Bonbright was in his own home again—in the house that had been his father's, and that was now his. He stood in the room that had been his since babyhood. He had not thought to stand there again, nor did he know that the room and the house were his own. He had come from the shops but a half hour before; had come from that room where his father lay across his desk, one arm outstretched, the other shielding his face. There had been no time to think then; no time to realize. … What thought had come to him was one of wonder that the death of his father could mean so little to him. Shock he felt, but not grief. He had not loved his father. Yet a father is a vital thing in a son's life. Bonbright felt this. He knew that the departing of a father should stand as one of the milestones of life, marking a great change. It marked no change for him. Everything would go on as it had gone—even on the material side. It was inevitable that he should remember his father's threat to disinherit him. Now the thing had come—and it made little difference, for Bonbright had laid out his life along lines of his own…. His father would be carried to the grave, would disappear from the scene—that was all.
He saw that the things were done which had to be done, and went home to his mother, dreading the meeting. He need not have dreaded it, for she met him with no signs of grief. If she felt grief she hid it well. She was calm, stately, grave—but her eyes were not red with weeping nor was her face drawn with woe. He wondered if his father meant as little to his father's wife as it did to his father's son. It seemed so. There had been no affectionate passage between Bonbright and his mother. She had not unbent to him. He had hardly expected her to, though he had been prepared to respond….
Now he was in his room with time to think—and there was strangely little to think of. He had covered the ground already. His father was dead. When Bonbright uttered that sentence he had covered the episode completely. That was it—it was an EPISODE.
A servant came to the door.
"Mr. Richmond wishes to speak with you on the phone, Mr. Bonbright," the man said, and Bonbright walked to the instrument. Richmond had been his father's counsel for many years.
"Bonbright?" asked Mr. Richmond.
"Yes."
"I have just had the news. I am shocked. It is a terrible thing."
"Yes," said Bonbright.
"I will come up at once—if you can see me. The death of a man like your father entails certain consequences which cannot be considered too soon. May I come?"
"If you think it is necessary," said Bonbright.
"It is necessary," said Mr. Richmond.
In twenty minutes Richmond was announced and Bonbright went to meet him in the library. Richmond extended his hand with the appropriate bearing for such an occasion. His handshake was a perfect thing, studied, rehearsed, just as all his life was studied and rehearsed. He had in stock a manner and a handshake and a demeanor which could be instantly taken off the shelf and used for any situation which might arise. Richmond was a ready man, an able man. On the whole, he was a good man, as men go, but cut and dried.
"Your father was a notable man," he declared. "He will be missed."
Bonbright bowed.
"There will be a great deal for you to look after," said the lawyer, "so I will be brief. The mass of detail can wait—until after—er—until you have more leisure."
"I think, Mr. Richmond, it is my mother you wish to see, not myself. I thought you would understand my position. I am surprised that you do not, since you have been so close to my father…. My father and I did not agree on matters which both of us considered vital. There were differences which could not be abridged. So I am here merely as his son, not as his successor in any way."
"I don't understand."
"My father," said Bonbright, with a trace of impatience, "disowned me, and—disinherited, I believe, is the word—disinherited me."
"Oh no! No!… Indeed no! You are laboring under a misapprehension. … You are mistaken. I am glad to be able to relieve your mind on that point. Nothing of the sort was done. I am in a position to know. … I will admit your father discussed such action, but the matter went no farther. Perhaps it was his intention to do as you say, but he put it off…. He seemed to have a prejudice against making a will. As a matter of fact, he died intestate…"
"You mean—"
"I mean that your father's wealth—and it was considerable, sir—will be disposed of according to the statutes of Descent and Distribution. In other words, having failed to dispose of his property by testament, the law directs its disposition. With the exception of certain dower rights the whole vests in yourself."
Here was something to think of. Here was a new and astounding set of circumstances to which he must adapt himself…. He experienced no leap of exultation. The news left him cold. Queerly, his thoughts in that moment were of Ruth and of her great plan.
"If she had waited…" he thought.
No, he was glad she had not waited. He did not want her that way…. It was not her he wanted, but her love. He thought bitterly that he would willingly exchange all that had become his for that one possession. He could have anything—everything—he wanted now but that….
"I am glad to be able to give you such news," said Mr. Richmond.
"I was thinking of something else," said Bonbright.
Richmond looked at the young man obliquely. He had heard that Bonbright was queer. This rumor seemed not without foundation. Richmond could not comprehend how a young man could think of anything else when he had just learned that he was several tunes a millionaire.
"Sit down," said Bonbright. "This, of course, makes a difference."
Richmond seated himself, and drew documents from his green bag. For half an hour he discussed the legal aspects of the situation and explained to Bonbright what steps must be taken at once.
"I think that is all that will be necessary to-day," he said, finally.
"Very well…. There is no reason why affairs may not go on for a couple of days as they are—as if father were alive?"
"No, I see no reason why they should not."
"Very well, then…. Will you see to it? The—the funeral will be onSaturday. Monday I shall be in the office."
"I hope you will call upon me for any assistance or advice you find necessary…. Or for any service of whatsoever nature…. Good afternoon…. Will you convey my sympathy to Mrs. Foote?"
The rest of that day, and of the days that followed it, Bonbright was trying to find the answer to the question, What does this mean to me? and to its companion question, What shall I do with it?
One paper Richmond had left in Bonbright's hands, as Richmond's predecessors had left it in the hands of preceding Bonbright Footes. It was a copy of the will of the first Bonbright Foote, and the basic law, a sort of Salic law, a family pragmatic sanction for his descendants, through time and eternity. It laid upon his descendants the weight of his will with respect to the conduct of the business of Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. Five generations had followed it faithfully, deviating only as new conditions made deviation necessary. It was all there, all set forth minutely. Bonbright could visualize that first of his line from the reading of it—and he could visualize his father. His father was the sort of man that will would create…. He considered himself. He was not off that piece….
His father had tried to press him in the family mold, and he remembered those unbearable days. Now, from his remote grave the first Bonbright Foote reached out with the same mold and laid his hands on the hope of the line…. Bonbright read the words many times. His was the choice to obey or to disobey, to remain an individual, distinct and separate from all other individuals since the world began, or to become the sixth reincarnation of Bonbright Foote I…. The day following his father's burial he chose, not rashly in haste, nor without studied reason. To others the decision might not have seemed momentous; to Bonbright it was epoch-marking. It did mark an epoch in the history of the Foote family. It was the Family's French Revolution. It was Martin Luther throwing his inkpot at the devil—and overturning the ages.
Bonbright's decision required physical expression. Most human decisions require physical expression to give them effect. He had a feeling as though six disembodied Bonbright Footes stood about in an agony of anxiety, watching to see what he would do as he took the emblematical paper in his hands. He tore it very slowly, tore it again and again into ribbons and into squares, and let them flutter into his wastebasket…. If others had been present to assert that they heard a groan he would not have denied it, for the ancestors were very real to him then… their presence was a definite fact.
"There…" he said. The king was dead. Long live the king!
It was after that he had his talk with his mother. Perhaps he was abrupt, but he dreaded that talk. Perhaps his diplomacy was faulty or lacking. Perhaps he made mistakes and failed to rise to the requirements of the conditions and of his relationship with her. He did his best.
"Mother," he said, "we must talk things over."
She sat silently, waiting for him to speak.
"Whatever you wish," he said, "I shall do… if I can."
"There is a qualification?" she said.
"Suppose you tell me what you want done," he said.
"I want you to come to your senses and realize your position," she said, coldly. "I want you to get rid of that woman and, after a decent interval, marry some suitable girl…."
"I was discussing your affairs, mother, not mine. We will not refer to my wife."
"All I want," she said, "is what I am entitled to as your father's widow."
"This house, of course," he said. "You will want to stay here. I want you to stay here."
"And you?"
"I prefer to live as I am."
"You mean you do not care to come back here?"
"Yes."
"You must. I insist upon it. You have caused scandal enough now….People would talk."
"Mother, we might as well understand each other at once. I am not Bonbright Foote VII. Let that be clear. I am Bonbright Foote. I am myself, an individual. The old way of doing things is gone…. Perhaps you have heard of the family law—the first Bonbright's will. … I have just torn it up."
She compressed her lips and regarded him with hostility. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
"I suppose I must make the best of it. I realize I am powerless." She realized it fully in that moment; realized that her son was a man, a man with force and a will, and that it would be hopeless to try to bring him to submit to her influence. "There is nothing for us to discuss. I shall ask for what I need…."
"Very well," he said, not coldly, not sharply, but sorrowfully. There was no need to try to approach nearer to his mother. She did not desire it. In her the motherly instinct did not appear. She had never given birth to a son; what she had done was to provide her husband with an heir, and, that being done, she was finished with the affair. …
He went from his mother to his own room, where he sat down at his desk and wrote a brief letter to his wife. It was not so difficult to compose as the other one had been, but it was equally succinct, equally barren of emotion. Yet he was not barren of emotion as he wrote it.
MY DEAR RUTH [he said],-My father is dead. This makes a very material change in my financial condition, and the weekly sum I have been sending you becomes inadequate. Hereafter a suitable check will be mailed you each week until the year expires. At that time I shall make a settlement upon you which will be perfectly satisfactory. In the meantime, should you require anything, you have but to notify me, or, if you prefer, notify Mr. Manley Richmond, who will attend to it immediately.
This letter he mailed himself…. Not many days later it was returned to him with "Not Found" stamped upon it in red ink. Bonbright fancied there must be some error, so he sent it again by messenger. The boy returned to report that the apartment was vacant and that no one could furnish the present address of the lady who had occupied it. Bonbright sent to Ruth's mother, who could only inform him that Ruth had gone away, she did not know where, and such goings-on she never saw, and why she should be asked to bear more than she had borne was a mystery..—
There was but one conclusion for Bonbright. Ruth had been too impatient to wait for the year to expire and had gone away with Dulac….
Hilda could have corrected that belief, but he did not see Hilda, had not seen her, for his new duties and new problems and responsibilities occupied him many more hours a day than any labor union or legislature would have permitted an employee to be required to work. His hours of labor did not stop with the eighth nor with the tenth…. There were days when they began with daylight and continued almost to daylight again.
Ruth had gone with Dulac…. She was hidden away. Not even Hilda Lightener knew where she was, but Hilda knew why she had gone…. There is an instinct in most animals and some humans which compels them to hide away when they suffer wounds. Hilda knew Ruth had crept away because she had suffered the hardest to bear of all wounds—and crushing of hope….
She had gone the morning after Bonbright's father died, leaving no word but that she was going, and she had not gone far. It is simple to lose oneself in a city. One may merely move to the next ward and be lost to one's friends. Only chance will cause a meeting, and Ruth was determined to guard against that chance.
She found a cheap, decent boarding house, among laboring people; she found a new position… that was all. She had to live; to continue was required of her, but it must be among strangers. She could face existence where there were no pitying eyes; where there was none to remind her of her husband…. She hid away with her love, and coddled it and held it up for herself to see. She lived for it. It was her life…. Even at her darkest moment she was glad she loved. She devoted herself wholly to that love which had been discovered just too late—which was not the wise nor the healthful thing to do, as any physician could have informed her.
For a few days after the commencement of his reign Bonbright remained quiescent. It was not through uncertainty, nor because he did not know what he was going to do. It was because he wanted to be sure of the best way of doing it. Very little of his time was spent in the room that had been his father's and was now his own; he walked about the plant, studying, scrutinizing, appraising, comparing. He did not go about now as he had done with Rangar on the day his father inducted him into the dignity of heir apparent and put a paper crown on his head and a wooden scepter in his hand.
He was aware that the men eyed him morosely. Bitterness was still alive in their hearts, and the recollection of suffering fresh in their minds. They still looked at him as a sort of person his father had made him appear, and viewed his succession as a calamity. The old regime had been bad enough, they told one another, but this young man, with his ruthlessness, his heartlessness, with what seemed to be a savage desire to trample workingmen into unresisting, unprotesting submission—this would be intolerable. So they scowled at him, and in their homes talked to their wives with apprehension of dark days ahead.
He felt their attitude. It could not be helped—yet. His work could not be started with the men, it must start elsewhere. He would come to the men later, in good time, in their proper order.
His third morning in the office he had called Malcolm Lightener on the telephone.
"Is your proposition to manufacture ten thousand engines still open?"
"Yes."
"I'll take the contract—providing we can arrive at terms."
"I'll send over blue prints and specifications—and my cost figures.Probably our costs will be lower than yours…."
"They won't be," said Bonbright, with a tightening of his jaw. "Can you lend me Mershon for a while?" Mershon was Lightener's engineer, the man who had designed and built his great plant.
"I can't, but I will."
"As soon as he can arrange it, please. I want to get started."
"He'll be there in half an hour."
Mershon came, a gray, beefy, heavy-faced man—with clear, keen, seeing eyes.
"Mr. Lightener has loaned you to me, Mr. Mershon. It was a tremendous favor, for I know what you can do."
Mershon nodded. He was a man who treasured up words. He must have had a great store of them laid by, for in his fifty years he had used up surprisingly few.
"This is what I want," Bonbright said. "First, I want a plant designed with a capacity of twenty thousand Lightener engines. You designed Lightener's engine plant—so you're about the one man to give me one that will turn out more engines with less labor and at lower cost than his. That's what I want."
Mershon's eyes lighted. "It will cost money," he said.
"I'll find the money; you give me the plant," Bonbright said. "And second, I want a survey made of this present plant. I know a lot of it is junk, but I'm not competent to say how much. You will know what to do. If I have to junk the whole outfit I'll do it. I don't want to waste money, but I want these mills to be the equal of any mills in the country…. Not only in efficiency, but as a place to work. I want them safe. You will understand. I want the men considered. Give them light and air. Wait till you see our wash rooms!" He shrugged his shoulders. "It isn't enough to have the best machines," he said. "I want the men to be able to do the best that's in them…. You understand?"
Mershon nodded.
"The next room is yours." Bonbright pointed toward his old office, the one it had been the family custom to close on the accession of the heir apparent, and never to reopen until a new heir was ready to take up his duties. He felt a sort of pleasure in this profanation. "You'll find it large enough. If you need more room, ask for it…. Get what assistants you need."
"No more interruption of production than necessary," said Mershon.
"Exactly…. And we need that new plant in a hurry. I've taken a contract to make ten thousand engines for Mr. Lightener this year."
It was that day that he called Rangar into the room. Rangar had been uneasy, fearful, since his old employer had died. He had been an important figure under the old order; a sort of shadow behind the throne. He wondered what would happen to him now. More especially if Bonbright had a notion of some of his duties under Bonbright's father. He was not kept in suspense.
"Mr. Rangar," said Bonbright, "I have been looking through the files. Some of your duties have become clear to me. I was familiar with others…. Perhaps my father required a man like yourself. I do not. The old way of doing things here is gone, and you and I could not be happy together. I shall direct the cashier to give you a check for six months' salary…"
"You mean—"
"Exactly what I say."
"But—you don't understand the business. Who is going to run it while you learn?"
"I don't want to know how this business was run. It's not going to be run that way…. There's nothing you could teach me, Mr. Hangar…. Good afternoon."
Rangar went white with rage. Animosity toward this young man he had harbored since the beginning; it flowered into hatred. But he dared not voice it. It was not in Hangar's nature to be open, to fight without cover. If he spoke, the check for six months' salary might be withdrawn, so, uttering none of the venom that flooded to his lips, he went away…. Rangar was the sort of man who vows to get even. …
That evening Bonbright sat in his window and watched the army of his employees surge out of the big gate and fill the street. Five thousand of them…. It was a sight that always fascinated him, as it had that first evening when he saw them, and came to a realization of what it meant to be overlord to such a multitude. More than ever he realized it now—for he was their overlord. They were his men. It was he who gave them the work that kept them alive; he who held their happiness, their comfort, their very existence in the hollow of his hand…. And he knew that in every one of those five thousand breasts burned resentment toward him. He knew that their most friendly feeling toward him was suspicion.
It was easy to rebuild a plant; it was simple to construct new mills with every device that would make for efficiency. That was not a problem to awe him. It needed but the free expenditure of money, and there was money in plenty…. But here was a task and a problem whose difficulty and vastness filled him with misgiving. He must turn that five thousand into one smooth-running, willing whole. He must turn their resentment, their bitterness, their suspicion, into trust and confidence. He must solve the problem of capital and labor…. An older, more experienced man might have smiled at Bonbright—at his daring to conceive such a possibility. But Bonbright dared to conceive it; dared to set himself the task of bringing it about.
That would be his work, peculiarly. No one could help him with it, for it was personal, appertaining to him. It was between Bonbright Foote and the five thousand.
It was inevitable that he should feel bitterness toward his father, for, but for his father, his work would now be enormously more simple. If these men knew him as he was—knew of his interest in them, of his willingness to be fair—he would have had their confidence from the start. His father had made him appear a tyrant, without consideration for labor; had made him a capitalist of the most detestable type. It was a deep-seated impression. It had been proven. The men had experienced it; had felt the weight of Bonbright's ruthless hand…. How could he make them believe it was not his hand? How could he make them believe that the measures taken to crush the strike had not been his measures; that they had been carried out under his name but against his will? It sounded absurd even to himself. Nobody would believe it.
Therefore he must begin, not at the beginning, but deeper than the beginning. He could not start fairly, but under a handicap so great as to make his chances of winning all but negligible…. It would be useless to tell his men that he had been but a figurehead. For him the only course was to blot out what had gone—to forget it—and to start against odds to win their confidence. It would be better to let them slowly come to believe he was a convert—that there had been a revolution in his heart and mind. Indeed, there was no other way. He must show them by daily studied conduct that he was not what they feared he was….
He did not know what he was himself. His contact with Malcolm Lightener's workingmen had given him certain sympathies with the theories and hopes of labor; but they had made him certain of fallacies and unsoundness in other theories and ambitions. He was not the romantic type of wealthy young man who, in stories, meets the under dog and loves him, and is suddenly converted from being an out-and-out capitalist to the most radical of socialists. It was not in him to be radical, for he was steadied by a quietly running balance wheel…. He was stubborn, too. What he wanted was to be fair, to give what was due—and to receive what was HIS due…. He could not be swayed by mawkish sentimental sympathy, nor could he be bullied. Perhaps he was stiff-necked, but he was a man who must judge of the right or wrong of a condition himself. Perhaps he was too much that way, but his experiences had made him so.
If his men tried to bulldoze him they would find him immovable. What he believed was right and just he would do; but he had his own set notions of right and justice. He was sympathetic. His attitude toward the five thousand was one of friendliness. He regarded them as a charge and a responsibility. He was oppressed by the magnitude of the responsibility…. But, on the other hand, he recognized that the five thousand were under certain responsibilities and obligations to him. He would do his part, but he would demand their part of them.
His father had been against unions. Bonbright was against unions. His reason for this attitude was not the reason of his father. It was simply this: That he would not be dictated to by individuals who he felt were meddling in his affairs. He had arrived at a definite decision on this point: his mills should never be unionized…. If his men had grievances he would meet with them individually, or committees sent by them—committees of themselves. He would not treat with so-called professional labor men. He regarded them as an impertinence. Whatever differences should arise must be settled between his men and himself—with no outside interference. This was a position from which nothing would move him…. It will be seen he was separated by vast spaces from socialism.
He called together his superintendents and department foremen and took them into his confidence regarding his plans for improving and enlarging the plant. They came, if not with an air of hostility, at least with reserve, for they were nearer to the men than they were to Bonbright. They shared the prejudices of the men. Some of them went away from the meeting with all of their old prejudices and with a new belief that Bonbright added hypocrisy to his other vices; some withheld judgment, some were hopeful. Few gave him implicit belief.
When he was done describing the plans for the factory, he said: "There is one more thing I want to speak about. It is as vital as the other…. We have recently gone through a strike which has caused bitterness toward this institution on the part of the men. There has been especial bitterness toward myself. I have no defense of myself to make. It is too late to do that. If any of you men know the facts—you know them. On that point I have nothing to say…. This is what I want to impress on you men who are in authority. I want to be fair to every man in this plant. I am going to give them a fit place to work. Many parts of this plant are not now fit places. From every man I shall demand a day's work for a day's pay, but no more. You are in direct authority. I want each of you to treat his men with consideration, and to have an eye for their welfare. Perhaps I shall not be able to make the men feel toward me as I want them to feel, but if it can be brought about, I want them to know that their interests are my interests…. That is all, except that to-morrow notices will be posted in every department stating that my office door is open to any man who works for me—any man may come to me with complaint or with suggestion at any time. The notices will state that I want suggestions, and that any man who can bring me an idea that will improve his work or the work in his department or in the plant will be paid for it according to its value. In short, I want the co-operation of every man who draws wages from this concern…."
As they went back to their departments the men who left the meeting discussed Bonbright, as he knew they would and hoped they would.
"It's a four flush," declared one old fellow, hotly.
"I don't know…. Wait and see," said another. "He looked like he meant it."
Wait and see! That was the general attitude. They took nothing on trust, but put it squarely up to Bonbright to prove himself by his actions.
Mershon came into the office. "How about this construction work?" he asked. "Need an army of bricklayers. What about the unions?"
Was this question coming up so quickly? Bonbright frowned. His attitude toward the unions must become public and would inevitably raise another obstacle between himself and the men, but he was determined on the point.
"A man has a right to join the Masons or the Knights of Columbus, or the Bricklayers' Union," he said, presently. "That's for him to say, but when he comes to work here he comes as an individual."
"Open shop?"
"Yes."
"You won't recognize any union? I want to know how I stand with them at the beginning."
"I'll recognize no union," said Bonbright.
The card of a young man from Richmond's office was brought in.Bonbright sent word for him to be admitted.
"I came about that Hammil accident case," said the young man. "Hammil was hurt yesterday, pretty badly, and the report makes it look as if we'd be stuck if the thing goes to a jury."
"I know nothing about it," said Bonbright, with a little shock. It was possible, then, for a man to be maimed or killed in his own plant and news of it to reach him after days or perhaps never. He made a note to rectify THAT state of affairs. "You mean that this man Hammil was hurt through our fault?"
"I'm afraid a jury would say so." The young man explained the accident in detail. "He complained about the condition of his machine, and his foreman told him he could stick to his job there or quit."
"Forced him to work on an unsafe machine or quit?"
"Yes."
Bonbright stared at his blotter a moment. "What did you want to see me about?"
"We'd better settle. Right now I can probably run up and put a wad of bills under Hammil's nose and his wife's, and it'll look pretty big. Before some ambulance-chaser gets hold of him. He hasn't been able to talk until awhile ago, so nobody's seen him."
"Your idea is that we could settle for less than a jury would give him?"
The young man laughed. "A jury'd give him four or five thousand, maybe more. Doctor says the injury is permanent. I've settled more than one like it for three or four hundred."
"The man won't be able to work again?"
"Won't be good for much."
"And we're responsible!" Bonbright said it to himself, not to the young man. "Is this thing done often—settling these things for—what we can squeeze them down to?"
"Of course." The young man was calloused. His job was to settle claims and save money. His value increased as his settlements were small.
"Where's Hammil?"
"At the General Hospital."
Bonbright got up and went to the closet for his hat. "Come on," he said.
"You're not going up there, are you?"
"Yes."
"But—but I can handle it all right, Mr. Foote. There's no need to bother you."
"I've no doubt you can handle it—maybe too well," said Bonbright.
They were driven to the hospital and shown up to Jim Hammil's room. His wife was there, pale, tearless, by his bedside. Jim was bandaged, groaning, in agony. Bonbright's lips lost their color. He felt guilty. It was HE who had put this man where he was, had smashed him. It was HIS fault.
He walked to the bedside. "Jim," he said, "I am Mr. Foote."
"I—know—you," said the man between teeth set to hold back his groans.
"And I know you," said his wife. "I know you…. What do you want here?"
"I came to see Jim," said Bonbright. "I didn't know he was hurt until a few minutes ago…. It's useless to say I'm sorry."
"They made him work on that machine. He knowed it wasn't safe…. He had to work on it or lose his job…."
"I know that NOW, Mrs. Hammil…. What was he earning?"
"Two-seventy-five a day…. And now…. How'll we live, with him in the hospital and maybe never able to work again?"
"Here…" protested Hammil, weakly, glaring at Bonbright. "We'll come out all right. He'll pay…. You'll pay, that's what you will. A jury'll make you pay. Wait till I kin see my lawyer…."
"You won't need any lawyer, Jim," said Bonbright. It was hard for him to talk. He could not speak to these people as he wanted to, nor say the words that would make their way through their despair and rage to their hearts. "You won't need any lawyer," he repeated.
"If you think I'm—goin'—to sign—one of them—releases—you're damn—mistaken," moaned the man.
"Jim," said Bonbright, "you needn't sign anything…. What's done can't be mended…. It was bad. It was criminal…"
"Mr. Foote," protested the young lawyer.
"I'll attend to this," said Bonbright, shortly. "It's between Jim and me…. I'll make it as nearly right as it can be made…. First we'll have you out of this ward into a room…. As long as you are laid up your wife shall have your full pay every week, and then you and I will have a talk to see what can be done. Only don't worry…. Don't worry, Mrs. Hammil…."
Hammil uttered a sound that was intended for a laugh. "You can't catch me," he said, in a dreadful voice. "I'm—up to—them sharp tricks…. You're lyin'…. Git out of here, both of you…. You're—jest here—to cheat me."
"You're wrong, Jim."
"I know—you and—your kind," Jim said, trying to lift himself on his elbow. "I know—what you—done durin'—the strike…. I had a baby—and she—DIED…. You killed her!" His voice rose almost to a scream.
"Better go, sir," said a nurse. "He's hurting himself."
Bonbright gazed at her blankly. "How can I go?" he asked. "He won't believe me. He's got to believe me…."
"You lie!… you lie!…" Hammil cried. "I won't talk to you…. My lawyer'll—do my talkin'."
Bonbright paused a moment. Then he saw it would do no good to remain. The man's mind was poisoned against him; was unable to conceive of a man in Bonbright's place meaning him otherwise than treachery…. It went deeper than suspicion of an individual; it was suspicion of a class.
"I'll do what I promised, Jim…. That'll prove it to you."
"You—lie…. You lie…" the man called after him, and Bonbright heard the words repeated again and again as he walked down the long corridor.
Bonbright worked feverishly. These were the best days he had known since he left college, but they were not happy days. He could not forget Ruth—the best he could do was to prevent himself from remembering too much, and so he worked. He demanded of himself more than it is in a single man to give, but he accomplished an astonishingly large part of it. Day and night he drove himself without relaxation and without pause. If he stopped, the old feeling of emptiness, of the futility of his existence, and the bitterness of his fortune returned. His nature might have become warped, but for the labor.
The building of the new shops he left to Mershon, knowing himself incompetent. He knew what sort of shops he wanted; Mershon knew how to produce them, and Mershon was dependable. Bonbright had implicit confidence in the engineer's ability and integrity, and it was justified. The new mills were rising….
Bonbright's part in that was enough to keep one man occupied, for, however much he might leave to Mershon, there were countless details that he must decide; innumerable points to be referred to him and discussed. But his chief interest was not in producing a plant to manufacture engines, but in producing a crew of men to operate the plant; not merely hiring capable workingmen, but producing a condition where himself and those working-men would be in accord; where the men would be satisfied, happy in their work; a condition millennial in that the known as labor unrest should be eliminated. He had set himself to find a solution to the age-old problem of capital and labor….
He had not realized how many elements entered into the matter, and what a high degree of specialized knowledge must be brought to the task. In the beginning he had fancied himself as capable of working out the basis for ideal relations between him and his employees as any other. He soon discovered himself to be all but unequipped for the effort…. It was a saving quality of Bonbright's that he would admit his own futilities. Therefore he called to conference the country's greatest sociologist, Professor Witzer.
The professor, a short, wabbling individual, with watery eyes that could read print splendidly if it were held within six inches of them, and who, when he did read, moved book or paper back and forth in front of his spectacles in a droll, owlish, improbable way, instead of letting his eyes travel across the lines of print, was skeptical at first. He suspected Bonbright of being a youth scratching the itch of a sudden and transient enthusiasm. But he became interested. Bonbright compelled his interest, for he was earnest, intense, not enthusiastic, not effervescing with underdone theories.
"What you want to do, as I understand it," said the professor, "is merely to revolutionize the world and bring on the millennium."
"What I want to do," said Bonbright, "is to formulate a plan that will be fair to labor and fair to me. I want a condition where both of us will be satisfied—and where both will know we are satisfied. It can be done."
"Um!…" said the professor. "Are you, by chance, a socialist?"
"Far from it."
"What are your theories?"
"I haven't any theories. I want facts, working facts. There's no use palavering to the men. What they want and what I want is something concrete. I want to know what they want, and how much of it will be good for them. I want something that will work in dollars and cents, in days' work, in making life more comfortable for the women and children at home. If merely paying wages will do it, then I'll pay the wages…."
"It won't," said the professor. "But it 'll go quite some distance."
"It isn't a matter of sentiment with me," Bonbright said. "It's a matter of business, and peace of mind, and all-around efficiency. I don't mean efficiency in this plant, but efficiency in LIVING…. For the men and their families."
"It can't be done by giving them rest rooms with Turkish rugs nor porcelain bathtubs, nor by installing a moving-picture show for them to watch while they eat lunch," said the professor. "It can't be done with money alone. It would work in isolated cases. Give some men a sufficient wage and they would correct their ways of living; they would learn to live decently, and they would save for the rainy day and for old age. I don't venture an estimate of the proportion…. But there would be the fellows whose increased pay meant only that much more to spend. Mighty little would filter through to improve the conditions of their actual living…. In any scheme there will have to be some way of regulating the use of the money they earn—and that's paternalism."
"Can it be made to work? It's your honest opinion I'm after."
"I don't believe it, but, young man, it will be the most interesting experiment I ever engaged in. Have you any ideas?"
"My basic idea is to pay them enough so they can live in comfort. …"
"And then you've got to find some machinery to compel them to live in comfort."
"I'd like to see every employee of this concern the owner of his home.I'd like to feel that no man's wife is a drudge. An astonishingly largenumber of wives do washing, or work out by the day…. And boarders.The boarder is a problem."
"You HAVE been thinking," said the professor. "Do I understand that you are offering me the chance to work with you on this experiment?"
"Yes."
"I accept…. I never dreamed I'd have a chance to meddle with human lives the way you seem to want to meddle with them…."
So they went to work, and day after day, week after week, their plan grew and expanded and embraced unforeseen intricacies. Bonbright approached it from the practical side always. The professor came to view him with amazement—and with respect.
"I'm sticking my finger into the lives of twenty thousand human beings!" the professor said to himself many times a day, with the joy of the scientist. "I'm being first assistant to the world's greatest meddler. That young man is headed for a place as one of the world's leaders, or for a lamp-post and a rope…. I wonder which…."
The thing that Bonbright asked himself many, many times was a different sort of question. "Is this the sort of thing she meant? Would she approve of doing this?"
He was not embarked on the project for Ruth's sake. It was not Ruth who had driven him to it, but himself, and the events of his life. But her presence was there…. He was doing his best. He was doing the thing he thought would bring about the condition he desired, and he hoped she would approve if she knew…. But whether she approved or not, he would have persisted along his own way…. If he had never known her, never married her, he would have done the same thing. Some day she would know this, and understand it. It would be another irony for her to bear. The man she had married that she might influence him to ameliorate the conditions of his workingmen was doing far more than she had dreamed of accomplishing herself—and would have done it if she had never been born….
Neither she nor Bonbright realized, perhaps would never realize, that it is not the individual who brings about changes in the social fabric. It is not fanatics, not reformers, not inspired leaders. It is the labored working of the mass, and the working of the mass brings forth and casts up fanatics, reformers, leaders, when it has gestated them and prepared the way for their birth. The individual is futile; his aims and plans are futile save as they are the outcome of the trend of the mass….
Ruth was not so fortunate as Bonbright. Her work did not fill her time nor draw her interest. It was merely the thing she did to earn the necessities of life. She was living now in a boarding house on the lower side of the city, where a room might be had for a sum within her means. It was not a comfortable room. It was not a room that could be made comfortable by any arrangement of its occupant. But it was in a clean house, presided over by a woman of years and respectable garrulity.
Six days of the week Ruth worked, and the work became daily more exhausting, demanding more of her nervous organism as her physical organism had less to give. She was not taking care of herself. It is only those who cling to life, who are interested in life and in themselves, who take care of their bodies as they should be taken care of. She had been slight; now she was thin. No one now would have dreamed of calling her the Girl with the Grin. She looked older, lifeless, almost haggard at times. Her condition was not wholly the result of unhappiness. It was due to lack of fresh air and exercise, for she went seldom abroad. It was fear of meeting acquaintances that shut her in her room—fear of meeting Bonbright, fear of encountering Dulac. It was loneliness, too. She made no new acquaintances, and went her way in solitude. She had not so much as a nodding acquaintance with most of her fellow lodgers. Not one of them could boast of conversation with her beyond the briefest passing of the day…. At first they gossiped about her, speculated about her, wove crude stories about her. Some chose to think her exclusive, and endeavored to show her by their bearing that they thought themselves as good as she—and maybe better. They might have saved themselves their trouble, for she never noticed. Lack of proper nourishment did its part. Women seem prone to neglect their food. The housewife, if her husband does not come home to the midday meal, contents herself with a snack, hastily picked up, and eaten without interest. Ruth had no appetite. She went to the table three times a day because a certain quantity of food was a necessity. She did not eat at Mrs. Moody's table, but "went out to her meals…." She ate anywhere and everywhere.
Mrs. Moody alone had tried to approach Ruth. Ruth had been courteous, but distant. She wanted no prying into her affairs; no seekers after confidences; no discoverers of her identity. For gossip spreads, and one does not know what spot it may reach….
"It hain't healthy for her to set in her room all the time," Mrs. Moody said to the mercenary who helped with the cooking. "And it hain't natural for a girl like her never to have comp'ny. Since she's been here there hain't been a call at the door for her—nor a letter."
"I hain't seen her but once or twict," said the mercenary. "If I was to meet her face to face on the street, I hain't sure I'd know it was her."
"She didn't look good when she come, and she's lookin' worse every day.First we know we'll have her down on her back…. And then what?…S'pose she was to be took sudden? Who'd we notify?"
"The horspittle," said the mercenary, callously.
"She's sich a mite of a thing, with them big eyes lookin' sorry all the while. I feel sort of drawed to her. But she won't have no truck with me… nor nobody…. She hain't never left nothin' layin' around her room that a body could git any idee about her from. Secretive, I call it."
"Maybe," said the mercenary, "she's got a past."
"One thing's certain, if she don't look better 'fore she looks worse, she won't have a long future."
That seemed to be a true saying. Ruth felt something of it. It was harder for her to get up of mornings, more difficult to drag herself to work and hold up during the day. Sometimes she skipped the evening meal now and went straight home to bed. All she wanted was to rest, to lie down…. One day she fainted in the office….
Her burden was harder to support because it included not grief alone, but remorse, and if one excepts hatred, remorse is the most wearing of the emotions…. As she became weaker, less normal, it preyed on her.
Then, one morning, she fainted as she tried to get out of bed, and lay on the floor until consciousness returned. She dragged herself back into bed and lay there, gazing dully up at the ceiling, suffering no pain… only so tired. She did not speculate about it. Somehow it did not interest her very much. Even not going to work didn't bother her—she had reached that point.
Mrs. Moody had watched her going and coming for several days with growing uneasiness. This morning she knew Ruth had not gone out, and presently the woman slap-slapped up the stairs in her heelless slippers to see about it. She rapped on Ruth's door. There was no response. She rapped again….
"I know you're in there," she said, querulously. "Why don't you answer?"
Inside, Ruth merely moved her head from side to side on the pillow. She heard—but what did it matter?
Mrs. Moody opened the door and stepped inside. She was prepared for what she saw.
"There you be," she said, with a sort of triumphant air, as of one whose prophecy had been fulfilled to the letter, "flat on your back."
Ruth paid no attention.
"What ails you?"
No answer.
"Here now"—she spoke sharply—"you know who I be, don't you?"
"Yes," said Ruth.
"Why didn't you answer?"
"I am—so—tired," Ruth said, faintly.
"You can't be sick here. Don't you go doin' it. I hain't got no time to look after sick folks." She might as well have spoken to the pillow. Ruth didn't care. She had simply reached the end of her will, and had given up. It was over. She was absolutely without emotion.
Mrs. Moody approached the bed and felt of Ruth's hand. She had expected to find it hot. It was cold, bloodless. It gave the woman a start. She looked down at Ruth's face, from which the big eyes stared up at her without seeming to see her.
"You poor mite of a thing," said Mrs. Moody, softly. Then she seemed to jack herself up to a realization that softness would not do and that she could not allow such goings-on in her house. "You're sick, and if I'm a judge you're mighty sick," she said, sharply. "Who's goin' to look after you. Say?"
The tone stirred Ruth…. "Nobody…" she said, after a pause.
"I got to notify somebody," said Mrs. Moody. "Any relatives or friends?"
Ruth seemed to think it over as if the idea were hard to comprehend.
"Once I—had a—husband…" she said.
"But you hain't got him now, apparently. Have you got anybody?"
"… Husband…" said Ruth. "… husband…. But he—went away…. No,I—went away… because it was—too late then…. It was too late—THEN, wasn't it?" Her voice was pleading.
"You know more about it than me," said Mrs. Moody. "I want you should tell me somebody I can notify."
"I—loved him… and I didn't know it…. That was—queer—wasn't it?… He NEVER knew it…."
"She's clean out of her head," said Mrs. Moody, irritably, "and what'll I do? Tell me that. What'll I do, and her most likely without a cent and all that?… Why didn't you go and git sick somewheres else? You could of…."
She wrung her hands and called Providence to witness that all the arrows of misfortune were aimed at her, and always had been.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself—a growd woman like you—makin' me all this nuisance. I sha'n't put up with it. You'll go packin' to the horspittle, that's what you'll do. Mark my word."
Mrs. Moody's method of packing Ruth off to the hospital was unique. It consisted of running herself for the doctor. It consisted of listening with bated breath to his directions; it consisted of giving up almost wholly the duties—A conducting her boarding house, and in making gruels and heating water and sitting in Ruth's room wielding a fan over Ruth's ungrateful face. It consisted in spending of her scant supply of money for medicines, in constant attendance and patient, faithful nursing—accompanied by sharp scoldings and recriminations uttered in a monotone guaranteed not to disturb the sick girl. Perhaps she really fancied she was being hard and unsympathetic and calloused. She talked as if she were, but no single act was in tune with her words…. She grumbled—and served. She complained—and hovered over Ruth with clumsy, gentle hands. She was afraid somebody might think her tender. She was afraid she might think so herself…. The world is full of Mrs. Moodys.
Ruth lay day after day with no change, half conscious, wholly listless…. It seemed to Mrs. Moody to be nothing but a waiting for the end. But she waited for the end as though the sick girl were flesh of her flesh, protesting to heaven against the imposition, ceaselessly.
If Bonbright's handling of the Hammil casualty created a good impression among the men, his stand against the unions more than counterbalanced it. He was able to get no nearer to the men. Perhaps, as individuals became acquainted with him, there was less open hostility manifested, but there remained suspicion, resentment, which Bonbright was unable to convert into friendship and co-operation.
The professor of sociology peered frequently at Bonbright through his thick spectacles with keen interest. He found as much enjoyment in studying his employer as he did in working over his employer's plan. Frequently he discussed Bonbright with Mershon.
"He's a strange young man," he said, "an instructive psychological study. Indeed he is. One cannot catalogue him. He is made up of opposites. Look you, Mershon, at his eagerness to better the conditions of his men—that's why I'm abandoning classes of boys who ought to be interested in what I teach them, but aren't—and then place beside it his antagonism to unionism…."
Mershon was interested at that instant more in the practical aspects of the situation. "The unions are snapping at our heels. Bricklayers, masons, structural steel, the whole lot. I've been palavering with them—but I'm about to the end of my rope. We've needed men and we've got a big sprinkling of union men. Wages have attracted them. I'm afraid we've got too many, so many the unions feel cocky. They think they're strong enough to take a hand and try to force recognition on us…. He won't have it." Mershon shrugged his shoulders. "I've got to the end of my rope. Yesterday I told him the responsibility was one I didn't hanker for, and put it up to him. He's going to meet with the labor fellows to-day…. And we can look for fireworks."
"If I were labor," said the professor, "I think I should leave that young man alone—until I saw where he headed. They're going to get more out of him than organization could compel or even hope for. If they prod him too hard they may upset things. He's fine capacity for stubbornness."
The labor representatives were on their way to the office. When they arrived they asked first for Mershon, who received them and notified Bonbright.
"Show them in," he said. "We may as well have it over." There were four of the men whom Mershon led through the door into Bonbright's office, but Bonbright saw but one of them-Dulac!
The young man half rose from his chair, then sat down with his eyes fixed upon the man into whose hands, he believed, his wife had given herself. It was curious that he felt little resentment toward Dulac, and none of that murderous rage which some men might have felt….
"Mr. Dulac," he said, "I want to—talk with you. Will you ask these—other gentlemen if they will step outside for—a few moments…. I have a personal matter to discuss with—Mr. Dulac."
Dulac was not at his ease. He had come in something like a spirit of bravado to face Bonbright, and this turn to the event nonplused him. However, if he would save his face he must rise to the situation.
"Just a minute, boys," he said to his companions, and with Mershon they filed into the next room.
"Dulac," said Bonbright, in a voice that was low but steady, "is she well and—happy?"
"Eh?…" Dulac was startled indeed.
"I haven't kept you to—quarrel," said Bonbright. "I hoped she would—wait the year before she went—to you, but it was hers to choose. … Now that she has chosen—I want to know if it has—made her happy. I want her to be happy, Dulac."
Dulac came a step nearer the desk. Something in Bonbright's voice and manner compelled, if not his sympathy, at least something which resembled respect.
"Do you mean you don't know where Ruth is?" he asked.
"No."
"You thought she was with me?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Foote, she isn't with me…. I wish to God she was. I've seen her only once since—that evening. It was by accident, on the street. … I tried to see her. I found the place empty, and nobody knew where she'd gone. Even her mother didn't know. I thought you had sent her away."
"Dulac," said Bonbright, leaning forward as though drawn by spasmodic contraction of tense muscles, "is this true?"
For once Dulac did not become theatrical, did not pose, did not reply to this doubt, as became labor flouting capital. Perhaps it was because the matter lay as close to his stormy heart as it did to Bonbright's. "Yes," he said.
"Then where…"
"I don't—know."
"She's out there alone," said Bonbright, dully. "She's been out there alone—all these months. She's so little…. What made her go away?… Something has happened to her…."
"Haven't you had any word—anything?" Dulac was becoming frightened himself.
"Nothing—nothing."
Bonbright leaped to his feet and took two steps forward and two back. "I've got to know," he said. "She must be found…. Anything could have happened…."
"It's up to us to find her," said Dulac, unconsciously, intuitively coupling himself with Bonbright. They were comrades in this thing. The anxiety was equally theirs.
"Yes…. Yes."
"She wasn't the kind of a girl to—"
"No," said Bonbright, quickly, as if afraid to hear Dulac say the words, "she wouldn't do THAT…. Maybe she's just hiding away—or hurt—or sick. I've got to know."
"Call back the boys…. Let's get this conference over so we can get at it."
Bonbright nodded, and Dulac stepped to the door. The men re-entered.
"Now, gentlemen," said Bonbright.
"We just came to put the question to you squarely, Mr. Foote. We represent all the trades working on the new buildings. Are you going to recognize the unions?"
"No," said Bonbright.
"More than half the men on the job are union."
"They're welcome to stay," said Bonbright.
"Well, they won't stay," said the spokesman. "We've fiddled along with this thing, and the boys are mighty impatient. This is our last word, Mr. Foote. Recognize the unions or we'll call off our men."
Bonbright stood up. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," said he.
With angry faces they tramped out, all but Dulac, who stopped in the door. "I'm going to look for her," he said.
"If you find anything—hear anything—"
Dulac nodded. "I'll let you know," he said.
"I'll be—searching, too," said Bonbright. Mershon came in. "Here's a letter—" he began.
Bonbright shook his head. "Attend to it—whatever it is. I'm going out.I don't know when I shall be back…. You have full authority. …"
He all but rushed from the room, and Mershon stared after him in amazement. Bonbright did not know where he was going, what he was going to do. There was no plan, but his need was action. He must be doing something, searching…. But as he got into his machine he recognized the futility of aimlessness. There was a way of going about such things…. He must be calm. He must enlist aid.
Suddenly he thought of Hilda Lightener. He had not seen her for weeks.She had been close to Ruth; perhaps she knew something. He drove to theLightener residence and asked for her. Hilda was at home.
"She's LOST," said Bonbright, as Hilda came into the room.
"What? Who are you talking about?"
"'Ruth…. She's not with Dulac. He doesn't know where she is; she was never with him."
"Did you think she was?" Hilda said, accusingly. "You—you're so—Oh, the pair of you!"
"Do you know where she is?"
"I haven't seen nor heard of her since the day—your father died."
"Something must have happened…. She wouldn't have gone away like that—without telling anybody, even her mother…."
"She would," said Hilda. "She—she was hurt. She couldn't bear to stay. She didn't tell me that, but I know…. And it's your fault for—for being blind."
"I don't understand."
"She loved you," said Hilda, simply. "No…. She told me. She never—loved—me. It was him. She married me to—"
"I know what she married you for. I know all about it…. And she thought she loved him. She found out she didn't. But I knew it for a long time," Hilda said, womanlike, unable to resist the temptation to boast of her intuition. "It all came to her that day—and she was going to tell you…. She was going to do that—going to go to you and tell you and ask you to take her back…. She said she'd make you believe her…."
"No," said Bonbright, "you're—mistaken, Hilda. She was my wife…. I know how she felt. She couldn't bear to have me pass close to her. …"
"It IS true," Hilda said. "She was going to you…. And then I came and told her your father was dead…. That made it all impossible, don't you see?… Because you knew why she had married you, and you would believe she came back to you because—you owned the mills and employed all those men…. That's what you WOULD have believed, too. …"
"Yes," said Bonbright.
"And then—it was more than she could bear. To know she loved you and had loved you a long time—and that you loved her. You do, don't you?"
"I can't—help it."
"So that made it worse than anything that had gone before—and she went away. She didn't tell even me, but I ought to have known…."
"And you haven't even a trace?"
"Bonbright, if you find her—what?"
"I don't know…. I've just got to find her. I've got to know what's happened…."
"Are you going to tell her you love her—and take her back?"
"She wouldn't want me…. Oh, you think you are right, Hilda. But I know. I lived with her for weeks and I saw how she felt. You're wrong…. No, I'll just FIND her…."
"And leave her as bad off as she was before."
"I'll do anything for her—you know that."
"Except the one thing she can't do without…."
"You don't understand," he said, wearily.
"And you're dense and blind—and that's what makes half the cruelty in the world."
"Let's not—talk about that part of it, Hilda. Will you help me find her?"
"No," said Hilda. "She's where she wants to be. I'm not going to torture her by finding her for you—and then letting her slip back again—into hopelessness. If you'll promise to love her and believe she loves you—I'll try to find her."
Bonbright shook his head.
"Then let her be. No matter where she is, she's better off than she would be if you found her—and she tried to tell you and you wouldn't believe…. You let her be."
"She may be hurt, or sick…."
"If she were she'd let somebody know," said Hilda, but in her own mind was a doubt of this. She knew Ruth, she knew to what heights of fanaticism Ruth's determination could rise, and that the girl was quite capable, more especially in her state of overwrought nerves, of dying in silence.
"I won't help you," she said, firmly.
Bonbright got up slowly, wearily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you—would help…. I'll have to hunt alone, then…." And before she could make up her mind to speak, to tell him she didn't mean what she said, and that she would search with him and help him, he was gone.
The only thing he could think of to do was to go once more to their apartment and see if any trace of her could be picked up there. Somebody must have seen her go. Somebody must have seen the furniture going or heard where it was going…. Perhaps somebody might remember the name on the van.
He did not content himself with asking the janitor and his wife, who could tell him nothing. He went from tenant to tenant. Few of them remembered even that such a girl had lived there, for tenants in apartment houses change with the months. But one woman, a spinster of the sort who pass their days in their windows and fill their lives meagerly by watching what they can see of their neighbors' activities, gave a hint. She was sure she remembered that particular removal on account of the young woman who moved looking so pale and anxious. Yes, she was sure she did, because she told herself that something must have happened, and it excited her to know that something had happened so close to her. Evidently she had itched with curiosity for days.
"It was a green van—I'm sure it was a green van," she said, "because I was working a centerpiece with green leaves, and the van was almost the same shade…. Not quite the same shade, but almost. I held my work up to the window to see, and the van was a little darker…."
"Wasn't there a name on it? Didn't you notice the name?"
The spinster concentrated on that. "Yes, there was a name. Seems to me it began with an 'S,' or maybe it was a 'W.' Now, wasn't that name Walters? No, seems more as if it was Rogers, or maybe Smith. It was one of those, or something like it. Anyhow, I'm sure it began with a 'B.'…"
That was the nearest Bonbright came to gleaning a fact. A green van. And it might not have been a green van. The spinster's memory seemed uncertain. Probably she had worked more than one centerpiece, not all with green leaves. She was as likely to have worked yellow flowers or a pink design…. But Bonbright had no recourse but to look for a green van.
He drove to the office of a trucking and moving concern and asked if there were green vans. The proprietor said HIS vans were always yellow. Folks could see them farther and the paint wore better; but all men didn't follow his judgment. Yes, there WERE green vans, though not so good as his, and not so careful of the furniture. He told Bonbright who owned the green vans. It was a storage house.