“Of course, if I could get flour.”
“I’m a miller,” shouted a man in the crowd; “I’d be willing to work if I could get bread, but I’ve got no use for more gold.”
“I have fifty carloads of wheat in warehouses,” a broker said, “and I’d be willing to turn it in and do day’s work for my share of bread to be made from it.”
“Shure, and I’ll be glad the day I could help haul it,” cried an Irish teamster, “but it’s no day’s wages in money I’d work for. It’s a pair of boots I’m wantin’ an some milk for my kid at home.”
“Milk,” cried a dairyman, bitterly. “You could ‘a’ had milk long ago, but not a man can I get to drive a wagon or turn a hand to milk the fifty cows. I’ve had to leave their calves with them ever since this blasted gold fit seized the government.”
“Gold!” roared a laborer, lifting a bag containing his day’s allowance. “Who wants gold? It’s bread we’re starving for,” and with a single jerk he flung the bag into the gutter. The broad twenties rolled and glittered in the sun, and a baby, attracted by the shine, left its mother’s side and picked one up. The rest lay where they had fallen—no one wanted them.
Gradually Burton made his plan clear to the assembled throng. He proposed to start a labor exchange, conducted on commission principles. He proposed that the golden double eagles, now so worthless, should be melted, and cast into labor tokens, for hereafter the medium of exchange would be labor. In the meantime written promises to pay in labor, would be accepted as legal tender.
The scheme grew as he talked, with suggestions now and then from those in the crowd, as the workmen warmed up and began to see a way out of the mire.
“Put me down for eight hours a day in the street-car service!” cried an ex-gripman, “and I’ll take my pay in tokens for bread and milk and meat service.”
“I’d gladly give that last to the company for you,” said a sturdy butcher, “just to git the cars running out our way again.”