ILLINOIS HISTORICAL SURVEY 
 
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Dynasty 
 

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 BY MAX SKLOVSKY 
 
 A Novel 
 
 of Chicago's 
 
 Industrial Evolution 
 
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Copyright, 1958, Americana House, Publishers 
 
 All rights reserved, including 
 the right to reproduce this book 
 or portions thereof in any form. 
 
 Library of Congress 
 
 Catalog Card Number 58-14483 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
£/■ 
 
 L^ 
 
 I dedicate this book to my 
 
 loving wife and children, but the manuscript would 
 
 not have materialized as a book were it not for 
 
 the untiring efforts of my 
 
 daughter Edith and her husband Sam. 
 
% 
 
 hey came to Chicago from the east, a horde 
 of people seeking new growing space, and were held by the 
 influx from the west — a great inflow of cattle, grain, and lum- 
 ber. The crude city, still a frontier, stopped all westward 
 migration of adventurers from the eastern states. 
 
 Many came from across the Atlantic, but each immigrant, 
 no matter where he came from, struggled to maintain himself, 
 independent of his neighbors, indifferent to the city as a 
 whole. Yet they settled in coherent communities within the 
 metropolis, all plying their trades and energies in unconscious 
 cooperation. 
 
 Chicago held these various communities for several gen- 
 erations, until it became a first ranking city. Industries grew 
 and grew to a mammoth scale, bringing on the problems of 
 
concentration and inner social struggles. The leaders in these 
 struggles hacked away to gain their personal ends without 
 finesse, and with no vision of the city's future. 
 
 A few of these leaders grew up without inhibitions, each 
 fighting for the real supremacy, some following established 
 patterns, some darting out in uncharted directions. Robert 
 Chase was one of those who inherited and brought with him 
 the traditions of the American east. Aaron Bishoff came from 
 the Far East, held on to no heritage, and worked not for his 
 own comfort, but for that of all his neighbors. The struggle 
 of forces epitomized by these two, both with ideals, brought 
 on a clash that continued into succeeding generations — the 
 specific outcome of which is still not clear. 
 
 But Chicago made them, and they helped to make Chicago. 
 
 Unlike the eastern cities through which the railroads 
 sliced, Chicago, a mammoth switchyard, eventually developed 
 into a metropolis with settlements growing up between the 
 arms of the radiating tracks, creating isolated communities 
 of industrial, residential and mixed areas. The lines of the 
 settlements were marked by transportation arteries that radi- 
 ated from the city center which in time became known as 
 the "Loop." A few of these important streets were laid out 
 by surveyors, but the early residents of Chicago often pre- 
 ferred the shortcuts provided by paths which later acquired 
 the dignity of "avenues" — Lincoln, Clybourn, Milwaukee, 
 Blue Island, Archer and Cottage Grove Avenues, all oblique 
 routes radiating from the core of the Loop. 
 
 One of the important early streets was Archer Road, 
 paralleling the diagonally disposed south branch of the Chi- 
 cago River, and for more than two generations Archer re- 
 mained a typical Chicago thoroughfare, and still retains the 
 crude earmarks of its pioneer industry. 
 
As the city kept growing it extended its antennae into 
 farther areas beyond the town's limits, providing widened 
 spaces for every kind of population. Archer Road was origi- 
 nally dominated by an Irish settlement. Blue Island Avenue 
 attracted Bohemians, Milwaukee Avenue Polish immigrants, 
 Lincoln Avenue Germans, and Cottage Grove a native ele- 
 ment bordered by a Negro belt that stretched down State 
 Street. Clybourn Avenue developed later into another Polish 
 settlement. 
 
 Chicago, then, is not a single city, but an aggregation 
 of about eighty different cities, and as it grew in radii, it 
 annexed various outer suburbs, each district or settlement with 
 its own business nucleus, some of them quite extensive. 
 
 The Loop is bounded by the west branch and the central 
 branch of the Chicago River. Edged on the south for years 
 by a large slum area, the Loop nevertheless contained the 
 predominant retail and wholesale business, the major financial 
 district, and many professional and civic activities. South of 
 22nd Street for a distance of two miles down to 39th Street, 
 was a large residential area, stretching east and west for three 
 miles, or from the lake to Ashland Avenue. 
 
 Into and out of Chicago, the railroads carried what is 
 known as heavy traffic — cattle, lumber, their by-products, and 
 huge quantities of grain, coal and steel. For storing and han- 
 dling grain, huge elevators were built along the river banks 
 so that grain could also be shipped by water. 
 
 As an industrial center, Chicago became the packing 
 house capital of the nation. Receiving areas had to be provided 
 for cattle, hogs and other livestock, and the area known as 
 the Union Stock Yards, about one mile square, grew up be- 
 tween Halsted Street and Ashland Avenue east and west, and 
 39th and 47th Streets north and south. Known as "the Yards," 
 it was then just outside the city limits. Very few people lived 
 
adjacent to the Yards, except to the east along Halsted Street 
 somewhat south of 47th. The bulk of the Yard's workers had 
 their residence to the north and in that area of the west side 
 which made no claim to the aesthetic. White collar workers 
 lived a mile or more to the east and a mile or so farther 
 north. The latter residential area therefore had a direct diago- 
 nal route to the stockyards, from which, in favorable summer 
 weather, prevailing winds from the southwest brought the 
 acrid odors of the Yards directly into the homes of the aristo- 
 crats living along Prairie Avenue. Most of the residents, how- 
 ever, endured this stench willingly, for it smelled of the revenue 
 with which they were concerned. And when the wind changed, 
 the lake breeze brought relief from the odors of the great 
 industry. 
 
 The crudities of the Yards extended far beyond the 
 borders of the area itself, however. The south branch of the 
 Chicago River was constantly coated with a scum of effluvium 
 from the slaughterhouses. As the river flowed into Lake Michi- 
 gan alongside and above the Loop, the odors rose and spread 
 out over the city, mingling with those of other refuse which 
 drained into the river. 
 
 But everywhere in the city which was bounding back 
 from the devastation of the Great Fire, there was opportunity 
 for men and for investment. The town was crying out for 
 workers, builders, dreamers — men who dreamed big. It was 
 a place for the amassing of personal fortunes, dynasties, great 
 industrial developments. The city was growing too fast to keep 
 up with itself, and method was less important than results. 
 The by-products of this frantic growth were both wealth and 
 power, and poverty, with little civic concern for the "fall out" 
 and little understanding of the cosmic picture and the complex 
 interrelations of human beings caught in the turning wheel 
 of industrial development. "More, more, bigger, bigger," sang 
 the rails over which the mighty locomotives sped to the city 
 
with their freight loads of grain, livestock, steel and coal. "More, 
 more, bigger, bigger." But, without knowing it, Chicago was 
 also moving toward maturity, toward a recognition of "better" 
 as well as "bigger." 
 
 This, then, was the city of Robert Chase, Aaron Bishoff, 
 Frank and Myra Dodds and the others who, though they turned 
 the wheel at times, were also caught in it. 
 
* * * * * CHAPTER ONE 
 
 The Plot 
 
 It was a rare moment for Robert Chase when, in the 
 sanctuary of his private office at the bank, he could not shut 
 personal problems out of his mind and concern himself only 
 with the activities of the House of Chase. That ability to 
 compartmentalize his life accounted in no small part for his 
 tremendous success — he was able to concentrate completely 
 upon the business at hand, and set all other matters aside. 
 
 But that very habit, he thought ruefully the morning 
 after he had first really noticed Myra Dodds, might be re- 
 sponsible for his greatest personal heartache, his son Carroll. 
 And that other, deeper regret, the death of Robert, Jr. If he 
 had spent more time with his motherless boys, perhaps Robert 
 would still be alive, and certainly, he told himself, Carroll 
 would be different. 
 
He could still not allow himself to dwell upon the death 
 of Robert, the younger son who, with so much promise, had 
 wasted his time and opportunities, and finally, his life in a 
 brawl in a shady house on South Wabash Avenue. That had 
 happened only four years ago, and the scar in the father's 
 heart was still raw. ... If one of them had to go, why had 
 it had to be Robert . . . ? 
 
 But he pulled himself sharply away from that thought. 
 Carroll was what he had left, and Carroll was the future of 
 the House of Chase and all his other enterprises. Something 
 had to be done to get Carroll actively interested in the busi- 
 ness, to lift him out of his sluggish indifference, to make 
 him into a man who could take over and build upon his 
 father's foundations. 
 
 Restlessly, R. B. paced his spacious office, and, pausing 
 at the window to gaze abstractedly down into the swarming 
 hum of La Salle Street at noon, he made a decision. The 
 one solution for the boy — and the business — was a wife. 
 A sensible, but attractive and even aggressive girl, who 
 would not only stimulate Carroll but guide him. He winced 
 as he thought, too, what real family life might mean to the 
 boy whose reticence had always been a barrier between 
 father and son. 
 
 Chase knew quite well what had set his thinking along 
 this line. That Dodds girl — what was her first name, Myra? 
 — at the reception in his home last night. She was the sister 
 of his trusted assistant, Frank, who had been with him 
 for five years. R. B. had seen her many times with Frank, 
 but had not really noticed her until last night. 
 
 He had seen then a young woman of about twenty-one, 
 not too tall, with rich auburn hair and dark blue eyes like 
 Frank's, who could be serious but lively at the same time, 
 who seemed able to think for herself but was not unwomanly 
 
about it. She should appeal to any man with eyes in his head 
 — in fact, if Chase had been younger himself, instead of a 
 man in his mid-fifties with his romantic life well behind him, 
 he could easily have become interested in her. . . . 
 
 As he watched his son through the evening, however, 
 he saw that Carroll behaved courteously to her, and that 
 was all. Very obviously, the father would have to do some- 
 thing to spur a romance between them. And as always, once 
 his decision was made, Chase's plan of action was direct, 
 and he wasted no time. He called Carroll into the study after 
 dinner that night, and told him straight. 
 
 "Carroll," he opened abruptly, "it is time you begin to 
 take a greater interest in the affairs of my companies. I do 
 not expect to carry the burden forever, and I hope that as 
 soon as you have mastered the situation, you'll take over the 
 major responsibilities." 
 
 Carroll, standing while his father sat, shifted from one 
 foot to the other, but made no comment. 
 
 So Chase went on, "But before you do that, I believe it 
 would help you a great deal if you would marry a nice girl, 
 settle down, and start a family. Then you would gain some 
 stability, for you'd have something to work for. You'd be 
 more interested in the operation of my enterprises. Do you 
 agree with me ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," admitted Carroll, as he had always said 
 yes to his father's decrees. He had always been content to 
 follow where the older man led, doing what he was told, 
 and no more. If he had ever had any desire to strike out on 
 his own, nobody knew it, least of all Carroll himself. 
 
 Robert Chase made an impatient gesture. What kind 
 of a nincompoop was this son of his who could say nothing 
 but yes? He recalled, however, that the present issue was 
 one to which he wanted Carroll to agree, so he continued. 
 
"Now this young lady last night — Myra Dodds — I've 
 watched her, and as you know, I've developed her brother 
 in the business. It's a good family," — he had reason to know 
 i — "but no money there. That doesn't matter — we have 
 money. Frank has become very valuable to me in his own 
 way. But she is different — more alert, more concerned about 
 other people. It isn't often you find a girl with character 
 and brains, who is so bewitchingly attractive. She could 
 help you at every opportunity — she could become a real 
 helpmate to you. I am afraid," he prodded on, relentlessly, 
 "that without some such influence our affairs may become 
 seriously damaged. You have not as yet shown more than a 
 casual understanding of our affairs." 
 
 The repeated emphasis on "our affairs" was not lost on 
 Carroll, reminding him that the business was a family mat- 
 ter. Chase ended, "You have your college training, and you 
 have been in the headquarters of the company for five years. 
 Your curiosity has not developed in that time, and now that 
 you are twenty-nine, it's time you take yourself more 
 seriously." 
 
 Carroll was thoughtful and self-effacing under this 
 criticism. "Governor," he replied hesitantly, "I know you 
 think I lack aggressiveness and understanding of the busi- 
 ness. But you have always so dominated the business of 
 the House of Chase that there's been little chance for any- 
 one to wedge in, much less take over any share of the man- 
 agement." He wondered if he had said too much, not wanting 
 to hurt his father, but unwilling to take all responsibility 
 for his seeming lack of interest. 
 
 Surprisingly, R. B. agreed with him. "That is exactly 
 the difficulty," countered Chase. "You've never seen any 
 way to overcome my opinions. You've accepted them pre- 
 sumably at face value, without contest. You've shown almost 
 no initiative, and you seem content to stay in a rut. To date 
 
you've created nothing. What you need is a new incentive, a 
 guide — even a monitor — a girl near your own age, but whose 
 outlook is different from yours. My considered opinion is 
 that the first thing you should do, now, is get married to a 
 young girl who would stimulate you, and on whom you 
 could place many responsibilities, leaving you free to begin 
 to conduct the affairs of the House of Chase." 
 
 "You're thinking of the Dodds girl, aren't you?" Carroll 
 asked. "She's fine. In fact, I don't believe I would deserve 
 her — though I haven't thought of her in that way." 
 
 "You need someone just like her," pressed Robert, 
 "someone who will challenge you, who will oppose you when 
 she thinks it necessary, and who will direct or lead you. Even 
 though she is considerably younger than you, she could 
 master you in a hurry. Of all the young women I have en- 
 countered, she is the most promising, and nothing would 
 please me more than to welcome her into the family. Now, 
 Carroll, do you want to do anything about it?" 
 
 Carroll was silent for a while, stung under the lash of 
 his father's poor opinion, yet accepting the truth of what 
 the elder said. He wanted to please his father, and no other 
 action of his own would be inclined to win approval. Any- 
 how, thought Carroll, what difference did it make whom he 
 married? He wasn't in love, never had been. It seemed to 
 him he had walked always in a shadow, the shadow of his 
 father, until he had lost real substance himself. . . . 
 
 "All right," he agreed, "if it will please you, I'll write to 
 her." 
 
 "Write to her?" demanded Chase, "is that any way to 
 court a girl?" But, having won the first maneuver, he let 
 the matter rest. He was confident of winning the whole 
 battle. He had seldom lost. 
 
Dutifully, later in the week, Carroll did the best he 
 could on paper, under the circumstances. He wrote: 
 
 "My dear Miss Dodds: 
 
 "During the last year or more, I have had occasion on 
 three times to meet you, and I was very much impressed by 
 your capabilities, and by your readiness to discuss actively 
 on any subject. My father thinks you have great intellect 
 and believes that you could become an asset to our family. 
 May I then offer to present myself to you some evening; 
 or, if you prefer, you could call at our home. 
 
 Cordially yours, 
 
 Carroll V. Chase." 
 
* * CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Defeat 
 
 Myra Dodds read the letter in amazement. It was so 
 stilted, so impersonal, and yet so obviously a veiled proposal 
 of marriage that it bewildered her. She had met Carroll 
 Chase several years before, when Frank had first entered 
 the financier's employ, and had seen him occasionally since. 
 She had not been impressed by him, nor had what little 
 Frank had to say about the scion of the House of Chase 
 improved her opinion of him. He was, from her observations, 
 without wit or initiative, a spineless tool in the hands of 
 his father. 
 
 Then, as she re-read the strange letter, her dismay 
 turned to anger. If marriage was Carroll Chase's intent, and 
 his thought was, "If my father wants me to marry her I 
 may as well do it," how dared he so blandly assume that 
 
she could be bought, like a piece of pig-iron for the Chase 
 foundry? Or, as far as that went, as her brother had been 
 bought! How dared they — both R. B. and his son, think 
 that all they had to do was nod their approval, and she 
 would come running ! 
 
 She crumpled the letter and threw it away in disgust. 
 
 "What is distressing you so, Myra?" asked her mother, 
 who had watched with silent curiosity, as well as some 
 amusement, for she well knew that her daughter's reactions 
 to any situation were seldom mild. Myra's feelings were 
 always intense and explosive, whether of happiness or anger 
 or interest in what was going on around her. 
 
 The girl made a face, but picked up the crumpled paper 
 and handed it to her mother. "That stupid son of R. B. 
 Chase's," she explained. "What a poor imitation he is of 
 his father!" 
 
 The mother read the note carefully, and was as baffled 
 as the daughter. This must be a proposal of marriage — or 
 the approach to a proposal — but what a strange way to 
 curry favor with any young woman, least of all, her high- 
 spirited daughter! The whole thing would be ridiculous if 
 it were not so obviously serious. "What are you going to 
 reply?" she asked, really wanting to know. 
 
 "I don't know whether I should reply at all," stormed 
 Myra. "Who does he think I am, that I should fall into his 
 arms at a proposition like that?" 
 
 "You should answer the letter," said her mother firmly, 
 "as a lady, first, and second, in consideration of what R. B. 
 Chase means to your brother." 
 
 "Means to my brother," Myra repeated angrily, "if 
 my brother had any gumption, he'd have finished law school, 
 and he wouldn't be accepting expensive gifts like — like hats 
 
 8 
 
and overcoats — beyond his salary, from R. B. Chase ! Doesn't 
 he know that that's the way to lose his own identity — and 
 become nothing but a ledger book in the Chase counting 
 house? Mother, I ask you — am I my brother's keeper?" But 
 Myra knew she was begging the issue. 
 
 "No, you are not, my dear," her mother replied, "nor 
 are you your brother's judge." They had been over this 
 before, reaching, always, the same impasse. "But you are a 
 lady, and you must reply." 
 
 Myra grumbled, but sat down to answer the letter. 
 Never let the Chases imagine that she was unversed in 
 etiquette! But she wrote as stilted and as ambiguous a note 
 as she had received. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Carroll V. Chase: 
 
 "I felt rather honored to receive a communication from 
 you. However, I do not know the real nature of your pro- 
 posed call. I am not certain whether it would be best for you 
 to call at our apartment or whether I should call at your 
 home. Perhaps you should consult with your wise father and 
 obtain his advice and consent. I hope that, whatever your 
 conclusions, you will not disturb yourself over it seriously. 
 
 Cordially, 
 Myra Dodds." 
 
 That should settle him, she thought. Since Carroll's only 
 concern was for his father, let his father arrange the social 
 amenities! While Myra was not particularly vain, she knew 
 that she was attractive, and she was woman enough to want 
 to be courted in a way that was at least flattering. But all 
 Carroll Chase's letter had expressed was Robert B. Chase's 
 good opinion of her. So let the matter be handled like a 
 business appointment. She hoped young Mr. Chase would 
 recognize the sarcasm in her reply. 
 
 Apparently, he did not. For a week later, early in the 
 evening, Carroll arrived at the south side apartment building 
 
 9 
 
where the Dodds family lived, in his father's coach. "Wait 
 for me while I make a call," he told the coachman. 
 
 Mrs. Dodds graciously invited him into the living room. 
 "Won't you be seated?" she asked. "I will tell Myra that 
 you are waiting." 
 
 Myra was in her own room, reading, dressed in a wrap- 
 per. "It will take me some time to make myself presentable," 
 she protested, "let him wait." She wanted to appear at her 
 best even for Robert Chase's "stupid son," particularly be- 
 cause she was going to turn him down cold. Anyhow, why 
 hadn't he had the good taste to let her know when he was 
 coming? "It will take a few minutes," she repeated stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 Dressing, she was glad that Frank was out for the 
 evening, lest he try to press this strange suit which, if 
 culminated to the satisfaction of the Chases, might enhance 
 his position with the man who had become a patron rather 
 than an employer. 
 
 Mrs. Dodds found Carroll sitting erect in a chair in the 
 living room, staring about and fumbling with his watch 
 chain. After a few minutes he started to rise, saying that 
 he had little time to wait, but Mrs. Dodds tried to calm his 
 impatience. "She will be here in just a few moments," she 
 said, and with that Myra made her appearance, dignified, 
 inexpressive, bowing her head a little as she said, "Good 
 evening, Mr. Chase." 
 
 He replied only, "Good evening." 
 
 Mrs. Dodds retired, and the two young people broke 
 into a desultory conversation, while Myra covertly observed 
 her caller. She saw a young man of medium height, not bad 
 looking but completely undistinguished. Good clothes, cor- 
 rect jewelry, a man who knotted his tie properly. A careful 
 
 10 
 
man. She was sure he was not unintelligent, but if there 
 was a real idea in his head, it didn't show on his face or in 
 his talk. What he saw when he looked at her almost made 
 her giggle — she hoped he saw a very attractive woman whom 
 he couldn't have. 
 
 "You have a very neat looking apartment here," Carroll 
 remarked, as they dropped one subject after another. "But 
 why do you live in this neighborhood?" 
 
 "This neighborhood appeals to us very much," she 
 replied with some asperity, "although it is not fashionable 
 in a social sense. There are interesting people living in this 
 community, folks very much like ourselves. They are friendly." 
 
 "Is that so?" asked Carroll, not knowing what to say 
 next. He rose, pulling out his watch, and added, "It is eight- 
 thirty, and I must be going to the club." 
 
 She wondered what was so attractive at his club, but 
 remembered that this call was purely duty, and said sweetly, 
 "I hope you will have an enjoyable time there," and followed 
 him to the door, not at all loath to be rid of him. 
 
 "Good night," he said, "I had a very pleasant time here." 
 He did not ask to be allowed to come again. Perhaps, she 
 thought, he did not want to. Or perhaps he imagined he 
 would be eagerly awaited, and so had no need for being 
 courteous. 
 
 "Thank you for coming," she answered, thinking, of all 
 the nerve! Who does he think he is, the Prince of Wales? 
 She was more wary now than before, but she kept her 
 thoughts to herself. There was no point in harrassing her 
 mother with them. 
 
 Some days later, with no further word from Carroll 
 (insult enough to a young woman who was supposed to be 
 
 11 
 
under siege of courtship), Myra received a letter from the 
 elder Chase, sent sealed, through her brother. She saw his 
 plot thickening as she read : 
 
 "My dear, dear Myra: 
 
 "You will pardon my salutation, but I do feel as though 
 you were a daughter of mine, and I hope that some day you 
 will look on me as a father. 
 
 "Carroll told me he had called on you, and I was highly 
 pleased. He did not seem to have much to say one way or 
 another, and did not indicate whether he was going to call 
 on you again, or whether you had invited him to call again. 
 I do wish you young folks would become better acquainted. 
 I know my son is very conservative and perhaps even back- 
 ward, and your encouragement would mean a great deal to 
 him and to me. 
 
 "I would like very much to see you at any time that is 
 convenient to you. Whenever you choose to come in to my 
 office, I shall drop all other matters and will be pleased to 
 see you and take you on to dinner at my home. Until then, 
 
 Most cordially, 
 
 'Governor' Chase." 
 
 By using Carroll's name for him, "Governor," the father 
 conveyed his prime interest in Carroll, and in Myra as a 
 prospective wife for his son. 
 
 Moved more by curiosity than anything else — except a 
 reluctant concern for her brother's good standing with 
 R. B. — Myra presented herself, a few days later, at the 
 offices of the man who wanted to arrange her life to his own 
 advantage. 
 
 At the reception desk she asked for Mr. Chase. 
 
 "Which Mr. Chase?" asked the receptionist. 
 
 "Governor Chase," replied Myra. 
 
 "Governor?" asked the girl. "What Governor Chase?" 
 
 12 
 
Myra was patient, enjoying the situation. "Mr. R. B. 
 Chase." 
 
 The girl remained haughty. "Mr. Chase is usually not 
 disturbed unless a definite appointment has already been 
 made." 
 
 "I have an appointment with Mr. Chase," Myra gave 
 back in the same spirit. "Please advise him that I am here. 
 I am Miss Dodds." 
 
 Within ten seconds Robert Chase almost danced out 
 into the reception room and, ignoring everyone else, took 
 Myra's hand and led her to his private quarters. His delight 
 was so great that he forgot to ask her to be seated. 
 
 "May I?" she asked, pointing to the nearest chair. 
 
 He was all apologies, but she waved them aside, and 
 they chatted idly for a few moments. But Chase was impa- 
 tient to learn what she thought of his son. 
 
 Suddenly, she was tired of this game. Flattering as 
 R. B.'s interest might be — and she had to admit that it had 
 piqued her a bit — she had no intention of marrying his 
 nondescript son who, even if he were only trying to carry 
 out his father's wishes, hadn't the grace to handle the 
 matter tactfully. Even, she told herself, as if she could 
 become interested in him under any circumstances. Because 
 he wasn't a man. Myra Dodds would have to love the man 
 she married, and there was nothing in Carroll Chase to 
 command her love, or even her respect. Not if he had pro- 
 tested undying passion for her. 
 
 Moreover, subterfuge was not in her nature. But she 
 wanted to be kind. 
 
 "I do appreciate your interest, Mr. Chase," she said, 
 "which I know is a high compliment. In fact, I am honored 
 
 13 
 
that you would like to have me in your family — and that 
 you believe I could carry the responsibility of developing 
 your son into the master of industry that you yourself are. 
 But there are two reasons why I cannot accept your offer — 
 and the one that is most important to me is probably the 
 least important to you. The man I marry, Mr. Chase, must 
 be in love with me, and I with him. It is almost an insult 
 for a young man to propose to a girl simply because his 
 father wishes it." 
 
 Robert Chase sighed. "I was afraid of that," he admit- 
 ted. "But don't you think you might become fond of each 
 other, as you worked together, building the Chase enter- 
 prises to even greater dimensions? It would be a life work 
 — and a fine work." 
 
 Myra made allowance for the man's dream of dynasty, 
 which she realized was very dear to him. Her understand- 
 ing kept her from following her first impulse — which was to 
 tell him that human lives, not subject to his payroll, could 
 not be manipulated to his personal desires. He had built 
 great industries, and he really believed that he could buy 
 anything he wanted. 
 
 She shook her head gently. 'That brings us to the sec- 
 ond reason, Mr. Chase," she told him. "The basic material 
 for developing your son into an industrial tycoon is not 
 there. I couldn't make him into a great man. And if I tried, 
 I should be wasting every quality that you admire in me. 
 Besides wasting my own life. I don't want to hurt you, but 
 surely you realize that." 
 
 He knew that what she said was true, but he had seen 
 a strong helpmate as the only hope for Carroll — and the 
 Chase enterprises. He tried to appeal to her creative impulses, 
 her managerial ability. 
 
 "Does my work mean nothing to you?" he asked. "Can't 
 you see a challenge in what I am offering you?" 
 
 U 
 
She smiled, for she could. "But not my kind of a chal- 
 lenge, Mr. Chase," she replied. "My interests are with the 
 little people, the heavy burdened, the underprivileged. We 
 live in different worlds, you and I, and speak different 
 languages." 
 
 He thought about that for a moment. "I have never 
 wanted anything but good for my employees, Miss Dodds," 
 he told her. "Perhaps, with your knowledge of their intimate 
 problems," for he had learned of her work in the slum settle- 
 ments on the south side, "and my knowledge of manage- 
 ment — well, perhaps our two worlds could meet, with benefit 
 for everybody." 
 
 She saw how great his determination was, and there 
 was a great deal to admire about the man. She sensed the 
 great building qualities which had made him and his em- 
 pire what they were. He was no ordinary business tycoon, 
 with no knowledge and no heart for anything but the amass- 
 ing of money. He had character, and ruthlessness was only 
 a part of it. There were human qualities in him, besides. 
 But this controversy had to be settled. You cannot let a 
 man hope, when there is no hope. 
 
 "You forget the first reason I gave you, Mr. Chase," 
 she reminded him, "when I marry, there has to be love — 
 as well as a shared job to do." 
 
 Chase was still not ready to give up. "Myra," he con- 
 ceded, "I know my son is a very ordinary person. But I 
 still believe that he has potentialities for becoming a finer 
 person through the right association, and through — 
 inspiration." 
 
 Myra would not be moved. "Mr. Chase," she said, "I 
 have observed your son, and he has some excellent qual- 
 ities. He is in good health, and he has a fine background. 
 But that is all. There is no ambition, no aesthetic feeling 
 
 15 
 
there. All he values is material things. It would be too much 
 of a task to modify him. In fact, I believe it would be impos- 
 sible. What he needs is a very ordinary person for a wife, 
 who would look up to him and worship him for his ancestry 
 and for his position and wealth. As I told you, I consider 
 it an honor to be invited into your family, but I see none 
 of your own strong characteristics in your son. The idea 
 is obnoxious to me." Then, to soften the blow, "You and I 
 can remain friends, and I hope that we will." She frowned 
 a little, not wanting to hurt him more than necessary, but 
 determined to be understood. "Let's not discuss it any more." 
 
 But Chase was up against one of the greatest challenges 
 of his life. He invited Myra to come to dinner at his home, 
 and to repeat visits whenever she could. 
 
 16 
 
* * * * CHAPTER THREE 
 
 The Dodds 
 
 When Frank Dodds was fifteen and Myra thirteen, their 
 father had died. Because of failing health the elder Dodds 
 had been in retirement for several years, but they had kept 
 their home, a two-story brick house with a white stone 
 front, facing Indiana Avenue near 24th Street. There they 
 had lived comfortably, but not extravagantly. The house 
 was reasonably large and spacious. The family had kept two 
 colored servants and a coachman. The coachman utilized 
 much of his time in and about the yard, and did some of 
 the harder work in the house. On Prairie Avenue, a block 
 away, there were pretentious mansions and more servants. 
 Prairie Avenue was "money, heavy money." Indiana Ave- 
 nue was "near money." Even so, and while still grief -stricken 
 from her loss, Mrs. Dodds recognized that what was left 
 to the family in the way of funds would necessitate a more 
 modest way of living. 
 
 17 
 
It was Myra who suggested the almost suburban sec- 
 tion of Hyde Park, some twenty blocks south, and east of 
 their present location. She was ready to enter high school, 
 and she knew some very nice girls who were attending the 
 Hyde Park High School — a much better school than the 
 old South Division High School here. 
 
 Frank agreed, with some reluctance, for he had already 
 made friends in the neighborhood high school. So the family 
 moved to an apartment in Hyde Park, and the cash sale 
 of the house on Indiana Avenue was enough to keep them 
 comfortable for several years. 
 
 Although Frank was willing to find a part-time job, or 
 to sell newspapers, Mrs. Dodds was determined that the 
 children's high school years should be free of privation, and 
 also of outside work to help meet expenses. The two entered 
 Hyde Park High School enthusiastically — Myra, as a fresh- 
 man, delighted with the additional privileges which accom- 
 panied high school status. She made up her mind that her 
 school life would be very successful. 
 
 She made friends easily. Her youthful beauty attracted 
 everyone about her. Her frank, joyful attitude toward life, 
 her quick sympathy, and her understanding — already devel- 
 oped beyond her years — appealed to old and young, rich 
 and poor alike. Wherever she went, she was surrounded by 
 children, women — anyone who craved sympathy. At school 
 she was attracted most to girls a year or two older than 
 she, and their varied interests widened her horizons. Both 
 her friends and Frank's grew into the habit of dropping 
 around to the Dodds apartment in the evening — Frank's 
 young men friends ostensibly to see him, but really for 
 the company of his sister. And Myra's girl friends — who 
 sometimes stayed the night with her — threw many admir- 
 ing glances at her handsome brother. There was a free and 
 
 18 
 
wholesome jollity in this household which contrasted brightly 
 with the somberness of the old home on Indiana Avenue. 
 
 The streetcar line on Cottage Grove Avenue was a four 
 or five minutes' walk from the apartment, and the elevated 
 line about the same distance away. Myra alternated between 
 the two when she had errands to do outside of school. To 
 and from school she always had the company of girls, and 
 very often, boys, particularly when going home at night. 
 They often held her in the doorway for an hour or more, 
 until her mother called out loudly through the open win- 
 dow, "Myra, it is nearly time for dinner, and I need your 
 help!" 
 
 Myra's general friendliness appealed also to the older 
 people who called at the apartment. When they conversed 
 with Mrs. Dodds, they often awaited Myra's reactions more 
 eagerly than her mother's. All this was baffling to the 
 mother and brother. They saw their infant emerging, and 
 had not realized that the maturity which was rapidly de- 
 veloping in such a young person was far beyond her years. 
 
 Frank and his mother both kept up their church at- 
 tendance, but Myra was not as attentive, and when she 
 was fourteen she rebelled. The routine worship in the church 
 seemed to her to be mere pretentiousness, her warm nature 
 demanded more personal expression. 
 
 Through her friends at Hyde Park High School she 
 learned of the many intellectual and social enterprises at 
 the University of Chicago, nearby. She visited the already 
 famous Hull House on Halsted Street, and the Northwestern 
 University settlement on West Augusta. She saw Chicago's 
 poverty — but she saw its promise of growth, and beauty. 
 Her world was becoming larger and larger. At the same 
 time, Frank was immune to all these influences which were 
 speeding her maturity. His mentality, though keen, was 
 routine. Hers was fresher and deeper. 
 
 19 
 
Frederick Hunt lived only a few squares away from 
 the Dodds. He was a senior in high school, and very popular 
 — editor of the school paper, and chief participant in the 
 extracurricular activities which the Hyde Park High School 
 encouraged. 
 
 Frederick was attracted to Myra, and she to him, though 
 their relationship was one of mere cordiality. Nevertheless, 
 they began to take each other for granted, and others took 
 them for granted. At every school event in which they both 
 participated — and both usually did — Frederick accompanied 
 Myra, and oddly enough, they were rarely accompanied by 
 others. He always waited for her to leave school, to take 
 her home, though it was somewhat out of his way. When 
 she occasionally told him that she was not going directly 
 home, but to the Loop, he invented an errand for himself 
 there. Now and then, when she wanted to be relieved of his 
 company, she told him that she was going to call on a girl 
 friend, or at the dressmaker's, and he was considerate enough 
 to accept her excuses without question. 
 
 When Myra developed an interest in the Northwestern 
 University settlement, Frederick feigned an interest also, 
 but mostly to be able to accompany her. He was not always 
 at ease there. Other people, older than he but with whom 
 Myra was completely compatible, made him restive. He always 
 urged her, after a half hour or so, "It's time you started for 
 home. With the slow streetcars I cannot possibly bring you 
 home by ten-thirty when your mother expects you." 
 
 At the Augusta Street settlement, Myra enjoyed the 
 company of these mature people, so much that she often 
 forgot her young friend from Hyde Park. The settlement 
 conducted classes for young boys and girls, mostly from the 
 ages of eleven to fifteen, giving instruction in sewing and 
 cooking to the girls, and wood carving and other manual 
 
training to the boys. Myra assisted in these classes, and 
 became well acquainted with the young people. 
 
 In turn, Miss Sanders, the head resident, developed an 
 unusual interest in Myra, regardless of the fact that the 
 girl was eighteen years old and she, thirty. Miss Sanders 
 was constantly amazed at Myra's thinking on problems 
 not common to young women of her age and background. 
 
 "Myra," the resident asked on one occasion, "where did 
 you gain such understanding of many things which are 
 strange even to adults? Was it from your own experience ?" 
 
 "I don't know that my experience has been different 
 from other girls my age," replied Myra thoughtfully. 
 "Though no two people, even in the same family, go through 
 the same experience. I have seen some things that impressed 
 me so much that I can never forget them." 
 
 She recalled the Heibner family — father, mother and 
 two young boys — who had lived near Indiana Avenue in 
 a very old rear apartment. Heibner had been a janitor at 
 a nearby mansion, but then his employers had moved away, 
 and he took a job as night fireman in the old sugar refinery 
 at Taylor Street and the river. 
 
 One morning when she was starting out for school, 
 Myra related to Miss Sanders, she passed by the Heibner 
 apartment house and saw an ambulance back up, and two 
 policemen took someone out on a stretcher to the rear 
 apartment. "I learned," she went on, "that there had been 
 an explosion in the boiler at the sugar refinery, with some 
 men fatally injured — among them, Mr. Heibner. The police 
 found the bodies, identified them, and just deposited them 
 at their homes. Then the police drove away. No other police 
 came to inquire, no newspapermen, no one from the refinery. 
 Society itself seemed neither to notice nor care. ... At 
 the risk of being late for school that day, I ran back home 
 
 21 
 
and told my mother. She took some food to them, and 
 did what she could. She learned that they had been living 
 almost from day to day on Mr. Heibner's earnings — they 
 had nothing in reserve. In a few weeks they moved away — 
 to relatives in Chicago Heights, I believe. Nobody really 
 knew — for nobody thought to ask. 
 
 'That was when I was still in grade school," she told 
 her friend, "and it was pretty shocking to me. But since 
 I've been coming here, and to Hull House, I've seen 
 and heard things that make the Heibner disaster typical 
 rather than unusual. Whole families left destitute, with no 
 insurance of any kind, and never a gesture from an injured 
 man's employers. There must be something that can be 
 done to remedy — or at least improve — such conditions. I 
 want to do whatever I can to help." 
 
 "There are others who feel as you do, Myra," Miss 
 Sanders encouraged her. "Here, and at Hull House, and 
 other places like this. Perhaps, even in industry. It will 
 take time, and there will be much work for many workers 
 — life work, a kind of vocation." 
 
 Myra agreed, and began to look forward more and more 
 to the evening or two a week which she spent at the settle- 
 ments. Her heart bled for the unfortunates, but she found 
 increasing satisfaction in whatever small tasks were as- 
 signed to her, to help heal the hurts of the underprivileged, 
 and to help them to help themselves. 
 
 When Myra graduated from high school with honors, 
 she put aside all thought of going to college. She did not 
 believe that more formal study would add to her under- 
 standing as much as experience in settlement work. She 
 would have to find some kind of daily employment, but she 
 decided to become a resident in one of the settlements. 
 
 22 
 
When told, her mother pleaded. "Myra, you are much 
 too young to live away from home. You are too inexperienced 
 in every way to look out for yourself. No one could look 
 after you when you're away from home." 
 
 Myra fully realized her mother's love and anxiety, but 
 she also recognized that the mother pleaded for herself as 
 well as her daughter, visualizing the loneliness that would 
 come upon the home when Myra left. But her mind was 
 made up. 
 
 "Mamma," she said gently, "I know that I shall be 
 extremely lonely for you, and I know you'll miss me. But 
 I'll be with you as much as I can — you're not going to lose 
 me, nor I, you." 
 
 She would not leave immediately, she promised. First, 
 she must find a job, and get settled in it. Her personality 
 was so bright that everywhere she applied for work, she 
 was encouraged. Neither clerical work nor selling appealed 
 to her — she wanted an occupation where she could be help- 
 ful to people. At last, she entered the employ of the city 
 public library. She hoped she could find satisfaction in guid- 
 ing young people in their reading and their studies. It would 
 be useful work, she thought. 
 
 Her enthusiasm waned in time, however, for most of 
 the young callers at the library were interested in only 
 fiction romance, and not in any kind of constructive read- 
 ing. So she became more and more interested in her own 
 reading, and there in the library she found a mass of read- 
 ing wealth. For a while she limited herself to history and 
 social subjects, and she began to understand the world 
 around her in broader terms than her own observations. 
 She learned that her own notions of right and wrong, taught 
 her at home and school and church, were not as absolute 
 as she had considered them. She recognized, through the 
 
 23 
 
work of great writers, that right and wrong and truth 
 and falsehood were relative, and that what seemed to be 
 right in one circumstance could be wrong in another, and 
 the other way around. She was gaining, through her own 
 efforts and interest, what amounted to a liberal education, 
 which was deepened and enriched by her experience at the 
 settlements. 
 
 After two years, she felt that she was completely ready 
 to leave home. 
 
 Frederick Hunt, meanwhile, had not given up. Myra 
 was still interested in him, but she found him a youth born 
 to wealth, who never knew or interested himself in the 
 misfortunes of others. His idea of disaster had been the 
 loss of a football game by his high school team, and after 
 high school his perspective did not grow much. 
 
 Still, she was attracted to him, even though she knew 
 that he accompanied her to Hull House more to be with her 
 than for any other reason, and she kept hoping that she 
 could draw him into her work, to capture his active interest. 
 She was thrilled when he told her on one occasion, "Jane 
 Addams is a very remarkable person." 
 
 But in spite of his indifference to her dedication, 
 Frederick's association with Myra had broadened his hori- 
 zons. She gave him a vision of unsuspected worlds, and he 
 began to realize some of the stupidities of society's conven- 
 tions, which he had always accepted without question. He 
 came to recognize at last that the entire social structure 
 was not stable, but really in a state of flux. But his approach 
 to the problems of society was different from hers. He saw 
 no possibility of changing the world to any extent by work- 
 ing with small, individual cases at the settlement houses. 
 To alleviate personal distress was good work, but the prob- 
 lem as he saw it was in the social structure itself. He 
 
 2U 
 
decided to enter law school, and, through the practice of 
 law, try to gain a better understanding of things about him. 
 
 His decision stirred up argument rather than approval 
 in Myra. She had nothing against the practice of law, but 
 she disagreed with the reasoning that led him toward it. 
 She wanted him to accept her own philosophy, and, if pos- 
 sible, to work with her. 
 
 "Do you think," he asked her, "that those women who 
 live at Hull House have as good an understanding of human 
 nature as, for instance, one who has made a deep study of 
 law and its practices?" 
 
 "Law," she replied, "provides formulas by which people 
 in large communities can live together, but the laws are too 
 impersonal to help solve daily living problems. They are 
 concerned with people only in relation to the statutes, and 
 infringement upon the statutes. But the women at Hull 
 House study life by living life. They know more about people 
 than any lawyer can learn from books. The lawyer never 
 becomes acquainted with the constant adjustments that are 
 necessary to people living within the law. Without that 
 understanding, life itself becomes meaningless." 
 
 But she saw that at least, he was growing, and she was 
 pleased. 
 
 Frederick was the dearest thing on earth to his father, 
 who was delighted with his son's choice of work. Hunt, 
 being a banker and broker, knew that the law played an 
 important part in his own business, and dreamed that when 
 Frederick stepped into the banking business with him, he 
 would bring a legally trained mind that would be a great 
 asset to the Hunt enterprises. 
 
 It was not until Frederick graduated from law school 
 that the father's dream was disturbed. Delighted with the 
 son's successful study, Hunt was ready to talk business. 
 
 25 
 
"Now that you're through school," he told Frederick, 
 "you are ready to take on a man's work." 
 
 Frederick hesitated just then to disclose what was in 
 his mind. He had never been able to talk easily with his 
 father — there had never been any real understanding be- 
 tween them, and he knew that the older man would never 
 be able to follow — say alone, condone — his own reasoning. 
 
 Hunt mistook the boy's hesitation, so he offered, "I do 
 believe that it would be best to broaden your understanding 
 by taking a trip abroad — for six months, or a year, if you 
 like." 
 
 Frederick was thoughtful. He could see the advantages 
 of travel, of learning first-hand the ways of other societies. 
 But his concern was here, in Chicago, and he was impatient 
 of time. 
 
 "That would be interesting," he replied, "but I would 
 rather do some graduate work for another year." 
 
 Hunt was puzzled. To him, it seemed that his son, a 
 young man with a fine mind and personality, competently 
 trained and with splendid business opportunities ready and 
 waiting for him, was still undecided. But, since he could 
 refuse his son nothing, he agreed to the boy's plan for 
 further study. Surely, in a year, Frederick would be ready 
 to settle down and enter the business. Money, of course, 
 was no consideration. It didn't matter to Hunt whether 
 Frederick earned his own living or not. It was only his 
 seeming immaturity that bothered the father. 
 
 Hunt was therefore quite unprepared for Frederick's 
 announcement, a few nights later, that he intended to leave 
 home, for how long, he did not know. 
 
 Pressed by both parents, Frederick admitted that he 
 would like to become a resident at a social settlement. His 
 
 26 
 
announcement brought on a family explosion. What in the 
 world was the matter with his home — and why should he 
 want to go and live with those people who worked among 
 the dregs of society, always stirring things up and trying 
 to "save" people who were beyond saving? 
 
 "There's no social life on Augusta Street!" wailed the 
 mother. "You weren't brought up to be a — a missionary! 
 You have an obligation to us !" 
 
 That was quite true, Frederick admitted. He wanted 
 to please his parents, to repay them in some way they could 
 understand, for their affection and their investment in him. 
 But there was an urgency in him now, beyond Myra's per- 
 suasion. He had done a great deal of thinking for himself. 
 He tried to explain to his parents. 
 
 "I've been sheltered all my life," he told them, "by our 
 wealth and position. I know only one kind of people — our 
 friends. I'm well trained in the law, but my knowledge is 
 entirely theoretical. I know nothing about the great mass 
 of the people — how and whether the existing laws meet 
 their needs, help them or cripple them. There's only one way 
 to find out — by living among them. It doesn't have to be 
 forever, you know. Just for a while." 
 
 The elder Hunt turned purple. "What in thunder do you 
 need to know anything about the scum of the earth — 
 crackpots, drunkards, fallen women, foreigners — in order 
 to handle the legal end of my business?" he shouted, and 
 realized, too late, that his dream was revealed, to a son who 
 had suddenly become unmanageable, at quite the wrong 
 moment. To him, Frederick was not only behaving like a 
 very bad son, he was flirting with ideas that were dangerous 
 to the very existence of his father's world. Was it possible 
 that Frederick was becoming a radical — one of the very 
 crackpots he wanted to go and live with? But Hunt was 
 
 27 
 
sorry that he had mentioned the business at just this time; 
 whatever was on Frederick's mind, it would take time to 
 work it out. And the boy's stubbornness was something new 
 to the father. He didn't know quite how to cope with it. 
 
 Frederick, however, was patient, in a new maturity 
 recently acquired. "Father," he said, "I don't know what 
 field of law I want to practice in. I've always known there 
 would be a place for me with you, if I wanted it. But I need 
 to know more about people, about life, before I'm going to 
 be any kind of a lawyer. I have to be my own man, and make 
 my own decisions. Of course," he added, "I intend to support 
 myself when I leave here. And I'll continue my postgraduate 
 work at night school. It isn't as if I were going to a foreign 
 country," he consoled his weeping mother. "I'll see you 
 often." 
 
 Later, he told Myra, "I hated to do it to them. But I 
 have to get out into the world. I'm stifled at home — I can't 
 think straight there. I don't know what I want — but I'm 
 going to find out." 
 
 Myra, of course, was delighted with his decision. Sud- 
 denly, Frederick was growing up fast. She thought of her 
 conventionally minded brother, who seemed completely con- 
 tented to make a career out of being handyman to the 
 industrialist, Robert Chase, and Frank suffered by the com- 
 parison with Frederick. 
 
 Still, there was no talk of love between the two. He 
 takes me too much for granted, as a friend, she thought. 
 And I still don't know how he's going to develop; I'll have 
 to wait and see. I don't even know whether I love him or not. 
 That's up to him. I think I could love him — if he wanted 
 me to — and if we could work together. But I don't know. 
 ... I don't know. . . . 
 
 Myra had long ago given up hope of any real com- 
 
panionship with her brother. There was nothing they could 
 talk about. Frank had committed himself, irrevocably, it 
 seemed, to the House of Chase, intent upon becoming an 
 indispensable cog in the great wheel of the Chase enterprises. 
 
 Frank had been with the House of Chase for five years 
 when "R. B.," his benefactor, first took real notice of Frank's 
 sister Myra. 
 
 His employment had come about in an almost story- 
 book manner, the sort of thing that happened to the heroes 
 of Horatio Alger. Frank was a year or two out of high 
 school, and still attended Sunday morning church services 
 with his mother. He had become an usher, one of whose 
 duties was to pass the collection plate. 
 
 Robert B. Chase, who also attended regularly, was in 
 the habit of dropping a five dollar bill into the plate when- 
 ever it was passed to him. He seldom paid any attention to 
 the usher, but one morning he happened to look up and 
 glance casually at Frank. He saw a tall, serious-faced young 
 man, with a firm mouth and chin, a slightly aquiline nose, 
 a fine broad forehead, with dark blue eyes and dark brown 
 hair. Perhaps it was Frank's bearing that arrested the older 
 man most — his erect carriage yet deferential manner, which 
 bespoke respect for his surroundings without any loss of 
 dignity to himself. 
 
 After observing the young usher for several Sunday 
 mornings, Chase became convinced that Frank Dodds could 
 become useful to him ! He went about his siege subtly. 
 
 Whenever young Dodds appeared with the collection 
 plate, Chase dropped in a ten dollar bill. When other ushers 
 alternated Dodds, the Chase contribution was the old, usual 
 five dollars. The head usher noticed, and soon assigned 
 Frank exclusively to the Chase pew. One Sunday morning 
 R. B. deposited an envelope instead of a bill, the envelope 
 
 29 
 
containing twenty-five dollars. Frank never opened such 
 envelopes, and so knew nothing of the liberal donation. 
 
 After about four months of this peculiar performance, 
 one Sunday morning after the service Chase sighted young 
 Dodds alone at the church exit and approached, holding out 
 his hand. "My young friend," Chase said abruptly, "I would 
 like very much to know what you are doing in your regular 
 daily life." 
 
 Frank, surprised, nevertheless answered directly and 
 courteously, "I am very much interested in law, and am 
 taking evening courses at the Chicago College of Law." 
 
 "How long have you been attending?" demanded Chase. 
 
 "One year, sir." 
 
 "What do you do during the day?" the questioning 
 went on. 
 
 "I'm working in a lawyer's office," replied Frank, 
 "assisting him with reading up cases." 
 
 "Are you receiving any compensation?" asked Chase. 
 
 This exceedingly personal conversation was beginning 
 to bewilder Frank, but his good manners bade him answer. 
 "Enough to pay my tuition," he admitted. 
 
 Chase frowned. "That is very interesting," he com- 
 mented. "I believe I can arrange for you to earn a larger 
 income during the day, and so provide for a better future." 
 
 "Thank you very much," replied Frank, still puzzled. 
 He knew Chase by sight and name, and as one of the 
 wealthier pillars of the church. But he knew little more, and 
 was still pondering over the strange encounter by the next 
 Sunday, having said nothing to his mother or Myra because 
 he did not understand the older man's intent. 
 
 SO 
 
 
This Sunday morning Chase sought him out before the 
 service began. "You haven't come to see me yet," he accused 
 Frank as he was being led to his pew. 
 
 "You have not told me where and when I may see you," 
 he replied cautiously. 
 
 "At my office, of course." Chase seemed surprised. 
 "When will you come?" 
 
 "I am not certain," replied Frank evasively. 
 
 This seemed a strange remark to Chase. That a young 
 man who was working his way through college should not 
 promptly entertain an implied offer for his own betterment 
 was incredible. Frank's very hesitation determined R. B. 
 to lure the boy into his employ. He stopped again after the 
 service to talk with him, and insisted that Frank come to 
 his office the following morning. 
 
 "I will come," promised Frank at last, "but I am not 
 free until four in the afternoon." 
 
 "I shall expect you then," Chase replied. 
 
 At the dinner table that noon, Frank related his con- 
 versations with Chase to his mother and sister, both of 
 whom remained silent. At last Myra asked, "Are you really 
 going to see him?" 
 
 "I promised to," replied Frank, wondering at their 
 seeming lack of interest. To Frank, convinced now of the 
 authenticity o2 Chase's offer, could only marvel at the 
 opportunity which was being offered him. With a great will 
 to succeed, and never doubting that he would make his way 
 entirely by his own efforts, he wondered how many young 
 men in his position had the good fortune to be sought out 
 by a great industrialist for favor — and, in Frank's case, so 
 apparently through no effort of his own? Frank saw, in 
 
 31 
 
the House of Chase, a door opening for him to enter the 
 vast world of business and industry, which he had been 
 brought up to respect and admire. His sister's lack of inter- 
 est hurt him, and he viewed her growing interest in the 
 slums with alarm. If she had confided in him more, he would 
 have been more alarmed. . . . 
 
 A week after his interview with Robert Chase, Frank 
 Dodds began his employment with the House of Chase. 
 
 It became immediately apparent that the new employee 
 was a favorite of the chief. R. B. introduced Frank to a 
 number of members of the older staff in a manner that 
 demanded he be accepted without question as a confidential 
 co-worker. In fact, Chase referred to him various important 
 phases of the bank work, much to the surprise of everyone, 
 and no less to Frank himself. Never, the old timers told 
 each other, had R. B. taken such an interest in anyone else 
 on the staff. There were other young men of equal ability 
 and personality whom Chase rarely noticed. What of his 
 own son, Carroll? Where did this newcomer fit into that 
 picture? 
 
 What no one realized was Chase's growing realization 
 that his son — saving a miracle — would be a disappointment 
 to him. He was, consciously or unconsciously, seeking a 
 substitute for Carroll, even while he still hoped that the 
 miracle would happen. 
 
 So curiosity was rife, but questioners returned from 
 Dodds' desk without any information as to the peculiar 
 relationship between Frank and the chief. Dodds was rarely 
 communicative with those whom he did not know well. He 
 was courteous to all, but did not encourage the confidences 
 which were readily exchanged among the other men. He 
 never spoke a word of gossip, although he heard in silence 
 many comments about the executives who were important 
 in the organization, and about the chief himself. Even the 
 
 
executives tried to draw him out on something besides 
 business matters, but with no success. Dodds puzzled them 
 all. Yet his demeanor was always frank and without a 
 trace of concealment. 
 
 As Frank worked his way into the business, his bene- 
 factor's generosity grew. At Christmas time, he was called 
 into Chase's private office and given a pencilled note in a 
 manila envelope, with the suggestion that it be taken to 
 Mr. Jerrams, the well known tailor to the successful busi- 
 nessman. Frank did not open the envelope, and discovered 
 its contents only when Mr. Jerrams asked him to step back 
 mto the fitting room so that his measurements could be 
 taken. The note had given an order that a very fine suit be 
 made up for the young man and charged to Chase's account 
 Now and then there were gifts of theater tickets, hats, ties 
 an overcoat. There was no discussion about these matters,' 
 but the manila envelopes became a kind of symbol of their 
 relationship. 
 
 The relationship was characterized on the one side by 
 paternal largesse, on the other by unfailing courtesy with 
 reserve. As when, on his twentieth birthday, Frank was 
 again called into the chief's office and presented with a neat 
 looking case which, when opened, revealed a beautiful gold 
 watch, and his comment was, as usual, "Thank you very 
 much, Mr. Chase. I never expected it." 
 
 But with all his reserve, Frank Dodds was becoming 
 more and more valuable to his superior, until, as time went 
 on, many decisions of procedure were left in his hands by 
 the chief, with the mere suggestion, "What are you going to 
 do about this?" the intimation being that the entire matter 
 was up to Frank. 
 
 Chase's constant generosity, together with his other 
 evidences of confidence in the young man, built up in Frank 
 a loyalty which matched the interest of the other 
 
 S3 
 
But when Frank tried to explain all this to his mother 
 and Myra, they were not very much interested. To Myra 
 Frank's loyalty to Robert B. Chase was something winch had 
 been bought. The chasm between brother and sister widened 
 as he became more immersed in the affairs of the House of 
 Siase and she, more interested in the "little people" at the 
 opposite pole of society. The mother deeply -teref ed m 
 both her children, became more and more a bystander, 
 watching each go a separate way, but condemning neither, 
 f she found more warmth in Myra, she did not undervalue 
 Frank's ability. Her children were developing well, she 
 
 thought. 
 
 Sh 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 Stormy Clouds 
 
 R. B. Chase was not one to give up easily, and most 
 certainly not after the first try. There must be some way to 
 get Myra Dodds into his family. He had been too abrupt, 
 he decided, and his son Carroll had been too stilted in his 
 approach. Why hadn't the stupid oaf given the girl a whirl, 
 romanced her with flowers and candy and evenings at the 
 theater to give her some glimpse of the life she might have 
 as young Mrs. Chase ? R. B. was more than ever disappointed 
 in his son, and realized that he would have to figure out some 
 new tact'cs for luring her into his world. 
 
 Accepting the challenge of her mind and her own in- 
 terests, he began trying to acquaint her with his business, 
 which he thought should surely appeal to her executive bent. 
 She was interested in these slum people, it seemed to him, 
 because they constituted her only experience with the outside 
 
 35 
 
world. If she learned the other side of the story — that the 
 only way to help these wretches was to create more business 
 which would mean more jobs and more security for the little 
 people — well, perhaps he could get her into the family through 
 that door rather than with promises of social splendor, which 
 meant nothing to her any way. 
 
 He began to invite her to his home and to his office, 
 though she accepted rarely. She was still seeing Frederick 
 Hunt, though their work kept them pretty well occupied. But 
 her curiosity about R. B. Chase drew her oftener than she 
 really wanted into casual conferences with him. This would 
 lead to nothing, she told herself. She most certainly was not 
 going to marry Carroll Chase, and what other motive could 
 there be for the father's repeated invitations? Still, the man 
 himself interested her. Here was more, she felt, than a busi- 
 ness tycoon who thought of nothing but profit. He was a 
 builder, and she thought that if she could only open some 
 new doors to his understanding, he might become a greater 
 builder, a real force for the benefit of humanity, if he only 
 knew more of the other side, the problems of the little people 
 whose fate he held in his hands. Consequently, she found 
 herself spending more time than she could really afford in 
 the private office of R. B. Chase. 
 
 She was therefore completely unprepared for his next 
 major move. 
 
 One late afternoon, when she had stopped in his office by 
 request on her way from the library to Hull House, thereby 
 reducing her supper time to almost nothing, he said abruptly, 
 "Myra," using her first name for perhaps the second or third 
 time, "I believe you could be of great help to me if you came 
 into my service." 
 
 She bristled immediately at the word "service." To her 
 the term meant a calling, such as she felt toward her slum 
 
 36 
 
work. To him, she felt the definition was synonymous with 
 "servitude." She told him so. 
 
 "I don't believe your brother thinks of himself as a serv- 
 ant," he replied, hurt but determined. "I appreciate his good 
 qualities and his helpfulness. And I have tried to reward 
 them. I believe you could be much more valuable to the 
 House of Chase. I believe you could discover many things 
 about the conduct of the business that might be amenable 
 to correction and betterment." If he appealed to her do-good 
 passion, he might win her, he thought. And yet, he was 
 sincere in wanting to make improvements, the need for which 
 he might not himself see, but which her experience and in- 
 tuition might lead her to discover. He was sincere enough 
 in wanting her in the business. A mind like hers should not 
 go to waste fighting lost causes. And business was the only 
 activity he could understand, to put anyone's mind to. 
 
 But Myra immediately challenged him. "By that, of 
 course," she countered, "you mean that I might help you 
 increase your profits." 
 
 "True," he admitted. "Profits are the tangible results 
 of healthy management. Without profits, there is no renewal 
 of the red corpuscles of a business, and the industry itself 
 dies. But I'm thinking of other things. There has been trouble 
 brewing in industry for quite a while. Not so many years 
 ago — you were too young to know much about it — we had 
 that disgraceful riot in Market Square. And only seven 
 years ago there was the Pullman strike, which threatened 
 the entire economy of the middle west, and Chicago in par- 
 ticular. It crippled both capital and labor, and did no one 
 any good. 
 
 "There's something brewing now," he went on. "Industry 
 in general has improved since the election of Mr. McKinley 
 as President. There's been better employment and overall 
 
 37 
 
satisfaction. But there's something in the air, as tangible as 
 the odor from the stockyards — but by no means as easily 
 identified. There will be trouble — and no one knows when, 
 and no one will really know why. I think that you, Myra, in 
 your contacts with the working people and others who are 
 associated with them, might understand better the forces 
 that are at work, the dissatisfactions that break out in spite 
 of all we can do." 
 
 Myra was thoughtful for a moment. Then, "It seems to 
 me," she said slowly, "that you and your kind are wilfully 
 blind. You vision your employees only in relation to your own 
 interests. You want them to be reasonably comfortable, and 
 contented, for that makes them better workers. You are in- 
 terested in their animal welfare. You have no idea of the 
 emotions, the ambitions, the frustrations that they suffer. 
 You don't realize that they are individuals, like yourself, with 
 much the same desires and defeats. They are things for you 
 to use, and the only way you can evaluate them is on your 
 balance sheet. Well fed workers work better, and contribute 
 more to you and your dynasty. And that isn't the answer at 
 all. What's more, you want to preserve the status quo at any 
 cost — human lives, if necessary. You are afraid — afraid of 
 change, of new ideas, of anything that might upset the order 
 which supports all the establishments which the like of you 
 have built up." 
 
 This challenge to a man who had created an immense 
 empire through his own efforts was a shock, particularly 
 when it came from a very young woman over whom Chase 
 felt a sort of instructorship. He had been trying to develop 
 her into some acceptance of his philosophy, which he con- 
 sidered was philanthropic. Feeling her rebuff, he answered 
 stiffly and coldly, "Myra, I fear you have misinterpreted my 
 motives. You have twisted the subject, and veered off in a 
 direction I don't care to follow." 
 
 38 
 
She was not to be silenced. "That is exactly what I've 
 been telling you," she countered. "Your fear dominates your 
 thinking. You dare not explore in a direction which may not 
 be a happy one. You don't realize that you are only one of a 
 large clan of financiers who think and act alike. Their think- 
 ing is self-centered, and all their actions are defensive. You 
 live in a world all your own, and don't believe there can be 
 any merit whatever in ideas that are contrary to yours. 
 There is too much cowardly fear in your makeup — fear of 
 losing your fortune. You fear death because that would stop 
 your attempts to protect your fortune — you want a dynasty, 
 to continue just exactly as it is, after you are gone. Not 
 that," she added hastily, "I believe you are cowardly for 
 your own person. I think you're probably very brave, both 
 physically and morally. But you are cowardly about your 
 fortune." 
 
 Chase shuddered for a full minute. Then he rallied, and 
 anger boiled up in him at her impertinence. 
 
 "Young lady," he told her, "you have had little experi- 
 ence in the world. How old are you? Twenty-one? You come 
 from a sheltered home, and outside your home you have 
 seen poverty, and conditions and situations that you think 
 are unjust. You've seen nothing else. You know nothing about 
 business. You don't know what goes into the building of an 
 industry. You don't realize that this country was built by 
 business, and that those men whom you condemn so violently 
 are erecting and securing the ramparts that will protect the 
 future of the country and will promote the welfare of all." 
 
 Myra passed a hand over her eyes in a gesture of futility. 
 
 "I never denied that," she said. "I understand it com- 
 pletely. But you and I are talking about two different things. 
 What I'm talking about is your own attitude toward your 
 fortune — which I grant you, you have acquired entirely 
 
 39 
 
through your own efforts. And you intend to guard it in- 
 definitely. But you are doing so at the expense of those who 
 have helped you to amass it. It is your idea — no, conviction — 
 that you are the only one entitled to control this fortune. 
 And yet you have no one to entrust with it. Your own son 
 . . ." but she broke off abruptly, not wanting to discuss 
 Carroll with him. 'Tear is what dominates all of you, as a 
 group," she went on. 'Tear was what gripped the heads of 
 the Pullman Company, fear of change, not the infinitesimal 
 amount of money involved in granting the small concessions 
 that the workers demanded. They were afraid — afraid that 
 a small concession then would invite more in the future. The 
 Pullman Company wanted to maintain its patriarchy forever 
 — keeping its employees dependent, without self-respect. Mr. 
 Chase, workers earn what they get — it isn't given to them 
 out of the great generosity of the employer. They are en- 
 titled to the respect of their employers, as valuable workers." 
 
 "You talk like Eugene Debs," he replied, "who earned 
 his imprisonment for his attempt to shatter industry." 
 
 "Eugene Debs never had an idea of shattering indus- 
 try !" Myra declared. "He wanted to sustain industry with a 
 coordinate interest in the welfare of the employees !" 
 
 "That, my young lady," Chase replied, "is exactly what 
 the Pullman Company has done for years. It built up a fine 
 city, a model city, with good housing and modern conveni- 
 ences, and only a few of the men were dissatisfied. The vast 
 majority appreciated and praised what the Pullman Company 
 has done for them." 
 
 "Then why did they go out on strike ?" Myra demanded. 
 "Not the white collar workers, of course, but the others. 
 Their resentment must have been seething for years. Re- 
 sentment against the entire system of the Pullman Company. 
 The Company was benevolent — in your terms of benevolence, 
 
 hO 
 
which means alms, even liberal alms. But the self-respect of 
 the American workman prevents him from accepting alms!" 
 
 The quarrel was becoming more and more bitter, each 
 one sure of moral right, but neither convincing the other. 
 Still, neither could give up. Chase felt that his superior age, 
 experience, wisdom, and even his position was being attacked 
 by an ill-informed and impertinent young woman. Myra, that 
 her intelligence was being insulted. 
 
 "As a director of the Pullman Company," Chase told 
 her stuffily, "I can tell you that it has always put the welfare 
 of its employees ahead of profits. It has built up a public 
 service that is remarkable in the world today — a transporta- 
 tion system that gives traveling comfort, with a saving of 
 time and annoyance, and that connects up every center of 
 industry with every other. What more could the Company 
 
 dor 
 
 "It could have done more than it did," she maintained 
 stubbornly. "It could have kept from repressing the spirit of 
 its employees." 
 
 "You're talking abstractions!" he told her impatiently. 
 "If you were to come to the House of Chase — and the offer 
 is still open — you'd learn a great deal more than abstrac- 
 tions. You'd find out about the practical end of business — 
 and incidentally, that our people are well satisfied. Or you 
 could ask your brother, who sees things first-hand." 
 
 "I've seen things first-hand," she replied. "I've passed 
 by your piants on Canal Street. I looked through the win- 
 dows, into the buildings. I walked through the gates that 
 were sometimes left open. I saw the conditions under which 
 your people work — the heavy labor. I've seen accidents in 
 your yards that need never — should never — have happened. 
 I've read in the newspapers of cases of injustice — or neglect 
 — in your plants as well as those of others." 
 
 Ul 
 
Chase frowned. "You talk as though we planned to 
 have these accidents happen — " 
 
 "You don't plan well enough for them not to happen," 
 she replied ruthlessly. "I know," she conceded, "that some 
 accidents are caused by the negligence, or incompetence, or 
 even drunkenness of the workers. But if you — and others in 
 positions like yours — are the great patriarchs which you 
 think you are, you'd make your plants accident-proof even 
 against the shortcomings of your employees, who are human 
 too." 
 
 Chase was tired of the harangue, which seemed to be 
 getting nowhere. He was not willing to give up the conquest 
 of this young woman's mind, partly because he believed it 
 was a good mind which could be trained constructively to 
 his advantage, and partly just because he never gave up 
 any project, once he started. Moreover, there must be some 
 meeting place where the two of them could talk sensibly 
 about the problems of industry, without quarreling, and to 
 the advantage of both. He recognized now, without putting 
 the thought into words — for that would be admitting defeat 
 — that she was completely out of the reach of his son Carroll. 
 But that didn't mean that he couldn't conquer her stubborn 
 and unrealistic idealism, and turn her sympathies and ener- 
 gies into practical channels. 
 
 "You are still talking abstractions, Myra," he told her, 
 "while I'm talking ways and means. And we can't settle it 
 in one sitting. Come back tomorrow." 
 
 "No," she replied, "I cannot give two days in succession 
 to even stimulating conversation whose real purpose isn't 
 clear. I have my job, you know, as well as my settlement 
 work." Frederick Hunt and his work, which she was very 
 much interested in, were none of Chase's business. But 
 Frederick was on her mind, too, as well as her mother. She 
 
 h2 
 
 
couldn't give every spare moment she had to R. B. Chase. 
 "If you'd like me to come again, may we make it a week 
 from today?" 
 
 "A week it is, then," he agreed. "And don't forget." 
 
 US 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 An Apparition 
 
 The entrance to the Western Indemnity Building, in 
 downtown La Salle Street, was controlled by four heavy 
 bronze doors with plate glass panels in the upper sections. 
 About ten feet back from the entrance rose a very wide mar- 
 ble staircase which led up to the bank floor. Directly opposite 
 the approach was a row of five passenger elevators, at the 
 front of which was stationed a dispatcher who held a pair 
 of castanets in one hand, with which he signalled the eleva- 
 tor operators. With the other hand he guided callers who 
 wanted to enter the bank on one side or the Chase & Com- 
 pany headquarters on the opposite side. 
 
 At the top of the stairs the visitor found himself in 
 a large rotunda about fifty feet long, and proportionately 
 wide. The entrance to the bank was through a pair of great 
 
 U 
 
double doors. A similar set of doors guarded the office of 
 Chase and Company. Immediately inside, a large flat table 
 stood in an approach vestibule, and was presided over by 
 a massive colored attendant whose duty it was to register 
 the employees who came in and out morning, noon and 
 night, and to keep out unwanted callers. Most of them were 
 unwanted — the heavy gentleman admitted only those who 
 had definite appointments. 
 
 From this vestibule the entire office was visible except 
 for the rear wing alongside the safety vaults, and the entire 
 space was open except for a few areas enclosed by wire 
 grills, one for the cashier and one for the mailing depart- 
 ment. There was only one private office, that of R. B. Chase, 
 to one side of the vestibule. None of the important executives 
 had private offices — rows of roll-top desks lined the room, 
 and each man had a desk, a swivel chair for himself, and a 
 visitor's chair. Stenographers and bookkeepers were crowded 
 at one end of the office, and accordingly were almost invisible 
 from the entrance in the vestibule. 
 
 R. B. Chase's office was simply furnished with a heavy 
 roll-top desk and a large table, a few chairs. On or in the 
 desk he kept all his valuable papers, but his transactions 
 were carried on across the table, while he sat with his back 
 to the desk. The caller saw only the papers which were 
 under discussion at the time. 
 
 The offices of Chase & Company opened regularly at 
 8:00 A.M., and closed at 5:30 P.M. The people in the mail- 
 ing department, however, came in at 7 in the morning to 
 receive, open up and distribute the mail. These people also 
 stayed about twenty minutes after the closing hour to post 
 the envelopes and throw the mail into a large bag for the 
 mail collector. 
 
 R. B. Chase usually arrived early in the morning, be- 
 
 J>5 
 
tween 7:30 and 7:45. He left punctually at 4:30 in the 
 afternoon. He rarely signed a letter, except where it was 
 legally required. All the mail was attended to by his execu- 
 tives and his personal secretary, who sat at a small desk 
 just outside the private office. The secretary entered Chase's 
 office whenever necessary, usually informally. Chase did 
 not seclude himself — he strolled about the outer office like 
 other members of the staff, greeting those who caught 
 his eye in passing. Frequently he walked through the aisles 
 to say a word or give some instruction to one or another 
 employee, or to give some instructions to the major execu- 
 tives of whom there were about a half-dozen, some who 
 managed operations and others who were concerned with 
 the far-flung investments of the business. He talked often- 
 est, these days, with the office manager, and with Frank 
 Dodds. He had toyed with the idea, since Myra's last visit, 
 of sounding out the brother regarding his sister, to see 
 if he could learn more about the girl, but decided against 
 it. He realized that there was little sympathy between the 
 two, and that he himself probably knew her better than her 
 brother did. Moreover, recognizing both Frank's value and 
 his limitations, he had no desire to make Frank either 
 jealous or suspicious of his interest in the sister. Neither 
 would it pay to let an employee — Frank, of all people — 
 know that R. B. Chase could fail in any objective he sought 
 — if he should fail in drawing Myra into his activities. He 
 determined again that he would not fail, and waited im- 
 patiently through the week for her next visit, forgetting 
 the bitter accusations they had flung at each other. 
 
 She arrived late. He had cleared his desk in anticipa- 
 tion early in the afternoon, but it was nearly 4:20 when 
 she was ushered into his office. 
 
 "I'm sorry to be so late," she apologized, flustered for 
 the first time in his acquaintance with her. "Things do come 
 
 46 
 
up at the last minute — and here I am, just ten minutes 
 before your leaving time." 
 
 Her sudden graciousness, after her vindictive mood of 
 a week ago, was warming. 
 
 "You are welcome whenever you come," he told her. 
 "And more welcome the oftener you come." He was deter- 
 mined to keep this conversation on a cordial basis, and, apro- 
 pos of nothing in particular, he remarked, "You should know, 
 I am a man of principles. I refrain from doing anything 
 casually, and upon such principles I make my plan of ac- 
 tion." He was referring, of course, to his hope of drawing 
 her into the business. 
 
 She flared up immediately. "Principles?" she asked. 
 "You have no principles ! You act on certain policies, which 
 give you a definite advantage — the maximum advantage. 
 If you call that a principle — well, I don't. Principles are 
 immutable. But you change yours whenever you think you 
 need to, according to the immediate advantage. Let's not 
 you and I talk about principles." 
 
 He refused to be insulted. In fact, he was rather 
 amused. "You certainly are a principled young lady," he 
 told her, "you do everything in accordance with what you 
 think is right and wrong — the tenets which you learned 
 at home and in the church." 
 
 "Let's leave the church out of this," she retorted, though 
 she would not admit at the moment that she rarely went to 
 church and that she had found some of her personal answers 
 elsewhere. "Your business principles are independent of 
 churches. You attend regularly, and contribute liberally to 
 your church, but that is just a social pattern that you're 
 following. The churches in many communities — like other 
 organizations, by the way — are stabilizers that are anchors 
 about which the public sentiment swings, but the church 
 
 h7 
 
is usually run upon practical considerations rather than 
 what you call principles. In a church, as in any other busi- 
 ness, the first aim is to promote the income, and the second 
 is to implant in the minds of the members some vague 
 notion that the preachings of the church have tangible 
 value." 
 
 Chase was shocked. What was this girl of little more 
 than twenty trying to do — set herself against all society? 
 He knew there were answers to her specious arguments, 
 but he was not a theologian. And she had a way of twisting 
 his own words and turning them against him in a way that 
 left him helpless. So he remarked, "I haven't seen you in 
 church for a long time. Have you broken away, or are you 
 attending some other church?" 
 
 "I've found it preferable," she replied, "to align myself 
 with institutions which accomplish a maximum of good 
 results with the most effort one can apply. Of course, the 
 churches do some good, but compared with the effort put 
 into them, the results are small indeed." 
 
 Chase waved the subject aside impatiently. "Let's get 
 to the point. You want to do some good in the world. I will 
 again offer you a place in my institution. There'll be plenty 
 of opportunity for you to do 'good work,' and with my co- 
 operation, you'll get more and better results than in those 
 poverty-strangled settlement houses of yours. I've never 
 pretended — least of all, to you — that there isn't room for 
 improvement. You would find errors — and help me to cor- 
 rect them. You would also find much merit. In fact, the 
 errors are few, compared to the merit. Human beings are 
 not perfect, and whatever they do is imperfectly accom- 
 plished. Progress is slow, and has to be accepted as such. 
 Nobody can make the world over in a day." 
 
 "No," replied Myra decisively. "We're no nearer to 
 any kind of agreement tonight than we were a week ago. 
 
 US 
 
Your ideas are too vague, and your super-righteousness is 
 too inclusive. You don't really wish to know anything that 
 goes contrary to your own policies. I see no way in which 
 I could serve you — to your satisfaction or mine." 
 
 With this, she rose, and he with her. More than an hour 
 had passed, and as they left Chase's private office they found 
 the outer room cleared. Even the colored attendant, James 
 Hook, was gone. There was some noise in the far office, 
 where some employees had apparently remained, and as 
 the two were leaving the vestibule, they encountered a young 
 man who quietly said, "Good evening, Mr. Chase." 
 
 Chase replied, "Good evening," and proceeded. But 
 after a step or two, he turned and stopped the young man, 
 asking him what his duties here were. 
 
 "I stayed to turn out the lights after you." 
 
 "What is your name?" asked Chase, pleased with this 
 evidence of thoughtfulness. 
 
 "Heibner," the young man answered, "Joe Heibner." 
 
 Myra let out a startled cry, and stepped between the 
 two men. "Where do you live?" she asked Joe Heibner. 
 
 "Out on Dekoven Street," he replied, puzzled at her 
 sudden agitation. 
 
 "How long have you lived there?" was her next question. 
 
 "Nearly two years." 
 
 "And before that?" 
 
 "All my life I've lived in Chicago, except for seven 
 years in Chicago Heights, where my mother and younger 
 brother and I went to stay with my uncle, after my father 
 was killed. Now that my brother and I are both working, 
 we brought my mother back to Chicago." 
 
 U9 
 
"Did you live near Indiana Avenue and 25th Street ?" 
 prodded Myra. "And was your father killed in an accident? 
 Wasn't he a fireman ?" 
 
 "Why yes," replied Joe Heibner. "But how did you 
 know?" 
 
 "I was a neighbor of yours," she replied. "I was a little 
 girl then, and I was on my way to school when they brought 
 your father home. I ran back and told my mother, and she 
 did what she could. But soon, you moved away, and we 
 never heard any more about you." 
 
 "Well," he answered, embarrassed either by the per- 
 sonal conversation or by the unhappy memories it called 
 up, "there wasn't much else we could do. A widow with 
 two small boys — my uncle offered to take us in until we 
 could work and take care of mother." Clearly, he wanted 
 to get away, and Myra and Chase both said good night, 
 but she added, "Thanks for telling me, Joe." 
 
 On the way out of the building, she told Chase sadly, 
 the vindictiveness gone from her voice, "No, there was 
 nothing else Mrs. Heibner could do but accept charity." 
 She recapitulated for him the whole story, which had 
 haunted her for years, and which perhaps had first kindled 
 her interest in welfare work. "Not a soul came near," she 
 finished, "no police, no newspapermen, no one from the 
 plant where Heibner worked. It was one of your plants, 
 Mr. Chase. Was anyone in your company interested? Did 
 you even know what happened?" 
 
 It was all so long ago. . . . Chase remembered the ex- 
 plosion, but had supposed that if there was anything the 
 company could do for the man's family, someone of his 
 executives was taking care of it. Those had been troubled 
 times, and he couldn't be everywhere at once. . . . But he 
 realized Myra would not accept such reasoning. "I remem- 
 
 50 
 
 
ber we put a lot of money into repairs," he told her, "to 
 prevent a recurrence of such accidents." 
 
 "You remember the financial cost," she reminded him, 
 and he knew too late that he'd said the wrong thing, "but 
 not the human cost. Now, are you beginning to understand 
 what I've been talking about?" 
 
 He was, and he had to vindicate himself. 'Til see to it 
 that the boy gets every chance in my employ," he promised, 
 "I'll put him in charge of your brother — who, as an old 
 neighbor, should be interested too." 
 
 Myra gave up the argument, when she would have 
 liked to say that he might have done better to take some 
 interest in the Heibners — and others like them — ten years 
 ago. But she felt in his contriteness now some stirring of 
 that social conscience which she had been trying to rouse 
 in him. For here was a man of no small proportions, one 
 who had built an empire with his bare hands, as it were. 
 If he could only be jolted — or persuaded — out of his patri- 
 archal ideas of ownership, he could use the power of that 
 empire for good. She would be the last one to deny the 
 value of money — it was what her struggling friends in the 
 settlements needed most. But, to make a better world — a 
 decent world — the men like Chase who controlled money 
 needed a new philosophy which would consider workers 
 first as human beings, and secondly, as producers of profits 
 on a ledger sheet. Perhaps she could be the instrument for 
 waking R. B. Chase to his responsibility not only as an 
 industrialist who held the lives of thousands of workers in 
 his hands, but as a human being himself. . . . But she could 
 not do it as one of his employees, a person to be bought and 
 commanded to serve him. . . . 
 
 He sensed her change in mood, and insisted on driving 
 her home. ( She was still living with her mother, but strain- 
 
 51 
 
ing to get away, as Frederick Hunt had done, to be on her 
 own without being torn between two worlds.) 
 
 On the way, Chase told her, "Whether or not I can 
 induce you to enter my employ, I think we may be able to 
 help each other." It was as near as he could come to admit- 
 ting that she might be right about anything. "Your scorch- 
 ing comments stimulate me," he was the great man again, 
 handing out favors, but she let it pass, for he added, "per- 
 haps, through innumerable arguments, we will come to some 
 mutual understanding/' And then, in a burst of gallantry, 
 "If I were a younger man, I think I could fall in love with 
 you. What a team we might have made !" 
 
 No, she thought, but did not say it, no team at all. To 
 live with his driving ambition, his lust for power, his will 
 that had mowed down everything and everyone in his way 
 — that wasn't her idea of a team, or of marriage. It was 
 no wonder that his son had turned out to be a nincompoop. 
 She wondered vaguely what Frederick Hunt was doing 
 tonight, and felt, without realizing it in words, that there 
 was beginning for her a real friendship with this man who, 
 publicly at least, was the antithesis of everything she be- 
 lieved in or respected. She did not realize at the moment 
 that the friendship would last through all the years of his 
 life. 
 
 Nor did she know quite how deeply troubled he was 
 by that apparition from the past, Joe Heibner, witness to 
 all his sins of omission. She only knew that she suddenly 
 felt differently about this man, that perhaps, without his 
 fully understanding it, he was a soul crying in the wilder- 
 ness, and that she was obliged to answer. 
 
 52 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 Strange Friendship 
 
 Chase, on the other hand, had no idea of Myra's com- 
 passion for him, or her conception of his need for her. 
 Quite the contrary, his desire to bring her to his way of 
 thinking so that he might harness her ability was increased 
 by her cessation of hostilities. While at time she deflated 
 him unmercifully, and even made him feel a little humbled 
 by her criticism, he had to admire her sincerity and zeal. 
 But he felt that she was playing with dangerous ideas which 
 attracted h3r because of their novelty, and he suspected 
 that all young people could be impressed by such novelties, 
 which to him were mental aberrations. All this mental un- 
 rest, this sentimental yearning, was a threat to social sta- 
 bility. Regardless of what she called her personal experience, 
 he was convinced that her thinking was directed by the 
 people with whom she worked in the settlements, and he 
 
 53 
 
knew that such ideas could breed like quack-grass until they 
 destroyed a whole garden of accomplishment. 
 
 He recalled vividly how, only a few years ago, 
 the "sixteen to one silver craze" had swept the country, 
 all but carrying a crackpot into the Presidency of the United 
 States. Instinctively, Chase understood mob psychology, and 
 he felt that people who meant well but did not understand 
 were as dangerous as the mob itself. He did not want Myra 
 to become one of these. Surely her role in life was not to 
 be "an agitator" — she was too good for that. The problem 
 took on an urgency for him. Whether Myra ever came into 
 his employment or not (though he still hoped), she must 
 not waste her life tilting at windmills. 
 
 Consequently, the evening after their seeming entente 
 cordiale, Chase decided to see Myra again. The Dodds house- 
 hold had no telephone (he had learned this from Frank, 
 who, however, knew nothing of R. B.'s interest in his sister) , 
 so he left his office earlier than usual, and was driven in his 
 carriage to the modest apartment in Hyde Park where the 
 family lived. 
 
 "I'm R. B. Chase," he told Mrs. Dodds when she ad- 
 mitted him, wondering whether and what Myra had confided 
 in her mother about Carroll's abortive courtship and his 
 own growing friendship with the girl. 
 
 "I suppose you've come to see Myra," Mrs. Dodds re- 
 lieved him of embarrassment, "since Frank is of course 
 always at your beck and call. Do come in." Then she added 
 at once, "Myra will not be home until late — she's spending 
 the evening at Hull House." 
 
 "What a coincidence!" he exclaimed, though the 
 thought had only this instant occurred to him. "That is 
 exactly what I want to see Myra about. I'd like to visit Hull 
 House with her, and find out what she's doing there. I'll 
 
 5U 
 
just go along, and pick her up. I'll bring her back home 
 safely," he added, lest the mother be fearful of his interest 
 in a girl so young. 
 
 She thanked him placidly, and as he drove north and 
 west toward the crowded, teeming neighborhood of Halsted 
 Street, he wondered why he had never met Mrs. Dodds 
 before in the years that Frank had worked for him, and 
 was even more puzzled by a feeling of familiarity about 
 her, as though he really had known her in years past. But 
 he shrugged that off, deciding that it was her marked re- 
 semblance to Myra that impressed him — surely, Frank had 
 none of the mother's features, though he had got his quiet 
 dignity from her, which contrasted sharply with Myra's 
 liveliness, almost vivaciousness. If she weren't so serious 
 about saving the world, he decided, Myra would really be 
 vivacious. He wished wryly that he could get her as inter- 
 ested in helping him to save industry from the havoc of 
 labor agitators. Well, give her time, he consoled himself. 
 After all, it was in that very hope that he was chasing 
 after her in this cluttered, run-down foreign neighborhood. 
 If he showed some curiosity about her work and her so- 
 called dedications, he'd stand, he thought, a much better 
 chance of weaning her away from them — or, he corrected 
 himself, of diverting her sympathies into practical channels. 
 
 Arriving at Hull House shortly before 8 o'clock, Chase 
 entered the main door, went up a few steps to the hallway, 
 and, much to his surprise, ran into a bevy of young people 
 — with a fsw older ones — all chatting joyfully and gaily, 
 and apparently quite happy. They were all dressed neatly, 
 even individualistically, and all were shining clean. For a 
 moment he thought he must have entered the wrong place, 
 but then he spied Myra with a group of youngsters, and 
 went directly to her. 
 
 He was glad to see her face light up at sight of him. 
 
 55 
 
"But what a surprise to see you here, Mr. Chase!" she 
 exclaimed. "What brings you here?" 
 
 "You," he replied. "I couldn't call you, and I didn't 
 want to send a message by your brother. So I just came. 
 Because I wanted to see this place where you work, and find 
 out what it is you're doing that is so important to you." He 
 did not say, more important than the work I have offered 
 you, but the thought was there between them. 
 
 She understood something of his motive, but not all. 
 She couldn't see why this had had to be a surprise visit. 
 She was about to show him around the place — the play yard, 
 the play rooms — when suddenly Jane Addams joined them. 
 
 Myra rose instantly to the occasion. "Miss Addams," 
 she said, "I would like you to know a friend of mine and 
 my brother's employer, Mr. R. B. Chase, head of the House 
 of Chase." 
 
 Miss Addams was gracious. "We have as play students 
 many children whose fathers work for you, Mr. Chase," 
 she said. 
 
 This was another surprise for Chase. It was his im- 
 pression that Hull House gathered people from the slums, 
 and he had never regarded his own workmen as slum folk. 
 They were regular people, hard working and law abiding, 
 who needed no help except from the church, and their chil- 
 dren needed no help beyond what was normally offered at 
 home and in the public schools. Hull House, to him, was a 
 place for the congregation of the dissatisfied and disturbing 
 elements of society, where they were aroused to seek venge- 
 ance on their employers and even the overthrow of the 
 United States government. 
 
 He had thought of Jane Addams as another crackpot, 
 who was determined to stir the broth of discontent. He 
 found, instead, as they talked, a woman of high intelligence, 
 
 56 
 
 
of dignity, of practical ideas which no one could find fault 
 with. "If we can teach a young girl to sew," she told him, 
 "or a mother to take better care of her baby, or if we can 
 look after the little ones while the mother is at work in 
 a factory to help ends meet, if we can keep children off the 
 street and out of the pool halls by organizing absorbing 
 games for them — we have helped a little. Not much, but a 
 little. And it is the little things that count, Mr. Chase. Most 
 people can rise to the big things — except money-wise, of 
 course — death and disaster, fire, loss — you'd be amazed at 
 the courage with which these people meet the big problems. 
 But the little arrangements of daily living — the empty house 
 for Jan or Solly or Mickey to come home to, after school, 
 or the dress for Sonja's first school party, or the proper 
 attire for Giacomo's first communion — these are the things 
 we are concerned with, for they make up the warp and 
 woof of everyday living. How these problems are solved are 
 the difference between happiness and heartbreak. They may 
 hold that delicate balance between good citizenship and 
 enemies of society. Because there is a limit — a very definite 
 limit, Mr. Chase — to what the human spirit can stand." 
 
 Chase was taken aback. He had never thought in quite 
 these terms before. He knew, of course, that all families 
 had their small problems, but he had supposed that the 
 church and neighbors took care of them. People all had 
 friends, didn't they? 
 
 And yet he remembered the Heibners, uneasily. One 
 would have supposed that they had friends. . . . 
 
 Looking about him, however, he saw that this was no 
 dingy and luckless place, but a busy and cheerful beehive 
 of activity, and he began to understand the attraction it had 
 for Myra. She was in her element here, more animated than 
 he had ever seen her. 
 
 Turning to Miss Addams he said awkwardly, "You 
 
 57 
 
have a very pleasant place here — I had not quite realized 
 it until now, even though Miss Dodds told me about it." 
 
 She nodded, neither impressed nor unimpressed by his 
 presence, and replied, "We hope you will come often." 
 
 He supposed she wanted money, or influence to help her 
 work. Well, he had both, if he were favorably enough in- 
 clined. 
 
 Myra offered to take him through the building. She 
 showed him the classrooms where domestic science was 
 taught to the young girls of the neighborhood, and exhibited 
 samples of their handicraft — useful things, mostly. The play 
 rooms for little folks were bright with gingham curtains, 
 and "art work" done by the children themselves. 
 
 "All the instruction and supervision," Myra told him, 
 "is done by volunteer workers, who don't feed at the public 
 bin." 
 
 Then she tried to excuse herself, expecting him to go. 
 "I have a class to teach, some older girls whom I've instruct- 
 ing in home economics. I hope you'll come again some time." 
 
 "I'd like to watch you teach," he replied, and went along 
 with her. 
 
 They found a dozen or more girls in their early teens 
 waiting for Myra in the classroom down the hall, and he 
 lingered at the rear of the room, while she took her place, 
 standing, beside the desk at the front. 
 
 "Girls," she told the class, "we have a visitor tonight, 
 a friend of mine. He is interested in what you are doing, 
 but I don't want you to be self-conscious. We'll just go ahead 
 with our class as we always do. But first, please rise and 
 give Mr. Chase a bow." 
 
 They did, and she began immediately with her lecture. 
 58 
 
 
"Home economics," she told them, "is more than cook- 
 ing and sewing and scrubbing — or even marketing. It doesn't 
 really have anything to do with poverty or affluence — as 
 such. It's a matter of making the most of what you have, and 
 getting the most happiness out of what you possess. A rag 
 doll can mean as much to your little sister as a costly, im- 
 ported doll might to some other child. For it's the way she 
 feels about it that counts, not the object itself." 
 
 Chase watched her intently as she talked, and saw that 
 the girls were paying strict attention. He reminded himself 
 that this was not "school" — that these young people were 
 here only because they wanted to be, because she gave them 
 something to come for. 
 
 "A home," she told them, "is what you make it — all of 
 you who live together. Your fathers are all working — and 
 some of your mothers, both inside and outside your home. 
 They are tired at night, and they may have many problems 
 of which you know little. You can help most by being cheer- 
 ful and gay, and by keeping your small dissatisfactions to 
 yourselves. If you can keep the smaller children out from 
 under foot, and help with the housework, so much the better. 
 But most of all, carry your share of responsibility toward 
 making your homes happy places in which to live. . . . 
 
 "Next week, we'll get into a little simple bookkeeping — 
 for every home maker has to know how to manage money, 
 no matter how little or how much there is, and how to 
 account for it. Now, we'll get at something a little more 
 tangible." 
 
 The girls got out their sewing materials from tables 
 along one wall, and Myra began to demonstrate the cutting 
 of simple patterns. She showed them how to make patches 
 that were neat and inconspicuous, chatting easily and in- 
 formally with them. Chase marvelled as he watched and 
 
 59 
 
listened. There was even more to this girl than he had 
 thought ! 
 
 The class was dismissed at 9:30, and Chase lingered 
 on after the girls left the room. When they were gone, Myra 
 joined him. "I am surprised that you had the patience to 
 sit and watch these young girls for an hour," she said. 
 
 "I found it very interesting," he replied. "Quite differ- 
 ent from what I expected. I think I'm beginning to under- 
 stand the attraction the place has for you." 
 
 She protested against his driving her home, but he told 
 her shortly, "I promised your mother to get you home 
 safely," and both were silent most of the way. She wondered 
 what he was thinking, finding it difficult to be lieve that one 
 visit, even with all she had told him, could stir any genuine 
 interest in him. 
 
 So she was surprised when he asked, abruptly, "Beyond 
 these little lessons you're giving — and the others, too, all 
 of you putting in your time without pay, what would you 
 say is the total purpose of Hull House? For the residents 
 as well as the people who go there?" 
 
 She saw that he was trying to get at the real root of 
 the thing, the reason for the satisfaction that she and the 
 other workers got from serving at the settlement. 
 
 "It is a place where the lonely can find friends," she 
 replied, and the simplicity of her answer stilled him. All 
 he could say was, "Well, Til have to visit there again." 
 
 The coach was following the car lines on Halsted and 
 Harrison Streets to reach Wabash Avenue, for the other 
 cross streets had deteriorated so that it was more comfort- 
 able to drive along the car tracks. As they approached the 
 intersection of Harrison and Blue Island Avenue, where 
 three car lines met, they noticed two men at different corners 
 laden with heavy bundles of newspapers. 
 
 60 
 
"Wuxtra, wuxtra," one was shouting, "read all about 
 the big explosion!" and the other, "Wuxtra, explosion on 
 Canal Street!" 
 
 "Shall we buy a paper and find out what it's all about?" 
 she asked him. 
 
 That's just one of the nightly extras the Buret papers 
 get out," he replied shortly. "Think nothing of it." 
 
 When they reached her apartment building, he thanked 
 her again for the evening's experience, and he was so 
 thoughtful that she felt more hope for his final understand- 
 ing than at any time since she had met him. 
 
 61 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 Return of Robert Chase 
 
 Robert Chase fell asleep that night musing upon the 
 strange fact — which Myra had told him — that the residents 
 of Hull House served without any real salary. Their normal 
 expenses were paid, she said, but their personal expenses 
 were borne on their own account. She was waiting to move 
 in only until she had saved enough from her salary at the 
 library to carry her for a year or two. The two janitors — 
 one night and one day, and a regular clerk were on salary, 
 that was all. While this element of economy appealed to 
 Chase, he found it impossible to understand people who 
 were impelled by anything but a profit motive. The man who 
 had bought people as well as things for most of his adult 
 life could not believe that there were men and women who 
 couldn't be bought. He'd never heard of anyone — except 
 missionaries to heathen China or darkest Africa, and the 
 
 62 
 
 
like — who were willing to work for the love of what they 
 were doing. Good work was good work, and yet men and 
 women had to live. . . . The better he came to know Myra, 
 the more she puzzled him . . . and intrigued him. 
 
 And yet, he went to bed calmly, in a contented frame of 
 mind. The evening had given him much satisfaction. 
 
 It was Chase's habit to rise early — no later than 6 :30 — 
 and to dispose of his bath and shaving hurriedly, almost 
 impatiently. He breakfasted alone, served by his butler. His 
 companion was the early morning paper, which was always 
 waiting for him, carefully folded, at the left of his plate. 
 
 On the morning after his visit to Hull House, he opened 
 the newspaper with one hand and groped blindly for his 
 coffee with the other. 
 
 Tall, black headlines greeted him shockingly: " EX- 
 PLOSION AT CHASE FOUNDRY. 7 MEN INJURED. 
 2 PROBABLY FATAL." 
 
 So that was the meaning of the "extra" the night be- 
 fore! He forgot his breakfast, and read the news account 
 rapidly. A man named Prochaska was one of the critical ones 
 — father of a child Myra had pointed out to him the night 
 before at Hull House. Thank God, he told himself, he hadn't 
 bought a paper for Myra last night as she requested. He 
 shuddered to think of the tongue-lashing she would have 
 given him, no matter what the cause of the accident. He 
 knew that she would learn of it, and he would still have to 
 answer to her, but at least he would have time to look into 
 it, find out how it had happened, and do what he could for 
 the injured men. 
 
 He recalled with a start that it had been years since 
 he had even walked through this foundry, and the names 
 of the workers, except for a few executives, were vague in 
 
 63 
 
his mind. Prochaska certainly was a newcomer. The name 
 spelled nothing to him. 
 
 He hurried through his breakfast, and told his coach- 
 man, "Drive to Canal Street. The mam foundry. 
 
 As he alighted at the general entrance, Chase saw a 
 
 K?5K«ff«K*- 
 
 manded, "No admission here this morning! 
 
 Chase brushed the man aside, thinking, "Good God, 
 Chase Drusnea R tered the building, 
 
 TTCke The street Th^ interior suddenly became 
 2SJ to fhn and he years rushed in on him until he 
 rS,^ man again, -^^w^«- of 
 
 He recognized the foreman. 
 
 "What happened here, Henry?" he demanded. 
 
 *e,ik in the afternoon. Then .when the molten .metal wa 
 
 TreUt minutes the blast was turned on again. A minute 
 later the belt broke again." 
 
 -Why?" snapped Chase. "What caused that? Wasn't 
 the belt repaired properly?" 
 
 eh 
 
 
lacer to get a new belt right away. There wasn't a new one 
 around, and it took fifteen minutes to cut one to size Then 
 the new belt snapped the minute it started. 
 
 "In the meantime, the molten metal in the bottom of the 
 cupola was 'freezing,' and we decided to drain off the melt 
 into sand pockets on the floor not far from the cupola area. 
 When the pig beds were filled, we had to pour off the metal 
 that was left into big bull ladles. One ladle that had been 
 clayed the day before and was exposed to moisture was 
 brought up m front of the cupola. We opened the spout of 
 the cupola to let the metal pour into the ladle. When the 
 metal hit the bottom of the ladle, there was a sudden explo- 
 sion, and the metal shot up into the air and sprayed in all 
 directions. 
 
 "A number of men standing around were struck by 
 the spray, and in the rush to plug the cupola spout, Anton 
 Prochaska, the first melter, stepped on some spilled metal 
 and fell to the floor. The men tried to rescue him, and one 
 of them was hurt bad. Anton and whoever else was hurt 
 were rushed to the hospital. That was before five o'clock 
 yesterday." 
 
 Chase was too shocked to know what to reply. He turned 
 speechless to see the superintendent approaching. The man 
 started to recite the same story that Henry had told him. 
 Uiase found his tongue, and his anger. 
 
 < ! ^Jl I ' V "Tm ready heard enou « h >" h * told the superintendent 
 snortly. 1 11 see you m my office downtown at nine o'clock." 
 
 No one noticed him entering the office later than usual 
 No one seemed to have learned of the accident except his 
 confidential secretary, Frank Dodds. Even so, it was only by 
 an exchanged look that each acknowledged the situation, 
 and Chase told the young man, "I'm expecting Hatter, the 
 superintendent of the Canal Street foundry to come in 
 
 65 
 
shortly, and I want him brought in without delay." Frank 
 nodded, and they understood each other. 
 
 Hatter arrived a few minutes later, and was ushered 
 in without ceremony. 
 
 self?" 
 
 The man looked down at his hands, which were twisting 
 together in his lap, and then slowly up. 
 
 "I haven't anything to say," he replied dazedly. "Every- 
 thing was going Song all right, and then tins happened 
 
 "When everything is going along all right," barked 
 Chase "I don't need a superintendent ! It's to prevent things 
 bke this that I have managers ! You're through-now ! Some- 
 body else will be appointed to your place, at once. 
 
 Hatter seemed stunned. He fumbled. "You mean I'm 
 completely discharged now, Mr. Chase? 
 
 -You're certainly discharged as ^^superintendent » replied 
 Chase drily. "Please leave your address with Mr. Dodds, 
 and you'll hear from me." 
 
 Hatter tried to pull together some shreds of his shat^ 
 tered dignity. "You'll find me at the foundry office, he 
 declared. 
 
 "You're not going back to the foundry," Chase told him. 
 "You won't be admitted-I've already taken care of that. 
 
 Hatter wilted, and slumped out of the office, mumbling, 
 "As you say, then." 
 
 66 
 
"You're damned right, as I say!" shouted Chase after 
 him, and then called Frank Dodds in. 
 
 "Call in my general superintendent of factories, and 
 two of the first aides," he ordered. Frank obeyed. 
 
 In about three minutes the men were in his office, and 
 he nodded for Frank to stay. He could hardly tell Myra what 
 he was doing to try to repair all this damage, but he wanted' 
 her to know. Frank could relay the story to her. 
 
 "You three," he looked from one man to another, "have 
 deceived me year after year. You gave me reports of plant 
 conditions that made everything rosy. Profits were big, 
 employees were satisfied, safety conditions were taken care 
 of. So a thing like this explosion happens. Why? Because 
 nobody was on the job! On the job in the sense of taking 
 some reasonable responsibility ! These are men's lives — and 
 men's families — we're dealing with ! Can you understand 
 that? Haven't you got sense enough to know that when a 
 man has financial power, he's obligated to make some decent 
 use of it? What are managers for? To promote accidents?" 
 
 Hearing his own words, he realized suddenly that he 
 was talking Myra's language, but that it was also his own 
 language. He was voicing, in his anger, the philosophy 
 which he had not been able to put into words for her so 
 that she would believe him. Patriarch he might be; dynast 
 he might be; but that was because he had succeeded, in a 
 world of hard knocks that demanded superior intelligence 
 and superior judgment in order to succeed. When a man had 
 got on top, he was saddled with obligations which need not 
 concern smaller men, the men who hired out their time and 
 whatever ability they had, for pay. But an honest job was an 
 honest job, and these men owed their employer competent, 
 performance. 
 
 "From what I've learned today," he continued, "I see 
 
 67 
 
that I've been deceived — whether deliberately, or from neg- 
 ligence, or from sheer incompetency, I don't know. But I 
 can see that I'm going to have to get new blood into manage- 
 ment around here. I will not tolerate deceptive reports/' 
 
 The three looked from one to another for help. Finally, 
 Stanton, the general superintendent, protested, "At no time, 
 Mr. Chase, has any statement of deliberate deception been 
 issued to you. I reported satisfactory progress, without 
 details. The men in charge of individual plants have always 
 been given instructions to take proper care of sanitation 
 and safety. But you never wanted details — all you were 
 interested in was the balance sheet — the statement of profits. 
 That's all you ever asked about." 
 
 "That," roared Chase, "was because I assumed you had 
 the sense that God gives geese, to make profits with respon- 
 sible management ! As far as that goes, is shoddy equipment 
 profitable? Is an accident like this profitable? It will cost 
 me thousands of dollars to repair this damage ! Is that pro- 
 tecting my interests? And what about me, personally? If I 
 were the monster that you paint me, with no concern for 
 the lives under my control, it still wouldn't make sense, 
 because it doesn't pay! But I'm not a monster. I am a 
 responsible businessman, but your negligence has branded 
 me a murderer in every newspaper in Chicago !" 
 
 Stanton would not take this sitting down. "Mr. Chase," 
 he protested, "if we are guilty of negligence, you are guilty 
 with us. We have talked among ourselves about shortcom- 
 ings in the operation of the plants, but you were never 
 willing to listen. All you were interested in was the monthly 
 balance sheets, and my associates and I have tried to give 
 you maximum profits. You were satisfied with our work 
 until something went wrong. But if we are guilty of negli- 
 gence, so are you. 
 
 "And, speaking for myself," Stanton concluded, "you 
 
 68 
 
 
can have my resignation, right now. I think my two asso- 
 ciates here, who have been active with me for the last fifteen 
 years, feel the same way." 
 
 "We do," the others said in almost one breath, and all 
 three rose and started out of the room. 
 
 "Where are you going ?" demanded Chase. 
 
 "I told you," replied Stanton. "We're resigning. We're 
 through." 
 
 "You are not going to resign," Chase told them, and his 
 voice filled the room. "I am, as you say, guilty with you. 
 I'm more guilty than you — guilty of thinking things were all 
 right because they seemed all right. So sit down. Let's all 
 work together and see what we can do to get rid of all the 
 evils in the business. Have you any ideas?" 
 
 The three men looked at each other, and at last Stanton 
 took the initiative again. "Yes, we have a lot of ideas, which 
 we've talked over now and then. How much will you support 
 us if we stay?" 
 
 Chase was angry again. "I told you, we'll work this all 
 out together, and once we've decided what to do, I'll back 
 you all the way. What more can I say?" 
 
 The men seemed reluctant to believe him, but finally 
 agreed. "But things will have to be different," Stanton re- 
 minded Chase again. 
 
 "They will be," Chase promised. "But the first thing I 
 want you to do is get the injured taken care of — find out 
 how badly they were hurt, and tell them their pay will go 
 on while they're out of work. See to it that Anton Prochas- 
 ka's family is taken care of. Then I want a complete report 
 on the plants — the machinery, the repairs necessary — every 
 single thing that needs to be done to make them safe, even 
 to loose nails in the flooring ! And while you're doing that, 
 
 69 
 
get your ideas together, and come back when you're ready 
 to present them. That's all. Go back to work !" 
 
 Frank Dodds saw the three men shaking their heads 
 in bewilderment as they walked through the vestibule, as 
 though even hearing could not be believing, but he knew 
 enough about them to feel confident of their cooperation. 
 He turned back to his employer as Chase spoke to him. 
 
 "Frank," the older man said, "I've always felt like this 
 about the business. I just didn't know what was going on. 
 Maybe I've had my eyes opened, even before this horrible 
 accident. It looks as though I'll have to take a more active 
 part in running things — instead of looking forward to re- 
 tirement." The familiar frown shadowed his face, and Frank 
 knew that Chase was thinking of his son, and his disappoint- 
 ment in Carroll as a possible successor. But he said nothing, 
 and went quietly about his work. 
 
 "Oh, another thing, Frank," Chase went on, "send in 
 the payroll clerk. I want to know the wages and obligations 
 of every man who works for me. I don't even know what 
 my men are earning!" 
 
 It looked as though there would indeed be changes, 
 Frank thought. 
 
 When he told his mother and sister of the day's happen- 
 ings, over the dinner table that night, Myra's sympathies 
 overflowed, but did not lessen her anger at the man who 
 was ultimately responsible for the disaster. Then her face 
 lighted up as he told her how Chase had taken hold of the 
 situation. At least — and at last — there was hope for the 
 man. And she knew in her heart that she had had something 
 to do with his awakening. 
 
 70 
 
 
* * * * CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 The Generations of Chase 
 
 For generations the Chase family had lived in Con- 
 necticut. Robert was born on his father's farm in the north- 
 western part of the state, near the village of Kent. The 
 eighty-acre farm was hilly along the north and east, with 
 only thirty acres tillable, and even this small tract was 
 embedded with rocks. 
 
 It was a hard life for the Chase family, trying to wrest 
 a living from the thin soil, and early in the 1850's, when 
 Robert, the only son (there were three daughters) was only 
 five years old, the father pulled up stakes and moved west. 
 He settled near the city of Columbus, Ohio. Many New 
 Englanders were giving up, seeking the rich prairie land 
 along the Ohio or the Illinois or the Mississippi rivers, 
 trading a worn-out fortune for new hope in the unbroken 
 country. 
 
 71 
 
The Chase family could have been quite happy in their 
 new home on the hundred-acre farm, with every acre of it 
 workable, had it not been for the frail, uncomfortable house, 
 a distressingly heavy mortgage, and the break from friends 
 and neighbors in Connecticut. The Yankee Chase was never 
 completely transplanted, his taciturn New England ways 
 hard for his neighbors — most of them southerners who had 
 crossed the Ohio looking for greener fields — to understand ; 
 the farm was large for a man to handle alone. When the 
 war broke out, and President Lincoln called for volunteers, 
 Chase was one of the first in the area to volunteer, and 
 he stayed in the army until the war's end. 
 
 In later years, Robert remembered the hardships of 
 that time — his mother and older sisters working in the 
 garden, tending the chickens, while he himself a boy barely 
 into his 'teens, milked the cows morning and night, chopped 
 the wood and carried the water, and tried to be the man 
 of the house. The scanty army pay, which his father received 
 irregularly and sent home at uneven intervals, was scarely 
 enough to meet the mortgage payments. The family was 
 haunted by both financial worry and concern for the father's 
 safety. 
 
 Meanwhile, Robert matured beyond his years. In later 
 life, he attributed his capacity for hard work, and his 
 determination to win against any odds, to the hardships 
 and responsibility which were thrust on him while his 
 father was away. 
 
 When his father returned home at the end of the war, 
 Robert saw that he had grown old prematurely. The long, 
 hard struggle to earn a living, and the rigors of army life, 
 had taken their toll. 
 
 Robert's feeling for his father bordered on pity, but 
 he could see no future for himself on the Ohio farm. He 
 
 72 
 
felt in himself an urge to escape from the demands of the 
 soil, the backbreaking work out of all proportion to the 
 yield, and a growing desire for the big world where he 
 could match wits — and his labor — with men instead of 
 weather. If it came to helping his family, he could do it 
 better with money than with farm work. 
 
 His father had been back less than a year, and Robert 
 was nearing his twenty-first birthday, when he approached 
 the older man, and told him, "I've been thinking a lot, even 
 while you were gone. I don't think I'll ever be satisfied with 
 farming. I don't think it's even right to stay here on the 
 farm, when there's so much opportunity for young men else- 
 where. I'd like to go further west, and cut out a life for 
 myself, while you're still able to handle the farm. It'll give 
 you and mother and the girls at least a living while I'm 
 making my way, and some day I'll be able to pay off the 
 mortgage, and even give you a new home. We'll never make 
 it any other way — the farm doesn't give back enough." 
 
 The father was not one given to self-pity, but he was 
 a disappointed man. If Robert had ambition, he would be 
 the last one to try to hold the boy back. Farming had not 
 rewarded him, so why try to impose it on his son? 
 
 "Well," he said, with his few words, "I suppose your 
 Ma and I hoped you'd stay with us. On the other hand, I 
 can see that there ain't much here to hold a young man 
 with ambition, which you've got. If you want to start out 
 for yourself, I'll see what money I can scrape up for you." 
 
 "Major," Robert protested, using the military title 
 which would follow his father the rest of his life, "I don't 
 want you to sacrifice anything for me. I think I can make 
 it on my own." 
 
 "Don't talk like a young colt," his father replied. 
 "You'll have to have a little to get you started. You can 
 
 73 
 
always have whatever help I can give you, and you can 
 always come home again." 
 
 In a week Robert started out, going first to South Bend, 
 Indiana. But, while he found immediate employment in an 
 iron yard, he saw no real opportunity there, and after a 
 month, he moved on again, to Chicago. He promptly found 
 a job in a planing mill. 
 
 Here was activity everywhere. It was three years be- 
 fore the catastrophic fire of 1871. There was opportunity 
 for everyone. The crudities of the city didn't bother him — 
 after all, he'd never lived in any city before. He took it 
 for granted that this was the way of any city. And Chicago, 
 rapidly outdistancing her rival, St. Louis, was surely the 
 hope of the west. 
 
 He was careful with money, even frugal, sending home 
 some portion of his earnings regularly. Even so, with his 
 ample strength and agility, he was soon making much more 
 money than he needed for his simple living. He and an 
 associate worker leased an area near their employment at 
 Archer Road and Throop Street, and started running a mill 
 of their own. John Kimball was another like himself, and 
 soon the two built up a thriving business. 
 
 When the fire came, it swept northward, and the lumber 
 district along the south branch of the Chicago river was 
 saved. Heavy stocks of lumber were depleted after the fire, 
 and Robert cleared his yard with a handsome profit. His 
 ambition was fired, and within another two years he acquired 
 another yard with another partner, and both lumberyards 
 grew. 
 
 During his first three years in Chicago, Robert was so 
 immersed in the mills that he paid attention to nothing else. 
 He had not yet measured his prosperity, and he was con- 
 stantly concerned with increasing his business. Already, 
 
 7U 
 
he was sending money home regularly, to help the family. 
 But he made no friends, not even with his partner's junior 
 sister, Diana, who kept house for her brother. 
 
 Robert lived with the two, in a small frame house on 
 a side street near the lumberyards, and his only thought, 
 night and day, was of work. But Diana Kimball was the 
 only girl he knew, and suddenly, after three years of blind- 
 ness as it were, he noticed her. She was pretty, pleasant, 
 and as solicitous of his health and welfare as she was of 
 her brother's. 
 
 Businesslike even in his youth, in all his undertakings, 
 Robert approached John almost as soon as the notion struck 
 him. 
 
 "John," he asked one night on the way home from the 
 yards, "What would you think of me for a brother-in-law?" 
 
 John shrugged. "Don't ask me," he replied, "ask Diana." 
 
 "Well," protested Robert, "I want your opinion — or 
 your blessing, first. You're the man of the family." 
 
 "If she'll have you," John told him, "you've got my 
 blessing." 
 
 Robert did not wait long. A couple of evenings later 
 he showed signs of impatience after their late supper, and 
 John went outside and left the other two alone. 
 
 Robert had not learned finesse — or anything about 
 women. So, "Diana," he said, startling himself by using 
 her first name when he had always called her "Missy." 
 "Do you think I could make an acceptable husband for a 
 nice girl?" 
 
 "Certainly," she told him, "if you found a nice girl." 
 
 "I'm looking at one right now," Robert replied. 
 
 75 
 
Diana turned her head aside wondering if she'd heard 
 right. The only kind of talk she had ever heard from him 
 was of lumber and building. She hadn't imagined there was 
 any romance in him at all. 
 
 "Diana," he pressed, still about as romantic as one of 
 his own planks of lumber, "I'm serious. I want to marry you. 
 Will you have me?" 
 
 She turned slowly to him, but without looking directly 
 into his face, said softly, "If you'll have me, I'll have you." 
 
 "It's a bargain then!" Robert shouted, still using the 
 only language he knew — business terms. He didn't know 
 what to do next. He wanted to pick her up in his arms and 
 kiss her, but was afraid to. (There were no cinemas then 
 to instruct a young man in procedure, and Robert had never 
 read a light novel.) So he said abruptly, "When shall we 
 plan to get married?" 
 
 "It will be quite an undertaking," she replied thought- 
 fully, her head already whirling with thoughts of dress- 
 maker's fittings, cakes and bridesmaids, "without a mother 
 to help me. It will probably be two or three months before 
 I'll be ready." 
 
 Thankful for a little argument to ease his awkwardness, 
 Robert protested. "What's there to get ready?" he demanded. 
 "We can go to a preacher any hour of the day or night, and 
 get the knot tied." 
 
 "There's more to it than that," she replied firmly, 
 "there's clothes and invitations, and all kinds of things to 
 be attended to." Then, shyly, "A girl wants a nice wedding. 
 John would want it to be the way — the way Mother would 
 have planned it. Have you spoken to John?" 
 
 "Not much," Robert admitted. "I did ask him what 
 he thought of me as a brother-in-law, and he said it was all 
 right with him, if you'd have me." 
 
 
 76 
 
 
She smiled. "I'm glad you talked to him," she said. 
 "I've always gone by his advice. He's been good to me all 
 these years, and I couldn't do anything without his consent." 
 
 "Well," Robert replied, "I don't do anything in the 
 lumber yard without his consent. So we're both taking his 
 advice." 
 
 Robert wanted to say something soft and sweet to her, 
 but he didn't know how. He was relieved when John came 
 back into the house, and he could announce, "John, Diana 
 and I have just decided to go into double harness." 
 
 "Well, congratulations to both of you," John replied 
 unemotionally, and the three sat talking until long past their 
 bed time. 
 
 77 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 The Builder 
 
 Joseph Fairchild Dodds arrived in Chicago in the late 
 'sixties. He, too, had come from Ohio, where he had farmed 
 for a dozen years after following the hope of the Middle 
 West from New England. 
 
 His experience had been not unlike that of Robert 
 Chase's father. He had enlisted in the Union Army at the 
 outbreak of the war, and had remained to march with 
 General Sherman from Atlanta to the sea. The war seasoned 
 him, and he returned to the bitter reality of a broken down 
 farm with missing livestock. He tried to resurrect it, but 
 without success. So he went to Canton to look for a labor 
 job. He found no luck there. 
 
 Dodds landed finally in Chicago, and found a refuge in 
 the famed Canal Street area, just west of the Loop district. 
 
 78 
 
There he got work in one of the scrap ironyards, but his 
 were no longer the marching feet that had taken him along 
 the road from Atlanta. The war had left him partially- 
 crippled, and the work in the ironyards was hard on him. 
 He continued, however, and presently married, though his 
 outlook was dreary at best. 
 
 The great fire in October, 1871 put a stop to all business 
 for a time. But when the city stirred to rebuild itself, in 
 spite of great shortage of materials, Joseph Dodds remem- 
 bered the scrap pipe fittings and plumbing equipment and 
 the like that had found its way to the ironyards. 
 
 He ventured into one of the ironyards and culled out 
 all the usable material he could find. He was able to sell this 
 readily, for the demand for all kinds of building material 
 was great. 
 
 In a short time, Dodds found it necessary to enter vari- 
 ous scrapyards, some of them located on the near south 
 side, and dig into the scrap piles for usable salvage. He 
 acquired several wagons with teams, began to hire labor, 
 and established an active and profitable salvage business. 
 He continued the business under the name of Dodds & Willis 
 — the Willis being his wife. 
 
 Dodds & Willis became known as suppliers of plumbing 
 materials. In order to supply the ever-growing demand of 
 the growing city, Dodds imported new materials from east- 
 ern plants, while he continued to renovate old equipment. 
 It became apparent to him that he would have to produce, 
 as well as trade in supplies, and accordingly, he set up a 
 plumbing goods factory on the near west side. 
 
 The business grew so rapidly that it needed more capital 
 than Dodds could furnish himself. It was then that he met 
 Robert Chase, for the old packing and leather houses re- 
 quired plumbing materials. Chase had by now established 
 
 79 
 
himself in various enterprises, including the grain and 
 cattle business. In time, Chase began to advance substantial 
 sums to Dodds, at first on a loan basis, eventually as a 
 partnership. Dodds, however, continued to operate the busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Chase's business was booming. He was into all kinds 
 of things. When he saw the need for plumbing fixtures in 
 his own plants, he saw and realized the opportunity for buy- 
 ing second hand plumbing materials, reconditioning them, 
 and selling them at knocked down prices. It was at this 
 point that he became interested in Joseph Dodds, who knew 
 where fixtures could be found. Dodd's financial needs were 
 such that the small manufacturing plant eventually became 
 "Chase and Dodds." By 1880, Chase had full control of the 
 business. 
 
 Along the south branch of the Chicago River and fol- 
 lowing Archer Road, cattle pens and small slaughterhouses 
 were being built. The Chase lumberyards, nearby, became 
 the chief suppliers of building materials for these structures. 
 In some cases, Chase erected the buildings on his own 
 account and leased them to cattlemen and butchers, and 
 so became one of the important figures in the cattle business. 
 
 Chase drove on with unsatiated ambition, engaging in 
 multiple enterprises, for every venture forming a new part- 
 nership. It was so in the lumber business, the plumbing 
 supplies business, the slaughterhouse business. So he sur- 
 rounded himself with men who readily followed his leader- 
 ship. 
 
 Chicago was becoming a center for transportation, not 
 only for livestock, but also for grain that was shipped in 
 and out, and which required transit storage depots and 
 grain elevators. Soon Chase had built one of the largest 
 grain elevators in the state of Illinois. Being a large scale 
 shipper, he got into railroad investments and railroad pro- 
 
 80 
 
motions, and soon became a factor in railroad affairs in 
 the Middle West. As early as the 1880's the name of Robert 
 B. Chase gained national importance. 
 
 In private and public ventures in and about Chicago 
 his cooperation was often sought, and the very use of the 
 Chase name was enough to guarantee the success of a project 
 and certainly, in every case, enlisted the active support of 
 bankers and investors. 
 
 Robert's failing was his absorption in his business. He 
 was fond of his wife, and proud of the two growing boys. 
 He was generous as his income grew larger and larger. But 
 he saw little of his family, and the companionship he sought 
 was that of other industrialists and financiers, and his 
 greatest enjoyment the manipulation of his various enter- 
 prises. It was a mental as well as a physical preoccupation 
 — he cared nothing for social life. 
 
 But her husband's wealth and importance drew Diana 
 Chase into society, and her naturalness and simple tastes 
 made many friends for her. Robert knew vaguely of this, 
 but was astonished when she asked him to move to a larger 
 house in a better neighborhood so that they might better 
 fulfill their social obligations. That was when the boys were 
 starting in to school. 
 
 He protested against the move. They were happy where 
 they were, the place was convenient to the stockyards and 
 lumberyards. What was more, he was used to it. And this 
 social ambition in his wife was something new to him. To 
 him, money meant power in the business world, and that 
 was all. 
 
 He held out for a week, and then gave Diana a check 
 for $50,000 and told her to buy where she pleased. 
 
 She chose a mansion on Prairie Avenue, and there 
 began a new life for the entire family. Diana and the 
 
 81 
 
children were happy there, though Robert thought later, 
 and bitterly, that their changed way of living had some- 
 thing to do with Carroll's inertia, and with Robert, Junior's 
 wild career. They had been taken, too young, away from 
 reality, growing up to be nothing but a rich man's sons. 
 At the time, he wanted only to make Diana happy, realizing 
 with twinges of conscience that he was too much absorbed 
 in business to give her or the boys any real companionship. 
 So he gave them something else, and trusted that things 
 would come out all right. 
 
 He was not happy in his new home. When he drove to 
 the lumber or stockyards, he always managed to go along 
 the street past his old home, which to him was more sym- 
 bolic of his success than the mansion. He rarely made an 
 appearance when his wife was entertaining, and took to 
 spending more and more time at his club. There he could 
 talk men's talk, use the rough language he had grown up 
 with, and swear all he pleased — which he did well. 
 
 He was more at ease with his drivers (he loved horses) 
 and with his old friends at the lumberyards than he was 
 with his office associates. They called him "Bob," which 
 his "hired men" at the office would never dream of doing. 
 He was one of them, as he was not with the people he 
 employed. When he eventually moved his headquarters to 
 the Loop, he longed to return to his workmen pals, and 
 sometimes did, on the slightest excuse. The office irked him. 
 He was not accustomed to confinement within walls, or 
 being tied down to a desk. For release, he would roam about 
 the general office several times in the morning, and again 
 in the afternoon, trailing the smoke of his heavy cigars, 
 to no particular purpose. 
 
 At noon he ate heartily, but lingered around the Ath- 
 letic Club until 2 o'clock or later, engaging in some form 
 of athletics, and in the summer plunged into the club's pool. 
 
 82 
 
To this club he could and did bring some of his friends and 
 associates — many of his important decisions were made over 
 his two-hour luncheon. 
 
 During the summer he saw nothing at all of his family 
 — Diana and the boys escaped to a resort in southern 
 Wisconsin, and he moved into the club, not bothering to 
 keep the house open. 
 
 When Diana died, after a severe illness which ended 
 their sixteen years of marriage, Robert packed the boys off 
 to school and college, and gave up all pretense of home life. 
 He plunged deeper than ever into work and business, throw- 
 ing all of his zeal and energy into the increase of his fortune. 
 
 It was then, as his wealth and power grew, that he 
 began to be obsessed with the idea of perpetuity, As long 
 as his fortune was in the making, he had little time for 
 thought of the future. He assumed, when he thought of 
 it at all, that his sons would carry on after him. It was 
 Robert, Junior's death that brought him to an abrupt 
 appraisal of his older son, Carroll, whom he understood 
 not at all. 
 
 Carroll had been well educated, had gone to Europe 
 once by himself, and had acquired a love for the English 
 way of life — the calm, easy acceptance of custom, with no 
 hurrying and sweating. He did not envy his father's breath- 
 taking activity, and had no desire to engage in the harrow- 
 ing experiences of creating new enterprises, driving men 
 hither and thither, and scheming for every advantage. 
 From his point of view, the pioneering work had been done, 
 and all that was needed now was a careful custodian. 
 Almost any one could fill that bill, Carroll thought, and it 
 was with mild reluctance that he accepted a nominal position 
 in his father's office. 
 
 Once there, he kept himself aloof from the other execu- 
 
 83 
 
tives, and even provided himself with a side-door exit and 
 a private elevator. He remained a stranger to everyone 
 except the doorman and Frank Dodds, his father's secretary. 
 He accepted the assignments his father gave him, but never 
 sought activity, never brought up a new idea. When coerced, 
 he joined his father in conferences, but never enthusiasti- 
 cally. He didn't know what he wanted out of life, because 
 he had never been allowed to want anything. . . . His father 
 had always overshadowed him, and he dwelt in that shadow. 
 He would even have married Myra Dodds to please his 
 father, if she had been willing, for he didn't care, one way 
 or the other. 
 
 When his scheme for rescuing Carroll by marrying 
 him to Myra Dodds evaporated, Chase became more and 
 more apprehensive for the future of his empire. To per- 
 petuate the business, he had to have a man with imagination 
 and vigor — both of which were lacking in Carroll and in 
 Frank Dodds. Frank was a good subordinate, who could 
 always be trusted, and that was all. If only Myra had been 
 willing to come into the family, she would have been a 
 perfect complement for both Carroll and her brother. She 
 could have run the whole show, and Chase still found it 
 hard to understand why the proposition had not appealed 
 to her. He didn't suppose that his son could really be attrac- 
 tive to any woman, but surely every woman wanted a home 
 and a family, security and some kind of position in the 
 world. Beyond all that, he had offered Myra an opportunity 
 — almost unlimited — to use her mind, and unlimited means 
 with which to work. He believed firmly that most women 
 wanted children more than husbands — his own experience 
 proved the fact to him, for Diana had never been interested 
 in the business, only in her home. The fact that he had 
 given her little romance, but had married her mostly because 
 she was there, didn't occur to Robert Chase. But here was 
 Myra Dodds, with a mind equal to any man's, who had 
 
 U 
 
refused a negligible but acceptable man who could give her 
 all the material comforts in the world, social distinction, 
 and a mental challenge offered to few women in all history. 
 He found it impossible to understand her refusal. But he had 
 to accept it. 
 
 And, in searching his acquaintances for a reinforcement 
 to perpetuate the House of Chase, Waller Pratt came to the 
 rescue in his mind. 
 
 85 
 
CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Pratt 
 
 Waller G. Pratt was christened George Waller Pratt. 
 As a youngster he had been called "Sonny" by his father, 
 and later, "Son." His mother called him "George," but 
 there were other boys by that name in the near north side 
 neighborhood of Rush Street, so sometimes she would call 
 him "George Waller" when she wanted him in from the 
 street, and at last, for convenience, began to call him 
 "Waller." 
 
 As he grew older, he preferred the middle name. He 
 was a shy, introspective lad, and George seemed too common 
 a name for him. When he entered college, he registered 
 himself as Waller G. Pratt. That pleased his mother, for 
 she had given him her own surname. 
 
 86 
 
 
George Waller's father, James W. Pratt, had come to 
 Chicago in the middle 1870's, at first only on specific errands, 
 and then to settle. He had grown up in Hartford, Connecti- 
 cut, and entered an insurance firm there. When Chicago 
 began to pull itself out of the disastrous damage of the great 
 fire, and showed signs of becoming a great railroad and 
 industrial center, Pratt was sent west to explore the possi- 
 bilities of opening a branch office for the company. 
 
 In the course of his investigations, Pratt met John 
 Waller, a prominent real estate broker. Unlike many influ- 
 ential businessmen of the time, Waller had built his home 
 on the near north side, and was one of the early settlers 
 on Rush Street, a very convenient location to the downtown 
 district. 
 
 Waller was a lavish entertainer, and when he became 
 interested in insurance, he took Jim Pratt home to meet his 
 family. It was then that Jim met the daughter, Edith, and 
 was not reluctant to move west and head up the new branch 
 office. For soon after his establishment in Chicago, he and 
 Edith were married. 
 
 George Waller was the oldest of the three boys who 
 were born to the Pratts. He showed a mentality a little 
 above the average, though not outstandingly so. He attended 
 the Chicago public schools, and was graduated from high 
 school. Then Jim Pratt, who still had a hankering for the 
 east of his boyhood, decided that his first-born should go 
 to Harvard University. For George Waller had, during high 
 school, developed an ability to express himself readily and 
 concisely, and along with that, a habit of diplomacy. He 
 was worth the investment in higher education, the father 
 decided. 
 
 At Harvard Law School Waller became an outstanding 
 student. He readily grasped the general principles of law 
 dealing with human relationships. His home environment, 
 
 87 
 
with a business inheritance from both sides, emphasized 
 the importance of human values, and all in all, Waller de- 
 veloped a keen business sense. 
 
 It was natural that the father would expect Waller, 
 when he returned from Harvard as an honor student, to 
 go into the legal department of his own insurance office, 
 where his natural ability and special knowledge would be 
 of value to the firm, and would in turn guarantee his own 
 success. 
 
 But Waller had no desire to go into a place that had 
 been "made" for him, to make his way as a "father's son." 
 What was more, he wanted to practice law, general law, 
 not just insurance claims. Consequently, through some quiet 
 influence of Jim Pratt's, Waller entered a well-known law 
 firm as an assistant, with the idea of becoming, in time, a 
 junior partner. 
 
 Within a few years, the natural changes that took place 
 in the office resulted in the well established firm of Adrian, 
 Pratt and Willows. 
 
 The firm had specialized in corporation law, and became 
 legal adviser to many far-flung enterprises, among them 
 the House of Chase. Robert Chase was favorably inclined 
 toward Pratt, and a great confidence grew between the 
 two. Pratt's reserve appealed greatly to Chase, who was 
 anything but reserved. 
 
 Waller was everything that was the opposite of Chase. 
 Of medium height, he would have become quite portly if 
 he had been over-fond of eating and drinking, but since he 
 never drank, and ate sparingly, he remained even bony. 
 This boniness was particularly noticeable in his face and 
 hands. 
 
 He was energetic and agile, and seemed to understand 
 88 
 
the most complicated problems with unusual promptness. 
 He never talked about himself — even when he was in college, 
 in the "jam" sessions at his fraternity house, he never 
 divulged anything about himself or his family. He was 
 always a good listener, and when he spoke it was with an 
 authority that was rarely challenged. 
 
 In the courtroom, Pratt was respected, and few dared 
 to oppose him. His voice was heeded in the affairs of the 
 bar association. Lawyers with looser tongues feared him, 
 and corporation heads who sought his advice invariably 
 took it. 
 
 That was exactly what Robert Chase did. Whenever 
 his executives brought up a proposition of consequence, he 
 always suggested that they review it first with Waller Pratt. 
 At first, they were irked by that deference, but soon they 
 learned that Pratt always analyzed a situation quickly and 
 accurately, and promptly pointed out the weaknesses that 
 could be eliminated advantageously. 
 
 Chase realized that Pratt's services were invaluable to 
 his own varied interests, and leaned heavily upon the law- 
 yer. He even hoped — when his other schemes for insuring 
 the future of his empire failed — that Pratt might be induced 
 to enter directly into the service of the House of Chase. 
 
 But when Chase proposed such an alliance, Pratt de- 
 murred. If he entered the employ of Chase, he would lose the 
 independent viewpoint which was his greatest value. More- 
 over, he had no intention of giving up his general practice. 
 
 "With regular duties within your organization," he 
 pointed out, "I couldn't review any proposal from a practical 
 point of view." 
 
 "No one would crowd you into decisions," Chase argued. 
 "You could take as much time as you wanted, just like 
 
you're doing now. Your opinions would be just as much 
 respected as they are now. The advantage in having you 
 here is that we could call on your time with no outside 
 interference." 
 
 "That is true," admitted Pratt, "but my time wouldn't 
 be my own. My family life is very important to me. I have 
 to be my own agent." 
 
 Indeed, the family life of the Pratts was envied by 
 most of those who knew them, but rarely understood. Waller 
 had married Alice Ada Adrian soon after establishment of 
 the firm which carried the two names. They were interested 
 in each other and in their children, and rarely accepted 
 social invitations. They declined more invitations than they 
 accepted. So many thought of them as snobs, or recluses at 
 best. 
 
 But they did not care — they followed their own inter- 
 ests, chose what they wanted, and left alone what they did 
 not want. They participated very little in community affairs 
 — notwithstanding the pressure exerted upon them to do so. 
 At one time, Pratt was asked to run for the office of Mayor 
 of the City of Chicago. He had not even considered it. The 
 appeal had been made on the basis of his executive ability. 
 He replied that whether his ability was large or small, it 
 kept him busy in what to him was constructive work. He 
 had become an adviser in building up business and industrial 
 enterprises, and he felt that was more important than poli- 
 tics. Public matters required a knack, or ability, which he 
 did not have, he protested. There were others who were 
 more competent in such regards than he. 
 
 All of this austere New England character naturally 
 appealed to Robert Chase. And he was a desperate man. He 
 had built up an empire, and didn't know what to do with it. 
 His son had failed him, and his last white hope for his son 
 — Myra Dodds — had gone glimmering. He needed Waller 
 
 90 
 
 
Pratt. He could think of no other hope for the House of 
 Chase. 
 
 "Don't say no irrevocably," he urged the lawyer. "Leave 
 the door open. There's time yet — a little." 
 
 Pratt agreed, but only to leave the door open. 
 
 91 
 
CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 New Faces 
 
 With his various managers creatively active in reform- 
 ing his many industrial plants, and Waller Pratt at least con- 
 scious of a growing need for his services (if Pratt could 
 not be induced to come into the actual employ of the Chase 
 interests, more and more of his time and attention could 
 be had for a fee), with Frank Dodds becoming ever more 
 valuable but softened from any personal ambition by good 
 treatment, and with Carroll a harmless if negligible quan- 
 tity, R. B. relaxed some of his concern and felt free to 
 pursue his personal interests again. 
 
 And the one that teased him the most was the world 
 of Myra Dodds. He began to visit Hull House again, with 
 its contrasts and challenges, its revelations and its warmth. 
 He told himself it was curiosity that led him there — wonder 
 
 92 
 
 
about the way of living of the people who ran the place, 
 and the enigma of Myra Dodds. Whatever the reason, he 
 kept going back. 
 
 It was there that he heard and met young Aaron 
 Bishoff, a fairly recent immigrant from the Ukraine, who 
 was lecturing to a "Self-educational Group" of neighborhood 
 folk who were interested in a variety of cultural movements. 
 
 Bishoff was talking about his experiences in Russia, 
 the abuses of the lower classes, the vast ignorance of the 
 peasants, the dissatisfactions which had led him to migrate 
 to America. His manner was dramatic, his speech colorful, 
 and his enthusiasm contagious. 
 
 "I tell my class of immigrant boys and girls," Bishoff 
 said, "kids from twelve on up, the formative ages — you have 
 an opportunity here in America that would never have been 
 allowed to you in Europe ! But it is not only an opportunity 
 — it is a duty for you to take advantage of the opportunity — 
 to take what America offers you and make something of it !" 
 
 Chase, listening with half his mind while he searched 
 the gathering for Myra — he had arrived too late to seek her 
 out before the meeting began — found his attention arrested 
 with a kind of shock. He had never thought of these new- 
 comers to the United States in quite that way. To him immi- 
 grants had fallen into two possible categories — cheap labor, 
 or dangerous labor agitators with all kinds of ideas for 
 upsetting society and even the government. The chance — 
 which America had always epitomized — and idealized in 
 Abraham Lincoln — of pulling oneself up by one's own boot- 
 straps, had always seemed limited to him to farm boys like 
 himself, whose roots were deep in New England, whose 
 ancestors had broken the soil of the new country many 
 generations before, and had planted the seeds of a British- 
 born philosophy and heritage. A heritage which flourished 
 
 93 
 
and spread west to Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, and expressed 
 itself perhaps best in the statutes of the State of Illinois, 
 and in an overall social procedure modified only to the rigors 
 of American business life. 
 
 He looked about him to find out what kind of people 
 had gathered here to listen to this young man who spoke 
 so vividly, with but a trace of accent. 
 
 He saw a motley variety — some folk more newly arrived 
 in the country than BishofF himself, in whom the neighbor- 
 hood abounded, some workmen of ordinary circumstances, 
 some "uplifters," and a few professional men. His amaze- 
 ment grew, for in his world only people of a kind flocked 
 together, drawn by their own specific interests — business, or 
 art, or religion, or whatnot. Or the social obligations which 
 devolved upon them according to their various economic 
 levels. 
 
 He sought out Myra eagerly after the talk was over, 
 and the crowd moved to simple refreshments in another 
 room. She was talking, with some animation, to the blond 
 young man from the Ukraine. 
 
 Chase moved in on the conversation, his proprietary 
 interest in Myra piqued by her very evident enjoyment of 
 the stranger. 
 
 She greeted him as cordially as ever, and introduced 
 the two men. 
 
 "It's been a long time since we've had a good talk, 
 Myra," Chase said abruptly. "Won't you drive home to 
 supper with me?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I can't, Mr. Chase. Mr. Bishoff and 
 I have some plans for his young people's class that we must 
 talk over tonight. It can't be put off, for we have to arrange 
 these things in advance." 
 
 H 
 
"Well, bring him along too," replied Chase, then added, 
 more cordially, "I'd be delighted to have both of you." 
 
 The two young people looked at each other, and ap- 
 parently agreed. 
 
 On the long drive to the south side, Chase was silent, 
 letting the two thrash out their problems of conflicting time 
 schedules, subject matter for the classes, and so on. He was 
 thinking his own thoughts, but now and then caught a 
 fragment of their conversation. 
 
 "But Andre is not a surly child," Myra was protesting 
 at one point. "He is only shy. You should see him in the 
 wood-working class, where he can go ahead on his own and 
 work with his hands. He is sure of his hands, and he isn't 
 sure of people. But he's ready for your class, I'm convinced 
 of it. And he can't be in the two classes at the same time. 
 The manual training schedule can't be changed, because of 
 the demands for the room and equipment. So yours will 
 have to be." 
 
 Chase heard Bishoff argue, "But there is my work at 
 the shop, the union meetings — I don't see how — " 
 
 "Some one else can take the union meeting once a 
 week," Myra replied, "these young people need you too, in 
 a different and very important way — they are the future." 
 
 Chase knew she would win the argument, and stopped 
 listening. 
 
 He expected Bishoff to be impressed by his home — the 
 elegance of the furnishings, the fine silver and linen, the 
 butler who served them. It was probably the best food this 
 immigrant had eaten in his whole life. 
 
 Bishoff was impressed, but not in the way Chase ex- 
 pected. For at the table, the young man burst into a tirade, 
 regardless of the fact that Chase was his host. 
 
 95 
 
'This way you live, Mr. Chase," he expostulated, "is 
 extravagant, even though you can well afford it. Do you 
 enjoy it? Is it necessary to you?" 
 
 Chase was startled. "I don't spend much time here," 
 he replied. 
 
 "Then it is a waste," Bishoff answered, "and I do not 
 think you are one to appreciate waste." 
 
 It was a new thought to Chase, but he recalled now 
 that the mansion and the ornate way of living had been 
 Diana's wish, not his own. "I suppose," he continued, think- 
 ing aloud, "all this means something to my son Carroll. He 
 grew up here. This is his home." He reflected that very 
 probably Carroll did need all this background, first, because 
 he had been brought up with it, and second, because of his 
 lack of self-confidence. Unhappy, as always when he thought 
 about Carroll, he led his guests into the library. 
 
 Entering the room, he heard Aaron Bishoff gasp. The 
 library was large, the walls lined with shelves from floor to 
 ceiling. Several thousand volumes filled the shelves, mostly 
 standard sets of books in fine leather bindings. Only Chase 
 knew that in a few of the volumes had the leaves been cut. 
 
 He waved a hand inclusively. "I'm not a reading man," 
 he remarked. "The newspapers and detective stories are 
 about all I have time for. I like light reading at bedtime. 
 I don't care for history or science, but I like travel books — 
 pictures of places I've been." 
 
 Myra entered the conversation in praise of biography, 
 and Bishoff expressed his preference for philosophy, par- 
 ticularly political philosophy. 
 
 It figured, Chase thought, and was therefore surprised 
 when Bishoff expanded his theories. 
 
 "You, Mr. Chase," the young man attacked suddenly, 
 96 
 
"have an industrial empire. Yes, I have heard much of you. 
 But for permanent success, you need first industrial unity 
 by integrating your own establishment and management so 
 that they do not operate at cross purposes. You cannot 
 guarantee your ultimate success without cooperating with 
 others in similar industries. It is not a personal matter, this 
 building of industries. For you are promoting industry as 
 a whole, not merely your private business. Moreover, indus- 
 try is an on-going thing — and you do not intend to relinquish 
 the control of your business. You want ultimately to control 
 all industry." 
 
 Chase neither admitted nor denied, but listened. 
 
 "I hope," Bishoff continued, "that your enterprises will 
 be successful, not perhaps so much for yourself as for all 
 those employees whose welfare depends upon your success." 
 
 Robert Chase saw in that statement a similarity to his 
 own thinking — a recognition that a workable and therefore 
 successful operation must have a single control. He saw him- 
 self as the logical person to assume that control. He also 
 saw that this young man was no crackpot * 'agitator," but a 
 man who spoke from long and active study, and who did 
 not let the trees obscure the forest for him. 
 
 Bishoff seemed to read the older man's thoughts. "Mr. 
 Chase," he said, "you are deceiving yourself in assuming 
 that you have built up your empire yourself. You have con- 
 tributed largely in that direction, but a large contribution 
 came to you by borrowing the time of others of the present 
 generation and of many generations in the past. You, of 
 course, believe in paying your debts?" 
 
 Chase nodded, a bit bewildered, "I always have." 
 
 "Not always," Bishoff replied. "To those who are living 
 and associated with you, you can pay such debts directly, 
 
 97 
 
whether equitable or not. But to those of previous genera- 
 tions, to whom you are more indebted, you can pay your 
 debts only by paying their natural successors. That includes 
 not only those who are presently working for you, but those 
 outside your association who are entitled to a share in the 
 heritage." 
 
 This was getting pretty theoretical, but Chase had an 
 answer. "Bishoff," he replied, "every generation usually 
 produces more than it consumes, and leaves a heritage of 
 its accomplishments, some of which can be perpetual. What 
 previous generations have left is similar to what nature 
 leaves. Those who have the ability can take advantage — or 
 exploit, if you like that term better — the assets passed on 
 from previous generations, which are no more a heritage 
 than the water in the river is an inheritance. Only those who 
 harness natural resources can claim ownership." 
 
 Surprisingly, Bishoff agreed with him. "You have hit 
 the nail on the head, Mr. Chase," he said. "You believe that 
 you can benefit everyone by bringing your costs down so 
 that your goods will be in greater demand. Nevertheless, 
 there are many of the disinherited who need your goods, and 
 cannot obtain them. 
 
 "You believe that your bankers, who have always sup- 
 ported you, will continue to give you support. They will, 
 of course, go along with you as long as you follow their 
 dictates. But as soon as you depart, your credits will be 
 frozen, and your competitors will be given all the advantage. 
 You are potentially a slave of this banking industry, even 
 though you may be up now. The potential is always there." 
 
 "Well," replied Chase, "the potential of financial ruin 
 is in every business undertaking, if that's what you mean. 
 You can't build anything, with or without bank loans, 
 without some financial risk. It's the same whether it's my 
 money, or the banks'." 
 
 98 
 
"That is not what I mean at all," argued Bishoff. "Mr. 
 Chase, don't your bankers tell you when to declare a dividend 
 on stock?" 
 
 "Well, yes/ admitted Chase. "One pays a financial ad- 
 viser for financial advice. That's what they're for." 
 
 "And they tell you whether it should be large, or small?" 
 pressed Bishoff. 
 
 "I suppose they do," admitted Chase, "I told you, that's 
 what they're for." 
 
 "But your competitors pay for financial service, too," 
 Bishoff pointed out. "Do you think they are more loyal to 
 one client than another? Would your bankers favor you 
 against your competitors ? No ! They play all of you against 
 each other, to no one's advantage but their own. In other 
 words, all of you industrialists are under the control of these 
 banking fraternities, consciously or otherwise, and you all 
 conform. Why, you do not even hire an important executive 
 without first consulting your banker." 
 
 "What harm is there in consulting one's banker on 
 major decisions?" demanded Chase. "When their suggestions 
 don't fit the situation, I don't have to follow them." 
 
 "Of course not. But you always have followed them, 
 haven't you? You are not even aware of your dependence. 
 Because these bankers are clever enough to make you think 
 you make your own decisions. I invite you to 'jump the 
 traces' some time, and see what happens. Mr. Chase," he 
 said very earnestly, "I know what I'm talking about. I have 
 studied industry, for many years. History repeats itself, 
 time and again. I have worked in industry — I know both 
 sides of the story. I know the workman's pitiful problems, 
 and I know the industrialist's big problems. There has to 
 be some place where the two can meet — for industry itself 
 is good. It is necessary." 
 
 99 
 
Then Bishoff rose abruptly, glancing at the mantel 
 clock. "It is time for me to take Miss Dodds home," he 
 announced, " and then I must go on to a union meeting. 
 The evening has been interesting, Mr. Chase. I would like 
 to talk more with you." 
 
 Bishoff insisted, against Chase's protests, upon taking 
 Myra home himself. "Your horses have been put up for 
 the night/' he reminded his host, and Chase, who loved 
 horses, could not demur. 
 
 When the young people had gone, Robert Chase sat long 
 in the library, recalling all that Bishoff had said. He did not 
 begin to agree with the man, but he did recognize that Aaron 
 was not a haphazard social agitator. He had, as he said, 
 given much study and thought to these matters. His sincerity 
 could not be doubted. Chase wondered what his experience 
 had really been — in America as well as in Europe. He 
 decided to find out. A man like Bishoff might be valuable to 
 him, but he could not yet be certain. 
 
 Of one thing he was sure, and he didn't know whether 
 he liked it or not : Myra Dodds was uncommonly interested 
 in this stranger. 
 
 100 
 
******* CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 Exit Frederick Hunt 
 
 Aaron Bishoff made friends wherever he went. His 
 buoyant spirit and unfailing optimism were contagious, and 
 awakened a ready response in others. He was never casual, 
 never indifferent, never at a loss, and never downcast, in 
 spite of the hardships he had known in early life. He was 
 loquacious, though not gossipy, and wherever he went his 
 conversation seemed to be a personal message, delivered to 
 each individual. On the other hand, he understood many 
 languages — German, English, Italian, Polish, Russian or Yid- 
 dish, and he captured every word of others' talk. He laughed 
 freely, joining in the laughter of others, and when he laughed 
 it was with a volcanic roar that reverberated above all other 
 voices. 
 
 His ability to laugh had served him well on many occa- 
 sions, but never better than on an occasion in Kiev when 
 
 101 
 
he was attending the Gymnasium there. A couple of the 
 local police came to his rooming house to arrest him. That 
 was nothing new to him, for he had escaped from prison 
 more than once, leaving the turnkey behind. When these 
 two approached him, Aaron let out a bellowing laugh. The 
 two policemen laughed too, though they didn't know why. 
 Aaron, all joy and friendliness, threw an arm around each 
 neck and, before they could throw him off, he cracked their 
 heads together, and, dry-washing his hande, walked non- 
 chalantly away. (He left Kiev that night.) 
 
 It was the time of the revolutionary movement that was 
 sweeping Russia in the early 1880's, and Bishoff had become 
 identified with the radicals — hence his many escapades with 
 the police. It was soon after the incident in Kiev that he left 
 the country, and migrated to the United States. 
 
 Landing in the city of New York without money or a 
 trade, he became acquainted with a few of his countrymen 
 who helped him to get a job in one of the many sweat shops 
 of the garment industry where, for incredibly low wages, 
 men, women and children worked from dark until dark 
 stitching the garments for the country's wealthy. In time, 
 he learned to operate a machine. 
 
 The newcomer found promptly that the new world had 
 problems similar to those he had fled. The difference was 
 that in Russia any attempt to remedy the situation met 
 with stringent punishment. In the free land he could shout 
 loudly of everything he considered iniquity, and nobody 
 stopped him. It wasn't long before he became one of the 
 local leaders in the ladies' garment union, which was then 
 merely in the making. 
 
 But he discovered that in New York there was plenty 
 of leadership, and not too much room for an outsider. He 
 had heard that Chicago, the burgeoning city in the midwest, 
 was an open city for labor unionization. 
 
 102 
 
In Chicago, he found employment readily. On his first 
 job, he started organizing, and was promptly discharged. He 
 was successively discharged from other jobs as a machine 
 operator for his work in favor of unionization, but he finally 
 emerged as a recognized speaker in behalf of labor. He 
 managed always to keep working, however, for he was a 
 skilled operator now, but he never stayed long in one place. 
 On two occasions, he was rehired in order to control him, 
 but Bishoff never rested. He could do a full day's work at 
 whatever shop he was employed, spend the evening until one 
 o'clock in the morning at union headquarters, and show up 
 again the next day for work, indefatigable. 
 
 He had a natural appeal. He was above average height, 
 with a bony frame, and gave the impression of gigantic 
 strength. He was a blond Russian, with reddish hair and 
 sandy complexion, even a few freckles, and blazing blue- 
 gray eyes. What was most noticeable about him was his 
 mouth, which kept moving, not merely opening, as he 
 talked, his mobile lips shaping anything from a whisper to 
 a shout. When he talked, he gesticulated with his arms, and 
 turned his head from side to side — if he had been bearded, 
 he would have fitted well the portrait of a medieval pirate. 
 
 On the way from New York to Chicago, he had learned 
 that men were wanted in the north woods of Wisconsin, 
 felling lumber, and, applying at one of the agencies near 
 the old Union Depot above Adams Street in Chicago, he 
 was at once accepted and shipped off to one of the camps. 
 
 The foreman was impressed by Aaron's physique, and 
 the newcomer took readily to the work. He drove oxen with 
 log-laden wagons, learned to swing an axe and manipulate 
 the handsaws. He helped feed the bandsaws and planers at 
 the mill, and reloaded the sawed timber onto freight cars. 
 He lived with the other men, and got along well with them. 
 He ate heartily, but remained thin. He resembled the many 
 
 103 
 
Scandinavians who worked in the mill, and, from constant 
 association with them, began to take on some of their man- 
 nerisms, particularly in his speech, which became sing- 
 song, with Swedish inflection. 
 
 The foreman was well pleased with Bishoff, but after 
 four months the young man announced that he was leaving. 
 
 "Why?" asked Jensen. "You want more pay already? 
 Are you bellyaching about the grub? What's wrong?" 
 
 "On account of your men," replied Aaron. "They are 
 all happy, contented. I do not wish to disturb anyone who 
 is happy. I prefer to live among those who are unhappy." 
 
 To this strange remark Jensen simply shrugged. All 
 Russians were crazy, and this one was crazy too. He sus- 
 pected, however, from chance conversation he'd overheard 
 about the camp, that Aaron was a labor agitator, and he 
 let him go willingly enough. Jensen had enough trouble 
 with machinery, animals and weather; he didn't want any- 
 one stirring up his men. 
 
 Back in Chicago, Aaron looked up the few acquaint- 
 ances he had made in his short stay there, and his circle 
 of friends grew steadily. He began to be known outside of 
 his own group of garment workers. Men respected both 
 his knowledge and his judgment. 
 
 Bishoff was a true agitator, and an intelligent one, 
 though his activities were somewhat restricted for a time 
 because of the memory, in the minds of the police, of the 
 Haymarket riots. Nevertheless, wherever he met men in 
 groups or alone, he urged them, "Organize, organize, organ- 
 ize." He told them of his own experience in the sweat shops 
 and other situations, and convinced them that he knew 
 their problems first-hand. He imported literature, and cre- 
 ated some of his own, which he handed out at meetings or 
 
 10 U 
 
surreptitiously in unorganized shops. "Join, join," he 
 pleaded. "Join us today — it may be too late tomorrow." 
 
 He lived on Union Street in the vicinity of 14th Street, 
 the very heart of the sweat shop district. Whether he was 
 working, at the moment, in one of them, he always entered 
 without invitation. He would call out one of the workers, 
 who invariably obeyed his summons, regardless of employer 
 or foreman. He became a personal friend to every worker 
 he met, and soon, the leader of many, an incorruptible 
 opponent of sweat shop employers, whom he called "slave 
 drivers." 
 
 He visited the homes of the workers, and came to know 
 their wives and children. It was at one such home that he 
 met Father Palleti, who served the Italian community, call- 
 ing on people outside his church as well as in. 
 
 Aaron was not at first impressed by the small, dark 
 priest. But on their second meeting, he began to understand 
 that the other was engaged in the same activity as him- 
 self — relieving distress, physical or otherwise. He told the 
 little man, "You and I are in the same business. We both 
 want to help people. Your work is as beneficial as mine, 
 and while you go about it in a different way, the objective 
 is the same. We both have to live and work among the 
 unhappy." Father Palleti agreed with him, and they became 
 friends, though they were never really close to each other. 
 
 In all of his "unionizing," however, Aaron never lost 
 sight of the total picture of industry. His theme was not 
 "down with the bosses." His wide experience had developed 
 in him a compassion for the workman and a sympathy for 
 management. He realized that they were inter-dependent. 
 "Workmen and bosses are caught in the same net," he said 
 time and again, "each unavoidably struggling against each 
 other in a confined space." 
 
 105 
 
But he saw in organization the only hope for the 
 worker. The individualist, which he was himself, and which 
 men like Chase were, could make his own way in the world 
 against all odds. But those who were handicapped by race, 
 color, creed, poverty, ignorance, lack of training, unfamil- 
 iarity with language and customs, or inferior mentality, 
 needed help. He saw help only in organization, some place for 
 the underprivileged "to go," with his grievances. To Bishoff, 
 it was the old American cry of, "In union there is strength !" 
 
 As he gained ground as a labor leader, Aaron began 
 to call on employers and social workers, widening his 
 acquaintance and experience. He wanted to know, and un- 
 derstand all the problems of employment, from all angles. 
 He did not believe that any problem could be solved from 
 one point of view only. 
 
 At the union headquarters in two rooms over a store 
 in a rundown structure on Jefferson Street, meetings were 
 held about every two months. They were designated as "get 
 together" meetings, to which many were invited, except 
 the police, who came without invitation. 
 
 Other meetings were held wherever rooms could be 
 secured, and one night, soon after Aaron had met Robert 
 Chase, a meeting was arranged in a hall on Blue Island 
 Avenue near 12th Street. 
 
 Aaron had half expected Myra to attend, but was com- 
 pletely surprised when he saw her enter with Frederick 
 Hunt and Robert Chase. The ushers, recognizing that the 
 three were not of the local group, gave them choice seats 
 near the center of the hall. Myra did not look about — she 
 was familiar with workers of this kind — but Hunt and 
 Chase were both curious, scanning the audience. The faces 
 were all strange to them, and there was a bedlam of noise. 
 Everyone was talking or shouting or trying to out-shout 
 someone else. 
 
 106 
 
In time, the chairman rapped energetically for order, 
 and introduced the speaker of the evening. 
 
 Aaron approached from the audience, mounted a 
 wooden chair, and finally, the table, standing in front of 
 the chairman. He stood gaunt, coatless and hatless, more 
 arresting than if he had worn a coat. He didn't like restric- 
 tions when he talked — he wanted his arms free, for he 
 gesticulated constantly as he spoke, both with his hands 
 and with his head, and sometimes stamped his feet. The 
 light from the gas jets, of which there were about a dozen, 
 somewhat concealed the pallor of his face. 
 
 When he started talking, there was a hush, and his 
 voice reached every corner of the hall. 
 
 "My subject tonight," he began abruptly, "will be 
 accidents. We are all victims of accident, from birth on. 
 We are subject to accidents of health and disease. Poverty 
 and riches are both accidents, and whether we live crudely 
 or extravagantly, our way of living is determined by the 
 accident of our environment. We are all victims — some suf- 
 fering, and some enjoying life." 
 
 Chase stirred belligerently. His wealth was no accident 
 — he had earned every bit of it, starting out with not much 
 more than any of these people, except a different philosophy. 
 He must remember to tell Bishoff that. But he knew what 
 Aaron would say. He would say, "You didn't need help. 
 You were strong enough to go it alone." Chase turned his 
 attention back to the speaker. 
 
 "Father Palleti told me this morning," Aaron was 
 saying, "that our little friend Dorca Ponzelli — you all know 
 her — has passed away at the age of fifteen. She was thirty 
 in maturity. The doctor's certificate read 'Pneumonia. ' 
 
 "That was the doctor's version. Of course, Dorca had 
 pneumonia. In reality, however, she died from an accident. 
 
 107 
 
She had worked from the age of nine. She was undernour- 
 ished. Her living conditions with her poor parents were 
 no choice of hers or theirs. The trouble was an accident — 
 the accident of poverty, poverty which takes the greatest 
 toll of human life, and imposes the greatest misery on 
 human life. 
 
 "I'll tell you about another accident. Down in Packing 
 Town two workers choked to death from inhaling ammonia 
 gas this morning. The cause was said to be an accident. 
 But it was not an accident. The ammonia compressors were 
 overworked. The manager of the plant knew right along 
 that his equipment was being overworked. So the break- 
 down was no accident." 
 
 Chase's face twitched. He too knew of that accident, 
 in a plant over which his office had some jurisdiction. 
 
 Bishoff went on recounting other disasters — several 
 men in a sugar refinery killed by a boiler accident — because 
 the boilers had been worked overtime without rest and 
 without inspection. 
 
 "Not a week passes, hardly a day passes/' he pounded, 
 "but someone is killed or injured at the grade crossings. 
 Two days ago, I watched a switch engine moving some cars 
 along 16th Street near Union. One of the coupling links 
 broke, and when the switchman tried to replace it with a 
 new coupling, he wasn't fast enough, and was pinched 
 between the two cars, and crushed to death. And just as 
 the police ambulance came along, a young lad of fifteen 
 was run over on an adjacent track, not a hundred feet 
 away. Those were not accidents ! The hazards were known, 
 and no precaution was taken ! 
 
 "Too much stress is being laid, these days," he shouted, 
 "on accidents ! But the real reason for these things is negli- 
 gence — criminal negligence fostered by greed! Factory 
 
 108 
 
machinery can be kept in repair — the railroad tracks can 
 be elevated above the streets. But it would cost money, and 
 so it is not done ! And the disasters go on !" 
 
 He listed more and more such "accidents" in the daily 
 life of the teeming city, concluding: "Friends, these things 
 I have been speaking of are not pleasant, but I bring them 
 to your attention to convince you that you must protest in 
 the loudest possible way against the unspeakable conditions 
 in which you work and live. You will never gain anything 
 by striking for higher pay. You may get higher pay, one 
 way or the other — but until these working conditions are 
 changed, what good will more pay do you? These conditions 
 must be wiped out, until not even the memory of them 
 
 remains 
 
 Extending his long left arm, Bishoff flung out his hand, 
 palm down, pointing a large forefinger into the audience 
 directly at Frederick Hunt. 
 
 "You," Aaron shouted, "you who have been brought up 
 with gold spoons in your mouths, you need an awakening, 
 and the kind of awakening you'll get some day will give 
 you more trouble than anyone in this room has ever known !" 
 
 The gesture which pointed out young Hunt was pure 
 coincidence — Aaron was not even looking at him personally, 
 but was speaking in generalities. 
 
 But Frederick felt that the diatribe was intended for 
 him, and was the more hurt because his sympathies had 
 for some time now been enlisted in exactly the same prob- 
 lems as Aaron's, though he was approaching them from a 
 different angle. He spoke to Myra hurriedly, and walked 
 out of the hall. 
 
 It was only then that Aaron noticed Hunt personally. 
 He quickly pulled himself around. "That young man," he 
 
 109 
 
told the people, "who has just left happened to be in the 
 way of my pointing finger. I was not seeking him out for 
 accusation. I don't even know him. I certainly didn't mean 
 to hurt him. That was a real accident. If there are any 
 others in the hall who feel offended by what I have said, 
 they have the privilege of leaving, as he did." He waited a 
 few moments, but no one accepted his invitation. 
 
 Chase might have done so but for the girl at his side. 
 When they finally left, he told her bitterly, "That man is 
 an agitator. He's up to no good." 
 
 Myra was uncomfortable, too. For it seemed to her 
 that Frederick Hunt had deserted the cause, and with it, 
 herself. Though she had been seeing less of him lately, she 
 had felt that they still understood each other, and that their 
 old friendship, if not developing, was at least the same, a 
 comfortable thing which she could take for granted. Now 
 she reflected that her last tie with the past was cut, except 
 of course her continuing affection for her mother which 
 was based on love rather than understanding. It was surely 
 time for her to move out of her old home and into Hull 
 House. . . . 
 
 And Chase, silently driving her toward Hyde Park, 
 realized gloomily that not all his fences were mended. He'd 
 have to raise some more hell with his many foremen. 
 Bishoff's philosophy might be off the beam, but he was 
 right about the accidents — they would have to stop. Was 
 there no one he could depend on? Would he have to do it 
 all himself, at his age — it had grown so big, his empire, and 
 so complicated. These young people, with all their bright 
 idealism ... he had ideals, too, but they could get so 
 tangled up in detail that a Philadelphia lawyer wouldn't 
 know where to start to unsnarl them. He thought again, 
 longingly, of Waller Pratt 
 
 110 
 
* * * * * CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 The World of Aaron Bishoff 
 
 The near west side was teeming with life. By day and 
 well into the night people crowded the busy streets, which 
 were lined with small shops and at the curbing with benches 
 and carts loaded with a variety of goods. The activity center 
 was in the two blocks between 12th and 14th Streets, 
 hemmed in at north and south by residential buildings. 
 
 While the buildings in the entire area were mostly one- 
 story, the concentration of population was heavy. As many 
 as three and four families lived in each house; basements 
 were converted into apartments, and even barns housed 
 more people. The population reached its greatest density 
 along Liberty and Barber Streets, which had once been 
 alleys but had been turned into streets to afford more front- 
 age for dwellings. Throughout the whole neighborhood, 
 
 111 
 
plumbing was unknown except for the kitchen sinks, and 
 outhouses were shared by several families. The space be- 
 tween buildings facing the street was but two or three feet, 
 and little sunlight crept into the houses. In the winter, water 
 froze in the basements, and the thawing out of water and 
 drain pipes was a constant occupation, with bursting lead 
 pipes an everyday occurrence. 
 
 Perhaps it was for want of fresh air that the people 
 took to the streets day and night, pitting their voices in 
 endless neighborhood chatter against the clatter of wagons 
 and horsedrawn streetcars that jangled along Canal, Jeffer- 
 son, 14th, 12th and Halsted Streets. 
 
 Here the immigrants settled during the 1880's, cluster- 
 ing in close-knit "national" groups. The Italians took over 
 the strip between Polk and 12th Streets; the Jews congre- 
 gated in the area south of 12th Street and down to 14th ; new 
 arrivals from Ireland settled south of 14th Street. Beyond 
 the periphery of this district lived groups of Bohemians, 
 Poles, more Irish, and a sprinkling of Greeks and Germans. 
 
 All of these settlements were increasingly congested by 
 fresh arrivals of relatives and friends from the Old Country. 
 Newcomers were dubbed "greeners," and the appelation 
 lasted until another load of immigrants arrived to make 
 them seem like oldtimers. The designation clung from six 
 months to two years, but after two years was completely 
 outgrown. 
 
 Regardless of the overcrowding and lack of sanitation, 
 the people in the area lived relatively happy lives, relieved 
 of the restrictions and even persecution they had endured 
 in Europe. While remaining clannish, and clinging to the 
 old ways which they knew, they welcomed the freedom of 
 action which was now theirs. The living conditions were no 
 worse — and in many cases were better — than they had 
 
 112 
 
known before. Some families remained for two and three 
 generations in this first home in the new land. 
 
 The people of the community gained their livelihood 
 mostly by working in the sweat shops. The pay was low and 
 the hours long, but it was better than the work they had 
 left. It was a skilled trade, and most of them were proud 
 of their workmanship. 
 
 Another extensive occupation that thrived on the west 
 side was peddling. Peddlers made their way from house to 
 house with notions, matches, tinware. Immigrants of two 
 or three weeks were most apt to resort to this means of 
 earning a living. The shrewder ones soon learned that there 
 were fields beyond Halsted Street that offered better markets 
 for peddling. They equipped themselves with larger packs 
 and a greater variety of goods. Supply houses became large 
 institutions, and a wholesale district for peddlers' supplies 
 grew up along 12th Street. The houses extended credit for 
 their goods, and daily or weekly the peddlers would report, 
 make their payments and take out new goods. 
 
 Another source of income for the newcomers was rag 
 picking, practiced mostly by the Italians. These pickers 
 roamed about the city, collecting discarded rags that they 
 found in the alleys, stuffing their bags with old woolens, 
 cottons, linens, which they sold to rag establishments which 
 flourished in basements and empty stores. Italians were 
 employed to sort the rags, and pack them into bundles for 
 shipment to various places for salvage. 
 
 Scrap metals were gathered and sold the same way. For 
 the collection of this waste material, horses and wagons 
 were used, and the men who could not afford this equipment 
 hired out to others, who could. Ironyards were established, 
 and as the demand for scrap metals grew, became a thriving 
 business. 
 
 113 
 
There were many small shops in the district — groceries, 
 bakeries, butcher shops, small dress shops, all along Canal 
 and Jefferson Streets, as well as second hand clothing stores. 
 Artisans, like watchmakers, plied their trade in dingy little 
 rooms, and milkmen were independent operators. 
 
 The community had its own churches — mostly Catholic 
 and Jewish, and there were some parochial as well as public 
 schools. The public schools were the centers of "American- 
 ization," though that term had not yet come into use. Such 
 schools as the Foster School were truly melting pots, and 
 boys and girls of varied language and home background 
 worked, sang, played and fought together up through the 
 fourth grade. Those who were able to pass through the 
 fourth grade were transferred to the Garfield School, beyond 
 Halsted Street. Teachers were mostly young Irish women, 
 with enough spirit and good humor to handle the young 
 toughs, who (mostly Irish) made their jobs both difficult 
 and challenging. 
 
 As a whole, the people lived noisily and happily. Every- 
 one seemed to know what everyone else was doing. But the 
 community was self-centered. Few people ventured far from 
 the neighborhood. They had little knowledge of other parts 
 of the city, and little interest. They lived mostly according 
 to the traditions they had brought with them from Europe, 
 for to them America was a free country where they could 
 live as they liked. 
 
 There was one area, however, far off at the city limits 
 on the west side, that they knew. It was Douglas Park, and 
 on Sundays and holidays during the summer months the 
 horse-drawn streetcars were overloaded taking men, women 
 and children to the park. The open cars, with running boards 
 along each side, could be loaded up with double the ordinary 
 capacity of thirty. The cars usually took about forty minutes 
 to get to the park from Halsted and Jefferson Streets, but 
 
 1U 
 
even so, conductors had a hard time, in the overcrowded 
 cars, to collect fares. Because of the cross benches, with no 
 center aisle, the conductor had to use the running boards 
 on either side, and when these too were crowded with pas- 
 sengers, he had to depend on a mere toehold and swing 
 outward, grabbing the side posts alternately. Their regular 
 wages were low, and they depended heavily upon "forgotten 
 fares." 
 
 It being a low income area, the major tragedies were 
 accident and illness. Illness was by far the greater catastro- 
 phe, for it generally meant debt. The congested living 
 quarters were not conducive to health, for insufficient heat- 
 ing in the winter led many families to seal up their windows, 
 and smoking kitchen ranges, kerosene lamps and tobacco 
 smoke kept them coughing habitually. Tuberculosis became 
 prevalent. 
 
 It was natural that social concern should arise in the 
 city over both the health conditions and the Americanization 
 problems which the district presented. Something should be 
 done about it, and Hull House seemed the right answer, 
 though it was established not in the midst of the near west 
 side, but at the northwest fringe. The idea of Jane Addams 
 and her group had not been to move in and interfere with 
 the community life, but rather to invite the people in, and 
 to offer them help as they asked for it. Most of the popula- 
 tion of the area held aloof, however. They looked upon the 
 Hull House workers as "uplifters" who thought their way 
 of life was superior and who wanted to change them, when 
 they had no desire to change. So for a matter of a dozen 
 years, Hull House stood as a promise rather than a fulfill- 
 ment, while its founders worked to relieve the tensions in 
 the tumultuous community by planting an oasis of tran- 
 quility in the district. But it was slow going. 
 
 Aaron Bishoff gravitated naturally to this community, 
 
 115 
 
and was in his element there. Happy to be among the * 'little 
 people" again, he was perfectly content to share a small 
 room with another man in the home of a family named 
 Slotkin, and they spent long hours discussing the problems 
 of the sweat shop workers, with which Aaron had become 
 well familiar in New York. He knew that the whole sweat 
 shop situation depended upon immigrants and more immi- 
 grants, who would work under any conditions, for as long 
 hours as were demanded, and for any wage, because they 
 could not choose. He understood the whole pattern — the 
 prime manufacturers letting out the work to sweat shop 
 operators because it was cheaper, the operators in turn 
 conducting their business with the least possible outlay, 
 often converting their homes into shops in order to save 
 rent and to utilize the spare time of their own families. 
 
 Like other newcomers, he himself had gone into a sweat 
 shop on his arrival, because it offered work that he knew 
 how to do. But by the time he met Myra Dodds, he had found 
 a place with a downtown manufacturer, the Central Tailor- 
 ing Company, operating a machine. He welcomed the pay, 
 which was better, and the shorter hours — ten as compared 
 to fourteen or fifteen hours a day in the sweatshops — be- 
 cause he now had more time for union activities. 
 
 He reminisced to Myra about some of his early experi- 
 ences in the city. " Before I went downtown to work," he told 
 her, "I was advised to take on contracting myself. This was 
 another machine operator I was talking with. He said, 'You 
 can make as much money as any of these schlemiels.' But 
 I wouldn't think of it. I want to help these immigrants, not 
 to take advantage of them. I'm an immigrant myself." 
 
 "Don't label yourself," she advised him, to his surprise. 
 "You're a human being who wants to help other human 
 beings. That's all." 
 
 But her knowledge and understanding of the special 
 
 116 
 
problems of the immigrants amazed him, for he knew that 
 her own background had been very different, that she had 
 been brought up in the traditional American middle class 
 way, even living on the edge of wealth. He found it as diffi- 
 cult as Robert Chase, though for different reasons, to under- 
 stand her passion for welfare work. He did not doubt her 
 sincerity, but from what she had told him of her home life, 
 and particularly of her brother, her dedication seemed in- 
 credible. 
 
 "Just say it's a kind of calling," she explained to him, 
 and then told him how she had drifted away from the 
 church, and that somehow, her work at Hull House had 
 taken the place of religion. That he could accept and ap- 
 prove, for it was the same with him. When she moved into 
 Hull House, he approved completely, and was convinced 
 beyond any doubt. 
 
 But when she told him that she was taking part-time 
 work in music at the University of Chicago, in addition 
 to her library job and her voluntary work at Hull House, 
 he was bewildered. Like all Russians, his love of music was 
 inborn and deep. But how could she do so many things at 
 one time, and so well? 
 
 "Oh, because I'm healthy," she replied lightly, "and 
 because I want to. I want to fill every waking minute with 
 living." 
 
 He nodded his approval. "Yes," he said, "now I know 
 you. You have a large capacity for living, both in your own 
 life and in other people's lives." 
 
 But, the night after his lecture in Ashland Hall, he was 
 unhappy. "Who is this young man I embarrassed last 
 night?" he demanded. "He should not have walked out. 
 He was simply in the way when I happened to gesture. 
 
 117 
 
And he took it personally. It was stupid. You came in with 
 him and Mr. Chase. Is he a special friend of yours ?" 
 
 Myra hedged, for Frederick Hunt had embarrassed her, 
 too, and moreover, she couldn't say whether he was a special 
 friend or not — she had taken him for granted for so long. 
 And now she, too, was annoyed with him. 
 
 "He's a boy I went to school with," she replied. "He's 
 a lawyer, and he's interested in the underdog too — from a 
 statistical standpoint. I guess he's doing some good in the 
 world. He's taken up cases for supposed down-and-outers, 
 and estranged himself from his family on account of it. 
 His father is a banker." 
 
 Aaron seemed to be satisfied with her answer. But Myra 
 was not satisfied with Frederick Hunt. And so she welcomed 
 his call, a week later, as an opportunity for having it out 
 with him. 
 
 They arranged to meet at her mother's apartment on 
 the evening that she regularly spent at home since moving 
 to Hull House, since that would be easier for him. But she 
 greeted him accusingly. 
 
 "You certainly embarrassed me when you left the meet- 
 ing. You weren't behaving much like a gentleman !" 
 
 "I didn't have to listen to the ranting of that man 
 Bishoff !" replied Frederick hotly. "Who does he think he 
 is? Making personal remarks at a public lecture!" 
 
 "It wasn't a personal remark," she answered. "It was 
 a general one. You just happened to be in the way when 
 he pointed a finger — and you were conceited enough to take 
 it personally! Who do you think you are?" 
 
 She paused. "I am — myself," she said. "And one of the 
 things I can't stand is intolerance. Believe me, Aaron Bishoff 
 is more tolerant of you than you are of him." 
 
 118 
 
 
"And you are more tolerant of him than you are of 
 me," he accused her. "Who is he, that you defend him so 
 hotly against me, your old friend of years' standing?" 
 
 She didn't know. But she replied, "Because you showed 
 bad manners. He's an immigrant, he's dedicated — he's very 
 important in the unions — I don't know. I only know that 
 he intended no personal affront. And you decided to be 
 affronted. And embarrassed both me and Mr. Chase. When 
 you were our guest." 
 
 "Do you think I'm not 'dedicated?' " he flung at her. 
 "I thought we understood each other. I thought you knew 
 what I'm trying to do in my practice. And I thought you 
 approved of it !" 
 
 She passed a weary hand across her forehead. "I know 
 you're doing good work, Frederick," she admitted, "in your 
 own way. It isn't my way, but I'll give you credit for sin- 
 cerity. But there's something wrong, something lacking, if 
 you can't be more tolerant of other people who are just as 
 sincere as you are." 
 
 "Do you think it was good manners for him to point 
 fingers at people, and to make personal accusations against 
 people he didn't know?" demanded Frederick. 
 
 "All I think," she replied, "is that you are being stub- 
 born, that you've put me in an impossible position, and that 
 until you can realize that other people, who don't agree 
 with you, have a right to say what they think, I don't want 
 to see any more of you !" 
 
 Frederick turned pale. "Do you know what you're say- 
 ing?" he asked. "Do you really mean that?" 
 
 "Of course, I mean it !" she wailed, not really knowing 
 whether she did or not. "Oh, go away !" 
 
 119 
 
"Do you mean that?" he repeated, but she burst into 
 tears, and he left abruptly. 
 
 Her mother found her weeping, and attempted to con- 
 sole her. But, whether she realized it at the time or not, 
 Myra had moved over completely into Aaron BishofTs world. 
 
 120 
 
 
* * 
 
 * * * * CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 Control 
 
 Intuition had always been the guide to Robert Chase's 
 action. He pioneered instinctively, starting new enterprises 
 for which he set up two premises — first, that the activity 
 have a recognizable utility basis, and second, that the control 
 always be retained by himself. It had been so in the lumber 
 business, in the plumbing business, and in all the other 
 enterprises that followed. 
 
 Whenever he entered into business relations with others 
 — as he had done with the elder Dodds — he saw that the 
 optimum advantage would be when he could control and 
 others obey — and invariably, those from whom he wrested 
 control obtained larger profits. 
 
 The pattern repeated itself so many times that others 
 sought to connect him directly or indirectly with their 
 
 121 
 
projects because of his managerial ability. As a result, he 
 had directorships in more than forty corporations, including 
 not only the enterprises which he owned, but also banks, 
 railroads and utilities. Many a railroad president aimed 
 to attract R. B. Chase by offering him attractive purchases 
 of stock with a directorship for the obvious purpose of 
 gaining traffic from his own enterprises. In time, all the 
 principal railroads leading westward out of Chicago had 
 him on their stockholders' lists, and several, on their direc- 
 torships. He never purchased stock in any company unless 
 there was some special advantage to him in price, and it 
 was generally substantial. 
 
 In his own organization, Chase had two main divisions, 
 one for operations and the other for investments. As his 
 interests grew, the investment phase became more and more 
 important. 
 
 The rapid expansion of the Chase enterprises required 
 increasing investments. Part of the capital was obtained by 
 plowing back the large profits, for none of his corporations 
 declared high dividends. However, it was often necessary to 
 obtain bank loans, and Chase seemed never to have difficulty 
 in obtaining funds without liens on his companies. 
 
 What demanded considerable money was the increasing 
 number of outlet branches. Each subdivision made its own 
 loan negotiation, whether in Minneapolis, Dallas, Kansas 
 City or Cleveland. The total of these loans was of course, 
 huge, and entailed heavy interest charges. 
 
 James Cole, Chase's finance manager, regularly pre- 
 sented tabulations of deposits and bank loans of all branches 
 of the company. The time came when Cole, in explaining 
 his report, told Chase: "Our bank loans and our bank 
 balances have both been steadily increasing in all our sub- 
 sidiaries. There is too much money being borrowed for the 
 sole purpose of maintaining liberal bank balances, far in 
 
 122 
 
 
excess of the actual requirements. This has been steadily in- 
 creasing, and is entirely disproportionate to the sales. It is 
 the easiest way of managing a subdivision's finances." 
 
 "Well," demanded Chase, "what would you recommend 
 — what can we do to reduce such large balances — which of 
 course increase the interest charges?" 
 
 "That is exactly what I want to present to you," replied 
 Cole. "My idea is that no bank borrowings would be done 
 by any subdivision, but should be carried out by this office. 
 The subsidiaries should remit all their collections bi-weekly 
 to the central treasury, leaving only a modest balance for 
 immediate requirements. With each remittance, a statement 
 of requirements for the following week should be remitted, 
 and funds from the central treasury could be advanced for 
 a period of a week or so, accordingly." 
 
 "Well," Chase was thoughtful, "how do you expect such 
 a system to reduce the total bank borrowings?" 
 
 "The law of averages would govern that," Cole replied. 
 
 "Yes, I see," Chase answered. "The total loans carried 
 by our central treasury would be less than the total sum 
 now carried by all the subsidiaries." 
 
 "That's exactly it," agreed Cole. "And there are other 
 advantages in this scheme. If all the borrowing were done 
 by the central treasury, the total would still be large, and 
 the big city banks would give the company much more 
 consideration as a very large customer. Moreover, the inter- 
 est charges by metropolitan banks are one-fourth lower than 
 those of small banks. There'd be a gain, therefore, in two 
 directions — the amount borrowed, and the interest rate. 
 The difference would be considerable." 
 
 Chase was considering all angles. "What would be the 
 attitude of the small banks in the subdivision areas?" he 
 asked. 
 
 123 
 
"Oh, they wouldn't like it too well," replied Cole, "but 
 on the other hand, large fluctuation deposits aren't of too 
 much value to these small bankers. They must keep their 
 cash on hand to a disproportionate extent, to meet daily 
 calls." 
 
 Chase nodded agreement. "When do you expect to put 
 this new plan into effect?" he asked, indicating to James 
 Cole that it was up to him to make all the arrangements. 
 
 "I've already contacted some of the large banks in 
 New York," Cole replied, "and they will accept any arrange- 
 ment we want to make. These New York banks want col- 
 laboration with the Chicago banks we've been dealing with 
 for years. The New York banks admit that the Chicago 
 banks are more familiar with midwestern business and could 
 be useful." 
 
 Cole then told his superior that the New York bankers 
 would like to have a statement or a balance sheet from 
 Chase & Company as well as its earning sheets. 
 
 Chase's face twitched. "Why do they want all that?" 
 he demanded. "They know we're good for any amount we 
 call for !" 
 
 Cole shrugged. "That's the way the New York bankers 
 do business. They need full information from their clients 
 in order to serve them better by anticipating their require- 
 ments." 
 
 The balance sheets which James Cole made up were 
 never seen by anyone but Chase and himself. The statements 
 were secret, and kept in a steel box to which only Chase 
 had access. 
 
 In due time, a communication was received by the head 
 of Chase & Company. He read it avidly: 
 
 12 U 
 
 
My dear Mr. Chase: 
 
 For a number of years we have been watching with 
 satisfaction the growing strength of your company. We are 
 apprized also of the various extensions which your company 
 has acquired. During the past twenty years you have had no 
 liens on your company, which indicates that you have financed 
 your extensions out of profits. The loans you have obtained 
 from the banks, of course, have been for current purposes. 
 All of this has developed on our part a degree of confidence 
 that is almost unparalleled in a business of your magnitude. 
 
 We in the banking business are anxious to give recogni- 
 tion to such major accomplishments, and to give full credit 
 to those who are responsible for the results. We long ago 
 recognized you, Mr. Chase, as a power in the Middle West. 
 Frankly, we would like to become better acquainted with you. 
 
 We confess that by doing business with strong organi- 
 zations we strengthen our own position and guarantee its 
 future. We have had some informal correspondence with your 
 Mr. Cole, and we presume that we will now hear from you 
 directly. Above all, we would enjoy a personal visit from 
 you so that a real acquaintance could be developed. 
 
 We are happy to state that we are prepared without 
 hesitation to extend to you such credits as you may require, 
 and the more you require the better we shall like it. 
 
 Most cordially, 
 
 J. G. Watkins, Executive 
 
 Vice-President 
 National Bank of Manhattan 
 
 As he read the letter, Robert Chase beamed. Here was 
 recognition from afar, and he instructed James Cole to send 
 the bank all the information it might need, including the 
 secret annual statements. 
 
 It was only a few days later that a man named Walther, 
 representative of the National Bank of Manhattan, called 
 at the Chase office. His visit appeared to be casual. 'The 
 bankers are interested to see the progress of an important 
 customer first-hand," he announced. 
 
 125 
 
Robert Chase was flattered. He saw Walther's call as 
 a case of the mountain coming to Mohammed. 
 
 On the other hand, Walther was a personal investor as 
 well as a bank representative, and he wanted to get in on 
 the ground floor of Chase's new ventures. Consequently he 
 was very solicitous of Chase's health, and was pleased to 
 find it good. "The health of the head of a business," he 
 remarked to Robert, "is often reflected in the profits of the 
 company." 
 
 Walther wanted to meet Chase's associates in the office 
 — he was acquainted only with James Cole — and accord- 
 ingly Robert strolled through the main office with him, 
 casually introducing his important executives. The general 
 informality appealed to Walther, for he saw that business 
 was being conducted effectively but without pretext or 
 pompous nonsense, by a well experienced staff. 
 
 The next morning, a telephone call from one of the 
 leading Chicago banks, of which Chase was a director, 
 requested his presence at a board meeting. He rarely at- 
 tended such meetings, but this time he was urged, and 
 reluctantly left his office in mid-morning. He was surprised, 
 when he arrived at the meeting, to find Walther also there, 
 and learned also that Walther had attended the meeting 
 with the council organization of the bank officials. But noth- 
 ing unusual occurred during this meeting, and Chase re- 
 turned calmly to his own office. 
 
 A few days later, he received a letter from the New 
 York bank that puzzled him somewhat. After thanking him 
 for the courtesies extended to Walther during his stay, 
 John Watkins wrote that he had sent Walther out to estab- 
 lish a closer relationship between his bank and the House 
 of Chase, and also with associated Chicago banks. The latter 
 inference surprised Chase. He had not known that the Mid- 
 
 126 
 
western National Bank of Chicago had any connection with 
 the National Bank of Manhattan. There was no common 
 directorship among the two, but that meant nothing, for 
 the practice of setting up dummy directorships was quite 
 common. 
 
 Some months later, the House of Chase had another 
 visitor from New York, not Mr. Walther this time, but one 
 of the Vice-presidents. By this time the eastern bank had 
 accumulated a large number of notes on the House of Chase. 
 But the Vice-president offered services and funds of his 
 bank for larger loans to the Chase enterprises. 
 
 In their talks, Chase could find no basis for offense, 
 but the offer of larger loans after prior consolidation of 
 loans in the hands of a few large bankers, made him suspi- 
 cious of ulterior motives. 
 
 Hale, the Vice-president, dropped a hint that it might 
 be a good idea for the Manhattan Bank to have representa- 
 tion on the boards of one or two of the corporations con- 
 trolled by Chase. 
 
 "No," declared Chase. "I can see no reason for intrusion 
 in my private affairs." 
 
 Hale reminded him that as his bank had a good many 
 notes with the Chase interests, it would indeed be a good 
 plan for the bank to be represented on his boards, perhaps 
 for its own protection. There was nothing in the conversa- 
 tion that could be called a demand, but to Chase the threat 
 was there. He saw no reason for even such a suggestion, 
 unless the object of the bank was control of the Chase enter- 
 prises. For the Manhattan bank was taking no risk — his 
 corporations were on a sound basis, a profitable basis, a 
 growing basis. He was offering the bank an investment — 
 it was all a matter of business. 
 
 127 
 
He wondered if he had erred in changing the borrowing 
 policy of the House of Chase for the sake of saving a few 
 hundred thousand dollars a year in interest. He could see 
 real danger ahead. He had been successful on his previous 
 basis, and could continue so. The economy, he felt, was not 
 worth the hazard. 
 
 Accordingly, he wrote to Hale that he was too preoc- 
 cupied to take time for any long trips, particularly to New 
 York, and furthermore, could see no immediate urgency. 
 He was satisfied, he said, to continue present relations with 
 the Bank of Manhattan, and hoped that would be satisfac- 
 tory to the bank. He added that he recognized that the loans 
 from this bank were high and proportionately excessive. 
 He was happy with the bank's attitude toward him, yet 
 did not wish to be under extreme obligations to any banking 
 institution. He had a plan, he wrote, for liquidating some 
 of his indebtedness, but that it would take some time to 
 carry out. He explained that it would be to the interest of 
 both the Bank of Manhattan and the House of Chase to 
 diversity its loans. 
 
 To the officers of the National Bank of Manhattan, 
 Chase's letter meant that he could not immediately liquidate 
 his indebtedness. That was exactly what they had wanted 
 to know. 
 
 So, in the course of a few weeks a third representative 
 came out from New York, who was also a Vice-president. 
 The man hinted that the trend of the times was for greater 
 publicity in business affairs. The government at Washington 
 was becoming suspicious of "high finance," he said, and a 
 general policy was being developed for corporations, par- 
 ticularly the larger ones, certain of which in the east were 
 giving serious consideration of refinancing recapitalization 
 to obtain public support by distribution of holdings. 
 
 None of this had any appeal for Robert Chase. All of 
 
 128 
 
 
his life, he had conducted his business successfully according 
 to his own ideas. The government at Washington could go 
 to blazes. He had nothing to fear. 
 
 His caller reminded him that the government had a 
 real hold on some corporations, particularly the packing 
 industry. 'This 'embalmed beef business," he reminded 
 Chase. 
 
 "None of my beef killed a soldier in the war with Spain," 
 he maintained hotly. "My people follow the best practices 
 against unsanitary conditions. We've introduced more and 
 more sanitary methods, and have developed them on a prac- 
 tical basis. Are we responsible for what happens to beef 
 after we've shipped it out?" 
 
 "That, of course, is the crux of the matter," Mr. Chase 
 replied, "but the public blames the packers, and is convinced 
 that you'd ship anything to the soldiers, just so you make 
 a profit." 
 
 He pointed out further that the government was taking 
 advantage of the whole situation to cover up some of its 
 own negligence, and that industry must be cognizant of the 
 situation. It was political, of course, but that didn't prevent 
 the government from placing the whole burden of blame on 
 the packing industry — and the people would believe any 
 story the government put out. 
 
 "Why should the bankers in New York be concerned 
 about it?" demanded Chase. "They've got their own shenani- 
 gans to answer for." He felt that the bankers were unduly 
 alarmed, unless for some reason not yet disclosed. 
 
 What he did not know at the time was the near-con- 
 spiracy of the New York banks, aided by others over the 
 country, to establish an overlordship in big business and 
 industry. He had listened to Aaron Bishoff on the subject, 
 
 129 
 
but had not believed him. Bishoff was too much of a crack- 
 pot, too recently from Europe, too much an onlooker to 
 understand business. He didn't know what he was talking 
 about. 
 
 This guy didn't know either. Chase took the "govern- 
 ment" talk as hokum, almost as a personal threat to enable 
 the eastern bank to move in on him. No, his success had 
 depended on and been made possible only because he had 
 always controlled his affairs. He'd keep on controlling them. 
 
 ISO 
 
c * 
 
 ****** CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 Romance 
 
 With Frederick Hunt apparently out of her life, Myra 
 threw herself more intensively into her avocational work. 
 She never looked for comfortable living, and that char- 
 acteristic she shared with Aaron Bishoff. They were both 
 avidly interested in people, and got their greatest satisfac- 
 tion out of trying to help others. In immediate origin, they 
 were far apart. But in immediate interests, they were very 
 close. 
 
 Myra found herself thinking of him more and more, 
 particularly after she settled in at Hull House, and lived all 
 of her time, with the exception of weekly visits to her 
 mother, in the world that she had chosen, and Aaron had 
 been born to. 
 
 Whenever he asked her to join him at a meeting she 
 
 131 
 
did so, often deferring other interests. But it seemed to her 
 that he never thought of her in a personal way. He had 
 never asked her to any social function, to any entertain- 
 ment, or even a relaxing hour in the park. Now and then 
 she mentioned music or art — an open-air concert or the 
 like, but he was too preoccupied to take the hint. 
 
 She was delighted, therefore, when along in the sum- 
 mer, Aaron told her there was to be a Cloak Makers' picnic 
 on a Sunday soon, in the woods over in Indiana. 
 
 "We're getting a special train," he said, "and will leave 
 at about 10 o'clock, and spend the day. The women will take 
 picnic baskets, and make lemonade and coffee. I suppose 
 some of the men will take beer." He frowned thoughtfully, 
 and then, as though he needed an excuse, told her, "I think 
 you should go. You've been working too hard lately — that 
 extra sewing class, and all your studying." 
 
 "Oh, that would be fun!" she exclaimed, then added 
 soberly, "you've been working too hard, too. It will be good 
 for you, too." 
 
 "I suppose so," he agreed absently, his mind already 
 on something else. 
 
 "How many will there be?" she asked, wanting to talk 
 about the outing, "will I know many of them?" 
 
 "I don't know," he replied shortly, and launched into 
 an explanation of a recent problem in the union. He did 
 this often, not expecting much from her in the way of 
 discussion, but as though by talking it out to a sympathetic 
 listener, he was better able to cope with the matter. She 
 understood this need of his — in fact, encouraged it, and so 
 fell silent. 
 
 It was not until later in the week, after a lecture at 
 Hull House, that Aaron mentioned the picnic again. "I'll 
 
 182 
 
come here for you at 9 o'clock," he told her. 'That will give 
 us plenty of time to get to the depot." 
 
 When the day came, Myra donned her prettiest frilly 
 shirt-waist, and throwing good sense to the wind, her best 
 white summer skirt. Grass stains be hanged — this was her 
 first real "date" with Aaron ! 
 
 All the way to Indiana on the train she was very gay, 
 and though she knew none of the people well, she led them 
 in singing as the train inched along. 
 
 She was not unhappy when, arrived at the picnic 
 grounds, the men and women separated, as at a Quaker 
 meeting. She chattered brightly with the girls as they laid 
 tablecloths on the grass and set out the food. She was 
 proud of her three-layer cake and baked beans, made, as her 
 mother had taught her, the New England way. 
 
 At dinner, while she sat with her newly made girl 
 friends, she watched Aaron covertly. He sampled every- 
 thing, but she noticed that he ate most from the dishes 
 brought by the Jewish women. He had never discussed re- 
 ligion with her, and she had assumed that he had drifted 
 away, as she had, from the practises of his upbringing. His 
 dietary choices were probably habit, and she found herself 
 thinking, "I can learn Jewish cooking." Then she blushed 
 at the turn her thoughts were taking, and knew at once 
 that she was in love. But was he? If he was, he didn't know 
 it yet. She would have to find, or make a way for him to 
 discover her. . . . 
 
 After dinner, the men, logy with food, were inclined 
 to lie around under the trees arguing union matters. But 
 Myra would have none of that. "You can talk shop in Chi- 
 cago !" she told them gaily. "This is our day off from every- 
 thing! Let's have a foot race — the girls against the men!" 
 
 Enough men responded, Aaron among them. Goals 
 
 133 
 
were set, and a judge appointed. "I'll beat you, Aaron," she 
 challenged him, "skirts and all !" 
 
 When the goal keeper shouted, "Go !" she was off ahead 
 of them all, laughing as she ran, not caring that her hairpins 
 were flying out, her rich hair loosening, thinking, "I like 
 him in shirt sleeves !" She turned to look back. They were 
 all close behind her, but Aaron was nearest. She gave a 
 great spurt, and darted far ahead, reaching the tree which 
 marked the goal breathless, and flung her arms about the 
 trunk to stop herself. Aaron, close behind her, reached the 
 goal seconds later, and grabbed at the tree to stop his 
 flight. He knocked her down, and together they rolled over 
 in the grass. 
 
 "Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously as he helped her 
 up. 
 
 "Of course not," she replied, pushing her bright hair 
 back from her flushed face. "It was fun. It was like being 
 children again." 
 
 But it wasn't. For he had touched her, and all her 
 senses were singing. As far as she was concerned, she was 
 certain. What she didn't know was whether his heart was 
 singing, too. 
 
 After that, throughout the fall and early winter, they 
 fell into each others' company more easily. They took to 
 calling on people together. When a family needed his help 
 or advice, Aaron would tell her, "I need a woman's reaction 
 to this situation. Come along." Once, he took her to the 
 theatre, which entranced her, and the warm intimacy with 
 him in the darkened room was good. But she did not en- 
 courage repetitions, for she knew the state of his finances. 
 
 If Myra needed any proof of her feeling — or lack of it 
 — for Frederick Hunt, it came along late in the autumn. 
 On an evening when she was visiting her mother, Frederick 
 
 134 
 
showed up, unannounced. Mrs. Dodds let him in, as a friend 
 of the whole family. Frank was at home that night, and it 
 seemed natural for all of them to be together. 
 
 But to Myra, he seemed to be a stranger. She looked 
 at him, and even while her mother and brother were greet- 
 ing him cordially, she rose abruptly, went into the bedroom 
 she had used to occupy, and closed the door. She stayed 
 there until he had gone, and when she came out, she offered 
 no explanation for her behavior. Her mother asked no 
 questions, seeing that whatever sympathy there had been 
 between them was gone. 
 
 Christmas was approaching, and even the near west 
 side was gay. The little shops were bright with holiday 
 decorations, and crowded, night after night, with shoppers 
 who were spending their small hordes on bright clothing 
 and toys for the children. The streets seemed noisier than 
 ever. Everyone was out, everybody was excited about the 
 coming holiday. 
 
 Myra and Aaron walked the streets one night, dis- 
 cussing plans for the Christmas party at Hull House. She 
 would spend a week at home, she told him, baking cookies 
 and fruit cake, and making candy. A couple of the other 
 girls at Hull House would do the same thing, and they'd 
 have a wonderful party. 
 
 On Halsted Street they passed a young married couple 
 they knew, coming out of a shop laden with bundles, their 
 faces beaming. 
 
 Aaron turned to Myra abruptly. "Wouldn't it be nice if 
 you and I had someone to buy Christmas gifts for?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She was puzzled, for surely they had each other, and 
 he must know it. But she sensed that this was the moment, 
 and that he needed help. 
 
 135 
 
As they turned down a side street, she touched his 
 hand. "Aaron," she asked, "do you believe in Christmas?" 
 
 "Not in the way you do," he replied, "but it's a giving 
 time, a happy time. Have you noticed the faces of the people 
 on the street? Do you know why they're lit up like candles? 
 It isn't only Christmas — it's because they belong to some- 
 body — at Christmas time." 
 
 "You belong, Aaron," she told him gently, almost afraid 
 to speak, "all those people in the union love you — " 
 
 "Bah !" he replied angrily, and then, with a gesture of 
 helplessness, "how could I expect a woman to love an ugly 
 horse like me !" 
 
 She stopped him in the street. "Aaron," for he had to 
 say it, and of his own accord. "What woman? Are you in 
 love with one of the girls in the union? Frieda Shapiro, 
 maybe?" She spoke the first name that came to her mind, 
 but she had been concerned over the difference in their 
 backgrounds, even though both of them had grown away 
 from their early teachings. 
 
 "Of course not!" he shouted, then, "Myra, why don't 
 you help me?" 
 
 She turned her face up to him wonderingly. "Help you 
 — what?" she asked, though she knew. 
 
 Suddenly, she was in his arms, and she didn't know 
 whether she had done it or he, but he was kissing her. They 
 were silent the rest of the walk back to Hull House. Neither 
 one knew what to say. 
 
 Leaving her at the door, Aaron felt that he would like 
 to walk all night, to get the whirling out of his thoughts. 
 But it was well past midnight, and he made his way to his 
 rooming house. 
 
 136 
 
There he found two men from the union waiting for 
 him. 
 
 "Where've you been?" they demanded. "Never knew 
 you to be out carousing this time of night !" 
 
 He answered them shortly, apologized for keeping them 
 waiting more than two hours — he was almost invariably 
 here by 10 or 10:30 at night — and asked them what was on 
 their minds. 
 
 "You've got to go to New York," the older man said, 
 "and talk to the fellows there. We've got to tighten up the 
 organization here. Those boys have been through it — they'll 
 have some good advice." 
 
 Aaron knew it was true — there were holes in the or- 
 ganization that needed mending, and the men in New York 
 could be very helpful. But he shook his head. "I can't go," 
 he said. "You'll have to get somebody else." 
 
 "Why not?" they demanded. "We've got your expense 
 money. Everything's arranged." 
 
 "What business did you have arranging everything?" 
 he asked. "Without consulting me first? I tell you, I can't 
 go. And I won't." 
 
 "What's the matter, are you afraid of your job?" 
 pressed one of the men. 
 
 "Of course not," he replied. He had left work on many 
 an occasion, with the full consent of his employer, who 
 knew that he was too valuable to lose, and that his union 
 activities kept peace in the shops rather than otherwise. 
 "I'll tell you why I can't go," he faced them squarely. "I'm 
 going to get married. That's why." 
 
 The astonished men left, and Aaron went to bed. But 
 he spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning. He knew 
 
 137 
 
that he should be happy. He was in love, and Myra was in 
 love with him. But he thought back over his wanderings, 
 never long in any one place, on any one job; his constant 
 concern for other people, which sent him all over town, at 
 all hours; the traveling that he might have to do for the 
 union, in the future. What kind of life was that to offer 
 a woman? What kind of a home would they have? 
 
 But he fell asleep at last, on the one thought: he was 
 going to get married. That much was settled. 
 
 138 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 'Pandemonium 
 
 The next night, Aaron called for Myra, and found her 
 waiting, as though by pre-arrangement. She had been to 
 see her mother during the day, she told him, and everything 
 was understood. "But she wants to know you better, Aaron. 
 She hasn't seen much of you." 
 
 He agreed absently, wondering what kind of fuss and 
 bother they'd have to go through. Would Myra want a 
 church wedding? If so, what church? 
 
 He didn't hold much with clergymen of any kind, and 
 he knew that she had long ago given up church-going. But 
 what about her family? 
 
 "Mother will want anything that makes me happy," 
 Myra told him. "If it's a civil ceremony you want, we'll 
 just go down to the City Hall some day and have it over 
 
 139 
 
with. The kind of ceremony doesn't matter — it's just you 
 and I that count." 
 
 He was relieved, and all the way to the union head- 
 quarters, they discussed their plans. They would have to 
 live for a while, he said, at his rooming house, and they 
 could get married as soon as the man he was rooming with 
 could find another place. Of course, they'd start looking for 
 a flat, so that they could keep house like respectable people. 
 
 She laughed at that, wondering secretly what home life 
 he had ever had, what he would want in the way of a home. 
 Would it be a small sanctuary of their own, or would there 
 be people, all kinds of people, coming and going? It didn't 
 occur to her to question him. Whatever he wanted would be 
 all right. His people would be her people. For she was in 
 love. 
 
 She did not know that he had, the night before, an- 
 nounced to his friends his intention of marrying. But she 
 knew, the minute they entered the dingy, smoke filled room 
 that was the union headquarters, that the two of them were 
 the subject of animated conversation. The talk was all in 
 Yiddish or Italian, so that she understood none of it, but 
 the nudges and glances in their direction, and Aaron's oc- 
 casional shrug (for he understood all of it) told her the 
 story. She thought little about it, and asked him no ques- 
 tions. After the meeting was over, they discussed their own 
 plans all the way home. 
 
 They waited only until the holidays were over — she 
 wanted to give her mother one more Christmas at home, in 
 the usual way, and also wanted Aaron to share her family 
 celebration before they started their life together. One day 
 soon after the first of the year, in a seemingly casual 
 fashion, they went down to the Court House, and were 
 married by the clerk, with only Myra's mother and brother 
 as attendants. It was as simple as that. 
 
 UO 
 
With no honeymoon at all, they moved into her old 
 room in the Hyde Park apartment while they waited for 
 Aaron's roommate to find another place. 
 
 She went daily to Hull House, and accompanied Aaron 
 to meetings in the evenings. Happy in her new life, and full 
 of plans for the future, she was completely unaware of the 
 pandemonium their marriage had stirred up among the 
 union members. 
 
 She would never have known — being unable to com- 
 prehend their talk — if Aaron, angry and bewildered by the 
 attitude of his so-called friends, had not, in his new de- 
 pendence on her, told her about it. He was too incensed to 
 contain himself, and poured it all out in the Dodds kitchen 
 one night, over late coffee with Myra and her mother. 
 
 "I can't understand it," he stormed. 'They are saying 
 that I deserted them, I betrayed my religion ! As if I ever 
 went to a synagogue ! And they all know it !" 
 
 Myra frowned, more disturbed by his anger and hurt 
 than by any rejection of herself by his friends. But she 
 wanted to understand these people, for they were his people, 
 and she must not take him away from them. 
 
 "I think, Aaron," she puzzled slowly, "it isn't religious 
 prejudice as such. It's the fact that I'm a stranger to them. 
 They don't know me. I'm different, and so they're afraid of 
 me. And maybe they think I took you away from them. I 
 suppose," she added slyly, "there were any number of girls 
 who had their caps set for you. Anyhow, all of them thought 
 you belonged completely to them. I'm a — a kind of a shock 
 to them, I guess. Give me time. I'll win them over." 
 
 Her mother agreed, realizing that Myra had taken on, 
 perhaps, a bigger job than she thought in marrying this 
 man whom she loved dearly, but whose whole background, 
 economically, socially and religiously, was so different from 
 
 W 
 
her own. But she had complete faith in her daughter's 
 ability to accomplish anything she set out to do. If she had 
 had other hopes for Myra, had thought perhaps that Fred- 
 erick Hunt should have been a natural choice for the some- 
 what headstrong girl, she had never said so. What she 
 wanted most for Myra was that she be happy and useful. 
 She knew that to be happy, Myra had to be useful, and 
 divined what Myra might not have thought in words — 
 that she had fallen in love with Aaron because he needed 
 her and at the same time was strong enough to lead her. 
 
 So now all the mother said was, "When you have a flat 
 of your own, you can have people in. That will help a great 
 deal." 
 
 Aaron nodded. He hadn't thought of that angle. He'd 
 thought only of economics, and the fact that the one sleep- 
 ing room was all he could afford right now. But Myra had 
 announced her intention of staying on in her job at the 
 library, "as long as possible," she'd said, blushing, and he 
 could take on extra work, if necessary. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you're both right. Myra will have to 
 win them over, her own way. When they find out she isn't 
 a snob, maybe they'll stop being snobs." Then he laughed 
 at the frailties of all human beings, throwing back his head 
 and roaring until the ceiling echoed. "The men are jealous 
 because I got you, Myra, and the girls are jealous because 
 you got me! What a world!" Then, sobering, "We'll look 
 for a flat. Maybe I won't throw my roommate out." 
 
 "While we're looking," Myra replied, "I have an idea. 
 Teach me to talk and understand Yiddish." 
 
 He looked at her open-mouthed. "You, my Myra," he 
 said, "are the most wonderful person in the world." 
 
 "No," she said, "you are." And they both laughed to- 
 gether. 
 
 U2 
 
* CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 A Revelation 
 - and an Emmissary 
 
 When Myra and Aaron were married, they did not 
 send out formal announcements. That was a frill they 
 couldn't afford, and besides, Aaron protested, he didn't want 
 to obligate his friends, who had less than he, to send gifts. 
 The Bishoffs could get along on their own. 
 
 Myra agreed with him, but she felt that she owed a 
 social courtesy to Robert Chase to inform him of her mar- 
 riage, and not leave him to learn from some casual remark 
 of her brother Frank's. She was too busy with all her new 
 interests to call at his office, but she remembered with some 
 pleasure her heated arguments with him, recognizing still 
 that he was no puny protagonist, no ordinary industrialist 
 (even though she had called him so to his face). 
 
 So she wrote him a little note, casual and a bit gay, and 
 
 US 
 
then forgot about him. There were so many things to do, 
 so much for her to learn, in this new life with Aaron. 
 
 Cooking, for instance. She had always been considered 
 a good cook, in the hearty but plain New England fashion. 
 Now, entering the kitchen of Shifra Slotkin, wife of the 
 owner of the house where they roomed, she was bewildered 
 by rich spices, rigid rules, religious rituals. There was so 
 much she didn't know about that enigmatic past of Aaron's, 
 and perhaps food was the first thing to start learning. 
 
 "I don't want a kosher kitchen!" Aaron stormed, "I'll 
 eat pork whenever I want it !" But she noticed that he rel- 
 ished the occasional meals they shared with their landlord, 
 and Shifra was willing to teach her. 
 
 Nevertheless, Myra and Aaron made their way twice a 
 month to her mother's home for dinner. Frank was seldom 
 with them, perhaps not liking Aaron's company, but more 
 probably, Myra suspected, was out courting. 
 
 They were well along with their dinner, and Myra was 
 prattling happily about her recent success with apple streu- 
 del, when the door bell rang, and in walked Robert Chase. 
 
 Myra looked up at him in surprise. Was he in the habit 
 of calling on her mother unannounced, or had he been ex- 
 pected ? Mother had said nothing of it. 
 
 "What brings you to this neck of the woods?" asked 
 Aaron rather rudely. 
 
 "0, I come now and then, when I can make an op- 
 portunity," replied Chase easily. "Tonight Mrs. Dodds and 
 I have some business to discuss." 
 
 "Let's talk at the table," Mrs. Dodds suggested, "I'm 
 sure you haven't had your dinner yet." For Chase always 
 ate late, or at least later than this. 
 
 He protested, but she calmly set another place, and 
 
 1U 
 
they all felt comfortable together, and Myra was genuinely 
 glad to see him. 
 
 Chase began talking almost immediately. "That piece 
 of property of yours, Mrs. Dodds — I think you can dispose 
 of it to advantage. I've talked it over with Frank at the 
 office, and he thinks, too, that now is the time to sell." 
 
 The property in question, left by the elder Dodds, ad- 
 joined the old plant of Dodds and Willis, and extended from 
 Canal Street to the Stewart Avenue tracks, an area of 
 nearly two acres. Joseph Dodds had leased a corner of the 
 land to Silverman Bros., who used it for a scrapyard, at 
 the modest rental of $30 a month. Gradually their business 
 grew, until they occupied the whole property, renting it for 
 $120 a month. It gave Mrs. Dodds a steady income, and 
 Frank had attended to the details, collecting the rent, mak- 
 ing the bank deposits, and the like. This had gone on 
 through the years. 
 
 "Not long ago," Robert Chase told them now, "Frank 
 told me that Silverman Bros, were installing new equipment 
 — a skull cracker, a boom crane, an alligator shear, and 
 some other pieces for breaking up metal. They sell most of 
 their scrap metal to the foundries and the steel mills. In 
 fact, I've been buying from them for quite some time — as 
 much as 150 tons a month. 
 
 "Well, the Silvermans offered Frank $12,000 for the 
 property. Luckily, he told me about it, but he was very 
 much impressed. You know, Mrs. Dodds, Joe never con- 
 sidered that land worth more than $1,500 or $2,000." 
 
 Mrs. Dodds nodded. "It seemed like it was worth more 
 as an investment, with a steady income," she admitted. 
 
 "But do you want to know," Chase continued, "why 
 the Silverman boys were willing to pay $12,000 for property 
 you consider worth $2,000 at best? Because the railroad 
 
 U5 
 
company that has the Stewart Avenue line has bought up 
 all the adjacent property, and this is the only piece it 
 doesn't own. It's worth $40,000 to $60,000 to the railroad. 
 In fact, I could buy it myself and resell to the railroad — 
 but I won't make money off my friends." 
 
 He sat thoughtfully for a moment, staring into his 
 coffee cup. Then, "You know, Mrs. Dodds, I've never known 
 whether I did right by Joe or not. When his health broke, 
 and he had to sell out, I thought I gave him a pretty square 
 deal. But it was so long ago, I don't remember. I do know 
 that he made more money when we were associated together 
 than he would have otherwise — because everybody I've ever 
 associated with has. I've always had a knack," he admitted 
 with no particular modesty. It was just the truth. "And 
 particularly with Joe, because of his health." 
 
 "We always felt that way, Mr. Chase," said Mrs. Dodds 
 quietly, "anyhow, it was business, and it was between you 
 and Joseph." 
 
 He went on as though he had not heard her. "For some 
 time after Frank came to work for me," he said, "I didn't 
 place him. He doesn't look much like his father. It was 
 when I came here one night, for Myra, and recognized you, 
 Mrs. Dodds, that I realized ! Dodds is a good New England 
 name — I hadn't associated Frank — or even Myra — with Joe. 
 
 "Well, I've given Frank every opportunity, and he's 
 proved worth it. He's more valuable to me every day. And 
 I'd have done a great deal for Myra, if she had let me. But 
 she preferred Aaron, here, to my son or a place in my 
 business, so I suppose I've got to be interested in him, 
 too." But he said it with a twinkle in his eye, and a genuine 
 grin at Aaron. 
 
 "You don't need to be," replied Aaron, a little bel- 
 ligerently. "We can get along." But he had always liked 
 
 U6 
 
 
Chase, in spite of their different worlds, for in Chase there 
 was strength, however opposed their philosophies. 
 
 "How is Carroll doing?" asked Myra politely, anxious 
 to forestall any argument between Chase and her husband. 
 Aaron, being mercurial in nature, was sometimes unpre- 
 dictable, and her mother did not relish word battles, though 
 Myra herself revelled in them. 
 
 Chase shrugged. "He's in New York now. I've been 
 sending him east periodically, on small business errands. 
 He's got to become more interested in the business." 
 
 Myra nodded, not knowing quite what to say about the 
 scion of wealth whom she'd turned down, to marry a penni- 
 less immigrant. 
 
 And, perhaps sensing her thoughts, Chase switched 
 brusquely back to the subject of the property. "Well, do 
 you want to sell or not? With the proceeds, you could buy 
 or build a nice home for the four of you. I'd like to see you 
 do that." He had some idea what Mrs. Dodds' income was, 
 as well as Aaron's. He'd like to know that they were com- 
 fortable, and to feel some proprietary pride in making them 
 so. 
 
 "It's up to Myra," Mrs. Dodds told him. "She has a 
 share in the property, too." 
 
 Myra protested. "No," she said, "Aaron is right. We 
 can make our own way. And we couldn't leave the west side. 
 Our life is there. In fact, we've been looking at a house 
 on Wilson Avenue, big enough to rent part of it, if we can 
 get it for the right price." 
 
 Then she added, thoughtfully, "But we're not in a 
 hurry." She wanted to learn more from Shifra, learn more 
 of Aaron from the people with whom he associated — their 
 language, their habits, their ways of thinking, before she 
 
 U7 
 
and Aaron moved into an island of their own. She could 
 wait. "But," she said firmly, "Mother and Frank must do 
 whatever they think is best — for Mother. Frank can get 
 along on his own, too." He had done so, very well, her 
 glance told Robert Chase. He felt again his old defensive- 
 ness against her young candor, and, as always, guilty of 
 something he could not name or put his finger on. 
 
 When he had left, she asked her mother accusingly, 
 "What was that business relationship between Papa and 
 Mr. Chase? Why didn't you ever tell me? Did he put some- 
 thing over on Papa?" 
 
 "Not that we ever thought," replied her mother. "He 
 financed Papa when the shop was in bad straits, because of 
 your father's health. As he said, we made more money when 
 we were associated with him than when Papa was alone. 
 When Papa's health broke, he made a fair deal with Mr. 
 Chase. We never felt that he took advantage of circum- 
 stances. Business is business, Myra." 
 
 "Humph!" remarked Myra. "Why did you never tell 
 me? Does Frank know?" 
 
 "I suppose Frank knows," her mother replied. "You 
 were too young when it all happened. And, when Mr. Chase 
 became interested in Frank, and then in you, I left you to 
 make your own decisions, based on your own judgment. 
 I do not condemn or condone either of you. I've brought 
 you both up as well as I could," and Myra winced, knowing 
 how much her mother had had to do for them, alone, "and 
 Frank chose to go along with Mr. Chase. You did not. 
 Neither of you is right, and neither is wrong. I love you 
 both, and I want both of you to be very happy and suc- 
 cessful." 
 
 Myra left with Aaron, feeling like a rebuked child, and 
 anxious to get back to their own colorful world where, 
 
whether he knew it yet or not, Aaron had come to accept 
 her thinking as equal to his own, with no obeisance to 
 parental authority. She must break with the past, and move 
 wholly into his world. 
 
 Myra worked hard at learning Yiddish words and 
 phrases, mostly from Shifra, for Aaron had little time for 
 explanations, and she wanted to understand the age-long 
 customs of his people, and their religious significance, the 
 ancient origins of rules which now seemed completely ar- 
 bitrary. For to know Aaron and to live his life with him, 
 she must understand not only his contemporaries and their 
 problems, but the long, rich tradition of the Jews, and she 
 was delighted with each new facet that she discovered. 
 
 For a long while, she remained silent at the meetings 
 she attended with Aaron, giving the people time to get used 
 to her, and she to them. Once or twice she made specific 
 suggestions to Aaron, and she was happy when he passed 
 the ideas on to others, not as his own, but as hers. First the 
 men, then the women became friendly, and now and then 
 she dropped a casual remark which made them realize she 
 knew the temper of the downtown employers, their good 
 points as well as their fears, and how they thought. 
 
 Myra was delighted when she was selected to represent 
 the union as a kind of delegate to the important contractors 
 downtown. 
 
 These contractors had the power to let work to the 
 various contractors on the west side, and no appeal could 
 be made from their decisions. Sometimes they favored one 
 group of subcontractors, sometimes another, for reasons of 
 their own. What they wanted was stability in the ranks of 
 the west side workers, to keep up their production without 
 interruption. They recognized that some subcontractors 
 were more competent than others, more dependable than 
 others, employed better talent than others. But they had to 
 
 1U9 
 
go along, to some extent, with the second rate subcontrac- 
 tors in order to bulwark themselves against emergencies. 
 
 Word leaked to the union that a group of these men 
 would hold a "strategy" meeting on a certain morning. 
 Myra was asked to go and call on one of the most important 
 men in the afternoon, to present the case for the union. 
 
 The man, named Rossfield, greeted her reluctantly, but 
 really found no fault with her personally. She was ob- 
 viously a lady, and her soft-spoken voice and clear-eyed 
 gaze were difficult to resist. Rossfield finally agreed to let 
 her attend another meeting of his group, in a few days, 
 when she might speak to all of them, with whatever she 
 had to say. How could he get in touch with her to let her 
 know the time of the meeting? 
 
 That posed another question. She and Aaron had no 
 telephone. Even if they had had, she could not have divulged 
 her identity as Aaron's wife. Her greatest usefulness at the 
 moment, she felt, was as Miss Dodds, a social worker who 
 had no personal stake in the matter. But her mother had 
 no telephone. Nor could Myra be called at the library during 
 working hours. Her working hours presented another prob- 
 lem. She could attend the meeting, she told Mr. Rossfield, 
 only if it were held after 4 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Rossfield finally agreed to try to schedule the 
 meeting for afternoon, and she said she would telephone 
 him the next day to find out what arrangements had been 
 made. 
 
 But when she called, Rossfield was evasive, and that 
 night Myra learned from Aaron that the meeting was 
 scheduled for the next morning. There was nothing for her 
 to do except beg time off from the library, which she did, 
 and arrived at the meeting unannounced. 
 
 When she entered the conference room, Mr. Rossfield 
 150 
 
was amazed, but there was nothing he could do about it — 
 she was in, and he'd have to make the best of it. 
 
 Myra introduced herself at once. "I am Miss Dodds," 
 she said, "from the union. Mr. Rossfield knows of my mis- 
 sion, and has agreed to give me an audience. But first, Mr. 
 Rossfield, what are your plans?" 
 
 He shrugged. "I expected you to bring a plan. We here 
 are reasonably well satisfied with things as they are. What's 
 wrong, anyhow?" 
 
 "The working conditions in the sweatshops," she re- 
 plied, and saw a number of men wince at the term but 
 appeared not to notice. "I know that you manufacturers 
 aren't directly concerned. You might even say that it's none 
 of your business. Even a lawyer might tell you that your 
 only concern is your contracts and the fulfillment of them. 
 
 "But I want to tell you why these sweatshops are your 
 business. The employees in these places work long hours in 
 overcrowded, underheated, unventilated rooms that aren't 
 even clean. Most of them are filthy. Because they're under- 
 paid, many of the workers don't even eat properly. So a 
 lot of them are chronic coughers — tubercular." She re- 
 minded them of the discovery fifteen years earlier that 
 many diseases were carried by bacilli, and passed with 
 dangerous ease from one person to another. 
 
 "I know," she concluded, "that you all want to produce 
 garments that are clean, free from germs, that no one would 
 hesitate to wear. Do you know what would happen to your 
 business if the general public were made aware of the con- 
 ditions under which your garments are produced?" 
 
 There was silence for a moment, her listeners not 
 quite sure whether she was just talking, or threatening. 
 
 At last Rossfield, who seemed to be spokesman for all 
 
 151 
 
of them, said, "You may be right. You've been there, I 
 presume. I haven't. These subcontractors come down town, 
 weaseling around, and say they want more work, they can 
 deliver such and such by next Tuesday. We have our own 
 delivery dates that we have to meet. Now, young lady, 
 just what do you think we can do about all this?" 
 
 "You can refuse to contract with any but sanitary 
 shops," she answered. "Then the others would have to be 
 cleaned up, or go out of business." Then she added, "About 
 half of the shops would pass ordinary inspection. The others 
 aren't all run by vicious slave drivers. Many of the new- 
 comers in the business are simply ignorant, and undisci- 
 plined. I believe most of them would cooperate." 
 
 It sounded reasonable, but the men were still wary. 
 "Who's going to do this inspecting and policing?" asked 
 one of them. "How would I, for instance, know which 
 shops to deal with? My business is clothing manufacture. 
 I'm not a sanitary inspector !" 
 
 "That's where the union comes in, sir," she replied. 
 "We know every shop on the west side, and practically 
 every worker. The better workers are members of the union. 
 And, while we want to keep all of our members working 
 steadily — goodness knows, they need steady work — there 
 is so much dissatisfaction that there is a great deal of talk 
 about striking. You know what that would mean — pickets 
 at all the shops. Work would stop altogether. But it wouldn't 
 solve the situation unless you Chicago manufacturers do 
 something about it. For as soon as it was known that the 
 Chicago workers were on strike and your own manufactur- 
 ing crippled, the New York and Cleveland manufacturers 
 would start dickering with the subcontractors, and sooner 
 or later the workers, from economic necessity, would start 
 straggling back to the same sweatshops, under the same 
 conditions that they left. No one would be any better off 
 
 152 
 
than before — but your business, gentlemen, would be 
 ruined." 
 
 The five men looked at each other in amazement. They 
 knew that in this analysis of the situation, she was speaking 
 the truth. And Myra knew that she had played her trump 
 card, for these men feared a strike more than sickness 
 among the workers or newspaper publicity about working 
 conditions. The latter was a vague threat, but a strike was 
 a real one. However, they wanted time to think about what 
 she had told them, principally to verify her statements, or 
 to discount them. 
 
 She read their minds. "Do not take my word com- 
 pletely/' she told them. "Find out for yourselves. But please 
 find out. And please give my suggestions serious considera- 
 tions. They would work for the benefit of everyone con- 
 cerned — for you, for the union, and for the workers. That, 
 incidentally, gentlemen, is what the union is for — to try 
 to improve conditions for everyone." 
 
 When she left, after answering many questions, Myra 
 had their promise to think carefully about the matter and 
 to let her know their decisions within a couple of days. 
 
 She reported hopefully to Aaron, who agreed with her 
 that perhaps at last something would be done, peacefully, 
 to improve the situation. "Maybe you have done what we 
 couldn't," he told her. "Maybe you've pounded some sense 
 into their heads." 
 
 But, back at union headquarters, the others were less 
 eager to believe Myra than her husband. "They'll never do 
 it," she was told. "They agreed to look into the whole busi- 
 ness just to get rid of you. Do you think they're going 
 to let a woman tell them how to run their business?" 
 
 "I went to them as an official representative of the 
 
 153 
 
union," she replied, "not as a woman and not even as 
 Aaron's wife. And they listened." 
 
 "They'll listen to nothing but a strike," the men re- 
 plied. "A strike is the only thing that talks to them. It's 
 the only thing they can understand." 
 
 At a large meeting of the union the next night, Myra 
 and Aaron met the same disbelief. The manufacturers 
 would never listen to reason; they would never do any- 
 thing to benefit the workers unless they were forced. All 
 they were interested in was money, and selective con- 
 tracting, while it would pay off for them in the long run, 
 would cost them a little something now. 
 
 "They'll never do it. Anyhow, you said you'd hear 
 from them in a couple of days. Have you heard yet? It's a 
 couple of days now." 
 
 The talk of striking went on the whole evening, and 
 Aaron and Myra despaired. Sometimes a strike was the 
 only answer, but Aaron understood the whole situation 
 better than the others, from his long and varied experience 
 in New York and Chicago. A strike, at this time, would 
 accomplish nothing but hardship for the workers and their 
 families. The results would be what Myra had told the 
 manufacturers — the New York and Cleveland manufac- 
 turers would move in, and the sweatshops reopen, and the 
 workers, staggering under new debt from idleness, would 
 go back to work. It would mean a failure, not a triumph 
 for the union. And the union, as yet, was not strong enough 
 to risk a failure. 
 
 At last, as the evening wore on and the talk became 
 more excited, Aaron climbed up on the speaker's table and 
 waved his arms for silence. 
 
 "Listen to me!" he shouted. "Give my wife one more 
 chance! We've never tried it this way before. She knows 
 
 15 U 
 
how to talk it both ways at the same time." That brought 
 a laugh which eased some of the tension. Then he went on, 
 "What do you want — better working conditions, or a strike 
 just to be striking? You never struck before, and you 
 think it would be fun ! You want to show them something ! 
 You'd show nobody but yourselves — and of course, you'd 
 show the manufacturers that you can't make a strike 
 work! I tell you, now is not the time to strike!" 
 
 An angry murmur went through the crowd, but Aaron 
 shouted it down. "Shut up and listen!" he told them. 
 "There's one thing you don't know about striking. It is, 
 when used properly, the weapon of last resort, when every 
 other method under the sun has failed! We have not ex- 
 hausted all other methods. For these men listened to my 
 wife. They might not have listened to me. To them, I am 
 probably just another agitator with a chip on my shoulder. 
 And the same with you." 
 
 He could not tell them what he and Myra both knew, 
 that she had succeeded thus far for the very reason that 
 she was different from them; the men downtown had 
 listened to her because she was a complete surprise to 
 them, a woman of very obvious charm and education, who 
 understood their problems as well as those of the workers, 
 and could talk without bitterness and venom. 
 
 "So what do you want to do?" asked one in the audi- 
 ence. "Sit around and talk, talk, talk? There's been too much 
 talk and no action !" 
 
 "Give her forty-eight hours," Aaron replied. "And 
 give her authority to speak for the union, with a definite 
 threat of strike on a definite date, if they don't come 
 through !" 
 
 There was a great deal more talk, and Aaron ex- 
 plained again and again the suggestions she had made for 
 
 155 
 
remedying the situation, which also were his ideas, and 
 those of many others experienced in sweatshop work. At 
 last he was able to conquer the temper of the people. They 
 would give her another chance. 
 
 To Aaron and Myra, this was a major triumph. For it 
 meant not only that they had been able to make the workers 
 listen to reason. It meant also that Myra was accepted, 
 and from now on would be one of them. 
 
 Downtown again, with the full authority of the union 
 to negotiate on the basis of a very real threat of strike, 
 Myra beat down the flat refusal of the manufacturers to 
 consider her suggestions. 
 
 'There's too much agitation over on the west side," 
 Rossfield told her. "We can't deal with those people. It's a 
 hopeless situation." 
 
 "No, it isn't," she replied. "It may be that you manu- 
 facturers can't deal with them. You don't trust each other. 
 There's no confidence on either side." 
 
 He agreed with her. 
 
 "But I can deal with them," she told him. "Please be- 
 lieve me. Please let me go back and tell them that if they'll 
 call off this contemplated strike, you will do what you can 
 to help clean up the mess. They know it can't be done 
 overnight. All they want is for you to try." Again, she 
 repeated her prediction of what would happen if the workers 
 went on strike, and this time the men listened more 
 thoughtfully. She was able, at last, to win a grudging 
 consent from them to put into action some kind of selection 
 in their choice of subcontractors, as a first step in "cleaning 
 up the mess." 
 
 She went home happy in her accomplishment, knowing 
 that it was a small one in the big picture of employment, 
 
 156 
 
but feeling that at least it was a start. She knew now, too, 
 that she had proved herself to Aaron, that she could work 
 usefully with him in his own dedication. And, wonder- 
 ingly, she silently thanked Robert Chase for her knowledge 
 of "the other side" of the whole question, which she be- 
 lieved was the secret of her success. 
 
 Within a week, all was peaceful again on the west 
 side. The manufacturers kept their word, and here and 
 there, as time went on, a little improvement could be seen. 
 Some subcontractors who had been operating in their homes 
 rented store space. Others began to clean up their shops. 
 One or two went out of business. But it would be a long, 
 slow pull to get the whole situation remedied, both Aaron 
 and Myra knew. 
 
 They knew also that they had averted only one strike. 
 There would be other threats, other dangers to meet. They'd 
 won only a battle in a war that would go on for years. But 
 at least, they'd won. And this was their life work. 
 
 157 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 Aaron's Strategy 
 
 Things went along quietly for some time. There was 
 always less restlessness in the summer months, when the 
 people on the west side could get out of their cramped 
 quarters into the streets, and could forget, for the time 
 being, the rigors of winter with its discomforts and ill- 
 nesses, and the financial burden of coal bills, to say nothing 
 of doctor bills and medicine. The children, free from school, 
 played happily in the alleys, and everyone looked forward 
 to the weekly outing in Douglas Park. 
 
 When Myra knew that her first baby was coming, she 
 left her job at the library. She knew that she must spend 
 more time with Shifra, to learn more and more of the 
 customs of her people. For soon they would have to leave 
 their quarters here, and find a flat where she could make 
 
 158 
 
 
a real home for Aaron and the child. Aaron needed a real 
 home more than the child would, at least in his first few 
 years. (She thought of the baby from the start, as a boy.) 
 For Aaron had apparently never had a home, in the way 
 that she thought of it. And his restlessness had driven him 
 hither and yon, from one place to another, never letting him 
 take roots in anything except ideas. Now, he must become 
 rooted, and enjoy the satisfactions of heading a family. 
 He would channel his energies better, she knew, when he 
 had a central core for his living, a home that was all his. 
 
 One of the most amazing things she learned from 
 Shifra was the matriarchy which dominated the Jewish 
 home. Shifra's husband was cherished, pampered, respected 
 as the wage earner, but he was another one of her children. 
 Shifra ruled the roost, and her husband obeyed her, just as 
 the children did. 
 
 To Myra, brought up in a transplanted New England 
 society which, in the British tradition, made the head of 
 the house a lord and master, and women got what they 
 wanted only by devious persuasion, this attitude of Jewish 
 men toward their women was both amusing and refreshing. 
 She would never take advantage of Aaron's inherited feeU 
 ing for women, but she enjoyed his respect for her as a 
 person. Because of it, she could be honest with him, and 
 would never have to resort to the wiles and petty strategies 
 by which some women had to live. 
 
 Not that she had ever felt any resentment toward 
 her father. In her memory of him there was only kindness, 
 gentleness, consideration. He had lived for his family, and 
 she had never heard her parents quarrel. But his largesse, 
 such as it was, was handed down from what he considered 
 a higher level. His family was expected to be grateful 
 for his care, which, after all, was his sole responsibility. 
 She remembered now how often her mother had cautioned, 
 
 159 
 
"Papa doesn't like this or that. You must not talk when he 
 is reading his newspaper. Don't ask Papa for anything 
 before dinner — wait until afterwards." 
 
 She saw in her relationship with Aaron an equal 
 partnership, in which her wishes, her likes and dislikes, 
 were as important as his. And she found it good. She 
 wished that she could talk to her mother about it, for to 
 her it was a revelation. "Jewish couples don't divorce," 
 Shifra told her, "because with Jews, marriage is something 
 that a woman can endure." 
 
 Aaron never asked her where she had gone, what she 
 had been doing. As a person, she was free to come and go 
 as she liked. He respected her ideas, and she never had 
 to persuade him that they were his own. They could discuss 
 anything, from pork to politics, on a dignified level. It was 
 good, good, and she found herself confiding more and more 
 in Shifra. On the other hand, Shifra told her, "You are 
 like a daughter to me." That was fine, too. 
 
 Myra was having little discomfort during her preg- 
 nancy, and continued her activities at Hull House. On one 
 occasion, one of the residents, a Miss Benjamin, who was 
 British to the core and beset by the classic British reticence, 
 told her, "I wish I could make myself as totally at ease 
 among these people as you do." 
 
 Myra was thoughtful. "It's a matter of attitude, I 
 think," she said. "And of habit. As long as you think of 
 Hull House as a kind of oasis, a thing apart from the daily 
 lives of these folks, something given them from outside, 
 you'll have difficulty. If you could forget for a while your 
 English ancestry — and what we are inclined to think of as 
 good manners, you could accommodate yourself to the lives 
 of these people — and you'd enjoy their intense gratitude." 
 
 "What do you mean, good manners?" asked Miss Ben- 
 jamin. Her manners were impeccable. 
 
 160 
 
"In a society dominated by Anglo-Saxon tradition," 
 Myra explained, "we're too apt to think that our way of 
 doing things is the only way. And we come to believe that 
 the manner is more important than the act itself. In other 
 words, it doesn't matter what we do as long as we do it 
 properly. How can a man be wrong if he wears the right 
 kind of tie? Do you see what I mean?" 
 
 Miss Benjamin nodded. "I think so," she admitted. 
 "But these people are so intense. I don't understand them. 
 How they can carry on from day to day and year to year, 
 I don't know. They struggle, and are happy. They suffer, 
 and laugh about it. They can't be defeated, and how they 
 have expanded ! For three miles west of Halsted Street 
 they have settled, building beautiful homes and apartments. 
 Now the outer belt has become the core, and Canal and 
 Jefferson Streets are being abandoned. This is a trans- 
 formation that the outside world has little knowledge of, 
 and can't understand. They still think of the original im- 
 migrants as characteristic of the second generation." 
 
 Myra agreed. But, going back to Miss Benjamin's first 
 query, she advised, "Just don't think of Hull House as 
 something apart from the lives of these people. And," think- 
 ing of her marriage, "don't hand down help. Just share with 
 them." 
 
 It was a Monday afternoon in October, and Aaron was 
 busy at his sewing machine in the downtown plant where 
 he worked. He was thinking of nothing in particular, when 
 the foreman stopped beside him and told him there was a 
 messenger waiting for him in the office. Aaron rose and 
 followed the foreman. 
 
 "Oh, hello, Sam," he greeted the young man who 
 awaited him. "What brings you here?" 
 
 Sam was a volunteer assistant, a young chap of seven- 
 
 161 
 
teen, who was out of work most of the time, and hung 
 around the union headquarters. 
 
 "I just came to deliver this note to you," Sam replied. 
 
 Aaron opened the slip of paper, and shouted, "Oh, the 
 idiots! Idiots!" Turning to Sam, he said, "Tell the com- 
 mittee I want them at headquarters at six o'clock and not 
 a minute later, and I want them before they have their 
 supper, every one of them." 
 
 Sam left obediently, and Aaron returned to his work. 
 He set upon his sewing machine with something like fury, 
 working at a noisy speed that startled all those about him. 
 He kept it up until five-thirty, half an hour before the 
 usual quitting time, and then went back to the foreman's 
 office. 
 
 "I have to leave now," he told Bill Warsaw. "It's urgent. 
 I'll make up the time tomorrow." 
 
 "You don't have to," Warsaw told him, "you've already 
 made it up, the way you were going this afternoon." He 
 knew the value of this man, and half an hour didn't make 
 any difference, one way or the other. Warsaw had his 
 own methods for keeping his employees satisfied. 
 
 Aaron walked all the way over to the west side union 
 headquarters. He found most of the members of the com- 
 mittee waiting for him. 
 
 He was ready to repeat the invective "idiots" to them, 
 but controlled his anger. "Infants," he asked, "what are you 
 trying to do? Call a strike? Now, at this time of the year?" 
 
 "We're forced to," replied Joe Cleftin, the chairman. 
 "The Wilson Avenue bosses gave our men notice of a three- 
 cent reduction per bundle on piece work." 
 
 "Did they give you any reason?" demanded Aaron. 
 162 
 
"Yes," replied Joe, "they said the downtown tailoring 
 company had reduced the price to them." 
 
 "Who are these bosses?" Aaron wanted to know. 
 
 Joe recited a list of five of them. "They're all getting 
 their bundles from the Acme Tailoring Company," he added. 
 
 "But why," persisted Aaron, "did you call a strike? 
 Haven't I told you enough times that you only call a strike 
 when you want an increase? A reduction is no excuse for 
 a strike. That's a lockout. Did all of these five give notice 
 to the men this morning?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Joe. 
 
 "Then we'll have them on our hands," Aaron con- 
 cluded. "That's a conspiracy. I'll tell you what I want. I 
 want every one of you to report for work at your regular 
 places tomorrow morning. I suppose everyone worked 
 through today." 
 
 "Yes," admitted Joe, "they all stayed out the day. But 
 they can't go back tomorrow, because the bosses asked for 
 police protection." 
 
 "Get the men and girls back to work tomorrow 
 morning!" repeated Aaron. "Get word to every one of them, 
 this evening !" 
 
 "And what will happen tomorrow when they go back?" 
 demanded Joe. 
 
 "I'll take care of that, tonight," replied Aaron, and 
 left for the Maxwell Street Police Station. 
 
 He found Lieutenant O'Donnell just back from his 
 evening meal. 
 
 "I understand," Aaron told the Lieutenant without 
 preamble, "you've arranged to have a platoon of police on 
 Wilson Avenue tomorrow morning." 
 
 163 
 
"You're right," replied O'Donnell. 
 
 "Why are you sending them?" Though he knew quite 
 well, Aaron wanted the word of the Lieutenant on this. 
 
 "I was asked to give protection, and I've got to do it," 
 O'Donnell answered. 
 
 "How many men?" asked Aaron. 
 
 "Six." 
 
 "Wouldn't one, in addition to the regular patrol, be 
 enough?" 
 
 "They asked for six," replied O'Donnell. 
 
 "Who are 'they,' and did they tell you why?" Aaron 
 prodded. 
 
 "You know as well as I do," O'Donnell told him. "Those 
 tailoring managers, and they expect a strike tomorrow 
 morning." 
 
 "Well, there won't be any strike," Aaron replied. 
 "Those bosses have declared a lockout by giving notice this 
 morning of a 10 per cent reduction in pay for piece work. 
 It's the men who need protection, not the bosses. Have you 
 talked to Alderman Towers about this?" 
 
 "No," said O'Donnell, "but I understand the bosses 
 have." 
 
 "You'll hear from the Alderman tonight," Aaron prom- 
 ised. "How long will you be here?" 
 
 "Until about nine o'clock." 
 
 "You'll hear before that," Aaron promised, and left. 
 
 He went directly to the saloon operated by the Alder- 
 man on Halsted Street. Aaron knew Towers, as everyone 
 knew him. The man was friendly the year round, not only 
 
 164 
 
at election time. He told Towers what was going on, and 
 asked what the Alderman was going to do about it. 
 
 "The way you put it," Towers replied, "I don't need 
 to do anything. Those guys don't need any protection." 
 
 "Will you call up Lieutenant O'Donnell and tell him 
 so?" asked Aaron. 
 
 "Sure I will," promised Towers, "and he'll do what 
 he's told. There won't be any trouble." 
 
 Aaron thanked him hurriedly, and walked straight to 
 the home of Frank Dubins on Center Avenue. He intro- 
 duced himself, and wasted no words. 
 
 "As manager of the Acme Tailoring Company, you 
 deliver bundles to five Wilson Avenue tailors, don't you?" 
 he asked. "And will you answer me yes or no: have you 
 given notice to these sweatshop bosses that you're reduc- 
 ing your price per bundle to them?" 
 
 "Why no," said Dubins slowly. "What's this all about?" 
 
 "That's what I want to know," replied Aaron. "What's 
 going on, anyhow?" 
 
 "Nothing that I know of," said the other. "We did 
 make an adjustment last spring, maybe in June, based on 
 changes in the estimates of work for the new styles." 
 
 "You haven't demanded a lower rate since?" Aaron 
 persisted. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you weren't a party to the announcement that 
 went out today about the piece rate in the shops?" 
 
 "No, I wasn't," Dubins replied. "One or two of the 
 shop managers told me they expected to adjust the rate, 
 but that was none of my business." 
 
 165 
 
Back at union headquarters, still supperless, Aaron 
 told the men what had transpired at the Maxwell Street 
 Police Station, what the Alderman had said, what he had 
 learned from Dubins. 
 
 'There'll be no trouble tomorrow morning," he said 
 grimly, "and no police. And no strike !" 
 
 His prediction came true — the hundred men and girls 
 went back to their jobs on Tuesday morning. The man- 
 agers, seeing no police in the street, offered no resistance, 
 and everyone worked quietly all day, and said nothing about 
 the threatened strike. 
 
 That night, when everything had quieted down, Aaron 
 laid down the law to his fellow members of the union. 
 
 "You're a bunch of babies," he stormed, "who don't 
 know what you're doing! You try to strike when you face 
 a lockout. You time the strike when it's most advantageous 
 to the managers. A strike in October gives them a rest — 
 their fall and winter goods have been finished and shipped 
 out. Spring goods won't get into production until Decem- 
 ber and January. If you want to squeeze your employers for 
 their winter production, you have to do it in June or July. 
 Sure, a reduction in piece rate is hard to take, but it's 
 easier than no piece rate! Won't you guys ever learn?" 
 
 He knew that he would have to repeat and repeat his 
 lectures, however. When the men were excited, they forgot 
 what he had told them. And there were always new re- 
 cruits to the union, who had to be educated. But he saw that 
 he was gaining ground, if only an inch at a time. 
 
 166 
 
* * * CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 Carroll - and Good Talk 
 
 For some time, Robert Chase had been sending his 
 son Carroll on routine trips east, small errands which his 
 son performed very well, if without enthusiasm. Carroll 
 always welcomed these assignments, though he was un- 
 communicative when he returned. 
 
 Perhaps it was well that he had established a habit of 
 reticence with his father. For he never had to account for 
 his time or his money, and there was no way for his 
 father to find out that most of both were spent in New York 
 at the Belmont Race Track and in night clubs. 
 
 The lack of rapport also made it easier for Carroll 
 when, after a week-long absence, he came back with a 
 wife. He wouldn't have to explain, for he'd never explained 
 anything to his father. But he had the finesse to take Tito 
 to a hotel, and he telephoned Robert Chase from there. 
 
 167 
 
"You overstayed a little in New York, didn't you?" 
 asked Robert immediately. 
 
 "Yes, Governor," replied Carroll, "I had more business 
 to attend to than I anticipated." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Chase, who had planned 
 very little for Carroll to attend to on this particular trip. 
 
 "Personal business," Carroll replied. "I went to get 
 married, and my wife is with me now." 
 
 "Well, where are you?" gasped Robert, not knowing 
 whether to be pleased or angry. "Why don't you bring 
 your wife home?" 
 
 "We'll be along presently," Carroll told him. Then he 
 turned to the pretty little blonde girl at his side. 
 
 "Tito," he said severely, "I married you. I don't know 
 whether you trapped me or not. I don't know whether I 
 promised to or not, that night I met you at the Terrace 
 Garden and we both drank too much. But I know this : we 
 had separate rooms at the hotel that night. 
 
 "You weren't so naive that you didn't know taking 
 you across the state line the next day for an outing — to 
 get you into shape to dance at the Garden that night — 
 would make me liable. 
 
 "Oh, don't think I couldn't have resisted," he continued 
 with a bit of scorn, "my father can hire lawyers, too." 
 
 She winced, wishing that she had managed him without 
 having that lawyer write to him, but she'd been afraid. 
 She'd wanted to be sure of landing him. 
 
 "There's just one reason I didn't," he went on, "and 
 that was because a legal stink would have hurt my father. 
 He's a great guy, and he's not going to get hurt. So you 
 
 168 
 
and I are going to stay married, Tito, and we're going to 
 live a respectable married life. And I warn you — don't 
 talk about this." 
 
 She hadn't the slightest intention of talking. A re- 
 spectable married life was what she wanted, what she'd 
 gambled for, supported by the Chase money. 
 
 Tito was a good enough amateur actress. When they 
 got to the Chase home, what Robert saw was a small, shy, 
 pretty girl who clung to Carroll's arm like a child, and 
 who seemed to adore him. If Carroll seemed more reserved 
 than usual — well, Carroll had never been demonstrative. 
 
 Robert Chase was delighted, and immediately began 
 making plans for the house he would buy or build them. 
 The girl was no Myra, he thought, but perhaps Myra had 
 been right when she said Carroll should choose a woman 
 who would look up to him. Now, perhaps Carroll would 
 develop some initiative and take an interest in the business ! 
 
 Aaron Bishoff continued to interest Chase. He had no 
 confidence in Aaron's ideas on business, but recognized the 
 value of his opinions on labor relations. So, as soon as 
 Carroll and Tito were settled in a home of their own, he 
 invited Myra and Aaron to dinner. He waited the occasion, 
 feeling that a meeting between Myra and Carroll might 
 prove embarrassing to both. He had planned to take his 
 guests down town to a light musical drama, but an early 
 snowfall made him suggest an evening in his study. They 
 were happy enough just to sit and talk with him — they 
 both liked to talk. 
 
 "How are you coming with your union these days?" 
 asked Robert as soon as they were all comfortable in his 
 library. "Are things quieting down?" 
 
 Aaron shrugged. "Only partly," he replied. "Whenever 
 matters are settled, something new upsets them. The sub- 
 
 169 
 
contractors are always scheming to take advantage when- 
 ever a lull develops, and the prime manufacturers are 
 always trying to depress the unions with threats of cut- 
 backs and price reductions. The union men themselves get 
 calloused and lose interest during a quiet period, and then 
 it's difficult for the officers to manage the union affairs. 
 Then when something happens that needs union action, it's 
 that much harder to accomplish anything." 
 
 "What do you think the eventual outcome will be?" 
 asked Chase. 
 
 "Oh," replied Aaron, "we'll win, of course. But there 
 are still a lot of battles to win." 
 
 Chase wasn't so sure, but he wanted to know what 
 Aaron thought. "When you win," he asked, "what do you 
 expect to get?" 
 
 "Two things," said Aaron, "better working conditions 
 and better pay." 
 
 "Can you get those two things with your present setup 
 of subcontracting?" Chase wondered. "It seems to me the 
 system itself has got you over a barrel. My own men earn 
 double what most of your union people are getting. They 
 work steadily, and without all this walking in and walking 
 out on strike. What do you really expect in the way of 
 higher compensation? And how are you going to get it?" 
 
 "Eventually," Aaron answered, "the subcontractors will 
 have to be eliminated. They are the big obstacle." 
 
 "Well," commented Chase, "I'm glad we don't have that 
 situation in other industries. We have subcontractors, but 
 not the sweatshop kind. Ours specialize in certain parts 
 and they can deliver some things at a lower cost than we 
 could manufacture them ourselves — and still they pay their 
 men decent wages." 
 
 170 
 
"That's strange," remarked Aaron, "with the trend to- 
 ward building up what you call vertical industries, con- 
 tractors are to be eliminated. That's one of the objectives 
 of the recent steel trust — which is based on the dream of 
 economy through elimination of unnecessary agencies." 
 
 "Time is a factor in all these things," replied Chase. 
 "Things are improving in the stockyards, for instance. 
 You'll be glad to know," veering off in another direction, 
 "that no more wooden buildings are allowed. No more com- 
 pletely closed-in areas between buildings. Many sanitary 
 precautions are being taken now, both to eliminate contami- 
 nation, and to keep the public from blaming us for hap- 
 penings for which we may not even be responsible." He 
 added, "And the per capita earnings have materially in- 
 creased, along with improvements in working conditions." 
 
 Aaron threw up his hands. "That's because you're 
 taking on more and more colored help. You used to have 
 Irish, Poles and some Italians, who were drunk half the 
 time. Your colored men work more hours during the week, 
 and so they earn more, but their hourly rates are less." 
 
 "That, Aaron," Chase pointed out, "is because of gen- 
 erally lower skill to execute their jobs. What in the devil 
 do you want us to do? Pay people for something they don't 
 do? Or pay them when they're home drunk? The packing 
 business has to move. Cattle can't be kept in the pen for- 
 ever, and there's a limit to the capacity of a cooler for 
 storage. When the coolers get overcrowded, we have to 
 unload at a loss. There's a very small profit in the turn- 
 over — usually about one per cent, with a maximum of one 
 and a half." 
 
 "Oh, I know," admitted Aaron gloomily, "the whole 
 business is different from the sweat shops. But there's 
 room for improvement there too — shorter hours, better pay, 
 
 171 
 
better understanding between management and labor. Big- 
 ness is the trouble — size." 
 
 Chase admitted that, remembering the satisfaction he 
 had had in the early days, in his close association with his 
 men. But you couldn't stop progress. But thinking of prog- 
 ress, he reminded Aaron that Packing Town had not been 
 planned, it had just grown. And the city had hemmed it in, 
 until expansion was impossible. There had to be some solu- 
 tion — one packing plant was extending to the west — but all 
 these things took time. 
 
 "Operating the business itself, however," he pointed 
 out, "is not subject to outside management or outside 
 theories. Every industry has its own techniques, developed 
 to serve its own purposes. The garment industry has no 
 similarity to the production of plumbing fixtures or pork 
 chops. You can't find a theory that will fit all situations." 
 
 Aaron admitted that, but reminded Chase of the acci- 
 dents in the stockyards. "Nine thousand in one year," he 
 said. 
 
 "Accidents," replied Chase, "are as uncontrollable in 
 industry as they are in the home and on the farm. Nine 
 thousand is too many. One is too many. But remember, 
 those 9,000 accidents happened to 65,000 people. Most of 
 them were minor — a bruise, a splinter, something in the 
 eye. Those classified as serious were only about 1,500. I'm 
 not excusing accidents. But give us credit, we're trying to 
 eliminate them." 
 
 Aaron supposed they were, if only because accidents 
 were costly. 
 
 "What do you want," persisted Chase, "a miracle to- 
 morrow? We're working on all of these problems. But I'll 
 tell you two miracles that industry has already performed, 
 and is performing regularly. One is meeting the payroll and 
 
 172 
 
the other is paying dividends. The dividends are largely- 
 plowed back into the industry, and so create more payrolls. 
 The old time home industries didn't have payrolls. Even 
 your sweatshops, which you condemn — and so do I — meet 
 their payrolls. The minute they don't, they're out of business. 
 That is what industry has given to the workers. It is also 
 the responsibility of industry — which can't be ducked. Your 
 farm laborer can look forward to being paid once or twice a 
 year — if the crops don't fail. But you can look forward to 
 pay day once a week or twice a month or whatever your 
 arrangement is. No matter how little it may be, it's there. 
 And you can depend on it." 
 
 Aaron was thoughtful. "I guess I never thought of it 
 that way, Mr. Chase," he admitted. 'To me pay day has 
 been a gouging day to pry from the employer an unwilling 
 amount of wages for the subsistence of the workers. Their 
 begrudging attitude never indicated a willingness to create 
 more payroll." 
 
 Chase was delighted. "Now you're beginning to see day- 
 light, Aaron," he chuckled. " There's one more thing I want 
 you to understand, and that is that effective management 
 of business creates profit instead of loss. Mere employment 
 of a lot of people isn't progress. It takes a degree of control 
 or management to produce something of more value than 
 is put into the effort. Management has to derive a profit, in 
 order to expand and improve. So profit is a measure of 
 success, and success is a measure of progress. The more 
 successful enterprises we have, the more payrolls there'll 
 be and the happier the people will be. Success isn't a trick. 
 It's an accomplishment. And it consists first in being dis- 
 satisfied with things the way they are." 
 
 But Aaron demurred. "No," he maintained, "success 
 in itself isn't progress. A highwayman is successful, if he 
 gets what he wants of a traveler." 
 
 173 
 
Chase was not through, however. " Success in business," 
 he reminded Aaron, "requires discarding and rebuilding, 
 and that in itself means betterment. Every outstanding 
 success builds up minor successes. Business always aims to 
 get out of distressing conditions. And whenever a disturb- 
 ing condition develops in the course of a few months or 
 years, the businesses that have the capacity to get out from 
 under the burden come out stronger than ever — and develop 
 larger payrolls." 
 
 Aaron would not be persuaded. "You forget, Mr. 
 Chase," he argued, "that industry also represents organized 
 tools or money, and both are entitled to compensation, but 
 not necessarily in the same degree. The very capital that 
 industry employs has been created by the toil of the 
 workers. It's their business as well as yours. But, notwith- 
 standing, industry has persistently claimed control, control 
 in the distribution of profits and control in the distribution 
 of wages, without consulting those who earned the wages. 
 You think it belongs solely to you. Industry retains the 
 right to hire and fire, to increase or decrease operations 
 without regard for the employees. But, during a recess, 
 management does not reduce its own compensation, and 
 never lays off from its control. Management holds onto its 
 salaries come what may, and labor must walk the streets 
 when times are bad. Whatever we've got for ourselves, 
 we've gained at the point of a gun, so to speak." 
 
 "What do you want to do — run my business for me?" 
 asked Chase, but without venom. "Do you think you could? 
 There's one thing you seem to forget — management took the 
 initial risk; and management has the final responsibility." 
 
 "No," Aaron argued, "it is a shared responsibility. 
 Otherwise, there'll always be war between management and 
 labor. They are interdependent." 
 
 "Whoever said they weren't?" asked Chase. 
 
 17 U 
 
Aaron made an impatient gesture. "Records show," 
 he declared, "that employees in general receive 35 per cent 
 of the income of industry, and management gets 65 per 
 cent. Management has one-fourth the number of men, so 
 that the result is an individual employee gets one two- 
 hundredth part of the income retained by the executives. 
 But he earned the money for them. He and his other co- 
 workers." 
 
 "You just said something about interdependence," 
 Chase reminded him. "Could you help to earn my income 
 if you weren't employed?" 
 
 "Would you have any income if you didn't have em- 
 ployees?" flung back Aaron. 
 
 "Why yes," replied Chase easily. "I came up the hard 
 way, as you probably know. If I were to lose my so-called 
 empire tomorrow, I could still earn a living. I can work. 
 But I don't intend to lose my businesses. I intend to hold 
 onto them, through efficient management." 
 
 Aaron threw up his hands. "We're talking different 
 languages!" he stormed. "I've tried to make you see — " 
 
 "And I've tried to make you see, Aaron," answered 
 Chase. "There isn't any one answer, any one theory, that 
 will work a miracle tomorrow." 
 
 Myra thought the argument had gone on long enough, 
 and it was getting late. 
 
 "I have a miracle to report, Governor," she said, using 
 the affectionate term he had tried to force on her long ago. 
 "Not tomorrow, but some tomorrow. We're going to have a 
 baby." 
 
 Chase roared. "My dear, I'm delighted!" he cried, 
 taking her in his arms. "Forgive an old man," he said to 
 Aaron. "This is the best news I've had yet! May I be 
 godfather?" 
 
 175 
 
Then he told them of Carroll's marriage. "I don't 
 know much about the girl," he said. "But she seems to be 
 all right. Anyhow he's settled down. Maybe I'll have grand- 
 children." 
 
 "My son will be your grandchild, Governor," she said 
 gently, for she had little faith in Carroll to fulfill any of 
 his father's hopes. 
 
 On the way home, she told Aaron, "Don't underesti- 
 mate Robert Chase. He's not an ordinary person." 
 
 "I agree with you," Aaron replied. "But we'll never 
 see eye to eye." 
 
 "There's no reason why you should," she replied. She 
 did not add what she now realized — that Robert Chase was 
 as dedicated to his own philosophy as Aaron was to his. 
 If and when their thinking could occasionally meet, some 
 good might come of it. 
 
 176 
 
c * * 
 
 * * * * * CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 To Market, To Market 
 
 Along in the worst part of the winter, the teamsters at 
 Robert Chase's packing plant went on strike, for no ap- 
 parent reason. The strike lasted only three days, but the 
 damage was serious. Livestock could not be held for more 
 than overnight — there was no protection for them in the 
 open pens against the severe cold. The pork coolers became 
 overcrowded, and the whole process, which depended upon 
 steady movement, jammed. 
 
 Chase knew enough of the old teamsters — who years 
 ago had called him by his first name — to get the wheels 
 moving again, but he was bewildered. During the years 
 when he himself had actively managed the plant, he had 
 been able to learn of dissatisfaction in time to remedy them 
 and forestall strikes. Now, no one seemed to know what 
 was wrong, what had brought on this three-day paralysis. 
 
 177 
 
He asked Mahon, the general packing house superin- 
 tendent. 
 
 "Nothing but damned orneriness," replied Mahon 
 sourly. 
 
 "It's hard to believe that," Chase replied. "What's 
 happened during the years you've been sole manager? 
 When they were my men," and he emphasized "my" 
 strongly, "their loyalty was unlimited." 
 
 "I'll tell you one thing," Mahon replied, "in the last 
 ten or twelve years, labor's changed. We used to have mostly 
 Irishmen in the yards. They drank and cussed, but they 
 worked. They were strong, and it challenged their courage 
 to handle the cattle on the hoof and through the various 
 operations of processing. 
 
 "Well, the Irish immigration stopped, and moreover, 
 many of the Irish workers developed more skills, and moved 
 on to other kinds of work. Then came the Poles and Italians, 
 and lately Negroes. Bringing them in made more problems 
 — a lot of white men left because they didn't want to work 
 with the Negroes. Now, we've got some of almost every- 
 thing. But they don't mix. They speak their own language, 
 and they don't know each other. It's made a real problem. 
 
 "For instance," he enlarged, "the Bohemians in the 
 fertilizer department are unhappy if there's a 'stranger' 
 among them. It was the same way a few years back, when 
 we had Poles in that department. Couldn't have anybody 
 but Poles there. I think that's what has happened to the 
 old-time 'loyalty' you speak of. But we had to do it, to keep 
 peace in the plant, and to keep the produce moving. You 
 knew, Mr. Chase," Mahon had used to call him "Bob," but 
 in this castigation resorted to formality. "In most cases, we 
 followed your own advice." 
 
 Chase frowned. "I know," he admitted, "but something 
 
 178 
 
drastic has got to be done. There were enough old-timers 
 among the teamsters for me to appeal to friendship and the 
 old days, and get them started back to work. Then the 
 others followed." 
 
 "There wouldn't be enough old-timers, Mr. Chase," 
 commented Mahon, "in the other departments, if we had 
 trouble there. They're all strangers to us, and strangers 
 to each other. You can't run an operation as big as this on 
 a personal basis any more." 
 
 "That's what I'm thinking about," replied Chase, whose 
 greatest power had been his ability to handle men. "I can 
 see the necessity — or what we thought was the necessity 
 — for this diversification between departments. But this 
 teamsters' strike could be only the beginning. They strike, 
 and they themselves don't even know what for ! But these 
 men are all human beings — Germans or Negroes or Poles or 
 Bohemians. There's got to be some way to get them to- 
 gether, and develop some loyalty to the overall operation. 
 Or we'll have nothing but trouble." 
 
 Mahon agreed with him, but had no solution to offer. 
 
 Walking about the plant, Chase saw that everything 
 the manager had told him was true, if he had needed proof. 
 He didn't, however, because he knew Mahon was competent 
 enough. Mahon had found the core of the trouble, he was 
 sure. 
 
 But he went back downtown to his office very much 
 disturbed. He wished, as he had wished a thousand times 
 and more, that his son had developed an interest or under- 
 standing of the business. R. B. needed someone to talk the 
 thing out with — someone who wasn't lost in the trees, as 
 Mahon was, until he couldn't see the forest. However, 
 Carroll was more than worthless to him, and Frank Dodds 
 was purely an office man. Chase inevitably thought of 
 
 179 
 
Waller Pratt. Pratt was the one man who would know 
 what he, Chase, was talking about. Late in the afternoon, 
 he telephoned Pratt. "Come over in the morning," he asked. 
 "I'm depressed now — I'll think straighter after a night's 
 sleep." 
 
 He felt better the minute Pratt arrived, for Waller 
 Pratt always seemed to act like a tonic for him. He told his 
 friend the whole story — the teamsters' strike, Mahon's 
 analysis of the situation, his own fears for the future. 
 "Now, Pratt," he pleaded, "this is my life work. My temple, 
 so to speak. Is it going to crumble down on my head? What 
 in hell can we do? It isn't only the cost to me of a strike," 
 he went on, "and you know that. But I've always felt like 
 a father to all my employees. I want to keep them working 
 and contented. It's the whole show that fascinates me — 
 not just the profit or loss." 
 
 Pratt nodded. The whole discourse would have been 
 unintelligible if he had not understood Robert's psychology 
 as he did. 
 
 "I know," Pratt replied. He leaned back in his chair, 
 and crossed one leg leisurely over the other, to put his 
 friend at ease. "Bob," he continued, "everything's been 
 undergoing such rapid changes it would make your head 
 spin to keep up with them. An absence of even five years 
 can make the situation unrecognizable. The old methods 
 can't apply any longer, so you can't resurrect them. Trouble 
 for the builder of a business or industry is that he can 
 carry along with him as he builds all the details of the 
 growth, the causes and effects, and so on. But his successors 
 in management see only the existing situation, without a full 
 understanding of how the situation developed. To overcome 
 that will take not a change in men, but a change in view- 
 point for all of us." 
 
 "But Waller," protested Chase, "the threat is too close 
 180 
 
 
to hope that just a modification of viewpoints will solve it. 
 We've got to act." 
 
 "I agree with you," Pratt replied, "but we've got to 
 diagnose the ailment before we can prescribe. And the ail- 
 ment, as you yourself have said, is that the human element 
 has left the packing industry — as well as all big business. 
 Industries have grown too large, and the whole system has 
 become impersonal. But system is the only way manage- 
 ment has found to carry on the business. But paying wages 
 to employees, not matter how good the wages are, isn't 
 enough to keep them contented. They've got to have a per- 
 sonal interest, beyond doing certain tasks and taking home 
 their pay. Something to take the place of the old employer- 
 employee relationship in the small shop." 
 
 "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Waller," 
 commented Chase. "The workers in those specialized de- 
 partments can't see the forest for the trees, either." 
 
 "Well," Pratt enlarged on his theme, "I think the 
 remedy would be to take all the employees more into your 
 confidence. Now, I know you can't get personally acquainted 
 with every man in the plant, and go around back-slapping 
 like in the old days. But here's what you could do: get out 
 a kind of a plant magazine. A magazine that would picture 
 the whole industry for them — and their place in it. Give 
 'em the story of packing — tell 'em about Colorado cattle, 
 and Texas cattle, and hog-raising and farming, and the 
 troubles of sheep-herders. Then you can explain the proces- 
 sing and marketing — where and how the railroads come in, 
 and the processing at the yards, step by step. Show them 
 how their jobs are related and interdependent, and why 
 movement has to be continuous and a three-day strike in 
 one little department can stop the whole works. Tell them, 
 too, something about the research that's being done in the 
 agricultural colleges and the Department of Agriculture in 
 
 181 
 
Washington. Tell 'em about the sanitary steps that have 
 been taken and are constantly being improved, to insure 
 that the products of the yards will be fit for human con- 
 sumption everywhere. 
 
 Then," Pratt was warming enthusiastically to his sub- 
 ject, "you can pull it home to them. Tell them about the 
 growth of your own company — the brute labor that was 
 necessary in the old days, and how it's been eliminated 
 not only for economy, but to conserve human strength. Tell 
 them the mistakes you made, and how you corrected them. 
 And then explain the work of your various departments. 
 But make it all concrete, and dramatic. Use pictures. To 
 hell with the cost. If you can show these men their own 
 personal part in the great panorama of the packing in- 
 dustry, they'll feel a personal stake in it." 
 
 Chase was thoughtful. "That — if we can pound it home 
 to them — would give them not only a horizon, a sense of 
 personal importance in the industry, but might work to 
 develop a kind of togetherness among the workers. A 
 loyalty to each other and to the industry — if not to me." 
 
 "That's it, Bob," replied Pratt. "It's that togetherness 
 they feel in the unions, yes, and even when they strike. 
 It's a personal thing. Well, make 'em feel personal about 
 the industry rather than their own little jobs." 
 
 "I believe you've got it," Chase agreed. He grinned 
 delightedly. "I knew you'd come up with something. Go 
 ahead — get researchers and writers and photographers — 
 don't spare expense. Once we get the first informational 
 pamphlet out, we can keep it up monthly with news about 
 what's going on in the packing industry all over the 
 country." 
 
 Pratt slapped his knee in delight. "Bob," he cried, 
 "you've thought way ahead of me ! I had in mind a series of 
 
 182 
 
pamphlets, but a monthly magazine, with continuous news, 
 will be a lot better. It will be a living, growing thing!" 
 
 Chase was already into details. "We'll distribute the 
 magazine without charge to every employee — whether he 
 can read or not. His kids can. And every issue should in- 
 clude stories about men in the industry — not men at the 
 top, but those in between and at the bottom. Short stories 
 and articles about the men — written by some of the em- 
 ployees themselves, if possible. Then it will represent their 
 business, not my business. I don't want my name mentioned 
 in the thing." 
 
 Waller's mind was working rapidly, too. A conference 
 with Chase always stimulated him. "I've got a name for the 
 magazine," he said. "Call it To Market, to Market.' From 
 that angle, we can describe the whole industry, as a living, 
 necessary function. And it covers the range, from the 
 ranches in the west to the markets in the east." 
 
 "Well, get busy at it," Chase replied, his mind now 
 at ease and ready for the next problem. 
 
 So one of the first industrial "house organs" was born. 
 
 183 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
 
 Transition 
 
 The decade after Carroll's marriage was the most com- 
 fortable in the life of Robert Chase. To all appearances, 
 Carroll was happily married, and when Tito dutifully pre- 
 sented her husband with a son whom they named Robert, 
 Chase saw the future of his empire secure. The boy would 
 fulfill all the dreams that Carroll had not. From the child's 
 birth, all the grandfather's thoughts revolved about him. 
 
 When Robert, Jr., was five years old, Chase set up a 
 substantial trust fund for him, which included stocks of 
 Chase and Company, and gave Carroll the trusteeship. The 
 birth of the boy had done something for Carroll, too, for 
 now he spent regular hours at the office, and seemed more 
 interested in what was going on. 
 
 Anxious to encourage Carroll in every possible way 
 
 18 J, 
 
to take on more responsibility, R. B. remodeled a nearby 
 building in La Salle Street which he had owned for several 
 years, and Carroll set up private offices there. At Carroll's 
 insistence, a private entrance and elevator were arranged 
 for him, and he chose his own office staff, with the excep- 
 tion of Frank Dodds. Chase wanted Frank in Carroll's 
 office as a kind of liaison for the benefit of both the Chases. 
 Soon after he was installed in his new quarters, Carroll was 
 elected treasurer of Chase and Company. 
 
 Everything went well — all of his enterprises were 
 growing, and turning in revenue, which Chase promptly 
 re-invested. He began to look forward to retirement. He had 
 at his command for advisory purposes the wise and saga- 
 cious Pratt. For the management of operations he relied on 
 the capable associates who surrounded him, and he expected 
 that they would continue to be helpful to Carroll when 
 eventually his son should take over the reins. 
 
 For diversion and to stimulate his own thinking, Chase 
 still called occasionally on Myra and Aaron Bishoff, whose 
 family was growing — the first child had been followed by a 
 girl, and then another boy — and whose conversation was 
 always refreshing. Aaron was advancing steadily in in- 
 fluence in the union, and motherhood and the years only 
 added to Myra's charm. Chase was interested in Myra's 
 children, but he found himself seeking the Bishoff's com- 
 pany more and more to talk over with them his plans for 
 Robert, Jr. In his planning, he went back to an old dream 
 of his own, that had never come true. The boy should go to 
 Harvard. But most of his spare time Chase spent with his 
 grandson. He took the boy to theaters and museums, for 
 long conversational drives in the parks. The two became 
 friends in a special way, and Chase was contented. All his 
 prospects seemed to prosper. 
 
 It was with shock, therefore, that, when the boy was 
 
 185 
 
about ten years old, Chase began to notice a change in his 
 son. 
 
 During the first years of his marriage, Carroll had 
 seemed happy, and very much attached to Tito, who led 
 him about to receptions and parties in a merry whirl of 
 social activities made possible by the family position and 
 money. 
 
 After ten years of it, Carroll stopped trailing along, 
 but Tito continued to flutter from party to party. Carroll 
 went back to his bachelor ways. His attendance at the 
 office became increasingly irregular. There were days on end 
 when Robert never saw his son. 
 
 It was by accident that Robert discovered the liaison 
 which preoccupied Carroll. The knowledge came to him 
 through a crony of the old days, who still lived on the west 
 side, and who had recognized Carroll coming out of the 
 house on Loomis Street which Robert had given to Carroll 
 as an investment. Carroll was spending a great deal of his 
 time there, Chase was informed, and there was a woman 
 living in the house. Raucous parties went on late into the 
 night, his friend told him. The neighbors were complaining. 
 
 Chase was bewildered. He didn't know what to do 
 about the situation. There was nothing, really, that he could 
 do. For Tito seemed not to care, and he and Carroll had 
 never been able to communicate. He saw that his only hope 
 was Robert, Jr. 
 
 To Chase, this meant that he would have to remain 
 active in management until Robert, Jr. was grown. He tried 
 to take this readjustment of his plans in stride, as he had 
 always done. It was just a matter of holding on longer than 
 he'd intended to, of putting off the companionship in busi- 
 ness he'd hoped for with his son. Well, he could wait. Thank 
 God for the boy ! 
 
 186 
 
Meanwhile, he kept reasonable control of all his fi- 
 nances. He was not disturbed when Mr. Cole consolidated 
 his loans into larger units in fewer banks. He knew that 
 the aggregate was staggering, and had felt easier when he 
 had used outlying banks in smaller communities, who con- 
 sidered their loans to him as good as cash in their vaults, 
 for he knew that he could gather enough funds to pay off 
 any of them if necessary. 
 
 Still, Chase was not disturbed until the money depres- 
 sion of 1907 and 1908, assumed to have been brought about 
 by the big bankers, brought him to a realization of danger. 
 
 "It will be necessary," Cole advised him, "to confer 
 with our bankers to meet payment on our notes which they 
 are demanding." 
 
 Chase replied, "The bankers know that the money 
 scarcity they themselves created doesn't permit payment of 
 those notes on demand." 
 
 Cole explained, "They're offering a plan for payment 
 of the notes by giving loans on liens of the Chase proper- 
 ties." 
 
 Chase shouted. "I'll never agree to issuing liens ! I'll 
 reduce expenditures by curtailing expansion." 
 
 "I told them as much on the telephone," Cole replied. 
 "I told them we knew they had ample cash in their vaults, 
 and that restricting of bank credits should be applied only 
 to concerns whose solvency is in question. I told them there 
 was no question of the solvency of Chase and Company, 
 and that if we were pressed further by them, we'd revert 
 to our old practice of borrowing from the country banks." 
 
 "What did they say to that?" demanded Chase. 
 
 "They said that the country banks have very little 
 
 187 
 
money to loan and they're having such a run on their re- 
 sources that they don't dare lend to new borrowers." 
 
 "Well, call them back and tell them there'll be no liens 
 on the Chase property," ordered Chase. "I'm glad you 
 talked turkey to them." 
 
 Cole called New York again, and gave them Chase's 
 ultimatum. The bank mollified its demands to payment of 
 5 per cent on the loans. Knowing that this could be done 
 easily, Cole agreed. 
 
 That crisis seemed to be over. But before long, the 
 New York bank was again demanding representation on 
 the directorate of the Chase enterprises. By that time the 
 bank owned enough stock so that Chase could not refuse. 
 He didn't like it, but there it was. 
 
 His uneasiness grew, however, as the banker repre- 
 sentative demanded places on committees. It was no mere 
 "visiting" representation the bank wanted, but active par- 
 ticipation. Chase sent Cole to New York for more con- 
 ferences. 
 
 When Cole returned, he reported : "There's one demand 
 they're making in which they're emphatic. They want their 
 representative on the financial committee. They claim that 
 would be helpful to the company in disentangling its 
 finances." 
 
 Chase protested. "But we're continually consulting them 
 and advising them of every move we make. There's no need 
 for them to be represented on the financial committee." 
 
 "There's another thing they want," Cole went on, "they 
 want their representative on the financial committee to be 
 recompensed for his services to an amount commensurate 
 with the responsibilities and comparable to the highest paid 
 official in the company." 
 
 188 
 
Chase swore. "The financial committee is not active," 
 he pointed out to Cole, "and only meets two or three times 
 a year. All their representative is entitled to is his normal 
 expenses when he attends meetings, like the other di- 
 rectors !" 
 
 "Those banker representatives — I think they're plan- 
 ning more than one — on the financial committee as pro- 
 posed, are not to be selected from the directors of the 
 company, but from high officers of the banks. That practice 
 was started some years ago in other companies, and the 
 banks have found it satisfactory." 
 
 "We're not in distress," argued Chase, "and I don't 
 want outsiders who aren't directors serving on the financial 
 committee unless they're asked." 
 
 "Well, there's one loophole," advised Cole, "you can't 
 discharge directors, but you can always dissolve commit- 
 tees." 
 
 "Are you sure?" asked Chase. 
 
 "I believe so," replied Cole. 
 
 "I have my doubts about the whole procedure," Chase 
 answered, "but see what you can do to minimize the com- 
 mittee's work and the number on the committee." 
 
 That should have taken care of the matter, he thought, 
 but it didn't. He found almost immediately that the various 
 proposals which he made to his officers and directors, and 
 which had been accepted without discussion or qualifica- 
 tions, were being questioned by the banker representatives 
 not only on the board, but also on the financial committee 
 which had the power to make loans wherever and whenever 
 the committee saw fit. 
 
 Chase saw with consternation that he had lost control 
 of the finances of his own company. He had become a mem- 
 
 189 
 
ber of the ranks of his own executives, with no more power 
 than they, and in some respects with less. 
 
 The banker representatives soon started another cam- 
 paign. There should be younger blood at the top. Mr. Chase 
 should relieve himself of the burdens and obligations which 
 were becoming strenuous for a man of his age. They sug- 
 gested in a praiseworthy manner that the proper head ex- 
 ecutive should be Carroll Chase. 
 
 R. B. had hoped to hang on in control until young 
 Robert grew up, and his knowledge of Carroll's personal 
 life did not reassure him. But there was little he could do. 
 
 Accordingly, Chase was made chairman of the board, 
 and Carroll became president of the company. 
 
 R. B. was able to erect one safeguard, however. He in- 
 duced Waller Pratt to come into the organization as co- 
 administrator. Pratt agreed at last because the affairs of 
 the company were taking so much of his time that he had 
 had to drop other clients or shift them to his legal partners. 
 
 When Pratt was firmly established in the House of 
 Chase, the New York bankers seemed delighted. They knew 
 enough about him to believe that he would be an asset to 
 any organization, and particularly one that carried on vast 
 enterprises. They sent out a special emissary to congratulate 
 Pratt, who hoped he would continue to favor the bankers 
 as Mr. Chase had done, and they in turn would help the 
 Chase interests to the limit. The man invited Waller to 
 visit New York often, and become better acquainted with 
 the bankers. That would make for mutual confidence, he 
 said. 
 
 Waller's offices were simple and plain, executive offices 
 where work was being done, and were in no way seclusive. 
 Most of his business with Carroll was done through Frank 
 Dodds. 
 
 190 
 
The executives, who had never been welcomed by Car- 
 roll, were relieved not to have to go into his office at all, and 
 began going to Pratt for consultation and information. It 
 was not long before Pratt was recognized everywhere as 
 the chief executive. When, occasionally, Pratt would com- 
 ment that a certain proposition should be taken to Carroll 
 Chase, even outsiders were surprised. But no one ever ques- 
 tioned his judgment. 
 
 191 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 * * 
 
 End of an Era 
 
 Chase realized now that he had never had complete 
 control of his business. He had only blinded himself into 
 thinking that he had. But if he had listened to Aaron 
 BishofTs warnings, years ago, about the proclivities of the 
 banks, it seemed to him now that he could not have acted 
 differently. 
 
 He knew that he was out of touch with the plants, but 
 when he visited them, the turmoil disturbed him. He looked 
 back over the years, and believed that he had met every 
 situation with vigor, and certainly with the best judgment 
 he had at the time, from ground-up experience. 
 
 But now he felt that he no longer understood the situ- 
 ation — either inside the plants or outside, in the workers* 
 lives. 
 
 192 
 
His confusion began to disturb his rest, and frequently 
 he awoke tired in the morning. At first he contributed his 
 fatigue to lack of exercise, or some imaginary influence. 
 He wasn't ready to admit that he was suffering from defeat 
 — not financial, but personal. 
 
 He began to leave the office an hour or so earlier in 
 the afternoon. During the day, he walked around to the 
 various department heads, but instead of speaking of specific 
 problems connected with the department, he drifted into 
 vague discussions that were so unlike him that he left the 
 men bewildered. 
 
 Still, he couldn't let go, and he became impatient and 
 irritable when reports of progress were incomplete. He 
 wanted things done — and while he had every confidence in 
 Waller Pratt, he wanted to retain the close relationship he 
 had always enjoyed with the men in his office. 
 
 But he put it down to nerves, and was surprised when 
 his physician, Dr. Smith, telephoned him one afternoon. 
 Smith was always at him to have more frequent checkups, 
 but Chase was impatient of physical examinations. "Come 
 on over to see me," the doctor told him. 
 
 Chase went, grumbling. "What's on your mind, Doc?" 
 he asked, "want to buy some stock?" 
 
 "No," replied the doctor, "I want to give you a good 
 going over. You seem to be disturbed. You've got a sallow 
 look, and there are lines under your eyes and certain dis- 
 coloration beneath. I believe you should have an examina- 
 tion, and have it now." 
 
 Chase put it off for a day. "I'll come tomorrow," he 
 promised, but vaguely enough so that Dr. Smith issued an 
 order. "I'm not fooling, R. B.," he said, "you come." 
 
 Robert decided that maybe a nerve tonic or something 
 
 193 
 
would pick him up, so he went back the next day. He was 
 in a better humor, and did not protest when the doctor 
 started kneading his abdomen. 
 
 But suddenly he shrieked. "Ouch! That hurt! What 
 have you found there?" 
 
 "Nothing serious at all," replied the doctor. "Probably 
 touched off a nerve center." The doctor kept his voice light, 
 so that the patient would not know how grave his concern 
 was. "I'm not going to examine you any more thoroughly 
 today," he said. "But come back after you've had three or 
 four days' rest. You'll be in a more normal condition then, 
 and the examination will be more accurate. But I warn 
 you, ease up on your diet. Eliminate bread and heavy meats, 
 and cut out alcohol entirely. I know you use little of that, 
 but don't use any. See if you can't go home for simple 
 lunches instead of eating steaks at the club. Vegetables 
 provide something to the blood that meat doesn't — we don't 
 know yet what it is, but we know the effect. Keep to simple 
 foods." 
 
 "All right, all right," Chase took the "orders" with 
 good grace. 
 
 He felt better when he left Dr. Smith's office, sure that 
 there was nothing the matter with him but overeating. 
 And instead of going back to the office, he ordered his 
 driver to take him to Hull House, where Myra still spent 
 what free time she had away from her household duties. 
 
 She greeted him warmly, as always. 
 
 "I want you and Aaron to have dinner with me," he 
 announced at once, "if you can leave the children." 
 
 "That would be fine," she answered, "if only Aaron 
 were free. He's at a union meeting tonight — some urgent 
 business." 
 
 m 
 
Chase sighed. "Always the union ! The fact is, I want to 
 talk about Aaron, and to him. Maybe you and I could have 
 a preliminary talk." 
 
 Myra demurred. "No, if it concerns him, we'd better 
 wait until we can all be together." 
 
 "Well," Chase could not let go, "I want to try to talk 
 him into entering my establishment. I've lost touch with 
 the men. And I need Aaron's viewpoint — firsthand. I never 
 agreed with him, but I always found his ideas stimulating, 
 and I always respected them." 
 
 "Yes, I believe you," Myra agreed, looking back over 
 the years. 
 
 "My own men in charge," Chase went on, "are content 
 with things as they are. Or if they see anything wrong, 
 they don't see any remedies. At least, they don't discuss 
 them with me. I want someone who'll talk straight from the 
 shoulder, and I don't know anyone who is as fearless in 
 that respect and at the same time, as fair as Aaron is." 
 
 "You're beginning to give him a high rating, aren't 
 you?" she laughed. Chase had always felt that way about 
 Aaron, she knew. But this was the first time he had ad- 
 mitted it. 
 
 "Yes," said Chase simply. "At first I didn't under- 
 stand him. I thought he was imagining a lot of things, or 
 repeating what he heard some stump-speaker say. Now the 
 big boys in Wall Street are telling me the same thing that 
 Aaron predicted years ago. His understanding in some 
 respects is uncanny." 
 
 "I'm glad you're beginning to see the light, Mr. Chase," 
 she told him, feeling pride in what seemed to be a complete 
 capitulation. She didn't expect Aaron to be interested in 
 working for Robert Chase. But she felt that some good 
 would come from their better understanding. 
 
 195 
 
"Aaron will be free next Tuesday evening," she said. 
 "Perhaps we can get together then for a good talk, what- 
 ever comes of it." 
 
 He left her in better spirits than he had felt for a 
 long time. If he could enlist Aaron, Bishoff would help 
 straighten out the confusion. He'd get back into the driver's 
 seat again. 
 
 The meeting never came off. By the next week Chase 
 was in a hospital, undergoing surgery. 
 
 He demanded the truth, and the surgeon, knowing how 
 vast were his affairs, told him. "We can't cure this," he 
 said sadly, both doctor and patient knowing what "this" 
 was. "We'll try to keep you comfortable. You'll have time, 
 I'm sure, to put your house in order." 
 
 Courageous as always, Chase faced up to the end. He 
 called in his son, his associates, Pratt and Dodds. His 
 greatest concern was for the future of his grandson. "Send 
 him to Harvard. I wanted to go there, and couldn't." 
 
 Myra and Aaron called on him, and they talked of old 
 times. "Wonder what would have happened if you'd married 
 my son, Myra?" he asked her. 
 
 "All three of us would have been unhappy," she re- 
 plied. "If I've helped you at all, it's been with and through 
 Aaron." 
 
 He smiled at that. "You've been good for each other, 
 anyhow." 
 
 She wept when they left him, and was not surprised 
 to hear, a few days later, of his death. "He had his own 
 kind of greatness," she told Aaron. "He was a builder." 
 
 "Yes," Aaron admitted. "A great builder." 
 
 Robert Chase left a number of bequests to philan- 
 thropic institutions, to his church and to a number of 
 
 196 
 
individuals who had been his associates for years. Unex- 
 pectedly, Myra found herself named in his will, with the 
 bequest of a modest sum, and a personal message in the 
 rider to the will. "Since you wouldn't let me do anything 
 for you while I was with you, please respect my last wishes 
 now." The will also expressed Chase's desire that his last 
 rites be free from unusual ceremonies, but that if Aaron 
 Bishoff chose to make some remarks, he should be allowed 
 to do so. 
 
 It was a strange request, but Aaron saw in it a kind 
 of message to him, an admission of approval, as well as a 
 desire for approval from him. 
 
 Accordingly, after the rector completed the short serv- 
 ice, Aaron mounted to the pulpit. He looked about at the 
 gathering which was so different from any audience he 
 had ever faced before. Then he began to speak, slowly, 
 clearly, and with great emphasis. 
 
 "In my lifetime," he said, "I have met many men, in 
 many walks of life and endeavor. Robert Chase was the 
 most remarkable man I've ever known. 
 
 "He and I had very different backgrounds. Our lives 
 were different. For many years, our motives were directly 
 opposite. At times, I had said, in public, some harsh things 
 about him and his kind. 
 
 "Later, I realized, and I confess today, that those 
 criticisms were unjustified. Robert Chase was a man who 
 assumed unhesitatingly what he called his obligations, and 
 he carried them through. 
 
 "He lived in a huge industrial and social pit, building 
 from underground, and laying the firm foundations of a 
 future society. At last, he reached the top of the pit, with 
 the foundations underneath him, and he looked out and 
 saw the horizons of a better world. 
 
 197 
 
"I didn't see that for a long time, and could not ap- 
 preciate the gigantic work in which he was engaged. His 
 underground labors were known to me, and to many others. 
 We interfered with him at times, and bedeviled him. Be- 
 cause we did not understand. We expected him to emerge 
 and erect a superstructure before he had finished the 
 foundations. 
 
 "Mr. Chase's immediate associates, who are gathered 
 here today, can testify as I can to the earnestness and 
 sincerity with which he carried on the building of his en- 
 terprises, and he left those enterprises to you, and to me, 
 and to society. Industry, industry to support the nation 
 by supporting the workers. 
 
 "And what a foundation he built ! No matter what the 
 superstructure and changes in coloring may be from time 
 to time, the foundations will hold. The industry of America 
 he held in his hands, and shaped it not for today, but for 
 tomorrow and tomorrow. 
 
 "We must dedicate ourselves to the perpetuation of the 
 institutions which Robert Chase built. He did his share — 
 a great deal more than one man's share, and it is up to 
 the next generation to take up the tasks and carry into 
 final realization what he had envisioned in recent years. 
 
 "When that is accomplished, Mr. Chase's work will not 
 have been in vain, and the work of the next generation 
 will be a credit to it, as the foundations are a credit to 
 Mr. Chase. Generation upon generation dedicated to the 
 development of industry — that was his dream of the grand 
 social structure, and grand it is and grander shall it be." 
 
 Bishoff wiped his eyes as he came down from the 
 pulpit, and told his wife savagely on the way home, "Let 
 the union hot-heads call me 'turncoat' if they want to! Is 
 this the end of an era, or the beginning of a new one?" 
 
 198 
 
 
"Both, I think," she replied. "He was a pioneer, and 
 after the pioneering come the refinements. We've all been 
 impatient for the development of the refinements. But it 
 took him a lifetime to do the pioneering! The refinements 
 will come. 
 
 "You're very much alike, Aaron," she told him. "He 
 built with material. You built with ideas, and with men. 
 Have you thought of that? You complemented each other, 
 in a great era of growth." 
 
 "And where did you come in, my Myra?" he asked her. 
 
 "Oh," she replied, "that's easy. I brought you together." 
 
 199 
 
* * * * CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 Aftermath 
 
 Robert Chase's dynasty died with him. It was, indeed, 
 the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one. For with 
 the vast growth of industry, it was no longer possible — 
 as it had been impossible for Robert Chase — for one man 
 to dominate, control and direct, great enterprises. The new 
 financial structure, with many stockholders and control by 
 consent, Aaron felt was a good thing. It brought industry 
 to the people, where he thought it belonged. 
 
 There would be evils yet, he knew, and ever recurring 
 problems. Organized labor had a long way to go before it 
 could become a force toward mutual understanding for the 
 betterment of everybody. Because men were men, and ex- 
 citable and impatient. He could not foresee the future, the 
 trust-busting, the great and paralyzing strikes, the havocs 
 
 200 
 
of war and depression and more war. He knew there would 
 always be trouble, always unrest, always a new goal as 
 soon as the old goal was reached. But there was a yeast 
 working in society in America, and he believed that it was 
 working for good. 
 
 Robert Chase's passion for dynasty had not been good, 
 Aaron felt, but if that had been his motivation, then it had 
 worked for good in the building of his vast industries. You 
 have to take men as they are, Aaron reasoned, whether 
 they're at the top of the heap or at the bottom, and they 
 prove their usefulness. Robert Chase had been useful. 
 
 What happened inside the walls of the House of Chase 
 after R. B.'s death, Aaron felt was a personal tragedy, 
 not applicable to industry in general. 
 
 For when the "raiders" — the bankers — came in, pro- 
 longed investigation showed that Carroll Chase had for 
 years been using corporation funds for personal enterprises 
 which were disastrous. He had dissipated the family fortune 
 until it was wiped out, and it was that much easier for the 
 bankers to take over. 
 
 Chase's one failure had been his son. How often the 
 sons of great men turned out worthless, and Aaron won- 
 dered why. He supposed that somewhere, some time, Carroll 
 had been obliterated in the shadow of his father. When he 
 was young, he had tried to please Robert Chase. But some- 
 where along the line, he had given up, and devoted his life 
 to self-indulgence, which had proved disastrous. For in the 
 reorganization of the Chase affairs, Carroll was put on an 
 allowance, and given no part in the management of the 
 business. 
 
 Aaron wondered if his own two sons, so promising 
 now, would fail to carry on where he left off. He didn't 
 think so. For there was Myra. If, like Robert Chase, he be- 
 
 201 
 
came too involved in his own interests, Mvra would still 
 bring up the children in the way they should go 
 
 Change, that was it. Change everywhere. Flux and 
 growth. Would there ever be an end to it? WouW the 
 millemum ever be reached? 
 
 Of course not For change and growth were the mean- 
 7 f K Ame »ca. And Aaron Bishoff laughed a great, loud 
 shout, because he was a vital part of it. 
 
 THE END 
 
 202 
 
MAX SKLOVSKY 
 
 Born in Lithuania in 1878, Max 
 Sklovsky came to Chicago as an infant, 
 the youngest of a large family. His entire 
 schooling was in Chicago. He grad- 
 uated from Northwest Division High 
 School (now Tuley), and from Armour 
 Institute (now Illinois Institute of Tech- 
 nology) in 1901, with the degree of Bach- 
 elor of Science in mechanical and elec- 
 trical engineering. Ten years later he received a Master's degree in 
 mechanical engineering from the same institution. 
 
 He was interested in the development of the Chicaqo Union Stock- 
 yards and participate d in the development work of Swift and Com- 
 pany, Nelson Morris, and the Wilson Company. He became the first 
 technical engineer for Deere and Company, farm implement manu- 
 facturers, m 1902. He remained their master mechanic for nine years, 
 when he was appointed chief engineer for the entire company, a 
 position which he held for thirty-three years, until his retirement in 
 1944. 
 
 He designed farm eguipment and numerous types of machinery 
 for speeding production, among which was the overhead trolley 
 system. He also supervised all capital expenditures of Deere and 
 Company. From 1911 to 1944 he supervised extensions of factories 
 and construction, and the equipping of over 200 buildings for the 
 company. 
 
 From 1926 to 1930, he frequently acted as adviser to engineers 
 who came from Russia to study American industry. His statements 
 were translated and published in book form by the Russian govern- 
 ment, and were widely distributed. 
 
 During the first World War, Max Sklovsky participated actively 
 in the development of munitions and methods of producing such, and 
 during World War II he devoted nearly all of his time to the problems 
 of munitions production by Deere and Company, and was commis- 
 sioned a Lieutenant Colonel in the Reserves. 
 
 During his many years as an engineer, Max Sklovsky was active 
 in technical societies, among them the American Society of Mechan- 
 ical Engineers, Automotive Engineers, and the American Foundry 
 Association. One of his hobbies has been study and writing on various 
 phases of economics, particularly industrial economics. He has con- 
 tributed many articles to technical and non-technical journals. 
 
 Mr. Sklovsky and his wife Pauline have been married for fifty-four 
 years. They have one son, two daughters, seven grandchildren and 
 two great-grandchildren. They spend their winters in California and 
 the rest of the year in River Forest, Illinois.