“Did he discharge you for that?�
“Surely. He came to me after town-meeting, and said:—‘A man who works against my interests in town-meeting will never get another day’s work from me. I have no use for such men as you and Wycliff. He got offended at me once before. It was a year ago. Fifty of us were making a lawn for him. He paid us only a dollar and a half a day, although everybody else about here was paying a dollar and three-quarters for that kind of work. I circulated a petition, which most of the workmen signed, asking for one dollar and seventy-five cents per day, and presented the petition to Zack Baldwin. He finally agreed to split the difference with us, and pay us a dollar and sixty-two and a half cents a day, but he was revenged on us. Those who refused to sign the petition were given work much longer than the rest. That is the Baldwin brand of Christianity,—paying lower wages than other employers pay, and discharging those who ask for fair wages; and at the same time making princely gifts to public libraries and other institutions. It was because outside work was dull, just then, that Zack Baldwin took advantage of us, to get our work at less than market price.’�
“But I thought,� said Mrs. Wycliff, “that Zechariah and David Baldwin were in company.�
“They are,—in the mills. Congressman Baldwin isn’t a bit better than Old Zack, the old Shylock. The man who shuts his eyes to tyranny isn’t a bit better than the tyrant. Since town-meeting I’ve had to walk three miles up to the Wendell Farm, for work. These little hands were not made for handling heavy stone.� And he exhibited a pair of hands almost as small and fine as a lady’s.
“You look like a light and feeble man to walk six miles and handle stone all day, and you must be getting a little too old for hard work. How old are you, Uncle Jerry?�
“I can’t tell. I’ve even written back to the old country,—I was born in Ireland,—and tried to find out, but I think the records must have been destroyed. I could not get any information about it. I can remember once shaking hands with Abraham Lincoln, in the city of Hartford. That is a landmark in my life. I was grown up then and able to do a man’s work.�
John Wycliff arose, took down a volume from his bookcase, and examined it a moment.
“Lincoln was in Hartford on the fifth day of March, 1860, and, I think, never at any other time. Very likely you are about sixty-five years old now.�
“What is the matter with your daughter?� asked Mrs. Wycliff.
“I cannot tell you, because the doctors cannot tell me. It seems to be a sort of melancholy.�