Suddenly a tall form loomed up in the centre of a large group of excited men. It was a master poet who had climbed up on some boxes to address his comrades; and they grew quiet and closed in about him to hear his words.
“Prosers, rhymesters, and dialectists,” exclaimed the master poet, “the time has come for us to make a stand against the oppression of those who call themselves our masters. The time has come for the men who toil day after day in yonder tall factory to denounce the infamous system by which they are defrauded of the greater part of their wretched pittance. You know, of course, that I am speaking of the ruinous competition of scab or non-union labor. See that cart!” he cried, pointing to a square, one-horse vehicle, similar to those employed in the delivery of coal, which had been backed up against the curb in front of the factory.
“Do you know what that cart contains? See those men remove the iron scuttle on the sidewalk, and listen to the roar and rumble as the cart discharges its contents into the cellar beneath the pavement! Is that coal they are putting in with which to feed the tireless engine that furnishes motive power to the factory? No, my friends; that is a load of jokes for the back page of Harper’s Bazar, collected from the sweating-shops about Washington Square and Ninth Street. Do those jokes bear the union label? They do not. Many of them, no doubt, are made by Italians and Chinese, to the shame and degradation of our calling.”
The master poet’s words were received with a howl of rage that reached the ears of the men who were closeted in the business office, and brought a pallor to their stern, set faces.
“There is no time to be lost!” exclaimed one of the firm; “that yell of defiance convinces me that any attempt to introduce non-union poets would precipitate a riot. It will not be safe to do it unless we are prepared for the worst.”
“For my part,” said Mr. Harry Harper, “I believe that it would be a good policy for us to introduce machinery at once, and get rid of those poets, who are forever making new demands on us. The Century people have had machines in operation for some time past, and have found them very satisfactory. We must admit that a great deal of their poetry is as good as our hand-made verses.”
“Do you know,” cried Mr. Alden, “that that Chicago machine they put in some time ago is simply one of Armour’s old sausage-mills remodeled? It is the invention of a man named Fuller, who two years ago was merely an able-bodied workman in the serial shops. It is really a very ingenious piece of mechanism, and when you think that they throw a quantity of hoofs, hair, and other waste particles from the Chicago stock-yards into a hopper, and convert them into a French or Italian serial story of firm, fine texture—well, making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear is nothing to it.”
“Gentlemen,” said the head of the firm, rising as he spoke, and taking from the desk beside him some large cardboard signs, “I do not propose to have my own workmen dictate to me. I am going to hang these signs on our front door and give employment to whomever may apply for it.” The signs were thus inscribed:
HANDS WANTED
ON
SHORT STORIES.