In the station-house a fat sergeant sat dozing upon his throne. “Another vagrant,” said the policeman, as if to say there was no special need to rouse himself.
“What was he doing?” the sergeant asked.
“Sleeping in a doorway,” was the reply.
By this time Samuel had come to realize the futility of protest. He accepted his fate with dumb despair. He gave the information the sergeant asked for—Samuel Prescott, aged seventeen, native born, from Euba Corners, occupation farmer, never arrested before.
“All right,” said the man, and went back to his nap; and Samuel was led away, and after a pretense at a search was shoved into a cell and heard the iron door clang upon him.
He was alone now, and free to sob out his grief. It was the culmination of all the shame and horror that he could ever have imagined; first, to have to beg, and then to be locked up in jail. He knew now what they did with men who were out of work and starving.
He lay there weeping, and then suddenly he sat up transfixed. From the cell next to him had come a cry, a horrible blood-curdling screech, more like the scream of a wild cat than any human sound. Samuel listened, his heart pounding.
There came the voice of a man from across the corridor—“Shut up, you hag!” And after that bedlam broke loose. The woman—Samuel realized at last that the scream had come from a woman—broke forth into a torrent of yells and curses. Such hideous obscenities, such revolting blasphemies he had never heard in his life before—he had never dreamed that life contained within it the possibility of such depravity. It was like an explosion from some loathsome sewer; and its source was the lips of a woman.
For ten minutes or so the tirade continued until it seemed to the boy that every beautiful and sacred thing he had ever heard of in his life had been defiled forever. Then a jailer strolled down the corridor, and with a few vigorous and judicious oaths contrived to quell the uproar.
Samuel lay down again; and now he had a chance to make another discovery. He had felt sharp stinging sensations which caused him to scratch himself frantically. Then suddenly he realized that he was lying upon a mattress infested with vermin.
The discovery sent him bounding to the middle of the floor. It set him wild with rage. Such a thing had never happened to him in his life before, for his home was a decent and clean one. This was the crowning infamy—that they should have taken him, helpless as he was, and shut him up in a filthy hole to be devoured by bedbugs and lice.
In the morning they brought him bread and coffee; and after a couple of hours' more waiting he was taken to court.
It was a big bare room with whitewashed walls. There were a few scattered spectators, a couple of policemen and several men writing at tables. Seated within an inclosure were a number of prisoners, dull and listless looking. One by one they stepped up before the railing and faced the judge; there would be a few muttered words and they would move on. Everything went as a matter of routine, which had been going that way for ages. The judge, who was elderly and gray haired, looked like a prosperous business man in a masquerade costume.
Samuel's turn came and he stood before the bar. His name was read, and the charge—vagrancy.
“Well?” said the judge mechanically. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Samuel caught his breath. “It's not my fault, sir,” he began.
“Your honor,” prompted the policeman who stood at his elbow.
“Your honor,” said Samuel, “I lost all my money. And I've been trying to find work, your honor.”
“Have you any friends in town?”
“No, your honor.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Only since yesterday, your honor.”
“How did you get here?”
“I came in on a freight train, your honor.”
“I see,” said the judge. “Well, you came to the wrong place. We're going to put an end to vagrancy in Lockmanville. Thirty days. Next case.”
Samuel caught his breath. “Your honor,” he gasped.
“Next case,” repeated the judge.
The policeman started to lead Samuel away. “Your honor,” he cried frantically. “Don't send me to jail.” And fighting against the policeman's grip, he rushed on, “It's not my fault—I'm an honest boy and I tried to find work. I haven't done anything. And you'll kill me if you send me to jail. Have mercy! Have mercy!”
The policeman shook him roughly. But there was something so genuine in Samuel's wail that the judge said, “Wait.”
“How could I help it if I was robbed?” the boy rushed on, taking advantage of his chance. “And what could I do but ask for work? I was brought up honest, your honor. It would have killed my father if he'd thought I'd be sent to jail. He brought me up to earn my living.”
“Who was your father?” asked the judge.
“His name was Ephraim Prescott, and he was a farmer. You can ask anyone at Euba Corners what sort of a man he was. He'd fought all through the war—he was wounded four times. And if he could be here he'd tell you that I don't deserve to go to jail.”
There was a moment's pause. “What regiment was your father in?” asked the magistrate.
“He was in the Seventeenth Pennsylvania, your honor.”
“Be careful, boy,” said the other sternly. “Don't try to deceive me.”
“I don't want to deceive you, your honor,” protested Samuel.
“What brigade was the Seventeenth Pennsylvania in?”
“In the Third Brigade, your honor.”
“And who commanded it?”
“General Anderson—that is, until he was killed at the battle of Chancellorsville. My father was there.”
“I was there, too,” said the judge.
“My father used to tell me about it,” exclaimed Samuel with sudden eagerness. “His brigade was in the right wing and they had a double line of trenches. And the rebels charged the line with cavalry. They charged a dozen times during the day, and there were big trees cut down by the bullets. My father said the rebels never fought harder than they did right there.”
“Yes,” said his honor, “I know. I was one of them.”
Everyone within hearing laughed; and Samuel turned crimson.
“I beg pardon, your honor,” he said.
“That's all right,” said the judge. And then he added gravely, “Very well, Samuel, we'll give you another chance for your father's sake. But don't let me see you here again.”
“No, your honor,” said Samuel. Then he added quickly. “But what can I do?”
“Get out of Lockmanville,” said the other.
“But how? When I've no money. If your honor could only help me to some work.”
“No,” said the judge. “I'm sorry, but I've found jobs for three men this week, and I don't know any more.”
“But then—” began Samuel.
“I'll give you a dollar out of my own pocket,” the other added.
“Your honor,” cried Samuel startled, “I don't want to take money!”
“You can send it back to me when you get a job,” said the judge, holding out a bill. “Take it. Prisoner discharged. Next case.”
Samuel took the money and was turning away, when a man who had been sitting in a chair near the magistrate suddenly leaned forward.
“Judge,” he said, “if I may interrupt—”
“Why, surely, professor,” said the other pleasantly.
“I may possibly be able to find something for the boy to do.”
“Ah, that will be fine!”
“He seems to be a capable young fellow and might be worth helping.”
“The very thing, professor. Samuel, this is Professor Stewart, of Lockman College.”
Samuel was very glad to meet the professor. He was a trim little gentleman, with a carefully cut black beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Here is my card,” he said; “and if you'll come to see me to-morrow morning at my house, we'll see what we can do.”
“Thank you very much,” said the boy, and put the card in his pocket. Then, realizing suddenly that the policeman had let go of his arm, and that he was free, he turned and made his way through the gate.
“A diverting episode,” said the professor.
“Yes,” said the judge, with a smile. “We have them now and then, you see.”
Samuel went out with a glow in his heart. At last he had got a start. He had got underneath the world's tough hide and found kindness and humanity after all. It had been a harrowing experience, but it would not happen again.
He had now one definite purpose in mind. He walked straight out of town and down the river road until he came to a sufficiently solitary place. Then he took off his clothes and sat down on the bank and performed a most elaborate toilet. For half an hour at least he scrubbed his head with sand and water, and combed his hair out with his fingers. And then he went over his clothing inch by inch. At least he would be through with one hideous reminder of his imprisonment.
After which he dressed again and went back to town and found the saloon where he had eaten.
“Hello!” said his friend Finnegan, the bar-keeper. “Back again!”
“I came to explain about this morning,” said Samuel. “I couldn't come because they put me in jail.”
“Gee!” said the other; but then he added, with a laugh, “Well, it was a wet night.”
Samuel did not reply. “I'll come to-morrow morning,” he said.
“You'd better get out of town, sonny,” advised the other.
“I'm all right. The judge gave me a dollar.”
“Humph! A dollar won't last forever.”
“No. But I've got the promise of a job. There was a gentleman there—Professor Stewart, from the college.”
“Hully gee!” said Finnegan. “I know that guy. A little runt with a black beard?”
“I guess so,” said Samuel dubiously.
“I seen his pitcher in the paper,” said the other. “He's one of them reformers—always messin' into things.”
“Maybe that's why he was at the court,” observed Samuel.
“Sure thing! He's a professor of sociology an' such things, an' he thinks he knows all about politics. But we handed him a few last election—just you bet!”
“Who's 'we'?” asked Samuel.
“The organization,” said Finnegan; “the Democrats, o' course. Them reformers is always Republicans—the 'better element,' an' all that. That means the rich guys—that have their own little grafts to work. This perfessor was a great friend of old Henry Lockman—an' the old man used to run this town with his little finger. But they had a big strike here three years ago, and too many men got hit over the head. So it'll be a long day before there's any more 'reform' in Lockmanville.”
“I see,” said Samuel.
“They make a great howl about the saloons an' all the rest,” added the barkeeper. “But when the Republicans ran things, my boss paid his little rake-off just the same, you can bet. But you needn't tell that to the perfessor.”
“I won't,” said the boy.
“What you goin' to do now?” asked the other.
“I don't know. I guess I'll have to get something to eat first.”
“You'll find the cheapest way is to buy a glass of beer and then feed over there.”
“No,” said Samuel, startled. “I—I think I'd rather not do that.”
“Well, so long,” said Finriegan, with a laugh.
“You'll see me to-morrow morning,” said Samuel, as he went out.
Samuel went to a bake shop and bought a loaf of bread and sat on the bench of the public square and devoured it bit by bit. It was the cheapest thing he could think of, and quantity was what counted just then.
Next he had to find a room to spend the night. He knew nothing about hotels and lodging-houses—he walked through the workingmen's quarter of the town, scanning the cottages hesitatingly. At last in the doorway of one he noticed a woman standing, an elderly woman, very thin and weary looking, but clean, and with a kindly face. So he stopped.
“Please,” said he, “could you tell me any place where I could hire a room?”
The woman looked at him. “For how long?” she asked.
“I'm not quite sure,” he said. “I want it for one night, and then if I get a job, I may want it longer.”
“A job in Lockmanville?” said the woman.
“Well, I've the promise of one,” he replied.
“There can't be very many,” said she. “I've two rooms I've always rented,” she added, “but when the glass works shut down the men went away. One of them owed me three dollars, too.”
“I—I'm not able to pay very much,” said Samuel.
“Come in,” responded the woman; and he sat down and told her his story. And she told him hers.
Mrs. Stedman was her name, and her husband had been a glass blower. He earned good wages—five dollars a day in the busy season. But he worked in front of a huge tank of white-hot glass and that was hard on a man. And once on a hot day he had gone suddenly dizzy, and fallen upon a mass of hot slag, and been frightfully burned in the face. They had carried him to the hospital and taken out one eye. And then, because of his family and the end of the season being near, he had gone to work too soon, and his wound had gone bad, and in the end he had died of blood-poisoning.
“That was two years ago,” said Mrs. Stedman. “And I got no damages. We've barely got along—this year's been worse than ever. It's the panic, they say. It seemed as if everything was shutting down.”
“It must be very hard on people here,” said Samuel.
“I've got three children—all girls,” said Mrs. Stedman, “and only one old enough to work. That's Sophie—she's in the cotton mill, and that only started again last month. And they say it may run on half time all the year. I do sewing and whatever I can to help, but there's never enough.”
Samuel forgot his own troubles in talking with this woman. His family had been poor on the farm, but they had never known such poverty as this. And here were whole streets full of people living the same sort of life; hanging over the abyss of destruction, and with no prospect save to struggle forever. Mrs. Stedman talked casually about her friends and neighbors, and new glimpses came to make the boy catch his breath. Next door was Mrs. Prosser, whose husband was dying of cancer; he had been two years dying, and they had five small children. And on the other side were the Rapinskys, a Polish family; they had been strong in the possession of three grown sons, and had even bought a phonograph. And now not one of them had done a stroke of work for three months.
To have been robbed and put in jail seemed a mere incident in comparison with such bitter and I lifelong suffering; and Samuel was ashamed of having made so much fuss. He had stated, with some trepidation, that he was just out of jail; but Mrs. Stedman had not seemed to mind that. Her husband had been in jail once, during the big glass strike, and for nothing more than begging another man not to take his job.
It was arranged that Samuel was to pay her thirty-five cents for his supper and bed and breakfast, and if he wished to stay longer she would board him for four dollars a week, or he might have the room alone for a dollar.
The two young children came in from school; they were frail and undersized little girls, with clothing that was neatly but pitifully patched. And shortly after them came Sophie.
Samuel gave a start of dismay when he saw her. He had been told that she worked in the cotton mill and was the mainstay of the family; and he had pictured a sturdy young woman, such as he had seen at home. Instead, here was a frail slip of a child scarcely larger than the others. Sophie was thirteen, as he learned afterwards; but she did not look to be ten by his standards. She was grave and deliberate in her movements, and she gazed at the stranger with a pair of very big brown eyes.
“This is Samuel Prescott,” said her mother. “He is going to spend the night, and maybe board with us.”
“How do you do?” said Sophie, and took off the shawl from her head and sat down in a corner. The boy thought that this was shyness upon her part, but later on he realized that it was lassitude. The child rested her head upon her hand every chance that she got, and she never did anything that she did not have to.
The next morning, bright and early, Samuel was on hand at the saloon, greatly to the amusement of his friend Finnegan. He got down on his hands and knees and gave the place such a scrubbing as it had never had before since it was built. And in return Finnegan invited him to some breakfast, which Samuel finally accepted, because it would enable him to take less from the Stedmans.
Professor Stewart had not specified any hour in his invitation. He lived in the aristocratic district across the bridge and Samuel presented himself at his door a little before eight.
“Professor Stewart told me to come and see him,” he said to the maid.
“Professor Stewart is out of town,” said she.
“Out of town!” he echoed.
“He's gone to New York,” said she. “He was called away unexpectedly last night.”
“When will he be back?”
“He said he'd try to be back the day after tomorrow; but he wasn't sure.”
Samuel stared at her in consternation.
“What did you want?” she asked.
“He promised me a job.”
“Oh!” said she. “Well, can't you come back later on?” And then, seeing that Samuel had nothing better to do than to stare at her dumbly, she closed the door and went about her business.
Samuel walked back in a daze. It gave him a new sense of the world's lack of interest in him. Probably the great man had forgotten him altogether.
There was nothing to do but to wait; and meantime he had only sixty cents. He could not stay with Mrs. Stedman, that was certain. But when he came to tell her, she recurred to a suggestion he had made. There were a few square yards of ground behind her house, given up mostly to tomato cans. If he would plant some garden seed for her she would board him meanwhile. And so Samuel went to work vigorously with a borrowed spade.
Two days passed, and another day, and still the professor had not returned. It was Saturday evening and Samuel was seated upon the steps of the house, resting after a hard day's work. Sophie was seated near him, leaning back against the house with her eyes closed. The evening was warm and beautiful, and gradually the peace of it stole over her. And so at last she revealed herself to Samuel.
“Do you like music?” she asked.
“Very much indeed,” said he.
“Not everybody does,” she remarked—“I mean real music, such as Friedrich plays.”
“I don't know,” said Samuel. “Who is Friedrich?”
“He's a friend of mine,” Sophie answered. “He's a German boy. His father's the designer at the carpet works. And he plays the violin.”
“I should like to hear him,” said he.
“I'll take you,” she volunteered. “I generally go to see them on Sunday afternoons. It's the only time I have.”
So the next day Samuel met the Bremers. Their cottage was a little way out in the country, and they had a few trees about it and a flower bed. But the house was not large, and it was well filled with a family of nine children. Johann, the father, was big and florid, with bristling hair. He was marked in the town because he called himself a “Socialist,” but Samuel did not know that. His wife was a little mite of a woman, completely swamped by child-bearing. Most interesting to Samuel was Friedrich, who played the violin; a pale ascetic-looking boy of fifteen, with wavy hair and beautiful eyes.
Music was a serious rite with the Bremers. The father played the piano, and the next oldest son to Friedrich was struggling with a 'cello; and when they played, the whole family sat in the parlor, even the tiny tots, round-eyed and silent.
Samuel knew some “patriotic songs,” and a great number of hymns, and a few tunes that one heard at country dances. But such music as this was a new revelation of the possibilities of life. He listened in a transport of wonder and awe. Such wailing grief, such tumultuous longing, such ravishing and soul-tormenting beauty! Friedrich had only such technique as his father had been able to give him, together with what he had invented for himself; his bowings were not always correct, and he was weak on the high notes; but Samuel knew nothing of this—he was thinking of the music. And he needed no one to tell him about it—he needed no criticisms and no commentaries. Across the centuries the souls of Schubert and Beethoven spoke to him, telling their visions of the wonderful world of the spirit, toward which humanity is painfully groping.
It was impossible for him to keep from voicing his excitement, and this greatly delighted the Bremers, who craved for comprehension in a lonely place. His sympathy gave wings to their fervor, and they played the whole afternoon through, and then Johann invited them to stay to supper, so that they might play some more in the evening.
“You should haf been a musician,” he said to Samuel. “You vas made for it.”
They had a supper such as the boy had missed for some time; a great platter of cold boiled meat, and a bowl of hot gravy, and another bowl of mashed potatoes, with no end of bread and butter. Also there was some kind of a German pudding, and to the stranger's dismay, a pitcher of beer in front of Johann. After offering some to his guests, he drank it all, and also he ate a vast supper. Afterwards he dozed, while Friedrich played yet more wonderful music, and this gave Samuel a new insight into the life of the family, and into the wild and terrible longing that poured itself out in Friedrich's tones. The father was good-natured and sentimental, but sunk in grossness; and the mother was worn out with the care of her brood, and beneath all this burden the soul of the boy was crying frantically for life.
The exigencies of trade demanded endless variety of designs in carpets and rugs, and so all day Johann Bremer stood in front of a great sheet of cardboard, marked off in tiny numbered squares, on which he painted with many colors. For this he received thirty dollars a week, and his son received twelve dollars as his assistant—painting in the same colors upon all the squares of certain numbers, and so completing a symmetrical design. It was a very good job, and Johann prodded his son to devote his energies to the evolving of new designs. But the boy hated it all—thinking only of his music. And his music meant to him, not sentimental dreaming, but a passionate clutch into the infinite, a battle for deliverance from the bondage of the world. So Johann himself had been in his youth, when he had become a revolutionist, and before beer and gravy and domesticity had tamed him.
No one said a word about these things. It was all in the playing. And now and then Samuel stole a glance about the room and discovered yet another soul's tragedy. Sophie, too, was drinking in the music, and life had crept into her face, and her breath came quick and fast, and now and then she furtively brushed away a tear.
Afterwards, as they walked home, she said to Samuel, “I don't know if it's good for me to listen to music like that.”
“Why not?” he asked—“if it makes you happy.”
“But it makes me unhappy afterwards. It makes me want things. And I get restless—and when I go back to the factory it's so much harder.”
“What do you do in the factory?” asked Samuel.
“I'm what they call a bobbin-girl—I tie the threads on the bobbins when they are empty.”
“Is it very hard work?”
“No, you mightn't think so. But you have to stand up all day; and it's doing the same thing all the time—the same thing the whole day long. You get dull—you never think about anything. And then the air is full of dust and the machinery roars. You get used to it, but I'm sure its bad for you.”
They walked for a while in silence. “Do you like to imagine things?” asked Sophie suddenly.
“Yes,” said he.
“I used to,” said she—“when I was younger.” It was so strange to Samuel to notice that this slip of a child always spoke of herself as old.
“Why don't you do it now?” he asked.
“I'm too tired, I think. But I've a lot of pictures up in my room—that I cut out of magazines that people gave me. Pictures of beautiful things—birds and flowers, and old castles, and fine ladies and gentlemen. And I used to make up stories about them, and imagine that I was there, and that all sorts of nice things were happening to me. Would you like to see my pictures?”
“Very much,” said Samuel.
“I think of things like that when I listen to Friedrich. I've a picture of Sir Galahad—he's very beautiful, and he stands at his horse's head with a sword in his hand. I used to dream that somebody like that might come and carry me off to a place where there aren't any mills. But I guess it's no use any more.”
“Why not?” asked the other.
“It's too late. There is something the matter with me. I never say anything, because it would make mother unhappy; but I'm always tired now, and every day I have a headache. And I'm so very sleepy, and yet when I lie down I can't sleep—I keep hearing the mill.” “Oh!” cried Samuel involuntarily.
“I don't mind it so much,” said the child. “There's no help, so what's the use. It's only when I hear Friedrich play—then I get all stirred up.”
They walked on for a while again.
“He's very unhappy,” she said finally.
“I suppose so,” replied Samuel. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly. “Isn't there some other work that you could do?”
“What? I'm not strong enough for hard work. And where could I make three dollars a week?”
“Is that what they pay you?”
“Yes—that is—when we are on full time.”
“Does it make all the girls sick?” he inquired. “There's that girl who came in this afternoon—she seems well and strong.”
“Bessie, you mean? But it's just play for her, you see. She lives with her parents and stops whenever she feels like it. She just wants to buy dresses and go to the theater.”
“But that girl we passed on the street to-day!”
“Helen Davis. Ah, yes—but she's different again. She's bad.”
“Bad?” echoed Samuel perplexed.
There was a brief pause. It was not easy for him to adjust himself to a world in which the good were of necessity frail and ill, and the bad were rosy-cheeked and merry. “How do you mean?” he asked at last.
And Sophie answered quite simply, “She lives with a fellow.”
The blood leaped into Samuel's face. Such a blunder for him to have made.
But then the flush passed, giving place to a feeling of horrified wonder. For Sophie was not in the least embarrassed—she spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone. And this from a child of thirteen, who did not look to be ten.
“I see,” said he in a faint voice.
“A good many of the girls do it,” she added. “You see, they move about so much—the mills close, and so a girl has no hope of marrying. But mothers says it's wrong, just the same.”
And Samuel walked home the rest of the way in silence, and thinking no more about the joys of music.
On Monday morning Samuel found that Professor Stewart had returned, and he sat in the great man's study and waited until he had finished his breakfast.
It was a big room, completely walled with crowded bookshelves; in the center was a big work-table covered with books and papers. Samuel had never dreamed that there were so many books in the world, and he gazed about him with awe, feeling that he had come to the sources of knowledge.
That was Samuel's way. Both by nature and training, he had a profound respect for all authority. He believed in the majesty of the law—that was why it had shocked him so to be arrested. He thought of the church as a divine institution, whose ministers were appointed as shepherds of the people. And up here on the heights was this great College, a temple of learning; and this professor was one who had been selected by those in the seats of authority, and set apart as one of its priests. So Samuel was profoundly grateful for the attention which was given to him, and was prepared to pick up whatever crumbs of counsel might be dropped.
“Ah, yes,” the professor said, wiping his glasses with a silk handkerchief. “Samuel—let me see—Samuel—”
“Prescott, sir.”
“Yes—Samuel Prescott. And how have you been?”
“I've been very well, sir.”
“I meant to leave a message for you, but I overlooked it. I had so many things to attend to in the rush of departure. I—er—I hope you didn't wait for me.”
“I had nothing else to do, sir,” said Samuel.
“The truth is,” continued the other, “I'm afraid I shan't be able to do for you what I thought I could.”
Samuel's heart went down into his boots.
“You see,” said the professor a trifle embarrassed, “my sister wanted a man to look after her place, but I found she had already engaged some one.”
There was a pause. Samuel simply stared.
“Of course, as the man is giving satisfaction—you see—it wouldn't do for her to send him away.”
And Samuel continued to stare, dumb with terror and dismay.
“I'm very sorry,” said the other—“no need to tell you that. But I don't know of any other place.”
“But what am I to do?” burst out Samuel.
“It's really too bad,” remarked the other.
And again there was a silence.
“Professor Stewart,” said Samuel in a low voice, “what is a man to do who is out of work and starving?”
“God knows,” said the professor.
And yet again there was silence. Samuel could have said that himself—he had the utmost faith in God.
And after a while the professor himself seemed to realize that the reply was inadequate. “You see,” he went on, “there is a peculiar condition here in Lockmanville. There was an attempt to corner the glass industry, and that caused the building of too many factories, and so there is overproduction. And then, besides that, they've just invented a machine that blows as many bottles as a dozen men.”
“But then what are the men to do?” asked Samuel.
“The condition readjusts itself,” said the other. “The men have to go into some other trade.”
“But then—the cotton mills are on half time, too!”
“Yes, there are too many cotton mills.”
“But then—in the end there will be too many everything.”
“That is the tendency,” said the professor.
“There are foreign markets, of course. But the difficulty really goes deeper than that.”
Professor Stewart paused and looked at Samuel wondering, perhaps, if he were not throwing away his instruction. But the boy looked very much interested, even excited.
“Most of our economists are disposed to blink the truth,” said he. “But the fact is, there are too many men.”
Samuel started. It was precisely that terrible suspicion which had been shaping itself in his own mind.
“There is a law,” went on the other, “which was clearly set forth by Malthus, that population tends continually to outrun the food supply. And then the surplus people have to be removed.”
“I see,” said Samuel, awestricken. “But isn't it rather hard?”
“It seems so—to the individual. To the race it is really of the very greatest benefit. It is the process of life.”
“Please tell me,” Samuel's look seemed to say.
“If you will consider Nature,” Professor Stewart continued, “you will observe that she always produces many times more individuals than can possibly reach maturity. The salmon lays millions of eggs, and thousands of young trees spring up in every thicket. And these individuals struggle for a chance to live, and those survive which are strongest and best fitted to meet the conditions. And precisely the same thing is true among men—there is no other way by which the race could be improved, or even kept at its present standard. Those who perish are sacrificed for the benefit of the race.”
Now, strange as it may seem, Samuel had never before heard the phrase, “the survival of the fittest.” And so now he was living over the experience of the thinking world of fifty or sixty years ago. What a marvelous generalization it was! What a range of life it covered! And how obvious it seemed—one could think of a hundred things, perfectly well known, which fitted into it. And yet he had never thought of it himself! The struggle for existence! The survival of the fittest!
A few days ago Samuel had discovered music. And now he was discovering science. What an extraordinary thing was the intellect of man, which could take all the infinitely varied facts of life and interpret them in the terms of one vast law.
Samuel was all aglow with excitement at the revelation. “I see,” he said, again and again—“I see!”
“It is the law of life,” said the professor. “No one can escape from it.”
“And then,” said Samuel, “when we try to change things—when we give out charity, for instance—we are working against Nature, and we really make things worse.”
“That is it,” replied the other.
And Samuel gave a great sigh. How very simple was the problem, when one had seen it in the light of science. Here he had been worrying and tormenting his brain about the matter; and all the time he was in the hands of Nature—and all he had to do was to lie back and let Nature solve it. “Nature never makes mistakes,” said Professor Stewart.
Of course, in this new light Samuel's own case became plain. “Those who are out of work are those who have failed in the struggle,” he said.
“Precisely,” said the professor.
“And that is because they are unfit.”
“Precisely,” said the professor again. “As Herbert Spencer has phrased it, 'Inability to catch prey must be regarded as a falling short of conduct from its ideal.' And, of course, in an industrial community, the 'prey' is a job.”
“Who is Herbert Spencer?” asked Samuel.
“He is recognized as the authority in such matters,” said the other.
“And then,” pondered Samuel, “those who have jobs must be the fit. And the very rich people—the ones who make the millions and millions—they are the fittest of all.”
“Er—yes,” said the professor.
“And, of course, that makes my problem clear—I'm out of a job, and so I must die.”
The professor gazed at Samuel sharply. But it was impossible to mistake the boy's open-eyed sincerity. He had no thought about himself—he was discovering the laws of life.
“I'm so glad you explained it to me,” he went on. “But all these thousands of men who are starving to death—they ought to be told it, too.”
“What good would it do?” asked the other.
“Why, they ought to understand. They suffer, and it seems to them purposeless and stupid. But if you were to explain to them that they are being sacrificed for the benefit of the race—don't you see what a difference it would make?”
“I don't believe they would take the suggestion kindly,” said the professor with a faint attempt to smile.
“But why not?” asked Samuel.
“Wouldn't it sound rather hypocritical, so to speak—coming from a man who had succeeded?”
“Not at all! You have a right to your success, haven't you?”
“I hope so.”
“You have a job”—began Samuel and then hesitated. “I don't know how a professor comes to get his job,” he said. “But I suppose that the men who make the great fortunes—the ones who are wisest and best of all—they give the money for the colleges, don't they?”
“Yes,” said Professor Stewart.
“And then,” said Samuel, “I suppose it is they who have chosen you?”
Again the professor darted a suspicious glance at his questioner. “Er—one might put it that way,” he said.
“Well, then, that is your right to teach; and you could explain it. Then you could say to these men: 'There are too many of you; you aren't needed; and you must be removed.'”
But the professor only shook his head. “It wouldn't do,” he said. And Samuel, pondering and seeking as ever, came to a sudden comprehension.
“I see,” he exclaimed. “What is needed is action!”
“Action?”
“Yes—it's for us who are beaten to teach it; and to teach it in our lives. It's a sort of revival that is needed, you see.”
“But I don't see the need,” laughed the other, interested in spite of himself.
“That's because you aren't one of us!” cried Samuel vehemently. “Nobody else can understand—nobody! It's easy to be one of the successes of life. You have a comfortable home and plenty to eat and all. But when you've failed—when you're down and out—then you have to bear hunger and cold and sickness. And there is grief and fear and despair—you can have no idea of it! Why, I've met a little girl in this town. She works in the cotton mill, and it's just killed her by inches, body and soul. And even so, she can only get half a day's work; and the mother is trying to support the little children by sewing—and they're all just dying of slow starvation. This very morning they asked me to stay to breakfast, and I refused, because I knew they had only some bread and a few potatoes, and it wasn't enough for one person. You see, it's so slow—it's such a terribly long process—this starving people off by inches. And keeping them always tormented by hope. Don't you see, Professor Stewart? And just because you don't come out honestly and teach them the truth. Because you won't say to them: 'The world is too full; and you've got to get out of the way, so as to give us a chance.' Why, look, sir—you defeat your own purposes! These people stay, and they keep on having more children, and everything gets worse instead of better; and they have diseases and vices—they ruin the whole world. What's the use of having a world if it's got to be like this town—crowded with hovels full of dirty people, and sick people, and starving and miserable people? I can't see how you who live up here on the heights can enjoy yourselves while such things continue.”
“Um—no,” said Professor Stewart; and he gazed at Samuel with knitted brows—unable, for the life of him, to feel certain whether he ought to feel amused, or to feel touched, or to feel outraged.
As for Samuel, he realized that he was through with the professor. The professor had taught him all that he had to teach. He did not really understand this matter at all—that was because he belonged to the other world, the world of successful and fit people. They had their own problems to solve, no doubt!
This non-comprehension was made quite clear by the professor's next remark. “I'm sorry to have disappointed you,” he said. “If a little money will help you—”
“No,” said the other quickly. “You mustn't offer me money. How can that be right? That would be charity.”
“Ahem!” said the professor. “Yes. But then—you mentioned that you hadn't had any breakfast. Hadn't you better go into the kitchen and let them give you something?”
“But what is the use of putting things off?” cried Samuel wildly. “If I'm going to preach this new idea, I've got to begin.”
“But you can't preach very long on an empty stomach,” objected the other.
To which Samuel answered, “The preaching has to be by deeds.”
And so he took his departure; and Professor Stewart turned back to his work-table, upon which lay the bulky manuscript of his monumental work, which was entitled: “Methods of Relief; A Theory and a Programme.” Some pages lay before him; the top one was headed: “Chapter LXIII—Unemployment and Social Responsibility.” And Professor Stewart sat before this title, and stared, and stared.