CHAPTER XXX

For a few days after the commencement of his reign Bonbright remained quiescent. It was not through uncertainty, nor because he did not know what he was going to do. It was because he wanted to be sure of the best way of doing it. Very little of his time was spent in the room that had been his father's and was now his own; he walked about the plant, studying, scrutinizing, appraising, comparing. He did not go about now as he had done with Rangar on the day his father inducted him into the dignity of heir apparent and put a paper crown on his head and a wooden scepter in his hand.

He was aware that the men eyed him morosely. Bitterness was still alive in their hearts, and the recollection of suffering fresh in their minds. They still looked at him as a sort of person his father had made him appear, and viewed his succession as a calamity. The old regime had been bad enough, they told one another, but this young man, with his ruthlessness, his heartlessness, with what seemed to be a savage desire to trample workingmen into unresisting, unprotesting submission—this would be intolerable. So they scowled at him, and in their homes talked to their wives with apprehension of dark days ahead.

He felt their attitude. It could not be helped—yet. His work could not be started with the men, it must start elsewhere. He would come to the men later, in good time, in their proper order.

His third morning in the office he had called Malcolm Lightener on the telephone.

"Is your proposition to manufacture ten thousand engines still open?"

"Yes."

"I'll take the contract—providing we can arrive at terms."

"I'll send over blue prints and specifications—and my cost figures. Probably our costs will be lower than yours...."

"They won't be," said Bonbright, with a tightening of his jaw. "Can you lend me Mershon for a while?" Mershon was Lightener's engineer, the man who had designed and built his great plant.

"I can't, but I will."

"As soon as he can arrange it, please. I want to get started."

"He'll be there in half an hour."

Mershon came, a gray, beefy, heavy-faced man—with clear, keen, seeing eyes.

"Mr. Lightener has loaned you to me, Mr. Mershon. It was a tremendous favor, for I know what you can do."

Mershon nodded. He was a man who treasured up words. He must have had a great store of them laid by, for in his fifty years he had used up surprisingly few.

"This is what I want," Bonbright said. "First, I want a plant designed with a capacity of twenty thousand Lightener engines. You designed Lightener's engine plant—so you're about the one man to give me one that will turn out more engines with less labor and at lower cost than his. That's what I want."

Mershon's eyes lighted. "It will cost money," he said.

"I'll find the money; you give me the plant," Bonbright said. "And second, I want a survey made of this present plant. I know a lot of it is junk, but I'm not competent to say how much. You will know what to do. If I have to junk the whole outfit I'll do it. I don't want to waste money, but I want these mills to be the equal of any mills in the country.... Not only in efficiency, but as a place to work. I want them safe. You will understand. I want the men considered. Give them light and air. Wait till you see our wash rooms!" He shrugged his shoulders. "It isn't enough to have the best machines," he said. "I want the men to be able to do the best that's in them.... You understand?"

Mershon nodded.

"The next room is yours." Bonbright pointed toward his old office, the one it had been the family custom to close on the accession of the heir apparent, and never to reopen until a new heir was ready to take up his duties. He felt a sort of pleasure in this profanation. "You'll find it large enough. If you need more room, ask for it.... Get what assistants you need."

"No more interruption of production than necessary," said Mershon.

"Exactly.... And we need that new plant in a hurry. I've taken a contract to make ten thousand engines for Mr. Lightener this year."

It was that day that he called Rangar into the room. Rangar had been uneasy, fearful, since his old employer had died. He had been an important figure under the old order; a sort of shadow behind the throne. He wondered what would happen to him now. More especially if Bonbright had a notion of some of his duties under Bonbright's father. He was not kept in suspense.

"Mr. Rangar," said Bonbright, "I have been looking through the files. Some of your duties have become clear to me. I was familiar with others.... Perhaps my father required a man like yourself. I do not. The old way of doing things here is gone, and you and I could not be happy together. I shall direct the cashier to give you a check for six months' salary..."

"You mean—"

"Exactly what I say."

"But—you don't understand the business. Who is going to run it while you learn?"

"I don't want to know how this business was run. It's not going to be run that way.... There's nothing you could teach me, Mr. Hangar.... Good afternoon."

Rangar went white with rage. Animosity toward this young man he had harbored since the beginning; it flowered into hatred. But he dared not voice it. It was not in Hangar's nature to be open, to fight without cover. If he spoke, the check for six months' salary might be withdrawn, so, uttering none of the venom that flooded to his lips, he went away.... Rangar was the sort of man who vows to get even. ...

That evening Bonbright sat in his window and watched the army of his employees surge out of the big gate and fill the street. Five thousand of them.... It was a sight that always fascinated him, as it had that first evening when he saw them, and came to a realization of what it meant to be overlord to such a multitude. More than ever he realized it now—for he was their overlord. They were his men. It was he who gave them the work that kept them alive; he who held their happiness, their comfort, their very existence in the hollow of his hand.... And he knew that in every one of those five thousand breasts burned resentment toward him. He knew that their most friendly feeling toward him was suspicion.

It was easy to rebuild a plant; it was simple to construct new mills with every device that would make for efficiency. That was not a problem to awe him. It needed but the free expenditure of money, and there was money in plenty.... But here was a task and a problem whose difficulty and vastness filled him with misgiving. He must turn that five thousand into one smooth-running, willing whole. He must turn their resentment, their bitterness, their suspicion, into trust and confidence. He must solve the problem of capital and labor.... An older, more experienced man might have smiled at Bonbright—at his daring to conceive such a possibility. But Bonbright dared to conceive it; dared to set himself the task of bringing it about.

That would be his work, peculiarly. No one could help him with it, for it was personal, appertaining to him. It was between Bonbright Foote and the five thousand.

It was inevitable that he should feel bitterness toward his father, for, but for his father, his work would now be enormously more simple. If these men knew him as he was—knew of his interest in them, of his willingness to be fair—he would have had their confidence from the start. His father had made him appear a tyrant, without consideration for labor; had made him a capitalist of the most detestable type. It was a deep-seated impression. It had been proven. The men had experienced it; had felt the weight of Bonbright's ruthless hand.... How could he make them believe it was not his hand? How could he make them believe that the measures taken to crush the strike had not been his measures; that they had been carried out under his name but against his will? It sounded absurd even to himself. Nobody would believe it.

Therefore he must begin, not at the beginning, but deeper than the beginning. He could not start fairly, but under a handicap so great as to make his chances of winning all but negligible.... It would be useless to tell his men that he had been but a figurehead. For him the only course was to blot out what had gone—to forget it—and to start against odds to win their confidence. It would be better to let them slowly come to believe he was a convert—that there had been a revolution in his heart and mind. Indeed, there was no other way. He must show them by daily studied conduct that he was not what they feared he was....

He did not know what he was himself. His contact with Malcolm Lightener's workingmen had given him certain sympathies with the theories and hopes of labor; but they had made him certain of fallacies and unsoundness in other theories and ambitions. He was not the romantic type of wealthy young man who, in stories, meets the under dog and loves him, and is suddenly converted from being an out- and-out capitalist to the most radical of socialists. It was not in him to be radical, for he was steadied by a quietly running balance wheel.... He was stubborn, too. What he wanted was to be fair, to give what was due—and to receive what was HIS due.... He could not be swayed by mawkish sentimental sympathy, nor could he be bullied. Perhaps he was stiff-necked, but he was a man who must judge of the right or wrong of a condition himself. Perhaps he was too much that way, but his experiences had made him so.

If his men tried to bulldoze him they would find him immovable. What he believed was right and just he would do; but he had his own set notions of right and justice. He was sympathetic. His attitude toward the five thousand was one of friendliness. He regarded them as a charge and a responsibility. He was oppressed by the magnitude of the responsibility.... But, on the other hand, he recognized that the five thousand were under certain responsibilities and obligations to him. He would do his part, but he would demand their part of them.

His father had been against unions. Bonbright was against unions. His reason for this attitude was not the reason of his father. It was simply this: That he would not be dictated to by individuals who he felt were meddling in his affairs. He had arrived at a definite decision on this point: his mills should never be unionized.... If his men had grievances he would meet with them individually, or committees sent by them—committees of themselves. He would not treat with so-called professional labor men. He regarded them as an impertinence. Whatever differences should arise must be settled between his men and himself—with no outside interference. This was a position from which nothing would move him.... It will be seen he was separated by vast spaces from socialism.

He called together his superintendents and department foremen and took them into his confidence regarding his plans for improving and enlarging the plant. They came, if not with an air of hostility, at least with reserve, for they were nearer to the men than they were to Bonbright. They shared the prejudices of the men. Some of them went away from the meeting with all of their old prejudices and with a new belief that Bonbright added hypocrisy to his other vices; some withheld judgment, some were hopeful. Few gave him implicit belief.

When he was done describing the plans for the factory, he said: "There is one more thing I want to speak about. It is as vital as the other.... We have recently gone through a strike which has caused bitterness toward this institution on the part of the men. There has been especial bitterness toward myself. I have no defense of myself to make. It is too late to do that. If any of you men know the facts- -you know them. On that point I have nothing to say.... This is what I want to impress on you men who are in authority. I want to be fair to every man in this plant. I am going to give them a fit place to work. Many parts of this plant are not now fit places. From every man I shall demand a day's work for a day's pay, but no more. You are in direct authority. I want each of you to treat his men with consideration, and to have an eye for their welfare. Perhaps I shall not be able to make the men feel toward me as I want them to feel, but if it can be brought about, I want them to know that their interests are my interests.... That is all, except that to-morrow notices will be posted in every department stating that my office door is open to any man who works for me—any man may come to me with complaint or with suggestion at any time. The notices will state that I want suggestions, and that any man who can bring me an idea that will improve his work or the work in his department or in the plant will be paid for it according to its value. In short, I want the co- operation of every man who draws wages from this concern...."

As they went back to their departments the men who left the meeting discussed Bonbright, as he knew they would and hoped they would.

"It's a four flush," declared one old fellow, hotly.

"I don't know.... Wait and see," said another. "He looked like he meant it."

Wait and see! That was the general attitude. They took nothing on trust, but put it squarely up to Bonbright to prove himself by his actions.

Mershon came into the office. "How about this construction work?" he asked. "Need an army of bricklayers. What about the unions?"

Was this question coming up so quickly? Bonbright frowned. His attitude toward the unions must become public and would inevitably raise another obstacle between himself and the men, but he was determined on the point.

"A man has a right to join the Masons or the Knights of Columbus, or the Bricklayers' Union," he said, presently. "That's for him to say, but when he comes to work here he comes as an individual."

"Open shop?"

"Yes."

"You won't recognize any union? I want to know how I stand with them at the beginning."

"I'll recognize no union," said Bonbright.

The card of a young man from Richmond's office was brought in. Bonbright sent word for him to be admitted.

"I came about that Hammil accident case," said the young man. "Hammil was hurt yesterday, pretty badly, and the report makes it look as if we'd be stuck if the thing goes to a jury."

"I know nothing about it," said Bonbright, with a little shock. It was possible, then, for a man to be maimed or killed in his own plant and news of it to reach him after days or perhaps never. He made a note to rectify THAT state of affairs. "You mean that this man Hammil was hurt through our fault?"

"I'm afraid a jury would say so." The young man explained the accident in detail. "He complained about the condition of his machine, and his foreman told him he could stick to his job there or quit."

"Forced him to work on an unsafe machine or quit?"

"Yes."

Bonbright stared at his blotter a moment. "What did you want to see me about?"

"We'd better settle. Right now I can probably run up and put a wad of bills under Hammil's nose and his wife's, and it'll look pretty big. Before some ambulance-chaser gets hold of him. He hasn't been able to talk until awhile ago, so nobody's seen him."

"Your idea is that we could settle for less than a jury would give him?"

The young man laughed. "A jury'd give him four or five thousand, maybe more. Doctor says the injury is permanent. I've settled more than one like it for three or four hundred."

"The man won't be able to work again?"

"Won't be good for much."

"And we're responsible!" Bonbright said it to himself, not to the young man. "Is this thing done often—settling these things for—what we can squeeze them down to?"

"Of course." The young man was calloused. His job was to settle claims and save money. His value increased as his settlements were small.

"Where's Hammil?"

"At the General Hospital."

Bonbright got up and went to the closet for his hat. "Come on," he said.

"You're not going up there, are you?"

"Yes."

"But—but I can handle it all right, Mr. Foote. There's no need to bother you."

"I've no doubt you can handle it—maybe too well," said Bonbright.

They were driven to the hospital and shown up to Jim Hammil's room. His wife was there, pale, tearless, by his bedside. Jim was bandaged, groaning, in agony. Bonbright's lips lost their color. He felt guilty. It was HE who had put this man where he was, had smashed him. It was HIS fault.

He walked to the bedside. "Jim," he said, "I am Mr. Foote."

"I—know—you," said the man between teeth set to hold back his groans.

"And I know you," said his wife. "I know you.... What do you want here?"

"I came to see Jim," said Bonbright. "I didn't know he was hurt until a few minutes ago.... It's useless to say I'm sorry."

"They made him work on that machine. He knowed it wasn't safe.... He had to work on it or lose his job...."

"I know that NOW, Mrs. Hammil.... What was he earning?"

"Two-seventy-five a day.... And now.... How'll we live, with him in the hospital and maybe never able to work again?"

"Here..." protested Hammil, weakly, glaring at Bonbright. "We'll come out all right. He'll pay.... You'll pay, that's what you will. A jury'll make you pay. Wait till I kin see my lawyer...."

"You won't need any lawyer, Jim," said Bonbright. It was hard for him to talk. He could not speak to these people as he wanted to, nor say the words that would make their way through their despair and rage to their hearts. "You won't need any lawyer," he repeated.

"If you think I'm—goin'—to sign—one of them—releases—you're damn—mistaken," moaned the man.

"Jim," said Bonbright, "you needn't sign anything.... What's done can't be mended.... It was bad. It was criminal..."

"Mr. Foote," protested the young lawyer.

"I'll attend to this," said Bonbright, shortly. "It's between Jim and me.... I'll make it as nearly right as it can be made.... First we'll have you out of this ward into a room.... As long as you are laid up your wife shall have your full pay every week, and then you and I will have a talk to see what can be done. Only don't worry.... Don't worry, Mrs. Hammil...."

Hammil uttered a sound that was intended for a laugh. "You can't catch me," he said, in a dreadful voice. "I'm—up to—them sharp tricks.... You're lyin'.... Git out of here, both of you.... You're—jest here—to cheat me."

"You're wrong, Jim."

"I know—you and—your kind," Jim said, trying to lift himself on his elbow. "I know—what you—done durin'—the strike.... I had a baby— and she—DIED.... You killed her!" His voice rose almost to a scream.

"Better go, sir," said a nurse. "He's hurting himself."

Bonbright gazed at her blankly. "How can I go?" he asked. "He won't believe me. He's got to believe me...."

"You lie!... you lie!..." Hammil cried. "I won't talk to you.... My lawyer'll—do my talkin'."

Bonbright paused a moment. Then he saw it would do no good to remain. The man's mind was poisoned against him; was unable to conceive of a man in Bonbright's place meaning him otherwise than treachery.... It went deeper than suspicion of an individual; it was suspicion of a class.

"I'll do what I promised, Jim.... That'll prove it to you."

"You—lie.... You lie..." the man called after him, and Bonbright heard the words repeated again and again as he walked down the long corridor.



CHAPTER XXXI

Bonbright worked feverishly. These were the best days he had known since he left college, but they were not happy days. He could not forget Ruth—the best he could do was to prevent himself from remembering too much, and so he worked. He demanded of himself more than it is in a single man to give, but he accomplished an astonishingly large part of it. Day and night he drove himself without relaxation and without pause. If he stopped, the old feeling of emptiness, of the futility of his existence, and the bitterness of his fortune returned. His nature might have become warped, but for the labor.

The building of the new shops he left to Mershon, knowing himself incompetent. He knew what sort of shops he wanted; Mershon knew how to produce them, and Mershon was dependable. Bonbright had implicit confidence in the engineer's ability and integrity, and it was justified. The new mills were rising....

Bonbright's part in that was enough to keep one man occupied, for, however much he might leave to Mershon, there were countless details that he must decide; innumerable points to be referred to him and discussed. But his chief interest was not in producing a plant to manufacture engines, but in producing a crew of men to operate the plant; not merely hiring capable workingmen, but producing a condition where himself and those working-men would be in accord; where the men would be satisfied, happy in their work; a condition millennial in that the known as labor unrest should be eliminated. He had set himself to find a solution to the age-old problem of capital and labor....

He had not realized how many elements entered into the matter, and what a high degree of specialized knowledge must be brought to the task. In the beginning he had fancied himself as capable of working out the basis for ideal relations between him and his employees as any other. He soon discovered himself to be all but unequipped for the effort.... It was a saving quality of Bonbright's that he would admit his own futilities. Therefore he called to conference the country's greatest sociologist, Professor Witzer.

The professor, a short, wabbling individual, with watery eyes that could read print splendidly if it were held within six inches of them, and who, when he did read, moved book or paper back and forth in front of his spectacles in a droll, owlish, improbable way, instead of letting his eyes travel across the lines of print, was skeptical at first. He suspected Bonbright of being a youth scratching the itch of a sudden and transient enthusiasm. But he became interested. Bonbright compelled his interest, for he was earnest, intense, not enthusiastic, not effervescing with underdone theories.

"What you want to do, as I understand it," said the professor, "is merely to revolutionize the world and bring on the millennium."

"What I want to do," said Bonbright, "is to formulate a plan that will be fair to labor and fair to me. I want a condition where both of us will be satisfied—and where both will know we are satisfied. It can be done."

"Um!..." said the professor. "Are you, by chance, a socialist?"

"Far from it."

"What are your theories?"

"I haven't any theories. I want facts, working facts. There's no use palavering to the men. What they want and what I want is something concrete. I want to know what they want, and how much of it will be good for them. I want something that will work in dollars and cents, in days' work, in making life more comfortable for the women and children at home. If merely paying wages will do it, then I'll pay the wages...."

"It won't," said the professor. "But it 'll go quite some distance."

"It isn't a matter of sentiment with me," Bonbright said. "It's a matter of business, and peace of mind, and all-around efficiency. I don't mean efficiency in this plant, but efficiency in LIVING.... For the men and their families."

"It can't be done by giving them rest rooms with Turkish rugs nor porcelain bathtubs, nor by installing a moving-picture show for them to watch while they eat lunch," said the professor. "It can't be done with money alone. It would work in isolated cases. Give some men a sufficient wage and they would correct their ways of living; they would learn to live decently, and they would save for the rainy day and for old age. I don't venture an estimate of the proportion.... But there would be the fellows whose increased pay meant only that much more to spend. Mighty little would filter through to improve the conditions of their actual living.... In any scheme there will have to be some way of regulating the use of the money they earn—and that's paternalism."

"Can it be made to work? It's your honest opinion I'm after."

"I don't believe it, but, young man, it will be the most interesting experiment I ever engaged in. Have you any ideas?"

"My basic idea is to pay them enough so they can live in comfort. ..."

"And then you've got to find some machinery to compel them to live in comfort."

"I'd like to see every employee of this concern the owner of his home. I'd like to feel that no man's wife is a drudge. An astonishingly large number of wives do washing, or work out by the day.... And boarders. The boarder is a problem."

"You HAVE been thinking," said the professor. "Do I understand that you are offering me the chance to work with you on this experiment?"

"Yes."

"I accept.... I never dreamed I'd have a chance to meddle with human lives the way you seem to want to meddle with them...."

So they went to work, and day after day, week after week, their plan grew and expanded and embraced unforeseen intricacies. Bonbright approached it from the practical side always. The professor came to view him with amazement—and with respect.

"I'm sticking my finger into the lives of twenty thousand human beings!" the professor said to himself many times a day, with the joy of the scientist. "I'm being first assistant to the world's greatest meddler. That young man is headed for a place as one of the world's leaders, or for a lamp-post and a rope.... I wonder which...."

The thing that Bonbright asked himself many, many times was a different sort of question. "Is this the sort of thing she meant? Would she approve of doing this?"

He was not embarked on the project for Ruth's sake. It was not Ruth who had driven him to it, but himself, and the events of his life. But her presence was there.... He was doing his best. He was doing the thing he thought would bring about the condition he desired, and he hoped she would approve if she knew.... But whether she approved or not, he would have persisted along his own way.... If he had never known her, never married her, he would have done the same thing. Some day she would know this, and understand it. It would be another irony for her to bear. The man she had married that she might influence him to ameliorate the conditions of his workingmen was doing far more than she had dreamed of accomplishing herself—and would have done it if she had never been born....

Neither she nor Bonbright realized, perhaps would never realize, that it is not the individual who brings about changes in the social fabric. It is not fanatics, not reformers, not inspired leaders. It is the labored working of the mass, and the working of the mass brings forth and casts up fanatics, reformers, leaders, when it has gestated them and prepared the way for their birth. The individual is futile; his aims and plans are futile save as they are the outcome of the trend of the mass....

Ruth was not so fortunate as Bonbright. Her work did not fill her time nor draw her interest. It was merely the thing she did to earn the necessities of life. She was living now in a boarding house on the lower side of the city, where a room might be had for a sum within her means. It was not a comfortable room. It was not a room that could be made comfortable by any arrangement of its occupant. But it was in a clean house, presided over by a woman of years and respectable garrulity.

Six days of the week Ruth worked, and the work became daily more exhausting, demanding more of her nervous organism as her physical organism had less to give. She was not taking care of herself. It is only those who cling to life, who are interested in life and in themselves, who take care of their bodies as they should be taken care of. She had been slight; now she was thin. No one now would have dreamed of calling her the Girl with the Grin. She looked older, lifeless, almost haggard at times. Her condition was not wholly the result of unhappiness. It was due to lack of fresh air and exercise, for she went seldom abroad. It was fear of meeting acquaintances that shut her in her room—fear of meeting Bonbright, fear of encountering Dulac. It was loneliness, too. She made no new acquaintances, and went her way in solitude. She had not so much as a nodding acquaintance with most of her fellow lodgers. Not one of them could boast of conversation with her beyond the briefest passing of the day.... At first they gossiped about her, speculated about her, wove crude stories about her. Some chose to think her exclusive, and endeavored to show her by their bearing that they thought themselves as good as she—and maybe better. They might have saved themselves their trouble, for she never noticed. Lack of proper nourishment did its part. Women seem prone to neglect their food. The housewife, if her husband does not come home to the midday meal, contents herself with a snack, hastily picked up, and eaten without interest. Ruth had no appetite. She went to the table three times a day because a certain quantity of food was a necessity. She did not eat at Mrs. Moody's table, but "went out to her meals...." She ate anywhere and everywhere.

Mrs. Moody alone had tried to approach Ruth. Ruth had been courteous, but distant. She wanted no prying into her affairs; no seekers after confidences; no discoverers of her identity. For gossip spreads, and one does not know what spot it may reach....

"It hain't healthy for her to set in her room all the time," Mrs. Moody said to the mercenary who helped with the cooking. "And it hain't natural for a girl like her never to have comp'ny. Since she's been here there hain't been a call at the door for her—nor a letter."

"I hain't seen her but once or twict," said the mercenary. "If I was to meet her face to face on the street, I hain't sure I'd know it was her."

"She didn't look good when she come, and she's lookin' worse every day. First we know we'll have her down on her back.... And then what?... S'pose she was to be took sudden? Who'd we notify?"

"The horspittle," said the mercenary, callously.

"She's sich a mite of a thing, with them big eyes lookin' sorry all the while. I feel sort of drawed to her. But she won't have no truck with me... nor nobody.... She hain't never left nothin' layin' around her room that a body could git any idee about her from. Secretive, I call it."

"Maybe," said the mercenary, "she's got a past."

"One thing's certain, if she don't look better 'fore she looks worse, she won't have a long future."

That seemed to be a true saying. Ruth felt something of it. It was harder for her to get up of mornings, more difficult to drag herself to work and hold up during the day. Sometimes she skipped the evening meal now and went straight home to bed. All she wanted was to rest, to lie down.... One day she fainted in the office....

Her burden was harder to support because it included not grief alone, but remorse, and if one excepts hatred, remorse is the most wearing of the emotions.... As she became weaker, less normal, it preyed on her.

Then, one morning, she fainted as she tried to get out of bed, and lay on the floor until consciousness returned. She dragged herself back into bed and lay there, gazing dully up at the ceiling, suffering no pain... only so tired. She did not speculate about it. Somehow it did not interest her very much. Even not going to work didn't bother her—she had reached that point.

Mrs. Moody had watched her going and coming for several days with growing uneasiness. This morning she knew Ruth had not gone out, and presently the woman slap-slapped up the stairs in her heelless slippers to see about it. She rapped on Ruth's door. There was no response. She rapped again....

"I know you're in there," she said, querulously. "Why don't you answer?"

Inside, Ruth merely moved her head from side to side on the pillow. She heard—but what did it matter?

Mrs. Moody opened the door and stepped inside. She was prepared for what she saw.

"There you be," she said, with a sort of triumphant air, as of one whose prophecy had been fulfilled to the letter, "flat on your back."

Ruth paid no attention.

"What ails you?"

No answer.

"Here now"—she spoke sharply—"you know who I be, don't you?"

"Yes," said Ruth.

"Why didn't you answer?"

"I am—so—tired," Ruth said, faintly.

"You can't be sick here. Don't you go doin' it. I hain't got no time to look after sick folks." She might as well have spoken to the pillow. Ruth didn't care. She had simply reached the end of her will, and had given up. It was over. She was absolutely without emotion.

Mrs. Moody approached the bed and felt of Ruth's hand. She had expected to find it hot. It was cold, bloodless. It gave the woman a start. She looked down at Ruth's face, from which the big eyes stared up at her without seeming to see her.

"You poor mite of a thing," said Mrs. Moody, softly. Then she seemed to jack herself up to a realization that softness would not do and that she could not allow such goings-on in her house. "You're sick, and if I'm a judge you're mighty sick," she said, sharply. "Who's goin' to look after you. Say?"

The tone stirred Ruth.... "Nobody..." she said, after a pause.

"I got to notify somebody," said Mrs. Moody. "Any relatives or friends?"

Ruth seemed to think it over as if the idea were hard to comprehend.

"Once I—had a—husband..." she said.

"But you hain't got him now, apparently. Have you got anybody?"

"... Husband..." said Ruth. "... husband.... But he—went away.... No, I—went away... because it was—too late then.... It was too late—THEN, wasn't it?" Her voice was pleading.

"You know more about it than me," said Mrs. Moody. "I want you should tell me somebody I can notify."

"I—loved him... and I didn't know it.... That was—queer—wasn't it?... He NEVER knew it...."

"She's clean out of her head," said Mrs. Moody, irritably, "and what'll I do? Tell me that. What'll I do, and her most likely without a cent and all that?... Why didn't you go and git sick somewheres else? You could of...."

She wrung her hands and called Providence to witness that all the arrows of misfortune were aimed at her, and always had been.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself—a growd woman like you—makin' me all this nuisance. I sha'n't put up with it. You'll go packin' to the horspittle, that's what you'll do. Mark my word."

Mrs. Moody's method of packing Ruth off to the hospital was unique. It consisted of running herself for the doctor. It consisted of listening with bated breath to his directions; it consisted of giving up almost wholly the duties—A conducting her boarding house, and in making gruels and heating water and sitting in Ruth's room wielding a fan over Ruth's ungrateful face. It consisted in spending of her scant supply of money for medicines, in constant attendance and patient, faithful nursing—accompanied by sharp scoldings and recriminations uttered in a monotone guaranteed not to disturb the sick girl. Perhaps she really fancied she was being hard and unsympathetic and calloused. She talked as if she were, but no single act was in tune with her words.... She grumbled—and served. She complained—and hovered over Ruth with clumsy, gentle hands. She was afraid somebody might think her tender. She was afraid she might think so herself.... The world is full of Mrs. Moodys.

Ruth lay day after day with no change, half conscious, wholly listless.... It seemed to Mrs. Moody to be nothing but a waiting for the end. But she waited for the end as though the sick girl were flesh of her flesh, protesting to heaven against the imposition, ceaselessly.



CHAPTER XXXII

If Bonbright's handling of the Hammil casualty created a good impression among the men, his stand against the unions more than counterbalanced it. He was able to get no nearer to the men. Perhaps, as individuals became acquainted with him, there was less open hostility manifested, but there remained suspicion, resentment, which Bonbright was unable to convert into friendship and co-operation.

The professor of sociology peered frequently at Bonbright through his thick spectacles with keen interest. He found as much enjoyment in studying his employer as he did in working over his employer's plan. Frequently he discussed Bonbright with Mershon.

"He's a strange young man," he said, "an instructive psychological study. Indeed he is. One cannot catalogue him. He is made up of opposites. Look you, Mershon, at his eagerness to better the conditions of his men—that's why I'm abandoning classes of boys who ought to be interested in what I teach them, but aren't—and then place beside it his antagonism to unionism...."

Mershon was interested at that instant more in the practical aspects of the situation. "The unions are snapping at our heels. Bricklayers, masons, structural steel, the whole lot. I've been palavering with them—but I'm about to the end of my rope. We've needed men and we've got a big sprinkling of union men. Wages have attracted them. I'm afraid we've got too many, so many the unions feel cocky. They think they're strong enough to take a hand and try to force recognition on us.... He won't have it." Mershon shrugged his shoulders. "I've got to the end of my rope. Yesterday I told him the responsibility was one I didn't hanker for, and put it up to him. He's going to meet with the labor fellows to-day.... And we can look for fireworks."

"If I were labor," said the professor, "I think I should leave that young man alone—until I saw where he headed. They're going to get more out of him than organization could compel or even hope for. If they prod him too hard they may upset things. He's fine capacity for stubbornness."

The labor representatives were on their way to the office. When they arrived they asked first for Mershon, who received them and notified Bonbright.

"Show them in," he said. "We may as well have it over." There were four of the men whom Mershon led through the door into Bonbright's office, but Bonbright saw but one of them-Dulac!

The young man half rose from his chair, then sat down with his eyes fixed upon the man into whose hands, he believed, his wife had given herself. It was curious that he felt little resentment toward Dulac, and none of that murderous rage which some men might have felt....

"Mr. Dulac," he said, "I want to—talk with you. Will you ask these— other gentlemen if they will step outside for—a few moments.... I have a personal matter to discuss with—Mr. Dulac."

Dulac was not at his ease. He had come in something like a spirit of bravado to face Bonbright, and this turn to the event nonplused him. However, if he would save his face he must rise to the situation.

"Just a minute, boys," he said to his companions, and with Mershon they filed into the next room.

"Dulac," said Bonbright, in a voice that was low but steady, "is she well and—happy?"

"Eh?..." Dulac was startled indeed.

"I haven't kept you to—quarrel," said Bonbright. "I hoped she would- -wait the year before she went—to you, but it was hers to choose. ... Now that she has chosen—I want to know if it has—made her happy. I want her to be happy, Dulac."

Dulac came a step nearer the desk. Something in Bonbright's voice and manner compelled, if not his sympathy, at least something which resembled respect.

"Do you mean you don't know where Ruth is?" he asked.

"No."

"You thought she was with me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Foote, she isn't with me.... I wish to God she was. I've seen her only once since—that evening. It was by accident, on the street. ... I tried to see her. I found the place empty, and nobody knew where she'd gone. Even her mother didn't know. I thought you had sent her away."

"Dulac," said Bonbright, leaning forward as though drawn by spasmodic contraction of tense muscles, "is this true?"

For once Dulac did not become theatrical, did not pose, did not reply to this doubt, as became labor flouting capital. Perhaps it was because the matter lay as close to his stormy heart as it did to Bonbright's. "Yes," he said.

"Then where..."

"I don't—know."

"She's out there alone," said Bonbright, dully. "She's been out there alone—all these months. She's so little.... What made her go away?... Something has happened to her...."

"Haven't you had any word—anything?" Dulac was becoming frightened himself.

"Nothing—nothing."

Bonbright leaped to his feet and took two steps forward and two back. "I've got to know," he said. "She must be found.... Anything could have happened...."

"It's up to us to find her," said Dulac, unconsciously, intuitively coupling himself with Bonbright. They were comrades in this thing. The anxiety was equally theirs.

"Yes.... Yes."

"She wasn't the kind of a girl to—"

"No," said Bonbright, quickly, as if afraid to hear Dulac say the words, "she wouldn't do THAT.... Maybe she's just hiding away—or hurt—or sick. I've got to know."

"Call back the boys.... Let's get this conference over so we can get at it."

Bonbright nodded, and Dulac stepped to the door. The men re-entered.

"Now, gentlemen," said Bonbright.

"We just came to put the question to you squarely, Mr. Foote. We represent all the trades working on the new buildings. Are you going to recognize the unions?"

"No," said Bonbright.

"More than half the men on the job are union."

"They're welcome to stay," said Bonbright.

"Well, they won't stay," said the spokesman. "We've fiddled along with this thing, and the boys are mighty impatient. This is our last word, Mr. Foote. Recognize the unions or we'll call off our men."

Bonbright stood up. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," said he.

With angry faces they tramped out, all but Dulac, who stopped in the door. "I'm going to look for her," he said.

"If you find anything—hear anything—"

Dulac nodded. "I'll let you know," he said.

"I'll be—searching, too," said Bonbright. Mershon came in. "Here's a letter—" he began.

Bonbright shook his head. "Attend to it—whatever it is. I'm going out. I don't know when I shall be back.... You have full authority. ..."

He all but rushed from the room, and Mershon stared after him in amazement. Bonbright did not know where he was going, what he was going to do. There was no plan, but his need was action. He must be doing something, searching.... But as he got into his machine he recognized the futility of aimlessness. There was a way of going about such things.... He must be calm. He must enlist aid.

Suddenly he thought of Hilda Lightener. He had not seen her for weeks. She had been close to Ruth; perhaps she knew something. He drove to the Lightener residence and asked for her. Hilda was at home.

"She's LOST," said Bonbright, as Hilda came into the room.

"What? Who are you talking about?"

"'Ruth.... She's not with Dulac. He doesn't know where she is; she was never with him."

"Did you think she was?" Hilda said, accusingly. "You—you're so—Oh, the pair of you!"

"Do you know where she is?"

"I haven't seen nor heard of her since the day—your father died."

"Something must have happened.... She wouldn't have gone away like that—without telling anybody, even her mother...."

"She would," said Hilda. "She—she was hurt. She couldn't bear to stay. She didn't tell me that, but I know.... And it's your fault for—for being blind."

"I don't understand."

"She loved you," said Hilda, simply. "No.... She told me. She never- -loved—me. It was him. She married me to—"

"I know what she married you for. I know all about it.... And she thought she loved him. She found out she didn't. But I knew it for a long time," Hilda said, womanlike, unable to resist the temptation to boast of her intuition. "It all came to her that day—and she was going to tell you.... She was going to do that—going to go to you and tell you and ask you to take her back.... She said she'd make you believe her...."

"No," said Bonbright, "you're—mistaken, Hilda. She was my wife.... I know how she felt. She couldn't bear to have me pass close to her. ..."

"It IS true," Hilda said. "She was going to you.... And then I came and told her your father was dead.... That made it all impossible, don't you see?... Because you knew why she had married you, and you would believe she came back to you because—you owned the mills and employed all those men.... That's what you WOULD have believed, too. ..."

"Yes," said Bonbright.

"And then—it was more than she could bear. To know she loved you and had loved you a long time—and that you loved her. You do, don't you?"

"I can't—help it."

"So that made it worse than anything that had gone before—and she went away. She didn't tell even me, but I ought to have known...."

"And you haven't even a trace?"

"Bonbright, if you find her—what?"

"I don't know.... I've just got to find her. I've got to know what's happened...."

"Are you going to tell her you love her—and take her back?"

"She wouldn't want me.... Oh, you think you are right, Hilda. But I know. I lived with her for weeks and I saw how she felt. You're wrong.... No, I'll just FIND her...."

"And leave her as bad off as she was before."

"I'll do anything for her—you know that."

"Except the one thing she can't do without...."

"You don't understand," he said, wearily.

"And you're dense and blind—and that's what makes half the cruelty in the world."

"Let's not—talk about that part of it, Hilda. Will you help me find her?"

"No," said Hilda. "She's where she wants to be. I'm not going to torture her by finding her for you—and then letting her slip back again—into hopelessness. If you'll promise to love her and believe she loves you—I'll try to find her."

Bonbright shook his head.

"Then let her be. No matter where she is, she's better off than she would be if you found her—and she tried to tell you and you wouldn't believe.... You let her be."

"She may be hurt, or sick...."

"If she were she'd let somebody know," said Hilda, but in her own mind was a doubt of this. She knew Ruth, she knew to what heights of fanaticism Ruth's determination could rise, and that the girl was quite capable, more especially in her state of overwrought nerves, of dying in silence.

"I won't help you," she said, firmly.

Bonbright got up slowly, wearily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you—would help.... I'll have to hunt alone, then...." And before she could make up her mind to speak, to tell him she didn't mean what she said, and that she would search with him and help him, he was gone.

The only thing he could think of to do was to go once more to their apartment and see if any trace of her could be picked up there. Somebody must have seen her go. Somebody must have seen the furniture going or heard where it was going.... Perhaps somebody might remember the name on the van.

He did not content himself with asking the janitor and his wife, who could tell him nothing. He went from tenant to tenant. Few of them remembered even that such a girl had lived there, for tenants in apartment houses change with the months. But one woman, a spinster of the sort who pass their days in their windows and fill their lives meagerly by watching what they can see of their neighbors' activities, gave a hint. She was sure she remembered that particular removal on account of the young woman who moved looking so pale and anxious. Yes, she was sure she did, because she told herself that something must have happened, and it excited her to know that something had happened so close to her. Evidently she had itched with curiosity for days.

"It was a green van—I'm sure it was a green van," she said, "because I was working a centerpiece with green leaves, and the van was almost the same shade.... Not quite the same shade, but almost. I held my work up to the window to see, and the van was a little darker...."

"Wasn't there a name on it? Didn't you notice the name?"

The spinster concentrated on that. "Yes, there was a name. Seems to me it began with an 'S,' or maybe it was a 'W.' Now, wasn't that name Walters? No, seems more as if it was Rogers, or maybe Smith. It was one of those, or something like it. Anyhow, I'm sure it began with a 'B.'..."

That was the nearest Bonbright came to gleaning a fact. A green van. And it might not have been a green van. The spinster's memory seemed uncertain. Probably she had worked more than one centerpiece, not all with green leaves. She was as likely to have worked yellow flowers or a pink design.... But Bonbright had no recourse but to look for a green van.

He drove to the office of a trucking and moving concern and asked if there were green vans. The proprietor said HIS vans were always yellow. Folks could see them farther and the paint wore better; but all men didn't follow his judgment. Yes, there WERE green vans, though not so good as his, and not so careful of the furniture. He told Bonbright who owned the green vans. It was a storage house.

Bonbright went to the huge brick storage building, and persuaded a clerk to search the records. A bill from Bonbright's pocketbook added to the persuasion.... An hour's wait developed that a green van belonging to the company had moved goods from that address—and the spinster was vindicated.

"Brought 'em here and stored 'em," said the young man. "Here's the name—Frazer. Ruth Frazer."

"That's it," said Bonbright. "That's it."

"Storage hain't been paid.... No word from the party. Maybe she'll show up some day to claim 'em. If not, we'll sell 'em for the charges."

"Didn't she leave any address?"

"Nope."

It had been only a cul de sac. Bonbright had come to the end of it, and had only to retrace his steps. It had led him no nearer to his wife. What to do now? He didn't see what he could do, or that anybody could do better than he had done.... He thought of going to the police, but rejected that plan. It was repulsive to him and would be repulsive to Ruth.... He might insert a personal in the paper. Such things were done. But if Ruth were ill she would not see it. If she wanted to hide from him she would not reply.

He went to Mrs. Frazer, but Mrs. Frazer only sobbed and bewailed her fate, and stated her opinion of Bonbright in many confused words. It seemed to be her idea that her daughter was dead or kidnapped, and sometimes she appeared to hold both notions simultaneously.... Bonbright got nothing there.

Discouraged, he went back to his office, but not to his work. He could not work. His mind would hold no thought but of Ruth.... He must find her. He MUST.... Nothing mattered unless he could find her, and until he found her he would be good for nothing else.

He tried to pull himself together. "I've got to work," he said. "I've got to think about something else...." But his will was unequal to the performance.... "Where is she?... Where is she?.." The question, the DEMAND, repeated itself over and over and over.



CHAPTER XXXIII

There was a chance that a specialist, a professional, might find traces of Ruth where Bonbright's untrained eyes missed them altogether. So, convinced that he could do nothing, that he did not in the least know how to go about the search, he retained a firm of discreet, well-recommended searchers for missing persons. With that he had to be content. He still searched, but it was because he had to search; he had to feel that he was trying, doing something, but no one realized the uselessness of it more than himself. He was always looking for her, scanned every face in the crowd, looked up at every window.

In a day or two he was able to force himself to work steadily, unremittingly again. The formula of his patent medicine, with which he was to cure the ills of capital-labor, was taking definite shape, and the professor was enthusiastic. Not that the professor felt any certainty of effecting a permanent cure; he was enthusiastic over it as a huge, splendid experiment. He wanted to see it working and how men would react to it. He had even planned to write a book about it when it should have been in operation long enough to show what its results would be.

Bonbright was sure. He felt that it would bridge the gulf between him and his employees—that gulf which seemed now to be growing wider and deeper instead of disappearing. Mershon's talk was full of labor troubles, of threatened strikes, of consequent delays.

"We can finish thirty days ahead of schedule," he said to Bonbright, "if the unions leave us alone."

"You think I ought to recognize them," Bonbright said. "Well, Mr. Mershon, if labor wants to cut its own throat by striking—let it strike. I'm giving it work. I'm giving it wages that equal or are higher than union scale. They've no excuse for a strike. I'm willing to do anything within reason, but I'm going to run my own concern. Before I'll let this plant be unionized I'll shut it down. If I can't finish the new shops without recognizing the unions, then they'll stand as they are."

"You're the boss," said Mershon, with a shrug. "Do you know there's to be a mass meeting in the armory to-night? I think the agitator people are going to try to work the men up to starting trouble."

"You think they'll strike?"

"I KNOW they will."

"All the men, or just the steel workers and bricklayers and temporary employees on the new buildings?"

"I don't know.... But if any of them go out it's going to make things mighty bad."

"I'll see what can be done," said Bonbright.

The strike must be headed off if possible. It would mean a monstrously costly delay; it might mean a forfeiture of his contract with Lightener. It might mean that he had gone into this new project and expended hundreds of thousands of dollars to equip for the manufacture of engines in vain.... The men must not strike.

There seemed no way to avert it but to surrender, and that Bonbright did not even consider.... He called in the professor.

"The plan is practically complete, isn't it?" he asked.

"I'd call it so. The skeleton is there and it's covered with flesh. Some of the joints creak a little and maybe there's an ear or an eyebrow missing.... But those are details."

Bonbright nodded. "We'll try it out," he said. "To-night there's a mass meeting—to stir our men up to strike. They mustn't strike, and I'm going to stop them—with the plan."

"Eh?" said the professor.

"I'm going to the meeting," said Bonbright.

"You're—young man, you're crazy."

"I'm going to head off that strike. I'm going there and I'm going to announce the plan."

"They won't let you speak."

"I think they will.... Curiosity will make them."

The young man did understand something of human nature, thought the professor. Curiosity would, most likely, get a hearing for him.

"It's dangerous," said he. "The men aren't in a good humor. There might be some fanatic there—"

"It's a chance," said Bonbright, "but I've got to take it."

"I'll go with you," said the professor.

"No. I want to be there alone. This thing is between my men and me. It's personal. We've got to settle it between ourselves."

The professor argued, pleaded; but Bonbright was stubborn, and the professor had previous acquaintance with Bonbright's stubbornness. Its quality was that of tool steel. Bonbright had made up his mind to go and to go alone. Nobody could argue him out of it.

Bonbright did go alone. He went early in order to obtain a good position in the hall, a mammoth gathering place capable of seating three thousand people. He entered quietly, unostentatiously, and walked to a place well toward the front, and he entered unobserved. The street before the hall was full of arguing, gesticulating men. Inside were other loudly talking knots, sweltering in the closeness of the place. In corners, small impromptu meetings were listening to harangues not on the evening's program. Already half the seats were taken by the less emotional, more stolid men, who were content to wait in silence for the real business of the meeting. There was an air of suspense, of tenseness, of excitement. Bonbright could feel it. It made him tingle; it gave him a sensation of vibrating emptiness resembling that of a man descending in a swift elevator.

Bonbright was not accustomed to public speaking, but, somehow, he did not regard what he was about to say as a public speech. He did not think of it as being kindred to oratory. He was there to talk business with a gathering of his men, that was all. He knew what he was going to say, and he was going to say it clearly, succinctly, as briefly as possible.

In half an hour the chairs on the platform were occupied by chairman, speakers, union officials. The great hall was jammed, and hundreds packed about the doors in the street without, unable to gain admission.... The chairman opened the meeting briefly. Behind him Bonbright saw Dulac, saw the members of the committee that had waited on him, saw other men known to him only because he had seen their pictures from time to time in the press. It was an imposing gathering of labor thought.

Bonbright had planned what he would do. It was best, he believed, to catch the meeting before it had been excited by oratory, before it had been lashed to anger. It was calmer, more reasonable now than it would be again. He arose to his feet.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, distinctly.

The chairman paused; Bonbright's neighbors turned to stare; men all over the hall rose and craned their necks to have a view of the interrupter.

"Sit down!...Shut up!" came cries from here and there. Then other cries, angry cries. "It's Foote!... It's the boss! Out with him!... Out with him!"

"Mr. Chairman," said Bonbright, "I realize this is unusual, but I hope you will allow me to be heard. Every man here must admit that I am vitally interested in what takes place here to-night.... I come in a friendly spirit, and I have something to say which is important to me and to you. I ask you to hear me. I will be brief..."

"Out with him!... No!... Throw him out!" came yells from the floor. The house was on its feet, jostling, surging. Men near to Bonbright hesitated. One man reached over the shoulders of his fellows and struck at Bonbright. Another shoved him back.

"Let him talk.... Let's hear him," arose counter-cries. The meeting threatened to get beyond control, to become a mob.

The chairman, familiar with the men he dealt with, acted quickly. He turned to Dulac and whispered, then faced the hall with hands upheld.

"Mr. Foote is here uninvited," he said. "He requests to be heard. Let us show him that we are reasonable, that we are patient.... Mr. Dulac agrees to surrender a portion of his time to Mr. Foote. Let us hear what he has to say."

Bonbright pushed his way toward the aisle and moved forward. Once he stumbled, and almost fell, as a man thrust out a foot to trip him— and the hall laughed.

"Speak your piece. Speak it nice," somebody called, and there was another laugh. This was healthier, safer.

Bonbright mounted the platform and advanced to its edge.

"Every man here," he said, "is an employee of mine. I have tried to make you feel that your interests are my interests, but I seem to have failed—or you would not be here. I have tried to prove that I want to be something more than merely your employer, but you would not believe me."

"Your record's bad," shouted a man, and there was another laugh.

"My record is bad," said Bonbright. "I could discuss that, but it wouldn't change things. Since I have owned the mills my record has not been bad. There are men here who could testify for me. All of you can testify that conditions have been improved.... But I am not here to discuss that. I am here to lay before you a plan I have been working on. It is not perfect, but as it stands it is complete enough, so that you can see what I am aiming at. This plan goes into effect the day the new plant starts to operate."

"Does it recognize the unions?" came from the floor.

"No," said Bonbright. "Please listen carefully.... First it establishes a minimum wage of five dollars a day. No man or woman in the plant, in any capacity, shall be paid less than five dollars a day. Labor helps to earn our profits and labor should share in them. That is fair. I have set an arbitrary minimum of five dollars because there must be some basis to work from...."

The meeting was silent. It was nonplused. It was listening to the impossible. Every man, every employee, should be paid five dollars a day!

"Does that mean common labor?"

"It means everyone," said Bonbright. "It means the man who sweeps out the office, the man who runs the elevator, the man who digs a ditch. Every man does his share and every man shall have his share.

"I want every man to live in decent comfort, and I want his wife and babies to live in comfort. With these wages no man's wife need take in washing nor work out by the day to help support the family. No man will need to ask his wife to keep a boarder to add to the family's earnings...."

The men listened now. Bonbright's voice carried to every corner and cranny of the hall. Even the men on the platform listened breathlessly as he went on detailing the plan and its workings. Nothing like this had ever happened before in the world's history. No such offer had ever been made to workingmen by an employer capable of carrying out his promises.... He told them what he wanted to do, and how he wanted to do it. He told them what he wanted them to do to co- operate with him—of an advisory board to be elected by the men, sharing in deliberations that affected the employees, of means to be instituted to help the men to save and to take care of their savings, of a strict eight-hour day.... No union had ever dreamed of asking such terms of an employer.

"How do we know you'll do it?" yelled a man.

"You have my word," said Bonbright.

"Rats!"

"Shut up... shut up!" the objector was admonished.

"That's all, men," Bonbright said. "Think it over. This plan is going into effect. If you want to share in it you can do so, every one of you.... Thank you for listening."

Bonbright turned and sat down in a chair on the platform, anxious, watching that sea of faces, waiting to see what would happen.

Dulac leaped to his feet. "It's a bribe," he shouted. "It's nothing but an attempt to buy your manhood for five dollars a day. We're righting for a principle—not for money.... We're—"

But his voice was drowned out. The meeting had taken charge of itself. It wanted to listen to no oratory, but to talk over this thing that had happened, to realize it, to weigh it, to determine what it meant to them. Abstract principle must always give way to concrete fact. The men who fight for principle are few. The fight is to live, to earn, to continue to exist. Men who had never hoped to earn a hundred dollars a month; men who had for a score of years wielded pick and shovel for two dollars a day or less, saw, with eyes that could hardly believe, thirty dollars a week. It was wealth! It was that thirty dollars that gripped them now, not the other things. Appreciation of them would come later, but now it was the voice of money that was in their ears. What could a man do with five dollars a day? He could live—not merely exist.... The thing that could not be had come to pass.

Dulac shouted, demanded their attention. He might as well have tried to still the breakers that roared upon a rocky shore. Dulac did not care for money. He was a revolutionist, a thinker, a man whose work lay with conditions, not with individuals. Here every man was thinking as an individual; applying that five dollars a day to his own peculiar, personal affairs.... Already men were hurrying out of the hall to carry the amazing tidings home to their wives.

Dulac stormed on.

One thing was apparent to Bonbright. The men believed him. They believed he had spoken the truth. He had known they would believe him; somehow he had known that. The thing had swept them off their feet. In all that multitude was not a man whose life was not to be made easier, whose wife and children were not to be happier, more comfortable, removed from worry. It was a moving sight to see those thousands react. They were drunk with it.

An old man detached himself from the mass and rushed upon the platform. "It's true?... It's true?" he said, with tears running down his face.

"It's true," said Bonbright, standing up and offering his hand.

That was the first of hundreds. Some one shouted, hoarsely, "Hurrah for Foote!" and the armory trembled with the shout.

The thing was done. The thing he had come to do was accomplished. There would be no strike.

Dulac had fallen silent, was sitting in his chair with his face hidden. For him this was a defeat, a bitter blow.

Bonbright made his way to him.

"Mr. Dulac," he said, "have you found her?"

"You've bribed them.... You've bought them," Dulac said, bitterly.

"I've given them what is theirs fairly.... Have you found any trace of her?" Even in this moment, which would have thrilled, exalted another, which would have made another man drunk with achievement, Bonbright could think of Ruth. Even now Ruth was uppermost in his mind. All this mattered nothing beside her. "Have you got any trace?" he asked.

"No," said Dulac.



CHAPTER XXXIV

Next morning the whole city breakfasted with Bonbright Foote. His name was on the tongue of every man who took in a newspaper, and of thousands to whom the news of his revolutionary profit-sharing or minimum-wage plan was carried by word of mouth. It was the matter of wages that excited everyone. In those first hours they skipped the details of the plan, those details which had taken months of labor and thought to devise. It was only the fact that a wealthy manufacturer was going to pay a minimum wage of five dollars a day.

The division between capital and labor showed plainly in the reception of the news. Capital berated Bonbright; labor was inclined to fulsomeness. Capital called him on the telephone to remonstrate and to state its opinion of him as a half-baked idiot of a young idealist who was upsetting business. Labor put on its hat and stormed the gates of Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, seeking for five-dollar jobs. Not hundreds of them came, but thousands. The streets were blocked with applicants, every one eager for that minimum wage. The police could not handle the mob. It was there for a purpose and it intended to stay.... When it was rebuked, or if some one tried to tell them there were no jobs for it, it threw playful stones through the windows. It was there at dawn; it still remained at dark.

A man who had an actual job at Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, was a hero, an object of admiring interest to his friends and neighbors. The thing touched him. There had been a miraculous laying on of hands, under which had passed away poverty. So must the friends and acquaintances of a certain blind man whose sight was restored by a bit of divine spittle have regarded him.

Malcolm Lightener did not content himself with telephoning. He came in person to say his say to Bonbright, and he said it with point and emphasis.

"I thought I taught you some sense in my shop," he said, as he burst into Bonbright's office. "What's this I hear now? What idiocy are you up to? Is this infernal newspaper story true?"

"Substantially," said Bonbright.

"You're crazy. What are you trying to do? Upset labor conditions in this town so that business will go to smash? I thought you had a level head. I had confidence in you—and here you go, shooting off a half-cocked, wild-eyed, socialistic thing! Did you stop to think what effect this thing would have on other manufacturers?"

"Yes," said Bonbright.

"It'll pull labor down on us. They'll say we can afford to pay such wages if you can."

"Well," said Bonbright, "can't you?"

"You've sowed a fine crop of discontent. It's damned unfair. You'll have every workingman in town flocking to you. You'll get the pick of labor."

"That's good business, isn't it?" Bonbright asked, with a smile. "Now, Mr. Lightener, there isn't any use thrashing me. The plan is going into effect. It isn't half baked. I haven't gone off half cocked. It is carefully planned and thought out—and it will work. There'll be flurries for a few days, and then things will come back to the normal for you fellows.... I wish it wouldn't. You're a lot better able than I am to do what I'm doing, and you know it. If you can, you ought to."

"No man has a right to go ahead deliberately and upset business."

"I'm not upsetting it. I'm merely being fair, and that's what business should have been years ago. I'm able to pay a five-dollar minimum, and labor earns it. Then it ought to have it. If you can pay only a four-dollar minimum, then you should pay it. Labor earns it for you.... If there's a man whose labor earns for him only a dollar and seventy-five cents a day, and that man pays it, he's doing as much at I am..."

"Bonbright," said Malcolm Lightener, getting to his feet, "I'm damn disappointed in you."

"Come in a year and tell me so, then I'll listen to you," said Bonbright.

"This nonsense won't last a year. It won't pan out. You'll have to give it up, and then what? You'll be in a devil of a pickle, won't you?"

"All you see is that five dollars. In a day or two the whole plan will be ready. I'm having it printed in a pamphlet, and I'll send you one. If you read it carefully and can come back and tell me it's nonsense, then I don't know you. You might let me go under suspended sentence at least."

Lightener shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Take one chunk of advice," he said. "Keep away from the club for a few days. If the boys feel the way I do they're apt to take you upstairs and drown you in a bathtub."

That was the side of the affair that Bonbright saw most during the day. Telephone messages, letters, telegrams, poured in and cluttered his desk. After a while he ceased to open them, for they were all alike; all sent to say the same thing that Malcolm Lightener had said. Capital looked upon him as a Judas and flayed him with the sharpest words they could choose.

He read all the papers, but the papers reflected the estimated thought of their subscribers. But to all of them the news was the big news of the day. No headline was too large to announce it... But the papers, even those with capitalistic leanings, were afraid to be too outspoken. Gatherers of news come to have some knowledge of human nature, and these men saw deeper and farther and quicker than the Malcolm Lighteners. They did not commit themselves so far but that a drawing back and realignment would be possible... No little part of Bonbright's day was spent with reporters.

The news came to every house in the city. It came even to Mrs. Moody's obscure boarding house, and the table buzzed with it. It mounted the stairs with Mrs. Moody to the room where Ruth lay apathetically in her bed, not stronger, not weaker, taking no interest in life.

Mrs. Moody sat daily beside Ruth's bed and talked or read. She read papers aloud and books aloud, and grumbled. Ruth paid slight attention, but lay gazing up at the ceiling, or closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep. She didn't care what was going on in the world. What did it matter, for she believed she was going to leave the world shortly. The prospect did not frighten her, nor did it gladden her. She was indifferent to it.

Mrs. Moody sat down in her rocker and looked at Ruth triumphantly. "I'll bet this'll interest you," she said. "I'll bet when I read this you won't lay there and pertend you don't hear. If you do it's because somethin's wrong with your brains, that's all I got to say. Sick or well, it's news to stir up a corpse."

She began to read. The first words caught Ruth's attention. The words were Bonbright Foote. She closed her eyes, but listened. Her thoughts were not clear; her mental processes were foggy, but the words Mrs. Moody was reading were important to her. She realized that. It was something she had once been interested in—terribly interested in... She tried to concentrate on them; tried to comprehend. Presently she interrupted, weakly:

"Who—who is it—about?" she asked.

"Bonbright Foote, the manufacturer. I read it out plain."

"Yes... What is it?... I didn't—understand very well. What did he —do?"

Mrs. Moody began again, impatiently. This time it was clearer to Ruth ... Once she had tried to do something like this thing she was hearing about—and that was why she was here... It had something to do with her being sick... And with Bonbright... It was hard to remember.

"Even the floor sweepers git it," said Mrs. Moody, interpreting the news story. "Everybody gits five dollars a day at least, and some gits more."

"Everybody?..." said Ruth. "HE'S—giving it to—them?"

"This Mr. Foote is. Yes."

Suddenly Ruth began to cry, weakly, feebly. "I didn't help," she wailed, like an infant. Her voice was no stronger. "He did it alone— all alone... I wasn't there..."

"No, you was right here. Where would you be?"

"I wonder—if he did—it—for me?" Her voice was piteous, pleading.

"For you? What in goodness name have YOU got to do with it? He did it for all them men—thousands of 'em.... And jest think what it'll mean to 'em!... It'll be like heaven comin' to pass."

"What—have I—got to do—with it?" Ruth repeated, and then cried out with grief. "Nothing... Nothing.... NOTHING. If I'd never been born—he would have done it—just the same."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Moody, wondering. "I guess your head hain't jest right to-day."

"Read... Please read... Every word. Don't miss a word."

"Well, I swan! You be int'rested. I never see the like." And the good woman read on, not skipping a word.

Ruth followed as best she could, seeing dimly, but, seeing that the thing that was surpassed was the thing she had once sacrificed herself in a futile effort to bring about... It was rather vague, that past time in which she had striven and suffered... But she had hoped to do something... What was it she had done? It was something about Bonbright... What was it? It had been hard, and she had suffered. She tried to remember.... And then remembrance came. She had MARRIED him!

"He's good—so good," she said, tearfully. "I shouldn't have—done it ... I should have—trusted him... because I knew he was good—all the tune."

"Who was good?" asked Mrs. Moody.

"My husband," said Ruth.

"For the land sakes, WHAT'S HE got to do with this? Hain't you listenin' at all?"

"I'm listening... I'm listening. Don't stop."

Memory was becoming clearer, the fog was being blown away, and the past was showing in sharper outline. Events were emerging into distinctness. She stared at the ceiling with widening eyes, listening to Mrs. Moody as the woman stumbled on; losing account of the reading as her mind wandered off into the past, searching, finding, identifying... She had been at peace. She had not suffered. She had lain in a lethargy which held away sharp sorrow and bitter thoughts. They were now working their way through to her, piercing her heart.

"Oh!..." she cried. "Oh!..."

"What ails you now? You're enough to drive a body wild. What you cryin'about? Say!"

"I—I love him... That's why I hid away—because I—loved him—and— and his father died. That was it. I remember now. I couldn't bear it..."

"Was it him or his father you was in love with?" asked Mrs. Moody, acidly.

"I—hated his father... But when he died I couldn't tell HIM—I loved him... He wouldn't have believed me."

"Say," said Mrs. Moody, suddenly awakening to the possibilities of Ruth's mood, "who was your husband, anyhow?"

Ruth shook her head. "I—can't tell you... You'd tell him... He mustn't find me—because I—couldn't bear it."

The mercenary came to the door. "Young woman at the door wants to see you," she said.

"Always somebody. Always trottin' up and down stairs. Seems like a body never gits a chance to rest her bones.... I'm comin'. Say I'll be right downstairs."

In the parlor Mrs. Moody found a young woman of a world with which boarding houses have little acquaintance. She glanced through the window, and saw beside the curb a big car with a liveried chauffeur. "I vum!" she said to herself.

"I'm Mrs. Moody, miss," she said. "What's wanted?"

"I'm looking for a friend... I'm just inquiring here because you're on my list of boarding houses. I guess I've asked at two hundred if I've asked at one."

"What's your friend's name? Man or woman?"

"Her name is Foote. Ruth Foote."

"No such person here... We got Richards and Brown and Judson, and a lot of 'em, but no Foote."

The young woman sighed. "I'm getting discouraged.... I am afraid she's ill somewhere. It's been months, and I can't find a trace. She's such a little thing, too.... Maybe she's changed her name. Quite likely."

"Is she hidin' away?" asked Mrs. Moody.

"Yes—you might say that. Not hiding because she DID anything, but because—her heart was broken."

"Um!... Little, was she? Sort of peaked and thin?"

"Yes."

"Ever hear the name of Frazer?"

"Why, Mrs. Moody—do you—That was her name before she was married ..."

"You come along with me," ordered Mrs. Moody, and led the way up the stairs. "Be sort of quietlike. She's sick..."

Mrs. Moody opened Ruth's door and pointed in. "Is it her?" she asked.

Hilda did not answer. She was across the room in an instant and on her knees beside the bed.

"Ruth!... Ruth!... how could you?..." she cried.

Ruth turned her head slowly and looked at Hilda. There was no light of gladness in her eyes; instead they were veiled with trouble. "Hilda..." she said. "I didn't—want to be found. Go away and—and unfind me."

"You poor baby!... You poor, absurd, silly baby!" said Hilda, passing her arm under Ruth's shoulders and drawing the wasted little body to her closely. "I've looked for you, and looked. You've no idea the trouble you've made for me... And now I'm going to take you home. I'm going to snatch you up and bundle you off."

"No," said Ruth, weakly. "Nobody must know... HE—mustn't know."

"Fiddlesticks!" "Do you know?... He's done something—but it wasn't for me... I didn't have ANYTHING to do with it... Do you know what he's done?"

"I know," said Hilda. "It was splendid. Dad's all worked up over it, but I think it is splendid just the same." "Splendid," said Ruth, slowly, thoughtfully—"splendid... Yes, that's it—SPLENDID." She seemed childishly pleased to discover the word, and repeated it again and again.

Presently she turned her eyes up to Hilda's face, lifted a white, blue-veined, almost transparent hand, and touched Hilda's face. "I"— she seemed to have difficulty to find a word, but she smiled like a tiny little girl—"I—LIKE you," she said, triumphantly. "I'm—sorry you came—but I—like you."

"Yes, dear," said Hilda. "You'd BETTER like me."

"But," said Ruth, evidently striving to express a differentiation, "I—LOVE him."

Hilda said nothing; there was nothing she could say, but her eyes brimmed at the pitifulness of it. She abhorred tears.

"I'm going now, dear," she said. "I'll fix things for you and be back in no time to take you home with me.... So be all ready."

"No..." said Ruth.

"Yes," Hilda laughed. "You'll help, won't you, Mrs. Moody?"

"Hain't no way out of it, I calc'late," said the woman.

"I won't be half an hour, Ruth... Good-by."

But Ruth had turned away her face and would not answer.

"Say," said Mrs. Moody, in a fever of curiosity which could not be held in check after they had passed outside of Ruth's room, "who is she, anyhow?... SOMEBODY, I'll perdict. Hain't she somebody?"

"She's Mrs. Foote... Mrs. Bonbright Foote."

"I SWAN to man!... And me settin' there readin' to her about him. If it don't beat all... Him with all them millions, and her without so much as a nest like them beasts and birds of the air, in Scripture. I never expected nothin' like this would ever happen to me..." Hilda saw that Mrs. Moody was glorifying God in her heart that this amazing adventure, this bit out of a romance, had come into her drab life.

"Is that there your auto?" Mrs. Moody asked, peering out with awe at the liveried chauffeur.

Hilda nodded. "And who be you, if I might ask?" Mrs. Moody said.

"My name is Hilda Lightener, Mrs. Moody."

"Not that automobile man's daughter—the one they call the automobile king?"

"They call dad lots of things," said Hilda, with a sympathetic laugh. She liked Mrs. Moody. "I'll be back directly," she said, and left the good woman standing in an attitude suggestive of mental prostration, actually, literally, gasping at this marvel that had blossomed under her very eyes.

As Hilda's car moved away she turned, picked up her skirts, and ran toward the kitchen. The news was bursting out of her. She was leaking it along the way as she sought the mercenary to pour it into her ears.

Hilda was driving, not to her home, but to Bonbright Foote's office.



CHAPTER XXXV

Dulac was on his way to Bonbright's office, too. He had started before Hilda, and arrived before she did. If he had been asked why he was going, it is doubtful if he could have told. He was going because he had to go... with fresh, burning hatred of Bonbright in his heart. Bonbright was always the obstacle he encountered. Bonbright upset every calculation, brought his every plan to nothing. He believed it was Bonbright who had broken the first strike, that strike upon which he had pinned such high hopes and which meant so much to labor. It had been labor's entering wedge into the automobile world. Then Bonbright had married the girl he loved. Some men can hate sufficiently for that cause alone... Ruth had loved him, but she had married Bonbright. He had gone to take her away, had seen her yielding to him—and Bonbright had come. Again he had intervened. And now, better equipped than for the first strike, with chances of success multiplied, Bonbright had intervened again—with his plan.

Dulac did not consider the plan; did not perceive virtues in it, not the intent that was behind it. He did not see that labor was getting without effort benefits that no strike could bring. He did not see the happiness that it brought to thousands... All he saw was that it had killed the new strike before birth. He regarded it as sharp practice, as a scheme for his undoing. The thing he fought for was the principle of unionization. Nothing else mattered; not money, not comforts, not benefits multiplied could weigh against it... He was true to his creed, honest in its prosecution, sincere in his beliefs and in his efforts to uplift the conditions of his fellow men. He was a fanatic, let it be admitted, but a fanatic who suffered and labored for his cause. He was stigmatized as a demagogue, and many of the attributes of the demagogue adhered to him. But he was not a demagogue, for he sought nothing for himself... His great shortcoming was singleness of vision. He fixed his eyes upon one height and was unable to see surrounding peaks.

So he was going to see the man who had come between him and every object he had striven for... And he did not know why. He followed impulse, as he was prone to follow impulse. Restraints were not for him; he was a thinker, he believed, and after his fashion he WAS a thinker.... But his mind was equipped with no stabilizer.

The impulse to see Bonbright was conceived in hatred and born in bitterness. It was such an impulse as might, in its turn, breed children capable of causing a calloused world to pause an instant on its way and gasp with horror.

He brushed aside the boy who asked his business with Mr. Foote, and flung open Bonbright's door. On the threshold he stood speechless, tense with hatred, eyes that smoldered with jealousy, with rage, burning in hollows dug by weariness and labor and privation. He closed the door behind him slowly.

Bonbright looked up and nodded. Dulac did not reply, but stared, crouching a little, his lips drawn a trifle back so that a glint of white showed between.

"You wanted to see me?" said Bonbright.

"Yes," said Dulac. The word was spoken so low, so tensely, that it hardly reached Bonbright's ears. That was all. He said no more, but stood, haggard and menacing.

Bonbright eyed him, saw his drawn face, saw the hatred in his eyes. Neither spoke, but eye held eye. Bonbright's hand moved toward a button on his desk, but did not touch it. Somehow he was not surprised, not startled, not afraid—yet he knew there was danger. A word, a movement, might unleash the passions that seethed within Dulac....

Dulac stepped one step toward Bonbright, and paused. The movement was catlike, graceful. It had not been willed by Dulac. He had been drawn that step as iron is drawn to magnet. His eyes did not leave Bonbright's. Bonbright's eyes did not leave Dulac's.

It seemed minutes before Dulac made another forward movement, slowly, not lifting his foot, but sliding it along the rug to its new position.... Then immovability.... Then another feline approach. Step after step, with that tense pause between—and silence!

It seemed to Bonbright that Dulac had been in the room for hours, had taken hours to cross it to his desk. Now only the desk separated them, and Dulac bent forward, rested his clenched fists on the desk, and held Bonbright's eyes with the fire of his own.... His body moved now, bending from the waist. Not jerkily, not pausing, but slowly, slowly, as if he were being forced downward by a giant hand. ... His face approached Bonbright's face. And still no word, no sound.