the law stares across the desk out of angry eyes his face reddens in splotches like a gobbler’s neck with the strut of the power of submachineguns sawedoffshotguns teargas and vomitinggas the power that can feed you or leave you to starve
sits easy at his desk his back is covered he feels strong behind him he feels the prosecutingattorney the judge an owner himself the political boss the minesuperintendent the board of directors the president of the utility the manipulator of the holdingcompany
he lifts his hand towards the telephone
the deputies crowd in the door
we have only words against
Power Superpower
In eighteen eighty when Thomas Edison’s agent was hooking up the first telephone in London, he put an ad in the paper for a secretary and stenographer. The eager young cockney with sprouting muttonchop whiskers who answered it
had recently lost his job as officeboy. In his spare time he had been learning shorthand and bookkeeping and taking dictation from the editor of the English Vanity Fair at night and jotting down the speeches in Parliament for the papers. He came of temperance smallshopkeeper stock; already he was butting his bullethead against the harsh structure of caste that doomed boys of his class to a life of alpaca jackets, penmanship, subordination. To get a job with an American firm was to put a foot on the rung of a ladder that led up into the blue.
He did his best to make himself indispensable; they let him operate the switchboard for the first halfhour when the telephone service was opened. Edison noticed his weekly reports on the electrical situation in England
and sent for him to be his personal secretary.
Samuel Insull landed in America on a raw March day in eighty-one. Immediately he was taken out to Menlo Park, shown about the little group of laboratories, saw the strings of electriclightbulbs shining at intervals across the snowy lots, all lit from the world’s first central electric station. Edison put him right to work and he wasn’t through till midnight. Next morning at six he was on the job; Edison had no use for any nonsense about hours or vacations. Insull worked from that time on until he was seventy without a break; no nonsense about hours or vacations. Electric power turned the ladder into an elevator.
Young Insull made himself indispensable to Edison and took more and more charge of Edison’s business deals. He was tireless, ruthless, reliable as the tides, Edison used to say, and fiercely determined to rise.
In ninetytwo he induced Edison to send him to Chicago and put him in as president of the Chicago Edison Company. Now he was on his own. My engineering, he said once in a speech, when he was sufficiently czar of Chicago to allow himself the luxury of plain speaking, has been largely concerned with engineering all I could out of the dollar.
He was a stiffly arrogant redfaced man with a close-cropped mustache; he lived on Lake Shore Drive and was at the office at 7:10 every morning. It took him fifteen years to merge the five electrical companies into the Commonwealth Edison Company. Very early I discovered that the first essential, as in other public utility business, was that it should be operated as a monopoly.
When his power was firm in electricity he captured gas, spread out into the surrounding townships in northern Illinois. When politicians got in his way, he bought them, when laborleaders got in his way he bought them. Incredibly his power grew. He was scornful of bankers, lawyers were his hired men. He put his own lawyer in as corporation counsel and through him ran Chicago. When he found to his amazement that there were men (even a couple of young lawyers, Richberg and Ickes) in Chicago that he couldn’t buy, he decided he’d better put on a show for the public;
Big Bill Thompson, the Builder:
punch King George in the nose,
the hunt for the treeclimbing fish,
the Chicago Opera.
It was too easy; the public had money, there was one of them born every minute, with the founding of Middlewest Utilities in nineteen twelve Insull began to use the public’s money to spread his empire. His companies began to have open stockholders’ meetings, to ballyhoo service, the small investor could sit there all day hearing the bigwigs talk. It’s fun to be fooled. Companyunions hypnotized his employees; everybody had to buy stock in his companies, employees had to go out and sell stock, officeboys, linemen, trolleyconductors. Even Owen D. Young was afraid of him. My experience is that the greatest aid in the efficiency of labor is a long line of men waiting at the gate.
War shut up the progressives (no more nonsense about trust-busting, controlling monopoly, the public good) and raised Samuel Insull to the peak.
He was head of the Illinois State Council of Defense. Now, he said delightedly, I can do anything I like. With it came the perpetual spotlight, the purple taste of empire. If anybody didn’t like what Samuel Insull did he was a traitor. Chicago damn well kept its mouth shut.
The Insull companies spread and merged put competitors out of business until Samuel Insull and his stooge brother Martin controlled through the leverage of holdingcompanies and directorates and blocks of minority stock
light and power, coalmines and tractioncompanies
in Illinois, Michigan, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Maine, Kansas, Wisconsin, Virginia, Ohio, North Carolina, Indiana, New York, New Jersey, Texas, in Canada, in Louisiana, in Georgia, in Florida and Alabama.
(It has been figured out that one dollar in Middle West Utilities controlled seventeen hundred and fifty dollars invested by the public in the subsidiary companies that actually did the work of producing electricity. With the delicate lever of a voting trust controlling the stock of the two top holdingcompanies he controlled a twelfth of the power output of America.)
Samuel Insull began to think he owned all that the way a man owns the roll of bills in his back pocket.
Always he’d been scornful of bankers. He owned quite a few in Chicago. But the New York bankers were laying for him; they felt he was a bounder, whispered that this financial structure was unsound. Fingers itched to grasp the lever that so delicately moved this enormous power over lives,
superpower, Insull liked to call it.
A certain Cyrus S. Eaton of Cleveland, an ex-Baptistminister, was the David that brought down this Goliath. Whether it was so or not he made Insull believe that Wall Street was behind him.
He started buying stock in the three Chicago utilities. Insull in a panic for fear he’d lose his control went into the market to buy against him. Finally the Reverend Eaton let himself be bought out, shaking down the old man for a profit of twenty million dollars.
The stockmarket crash.
Paper values were slipping. Insull’s companies were intertwined in a tangle that no bookkeeper has ever been able to unravel.
The gas hissed out of the torn balloon. Insull threw away his imperial pride and went on his knees to the bankers.
The bankers had him where they wanted him. To save the face of the tottering czar he was made a receiver of his own concerns. But the old man couldn’t get out of his head the illusion that the money was all his. When it was discovered that he was using the stockholders’ funds to pay off his brothers’ brokerage accounts it was too thick even for a federal judge. Insull was forced to resign.
He held directorates in eightyfive companies, he was chairman of sixtyfive, president of eleven: it took him three hours to sign his resignations.
As a reward for his services to monopoly his companies chipped in on a pension of eighteen thousand a year. But the public was shouting for criminal prosecution. When the handouts stopped newspapers and politicians turned on him. Revolt against the money manipulators was in the air. Samuel Insull got the wind up and ran off to Canada with his wife.
Extradition proceedings. He fled to Paris. When the authorities began to close in on him there he slipped away to Italy, took a plane to Tirana, another to Saloniki and then the train to Athens. There the old fox went to earth. Money talked as sweetly in Athens as it had in Chicago in the old days.
The American amb
assador tried to extradite him. Insull hired a chorus of Hellenic lawyers and politicos and sat drinking coffee in the lobby of the Grande Bretagne, while they proceeded to tie up the ambassador in a snarl of chicanery as complicated as the bookkeeping of his holdingcompanies. The successors of Demosthenes were delighted. The ancestral itch in many a Hellenic palm was temporarily assuaged. Samuel Insull settled down cozily in Athens, was stirred by the sight of the Parthenon, watched the goats feeding on the Pentelic slopes, visited the Areopagus, admired marble fragments ascribed to Phidias, talked with the local bankers about reorganizing the public utilities of Greece, was said to be promoting Macedonian lignite. He was the toast of the Athenians; Mme. Kouryoumdjouglou the vivacious wife of a Bagdad datemerchant devoted herself to his comfort. When the first effort at extradition failed, the old gentleman declared in the courtroom, as he struggled out from the embraces of his four lawyers: Greece is a small but great country.
The idyll was interrupted when the Roosevelt Administration began to put the heat on the Greek foreign office. Government lawyers in Chicago were accumulating truckloads of evidence and chalking up more and more drastic indictments.
Finally after many a postponement (he had hired physicians as well as lawyers, they cried to high heaven that it would kill him to leave the genial climate of the Attic plain), he was ordered to leave Greece as an undesirable alien to the great indignation of Balkan society and of Mme. Kouryoumdjouglou.
He hired the Maiotis a small and grubby Greek freighter and panicked the foreignnews services by slipping off for an unknown destination.
It was rumored that the new Odysseus was bound for Aden, for the islands of the South Seas, that he’d been invited to Persia. After a few days he turned up rather seasick in the Bosporus on his way, it was said, to Rumania where Madame Kouryoumdjouglou had advised him to put himself under the protection of her friend la Lupescu.
At the request of the American ambassador the Turks were delighted to drag him off the Greek freighter and place him in a not at all comfortable jail. Again money had been mysteriously wafted from England, the healing balm began to flow, lawyers were hired, interpreters expostulated, doctors made diagnoses;
but Angora was boss
and Insull was shipped off to Smyrna to be turned over to the assistant federal districtattorney who had come all that way to arrest him.
The Turks wouldn’t even let Mme. Kouryoumdjouglou, on her way back from making arrangements in Bucharest, go ashore to speak to him. In a scuffle with the officials on the steamboat the poor lady was pushed overboard
and with difficulty fished out of the Bosporus.
Once he was cornered the old man let himself tamely be taken home on the Exilona, started writing his memoirs, made himself agreeable to his fellow passengers, was taken off at Sandy Hook and rushed to Chicago to be arraigned.
In Chicago the government spitefully kept him a couple of nights in jail; men he’d never known, so the newspapers said, stepped forward to go on his twohundredandfiftythousanddollar bail. He was moved to a hospital that he himself had endowed. Solidarity. The leading businessmen in Chicago were photographed visiting him there. Henry Ford paid a call.
The trial was very beautiful. The prosecution got bogged in finance technicalities. The judge was not unfriendly. The Insulls stole the show.
They were folks, they smiled at reporters, they posed for photographers, they went down to the courtroom by bus. Investors might have been ruined but so, they allowed it to be known, were the Insulls; the captain had gone down with the ship.
Old Samuel Insull rambled amiably on the stand, told his lifestory: from officeboy to powermagnate, his struggle to make good, his love for his home and the kiddies. He didn’t deny he’d made mistakes; who hadn’t, but they were honest errors. Samuel Insull wept. Brother Martin wept. The lawyers wept. With voices choked with emotion headliners of Chicago business told from the witnessstand how much Insull had done for business in Chicago. There wasn’t a dry eye in the jury.
Finally driven to the wall by the prosecutingattorney Samuel Insull blurted out that yes, he had made an error of some ten million dollars in accounting but that it had been an honest error.
Verdict: Not Guilty.
Smiling through their tears the happy Insulls went to their towncar amid the cheers of the crowd. Thousands of ruined investors, at least so the newspapers said, who had lost their life savings sat crying over the home editions at the thought of how Mr. Insull had suffered. The bankers were happy, the bankers had moved in on the properties.
In an odor of sanctity the deposed monarch of superpower, the officeboy who made good, enjoys his declining years spending the pension of twentyone thousand a year that the directors of his old companies dutifully restored to him. After fifty years of work, he said, my job is gone.
Mary French
Mary French had to stay late at the office and couldn’t get to the hall until the meeting was almost over. There were no seats left so she stood in the back. So many people were standing in front of her that she couldn’t see Don, she could only hear his ringing harsh voice and feel the tense attention in the silence during his pauses. When a roar of applause answered his last words and the hall filled suddenly with voices and the scrape and shuffle of feet she ran out ahead of the crowd and up the alley to the back door. Don was just coming out of the black sheetiron door talking over his shoulder as he came to two of the miners’ delegates. He stopped a second to hold the door open for them with a long arm. His face had the flushed smile, there was the shine in his eye he often had after speaking, the look, Mary used to tell herself, of a man who had just come from a date with his best girl. It was some time before Don saw her in the group that gathered round him in the alley. Without looking at her he swept her along with the men he was talking to and walked them fast towards the cor ner of the street. Eyes looked after them as they went from the groups of furworkers and garmentworkers that dotted the pavement in front of the hall. Mary tingled with the feeling of warm ownership in the looks of the workers as their eyes followed Don Stevens down the street.
It wasn’t until they were seated in a small lunchroom under the el that Don turned to Mary and squeezed her hand. “Tired?” She nodded. “Aren’t you, Don?” He laughed and drawled, “No, I’m not tired. I’m hungry.”
“Comrade French, I thought we’d detailed you to see that Comrade Stevens ate regular,” said Rudy Goldfarb with a flash of teeth out of a dark Italianlooking face.
“He won’t ever eat anything when he’s going to speak,” Mary said.
“I make up for it afterwards,” said Don. “Say, Mary, I hope you have some change. I don’t think I’ve got a cent on me.” Mary nodded, smiling. “Mother came across again,” she whispered.
“Money,” broke in Steve Mestrovich. “We got to have money or else we’re licked.” “The truck got off today,” said Mary. “That’s why I was so late getting to the meeting.” Mestrovich passed the grimed bulk of his hand across his puttycolored face that had a sharply turnedup nose peppered with black pores. “If cossack don’t git him.”
“Eddy Spellman’s a smart kid. He gets through like a shadow. I don’t know how he does it.”
“You don’t know what them clothes means to women and kids and . . . listen, Miss French, don’t hold back nothin’ because too raggedy. Ain’t nothin’ so ragged like what our little kids got on their backs.”
“Eddy’s taking five cases of condensed milk. We’ll have more as soon as he comes back.”
“Say, Mary,” said Don suddenly, looking up from his plate of soup, “how about calling up Sylvia? I forgot to ask how much we collected at the meeting.” Young Goldfarb got to his feet. “I’ll call. You look tired, Comrade French. . . . Anybody got a nickel?”
“Here, I got nickel,” said Mestrovich. He threw back his head and laughed. “Damn funny . . . miner with nickel. Down our way miner got nickel put in frame send Meester Carnegie Museum . . . very rare.” He got up roaring laughte
r and put on his black longvisored miner’s cap. “Goodnight, comrade, I walk Brooklyn. Reliefcommittee nine o’clock . . . right, Miss French?” As he strode out of the lunchroom the heavy tread of his black boots made the sugarbowls jingle on the ta bles. “Oh, Lord,” said Mary, with tears suddenly coming to her eyes. “That was his last nickel.”
Goldfarb came back saying that the collection hadn’t been so good. Sixtynine dollars and some pledges. “Christmas time coming on . . . you know. Everybody’s always broke at Christmas.” “Henderson made a lousy speech,” grumbled Don. “He’s more of a socialfascist every day.”
Mary sat there feeling the tiredness in every bone of her body waiting until Don got ready to go home. She was too sleepy to follow what they were talking about but every now and then the words centralcommittee, expulsions, oppositionists, splitters rasped in her ears. Then Don was tapping her on the shoulder and she was waking up and walking beside him through the dark streets.
“It’s funny, Don,” she was saying, “I always go to sleep when you talk about party discipline. I guess it’s because I don’t want to hear about it.” “No use being sentimental about it,” said Don savagely. “But is it sentimental to be more interested in saving the miners’ unions?” she said, suddenly feeling wide awake again. “Of course that’s what we all believe but we have to follow the party line. A lot of those boys . . . Goldfarb’s one of them . . . Ben Compton’s another . . . think this is a debatingsociety. If they’re not very careful indeed they’ll find themselves out on their ear. . . . You just watch.”
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