“Clever, ain’t you?” grunted Tom, with a sneer.
Jan obediently and heavily got up and prepared to follow Franz, who was waiting for him at the foot of the mould pile.
“Don’t trust any bloody chap, least not our Dutch friend, here!” shouted Tom, over the renewed roaring of the mills.
“I no trust anybody,” responded Jan, with a wave of his hand. He lumberingly followed Franz, and after a morose moment or two of reflection, Tom climbed down and went to his own furnaces. Once there, his curses were more ferocious than usual, but under them he was thinking rapidly.
CHAPTER 12
“All men are as good as I am, but I am an Englishman,” thought Franz, wryly, thinking of Tom Harrow. A German was more consistent. He said: No man is as good as I am, and I am a German. Franz was not confused by such inconsistency as Tom Harrow’s. He was only amused by it. The inconsistencies and stupidities of mankind, its meannesses, brutalities, treacheries, falsenesses and dirtinesses always amused him. A man with less hatred for his species might have been angered or saddened. But Franz was firmly convinced that both reformers and exploiters have their roots in the same hatred, and either might have been the other with equal single-mindedness.
At three o’clock, during a lull, he went to Tom and borrowed some pipe tobacco. His own pouch was full, though he pretended he had no more. It was part of his plan not to allow animosities to come between him and those who might serve him. Tom gave him his own pouch and watched him tranquilly fill his pipe. The Englishman’s eyes were hard and suspicious, though he smiled slightly.
“No hard feelin’s?” he asked at last.
Franz raised his eyebrows. “What for?”
“Come off! Don’t be so blasted innercent. My pa used to say that Germans and elephants never forget.”
“Your pa didn’t like Germans, evidently. What would you have done at Waterloo, anyway, without us? We’ve been good friends of England, and always will be.”
“You’re talkin’ through your bally head. You’ve got the wind up since Bismarck, that old boar. We’ll have to knock the stuffin’s out of you yet, mark my words.”
“I’m not interested in politics, Tom. I’ll soon be an American citizen. Here’s your pouch. Going off on time tonight. We’ll walk home together.”
Tom nodded curtly, and turned back to his work. But he watched Franz out of the corner of his eye. He saw Franz pass Jan Kozak, with only a casual nod. He’s got somethin’ on his mind, thought Tom. Blimey, we’ve got to get him to join the union. We don’t dare leave him out.
At four o’clock, the man in charge of all the moulding tapped Franz upon the shoulder. Fritz Dethloff, from Prussia, had no liking for Franz, in whom he recognized a nature similar to his. He was suspicious of his fellow-German for this same reason. Nevertheless, he expressed the utmost friendliness for Franz, and often stopped to talk to him about other matters not connected with the work. Had there arisen an opportunity to do Franz a mischief, he would have seized it gladly.
He was holding a small black book in his hand. A big bald man in his forties, with a scrubbed round face and pursy lips and little brown eyes, he always had an air of jovial good-fellowship, which deceived everyone but Franz. He held a pencil poised over the book, and blinked amicably at the younger man over his glasses.
He spoke in German: “I wish to ask you a few questions, Franz. Have you a moment or two to spare?”
Franz nodded. His first thought was that he was to be ordered to lay off more men, and he was annoyed. “What is wrong? I cannot operate with less men, Fritz. Or, have the last moulds been rejected?”
“No, no! Nothing is wrong. This noise: let us find a quiet corner.”
Franz wiped his hands, and accompanied his superior to a corner of the mill where a furnace was idling. Once there, Dethloff said nothing for a moment or two, but merely stood, blinked at Franz thoughtfully. He still smiled, but his small eyes were intent and suspicious.
“It is the Superintendent, Franz. He wishes me to ask you a few questions.” He paused.
He was relieved at Franz’s genuine surprise. His job, to him, was like a bone to a dog. Let it be threatened, and he would be ruthless and murderous. The Superintendent’s questions had aroused his blackest suspicions that Franz had found favor. If this was so, either of two things might happen: Franz might be elevated to a position equal to his own, or might be scheduled to replace him. The latter had filled him with corrosive anxiety. He regretted the first, but it was not as bad as the second. He had done nothing to recommend Franz for anything, and had deprecated him on all occasions. He had even gone so far, on numerous occasions, as to credit Tom or Jan with work done by Franz’s men. He thought he had done some excellent work against this ambitious countryman of his, and was just faintly uneasy. He, therefore, beamed with the utmost affection upon Franz, and offered him a cigar.
Franz accepted. He detested Dethloff, and knew everything about him. But, as Germans, they must stand together against the other hordes. Franz had already concluded that it was better to have this enemy an amiable one than an openly antagonistic one.
“Just a few questions, Franz. I do not know the purpose of them, but perhaps they are preparing some inventory of the men. You are not married, nor contemplating marriage?”
“No.”
“You are twenty-four years old, ja? And your place of birth? Thank you. Your parents, and their position in the Fatherland?” He wrote busily. He then put away his pencil, and frowned and smiled in quick succession. “Such foolish questions! Have you any idea what they might mean, Franz? They have never been asked before of the men.”
“I have no idea.” There was a genuine note in his denial, and Dethloff was satisfied. “Have they been asking these questions of others?”
“Nein. That is what has puzzled me. Even I have not been asked.” He grinned jovially. “Have you been in trouble with the police?”
Franz laughed, shaking his head. Dethloff clapped him upon the shoulder, and Franz returned to his work, dismissing the puzzle.
But the questions had set him to thinking. He was twentyfour. In six years, he would be on the verge of middle-age. What had he done, so far? Nothing. A mere foreman in the mills, for a few dollars. Unless opportunity arose very shortly, to exploit Jan Kozak, he would be exactly where he was now at the end of those six years. A sensation of restless hurry assailed him, and a dull anger. He had been set back in his plans, through Tom Harrow’s warning tongue. The work of months had been lost by that warning to Jan Kozak. He would have to begin again, that painful winning of the Hungarian’s confidence.
Then he cursed himself for a fool. Jan, like Tom, was involved with the furtive, underground union. He had only to join it, himself. He was about to go to Tom with a confession of capitulation, when the paymaster’s assistant came through the mill, to give their envelopes to the foremen.
Franz opened his envelope, and automatically counted his money. He knew what it should contain. Then he stiffened. There was six dollars more than the usual amount. Incredulous, he counted again. A mistake, no doubt, or a trap. He gave a few orders to his men, then went to the paymaster’s little office just off the mill. Franz and the paymaster were not good friends. But now, to his surprise, the man greeted him cordially, and laughed a little.
“Like your raise, Franz?”
“So, it was a raise. Why, Mr. Thomas, when the mill is laying off men?”
The paymaster wagged his head. “Are you going to quarrel with me about the money? Well, if you don’t want it, give it here,” and he extended his hand with a knowing wink.
“Did Dethloff recommend me for this raise?” asked Franz, incredulously.
The paymaster looked mysterious. “I don’t know who recommended you, Franz. But the order came through from the Superintendent an hour ago. But you are a bright fellow: you, might know it wasn’t through Dethloff’s influence.” And he laughed, slyly.
“But Dethloff was asking me a few personal que
stions an hour or so ago—”
The paymaster’s face wrinkled with sudden interest. “Yes? I believe I saw him talking to you. He came back with your answers, I suppose, and went into the Superintendent’s offices. Right after that, the Super’s clerk came in with an order to give you a raise. That’s all I know.”
“Does Dethloff know about this?”
The paymaster grinned. “I don’t know. But he seemed mighty anxious. He wanted to know if you had had a cut, and I let him believe you had. He seemed pretty happy, then. Don’t tell him different. He might have a stroke.”
Franz went back to his work, thoughtful, He could not understand this. He was now receiving three dollars a week more than Tom Harrow, who had been in the mills for ten years, and was acknowledged to do the best work. It was extraordinary. He thought nothing more surprising could occur that day. But it did, shortly before six o’clock.
At that time he was ordered to appear before the Superintendent, himself. Hastily washing, he went to the offices. These offices were not connected with the body of the mills, and he had to cross a muddy, cinder-infested stretch of ground to a smaller building. Here, the Superintendent and all the clerks occupied some five rooms. In one of them, Egon Stoessel had his desk. The Superintendent’s private office had a carpet, a mahogany desk, panelled walls, a hot red fire, and clean broad windows. At the far end of the room was a door on which, in gilt letters, was inscribed the noble word: President.
The Superintendent, “the Saxon swine,” as Franz called him, looked at the young man shrewdly. He, himself, was a small spare man of middle age, with smooth ashen hair, ashen face, and pale hard eyes. Like many Saxons, he despised the Prussian, and his practiced eye had long recognized the Prussian in Franz Stoessel. In Franz, he saw everything which the Saxon, always a man of smooth diplomacy, thought and peace, and courteous craft, hated instinctively. In that square high-colored face, the strong jaw and the short, wide-nostrilled nose, he saw the Uhlan. It was long a belief among Saxons that the Prussians were not pure Germans, a belief now reluctantly admitted by the younger scientists, since Bismarck. The long-suspected Slav blood of the Prussians revealed itself, in Franz’s face, in the wide splayed cheekbones, the slightly tilted corners of his eyes, and his expression, at once immobile and alert and brutal. Mr. Heinrich knew that that bland and open stare, so prepossessing to the uninitiated, covered implacability and ruthlessness. He thought to himself: “Animal!” He looked with aversion at Franz’s big quiet mouth, and saw, or thought he saw, the taint of Slav blood in its jutting fleshiness. Nor was he moved to admiration, for all Franz’s large splendor of body and strong muscles. Even his blondness, he thought, was the strong spectacular blondness of the Slav, and had no relationship to the paler blondness of the true German.
Nevertheless, being crafty and astute, he concealed his aversion and dislike. He smiled. His voice was soft and ingratiating, but after a furtive look at the President’s door, he raised that voice as though he suspected a listener.
He spoke in German, the softer and more musical German of the Saxon:
“You are pleased with your increase, Stoessel?”
“Yes, Mr. Dietrich. And very grateful.”
Dietrich smiled agreeably. He looked down at the papers on his desk.
“Do you think you are qualified to assist Dethloff, or even take his place?”
Franz was astounded. His bland stare was genuine now. Then he asked bluntly: “Why?”
Dietrich laughed gently. “That is a curious question. ‘Why?’ Perhaps we think you competent.”
Franz was silent. His face had flushed deeply. He leaned back in the chair he had taken without invitation. He studied the Superintendent with his hard “Prussian” eyes. His thoughts were quick, and his heart was beating heavily. He had no illusions about himself. He knew he was no better than Tom Harrow. He reviewed his own lack of originality, and even when he admitted that he had power over his men, that power was small and would go almost unnoticed in a mill of this size. There was something else, here. His thoughts were concerned with that.
The Superintendent broke the silence. He still did not look at Franz. “We think you competent,” he said. “However, it has not been settled yet.”
Franz continued to think. If he accepted this most astounding offer, he would be far removed from Jan Kozak. He would never come into possession of the secret. Therefore, he must decline this offer, and remain with Jan until he had gotten the secret, whereupon he would then be in a position to strike for a much larger prize than this which was being offered him. Or, he must accept, taking a gamble that the “secret” was worthless. It was a hard choice. If he refused now, and found that Jan had nothing valuable, he might never recover the ground lost. Opportunity, he had observed, was skittish.
“Well?” asked Dietrich, impatiently.
Franz examined his fingernails. The gesture seemed nonchalant, but his mind was seething. Finally, he lifted his eyes and looked at Dietrich straightly.
“Who would not be delighted by this offer?” he said, making his voice low and troubled. “But how do I know I am competent, myself? Suppose I suggest this, Mr. Dietrich: Let me remain where I am for another four weeks. There are some matters I do not know. I want to know many more things about the work, in order that I will be adequate to the new position. I—I am working on an idea for a new mould, which will revolutionize our present system. I cannot do it unless I am right there, at the furnaces. It may come to nothing. If it does, then I have not lost much. If it is valuable, then we shall all gain.”
Dietrich was jolted out of his smiling indifference. He stared at Franz with open curiosity and intense interest. “Ja? This is very extraordinary. Can you tell me something about it?”
Franz assumed an expression of childlike slyness, and selfdeprecatory modesty. “Not yet, Mr. Dietrich. As I have said, it may be worthless. It is purely in the experimental stage, at present.”
Dietrich was excited. “You need more men, more materials, more help? We shall give them to you, gladly. The moulds—it is a serious matter, now.”
“I would rather work by myself, Mr. Dietrich.”
There was a silence in the office. The Superintendent drummed on the desk with his thin fingers. Then, at last, he smiled.
“Shall we, then, say that you may remain where you are for another month? Then, we shall see about the moulds. At any rate, the position will still be open to you.”
Franz inclined his head in grave thanks, and rose.
“One moment, Stoessel. You speak High Dutch. You were not a peasant in the old country?”
“No, my parents taught school in Bavaria. I also speak French. We lived in France for two years. Thereafter, for four years, we lived in England, before coming to America.”
“Extraordinary! Ja, I can see you are an unusual man, Stoessel. But why did your parents go to France, then to England, before coming here?”
Franz smiled with faint derision. He thought of Emmi’s frantic and heart-breaking pilgrimage to equality, fraternity and liberty, a crusade to the non-existent. But he said: “My parents could not make up their minds.”
He had hardly left the office when Hans Schmidt explosively opened his door and charged into the Superintendent’s office. He was scarlet, sweating and beaming, as though he had heard something of astonishing import and good news.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “It is good, nein? We have a man, here! What do you think of him, Dietrich? Do I understand men, or do I not?”
The Superintendent hesitated. He knew that any dissent would inflame Schmidt against him. He could not understand Schmidt’s unusual interest in a mere workman in his mills. But Dietrich had gotten his present position not by opposition, but by assent, shrewd and subtle assent. So he smiled, as though unwilling to admit that Schmidt’s judgment had been better than his.
“I am surprised, sir. But now I am convinced that you are right.”
“Right? I am always right, Dietrich! You are pig-heade
d. I have always said so. Well! Let it be. We shall hear from this man again, shall we not?”
“I am certain of it.”
When he was alone, Dietrich frowned and bit his lip, thinking. He was more bewildered than ever. He did nothing, however, until Hans called for his carriage, and was driven away. The November twilight had settled down over the mills and the city, and fog and smoke mingled in an acrid pall over everything. Then he sent for Dethloff.
“This man—Franz Stoessel,” he began, abruptly. “What do you know of him?”
Dethloff brightened with malice. “Just a Dutchman. I never liked him, Mr. Dietrich. The men hate him. He drives them. A good workman, but nothing extraordinary. Are we to lay him off?”
“Nein!” said the Superintendent, testily. He stared at Dethloff thoughtfully. “The Old Man is interested in him. Why, I do not know. There is no answer to his whims. But you will be especially pleasant to this Stoessel. You will give him any assistance he desires. Is that understood?”
Dethloff was alarmed. “Can we not undermine him to—?”
“Not if you value your job,” said Dietrich, grimly.
CHAPTER 13
Before leaving that night, Jap Kozak, with many innocent and mysterious gestures, told his friend, Franz Stoessel, that he was going to remain. He implied that he was to do some important testing that evening, and Franz was welcome to watch the results. But Franz shrewdly refused. He was tired. Earlier, he would have excitedly accepted the invitation. But he knew that suspicion of him had been ably instilled in the big Hungarian by Tom Harrow. When he saw the uncertain and thoughtful look in Jan’s eyes, he congratulated himself upon a very subtle move.
He joined Tom Harrow, who was shrugging himself into his patched overcoat. Tom and his family lived on a small street off Mulberry Street, and the two young men frequently walked home together.
“Jan not comin’?” asked Tom, seeing his friend alone.
“No. He wants to work on his experiment.”
Tom’s eyelids narrowed, and he smiled. “The more I see of you, Fritzie, the more I think you’re a bloody clever chap. Now, I’m not a chap as doesn’t like cleverness in others. But there’s such a thing as bein’ too clever.”
The Strong City Page 12