King coal, p.36
King Coal, page 36
There was a long silence. Hal could not have said anything now, if he had wished to. He knew that this was what he had come to seek! This was the naked soul of the class-war!
“Now,” concluded Mary, with clenched hands, and a voice that corresponded, “now, I’ve had it out. I’m no slave; I’ve just as good a right to life as any lady. I know I’ll never have it, of course; I’ll never wear good clothes, nor live in a decent home, nor have the man I want; but I’ll know that I’ve done somethin’ to help free the workin’ people from the shame that’s put on them. That’s what the strike done for me, Joe! The strike showed me the way. We’re beat this time, but somehow it hasn’t made the difference ye might think. I’m goin’ to make more strikes before I quit, and they won’t all of them be beat!”
She stopped speaking; and Hal walked beside her, stirred by a conflict of emotions. His vision of her was indeed true; she would make more strikes! He was glad and proud of that; but then came the thought that while she, a girl, was going on with the bitter war, he, a man, would be eating grilled beefsteaks at the club!
“Mary,” he said, “I’m ashamed of myself—”
“That’s not it, Joe! Ye’ve no call to be ashamed. Ye can’t help it where ye were born—”
“Perhaps not, Mary. But when a man knows he’s never paid for any of the things he’s enjoyed all his life, surely the least he can do is to be ashamed. I hope you’ll try not to hate me as you do the others.”
“I never hated ye, Joe! Not for one moment! I tell ye fair and true, I love ye as much as ever. I can say it, because I’d not have ye now; I’ve seen the other girl, and I know ye’d never be satisfied with me. I don’t know if I ought to say it, but I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be altogether satisfied with her, either. Ye’ll be unhappy either way—God help ye!”
The girl had read deeply into his soul in this last speech; so deeply that Hal could not trust himself to answer. They were passing a street-lamp, and she looked at him, for the first time since they had started on their walk, and saw harassment in his face. A sudden tenderness came into her voice. “Joe,” she said; “ye’re lookin’ bad. ’Tis good ye’re goin’ away from this place!”
He tried to smile, but the effort was feeble.
“Joe,” she went on, “ye asked me to be your friend. Well, I’ll be that!” And she held out the big, rough hand.
He took it. “We’ll not forget each other, Mary,” he said. There was a catch in his voice.
“Sure, lad!” she exclaimed. “We’ll make another strike some day, just like we did at North Valley!”
Hal pressed the big hand; but then suddenly, remembering his brother stalking solemnly in the rear, he relinquished the clasp, and failed to say all the fine things he had in his mind. He called himself a rebel, but not enough to be sentimental before Edward!
29. They came to the house where John Edstrom was staying. The labouring man’s wife opened the door. In answer to Hal’s question, she said, “The old gentleman’s pretty bad.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Didn’t you know he was hurt?”
“No. How?”
“They beat him up, sir. Broke his arm, and nearly broke his head.”
Hal and Mary exclaimed in chorus, “Who did it? When?”
“We don’t know who did it. It was four nights ago.”
Hal realised it must have happened while he was escaping from MacKellar’s. “Have you had a doctor for him?”
“Yes, sir; but we can’t do much, because my man is out of work, and I have the children and the boarders to look after.”
Hal and Mary ran upstairs. Their old friend lay in darkness, but he recognised their voices and greeted them with a feeble cry. The woman brought a lamp, and they saw him lying on his back, his head done up in bandages, and one arm bound in splints. He looked really desperately bad, his kindly old eyes deep-sunken and haggard, and his face—Hal remembered what Jeff Cotton had called him, “that dough-faced old preacher!”
They got the story of what had happened at the time of Hal’s flight to Percy’s train. Edstrom had shouted a warning to the fugitives, and set out to run after them; when one of the mine-guards, running past him, had fetched him a blow over the eye, knocking him down. He had struck his head upon the pavement, and lain there unconscious for many hours. When finally some one had come upon him, and summoned a policeman, they had gone through his pockets, and found the address of this place where he was staying written on a scrap of paper. That was all there was to the story—except that Edstrom had refrained from sending to MacKellar for help, because he had felt sure they were all working to get the mine open, and he did not feel he had the right to put his troubles upon them.
Hal listened to the old man’s feeble statements, and there came back to him a surge of that fury which his North Valley experience had generated in him. It was foolish, perhaps; for to knock down an old man who had been making trouble was a comparatively slight exercise of the functions of a mine-guard. But to Hal it seemed the most characteristic of all the outrages he had seen; it was an expression of the company’s utter blindness to all that was best in life. This old man, who was so gentle, so patient, who had suffered so much, and not learned to hate, who had kept his faith so true! What did his faith mean to the thugs of the General Fuel Company? What had his philosophy availed him, his saintliness, his hopes for mankind? They had fetched him one swipe as they passed him, and left him lying—alive or dead, it was all the same.
Hal had got some satisfaction out of his little adventure in widowhood, and some out of Mary’s self-victory; but there, listening to the old man’s whispered story, his satisfaction died. He realised again the grim truth about his summer’s experience—that the issue of it had been defeat. Utter, unqualified defeat! He had caused the bosses a momentary chagrin; but it would not take them many hours to realise that he had really done them a service in calling off the strike for them. They would start the wheels of industry again, and the workers would be just where they had been before Joe Smith came to be stableman and buddy among them. What was all the talk about solidarity, about hope for the future; what would it amount to in the long run, the daily rolling of the wheels of industry? The workers of North Valley would have exactly the right they had always had—the right to be slaves, and if they did not care for that, the right to be martyrs!
Mary sat holding the old man’s hand and whispering words of passionate sympathy, while Hal got up and paced the tiny attic, all ablaze with anger. He resolved suddenly that he would not go back to Western City; he would stay here, and get an honest lawyer to come, and set out to punish the men who were guilty of this outrage. He would test out the law to the limit; if necessary, he would begin a political fight, to put an end to coal-company rule in this community. He would find some one to write up these conditions, he would raise the money and publish a paper to make them known! Before his surging wrath had spent itself, Hal Warner had actually come out as a candidate for governor, and was overturning the Republican machine—all because an unidentified coal-company detective had knocked a dough-faced old miner into the gutter and broken his arm!
30. In the end, of course, Hal had to come down to practical matters. He sat by the bed and told the old man tactfully that his brother had come to see him and had given him some money. This brother had plenty of money, so Edstrom could be taken to the hospital; or, if he preferred, Mary could stay near here and take care of him. They turned to the landlady, who had been standing in the doorway; she had three boarders in her little home, it seemed, but if Mary could share a bed with the landlady’s two children, they might make out. In spite of Hal’s protest, Mary accepted this offer; he saw what was in her mind—she would take some of his money, because of old Edstrom’s need, but she would take just as little as she possibly could.
John Edstrom of course knew nothing of events since his injury, so Hal told him the story briefly—though without mentioning the transformation which had taken place in the miner’s buddy. He told about the part Mary had played in the strike; trying to entertain the poor old man, he told how he had seen her mounted upon a snow-white horse, and wearing a robe of white, soft and lustrous, like Joan of Arc, or the leader of a suffrage parade.
“Sure,” said Mary, “he’s forever callin’ attention to this old dress!”
Hal looked; she was wearing the same blue calico. “There’s something mysterious about that dress,” said he. “It’s one of those that you read about in fairy-stories, that forever patch themselves, and keep themselves new and starchy. A body only needs one dress like that!”
“Sure, lad,” she answered. “There’s no fairies in coal-camps—unless ’tis meself, that washes it at night, and dries it over the stove, and irons it next mornin’.”
She said this with unwavering cheerfulness; but even the old miner lying in pain on the cot could realise the tragedy of a young girl’s having only one old dress in her love-hunting season. He looked at the young couple, and saw their evident interest in each other; after the fashion of the old, he was disposed to help along the romance. “She may need some orange blossoms,” he ventured, feebly.
“Go along with ye!” laughed Mary, still unwavering.
“Sure,” put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, “’tis a blossom she is herself! A rose in a mining-camp—and there’s a dispute about her in the poetry-books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying!”
“Ye’re mixin’ me up,” said Mary. “A while back I was ridin’ on a white horse.”
“I remember,” said Old Edstrom, “not so far back, you were an ant, Mary.”
Her face became grave. To jest about her personal tragedy was one thing, to jest about the strike was another. “Yes, I remember. Ye said I’d stay in the line! Ye were wiser than me, Mr. Edstrom.”
“That’s one of the things that come with being old, Mary.” He moved his gnarled old hand toward hers. “You’re going on, now?” he asked. “You’re a unionist now, Mary?”
“I am that!” she answered, promptly, her grey eyes shining.
“There’s a saying,” said he—“once a striker, always a striker. Find a way to get some education for yourself, Mary, and when the big strike comes you’ll be one of those the miners look to. I’ll not be here, I know—the young people must take my place.”
“I’ll do my part,” she answered. Her voice was low; it was a kind of benediction the old man was giving her.
The woman had gone downstairs to attend to her children; she came back now to say that there was a gentleman at the door, who wanted to know when his brother was coming. Hal remembered suddenly—Edward had been pacing up and down all this while, with no company but a “hardware drummer!” The younger brother’s resolve to stay in Pedro had already begun to weaken somewhat, and now it weakened still further; he realised that life is complex, that duties conflict! He assured the old miner again of his ability to see that he did not suffer from want, and then he bade him farewell for a while.
He started out, and Mary went as far as the head of the stairway with him. He took the girl’s big, rough hand in his—this time with no one to see. “Mary,” he said, “I want you to know that nothing will make me forget you; and nothing will make me forget the miners.”
“Ah, Joe!” she cried. “Don’t let them win ye away from us! We need ye so bad!”
“I’m going back home for a while,” he answered, “but you can be sure that no matter what happens in my life, I’m going to fight for the working people. When the big strike comes, as we know it’s coming in this coal-country, I’ll be here to do my share.”
“Sure lad,” she said, looking him bravely in the eye, “and good-bye to ye, Joe Smith.” Her eyes did not waver; but Hal noted a catch in her voice, and he found himself with an impulse to take her in his arms. It was very puzzling. He knew he loved Jessie Arthur; he remembered the question Mary had once asked him—could he be in love with two girls at the same time? It was not in accord with any moral code that had been impressed upon him, but apparently he could!
31. He went out to the street, where his brother was pacing up and down in a ferment. The “hardware drummer” had made another effort to start a conversation, and had been told to go to hell—no less!
“Well, are you through now?” Edward demanded, taking out his irritation on Hal.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I suppose so.” He realised that Edward would not be concerned about Edstrom’s broken arm.
“Then, for God’s sake, get some clothes on and let’s have some food.”
“All right,” said Hal. But his answer was listless, and the other looked at him sharply. Even by the moonlight Edward could see the lines in the face of his younger brother, and the hollows around his eyes. For the first time he realised how deeply these experiences were cutting into the boy’s soul. “You poor kid!” he exclaimed, with sudden feeling. But Hal did not answer; he did not want sympathy, he did not want anything!
Edward made a gesture of despair. “God knows, I don’t know what to do for you!”
They started back to the hotel, and on the way Edward cast about in his mind for a harmless subject of conversation. He mentioned that he had foreseen the shutting up of the stores, and had purchased an outfit for his brother. There was no need to thank him, he added grimly; he had no intention of travelling to Western City in company with a hobo.
So the young miner had a bath, the first real one in a long time. (Never again would it be possible for ladies to say in Hal Warner’s presence that the poor might at least keep clean!) He had a shave; he trimmed his finger-nails, and brushed his hair, and dressed himself as a gentleman. In spite of himself he found his cheerfulness partly restored. A strange and wonderful sensation—to be dressed once more as a gentleman. He thought of the saying of the old negro, who liked to stub his toe, because it felt so good when it stopped hurting!
They went out to find a restaurant, and on the way one last misadventure befell Edward. Hal saw an old miner walking past, and stopped with a cry: “Mike!” He forgot all at once that he was a gentleman; the old miner forgot it also. He stared for one bewildered moment, then he rushed at Hal and seized him in the hug of a mountain grizzly.
“My buddy! My buddy!” he cried, and gave Hal a prodigious thump on the back. “By Judas!” And he gave him a thump with the other hand. “Hey! you old son-of-a-gun!” And he gave him a hairy kiss!
But in the very midst of these raptures it dawned over him that there was something wrong about his buddy. He drew back, staring. “You got good clothes! You got rich, hey?”
Evidently the old fellow had heard no rumour concerning Hal’s secret. “I’ve been doing pretty well,” Hal said.
“What you work at, hey?”
“I been working at a strike in North Valley.”
“What’s that? You make money working at strike?”
Hal laughed, but did not explain. “What you working at?”
“I work at strike too—all alone strike.”
“No job?”
“I work two days on railroad. Got busted track up there. Pay me two-twenty-five a day. Then no more job.”
“Have you tried the mines?”
“What? Me? They got me all right! I go up to San José. Pit-boss say, ‘Get the hell out of here, you old groucher! You don’t get no more jobs in this district!’”
Hal looked Mike over, and saw that his dirty old face was drawn and white, belying the feeble cheerfulness of his words. “We’re going to have something to eat,” he said. “Won’t you come with us?”
“Sure thing!” said Mike, with alacrity. “I go easy on grub now.”
Hal introduced “Mr. Edward Warner,” who said “How do you do?” He accepted gingerly the calloused paw which the old Slovak held out to him, but he could not keep the look of irritation from his face. His patience was utterly exhausted. He had hoped to find a decent restaurant and have some real food; but now, of course, he could not enjoy anything, with this old gobbler in front of him.
They entered an all-night lunch-room, where Hal and Mike ordered cheese-sandwiches and milk, and Edward sat and wondered at his brother’s ability to eat such food. Meantime the two cronies told each other their stories, and Old Mike slapped his knee and cried out with delight over Hal’s exploits. “Oh, you buddy!” he exclaimed; then, to Edward, “Ain’t he a daisy, hey?” And he gave Edward a thump on the shoulder. “By Judas, they don’t beat my buddy!”
Mike Sikoria had last been seen by Hal from the window of the North Valley jail, when he had been distributing the copies of Hal’s signature, and Bud Adams had taken him in charge. The mine-guard had marched him into a shed in back of the power-house, where he had found Kauser and Kalovac, two other fellows who had been arrested while helping in the distribution.
Mike detailed the experience with his usual animation. “‘Hey, Mister Bud,’ I say, ‘if you going to send me down canyon, I want to get my things.’ ‘You go to hell for your things,’ says he. And then I say, ‘Mister Bud, I want to get my time.’ And he says, ‘I give you plenty time right here!’ And he punch me and throw me over. Then he grab me up’ again and pull me outside, and I see big automobile waiting, and I say, ‘Holy Judas! I get ride in automobile! Here I am, old fellow fifty-seven years old, never been in automobile ride all my days. I think always I die and never get in automobile ride!’ We go down canyon, and I look round and see them mountains, and feel nice cool wind in my face, and I say, ‘Bully for you, Mister Bud, I don’t never forget this automobile. I don’t have such good time any day all my life.’ And he say, ‘Shut your face, you old wop!’ Then we come out on prairie, we go up in Black Hills, and they stop, and say, ‘Get out here, you sons o’ guns.’ And they leave us there all alone. They say, ‘You come back again, we catch you and we rip the guts out of you!’ They go away fast, and we got to walk seven hours, us fellers, before we come to a house! But I don’t mind that, I begged some grub, and then I got job mending track; only I don’t find out if you get out of jail, and I think maybe I lose my buddy and never see him no more.”
