THE STRIKE.
"Marse Job, dar's a gemman wid a mighty fine hoss wants to hab de pleasure ob seeing de young marse," said Tony, poking his head inside the door on the Friday afternoon after Job came home.
The young man grasped his cap and hurried to the gate, finding there, to his surprise and consternation, the superintendent of the Yellow Jacket Mine sitting in his buggy. At sight of Job, he sprang out, extended his gloved hand to the lad, and proceeded to surprise him still more by saying that he had come after him, as they wanted him back; he felt sure he now knew who had taken the money, though he could not arrest the person; he was very sorry he had so greatly wronged Job; would raise his salary.
Job was greatly astonished. He expressed his thanks, but finally managed to stammer out that he really had had all he cared for of mining life, and did not want to leave the old ranch.
Then the man took his arm, and as they walked up and down together, he told Job there was trouble brewing at the mine; the men were reading all the news they could get about the great mining strike East, and a whole crowd stood in front of the store each evening between shifts, listening to agitators; the fellow Dean was talking strike on the sly to all the men, and he was afraid that under the passing excitement the best of the men would be duped by worthless leaders. So he wanted Job back; Job knew the men, they liked him, they would hear him; the company needed him, it must have him at any salary.
So Job went back to the Yellow Jacket with the memory of that home-coming to cheer him in the dark times that were to follow. When the next day the scowling men came one by one to the pay-window at the office, muttering about starvation wages, they looked surprised to see Job there. Some reached out their rough hands for a shake, and said, "Shure and it does me eyes good to see you, lad;" others only scowled the deeper; and one looked almost as if shot, forgot his pay, and turned and walked away muttering, "Bother the saint! He's forever in my way!"
It was just two weeks from that day that the storm broke at the Yellow Jacket Mine. A deep undertone of discontent and rebellion had filled the air during that time. Job had felt it more plainly than he had heard it. The superintendent had kept a calm, firm face, though Job knew he was anything but calm within.
It was just before Job had gotten ready on Saturday to shove up the pay-window and begin his weekly task, that a group of burly men, with O'Donnell, the boss of the eight-hundred-foot level, as spokesman, came in and desired to see the superintendent. Calmly that gentleman stepped up and wished to know what was wanted. Well, nothing in particular, was the reply; only they had a paper they wished him to sign. He took it and read it. It was a strange document, evidently prepared by O'Donnell himself. It read as follows:
"The Yellow Jacket Mining Company will Pay all men That work on the mine 20 pursent more To-day And all the time."
The superintendent folded up the paper, and, handing it back to the men, turned and walked into the office without a word.
"Here, boss!" cried O'Donnell, "yez didn't plant yer name on the paper! Ain't yez goin' to give the hands their dues?"
Then the superintendent turned and explained to the men that he could not sign any such agreement; had no authority to; only the directors in San Francisco and New York could authorize it; that the mine could not afford it; that the men had no complaint—it was only false sympathy with distant strikes which caused them to make this demand; that he would not sign such a document if he could.
The men left in a rage. At the noon shift all the hands came up from the mine; not one went down. The machinery stopped; not a wheel turned, not even the pumps that were so necessary to keep the lower levels from being flooded. At one o'clock the men began to come for their pay, not one doing so in the morning. Each demanded a raise of twenty per cent. on his wages, and, when this was refused by Job, threw his money back on the shelf, and walked out without a word.
Hour after hour it went on—a constant procession of determined men looking into Job's eyes, and each face growing harder, it seemed to him, than the one before. Some did not dare look him in the eye, but mumbled over the same well-learned speech which someone had taught them, and went away. They were the ones Job had befriended in distress.
Dan came in with head high in air, and talked as if he had never seen Job; he demanded justice for such hard-worked fellows as himself and his father, and gave a long harangue about the oppressed classes, till the superintendent interposed and said:
"Mr. Dean, if you have any personal grievance, come to me individually. Do not blockade that window; take your money and go."
And Dan went off in a white rage, leaving the money behind him.
At six o'clock Job put on his coat and cap, and followed the superintendent and cashier to the door. There they found armed sentinels pacing all about the stone office building, and O'Donnell and his crowd waiting. They would be obliged, they were sorry to say, to inform them that the men had decided the "boss and his crew" should not go home till the "twenty per cent." was paid; that some food from the men's boarding-house would be sent them, and they would have to stay in the office till they came to terms.
There was no alternative. They were entrapped, and there was no escape. Grim faces looked at them from all sides.
Back into the office they turned and locked the doors, to open them only when a huge quantity of poor food that looked like the remains of the miners' dinner was handed in. Again they swung the iron doors to, barred them, and sat down for the night, with the unpleasant fact staring them in the face that they were besieged and helpless. Apparently they had not a friend in all the crowd that surged to and fro in the narrow streets. There was no way of letting the outside world know their plight.
What a night that was! At first the sound of excited voices and the distant harangues of saloon-steps orators, then all quieted down; there was not even the hum of the machinery—only the dull tramp of the guards without, and the far-away call, "Twelve o'clock and all's well," which told they had a picket line on the outer edge of the town.
Job at last fell asleep in a heap on the floor, with other sleeping forms about him. He dreamed of home and Jane, heard Tony shout "Bress de Lawd!" and awoke to find himself aching in every bone from the hard floor. The light had gone out. Outside all he could hear was tramp, tramp, tramp. Then he heard voices. They came nearer. He crept to the key-hole and listened.
"Let's burn the thing and kill 'em, and run the mine ourselves!" said one voice.
"Yer blockhead, don't yer know it's stone?" drawled another. "No, gentlemen, we'll fix 'em if they don't give us our dues to-morrow! We'll starve 'em out, and yer bet they'll sign mighty quick! We don't want their lives; we want justice, and—"
The voice died away in the distance. Job was sure it was Dan's.
Sunday came and went with no end of the siege. It was a long day in the office. The superintendent pored over the books, and pretended to forget he was a prisoner. They took down only the topmost shutters. Some of the clerks got out a pack of cards, and asked Job to take a hand. One said contemptuously, "Oh, you're a goody-goody, parson!" when he refused, but the others quickly silenced him in a way that showed their respect for Job. The cards dropped from their hands before long, and each seemed occupied with his own thoughts. Twice during the day "the gang" and O'Donnell presented themselves at the door with the paper, and were refused. Then all hands seemed to resign themselves to a genuine siege. On the whole it was quiet outside, except for the occasional jangle of voices and the sentry's pacing.
Towards night the uproar grew louder. The saloons were doing a big business, and the sound of rollicking songs and drunken brawls was in the air. Job grew restless and paced the office floor. About five o'clock a delegation came for someone to meet the men at a conference on the waste-heap back of the quartz mill. The superintendent refused to go, and asked Job to do so. "They dare not hurt you," he said.
So between two armed, burly guards, Job went to look into the face of the strangest audience he had ever seen. A solid throng they stood on the bare, flat hill that rounded off at one end of the cañon below. Irishmen, Swedes, Portuguese, Germans, Chinese, Yankees—all nationalities were there, in overalls and blue jumpers, puffing at long pipes, and wedged in a solid mass about an old ore car that served as platform. Dan was speaking; he was talking of the starving miners in "Colorady," and pointed to the office building, crying, "We'll show them bloated 'ristocrats how nice it feels to starve!" while a din of voices cried, "Hear! hear!"
Pushing their way to the flat-car, his muscular escorts hauled Job up and shouted:
"The parson, lads—Mr. Job. He's goin' to talk wid yez!"
"May the Holy Mother defind him!" cried a voice in the crowd. "He's the praist of me Tim!"
"The fraud!" cried another; "he's as bad as the rist! Nary a per cint. would he give me yesterday!"
"Hush, ye blatherskite!" hissed another. "Give the lad a chance; he's a-talkin'!"
Yes, Job was talking. He did his best. He expressed the utmost sympathy with the wrongs of every man, and reminded them that they had no truer friend in the Yellow Jacket than he. He had nursed their sick, buried their dead, had been one of them in all the struggles of their lives. Voice after voice in the crowd said, "That's so! Hear! Hear!" "Hurrah fer the lad!" cried another. "Three cheers for the little parson!"
Then he talked to them of the strike, and said every man had a right to quit work and the Union to strike, but no man or Union had the right to starve their fellow-beings; he spoke of the unreasonableness of this strike—the company here was not to blame for the troubles in Colorado; he reminded them that the times were hard and the cities crowded with idle men, yet the company had kept them busy and given them full wages; he urged them, if they must demand more, to go on with work and send a committee to present their claims to the directors.
Cheers and hisses grew louder and louder as he spoke. The storm grew fiercer and fiercer. Job saw it was of no use. A dozen voices were yelling, "On with the strike! Starve 'em out!" Someone—could it be Dan?—shouted:
"Hang the hypocrite!—coming here advising his betters! String him up!"
A loud hubbub followed. Job breathed a deep, silent prayer and stood firm. A tall, brawny man clambered up beside him and cried, as he brandished a pistol:
"Death to any mon that touches the kid! May all the saints keep him!"
Tim's father meant business. And through the angry mob he steered Job back to the office in safety.
When the supper was handed in at six, the men who brought it said that would be the last food till they signed the paper; the miners had voted to starve them out.