Gordon did not go over, but simply telephoned to the superintendent to close the shaft houses, shut down the engines, put out the fires, and let things rest, at the same time saying that he would hold the superintendent and the bosses responsible for the safety of the plant.

The men were disappointed, as the days went by, that the owner made no effort to induce them to resume work. They had believed that he would at once accede to their demand, and that they would go back to work with the tax removed. This, however, was not his plan. Weeks pa.s.sed and the men became restless. They frequented the saloons more generally, spent their remaining money for liquor, and went into debt as much as they were permitted for more liquor. They became noisy and quarrelsome. The few men who were opposed to the strike could make no headway against public opinion. These men held aloof from the saloons, husbanded their money, and confined themselves as much as possible to their own houses.

Things had gone on in this way for six weeks. The men grew more and more restless and more dissipated. Again the walking delegate came to encourage them to hold out. Mounted on an empty coal car, he made an inflammatory speech to the men, advising them not only to hold out against the owner, but also to prevent the employment of any other help.

If this should not prove sufficient, he advised them to wreck the mining property and to fire the mine,--anything to bring the owner to terms.

Jack and Jarvis went for a long walk one day, and their route took them near Gordonville. Seeing the men collected in such numbers around a coal car, they approached, and heard the last half of this inflammatory speech. As the walking delegate finished, Jack jumped up on the car, and said:--

"McGinnis has had his say; now, men, let me have mine. There are always two sides to a question. You have heard one, let me give you the other.

I am a delegate, self-appointed, from the amalgamated Order of Thinkers, and I want you to listen to our view of this strike,--and of all strikes. I want you also to think a little as well as to listen.

"You have been led into this position by a man whose sole business is to foment discords between working-men and their employers. The moment these discords cease, that moment this man loses his job and must work or starve like the rest of you. He is, therefore, an interested party, and he is more than likely to be bia.s.sed by what seems to be his interest. He has made no argument; he has simply a.s.serted things which are not true, and played upon your sympathies, emotions, and pa.s.sions, by the use of the stale war-cries--'oppression,' 'down-trodden working-man,' 'bloated bond-holders,' and, most foolish of all, 'the conflict between Capital and Labor.' You have not thought this matter out for yourselves at all. That is why I ask you to join hands for a little while with the Order of Thinkers and see if there is not some good way out of this dilemma. McGinnis said that the Company has no right to charge you for keeping your tools sharp. In one sense this is true. You have a perfect right to work with dull tools, if you wish to; you have the right to sharpen your own tools; and you also have the right to hire any one else to do it for you. You work 'by the ton,' you own your pickaxes and shovels from handle to blade, and you have the right to do with them as you please.

"There are three hundred of you who use tools; you each pay ten cents a week to the Company for keeping them sharp,--that is, in round numbers, $1500 a year. There are two smiths at work at $50 a month (that is $1200), and a helper at $25 a month ($300 more), making just $1500 paid by the Company in wages. If you will think this matter out, you will see that there is a dead loss to the Company of the coal used, the wear and tear of the instruments, and the interest, taxes, insurance, and degeneration of the plant. Is the Company under obligation to lose this money for you? Not at all! The Company does this as an accommodation and a gratuity to you, but not as a duty. Just as much coal would be taken from the Gordon mine if your tools were never sharpened, only it would require more men, and you would earn less money apiece. You could not get this sharpening done at private shops so cheaply, and you cannot do it yourselves. You have no more right to ask the Company to do this work for nothing than you have to ask it to buy your tools for you. It would be just as sensible for you to strike because the Company did not send each of you ten cents' worth of ice-cream every Sunday morning, as it is for you to go out on this matter of sharpening tools.

"But, suppose the Company were in duty bound to do this thing for you, and suppose it should refuse; would that be a good reason for quitting work? Not by any means! You are earning an average of $2 a day,--nearly $16,000 a month. You've 'been out' six weeks. If you gain your point, it will take you fifteen years to make up what you've already lost. If you have the sense which G.o.d gives geese, you will see that you can't afford this sort of thing.

"But the end is not yet. You are likely to stay out six weeks longer, and each six weeks adds another fifteen years to your struggle to catch up with your losses. Is this a load which thinking people would impose upon themselves? Not much! You will lose your battle, for your strike is badly timed. It seems to be the fate of strikes to be badly timed; they usually occur when, on account of hard times or over-supply, the employers would rather stop paying wages than not. That's the case now.

Four months of coal is in yards or on cars, and it's an absolute benefit to the Company to turn seventy or eighty thousand dollars of dead product into live money. Don't deceive yourselves with the hope that you are distressing the owner by your foolish strike; you are putting money into his pockets while your families suffer for food. There is no great principle at stake to make your conduct seem n.o.ble and to call forth sympathy for your suffering,--only foolishness and the blind following of a demagogue whose living depends upon your folly.

"McGinnis talked to you about the conflict between capital and labor.

That is all rot. There is not and there cannot be such a conflict. Labor makes capital, and without capital there would be no object in labor.

They are mutually dependent upon each other, and there can be no quarrel between them, for neither could exist after the death of the other. The capitalist is only a laborer who has saved a part of his wages, --either in his generation or in some preceding one. Any man with a sound mind and a sound body can become a capitalist. When the laborer has saved one dollar he is a capitalist,--he has money to lend at interest or to invest in something that will bring a return. The second dollar is easier saved than the first, and every dollar saved is earning something on its own account. All persons who have money to invest or to lend are capitalists. Of course, some are great and some are small, but all are independent, for they have more than they need for immediate personal use.

"I am going to tell you how you may all become capitalists; but first I want to point out your real enemies. The employer is not your enemy, capital is not your enemy, but the saloonkeeper is,--and the most deadly enemy you can possibly have. In that fringe of shanties over yonder live the powers that keep you down; there are the foes that degrade you and your families, forcing you to live little better than wild beasts. Your food is poor, your clothing is in rags, your children are without shoes, your homes are desolate, there are no schools and no social life. Year follows year in dreary monotone, and you finally die, and your neighbors thrust you underground and have an end of you. Misery and wretchedness fill the measure of your days, and you are forgotten.

"This dull, brutish condition is self-imposed, and to what end? That some dozen harpies may fatten on your flesh; that your labor may give them leisure; that your suffering may give them pleasure; that your sweat may cool their brows, and your money fill their tills!

"What do you get in return? Whiskey, to poison your bodies and pervert your minds; whiskey, to make you fierce beasts or dull brutes; whiskey, to make your eyes red and your hands unsteady; whiskey, to make your homes sties and yourselves fit occupants for them; whiskey, to make you beat your wives and children; whiskey, to cast you into the gutter, the most loathsome animal in all the world. This is cheap whiskey, but it costs you dear. All that makes life worth living, all that raises man above the brute, and all the hope of a future life, are freely given for this poor whiskey. The man who sells it to you robs you of your money and also of your manhood. You pay him ten times (often twenty times) as much as it cost him, and yet he poses as your friend.

"I'm not going to say anything against beer, for I don't think good beer is very likely to hurt a man. I will say this, however,--you pay more than twice what it is worth. This is the point I would make: beer is a food of some value, and it should be put on a food basis in price. It isn't more than half as valuable as milk, and it shouldn't cost more than half as much. You can have good beer at three or four cents a quart, if you will let whiskey alone.

"I promised to tell you how to become capitalists, each and every one of you, and I'll keep my word if you'll listen to me a little longer."

While Jack had been speaking, some of the men had shown considerable interest and had gradually crowded their way nearer to the boy. Thirty or forty Cornishmen and perhaps as many others of the better sort were close to the car, and seemed anxious to hear what he had to say. Back of these, however, were the large majority of the miners and the hangers-on at the saloons, who did not wish to hear, and did not mean that others should hear, what the boy had to say. Led by McGinnis and the saloon-keepers, they had kept up such a row that it had been impossible for any one, except those quite near the car, to hear at all. Now they determined to stop the talk and to bounce the boy. They made a vigorous rush for the car with shouts and uplifted hands.

A gigantic Cornishman mounted the car, and said, in a voice that could easily be heard above the shouting of the crowd:--

"Wait--wait a bit, men! The lad is a brave one, and ye maun own to that!

There be small 'urt in words, and mebbe 'e 'ave tole a bit truth. Me and me mates 'ere are minded to give un a chance. If ye men don't want to 'ear 'im, you don't 'ave to stay; but don't 'e dare touchen with a finger, or, by G.o.d! Tom Carkeek will kick the stuffin' out en 'e!"

This was enough to prevent any overt act, for Tom Carkeek was the champion wrestler in all that county; he was fiercer than fire when roused, and he would be backed by every Cornishman on the job.

Jack went on with his talk. "The 'Order of Thinkers' claim that you men and all of your cla.s.s spend one-third of your entire wages for whiskey and beer. There are exceptions, but the figures will hold good. I am going to call the amount of your wages spent in this way, one-fourth.

The yearly pay-roll of this mine is, in round numbers, $200,000. Fifty thousand of this goes into the hands of those harpies, who grow rich as you grow poor. You are surprised at these figures, and yet they are too small. I counted the saloons over there, and I find there are eleven of them. Divide $50,000 into eleven parts, and you would give each saloon less than $5000 a year as a gross business. Not one of those places can run on the legitimate percentage of a business which does not amount to more than that. Do you suppose these men are here from charitable motives or for their health? Not at all. They are here to make money, and they do it. Five or six hundred dollars is all they pay for the vile stuff for which they charge you $5000. They rob you of manhood and money alike.

"Now, what would be the result if you struck on these robbers? I will tell you. In the first place, you would save $50,000 each year, and you would be better men in every way for so doing. You would earn more money, and your children would wear shoes and go to school. That would be much, and well worth while; but that is not the best of it. I will make a proposition to you, and I will promise that it shall be carried out on my side exactly as I state it.

"This is a n.o.ble property. In ten years it has paid its owner $500,000,--$50,000 a year. It is sure to go on in this way under good management. I offer, in the name of the owner, to bond this property to you for $300,000 for five years at six per cent. Of course this is an unusual opportunity. The owner has grown rich out of it, and he is now willing to retire and give others a chance. His offer to you is to sell the mine for half its value, and, at the same time, to give you five years in which to pay for it. I will add something to this proposition, for I feel certain that he will agree to it. It is this: Mr. Gordon will build and equip a small brewery on this property, in which good, wholesome beer can be made for you at one cent a gla.s.s. You are to pay for the brewery in the same way that you pay for the other property; it will cost $25,000. This will make $325,000 which you are to pay during the next five years. How? Let me tell you.

"The property will give you a net income of $40,000 or $50,000, and you will save $50,000 more when you give up whiskey and get your beer for less than one-fourth of what it now costs you. The general store at which you have always traded will be run in your interests, and all that you buy will be cheaper. The market will be a cooperative one, which will furnish you meat, fattened on your own land, at the lowest price.

Your fruit and vegetables will come from these broad acres, which will be yours and will cost you but little. You will earn more money because you will be sober and industrious, and your money will purchase more because you will deal without a middleman. You will be better clothed, better fed, and better men. Your wives will take new interest in life, and there will be carpets on your floors, curtains at your windows, vegetables behind your cottages, and flowers in front of them.

"All these things you will have with the money you are now earning, and at the same time you will be changing from the laborer to the capitalist. The mine gives you a profit of $40,000, and you save one-fourth of your wages, which makes $50,000 more,--$90,000 in all.

What are you to do with this? Less than $20,000 will cover the interest.

You will have $70,000 to pay on the princ.i.p.al. This will reduce the interest for the next year more than $3000. Each year you can do as well, and by the time the five years have pa.s.sed you will own the mine, the land, the brewery, the store, the market, and this blessed blacksmith shop about which you have had so much fuss, and also a bank with a paid-up capital of $50,000. You are capitalists, every one of you, at the end of five years, if you wish to be, and if you are willing to give up the single item,--whiskey.

"Do you like the plan? Do you like the prospect? Turn it over and see what objections you can find. If you are willing to go into it, come over to Four Oaks some day and we will go more into details. McGinnis gave you one side of the picture: I have given you the other. You are at liberty to follow whichever you please."

Jack and Jarvis jumped off the car and struck out for home. Carkeek and his Cornishmen followed the lads until they were well clear of the village, to protect them, and then Carkeek said:--"Me and the others like for to hear 'e talk, mister, and we like for to 'ear 'e talk more."

"All right, Goliath," said Jack. "Come over any time and we'll make plans."

CHAPTER XLII

THE RIOT

Two days later the boys, returning from the city, were met by Jane and Jessie in the big carriage to be driven home. Halfway to Four Oaks the carriage suddenly halted, and a confused murmur of angry voices gave warning of trouble. Jack opened the door and stood upon the step.

"Fifteen or twenty drunken miners block the way,--they are holding the horses," said he.

"Let me out; I'll soon clear the road," said Jarvis, trying to force his way past Jack.

"Sit still, Hercules; I am slower to wrath than you are. Let me talk to them," and Jack took three or four steps forward, followed closely by Jarvis.

"Well, men, what do you want? There is no good in stopping a carriage on the highroad."

"We want work and money and bread," said a great bearded Hun who was nearest to Jack.

"This is no way to get either. We have no work to offer, there is no bread in the carriage, and not much money. You are dead wrong in this business, and you are likely to get into trouble. I can make some allowance when I remember the bad whiskey that is in you, but you must get out of our way; the road is public and we have the right to use it."

"Not until you have paid toll," said the Hun.

"That's the rooster who said we drank whiskey and didn't work. He's the fellow who would rob a poor man of his liberty," came a voice in the crowd.

"Knock his block off!"

"Break his back!"

"Let me at him," and a score of other friendly offers came from the drunken crowd.

Jack stood steadily looking at the ruffians, his blue eyes growing black with excitement and his hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his reefer.

"Slowly, men, slowly," said he. "If you want me, you may have me. There are ladies in the carriage; let them go on; I'll stay with you as long as you like. You are brave men, and you have no quarrel with ladies."