VI
Bunny was on a holiday, and must enjoy himself; if he failed to do so, the enjoyment of his two companions would be marred. He must smile and escort them to a theatre, and afterwards send Dad home in a taxi, and go with Vee to a supper-party with some of the screen people, and gossip about their productions and their profits, and see them drink too much, and know that there would be an hour's talk about Prohibition and bootleggers, starting as soon as he and Vee refused to drink. Were they "on the wagon"? Or were they afraid of this liquor? This was something special— the original Koski stuff, or whatever it might be in New York. Then in the morning the pair would go to the "gym," and practice stunts together, making themselves a quite competent pair of gymnasts—Vee said that if ever Dad went broke, and she got "kleig eyes" and had to quit the movies, they could earn several hundred a week on the "big time circuit." They would have lunch, and then maybe there would be a matinee, or somebody calling, or reporters or special writers; or Vee would go shopping, and absolutely insist upon having her darling Bunny along, because he had such exquisite taste, and why did she dress but to please him? Bunny met other rich young men in his position, and learned that such remarks were preliminary to the man's ordering the bill sent to him. But there was nothing of the "gold-digger" about Vee—when she gave the invitation, she paid. What she wanted was her Bunny-rabbit. She adored him, and wanted to be with him every moment, and to show him off to all the world, including the newspapers. They had been together long enough for Bunny to know her thoroughly, and to realize the drawbacks as well as the advantages of the alliance. That she was sensual did not trouble him, for he was young, and his ardors matched hers. The arts that he had learned from Eunice Hoyt were combined with those Vee had learned from many lovers, and they were dizzy with delight; the impulse that drew them together was impossible to resist. But intellectually they were far from being mated. Vee would listen to anything he wanted to talk about, but how little she really cared about serious things would be comically revealed by her sudden shifting of the conversation. She had her own life, one of speed and excitement and show. She might jeer at the movie world and its works, but nevertheless, she was of that world, and applause and attention were the breath she lived by. She was always on the stage, playing a part—the world's professional darling; always bright, always fresh, young, beautiful, sprightly. Such a thing as thoughtfulness was suspect, a cloak for dangerous enemies stealing into your mind. "What's the matter, Bunny-rabbit? I believe you're thinking about that horrid strike!" Sitting down and reading a book was a thing quite unknown to this world's darling. A newspaper, yes, of course, or a magazine— one had them lying about, and a man would pick them up and glance over something, but always ready to stop to look at a new dress or listen to a bit of gossip. But to become absorbed in reading and not want to be interrupted—well, it didn't seem quite polite, did it? As for spending a whole afternoon or evening reading a book—Vee had simply never heard of such a thing. She did not put it into words, but Bunny could understand that a book was cheap; anybody could get one and sit off in a corner, but few could have a box at the theatre, presented by the management, and sit there, almost as important as the play. One of the young fellows who had taught at Dan Irving's labor college was in New York, and Bunny met him, and they talked about what was going on in the labor movement all over the world. Bunny would have liked to meet him again, and to go to meetings—there were so many exciting things in this great city, headquarters of the radical movement as of everything else. But Vee found out about this, and set out to save him—just as if he had wanted to smoke opium or drink absinthe! She would make engagements for him, and claim his time, and question him, with an anxious, "Where is my wandering boy tonight?" sort of an air. Bunny knew, of course, that she was doing it for his soul's salvation, and doubtless at Dad's direct request; but all the same it was a bore. He had one other acquaintance, to whom Vee made no objection—his mother. She had married again some time ago, and her husband was rich, and she had a lovely home, so she had written. Bunny went to see her, and had to make an extreme effort not to reveal his consternation at her appearance. A dreadful example of what happened when a woman yielded to her craving for a square meal! Mamma had filled out till she was round as a ball of butter, and so soft that it was hard to keep together on a hot day like this. "Fair, fat, and forty" runs the saying; the surgeons add, "and a bad gall bladder," but Bunny didn't know that, and neither did Mamma. She was dressed like a queen in his honor, and had a
poodle dog—selected, as Vee would have said, to match her figure. Her husband was a dealer in jewelry, and apparently he used his wife instead of a safe. She insisted on giving Bunny a diamond ring, and when he told her about the strike, she gave him another to be sold for the strikers' relief fund. Oil men were cruel, said Mamma—she knew!
VII
Dad was attending to the business which had brought him east. He didn't say much about it, and that was unusual, so Bunny knew it was something off color. Presently he wormed it out of his father, it had to do with those naval reserve leases they were planning to get. President Harding had been inaugurated, and had made Barney Brockway his attorney-general, according to schedule, and appointed Vernon Roscoe's man as secretary of the interior. This was Senator Crisby, an old party hack who had served Roscoe and O'Reilly when they were occupied in turning out one Mexican administration and putting in another; they had held over the Mexicans' heads the threat of American intervention, and this Crisby, as senator from Texas, had clamored for war and almost got it. He couldn't let women alone, Dad said, and so he was always busted, and ready for any new job that came along. Now he was to give the oil men a whole string of valuable leases for practically nothing; but he had to have more money, there were a lot of fellows that had to have a lot more money. That was the trouble in dealing with politicians; you bought them before election, and then you had to buy them again after election, they wouldn't "stay put," like business men. What Dad had come on here for was to consult a lawyer that Verne considered the greatest in the country, and fix up a little corporation for the purpose of buying government officials legally. Of course Dad didn't put it in those crude words, but that was what it amounted to, Bunny insisted, and how could it be done? Dad answered that a real good lawyer could do anything. This was going to be a Canadian corporation, so that it wouldn't have to obey United States laws; and the men that took stock in it were to get their leases in the end. But the trouble was, nobody could be sure just what the leases would be worth, and Pete O'Reilly and Fred Or-pan were trying to make Dad and Verne put up too big a share of the money. Verne was mad and said they could go to hell, and he wanted Dad to settle down and wait a while in New York, and bluff them out. Could Bunny make up his mind to skip the rest of his college term, and maybe do some studying with a tutor, and pass his examinations in the fall? Bunny said he didn't care about college, but this worried him— what was Dad getting in for with this Canadian corporation? Dad insisted it was perfectly all right, he had the best lawyer in the country. But Bunny said, "Are you sure Verne isn't putting something over on you?" Dad was shocked at that, how could Bunny have such an idea, why Verne was the best friend Dad had ever had in business, he was straight as they made them. "Yes, Dad, but they don't make them so very straight in the oil game. And why doesn't Verne do his own bribing? Why didn't he come to New York?" "But son, Verne has got to handle the strike—you know he couldn't get away now. He's taken that off my shoulders, and you ought to be glad." Dad added a naive remark, the oil men wouldn't let him deal with labor, he was "too soft." The phrase sounded familiar. It turned out that Vee and Dad had been putting their heads together. Vee wanted a vacation, also; they would go up to Canada to complete Dad's business, and then they would find a camp, and instead of tiresome "gym" work, she and Bunny would tramp the forests and swim in a beautiful lake. So Dad sent a telegram to President Alonzo T. Cowper, D.D., Ph.D., LL.D., explaining that urgent business compelled his son to remain in the east,
and could it be arranged that Bunny might return and take his examinations in the fall? Dr. Cowper wired that the authorities would be very pleased indeed to grant this favor. And then, the very morning after it was all settled, a telegram came for Bunny, and he opened it and read the signature, Ruth Watkins. With swiftly flying eyes he took in the sense of it—Paul and Eddie Piatt and Bud Stoner and Jick Duggan and four others of their group had been arrested, charged with "suspicion of criminal syndicalism," and were lodged in the San Elido county jail with ten thousand dollars bail demanded for Paul and seventy-five hundred for each of the others. "They have done nothing and everybody knows it," declared the telegram, "merely scheme to lock them up during strike. Jail is horrible place Paul's health will not stand it implore you for sake our old friendship obtain needed bail for all surely no need assure you no money will be lost on our boys."
VIII
At first Bunny had a cruel suspicion—that his father had known of this arrest, or at any rate that it was pending, before his latest effort to keep Bunny away from California. But he realized, it was enough to believe that Vernon Roscoe, intending to break up the "nest of Bolshevism" in the Rascum cabin, had made plans to get both Dad and Bunny away and keep them away. Anyhow, the scheme would not work, for Bunny was not going to permit his friend to be treated in that crude fashion! Dad happened to be out, and Bunny showed the telegram to Vee, and talked it out with her. She wanted to know what he meant to do, and he answered that Dad would have to put up the bail for Paul, at least. "But Bunny, you know he can't do that—he wouldn't cross Verne in regard to the strike." "He's simply got to do it, Vee! I'd be a dog to let a man like Paul be locked up in that filthy hole." "But suppose Dad won't, Bunny?" "Then I've got to go back, that's all there is to it." "What could you do when you got there?" "I'll hunt around till I find somebody that's got a sense of decency and also a little cash." "The combination isn't so easy to find, dear—I know, because I've tried it. And it's going to make Dad dreadfully unhappy, to say nothing of spoiling our vacation. I have just learned of the loveliest place—a camp that Schmolsky bought up in Ontario, and he's never been there, he's too busy. And, oh, Bunny, I thought we were going to have such a marvelous time." She put her arms about him, but he hardly knew she was there, so cruelly was his spirit wrung by the vision of Paul in jail. And he, Bunny, running away from the trouble, loafing about and pretending it was a "vacation"! He that thought he understood the social problem, and had an ideal, at least a glimpse of what was kind and fair! He broke loose from Vee's arms and began to pace the floor, storming half at himself for a renegade and half at the dirty crooks that ran the government of San Elido county, and stole the funds that were supposed to keep the jail clean and feed the prisoners. Bunny was twisting his hands together in his misery, and Vee watched him, startled; it was a new aspect of her Bunny-rabbit, that she had thought so sweet and soft and warm! "Listen, dear!" she broke in, suddenly. "Stop a minute and talk to me quietly. You know, I don't know much about these things." "What is it?" "How can you be sure that Paul hasn't broken any law?" "Because I know him. I know all his ideas. I've talked the thing out with him from A to Z—all about this strike, and how it's to be handled, the importance of getting the men to stand as a unit, how everything else must be subordinated to that. That's what he's been doing, and that's why Verne has thrown him into jail." "You're quite sure Verne has done it?" "Of course—he and the rest of the operators' committee. What are those officials in San Elido, but office-boys for the oil men? Before Verne came in there, Dad ran that county; I've seen him pay the money with my own eyes, and more times than one." "And you don't think they may have evidence that Paul has been conniving at violence?" "I don't know what evidence they've got. Verne as good as told me he had spies on that bunch, and I don't know what those spies may have planted—and neither does Verne know, for that matter. That's one of the damnable things about it. Another is—you see that charge, 'suspicion of criminal syndicalism'! What they call 'criminal syndicalism' means that you advocate overthrowing the government, or changing the social system by force; but you notice they don't arrest you for that—they arrest you for 'suspicion' of it! In other words, you advocate some idea that some ignorant cop or some crook in office chooses to think may be dangerous, and then they throw you into jail, and there you stay—the courts are crowded, and they can keep you a year without a trial or any chance at all." "Oh, surely they can't do that, Bunny!" "They're doing it right along. I know fellows it's been done to. They put the bail high on purpose, so that workingmen can't get it. And they think they're going to do it to Paul Watkins, the best boy-friend I ever had, the straightest fellow I ever knew—yes, by God, and he went to Siberia and served in that war, and came out sick—that boy was as tough as a hickory nut before that, a country fellow, simple and straight, and with no vices. And this is the reward he gets for his services to his country—by Jesus, I'd like to see them get me to fight for a country like that!" Bunny had to dash a tear out of his eyes, and he began to pace the floor again, and stumbled against a chair. Vee put her arms about him and whispered, "Listen, dear, I know some people that have got money, and I may be able to help you. Leave it to me for a few hours, and don't say anything to Dad about it—what's the use of worrying him to no purpose? If I can arrange it, he'll be able to tell Verne that he knew nothing about it, and that'll be so much better all round." She went off, and a couple of hours later came back. Bunny was to wire Ruth that neither he nor his father could do anything, but a friend had taken an interest in the case, and the money had been deposited with the American Bonding Company, and their office in Angel City would obtain Paul's release. Bunny said, "How did you do it?" and she answered, "The less you know about it the better. I know somebody that owns some real estate in Angel City, and has a salary coming to them, and employers that are anxious to keep them happy and contented." Bunny said it must have cost a good deal, and he ought to pay it back, and Vee said, "Yes, it cost a pile, and you're going to pay in love and affection, and you can start right now." She flew to his arms, and he covered her with kisses, and it was like an orchestra that went surging up in their hearts. It is an extremely unsettling thing to have a whole orchestra inside you!
IX
Well, Paul got out, and Bunny was supposed to be satisfied. To be sure, seven other fellows were in, and Bunny knew them all; but it would have cost fifty-two thousand five hundred dollars to release them, and that would certainly be carrying idealism to unreasonable extremes. So Bunny let Vee carry him and Dad off to that "camp" on a lake with a long Indian name, and there they swam, and canoed, and fished, and damped the forests, and took pictures of moose in the water; they had Indian guides, and everything romantic—and at the same time hot and cold water in their bed-rooms, and steam-heat if they wanted it; all the comforts of Broadway and Forty-second Street. Here, if ever, they had a chance to get enough of each other; there were no distractions, no social duties, no visitors dropping in, no dressing to be done; they were together all day and all night. What Bunny found was that they were perfectly happy so long as they were doing physical things: canoe trips to other places, new fishing stunts, hunting with the camera, shooting rapids, learning to make camp, to start a fire like the Indians— anything it might be. But they must be playing all the time, otherwise a great gulf opened between them. If Bunny wanted to read, what was Vee to do? Once a day a little steamer came the length of the lake and put off supplies and a packet of mail. There were papers from Angel City, and also, once a week, the strike bulletin of the oil workers, which Bunny had very unwisely subscribed for. What was the use of running three thousand miles away from trouble, and then having it sent to you in a mail sack? Reading of the scenes that he knew so well—the meetings, the relief work, the raising of funds, the struggles with the guards, the arrests, the sufferings of the men in jail, the beating up of strike pickets, the insolence of the sheriff and other officials, the dishonesty of the newspapers—it was exactly the same as if Bunny were in Paradise. P
aul was one of the executive committee, Paul had become Tom Axton's right-hand man, and his speeches were quoted, and his experiences in the San Elido county jail—when Bunny had finished that little paper, he was so shaken he was not the same all day. Vee found out about it, of course, and began trying to persuade him to stop reading it. Had he not done his share by giving the strikers back their leader? And had he not promised to repay her, his darling Vee-Vee, with love and affection for a whole summer? Bunny wrestled it out with his own soul, in such free moments as he could get. He told himself that it was to help his father—a more respectable excuse than entertaining a mistress! But did his father have a right to expect so much? Did any one person have a right to replace all the rest of humanity? If it was the duty of the young to sacrifice themselves for the old, how could there ever be any progress in the world? As time passed, and the struggle in the oil fields grew more tense, the agony of the workers more evident, Bunny came to the clear decision that his flight had been cowardly. He tried to explain his point of view to Vee, but only to run into a stone wall. It was not a subject for reasoning, it was a matter of instinct with her. She believed in her money; she had starved for it, sold herself, body and mind, for it, and she meant to hang onto it. Bunny's so-called "radical movement" meant to her that others wanted to take it away. He discovered a strange, hard streak in her; she would spend money lavishly, for silks and furs and jewels, for motor-cars and parties—but that was all professional, it was part of her advertising bill. But, on the other hand, where no display was involved, where the public did not enter—there she hated to spend money; he overheard her wrangling with a washerwoman over the amount to be charged for the ironing of her lingerie, and those filmy night-dresses in which she seduced his soul. No, he could never make a "radical" out of this darling of the world; he would have to make up his mind to that. She would listen to him, because she loved him, even the sound of his voice talking nonsense; she would make a feeble pretense at agreeing, but all the time it was as if he had the measles and she waiting for him to get cured; as if he were drunk and she trying to get him "on the wagon." She had apologized to Rachel, and had got Paul out of jail, but merely to please him, and in reality she hated both these people. Still more did she hate Ruth, with a cold, implacable hatred—an intriguing minx, pretending to be a simple country maiden in order to win an oil prince! No women were simple, if you believed Vee, and damn few of them were maidens. Nor would Ruth ever stop being a nuisance. In the midst of one of their happiest times, she sent Bunny another telegram—her brother was in jail again, this time it was contempt of court. Bunny considered it necessary to paddle down to the nearest telegraph office and wire Mr. Dolliver, the lawyer, to investigate and report. The answer came that nothing could be done—Paul and others of the strike leaders had disregarded an injunction forbidding them to do this and that, and there was no bail and no appeal, neither habeas corpusses nor counter-injunctions, and Paul would have to serve his three months' sentence. Bunny was bitter and rebellious against judges who issued injunctions, and Vee was afraid to speak, because it seemed obvious to her that somebody had to control strikers. Of course after that there was a shadow over their holiday—Bunny brooding upon his friend shut up in the county jail. He sent Ruth five hundred dollars, to take care of all the prisoners; and in course of time got a letter, saying that the prisoners had refused the money, and Ruth had turned it over to the strike relief. It was a terrible thing to see children without enough to eat; terrible also that men who had power should use it to starve children! Thus the "simple" Ruth— not meaning any hint at Dad!
Oil! A Novel by Upton Sinclair Page 44