The Coal War (3 page)

“Are you a union man?”

“My father is, you bet! And when there was a strike, they found it out, an' there was nothin' doin' no more. They got a black-list up there, an' if you don't watch out, you get on it an' you don't get no job in none o' them mines.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Otter—what else could he say?

“After that my father was a Norganizer for the union, an' he was in East Creek, an' they found him out, an' they busted his head an' throwed him onto a coal-car. An' that's the way they do you in them camps. If they find you're a Norganizer, maybe they kill you an' stick you under the dirt right where you lie.”

“Is that possible, little boy?”

“Sure thing, it is—you ask Joe Smith here. He was in North Valley, an' he seen it. There was some men wanted him to be check-weighman—'cause you see, the men don't never get their weights. You dig and dig, an' load up a car, an' then the weigh-boss gives you anything he pleases. Maybe some feller steals your cars, but you can't do nothin', 'cause he stands in with the boss, he's one of the fellers that gives him drinks an' keeps on the good side of him, an' maybe tells him lies about the other fellers, an' so he gets a good place, an' he can get out lots o' coal. Maybe the other feller gets a place that's no good a tall, an' he works like the—that is, he works awful hard, an' it's all dead work, gettin' out rock and stuff, an' they don't pay for that a tall. An' when it comes to the end o' the month, the feller gets his pay-check, an' it ain't enough to pay his bill at the store, 'cause prices is high—you have to pay twict what you pay down to Pedro, but you can't go down there to buy nothin', 'cause if the boss finds that out, it's down the canyon with you. They don't let you trade outside, 'cause they want to hog all the money for themselves.”

The round-faced old gentleman's eyes had become as round as his face. He had adjusted his spectacles, in order to stare more closely at this Dago mine-urchin; and when at last there came a pause in this torrent of information, he exclaimed, “Well, well, little man! You seem to know a lot about mining-camps!”

“Sure! I know about them. Why shouldn't I? I lived in 'em all my life.”

“But your life hasn't been so long!”

“I'm seven years old, an' that's enough. I hear all what the men say. When they can't get out o' debt, then they're kickin' all the time. An' they have to pay their rent, an' that's the company's too, an' comes out of your pay! An' if your roof leaks, you can kick, but they tell you to go to—that is, they don't fix it for you. An' if you try to take in a gentleman to board to help pay, then they fire the gentleman, 'cause maybe he left the company boardin'-house, an' they was takin' his board out of his pay, an' no matter how bad the grub was, he hadda stay there. An' they have accidents all the time, they kill you in the mine, but you don't get no damage. They don't sprinkle the mine like they should—my father knows that, 'cause he was a shot-firer an' that's a mighty dangerous job. He was all the time sayin' how he hadda risk his life. But he dassn't say nothin' to the camp-marshal, 'cause if you don't like it, you can go—that is, you go down the canyon. I tell you, that feller Jeff Cotton, that's camp-marshal up to North Valley, he's a terrible feller; he beats the men all the time, an' when he's drunk, he'll shoot you right dead. He's a Norful bad man, Jeff Cotton.”

Mr. Otter was continuing to gaze at the Dago mine-urchin, with a kind of dismayed fascination in his eyes. “Joe Smith”, ex-check-weighman and miner's “buddy”, decided that it was a good time for him to retire into the background. His presence might possibly make the old gentleman self-conscious; distrustful of these torrents of information, so generously poured out from little Dago lips!

But the ex-buddy hovered in the vicinity, keeping watch over the situation. He could see his victim going deeper and deeper into the snare. Having got over his first surprise, the old gentleman began to ask questions. Several times he was observed to laugh; and once he looked horribly shocked, and put his finger to his lips; Hal wondered what particular toad or snake had happened to jump from the Dago lips! But apparently no serious harm had been done; the Dago lips went on moving, and Joe Smith saw the triumph of his dream of social amalgamation. He would make a union propagandist out of the founder and head of the banking-house of Robert Arthur and Sons!

[6]

The time for ice-cream came; and this of course broke up the interview. The old gentleman, wheezing slightly, lifted himself from his big leather arm-chair, and patted Little Jerry on the head; Little Jerry, thus dismissed, looked about for his chief, to make his first report as a Norganizer. But before anything could be said, the second victim made his appearance. Will Wilmerding came in, beaming like Santa Claus, rosy-faced from a ride behind rein-deer. He shook hands with his host and hostess, and with the young ladies, and with all the little boys and girls within reach. He wore a black clerical suit, and a white clerical collar; the latter being hidden by a reddish brown beard, very bushy and stickery, as you discovered when he kissed you, which he frequently did if you were a child. He had blue eyes, a kind of knobby, rough complexion, and a benevolent laugh which had been trained to take in a whole roomful of children.

Presently he espied Hal, and came over to him. “Well, boy! I've been hearing wild tales about your doings. I want to hear about them. Maybe I want to scold you.”

“I'm coming to see you,” said Hal. “It's too long a story for a party.”

The other assented to this. He could not stay very long, anyway; and Hal made note of this remark, and put his wits to work. Somehow, no matter how short his stay, the clergyman must be got into touch with the organizer!

The problem, as it happened, found its own solution. Mr. Wilmerding's profession made it impossible for him to stay even for a few minutes without trying to do something for his fellow-man; and just then ice-cream was being passed, and this is one of the recognized functions of the modern clergy. So here was “Uncle Will”, with a heaping saucer of chocolate and vanilla in each hand, headed straight towards the Dago mine-urchin!

“Will you have some of this, little boy?” he inquired, with his best brotherhood-of-man smile.

Hal was only a few feet away, watching with his heart in his mouth. He saw Little Jerry staring with shining eyes. The crown prince of Italy was forgotten; the union organizer was forgotten; the plain boy was on top. “
Jesus
!” cried Little Jerry.

The two heaping saucers trembled perilously in Mr. Wilmerding's apostolic hands. But then the owner of the hands recovered his self-possession. In his capacity as advocate of high church ritual, he had a rule that no matter where he was, or under what circumstances, when that sacred name was pronounced he made an inclination of the head. So now he inclined his head over the two saucers of chocolate and vanilla.

After which, his obvious duty was to make inquiry. “Where do you come from, little boy?”

“From North Valley.”

“North Valley? Where is that?”

“That's a coal-camp.”

“
A coal-camp!
”

“G.F.C. camp,” said Little Jerry. “My father was a shot-firer. Only they made him a Norganizer for the union. He went into East Creek, an' they caught him at it, the guards did, an' they beat him up an' smashed his head. They come to our house, an' smashed it up, an' they drove us out of Pedro, an' now we're in Western City, an' my father's in a box-car till his head gets well. An' maybe you don't know how them fellers treat you if they hear you tryin' to talk about a union! They raise—that is, they treat you rough, maybe they beat the face off'n you.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Wilmerding. “But how did you come to be at this party?”

“Joe Smith brung me,” said Little Jerry—and then, pointing, “Him!”

“Oh!” said the clergyman, and light dawned.

“Yes,” said Hal, coming up. “And I told Little Jerry that you were a man who visited the sick and afflicted, and that you would come to see his mother, because his father can't work, and they've got a little baby, and not much money, and Santa Claus didn't come to see them.”

So of course Will Wilmerding had to say he would come. He gave Little Jerry one of the heaping saucers, and put off his apostolic admonitions until a later occasion. After he had gone, Hal gave his fellow-conspirator a nudge of delight, and saw that he got a second saucer of ice-cream.

[7]

Then came the games. Little Jerry was kissed on the cheek by a white fairy and a pink one, an experience never to be forgotten; and after that, amid endless chatter and confusion, the children were bundled into their wraps, and taken for a tour of the estate.

Old Mr. Arthur was blessed with four grown sons, and so he had withdrawn from business, and devoted his time to pottering around this country-place. He had a passion for building things, and was forever getting ideas of new things to build. He subscribed to several “country-life” magazines, which made a specialty of inventing outdoor foolishness for the diversion of old gentlemen in his position; and he would read of these inventions and set to work to realize them, quite regardless of congruity. He had begun with an Elizabethan palace of dark red brick and marble trimmings; to this he had added Italian gardens and Greek pergolas, a Dutch tea-house and a Colonial ice-house. His place was a series of history-lessons, a regular trip around the world; it was almost a Noah's ark—there was a deer park, and peacocks and lyre-birds, and ducks from China, and pheasants from Thibet, and chickens from a score of places which had to be looked up in the atlas. There was a green-house with no end of fascinating things—bananas, oranges and lemons gleaming on tropical Christmas trees, vanilla and chocolate beans, papyrus-plants, custard-apples, sapodillos. And the stout, round-faced old gentleman with flat white side-whiskers would follow you about, showing these treasures; it was his favorite form of exercise, his substitute for a golf-game.

All this, of course, was glorious to a Dago mine-urchin, whose mind was untroubled by considerations of architectural congruity. With the rest of the children he tumbled in the snow, and threw snow-balls, very gently, and laughed and shouted, not too loud, with glee. He went to the white marble swimming-pool, which was now a sliding-pond; he saw a Dutch tea-house and a Japanese pagoda, which went perfectly together when covered with snow; he walked through the hot-houses, and was given a strange fruit, white and sweet and creamy inside; he inspected the Chinese ducks and the Thibetan pheasants and the Annamese rooster, all of whom were housed more luxuriously than any mine-worker he had ever known.

At last, all too soon, this miraculous party came to an end. Hal and Little Jerry said good-bye to all the children, and to Mr. Otter and Mrs. Otter and the young lady Otters; and so they drove off.

And all the way home Hal questioned the union organizer about the success of his propaganda. Just what had he said, and what had the old gentleman said? Had he told about the companies not obeying the law? How the men were not allowed to have unions, although the law gave them this right? Yes, said Little Jerry, he had told that; he had told how the men were robbed, how the bosses were in on the graft, how you had to pay for any sort of chance in the mine. He had told how the company doctor was drunk half the time, but you had to pay what he charged, it was taken off'n your account, 'cause he was a cousin of the super. He had told how the shacks wouldn't keep out the cold, but you could never get the company to make them tight, 'cause Jeff Cotton would tell you to shut your face. All that he had told—

“And what did Mr. Otter say?” asked Hal.

“He didn't say much. He jest asked about it.”

“Didn't he say if he believed you, or anything like that?”

“No, he didn't say nothin' like that. He said it was too bad. He said it hadn't ought to be that way. Then he said—oh, yes, I remember one thing he said—that I hadn't ought to call Jeff Cotton a son-of-a——!”

[8]

Before going back to college, there was one other experiment in social amalgamation which Hal wanted to get under way. To that end he went to call upon his friend Adelaide Wyatt.

Adelaide was one of those people you read about in the society columns as a “young matron of Western City”. She was the wife of a famous polo-player, who spent his time between New York and Southern California, and never failed to stop off to see her when crossing the continent. That is to say, they did not get along together, but managed to keep friendly, and to avoid too much gossip. It was possible that Adelaide was a little in love with Hal, but if so, he had no idea of it, and looked upon her as a good pal to whom he could tell his troubles. She sympathized with his attitude upon social questions, making it clear that a woman who had luxury need not be walled up in caste-prejudice.

Hal had not seen Adelaide since his expedition to the coal-country. Now he spent part of a day telling her his adventures: a story difficult to make real to a lady in a blue silk morning-gown, reclining at ease upon a brocaded couch. These coal-camps were places of terror such as one read of in Russia; situated as they were in remote mountain recesses, everything in them belonged to the company—the stores, the saloons, the schools, the churches, the homes of the miners. They were “closed” camps—that is, no one could enter them without a pass from the company, not even a doctor or a priest. Sometimes they kept out the state mine-inspector and his deputies.

Hal told how he had got a job at North Valley, and of the mine explosion which he had witnessed. The company had sealed the pit-mouth, meaning to sacrifice the lives of the men to save its coal from catching fire. It had chanced that young Percy Harrigan had been at Pedro, with his private train, and a party of friends, and Hal had gone to him and forced him to go up and have the mine opened. Adelaide, of course, had heard about that; now Hal was interested to hear what she had to contribute to the story—what this person had said and that, the terrible rage of Old Peter Harrigan, his threats against the Warner family. He would doubtless take it out on Hal's brother Edward, the business-man of the family; he could not very well compel the faculty of Harrigan College to “flunk” the amateur sociologist!