The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  Matt nodded seriously as the Organizers made their pitch. They came, they said, for the benefit of the laborers whose work made profit possible. They asked only to be heard, and they hoped fervently that Mister Miller would not be one of the obstructionists who blocked their honest and honorable messages from reaching his men's ears.

  Matt nodded understanding and furrowed his brow in apparent concentration. His announced decisions suited the Organizers as few had before. This, they recognized, was going to be easy.

  Matt Miller said, "Workers should be treated fairly. A dollar's pay for a dollar's work should be the rule." Boleski and Pavlovic beamed. The hard young man wearing gloves beside Mister Miller (Boleski tended to remember only the important names) appeared noncommittal.

  Miller said, "It would be only fair that all of our men hear what you have to offer, and that can be arranged without your having to rush about disturbing men at work or speaking to some deep into their cups or too weary to care."

  Young Miller examined a calendar on his desktop. "Today is Thursday. Suppose that I gather our Miller Men at Klubber Cole's gymnasium in the second hotel up the road on Saturday evening. I will have the meeting announced and call work off an hour early. You can make your presentation to everyone at once."

  Pleased almost beyond beaming, the Organizers departed. Business leaders never cooperated. That was the expected condition, and both Boleski and Pavlovic were always prepared to be harder and rougher than owners and their hired goons who kept miners from asserting their rights.

  Talking uneducated and unsophisticated laborers, who usually were abused and cheated, into joining their unions and contributing to the good of all was often easy—providing bullyboys were not employed to drive away the Organizers. The Miller Company, with its cooperative owner, would fall like overripe fruit.

  The Miller headquarters watched them go, and not until they were well down the hill did Matt speak.

  "All right, we've set the stage. We will have everybody in and listening. After they are done talking, I will have my say. I want to end this organizing here and now, and I plan to do it so thoroughly that Organizers, or whatever they call themselves next time, will not come here."

  Lukey said, "There is a chance that the men will like what they hear, Matt. We could get the word out that we do not like what these Organizers are proposing and that Miller Men should stand against them."

  "No, Lukey, We will take this head on. Our men deserve to hear all sides of arguments like this. If they buy into what these men offer I will be astonished, but if that happened, I am prepared to change the way we do things—but probably not to many's satisfaction.

  "Big Matt and I have tried to treat our men fairly, and I believe you will agree that we have. Anyway, I will make all of that clear when I talk after the Organizers have finished."

  Matt urged them all to lean closer, just as China Smith came hurrying in.

  "Damn, Matt. I was out on an ark and was hard to find. What did I miss?"

  "Nothing, China. Everything is going to happen Saturday evening, so sit close and listen to my plan."

  Matt Miller talked for some time before sending listeners to perform various tasks.

  Chapter 27

  This would be the best attended meeting yet, but Lukey Bates studied the gathering with some trepidation. He feared that Matt was allowing the Organizers to gain control and the opportunity to sway Miller Men with blandishments and promises of personal gain that could never be.

  And there were more than Miller Men here. China and Tim Cameron with their workmen were to be expected, but Bates saw canal boat pilots and even the old men who shoveled river coal into flatboats and dragged logs into storage behind Halderman's Island. There were two farmers who often rented teams and wagons to the Miller Company, and a small group of ladies gathered to one side. All would be influenced by the polished presentations of the Organizers, and Bates doubted anything good could come of that.

  Before the meeting Matt had spoken with the Organizers. He had talked of the men he hired and how well they labored for their common good. He spoke about a new breed of workmen living here in the hills where hostile Indians had been fought and from where two generations of military heroes had volunteered and served in the new nation's wars.

  These immigrant Irish and Germans, once peasants with intolerant overlords, were changed, Matt claimed. They were now free men, and they thought and acted in independent ways. Matt warned that these Perry County men were not likely to listen to improbable arguments or to believe otherworldly promises of unearned rewards.

  Matt suggested that whoever did the speaking use care because these were not men to insult or false promise.

  Matt quieted the meeting by standing as if ready to speak. China Smith again admired the persona that allowed just standing up to control a bunch of Irishmen who were rarely willing to be directed under the best of circumstances—plus the Germans who were most likely to be sullen and obstinately unresponsive. But here they were, going as quiet as if in church just by the Boss's Boy being ready to start.

  Matt looked them over, unsmiling and serious, introducing the talkers without supporting or condemning what was to be presented

  Matt announced, "These gentlemen are Organizers from up in the coalfields around Hazleton and beyond. They wish to speak to Miller Men about their efforts and suggest certain directions to everyone gathered here."

  Matt paused to let his eyes roam the assembly. "When these gentlemen have finished, I will pass voting ballots to everyone, and we will vote on acceptance or refusal of the ideas they propose. No names will be taken on how anyone votes. This is an opportunity to express your personal feelings, nothing more.

  "Before the vote count is announced, I will say a few words that will include my personal opinion on all of this. I will wait until that time so that my thoughts do not influence your decisions."

  Matt introduced Mister Joseph Boleski who would speak for the Organizers.

  Boleski was a powerful and experienced speaker. His voice thundered and his finger pointed. He accused business owners of foul deeds against honest and reliable employees. He blamed deaths, injuries, and overwork on greedy employers who forced exhausting labors but paid less than living wages.

  Boleski explained the labor unions now forming at the Pennsylvania mines. He described the improved conditions about to appear and the handsome wages that would, almost immediately, be forthcoming.

  Boleski encouraged his listeners to join him in stamping out the abuse of workers by banding together and demanding fair wages, safer working conditions, and shorter working hours.

  Boleski claimed that when those in this audience led, other suppressed multitudes along the rivers would leap to follow their sterling examples.

  Following lurid descriptions of vile employers abusing human decency and the abject degradation by devil-led employers of men just like themselves, Boleski closed with his explanations of how—if just and fair requests and demands were ignored—common men could control their destinies by standing together through work slowdowns, even strikes, and if all else failed—but only with great reluctance—by damaging or even destroying property that would force greedy and uncaring bosses to pay more and demand less never-easing labor under foul and degrading conditions.

  The Organizer's final remarks repeated his assurances of better times with milk and honey for all—including sharing out the over payment of foremen and supervisors' huge wages among the men who produced all products and services—the workers.

  Boleski thanked his audience for its attention and sat down. To his astonishment the room remained tomb quiet. Had he stunned them into undivided acceptance? Or did the silence bode something less acceptable? Faces told him nothing, but the voting was what would count.

  Young Miller was a fool to ever allow laborers to discuss a company's direction. Once a foot was in the door, the unions would rule. It had not happened yet, but Boleski could sense progress in the coalfields. It
could happen here even more quickly.

  Frank Pavlovic congratulated his companion on a terrific speech, but he too was worried by the lack of response. Neither recalled any such reaction. Still, the vote would tell. They waited.

  Seated in the front row among his men, Matt Miller gestured for Bates, Scribner, and Brado to pass a single small paper square to each person present. Matt took one himself and chose a charcoal bit from among those offered.

  Rising, Matt said, "This paper was salvaged from Scribner's secret diary, so use the side that has no writing on it, and do not read what is on your scrap." His explanation avoided the almost bitter detail that few of his men could read, and even fewer could read in English, but they understood his weak humor.

  Matt waited for the chuckling to die down. "Draw an ‘X' if you are interested in joining or hearing more. If you have learned all that you wish to know about unions and workers' clubs and do not like what you have heard, scratch a circle on your paper."

  Matt again smiled and added, "One paper per man—watch your neighbor. We do not want any vote padding going on."

  Now there was talk and some laughter. Wilhelm Brado collected the votes in a large hat and retreated to a table where he, Bates, and Scribner prepared to separate and count the ballots.

  Matt observed with some astonishment. The hat, a bit worse for wear, had been the steamboat owner's magnificent double beaver. He had believed the hat long gone, but here it was again being useful.

  Pavlovic came over to watch the count, but Matt was again addressing the crowd, and the Organizer turned to listen.

  Matt's tone, which had been pleasant, turned surprisingly chill, and his eyes glittered more steely than any could recall. The tenor of the meeting changed dramatically, and the Miller Men felt their senses sharpen.

  "I choose to speak now, before the voting is announced, so that no one will believe that the outcome influenced me.

  "I do not doubt the vote result because I know the men gathered here. I know your loyalty, and I respect your work as you respect mine—which means that you will ignore foolishness that does not apply to you or to me, and you will vote against the Organizers."

  Boleski's and Pavlovic's heads snapped up, and their mouths opened in surprise. This, they had not expected. Never had an owner, supervisor, or foreman spoken as openly or as confidently to his workers.

  "However, men like these Organizers will come again and again, and I want everyone to know how I feel about these men and the trouble they have caused in the coal regions—and how I will act if any of them ever gain a foothold among Miller Men."

  Matt went on, "These Organizers speak truly about the mines and the conditions faced by those who work there, but we are not miners. I am not an evil and greedy boss, and you are not fools or incompetents who work for poor pay under rotten conditions.

  "I resent hugely their implications that I bully those who work for me, and that you are dull, trod-upon peasants without will or brains enough to act for your own benefit without fast-talking strangers appearing to instruct you and promise rewards that are beyond possibility.

  "Miller Men are special. You are chosen men, and you are few. Miller Men are treated with respect and paid decent wages with decent hours, and when it is needed, they—meaning you—have decent housing.

  "If work is available, Miller Men are hired. If there is no work, credit is offered, and no man is abused, insulted, or driven from his job by any foreman or supervisor. As Miller Men, you know that I can be talked to—as can Mister Smith, Mister McFee, or Mister Donovan. We listen, and we do our level best to do what is right."

  Matt strode closer to his audience, and their eyes followed.

  "There is more that you should understand.

  "The Miller Company is mine and only mine. No one else will ever control how I conduct business, how much I pay, or how I treat my workers.

  "Unions or the clubs might succeed at the mines because those workers produce a single product from a single source. Abusing equipment or slowing work would cause loss.

  "We are not like that. Our jobs are many and diverse. We do not have a single product to bind us here or anywhere else. If workers refuse their work, I can walk away and begin somewhere else. I can move my steam engine or saw blades to another creek and hire new men. China Smith can build canal boats anywhere. Mister Donovan and Mister McFee can, at any time, hire crews to do new work at wages lower than Miller Men are paid.

  "That does not happen to you or to this company. As you trust your welfare to me, I trust my company to you. Together we prosper, but never doubt that if I am abused or crowded or imposed upon I will depart this scene taking with me only those I still trust. Complainers, plotters, malingerers, and union men will not be among them."

  The silence had become heavy. Matt believed he had left little doubt as to his feelings. He turned to Wilhelm Brado.

  "Announce the voting, Willie."

  Brado's piping voice said, "All but one vote is against the Organizers, Mister Miller."

  Even Matt was a little stunned. He had not expected such a clean sweep. Boleski and Pavlovic were on their feet, their eyes glaring and their mouths turned down. Shouting and whoops of satisfaction rose in a wave. Matt raised a hand in shared satisfaction and marched to the hotel door. Mickey McFee was instantly at his shoulder with China pushing to get through excited workers to catch up.

  They stepped outside, and the Organizers were quick to arrive.

  Pavlovic raged silently, but Boleski stood too close, and his words were snarled.

  "You set us up for that, Miller. You primed those fools like you would a gunpowder charge. We aren't taking that vote as meaning anything, and. . ."

  Matt interrupted. "The voting is done, Boleski. There will not be any more. You had your chance. I warned you fairly about the kind of men who live up here. They bow to no one, and in your annoyance, keep in mind that I am one of them."

  Matt closed strong. "Now, you will leave us, and if you are wise, you will not come this way again."

  Joseph Boleski had trod hard paths, and he believed he knew men, but this baby-faced youth had suckered him and made him look foolish and small. Now the brat ordered him away as if he were one of the dead-brained peasants he claimed to help.

  Boleski's rage blossomed and ballooned beyond caring. He had had enough. His face turned red, his body swelled, he raised a fist—and Matt struck.

  Matt Miller had listened to his character being insulted and stepped upon—and he despised it. He almost expected, or perhaps he had hoped, Boleski would wish to fight. The Boss's Boy had always been willing, and this time he was almost anxious to begin.

  Matt's blow took the short route. It started at his waist and slid upward between them. He had made his balance right, and his tightly gloved left fist moved as if on a track. Matt whipped his body weight into the uppercut. His straightening leg added power, and set his balance for the follow up.

  Boleski's blow was still threatening when Matt's gloved fist sledged him under the chin with bone breaking force. The stunning impact fogged Boleski's brain. His head snapped backward, and his eyes looked dazedly skyward.

  Frank Pavlovic flinched. He recognized the meaty crunch of a solidly delivered punch, and his partner's head snapping backward made the power of the uppercut plain.

  Pavlovic had expected that Boleski would turn physical. As Organizers, they often did, and thoroughly hammering young Miller would impress the rebellious part of any crowd—as well as ease their personal embarrassment at having been so easily duped.

  Pavlovic hauled back his right hand and aimed his hardest punch at the side of Miller's head. Pavlovic was fast, and he was ready. He had engaged in many brawls over many years. He knew how and when to hit. His fist drove like a ram at Matt's unprotected ear.

  Still too far away, China saw Matt's punch, and as he pushed aside the slower moving, he admired the power that drove Boleski's head almost off his shoulders. He also saw Pavlovic's fist coming from
beyond Matt's vision. Too far away, China Smith could only watch.

  Mickey McFee was right where he wanted to be. Slightly to the left and a half-step behind, Mickey saw Pavlovic draw back and swing like a rusty gate. The blow was a monstrous overhand right—the kind of punch the untrained throw, but powerful enough to stun and floor whomever got hit.

  McFee went underneath. He struck from a crouch and drove his right fist into Pavlovic's unprotected liver, just below the short ribs on the right side was the spot. His was a trained fighter's blow, and Mickey's fist went in deep. Pavlovic's punch halted in flight, and the Organizer folded like a punctured pig's bladder. He sagged to the ground, his mouth hung as agony swept his body, and his lungs struggled for enough air to stay alive. Pavlovic moaned, gripped his side, and passed out. Mickey turned his eyes to the Boss's Boy.

  Matt's uppercut was simply his beginning. Because he chose to again punch Boleski in the face, Matt too resorted to an overhand right. Unlike Pavlovic's swing, Matt had his shoulder behind the punch, and he rolled it and his hand as the blow landed with crushing force. Blood spurted from split skin, and down and out went Boleski.

  China quit hurrying. The action had taken barely an instant, but the fight was over. Both Organizers were unconscious, and Matt's man was bleeding profusely from a cheekbone that had ripped wide open. China thought—good gloves!

  He watched to make sure that no one jumped out of the stunned crowd onto Matt or McFee's back, and sure enough, there was old Klubber Cole doing the same.

  McFee had already turned to order the crowd to move back and quit crowding into everything before Matt took his eyes from the unconscious Organizers.

  Whew, McFee had hit Pavlovic with about the hardest body punch Matt had ever seen. Even China would have to admire that one. Pavlovic was curled into a fetal ball, and Matt wondered if Mickey had burst something important inside the man.

  Hurt or not, the Organizers were leaving the area. Matt called to Alex Donovan who had worked his way to the front.