“Oh, we’re not afraid of that. You are too distrustful of each other. Some would not keep faith. It would be impossible to unite all the machines in a concerted action. Besides, who would take care of you and keep you in order while you were on a strike? You would suffer more than we. Moreover, it has been decided strikes are an illegal method of procedure, and you might become liable to punishment under the law. What have you to say to that?”
There was no reply.
“Come, think it over,” urged Horne. “It is much better to be contented. We wish you well. We mean to do the best we can for you. We are sorry for you; but the rights and claims of capital must be respected, you know. Don’t you think you had better go to work to-morrow? Think,”—and his voice dropped the persuasive, and assumed a sterner accent,—“think how much worse off you will be, if you are cast out for old junk.” There was silence for some time, but presently Mr. Horne spoke again. “Will you go to work to-morrow?”
There was a whining sound, and one of the great wheels gave a half-turn. Something dropped to the floor. “Ah,” cried Horne, “here’s the cause of the trouble,” and he held up a bit of leather. “This must have caught in a cog. It just dropped out. I think probably the machine will be all right in the morning.”
“Well,” said Hyde, with a sigh of relief, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now come into the office, will you, Horne, and we will arrange about that cut-down. It had better go into effect at once. And, Horne, I don’t know but it would be as well for us to think of finding a new foreman. Graves is growing a little presuming. He’s been with us too long, I’m afraid. Strange these fellows never know when they are well off.”
GETTING AHEAD.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
He was only a plain, rough, stolid-looking Dane, with a sullen face and a hunted look in his big blue eyes. There was a long cut on one cheek, over which a strip of court-plaster had been pasted; his clothes of faded blue jean were torn and muddy, and his hands were swollen and bruised from tugging at the iron bracelets that encircled his wrists, for the strong arm of the law had been raised against him, and he was a prisoner awaiting a hearing before he should be committed to jail for having made a murderous assault upon a citizen, afterwards aggravating his offence by resisting the constable, who had been sent to arrest him for breach of the peace of the people of the State of California. The man against whom he had made the assault was present, a resident of the city, agent for a syndicate of foreign capitalists who held the title, under the laws of the State, to certain land upon which the Dane lived, working the same and paying rental therefor to the company’s agent. The constable was also present, a bluff, farmer-looking man in butternut-colored clothes, his great hands seeming better adapted to guiding the plow-handles than for snapping handcuffs upon the wrists of his fellow-beings and hauling them away to courts of law. “Tell ye what it is, Jedge,” he was saying, “I’d rather tackle a yoke o’ wild steers any day. The feller don’t seem to have no sense. Just look what he’s done.” And the officer of the law exhibited hands and face bearing the marks of teeth and nails, a bruised, half-closed eye, a torn hat, and other evidences of the struggle his prisoner had made before he could be taken.
The Judge (a peace justice always receives that title from dwellers in our rural districts) looked sympathetically at his officer. He had a small, shrewd face with pale blue eyes, set very close together, and the air of a politician. Like all his neighbors he was a farmer, but of late years had taken considerable interest in township politics, and having, during the last campaign, secured the nomination and election to his present position, he was already turning his attention to the next higher round of the political ladder, and had his eye on a minor county office. His court-room was situated in a little shanty that stood at a corner of the main street in the incipient country town where I was staying. It had once been used for a barber shop, and sundry shelves, bottles and other paraphernalia still remained mutely in evidence of that earlier use. Half a dozen half-grown boys and one or two men had strolled in, attracted by the unusual sight, in that peaceful community, of a prisoner; a setter dog was sniffing inquiringly around the legs of the assembled throng, and stopping in front of the manacled prisoner the animal began to lick the swollen hands and wrists, wagging his tail, and by look and gesture expressing his wonderful sympathy as plainly as though he had spoken. I was writing up that section of the country for an eastern publication, and had been talking with the postmaster of the little town when the prisoner was brought in from the outlying country. That official had asked me to go to the court-room to witness this variation in the usual monotony of the town’s life, and accepting the invitation, I at once became interested in the—to me—entirely new experience.
The Justice took his seat at a little stained wooden table and called his primitive court to order. The whole scene at once assumed an air of solemnity that seemed to impress everybody but the prisoner. Apparently he was the only one present who was unaware that the strong arm of the law was about to perform its function. The agent began to tell his story. He was a tall man who would have presented the appearance of great physical power, but for a certain shambling looseness about his build. While he had occupied his chair he had “sat on his backbone” in genuine American style. Standing erect his hands hung limply at his sides and his shoulders bent forward, not as if the man had acquired a stoop, but rather as though the spirit within him had long since ceased to take enough interest in its habitation to maintain it erect. He had prominent eyes and a projecting under lip, a well-shaped head with short, clay-colored hair, and when he spoke he had a trick of only moving one-half of his upper lip, which was long and very thin. His face was smooth-shaven, and he presented, in his well-brushed city garments and sleek hat, a strong contrast to the country people surrounding him. He was bland and courteous, even mildly facetious, as he related his case. He expatiated upon the wealth and power of the syndicate he represented, the confidence the men composing it had shown in the future of our great State in investing their capital here, although they themselves resided abroad. He reminded the Justice that the entire people of California owed it to these trusting capitalists to uphold peace and order in the State. If anarchy and rebellion were suffered to go unpunished in our midst, it would render capital timid about investing money among us, and the industrial future of the State would be blighted. Rassmussen, the Dane, had rented the land of him for the past two years, but had proven a troublesome tenant, and having secured a better one he had given the man notice to quit; had even come up from the city himself, instead of writing, in order to make the matter clear to him and offer him the rental of another piece of land, should he desire it. His kindly effort had, however, only resulted in disaster to himself, for Rassmussen, as he could bring witnesses to prove, had assaulted him violently, so that he was forced to retire, fearing serious bodily injury had he remained to finish his business with the dangerous man. Mr. Brien, the constable, could testify also to the violence with which the Dane had resisted the process of the law, when the officer would have arrested him. He was very sorry to proceed to harsh measures against Rassmussen, but in no other way could he get him off the premises. He understood that the Dane was a notoriously quarrelsome fellow, whose rage seemed directed particularly against those who, by superior industry and enterprise, had acquired a larger share than he possessed of this world’s goods. There was no crime in competence. Rassmussen himself had doubtless come to this country for the purpose of making money. Apparently, however, he desired no one else to make any. He quarreled with the superintendent on the ranch of the largest land-owner and the wealthiest man in the section, and had been driven from the orchard by his fellow-laborers. He had trouble with the railroad company over a freight bill, and now the agent had himself experienced his violence and dangerous propensities. Clearly, such a man was a detriment to any community, and deeply as he regretted the duty he had to perform in the matter, he trusted that the Justice would uphold him in his attempt to bring such a ruffian to punishment. He was sure, in fact, that the Justice would sustain him. A man who had been selected by a community of clear-headed, honest farmers to maintain the majesty of the law among them would never be false to his trust, and he was sure he would not regret the confidence he had placed in the Justice’s uprightness of intention and determination to see right done.
The worthy official was evidently impressed by the agent’s address, and at the reference to himself his whole aspect stiffened into a still more rigid solemnity. Turning to the prisoner he said with scarce concealed impatience: