There are streets in Chelsea practically abandoned to studios. Long low buildings of one story, with many doors in front, and great broadsides of windows at the back, multipaned windows letting in from the north the light that artists love, lined these thoroughfares which Barney in his jocular off-hand manner called “aurora borealis” streets, because, as he always explained, they were so full of “northern lights.” Such studios were all very well for the ordinary everyday artist who exhibited at the Royal Academy and places of that sort; but a painter with a soul (and, incidentally, a reliable bank account) desired something better than one of these barns, so Barney had taken a house and fitted it up to meet his requirements. Craigenputtoch House, as Barney called it in tardy recognition of the genius of Thomas Carlyle, was a building of three stories, standing back from the street in grounds of its own. The rooms on the upper floor were allowed to remain as they were, and gave Barney bedrooms for himself and his friends; his hospitality being unique and unlimited. All the partitions on the first floor had been torn away, so that this portion of the house was formed into one vast apartment, with the exception of a space for a noble landing, up to which, in dignified manner befitting a temple of art, arose a broad flight of stone steps that replaced the ordinary wooden stairway which had contented the former occupants of the house. To afford the support necessary for the upper floor, now that the partitions were taken away, huge square beams of timber had been put in, and these gave the ceiling of the roomy studio that barn roof appearance so necessary to the production of works of the higher art.
Barney’s mother objected to the bare coldness of the uncovered stone stairs. Being inside the house, she said, and not the steps that led to the front door, they should have a carpet on them. Barney admitted that under ordinary circumstances this was so, and willingly offered to make a certain concession should the occasion arise. If Royalty visited him, he would put down the customary red carpet which the feet of Royalty were in the habit of treading. In fact, he admitted to his mother that a roll of red carpet had already been purchased, and was at that moment in the closet under the stairs, to be ready at a moment’s notice. But for every-day wear the steps should remain uncovered, because the stone stairways of the Pitti Palace were always bare, and as Barney intended ultimately to make Craigenputtoch House quite as celebrated in the world of art as the Florentine gallery, he would follow its precedent so far as stairs were concerned. There is nothing like beginning right.
On the ground floor were dining-room and kitchen, below that a well-filled cellar. The hall was toned a rich Pompeiian red, and was lit by two windows of brilliant stained glass which had been put in when the building was transformed from a residence into a studio. “Oh, yes,” Barney would say, when he was complimented on these windows. “They are all very well in their way, but not original, don’t you know, not original. No, they are simply nicely executed copies of a portion of a window in Cologne Cathedral done in 1508. I placed them there temporarily, because I have been so busy that I have not had time to design anything better myself, which I shall do later on, don’t you know.”
But of all the ornamental appendages to this studio, perhaps the most striking was Barney’s “man,” attired in a livery of blue, crimson, and silver, which was exceedingly effective. Although Barney had not had time to design a stained-glass window which would excel those of Cologne, he had been compelled to sketch out this livery, for it was not a thing that one could copy from abroad, and the Hope family had not been established long enough to have a recognized livery of its own. Nothing gives character and dignity to a place so much as a “man” sumptuously fitted out in a style that is palpably regardless of cost, and if it may be plainly seen that the “man” performs no needful function whatever, then is the effect heightened, for few human beings attain the apex of utter inutility. The great hotels of this country recognize the distinction reflected upon them by the possession of a creature of splendour at their doors, who grandly wafts the incoming guests with a hand-wave towards the hall. But these persons of embellishment often demean themselves by opening the doors of cabs and performing other useful acts, thus detracting from their proper function, which was, Barney insisted, to content themselves with being merely beautiful.
When a visitor once complained that the man at the top of the stair had refused to direct him into the studio, Barney laid his right hand in friendly brotherliness on the visitor’s shoulder, and said:
“He knew, dear boy, that I would discharge him instantly if he so far forgot himself as to answer a question.”
“Then what is he there for?” asked the visitor, with some indignation. “I don’t see the use of him.”
“Quite so, quite so,” answered Barney, soothingly. “If you did, I would have to get rid of him and engage another, and, I can assure you, that perfectly useless persons six feet two in height are not to be picked up on every street corner. No, dear boy, they are not, I give you my word. People are so unthinking that theywillask foolish questions. I intend to discourage this habit as much as possible. You want to know what he is there for? Now if I had placed a marble statue at the top of the stair, you would not have been offended if it did not answer your query, don’t you know, and you would not have asked what it was there for, don’t you know. There are so many useful things in this world that something untainted with utilitarianism ought to be welcomed by every thinking man, and if this deplorably proficuous country is ever to be redeemed, we artists must lead the way, don’t you see.”
The grand individual at the head of the stair had his uses, nevertheless; for when Haldiman and another, accepting Barney’s effusively cordial invitations to attend one of his “At Homes,” entered-the hall below, and saw this magnificent person standing like a resplendent statue before and above them, Haldiman gasped, “Great Heavens!” and groped his way out on the pavement again, followed by the no less astounded other, who was an artist also struggling along in the black and white line. The two exchanged glances when at a safe distance from the studio, pausing as they did so. Their amazement was almost too great for words, yet Haldiman remarked solemnly:
“I might have expected something of that sort. Imagine us dropping in there in these clothes! Lucky escape! I know a place on the King’s Road where there are fluids to drink. Let us go there and see if we can recover from this blow. O Barney, Barney, what deeds are done in thy name!”
So the living statue silently warned off Barney’s two Bohemian friends, who are all right in Paris, don’t you know, but not at all desirable when a man settles down to serious work and expects nobility at his receptions.
The calm dignity of Barney’s “man” was offset in a measure by the energetic activity of the boy in buttons who threw open the door with a flourish. “Buttons” might be likened to a torpedo boat, darting hither and thither under the shadow of a stately ironclad. While the left hand of the small boy opened the door, the right swept up to his cap in a semi-military salute that welcomed the coming and sped the parting guest.
It would be difficult to imagine a room more suitable for an artistic function like Barney’s “At Homes” than Barney’s studio. The apartment was large, and it contained many nooks and crannies that the Tottenham Court Road furnisher had taken excellent advantage of. There were neat little corners for two; there were secluded alcoves fitted with luxurious seats; there were most alluring divans everywhere, and on the floor were the softest of Oriental rugs. Eastern lamps shed a subdued radiance over retired spots that otherwise would have been dark, and wherever a curtain could hang, a curtain was hung. Barney’s most important works, framed in gold and silver or the natural wood, were draped effectively, and to prevent the non-artistic mind from making a fool of itself by guessing at the subject, the name of each picture stood out in black letters on the lower part of the frame. There were “Battersea Bridge at Midnight,” “Chelsea in a Fog,” “Cheyne Row at Three A. M.,” and other notable works, while one startling picture of the Thames in crimson and yellow showed Barney’s power to accomplish a feat, which, if we may trust a well-known saying, has been tried by many eminent men, but has been rendered unsuccessful by the incombustible nature of that celebrated river.
Barney’s “afternoon” was at its height, when the bell was rung by a young man who had not received a card; but “Buttons” did not know that, and he swung open the door with a florid flourish as if the visitor had been a duke. The incomer was as much taken aback by the triumph of nature and art at the head of the stair as Haldiman had been, but although he paused for a moment in wonder, he did not retreat. He had a vague notion for an instant that it might be Barney himself, but reflection routed that idea. He was entering a world unfamiliar to him, but his common sense whispered that the inhabitants of this world did not dress in such a fashion.
“Is Mr. Barnard Hope at home?” he asked.
“Yessir,” answered the boy, with a bow and a wave of his hand. “This is his day. What name, sir?”
“Marsten.”
“Mr. Marsten,” shouted the boy up the stair.
The decorated sphinx at the top was uninfluenced by the announcement, but a less resplendent menial appeared, who held back the heavy curtains as Marsten mounted the stair, and, when he entered, his name was flung ahead of him upon the murmur of conversation within. The sight that met Marsten’s eye as he entered the studio was rather disconcerting to a diffident man, but he was relieved to notice, after a moment’s breathless pause beyond the threshold, that nobody paid the slightest attention to him.
The large room seemed bewilderingly full of people, and a row of men were standing with their backs against the wall, as if they were part of the mural decoration. Many of them held tea-cups in their hands, and all of them looked more or less bored. The divans and chairs had been arranged in rows, as if for the viewing of some spectacle, and every seat was taken, most of the occupants being ladies. Two men-servants were handing around tea and cake, while Barney himself flitted hither and thither like a gigantic butterfly in a rose garden, scattering geniality and good-humour wherever he went. The steady hum of conversation was brightened constantly by silvery laughter. It was evident that the gathering, with the possible exception of that part of it standing pensively around the walls, was enjoying itself.
As the throng slowly resolved into units before the gaze of young Marsten, his heart suddenly stopped, and then went on again at increased speed, as he recognized Edna Sartwell sitting on one of the front chairs, smiling at some humorous remark which Barney, leaning over her, was making. A moment before, Marsten had been conquering his impulse to retreat, by telling himself that all these idle persons were nothing to him; but now, when he had recognized one person who was everything to him, he had to quell his rising panic with a new formula. Although out of his depth and ill at ease, he knew that he would not quit the field in a fright before the task he had set himself was even begun. At the back of his nature there was a certain bull-dog obstinacy, the limitations of which had never yet been tested, although this unexpected meeting with a number of his fellow-creatures in an evidently higher social station than his own put a severe strain upon his moral courage. In vain he told himself that he was as good as any of them; for in his heart he did not believe that he was, so the assurance was of little value to him. Finally, he took his courage in his hand, and spoke to the servant who had held aside the curtains for him.
“Would you tell Mr. Hope that I wish to speak with him for a moment?”
Barney approached the new-comer with smiling face and extended hand.
“Oh, how-de-do, how-de-do? I am so glad you found time to come to my little affair. You are just in time—just in time, don’t you know.”
Barney’s artistic eye rapidly took in the appearance of his guest, and all at once he realized that his clothes had not quite the air of Bond Street about them, in spite of the fact that they were flagrantly the best suit his visitor had. The smile faded from the artist’s face.
“Oh, pardon me!” he added. “I thought I recognized you, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of——”
“No. We are not acquainted, Mr. Hope. I am one of the workmen in your father’s factory.”
“Really. You have some message for me, perhaps?”
“I came of my own motion. I wished very particularly to speak with you on business.”
“Oh, but really, my good fellow, don’t you know! This is my ‘At Home’ day. I never talk business on these days, never. If you want to buy any of my pictures, or anything, don’t you know, you must come another day.”
“I did not come about pictures, but about something vastly different and more serious.”
“My good fellow—you’ll excuse my interrupting you, won’t you? There is no serious business except art, and to-day I don’t even talk art.”
“Human lives,” said Marsten, hotly, “are more serious than art.”
“Please don’t raise your voice. You are certainly wrong about things, but I haven’t time to correct you to-day, don’t you know. All one needs to say about your last remark is that human lives are ephemeral, while art is everlasting Therefore is art the more important of the two. But we’ll let that pass. Can’t you come and talk another day? I’m sure I shall be delighted to see you at any time.”
“Couldn’t you give me five minutes out on the landing?”
“It is impossible. I cannot leave my guests. You see, we have the dancing Earl on in a few moments. His Grace is just now arranging his skirts. I really must go, don’t you know.”
“Then I will stay until the Earl has done his dancing, if that is what he is here for.”
“Do, my dear fellow, do. A most excellent idea. I am sure you will like it, for though I have not seen the dance myself, I understand it is quite unique. Have a cup of tea. I would have sent you a card, if I had thought that any of my father’s workmen were interested in the latest movements of art; but never mind the lack of invitation. If you care to stay without it, I shall be delighted. It is really very good of you to drop in, in this unexpected way; it is the kind of thing I like, so Bohemian, don’t you know. You’ll excuse me now, I’m sure,” and Barney tripped away to see that all arrangements for the appearance of the Earl were complete.
The model-stand had been pushed to one end of the room fronting the audience; heavy curtains had been drawn across the big north window, leaving the place in semi-darkness; there was the hissing and sputtering of a lime-light in the gallery, causing inquisitive people to turn their heads and see what it was.
Marsten stood against the wall beside another man, who said to him in a weary tone:
“Who is this man, Barnard Hope?”
“He is an artist,” answered Marsten, astonished that one guest should question a stranger regarding their mutual host.
“Evidently,” replied the other “But who are his people, or has he any?
“His father is one of the richest manufacturers in London.”
“Egad, I was sure of it. I knew there was a shop somewhere in the background, the fellow is so beastly civil.”
Conversation was here interrupted by a figure leaping on the model-stand, while at the same instant a blinding white light was thrown from the gallery upon it. There was a ripple of applause and the Earl, a beardless youth of perhaps twenty, bowed. He looked like a girl in his clinging fluted skirts. He was a scion of an ancient noble family, founded by an affectionate dancer of the opposite sex in the reign of the second Charles, and it was quite in the regular order of things that there should be a recrudescence of terpsichorean ability in the latest member of the house.
The white light changed to red and the skirt dance began. As it went on it was received with tumultuous applause, for a London audience is always easy to please, especially when there is no charge for admission at the doors. Still it must be admitted that the sprightly little Earl deserved the warmth of his reception, for his exhibition was a model of grace and agility, while his manipulation of the voluminous skirts left little to be desired. The variegated colours thrown on the fluttering whirling drapery gave a weird unearthly effect to the rapid movements of his Grace, and the grand finale, where a crimson light was flung upon the flimsy silk waving high above the dancer’s head, gave the agile young nobleman the appearance of one of the early martyrs wrapped in flames.
The curtains were drawn back, the entranced assemblage rose to its feet, and, gathering about the host, congratulated him upon the success of his afternoon. Barney received these felicitations with exuberant gratification, and the young Earl, finally emerging from behind the scenes, clothed and in his right mind, but a trifle breathless, accepted modestly his well-earned share of the compliments, for, let cynics say what they will, true merit is always sure of appreciation in the great city.
Edna Sartwell lingered for a moment on the outskirts of the throng that pressed around Barney and the little Earl, then leisurely made her way towards the door, waiting for her step-mother, who lingered to thank her host. The men who had stood along the wall were already in the street, and the other visitors had nearly all departed.
Marsten stood alone where he was when the entertainment was going on, gazing with beating heart at the girl he loved. She came slowly towards him, her head averted, watching her step-mother standing in the fast thinning group about Barney. There was a certain unconsciousness about her movements, as if the young man had hypnotized her, and was drawing her to him by mere force of will. At last her skirts touched him and his nerves tingled to his finger ends. Almost involuntarily, he murmured:
“Miss Sartwell.”
The girl turned her head quickly, and for a moment met his gaze without recognizing him.
“My name is Marsten,” he said huskily, seeing she did not know him. “I met you the other evening at your fathers office, when he and I were talking of the strike.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied; “at first I did not remember you. I—I did not expect to——” She paused and seemed confused, looking away from him.
“To find me here,” said the young man, completing the sentence for her, and gathering courage as the delightful fact that he was actually talking to her impressed its almost unbelievable reality upon him. “I did not know there was anything like this going on. I came to consult with Mr. Hope on the same subject——” He flushed as the memory of one subject arose in his mind, and he felt his newly acquired courage beginning to ebb again. He pulled himself together and ended lamely, “—about the strike, you know.”
“Oh,” said Edna, instantly interested. “Is there anything new about the strike?”
“Yes; there was a meeting last night, and it was unanimously resolved to quit work.”
The colour left the girl’s cheeks.
“And are the men out? Is that why you are here to-day?”
“No; they do not go out until Saturday. I did what I could to prevent it, but without success. I applied to your father for this afternoon off, and he gave it to me without asking any questions. It seemed to me that in the few intervening days before the men go out, something might be done, when the enthusiasm of the meeting had died down. That’s why I came, but I’m afraid there is not much to look for here.”
“Does father know?”
“About the strike? Oh, yes.”
The girl’s winsome face clouded with apprehension. “I am so sorry,” she said, at last. “I am sure it is not father’s fault, for he is kind to every one. Even if he is sometimes severe”—she cast a shy upward glance at the young man that made his heart beat faster—“he is always just.”
“Yes, I know that is true. He will beat the men, and that is the reason I want moderate counsels to prevail. The workingman is always the under dog. Most of his mouthing friends are fools, and he himself is the greatest fool of all.”
“Don’t you think you are a little hard on the workingman? Were you here in time to see the dancing Earl?”
She looked at him with a frank smile, and Marsten smiled in company with her—it brightened his face wonderfully, and established an evanescent bond of comradeship between them.
“I had forgotten the Earl,” he said.
“I must go now. I see my step-mother looking for me. I hope you will be successful in averting trouble at the works.”
She extended her hand to him and he took it tenderly, fearing he might grasp it too closely and betray himself.
Mrs. Sartwell and her step-daughter were the last to go.
Barney threw himself on a divan and lit a cigarette.
“Well, my young friend, here we are alone at last. Help yourself to the cigarettes and allow me to offer you something stronger than the tea with which we regale the ladies. We have several shots in the locker, so just name your particular favourite in the way of stimulant while I order a B and S for myself. You might not believe it, but one of these afternoons takes it out of a fellow more than a day’s work at the factory. Not that I ever indulged in factory work myself, but I think you said it was in your line.”
“Yes,” said Marsten, after declining the offerings of his host. “It is about the factory I wish to speak with you. The men resolved last night to go out on strike.”
“Foolish beggars.”
“I quite agree with you. Their action is worse than foolish—that is why I came to see if you would intervene in any way so that a better state of feeling might be brought about.”
“Well, now—let’s see, I believe I have forgotten your name, or did you tell me? Ah, Marsten—thanks—so many things on my mind, don’t you know. You see, Mr. Marsten, it’s really no business of mine, although I must admit that your offer of the position of arbitrator flatters me. This makes twice I have been asked within a few days, so I think I must really be a born diplomat, don’t you know. But you see, there’s nothing I enjoy so much as minding my own business, and this strike is no affair of mine.”
“I think it is. All the luxury you have here is surely earned by the men I am now speaking for.”
“My dear fellow, you are not in the least flattering now; you are not, I assure you. You are saying in other words that my pictures do not sell.”
“I had no intention of hinting anything of the kind. I have no doubt you can sell anything you paint.”
“Ah, you are commending the artistic discernment of the British Public which—at present—is an honour the B. P. does not deserve. It will come round ultimately—the great B. P. always does—but not yet, my boy, not yet. Give it time, and it will pour cash in your lap. I regret that the moment—how shall I put it?—well, up to date, has not arrived. The workmen whom you honour by associating with, at present supply—as with perhaps unnecessary bluntness you state it—the financial deficiency. But the public will pay for it all in the end—every penny of it, my boy. You see these pictures around the walls? Very well; I hold them at two thousand pounds each. I find little difficulty in so holding them, for no section of the great British Public has, up to the present time, evinced any dogged desire to wrench them from me in exchange for so much gold. What is the consequence? I shall increase the price five hundred pounds every year, and the longer they hold off, the bigger sum they will have to pay, and serve them jolly well right, say I. Ten pictures twenty thousand pounds—this year. Next year twenty-five thousand pounds, and so on. With property on my hands increasing at that rate, I should be an idiot to urge people to buy. Ground rents in Belgravia are not in it with my pictures as investments. So you see, Mars-ten, when my day comes, the factory will be a mere triviality as an income producer compared with my brush, don’t you know.”
“But in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I am getting along very nicely, thank you. The strike will not affect me in the least. The men may have to diminish the amount of shag or whatever awful mixture they smoke, but I shall not consume one cigarette the less. I have done nothing to bring on this struggle. If the men want to fight, then, by jingo! let them, say I.”
“The fight is not yet actually on and won’t be until Saturday. Now is the time for a cool-headed man to interfere and bring about an amicable understanding. Won’t you at least make the attempt, Mr. Hope?”
“My dear Marsten, the way of the self-appointed arbitrator is hard. I was reading in this morning’s paper about your charming meeting, last night, and I noticed that one man who interfered was kicked off the platform and thrown out into a side street. That is the workingman’s idea of how an intellectual discussion should be terminated. I love the workingman myself, but I sometimes wish he would not argue with his hob-nailed boot. By the way, did you see this interesting episode? You were there, I suppose?”
“Yes. Braunt, who was kicked out, is one of the best workmen in the factory, but very hot-tempered. He lost control of himself last night, under strong provocation, and when he was outside tried to batter in the door. The police interfered, and he knocked down three of them. This was disastrous, for he was fined five pounds this morning, and I have been trying to raise the money so that he need not go to prison; but we are in the minority—he exasperated our fellow-workmen—and I am not getting on well with the subscription list.”
Barney sprang to his feet.
“Knocked down three, did he? Goodman. That’s something like. It’s a most deplorable trait in my character that I somehow enjoy an assault on the police, and yet I recognize the general usefulness of the force. Five pounds did you say? Then there will be the costs; I don’t understand much about these things, but I believe there are usually costs, on the principle of adding insult to injury, I suppose. Will a ten-pound note see him through? Good. Here it is. Three-pound-odd a policeman is not expensive when you think how much some of the luxuries here below cost, don’t you know. No thanks, Marsten, I beg of you; it’s a pleasure, I assure you.”
As Marsten took the money a servant came in and said in a low voice: “Simpson wants to know if he may go, sir.”
“Bless me, yes. I thought he had gone long ago. Simpson is my ornamental six-footer at the head of the stair; perhaps you noticed him as you came in. Poor fellow, he’s not allowed to do anything but stand there and look pretty, so I suppose it gets wearisome. Imagine such boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck devotion at this end of the nineteenth century! I had forgotten him, absorbed in your interesting conversation. Well, Marsten, I’m sorry I can’t arbitrate, but drop in again, and let me know how things go on. Good afternoon!”
On Saturday the men took their well-earned pay, one by one, and went out of the gates quietly, if sullenly. During the days that had intervened between the meeting and the strike, neither side had made advances to the other. If Sartwell had prepared for the struggle, these preparations had been accomplished so secretly that Gibbons failed to learn of them. The secretary of the Union issued a manifesto to the press, setting forth the position of the men in temperate phrase that had the effect of bringing public sympathy largely to the side of the workers. It was an admirable document, and most of the papers published it, some of them editorially regretting the fact that in this enlightened country and this industrial age, some hundreds of men, the bone and sinew of the land, willing to work, were forced to go into the streets in protest against a tyranny that refused even to discuss their alleged wrongs. The newspapers pointed out that whether their grievances were just or not was beside the question; as the point was that the manager had refused to see a deputation, and this high-handed conduct the papers expressed themselves as forced to deplore.
Both members of the firm thought this manifesto should be answered. The manager did not agree with them, so it was not answered.
Pickets were placed before the gates, and a few extra policemen appeared, as if by accident, in the neighbourhood; but there was nothing for either policemen or pickets to do. On Monday, some of the men lounging around the place looked up at the tall chimneys, and saw them, for the first time during their remembrance, smokeless. They had never noticed the smoke before, but now its absence created an unexpected void in the murky outlook. It was as if the finger of death had touched those gaunt lofty stacks, and the unusual silence of the place the men had always known to be so busy seemed to give the situation a lonely feeling of solemnity they had not looked, for.
On Tuesday some dray-loads of new machinery arrived at the works, and these the pickets attempted to stop, but without success. Gibbons was consulted, but he took a sensible and liberal view of the matter.
“Let them put in all the new machinery they wish. That will mean employment for more men when we go back. We will not interfere with Sartwell until he tries to fill the works with other employees.”
For the remainder of the week the shops echoed with the clang of iron on iron, but no smoke came out of the tall chimneys.
“Call this a fight?” said one of the men, over his mug of beer. “I call it a bean-feast.”
On Saturday, strike pay was given out at headquarters, each man getting his usual wage, for the Union was rich. It was indeed a bean-feast—all pay and no work.
The first week had enabled Sartwell to make repairs and to add machinery that had long been needed; but it had another effect which he considered more important still. It allowed Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope to recover their second wind, as it were. These good but timorous men had been panic-stricken by the going out of their employees, and by the adverse comments of the press. As nothing happened during the week they gradually regained what they called their courage, and, although they perhaps did not realize it, they were more and more committed to the fight when it did come on. They could hardly with decency, after keeping silence for a week during which there was peace, give way if afterwards there should be violence.
The vigilance of the pickets perhaps relaxed a little as time went on and there was nothing to do. But one morning they had a rude awakening. When they arrived at the gates they saw smoke once more pouring from the chimneys; there was a hum of machinery; the works were in full blast; and the former workers were outside the gates.
The news spread quickly, and the men gathered around the gates from all quarters. Gibbons was early on the ground, like an energetic general, ready to lead his men to the fray. He saw that the fight was now on, and he counselled moderation when he spoke to the excited men. It was all right, he answered them; he had expected this, and was prepared for it.
The gates were closed, and when Gibbons asked admittance to speak with the manager his request was curtly refused. This refusal did not tend to allay the excitement, nor to improve the temper of the men. The police kept the throng on the move as much as possible, but the task became more and more difficult as the crowd increased.
At noon a wagon, evidently loaded with provisions, drove down the street, and when the mob learned that its destination was the works, a cry went up that the vehicle should be upset.
Again the pacifying influence of Gibbons made itself felt, and the wagon, amidst the jeers of the bystanders, drove in, while the gates were speedily closed after it.
Gibbons retired with his captains to headquarters, where a consultation was held. There was a chance that Sartwell, during the first week, when it was supposed he was putting in new machinery, had also been building dormitories for his new men, and that he was going to keep them inside the gates, free from the influence of the Union.
This plan had not been foreseen by Gibbons, and he was unprepared for it.
“The men must come out sooner or later, and when they do we will have a talk with them,” said the secretary. “My own opinion is that they will come out to-night at the usual hour, and I propose to act on that supposition. If I find I am wrong, we will meet again to-night, and I will have some proposals to make. In a short time we shall be able to learn whether the scabs are coming out or not. Meanwhile, get back among our own men, and advise them not to make any hostile demonstration when the blacklegs appear; and when the scabs come out, let each man of you persuade as many as you can to come to the big hall, where we can have a talk with them. Tell the men that if there is any violence they will be merely playing into Sartwell’s hands. We don’t want the police down on us, and, until there is a row, they will at least remain neutral.”
This advice commended itself to all who heard it, and, the details of the programme having been ar ranged, they all departed for the scene of conflict.
Promptly at six o’clock the gates were thrown open, and shortly after the “blacklegs” began to pour forth into the street. There were no hootings nor jeerings, but the strikers regarded the new-comers with scowling looks, while the latter seemed rather uncomfortable, many of them evidently apprehensive regarding their reception.
“Men,” cried Gibbons, “who is your leader? I want a word with him.”
The stream of humanity paused for a moment, in spite of the commands of the police to move along. The men looked at one another, and Gibbons quickly recognized the state of things—they were strangers to each other, coming as they did from all parts of England. This surmise was confirmed by one man, who spoke up:
“We’ve got no leader,” he said.
“Then you be the spokesman,” cried Gibbons. “Did you men know, when you came here, that there was a strike on?”
“Something of that sort,” replied the spokesman, sullenly.
“Do you belong to a Union?”
“The Union never did nowt for us.”
“Do you know that you are taking bread from the mouths of other workers?”
“We must put bread into our own mouths.”
At this point the police captain touched Gibbons on the shoulder.
“I can’t allow this obstruction,” he said.
“Give me two minutes,” pleaded Gibbons.
“No—nor one.”
Gibbons turned savagely upon him.
“Look here,” he said. “Have some tact and sense. Don’t you know that I have merely to raise my hand and this crowd will sweep you and your men off the face of the earth?”
“That won’t prevent me from sweeping you into prison.”
“Certainly not. But you can arrest me quietly, when you like, or I’ll meet you at the police station any hour you name, but if you attempt to interfere now, you’ll have a riot on your hands. I’m holding this crowd in check—it is not their fear of you. There’s no traffic coming through this street nor likely to come. We’re therefore obstructing nothing, and I’m as anxious as you are to keep the men within the law. Good heavens! you may have your hands full at any moment, so don’t push patient people over the line. Remember, you are not in Sartwell’s employ. I only want a few words with these men, then we’ll leave the street to you.”
The captain hesitated a moment. It was an ominous mob.
“Look sharp then,” he said, and stepped back.
“Come with us,” cried Gibbons. “We can’t talk here. Come to the big hall, and, if, you don’t like what we say there will be no harm done. This is a free country.”
The secretary turned as if he had no doubt the crowd would follow, and the leaderless men walked after him. Gibbons’ assistants mixed among them, and talked persuasively with the strangers. Before half an hour all the “blacklegs,” were in the Salvation Army hall, signing the Union roll and being put on the strike-pay list.
It was a notable triumph for Gibbons; first blood, as a sporting-man would say.
Next morning, when the gates were opened, not a man entered, and Sartwell once more found himself without an employee. After the gates had remained invitingly open for half an hour, they were closed again, and a great cheer went up as the two big iron-bolted leaves came together.
Sartwell’s resources, however, were not yet exhausted, for two days later the factory was thronged with workmen once more, and these also Gibbons bought from under the manager.
Thus the game went on, and it convinced the men that their secretary knew a thing or two, being more than a match for the manager. Gibbons carried himself confidently, and talked with grand assurance that he was perhaps far from feeling, for he became more and more haggard and anxious as the fight continued. He alone knew the seriousness of the increased drain on the resources of the Union, through the forced support of the new hands he had lured away from Sartwell’s employ, and which had upset all his previous calculations. An attempt had been made to lighten the burden by trying to induce the new men to return to their homes, and this had been partially successful with the first lot, but the others obstinately insisted on getting their share of the strike pay, and refused even to consider the advisability of returning. They demanded what was promised them, or threatened to enter the works in a body, which action would have speedily put and end to the contest. Gibbons was well supported by that section of the press which gave more than a few lines each day to the progress of the strike. One morning the chief of these papers came out with an appeal to the public for aid. The case of the strikers, battling, it might be, at first for their own rights, but fighting in reality for all working humanity, was most convincingly and tersely put in a double-leaded editorial, and the journal itself headed the list with a handsome contribution. Would the people of England hold aloof, reduce these workers into slaves, using the weapon of grim starvation against them? The journal did not believe such apathy existed, and its belief was amply justified, for subscriptions poured rapidly in, together with indignant letters from all parts of the country, which were duly printed in its columns.
The first pinch of the strike came on the men when it was suddenly announced that strike pay would, the next Saturday, be cut down to one-quarter the amount they were then receiving. There was a good deal of grumbling and some inquiries as to what they were fighting for, but, on the whole, the disastrous proclamation was received quietly, if somewhat grimly.
“We are bound to win,” said Gibbons, when he was reluctantly compelled to tell the men of the reduction. “The firm is losing nearly a thousand pounds a week by the factory remaining idle, and it is not likely they will stand that long, even to oblige Sartwell.”
Gibbons had not the courage to add that even with this reduction the Union could not hold out more than a week longer; that it was practically at the end of its resources, and that future strike pay would have to depend on the subscriptions received from the outside, a most precarious source of revenue, for every one knows how short-lived enthusiasm is, and how the collection of hard cash destroys it.
There is much in good generalship, and one of its axioms is that you should endeavour to discover your enemy’s weakest point. Never once did it dawn on Gibbons or any of his lieutenants, that the fortress they were attacking had only to be approached in one direction, when the walls would have crumbled like those of Jericho; never did it occur to him that Sartwell was fighting at the same time two battles—one with the men and one with the masters, and of the two contests he feared the result of the latter most. Sartwell was between two fires; he had urged both Monkton and Hope to quit England until the fight was over, and leave the conducting of it to him. They vacillated; in the evening Sartwell might have their promise, but in the morning they had changed what they were pleased to call their minds. They always feared the worst. They saw the factory in flames, and the mob shot down by troops. They implored Sartwell to come to some agreement with the men. He had said the strike would be over in three weeks, and here it was still dragging on, the men as determined as ever. If he were wrong about the duration of the fight, might he not be wrong also in his treatment of the men? Was no compromise possible?
This sort of thing Sartwell had to contend with, and it wearied him more than the strike itself. He opened the papers in daily fear that he would find there some letter from the firm, in answer to the strictures of the day before, which would show the public at once how the land lay.
Gibbons believed that the backbone of a fight was money, as in many cases it is; but a moment’s reflection might have shown him that, if the fight was to be conducted on a cash basis, the strikers had not a ghost of a chance, because the firm of Monkton & Hope was much richer than the Union. He believed in fighting the devil with fire. Adages are supposed to represent the condensed wisdom of the ages, whereas they too often represent condensed foolishness. If one has to meet an expert swordsman on the field of honour, he should select a pistol if he has the choice of weapons. Fight the devil if you like, but never with fire. When Marsten had said to Gibbons, “Mr. Sart-well knows to a penny how much you have in the bank,” the secretary had answered grandly that Sart-well might see the books of the Union for all he cared, and much good might it do him. The fact that a man like Sartwell thought it worth his while to find out what the enemy was doing, did not suggest to Gibbons that it might not be a bad plan to have a look over Sartwell’s shoulders, and discover just how things were going in the privacy of the manager’s office. When Marsten ferreted out various things as the fight progressed, and brought his knowledge to Gibbons, the latter waved it aside as of no consequence, treating Marsten throughout as an enemy in the camp.
Timid little Mr. Hope passed through the gates each day to his office, scarcely ever glancing at the crowd that hooted him and made remarks not pleasant to hear. He dreaded the moment of arriving and leaving, but thought it a courageous thing to do, imagining he would be neglecting his duties as a freeborn Briton if he deserted his post at this time of danger.
If Gibbons had been a shrewd man, he would have called upon Mr. Hope at Surbiton, and ten minutes’ conversation there would have shown him the true state of affairs, for the timid little manufacturer was as transparent as crystal. If the secretary had lured one of the partners to the strikers’ place of meeting, which might have been accomplished as easily as with the “blacklegs” from the country, he would in all probability have had a public statement which would have made Sartwell’s resignation inevitable. Thus might Gibbons have led his army to victory, and at the same time have placed his enemy where his army then was—outside the gates.
And this was merely one of the methods by which a clever general would have triumphed. If Gibbons had taken the trouble to inform himself about the effect the few editorials had produced in the minds of the partners, he would have endeavoured to make arrangements for the publication of a series of articles on the well-known philanthropy of the firm, with some moral reflections about charity beginning at home. This undoubtedly would have caused the ground to crumble away beneath the feet of Sartwell, for Monk-ton & Hope were proud of the good their benefactions were supposed to do; and until this trouble had arisen, they had thought themselves just employers, who treated their men with fairness, as indeed they were, and as indeed they did.
Now they were in doubt about the matter, and had an uneasy feeling that they had been, perhaps, remiss in their duties toward their employees. Sartwell dominated them when he was in their presence, and they knew his value too well to run the risk of losing him. They knew, also, if they gave way to the men without his sanction, they would lose him, and they had rivals in London who would be only too glad to take him into their employ; yet in spite of this knowledge they wavered, and it required but a little tact and diplomacy on the part of Gibbons to win a victory all along the line.