THE HEART OF A MAN
 
 That side of the gate went down, and before it had 
 come to the ground Loyd went hurdling through, 
 yelling to the men who leaped after him." Page 359.
 
 THE HEART OF 
 
 A MAN 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD AUMERLE MAHER 
 
 NEW i'oRK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: 
 
 BENZIGER BROTHERS 
 
 P*<hlishers of Benzi (JUT'S
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915. BY BENZIGER BROTHERS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAOB 
 
 I THE CROSS ON THE HILL 7 
 
 II "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT" . . . .31 
 
 III "My BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 58 
 
 IV THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 84 
 
 V THE WILL or GOD 110 
 
 VI "GoD LIVES" 136 
 
 VII THE REV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 162 
 
 VIII THE WORK AT OUR HAND 188 
 
 IX "His STRONG CITY" 214 
 
 X FATHER LYNCH'S WISDOM 240 
 
 XI "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 267 
 
 XII THE PRISONER OF His SOUL 292 
 
 XIII THE WILL OF THE STRONG 317 
 
 XIV As GOD MADE HIM 345 
 
 XV THE LONG ROAD ......... 870 
 
 XVI THE HEART OF A MAN . 395 
 
 2137214
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 
 
 T~\EAN DRISCOLL sat quiet and argued 
 *' ruminatively, partly to himself, partly to the 
 Adirondack foothills that stretched up and away 
 from his house, and somewhat to the young priest 
 who was nervously pacing the veranda. 
 
 "No," said the Dean. "Socialism will never 
 bring about any acute crisis in this country. It 
 wants and fights for too many things that nearly 
 everybody wants. The things that nearly every- 
 body wants will come, one by one. Socialism 
 gets a hearing, and a following, because it prom- 
 ises to get these things for people. When these 
 things the things that nearly all of us look for 
 better conditions of living, fairer adjustments 
 of the burdens of life, when these come, then So- 
 cialism, or the same thing by another name, will 
 have to think of another set of things that most 
 people want. And so it will go on." 
 
 ' The Income Tax, now," he went on whimsi- 
 cally, "that was Socialism till it was seen that a 
 majority of the voters were for it. Then it be- 
 
 7
 
 8 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 came good politics. When it was made the law 
 of the land, then it was statesmanship." 
 
 "But the people!" contended Father Huetter. 
 "The individuals, the men, I mean it draws 
 them away from the Church. The Church has 
 to oppose Socialism, and it brings up the old 
 calumny that the Church is always on the side of 
 the strong, established Things that Are. Why, 
 I see the day coming when there will be just two 
 big forces to divide this country the Catholic 
 Church and Socialism. Their struggle will be 
 to the death." 
 
 'Tis well," said the old priest quietly, "to have 
 visions while you're young. When you are old 
 you have only the things you have seen and heard 
 to go by. And there's only one vision left worth 
 looking to." He looked out over the hills and 
 into the deep blue of the heaven where his one 
 vision lay. But he came back quickly to the pres- 
 ent. 
 
 "What did Jim Loyd say about the Bishop's 
 sermon yesterday? I saw him in the crowd at 
 the back of the church. He came just because 
 it was announced that the sermon would be on 
 Socialism. And he heard a plenty. You were 
 on your rounds this morning. Didn't you hear 
 anything from him?" 
 
 "Yes. When he was going down the street 
 from the church Eddie Connolly brushed past 
 Jim and asked him what he thought of it the 
 sermon. He grunted, and answered: 'It's all
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 9 
 
 right. Us Socialists will have the priests workin* 
 like the rest of us in ten years from now.' ' 
 
 The Dean laughed. "So that was it!" He 
 turned to the young priest, from whom he loved 
 to draw sparks. "Small wonder you're eloquent 
 on the subject to-day. That was a threat indeed. 
 Now, I'll not live to see " 
 
 Father Huetter smiled. He refused to be 
 drawn out. Then the smile turned to that deep- 
 eyed look of mysticism that goes with the priests 
 of his race. He said slowly: 
 
 "There was a Priest who worked. He was a 
 Carpenter." 
 
 Father Driscoll bowed his head gravely: and 
 waited. 
 
 "But I am not thinking of what Jim Loyd 
 says about the Church," the young priest went 
 back to his argument. "I'm talking about what 
 Socialism does to him as a man, to his character. 
 He was an altar boy of yours here. You buried 
 his father. You helped his mother keep Jim and 
 his brother and sister together. They would 
 have had to be sent to a Home otherwise. He 
 knows you. He is intelligent. He knows the 
 work that you, as a priest, have done here for 
 nearly forty years. Yet, in spite of all that, So- 
 cialism takes away his common sense and his re- 
 ligion and he has come to the point where he 
 hates the Church." 
 
 "No. I think you are wrong, Father," the 
 Dean said mildly. "Jimmie doesn't hate the
 
 10 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Church. He can't. That's part of the trouble. 
 He loves the Church. So he can't let it alone. 
 It won't let him alone. Am I getting tangled 
 up?" 
 
 "Well, I don't quite see, Dean." 
 
 "Did you ever, then," the Dean began at a new 
 angle, "see a boy, a grown boy, when he's sullen 
 and angry and bitter and doesn't know what to 
 hit? What does he hit? Who gets his bitterest 
 word? His mother. The one he can hurt most 
 and hurt himself most, too. Why? Who 
 knows? But, 'tis so. Now that's Jim Loyd, 
 though he's a man grown. When his life has 
 turned bitter on him he has to hurt something. 
 We can hurt most where we love most. Boy 
 and man Jimmie Loyd never loved anything as 
 he did and does, I say love his Church. 
 When the bitterness comes, where he loves he 
 strikes." 
 
 "But what is his grievance?" The young 
 priest was back now at the practical, every-day 
 side of the matter. "He makes good wages. 
 He doesn't work any harder than anybody else. 
 He wouldn't be satisfied if he wasn't working." 
 
 "That is all true," conceded the Dean. "And 
 do not suppose that Jim Loyd does not see it 
 all. He is, as you say, intelligent. But he is 
 more than that. He has imagination." 
 
 The Dean settled back in his chair and made 
 his case : 
 
 "Jim is a molder. By his skill and his ability
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 11 
 
 as a foreman to teach and handle men under him 
 he saves the company hundreds of dollars every 
 month that would be lost in spoiled castings. 
 He is thirty years old. He looks ahead thirty 
 years more. And God sparing him what will 
 he be? A stooped old man with a little hack of 
 a cough, hanging on doggedly, to the very job 
 he has now. And one day an assistant superin- 
 tendent fresh from a technical school will walk 
 down from the office to the casting-room of the 
 Milton Machinery Company and while he is 
 dodging a bucket of hot metal he will decide that 
 old Loyd is slowing up the mill needs younger 
 blood. Jim Loyd sees that before him." 
 
 The Dean paused, and Father Huetter sat 
 down silently. He knew that there was more to 
 come. 
 
 "As you said," the old priest went on, "he is 
 no worse off than twenty million other men, more 
 or less, in this country. He knows that. But 
 Jim Loyd is different. He is a man of power 
 wherever you put him. Do you realize how he 
 has handled this strike for the last three months? 
 Do you know that he is the strike, the soul of it. 
 Without him it would collapse in riot and blood- 
 shed. You know how he has kept your Poles 
 and Italians in line with his own American and 
 Irish kind. It took a big man to do that, and 
 Jim Loyd is a big man. He alone has gathered 
 and handled the money that has kept two thou- 
 sand families from starvation. He alone has
 
 12 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 kept out agitators and murderous interferers 
 from the outside. He is an organizer, a general, 
 a born leader and driver of men. 
 
 "You want to know what is his grievance. 
 Here it is. Jim Loyd is a bigger man, a 
 stronger man, a brainier man than the manager 
 of the Milton works. Why should not Jim 
 Loyd be in the place of power and responsibility 
 that his brain demands for him? 
 
 "He cannot, because he went into those works 
 when he was twelve years old. He lied his way 
 in because he was a big strong boy. He had no 
 education whatever, you may say has none to- 
 day ; never will have. When he was younger he 
 could exult in his growing body and muscles. 
 He was going to be the strongest and most com- 
 petent man in the mill. He is that now. Do 
 you see? His life is now, at thirty, all that he 
 can ever make it. The iron begins to turn in 
 him. Do you know what he is saying to him- 
 self? He is saying: 'I might as well die now, 
 die now. I can never do anything but this.' Do 
 you see what that means to the big, arrogant, 
 masterful heart of the man?" 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Father Huetter, "that man 
 is not a Socialist at all." 
 
 "No more than you are. He's the most indi- 
 vidualistic man I ever saw. He should have 
 been a poor baron of the Middle Ages." 
 
 "Then, why?" 
 
 "Why does he shout the language of it? Be-
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 13 
 
 cause it is a voice that promises to every boy the 
 one thing that Jim Loyd could not have. Do 
 you think he imagines Socialism can ever do any- 
 thing for him now. He'd laugh in its face if it 
 offered him anything. He wouldn't accept any- 
 thing in this world that he couldn't take with the 
 power of his own two hands. That's how much 
 of a Socialist he is." 
 
 "I guess there's more to- to everything than 
 one thinks in the beginning," said the young 
 priest, hesitating a little. But the Dean made 
 no comment. He went on to his conclusion: 
 
 "You are right to say that Socialism will hurt 
 the faith and the practice of many men. But it 
 is not Socialism that ails Jim Loyd. He has 
 just got his head above the horizon of life and he 
 has just begun to learn one terrible fact that 
 he cannot conquer life. And his heart is sore. 
 Because it is sore, he bruises the hurt by turn- 
 ing on his Church." 
 
 "One day," he continued gently, "God, who is 
 good, knows when Jimmie will learn that there 
 is something bigger even and more terrible than 
 the loss of his ambitions. That will throw him 
 back to his place. Then, no matter what scars 
 it may carry from the lesson, Jim Loyd's soul 
 will be the soul of a great man." 
 
 He reached for his breviary, and Father Huet- 
 ter, rising, went thoughtfully about his work. 
 The general relaxation and carelessness brought 
 on in the town by so many people being idle, to-
 
 14 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 gether with the fact that many were eating 
 poorer food than they were accustomed to, had 
 caused almost an epidemic of typhoid. And ty- 
 phoid is a call that does not wait till the morning. 
 The priest goes on the instant. Father Huetter 
 had had just one undisturbed night in two weeks, 
 and besides, at twenty-eight a man does not like 
 to have his pet and seated convictions set aside 
 with a word. It almost makes him blame his 
 university. 
 
 His way took him down the main business 
 street of the town. The strikers had hired a va- 
 cant store on this street and around the front of 
 it a crowd was always gathered. It was really 
 just a place for Jim Loyd to sit all day and a 
 good part of the night listening to complaints 
 and threats and evidences of starvation. And 
 Loyd, as judge and guardian of the relief funds, 
 which he himself gathered with mighty labor, had 
 seen pretty nearly all that is to be learned of hu- 
 man cupidity and selfishness. They came to him 
 knowing that every pound of flour, every pair of 
 shoes they might get, was simply being taken 
 from someone else who would need it perhaps 
 worse than they. Yet they came and lied and 
 fawned and tried to get things just for the sake 
 of getting them, just because something was be- 
 ing given away. 
 
 Jim Loyd wanted money, wanted it passion- 
 ately as he wanted all the things of life that rep- 
 resent power. But no money could have hired
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 15 
 
 him to do the work that he was doing. It was 
 thankless. Every one had to go away somewhat 
 disappointed. And there was real suffering, a 
 great deal of it, that he could not relieve. Yet 
 he could not leave even the details of the work to 
 another. The women and the weak ones trusted 
 no one else. And the strong would have bullied 
 another. So he sat there day after day with the 
 cheery, large manner of courage for all, while 
 into his heart his own bitterness ate and ate. 
 
 He had just finished frightening the wits out 
 of a landlord who had threatened to turn three 
 of the poorest families into the street if their rent 
 was not paid, when one of the officers of the union 
 came to his desk with the report that John Sar- 
 gent himself was coming to Milton to take direct 
 charge of the strike situation. 
 
 John Sargent was a man who sat high up in 
 the general office building in New York and kept 
 his hand a thin cold hand of wire upon every 
 act of the Milton Machinery Company from the 
 time the iron was bought underground until the 
 last distant selling-agent had made his returns 
 from Russia and South America. He was not a 
 manufacturer. You could buy manufacturers, 
 he said. Just as you could buy machines, so you 
 could buy other machines to run them. You 
 could buy men, you could buy ideas, you could 
 buy patents or steal them. You could buy 
 anything, in fact, except the spark of life the 
 genius and the driving power to make your or-
 
 16 
 
 ganization live. That you had to give from 
 yourself. He was a creator, you see. 
 
 He was really a banker whose business it was 
 to show credit and with that credit to acquire 
 vast sums of money, ready, hard, unanswerable 
 money with which to buy bodies, brains, and ma- 
 chines, that they might produce more credit, that 
 he might acquire vaster sums of money, to buy 
 more . And so on, around the circle again. 
 He was as much the squirrel in the wheel as was 
 the meanest of his machines, but he refused to 
 know it. 
 
 The strike at Milton had stopped his wheel for 
 three months. He knew that in every jam of 
 machinery there is sure to be just one pin or one 
 piece that is causing the whole trouble. Lesser 
 men waste time taking the machine apart and 
 testing out each piece. The genius goes straight 
 to that one pin, removes it, and click ! the 
 thing goes again. John Sargent knew that the 
 man in Milton who could keep four jealous races 
 of people, near the starvation point, in an or- 
 derly, law-abiding strike for three months was 
 the pin in the jam. He knew that that man was 
 Jim Loyd. He was coming to Milton to remove 
 that pin. 
 
 Jim Loyd had long ago looked over the heads 
 of the superintendents and the manager of the 
 works and had seen that the strike would one day 
 come to a grapple between himself and John 
 Sargent. And he had exulted in the thought of
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 17 
 
 it. Personally, he might say, he had nothing to 
 lose. He had nothing that John Sargent could 
 take away from him. And while he realized 
 Sargent's power to make people suffer he could 
 see it all about him he also knew that John Sar- 
 gent was suffering too, in the only way he could 
 be made suffer. He was losing money. He 
 could not lose much more. Therefore, when he 
 was coming now to take personal charge it meant 
 that he was ready to do naked battle. Loyd 
 went over the things that Sargent might do. He 
 wanted to know what kind of battle it would be. 
 
 But John Sargent had not merely marked the 
 pin for removal. He had prepared the tools for 
 the work. The night before in New York he 
 had written a telegram to George Atwater, man- 
 ager of the works at Milton. When Atwater 
 had cleared up the cipher and read the message 
 twice, he tore it up slowly into very little bits and 
 dropped them into the fan of the air-shaft. 
 
 "I wonder," he said bitterly to himself, "if Sar- 
 gent thinks he pays me for work as low and as 
 dangerous as that." 
 
 The telegram read: 
 
 "Spread report quietly Loyd dealing with Sar- 
 gent to sell out strikers. Mention twenty thou- 
 sand." 
 
 But Atwater had no notion of disregarding 
 John Sargent's orders. Few people ever did. 
 Before midnight of that night the report was the 
 topic of raging discussion in four languages.
 
 18 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Naturally Jim Loyd did not hear it. But all 
 day he had known that there was something in 
 the atmosphere, something in the way people 
 had met him, that was not clear. When the re- 
 port came to him that Sargent was arriving in 
 town, he thought that it was a premonition of 
 coming battle that had made him feel strange. 
 About six o'clock there came a break in the 
 stream of those crowding in on him for help and 
 for orders and with reports. He sent out to a 
 lunch cart across the street for a couple of sand- 
 wiches his supper and prepared for the even- 
 ing's work. 
 
 While he waited, the telephone rang, and in 
 the little action of lifting the receiver to his ear 
 he found to his surprise that he was tired, dead 
 tired. This was no way to be prepared for John 
 Sargent's move, whatever it might be. 
 
 Father Driscoll's voice over the wire surprised 
 him still more : 
 
 "Is that you, Jimmie?" it questioned. 
 
 The boyhood name nobody used it to him 
 now brought back the old habit of reverence. 
 
 "Yes, Dean. What can I do?" He replied 
 before he remembered that 
 
 "Have you had a call," questioned the Dean, 
 "to meet Mr. Sargent yet?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You will, then, I think. And, Jimmie " 
 the old priest's voice held a moment on the name.
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 19 
 
 "Yes? What is it, Dean?" 
 
 "Jimmie, take what I say the way it's given: 
 Don't go alone." 
 
 "I see nothing to fear." 
 
 "I know that, Jimmie. Call it an old man's 
 whim, then. Jimmie. I've lived longer than 
 you have. Take advice. Do not go alone." 
 The Dean hung up his receiver, leaving Loyd 
 sitting in brown thought with a part of the desk 
 instrument in either hand. 
 
 The report which all the town, except Loyd, 
 had heard had just come to the Dean. Almost 
 as clearly as if he had read the deciphered tele- 
 gram, the old priest understood the plan. Sar- 
 gent did not hope to huy Jim Loyd, though he 
 might try it. But with the report once spread, 
 some would believe it, others would waver, and 
 the moment Loyd found that he was not abso- 
 lutely trusted he would surely make some grave 
 mistake; perhaps he would throw up his work 
 with the strike altogether. They were counting 
 on his temper and recklessness when angered. 
 
 Loyd put back the 'phone and choked down a 
 part of one of the sandwiches. He was hungry, 
 but he could not eat. There was something 
 wrong, very wrong, with him. Why had not 
 Father Driscoll said more or nothing. Three 
 years before this time, he remembered, the priest 
 would have walked down the street to him and 
 told him, eye to eye, all that he meant. But Jim
 
 20 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Loyd did not deceive himself. He knew that it 
 was not the priest who had changed in those three 
 years. 
 
 At eight o'clock that evening a clerk left the 
 offices of the Milton Company ostentatiously 
 carrying a letter in his hand. He was on no er- 
 rand of haste or secrecy. He walked leisurely 
 where the lights were brightest and the crowds 
 thickest. A whisper ran ahead of him, circled 
 around him as he went, and behind him, swelled 
 into a certainty. He was carrying a message 
 from Sargent to Jim Loyd. The crowd did not 
 reason. A crowd never does. There was a fact. 
 They had seen. 
 
 Jim Loyd took the message, read it, reached 
 for his hat, and started out into the street. Like 
 every man who has power over men, he was al- 
 ways sensitive to the attitude or the feeling of a 
 crowd toward him. As he walked through the 
 crowds in the street he was absorbed in his own 
 thoughts of the battle before him. He spoke to 
 no one; looked at no one. But he could not 
 escape the feeling that there were distrust and 
 hostility all about him. It crowded him. Twice 
 he half stopped and shook his big shoulders, to 
 throw it off. But it followed him, annoying him, 
 right up to the gate of the works. 
 
 A guard admitted him at the officers' entrance 
 and led him up through the several offices to the 
 room always reserved for the rare visits of John 
 Sargent to Milton.
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 21 
 
 The two men studied each other swiftly as they 
 shook hands. Each saw in the other a certain 
 driving ruthlessness to get results. They were 
 brothers for the moment, under all the differ- 
 ences of education and training. John Sargent 
 used none of the preliminaries of thunder or con- 
 descension which he used so effectively with 
 smaller men. 
 
 "You, Loyd," he said brusquely, "are head and 
 brains of this strike." 
 
 "What next?" admitted Loyd impatiently. 
 
 "This strike is for the reinstatement of two 
 men whom my manager discharged." 
 
 "It's for the principle that you can't and won't 
 discharge any man without cause," Loyd cor- 
 rected bluntly. 
 
 "Principles are capsules of words for weak 
 people. You are not a demagogue. Why talk 
 like one? Will you ever be discharged without 
 cause?" 
 
 "No. I save you too much." 
 
 "What, then, have you, personally, to' gain or 
 lose by this strike?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Loyd shortly. 
 
 "Then listen. You are not a labor leader. 
 You despise the work and the ingratitude that 
 you know is the only reward. You have nothing 
 ahead of you in the works. You never got the 
 training, and you never will, now. You'll work 
 there till you die of slow consumption. Yet if 
 you had a business of your own, or the money
 
 22 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 to make one, you could go as far as you liked. 
 And that would be very far, young man, very 
 far/' 
 
 The small, hard-eyed man laid one arm along 
 the desk, and with all the air of one giving final 
 advice said : 
 
 "You have brains, you have drive ; add to them 
 the money that I am going to give you and sit 
 down!" he snapped. 
 
 Loyd had sprung from his chair and lunged 
 toward him. 
 
 "Do you think I came here with only one ar- 
 gument?" Sargent questioned coolly. 
 
 "One's enough," growled Loyd, "if you don't 
 want" 
 
 "You need not threaten. We are both men. 
 Sit down!" he repeated. But Loyd turned to 
 pace the floor. 
 
 "See here," Sargent began again. "You are 
 thinking that you are bound to these people, that 
 you have led them into this strike and that they 
 trust you, that you would be selling them out. 
 Now let's look at the facts. How long would 
 this strike have lasted but for you. But for you 
 those people would have rioted and destroyed 
 property; the militia would have been called out; 
 the workers would have become frightened, and 
 the strike would have gone to pieces. They 
 would have been back at work in a month. 
 That's one thing you're thinking, that you owe 
 them loyalty. And you're wrong. They haven't
 
 any strike. The strike is yours, body and soul 
 to buy or sell with. 
 
 "Again : Do they trust you?" 
 
 Loyd turned as if struck. 
 
 "When you were walking up through the 
 crowds on the street to-night do you know what 
 every man, and woman, of them was saying? 
 Do you know the word that is in everybody's 
 mouth in this town to-night? I do. I put it 
 there. The word is this: Jim Loyd has been 
 offered twenty thousand dollars to betray the 
 strike. Will he take it? They do not know, 
 you see, whether you will or not. That's how 
 much they trust you." 
 
 Jim Loyd staggered to a chair. The revolt- 
 ing confession which he had just heard from the 
 man did not interest him. He was struck too 
 deeply for anger or disgust. Sargent was right 
 whatever means he had used the people did 
 not trust Jim Loyd under temptation. They 
 never trusted anyone. For this he had slaved 
 through these months, keeping them from riot 
 and bloodshed and starvation! Now a word 
 from this man who was their known enemy was 
 enough to turn them against the man who had 
 done all for them. He remembered the feeling 
 of distrust and anger that he had sensed from 
 the crowds in the street. Sargent was right. 
 
 "You think you see it all," the other man went 
 on levelly, "and you are mad. But you don't 
 see the half of it. This strike of yours is lost
 
 24 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 now. You may be able to hold your organi- 
 zation together for another month. But you 
 cannot keep them from rioting and destruction. 
 They don't trust you, you see. That will give 
 me a chance to get the militia here, and that will 
 be the end. But in the meantime my insurance 
 is canceled you see I am putting myself into 
 your hands and they may destroy hundreds of 
 thousands of dollars on me before they are 
 stopped. Now, as a measure of insurance, of 
 protection, I am asking you to call this strike 
 off to-morrow. If you are the man you think 
 you are," he challenged, "and you say you can 
 do it, there are in that safe fifty thousand dollars 
 in yellow-backed money for you to take away 
 with you this minute. You see, I trust you." 
 
 Jim Loyd sat in a daze. His brain whirled in 
 a blaze of flaring emotions. Anger and desper- 
 ation against those he had fed and who looked 
 at him with eyes of suspicion ; a great hungry lust 
 to kill this man who had ruined him with his fel- 
 lows and who now offered to buy the wreck ; and 
 fifty thousand dollars! With fifty thousand dol- 
 lars to start on Jim Loyd could drive the world 
 ahead of him! 
 
 He struggled to his feet, tugging at his collar 
 for air. He tore both collar and tie from his 
 throat and stood there bare-necked, panting. 
 
 God knows what he was going to do. 
 
 In through the window, full-toned, certain, 
 deep, as a voice from either end of time, came the
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 25 
 
 tolling of the curfew bell from the Catholic 
 church. For forty years Father Driscoll had 
 struck that bell himself. 
 
 Jim Loyd stiffened where he stood. That bell 
 had stopped him in many a boyish mischief the 
 tone and the thought of the man who struck it. 
 Now, when passion and despair had pushed him 
 back to elementary things, the tone smote him 
 full in the face. He rushed blindly from the 
 room and out into the night. 
 
 He crossed the street and the end of the town 
 and struck straight away into the hills. He did 
 not know, or care where he went only to go, on 
 and on. But when the mad impulse of flight 
 was spent, he turned, to face the thing that 
 pursued him. Standing on the brow of the hill 
 he looked back down upon it. There it lay in the 
 sharp, white moonlight, an evil, black thing that 
 crawled and crawled along the river. A thing of 
 the slime, it looked the mill, as it lay there 
 stretching out its long, low, black buildings like 
 feelers, that drew in the lives of men and women. 
 Its black stacks were like the horns of some half- 
 formed river beast, peering with blind eyes into 
 the sky. 
 
 All the hate of a lifetime, all the raging pas- 
 sions of this night rolled themselves into one ball 
 of fury in the man's heart, and he raved at the 
 thing there below him. It had taken his father ; 
 it had taken his mother as she scrubbed its offices 
 for unclean men to sit in ; it had taken the youth
 
 26 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 of his own life, and it would take the rest. It 
 had made him a machine, a thing measured in 
 buckets and castings. And to-night it had of- 
 fered to take his soul and his manhood. And 
 that was not the worst. The worst, the terrible 
 thing was that he had he had listened! He 
 might have done it. 
 
 When that thing down there, that crawling 
 thing, could do that to him, to Jim Loyd whom 
 all men ! No! Men did not trust him, how 
 could they! 
 
 There was one thing left, only one but it was 
 enough. The rage in his heart and his eyes 
 turned itself down till it burned with the blue- 
 steel flame of mad, but deliberate, purpose. He 
 looked across the mill-pond and up the river to 
 the top of the highest of the hills. There on the 
 very crest, nestling among the roots of a scrub 
 white birch-tree, there was something that would 
 square it all. 
 
 He could show them still that he was Jim 
 Loyd, a big man, bigger than their suspicions, 
 bigger than fifty thousand dollars, bigger than 
 that slimy black thing down there that took their 
 lives. He could show them that he was big 
 enough to destroy that thing, and himself with 
 it. 
 
 He skirted the town till he came down to the 
 river at a point almost opposite the high hill. 
 Here, under the alders, old Peter Choyniski kept 
 a boat hidden. Loyd picked the padlock that
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 27 
 
 held the two oars, and pulled silently to the other 
 shore. 
 
 On the top of the hill, on his knees, he dug 
 swiftly with his fingers at the roots of the white 
 birch. He dared not use even his knife to help. 
 
 Out of the mold he drew a roll of stuff 
 wrapped in black oilcloth. The roll was of soft, 
 fluffy cotton and in it lay embedded six slen- 
 der, innocent-looking tubes of yellow liquid, and 
 seven black sticks. There was enough of the 
 terrible explosive to destroy practically the whole 
 mill, yet Jim Loyd's hand was steady and almost 
 careless as he picked them out of the cotton and 
 slid them into his breast-pockets. He was play- 
 ing with Death, and he would not be cheated in 
 the game. 
 
 Under the cotton lay a coil of very fine wire, 
 several hundred feet. In the center of the coil 
 was a little black affair hardly larger than a 
 wrist watch. It was not a watch: it was a tiny, 
 powerful sparker, modeled after the latest type 
 of self-starter for automobiles. One turn of the 
 lock in its back gave a spark at any number of 
 places along the wire. In the top of each tube 
 was fitted a little copper plug with a cap beneath 
 to explode the tube. It was a very simple and 
 very sure contrivance. But this was no time- 
 clock, that the one who set it might be miles away 
 before the explosion. No, the man who did this 
 must stand and go with his work. 
 
 It had been brought into the town by a band
 
 28 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 of murderous anarchists who, in the much-abused 
 name of Labor, had tried to take charge of the 
 strike in the beginning. Jim Loyd had taken 
 the thing from them and had drummed them out 
 of the town. Why he had saved and hidden it 
 here he had never been able to tell. He would 
 have tried to kill with his hands any man who had 
 attempted to use it. 
 
 Now he stuffed the sparker and coil into an- 
 other pocket and rose from his knees. He was 
 going to do this thing deliberately and surely. 
 No man would stop him. And he would go with 
 his work. 
 
 He faced down across the placid mill-pond and 
 the mill below, dour and black, and over the vil- 
 lage now peacefully going to its sleep under the 
 beautiful moon. There was peace peace and 
 the brooding of God's spirit over all and he was 
 going to 
 
 At the farthest side of the village, lying up the 
 slope of the rising hill, clear-marked like a cameo 
 in the ivory light, was the Church. He had 
 never noticed it from this angle. It was a per- 
 fect cruciform, and as he looked down upon it 
 from this height and distance it looked like a 
 mighty cross marked upon a giant grave. It 
 seemed to dominate and to group the whole town 
 around itself until it gave life to all about it. It 
 was the soul of the picture. He stood there gaz- 
 ing hungrily, but blindly. 
 
 Then something dropped from him. His soul
 
 THE CROSS ON THE HILL 29 
 
 came forth to his eyes, to look. And seeing, it 
 saw not the walls of the church nor the cross, but 
 saw through and through, and saw the God of 
 the Altar there in the Church eternal. And 
 space was gone and all things between. So for 
 one terrible instant Jim Loyd's soul stood naked 
 and unshielded before God. 
 
 Mechanically he started down the hill. In the 
 middle of the mill-pond he drew out the seven 
 slender tubes and dropped them gently, one by 
 one, into the water. 
 
 Father Driscoll sat late at night always with 
 his books. When old eyes tired with the strain, 
 and sleep still did not come, he would rise and 
 steal out quietly he knew where was every 
 board that creaked through the back hall and 
 the sacristy to the church. He would make vigil 
 a while with the faithful little lamp before the 
 tabernacle and then he would walk down to the 
 door of the church and open it for a breath of air. 
 He loved to look down on the village at this hour 
 of peace and to breathe his little prayer for all 
 sinning and suffering ones in it. 
 
 To-night as he stepped out of the door, there 
 on the wide top step of the church a man 
 crouched, crying bitterly. He wept not as a 
 woman weeps, nor as an angered man whines in 
 rage or fear, but as a big, hurt boy cries with 
 long, wracking sobs. The old priest came over 
 and, putting his hand to the man's shoulder, 
 recognized him.
 
 30 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 It was James Loyd. 
 
 As he felt the touch of the priest's hand the 
 man rose and faced him. But he did not at- 
 tempt to speak. 
 
 Father Driscoll stood a moment looking into 
 the face of the boy whom he had always loved. 
 Then he said, with finality: 
 
 "Jimmie, I do not know what they put you 
 through to-night. I do not wish to, save that 
 you have come through it and are here. But I 
 do know that if ever a man had need of the help 
 of God, then you will be that man, that you may 
 do the work that will be for your hands here in 
 this town for the months to come. 
 
 "Come in to ask it now." 
 
 And together they passed into the church to 
 talk to God in the hour of midnight.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT" 
 
 * 'V^ou were wrong, Dean," Father Lynch an- 
 * nounced flatly. "The question is all one 
 of political economy, anyway. You might bet- 
 ter leave it alone. The Church is not called to 
 settle it." He was fifteen years younger than 
 the Dean, and, privately, believed him the wisest 
 man in the world. But they had been neighbor- 
 ing pastors for twenty-five years; this gave cer- 
 tain privileges. 
 
 "Everything is political economy, if you come 
 to that," said Father Huetter, taking up the de- 
 fense for Dean Driscoll, who seemed to be think- 
 ing of something else. "It is a question of polit- 
 ical economy when a man has not five cents to 
 buy a loaf of bread. Also, it is political economy 
 to ask why the loaf costs eight cents when the 
 man has only five." 
 
 "You say," the young German priest went on, 
 laying down his argument with finger on palm, 
 "the Church has not to answer these questions: 
 the law of mine and thine settles them. But, 
 does it? The law of hunger is stronger yet. 
 Suppose the man obeys the law of hunger and 
 
 31
 
 32 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 takes the bread where he finds it. Then both 
 Church and State are interested. Each has a 
 question to answer. Are we forever to be tink- 
 ering with remedies and mendings? Are we 
 never to root at causes?" 
 
 "You are thinking in small circles," returned 
 Father Lynch. "You are cooped up in your vil- 
 lage here you call it a city where the people 
 are too crowded around you. You hear too 
 much of uplift and brotherhood and man's duty 
 to man. You imagine from it all that one man 
 is interested in another man ; how the other lives, 
 what he does. He is not. 
 
 "Come up into the hills with me," Father 
 Lynch waved a cherished pipe expansively to the 
 blue foothills of the Adirondacks, "and see how 
 big the world is. From Felton Top I can see 
 miles across the valley to the slope of Marcy. 
 There is a man there who plows a big tract of 
 the slope every spring. When he has been delv- 
 ing three days, at the biggest work he does in the 
 whole year, I can see what he has done. He has 
 made a little black square, the size of your hand, 
 in the green of the slope. Now every man in 
 the world is as interested in every other man as 
 I am in that man, or he in me. I watch him be- 
 causej after he has broken his heart at it for three 
 days, he makes a dot on my view. He does not 
 know that I exist." 
 
 "But that is extreme," Father Huetter con- 
 tended.
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 33 
 
 "Is it? How many people are there in the 
 world?" 
 
 "In figures? Oh, a billion and a half, I sup- 
 pose, or more." 
 
 "You are right. The figures mean nothing. 
 But we'll agree that there's a lot of people, any- 
 way. Now barring exceptions, like the Dean 
 here who and it's time for him is thinking of 
 heaven, and you who are worrying about Social- 
 ism, what is practically every mother's son of all 
 these men in the world thinking about?" 
 
 "He is thinking," Father Lynch answered 
 himself, "of what he can get, and how he can 
 keep what he has. And you are surprised that 
 an individual, here and there, has not the price 
 of a loaf, when all the world has been conspiring 
 from the beginning to keep it from him, or to 
 take it from him if he has it. No church, no 
 power on earth can regulate the impelling self- 
 ishness of men. The world is too big, besides. 
 And the currents of supply and demand, of want 
 and plenty, flow about it like the magnetic 
 waves. You can never hold them. You cannot 
 set the price of labor or of bread, for men will 
 give what they have to and take whatever they 
 can get for each." 
 
 "The Church did just that for seven hundred 
 years," Father Huetter contended warmly. 
 "And the world was, relatively, a far bigger 
 place than it is now. She laid the foundations 
 of modern Europe on just her ability to curb
 
 34 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the rapacity of the strong and to enforce equity 
 between great and small." 
 
 "She did. But who knows about it now? Is 
 it not a fact that most modern history blames 
 her for the very abuses which she alone could 
 and did curb?" 
 
 "But that is the common lot of every great 
 force for good." 
 
 "Just what I'm telling the Dean, here. 
 Whether he spoke for or against Socialism he is 
 bound to be put in the wrong." 
 
 "I said nothing of Socialism. I spoke to my 
 people the gospel of Jesus Christ as it is written 
 for me," the Dean put in quietly. "I was not 
 thinking of Socialism. I was thinking that to- 
 day is Labor Day and to-morrow the schools 
 open. Some of the boys and girls have shoes, 
 because they have gone barefoot all summer sav- 
 ing them for school. But more have none." 
 
 He turned to the hills. "Do you see that blue 
 line across the waist of Orrin Mountain? You 
 have not been twenty-five years in these hills 
 without knowing what that means?" 
 
 "It means," answered Father Lynch, "that 
 there'll be frost very soon." 
 
 "I was thinking of that, not of Socialism," the 
 Dean went on. "I was thinking of the haggard, 
 desperate faces of the men before me. For three 
 months they have been hoping for a peaceful set- 
 tlement of this strike. Now, when they have lost 
 faith in Jimmie Loyd the only real leader they
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 35 
 
 had they see no hope. I was thinking of the 
 gray faces of the mothers that have grown five 
 years older in these three months. They are 
 starving starving, mind you on warmed-over 
 tea and the scraps that the children leave. And 
 I was thinking of the long lines of young men 
 and boys in the back of the church. I know their 
 faces every one, and I have seen them growing 
 harder and rougher Sunday by Sunday. To 
 them I spoke. What do they know, or care, 
 about Socialism? But they are the ready, un- 
 thinking material on which anarchy and all its 
 forces work. A single stone thrown, a single 
 shot fired might whirl them into riot and tragedy. 
 Then would come soldiers and the shedding of 
 innocent blood. To them I spoke, begging them 
 in the name of God to commit no wrong against 
 man or goods, to keep to themselves, to help each 
 other." 
 
 "That was yesterday," said Father Lynch, 
 "and before this Labor Day is over there will be 
 a soap-box on every corner and on top of it an 
 orator, Socialist, I. W. W., or some other thing, 
 denouncing you and the Church as the foe of the 
 poor and the unproducing parasite of the rich." 
 
 Dean Driscoll turned again to contemplate the 
 blue line across the middle of Orrin Mountain. 
 His problem lay heavy upon him. He saw his 
 people drifting from what had been scarcity and 
 privation in the summer to what would soon be 
 terrible want and suffering. And his strong old
 
 36 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 heart was shaken by the feeling of his powerless- 
 ness to prevent or to help. 
 
 "I did not tell them to give up their strike I 
 dared not," he murmured to himself. "God was 
 not pleased to give me wisdom to know what to 
 say, what was right, in that. He alone knows 
 whether I should not have begged them to go 
 back to work. Even time will not tell now," he 
 said sadly, "after the wheel has turned, whether 
 I could have done it, or that it would have been 
 right." 
 
 "And there is more," said Father Huetter. 
 "Jim Loyd came to church yesterday, and for 
 the first time in years he came boldly up to his 
 old pew beside his sister. The Socialists and 
 the fiery agitators have that to-day. Last week, 
 after John Sargent, the owner of the mill, came 
 here, they were saying that Loyd had sold out the 
 strike to him. Now they are saying that John 
 Sargent used the Church and the power of the 
 priests to get a hold upon Loyd. It is all a lie 
 against Loyd, because he was holding the strikers 
 so strictly and peaceably; but they are saying it 
 all the more loudly because they know that in 
 their hearts." 
 
 Father Driscoll rose quickly, as with a sudden 
 decision, and shook his broad, spare shoulders. 
 
 "Come with me, Father Lynch," he said. 
 "You have time for a step through the town, be- 
 fore your train goes." 
 
 Milton is one of the many small cities which
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 37 
 
 have grown up so quickly during the last twenty 
 years in the watercourses of the lower Adiron- 
 dacks. It is what is called a one-mill town. 
 That is, its life practically depends upon its 
 water power and that is owned, high and low, by 
 a single company. The Milton Machinery Com- 
 pany holds the life and the pulse of the town in 
 its hand. You may say that every individual in 
 the place who is not independently wealthy lives, 
 directly or indirectly, from the earnings of that 
 single plant. 
 
 The individual worker who has grown to mid- 
 dle manhood in this plant is bound to it as thor- 
 oughly, almost, as any system was ever able to 
 bind a feudal serf to the land. He cannot work 
 in any other mill in the town. There is no other. 
 No other occupation is open to him. He cannot 
 move away. He has his family, probably a little 
 home which he cannot sacrifice. 
 
 The normal condition, under which a worker 
 is free to sell his labor or not, as he wishes, and 
 under which an employer is free to buy or not to 
 buy, at the worker's terms, do not obtain here. 
 Perhaps that normal condition never did fully 
 obtain anywhere in civilization. Here, in this 
 town, it is impossible. 
 
 The company or corporation is not free. The 
 greatest wealth it has is fixed at this point, by 
 water power and established railroad facilities. 
 It cannot move away. It cannot employ other 
 men. It can, of course, with full police protec-
 
 88 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 tion, and at enormous expense, bring in a tem- 
 porary force of workers, unskilled and floating, 
 and with these it can, nominally, run its plant for 
 a time. But this is only for effect ; to discourage 
 the regular workers and to compel them to come 
 back to work, at the company's terms. To ex- 
 pect to run any great plant with, perhaps, four 
 to six thousand untrained, unsteady men each 
 one destroying more values each day, by wasting 
 materials and mishandling machinery, than his 
 labor could possibly produce would be mere 
 madness. The trained worker who by his life 
 habits and family obligations is bound to be ef- 
 ficient, steady, and loyal is as valuable and as es- 
 sential to the conduct of a plant as is every costly 
 piece of machinery in it. He is even more so, 
 for money cannot replace him at once. 
 
 The situation is simple. These men must 
 work for this company. This company must 
 employ these men. 
 
 When a strike or a lock-out is declared in a 
 town like this there can be no weakening on 
 either side. The sides are locked too closely in 
 the struggle. One party or the other must lose a 
 very valuable, an almost vital advantage. 
 
 Starvation stands at the back of one party, 
 bankruptcy is a ditch behind the other. 
 
 Here Socialism comes in with a remedy -Let 
 the State confiscate the plant and run it for the 
 benefit of the workers. 
 
 But this particular State is not interested; it
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 89 
 
 knows nothing about the business of making 
 machinery. 
 
 The remedy is not at hand, cannot be procured. 
 
 Then, says Socialism, orate, cry aloud, cut, 
 tear, and burn if necessary, to make the State in- 
 terest itself. 
 
 Anarchy and the attendant harpies, hearing 
 the glorious words, rush in to spread the flame. 
 
 And intelligent, God-fearing men who have 
 worked all their lives, who want only to work and 
 be paid for it, and who would not tear a board 
 from a neighbor's fence, stand looking nervously 
 at the pinched faces and too big eyes of their un- 
 fed children. 
 
 They do not know what to do. Who will tell 
 them? 
 
 "Forty-one years," said the Dean slowly, lay- 
 ing his hand on Father Lynch's arm, as the two 
 walked down the street, "have I been here in this 
 place. I saw it grow from a forge and a ford 
 and a little tannery into what it is. I went over 
 the trails from here to Fulton, a hundred and 
 fifty miles. Some families saw a priest once in 
 the year, some not that. And they kept the 
 Faith. Dear man, how they kept the Faith! 
 
 "Often it seems so short, the time, when I look 
 back, that I think the Angel must have brushed 
 his wing over it in the night. And look! 
 There are twenty like you up there in the hills 
 where I went alone, and forty thousand souls 
 gathered about you, and your churches and your
 
 40 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 little schools. And here is this city with its 
 churches and its two good Catholic schools. 
 And I have said to myself: 
 
 "The people are safe now. They will never 
 lose the Faith. After they have kept it through 
 all those times and changes nothing can ever 
 argue them out of it. 
 
 "And do you know that I have seen more loss 
 of faith here among my men in the last three 
 months than ever happened anywhere in times 
 when there were no priests and no churches!" 
 
 "The men are idle, and careless," Father 
 Lynch explained. 
 
 "It is not that," said the Dean sadly. "I have 
 seen strikes and strikes. The same thing is hap- 
 pening in every one of our small cities where a 
 single industry controls the place. The men are 
 forever galled hy the thought that they are hound 
 for life to one company and one piece of work. 
 And the Socialist comes along and stands at the 
 mill gate in the lunch hour and tells the men that 
 they are slaves, that the old institutions, the old 
 superstitions, the Church and so on, made them 
 so and will keep them so." 
 
 "If the Socialists want reforms, why do they 
 not go about and get them as other people have 
 to do; and leave the Church to her business?" 
 
 "There," said the Dean, "is where Father 
 Huetter would ask you: What is the Church's 
 business? But let that pass. Do you read any 
 of the Socialist pamphlets, Father Lynch?"
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 41 
 
 "I do not." Father Lynch acquitted himself 
 decisively. "I have one Socialist in my parish. 
 Jle spends more on books than he does on fer- 
 tilizer. I can prove it on his fields of corn." 
 
 "Maybe you are right. Perhaps you are as 
 wise on the matter as we who do read them. 
 But, whenever they say anything that is definite, 
 they say this: The whole base of modern civili- 
 zation is wrong: it must be changed: before it 
 can be changed two things must be abolished: 
 they are, the conservative power of private own- 
 ership of property and the conservative power of 
 the Catholic Church : these two stand in the way 
 of all sweeping changes. 
 
 "Now, when the men are full-fed and times are 
 well with them they chaff the orators a little and 
 go back to their work. It is a noontime diver- 
 sion. But when they are hungry and there is no 
 work to go back to, they stand and think. Man, 
 don't I see it in their eyes? They look at me. 
 Haven't I all their lives told them what to do? 
 Can I tell them now? Do you not hear the ques- 
 tion hurled at them from every side, and see it 
 gripping into their mind: What, after all, is 
 the Church? What am I doing for them now, 
 when they need me? If they do wrong, and 
 come to church afterward, I can tell them that 
 they did wrong. 
 
 "Do you see that crowd all up and down the 
 street below us there? I could stand on the steps 
 of the bank and raise my hand and two thousand
 
 42 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 men would listen. What would I tell them? 
 Should I tell them to go back to work and give 
 up the fight that means so much to them, or 
 should I tell them to go on starving quietly? 
 Am I, then, a blind shepherd to a stumbling peo- 
 ple!" 
 
 "Forgive me, Dean," said Father Lynch with 
 feeling; "I was flippant back there. I did not 
 know that you took it so." 
 
 But the Dean was not listening. His thought 
 ran into a yet deeper current of self-reproach. 
 
 "Schools!" he exclaimed, with something that 
 was almost bitterness in his voice. "Schools! I 
 can open the schools to-morrow. But can the 
 children come to them if they have not bread in 
 their little stomachs! Can I answer them that!" 
 
 They were getting down now among the 
 Crowds of State Street. They were not the holi- 
 day crowds of other Labor Days. When a town 
 has been cut off from its one source of money, 
 when men are walking and standing about the 
 streets by the hundred literally without a cent in 
 their pockets, there is no holiday-making. The 
 faces of the older men were moody; many of 
 them had not had a smoke for days. The 
 younger men and the boys were noisy and in- 
 clined to be ugly. They moved and pushed from 
 one packed group to another. In the center of 
 each group, on the soap-box that Father Lynch 
 had predicted, a leather-voiced orator bellowed 
 forth one of the ten thousand cure-alls that So-
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 43 
 
 cialism is father to. If a particular speaker did 
 not please them the young fellows jammed in 
 and broke up his group. No one was being hurt, 
 but it was not the inconsequent roystering of, for 
 instance, a college crowd. There was an under- 
 running sullenness in these crowds that needed 
 only some quick, sharp provocation to burst it 
 into terrible and destroying anger. 
 
 It was noticeable that there were hardly any 
 women on the street, through there had been no 
 actual violence nor any word of it. A sense of 
 brooding danger was in the air, and such women 
 as had to pass along State Street slipped unob- 
 trusively on their way, keeping as close as possi- 
 ble to the fronts of the stores on either side. 
 
 "Now this," said Father Lynch, studying the 
 crowd that filled the street from curb to curb, 
 "this has nothing to do with Socialism. These 
 talkers might as well be shouting the multiplica- 
 tion table, or beating drums. All the crowd 
 wants from them is noise, plenty of it. Nobody 
 is listening. This is not Socialism, 'tis a mob." 
 
 "Dear man," said the Dean, "there is no such 
 thing as a mob. Every crowd like this is made 
 of men every man with his own hunger and his 
 own anger and his own bitterness. There are 
 men I could point to them men that I bap- 
 tized, men that I caned in school, men that I mar- 
 ried. Are they a mob to me? Are they not the 
 souls that God has written on my account. If 
 they fight, if they burn, if they kill God have
 
 44 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 mercy! will a mob answer for them? It will 
 be every man marking his own soul! 
 
 "You say they are not listening. How can 
 you know? How can you know that in all this 
 outpouring of noise there are not words of truth ? 
 And truth, even when it is dragged to unjust 
 conclusions, truth carries." 
 
 "Listen to this." 
 
 A slight, dark young man of French-Canadian 
 type, on a box near the curb, was shrilly denounc- 
 ing Jim Loyd because the latter, when he had 
 been in absolute command of the strike, had not 
 allowed a Socialist speaker in the town; had in- 
 sisted, in fact, that the strike was the business 
 of the men of Milton and of no one else. 
 
 "Why," he was shouting, "did your Jim Loyd 
 keep the Socialists away from here as long as he 
 could? Why? Because he did not want you to 
 hear the truth. He wanted to be the big man 
 and make you obey him. Now he has sold you 
 out, tried to sell you like sheep. For why? For 
 what? Money, money; always money is master! 
 And the priests! The Church! Did they not 
 tell him to do it? Are they not the friends of 
 the strong, of the powers? They want things as 
 they are. They do not want the change. In 
 the change they would lose you. Suffer, they 
 preach to you, and peace. Suffer, yes! You 
 are suffering. But peace Where is peace?" he 
 shrieked. "Do they give you peace? They tell
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 45 
 
 you to hold your hand, and to starve in peace. 
 If you die they will bury you for a " 
 
 He stopped bewildered. A sudden ominous 
 hush had fallen over the crowd. He saw that 
 they were not looking at him but at something 
 beside him. He turned sharply and looked 
 full into the white, pain-drawn face of Dean 
 Driscoll. The old priest was so tall that he stood 
 a head and more above the crowd. His face was 
 on a level with the speaker's. 
 
 The youth's mouth fell open, and his right 
 hand jerked instinctively toward his forehead. 
 He drew it back quickly and turned again to the 
 crowd, trying to go on with his speech. But 
 they would not let him. They had seen him lose 
 his nerve. And they knew just what that little 
 gesture of his hand to his head had meant. They 
 jeered him down from his box. 
 
 "Now that boy," said the Dean, as the two 
 priests pushed their way on down the street, "was 
 raised in a Catholic school. Do I not know the 
 quick snap of a boy's hand to his hat, when I 
 come around a corner and see him with a stone in 
 his hand, or something?" 
 
 "No doubt," said Father Lynch. "And it's 
 likely that some poor, foolish French priest in Co- 
 hoes sent him to college, too. Now, explain it." 
 
 "I can explain nothing," admitted the Dean. 
 "Long ago I found that out. The boy is a boy. 
 He is unbaked. Some of it is bravado, to show
 
 46 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 that he is not afraid of the things that his good 
 old father and mother loved. Part of it is what 
 the French have been writing and saying for 
 three hundred years and more. And the rest of 
 it is what is being heard day in and day out 
 around the mills of Cohoes and Schenectady." 
 
 The Dean looked appraisingly down the 
 street. 
 
 "There are," he estimated aloud, "two hundred 
 or more of these agitators in the town to-day. 
 They may be talking on anything from the uni- 
 versal deluge to suffrage, but their one imme- 
 diate purpose here to-day is to create trouble, to 
 excite our men into some lawlessness. The talk- 
 ers and Socialism need the advertising. But 
 they did not come here and pay their own ex- 
 penses to talk for the love of man nor for the love 
 of talking. Somebody paid their expenses, and 
 is paying them for their day's work. Who? 
 
 "God knows, it does not fit me, with my foot 
 in the grave, to think men worse than they are. 
 But John Sargent is a ruthless man. He would 
 do that, or anything else, to get the soldiers here. 
 It would be his logical move, he being the man 
 that he is." 
 
 They were come now down into the densest of 
 the crowds, where men stood packed all across 
 the street. Here in the store floor on the right 
 was where Jim Loyd had sat all through the sum- 
 mer, dispensing justice and food to the most 
 needy, and ruling the strike with a hand of iron.
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 47 
 
 He was working there still, appealing by letter 
 and telegram to newspapers and individuals and 
 labor unions everywhere for the relief money that 
 came in such little dribbles and was eaten up so 
 quickly. But though he worked eighteen hours 
 a day, when all the world about him was idle, his 
 work now lacked the driving energy and confi- 
 dence that it had shown before that night last 
 week when John Sargent had offered him fifty 
 thousand dollars to get the strike declared off. 
 All men knew that the offer had been made. No 
 man knew how it had been received. Jim Loyd 
 did not tell. No one dared speak to him of it. 
 
 He had seen suspicion and distrust of him in 
 the eyes of men who had known him all his life, 
 and it had cut deep into the violent, proud char- 
 acter of the man : the more so because he remem- 
 bered that in that first mad moment of John Sar- 
 gent's offer to him he had looked looked at the 
 temptation. He followed the routine of his 
 work doggedly, but he was not ruling the strike 
 now. Nobody was ruling it. It was drifting 
 blindly toward riot and destruction. And his 
 hand was not raised to hold it back. He was not 
 sulking. He would have gone out into the street 
 and died for his cause and his men. But the 
 power of his hand was gone. 
 
 All day long he had been listening to the 
 frothy oratory that billowed up and down the 
 street. If he were really in charge of the strike 
 now, as he had been, he would have picked out
 
 48 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 two or three quiet, resolute men to escort each 
 talker to the first train out of town. He, too, 
 believed, as the Dean out in the crowd was even 
 then saying, that John Sargent had secretly sup- 
 plied the money to bring these strangers into the 
 situation. What had come to the priest as in- 
 tuition had come to Loyd as almost certain 
 knowledge. And now as he looked out over the 
 crowd and thought of the work that John Sar- 
 gent was trying to do, and what he had tried to 
 do to him, Jim Loyd, and to his manhood, a 
 red mist of blinding anger swept before his mind. 
 He was back in Sargent's office on that night 
 when the latter had offered his bribe, and now as 
 then he found his fingers aching to take the maif 
 by the throat and take his life with his naked 
 hands. He rose shaking his shoulders, like a 
 breathed steer, and came to the front of the office. 
 
 He saw the Dean and Father Lynch out there 
 trying to make way through the crowd, saw that 
 the Dean was very pale and tired-looking, and he 
 opened the door to tell them to come inside and 
 rest a moment and watch the crowd. But there 
 was no moving in any direction. Some new 
 force was jamming the crowd up from farther 
 down the street. But no one could, at this point, 
 see what it was. 
 
 Little Joe Page, the town dwarf and antic, had 
 gotten possession of a kerosene barrel at the curb 
 and had clambered up on it. He was holding a 
 meeting of his own, and his audience was full
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 49 
 
 three times larger than that of any other orator 
 of the day. With the barrel, he had gotten pos- 
 session of the main argument of the Socialists. 
 Things were unequal in the world : they must be 
 leveled. He had often thought of that, he ar- 
 gued. He lived and ate in a boarding-house, he 
 said; where seven tall, long-armed men also ate. 
 He named and accused them all, and the crowd, 
 knowing the men by name, cheered him on to his 
 conclusion. Why should those men, he de- 
 manded, be able to reach out and grab the firsts 
 of everything, while he with his fourteen-inch 
 arms must wait until the last of the plate was 
 passed to him? He clamored and ranted with 
 the best, that this must be changed. A law must 
 be passed that all long-armed men living in 
 boarding-houses should have their elbows tied to 
 their sides. His argument was as sound and as 
 practicable as many that were being hysterically 
 shouted along the street. 
 
 Fifteen years before, when his little double 
 joints were getting too stiff for the hard service, 
 a circus had dropped Joe Page stranded in Mil- 
 ton. He had climbed sturdily on to a high stool 
 before a lathe table in the Milton Machinery 
 works and, asking nothing of any man, had fitted 
 himself, dwarfed and vagabond mite that he was, 
 into a place of respect as the fastest and cleverest 
 lathe- worker in the plant. 
 
 Men in that crowd loved the little dwarf for 
 his independence and his funny old, old face.
 
 50 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 They said, barring length, that he was more of 
 a man than most. Now he was giving them the 
 only laugh of the day, indeed of many days. 
 And they were grateful, for they knew that he 
 was as hungry and as bitter in heart as they. 
 
 "There now, do you see," said Father Lynch 
 at the Dean's elbow, "the little man has the hill 
 on them all. He knows what he wants and how 
 it should be done." 
 
 Father Driscoll was looking down the street. 
 He saw what others could not see. A look of 
 anger and trembling anxiety clouded his face. 
 Jim Loyd, watching him, knew that something 
 threatening was impending, and he pushed out 
 to see. 
 
 John Sargent was walking coolly, deliberately 
 up the street. In years John Sargent had not 
 set foot on the streets of Milton, except to cross 
 the sidewalk to and from his automobile. On 
 this day, of all days, when he should have kept 
 away, he walked contemptuously through the 
 crowd with an air of open aggravation. At his 
 elbow at every step were men, serious, good men, 
 who had worked patiently all their lives for his 
 father and for him, building up the fortune that 
 he was now using against them. He looked 
 them in the eyes, and sneered; sneered at their 
 hunger, at their patience, at their self-control as 
 they carefully made a path for him through the 
 packed crowd. Every speaker that he passed 
 execrated him to the crowd, crying him out to
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 51 
 
 them as their enemy, who was holding the bread 
 from their mouths. They bullied the crowd for 
 cowardice and dared it to stop him now and settle 
 its question with him at once. But no man's 
 hand was raised. They gave him way so that no 
 man even brushed his coat in the press. 
 
 What was in John Sargent's mind when he 
 started for that walk up the street, is hard to 
 say. 
 
 Through a pretended local Socialistic commit- 
 tee which existed only in his own office, he had 
 sent out the call and the expense money to bring 
 the agitators into the town for Labor Day. The 
 strikers must be incited to rioting or violence of 
 some sort. This would give him the chance to 
 demand State troops from the Governor. A 
 show of overwhelming force on the ground would 
 break the heart of the strike. He would then 
 have only to make the merest pretense of run- 
 ning the mill with imported labor, and his men 
 would begin coming back to work. 
 
 But it was now coming toward evening. His 
 reports told that the men did not seem ready to 
 fall into his plans. They were sullen but quiet, 
 and paying little heed to the wild talk. He had 
 spent good money on this day and he was not 
 minded to see it go for nothing. He knew that 
 his own presence would excite and anger the 
 crowd more than any talk could do. Though 
 physical fear was a thing which he had never 
 known, it is not likely that he expected to be act-
 
 52 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ually attacked. Still he seemed to be doing 
 everything calculated to that end. But men 
 drew soberly away from him. He saw that he 
 would not be molested unless he struck or pushed 
 some one. It maddened him to think that a 
 stupid crowd could so mate his plans by its mere 
 stolidity. 
 
 When he came to where little Joe Page stood 
 on his barrel demanding the law to restrain long- 
 armed men, he scowled angrily. This was not 
 the thing. John Sargent did not want the 
 lightning to discharge itself harmlessly in 
 laughter and nonsense. 
 
 Little Joe, feeling the sudden charged tense- 
 ness of the air about him, looked around for the 
 cause. 
 
 John Sargent shouted : 
 
 "Get down, clown," he commanded, stamping 
 his foot in rage. 
 
 Now there was no reason in the world why Joe 
 Page must obey an order of John Sargent. But 
 when one man has given another his unquestion- 
 ing obedience through the working hours of 
 years, the habit is liable to be stronger than any 
 circumstances. 
 
 The dwarf made a handspring off the barrel, 
 landed on his feet and came to attention, with a 
 mock circus salute, directly beneath John Sar- 
 gent's waistcoat. 
 
 Whether he took the salute as impudence and 
 was blinded with rage, or whether he did it with
 
 calculated malice, does not matter: John Sar- 
 gent raised a heavy boot and kicked the tiny man 
 in the side. The midget fell to the walk. 
 
 The crowd went roaring, stark mad. Men 
 shouted and tore at each other to come near Sar- 
 gent. The man nearest him struck him a quick, 
 glancing blow in the face that sent him spinning 
 round and round. He would have fallen and 
 the crowd would have trampled him to death had 
 not a lean, strong old arm reached out over an- 
 other's shoulder and caught him. It was Father 
 Driscoll who had managed to reach him just in 
 time. He caught him to him and pushed him up 
 against the store front. Then he turned to face 
 the crowd, and his great height and wide frame 
 completely covered the other man from sight. 
 
 The eyes of the old priest blazed and his breath 
 came fast with the excitement, but the crowd 
 looking into his face knew that he was in com- 
 mand. He raised his hand and the hands of the 
 crowd dropped. Short, ugly-looking clubs, that 
 had suddenly appeared from nowhere, stole 
 quietly back to their places. He spoke to them 
 in a voice that was quiet but so tense that it 
 carried up and across the street in the strained 
 hush. 
 
 "My men," he said, "no man dare blame you 
 for your anger. But did not this man, who is, 
 for the time at least, your enemy, did he not come 
 here with purpose to anger you, to get you to 
 strike or threaten him? Heads that are cool
 
 54 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 among you and can think know what he has to 
 gain from your anger. Will you let him beat 
 you in a game of wits? Because he thinks you a 
 senseless mob that he can play upon at will, shall 
 you prove to him that he is right?" 
 
 He did not preach to them, he merely put into 
 the concrete what he had said to his own men and 
 boys the day before. And men of his own flock 
 and men of no flock, alike, knew that he spoke 
 God's truth and common sense. 
 
 In the meantime John Sargent had gone. 
 Jim Loyd had reached out and pulled him into 
 the office of the strike committee. 
 
 Again these two men faced and measured each 
 other as they had on the night when Sargent had 
 tried to bribe Loyd. 
 
 Sargent's face was discolored and his breath 
 came in quick gasps, but he was first to speak. 
 
 "You see," he taunted Loyd, "what tools you 
 have to work with. You thought you could hold 
 them. It cost you fifty thousand dollars to 
 think. With a lift of my foot I knocked over 
 your work of months." 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," said Loyd slowly, "once be- 
 fore I saw you so close to death that your life 
 was not as sure as the turn of a coin. And you 
 would be dead out there on the walk now if 
 Father Driscoll had not saved you. I do not 
 know why you were saved, but I have an idea." 
 
 "Is it interesting?" queried Sargent. 
 
 Loyd looked at the thick red lines under the
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT 3 55 
 
 skin of Sargent's neck. They told of wrong liv- 
 ing and an overworked heart. 
 
 "I think," he pronounced evenly, "that you 
 will not die by any man's hand. You're a brave 
 man and you hate a coward. For that reason, 
 I think, you'll die of fright, scared to death. 
 That will be hard on you." 
 
 "Cheerful!" snarled Sargent. "I'll turn 
 prophet, too. There'll be State troops here to- 
 morrow. I've been attacked on the street by 
 rioting strikers. I am going now to wire the 
 Governor. Somebody else will be scared to 
 death before this is over." He stepped quickly 
 to a door at the rear and out into the alley. 
 
 At that moment Father Driscoll, followed by 
 Father Lynch, was coming in at the front. He 
 sat down rather heavily. At his age no man 
 passes through strong excitement without being 
 shaken. 
 
 "Jimmie," said he shortly, "are you sulking? 
 Are you, then, the first man in the world that has 
 had to go on with his appointed work in the face 
 of distrust and suspicion?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it's no use now, Dean," said Loyd 
 dully. "Sargent has just gone to telegraph for 
 troops. And he'll get them, too." 
 
 The Dean rose quickly, with a new grip on 
 himself. 
 
 "Come, Father Lynch," he said briskly, "it's 
 time you were at the station." At the door, he 
 turned to Loyd, saying:
 
 56 
 
 "Jimmie, soldiers or no soldiers, it is your work 
 to get these disturbers quietly out of the town." 
 
 John Sargent was standing at the telegraph 
 counter in the railroad station writing the last 
 of three telegrams. One was to the Governor of 
 the State, another to the Colonel of a National 
 Guard regiment, and the third, more important 
 than all, was to a politician in Albany who was 
 said to be above colonels and governors. 
 
 The Dean took up the telegraph pad as John 
 Sargent laid it down. Under the latter's eyes 
 he wrote his own message to the Governor: a 
 plain message, saying that the trouble at Milton 
 was manufactured, that there was no danger and 
 no need of troops. 
 
 John Sargent read the message, as the Dean 
 had intended he should. To John Sargent it 
 said, in effect, that he lied. 
 
 His face turned livid and his whole body shook 
 with rage, so that he had to struggle for speech. 
 
 "So you," he stammered, "you, that preach 
 peace ; you are going to fight me !" 
 
 The Dean signed his telegram, counted the 
 words, and handed it with the money to the clerk. 
 Then he looked down an instant at the veins of 
 John Sargent's shaking hands : they were too big. 
 
 He looked curiously into Sargent's face and 
 said: 
 
 "Has your doctor been telling you nothing 
 lately?" ' 
 
 Just then a little twitch of pain shot across
 
 "THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT' 3 57 
 
 John Sargent's left breast. He winced. It was 
 nothing, that little pain: he had felt it before, 
 several times. But that two men, within five 
 minutes of each other, should know all about it, 
 and presume to tell him about it, was annoying. 
 He turned on his heel and walked away. 
 
 When the Dean had seen Father Lynch on his 
 train, he walked slowly up the street through the 
 thinning crowds. 
 
 The day was nearly over a day that might 
 have ended in tragedy and untold sorrow for him 
 and his people. He had reached out his hand 
 and, maybe, saved a man's life. He had sent his 
 appeal to the powers of State. He had done 
 the little that God had put near his hand. In 
 the excitement of action he had been upheld, 
 had felt that he was doing something. 
 
 Now he looked into the pinched, weary-eyed 
 faces of his men, and he saw that, after all, he 
 had done nothing. The problem was as it was 
 yesterday, as it would be to-morrow. They were 
 hungry and he had not told them, could not tell 
 them, what to do. 
 
 His head bowed to his breast as he walked, and 
 men who had seen him save a life and calm a 
 fury just a short time before, wondered if the 
 Dean was indeed getting old. 
 
 In his heart he was echoing sadly the plaint 
 of the disciples in the desert place: What shall 
 I say to these people For they have nothing to 
 eat!
 
 CHAPTER III 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 
 
 'IDuT, if the State is only a policeman," 
 argued Father Huetter, "how is it that 
 we find its power working only for the protection 
 of the one side?" 
 
 "Well?" Dean Driscoll questioned, for he 
 knew that the young priest would have an illus- 
 tration ready. 
 
 "For instance, when John Sargent The Mil- 
 ton Machinery Company appealed to the 
 Governor for troops to protect the plant against 
 the strikers here, the Governor was willing to 
 send them. He would have sent them had you 
 not personally taken the matter to him and 
 shown him that there was really no need for such 
 protection." 
 
 "Yes," the Dean admitted, "he would have 
 sent them. He is sworn to preserve the out- 
 ward peace of the law." 
 
 "Put it on that ground, then; the business of 
 the State is solely to preserve order. How much 
 was the State willing to spend for the purpose? 
 It would have cost five thousand dollars for 
 transportation, and one thousand dollars a day to 
 
 58
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? 33 59 
 
 pay and keep a regiment here. The State 
 thought itself bound to spend that money as a 
 preventive measure. Now, suppose, on the other 
 hand, that you had telegraphed the Governor, 
 saying: 'My people are starving; they do not 
 need soldiers, they need bread; they are des- 
 perate, and if they are not fed there will be riot 
 and destruction ; instead of sending soldiers, send 
 an officer of the State here to distribute the thou- 
 sand dollars a day for food and clothing; that 
 will prevent all disorder.' 
 
 "That would have been intelligent prevention, 
 and protection for all. But what would have 
 happened if you had sent such a telegram?" 
 
 "Well," said the Dean, with a twinkle under 
 his gray brows, "about the second day, I would 
 have gotten a letter from the Bishop asking me 
 if I did not feel that I was getting old." 
 
 "And you would have been headlined in the 
 papers," Father Huetter went on, smiling, "as 
 the priest Socialist. And your friends would 
 have said " 
 
 "Oh, they'd be charitable," broke in the Dean, 
 "they'd hardly go farther than to say temporary 
 madness, though some might go so far as to say 
 senile decay." 
 
 "And yet it would have been the simplest and 
 wisest measure of police protection that could 
 have been suggested." 
 
 "You are right, Father, without a doubt. 
 But this State, and it is, perhaps, the most in-
 
 60 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 telligent commonwealth in the world, is not yet 
 educated up to the idea." 
 
 "Then, is Socialism right when it tells us that 
 the State must be forcibly made to see its prob- 
 lems?" 
 
 "Socialism, my boy, no more goes to the root 
 of the matter of Labor and Capital in this State 
 than does the Fourth Dimension. Socialism is a 
 philosophy of life, founded on the false premise 
 that human happiness can be secured through 
 the equal distribution of money. 
 
 "Rightly or wrongly, this Republic is founded 
 on the directly opposing theory, that human hap- 
 piness can only be secured by the individual do- 
 ing that which he wishes to do. Almighty God 
 would seem to have recognized that theory, in 
 giving men free will. 
 
 "Rightly or wrongly, again, this Republic lives 
 on the dogma that a government is the expres- 
 sion of the will of the majority of individuals. 
 If the government be wrong or weak or faulty, 
 then the blame lies on the majority of individ- 
 uals. They and they alone have the remedy in 
 their hands. 
 
 "Both of these fundaments of Americanism 
 may be wrong. But, right or wrong, they are 
 the only principles upon which men will ever 
 really consent to be governed." 
 
 "But," said Father Huetter, rising, "how can 
 any government pretend to be the will of the 
 people when it permits one man, John Sargent,
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 61 
 
 one individual, by his greed and hardness to 
 force suffering upon six or eight thousand in- 
 dividuals, every one of whom is, in theory, just 
 as important to the government as is he? Do 
 the majority of individuals in this State wish 
 that?" 
 
 "No," the Dean agreed sadly, "it is a great and 
 terrible sin upon the public conscience. But it 
 is the sin of indifference, the indifference of the 
 great and careless many to the things that do not 
 immediately concern them. The public con- 
 science is muddy, and slow to form itself. It is 
 ever years behind the advancing complications of 
 life. It hears about this strike, knows that there 
 is suffering here. It would be glad to put an end 
 to the suffering if that could be done out of hand. 
 A small part of the public goes so far as to put 
 its hand in its pocket and send a few dollars to 
 Jim Loyd to relieve a little of the suffering. 
 Then it goes about its own business, the business 
 of living and making money and rearing children 
 and dying. It is a busy public. Some day it 
 will rouse itself and frame an effective law for- 
 cing the fair and peaceable adjustment of all 
 labor troubles. But it will do that simply, and 
 as a matter of course, because it occurs as the 
 right thing to do, not because it will expect 
 thereby to remove the discontent and suffering 
 of the world. 
 
 "Then it will walk away, and let the result take 
 care of itself. It is a loose and haphazard way,
 
 62 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 indeed; but it is the way of a young and un- 
 trammeled people that refuses to be governed 
 more than is absolutely necessary. Some day, 
 maybe, this people will be stricken terribly for 
 its reckless confidence in itself. But, dear God 
 in His mercy soften the blow! For this is a 
 beautiful land, a young David among the na- 
 tions! And the heart, O God! The heart of 
 this people is good!" The tired old eyes lifted 
 and glowed warm and clear with his love for 
 the land and the people to whom he had given 
 a good man's all, a life of service. 
 
 "And I sit here," he went on, shyly dropping 
 the mask over his feelings, "prosing to you, 
 young man, when it's long past your bedtime, 
 prosing of the dulness of the people, the great, 
 bewildered, many-headed people; and I do not 
 know what is right myself, in the simplest thing 
 that comes to my hand. 
 
 "I kept the troops away from here. And did 
 I do right? Now you saw what John Sargent 
 did to-day. Brought in two hundred deputy 
 sheriffs whom he had forced Sheriff Beals to 
 swear in. That will cost John Beals his office at 
 the next election, but that does not help now. 
 These are worse than soldiers would have been, 
 for they are gathered from everywhere, under 
 no discipline. Sargent can get them to do any- 
 thing. The soldiers, at least, would have obeyed 
 only their officers. I fear I did wrong." 
 
 "No. I'm sure you were wise, Dean. The
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 63 
 
 public knows that these men are the hired guards 
 of Sargent, even though they wear the badge of 
 the county. A conflict with them means bitter- 
 ness and maybe bloodshed, but it will not dis- 
 credit the cause of the strikers. On the other 
 hand, if the men fought with the soldiers they 
 would have to be beaten in the end anyhow, and 
 it would lose them the sympathy of the State." 
 
 "I do not know," said the Dean. "I walked 
 up past the mill in the dusk. They were there, 
 his guards, with the seal and the authority of the 
 law upon them, slinging their rifles carelessly 
 and parading before the gates. Every move, 
 every look of theirs was provocation. And our 
 own men and boys were strung along on the 
 other side of the street, standing nervous and 
 cowed. They were on their own ground, mind 
 you; in their own town; looking gloomily up at 
 the mill to which they give their lives. Yet 
 every man was feeling somehow that he was an 
 outlaw. Now you do not have to impress that 
 upon a man very many times until he begins to 
 feel like agreeing with you, and making it good. 
 
 "See what it is, now, to be an old man, and 
 a priest of peace, and yet to be unregenerate !" 
 Father Huetter bit back a smile as the Dean con- 
 fessed. "I had not worked my life out in that 
 mill. I was not branded an outlaw and pro- 
 voked. I was not hungry. Yet there was not 
 man or boy there with blacker anger in his heart 
 than I had. If anything had happened in that
 
 64 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 moment, I would have fought blindly, sense- 
 lessly, with nothing to fight for, nothing to win. 
 So, I have seen men fight the torment of death. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said quickly, "I was beside 
 myself. Think of it. I know that there is not 
 one of those hungry, despairing boys in that 
 crowd to-night who is not better off, richer, in 
 his strong hands and his clean heart, than is John 
 Sargent. But did I think of that when the 
 anger swept over me? How can they? I fear. 
 How long can they hold themselves?" 
 
 "I think they are doing wonderfully," said 
 Father Huetter quietly. "Loyd has them in 
 hand again as well as ever. And he is every- 
 where. He never worked ten hours a day in the 
 mill as furiously as he works twenty now at this." 
 
 "That is well," nodded the Dean. "His heart 
 needs work in these days. It's the best thing he 
 could get now, plenty of it. And go you to your 
 bed now. I've talked you blind-sleepy with my 
 prating, and you've your early morning ahead of 
 you. I must read something, for the peace of 
 my mind." 
 
 "I guess I will say good-night, Dean." The 
 young priest swung out of the room and went 
 lightly up the stairs to his own quarters. 
 
 The Dean turned to his book and dropped into 
 his characteristic reading attitude. He sat like 
 a boy at a school desk, one long arm stretched 
 out idly across the desk, the other hand cupped 
 over his eyes and supporting his head. Under
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?' 65 
 
 the seventy-four years of life and hard work he 
 carried a boy's fresh heart and a boy's direct, un- 
 conscious way of things. He read from old 
 Ramon de Monte Brazo peering down from his 
 monastic eyrie in the Pyrenees at the doings of 
 Simon de Montfort and the Albigenses on the 
 plains of Provence. 
 
 The ancient monk was a faint-heart, it seemed. 
 He saw the whole of Christianity disrupted by 
 the schism of these terrible people: princes and 
 kings fell away from the Church and the world 
 tumbled about men's ears. Surely it was the end 
 of all things. See now, the Dean chided with 
 the freedom of old friendship, this it is to be of 
 little faith. You are dead and dust and forgot- 
 ten, and so are they. Worse than they have 
 come and gone and will come again and go, and 
 the great, lumbering world goes on, with the 
 shoulder of God keeping it in the way. So shall 
 I be dead and dust, with my worrying and my 
 people, without even a little black-letter book to 
 tell what disturbed me. John Sargent and Jim 
 Loyd, Autocrat and Socialist, trying to split the 
 earth between them and then lying down to give 
 back their shares of the dust of it. And I, a 
 blind man poking futilely with a stick, thinking 
 I am helping or hindering! 
 
 His eyes stayed upon the book, but his mind 
 strayed away to far countries. It was the hour 
 when he loved to sit alone and feel the peace of 
 sleep and forgetfulness settle down over his peo-
 
 66 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 pie and his little city. Father Tenney once said 
 that the Dean never went to his own bed until 
 he had tucked in the covers over the town of Mil- 
 ton. 
 
 All men in Milton knew his custom, knew that 
 so long as the light burned in the little library 
 the door was open, knew that Father Driscoll, 
 himself, would come to the door to greet. And 
 men came, men who did not find it easy to come 
 in the broad, glaring day. Men came whose 
 faces were not seen in church. Men came with 
 trouble and shame and sorrow, for joy does not 
 come, hesitating, in the night. 
 
 Their steps were not the hurrying, frightened 
 steps that come from the bedside of sudden sick- 
 ness. They were steps that lagged, and stopped, 
 perhaps, in front of the door, and then went on 
 past; only to return still more slowly, and hesi- 
 tate, and then step quickly, with sudden-caught 
 resolution, up to the door. 
 
 A step came now, one different from other 
 steps; a quiet step, of a man not courting obser- 
 vation, yet determined, as of a man with fixed 
 purpose. The Dean, listening, did not recog- 
 nize that step among the other types that he 
 knew. 
 
 The short, quick ring brought the Dean to the 
 door, and he extended his hand to draw into the 
 circle of the hall light a man John Sargent! 
 
 The two greeted mechanically and then stood 
 facing each other a moment: the Dean puzzled.
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 67 
 
 but frank and ready to meet his man upon what- 
 ever ground; Sargent scowling fixedly, his pur- 
 pose set upon his face. 
 
 The Dean quickly remembered himself, and 
 led the way into the library. He saw that Sar- 
 gent was seated comfortably, and then made 
 business of turning his own chair away from the 
 desk and lowering himself into it, giving the man 
 full time for his opening. 
 
 "When this strike started," Sargent began, 
 without address or preface, "I kept in touch with 
 it from New York. Day and night for nearly 
 three months I had a grip on it by the end of a 
 wire. I should have come here in the begin- 
 ning but never mind that. Long before the 
 end of that time, I came to the conclusion that 
 this was no ordinary strike. It was not the 
 while-you-wait, flash-in-the-pan sort that the 
 unions order, just for a chance to curse the men 
 who have the brains to make money." 
 
 Father Driscoll shifted easily back into his 
 chair, prepared to listen at length. 
 
 "It was an intelligent strike," Sargent con- 
 tinued his course of reasoning. "It attended 
 strictly to the business of striking, and it did 
 nothing else. I said to myself: 'That is a one- 
 man strike. No union or set of men could han- 
 dle it that way. There is one big man with 
 brains behind it.' I wired my people here: 
 
 " 'There is one man behind that strike. Who 
 is he?'
 
 68 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 " 'Loyd,' they said. 
 
 " 'Get him,' I ordered. 
 
 " 'Can't be done,' they said ; 'too big and too 
 straight.' ' 
 
 Father Driscoll nodded sharply. 
 
 "There is no such man," Sargent came back 
 with a rasp. "No man lives who cannot be 
 bought, for something." 
 
 The old priest straightened tensely in his 
 chair. But he said nothing. He wished to hear 
 the rest. 
 
 "Then I came here myself," Sargent took up 
 his story again, "to look Jim Loyd over; to get 
 his price. There was nothing in the mill to offer 
 him. But every man needs money ; always needs 
 money. I offered him fifty thousand dollars. 
 You've heard that, I suppose?" 
 
 The Dean sat like a statue, with no expression 
 in his face except that of contempt and disgust 
 of the man's coarse cynicism. 
 
 "You wouldn't say so, of course," Sargent 
 commented. 
 
 "And it got him! I tell you, it got him!" he 
 broke out, bringing his hand down on the arm of 
 his chair. "Why, in another minute he'd have 
 been reaching out his hand for it! And then 
 he thought of something, and stopped. And 
 then he wanted to kill me. Cheerful beggar! 
 Then he rushed out of the office like a madman. 
 
 "What was it he had thought of? That's
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 69 
 
 what I wanted to know. They had told me he 
 was a Socialist. That put me off the trail. I 
 knew I could buy any professional Socialist in 
 the world for half the money. 
 
 "Then I found out he was a Catholic, and I 
 said phutt I might have known! You never 
 can tell when a Catholic is going to remember 
 something, and back up on you. 
 
 "Then I found that he was something of a 
 protege of yours, that he owed you a good deal; 
 and I said " 
 
 "My dear Mr. Sargent," interrupted the 
 Dean, elaborating his politeness, "you have 
 found out a great deal, but your information 
 is not all exact. Jim Loyd does not owe me 
 anything Jim Loyd pays his debts." 
 
 Sargent winced and stared. Two things had 
 struck him. He was a gentleman in the house 
 of another gentleman, and that other had had a 
 chance to note pointedly for him a lack of polite- 
 ness on his part. Also, what the Dean had em- 
 phasized about Jim Loyd paying his debts 
 sounded oddly like a threat, and it puzzled him. 
 He did not know what it meant. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I ought to have addressed 
 you as Father, but I'm not used to " 
 
 "Never mention it," the Dean waved the 
 apology aside, "it is purely a matter of taste. 
 You were saying ?" 
 
 Under the Dean's cool badgering, Sargent was
 
 70 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 losing his temper and, with it, the control of the 
 conversation ; and he knew it. But he picked up 
 the thread again surlily: 
 
 "I said then, and I was right: 'Jim Loyd's 
 head did not furnish the brains for this strike.' 
 There was something older and bigger and wiser 
 than Jim Loyd in this. He is brave enough, and 
 bold enough, I'll give him that. But he is not 
 steady or sure enough in purpose. There was 
 something powerful, and gray, and deep-in-the- 
 root behind him. And that was the power of 
 the Catholic Church. That was you." 
 
 "Ah," said the Dean smoothly, "and have you 
 perhaps brought the fifty thousand with you, for 
 me?" 
 
 "No." Sargent snapped. "I haven't got 
 anything that you want. I know that. I am 
 not a fool." 
 
 "Um!" The Dean clamped his teeth down 
 upon his anger. When he answered, it was in 
 a voice of smoothly cutting steel. 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," he said, "I think you would do 
 well to come to the point. I am an old man, but 
 I regret that my temper is not what it should 
 be." 
 
 Sargent was suddenly steadied by the tone of 
 the old priest. He had not come here to quarrel. 
 He knew how wrong and utterly indefensible 
 was his position with this old man whose life and 
 works challenged everything that John Sargent 
 was and did.
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 71 
 
 "At least," he said, breathing quickly in the ef- 
 fort to recover himself, "your Church and you 
 are bound to listen to reason. I put it this way : 
 Your Church is the Church of the poor, of the 
 masses. Yes. A man does not have to be a 
 student to know that. All he has to do is to get 
 up early enough on a Sunday to see them hurry- 
 ing to Mass. There's something there that they 
 want very badly, or my men wouldn't climb out 
 of their bed to go after it. They'd send the chil- 
 dren after it, or tell you to send your sermon 
 around with the Sunday paper. 
 
 "But the masses, the people, as they call them- 
 selves, never perpetuate anything. They roll 
 and they shift forever: it's history. And the 
 history of your Church is that she has lasted all 
 this time because she had the wisdom to stand 
 by the things that last, the powers upon which 
 civilization rests. The right and the strength of 
 civilization stands on the inviolability of private 
 property. Government is organized and sup- 
 ported for just that one thing. And I tell you 
 that in this country just now, more than in any 
 other place or time, your Church, for her very 
 life, has got to stand by the order of things or go 
 down with that order. 
 
 "I am no ranter. I make money discounting 
 the scares and the bugbears of other men. But 
 I can see what is coming. Socialism, ramping 
 through this country, is going to throw it into 
 the most terrible war that men have ever seen.
 
 72 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 The powers of order will fight to the last ditch 
 for the rights of man the real rights of man; 
 the right of a man to use his brains and his work ; 
 the right of a man to own what he has gained, 
 and to give it to his children. These powers of 
 order may go down. Our civilization and all 
 that it has secured to us may go down. But if 
 they do, if they do, your Church will go down 
 with them. 
 
 "Does a mob stop at one thing? I tell you, 
 not a rag of a thing that is old, or time-honored, 
 or blood-earned, will be left. Your Church must 
 stand with the strength of property and of pri- 
 vate rights and hold back this crisis, or she will 
 go down with the crash of the rest." 
 
 The Dean was interested. It seemed that he 
 had heard snatches of something like this some- 
 where before. 
 
 "Your history," he said, smiling a little grimly, 
 "does you credit, Mr. Sargent. Your prophecy 
 does no credit to the good sense and the brains 
 of American men and women. But it seems that 
 I have heard something very like it before, heard 
 it, now I remember, from the Socialists here on 
 the streets of Milton on Labor Day. But both 
 you and the Socialists forget one thing: the 
 Catholic Church is the one institution on this 
 earth whose existence is assured. Any calcula- 
 tion, any prophecy from either of you that does 
 not count in that fact is bound to be faulty." 
 
 The simple, unarguing faith of the big, keen-
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 73 
 
 eyed old man angered Sargent, as simple, unan- 
 swering obstacles always anger men of his dom- 
 ineering type. He broke out into what he had 
 really come to say. 
 
 "Let that stand," he said. "I'm not inter- 
 ested. You want the point. The other day you 
 blocked me when I asked the Governor for the 
 protection of the State troops. To-day I had 
 to buy protection from the county. This even- 
 ing you walked up past my mill. Your men 
 they are my men, for I feed them and give them 
 a chance to live, when they are willing to take it 
 were grouped along there by the hundred, 
 looking for a chance to attack my property. 
 You, by your very presence there, were giving 
 them countenance. 
 
 "You have furnished Jim Loyd with the brains 
 and the steady guiding power for this strike 
 from the beginning. You preach peace. Your 
 Church stands for law and order. And yet, if 
 you do not actually incite rebellion, you, at least, 
 give it strength. Not only do you give it the 
 help of your own influence, which is great, but 
 you put the power of your Church behind it. 
 You make it a holy war. And do I not know 
 what it does for those men? Do I not know that 
 you could go out upon your altar any Sunday 
 and say ten words that would break the back- 
 bone of this strike? 
 
 "And yet with this power and this responsi- 
 bility in your hands, what do you do with it?
 
 74 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 You use it to encourage lawlessness, to continue 
 disorder and strife. 
 
 "I have brought men in here to protect my 
 property. And protect it and me they wilL 
 And if anything happens, you, you, do you un- 
 derstand? will be responsible. You have all 
 tried to ruin me. If I lose this strike, I am a 
 ruined man. And I will not lose it. I swear 
 I will not lose it." 
 
 The Dean rose to his feet with a snap. The 
 seventy-odd years slipped away from his shoul- 
 ders, and he towered over John Sargent, his 
 whole form shaking with indignation at the con- 
 torted and monstrous charges that he had heard. 
 But temper and voice were well in hand when 
 he spoke. 
 
 "You talk of lawlessness and disorder, Mr. 
 Sargent. In the name of truth, has there been a 
 single lawless act, a wild word, that has not been 
 directly, directly I say, incited by you? You 
 brought these men here to-day, not to protect 
 your property it needed no protection. You 
 brought them here for the one purpose, to pro- 
 voke the strikers to a fight. You want one short, 
 bloody conflict that you think will turn the older 
 men against the strike. 
 
 "Your plan is clear. It is logical. But re- 
 member, there is just one name for that plan. 
 And when you have made it and go to execute it 
 you are outside the protection of all law. 
 
 "You talk of Socialism. Who, I ask you, who
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 75 
 
 brought the agitators here on Labor Day to in- 
 cite riot and destruction? Who but you, by 
 your own act, tried to provoke the crowd to vio- 
 lence?" 
 
 "I did that," said Sargent brazenly, "and I 
 will do anything else, anything, I say, to save 
 myself from ruin." 
 
 "Sir, you talk of ruin, loss of money to you, as 
 though it were the end of the world. I saw your 
 father, forty years ago, when you were a child, 
 down there by the river, where your big turbine 
 wheel is now, blowing his forge with his own arm. 
 He did not have the money to buy his iron. He 
 built the first of the machines that have made 
 your fortune with his own hands, piece by piece. 
 He had to give a lien on it for the materials. 
 And do you tell me that he w r as not better off 
 then, a richer man, than you to-day, with mil- 
 lions going through your hands? 
 
 "If you were ruined to-morrow would you ever 
 feel the gnaw of hunger? Would a child of 
 yours ever look up at you with starvation talk- 
 ing through its little cheek bones? 
 
 "Man, have you lost all measure of the worth 
 of things? Do you not know that it is a greater 
 thing in the sight of God and man that one child 
 should go to bed hungry to-night in this town 
 than that all your money should be taken from 
 you?" 
 
 "Do you want me to feed them, and thus arm 
 them against myself?" Sargent said harshly.
 
 76 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "They are not fighting you. The men are 
 fighting for themselves, their right to live as free 
 men. And the women and the children suffer 
 that is their part that other women and chil- 
 dren, to come, may not have to suffer as do they. 
 Put aside all talk of Socialists and future and 
 classes. Three thousand women and children 
 went to their beds unfed this night, all to save 
 you the loss of your toy, money!" 
 
 "I didn't make the condition," growled Sar- 
 gent. "It's the fault of their men. Am I my 
 brother's keeper?" 
 
 "In God's name!" said the Dean, swinging 
 about, his face ablaze. "For your soul, do not 
 say those words. Do you know who said them? 
 Do you know?" 
 
 Sargent got to his feet. He was dazed by the 
 pain and horror in the priest's voice. 
 
 "They're in your Bible, somewhere, I suppose. 
 I don't know," he said slowly. 
 
 "They are the words that Cain muttered to 
 God, when he had murdered his brother. And 
 after that he said: e l am accursed . . . Every 
 man that findeth me shall slay me." 
 
 The two men stood eye to eye, in silence, un- 
 til John Sargent could stand it no longer. His 
 eyes fell, and he stood nervously rubbing the 
 backs of his clenched hands together. 
 
 Out of the stillness of the night, into the still- 
 ness of the room came the sound of a single shot. 
 
 It was a distant shot, but in the absolute si-
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? 33 77 
 
 lence it spoke unnamed terror. For in it there 
 was the ring of death. 
 
 "It has come!" the Dean groaned. "I feel it." 
 
 John Sargent reached for his hat and, without 
 a word, hurried from the room and the house. 
 
 The Dean, almost mechanically, turned to his 
 desk, reaching for the oil-stocks and stole. He 
 did not remember his hat. 
 
 A few long, swift strides down the street 
 brought him up with the shorter man ahead of 
 him. Together they hurried down into State 
 Street. Strange companions, with strangely dif- 
 ferent thoughts and motives, yet both impelled 
 in the one direction by the same thing. 
 
 The effect of that single shot had been a thing 
 to inspire awe. It showed how nervously and 
 how little men rested in those nights. A little, 
 sharp, staccato sound it had been; the bark of 
 a sawed-off rifle. In an ordinary night not 
 twenty people in the little city would have re- 
 membered hearing it. Now, at the sound of it 
 men were hurrying out already from hallways 
 and from the side streets, half-dressed, anxious, 
 alert men. Hardly a word was spoken. Men 
 saved their breath for they knew not what. 
 
 It is a fearsome thing to see men troop to- 
 gether, out of nowhere, in silence, in the night; 
 and to see how a common impulse, without 
 prompting, leads them together and irresistibly 
 to the point they seek. Does soul speak to soul, 
 or is there a medium, more subtle than the air
 
 78 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 with its sound waves, that carries vibrations of 
 excited thought from mind to mind? 
 
 "Do you feel it?" said the Dean in a low tone 
 to the man at his side. "The power of a thou- 
 sand minds working on the one thing. I had 
 rather face that crowd howling, with guns in 
 their hands, than face them so, silent, with their 
 naked hands." 
 
 Sargent said nothing. 
 
 Now as they got farther down the street and 
 the crowd thickened so that progress was slower, 
 a murmur came up over the heads of the crowd, 
 meeting them. 
 
 It was a word, at first, a name, that ran leap- 
 ing from lip to lip, one word Loyd. 
 
 Then there were three words Loyd is killed; 
 words that seemed to paralyze the lips that 
 passed them on. For a block or two there was 
 nothing more: only the blanched faces and the 
 angry breath of men and those three words 
 Loyd is killed. 
 
 Farther on, there were more words, confusing 
 words, contradicting words. Men gasped and 
 sweated to get them right "Not Jim Loyd 
 not Jim Harry young brother Harry Loyd, 
 not Jim." 
 
 A crowd was coming now from the opposite 
 direction. It was a procession that came on up 
 the street. Men walked slowly, packed to- 
 gether, with bare heads. A useless ambulance 
 tried to clang its way through the crowd. A
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 79 
 
 stalled trolley car stood helpless, shedding a pale, 
 yellowish light about it. There was no going or 
 moving for any. 
 
 But the word came clear now. In hurried, 
 bated whispers, true ; but plain, very plain. 
 
 Harry Loyd, Jim Loyd's young brother, had 
 been up River Road. All the world could have 
 told you that Harry had been spending the even- 
 ing with Nonie Gaylor. The lad had walked 
 whistling from Nome's doorstep, to his death, in 
 front of the main gate of the mill. Men, run- 
 ning at the shot, had found him there dead as 
 they reached him lying, face down, in the mid- 
 dle of the paved roadway. The news was very 
 explicit, now. 
 
 They had found the guards lined behind the 
 barred gates, guns ready at every knot-hole. 
 
 From that packed body of men that moved 
 with slow, shuffling step up the street there came 
 a confused, rising murmur. A murmur that 
 asked questions, but did not wait for answers. 
 A murmur that rose and fell and rose again, ever 
 a little higher. It was a murmur that told that 
 the crowd was coming back from stupor and 
 stunned unbelief. In another minute they 
 would be hearing their own question, and look- 
 ing for the answer. 
 
 Shrilly and swiftly the questions ran up and 
 down the street, more swiftly than had run news 
 before them. Shrilly the questions rose one 
 above the other, as flame leaps above flame, un-
 
 80 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 til men stood, at last, to listen: and to answer. 
 
 Of what use to kill John Sargent's hired 
 guards? They had no interest in this matter. 
 Of what good to burn the mill? Could the mill 
 suffer? 
 
 One man is guilty! Where is he? He was 
 seen to leave the mill to-night, came the answer. 
 Did he go back to the mill? He did not. He is 
 still in the town, then? On the street, maybe? 
 
 Some man will meet him: some man will put 
 hands, maybe, upon John Sargent. What will 
 that man do who puts hand on John Sargent? 
 Hold him for the law? There is no law, for 
 John Sargent. 
 
 What will that man do? He will kill John 
 Sargent, with his hands. Kill with his hands 
 with his hands with his hands! 
 
 The cry rose shriller and shriller until it was 
 no longer articulate. It was a whine : the whine 
 of a wire in the tempest. But the meaning all 
 men knew: the man who first puts hands on John 
 Sargent shall kill him. 
 
 The Dean 'turned to the man who had been at 
 his elbow. He was gone. The man never lived 
 who was brave enough to face a thousand men, 
 his fellows, each wishing to kill him with bare 
 hands. It is a death no man can think of. 
 
 And, a few moments before, John Sargent 
 had heard the words of Cain: Every man that 
 findeth me shall slay me. 
 
 The Dean pushed down through the crowd to
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?" 81 
 
 meet the center of that body of packed men walk- 
 ing slow. Somehow they made way for him by 
 the side of the mattress on which they carried the 
 boy. 
 
 Jim Loyd had said: "I will bring him home 
 so." And no man had dared to question. 
 
 Step by step, his white head showing all above 
 the crowd, the priest walked behind Jim Loyd, 
 who walked unseeing, unhearing, his hand lightly 
 touching the shoulder of his dead brother. This 
 had been his baby brother. He had carried him 
 in his arms. And he had only left the four-year- 
 old baby down to run for himself, when he him- 
 self, at twelve, had gone into John Sargent's 
 mill, to get bread for them both. 
 
 "And, dear God !" the Dean breathed, "I said 
 to that man : 'Jim Loyd always pays his debts !' 
 How little a piece of the web of life do we see! 
 And a word what a word may mean!" 
 
 Slowly they came now up to the house, in a 
 side street, where Jim Loyd lived. 
 
 When they had seen the door close upon its 
 dead and its sorrow, men went back to the cor- 
 ner of the wide street. Their words were simple 
 and elemental, as the talk of men is like to be 
 when they have seen their dead. 
 
 They judged John Sargent there, without 
 heat, without temper. He was guilty. The 
 law could not reach him. He must die by the 
 hands of one of them. It is a terrible thing 
 when men in cool dispassion decide to kill.
 
 82 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 When many men, a thousand men, so decree, 
 it would seem that the object must die, withered 
 by their very thought. 
 
 But when the judgment was passed, the whine 
 of the scent rose again. It demanded to know 
 where John Sargent had been seen who had 
 seen him. Men whispered that he had been with 
 Father Driscoll. 
 
 Then the Dean, stepping upon a horse-block 
 at the corner, in the full light of an arc lamp, 
 spoke. They were not ready to listen. They 
 thought they knew what he would say. But no 
 man was ready to say that he had not the right. 
 
 "Murder," he said slowly, "has been done this 
 night. God, He alone, knows what it may lead 
 to. 
 
 "Murder, such as was done first by Cain. 
 And do you know, do you remember, what Cain 
 said to God when he was charged and judged? 
 Do you remember?" His voice rang out to 
 catch the farthest of the crowd. "He said, 
 'Every man that findeth me shall kill me.' You 
 are saying, 'Let the first man who finds him kill 
 him.' 
 
 "And what said the God Almighty of Justice 
 and of Judgment? 
 
 "God said, 'Whosover killeth Cain, vengeance 
 shall be taken upon him sevenfold. And a 
 mark was put upon Cain, lest any man who 
 found him should kill him.' 
 
 "And I say to you : 'A mark is set this night
 
 "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?' 83 
 
 upon John Sargent, so that no man shall kill 
 him. He shall not die by your hands.' ' 
 
 He stepped down from the stone and made 
 his quiet way up the street toward the church. 
 
 Men looked after him looked at each other 
 stood where they were, thinking.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 
 
 Dean of Milton was slowly and a little 
 painfully climbing the great ranks of steps 
 leading up to the doors of the State Capitol. 
 He had not been abed at all the night before, 
 and his knees were stiff from the long down jour- 
 ney of the morning. Very early in the morning 
 he had said his Mass for the repose of the soul 
 of a boy whom he had seen carried home dead 
 in the night. After the Mass Father Driscoll's 
 prayer had turned, from the boy who had gone 
 blithely, with clean hands, to his death, to the 
 living men whom he had seen during that night. 
 
 He had seen them, boys and men whom he 
 had known since babyhood, with murder in their 
 eyes; boys and men whose little histories of 
 schooling and working and living were so like 
 each other, so many times repeated, so like the 
 figures of a pattern, that he had often thought 
 he could have read all by one: in a moment he 
 had seen them turned into raging furies, who 
 whined to kill. 
 
 For the time, he had held them back. Who 
 could tell what instant that feeble leash of his 
 
 84
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 85 
 
 would break? Whose hand would hold them 
 then? 
 
 In the simple, unblinking way of a boy, the 
 old priest had reviewed the case, for the benefit 
 of Omniscience. The men were hungry, their 
 children were hungry, he explained. They were 
 desperate. They had seen their brother dead. 
 The powers that were sworn to protect them 
 were turned against them. Dear God, give 
 them grace of patience. Stay their hands. 
 Give me grace of strength and wisdom to know 
 what is best to do. 
 
 The Dean had risen from his knees and gone 
 straight in to where the telephone hung in the 
 lower hall of the house. Calling the telegraph 
 office, he had dictated a telegram to the Governor 
 of the State, asking for an interview at twelve 
 that day. 
 
 The instant transition, from the eternal sim- 
 plicity of his prayer to the up-to-the-minute 
 practicality of his action, was characteristic of 
 this old priest, as it is of the Catholic Church. 
 
 He had not waited for an answer to his mes- 
 sage. There would not have been time. He 
 knew that the Governor was in Albany, held 
 there by a struggle in the closing days of a spe- 
 cial session of the Legislature. So he had taken 
 the early morning train from Milton, trusting 
 to the urgency of his business to get him the few 
 moments of the Governor's time that he would 
 need.
 
 86 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Looking up at the great square block of the 
 Capitol building as he toiled sturdily up the 
 steps, he was reflecting what a great, blunder- 
 ing, helpless thing was this which men called the 
 State. Here, this building was the outward 
 symbol and the sign to which nine millions of 
 people looked for such government as they had. 
 Yet the building itself, one of the greatest and 
 costliest ever built for any government in the 
 world, was crumbling after only a few years. It 
 had been honeycombed in its building by rapacity 
 and inefficiency. The State which could not 
 build even its own house with honesty and de- 
 cency, had to presume to look after the interests 
 of millions of men, any one of whom could have 
 looked to the building of his own house with in- 
 telligence and thrift. Democracy, argued the 
 Dean, thinks that its government is the aggre- 
 gate of the intelligence of the individuals gov- 
 erned. It is not so; it does not rise to the aver- 
 age even of that intelligence. 
 
 The Governor was a Protestant, come of the 
 old Protestant stock of our hill country, where 
 there still lives more of old-time Protestant bit- 
 terness than, perhaps, in any other place in this 
 country. But he was a direct man who really 
 wished to know the man-to-man truth of the 
 problems that confronted him. He knew 
 Father Driscoll of Milton by repute, knew that 
 from him he would get straight truth in short 
 words, and he was unfeignedly glad to see him.
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 87 
 
 "It's that strike of yours up there, I suppose, 
 Father," he said as he seated the old priest. "I 
 wish you'd give me an outline of the whole busi- 
 ness, at first hand. I've tried to watch it and 
 I've had reports, of course, but you are on the 
 ground." 
 
 "You know John Sargent, the owner of the 
 Milton Machinery Company?" the Dean began, 
 at the root of things. The Governor nodded 
 shortly, and Father Driscoll went on: 
 
 "He owns not only the company but he owns 
 Milton, man and boy, hand and foot. It is a 
 situation that is not supposed to exist since 
 feudal times. But that is not the point. It ex- 
 ists." 
 
 "Always so in a one-mill town," admitted the 
 Governor, who knew his State. 
 
 "He let the strike go on peaceably," the Dean 
 resumed, "for a matter of three months. It 
 seemed that it had settled down to a mere ques- 
 tion of endurance his money and his capacity 
 for losing money on the one side, and the ca- 
 pacity of the people for starvation on the other. 
 Then he became desperate. I believe that com- 
 petition was cutting the ground from under him 
 in the markets, while his wheels stood idle. He 
 came to Milton and took personal charge of his 
 end of the strike. He found that the head and 
 the soul of the strike was Jim Loyd." 
 
 "That's the Socialist, isn't it?" the Governor 
 caught at the name.
 
 88 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Well," the Dean considered, as if he had 
 never before thought of the matter, "he works 
 twenty hours a day in the cause of his fellow- 
 workers who are idle, and through all those hours 
 he curses bitterly the fact that he is held down 
 to an equality with them. If you can make a 
 Socialist out of that 
 
 "I only know," said the Governor, "that the 
 Socialists cut down the Republican vote of Mil- 
 ton a thousand or so last Fall. When I asked 
 the reason, the Committeeman said, 'Jim 
 Loyd.' " 
 
 "It is likely," the Dean agreed. "The vote- 
 cutting side of it would not occur to me." 
 
 "Now that is what I do not understand." The 
 Governor was willing to digress, in spite of the 
 fact that it was a very busy day and the other 
 fact that a hundred senators and assemblymen 
 were just at this moment holding up some of his 
 pet measures. "Your Church opposes Socialism 
 root and branch, is bound to, I believe; Social- 
 ism plans the end of you along with everything 
 else, so far as one can gather; you preach against 
 it officially and privately, I suppose; yet you 
 never seem willing to come out and give any 
 practical political help against it." 
 
 "Leo Thirteenth," said the old priest quietly, 
 "did more to hold back the real dangers of So- 
 cialism than did all the political organizations 
 of the nineteenth century."
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 89 
 
 "That may be, Father; I do not know the 
 world question broadly enough to dispute it. I 
 speak of matters as I see them right here at home. 
 Your Church is, potentially, the greatest politi- 
 cal force in the State. Socialism directs itself 
 pretty squarely against you for reasons which 
 you must appreciate more fully than I do. Yet, 
 practically, you do nothing." 
 
 "You mean," said the Dean slowly, "that we 
 should use our influence to organize voters 
 against Socialism?" 
 
 "Well, it's about the only effective way." 
 
 "From that," said the Dean, gazing at the 
 ceiling, "it would be only one step to organizing 
 them to vote for either the Democratic or Re- 
 publican candidates." 
 
 The Governor held up his hands, laughing. 
 "Don't do it," he appealed, "I'd be the last Re- 
 publican governor of New York!" 
 
 "It might not work that way I've a young 
 assistant at home, Father Huetter, a Republi- 
 can after your own heart, and I suspect he'd 
 have more power than I. But, seriously, Gov- 
 ernor, we are talking about the impossible. The 
 business of the Catholic Church is with the souls 
 of men. She has to do with them, not as Re- 
 publicans or Democrats or as Socialists even, 
 but as souls. Now her business with them con- 
 cerns the Ten Commandments of God. Are 
 they obsolete? Has our civilization become so
 
 90 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 complex that there must be written ten new 
 commandments to govern trusts and the division 
 of labor and its products? 
 
 "You, in common with every other man who 
 thinks beneath all this yeasty talk of to-day, 
 know that there are social troubles and labor 
 troubles for just one reason. That reason is 
 that some man or set of men in a position to do 
 so with impunity is breaking one of the laws of 
 God against his fellow-men. 
 
 "You speak of 'solutions'; the Socialists want 
 'solutions'; every man who mounts a barrel to 
 talk has a 'solution.' We know that there is one 
 solution and only one. That is the law of moral 
 justice between man and man or between one 
 man and a thousand other men who may be in 
 some way dependent upon him." 
 
 "That must be the business of the Church, 
 then; the State cannot handle abstractions." 
 The Governor was positive. 
 
 "Governor, there are no abstractions. The 
 law of moral justice is written all across your 
 statute books. Why is it not in force? The 
 business of the Church is to educate the con- 
 science and mold the heart of the people so that 
 they see justice and wish it. When the people 
 who are the State see justice and wish it, 
 and yet it is not done, where is the fault? 
 In the machinery of government, which does not 
 respond to the will of the driver. Then the ma- 
 chinery must be changed. Now, there is more
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 91 
 
 Socialism than has been heard in this chamber for 
 a long time, I believe." 
 
 "It does not respond," said the Governor, smil- 
 ing. "I can attest that. I was elected to make 
 a certain law. The senators and assemblymen 
 out there were sent here to pass the same law. 
 They are out there now squabbling each for him- 
 self, and I cannot get the law." 
 
 "I listened a while as I was coming in," said 
 the Dean. "It sounded like the Athenians in 
 the market-place: one saying one thing, another 
 another thing. In the meanwhile my people are 
 heart-sick and desperate and starving. God 
 knows what is happening in Milton this minute." 
 
 "Forgive me," said the Governor. "I know 
 you did not come all the way down here to hear 
 my troubles. Just what is the situation?" 
 
 "Sargent tried to bribe Loyd," the Dean re- 
 sumed promptly, "and at the same time tried to 
 discredit him by spreading the report that he was 
 ready to betray his fellows. Why Loyd did not 
 kill him I do not know, for he is a man of violent 
 and terrible temper. 
 
 "It came near to throwing the town into riot 
 and utter lawlessness. Then before Loyd had 
 gotten fully in command again, Sargent hired 
 anarchists and agitators of every type to come 
 into Milton on Labor Day to stir up bitterness. 
 He even appeared in the street himself and 
 kicked a dwarf, to provoke an attack upon him- 
 self."
 
 92 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "You saved his life that day, I've heard." 
 
 "Loyd would not have let him be hurt, any- 
 way. That was the evening he wired you for 
 troops, and I followed his message to you with 
 one saying that there was no need. There was 
 no need. But, yesterday Sargent had two hun- 
 dred deputy sheriffs sworn in, roustabouts and 
 hangers-on generally they are, I believe, and 
 brought to Milton. Ostensibly they are there to 
 protect his property, but their real business is to 
 provoke the men to such a bloody conflict as will 
 break the strike by frightening the more timid 
 of them. 
 
 "Last night young Harry Loyd, Jim Loyd's 
 young brother, was killed by these deputies as he 
 was passing the mill gate." 
 
 "How?" said the Governor. "Was there no 
 rioting, no attack on the mill?" 
 
 "The boy was alone," the Dean responded 
 quietly, "walking whistling down the road from 
 his girl. You heard otherwise this morning?" 
 
 "My report was confused," said the Governor, 
 guardedly. "Go on, please, Father." 
 
 "There is no more. John Sargent stood at 
 my side on the street last night and listened to 
 thousands of men clamoring for his life. In the 
 dark, he went away like a shadow. Whether he 
 got back to the safety of the mill or left Milton 
 on foot I do not know. No man in Milton 
 would have dared give him conveyance, and he 
 could not have boarded a train."
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 93 
 
 "Then you think Sargent is deliberately try- 
 ing to bring on bloodshed. Doesn't he value his 
 own life?" 
 
 "The workings of physical courage and physi- 
 cal cowardice are very peculiar, Governor. But 
 that does not interest me. His life is no more 
 important, except to himself, than was the life 
 of the boy who died last night. Now I believe 
 that John Sargent is morally responsible for the 
 death of that boy. But legally, in the eyes of 
 men, who killed Harry Loyd?" 
 
 "Why, Father, that would be hard to" 
 
 "You did/' 
 
 The old priest had spoken calmly, with the 
 quiet emphasis of simple conviction. It struck 
 the Governor harder than if he had been angrily 
 denounced. He shrank back in his chair, throw- 
 ing his arm before his face. For the space of a 
 full minute the two men sat without a word, un- 
 til the distant clanging of an elevator door 
 seemed to rouse the Governor. 
 
 "Surely, Father," he said, gathering himself 
 together, "you go too far. My position does not 
 you cannot throw responsibility upon a man 
 like that. I did not even know that those depu- 
 ties had been sworn." 
 
 "You know it now," said Father Driscoll re- 
 lentlessly. "If another man be killed to-night, 
 who, then, shall be responsible?" 
 
 "It comes back to the old thing," the Gov- 
 ernor returned, smarting. "The machinery of
 
 94 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 State. I cannot reach my hand from here to 
 Milton to stop things." 
 
 "Governor, is it well to hang on that word 
 'machinery,' when murder, actual murder, is 
 what we have to think of? Those two hundred 
 deputies are the officers of the county. They are 
 deputies of the sheriff. The sheriff is your 
 deputy. They and he are virtually at your or- 
 ders. Can you say that you are not responsible 
 for their acts ? 
 
 "But neither did I come here to charge you 
 with this. It is bad enough in all conscience, 
 without stopping to cavil as to where the blame 
 lies. There is now just one important question. 
 That is: Are you going to prevent bloodshed 
 and suffering? Nothing else really matters just 
 now." 
 
 "I do not see just what I can do. The State 
 constitution hampers the executive in so many 
 ways." 
 
 "But the State constitution does not hamper 
 John Sargent. The 'machinery' of which we 
 talk seems to respond beautifully to his will. 
 He has but to use a little money, and he finds 
 himself in direct command of an arm of the law. 
 Finds that arm ready to do murder at his bid- 
 ding. 
 
 "Can it be, Governor, that you do not real- 
 ize the horror and the crime of it? Those depu- 
 ties wear the badge of government. They, to 
 my men, represent government, all that my
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 95 
 
 men see of government. The government, then, 
 comes to kill them, peaceful, God-fearing men, 
 every one as valuable to the State as you or I, 
 and comes to kill them at the word of John Sar- 
 gent, their enemy. 
 
 "A little while ago you wondered why the 
 Catholic Church gave no practical help in hold- 
 ing back Socialism. In common reason, sir, tell 
 me, how long do you think any government 
 should last which can be so turned back against 
 the lives of those who support it and make it pos- 
 sible? If it were not for the great balancing in- 
 ertia of the millions of people such government 
 could not continue over night. You know that." 
 
 "Yes. But the system of government exists. 
 The executive must be the last to think of over- 
 turning it." 
 
 "I am not thinking, Governor, of the State 
 nor of its system. I am thinking of three thou- 
 sand men in Milton. They are my friends and 
 my children. I baptize them, I marry them, I 
 bury their dead. Protestant and Catholic alike 
 give me respect, and, I hope, some love. I 
 preach to them law and sufferance and patience. 
 But how long may I continue to preach law to 
 them, when the law turns rifles of murder against 
 their breasts? How long shall I tell them to go 
 on starving quietly and letting their children and 
 their women starve, how long shall I preach pa- 
 tience to them, when the fruits of patience are 
 death? Socialism! Socialism is not dangerous!
 
 96 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 But murder is dangerous! And hunger is dan- 
 gerous !" 
 
 The Governor was amazed. The quiet- 
 spoken, priestly old gentleman had suddenly 
 blazed forth into a fire of very human feeling. 
 
 "I do not know, Father," he said hesitatingly, 
 "the power of the State is not to be put to use 
 except as a last resort. The people do not like 
 it." 
 
 "Governor, are you the man to stand with 
 your hand at the helm of State, watching the 
 winds of political chances? I do not believe you 
 are that man. I cannot blame you for think- 
 ing of your own future, no. But when you were 
 made Governor of this State the conduct of its 
 government fell upon you alone, so far as your 
 power goes. The first article of your oath as 
 governor is to protect human life. That thing 
 is concrete. There are no systems or confusing 
 theories about it. I have shown you that hu- 
 man life is in danger, and that through the au- 
 thority and complicity of the State itself, 
 through you, in fine. Are you going to protect 
 that life?" 
 
 "What do you think could be done?" The 
 Governor did not say that he would accept the 
 Dean's suggestion. Probably he was merely 
 groping for a way out of the immediate position 
 in which he found himself. 
 
 "Those two hundred deputies must be re- 
 moved. You cannot, perhaps, force John Sar-
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 97 
 
 gent to send them away from Milton, but you 
 must at least take from them the sanction and 
 the authority of the State. So long as they wear 
 your badge, you are responsible for them. It 
 is unthinkable that our men should be at the 
 mercy of these who hide behind the great power 
 of the State. You must make Sheriff Beals 
 discharge them." 
 
 "I can do that, maybe ; but will that help mat- 
 ters practically? They will remain in Milton in 
 the pay of Sargent and the result will be the 
 same." 
 
 "Then you are bound by your oath to send 
 troops there and prevent murder. It will be 
 that." 
 
 "That is difficult, since I have given out your 
 message of only a week ago, in which you said 
 there was no need of soldiers. There were peo- 
 ple, strong influences, urging me to send troops 
 then. I refused to send them, on your represen- 
 tations. I do not see how I could explain my 
 change of sentiment." 
 
 "I have explained mine," said the Dean 
 quickly. "John Sargent has begun to kill men 
 with deliberation." 
 
 "That is difficult to prove, Father. The affair 
 of last night might have happened in so many 
 ways." 
 
 "Governor, do you believe that I have given 
 you a truthful and accurate account of the situa- 
 tion?"
 
 98 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "I do. Certainly, Father." 
 
 "And do you believe that John Sargent, no 
 longer ago than last night practically admitted 
 to me that he was going to do these very things?" 
 
 "I have your word, of course, Father. He 
 must have been mad." 
 
 "He was telling me only what I already knew 
 instinctively. And that was after he had lec- 
 tured me on the dangers of Socialism." 
 
 "I see," said the Governor. Though just 
 what it was that he saw was not entirely clear. 
 
 "You understand and believe what I have told 
 you, then. The lives of men are in danger. 
 You can save them. You will do it?" 
 
 "I must do it. I will do it. But I it will 
 cost me a great deal." 
 
 The two men fell into a short silence, while the 
 Governor was counting the chances. Finally 
 Father Driscoll said quietly : 
 
 "Governor, you know that I have never taken 
 any active part in politics of any kind. But I 
 have lived a long time, and I have seen the com- 
 ing and the going of many men in public life. 
 I have watched their careers. No man of them 
 ever hurt his career by following plain duty. 
 Compromise and weakness at critical moments 
 are the things that sooner or later remove most 
 men from a path to greatness. I am old and I 
 have seen. Believe me." 
 
 "I know you are right, of course, Father, 
 but"
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 99 
 
 "No. Do not take it that I spoke from prin- 
 ciple or religion. I spoke simply of sound poli- 
 tics. Any close student of our public life could 
 tell you the same. 
 
 "But I am not a Fenelon. At times I am 
 only a prosy old man, and every man must cut 
 for himself the solid steps up the rock of his life. 
 
 "I am talking here, and I have not yet come 
 to the real business of my day." 
 
 "Why, I thought we had settled" The 
 Governor began, a little nervously. 
 
 "I spoke to you of three thousand men in Mil- 
 ton. There are more than that number of 
 women and children who have to be spoken of." 
 
 "What of them?" 
 
 "They are starving." The Dean put it sim- 
 ply, baldly. 
 
 "That is harder yet," said the Governor. 
 "But nothing can be done. The men will not 
 give in and go back to work." 
 
 "No. They will not give in. And the 
 women and the children would rather starve than 
 see them do so. Were you ever hungry, Gov- 
 ernor?" 
 
 The Governor looked up quickly. Then, un- 
 derstanding, he shook his head slowly. 
 
 "No," he said slowly, "I never was. I don't 
 know what it means." 
 
 "No more does any man who has not felt it. 
 Nor does any man except the father himself 
 know what it is to have a child weak with hunger
 
 100 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 look up into his face and wonder why there is no 
 food. 
 
 "Governor, this strike must be stopped. You 
 must stop it." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "There is no other man who can do it, except 
 John Sargent, who will not do it." 
 
 "But I I am not a Czar. I have no power 
 over John Sargent. Nor have I any over the 
 men. They would not go back to work, if I tried 
 to drive them with soldiers. You know my lim- 
 itations. You know the Governor can do noth- 
 ing outside of an acute crisis; very little then." 
 
 "The crisis in Milton is the most acute that 
 could possibly be imagined. There is bloodshed 
 on the one hand and starvation on the other. By 
 a simple act you can send the men back to work 
 and put bread in the mouths of women and chil- 
 dren. Will you do it?" 
 
 "I do not understand you at all, Father. 
 There is nothing that I can do," said the Gov- 
 ernor decisively. 
 
 "There is. And I think you will do it," the 
 priest affirmed evenly. The Governor sat back 
 and waited. He could not imagine what might 
 be coming next. The Dean stretched his arm 
 out across the corner of the desk and spoke 
 slowly. 
 
 "The men would be eager to troop back to 
 work at your word. You have only to send a 
 few soldiers up there, two companies with one
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 101 
 
 good man in charge would be plenty ; take charge 
 of the mill and put in an office force. The river 
 will run the mill. It does not need John Sar- 
 gent's hand." 
 
 The Governor was dumfounded. The thing 
 was unheard of. He struggled for speech, un- 
 til a certain thought struck him. Then he ex- 
 ploded: 
 
 "Why! That's Socialism confiscation! John 
 Sargent would have me impeached!" 
 
 Father Driscoll leaned over the desk and said, 
 a little grimly: 
 
 "Governor, I think you would rather not have 
 said just those words: John Sargent would 
 have you impeached. Remember that the other 
 side of the picture is this : Men as good as you, 
 and better than John Sargent, will be killed, and 
 women and children will starve." 
 
 "I do not mean John Sargent exactly," said 
 the Governor, flushing a little. "I mean his as- 
 sociates, the whole financial power of this State 
 and of the Nation, the party which gave me 
 office and to which I owe loyalty, all would con- 
 demn me." 
 
 "Sir," said the old priest sturdily, "you owe 
 loyalty to the people of this State. They gave 
 you office." 
 
 "But, it is Socialism. I do not believe in it." 
 
 "Governor, it is no more Socialism than it is 
 Polygamy. It is common sense in a crisis. If 
 there were a flood or a great fire, which might
 
 102 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 not cause half the suffering of this strike, you 
 would commandeer the whole resources of the 
 State to restore normal conditions. You can do 
 it here just as constitutionally, and with every 
 right. 
 
 "You speak of impeachment. Would the As- 
 sembly dare to vote your impeachment in such a 
 cause? They would not, and you are too good 
 a politician not to know it. You know that the 
 very attempt by the forces of which you speak 
 to ruin you and they might attempt it would 
 do the one thing for you that would make your 
 life great. It would take your future out of 
 the hands of organization and of party system 
 and place it on the one foundation where the 
 career and future of a great man is safe, in the 
 heart, the great sound heart of the people." 
 
 The Governor was thinking rapidly, but he 
 was not ready to speak. As a man, the words 
 of the priest stirred him, brought him back to 
 days when, first entering public life, he had 
 vowed that nothing, no combination of forces or 
 organization, should ever swerve him from the 
 absolute right. He knew that there was a pow- 
 erful truth in what the priest had said. He 
 knew only too well that man's public life was 
 really secure only in the understanding and trust 
 of the people. But he knew that the step which 
 the priest was urging was not one that would cut 
 him off forever from the confidence of the men 
 who had made the steps for him up to where he
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 103 
 
 stood. He knew that it was the right thing, 
 that, probably, in the long run, it would be the 
 great and the wise thing to do. But loyalty to 
 the immediate party and to individuals is always 
 a fetich to men in our public life, and he felt that 
 it was too strong for him. 
 
 "I believe that you are right, Father," he said 
 slowly. "But you do not know all that it means. 
 You do not know the many lines that go into 
 this net that we call the government of the 
 State." 
 
 "In a crisis," said the priest sententiously, 
 "where there is suffering and the lives of men 
 are in danger, there is but one way to clear away 
 lines and knots. Cut them." 
 
 "What you suggest, the solution that you see 
 so clearly, may be used some day, perhaps be- 
 fore long. But I do not think the people are 
 ready for it yet. Certainly, the party on whose 
 platform I was elected did not anticipate any 
 such thing from me. And, after all, our gov- 
 ernment is a government based upon party 
 principles. I am a Republican, not a Socialist." 
 
 "Yes," returned the Dean, "it will come when, 
 as with all compromises and half measures, it will 
 be too late. You are afraid of the name Social- 
 ism. Are you more afraid of the name than of 
 the thing? 
 
 "You call upon men," he went on, "to come to 
 the aid of order and law, against Socialism. 
 You are afraid of chaos. But do you realize
 
 104 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 that Socialism gets ahead in this country for just 
 one single reason? That reason is, what you 
 have just been telling me: The hand of govern- 
 ment cannot do right because it is tied by many 
 knots. The man who, in your position or in the 
 one position in this country that is greater than 
 yours, will cut some of those knots, who will show 
 the people that government is a thing of heart 
 and hands and brains and not a thing of paper 
 and tape, that man will be able to laugh Social- 
 ism out of the country." 
 
 "I am tempted," said the Governor, revealing 
 a part of the vision that was flashing through 
 his brain. "I believe that a man might build 
 up the greatest career of the century on just 
 what you say, Father " 
 
 "I did not mean it that way, sir. Though 
 you are right," the priest admitted, "and 
 logical. 
 
 "I have but one thought in my mind. It is the 
 thought of the minute. My people are in danger 
 and they are starving. You can save them. It 
 is the step that is at your foot. Will you take 
 it?" 
 
 A secretary here ventured to interrupt. It 
 was evident that the secretary had a very high 
 idea of the importance of the business which 
 waited outside, for he handed a card to the Gov- 
 ernor and stood waiting, as if sure of an immedi- 
 ate response. 
 
 It was John Sargent's card, and the Governor,
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 105 
 
 a little annoyed that Sargent should seem to have 
 such unceremonious entry to him, handed the 
 card to Father Driscoll. 
 
 "Shall I have him come in?" 
 
 "My business is finished, Governor. I can 
 say no more. It rests with your sense of duty," 
 said the Dean, rising. 
 
 "No." The Governor detained him. "I wish 
 you would stay, Father." 
 
 The Governor took a hasty command of the 
 situation, as John Sargent strode brusquely into 
 the room. 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," he said, "I presume that you 
 are here on business about the strike in Milton. 
 Father Driscoll is here upon the same business. 
 It is very opportune that I should be able to hear 
 at one sitting the two men most competent to 
 discuss that situation." 
 
 Sargent stared shortly into the quiet face of 
 the old priest and finally nodded to him. Then 
 he turned sharply to the Governor. 
 
 "I have nothing to discuss here. I asked you 
 for troops. You refused them, on the word of 
 this man here. You were wrong. My mill was 
 blown up by dynamite this morning. Loyd has 
 been arrested. I do not know how many were 
 in this. But I want troops there at once. I 
 want force enough to arrest every striker in the 
 town if necessary. You could have prevented 
 this, Governor. Your weakness is responsible 
 for it."
 
 106 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "A few moments ago," said the Governor 
 curtly, "I was told that I was responsible for 
 the killing of a man in Milton last night. Is 
 that right? Was I responsible for young Harry 
 Loyd's death?" 
 
 "There was rioting. It was his own fault." 
 
 Father Driscoll swung around indignantly in 
 his chair, but, before he could speak, the 
 Governor broke in: 
 
 "I do not believe that, Mr. Sargent; do you?" 
 Sargent flushed darkly but the Governor did not 
 wait for his answer. He turned to Father Dris- 
 coll, saying: 
 
 "Have you any suggestion, Father?" 
 
 "Only this," said the Dean, as though thinking 
 slowly to himself: "I left Milton early this 
 morning, but in broad daylight. The town was 
 then quiet. There was no disorder of any kind. 
 The mill gates were guarded and well patrolled. 
 How could any man or men have entered there, 
 in full daylight, and set dynamite ? I should like 
 to see the message which Mr. Sargent received 
 apprising him of the affair. It would be inter- 
 esting. Perhaps he has it with him." 
 
 The Governor turned quickly to Sargent. 
 
 "Have you it?" 
 
 "I have it," said Sargent, "and it came in pri- 
 vate cipher. Even the telegraph company can't 
 help you. No one sees my private business. I 
 see what this priest means to infer." 
 
 "I do not, yet," said the Governor. "But be-
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 107 
 
 fore we speak of troops or anything else, will you 
 read me that message?" 
 
 "I will not. This is not an inquisition." 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," said the Governor, rising, "I 
 am rapidly coming to a certain decision. I did 
 not think ten minutes ago that I should ever 
 come to that decision. It is one that means the 
 risk of my whole career. It probably involves a 
 great deal to you. It may change the whole 
 economic future of this State. In another min- 
 ute I shall have arrived at that decision. Before 
 I do once more, will you give me that mes- 
 sage" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The Governor paced the floor carefully three 
 times. He gave more than the minute he had 
 allowed. He turned and sat down at his desk 
 with a certain finality. When he spoke it was in 
 the voice of one announcing an ordinary inten- 
 tion. 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," he said, "the troops will go to 
 Milton. The town and all in it will be placed 
 under martial law. The soldiers will take 
 charge of your mill. The men will go back to 
 work the day after to-morrow, under the condi- 
 tions prevailing before the strike. A force will 
 start at once to take charge of your office. I 
 would advise you not to interfere with them in 
 any way. When you are ready to arbitrate your 
 differences with the men I shall appoint a board, 
 and raise the martial law."
 
 108 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 John Sargent sat glaring. He had seen many 
 governors. This one had suddenly gone mad; 
 that was all. 
 
 Then a doubt struck him, and he leaped from 
 his chair. He walked over to the Governor, 
 shaking with anger and menace. 
 
 "You fool puppet," he shouted, "I almost be- 
 lieve you mean it!" 
 
 "I mean it so much that I am now calling my 
 secretary to set it in motion," said the Governor, 
 as he calmly touched a button. 
 
 "And how long do you think you'll be Gov- 
 ernor after you attempt it?" roared Sargent, 
 standing over him threateningly. 
 
 "I considered that an hour ago." 
 
 "Oh, you did, did you? With this man here? 
 The two of you sworn to uphold law and the or- 
 der of things, and you sat here plotting to ruin 
 me and bring the curse of Socialism on the coun- 
 try." 
 
 "On the contrary," said the Governor lightly, 
 "I had already refused to do this thing though 
 Father Driscoll had pleaded for it. I am doing 
 it now. Why? Well, say, because I do not 
 like you. You see what little things sometimes 
 change the course of destinies and States." 
 
 "A little thing will change the course of your 
 lunacy," said Sargent grimly, as he turned to 
 leave the room. "There is a man here in Al- 
 bany who made you governor. He can unmake
 
 THE DEAN'S JOURNEY 109 
 
 you. There is an Assembly out there now that 
 will impeach you." 
 
 The Governor turned to Father Driscoll and 
 said with a smile : 
 
 "There, you see, Father, how the strokes of 
 State are struck and foozled," he added, just a 
 little ruefully. 
 
 Father Driscoll rose, preparing to go, and said 
 evenly : 
 
 "You have done right, the thing that lay to 
 your hand to do. You will save the men, and 
 give bread to the women and children. All the 
 powers of privilege and interest and rapacity will 
 hound you. You have measured the fight and 
 counted the cost. And and I do not think you 
 are sorry. Your future is set on the right, and 
 it is in the hand of God. No. I do not think 
 you are sorry." 
 
 "No. I am not sorry," said the Governor, as 
 he took the old priest's hand. 
 
 Then the Dean went slowly down the great 
 ranks of steps before the Capitol.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE WILL OF GOD 
 
 FEATHER DRISCOLL on the long ride up the val- 
 * ley through the falling September after- 
 noon and dusk sat wrapped in thought. Men 
 who knew him by sight and others who knew 
 only the Roman collar raised their hats as they 
 passed, entering or leaving the car. The habit 
 of a lifetime had made him careful never to 
 slight the respectful courtesy of men. He had 
 lived through a time when in this his country a 
 Catholic priest received few enough of such 
 courtesies. He responded ever affably, but, it 
 must be admitted, a little mechanically to-day, 
 for his mind refused to be drawn back from its 
 business. 
 
 Although he was very tired, and the lines of 
 age lay heavy down his face and across his shoul- 
 der-blades, he was not depressed. He was com- 
 ing home from the capital of the State with a 
 victory for his people. If he could not see the 
 results of that victory as who can see the ulti- 
 mate consequences of any decisive step in this 
 world? he was at least sure that it was the best 
 
 and the right thing for the moment. It would 
 
 no
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 111 
 
 tide his people over the desperate crisis. No 
 more could be asked in a struggle such as theirs 
 at Milton. 
 
 The little revealing by-plays of human na- 
 ture, the happinesses, the disappointments, the 
 excitement, the timidity, the boredom, the inci- 
 dents that draw out the emotions, ever change- 
 able and varied, of our people as they travel, 
 went on at every station of the journey. But 
 the Dean of Milton, unlike his usual self that was 
 accustomed to look on all things with an open, if 
 whimsical, eye and a heart of human understand- 
 ing, was noting none of these things to-day. 
 
 His eyes fixed themselves to follow the ever- 
 changing line of the hills of his life of love and 
 work. Here a cliff stood up, almost from the 
 edge of the track, its hard rock face bearing still 
 the scratches of the crystal fingers of the glaciers. 
 Beyond rolled up a ridge, born of the rifting 
 and the belching of a far older time. 
 
 Often his soul had stood among them and said 
 in its awe: "They are the handmarks of God 
 my hills!" But to-day his mind looked and 
 said: "What are they? Little wrinkles and 
 tiny crowsfeet on the face of the earth." Yet 
 each had its meaning. Every fold, each break 
 in the line of the hills, told its own story of some 
 blistering change that time or convulsion had 
 brought about; and so, together, they pieced out 
 to you the history of a world in the making. 
 
 What wrought it all? Where was the im-
 
 112 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 pulse? Pressure from underneath; always pres- 
 sure from below; power pent up and repressed, 
 fighting its way to the surface, to freedom, to 
 expression. Always this. 
 
 And the other world? The world of men. 
 Always the same. Always the pressure from 
 beneath : the pressure of the great, dumb, hungry 
 many, fighting upward from beneath, fighting 
 for room, for expression, for more food. 
 
 His mind skipped from the hills to the other 
 side of the earth. He saw that great stream of 
 the Aryan peoples, the course of which is the his- 
 tory of the Western World, starting from its 
 source on the plains of western Asia. He saw 
 them, a hungry folk, when mouths were many 
 and pastures thin, pushing out from beneath and 
 spreading to newer feeding grounds. 
 
 He saw the Celt, most restless and impatient 
 of all the waves of men, sweep swiftly across the 
 breadth of Europe, until he came to rest, for a 
 time, on the rocks of Scotland and Ireland, sit- 
 ting there with eye brooding out over the waters 
 of the Western ocean, waiting for the impulse 
 that should leap him over that broad barrier. 
 Behind the Celt came the waves of Frank and 
 Goth and the broken, many-crested waves of 
 Teuton and of Slav, with Lett and Russ and 
 grim Tartar waves crowding behind all. 
 
 Ever the same; the pressure of hunger and de- 
 sire pushing up from below! 
 
 Now Celt and Teuton and all, with mighty,
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 113 
 
 straining leaps, had taken the barrier of the 
 ocean and were running together and mingling, 
 filling the valleys and lapping the high places of 
 the New World. In a single century they had 
 swept all across this continent. 
 
 Again the feeding-grounds are narrow and the 
 mouths are many. Where now? And still ever 
 that pressure from underneath. 
 
 But there is a difference. Formerly, else- 
 where, the many were dumb. When hunger 
 drove them they moved mutely out from under 
 their governing classes, went to new places and 
 there made themselves to be the governing 
 classes. This was as it should be with waves; 
 the bottom of one wave rolling up to make the 
 top of the next. 
 
 Cassar found that the Germans apportioned 
 their lands to individuals freshly each year. 
 One hundred and fifty years after Csesar, Tacitus 
 found that the allotments had become per- 
 manent. Private ownership of land practically 
 existed. Here was the end of Nomadism, the 
 beginning of Feudalism. 
 
 Towns grew up for one reason and another, 
 but most often because men having skill to make 
 things with tools found it better and safer to 
 work together in certain localities. But since 
 they stayed and worked in one place they could 
 not go forth to gather their raw material. Other 
 men must bring it to them. Nor could they go 
 out to sell the product of their labors. Still
 
 114 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 other men must buy it from them to peddle it 
 to the users of it. These others who bought and 
 sold became the Bourgeoisie, hated alike by 
 dreamers and by workers ; fattening, as some one 
 said, from both ends of the workman's candle. 
 
 Government, greedy and needy, might sell op- 
 pressive laws to the Bourgeoisie, but the work- 
 man still owned his tools and his skill of eye and 
 hand. These he might use or not use as he saw 
 fit. Only the laws of supply and demand were 
 his masters. And he had the Church and his 
 Guild to protect him from open injustice. 
 
 Comes now the age of machinery. The work- 
 man's tools are taken from him. His power of 
 arm and sureness of eye and cleverness for de- 
 sign are all supplanted. A roaring river or a 
 coal mine takes the place of his strength of 
 muscle. He is harnessed to a machine which he 
 can only start and stop. The machine itself sup- 
 plies the brains, skill, and precision which once 
 distinguished the good workman from the poor 
 one. 
 
 He is a piece of the machine, essential to it, as 
 is every piece of steel or casting in it. And there 
 are pieces in it which cost more than the work- 
 man's widow could get for his life. 
 
 Capital owns the machine with which the man 
 must work must work if he would eat. He 
 may work only as Capital permits him to start 
 the machine. 
 
 Up again comes the surge from the bottom:
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 115 
 
 the pressure of the hungry, unquiet many, strain- 
 ing under the weight of machinery and capital 
 and fixed economic law. 
 
 But here the difference. The many have 
 voices now. They do not now strive to break out 
 from under the governing classes above them and 
 move to other places. There is nowhere to go. 
 They are not mute. They talk. And their talk 
 has the simplicity of brute logic: We are many, 
 they are few. Let us go up and fight them. 
 
 The many, under the machinery, know that, 
 geographically, they must stay where they are. 
 The classes which govern them and govern gov- 
 ernment do so because they have the machinery 
 and capital. Let us, then, say the many, take 
 the machinery, which we alone know how to use. 
 Let us take the capital it is made of profits from 
 our labor and make it work for all. We must 
 move. Yes. But we move upward. We will 
 be the governing class. 
 
 The Dean moved stiffly in his seat. The 
 valley lay in misty darkness. The lamps of the 
 train were lighted, but, as he looked, the last of 
 the day still glinted along the tops and ridges 
 of the hills. 
 
 History, he said to himself, has a way of fixing 
 a day when something came to a head some men 
 were killed on a certain field, a paper was signed, 
 a man was crowned, a republic was proclaimed 
 and announcing to us that the thing happened 
 then and there. It did not. It was happening
 
 116 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 a long time before and went on happening a long 
 time after, in the heart of the people. That is 
 where things happen. When will men leaders, 
 reformers, teachers know that there is all good 
 and all change? 
 
 The train came screeching on to the long 
 bridge that crosses into Milton and the old priest 
 gathered his great, wide frame up out of the seat. 
 "James Driscoll," he said to himself with a queer 
 little droop at the corners of his mouth, "you are 
 a very wise man, a philosopher; you look at 
 things with a great, broad view. Yet there is 
 Jimmie Loyd up there in jail, unjustly, to-night 
 and you care more for his little finger than you 
 do for Magna Charta. That is queer. And 
 you know of human hearts; I've heard you talk 
 wisely of them. He is sitting there in his cell, 
 thinking of his brother that had to die last night. 
 Can you go up and tell him what his heart should 
 feel?" 
 
 Father Huetter, solicitous and full of events, 
 met him at the steps of the train. 
 
 "You must be dead, Dean," he grumbled, as 
 he offered a young shoulder for the Dean's old 
 hand. "You should never have made that jour- 
 ney down to Albany and back without a rest, 
 especially after last night." 
 
 "I know, I know," the Dean admitted humbly 
 enough. "But if I had not been there just when 
 I was I should have accomplished nothing."
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 117 
 
 "How was that?" the young priest queried 
 eagerly. 
 
 "When I had exhausted upon the Governor 
 every argument that I knew, John Sargent, of 
 all people, came in and, unwittingly, browbeat 
 the Governor into a resolution to which I had not 
 been able to persuade him. But what happened 
 here?" Father Driscoll had heard in Albany, 
 from the owner of the mill, the main facts of the 
 day's occurrences in Milton ; but he wanted to get 
 the first-hand impressions of his assistant. By 
 assuming complete ignorance he knew that he 
 would get a fuller and better connected account. 
 
 "I was just at the 'last prayers/" Father 
 Huetter began, as they turned into State Street, 
 "when the whole town was shaken by an explo- 
 sion. It seemed to come from the direction of 
 the mill, and, of course, I suppose every one in 
 the town jumped to the same thought. 
 
 "Soon as I had the vestments off I hurried out 
 and down the street, for it seemed sure that some 
 one must have been hurt. The town was in the 
 streets, of course, and some women and children 
 were crying from fright, or perhaps just from 
 overstrain of nerves." 
 
 "Stale tea leaves and hunger," said the Dean 
 grimly. 
 
 "But the men," Father Huetter went on, "once 
 they had heard that it was only one of the empty 
 stock houses that had been blown up, and that no
 
 118 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 one had been killed, seemed to take no interest 
 whatever in the thing. It seemed ominous as 
 though they had been expecting some such thing, 
 and were half disappointed with the littleness of 
 the result. I could not see what to make out of 
 it. 
 
 "Then I remembered all the excitement that 
 they had been through during the last two weeks 
 or so, and especially last night, and I thought I 
 understood. They were sated with sensations 
 and could not be roused any more. 
 
 "They commented to each other, quite freely 
 and with no rancor whatever, that Sargent had 
 blown up a cheap part of his own mill, in order 
 to inflame the public against the strikers. There 
 seemed to be not the slightest idea in any one's 
 mind that one of their own number might be 
 directly accused. When they did not kill John 
 Sargent last night with their hands, as they 
 wished to do, they seemed to think that any other 
 revenge on him would be silly." 
 
 "What more?" questioned the Dean. He was 
 very tired and also he was anxious for the rest of 
 the day's work. 
 
 "Before the dust was fairly settled from the 
 explosion," Father Huetter resumed quickly, 
 "young Hilton, Sargent's secretary, with five or 
 six of the deputies whom Sargent has here, went 
 before Justice Baxter and swore out a warrant 
 for Jim Loyd's arrest. It seems that one of the 
 agitators who came here at the beginning of the
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 119 
 
 strike brought in a quantity of dynamite and 
 some sparking apparatus for explosions. He 
 swore that Loyd had taken these from him and 
 then had him driven from the town. It seems 
 to be true. Something like these was used in 
 the explosion this morning." 
 
 "And Loyd went to jail quietly?" 
 
 "I never saw anything like it," broke out 
 Father Huetter. "I was there, at his house, 
 when they came for him. I had thought Jim 
 Loyd a man absolutely without any fear or re- 
 spect for the forms of law. I thought he was a 
 man likely to die fighting on his own doorstep 
 rather than go innocent to jail. They came 
 heavily armed. He rose and nodded to them. 
 His sister was beginning to cry wildly. He 
 went and put his arm gently about her shoulder, 
 telling her not to worry, that everything would 
 be all right. Then he crossed over to where his 
 brother's body lay and snatched the Crucifix 
 from off the breast. My heart was in my mouth. 
 What was he going to do? You know it's only 
 a little while since I thought that he had lost all 
 religion and hated God and Church and every- 
 thing else. 
 
 "He looked steadily at the Crucifix. You 
 could see his big shoulders shaking, with some 
 emotion that I have no name for. Then he 
 dropped the Crucifix slowly back upon the body, 
 stooped swiftly and kissed his brother's forehead, 
 turned, reached out a hand for the irons they had
 
 120 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ready, and walked quietly out with them. I 
 guess I never knew the man," he concluded 
 slowly. 
 
 "No man," said the Dean quietly, "knows any 
 other man in this world. But what of the men? 
 There was no fighting, no attempt to rescue him 
 from the law?" 
 
 "A dozen times," answered the young priest, 
 "on the way down State Street and over into 
 Court Street the crowd gathered and could have 
 swept his guards under foot. But he shouted 
 and waved them back each time, and they obeyed. 
 I say I do not understand it at all." 
 
 "No" the Dean said reflectively. "But I 
 fear there is more. I do not see the end." 
 
 Father Driscoll munched silently through a 
 belated supper. Though he had eaten scarcely 
 anything throughout the day, he had very little 
 interest in the food before him. More than any- 
 thing else in the world he wanted sleep, but there 
 was in the back of his consciousness something 
 telling him that he must not have it, that there 
 were yet things to be done, that his day's work 
 was not over. 
 
 Father Huetter had gone to lead the Office of 
 the Holy Name Society by the side of the young 
 Loyd's body. The Dean, settling himself down 
 in his own room for Vespers and Complin, found 
 that he could hardly force his mind out of the 
 circle which it had been making all night and all 
 day.
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 121 
 
 The little clock was striking nine as he arose 
 and put down the book. He would go directly 
 to bed. But he reached for his wide felt hat, 
 called his ancient housekeeper to instruct her as 
 to where Father Huetter might be found in case 
 of an urgent sick-call, and, avoiding the patent 
 disapproval of her eye, stepped quickly out to the 
 street. 
 
 Milton was apparently settling down into its 
 regular nightly quiet as the Dean crossed the up- 
 per part of State Street and took a darkened 
 short cut over into Court Street. But to the 
 Dean's taut-strung nerves the quiet was too 
 heavy. It was unnatural; it brooded. True, 
 one could reflect, men had stood on street corners 
 now for the last four months, nearly, and talked 
 of their strike and of the incidents and struggles 
 and hopes of it, until you might suppose that 
 they had said all the words that could be said 
 about it. But the Dean was not convinced. 
 The same sense of indefinable danger that had 
 made him leave the house followed him through 
 the quiet dark. 
 
 He passed the gaunt old figure of the court 
 house, with its one great eye blinking out 
 through the nearly naked branches of the maples, 
 and turned the corner into Reynold Street where 
 the squat, dark heap of the jail backed up against 
 the rear of the county buildings. There was no 
 light from the jail and the street was entirely de- 
 serted. The Dean had hardly expected this, for
 
 122 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 he thought it likely that there would be some of 
 the men standing about in front of the jail. 
 
 He stood a while, undecided. He could not 
 go home without somehow trying to lay his finger 
 on the pulse of this vague fear that followed him. 
 A thin streak of light coming from behind a cur- 
 tain of the warden's outer office drew him to step 
 up and ring sharply. 
 
 A low excited murmur of voices from within 
 followed his ring, and then a challenge. 
 
 "Father Driscoll," he answered quietly. 
 
 Fred Wheeler, the warden, pulled the door 
 open for him, and as he walked in he was sur- 
 prised to find John Beals, the sheriff, standing 
 nervously in the middle of the room. 
 
 Beals, a political sheriff, had spent most of 
 that day in unusual and uncomfortable proxi- 
 mity to a shotgun. He had been certain that 
 some attempt would be made to free Loyd. In 
 his state of mind, any intrusion, even that of the 
 old priest, was a cause for alarm. 
 
 Father Driscoll apologized so profusely and 
 assumed so blandly that he would be allowed to 
 see Loyd that the sheriff, taken off his mental 
 feet, did not know how to refuse. 
 
 Walking down the corridor of the jail, the 
 warden said: 
 
 "I'm sorry, Father, but you know we wouldn't 
 dare open a cell to-night, or I'd bring him out 
 to the office to you."
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 123 
 
 "Perfectly right, Fred, I only want a minute 
 with him." 
 
 Loyd was leaning like a great, loose- jointed 
 animal on his arms which lay stretched along the 
 heavy iron hinge-strap of his grating. In the 
 electric light from a single bulb at the end of the 
 corridor he recognized the priest, but he said 
 nothing. Wheeler walked away. 
 
 "I have news for you, Jimmie," said the Dean, 
 putting his hand through the bars to rest on 
 Loyd's arm. "The Governor will send troops 
 they will be here to-morrow and an overhead 
 force to take charge of the mill. The men will 
 go to work at once and operate the mill until 
 Sargent gives in to arbitration." 
 
 "What did he say about my brother?" Loyd 
 questioned fiercely, straightening himself so that 
 his shock of black hair touched the ceiling of his 
 cell. 
 
 "Why, Jimmie," the Dean fell back a little, 
 "what could he say? He will investigate, I 
 know, and try to see that the law is " 
 
 "Law!" Loyd laughed frightfully. "There's 
 no law. It's a lie! My innocent brother lies 
 dead in my house, shot dead last night by an 
 officer of the law. The man who shot him is 
 walking around now ready to kill again. And 
 the man who ordered the thing is away from 
 here, but he can order other killings. Law! 
 What is his law? The law of money and of
 
 124 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 power and of murder. That's his law. It 
 works for him just as I have worked for him. It 
 makes him rich just as I have helped to make 
 him rich. He took my boyhood and my chance 
 in life. I had to give it so that my mother and 
 my little brother could live. And now, with his 
 law, he has taken the only thing that I loved 
 my brother. Why ? Why, because I and thou- 
 sands of other fools like me have worked for him 
 and made him rich so that he could buy law and 
 kill us with it when it suited him to do it. 
 
 "Haven't I worked and struggled and been 
 abused all this summer trying to make the men 
 starve quietly, when there was food about them 
 that they might have had for the taking? Why? 
 All so that John Sargent's law might be kept. 
 All so that this law you talk about might be 
 strong enough to keep me in jail to-night. 
 
 "And do you think I did not all the time know 
 just what a fool I was? Did I not see that I was 
 just welding the chains for myself? Doesn't 
 every man see it that works at another man's 
 machine and makes money for that other man? 
 Doesn't he know that he is just giving that other 
 man a grip on him? Doesn't he know that every 
 dollar he grinds out of a machine for another 
 man is a rivet in his own collar? 
 
 "Know it? We all know it. And yet we go 
 on doing it. We go on, because our fathers went 
 on, because good men, like you, because people,
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 125 
 
 because Church, because everything tells us to 
 go on." 
 
 "But," the Dean put in quietly, "the Gov- 
 ernor is ready to use the power of the State. He 
 will do all that can be done." 
 
 "Can he give me back my brother's life? Can 
 he give me back the years of my own life? 
 Last night it was my brother. If John Sargent 
 wanted me killed here in this jail to-night he 
 could stage it and go free. You know it. The 
 State knows it. The Governor knows it. What 
 does he do?" 
 
 "Well, at least, he is ready to take the one step 
 that will end the strike and put things back where 
 they were." 
 
 "Yes. That's what he wants. That's what 
 everybody wants; things back where they were. 
 Back where we and our children thank God, 
 I'll never have one may be worked over and 
 over again, and shot in the end if it's needed. 
 Why will he do this? And what will he do? 
 
 "Why? Will he do it because he cares for me 
 or my kind? No. He'll do it because it's a big 
 bold play that can one day make Gordon Fuller 
 President of the United States. He's taking a 
 chance a big chance. But he's a big man, and 
 he's willing to play. But that's what he's doing, 
 playing with the lives of men. For what? 
 For Gordon Fuller." 
 
 "Even if it were true, Jim and I think you
 
 126 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 are mostly wrong I have belief in that young 
 man it is the one thing to save the people and 
 stop the strike." 
 
 "The strike is ended." 
 
 "What? How?" the Dean questioned eag- 
 erly. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "When I laid down the Crucifix on my 
 brother's breast, and put out my hands for the 
 'bracelets,' the strike was over then." 
 
 "I do not understand, Jim." The Dean spoke 
 wonderingly, but he had already begun to realize 
 that the intangible fear that had taken him out of 
 his house when he had not meant to come was 
 founded on something real. 
 
 "The strike is ended," said Loyd again. "It 
 will finish in a way that no other strike ever fin- 
 ished in this world. 
 
 "Do you think that after we have fought and 
 starved as we have all this time that we are going 
 back to work under the old conditions, to pile up 
 more money for John Sargent, to make him 
 stronger to fight and gouge us again? Do you 
 think I left my dead brother's body to come here 
 quietly and wait for John Sargent's law to send 
 me to State's prison? No. I came at the time 
 because this morning we were not ready to strike. 
 Now we are ready. It is ten o'clock now. In 
 a few minutes the men will come to break me 
 out from here. We will go straight to the mill, 
 blow in the gates, overpower Sargent's guards or 
 kill them.
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 127 
 
 "In the morning we'll not only have the mill in 
 our hands and be ready to run it, but we'll have 
 every store and bank and public utility in the 
 town. 
 
 "You don't understand yet. This is a one- 
 mill town, a one-man town. The banks, the 
 trolley cars, the business concessions belong to 
 John Sargent. We made them for him. There 
 are nearly four thousand of us. There are not 
 four hundred able-bodied men in the town who 
 do not belong to us. Who is to stop us doing 
 what we wish?" 
 
 The Dean leaned back against the opposite 
 wall of the corridor. He saw the monumental 
 simplicity of the thing which Loyd had outlined. 
 He knew how it would appeal to the daring 
 imagination of the big, fearless man before him. 
 And he did not doubt that he would go about it 
 simply and literally, though death stood in the 
 way. For a moment he was stupefied by the 
 bold clearness of the idea. Then his mind leaped 
 to the terrifying consequences. He saw all the 
 great power of the whole State, roused by money 
 and the fear of money, prepared to pour its 
 forces down upon the little city. It would be 
 war! And he knew that Loyd and the men 
 would fight to the end. 
 
 "Jim," he gasped, "do you know what it would 
 mean? It would mean civil war." 
 
 "It would mean something" said Loyd shortly. 
 "And that is more than all the Labor talk and
 
 128 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 uplift and Socialism has meant yet or ever will 
 mean unless men are willing to pay the price and 
 take the risk for the thing they want." 
 
 "And can you say what is the price? Because 
 life is bitter to you and because you would throw 
 it away cheaply, do you dare to say what life is 
 worth to other men? And are you ready to lead 
 them to destruction?" 
 
 "What shall we do, then? Do you want us 
 to settle down quietly to grind those lives out for- 
 ever, to see our brothers murdered, to see our- 
 selves sent to prison? Why don't you go farther 
 and tell us to bow our head and say, 'It's the 
 will of God; let us suffer and die peaceably'? 
 No. Father, in spite of what you know and have 
 heard of me, I love my Church and my Faith, 
 but no church and no faith and no priest can tell 
 me that it is the will of God that the children 
 should go hungry because of John Sargent's 
 greed, or that my brother should be killed by his 
 hired murderers." 
 
 "No, it is not the will of God. It is the short- 
 sighted wickedness of men." 
 
 "Then it has to be met in the one way that it 
 can be met." 
 
 "Wickedness with wickedness, greed with 
 greed, murder with more murder? No. 
 Neither is that the will of God. 
 
 "But it is the will of God that men should 
 meet the hard and terrible facts of life with a 
 great and patient bravery. God knows it is not
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 129 
 
 in my heart to preach to you, when your own 
 heart is desolate in its grief. What can I say? 
 Has not my own old heart felt the rage of pas- 
 sion and the leaping flame of anger at the things 
 that I have seen?" 
 
 "Yes, and that flame is going to lick up this 
 whole country," said Loyd, gripping and shak- 
 ing the bars of his cell door. "Am I the only 
 man who is suffering? I haven't got a hungry 
 kid chewing at the bed-sheet in his sleep. I am 
 not raising a family of boys and girls to be 
 thrown into the hopper of John Sargent's mill. 
 But I'm not a wind-jamming Socialist either. I 
 can do this thing to-night and I'm going to do it. 
 It's a thing that's never been done before and it 
 will light up this State and this country. What 
 is my life? What are a few dozen lives, if they 
 go to the wiping out of slavery in this country?" 
 
 "Anger piled on anger, Jimmie, wrong upon 
 wrong, never made anything right in this world. 
 You are thinking of a cause. You honestly be- 
 lieve that what you would do to-night would help 
 to better things. And, in the end, it would, per- 
 haps. But the strongest thought of all you have 
 is that it would ruin John Sargent." 
 
 "Yes!" Loyd shouted, "I'd leave him without 
 a dollar in the world. And if you were in my 
 place you'd feel just as I do." 
 
 "And if I did? Would it be right? Let us 
 leave it," said the Dean, dropping his voice, "to 
 the boy that is at rest to-night Harry, with his
 
 130 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 fresh and laughing heart. Life was dearer to 
 him, and sweeter, than to you or me. Leave it 
 to him. Would he have you do this thing with 
 anger and rancor in your heart? No. He 
 would beg you on his knees to do the brave 
 thing." 
 
 Loyd stiffened as though he had been struck. 
 
 "You think," the old priest went on calmly, 
 "because you are ready to throw your life away 
 or make yourself an outlaw to the world about 
 you, that you are doing the courageous thing. 
 He, even in his boy's wisdom, could have told 
 you that there was a yet braver thing to do to 
 stay here and clear your name of this thing as 
 you can easily do, and obey the laws of God." 
 
 "They're not the laws of God. They're John 
 Sargent's; they work for him." 
 
 "They are the laws of God, Jimmie Ten of 
 them. And John Sargent can no more break 
 them with impunity than can you or I. You 
 know that." 
 
 Loyd said nothing, but tapped significantly 
 on the bars of the door. 
 
 "I see what you mean, Jim; but you know 
 what I mean, too. Suffering there is. Injus- 
 tice there is. Wrong there is. Why? Because 
 a man is breaking the laws of God ; breaking one 
 of the Ten Commandments. Government, Poli- 
 tics, Socialism, Economics blow the fog away 
 and you find a man stealing, breaking God's law. 
 Set up another system and you'll find other men
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 131 
 
 doing the same. And you would cure it all to- 
 night by breaking more of those laws of God? 
 
 "Jimmie, Jimmie, can you not see that the 
 lesson is longer and harder even than that? 
 
 "You say that you looked at the Crucifix this 
 morning. What did you see? You saw a Man 
 loving justice and hating iniquity. Every great 
 and big man does that always. He saw injus- 
 tice and wrong and suffering all about Him. 
 Did He 'take the sword'? Did He take the 
 'twelve legions of angels' to right these things? 
 No. He took the other way, the way that leads 
 not over the bodies of men but through the ways 
 of their hearts. 
 
 "Can you bring anything out of force and riot 
 and bloodshed except the things that you put 
 into them anger and hate and the desire for re- 
 venge? They breed each other. 
 
 "There is one way, the patient, the big, the en- 
 during way. The law, in the hands of the Gov- 
 ernor, will be helping you to-morrow. Nine 
 millions of people, the sovereigns of the State, 
 are with you at heart. Keeping the law of God 
 fight, work, teach, and vote. But keep the 
 law of God. For every law that is broken, 
 whether in the name of Labor or of Capital, of 
 Socialism or of Private Right, a heavy toll is 
 taken. And it is taken off the weak" 
 
 Loyd strained uneasily along the bars, but still 
 he said nothing. 
 
 "James." said the Dean after a little pause,
 
 132 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "you are here accused of something you did not 
 do. That has happened and might happen to 
 any man. But if you go out of here to-night, 
 you, who have never broken any law, will be 
 branded as a jail-breaker. Will it do any good 
 to the cause for which you are ready to die if you 
 go marked as an outlaw? Will it? It will not. 
 And you shall not do it. I can stop you and I 
 will." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 A heavy thud and a grinding, tearing crash 
 shook the building. 
 
 "There they are now," said Loyd. "They did 
 as I told them. There was no warning. They 
 are in the office by now." 
 
 The Dean hurried down through the corridor 
 to the office. He swung open the door between 
 the inner and the outer offices, and stopped short. 
 
 On the floor of the outer office lay the heavy 
 street door. On top of it lay the long iron 
 tongue of a reaper. It was plain that the men 
 had run up stealthily and rammed the door down 
 with a single blow of the tongue and had leaped 
 into the room after it. 
 
 A dozen or fifteen had crowded in and were 
 half-way across the room. There they stood, for 
 the moment, saying nothing. 
 
 Along one wall of the office four deputies were 
 ranged, with rifles pointing dead at the group of 
 men. At the Dean's left hand stood Wheeler 
 and the sheriff, with their shotguns also trained
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 133 
 
 upon the men. But the sheriff gave no word to 
 fire. The Dean at first sight thought that Beals 
 was merely stupid with freight. But a second 
 look at the men in front showed something else. 
 
 Andrew Tinney and Joe Kolakouvski, two 
 giant molders, were in front. Behind them, his 
 squat, double- jointed body screened by their long 
 legs, was little Joe Page, the town dwarf, who 
 had once been kicked by John Sargent. 
 
 In one hand the dwarf held a stick of dyna- 
 mite with a common fire-cracker fuse taped into 
 it. In the other he had a little stick of burning 
 punk. The crude simplicity of the thing made, 
 it just so much more terrible. Any boy could 
 have thought of it. 
 
 No man was ready to pull a trigger. The sit- 
 uation was too obvious to anyone who knew the 
 character of the little half -man who held those 
 things in his hands. Only one shot would ever 
 be fired. 
 
 "Bring Loyd out, Beals," said Tinney. "Or 
 give over the keys." 
 
 "The keys," said Kolakouvski, glowering 
 down the eye of the sheriff's gun. 
 
 Beals stood, futilely holding his gun at aim. 
 He seemed unable to do more. 
 
 "Give them to me," whispered the Dean at his 
 ear "the keys; they will not try to take them 
 from me." 
 
 The sheriff, still pointing his gun wildly, 
 reached for the keys that hung at Wheeler's belt
 
 134 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 and passed them over to the Dean. The act was 
 purely mechanical. The man's hand merely fol- 
 lowed the first suggestion that his mind had been 
 able to answer. 
 
 The Dean beckoned the group of men and it 
 moved across the room, still screening the dwarf 
 who padded along steadily, holding his two hands 
 wide apart. 
 
 Quietly and without opposition the crowd fol- 
 lowed the priest through the inner office and 
 down the corridor. 
 
 The Dean worked quickly, trying one key 
 after another in the lock of Loyd's door, talking 
 as he worked. 
 
 "Jimmie, when I have found the right key," 
 he said, pulling out one key and inserting an- 
 other, "you will be free to go out and begin the 
 work you have in mind. You will be free of 
 everything except the law of God. I cannot free 
 you from that. I am freeing you from this law 
 of man. You will not be breaking jail. The 
 door will be standing open for you. I am taking 
 this all upon myself. I will answer for all of 
 this to the law. 
 
 "When you go out from here, if you do wrong, 
 if you break a law of God, if you kill, then I shall 
 be as guilty as you. The sin that is yours will 
 be upon my soul. 
 
 "These men will do nothing without you. All 
 rests on you: life and death; shame, terror, and 
 innocent blood. And on me it rests.
 
 THE WILL OF GOD 135 
 
 "Will you stay and take the long way in pa- 
 tience and courage and hope, or will you there, 
 the door is open at last will you take the short 
 way to ruin and wrong? You take me with you 
 either way." 
 
 He pushed the door open and Loyd stepped 
 upon the threshold. In the light, the two men 
 eyed each other, breathing hard, for a full 
 minute. 
 
 Then Loyd looked down the corridor into the 
 puzzled, wondering faces of the men crowding 
 there. He looked again at the old man whom 
 he had all his life revered and loved. His eyes 
 dropped. His big shoulders fell. And, swing- 
 ing on his heel, he turned back into the cell and 
 dropped heavily upon his bunk.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 "GOD LIVES" 
 
 a curiously single-minded thing a 
 crowd of people is anyway," John Sar- 
 gent remarked casually, to the world in general. 
 He was standing at the window of his private 
 office in the plant of the Milton Machinery Com- 
 pany, looking down at Harry Loyd's funeral 
 procession as it took its slow way past the mill 
 and up the River Road to the hills and the Catho- 
 lic cemetery. His secretary was standing a little 
 back of him, looking over his shoulder ; but as the 
 remark was not addressed particularly to him he 
 did not volunteer any comment. 
 
 "Just now that crowd is engaged in the busi- 
 ness of mourning. They wouldn't turn aside 
 from that for any other business in the world. 
 If you could get his attention long enough, any 
 one of them would tell you with a curse that I 
 was responsible for that boy's death. Yet if they 
 knew that I was up here in this window, they 
 wouldn't turn away from their morning's work 
 of mourning, even to shake a fist at me. 
 
 "And they have to stage a pageant. They 
 couldn't get expression for their grief any other 
 
 136
 
 "GOD LIVES" 137 
 
 way. Why do they have to go back to primitive 
 things the moment they are in earnest about any- 
 thing? I don't mind the Poles. They prob- 
 ably saw things like that when they were grow- 
 ing up in the old country. And the Italians just 
 naturally fall into procession, for the sake of the 
 thing. But two-thirds of those people are Irish- 
 Americans of the second or third generation. 
 They never saw anything like that. They're 
 more sophisticated, with their talk and their read- 
 ing and Socialism and all, than the average 
 Yankee American. If anything, they're more 
 American than he is. Yet there they are, giving 
 that boy just such a funeral as an Irish martyr 
 would have had six generations ago. 
 
 "They never saw it done; but you see they 
 know how. That's why they never really 
 change. At bottom they're the most powerful 
 conservative force in the world. Their minds 
 change and their talk changes, but their atavistic 
 instincts never. And they are really governed 
 by those. 
 
 "I guess I won't need you, after all," he said, 
 switching abruptly to Hilton, the secretary. 
 "You needn't wait." 
 
 Hilton started almost guiltily. He had not 
 been listening to what Sargent had been saying. 
 He had lately been interesting himself in the 
 idea of thought transference or control the in- 
 fluence which many minds thinking the same 
 thought may have upon the mind of one person
 
 138 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 upon whom their thought is fixed. He firmly 
 believed that a number of minds thinking one 
 thought about a given person would make that 
 person come to think the same thing about him- 
 self. He considered the four or five thousand 
 people passing by, all thinking John Sargent a 
 murderer. And yet their thought seemed to 
 take no effect upon his employer's mind. He 
 was brought back so sharply by Sargent's dis- 
 missal that for an instant he was not sure that 
 he had not spoken his thought aloud. But he 
 caught himself and turned hastily to the door. 
 
 Sargent still stood looking out of the window. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "they are a wonder. They'll 
 never change. They're always Irish and Catho- 
 lic. And you never can tell whether it's the 
 Catholic in them that keeps them Irish, or the 
 Irish in them that keeps them Catholic. If they 
 lose one they lose both, generally. And then, 
 well, then they're nothing, they don't count. 
 
 "Take the old priest trudging at the head of 
 them there. He's wider awake, he sees farther 
 ahead in the problems of to-day, than any man 
 I know. But you could set him back three hun- 
 dred years and he'd go right along with the pic- 
 ture just the same. 
 
 "He'll talk at the cemetery, probably. I won- 
 der what he will have to say about me. Most 
 likely not a word. He'll just ding-dong away at 
 the old 'dust to dust' and resurrection business. 
 Yet if he'd take a fling at the bloodthirsty
 
 "GOD LIVES" 139 
 
 money-power, he could have three-column leads 
 in the New York papers to-morrow. But he 
 won't. He'll just stick to his business of bury- 
 ing a body and promising Heaven to a souL 
 And they're just like him. I could go up there 
 and stand among them and they wouldn't notice 
 me: because they're engaged in the single busi- 
 ness of burying a man." 
 
 It was, indeed, an unusual and striking proces- 
 sion, this which John Sargent reviewed and re- 
 flected upon. 
 
 A funeral in Milton, where practically all the 
 men and a great many women were due to punch 
 a time-clock at a certain hour every weekday 
 morning of their lives, was generally a lonely- 
 looking matter; reduced, as it must be, to the 
 few carriages of those who were absolutely bound 
 to go. 
 
 This was different. It did not belong to the 
 relatives of Harry Loyd to say what his funeral 
 should be. He had died not merely as Harry 
 Loyd, but as a victim. Any one of the four 
 thousand men and boys who now followed his 
 body might have been chosen, by accident and 
 John Sargent's guards, for slaughter. So it was 
 as though death had taken a man or boy out of 
 every family of them all. 
 
 On their shoulders men carried the body all the 
 weary length of the way. Not a wheel was al- 
 lowed to stir in that part of the town where it 
 should pass. So silent was the crowd as it
 
 140 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 moved down the street that the rattle of beads 
 slipping through hard hands could be heard by 
 those on the sidewalks. 
 
 A regiment of State troops had just put the 
 town under martial law and were stationing 
 themselves at different points to enforce that law. 
 These soldiers had come to try an experiment 
 which the men in the procession, as labor men, 
 had all their lives been clamoring for. Yet the 
 men did not raise an eye to look at the soldiers. 
 As Sargent had remarked, they had but one busi- 
 ness in hand. 
 
 Harry Loyd had been killed, as every man be- 
 lieved, by the orders of John Sargent. Jim 
 Loyd, the man who had held them together, and 
 had made such a strike as theirs possible, and had 
 somehow fed them such food as they had had for 
 months, Jim Loyd was in jail, through John 
 Sargent's contrivance. But no man raised his 
 head to look at John Sargent's window. 
 
 Protestants there were, men of every faith, 
 and men of no faith, who walked silent and 
 bowed in that march, and did not know what was 
 upon them. The great spiritualizing, visualiz- 
 ing power of Catholic faith, which strips death 
 of its sentimentality and shows it for what it is, 
 the one elemental fact with which men have to 
 deal, was at work upon these people. It was 
 showing them and pressing into their hearts the 
 eternal lesson of the littleness of a regiment of 
 soldiers, of Jim Loyd in jail, or of John Sargent
 
 "GOD LIVES" 141 
 
 in his mill, compared with the dignity of young 
 Harry Loyd in death. 
 
 John Sargent, like most of our men large 
 enough to live in the glare of daily newspaper 
 discussion, had nothing but contempt for criti- 
 cism for or against himself. It never reached 
 him. If the Angel had come to him with the 
 Book of Doom and shown him the record he had 
 gained in that quarter, he would have answered 
 that all men who do things in the world are 
 blamed, naturally. 
 
 Here, however, was a great crowd of men and 
 women whom he, John Sargent, had been feed- 
 ing all their lives. They had been so reared that 
 they had always had to consider him the most im- 
 portant man in the world. No government, no 
 power could exercise over their lives a force so 
 compelling, for happiness or for suffering, as 
 could he with a single word. For, really, noth- 
 ing was important to them except a pay en- 
 velope. Good government or bad, heat or cold, 
 flood or drought all these could be dealt with if 
 the envelope were right. A word from John 
 Sargent could at any time make a man or a fam- 
 ily reasonably content and happy. A word 
 from him could plunge a man or a family or the 
 whole of the little city into want and misery. It 
 was not exactly the ancient unanswering kingly 
 power of life and death; but it sometimes 
 amounted to that, in effect, and was certainly as 
 near to it as any man may come in this day. To
 
 142 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 all intents, John Sargent was the lord and mas- 
 ter of everybody in that long line of men. 
 
 And they walked past him and his mill, giving 
 no thought to him or it. He could not under- 
 stand that. If they had turned, as they passed, 
 and cursed him, he could have explained it: 
 "Things went that way in the world." But that 
 they could ignore him, could put him out of their 
 minds, was not to be understood. 
 
 They were intent upon a matter in which he 
 certainly was concerned, and they forgot him. 
 It was disconcerting, that that great crowd 
 could be so heart-and-soul intent upon the bury- 
 ing of a mere boy as to forget John Sargent. It 
 disturbed him. It seemed to cheapen his power 
 over them. And it was a lonesome business, too, 
 watching this crowd that had forgotten him. 
 He seemed to be the only man in the town who 
 was not in the procession. 
 
 No there was another man who should have 
 been in that procession and who was not there 
 Jim Loyd. He was in jail. And there was an- 
 other whom Sargent missed, a girl. He would 
 have known her by sight, for he had often seen 
 her. She had charge of one of the big rooms of 
 the twine mill down at the lower end of the 
 works. She had worked there since her child- 
 hood. Gaylor that was her name, he remem- 
 bered. Harry Loyd had spoken to her just a 
 few minutes before dying. Sargent found him- 
 self wondering what the young fellow had said.
 
 "GOD LIVES" 143 
 
 He shook himself, left the window, and sat down 
 discontentedly at his desk. 
 
 "What a world of mawkish sentiment," he 
 grumbled, "is wasted on last words and relics and 
 things. The fellow just said some fool thing 
 and stepped off into the dark. And she'll 
 frame those words in her heart. Fifty years 
 from now she'll still be taking them down and 
 dusting them and weeping over them. 
 
 "This is a lonesome business. I believe I'll go 
 and see Loyd. He's not a cheerful brute, but, at 
 least, he'd curse me with some show of interest. 
 
 "I wonder why I can't help liking that fellow. 
 He hates me ; always did hate me. And now, if 
 it wasn't for his religion, he'd execute me with 
 his two big hands, for the murder of his brother. 
 
 "Now that's what I want to know. The 
 Church or the religion or the superstition- 
 whatever it is that can hold Jim Loyd's hands 
 off my throat ought to be able to hold the world. 
 Why can't it? And why doesn't it?" 
 
 The wonder of which Sargent had spoken to 
 himself, that these people in whose lives he was 
 so large a factor should be able to put him so 
 completely out of mind at such a time, must al- 
 ways be unexplainable to the outsider. These 
 people were just a crowd of Catholic men and 
 women, saying their prayers, simply and without 
 any self-consciousness, for the soul of a boy who 
 had gone to his death without warning. The 
 things, remote and immediate, leading up to his
 
 144 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 death were, to them, important in their way. 
 The fact that any one, or that many, of them- 
 selves might have fallen in the same way; that, 
 too, was important. But the one thing that put 
 all other things aside was that the boy had gone 
 without a sacrament. 
 
 Every man's own problem, whether of work or 
 worry or danger, fades to a very small signifi- 
 cance in the Catholic mind when placed beside 
 the idea of a soul's going before God unshriven. 
 The thought revolts the whole nature of the 
 Catholic. 
 
 The foundation, in human nature, of the same 
 thought terrifies every man in the world when 
 he thinks of dying. But only the Catholic 
 knows what it really means. The Protestant, 
 the Pagan, if he prays, asks not to die without a 
 loving hand to support his head and to close his 
 eyes. It is the only sacrament of love and for- 
 giveness and blessing that he knows about. 
 Whatever he may call it, his soul cringes in the 
 fear of dying unblessed. 
 
 From Father Driscoll, walking at the head of 
 the coffin, to the last Catholic child, trailing away 
 at the end of the procession, every soul was awed 
 and absorbed in that one idea that a life should 
 thus be snatched out of the world. Harry Loyd, 
 as a part of life, as a man who had been deliber- 
 ately murdered or had been killed by the acciden- 
 tal discharge of a gun in the hands of one of John
 
 "GOD LIVES" 145 
 
 Sargent's guards, could be forgotten for the 
 time. 
 
 The Catholic mind, trained as it is and steeped 
 in the Mysteries, the mind that is illumined, for 
 instance, to sense the Real Presence under the 
 veil of bread, looks naturally through the attend- 
 ant wrappings of death, sees the body tragedy 
 for what it is, but knows that the soul experience 
 is the reality. This is why and the outsider is 
 never able to understand it a crowd of Catholics 
 can walk the street and pray as unaffectedly as 
 if each were kneeling alone in the dark. It is not 
 mysticism in any usual sense. It is not mysti- 
 cism at all. Your Catholic is the veriest realist 
 of all the world. But the real for him has infi- 
 nitely wider meaning than it has for his neigh- 
 bors. That is the difference. 
 
 Jane Loyd knelt alone at the head of the coffin 
 when it had come to rest over the grave. So she 
 had walked alone all the way from her home to 
 the church and from the church here. Her grief 
 was her own. She was in every way the sister of 
 the big, grim man who had now for four months 
 been the body and soul of the strike in Milton 
 Jim Loyd, who was now in jail accused, falsely, 
 as all knew, of having conspired to blow up John 
 Sargent's mill. She was a tall, tense-faced, dark 
 girl, as like her elder brother as a woman is ever 
 like a man. Neither of them had ever thought
 
 146 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 of depending upon any one in the world for any- 
 thing. The young brother, Harry, had been her 
 care since the time when Jim Loyd had been big 
 enough to go to work in John Sargent's mill. 
 
 The mill had taken the years of her own girl- 
 hood and turned them into a mere succession of 
 gray, slavish days, which began and ended with 
 the punching of a clock. The mill had taken her 
 father. The mill had taken this brother, her 
 baby, from her. The mill and John Sargent, 
 under the name of law, had, in the very hour of 
 her speechless grief, taken her big brother from 
 her side. But none of these things had place in 
 her mind. They were the mere marks and hedg- 
 ings of life, some of them inevitable, some of 
 them the patent sins of men. 
 
 The reality was in following the soul of the 
 merry-eyed young brother as she had so many 
 times followed the ways of his busy little feet 
 up the high, dim path, to God. She had business 
 there. She had explanations to make. Certain 
 things must be made clear. God should know 
 that the boy had not had the best of chances. 
 Many times she had been tired at night and had 
 not seen that he learned his Catechism. She 
 was hard sometimes, she explained ; it was not al- 
 ways easy for her to be merry and laugh with 
 him; and he had always thought that life was a 
 laugh and a whistle and a little dance-step. He 
 was careless sometimes; but God must under- 
 stand that it was not that the boy did not care.
 
 "GOD LIVES" 147 
 
 He did care. But he forgot, sometimes ; all boys 
 forget. She had not been able to give him what 
 a mother could have given. His mother, she was 
 in Heaven, she could tell God of the things that 
 Jane had not known how to give. Or Mary, the 
 great Mother of all; she would know about these 
 things; she could tell. 
 
 Dean Driscoll, during the months while his peo- 
 ple had been engaged in a lif e-and-death struggle 
 in their strike against the Milton Machinery 
 Company and John Sargent, had often seen 
 cause for deep worry in the spread among them 
 of the talk and reading of Socialism. It was not 
 that he feared the direct effect of the arguments 
 of Socialism upon or against the Catholic faith 
 of his people. Certainly he did not believe that 
 Socialism as a doctrine, religious or unreligious, 
 would ever greatly interfere with the faith of 
 those he called his own Irish. He had lived a 
 long time, and had some very well-established 
 convictions. One of these was that an Irishman, 
 of however many generations removed from Ire- 
 land, if he ever loses his Catholic faith (Father 
 Driscoll had his private doubts of this ever hap- 
 pening), he loses it, not because he has found 
 something that suits him better he simply loses 
 it, without ever expecting anything to take its 
 place. 
 
 Father Huetter, educated in continental 
 Europe, and having charge of the Italians and
 
 148 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Poles, took the matter differently. He argued 
 with his men by the book, tooth and nail, night 
 and day, against the propaganda of Socialism. 
 The Dean, loving the restless fire of ardor in his 
 young assistant, and knowing that Father Huet- 
 ter understood the habits of mind and the former 
 environments of these peoples as he himself could 
 never hope to do, approved heartily. 
 
 With his own, the people whom he understood, 
 he rarely argued. He scarcely ever mentioned 
 Socialism by name in the pulpit. He did not 
 think that the names that things were called by 
 or the stringing of arguments would have any 
 real effect, one way or the other, with his kind of 
 people. 
 
 For Socialism as a distinct political entity he 
 saw no future whatever. He saw that wher- 
 ever representative government existed in the 
 world there was but one line of cleavage. That 
 line ran roughly and brokenly, of course, but 
 always effectively between those who wished to 
 go forward and those who wished to hold back. 
 Liberal and conservative, he said, was the only 
 lasting division of men. There was no room in 
 any country for more than these two parties. 
 The party that moved faster would sooner or 
 later sooner, perhaps, than any one imagined 
 absorb whatever was popular and economically 
 sound in Socialism. What was left would then 
 be negligible. 
 
 He had no concern about the outward work-
 
 "GOD LIVES' 3 149 
 
 ings of Socialism. But he feared the hardening 
 false realism which, under the name of ideals, 
 deifies the full stomach. He distrusted the rea- 
 soning which makes a demigod of the man who 
 labors with his hands, and which at the same 
 time curses labor as essentially evil. He read 
 his Genesis differently. He did not believe that 
 t he sweat of thy face was a curse. 
 
 He knew his people; he lived intimately in 
 their ideas and aspirations. He knew that hard 
 labor conditions were brutalizing and stunting 
 to moral and spiritual growth. But a constant 
 preachment that never raised men's eyes higher 
 than their stomachs, that was brutalizing, too. 
 
 He did not believe that a hungry or an over- 
 worked or an underpaid man was more spiritual 
 than a well-fed, physically contented one. The 
 gnawing of want is not good for any soul. But 
 he knew that the insistent demand for more and 
 ever more was turning the minds of men forever 
 upon the things of the body, wherein their hap- 
 piness could not and must not altogether lie. 
 
 When he looked into their faces now, however, 
 as they rose from their knees and gently crowded 
 up more closely round him, his fear was lifted. 
 Hunger he saw in those faces, and the results of 
 hunger. Lines he saw upon them, which months 
 of scanty feeding and haunting fears and wor- 
 ries had scraped deep. But beneath the lines 
 and in the depths of their eyes he saw shining the 
 light of unbounded confidence in God, the sure-
 
 150 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ness and the strength of His nearness. They 
 had gone into the far places following the soul of 
 the boy whom all had loved. They had talked 
 with God, each in his own way; and you could 
 see that each man had been understood. 
 
 The Dean, seeing and understanding, scarcely 
 dared open his lips. What was there to be said? 
 God lives! All else is little. This they had al- 
 ready seen, each for himself. 
 
 While the great crowd had been pouring out 
 of the church and the still greater crowd that had 
 not been able to get into the church was forming 
 itself into order for the march to the cemetery, 
 the coffin had halted a moment in the street. A 
 girl in a quiet gray dress had crowded, gently as 
 a ghost, into the ranks of men about the coffin, 
 until she was near enough to put out a slim, 
 work-hardened, little hand and pat the black box. 
 Then she had slipped away unobtrusively as she 
 had come. No one had noticed her. She was 
 merely the girl whom Harry Loyd had loved and 
 who had promised to be his wife. So she had no 
 place in the procession. Their engagement had 
 been their own secret, though the kindly house- 
 tops could have told all there was to know about 
 it. 
 
 They would have been married by now; but 
 the strike had swept away all the savings on 
 which they had been going to begin life ; for both, 
 trusting to life and health and love, had given
 
 "GOD LIVES" 151 
 
 unstintingly to those who had had no savings. 
 
 If John Sargent had really wished to know 
 what Harry Loyd had said last, before he had 
 "stepped off into the dark," he could probably 
 have found out. The boy had said: 
 
 "We'll have to wait a long time now, I guess, 
 Nonie. But if you're willing, you're worth wait- 
 ing for ; and old John W. Wait himself has noth- 
 ing on me." 
 
 So Nonie Gay lor had no place to walk in the 
 procession. 
 
 She stole away through the crowd, hiding her- 
 self as best she could. 
 
 The bell tolled out its measured gloom, and 
 there did not seem to be any place where she 
 could hide away from the sound of it. Then she 
 remembered a man who, too, would wish to run 
 from the sound of it, but who could not run. He 
 had to stay where he was. 
 
 It was a bold thing to do, bolder perhaps than 
 to have walked openly beside Jane Loyd in the 
 funeral. But Jim Loyd was the only person in 
 the world who would not pity her to-day. And 
 pity she could not meet. Jim Loyd would be 
 too busy with his own grief and fury to think of 
 her. She would go and see him. 
 
 Warden Wheeler, with a lot of unspoken 
 words just back of his lips, seated the girl in the 
 inner office of the jail and went to bring Loyd. 
 
 She had always been afraid of Jim Loyd, the 
 big, impatient man, with the chained fires that
 
 152 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 danced in his bold, black eyes. She had never 
 had more than a short word from him. 
 
 But when he came now, alone, and she saw the 
 naked, seared misery of his face, she knew that 
 she would never again be able to fear him. A 
 man who could suffer like that would never be 
 feared by a woman. 
 
 It was not that he was broken or shrunken. 
 He was as big and grim and strong-looking as 
 ever. But the fires of his eyes had turned to 
 burn inward, as though they raged upon his very 
 soul. And there was no light in the face, only 
 the blank gray of ashes over a bed of coals. 
 
 When she had looked once her own revolt was 
 stilled, and, as is the way of women ever, her own 
 sorrow welled up into a flood of mothering ten- 
 derness. 
 
 Loyd saw the look leap into her face, the look 
 of all the mothers of earth. And he stood 
 ashamed, so that the color came creeping back 
 into his face. This slender, motherless girl who 
 had lost all there was for her in the world, before 
 she had even had it, was still strong enough and 
 brave enough to carry pity to him! 
 
 "Why did you come here, child?" he said at 
 last. "This place is not good for you to-day." 
 
 "I could not walk in the street," she returned 
 slowly. "People would be looking and pitying. 
 There was no place for me. I could not stand it. 
 I touched his coffin with my hand and ran away
 
 "GOD LIVES" 153 
 
 ran away," she repeated softly, as though it 
 explained something. 
 
 Loyd understood and his quick heart was 
 touched to the depths, even as it had not been 
 touched by his own grief and suffering. Jane 
 would not have understood. It had always been 
 difficult for Jane to understand that any one but 
 herself could be anything to Harry. And if 
 she had understood what could she have said? 
 What could any one say? Where was there a 
 word out of all the words that men have made 
 that could be an answer to the pitiful question 
 in this girl's eyes? "Why?" "Why?" they 
 were saying. God had the answer hidden. 
 
 They sat a while in silence, neither of them 
 thinking. There was nothing to be thought 
 about. Then Loyd suddenly said: 
 
 "Nonie, did you say your prayers?" 
 
 She looked up startled, as though he had 
 broken in upon some secret. Then she broke 
 out: 
 
 "I didn't! I didn't! I didn't say a prayer or 
 cry a tear since since I sent a prayer after him 
 down the road. And the answer was a shot!" 
 
 "Steady, steady, little girl. I haven't said a 
 prayer either. Couldn't we couldn't we try it 
 now?" 
 
 She looked at him for a long moment. Then 
 she buried her face in her hands and the great 
 relieving sobs of youth came crowding up into
 
 154 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 her throat. Loyd had found the best word for 
 her. 
 
 When she had quieted a little, she went fum- 
 bling in the little bag that hung from her wrist 
 and found her beads. And, Loyd supporting 
 and steadying her, these two, so far apart and 
 different in everything, walked up and down the 
 floor of that strange place, telling between them 
 the Way from Gethsemane to Calvary. 
 
 So John Sargent, knocking and quickly step- 
 ping into the room, found them. 
 
 Loyd turned fiercely. Out of the few mo- 
 ments of peace and heart's ease, the first that he 
 had found in many days, all the brute ravaging 
 forces of his wild temper sprang with tenfold 
 fury. Was this man to haunt him forever, to 
 follow him down even into the secret place of his 
 soul and mock him? There he stood now. 
 Why not end it? Only a table stood in the way. 
 
 Sargent sat down quietly at the table. He 
 was not consciously doing the right thing, the 
 safe thing. He merely wanted to think. 
 
 These two had undoubtedly been saying their 
 prayers. Now, just at the moment, he could not 
 think of any two people who had less reason to 
 pray, or who would be less likely to be found 
 praying. 
 
 He admitted that he did not understand it. 
 
 Nonie Gaylor was the first to speak. 
 
 "Mr, Sargent," she said, "why have you come 
 here? You had no right to come. If you have
 
 "GOD LIVES" 155 
 
 come to laugh at Mr. Loyd, God will laugh at 
 
 you." 
 
 Now there it was again. God had laughed at 
 herfor no apparent good reason had just 
 playfully flicked the untasted cup of life away 
 from her lips. And yet she looked confidently 
 back up to Him, for justice. But Sargent did 
 not confide to her any of these reflections. 
 
 "My girl," he answered, "if I told you the 
 truth you wouldn't believe it. I'm not sure that 
 I'd believe it myself. I rarely tell the truth 
 it's so useless, and wasteful. 
 
 "'Sit down, Loyd," he said, turning in his chair. 
 "You can't lay a hand on me while I'm sitting 
 down. You simply couldn't. We both know 
 it." 
 
 Quivering in every limb, Loyd sat down 
 weakly. In the face of John Sargent's balking 
 coolness his passions had burned themselves out. 
 
 "No," Sargent continued, "I didn't come here 
 to jeer. I wasn't in the mood for it this morn- 
 ing. As I said, I'm not going to tell you the 
 truth about why I did come, for I'm not sure my- 
 self. But, now that I'm here, there's a proposi- 
 tion in my mind. I'm going to show it to you, 
 Loyd; and if you can't see reason in it, maybe 
 this girl here can." 
 
 Loyd sat staring dully, his mind going round 
 in a caged circle. 
 
 "You have heard," Sargent went on, squaring 
 his elbows on the table, "what the Governor and
 
 156 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the State troops are doing and expecting to do 
 here. The town is under martial law already. 
 Before night they will take possession of my mill 
 and attempt to run it, under martial law. They 
 can run it. The men will go back to work to- 
 morrow and the wheels will turn round the 
 river will do that much. But where are they go- 
 ing to get money for as much as a single pay-roll? 
 There is no stock to be sold. And if there were, 
 there is not a bank in the country that would dare 
 advance a dollar on it. They have no materials. 
 The steel interests of the country are bigger than 
 Governor Gordon Fuller and all the governors 
 in the nation. They wouldn't sell him or the 
 manager he sends here a pound of steel if it 
 would save his life. 
 
 "The men will go back to work at the old con- 
 ditions and worse, and when they have marked 
 time for a week and find that there's no money 
 for them, where will things be then? 
 
 "Now if you will call this strike off at once I 
 will put up my notices granting all the demands 
 you made in the beginning, and a five per cent, 
 increase." 
 
 "You said you did not expect to be believed," 
 said Loyd. "What's the truth?" 
 
 "I did say that, didn't I? Well, it won't do 
 any good, but I'll break my rule for once. This 
 is the truth. This plan of the Governor's to con- 
 fiscate my property and make me arbitrate with 
 you, is going to fail. It's bound to fail because
 
 "GOD LIVES" 157, 
 
 capital will hold together in its own interest, and 
 the Governor will not be able to get the money to 
 run it. Your old priest here gave the Governor 
 the idea, but, as would happen with a spiritual- 
 minded man, he forgot to tell him where the 
 money was to be got. But the thing is possible. 
 If it is given a try now and fails for lack of 
 money, some other governor, or a president, 
 maybe, will try it and remember to procure the 
 money beforehand. Then it will succeed. 
 
 "Once it does, private property might as well 
 not exist in this country. There will come a 
 seven-year plague of carpetbagging government 
 officials who, at the first sign of labor trouble, 
 will camp on and practically confiscate every 
 man's plant. It will bring on a reign of graft 
 and incompetence and mischief that will ruin the 
 country. When it is over, labor will find itself 
 back where it was twenty years ago, not biting 
 the hand that feeds it as it is to-day but beg- 
 ging, begging, I tell you, for anything to do. 
 
 "I am right. And I'm telling you the truth. 
 Will you do as I say?" 
 
 Loyd shook his head slowly. He could not 
 see through all of the argument. But he was 
 not trying. He was not interested in it. 
 
 "No," he said. "Your proposition is no good 
 to me. I had a better one last night and I gave 
 it up." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "To go out of here where you have put me
 
 158 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the door was open and with the four thousand 
 men at my command take for our own your mill 
 and your three banks here that would have 
 given us the money you say the Governor lacks 
 and your stores and trolley cars.'* 
 
 "Every mother's son of you would have been 
 shot down," exclaimed Sargent. 
 
 "I'm not so sure. The militia is not so ready 
 to kill as your guards are." Sargent flushed 
 suddenly and Nonie Gaylor shuddered. 
 
 "We might have lost," Loyd went on. "We 
 might have won. We might have forced a com- 
 promise. But whether we lost or won or what, 
 we would have taken care to ruin you. That was 
 the only part I was really interested in. Then 
 the future of labor or capital wouldn't have both- 
 ered you. You'd have shot yourself. The cow- 
 ards of your class always do that. It's easier 
 than living on your own merits." 
 
 Sargent winced and pressed the tips of his 
 fingers down hard on the table. It was the echo 
 of a thought that had sometimes come to him on 
 gloomy, neurotic nights. Some men said it was 
 the only proper way, when debts could not be 
 paid. He himself had once said speaking of 
 another man who had failed ignominiously and 
 dragged friends down with him that the short- 
 est way out was the best. But Loyd's blunt way 
 of putting it was too much. He gathered him- 
 self, and asked:
 
 "GOD LIVES" 159 
 
 "Why didn't you go through with this excel- 
 lent plan of yours?" 
 
 "A good man, who loved me, stopped me. I 
 don't know whether I'm glad or not. Anyway, 
 he stopped me." 
 
 "The priest again, I suppose," mused Sargent. 
 "It strikes me that I'm piling up a high score 
 with that old gentleman." 
 
 "I saw him save your life once," said Loyd. 
 
 "I remember that. And now he has saved my 
 property. It only remains for him to save my 
 soul." 
 
 "Don't jest, Mr. Sargent," pleaded Nonie; 
 "it's too horrible." 
 
 "My girl, I'm a long way from jesting." 
 
 He sat looking straight ahead of him for some 
 minutes. But he did not give any account of 
 what he saw. Finally he said: 
 
 "The man who shot Harry Loyd did it either 
 by accident or in a sudden fright. Those men 
 had my orders not to shoot. They were there 
 to provoke and to be shot at. 
 
 "My class, as you call it in your Socialist 
 lingo, has always to use the law. Why should it 
 not? It pays for law and makes government 
 possible. 
 
 "Now comes this young Governor, turning up- 
 side down the Constitution of the State. In the 
 end it will debauch and demoralize government. 
 It will hurt my class. But it will bring years of
 
 160 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 suffering and misery upon yours. You can 
 reach out and stop it. Will you do it?" 
 
 "No. The Governor's plan can have its trial. 
 I don't believe much in it, for I know what you 
 can do with money. But, Mr. Sargent, believe 
 me, you'd better help him with both hands. For 
 when his plan fails, it will be time to try mine."' 
 
 "Miss Gaylor," said Sargent, turning, "can't 
 you tell this man that he is crazy; that all he 
 really wants is his own headlong way to ruin us 
 all!"* 
 
 "I do not understand anything about it, Mr. 
 Sargent," Nonie answered in a dead, leaden 
 voice. "It is all talk to me. I do not under- 
 stand it, I suppose, because I am ignorant. I 
 went into your mill when I was just past thir- 
 teen. I have been there running winders for 
 you ever since. It's only seven years, but it 
 might as well be seven thousand. 
 
 "Two years ago they put me in charge of that 
 room. In that time they say that I have nearly 
 doubled the earning capacity of that room. I 
 do not know what that means. It never meant 
 anything to me. I suppose it means that I know 
 how to make other girls waste less and work 
 harder and faster than any one could ever make 
 them do before. I don't know why I did it. I 
 don't want to see them work any faster or harder 
 than they have to. But I go on pushing them 
 always. I don't do it for you. I wouldn't care 
 if you were losing money.
 
 "GOD LIVES" 161 
 
 "And I suppose I'll go right on. I don't 
 know why. For the right to live? I never 
 much cared to live, except for Harry Loyd. 
 Now I suppose I'll go on just the same. 
 
 "No. I don't think the women who work in 
 your mill care much, or that they're much afraid 
 of Socialism or any other change that could 
 come. They don't know what it would mean. 
 And they can't think that it would be any worse. 
 We go on, I think, because, somehow, we keep 
 on believing that God is still alive. I don't know 
 any more than that." 
 
 Then John Sargent got up and went away. 
 
 Out in the street, he reflected: "Now it 
 would be interesting to know what those two 
 people were praying for. He wouldn't ask for 
 anything. And she doesn't hope for anything. 
 Yet yet I don't know. I don't understand."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 THE REV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 
 
 4 '\\ 7HY, Dean, the delusion is as old as the 
 * * race of men. Ever since one man began 
 to work for another, government, in some form, 
 has been trying to come between them to keep 
 one from gouging the other. It has never suc- 
 ceeded, and it never will; because the price of 
 labor is simply the wages for which a man is 
 obliged to work. If he did not have to work he 
 would not work at all, at any price. If the em- 
 ployer could get help for nothing he would not 
 give any wages. There is only one question, and 
 it is its own answer How acutely does one need 
 what the other has? 
 
 "Even Moses when he struck the rock did not 
 expect the water to run uphill." 
 
 The Rev. Doctor Hilliard was a teacher of 
 Sociology and Economics in the University. 
 He had been up in the hill country gathering 
 data on the subject of abandoned farms, which 
 he proposed to use in a book dealing with the 
 causes and effects of the movement of our people 
 toward the cities. He had stopped over the 
 
 night with Dean Driscoll and Father Huetter 
 
 102
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR BILLIARD 163 
 
 in Milton, and he was much interested in the ex- 
 periment which the Governor and the State 
 forces had inaugurated in the strike situation 
 there. 
 
 To him, the action of the Governor in taking 
 charge of the Milton Machinery Company's 
 plant and putting the men back to work under 
 martial law was heresy, rank, headless, baseless. 
 It broke the first canon of economic law, the law 
 of supply and demand. 
 
 The habit of the lecture-room never quite fell 
 from the Doctor's shoulders, and now, launched 
 into a subject on which he could give chapter and 
 verse, he was cathedral in his pronouncements. 
 
 The Dean appeared to be only mildly inter- 
 ested. He himself had asked the Governor to 
 take the steps that had been taken, because he 
 believed it to be the only way to save his people 
 from starvation and crime. He had a deep 
 reverence for the glories of the University; but 
 where his people were concerned he would have 
 traded the intellectual approval of the entire fac- 
 ulty for a few carloads of potatoes. 
 
 Father Huetter, however, was bursting with 
 indignant argumentation in defense of the Dean. 
 But the Doctor was not to be waylaid. 
 
 "It is the same foolish old attempt," he orated, 
 "that has been made everywhere, to rule eco- 
 nomic forces by politics and sentiment. It can- 
 not be done and everybody knows that it cannot; 
 but government goes right on trying it.
 
 164 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Wherever there is trouble the cry rises that gov- 
 ernment must do something. Government knows 
 that it can do nothing, but it has to make some 
 show of busying itself. Government can no 
 more divide the tides of want and plenty than it 
 can level the tides of the sea. Both tides follow 
 fixed laws. Depression and scarcity follow 
 overproduction and waste, as surely as ebb fol- 
 lows flow." 
 
 "And has your Economics," broke in Father 
 Huetter, "taken all this time to find out only 
 that? Has it no preventive, or not even a 
 remedy to offer?" 
 
 "There is no remedy," returned the Doctor 
 didactically, "and certainly no preventive, for 
 inherent conditions. Production- business, you 
 call it has long periods of work when it is fever- 
 ishly turning out more than the world really 
 needs. Capital and Labor then need each other. 
 Capital, during this time, is prudent. It piles 
 up resources which it knows it will need in the 
 time when markets become over-fed. Labor, 
 during the good time, is confident, fatuous. It 
 takes no heed. It accumulates nothing. When 
 the period of depression comes, Labor suffers. 
 It is inevitable." 
 
 "But," said Father Huetter, "it is hardly pos- 
 sible for the laborer to accumulate anything, even 
 at the best. His family grows up about him. 
 He is bound to give them the best he can at all 
 times."
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 165 
 
 "There is just where the social fallacies of the 
 country come in to disturb the economic balance. 
 Who is to say what is the best for the family of 
 a workingman, and that his family must have 
 that best always at the cost of everything that 
 he can earn? Two families live side by side in 
 neighboring houses. Their supporters work 
 side by side at the same machines. Each family 
 knows to a penny what the other receives. Yet 
 each family spends its life trying to deceive the 
 other and to impress the other with the idea that 
 it can spend more than the other. They pay for 
 this by suffering, when the demand for labor 
 ceases." 
 
 "But Labor does not receive its due share of 
 the profits of prosperity." 
 
 "Would it make any real difference if Labor 
 were to receive fifty per cent., a hundred per 
 cent., more of the profits than it does? Would 
 not the race of family and social competition still 
 go on? When a man ceases to earn, does it 
 make any difference whether he has been receiv- 
 ing, and spending, five thousand a year or five 
 hundred? I think not. 
 
 "Your Socialist harks back to the time when 
 there were no machines, no concentration of La- 
 bor in factories, when every man had his own bit 
 of land or his own tools to work with. Was not 
 the summer's fecundity followed by the winter's 
 blast, then as now? 
 
 "Did not the time come, then as now, when
 
 166 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the workman found no more demand for the 
 work of his tools ? It did. But, in that day, the 
 man was more provident. He had the sense of 
 individual responsibility. He realized that the 
 winter, the time of unproductiveness, was com- 
 ing, and that it was his business to look forward 
 to that time. 
 
 "To-day he is willing to shift that responsi- 
 bility from himself to the shoulders of organized 
 industry. He forgets that he is an individual, a 
 head of family, a provider ; and he goes on heed- 
 lessly living, hand to mouth, on what the machine 
 daily grinds out for him. 
 
 "When Capital sees the dull time coming, it 
 begins to retrench, to cut down things here and 
 there. Labor, seeing nothing in this but injus- 
 tice and greed, decides to strike to teach Capi- 
 tal a lesson. Labor is doing just what Capital 
 expected and wished it to do. Capital had al- 
 ready decided to stop work for a while. 
 
 "Then Labor, unready and beginning to suf- 
 fer, cries out against the oppressor. Govern- 
 ment the fetish of the improvident and the 
 thoughtless government must do something! 
 
 "But what? Can government wave a hand 
 and create a demand for goods with which 
 the markets of the country are already over- 
 supplied? Government is not a magician. It 
 is, at best, only a sleepy-eyed policeman. It is 
 absolutely powerless in the face of economic laws, 
 in the making of which it had no hand."
 
 THE EEV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 167 
 
 "It is all clear very clear," said Father 
 Huetter. "But the people were starving." 
 
 "Oh, not that," the Doctor assured them 
 largely, "it never comes to that. There is always 
 relief. Your city authorities, your county au- 
 thorities no one really has to be hungry in this 
 country." 
 
 "Authorities?" Father Huetter fairly 
 snapped at the word. "Do you realize, Doctor, 
 that every official of this town is a creation of 
 the Milton Machinery Company, of John Sar- 
 gent; and it is the same in Mohawk County? 
 Do you think that our men or women could take 
 begrudged charity relief from them? If you 
 know anything of the character of our people, 
 you know that they would starve first." 
 
 "But, why? Why should these things be so? 
 Do not your people elect their own officials? 
 The machinery of election is always in the hands 
 of the majority. They are the majority. No 
 one can interfere with them in* their sacred right 
 of suffrage!" 
 
 "Live in a one-mill town, and say that!" said 
 Father Huetter shortly. "We are getting away 
 from the point. The people were in want, acute 
 want. I know families whose tables have not 
 seen a piece of meat for over two months. 
 Would it interest them if you told them that they 
 had been breaking economic laws by not saving 
 during the good times of the last two or three 
 years? Do you think that they have not per-
 
 168 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 haps guessed something like that for them- 
 selves ? 
 
 "Last night I was called to a boy twelve years 
 old. He had been thrown off a moving train of 
 coal-cars. He had jumped the train up near 
 the cross-over of the O. & W. He had a small 
 bag which he was going to fill with coal and 
 throw off as the train passed near his house. He 
 had the bag nearly filled when a brakeman came 
 along over the cars. He threw the bag off be- 
 fore the man reached him, and, in the scuffle, the 
 boy either fell or was thrown off on his head. 
 They thought his neck was broken. 
 
 "As soon as he was revived, he whispered to 
 his smaller brother, telling him where the coal 
 was and that he should go and fetch it home. 
 When the little fellow went to look, the coal was 
 gone. You see, somebody else needed the coal 
 too. The neighbors brought in wood enough for 
 the boy's mother to heat water for the doctor. 
 And the cold weather has not yet come," he 
 added gloomily. 
 
 These lawless details, however, had no place 
 in the Reverend Doctor's large view of things. 
 They were the necessary accompaniments of 
 economic misunderstanding everywhere. They 
 proved nothing but what he had been saying, that 
 laboring people working in large communities 
 were become improvident; that they could not, 
 of course, be prepared for a long period of idle- 
 ness. During the long, busy times they forgot;
 
 THE EEV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 169 
 
 they would not make the sacrifices necessary to 
 gather a surplus which would tide them over the 
 coming period of reaction. They could not be 
 made to believe that the time of scarcity would 
 inevitably come. They were the victims of their 
 own irresponsibility, their false sense of security. 
 
 "There is something, however," the Doctor 
 went on, stepping lightly over Father Huetter's 
 irrelevance, "something that even our govern- 
 ment, unwieldly and irresponsive as it is, might 
 do. It has been done by Germany, with marked 
 success. And England has done it. Those 
 governments have, to be sure, an unhampered 
 central executive power which ours does not pos- 
 sess. Still, a great deal might be done here. 
 
 "It is this. The country is very large. One 
 section of it scarcely knows what another section 
 is doing. There is always an enormous waste of 
 Capital and of Labor, resulting from the fact 
 that in many parts of the country employers are 
 calling for help and cannot get it, whilst in other 
 places men are idle. Government should know 
 this; it should regulate it. There should be a 
 real bureau of employment which would see to 
 the distribution of laboring men throughout the 
 country to the places where they are needed. 
 They should be moved freely to wherever there is 
 a market for them." 
 
 "But, my dear Doctor," said the Dean, turn- 
 ing at last, "my people are not Gypsies. They 
 live here. They have their right to live here.
 
 170 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 They have their families and their little homes 
 here. They have put down their roots here. Is 
 civilization such a failure that they must rove 
 from hunting-ground to hunting-ground, from 
 pasture to pasture? Might^they not as well go 
 back at once, then, to tribal life?" 
 
 "The same economic conditions and the same 
 economic laws exist now as did then. All must 
 bow to them," said the Doctor positively. 
 
 "That answer would do very well," returned 
 the Dean, "were it not for three things: first, the 
 same economic conditions do not exist; second, 
 the same economic laws are not in force; third, 
 nobody will bow to them." 
 
 This was too point-blank for the Doctor. It 
 was discouraging. He would have to go all over 
 the ground again. But he was a patient man 
 and just. The Dean was old; his mind was af- 
 fected by the nearness of his people's trouble; 
 and, above all, he had not read the proper au- 
 thorities. He must be taught as a beginner. 
 
 "Surely, Dean," the Doctor began, on the 
 firmest ground, "you are ready to admit that the 
 prosperity of your town and its people and the 
 good of the whole valley depend upon the mill 
 here being allowed to develop itself in the best 
 way, up to its fullest capacity." 
 
 "Yes," agreed the Dean. 
 
 "And only the mill-owner can do that " 
 
 "Who is the mill-owner?" the Dean queried. 
 
 "Why, the company, the corporation, I sup-
 
 THE EEV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 171 
 
 pose, headed by Mr. Sargent. Is that not 
 right?" 
 
 "I do not know," said the old priest, measur- 
 ing a long forearm carefully along the edge of 
 his desk. "I do not know, I have never been 
 able to settle it in my mind. I am going to lay 
 the question before you, for an expert opinion." 
 
 The old priest sat back marshaling the points 
 of the case into order. 
 
 "Thirty-seven years ago last spring," he be- 
 gan, "Milton Sargent, John Sargent's father, 
 was down there by the river at a little forge, ham- 
 mering out a plow by hand. He was a bright, 
 clever workman, but a lazy man by nature. One 
 warm day an idea came to him. It would be 
 far easier to have a dam built in the river and a 
 wheel put in that would drive his hammer and 
 blow his bellows. 
 
 "He went to the small farmers about here and 
 talked to them. Michael Gallagher, the great- 
 grandfather of the boy that Father Huetter told 
 you about a minute ago, lent him the first hun- 
 dred dollars that he, Sargent, ever saw. I tell 
 you he could talk money out of a feather tick. 
 Everybody lent him money. 
 
 "He came to me. I called my trustees. We 
 had a little money that we had gathered to start 
 a church some time. We would not be ready 
 to use the money for three or four years, maybe. 
 We could see that Sargent's mill was bound to 
 make money, plenty of it. The woods were be-
 
 172 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ing cut down broadcast. The farmers were 
 pushing up into the hill lands, and there was 
 already a heavy demand for farming machinery. 
 We could not lose. We would get our money 
 back, and double, before we should ever need it. 
 
 "I was a young man in that day. Naturally, 
 I knew a great deal more of the world than I 
 do now. We turned in to Sargent all the money 
 we had, three hundred dollars. Every one who 
 had money did the same. He got the water 
 rights from the State and the two townships 
 here for little or nothing. The farmers and 
 woodsmen turned in and hauled logs and rock 
 for the dam and the mill. 
 
 "Just as the mill was finished and the ma- 
 chinery on the way here, Milton Sargent failed. 
 The blow struck heavy, for the dollars came 
 grudgingly out of the hillsides in those days. 
 But the country was new and the people were 
 young. They did not mourn long. In their 
 first anger they chased Milton Sargent out of 
 the countryside. Then they turned back to look 
 at the mill, standing gaping there, and at the 
 water running idly over the dam. All they said 
 was 'Sargent's Folly,' and they went back to 
 their work. 
 
 "The property dam, water rights, and all 
 was put up for sale by the sheriff. Milton Sar- 
 gent's sister brought it for a trifle of the money 
 that had been put up, at a fixed sale. The firms 
 that had furnished the machinery got the money,
 
 THE EEV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 173 
 
 for theirs were the only claims that were prop- 
 erly secured. As I said, we were young in that 
 day. 
 
 "My poor old father came up here about that 
 time, to look me over. He found what I had 
 done with the church fund. He turned straight 
 round, went back to Albany, and got three hun- 
 dred dollars. Dear knows where. He was back 
 in five days and put the money in my hand, with 
 a look in his eye that I have never forgotten. 
 I believe it was the lasting sorrow of that honest 
 man's life that he could not, out of respect for the 
 clergy, flog me as I deserved. God rest him! 
 I hope I got the lesson, anyhow. 
 
 "To get back Milton Sargent appeared 
 quietly in the mill that belonged, nominally, to 
 his sister. He started the machinery and set 
 men to work, the very men whose money had 
 paid for the machines. To-day the physical 
 valuation of the property, on the assessor's rolls, 
 is one million, three hundred thousand dollars. 
 It could not be bought for four times that sum. 
 
 "I hope I don't tire you?" 
 
 Father Huetter, who had never heard the 
 whole of this history, begged for more. But 
 Doctor Hilliard maintained a judicial patience. 
 Already he could scent the heresy to which the 
 Dean was working, but he merely nodded to him 
 to go on. 
 
 "My difficulty has always been this," the Dean 
 summed up. "On that May morning when Mil-
 
 174 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ton Sargent got his idea, he did not have ten dol- 
 lars to his name. From that day to the day he 
 died he never did a tap of work that would pro- 
 duce a cent. His sister had no money to put in. 
 No one of the Sargent name ever put a thing into 
 that property except nerve and the knowledge 
 of how to use other people's money and work and 
 brains. In common justice, then, who is the 
 owner of that mill? I do not know. Do you?" 
 
 "The system of civilization under which we 
 live," the Doctor pronounced, "judges that it be- 
 longs to John Sargent. If others, under that 
 system, lost their rights, through their own gross 
 carelessness, who is to be blamed? The system? 
 
 "If the system is wrong, it should be changed. 
 But so long as it is the law of the land it must be 
 held sacred." 
 
 "I had that answer," said the Dean, "from an 
 old justice of the peace, thirty-seven years ago. 
 I thought maybe something might have been 
 learned since." 
 
 "I see what you mean, Dean," the Doctor ad- 
 mitted patiently. "You are trying to say that be- 
 cause the Sargents have used the people to build 
 up their great plant here, therefore the plant 
 should belong to the people. Every Socialist, 
 from Karl Marx down to Allan Benson, could 
 quote you miles of figures and statistics of un- 
 earned profits to prove the same thing. But it 
 is not sound. The facts, the law, and even the 
 equity, are all on the other side.
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR BILLIARD 175 
 
 "As for the facts. Where would Milton be 
 to-day, if the elder Sargent had not had the 
 brains and the shrewdness to develop it? It was 
 Jangen's Ford then, and it would be Jangen's 
 Ford to-day, or worse. Where would be your 
 fine little city and your schools and your grand 
 churches? Your great water-power would, per- 
 haps, be running a one-horse grist-mill employ- 
 ing two men and a boy. 
 
 "The law. You know how that is. 
 
 "The equity. You say that your people have 
 given the S argents a fortune. That is true. 
 But has not that fortune, except the very small 
 percentage which the S argents have spent, come 
 right back into the mill here. For what? Has 
 it not come back to give more and more people 
 a better living than they would have had other- 
 wise ? Do not your own native people here have 
 a better life, a more social one, "with more advan- 
 tages, than they could ever work out for them- 
 selves on the farms ? The fact that they will not 
 stay on the farms proves it. And is it not a 
 blessing and a godsend for the people whom 
 Father Huetter attends to be able to come here 
 and find abundant work for their hands, at wages 
 they never dreamed of at home. Who made, 
 and who still makes, all this possible? The Sar- 
 gent money." 
 
 "Yes," Father Huetter said bitingly. "It is 
 a noble blessing. Last year I signed age cer- 
 tificates for more than a hundred little girls, in
 
 176 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 order that they might go to work for John Sar- 
 ent the moment they were fourteen. The State 
 compels them to go to school twenty weeks of the 
 year. They can work the other thirty-two. 
 And I signed as many more for girls of sixteen, 
 so that they could work all the year. Father 
 Driscoll signed as many for your Irish- American 
 girls. 
 
 "Now if those little girls were growing up in 
 Ireland or in Italy or in Poland or Hungary, 
 they would have to work some, too. But the 
 conditions would be as different as day from 
 night. Over there, they would be working with 
 their own, helping their fathers and their broth- 
 ers. They would be out in the fields ; they would 
 be out in God's air and sunshine, filling out their 
 frames and strengthening their lungs. The sun 
 and the wind would be driving up into their 
 cheeks the strong pulses of peasant blood, the 
 life of the race. 
 
 "Here, you can see them hurrying, shivering 
 and half -nourished, through the dark of an early 
 morning drizzle, to shut themselves into John 
 Sargent's mill. There they stand all day long 
 at machines, their nerves forever on a rack; for 
 a false move, a careless dropping of a hand, a 
 loose strand of hair, may drag them into one of 
 those machines, to death or mutilation. They 
 stand all day, in damp clothes, gasping steam 
 and twine dust, and coughing away their weak-
 
 THE REF. DOCTOR HILLIARD 177 
 
 ened lungs. Yes. Theirs is a glorious heritage 
 of freedom! And who will pay? 
 
 "This purse-proud, flamboyant young nation 
 boasting of how much it can afford to waste, 
 and still beat the world it will pay ! It will pay 
 in the weakness and the degeneracy of untold 
 generations to come. 
 
 "Did you ever, Doctor, in all your readings of 
 Sociology, in civilization or in savagery, come 
 across a time and place where the young females 
 of the race were herded out to destruction in this 
 way? Why, there was never a tribe so savage 
 or so besotted as not to know that, if it would 
 live, it must above all other things guard the 
 health and vitality of its girls. 
 
 "And do you think that the fathers and moth- 
 ers here do not know this same thing? They do. 
 But the grind of living, the race for mere exist- 
 ence is so close that the young ones have to be 
 driven out to help." 
 
 "But," objected the Doctor, "there is no real 
 need for all this. In the majority of cases the 
 children if there were real economy in the 
 homes 1 would not have to go out. Most often 
 it is the children themselves who want more than 
 their parents can give, and they insist on going 
 out to work. The girls want to dress and the 
 boys want money to spend for themselves. It is 
 the same race, the competition with each other, 
 to outshine each other, that drives them so hard."
 
 178 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Some of that might be true with the boys," 
 Father Huetter admitted. "They are some- 
 times willing to get out of school. But it is not 
 so with the girls. They do not want to leave 
 school. They want the dresses, yes. But they 
 know what they are doing when they have to 
 leave school. Never imagine that they don't. 
 They know, the old-eyed little women, wise be- 
 fore their time; they know that when they have 
 to leave before high school, they are giving up a 
 girl's best part of the race in life education, re- 
 finement, social acquaintance. They know what 
 they are doing, when they give it all up and 
 drop into the blunting, stupefying round of 
 John Sargent's treadmill. But the reason is a 
 stronger one than dress. 
 
 "These little girls have been hampered and 
 held back in their school work by other babies 
 clamoring up behind them. They have to give 
 their time and their little strength, which they 
 should have had for study, to these others. 
 And, just as soon as the law lets them, they have 
 to drop the babies and hurry out to earn for 
 them. 
 
 "There is more than that. Many a little girl 
 has to leave school and give up her own pitiful 
 chance in life because there is another baby com- 
 ing into the family. An unborn mouth is cry- 
 ing. Would it surprise you if before she is 
 working in the mill very long that little girl
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR MILLIARD 179 
 
 should begin to question just why that particular 
 baby had to be born? 
 
 "That question is to-day the hardest of all the 
 hard ones that the confessor has to answer. 
 And, under the force of example around, and the 
 force of this terrible battle of the poor for life, 
 it is every day getting harder and harder to an- 
 swer." 
 
 "But you are getting away from- " 
 
 "I am not." Father Huetter, apparently, 
 had not yet begun to fight. "I am getting away 
 from nothing. I am getting to the vital, underly- 
 ing things, the real things, the things that make 
 this struggle of ours a terrible one one that 
 threatens State and nation, that threatens the 
 lives of rich and poor, and one that threatens the 
 Church of Christ! 
 
 "You say the poor should be willing to live 
 more economically, and save when they are earn- 
 ing. Does that touch the question? They do 
 not save. They cannot save. And who shall 
 tell them that they must save? Who shall for- 
 bid them to snatch what little they can out of 
 life as it rushes by them? To-morrow John Sar- 
 gent's mill may kill them. You students and 
 lawgivers announce your verdict, place the 
 blame, and go back to your books. Have you 
 changed anything? 
 
 "The Dean appeals to the Governor: 'My 
 people are starving and desperate. If you do
 
 180 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 not give them work and food they will kill and be 
 killed. Put them to work somehow, what mat- 
 ters how? Tide them over this crisis and they 
 will get on, until the next crisis.' He is right. 
 He does the thing of the hour to save the life 
 and prevent the suffering of the hour." 
 
 "It is a makeshift," urged the Doctor; "an ex- 
 periment, foredoomed to futility." 
 
 "You are academic," Father Huetter swept 
 on; "he is expedient. Neither comes near the 
 root of the trouble. 
 
 "He, because Milton has been his life and his 
 work, does not look farther than this town and 
 this one struggle. You, because there is a strike, 
 and because it is only at the time of strikes that 
 you hear the noise of the grinding of human 
 lives, you think that these are the only times 
 when people suffer. 
 
 "I tell you this struggle is going on forever, 
 day and night, in every mill town of this whole 
 country. In a town like this, where one man 
 owns or controls every money-making thing in 
 it, the struggle becomes bitter, personal, mur- 
 derous. 
 
 "And everywhere, where a man pushes tired 
 legs under a scanty table, where men talk to- 
 gether, and even where women haggle over the 
 price of chuck and soup-bones, an idea is work- 
 ing. 
 
 "Did you read the last report of the United
 
 THE REV, DOCTOR HILLIARD 181 
 
 States Commissioner of Commerce and Labor?" 
 
 "I did," said the Doctor. 
 
 "What percentage, according to that report, 
 of the earnings of industry comes back to the 
 laborer in the form of wages?" 
 
 "Seventeen to twenty-one per cent.," the Doc- 
 tor quoted. 
 
 "Averaging less than one-fifth, then," said 
 Father Huetter. "And what part does the la- 
 bor element contribute in actual production? 
 Just what does the work of the men employed 
 amount to?" 
 
 "Well, it varies in the different industries." 
 Doctor Hilliard considered. "It rarely goes be- 
 low fifty per cent., and in some industries goes as 
 high as sixty-five." 
 
 "Very good. The rest is credited to interest 
 on investment; to a high salary to the owner, as 
 manager; to power and light, and so on; to sell- 
 ing and distributing expenses; to such inciden- 
 tal charges as legislation and campaign contribu- 
 tions. It covers everything, in fact, except the 
 work of the men. Is that correct?" 
 
 "Practically. It covers everything except 
 wear and deterioration of machinery. And 
 since old machinery is generally replaced by im- 
 proved machinery, which increases the output or 
 lessens costs, that item almost balances itself." 
 
 "So," said Father Huetter, "we can strip it 
 down to this the laborer, with his bare hands
 
 182 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 and intelligence, earns fifty or sixty dollars. He 
 gets seventeen to twenty-one. Why does he not 
 get fifty?" 
 
 "Money is money," the Doctor answered crypt- 
 ically. "Power is power. The owner can get 
 men to earn fifty for him by paying them seven- 
 teen. He does it. Do you expect him to do 
 otherwise?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then," said the Doctor conclusively, "we are 
 Hack where I began: Capital pays what it has 
 to; Labor gets what it can." 
 
 "Just where I wanted to get," Father Huetter 
 agreed. "You admit, then, that the economic 
 law, which you set up as the Grand Poohbah, is 
 not a law at all, but just an accident of our sys- 
 tem by which the strong and resourceful one can 
 force the weak and resourceless many to give 
 him two-thirds of their earnings." 
 
 "The law like our whole civilization rests 
 on private ownership." The Doctor was undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 "And when, in view of the Dean's story, did 
 old Milton Sargent cease to be a thieving bank- 
 rupt and become a private owner? He had 
 nothing in the beginning. He produced noth- 
 ing that he did not acquire by trickery and an 
 accidental weakness in our criminal law. Just 
 at what point in the progress of this mill did Mil- 
 ton Sargent or his son become divinely appointed 
 owner of anything? It was fraud and trickery
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 183 
 
 in the beginning. It was fraud and coercion in 
 the process to-day. Does your law and does our 
 civilization rest on that?" 
 
 "But," said the Doctor wearily, "must we go 
 all over the whole matter again?" 
 
 "No," said Father Huetter quickly, "it doesn't 
 make a whistle of difference whether we go over 
 it again, or whether we never went over it. We 
 have merely talked an evening out on something 
 that we know nothing at all about and that we're 
 not interested in." 
 
 "Why, my dear young sir," exclaimed the 
 Doctor, reddening, "I have spent my whole life 
 in' 
 
 "I know, I know, Doctor," said Father Huet- 
 ter quickly, smiling a disarming apology. 
 "Never think that we outer barbarians of mill 
 towns and hill towns do not know and appreciate 
 your work. No man in America stands higher. 
 
 "What I was trying to say was this you talk 
 and think and write profoundly on the subject, 
 from study and theory. I talk, more or less 
 loosely, from observation of the things that come 
 under my eye. The Dean, here, does not talk 
 at all, because he thinks he can trust us to say 
 it all, and more. We are all interested, to be 
 sure. 
 
 "But what is the measure of our interest com- 
 pared to the interest of the men who live and 
 fight and work their lives out under the problem? 
 Will our broth be any the thinner?
 
 184 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Why, Doctor, see here. I can take you right 
 down through the mill this minute where the men 
 are working the night shift, with a soldier at 
 every door, and I can pick you out man after 
 man, almost at random, who will know more 
 about this than a lifetime of study and observa- 
 tion can ever give us. Why? Because it is their 
 business. It is their life. 
 
 "Most of those men never got past the eighth 
 grade in school. The foreigners, as you would 
 call them, got less of school. But they can give 
 3^ou the figures. They can tell you more about 
 overhead and fixed charges, about interest on 
 investment, about selling and insurance costs, 
 about political expenses, about the thousand and 
 one things that eat up the earnings of a mill, than 
 you or an expert accountant could find in the 
 sworn statements of the company. I can get 
 you more information, exact and authoritative 
 information, in the lathe-room of the mill, about 
 the earnings and expenses of the company, than 
 any director of the company can get at a direc- 
 tors' meeting. 
 
 "Are the men blind? Is John Sargent a ma- 
 gician, that he can shake a rag before them and 
 make money appear and disappear? No, Doc- 
 tor. They know what makes the money grow. 
 They know the cost of every ounce of material 
 that comes into that mill, and they know what 
 is produced out of it. 
 
 "Man alive! Can't you see the hold it takes
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR HILL1ARD 185 
 
 on them? Do they know about it? Why, they 
 see money in the making ! Their hands make it. 
 They have the figures and they know what they 
 mean. They know that, after the owner sup- 
 posing that he is the owner has taken out ex- 
 penses and interest on what is his and a surplus 
 for future expansion, their own hands make sixty 
 cents out of every dollar that mill earns. And 
 they get seventeen, or less. They want the dif- 
 ference. Their little girls, hacking their lives 
 out down there in the twine mill, want it. Their 
 wives want it. The children want it. Genera- 
 tions unborn that are now being sinned against, 
 they are crying out for that difference!" 
 
 "But this is Communism," the Doctor broke 
 out. "They are Socialists." 
 
 "Not by a long shoot-off!" said Father Huet- 
 ter in his excitement. "They are Irish; they are 
 Italian; they are Polish; they are American. 
 More than half of them are as good Catholics 
 as any in the world. They want nothing but 
 what is theirs. Is that Socialism? And they 
 are going to get it. It is theirs, and who is 
 going to keep it from them? Nobody can 
 keep it from them. But some powers and 
 classes in this country think that they are going 
 to keep them back. Those powers will find 
 themselves high and drying on the wreckage- 
 strewn banks of this rushing stream of our na- 
 tional life. 
 
 "Socialists?" He leaped upon the word.
 
 186 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Socialists? What if they were pessimists, or 
 bigamists, or futurists? Are they right or are 
 they wrong? They want that difference be- 
 tween seventeen cents and sixty. What do they 
 care about Socialism, or its doctrines, or its rant? 
 They want that difference. They are going to 
 have it." 
 
 "But," said the Doctor, rallying in the last 
 ditch, "you are giving the owner nothing for his 
 brains, his power for organization. The 'differ- 
 ence' is largely the product of his peculiar type 
 of genius." 
 
 "No." Father Huetter returned. "Not 
 even 'largely.' He could hire plenty of mana- 
 gers, for less than the salary which he credits to 
 himself, who would do as well." 
 
 "And you would halt the progress of the race 
 by pulling all down to a mediocre level. All our 
 progress has been made by the outstanding ef- 
 forts of such men as he. They would have noth- 
 ing to work for." 
 
 "Better," said Father Huetter, "that John 
 Sargent should have nothing to work for, than 
 that our little girls and boys should work for him 
 for nothing." 
 
 "And, what goes much farther," said the Doc- 
 tor, "you destroy the sense of individuality in the 
 man. Socialism and Communism can have but 
 one logical end in human morals and human 
 thought. When they have abolished economic 
 responsibility in the man, they must go on to re-
 
 THE REV. DOCTOR HILLIARD 187 
 
 lieve him of his moral responsibilities, his sense 
 of right and wrong, as applied to himself. 
 What is he then but an irresponsible atom in a 
 blind and fixed cosmic system? Where then is 
 free will or faith in God, or anything that gives 
 a man a soul of his own? That would be the 
 end." 
 
 "No." The Dean arose slowly, stretching 
 himself. "I have known the American people 
 a long time. No 'ism' will ever go very deep 
 with them. Men and women they are, boys and 
 girls, living and laughing, working and dying, 
 marrying and crying, and going hungry if they 
 have to. But they are always sound. If they 
 have to use Socialism, as politics, to get them 
 what they want, well, they will use it. But they 
 will drop the 'ism' like a rind, when they are 
 through with it. 
 
 "In the press of this struggle for bread and 
 rights many are blinded. Blood and bitterness 
 come into their eyes, but it is not 'isms' nor sys- 
 tems nor theories that will ever hurt them. 'Tis 
 the iron and the canker of the struggle itself that 
 I fear, hardening and corroding their hearts. 
 Dear God, send the end quickly. I wish I might 
 see it. 
 
 "What time will you say Mass in the morning, 
 Doctor?"
 
 4 <r pHE Irish don't seem to take to it, Dean," 
 * Mother Mary John complained. "The 
 others, now, don't seem to mind at all. They 
 don't hold back. There's good bread and milk 
 there to be eaten, and they take it without let 
 or thank-you. So they should. Why should 
 children thank anybody for the bread they get? 
 Haven't they the right to it? But the Irish!" 
 
 "Well, you see, Mother, the Irish have long 
 memories." 
 
 "Memories? But it's these babies, I tell you, 
 Dean; they're the worst. What memories have 
 they?" 
 
 "You can never tell anything about an Irish 
 baby, Mother," the Dean proceeded to explain 
 the unexplainable. "You see, some of them re- 
 member things that happened in Ireland a hun- 
 dred years ago. I christened one just the other 
 day and he had a look in his eye that, I declare, 
 if you so much as mentioned Boyne Water to 
 him he'd strike you. They are like that." 
 
 "I never know what you're talking about, 
 Dean, when you begin on the Irish. And you 
 
 188
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 189 
 
 know I don't. But," she added slowly, "some 
 of the time I believe some of it is true." 
 
 Mother Mary John, being a convert from one 
 of the earliest Vermont families, could not know 
 what was the matter with the Irish children; 
 much less could she know what the Dean meant 
 by his whimsical talk. 
 
 "At any rate," she concluded, "I wish they 
 wouldn't make me feel that I'm degrading them 
 every time I try to make them take a bit of bread 
 and milk. There's that little Monica Connors. 
 She's about the size of a pint pitcher and she 
 could write with the corners of her cheek bones, 
 but do you think I could get her to as much as 
 look at the food here until I had promised to 
 let her stay and help wash up the cups? And 
 the boys, they hang back along the wall and push 
 each other forward, until you fairly have to grab 
 them and force a bit of bread into their hands. 
 
 "I don't understand them. Why, it isn't as 
 though they were grown-ups and you were ask- 
 ing them to accept charity. It isn't charity at 
 all. It's their right." 
 
 "I know it, Mother. We have all the logic on 
 our side, and the children are wrong. But, they 
 are Irish children, as you say ; and the Irish race 
 has gone through things that make it forever 
 chary of bread that is given to it." 
 
 "But," the Mother persisted, "these children 
 never heard of that. Their parents never knew 
 anything of it."
 
 190 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "True," admitted the Dean. "But, don't I 
 tell you, the Irish babies have long memories?" 
 he insisted perversely. 
 
 The Reverend Mother gave it up. He and 
 his Irish were always incomprehensible. For 
 thirty years she had been learning that. 
 
 The Dean had inadvertently wandered into 
 the school at two o'clock in the afternoon, just 
 when the smallest of the children were being dis- 
 missed for the day. 
 
 Along the whole length of the lower hall of the 
 school ran a narrow table, improvised by the sis- 
 ters out of boards and benches. On it were 
 spread cups of milk and thick slices of bread for 
 all. 
 
 On the very first day of the fall term the Dean 
 had seen the pinched look of the children's faces, 
 and he had taken his measures. He had sent 
 messages up into the hill country, to friends and 
 old parishioners of the days when he had tended 
 all that country alone. Their response was in 
 the form of huge cans of milk that came down 
 every morning anonymously from little wayside 
 milk stations on the O. & W. and the Belden 
 River lines. 
 
 The bread was another matter. Ostensibly it 
 was the gift of bakers in Albany. But only 
 Father Huetter could have told that the Dean's 
 little property, left him by a sister dead years 
 ago, had been sold and that his salary was hy- 
 pothecated for a time longer than he might rea-
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 191 
 
 sonably expect to have a salary. It seems that 
 he was no more prudent now than he had been in 
 that day, at the other end of his life, when he 
 and his people had helped finance the start of 
 Milton Sargent's mill. 
 
 But Father Driscoll was not thinking of any 
 of these things now. He was looking down the 
 long rows of the children, and seeing the thing 
 that the Mother had complained of. 
 
 As she had said, the Slavic and Italian chil- 
 dren marched up to the table by platoons and 
 stood munching and drinking, without urging 
 and without thanks. Why should children 
 thank anybody for food when it was there, just 
 naturally to be eaten by hungry folk? 
 
 But the Irish were plainly different. They 
 hung back and kept their eyes off the food. 
 Some, even the littlest ones, tried to slip by un- 
 noticed, and even when they were caught and 
 made to take food they swallowed it hastily, al- 
 most furtively. 
 
 "Dear God!" the Dean murmured, his old 
 heart wincing in sympathy and understanding, 
 "will we never forget? Those children learned 
 that lesson four and five generations ago! And 
 I, if I was among them, I'd be doing just what 
 they are doing. I couldn't help it. This comes 
 of being born of a race that carries its past for- 
 ever with it! 
 
 "I should not have come here at this hour. I
 
 192 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 did not mean to," he deprecated. "They're bad 
 enough with the sisters, but they're worse when 
 they think I'm looking. I'll go away. And 
 I'm only asking them to eat the bite that God 
 gives them as their right! Yet they look up at 
 me out of eyes that are sharp with hunger to 
 see if I notice them taking charity. 
 
 "Charity! Charity! Dear God above ! What 
 an abuse is that word in the mouths of men, when 
 the very babies fear it!" 
 
 The Mother had gone on down the line and 
 was too far away to have heard any of this even 
 if he had intended it for her hearing. He turned 
 away sharply, and when he was out in the street 
 he walked briskly for ten minutes, hardly noting 
 where he was going. 
 
 Old Richard Flanagan halted him in that high- 
 pitched, querulous voice that comes from a crab- 
 bed temper, rheumatics, and the North of Ire- 
 land: 
 
 "Where are you away to now, without a word, 
 Your Deanery?" 
 
 The title of a Rural Dean in this country is 
 one that seems to lack something of euphonious 
 dignity. The young people can address him as 
 Dean quite simply and satisfactorily, but to the 
 old people this seems too curt. They want 
 something that rolls better on the tongue. 
 
 The Dean stopped short, suddenly remember- 
 ing that he had no fixed destination.
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 193 
 
 "Oh, how are you, Richard? I didn't know I 
 was this far up the street. How's the rheuma- 
 tism?" 
 
 "Again ye had it ye wouldn't step so smart, 
 Your Deanery. Will the min be paid th'night, 
 I don't know?" he queried, with that high lift 
 at the end of his voice that makes a question 
 mark for any form of words. 
 
 "Why not?" said the Dean. "Did you hear 
 anything to the contrary?" 
 
 Richard Flanagan sat on his porch daily from 
 April to November. From his vantage ground, 
 where rheumatism held him, he kept the road and 
 took toll from all who would pass on foot. Old 
 and young, rich and poor, male and female, he 
 questioned them. His information was some- 
 times true, often wonderful, often enough wil- 
 fully untrue. But it was always voluminous and 
 comprehensive. It covered everything that pos- 
 sibly could and could not happen in the range 
 of the world. If he did not know the truth, 
 he had at least heard all sides of every mat- 
 ter. 
 
 "Dinny Corridon," he piped, "passed here to 
 tell me that there is no money at the mill and 
 that the banks would give none on the machines 
 that were turned out this week. So the Colonel 
 can only give the men pay checks, and the 
 stores won't take them. I warn you, the stores 
 won't take them; but the saloons, they might." 
 
 "Well, let's hope it will not prove quite so
 
 194 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 bad," said the Dean. "I think Dinny is by na- 
 ture a pessimist." 
 
 "He did lie to me once," the old man admitted, 
 taking the big word at a leap. "But not by na- 
 thur, not by nathur. It was about the reservoir, 
 and I think he was put up to it." 
 
 But the Dean with a parting warning about 
 bad weather and rheumatism was already on the 
 move up the street. The sufferer on the porch 
 was left somewhat disgruntled and unsatisfied 
 with himself. He did not like to have any one 
 get by without paying him his tribute of at least 
 some little bit of information. 
 
 "Ey-ah!" He complained to the general 
 world. "Time was whin he could stop to talk 
 about a thing or two; but now, what with ad- 
 visin' governors and sthrikin' sthrikes, he haven't 
 a minute to " 
 
 "Who's that mumblin' about the priest behin' 
 his back?" came a sharp voice from within the 
 door. 
 
 "I only said," Richard defended, "he might 
 stop till I'd put him the length of a question or 
 two." 
 
 "He has more to do than bringin' grist to your 
 cackle mill," snapped the voice through the door- 
 way. 
 
 Mr. Flanagan went back to the consideration 
 of his rheumatism. It was apparent that his 
 autocratic jurisdiction was limited strictly to the 
 eternal forum of the sidewalk. In winter his
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 195 
 
 must have been that emptiest of all human 
 glories, that of a monarch without a realm. 
 
 The Dean turned the first corner, intending to 
 make a circuit to the other side of the town where 
 he remembered that he had some calls to make. 
 
 He was worried by what Flanagan had told 
 him. To be sure, he had anticipated the refusal 
 of the banks in Milton to give cash on the ma- 
 chinery first completed by the men. That had 
 been the weak point in the Governor's plan from 
 the beginning the lack of actual money. 
 When the Governor had stopped the strike in the 
 Milton Machinery works by putting the men 
 back to work under martial law, he should, of 
 course, have seen that there was plenty of ready 
 money to pay the men. But the Dean knew that 
 there had been no time. The Governor could 
 not just then force through an appropriation for 
 the purpose, and there was no available contin- 
 gent fund in the State treasury on which he 
 could put his hand. 
 
 But the Dean had not anticipated that the 
 stores would refuse food for the pay checks which 
 Colonel Gardiner, the Governor's representative 
 in charge of the mill, would have to issue to the 
 men for their first week's wages. These checks 
 would be in the name of the Milton Machinery 
 Company, and endorsed with the authority of 
 the Governor of the State. They would cer- 
 tainly be redeemable in money in due time. 
 
 But there was no way to force storekeepers to
 
 196 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 accept them in payment for food. And the 
 Dean remembered the circumstances in which 
 nearly all the merchants of Milton stood, with 
 regard to the Company and John Sargent. 
 
 The genius and the foresight of old Milton 
 Sargent had been almost diabolical. He had ex- 
 pected labor and social troubles from the begin- 
 ning. And from the beginning he had provided 
 for them. He foresaw that the quickest and 
 surest weapon against a strike was the direct 
 control of the food supply. So, as soon as the 
 first profits of his mill came to him he put them 
 right into the purchase of the land which he saw 
 would be the business part of the already grow- 
 ing village. Then he opened stores and secured 
 all the trade, so that his people brought his money 
 back to him for everything that they ate and 
 wore. 
 
 Again he spread farther out, as he foresaw the 
 coming growth, and bought up all the land upon 
 which the little city of Milton stands to-day. 
 Most of this he sold, lot by lot, to his employees, 
 for homes. His terms to them were easy and 
 very liberal generally not more than three hun- 
 dred per cent, above what he had paid for the 
 land. For this he received wide praise as the 
 most intelligent and advanced manufacturer in 
 his part of the State. Milton was pointed out 
 as the model manufacturing village, where every 
 workingman was a free and independent man- 
 owning his own home, you see,
 
 Noted sociological writers of that day came to 
 Milton, took statistics, nodded wise heads, and 
 went away to write that Milton Sargent had, for 
 once and all, solved the labor problem. He had, 
 by giving his men the chance to own something 
 in his town, so bound up and combined his inter- 
 ests and theirs and those of the mill and the 
 town that no questions could ever come between 
 them. 
 
 Milton Sargent had really wished and had 
 worked early and late to realize his wish, that 
 every head of family in his employ should own a 
 home in Milton. His reasoning was this. If 
 they own their homes they will have to stay in 
 Milton. There will never be any other mill here 
 but mine. If they own their homes and I own 
 their jobs and the supply of food, they will have 
 to stay here and work for me, at my terms, just 
 as long as they naturally live. 
 
 So he actively encouraged them to buy lots 
 and helped them to build, on very fair terms. 
 But in every deed that he gave them there was 
 one iron-bound restriction. No lot that he sold 
 them could ever be used for any purpose other 
 than as a dwelling lot. 
 
 With unerring instinct he predicted, and di- 
 rected, the commercial growth of the town, and 
 kept in his own hands every bit of property in 
 the line of that prospective growth. Corner lots 
 in residence sections he retained, for groceries 
 and saloons. If, for any reason, a lot which he
 
 198 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 had sold became useless for residence purposes 
 it reverted naturally to the original owner. 
 
 When, in the advance of public opinion, the 
 old system of company stores, by which he sold 
 necessaries direct to his employees, became too 
 obnoxious, he gave it up. He did not really 
 need it. He rented his store properties to in- 
 dividuals who should conduct them as their own. 
 He allowed those individuals to own their stocks, 
 but he gave them only very short tenure of lease 
 in their stores and otherwise surrounded them 
 with such conditions that he held them com- 
 pletely in his power. A merchant or tradesman 
 who crossed Milton Sargent once, would never, 
 after the expiration of his lease, again be in the 
 position to do so. 
 
 John Sargent, at his accession to power in Mil- 
 ton, had not changed any of these things. He 
 understood the system and knew its value. He 
 developed it so as to handle the various public 
 utilities of the town as they came into being, and 
 he organized three small banks. These not only 
 gave him an added capital with which to work; 
 they also tightened his hold on every merchant in 
 the little city. 
 
 So the Dean was worried. He knew that at 
 a word from John Sargent every grocer and pro- 
 vision man and clothier in Milton would feel 
 obliged to refuse the pay checks that were to be 
 issued in the name of the Milton Machinery 
 Company.
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 199 
 
 He saw the wall of entrenched power against 
 which the Governor had run in his effort to force 
 John Sargent to arbitrate the strike in Milton. 
 And he thought he saw further and more intri- 
 cate difficulties ahead, when the mill, in order to 
 run as the Governor had started it, must try to 
 buy raw materials from capitalist friends and 
 natural allies of John Sargent. But he was not 
 disheartened. He believed, did this old man. 
 Seventy-four years of disillusion had not dimmed 
 the boyish faith of his heart. 
 
 He went about his business with head erect, 
 not forgetting to say a prayer by the way for 
 the courage and the wisdom of that square- 
 headed young Presbyterian, the Governor, to 
 whom he had taken a great fancy. 
 
 When he came home he found Nonie Gaylor 
 waiting to talk with him. He had not seen 
 Nonie Gaylor since the night when her promised 
 husband, young Harry Loyd, was shot down in 
 the road in front of the mill by John Sargent's 
 guards. He had heard that she sat all day in her 
 little home by the River Road, seeing no one, 
 hugging her grief in silence. 
 
 That was not good for her, he knew. And he 
 had thought, Nonie being alone in the world, 
 that he would send some of the Sisters to her to 
 persuade her to go away for a time. But, no. 
 He remembered the ten years when Nonie was 
 growing up alone with a dissolute old father, and 
 how she had shielded that father and gone out to
 
 200 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 work for him and how she had insisted that he 
 was the best of fathers and that she loved him 
 and was proud of him and how she had dared the 
 world to sympathize with her. 
 
 His ears had taught him that there are some 
 souls who cannot be helped by anything or any- 
 body in this world. They carry the burdens of 
 others, but their own they must carry alone. 
 Their fires burn inwardly, and they have to ask 
 their own questions of God and life. Nonie 
 Gaylor was one of these. 
 
 Nothing about the girl told in any way of 
 tragedy. She was dressed simply in the neat 
 blacks and whites that everybody associated with 
 her. Her manner was entirely natural and easy. 
 
 The Dean marveled at the self-control, the 
 powerful springs of will, that could so cover a 
 tortured heart and smooth out a girlishly fresh 
 face for the world to see. But he feared it. A 
 fire that is too closely pent will burst some time. 
 And its bursting is madness. 
 
 "I only came in to tell you, Dean, that I am 
 going away," she said, quite casually; "and to 
 give up my Sodality band." 
 
 "Ah, I had thought of that," agreed the Dean, 
 taking up her manner. "I had thought of ad- 
 vising you to go away for a while, a change; a 
 change is always good, you know." 
 
 "Yes. But I am going away for good. I am 
 never coming back to Milton."
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 201 
 
 "Well, now I had hardly expected that, Nonie. 
 You see, you somehow seem to belong here with 
 us. You have you have plans, I suppose? 
 Where will you go?" 
 
 "Does it matter?" she said with a pitiful little 
 shrug, dropping her mask for the instant. 
 
 Father Driscoll waited a moment, giving her 
 time to command herself. Then he said slowly : 
 
 "No. I suppose it does not. We have to 
 take ourselves with us, anyway. So the sur- 
 roundings cannot matter very much." 
 
 The girl started. He had spoken the very 
 thought that had been going the dizzy round of 
 her mind, sleeping or waking, for all these days : 
 what use was it to go, when she could not get 
 away from herself? 
 
 "I know," she said. "That is true. I cannot 
 hope to get away from myself. And I have 
 thought and thought and planned. And I can- 
 not come to anything. It is all so useless. 
 
 "But I must get away. Can't you see, Dean, 
 that I have to get away from here. It doesn't 
 matter at all where I go. But I must go. 
 Can't you see that?" she appealed. 
 
 "I am not sure that I do. Tell me, child." 
 He wanted to make her talk, to keep her talking, 
 so that she might ease down some of the strain 
 under which her mind labored. 
 
 "I thought I wanted to go and hide myself in 
 a convent," she began aimlessly. "Oh, not be-
 
 202 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 cause I belonged there, but just to crawl into 
 some place where the world couldn't find me and 
 hurt me any more. But ' 
 
 "No. That wouldn't do," said the Dean 
 lightly. "The idea is too medieval, and the nov- 
 elists have overworked it already. That is, I 
 mean, Nonie, a convent is a place for people 
 who have just the one reason for being there." 
 
 "I knew that. But I have to work. I have 
 to go on living. Though I don't see why," she 
 added, with a sudden rush of bitterness. 
 
 "The river runs right by my door," she went 
 on quietly; "it is always friendly to me. Since 
 I was a baby I have never been afraid of it." 
 
 The Dean was silent. Every soul must cross 
 these dark bridges by itself. 
 
 "There is a place, you know it, Dean, where 
 the water from the canal tumbles down the waste 
 weir into the river. It has made a great dark 
 pool there at the edge of the river and the water 
 races round and round, so quiet and so swift. 
 
 "I used to go and sit there sometimes, years 
 ago, when father was was 
 
 "I have gone there sometimes lately, and 
 looked down into the dark of the water, and won- 
 dered: Why not? 
 
 "It looked so cool and so certain, so depend- 
 able. Whatever I got, down under the water 
 there, I could keep, couldn't I? It wouldn't be 
 snatched away from me, like Harry was." 
 
 Suddenly she shivered. Then, with a visible
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 203 
 
 effort, she straightened herself and threw back 
 her shoulders. 
 
 The Dean was satisfied. She had crossed her 
 bridge. 
 
 "You have to work, and you do not feel that 
 you can bear to go back into the mill. That is 
 it, is it not?" said the Dean steadily. 
 
 "How could I? How could I?" she broke 
 out. "Do you remember that four times every 
 day every day of all my life, four times I should 
 have to pass the spot where John Sargent mur- 
 dered my Harry? It is not the horror of it. 
 Don't think that. I could kneel every time on 
 the spot. 
 
 "But if I did, and if I said my prayers every 
 time, do you know that I would still get up from 
 my knees every time with just one thought- al- 
 ways one thought to kill John Sargent? Think 
 of that! Four times every day for years and 
 years of life, a murderess in my heart. 
 
 "Oh, you are a priest. You have always been 
 good. You do not know what anger and hate 
 is like. 
 
 "And then I should go in to do John Sargent's 
 work for him! Think of it! To make him 
 richer, so that he might kill the Harrys of other 
 girls. 
 
 "And do you know why I had the position that 
 I had in the mill, and why I was, in a few months 
 more, to be put over all the women in the mill? 
 Think of that! Five hundred women and girls
 
 204 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 under me, a girl of twenty- two! I was to be the 
 highest paid woman operative in New York 
 State. And why? Why? Because I had 
 proved that I could get more work and drive 
 more speed out of other poor, fainting women 
 and girls, and save more money for John Sar- 
 gent. 
 
 "Think of that, year in and year out. And 
 then think of that spot that I would pass four 
 times a day, every day, for ever and ever!" 
 
 Father Driscoll had no answer ready. The 
 girl sat picking at the finger ends of her gloves. 
 After a little he said: 
 
 "Nonie, would you rather not have had your 
 love at all and not have suffered, or have had it 
 and suffered as you have?" 
 
 "I had three years of Harry's love," she said 
 quickly; "for one hour of it I would have suf- 
 fered all!" 
 
 "Then, child, you do not hate God for giving 
 you the love, only for taking it " 
 
 "God? Why, God didn't have anything to 
 do with it. How could He? What did I do 
 to?" 
 
 "That is our mistake, child, nearly always. It 
 is not what we have done. It is what God may 
 have for us to do. 
 
 "Nonie, will you listen to me a moment, and 
 try to forget that I am just a blundering old man 
 who knows no more of the ways of God than 
 you do?
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 205 
 
 "The Company, as you say, had picked you 
 out and trained you for a purpose, to drive all 
 the others. Why? Because they saw things in 
 you that made them believe you could do it better 
 than another. 
 
 "Suppose that God foresaw something to be 
 done that you could do better than another. 
 Suppose He saw the time coming when the 
 women in the mill would need not a driver, but 
 a sister and a guide one who had suffered more 
 and who was stronger and wiser by that suffer- 
 ing. Suppose that the way to such wisdom and 
 to such helpfulness lay only through great suf- 
 fering. And that one was you would you re- 
 fuse the suffering?" 
 
 "No ! no !" she cried, springing to her feet. "I 
 would not refuse. God knows I would welcome 
 it. Anything, anything! If only it were of 
 some use, some good to the others !" 
 
 "I know that, of course, child. 
 
 "Now, you might go out to nurse the wounded 
 on battlefields, or you might go out to tell the 
 stoiy of your love and your suffering to your 
 sisters through the country and preach Suffrage 
 to them, or Socialism. In either case you would 
 do good, no doubt. But the work God wishes us 
 to do He generally places near our hand. 
 
 "I am old, child, and the changes come fast. 
 I see one coming here that will give you a work 
 to do that will fill your arms and your heart. 
 Can you believe and have faith for a little while ?"
 
 206 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Yes. I believe. I don't know why, but I 
 do. 
 
 "I will stay and work, as long as you say, 
 Dean. But I think I'll go home now." 
 
 She went out hurriedly, without another word. 
 She knew that she could no longer control her- 
 self and she wanted to be alone. 
 
 The Dean walked over into his study and sat 
 down heavily at his desk. 
 
 "God send that I did right!" he prayed. 
 
 It was the dark threatening end of an autumn 
 day. Three thousand men were crowding each 
 other out through the gates of the Milton Ma- 
 chinery Company's plant. Colonel Gardiner 
 had not attempted to start the twine mill, so 
 none of the women had been at work. The men 
 had been at work ten days and this was the reg- 
 ular pay night. 
 
 There was no money in the mill. The men 
 had seen thousands of dollars' worth of machin- 
 ery go out to fill orders on file all through the 
 strike. But the banks of Milton, controlled by 
 John Sargent, would not advance a cent of 
 money on the invoices. The Colonel had ap- 
 pealed frantically to the Governor, but the lat- 
 ter had answered that pay checks were sufficient 
 for the present. And in any case, where could 
 he get forty thousand dollars in cash? 
 
 The men did not understand. Rumors had 
 been running through the mill all week. They
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 207 
 
 knew that they were there working under the 
 protection of the military of the State. But 
 they mistrusted the whole thing. The idea that 
 the State could, even if it sincerely wished, do 
 anything effectively for them and for their in- 
 terest had been exploded so many times that they 
 were slow to believe. 
 
 Some said it was a grandstand play of the 
 Governor, for politics. It would fizzle out, as 
 all such things did. Others argued that it was 
 all a trick of Sargent, to get them back to work 
 and break the spirit of their strike. 
 
 They took their pay checks. What was the 
 use of refusing them? But they showed that 
 they had no great faith in them. 
 
 Many had worked the whole time without a 
 real meal. There was no credit for them in any 
 store. They were hungry and sick. They could 
 get something for the checks. 
 
 They were wrong. They could not get any- 
 thing with the checks. They trooped into stores 
 and markets. Meat men and provision men, 
 who had been clinging desperately to their stocks 
 for months and fighting off bankruptcy until 
 work should begin, now looked sadly at the pay 
 checks which they knew would be perfectly 
 good and shook their heads. The grim word 
 had gone out from John Sargent that no man 
 should dare sell an ounce of food on those checks. 
 
 But there was one thing that could be had with 
 the checks. Drink- all the drink the men
 
 208 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 wanted. The notices stood in all the saloons, as 
 John Sargent had directed. The checks were 
 good. There was plenty of free lunch. But 
 there was no change for the checks. No bar 
 would cash any part of a check. The check was 
 good. But it must be left in the bar until it was 
 used up. 
 
 Remember that this crowd of men worked all 
 day in heat and grime and iron dust, at trades in 
 which practically all men drink some. The 
 strength and the wickedness of Sargent's plan- 
 ning need no detailing. 
 
 Some of the men, the irresponsible and the 
 weak, left their checks in the bars. But the most 
 of them, after tramping vaguely about and be- 
 ing refused at one store after another, shifted 
 slowly off into the side streets and crept home, 
 ugly, hungry, hopeless. 
 
 Where it came from no man could tell. Prob- 
 ably it was at first a burry, angry murmur that 
 ran up and down the wells of tenement houses, 
 from one pinched home to another. It rose 
 above the squalls of unfed, disappointed chil- 
 dren. It was the sulky, upbraiding cry of the 
 tigress in the lair, when the feckless lord comes 
 home empty-mouthed from the hunt. 
 
 It ran down dark stairs, the cry, and out into 
 dark, foul streets. It beat up against closed 
 windows, and drew them open, and drew out un- 
 kempt heads to answer it. 
 
 The answer came in every Slavic tongue, from
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 209 
 
 Lett to Czech. It came in four Italian dialects. 
 It came in every known accent of English. It 
 did not need any language, for it was the cry of 
 the women, who do eternally understand each 
 other in need. 
 
 Out of dark alleys they came, splashing 
 through puddles, out of bare little cottages, out 
 of solid-looking homes, they came hurrying and 
 rushing into solid groups. They did not stop 
 for argument or discussion. The one cry, the 
 one impulse that had started them all, told them 
 where they were going and what they were going 
 to do. 
 
 Across the railroad tracks, from Polack Town 
 and Little Italy, they came pouring in groups 
 and troops of hundreds, large-boned, guttural- 
 voiced Slav women, shrill-throated, sturdy Ital- 
 ian women hunger in their eyes, mother fury 
 in their hearts. 
 
 Now these met other crowding, pushing tides 
 of women, tall, thin-lipped hill women of the 
 country itself, and broad-chested Irish- American 
 women, no less of the country. All the races of 
 all the women of earth could have met here and 
 talked the common language of the cries of their 
 babies. 
 
 Into the blocks of State Street where the big 
 grocery and provision stores were grouped they 
 came reeling and whirling, wave after wave of 
 faces, white and care-fretted under the flare of 
 the lights.
 
 210 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 They had no war cry. They carried no ban- 
 ner. They wanted no advertising. They were 
 just everybody's wife and sister, with a pay check 
 in her clenched hand, come to get the food that 
 her man had earned for her children and her. 
 
 They were in the stores before astonished and 
 frightened clerks could think of locking doors. 
 
 Now the next quarter of an hour was not 
 pretty. It is better to pass it over without de- 
 scription. 
 
 These women had for months been looking 
 down into the hunger-big eyes of their children. 
 Their bared nerves had been flecked by the ques- 
 tions, the eternal, Why? Why? of the child. 
 Why could it not have butter and sugar on its 
 bread? Why could it not have even butter? 
 Why, finally, could it not have bread? 
 
 They have seen the plump, round little bodies 
 of their babies falling away under the ribs. 
 They were elementary mothers of men, these 
 women. They loved to kiss the round, paddy 
 cushions of fat that lie at the back of a baby neck. 
 And they had found there only the pinched out- 
 croppings of hard little bones. 
 
 They had seen their rough, noisy boys sud- 
 denly sit down in the thick of their play, because 
 they were weak and dizzy for food. They had 
 caught their little girls scraping and scratching 
 their cheeks with wire hair brushes to take the 
 white out. 
 
 Lately they had seen their husbands and their
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 211 
 
 growing boys, whom it was their pride to feed, 
 come staggering home to eat: and there was no 
 food. 
 
 Food! Food! The lack of it had tortured 
 their days. The dreams of it had tormented 
 their nights. How many nights had they 
 walked among heaps and stacks of food, and 
 when they reached out for it, always it turned to 
 something else? How many times had they not 
 dreamed the pantry full of food, only to awaken 
 to the gaunt reality? 
 
 Some of them had seen their nurslings die at 
 their breasts. There was no food there. And 
 they had followed a little box up the long River 
 Road to the hills and the cemetery, and wanted 
 to stay there. 
 
 And always their nightmares had been of food, 
 food in the hand, food in the very mouth. 
 
 Now here was food piled all about them, bread, 
 and meat, and vegetables in tins, and meat, meat 
 hanging in strips, hanging in sacks, everywhere. 
 Their dreams, their very dreams ! 
 
 There was none to stop them. They were a 
 hundred, two hundred, as many as could get into 
 a store. They had only to throw down pay 
 checks and take, and take, and take! 
 
 If some turned sick and hysterical and 
 screamed at the sight of it all; if some fainted; if 
 some grabbed and grabbed, more than they could 
 carry; if some crowded and pushed and tram- 
 pled; if they finally jammed all together and
 
 212 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 screamed and fought, impotently, still hugging 
 their loot well, the wonder would have been, 
 rather, if they had not done these things. 
 
 Up through the pushing, tugging mass of 
 women that was struggling on the sidewalks 
 unable to get into the stores, came a slender, hol- 
 low-eyed girl in blacks and whites. Women 
 gave her way because her tragedy and her grief 
 had set her apart. Then, too, she was a captain 
 of women. Her business was to organize and 
 command. 
 
 Swiftly, as she came to each group she plucked 
 two or three women apart to her and gave them 
 quick, sharp commands. They knew her; they 
 were accustomed to obey her. Her curt, every- 
 day voice brought them back from hysteria, to 
 sense. 
 
 They did as she told them. Quietly urging 
 their way into a store, they took command. 
 They grabbed pencils and paper bags, or any- 
 thing to write upon, and made hurried, scrappy 
 accounts of what each woman had. Then they 
 began forcing a line of those who were supplied 
 out of the doors. The screaming stopped. 
 What had been a riot of maddened women re- 
 solved itself, in five minutes, into lines of quiet 
 shoppers who furtively tucked up wisps of strag- 
 gled hair and who only showed what they had 
 been through by the quick, quiet sobbing of their 
 bosoms. 
 
 A line of soldiers, called by frantic storekeep-
 
 THE WORK AT OUR HAND 218 
 
 ers, came double-quicking up the middle of the 
 street. But, though they came quickly, men 
 were there before them. Men, sheepish of face, 
 but grim, too, slipped out of side streets and lined 
 themselves two and three deep along the curb. 
 They did not approve of whatever the women 
 were doing. Men are ever more law-bound and 
 helplessly conservative in a crisis than are 
 women. But, if the women were bound to do it, 
 they should not be molested. 
 
 The thin single line of soldiers, stretched the 
 length of the street, had no orders to shoot down 
 lines of men in order to clear the stores of women. 
 They stood there, foolish and useless. And when 
 Nonie Gaylor calmly walked through them to 
 the other side of the street, to see how her lieu- 
 tenants were doing over there, the company 
 through which she walked grounded arms with 
 a smart rattle. 
 
 At ten o'clock Father Huetter, coming in, re- 
 ported to the Dean the manner of these things, 
 and that the town was full fed. 
 
 The Dean laid down his breviary, to say: 
 
 "Thank God! I said better to the child than 
 I knew the work at our hand, that is what He 
 would have us do." 
 
 But Father Huetter did not understand. He 
 was very tired and he went on up to bed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 "HIS STRONG CITY" 
 
 OUT on the rolling uplands the golden rus- 
 sets of the early autumn had been fighting 
 a desperate rear-guard battle for a week now 
 with the forces of black, frosty death that came 
 sweeping down the mountains. The forces of 
 cold and death had conquered everywhere. 
 From the upper ribs of the mountains the hope- 
 less dun color of oncoming winter reached down 
 over the foothills and down into the valleys till 
 it came even into the room t where the Dean of 
 Milton sat reading the Book of Proverbs. 
 
 The room was suddenly chilled and darkened 
 by the shadow of a low, drifting cloud. The 
 Dean shivered and looked up from his book, re- 
 peating aloud the words he had last read: "The 
 rich man's wealth is his strong city: the destruc- 
 tion of the poor is their poverty!" 
 
 Over the shoulder of Orrin Mountain and 
 down across the breast of it, like the sash of some 
 gaunt order of death, he saw a black cloud drap- 
 ing itself. That was a moving snowstorm, 
 twenty miles away, hurrying down across the 
 slope of the mountain. In another two weeks or 
 so a brother of that snowstorm would come rush- 
 
 214
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 215 
 
 ing down across the foothills and would howl 
 through the streets of Milton, barking up dark 
 stairways and whining under damp floors. On 
 its breath it would bring pneumonia and in lungs 
 already weakened by half-starvation it would lay 
 the seeds of consumption. 
 
 In the older days he had never given thought 
 to the coming of winter. Always he had loved 
 the bite of the wind on a cold night ride to some 
 lonely house in the hills. It had brought blood 
 to his cheeks, courage and love to his heart. 
 Now the thought of it made him shudder. Age 
 has no surplus blood for thrills. 
 
 But he was not thinking of himself. In those 
 older days he had seen his people, a strong- 
 limbed, full-blooded, vigorous race, fighting the 
 battle of the strong with winter. They were 
 used to look full into his roaring throat and laugh 
 while they plowed and hewed their way from 
 woodland to river-bed. 
 
 In high, dry houses., before heaping fires, with 
 illimitable woodpiles standing at their very doors, 
 winter had no menace for them. Now his peo- 
 ple lived in dank, dripping houses, where they 
 huddled over a few inadequate coals. They 
 crept out of damp beds, out into the fog of the 
 morning, to go to John Sargent's mill. There 
 they stewed all day in a fog and swirl of con- 
 densing steam, and at night they scurried home 
 with what little of thin blood was left in them, 
 the icy wind freezing their wet clothes to their
 
 216 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 limbs. To them, winter was not a season of the 
 year: it was an implacable, vicious enemy, a 
 scourge, a ravaging curse. It decimated them. 
 
 Those who live in moderate climates will never 
 know anything of the terrible threat which win- 
 ter lays upon our people of the northern mill 
 towns. It is a real and abiding terror with them. 
 
 A great and plain-spoken economist recently 
 discussing the question of why the lines of in- 
 dustrial advance go always from east to west, 
 never from north to south, put the real reason in 
 a breath. It is not, he said, because the northern 
 peoples love work more or are naturally more 
 industrious. It is because they have always the 
 pinch of winter at their back. This was what 
 the words of the Proverb meant to the Dean. 
 What chance had his people against the economic 
 forces that held them always on the edge of de- 
 pendence? 
 
 In their long struggle with the Milton Ma- 
 chinery Company they had so far been able to pit 
 their patience and endurance against the money 
 power of the Company. But now nature itself 
 was coming to fight John Sargent's battle for 
 him. To John Sargent the coming of winter 
 meant only the coming of a new and inexpensive 
 ally to him in his battle with the people. The 
 strong city of his wealth around him made him 
 immune to the blast. He would not suffer. He 
 could even sit within, calmly reckoning the fury 
 of the wind, counting every roar of it as a new
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY 3 217 
 
 weapon in his hands against these obstinate peo- 
 ple who refused to go on producing for him. 
 Their poverty was indeed their destruction. 
 
 The grim, pitiless truth of the lesson caught 
 the Dean by the throat. It was already a time- 
 worn truism, printed on the heart of the people, 
 when the Author of Proverbs put it into the 
 words of the Book. And thirty centuries, and 
 all the revolutions of earth, had not taken from 
 it a jot of its terrible meaning! 
 
 The upper and the nether millstones ground 
 on unceasingly. Above, the pressure of power 
 and wealth and privilege; below, the pressure of 
 hunger and cold; and between lay the poor of 
 all the earth, forever being crushed by the two 
 forces ! 
 
 The tower of the Cosmopolitan Building 
 stands with its feet upon the solid rock, thirty 
 yards deep in the quicksand and mud of Nassau 
 Street. From the rock it shoots up its thirty- 
 five stories into the air. East, west, and south 
 it looks out over miles of jumbled buildings; over 
 the East River to the ridge of Long Island; over 
 the fretting bosom of the bay to the wide sweep 
 of the ocean beyond; over the North River and 
 the level stretches of New Jersey to the great 
 heart of the country. To the north it cannot 
 overlook much, for its view is cut by other Ba- 
 bylonic pretensions like itself. But it overlooks 
 these, too, in another way. It has its eye upon
 
 218 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 every foot of the priceless ground of Manhattan 
 Island. It has its eye upon every moving train 
 in America. It has its ear to the hum of every 
 turning wheel in the land. It has the Sub- 
 Treasury of the United States at its knee. It 
 listens to the count of gold in every smallest bank 
 of the nation. 
 
 On the surface, it seems that the wealth of the 
 country is traded and bargained for on the floor 
 of a certain building in Broad Street. It is not 
 so. The Stock Exchange is merely an enlarge- 
 ment of its own tickers, marking the marchings 
 and counter-marchings of forces set in motion by 
 the battles and the treaties of a few men who 
 work in the secluded fastnesses of the Cosmo- 
 politan and other buildings about it. Into this 
 building stream the inviolate private wires that 
 connect men ear to ear with impenetrable private 
 offices a thousand miles away. From it go out 
 the single, cryptic words that sweep pawns off 
 the chess-board of Wall Street. It is the cold, 
 wire-strung brain of the Strong City of the 
 wealth of the Western Continent. 
 
 The twenty-fourth floor of the tower is a single 
 great room, light and airy as a flat mountain- 
 top. Ingenious shading tempers the light that 
 floods in from all four sides of the room to a per- 
 fect restfulness for the eyes, and air brought 
 down from the very tip of the tower and washed 
 and heated or cooled, according to the season, 
 makes each breath a sigh of respiratory luxury.
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 219 
 
 John Sargent sat at a table. His eye, roving 
 restlessly out of window to east and south, took 
 in the far-away line of the open sea and noted 
 idly that the first northeaster of the season was 
 sweeping down from New England. A fifty- 
 mile gale was tearing round the corners of the 
 tower. But not even a tremor or an echo of it 
 was to be noticed within. 
 
 The storm outside had no interest for him. 
 As the heavily-muffled doors of the room swung 
 open, his eyes jerked back irritably to watch the 
 men who were every few moments coming into 
 the room to lunch. They came in by twos and 
 threes and gravitated quietly to tables where 
 other men were waiting for them. There were 
 men here whose every moment of a business day 
 is so closely watched, for rumor and gossip of the 
 Street, that they could not visit another man's 
 office without starting a column of speculative 
 gossip in the next morning's papers. 
 
 Here, in the democracy of privileged privacy, 
 away from the prying of reporters, a man could 
 drop casually down at a table in front of another 
 man, and they could have the route of a proposed 
 railroad settled or have set a firm on the way 
 to ruin before the gravy had time to harden on 
 their plates. 
 
 John Sargent was waiting for two men. One 
 of them was the greatest and the most feared of 
 all the rulers of the fortunes of men in this coun- 
 try. It was not that he was so very wealthy
 
 though he was wealthy beyond the dreams of the 
 world of even thirty years ago but because he 
 had made himself the keeper of the very gates of 
 wealth. He had the credit of the country in his 
 grip ; so that no man was really worth this figure 
 or that figure, but only the amount of credit 
 which Jasper Macon would place opposite that 
 man's name. Because Jasper Macon could at 
 any moment shake to its foundations any given 
 bank in the country, credit was his to extend or 
 to withhold. Credit, that illusive, impossible 
 thing which is the life-breath of our commercial 
 and industrial body, this man could choke off 
 from every other man who needed it. 
 
 The other man was the wisest and the farthest- 
 seeing of the race which since the days of Esau 
 has lived upon the mistakes of others. Gather- 
 ing where he had not strewn, reaping where he 
 had not sown, winning where he had not risked, 
 he had no illusions. The past as well as the fu- 
 ture held for him incontestable lessons. Though 
 the breeding of money and the study of "things 
 as they are" was the business of his life, he could 
 still remember that things might not always be 
 as they were. The Jew is your true discounter 
 of things future, because for him Jehovah, a per- 
 sonal God, is ever within striking distance. By 
 training and the force of the times in which he 
 lived, Nathan Oppenheim was an individualistic 
 money-getter. By nature he was a patriarchal 
 Socialist.
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 221 
 
 Jasper Macon came first, striding across the 
 room, his great, malformed nose making straight 
 for where Sargent sat. Oppenheim followed at 
 the next swing of the door. But, though he well 
 knew just where he was to go, he did not make a 
 direct course. 
 
 When Sargent had seated the two of them and 
 had signaled the waiter to lay the already or- 
 dered luncheon, he turned to Macon with a cer- 
 tain air of nervous deference that was very 
 strange on him. 
 
 "Last night and this morning," he said, "I 
 talked with the old-line leaders of the Party, 
 from up- State districts and from the City. 
 They are sore enough and disappointed enough 
 in the Governor to vote for his impeachment. 
 But they are afraid. Bailey, the Republican 
 State leader, as you know, has the votes at his 
 command to do the work. But he is afraid." 
 
 "Of what?" asked Macon noncommittally. 
 
 "They don't see where the money's coming 
 from." 
 
 "Money," said Macon, "what has money to do 
 with the matter? Their votes belong to the 
 Party. They are sent to the legislature by the 
 people; that is, the majority party of their dis- 
 tricts to do what the Party wants done. Do 
 they expect to be bribed to do their duty?" 
 
 "Well, it isn't quite that, Mr. Macon, not quite 
 that. There was a time but not now. You 
 see, they are looking ahead. If they should vote
 
 222 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 to impeach Gordon Fuller for unlawfully con- 
 fiscating my mill and property, next summer 
 they would have to go back to their people look- 
 ing for renomination and re-election. And there 
 would be a howl. They would find opposition. 
 There would be a contest in every district. Con- 
 tests are expensive. They want to know just 
 where they are to get the money." 
 
 "But there are always roads and bridges to be 
 built," Mr. Oppenheim suggested lightly. 
 
 Macon shot one swift, questioning glance at 
 the speaker, but the countenance of the wise man 
 showed nothing but a bland cynicism. 
 
 Jasper Macon had, in the course of his climb to 
 the absolute power which was now his, used many 
 instruments, in many ways. Some of those in- 
 struments men had bent under his hand. Be- 
 fore they went to jail, or died, they had threat- 
 ened to tell things. Generally they had told 
 nothing. But he had not always been able to 
 preserve the lofty moral tone of these later 
 days. 
 
 He did not know how much Oppenheim had 
 meant, but he was touched and angry. His an- 
 ger in these days always took the form of severe 
 rectitude. 
 
 "If," he pronounced, "the Governor has broken 
 the Constitution of the State, he must be im- 
 peached. These men are bound by their oaths, 
 no matter what it may cost them." 
 
 A thin, enigmatic smile spread over Oppen-
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 223 
 
 heim's lean, pocked face. He was often obliged 
 to admire the masterful piracy of Macon's meth- 
 ods. But to him, a product of a race which by 
 fear and force has always been obliged to be 
 adept in the dissimulation of every emotion, this 
 man's sudden poses of virtue were almost comi- 
 cally childish. He knew what Macon was think- 
 ing. John Sargent knew what Macon was 
 thinking. Why should Macon insist on striking 
 a pose, when there was neither need nor profit? 
 
 But John Sargent was not smiling. An en- 
 larged artery was pounding blood up through 
 his fat neck till it rang in his ears. He was fa- 
 cing ruin, and he knew it. But he did not cringe. 
 He looked straight under the beetling brows of 
 Macon and broke through the pose. 
 
 "You mean," he said, "that you have decided 
 that Fuller is not to be impeached?" 
 
 "Have I said anything like that?" Macon ap- 
 pealed to Oppenheim. But the Jew merely 
 shrugged his sharp shoulders. He was an in- 
 terested spectator, not an umpire. 
 
 "And have you decided, too," Sargent went 
 on, unheeding, "to let the Governor have material 
 from your steel mills and a market for the ma- 
 chines, so that he can run my own mill over my 
 head? Are you going to do that?" 
 
 "Well, I told you three years ago that you had 
 better come into the International," Macon re- 
 turned bluntly.
 
 224 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Do you mean that ? Do you mean that? Is 
 this your revenge, because I was man enough 
 not to crawl under you then?" 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense. What has revenge to 
 do with plans the size of mine ? I told you then 
 that your plant was wasteful. It is too far from 
 Pittsburgh and too far from tidewater also, to 
 be economical." 
 
 "So now you are going to crush me out, 
 cheaply, eh?" Sargent taunted. 
 
 "You? I hadn't thought of you." Even 
 Oppenheim's narrow eyes opened at the stupen- 
 dous, and evidently honest, egotism of the an- 
 swer. Sargent sat dumb. 
 
 "This young Paladin of a Governor of ours," 
 Macon went on to reveal himself, "is due to come 
 a cropper. He rides too high, and he looks still 
 higher. But if we fight him here, it will give him 
 political capital to draw on for years. If we 
 try to impeach him on this thing, do you know 
 where it will probably land him?" 
 
 "In the White House," said Oppenheim sim- 
 
 "Right. And he's a madman, and dangerous. 
 Now," Macon took them broadly into his confi- 
 dence, "you cannot fight a lunatic. You may 
 kill him, but the chances are against yourself 
 and there's no profit either way. But, if you 
 can convince other people that he is a lunatic, you 
 can have him put out of the way. That is what 
 must be done with this man Fuller. He must
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY'' 221 
 
 Be given a chance to show that he is a lunatic. 
 Let him go on. Let him run the mill at a loss, 
 for a time. I will see that it is at a loss. 
 Then he will have to begin cutting down wages. 
 The Socialists and the Labor people will get 
 after him, and that will be the end of him and his 
 experiment. It will make a laughing-stock of 
 this whole Socialistic and Communistic move- 
 ment for years to come." 
 
 "But," said Sargent, "where will my mill, my 
 business, be when you and he get through with 
 it?" 
 
 "In the scrap heap, where it belongs where it 
 would have been any time these three years if the 
 International had thought it would pay to go 
 after you." 
 
 The cool, even brutality of this stunned Sar- 
 gent as a blow between the eyes would have done. 
 He dropped the fork with which he had been 
 prodding at his fish and sat back staring. 
 
 Macon went on : 
 
 "Then you can go into the International, as 
 you should have done long ago. You won't have 
 much to bring in by that time, but they will take 
 care of you. They'll give you your contracts, 
 enough to keep you going eight or nine months 
 of the year. That'll be enough for you. It's all 
 your mill should ever run anyway. If you had 
 been shutting down three months out of every 
 year, as you were told to do, you'd never have 
 any labor trouble.
 
 226 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "But that's the trouble with you fellows that 
 think you're independent. You run the whole 
 year round and pile up the market. Then you 
 wonder why the market goes to pieces, and why 
 you have strikes. 
 
 "If you had anything in your head to see with, 
 you'd see that a market has to be coaxed and 
 starved a little. And you'd see that labor has 
 to be coaxed and starved a little. If your mill 
 was shut down three months every year your peo- 
 ple wouldn't be striking, they'd be too busy, pay- 
 ing up back grocery bills, when they did get to 
 work, to think of striking." 
 
 Now this was one thing that the S argents had 
 never done. They had never voluntarily shut 
 their mill doors, in the face of a possible profit, 
 in order to keep their employees in a chastened 
 state of mind. John Sargent was horrified at 
 the idea. 
 
 "Sir, my men must have work, they must live." 
 
 Macon leaned across the table, leering gro- 
 tesquely. 
 
 "Sargent, shut up. You care as much about 
 your men, dead or alive, as you do about the 
 water that runs over your dam." 
 
 Macon was willing enough to pose on his own 
 account. But he resented having any one strike 
 an attitude for his benefit. 
 
 Sargent saw that the last rag of pretense be* 
 tween himself and Macon had dropped. They 
 were now down to naked, fighting truth. He
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 227 
 
 held his hand out over the table toward Macon. 
 
 "You see that hand," he said. "It shakes. 
 That means I am not going to live long. I feel 
 it and I've been told so several times. But 
 I'm going to live long enough, and that hand will 
 always be steady enough, for one thing. Before 
 you and the pack of wolves that follow you get a 
 chance at my mill I'll blow the whole of it to 
 smithereens, and myself with it!" 
 
 "Well who'd miss it, or you?" 
 
 "That is hardly necessary, Mr. Macon," said 
 Oppenheim, breaking into the charged pause 
 which followed Macon's retort. "You could say 
 that, with some truth, to every man living." 
 
 But Sargent had no answer. Macon had 
 struck deeper than he knew. He had merely 
 meant to show Sargent how small were he and 
 his mill in the giant combination, which Macon 
 held in his hand, of all the great industrial pro- 
 ducers of the country. Sargent had caught a 
 deeper meaning. He did not hear Oppenheim's 
 protest. Macon's words were pounding down 
 into his soul Who would miss him? Who 
 would miss him? Not one! Not one of all the 
 men or women that lived would care a straw! 
 Not one! 
 
 He was fifty- four years old. He was going to 
 die soon. And all that he could do, all that he 
 could threaten was to cut off a possible year or 
 so of his own life. And this big, beetle-browed 
 man had nothing but a jeer for his threat. It
 
 228 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 was unthinkable but it was true. John Sar- 
 gent, owner of men, master of men, four thou- 
 sand of them, and this was the sum of him ! He 
 had the world's permission to step off into what- 
 ever dark place there was, at any time that suited 
 him. He was assured that the world would not 
 be in the least inconvenienced by his going. 
 
 His mind jumped to Milton and those there 
 whom he called his men. Men there had been 
 willing to give their lives to take Jim Loyd out 
 of jail. He had seen men and women praying 
 for the soul of Harry Loyd. Who would say 
 a prayer for his soul, supposing that he had such 
 a 
 
 His wife had never loved him. She had not 
 even hated him. In the end, she had merely 
 turned her back on him, and died. To his one 
 boy, a weakling and a drunkard, he paid ten 
 thousand dollars a year practically blackmail 
 to keep him in Europe. 
 
 A friend? Where could he have made a 
 friend among men like these two, men who only 
 waited for a false step of his to trip him? 
 
 Of all the men that he had ever seen his heart 
 had turned to just one. And that man hated 
 him, above the hate of all others. It was one of 
 the bitter quips of fate, that the one man on 
 whose shoulder he would have liked to lay his 
 hand in friendship and complete trust was Jim 
 Loyd, his most implacable enemy. 
 
 Once, in the night, when it was very dark, and
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 229 
 
 he saw the face of Death set toward him, he had 
 cried out: "It's a lie! All a lie. There is no 
 God. If there was, He would have given me a 
 son like Loyd a man my kind of man !" 
 
 Macon was right. Who would miss him? 
 And his futile little threat of self-destruction 
 what did it amount to? Only the angry whim- 
 pering of a beaten child. 
 
 When his mind came back to where they were 
 sitting, Oppenheim was saying: 
 
 "You are not estimating that situation right, 
 Mr. Macon. There is something unusual about 
 it. You could not be sure that it would work 
 out the way you expect. It has not been an or- 
 dinary strike at all." 
 
 "All strikes are alike," said Macon gruffly. 
 "Some are badly handled that is the only differ- 
 ence." 
 
 "No," Oppenheim contended, "this was differ- 
 ent. Mr. Sargent's people are Socialists, a lot 
 of them. Oh, not the kind you are thinking of," 
 he said, as Macon snorted his contempt, "not the 
 vociferous, press-agent kind. These are the 
 quiet, unwinking kind of Socialists, that know 
 what they want and are going to get it. 
 
 "Look out for them, I say. Look out! 
 
 "Also," he went on, "his people had resources. 
 Many of them owned their own homes." 
 
 "Criminal folly ever to have allowed that, Sar- 
 gent you see it now," said Macon, turning 
 again to Sargent.
 
 230 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "You are both wrong," said Sargent dully. 
 "Do you think that I could not have silenced or 
 tricked or bought all the Socialists that that little 
 town could hold? 
 
 "And for the men to own their own homes was 
 my father's policy, and it has been mine. It was 
 right. It always held the men tied to my town 
 and my mill. It worked. 
 
 "No. Socialism did not beat me. The fact 
 that some of my men were prepared, that did 
 not beat me. I had to fight something else. I 
 had to fight something that so they tell me 
 no man yet has been able to fight successfully. 
 I had to fight the Catholic Church!" 
 
 The climax was impressive. But Macon was 
 not impressed. He leaned over the table glower- 
 ing. 
 
 "Nonsense," he grunted. "I own three 
 churches." 
 
 The son of Israel opened his lips to say some- 
 thing. But he shut them with a queer smile and 
 leaned back in his chair. These Christians, he re- 
 flected, were always interesting and worth listen- 
 ing to when they were minded to discuss the thing 
 about which they knew least, their religion. 
 
 "I mean," said Macon, posing again, as though 
 a little ashamed of his frank cynicism, "the 
 Church is all right. There is no reason why a 
 man should ever have trouble with it. In its own 
 place, and sympathetically treated, it is an aid to 
 business peace and security."
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 1 231 
 
 "I guess," said Sargent, "we are talking about 
 different kinds of churches. This is not the 
 velvet-padded, soporific kind. It's a real church, 
 if there is such a thing. 
 
 "I suppose there's no use trying to make you 
 understand. But I'm going to try. For my- 
 self, I don't pretend to understand. But you, 
 with your advantages you say you own three 
 churches you may be able to explain it." 
 
 He paused for a swift, curious glance at the 
 masked face of Oppenheim who sat matching his 
 ringer nails together. "I am a fool," he said to 
 himself, "trying to tell this thing to this brass- 
 bound hypocrite, and to a Jew." But he gripped 
 his facts stubbornly and went on: 
 
 "When I thought the strike had gone on too 
 long, I went up there to take a hand myself. 
 There was a young fellow named Loyd in charge 
 of the strike. He was a Socialist, that's what 
 they told me. Well, he's the same kind of a 
 Socialist that you are, Macon ; he'd sweep you or 
 me or anybody else that stood in his way into the 
 gutters or Tophet, to get what he wants. He's 
 that kind of Socialist, just your kind and my 
 kind. 
 
 "I offered him fifty thousand dollars to break 
 the strike. Now, there's just where the differ- 
 ence comes. Put you or me in his place, and 
 we'd have taken the fifty thousand. He didn't." 
 
 "He didn't want it," said Macon; "that's 
 all."
 
 232 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Want it? Say, if I live to be a thousand, I'll 
 never see a man want anything as Jim Loyd 
 wanted that fifty thousand. Why, he was reach- 
 ing out his hand for it! 
 
 "And something caught him and pulled his 
 hand back. 
 
 "Then he wanted to kill me. He wanted to 
 do that even more than the minute before he had 
 wanted to take the money. But he ran out of 
 the room. Remember, he wanted to kill me. 
 And he could have done it with his hands, as you 
 break a stalk of celery. He didn't do it. 
 
 "On Labor Day I shipped in all the trouble- 
 makers and red-eyed orators that I could find in 
 that part of the State. With a little assistance 
 from me, they had the strikers worked up to the 
 riot point. In another minute they'd have been 
 pulling the stones up out of the street. Then 
 something stepped in and sent them quietly about 
 their business. 
 
 "I wired the Governor for troops. Something 
 stepped in behind me, and stopped their coming. 
 
 "A boy, Jim Loyd's brother, was killed by my 
 guards. Through all that night that whole town 
 hunted me as they would have hunted a mad 
 dog. And a day after that, the whole crowd, 
 thousands of them, walked up past my mill, fol- 
 lowing that boy's body and praying for his soul. 
 And they wouldn't so much as look up to curse 
 me, where I stood at the window of my office. 
 Something had stepped in between them and me.
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 233 
 
 "I framed up an explosion in my mill, and 
 made Jim Loyd guilty of it by means of a 
 couple of suborned witnesses. He is in jail now 
 awaiting trial. He was able and ready to break 
 out of there, lead four thousand men behind him 
 and sack my mill and the town and loot every- 
 thing in it. He could have produced a minia- 
 ture civil war, in a night. 
 
 "He was able to do it. He was ready to do it. 
 He wanted to do it. And something stepped in 
 to stop him. 
 
 "I went to the Governor, demanding protec- 
 tion. Something stepped in and made him send 
 troops, not to protect me but to confiscate my 
 plant and run it to my ruin. 
 
 "Now what held Jim Loyd's hand back from 
 my money and my throat? He wasn't afraid. 
 Afraid? If I had him for a son, I wouldn't be 
 here to-day asking you for help. I'd have him 
 fighting you to a standstill for the control of this 
 country. 
 
 "What kept him quiet in jail, when he could 
 have walked out? What kept those men from 
 stoning me to death? What gave Gordon 
 Fuller, a machine-made governor, the brains and 
 the grit to mount this high horse that he's riding? 
 I tell you it was the power of the Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 "Sargent," said Macon surlily, "either your 
 head is softening, or you are keeping something 
 back some personal element. The Catholic
 
 234 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Church isn't a ghost, or a fourth dimension. It's 
 made of men." 
 
 "You are right," Sargent admitted. "There 
 is a personal element. There is an old priest up 
 there. He walks round with his hands behind 
 his back. He's the sworn crony of every bad 
 boy in the town. He knows who threw the stone. 
 But he never tells." 
 
 "David Harum in a Roman collar, eh?" 
 laughed Macon. 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Or, maybe, some of that, but 
 a whole lot of everything else besides. That 
 man name's Driscoll holds the heart and soul 
 of his people in the flat of his hand. 
 
 "Protestant and Catholic, Turk and Atheist 
 believe in him, even Italians. He can wind that 
 whole town about his finger. 
 
 "At every step I have made that man has met 
 me and turned me back. And what's his 
 program? What do you think? The Ten 
 Commandments. Whether he's talking to a 
 jailbird or a sulky little girl or the Governor of 
 the State he'll whip out those ten by-laws and 
 insist on measuring the whole thing by them. 
 He even shook the obsolete old yardstick at me." 
 
 "But, those commandments are so old," said 
 Oppenheim sarcastically, "that they are now 
 revolutionary. He should be restrained. Has 
 he no superior, no bishop who should curb him?" 
 
 "I guess you're thinking of one of those
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY' 235 
 
 churches that Macon owns," said Sargent drily. 
 
 "Ah, of course! I could not be expected to 
 know, you see." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Macon, brushing aside 
 the by-play, "you should have had him moved out 
 of your way." 
 
 "How? I tell you the man has never said a 
 word that was not in direct line with those Com- 
 mandments. He preaches nothing but straight 
 Gospel, and somehow it hits every time. I tell 
 you it is not the man that has beaten me at every 
 turn: it is the inherited, gray wisdom of the 
 Church itself." 
 
 "You talk like an English review," said Ma- 
 con contemptuously. "The priest was in your 
 way. You should have had him removed. You 
 suborned perjury to put Loyd in jail. If Loyd 
 is guilty of conspiring to blow up your mill and 
 it's your business to prove that he is; and if the 
 priest, as you say, was giving Loyd advice, then, 
 the inference is plain the priest had knowledge 
 of the conspiracy. You don't have to prove 
 that. The mere whisper of it, the mere mention 
 of his name in such a connexion would be 
 enough to make his bishop remove him tem- 
 porarily, anyway." 
 
 Sargent sat for a long time looking steadily 
 into the unblinking black eyes of the man op- 
 posite him. Finally he said: 
 
 "Macon, I made a silly threat a while ago,
 
 236 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Well, what you advise would be suicide, almost 
 as direct and quick as if I used a pistol on my- 
 self. You realize that, don't you?" 
 
 Macon answered levelly : 
 
 "It is my answer to your demand for help 
 against the Governor. You have been a thorn 
 in the side of the machinery business for years. 
 You have been a freebooter when other men have 
 combined wisely and for common benefit. You 
 have mishandled your strike so that your town 
 will never again be a peaceful manufacturing 
 unit. You have given the Governor a chance 
 to try an experiment that may shake the whole 
 industrial system of the country. 
 
 "You deserve to be crushed. Instead, I am 
 showing you how you could have saved your- 
 self, how you may yet break up the whole situa- 
 tion. 
 
 "The Governor took over your mill because 
 he had faith in the old priest's wisdom and judg- 
 ment. Remove the priest, stir up a big enough 
 rumpus, and the Governor will lose his nerve. 
 Are you afraid to try it? 
 
 "Do it," Macon went on, as he rose and threw 
 down his napkin, "do it at once or be ready to 
 turn your mill over to us, the International, 
 within two months." 
 
 Without another word, Macon turned and 
 stalked straight to the door, followed at a few 
 paces by the silent Oppenheim. 
 
 John Sargent had not risen with the other two.
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY 3 237 
 
 When they had gone, he still sat looking dully 
 down at the storm that was lashing the bay. 
 
 The Strong City of his wealth was crumbling 
 about him, and he shivered in a quaking, mar- 
 row-freezing ague of despair and failure. 
 
 Finally, he pushed the table away and went 
 down to his offices, ten floors below. As he 
 passed through his outer office he gave the girl 
 at the switchboard a dozen numbers, with orders 
 to connect them with his private phone as fast 
 as she could get them. 
 
 A short, sharp question, an equally short, de- 
 cisive answer from each man whom he called, 
 told him all that he needed to know. The men 
 were leaders and masters of the Assembly. 
 They were all of one mind. The Governor was 
 not to be impeached. The legislature would not 
 interfere with the Governor's acts in Milton. 
 
 It meant that the Governor was to be allowed 
 to run John Sargent's mill until he should bank- 
 rupt it, or until he should be forced to cut wages. 
 In either case, it would serve two purposes. It 
 would show that the Socialist idea of govern- 
 ment ownership of productive industries was 
 farcical. It would put a ridiculous end to Gor- 
 don Fuller's career. 
 
 John Sargent was to be merely the negligible 
 victim of it all. His fortune, his plant, the life 
 work of his father and himself, was to be thrown 
 out, like a piece of red meat, to stop for a mo- 
 ment the onrush of the pursuing wolf, Socialism.
 
 238 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Sargent remembered a story he had once read 
 of five unarmed men in a sleigh being pursued by 
 timber-wolves. When the pack came too close, 
 four of the men threw the fifth, the weakest, out 
 to the wolves, to stop them. The pursuit was 
 delayed, but it came on again. Twice more the 
 weakest man remaining was thrown out, until 
 only two were left. These two struggled, each 
 trying to give himself the last chance of safety, 
 until, just as they were near a village and help, 
 they fell locked together, back into the pack. 
 
 It was not a pretty story, and it was altogether 
 improbable. But John Sargent thought of it 
 for a long time. Out of his thinking, he came 
 to an illuminating conclusion. His whole life 
 had been based on a mistake. He had lived and 
 thought and acted out his life as a member of a 
 class, the Capitalist class. As a member of that 
 class he was bound to conserve and preserve 
 things that are, as they are, in order that wealth 
 and brains and responsible power might keep 
 the world in its appointed course. 
 
 Now he reasoned: There is no such thing as 
 a class of wealthy, powerful men. The very 
 things that make them wealthy and powerful 
 force them to fight to crush each other. The 
 process of combination and elimination will go on 
 till there are just two really wealthy men in the 
 country. Then, they mil throw each other to 
 the pack. 
 
 He went to his house that night and made his
 
 "HIS STRONG CITY 3 239 
 
 will. No. He was not going to die. It was an 
 astonishing will. The attorney who drew it 
 made no comment, except to register mentally 
 that, in spite of the will, John Sargent was of 
 sound mind. 
 
 Later John Sargent boarded the Adirondack 
 Limited. He was going back to Milton for a 
 last fight. He was going to fight that mysteri- 
 ous power, personified in Father Driscoll, which 
 had baffled him. He was going to fight Gordon 
 Fuller. He was going to fight Jasper Macon 
 and what he had called his own class. 
 
 Against the first two of his foes he had no 
 bitterness. He would fight as the lone stag 
 fights because he is a fighter. 
 
 Against the last, against Jasper Macon and 
 his class, he could not lose. That astonishing 
 will would carry on his fight for a century.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 FATHER LYNCH'S WISDOM 
 
 ' 'T^HE Governor did wrong," Father Lynch 
 pronounced. 
 
 He spoke without haste and without preju- 
 dice. His manner, as he settled back in his chair 
 and critically picked out a match from the box 
 at his elbow, told his neighbors that while he ex- 
 pected further argument, and would perforce 
 listen to it, his judgment would stand. 
 
 For fifteen minutes Father Huetter ex- 
 plained, argued, and reasoned with brilliancy 
 and ardor. He showed how the Governor had 
 from the beginning acted with prudence and 
 firmness and from the simplest and clearest of 
 motives. His action had averted violence and 
 bloodshed. It had shown that government 
 could be, after all, efficient and real. And, 
 finally, it had brought John Sargent to terms 
 and had shown a way for the speedy settlement 
 of all future strikes in the country. All this and 
 more the young priest advanced and proved. 
 
 When Father Huetter had quite exhausted his 
 arguments and his enthusiasm, Father Lynch 
 repeated his decision in exactly the same words, 
 
 240
 
 FATHER LYNCH'S WISDOM 241 
 
 but with an added air of judicial calmness and 
 certitude. 
 
 He had the highest respect for the young 
 man's learning, and loved him for the fresh, 
 eager, young heart that he brought to the service 
 of God and of the queer, outlandish peoples 
 among whom he worked. But Father Huetter 
 had received education in such unseemly places 
 as Naples and Cracow. Moreover, he collogued 
 openly and in their own tongues with Italians 
 and Poles and Czechs and what not. Moreover, 
 he was young. Father Lynch made excuse for 
 him on all three grounds. These things did not 
 fit a man to know the real motives of men. He 
 held his ground placidly, and waited for the 
 Dean to take up the argument. 
 
 "It may be we're too confident, Father Pat- 
 rick," said the old Dean in mild-mannered guile. 
 "What should the Governor have done?" 
 
 "I am not his adviser," Father Lynch re- 
 minded the Dean, with a broad smile. 
 
 He did not propose to leave his secure seat as 
 judge, to be heckled as a witness. 
 
 "I say he did you all wrong; neither more nor 
 less." 
 
 For twenty-five years now Father Lynch had 
 been coming down once a month from his rather 
 lonely hills for a few hours of talk with the Dean. 
 
 He always came in hurried and a trifle out of 
 breath, explaining that Jie had had business in 
 Milton and now had barely time to catch his train
 
 242 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 for home. It would not be worth while to sit 
 down he would just shake hands and run. In 
 fact, he should not have taken the time to come 
 in at all, but he did not dare come to town and 
 go away without paying his respects to the 
 Dean's house. Before he would have the ex- 
 planation finished the Dean would have him com- 
 fortably seated, but still protesting. 
 
 This formula was never varied, and in the 
 years it had come almost to the dignity of a 
 ritual. When Father Huetter came he took his 
 part in the ceremony with all the solemnity of an 
 acolyte. 
 
 If the Dean met Father Lynch on the street, 
 as sometimes happened, then the matter was 
 more serious. At twenty paces distance Father 
 Lynch broke into what was almost, but not quite, 
 a run. He was in luck! he panted. He would 
 not have to go all the way up to the house. He 
 would not have had time to make it anyway. 
 Now the Dean could just walk on down to the 
 station with him and they could talk on the 
 way. 
 
 He would grasp the Dean's hand and begin 
 tugging him in the direction of the station. The 
 Dean would stand and pull as firmly the other 
 way. Then more explanations and apologies. 
 Father Lynch was distressed. He was sorry. 
 But he must make that train. A thousand 
 things depended on it! In the end the Dean 
 would put one great hand under the smaller
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 243 
 
 man's elbow and propel him bodily up the street 
 in the direction of the deanery. 
 
 It is of record that Mrs. Mary Normile was 
 one morning chatting in a neighbor's kitchen, 
 when she heard an uproar in her own house across 
 the yard. It seems that the Dean had been pass- 
 ing, and seeing the door open had walked in 
 through the house. In the kitchen he came upon 
 Teresa Normile, aged seven, and her brother, a 
 year younger, going through a grave and lifelike 
 imitation of a meeting on the street between 
 Dean Driscoll and Father Lynch. Seeing 
 Father Driscoll in the doorway, young Terrence 
 Normile put up the pipes to cry. But his sister, 
 a quicker and better judge of facial expressions, 
 looked up slyly, finger in mouth, at the Dean 
 and grinned. Confidence being thus established, 
 the Dean got them to go over the whole perform- 
 ance from the beginning. He had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing himself mimicked to an eyelash by 
 the perfectly respectful and painstaking Teresa, 
 while Terrence portrayed Father Lynch with 
 more flourish but less truth. 
 
 His roars of laughter disturbed Mrs. Normile 
 from her morning chat. As she came running 
 up on to the side porch the children bolted 
 through the back door. The Dean, thus basely 
 deserted, and weak from laughing, fled incon- 
 tinently through the front door. He was still 
 laughing when he reached home. But he would 
 not tell Father Huetter the tale. Father Huet-
 
 244 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ter went out that afternoon and returned with 
 six different versions of the matter. 
 
 Father Lynch never came to Milton without 
 some ostensible and plausible reason of business. 
 But his real business on these visits was to hear 
 of the doings of the Dean during the month past 
 and to sit in chancery upon them. Long ago he 
 had made himself censor in ordinary to the Dean, 
 as regarded the things of this world. In matters 
 of the Kingdom of Heaven, in the realm of con- 
 science, the Dean was his perfect man, walking 
 with God. 
 
 But in his dealings with men, in his judgment 
 of motives and effects, Father Lynch felt that 
 the Dean needed supervision. He was con- 
 stantly being imposed upon. He saw good in 
 all men and all things. His hand and heart 
 were open to the flimsiest and most barefaced 
 tale of wandering misfortune. 
 
 It is all well for him to be a saint- Father 
 Lynch argued and walk with his head in 
 Heaven. But where would he be these twenty- 
 five years without me? 
 
 "He did you all wrong," the judge repeated 
 aggressively, seeing that the Dean would not be 
 drawn out to argument. "The Governor should 
 never have given Sargent back possession of his 
 mill or removed the troops from it until Sargent 
 had given a bond to accept and keep the terms 
 between the men and himself which the Gov- 
 ernor's board of arbitration may name."
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 245 
 
 "Oh, that was not needed," said the Dean 
 easily. "Sargent is glad enough to get his mill 
 back at any terms. He is bound by his word, 
 given and published, to do whatever his man and 
 the Governor's man and the representative of 
 the strikers agree upon." 
 
 "His word! you say?" 
 
 "No," said the Dean, answering the sarcasm 
 in Father Lynch's tone, "he would not dare face 
 the storm of public condemnation that would fall 
 on him if he broke his word." 
 
 "How do you know what he would face? 
 How do you know what desperate straits he was 
 in when he gave in to the Governor? Why did 
 he give in? You do not know. Neither do I. 
 But there is something bad, very bad, to come of 
 it. Mark me. That man has a bad eye. Did 
 I not see him kick the little man in the street ?" 
 
 The Dean did not answer. He looked specu- 
 latively and a little anxiously at Father Huetter; 
 and he saw that his young assistant was im- 
 pressed as he himself was. Father Lynch did 
 not purposely look for the bad side of men and 
 things. He sometimes saw men worse than they 
 really were; but not often, the Dean reflected 
 sadly; not often. 
 
 "The Governor has gained by the whole busi- 
 ness," Father Lynch went on. "He has come 
 well out of it all. He drew the eyes of the whole 
 country to himself. He did a spectacular and 
 what looked like a daring thing. The country is
 
 246 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 ready to lov*e a man who does things like that. 
 He has put himself above his party and into a 
 place where he cannot be ignored; and now he 
 is safely out of it all. He need not worry about 
 the final outcome. The country is tired hearing 
 of your strike by now, anyhow. He has got the 
 advertising and the reputation out of it. Now 
 he has withdrawn his soldiers and his people and 
 left your men again at the mercy of John Sar- 
 gent. 
 
 "I tell you, Dean, you did a great thing for 
 Governor Gordon Fuller when you put him on 
 the way to what he did." 
 
 "I did not do it. I was not able," answered 
 the Dean, shaking his head. "John Sargent 
 himself, by his insolence, angered the Governor 
 into doing what I could not persuade him to do." 
 
 "He would not have thought of it if you had 
 not fired his imagination and his ambition with 
 the idea, before Sargent got to him." 
 
 "I hope that you are not altogether right, 
 Father Patrick," said the Dean slowly. "I like 
 to think that the young Governor did what he 
 has done because he thought it the right and the 
 brave thing to do." 
 
 "At least," said Father Huetter, coming back 
 to the charge, "the Governor by his action 
 proved one thing a thing that people in this 
 country had begun to doubt. He proved that 
 the Government is really supreme over every pri-
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 247 
 
 vate interest in the State. He has shown the 
 way. He has proved that government has the 
 power and the duty to interfere in economic con- 
 flicts such as this and to force a fair compromise. 
 
 "He has knocked on the head the superstition 
 that strikes, battles between Capital and Labor, 
 are sacred duels, in which no one dare interfere. 
 Why, from the attitude of this country during 
 the last twenty-five years, an outsider would 
 think that Labor and Capital in a strike were 
 two 'bad men' meeting in a frontier town, who 
 must be allowed to shoot their fight out in a 
 crowded street no matter who else might be 
 hurt. 
 
 "It is futile," the young priest went on, "for 
 us to complain of what Capital does. And La- 
 bor will always fight for all it can get. Shall we 
 blame it? But, we support a government that 
 is bound to be able, and to show itself able, to 
 hold these two great forces in line and make them 
 work together for the good of all. 
 
 "Here is the trouble. Here is why we have 
 unrest and suspicion and class hatred amongst 
 us. Here is where social revolution, Socialism 
 and Anarchy, make head among us. It is not 
 because Capital is greedy. It is not because La- 
 bor is lawless. It is because many people be- 
 lieve that government, as we have it constituted, 
 is incompetent to deal with its problems. 
 
 "Once show them that government is really
 
 248 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 able to do things, that it can bring the worker 
 and the employer together and measure justice 
 to both of them, then you will hear no more of 
 social upheaval. 
 
 "The Governor has shown that this can be 
 done. He has moved us a great step toward the 
 end of our economic struggle. If government 
 can do this thing, then it can, step by step, bring 
 about every social and economic readjustment 
 that the country needs. 
 
 "There is nothing the matter with the country 
 except that our thought and our actions have 
 been numbered by certain fetishes and hoary su- 
 perstitions about sacred rights. The Governor 
 has shown that these can be dealt with. If he 
 has gained something for himself out of it, let 
 him have it, I say." 
 
 Father Lynch listened calmly to the end. 
 Then he reached forward and, shaking a solemn, 
 warning finger at the Dean, he spoke his mind. 
 
 "You have too plagued much education 
 around this house, Dean: I always said it." 
 
 The Dean chuckled. Father Huetter threw 
 out his hands and sat down, laughing and per- 
 spiring. He and Father Lynch were of widely 
 different schools and different times, but he never 
 made the mistake of underrating the value of the 
 older man's shrewd insight into men and things. 1 
 
 Having thus cleared away the ground, Father 
 Lynch proceeded to analyze the case soberly 
 and slowly.
 
 FATHER LYNCH' S WISDOM 249 
 
 "I don't like it at all, at all," he said. "You 
 young men" he turned to Father Huetter 
 "study from books and you talk and think from 
 books, mostly. I and shame for me! do not 
 read all I ought. 
 
 "You are taught to see men by groups or 
 classes, as you think of them. You believe that 
 certain men, having certain common interests, 
 work and act together on certain common prin- 
 ciples, for a common good at the end. I don't 
 believe it. I never did. 
 
 "You think of two men as two molders, or two 
 bookkeepers, or two mill-owners; and you think 
 of them as acting alike because they work at 
 the same things. It is not so. They are not 
 two this or two that. Each of them is a man. 
 And a man is the only being of all God's crea- 
 tion that is absolutely alone. He has no in- 
 stincts to keep him acting with a class or a herd. 
 He does what he does by himself and for him- 
 self; and does it for the motive that lies in his 
 heart just at that moment. You must find the 
 motive before you talk of what he does. 
 
 "Find me John Sargent's motive. Tell me 
 why he gave in to the Governor. And I will tell 
 you what is to come of it." 
 
 "Well," said the Dean reflectively, "he must 
 have become discouraged and convinced that he 
 was beaten. I do not wonder. He appeared 
 here one morning and walked up to the mill. A 
 soldier stopped him at the gate of his own mill
 
 250 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 and would not let him enter. He walked out, 
 the men say, into the middle of the road and 
 stood, almost on the spot where Harry Loyd 
 died, looking up and down at the mill for a 
 long time. Then he turned and walked back to 
 the station. He did not speak to a soul in the 
 town. 
 
 "I think he knew himself for a beaten man." 
 
 "I do not," said Father Lynch decisively. 
 "A thing like that would make him wild with 
 rage. It is just the thing that would not let him 
 give up. He expected it anyway. No. And 
 you are not telling me all," he accused the Dean 
 abruptly. "Where did the Governor get the 
 money?" 
 
 "That is a mystery," the Dean admitted. 
 
 "A mystery?" Father Lynch sat up and eyed 
 the Dean with severity. "Dean," he said, "you 
 are an older man than I. Now I have known 
 money to go mysteriously. Mine goes that way. 
 Yours does not, for some prodigal son is always 
 waiting around to take it from you for his fare 
 home, before you really know that you have it." 
 (The Dean's failings in this direction were a 
 standing grievance to Father Lynch, and the sub- 
 ject of many a monthly review.) 
 
 "But, I put you on your word as an older 
 man," Father Lynch went on sternly, "did you 
 ever know money to come that way mysteri- 
 ously, out of nowhere?" 
 
 "You are quite right, Father Patrick," the
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 251 
 
 Dean agreed. "It does not come that way. 
 But I do not quite see ' 
 
 "Two weeks ago," Father Lynch pursued his 
 argument, regardless of what the Dean saw or 
 did not see, "on the first pay-day, I am told that 
 the Governor did not have and could not get 
 money to pay the men. I am also told that on 
 that evening you did incite the women here 
 to redeem his worthless pay-checks by force. 
 From a man of peace, Dean," he observed sadly, 
 "you are falling into violence in your old days. 
 But I do not believe that charge so I will take 
 another day for it. 
 
 "Shortly after that," he began again on the 
 main case, "it appears that the Governor found 
 money, not only to pay the men but also to buy 
 materials. And, what is more, he found a mar- 
 ket for the machines that were being turned out. 
 
 "Now, according to your arguments, Father 
 Huetter, he could not get it from a rich man. 
 No rich man would furnish money for the pur- 
 pose of beating another rich man, a man of his 
 own class; and John Sargent is, or was, a rich 
 man. But, I submit to you, learned sir, that it 
 was more money than a poor man, with a decent 
 respect for his own class, would have about him. 
 And, a poor man would not be able to open mar- 
 kets which John Sargent had closed up tight. 
 I think it must have been a rich man. If I am 
 wrong, I hope to be corrected," he added with 
 beaming urbanity.
 
 252 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "I guess you are safe," laughed Father Huet- 
 ter. 
 
 "Then this follows," said Father Lynch, again 
 assuming his magisterial role, "John Sargent 
 found that he had an enemy ; a big enemy, a rich 
 enemy, a man bigger and richer than himself. 
 That day you tell of, he went away from here to 
 fight that enemy." 
 
 Father Lynch sat back and folded his arms. 
 He had spoken. 
 
 "I do not think I understand," said the Dean 
 slowly. Father Lynch's nimble short cuts to a 
 conclusion often left the Dean some distance be- 
 hind. "He has given up the fight." 
 
 "You were never more mistaken in your life, 
 Dean. He has not given up. He has made a 
 truce with the Governor and the men, because 
 he found that a bigger enemy of his own class 
 was fighting him from behind. 
 
 "Now you tell me," he went on, "that since he 
 agreed to accept the Governor's terms and is back 
 running the mill again he is running it as it was 
 never run before. You tell me that he is to run 
 it night and day, that he will soon be using al- 
 most double the force that he used before. 
 What is he trying to do? Probably he will try 
 to flood the market with machinery. I hear it's 
 none too good now. Maybe that other man will 
 lose money, a lot of it, if the prices of machinery 
 suddenly fall. 
 
 "When he gave in to the Governor the way
 
 FATHER LYNCH' S WISDOM 253 
 
 he did, he was striking at his whole class, as you 
 call it. Everjr rich man says now he is a traitor 
 and a coward, that he should have held out. 
 
 "Maybe, he has found that he has no class. I 
 am not sure." 
 
 This in itself, coming from Father Lynch, was 
 a statement so unusual that it sounded heretical. 
 The Dean and Father Huetter were alarmed 
 and dumfounded. When he leaned forward, 
 hesitating, and lost in a patient struggle with his 
 judgments, they were honestly concerned. But 
 it was an affair so beyond the memory and the 
 ken of man that neither had any suggestion to 
 offer. 
 
 "You that live in crowded towns," Father 
 Lynch began finally, with an evident effort, "you 
 look at men in groups. There are so many 
 around you that you cannot study the individual. 
 You have to rank them into classes. And you 
 judge them and their actions by the class into 
 which you put them. In the hills it is different. 
 There we have time to see what is in the face of 
 a man, before another comes along. 
 
 "Now I have looked into the eye of John Sar- 
 gent. I said he had a bad eye. Maybe I would 
 not say bad, just. But there is a mark in his 
 eye that makes him dangerous. It is the mark 
 of revenge. Other passions he may have, I do 
 not doubt. But the one ravaging fury of that 
 man's heart is revenge. 
 
 "From his grave," he added solemnly, "that
 
 254 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 man would strike back for revenge. I see it in 
 his eye." 
 
 Father Huetter was puzzled. This was a 
 Father Lynch that he had never before seen. 
 
 The Dean, however, understood better. Still, 
 he was not able to agree fully. Guardedly he 
 protested: 
 
 "You might well be right, Father Patrick. 
 But he cannot strike anywhere without hurting 
 himself, in money. And money is his soul and 
 his god. It may be that revenge is the strong- 
 est slant of his character. I would not doubt 
 your reading. But money has grown into his 
 heart. I have heard that man rave about the 
 loss of money, frantically, madly, as though his 
 life blood were being drawn. No. I do not 
 think that any passion can now come between his 
 heart and money. He cannot strike. He is 
 bound." * 
 
 "I am right," said Father Lynch, unmoved. 
 "You shall see it." 
 
 "I do not know why," said the Dean absently, 
 "but I always feel strangely about that man.' 
 
 His face was turned to the window. The 
 sharp, piercing look of his strong old eyes soft- 
 ened to a deep, gentle radiance of wonder and 
 faith unbounded. The light in them was the 
 light of his Vision above the gray line of the hills, 
 the light of the Promise, of Infinite Peace. 
 
 "Strong, ruthless, cruel!" he said in a whis-
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 255 
 
 per. "He has been all these, coining the lives 
 of men and women and children. Uncounted 
 wrongs lie at his door. He has walked rough- 
 shod on a suffering people. 
 
 "But, I know little children that are taught to 
 pray to God for John Sargent, that He will 
 change him and make him better to them and 
 theirs. And where men and women have suf- 
 fered was not every pain of theirs a prayer to 
 God to change John Sargent? 
 
 "This is still God Almighty's world. 
 
 "I believe! I believe that He will not take 
 John Sargent from it without first wringing 
 from him some great good!" 
 
 Father Lynch sat silent and bowed. His 
 jurisdiction over the Dean was ended when the 
 latter came to the things of the Kingdom of 
 Heaven. 
 
 In the silence, Father Huetter rose and 
 slipped from the room upon some errand of the 
 day's work. 
 
 The Dean turned slowly back from the win- 
 dow. When he spoke, the exaltation had gone 
 from his tone. His voice and his eyes were 
 those of an old man, tired and shaken. 
 
 "God gives me strength. He gives me the 
 light of faith. And yet I am troubled and sick 
 of heart. Patrick I am I a faithless man, 
 that I cannot hold up my heart and believe al- 
 ways?"
 
 256 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 The anguish in the old Dean's voice brought 
 Father Lynch to his feet on the instant. Never 
 before, in all the years, had he known his friend 
 to falter. 
 
 'Tis nothing, Dean. 'Tis nothing," he has- 
 tened to explain. "You have been wearing 
 yourself out these weeks past, without rest. I'll 
 warrant you've been sitting up half these nights, 
 and not tasting your food, too," he scolded. 
 "You are tired now, and your head is heavy. 
 'Twill pass, 'twill pass." 
 
 Solicitous and full of comfort, Father Lynch 
 bustled about the room, now pushing a chair into 
 its exact place, now straightening a book, now 
 stopping to fleck off a speck of dust from the 
 table. The Dean watched these tactics of his 
 friend and a smile of grateful understanding 
 came stealing over his face. When he saw 
 Father Lynch beginning a second time at the 
 chairs, he said: 
 
 "That will do, Patrick, and thank you. The 
 chairs needed it; and so did I." 
 
 Father Lynch understood. His friend's 
 cloud had lifted, suddenly, as it had fallen. He 
 sat down in confusion, and very deliberately ex- 
 amined his watch. 
 
 "You have time yet," said the Dean. "You 
 did not say all that was in your mind about 
 Sargent and the future. I would hear all." 
 
 "What need have you to listen to my 
 blatherings?" Father Lynch was eager to dis-
 
 credit himself. The business of a prophet of 
 evil is a thankless one in the end ; and he did not 
 propose to take it up again. 
 
 But the Dean insisted: 
 
 "You said some things that were too true to 
 be passed over. Tell me what you think." 
 
 Thus adjured, Father Lynch saw that there 
 was no escape. But he did not now resume the 
 chair of judge. He spoke very slowly and with 
 a manner of cautious and hesitating diffidence. 
 
 "I hope I am wrong, Dean. I ought to be 
 wrong. But I think John Sargent now feels 
 that he has scores to settle with many people. 
 The men have fought him to a bitter end. He 
 feels that he has fed and clothed them for years 
 and that, when they thought themselves able, 
 they tried to ruin him. Jim Loyd fought him 
 most of all, and he will try to convict him and 
 give him a State's prison term. 
 
 "The Governor, he thinks, took an unfair and 
 unlawful advantage of him for political capi- 
 tal at a time when he was already in grave 
 trouble. 
 
 "What will he do? He will as he is now do- 
 ing rush through all the machinery possible, to 
 get money and to strike at the secret enemy who 
 furnished the Governor with money against him. 
 He will fight that enemy first. Then, when he 
 has breathing space, he will turn upon the Gov- 
 ernor. He will snap his finger at his board of 
 arbitration. It will be the dead of winter by
 
 258 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 then. The men will not dare to strike again. 
 He will leave the Governor looking foolish and 
 ridiculous in the eyes of the State and country. 
 
 "You say he is bringing in hundreds of new 
 men and breaking them in," he went on. "He 
 will have more than he needs. Who is to pre- 
 vent him from discharging his old men by the 
 wholesale ? 
 
 "He is not convinced. He is not beaten. He 
 will mark time till winter is down upon you. 
 Winter is his friend the only one he counts 
 upon. 
 
 "Meantime he will use every ounce of his 
 power to put Loyd away permanently. 
 
 "And, Dean," he concluded, dropping his 
 voice, "remember this: that man hates you and 
 blames you. He cannot hurt you. But he will 
 
 try." 
 
 "Dear God! I would do the man every good 
 in my power!" 
 
 "True," Father Lynch admitted. "As I said 
 before, a man is a creature altogether alone and 
 by himself. No other man can tell what one 
 thinks and feels. It may be that the very fact 
 that he knows you once saved his life I saw it 
 and that he knows you would do him good is 
 the very thing that he holds hardest against you. 
 
 "The heart of a man," he concluded, "goes in 
 a queer and unbelievable way, when once it is 
 set toward the wrong." 
 
 He rose briskly, watch in hand.
 
 FATHER LYNCH' S WISDOM 259 
 
 "I must be gone. There's a new conductor on 
 Number Seven and he thinks he must leave Mil- 
 ton on time, no matter what time he gets us 
 home. Joe Conley, that's gone, always gave us 
 fifteen or twenty extra minutes here, and made 
 up the time on the curves. What matter if he 
 did put us into the ditch once in the year or so?" 
 
 "Oh, you'll have plenty of time," said the 
 Dean, rising slowly and stiffly. "I'll walk with 
 you to the station." 
 
 "On my word! I believe you're afraid I'd 
 take up a collection on the way if you let me 
 walk to the station alone." 
 
 The joke was venerable with twenty-five 
 years' usage between them. But the Dean 
 laughed boyishly and explained that there was 
 supper in the house for only two, so that it was 
 policy for him to see that Father Lynch did ac- 
 tually get aboard his train. 
 
 The Dean shook hands with his guest at the 
 step of the train, as Number Seven, on time, was 
 moving away from the platform. He walked 
 away from the station with a slow step, giving 
 only a mechanical return to the people who sa- 
 luted him by the way. 
 
 All day he had been feeling rather depressed, 
 and Father Lynch's talk had done much to 
 deepen the feeling. 
 
 Where he had been counting upon a lasting 
 solution of all the difficulties which for years had 
 threatened the peace and happiness of his peo-
 
 260 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 pie. he now saw that nothing had really been 
 solved. Where he had seen a prosperous and 
 industrious winter before them, he now realized 
 that they were more fully and helplessly at the 
 mercy of John Sargent than they had ever 
 been. 
 
 Lost in thought, he turned into Lake Street 
 and then down Reynold Street. So that before 
 he noticed it he was standing at the door of the 
 low red building where Jim Loyd was in jail. 
 
 Fred Wheeler, the warden, admitted him. 
 
 "Loyd? Why, of course you can see him, 
 Father. Only, Mr. Sargent is in there, in the 
 office, with him now." 
 
 "Sargent? Here? To see Jimmie Loyd?" 
 
 "Funny thing, ain't it, Father? He's been 
 here before. And it ain't a guilty conscience, 
 either. He ain't troubled that way. I dunno 
 Loyd seems to have some kind of a fascination 
 over that man. Sargent can't leave him alone." 
 
 "I would like to go in while he's there," said 
 the Dean. "See if he has any objection, Fred." 
 
 In a moment Wheeler returned, to say that 
 the Dean might go into the inner office. 
 
 Loyd rose from the table and greeted the 
 Dean quietly. Sargent was walking about the 
 room. He wheeled sharply as the old priest 
 came in, and for an instant the two looked curi- 
 ously at each other. 
 
 "I would not intrude," said the Dean quickly, 
 realizing that it was a strange and strained mo-
 
 FATHER LYNCH' S WISDOM 261 
 
 ment. "I have no business here that could not 
 wait." 
 
 "It does not matter," said Sargent shortly. 
 "I am trying to make this man do something for 
 his own good. But it doesn't seem to be any use. 
 I am telling him that I will have this whole case 
 against him dropped, if he will give his word to 
 leave Milton then and never come back." 
 
 The Dean thought rapidly, and decided upon 
 a frontal attack. 
 
 "Aside from the fact," he said, "that he is not 
 guilty, and that you, Mr. Sargent, know too well 
 who is guilty, how do you know that he would 
 keep his word?" 
 
 "Of course he'd keep his word. He always 
 does. You told me that." 
 
 The Dean started. That terrible night, when 
 he had told Sargent Jim Loyd pays his debts, 
 came crowding back upon him. But he drove 
 it back, and went on to his purpose. 
 
 "Will you keep your word to the Governor?" 
 
 Sargent was stunned. For an instant a 
 numbing superstition caught him. How did this 
 man know the plans of his mind before he him- 
 self had them formed? Then all the baffled rage 
 of months of humiliation and defeat broke out. 
 
 "Who are you?" he shouted, striding across 
 the room. "What are you, that you can pick 
 the meat out of my brains? Everywhere I go, 
 you meet me. Every move I make, you are 
 ahead of me to block it!"
 
 262 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 The Dean leaned against the edge of the table, 
 looking calmly down at the man in front of him. 
 This coolness seemed to drive Sargent from his 
 last hold of self-control. 
 
 "NoP he fairly screamed. "I will not keep 
 my word to the Governor! I will never again 
 keep word or faith with any living man! 
 
 "I thought I was a man," he began again, 
 "living among men, working among men. I 
 thought I lived and worked among men who 
 worked and fought for the same things that I 
 worked and fought for. I thought I belonged 
 to a class gentlemen, we called ourselves that 
 had interests in common. I thought we were 
 working for common protection, for the country, 
 for prosperity, for civilization. 
 
 "It's rot! It's all a lie! 
 
 "There is no country. There is no civiliza- 
 tion. I am as much alone now as if I was back 
 in the first forest, with a stone club, stalking my 
 first beast. I have been a triple-ringed idiot, 
 and I have just found it out. 
 
 "I will go my own way from now. Why 
 should I have pity or faith, or thought for any 
 man? I will lie. I will trick and throw every 
 man that has put a hand against me. 
 
 "I thought I had friends, men of what I called 
 my own kind, who were with me in a fair fight. 
 I could have fought you all, Governor and all. 
 But those men, my own kind, came behind me 
 to assassinate me.
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 263 
 
 "I will beat them first. I will run that mill 
 till it groans, till the machines fly to pieces, to 
 beat them. 
 
 "I have tricked the Governor now, and when 
 it is time I will laugh in his face and make the 
 country laugh at him. 
 
 "Then I will come here. Milton is my town. 
 I will drive from it every man who has fought 
 me. Loyd, here, will go and all the rest. 
 
 "But you, you will be the first. I swear it! 
 You, with your preaching of peace and patience, 
 you will be the first!" 
 
 "As God wills," answered the Dean quietly. 
 "But you, Mr. Sargent, you should not excite 
 yourself so." 
 
 "Are you taunting me with that again? Are 
 you? Yes, I am going to die. Are you trying 
 to shake your red rag of Hell-fire at me? Are 
 you trying to scare me with that?" 
 
 "It was the last thing in my thought, Mr. Sar- 
 gent. Nevertheless 
 
 "Where would this man Loyd be to-day, if you 
 had not stopped him? Where would this whole 
 strike have been months ago, if they had not had 
 you to preach wisdom and patience and endur- 
 ance to them? I could have harried them into 
 rioting and madness and then have crushed them 
 like an eggshell. But there you were, preaching 
 peace and everlasting, gray cunning to them. 
 
 "And why do you do it? Because you think 
 to drive your Church in as a wedge, a wedge be-
 
 264 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 tween Anarchy and all the tearing forces below 
 and Capitalism and all the grinding powers 
 above- to save the country that way. 
 
 "Country or no country, you have been my 
 strongest enemy. You will be the first to go. 
 I will" 
 
 For an instant the old priest had taken his eyes 
 from Sargent while he ranted. 
 
 The other man was stealing round the corner 
 of the table toward Sargent. Furtive of eye, 
 hairy of face, he moved with the strained, vibra- 
 ting stealth of a gaunt panther preparing to leap. 
 
 Dear God! Could that be Jimmie Loyd? 
 Could a few weeks of jail have done that to him? 
 Not so would the Jimmie Loyd whom he had 
 known go to his enemy ! 
 
 Even in his horror, the Dean acted swiftly. 
 He grasped Sargent by the arm and swung him 
 round, so that his own wide body was between 
 the two men. Then, with a grip that told of the 
 giant strength of his younger days, he almost 
 lifted his man to the door, and, opening it, pushed 
 him through; saying but one word: 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 With his back against the door, the Dean 
 looked at Loyd. He had dropped back loosely 
 into his chair, and his head fell inert on his chest. 
 The Dean crossed the room and laid a hand on 
 Loyd's shoulder. 
 
 "Jimmie," he said, "I have seen sorrow; and 
 you have lain with sorrow. But, of all the men
 
 FATHER LYNCH 'S WISDOM 265 
 
 that I have ever known, that man just gone needs 
 pity most. Think, think a while, and you will 
 see." 
 
 Loyd answered not at all, but reached up and 
 took the hand on his shoulder in a grasp that 
 would have crushed any other hand. 
 
 "Can he hurt you, Father?" he asked pres- 
 ently. "Because, if he can, I will go, or do any- 
 thing he- 
 
 "Jimmie," the Dean interrupted, "have you 
 listened to me all these years and do not know 
 that no man can hurt you or me? If we do 
 wrong or do foolishly, then we can be hurt, not 
 otherwise." 
 
 Then Wheeler came in. 
 
 Father Huetter, supper, and a long-suffering 
 housekeeper were all waiting for the Dean when 
 he came home. 
 
 As he walked in to the waiting table, he 
 avoided the accusing eye of the housekeeper and 
 hastened to create a diversion. 
 
 "Did you ever wonder, Father Huetter," he 
 said blandly, as though he had never in his life 
 kept a meal waiting, "where Father Lynch goes 
 to school for his uncommon knowledge of men 
 and their hearts?" 
 
 The housekeeper, feeling herself outgeneraled, 
 retired scornfully. 
 
 Father Huetter, while he smiled at the un- 
 spoken duel, answered:
 
 266 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Well, they say he only reads one book outside 
 of Mass and Office. But that book is the Douay 
 Bible. I believe he knows the half of it by 
 heart." 
 
 "Yes, I guess that is the answer," agreed the 
 Dean. "No new thing has happened to a human 
 heart since that Book was written."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 
 
 4 'HPnE man has gone rank, raving mad, Dean; 
 * there is no other explanation," said Father 
 Huetter. 
 
 "It must be very bad," agreed the Dean, 
 "from all I hear." 
 
 "Bad? Why, do you know, he's actually driv- 
 ing that mill up to nearly two hundred per cent, 
 of its capacity. Finnegan and Dryden both told 
 me that and they are men who know. He is 
 driving so that the very main shaft of the mill is 
 shaking in its blocks. 
 
 "He has had a cot set up in his private office 
 and he eats and lives there, but he does not sleep 
 anywhere. They say he is out through the mill 
 night and day, rushing here and there, and driv- 
 ing, driving, driving like a demon, to get the last 
 ounce of power out of the machines, the last 
 minute of work and endurance out of the men." 
 
 "I have not been near the mill since the night 
 when young Harry Loyd was killed," said the 
 Dean. "I could not bear the sight of it." 
 
 "ISTo. And we cannot do the slightest good. 
 That is the pitiful part of it. Even the things 
 that you have done, the men did not always un- 
 
 267
 
 268 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 derstand them or know how to take them. And 
 Sargent thinks that every move you have made 
 has been made as a direct attack upon him." 
 
 "From my heart," the Dean returned, "I am 
 sorry for that man. He has the threat of death 
 upon him and there is a canker in his soul that 
 eats and eats, and drives him on faster and faster 
 toward the end. God alone knows what the end 
 will be : madness or death, or the two together. 
 
 "In this room, on that night I spoke of, I re- 
 minded John Sargent of Cain. Within an hour 
 from that, he heard the cry that Cain echoed to 
 God. 'Every man that should see him would 
 kill him.' And for the first time in his life, I 
 believe- he was afraid. 
 
 "From that time his heart has been able to see 
 nothing but 'every man's hand against him.' It 
 is not an excuse. There is no question of excuse. 
 But think, Father. Think of a soul turned Loose 
 against the world, like that! Think of a soul 
 that knows not God at all, and knows men only 
 as enemies! Think of the best and wisest man 
 you ever knew. Take from him his God. Then 
 take from him his faith and trust in all other men. 
 What would he do? Can you tell to what bad 
 and cruel lengths he would go?" 
 
 "But this man is a criminal lunatic," said 
 Father Huetter. "The men are getting to be 
 superstitious. Even the hardest rushers among 
 the piece workers, though they are being made 
 to earn more just now than ever before in their
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 269 
 
 lives men who were always complaining that 
 the machines ran too slow they are getting 
 afraid of him. It is simply frightful. He has 
 crowded men, new and old, trained and green, 
 into that great blast-room until it is nothing but 
 a pit of flaming life-traps. Men are working 
 there knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder, un- 
 der a terrible pressure of hurry, with only inches 
 between them and death in the gears, with only a 
 single step between them and most horrible death 
 in molten iron. 
 
 "And he has crowded new girls and new wind- 
 ers into the twine mill so closely that the timid 
 ones among the women go almost mad from 
 standing hours and hours in a single cramped po- 
 sition, not daring to move. While the heedless 
 ones take terrible chances every minute, for the 
 sake of a little ease. 
 
 "It's so bad that every operating job in that 
 mill to-day is a criminal risk. I tell you it's a 
 frightful thing that a man like him he's crim- 
 inally insane, nothing short of it should ever 
 have such power over men and women!" 
 
 "It is," the Dean agreed sadly. "No doubt, it 
 is a terrible thing that any man should have such 
 a measure of power over his fellow-men. It has 
 been said that no man is good enough and wise 
 enough to govern another man. And all human 
 records seem to bear out the statement. 
 
 "Do you remember, Father, that in all the 
 struggles of men for liberty they have never
 
 270 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 asked for any positive thing, always a negative 
 thing. When they have fought and died for 
 charities and constitutions and laws, they were 
 never wanting to strengthen the existing power. 
 They were always seeking to curb it, to bind it, 
 to protect themselves against it. Men seem to 
 have agreed always that no power, no man, no set 
 or succession of men, would ever be wise and 
 good enough to govern absolutely. 
 
 "All this regarded political power only. How 
 much less, then, is any man, however sane and 
 wise, to be trusted with the power of bread and 
 life over men? That is the power which John 
 Sargent wields here. I suppose no man is fit to 
 have such power. 
 
 "And yet," he concluded slowly, "dependence, 
 to some extent at least, is the lot of more than 
 nine-tenths of all men. Nearly every man liv- 
 ing is in some way dependent on another man." 
 
 "But it should not be so: it need not be so," 
 said Father Huetter. "There is nothing inher- 
 ent in human nature that would make it so. 
 God never meant it to be so, for He puts men 
 into the world practically equal. The individual 
 differences of heredity and environment are 
 really trifling in the long run. Every day we 
 see men climb swiftly over them." 
 
 "They do climb over them," said the Dean; 
 "and it is that one fact, I believe, that holds 
 our American industrial system together. Our 
 workingmen, with the temper they have, would
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 271 
 
 not go on working as they do under our condi- 
 tions if each one did not in his heart believe that 
 he can someway, somehow, climb out of the place 
 he is in. That hope is the mainspring of Ameri- 
 can action. By it our civilization keeps running 
 on." 
 
 ''But the hope is false, and a delusion!" cried 
 Father Huetter. "What chance have they? 
 What chance have our men here in Milton of 
 ever being anything but what they are? This 
 country may once have been the land of individ- 
 ual opportunity; but that was a time when the 
 unopened resources of the land lay free to all. 
 It was before organized capital had spread its 
 smothering blanket over the country to choke the 
 breath of individual independence. Our people 
 do not know it, but they are rapidly and surely 
 being molded into classes where they will have 
 to stay, as fixed as are the peasant and working 
 classes of Europe. Their hope of rising out of 
 their place is no longer a hope. It is an outworn 
 American tradition. Our people will one day 
 awaken to this, and their awakening will be a ter- 
 rible one." 
 
 "True or false," said the Dean, "it will take 
 many lessons to make our people believe that 
 hard work and thrift and good sense will not get 
 them what they want. And if they cannot get it 
 for themselves they will still believe that they can 
 procure what they want for their children. And 
 that is, after all, the biggest thing in their hearts.
 
 I 
 
 272 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "And they are not so deluded as you might 
 think. Every man, like every woman, has one 
 secret thing in his heart that he wants above all 
 other things. If he gets that thing, you will not 
 find him worrying about whether he belongs to 
 a class or does not. He will not care. For 
 when he gets the one thing on which his heart is 
 set, he knows that he belongs to the class of the 
 kings of the earth the men who have made their 
 heart's dream come true. 
 
 "And they get the secret big wish of their 
 hearts oftener than you would think. For you 
 can never tell what it may be. 
 
 "Do you know Dennis O'Leary? You do, of 
 course. Now, for thirty years Dennis has stood 
 day in and day out down in the lowest wheelpit 
 of John Sargent's mill, half to his waist in water. 
 In summer the water is warm. In winter it is 
 ice cold. So far as Dennis O'Leary knows, or 
 cares, those are the only changes in the Labor 
 situation in this country. 
 
 "Twenty-five years ago," he went on, "the 
 night young Aloysius O'Leary was born, Dennis 
 O'Leary decided that he would one day be able 
 to walk down State Street and see the words 
 Aloysius O'Leary, Attorney at Law, on an office 
 sign. For all those years, until last summer, he 
 looked down into the water as it boiled away 
 from the tail of the wheel and saw nothing but 
 those words. Every freezing that he got in the
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 273 
 
 water, every twinge of the rheumatism that has 
 crimped his legs and bent his spine, went into the 
 making of that sign that you know is up now on 
 State Street. 
 
 "Now he walks eight blocks out of his way 
 after the late Mass on Sunday, and makes him- 
 self late for his dinner, to pass by and read the 
 letters on that sign. He wishes they were seven 
 feet tall. 
 
 "Then he goes home to his dinner. And if 
 the young Attorney dares to assume any airs, the 
 old man tells him, "Twere fitter for you to be 
 earnin' an honest livin' like your betters.' 
 
 "But, I say, Dennis O'Leary is one of the 
 kings of the earth. You have to make way for 
 him a man who has made his dream come true ! 
 
 "You could tell him that the country is fast 
 going to the dogs and he would agree with you. 
 You might tell him that it is foolish for a man to 
 work hard and honestly when so many rogues get 
 the best of everything and he would say you 
 were right. But you cannot tell him that a man 
 cannot get what he wants in this country if he is 
 willing to fight away and work for it. 
 
 "There are thousands, millions I might say, of 
 Dennis O'Learys among our working people. 
 Their lives hold just one, big longing for a cer- 
 tain thing. Give them that or let them see their 
 way to it and they care little about what class 
 they belong to.
 
 274 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Socialism or any other 'ism' may cry out to 
 them to work and vote and fight as a class the 
 working class. But they will never do it. They 
 have no class. They refuse to be conscious of 
 any class. They are willing to work to the bone 
 for just their one big thing. Getting that, they 
 count their lives well spent. Failing that, their 
 lives are empty. They carry their disappoint- 
 ment to the grave. 
 
 "But they do not succeed or fail as a class. 
 They are not happy or unhappy as a class. 
 They are too sturdy, too individual, to ever live 
 or think or act as a class. 
 
 "That is why Socialism, the Social Revolution, 
 will never be able to array them as a class against 
 the order of things. 
 
 "Maybe it is a weakness in them, collectively; 
 but it is their character. It is what their blood 
 and America, together, make them. They stand 
 or fall by it." 
 
 "That is the thoughtless and heartless Ameri- 
 can blunder!" said the young priest warmly. 
 
 "Look at our working people as they are to- 
 day! Ninety-nine men out of every hundred 
 have to go on working with their hands from 
 youth to death! Ninety-five boys out of every 
 hundred have to leave school and start over the 
 road that their fathers have gone ! And yet, just 
 because one strong man or five lucky boys get a 
 chance for something easier, the whole ninety-
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 275 
 
 nine go on believing that there is a chance for 
 them and theirs. It is pitiful! It is a ghastly 
 farce and a delusion ! 
 
 "They will not act or work for themselves, for 
 their kind, because every one of them is secretly 
 hugging to his heart the slim hope that he may 
 be the one out of a hundred that shall climb away 
 from his fellows. 
 
 "That fallacy, that delusion, is the one thing 
 that is holding back the Social Revolution. All 
 that Socialism needs to-day is a leader great 
 enough and honest enough to really awaken these 
 men from their dream. When they awake, re- 
 ligion and in particular the Catholic Church will 
 be the first thing to suffer. They will look back 
 at us to say : 'You knew we were deluding our- 
 selves ; you knew we had no chance ; yet you went 
 on preaching thrift and ambition, patience and 
 endurance to us. Why did you do it?' 
 
 "Three thousand men worked all day to-day 
 for John Sargent. Two thousand more are 
 working all night to-night. How many of them 
 will ever be anything but what they are? How 
 many of them will ever have anything but what 
 they have? Yet every one of them is hugging 
 to his heart that false and lying hope, that he 
 can somehow rise above his fellows. 
 
 "And what are they? What are they? Fuel 
 of the fire! Fuel of the fire of John Sargent's 
 madness !"
 
 276 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 He stopped short, and his face broke into a 
 good-natured smile at his own heat. 
 
 "Forgive me, Dean," he said in confusion. "I 
 I really didn't intend to make a speech here 
 to-night." 
 
 But Father Driscoll did not smile. He looked 
 gravely at his young assistant, and said simply: 
 
 "My boy, there is nothing to apologize for. I 
 have lived through the times and the conditions 
 that have made the American working-people 
 what they are. I am as they are. I think as 
 they think. 
 
 "You come with a newer, fresher, point of 
 view. It may well be that your sight is better 
 than mine. 
 
 "My generation of priests had its hands full 
 picking up the scattered elements of Catholicity 
 in this country and holding them together and 
 building them up into what we now have. Our 
 work is done, and we are going fast. 
 
 "Your generation has bigger, wider problems 
 before it than mine had. God sparing you to 
 my age, you will see more striking changes than 
 I have seen. I believe that the next fifty years 
 in this country will be more lastingly decisive for 
 the Church of Christ than any fifty years that she 
 has seen. 
 
 "But, after all, future as well as past, there is 
 but one answer to every question, one solution to 
 every problem the Grace and the eternal, abid- 
 ing Wisdom of Christ. If you had not that with
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 277 
 
 you, your generation of priests in this country 
 might well tremble at the tasks and perils before 
 you. 
 
 "I do not know how it will work out. But I 
 remember this from history: every convulsion of 
 the world, every great, seething crisis of human- 
 ity has, ultimately, worked out for the good of 
 Catholicity. The Church has never really suf- 
 fered from conflict or agitation. She emerges 
 stronger out of every struggle. Too much se- 
 curity, with its consequent stagnation, has ever 
 been the one thing to hurt her. 
 
 "A social and economic readjustment of the 
 power and wealth of this country is coming. 
 Every thinking man sees that it is inevitable. If 
 it can only be brought about through the bitter 
 struggle that you foresee, then the Catholic 
 Church will suffer, of course. 
 
 "But, of all organized religion, she alone will 
 live through the struggle. She will stand alone. 
 Then will be her opportunity and her test. It 
 will be the only fair test she has had in modern 
 life. It will be grand! 'Twill be heart-lifting! 
 I see it! The grandest, the most telling fight for 
 Christ's Kingdom that's ever been made. 
 
 "Dear man!" he broke out, "do you know the 
 privilege that's yours! Oh, to be young! To 
 have a mind trained for it as yours is and the 
 courage! And to have a battle like this ready 
 made for you to throw hand and heart and soul 
 into it!
 
 278 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "I wish I could throw back the years. But 
 no," he said, catching himself up. "No, I am 
 old. The old things pass. I would not do. 
 New times, new men, new minds. 
 
 "Now, if you please, will you tell me who's 
 making the speeches," he said laughingly. "Be 
 off to your bed. I see you're dying to be gone." 
 
 "Dean," said Father Huetter, as he gathered 
 up a hat, a magazine, and an overcoat that be- 
 longed to him, and prepared to go, "the next 
 time I set out to lecture you on any subject, I'll 
 be careful to pick one that I know something 
 about. Apparently, you had this one all thought 
 out before I was born." 
 
 "'Tis a big pattern, Father," said the Dean 
 quickly. "You see one part, I see another. No 
 man can see more than a little of the mighty de- 
 sign as it works out of the loom of God." 
 
 Father Huetter said a thoughtful good-night 
 and went slowly up the stairs. 
 
 The Dean rose and walked heavily across the 
 room to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, 
 he stood looking out into the night. 
 
 Down to the right, at intervals of a minute or 
 so, the pall of the night was hurled back regu- 
 larly by a great flare of light from one of John 
 Sargent's furnaces. For a long time the Dean 
 stood there fascinated, watching the great paws 
 of fire that shot out spitefully from the beast of 
 fire and iron that was John Sargent's mill. But 
 it was not the sardonic beauty of the scene that
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 279 
 
 held the old priest. He was watching flash after 
 flash as it leaped from out the belly of the fur- 
 nace. He counted them aimlessly, but with an 
 undercurrent of sickening thought running be- 
 neath his mind. He had heard some one say that 
 every so many flashes of that light- he could not 
 now remember the number meant a man's life. 
 Just about so many times that vicious paw of the 
 beast struck out harmlessly. Then, it caught its 
 prey, devoured him, and went on with its count 
 for the next. From the outside there would be 
 nothing to tell what flash had been the fatal one. 
 
 The Dean caught himself wondering if the 
 count were nearly full. Whether this flash or 
 the next one would mean a feast for the man- 
 eating thing whose brain was John Sargent. 
 
 "Fuel of the fire," he repeated, recalling 
 Father Huetter's expression. "It is the very 
 thing that Isaias saw and pictured." 
 
 Shuddering, he turned away from the sight of 
 the mill and looked up over the line of the hills to 
 the cold, calm stars above. The great northern 
 constellations, cut clean and sharp in the frosty 
 air, stood ranked about the pole-star like bolt- 
 heads of white steel in the roof of heaven. 
 
 As his eye roamed from star to star, he was 
 struck as though he had never before thought 
 of it by the vastness of God's universe. Thou- 
 sands, nay millions of suns out there in the un- 
 limned spaces, all feeding light and life to millions 
 upon millions of unseen, unreckoned worlds !
 
 280 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Then he remembered that he was looking at 
 only a patch of the sky. The cold, dispassionate 
 immensity of it all fell upon him and seemed to 
 crush him to the littleness of nothing. 
 
 "Dear God!" he breathed out his simple, boy- 
 like wonder and adoration, "Dear God, what a 
 parish You have! Is it not an impertinence to 
 ask You to think of this pin-point in it?" 
 
 The telephone rang out a hurried, frightened 
 call. There was a human, frantic note in the 
 ring that ran through the house like a shriek. 
 The Dean dropped the curtain and hastened out 
 into the hall. 
 
 Down in the great die-room of his plant John 
 Sargent was putting on pressure. Watch in 
 hand, he stood in the center of the room driving 
 the four great trip-hammers beyond all limits 
 of safety and endurance the endurance of even 
 chilled steel. 
 
 He was the incarnate, implacable spirit of 
 energy gone mad. Rush ! was the one word upon 
 his lips. Speed ! was the one idea that went sear- 
 ing through his brain. To push those hydraulic 
 hammers to the very last ounce of their ten-ton 
 strokes; to give them no rest, no respite; to be 
 ever at them, goading them, harrying them up to 
 the limit, and over the limit of their power; this 
 had become an obsession with John Sargent. 
 
 Now, a hydraulic hammer is the most sullen 
 machine that a man ever attempts to drive. It
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 281 
 
 has no sympathy with useful work. It will not 
 spring to its work with that readiness and good- 
 will that seems to make so many engines almost 
 human to the touch. It seems to know that the 
 primary business of its mighty blows is a business 
 of destruction. Privately it seems to resent do- 
 ing any work but that of destruction. But a 
 canny man, who is beyond fear and nervousness, 
 and who has a hand of steel, can make a hammer 
 do marvels. A nervous, frightened man, a man 
 who has lost the touch, cannot make the hammer 
 hit the block true once in twenty strokes. The 
 right man can make it punch a perfect eye in the 
 smallest needle, not once but a thousand times in 
 succession. 
 
 The four hammers that John Sargent timed 
 were in a vile temper. Any man with an ear to 
 hear what a machine means could have sensed the 
 sullen roar of the hydraulic as it pulled away 
 from the block, tearing at its own vitals in the 
 roof of the room. And every down stroke had 
 the thud of a vicious, murderous kick. 
 
 But John Sargent was not listening to the hu- 
 mor of machines. He had eight machines under 
 his eye. Four of them were costly, beautiful 
 wonders of their kind, things of steel and electric 
 current and the laws of water under pressure. 
 There need be no limit to the work of these four 
 machines, if only he could get the other four ma- 
 chines to go with them. 
 
 The other four machines were things of bones
 
 282 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 and blood and a little flesh, and their motive 
 power was vaguely called a soul. They were not 
 wonders. They were common things, and they 
 were not lovely. Neither were they costly. 
 
 The latter four machines said that the former 
 four machines could not be driven beyond fifty 
 strokes to the minute. 
 
 "You lie and you shirk," said John Sargent. 
 "The hydraulics will go as fast as your clumsy 
 hands will feed and clear them." 
 
 Their hands were not clumsy. They were 
 clever and deft and true: otherwise, they would 
 not have remained on the arms to which they be- 
 longed. 
 
 But the machines did not answer. They knew 
 that thirty-five strokes to the minute was fair 
 work. At that rate a man had about a second 
 and a half in which to yank a stamped piece of 
 metal out from under the die as it rose and jam 
 in another piece for it to fall upon. And the 
 metal must be placed on the block with hair- 
 breadth precision. 
 
 The men had been speeded up to fifty strokes 
 without a murmur, while their counterparts, the 
 other four machines, roared and groaned and 
 fought above them. 
 
 Beyond that the men said the speed could not 
 go. They did not say that they could not do it. 
 They said it could not be done. For, though 
 they were cheap, they knew that at their craft 
 four better men than they did not live.
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 283 
 
 So John Sargent stood, watch in hand, to 
 prove that they were liars. Slowly, cautiously, 
 as John Sargent raised his hand, a man up in 
 the roof of the room threw in switches to feed 
 more current to the whining motors. That man 
 up there believed that the extra pull would in- 
 evitably tear one of the hammers from its hold 
 and send it crashing down, himself with it, to 
 ruin. But he went on steadily applying the 
 greater current. The men below the machines 
 had not the slightest doubt that one of the four 
 hammers would crack under the strain and come 
 down to kill him or one of his three fellows. But 
 they went on with their lightning-like cunning, 
 snatching the cut metal from the die with the left 
 hand and flicking the new piece into place with 
 the right. 
 
 For five minutes the strokes went on up stead- 
 ily, gaining one stroke to the minute ; the human 
 machines automatically tuning themselves up to 
 the new speeds. 
 
 At fifty-five the gain was stopped, while the 
 motors reeled and staggered trying to accustom 
 themselves to the new load. 
 
 But John Sargent raised his hand higher, rose 
 upon his toes as though to push the motors, and 
 stamped his foot. And the motors staggered on, 
 on up to where the speed was clearly above sixty ! 
 
 He was a man maddened, possessed, with the 
 feeling that by his very will he could drive things 
 beyond their physical limits. And things, even
 
 284 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 such things as hydraulic hammers, lent them- 
 selves to his madness. 
 
 Had those machines been anything but the 
 sullen, unaccountable power-hammers that they 
 were, one of them would have broken away some- 
 where. But no. Somehow, in the gloomy, vi- 
 cious spirit that abides in all their kind, they 
 seemed to take a decision. And they went on, 
 striking beautifully and perfectly to the new 
 time. 
 
 John Sargent dropped his hand, snapped his 
 watch, and glowered around in triumph at the 
 four cheap machines on the ground. He had 
 set the pace for them, and his four costly, depend- 
 able machines would see that they kept it. 
 
 The men could not spare him a look or a 
 thought. They could only speculate imperson- 
 ally on the problem of how long it would be, at 
 this speed, before one of them must lose his right 
 hand the left was never in danger. 
 
 Sargent hurried from that room and down 
 through the next, where the gaunt white torsos 
 of men stripped to the waist gleamed under the 
 white of the electric glare above and blistered 
 over the whiter glare of the running metal which 
 they puddled in the molds. 
 
 Men everywhere looked furtively at him and 
 shrank away instinctively. He could feel it. 
 They were afraid of him. Not physically. 
 There was nothing of that sort in their looks. 
 
 But Sargent did not stop to analyze them
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 285 
 
 or their feelings. He was on his way to the 
 furnace-room. It was the biggest and most di- 
 rectly expensive of all the units of his mill. And 
 into it, since that day when he had come to Milton 
 to take back his mill from the control of the Gov- 
 ernor and to fight his enemies, he had thrown the 
 greatest part of his energy and driving-power. 
 Here among the furnaces was the thumping 
 heart of his great plant. And here, sleepless, 
 baggy-eyed, furious, he had fought to clip a little 
 off the time of every operation, to crowd a little 
 more metal into every furnace. 
 
 And he had succeeded. There was no doubt 
 of that. He had practically doubled the enor- 
 mous normal output of his mill. He had cut 
 corners everywhere. And money was pouring 
 back to him : real, hard money that would put him 
 where he could fight the world. A few weeks 
 more of this and he would have knocked the mar- 
 ket from under the International. He would 
 deal that inflated and top-heavy combine a blow 
 from which it would never recover. Then he 
 could turn and deal with the other enemies whom 
 he had marked. 
 
 But he was not yet satisfied with that furnace- 
 room. It had done much, but it could do more. 
 The momentum of his driving frenzy of the past 
 weeks would not let him stop. He refused to 
 know when he had come to the last possible meas- 
 ure of work and power in that room. 
 
 The furnace-room is at once the heart, the
 
 286 
 
 stomach, and the nerve center of every iron mill- 
 ing plant. The whole plant is driven, nourished, 
 and controlled from here. Here the tension 
 upon every man, however unimportant his work 
 may seem, is heart-breaking. Speed is the dom- 
 inating factor in every operation, while the loss 
 or the saving of thousands of dollars' worth of 
 material may turn upon a judgment that must be 
 arrived at, given, and acted upon all in the wink- 
 ing of an eye. 
 
 Sargent stamping into the room seemed to send 
 a galvanic spark into every man and thing in it. 
 Men who were sulky, and who always worked 
 more deliberately when they found other bosses 
 eyeing them, found themselves jumping to their 
 work when Sargent came near. Afterward they 
 cursed themselves for what they thought was 
 their servility. They were wrong. John Sar- 
 gent had always had a dynamic power over men 
 and machines. He had always been able to get 
 more out of them than any other man could. 
 And in these weeks, when the whole overweening 
 force of his will had been set to drive them, his 
 power over things, animate and inanimate, that 
 worked for him had become almost uncanny. 
 
 He climbed a ladder and began walking the 
 runways above the furnaces. From here he 
 could dominate and throw his will behind every 
 man and every operation in the room. Men 
 leaped at their tasks without stopping to wonder 
 why they did so. The giant cranes picked up
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 287 
 
 their loads and swung them around the room 
 swiftly and surely. The great buckets with their 
 tons of seething, bubbling metal came flaring up 
 out of the furnaces, shooting their flare of light 
 up into the open sky, and went hurrying out to 
 the molders. Here was John Sargent in the 
 heart of his kingdom. He gloated in the hot, 
 panting, sulphurous breath of it all. 
 
 But it was not enough. Machines that 
 worked so, could work more. Men who went at 
 that gait could be driven a little faster. 
 
 Seven men with seven wheelbarrows made a 
 chain to wheel slugs of raw iron to a furnace that 
 had just been cleaned out. Officially these seven 
 were not men. The Milton Machinery Com- 
 pany knew them solely by the numbers from 
 F384 to F390. Colloquially they were seven 
 "Hunks." Of all the things that worked for 
 John Sargent these were the cheapest. It cost 
 absolutely nothing to replace one, or a dozen, of 
 them. 
 
 They wheeled their loads straight across the 
 room at a height of thirty feet from the floor on 
 a narrow iron bridge that had no guard or rail 
 of any kind. They went back with the empty 
 barrow by another and longer route. 
 
 About midway under their bridge, but a little 
 to the left of it, stood the largest furnace in the 
 room. Six times in twenty-four hours the great 
 open bucket came up out of the furnace, carry- 
 ing eight tons of stewing, sputtering iron. It
 
 288 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 swung up past the bridge, clearing it only by 
 inches, on up nearly to the roof. There the 
 "traveler" caught it and rushed it out to the other 
 room. 
 
 The seven did not appear to have caught the 
 spark that John Sargent's will threw into the 
 room. They worked well, but stolidly, wood- 
 enly, a way that did not please him. Scowling, 
 he crossed over and stood above the empty fur- 
 nace where the seven came with their loads. 
 
 The change was instant. The seven shook 
 themselves out of their woodenness and came 
 charging across with their barrows as though he 
 yanked them on a wire. That was right. That 
 was the way he wanted to see things work. 
 F386, a tow-haired, undergrown boy, fresh from 
 the Carpathian Mountains, ran on to the little 
 bridge pushing four hundred pounds of iron 
 ahead of him. Perhaps F386 did not notice that 
 the bucket swung up out of the furnace beneath 
 just as he came upon the bridge. Perhaps he 
 did notice it, but thought he could cross before it 
 came up dangerously near the bridge. It is not 
 important. Could he have crossed safely if John 
 Sargent had not yelled? It is possible. But it 
 is not important. John Sargent yelled : "Come 
 on, Hunk!" 
 
 F386 did not know what John Sargent said. 
 He stopped, or tried to. The loaded barrow 
 dragged him along. He could not think to let 
 go of it. The wheel of the barrow ran off the
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE' 3 289 
 
 bridge. The barrow toppled over and fell, to 
 the right. In falling, it turned and one of its 
 handles kicked F386 in the chest. 
 
 F386 toppled and fell off the bridge to the 
 left. The bucket was directly underneath on 
 that side. 
 
 The barrow clanged down on the floor. The 
 bucket, sputtering and fuming, went on up. 
 Some man stopped the electric winder that was 
 raising the bucket. The bucket hung quiet in 
 mid-air. John Sargent stood quiet, rubbing the 
 line of his lips with his ringer. One man ran to a 
 telephone. Every other man in the room stood 
 in whatever attitude he had been in at the mo- 
 ment the thing happened. A full minute passed 
 nearly two minutes, a long, hard-breathing 
 time. No man moved. 
 
 Suddenly John Sargent dashed his hand down 
 from his lips, shook himself loose from the thing 
 that had held him, and shouted: 
 
 "Who stopped that winder? Run that bucket 
 out to the molds." 
 
 You see, John Sargent was not really sane at 
 this time. 
 
 No man moved to obey. The chain that had 
 been wheeling iron stood in its tracks where the 
 broken link had left it. Men down on the floor 
 of the room looked at the barrow where it lay, 
 looked up at John Sargent, looked up at what 
 swung in the air. 
 
 Again and again Sargent bellowed his com-
 
 290 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 mand down to the men near the winder to start 
 it. He called them by name to do it and when 
 they stood motionless he shouted down that they 
 were then and there discharged. 
 
 Then he ran down the ladder and started for 
 the hoister, to set it in motion himself. But they 
 would not let him. They crowded around and 
 kept him away from it. Finally two strong men 
 sat him down upon a bench and held him there, 
 impotent, and speechless with rage. 
 
 Five ten minutes passed. What were the 
 men waiting for? Leadership. They did not 
 know what should be done. 
 
 In the end, old Peter Choyniski solved the 
 matter. He stepped to the hoister and slowly let 
 the bucket down till it ran upon a second "trav- 
 eler" that went out through the end of the room 
 and out over the river. Then he stopped and 
 waited. 
 
 Dean Driscoll came striding into the room. 
 Jim Heffernan met him near the door. 
 
 "It was no use calling you," Heffernan ex- 
 plained. "But I didn't right know what I was 
 doing, Father. A Hunk fell into the bucket," 
 he went on, looking up, "and he you see 
 there's nothing left." 
 
 Old Peter Choyniski went on with his business. 
 He set the "traveler" into a slow motion. By a 
 common impulse every man in the room followed 
 down to the end of the room, where the great 
 doors swung open upon the bulkhead and the
 
 "FUEL OF THE FIRE" 291 
 
 broad, quiet pond of the river above the dam. 
 
 Every man except one: John Sargent sat 
 where they had left him, forgotten. 
 
 He saw the crowd of men out upon the bulk- 
 head. He saw the bucket move out to the end 
 of the "traveler" frame, well over the water. 
 He saw the bucket lowered, saw its mighty jaws 
 unlocked, saw its load slip down to the water. A 
 great pillar of steam shot up from the icy water. 
 He saw Father Driscoll kneel on the stones of 
 the bulkhead, saw all but a few of the men doing 
 the same. He got up, shivering, rubbing his 
 lips ; and went up to his office.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 
 
 IN the trial-room of the court house of Mohawk 
 * County a farce was being acted out. 
 
 High up on the west wall of the room, on a 
 broad panel of black walnut, the Scales of Jus- 
 tice, "that are tipped by a hair," hung graven to 
 a gigantic measure. All men might see that the 
 business of this room was the business of Justice 
 herself. On the bench under the panel sat Icha- 
 bod Whitcomb, a judge reverend of mien, un- 
 swerving of eye, inexorable as the falling sword 
 in judgment. On the tall walnut rampart that 
 ran nearly the whole width of the room in front 
 of the judge there was carved a great open book, 
 a symbol that here in this place the doings of men 
 were to be truly read. At the right, in two rows 
 of stalls, one raised above and behind the other, 
 sat twelve men, citizens, peers of the realm, each 
 man a sworn judge. At the side of their enclo- 
 sure stood an officer of the law's own majesty, 
 sworn to guard these twelve from any and every 
 outside influence. 
 
 The farce was that all of this impressive ma- 
 chinery, from the graven scales on the wall down 
 
 292
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 293 
 
 to the stupid image of the law who stood at the 
 door of the jury-box, was set for the one pur- 
 pose of proving guilty a man who was not guilty, 
 whom nobody thought guilty. 
 
 The farce was a tragedy, too. But the 
 tragedy was not so much that Jim Loyd, who 
 sat in a raised, railed box at the left of the room, 
 might and probably would be convicted of a crime 
 which he had not committed. The tragedy was 
 one darker than that. Half a thousand years 
 ago men fought for trial by jury. They 
 achieved it. It became a fact, a sacred institu- 
 tion. The security, the life, and liberty of two 
 hundred millions of civilized white men rest upon 
 it to-day. Trial by jury in the beginning was a 
 crude safeguard for the weak individual against 
 the law in the hands of a powerful enemy. It 
 was argued that the powerful enemy could not 
 coerce or persuade twelve free men to condemn 
 unjustly one of their neighbors. Or at least, 
 men agreed, it would not be easy to so coerce or 
 corrupt twelve free men. That was as much as 
 one could say positively for the system, that it 
 would not be easy to make it serve the will of a 
 powerful bad man. 
 
 That is all that men can say of the system to- 
 day. It is not easy to place twelve corrupt or 
 corruptible men on a jury together. After 
 civilization has worked five centuries upon the 
 jury system, the bulwark of a man's life and lib- 
 erty, we can go no farther than to say that the in-
 
 294 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 dividual is usually protected by it. We know 
 that the very precautions and guards that we 
 have put about the system can be and are some.- 
 times used to work for the condemnation of in- 
 nocent men. 
 
 Here was the tragedy running under the farce 
 of the trial of Jim Loyd for conspiring to blow 
 up John Sargent's mill. It was not Jim Loyd 
 that was on trial. The jury system was on trial. 
 The community which supported that system was 
 on trial. The State was on trial. So, on the 
 one hand, the "State" was trying Jim Loyd. 
 And, on the other hand, Jim Loyd was trying the 
 State. 
 
 The "State" was moving rapidly to find Jim 
 Loyd guilty. Jim Loyd had already decided 
 that the State was guilty. He would wait, how- 
 ever. He had promised to wait. He would 
 give the State every opportunity to clear itself. 
 He would wait for the farce to be played out. 
 
 He was a man just turned thirty, but his cor- 
 rugated, sharp-cut face might have belonged to 
 a man of fifty. It was a face of iron and white 
 steel and smoldering furnace fires. Because, 
 for eighteen years these things had been his play- 
 things and his tools. 
 
 He was paying but little attention to this farce 
 of trial of which he was the central figure. He 
 understood the marshaling of the forces against 
 him. He foresaw every move of the prosecution 
 and knew its effect. He had not been surprised
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 295 
 
 at any of it. His knowledge of the politics and 
 greed and coercion by which John Sargent's 
 money dominated Mohawk County had prepared 
 him for it. 
 
 In his mind it was a foregone conclusion that 
 the "State," in the person of a servile prosecut- 
 ing attorney, a venal judge, and twelve studi- 
 ously selected jurymen, should convict him of 
 this particular thing. 
 
 But there was a larger question than that. 
 The State, in the larger sense, had always con- 
 demned him. That was the important thing. 
 The State had condemned him, a boy of twelve, 
 to go into John Sargent's mill and catch red-hot 
 bolts in a bucket for forty cents a day. It was 
 just about that time that he had decided to be- 
 come a famous baseball catcher. The State had 
 made different arrangements for him, had given 
 him a heavy bucket instead of a catcher's mitt, 
 and had made balls out of rod steel for him to 
 catch. 
 
 But it was a game, too, in that day. He never 
 minded it. He pitted his eye and his hand 
 against the speed and bad aim of the men as they 
 threw the bolts to him. The only difference was 
 that an "error," in this game, meant a badly 
 burned leg or arm. 
 
 How proud he was that night when he straight- 
 ened his aching back and strutted home to his 
 mother, carrying his first week's pay minus 
 twenty cents, fines for bolts dropped! He re-
 
 296 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 membered now, with a choke in his throat, how 
 his mother slyly laughed and cried at him that 
 night as he marched about the house, thumbs un- 
 der his suspenders, patronizing the other chil- 
 dren Jane and baby Harry that was killed 
 and lecturing her on how to get the most for the 
 money. 
 
 It was a game, and because he grew fast and 
 was bigger and quicker and stronger than others, 
 he played it better. He played it so well that at 
 fifteen he was drawing the pay of a good man. 
 At twenty he was running a section of the cast- 
 ing room with forty men under him. At twenty- 
 five John Sargent believed in young men and 
 the scrap-heap was always near Loyd was 
 given charge of the furnace room and the cast- 
 ing room together. 
 
 His pay was thirty dollars a week. During 
 the first year that he had charge of those rooms 
 he increased the net apportioned earnings of 
 those two rooms by eighteen thousand dollars. 
 
 He increased those earnings. There were no 
 changes in machinery during that year. There 
 were no additional overhead expenses. There 
 was no increase of capital invested in those two 
 rooms. By his skill, judgment, and personal 
 force Jim Loyd that year earned eighteen thou- 
 sand dollars for the Milton Machinery Company. 
 The Milton Machinery Company acknowledged 
 it they gave him two dollars a week more pay
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 297 
 
 for_ the next year. If during the next year he 
 increased the earnings of those two rooms an ad- 
 ditional eighteen thousand dollars, they would 
 probably give him another two dollars increase 
 in pay. 
 
 That increase was impossible, of course. By 
 gigantic efforts he had during that one year set a 
 record for himself which he could never better. 
 The rest of his life or so long as the company 
 allowed him to keep his position would be spent 
 in a heart-breaking, tooth-and-nail fight to keep 
 up to the record which in the foolish and wasteful 
 pride of youth he had set for himself. It would 
 not be long before some young college-turned 
 superintendent, himself with a record to make, 
 would be looking for a man who could do more 
 than Jim Loyd. 
 
 So, coming into his twenty-seventh year, Jim 
 Loyd saw that something was wrong. He had 
 played the game at which the State had set him. 
 He had played the game honestly, faithfully, and 
 better than any other man he knew of. And 
 this was the result. He saw other men, men of 
 his own age, men who had none of his ability or 
 power, drawing their three hundred dollars a 
 month, or more. And that was not all. Those 
 men, at from twenty-five to thirty-five, were just 
 beginning their careers. They had twenty, 
 maybe thirty, years ahead of them in which every 
 good piece of work they did, every record they
 
 298 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 made would count for them, would bring them 
 on up to more money, to a surer place in their 
 business. 
 
 Jim Loyd's career was done. He had reached 
 a dead-line. He knew it. He had come swiftly 
 up to the line beyond which a man who begins 
 work with his hands and without technical train- 
 ing and education cannot go. He had no quar- 
 rel with those other men, chemists, engineers, ex- 
 perts, executives, who, though older than he, had 
 still years ahead of them in which to advance. 
 
 The State, Society- whatever you called the 
 organization of things as they are had given 
 them education and a start which it had not given 
 to him. He had no quarrel with that. Those 
 men actually earned the money that the company 
 gave them. They were worth it, or they would 
 not be getting it. 
 
 But the State, Society, Things as They Are, 
 had set him at a certain game. He had been told 
 to work honestly and faithfully, and to push on 
 as rapidly as possible. He had done all that. 
 But the State failed to see to it that he should get 
 what he won in the game. The State stood by 
 and supported John Sargent in the position that 
 John Sargent should get about seventeen dollars 
 out of every eighteen that Jim Loyd earned. 
 
 He had no quarrel even with John Sargent. 
 John Sargent found Things as They Are, and 
 he used them, that was all. John Sargent found 
 a state of things in which he could make men earn
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 299 
 
 for him two, five, ten, or even fifteen times what 
 he was obliged to pay them. It would be foolish 
 to blame John Sargent for using things as he 
 found them. 
 
 Jim Loyd's mind went cleanly through the 
 problem and he saw that his quarrel was directly 
 with the conditions of things, with the ways in 
 which men were organized into the common- 
 wealth, with the State, in fact. 
 
 It was not that his father had died in the Sar- 
 gent mill, leaving the mother and three children 
 unprovided for. It was not that John Sargent 
 was a bad man and a legalized extortioner. It 
 was the whole organization and constitution of 
 things that worked the injustice. 
 
 It was not in Jim Loyd's aggressive nature to 
 stand looking dumbly at this dead wall against 
 which he had come. Immediately he began look- 
 ing for the way through. It was natural that he 
 should hear and study the arguments of Social- 
 ism. It was in the air. He listened avidly to 
 the vaporings of men who had had a better sur- 
 face education than he, but who lacked his bold, 
 clear sight. He found them shallow and un- 
 ready. They gave smart half-answers that did 
 not answer anything. He shook them all off and 
 got books, dozens of books, bushels of books. 
 He read them all, impatiently, greedily, without 
 direction and without sequence. Some were 
 merely hysterical rant. Some were able to see 
 what was wrong with the constitution of things,
 
 300 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 but as soon as they began to deal in remedies 
 they became vague and rambled into futile, child- 
 ish generalities. Their remedies ran all the way 
 from the courts and the ballot-box to slow and 
 ignoble death for every man who owned prop- 
 erty. 
 
 One book held him so that he battled with it 
 for months at a time. He came to hate the book ; 
 but he went back at it again and again. That 
 book began with the plain statement that the idea 
 of an omnipotent God creating and ruling the 
 world was the greatest existing obstacle to the 
 progress of democracy. It went on to prove 
 that the whole existing industrial system whereby 
 one man was able to exploit the work of another 
 man could be traced directly back to the idea of 
 the authority of God. That idea of God and the 
 authority of God must be stamped out of men's 
 minds before there could be any real change in 
 things, because men held the power and the 
 wealth of the world on the theory that power was 
 God-given, that wealth was in some way a dis- 
 pensation of God. 
 
 It was a powerful and a clever book, and Jim 
 Loyd fought with it page by page. Somewhere 
 in it, his native wit told him, there was concealed 
 a clever, damnable lie of logic. But he could not 
 find the lie. 
 
 However, his mind drove on through the windy 
 fog of words and books until it came out on the 
 other side and he found himself just where he
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 301 
 
 had started. He was still facing the fact that 
 the State upheld John Sargent in taking away 
 from him the greater part of his earnings. 
 
 He went into the Socialist party in politics, 
 not because he thought that that party would 
 ever win or would ever accomplish anything last- 
 ing if it did win, but because it was a means of 
 advertising certain good measures which, if they 
 were well advertised, would finally be taken up 
 by one of the great parties. So far as he could 
 see, that would be the only thing that Socialism 
 would ever accomplish in the politics of the coun- 
 try. It could advertise and create a demand for 
 certain reforms. One or another of the great 
 parties would then see good politics in them and 
 would take up those reforms and accomplish 
 them. 
 
 Temperamentally he hated the arm-swinging 
 demagoguery of Socialism. He was a self-con- 
 tained, almost a sullen man. By instinct he dis- 
 trusted men who talked and wrote fluently. He 
 had all of a silent man's aversion against baring 
 freely to the world the things that he felt deeply. 
 He had a feeling that if these Socialists really be- 
 lieved and expected to back up the things they 
 said, they would not be so ready of speech. 
 
 Then came this strike. He had opposed it 
 from the moment he saw it coming. It was com- 
 ing at the wrong time. The cause of the strike 
 was not a good, clear-cut issue that would appeal 
 to the imagination of the country. The Milton
 
 302 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Machinery Company had an enormous stock on 
 hand, and the market was falling. He had 
 weighed all these things and had fought desper- 
 ately to keep the men at work. Once declared, 
 however, he had thrown himself into it and had 
 used all the power of mind and body that he pos- 
 sessed, and even sometimes the weight of his two 
 big fists, to hold the men together, to keep them 
 orderly and to feed them. 
 
 Everywhere men gave way to him. The heads 
 of the different local unions gradually shifted 
 their responsibilities to his shoulders. In the end 
 he found himself in sole and absolute control of 
 the whole strike. He found more than that. 
 He found weaker men beginning to lean upon 
 him. He came to cringe from the patient, ap- 
 pealing looks of women, especially the mute for- 
 eign women, when they came to him looking for 
 the food that he did not have for them. His soul 
 quivered when he caught eyes, hungry and big, of 
 little children looking up at him. They had been 
 told that food came from Jim Loyd; and they 
 looked up at him as though at some god who 
 might any moment, if he were so pleased, throw 
 down food to them. 
 
 The strike came to be his strike. It took on a 
 personal, bitter, desperate nature, such as he had 
 never thought a strike could possess. 
 
 Then John Sargent came to Milton to take 
 personal charge of his side of the strike. 
 
 Now the issue was fairly set. Jim Loyd was
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 303 
 
 a fighting man naturally. And like every fight- 
 ing man, he was better suited to have a personal 
 enemy to fight against. But he was not now 
 fighting John Sargent for the difference between 
 the money that he earned and the money that 
 John Sargent gave him. He was fighting the 
 fight of weaker men, the fight of starving women, 
 the fight of puny, dying children. 
 
 John Sargent struck first. He could not know 
 how deeply he struck that night when he had 
 offered Loyd fifty thousand dollars to settle the 
 strike; and Loyd had been tempted no, not 
 tempted, but blinded momentarily by the flash 
 of money and the possibilities for life that the 
 money revealed. 
 
 John Sargent struck again. Harry Loyd 
 baby Harry was killed in front of John Sar- 
 gent's gate. 
 
 John Sargent struck again. Jim Loyd was 
 taken away from the coffin of his brother. He 
 was marched to the county jail. He had been 
 there now nearly four months, awaiting trial for 
 a thing which he could not have done. 
 
 John Sargent was striking again. Jim Loyd 
 had been indicted by a grand jury controlled by 
 John Sargent on the charge of inciting and con- 
 spiring to blow up the plant of the Milton Ma- 
 chinery Company. He was now being given a 
 trial by jury. The judge who sat under the 
 Scales of Justice was a well-paid employee of 
 John Sargent. He received three thousand dol-
 
 304 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 lars a year from Mohawk County for his work 
 as judge. He received ten thousand dollars a 
 year from John Sargent, as a retainer and he 
 was worth every cent of it. 
 
 No man who had ever had any connexion with 
 or sympathy for organized labor was allowed 
 upon that jury. Three of the jurymen were 
 secretly small stockholders of the Milton Ma- 
 chinery Company. Six of them were farmers 
 whose farms were heavily mortgaged to one or 
 the other of the Milton banks controlled by 
 John Sargent. The remaining three were weak, 
 negligible men who could easily be browbeaten 
 into voting with the majority. 
 
 Thus John Sargent was striking a final blow. 
 And Jim Loyd had not struck back. Why? 
 John Sargent had struck cruelly, foully, at his 
 manhood, at his brother, at his life and liberty. 
 Why had Jim Loyd not struck back? He was 
 a fighting man. Why had he thus held his neck 
 to the blows? For years his mind had been 
 steeping itself in the outpourings of Socialism 
 and the kindred bloodthirsty doctrines that fol- 
 low it. They had taught him nothing that he 
 had not known before. They had shown him no 
 way to deal with his situation or with the state of 
 things that made that situation possible, and in- 
 evitable. But, at the bottom of them all, when 
 he had floundered his way through their shallow, 
 schoolboyish theories and schemes, he found al- 
 ways one concrete conviction. Tacitly or openly,
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 305 
 
 they all agreed that the existing things could not 
 be changed without force. Force meant killing. 
 It meant the rising of the many in a sweeping 
 upheaval of blood and destruction to wipe out the 
 few. 
 
 Although he had not easily agreed to this, it 
 had appealed strongly to him. He knew it was 
 the truth. He knew that at least it was the truth 
 for the present. There was no other immediate 
 way. 
 
 Socialism had been able to convince him of 
 only one thing : that was that the Law, the State, 
 the thing that holds men where they are, is simply 
 the will of the strong. That was government, 
 that was law, that was society. This was the 
 bedrock of Socialism. It was a thing that he 
 could understand and plant his feet upon. 
 
 And who was stronger than he? Where was 
 there a man who could command four thousand 
 strong men as he could command the men of Mil- 
 ton? Who in this country were the strong if 
 they were not the millions of men who toiled with 
 their hands? 
 
 Why had he not struck? Why had he stood, 
 like a cow in the stanchions, in John Sargent's 
 little jail? A word from himself would have 
 freed him. 
 
 All was a farce. The jail was a farce. The 
 Governor, marching his troops to Milton, and 
 marching them away again on John Sargent's 
 word, he was a farce.
 
 306 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 The will of the strong was the only real thing. 
 Jim Loyd had the will, and he was strong. 
 Why had he not struck? 
 
 He knew. On that night, so long ago now, 
 when John Sargent had struck at his manhood 
 and his truth to his fellows, he had wanted to 
 kill John Sargent with his hands, his bare hands, 
 so that he might feel the man's life beat out be- 
 tween them. God held his hands. Later, that 
 same night, with the rage of destruction upon 
 him, he had taken from its hiding-place enough 
 dynamite to wreck the entire mill. He had ex- 
 pected to die in the ruins. And he had looked 
 across the valley to the church of his Faith upon 
 the hill. And he had seen Christ so that his 
 hand was stayed. On another night, the night 
 after Harry Loyd was killed, he had been ready 
 to walk out of his jail, head his four thousand, 
 kill John Sargent's guards, and take into his own 
 hands everything that men said belonged to John 
 Sargent. He could have done it, following the 
 will of the strong. But an old man with Christ 
 in his heart had stopped him. 
 
 Sometimes, tramping and champing in the 
 cage where the will of the strong had put him, he 
 had railed at himself for a loose-lipped threat- 
 ener, a mouthing Socialist like the fluent ones he 
 despised, without the heart to do the things that 
 he willed. But he was wrong in this. He did 
 not lack the courage. The element of fear had 
 been left out of his composition. He was a man
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 307 
 
 strong to the roots. Things took a mighty hold 
 upon Jim Loyd. His passions ran in deep and 
 terrible riots. That one final lesson of Socialism, 
 that the will of the strong is the only law of men, 
 had taken a mighty hold upon his imagination. 
 But, deeper than passion, deeper than blood riot 
 and the lust to kill, deeper than imagination, 
 there were still depths in Jim Loyd. 
 
 In those unplumbed depths of Jim Loyd's soul 
 there lived God and the Faith of Christ. Out of 
 those ultimate depths, at the crucial moment, 
 came the Prisoner of His Soul, Christ's Grace, to 
 hold his raised arm. He did not know it ; but his 
 faith, the Catholic faith of his heart, of his blood, 
 of his mother, was the last, the ruling force of his 
 nature. It was stronger than the riot of unruly 
 passions in his blood. It was stronger than the 
 hold that any teaching could take upon his imagi- 
 nation. It was stronger than Socialism. It 
 was stronger than he. 
 
 So Jim Loyd sat listening to testimony that 
 would make of him a felon, a pariah, an outcast 
 of men. The big trial-room was packed to the 
 doors with eager, scowling men. They were 
 men who had worked all of the night before and 
 who had snatched a little breakfast and an hour 
 of sleep before the court opened. Heavy with 
 sleep, their eyes still black with the grime of the 
 night's work, they sat or stood doggedly watch- 
 ing and listening. They could not believe the 
 thing that was going on here before them. But
 
 308 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the conviction had settled upon them that it was 
 going on to the end. They knew that Loyd was 
 not guilty. They knew that Roger Winters, the 
 prosecuting attorney, knew that he was not 
 guilty. They knew that Ichabod Whitcomb on 
 the bench was aware of Loyd's innocence. They 
 knew that there was not a juror on that bench 
 who would in his heart be convinced that Loyd 
 was guilty. 
 
 Yet they saw the unbelievable thing going on 
 before their eyes, just as John Sargent had willed 
 that it should go on. What they saw was the 
 failure of civilization. It was one of the proofs 
 that men have not yet found the way to protect 
 themselves against the power, of the strong. 
 That they had never before seen anything so pat- 
 ent or so flagrant, merely proved that it was not 
 easy. The tragedy remained, that, after ages of 
 struggle for personal security", it was still pos- 
 sible. 
 
 The men, however, were not concerned with 
 the battle of civilization. They were wondering 
 how long Loyd would go on with the thing. A 
 word from him would have brought four thou- 
 sand men to tear down the very Scales of Justice 
 from that room. Would he give the word? 
 
 Roger Winters was examining one of the prin- 
 cipal witnesses for the "State." This witness, 
 Victor Sorrel, was one of a gang of professional 
 dynamiters who had come to Milton early in the 
 course of the strike to offer their services to the
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 309 
 
 strikers. Loyd had taken the explosives from 
 them and had driven them from the town. 
 
 "When did you first come to Milton?" asked 
 the attorney. 
 
 "Last July." 
 
 "Why did you come here?" 
 
 "To bring dynamite to help the strike." 
 
 "Did you use the dynamite?" 
 
 "No. Jim Loyd took it from me." 
 
 "Explain." 
 
 "He had an office in State Street. He handled 
 the strike there. I went there one night with the 
 stuff. I carried it in a mason's tool-bag. I told 
 him what I had and what I could do with it." 
 
 "What did Loyd say?" 
 
 "He said, 'Put it in there.' He showed me a 
 closet in the office. I put it in there on the 
 floor." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "The closet door had a spring lock. I 
 snapped it shut. I just heard the snap as Loyd 
 took me by the throat, from behind. He has big 
 hands made of iron. He made no noise ; neither 
 did I. It was late at night. He carried me un- 
 der one arm and held my throat with his hand. 
 He took me out through the alley at the back and 
 down through other alleys to the main tracks of 
 the U. & B. I kicked and fought, but I could 
 not get away or yell. He stood on the east- 
 bound track holding me, waiting for a freight 
 that was coming up on the west-bound track."
 
 310 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "He was going to throw me under the wheels 
 as the train ran by, but he changed his mind. A 
 string of empty coal cars came by. He loosed 
 my throat and took me in his hands, around the 
 body, and threw me, like a bag, into a car. I 
 was in Buffalo next morning with my neck nearly 
 broken." 
 
 A hum of comment ran round the room. The 
 men had not heard this story before. They had 
 seen this man in town at that time. Many of 
 them had known what his business was. But 
 none of them had known how he went. The wit- 
 ness was probably telling the exact truth. It 
 was just one of the things that Loyd would do. 
 
 When the court became quiet again the prose- 
 cutor continued: 
 
 "Why should Loyd wish to get you out of the 
 town, while keeping the dynamite here?" 
 
 "He wanted to do everything himself. It was 
 not a Union strike. It was his own strike. He 
 wanted to be the big man of it. He did not want 
 any one to get credit for anything." 
 
 Winters turned the witness over to Stanley 
 Morgan, counsel for Loyd. 
 
 "Were you ever convicted of any crime?" asked 
 Morgan. 
 
 "I object, Your Honor," said Winters quickly. 
 "The witness is not on trial." 
 
 "Sustained," growled the judge. 
 
 "I take exception to the ruling," said Morgan
 
 in a monotonous and weary voice. It was the 
 single melancholy privilege accorded to him in 
 that court. The same play had gone on now for 
 two days. Practically every question that he 
 had attempted to put to any of the "State's" wit- 
 nesses had been objected to and ruled out. He 
 had not been allowed to draw out the glaring in- 
 consistencies of their stories. He had not been 
 given a chance to question the record or the credi- 
 bility of any witness. The prosecution had been 
 allowed to put statements, guesses, and opinions 
 upon the record as sworn evidence, and he had 
 been reduced to the mere formula of taking ex- 
 ception after exception. 
 
 Long ago he had told Loyd that it was foolish 
 to look for any semblance of a fair trial in Mo- 
 hawk County, and that he should appeal for a 
 change of venue. But Loyd had stubbornly in- 
 sisted that Mohawk County was his home, and 
 that he would try justice here just as much as 
 justice would try him. The lawyer did not know 
 what Loyd meant. 
 
 "Do you know John Sargent?" Morgan tried 
 again. 
 
 "I object," repeated Winters. "Mr. Sargent 
 is not relevant to this case." 
 
 It was barefaced. In view of facts and law, it 
 was almost indecent. But the judge nodded his 
 assent and the objection stood. 
 
 Morgan threw up his hands in disgust, and let 
 the witness go. The judge warned the lawyer
 
 312 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 against a show of contempt for the ruling of the 
 court. 
 
 The next witness was Tony Michelis, a cross- 
 grained little hunchback who had once been dis- 
 charged by Loyd and who had ever since held a 
 cripple's unreasoning hate for him. In the 
 stormy days of the strike he had spied upon 
 Loyd's every action. He had carried reports 
 nightly to the mill. He had been as tireless as 
 Loyd himself, and in the eighteen and twenty 
 hours of each day in which Loyd was awake and 
 working he had scarcely let him out of sight. 
 The men had told Loyd that Tony was tracking 
 him, but, characteristically, he had brushed the 
 little hunchback out of his mind. 
 
 "That last witness," said Winters, when Tony 
 had been sworn, "did you ever see him before?" 
 
 "Yah. I seen that fallah." 
 
 "Where and when did you see him?" 
 
 "Thas the night he tole you 'bout. I seen him. 
 Big Jim Loyd he got him on the neck." 
 
 "Where were you?" 
 
 "Me? I outsides stands on the sidewalk und 
 looks in." 
 
 "Did you see a bag?" 
 
 "Yah. I seen her. White bag. That fallah 
 fetch her." 
 
 "What was done with the bag?" 
 
 "That fallah he shove her inside on closet 
 door." 
 
 "What happened then?"
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 313 
 
 "Big Jim Loyd he do carry that fallah out 
 back doors." 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "Me? I wait. Ten minute come back Big 
 Jim Loyd. He take out that bag outside. Put 
 her in the middle on floor. Take out them 
 things inside." 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Thas dy'mite. Seben stick." 
 
 "Do you know dynamite when you see it?" 
 
 "Yah. I know her. Work on quarry with 
 her." 
 
 "What else was in the bag?" 
 
 "Got nitro, too. Six tube." 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "Got one clock. One spool wire. One box 
 caps." 
 
 "What did Loyd do then?" 
 
 "He put that back inside bag, soft. Then he 
 put out that light und come outside und start 
 down the street." 
 
 "Did he see you?" 
 
 "Me? No, I stand in the wall darkside." 
 
 "Did he have the bag?" 
 
 "Yah. He got that bag. He come down 
 street. Turn, then he come upstreet by mill. 
 Come on river. I come too. Got boat there. 
 Big Jim Loyd cross river. I stand on bank- 
 side. He go on hill otherside. Got tree up 
 there. He stay. Bimebye come back. Got 
 bag empty. Throw bag on river. Go home."
 
 314 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Morgan felt that there was nothing to be 
 gained by attempting to cross-examine the 
 hunchback. He had told the truth, as Morgan 
 knew it and as perhaps a hundred other people 
 knew it. Loyd had buried the explosives up 
 there on the hill across the river. 
 
 There was a stir near the east door of the room, 
 and Loyd turned in his seat to see. Father 
 Driscoll had just come in. Men were making 
 place for him. 
 
 The Dean had not been present at the trial on 
 any of the preceding days, and Loyd wondered 
 dully why he had come now. There was noth- 
 ing that he could do. Though he knew that the 
 old priest loved him and understood him, he 
 found himself nervously wishing that Father 
 Driscoll would keep away from the court. He 
 could not tell what might happen. His will was 
 set upon a certain course ; he did not know when 
 the moment for action might come, and he had 
 come to feel that the appearance of his friend was 
 always disconcerting. 
 
 The business of the trial went on. 
 
 The next witness was a private detective in 
 the employ of John Sargent. 
 
 He fixed the night when Jim Loyd had gone 
 to the mill to see Sargent. He told how he had 
 seen Loyd rush out of Mr. Sargent's private 
 office and how he had followed him almost at a 
 run up over the hills and on a long tramp through
 
 THE PRISONER OF HIS SOUL 315 
 
 the country until he had finally doubled back to 
 the river. 
 
 Questioned professionally, he explained at 
 considerable length that Loyd's actions at the 
 time were those that would be expected of a man 
 who felt that he was being watched. A man 
 wanting to go to a certain place and feeling that 
 it was dangerous to go there openly, would very 
 likely run off in an opposite direction and take 
 his time doubling back to the point of his ob- 
 jective. Loyd's actions were those of a man in- 
 tending to commit a crime. 
 
 In spite of Morgan's objections, the man's ar- 
 gument was allowed to go into the record as ex- 
 pert testimony. Even Ichabod Whitcomb saw 
 a sort of grisly humor in the ruling as he gave 
 it. 
 
 The man had followed Loyd across the river 
 in another boat. Had crept up the hill after 
 him and had seen him dig at the roots of a 
 tree. Loyd had picked out the sticks and 
 tubes and the firing mechanism and wire. The 
 latter was the very thing, the detective swore, 
 that had been used in the explosion of the mill. 
 Loyd had stowed the things about his person. 
 Had stood a while looking down at the mill and 
 then started slowly down the hill. The detec- 
 tive had been obliged to let Loyd get a consider- 
 able distance ahead of him in crossing the river, 
 but had easily caught up with him when both
 
 316 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 were once on the Milton side. He had followed 
 him up through a side street of the village and 
 had come upon him seated on the steps of the 
 Catholic church. He was then talking with the 
 priest. 
 
 Loyd dug his nails into the wood of the rail- 
 ing about him as he recalled the agony of that 
 night. 
 
 The detective was excused. The prosecutor 
 wrote something on a slip of paper and handed 
 it to the clerk, who read out the name of the 
 next witness: 
 
 "The Reverend James Driscoll."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 
 
 Dean of Milton walked quietly up the 
 aisle of the crowded courtroom and took his 
 place in the witness stand. A profound hush of 
 bewilderment and expectancy fell over the crowd 
 of anxious, weary men who jammed the room. 
 It had not occurred to any one in Milton that 
 Father Driscoll might be called as a witness in 
 the prosecution of Jim Loyd's trial. The at- 
 torney for the prosecution had served the sub- 
 poena in person, so that only he and the priest 
 knew that the latter was to appear. 
 
 If he had come as a character witness for the 
 defense, or if he had come to clear up some point 
 in Jim Loyd's actions, it could have been under- 
 stood. But that the prosecution should bring 
 him here and attempt to use him was unbeliev- 
 able. 
 
 Loyd that morning had requested to be se- 
 cured to one of the jail guards. Fred Wheeler, 
 the warden of the jail, who was responsible for 
 his keeping, was a good man and his friend. He 
 did not understand the reason for Loyd's re- 
 quest. But he did what was asked. He locked 
 Loyd's left arm to the right arm of a stout keeper 
 
 317
 
 318 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 by a steel chain. On a raised stool beside the 
 prisoner's box the keeper sat leaning on the rail. 
 
 As Father Driscoll stepped into the witness 
 stand, Loyd started to rise, but the chain, which 
 he had forgotten, tugged sharply at his wrist 
 by way of reminder. He looked into the calm, 
 clear-eyed face of the old priest, and remem- 
 bered that he had promised to see this thing 
 through to the very end. 
 
 He remembered Sargent's threat that he 
 would find a way to drive Father Driscoll from 
 Milton, but, on sober thought, he had dismissed 
 it as angry bluster. Now he did not know what 
 to think. He would wait. 
 
 The Dean himself was as much puzzled as any 
 one in the room by the action of the prosecution 
 in calling him. Since yesterday, when he had 
 received the subpoena, he had been beating his 
 brain to understand the significance of the move. 
 At first he had thought that it was only a part of 
 Sargent's general tactics, a ruse, designed to give 
 the impression that the priest was willing to assist 
 in the prosecution of a Union man that the 
 Church generally was against Labor. But he 
 knew that John Sargent was not just now wast- 
 ing his time creating public opinion. He must 
 have some definite and immediate motive in it. 
 Slowly and reluctantly Father Driscoll had come 
 to the conviction that the move meant some kind 
 of a trap for himself. 
 
 Attorney Winters, with a show of courtesy,
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 319 
 
 waived the form of the oath and proceeded di- 
 rectly to his questions. 
 
 "Do you remember, sir," he began, "the night 
 of the twenty-ninth of August last?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "You talked with the prisoner on that night?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Where was this?" 
 
 "On the steps of my church." 
 
 "What was the substance of the conversation?" 
 
 "Nothing that could in any way relate to this 
 action." 
 
 The prosecuting attorney was somewhat taken 
 back. He had not anticipated difficulty so soon, 
 
 "In view of the fact," he said, after a little 
 pause, "that the prisoner, right up to the moment 
 that he came to speak to you, was engaged in an 
 act that led directly to the crime charged in this 
 action, your answer seems hardly probable." 
 
 "If you were not prepared to accept my 
 word," the Dean replied stiffly, "you should have 
 exacted the formal oath." 
 
 "No, no, sir; nothing of the kind!" exclaimed 
 the attorney blandly. "It really does not mat- 
 ter whether you answer that question or not." 
 
 He did not wish to put the priest under oath. 
 He was acting under instructions. And, so far 
 as those instructions went, or even so far as the 
 conviction of Loyd was concerned, he said truly 
 that it did not matter whether Father Driscoll 
 answered that particular question or not.
 
 320 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "I take it," he began again, "that on that oc- 
 casion you gave the prisoner advice?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "You are his spiritual adviser?" 
 
 "I am the parish priest of Milton." 
 
 "Your people habitually come to you for ad- 
 vice? They do as you advise them?" 
 
 "Sometimes," said the Dean drily. 
 
 "Well, then, the point I am trying to make is 
 this," the attorney went on, taking the Dean into 
 his confidence; "we have proved that this 
 prisoner was on his way to commit a crime when 
 he saw you. We have proved that he had with 
 him the means of committing that crime while 
 he talked with you. We 
 
 "You have proved nothing of the kind," said 
 the Dean sharply. 
 
 But the attorney went swiftly on: 
 
 "We have shown that the defendant, intent 
 upon a crime, came to you. You advised him. 
 He changed his purpose. He did not commit 
 the crime at that time. We are bound to as- 
 sume, then, that you were cognizant of his intent 
 and that through your influence the crime was 
 postponed." 
 
 "Your assumptions have no place in a court of 
 justice," said the Dean warmly. "I have told 
 you that our conversation had no bearing what- 
 ever on this action." 
 
 He was still puzzled by the attorney's line of 
 questions and presumptions.
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 321 
 
 "This prisoner is an avowed Socialist," said the 
 attorney, leaping to an entirely new line of de- 
 ductions. "Being a professed Socialist, he could 
 not be a member of your Church, could he?" 
 
 " 'My Church,' " the Dean said evenly, "has 
 to do with the moral law and the faith of 
 Christ." 
 
 "You do not wish to answer?" 
 
 "I have answered." 
 
 "The question was perhaps too broad," the at- 
 torney went on, unheeding. "At any rate, the 
 prisoner has not for some time been an active 
 member of your congregation. Your friend- 
 ship with him has been rather personal than 
 should I say professional?" 
 
 "I do not understand your question or what 
 bearing it has." 
 
 "You remember the night of the day on which 
 the prisoner was arrested?" asked the attorney, 
 jumping quickly to a new line. 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "You were in the Mohawk County jail that 
 night?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You were aware that the prisoner had a plan 
 formed to break out of the jail and to take pos- 
 session by lawless force by murder, if neces- 
 sary of the Milton Machinery Company's plant 
 and of this town?" 
 
 "I learned of that after going to the jail." 
 
 "You took the keys of the jail from the Sheriff
 
 322 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 of this County and offered the door of freedom 
 to the prisoner?" 
 
 "That is partly true." 
 
 "You said to him, 'If you go out from this 
 place, you take me with you ; if you do this thing, 
 I shall have the responsibility.' You said those 
 things?" 
 
 "I used such words." 
 
 "Now, do you take such responsibility for 
 every act of one of your parishioners? In other 
 words, did you take such an attitude with this 
 prisoner as the parish priest of Milton, or did you 
 do so because there was an intimate personal re- 
 lationship, friendship, and understanding be- 
 tween you and this prisoner?" 
 
 "What I did, I did as a priest of God, to avert 
 bloodshed." 
 
 "The point is," said the attorney quickly, 
 "that you were able to do it. It goes to prove 
 that your influence over this prisoner was at all 
 times paramount, all-powerful. 
 
 "Here he was," Winters declaimed, "on one 
 occasion going directly to the commission of a 
 crime which we are proving he did later commit. 
 Advice from you turned him aside. Here he 
 was on another occasion ready to walk tri- 
 umphantly out of jail and start a miniature civil 
 war. A few words from you turned him back. 
 His whole course of action during this entire 
 trouble has been largely guided by you. Wit- 
 ness the fact that in the very jail you prevented
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 323 
 
 him from a murderous attack upon Mr. Sar- 
 gent! 
 
 "Can you expect any reasoning community to 
 beb'eve that you have not been part and parcel 
 of his acts? Has he not come to you? Have 
 you not stood at his elbow? Has not your will, 
 your advice, dominated him at every turn?" 
 
 Loyd's counsel was on his feet protesting 
 madly. 
 
 ''Your Honor, this is an outrage! It is an in- 
 famous abuse of privilege! This witness is not 
 here to be tried for " 
 
 The judge rapped sharply and rebuked him. 
 
 "Mr. Morgan, you are to remember that this 
 witness is here for the prosecution. It is not 
 your part to protect him." 
 
 "My position," Winters continued to the 
 Dean, "as District Attorney of this County, im- 
 pels me to advise you that you have come dan- 
 gerously near to what might look like com " 
 
 "Sir, is that a threat?" The old priest towered 
 up to the full of his great height, his strong white 
 locks of hair flung back in indignation. 
 
 "Well, sir, let it be a threat, then. Let it 
 stand as a threat, and I will match it. I will say 
 that I am responsible for Jimmie Loyd. I will 
 say that I answer for the things that he has done. 
 I will say that I am proud to have stood at his 
 elbow! I will go farther: I will say that I would 
 not be afraid or ashamed to stand where he 
 stands! I will say more!" he went on, his voice
 
 324 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 booming above the feeble rapping of the judge's 
 gavel. "I will say to this judge upon the sacred 
 bench of justice, I will say to these sworn jurors, 
 I will say to this community, to this County of 
 Mohawk, I will say that if James Loyd be con- 
 victed of this thing, then it is not he who will be 
 convicted! Rather, it will be this judge upon 
 the bench, these jurors in the box, the citizens of 
 this county, we, all of us, we it is who will be 
 convicted, because we live here and allow these 
 things to be possible!" 
 
 In the dead, breathless silence that followed, 
 Winters' voice came out like an explosion: 
 
 "The witness is excused." 
 
 The Dean stepped down heavily, and, pausing 
 only for one quick, quiet look at Loyd, he made 
 his way to the door, and started up Court Street 
 toward home. He was shaken, and he was not 
 at ease with himself. He had done no good, he 
 told himself, with his dramatics. And Winters, 
 he saw now, had accomplished the very thing that 
 he had set out to do. He saw now the hand of 
 John Sargent. 
 
 It would make no difference in Milton, of 
 course. But Jim Loyd's case was already re- 
 ceiving a lot of space in the New York papers, 
 and he realized what they would look like to- 
 morrow morning, when they would have garbled 
 up Winters' assumptions and his own answers 
 into testimony and evidence. Reporters would 
 be besieging the bishop's door before noon to-
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 325 
 
 morrow. And, next to sin, the bishop hated sen- 
 sation above all things. 
 
 He saw that a shrewd man, a man shrewder 
 even than John Sargent, had suggested this. 
 But he did not know that so great and so shrewd 
 a man as Jasper Macon, the wiliest and boldest 
 strategist in all America, had thrown the stone 
 that had landed in his pond. 
 
 He had no fear of reproof from the bishop. 
 No, that was perhaps the worst of it ; the bishop 
 would sorrowfully ignore the whole matter, giv- 
 ing no chance for explanation or understanding. 
 
 And people, so many people through the coun- 
 try would misread and misunderstand. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve. John Sargent was 
 preparing his Christmas presents. It was going 
 to be a green Christmas. A week of untimely 
 warm weather and rains had taken away the 
 snow, leaving sodden fields and blaqk hillsides 
 and mud, lakes of ugly, indecent mud. A green 
 Christmas is a gray Christmas, a dreary, chilling, 
 dampening season of forced cheer. The old peo- 
 ple say that it makes a full churchyard. It is 
 never welcome with us in the North country. 
 
 It looked in loweringly upon John Sargent 
 where he sat in his private office in the Milton 
 Machinery Company's plant going over the 
 things that he had arranged for his Christmas 
 greeting to various people. 
 
 First, there was a bulky package, heavily
 
 326 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 sealed and covered with stamps, addressed to the 
 office of the Attorney General of the United 
 States. It was filled with records, affidavits, 
 certified copies, rescripts, and documents, legal 
 and illegal. These papers covered the doings, 
 written and unwritten, of the International 
 Farm Machine Company during the five years 
 since its organization. 
 
 That corporation had recently come under the 
 scrutiny of the Attorney General in the matter of 
 certain rather flagrant violations of the laws of 
 interstate commerce. The Government had in- 
 stituted a suit looking to the dissolution of the 
 corporation. 
 
 That corporation and its banker, Jasper Ma- 
 con, had some time ago tried to ruin John Sar- 
 gent and that just at a time when he was at 
 death grips with his employees and with the Gov- 
 ernor of the State. He had considered it very 
 unsportsmanlike and unkind rivalry. By way 
 of a Christmas present to the International, he 
 was now sending to the Attorney General, for his 
 suit against that corporation, documentary evi- 
 dence sufficient, if properly handled, to dissolve 
 into atoms any corporation existing. 
 
 Also by way of Christmas present to the In- 
 ternational and to Jasper Macon, he was sending 
 out to his agents everywhere detailed selling or- 
 ders, so that they might, at the critical moment 
 of the suit against the International, dump upon 
 the markets of this country and Europe great
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 327 
 
 quantities of farming machinery. The result of 
 this would be that they would undersell the In- 
 ternational into practical bankruptcy. He could 
 not hurt Jasper Macon personally very much. 
 But he believed that his Christmas present to 
 Jasper Macon's pet combine, the International, 
 would be its death warrant. 
 
 Through the District Attorney, Winters, he 
 had already presented his Christmas greeting to 
 "that old priest," the Dean of Milton. The 
 Dean had received it in the trial-room of the 
 court house, as we have seen. 
 
 Jim Loyd, he was confident, would receive his 
 Christmas present to-day. It would be in the 
 shape of a prison sentence. It could not be for 
 more than ten years or for less than three. But 
 Ichabod Whitcomb could be depended upon to 
 make it nearer the former than the latter. 
 
 His present to Governor Gordon Fuller he 
 had sent out this morning in the form of a state- 
 ment to a group of Metropolitan newspapers. 
 In it he had told the newspapers and the coun- 
 try that the board of arbitration which the Gov- 
 ernor had created to settle the differences be- 
 tween the Milton Machinery Company and its 
 employees was a ridiculous failure. He had an- 
 nounced his refusal to be bound by any of its 
 findings. And he had told the country confiden- 
 tially that the action of the Governor, in con- 
 fiscating the Milton plant at the time of the 
 strike and putting the men back to work under
 
 328 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 martial law, had been, in so many words, noth- 
 ing but a piece of political bravado and dema- 
 gogy which the Governor had known he could 
 not really carry out. 
 
 That completed the list of individual remem- 
 brances. It had been a long time since John 
 Sargent had remembered so many people at 
 Christmas. 
 
 There were, however, nearly four thousand 
 men and about four hundred women for whom 
 also John Sargent had arranged a Christmas 
 greeting. These greetings were not directed to 
 individuals. They were in the form of notices 
 printed in squares of white cardboard, in plain 
 black letters. About a hundred of tbese notices 
 lay in a neat pile on John Sargent's desk. Be- 
 cause it was Christmas Eve, the entire plant 
 would close down to-day at five o'clock. At five 
 minutes to five, twenty clerks from the office 
 would hurry down through the various rooms 
 of the mill to tack up one of these notices on a 
 board that hung beside the exit from each room. 
 They would be read by, or translated to, five 
 thousand people in less than five minutes. 
 
 John Sargent picked up one of the notices and 
 read it reflectively. It ran: 
 
 All employees of this Company who on 3 
 May of this year voluntarily left their work to 
 go on strike are, by this notice, discharged from 
 the employ of this company. Time checks may
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 329 
 
 be presented at the Manufacturers National 
 Bank on or after 26 December. 
 
 THE MILTON MACHINERY COMPANY. 
 
 While John Sargent had been feverishly driv- 
 ing his mill to double capacity in an effort to glut 
 the markets and undersell his enemy, the Inter- 
 national, he had been all the time preparing this 
 Christmas greeting for his old employees. 
 
 He had finally come to the conclusion that his 
 father's policy, and his own, had been a mistake. 
 Once it may have been the part of wisdom to let 
 the people take root in Milton, to let them own 
 homes and thus bind them to the town and the 
 mill. But it did not seem to be so now. It gave 
 them the power to sustain a long strike. And in 
 these days of fierce competition a long strike was 
 too disastrous. What was worse, their feeling of 
 independence and their increasing education 
 made them ready to invite government interfer- 
 ence. The more prosperous and advanced the 
 town was, the more noise it could make. And 
 wherever there was noise and agitation there was 
 sure to rise up some notoriety-seeking official 
 with a thirst to interfere. 
 
 So he had crowded his mill up with almost 
 double the number of men and women that he 
 would use when he should go back to normal con- 
 ditions of running. He had trained two men for 
 every job requiring skill and experience. He 
 had trained two women for every machine. He
 
 330 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 could drop every one of the old employees, below 
 the ranks of the foremen, and go on with the 
 new men at about the capacity and speed at 
 which he had formerly run the plant. 
 
 From the schedule of the trial of Jim Loyd 
 which was now drawing to a close up in the court 
 house, he had figured that at about five o'clock 
 to-day the jury would find Jim Loyd guilty. 
 The judge would pronounce sentence immedi- 
 ately. He had told Winters to time the prog- 
 ress of the trial so that Jim Loyd should receive 
 sentence at about the same moment at which the 
 old employees of the Company were receiving 
 their sentences. He dropped the notice on the 
 desk and went out and down through the mill. 
 
 Down in the power-house, he looked out over 
 the dark, sullen body of the river. The great 
 pond, a lake almost, stretched broad and deep 
 and black, away for miles, into the heart of the 
 hills. The Maker of the Hills had formed here 
 a great and ready servant and had given man 
 dominion over that servant, a dominion without 
 hire and without price; a servant that toiled on 
 unceasingly, asking only for more work. 
 
 John Sargent loved the glum, silent river with 
 its millions of horsepower lying in leash there 
 between the hills. And not only because it 
 worked for him for nothing: he loved it because 
 it was dependable. It never tired, never had ex- 
 cuse, never failed. 
 
 Up out of the wheelpits, where the hands of
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 331 
 
 the river worked, came the shafts of steel and 
 with their elbows of beveled gears turned the 
 power of the river into the massive main shaft of 
 the mill. To the main shaft were hitched the 
 fourteen dynamos that turned the strength of the 
 water into electric current. From them went 
 out the slim arteries of lightning that lighted the 
 furnaces, that turned the wheels and made John 
 Sargent's mill a living thing. 
 
 Here men worked quietly, smoothly, oiling, 
 cleaning, burnishing, dressing the dynamos for 
 the Christmas rest. John Sargent went about 
 running a critical finger over polished surfaces of 
 brass and copper and steel, for these were costly 
 tools, these dynamos. A little rust, a little drip, 
 might easily stand him the loss of ten thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 Satisfied, he climbed a ladder, stepped through 
 a door in the wall and came out upon the run- 
 ways of the furnace room. Here all was fever 
 and hurry, men rushing about here and there, 
 great cranes snapping their loads jerkily into 
 the air, furnaces flaring up to the leaden sky. 
 To the unskilled eye it would have been a chaos 
 of undirected fury. To John Sargent's grim 
 eye, as he took in the state of the room at a 
 glance, it all meant that every man was hurrying 
 so that all the furnaces might be cleared at the 
 stroke of five, and all be free to go. "They 
 wouldn't jump that way for me if I was sweat- 
 ing blood to get them to hurry," he muttered to
 
 332 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 himself. "Well, they can rush now. A lot of 
 them'll have plenty of time to rest." 
 
 The casting-room, when he came to it, was one 
 bank of impenetrable, murky fog that came 
 crowding in from the damp air outside and that 
 rose from the sizzling puddles of metal. Only 
 the nearest of the electric bulbs blinked feebly 
 through the gloom and showed now and then a 
 black head or a naked shoulder as some man 
 partly emerged from the murk. It might have 
 been a bottomless pit, with now and then a rest- 
 less soul pushing up to the surface. 
 
 The milling-room was crowded to the last inch 
 of available working space with men whose 
 minds and bodies seemed keyed to the single 
 thought that they were to handle as many pieces 
 of iron as it was possible for human hands to turn 
 in a given time. They were piece-workers 
 nearly all, trained to the last second of accurate 
 speed, and ever trying to crowd an extra move- 
 ment into that second. 
 
 All about them lathes whirred and whined 
 their complaint and drills shrieked as they bit 
 into the iron, but the men drove on silently, meas- 
 uring the pieces of iron that they drilled and 
 turned against the racing of the seconds on the 
 clock. 
 
 John Sargent disliked this room. There was 
 too much hand-work here. The eight hundred 
 clever, high-priced workmen in this room always 
 irritated him. They were the men who did most
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 333 
 
 of the thinking and the talking for the rest of the 
 mill. Agitations, committees, delegations with 
 differences and complaints generally found their 
 brains and their spokesmen in this room. These 
 men were readers and talkers. They were full 
 of arguments on the cost of materials, on profits, 
 on the value of the labor put into the product. 
 
 Their work was almost entirely mechanical, he 
 argued. The motions they made could be made 
 just as accurately by machinery and faster. 
 Why could he not clear them all out and make 
 machines take their places? The trouble was 
 that each man of them had to do just a little bit 
 of thinking with each piece of work. A little, 
 a very little, but it was just that little bit of 
 thinking that a machine would not do. When 
 would they give him machines, machines that he 
 could buy outright and hitch to his shaft, that 
 would do just that little bit of thinking for him? 
 
 There was little Joe Page on his high stool at 
 a lathe. Just because he could do that very little 
 bit of thinking that a machine would not do, John 
 Sargent had to clothe him and feed and bed him. 
 
 He came out now into the enormous, open, 
 sky-lighted assembling-room where the bed 
 frames of the machines were set up and the 
 "travelers" came hurrying in from all directions 
 with pieces and dropped them almost magically 
 into place in the frames. This was what John 
 Sargent loved to watch, the setting-up of the 
 complete machines, ready to be run upon the
 
 334 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 cars. What man does not love to see the turned- 
 out ready product of his own hand or brain? 
 Here were results. Here was money that could 
 be counted. 
 
 He was willing to pay the twelve hundred men 
 who worked in this room. He did not begrudge 
 it. Their work was heavy. They were not paid 
 for mere thinking. 
 
 Last of all there was the twine-mill. Such 
 daylight as there had been was gone now. The 
 arc-light sputtered fitfully up and down the end- 
 less rows of machines. Seven hundred women, 
 ranging in years from fourteen to sixty, stood 
 here in one barnlike room, bending to the end- 
 less nursing and feeding of the insatiable 
 winders. 
 
 The wooden floor under their feet was wet and 
 spongy. The air of the room was filled with 
 cloudy wreaths and spirals of condensing steam, 
 released into the room because the twine fiber 
 must be kept damp while it was being worked. 
 Their clothing was soaked through and through 
 with the mist of the condensing steam. Their 
 hair, tightly wound into unsightly knobs to keep 
 it from the snatching arms of the winders, was 
 sprinkled over with great, glistening jewels of 
 water and tar vapor from the spray baths 
 through which the twine was run. 
 
 Through the streaked smudges upon their 
 faces ran the cruel, bitter lines of heart-breaking 
 fatigue, They were unlovely, unsightly, and
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 335 
 
 they did not care, Their feet were swollen ; they 
 ached in every nerve from the endless strain of 
 standing in one cramped position; their heads 
 swam with pain and blood congestion back of the 
 eyes; but their nimble, automatic fingers ran 
 swiftly in and out among the hooks of the wind- 
 ers. 
 
 Some, the stronger ones who had a little of 
 strength or nerve left, were racing to finish a 
 certain amount of work. But for the most part 
 they merely held on blindly to the pace of the 
 machines before them. 
 
 Across the room from John Sargent stood a 
 bent, white-haired woman, her hands weaving 
 steadily in and out among the clutching hooks. 
 There was nothing to distinguish her white head, 
 the skin drawn drum-tight at the temples, or her 
 quivering, thin body from plenty of others about 
 her. But, somehow, it seemed to John Sargent 
 that he ought to remember her. There was 
 something in some way familiar about her. He 
 did remember her. She was Milly Ashley. 
 Forty years ago, he remembered, she was the 
 prettiest, sauciest girl in the old Academy of Mil- 
 ton. 
 
 She had married somebody. They all do, for 
 some reason or other, he reflected. And here she 
 was in her old age down to this. It was too bad. 
 
 As he watched, the woman's hands left the 
 winder and rose gracefully in the air. She 
 swayed back a little from the machine and waved
 
 336 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 her hands in easy, measured gestures to the time 
 of something that she began to recite. John 
 Sargent could not hear what she said, but from 
 the gestures and the even motions of her lips it 
 was evidently a part of some poem. 
 
 The girl next to her caught the raving woman 
 and half lifted, half dragged her out to the safety 
 of the aisle. Nonie Gaylor, superintendent of 
 this mill, appeared from somewhere and directed 
 two stout, elderly women to help the woman to 
 the dressing-room. There was no panic, no 
 shrieking, no disorder. These things were of 
 common occurrence. John Sargent admired 
 for a moment the efficient, time-saving way in 
 which the affair had been handled. 
 
 Then Nonie Gaylor came back and did a 
 strange thing. The woman's machine was still 
 running. Nonie Gaylor stepped into the vacant 
 place and went on with the woman's work. She 
 had been doing piece-work and the few pennies 
 would mean something to her. 
 
 John Sargent did not like this. The Gaylor 
 girl should remember that he paid for her time to 
 superintend the whole mill, not to run a single 
 machine. He would step over and tell her so. 
 But just then a boy from the office appeared at 
 his elbow and began tacking a notice on the 
 board by the door. Sargent turned in the door- 
 way and went back toward his office. 
 
 He had not gone twenty steps from the door 
 when he heard a scream. Anne Casimir had
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 337 
 
 slipped over and read the notice. Screaming 
 and sobbing fearfully, she threw herself upon a 
 bale of twine fiber. In an instant every machine 
 in the room was deserted. This was not merely 
 a case of a girl fainting or in hysteria. 
 
 Scrambling, tearing, pulling, they fought their 
 way by platoons up to the billboard, howling out 
 the notice in five languages to those behind. 
 Some one tore the notice down and they jumped 
 and stamped upon it in frenzy, while Nonie Gay- 
 lor and her forewomen tried futilely to head them 
 back to their places. 
 
 A stout girl grabbed a heavy floor-mop and 
 swinging with all her strength jammed it down 
 into the rapidly revolving arms and clutches of 
 an expensive duplex stripper. That was all that 
 was needed. The fierce, leaping fury for de- 
 struction ran over them like a driven fire. In 
 two minutes the room was a wreck. 
 
 In vain did Nonie Gaylor and her forewomen, 
 aided by a few thoughtful ones, herd them out of 
 the room in droves. They rushed back to their 
 work by other doors. Then the power went off. 
 Now they could not smash things so easily. It 
 palled. 
 
 With one impulse they rushed pell-mell and 
 screaming from the room. Stamping and howl- 
 ing they trooped down through the mill, through 
 the parts where no woman was allowed to go, un- 
 til they came shrieking into the big assembling 
 room. Here the greater part of the men were
 
 338 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 standing, helpless and dumb. Some were shout- 
 ing foolish and half-hearted threats. Some were 
 frankly crying. Others were cursing futilely. 
 Like a raging tornado the women and girls came 
 tearing in among them, shouting: 
 
 "Do something! You cowards, do something! 
 We've smashed our room!" 
 
 "Why don't you do something!" 
 
 "If Loyd was here!" 
 
 Loyd! As if they had been waiting for that 
 word, it seemed to wake the men to life. It ran 
 out of that room and through the next and on 
 down through the whole mill like a cry of fire. 
 Men went hurtling over each other out of every 
 exit of the plant. In twenty seconds the mill- 
 yard and the street outside were jammed with 
 a roaring, seething mass of men and women, 
 shouting, chanting, and screaming over and over 
 the one word: "Loyd! Loyd! Loyd!" They 
 knew where they were going and what they were 
 going to do. 
 
 In the court house the trial of Loyd was being 
 hurried to its appointed close. The last witness 
 of the prosecution had been brought forward to 
 strain Loyd's words and actions to a proof of his 
 guilt. While it was admitted to have been 
 physically impossible for Loyd to have been near 
 the scene of the explosion of the stockhouse of the 
 Sargent plant, yet the facts, that he had kept ex- 
 plosives in his possession, that he had apparently
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 339 
 
 intended to use them, that he was of a violent and 
 terrible temper, stopping at nothing in his anger 
 all these had been plaited together to make a 
 rope of conviction. 
 
 In vain Stanley Morgan had entered his last 
 monotonous and useless exception to the judge's 
 rulings. He had tried to show that not a single 
 bit of real evidence had been introduced bearing 
 upon the actual charge. He had tried to go past 
 the judge and get at the feelings of the jurymen 
 through their sense of fair play. But he knew 
 that he had failed. Those men had been put 
 upon that jury because the majority of them 
 were so placed that they would not dare vote for 
 any verdict other than the one John Sargent de- 
 manded. And the others would do what the 
 stronger will of the majority would force them 
 to do. 
 
 In his summing up for the defense he had ap- 
 pealed to every American sense of justice and 
 manhood. He had shown that the case was one 
 of flagrant and malicious perversion of justice. 
 But as well might he have talked to the graven 
 scales upon the wall, and expected them to tip. 
 
 Winters, concluding for the "State," was a 
 marvel of skilled and hypocritical moderation. 
 He did not denounce. He deplored. He was 
 sorry; he was pained. But the facts were such 
 and such and such, as the jury had seen. The 
 "State," he said, had no feeling whatever in the 
 matter. Jim Loyd had been entitled to the pro-
 
 340 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 tection of the law as was every other citizen. 
 But he had defied the law. For fancied wrongs 
 he had taken revenge into his own hands. And 
 the "State" had reluctantly, almost, seen itself 
 obliged to act. 
 
 Through all this Jim Loyd sat grim and un- 
 moved, his eyes and his mind, apparently, fixed 
 upon a knot in the floor below him. 
 
 The judge in his charge to the jury did not 
 stoop to use any of the suave duplicity which had 
 marked the speech of the District Attorney. 
 Ichabod Whitcomb was a blunt and brutal man 
 by nature, and his methods were coarse. He did 
 not confine himself to instructing the jury upon 
 the law of the case, as he was strictly bound to 
 do. He went out of his way to point out to the 
 jurors lines of reasoning, by following which they 
 must properly bring in a verdict of guilty. He 
 so construed to them the law and the value of 
 evidence and the force of the particular evidence 
 in this case that there seemed nothing left for the 
 jury to do but to find the prisoner guilty. 
 
 And even through this, the contamination of 
 justice at the fountain-head, Loyd sat unblink- 
 ing. He was waiting for the very end. Long 
 since, he had come to the conclusion that the Law, 
 the State, Society, Justice, all were simply names 
 for The Will of the Strong. So far it appeared 
 that John Sargent, with the things that he could 
 buy and command, represented that will of the
 
 THE WILL OF THE STRONG 341 
 
 strong. Well, he would see this farce to the end, 
 and then and then he would see farther. 
 
 In the jury-room on the first ballot the vote 
 was nine for conviction, three for acquittal. The 
 nine went to work upon the three. In the sec- 
 ond hallot the vote was eleven for conviction, 
 one for acquittal. A little druggist from Green- 
 ville was holding out. Before the next ballot 
 was formally taken, he, too, had given in to the 
 will of the majority. 
 
 The jury filed solemnly back to their places in 
 the trial-room. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury," came the traditional 
 query from the bench, "have you reached a ver- 
 dict?" 
 
 "We have." 
 
 But Jim Loyd was not listening. From down 
 the street there came to his ears a many-throated 
 roar, the roar of a multitude of men in rage, 
 pierced thinly by the shrill, high cries of women. 
 He was listening to that. 
 
 "What is your verdict? Is the prisoner guilty 
 or not guilty?" 
 
 But Jim Loyd did not wait to hear the single 
 word. He quietly snubbed the wrist chain across 
 the railing, vaulted the rail in a spring, and, 
 bringing his whole weight down upon his fore- 
 arm as a lever, snapped the chain. Three steps 
 on the floor, and he was surrounded by a dozen 
 men who had leaped forward at his first motion.
 
 The jail guard drew his revolver and fired 
 once, in the air. It would have been murder to 
 have fired indiscriminately into the crowd. Jim 
 Loyd was already covered, swallowed up in a 
 whirling, crashing, irresistible mass of men strug- 
 gling toward the doors. In another moment he 
 was out in the street, the center and the master 
 of four thousand raging men. 
 
 He was going to see whose was The Will of 
 the Strong.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 
 
 WITH head bared to the drizzle of the raw, 
 misty evening Jim Loyd stood in the 
 street in front of the court house. His big shoul- 
 ders heaved above the heads of the smaller men 
 about him, as his lungs gulped in great panting 
 breaths of the air of freedom which they had not 
 known for months. 
 
 He looked back at the court house from which 
 he had just come. It was the place of justice. 
 It stood for the community. It represented the 
 State. It was the stronghold of Society. 
 
 In there men had found him guilty of a crime 
 against Society which he had not committed. 
 Justice, as they called it, had gone out of its way 
 to deprive him of his liberty, to brand him as a 
 thing to be shunned and walled up. The State 
 had spent its money to convict him. Society had 
 decreed that he was not fit for Society. 
 
 Society had tried and found him guilty. But 
 Society had not given him a fair trial. 
 
 On the other hand, during the months in jail 
 and the days in the courtroom, during his whole 
 life, in fact, he had given Society an absolutely 
 fair trial, From the day when, in his first pair 
 of trousers, he had trudged manfully into John 
 
 343
 
 344 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Sargent's mill to begin his work, right down, to 
 the instant in which he snapped the chain in 
 leaping from the prisoner's box in the court 
 house, he had done all the things that Society had 
 prescribed for him. And Society had been un- 
 true to its side of the contract with him. 
 
 He had found Society guilty; guilty not so 
 much of a particular offense against him, but 
 guilty of being a lie. It was a lie, this thing that 
 men called Society. He had found a true bill. 
 Society, the State, was nothing more or less than 
 the will of a few, who, being rich, were strong. 
 
 And why were they strong? Was it that the 
 accident of their wealth gave them some mysteri- 
 ous power over the many? No. It was because 
 the many, who were the truly strong, foolishly 
 let themselves be worked and herded by the will 
 of the few. 
 
 Here were the strong four thousand strong 
 ready to follow him anywhere ! 
 
 They surged and eddied around him, shouting 
 and cheering his name. They had turned to him 
 in their hour of desperation. They had come to 
 tear him from the grasp of the law that they 
 might have a leader. And he had done what 
 they might have expected of him. He had not 
 waited for them, had not needed them. He had 
 flouted the law in its very face, and had come out 
 to meet them. It was just the single-handed, 
 dramatic sort of thing that they would have 
 looked for from him.
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 345 
 
 Warden Wheeler, two deputy sheriffs, and 
 four jail guards came running around the corner 
 from the direction of the jail. With shotguns 
 held stiffly before them, they prodded a lane into 
 the crowd, making straight for where Loyd stood. 
 In front of the seven armed men the crowd gave 
 back, rapidly at first, then slower and slower. 
 Finally those directly in front of the guns found 
 that they could not back another inch. They 
 stood stock still. The seven with the loaded 
 guns halted, perforce. There was nothing else 
 that they could do, short of drilling a path 
 through the crowd with buckshot. 
 
 Fred Wheeler was a brave man. He had 
 been the warden of Mohawk County jail for 
 fourteen years. No prisoner had ever escaped 
 from him. Personally, Loyd was his friend; he 
 wished to see him at liberty. Nevertheless, he 
 was going to fight his way through that crowd, 
 at whatever risk, to put Loyd back in jail. It 
 was a matter of course, the course of his duty 
 his business. 
 
 He jammed his gun viciously into the breast of 
 the man before him and laid his finger on the 
 trigger. Only then did he see that the man was 
 his own older brother, Martin Wheeler. 
 
 The gun wavered, a very little. It was 
 enough. 
 
 Martin Wheeler struck the gun a quick up- 
 ward blow with his open hand, and sprang in, un- 
 der the arms of his brother.
 
 346 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Like the snapping of a trap, the crowd 
 crunched in upon the seven. There was no time, 
 no chance to fire. One gun discharged its load 
 into a man's foot. The seven, crushed by sheer 
 weight, their guns trampled under foot, were 
 rushed and hustled back around the corner and 
 pushed into the jail door. 
 
 Loyd stood looking on. It was ridiculously 
 easy ! Those seven men represented the might of 
 the law. They made up most of the available 
 force of Mohawk County. What scarecrows 
 and things of straw the law and the county really 
 were, when strong men put their hands upon 
 them I 
 
 The crowd came reeling back around him 
 again. But there was a change. Loyd was 
 quick to note it. 
 
 The crowd had done something. Its blood 
 was rising. It was feeling its strength. It was 
 looking for something else to do. It had tasted 
 its own power, and the rage and desperation that 
 had before been numb in it was boiling to the 
 surface. 
 
 The doors of the court house had been 
 slammed to and locked. The judge, jury, and 
 court attendants must be inside. The crowd 
 surged up to them and began to beat upon them. 
 
 They would have the judge out! They would 
 string him up! Where was the jury?" Mob 
 them ! Fire the court house ! Burn it down ! 
 
 Loyd saw the boyish, silly folly of it all. The
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 347 
 
 crowd would simply work itself up to commit 
 some vicious thing, to destroy somebody or 
 something. And then its anger would suddenly 
 sputter out. Men would look at each other and 
 slink away, by twos and threes and dozens, to 
 their homes. Once there, they would climb into 
 bed and begin to shiver wondering how they 
 might prove alibis. In the morning, the will of 
 the few would reassert itself. The law of the 
 land John Sargent, in this instance would be 
 stronger than ever. 
 
 In that one bitter flash of insight, Loyd saw 
 why the will of the few, backed by tradition and 
 fear, had always been able to dominate the many. 
 He saw what John Sargent had sneered at, 
 months before the sort of tools he had to work 
 with. 
 
 But he went swiftly to work. 
 
 His own men, the men who had worked under 
 him and with him, in the mill and during the 
 strike, stood close about him, wondering why he 
 had not made a .move. These were men whom he 
 could trust, men whom he had seen tried and 
 grilled in many ways. 
 
 His orders were short and simple. Four men 
 would take possession of each of the two tele- 
 phone exchanges in the town. They were not to 
 touch a wire or interfere with messages coming 
 in. But they were to see that no message of any 
 kind went out from the town during the night, 
 or until they were relieved.
 
 348 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Others would do the same at the Western 
 Union offices. 
 
 "A little time is all I want," he said. "The 
 Sheriff' 11 be yelling to Albany for help, just as 
 soon as his teeth stop rattling. On the run! 
 Quick!" 
 
 The men broke through the crowd and started 
 for their posts. 
 
 To others he snapped out short, curt com- 
 mands : 
 
 "Break them fools away from the court house 
 doors. They think they want a bonfire ! Start 
 them moving, and keep them moving after me." 
 
 Without another word, or even a look at the 
 crowd, he pushed out into the middle of the street 
 and started toward State Street. 
 
 The effect upon the crowd if he had looked 
 to see it might well have turned his head. His 
 lieutenants dove into the crowd around the court 
 house doors, banging men and women right and 
 left, and shouting his commands. But the crowd 
 did not need any such measures. At the one 
 word that it was an order from Loyd the 
 hysteria of destruction that had been mounting 
 up in the men fell from them. They turned 
 sharply and faced solidly down the street after 
 their leader. The women stopped their scream- 
 ing and hurried along quietly. 
 
 From a headless, senseless mob, the crowd had 
 become, on the instant, an army of quiet, devoted 
 men. They had a purpose, a work to be done.
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 349 
 
 The women quickly sensed the change that had 
 come over the men. There were things to be done 
 by the men, in the ways of men. The women 
 seemed to realize that they would be of little use 
 now. All but the boldest and strongest of them 
 dropped unnoticed from the crowd and went to 
 their homes. 
 
 The men, four wide on the broad sidewalks 
 under the elms, thirty wide from curb to curb of 
 the widened street, crowded swiftly ahead. They 
 stretched across four or five deep in front of 
 Loyd, a hundred or more deep behind him, a 
 compact column of nearly four thousand silent, 
 grim-faced men. 
 
 Loyd had heard how, just at the moment of 
 shutting down the mill for Christmas, John Sar- 
 gent had discharged all of his old employees at a 
 sweep. There were other men in the town, the 
 new workmen, whom Sargent had brought in 
 since the strike, and whom Loyd did not know. 
 But he had no trouble from these latter. 
 
 During the long months that he had paced 
 his little cell in the jail, he had worked out every 
 possible detail and angle of this night's work, 
 even to the individual men whom he should 
 choose for each piece of the work. 
 
 He would have no rioting. He would give no 
 chance for plunder or window-smashing or any 
 of the things that men expected when a mob went 
 loose. He was going about the business with 
 none of the hot rage that would have hurried him
 
 350 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 into it three months ago. Then he would have 
 been the wild leader of a wild, unthinking crowd 
 of men. Now he was the leader of an appointed 
 army, moving toward a definite object. It was 
 an avenging army, to be sure. For John Sar- 
 gent must die there was no other way. He saw 
 it now. 
 
 But, that done John Sargent once removed, 
 his army was an army not of destruction but of 
 accomplishment. 
 
 He knew that other men had started on the 
 path that he was taking. He knew that mobs 
 had risen and had seemed to be supreme, plenty 
 of times. And he knew why they had failed. 
 Their leaders had allowed them to waste their 
 strength in furies of destruction and revenge. 
 
 John Sargent must die. Yes. He saw that 
 this would be inevitable. But it must end there! 
 Things must go on. The mill and the work must 
 go on. The town must not be harmed. They 
 were simply going to put the will of the real 
 strong, the will of themselves, in the place of the 
 will of John Sargent. It would be merely a 
 change of rulers. Nothing else should be 
 changed. 
 
 They swung solidly around the corner in to the 
 broad stretch of State Stret. A single police- 
 man standing at the corner was brushed lightly 
 into the door of a store. The crowd scarcely felt 
 6r noticed him. Loyd wondered for a moment 
 why the police were not already out in such force
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 351 
 
 as they had. The Sheriff surely would have 
 called them by now. Not that the thirty police- 
 men on the force of Milton would have stopped 
 his march for an instant, he merely wondered 
 why he had not already met them. 
 
 In front of the Farmers Exchange Bank, he 
 stopped long enough to order out twelve men, 
 with instructions to arm themselves as best they 
 could and guard the bank. They were to allow 
 no one to enter or leave the bank under any con- 
 ditions. It might work a hardship upon the two 
 or three officials who were probably still in the 
 bank, but he must guard against them as well. 
 They might call an automobile and attempt to 
 carry the available cash in the bank to Herkimer 
 or Utica. Loyd was determined that everything 
 in Milton should remain as it was and where it 
 was. 
 
 Coming down into the busy part of the street, 
 where the larger stores were grouped along both 
 sides of the way, he picked out men right and left, 
 one to take his stand at the door of each store. 
 The stores were to be kept open. The street 
 must be orderly and safe, so that people might go 
 about their Christmas Eve buying as usual. 
 
 At the second bank, the "Manufacturers," he 
 halted the line and pushed his way up to the en- 
 trance. This was the bank from which John 
 Sargent drew his payroll. Loyd knew that the 
 men whom Sargent had discharged had been noti- 
 fied that they might present their time checks
 
 352 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 here, after Christinas Day. He did not propose 
 that all those families should be left without 
 money for Christmas. 
 
 The curtains of the bank were down, of course. 
 But he knew that old Nathan Fairchild and his 
 clerks would still be in there, clearing up the 
 heavy holiday accounts. He kicked vigorously 
 on the door, while the silent crowd behind him 
 stood and wondered. 
 
 First he heard a muttering of commands and 
 a scurrying of feet within. Then came the clang 
 of bolts as the door of the vault was slammed and 
 locked. Finally he heard a slow step coming to- 
 ward the door and the curtain ran up. Nathan 
 Fairchild, his long, cadaverous face looking the 
 color of wood-ashes in the light from the street, 
 stood peering out through the glass, a wobbling 
 revolver in each of his palsied hands. 
 
 "Drop the guns, Mr. Fairchild," said Loyd 
 coolly, but in a voice that carried easily through 
 the door. "You won't be hurt. We could turn 
 your bank inside out, and you know it. But 
 we're not going to do it. You're going to open 
 this door and let me talk sense to you. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 Old Nathan Fairchild's hands were trembling, 
 but his mind was working swiftly and clearly. 
 He ought to shoot. He had good reasons to do 
 so. The man was an escaped criminal. He was 
 attempting to enter the bank by force. The mob
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 353 
 
 out there, left without a leader, would be fright- 
 ened and break up perhaps. 
 
 He took a firmer grip on one of the guns. 
 Loyd's big body stood full up in front of the 
 glass, not eighteen inches from the point of the 
 gun. 
 
 Fairchild's mind worked on. A mob without 
 a leader, might might be worse than a mob with 
 a leader. 
 
 "You're taking no risk, Mr. Fairchild," said 
 Loyd quickly, keeping his eyes on the eyes of the 
 old man. "I come in alone." He waved his 
 hand backwards at the crowd of men behind him. 
 They fell back instantly to the edge of the side- 
 walk. 
 
 That move settled Nathan Fairchild. His 
 whole life had been spent bowing to authority. 
 Here was authority. He opened the door. 
 
 "Nothing has happened," said Loyd, as he 
 stepped inside; "nor is going to happen to bother 
 you. This town has changed hands. That's all. 
 Just now I am the only protection you can find 
 in this town. Do what I tell you. You will be 
 protected. And there'll be no blame for you 
 afterward, from anybody. I'll put a guard here 
 strong enough to protect you against anything 
 that could possibly happen. Keep your tellers 
 working until ten o'clock, so that the people can 
 cash their time checks to-night if they want to. 
 Then go home and go to bed. Your bank will be
 
 354 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 as safe as as it was last night. And oil them 
 rusty old pistols of yours," he said grimly, as he 
 stood in the open door and beckoned to the guards 
 whom he had already numbered out. "You 
 could be locked up for attempted suicide." 
 
 He stepped quickly out into the crowd and 
 started his army moving down the street. He 
 was not elated with the ease with which he had 
 so far accomplished the things which he had set 
 out to do. He was glad that it had been so easy 
 and simple, but he knew that he was now coming 
 to the first real test of his strength and his power 
 over the men who followed him. 
 
 State Street from here right down to the bridge 
 was lined on both sides with saloons, cheap res- 
 taurants and cheaper lodging-houses. In a dis- 
 tance of less than three short city blocks there 
 were thirty-four saloons. John Sargent held the 
 license of every one of them. Through them, 
 aided by the indifference and carelessness of the 
 people, he controlled Mohawk County. 
 
 Loyd knew that he dared not go farther until 
 he had closed every one of these saloons. It 
 would be madness to pass them, to leave them in 
 his rear. Before morning they would be more 
 of a menace to his plans and his men than would 
 a regiment of state troops. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve. Despite the fact that 
 more than half of all the men of Milton were 
 lined up in the street behind Loyd, the saloons 
 were full and doing a roaring, shouting business.
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 355 
 
 There was excitement in the air. Loyd was ready 
 to do something big, men said. There would be 
 real trouble. 
 
 Loyd saw that he would have to fight his way 
 down the street. It would not be easy to clean 
 out and close all these places. He feared the de- 
 moralizing effect of the fighting upon his own 
 forces. But there was no other way. 
 
 "Break into gangs," his command flew along 
 the line. "Pile into the saloons. Throw every- 
 body out drunk and sober. Make them put 
 lights out and lock up. Quick! No noise about 
 it!" 
 
 His men leaped through the swinging doors. 
 Imperturbable bartenders and sleek proprietors 
 demanded to know what the "rough-house" 
 meant, and reached for ready weapons. But 
 when they saw expensive glass and fixtures being 
 ground up in the melee they were glad enough 
 to help in the work of clearing their places and to 
 switch off their lights and lock up. 
 
 So swift and sudden was the onslaught of the 
 men from the street that the first block was 
 cleared before the second block had heard what 
 was happening. It was slower and more difficult 
 as they progressed down the street, for as each 
 saloon emptied its men into the street Loyd's men 
 soon found that they had several hundred half 
 drunken, ugly men before them whom they must 
 push on down ahead of them. Loyd had fore- 
 seen and feared this. He did not want trouble
 
 356 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 with these men. But there was no time now for 
 argument or reasoning. 
 
 He leaped to the head of his men arid where 
 he had to strike he struck hard. The struggling, 
 swearing mass of men in front, growing con- 
 stantly larger and heavier, fought back viciously. 
 But the press behind Loyd came rolling down 
 upon them and they were slammed and jammed 
 the length of the street and out onto the bridge. 
 Here Loyd left them. 
 
 Quickly heading his men up River Road to- 
 ward the mill, he turned for a look up State 
 Street. Every place was closed and dark. The 
 street, except for his own patrols, was deserted. 
 He was satisfied. The town was absolutely un- 
 der control. It would give him no trouble. 
 
 His real objective remained the mill. For 
 half a mile it lay stretched along between the 
 river and the road, a shapeless, dark, sinister 
 thing that took life and gave life. He had not 
 seen it since the night when he had picked up the 
 dead body of his brother lying at the mill gate. 
 His soul and body shook in a spasm of choking 
 hate at sight of the black, formless hulk of build- 
 ings. He could tear it stone from stone, girder 
 from girder, and hurl it all down into the chasm 
 of the lower river. And yet he loved it. Loved 
 the great, brutish, strong thing that worked so 
 beautifully, with its thousand arms and its mil- 
 lion fingers and its great splay feet of concrete set 
 in the solid rock under the river. If he could
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 357 
 
 have owned it or managed it, how he would have 
 nursed the hideous, powerful thing, and tended 
 it and driven it! 
 
 And there was Sargent up there in the office, 
 the brain and the will of it all. John Sargent 
 must die to-night. There was no room for the 
 faintest hope that he could be overcome or that he 
 would submit short of death. John Sargent 
 would fight on his own threshold. That was 
 sure. Loyd's orders to his men as they marched 
 up the road to the mill gates anticipated that. 
 
 "Leave Sargent alone," his word ran down 
 the line. "He is my business." And, to him- 
 self, he added, "I'm a criminal already: I've got 
 little to lose." 
 
 It is not easy to see to the full what was in 
 Loyd's mind at that moment. 
 
 He had captured the town. He would cer- 
 tainly capture the mill. And, as certainly, he 
 would kill John Sargent. 
 
 What then? That would be to-night's work. 
 What would be to-morrow's ? Did he think that 
 he could hold the town and the mill and run both 
 indefinitely in the face of the power of the State? 
 
 Did he think that the removal of John Sar- 
 gent, whose will had always been the will of the 
 strong the actual government of Mohawk 
 County, would really change anything? 
 
 Did he think that his example here would be 
 the signal for the rising of hundreds of thou- 
 sands of mill workers in New York, of millions
 
 358 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 throughout the country, to seize their mills and 
 run them themselves? If he expected this, or 
 even if he believed it possible, then we could un- 
 derstand him. But it is not likely that he looked 
 for anything of the kind. 
 
 He was a saturnine man, looking darkly upon 
 things, prone to see failure and disappointment. 
 He had no illusions. He had none of the large, 
 vague, glowing optimism and enthusiasm of the 
 born leaders of causes. 
 
 No. It is not likely that he expected ultimate 
 success for his plan. His mind was quick and 
 clear and big enough to weigh all the forces 
 against him. Probably, as he marched along at 
 the head of his men, he saw that the plainest re- 
 sult of his plan would be his own death. But he 
 went forward as a man goes whom fate has set 
 upon an appointed road. Good would come of it 
 in the end, somewhere. For the rest his way 
 lay before him, open. He would walk it. 
 
 The big main gate was locked and heavily 
 barred. He drew up his men in the broad, open 
 space in front of it, and ordered heavy shafts 
 brought from the scrap pile to be used as rams 
 in battering down the gate. Within the heavy 
 stockade of the mill there seemed to be neither 
 sound nor stir. But Loyd was not deceived. 
 He knew that John Sargent was within there, 
 and he knew that he was not alone. 
 
 At the word, twenty men on each side of the
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 359 
 
 gate ran charging forward driving the shafts into 
 the hinges. The lower hinges gave in with - a 
 crash, and mingling with the crash came the sharp 
 snapping of thirty revolvers through the loop- 
 holes of the stockade. 
 
 Loyd now knew where the police force of Mil- 
 ton was. It was lined up inside the stockade of 
 John Sargent's mill. Milton, its homes, its 
 stores, its property of every kind, might have 
 been swept away by the mob. The police who 
 were paid to protect it were needed to do work 
 for their overlord, John Sargent. 
 
 Loyd did not stop to see the effect of the shoot- 
 ing upon his men. He grasped one of the shafts 
 as it came driving in to the gate again and threw 
 his strength in with that of the men. That side 
 of the gate went down, and before it had come to 
 the ground Loyd went hurdling through, yelling 
 to the men who leaped after him : 
 
 "Crowd up the sides and smother 'em!" 
 
 The crowd pouring in behind the leaders 
 pushed down the other half of the gate, so that a 
 stream of men, ten abreast, was soon tearing 
 through the gateway. They divided and swept 
 along the fence to right and left in such living 
 torrents that the police were rushed off their feet 
 and hurled up against the fence. The policemen 
 had brothers, some of them had fathers in that 
 crowd of workingmen. Also, they saw that they 
 were beaten and that they would be badly ban-
 
 360 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 died. They dropped their revolvers and began 
 using their clubs merely to keep themselves from 
 being crushed to death against the fence. 
 
 Loyd, seeing that the police were now harm- 
 less, called his men for a rush upon the three 
 doors that led from the court where they were 
 standing into the three different parts of the mill 
 that abutted there. 
 
 The main door of the furnace-room was on one 
 side. The milling-room opened on the other. A 
 long, covered passage, wide enough for six men 
 abreast, ran through to the door of the big as- 
 sembling room. 
 
 Loyd, shouting to others to storm the doors on 
 each side, grabbed one of the shafts and started 
 running alone with it down the covered passage. 
 Fifty men followed him, running to pick up the 
 trailing end of the shaft and help. Running 
 with head down, he had gone half the length of 
 the passage when he heard a roar of warning be- 
 hind. He did not look up, but he heard the crash 
 of glass ahead of him as a dozen magazine rifles 
 were pushed through the windows beside the door 
 toward which he was racing. 
 
 He felt the thud of the other end of the heavy 
 shaft, as the men who had been carrying it 
 dropped it to run. 
 
 A rush of wind down the narrow passage 
 nearly threw him from his feet as the volley from 
 the rifles swept past him. 
 
 He gripped the shaft again and charged on.
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 361 
 
 He was not hit! They could not hit him! He 
 was Jim Loyd ! He had work to do ! Until that 
 work was done, the bullet was not made that 
 could hurt him. 
 
 The shaft was heavier than he had thought. 
 But he was going on. Men behind begged and 
 prayed him to come back. But he was going on. 
 
 Another volley came whistling down the pas- 
 sage. But this time he was braced for it. He 
 was going on. A tuft of hair fell shorn from his 
 black head. He was going on. A bullet flat- 
 tened itself on the end of the shaft at his hand. 
 He was going on. 
 
 The door that he was running for was sunken 
 into an embrazure the full depth of the thick 
 wall. He looked up, measured the time for an- 
 other volley, fell upon his face as it roared over 
 him, gathered himself and the shaft for the last 
 short run. 
 
 At ten feet from the door he was fairly safe 
 from the rifles at the sides. With a mighty 
 heave, he brought the two-hundred-pound shaft 
 up shoulder high, and with short quick steps ran 
 lunging at the door with it. 
 
 The shaft, driven by its weight and all the 
 power of the man behind it, shot cleanly through 
 the sheet-iron facing and the wood of the door. 
 
 The big door stood unshaken, the shaft sticking 
 from it like an arrow. And there the shaft 
 stayed. He could not draw it back for another 
 blowl
 
 362 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 He tugged and pulled and strained at the shaft 
 trying to draw it out: Strained till the blood 
 started from his ears and nostrils : Strained till 
 the top of his head seemed to lift itself up and 
 float away! 
 
 It was fast, and useless ! 
 
 Then Jim Loyd forgot himself. He struck 
 and kicked at the iron shaft in an agony of help- 
 less madness. 
 
 Here he was a prisoner, he could not go for- 
 ward. To go back was useless death. Howling, 
 he threw himself upon the useless shaft. 
 
 Here he was : Jim Loyd, the strong man, the 
 man of iron, the man who had taken a town! 
 Here he was, helpless as a puling child, listening 
 to the shots fired into his scattered men! Sob- 
 bing and screaming in fury he beat with bare, 
 bleeding hands upon the sheathed door. 
 
 Those within must have known that he was 
 alone. It was a mark of the respect in which 
 they held him that they did not open the door 
 and try to take him. But he did not remember 
 to take any pleasure in the compliment they paid 
 him. Just then he had forgotten that he was a 
 man he was trying to tear off the iron sheathing 
 of the door with his teeth. 
 
 His men had scattered. An army could not 
 have gone down that passageway. There was 
 no blame for them. 
 
 They had snatched two wounded men and a
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 363 
 
 girl out of danger and then they had faded away 
 swiftly out of the open court. 
 
 They ran along under the dark walls of the 
 mill, keeping away from doors. Along three 
 sides of the milling and the furnace-rooms, they 
 were breaking every window with whatever iron 
 weapon came to hand and piling each other 
 through the windows in tangled, clawing masses. 
 
 In heaps of two and three and four, they spilled 
 themselves in upon the floor of the mill, and pick- 
 ing themselves up in the dark they ran craftily 
 between the machines they knew so well and fell 
 silently upon their enemies. 
 
 Men with deadly guns in their hands were 
 struck down and stunned before they knew that 
 danger was near. Away from every door and 
 from every stand of defense they drove Sargent's 
 guards, until they had herded them all into the 
 casting-room. 
 
 They found Loyd unhurt, at the door of the 
 assembling-room. He gave a last, vicious kick 
 at the shaft that had put him to shame; and 
 came in to take command. 
 
 The casting-room was a ready-made fortress. 
 There were no windows in its walls. Its one 
 wide open door could be defended indefinitely 
 by the guns of the men within. Its roof was 
 open but it could not be reached for it was many 
 feet higher than any other roof near it. 
 
 The men within were employees of a nation-
 
 364 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 wide so-called detective agency. Their business 
 was to fight with guns for whoever hired them. 
 Sargent had brought them here one by one and 
 had given them ostensible jobs in the mill. None 
 of the men who had worked beside them for weeks 
 had suspected them in any way. About fifty of 
 them were now drawn up behind a barricade of 
 castings just inside the casting-room door. 
 
 Their rifles were of the best and newest type. 
 They were men who had fought together before 
 against big odds. And they knew that they 
 could expect no mercy if they were beaten. 
 
 Loyd and his men stood in the darkness of the 
 furnace-room. They were beginning to under- 
 stand the nature of the enemy with whom they 
 had to deal, and what they had already gone 
 through had made them thoughtful. 
 
 Not a light had yet been turned on in the mill. 
 Loyd and his men preferred to trust to the dark 
 and their own sure-footed knowledge of every 
 floor and obstruction in the rooms. The guards 
 inside the casting-room evidently felt that there 
 was light enough for them to train their guns 
 upon that one door. They had no other imme- 
 diate use for light. 
 
 It was a deadlock. Loyd realized it. And, 
 knowing that time was precious, knew that he 
 must somehow break it. But, how? Bravery 
 against that ring of gun-muzzles inside that door 
 would not be bravery. It would be senseless and
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 365 
 
 criminal folly like his own maniacal dash 
 against the door outside. 
 
 The slight creaking of a rope overhead told 
 him that some one was trying to do something. 
 A whisper came through the dark to him, that 
 little Joe Page, the dwarf and one-time circus 
 clown, had found a rope dangling down from the 
 car of the "traveler" which ran into the casting- 
 room. He was climbing the rope up to the rail 
 of the "traveler," so that he could make his way 
 along the rail into the casting-room and get down 
 to the high pressure hose. 
 
 Loyd calculated the chances, and, in the dark, 
 he bowed his head before the deliberate, quiet 
 bravery of the little, deformed man. 
 
 To do his work, the little man would have to 
 climb forty feet of swaying rope. Then, hang- 
 ing from the rail of the "traveler" by one hand, 
 he would have to detach the rope from where it 
 was fastened and coil it around his neck so that 
 he could carry it. Then he would have to go, 
 hanging from the rail by his little fourteen-inch 
 arms, hand over hand a distance of two hundred 
 feet. Fifty feet of that distance would be with- 
 in the casting-room where his little body would 
 show against the open skylight of that room. 
 When he came to the proper place if he had 
 not already been shot down he would have to 
 attach the rope and let himself down twenty 
 feet and swing in the dark to a platform, where
 
 366 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 the high-pressure fire-nozzle was set in a swivel 
 ready to be turned upon any part of the room. 
 
 The suspense was maddening. Men loved 
 that little, malformed man with the giant's heart, 
 creeping away up there in the dark to an almost 
 certain death. In the dark, it came to them that 
 everything in all this world depended on the 
 little fellow's getting through safe. You will 
 find men walking the streets of Milton to-day 
 whose hair is gray. It turned gray that night. 
 But they will tell you that it turned gray, not 
 when they were facing bullets, but when they 
 were standing waiting to know the fate of that 
 little man. 
 
 Loyd started them to making feinting rushes 
 toward the door of the casting-room. Shouting 
 and throwing pieces of resounding iron, they 
 went charging up along the wall almost to the 
 door. Each time they were apparently driven 
 back by the short, stabbing grunts of the high- 
 powered rifles and a hail of lead came spattering 
 among the furnaces. But all the time they were 
 cramming themselves up closer and closer on 
 each side of the door, and every flash of a rifle 
 was blinding its owner to little Joe, and giving 
 that little man a better knowledge of the posi- 
 tion of his target. 
 
 The swish of the heavy stream as it caught 
 the guards in the flank and lifted them bodily 
 from behind their barricade, was the signal for 
 Loyd's men. They tumbled through the door
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 367 
 
 and fell upon their enemy. They rolled joy- 
 fully into the water, clawing about for the other 
 men and crushing them, already half drowned, 
 under the weight of their numbers. 
 
 At a flash the whole room leaped out into bril- 
 liant light. Blinking in the glare and shaking 
 water from their eyes, men looked up to see John 
 Sargent standing at a door cut high up in the 
 wall of the room, his hand on the electric switch. 
 He looked down at the wallowing, half-drowned 
 mass of fighting men upon the floor. He looked 
 at the little man over against the other wall busy 
 with the hose. He drew a revolver. And be- 
 fore any one could shout to the little man, John 
 Sargent shot little Joe Page through the head. 
 
 The dwarf lifted his hands in the old salute of 
 the tanbark ring, and toppled off the platform. 
 
 With one hoarse roar men threw from them 
 the prisoners they had just taken. They threw 
 themselves madly at the door of the room and 
 swept out through other rooms in a rush for the 
 stairways. 
 
 They growled and panted and fairly whined 
 to be allowed to get John Sargent before he 
 could reach his office. 
 
 But John Sargent was ahead of them. He 
 stood in the door of his office, pistol in hand, as 
 they came leaping up the stairs, Loyd in the 
 lead. 
 
 The men scarcely noticed that one of the first 
 up the stairs after Loyd was a recruit: A tall
 
 368 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 old man, with a cassock drawn up to his knees. 
 It was the Dean of Milton, Father Driscoll, who 
 had heard the shooting just as he was stepping 
 into the confessional. 
 
 "Stand back," shouted Loyd, as he reached 
 the level. 
 
 "This is my business !" 
 
 He circled away a little from the men behind, 
 so that they would not be in the line of Sargent's 
 fire, and then walked straight toward the man in 
 the doorway. 
 
 At six paces, Sargent fired. Loyd dropped to 
 one knee with the falling of the hammer, and be- 
 fore Sargent could move his finger again Loyd 
 was upon him, twisting the gun from his hand 
 and reaching for his throat. 
 
 In that instant, something strange happened 
 in John Sargent. Loyd felt it. It was some- 
 thing imperious. Something that would not be 
 denied. Something that would have no inter- 
 ference. 
 
 Loyd's hand dropped back nerveless from the 
 throat. He felt the body stiffen on his arm. 
 Again he put his hand to the throat. Again it 
 dropped. 
 
 Father Driscoll stood beside the two men. 
 
 "It is not your business, Jimmie 1" 
 
 Loyd staggered back shaking as the old priest 
 took the burden from his arms. 
 
 Afterward, when they had laid John Sargent 
 on his cot in the office, and Father Driscoll was
 
 AS GOD MADE HIM 369 
 
 working over him, Loyd plucked at the priest's 
 sleeve, saying in a choking whisper: 
 
 "I tried. I tried, Father. I had my hand 
 on his throat. Twice I had my hand on his 
 throat. And I could not do it. I could not do 
 it!" 
 
 It was hard to know whether it was a confes- 
 sion of sin, or a confession of failure. But 
 Father Driscoll knew, for he said simply: 
 
 "As God made you, so you are, Jimmie. You 
 could not do it. No. You could not."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE LONG ROAD 
 
 JOHN SARGENT was dying. Father Driscoll ad- 
 *J mitted it to himself as he bent over the cot, 
 loosening the tight collar away from the swollen 
 neck and doing what could be done to relieve the 
 pressure on the brain and the faintly laboring 
 heart. 
 
 It looked as though the spark of life would die 
 out slowly into darkness, without even that mo- 
 mentary flash of consciousness which so often 
 comes toward the very end. The Dean was 
 praying, as he worked, that this would not be so. 
 
 He hated death. With all the warm human 
 grip on life of a man who loves men and is loved 
 by them, he hated death. For nearly half a cen- 
 tury it had been a large part of his life to stand 
 at bedsides and see the coming of death. And 
 always he had fought death back. He hated 
 death in the night and in the morning, in what- 
 ever form it came. 
 
 But that death should thus take a man away 
 without a chance for a word, without a look back 
 at life, without even a word of human kindliness 
 to take with him on the way; this he resented. 
 
 John Sargent, you could say, was nothing to 
 him. At the gate of the mill the Dean had found 
 
 370
 
 THE LONG ROAD 371 
 
 two of his own people, badly wounded. John 
 Sargent was to be blamed for that. Down in 
 the casting-room he had given conditional absolu- 
 tion and Extreme Unction to the little half man, 
 whole hero, who was now dead. John Sargent 
 had done that. But he fought death back and 
 prayed that John Sargent might have at least 
 the pitiful little sacrament of a kind word to take 
 with him into the dark. 
 
 Doctor Hamble came hurrying into the office. 
 At sight of the old priest, the doctor's left eye- 
 brow curved upward just an extra trifle. If 
 there was any bedside at which a doctor would be 
 less likely to meet a priest than at John Sar- 
 gent's, he could not just now think whose it 
 would be. But for thirty years now he had been 
 meeting the Dean of Milton at bedsides where 
 one would not have expected to meet a priest. 
 So, he went swiftly about his work. 
 
 For twenty minutes he worked quickly, with 
 the sure, vivid touch and movement of a man 
 whose hands are made to play upon the pulses of 
 life. 
 
 At the end of that time, he turned to read the 
 speaking question in the Dean's face. 
 
 "No response," he said simply. "I thought 
 I could force a rally. No vitality left," he ex- 
 plained. "An hour, perhaps," he pronounced. 
 "He will not speak." 
 
 The two men stood looking down into the 
 heavy, discolored face on the pillow.
 
 372 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 A faint shiver ran through the inert body. A 
 long, sighing breath came slowly from the lungs. 
 John Sargent opened his eyes. 
 
 The doctor turned swiftly to the priest. "I 
 would not have thought it," he said. 
 
 John Sargent's eyes roved vaguely over the 
 two men and past them, refusing to come to fo- 
 cus. Then, as if at a click, the mind took its 
 grip, the eyes slipped into line, and John Sar- 
 gent, a conscious, clear-headed man, looked up, 
 first at the priest, then at the doctor. 
 
 John Sargent had accomplished most of the 
 things of his life by doing the unexpected. He 
 was still keeping true to his habits. 
 
 For a little time he made no attempt to speak 
 and seemed to pay little attention to the two men 
 standing over him. His mind was working back 
 and forth over the gap through which it had just 
 come, snatching up the broken ends of things, so 
 that he could see where he was and why and 
 what next. * 
 
 It took some time, but in the end he seemed 
 to have found out all the things, or nearly all, 
 that he needed to know. He made no attempt 
 to move. He seemed to know that his time and 
 his strength were severely limited. He did not 
 intend to waste any of either. 
 
 "How long?" he asked the doctor bluntly. 
 
 The doctor put his forefinger lightly on the 
 stiffening artery just near the hinge of the jaw.
 
 THE LONG ROAD 373 
 
 "One hour," he answered simply. "I cannot 
 promise " 
 
 "Plenty," said Sargent quietly. Then: "You 
 have done everything?" 
 
 The doctor nodded his head slowly. 
 
 "Then, I would like to talk to this- my friend 
 here." 
 
 Again the doctor nodded and walked quietly 
 to the door. If he had any wonder or any com- 
 ment, he kept it strictly to himself. 
 
 "Where is Loyd?" John Sargent asked, as the 
 door closed. 
 
 "Out through the mill," said the Dean, "clear- 
 ing up things." 
 
 "Um. He did the trick at last. Wonder is 
 that he didn't get around to it long ago. Still- 
 still, he might have waited. I would have done 
 it for him another way." 
 
 What was this? The Dean was not sure that 
 Sargent's mind was entirely clear. But he said 
 nothing, and set himself to catch every shade of 
 meaning from the man's words. 
 
 "But no." Sargent went on slowly and re- 
 flectively. "I suppose it had to come just the 
 way it did. 
 
 "Did Loyd do this to me?" 
 
 "Thank God! No." The Dean assured him. 
 "Twice he lifted his hand. I saw it. But he 
 could not he could not harm you. God was 
 before him."
 
 374 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "I'm glad," said Sargent quietly. "I've never 
 been able to keep from liking that fellow. If 
 if the One you speak of had only given me a 
 son like him! But what's the use? I don't 
 know. I don't know. 
 
 "He's got control of everything?" he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Everything." 
 
 "What will you do?" 
 
 So far, the Dean had not thought of what he 
 might do. Now Sargent's matter-of-fact as- 
 sumption that he was the one to do something 
 brought the Dean face to face with his problem. 
 What should he do ? What could he do? 
 
 Jim Loyd was walking at large, in defiance of 
 the power of the State. The Dean knew that 
 most of the men of his congregation were organ- 
 ized in open rebellion against the law. They had 
 tasted their own power. They had drunk the 
 strong, maddening wine of successful lawless- 
 ness. They had seen their dead. They would 
 not, could not, go back now. Before to-morrow 
 night soldiers, thousands of them, would be on 
 their way to Milton. 
 
 As his mind went leaping over the possibilities, 
 the answer came in a flash. Without hesitation, 
 he gave it as it came: 
 
 "I will get Governor Fuller to come here to- 
 morrow morning, himself, alone." 
 
 Sargent took the answer and turned it over
 
 THE LONG ROAD 375 
 
 rapidly, fitting it to every angle of the case. 
 Shortly, he said: 
 
 "I was right. I always said you were the wis- 
 est and shrewdest man I ever knew. 
 
 "It will work," he continued. "Nothing else 
 would. The men would fight five regiments. 
 With the Governor, alone, they will talk. You 
 are right." 
 
 He settled himself slightly on the pillow, as 
 though he had settled something and was thereby 
 relieved. 
 
 He lay for a while apparently sunk in deep 
 thought. Then looking up sharply at the Dean, 
 he said impressively: 
 
 "Tell the Governor tell the Governor to 
 leave Loyd alone until my will is read. Tell 
 him, from me, to leave things just as they are 
 and keep his soldiers away until my will is read. 
 
 "This is Wednesday," he began again. "I 
 shall be buried on Friday my secretary has all 
 instructions there is nobody else. They will 
 read my will Friday afternoon. Until then, tell 
 the Governor to hold his hands off and leave 
 everything just as it is." 
 
 The Dean did not understand what was in Sar- 
 gent's mind, but he answered promptly: 
 
 "He will do as you say." 
 
 "No," said Sargent with a flash of his old, grim 
 manner, "he will not do as I say. But he will 
 do what you advise."
 
 are THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Then, I will vouch that he will do what you 
 wish," said the Dean gravely. 
 
 Sargent was silent a moment. Then he said: 
 
 "I wish you would send Loyd to me. And 
 that Gaylor girl, I want to see her, too. I want 
 to see them both together." 
 
 The Dean knew that he was dismissed. But 
 he was loath to go without having said his word 
 of human kindness and understanding. He was 
 saying good-bye to John Sargent forever, and it 
 was not easy to find the right word. 
 
 Finally he said simply and easily: 
 
 "Mr. Sargent, you are going the long way to- 
 night. I am an old man : I go that way pres- 
 ently. I would like to have a word of me go 
 there ahead of me. What word will you carry 
 concerning James Driscoll?" 
 
 Sargent looked gravely up into his face for a 
 long time. He understood, better than the Dean 
 had been able to put it into words, the man-to- 
 man kindness, the forgiveness, the faith, which 
 the old priest was trying to convey to him. 
 
 "If there is Anybody there to listen, I will 
 say," he said, "that I knew one man who believed 
 in God. It's about all I'd be able to say, I 
 guess," he added in a queer, rueful manner. 
 
 "That was not what you wanted me to say, I 
 know, Father," he said again. "I never could 
 say it the right thing. I can't now. Only: 
 Thank you. And, good-bye." 
 
 His nerveless hand stirred a little, trying to
 
 THE LONG ROAD 377 
 
 rise to the Dean's. The Dean took the hand in 
 his own big, capable one, and gave the directions 
 of the Road. 
 
 "The way is long, sir. But God Almighty is 
 at the end of all. Believe me, He is there. If 
 ever in all your life you knew man or woman 
 whom you could trust with everything, with your 
 all, then trust Him now. Keep your face to the 
 light. And- God be good to youl" he said in 
 simple reverence. 
 
 He went out to find Loyd. Before sending 
 him to bring Nonie Gaylor, he told Loyd what 
 he had promised Sargent that the Governor 
 should come to Milton the next day, and that 
 nothing should be changed until Sargent's will 
 could be read. 
 
 "He is a dying man, Jimmie. I believe he 
 has tried to put things right. Maybe God is 
 ready to show us a way out of all this. I do not 
 know what Sargent means, but I pray, and hope, 
 that it will turn out right. You will do your 
 part, I know." 
 
 Loyd, shaken and nearly broken by the things 
 through which he had gone, said thickly: 
 
 "Whatever you tell me, Dean. If you say the 
 word, I'll I'll walk back into jail!" 
 
 "No." The Dean was prompt and decided 
 in his negative. "That would not do. It would 
 not be safe. Just now, you are the law and the 
 authority of this town. It is no time to let things 
 slip. When the Governor comes, deal with him
 
 378 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 direct. Now, call central and tell them to let me 
 have the Albany wire for a half hour. Then 
 bring Nome Gaylor. Mr. Sargent wants to talk 
 to both of you." 
 
 When he had gotten his message through to 
 Albany, the Dean hurried back to the church to 
 help with the Christmas Eve confessions. 
 
 Doctor Hamble, going back into the office, 
 asked Sargent if he would care to be moved any- 
 where to his own house, or to the hospital. 
 
 "No," said Sargent, "this is my house. I live 
 here. I die here." Then, after a little pause: 
 "You were not far wrong, Doctor about the 
 time. An hour is short, isn't it. Still, I've often 
 done a lot of things in an hour. 
 
 "I have to see two people now. I hope they'll 
 be along soon. I always hated to be cut short. 
 I want to ask them some questions certain in- 
 formation I must have, for use on my travels." 
 
 The doctor was not sure that Sargent was 
 quite rational, but when Loyd and Nonie Gay- 
 lor came to the door he admitted them without 
 protest. Knowing the things that had happened 
 in Milton during the last three months, he ac- 
 knowledged that John Sargent, in his hour, 
 might well have some things to say to these two. 
 
 Nonie Gaylor went quietly, as a matter of 
 course, to the head of the cot, and, kneeling 
 lightly, began to smooth the pillow. 
 
 Sargent looked curiously at her for a moment.
 
 THE LONG ROAD 379 
 
 Then he turned to Loyd, who stood helplessly 
 looking down at him. 
 
 "Loyd," he said suddenly, "do you remember 
 the day you told me I would die of fright, fright- 
 ened to death?" 
 
 Loyd, unable to speak, nodded dumbly. 
 
 "You were wrong. I wasn't afraid to-night. 
 And yet, you were right, too. I did get a fright 
 once. 
 
 "I was in Dean Driscoll's house one night. 
 He was talking to me. He was just telling me 
 what Cain said to God when he was convicted of 
 the murder of Abel. 
 
 "I've read that place a lot of times since. Do 
 you remember what he said?" 
 
 Loyd stood silent, hardly hearing what was be- 
 ing said. Nonie Gaylor, instinct warning her of 
 what was coming, was weeping quietly. Sargent 
 looked at her an instant, and went on : 
 
 "He said, 'Every man's hand against me 
 every man that finds me will kill me.' Just then 
 I heard a shot. It was the shot that killed Harry 
 Loyd." 
 
 A low, stifled sob broke through Nonie Gay- 
 lor's lips. 
 
 Sargent stopped, listened, then took up his 
 story again: 
 
 "I went down the street. The news was just 
 coming up the street, that young Loyd had been 
 killed. But that was not what I heard. All
 
 380 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 that I could hear was the cry that Cain heard 
 everywhere. It was the cry, the whine coming 
 up the street from the throats of a thousand men. 
 The cry, it seemed, of all the men in the world 
 in full pack whining to kill, to kill, to kill me, 
 with their hands, with their hands ! 
 
 "I ran. I ran to Benson. That was twelve 
 miles. I ran all the way. It was that run that 
 caught my heart to-night as you came up those 
 stairs. I knew it. So you were right, too. 
 
 "I was I am frightened to death." 
 
 He stopped, seeming to lose his hold upon 
 things. But he caught himself and spoke briskly 
 again. 
 
 "Now, I didn't bring you two here to show you 
 a lesson of poetic justice. That was just a way 
 things seem to have of happening in this world. 
 
 "I just wanted to ask you both a question or 
 two. It was something that I needed to know 
 before I go where I am going. 
 
 "Jim Loyd," he said, speaking loudly and 
 clearly, "I took your brother's life, indirectly, of 
 course. At least I was the cause. I tried to 
 ruin your life. Finally I sent you on your way 
 to prison. Now, the question: What do you 
 feel toward me? Is it a foolish question? No. 
 It is not. I need to know the answer. Where I 
 am going I have to know." 
 
 Loyd was stunned. His first thought, that 
 Sargent was delirious, was driven away by the 
 imperious, calm assertion of the man's need. He
 
 THE LONG ROAD 381 
 
 had to know. He must know. There was no 
 escaping the question that burned in the man's 
 eyes. Loyd did his best. Nothing but the 
 naked truth would serve those eyes. 
 
 "Three different times," he said simply, "I 
 tried to kill you tried to make my hands kill 
 you. But, as God forgives me! if I could save 
 you from pain now, or where you go, I'd give my 
 hand to do it." 
 
 The burning eyes searched his face for a mo- 
 ment and, convinced, turned away. 
 
 "Nonie Gaylor," he demanded, "what do you 
 say? They say a woman never forgives. I took 
 love and the best of life from you. Do you dare 
 say that you forgive?" 
 
 "God gave me my love," she answered stead- 
 ily, "and God took my love away from my sight. 
 If I could smooth your way where you are go- 
 ing I would do it at any, any cost." 
 
 John Sargent heard her crying softly. 
 
 He lay quiet, reflecting on this thing. They 
 told the truth, these two. He had wronged them 
 both, irreparably. And they were ready to give 
 him back kindness, even sacrifice. 
 
 Now, why? Ah! That was the other ques- 
 tion. He had almost forgotten to ask it. 
 Strange that he should have come so near for- 
 getting it. For it was the really important ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Yes, that was the question why? 
 
 He must ask it quickly. He must have the
 
 382 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 answer. All would be clear if he could but have 
 that answer. 
 
 He must rouse himself. He must raise his 
 head and put that question clearly ! 
 
 Nonie Gaylor saw the struggle coming. She 
 slipped her arm under the pillow, so that his head 
 was raised a little. 
 
 Twice his lips formed the word, and no sound 
 came. The third time he spoke it strong and 
 clear : 
 
 Nonie Gaylor answered softly at his ear: 
 
 "Because God and love is all there is in the 
 world!" 
 
 Apparently, John Sargent heard. He eased 
 back gently on the pillow dead. 
 
 Loyd fell quickly to his knees. And these 
 two, whom John Sargent had once wondered at 
 for praying, prayed now, for him. 
 
 After a little, Loyd rose and went to the door. 
 
 Nonie Gaylor rose and put a little handker- 
 chief over the face on the pillow. Then she 
 crossed softly over to the window. The snow 
 was falling gently in great, leafy flakes. Al- 
 ready the hills were white. 
 
 It would not be a green Christmas, after all. 
 
 John Sargent was a thing of the past. The 
 heavy snow that had begun falling just as he was 
 setting out upon the "long road" was already
 
 THE LONG ROAD 383 
 
 drifting above his body. Of him there remained, 
 above ground, three things : His mill which lay 
 stretched idle and waiting between the river and 
 the River Road, guarded by Jim Loyd's men; 
 his will which lay now upon a broad oak table in 
 the library of his big, neglected Milton home; 
 his son who was somewhere in Europe. 
 
 A great lawyer had come this morning from 
 New York, to attend the funeral of John Sar- 
 gent and to bring the will. With the will, he had 
 brought a memorandum of instructions in which 
 John Sargent had named the various persons 
 who should be present at the reading of the will. 
 
 These persons named were now seated in the 
 old library, waiting for the lawyer to begin. 
 They were : 
 
 Dean Driscoll, Nathan Oppenheim, George 
 Lowther, secretary and sales manager of the Mil- 
 ton Machinery Company, James Loyd, John 
 Strekno, William Flinn, Norah Gaylor. With 
 them sat the Governor of the State, Gordon 
 Fuller. 
 
 Yesterday, Christmas, the Governor had 
 stepped off the eleven o'clock train from Albany 
 and walked quietly up through Milton. What 
 he saw was a town so quiet that it seemed to have 
 been hushed by some strong will brooding over 
 it. Not a single uniformed policeman was to be 
 seen. Two or three sturdy men walked quietly 
 back and forth on each block of State Street.
 
 384 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 With the exception of these, there were hardly 
 any men to be seen. The women who were 
 abroad went swiftly about their errands. 
 
 Just ahead of the Governor, two men stopped 
 on the sidewalk to argue about something. The 
 Governor stood beside them, to hear what it was 
 about. One of the patrolling men stepped up to 
 the three and, touching the Governor lightly on 
 the arm, curtly ordered the three to move on. 
 They did so. 
 
 "What did that mean?" the Governor asked 
 one of the two men, when all three had gone a 
 little way. 
 
 "When did you get into town?" the man re- 
 turned. Then, seeing that the Governor did not 
 really know what it was all about, the man ex- 
 plained : 
 
 "Loyd's orders." 
 
 The Governor walked on by himself. 
 
 Loyd's orders! he said to himself they 
 seemed to think that that explained everything! 
 I think I ought to know this man Loyd. I 
 might learn something from him. Any man that 
 can stand a town up on end like this, is worth 
 knowing. He's a governor! Not one of the 
 paper and tape kind, like me. 
 
 Without asking any further questions, he made 
 his way up through the town to Dean Driscoll's 
 house. 
 
 Rapidly and clearly the Dean showed him the 
 situation. He was confronted with an open re-
 
 THE LONG ROAD 385 
 
 volt against the authority of the State, vested in 
 his own person. 
 
 Then the Dean laid before him Sargent's re- 
 quest, that all things remain as they were until 
 his will had been read. 
 
 "I will see Loyd first," said the Governor. 
 "Will he come here?" 
 
 Loyd came. 
 
 The Governor threatened him with the armed 
 forces of the whole State. Loyd replied that he 
 had expected all that from the beginning. The 
 Governor offered him a pardon for his own crime, 
 if he would go back to jail and drop the busi- 
 ness which he had undertaken. Loyd answered 
 that he had tried his own case and had found 
 himself not guilty. Therefore there was no need 
 of pardon. 
 
 The Governor thought a while. 
 
 "We will listen to the dead man," he said 
 finally. 
 
 Now they were listening to the dead man. 
 Before coming to the will, the great lawyer 
 picked up from the table a smaller paper. From 
 it he read a sworn and witnessed statement by 
 the late John Sargent, setting forth that he, John 
 Sargent, had given the order, by telephone from 
 the village of Benson, for the explosion which 
 wrecked the stock house of the Milton Machinery 
 plant on the morning of September fifth. 
 
 This was the crime of which Jim Loyd had 
 been convicted.
 
 386 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 The eyes of the room turned to Loyd. But 
 Loyd was not thinking of the change which this 
 statement made in his position. He was think- 
 ing of John Sargent. The other night, when he 
 was dying, John Sargent knew that he had done 
 this act of justice. But, he had chosen to go off 
 surlily, into the dark, leaving Loyd to think the 
 worst of him. Why had he riot spoken then? 
 Well, Sargent had always been that way. 
 
 He had always kept his worst side out. 
 
 There was a general stir in the room. The 
 Governor rose and came over to take Loyd's 
 hand. 
 
 "I am very glad it has come out this way, 
 Loyd," said the Governor. "I was convinced 
 that you were innocent, from the moment he told 
 me of the thing that day in my office. I would 
 have given you a pardon the moment you were 
 sentenced. It was a bad business." 
 
 "Mr. Sargent was not to blame," said Loyd, 
 looking the Governor levelly in the eyes. 
 
 The Governor did not understand. 
 
 "Mr. Sargent," Loyd went on, "found a sys- 
 tem and used it. That was all. He did not 
 make the system. He was a part of it, himself. 
 The system, the conditions of things, the State, 
 the people of the State, the officials of the State : 
 They are all to blame. The trouble is not that 
 men do those things, the trouble is that they can 
 do those things." 
 
 It was not altogether a pleasant return of the
 
 THE LONG ROAD 387 
 
 Governor's well-meant heartiness, but the Gov- 
 ernor met it frankly. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "we are all to blame. We all 
 admit carelessness and indifference and social in- 
 justice. But," he added, "we are not all able to 
 lead armies, to right the wrongs." 
 
 The lawyer was now going on with the will. 
 
 After the preamble, the will disposed of small 
 individual bequests to old servants and depend- 
 ents. There was a thoroughgoing completeness 
 about the way in which John Sargent arranged 
 these ; giving what was enough to each, and noth- 
 ing more than enough, for prudent, frugal living, 
 that showed that John Sargent had considered 
 each individual separately and with studied care. 
 
 Then there were certain charities, favorites of 
 his mother, to which John Sargent had regularly 
 contributed for years. To these various causes 
 he had left sums governed in amount, not by their 
 need or their comparative usefulness or effective- 
 ness for good. He had dealt with them solely 
 on the basis of the estimation which his mother 
 had held of them many years ago. To himself, 
 or as channels of help to the world's needy and 
 suffering, those charities had never meant any- 
 thing. He had always found the scrap heap so 
 near and such a good investment, that he believed 
 it a waste of the world's good time and energy to 
 try to save the weak things or the useless things. 
 
 Concerning Milton Sargent, the son of John 
 Sargent, the will explained that a certain sum
 
 388 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 had already been set aside, invested in bonds that 
 could not fail to give their stated returns, for his 
 support during life. This arrangement had al- 
 ready been perfected. Properly it had nothing 
 to do with this present document. 
 
 But John Sargent had desired to leave a state- 
 ment of this case. He had not cut his son off 
 from participation in the body of his estate 
 through any bitterness or malice. There was no 
 word of blame for the son. John Sargent stated 
 simply that he did not judge his son competent 
 to handle the large responsibility of money and 
 power. It would not conduce to his son's wel- 
 fare or happiness. There was no complaint. 
 John Sargent stated a bald fact. And in that 
 simple statement he disposed of the bitter disap- 
 pointment of his life. 
 
 Then came the main clause of the will. 
 
 "My estate," it is better to quote "consist- 
 ing of twenty-two thousand shares of the Milton 
 Machinery Company's stock, I leave in trust to 
 all and several employees of the Milton Machin- 
 ery Company who were continuously in the em- 
 ploy of said company during the five years next 
 previous to the third day of May of this calendar 
 year. I direct and hereby name Nathan Oppen- 
 heim of New York, Reverend James Driscoll, 
 George Lowther, John Strekno, William Flinn, 
 James Loyd, Norah Gaylor, all of Milton, to be 
 and act as trustees for the herein described bene- 
 ficiaries. The said trustees shall form a corpora-
 
 THE LONG ROAD 389 
 
 tion to hold and manage the stock herein be- 
 queathed to the described beneficiaries. They 
 will be in actual possession of nine-tenths of all 
 the shares of the Milton Machinery Company. 
 It will therefore be incumbent upon the said trus- 
 tees, as representing the majority stockholders, 
 to choose and appoint the officers of the Milton 
 Machinery Company and to govern the affairs 
 of that company. 
 
 "I likewise devise that each and every em- 
 ployee, other than those specified above, shall, 
 when he or she shall have completed five years 
 continuous employment with said company, be- 
 come automatically a participant in the benefits 
 of this instrument and a co-owner of the shares 
 before named. (The months during the Sum- 
 mer and Fall of the present year, when all work 
 was suspended in Milton shall be reckoned as em- 
 ployment. ) 
 
 "The shares shall be apportioned and owned 
 by the employees and the profits therefrom 
 divided in a scale mathematically based upon the 
 comparative wages earned by the employees. 
 
 "I hereby name and request Nathan Oppen- 
 heim and the Reverend James Driscoll herein- 
 before mentioned to act as executors of this, my 
 last will and testament." 
 
 This was the end of the will proper. But 
 John Sargent had more to say. Beneath his sig- 
 nature and that of the witnesses, he had ap- 
 pended his own statement in his own way. It
 
 390 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 was evident that while forming the main portion 
 of the will he had been hampered by the stunting 
 phraseology of the lawyer. 
 
 Now he was free to tell the world just what he 
 thought. Probably he did not remember just 
 how little the world cared about what he thought 
 and said, or why. Perhaps he did not care. It 
 was his word. It was John Sargent, as he had 
 lived and thought, and as he expected to die. 
 
 "I am not a philanthropist," he had written. 
 "I am not a repentant pirate of industry, trying 
 to snivel into the good memory of men. I have 
 no idea that what I have just done will accom- 
 plish any real good either for the world or for 
 those who receive benefits from my will. 
 
 "I have not space here to enumerate all the rea- 
 sons which prompted me to doing what I have 
 done. No man is ever sure just why he does any 
 particular thing. 
 
 "Three months ago I would have said, and be- 
 lieved, that a man who did a thing such as I have 
 done, would, in effect, be an enemy to society. I 
 would have said : The man had a fortune ; a for- 
 tune is a sacred thing. A fortune is a thing that 
 by its very nature is bound to make another for- 
 tune. It is bound to go on adding to the wealth 
 of the world by adding to itself. Men who have 
 money are bound to go on making more money 
 and keeping it together, for only by these men 
 making money and keeping it together is the 
 wealth and prosperity of the world increased.
 
 THE LONG ROAD 391 
 
 "Men who have money and the ability to make 
 money I said are in a class by themselves. 
 They have upon them the burden of making this 
 world rich and keeping it rich. And this is a task 
 that is every day getting harder and harder. 
 The unfit, the unready, the unwilling are every 
 day increasing out of all proportion. They are 
 not content to eat the share of the world's 
 wealth day by day, as it is provided for them. 
 No. They want to come into the storehouse and 
 eat up in one gorge what it has taken years to 
 gather. 
 
 "Men of wealth, men with the ability to make 
 and store up, must stand together. Wealth 
 must stand by wealth. We must keep back the 
 crowd from the storehouse. Otherwise they will 
 come in and glut themselves in one meal and 
 then the world will starve to death. We are the 
 guardians, the keepers, the makers and the keep- 
 ers. We have a duty to the world and to each 
 other, we men of wealth. We must go on pro- 
 ducing, producing so that the world may eat. 
 We must go on keeping, keeping so that we will 
 have the power to go on producing. If we do 
 not produce, the world starves. If we do not 
 keep, we cannot go on producing more the 
 more that is always being demanded. 
 
 "We must stand and fight against the glut- 
 tony of the world. If allowed to, it would eat 
 in a day all that we can produce in a year. So- 
 cial unrest, the ever-whetted appetite of the
 
 392 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 many, wanting to eat more than there is for them 
 to eat, is crowding us harder and harder. We 
 must stand back to back, shoulder to shoulder, 
 or we shall be pulled down. 
 
 "Think of it!" The lawyer unconsciously fell 
 into the tones of the dead man with whom he 
 had long been intimate. The effect was un- 
 canny. The lawyer himself felt it, and changed 
 his voice carefully as he began again. 
 
 "Think of it! For all the years of my man- 
 hood, thirty years and more, I believed that! I 
 was a fool, of course. But I believed it. I be- 
 lieved that every rich man belonged to a class of 
 rich men. I believed that they were loyal to each 
 other and to their class. I was proud to be of 
 the class. I believed that we all stood together, 
 especially in this country, to hold back the on- 
 coming rush of Socialism and Anarchy and the 
 short-sighted greed of the non-producing many. 
 
 "Then I got my lesson. 
 
 "I was in trouble. My employees had fought 
 me to a standstill. I saw ruin. On top of that 
 came the Governor of the State, sworn to protect 
 me while I produced wealth for the State; he 
 came and pushed me out of my own mill. I was 
 helpless. I needed help. I went to those who 
 could and, of course, would help me to my fel- 
 low rich men. What did they do? 
 
 "They tried to throw me out to the pack! 
 
 "I am putting my fortune back where, some 
 say, it originally came from. They say it came
 
 THE LONG ROAD 393 
 
 from the hands of those who have worked for me. 
 They lie. My fortune came out of my father's 
 brain and mine. 
 
 "And, why? 
 
 "I am doing this, not because I feel I ought to 
 do it, not because it will do good, but because it 
 will be an everlasting scare and nightmare to all 
 rich men. 
 
 "I have found that there is no such thing as 
 class responsibility or loyalty among rich men. 
 But by this I will teach all rich men that it would 
 not be difficult to put an end to them all. 
 Wherever two of them talk together, they will 
 revile John Sargent because he showed Social- 
 ism how, and how easily, it might be done. 
 
 "But I am not doing this for Socialism. It 
 will not advance the cause of that goose-killing 
 fraud. 
 
 "For years I have heard that the profits of my 
 mill were not divided. They were not divided. 
 They were kept together. And they were put 
 back into the mill to make it produce more and 
 more, that the people might eat, and go on eat- 
 ing. 
 
 "The profits will not be divided now. There 
 will be no profits. Those profits were sweated 
 out of my own brain and energy. 
 
 "Finally. If any of those to whom I am giv- 
 ing my fortune say that it was theirs by right, 
 that I took it from their work and kept it from 
 them all these years; then, I challenge them.
 
 394 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 "Let them show twenty years from now how 
 many of them have anything of what I have 
 given them! 
 
 "Twenty years ago, they had nothing. 
 Twenty years from now, most of them will have 
 nothing. 
 
 "I am going now to Milton, to make my last 
 fight, alone. 
 
 "If I beat all my enemies completely, abso- 
 lutely ; then I shall come back here and burn this. 
 If I die before I beat them all, then this shall 
 stand as it is written." 
 
 As the lawyer finished reading, the party rose. 
 Bewilderment was the only feeling that was 
 written on their faces with any clearness. When 
 a man who does not understand himself, and who, 
 in addition to that, deliberately puts the worst 
 side out, tries to reveal himself, the result is 
 bound to be confusing. 
 
 The Governor asked the great lawyer: 
 
 "Is that will sound?" 
 
 "As sound as human, and legal, foresight can 
 make anything. I should say it is absolutely un- 
 assailable," was the answer. 
 
 "What can be done here, in the meantime, be- 
 fore it can go into effect, I mean?" 
 
 "The court can appoint the executors to hold 
 the property. That's the simplest way."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 TT was New Year's Day on the hills. A biting, 
 * freezing wind came sweeping down from 
 Orrin Mountain, down across the lesser uplands, 
 cleansing all things. It brushed the light snow 
 from the brows of the hillocks, leaving them bare 
 and bald, and carried it down on its breath, a 
 biting, bitter-sweet breath, to the valley. 
 
 A clear day, a cold day, a day when earth was 
 as clean as heaven; a day white and bright lay 
 like a new page for the New Year to begin upon. 
 
 It was a day to set forth illimitable promise. 
 All things might be done. All things were new. 
 All dead things were buried, covered; a clean, 
 sweet, new sheet was spread over all. 
 
 Now let all men begin anew! A new life, a 
 new heart, a new hope! 
 
 The diamond-dust snow-crystals in the air bit 
 into the nostrils and the throat. The breath of 
 the wind was death to everything that was un- 
 sound or unwholesome. But to healthy things 
 it was life. It was spirit. It was courage and 
 vigor. To the body, it was stamina and blood 
 and strength. To the soul, it was a restless, ir- 
 
 395
 
 396 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 repressible prompting for growth, for a bigger, 
 better life ; indeed, for a New Year. 
 
 Nonie Gaylor was alone on the hill in the Cath- 
 olic cemetery. She was half kneeling beside a 
 little evergreen, carefully trimming off the rusted 
 branches, so that it might be all fresh and green 
 and glad to the New Year. 
 
 She was talking to Harry Loyd. She was 
 sure that where Harry was he knew all about 
 things. But then, how could he know all about 
 things, just as they were, unless he heard them 
 from her? There were so many things, and lit- 
 tle meanings of things, that he could not possibly 
 get right except from her. 
 
 His grave lay just at the foot of the little ever- 
 green bush. But she was not thinking so much 
 of the grave. She was able to shut her eyes and 
 just feel that Harry was near and listening. 
 She told all her little things to the evergreen as 
 she worked lovingly among its branches. 
 
 Harry had to know all the things that had 
 been happening in Milton. How John Sargent 
 had arranged his Christmas presents. How 
 Harry's brother, big, fierce, dour Jim Loyd, had 
 taken Milton and all in it by the throat. How 
 he had tried, tried with his hands, to kill John 
 Sargent ; and how God would not let him. And 
 then how Jim Loyd and herself had knelt beside 
 John Sargent and sent him away to God with 
 a message for forgiveness. How they had all 
 stood on the brink of terror, and chance had come
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 397 
 
 staggering along on the arm of destiny and had 
 changed everything. How the New Year, the 
 new time, the new hope, had come for all of them. 
 
 Harry would want to know, from her, about it 
 all. Now she could tell him how much his going 
 had had to do with everything. She had not un- 
 derstood that before. And she had been very 
 near to blaming God. Now she knew better. 
 John Sargent had let her see how it had all 
 worked out from that night when she had given 
 Harry a good-night kiss and sent him whistling 
 down the road with a prayer breathed after him. 
 Now she could tell him how it had not been all in 
 vain. 
 
 How blythe and brave her Harry had been 
 that night, when they had found that they must 
 wait a long time for each other. And she had 
 been heart-sick and a little rebellious, because 
 they had to help others and wait for their own 
 happiness. How gaily he had said, "You're 
 worth waiting for, Nonie: And old John W. 
 Wait has nothing on me." 
 
 She fondled the boy's airy words over on her 
 lips, as she had done many times; and as she 
 would do so many, many times in the long roll 
 of the years to come. And then when she had 
 told him everything, even down to the last word 
 that John Sargent had growled at the world in 
 his will, she prepared to go. Giving the little 
 evergreen a final pat she said, half aloud : 
 
 "We'd have had to wait, anyway. Now we'll
 
 398 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 have to wait a little longer. You don't mind the 
 waiting, do you? And I it won't seem so long. 
 Tell me, Dear Heart, that it won't seem so very 
 long." 
 
 But the evergreen only shivered a little in the 
 North wind. 
 
 From the River Road a private road turned 
 off and ran in between the two cemeteries. On 
 the other side of it, stretching away up the far 
 hillside, lay the general cemetery of Milton. 
 
 As Nonie Gaylor stood up, a man was coming 
 up the private road. He was a big man with a 
 dark head and enormous, wide-spanning shoul- 
 ders, who walked slowly with his eyes down upon 
 the road beneath him. 
 
 It was Jim Loyd. She wondered. It was 
 not like him to be coming up here on a day like 
 this, or on any day. She supposed, of course, 
 that he was coming here, for the road led no- 
 where else. 
 
 But when he had come almost opposite her in 
 the road, he turned, and, climbing the stile on the 
 other side of the road, went into the other ceme- 
 tery. 
 
 In a moment she saw where he was going. 
 Across the road, almost opposite to where her 
 Harry lay, there stood an enormous, rough-cut, 
 stark boulder of dark granite. Old Milton Sar- 
 gent had seen it cut out of the heart of the hills. 
 His bones had now lain under it for many years.
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 399 
 
 Beside it was a new grave, showing up raw and 
 brown through the drifting snow. 
 
 At the foot of the new grave Jim Loyd 
 stopped and stood there, baring his black head 
 to the North wind. 
 
 Nome Gaylor watched him. He had not seen 
 her, but she did not feel that she was spying 
 upon him. She watched him frankly, and as she 
 watched she saw the lines of his face and his 
 great, rough figure soften, as though a galling 
 burden of years had suddenly been lifted from 
 him. And she understood. Through a rush of 
 choking tears, she half smiled a pale, sorrow- 
 bitten little smile, nevertheless, a smile, of under- 
 standing and mothering sympathy. Big Jim 
 Loyd was as foolish as she coming to say things 
 to the voiceless dead! 
 
 How far away now seems that time when she 
 had feared this big man with his burning eyes and 
 his grim, clamped jaw! 
 
 Now she began to understand how it was that 
 he could come and talk to John Sargent. There 
 had always been a sort of rough likeness between 
 the two men. She saw it now: The same dark 
 ruthlessness in the looks of both : The same un- 
 blinking way of fixing their eyes upon the thing 
 they wanted, and going forward to take that 
 thing, no matter what the cost: The same hard, 
 contemptuous scorn of the ways and opinions of 
 lesser men. Brothers in the mold they had been.
 
 400 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 She wondered if the leaders of men had always 
 to have those same tyrannical, hard-driving ways. 
 Were those the only ways in which men could be 
 ruled and handled? 
 
 And what a fight these two men would have 
 shown to the world if they had been put into it 
 with equal weapons. They would have split the 
 world between them. But, no, she remembered. 
 They would not do that. They would not have 
 divided anything, those two. They would have 
 fought until one had killed the other and had 
 taken all. 
 
 But, if they had been friends, standing to- 
 gether in some great cause ! 
 
 Or, if they had been father and son! 
 
 Then she remembered that John Sargent had 
 a son. Would idleness and money and the lure 
 of life have done the same things to Jim Loyd 
 had he been born to them that they had done to 
 the actual son of John Sargent? 
 
 Or would Jim Loyd, supposing that he had 
 been educated and trained to take John Sar- 
 gent's place in the world, have developed the 
 same grasping, self -centered hunger for wealth 
 and power that had made John Sargent what he 
 was? She did not know. 
 
 How strange it was that the world should have 
 so many jagged edges that would not fit together 
 in any place. Just as you had one little part 
 nicely arranged, you suddenly found that the 
 whole thing was wrong everywhere else.
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 401 
 
 Loyd lifted his head and, turning, saw her. 
 He came out to the road and crossed over to 
 where she was. 
 
 "Happy New Year, Nonie!" he said in a 
 strange, quiet voice. 
 
 "I hope so, Jim; for us all," she returned 
 thoughtfully. "I've just been telling Harry all 
 about everything." She had not the slightest 
 fear that he would wonder at her or fail to un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Loyd stood uncovered beside the tree that she 
 had trimmed and gazed at the whitened grave be- 
 neath it. 
 
 "It had to be so, I guess," he said, turning to 
 her. "I suppose there was no other way. It 
 had to be just so." 
 
 The Jim Loyd who spoke was a man differ- 
 ent, irrevocably different from the man that she 
 had known. His eyes were still steady. His 
 head was held as high as ever. He looked, per- 
 haps, stronger than ever. But it was a look of 
 tried and chastened strength, a strength that 
 knew that, after all, there was something that 
 could curb it, something that could conquer it in 
 the end. It was a strength the greatest of all 
 strength that bowed itself to the hand of God. 
 
 Unconsciously he had taken the thought 
 against which she had been rebelling a little she 
 could not see why God could not have arranged 
 a world in which there were fewer jagged edges 
 and he had accepted it without question. The
 
 402 
 
 Jim Loyd of old had never accepted anything 
 without question. 
 
 "It's all a challenge to us, Nonie," he said, 
 after they had taken their silent leave of the 
 dead. "He challenged us, and all the world will 
 challenge us, to make it a better New Year, to do 
 better than he did." 
 
 "Can we do it, Jim?" she asked, as they came 
 out into the road and started for home. "I 
 know that I can do a great deal for the women. 
 I am sure that I can save a lot of the hardship. 
 But can we do it? It will take money. And 
 was he right, when he said that there would be 
 no profits? Can that be so?" 
 
 "No." Loyd spoke simply, with the assur- 
 ance of one who has studied and who knows his 
 ground. "He was wrong in that. At first the 
 profits will not be as big as he has sometimes 
 made. We have to look for that. We'll have 
 to spend a lot of money, changing things. And 
 we'll have all the big interests against us from 
 the start. They'll spend money like water to 
 down us. Because Mr. Sargent did just what 
 he thought he would do. He threw an everlast- 
 ing scare into all the big men who are making 
 money out of labor. They will never forgive 
 him. And they'll never let up on us. 
 
 "All the big iron and steel men are swearing 
 agreements among themselves this minute not 
 to sell us materials. But it's just as he said. 
 Rich men can't hold together long. Their
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 403 
 
 money, and the fear that they'll lose money won't 
 let them. Some one of them will always sneak 
 out of the agreement and sell to us. And he 
 won't do it for the sake of the money either, 
 that's the funny part of it. He'll do it because 
 he's afraid some sworn brother of his may beat 
 him to it." 
 
 "And are we all Socialists now, Jim?" the girl 
 asked. " Somebody said we were." 
 
 "Socialists?" Loyd looked down at her, as 
 though the word were new to him. "Nobody's 
 a Socialist when he's got what he wants." 
 
 The girl recognized the old Loyd in the words. 
 
 "No. That ain't right, either." He caught 
 himself up sharply, and Nonie Gaylor remem- 
 bered that she had never before heard this man 
 correct himself. "That ain't fair: Socialism 
 ain't all just an appetite and nothing else. 
 
 "But ' He started to make it clear, but 
 found that he did not have the words. 
 
 "I don't know," he began again. "But I 
 think it's this way: 
 
 "Everybody in the world is a Socialist, if you'd 
 let him have his own brand of it." 
 
 They had come now to the River Road, and 
 both instinctively turned back to look up the hill. 
 
 It was Loyd who spoke : 
 
 "It all had to be had to be, I suppose. But 
 I don't know. I'd I'd like to able to wish 
 away some of it." 
 
 Aiid she knew some of the things which had
 
 404 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 been done had left a mark on Jim Loyd which 
 
 he would carry forever. 
 
 She turned quietly toward home, saying: 
 "Our business now is to live and work: The 
 
 rest is already in God's hands. He will look to 
 
 it." 
 
 They went down the River Road, to begin the 
 
 New Year, the new time of life, and work, and 
 
 service for men and women. 
 
 "You're a very busy man, I'll not stop to-day, 
 I'm on my way to the train now," said Father 
 Lynch, as he poked his head unannounced into 
 the Dean's study where the latter sat writing a 
 letter. The Dean rose and hurried to place the 
 favored chair for his friend. 
 
 Because Father Lynch had come for what he 
 knew would be an uncommonly interesting ses- 
 sion of the monthly court which he held over the 
 Dean and the Dean's doings from which horses 
 could not have dragged him away, it took an 
 unusual amount of insistence, and some physical 
 force, to get him relieved of his coat and seated. 
 Even then, he continued to protest that from 
 all he heard the Dean was too busy, too deeply 
 engrossed in large affairs, to be interrupted. 
 
 Finally, however, he settled down and opened 
 his court. Without preface he made his charge. 
 
 "So you have gone over to the tents of Israel!" 
 he said, eyeing the Dean sternly. 
 
 "A man like you," he continued, giving the
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 405 
 
 Dean no time to answer, "that could never keep 
 two dollars of your own together, going into 
 dealings at your time o' life with a a Jew!" 
 
 "Oh," said the Dean, catching the drift of the 
 argument, "you mean the business of Mr. Sar- 
 gent's will. Well, you see, Father Patrick, 
 there isn't much for the executors to do. Mr. 
 Sargent provided for everything so thoroughly 
 that our work is purely mechanical. 
 
 "Seriously, though," the Dean went on to ex- 
 plain, "the selection of Mr. Oppenheim showed 
 remarkable foresight and insight on the part of 
 Mr. Sargent. Mr. Oppenheim is a man of great 
 wealth, with his fortune so placed that he is, so 
 far as is possible, independent of all the combina- 
 tions of great interests. There is no wiser or 
 shrewder man in all America. And he is a He- 
 brew. This last means that he is of a race of 
 people in whom respect for the wishes of the dead 
 is one of their most indelible traits. No people 
 in the world, perhaps, is so faithful to obligations 
 placed upon it by death than is the Hebrew race. 
 
 "As you know, Father, John Sargent's for- 
 tune, the Milton Machinery Company, was not 
 merely a manufacturing plant. It was a great 
 financial institution, with its own banks and its 
 trolley franchises and its real estate here. The 
 financing of such an institution, with the enor- 
 mous credits that it must carry, requires the 
 highest order of money genius. Without the 
 strength and counsel of such a man as Oppen-
 
 406 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 heim we should be helpless. By securing a man 
 such as Oppenheim and securing him by an 
 inviolable and sacred obligation Mr. Sargent 
 has left us in a position where we need fear noth- 
 ing. To me, it is the very strongest proof that 
 John Sargent, in spite of all, really meant to do 
 a great and lasting thing with his money." 
 
 "Dean," said Father Lynch accusingly, "I am 
 not being told the facts! It is inconsistent; all 
 of it!" He had the air of a judge the dignity 
 of whose court is being trifled with. 
 
 "John Sargent wrote that will three months 
 ago," he reviewed severely. "He came back here 
 and took back his mill from the Governor on the 
 strength of a promise that he made to the Gover- 
 nor. He intended to break that promise. He 
 began to run his mill like a fiend. You'd think 
 his main object was to crush and maim as many 
 men as he could. All this I have on your word. 
 
 "He used the machinery of the county to drive 
 an innocent man to State's prison. He had you 
 held up and pilloried in open court before the 
 country. On Christmas Eve, itself, he turned 
 out his old hands that had made his fortune, men 
 and women, to starve through the winter. With 
 his own hand he killed the little man. 
 
 "And all that time there was lying in his desk 
 this will. A will that puts your Jim Loyd in 
 a place of honor his particular enemy! He 
 gives his fortune to the people he was trying to
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 407 
 
 kill and starve. He leaves you, another enemy, 
 in the place of nearest friend. 
 
 "Do you expect any sane man to believe all 
 this! It's out of all reason, I tell you, Dean. 
 No man, no madman, could be so inconsistent! 
 You have not told me all," he charged flatly. 
 
 The Dean was silent for a moment. What 
 was there to say? Father Lynch was in the 
 right. Nothing could explain the contradiction 
 between the things that John Sargent had done 
 in those last months, and the will which had all 
 that time lain in his desk. He himself had 
 known the man. He had stood beside him and 
 talked with him when he was dying, but he was 
 as far from understanding as Father Lynch 
 could be. 
 
 Finally he said gravely : 
 
 "You are right, Father Patrick, there is one 
 thing that you were not shown : One thing that 
 could not be brought into court. Without that, 
 all the rest is wrong and contradictory and un- 
 believable. It is, the heart of the man. 
 
 "He took that with him to show it to 
 Almighty God. He trusted no man to see it." 
 
 This was ground on which Father Lynch had 
 no jurisdiction over the Dean. They had come 
 to the confines of the Kingdom of God, wherein, 
 Father Lynch had always said, the Dean's 
 proper parish lay. 
 
 The two friends sat a while in silence. Years
 
 408 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 of unbroken, unstrained friendship lay back of 
 them and between them. Their understandings 
 went beyond the range of clumsy words. 
 
 "I do not understand," said the Dean, break- 
 ing the pause. "The heart of a man is a won- 
 derful and many folded thing. There are places 
 in it that the man himself has never explored, 
 that he knows nothing about. The things that 
 a man is saying or doing or thinking, even, have 
 little to do with what is or may be in his heart. 
 
 "I only know this : John Sargent saw every- 
 where 'Every man's hand against him/ His 
 men fought him. The Governor was against 
 him. His own friends tried to ruin him. He 
 struck out, viciously, madly, at every one that 
 fought him. He was set upon bringing his ene- 
 mies to their knees. He wanted to kill or crush 
 them all. He fought as a man fights who has 
 no hope in this life or in another if you and I 
 can understand what such a man feels. He 
 fought on, without mercy and without reason. 
 
 "It may be that his will and the statement that 
 went with it told the whole story. It may be that, 
 of all his enemies as he conceived them he 
 hated most the rich friends who betrayed him. 
 It may be, as he said, that he gave his fortune to 
 his workmen merely to put into their hands a 
 weapon against all rich men. It may be that he 
 simply wished to make his men carry on his own 
 undying grudge against the men of his own class.
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 409 
 
 He seemed to think that this was his reason. 
 Probably it was, as far as he knew his own heart. 
 But this was not all. No, I am certain that 
 there was more. 
 
 "He was fighting for his life, we have to re- 
 member that. You and I know nothing about 
 what that means to a man like him. There is 
 nothing on this earth that could mean to us what 
 money and power and success meant to him. 
 We have no way to measure the things that he 
 did and felt. 
 
 "If he had been able to beat all his enemies in 
 his own way, he would not have done what he 
 did. 
 
 "If he had been granted a son after his own 
 kind, he would not have done what he did. 
 
 "If he stopped to think of reasons, these are 
 some of the reasons. 
 
 "But, beneath all these things, I believe John 
 Sargent was in his heart a workingman. He 
 thought he belonged to the class of rich men, the 
 natural masters of men. He did not. He loved 
 work done by the hands of men. He understood 
 men who worked with their hands. In the blood, 
 he was brother to them. He knew what they 
 thought and felt. Near the end even while his 
 mind and his body were fighting them, his heart 
 went back to them. He knew their thoughts and 
 their longing for a chance at better things. In 
 the end his heart wanted to give them that
 
 410 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 chance, even though his mind told him that it 
 would do them no good, and even though his will 
 fought against it. 
 
 "Circumstances, accidents, what you may 
 call it, left the victory to his heart. He gave 
 the men their chance. 
 
 "You see, Father Patrick, I am a very wise 
 man," the Dean concluded. 
 
 "Are you?" Father Lynch asked, with such 
 a face of wooden gravity that the Dean burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "I am," he said, recovering himself. "I have 
 given you good and wise reason on a thing that 
 neither I nor any other man knows anything 
 about the heart of a man. No wise man could 
 do more. 
 
 "But, when I have expounded to the full, 
 there is still this to be said: I have seen little 
 children holding up their hands to God for John 
 Sargent! 
 
 "When we have said all our wise saws over the 
 matter, we may well come back to that. I be- 
 lieve those little ones had their way. For their 
 sakes, God did put one great and good thing into 
 the heart of John Sargent. This I believe." 
 
 "Amen!" Father Lynch agreed firmly. 
 
 After a little he questioned shrewdly: 
 
 "Will it work, Dean? I see the papers all 
 saying that it is impossible, that you cannot run 
 a year, that you will run into debt, that you can- 
 not find markets, that you cannot get the work
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 411 
 
 out of the men as Sargent did. Will it work?" 
 
 "It will," the Dean answered stoutly. "John 
 Sargent was a strong and successful man. But 
 there was never a time when he could not have 
 hired a president to do all for his company that 
 he did. 
 
 "Give Loyd one year, and, with the help that 
 he has from Strekno and Flinn and Nonie Gay- 
 lor, he will do more with that mill than John 
 Sargent could ever do. 
 
 "The papers are wrong. This is no amateur 
 experiment. The mill will be run with as strong 
 a hand as ever was held over it. But it will be 
 the hand of the men themselves. Trust them. 
 They will show you wonders." 
 
 "This Loyd is your Socialist?" Father Lynch 
 inquired. 
 
 "He said he was a Socialist," the Dean admit- 
 ted. 
 
 "And what does he say now?" 
 
 "He is not much of a talker," said the Dean 
 slowly. "He is a man whose heart has passed 
 through a riot of pride and fire and suffering, 
 which he thought was the end of the world, and 
 he has come out on the other side, only to find 
 God standing there with His finger on it all. 
 
 "Jim Loyd was never a Socialist, in the sense 
 we mean. He could not be. 
 
 "To-day he is simply a great man, with a world 
 of suffering behind him, with the traces of it upon 
 him; and with a power of good before him.
 
 "Maybe it took something of Socialism to help 
 make him what he is. But it took more, a great 
 deal more, of lasting, deep faith in God to bring 
 him through it all." 
 
 "Will you tell me, Dean: What is this So- 
 cialism?" 
 
 "Father Huetter will tell you," said the Dean 
 craftily. 
 
 Father Huetter stood in the doorway. 
 
 "So, you've come to it, Father Lynch! Well, 
 you're the last man we might have expected. 
 But they all do. It's in the air. You couldn't 
 escape it." 
 
 "I don't feel it yet," said Father Lynch; "but 
 I might, if you'd tell me what you're talking 
 about." 
 
 "Socialism," said Father Huetter unabashed. 
 "You were just asking about it. Everybody is 
 asking about it. Everybody wants to know 
 what it is." 
 
 "Why don't they read the books? You told 
 me to do that once. I read a basketful of them 
 last week. A few of them had some wise old 
 conundrums that I used to hear my grandfather 
 conning over to himself, back in Sixty-eight when 
 the potatoes were bad. The rest was bosh." 
 
 "It isn't the kind that's in the books, Father 
 Lynch. It's the kind that's in the air. The 
 kind that goes from one man's heart to another 
 man's heart. It's the kind of Socialism that 
 makes one man see the burden pressing into the
 
 THE HEART OF A MAN 413 
 
 other man's back: It's the kind that makes a 
 man start and turn red when he sees a child 
 coughing in a factory: The kind that makes a 
 man want to fight and work for a better world 
 to live in: The kind that wants to make the 
 world sweeter and kinder, and fitter for Christ!" 
 
 "Dean," said Father Lynch, "this young man 
 has gotten hold of a part of the Sermon on the 
 Mount, and he thinks it's Socialism." 
 
 But Father Huetter swept on: 
 
 "John Sargent did not know what he was do- 
 ing! He did not know why he was doing it! 
 He did it because he could not help it! 
 
 "There is a spirit stirring in this great land. 
 It is a spirit of helpfulness and understanding. 
 It is whispering to high and low a message which 
 says that hopeless, helpless misery and suffering 
 do not belong in this world. 
 
 "The power of that message does not lie in 
 laws that may be written. It does not lie in 
 constitutions that may be framed. It lies in the 
 thousands, the millions of hearts that are echoing 
 it. The cry of those hearts came to John Sar- 
 gent when he knew it not. It made him do that 
 which he would not. 
 
 "It is the cry of the broken man: It is the cry 
 of the heart-sick woman: It is the cry of the 
 hungry child: It is the cry of the unborn: All 
 crying to be let live and love! 
 
 "And they will be heard! 
 
 "Socialism? This is Socialism: The old, old
 
 414 THE HEART OF A MAN 
 
 Socialism: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thy 
 self. 
 
 "Likewise: It is Faith." 
 
 THE END 
 
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 M 
 
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 THE> 
 
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 KEILEY 
 
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 MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS 
 HE YEAR ' =*> S ' S - * V ls ' 
 
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 INTERIOR OF JESUS AND MARY. MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
 
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 IN THE YEAR ON THE LIFE OF 
 
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 vols. net, $4.50. 
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 net, $1.25. 
 
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 OF HOLY WEEK COM- 
 
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 flush, net, $0.40; silk cloth, net, $0.55; 
 
 Am seal, red edges net, $1.35; Am. 
 
 seal, gold edges, net, $1.50. 
 OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. LINGS. 
 
 net, $1.00. 
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 FA|A $ Dis| ON EARTH OPENED TO 
 
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 limn red edees net 2 co- Am seal 
 
 SD /old edges ^$, oo 
 PRAYERS FOR OijKDKAD Me 
 PR GR!TH cfo?* *; ma leather 
 
 jo-, 
 
 PRISONER OF LOVE. Prayer-Book by 
 ' 
 
 PRIVATE RETREAT FOR RELIG- 
 IOUS. GEreRitANN, C.SS.R. net, 
 
 R |a.5; m 
 KtrLr/CHONb FOR 
 
 w o 8 
 
 SPIRIT OF sXcRIFICE, THE. AND 
 TRE LIFE op SACRIFI( f E IN 
 
 Ttrir OTTT ir'TniTC CTATIT rm*m 
 J? 1,??^ STATE. GIRAUP. 
 
 S p IRrT uAL CONSIDERATIONS. 
 
 BUCKLER OP net Si 2-; 
 SPIRITUAL DESPONDENCY AND 
 
 TFMPTATTONS MirHFT. S T nel 
 ' J " ' 
 
 SUNDAY MISSAL, THE. LASANCE. 
 
 i m . leather, limp, red edges, $1.90: 
 
 gold edges, $2.25; Am. seal, limp, gold 
 
 edges, $3.25. 
 THINGS IMMORTAL, THE. GA- 
 
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 THOUGHTS ON THE RELIGIOUS 
 
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 red edges, net $2.00; Am. seal, limp, 
 
 Kld edges, net, 53.00. 
 THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS ON 
 
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 FOR EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. 
 
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 TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. Lnrcou. 
 
 VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
 VIRGJN ' ROHNER - B.ENNAN. ,*. 
 
 TrniTR THP Pv* t; T 
 HOUR THE> RYAN> SJ ' 
 
 VISITS "TO JESUS IN THE TABER- 
 
 THE LORI,, p 
 
 Book by FATHER LASANCE. Im. leather, WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, **o.o8. 
 
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 ^' ^r ' ~ m ; gold edges ' $3 ' s ' large-type edition. Method of ST. 
 
 ROSARY, THE CROWN OF MARY. ALPHONSUS LIGUOM. $o.JS. 
 
 By a Dominican Father, i6mo., paper, WAY OF THE CROSS. Euch*ristic 
 
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 WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of ST. cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.50. Im. 
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 W7iv rur TWIT rT?HQQ vr.ft,/wl nf ST RttS- Real leather.limp, gold edges.fe.as. 
 
 W *vL t .^rfr YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. GAR- 
 
 ALPHONSUS LIGUORI. *$o.2 S . s j ^ $ 
 
 WITH CHRIST, MY FRIEND. SLOAN. YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. GAR- 
 net, $1.35, ESCHE". SJ. net, $1.50. 
 
 WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by FATHER YOUR OWN HEART. GARBSCH*, SJ. 
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 $2.00; gold edges, $2.50; Am. seal, limp, YOUR SOUL'S SALVATION. GAR- 
 gold edges, $3.50. ESCHE", SJ. net, $1.50. 
 
 EL THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 
 SCIENCE, CANON LAW 
 
 ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng- MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
 
 lish and Latin, net, $1.75. Edition B: net, $1.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net, 
 
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 AMERICAN PRIEST, THE. SCHMIDT. $3-So. 
 
 net, $1.50. MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
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 net, $3.50. '. $ I -So. 
 
 CASES OF CONSCIENCE. SLATER, OUTLINES OF DOGMATIC THEOL- 
 
 S.J. 2 vols. net, $6.00. OGY. HUNTER, SJ. 3 vols., net, 
 
 CHRIST'S TEACHING CONCERNING $7.50. 
 
 DIVORCE. GIGOT. net, H$2.?S. OUTLINES OF JEWISH HISTORY, 
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 COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
 
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 COMPENDIUM JURIS REGULAR- SJ. Half leather, net, $2.75. 
 
 IUM. BACHOFEN. net, 1$3-so. PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
 COMPENDIUM SACRjE LITURGLE. McHuGH, O.P. net, $0.60. 
 
 WAPELHORST, O.F.M. net, ^[$3.00. PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
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 ECCLESIASTTCAL DICTIONARY. brands, net, $1.00. 
 
 THEIN. 410, half mor. net, $6.50. QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
 GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE SLATER, SJ. net, $3.00. 
 
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 GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE SANCTUARY BOYS' ILLUSTRATED 
 
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 JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST. GIGOT. Part I /, 1[$2 75 Part II. 
 
 MILLET, SJ.-BYRNE. net, $3.25. net, ^$3.25. 
 
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 NEW CODE. AYRINHAC, S.S. net, WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
 
 $*.5<>- FOR SCIENCE. BRENNAK. net. $1,50.
 
 IV. SERMONS 
 
 CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. BONO- SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
 
 MKLIT, D.D.-BYRNE. 4 vok. net, $9.00. AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
 
 EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. DE- ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. POTT- 
 
 MOUY 2 vols net SA oo GEISSER, b.T. 2 vols., net, $5.00. 
 
 nownV* nw TOiT>YmMnw SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED' LADY. 
 
 HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF FLYNN net $2 50 
 
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 net, $9.00. TIAN VIRTUES. HUNOLT-WIRTH. net, 
 
 ^Ts^LlsTN^'GO^lLs 1 ^^ IA ON THE D1HTES OF 
 
 2 vols., n*, $4.00. CHRISTIANS. HUNOLT-WIRTH. net, 
 
 OUTLINES' OF SERMONS FOR SE'RMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
 
 w MEN AND Y U NG THINGS. HUNOLT-WIRTH. /, $2.75. 
 
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 ECHISM. BAMBERG-THURSTON, S.J. SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
 
 3 vols., net, $8.50. THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
 
 PUT PIT SKFTVHFS T AMRFBT nrl HUNOLT-WlRTH. net, $2.75. 
 
 $22< LAMBERT, net, SERMON S ON THE MASS, THE SAC- 
 eMurnrc ,- c RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
 SERMONS. CANON SHEEHAN. net, $3.00. MENTALS. FLYNN. net, $2.75. 
 SERMONS FOR CHILDREN'S MASSES. SHORT SERMONS FOR LOW MASSES. 
 
 FRASSINETH-LINGS. net, $2.50. SCHOUPPE, S.J. net, $2.23. 
 
 V. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA- LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 
 
 TIUS LOYOLA. O'CONNOR, S.J. net, GENELLI, S.J. net, $1.25. 
 
 $1.75. LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
 
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 REFORMATION. COBBETT-GAS- NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
 
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 6
 
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 ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod- 
 ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
 REV. ALBERT KUHN, O.S.B., D.D. 
 Preface by CARDINAL GIBBONS. 617 
 pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
 inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 8J 
 Xi2 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
 side, net, $15.00. 
 
 ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
 MARTIN, SJ. net, $2.50. 
 
 ST. ANTHONY. WARD, net.ti.3s. 
 
 ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. DUBOIS, 
 S.M. net, $1.25. 
 
 ST. JOAN OF ARC. LYNCH, SJ. Illus- 
 trated, net, $2.75. 
 
 SAINTS fANDI PLACES. By JOHN 
 AYSCOUGH. Illustrated, net. $3.00. 
 
 SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
 DONNELLY, net, $0.90. 
 
 STORY OF JESUS SIMPLY TOLD 
 FOR THE YOUNG, THE. MUL- 
 
 HOLLAND. net, $1.00. 
 
 STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
 Told for Children. LINGS, net, $0.75. 
 
 STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS- 
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 WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. SADLIER. 
 net, $1.35. 
 
 FATHER FINN'S BOOKS. 
 
 Each, net, $1.30. 
 FACING DANGER. 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. 
 
 "Lucky Bob." 
 LUCKY BOB. 
 PERCY WYNN; 
 
 BOY OF HIM. 
 TOM PLAYFAIR 
 
 START. 
 CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT; 
 
 VI. JUVENILES 
 
 BETWEEN FRIENDS. AUMERLE. net, 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 BISTOURI. MELANDRI. net, $0.75. 
 A Sequel to BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. TAG- 
 
 GART. net, $0.75. 
 
 BOB O'LINK. WAGGAMAN. net, $0.75. 
 OR, MAKING A BROWNIE AND I. AUMERLE. net, $1.00. 
 BUNT AND BILL. MULHOLLAND. net, 
 OR, MAKING A $0.75. 
 
 BY BRANSCOME RIVER. TAGGART. 
 net, $0.75. 
 
 L/\UU1^ jJ.vji.i J. J.' w A t ORj ilOiV not, <yw./>. 
 
 THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. SPALDING, 
 HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT SJ. net, $1.50. 
 
 CAPTAIN TED. WAGGAMAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 in^R^iy rjx^oj.^-., OR. THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. SPALD- 
 ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. ING, SJ. net, $1.50. 
 HE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND CHARLIEiCHITTYWICK. BEARNI, SJ. 
 
 net, $1.50. 
 
 CHILDREN OF CUPA. MANNTX. net, 
 AND $0.75- 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN, 
 
 DELAMARE. net, $1.00. 
 CLARE LORAINE. "LEE." net, $1.00. 
 
 net, 
 
 OUT. 
 ETHELRED PRESTON; 
 
 AE 
 THE 
 
 OTHER STORIES. 
 CUPID OFICAMPION. 
 THAT FOOTBALL GAME, 
 
 WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 
 THAT OFFICE BOY. 
 
 HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR- CLAUDE.LIGHTFOOT. FiNN.SJ. 
 
 ANCE. $1.50. 
 
 MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. CUPAJREVISITED. MANNDC. net, $0.75. 
 
 FINN, SJ. net, 
 
 FATHER SPALDING'S BOOKS. 
 
 Each, net, $1.50. 
 
 HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 
 AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 
 THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 
 THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
 
 FORK. 
 
 THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
 THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
 THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
 THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
 
 ROSE. 
 THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 
 
 CUPID OF CAMPION. 
 
 $1.50. 
 
 DADDY DAN. WAGGAMAN. net, $0.75. 
 DEAR FRIENDS. NIRDLINGER. net, 
 
 $1.00. 
 DIMPLING'S SUCCESS. MDLHOLLAND. 
 
 net, $0.75. 
 ETHELRED PRESTON. FINN, S J. net. 
 
 EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. CROWLEY. net, 
 
 $0.75- 
 FACING DANGER. FINN, SJ. net, 
 
 FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. FDJN, SJ. 
 
 ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. net. $1.50. 
 FERRY, net, $0.75. _ FINDING OF TONY. WAGGAMAN. net, 
 
 FIVEBIRDS IN A NEST. DELAWARE. 
 
 net, $1.00. 
 
 AS " 
 
 ALTHEA. NIRDLINGER. net, $1.00. 
 AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. COPUS, 
 SJ. net, $1.50. 
 TRUE AS GOLD. MANNIX. net, 
 
 ATTHE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 
 
 SPALDING, SJ. net, $1.50. 
 BELL FOUNDRY. SCHACHING, e/,$o.7S. 
 BERKLEYS. THE. WIGHT, net, $0.75- 
 BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. FINN, 
 
 SJ. net Si. 50. 
 
 FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli- 
 gious, net, $1.00. 
 
 FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. EGAN. net, 
 $1.50. 
 
 FOR THE WHITE ROSE. HINKSON. 
 net, $0.75. 
 
 FRED'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. SMITH 
 net, $0.75.
 
 FREDDY CARR'S ADVENTURES. MELOR OF THE SILVER HAND. 
 
 GARROLD, S.J. net, $1.00. BEARNE, SJ. net, $1.50. 
 
 FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. MILLY AVELING. SMITH, net, $1.00. 
 
 GARROLD, S.J. net, $1.00. MIRALDA. JOHNSON, net, $0.75. 
 
 GOLDEN LILY, THE. HINKSON. net, MORE FIVE O'CLOCK STORIES. 
 
 $0.75. By Religious, net, $1.00. 
 
 GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. HINKSON. net, MOSTLY BOYS, FINN, S.J. net. $1.50. 
 
 $0.75. MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. SADUBR. 
 HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. MAN- net, $0.75. 
 
 NDC. net, $0.75. MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
 HARMONY FLATS. WHITMIRE. net, SADLIER. net, $1.00. 
 
 $1.00. MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. BARTON. 
 HARRY DEE. FINN, S.J. net, $1.50. net, $1.00. 
 
 HARRY RUSSELL. COPOS, S.J. net, NAN NOBODY. WAGGAMAN. net, $0.75. 
 
 $1.50. NED RIEDER. WEHS. net, $1.00. 
 
 HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O'MALLEY. NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE'S. 
 
 *tl, 0.75. BRUNOWE. net, $1.00. 
 
 HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. OLD CHARLMONT'S SEED-BED. 
 
 SPALDING, S.J. net, $1.50. SMITH, net, $0.75. 
 
 HIS FIRSf AND LAST APPEARANCE. OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 
 
 FINN, S.J. net, $1.50. SPALDING, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, FINN. S.J. ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 
 
 net, $1.50. MANNTX. net, $1.50. 
 
 HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. BONESTEEL. OUR LADY'S LUTENIST. BEARNE, 
 
 net, $0.75. S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. PANCHO AND PANCHTTA. MANSIX. 
 
 EGAN. net, $1.00. net, $0.75. 
 
 IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. MAN- PAULINE ARCHER SADLIER. net, $0.73. 
 
 NK. net, $0.75. PERCY WYNN. FINN, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. PERIL OF DIONYSIO. MANNIX. net, 
 
 BARTON, net, $1.00. $0.75. 
 
 JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, PETRONILLA. DONNELLY, net, $1.00. 
 
 $0.75. PICKLE AND PEPPER. DORSEY. net, 
 
 ^CK-0'LANTERN.i WAGGAMAN. net, $1.50. 
 
 $0.75. PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. CARNOT. 
 JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. */, $0.73- 
 
 TAGGART. net, $1.00. PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. WAGGA- 
 JUNIORS' OF ST. BEDE'S. BRYSON. MAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 net, Si.oo. POLLY DAY'S ISLAND. ROBERTS, net, 
 JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First $i. S o. 
 
 Series. net, $1.50. PC V.ERIN A. BUCKENHAM. ntt, $1.00. 
 
 JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second QUEEN'S PAGE, THE. HINKSON. net, 
 
 Series, net, $1.50. $0.75. 
 
 KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. DONNELLY. QUEEN'S PROMISE, THE. WAGGA- 
 
 net, $1.00. MAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. CLEM- 
 
 HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lurz. net, ENTIA. net, $1.50. 
 
 $1.00. RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. SPAU>- 
 LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. ING, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 DELAMARE. net, $0.75- RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. BONE- 
 LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. STEEL, net, $0.75- 
 
 ROBERTS, net, $0.7-;. RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. 
 LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. RYE- BEARNE, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 MAN. net, $0.75. ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 
 LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. BEARNE, S J. net, $1.50. 
 
 NDCON-ROULET. net, $1.00. ST. CUTHBERT'S. COPUS, S.J. net, 
 LITTLE MISSY. WAGGAMAN. n/,$o.75. $1.50. 
 
 LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR- SANDY JOE. WAGGAMAN. net, $1.50. 
 
 LET. TAGGART. net, $1.50. SEA-GULL'S ROCK. SANDEAO. net, 
 LUCKY BOB. FINN, S.J. net,ti. S o. $0.75. 
 
 MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE'S. BRD- SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 
 
 NOWE. net, $0.75. NDCON-ROULET. net, $0.75. 
 
 MAD KNIGHT, THE. SCHACHING. net, SHADOWS LIFTED. COPUS, S.J. net, 
 
 MAKING OF MORTLAKE. COPUS, S.J. SHEil PLUCK. BEARNE, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 net, $1.50. SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 
 
 MAN FB~~~ " 
 
 JACK 
 
 ROM NOWHERE. SADLIER. SPALDING, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 net, $1.50. SHIPMATES. WAGGAMAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. SPALD- 
 
 Sp AIDING, S.J. net, $1.50. ING, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 MARY TRACY'S FORTUNE. SAD- SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. SADLIER. 
 
 LIEU, net, $0.75. net, $0.75.
 
 TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
 MIDDLE AGES. DE CAPELLA. net, 
 $1.00. 
 
 TALISMAN, THE. SADLIER. tut, $1.00. 
 
 TAMING OF POLLY. DORSEY. net, 
 
 THAT'FOOTBALL GAME. FINN, s.j. 
 
 net. $1.5*. 
 
 THAT OFFICE BOY. FINN, S.J. net, 
 $1.50. 
 
 THREE LITTLE GIRLS AND ESPE- 
 CIALLY ONE. TAGGABT. net, $0.75. 
 
 TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. SALOME. 
 net, $1.00. 
 
 TOM LOSELY; BOY. COPUS, S.J. net, 
 
 TOMPLAYFAIR. FINN. S.J. net, $1.50. 
 
 TOM'S LUCK-POT. WACGAMAN. net, 
 $0.75. 
 
 TOORALLADDY. WALSH, net, $0.75. 
 
 TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. WAC- 
 GAMAN. net, $1.00. 
 
 TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN- 
 TAIN. TAOGART. net, fi.oo. 
 
 TWO LITTLE GIRLS. MACK, net, 
 
 UNCLE FRANK'S MARY. CLEMEN- 
 
 TIA. net, $1.50. 
 UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
 
 WAGGAMAN. net, $0.75. 
 VIOLIN MAKER. SMITH, net, $0.75. 
 WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
 
 TAGGART. net, $1.00. 
 YOUNG COLOR GUARD. BONESTEEL, 
 
 net, $0.75. 
 
 VH. NOVELS 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE'S GREAT 
 
 NOVELS. Each, net, $3.35. 
 URSULA FINCH. 
 THE ELSTONES. 
 EUNICE. 
 
 LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER. 
 CHILDREN OF EVE. 
 THE DEEP HEART. 
 WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 
 FINE CLAY. 
 PRISONERS' YEARS. 
 THE REST HOUSE. 
 ONLY ANNE. 
 THE SECRET CITADEL. 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER. 
 
 AGATHA'S HARD SAYING. MULHOL- 
 
 LAND. net, $1.65. 
 ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L'Ec- 
 
 MTTE. 8vo. net, $2.25. 
 BACK TO THE WORLD. CHAMPOL. 
 
 net. $2.25. 
 
 BARRIER, THE. BAZIN. net, $1.65. 
 BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 
 
 EARLS, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. GAR- 
 
 ROLD, S.J. net, $2.25. 
 BOND AND FREE. CONNOR, net, $1.00. 
 "BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE." 
 
 FINN, S.J. net, $1.50. 
 BY THE BLUE RIVER. CLARKE. 
 
 net, $2.25. 
 CARROLL DARE. WAGGAMAN. net, 
 
 $1.25. 
 CIRCUS-RIDER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BRACKEL. net, $125. 
 CHILDREN OF EVE. 
 
 CONNOR D'ARCY'S 
 
 CLARKE, net, 
 STRUGGLES. 
 
 BERTBOLDS. net, $1.25. 
 CORINNE'S VOW. WAGG 
 
 DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. 
 
 net, $2.25. 
 DEEP HEART, THE. CLARKE. 
 
 $2.2 S . 
 
 DION AND THE SIBYLS. KEON. 
 
 $1.25. 
 ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 
 
 TAGOART. net, $1.25. 
 ELSTONES, THE. CLARKE, net, $3.35. 
 
 .MAN. net, 
 
 HlNKSOM. 
 
 net, 
 net. 
 
 EUNICE. CLARKE, net, $2.35. 
 FABIOLA. WISEMAN, net, $1.00. 
 FABIOLA'S SISTERS. CLARKE, net, 
 
 3i-2s. 
 FATAL BEACON, THE. BRACKEL. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 
 FAUSTULA. AYSCOUGH. net, $2.25. 
 FINE CLAY. CLARKE, net, $3.25. 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET. LINGEN. 
 
 net, $1.23. 
 GRAPES OF THORNS' WAGGAMAN. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 HEART OF A MAN. MAHER. net, 
 
 $2.25. 
 
 HEARTS OF GOLD. EDHOR. net, $1.25. 
 HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. HAHN- 
 
 HAHN. net, $1.00. 
 
 HER BLIND FOLLY. HOLT, net, $1.25 
 HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER. HINK- 
 
 SON. net, $2.25. 
 HER FATHER'S SHARE. POWER, net, 
 
 $1.25. 
 HER JOURNEY'S END. COOKE. net, 
 
 IDOLS;' or THE SECRET OF THE 
 RUE CHAUSSE D'ANTIN. DE NAV- 
 ERY. net, $1.25. 
 
 IN GOD'S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
 $1.00. 
 
 IN SPITE OF ALL. STANITORTH, net, 
 
 IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. TAG- 
 CART, net, $1.25. 
 
 IVY HEDGE, THE. EGAN. net, $2.25. 
 
 KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 
 HARRISON, net, $1.25. 
 
 LADY TRENT'S DAUGHTER. 
 CLARKE, net, $2.25. 
 
 LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
 HART, net, $1.00. 
 
 "LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT." GRAY. 
 net, $2.25. 
 
 LINKED LIVES. DOUGLAS, net, $2.25. 
 
 LITTLE CARDINAL. PARR. n<rf,$i.6s. 
 
 LOVE OF BROTHERS. HINKSON. net, 
 
 MARCELLA GRACE. MULHOLLAND. 
 
 net, $1.35. 
 MARIE OF THE HOUSE D'ANTERS. 
 
 EA*LS,SJ. *, $3.3$.
 
 MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. EARLS, SJ. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L'ERMTTE. 
 
 nei, $2.25. 
 MIRROR OF SHALOTT. BENSON, net, 
 
 $2.23. 
 
 MISS ERIN. FRANCIS, net, $1.25. 
 MR. BELLY BUTTONS. LECKY. net, 
 
 MONK'S PARDON, THE. DE NAVERY. 
 
 net, $1.25. 
 MY LADY 
 
 BEATRICE. COOKE. net, 
 
 N JUDGMENT. KEON. ^,$,63. 
 
 ONLY ANNE. CLARKE, net, $2.25. 
 OTHER MISS LISLE. MARTIN, ml, 
 
 $1-00- 
 
 OUT OF BONDAGE. HOLT, net, $1.25. 
 
 PASSING SHADOWS. YORKE. net, 
 
 PER'E MONNIER-S WARD. LECKY. 
 
 nfl <!t fie 
 
 PILKINGTON HEIR, THE. SADLIER, 
 _,,.,, 
 
 PRISONERS' YEARS. CLARK, net, 
 - 2 , 
 
 PRODIGAL'S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES. BUGG. net, $1.50. 
 PROPHET'S WIFE. 'BROWNE, net, $1.25. 
 RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. SADLIER. 
 
 net $i 23 
 
 REST HOUSE, THE. CLARKE, net, $2.23. 
 ROSE OF THE WORLD. MARTIN, net, 
 
 $1.23. 
 ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
 
 CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.23. 
 ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH- 
 
 OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.23. 
 ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH- 
 
 OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.23. 
 ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG- 
 
 LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 
 
 $i.as. 
 RUBY CROSS, THE. WALLACE, net, 
 
 $1.23. 
 RULER OF THE KINGDOM. KEON. 
 
 net, $1.63. 
 SECRET CITADEL, THE. CLARKE. 
 
 net, 
 
 SECRET OF THE GREEN VASB. 
 
 COOKE. net, $1.00. 
 SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. LANS- 
 
 DOWNE. net, $1.00. 
 SHIELD OF SILENCE. HENRY-RUF- 
 
 KN. net, $2.25. 
 
 SO AS BY FIRE. CONNOR, net, $i 2? 
 SON OF SIRO, THE. COPUS, S.J. net, 
 
 STORY OF CECILIA, THE. HINKSON. 
 
 net, $1.65. 
 STUORE. EARLS, S.J. net, $i. S o. 
 
 ""SPg* F E HEART " ^ 
 TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net, $1.00. 
 THAT MAN'S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 
 
 CHOICE SKINNER 
 OI H E E DESERT. 
 
 TIDEWAY^HE 5 ' AYSCOUGH. net, J,. 2S . 
 
 TRAINING OF SILAS. DEVINE. net, 
 
 f 1-65. 
 
 TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
 
 SADLIZR. net, $1.65. 
 TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. GRAY. 
 
 n/, $1.25. 
 UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. COOKE. 
 
 ^^.oc AX ra~ 
 CEDARS AND THE 
 
 . CANON SHEEHAN. net, $2,23. 
 UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. BARRETT, 
 T O.S.B net $i 63. 
 
 URSULA FINCH. CLARKE, net, $2.23. 
 VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
 
 THE. EGAN. net, $1.63. 
 WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. REID, net, 
 
 $1.63. 
 WAR MOTHERS. Poems. GARESCHE. 
 
 S.J. net, $0.60. 
 WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 
 
 HARRISON, net, $1.25. 
 WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
 
 LOUGH, THE. EARLS, S.J. net, $2.23. 
 WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. KEON 
 
 net, $1.63. 
 WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. CLARKE. 
 
 net, $2.23. 
 WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Run. net, 
 
 $1.65.