In the old days, J. Arnold Ross had been one of the little fellows, and all that Bunny could do was to await events. But now he dwelt among the Olympians, and saw the fates in the making. The Petroleum Operators’ Federation, by its executive committee, of which Vernon Roscoe was a member, came to a decision to brush the Federal Oil Board aside, ignore the unions, and announce a new schedule of wages for the industry. A copy of this schedule was in Dad’s hands, and it averaged about 10 percent under the present scale.
It was going to mean a bitter struggle, and Bunny was so much concerned that, without saying anything to his father, he made an appeal to Mr. Roscoe. This being a business matter, the proprieties suggested a visit to the office, so Bunny called up the secretary and asked for an appointment in the regular way.
The great man sat at his flat mahogany desk, as clear of papers as the prevailing superstition required. It appeared as if a captain of industry had not a thing to do but grin at a college boy, and gossip about the boy’s mistress and his own. But then Bunny remarked, “Mr. Roscoe, I came to see you here because I want to talk to you about the new wage-scale.” And in a flash the smile went off the magnate’s face, and it seemed as if even the fat went off his jaws; if you have thought of him as a mixture of geniality and buffoonery, this is the time for you to set yourself straight, along with Bunny, and all other rebels against the American system.
Bunny started to tell about the way the men felt, and the trouble that was brewing; but Mr. Roscoe stopped him. “Listen here, Jim Junior, and save a lot of breath. I know everything the men are saying, and everything that Bolshevik bunch up there is teaching them. I get a confidential report every week. I know about your friend, Tom Axton, and your Paul Watkins, and your Eddie Piatt, and your Bud Stoner and your Jick Duggan—I could tell you all you know, and a lot that would surprise you.”
Bunny was taken aback, as the other had intended. “Jim Junior,” he continued, “you’re a bright boy, and you’ll get over this nonsense, and I want to help you over it—I might save you a lot of suffering, and also your father, that’s the salt of the earth. I’ve been in this world thirty or forty years longer than you, and I’ve learned a lot that you don’t know, but some day you will. Your father and the rest of us that are running the oil industry, we got here because we know how, and that’s a real thing, by Jees, and not just a lot of words. But some other fellers want to kick us out, and think all they got to do is to make speeches to oil workers and set them to raising hell—but let me tell you, kiddo, it’s going to take a lot more than that!”
“Yes, Mr. Roscoe, but that’s not the point—”
“Pardon me, but it is. Let’s cut out the hokum—just say to yourself that I’ve been sitting in at the arguments of that Bolshevik bunch of yours. Do they mean to take the industry away from me and your old man, or don’t they?”
“Well, they may think that ultimately—”
“Yes, exactly. And so far as I’m concerned, the time to stop the ultimately is now. And I tell you that if any sons-of-bitches imagine they’re going to live off my wages while they’re getting ready to rob me, they’re mistaken; and if they find themselves in the jute-mill at San Quentin, they’re not going to get my money to bail them out!”
That was a centre shot, and Vernon Roscoe was looking Bunny straight in the eye. “Jim, Junior, I know all the fine idealistic phrases them fellers use on you. It’s all lovely and sweet and for the good of humanity—but they know that’s all bait for suckers, and if you could hear them laughing at you behind your back, you’d realize how you’re being used. What I tell you is, you better get on your own side of the fence before the shooting begins.”