CHAPTER XXI
All next day train-loads of logs came down from Camp One to be decked in Jim’s yard. Thirty-five thousand feet had been rolled off the first night and day; upward of forty thousand feet were added to it the second. It was enough to supply the saws for a week. Moran had made no visible move; no attempt to interfere with the men in the woods or with the running of trains had been made. This did not reassure Jim. Moran was not the man to be beaten so easily. He knew he would strike back—that the Clothespin Club would strike back—for Moran and the Club were as one in this war.
The blow came from the Club—one not altogether unlooked for. It was their logical move, but it would be costly to them. News of it came in telegrams from Jim’s agents, telling him that Welliver and Jenkins and Plum were offering clothespins at a further cut of ten per cent. in price.
Jim figured rapidly. He knew that now his mill was running efficiently, his crew of operators were trained, each machine was showing its production of seventy-five boxes of pins or better a day, he was making pins more cheaply than any other manufacturer in the country. He knew they could not make pins at such a price; that every box sold at such a figure represented a loss. It represented a loss to Jim of something like a cent and a half a box. Probably it meant from three to five cents to the Club. But they could stand it for a time. They had capital in reserve. Jim had none, or very little, to carry on an extended war. But fight he had to, whether he had the money or not.
Perhaps he could borrow more, but he very much doubted it. One resource he had—the option on old Louis Le Bar’s timber. That must be sold at once.
He determined to take the afternoon train to Grand Rapids to go over it in the big lumber offices. His immediate action was to wire his representatives generally to take no orders at the new price. To New York and Chicago he gave directions to sell one car-load each at a drop of five per cent. under the Club’s last figure. This would serve further to demoralize the markets in those centers and to compel the Club to protect its customers on the additional decline. It would cost Jim a few hundreds of dollars. How much more expensive it would be to the Club he did not know.
The morning found him in Grand Rapids. The lumbermen received him with suspicion. It was apparent they were aware of his existence, had expected his arrival. They were willing to talk, but not to deal. They knew the Le Bar tract, of course. It was desirable, but none of them cared to undertake it.
Their attitude was difficult to understand until one old gentleman bruskly informed Jim he did not care to spend his good money buying a lawsuit.
“Why a lawsuit?” Jim asked.
“We were tipped off to you, young man. From a dependable source we know there’s something wrong with that tract, and we’re taking no chances on it.”
“Have you investigated it? Will you investigate it?”
“No. It’s a desirable tract, but it’s not necessary. We can get along without it, and just now we’re too busy to go fooling round with a doubtful title.”
“You can easily investigate the title.”
“What’s the use? We know your option is disputed. We know we’d take on a lawsuit with it, and we don’t need any lawsuits.”
At last Jim understood. Moran had taken his steps, as he said he would. He had promised that Jim would be unable to dispose of his option, and had made good his promise. The task had been simple. He had notified all possible buyers that he would contest Jim’s option; that he claimed some lien or title. Jim knew when he came face to face with the impassable. He put his option in his pocket and returned to Diversity.
Neither magazine nor newspaper could hold his attention on the train. His mind could not be made to forget the weight that lay upon it; his heart could not be numbed to pain by anaesthetic. Jim was young. Suffering was new to him, and experience had not showed him how best to endure it.
It was not the ruin that hung over his business that clouded with anguish the eyes he fixed on the scudding landscape. It was not the knowledge that he was in a corner, fighting for his financial life with his back to the wall. It was Marie—only Marie. Youth can look forward to the building of another fortune; the losses of to-day will be wiped out in the gains of to-morrow. But when love crashes down in sordid ruin there is no to-morrow. Youth cannot see that the unguent of time will close the wound; it can see only that hope, the sweet anticipations which make of the future a magical realm almost within the grasp of the extending hand, has been swept away beyond recall.
Marie was not true, steadfast, as he had believed; her soul did not shine clearly, purely, with the guiding light he thought he had seen. Marie, the wonderful, the womanly, was erased from the picture; replaced by one sordid, despicable, treacherous even. Perhaps the bitterest pain is rending asunder of the trust of youth.
What remained? Work, feverish exertion, the comfort of facing an antagonist, of straining breast to breast with him.
At the junction Jim changed to the Diversity railroad. In the smoker when he entered was a sprinkling of Diversity folk, who, as the train got in motion, edged together to talk politics. Politics in Diversity was a topic of conversation as it had not been for twenty years. Zaanan Frame had taken the zest from it. He had been the county’s politics so long. In the eyes of the inhabitants the present condition assumed almost the importance of a revolution.
“Zaanan’s beat, and he knows it,” was an opinion boldly expressed. “He hain’t even makin’ a fight for it. Calc’late he’s too old.”
“Calc’late,” replied a gesticulating individual, “he’s plum disgusted. Who’s the best friend Diversity folks has had, eh? Zaanan Frame; that’s who. And now, because a dollar for a vote is easy money to earn, men that ought to think shame is turnin’ against him. It hain’t that he can’t fight. Don’t git sich an idee into your head. It’s that he’s too disgusted to fight.”
“He’s run things long enough. Nobody kin call his soul his own. He comes perty clost to sayin’ who shall marry who, and which kind of a baby they’ll have after they’re married. We hain’t goin’ to stand that kind of thing much longer. No, sir; we’re a-goin’ to run our own affairs like we want to—”
“You’re a-goin’ to swap Zaanan Frame for Michael Moran, that’s what you’re goin’ to do—and you’re welcome to your bargain. Wait till Moran gits the power Zaanan’s got now. See how he uses it. Has any feller here got a word to say ag’in Zaanan’s honesty? Eh?”
Nobody replied.
“Kin anybody here lay his hand on a wrong Zaanan’s done? Kin anybody p’int to a case in court that hain’t come out as near fair and just as human men kin make it? No, you can’t. But wait. Why d’you calc’late Moran is reachin’ out for Zaanan’s place? It’s so he can chase the law out and put Mike Moran’s will in. That’s why. It’s so he kin make of Diversity what Quartus Hembly made of Owasco a few years back. He’ll rob you and git his courts to back him up; there’ll be wrongs done and nobody punished. Diversity is run by Zaanan Frame because we’ve turned over the job to him. But it’s run like an American town. Moran’ll run it like a town in Roosian Siberier. Mark me!”
“I call to mind the times ’fore Zaanan got his office first,” piped up a toothless octogenarian. “Diversity and Hell was first cousins. Sich things as I’ve seen! Wa-al, Zaanan he turned to, and ’twa’n’t long ’fore there wa’n’t a quieter, better-behaved town in the timber. He’s deserved a heap of this town.”
“He’s gone too far. Kind of figgers he’s king, or somethin’ like that. We hain’t goin’ to stand for it no more.”
“Go ahead,” squeaked the old man; “whatever you git is comin’ to you. ’Twon’t be a year ’fore you’re on your knees prayin’ for Zaanan Frame to come back, and it’ll be too late, ’cause this Moran’ll have the power and nobody’ll git it away from him.”
“Zaanan’s beat,” repeated the first speaker.
“Looks so,” admitted the old man; “but money done it. Votes has been bought, lies has been told. He hain’t beat fair.”
Jim was interested in spite of himself. Here was a fight, one more fight for him to get into. He, clearer than these men, saw what it would mean to the town and county for Moran to become its dictator. He welcomed another task; it would coax his mind away from Marie. If the new task was also a high duty of citizenship it was so much the more welcome. He sat erect in his seat; again he was Sudden Jim. He addressed the men within hearing.
“Zaanan Frame isn’t beaten,” he said. “Maybe he won’t fight for himself, but there are folks who will fight for him, and I’m one of them. The time’s short, but, you men who are against him, take this thought away with you: If you’ve taken money for your votes or influence, begin to worry. If there has been crookedness you may carry word from me to the man who is to blame for it that he shall answer for his crookedness. The time’s short, as I said, but a lot of fighting can be done in a short time. It isn’t too late.”
“And you’re some fighter, Mr. Ashe,” grinned a little Irishman. “When you come into the car I says to my friend, says I, ‘There’s an illigant lad wid knuckles to his fists.’”
“Thanks, O’Toole. Tell the boys I’m against the man who robs his woodsmen in the wanigans. Tell them I’m against the man who would steal away their chance to get justice. Tell them I know Zaanan Frame is their best friend, and beg them to vote for him.”
“Have no worries about the b’ys wid corked boots,” said O’Toole. “Think ye we don’t know Mike Moran?”
“But Zaanan won’t help himself,” said the old man.
“I’ll see Zaanan the minute we get to town,” promised Jim.
He kept his word. From the train he walked straight to Zaanan’s office. Dolf Springer sat on the door-step, his head hunched down between his shoulders, a very picture of disconsolation. He scarcely looked up as Jim passed him.
Zaanan, as always in his leisure moments, was reading Tiffany’s Justices’ Guide. Jim fancied that the old man’s figure was less erect than formerly, that it drooped with discouragement, with disappointment over the crumbling of the work of his life. Jim could mark on Zaanan’s face the effects of the blow he had received when it became plain his people were turning against him. To realize their ingratitude, how little they appreciated the expenditure of his life in their behalf, must have grieved the old justice sorely.
He greeted Jim with his usual brief phrase, “Howdy?”
“Judge,” said Jim, breaking impetuously into the subject of his coming, wasting no time in preliminaries, “we’ve got to get up and stir ourselves.”
“Um! What’s been happenin’ to you now? Worried ’cause you couldn’t sell your option?”
Jim was a bit startled at Zaanan’s knowledge of the failure of his errand, but brushed aside his curiosity to know how the old justice came by his information.
“It’s not myself I’m worrying about; it’s you, Judge, and Diversity. Even your friends admit you’re beaten. They say you admit it yourself. They think you’re too old to get out and fight.”
“Heard me admittin’ I was beat, Jim, eh? Heard me sayin’ any sich thing?”
“No.”
“Think I’m too old, Jim, eh? Past my usefulness?”
“You’re the best man of all of us. That’s why—”
Zaanan’s eyes twinkled for a moment, then he bent his head in an attitude of weariness, “Folks is tired of me, Jim. They calc’late I’ve outstayed my welcome. Noticed that, Jim, eh?”
“They’ve been bamboozled into thinking it, or paid to think it.”
“But they think it, all the same. Any reason I shouldn’t give ’em a chance to run their logs without me? See why I shouldn’t git a minnit’s peace and quiet at the tail end of my life, eh? Specially when folks is anxious I should?”
“Yes, Judge, I do see a reason. These are your people. You’ve made them what they are. You’ve looked after them for years and, maybe, because you’ve looked after them so thoroughly and well, they are less able to look after themselves than they should be. You’re responsible for them. Nobody but you can save them and this town from passing into a condition that will be intolerable. You aren’t entitled to rest. You’ve got to get into this fight—and win.”
“Perty late, hain’t it, Jim? Perty late in the day?”
“We’ll just have to work that much harder.”
“Dun’no’s I kin agree with you, Jim. Seems to me time’s too short. Maybe I should ’a’ fought, but there wa’n’t much encouragement. Folks was flockin’ to Peleg. Shouldn’t wonder if a dose of Peleg ’u’d be the thing to cure ’em.”
“You mustn’t leave them in the lurch. It’s natural you should feel hard against them, but they-they’ve been fooled. It’s not their fault.”
“Somehow, Jim, I don’t feel as able to undertake things as I did once.” Zaanan’s voice was weary, old. “Looks to me like it would be wastin’ time to stir things up now. Calc’late I’m done for, Jim.”
“All your friends haven’t left you. But they need you to lead them. They don’t know what to do.”
“There hain’t nothin’ to do, Jim, against Moran and all his money.”
“But won’t you come out and try? Go down fighting, anyhow.”
“Hain’t no occasion for it, Jim. Better save up what strength I’ve got left. No use wastin’ it in vain efforts.”
A surge of sympathy for the old man welled up in Jim. Sitting there in the latter end of his days, deserted by friends, abandoned by those for whom he had striven for a score of years, he could not be contemplated unmoved. In his discouragement he was pitiful indeed.
“Judge,” Jim said, impulsively, “I wish I could drop everything and jump into this thing for you. I can’t do that, but I can do something. Until caucus day I’m going to give every possible minute to this election, whether you help or not.”
“Much obleeged,” said Zaanan, without enthusiasm. “What’s your special int’rest in this thing, eh? Seems to me like you was consid’able wrought up over it.”
Jim hesitated.
What was his interest? Was it merely hatred for Moran, or was it something worthier? He paused to search his soul for the answer.
“Before my father induced me to take over this business I had other plans. I had been a newspaper man in the city. I had seen things, and it seemed to me that there was room for somebody who wanted to help. The people—the people at the bottom of the heap—need help, Judge. They don’t belong. They pay their dues in money or labor, but they’re not members. They have none of the privileges. Perhaps they aren’t entitled to the privileges; perhaps they wouldn’t know what to do with them if they got them, but they’re entitled to something. Our Declaration of Independence says something about all men being born free and equal. In theory that may be true. In practice only those are free and equal who are strong enough to force others to recognize their freedom and equality. I wanted to do something—one man could do only a little—toward helping the bottom of the heap out from under to where the weight of the top of the heap wouldn’t crush them.”
“Um! One of them newfangled socialists, eh?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know just what a socialist is, but if what I’ve said makes me one, then I’m guilty of the charge.”
“Hain’t jest normal for a feller employin’ men and women like you do.”
“That is one of the things that moved me to accept father’s proposition when he turned things over to me. I could do my small part here. I could at least see that my bottom-heapers got a fair trade from me, who was their top-heaper. And I guess that’s why I’m interested in this election. You’ve kept things spread out so the bottom was not smashed by the top. Moran wants to take your place so he can crush the bottom as he wants to.”
“Um! No pers’nal spite?”
Jim flushed.
“I hate Moran.”
“Not astonished to hear it. Now, abandonin’ the election for a minute and takin’ up your affairs: I bought me a couple shares in the Diversity Hardwood Company t’other day. Had the chance. Thought maybe you’d be wantin’ to take ’em off my hands. Figgered you might find a use for ’em. Think you kin, eh? Annual meetin’ of that corporation comes day follerin’ caucus. Better git them shares properly transferred on the company’s books right off. Here they be.”
“But—” began Jim.
“Hain’t I said them shares might come in handy? Paid two hundred dollars for ’em. Gimme check.”
Zaanan’s methods were now more or less familiar to Jim. He knew the justice would not have bought this stock for him without some good reason. He scented some plan that Zaanan was working out.
“All right, Judge.”
“Git that transfer made right off.”
“Without fail,” said Jim.
“G’-by, Jim.”
“Good afternoon, Judge. But I wish you—”
“G’-by, Jim,” repeated Zaanan, with a convincing tone of finality.
From that day for the week that remained before the caucus Jim talked, argued, pleaded with the voters of Diversity. He even essayed public speaking; hired the local opera-house for the purpose, and there publicly denounced Peleg Goodwin as Moran’s cat’s-paw; publicly excoriated Moran. But he came to perceive his was a hopeless task.
He could not arouse the people. Zaanan himself might have stirred them, but no stranger could. Especially no stranger could stir them to fight for Zaanan when Zaanan himself acknowledged defeat.
Some there were who fought shoulder to shoulder with Jim. Dolf Springer did what was in him, and when he saw the futility of it his watery eyes grew more watery still. Dolf was faithful; Zaanan was his great man. His faith in the goodness of God was shaken.
Moran did not abate his exertions. He himself, his agents, his hirelings, traversed the township, the county. Ceaselessly they worked, and tirelessly, efficiently. Their faces wore no looks of discouragement; their bearing was jaunty. Any man with half a political eye could see the victory was theirs. On the eve of the caucus Jim grudgingly admitted it, too.
That night—the hour was not quite nine—the young man who was Grierson’s assistant in the bookkeeping realm—his name was Newell—rushed up to Jim on the hotel piazza. Obviously he was in a state of high excitement.
“Mr. Ashe! Mr. Ashe!” he panted.
Jim drew him aside.
“What is it, Newell?” he asked.
“Crab Creek Trestle, Mr. Ashe. They’re going to burn it to-night, so you can’t get any more logs.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“I don’t know the man—tall, carried a gun under his arm.”
“Gilders,” said Jim to himself. It was sufficient verification for him if the warning came from that man. “All right, Newell. Go along about your business and keep your mouth shut.”
Jim did not pause to determine the best course to follow. For him there was but one course—instant action. Without halt, without plan, without aid, he set out for Crab Creek. It was a trip to be taken afoot. No road led to the spot. Jim made for the railroad, sped down it toward the threatened spot.