image022
image023
A COLD EVENING.
IT was a Sunday evening, and bitterly cold. A hard frost had come to aggravate the misery which already reigned in the town.
Martha Stevens cowered over a scanty fire, with her shivering children. Harry had wailed himself to sleep in his little bed; but Millie and Bobbie were up still, clinging to their mother's faded dress.
"I wonder what father's doing," patient Millie said. She did not utter the first words which rose to her lips—"I wonder if father 'll bring us anything to eat." Millie was unusually thoughtful for her few years, and would not say needlessly what would distress "mother."
"I don't know. There isn't much here to tempt him," sighed Martha.
The door opened slowly. "I say—may I come in, Mrs. Stevens?" asked a voice.
A ragged slatternly figure, carrying a baby, entered and drew towards the fire-place. It was their near neighbour, Mrs. Hicks.
"You can sit down," said Martha; "only shut the door first. The wind's bitter cold. Do you want anything?"
"That's a nice question, ain't it?" said Mrs. Hicks, acting on the leave given. "Do I want—anything? O no; we're all so flush o' cash just now, we don't want nothing, do we? Not you, nor me, nor nobody!"
Martha made no answer. She felt too listless and despairing for neighbourly talk. Molly Hicks gazed round the little room with hungry eyes.
"Maybe you've not got to such a pass as we," she said. "Maybe you haven't a crust to spare!"
image020
"Maybe you haven't a crust to spare!" she said.
"It wouldn't be on the shelf long if I had," Martha said in a hard tone.
"Ah—then I'm come to the wrong place," said Molly. "Look here, Mrs. Stevens!"
She held out a wan baby, with claw-like fingers and wizened face—a face that might have belonged to some old man.
"And Jack 'll stand seeing that! And he'll stand knowing that the child's being killed! It'll die soon! And I tell him so! And he won't believe, till it's too late! If ever I go and work him up again to this sort of thing, I'll—"
Molly caught her breath in a sob. But for her "working up," as she rightly termed it, her husband might never have joined the strike. He was a man slow to decide, difficult to move; but when once he had decided on some new course of action, he was equally resolute in holding, to it. Molly had given the impulse. She could not now undo her own work.
"How long does your husband s'pose it'll last?" asked Mrs. Hicks, after a pause.
"I don't know. Nobody don't know," said Martha wearily. "Till the masters give in, or till the men see they've no hope of getting their way. And they don't seem like to see that, so long as Mr. Pope goes on talking at them."
"I wish Pope was at the bottom of the sea. That's what I wish," said Mrs. Hicks, slowly rising.
Martha's drooping manner and empty cupboard did not tempt her to a longer stay. Wrapping the baby in her torn shawl, she went out again.
"Mother, how dreadful bad Mrs. Hicks' baby does look," said Bobbie.
Martha could not speak. She could only think how changed were the faces of her own children—of little Harry especially. Bobbie's mind seemed to go in the same direction.
"And Millie's got such thin arms; and baby don't laugh as he used, and all the red's gone out of his checks. I wish I was a man; I'd go off to the works, and get a lot of money."
"It'll be long enough before you're a man, Bobbie," sighed his mother. "Years and years first. And when you are, I suppose you'll just be like the rest,—do what everybody else does, and never think about the little ones at home."
"Don't father think?"
Martha put a sudden check upon herself.
"Yes, he does," she said. "He does think; and it goes to his heart to see baby Harry's look. I didn't mean that, Bobbie; I only meant, I wish with all my heart the strike was over."
"Look 'ee here, Mrs. Holdfast!"
Molly Hicks once more held out her baby, and Sarah Holdfast's kind face softened with pity.
"Poor little thing! Why, she's wasted away to nothing!"
"Starving!" said Mrs. Hicks, in a dry unnatural voice.
"Poor little thing!" repeated Mrs. Holdfast.
"There's nothing for anybody at home. And we've parted with pretty near everything. The house is just left bare. They've helped us at the shops, till they say they can't go on no longer. I don't know how it'll all end. I've got nobody to help me, nor nobody to turn to."
Molly Hicks sat down on the doorstep of the Holdfasts' cottage, and rocked the baby to and fro. It set up a faint whimper, as if in response, but seemed too weak to cry.
"Don't stay there. You'll give the child its death of cold. Come in, and you shall have a cup of tea," said Sarah, "and some milk for baby."
Mrs. Hicks obeyed the invitation with alacrity.
Tea-things were still on the table, for Mrs. Holdfast had delayed for once putting them away until the children were in bed. She was glad now of Bessie's unwonted sleepiness. A little boiling water added to the remains of tea in the tea-pot, soon produced a very drinkable cup; and Molly disposed of it eagerly. A big slice of bread and butter awaited her also; but she turned from it, to soak scraps of dry bread in a saucer of milk, and to squeeze them between the tiny creature's parched lips. Sarah looked on with tearful eyes.
"There! Not too fast," she said. "Take something yourself now."
"I don't know how to thank you enough, that I don't," said Molly Hicks at length, when her wants and those of the baby seemed both satisfied. "I haven't had such a meal for days. It's not a bit of good to say one word to my husband. He won't listen. If he'd a grain of sense, he'd be back at work—now work's to be had. But he won't. He's as obstinate—!"
"One man's afraid to stir without the rest stirring too," said Sarah.
"Then he'd ought to think of his children, and put his fears in his pocket," said Molly.
"You didn't think like that in the beginning of the strike," Sarah ventured to say.
"No, I didn't—more fool I!" said Molly. "Talking a lot of rubbish, and getting him to go along with the rest, when he wouldn't have done it but for me! O yes, he'd hear me then; but he won't hear me now. I just wish I'd bitten off my tongue first! You don't look as if you'd come to the end of everything yet, Mrs. Holdfast."
"No," said Sarah quietly. "It isn't John's fault he can't work; and he's been helped."
"He ain't at work yet."
"His arm isn't well enough. It's been business—longer than we thought. The doctor says he'll have to rest it yet awhile."
"Everybody knows how that came about," said Molly.
Sarah was silent.
"Some folks do say it was an accident. But everybody knows. It was the men—because your husband wouldn't join 'em."
"Maybe," Sarah said in constrained tones. "Well——all we can do is to—"
"Have the law out of 'em! But you can't!" said Molly.
"No. We can't; for John doesn't know who it was. Any way, we've got to forgive them."
"That ain't so easy," said Molly, with a short laugh, hanging over the fire. "Where's your husband now?"
"Gone to church."
"Catch my husband putting his foot inside of a church door," said Molly.
"Then he loses a lot of happiness," said Mrs. Holdfast. "John and me can't go together, because of the children; but he mostly manages for me to go once, and he does like to go twice, as often as not. I've been this afternoon; and he's been morning and evening. We wouldn't give it up—no, not for anything."
"Why, what's the good?" asked Molly, opening her eyes.
"I think the good is, because it's right—first," said Mrs. Holdfast. "And if we go in a right spirit, it brings us nearer to God. And we go to worship Him, and to learn about Him. You just try, Mrs. Hicks; you'll soon feel you couldn't do without it."
"I!" said Mrs. Hicks. "In this gown! And it's the only one I've got."
"I'd sooner go in a work-a-day gown than not at all," said Sarah. "Maybe it would be hard. But I'm quite sure I couldn't stay away. I don't know how I'd ever bear trouble when it comes, if I hadn't such a Friend to turn to, and to ask to help me."
"A friend! Do you mean Mr. Hughes?"
"No; I didn't mean Mr. Hughes, though he's been a real good friend and no mistake," said Mrs. Holdfast. "I meant One above—One who's a Friend to all that call up on Him. I wouldn't stay away from His House, when I've a chance to go—no, not for anything you could mention. And John, he feels the same, Mrs. Hicks."
image025
image026
THE QUEER LOOK OF THINGS.
"THERE was another meeting of the men last night, Peter," said Mr. Hughes one morning, in a thoughtful tone, as he paced the garden-path.
"Werry important meeting, sir," said Stuckey.
"Were you there yourself?"
"I was, sir. It's interestin' to watch an' see the course which matters is a-takin'."
Peter spoke in a contemplative tone, gazing straight over the top of the Rector's hat.
"What course are they taking?" asked Mr. Hughes, amused.
"An' that's the werry question, sir," responded Peter, moving his head to and fro, with an air of profound consideration.
"Did Pope address the men?"
"And he did, sir; an' told the men a lot of things in werry uncommon fine language. Pope speaks a deal finer than you do, sir."
"He does, does he?" laughed Mr. Hughes.
"Werry much finer, only it ain't by a long chalk so clear to the understandin'. For why, sir? Peter Pope, he strings together a lot of fine words, like children do with glass beads, and those that listens is none the wiser. But he does a deal of butterin', and that's what the men likes. They likes the butter laid on thick, and no mistake, sir."
"Human nature, I'm afraid. Most people have no objection to a certain amount of flattery."
"Just my own view of the matter, sir. As I was a-telling of Holdfast this very morning: 'They likes a good spread o' butter, Holdfast,' says I; 'and they don't know, not they, as it's rancid butter, calc'lated to do 'em no good.'"
"What did Pope say to them yesterday, Peter?"
"Telled 'em what a splendid set of manly fellows they all was, sir, to be sure, and what a cowardly lot of sneaking chaps they'd got over 'em. Telled 'em too they'd got everything in their own hands—sort of general management of the whole world, you know—and all they'd got to do was to strike, an' strike, an' strike again, and drive the wages up as high as ever they liked. That's what he says! Telled 'em the masters 'ud soon give in, and then they'd have another strike, and the masters 'ud give in again. All as easy as b—a—ba, sir!"
"And the men believed him!"
"Well, I don't know as I can 'xactly say that, sir. There is some among the men as has too much sense to be altogether so easy bamboozled with a lot of clap-trap. But any way, they do like uncommon to hear it all. Sort of tickles and soothes 'em, you know."
"Was Holdfast there?"
"I've a notion not, but I ain't sure. Any way, he's spoke up bravely once, and I make no doubt he'll do it again. I'm not sure as I won't take up the line myself some day."
"Which line?" Mr. Hughes asked.
"Speechifying, sir, for the good of them as is ignorant," Peter said loftily.
"You think you have a gift that way?"
Peter scratched his head, divided between modesty and assurance.
"Well, sir, my old mother, she were knowing and no mistake, and she'd used to say I had a gift for most things, whatever I chose to take up."
"Perhaps a little practice beforehand would be advisable, before adventuring yourself in public," suggested Mr. Hughes.
"Just the werry identical same conclusion as I comed to myself," asserted Peter. "Nothing in the world like practice for giving of a man confidence, sir. And it's confidence as does it. It ain't the gift only; it's confidence, and practice leads to confidence."
"Have you begun your practising?"
"It ain't my way, sir, for to go a-puttin' off when I sees a duty plain afore me. Soon 's I sees my way, I up and does it. Yes, I was a-practising yesterday evening; an' I'd just got to that 'ere point, sir, as I'd worked up a picture-like of a lot o' men round, all a-listenin' as meek as lambs, and I a-giving out o' my opinions—I'd got to that 'ere point, sir, when Mary Anne she come in, an' says she,—"
"'Why, Peter,' says she, 'whatever are you after,' says she, 'a-hitting out at the candlestick like that?' says she."
"'That's action,' says I. 'A fine thing is action,' says I, 'and Pope's got a lot of it. Gives him a sort of hold-like on people's minds, Mary Anne,' says I."
"Mary Anne she didn't see it, and she fell a-laughing at me, fit to bu'st; but there's no manner o' doubt it is so, sir. Nor action ain't hard to get, neither. It's just a swing, an' a stamp, an' a bang of the feet now and agin, and a deal o' tossing about o' the arms between times. Just a sort of emphaticallizing of the words by means o' the body, you see, sir. I've been a-telling Holdfast he's got to work up his action, afore he speaks agin. The men likes a lot of action."
"I shouldn't recommend either you or Holdfast to take Pope for your model," said the much diverted Mr. Hughes, as he moved away. "A statement, well worded, may be quite as emphatic without the swing or the stamp."
Peter stood motionless, weighing this parting utterance. He rubbed his forehead more than once in dubious style.
image024
"'A fine thing is action,' says I, 'and Pope's got a lot of it.'"
"Don't know as I can give in to that 'ere notion neither. There ain't no doubt as the men likes action. A speaker as didn't stir a finger wouldn't make no way with our chaps. They likes a stamp and a bang, once and agin. Same time, they did listen pretty patient to Holdfast; for all he'd no action, nor didn't lay on the butter."
"It's a queer thing now—come to think of it!—A werry queer and extraordinary thing, to see all these able-bodied fellows hanging about idle for weeks an' weeks, an' bringing their families to the brink o' starwation—and for why? 'Cause they're told! That's why! Peter Pope tells 'em to do it, and they does it! Not as they wants to do it, most of 'em! There's hundreds this minute as 'ud be glad and thankful to give in, an' be at work again! But no! They're bid to hold out, and hold out they will. They'll hold out, and they'll do all they can to make others hold out, and maybe punish them as don't."
"And all the while they're sick at heart, poor fellows, knowing; all they've lost an' must lose, and knowing the misery at home! Supposing the masters do give way. What then! Think a bit of a rise in their wages 'll ever make up for what they've gone through these weeks? Not it! An' the men knows that—many of 'em—as well as I do; for they've sense down below. But they haven't the courage to speak out, nor to act for themselves. Talk of independence! They're like a flock of sheep, everybody a-running after the rest."
"Yes, it is a werry queer state of things indeed. But if it hadn't ha' been for that there accident, I'd ha' been among 'em now, scuttling after Pope, like to the rest."
"'Tain't so amazin' the members of a Union holding out when they're bid. Whether it's wise or foolish orders they has, and whatever they thinks privately, they gets an allowance, and they're helped through. But it's mighty queer to see them hundreds of men who don't belong to no Union, nor don't get a penny from it saving by way of charity, all knuckling down alike. Werry advantageous for Pope! It's a fine increase of income as he's been getting all through the strike, which 'll stop when the strike stops."
"So it ain't surprising that Peter Pope is sort of anxious to keep the strike a-going! And it ain't so werry surprising that the unionists shouldn't mind a bit longer holiday, an' being kept without havin' to work for their living. But it's most surprising an' altogether remarkable, when a lot of poor starving chaps, who don't get no extra income nor don't belong to no Union, should be so wonderful ready to do just as they're bid, and take the bread out of their children's mouth's to put jam an' pastry into Peter Pope's mouth! Don't seem fair on the children, though!"
image027
image028
BABY HARRY.
"NO Sunday dinner to-morrow, mother," said Bobbie, late in the afternoon of a cold and wintry day. "I wish there was."
"Not much chance of Sunday dinners, till father brings home wages regular again," sighed Martha.
She looked thin and worn, poor woman, with weeks of insufficient food. Little enough came into the house these days; and what there was, she reserved, mother-like, as far as possible for the children, eating scarcely enough herself to keep soul and body together.
"I'm so hungry, mother. I'm always hungry," complained Bobbie. "We don't never have enough now. O mother, it used to be so nice on Sundays. It isn't now."
"No," she said patiently. "I haven't much for you to-morrow, Bobbie, without father brings anything home. And that ain't likely. I don't know whether—"
She paused to stoop over baby Harry. He was lying on the little cot-bed, covered by a shawl. A slight moaning had drawn her attention.
"He's so cold to-night. I don't like his look," she said anxiously. "Millie, just put one more scrap of coal on the fire. We mustn't use it all. But he's like ice."
"Harry hasn't eaten nothing all day," said Millie.
"He don't seem to have no appetite. He's got so low, for want of proper food—that's where it is," Martha said bitterly. "He turns against everything now. I'm sure I'm at my wits' end to know what to do. If he don't get better by Monday, I'll have to take him to the doctor's—not as it's much use. Good food's what he wants; and how am I to get it for him?"
She lifted the little fellow, and brought him close to the fire, where she sat down. Harry lay heavily across her knees, not looking up at any of them.
Martha leant forward to touch up the tiny fire.
"We must have a bit of a blaze to warm him," she said. "He does seem bad. Speak to him, Millie. He always likes your voice, you know."
Millie's blue fingers strayed lovingly over the wan baby-face.
"Harry—Harry," she cooed softly. "Wake up, Harry."
"He's too cold, and he wants food," said Martha, as there was no response. "You just hold him careful a minute, Millie, while I get a bit of bread. I'll try again. There's a drop of milk still."
She crumbled the bread into the milk, and tried to feed the child, but he moaned and turned away. A spoonful of milk, slightly warmed, she held next to the pale lips—still in vain. None was swallowed. Harry only seemed to be fretted by her attempts; and there was a weak little wail of complaint. Martha gave it up, and took him back into her arms.
"I don't like him being like this," she said uneasily. "It isn't his way. He used to be such a healthy little fellow."
"Is it the strike, mother?" asked Bobbie.
"It's being half-starved—and that's the strike," she said.
"Then I wish there wasn't no strike," said Bobbie.
Roger Stevens came into the room at this juncture.
"No tea for me, I s'pose," he said gloomily.
"There's a bit of bread, and a drop of milk," said Martha. "I'm out of tea, and I can't get any more. There's no money left, and only half a loaf for to-morrow. I durstn't touch that to-night."
Stevens came to the table, and munched a few mouthfuls of the dry crust hastily, drinking off the milk at one draught.
"I say; haven't you a drop more?"
"I'm keeping it for Harry. He hasn't taken a scrap of food all day. I can't make him. Seems like as if his stomach turned against it. He's ill, Roger."
She spoke plaintively.
"Oh, he'll be all right in a few days," said Stevens. Nevertheless, his eyes went uneasily to the small figure on Martha's knee. "It's the cold."
"Yes; cold and starvation. He's dying of the strike."
"Dying! Rubbish and nonsense!" Roger spoke angrily. "No more dying than you nor me. He wants feeding up a bit. The strike's just at an end, and he'll be all right then."
"Will he? Children don't get back strength so easy, once it's run down," said Martha. "How do you know the strike's at an end?"
"Some sort of proposals has come from the masters—I've not heard particulars. Meeting us half-way, I'm told."
"And it's going to be settled?"
"There's a meeting. We're going to consider the question," said Stevens. "Some don't want to give in till we get the whole. It's only a half rise that's talked of. I don't know if we'll accept the offer, or if we'll wait a while longer."
"And meantime—what are we to do?" asked Martha. "There's nothing to eat. What are we to do? Roger, don't be persuaded," she implored. "Do take the right side; and don't you mind what others say. If the masters give way one half, surely the men can give way the other half. It's like children if they don't—holding out because they've said they will. Don't you listen to what others say—Pope least of all. It's nothing to him—he, with all his comforts. And just look at us. It's life and death to the children."
"A man must do as others do," came in answer.
"I don't see the 'must.' Mr. Holdfast don't; and I'm sure he's as much of a man as any of you. I wouldn't be so easy led, if I was a man, that I wouldn't!" declared Martha passionately. "As if folks' talk was more to you than the wants of your own little ones."
Stevens walked off, banging the door behind him; and the noise brought another moan from Harry. Martha sat watching him, tears running down her cheeks.
"Maybe he'd like me to sing to him," said Millie. "Would he, mother?"
"Try," was the reply.
And Millie's thin but sweet child-voice rose softly in one of the hymns she had learnt at the Church Sunday-school, Bobbie's uncertain tones joining in now and then.
"I love to hear the story,Which angel voices tell,How once the King of GloryCame down on earth to dwell;""I am both weak and sinful,But this I surely know,The Lord came down to save me,Because He loved me so."
Millie came to a pause.
"I've forgot the next verse," she said. "Mother, Harry likes me to sing. He's got his eyes open. Harry likes hymns about Jesus and the angels, don't he?"
Martha only said "Go on," in a choked voice.
And Millie started the last verse, Bobbie still following her lead.
"To sing His love and mercy,My sweetest songs I'll raise,And though I cannot see Him,I know He hears my praise:For He has kindly promisedThat even I may goTo sing among His angels,Because He loves me so."
Baby Harry lay quite still. There was no response of look or word, as in earlier and brighter days. The blue eyes were shut, and the small face was white—how white Martha could not see in the dim light, though she could feel how heavily he lay on her arm. She resolved anew that on Monday, if he were not better, he must see the doctor.
But no Monday would ever dawn for little Harry. He was slipping quietly away from the hard and bitter strifes of men, with all their sorrowful consequences, away to the Land of peace where love alone has sway; where want can never enter; where hunger and thirst are unknown. He who had "kindly promised" a Home among the angels, was even now drawing baby Harry out of the mother's clasp into His own strong and gentle Arms, "because He loved him so."
image029
image030
ANOTHER MEETING.
IT was on the whole an orderly meeting, and altogether an earnest one. For a momentous decision had to be made. Many pale and haggard men present had had no meal worth mentioning through the past day.
The masters' proposals were laid before them. The demand of the men on strike was for fifteen per cent. increase on their wages. Half this was conceded. If the men returned at once to work, seven and a half per cent increase should be theirs. If not, immediate measures would be taken to procure hands from elsewhere. This was distinctly stated.
Then came the discussion. Should the men accept the offer, or should they refuse to yield one jot of their demand?
Of course there were opposite views. Pope was loudly in favour of holding out; and he had his band of devoted followers. Some unionists, in receipt of a weekly allowance, which, though perhaps small, kept them from destitution, argued for firmness. But many present were not unionists; and it soon became evident which way the sense of the majority tended. Long pressure of want had loosened their implicit confidence in Peter Pope. Some of them had even begun to think a little for themselves, independently.
A good many stood up in turn. The delegates who had interviewed the masters came first. Then Pope was allowed full swing; and many of his hearers, carried away for the moment by his honeyed phrases, seemed to swing with him. But others spoke out plainly after, in rough and terse language, showing up the miseries of the strike and its doubtful advantages, also in some cases protesting against the tyranny which would impose upon them all, a yoke chosen by the few.
John Holdfast once again rose, and gave something of an abstract of his former speech, addressed now to larger numbers. It was well received, winning applause. When he sat down, Peter Stuckey made his appearance from a retired corner, and was hauled up on the platform. His crooked little figure and wizened comical face were the signal for a gust of laughter; but Peter stood his ground, nodded, smiled, and signified his intention to "say something."
The chairman, with a broad grin, introduced him to the audience, and a hail of clapping followed. Stuckey chose a convenient spot on which to stand, braced himself for mental action, forgot all about bodily action, and dashed into the fray.
"I've seen pretty nigh all of you before, men; so don't need to say where I'm comed from. I was a fellow-workman of some o' you once—till it pleased God to afflict me, and cut me off from such employment. Well—He gave me a friend to take care o' me, and one as has been a friend to many a one o' you too, more especial of late. We'll give a cheer for Mr. Hughes, by and by.—Wait awhile!" shouted Stuckey. "I've got a lot to say, and bein' none too used to public speakin', I'll maybe forget."
"You've all been hearing a lot o' sensible words spoke this evening. More sensible by a long chalk than some as I've heard spoke other evenings. Werry good, so far! But it won't do to end with talk, lads; you've got to make up your minds for to act."
"Just you let me say first of all that I takes it this here is a conversational sort of a meetin' like, an' if any man don't agree with what's said, he's free to say so."
If this was a clever dodge of Stuckey's, to cover a sudden confusion of ideas, consequent on his unaccustomed position, it proved successful. Up started two or three men, and two or three voices cried—
"Got to act how? What action? Put it plain, Stuckey."
"Well, if ye wants me to be the mouthpiece of the meeting, I'll put it plain an' no mistake," said Stuckey. "Ye've got to consider these here proposals, and to answer them. Ye've got to settle whether ye'll say 'yes,' and go back to your work; or whether you give up, once an' for all. For mind ye, they ain't going to shilly-shally. There's work to be done, and if you won't do it, somebody else will. Yes—furriners, maybe—" in response to a general groan.
"It's no manner o' use to howl, boys! Howlin' won't stop 'em. I'm not especial fond o' furriners; no more than yourselves; but I hopes I've got a bit o' common' sense; and I do see that. If Englishmen won't work, furriners will. There's where it is. And it ain't likely the masters 'll keep the works all idle just as long as you choose, if others is willing to come and work. I wouldn't, if I was a master; nor none of you wouldn't, if you was masters. It's common-sense, lads."
"But the masters is willin' to come half-way to you, if you'll go half-way to them. That's reasonable, that is! As fair an end to a quarrel as can be; each side a-going half-way to meet the other. You wouldn't have all the givin' in on one side, would you? Leastways, save and except the wrong was all o' one side, which is a most uncommon state of affairs."
"Now I wouldn't go for to say in this here strike which side's been most wrong, nor which has been most right. Ain't no doubt it's been a half-and-half concern, right and wrong mixed up o' both sides like the plums an' suet in a pudden'. There's been mistakes, and there's been misunderstandings, and there's been a lot of hard words, not to speak of hard blows; and some o' you's misbehaved yourselves, an' forgotten your manliness, lads, for all Mr. Pope's so fond o' telling ye what a set of manly chaps ye be. It is forgetting your manliness, and it's acting like miserable curs an' sneaks, to set upon an innocent man in the dark, 'cause he don't see things just as you see 'em! An' you all know among yourselves whether there hasn't been some'at o' that sort going on, once and agin. But, howsoever, let's hope we won't have nothin' o' the sort agin, nor Englishmen forgetting they're men."
"Nor I won't go for to say as the masters is altogether right. For why? I ain't sure about it. Uncommon pleasant-spoken gentlemen they is, an' you knows it, an' ready to do a kindness any day. But there's a law of love and kindness, men, an' a law of thinking for others afore a man's own pocket; an' I shouldn't wonder if that 'ere law of Christian love don't always reign in the hearts of masters towards their men, no more than it always reigns in the hearts o' the men towards the masters. Eh, lads! I wonder now, I do, which is fittest to fling a stone at the other, for t'other's want of loving-kindness!"
"Well, now, to be werry plain indeed, an' to come to the p'int—my advice to you is,—End the strike! Accept these here proposals!"
"And put your necks into a noose!" protested a voice.
"Sounds uncommon like my namesake, t'other Peter," said Stuckey, peering about with wrinkled-up eyes. "Can't see ye nowhere, friend Pope, but maybe ye ain't far, seeing ye was on this here platform an hour since. If so be ye happens to be present still, allow me for to say as I condoles with ye most heartily, an' expresses the general sympathy o' the meeting, on the diminishment o' your income like to come on ye soon. It's werry tryin' to come down of a sudden in yer income! I've knowed that trial my own self, and my hearers has lately knowed it in a most marked an' melancholy way. We're werry grieved an' sad for ye, friend Pope; only 'tis more adwisable as your income should be diminished, than some hundreds o' families should be sunk altogether into a state o' starwation."
This sally was received with a burst of laughter, in the midst of which somebody quitted the hall.
"Shouldn't wonder if that's Mr. Pope hisself, so overcomed wi' the thoughts of his coming reduction, as he couldn't contain his emotions no longer. Werry sad for him! No! What—he's here still! Well, well,—'tisn't for to be expected as all present should disinterestedly sacrifice 'emselves for the sake o' Pope's pocket."
Tumultuous cheering, mingled with certain loud protests from Pope or Pope's friends, gave Peter time to rearrange his ideas, and to start afresh.
"You've all been a-hearin' of a lot o' wise remarks from Holdfast here. He's a friend o' mine, an' a friend o' many o' you, an' he's a friend worth havin'. For why? He's a man of sense, an' he's a true man. He don't butter ye up with clap-trap, and he ain't afraid to do what's right for fear o' consequences."
"There's been a lot of talk about banding together, and resisting of oppression. Now I'm not a-going to cry down Trades Unions. I'm not a-goin' to deny, no more than Holdfast does, that working-men needs to band together for mutual help and protection, an' lookin' after one another's interests, as well as layin' by money in store agin' a rainy day."
"But I'd like to speak a word of warning too, lads. Which is—Take care what ye're after! Don't ye, in fear of one tyranny, put yourselves under another. Trades Union men ain't infallible, no more than other men. Trades Unionism is werry apt to get selfish, and selfishness is short-sighted."
"I won't deny as Trades Unions has done a lot of good; an' ye needn't be in a hurry to deny as they've mayhap done some harm too. Just you think for yourselves. Haven't they sometimes encouraged bad feeling between men and masters? Haven't they sometimes pushed you into strikes which couldn't end but in failure and loss?"
"You're free an' independent working-men, ain't you? Well, but I wonder how many a one o' you dares stand out an' act independent in the face of the Union? How many a one among you, when he's at work, dares put forth his best strength, an do his utmost, an' run ahead of others? Ye don't need that I should tell you how things be! You look out sharp, men, or there won't be much o' your boasted freedom left to you soon,—and the tyrants of your choice will be those of your own standing. Don't see as that 'll make your bondage easier."
"Well, well, 'tis easy to see you don't all agree with me! Not surprisin', neither, it isn't! For why? There's lots o' bad workmen to every good workman. 'Tis natural the bad workmen an' the lazy chaps should want to put themselves on a level with the best an' the most diligent. But what's natural ain't always fair, nor it don't always work well in the end. If I was you, I'd learn to look ahead a bit. I can tell you, shorter an' shorter hours, an' higher an' higher wages, an' easier an' easier work, sounds mighty pleasant. But it may mean some'at in the future as won't be pleasant. It may mean trade driven away from English shores to foreign countries. It may mean less work to do and too many men to do it, in our land."
"Well; I've given my warning; an' that's all I can do. Anybody got any questions to ask?"
image031
image032
A DISCUSSION.
"I'VE a question to ask," said Roger Stevens, rising. "Holdfast said awhile since that labour is paid always at its true value. Now I don't agree to that."
"I didn't say 'always.' I said that as a rule it is," remarked Holdfast.
"Comes to pretty much the same thing, don't it?"
"No. You have to allow a time before each rise and fall, when it's not paid at its exact market value. Sometimes it's paid over its worth, and then it must soon fall. Sometimes it's paid under its worth, and then it must soon rise. But it finds its true level in time either way, and competition alone will send it up or down, without the help of strikes."
"I don't know as I hold with you," repeated Stevens.
"It's found to be true."
"Found by who?"
"Men who know a deal more of the matter than you or I. Men who have workmen in all parts of the world, and are able to compare the rise and fall of wages in different countries at the same time, noting the cause of each. These things have been watched and written about."
"And you mean to say you'd do away with strikes altogether?" asked Stevens, in a voice of dissent.
"No; I've told you already I wouldn't. But I would have them the last instead of the first resort. If you're being really paid under the fair worth of your labour, it's because the demand for that labour is increasing; and in such a case competition among the masters will soon act for you, and bring about a rise. If your labour is being paid at its fair value, no strike can bring about a lasting rise. If labour is growing more plentiful, and the demand is growing less, then, strike or no strike, your wages must fall."
"And who's to settle what the fair value of our labour is? And who's to say when we're paid over or under what's right?" A subdued stamping signified general acquiescence in this question.
"That's the difficulty, I grant you," Holdfast answered. "It's easy to say, if you and I are each on one end of a see-saw, we've just got to sit still, and let the board balance up and down till it finds its right position. We shouldn't need there to ask anybody to come and settle the slope of the board for us. The weight at each end would do that, if the board's only let alone. But it ain't so easy in the matter we're discussing; for each side is eager to grab the biggest profits, and it's hard to say how much ought justly to go to each, nor when things are fair and square. I wouldn't say no manner of pressure is ever needed on either side, to keep fair relations between employers and men—on both sides, mind!"
"But I do say it's the pressure of competition which does in the end settle the question—the competition of masters for labour, or the competition of men for work, depending on which is the more scarce. We need to look after our interests, and the masters need to look after their interests; but neither they nor we have that power over the question which some would make out. Where there's much work to be done, and few men to do it, no combining of masters can keep the wages down; and where there's little work to be done, and many men to do it, no combining of men can keep the wages up."
"Clear as daylight, ain't it?" chimed in Stuckey. "If labour's runnin' downhill, nobody can't make the wages run uphill; and if labour's runnin' uphill, nobody can't make the wages run downhill. If a rise is your due, why, you're pretty sure to get it by waitin' a bit; for it'll come in the natural course of events, like! If ye strike first, why most like ye'll wait a bit then too; and when it comes, ye'll be mighty stuck up, and think ye've won a huge victory. But fact is, you haven't got a victory at all. Ye've only half-starved your families, an' used up your savings, an' pawned your clothes, just for to get what ye'd have got in the end without all that bother, if ye'd been patient an' waited. The board's found its balance, don't ye see?—An' it's moral sure to have done that, if you hadn't given it no such shake."
"It's competition as really settles the question. If you wants to test the matter now an' agin, why, a strike's not a bad test. But it's a werry expensive one; an' it means a lot of trouble. Nor I don't see for my part as it's a great consolation to yourselves, to think that maybe you've half-ruined a master or two, as well as half-starvin' of your own little ones. I'd sooner wait a while longer sometimes, lads!"
Stuckey sat down, amid applause; but Holdfast was standing still.
"Stevens was asking just now," he said, "about the worth of labour; and about how it's commonly found in the long run to be paid at its worth. Well, there's a curious fact I came across lately, and I don't know as it mayn't be new to some of you. It is that labour, taken generally, is found to be of pretty much the same value throughout the world."
"Oh! Oh!" cried two or three voices.
"I mean what I say. Mind, I'm not giving you a hard and fast rule. I only tell you that it's been found generally, in places where capital and labour have free play, and where there ain't any extraordinary pressure from the scarcity of one or the other, that the cost of labour is wonderfully equal."
"I don't see that at all," Stevens observed.
"Maybe not; but it's worth your going into and reading about. It's been found by employers, with contracts in all parts of the world, that though the wages of the men in each place were different, the actual cost of the labour was much the same."
"But I say," broke in a voice, "if the cost was different, how could it be the same?"
"I said the wages were different, but the cost of the labour was equal. That's easy enough to understand. I'll give you two instances. There was a London bricklayer working beside a country one. The country bricklayer was paid three-and-sixpence a day for his work; the London chap five-and-sixpence. D'you suppose he was paid more because he was a Londoner? Of course not! He was paid more because his work was worth more. It was found that in one day he laid near upon twice as many bricks as the countryman. Would you say that his labour was the more expensive of the two?"
"No, no," Stevens answered.
"Well, and in some works on a French railway the French navvies were paid at the rate of two-and-sixpence a day, the English navvies at the rate of five shillings a day. It wasn't out of politeness to your country, you may be sure of that! It was because their labour was worth more. It was found, on comparison, that the work done by the English at five shillings a day was positively cheaper labour than the work done by the French at two-and-sixpence."
A cheer interrupted John.
"Yes; that was good. English workmen have had that pre-eminence! But will they keep it?" asked Holdfast steadily. "There's a spirit among us now that makes one fear for the future of English trade."
"Well, you see how it may be that labour, taken all round, is more equally paid than shows on the surface. It's the better workmen the better pay; just because he is a better workman. But the cost of work, done by the good workman at high pay, or done by the poor workman at low pay, is found to come to much the same in the end."
"I don't know as this question of the equality of the cost of labour has so much to do with us men as with the masters. It's a question that affects their pockets. But it's worth our knowing too; for it bears on the truth of labour being paid at its worth; and it tells us of forces which will have their way, and which masters nor men can't control."
"Any way, you'll do well to hold back from vain struggles which can't profit you—struggles to bring about a rate of wages beyond the real worth of your labour. For you might as well try to force a river to run uphill."
"And yet—" Holdfast spoke slowly—"and yet there are times, and no use to deny it, when things ain't fair, and the men have real good reason to know it—reason beyond the empty talk of clap-trap blusterers—and the question is, what's to be done?"
"I don't say it's often so. There's a deal of ignorance on such points; and sometimes there's unfair accusations; and many a strike fails of its object just because it deserves to fail. But for all that there are times, now in one trade, now in another, when a rise is known on all sides and acknowledged by good judges to be the real due of the men, and yet it's withheld."
"It'll come in the end, no doubt. Sooner or later the pressure can't be resisted. But long waiting means loss; and when men have got big families and small means, it stands to reason they do want to get their due. Right they should too."
"Well, even then, I still say, let the strike be your last resort, men! Don't fly to it at once. I do think a deal might be done first. For a strike itself means trouble and loss; and it does harm to yourselves and your families, harm to your trade and your country."
"Why shouldn't masters and men meet in a kindly spirit, each acknowledging the rights of the other, to discuss the question? For each side has its rights, and each side has its difficulties; and there's no such thing as smooth sailing for masters any more than for men. I can't and don't see, for my part, why capital and labour need be at daggers drawn; seeing that each is needful for the life of the other, and seeing too that we're a Christian country."
"There'd ought to be some way of getting at the truth of things, in this land, short of fighting. A strike means loss to masters and to men; and many a strike, it's found later, need never have taken place at all."
"I'd have you all think for the future whether arbitration isn't sometimes a thing possible. Couldn't able and honourable men be found, who'd look into the state of the matter, and tell us in honest truth whether a rise is our just due—men who could be trusted by employers and workmen alike? Wouldn't sometimes a calm and temperate demand for a rise, backed by a real knowledge of the justice of it, be as likely to bring about what's wanted as all the anger and bitterness of a strike?"
"Well—that's for another time. You've got to decide now for the present. An offer has come, meeting you half-way. Seems to me, we ought to go the other half to meet 'em. As friend Stuckey says, that's a tolerable fair ending to a struggle, each side yielding half."
"Any way, I'm meaning to be at work again next week. I'd have been sooner, if it wasn't for a lame arm. I hope to see all of you at work too."