Three members of the executive council, Norman, Barbara, and Tom, began at once the task of assigning work. The problems which immediately faced the council were overwhelming, but they were urgent and could admit of no delay. The absolute refusal of every member of the Brotherhood to do the dirty and disagreeable work brought at once two issues to a crisis. Either labour must be voluntary or involuntary. The people who did this work must be induced to agree to perform it or they must be forced to do it by a superior authority without their consent.
They could only be led to choose this work by inducements of an extraordinary nature—the payment of enormously high wages and the shortening of each day's work to a ridiculous minimum.
If wages were made unequal, the old problem of inequality would remain unsolved. For equal wages no man would lift his hand.
Confronted by this dilemma the executivecouncil decided at once to fix wages on an unequal basis rather than reduce its unwilling members to a condition of involuntary labour, which is merely a long way to spell slavery.
When this decision was announced, Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat, once more lifted his voice in solemn protest:
"I denounce this act in the name of every principle which has brought us together," he cried, with solemn warning. "You have established a system far more infamous than the unequal wages of the old society where the law of the survival of the fittest is the court of last resort. You have opened the door of fathomless corruption by substituting the whim of an executive council for the law of nature. It is the beginning of jealousy, strife, favouritism, jobbery, and injustice."
"Then what's a better way?" Old Tom asked, with a sneer.
"It's your business to find a better way," cried the man of visions.
Tom glared at the poet with a look of fury and Norman whispered to the old miner:
"Remember, Tom, you're sitting as a judge in the Supreme Court of State!"
"Can't help it. I never did have no use for a fool. Ef he can't tell us a better way, let 'im shet up."
Barbara pressed Tom's arm, and he subsided.
The court at once entered into the question of wages for domestic service.
It had been agreed, at the suggestion of the Wolfs, that they should spend their time in quietly investigating the qualifications of each member of the Brotherhood for the work to be assigned, and make their reports in secret to the majority of the court, which should sit continuously until all had been decided.
Neither Norman, Barbara, nor the old miner suspected for a moment the deeper motive which Wolf concealed behind this withdrawal from the decision of these cases. They found out in a very startling way later.
The chief cook demanded a hundred dollars a month.
Old Tom snorted with contempt. Norman smiled and spoke kindly:
"Remember, Louis, you only received $75 a month in San Francisco. Here the Brotherhood provides every man with his food, his clothes, and his house. Wages are merely the inducement used to satisfy each individual that labour may still be done by free contract, not by force."
"Well, it'll take a hundred a month to satisfy me," was the stolid reply. "I didn't come here to cook. I could do that in the old hell we livedin. I came here to do better and bigger things. I can do them, too——"
"But we've fixed the salary of the general manager at only seventy-five dollars a month, and you demand a hundred?"
"I do, and if the general manager prefers my job, I'll trade with you and guarantee to do your work better than it's being done."
"Yes, you will!" old Tom growled, as he leaned over Barbara and whispered to Norman.
"Make it thirty dollars a month, and if he don't go to work—leave him to me, I'll beat him till he does it."
"No, we can't manage it that way, Tom. We must try to satisfy him."
"Hit's a hold-up, I tell ye—highway robbery—the triflin' son of a gun! Don't you say so, miss?" Tom appealed earnestly to Barbara.
"We must have cooks, Tom—and we want everybody to be happy."
"Make him cook, make him—that's his business—I'd do it if I knowed how. He's got to take what we give 'im. He can't git off this island. He enlisted for five years. If he deserts, court-martial and shoot him."
In spite of old Tom's bitter protest, Norman and Barbara succeeded in persuading the chief cook to accept eighty-five dollars amonth—an advance of ten dollars over the highest wages he had ever received before.
When the eighteen assistant cooks lined up for the settlement of their wages a new problem of unexpected proportions was presented. They had listened attentively to the case of the chef, and their chosen orator presented his argument in brief but emphatic words:
"We demand the exact wages you have voted the chef."
"Well, what do ye think er that?" old Tom groaned to Norman. "Hit's jist like I told ye. Hit's a hold-up."
"We must persuade them, Tom," the young leader replied.
"Let me persuade 'em!" the old miner pleaded.
"How?" Barbara asked, with a twinkle in her brown eyes.
"I'll line 'em up agin that wall and trim their hair with my six-shooter. I won't hurt 'em. But when I finish the job I'll guarantee they'll do what I tell 'em without any back talk. You folks take a walk and make me Chief Justice fer an hour, and when you come back we'll have peace and plenty. Jest try it now, and don't you butt in. Let me persuade 'em!"
Norman shook his head.
"Keep still, Tom! We must reason with them."
"Ye 're wastin' yer breath," the miner drawled in disgust.
"Don't you think, comrades," Norman began, in persuasive tones, "that your demands are rather high?"
"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "We come here to get equal rights. We don't want to cook. I'm a born actor, myself. I expected to play in Shakespeare when I joined the Brotherhood. Anybody that wants this job can have it. If we do your hot, dirty, disgusting, disagreeable work while the others play in the shade we are going to get something for it."
"Even so," the young leader responded, "is it fair that an assistant cook should receive equal wages with the chef?"
"And why not? Labour creates all value. The chef's a fakir. We do all the work. He never lifts his hand to a pot or pan. He struts and loafs through the kitchen and lords it over the men. Let him try to run the kitchen without us, and see how much you get to eat! We stand on the equal rights of man!"
"But my dear comrade——"
"Don't use them words," old Tom pleaded, "jest let me make a few remarks——"
Barbara pinched Tom's arm and he subsided.
"Can't you see," Norman went on, "that weare paying the chef for his directive ability, for his inventive genius in creating new dishes and making old ones more delicious? You but execute his orders."
"We stand square on our principles. Labour creates all values. The chef never works. We make every dish that goes to the table. If it has any value we make it. We demand our rights!"
The court agreed on fifty dollars a month, and the men refused to consider it.
"We prefer to work in the fields, the foundry, the machine-shop, the mills, the forests, anywhere you like except the kitchen. Let the chef do your work. Good day!"
They turned and marched out in a body and sat down in the sunshine.
In vain Norman argued and pleaded. They stood their ground with sullen determination.
A final clincher which the young leader could not evade always ended the argument. The spokesman came back to it with dogged persistence:
"What did you mean, then, when you've been drumming into our ears that labour creates all value? We do all the work, don't we?"
The upshot of it was the eighteen assistant cooks marched back into the hall, stood before the judges, and all were granted equal wages with the chef.
Whereupon the chef sprang to his feet and faced the court with blazing eyes.
"You grant these chumps—these idiots—wages equal to mine? Not one of them has brains enough to cook an egg if I didn't tell him how. Their wages equal to mine. I resign!"
Tom spoke vigorously:
"Now will ye leave him to me?"
Norman and Barbara looked at each other in angry and helpless amazement.
The old miner leaped to his feet, made his way down from the platform, and with two swift strides reached the chef. He leaned close and whispered something in the rebel's ear. There was a moment's hesitation and the chef turned, signalled to his assistants, and amid cheers marched to the kitchen.
Tom resumed his seat beside Barbara with a smile, quietly saying:
"That's the way to do business, ladies and gentlemen!"
"What did you say to him?" Barbara asked.
"Oh, nothin' much," was the careless answer.
"I hope you didn't threaten him, Tom?" Norman asked with some misgiving.
"Na—I didn't threaten him. I spoke quiet and peaceable."
"But what did you tell him?" the young leader persisted.
"I jest told him I'd give him two minutes ter git back ter the kitchen or I'd blow his head off!"
"I'm afraid our table will feel the effects of that remark, Tom," Barbara said, doubtfully.
Next to the question of cooks the most urgent issue to be settled was the case of the scrubbers, cleaners, and drainmen. The women who had been assigned to the tasks of scrubbing the floors, washing the windows and dishes, had watched the triumphs of the cooks with keen appreciation of their own power. It was easy to see that the more disagreeable and disgusting the character of the work, the more extravagant the demands which could be made and enforced. The scrubbers and dishwashers boldly demanded one hundred dollars a month and six hours for a working day, and refused with sullen determination to argue the question.
To Barbara's mild and gentle protest their answer was complete and stunning:
"You have assigned us this dirty job. Do you want it at any price?" asked their orator. "I'll take yours without wages and jump at the chance."
Tom lost all interest in the proceedings and drew himself up in a knot in his chair. Now and then a growl came from the depths of his throat.
Once he was heard to distinctly articulate:
"This makes me tired."
The court begged and pleaded, cajoled, argued in vain with the stubborn scrubwomen. Not an inch would they move in their demands. The floors were becoming unspeakably filthy. They had not been scrubbed since the arrival of the colony.
Norman turned to Barbara.
"Put the question solemnly to ourselves—we don't want the job at any price, do we?"
"I couldn't do it!" she admitted, frankly. "Then what's the use? We must be fair. It's worth what they ask."
The court granted the demands and the scrubwomen and dishwashers marched to the kitchen and once more the chef tore his hair and cursed the fate which brought him to such disgrace as to work with stupid subordinates at equal wages and gaze on dishwashers and scrubwomen whose wages exceeded his own.
The climax of all demands was reached when the drainman demanded a hundred and fifty dollars a month and four hours for each working day.
Norman looked at him in dumb confusion. He knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth and he had no answer.
The drainman bowed low in mock humility, but the proud wave of his hand belied his words.
"My calling was a humble one in the old world, Comrade Judges," he said. "I came here to climb mountain heights and find my way among the stars. You have sent me back to the sewers. I always felt that I had missed my true calling. I've always wanted to be a poet——"
The Bard shook his mane and groaned.
"I don't want this job at any price. But the sewers are choked. They have not been cleaned for two years. It must be done. I've named my price. I'll gladly yield to any man who envies my luck. If such a man is here let him speak—or forever hereafter hold his peace."
With a grandiloquent gesture the drainman swept the crowd with his eye, but no man responded.
The court granted his demand.
The Bard leaped once more to his feet and entered his protest. This time old Tom listened with interest. His concluding sentence rang with bitter irony:
"Against these absurd decisions I lift my voice once more in solemn protest. We came to this charmed island to abolish all class distinctions. You have destroyed the old classes based on culture, achievement, genius, wealth, and power.You have created a new aristocracy on whose shield is emblazoned—a dish-rag and scrubbing-brush encircled by a sewer pipe! I make my most humble bow to our new king—the drainman! I hail the apotheosis of the scrubwoman!"
"Say, you give me a pain—shut up" thundered Tom.
The singer collapsed with a sigh and the crowd laughed.
The foreman of the farm brought two men before the court and asked for important instructions.
"Comrade Judges," he began, "I had two men assigned to me a week ago whom I don't want and won't have at any price. I return them to the Brotherhood with thanks. You can do what you please with them."
"What's the matter?" Norman asked, with some irritation.
The foreman shoved and kicked a man in front of the judges.
"This fool——"
"You must not use such language, Mr. Foreman," Barbara interrupted.
"I beg your pardon, Comrade Judges," he apologized. "This coyote I put on a mowing-machine yesterday. He said he knew how to run it. He broke it on a smooth piece of groundthe first hour. I gave him another and he wrecked it before noon. It will take the labour of five men two days to repair the damage he has done. I don't want him at any price."
"What have you to say?" Norman asked the accused.
"It wasn't my fault. The thing broke itself."
"But how did it happen twice the same day, sonny?" Tom asked.
"I dunno. Hit jist happened," was the dogged answer.
"I've another scoundrel——"
"You must not use such language," Barbara broke in.
"Again begging the pardon of Comrade Judges," the foreman continued: "This dog"—he kicked another slovenly looking lout before the judges—"tore to pieces the shoulders of two pairs of horses with careless harnessing before I found him and kicked him out of the stables. Those four horses can't work for a month. We'll have to pay at least $500 for two teams right away to take their places, or lose a crop of hay."
Tom glared at the culprit.
"What did ye ruin them horses' shoulders fer?"
"I didn't know it," was the sulking answer.
"He's a liar!" cried the foreman. "He put the same collars on their galled necks three days in succession and beat them unmercifully when they couldn't pull the load."
"What do you say, Tom?" Norman asked.
The old miner glared at the last culprit and his grim mouth tightened:
"Wall, you kin do as ye please, but any man that'll abuse a hoss will commit murder. I'd put the fust one in the cow lot to shovellin' compost. This one I'd quietly lynch—no public rumpus about it—jest take 'im down by the beach, hang 'im to one of them posts on the pier, shoot 'im full of holes, and drop 'im into the sea to be sure he don't come back to life."
Norman conferred with Barbara a moment and rendered the decision:
"Mr. Foreman, the first man is transferred from the field machinery to the compost-heap in the barnyard. The second man who disabled the horses will assist in cleaning the sewers. Their wages will remain the same as before."
A round of applause greeted this decision.
The Bard renewed his attack with unusual zeal. Standing before the court and shaking his long hair he cried:
"At last the climax of tyranny! Two comrades condemned without a jury and withoutdefense! I congratulate you. In one day you have established an aristocracy of filth and created a penal colony without a hearing or appeal. We are making progress."
The old miner grunted, Barbara smiled tenderly at Norman, and the court adjourned.
Norman found it necessary for the executive council to sit continuously for the adjustment of disputes and the settlement of new problems which arose at every step of progress in the new moral world.
He had condemned the sins of the old world of capitalism with cocksure certainty. Now that he had been made a supreme judge with power to adjust the rights and wrongs of his fellow man, he was appalled at the magnitude of the task of substituting an ideal for the reign of natural law under which civilization had been slowly evolved.
There were two men in the Brotherhood whom he grew early to hate with cordial, thorough, murderous hatred—Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat, who always denounced every decision as unjust, and a tall, hooked-nosed, stoop-shouldered, scholarly looking man named Diggs, who invariably sat near him and at every conceivable opportunity asked questions. These questions were always put in an innocent, friendlyway, but when Diggs looked at him through his gleaming spectacles Norman always got the impression that an imp of the devil had suddenly popped up through the floor.
The first day after the general assignment of work Diggs rose before the council, adjusted his glasses, and drew a piece of paper from his pocket. Norman knew before he spoke that the document bristled with questions. Diggs's glasses had always fascinated him, but to-day they seemed of unusual thickness and enormous size, and their concave surfaces seemed to flash light from a thousand angles.
Diggs adjusted them on his hook-nose with deliberation and glanced carefully over his notes before speaking.
Norman turned to Barbara with a sigh.
She pressed his hand in silent sympathy.
"Don't worry!" she whispered.
Norman's breath quickened as he answered the pressure of the soft, warm fingers but he managed to move his chair and break the effects of her spell without revealing to her the effort it cost. Each hour of their association he felt the cords he dare not try to break tighten about his heart. He determined each day to put the thought from him. Over and over again with grim resolution he repeated his vow:
"I'll keep a clear head. I've got to decide this issue on its merits. I owe it to my generous friends who made it possible."
He had avoided her for the last few days. She guessed the cause intuitively and knew that he was fighting with desperation to escape the net she was slowly weaving about him. She began to watch the struggle now with a curious fascination in which cruelty and tenderness were equally mixed. The idea of surrendering her own heart had never once entered her pretty head.
Her life had been lived in a strange war with human society. Man had always appeared to her imagination as an enemy. She had never trusted one—least of all Wolf, the big, impassive animal who had dominated the life of her foster-mother.
With deliberate and cruel art she had set out to master the heart of the man who sat by her side. The task was accepted as part of her work. She had enlisted as a soldier in the Cause. She had received the orders from headquarters. When the deed was done she would turn to a greater task. She had expected to be bored by his idiotic love making. Now her curiosity was beginning to be piqued by his silence. She began vaguely to wonder each moment whatkind of pictures she was making in his mind. Her brown eyes searched the depths of his soul in a dumb way that sent the blood rushing to Norman's heart, but each time he had eluded her.
He sat in moody silence now, giving no response to her words of cheer. She roused him from his reverie with a plaintive protest.
"What's the matter? Have I, too, offended?"
He turned quickly and crushed her hand in his strong grasp:
"For heaven's sake don'tyouget into the habit of asking me questions! How could you offend? Your face is my lighthouse set on the cliffs, calm, serene, joyful. I couldn't get through a day without you."
A smiling answer was just trembling on her lips when Diggs began to speak.
"Now for the human interrogation point," Barbara laughed.
"Comrade Judges," Diggs began, with guileless good humour, "while we are shaping the form of our ideal State for its permanent organization I wish to submit some questions which may help us in our search for truth."
"Questions," Norman whispered, "which any fool can ask, but the angels of God can't answer."
"But we will answer them!" she flashed, with defiant courage.
"We agree," Diggs went on, "that society must be governed in some way. There must be rulers, but how shall we choose our rulers, and with what powers shall we clothe them? We can begin to see that the head of our social system must at times exercise the full powers of the State. Into whose hands can this enormous power be entrusted, and how shall he be called to account?"
Diggs paused, and Norman flushed at this question, for he took it as a personal thrust. He had occasion to change his mind later.
"How can we," the questioner went on, "retain our democratic liberties as law makers as we grow in numbers? Now we can all meet in general assembly. When the State numbers even five thousand this will not be possible. Will not our politics become even more corrupt than the old system, seeing how enormous the power over the smallest details of life which these legislators possess?
"As our society grows—and thousands are now clamouring for admission—how is wealth to be distributed? Who shall determine, in this larger society, who shall be common labourers, who poets, artists, musicians, preachers, managers? Who shall appoint editors? And who shall call them to account if they publish treason against the State? What shall be done with theever-increasing number of the lazy, dishonest, and criminal members of the community?
"Who shall determine how much mental work is equivalent to so much manual labour, seeing how vast is the difference in the value of one man's brain product over another's? How can men who are not artists, poets, or musicians determine the value of such work? Or how can one poet be just to his rival if he be made the judge? When our theatre is opened, who shall select the actors? Who shall decide whether they are incompetent? Who shall decide on the selection of the star? What shall be done with an actor, for example, who should spit in the face of a judge deciding adversely? Suppose a man offends the judge? Shall he be punished? If so, who shall do it?
"How can we prevent a man from losing his wages playing poker with his neighbour if he does so joyfully?
"What shall be done with a man who works outside regular hours and accumulates a vast private fortune?"
"Say, ain't you worked your jaw overtime now?" old Tom broke in rudely. "We'll take them things up when we come to 'em. We got somethin' else to do now—set down!"
"These are only friendly suggestions for thoughtas we develop our ideal," Diggs answered, with smiling good nature, as he resumed his seat.
"What makes me want to kill that man," Norman muttered to Barbara, "is the unfailing politeness and unction with which he asks those questions."
"Patience! patience!" was the low, musical reply. "These little things will all adjust themselves."
Methodist John pressed to the front and poured out to the judges a story of wrong and asked for justice.
"Miss Barbara," he began, in plaintive tones, "you was always good to me in the other world, but since we've got here even you don't seem the same. Everybody's hard and cold. They hain't got no sympathy here for a poor man. In the other world I missed my callin'—I was born for the ministry. I come here to serve the Lord. And now they make me work so hard I ain't even got time to pray. I ask for a licence to preach the gospel. Just give me a chance. They've put me to feedin' hogs and tendin' ter calves. I ain't fit for such work. I want to call sinners to repentance, not swine to their swill. I tell ye I've been buncoed. It ain't a square deal. I left the poorhouse to come with you to heaven and, by gum, I've landed in the workhouse——"
"And ef yer don't shet up and git back ter yer work," Tom thundered, "you'll land in the hospital—you hear me!"
"I ain't er talkin' to you, you cussin, swearin', ungodly son of the devil," the old man answered.
"Come, come, John," Norman interrupted, as he held Tom back. "We can't grant your request. We are not ready to undertake religious work yet."
"Well, God knows ye need it!" John muttered, as the crowd pushed him away.
At the door Catherine greeted him as he passed out, whispered encouraging words, and sent him back to his tasks more cheerful. She had taken her stand thus each day; and, while Wolf was busy quietly mingling with the men outside getting the facts as to the progress of each department, the tall graceful woman of soft voice and madonna face was fast becoming the friend and sympathizer of each discontented worker. She had now assumed the task of peacemaker after each harsh decision had been rendered, and did her work with rare skill—a skill which promised big results in the dawning State of Ventura.
Uncle Bob Worth, an old Negro, bowed low before the judges. He had been a slave of Norman's grandfather in North Carolina and had joined the colony out of admiration for the young leader.
"Marse Norman," he solemnly began.
"Don't call me 'master,' Bob," Norman interrupted. "Remember that we are all comrades here."
"Yassah! Yassah! Marse Norman, I try to 'member dat sah, but 'pears ter me dey's somefin' wrong bout dis whole 'comrade' business, sah! I'se er 'comrade' now but I'se wuss off dan I eber wuz. 'Fo' I come here I wuz er butler, and I wuz er gemmen—yas-sah, ef I do hat ter say it myself—and I allus live wid gemmens an' sociate wid gemmens. I come out here wid you ter be a white man an' er equal. Dat's what dey all say. I be er equal 'comrade.' I make up my mind dat I jine de minstrel band, pick de banjer, an' sing de balance er my life. Bress God, what happen. Dey make me a hod-carrier and make me 'sociate wid low-down po' white trash. I ain't come here ter be no 'comrade' wid dem kin' er folks. Dey ain't my equal, sah, an' I can't 'ford to 'sociate wid 'em. What's fuddermo, sah, carryin' a hod ain't my business—hit don't suit my health an' brick-dust ain't good fur my complexion, sah!"
Tom grunted contemptuously.
Norman smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry, Comrade Bob," he replied. "We haven't men enough to organize the minstrels yet.We must rush the new building. We have thousands of new members clamouring to join. We have nowhere to house them."
"Yassah, an' I 'spec' dey'll be clamourin' ter unjine fo' long," old Bob muttered, as he passed on to be comforted by Catherine's soothing words.
Saka, the Indian, whom Colonel Worth had educated, had followed Norman. He demanded a return ticket to the Colonel's hunting lodge.
It was promptly refused. Catherine attempted to soothe his ruffled feelings. He snapped his fingers in her face and grunted.
The Brotherhood of Man saw Saka no more for many moons, but the crack of his rifle was heard on the mountain side and the smoke of his tepee curled defiantly from the neighbouring plains.
The chef appeared before the court in answer to numerous complaints about the table.
"I must have the law laid down for the tables, Comrade Judges," he demanded. "One man wants one thing and another refuses to eat at the table where such food is served. A dozen men and women ask only for bread, vegetables, and nuts. They refuse to eat meat. They refuse to allow me to cook it or any one else to eat it if they can help it. They make my life miserable. I want permission to kick them out of the kitchen. Theydemand the right to inspect my pots and pans to see if meat has touched them. They must go or I go. I will not be insulted by fools. If you do not give me permission to kick these people out of the kitchen I will do so without permission. You can take your choice."
The cook mopped his brow and sat down with a defiant wave of his arm.
A woman who had been a leader of the W.C.T.U. pressed forward before the cook's demand could be considered.
"And I demand in the name of truth, purity, righteousness, justice, faith, and God, that no more wine be allowed on the table. I demand that we burn the wine house and issue an order to the cook never again, under penalty of imprisonment for life, to use a drop of alcohol in the food he serves to the Brotherhood——"
"And I also demand, Comrade Judges," the cook interrupted, "the right to throw that woman out of the kitchen and have her fined and imprisoned the next time she dares to interfere with my business. She got into the pantry yesterday and destroyed five hundred mince pies because she smelled brandy in them."
"Yes, and I'll do it again if you dare to poison the bodies and souls of my comrades with that hellish stuff!" she cried, triumphantly.
"I'd like to know," the cook shouted, "how I'm to do my work if every fool in creation can butt into my business?"
"Softly! Softly!" Norman warned.
"I mean it!" thundered the chef. "This woman swears she will wreck the dining-room if I dare to place wine again on our bill of fare. I want to know if she's in command of this colony? If so, you can count me out!"
"And while we are on this point, Comrade Judges," spoke up a mild-looking little man, "I have summoned a neighbour of mine to appear before you and show cause why he shouldnotcease to have sauerkraut served at breakfast. He sits at my table. I've begged him to stop it. I've begged the cook to stop cooking the stuff, but he bribes the cook——"
"That's a lie," shouted the chef.
"I saw him do it, your honours," the little man went on. "I'm a small-sized man or I'd lick him. I tried to move my seat but they wouldn't let me. I pledge you my word when he brings that big dish of steaming sauerkraut to our table it fogs the whole end of the dining-room. The odour is so strong it not only stops you from eating, you can't think. It knocks you out for the day."
"Is it possible," Norman inquired, "that thereis a human being among us who eats sauerkraut for breakfast?"
"There's no doubt about it, comrade," promptly responded a tall, strapping-looking fellow, with a dark, scholarly face, as he stepped to the front.
"That's him!" cried the little accuser. "I made him come. Told him I'd organize a party to lynch him if he didn't. He won't dare deny it. I can prove it."
"I have no desire to deny that I eat sauerkraut, you little ape," he replied with scorn. "I come of German ancestry, comrades. My great-grandfather helped to create this nation. He was a pure-blooded German. I inherit from him my personal likes and dislikes. Sauerkraut is the best breakfast food ever served to man. It is a pure vegetable malt. It is wholesome, clean, healthful, and keeps the system of a brain worker in perfect order. I eat it with ham gravy and good hot wheat biscuits. It is some trouble for the cook to prepare this particular kind of soft tea-biscuit for me. I paid him a little extra for this bread—not the kraut. I suggest to your honours that you make sauerkraut a standard breakfast diet as a health measure. They may kick a little at first, but I assure you it will improve the health and character of the colony. If this little chap whoaccuses me were put on a diet of kraut for breakfast it might even now make a man of him. I not only have nothing to apologize for, I bring you good tidings. I proclaim sauerkraut the only perfect health food for breakfast, and I suggest its compulsory use. The man who sits next to me eats snails. I think the habit a filthy and dangerous one. If you are going into this question, do it thoroughly. Let us fix by law what is fit to eat, and stick to it. I'll back sauerkraut before any dietary commission ever organized on earth."
The council appointed a commission to conduct hearings and make a rigid code of laws establishing the kind of foods for each meal.
Again Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat, rose, shook his long hair and cleared his throat.
Norman lifted his hand for silence.
"I anticipate the poet's words. You solemnly protest against the further establishment of a tyranny which shall dare prescribe your food from day to day. I grieve over the necessity of these laws and mingle my tears with yours in advance. But, in the language of a distinguished citizen of the old republic, 'we are confronted by a condition, not a theory.' The council stands adjourned."
The Bard poured his bitter protest intoCatherine's patient ears and left with a growing conviction of her wisdom.
The woman with the drooping eyelids stood watching his retreating figure while a quiet smile of contempt played about her full, sensuous lips.
Within a week it was necessary to appoint a commission to formulate an elaborate code of laws regulating various nuisances which had developed in the community.
A kitchen-boy insisted on playing a cornet in his room. He didn't know a musical from a promissory note but he swore he'd become a musician before he died. His efforts came near proving fatal to his neighbours before he was suppressed.
Several women had pet parrots. The people who lived near by strenuously objected. The parrots had to go.
A sailor had brought a monkey whose manners were not appreciated by any one except his master. The monkey had to go. Cats were arraigned for trial and a fierce battle raged over the question of allowing them in the building. The question was finally put to the popular vote in the assembly and the cats won by a good majority. But strict laws regulating the kind of cats, their number, and their care, were put into force.
Dogs won by a large majority when they were finally put on trial.
The commission on nuisances had finally to make a code of laws regulating table manners and the conduct of all social gatherings.
The one question which all but precipitated a civil war was the problem of dress. Inequality of wages meant, of necessity, inequality of dress.
A desperate effort was made by a large number to force the community to adopt a uniform for both men and women. It was fiercely opposed. Every woman who believed herself good looking refused to listen to any argument on the subject.
It was necessary at once, however, to formulate some sort of code. A number of men had been coming into the dining-room in their shirt sleeves. Some of them apparently never combed their hair or changed their linen. A number of women had gotten into the habit of coming into the dining-room in loose wrappers of variegated colors and without corsets.
The Bard of Ramcat was particularly severe in his public criticism of these women in the general assembly of the Brotherhood.
"In the name of beauty, I protest!" he cried. "Beauty is an attribute of God. It is woman's first duty to be beautiful, and if she isn't, at least to make man think she is. I insist that she shallhave the widest liberty in the choice of dress. Only let her be careful that she is beautiful!"
The poet was heartily applauded, and a resolution was passed which embodied his ideas, approving the widest freedom of choice in dress, approving especially unconventional forms of dress, provided always the ideal of beauty was held inviolate.
In his speech advocating the immediate passage of the resolution the Bard urged every woman to outdo herself in the struggle for supreme beauty of appearance at the weekly ball on Friday evening.
His resolutions and speech bore surprising fruit.
When the festivities were at their height a crowd of fifteen pretty girls suddenly swept into the brilliantly lighted ball-room in tights! The sensation was so instantaneous and overwhelming the music stopped with a crash. The orchestra thought somebody had yelled fire.
The girls in their beautiful but unconventional dress tried to appear unconcerned. But even the Bard was appalled at the results.
The pretty young chorus-girls had taken him at his word. They had always cherished a secret desire to live in an unconventional real world, where they could have a chance to bethemselves, without the hideous skirts of conventional society veiling their beauty. They had brought these costumes with them and joined the new moral world in the firm faith that their ideal would be realized. It had come very slowly, but it had come at last.
They donned their beautiful costumes with hearts fluttering in triumphant pride. But they had huddled into a corner of the ball-room in a panic of fright at the insane commotion their honest efforts to promote beauty had caused. One by one every woman in skirts save Barbara and Catherine left the room. The married ones seized their husbands and pushed them out ahead.
Norman, who was dancing with Barbara, broke down and burst into a paroxysm of laughter.
Some of the girls began to cry, but others made a brave effort to face the crowd of eager, giggling boys who pressed nearer.
The Bard approached with a serious look on his noble brow, deliberately put on his glasses and surveyed the crowd.
"My dear girls," he began, "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the sincerity and honesty of your efforts to express beauty in unconventional form, but really this is beyond my wildest expectation."
Catherine drove the rude boys out of the room and closed the windows, while Barbara kissed the tears away from the hysterical innovators and led them back to their rooms.
The next morning the general assembly held an unusually solemn meeting at which it was voted by a large majority to settle at once and forever the question of dress by adopting a Socialist uniform of scarlet and white for the women, and for the men a dull gray suit with scarlet bands on the sleeve, a scarlet stripe and belt for the trousers.
The discussion was brief and Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat, protested in vain.