giving up to them that prey they had been on the watch for so long, scarcely obtaining from them the money necessary to pay off his creditors. He had even accepted, as a lucky chance, at the last moment, their offer to keep him as divisional engineer, thus resigning himself to watch, as a simple salaried servant, over that pit which had swallowed up his fortune. It was the knell of small personal enterprises, the approaching disappearance of the masters, eaten up, one by one, by the ever-hungry ogre of capital, drowned in the rising flood of great companies. He alone paid the expenses of the strike; he understood that they were drinking to his disaster when they drank to M. Hennebeau's rosette. And he only consoled himself a little when he saw the fine courage of Lucie and Jeanne, who looked charming in their done-up toilettes, laughing at the downfall, like happy tomboys disdainful of money. When they passed into the drawing-room for coffee, M. Grégoire drew his cousin aside and congratulated him on the courage of his decision. "What would you have? Your real mistake was to risk the million of your Montsou denier over Vandame. You gave yourself a terrible wound, and it has melted away in that dog's labour, while mine, which has not stirred from my drawer, still keeps me comfortably doing nothing, as it will keep my grandchildren's children." CHAPTER II On Sunday Étienne escaped from the settlement at nightfall. A very clear sky, sprinkled with stars, lit up the earth with the blue haze of twilight. He went down towards the canal, and followed the bank slowly, in the direction of Marchiennes. It was his favourite walk, a grass-covered path two leagues long, passing straight beside this geometrical water-way, which unrolled itself like an endless ingot of molten silver. He never met any one there. But on this day he was vexed to see a man come up to him. Beneath the pale starlight, the two solitary walkers only recognized each other when they were face to face. "What! is it you?" said Étienne. Souvarine nodded his head without replying. For a moment they remained motionless, then side by side they set out towards Marchiennes. Each of them seemed to be continuing his own reflections, as though they were far away from each other. "Have you seen in the paper about Pluchart's success at Paris?" asked Étienne, at length. "After that meeting at Belleville, they waited for him on the pavement, and gave him an ovation. Oh! he's afloat now, in spite of his sore throat. He can do what he likes in the future." The engine-man shrugged his shoulders. He felt contempt for fine talkers, fellows who go into politics as one goes to the bar, to get an income out of phrases. Étienne was now studying Darwin. He had read fragments, summarized and popularized in a five-sou volume; and out of this ill-understood reading he had gained for himself a revolutionary idea of the struggle for existence, the lean eating the fat, the strong people devouring the pallid middle class. But Souvarine furiously attacked the stupidity of the Socialists who accept Darwin, that apostle of scientific inequality, whose famous selection was only good for aristocratic philosophers. His mate persisted, however, wishing to reason out the matter, and expressing his doubts by an hypothesis: supposing the old society were no longer to exist, swept away to the crumbs; well, was it not to be feared that the new world would grow up again, slowly spoilt by the same injustices, some sick and others flourishing, some more skilful and intelligent, fattening on everything, and others imbecile and lazy, becoming slaves again? But before this vision of eternal wretchedness, the engine-man shouted out fiercely that if justice was not possible with man, then man must disappear. For every rotten society there must be a massacre, until the last creature was exterminated. And there was silence again. For a long time, with sunken head, Souvarine walked over the short grass, so absorbed that he kept to the extreme edge, by the water, with the quiet certainty of a sleep-walker on a roof. Then he shuddered causelessly, as though he had stumbled against a shadow. His eyes lifted and his face was very pale; he said softly to his companion: "Did I ever tell you how she died?" "Whom do you mean?" "My wife, over there, in Russia." Étienne made a vague gesture, astonished at the tremor in his voice and at the sudden desire for confidence in this lad, who was usually so impassive in his stoical detachment from others and from himself. He only knew that the woman was his mistress, and that she had been hanged at Moscow. "The affair hadn't gone off," Souvarine said, with eyes still vacantly following the white stream of the canal between the bluish colonnades of tall trees. "We had been a fortnight at the bottom of a hole undermining the railway, and it was not the imperial train that was blown up, it was a passenger train. Then they arrested Annutchka. She brought us bread every evening, disguised as a peasant woman. She lit the fuse, too, because a man might have attracted attention. I followed the trial, hidden in the crowd, for six days." His voice became thick, and he coughed as though he were choking. "Twice I wanted to cry out, and to rush over the people's heads to join her. But what was the good? One man less would be one soldier less; and I could see that she was telling me not to come, when her large eyes met mine." He coughed again. "On the last day in the square I was there. It was raining; they stupidly lost their heads, put out by the falling rain. It took twenty minutes to hang the other four; the cord broke, they could not finish the fourth. Annutchka was standing up waiting. She could not see me, she was looking for me in the crowd. I got on to a post and she saw me, and our eyes never turned from each other. When she was dead she was still looking at me. I waved my hat; I came away." There was silence again. The white road of the canal unrolled to the far distance, and they both walked with the same quiet step as though each had fallen back into his isolation. At the horizon, the pale water seemed to open the sky with a little hole of light. "It was our punishment," Souvarine went on roughly. "We were guilty to love each other. Yes, it is well that she is dead; heroes will be born from her blood, and I no longer have any cowardice at my heart. Ah! nothing, neither parents, nor wife, nor friend! Nothing to make my hand tremble on the day when I must take others' lives or give up my own." Étienne had stopped, shuddering in the cool night. He discussed no more, he simply said: "We have gone far; shall we go back?" They went back towards the Voreux slowly, and he added, after a few paces: "Have you seen the new placards?" The Company had that morning put up some more large yellow posters. They were clearer and more conciliatory, and the Company undertook to take back the certificates of those miners who went down on the following day. Everything would be forgotten, and pardon was offered even to those who were most implicated. "Yes, I've seen," replied the engine-man. "Well, what do you think of it?" "I think that it's all up. The flock will go down again. You are all too cowardly." Étienne feverishly excused his mates: a man may be brave, a mob which is dying of hunger has no strength. Step by step they were returning to the Voreux; and before the black mass of the pit he continued swearing that he, at least, would never go down; but he could forgive those who did. Then, as the rumour ran that the carpenters had not had time to repair the tubbing, he asked for information. Was it true? Had the weight of the soil against the timber which formed the internal skirt of scaffolding to the shaft so pushed it in that the winding-cages rubbed as they went down for a length of over fifty metres? Souvarine, who once more became uncommunicative, replied briefly. He had been working the day before, and the cage did, in fact, jar; the engine-men had even had to double the speed to pass that spot. But all the bosses received any observations with the same irritating remark: it was coal they wanted; that could be repaired later on. "You see that will smash up!" Étienne murmured. "It will be a fine time!" With eyes vaguely fixed on the pit in the shadow, Souvarine quietly concluded: "If it does smash up, the mates will know it, since you advise them to go down again." Nine o'clock struck at the Montsou steeple; and his companion having said that he was going to bed, he added, without putting out his hand: "Well, good-bye. I'm going away." "What! you're going away?" "Yes, I've asked for my certificate back. I'm going elsewhere." Étienne, stupefied and affected, looked at him. After walking for two hours he said that to him! And in so calm a voice, while the mere announcement of this sudden separation made his own heart ache. They had got to know each other, they had toiled together; that always makes one sad, the idea of not seeing a person again. "You're going away! And where do you go?" "Over there--I don't know at all." "But I shall see you again?" "No, I think not." They were silent and remained for a moment facing each other without finding anything to say. "Then good-bye." "Good-bye." While Étienne ascended toward the settlement, Souvarine turned and again went along the canal bank; and there, now alone, he continued to walk, with sunken head, so lost in the darkness that he seemed merely a moving shadow of the night. Now and then he stopped, he counted the hours that struck afar. When he heard midnight strike he left the bank and turned towards the Voreux. At that time the pit was empty, and he only met a sleepy-eyed captain. It was not until two o'clock that they would begin to get up steam to resume work. First he went to take from a cupboard a jacket which he pretended to have forgotten. Various tools--a drill armed with its screw, a small but very strong saw, a hammer, and a chisel--were rolled up in this jacket. Then he left. But instead of going out through the shed he passed through the narrow corridor which led to the ladder passage. With his jacket under his arm he quietly went down without a lamp, measuring the depth by counting the ladders. He knew that the cage jarred at three hundred and seventy-four metres against the fifth row of the lower tubbing. When he had counted fifty-four ladders he put out his hand and was able to feel the swelling of the planking. It was there. Then, with the skill and coolness of a good workman who has been reflecting over his task for a long time, he set to work. He began by sawing a panel in the brattice so as to communicate with the winding-shaft. With the help of matches, quickly lighted and blown out, he was then able to ascertain the condition of the tubbing and of the recent repairs. Between Calais and Valenciennes the sinking of mine shafts was surrounded by immense difficulties on account of the masses of subterranean water in great sheets at the level of the lowest valleys. Only the construction of tubbings, frameworks jointed like the stays of a barrel, could keep out the springs which flow in and isolate the shafts in the midst of the lakes, which with deep obscure waves beat against the walls. It had been necessary in sinking the Voreux to establish two tubbings: that of the upper level, in the shifting sands and white clays bordering the chalky stratum, and fissured in every part, swollen with water like a sponge; then that of the lower level, immediately above the coal stratum, in a yellow sand as fine as flour, flowing with liquid fluidity; it was here that the Torrent was to be found, that subterranean sea so dreaded in the coal pits of the Nord, a sea with its storms and its shipwrecks, an unknown and unfathomable sea, rolling its dark floods more than three hundred metres beneath the daylight. Usually the tubbings resisted the enormous pressure; the only thing to be dreaded was the piling up of the neighbouring soil, shaken by the constant movement of the old galleries which were filling up. In this descent of the rocks lines of fracture were sometimes produced which slowly extended as far as the scaffolding, at last perforating it and pushing it into the shaft; and there was the great danger of a landslip and a flood filling the pit with an avalanche of earth and a deluge of springs. Souvarine, sitting astride in the opening he had made, discovered a very serious defect in the fifth row of tubbing. The wood was bellied out from the framework; several planks had even come out of their shoulder-pieces. Abundant filtrations, _pichoux_ the miners call them, were jetting out of the joints through the tarred oakum with which they were caulked. The carpenters, pressed for time, had been content to place iron squares at the angles, so carelessly that not all the screws were put in. A considerable movement was evidently going on behind in the sand of the Torrent. Then with his wimble he unscrewed the squares so that another push would tear them all off. It was a foolhardy task, during which he frequently only just escaped from falling headlong down the hundred and eighty metres which separated him from the bottom. He had been obliged to seize the oak guides, the joists along which the cages slid; and suspended over the void he traversed the length of the cross-beams with which they were joined from point to point, slipping along, sitting down, turning over, simply buttressing himself on an elbow or a knee, with tranquil contempt of death. A breath would have sent him over, and three times he caught himself up without a shudder. First he felt with his hand and then worked, only lighting a match when he lost himself in the midst of these slimy beams. After loosening the screws he attacked the wood itself, and the peril became still greater. He had sought for the key, the piece which held the others; he attacked it furiously, making holes in it, sawing it, thinning it so that it lost its resistance; while through the holes and the cracks the water which escaped in small jets blinded him and soaked him in icy rain. Two matches were extinguished. They all became damp and then there was night, the bottomless depth of darkness. From this moment he was seized by rage. The breath of the invisible intoxicated him, the black horror of this rain-beaten hole urged him to mad destruction. He wreaked his fury at random against the tubbing, striking where he could with his wimble, with his saw, seized by the desire to bring the whole thing at once down on his head. He brought as much ferocity to the task as though he had been digging a knife into the skin of some execrated living creature. He would kill the Voreux at last, that evil beast with ever-open jaws which had swallowed so much human flesh! The bite of his tools could be heard, his spine lengthened, he crawled, climbed down, then up again, holding on by a miracle, in continual movement, the flight of a nocturnal bird amid the scaffolding of a belfry. But he grew calm, dissatisfied with himself. Why could not things be done coolly? Without haste he took breath, and then went back into the ladder passage, stopping up the hole by replacing the panel which he had sawn. That was enough; he did not wish to raise the alarm by excessive damage which would have been repaired immediately. The beast was wounded in the belly; we should see if it was still alive at night. And he had left his mark; the frightened world would know that the beast had not died a natural death. He took his time in methodically rolling up his tools in his jacket, and slowly climbed up the ladders. Then, when he had emerged from the pit without being seen, it did not even occur to him to go and change his clothes. Three o'clock struck. He remained standing on the road waiting. At the same hour Étienne, who was not asleep, was disturbed by a slight sound in the thick night of the room. He distinguished the low breath of the children, and the snoring of Bonnemort and Maheude; while Jeanlin near him was breathing with a prolonged flute-like whistle. No doubt he had dreamed, and he was turning back when the noise began again. It was the creaking of a palliasse, the stifled effort of someone who is getting up. Then he imagined that Catherine must be ill. "I say, is it you? What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice. No one replied, and the snoring of the others continued. For five minutes nothing stirred. Then there was fresh creaking. Feeling certain this time that he was not mistaken, he crossed the room, putting his hands out into the darkness to feel the opposite bed. He was surprised to find the young girl sitting up, holding in her breath, awake and on the watch. "Well! why don't you reply? What are you doing, then?" At last she said: "I'm getting up." "Getting up at this hour?" "Yes, I'm going back to work at the pit." Étienne felt deeply moved, and sat down on the edge of the palliasse, while Catherine explained her reasons to him. She suffered too much by living thus in idleness, feeling continual looks of reproach weighing on her; she would rather run the risk of being knocked about down there by Chaval. And if her mother refused to take her money when she brought it, well! she was big enough to act for herself and make her own soup. "Go away; I want to dress. And don't say anything, will you, if you want to be kind?" But he remained near her; he had put his arms round her waist in a caress of grief and pity. Pressed one against the other in their shirts, they could feel the warmth of each other's naked flesh, at the edge of this bed, still moist with the night's sleep. She had at first tried to free herself; then she began to cry quietly, in her turn taking him by the neck to press him against her in a despairing clasp. And they remained, without any further desires, with the past of their unfortunate love, which they had not been able to satisfy. Was it, then, done with for ever? Would they never dare to love each other some day, now that they were free? It only needed a little happiness to dissipate their shame--that awkwardness which prevented them from coming together because of all sorts of ideas which they themselves could not read clearly. "Go to bed again," she whispered. "I don't want to light up, it would wake mother. It is time; leave me." He could not hear; he was pressing her wildly, with a heart drowned in immense sadness. The need for peace, an irresistible need for happiness, was carrying him away; and he saw himself married, in a neat little house, with no other ambition than to live and to die there, both of them together. He would be satisfied with bread; and if there were only enough for one, she should have it. What was the good of anything else? Was there anything in life worth more? But she was unfolding her naked arms. "Please, leave me." Then, in a sudden impulse, he said in her ear: "Wait, I'm coming with you." And he was himself surprised at what he had said. He had sworn never to go down again; whence then came this sudden decision, arising from his lips without thought of his, without even a moment's discussion? There was now such calm within him, so complete a cure of his doubts, that he persisted like a man saved by chance, who has at last found the only harbour from his torment. So he refused to listen to her when she became alarmed, understanding that he was devoting himself for her and fearing the ill words which would greet him at the pit. He laughed at everything; the placards promised pardon and that was enough. "I want to work; that's my idea. Let us dress and make no noise." They dressed themselves in the darkness, with a thousand precautions. She had secretly prepared her miner's clothes the evening before; he took a jacket and breeches from the cupboard; and they did not wash themselves for fear of knocking the bowl. All were asleep, but they had to cross the narrow passage where the mother slept. When they started, as ill luck would have it, they stumbled against a chair. She woke and asked drowsily: "Eh! what is it?" Catherine had stopped, trembling, and violently pressing Étienne's hand. "It's me; don't trouble yourself," he said. "I feel stifled and am going outside to breathe a bit." "Very well." And Maheude fell asleep again. Catherine dared not stir. At last she went down into the parlour and divided a slice of bread-and-butter which she had reserved from a loaf given by a Montsou lady. Then they softly closed the door and went away. Souvarine had remained standing near the Avantage, at the corner of the road. For half an hour he had been looking at the colliers who were returning to work in the darkness, passing by with the dull tramp of a herd. He was counting them, as a butcher counts his beasts at the entrance to the slaughter-house, and he was surprised at their number; even his pessimism had not foreseen that the number of cowards would have been so great. The stream continued to pass by, and he grew stiff, very cold, with clenched teeth and bright eyes. But he started. Among the men passing by, whose faces he could not distinguish, he had just recognized one by his walk. He came forward and stopped him. "Where are you going to?" Étienne, in surprise, instead of replying, stammered: "What! you've not set out yet!" Then he confessed he was going back to the pit. No doubt he had sworn; only it could not be called life to wait with folded arms for things which would perhaps happen in a hundred years; and, besides, reasons of his own had decided him. Souvarine had listened to him, shuddering. He seized him by the shoulder, and pushed him towards the settlement. "Go home again; I want you to. Do you understand?" But Catherine having approached, he recognized her also. Étienne protested, declaring that he allowed no one to judge his conduct. And the engine-man's eyes went from the young girl to her companion, while he stepped back with a sudden, relinquishing movement. When there was a woman in a man's heart, that man was done for; he might die. Perhaps he saw again in a rapid vision his mistress hanging over there at Moscow, that last link cut from his flesh, which had rendered him free of the lives of others and of his own life. He said simply: "Go." Étienne, feeling awkward, was delaying, and trying to find some friendly word, so as not to separate in this manner. "Then you're still going?" "Yes." "Well, give me your hand, old chap. A pleasant journey, and no ill feeling." The other stretched out an icy hand. Neither friend nor wife. "Good-bye for good this time." "Yes, good-bye." And Souvarine, standing motionless in the darkness, watched Étienne and Catherine entering the Voreux. CHAPTER III At four o'clock the descent began. Dansaert, who was personally installed at the marker's office in the lamp cabin, wrote down the name of each worker who presented himself and had a lamp given to him. He took them all, without remark, keeping to the promise of the placards. When, however, he noticed Étienne and Catherine at the wicket, he started and became very red, and was opening his mouth to refuse their names; then, he contented himself with the triumph, and a jeer. Ah! ah! so the strong man was thrown? The Company was, then, in luck since the terrible Montsou wrestler had come back to it to ask for bread? Étienne silently took his lamp and went towards the shaft with the putter. But it was there, in the receiving-room, that Catherine feared the mates' bad words. At the very entrance she recognized Chaval, in the midst of some twenty miners, waiting till a cage was free. He came furiously towards her, but the sight of Étienne stopped him. Then he affected to sneer with an offensive shrug of the shoulders. Very good! he didn't care a hang, since the other had come to occupy the place that was still warm; good riddance! It only concerned the gentleman if he liked the leavings; and beneath the exhibition of this contempt he was again seized by a tremor of jealousy, and his eyes flamed. For the rest, the mates did not stir, standing silent, with eyes lowered. They contented themselves with casting a sidelong look at the new-comers; then, dejected and without anger, they again stared fixedly at the mouth of the shaft, with their lamps in their hands, shivering beneath their thin jackets, in the constant draughts of this large room. At last the cage was wedged on to the keeps, and they were ordered to get in. Catherine and Étienne were squeezed in one tram, already containing Pierron and two pikemen. Beside them, in the other tram, Chaval was loudly saying to Father Mouque that the directors had made a mistake in not taking advantage of the opportunity to free the pits of the blackguards who were corrupting them; but the old groom, who had already fallen back into the dog-like resignation of his existence, no longer grew angry over the death of his children, and simply replied by a gesture of conciliation. The cage freed itself and slipped down into the darkness. No one spoke. Suddenly, when they were in the middle third of the descent, there was a terrible jarring. The iron creaked, and the men were thrown on to each other. "By God!" growled Étienne, "are they going to flatten us? We shall end by being left here for good, with their confounded tubbing. And they talk about having repaired it!" The cage had, however, cleared the obstacle. It was now descending beneath so violent a rain, like a storm, that the workmen anxiously listened to the pouring. A number of leaks must then have appeared in the caulking of the joints. Pierron, who had been working for several days, when asked about it did not like to show his fear, which might be considered as an attack on the management, so he only replied: "Oh, no danger! it's always like that. No doubt they've not had time to caulk the leaks." The torrent was roaring over their heads, and they at last reached the pit-eye beneath a veritable waterspout. Not one of the captains had thought of climbing up the ladders to investigate the matter. The pump would be enough, the carpenters would examine the joints the following night. The reorganization of work in the galleries gave considerable trouble. Before allowing the pikemen to return to their hewing cells, the engineer had decided that for the first five days all the men should execute certain works of consolidation which were extremely urgent. Landslips were threatening everywhere; the passages had suffered to such an extent that the timbering had to be repaired along a length of several hundred metres. Gangs of ten men were therefore formed below, each beneath the control of a captain. Then they were set to work at the most damaged spots. When the descent was complete, it was found that three hundred and twenty-two miners had gone down, about half of those who worked there when the pit was in full swing. Chaval belonged to the same gang as Catherine and Étienne. This was not by chance; he had at first hidden behind his mates, and had then forced the captain's hand. This gang went to the end of the north gallery, nearly three kilometres away, to clear out a landslip which was stopping up a gallery in the Dix-Huit-Pouces seam. They attacked the fallen rocks with shovel and pick. Étienne, Chaval, and five others cleared away the rubbish while Catherine, with two trammers, wheeled the earth up to the upbrow. They seldom spoke, and the captain never left them. The putter's two lovers, however, were on the point of coming to blows. While growling that he had had enough of this trollop, Chaval was still thinking of her, and slyly hustling her about, so that Étienne had threatened to settle him if he did not leave her alone. They eyed each other fiercely, and had to be separated. Towards eight o'clock Dansaert passed to give a glance at the work. He appeared to be in a very bad humour, and was furious with the captain; nothing had gone well, what was the meaning of such work, the planking would everywhere have to be done over again! And he went away declaring that he would come back with the engineer. He had been waiting for Négrel since morning, and could not understand the cause of this delay. Another hour passed by. The captain had stopped the removal of the rubbish to employ all his people in supporting the roof. Even the putter and the two trammers left off wheeling to prepare and bring pieces of timber. At this end of the gallery the gang formed a sort of advance guard at the very extremity of the mine, now without communication with the other stalls. Three or four times strange noises, distant rushes, made the workers turn their heads to listen. What was it, then? One would have said that the passages were being emptied and the mates already returning at a running pace. But the sound was lost in the deep silence, and they set to wedging their wood again, dazed by the loud blows of the hammer. At last they returned to the rubbish, and the wheeling began once more. Catherine came back from her first journey in terror, saying that no one was to be found at the upbrow. "I called, but there was no reply. They've all cleared out of the place." The bewilderment was so great that the ten men threw down their tools to rush away. The idea that they were abandoned, left alone at the bottom of the mine, so far from the pit-eye, drove them wild. They only kept their lamps and ran in single file--the men, the boys, the putter; the captain himself lost his head and shouted out appeals, more and more frightened at the silence in this endless desert of galleries. What then had happened that they did not meet a soul? What accident could thus have driven away their mates? Their terror was increased by the uncertainty of the danger, this threat which they felt there without knowing what it was. When they at last came near the pit-eye, a torrent barred their road. They were at once in water to the knees, and were no longer able to run, laboriously fording the flood with the thought that one minute's delay might mean death. "By God! it's the tubbing that's given way," cried Étienne. "I said we should be left here for good." Since the descent Pierron had anxiously observed the increase of the deluge which fell from the shaft. As with two others he loaded the trams he raised his head, his face covered with large drops, and his ears ringing with the roar of the tempest above. But he trembled especially when he noticed that the sump beneath him, that pit ten metres deep, was filling; the water was already spurting through the floor and covering the metal plates. This showed that the pump was no longer sufficient to fight against the leaks. He heard it panting with the groan of fatigue. Then he warned Dansaert, who swore angrily, replying that they must wait for the engineer. Twice he returned to the charge without extracting anything else but exasperated shrugs of the shoulder. Well! the water was rising; what could he do? Mouque appeared with Bataille, whom he was leading to work, and he had to hold him with both hands, for the sleepy old horse had suddenly reared up, and, with a shrill neigh, was stretching his head towards the shaft. "Well, philosopher, what troubles you? Ah! it's because it rains. Come along, that doesn't concern you." But the beast quivered all over his skin, and Mouque forcibly drew him to the haulage gallery. Almost at the same moment as Mouque and Bataille were disappearing at the end of a gallery, there was a crackling in the air, followed by the prolonged noise of a fall. It was a piece of tubbing which had got loose and was falling a hundred and eighty metres down, rebounding against the walls. Pierron and the other porters were able to get out of the way, and the oak plank only smashed an empty tram. At the same time, a mass of water, the leaping flood of a broken dyke, rushed down. Dansaert proposed to go up and examine; but, while he was still speaking, another piece rolled down. And in terror before the threatening catastrophe, he no longer hesitated, but gave the order to go up, sending captains to warn the men in their stalls. Then a terrible hustling began. From every gallery rows of workers came rushing up, trying to take the cages by assault. They crushed madly against each other in order to be taken up at once. Some who had thought of trying the ladder passage came down again shouting that it was already stopped up. That was the terror they all felt each time that the cage rose; this time it was able to pass, but who knew if it would be able to pass again in the midst of the obstacles obstructing the shaft? The downfall must be continuing above, for a series of low detonations was heard, the planks were splitting and bursting amid the continuous and increasing roar of a storm. One cage soon became useless, broken in and no longer sliding between the guides, which were doubtless broken. The other jarred to such a degree that the cable would certainly break soon. And there remained a hundred men to be taken up, all panting, clinging to one another, bleeding and half-drowned. Two were killed by falls of planking. A third, who had seized the cage, fell back fifty metres up and disappeared in the sump. Dansaert, however, was trying to arrange matters in an orderly manner. Armed with a pick he threatened to open the skull of the first man who refused to obey; and he tried to arrange them in file, shouting that the porters were to go up last after having sent up their mates. He was not listened to, and he had to prevent the pale and cowardly Pierron from entering among the first. At each departure he pushed him aside with a blow. But his own teeth were chattering, a minute more and he would be swallowed up; everything was smashing up there, a flood had broken loose, a murderous rain of scaffolding. A few men were still running up when, mad with fear, he jumped into a tram, allowing Pierron to jump in behind him. The cage rose. At this moment the gang to which Étienne and Chaval belonged had just reached the pit-eye. They saw the cage disappear and rushed forward, but they had to draw back from the final downfall of the tubbing; the shaft was stopped up and the cage would not come down again. Catherine was sobbing, and Chaval was choked with shouting oaths. There were twenty of them; were those bloody bosses going to abandon them thus? Father Mouque, who had brought back Bataille without hurrying, was still holding him by the bridle, both of them stupefied, the man and the beast, in the face of this rapid flow of the inundation. The water was already rising to their thighs. Étienne in silence, with clenched teeth, supported Catherine between his arms. And the twenty yelled with their faces turned up, obstinately gazing at the shaft like imbeciles, that shifting hole which was belching out a flood and from which no help could henceforth come to them. At the surface, Dansaert, on arriving, perceived Négrel running up. By some fatality, Madame Hennebeau had that morning delayed him on rising, turning over the leaves of catalogues for the purchase of wedding presents. It was ten o'clock. "Well! what's happening, then?" he shouted from afar. "The pit is ruined," replied the head captain. And he described the catastrophe in a few stammered words, while the engineer incredulously shrugged his shoulders. What! could tubbing be demolished like that? They were exaggerating; he would make an examination. "I suppose no one has been left at the bottom?" Dansaert was confused. No, no one; at least, so he hoped. But some of the men might have been delayed. "But," said Négrel, "what in the name of creation have you come up for, then? You can't leave your men!" He immediately gave orders to count the lamps. In the morning three hundred and twenty-two had been distributed, and now only two hundred and fifty-five could be found; but several men acknowledged that in the hustling and panic they had dropped theirs and left them behind. An attempt was made to call over the men, but it was impossible to establish the exact number. Some of the miners had gone away, others did not hear their names. No one was agreed as to the number of the missing mates. It might be twenty, perhaps forty. And the engineer could only make out one thing with certainty: there were men down below, for their yells could be distinguished through the sound of the water and the fallen scaffolding, on leaning over the mouth of the shaft. Négrel's first care was to send for M. Hennebeau, and to try to close the pit; but it was already too late. The colliers who had rushed to the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement, as though pursued by the cracking tubbing, had frightened the families; and bands of women, old men, and little ones came running up, shaken by cries and sobs. They had to be pushed back, and a line of overseers was formed to keep them off, for they would have interfered with the operations. Many of the men who had come up from the shaft remained there stupidly without thinking of changing their clothes, riveted by fear before this terrible hole in which they had nearly remained for ever. The women, rushing wildly around them, implored them for names. Was So-and-so among them? and that one? and this one? They did not know, they stammered; they shuddered terribly, and made gestures like madmen, gestures which seemed to be pushing away some abominable vision which was always present to them. The crowd rapidly increased, and lamentations arose from the roads. And up there on the pit-bank, in Bonnemort's cabin, on the ground was seated a man, Souvarine, who had not gone away, who was looking on. "The names! the names!" cried the women, with voices choked by tears. Négrel appeared for a moment, and said hurriedly: "As soon as we know the names they shall be given out, but nothing is lost so far: every one will be saved. I am going down." Then, silent with anguish, the crowd waited. The engineer, in fact, with quiet courage was preparing to go down. He had had the cage unfastened, giving orders to replace it at the end of the cable by a tub; and as he feared that the water would extinguish his lamp, he had another fastened beneath the tub, which would protect it. Several captains, trembling and with white, disturbed faces, assisted in these preparations. "You will come with me, Dansaert," said Négrel, abruptly. Then, when he saw them all without courage, and that the head captain was tottering, giddy with terror, he pushed him aside with a movement of contempt. "No, you will be in my way. I would rather go alone." He was already in the narrow bucket, which swayed at the end of the cable; and holding his lamp in one hand and the signal-cord in the other, he shouted to the engine-man: "Gently!" The engine set the drums in movement, and Négrel disappeared in the gulf, from which the yells of the wretches below still arose. At the upper part nothing had moved. He found that the tubbing here was in good condition. Balanced in the middle of the shaft he lighted up the walls as he turned round; the leaks between the joints were so slight that his lamp did not suffer. But at three hundred metres, when he reached the lower tubbing, the lamp was extinguished, as he expected, for a jet had filled the tub. After that he was only able to see by the hanging lamp which preceded him in the darkness, and, in spite of his courage, he shuddered and turned pale in the face of the horror of the disaster. A few pieces of timber alone remained; the others had fallen in with their frames. Behind, enormous cavities had been hollowed out, and the yellow sand, as fine as flour, was flowing in considerable masses; while the waters of the Torrent, that subterranean sea with its unknown tempests and shipwrecks, were discharging in a flow like a weir. He went down lower, lost in the midst of these chasms which continued to multiply, beaten and turned round by the waterspout of the springs, so badly lighted by the red star of the lamp moving on below, that he seemed to distinguish the roads and squares of some destroyed town far away in the play of the great moving shadows. No human work was any longer possible. His only remaining hope was to attempt to save the men in peril. As he sank down he heard the cries becoming louder, and he was obliged to stop; an impassable obstacle barred the shaft--a mass of scaffolding, the broken joists of the guides, the split brattices entangled with the metal-work torn from the pump. As he looked on for a long time with aching heart, the yelling suddenly ceased. No doubt, the rapid rise of the water had forced the wretches to flee into the galleries, if, indeed, the flood had not already filled their mouths. Négrel resigned himself to pulling the signal-cord as a sign to draw up. Then he had himself stopped again. He could not conceive the cause of this sudden accident. He wished to investigate it, and examined those pieces of the tubbing which were still in place. At a distance the tears and cuts in the wood had surprised him. His lamp, drowned in dampness, was going out, and, touching with his fingers, he clearly recognized the marks of the saw and of the wimble--the whole abominable labour of destruction. Evidently this catastrophe had been intentionally produced. He was stupefied, and the pieces of timber, cracking and falling down with their frames in a last slide, nearly carried him with them. His courage fled. The thought of the man who had done that made his hair stand on end, and froze him with a supernatural fear of evil, as though, mixed with the darkness, the men were still there paying for his immeasurable crime. He shouted and shook the cord furiously; and it was, indeed, time, for he perceived that the upper tubbing, a hundred metres higher, was in its turn beginning to move. The joints were opening, losing their oakum caulking, and streams were rushing through. It was now only a question of hours before the tubbing would all fall down. At the surface M. Hennebeau was anxiously waiting for Négrel. "Well, what?" he asked. But the engineer was choked, and could not speak; he felt faint. "It is not possible; such a thing was never seen. Have you examined?" He nodded with a cautious look. He refused to talk in the presence of some captains who were listening, and led his uncle ten metres away, and not thinking this far enough, drew still farther back; then, in a low whisper, he at last told of the outrage, the torn and sawn planks, the pit bleeding at the neck and groaning. Turning pale, the manager also lowered his voice, with that instinctive need of silence in face of the monstrosity of great orgies and great crimes. It was useless to look as though they were trembling before the ten thousand Montsou men; later on they would see. And they both continued whispering, overcome at the thought that a man had had the courage to go down, to hang in the midst of space, to risk his life twenty times over in his terrible task. They could not even understand this mad courage in destruction; they refused to believe, in spite of the evidence, just as we doubt those stories of celebrated escapes of prisoners who fly through windows thirty metres above the ground. When M. Hennebeau came back to the captains a nervous spasm was drawing his face. He made a gesture of despair, and gave orders that the mine should be evacuated at once. It was a kind of funeral procession, in silent abandonment, with glances thrown back at those great masses of bricks, empty and still standing, but which nothing henceforth could save. And as the manager and the engineer came down last from the receiving-room, the crowd met them with its clamour, repeating obstinately: "The names! the names! Tell us the names!" Maheude was now there, among the women. She recollected the noise in the night; her daughter and the lodger must have gone away together, and they were certainly down at the bottom. And after having cried that it was a good thing, that they deserved to stay there, the heartless cowards, she had run up, and was standing in the first row, trembling with anguish. Besides, she no longer dared to doubt; the discussion going on around her informed her as to the names of those who were down. Yes, yes, Catherine was among them, Étienne also--a mate had seen them. But there was not always agreement with regard to the others. No, not this one; on the contrary, that one, perhaps Chaval, with whom, however, a trammer declared that he had ascended. The Levaque and Pierronne, although none of their people were in danger, cried out and lamented as loudly as the others. Zacharie, who had come up among the first, in spite of his inclination to make fun of everything had weepingly kissed his wife and mother, and remained near the latter, quivering, and showing an unexpected degree of affection for his sister, refusing to believe that she was below so long as the bosses made no authoritative statement. "The names! the names! For pity's sake, the names!" Négrel, who was exhausted, shouted to the overseers: "Can't you make them be still? It's enough to kill one with vexation! We don't know the names!" Two hours passed away in this manner. In the first terror no one had thought of the other shaft at the old Réquillart mine, M. Hennebeau was about to announce that the rescue would be attempted from that side, when a rumour ran round: five men had just escaped the inundation by climbing up the rotten ladders of the old unused passage, and Father Mouque was named. This caused surprise, for no one knew he was below. But the narrative of the five who had escaped increased the weeping; fifteen mates had not been able to follow them, having gone astray, and been walled up by falls. And it was no longer possible to assist them, for there were already ten metres of water in Réquillart. All the names were known, and the air was filled with the groans of a slaughtered multitude. "Will you make them be still?" Négrel repeated furiously. "Make them draw back! Yes, yes, to a hundred metres! There is danger; push them back, push them back!" It was necessary to struggle against these poor people. They were imagining all sorts of misfortunes, and they had to be driven away so that the deaths might be concealed; the captains explained to them that the shaft would destroy the whole mine. This idea rendered them mute with terror, and they at last allowed themselves to be driven back step by step; the guards, however, who kept them back had to be doubled, for they were fascinated by the spot and continually returned. Thousands of people were hustling each other along the road; they were running up from all the settlements, and even from Montsou. And the man above, on the pit-bank, the fair man with the girlish face, smoked cigarettes to occupy himself, keeping his clear eyes fixed on the pit. Then the wait began. It was midday; no one had eaten, but no one moved away. In the misty sky, of a dirty grey colour, rusty clouds were slowly passing by. A big dog, behind Rasseneur's hedge, was barking furiously without cessation, irritated by the living breath of the crowd. And the crowd had gradually spread over the neighbouring ground, forming a circle at a hundred metres round the pit. The Voreux arose in the centre of the great space. There was not a soul there, not a sound; it was a desert. The windows and the doors, left open, showed the abandonment within; a forgotten ginger cat, divining the peril in this solitude, jumped from a staircase and disappeared. No doubt the stoves of the boilers were scarcely extinguished, for the tall brick chimney gave out a light smoke beneath the dark clouds; while the weathercock on the steeple creaked in the wind with a short, shrill cry, the only melancholy voice of these vast buildings which were about to die. At two o'clock nothing had moved, M. Hennebeau, Négrel, and other engineers who had hastened up, formed a group in black coats and hats standing in front of the crowd; and they, too, did not move away, though their legs were aching with fatigue, and they were feverish and ill at their impotence in the face of such a disaster, only whispering occasional words as though at a dying person's bedside. The upper tubbing must nearly all have fallen in, for sudden echoing sounds could be heard as of deep broken falls, succeeded by silence. The wound was constantly enlarging; the landslip which had begun below was rising and approaching the surface. Négrel was seized by nervous impatience; he wanted to see, and he was already advancing alone into this awful void when he was seized by the shoulders. What was the good? he could prevent nothing. An old miner, however, circumventing the overseers, rushed into the shed; but he quietly reappeared, he had gone for his sabots. Three o'clock struck. Still nothing. A falling shower had soaked the crowd, but they had not withdrawn a step. Rasseneur's dog had begun to bark again. And it was at twenty minutes past three only that the first shock was felt. The Voreux trembled, but continued solid and upright. Then a second shock followed immediately, and a long cry came from open mouths; the tarred screening-shed, after having tottered twice, had fallen down with a terrible crash. Beneath the enormous pressure the structures broke and jarred each other so powerfully that sparks leapt out. From this moment the earth continued to tremble, the shocks succeeded one another, subterranean downfalls, the rumbling of a volcano in eruption. Afar the dog was no longer barking, but he howled plaintively as though announcing the oscillations which he felt coming; and the women, the children, all these people who were looking on, could not keep back a clamour of distress at each of these blows which shook them. In less than ten minutes the slate roof of the steeple fell in, the receiving-room and the engine-rooms were split open, leaving a considerable breach. Then the sounds ceased, the downfall stopped, and there was again deep silence. For an hour the Voreux remained thus, broken into, as though bombarded by an army of barbarians. There was no more crying out; the enlarged circle of spectators merely looked on. Beneath the piled-up beams of the sifting-shed, fractured tipping cradles could be made out with broken and twisted hoppers. But the rubbish had especially accumulated at the receiving-room, where there had been a rain of bricks, and large portions of wall and masses of plaster had fallen in. The iron scaffold which bore the pulleys had bent, half-buried in the pit; a cage was still suspended, a torn cable-end was hanging; then there was a hash of trams, metal plates, and ladders. By some chance the lamp cabin remained standing, exhibiting on the left its bright rows of little lamps. And at the end of its disembowelled chamber, the engine could be seen seated squarely on its massive foundation of masonry; its copper was shining and its huge steel limbs seemed to possess indestructible muscles. The enormous crank, bent in the air, looked like the powerful knee of some giant quietly reposing in his strength. After this hour of respite, M. Hennebeau's hopes began to rise. The movement of the soil must have come to an end, and there would be some chance of saving the engine and the remainder of the buildings. But he would not yet allow any one to approach, considering another half-hour's patience desirable. This waiting became unbearable; the hope increased the anguish and all hearts were beating quickly. A dark cloud, growing large at the horizon, hastened the twilight, a sinister dayfall over this wreck of earth's tempests. Since seven o'clock they had been there without moving or eating. And suddenly, as the engineers were cautiously advancing, a supreme convulsion of the soil put them to flight. Subterranean detonations broke out; a whole monstrous artillery was cannonading in the gulf. At the surface, the last buildings were tipped over and crushed. At first a sort of whirlpool carried away the rubbish from the sifting-shed and the receiving-room. Next, the boiler building burst and disappeared. Then it was the low square tower, where the pumping-engine was groaning, which fell on its face like a man mown down by a bullet. And then a terrible thing was seen; the engine, dislocated from its massive foundation, with broken limbs was struggling against death; it moved, it straightened its crank, its giant's knee, as though to rise; but, crushed and swallowed up, it was dying. The chimney alone, thirty metres high, still remained standing, though shaken, like a mast in the tempest. It was thought that it would be crushed to fragments and fly to powder, when suddenly it sank in one block, drunk down by the earth, melted like a colossal candle; and nothing was left, not even the point of the lightning conductor. It was done for; the evil beast crouching in this hole, gorged with human flesh, was no longer breathing with its thick, long respiration. The Voreux had been swallowed whole by the abyss. The crowd rushed away yelling. The women hid their eyes as they ran. Terror drove the men along like a pile of dry leaves. They wished not to shout and they shouted, with swollen breasts, and arms in the air, before the immense hole which had been hollowed out. This crater, as of an extinct volcano, fifteen metres deep, extended from the road to the canal for a space of at least forty metres. The whole square of the mine had followed the buildings, the gigantic platforms, the foot-bridges with their rails, a complete train of trams, three wagons; without counting the wood supply, a forest of cut timber, gulped down like straw. At the bottom it was only possible to distinguish a confused mass of beams, bricks, iron, plaster, frightful remains, piled up, entangled, soiled in the fury of the catastrophe. And the hole became larger, cracks started from the edges, reaching afar, across the fields. A fissure ascended as far as Rasseneur's bar, and his front wall had cracked. Would the settlement itself pass into it? How far ought they to flee to reach shelter at the end of this abominable day, beneath this leaden cloud which also seemed about to crush the earth? A cry of pain escaped Négrel. M. Hennebeau, who had drawn back, was in tears. The disaster was not complete; one bank of the canal gave way, and the canal emptied itself like one bubbling sheet through one of the cracks. It disappeared there, falling like a cataract down a deep valley. The mine drank down this river; the galleries would now be submerged for years. Soon the crater was filled and a lake of muddy water occupied the place where once stood the Voreux, like one of those lakes beneath which sleep accursed towns. There was a terrified silence, and nothing now could be heard but the fall of this water rumbling in the bowels of the earth. Then on the shaken pit-bank Souvarine rose up. He had recognized Maheude and Zacharie sobbing before this downfall, the weight of which was so heavy on the heads of the wretches who were in agony beneath. And he threw down his last cigarette; he went away, without looking back, into the now dark night. Afar his shadow diminished and mingled with the darkness. He was going over there, to the unknown. He was going tranquilly to extermination, wherever there might be dynamite to blow up towns and men. He will be there, without doubt, when the middle class in agony shall hear the pavement of the streets bursting up beneath their feet. CHAPTER IV On the night that followed the collapse of the Voreux M. Hennebeau started for Paris, wishing to inform the directors in person before the newspapers published the news. And when he returned on the following day he appeared to be quite calm, with his usual correct administrative air. He had evidently freed himself from responsibility; he did not appear to have decreased in favour. On the contrary, the decree appointing him officer of the Legion of Honour was signed twenty-four hours afterwards. But if the manager remained safe, the Company was tottering beneath the terrible blow. It was not the few million francs that had been lost, it was the wound in the flank, the deep incessant fear of the morrow in face of this massacre of one of their mines. The Company was so impressed that once more it felt the need of silence. What was the good of stirring up this abomination? If the villain were discovered, why make a martyr of him in order that his awful heroism might turn other heads, and give birth to a long line of incendiaries and murderers? Besides, the real culprit was not suspected. The Company came to think that there was an army of accomplices, not being able to believe that a single man could have had courage and strength for such a task; and it was precisely this thought which weighed on them, this thought of an ever-increasing threat to the existence of their mines. The manager had received orders to organize a vast system of espionage, and then to dismiss quietly, one by one, the dangerous men who were suspected of having had a hand in the crime. They contented themselves with this method of purification--a prudent and politic method. There was only one immediate dismissal, that of Dansaert, the head captain. Ever since the scandal at Pierronne's house he had become impossible. A pretext was made of his attitude in danger, the cowardice of a captain abandoning his men. This was also a prudent sop thrown to the miners, who hated him. Among the public, however, many rumours had circulated, and the directors had to send a letter of correction to one newspaper, contradicting a story in which mention was made of a barrel of powder lighted by the strikers. After a rapid inquiry the Government inspector had concluded that there had been a natural rupture of the tubbing, occasioned by the piling up of the soil; and the Company had preferred to be silent, and to accept the blame of a lack of superintendence. In the Paris press, after the third day, the catastrophe had served to increase the stock of general news; nothing was talked of but the men perishing at the bottom of the mine, and the telegrams published every morning were eagerly read. At Montsou people grew pale and speechless at the very name of the Voreux, and a legend had formed which made the boldest tremble as they whispered it. The whole country showed great pity for the victims; visits were organized to the destroyed pit, and whole families hastened up to shudder at the ruins which lay so heavily over the heads of the buried wretches. Deneulin, who had been appointed divisional engineer, came into the midst of the disaster on beginning his duties; and his first care was to turn the canal back into its bed, for this torrent increased the damage every hour. Extensive works were necessary, and he at once set a hundred men to construct a dyke. Twice over the impetuosity of the stream carried away the first dams. Now pumps were set up and a furious struggle was going on; step by step the vanished soil was being violently reconquered. But the rescue of the engulfed miners was a still more absorbing work. Négrel was appointed to attempt a supreme effort, and arms were not lacking to help him; all the colliers rushed to offer themselves in an outburst of brotherhood. They forgot the strike, they did not trouble themselves at all about payment; they might get nothing, they only asked to risk their lives as soon as there were mates in danger of death. They were all there with their tools, quivering as they waited to know where they ought to strike. Many of them, sick with fright after the accident, shaken by nervous tremors, soaked in cold sweats, and the prey of continual nightmares, got up in spite of everything, and were as eager as any in their desire to fight against the earth, as though they had a revenge to take on it. Unfortunately, the difficulty began when the question arose, What could be done? how could they go down? from what side could they attack the rocks? Négrel's opinion was that not one of the unfortunate people was alive; the fifteen had surely perished, drowned or suffocated. But in these mine catastrophes the rule is always to assume that buried men are alive, and he acted on this supposition. The first problem which he proposed to himself was to decide where they could have taken refuge. The captains and old miners whom he consulted were agreed on one point: in the face of the rising water the men had certainly come up from gallery to gallery to the highest cuttings, so that they were, without doubt, driven to the end of some upper passages. This agreed with Father Mouque's information, and his confused narrative even gave reason to suppose that in the wild flight the band had separated into smaller groups, leaving fugitives on the road at every level. But the captains were not unanimous when the discussion of possible attempts at rescue arose. As the passages nearest to the surface were a hundred and fifty metres down, there could be no question of sinking a shaft. Réquillart remained the one means of access, the only point by which they could approach. The worst was that the old pit, now also inundated, no longer communicated with the Voreux; and above the level of the water only a few ends of galleries belonging to the first level were left free. The pumping process would require years, and the best plan would be to visit these galleries and ascertain if any of them approached the submerged passages at the end of which the distressed miners were suspected to be. Before logically arriving at this point, much discussion had been necessary to dispose of a crowd of impracticable plans. Négrel now began to stir up the dust of the archives; he discovered the old plans of the two pits, studied them, and decided on the points at which their investigations ought to be carried on. Gradually this hunt excited him; he was, in his turn, seized by a fever of devotion, in spite of his ironical indifference to men and things. The first difficulty was in going down at Réquillart; it was necessary to clear out the rubbish from the mouth of the shaft, to cut down the mountain ash, and raze the sloes and the hawthorns; they had also to repair the ladders. Then they began to feel around. The engineer, having gone down with ten workmen, made them strike the iron of their tools against certain parts of the seam which he pointed out to them; and in deep silence they each placed an ear to the coal, listening for any distant blows to reply. But they went in vain through every practicable gallery; no echo returned to them. Their embarrassment increased. At what spot should they cut into the bed? Towards whom should they go, since no once appeared to be there? They persisted in seeking, however, notwithstanding the exhaustion produced by their growing anxiety. On the first day, Maheude came in the morning to Réquillart. She sat down on a beam in front of the shaft, and did not stir from it till evening. When a man came up, she rose and questioned him with her eyes: Nothing? No, nothing! And she sat down again, and waited still, without a word, with hard, fixed face. Jeanlin also, seeing that his den was invaded, prowled around with the frightened air of a beast of prey whose burrow will betray his booty. He thought of the little soldier lying beneath the rocks, fearing lest they should trouble his sound sleep; but that side of the mine was beneath the water, and, besides, their investigations were directed more to the left, in the west gallery. At first, Philoméne had also come, accompanying Zacharie, who was one of the gang; then she became wearied at catching cold, without need or result, and went back to the settlement, dragging through her days, a limp, indifferent woman, occupied from morning to night in coughing. Zacharie on the contrary, lived for nothing else; he would have devoured the soil to get back his sister. At night he shouted out that he saw, her, he heard her, very lean from hunger, her chest sore with calling for help. Twice he had tried to dig without orders, saying that it was there, that he was sure of it. The engineer would not let him go down any more, and he would not go away from the pit, from which he was driven off; he could not even sit down and wait near his mother, he was so deeply stirred by the need to act, which drove him constantly on. It was the third day. Négrel, in despair, had resolved to abandon the attempt in the evening. At midday, after lunch, when he came back with his men to make one last effort, he was surprised to see Zacharie, red and gesticulating, come out of the mine shouting: "She's there! She's replied to me! Come along, quickly!" He had slid down the ladders, in spite of the watchman, and was declaring that he had heard hammering over there, in the first passage of the Guillaume seam. "But we have already been twice in that direction," Négrel observed, sceptically. "Anyhow, we'll go and see." Maheude had risen, and had to be prevented from going down. She waited, standing at the edge of the shaft, gazing down into the darkness of the hole. Négrel, down below, himself struck three blows, at long intervals. He then applied his ear to the coal, cautioning the workers to be very silent. Not a sound reached him, and he shook his head; evidently the poor lad was dreaming. In a fury, Zacharie struck in his turn, and listened anew with bright eyes, and limbs trembling with joy. Then the other workmen tried the experiment, one after the other, and all grew animated, hearing the distant reply quite clearly. The engineer was astonished; he again applied his ear, and was at last able to catch a sound of aerial softness, a rhythmical roll scarcely to be distinguished, the well-known cadence beaten by the miners when they are fighting against the coal in the midst of danger. The coal transmits the sound with crystalline limpidity for a very great distance. A captain who was there estimated that the thickness of the block which separated them from their mates could not be less than fifty metres. But it seemed as if they could already stretch out a hand to them, and general gladness broke out. Négrel decided to begin at once the work of approach. When Zacharie, up above, saw Maheude again, they embraced each other. "It won't do to get excited," Pierronne, who had come for a visit of inquisitiveness, was cruel enough to say. "If Catherine isn't there, it would be such a grief afterwards!" That was true; Catherine might be somewhere else. "Just leave me alone, will you? Damn it!" cried Zacharie in a rage. "She's there; I know it!" Maheude sat down again in silence, with motionless face, continuing to wait. As soon as the story was spread at Montsou, a new crowd arrived. Nothing was to be seen; but they remained there all the same, and had to be kept at a distance. Down below, the work went on day and night. For fear of meeting an obstacle, the engineer had had three descending galleries opened in the seam, converging to the point where the enclosed miners were supposed to be. Only one pikeman could hew at the coal on the narrow face of the tube; he was relieved every two hours, and the coal piled in baskets was passed up, from hand to hand, by a chain of men, increased as the hole was hollowed out. The work at first proceeded very quickly; they did six metres a day. Zacharie had secured a place among the workers chosen for the hewing. It was a post of honour which was disputed over, and he became furious when they wished to relieve him after his regulation two hours of labour. He robbed his mates of their turn, and refused to let go the pick. His gallery was soon in advance of the others. He fought against the coal so fiercely that his breath could be heard coming from the tube like the roar of a forge within his breast. When he came out, black and muddy, dizzy with fatigue, he fell to the ground and had to be wrapped up in a covering. Then, still tottering, he plunged back again, and the struggle began anew--the low, deep blows, the stifled groans, the victorious fury of massacre. The worst was that the coal now became hard; he twice broke his tool, and was exasperated that he could not get on so fast. He suffered also from the heat, which increased with every metre of advance, and was unbearable at the end of this narrow hole where the air could not circulate. A hand ventilator worked well, but aeration was so inadequate that on three occasions it was necessary to take out fainting hewers who were being asphyxiated. Négrel lived below with his men. His meals were sent down to him, and he sometimes slept for a couple of hours on a truss of straw, rolled in a cloak. The one thing that kept them up was the supplication of the wretches beyond, the call which was sounded ever more distinctly to hasten on the rescue. It now rang very clearly with a musical sonority, as though struck on the plates of a harmonica. It led them on; they advanced to this crystalline sound as men advance to the sound of cannon in battle. Every time that a pikeman was relieved, Négrel went down and struck, then applied his ear; and every time, so far, the reply had come, rapid and urgent. He had no doubt remaining; they were advancing in the right direction, but with what fatal slowness! They would never arrive soon enough. On the first two days they had indeed hewn through thirteen metres; but on the third day they fell to five, and then on the fourth to three. The coal was becoming closer and harder, to such an extent that they now with difficulty struck through two metres. On the ninth day, after superhuman efforts, they had advanced thirty-two metres, and calculated that some twenty must still be left before them. For the prisoners it was the beginning of the twelfth day; twelve times over had they passed twenty-four hours without bread, without fire, in that icy darkness! This awful idea moistened the eyelids and stiffened the arm of the workers. It seemed impossible that Christians could live longer. The distant blows had become weaker since the previous day, and every moment they trembled lest they should stop. Maheude came regularly every morning to sit at the mouth of the shaft. In her arms she brought Estelle, who could not remain alone from morning to night. Hour by hour she followed the workers, sharing their hopes and fears. There was feverish expectation among the groups standing around, and even as far as Montsou, with endless discussion. Every heart in the district was beating down there beneath the earth. On the ninth day, at the breakfast hour, no reply came from Zacharie when he was called for the relay. He was like a madman, working on furiously with oaths. Négrel, who had come up for a moment, was not there to make him obey, and only a captain and three miners were below. No doubt Zacharie, infuriated with the feeble vacillating light, which delayed his work, committed the imprudence of opening his lamp, although severe orders had been given, for leakages of fire-damp had taken place, and the gas remained in enormous masses in these narrow, unventilated passages. Suddenly, a roar of thunder was heard, and a spout of fire darted out of the tube as from the mouth of a cannon charged with grapeshot. Everything flamed up and the air caught fire like powder, from one end of the galleries to the other. This torrent of flame carried away the captain and three workers, ascended the pit, and leapt up to the daylight in an eruption which split the rocks and the ruins around. The inquisitive fled, and Maheude arose, pressing the frightened Estelle to her breast. When Négrel and the men came back they were seized by a terrible rage. They struck their heels on the earth as on a stepmother who was killing her children at random in the imbecile whims of her cruelty. They were devoting themselves, they were coming to the help of their mates, and still they must lose some of their men! After three long hours of effort and danger they reached the galleries once more, and the melancholy ascent of the victims took place. Neither the captain nor the workers were dead, but they were covered by awful wounds which gave out an odour of grilled flesh; they had drunk of fire, the burns had got into their throats, and they constantly moaned and prayed to be finished off. One of the three miners was the man who had smashed the pump at Gaston-Marie with a final blow of the shovel during the strike; the two others still had scars on their hands, and grazed, torn fingers from the energy with which they had thrown bricks at the soldiers. The pale and shuddering crowd took off their hats when they were carried by. Maheude stood waiting. Zacharie's body at last appeared. The clothes were burnt, the body was nothing but black charcoal, calcined and unrecognizable. The head had been smashed by the explosion and no longer existed. And when these awful remains were placed on a stretcher, Maheude followed them mechanically, her burning eyelids without a tear. With Estelle drowsily lying in her arms, she went along, a tragic figure, her hair lashed by the wind. At the settlement Philoméne seemed stupid; her eyes were turned into fountains and she was quickly relieved. But the mother had already returned with the same step to Réquillart; she had accompanied her son, she was returning to wait for her daughter. Three more days passed by. The rescue work had been resumed amid incredible difficulties. The galleries of approach had fortunately not fallen after the fire-damp explosion; but the air was so heavy and so vitiated that more ventilators had to be installed. Every twenty minutes the pikemen relieved one another. They were advancing; scarcely two metres separated them from their mates. But now they worked feeling cold at their hearts, striking hard only out of vengeance; for the noises had ceased, and the low, clear cadence of the call no longer sounded. It was the twelfth day of their labours, the fifteenth since the catastrophe; and since the morning there had been a death-like silence. The new accident increased the curiosity at Montsou, and the inhabitants organized excursions with such spirit that the Grégoires decided to follow the fashion. They arranged a party, and it was agreed that they should go to the Voreux in their carriage, while Madame Hennebeau took Lucie and Jeanne there in hers. Deneulin would show them over his yards and then they would return by Réquillart, where Négrel would tell them the exact state of things in the galleries, and if there was still hope. Finally, they would dine together in the evening. When the Grégoires and their daughter Cécile arrived at the ruined mine, toward three o'clock, they found Madame Hennebeau already there, in a sea-blue dress, protecting herself under her parasol from the pale February sun. The warmth of spring was in the clear sky. M. Hennebeau was there with Deneulin, and she was listening, with listless ear, to the account which the latter gave her of the efforts which had been made to dam up the canal. Jeanne, who always carried a sketch-book with her, began to draw, carried away by the horror of the subject; while Lucie, seated beside her on the remains of a wagon, was crying out with pleasure, and finding it awfully jolly. The incomplete dam allowed numerous leaks, and frothy streams fell in a cascade down the enormous hole of the engulfed mine. The crater was being emptied, however, and the water, drunk by the earth, was sinking, and revealing the fearful ruin at the bottom. Beneath the tender azure of this beautiful day there lay a sewer, the ruins of a town drowned and melted in mud. "And people come out of their way to see that!" exclaimed M. Grégoire, disillusioned. Cécile, rosy with health and glad to breathe so pure an air, was cheerfully joking, while Madame Hennebeau made a little grimace of repugnance as she murmured: "The fact is, this is not pretty at all." The two engineers laughed. They tried to interest the visitors, taking them round and explaining to them the working of the pumps and the manipulation of the stamper which drove in the piles. But the ladies became anxious. They shuddered when they knew that the pumps would have to work for six or seven years before the shaft was reconstructed and all the water exhausted from the mine. No, they would rather think of something else; this destruction was only good to give bad dreams. "Let us go," said Madame Hennebeau, turning towards her carriage. Lucie and Jeanne protested. What! so soon! and the drawing which was not finished. They wanted to remain; their father would bring them to dinner in the evening. M. Hennebeau alone took his place with his wife in the carriage, for he wished to question Négrel. "Very well! go on before," said M. Grégoire. "We will follow you; we have a little visit of five minutes to make over there at the settlement. Go on, go on! we shall be at Réquillart as soon as you." He got up behind Madame Grégoire and Cécile, and while the other carriage went along by the canal, theirs gently ascended the slope. Their excursion was to be completed by a visit of charity. Zacharie's death had filled them with pity for this tragical Maheu family, about whom the whole country was talking. They had no pity for the father, that brigand, that slayer of soldiers, who had to be struck down like a wolf. But the mother touched them, that poor woman who had just lost her son after having lost her husband, and whose daughter was perhaps a corpse beneath the earth; to say nothing of an invalid grandfather, a child who was lame as the result of a landslip, and a little girl who died of starvation during the strike. So that, though this family had in part deserved its misfortunes by the detestable spirit it had shown, they had resolved to assert the breadth of their charity, their desire for forgetfulness and conciliation, by themselves bringing on alms. Two parcels, carefully wrapped up, had been placed beneath a seat of the carriage. An old woman pointed out to the coachman Maheude's house, No. 16 in the second block. But when the Grégoires alighted with the parcels, they knocked in vain; at last they struck their fists against the door, still without reply; the house echoed mournfully, like a house emptied by grief, frozen and dark, long since abandoned. "There's no one there," said Cécile, disappointed. "What a nuisance! What shall we do with all this?" Suddenly the door of the next house opened, and the Levaque woman appeared. "Oh, sir! I beg pardon, ma'am. Excuse me, miss. It's the neighbour that you want? She's not there; she's at Réquillart." With a flow of words she told them the story, repeating to them that people must help one another, and that she was keeping Lénore and Henri in her house to allow the mother to go and wait over there. Her eyes had fallen on the parcels, and she began to talk about her poor daughter, who had become a widow, displaying her own wretchedness, while her eyes shone with covetousness. Then, in a hesitating way, she muttered: "I've got the key. If the lady and gentleman would really like---- The grandfather is there." The Grégoires looked at her in stupefaction. What! The grandfather was there! But no one had replied. He was sleeping, then? And when the Levaque made up her mind to open the door, what they saw stopped them on the threshold. Bonnemort was there alone, with large fixed eyes, nailed to his chair in front of the cold fireplace. Around him the room appeared larger without the clock or the polished deal furniture which formerly animated it; there only remained against the green crudity of the walls the portraits of the Emperor and Empress, whose rosy lips were smiling with official benevolence. The old man did not stir nor wink his eyelids beneath the sudden light from the door; he seemed imbecile, as though he had not seen all these people come in. At his feet lay his plate, garnished with ashes, such as is placed for cats for ordure. "Don't mind if he's not very polite," said the Levaque woman, obligingly. "Seems he's broken something in his brain. It's a fortnight since he left off speaking." But Bonnemort was shaken by some agitation, a deep scraping which seemed to arise from his belly, and he expectorated into the plate a thick black expectoration. The ashes were soaked into a coaly mud, all the coal of the mine which he drew from his chest. He had already resumed his immobility. He stirred no more, except at intervals, to spit. Uneasy, and with stomachs turned, the Grégoires endeavoured to utter a few friendly and encouraging words. "Well, my good man," said the father, "you have a cold, then?" The old man, with his eyes to the wall, did not turn his head. And a heavy silence fell once more. "They ought to make you a little gruel," added the mother. He preserved his mute stiffness. "I say, papa," murmured Cécile, "they certainly told us he was an invalid; only we did not think of it afterwards--" She interrupted herself, much embarrassed. After having placed on the table a _pot-au-feu_ and two bottles of wine, she undid the second parcel and drew from it a pair of enormous boots. It was the present intended for the grandfather, and she held one boot in each hand, in confusion, contemplating the poor man's swollen feet, which would never walk again. "Eh! they come a little late, don't they, my worthy fellow?" said M. Grégoire again, to enliven the situation. "It doesn't matter, they're always useful." Bonnemort neither heard nor replied, with his terrible face as cold and as hard as a stone. Then Cécile furtively placed the boots against the wall. But in spite of her precautions the nails clanked; and those enormous boots stood oppressively in the room. "He won't say thank you," said the Levaque woman, who had cast a look of deep envy on the boots. "Might as well give a pair of spectacles to a duck, asking your pardon." She went on; she was trying to draw the Grégoires into her own house, where she hoped to gain their pity. At last she thought of a pretext; she praised Henri and Lénore, who were so good, so gentle, and so intelligent, answering like angels the questions that they were asked. They would tell the lady and gentleman all that they wished to know. "Will you come for a moment, my child?" asked the father, glad to get away. "Yes, I'll follow you," she replied. Cécile remained alone with Bonnemort. What kept her there trembling and fascinated, was the thought that she seemed to recognize this old man: where then had she met this square livid face, tattooed with coal? Suddenly she remembered; she saw again a mob of shouting people who surrounded her, and she felt cold hands pressing her neck. It was he; she saw the man again; she looked at his hands placed on his knees, the hands of an invalid workman whose whole strength is in his wrists, still firm in spite of age. Gradually Bonnemort seemed to awake, he perceived her and examined her in his turn. A flame mounted to his cheeks, a nervous spasm drew his mouth, from which flowed a thin streak of black saliva. Fascinated, they remained opposite each other--she flourishing, plump, and fresh from the long idleness and sated comfort of her race; he swollen with water, with the pitiful ugliness of a foundered beast, destroyed from father to son by a century of work and hunger. At the end of ten minutes, when the Grégoires, surprised at not seeing Cécile, came back into the Maheus' house, they uttered a terrible cry. Their daughter was lying on the ground, with livid face, strangled. At her neck fingers had left the red imprint of a giant's hand. Bonnemort, tottering on his dead legs, had fallen beside her without power to rise. His hands were still hooked, and he looked round with his imbecile air and large open eyes. In his fall he had broken his plate, the ashes were spread round, the mud of the black expectoration had stained the floor; while the great pair of boots, safe and sound, stood side by side against the wall. It was never possible to establish the exact facts. Why had Cécile come near? How could Bonnemort, nailed to his chair, have been able to seize her throat? Evidently, when he held her, he must have become furious, constantly pressing, overthrown with her, and stifling her cries to the last groan. Not a sound, not a moan had traversed the thin partition to the neighbouring house. It seemed to be an outbreak of sudden madness, a longing to murder before this white young neck. Such savagery was stupefying in an old invalid, who had lived like a worthy man, an obedient brute, opposed to new ideas. What rancour, unknown to himself, by some slow process of poisoning, had risen from his bowels to his brain? The horror of it led to the conclusion that he was unconscious, that it was the crime of an idiot. The Grégoires, meanwhile, on their knees, were sobbing, choked with grief. Their idolized daughter, that daughter desired so long, on whom they had lavished all their goods, whom they used to watch sleeping, on tiptoe, whom they never thought sufficiently well nourished, never sufficiently plump! It was the downfall of their very life; what was the good of living, now that they would have to live without her? The Levaque woman in distraction cried: "Ah, the old beggar! what's he done there? Who would have expected such a thing? And Maheude, who won't come back till evening! Shall I go and fetch her?" The father and mother were crushed, and did not reply. "Eh? It will be better. I'll go." But, before going, the Levaque woman looked at the boots. The whole settlement was excited, and a crowd was already hustling around. Perhaps they would get stolen. And then the Maheus had no man, now, to put them on. She quietly carried them away. They would just fit Bouteloup's feet. At Réquillart the Hennebeaus, with Négrel, waited a long time for the Grégoires. Négrel, who had come up from the pit, gave details. They hoped to communicate that very evening with the prisoners, but they would certainly find nothing but corpses, for the death-like silence continued. Behind the engineer, Maheude, seated on the beam, was listening with white face, when the Levaque woman came up and told her the old man's strange deed. And she only made a sweeping gesture of impatience and irritation. She followed her, however. Madame Hennebeau was much affected. What an abomination! That poor Cécile, so merry that very day, so full of life an hour before! M. Hennebeau had to lead his wife for a moment into old Mouque's hovel. With his awkward hands he unfastened her dress, troubled by the odour of musk which her open bodice exhaled. And as with streaming tears she clasped Négrel, terrified at this death which cut short the marriage, the husband watched them lamenting together, and was delivered from one anxiety. This misfortune would arrange everything; he preferred to keep his nephew for fear of his coachman. CHAPTER V At the bottom of the shaft the abandoned wretches were yelling with terror. The water now came up to their hips. The noise of the torrent dazed them, the final falling in of the tubbing sounded like the last crack of doom; and their bewilderment was completed by the neighing of the horses shut up in the stable, the terrible, unforgettable death-cry of an animal that is being slaughtered. Mouque had let go Bataille. The old horse was there, trembling, with its dilated eye fixed on this water which was constantly rising. The pit-eye was rapidly filling; the greenish flood slowly enlarged under the red gleam of the three lamps which were still burning under the roof. And suddenly, when he felt this ice soaking his coat, he set out in a furious gallop, and was engulfed and lost at the end of one of the haulage galleries. Then there was a general rush, the men following the beast. "Nothing more to be done in this damned hole!" shouted Mouque. "We must try at Réquillart." The idea that they might get out by the old neighbouring pit if they arrived before the passage was cut off, now carried them away. The twenty hustled one another as they went in single file, holding their lamps in the air so that the water should not extinguish them. Fortunately, the gallery rose with an imperceptible slope, and they proceeded for two hundred metres, struggling against the flood, which was not now gaining on them. Sleeping beliefs reawakened in these distracted souls; they invoked the earth, for it was the earth that was avenging herself, discharging the blood from the vein because they had cut one of her arteries. An old man stammered forgotten prayers, bending his thumbs backwards to appease the evil spirits of the mine. But at the first turning disagreement broke out; the groom proposed turning to the left, others declared that they could make a short cut by going to the right. A minute was lost. "Well, die there! what the devil does it matter to me?" Chaval brutally exclaimed. "I go this way." He turned to the right, and two mates followed him. The others continued to rush behind Father Mouque, who had grown up at the bottom of Réquillart. He himself hesitated, however, not knowing where to turn. They lost their heads; even the old men could no longer recognize the passages, which lay like a tangled skein before them. At every bifurcation they were pulled up short by uncertainty, and yet they had to decide. Étienne was running last, delayed by Catherine, who was paralysed by fatigue and fear. He would have gone to the right with Chaval, for he thought that the better road; but he had not, preferring to part from Chaval. The rush continued, however; some of the mates had gone from their side, and only seven were left behind old Mouque. "Hang on to my neck and I will carry you," said Étienne to the young girl, seeing her grow weak. "No, let me be," she murmured. "I can't do more; I would rather die at once." They delayed and were left fifty metres behind; he was lifting her, in spite of her resistance, when the gallery was suddenly stopped up; an enormous block fell in and separated them from the others. The inundation was already soaking the soil, which was shifting on every side. They had to retrace their steps; then they no longer knew in what direction they were going. There was an end of all hope of escaping by Réquillart. Their only remaining hope was to gain the upper workings, from which they might perhaps be delivered if the water sank. Étienne at last recognized the Guillaume seam. "Good!" he exclaimed. "Now I know where we are. By God! we were in the right road; but we may go to the devil now! Here, let us go straight on; we will climb up the passage." The flood was beating against their breasts, and they walked very slowly. As long as they had light they did not despair, and they blew out one of the lamps to economize the oil, meaning to empty it into the other lamp. They had reached the chimney passage, when a noise behind made them turn. Was it some mates, then, who had also found the road barred and were returning? A roaring sound came from afar; they could not understand this tempest which approached them, spattering foam. And they cried out when they saw a gigantic whitish mass coming out of the shadow and trying to rejoin them between the narrow timbering in which it was being crushed. It was Bataille. On leaving the pit-eye he had wildly galloped along the dark galleries. He seemed to know his road in this subterranean town which he had inhabited for eleven years, and his eyes saw clearly in the depths of the eternal night in which he had lived. He galloped on and on, bending his head, drawing up his feet, passing through these narrow tubes in the earth, filled by his great body. Road succeeded to road, and the forked turnings were passed without any hesitation. Where was he going? Over there, perhaps, towards that vision of his youth, to the mill where he had been born on the bank of the Scarpe, to the confused recollection of the sun burning in the air like a great lamp. He desired to live, his beast's memory awoke; the longing to breathe once more the air of the plains drove him straight onwards to the discovery of that hole, the exit beneath the warm sun into light. Rebellion carried away his ancient resignation; this pit was murdering him after having blinded him. The water which pursued him was lashing him on the flanks and biting him on the crupper. But as he went deeper in, the galleries became narrower, the roofs lower, and the walls protruded. He galloped on in spite of everything, grazing himself, leaving shreds of his limbs on the timber. From every side the mine seemed to be pressing on to him to take him and to stifle him. Then Étienne and Catherine, as he came near them, perceived that he was strangling between the rocks. He had stumbled and broken his two front legs. With a last effort, he dragged himself a few metres, but his flanks could not pass; he remained hemmed in and garrotted by the earth. With his bleeding head stretched out, he still sought for some crack with his great troubled eyes. The water was rapidly covering him; he began to neigh with that terrible prolonged death-rattle with which the other horses had already died in the stable. It was a sight of fearful agony, this old beast shattered and motionless, struggling at this depth, far from the daylight. The flood was drowning his mane, and his cry of distress never ceased; he uttered it more hoarsely, with his large open mouth stretched out. There was a last rumble, the hollow sound of a cask which is being filled; then deep silence fell. "Oh, my God! take me away!" Catherine sobbed. "Ah, my God! I'm afraid; I don't want to die. Take me away! take me away!" She had seen death. The fallen shaft, the inundated mine, nothing had seized her with such terror as this clamour of Bataille in agony. And she constantly heard it; her ears were ringing with it; all her flesh was shuddering with it. "Take me away! take me away!" Étienne had seized her and lifted her; it was, indeed, time. They ascended the chimney passage, soaked to the shoulders. He was obliged to help her, for she had no strength to cling to the timber. Three times over he thought that she was slipping from him and falling back into that deep sea of which the tide was roaring beneath them. However, they were able to breathe for a few minutes when they reached the first gallery, which was still free. The water reappeared, and they had to hoist themselves up again. And for hours this ascent continued, the flood chasing them from passage to passage, and constantly forcing them to ascend. At the sixth level a respite rendered them feverish with hope, and it seemed that the waters were becoming stationary. But a more rapid rise took place, and they had to climb to the seventh and then to the eighth level. Only one remained, and when they had reached it they anxiously watched each centimetre by which the water gained on them. If it did not stop they would then die like the old horse, crushed against the roof, and their chests filled by the flood. Landslips echoed every moment. The whole mine was shaken, and its distended bowels burst with the enormous flood which gorged them. At the end of the galleries the air, driven back, pressed together and crushed, exploded terribly amid split rocks and overthrown soil. It was a terrifying uproar of interior cataclysms, a remnant of the ancient battle when deluges overthrew the earth, burying the mountains beneath the plains. And Catherine, shaken and dazed by this continuous downfall, joined her hands, stammering the same words without cessation: "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" To reassure her, Étienne declared that the water was not now moving. Their flight had lasted for fully six hours, and they would soon be rescued. He said six hours without knowing, for they had lost all count of time. In reality, a whole day had already passed in their climb up through the Guillaume seam. Drenched and shivering, they settled themselves down. She undressed herself without shame and wrung out her clothes, then she put on again the jacket and breeches, and let them finish drying on her. As her feet were bare, he made her take his own sabots. They could wait patiently now; they had lowered the wick of the lamp, leaving only the feeble gleam of a night-light. But their stomachs were torn by cramp, and they both realized that they were dying of hunger. Up till now they had not felt that they were living. The catastrophe had occurred before breakfast, and now they found their bread-and-butter swollen by the water and changed into sop. She had to become angry before he would accept his share. As soon as she had eaten she fell asleep from weariness, on the cold earth. He was devoured by insomnia, and watched over her with fixed eyes and forehead between his hands. How many hours passed by thus? He would have been unable to say. All that he knew was that before him, through the hole they had ascended, he had seen the flood reappear, black and moving, the beast whose back was ceaselessly swelling out to reach them. At first it was only a thin line, a supple serpent stretching itself out; then it enlarged into a crawling, crouching flank; and soon it reached them, and the sleeping girl's feet were touched by it. In his anxiety he yet hesitated to wake her. Was it not cruel to snatch her from this repose of unconscious ignorance, which was, perhaps, lulling her with a dream of the open air and of life beneath the sun? Besides, where could they fly? And he thought and remembered that the upbrow established at this part of the seam communicated end to end with that which served the upper level. That would be a way out. He let her sleep as long as possible, watching the flood gain on them, waiting for it to chase them away. At last he lifted her gently, and a great shudder passed over her. "Ah, my God! it's true! it's beginning again, my God!" She remembered, she cried out, again finding death so near. "No! calm yourself," he whispered. "We can pass, upon my word!" To reach the upbrow they had to walk doubled up, again wetted to the shoulders. And the climbing began anew, now more dangerous, through this hole entirely of timber, a hundred metres long. At first they wished to pull the cable so as to fix one of the carts at the bottom, for if the other should come down during their ascent, they would be crushed. But nothing moved, some obstacle interfered with the mechanism. They ventured in, not daring to make use of the cable which was in their way, and tearing their nails against the smooth framework. He came behind, supporting her by his head when she slipped with torn hands. Suddenly they came across the splinters of a beam which barred the way. A portion of the soil had fallen down and prevented them from going any higher. Fortunately a door opened here and they passed into a passage. They were stupefied to see the flicker of a lamp in front of them. A man cried wildly to them: "More clever people as big fools as I am!" They recognized Chaval, who had found himself blocked by the landslip which filled the upbrow; his two mates who had set out with him had been left on the way with fractured skulls. He was wounded in the elbow, but had had the courage to go back on his knees, take their lamps, and search them to steal their bread-and-butter. As he escaped, a final downfall behind his back had closed the gallery. He immediately swore that he would not share his victuals with these people who came up out of the earth. He would sooner knock their brains out. Then he, too, recognized them; his anger fell, and he began to laugh with a laugh of evil joy. "Ah! it's you, Catherine! you've broken your nose, and you want to join your man again. Well, well! we'll play out the game together." He pretended not to see Étienne. The latter, overwhelmed by this encounter, made a gesture as though to protect the putter, who was pressing herself against him. He must, however, accept the situation. Speaking as though they had left each other good friends an hour before, he simply asked: "Have you looked down below? We can't pass through the cuttings, then?" Chaval still grinned. "Ah, bosh! the cuttings! They've fallen in too; we are between two walls, a real mousetrap. But you can go back by the brow if you are a good diver." The water, in fact, was rising; they could hear it rippling. Their retreat was already cut off. And he was right; it was a mousetrap, a gallery-end obstructed before and behind by considerable falls of earth. There was not one issue; all three were walled up. "Then you'll stay?" Chaval added, jeeringly. "Well, it's the best you can do, and if you'll just leave me alone, I shan't even speak to you. There's still room here for two men. We shall soon see which will die first, provided they don't come to us, which seems a tough job." The young man said: "If we were to hammer, they would hear us, perhaps." "I'm tired of hammering. Here, try yourself with this stone." Étienne picked up the fragment of sandstone which the other had already broken off, and against the seam at the end he struck the miner's call, the prolonged roll by which workmen in peril signal their presence. Then he placed his ear to listen. Twenty times over he persisted; no sound replied. During this time Chaval affected to be coolly attending to his little household. First he arranged the three lamps against the wall; only one was burning, the others could be used later on. Afterwards, he placed on a piece of timber the two slices of bread-and-butter which were still left. That was the sideboard; he could last quite two days with that, if he were careful. He turned round saying: "You know, Catherine, there will be half for you when you are famished." The young girl was silent. It completed her unhappiness to find herself again between these two men. And their awful life began. Neither Chaval nor Étienne opened their mouths, seated on the earth a few paces from each other. At a hint from the former the latter extinguished his lamp, a piece of useless luxury; then they sank back into silence. Catherine was lying down near Étienne, restless under the glances of her former lover. The hours passed by; they heard the low murmur of the water for ever rising; while from time to time deep shocks and distant echoes announced the final settling down of the mine. When the lamp was empty and they had to open another to light it, they were, for a moment, disturbed by the fear of fire-damp; but they would rather have been blown up at once than live on in darkness. Nothing exploded, however; there was no fire-damp. They stretched themselves out again, and the hours continued to pass by. A noise aroused Étienne and Catherine, and they raised their heads. Chaval had decided to eat; he had cut off half a slice of bread-and-butter, and was chewing it slowly, to avoid the temptation of swallowing it all. They gazed at him, tortured by hunger. "Well, do you refuse?" he said to the putter, in his provoking way. "You're wrong." She had lowered her eyes, fearing to yield; her stomach was torn by such cramps that tears were swelling beneath her eyelids. But she understood what he was asking; in the morning he had breathed over her neck; he was seized again by one of his old furies of desire on seeing her near the other man. The glances with which he called her had a flame in them which she knew well, the flame of his crises of jealousy when he would fall on her with his fists, accusing her of committing abominations with her mother's lodger. And she was not willing; she trembled lest, by returning to him, she should throw these two men on to each other in this narrow cave, where they were all in agony together. Good God! why could they not end together in comradeship! Étienne would have died of inanition rather than beg a mouthful of bread from Chaval. The silence became heavy; an eternity seemed to be prolonging itself with the slowness of monotonous minutes which passed by, one by one, without hope. They had now been shut up together for a day. The second lamp was growing pale, and they lighted the third. Chaval started on his second slice of bread-and-butter, and growled: "Come then, stupid!" Catherine shivered. Étienne had turned away in order to leave her free. Then, as she did not stir, he said to her in a low voice: "Go, my child." The tears which she was stifling then rushed forth. She wept for a long time, without even strength to rise, no longer knowing if she was hungry, suffering with pain which she felt all over her body. He was standing up, going backward and forwards, vainly beating the miners call, enraged at this remainder of life which he was obliged to live here tied to a rival whom he detested. Not even enough space to die away from each other! As soon as he had gone ten paces he must come back and knock up against this man. And she, this sorrowful girl whom they were disputing over even in the earth! She would belong to the one who lived longest; that man would steal her from him should he go first. There was no end to it; the hours followed the hours; the revolting promiscuity became worse, with the poison of their breaths and the ordure of their necessities satisfied in common. Twice he rushed against the rocks as though to open them with his fists. Another day was done, and Chaval had seated himself near Catherine, sharing with her his last half-slice. She was chewing the mouthfuls painfully; he made her pay for each with a caress, in his jealous obstinacy not willing to die until he had had her again in the other man's presence. She abandoned herself in exhaustion. But when he tried to take her she complained. "Oh, leave me! you're breaking my bones." Étienne, with a shudder, had placed his forehead against the timber so as not to see. He came back with a wild leap. "Leave her, by God!" "Does it concern you?" said Chaval. "She's my woman; I suppose she belongs to me!" And he took her again and pressed her, out of bravado, crushing his red moustache against her mouth, and continuing: "Will you leave us alone, eh? Will you be good enough to look over there if we are at it?" But Étienne, with white lips, shouted: "If you don't let her go, I'll do for you!" The other quickly stood up, for he had understood by the hiss of the voice that his mate was in earnest. Death seemed to them too slow; it was necessary that one of them should immediately yield his place. It was the old battle beginning over again, down in the earth where they would soon sleep side by side; and they had so little room that they could not swing their fists without grazing them. "Look out!" growled Chaval. "This time I'll have you." From that moment Étienne became mad. His eyes seemed drowned in red vapour, his chest was congested by the flow of blood. The need to kill seized him irresistibly, a physical need, like the irritation of mucus which causes a violent spasm of coughing. It rose and broke out beyond his will, beneath the pressure of the hereditary disease. He had seized a sheet of slate in the wall and he shook it and tore it out, a very large, heavy piece. Then with both hands and with tenfold strength he brought it down on Chaval's skull. The latter had not time to jump backwards. He fell, his face crushed, his skull broken. The brains had bespattered the roof of the gallery, and a purple jet flowed from the wound, like the continuous jet of a spring. Immediately there was a pool, which reflected the smoky star of the lamp. Darkness was invading the walled-up cave, and this body, lying on the earth, looked like the black boss of a mass of rough coal. Leaning over, with wide eyes, Étienne looked at him. It was done, then; he had killed. All his struggles came back to his memory confusedly, that useless fight against the poison which slept in his muscles, the slowly accumulated alcohol of his race. He was, however, only intoxicated by hunger; the remote intoxication of his parents had been enough. His hair stood up before the horror of this murder; and yet, in spite of the revolt which came from his education, a certain gladness made his heart beat, the animal joy of an appetite at length satisfied. He felt pride, too, the pride of the stronger man. The little soldier appeared before him, with his throat opened by a knife, killed by a child. Now he, too, had killed. But Catherine, standing erect, uttered a loud cry: "My God! he is dead!" "Are you sorry?" asked Étienne, fiercely. She was choking, she stammered. Then, tottering, she threw herself into his arms. "Ah, kill me too! Ah, let us both die!" She clasped him, hanging to his shoulders, and he clasped her; and they hoped that they would die. But death was in no hurry, and they unlocked their arms. Then, while she hid her eyes, he dragged away the wretch, and threw him down the upbrow, to remove him from the narrow space in which they still had to live. Life would no longer have been possible with that corpse beneath their feet. And they were terrified when they heard it plunge into the midst of the foam which leapt up. The water had already filled that hole, then? They saw it; it was entering the gallery. Then there was a new struggle. They had lighted the last lamp; it was becoming exhausted in illuminating this flood, with its regular, obstinate rise which never ceased. At first the water came up to their ankles; then it wetted their knees. The passage sloped up, and they took refuge at the end. This gave them a respite for some hours. But the flood caught them up, and bathed them to the waist. Standing up, brought to bay, with their spines close against the rock, they watched it ever and ever increasing. When it reached their mouths, all would be over. The lamp, which they had fastened up, threw a yellow light on the rapid surge of the little waves. It was becoming pale; they could distinguish no more than a constantly diminishing semicircle, as though eaten away by the darkness which seemed to grow with the flood; and suddenly the darkness enveloped them. The lamp had gone out, after having spat forth its last drop of oil. There was now complete and absolute night, that night of the earth which they would have to sleep through without ever again opening their eyes to the brightness of the sun. "By God!" Étienne swore, in a low voice. Catherine, as though she had felt the darkness seize her, sheltered herself against him. She repeated, in a whisper, the miner's saying: "Death is blowing out the lamp." Yet in the face of this threat their instincts struggled, the fever for life animated them. He violently set himself to hollow out the slate with the hook of the lamp, while she helped him with her nails. They formed a sort of elevated bench, and when they had both hoisted themselves up to it, they found themselves seated with hanging legs and bent backs, for the vault forced them to lower their heads. They now only felt the icy water at their heels; but before long the cold was at their ankles, their calves, their knees, with its invincible, truceless movement. The bench, not properly smoothed, was soaked in moisture, and so slippery that they had to hold themselves on vigorously to avoid slipping off. It was the end; what could they expect, reduced to this niche where they dared not move, exhausted, starving, having neither bread nor light? and they suffered especially from the darkness, which would not allow them to see the coming of death. There was deep silence; the mine, being gorged with water, no longer stirred. They had nothing beneath them now but the sensation of that sea, swelling out its silent tide from the depths of the galleries. The hours succeeded one another, all equally black; but they were not able to measure their exact duration, becoming more and more vague in their calculation of time. Their tortures, which might have been expected to lengthen the minutes, rapidly bore them away. They thought that they had only been shut up for two days and a night, when in reality the third day had already come to an end. All hope of help had gone; no one knew they were there, no one could come down to them. And hunger would finish them off if the inundation spared them. For one last time it occurred to them to beat the call, but the stone was lying beneath the water. Besides, who would hear them? Catherine was leaning her aching head against the seam, when she sat up with a start. "Listen!" she said. At first Étienne thought she was speaking of the low noise of the ever-rising water. He lied in order to quiet her. "It's me you hear; I'm moving my legs." "No, no; not that! Over there, listen!" And she placed her ear to the coal. He understood, and did likewise. They waited for some seconds, with stifled breath. Then, very far away and very weak, they heard three blows at long intervals. But they still doubted; their ears were ringing; perhaps it was the cracking of the soil. And they knew not what to strike with in answer. Étienne had an idea. "You have the sabots. Take them off and strike with the heels." She struck, beating the miner's call; and they listened and again distinguished the three blows far off. Twenty times over they did it, and twenty times the blows replied. They wept and embraced each other, at the risk of losing their balance. At last the mates were there, they were coming. An overflowing joy and love carried away the torments of expectation and the rage of their vain appeals, as though their rescuers had only to split the rock with a finger to deliver them. "Eh!" she cried merrily; "wasn't it lucky that I leant my head?" "Oh, you've got an ear!" he said in his turn. "Now, _I_ heard nothing." From that moment they relieved each other, one of them always listening, ready to answer at the least signal. They soon caught the sounds of the pick; the work of approaching them was beginning, a gallery was being opened. Not a sound escaped them. But their joy sank. In vain they laughed to deceive each other; despair was gradually seizing them. At first they entered into long explanations; evidently they were being approached from Réquillart. The gallery descended in the bed; perhaps several were being opened, for there were always three men hewing. Then they talked less, and were at last silent when they came to calculate the enormous mass which separated them from their mates. They continued their reflections in silence, counting the days and days that a workman would take to penetrate such a block. They would never be reached soon enough; they would have time to die twenty times over. And no longer venturing to exchange a word in this redoubled anguish, they gloomily replied to the appeals by a roll of the sabots, without hope, only retaining the mechanical need to tell the others that they were still alive. Thus passed a day, two days. They had been at the bottom six days. The water had stopped at their knees, neither rising nor falling, and their legs seemed to be melting away in this icy bath. They could certainly keep them out for an hour or so, but their position then became so uncomfortable that they were twisted by horrible cramps, and were obliged to let their feet fall in again. Every ten minutes they hoisted themselves back by a jerk on the slippery rock. The fractures of the coal struck into their spines, and they felt at the back of their necks a fixed intense pain, through having to keep constantly bent in order to avoid striking their heads. And their suffocation increased; the air, driven back by the water, was compressed into a sort of bell in which they were shut up. Their voices were muffled, and seemed to come from afar. Their ears began to buzz, they heard the peals of a furious tocsin, the tramp of a flock beneath a storm of hail, going on unceasingly. At first Catherine suffered horribly from hunger. She pressed her poor shrivelled hands against her breasts, her breathing was deep and hollow, a continuous tearing moan, as though tongs were tearing her stomach. Étienne, choked by the same torture, was feeling feverishly round him in the darkness, when his fingers came upon a half-rotten piece of timber, which his nails could crumble. He gave a handful of it to the putter, who swallowed it greedily. For two days they lived on this worm-eaten wood, devouring it all, in despair when it was finished, grazing their hands in the effort to crush the other planks which were still solid with resisting fibres. Their torture increased, and they were enraged that they could not chew the cloth of their clothes. A leather belt, which he wore round the waist, relieved them a little. He bit small pieces from it with his teeth, and she chewed them, and endeavoured to swallow them. This occupied their jaws, and gave them the illusion of eating. Then, when the belt was finished, they went back to their clothes, sucking them for hours. But soon these violent crises subsided; hunger became only a low deep ache with the slow progressive languor of their strength. No doubt they would have succumbed if they had not had as much water as they desired. They merely bent down and drank from the hollow of the hand, and that very frequently, parched by a thirst which all this water could not quench. On the seventh day Catherine was bending down to drink, when her hand struck some floating body before her. "I say, look! What's this?" Étienne felt in the darkness. "I can't make out; it seems like the cover of a ventilation door." She drank, but as she was drawing up a second mouthful the body came back, striking her hand. And she uttered a terrible cry. "My God! it's he!" "Whom do you mean?" "Him! You know well enough. I felt his moustache." It was Chaval's corpse, risen from the upbrow and pushed on to them by the flow. Étienne stretched out his arm; he, too, felt the moustache and the crushed nose, and shuddered with disgust and fear. Seized by horrible nausea, Catherine had spat out the water which was still in her mouth. It seemed to her that she had been drinking blood, and that all the deep water before her was now that man's blood. "Wait!" stammered Étienne. "I'll push him off!" He kicked the corpse, which moved off. But soon they felt it again striking against their legs. "By God! Get off!" And the third time Étienne had to leave it. Some current always brought it back. Chaval would not go; he desired to be with them, against them. It was an awful companion, at last poisoning the air. All that day they never drank, struggling, preferring to die. It was not until the next day that their suffering decided them: they pushed away the body at each mouthful and drank in spite of it. It had not been worth while to knock his brains out, for he came back between him and her, obstinate in his jealousy. To the very end he would be there, even though he was dead, preventing them from coming together. A day passed, and again another day. At every shiver of the water Étienne perceived a slight blow from the man he had killed, the simple elbowing of a neighbour who is reminding you of his presence. And every time it came he shuddered. He continually saw it there, swollen, greenish, with the red moustache and the crushed face. Then he no longer remembered; he had not killed him; the other man was swimming and trying to bite him. Catherine was now shaken by long endless fits of crying, after which she was completely prostrated. She fell at last into a condition of irresistible drowsiness. He would arouse her, but she stammered a few words and at once fell asleep again without even raising her eyelids; and fearing lest she should be drowned, he put his arm round her waist. It was he now who replied to the mates. The blows of the pick were now approaching, he could hear them behind his back. But his strength, too, was diminishing; he had lost all courage to strike. They were known to be there; why weary oneself more? It no longer interested him whether they came or not. In the stupefaction of waiting he would forget for hours at a time what he was waiting for. One relief comforted them a little: the water sank, and Chaval's body moved off. For nine days the work of their deliverance had been going on, and they were for the first time taking a few steps in the gallery when a fearful commotion threw them to the ground. They felt for each other and remained in each other's arms like mad people, not understanding, thinking the catastrophe was beginning over again. Nothing more stirred, the sound of the picks had ceased. In the corner where they were seated holding each other, side by side, a low laugh came from Catherine. "It must be good outside. Come, let's go out of here." Étienne at first struggled against this madness. But the contagion was shaking his stronger head, and he lost the exact sensation of reality. All their senses seemed to go astray, especially Catherine's. She was shaken by fever, tormented now by the need to talk and move. The ringing in her ears had become the murmur of flowing water, the song of birds; she smelled the strong odour of crushed grass, and could see clearly great yellow patches floating before her eyes, so large that she thought she was out of doors, near the canal, in the meadows on a fine summer day. "Eh? how warm it is! Take me, then; let us keep together. Oh, always, always!" He pressed her, and she rubbed herself against him for a long time, continuing to chatter like a happy girl: "How silly we have been to wait so long! I would have liked you at once, and you did not understand; you sulked. Then, do you remember, at our house at night, when we could not sleep, with our faces out listening to each other's breathing, with such a longing to come together?" He was won by her gaiety, and joked over the recollection of their silent tenderness. "You struck me once. Yes, yes, blows on both cheeks!" "It was because I loved you," she murmured. "You see, I prevented myself from thinking of you. I said to myself that it was quite done with, and all the time I knew that one day or another we should get together. It only wanted an opportunity--some lucky chance. Wasn't it so?" A shudder froze him. He tried to shake off this dream; then he repeated slowly: "Nothing is ever done with; a little happiness is enough to make everything begin again." "Then you'll keep me, and it will be all right this time?" And she slipped down fainting. She was so weak that her low voice died out. In terror he kept her against his heart. "Are you in pain?" She sat up surprised. "No, not at all. Why?" But this question aroused her from her dream. She gazed at the darkness with distraction, wringing her hands in another fit of sobbing. "My God, my God, how black it is!" It was no longer the meadows, the odour of the grass, the song of larks, the great yellow sun; it was the fallen, inundated mine, the stinking gloom, the melancholy dripping of this cellar where they had been groaning for so many days. Her perverted senses now increased the horror of it; her childish superstitions came back to her; she saw the Black Man, the old dead miner who returns to the pit to twist naughty girls' necks. "Listen! did you hear?" "No, nothing; I heard nothing." "Yes, the Man--you know? Look! he is there. The earth has let all the blood out of the vein to revenge itself for being cut into; and he is there--you can see him--look! blacker than night. Oh, I'm so afraid, I'm so afraid!" She became silent, shivering. Then in a very low voice she whispered: "No, it's always the other one." "What other one?" "Him who is with us; who is not alive." The image of Chaval haunted her, she talked of him confusedly, she described the dog's life she led with him, the only day when he had been kind to her at Jean-Bart, the other days of follies and blows, when he would kill her with caresses after having covered her with kicks. "I tell you that he's coming, that he will still keep us from being together! His jealousy is coming on him again. Oh, push him off! Oh, keep me close!" With a sudden impulse she hung on to him, seeking his mouth and pressing her own passionately to it. The darkness lighted up, she saw the sun again, and she laughed a quiet laugh of love. He shuddered to feel her thus against his flesh, half naked beneath the tattered jacket and trousers, and he seized her with a reawakening of his virility. It was at length their wedding night, at the bottom of this tomb, on this bed of mud, the longing not to die before they had had their happiness, the obstinate longing to live and make life one last time. They loved each other in despair of everything, in death. After that there was nothing more. Étienne was seated on the ground, always in the same corner, and Catherine was lying motionless on his knees. Hours and hours passed by. For a long time he thought she was sleeping; then he touched her; she was very cold, she was dead. He did not move, however, for fear of arousing her. The idea that he was the first who had possessed her as a woman, and that she might be pregnant, filled him with tenderness. Other ideas, the desire to go away with her, joy at what they would both do later on, came to him at moments, but so vaguely that it seemed only as though his forehead had been touched by a breath of sleep. He grew weaker, he only had strength to make a little gesture, a slow movement of the hand, to assure himself that she was certainly there, like a sleeping child in her frozen stiffness. Everything was being annihilated; the night itself had disappeared, and he was nowhere, out of space, out of time. Something was certainly striking beside his head, violent blows were approaching him; but he had been too lazy to reply, benumbed by immense fatigue; and now he knew nothing, he only dreamed that she was walking before him, and that he heard the slight clank of her sabots. Two days passed; she had not stirred; he touched her with his mechanical gesture, reassured to find her so quiet. Étienne felt a shock. Voices were sounding, rocks were rolling to his feet. When he perceived a lamp he wept. His blinking eyes followed the light, he was never tired of looking at it, enraptured by this reddish point which scarcely stained the darkness. But some mates carried him away, and he allowed them to introduce some spoonfuls of soup between his clenched teeth. It was only in the Réquillart gallery that he recognized someone standing before him, the engineer, Négrel; and these two men, with their contempt for each other--the rebellious workman and the sceptical master--threw themselves on each other's necks, sobbing loudly in the deep upheaval of all the humanity within them. It was an immense sadness, the misery of generations, the extremity of grief into which life can fall. At the surface, Maheude, stricken down near dead Catherine, uttered a cry, then another, then another--very long, deep, incessant moans. Several corpses had already been brought up, and placed in a row on the ground: Chaval, who was thought to have been crushed beneath a landslip, a trammer, and two hewers, also crushed, with brainless skulls and bellies swollen with water. Women in the crowd went out of their minds, tearing their skirts and scratching their faces. When Étienne was at last taken out, after having been accustomed to the lamps and fed a little, he appeared fleshless, and his hair was quite white. People turned away and shuddered at this old man. Maheude left off crying to stare at him stupidly with her large fixed eyes. CHAPTER VI It was four o'clock in the morning, and the fresh April night was growing warm at the approach of day. In the limpid sky the stars were twinkling out, while the east grew purple with dawn. And a slight shudder passed over the drowsy black country, the vague rumour which precedes awakening. Étienne, with long strides, was following the Vandame road. He had just passed six weeks at Montsou, in bed at the hospital. Though very thin and yellow, he felt strength to go, and he went. The Company, still trembling for its pits, was constantly sending men away, and had given him notice that he could not be kept on. He was offered the sum of one hundred francs, with the paternal advice to leave off working in mines, as it would now be too severe for him. But he refused the hundred francs. He had already received a letter from Pluchart, calling him to Paris, and enclosing money for the journey. His old dream would be realized. The night before, on leaving the hospital, he had slept at the Bon-Joyeux, Widow Désir's. And he rose early; only one desire was left, to bid his mates farewell before taking the eight o'clock train at Marchiennes. For a moment Étienne stopped on the road, which was now becoming rose-coloured. It was good to breathe that pure air of the precocious spring. It would turn out a superb day. The sun was slowly rising, and the life of the earth was rising with it. And he set out walking again, vigorously striking with his brier stick, watching the plain afar, as it rose from the vapours of the night. He had seen no one; Maheude had come once to the hospital, and, probably, had not been able to come again. But he knew that the whole settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante was now going down at Jean-Bart, and that she too had taken work there. Little by little the deserted roads were peopled, and colliers constantly passed Étienne with pallid, silent faces. The Company, people said, was abusing its victory. After two and a half months of strike, when they had returned to the pits, conquered by hunger, they had been obliged to accept the timbering tariff, that disguised decrease in wages, now the more hateful because stained with the blood of their mates. They were being robbed of an hour's work, they were being made false to their oath never to submit; and this imposed perjury stuck in their throats like gall. Work was beginning again everywhere, at Mirou, at Madeleine, at Crévecoeur, at the Victoire. Everywhere, in the morning haze, along the roads lost in darkness, the flock was tramping on, rows of men trotting with faces bent towards the earth, like cattle led to the slaughter-house. They shivered beneath their thin garments, folding their arms, rolling their hips, expanding their backs with the humps formed by the brick between the shirt and the jacket. And in this wholesale return to work, in these mute shadows, all black, without a laugh, without a look aside, one felt the teeth clenched with rage, the hearts swollen with hatred, a simple resignation to the necessity of the belly. The nearer Étienne approached the pit the more their number increased. They nearly all walked alone; those who came in groups were in single file, already exhausted, tired of one another and of themselves. He noticed one who was very old, with eyes that shone like hot coals beneath his livid forehead. Another, a young man, was panting with the restrained fury of a storm. Many had their sabots in their hands; one could scarcely hear the soft sound of their coarse woollen stockings on the ground. It was an endless rustling, a general downfall, the forced march of a beaten army, moving on with lowered heads, sullenly absorbed in the desire to renew the struggle and achieve revenge. When Étienne arrived, Jean-Bart was emerging from the shade; the lanterns, hooked on to the platform, were still burning in the growing dawn. Above the obscure buildings a trail of steam arose like a white plume delicately tinted with carmine. He passed up the sifting-staircase to go to the receiving-room. The descent was beginning, and the men were coming from the shed. For a moment he stood by, motionless amid the noise and movement. The rolling of the trams shook the metal floor, the drums were turning, unrolling the cables in the midst of cries from the trumpet, the ringing of bells, blows of the mallet on the signal block; he found the monster again swallowing his daily ration of human flesh, the cages rising and plunging, engulfing their burden of men, without ceasing, with the facile gulp of a voracious giant. Since his accident he had a nervous horror of the mine. The cages, as they sank down, tore his bowels. He had to turn away his head; the pit exasperated him. But in the vast and still sombre hall, feebly lighted up by the exhausted lanterns, he could perceive no friendly face. The miners, who were waiting there with bare feet and their lamps in their hands, looked at him with large restless eyes, and then lowered their faces, drawing back with an air of shame. No doubt they knew him and no longer had any spite against him; they seemed, on the contrary, to fear him, blushing at the thought that he would reproach them with cowardice. This attitude made his heart swell; he forgot that these wretches had stoned him, he again began to dream of changing them into heroes, of directing a whole people, this force of nature which was devouring itself. A cage was embarking its men, and the batch disappeared; as others arrived he saw at last one of his lieutenants in the strike, a worthy fellow who had sworn to die. "You too!" he murmured, with aching heart. The other turned pale and his lips trembled; then, with a movement of excuse: "What would you have? I've got a wife." Now in the new crowd coming from the shed he recognized them all. "You too!--you too!--you too!" And all shrank back, stammering in choked voices: "I have a mother."--"I have children."--"One must get bread." The cage did not reappear; they waited for it mournfully, with such sorrow at their defeat that they avoided meeting each other's eyes, obstinately gazing at the shaft. "And Maheude?" Étienne asked. They made no reply. One made a sign that she was coming. Others raised their arms, trembling with pity. Ah, poor woman! what wretchedness! The silence continued, and when Étienne stretched out his hand to bid them farewell, they all pressed it vigorously, putting into that mute squeeze their rage at having yielded, their feverish hope of revenge. The cage was there; they got into it and sank, devoured by the gulf. Pierron had appeared with his naked captain's lamp fixed into the leather of his cap. For the past week he had been chief of the gang at the pit-eye, and the men moved away, for promotion had rendered him bossy. The sight of Étienne annoyed him; he came up, however, and was at last reassured when the young man announced his departure. They talked. His wife now kept the Estaminet du Progrés, thanks to the support of all those gentlemen, who had been so good to her. But he interrupted himself and turned furiously on to Father Mouque, whom he accused of not sending up the dung-heap from his stable at the regulation hour. The old man listened with bent shoulders. Then, before going down, suffering from this reprimand, he, too, gave his hand to Étienne, with the same long pressure as the others, warm with restrained anger and quivering with future rebellion. And this old hand which trembled in his, this old man who was forgiving him for the loss of his dead children, affected Étienne to such a degree that he watched him disappear without saying a word. "Then Maheude is not coming this morning?" he asked Pierron after a time. At first the latter pretended not to understand, for there was ill luck even in speaking of her. Then, as he moved away, under the pretext of giving an order, he said at last: "Eh! Maheude? There she is." In fact, Maheude had reached the shed with her lamp in her hand, dressed in trousers and jacket, with her head confined in the cap. It was by a charitable exception that the Company, pitying the fate of this unhappy woman, so cruelly afflicted, had allowed her to go down again at the age of forty; and as it seemed difficult to set her again at haulage work, she was employed to manipulate a small ventilator which had been installed in the north gallery, in those infernal regions beneath Tartaret, where there was no movement of air. For ten hours, with aching back, she turned her wheel at the bottom of a burning tube, baked by forty degrees of heat. She earned thirty sous. When Étienne saw her, a pitiful sight in her male garments--her breast and belly seeming to be swollen by the dampness of the cuttings--he stammered with surprise, trying to find words to explain that he was going away and that he wished to say good-bye to her. She looked at him without listening, and said at last, speaking familiarly: "Eh? it surprises you to see me. It's true enough that I threatened to wring the neck of the first of my children who went down again; and now that I'm going down I ought to wring my own, ought I not? Ah, well! I should have done it by now if it hadn't been for the old man and the little ones at the house." And she went on in her low, fatigued voice. She did not excuse herself, she simply narrated things--that they had been nearly starved, and that she had made up her mind to it, so that they might not be sent away from the settlement. "How is the old man?" asked Étienne. "He is always very gentle and very clean. But he is quite off his nut. He was not brought up for that affair, you know. There was talk of shutting him up with the madmen, but I was not willing; they would have done for him in his soup. His story has, all the same, been very bad for us, for he'll never get his pension; one of those gentlemen told me that it would be immoral to give him one." "Is Jeanlin working?" "Yes, those gentlemen found something for him to do at the top. He gets twenty sous. Oh! I don't complain; the bosses have been very good, as they told me themselves. The brat's twenty sous and my thirty, that makes fifty. If there were not six of us we should get enough to eat. Estelle devours now, and the worst is that it will be four or five years before Lénore and Henri are old enough to come to the pit." Étienne could not restrain a movement of pain. "They, too!" Maheude's pale cheeks turned red, and her eyes flamed. But her shoulders sank as if beneath the weight of destiny. "What would you have? They after the others. They have all been done for there; now it's their turn." She was silent; some landers, who were rolling trams, disturbed them. Through the large dusty windows the early sun was entering, drowning the lanterns in grey light; and the engine moved every three minutes, the cables unrolled, the cages continued to swallow down men. "Come along, you loungers, look sharp!" shouted Pierron. "Get in; we shall never have done with it today." Maheude, whom he was looking at, did not stir. She had already allowed three cages to pass, and she said, as though arousing herself and remembering Étienne's first words: "Then you're going away?" "Yes, this morning." "You're right; better be somewhere else if one can. And I'm glad to have seen you, because you can know now, anyhow, that I've nothing on my mind against you. For a moment I could have killed you, after all that slaughter. But one thinks, doesn't one? One sees that when all's reckoned up it's nobody's fault. No, no! it's not your fault; it's the fault of everybody." Now she talked with tranquillity of her dead, of her man, of Zacharie, of Catherine; and tears only came into her eyes when she uttered Alzire's name. She had resumed her calm reasonableness, and judged things sensibly. It would bring no luck to the middle class to have killed so many poor people. Sure enough, they would be punished for it one day, for everything has to be paid for. There would even be no need to interfere; the whole thing would explode by itself. The soldiers would fire on the masters just as they had fired on the men. And in her everlasting resignation, in that hereditary discipline under which she was again bowing, a conviction had established itself, the certainty that injustice could not last longer, and that, if there were no good God left, another would spring up to avenge the wretched. She spoke in a low voice, with suspicious glances round. Then, as Pierron was coming up, she added, aloud: "Well, if you're going, you must take your things from our house. There are still two shirts, three handkerchiefs, and an old pair of trousers." Étienne, with a gesture, refused these few things saved from the dealers. "No, it's not worth while; they can be for the children. At Paris I can arrange for myself." Two more cages had gone down, and Pierron decided to speak straight to Maheude. "I say now, over there, they are waiting for you! Is that little chat nearly done?" But she turned her back. Why should he be so zealous, this man who had sold himself? The descent didn't concern him. His men hated him enough already on his level. And she persisted, with her lamp in her hand, frozen amid the draughts in spite of the mildness of the season. Neither Étienne nor she found anything more to say. They remained facing each other with hearts so full that they would have liked to speak once more. At last she spoke for the sake of speaking. "The Levaque is in the family way. Levaque is still in prison; Bouteloup is taking his place meanwhile." "Ah, yes! Bouteloup." "And, listen! did I tell you? Philoméne has gone away." "What! gone away?" "Yes, gone away with a Pas-de-Calais miner. I was afraid she would leave the two brats on me. But no, she took them with her. Eh? A woman who spits blood and always looks as if she were on the point of death!" She mused for a moment, and then went on in a slow voice: "There's been talk on my account. You remember they said I slept with you. Lord! After my man's death that might very well have happened if I had been younger. But now I'm glad it wasn't so, for we should have regretted it, sure enough." "Yes, we should have regretted it," Étienne repeated, simply. That was all; they spoke no more. A cage was waiting for her; she was being called angrily, threatened with a fine. Then she made up her mind, and pressed his hand. Deeply moved, he still looked at her, so worn and worked out, with her livid face, her discoloured hair escaping from the blue cap, her body as of a good over-fruitful beast, deformed beneath the jacket and trousers. And in this last pressure of the hands he felt again the long, silent pressure of his mates, giving him a rendezvous for the day when they would begin again. He understood perfectly. There was a tranquil faith in the depths of her eyes. It would be soon, and this time it would be the final blow. "What a damned shammer!" exclaimed Pierron. Pushed and hustled, Maheude squeezed into a tram with four others. The signal-cord was drawn to strike for meat, the cage was unhooked and fell into the night, and there was nothing more but the rapid flight of the cable. Then Étienne left the pit. Below, beneath the screening-shed, he noticed a creature seated on the earth, with legs stretched out, in the midst of a thick pile of coal. It was Jeanlin, who was employed there to clean the large coal. He held a block of coal between his thighs, and freed it with a hammer from the fragments of slate. A fine powder drowned him in such a flood of soot that the young man would never have recognized him if the child had not lifted his ape-like face, with the protruding ears and small greenish eyes. He laughed, with a joking air, and, giving a final blow to the block, disappeared in the black dust which arose. Outside, Étienne followed the road for a while, absorbed in his thoughts. All sorts of ideas were buzzing in his head. But he felt the open air, the free sky, and he breathed deeply. The sun was appearing in glory at the horizon, there was a reawakening of gladness over the whole country. A flood of gold rolled from the east to the west on the immense plain. This heat of life was expanding and extending in a tremor of youth, in which vibrated the sighs of the earth, the song of birds, all the murmuring sounds of the waters and the woods. It was good to live, and the old world wanted to live through one more spring. And penetrated by that hope, Étienne slackened his walk, his eyes wandering to right and to left amid the gaiety of the new season. He thought about himself, he felt himself strong, seasoned by his hard experiences at the bottom of the mine. His education was complete, he was going away armed, a rational soldier of the revolution, having declared war against society as he saw it and as he condemned it. The joy of rejoining Pluchart and of being, like Pluchart, a leader who was listened to, inspired him with speeches, and he began to arrange the phrases. He was meditating an enlarged programme; that middle-class refinement, which had raised him above his class, had deepened his hatred of the middle class. He felt the need of glorifying these workers, whose odour of wretchedness was now unpleasant to him; he would show that they alone were great and stainless, the only nobility and the only strength in which humanity could be dipped afresh. He already saw himself in the tribune, triumphing with the people, if the people did not devour him. The loud song of a lark made him look up towards the sky. Little red clouds, the last vapours of the night, were melting in the limpid blue; and the vague faces of Souvarine and Rasseneur came to his memory. Decidedly, all was spoilt when each man tried to get power for himself. Thus that famous International which was to have renewed the world had impotently miscarried, and its formidable army had been cut up and crumbled away from internal dissensions. Was Darwin right, then, and the world only a battlefield, where the strong ate the weak for the sake of the beauty and continuance of the race? This question troubled him, although he settled it like a man who is satisfied with his knowledge. But one idea dissipated his doubts and enchanted him--that of taking up his old explanation of the theory the first time that he should speak. If any class must be devoured, would not the people, still new and full of life, devour the middle class, exhausted by enjoyment? The new society would arise from new blood. And in this expectation of an invasion of barbarians, regenerating the old decayed nations, reappeared his absolute faith in an approaching revolution, the real one--that of the workers--the fire of which would inflame this century's end with that purple of the rising sun which he saw like blood on the sky. He still walked, dreaming, striking his brier stick against the flints on the road, and when he glanced around him he recognized the various places. Just there, at the Fourche-aux-Boeufs, he remembered that he had taken command of the band that morning when the pits were sacked. Today the brutish, deathly, ill-paid work was beginning over again. Beneath the earth, down there at seven hundred metres, it seemed to him he heard low, regular, continuous blows; it was the men he had just seen go down, the black workers, who were hammering in their silent rage. No doubt they were beaten. They had left their dead and their money on the field; but Paris would not forget the volleys fired at the Voreux, and the blood of the empire, too, would flow from that incurable wound. And if the industrial crisis was drawing to an end, if the workshops were opening again one by one, a state of war was no less declared, and peace was henceforth impossible. The colliers had reckoned up their men; they had tried their strength, with their cry for justice arousing the workers all over France. Their defeat, therefore, reassured no one. The Montsou bourgeois, in their victory, felt the vague uneasiness that arises on the morrow of a strike, looking behind them to see if their end did not lie inevitably over there, in spite of all beyond that great silence. They understood that the revolution would be born again unceasingly, perhaps to-morrow, with a general strike--the common understanding of all workers having general funds, and so able to hold out for months, eating their own bread. This time a push only had been given to a ruinous society, but they had heard the rumbling beneath their feet, and they felt more shocks arising, and still more, until the old edifice would be crushed, fallen in and swallowed, going down like the Voreux to the abyss. Étienne took the Joiselle road, to the left. He remembered that he had prevented the band from rushing on to Gaston-Marie. Afar, in the clear sky he saw the steeples of several pits--Mirou to the right, Madeleine and Crévecoeur side by side. Work was going on everywhere; he seemed to be able to catch the blows of the pick at the bottom of the earth, striking now from one end of the plain to the other, one blow, and another blow, and yet more blows, beneath the fields and roads and villages which were laughing in the light, all the obscure labour of the underground prison, so crushed by the enormous mass of the rocks that one had to know it was underneath there to distinguish its great painful sigh. And he now thought that, perhaps, violence would not hasten things. Cutting cables, tearing up rails, breaking lamps, what a useless task it was! It was not worth while for three thousand men to rush about in a devastating band doing that. He vaguely divined that lawful methods might one day be more terrible. His reason was ripening, he had sown the wild oats of his spite. Yes, Maheude had well said, with her good sense, that that would be the great blow--to organize quietly, to know one another, to unite in associations when the laws would permit it; then, on the morning when they felt their strength, and millions of workers would be face to face with a few thousand idlers, to take the power into their own hands and become the masters. Ah! what a reawakening of truth and justice! The sated and crouching god would at once get his death-blow, the monstrous idol hidden in the depths of his sanctuary, in that unknown distance where poor wretches fed him with their flesh without ever having seen him. But Étienne, leaving the Vandame road, now came on to the paved street. On the right he saw Montsou, which was lost in the valley. Opposite were the ruins of the Voreux, the accursed hole where three pumps worked unceasingly. Then there were the other pits at the horizon, the Victoire, Saint-Thomas, Feutry-Cantel; while, towards the north, the tall chimneys of the blast furnaces, and the batteries of coke ovens, were smoking in the transparent morning air. If he was not to lose the eight o'clock train he must hasten, for he had still six kilometres before him. And beneath his feet, the deep blows, those obstinate blows of the pick, continued. The mates were all there; he heard them following him at every stride. Was not that Maheude beneath the beetroots, with bent back and hoarse respiration accompanying the rumble of the ventilator? To left, to right, farther on, he seemed to recognize others beneath the wheatfields, the hedges, the young trees. Now the April sun, in the open sky, was shining in his glory, and warming the pregnant earth. From its fertile flanks life was leaping out, buds were bursting into green leaves, and the fields were quivering with the growth of the grass. On every side seeds were swelling, stretching out, cracking the plain, filled by the need of heat and light. An overflow of sap was mixed with whispering voices, the sound of the germs expanding in a great kiss. Again and again, more and more distinctly, as though they were approaching the soil, the mates were hammering. In the fiery rays of the sun on this youthful morning the country seemed full of that sound. Men were springing forth, a black avenging army, germinating slowly in the furrows, growing towards the harvests of the next century, and their germination would soon overturn the earth.