King coal, p.13
King Coal, page 13
“What is the reason?”
“Well,” said Edstrom, gently, “maybe you don’t know the reason—but anyway we’ve decided that we want a check-weighman.”
It was evident that the superintendent had been taken by surprise, and was uncertain how to meet the issue. “You can imagine,” he said, at last, “the company doesn’t relish hearing that its men believe it’s cheating them—”
“We don’t say the company knows anything about it, Mr. Cartwright. It’s possible that some people may be taking advantage of us, without either the company or yourself having anything to do with it. It’s for your protection as well as ours that a check-weighman is needed.”
“Thank you,” said the other, drily. His tone revealed that he was holding himself in by an effort. “Very well,” he added, at last. “That’s enough about the matter, if your minds are made up. I’ll give you my decision later.”
This was a dismissal, and Mike Sikoria turned humbly, and started to the door. But Edstrom was one of the ants that did not readily “step one side”; and Mike took a glance at him, and then stepped back into line in a hurry, as if hoping his delinquency had not been noted.
“If you please, Mr. Cartwright,” said Edstrom, “we’d like your decision, so as to have the check-weighman start in the morning.”
“What? You’re in such a hurry?”
“There’s no reason for delay, sir. We’ve selected our man, and we’re ready to pay him.”
“Who are the men who are ready to pay him? Just you two”
“I am not at liberty to name the other men, sir.”
“Oh! So it’s a secret movement!”
“In a way—yes, sir.”
“Indeed!” said the superintendent, ominously. “And you don’t care what the company thinks about it!”
“It’s not that, Mr. Cartwright, but we don’t see anything for the company to object to. It’s a simple business arrangement—”
“Well, if it seems simple to you, it doesn’t to me,” snapped the other. And then, getting himself in hand, “Understand me, the company would not have the least objection to the men making sure of their weights, if they really think it’s necessary. The company has always been willing to do the right thing. But it’s not a matter that can be settled off hand. I will let you know later.”
Again they were dismissed, and again Old Mike turned, and Edstrom also. But now another ant sprang into the ditch. “Just when will you be prepared to let the check-weighman begin work, Mr. Cartwright?” asked Hal.
The superintendent gave him a sharp look, and again it could be seen that he made a strong effort to keep his temper. “I’m not prepared to say,” he replied. “I will let you know, as soon as convenient to me. That’s all now.” And as he spoke he opened the door, putting something into the action that was a command.
“Mr. Cartwright,” said Hal, “there’s no law against our having a check-weighman, is there?”
The look which these words drew from the superintendent showed that he knew full well what the law was. Hal accepted this look as an answer, and continued, “I have been selected by a committee of the men to act as their check-weighman, and this committee has duly notified the company. That makes me a check-weighman, I believe, Mr. Cartwright, and so all I have to do is to assume my duties.” Without waiting for the superintendent’s answer, he walked to the door, followed by his somewhat shocked companions.
11. At the meeting on the night before it had been agreed to spread the news of the check-weighman movement, for the sake of its propaganda value. So now when the three men came out from the office, there was a crowd waiting to know what had happened; men clamoured questions, and each one who got the story would be surrounded by others eager to hear. Hal made his way to the boarding-house, and when he had finished his supper, he set out from place to place in the camp, telling the men about the check-weighman plan and explaining that it was a legal right they were demanding. All this while Old Mike stayed on one side of him, and Edstrom on the other; for Tom Olson had insisted strenuously that Hal should not be left alone for a moment. Evidently the bosses had given the same order; for when Hal came out from Reminitsky’s, there was “Jake” Predovich, the store-clerk, on the fringe of the crowd, and he followed wherever Hal went, doubtless making note of every one he spoke to.
They consulted as to where they were to spend the night. Old Mike was nervous, taking the activities of the spy to mean that they were to be thugged in the darkness. He told horrible stories of that sort of thing. What could be an easier way for the company to settle the matter? They would fix up some story; the world outside would believe they had been killed in a drunken row, perhaps over some woman. This last suggestion especially troubled Hal; he thought of the people at home. No, he must not sleep in the village! And on the other hand he could not go down the canyon, for if he once passed the gate, he might not be allowed to repass it.
An idea occurred to him. Why not go up the canyon? There was no stockade at the upper end of the village—nothing but wilderness and rocks, without even a road.
“But where we sleep?” demanded Old Mike, aghast.
“Outdoors,” said Hal.
“Pluha biedna! And get the night air into my bones?”
“You think you keep the day air in your bones when you sleep inside?” laughed Hal.
“Why don’t I, when I shut them windows tight, and cover up my bones?”
“Well, risk the night air once,” said Hal. “It’s better than having somebody let it into you with a knife.”
“But that fellow Predovich—he follow us up canyon too!”
“Yes, but he’s only one man, and we don’t have to fear him. If he went back for others, he’d never be able to find us in the darkness.”
Edstrom, whose notions of anatomy were not so crude as Mike’s, gave his support to this suggestion; so they got their blankets and stumbled up the canyon in the still, star-lit night. For a while they heard the spy behind them, but finally his footsteps died away, and after they had moved on for some distance, they believed they were safe till daylight. Hal had slept out many a night as a hunter, but it was a new adventure to sleep out as the game!
At dawn they rose, and shook the dew from their blankets, and wiped it from their eyes. Hal was young, and saw the glory of the morning, while poor Mike Sikoria groaned and grumbled over his stiff and aged joints. He thought he had ruined himself forever, but he took courage at Edstrom’s mention of coffee, and they hurried down to breakfast at their boarding-house.
Now came a critical time, when Hal had to be left by himself. Edstrom was obliged to go down to see to his wife’s funeral; and it was obvious that if Mike Sikoria were to lay off work, he would be providing the boss with an excuse for firing him. The law which provided for a check-weighman had failed to provide for a check-weighman’s body-guard!
Hal had announced his programme in that flash of defiance in Cartwright’s office. As soon as work started up, he went to the tipple. “Mr. Peters,” he said, to the tipple-boss, “I’ve come to act as check-weighman.”
The tipple-boss was a man with a big black moustache, which made him look like the pictures of Nietzsche. He stared at Hal, frankly dumbfounded. “What the devil?” said he.
“Some of the men have chosen me check-weighman,” explained Hal, in a business-like manner. “When their cars come up, I’ll see to their weights.”
“You keep off this tipple, young fellow!” said Peters. His manner was equally business-like.
So the would-be check-weighman came out and sat on the steps to wait. The tipple was a fairly public place, and he judged he was as safe there as anywhere. Some of the men grinned and winked at him as they went about their work; several found a chance to whisper words of encouragement. And all morning he sat, like a protestant at the palace-gates of a mandarin in China, It was tedious work, but he believed that he would be able to stand it longer than the company.
12. In the middle of the morning a man came up to him—“Bud” Adams, a younger brother of the “J. P.,” and Jeff Cotton’s assistant. Bud was stocky, red-faced, and reputed to be handy with his fists. So Hal rose up warily when he saw him.
“Hey, you,” said Bud. “There’s a telegram at the office for you.”
“For me?”
“Your name’s Joe Smith, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what it says.”
Hal considered for a moment. There was no one to be telegraphing Joe Smith. It was only a ruse to get him away.
“What’s in the telegram?” he asked.
“How do I know?” said Bud.
“Where is it from?”
“I dunno that.”
“Well,” said Hal, “you might bring it to me here.”
The other’s eyes flew open. This was not a revolt, it was a revolution! “Who the hell’s messenger boy do you think I am?” he demanded.
“Don’t the company deliver telegrams?” countered Hal, politely. And Bud stood struggling with his human impulses, while Hal watched him cautiously. But apparently those who had sent the messenger had given him precise instructions; for he controlled his wrath, and turned and strode away.
Hal continued his vigil. He had his lunch with him; and was prepared to eat alone—understanding the risk that a man would be running who showed sympathy with him. He was surprised, therefore, when Johannson, the giant Swede, came and sat down by his side. There also came a young Mexican labourer, and a Greek miner. The revolution was spreading!
Hal felt sure the company would not let this go on. And sure enough, towards the middle of the afternoon, the tipple-boss came out and beckoned to him. “Come here, you!” And Hal went in.
The “weigh-room” was a fairly open place; but at one side was a door into an office. “This way,” said the man.
But Hal stopped where he was.
“This is where the check-weighman belongs, Mr. Peters.”
“But I want to talk to you.”
“I can hear you, sir.” Hal was in sight of the men, and he knew that was his only protection.
The tipple-boss went back into the office; and a minute later Hal saw what had been intended. The door opened and Alec Stone came out.
He stood for a moment looking at his political henchman. Then he came up. “Kid,” he said, in a low voice, “you’re overdoing this. I didn’t intend you to go so far.”
“This is not what you intended, Mr. Stone,” answered Hal.
The pit-boss came closer yet. “What you looking for, kid? What you expect to get out of this?”
Hal’s gaze was unwavering. “Experience,” he replied.
“You’re feeling smart, sonny. But you’d better stop and realise what you’re up against. You ain’t going to get away with it, you know; get that through your head—you ain’t going to get away with it. You’d better come in and have a talk with me.”
There was a silence.
“Don’t you know how it’ll be, Smith? These little fires start up—but we put ’em out. We know how to do it, we’ve got the machinery. It’ll all be forgotten in a week or two, and then where’ll you be at? Can’t you see?”
As Hal still made no reply, the other’s voice dropped lower. “I understand your position. Just give me a nod, and it’ll be all right. You tell the men that you’ve watched the weights, and that they’re all right. They’ll be satisfied, and you and me can fix it up later.”
“Mr. Stone,” said Hal, with intense gravity, “am I correct in the impression that you are offering me a bribe?”
In a flash, the man’s self-control vanished. He thrust his huge fist within an inch of Hal’s nose, and uttered a foul oath. But Hal did not remove his nose from the danger-zone, and over the fist a pair of angry brown eyes gazed at the pit-boss. “Mr. Stone, you had better realise this situation. I am in dead earnest about this matter, and I don’t think it will be safe for you to offer me violence.”
For a moment or two the man continued to glare at Hal; but it appeared that he, like Bud Adams, had been given instructions. He turned abruptly and strode back into the office.
Hal stood for a bit, until he had made sure of his composure. After which he strolled over towards the scales. A difficulty had occurred to him for the first time—that he did not know anything about the working of coal-scales.
But he was given no time to learn. The tipple-boss reappeared. “Get out of here, fellow!” said he.
“But you invited me in,” remarked Hal, mildly.
“Well, now I invite you out again.”
And so the protestant resumed his vigil at the mandarin’s palace-gates.
13. When the quitting-whistle blew, Mike Sikoria came quickly to join Hal and hear what had happened. Mike was exultant, for several new men had come up to him and offered to join the check-weighman movement. The old fellow was not sure whether this was owing to his own eloquence as a propagandist, or to the fine young American buddy he had; but in either case he was equally proud. He gave Hal a note which had been slipped into his hand, and which Hal recognised as coming from Tom Olson. The organiser reported that every one in the camp was talking check-weighman, and so from a propaganda standpoint they could count their move a success, no matter what the bosses might do. He added that Hal should have a number of men stay with him that night, so as to have witnesses if the company tried to “pull off anything.” “And be careful of the new men,” he added; “one or two of them are sure to be spies.”
Hal and Mike discussed their programme for the second night. Neither of them were keen for sleeping out again—the old Slovak because of his bones, and Hal because he saw there were now several spies following them about. At Reminitsky’s, he spoke to some of those who had offered their support, and asked them if they would be willing to spend the night with him in Edstrom’s cabin. Not one shrank from this test of sincerity; they all got their blankets, and repaired to the place, where Hal lighted the lamp and held an impromptu check-weighman meeting—and incidentally entertained himself with a spy-hunt!
One of the new-comers was a Pole named Wojecicowski; this, on top of Zamierowski, caused Hal to give up all effort to call the Poles by their names. “Woji” was an earnest little man, with a pathetic, tired face. He explained his presence by the statement that he was sick of being robbed; he would pay his share for a check-weighman, and if they fired him, all right, he would move on, and to hell with them. After which declaration he rolled up in a blanket and went to snoring on the floor of the cabin. That did not seem to be exactly the conduct of a spy.
Another was an Italian, named Farenzena; a dark-browed and sinister-looking fellow, who might have served as a villain in any melodrama. He sat against the wall and talked in guttural tones, and Hal regarded him with deep suspicion. It was not easy to understand his English, but finally Hal managed to make out the story he was telling—that he was in love with a “fanciulla,” and that the “fanciulla” was playing with him. He had about made up his mind that she was a coquette, and not worth bothering with, so he did not care any curses if they sent him down the canyon. “Don’t fight for fanciulla, fight for check-weighman!” he concluded, with a growl.
Another volunteer was a Greek labourer, a talkative young chap who had sat with Hal at lunch-time, and had given his name as Apostolikas. He entered into fluent conversation with Hal, explaining how much interested he was in the check-weighman plan; he wanted to know just what they were going to do, what chance of success they thought they had, who had started the movement and who was in it. Hal’s replies took the form of little sermons on working-class solidarity. Each time the man would start to “pump” him, Hal would explain the importance of the present issue to the miners, how they must stand by one another and make sacrifices for the good of all. After he had talked abstract theories for half an hour, Apostolikas gave up and moved on to Mike Sikoria, who, having been given a wink by Hal, talked about “scabs,” and the dreadful things that honest workingmen would do to them. When finally the Greek grew tired again, and lay down on the floor, Hal moved over to Old Mike and whispered that the first name of Apostolikas must be Judas!
14. Old Mike went to sleep quickly; but Hal had not worked for several days, and had exciting thoughts to keep him awake. He had been lying quiet for a couple of hours, when he became aware that some one was moving in the room. There was a lamp burning dimly, and through half-closed eyes he made out one of the men lifting himself to a sitting position. At first he could not be sure which one it was, but finally he recognised the Greek.
Hal lay motionless, and after a minute or so he stole another look and saw the man crouching and listening, his hands still on the floor. Through half opened eye-lids Hal continued to steal glimpses, while the other rose and tip-toed towards him, stepping carefully over the sleeping forms.
Hal did his best to simulate the breathing of sleep: no easy matter, with the man stooping over him, and a knife-thrust as one of the possibilities of the situation. He took the chance, however; and after what seemed an age, he felt the man’s fingers lightly touch his side. They moved down to his coat-pocket.
“Going to search me!” thought Hal; and waited, expecting the hand to travel to other pockets. But after what seemed an interminable period, he realised that Apostolikas had risen again, and was stepping back to his place. In a minute more he had lain down, and all was still in the cabin.
Hal’s hand moved to the pocket, and his fingers slid inside. They touched something, which he recognised instantly as a roll of bills.
“I see!” thought he. “A frame-up!” And he laughed to himself, his mind going back to early boyhood—to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his home, containing story-books that his father had owned. He could see them now, with their worn brown covers and crude pictures: “The Luck and Pluck Series,” by Horatio Alger; “Live or Die,” “Rough and Ready,” etc. How he had thrilled over the story of the country-boy who comes to the city, and meets the villain who robs his employer’s cash-drawer and drops the key of it into the hero’s pocket! Evidently some one connected with the General Fuel Company had read Horatio Alger!
