CHAPTER X
When Jim Ashe returned to the mill after his conversation with Zaanan Frame he found the machinery idle, employees pouring out of the entrances. He walked past them and into the building in a frame of mind that would have rendered him undesirable as a dinner companion. Another breakdown!
He found Nelson and Beam standing below a couple of mechanics who were working over a pair of big gears. They only nodded curtly at his approach, for apparently their patience, like Jim’s, was close to the fusing-point.
“Now what?” Jim asked.
“Core gear. Stripped the wooden teeth out of it.”
“How?”
Nelson shrugged his shoulders, but Beam replied. “Just got started after dinner,” he said. “I was standin’ not ten feet from here when I seen that solid gear lift up into the air, it looked like two foot, and come down smash onto the wooden teeth. Twouldn’t be so bad if we had a spare set of teeth, but we hain’t.”
“Got to cut ’em out,” supplemented Nelson.
“How long does that mean?”
“If we work all night we ought to get to runnin’ by noon to-morrow—with luck.”
“Who’s to blame?” Jim demanded
“Who drove the nails in the logs?” John Beam replied, a trifle sullenly. “Nelson went over those gears last night. I seen him. He says there wa’n’t anythin’ wrong then.”
Jim set his teeth; the urge to action came over him that had earned him the name of Sudden Jim. He recognized it, expected himself to do something decisive—and was surprised that he did not. Instead he found himself reflecting coolly, choosing the better from the worse course of action.
“It can’t be helped now, boys,” he said. “Speed up and get her going again—and keep quiet about it.”
He turned on his heel and went up to the office, where he found the noon mail on his desk. The first letter he opened was the resignation of his salesman for New York and New England, a man of exceptional ability, whose sales mounted to many car-loads a year, and whose customers were his customers, not those of the Ashe Clothespin Company. Winkleman could take them with him to whatever firm he had sold his services. Jim knew well Winkleman had not abandoned the woodenware trade—he had gone over to Welliver or some other of the enemy. Here, Jim recognized, was the shrewdest blow of the war.
Jim went on opening his mail. Another letter was from Silvers, his Chicago representative. This man handled the product of Jim’s mills as a part of his brokerage business. He was able; no week passed that did not see at least one car-load consigned to him or to his customers.
What’s up? (the letter said). Welliver wants me to drop you and come over to him. Says your goose is cooked and offers me an extra two and a half per cent. commission. Says you started this clothespin rumpus. Had a contract ready for me to sign, and wanted me to drop you unsight and unseen, I wouldn’t do it, but his offer is tempting.
There was more to the communication, but here we have the heart of it. One blow followed another. The attack had commenced in earnest and Jim was on the defensive. He had declared war, but had not struck a blow. Now he must act swiftly, intelligently, efficiently. First he wired Silvers:
Won’t meet Welliver’s offer. We’re sound. If you can’t stick by us in fight don’t want you anyhow. Want men can depend on. Wire answer.
Next he called in Grierson.
“What percentage of our business is in New York and New England?” he asked.
“A quarter, maybe.”
“Who sells heaviest there?”
“Plum and Mannikin.”
“One of them has hired away Winkleman.”
Grierson made a crisp, crackling sound with his lips. It indicated dismay. Jim smiled grimly.
“We’re going to increase our Eastern business,” he said. “We haven’t pushed it as we might, just as those Eastern factories haven’t pushed for orders in the West. But we’re going to. We’re going after all we can get anywhere we can get it. It’s three o’clock. I want you to catch the six-o’clock train for Buffalo. Then New York and Boston. Go and pack. By the time you’re back here I’ll have your instructions ready for you.”
“But, Mr. Ashe—”
“Hustle,” said Jim. It was Sudden Jim speaking now.
In an hour Grierson was back, dubious, flustered.
“Grierson,” said Jim, “you know the personnel of the woodenware business better than I. Here’s what I want you to do: Land the best woodenware broker in Buffalo to handle our line for the city and western New York. Get him! Give him seven and a half commission, if necessary. Have him sign a contract like Levine’s in Cleveland. Then hit for New York. There’ll be soreness somewhere over this Winkleman business. It must have cut into somebody’s territory. You know who to go to. We want the biggest—somebody with a sales organization. Offer them all New York and all New England outside of Boston. If they hang out for Boston, give it to them, too. If they don’t insist on it go to Boston and repeat the dose. I want somebody who will sell our goods—and keep us hustling to fill orders. We’ll put a dent in Plum and Mannikin. Now you’ll want to bury your young man in directions for his guidance while you’re gone. Get at it. And don’t come back here unless you’ve got what I want.”
Grierson was blinking. “Your father was a swift mover when he was r’iled,” said he; “but for suddenness, and for landing a hard punch, I guess you are a little ahead of him. I’ll do my best, Mr. Ashe.”
Jim’s next move was a wire to Philadelphia. Pennsylvania was the home ground of the Jenkins mills, and Jim was determined to hit as many heads as he could. Any woodenware man worthy of the name was familiar with the house of Sands & Stein, of the Quaker City. Jim’s wire said:
If interested handing our whole line Pennsylvania exclusive territory wire.
These things accomplished, Jim entered upon the routine of his work, which occupied him until six o’clock was near. Just as he was leaving the office a telegram arrived from Silvers.
“I’m no quitter,” it said, tersely, and Jim knew that he had found at least one dependable man.
As Jim approached he saw a man seated on the Widow Stickney’s porch. He wondered if the widow was entering on a campaign to conquer her “third,” and had invited him to supper as an opening gun. Jim was not familiar enough with Diversity’s citizens yet to identify an individual by his legs, and this one’s face was concealed by the climbing vine. If Jim had been a native of the village he would have experienced no such difficulty, for Diversity’s male inhabitants were as easy to distinguish by their pants as by their faces. We recognize a man by his face because that is the face he has always worn. The same rule held true of Diversity’s trousers. Old Clem Beagle still went to church in the garments that covered him when he was married sixty years before.
When Jim climbed the porch he was convinced that the widow had nothing whatever to do with the visitor. It was Michael Moran, and Jim wondered just who in that house was responsible for his presence.
“How do you do, Mr. Ashe?” said Moran, rising and extending his hand. “I just learned you were boarding here. Glad to hear it. Makes it more interesting for Miss Ducharme, I imagine, and she needs cheering up considerable.”
Jim responded to the greeting, experiencing at the same time a dubiety as to Moran’s sincerity. Indeed, without any adequate reason for his belief he was of the opinion that Moran was not pleased with his presence.
“Sort of protegee of mine—Miss Ducharme. Father was walking boss for me. I always take supper with her when I’m in town, if I can manage it,” Moran explained.
Jim nodded. He was remembering that it was on the morning following a visit of Michael Moran’s to Diversity he had first encountered Marie, on the top of a knoll from which a view might be had of far countries. Her reckless mood, reckless words, were fresh in his mind, and he would have been glad to know if Moran had anything to do with the matter.
“Everything starting off well at the mill?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Jim.
“I see you’ve started shipments. Hope you’ve been getting cars as you wanted them. If you ever have any difficulty, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” said Jim. His mind was only casually on what Moran was saying; it was striving to penetrate to what he was thinking. From the morning of his first sight of the man Jim had been repelled by him. That, of course, was to be laid to the fact that Moran was first seen in company with Welliver. But since then Jim had been led to suspect him as an active enemy. Stories—gossip, perhaps—that came to his ears led him to set Moran down as a shifty individual, a man who looked to the right and unexpectedly threw his brick to the left. Also he had heard from Tim Bennett and others hints regarding Moran’s attitude toward women. But there was proof of nothing. Jim was fair enough to admit this. All was hint, rumor, or deduction from flimsy bases.
“You know, of course, that I’ve taken over the control of the Diversity Hardwood Company?”
“I had heard it.”
“That and my railroad will bring us in touch considerable. Before long we ought to hit on some sort of basis so we can work together for the benefit of both of us. We’re in a position to help each other in a dozen ways.”
“By driving nails in each other’s logs,” Jim thought, but he smiled and agreed that co-operation seemed advisable.
“Conditions in the county aren’t what they ought to be,” said Moran after puffing briefly on his cigar. “You and I—with the influence we can exert—ought to be able to do a lot to remedy matters.”
“As how?” Jim asked, really curious to know what Moran was approaching.
“You and I represent practically the whole of the county’s business interests. We ought to have more of a say in running things than we have. As it is now—well, we haven’t much of anything to say. Zaanan Frame says it all, and he’s a stiff-backed, hard-headed old scoundrel if there ever was one. Talk about your city political bosses! Zaanan could show them things they won’t be finding out for another twenty years.”
“Pretty strong politically, is he?”
“Just this strong, Mr. Ashe, that he appoints the officers in this county. Appoints ’em. Of course there are elections, but if Zaanan told these farmers and what-not to vote for his horse Tiffany for President of the United States, that horse would come close to carrying the county unanimously. That’s how strong he is. The circuit judge is his; the sheriff is his; the prosecutor is his. What chance has money in such a nest? The worst of it is, the old man’s pretty well off and you can’t reach him.”
“Never can tell till you try,” said Jim.
“I’m in a position to tell, all right. It’s no go. The only thing is to get rid of him. If he could be beaten out of his own job I guess he’d be done for. And I think I can manage it with your help.”
“I’m not aching to meddle with politics any.”
“You will be when he hands you a dose of his medicine. Look at us. Probably a dozen little suits in the justice court every week come before him. What protection have we?” Moran spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Any Tom, Dick, and Harry that wants to goes ahead and sues—and Zaanan sees to it we get the worst of it. Anywhere else we could appeal, but here the circuit court belongs to Zaanan, and it spends as much of its time playing to the gallery and coddling the poor, downtrodden working-man at my expense as Zaanan does.”
“Pretty tough,” said Jim. He told himself that here was first-class evidence to support the Widow Stickney’s praise of Zaanan Frame. It was being admitted he was honest, that influence did not subvert justice. He was a boss, perhaps, but his virtues seemed to stamp themselves on the men his power put in office. Theoretically a boss is bad, Jim thought, but this case seemed to demonstrate there might be exceptions. Suppose Zaanan were absolute monarch of Diversity, what had made him so and what kept him in his place? Apparently it was the fairness, the rugged squareness, of the old man. Apparently he possessed the love and confidence of his people to the point that they were willing to delegate their powers to him in the belief that he would work better for them than they could for themselves.
“You bet,” said Moran. “If we could get in a justice of the peace we could stop all these petty suits right there. Let a couple of dozen of these fellows find out they were going to get beaten, and the whole mess of them would quit. I hate to think how much money Frame costs me a year.”
“Or how much he benefits the man who couldn’t help himself without Zaanan’s court,” Jim thought. “It means much to the poor man to know that his court—the justice’s court—is honest; that he can carry his wrong to it and see it righted! What’s your idea?” he asked aloud.
“We’ll have to get him in the caucus,” said Moran. “Couldn’t beat him at the election. I don’t suppose there are a dozen votes cast against him in the whole county. But that’s quite a while off. I just wanted to mention the matter to you and find out how you looked at it. I’m glad you agree with me.”
“We can do more together than we could separately,” Jim said, jesuitically.
The widow appeared in the doorway and announced supper. Jim waved Moran to precede him, and he walked to the table feeling more sure of his ground than he had been an hour before. His suspicions of Moran rested on a surer foundation—the man was not honest. He was the sort of business man who has brought stigma on his kind by bribery, by conniving at injustice, by seducing officers of justice. He was ruthless. The rights of others only represented something to be overridden. To Jim it seemed that the day when Michael Moran replaced Zaanan Frame as dictator of Diversity would be a black day indeed for the county.
Further, he made up his mind to win that friendship which Zaanan Frame had denied him. In his difficulty he felt a flood of gratitude to good fortune that such a man as Zaanan Frame was at hand and in power. When he took his seat at the table he was more cheerful than he had been for many a day; his face was lighter, his eyes brighter. The widow noticed his changed expression and was deeply curious to account for it. The widow was a motherly soul. Of late she had taken to coddling and worrying over Jim. Hers was a heart that could not be inactive—if man’s persistent mortality discouraged her from taking another husband, she could, at least, secretly adopt a son.