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DUCKED.
SARAH could not shake off the thought of something happening to John. All the next day, and the next, she lived in fear, often hard to control. Those evenings he came home safely untouched. He did not tell Sarah how the men on strike glowered at him; how he was pursued on his way by the contemptuous groan of "Blackleg!!"
Many a man would sooner face a knock-down blow than that sound of scorn; but John was not made of yielding stuff. He did not tell Sarah all this, for there was no need to add to her anxiety.
On the third day it became known that the works must close; so John Holdfast, and those others who had refused to join the strike, would be reduced to idleness. Some said this might not be for long, as there was talk of workmen coming from a distance. Mrs. Holdfast hoped that the closing of the works would appease the strikers' anger against her husband; but she did not happen to hear the report about men arriving from elsewhere, or she would hardly have been so hopeful.
Her dread had lessened on the third day; and that very evening John was long coming home. He was far later than usual. Mrs. Holdfast waited and waited, uneasiness deepening into terror. She put on her bonnet and shawl at length, and went out into the dusk to look for John; but she could see nothing of him, and it was impossible to leave the children for more than a few minutes.
She went in next door, and found Martha alone.
Stevens had gone somewhere, Martha said—to a meeting, she thought. "They're always at it with their speechifying," she said. "Maybe your husband's with them."
"He'd have told me if he meant to go," Mrs. Hold fast answered.
"Roger don't trouble to tell me," said Martha.
No comfort was to be had there, and Mrs. Holdfast hastened home; the dread of foul play growing upon her with sickening force.
Another hour she waited. It had grown quite dark. John never stayed away like this without previous warning.
Mrs. Holdfast went again next door, in her misery, and found Stevens just come in. He knew nothing, he said—had seen nothing, heard nothing. He had not set eyes on Holdfast that day.
At first he seemed very much disinclined to take any steps. "Holdfast's got himself into bad odour," he said; "staying in when the rest went out. He'd better have taken good advice."
Mrs. Holdfast would not then argue against the view that to go with the multitude must be the wiser course. She used all her energies to get him to act, and presently her entreaties overcame his reluctance. He left the house to make inquiries, and Sarah went back to her home.
Another long period of wearying suspense, and at length somebody was coming. Sarah knew what it meant, directly her ears caught the sound of shuffling footsteps. She went to the open door, and heard Stevens' voice—
"Come along! Here you are! Just home."
"John!" cried Sarah.
"I've found him. He's had a fall or something," said Stevens. "Been and tumbled into a pond."
Did Stevens really think so? There was a shamefaced sound in his voice.
Sarah was by her husband's side, helping to bear him up, to pull him along. John said nothing. It was as much as he could do to move at all, with the assistance of them both.
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"Tumbled into the pond! Not he! He's been in;but it wasn't a tumble."
Once in the kitchen, they could see the state he was in—dripping wet, half-covered with green slime from the pond, his face ghastly pale, his right arm hanging helplessly, blood flowing still from a cut in his forehead. Stevens got him into a chair, and shut the door, John sat drooping forward, like one stupefied.
"Must have knocked his head against a sharp stone," said Stevens.
Sarah was bending over her husband, examining the cut. She straightened herself, and looked full at Stevens.
"Don't tell me that!" she said in a hard voice. "You know better! It's their doing—cowardly brutes, that dare to call themselves men!"
Then her manner softened, "But I do thank you," she said.
"Shouldn't wonder if you'd like me to help to get him up-stairs," said Stevens. "He don't seem able to stand alone. I say, Mrs. Holdfast—if I was you, I wouldn't go about saying it was the men."
"No, I won't; for they're not men!" she answered, with bitter scorn. "I'll say it's been done by brutes. You wouldn't have me say what I don't believe, would you? Tumbled into the pond! Not he! He's been in; but it wasn't a tumble."
"Well, I'll maintain it was a tumble; and I'll thank you to keep my name out of it too," said Stevens.
"I wouldn't get you into the same trouble, not on any account," Mrs. Holdfast answered gratefully.
Getting John up-stairs was no easy task. He was too dizzy and dazed to stand without support, and he seemed not to understand what was said. The right arm would hardly endure a touch, but it appeared to be only bruised and strained, not broken. Stevens was very much averse to a doctor being called, and Sarah hoped it might not be needful. She bathed and bound up the injured arm and the cut forehead, and John showed signs of amendment. When he was in bed, and Sarah began feeding him with spoonfuls of tea, Stevens being gone, he looked almost comfortable.
"Things might be worse," he murmured, with an attempt at a smile.
"Yes; they might have managed to kill you outright," Sarah said sternly. The sternness was for others. She was very tender towards John. "Do you think you can tell me how it happened?" she asked.
John had little to tell. He had had occasion to go round by a certain lonely lane, to leave a message for somebody; and he supposed his going to have been known. Two or three men, perhaps more, had set upon him suddenly, in the dusk and loneliness, had ducked him in the pond, and otherwise maltreated him. He believed that they had left him on the road beside the pond, more or less unconscious. Stevens had found him there, when he was beginning to regain his sense, and had given him a helping arm home.
"And that's about all," John said.
"You didn't see the faces of the men?"
"No, not a glimpse. They were too sharp, and the cut blinded me."
"And they call themselves men!" she said again. "Men! Brutes, I say! John, I'll never forgive them!"
"That's no resolve for a Christian woman to make," John answered. "Why, Sarah, woman, how will you ever pray your prayers in church next Sunday, not to speak of to-night and to-morrow morning, without you forgive?"
"The brutes! That they should treat you so!" she said. "But I'm not going to let you go on talking now; you've got to try and sleep."
"Don't feel much like sleep," said John. "One word more. Sarah, I don't mean to hide the truth of what I know. It wouldn't be right, for others' sake. But I do want you not to go about saying a lot of hard words. It's no good, and there's bitterness enough. We've got to be kind and to forgive."
Sarah could only say tearfully—
"I'll try."
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SEED-CAKE.
WINTER was setting in, and the strike continued in full force.
Nobody showed any inclination to give way. There was no talk, as yet, of compromise. Masters and men alike stood firm, holding resolutely each to his own view of the matter, refusing resolutely each to take a kind and unselfish view of the difficulties on the other side.
For of course there were two sides to the question, as there always are, each side having its own share of wrong and of right. The masters had their heavy expenses; their wearing anxieties; their fluctuations in profits. The men had their large families, more or less; their many needs; their comparatively low wages. A little measure of true sympathy and understanding on either side for the other, might have shortened the struggle; but the masters did not fully understand the men's position, and the men were far from sympathizing with the masters' position.
It was a dull cold sky; the sky overhead being black, the mud underfoot blacker still. Sleety rain fell off and on upon the scores of idle loungers in Pleasant Lane and other streets. Many of the loungers took refuge in public-houses—for however badly off the strikers might be, they almost always seemed to have something to spend there.
The usual stir of the busy town was hushed. All sound of engine and hammer had ceased. Work was at an end. Wages were at an end. Food in too many houses threatened to be soon at an end also.
Peter Pope was not just now at hand; and the recollection of a stirring speech the evening before was not enough to prevent down-heartedness this morning. Many of those poor fellows, lolling idly about, were simply ready to do whatever they were told. Peter Pope desired them to hold out; and so they did hold out. But if each one had been questioned separately as to his real feeling in the matter, the answer in nine cases out of ten would have been—
"Give me work, and let me earn bread for my little ones—" irrespective of those "rights" about which Peter Pope eloquently declaimed.
John Holdfast had come out of his house for a breath of air, and he stood at the gate looking about. A fortnight of suffering had rendered him pale and gaunt. The cut on his forehead was nearly healed, but his right arm was still in a sling, and very helpless.
There had been a great stir about John's injuries; but all attempts to identify John's injurers had failed. John had recognized no faces; and everybody else professed entire ignorance. Men of the better class were utterly ashamed of the miserable affair; but few had courage to speak out what they thought, or to give open sympathy to John.
"Good morning, Holdfast. How's the arm to-day, eh?" asked Mr. Hughes, coming at a brisk pace through Pleasant Lane.
Many a visit had Mr. Hughes paid to John lately; and many a supply of food had Stuckey brought from the Rectory. Much kindness had also been shown, and much practical help given, by the heads of the firm for which John worked. So, in point of fact, he and his family had suffered far less from the strike, thus far, than others.
"Getting on, sir, thank you," John answered cheerfully. "The doctor hopes it'll be up to work in a few weeks."
"Fortunate, if it is. Those strained muscles are troublesome things. I hope the strike will not last till your arm is really up to work."
John shook his head dubiously.
"I wish it may not, sir."
"Mr. Bertie has been to see you."
"Twice, sir. He says he don't mean me to be a loser by this."
"No; so I hear. Quite right too. No hope now, I'm afraid, of finding out the fellows who maltreated you."
"No," John said slowly. "I don't know as I can say I'm sorry. But if they was found, it wouldn't be right to let 'em off."
"Certainly not; for the sake of others more than yourself. But—" Mr. Hughes paused and sighed. "How I wish one could breathe a breath of Christ-like loving-kindness into all this—all these business relations between masters and men, between workmen and workmen. The wheels would move then without creaking, and adjustment would not be a matter of fighting."
"That's so, sir," John answered emphatically. "It's Christian consideration for others that's wanted, not just each side trying to grab the biggest profits."
John had left his house, and was walking slowly by Mr. Hughes' side. A gesture had invited him to do so.
"I'm afraid the poor wives and children are the worst sufferers."
"Likely to be," said John. "Sarah and I, we've nothing to complain of—thanks to you and to Mr. Bertie. But them poor Stevenses next door—"
"Stevens joined the strike?"
"Yes, sir; and he don't belong to the Union. I don't know how ever he gets along. His wife is getting as thin—"
"I dare say I can give you a basket of cake and odds and ends for her, poor thing! Can you come with me for it?"
"Now, sir?"
"Yes, now. No time like the present. Poor fellows!" murmured Mr. Hughes, as they passed another group of idlers. "They look very deplorable this morning. Rather different from their state of excitement under one of Pope's orations."
"That sort of excitement don't last," said John. "But I suppose it's the only way to get hold of them."
"Speechifying is, you mean?"
"Yes, sir. Pope has a hold upon 'em, somehow. I'd give a deal to see somebody able to stand up and give the other side of the matter. They do want showing a common-sense view of things."
"Why don't you do it yourself?"
John looked up in astonishment.
"You have read and thought on these subjects and you have a large share of common-sense. Why not impart it to others?"
Holdfast laughed slightly.
"I've not got the gift of the gab," he said.
"Never mind about gifts. If you have a matter clearly in your mind, I imagine that you are capable of putting it into plain words."
"I'm afraid that's not much in my line, sir. I haven't got Pope's smooth tongue, you see."
"Working-men don't want only smoothness. They get enough and too much of that from certain quarters. What they really want is truth. Give them facts. Think things out for yourself, and make up your own mind as to what is right; then throw your influence into the right scale. You have shown already that you are no coward; that you can stand alone; and that you are not afraid to act independently. Don't be afraid to speak as well as to act; and don't conclude that, because you have not Pope's tongue, you have therefore no tongue at all. It may be your positive duty to speak out sometimes, for the sake of others."
"I'll think it over, sir, any way. I wouldn't wish to neglect my duty, if it is a duty," said John. "But I'm afraid the men would only say I was taking the masters' side."
"Don't give them a chance of saying so. Don't take the masters' side. You have not to do that. Let the masters look to themselves, and take the men's side—which Pope does not do, for all his boasting. Try to show them—as many as will listen to you—the wise and common-sense view of things. Show them the folly of trying to control forces which will not be controlled. Show them the doubtful wisdom of half-starving themselves for the chance of a slight rise in wages, which, when gained, cannot repay them for what they have lost in gaining it. At the same time, don't deny that masters, like men, are sometimes unfair; and that pressure has sometimes to be wisely and justly used."
"Maybe I might say something," John observed thoughtfully.
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THE CHILDREN.
"MOTHER—"
"Yes, Bobbie."
"I'm so hungry."
"And I'm so hungry too," chimed in little Harry.
Martha Stevens was mending a child's frock by the dim light of a wintry afternoon. Snow outside fell thickly; and there were only a few decaying embers in the grate. Food and firing were hard to procure. Not once or twice only, since Holdfast spoke to Mr. Hughes of the Stevens' needs, kind supplies had been sent from the Rectory; but such supplies could only mean temporary relief.
One thing after another had gone to the pawnshop. The best Sunday clothes first; then all the little ornaments and treasures and knick-knacks; and at last even Martha's wedding-ring. The once cheery home was changed.
"I'm so hungry, mother, I don't know what to do."
Bobbie's nine-years-old manliness threatened to fail him; and there was the sound of a sob. Little Millie, curled up on the ground at her mother's feet, lifted her head slowly.
"It's no good crying, Bobbie," she said, in a grave unchildlike manner. "Mother hasn't got nothing?"
"Millie's hungry too, I know," said Mrs. Stevens. "And she don't go on as you do, Bobbie."
"Millie's a girl," sobbed Bobbie. "I don't think she feels it so dreadful bad as me."
"She's worse than any of us, I know that," said Martha, looking down on the tiny blue stick of an arm, which had once been so round and mottled. "And boys hadn't ought to give in more easy than girls."
Bobbie put his head down on a chair, and tried to smother the sobs; but it was hard work. Grown-up men found it no easy task to endure the gnawings of hunger which could not be satisfied; and it was no wonder that Bobbie, with his keen boyish appetite, should fail.
"I'm so hungry,—I'm so hungry," broke out from him anew.
"Father 'll have to take something else—" take it to the pawnbroker's, she meant. "The baker says he don't know how he's to go on giving credit, for there's no knowing where it'll end. And I don't know how we'll ever be able to pay what we owe him now!"
Hundreds of other families were more or less in the same condition; yet the men talked still of holding out.
"Just a little longer," Pope told them, "and they would have everything their own way."
"Father's coming!" Millie said, as a step was heard; and little Harry lifted his heavy head, only to lay it down again.
Stevens came in with a moody air, and took a seat. He looked thinner himself under the pressure of want.
"We've nothing left in the house," Martha said; "and the children's craving and crying till I don't know how to bear myself."
Stevens drew a small loaf—twopenny size—from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. "That's all I've got," he said; "and I didn't expect to have so much."
"Where did you get it from?" Martha asked, taking it in hand to respond to the little ones' eager eyes.
"Met Holdfast," 'said Roger gruffly.
"And he gave it you?"
A grunt of assent. "For the children."
"And where's the next to come from?"
This question had no answer.
"We can't starve," she said, looking at him. "There isn't another crumb nor another penny in the house. Where's the next loaf to come from?"
Stevens was silent.
"You'll have to get something, somehow! We can't go on like this," she continued, speaking quietly thus far. Then she burst out as if choked, "But if you'd been getting your wages all this time we'd never have got to such a pass! As if it mattered that you'd have had to work a bit longer than you liked! What business has a man got to marry, if he don't mean to work? Why, dear me, a lot more work wouldn't have pulled you down yourself, like the want of food! . . . And there's the children! . . . And if you do get what you're trying for, it won't pay for these weeks. It won't give us back half, nor a quarter, of what we've lost. I wish you men had some common-sense, I do, if it's only for the sake of your wives and children."
"You needn't scold," said Roger.
"I don't want to scold! It isn't scolding! I'm only telling you the plain truth. If you'd look the matter in the face for once, you'd maybe see how things are before it's too late."
"Too late for what?" asked Stevens.
Martha did not speak. Her eyes went first to his, then travelled round the room, passed over the older children; and rested on Harry. Roger followed her glance.
"I can't help it," he said desperately. "What am I to do? Pope says we'd be cowards now to give in."
"Pope says!" she repeated with scorn. "Can't you think for yourselves, and not be at Pope's beck and call?"
"Just see how Holdfast was treated—" Stevens began, and stopped.
"Ah, that's it! That's the real truth! You're afraid, all of you,—afraid of Pope, and afraid of each other, and afraid of being called 'blacklegs.' What's that but cowardice? . . . Roger, are you going to wait, and let your little ones starve afore your eyes? . . . There's work to be had now, for I know there is. It's offered to any who'll take. Mr. Holdfast 'ud be at work, if it wasn't for his arm. What's to keep you back?"
"I daren't be the first to give in," he faltered. "They'd hoot at me for a 'blackleg.'"
"Daren't! And you call yourself a man! You call yourself independent! You call yourself a freeborn Englishman! Daren't! And you call that liberty!" she uttered, with unconscious eloquence. "I call it being a slave."
Stevens seemed too dejected for anger. "You know well enough, there's lots of men willing to get to work," he said, "if others would let them. But there's too many for holding out still. What's a man to do? He can't stand alone—and there's nobody to take the lead."
"Except Pope! Take the lead yourself," said Martha.
Roger sat in gloomy silence.
"They do say there's signs that the masters 'll give in soon," he observed at length.
"I don't believe it. And if they did, we'll have lost a deal more than we'll gain."
Roger rose slowly.
"Where are you going?" she asked, in a sharp voice. It had grown sharp lately under the wearing strain of want.
"There's a meeting."
"Pope, I suppose," she said.
"Pope's away for to-night. It was Holdfast asked me to go."
"If he's to be there, you'll have a word on the right side."
"Holdfast said it wasn't to be a question of taking' sides, but just for to consider the state of affairs," said Roger.
Then he passed out into the falling snow, glad to escape from those pinched pitiful faces. Little Harry's wan look haunted him all the way. Harry had been such a beautiful child; plump and rosy, and full of fun. While now—!
"Something 'll have to be done soon," murmured Roger.
The Church schoolroom had been lent by Mr. Hughes to the men for this evening, that they might meet to talk things over among themselves; and Holdfast had undertaken to call them together. A moderate gathering was the response.
It did not promise to be an excited meeting. Pope was not there to supply bombast; and the men were generally more or less depressed. Many of them were hungry; some might almost have been called half-starved.
The main question was—Ought the strike to continue, or should it cease? Ought they to hold on, or were they willing to yield? Were the promised results worth the battle,—if such results might be gained by further delay? In other words, was the game worth the candle?
One and another stood up to speak. In Pope's absence, they were conscious of unusual freedom. They tried to look these questions fairly in the face, with such light as they possessed. It was not that these few men expected to decide for the whole community. The number present was a mere fraction of the whole number out on strike. But even to gain a few frankly-expressed opinions was worth much.
Presently John Holdfast was seen to rise and come forward. He spoke to the chairman, then turned to face the meeting. It was easy to see that he had something to say. There were many present who had baited John and jeered at him for his independent action of late; yet there was not one who did not really in his heart respect John; and no unwillingness to hear him was displayed.
John had at first something of the embarrassed and hesitating air usual with men who find themselves in an unwonted position. But that did not last. He knew his subject; and he had a good command of words. Indeed, as he went on, he showed a degree of fluency which perhaps astonished himself at least as much as his hearers.
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HOLDFAST'S SPEECH.
"I'VE got a few words to say to you to-night, lads. I'm a plain-spoken man, as you know, with no particular gift for speechifying; so you'll have to bear with me, if I blunder, and put things badly. I'm one of yourselves, and you'll just take my blundering kindly, and look beyond it to the root of the matter. It's as one of yourselves that I want to talk to you."
"There's been a lot said already, as to whether you should or shouldn't go on with the strike. Some are for one side, and some for the other. Well, I s'pose you all know pretty well which side I'm for. But maybe you don't all know so well what's my reasons, nor why I'm for that side."
"Now you needn't think I'm going to pretend to settle the whole question for you in a dozen words, and expect you all in a moment to follow what I say. That wouldn't be fair nor sensible. What I want to do is just to put the thing before you in a reasonable light."
"It seems to me that a deal of nonsense is talked, and a lot of mistakes are made, in these days, through men not looking on both sides of a question. You've heard the old story of the shield, and the two knights looking upon it. One said it was made of gold, and the other would have it was made of silver; and words ended in blows, and if I'm not mistaken, one wounded the other to death. At all events, it wasn't till after there'd been fighting, that somebody passing by showed them how the shield was gold on one side and silver on the other. So both were right and both were wrong; for it was gold, but it wasn't all gold; and it was silver, but it wasn't only silver: A little patience and common-sense were wanted there, weren't they?"
"Folks do much the same now. One is on the masters' side, and he says the shield is all gold. Another is on the men's side, and he says the shield, is all silver. Neither of 'em has the sense to walk round, and take a look on the other side."
"There's the masters' side of the question, the side of Capital. There's the men's side, the side of Labour. Each has its rights, and each depends upon the other. It's all very fine to talk of independence; but I tell you, men, you can't be independent. There's no man living who can stand alone, and do for himself without help from others. You're dependent on others for the food you eat, for the clothes you wear, for the houses you live in, for the tools you work with."
"Aye, and more than that; when you buy, you're among the capitalists. Others have worked for you, and you pay them for their labour. There's no such sharp division as many make out between capitalists and labouring-men. It's a question of degrees. The working-man spends less money, and works more with his hands; the capitalist spends more money, and works less with his hands. That's the distinction. But they're all members of one community, and each depends upon the other."
"To come back to the common view of the matter; the greater amount of capital is in the masters' hands no doubt, and power goes with money. Yet, if the masters couldn't get hands to work for them, much use would their wealth be to them. The men do the work, and power goes with labour too; but if there was no capital out of which their wages would come, they'd be badly off too."
"Fact is, there's power on both sides, and there's dependence on both sides. It's the few with capital to balance the many without capital. More truly, it's the few with large capital to balance the many with little capital."
"Now you mind one thing that I have to say. Capital is your friend, and not your enemy. Some among you are given to talking about the tyranny of capital. Well, I don't say capital is never tyrannical when it gets a chance, just as I don't say labour is never tyrannical when it gets a chance too. But the 'tyranny of labour' may be as true a phrase as the 'tyranny of capital;' and all the while, each is the friend of the other. Capital is the friend of labour, and labour is the friend of capital. Capital can't get along without labour, and labour can't get along without capital. A man 'll sometimes act tyrant to his own friend, if he gets a chance—when he's thinking too much about his own pocket."
"One thing's sure. If a man hurts his friend, he hurts himself too in the long run, whether he sees it or not. The masters can't do wrong to the men without injuring themselves, and the men can't wrong the masters without hurting themselves; for each depends on the other."
"I suppose it would be a happy thing if the two sides could come to an agreement as to their exact rights, and so put a stop to all disputes. But that's a thing more easy said than done; for the fact is, there's no one spot where you can say the rights of one side begin, and the rights of the other end. Or if there is such a spot, it's always moving."
"I'll tell you what—it's like what the children call a see-saw, you know. The masters with their capital are seated on one end of the board, and the men with their labour are seated on the other end. The plank is supported on a narrow edge, and the very least change in the quantity of gold at one end, or in the number of men at the other end, makes a re-adjustment needful to keep the balance."
"Nell, and the re-adjustment can't come about in a moment. If both parties keep quiet, the board 'll swing a little, and presently they'll see what the true balance is—whether the masters or the men weigh heaviest. But sometimes they won't wait. They fidget, and they get excited; and the plank swings harder, and maybe they end in an upset altogether, which puts off the settling for a good bit longer. I think we've had something of that sort lately."
"I'm inclined to believe that the upset don't make much difference in the long run. The plank 'll find its balance just the same, whether those at each end sit quiet or whether they don't. It may swing more or less; but nothing on earth can keep the heavier end from being lowest, nor the lighter end from being highest, when it does come to rest."
"Matters are something like that in the labour-market."
"You've had a lot of fine words said to you of late by Pope, which maybe some of you believe. He'd teach you to think that everything is in your own hands; that you only have to strike and strike again to get higher and higher wages, and that the masters all keep you wilfully down, and don't give you your dues."
"Well, I've had a good lot of spare time lately, and I thought I couldn't do better than read about these questions, and get up some information."
"I've one fact to give you, as a result of my reading. Facts are stubborn things you know; and I'm not sure as this isn't a specially stubborn fact. Any way, here it is. Whatever you and the masters do or don't do, and whether so be that you like it or not, labour, as a general rule and in the long run, is always paid at its worth."
"You don't see that, eh?"
"Well, I'll give you the key to it in a sentence I've read somewhere. 'Labour is dear when it is scarce, and cheap when it is plentiful.' Other things have their bearing on the question, I won't deny; but you'll always have to work back to this. When trade's prosperous, and the demand for labour grows, and the masters compete one against another for hands, then wages rise. But when the market is overstocked, and the demand for labour gets less, and the men compete one against another for work, instead of the masters competing for men, there's a change. Natural enough, those in need of work will take it at a lower rate, rather than go without; and down the wages run. It isn't a surer law that water finds its own level, than that wages do the same."
"But suppose now you won't let men take lower wages. Suppose, by the power of combination, you force the wages to keep at a higher level than they'd do naturally? That's possible sometimes, I don't deny; just as you can bank up a stream of water, and hinder it from flowing down."
"I'm not talking about the right or the wrong of such action, nor whether you've a right to restrain the freedom of others. That's for you and them to consider. But I'll tell you what must be the result of such action."
"By forcing up the wages, you make the fruits of your work more dear than elsewhere. Then other towns or other countries will compete against you, producing the same things more cheaply. Then the public will leave you, and buy elsewhere. Stands to reason, don't it, that folks turn to the cheapest market for their goods? If you men can buy a serviceable coat for a low price at one shop, you won't choose to pay a high price for the same at another shop. So, by getting higher wages than are really your due, you'll have driven away the trade from your neighbourhood, perhaps from your country; and masters and men will suffer alike."
"Maybe you'll say that if all working-men over the world joined into one great league, they could force up the wages everywhere alike. Well, I don't know as that's altogether an impossible state of things for a time. But mind you, it would be only for a time. It couldn't go on always. The produce of higher wages being too expensive for the condition of the times, people would buy less; or they'd find something else cheaper to use instead. I don't know as I'm making myself clear; but it's clear to myself what I mean."
"I can't tell what 'll be the outcome of the present strike. Maybe, if you go on long enough, the masters will give in, and you'll get your higher wage. Well, and if so be the state of the market allows it, all will go right. But if your doing so forces the masters to put a higher price on the produce of your work than is paid for it elsewhere, we shall be losers in the end. For trade will flow away from our town. Customers will go elsewhere."
"You'll tell me now that I'm arguing on the masters' side. But I'm not. It's the men's side I'm considering; and the trouble you'll all be in, if a time of slack trade comes."
"I want you all, as I've said before, to take a common-sense view of the matter. That's what some of your fine speechifiers don't help you to do. I dare say you'd like it better if I was to talk a lot about tyranny and oppression, and iron heels trampling you down, and such trash, and then was to butter you up for a set of noble chaps, the like of which never trod this earth before."
"You're used to that sort of thing, ain't you, now? But it's not in my line, nor never will be. You may be noble if you choose—all and any of you. I don't say you all are; any more than I'd go for to say that all the aristocracy or all the capitalists of the country are noble. Nobody's noble who lives to himself, and who's a slave to any manner of wrong-doing. But there's many a noble fellow among them; and I hope there's many a noble fellow among us too. Any way, I've a notion that your iron-heeled aristocracy would be the last to deny the fact. Only, whether you're noble or no, I do say you let your eyes be too easy blinded by a handful of dust."
"Now you just think quiet for a minute or two, about this notion of cheap and dear labour depending on whether it's plentiful or scarce."
"You all know that pearls and diamonds cost a lot more than bits of glass and wood. Why do they? Because they're valuable, you'll say. But why are they valuable? Because men want to have them? No, it's not that only. It's because they're scarce.
"Take the Kohinoor—the grandest diamond in England, belonging to Her Majesty. Three cheers for our noble Queen, lads!" John's hat went up, and the haggard men before him responded warmly. "That's it!" said John, well pleased. "Now about the Kohinoor. I'm afraid to say how much it is worth. But supposing that instead of one there was fifty such diamonds in the country. Would they all be worth as much? No, of course not. And suppose there was ten thousand—why, lots of people could buy them then, the price 'ud be so much lower. And suppose they were as common as pebbles in the road; why, then you'd be able to, pick them up like pebbles, you know, and not have to pay anything at all."
"So a thing is worth more or less, partly according to whether it's wanted, but mostly according to whether it's scarce or plentiful."
"That's how it is with labour. When there's much work to be done, and few men to do it, labour is dear because it's scarce. When there's little work to be done, and many men to do it, labour is cheap because it is plentiful. And when labour is cheap, no amount of strikes can make it worth more than it is worth, even though wages may be forced up unnaturally for a while."
"Would you go for to say," put in a voice, "that strikes are never on no account to be resorted to?"
"No, I don't say that," returned John. "It's natural and it's right that working-men should band together to protect their own interests; and maybe now and then a strike's the only method open to them. Any way, I do know it oughtn't to be a common thing. For in nine cases out of ten, lads, the loss is more than the gain. A strike is wise, only when affairs are in such a condition, that you all know on the very best authority—not only on Pope's authority—that a rise is your just due, and that there's no chance of your getting it for a long while save by a strike. That's a state of things that might be; and then if you liked to go in for a strike—well, it mightn't be altogether unreasonable."
"But a strike should be your last resort, not your first. If a rise in wages is really your due, I suppose it's sure to come sooner or later, from the pressure of competition, whether you strike or whether you don't. But if you're mistaken as to the state of things, and a rise is not your due—why a strike isn't like to do more than bring loss and disappointment; or even if it does force the wages up for a bit, that can't last, and things will be worse for your trade in the end."
"It 'ud be a good thing if masters and men would draw together, and be more friendly-like, and each listen to the other. For there's rights on both sides, and difficulties on both sides; and there's room on both sides for a kind and thoughtful spirit to be shown. It wouldn't do no harm to you, lads, if you was sometimes to put yourselves into the masters' place, and think how you'd act there. And I wish the masters would do the same for the men. Not as they don't sometimes, I'll be bound. There's masters and masters, just as there's men and men! I don't see as we ourselves have much to complain of. Mr. Bertie and Mr. Lovett have been good friends to us for many a year. It wasn't till Pope came to enlighten our ignorance, that we found out we was grovelling under the heels of two bloodthirsty tyrants."
"No, no; not so bad as that!" cried several voices.
"Hope not!" said John dryly. "Any way, my slavery don't fret me much. I've got along pretty comfortable, in spite of it—till these last weeks."
"I say," broke in a fresh voice, "that's all very fine, you know, what you've been saying; and I don't say there's no truth in it. But I'd like to know one thing, and that is, why working-men are paid at a higher rate in other countries than in England?"
"And perhaps, if I answer that, you'll tell me why workmen are paid at a lower rate in other countries than in England," said John.
"Look at America," was the answer.
"And look at France—look at Germany—look at Holland. It comes in both cases from the same reason. Labour is more scarce in one place than in another; or, capital is more plentiful. Either way the wages must rise."
"Twelve to eighteen shillings a day, as I've heard say Englishmen could make awhile back in a place called Lima," chimed in somebody else.
"Maybe so," John answered. "And if you want to make that amount, you'd best go there—supposing it's the same still. Only take care too many of you don't go; for as sure as labour gets more plentiful, the wages will run down."
"When you think of the lower rate of wages paid to workmen on the Continent, you'll no doubt say that the advantage on our side is all owing to Trades, Unions and strikes. But it's nothing of the sort. Trades Unions, property managed, are all very well in their way; and a strike at the right time may be a good thing in its way. But Trades Unions and strikes can't force wages up to a higher level and keep them there, when the state of the labour-market don't allow it."
"There's trades in England, with powerful Unions, which haven't made any advance in wages during years past. There are trades on the Continent, with no Unions at all to push for them, which have just gone on with the tide; and the workmen have gained twenty or thirty per cent. on their wages."
"I've spoken longer than I meant when I began; and now it's about time I should stop. A word more, first. You'll tell me, perhaps, that many a strike isn't for higher wages, but for shorter hours. So it is. English workmen are growing mighty careful of themselves nowadays, and afraid of work. But the rise is the same either way. It's a rise if you get better pay for ten hours' work than before; and it's a rise if you keep ten hours' pay for nine hours' work."
"Yes; and it's the same thing in another way. The cost of production is greater, whichever sort of rise you get; and that means a higher price for the thing sold; and that means, sometimes, driving away the trade to some other place. A lot of trade has drifted away from England to foreign countries, of late years—and why? Just because the shorter hours and higher wages of English workmen mean higher prices for the produce of their work—and people won't pay higher prices when they can get as good for lower. Would you? No, of course you wouldn't!"
"You've borne patiently with me, and I mustn't tax you further, though there's plenty more I could say yet. But I do want you just to think over these matters for yourselves, and not be led away by fine talk which hasn't sense in it. And while you're thinking, you just remember the wives and children at home. What's best for them?"
Holdfast sat down without another word, and not without his meed of applause.
But though he was heard patiently throughout, and though he had dropped some seeds which might perchance take root, yet those present were few in number compared with the many out on strike; and those few had not force of character or vigour of will to speak out and to act for themselves.