 Book four, sections twenty-four through twenty-six, of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book four, The Will of King Cole. Section twenty-four. Bidding Mrs. Swatchka farewell, Howell set out for the railroad station. But before he had gone a block from the hotel, he ran into his brother, coming straight towards him. Edward's face wore a bored look. His very manner of carrying the magazine under his arm said that he had selected it in a last hopeless effort against the monotony of Pedro. Such a trick of fate to take a man of important affairs and amure him at the mercy of a maniac in a godforsaken coal-town. What did people do in such a whole? Pay a nickel to look at moving pictures of cowboys and counterfeiters? Edward's aspect was too much for Howell's sense of humor. Besides, he had a good excuse. Was it not proper to make a test of his disguise before facing the real danger in North Valley? He placed himself in the path of his brother's progress. And in Mrs. Zamboni's high-complaining tones began, Mr. Edward stared at the interrupting black figure. Mr. Eugio Smith's brother, hey? The question had to be repeated before Edward gave his grudging answer. He was not proud of the relationship. Mr. continued the whining voice. My old man got blow up in mine. I get five pieces from my man what I got to bury yesterday in graveyard. I got to pay thirty dollar for bury them pieces, and I don't got no more money left. I don't got no money from them company fellers. They come lawyer-feller, and he say maybe I get money for bury my man, if I don't jay too much. But Mr. I got eleven children I got to feed, and I don't got no more man, and I don't find no new man for old woman like me. When I go home I hear them children crying, and I don't got no food, and them company stores don't give me no food. I think maybe you, Joe Smith's brother, you good man. Maybe you sorry for poor widow woman. You maybe give me some money, Mr., so I buy some food for them children. All right, said Edward. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a bill which happened to be for ten dollars. His manner seemed to say, for heaven's sake, here. Mrs. Zamboni clutched the bill with greedy fingers, but was not appeased. You got plenty money, Mr., you rich man, hey? You maybe give me all them money so I got plenty feed them children? You don't know them company stores, Mr., them prices is way up high like mountains. Them children is hungry. They cry all day and night, and one piece money don't last so long. You give me some more piece monies, Mr., hey? I'll give you one more, said Edward. I need some for myself. He pulled off another bill. What you need so much, Mr., you don't got so many children, hey? You got plenty more money home, maybe? That's all I can give you, said the man. He took a step to one side to get round the obstruction in his path. But the obstruction took a step also and with surprising agility. Mr., I thank you for them monies. I tell them children I get monies from good man. I like you, Mr. Smith. You give money for poor widow woman, you nice man. And the dreadful creature actually stuck out one of her paws as if expecting to pat Edward on the cheek or to chuck him under the chin. He recoiled as from a contagion. But she followed him, determined to do something to him he could not be sure what. He had heard that these foreigners had strange customs. It's all right, it's nothing, he insisted and fell back, at the same time glancing nervously about to see if there were spectators of this scene. Nice man, Mr., nice man, cried the old woman with increasing cordiality. Maybe someday I find man like you, Mr. Edward Smith, so I don't stay widow woman no more. You think maybe you like to marry nice slavish woman, got plenty nice children? Edward, perceiving that the matter was getting desperate, sprang to one side. It was a spring which should have carried him to safety, but to his dismay the slavish widow sprang also. Her claws caught him under the armpit, and fastening in his ribs gave him a ferocious pinch, after which the owner of the claws went down the street, not looking back, but making strange gobbling noises, which might have been the weeping of a bereaved widow in slavish, or might have been almost anything else. End of Section 24 Section 25 The train up to North Valley left very soon, and Howe figured that there would be just time to accomplish his errand and catch the last train back. He took his seat in the car without attracting attention, and sat in his place until they were approaching their destination, the last stop up the canyon. There were several of the miners' women in the car, and Howe picked out one who belonged to Mrs. Zamboni's nationality and moved over beside her. She made place, with some remark, but Howe merely sobbed softly, and the woman felt for his hand to comfort him. As his hands were clasped together under the veils, she padded him reassuringly on the knee. At the boundary of the stockaded village the train stopped, and Bud Adams came through the car, scrutinizing every passenger. Seeing this, Howe began to sob again, and murmured something indistinct to his companion, which caused her to lean towards him, speaking volubly in her native language. Bud passed by. When Howe came to leave the train, he took his companion's arm. He sobbed some more, and she talked some more, and so they went down the platform, under the very eyes of Pete Hannan, the breaker of teeth. Other women joined them, and they walked down the street, the women conversing in Slavish, apparently without a suspicion of Howe. He had worked out his plan of action. He would not try to talk with the men secretly, it would take too long, and he might be betrayed before he had talked with a sufficient number. One bold stroke was the thing. In half an hour it would be supper-time, and the feeders would gather in Reminitsky's dining-room. He would give his message there. Howe's two companions were puzzled that he passed the Zamboni cabin, where presumably the Zamboni brood were being cared for by neighbors. But he let them make what they could of this, and went on to the Manetti home. To the astonished Rosa he revealed himself, and gave her husband's message, that she should take herself and the children down to Pedro and wait quietly until she heard from him. She hurried out and brought in Jack David, to whom Howe explained matters. Big Jack's part in the recent disturbance had apparently not been suspected. He and his wife, with Roveda, Resmak, and Kloosky, would remain as a nucleus through which the union could work upon the men. The supper-hour was at hand, and the pseudo-Mrs. Zamboni emerged and toddled down the street. As she passed into the dining-room of the boarding-house, men looked at her, but no one spoke. It was the stage of the meal where everybody was grabbing and devouring in the effort to get the best of his grabbing and devouring neighbors. The black-clad figure went to the far end of the room. There was a vacant chair, and the figure pulled it back from the table and climbed upon it. Then a shout rang through the room. Boys, boys! The feeders looked up and saw the widows' weeds thrown back, and their leader, Joe Smith, gazing out at them. Boys, I've come with a message from the union. There was a yell. Men leaped to their feet. Chairs were flung back, falling with a crash to the floor. Then almost instantly came silence. You could have heard the movement of any man's jaws had any man continued to move them. Boys, I've been down to Pedro and seen the union people. I knew the bosses wouldn't let me come back, so I dressed up, and here I am. It dawned upon them the meaning of this fantastic costume. There were cheers, laughter, yells of delight. But how stretched out his hands and silence fell again. Listen to me. The bosses won't let me talk long, and I've something important to say. The union leaders say we can't win a strike now. Consternation came into the faces before him. There were cries of dismay. He went on. We are only one camp, and the bosses would turn us out. They'd get in scabs and run the mines without us. What we must have is a strike of all the camps at once. One big union and one big strike. If we walked out now, it would please the bosses. But we'll fool them. We'll keep our jobs and keep our union, too. You are members of the union. You'll go on working for the union. Hooray for the North Valley Union. For a moment there was no response. It was hard for men to cheer over such a prospect. Howl saw that he must touch a different cord. We mustn't be cowards, boys. We've got to keep our nerve. I'm doing my part. It took nerve to get in here, in Mrs. Zamboni's clothes, and with two pillows stuffed in front of me. He thumped the pillows, and there was a burst of laughter. Many in the crowd knew Mrs. Zamboni. It was what comedians call a local gag. The laughter spread, and became a gale of merriment. Men began to cheer. Hooray for Joe. You're the girl. Will you marry me, Joe? And so, of course, it was easy for Hal to get a response when he shouted, Hooray for the North Valley Union. Then he raised his hands for silence, and went on again. Listen, men, they'll turn me out, and you're not going to resist them. You're going to work, and keep your jobs, and get ready for the big strike. And you'll tell the other men what I say. I can't talk to them all, but you tell them about the Union. Remember, there are people outside planning and fighting for you. We are going to stand by the Union, all of us, till we've brought these coal camps back into America. There was a cheer that shook the walls of the room. Yes, that was what they wanted, to live in America. A crowd of men had gathered in the doorway, attracted by the uproar. Hal noticed confusion and pushing, and saw the head and burly shoulders of his enemy, Pete Hannon, come into sight. Here come the gunmen, boys, he cried, and there was a roar of anger from the crowd. Men turned, clenching their fists, glaring at the guard. But Hal rushed on quickly. Boys, hear what I say, keep your heads. I can't stay in North Valley, and you know it. But I've done the thing I came to do. I've brought you the message from the Union. And you'll tell the other men, tell them to stand by the Union. Hal went on, repeating his message over and over, looking from one to another of these toil-worn faces, he remembered the pledge he had made them, and he made it anew. I'm going to stand by you, I'm going on with the fight, boys. There came more disturbance at the door, and suddenly Jeff Cotton appeared, with a couple of additional guards, shoving their way into the room, breathless and red in the face from running. Ah, there's the Marshal, cried Hal. You needn't push, Cotton, there's not going to be any trouble. We are Union men here, we know how to control ourselves. Now boys, we're not giving up, we're not beaten, we're only waiting for the men in the other camps. We have a Union, and we mean to keep it. Three cheers for the Union. The cheers rang out with a will. Cheers for the Union, cheers for Joe Smith, cheers for the widow and her weeds. You belong to the Union, you stand by it, no matter what happens. If they fire you, you take it on to the next place. You teach it to the new men. You never let it die in your hearts. In Union there is strength. In Union there is hope. Never forget it, men, Union. The voice of the camp Marshal rang out. If you're coming, young woman, come now. Hal dropped a shy curtsy. Oh, Mr. Cotton, this is so sudden. The crowd howled, and Hal descended from his platform. With coquettish gesturing he replaced the widow's veils about his face, and tripped mincingly across the dining room. When he reached the camp Marshal, he daintily took that worthy's arm, and with the breaker of teeth on the other side, and Bud Adams bringing up the rear, he toddled out of the dining room and down the street. Hungry men gave up their suppers to behold that sight. They poured out of the building. They followed, laughing, shouting, jeering. Oppers came from every direction. By the time the party had reached the depot, a good part of the population of the village was on hand, and everywhere went the word, It's Joe Smith. Come back with a message from the Union. Big, coal-grimmed miners laughed till the tears made streaks on their faces. They fell on one another's necks for delight at this trick which had been played upon their oppressors. Even Jeff Cotton could not withhold his tribute. By God, you're the limit, he muttered. He accepted the tea-party aspect of the affair as the easiest way to get rid of his recurrent guest and avert the possibilities of danger. He escorted the widow to the train and helped her up the steps, posting escorts at the doors of her car, nor did the attentions of these gallants cease until the train had moved down the canyon and passed the limits of the North Valley stockade. End of Section 25 Section 26 Hal took off his widow's weeds, and with them he shed the merriment he had worn for the benefit of the men. There came a sudden reaction. He realized that he was tired. For ten days he had lived in a whirl of excitement, scarcely stopping to sleep. Now he lay back in the car seat, pale, exhausted. His head ached, and he realized that the sum total of his North Valley experience was failure. There was left in him no trace of that spirit of adventure with which he had set out upon his summer course in practical sociology. He had studied his lessons, tried to recite them, and been flunked. He smiled a bitter smile, recollecting the careless jesting that had been on his lips as he came up that same canyon. He keeps them a role that Mario sold the wheels of industry, a role and a role for his pipe and his bowl and his college faculty. The train arrived in Pedro, and Hal took a hack at the station and drove to the hotel. He still carried the widow's weeds rolled into a bundle. He might have left them in the train, but the impulse to economy which he had acquired during the last ten weeks had become a habit. He would return them to Mrs. Zamboni. The money he had promised her might better be used to feed her young ones. The two pillows he would leave in the car. The hotel might endure the loss. Entering the lobby, the first person Hal saw was his brother, and the sight of that patrician face made human by disgust relieved Hal's headache in part. Life was harsh, life was cruel, but here was weary waiting Edward, that boon of comic relief. Edward demanded to know where the devil he had been, and Hal answered, I've been visiting the widows and orphans. Oh, said Edward, and while I sit in this hole and stew, what's that you've got under your arm? Hal looked at the bundle. It's a souvenir of one of the widows, he said, and unrolled the garments and spread them out before his brother's puzzled eyes. A lady named Mrs. Swajka gave them to me. They belonged to another lady, Mrs. Zamboni, but she doesn't need them anymore. What have you got to do with them? It seems that Mrs. Zamboni is going to get married again. Hal lowered his voice, confidentially. It's a romance, Edward. It may interest you as an illustration of the manners of these foreign races. She met a man on the street, a fine, fine man, she says, and he gave her a lot of money. So she went and bought herself some new clothes, and she wants to give these widows' weeds to the new man. That's the custom in her country, it seems, her sign that she accepts him as a suitor. Seeing the look of wonderment growing on his brother's face, Hal had to stop for a moment to keep his own face straight. If that man wasn't serious in his intention, Edward, he'll have trouble, for I know Mrs. Zamboni's emotional nature. She'll follow him about everywhere. Hal, that creature is insane! Then Edward looked about him nervously, as if he thought the slavish widow might appear suddenly in the hotel lobby to demonstrate her emotional nature. No, replied Hal. It's just one of those differences in national customs. And suddenly Hal's face gave way. He began to laugh. He laughed, perhaps more loudly, than good form permitted. Edward was much annoyed. There were people in the lobby, and they were staring at him. Cut it out, Hal, he exclaimed. Your fool jokes bore me. But nevertheless, Hal could see uncertainty in his brother's face. Edward recognized those widows' weeds, and how could he be sure about the national customs of that grotesque creature who had pinched him in the ribs on the street? Cut it out, he cried again. Hal, changing his voice suddenly to the Zamboni key, exclaimed. Mr. I got eight children I got to feed, and I don't got no more man, and I don't find no new man for old woman like me. So at last the truth in its full enormity began to dawn upon Edward. His consternation and disgust poured themselves out, and Hal listened, his laughter dying. Edward, he said, you don't take me seriously even yet. Good God, cried the other, I believe you're really insane. You were up there, Edward. You heard what I said to those poor devils, and you actually thought I'd go off with you and forget about them? Edward ignored this. You're really insane, he repeated. You'll get yourself killed in spite of all I can do. But Hal only laughed. Not a chance of it. You should have seen the tea-party manners of the camp-martial. CHAPTER XXVII Edward would have endeavored to carry his brother away forthwith, but there was no train until late at night. So Hal went upstairs, where he found Moylan and Hartman, with Mary Burke and Mrs. Zamboni, all eager to hear his story. As the members of the committee, who had been out to supper, came straggling in, the story was told again and yet again. They were almost as much delighted as the men in Reminitsky's, if only all strikes that had to be called off could be called off as neatly as that. During these outbursts of satisfaction they discussed their future. Moylan was going back to Western City, Hartman to his office in Sheridan, from which he would arrange to send new organizers into North Valley. No doubt Cartwright would turn off many men, those who had made themselves conspicuous during the strike, those who continued to talk union out loud. But such men would have to be replaced. And the union knew through what agencies the company got its hands. The North Valley miners would find themselves mysteriously provided with union literature in their various languages. It would be slipped under their pillows, or into their dinner pales, or the pockets of their coats while they were at work. Also there was propaganda to be carried on among those who were turned away, so that wherever they went they would take the message of unionism. There had been a sympathetic outburst in Borela, how learned, starting quite spontaneously that morning, when the men heard what had happened at North Valley. A score of workers had been fired, and more would probably follow in the morning. Here was a job for the members of the kidnapped committee. From Rafferty, for example, would he care to stay in Pedro for a week or two to meet such men and give them literature and arguments? This offer was welcome, for life looked desolate to the Irish boy at this moment. He was out of a job, his father was a wreck, his family destitute and helpless. They would have to leave their home, of course. There would be no place for any Rafferty in North Valley. Where they would go, God only knew. Tim would become a wonderer, living away from his people, starving himself and sending home his pitiful savings. Hal was watching the boy and reading these thoughts. He, Hal Warner, would play the God out of a machine in this case, and in several others equally pitiful. He had the right to sign his father's name to Chex, a privilege which he believed he could retain, even while undertaking the role of Haroun al-Rashid in a mine disaster. But what about the mine disasters and abortive strikes where there did not happen to be any Haroun al-Rashid at hand? What about those people right in North Valley, who did not happen to have told Hal of their affairs? He perceived that it was only by turning his back and running that he would escape from his adventure with any portion of his self-possession. Truly, this fair-seeming and wonderful civilization was like the floor of a charnel house or a field of battle. Anywhere one drove a spade beneath its surface he uncovered horrors, sights for the eyes and stenches for the nostrils that caused him to turn sick. Here was Rusic, for example. He had a wife and two children and not a dollar in the world. In the year and more that he had worked faithfully and persistently to get out coal for Peter Harrigan, he had never once been able to get ahead of his bill for the necessities of life at old Peter's store. All his belongings in the world could be carried in a bundle on his back, and whether he ever saw these again would depend upon the whim of old Peter's camp-martial and guards. Rusic would take to the road with a ticket purchased by the Union. Perhaps he would find a job and perhaps not. In any case, the best he could hope for in life was to work for some other Harrigan and run into debt at some other company store. There was Hobianish, a Serbian, and Hernandez, a Mexican, of whom the same things were true, except that one had four children and the other six. Bill Warhope had only a wife. Their babies had died, thank heaven, he said. He did not seem to have been much moved by Jim Moylan's pleadings. He was down and out. He would take to the road and beat his way to the east and back to England. They called this a free country. By God, if he were to tell what had happened to him, he could not get an English minor to believe it. How gave these men his real name and address, and made them promised to let him know how they got along? He would help a little, he said. In his mind he was figuring how much he ought to do. How far shall a man go in relieving the starvation about him, or he can enjoy his meals in a well-appointed club? What casualist will work out this problem, telling him the percentage he shall relieve of the starvation he happens personally to know about, the percentage of that which he sees on the streets, the percentage of that about which he reads in government reports on the rise and the cost of living? To what extent is he permitted to close his eyes as he walks along the streets on his way to the club? To what extent is he permitted to avoid reading government reports before going out to dinner dances with his fiancee? Problems such as these, the masters of the higher mathematics have neglected to solve. The wise men of the academies and the holy men of the churches have likewise failed to work out the formulas. And how, trying to obtain them by his crude mental arithmetic, found no satisfaction in the results? End of Section 27 Section 28 Howe wanted a chance to talk to Mary Burke. They had had no intimate talk since the meeting with Jesse Arthur, and now he was going away for a long time. He wanted to find out what plans Mary had for the future, and, more important yet, what was her state of mind. If he had been able to lift this girl from despair, his summer course in practical sociology had not been all a failure. He asked her to go with him to say goodbye to John Edstrom, whom he had not seen since their unceremonious parting at McKellers, when Howe had fled to Percy Harrigan's train. As in the lobby, Howe explained his errand to his waiting brother, who made no comment, but merely remarked that he would follow if Howe had no objection. He did not care to make the acquaintance of the hibernian Joan of Arc, and would not come close enough to interfere with Howe's conversation with the lady. But he wished to do what he could for his brother's protection. So there set out a moonlight procession. First Howe and Mary, then Edward, and then Edward's dinner table companion, the hardware drummer. Howe was embarrassed in beginning his farewell talk with Mary. He had no idea how she felt towards him, and he admitted with a guilty pang that he was a little afraid to find out. He thought it best to be cheerful, so he started to tell her how fine he thought her conduct during the strike. But she did not respond to his remarks, and at last he realized that she was laboring with some thoughts of her own. There's something I got to say to ye, she began suddenly. A couple of days ago I knew how I meant to say it, but now I don't. Well, he laughed, say it as you meant to. No, it was bitter, and now I'm on my knees before ye. Not that I want you to be bitter, said Howe, still laughing, but it's I that ought to be on my knees before you. I didn't accomplish anything, you know. Ye did all ye could, and more than the rest of us. I want ye to know I'll never forget it, but I want ye to hear the other thing, too. She walked on, staring before her, doubling up her hands in agitation. Well, said he, still trying to keep a cheerful tone. Ye remember that day just after the explosion? Ye remember what I said about going away with ye? I take it back. Oh, of course, said he quickly. Ye were distracted, Mary, ye didn't know what ye were saying. No, no, that's not it. But I've changed my mind. I don't mean to throw me self away. I told you you'd see it that way, he said. No man is worth it. Ah, lad, said she, tis the fine soothin' tongue ye have, but I'd rather ye knew the truth, tis that I've seen the other girl, and I hate her. They walked for a bit in silence. Now had sense enough to realize that here was a difficult subject. I don't want to be a prig, Mary, he said gently, but ye'll change your mind about that, too. Ye'll not hate her. Ye'll be sorry for her. She laughed, a raw, harsh laugh. What kind of a joke is that? I know it may seem like one, but it'll come to you some day. You have a wonderful thing to live and fight for, while she—he hesitated a moment, for he was not sure of his own ideas on this subject. She has so many things to learn, and she may never learn them. She'll miss some fine things. I know one of the fine things she does not mean to miss, said Mary grimly. That's Mr. Hal Warner. Even after they had walked again in silence. I want ye to understand me, Mr. Warner. Ah, Mary, he pleaded, don't treat me that way. I'm Joe. All right, she said, Joe ye shall be, to will remind ye of a pretty adventure, being a working man for a few weeks. Well, that's a part of what I have to tell ye. I've got my pride, even if I'm only a poor minor's daughter, and the other day I found out me place. How do you mean, he asked? Ye don't understand, honest? No, honest, he said. Ye're stupid with women, Joe. Ye didn't see what the girl did to me. Twas some kind of a bug I was to her. She was not sure if I was the kind that bites, but she took no chances. She threw me off, like that. And Mary snapped her hand, as one does when troubled with a bug. Ah, now, pleaded Hal, you're not being fair. I'm being just as fair as I've got it in me to be, Joe. I've been off and had it all out. I can see this much, tis not her fault, maybe, tis her class, tis all of ye, the very best of ye, even ye self, Joe Smith. Ye, he replied, Tim Rafferty said that. Tim said too much, but a part of it was true. You think you've come here and been one of us working people. But don't your own sense tell you the difference, as if it was a canyon a million miles across between a poor ignorant creature in a mining camp and a rich man's daughter, a lady? She'd tell me not to be ashamed of poverty. But would ye ever put me by the side of her, for all your fine feelings of friendship for them that's beneath ye? Didn't ye show that at the Minetties? But don't you see, Mary? He made an effort to laugh. I got used to obeying Jesse. I knew her a long time before I knew you. Ah, Joe, you've a kind heart and a pleasant way of speaking. But wouldn't it interest ye to know the real truth? Ye said ye'd come out here to learn the truth. And how, answered in a low voice, Yes, and did not interrupt again. End of Section 28. Section 29. Mary's voice had dropped low, and how thought how rich and warm it was when she was deeply moved. She went on. I lived all me life in mining camps, Joe Smith, and I seen men robbed and beaten and women crying and children hungry. I seen the company like some great wicked beast that eat them up. But I never knew why or what it meant till that day there at the Minetties. I'd read about fine ladies in books, ye see. But I'd never been spoke to by one. I'd never had to swallow one, as ye might say. But there I did, and all at once I seemed to know where the money goes that's rung out of the miners. I saw why people were robbin' us, grindin' the life out of us, for fine ladies like that, to keep them so shinin' and soft. It would not have been so bad if she'd not come just then, with all the men and boys dyin' down in the pits. Dyin' for that soft white skin in those soft white hands, and all those silky things she swished round in. My God, Joe, do ye know what she seemed to me like? Like a smooth, sleek cat that has just eaten up a whole nest full of baby mice, and has the blood of them all over her cheeks. Mary paused, breathing hard. Hal kept silence, and she went on again. I had it out with me self, Joe. I don't want ye to think I'm any better than I am, and I asked me self this question. Is it for the men in the pits that ye hate her with such black murder? Or is it for the one man ye want, and that she's got? And I knew the answer to that. But then I asked me self another question, too. Would ye be like her if ye could? Would ye do what she's doin' right now? Would ye have it on your soul? And as God hears me, Joe, tis the truth I speak. I'd not do it. No, not for the love of any man that ever walked on this earth. She had lifted her clenched fist as she spoke. She let it fall again, and strode on, not even glancing at him. She might try a thousand years, Joe, and ye'd not realize the feelings that come to me there at the Minettis. The shame of it. Not what she done to me, but what she made me in me own eyes. Me, the daughter of a drunken old minor, and her, I don't know what her father is, but she's some sort of princess, and she knows it. And that's the thing that counts, Joe. Tis not that she has so much money, and so many fine things, that she knows how to talk, and I don't, and that her voice is sweet, and mine is ugly, when I'm raging as I am now. No, tis that she's so sure. That's the word I found to say it. She's sure, sure, sure. She has the fine things. She's always had them. She has a right to have them. And I have a right to nothing but trouble. I'm hunted all day by misery and fear. I've lost even the roof over me head. Joe, ye know I've got some temper. I'm not easy to beat down. But when I'd got through being taught me place, I went off and hid me self. I ground me face in the dirt for the black rage of it. I said to me self, tis true. There's something in her better than me. She's some kind of finer creature. Look at these hands. She held them out in the moonlight with a swift, passionate gesture. So she's a right to her man, and I'm a fool to have ever raised me eyes to him. I have to see him go away and crawl back into me leaky old shack. Yes, that's the truth. And when I pointed out to the man, what do you think he says? Why he tells me gently and kindly that I ought to be sorry for her. Christ, did ye ever hear the like of that? There was a long silence. Hal could not have said anything now if he had wished to. He knew that this was what he had come to seek. This was the naked soul of the class war. Now, concluded Mary, with clenched hands and a voice that corresponded, now I've had it out. I'm no slave. I've just as good a right to life as any lady. I know I'll never have it, of course. I'll never wear good clothes, nor live in a decent home, nor have the man I want. But I'll know that I've done something to help free the working people from the shame that's put on them. That's what the strike done for me, Joe. The strike showed me the way. We're beat this time, but somehow it hasn't made the difference ye might think. I'm going to make more strikes before I quit, and they won't all of them be beat. She stopped speaking, and Hal walked beside her, stirred by a conflict of emotions. His vision of her was indeed true. She would make more strikes. He was glad and proud of that. But then came the thought that while she, a girl, was going on with the bitter war, he, a man, would be eating grilled beef steaks at the club. Mary, he said, I'm ashamed of myself. That's not it, Joe. You've no call to be ashamed. You can't help it where you were born. Perhaps not, Mary, but when a man knows he's never paid for any of the things he's enjoyed all his life, surely the least he can do is to be ashamed. I hope you'll try not to hate me as you do the others. I never hated ye, Joe, not for one moment. I tell ye, fair and true, I love ye as much as ever. I can say it, because I'd not have ye now. I've seen the other girl, and I know ye'd never be satisfied with me. I don't know if I ought to say it, but I'm thinking ye'll not be altogether satisfied with her, either. Ye'll be unhappy either way. God help ye. The girl had read deeply into his soul in this last speech, so deeply that Hal could not trust himself to answer. They were passing a street-lamp, and she looked at him, for the first time since they had started on their walk, and saw harassment in his face. A sudden tenderness came into her voice. Joe, she said, you're looking bad. Tis good you're going away from this place. He tried to smile, but the effort was feeble. Joe, she went on, ye asked me to be your friend. Well, I'll be that. And she held out the big, rough hand. He took it. We'll not forget each other, Mary, he said. There was a catch in his voice. Sure, lad, she exclaimed, we'll make another strike some day, just like we did at North Valley. Hal pressed the big hand. But then suddenly, remembering his brother stalking solemnly in the rear, he relinquished the clasp, and failed to say all the fine things he had in his mind. He called himself a rebel, but not enough to be sentimental before Edward. CHAPTER XIII They came to the house where John Edstrom was staying. The laboring man's wife opened the door. In answer to Hal's question, she said, the old gentleman's pretty bad. What's the matter with him? Didn't you know he was hurt? No, Hal. They beat him up, sir, broke his arm, and nearly broke his head. Hal and Mary exclaimed in chorus, who did it, when? We don't know who did it, it was four nights ago. Hal realized it must have happened while he was escaping from McKellar's. Have you had a doctor for him? Yes, sir, but we can't do much, because my man is out of work, and I have the children and the boarders to look after. Hal and Mary ran upstairs. Their old friend lay in darkness, but he recognized their voices and greeted them with a feeble cry. The woman brought a lamp, and they saw him lying on his back, his head done up in bandages, and one arm bound in splints. He looked really desperately bad, his kindly old eyes deep-sunken and haggard, and his face, Hal remembered what Jeff Cotton had called him, that dough-faced old preacher. They got the story of what had happened at the time of Hal's flight to Percy's train. Edstrom had shouted a warning to the fugitives, and set out to run after them, when one of the mine-guards running past him had fetched him a blow over the eye, knocking him down. He had struck his head upon the pavement, and lain there unconscious for many hours. When finally someone had come upon him and summoned a policeman, they had gone through his pockets and found the address of this place where he was staying, written on a scrap of paper. That was all there was to the story, except that Edstrom had refrained from sending to McKellar for help, because he had felt sure they were all working to get the mine open, and he did not feel he had the right to put his troubles upon them. Hal listened to the old man's feeble statements, and there came back to him a surge of that fury which his North Valley experience had generated in him. It was foolish, perhaps, for to knock down an old man who had been making trouble was a comparatively slight exercise of the functions of a mine-guard. But to Hal it seemed the most characteristic of all the outrages he had seen. It was an expression of the company's utter blindness to all that was best in life. This old man, who was so gentle, so patient, who had suffered so much, and not learned to hate, who had kept his faith so true. What did his faith mean to the thugs of the General Fuel Company? What had his philosophy availed him? His saintliness, his hopes for mankind. They had fetched him one swipe as they passed him, and left him lying, alive or dead it was all the same. Hal had got some satisfaction out of his little adventure in widowhood, and some out of Mary's self-victory. Had there, listening to the old man's whispered story, his satisfaction died. He realized again the grim truth about his summer's experience, that the issue of it had been defeat, utter, unqualified defeat. He had caused the bosses a momentary chagrin, but it would not take them many hours to realize that he had really done them a service in calling off the strike for them. They would start the wheels of industry again, and the workers would be just where they had been before Joe Smith came to be stable man and buddy among them. What was all the talk about solidarity, about hope for the future? What would it amount to in the long run, the daily rolling of the wheels of industry? The workers of North Valley would have exactly the right they had always had, the right to be slaves, and if they did not care for that, the right to be martyrs. Mary sat holding the old man's hand and whispering words of passionate sympathy, while Hal got up and paced the tiny attic, all ablaze with anger. He resolved suddenly that he would not go back to western city. He would stay here, and get an honest lawyer to come, and set out to punish the men who were guilty of this outrage. He would test out the law to the limit. If necessary, he would begin a political fight to put an end to coal company rule in this community. He would find someone to write up these conditions. He would raise the money and publish a paper to make them known. Before his surging wrath had spent itself, Hal Warner had actually come out as a candidate for governor, and was overturning the Republican machine, all because an unidentified coal company detective had knocked a dough-faced old miner into the gutter and broken his arm. End of Section 30 Section 31 In the end, of course, Hal had to come down to practical matters. He sat by the bed and told the old man tactfully that his brother had come to see him and had given him some money. This brother had plenty of money, so Edstrom could be taken to the hospital, or, if he preferred, Mary could stay near here and take care of him. They turned to the landlady who had been standing in the doorway. She had three borders in her little home, it seemed, but if Mary could share a bed with the landlady's two children, they might make out. In spite of Hal's protest, Mary accepted this offer. He saw what was in her mind. She would take some of his money because of old Edstrom's need, but she would take just as little as she possibly could. John Edstrom, of course, knew nothing of events since his injury, so Hal told him the story briefly, though without mentioning the transformation which had taken place in the minor's buddy. He told about the part Mary had played in the strike. Trying to entertain the poor old man, he told how he had seen her mounted upon a snow-white horse and wearing a robe of white, soft and lustrous, like Joan of Arc, or the leader of a suffrage parade. Sure, said Mary, he's forever callin' attention to this old dress. Hal looked. She was wearing the same blue calico. There's something mysterious about that dress, said he. It's one of those that you read about in fairy stories, that forever patch themselves and keep themselves new and starchy. A body only needs one dress like that. Sure, lad, she answered, there's no fairies in coal camps unless tis me self that washes it at night and dries it over the stove and irons it next morning. She said this with unwavering cheerfulness, but even the old minor lying in pain on the cot could realize the tragedy of a young girl's having only one old dress in her love-hunting season. He looked at the young couple and saw their evident interest in each other. After the fashion of the old he was disposed to help along the romance. She may need some orange blossoms, he ventured feebly. Go along with ye, laughed Mary, still unwavering. Sure, put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, tis a blossom she is herself, a rose in a mining-camp, and there is a dispute about her in the poetry books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says to gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying. You're mixing me up, said Mary, a while back I was riding on a white horse. I remember, said old Edstrom, not so far back, you were an aunt, Mary. Her face became grave. To jest about her personal tragedy was one thing. To jest about the strike was another. Yes, I remember. You said I'd stay in the line. Ye were wiser than me, Mr. Edstrom. That's one of the things that come with being old, Mary. He moved his gnarled old hand toward hers. You're going on now, he asked. You're a unionist now, Mary? I am that, she answered promptly, her gray eyes shining. There's a saying, said he, once a striker, always a striker. Find a way to get some education for yourself, Mary, and when the big strike comes, you'll be one of those the miners look to. I'll not be here, I know, the young people must take my place. I'll do my part, she answered. Her voice was low, it was a kind of benediction the old man was giving her. The woman had gone downstairs to attend to her children. She came back now to say that there was a gentleman at the door who wanted to know when his brother was coming. Now remembered suddenly, Edward had been pacing up and down all this while, with no company but a hardware drummer. The younger brother's resolve to stay in Pedro had already begun to weaken somewhat, and now it weakened still further. He realized that life is complex, that duty's conflict. He assured the old miner again of his ability to see that he did not suffer from want, and then he bade him farewell for a while. He started out, and Mary went as far as the head of the stairway with him. He took the girl's big, rough hand in his, this time with no one to see. Mary, he said, I want you to know that nothing will make me forget you, and nothing will make me forget the miners. Ah, Joe, she cried, don't let them win you away from us, we need you so bad. I'm going back home for a while, he answered, but you can be sure that no matter what happens in my life I'm going to fight for the working people. When the big strike comes, as we know it's coming in this coal-country, I'll be here to do my share. Sure, lad, she said, looking him bravely in the eye, and good-bye to ye, Joe Smith. Her eyes did not waver, but how noted a catch in her voice, and he found himself with an impulse to take her in his arms. It was very puzzling. He knew he loved Jesse Arthur. He remembered the question Mary had once asked him. Could he be in love with two girls at the same time? It was not in accord with any moral code that had been impressed upon him, but apparently he could. End of Section 31. Section 32. He went out to the street where his brother was pacing up and down in a ferment. The hardware drummer had made another effort to start a conversation, and had been told to go to hell no less. Well, are you through now? Edward demanded, taking out his irritation on Hal. Yes, replied the other, I suppose so. He realized that Edward would not be concerned about Edstrom's broken arm. Then for God's sake, get some clothes on and let's have some food. All right, said Hal, but his answer was listless, and the other looked at him sharply. Even by the moonlight Edward could see the lines in the face of his younger brother, and the hollows around his eyes. For the first time he realized how deeply these experiences were cutting into the boy's soul. You poor kid, he exclaimed, with sudden feeling. But Hal did not answer. He did not want sympathy. He did not want anything. Edward made a gesture of despair. God knows I don't know what to do for you. They started back to the hotel, and on the way Edward cast about in his mind for a harmless subject of conversation. He mentioned that he had foreseen the shutting up of the stores, and had purchased an outfit for his brother. There was no need to thank him, he added grimly. He had no intention of traveling to Western City in company with a hobo. So the young miner had a bath, the first real one in a long time. Never again would it be possible for ladies to say in Hal Warner's presence that the poor might at least keep clean. He had a shave, he trimmed his fingernails and brushed his hair, and dressed himself as a gentleman. In spite of himself he found his cheerfulness partly restored, a strange and wonderful sensation to be dressed once more as a gentleman. He thought of the saying of the old Negro, who liked to stub his toe because it felt so good when it stopped hurting. They went out to find a restaurant, and on the way one last misadventure befell Edward. Hal saw an old miner walking past, and stopped with a cry. Mike! He forgot all at once that he was a gentleman. The old miner forgot it also. He stared for one bewildered moment, then he rushed at Hal and seized him in the hug of a mountain grizzly. My buddy! My buddy! He cried, and gave Hal a prodigious thump on the back. By Judas! And he gave him a thump with the other hand. Hey! You old son of a gun! And he gave him a hairy kiss. But in the very midst of these raptures it dawned over him that there was something wrong about his buddy. He drew back, staring. You got good clothes. You got rich, hey? Evidently the old fellow had heard no rumor concerning Hal's secret. I've been doing pretty well, Hal said. What you work at, hey? I've been working at a strike in North Valley. What's that? You make money working at strike? Hal laughed, but did not explain. What you working at? I work at strike, too, all alone strike. No job? I work two days on Railroad, got busted track up there. Pay me two twenty-five a day, then no more job. Have you tried the mines? What? Me? They got me, all right. I go up to San Jose, pit boss say, get the hell out of here, you old groucher. You don't get no more jobs in this district. Hal looked Mike over, and saw that his dirty old face was drawn and white, belying the feeble cheerfulness of his words. We're going to have something to eat, he said. Won't you come with us? Sure thing, said Mike with a lacrity. I go easy on Grubb now. Hal introduced Mr. Edward Warner, who said, how do you do? He accepted gingerly the callus paw which the old slovak held out to him, but he could not keep the look of irritation from his face. His patience was utterly exhausted. He had hoped to find a decent restaurant and have some real food, but now, of course, he could not enjoy anything with this old gobbler in front of him. They entered an all-night lunch room, where Hal and Mike ordered cheese, sandwiches, and milk, and Edward sat and wondered at his brother's ability to eat such food. Meantime the two cronies told each other their stories, and old Mike slapped his knee and cried out with delight over Hal's exploits. Oh, you buddy! he exclaimed. Then to Edward. Ain't he a daisy, hey? And he gave Edward a thump on the shoulder. Bye, Judas! They don't beat my buddy! Mike's acoria had last been seen by Hal from the window of the North Valley Jail when he had been distributing the copies of Hal's signature, and Bud Adams had taken him in charge. The mine-guard had marched him into a shed in back of the powerhouse, where he had found Couser and Kalevac, two other fellows who had been arrested while helping in the distribution. Mike detailed the experience with his usual animation. Hey, Mr. Bud, I say, if you're going to send me down Canyon, I want to get my things. You go to hell for your things, says he, and then I say, Mr. Bud, I want to get my time. And he says, I give you plenty time right here. And he punched me and threw me over. Then he grabbed me up again and pulled me outside. And I see big automobile waiting. And I say, holy Judas, I get ride in automobile. Here I am, old fellow, fifty-seven years old, never been an automobile ride all my days. I think always I die and never get in automobile ride. We go down Canyon, and I look round and see them mountains and feel nice cool wind in my face. And I say, bully for you, Mr. Bud, I don't never forget this automobile. I don't have such good time any day all my life. And he say, shut your face, you old whop. Then we come out on prairie. We go up in black hills, and they stop and say, get out here, you sons of guns. And they leave us there all alone. They say, you come back again, we catch you, and we rip the guts out of you. They go away fast, and we got to walk seven hours, us fellers, before we come to a house. But I don't mind that. I beg some grub, and then I got job mending track. Only I don't find out if you get out of jail. And I think maybe I lose my buddy and never see him no more. Here the old man stopped, gazing affectionately at Howe. I write you letter to North Valley, but I don't hear nothing. And I got to walk all the way on railroad track to look for you. How was it? Howe wondered. He had encountered naked horror in this coal country, yet here he was, not entirely glad at the thought of leaving it. He would miss old Mike Secoria, his hairy kiss and his grisly bear hug. He struck the old man dumb by pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his hand. Also he gave him the address of Edstrom and Mary, and a note to Johann Hartmann, who might use him to work among the slo-box who came down into the town. Howe explained that he had to go back to Western City that night, but that he would never forget his old friend, and would see that he had a good job. He was trying to figure out some occupation for the old man on his father's country place, a pet grizzly. Crane time came, and the long line of dark sleepers rolled in by the depot platform. It was late after midnight, but nevertheless there was old Mike. He was in awe of Howe now, with his fine clothes and his twenty-dollar bills, but nevertheless under stress of his emotion he gave him one more hug and one more hairy kiss. Good-bye, my buddy, he cried. You come back, my buddy. I don't forget, my buddy. And when the train began to move he waved his ragged cap and ran along the platform to get a last glimpse to call a last farewell. When Howe turned into the car it was with more than a trace of moisture in his eyes. End of Section 32. End of Book 4. From previous experiences the writer has learned that many people, reading a novel such as King Cole, desire to be informed as to whether it is true to fact. They write to ask if the book is meant to be so taken. They ask for evidence to convince themselves and others. Having answered thousands of such letters in the course of his life, it seems to the author the part of common sense to answer some of them in advance. King Cole is a picture of the life of the workers in unorganized labor camps in many parts of America. The writer has avoided naming a definite place for the reason that such conditions are to be found as far apart as West Virginia, Alabama, Michigan, Minnesota, and Colorado. Most of the details of his picture were gathered in the last-name state, which the writer visited on three occasions during and just after the Great Cole Strike of 1913-14. The book gives a true picture of conditions and events observed by him at this time. Practically all the characters are real persons, and every incident which has social significance is not merely a true incident, but a typical one. The life portrayed in King Cole is the life that is lived today by hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children in this land of the free. The reader who wishes evidence may be accommodated. There was never a strike more investigated than the Colorado Cole Strike. The material about it in the writer's possession cannot be less than eight million words, the greater part of its sworn testimony taken under government supervision. There is, first, the report of the congressional committee, a government document of 3,000 closely printed pages, about two million words, an equal amount of testimony given before the U.S. Commission on Industrial Relations, also a government document, a special report on the Colorado strike prepared for the same commission, a book of 189 pages, supporting every contention of this story, about 400,000 words of testimony given before a committee appointed at the suggestion of the Governor of Colorado, a report made by the Reverend Henry A. Atkinson, who investigated the strike as representative of the Federal Council of the Churches of Christ in America, and of the Social Service Commission of the Congregational Churches, the report of an elaborate investigation by the Colorado State Militia, the bulletins issued by both sides during the controversy, the testimony given at various coroners in quests, and finally articles by different writers to be found in the files of Everybody's Magazine, the Metropolitan Magazine, the Survey, Harper's Weekly, and Collier's Weekly, all during the year 1914. The writer prepared a collection of extracts from these various sources, meaning to publish them in this place. But while the manuscript was in the hands of the publishers, there appeared one document which, in the weight of its authority, seemed to discount all others. A decision was rendered by the Supreme Court of the State of Colorado, in a case which included the most fundamental of the many issues raised in King Cole. It is not often that the writer of a novel of contemporary life is so fortunate as to have the truth of his work passed upon and established by the highest judicial tribunal of the community. In the elections of November 1914, in Juarefano County, Colorado, J. B. Farr, Republican candidate for re-election as sheriff, a person known throughout the Cole country as the King of Juarefano County, was returned as elected by a majority of 329 votes. His rival, the Democratic candidate, contested the election, alleging malconduct, fraud, and corruption. The district court found in Farr's favor and the case was appealed on error to the Supreme Court of the State. On June 21, 1916, after Farr had served nearly the whole of his term of office, the Supreme Court handed down a decision which unseated him and the entire ticket elected with him, finding in favor of the opposition ticket in all cases and upon all grounds charged. The decision is long, about 10,000 words, and its legal technicalities would not interest the reader. It will suffice to reprint the essential paragraphs. The reader is asked to give these paragraphs careful study, considering not merely the specific offense denounced by the court, but its wider implications. The offense was one so unprecedented that the justices of the court, men chosen for their legal learning in the history of offenses, were moved to say, we find no such example of fraud within the books and must seek the letter and spirit of the law in a free government as a scale in which to weigh such conduct. And let it be noted, this crime without a name was not a crime of passion but of policy. It was a crime deliberately planned and carried out by profit seeking corporations of enormous power. Let the reader imagine the psychology of the men of great wealth who ordered this crime as a means of keeping and increasing their wealth. Let him realize what must be the attitude of such men to their helpless workers, and then let him ask himself whether there is any act portrayed in King Cole which men of such character would shrink from ordering. The court decision first gives an outline of the case, using for the most part the statements of the counsel for the defendant far, so that for practical purposes the following may be taken as the Cole Company's own account of their domain. Round the shaft of each mine are clustered the tipple, the mine office, the shops, sheds and outbuildings, and huddled close by, within a stone's throw, cottages of the miners built on the land of and owned by the mining company. All the dwellers in the camp are employees of the mine. There is no other industry. This is the camp. Of the eight closed camps it appears that practically the same conditions existed in all of them, and those conditions were in general that members of the United Mine Workers of America, their organizers or agitators, were prevented from coming into the camps so far as it was possible to keep them out, and to this end guards were stationed about them. Of the eight closed camps, one of them, Walson, was, and at the time of the trial, still was, enclosed by a fence erected at the beginning of the strike in October 1913. Rouse and Cameron were partly but never entirely enclosed by fences. It is admitted that all persons entering these camps and precincts were required by the companies to have passes, and it is contended that this was an industrial necessity. The court then goes on as follows. The Federal troops entered the district in May of 1914, and the testimony is in agreement that no serious acts of violence occurred thereafter, and that order was preserved up to and subsequent to the election and to the time of this trial. It was under this condition that in July 1914 the Board of County Commissioners changed certain of the election precincts so as to constitute each of such camps an election precinct, and with but one exception where a few ranches were included, these precincts were made to conform to the fences and lines around each camp, protected by fences in some instances, and with armed guards in all cases. Thus each election precinct by this unparalleled act of the commissioners was placed exclusively within and upon the private grounds and under the private control of a coal corporation, which autocratically declared who should and who should not enter upon the territory of this political entity of the state, so purposely bounded by the county commissioners. With but one exception all the lands and buildings within each of these election precincts as so created were owned or controlled by the coal corporations. Every person resident within such precincts was an employee of these private corporations or their allied companies, with the single exception. Every judge, clerk, or officer of election with the exception of a saloon keeper and partner of FAR was an employee of the coal companies. The polling places were upon the grounds and in the buildings of these companies. The registration lists were kept within the private offices or buildings of such companies and used and treated as their private property. Thus were the public election districts and the public election machinery turned over to the absolute domination and imperial control of private coal corporations, and used by them as absolutely and privately as were their minds, to and for their own private purposes and upon which public territory no man might enter for either public or private purpose, save and accept by the express permission of these private corporations. This right to determine who should enter such so called election precincts appears from the record to have been exercised as against all classes, merchants, tradesmen, or what not, and whether the business of such person was public or private. Indeed it appears that in one instance the governor and adjutant general of the state while on official business were denied admission to one of these closed camps, and that on the day of election the Democratic Watchers and Challengers for Walson Mine precinct, one of which was nearly the Democratic candidate for sheriff, were forced to seek and secure a detail of federal soldiers to escort them into the precinct and to the polls, and that such soldiers remained as such guard during the day and a part of the night. But if there was any doubt concerning the condition of the closed camps and precincts, and the exclusion of representatives of the Democratic Party from discussing the issues of the campaign within the precincts comprising the closed camps, it is entirely removed by the testimony of the witness Weitzel for contestee FAR. He testified that he was a resident of Pueblo and was manager of the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, that Rouse, Lester, Ideal, Cameron, Walson, Pictu, and McNally are camps under his jurisdiction, that he had general charge of the camps and that there was no company official in Colorado's superior to him in this respect except the president, that the superintendent and other employees are under his supervision, that the federal troops came about the first of May 1914 and continued until January 1915, that in all those camps he tried to keep out the people who were antagonistic to the company's interests, that it was private property and so treated by his company, that through him the company and its officials assumed to exercise authority as to who might or who might not enter, that if persons could assure or satisfy the man at the gate or the superintendent that they were not connected with the United Mine Workers or in their employ as agitators, they were let into the camp, that no one we were fighting against got in for social intercourse or any other, that he and officials under him assumed to pass upon the question of whether or not any person coming there came for the purpose of agitation, that Mr. Mitchell, the chairman of the Democratic Committee as he recalled it, was identified with the agitators, ran a newspaper and was connected either directly or indirectly with the United Mine Workers, that Mr. Nealy, Democratic candidate for sheriff, was identified with the strikers and that he would be considered as an objectionable character, that when the federal troops came they restored peace and normal conditions, there was no rioting after that, there was no fear on the part of the company when the federal soldiers were here except fear of agitation, asked if he guarded the camp against discussion against the espousal of the cause of the company, he replied we didn't encourage it, the company would not encourage organizers to come into the camp no matter how peacefully they conducted themselves, that the company did not permit men to come into the camp to discuss with the employees certain principles or to carry on arguments with them or to appeal to their reason or to discuss with them things along reasonable lines because it was known from experience that if they were allowed to come in they would resort to threats of violence, they might not resort to any violence at the time, but it might result in the people becoming frightened and leaving and they were anxious to hold their employees, he was asked whether or not one had business there depended upon the decision of the official in charge, he replied that the superintendent probably would inquire of him what his business was, that anyone that far asked for a permit to enter the camp would likely get it, there was but one attempt to hold a political meeting in the closed precincts, Joseph Patterson who attempted to hold this meeting testifies concerning it as follows, was at a political meeting at Oakview had been a warm personal friend of Mr. Jones the assistant superintendent of the Oakview mine and had written him a letter asking the courtesy of holding a political meeting on Saturday evening received a letter that he could hold such meeting on the day previous to the meeting witness received a phone message from the assistant superintendent in which the latter inquired whether witness was coming up there to cause any trouble and witness replied certainly not and if the superintendent felt that way they would not come, had advised the superintendent that he and others were going to hold a political meeting for the democratic party, Jones the superintendent stated that witness should come to the office that night before he went to the school house for the purpose of the meeting, when witness arrived at the meeting there were about six or eight English speaking people and a dozen to fourteen Mexicans, the superintendent Mr. Morgan and Mr. Price were outside of the door most of the time, witness noticed that the first few fellows that came toward the school house the superintendent stopped and talked with them and they turned back to the camp, this happened several times, as soon as they talked with Morgan they turned back, after he saw that, witness went into the school house and said that it was no use to hold any meeting, that it seemed that nobody was allowed to come, this meeting was supposed to be in a public school house on the company property, had to get permission from the superintendent of the Oakview mining company to hold said political meeting, it appears that the number of registered voters in the closed precincts was very largely in excess of the number of votes cast, and this of itself was sufficient to demand an open and fair investigation as to the qualifications of the alleged voters, it appears from the testimony that in these closed precincts many of those who voted were unable to speak or read the English language and that in numerous instances the election judges assisted such by marking the ballots for them in violation of the law, again it appears that the ballots were printed so that the decision here goes on to explain in detail a device whereby the ballot was so printed that voting could be controlled with the help of a card device, thus such voters were not choosing candidates but under the direction of the companies were simply placing the cross where they found the particular letter R on the ballot, so that the ballot was not an expression of opinion or judgment, not an intelligent exercise of suffrage, but plainly a dictated coal company vote, as much so as if the agents of these companies had marked the ballots without the intervention of the voter, no more fraudulent and infamous prostitution of the ballot is conceivable. Council contend that the closed precincts were an industrial necessity, and for such reason the conduct of the coal companies during the campaign was justified, however such conduct may be viewed when confined to the private property of such corporations in their private operation, the fact remains that there is no justification when they were dealing with such territory after it had been dedicated to a public use, and particularly involving the right of the people to exercise their duties and powers as electors in a popular government. The fact appears that the members of the board of county commissioners and all other county officers were Republicans, and as stated by council for the contestees, the success of the Republican candidates was considered by the coal companies vital to their interests. The close relationship of the coal companies and the Republican officials and candidates appears to have been so marked both before and during the campaign as to justify the conclusion that such officers regarded their duty to the coal companies as paramount to their duty to the public service. To say that the closed precincts were not so created to suit the convenience and interests of these corporations, or that they were not so formed with the advice and consent of these corporations, is to discredit human intelligence and to deny human experience. The plain purpose of the formation of the new precincts was that the coal companies might have opportunity to conduct and control the elections therein, just as such elections were conducted. The irresistible conclusion is that these closed precincts were so formed by the county commissioners with the connivance of the representatives of the coal companies, if not by their express command. There can be no free, open, and fair election as contemplated by the Constitution, where private industrial corporations so throttle public opinion, deny the free exercise of choice by sovereign electors, dictate and control all election officers, prohibit public discussion of public questions, and imperially command what citizens may and what citizens may not peacefully and for lawful purposes enter upon election or public territory. We find no such example of fraud within the books, and must seek the letter and spirit of the law in a free government as a scale in which to weigh such conduct. The denial of the right of peaceful assemblage can have been for no other purpose than to influence the election. There was no disturbance in any of these precincts after they were created, up to the time of the election and up to the time of this trial. The federal troops were present at all times to preserve the peace and to protect life and property. There was no reason to anticipate any disturbance. Therefore, this bold denial was an inexcusable and corrupt violation of the natural and inalienable rights of the citizens. The defense relies not upon conflicting evidence, but upon the contention that the conduct of the election was justified as an industrial necessity. We have heard much in this state in recent years as to the denial of inherent and constitutional rights of citizens being justified by military necessity. But this, we believe, is the first time in our experience when the violation of the fundamental rights of free men has been attempted to be justified by the plea of industrial necessity. Even if we were to concede that there may be some palliation in the plea of military necessity on the theory that such acts purport to be acts of the government itself through its military arm and with the purpose of preserving the public peace and safety, yet that a private corporation with its privately armed forces may violate the most sacred right of the citizenship of the state and find lawful excuse in the plea of private industrial necessity, savers too much of anarchy to find approval by courts of justice. This case clearly comes within another exception to the rule, in that it is plain that the findings were influenced by the bias and prejudice of the trial judge. A careful reading of the record discloses the rejection by the court of so much palpably pertinent and competent testimony offered by the contestors as to force the conclusion that the trial judge was influenced by bias and prejudice to the extent at least charged in the application for a change of venue and sufficient in itself to justify a reversal of judgment. For the foregoing reasons the judgment of the court in each case before us is reversed, and the entire poll in the said precincts of Niggerhead, Ravenwood, Walson Mine, Oakview, Pryor, Rouse, and Cameron is annulled and held for naught, and the election in each of said precincts is hereby set aside. This leaves a substantial and unquestioned majority for each of the contestors in the county, and which entitles each contestor to be declared elected to the office for which he was a candidate. We find further that J. B. Farr, the defendant in error, was not and is not the duly elected sheriff of Huarfano County, and that E. L. Neely, the plaintiff in error, was and is the duly elected sheriff of said county. It is therefore ordered that the said county and that the said E. L. Neely, immediately and upon qualification as required by law, enter and discharge the duties of the said office of sheriff of Huarfano County. So much for the court opinion upon coal camp politics. In relation there to, the writer has only one comment to offer. Let the reader not drop the matter with the idea that because one set of corrupt officials have been turned out of office in one American county, therefore justice has been vindicated and there is no longer need to be concerned about the conditions portrayed in King Cole. The defeat of the King of Huarfano County is but one step in a long road which the minors of Colorado have to travel if ever they are to be free men. The industrial power of the great corporations remains untouched by this decision and this power is greater than any political power ever wielded by the government of Huarfano County or even of the state of Colorado. This industrial power is a deep far spreading root and so long as it is allowed to thrive it will send up again and again the poisonous plant of political malconduct, fraud and corruption. The citizens and workers of such industrial communities, whether in Colorado, in West Virginia, Alabama, Michigan or Minnesota, in the Chicago stockyards, the steel mills of Pittsburgh, the woolen mills of Lawrence, or the silk mills of Paterson will find that they have neither peace nor freedom until they have abolished the system of production for profit and established in the field of industry what they are supposed to have already in the field of politics, a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Note, on the day that the author finished the reading of the Proofs of King Cole, the following item appeared in his daily newspaper. Colorado Mine Workers Ask Leave to Strike, by A.P. Nightwire, Denver, Colorado, June 14. Officers of the United Mine Workers, representing members of that organization employed by the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, have telegraphed their national officers asking permission to strike. At the morning session, a resolution was adopted expressing disapprobation of the action of J. F. Wellborn, president of the fuel company, for failure to attend the meeting, which was a part of the peace program to prevent industrial differences in the state during the war. The grievances of the men, according to John MacLennan, spokesman for them, center about the operation of the so-called Rockefeller Plan at the mines. MacLennan said the failure of Mr. Wellborn to attend the meeting and discuss these grievances with the men precipitated the strike agitation. The End. End of King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Recording by Michelle Harris.