 Book two, sections four through six, of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book two, the serfs of King Cole. Section four. The talk went on, wishing to draw the old man out, how spoke of various troubles of the minors, and at last he suggested that the remedy might be found in a union. Adam's dark eyes studied him, and then turned to Mary. Joe's all right, said the girl quickly, you can trust him. Edstrom made no direct answer to this, but remarked that he had once been in a strike. He was a marked man now, and could only stay in the camp so long as he attended strictly to his own affairs. The part he had played in the big strike had never been forgotten. The bosses had let him work again, partly because they had needed him at a rush time, and partly because the pit boss happened to be a personal friend. Tell him about the big strike, said Mary, he's new in this district. The old man had apparently accepted Mary's word for how's good faith, for he began to narrate those terrible events which were a whispered tradition of the camps. There had been a mighty effort of ten thousand slaves for freedom, and it had been crushed with utter ruthlessness. Ever since these mines had been started, the operators had controlled the local powers of government, and now, in the emergency, they had brought in the state militia as well, and used it, frankly, to drive the strikers back to work. They had seized the leaders and active men, and thrown them into jail without trial or charges. When the jails would hold no more, they kept some two hundred in an open stockade called a bullpen, and finally they loaded them into freight cars, took them at night out of the state, and dumped them off in the midst of the desert without food or water. John Edstrom had been one of these men. He told how one of his sons had been beaten and severely injured in jail, and how another had been kept for weeks in a damp cellar, so that he had come out crippled with rheumatism for life. The officers of the state militia had done these things, and when some of the local authorities were moved to protest, the militia had arrested them. Even the judges of the civil courts had been forbidden to sit under threat of imprisonment. To hell with the Constitution had been the word of the general in command. His subordinate had made famous the saying, No habeas corpus, we'll give them post mortems. Tom Olson had impressed Hal with his self-control, but this old man made an even deeper impression upon him. As he listened, he became humble, touched with awe. Incredible as it might seem, when John Edstrom talked about his cruel experiences, it was without bitterness in his voice, and apparently without any in his heart. Here in the midst of want and desolation, with his family broken and scattered, and the wolf of starvation at his door, he could look back upon the past without hatred of those who had ruined him. Nor was this because he was old and feeble, and had lost the spirit of revolt. It was because he had studied economics, and convinced himself that it was an evil system which blinded men's eyes and poisoned their souls. A better day was coming, he said, when this evil system would be changed, and it would be possible for men to be merciful to one another. At this point in the conversation, Mary Burke gave voice once more to her corroding despair. How could things ever be changed? The bosses were mean-hearted, and the men were cowards and traitors. That left nobody but God to do the changing, and God had left things as they were for such a long time. How was interested to hear how Edstrom dealt with this attitude? Mary, he said, did you ever read about ants in Africa? No, said she. They travel in long columns, millions and millions of them, and when they come to a ditch, the front ones fall in, and more and more of them on top till they fill up the ditch, and the rest cross over. We are ants, Mary. No matter how many go in, cried the girl, none will ever get across, there's no bottom to the ditch. He answered, that's more than any ant can know, Mary. All they know is to go in. They cling to each other's bodies, even in death. They make a bridge, and the rest go over. I'll step one side, she declared fiercely. I'll not throw myself away. You may step one side, answered the other, but you'll step back into line again. I know you better than you know yourself, Mary. There was silence in the little cabin. The winds of an early fall shrilled outside, and life suddenly seemed to howl a stern and merciless thing. He had thought, in his youthful fervor, it would be thrilling to be a revolutionist, but to be an ant, one of millions and millions, to perish in a bottomless ditch, that was something a man could hardly bring himself to face. He looked at the bowed figure of this white-haired toiler, vague in the feeble lamplight, and found himself thinking of Rembrandt's painting, The Visit of Emmaus, the ill-lighted room in the dirty tavern, and the two ragged men, struck dumb by the glow of light about the forehead of their table-companion. It was not fantastic to imagine a glow of light about the forehead of this soft-voiced old man. I never had any hope it would come in my time, the old man was saying gently. I did used to hope my boys might see it, but now I'm not sure even of that, but in all my life I never doubted that someday the working people will cross over to the promised land. They'll no longer be slaves, and what they make won't be wasted by idlers. And take it from one who knows, Mary, for a working man or woman not to have that faith is to have lost the reason for living. Hal decided that it would be safe to trust this man, and told him of his Czech wayman plan. We only want your advice, he explained, remembering Mary's warning. Your sick wife, but the old man answered sadly. She's almost gone, and I'll soon be following, what little strength I have left might as well be used for the cause. End of section four. Section five. This business of conspiracy was grimly real to men whose living came out of coal. But how, even at the most serious moments, continued to find in it the thrill of romance. He had read stories of revolutionists and of the police who hunted them. That such excitements were to be had in Russia, he knew. But if anyone had told him they could be had in his own free America, within a few hours' journey of his home city and his college town, he could not have credited the statement. The evening after his visit to Edstrom, Hal was stopped on the street by his boss, encountering him suddenly Hal started, like a pickpocket who runs into a policeman. Hello, kid, said the pit boss. Hello, Mr. Stone, was the reply. I want to talk to you, said the boss. All right, sir, and then, under his breath, he's got me. Come up to my house, said Stone, and Hal followed, feeling as if handcuffs were already on his wrists. Say, said the man as they walked, I thought you were going to tell me if you'd heard any talk. I haven't heard any, sir. Well, continued Stone, you want to get busy, there are sure to be kickers in every coal-camp. And deep within, Hal drew a sigh of relief. It was a false alarm. They came to the boss's house, and he took a chair on the piazza and motioned Hal to take another. They sat in semi-darkness, and Stone dropped his voice as he began. What I want to talk to you about now is something else, this election. Election, sir? Didn't you know there was one? The congressman in this district died, and there's a special election three weeks from next Tuesday. I see, sir, and Hal chuckled inwardly. He would get the information which Tom Olson had recommended to him. You ain't heard any talk about it? inquired the pit-boss. Nothing at all, sir. I never pay much attention to politics. It ain't in my line. Well, that's the way I like to hear a minor talk, said the pit-boss with heartiness. If they all had sense enough to leave politics to the politicians, they'd be a sight better off. What they need is to tend to their own jobs. Yes, sir, agreed Hal meekly, like I had to tend them mules if I didn't want to get the colic. The boss smiled appreciatively. You've got more sense than most of them. If you'll stand by me, there'll be a chance for you to move up in the world. Thank you, Mr. Stone, said Hal. Give me a chance. Well, now here's this election. Every year they send us a bunch of campaign money to handle. A bit of it might come your way. I could use it, I reckon, said Hal, brightening visibly. What is it you want? There was a pause while Stone puffed on his pipe. He went on in a business-like manner. What I want is somebody to feel things out a bit and let me know the situation. I thought it better not to use the men that generally work for me, but somebody that wouldn't be suspected. On in Sheridan and Pedro, they say the Democrats are making a big stir and the company's worried. I suppose you know the GFC is Republican. I've heard so. You might think a congressman don't have much to do with us, way off in Washington, but it has a bad effect to have them campaigning, telling the men the company's abusing them. So I'd like you just to kind of circulate a bit and start the men on politics and see if any of them have been listening to this McDougal talk. McDougal's this here Democrat, you know? And I want to find out whether they've been sending in literature to this camp or have any agents here. You see, they claim the right to come in and make speeches and all that sort of thing. North Valley's an incorporated town, so they've got the law on their side in a way, and if we shut them out, they make a howl in the papers and it looks bad. So we have to get ahead of them in quiet ways. Fortunately, there ain't any hall in the camp for them to meet in, and we've made a local ordinance against meetings on the street. If they try to bring in circulars, something has to happen to them before they get distributed, see? I see, said Hal. He thought of Tom Olson's propaganda literature. We'll pass the word out. It's the Republican the company wants elected, and you be on the lookout and see how they take it in the camp. That sounds easy enough, said Hal. But tell me, Mr. Stone, why do you bother? Do so many of these wops have votes? It ain't the wops so much. We get them naturalized on purpose. They vote our way for a glass of beer. But the English-speaking men or the foreigners that's been here too long and got too big for their breaches, they're the ones we got to watch. If they get to talk in politics, they don't stop there. The first thing you know, they're listening to union agitators and wanting to run the camp. Oh yes, I see, said Hal, and wondered if his voice sounded right. But the pit boss was concerned with his own troubles. As I told Psy Adams the other day, what I'm looking for is fellows that talk some new lingo, one that nobody will ever understand. But I suppose that would be too easy. There's no way to keep them from learning some English. Hal decided to make use of this opportunity to perfect his education. Surely, Mr. Stone, he remarked, you don't have to count any votes if you don't want to. Well, I'll tell you, replied Stone. It's a question of the easiest way to manage things. When I was superintendent over to Happy Gulch, we didn't waste no time on politics. The company was democratic at that time, and when election night come, we wrote down 400 votes for the democratic candidates. But the first thing we knew, a bunch of fellers was taken into town and got to swear they'd voted the Republican ticket in our camp. The Republican papers were full of it, and some fool judge ordered a recount, and we had to get busy overnight and mark up a new lot of ballots. It gave us a lot of bother. The pit boss laughed, and Hal joined him discreetly. So you see, you have to learn to manage. If there's votes for the wrong candidate in your camp, the fact gets out, and if the returns is too one-sided, there's a lot of grumbling. There's plenty of bosses that don't care, but I learned my lesson that time, and I got my own method. That is not to let any opposition start, see? Yes, I see. Maybe a mind boss has got no right to meddle in politics, but there's one thing he's got to say about, and that is who works in his mind. It's the easiest thing to weed out, weed out. Hal never forgot the motion of beefy hands with which Alec Stone illustrated these words. As he went on, the tones of his voice did not seem so good-natured as usual. The fellows that don't want to vote my way can go somewhere else to do their voting. That's all I got to say on politics. There was a brief pause while Stone puffed on his pipe. Then it may have occurred to him that it was not necessary to go into so much detail in breaking in a political recruit. When he resumed, it was in a good-natured tone of dismissal. That's what you do, kid. Tomorrow you get a sprained wrist so you can't work for a few days, and that'll give you a chance to bum round and hear what the men are saying. Meantime, I'll see you get your wages. That sounds all right, said Hal, but showing only a small part of his satisfaction. The pit boss rose from his chair and knocked the ashes from his pipe. Mind you, I want the goods. I've got other fellows working, and I'm comparing them. For all you know, I may have somebody watching you. Yes, said Hal, and grinned cheerfully. I'll not fail to bear that in mind. End of Section Five. Section Six. The first thing Hal did was to seek out Tom Olson and narrate this experience. The two of them had a merry time over it. I'm the favorite of a boss now, laughed Hal. But the organizer became suddenly serious. Be careful what you do for that fellow. Why? He might use it on you later on. One of the things they try to do, if you make any trouble for them, is to prove that you took money from them, or tried to. But he won't have any proofs. That's my point, don't give him any. If Stone says you've been playing the political game for him, then some fellow might remember that you did ask him about politics, so don't have any marked money on you. Hal laughed. Money doesn't stay on me very long these days, but what shall I say if he asked me for a report? You'd better put your job right through, Joe, so that he won't have time to ask for any report. All right, was the reply. But just the same, I'm going to get all the fun there is being the favorite of a boss. And so, early the next morning, when Hal went to his work, he proceeded to sprain his wrist. He walked about in pain, to the great concern of old Mike, and when finally he decided that he would have to lay off, Mike followed him halfway to the shaft, giving him advice about hot and cold cloths. Leaving the old Slovak to struggle along as best he could alone, Hal went out to bask in the wonderful sunshine of the upper world, and the still more wonderful sunshine of a boss's favor. First he went to his room at Reminitsky's, and tied a strip of old shirt about his wrist and a clean handkerchief on top of that. By this symbol he was entitled to the freedom of the camp and the sympathy of all men, and so he sallied forth. Strolling towards the tipple of number one, he encountered a wiry, quick-moving little man with restless black eyes and a lean, intelligent face. He wore a pair of common miners' jumpers, but even so he was not to be taken for a working man. Everything about him spoke of authority. Morning, Mr. Cartwright, said Hal. Good morning, replied the superintendent, then with a glance at Hal's bandage. You hurt? Yes, sir, just a bit of sprain, but I thought I'd better lay off. Been to the doctor? No, sir, I don't think it's that bad. You'd better go, you never know how bad a sprain is. Right, sir, said Hal, then as the superintendent was passing. Do you think, Mr. Cartwright, that McDougal stands any chance of being elected? I don't know, replied the other, surprised. I hope not, you aren't going to vote for him, are you? Oh no, I'm a Republican, born that way, but I wondered if you'd heard any McDougal talk. Well, I'm hardly the one that would hear it. You take an interest in politics? Yes, sir, in a way. In fact, that's how I came to get this wrist. How's that, in a fight? No, sir, but you see, Mr. Stone wanted me to feel out sentiment in the camp, and he told me I'd better sprain my wrist and lay off. The super, after staring at Hal, could not keep from laughing. Then he looked about him. You want to be careful talking about such things. I thought I could surely trust the superintendent, said Hal, dryly. The other measured him with his keen eyes, and Hal, who was getting the spirit of political democracy, took the liberty of returning the gaze. You're a wide awake young fellow, said Cartwright, at last. Learn the ropes here and make yourself useful, and I'll see you're not passed over. All right, sir, thank you. Maybe you'll be made an election clerk this time. That's worth $3 a day, you know? Very good, sir, and Hal put on his smile again. They tell me you're the mayor of North Valley. I am. And the justice of the peace is a clerk in your store. Well, Mr. Cartwright, if you need a president of the Board of Health or a dog catcher, I'm your man, as soon that is as my risk gets well. And so Hal went on his way. Such joshing on the part of a buddy was, of course, absurdly presumptuous. The superintendent stood looking after him with a puzzled frown upon his face. End of section six. Book two, section seven through eight of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book two, the serfs of King Cole. Section seven. Hal did not look back, but turned in to the company store. North Valley Trading Company read the sign over the door. Within was a Serbian woman, pointing out what she wanted to buy, and two little Lithuanian girls watching the weighing of a pound of sugar. Hal strolled up to the person who was doing the weighing, a middle-aged man with a yellow mustache stained with tobacco juice. Morning, Judge. Huh, was the reply from Silas Adams, justice of the peace in the town of North Valley. Judge said, Hal, what do you think about the election? I don't think about it, said the other, busy way in sugar. Anybody around here going to vote for McDougal? They better not tell me if they are. What, smiled Hal, in this free American Republic? In this part of the free American Republic, a man is free to dig coal, but not to vote for a skunk like McDougal. Then, having tied up the sugar, the JP whittled off a fresh chew from his plug and turned to Hal. Well, you have. Hal purchased half a pound of dried peaches so that he might have an excuse to loiter and be able to keep time with the jaws of the judge. While the order was being filled, he seated himself upon the counter. You know, said he, I used to work in a grocery. That's so, we're at. Peterson and company in American City. Hal had told this so often that he had begun to believe it. Pay pretty good up there? Yes, pretty fair. Then, realizing that he had no idea what would constitute good pay in a grocery, Hal added quickly. Got a bad wrist here. That's so, said the other. He did not show much sociability, but Hal persisted, refusing to believe that anyone in a country store would miss an opening to discuss politics, even with a miner's helper. Tell me, said he, just what is the matter with McDougal? The matter with him, said the judge, is that the company's against him. He looked hard at the young miner. You meddling in politics, he growled. But the young miner's gay brown eyes showed only appreciation of the earlier response, so the JP was tempted into specifying the would-be congressman's vices. Thus conversation started, and pretty soon the others in the store joined in. Bob Johnson, bookkeeper and postmaster, and Jake Pedrovich, the Galician Jew who was a member of the local school board, and knew the words for staple groceries in 15 languages. Hal listened to an exposition of the crimes of the political opposition in Pedro County. Their candidate, McDougal, had come to the state as a tin-horn gambler, yet now he was going around making speeches in churches and talking about the moral sentiment of the community. And him, with a district chairman, keeping three families in Pedro, declared Psi Adams. Well, ventured Hal, if what I hear is true, the Republican chairman isn't a plaster saint. They say he was drunk at the convention. Maybe so, said the JP, but we ain't playin' for the prohibition vote and we ain't playin' for the labor vote tryin' to stir up the riff-raff in these coal camps, promising them high wages and short hours. Don't he know he can't get it for him? But he figures he'll go off to Washington and leave us here to deal with a mess he stirred up. Don't you fret, put in Bob Johnson. He ain't goin' to know Washington. The other two agreed, and Hal ventured again. He says you stuff the ballot boxes. What do you suppose his crowd is doin' in the cities? We got to meet him some way, ain't we? Oh, I see, said Hal naively. You stuff them worse. Sometimes we stuff the boxes and sometimes we stuff the voters. There was an appreciative titter from the others, and the JP was moved to reminiscence. Two years ago I was election clerk over to Sheridan, and we found we'd let him get ahead of us. They had carried the whole state. By God, said Alph, Raymond, we'll show him a trick from the coal counties, and there won't be no recount business either. So we held back our returns till the rest had come in, and when we seen how many votes we needed, we wrote them down, and that settled it. That seems a simple method, remarked Hal. They'll have to get up early to beat Alph. You betcha, said Psy, with the complacency of one of the gang. They call this county the Empire of Raymond. It must be a cinch, said Hal, bein' the sheriff and havin' the naming of so many deputies as they need in these coal camps. Yes, agreed the other, and there's his wholesale liquor business too. If you want a license in Pedro County, you not only vote for Alph, but you pay your bills on time. Must be a fortune in that, remarked Hal, and the judge, the postmaster, and the school commissioner appeared like children, listening to a story of a feast. You betcha. I suppose it takes money to run politics in this county, Hal added. Well, Alph don't put none of it up, you can bet. That's the company's job. This from the judge, and the school commissioner added, DeCoyne in these camps is beer. Oh, I see, laughed Hal. The company's buy Alph's beer and use it to get him votes. Sure thing, said the postmaster. At this moment, he happened to reach into his pocket for a cigar, and Hal observed a silver shield on the breast of his waistcoat. That a deputies badge, he inquired, and then turned to examine the school commissioner's costume. Where's yours? I get mine when election comes, said Jake with a grin. And yours, judge? I'm a justice of the peace, young feller, said Silas, with dignity. Leaning round and observing a bulge on the right hip of the school commissioner, Hal put out his hand towards it. Instinctively, the other moved his hand to the spot. Hal turned to the postmaster. Yours, he asked. Mine's under the counter, grinned Bob. And yours, judge? Mine's in a desk, said the judge. Hal drew a breath. Gee, said he, it's like a steel trap. He managed to keep the laugh on his face, but within he was conscious of other feelings than those of amusement. He was losing that first fine careless rapture with which he had set out to run with the hare and the hounds in North Valley. End of section seven. Section eight. Two days after this beginning of Hal's political career, it was arranged that the workers who were to make a demand for a Czech wayman should meet in the home of Mrs. David. When Mike Secoria came up from the pit that day, Hal took him aside and told him of the gathering. A look of delight came upon the old Slovak's face as he listened. He grabbed his buddy by the shoulders, crying, you mean it? Sure, men it, said Hal. You want to be on the committee to go and see the boss? Plouha bien, cried Mike, which is something dreadful in his own language. By Judas, I pack up my old box again. Hal felt a guilty paying. Should he let this old man into the thing? You think you'll have to move out of camp, he asked. Move out of state this time, move back to old country, maybe. And Hal realized that he could not stop him now, even if he wanted to. The old fellow was so much excited that he hardly ate any supper, and his buddy was afraid to leave him alone for fear he might blurt out the news. It had been agreed that those who attended the meeting should come one by one and by different routes. Hal was one of the first to arrive, and he saw that the shades of the house had been drawn, and the lamps turned low. He entered by the back door where Big Jack David stood on guard. Big Jack, who had been a member of the South Wales Federation at home, made sure of Hal's identity, and then passed him in without a word. Inside was Mike, the first on hand. Mrs. David, a little black-eyed woman with a never-ceasing tongue, was bustling about putting things in order. She was so nervous that she could not sit still. This couple had come from their birthplace only a year or so ago, and had brought all their wedding presents to their new home, pictures and bric-a-brac and linen. It was the prettiest home Hal had so far been in, and Mrs. David was risking it deliberately because of her indignation that her husband had had to forswear his union in order to get work in America. The young Italian rovetta came, then old John Edstrom. There being not chairs enough in the house, Mrs. David had set some boxes against the wall, covering them with cloth, and Hal noticed that each person took one of these boxes, leaving the chairs for the later comers. Each one, as he came in, would nod to the others, and then silence would fall again. When Mary Burke entered, Hal, divine from her aspect and manner, that she had sunk back into her old mood of pessimism. He felt a momentary resentment. He was so thrilled with this adventure, he wanted everybody else to be thrilled, especially Mary. Like everyone who has not suffered much, he was repelled by a condition of perpetual suffering in another. Of course, Mary had good reasons for her black moods, but she herself considered it necessary to apologize for what she called her complaining. She knew that he wanted her to help encourage the others, but here she was, putting herself in a corner, and watching this wonderful proceeding, as if she had said, I'm an aunt, and I stay in line, but I'll not pretend I have any hope in it. Rosa and Jerry had insisted on coming, in spite of Hal's offer to spare them. After them came the Bulgarian Resmak, then the Polaks Kloosky and Zemirovsky. Hal found these difficult names to remember, but the Polaks were not at all sensitive about this. They would grin good-naturedly while he practiced, nor would they mind if he gave it up and called them Tony and Pete. They were humble men, accustomed all their lives to being driven about. Hal looked from one to another of their bowed forms and toil-worn faces, appearing more than ever somber and mournful in the dim light. He wondered if the cruel persecution which had driven them to protest would suffice to hold them in line. Once a newcomer, having misunderstood the orders, came to the front door and knocked, and Hal noted that everyone started and some rose to their feet in alarm. Again he recognized the atmosphere of novels of Russian revolutionary life. He had to remind himself that these men and women, gathered here like criminals, were merely planning to ask for a right guaranteed them by the law. The last to come was an Austrian miner named Huzar, with whom Olsen had gotten into touch. Then, it being time to begin, everybody looked uneasily at everybody else. Few of them had conspired before, and they did not know quite how to set about it. Olsen, the one who would naturally have been their leader, had deliberately stayed away. They must run this Czech-Weyman affair for themselves. Somebody talk, said Mrs. David at last, and then, as the silence continued, she turned to Hal. You're going to be the Czech-Weyman, you talk. I'm the youngest man here, said Hal, with a smile. Some older fellow talk. But nobody else smiled. Go on, exclaimed Old Mike, and so at last Hal stood up. It was something he was to experience many times in the future. Because he was an American and educated, he was forced into a position of leadership. As I understand it, you people want a Czech-Weyman. Now, they tell me the pay for a Czech-Weyman should be $3 a day. But we've got only seven minors among us, and that's not enough. I will offer to take the job for 25 cents a day from each man, which will make $1.75, less than what I'm getting now as a buddy. If we get 30 men to come in, then I'll take 10 cents a day from each and make the full $3. Does that seem fair? Sure, said Mike, and the others added their assent by word or nod. All right, now there's nobody that works in this mine but knows the men don't get their weight. It would cost the company several hundred dollars a day to give us our weight, and nobody should be so foolish as to imagine they'll do it without a struggle. We've got to make up our minds to stand together. Sure, stand together, cried Mike. No, get Czech-Weyman, exclaimed Jerry pessimistically. Not unless we try, Jerry, said Hal, and Mike thumped his knee. Sure, try and get him too. Right, cried Big Jack, but his little wife was not satisfied with the response of the others. She gave Hal his first lesson in the drilling of these polyglot masses. Talk to them, make them understand you. And she pointed them out one by one with her finger. You, you, Resmot, here, and you, Klawoski, and you, Zam, you other Polish fellow, want Czech-Weyman, want to get all weight, get all our money, understand? Yes, yes. Get committee, go see Super, want Czech-Weyman, understand? Got to have Czech-Weyman, no back down, no scare. No, no scare. Klawoski, who understood some English, explained rapidly to Zamierowski, and Zamierowski, whose head was still plastered where Jeff Cotton's revolver had hit it, nodded eagerly in assent. In spite of his bruises, he would stand by the others and face the boss. This suggested another question. Who's going to do the talking to the boss? You do that, said Mrs. David, to Hal. But I'm the one that's to be paid, it's not for me to talk. No one else can do it right, declared the woman. Sure, got to be American feller, said Mike. But Hal insisted, if he did the talking, it would look as if the Czech-Weyman had been the source of the movement and was engaged in making a good-paying job for himself. There was discussion back and forth until finally John Edstrom spoke up. Put me on the committee. You, said Hal, but you'll be thrown out, and what will your wife do? I think my wife is going to die tonight, said Edstrom simply. He sat with his lips set tightly, looking straight before him. After a pause, he went on. If it isn't tonight, it will be tomorrow, the doctor says, and after that, nothing will matter. I shall have to go down to Pedro to bury her, and if I have to stay, it will make little difference to me, so I might as well do what I can for the rest of you. I've been a minor all my life, and Mr. Cartwright knows it, that might have some weight with him. Let Joe Smith and Sequoria and myself be the ones to go and see him, and the rest of you wait, and don't give up your jobs unless you have to. End of section eight. Book two, sections nine through 11 of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book two, The Serfs of King Cole. Section nine. Having settled the matter of the committee, Hal told the assembly how Alex Stone had asked him to spy upon the men. He thought they should know about it. The bosses might try to use it against him as Olson had warned. They may tell you I'm a traitor, he said. You must trust me. We trust you, exclaimed Mike with fervor, and the others nodded their agreement. All right, Hal answered. You can rest sure of this one thing. If I get on to that tipple, you're going to get your weights. Here, here, cried Big Jack in English fashion, and a murmur ran about the room. They did not dare make much noise, but they made clear that that was what they wanted. Hal sat down and began to unroll the bandage from his wrist. I guess I'm through with this, he said, and explained how he had come to wear it. What? cried old Mike. You fool me like that? And he caught the wrist, and when he had made sure there was no sign of swelling upon it, he shook it so that he almost sprained it really, laughing until the tears ran down his cheeks. You old son of a gun, he exclaimed. Meantime, Kowalski was telling the story to Zamirowski, and Jerry Minetti was explaining it to Resmok in the sort of pigeon English which does duty in the camps. Hal had never seen such real laughter since coming to North Valley. But conspirators cannot lend themselves long to merriment. They came back to business again. It was agreed that the hour for the committee's visit to the superintendent should be quitting time on the morrow. And then John Edstrom spoke, suggesting that they should agree upon their course of action in case they were offered violence. You think there's much chance of that? said someone. Sure there be, cried Mike Secoria. One time in Cedar Mountain we go see boss, say air course blocked. What you think he do them fellers? He hit them one lick in nose, he kicked them three times in behind, he run them out. Well, said Hal, if there's going to be anything like that, we must be ready. What you do, demanded Jerry. It was time for Hal's leadership. If he hits me one lick in the nose, he declared, I'll hit him one lick in the nose, that's all. There was a bit of applause at this. That was the way to talk. Hal tasted the joys of his leadership. But then his fine self confidence met with a sudden check, a lick in the nose of his pride, so to speak. There came a woman's voice from the corner, low and grim. Yes, and get you self killed for all your trouble. He looked towards Mary Burke and saw her vivid face flushed and frowning. What do you mean, he asked, would you have us turn and run away? I would that, said she, rather than have you killed I would. What'll you do if he pulls his gun on you? Would he pull his gun on a committee? Old Mike broke in again. One time in Borela, ain't I told you how I lose my cars? I tell Wayboss somebody steal my cars and he pull gun on me and he say, get the hell off that tipple, you old billy goat. I shoot you full of holes. Among his classmates at college, Hal had been want to argue that the proper way to handle a burglar was to call out to him saying, go ahead old chap and help yourself. There's nothing here I'm willing to get shot for. What was the value of anything a burglar could steal in comparison with a man's own life? And surely one would have thought this was a good time to apply the plausible theory. But for some reason, Hal failed even to remember it. He was going ahead precisely as if a ton of coal per day was the one thing of consequence in life. What shall we do, he asked. We don't want to back out. But even while he asked the question, Hal was realizing that Mary was right. His was the attitude of the leisure class person used to having his own way. But Mary, though she had a temper too, was pointing the lesson of self-control. It was the second time tonight that she had injured his pride. But now he forgave her in his admiration. He had always known that Mary had a mind and could help him. His admiration was increased by what John Edstrom was saying. They must do nothing that would injure the cause of the big union. And so they must resolve to offer no physical resistance no matter what might be done to them. There was vehement argument on the other side. We fight, we fight, declared old Mike, and cried out suddenly as if in anticipation of the pain in his injured nose. You say me stand that? If you fight back, said Edstrom, we'll all get the worst of it. The company will say we started the trouble and put us in the wrong. We've got to make up our mind to rely on moral force. So after more discussion it was agreed. Every man would keep his temper, that is, if he could. So they shook hands all round, pledging themselves to stand firm. But when the meeting was declared adjourned and they stole out one by one into the night, they were a very sober and anxious lot of conspirators. End of section nine. Section 10. How slept but little that night. Amid the sounds of the snoring of eight of Reminitsky's other borders, he lay going over in his mind various things which might happen on the morrow. Some of them were far from pleasant things. He tried to picture himself with a broken nose or with tar and feathers on him. He recalled his theory as to the handling of burglars. The GFC was a burglar of gigantic and terrible proportions. Surely this was a time to call out, help yourself. But instead of doing it, how thought about Edstrom's aunts and wondered at the power which made them stay in line. When morning came, he went up into the mountains where a man may wander and renew his moral force. When the sun had descended behind the mountaintops, he descended also and met Edstrom and Sequoria in front of the company office. They nodded a greeting and Edstrom told how that his wife had died during the day. There being no undertaker in North Valley, he had arranged for a woman friend to take the body down to Pedro so that he might be free for the interview with Cartwright. Howe put his hand on the old man's shoulder but attempted no word of condolence. He saw that Edstrom had faced the trouble and was ready for duty. Come ahead, said the old man, and the three went into the office. While a clerk took their message to the inner office, they stood for a couple of minutes, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other and turning their caps in their hands in the familiar manner of the lowly. At last Mr. Cartwright appeared in the doorway, his small, sparely-built figure eloquent of sharp authority. Well, what's this? he inquired. If you please, said Edstrom, we'd like to speak to you. We've decided, sir, that we want to have a Czech wayman. What? The word came like the snap of a whip. We'd like to have a Czech wayman, sir. There was a moment's silence. Come in here. They filed into the inner office and he shut the door. Now, what's this? Edstrom repeated his words again. What put that notion into your heads? Nothing, sir, only we thought we'd be better satisfied. You think you're not getting your weight? Well, sir, you see, some of the men, we think it would be better if we had the Czech wayman. We're willing to pay for him. Who's this Czech wayman to be? Joe Smith here. Hal braced himself to meet the other's stare. Oh, so it's you, then, after a moment. So that's why you were feeling so gay. Hal was not feeling in the least gay at the moment, but he forbore to say so. There was a silence. Now, why do you fellows want to throw away your money? The superintendent started to argue with them, showing the absurdity of the notion that they could gain anything by such a course. The mine had been running for years on its present system and there had never been any complaint. The idea that a company as big and as responsible as the GFC would stoop to cheat its workers out of a few tons of coal and so on for several minutes. Mr. Cartwright, said Edstrom, when the other had finished. You know I've worked all my life in mines and most of it in this district. I am telling you something I know when I say there is general dissatisfaction throughout these camps because the men feel they are not getting their weight. You say there has been no public complaint. You understand the reason for this. What is the reason? Well, said Edstrom gently, maybe you don't know the reason, but anyway we've decided that we want a Czech wayman. It was evident that the superintendent had been taken by surprise and was uncertain how to meet the issue. You can imagine, he said at last, the company doesn't relish hearing that its men believe it's cheating them. We don't say the company knows anything about it, Mr. Cartwright. It's possible that some people may be taking advantage of us without either the company or yourself having anything to do with it. It's for your protection as well as ours that a Czech wayman is needed. Thank you, said the other, dryly. His tone revealed that he was holding himself in by an effort. Very well, he added at last. That's enough about the matter if your minds are made up. I'll give you my decision later. This was a dismissal and Mike Secoria turned humbly and started to the door, but Edstrom was one of the ants that did not readily step one side and Mike took a glance at him and then stepped back into line in a hurry as if hoping his delinquency had not been noted. If you please, Mr. Cartwright, said Edstrom, we'd like your decision so as to have the Czech wayman start in the morning. What, you're in such a hurry? There's no reason for delay, sir. We've selected our man and we're ready to pay him. Who are the men who are ready to pay him? Just you two? I am not at liberty to name the other men, sir. Oh, so it's a secret movement. In a way, yes, sir. Indeed, said the superintendent ominously, and you don't care what the company thinks about it. It's not that, Mr. Cartwright, but we don't see anything for the company to object to. It's a simple business arrangement. Well, if it seems simple to you, it doesn't to me, snapped the other, and then getting himself in hand. Understand me, the company would not have the least objection to the men making sure of their weights if they really think it's necessary. The company has always been willing to do the right thing. But it's not a matter that can be settled offhand. I will let you know later. Again, they were dismissed, and again, old Mike turned, and Edstrom also. But now another aunt sprang into the ditch. Just when will you be prepared to let the Czech wayman begin work, Mr. Cartwright? Ask how. The superintendent gave him a sharp look, and again it could be seen that he made a strong effort to keep his temper. I'm not prepared to say, he replied. I will let you know as soon as convenient to me. That's all now. And as he spoke, he opened the door, putting something into the action that was a command. Mr. Cartwright, said how, there's no law against our having a Czech wayman, is there? The look which these words drew from the superintendent showed that he knew full well what the law was. Hal accepted this look as an answer and continued. I have been selected by a committee of the men to act as their Czech wayman, and this committee has duly notified the company. That makes me a Czech wayman, I believe, Mr. Cartwright, and so all I have to do is to assume my duties. Without waiting for the superintendent's answer, he walked to the door, followed by his somewhat shocked companions. End of section 10. Section 11. At the meeting on the night before, it had been agreed to spread the news of the Czech wayman movement for the sake of its propaganda value. So now when the three men came out from the office, there was a crowd waiting to know what had happened. Men clamored questions, and each one who got the story would be surrounded by others eager to hear. Hal made his way to the boarding house, and when he had finished his supper, he set out from place to place in the camp, telling the men about the Czech wayman plan and explaining that it was a legal right they were demanding. All this while, old Mike stayed on one side of him and Edstrom on the other. For Tom Olson had insisted strenuously that Hal should not be left alone for a moment. Evidently the bosses had given the same order, for when Hal came out from Reminitsky's, there was Jake Pedrovich, the store clerk, on the fringe of the crowd, and he followed wherever Hal went, doubtless making note of everyone he spoke to. They consulted as to where they were to spend the night. Old Mike was nervous, taking the activities of the spy to mean that they were to be thugged in the darkness. He told horrible stories of that sort of thing. What could be an easier way for the company to settle the matter? They would fix up some story. The world outside would believe they had been killed in a drunken row, perhaps over some woman. This last suggestion especially troubled Hal. He thought of the people at home. No, he must not sleep in the village. And on the other hand he could not go down the canyon for if he once passed the gate, he might not be allowed to repass it. An idea occurred to him. Why not go up the canyon? There was no stockade at the upper end of the village, nothing but wilderness and rocks without even a road. But where we sleep? demanded Old Mike aghast. Outdoors, said Hal. Ploughal biedna, and get the night air into my bones. Do you think you keep the day air in your bones when you sleep inside? laughed Hal. Why don't I, when I shut them windows tight and cover up my bones? Well, risk the night air once, said Hal. It's better than having somebody let it into you with a knife. But that fellow, Pedrovitch, he follow us up canyon too. Yes, but he's only one man and we don't have to fear him. If he went back for others, he'd never be able to find us in the darkness. Edstrom, whose notions of anatomy were not so crude as Mike's, gave his support to this suggestion, so they got their blankets and stumbled up the canyon in the still starlit night. For a while they heard the spy behind them, but finally his footsteps died away, and after they had moved on for some distance, they believed they were safe till daylight. Hal had slept out many a night as a hunter, but it was a new adventure to sleep out as the game. At dawn they rose and shook the dew from their blankets and wiped it from their eyes. Hal was young and saw the glory of the morning while poor Mike Secoria groaned and grumbled over his stiff and aged joints. He thought he had ruined himself forever, but he took courage at Edstrom's mention of coffee and they hurried down to breakfast at their boarding house. Now came a critical time when Hal had to be left by himself. Edstrom was obliged to go down to sea to his wife's funeral, and it was obvious that if Mike's Secoria were to lay off work, he would be providing the boss with an excuse for firing him. The law which provided for a Czech wayman had failed to provide for a Czech wayman's bodyguard. Hal had announced his program in that flash of defiance in Cartwright's office. As soon as work started up, he went to the tipple. Mr. Peters, he said to the tipple boss, I've come to act as Czech wayman. The tipple boss was a man with a big black mustache which made him look like the pictures of Nietzsche. He stared at Hal, frankly, dumbfounded. What the devil? said he. Some of the men have chosen me, Czech wayman, explained Hal in a business-like manner. When their cars come up, I'll see to their weights. You keep off this tipple, young fellow, said Peters. His manner was equally business-like. So the would-be Czech wayman came out and sat on the steps to wait. The tipple was a fairly public place, and he judged he was as safe there as anywhere. Some of the men grinned and winked at him as they went about their work. Several found a chance to whisper words of encouragement. And all morning he sat, like a Protestant, at the palace gates of a Mandarin in China. It was tedious work, but he believed that he would be able to stand it longer than the company. End of section 11. Book II, sections 12 through 14 of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book II, the Serfs of King Cole. Section 12. In the middle of the morning, a man came up to him, Bud Adams, a younger brother of the JP and Jeff Cotton's assistant. Bud was stocky, red-faced, and reputed to be handy with his fists. So Hal rose up warily when he saw him. Hey, you, said Bud, there's a telegram at the office for you. For me? Your name's Joe Smith, ain't it? Yes. Well, that's what it says. Hal considered for a moment. There was no one to be telegraphing Joe Smith. It was only a ruse to get him away. What's in the telegram, he asked. How do I know, said Bud. Where is it from? I don't know that. Well, said Hal. You might bring it to me here. The other's eyes flew open. This was not a revolt, it was a revolution. Who the hell's messenger, Boyd, you think I am? He demanded. Don't the company deliver telegrams? Countered Hal politely. And Bud stood struggling with his human impulses while Hal watched him cautiously. But apparently those who had sent the messenger had given him precise instructions, for he controlled his wrath and turned and strode away. Hal continued his vigil. He had his lunch with him and was prepared to eat alone, understanding the risk that a man would be running who showed sympathy with him. He was surprised, therefore, when Johansson, the giant swede, came and sat down by his side. There also came a young Mexican laborer and a Greek miner. The revolution was spreading. Hal felt sure the company would not let this go on. And sure enough, towards the middle of the afternoon, the tipple-boss came out and beckoned to him. Come here, you! And Hal went in. The way room was a fairly open place, but at one side was a door into an office. This way, said the man. But Hal stopped where he was. This is where the Czech wayman belongs, Mr. Peters. But I want to talk to you. I can hear you, sir. Hal was inside of the men, and he knew that was his only protection. The tipple-boss went back into the office, and a minute later, Hal saw what had been intended. The door opened and Alec Stone came out. He stood for a moment, looking at his political henchman. Then he came up. Kid, he said, in a low voice, you're overdoing this. I didn't intend you to go so far. This is not what you intended, Mr. Stone, answered Hal. The pit-boss came closer yet. What you looking for, kid? What you expect to get out of this? Hal's gaze was unwavering. Experience, he replied. You're feeling smart, sonny, but you'd better stop and realize what you're up against. You ain't going to get away with it, you know. Get that through your head. You ain't going to get away with it. You'd better come in and have a talk with me. There was a silence. Don't you know how it'll be, Smith? These little fires start up, but we put them out. We know how to do it. We've got the machinery. It'll all be forgotten in a week or two, and then where'll you be at? Can't you see? As Hal still made no reply, the other's voice dropped lower. I understand your position. Just give me a nod and it'll be all right. You tell the men that you've watched the weights and that they're all right. They'll be satisfied, and you and me can fix it up later. Mr. Stone said Hal with intense gravity. Am I correct in the impression that you are offering me a bribe? In a flash, the man's self-control vanished. He thrust his huge fist within an inch of Hal's nose and uttered a foul oath. But Hal did not remove his nose from the danger zone, and over the fist a pair of angry brown eyes gazed at the pit-boss. Mr. Stone, you had better realize this situation. I am in dead earnest about this matter, and I don't think it will be safe for you to offer me violence. For a moment or two the man continued to glare at Hal, but it appeared that he, like Bud Adams, had been given instructions. He turned abruptly and strode back into the office. Hal stood for a bit until he had made sure of his composure, after which he strolled over towards the scales. A difficulty had occurred to him for the first time, that he did not know anything about the working of coal scales. But he was given no time to learn. The tipple-boss reappeared. Get out of here, fellow, said he. But you invited me in, remarked Hal mildly. Well, now I invite you out again. And so the protestant resumed his vigil at the Mandarin's palace gates. End of section 12. Section 13. When the quitting whistle blew, Mike Saccoria came quickly to join Hal and hear what had happened. Mike was exultant, for several new men had come up to him and offered to join the Czech Weyman movement. The old fellow was not sure whether this was owing to his own eloquence as a propagandist or to the fine young American buddy he had. But in either case, he was equally proud. He gave Hal a note which had been slipped into his hand and which Hal recognized as coming from Tom Olson. The organizer reported that everyone in the camp was talking Czech Weyman. And so, from a propagandist standpoint, they could count their move a success, no matter what the bosses might do. He added that Hal should have a number of men stay with him that night so as to have witnesses if the company tried to pull off anything. And be careful of the new men, he added. One or two of them are sure to be spies. Hal and Mike discussed their program for the second night. Neither of them were keen for sleeping out again, the old Slovak because of his bones, and Hal because he saw that there were now several spies following them about. At Reminitsky's he spoke to some of those who had offered their support and asked them if they would be willing to spend the night with him in Edstrom's cabin. Not one shrank from this test of sincerity. They all got their blankets and repaired to the place where Hal lied at the lamp and held an impromptu Czech Weyman meeting and, incidentally, entertained himself with a spy hunt. One of the newcomers was a pole named Wojasekowsky. This, on top of Zamierowsky, caused Hal to give up all effort to call the poles by their names. Wojie was an earnest little man with a pathetic, tired face. He explained his presence by the statement that he was sick of being robbed. He would pay his share for a Czech Weyman, and if they fired him, all right, he would move on and to hell with them. After which declaration he rolled up in a blanket and went to snoring on the floor of the cabin. That did not seem to be exactly the conduct of a spy. Another was an Italian named Ferenzena, a dark-browed and sinister-looking fellow who might have served as a villain in any melodrama. He sat against the wall and talked in guttural tones and Hal regarded him with deep suspicion. It was not easy to understand his English, but finally Hal managed to make out the story he was telling, that he was in love with a fanciula, and that the fanciula was playing with him. He had about made up his mind that she was a coquette and not worth bothering with, so he did not care any curses if they sent him down the canyon. Don't fight for fanciula, fight for Czech Weyman, he concluded with a growl. Another volunteer was a Greek laborer, a talkative young chap who had sat with Hal at lunchtime and had given his name as Apostolikus. He entered into fluent conversation with Hal, explaining how much interested he was in the Czech Weyman plan. He wanted to know just what they were going to do, what chance of success they thought they had, who had started the movement and who was in it. Hal's replies took the form of little sermons on working-class solidarity. Each time the man would start to pump him, Hal would explain the importance of the present issue to the miners, how they must stand by one another and make sacrifices for the good of all. After he had talked abstract theories for half an hour, Apostolikus gave up and moved on to Mike Secoria, who, having been given a wink by Hal, talked about scabs and the dreadful things that honest working men would do to them. When finally the Greek grew tired again and lay down on the floor, Hal moved over to Old Mike and whispered that the first name of Apostolikus must be Judas. End of section 13. Section 14. Old Mike went to sleep quickly, but Hal had not worked for several days and had exciting thoughts to keep him awake. He had been lying quiet for a couple of hours when he became aware that someone was moving in the room. There was a lamp burning dimly, and through half-closed eyes he made out one of the men lifting himself to a sitting position. At first he could not be sure which one it was, but finally he recognized the Greek. Hal lay motionless, and after a minute or so he stole another look and saw the man crouching and listening, his hands still on the floor. Through half-opened eyelids Hal continued to steal glimpses while the other rose and tiptoed towards him, stepping carefully over the sleeping forms. Hal did his best to simulate the breathing of sleep, no easy matter with the man stooping over him and a knife thrust as one of the possibilities of the situation. He took the chance, however, and after what seemed an age he felt the man's fingers lightly touch his side. They moved down to his coat pocket. Going to search me, thought Hal, and waited, expecting the hand to travel to other pockets, but after what seemed an interminable period he realized that Apostolikus had risen again and was stepping back to his place. In a minute more he had lain down and all was still in the cabin. Hal's hand moved to the pocket and his fingers slid inside. They touched something which he recognized instantly as a roll of bills. I see, thought he, a frame up, and he laughed to himself, his mind going back to early boyhood, to a dilapidated trunk in the attic of his home, containing storybooks that his father had owned. He could see them now with their worn brown covers and crude pictures. The Luck and Pluck series by Horatio Alger, live or die, rough and ready, et cetera. Hal he had thrilled over the story of the country boy who comes to the city and meets the villain who robs his employer's cash drawer and drops the key of it into the hero's pocket. Evidently someone connected with the general fuel company had read Horatio Alger. Hal realized that he could not be too quick about getting those bills out of his pocket. He thought of returning them to Judas but decided that he would save them for Edstrom who was likely to need money before long. He gave the Greek half an hour to go to sleep. Then with his pocket knife he gently picked out a hole in the cinders of the floor and buried the money as best he could. After which he wormed his way to another place and lay thinking. End of section 14. Book two, sections 15 through 17 of King Cole. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. King Cole by Upton Sinclair. Book two, the serfs of King Cole. Section 15. Would they wait until morning or would they come soon? He was inclined to the ladder-guess so he was only slightly startled when an hour or two later he heard the knob of the cabin door turned. A moment later came a crash and the door was burst open with the shoulder of a heavy man behind it. The room was in confusion in a second. Men sprang to their feet crying out. Others sat up bewildered, still half asleep. The room was bright from an electric torch in the hands of one of the invaders. There's the fellow, cried a voice, which Hal instantly recognized as belonging to Jeff Cotton, the camp marshal. Stick him up there, you, Joe Smith. Hal did not wait to see the glint of the marshal's revolver. There followed a silence. As this drama was being staged for the benefit of the other men, it was necessary to give them time to get thoroughly awake and to get their eyes used to the light. Meantime, Hal stood, his hands in the air. Behind the torch, he could make out the faces of the marshal, Bud Adams, Alex Stone, Jake Pedrovich, and two or three others. Now men, said Cotton, at last, you are some of the fellows that want to check waymen. And this is the man you chose, is that right? There was no answer. I'm going to show you the kind of fellow he is. He came to Mr. Stone here and offered to sell you out. It's a lie, men, said Hal quietly. He took some money for Mr. Stone to sell you out, insisted the marshal. It's a lie, said Hal again. He's got that money now, cried the other. And Hal cried in turn. They are trying to frame something on me, boys. Don't let them fool you. Shut up, commanded the marshal, then to the men. I'll show you, I think he's got that money on him now. Jake, search him. The store clerk advanced. Watch out, boys, exclaimed Hal. They will put something in my pockets. And then to old Mike, who had started angrily forward. It's all right, Mike, let them alone. Jake, take off your coat, ordered Cotton. Roll up your sleeves, show your hands. It was for all the world like the performance of a Presta-digitator. The little Jew took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows. He exhibited his hands to the audience, turning them this way and that. Then, keeping them out in front of him, he came slowly towards Hal, like a hypnotist about to put him to sleep. Watch him, said Cotton. He's got that money on him, I know. Look sharp, cried Hal. If it isn't there, they'll put it there. Keep your hands up, young fellow, commanded the Marshal. Keep back from him there. This last to Mike's acoria and the other spectators, who were pressing nearer, peering over one another's shoulders. It was all very serious at the time, but afterwards, when Hal recalled the scene, he laughed over the grotesque figure of Petrovich, searching his pockets while keeping as far away from him as possible so that everyone might know that the money had actually come out of Hal's pocket. The searcher put his hands first in the inside pockets, then in the pockets of Hal's shirt. Time was needed to build up this climax. Turn around, commanded Cotton, and Hal turned and the Jew went through his trouser pockets. He took out in turn Hal's watch, his comb and mirror, his handkerchief. After examining them and holding them up, he dropped them onto the floor. There was a breathless hush when he came to Hal's purse and proceeded to open it. Thanks to the greed of the company, there was nothing in the purse but some small change. Petrovich closed it and dropped it to the floor. Wait now, he's not through, cried the master of ceremonies. He's got that money somewhere, boys. Did you look in his side pockets, Jake? Not yet, said Jake. Look sharp, cried the Marshal, and everyone craned forward eagerly while Petrovich stooped down on one knee and put his hand into one coat pocket and then into the other. He took his hand out again and the look of dismay upon his face was so obvious that Hal could hardly keep from laughing. It ain't there, he declared. What? cried Cotton and they stared at each other. By God, he's got rid of it. There's no money on me, boys, proclaimed Hal. It's a job they are trying to put over on us. He's hid it, shouted the Marshal. Find it, Jake. Then Petrovich began to search again, swiftly, and with less circumstance. He was not thinking so much about the spectators now as about all that good money gone for nothing. He made Hal take off his coat and ripped open the lining. He unbuttoned the trousers and felt inside. He thrust his fingers down inside Hal's shoes. But there was no money and the searchers were at a standstill. He took $25 for Mr. Stone to sell you out, declared the Marshal. He's managed to get rid of it somehow. Boys, cried Hal, they sent a spy in here and told him to put money on me. He was looking at apostolicus as he spoke. He saw the man start and shrink back. That's him, he's a scab, cried Old Mike. He's got the money on him, I bet. And he made a move towards the Greek. So the camp Marshal realized suddenly that it was time to ring down the curtain on this drama. That's enough of this foolishness, he declared. Bring that fellow along here. And in a flash, a couple of the party had seized Hal's wrists and a third had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Before the miners had time to realize what was happening, they had rushed their prisoner out of the cabin. The quarter of an hour which followed was an uncomfortable one for the would-be Czech waymen. Outside in the darkness, the camp Marshal was free to give vent to his rage and so was Alec Stone. They poured out curses upon him and kicked him and cuffed him as they went along. One of the men who held his wrists twisted his arm until he cried out with pain. Then they cursed him harder and bade him hold his mouth. Down the dark and silent street they went swiftly and into the camp Marshal's office and upstairs to the room which served as the North Valley Jail. Hal was glad enough when they left him here, slamming the iron door behind them. End of Section 15. Section 16. It had been a crude and stupid plot, yet Hal realized that it was adapted to the intelligence of the men for whom it was intended. But for the accident that he had stayed awake, they would have found the money on him and next morning the whole camp would have heard that he had sold out. Of course his immediate friends, the members of the committee would not have believed it, but the mass of the workers would have believed it and so the purpose of Tom Olson's visit to North Valley would have been balked. Throughout the experiences which were to come to him, Hal retained his vivid impression of that adventure. It served to him as a symbol of many things. Just as the bosses had tried to bedevil him to destroy his influence with his followers, so later on he saw them trying to bedevil the labor movement to confuse the intelligence of the whole country. Now Hal was in jail. He went to the window and tried the bars, but found that they had been made for such trials. Then he groped his way about in the darkness, examining his prison, which proved to be a steel cage built inside the walls of an ordinary room. In one corner was a bench and in another corner another bench, somewhat broader, with a mattress upon it. Hal had read a little about jails, enough to cause him to avoid this mattress. He sat upon the bare bench and began to think. It is a fact that there is a peculiar psychology incidental to being in jail. Just as there is a peculiar psychology incidental to straining your back and breaking your hands, loading coal cars in a five-foot vein, and another, and quite different psychology, produced by living at ease off the labors of coal miners. In a jail, you have, first of all, the sense of being an animal. The animal side of your being is emphasized. The animal passions of hatred and fear are called into prominence, and if you are to escape being dominated by them, it can only be by intense and concentrated effort of the mind. So, if you are a thinking man, you do a great deal of thinking in a jail. The days are long and the nights still longer. You have time for all the thoughts you can have. The bench was hard and seemed to grow harder. There was no position in which it could be made to grow soft. Hal got up and paced about, then he lay down for a while, then got up and walked again, and all the while he thought, and all the while the jail psychology was being impressed upon his mind. First, he thought about his immediate problem. What were they going to do to him? The obvious thing would be to put him out of camp and so be done with him, but would they rest content with that in their irritation at the trick he had played? Hal had heard vaguely of that Native American institution, the third degree, but had never had occasion to think of it as a possibility in his own life. What a difference it made to think of it in that way. Hal had told Tom Olson that he would not pledge himself to organize a union, but that he would pledge himself to get a Czech wayman. And Olson had laughed and seemed quite content, apparently assuming that it would come to the same thing. And now it rather seemed that Olson had known when he was talking about. For Hal found his thoughts no longer troubled with fears of labor union domination and walking delegate tyranny. On the contrary, he became suddenly willing for the people of North Valley to have a union and to be as tyrannical as they knew Hal. And in this change, though Hal had no idea of it, he was repeating an experience common among reformers, many of whom begin as mild and benevolent advocates of some obvious bit of justice and under the operation of the jail psychology are made into blazing and determined revolutionists. Eternal spirit of the chainless mind says Byron, greatest in dungeons, liberty thou art. The poet goes on to add that, when thy sons to fetters are confined, then freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. And just as it was in Shalon, so it seemed to be in North Valley, Don came and Hal stood at the window of his cell and heard the whistle blow and saw the workers going to their tasks, the toil-bent, pallid-faced creatures of the underworld, like a file of baboons in the half-light. He waved his hand to them and they stopped and stared and then waved back. He realized that every one of those men must be thinking about his imprisonment and the reason for it. And so the jail psychology was being communicated to them. If any of them cherished distrust of unions or doubt of the need of organization in North Valley, that distrust and that doubt were being dissipated. There was only one thing discouraging about the matter as Hal thought it over. Why should the bosses have left him here in plain sight when they might so easily have put him into an automobile and whisked him down to Pedro before daylight? Was it a sign of the contempt they felt for their slaves? Did they count upon the sight of the prisoner in the window to produce fear instead of resentment? And might it not be that they understood their workers better than the would-be Czech waymen? He recalled Mary Burke's pessimism about them and anxiety gnawed at his soul. And, such as the operation of the jail psychology, he fought against this anxiety. He hated the company for its cynicism. He clenched his hands and set his teeth, desiring to teach the bosses a lesson, to prove to them that their workers were not slaves but men. End of section 16. Section 17. Toward the middle of the morning, Hal heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and a man whom he did not know opened the barred door and set down a pitcher of water and a tin plate with a hunk of bread on it. When he started to leave, Hal spoke, just a minute, please, the other frowned at him. Can you give me any idea how long I am to stay in here? I cannot, said the man. If I'm to be locked up, said Hal, I've certainly a right to know what is the charge against me. Go to blazes, said the other, and slam the door and went down the corridor. Hal went to the window again, and passed the time watching the people who went by. Groups of ragged children gathered, looking up at him, grinning and making signs, until someone appeared below and ordered them away. As time passed, Hal became hungry. The taste of bread eaten alone becomes speedily monotonous, and the taste of water does not relieve it. Nevertheless Hal munched the bread and drank the water and wished for more. The day dragged by, and late in the afternoon the keeper came again with another hunk of bread and another pitcher of water. Listen a moment, said Hal, as the man was turning away. I got nothing to say to you, said the other. I have something to say to you, pleaded Hal. I have read in a book, I forget where, but it was written by some doctor, that white bread does not contain the elements necessary to the sustaining of the human body. Go on, growled the jailer, what you're giving us. I mean, explained Hal, a diet of bread and water is not what I'd choose to live on. What would your choose? The tone suggested that the question was a rhetorical one, but Hal took it in good faith. If I could have some beef steak and mashed potatoes, the door of the cell closed with a slam whose echoes drowned out the rest of that imaginary menu. And so once more Hal sat on the hard bench and munched his hunk of bread and thought jail thoughts. When the quitting whistle blew he stood at the window and saw the groups of his friends once again, and got their covert signals of encouragement. Then darkness fell and another long vigil began. It was late, Hal had no means of telling how late, save that all the lights in the camp were out. He made up his mind that he was in for the night and had settled himself on the floor with his arm for a pillow, and had dozed off to sleep, when suddenly there came a scraping sound against the bars of his window. He set up with a start and heard another sound, unmistakably the rustling of paper. He sprang to the window where by the faint light of the stars he could make out something dangling. He caught at it. It seemed to be an ordinary notebook, such as stenographers use, tied on the end of a pole. Hal looked out, but could see no one. He caught hold of the pole and jerked it as a signal, and then he heard a whisper which he recognized instantly as rovettas. Hello, listen, write your name hundred times in book. I come back, understand? The command was a sufficiently puzzling one, but Hal realized that this was no time for explanations. He answered, yes, and broke the string and took the notebook. There was a pencil attached, with a piece of cloth wrapped around the point to protect it. The pole was withdrawn, and Hal sat on the bench and began to write three or four times on a page, Joe Smith, Joe Smith, Joe Smith. It is not hard to write Joe Smith, even in darkness, and so, while his hand moved, Hal's mind was busy with this mystery. It was fairly to be assumed that his committee did not want his autograph to distribute for a souvenir. They must want it for some vital purpose, to meet some new move of the bosses. The answer to this riddle was not slow in coming. Having failed in their effort to find money on him, the bosses had framed up a letter, which they were exhibiting as having been written by the would-be Czech waymen. His friends wanted his signature to disprove the authenticity of the letter. Hal wrote a free and rapid hand with a generous flourish. He felt sure it would be different from Alex Stone's idea of a working boy's scrawl. His pencil flew on and on, Joe Smith, Joe Smith, page after page, until he was sure that he had written a signature for every minor in the camp, and was beginning on the buddies. Then hearing a whistle outside, he stopped and sprang to the window. Throw it! whispered a voice, and Hal threw it. He saw a form vanish up the street, after which all was quiet again. He listened for a while to see if he had roused his jailer. Then he lay down on the bench, and thought more jail thoughts. CHAPTER XVIII. Morning came, and the mine whistle blew, and Hal stood at the window again. This time he noticed that some of the minors on their way to work had little strips of paper in their hands, which strips they waved conspicuously for him to see. Old Mike Secoria came along, having a whole bunch of strips in his hands which he was distributing to all who would take them. Doubtless he had been warned to proceed secretly, but the excitement of the occasion had been too much for him. He capered about like a young spring lamb, and waved the strips at Hal in plain sight of all the world. Such indiscreet behavior met the return it invited. As Hal watched he saw a stocky figure come striding round the corner, confronting the startled old Slovak. It was Bud Adams, the mine guard, and his hard fists were clenched, and his whole body gathered for a blow. Mike saw him, and was as if suddenly struck with paralysis. His toil-bent shoulders sunk together, and his hands fell to his sides, his fingers opening, and his precious strips of paper fluttering to the ground. Mike stared at Bud like a fascinated rabbit, making no move to protect himself. Hal clutched the bars, with an impulse to leap to his friend's defense. But the expected blow did not fall. The mine guard contented himself with glaring ferociously, and giving an order to the old man. Mike stooped and picked up the papers, the process taking him some time, as he was unable or unwilling to take his eyes off the mine guards. When he got them all in his hands, there came another order, and he gave them up to Bud. After which he fell back a step, and the other followed, his fists still clenched, and a blow seeming about to leap from him every moment. Mike receded another step, and then another, so the two of them backed out of sight around the corner. Men who had been witnesses of this little drama turned and slunk off, and Hal was given no clue as to its outcome. A couple of hours afterwards, Hal's jailer came up, this time without any bread and water. He opened the door and commanded the prisoner to come along. Hal went downstairs and entered Jeff Cotton's office. The camp-martial sat at his desk with a cigar between his teeth. He was writing, and he went on writing until the jailer had gone out and closed the door. Then he turned his revolving chair and crossed his legs, leaning back and looking at the young miner in his dirty blue overalls, his hair tousaled, and his face pale from his period of confinement. The camp-martial's aristocratic face wore a smile. "'Well, young fellow,' said he, "'you've been having a lot of fun in this camp.' "'Pretty fair, thank you,' answered Hal. "'Beat us out all along the line, hey?' Then after a pause. "'Now, tell me, what do you think you're going to get out of it?' "'That's what Alex Stone asked me,' replied Hal. "'I don't think it would do much good to explain. I doubt if you believe in altruism any more than Stone does.' The camp-martial took his cigar from his mouth and flicked off the ashes. His face became serious, and there was a silence while he studied Hal. "'You a union organizer?' he asked at last. "'No,' said Hal. "'You're an educated man. You're no laborer that I know. Who's paying you?' There you are. You don't believe in altruism.' The other blew a ring of smoke across the room. "'Just want to put the company in the hole, hey? Some kind of agitator?' "'I am a minor who wants to be a Czech wayman.' "'Socialist? That depends upon developments here.' "'Well,' said the marshal, "'you're an intelligent chap that I can see. So I'll lay my hand on the table, and you can study it. You're not going to serve as Czech wayman in North Valley nor any other place that the GFC has anything to do with. Nor are you going to have the satisfaction of putting the company in a hole. We're not even going to beat you up and make a martyr of you. I was tempted to do that the other night, but I changed my mind. You might change the bruises on my arm,' suggested Hal in a pleasant voice. "'We're going to offer you the choice of two things,' continued the marshal, without heeding this mild sarcasm. "'Either you will sign a paper admitting that you took the twenty-five dollars from Alex Stone, in which case we will fire you and call it Square, or else we will prove that you took it, in which case we will send you to the pen for five or ten years.'" Do you get that? Now when Hal had applied for the job of Czech wayman, he had been expecting to be thrown out of the camp, and had intended to go, counting his education complete. But here, as he sat and gazed into the marshal's menacing eyes, he decided suddenly that he did not want to leave North Valley. He wanted to stay and take the measure of this gigantic burglar, the General Fuel Company. "'That's a serious threat, Mr. Cotton,' he remarked. "'Do you often do things like that?' "'We do them when we have to,' was the reply. "'Well, it's a novel proposition. Tell me more about it. What will the charge be?' "'I'm not sure about that. We'll put it up to our lawyers. Maybe they'll call it conspiracy, maybe blackmail. They'll make it whatever carries a long enough sentence.' And before I enter my plea, would you mind letting me see the letter I'm supposed to have written?' "'Oh, you've heard about the letter, have you?' said the camp marshal, lifting his eyebrows in mild surprise. He took from his desk a sheet of paper and handed it to Hal, who read, "'Dear Mr. Stone, you don't need to worry about the Czech wayman. Pay me twenty-five dollars, and I will fix it right. Yours true, Joe Smith.' Having taken in the words of the letter, Hal examined the paper, and perceived that his enemies had taken the trouble, not merely to forge a letter in his name, but to have it photographed, to have a cut made of the photograph, and to have it printed. Beyond doubt they had distributed it broadcast in the and all this in a few hours. It was as Olson had said, a regular system to keep the men bedeviled. End of section eighteen. Section nineteen. Hal took a minute or so to ponder the situation. "'Mr. Cotton,' he said, at last, "'I know how to spell better than that. Also my handwriting is a bit more fluent.' There was a trace of a smile about the Marshal's cruel lips. "'I know,' he replied, "'I've not failed to compare them.' "'You have a good Secret Service Department,' said Hal. "'Before you get through, young fellow, you'll discover that our legal department is equally efficient.' "'Well,' said Hal, "'they'll need to be, for I don't see how you can get round the fact that I'm a Czech Wayman chosen according to the law and with a group of the men behind me.' "'If that's what you're counting on,' retorted Cotton, "'you may as well forget it. You've got no group any more.' "'Oh, you've got rid of them? We've got rid of the ring-leaders.' "'Of whom?' That old Billy-Goat-Sacoria, for one. "'You've shipped him?' "'We have.' "'I saw the beginning of that. Where have you sent him?' "'That,' smiled the Marshal, "'is a job for your Secret Service Department.' "'And who else?' "'John Edstrom has gone down to bury his wife. It's not the first time that dough-faced old preacher has made trouble for us, but it'll be the last. You'll find him in Pedro, probably in the poor house.' "'No,' responded Hal quickly, and there came just a touch of elation in his voice. He won't have to go to the poor house at once. You see, I've just sent twenty-five dollars to him.' The camp-martial frowned. "'Really?' "'Then, after a pause. You did have that money on you. I thought that lousy Greek had got away with it.' "'No, your nave was honest, but so was I. I knew Edstrom had been getting short-wait for years, so he was the one person with any right to the money.' This story was untrue, of course. The money was still buried in Edstrom's cabin. But Hal meant for the old miner to have it in the end, and meantime he wanted to throw cotton off the track. "'A clever trick, young man,' said the Marshal, "'but you'll repent it before you're through. It only makes me more determined to put you where you can't do us any harm. You mean in the pen? You understand, of course, it will mean a jury trial. You can get a jury to do what you want?' "'They tell me you've been taking an interest in politics in Pedro County. Haven't you looked into our jury system?' "'No, I haven't got that far.'" The Marshal began blowing rings of smoke again. "'Well, there are some three hundred men on our jury list, and we know them all. You'll find yourself facing a box with Jake Pedrovich as foreman, three company clerks, two of Alf Raymond's saloon keepers, a ranch man with a mortgage held by the company bank, and five Mexicans who have no idea what it's all about but would stick a knife into your back for a drink of whiskey. The district attorney is a politician who favors the miners in his speeches and favors us in his acts. While Judge Denton of the district court is the law partner of Vagelman, our chief counsel, do you get all that?' "'Yes,' said Hal. "'I've heard of the Empire of Raymond. I'm interested to see the machinery. You're quite open about it.' "'Well,' replied the Marshal, "'I want you to know what you're up against. We didn't start this fight, and we're perfectly willing to end it without trouble. All we ask is that you make amends for the mischief you've done us. "'By making amends, you mean I'm to disgrace myself, to tell the men I'm a traitor?' "'Precisely,' said the Marshal. "'I think I'll have a seat while I consider the matter,' said Hal, and he took a chair and stretched out his legs and made himself elaborately comfortable. "'That bench upstairs is frightfully hard,' said he, and smiled mockingly upon the camp Marshal. End of Section 19. Section 20. When this conversation was continued, it was upon a new and unexpected line. "'Cotton,' remarked the prisoner, "'I perceive that you are a man of education. It occurs to me that once upon a time you must have been what the world calls a gentleman.' The blood started into the camp Marshal's face. "'You go to hell,' said he. "'I did not intend to ask questions,' continued Hal. "'I can well understand that you might not care to answer them. My point is that, being an ex-gentleman, you may appreciate certain aspects of this case which would be beyond the understanding of a nigger-driver like stone or an efficiency expert like Cartwright. One gentleman can recognize another, even in a miner's costume. Isn't that so?' Hal paused for an answer, and the Marshal gave him a wary look. "'I suppose so,' he said. "'Well, to begin with, one gentleman does not smoke without inviting another to join him. The man gave another look. Hal thought he was going to consign him to Hades once more, but instead he took a cigar from his vest pocket and held it out. "'No, thank you,' said Hal quietly. "'I do not smoke, but I like to be invited.' There was a pause while the two men measured each other. "'Now, Cotton,' began the prisoner, "'you pictured the scene at my trial. Let me carry on the story for you. You have your case all framed up, your hand-picked jury in the box, and your hand-picked judge on the bench, your hand-picked prosecuting attorney putting through the job. You are ready to send your victim to prison, for an example to the rest of your employees. But suppose that, at the climax of the proceedings, you should make the discovery that your victim is a person who cannot be sent to prison. "'Cannot be sent to prison,' repeated the other. His tone was thoughtful. "'You'll have to explain.' "'Surely, not to a man of your intelligence. Don't you know, Cotton, there are people who cannot be sent to prison?' The camp-martial smoked his cigar for a bit. "'There are some in this county,' said he, but I thought I knew them all. "'Well,' said Hal, "'has it never occurred to you that there might be some in this state?' There followed a long silence. The two men were gazing into each other's eyes, and the more they gazed, the more plainly Hal read uncertainty in the face of the martial. "'Think how embarrassing it would be,' he continued. "'You have your drama all staged, as you did the night before last, only on a larger stage, before a more important audience. And at the De Numeau, you find that, instead of vindicating yourself before the workers in North Valley, you have convicted yourself before the public of the state. You have shown the whole community that you are lawbreakers. Worse than that, you have shown that you are jackasses.' This time the camp-martial gazed so long that his cigar went out. And meantime Hal was lounging in his chair, smiling at him strangely. It was as if a transformation was taking place before the martial's eyes. The miner's jumpers fell away from Hal's figure, and there was a suit of evening clothes in their place. "'Who the devil are you?' cried the man. "'Well now,' laughed Hal. "'You boast of the efficiency of your secret service department. Put them at work upon this problem. A young man, age twenty-one, height five feet ten inches, weight one hundred and fifty-two pounds, eyes brown, hair, chestnut, and rather wavy, manner genial, a favorite with the ladies, at least that's what the society notes say, missing since early in June, supposed to be hunting mountain goats in Mexico. As you know, Cotton, there's only one city in the state that has any society, and in that city there are only twenty-five or thirty families that count. For a secret service department like that of the GFC, that is really too easy.' Again there was a silence until Hal broke it. Your distress is a tribute to your insight. The company is lucky in the fact that one of its camp-martials happens to be an ex-gentleman. Again the other flushed. "'Well, by God,' he said, half to himself, and then making a last effort to hold his bluff. Your kidding me.' "'Kidding, as you call it, is one of the favorite occupations of society, Cotton. A good part of our intercourse consists of it, at least among the younger set.' Suddenly the marshal rose. "'Say,' he demanded. "'Would you mind going back upstairs for a few minutes?' Hal could not restrain his laughter at this. I should mind it very much, he said. I have been on a bread-and-water diet for thirty-six hours, and I should like very much to get out and have a breath of fresh air.' "'But,' said the other, lamely, I've got to send you up there.' "'That's another matter,' replied Hal. If you send me, I'll go, but it's your look-out. You've kept me here without legal authority, with no charge against me, and without giving me an opportunity to see counsel. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you are liable criminally for that, and the company is liable civilly. That is your own affair, of course. I only want to make clear my position. When you ask me would I mind stepping upstairs, I answer that I would mind very much indeed.' The camp-martial stood for a bit, chewing nervously on his extinct cigar. Then he went to the door. "'Hey, Gus,' he called, Hal's jailer appeared, and cotton whispered to him, and he went away again. I'm telling him to get you some food, and you can sit and eat it here. Will that suit you better?' "'It depends,' said Hal, making the most of the situation. Are you inviting me as your prisoner or as your guest?' "'Oh, come off,' said the other. But I have to know my legal status. It will be of importance to my lawyers.' "'Be my guest,' said the camp-martial. But when a guest has eaten, he is free to go out, if he wishes to. I will let you know about that before you get through. Well be quick, I'm a rapid eater. You'll promise you won't go away before that?' "'If I do,' was Hal's laughing reply, it will be only to my place of business. You can look for me at the tipple, Cotton.' End of Section 20.