But something of the living through is marked on the man. Here he stands toward the close of the century that bore him--a tall, spare, red-haired, flint-visaged, wire-knit man, prematurely middle-aging in late youth. Under his high white forehead are restless blue eyes--deep, clear, challenging, combative blue eyes, a big nose protrudes from under the eyes that marks a willful, uncompromising creature and a big strong mouth, not finely cut, but with thick, hard lips, often chapped, that cover large irregular teeth. The face is determined and dogged--almost brutal sometimes when at rest; but when a smile lights it, a charm and grace from another being illumines the solemn countenance and Grant Adams's heart is revealed. The face is Puritan--all Adams, dour New England Adams, and the smile Irish--from the joyous life of Mary Sands.

We may only see the face: here and there on it is the mark of the sculptor's tool: now and then a glare or a smile reveals what deep creases and gashes the winds of the pa.s.sing years have made in the soul behind the mask. Here and there, as a rising strident voice in pa.s.sionate exhortation lifts, we may hear the roar of the narrowing channel into which his life is rushed with augmented force as he hurries forward into his destiny. In that tumult, family, home, ambition, his very child itself that was his first deep wellspring of love, are slipping from him into the torrent. The flood washes about him; his one idea dominates him. He is restless under it--restless even with the employment of the hour. The unions, for which he has been working for more than half a decade, do not satisfy him. His aim is perfection and mortality irritates him, but does not discourage him. For even vanity is slipping from him in the erosion of the waters rushing down their narrowing groove.

But it is only his grim flint face we see; only his high strident, but often melodiously sympathetic voice we hear; only his wiry, lank body with its stump of a right arm that stands before us. The minutes--awful minutes some of them--the hours, painful wrestling hours, the days, doubt-ridden days, and the long monotonous story of the years, we may not know. For the living through of life still escapes us, and only life's tableau of the moment is before us.

Now whatever gloss of gayety Dr. Nesbit might put upon his opinion of Grant Adams and his work in the world, it was evident that the Doctor's opinion of that work was not high. But it was comparatively high; for Harvey's opinion of Grant Adams and his work was abysmal in its depth.

He was running his life on a different motor from the motor which moved Harvey; the town was moving after a centripetal force--every one was for himself, and the devil was ent.i.tled to the hindermost. Grant Adams was centrifugal; he was not considering himself particularly and was shamelessly taking heed of the hindermost which was the devil's by right. And so men said in their hearts, if this man wins, there will be the devil to pay. For Grant was going about the district spreading discontent. He was calling attention to the violation of the laws in the mines; he was calling attention to the need of other laws to further protect the miners and smelter men. He was going about from town to town in the Valley building up the unions and urging the men to demand more wages, either in actual money or in shorter hours, improved labor conditions, and cheaper rent and better houses from the company which housed the families of the workers.

"Why," he asked, "should labor bear the burden of industry and take its leavings?"

"Why," he demanded, "should capital toil not nor spin and be clothed as Solomon in his glory?"

"Why," he argued, "should the profits of toil be used to buy more tools for toil and not more comforts for toil?"

"Why, why--" he challenged Market Street, "is the partnership of society, not a partnership, but a conspiracy?"

Now Market Street had long been wrathful at that persistent Why.

But when it became known that John Dexter had invited Grant Adams to occupy the pulpit of the Congregational Church one Sunday evening to state his case, Market Street's wrath choked it. For several years John Dexter had been preaching sermons that made the choir the only possible theme of conversation between him and Ahab Wright. John Dexter had been crucified a thousand times by the sordid greed of man in Harvey, and had cried out in the wilderness of his pulpit against it; but his cries fell upon deaf ears, or in dumb hearts.

The invitation to Grant to speak at John Dexter's Sunday evening service was more of a challenge to Harvey than Harvey comprehended. But even if the town did not entirely realize the seriousness of the challenge, at least the minister found himself summoned by Market Street to a meeting to discuss the wisdom of his invitation. Whereupon John Dexter accepted the invitation and, girding up his loins, went as a strong man rejoicing to run a race.

To what a judgment seat they summoned John Dexter! First, up spake Commerce. "Dr. Dexter," said Commerce--Commerce always referred to John Dexter as Doctor, though no Doctor was he and he knew it well, "Dr.

Dexter, we feel that your encouragement--hum--uhm--well, your patronage of this man Adams, in his--well, shall we say incendiary--" a harsh word is incendiary, so Commerce stopped and touched its graying side whiskers reverently and patted its immaculate white necktie, and then went on: "--well perhaps indiscreet will do!" With Commerce indeed there is no vast difference between the indiscreet and the incendiary. "--indiscreet agitation against the--well--uhm--the way we have to conduct business, is--is regrettable,--at least regrettable!"

"Why?" interrupted John Dexter sharply, throwing Commerce sadly out of balance. But the Law, which is the palladium of our liberties, answered for Commerce in a slow snarling, "because he is preaching discontent."

"But Mr. Calvin," returned John Dexter quickly, "if any one would come to town preaching discontent to Wright & Perry, showing them how to make more money, to enlarge their profits, to rise among their fellow merchants--would you refuse to give him audience in a pulpit?" The Law did not deign to answer the preacher and then Industry took heart to say, pulling its military goatee vigorously, and clearing its dear old throat for a pa.s.sage at arms: "'Y gory man, there's always been a working cla.s.s and they've always had to work like sixty and get the worst of it, I guess, and they always will--what say? You can't improve on the way the world is made. And when she's made, she's made--what say?

I tell you now, you're wasting your time on that cla.s.s of people."

The antagonists looked into each other's kindly eyes. Industry triumphing in its logic, the minister hunting in his heart for the soft answer that would refute the logic without hurting its author.

"Captain," he said, "there was once a wiser than we who went about preaching a new order, spreading discontent with injustice, whose very mother was of the lowest industrial cla.s.s."

"Yes--and you know what happened to Him," sneered the Courts, which are the keystones of government in the structure of civilization. "And,"

continued the Courts, in a grand and superior voice, "you can't drag business into religion, sir. Religion is one thing and I respect it,"--t.i.tters from the listening angels, "--and business is another thing, and we think, sir, that you are trying to mix the insoluble, and as business men who have our own deep religious convictions--" inaudible guffaws from the angels, "--we feel the sacrilege of asking this blatherskite Adams to speak on any subject in so sacred a place as our consecrated pulpit, sir." Hoa.r.s.e hoots from the angels.

No soft benignity beamed in the preacher's face as he turned to the Courts. "My pulpit, Judge," answered John Dexter sternly, "first of all stands for the gospel of Justice between man and man. It will afford sanctuary for the thief and the Magdalene, but only the penitent thief and the weeping Magdalene!" And John Dexter brought down a resounding fist on the table before him. "I believe that the first duty of religion is to preach shame on the wicked, that they may quit their wickedness, and if," John Dexter's voice rose as he went on, "in the light of our widening intelligence we see that employers are organized wickedly to rob their workers of justice in one way or another, I stand with those who would make the thief disgorge for his own soul's sake, incidentally, but chiefly that justice may come into an evil world and men may not mock the mercy and goodness of G.o.d by pointing at the evil men do unrebuked in His name, and under His servants' noses. My pulpit is a free pulpit, sir. When it is not that, I shall leave it. And even though I do not agree sometimes with a man's message, so long as my pulpit is free, any man who desires to cry stop thief, in the darkness of this world, may lift his voice there, and no man shall say him nay! Have you gentlemen anything further to offer?"

Commerce ceased rubbing its hands. Its alter ego, Business, was obviously getting ready to say something, but was only whistling for the station, and the crowd knew it would be a minute before his stuttering speech should arrive. Patriotism was leaning forward with its hands back of its ears, smiling pleasantly at what he did not understand, and Industry, who saw the strings in which his world was wrapped up for delivery, cut, and the world sprawled in confusion before him by the preacher's defiance, was pulling his military goatee solemnly when Science toddled in, white-clad, pink-faced, smoking his short pipe and clicking his cane rather more snappily than usual. He saw that he had punctuated an embarra.s.sed situation. Only Religion and Patriotism were smiling. Science brought his cane down with a whack and piped out:

"So you are going to muzzle John Dexter, are you--you witch-burning old pharisees. I heard of your meeting, and I just thought I'd come around to the bonfire! What are you trying to do here, anyway?"

At last Business which had been whistling for the station was ready to pull in; so it unloaded itself thus: "We are p-protesting, Doc, at th-th-th-th m-m-m-man Adams--this l-l-labor sk-sk-skate and s-s-socialist occupying J-J-John Dexter's p-pulp-p-pit!"

Science looked at Business a grave moment, then burst out, "What are you all afraid of! Here you are, a lot of grown men with fat bank accounts sitting around in a blue funk because Grant Adams does a little more or less objectionable talking. I don't agree with Grant much more than you do. But you're a lot of old hens, cackling around here because Grant Adams invades the roost to air his views. Let him talk. Let 'em all talk. Talk is cheap; otherwise we wouldn't have free speech." He grinned cynically as he asked, "Haven't you any faith in the Const.i.tution of the fathers? They were smart enough to know that free speech was a safety valve; let 'em blow off. Then go down and organize and vote 'em afterwards according to the dictates of your own conscience. Politics is the antidote for free speech!" The Doctor glared at the Courts, smiled amiably at Business and winked conspicuously at Religion. Religion blushed at the blasphemy and as there seemed to be nothing further before the house the Doctor and John Dexter left the room.

But the honest indignation of Market Street that an agitator should appear in a pulpit--that an agitator for anything, should appear in any pulpit--waxed strong. For it was a.s.sumed that religion had nothing to do with social conduct; religion was solely a matter of individual salvation. Religion was a matter concerned entirely with getting to heaven oneself, and not at all a matter of getting others to heaven except as they took the narrow and individual path. The idea that environment affects character and that society through politics and social and economic inst.i.tutions may change a man's environments and thus affect the characters and the chances for Heaven of whole sections of the population, was an idea which had not been absorbed by Market Street in Harvey. So Market Street raged.

That evening when Grant Adams returned from work he received two significant notes. One was from John Dexter and ran:

"Dear Grant: Fearing that you may hear of the comment my invitation to you to speak in my pulpit is causing and fearing that you may either decide at the last minute not to come or that you will modify your remarks out of consideration for me, I write to say that while of course I may not agree with everything you advocate, yet my pulpit is a free pulpit and I cannot consent that you restrict its freedom in saying your full say as a man, any more than I could consent to have my own freedom restricted. Yours in the faith--J. D."

The other note ran: "Father says to tell you to tone it down. I have delivered his message. I say here is your chance to get the truth where it is most needed, and even if for the most part it falls on stony ground--you still must sow it.--L. N. VD."

Sunday evening saw a large congregation in the pews of the Rev. John Dexter's church. In the front and middle portion of the church were the dwellers on the Hill, those whose lines fell in pleasant places. They were the "Haves" of the town,--conspicuous and highly respectable with rustle of silks and flutter of ribbons.

And back of these sat a score of men and women from South Harvey, the "Have-nots," the dwellers in the dreary valley. There was Denny Hogan, late of the mines, but now of the smelter--with his curly hair plastered over his forehead, and with his wife, she that was Violet Mauling holding a two-year-old baby with sweaty, curly red hair to her breast asleep; there was Ira Dooley, also late of the mines, but now proprietor of a little game of chance over the Hot Dog Saloon; there was Pat McCann, a pit boss and proud of it, with Mrs. McCann--looking her eyes out at Mrs. Nesbit's hat. There was John Jones, in his Sunday best, and Evan Hughes and Tom Williams, the wiry little Welsh miners who had faced death with Grant Adams five years before. They were with him that night at the church with all the pride in him that they could have if he were one of the real n.o.bility, instead of a labor agitator with a little more than local reputation. And there were d.i.c.k and his boy Mugs and the silent Mrs. Bowman and Bennie her youngest and Mary the next to the youngest. And Mrs. Bowman in the South Harvey colony was a person of consequence, for she nodded to the Nesbits and the Mortons and to Laura and to Mrs. Calvin and to all the old settlers of Harvey--rather conspicuously. She had the gratification of noting that South Harvey saw the n.o.bility nod back. With the South Harvey people came Amos Adams in his rough gray clothes and rough gray beard. Jasper Adams, in the highest possible collar, and in the gayest possible sh.e.l.l-pink necktie and under the extremest clothes that it might be possible for the superintendent of a Sunday School to wear, shared a hymnal, when the congregation rose to sing, with the youngest Miss Morton. There were those who thought the singing was merely a duet between young Mr. Adams and the youngest Miss Morton--so much feeling did they put into the music. Mr. Brotherton was so impressed, that he marked young Adams for a tryout at the next funeral where there was a ba.s.s voice needed, making the mental reservation that no one needed to look at the pimples of a boy who could sing like that.

When the congregation sat down after the first hymn John Dexter formally presented Grant Adams to the congregation. The young man rose, walked to the chancel rail and stood for a moment facing his audience without speaking. The congregation saw a tall, strong featured, uncouth man with large nose and a big mouth--clearly masculine and not finely chiselled.

In these features there was something almost coa.r.s.e and earthy; but in the man's eyes and forehead, there lurked the haunting, fleeting shadow of the eternal feminine in his soul. His eyes were deep and blue and tender, and in repose always seemed about to smile, while his forehead, high and broad, topped by a shock of red hair, gave him a kind of intellectual charity that made his whole countenance shine with kindness. Yet his clothes belied the promise of his brow. They were ill-fitting, with an air of Sunday-bestness that gave him an incongruous scarecrow effect. It was easy to see why Market Street was beginning to call him that "Mad Adams." As he lifted his glance from the floor, his eyes met Laura Van Dorn's, then flitted away quickly, and the smile she should have had for her own, he gave to his audience. He began speaking with his arms behind him to hide the crippled arm which was tipped with a gloved iron claw. His voice was low and gentle, yet his hearers felt its strength in reserve.

"I suppose," he began slowly, "every man has his job in the world, and I presume my job seems rather an unnecessary one to some of my friends, and I can hardly blame them. For the a.s.sumption of superiority that it may seem to require upon the whole must be distasteful to them. For as a professional apostle of discontent, urging men to cease the worship of things as they are, I am taking on myself a grave burden--that of leading those who come with me, into something better. In the end perhaps, you will not be proud of me. For my vision may be a delusion.

Time may leave me naked to the cold truth of life, and I may awaken from my dreaming to reality. That is possible. But now I see my course; now I feel the deep call of a duty I cannot resist." He was speaking softly and in hardly more than a conversational tone, with his hand at his side and his gloved claw behind him. He lifted his hand and spoke in a deeper tone.

"I have come to you--to those of you who lead sheltered lives of comfort, amid work and scenes you love, to tell you of your neighbors; to call to you in their name, and in the name of our common G.o.d for help. I have come from the poor--to tell you of their sorrows, to beg of you to come over into Macedonia and help us; for without you we are helpless. True--G.o.d knows how true--the poor outnumber you by ten to one. True, they have the power within them to rise, but their strength is as water in their hands. They need you. They need your neighborly love."

As he spoke something within him, some power of his voice or of his presence played across the congregation like a wind. The wind which at first touched a few who bent forward to hear him, was moving every one.

Faces gradually set in attention. He went on:

"How wonderful is this spirit of life that has come rolling in through the eons, rolling in from some vast illimitable sea of life that we call G.o.d. For ages and ages on this planet life could only give to new life the power to feed and propagate, could only pa.s.s on to new life the heritage of instinct; then another impulse of the outer sea washed in and there came a day when life could imitate, could learn a little, could pa.s.s on to new life some slight power of growth. And then came welling in from the unknown bourne another wave, and lo! life could reason, and G.o.d heard men whisper, Father, and deep called unto deep.

Since then through the long centuries, through the gray ages, life slowly has been rising, slowly coming in from the hidden sea that laves the world. Millions and millions of men are doomed to know nothing of this life that gives us joy; millions are held bound in a social inheritance that keeps them struggling for food, over outworn paths, mere creatures of primal instinct, whose G.o.dhood is taken from them at birth; by you--by you who get what you do not earn from those who earn what they do not get."

He turned to the group near the rear of the room, looked at them and continued:

"The poor need your neighborly sacrifice, and in that neighborly love and sacrifice you will grow in stature more than they. What you give you will keep; what you lose you will gain. The brotherhood you build up will bless and comfort you.

"The poor," he exclaimed pa.s.sionately, "need you, but how, before G.o.d you need them! For only a loving understanding of your neighbors' lives will soften your calloused hearts. Long benumbing hours of grimy work, sordid homes amid daily and hourly scenes of filth and shame!" He leaned forward and cried: "Listen to me, Ahab Wright," and he thrust forward his iron claw toward the merchant while the congregation gasped, "what if you had to strip naked and bathe in a one-roomed hut before your family every night when you came home, dirty and coal-stained from your day's work! the beggar and the harlot and the thief nearby." He moved his accusing claw and the startled eyes of the crowd followed it as it pointed to Daniel Sands and Grant exclaimed: "Listen, Uncle Dan Sands, how would you like to have your daughter see the things the children see who live in your tenements next to the Burned District, which is your property also! Poisoned food, cheap, poisoned air, cheap, poisoned thoughts--all food and air and ideas, the cast-off refuse of your daily lives who live in these sheltered homes. You have a splendid sewer system up here; but it flows into South Harvey and the Valley towns, a great open ravine, because you people sitting here who own the property down there won't tax yourselves to enclose those sewers that poison us!"

A faint--rather dazed smile ran over the congregation like a wraith of smoke. He felt that the smoke proved that he had struck fire. He went on: "Love, great aspiring love of fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, love stifled by fell circ.u.mstance, by cruel events, and love that winces in agony at seeing children and father and brother go down in the muck all around them--that is the heritage of poverty.

"Hear me, Kyle Perry and John Kollander. I know you think poverty is the social punishment of the unfit. But I tell you poverty is not the punishment of the weak. Poverty is a social condition to which millions are doomed and from which only hundreds escape when the doom of birth is sealed. What has Ahab Wright given to Harvey more than James McPherson, who discovered coal here? What has Daniel Sands done for Harvey more than Tom Williams, who has spent his life at hard work mining coal? Is not his coal as valuable as Uncle Daniel's interest? Friends--think of these things!"

The wraith of smoke that had appeared when Grant first began speaking personally to the men of Harvey, in a minute had grown to a surer evidence of fire. The smiling ceased. Angry looks began flashing over the faces before Grant, like darts of flame. And after these looks came a great black cloud of wrath that was as perceptible as a gust of smoke.

He felt that soon the fire would burst forth. But he hurried on with his message: "Poverty is not the social punishment of the weak, I repeat it.

Poverty is a social inheritance of the many, a condition which holds men hard and fast--a condition that you may change, you who have so much.

All this coal and oil and mineral have profited you greatly, oh, men of Harvey. You are rich, Daniel Sands. You are prosperous, Ahab Wright. You have every comfort around you and yours, John Kollander, and you, Joseph Calvin, are rearing your children in luxury compared with d.i.c.k Bowman's children. Hasn't he worked as hard as you? Here are Ira Dooley and Denny Hogan. They started as equals with you up here and have worked as hard and have lived average lives. Yet if their share is a fair share of the earnings of this community, you have an unfair share. How did you get it?" He leaned out over the chancel rail, pointed a bony, accusing finger at the congregation and glared at the eyes before him angrily.

Quickly he recovered his poise but brought his steel claw down on the pulpit beside him with a sharp clash as he cried again, "How did you get it?"

Then it was that the flame of indignation burst forth. It came first in a hiss and another and a third--then a crackling fire of hisses greeted his last sentence. When the hissing calmed, his voice rose slightly. He went on:

"We of the middle cla.s.ses--we have risen above the great ma.s.s below us: we are permitted to learn--a little--to imitate and expand somewhat. But above us, thank G.o.d, is another group in the social organization. Here at the top stand the blessed, privileged few who are the world's prophets and dreamers and seers--they know G.o.d; they drink deep of the rising tide of everlasting life that is booming in, flooding the world with mercy and love and brotherhood; and what they see in one century--and die for disclosing--we all see in the next century and fight to hold it fast!" He stood looking at the floor, then opened wide his glaring eyes, a fanatic's mania blazing in them, lifted his arms and cried with a great voice like a trumpet: "You--you--you who have known G.o.d's mercy and his goodness and his love--why, in the dead Christ's name do you sit here and let the flood of life be dammed away from your brothers, stealing the waters of life like thieves from your brethren by your cruel laws and customs and the chains of social circ.u.mstance!"

They tried to hiss again but he hurried on as one possessed of a demon: "A little love, a little sacrifice, a little practical brotherly care from each of you each day would help. We don't want your alms, we want justice. Thousands of babies--loved just as yours are loved--are slaughtered every month through poisoned food that comes from commercial greed. Thousands of fathers and brothers over this land are killed every year because it is cheaper to kill them than to protect them by machinery guarded and watched. Their blood is upon you--for by your laws, by your middle cla.s.s courts you could stop its flowing. Thousands of mothers die every week from poor housing--you could stop that if you would. They are stopping it by laws in other lands. Millions of girls the world over are led like sheep to shameful lives because of industrial conditions that your vote and voice could change; and yet,"

his voice lost its accusing tone and he spoke gently, even tenderly, "as babies they cuddled in their mothers' arms and roused all the hope and inspired all the love that a soft little body may bring. Millions and millions of mothers who clasp their children to them in hope, must see those children go into life to be broken and crushed by the weight from above."

As Grant was speaking he noticed that Morty Sands was nodding his head off in gorgeous approval. Then without thinking how his words might cut, he cried, "And look at our good friend Morty Sands who enjoys every luxury and is arrayed as the lilies of the field! What does Morty give to society that he can promise the girl who marries him, comfort and ease and all the happiness that physical affluence may bring? And then there sits Mugs Bowman. What can Mugs offer his girl except a life of hard, grinding work, a houseful of children and a death perhaps of slow disease? Yet Mugs must have his houseful of children for they must all work to support Morty. Where is the justice in a society organized like this?

"For Christ's living sake," cried the man as his face glowed in his emotion, "let life wash in from its holy source to these our brothers.