“So the paper says. Of course the land is his. But it does seem pretty tough!”
Peter moved on, dazed.
To take away the field—the one out-of-door spot for luncheon and exercise! To deprive hundreds of stifled creatures of fresh air and sunlight! It was monstrous! Why hadn’t his father mentioned the plan? Of course he did not realize what it would mean to the men or he never would have considered it. What would become of all those tired people who nightly left their bare little dwellings and sought a cool evening breeze in the field? Peter knew Nat and his mother always sat there until bedtime and many of the other workmen brought their wives and children. Once the boy had sat there himself. It was an orderly crowd that he had seen—children tumbling over each other on the grass; women seated on the benches and exchanging a bit of gossip; tired men stretched full-length on the turf resting in the quiet of the place.
Why, it was a crime to take the field away!
All the morning while he worked Peter’s mind seethed with arguments against the building of the new factory. He longed to see his father and talk it out. Surely Mr. Coddington would listen if he realized the conditions. He was a kind man—not an inhuman brute. It seemed as if the noon whistle would never blow.
With Nat Jackson and a score of agitated workmen Peter went out into the shade opposite. Luncheon was forgotten, and ball, too. Instead a crowd gathered and on every hand there were mutterings and angry protests.
“Of course Coddington can take the land. It’s his. There is no law to prevent him from doing anything he wants to with it. What does he care for us?” remarked an old, gray-haired tanner.
“The working man is nothing to the rich man,” grumbled another. “All the millionaire wants is more money. Another factory means just that —more money! It’s money, money, money—always money with the rich. The more they have the more they want.”
Sick at heart, Peter listened.
“Why don’t you fellows do something about it?” blustered a red-faced Italian. “I’ll bet you if we called a strike it would bring Coddington to terms. He’d a good sight rather give up building that factory than have us all walk out—’specially now when there’s more work ahead than the firm can handle. I’ve been in five strikes in other places and we never failed yet to get what we started for.”