As Hal made no answer, he indicated a chair. “Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand,” answered Hal.
“Now Warner,” began the other, “I want to have a talk with you, and see if we can’t come to an understanding.”
“Barry Cassels,” demanded Hal, abruptly, “have you been inside that city-jail?”
“Now—”
“You are willing to pile men in there—to starve and suffocate them—men who you know are innocent of any crime—”
“I have something to say to you, Warner—”
“I have something to say to you, Barry Cassels, and mine is the more urgent. In the beginning, I was puzzled, I could hardly believe it. You are what the world calls a gentleman—a college graduate, a lawyer who has sworn an an oath; and you are setting out deliberately to ‘frame up’ men whom you know to be innocent—”
The foppish Major’s patience was beginning to wear through. “That’s strong talk, young man!”
“Not half as strong as the situation deserves. I’ve been to the bottom of this matter, Cassels, and I know the knavery of what you and Wrightman are doing. I’ve read the statements you’ve given the press—one series of lies after another—”
The Major clenched his fist. “Be careful!” he cried.
“I say lies, Barry Cassels—lies! You were lying when you gave out that interview with Johann Hartman. You were lying when you wrote that statement for Joe Prince to sign. You were lying in everything you said about Louie the Greek. You were lying when you quoted the deputy commissioner of labor—I know, because he told me so. You were lying in the statements you made about Tim Rafferty. You were lying when you said there was typhoid at the Horton tent-colony—”
The Judge-Advocate had become livid with rage. “By God! I’ll make you sweat for this!”
Hal laughed at him. “Come off, Cassels!” he said. “Don’t I know that if you could have kept me in prison you’d have done it? You’ve sent for me to let me go, so hurry up!”
For a minute Cassels glared in silence. Then with an extreme effort he controlled himself. “We wish to give you another chance; that is provided—”
“Cut it out!” broke in Hal. “I’ll not make terms with you.”
“You must understand, you are not to return to this district—”
“No, I’ll not have to return—I’m not going away.”
“You’re to be sent out on the next train, young man!”
“Oho! Like Mother Mary! You honor me, Cassels! Will you send your whole army to escort me, as you did for her?”
Major Cassels rang a bell. “Judson,” he said, to the soldier who answered, “take this man and put him on the train for Western City.”
“You’d better tell him to call out the artillery,” taunted Hal. “I’m popular with the strikers, you know.”
Evidently the Major agreed with Hal’s judgment, for a detachment of thirty men marched down to the depot to see him off. And of course that was notice to the strikers that something important was happening. A crowd gathered, and when they saw who was being shipped away, they sang the union song and cheered vociferously. It warmed Hal’s heart; it was his reward for the discomforts he had undergone!
[21]
Hal had refused to buy himself a railroad ticket. When he explained matters to the conductor, that official was vastly amused, and agreed to put him off at Sheridan for nonpayment of fare. But evidently a warning had been sent ahead, for there was a squad of militiamen on hand at Sheridan, and they had conceded the point of paying Hal’s fare up to Western City.
Hal was content to go, for now was the time to reach the public. The newspapers would have an account of his arrest and deportation—the “Gazette” would force them to that. So the channels of publicity would be open to him; he could tell the public a little of why he was behaving in this disgraceful fashion. Such is the pass to which things have come in our land of freedom—the only way to let the public know about strike-outrages is to get one’s self in jail!
Hal’s train got in at seven o’clock in the morning, and he went directly to his brother’s home. Edward was shaving, a rite which must not be interrupted; but Lucy May ran to welcome her wayward brother-in-law, clad in an embroidered pink dressing-gown. She caught him by the hands, and there were two little pearls of tears, one in the corner of each eye; it was evident that the Philadelphia lady had been in a state of tremendous excitement. “Oh, Hal! How terrible!” she exclaimed.
“It was jolly!” laughed Hal—“Just long enough not to be monotonous! How did you manage it?”
So Lucy May told her thrilling little story. She had got Hal’s letter, with the dreadful account of the jail, and had read it aloud to Edward at the breakfast-table; and then, two or three hours later, at the dressmaker’s, had come Billy Keating’s telephone-message. Lucy May had gone nearly beside herself; she had called up her husband on the phone, and they had nearly broken up matrimony on the spot. For Edward had refused to do anything, declaring that the best thing for his brother would be to stay in jail and cool off!
So Lucy May had jumped into her limousine and sped to Hal’s father, and read him the letter and told him the news. “Hal!” she exclaimed. “It was wonderful! Just as it used to be before he was ill!”
“Dear old Dad!” cried Hal.
“He was so angry! I’d never seen him so angry! He didn’t stop to think that somebody might cut off his credit, and compel him to stop work on the new mine! He said, “That boy’s coming out of jail!’—I said, ‘What will you do, Dad? See the Governor?’—‘What?’ said he. ‘That nincompoop? Not much! I’ll see the head of the firm!’ And he called up Peter Harrigan!”
And Lucy May stopped. “What did he say?” asked Hal.
“I can’t tell it, Hal—he used such bad language!”
The other laughed. “I’ll remember the quotation marks. Go ahead!”
“It was dreadful, you know. I remembered what the doctor had said, about Dad’s not getting excited; and really, he was terribly excited. And I couldn’t forget it was Old Peter he was talking to. Afterwards Dad told me what he’d said.”
“Tell me!” said Hal.
“Dad went right for him. ‘I understand your tin soldiers down at Pedro have put my boy in jail!’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘why don’t you keep your boy out of my coal-mines?’
“‘When my boy was in your coal-mines, he worked,’ said Dad. ‘He earned his wages, and profits for you besides. Since then, if I understand the matter, he’s been the guest of some people who pay rent for their land, and have a right to be there. Anyhow, I’ve called you up to tell you that my boy comes out of jail, and comes out quick!’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’ve got nothing to do with it—’
“‘Don’t talk that rot to me! I want that boy out of jail!’
“Then Old Peter swore for a while; but finally he came down to business. ‘I won’t have him making trouble down there in that strike. If I get him out, will you see that he keeps out of the district?’
“‘I’ll make no promises,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve tried my best to control the boy, but he’s seen too much of the way you treat your working-people. And understand me, Peter Harrigan—you can abuse your Dagos and Hunkies, but by God, when you put Edward Warner’s son in a cell you’ve gone too far! I’ll give you just one hour to get that boy out, and if you don’t I tell you right now there’ll be trouble.’
“‘What will you do?’ he asked; because, of course, he’s not used to having men talk to him like that.
“‘I’ve got the letters my boy has been writing me,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve got the inside story of that strike, and I’ll send for the newspaper reporters and give out an interview that’ll blow you and your tin soldiers to kingdom come! And understand, Harrigan, if I go on the war-path, I’ll stay on. I see there’s going to be a mass-meeting at the Auditorium tomorrow night—if my boy isn’t up here in Western City before that, I’ll go there and g
ive them a talk that this city won’t forget in a hundred years. You think it over now, and get busy!’ And then he hung up the receiver.”
Hal chuckled with delight. “That’s the way to talk to Old Peter!” he cried. “You’re a jewel, Lucy May! I knew you’d get me out!”
And she put out her hands to him imploringly. “You aren’t going back to the dreadful place, Hal!”
At which he became instantly grave. “Think of it, Lucy May! All the poor devils whose fathers don’t happen to be rich, and who have no way to frighten Old Peter, and have to stay down there in that hell and starve and suffocate!
[22]
After this Hal had the customary argument with his brother. There was news in the morning paper which gave material for controversy—a “confession” by Dinardo, the Italian who was accused of having shot Pete Hanun. Here was the whole conspiracy revealed—an elaborate account of the shooting, how Rovetta had got him the gun, how Minetti and Hartman had paid him for the deed. These were Hal’s friends from North Valley—the very people he had tried to persuade his brother to meet! A bunch of conspirators and assassins!
“It’s an obvious frame-up,” declared Hal; but how far would that get him with Edward? How far would it get him with any of the friends he hoped to influence? The statement of Dinardo was published in full all over the state, and did its intended work of alienating sympathy from the strikers. When Dinardo came out of prison at the end of a couple of months, a broken man, he repudiated the so-called “confession”, declaring that when he had signed it he had been so nearly insane from lack of sleep that he had had no idea of what he was doing. But that, of course, was after the public had lost interest in the Hanun case, so the papers did not consider it “news”.
Hal went to see his father, to thank him for what he had done—and to have his heart torn with fresh grief. The old gentleman had disobeyed the warning of his doctors, and now his hands were trembling so that he could not hold a glass of water. Of course he pleaded with Hal to promise not to go back to that dreadful strike-country; and Hal had no way to meet his plea save to tell about the sights of horror he had seen.
It was a painful situation; Hal realized that there might be deeper complications than he could see. He was fighting one group of coal-companies, with money derived from another group. Could he expect the world to regard that as an altruistic proceeding? The Warner mines were in what was called the “Northern field”, and were union properties. But what, precisely, did that mean—how did Edward work it? Just now the Warner Company was “in clover”, as the phrase has it, because its big rivals were tied up in a strike; but suppose it were to occur to Old Peter to have the “Northern field” tied up as well! The Schultz Detective Agency would know how to arrange it, turning loose some “radical” agitators, telling the workers of the Warner Company that their union leaders were a lot of grafters, standing in with the bosses, and that now was the time for them to join their fellows in the South and get their full rights! A “sympathetic” strike! Edward wanted to know what would be Hal’s attitude in such an event; the Harrigans would want to know also, the newspapers would want to know!
Hal went to pay his call on Jessie Arthur. It was the first time he had seen her since their parting in London; she was thinner and paler, and evidently suffering intensely. She seemed to him exquisite, yet at the same time fragile—costly, artificial, like some rare flower that blooms indoors, and that a breath of rough wind might destroy. He took her in his arms and kissed her gently, and discovered that tears were running down her cheeks.
It was not merely that she was moved at seeing him after so long; she went on sobbing, until he asked, “What is the matter?”
“Oh, Hal! I’ve been hearing such dreadful things about you! You have been risking your life!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said.
He wanted to tell his story; but she could not wait to listen. “It’s Papa!” she exclaimed. “What are we going to do about him?”
Old Mr. Arthur was taking Hal’s conduct as a personal insult, it appeared. He had made the cause of the operators his own; it was the banking-house of Robert Arthur and Sons which had taken the lead in advancing the money to preserve “order” in the coal-country; and now the head of the house had read in yesterday afternoon’s paper about the arrest of his future son-in-law! He had read it, not in the “Gazette”, with Hal’s statement, but in the “Herald”, one of the interest-controlled papers, with a statement of Major Cassels, to the effect that young Warner had made himself a menace to peace in the strike-district, giving encouragement to rioters and assassins. And on top of it, this very morning had come the confession of Dinardo, involving Hal’s friends and intimates, the father of the Dago mine-urchin whom he had brought into the Arthur home!
“Hal, he’s wild!” cried Jessie. “What in the world are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, dearest.”
“He’s forbidden me to see you! If he finds you here—”
“I’ll go, if you think best,” Hal said; but the suggestion came too late. There stood the old gentleman in the doorway!
[23]
The old gentleman was really as “wild” as Jessie had described; he was as “wild” as anybody could possibly have described. When he saw Hal, he gave a jump, and stood with his fists clenched and his cheeks swelling. He brought his fists down, and cried, “Well, sir!” Three times he brought them up and down, as if pumping up his rage, and each time he cried, “Well, sir! Well, sir! Well, sir!” Then he began, quite literally, to romp up and down the room; he would walk a dozen steps one way, and shake one furious fist at Hal, then he would wheel about and walk as many steps the other way, and shake the other furious fist at Hal. “So you’ve got out of jail, sir! You condescend to honor us with a visit, sir! Did you escape? Or have you served your term out? How does it happen they failed to shave your head, sir?”
Hal answered nothing. Jessie made an effort to interpose—“Papa!”—but she only succeeded in diverting the storm to herself for a moment. “Hold your tongue! I’ll have order in my home, even if it’s nowhere else in the state!”
And again the old gentleman turned upon Hal. “How dare you show your face in a respectable home? To bring your shame to sully my daughter’s pure name? Look at that, sir—look at that!” And one of the trembling hands indicated the library-table, where lay a copy of the morning paper. “Murderers and assassins! Italian black-hand conspirators—your own associates, convicted out of their own mouths! And you introduced them to my daughter, you brought them to my home! Go back to your nest of criminals, sir—your tent-colony, as you call it!”
Four times the old gentleman had raced up and down, and his color had deepened to a fiery purple with the unaccustomed violent exercise. Now suddenly, as he turned, he saw through the open doorway the figure of the butler passing by. “Horridge!” he shouted, and the black-clad, elderly person appeared, trying to keep his correct, impassive face. “Horridge, I want the servants up! Bring them all! Instantly! You understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Arthur.”
“Bring the cook! Bring Thomas! Bring the gardener and his boy! Bring Jane and Ellen and Kate! I want them all—every one of them!”
“Papa!” cried the horrified Jessie; but the old gentleman shouted at Horridge, “Go on! Don’t stand there gaping at me!” And as the butler disappeared, the exercising up and down the room continued.
Presently, out of the torrent of indignation Hal gathered the meaning of this new turn of the scene. A couple of weeks previously a reporter of the “Herald” had interviewed Hal and printed a few sentences of what he had to say about the strike. “Are you a Socialist?” the reporter had asked; and Hal, being a new hand and not seeing the trap, had answered, “I suppose I may be—after a fashion.” The reporter had made this the heart of the interview: “Coal-magnate’s son a Socialist after a fashion!” And so old Mr. Arthur had got the phrase stuck in his crop. A Socialist after a fashion! An enemy of law and decency aft
er a fashion! An incendiary and assassin after a fashion!
The servants came; frightened, yet curious, of course—knowing there was a “scene”. They stood in the doorway, each trying to keep behind the others; the old gentleman, turning in his mad career and seeing them, rushed up to them. “Come in! Come in! Howdy do, Yung?”—this to the fat and grinning Chinese cook. “Come in, Thomas, and you, Jones!”—this to the kitchen-man and the gardener. “Good morning, Kate! Howdy do, Jane? Walk in, Ellen! Walk in—don’t be afraid!” And he took them by the shoulders and pushed them into the room—the footman and the gardener’s boy, the chauffeur and the upstairs girls—eleven of them altogether, all that Horridge had been able to gather in the sudden emergency.
“Welcome! Welcome all!” cried the head of the banking-house of Robert Arthur and Sons. “I’ve called you up to introduce you to Comrade Warner. A Socialist after a fashion, you see—he’ll be charmed to make your acquaintance! Comrade Yung, shake hands with Comrade Warner! Thomas, you’re a Socialist after a fashion too, I believe—shake hands, shake hands, all of you!” For some reason Comrade Yung and Comrade Thomas hung back shyly, which did not please the old gentleman. “I want you to sit down and make yourselves at home! I mean what I say—sit down, sit down! We’re all social equals now, there are no more classes, and I’m going to divide up my money and give you all a share, and we’ll do the dirty work together. Comrade Kate, one of our women comrades, shake hands with Mr. Warner—you have pretty red cheeks and he’ll be interested in you. We’re going to be free-lovers now, you know—”
“Papa!” screamed Jessie.
And the old gentleman whirled upon her. “Yes, indeed! Didn’t you know that? We’re all free-lovers—after a fashion—”
The Coal War: A Novel Page 21