“Thanks,” said Stacey, and did so, across the table from the millionaire.
This being called by his first name amused him. It must be meant as a kingly compliment by Mr. Jeffries, since he and Stacey had not met above half a dozen times—or perhaps it was to aid in the effect of cordiality. But there were many other things besides amusement in Stacey’s mind. He was thinking swiftly, taking stock of his adversary, all in the brief interval while he accepted and lighted a courteously proferred cigarette.
This cordiality now,—it was not a warmth radiating from inner good will; it was external, a fire built on snow. He felt the man as cold—perhaps cruel, too. If so, cold even in his cruelty. Stacey felt aversion, something in that personality was rasping to him; but he was far from feeling contempt. He recognized that he was encountering a strong and steely character, not one—like most—only apparently strong. Not a touch here of the business-man as shown in romances or movies, no nervous movement of papers, no abstracted air of meditation on vast enterprises. Mr. Jeffries did not even say that he could spare Stacey a few minutes of his time; he was as leisurely as though he were lounging at a club. Yet the man was intensely busy from morning to night, and at this moment his outer-office was crowded with those waiting to see him.
“It was about the street-railway strikers that I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Jeffries,” said Stacey, blowing out his match. (There had only been that much of a pause.)
A look of regret came over the millionaire’s face. “I’m sorry, Stacey,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, “but there’s nothing I can do. I explained my position to your father this morning.”
“Yes, I know you did,” Stacey continued carefully. “But you and he are so much alike” (they were alike superficially; Stacey disclaimed almost passionately that there was any deep likeness) “that I feel sure you must both see this trouble as a matter of principle, as labor versus capital, as a strike,—not as men striking. The men can’t live on the wages you’re offering to pay them, Mr. Jeffries. Can’t—live.”
“And the company can’t live and give them any better ones,” returned Mr. Jeffries quietly.
Stacey did not express his opinion of the company’s right to life. He attended quietly to what Mr. Jeffries said. All this was no use, anyway.
“There’s more in this than you see, Stacey. It’s a test case—an unfortunate one, I grant you; test cases are rarely the ones a man would choose. It’s come to a question of whether business organized on private capital can exist at all. If it can’t we’d better know it at once; if it can then it will have to be run on the basis of a decent adjustment between receipts and disbursements.”
Stacey, quite unmoved by this, shook his head. “I don’t see how this can be a test case,” he observed. “Suppose you win,—it’s a paper victory only. Neither these men nor any others can work for you permanently at a wage that won’t support them and their families. Know what I think?” he demanded, gazing sharply at the older man, “I rather think the whole thing’s a threat held over the head of the city council.”