Barney abandoned his tandem to the tender care of his man, and went up to London by train. He sat gloomily in a corner of a first-class smoking-compartment, and cursed the world. Nevertheless he was able to consume a great number of cigarettes between the sea and Charing Cross, and, as he smoked, he made stern, heroic resolutions regarding his career. He would now take it seriously in hand. He would business-manage himself. He saw in the clear light of a great disappointment that he had hitherto paid too much attention to the production of masterpieces, and too little to the advertising of them. It was evidently hopeless to expect the appreciation of a stupid and uncritical public to come to his work, and the great critic whom he had confidently looked for had not yet put in an appearance. If, then, the critic would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the critic. He would purchase the most expensive art-critic there was in the market; then the tardy public would learn that a genius had lived among them unrecognized.
As his comprehensive plans took final shape the train ran into the glass-roofed tunnel at Charing Cross. Barney sprang into a hansom, and drove directly to the works. “Beastly hole!” he said to himself, as he gazed round at the ruin the fire had wrought. The ground was covered with cluttering heaps of burnt and twisted iron, and piles of new building material were scattered everywhere. The apparent confusion and ugliness of it all offended his artistic sense, and he thanked his stars it was not necessary for him to spend his days there. He accosted Sartwell, who had been discussing some question with the architect, and shook the manager’s hand with energy and cordiality.
“Mr. Sartwell,” he cried, “I came the moment I heard of the fire.”
“Ah,” said the manager, dryly. “Have you been in America?”
“No,” laughed Barney, “not quite so far away as that; but, don’t you know, I never read the papers, and so heard of the conflagration purely by accident. Now, I am here entirely at your disposal, and am ready to do anything and everything you want done. I would rather not carry bricks, if there is anything else I can do; but I am ready to help in any way I can. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Sartwell, that, in placing myself at the disposal of the firm, I do so at considerable sacrifice; for art is long and time is fleeting, and I have work to do in my studio that you, perhaps, might not think worth doing; but I hope posterity will not agree with you, don’t you know. Still, I am here. Command me.”
“Indeed, you do me wrong,” said Sartwell, with a grim smile. “I consider you of much greater value in the studio than here. I have no doubt posterity and I will quite agree in our estimate of your labour. Artists are few and labourers many. It would be a real disaster if our present crisis were to interfere with your artistic work. Therefore, although I am flattered by your generous offer of help, I could not think of availing myself of it. No; the studio is your place, Mr. Hope.”
“It’s uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Sartwell, to say so many nice things about my efforts, and I assure you I appreciate them, for I don’t have too many encouragements—I don’t, I assure you. This is such a beastly materialistic world, don’t you know. Has my father got home yet?”
“Yes; he returned last night.”
“Ah, I didn’t know that. Terribly upset, I suppose?”
“A trifle worried.”
“Naturally he would be. Well, there’s nothing I can do for you then?”
“Nothing, unless you undertake the decoration of the new factory, and thus send it down to posterity with the Vatican frescoes. Still, that question won’t arise for a month or two yet.”
“Quite so. I’ll think about it. Well, if you need me, you know my address. A wire will bring me at any time.”
“It’s generous of you to stand ready to leap into the chasm in this way, but take my advice and stick to the studio. Nevertheless, I’ll remember, and let you know if a crisis arises with which I am unable to deal single-handed.”
“Do,” cried Barney, again shaking hands with good-natured effusion. “Well, good-by!”
He picked his way to the gates, and stepped into his waiting hansom, a well-merited feeling of having answered the stern call of duty cheering his heart as he drove away.
It was a long drive to Haldiman’s studio, and Barney, telling the cabman he might have to wait an hour or two, dashed up the steps and rang the bell. Being admitted, he asked if Haldiman was at home; then sprang up the stairs, struck one startling knock on the studio door with the head of his stick, and entered.
Haldiman stood at his easel, a black pipe in his mouth, an old jacket on his back, and a general air about him of not having brushed his hair for a week. A half-finished drawing in black and white decorated a great sheet of cardboard placed on the easel.
“Hello, Barney!” he cried. “I thought that was your delicate way of announcing yourself. You look as trim and well-groomed as a shop-walker. Haven’t given up painting and taken to that line, have you?”
“No, old man, I haven’t!” shouted Barney, slamming the door behind him and coming into the room like a cyclone. “And I’m not trim, for I have just had a railway journey, and went from Charing Cross to the works, and from the works here. I’ve had no time to go to the club and make myself pretty; I was in too much of a hurry to see you. So don’t be sarcastic, Haldiman.”
“Everything is comparative, Barney, and to me you look like a radiant being from another and a better world, where a man has unlimited credit with his tailor. Sit down, won’t you?”
“That’s what I came for. I say, Haldiman, where do you keep your exhilarating fluid and the syphons? I’m tired out. Be hospitable. You see I’ve a load on my mind these days. The works were partly destroyed by fire, and we’re rebuilding and all that sort of thing, don’t you know, which rather takes it out of a fellow, looking after workmen and seeing that no mistakes are made.”
“Oh, I saw about that in the papers, and was wondering if it was your shop,” said Haldiman, placing a small table beside his friend, and putting a bottle, a syphon, and a glass upon it. “Help yourself, my boy. You don’t mind my going on with my work?”
“But I do!” cried Barney. “Sit down yourself, Haldiman. I want to talk to you seriously.”
“I am behindhand with this picture now, Barney. I can work and listen. Fire away.”
“Look here, Haldiman, how much do you get for a smear like that?”
Haldiman stood back and looked critically at the picture, then said with a drawl:
“Well, I’m in hopes of looting four guineas out of the pirate who edits the magazine this is for. It’s a full page, you know.”
“Great heavens! Imagine a man doing a picture for such a sum as that! I wouldn’t draw a line under a hundred pounds.”
“I’ve often thought of putting my price up to that entrancing figure,” replied Haldiman, reflectively, “but refrained for fear of bankrupting the magazines. One must have some consideration for the sixpenny press.” Barney thrust his hand deep into his trousers pocket, drew out a fist-full of coins, selected four sovereigns and four shillings, and placed them on the table, saying: “There, Haldiman, there’s your guineas. I buy that picture. Now sit down and talk to me. I want your whole attention.”
Haldiman stood for a moment looking alternately at the money and at the man. At last he spoke, slowly and quietly:
“Some day, Barney, you’ll do a thing like that, and get smashed in consequence. I’m unfortunately unable to throw you out of the window myself; but there is a cabman loitering about in front, and I will call him in to assist me if you don’t at once put that money in your pocket. Don’t make me violate the sacred rules of hospitality.”
“You have violated them, Hal, already, by getting angry. I see you’re angry, so don’t deny it. Besides, the cabman wouldn’t come; I own him, and if he did I could put you both out.”
“You can’t hire me, like a cabman, you know, Barney.”
“Of course not, of course not. I’m not trying to, dear boy. Do sit down and be sensible. I’ve come to you as one friend to another, for I’m at a crisis in my career. I need help, so be good to me. I take a serious view of life now, and——”
“Since when?”
“Since this morning, if you like. The ‘when’ doesn’t matter. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m wasting my existence. You’ll scoff, of course, but I know I have genius—not talent, mind, but genius. There’s no use of making any bones about it, or pretending false modesty: if a man is a genius, he knows it. Very well, then, why not say so?”
“I see no reason against it.”
“Quite so. Now, Haldiman, how much money do you make in a year?”
“You mean, how little?”
“Put it any way you like. Name the figure.”
“What’s that got to do with your genius?”
“Never you mind. What’s the amount?”
“Now, Barney, if you’re cooking up some new kind of financial insult, I give you fair warning I won’t stand it.”
Barney had gulped down his stimulant, and now paced up and down the room, clearing a track for himself by kicking things out of the way. Haldiman sat in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, and his hands in his pockets, watching his friend’s energetic march to and fro.
“The artistic profession,” cried the pedestrian, “has been held up to the scorn of the world since painting began. Read any novel, and you will see that, if the heroine is to make a doocedly bad marriage, she invariably falls in love with an artist—invariably.”
“Well, she generally marries us.”
“Yes, and lives in misery ever after.”
“Oh, we’re generous, and share it with her.”
“You see what I mean. The artist is held up to contempt, and all respectable people in the book are aghast at the girl’s choice. Now, why is this?”
“Ask me a harder one. It is because fiction is notoriously untrue to life. The wives of the Royal Academy live in a splendour and luxury undreamed of by the ordinary lady of title.”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s because the artists don’t business-manage themselves. They have no commercial sense. Therefore they are poor. Now, if a man invents a soap, what does he do?”
“Washes himself.”
“He advertises it. He becomes rich. Why, then, if a man writes a great book, should he not advertise himself and his book in every way that is open to him?”
“I believe he does, Barney. Where have you been living this while back to be so ignorant of the approved modern methods in art and literature?”
“Isn’t a great picture of more value to the world than a much-advertised soap?”
“Well, if you ask me, I should say, no. I’d back the soap as a civilizer against the Louvre any day.”
Barney stopped in his walk, raised his arms above his head, and let them drop heavily to his sides.
“I haven’t a friend in the world!” he cried, in tragic tones. “Not one—not one!”
“Barney, this conversation is bewildering. What are you driving at, anyhow? Art, soap, literature, advertising, friendship, marriage—what’s wrong? Who is the woman?”
“Don’t talk to me about women! I hate them!”
“I thought you were most successful in that line. I believe I have your own authority for the statement.”
“Success! One is successful up to a point; then there is a disappointment that shows what a sham success has been. I’ll never speak to a woman again.”
“I’ve been there myself—several times. Still we always return—if not to our first love, to our fourth, or fifth. As for friends, I don’t know any man who has more.”
“Not true friends, Haldiman. I haven’t one, I tell you. I did think you were a friend, and you do nothing but sneer at me. You think I don’t see it; I do, all the same. I’m the most sensitive of men, although nobody appears to appreciate it.”
“I don’t sneer at you, Barney. What put that in your head? I think you sometimes fail to appreciate other people’s sensitiveness. You are a trifle prone to flaunt Bank of England notes in the faces of those not so well provided as you are with them. Then the sensitive soul rises in rebellion.”
“That’s my unfortunate manner, Haldiman. I don’t really mean to do so. If I had a game leg, or a club foot, and came thumping in here with it, you wouldn’t make fun of my defect, would you? Of course not. Well, why should you resent a defect of manner when you know my intentions are good?”
“I don’t resent anything about you, Barney—at least only spasmodically.”
“You know I’d go to the end of the world to serve a friend—I would, honest! Yet I’ve no luck. Here is a poor devil of a musician I am trying to befriend. I can see he dislikes me intensely. I got a publisher to bring out some of his music—paid all the expenses—yet it was like pulling teeth to get that organist to allow me to help him, and he’s a genius if ever there was one. I got a select and appreciative audience together to hear him play. He didn’t come, although he promised to do so, and the people thought I was trying to make fools of them. It must be all my accursed manner. Now you always know the right thing to say: I don’t. My genius doesn’t run that way. I’m an artist.”
Haldiman threw back his head and laughed. Barney stared at him, displeasure on his brow.
“What the deuce are you laughing at now?”
“Forgive me, Barney; I’m laughing at the thumping of your club foot, although you did not believe me capable of it.”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing—nothing. Barney, I love you! You are the one and only Barnard Hope; all others are base imitations. Now listen to me. I haven’t the faintest idea what it is you want. This conversation has been simply encyclopaedic in the amount of ground covered; but I’ll do for you what you would do for me, short of abduction or assassination. I’d prefer not to land myself in prison, if you don’t mind, but I’ll even run the risk of that. What do you want? Out with it!”
“But the moment I begin, you’ll say your insulted. You terrorize me, Haldiman,—’pon my soul, you do!”
“Go on. For ten minutes insults are barred.Willyou go on?”
“Very well. I asked you how much you made in a year, and you jeered at me.”
“I never keep accounts, and never pay a debt until the brokers come in, so I really haven’t the slightest idea. You can guess at the amount just as well as I can.. Guess and proceed.”
“All right. I want to pay you double your yearly income for your help in this matter.”
“That isn’t friendship, that’s commercialism again. I beg pardon, I forgot. Don’t look daggers, Barney; I accept. Can I have the money in advance?”
“Of course you can,” cried Barney, gleefully, making a dive for his inside pocket; then, as the other went into a fit of laughter, the joyful look faded into an expression of intense indignation, and Barney, with a curse, strode to the door. Haldiman sprang to his feet and grasped the offended man by the shoulders.
“None of that!” he cried. “Come back, you villain! You are not going to offer me a fortune and then sneak off in that fashion. Sit down, Barney; sit down and go on with the pretty talk!”
“Oh, it’s no use!” said the other, in tones of deep dejection. “I said I hadn’t a friend in the world, and I haven’t.”
“Bosh! You’re harder to humour than a baby. If a man may not smile in his own room, where may he? I’m intensely interested, and want to know what crime I’m expected to commit. Never mind the money, but state your case.”
“The money is part of the case. I pay or I don’t play.”
“Certainly. That’s understood. I accept. Fire away!”
“Well, you know all the editors of the illustrated weeklies and magazines.”
“For my sins I do—alas!”
“Then, to come right to the point as between man and man, I want to buy a first-class critic, and the editor of a first-class illustrated periodical.”
“You mean you want to buy a going magazine?”
“I don’t mean anything of the kind. I mean just what I say.”
“Then I don’t quite understand you. Explain.”
“What I want is this: I want a first-class art-critic to write an article in a first-class periodical saying Barnard Hope is the greatest artist the world has ever seen.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“No, that’s not all. I want the article superbly illustrated—in colour if possible—with, reproductions of my chief paintings.”
“Ah! I wouldn’t do that, Barney, if I were you. The pictures would be rather a give-away of the great critic’s eulogy.”
“Yes, I knew you would say that. The obviousness of such a remark would commend itself to you. But you see I’m perfectly frank with you. Now, could you manage this for me? Remember, I don’t care how much money I spend.”
Haldiman removed the black pipe from his mouth, knocked the ashes out of it, and thoughtfully re-filled it.
“Well, for brazen cheek, Barney,” he said at last, “that proposal——”
“Yes, I know, I know, I know. But these things happen every day—or, not to exaggerate, let us say every second day. It is simply doing for me what Ruskin did for Turner. Turner painted away all his life; nobody recognized him, and he died in Chelsea. Now I’m living in Chelsea, and I want recognition during my life. Of course my Ruskin will come along after I’m dead; but, like the fellow who was to be executed, I won’t be there to enjoy it. Things rarely happen at the right moment in this world, and my brazen proposal is merely to take events by the coat collar and hurry them up a bit. You see what I mean? Besides, I’m infinitely greater than Turner, don’t you know.”
Haldiman smoked and meditated for some moments; then he said:
“I’m not sure but the trick may be done, although I doubt if brutal barefaced bribery will do it. How would a magazine like ‘Our National Art’ suit you?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“And would a French art-critic like Viellieme be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly. What he says is taken for gospel all the world over.”
“Well, I happen to know that the editor of ‘Our National Art’ has been trying for a year to get Viellieme to write about English art; but the Frenchman won’t come over to London, even for a day, at any price. Viellieme is great as a writer, but greater still as a money-spender. I’ll run over to Paris and sound him. You couldn’t bribe the editor of ‘Our National Art,’ but he will print anything Viellieme will write for him. Now I know the Frenchman doesn’t care what he writes for England, although he is rather particular about what appears in Paris. He thinks there is no art in England.”
“He’s right, too, as far as his knowledge goes; but he’s never seen anything of mine.”
“Just so. Then, if Viellieme agrees, you would be willing to send some of your immortal works over to Paris for his inspection.”
“All of them, my boy, all of them.”
“Then we’ll look on that as settled. I’ll do my best.”
“God bless you, my dear fellow! God bless you!” cried Barney with deep emotion, crushingly wringing the hand of the wincing man, whom he now declared to be his one friend on earth. He clattered noisily down the stair like a stalwart trooper, sprang into the waiting hansom, and departed.
MARSTEN went to work with an energy and singleness of purpose which probably no organizer of labour ever felt before. Chance, or destiny, had placed him in exactly the position he had long hoped to attain. At first there was little to be done but wait until the Union had recovered from the wounds received in the late fruitless struggle; nevertheless, while he waited, he planned and gradually developed the scheme which he hoped would revolutionize the labour of the world. He saw in the future one vast republic of workers—not bounded by nationality, but spreading over the entire earth—with its foothold wherever one man toiled with his hands to enrich another. He had no delusions regarding the immediate success of his project, and did not flatter himself that his ideas would spread with anything like the rapidity of the cholera, for example; but he hoped first to place the Union on a firm footing in England, and then, with a brilliantly successful strike—conducted as a general of genius conducts a battle—to show what might be done by a thoroughly well-organized force against a rich and powerful firm like that of Monkton & Hope. He looked forward to the time when every worker in England would be a member of the Union; after that he hoped to affiliate all the workers in all English-speaking countries; finally, the benighted foreigner would be included. Then, when the whole was united like an electric installation in a city, the unfortunate capitalist who placed a finger on one point would receive the combined current of the entire system, and die without knowing what hurt him. The equipment of the workers would be so complete that strikes would become fewer and fewer, and finally cease; just as war will cease when weapons of offence reach such a state of perfection that no nation will dare to pick a quarrel with another.
This great republic of labour would be divided into various states, and these states would be again subdivided into as many sections as experience showed to be most practicable. Each section would elect its secretary, the secretaries would elect a governor of the state, the governors would elect a president of the whole organization. Every official should be paid a salary, sufficient, even in the lesser offices, to keep the incumbent and his family without the necessity of manual labour, so that each officer’s whole time could be given for the benefit of the Union.
Marsten gave much thought to the problem of reconciling deserved promotion with popular election, and, perhaps, if he had known more of the results of universal suffrage in a city like New York, he might have reconstructed his whole plan; but he had full belief in the adage that the voice of the people coincides with that of the Almighty, and so, perhaps, did not quite appreciate the practical difficulties which lay in wait for a scheme that looked beautiful on paper.
Early experience convinced him that he could hope for no active assistance from the men themselves, and he promptly eliminated that factor from his calculations. He thought of beginning his fight with an educational campaign, using in this way the time which must elapse before the treasury of the Union was once more in funds; but he found he could never get more than half a dozen of the men together at one time, and those who came to the meetings he called seemed to take but slight interest in what he had to say. This did not discourage him, as he was, in a measure, prepared for the indifference he met; and he remembered that his great model, Napoleon, took no one into his confidence. Napoleon struck unexpectedly,—struck quick and struck hard,—and Marsten resolved to do the same the moment he had the power. Failing to interest the men collectively in the desirability of a close and universal Union, Marsten tried to win their separate confidence; but he soon discovered that in attempting this he was travelling a dangerous road. He was amazed to find that there existed a latent sullen opposition to him; that many of the men seemed to regret the generous impulse which had caused them to place him where he was. They could not see what he did to earn the money he received; some thought they were giving him too much, as he had no work to do; and more than one advised him to keep quiet and leave the men alone, to know when he was well off, and not to turn the thoughts of the members to the fact that they were supporting him in idleness and luxury.
Marsten resolved to let nothing stand in the way of success. He believed he could more than earn any salary they gave him, and no man in London had a greater incentive for making and accumulating money than he had; nevertheless, he desired above all things to hold the good opinion of the men and to convince them that he was working for them and not for himself. He realized that alone he was powerless, but with their united support he was invincible.
He called a meeting to reconsider the salary of the secretary, and that meeting was well attended; for the subject to be discussed had more interest than his abandoned educational campaign, the purpose of which was to teach them the principles of combination. Most of the men thought him a fool in not knowing his own good luck.
Marsten, addressing them, said that his whole object in taking the secretaryship was to bring about an amalgamation of labour which would make the results of future strikes a certainty. All the rights mankind possessed had been won by battle; but the battles must be successful, and success was only possible when there was no dissension in the camp. He frankly stated that he had learned there was some dissatisfaction because he got more money than was earned by many who laboured in the ranks, and he had made an estimate of how little he could live upon, which was less than the poorest paid employee of the works received. He was willing to accept this sum, and would devote his whole time and energy to the cause of labour as faithfully as if he were given ten times the amount.
Gibbons, who had at last found employment in the neighbourhood, here rose to his feet. He said he thought the office of secretary could be still more economically filled. He was sure they had men among them, now in employ, who would act as secretary without salary from the Union, and perform all the duties quite acceptably to the majority of the men.
“Why didn’t you propose that when you were secretary yourself, Gibbons?” asked one of the audience, at which there was some laughter.
“I did not do so because I was at that time out of work,” replied Gibbons, warming to his theme. “I don’t wish to say a word against the present secretary, but I would like to ask him a question or two. He seemed once of opinion that Sartwell was a very shrewd, far-seeing man. I would like to know, Mr. Marsten, if you are still of that opinion?”
“I am,” answered Marsten.
“Then can you explain to the meeting why Sartwell has taken no further steps to cripple the Union, which we all know he desired to smash, and in fact did threaten to smash? Why did he not, in taking back the men, make it a condition that they should leave the Union?”
“How should I know? I may say, however, that I believe Sartwell to be an essentially just man, although he may be mistaken in some things, and I don’t think he would interfere with the personal liberty of his employees.”
“It is very generous of the secretary of our Union to speak well of the honesty of a man who looted our treasury, and we won’t forget that Sartwell has at least one friend among us. It is a little remarkable that that one friend should have been the only man, of all Sartwell’s employees, who was suddenly dismissed, and, as far as we know, without cause. One more question, Mr. Marsten. Do you know why Sartwell discharged you?”
Marsten was silent, the colour rising in his face.
“Of course,” continued Gibbons, calmly, “you are not compelled to answer. I am merely asking what many of us have been thinking. You either know, or you do not. You have called this meeting, and I think you should have the courtesy to answer any question—any reasonable question—asked you. You say you want the support of the men, whose servant you are. That is a reasonable desire; but to bestow that confidence we must have full knowledge of our man. I ask for the second time, do you know why Sartwell discharged you?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“On account of a personal quarrel between him and me with which this meeting has nothing to do.”
“Oh, indeed! Then you had personal dealings with the man we were fighting, which you would prefer us to know nothing about. I will not press for a more specific answer. No man is bound to incriminate himself. I have given Mr. Marsten a chance to explain certain obscure points that have puzzled some of us, and I think the answers wrung from him, with only too evident reluctance, have not bettered his position, nor made any thinking man among us the more ready to bestow that confidence which our secretary seems so much to desire. I would like now to call your attention to one or two points. Rightly or wrongly, the committee with which I acted had grave doubts of the loyalty of Mr. Marsten during our late contest. Before the strike began, he himself admitted that he had been closeted with Sartwell, and we know that while the fight was on he was the only man who had a conference with the enemy, and the only man who was able to tell us of the enemy’s plans—unfortunately when it was too late to make that knowledge useful to us. Whenever there was a crisis we found Mr. Marsten eloquent on the side of giving in—all through affection for the men, of course. I am making no accusations; I am merely stating facts that Mr. Marsten himself admits, and if I am mistaken in anything I say, the young man is here to set me right. These facts had a certain influence with the committee, causing a distrust to arise in their minds—a feeling that Mr. Marsten, for some reason, was more anxious to please Sartwell than to see his fellow-workers win. Now, what happens? The strike ends, and we are surprised to see that the only man dismissed is Mr. Marsten. The next move is that the young man is made secretary of the Union by a practically unanimous vote. I say that vote was to the credit of the men, and, had I been present, I would have voted for Mr. Marsten. But let us look into the matter a little closer. Who agitated the election of our new secretary? I now come to a difficult point, and I want to make myself perfectly clear, and to speak with absolute justice. ‘Say no ill of the dead’ is a noble motto, and I have nothing but good to say of that hero, Braunt. Greater praise hath no man than this, he gave his life to save others.”
There was tremendous cheering at this, and it was some time before Gibbons could proceed. Marsten sat silent in his chair, with the helpless feeling of a criminal in the dock. He felt the chain of circumstance tightening around him.
“Braunt was a hero in death and a hero in life. He was frankly and honestly against us from the first, and he fought us with an uprightness that I wish Sartwell had emulated. He took no strike pay, and used language against us which I hope has been forgotten, and which I know has been forgiven. There was nothing underhand in his opposition, and he broke the back of the strike by hitting from the shoulder when we had reached the desperation of utter exhaustion. But, while giving full credit to the splendid character of Braunt, we must not forget that he was throughout our staunch opponent, and that it was he who elected Mr. Marsten secretary of this Union.
“Now, gentlemen, I am a plain man, who does not think himself any better than the average. I do not look for angels with wings among my fellow-workers; I look for plain, every-day motives when trying to trace cause from effect. It is not natural for a man to beg for a reduction of his screw unless that man is an angel, or unless there is some hidden cause for his doing so. We strike to increase our wages, and I have never heard of a deputation of workingmen waiting on an employer to ask for a reduction. Mr. Marsten does what we know to be most unusual, and what we believe to be unnatural. What is his motive? Who is going to make up the deficiency in his salary? These are questions for you to answer. I have tried to state nothing but facts, and no statement I have made has been contradicted. The result is a chain of circumstantial evidence that would convict a man in any court in the land. Men have been hanged on evidence less complete.”
Gibbons sat down amidst universal applause. Marsten rose to his feet slowly. He knew the meeting was solidly against him, and that he had to bring it around in his favour or lose the race before it began. There flashed through his mind the sentence, “It is not the capitalist who will defeat you, but the men you are fighting for.” He remembered Braunt’s utter lack of faith in the rope of sand. Then he spoke:
“I have listened attentively to what has been said, and I have listened without interruption because I have sat spellbound by the cleverness of the speech, admiring its force and logic, and deeply regretting the fact that I have not the eloquence and gifts of the speaker who has just sat down. Two things are at this moment uppermost in my mind. First, that if some stranger were in my place, and I were sitting among you, I should believe him guilty. Second, there has come over me a feeling of sympathy with any man who has been condemned on circumstantial evidence. I know now, as I never did before, that many a poor wretch has gone to an undeserved death. Gibbons, you have throughout referred to me asMr.Marsten. I disclaim the ‘Mr.’ as doubtless you do, so I shall call you plain Gibbons. Gibbons, you have defeated me. The meeting I have called together is against me and for you.”
There were cries of dissent at this.
“Oh yes, it is. I will prove it in a minute by putting it to vote, if you like.”
“Hold on!” cried Gibbons; “that is not fair. I protest against a vote being taken after such a declaration.”
“I am going to take no unfair advantage, and only spoke of a vote because my assertion seemed to be doubted. Now, Gibbons, you asked me several questions; I claim the right to put a few to you, and I charge you to answer as honestly as if you were on oath. Do you actually believe that I am in the pay of Sartwell?”
“I didn’t say so.”
“Do you believe I am?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What object could Sartwell have in buying me?”
“Oh, that’s too self-evident. If he controls you he controls the action of the Union.”
“Please explain how. No action can be taken without a majority vote.”
“That’s it exactly. That’s why you are begging for our confidence and support, so that when the time comes you can deliver to Sartwell what he pays for.”
“I see. Did Sartwell ever offer to buy you?”
“He never did. He knew better.”
“Did you ever offer to sell yourself to Sartwell?”
“What’s that? What do you mean?”
“I’ll put the question in another way. Did you write a private letter to Sartwell a few days before the strike ended?”
Gibbons rose to his feet in such evident confusion that several of the crowd laughed, and all were in a state of tense excitement. This was the kind of thing they liked. Marsten was carrying the war into Africa.
“What are you accusing me of?” cried Gibbons.
“Like yourself, I am making no accusations. Did you send such a letter or not?”
“As leader of the strike I may——”
“No, no. Answer, yes or no.”
“Let me explain. I say——”
“First answer the question, Gibbons.”
“I refuse to be coerced in this manner. I am willing to answer anything, but I must be allowed to answer in my own way.”
“No man is bound to incriminate himself, Gibbons, as you remarked a while ago. Since we cannot get an answer to that question, I will ask another. Will you give me permission to read your Sartwell letter to this meeting?”
Gibbons was dumbfounded, and forgot entirely, in his agitation, that the letter had been returned to him, remembering only that its contents were not for the general public. His attitude was that of conscious guilt.
“Read it, read it!” cried the crowd, and the shouts seemed to rouse Gibbons to a sense of the situation.
“I protest against the reading of a private letter in public,” he stammered.
“And quite right, too,” said Marsten. “I protested against the public discussion of a private quarrel; and the protest was held against me. Now I have no desire to push my opponent to the wall, and I will say at once that the letter in question may be as innocent as ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ I never read it and never saw it. I heard of it through a chance remark, but I know nothing of its contents. You see now how easy it is to ask a question a man may hesitate to answer, and you see of how little value circumstantial evidence is. Now, Gibbons, we are quits, and I am willing to let bygones be bygones if you are. I give you my word—and that is all I have to offer, for I’m the poorest among you—that I am not in the pay of any one on earth except yourselves. I swear to you that I have only one object in view, and that is the bettering of our condition. All I ask is fair play. Perhaps I can’t do what I think I can, but I want to try. If I fail, then let the next man come on and have his try, and he will have no more earnest supporter than I will be. With dissension in our ranks, nothing can be done; so I want the backing of every man in the Union, and more especially of the man who thinks I have been a traitor,—which I declare to him and to you I was not. Now, Gibbons, this has been an open question-and-answer meeting. There has been a free-for-all give and take here tonight. I have a last question to ask you: are you going to be my friend or my enemy?”
There were cries of “Toe the mark, Gibbons!”
“Time!”
“Speak up, my boy!”
“Show your hand, Gibbons!”
Gibbons, who had now recovered his equanimity, rose to his feet, and said: “I move, gentlemen, that Marsten be confirmed in his secretaryship of the Union, and I hope the vote will be unanimous. We will give him what he asks—a fair chance—and as long as he deals squarely with us, we will deal squarely with him. As far as my friendship or enmity is concerned, I may say that I’m a friend to any one who is loyal to the cause, and an enemy to those who are against it. I think that is all that can be asked of me or any other man present.”
The motion was seconded and carried unanimously, and the object for which the meeting was convened was lost sight of entirely.
Marsten went on with his work of organization, and met with much encouragement from the societies with which he entered into correspondence. Whatever opposition there was to him in his own Union, it at least did not show itself openly; but Marsten did not make the mistake of thinking Gibbons was his friend.