"Yes," said his honor, "I know. I was one of them."
Everyone within hearing laughed; and Samuel turned crimson.
"I beg pardon, your honor," he said.
"That's all right," said the judge. And then he added gravely, "Very
well, Samuel, we'll give you another chance for your father's sake.
But don't let me see you here again."
"No, your honor," said Samuel. Then he
added quickly. "But what can I do?"
"Get out of Lockmanville," said the other.
"But how? When I've no money. If your honor could only help me to some
work."
"No," said the judge. "I'm sorry, but I've found jobs for three men
this week, and I don't know any more."
"But then--" began Samuel.
"I'll give you a dollar out of my own pocket," the other added.
"Your honor," cried Samuel startled, "I don't want to take money!"
"You can send it back to me when you get a job," said the judge,
holding out a bill. "Take it. Prisoner discharged. Next case."
Samuel took the money and was turning away, when a man who had been
sitting in a chair near the magistrate suddenly leaned forward.
"Judge," he said, "if I may interrupt--"
"Why, surely, professor," said the other pleasantly.
"I may possibly be able to find something for the boy to do."
"Ah, that will be fine!"
"He seems to be a capable young fellow and might be worth helping."
"The very thing, professor. Samuel, this is Professor Stewart, of
Lockman College."
Samuel was very glad to meet the professor. He was a trim little
gentleman, with a carefully cut black beard and gold-rimmed
eyeglasses.
"Here is my card," he said; "and if you'll come to see me to-morrow
morning at my house, we'll see what we can do."
"Thank you very much," said the boy, and put the card in his pocket.
Then, realizing suddenly that the policeman had let go of his arm, and
that he was free, he turned and made his way through the gate.
"A diverting episode," said the professor.
"Yes," said the judge, with a smile. "We have them now and then, you
see."
Samuel went out with a glow in his heart. At last he had got a start.
He had got underneath the world's tough hide and found kindness and
humanity after all. It had been a harrowing experience, but it would
not happen again.
He had now one definite purpose in mind. He walked straight out of
town and down the river road until he came to a sufficiently solitary
place. Then he took off his clothes and sat down on the bank and
performed a most elaborate toilet. For half an hour at least he
scrubbed his head with sand and water, and combed his hair out with
his fingers. And then he went over his clothing inch by inch. At least
he would be through with one hideous reminder of his imprisonment.
After which he dressed again and went back to town and found the
saloon where he had eaten.
"Hello!" said his friend Finnegan, the bar-keeper. "Back again!"
"I came to explain about this morning," said Samuel. "I couldn't come
because they put me in jail."
"Gee!" said the other; but then he added, with a laugh, "Well, it was
a wet night."
Samuel did not reply. "I'll come to-morrow morning," he said.
"You'd better get out of town, sonny," advised the other.
"I'm all right. The judge gave me a dollar."
"Humph! A dollar won't last forever."
"No. But I've got the promise of a job. There was a gentleman there--
Professor Stewart, from the college."
"Hully gee!" said Finnegan. "I know that guy. A little runt with a
black beard?"
"I guess so," said Samuel dubiously.
"I seen his pitcher in the paper," said the other. "He's one of them
reformers--always messin' into things."
"Maybe that's why he was at the court," observed Samuel.
"Sure thing! He's a professor of sociology an' such things, an' he
thinks he knows all about politics. But we handed him a few last
election--just you bet!"
"Who's 'we'?" asked Samuel.
"The organization," said Finnegan; "the Democrats, o' course. Them
reformers is always Republicans--the 'better element,' an' all that.
That means the rich guys--that have their own little grafts to work.
This perfessor was a great friend of old Henry Lockman--an' the old
man used to run this town with his little finger. But they had a big
strike here three years ago, and too many men got hit over the head.
So it'll be a long day before there's any more 'reform' in
Lockmanville."
"I see," said Samuel.
"They make a great howl about the saloons an' all the rest," added the
barkeeper. "But when the Republicans ran things, my boss paid his
little rake-off just the same, you can bet. But you needn't tell that
to the perfessor."
"I won't," said the boy.
"What you goin' to do now?" asked the other.
"I don't know. I guess I'll have to get something to eat first."
"You'll find the cheapest way is to buy a glass of beer and then feed
over there."
"No," said Samuel, startled. "I--I think I'd rather not do that."
"Well, so long," said Finriegan, with a laugh.
"You'll see me to-morrow morning," said Samuel, as he went out.
CHAPTER VI
Samuel went to a bake shop and bought a loaf of bread and sat on the
bench of the public square and devoured it bit by bit. It was the
cheapest thing he could think of, and quantity was what counted just
then.
Next he had to find a room to spend the night. He knew nothing about
hotels and lodging-houses--he walked through the workingmen's quarter
of the town, scanning the cottages hesitatingly. At last in the
doorway of one he noticed a woman standing, an elderly woman, very
thin and weary looking, but clean, and with a kindly face. So he
stopped.
"Please," said he, "could you tell me any place where I could hire a
room?"
The woman looked at him. "For how long?" she asked.
"I'm not quite sure," he said. "I want it for one night, and then if I
get a job, I may want it longer."
"A job in Lockmanville?" said the woman.
"Well, I've the promise of one," he replied.
"There can't be very many," said she. "I've two rooms I've always
rented," she added, "but when the glass works shut down the men went
away. One of them owed me three dollars, too."
"I--I'm not able to pay very much," said Samuel.
"Come in," responded the woman; and he sat down and told her his
story. And she told him hers.
Mrs. Stedman was her name, and her husband had been a glass blower. He
earned good wages--five dollars a day in the busy season. But he
worked in front of a huge tank of white-hot glass and that was hard on
a man. And once on a hot day he had gone suddenly dizzy, and fallen
upon a mass of hot slag, and been frightfully burned in the face. They
had carried him to the hospital and taken out one eye. And then,
because of his family and the end of the season being near, he had
gone to work too soon, and his wound had gone bad, and in the end he
had died of blood-poisoning.
"That was two years ago," said Mrs. Stedman. "And I got no damages.
We've barely got along--this year's been worse than ever. It's the
panic, they say. It seemed as if everything was shutting down."
"It must be very hard on people here," said Samuel.
"I've got three children--all girls," said Mrs. Stedman, "and only one
old enough to work. That's Sophie--she's in the cotton mill, and that
only started again last month. And they say it may run on half time
all the year. I do sewing and whatever I can to help, but there's
never enough."
Samuel forgot his own troubles in talking with this woman. His family
had been poor on the farm, but they had never known such poverty as
this. And here were whole streets full of people living the same sort
of life; hanging over the abyss of destruction, and with no prospect
save to struggle forever. Mrs. Stedman talked casually about her
friends and neighbors, and new glimpses came to make the boy catch his
breath. Next door was Mrs. Prosser, whose husband was dying of cancer;
he had been two years dying, and they had five small children. And on
the other side were the Rapinskys, a Polish family; they had been
strong in the possession of three grown sons, and had even bought a
phonograph. And now not one of them had done a stroke of work for
three months.
To have been robbed and put in jail seemed a mere incident in
comparison with such bitter and I lifelong suffering; and Samuel was
ashamed of having made so much fuss. He had stated, with some
trepidation, that he was just out of jail; but Mrs. Stedman had not
seemed to mind that. Her husband had been in jail once, during the big
glass strike, and for nothing more than begging another man not to
take his job.
It was arranged that Samuel was to pay her thirty-five cents for his
supper and bed and breakfast, and if he wished to stay longer she
would board him for four dollars a week, or he might have the room
alone for a dollar.
The two young children came in from school; they were frail and
undersized little girls, with clothing that was neatly but pitifully
patched. And shortly after them came Sophie.
Samuel gave a start of dismay when he saw her. He had been told that
she worked in the cotton mill and was the mainstay of the family; and
he had pictured a sturdy young woman, such as he had seen at home.
Instead, here was a frail slip of a child scarcely larger than the
others. Sophie was thirteen, as he learned afterwards; but she did not
look to be ten by his standards. She was grave and deliberate in her
movements, and she gazed at the stranger with a pair of very big brown
eyes.
"This is Samuel Prescott," said her mother. "He is going to spend the
night, and maybe board with us."
"How do you do?" said Sophie, and took off the shawl from her head and
sat down in a corner. The boy thought that this was shyness upon her
part, but later on he realized that it was lassitude. The child rested
her head upon her hand every chance that she got, and she never did
anything that she did not have to.
The next morning, bright and early, Samuel was on hand at the saloon,
greatly to the amusement of his friend Finnegan. He got down on his
hands and knees and gave the place such a scrubbing as it had never
had before since it was built. And in return Finnegan invited him to
some breakfast, which Samuel finally accepted, because it would enable
him to take less from the Stedmans.
Professor Stewart had not specified any hour in his invitation. He
lived in the aristocratic district across the bridge and Samuel
presented himself at his door a little before eight.
"Professor Stewart told me to come and see him," he said to the maid.
"Professor Stewart is out of town," said she.
"Out of town!" he echoed.
"He's gone to New York," said she. "He was called away unexpectedly
last night."
"When will he be back?"
"He said he'd try to be back the day after tomorrow; but he wasn't
sure."
Samuel stared at her in consternation.
"What did you want?" she asked.
"He promised me a job."
"Oh!" said she. "Well, can't you come back later on?" And then, seeing
that Samuel had nothing better to do than to stare at her dumbly, she
closed the door and went about her business.
Samuel walked back in a daze. It gave him a new sense of the world's
lack of interest in him. Probably the great man had forgotten him
altogether.
There was nothing to do but to wait; and meantime he had only sixty
cents. He could not stay with Mrs. Stedman, that was certain. But when
he came to tell her, she recurred to a suggestion he had made. There
were a few square yards of ground behind her house, given up mostly to
tomato cans. If he would plant some garden seed for her she would
board him meanwhile. And so Samuel went to work vigorously with a
borrowed spade.
Two days passed, and another day, and still the professor had not
returned. It was Saturday evening and Samuel was seated upon the steps
of the house, resting after a hard day's work. Sophie was seated near
him, leaning back against the house with her eyes closed. The evening
was warm and beautiful, and gradually the peace of it stole over her.
And so at last she revealed herself to Samuel.
"Do you like music?" she asked.
"Very much indeed," said he.
"Not everybody does," she remarked--"I mean real music, such as
Friedrich plays."
"I don't know," said Samuel. "Who is Friedrich?"
"He's a friend of mine," Sophie answered. "He's a German boy. His
father's the designer at the carpet works. And he plays the violin."
"I should like to hear him," said he.
"I'll take you," she volunteered. "I generally go to see them on
Sunday afternoons. It's the only time I have."
So the next day Samuel met the Bremers. Their cottage was a little way
out in the country, and they had a few trees about it and a flower
bed. But the house was not large, and it was well filled with a family
of nine children. Johann, the father, was big and florid, with
bristling hair. He was marked in the town because he called himself a
"Socialist," but Samuel did not know that. His wife was a little mite
of a woman, completely swamped by child-bearing. Most interesting to
Samuel was Friedrich, who played the violin; a pale ascetic-looking
boy of fifteen, with wavy hair and beautiful eyes.
Music was a serious rite with the Bremers. The father played the
piano, and the next oldest son to Friedrich was struggling with a
'cello; and when they played, the whole family sat in the parlor, even
the tiny tots, round-eyed and silent.
Samuel knew some "patriotic songs," and a great number of hymns, and a
few tunes that one heard at country dances. But such music as this was
a new revelation of the possibilities of life. He listened in a
transport of wonder and awe. Such wailing grief, such tumultuous
longing, such ravishing and soul-tormenting beauty! Friedrich had only
such technique as his father had been able to give him, together with
what he had invented for himself; his bowings were not always correct,
and he was weak on the high notes; but Samuel knew nothing of this--he
was thinking of the music. And he needed no one to tell him about it--
he needed no criticisms and no commentaries. Across the centuries the
souls of Schubert and Beethoven spoke to him, telling their visions of
the wonderful world of the spirit, toward which humanity is painfully
groping.
It was impossible for him to keep from voicing his excitement, and
this greatly delighted the Bremers, who craved for comprehension in a
lonely place. His sympathy gave wings to their fervor, and they played
the whole afternoon through, and then Johann invited them to stay to
supper, so that they might play some more in the evening.
"You should haf been a musician," he said to Samuel. "You vas made for
it."
They had a supper such as the boy had missed for some time; a great
platter of cold boiled meat, and a bowl of hot gravy, and another bowl
of mashed potatoes, with no end of bread and butter. Also there was
some kind of a German pudding, and to the stranger's dismay, a pitcher
of beer in front of Johann. After offering some to his guests, he
drank it all, and also he ate a vast supper. Afterwards he dozed,
while Friedrich played yet more wonderful music, and this gave Samuel
a new insight into the life of the family, and into the wild and
terrible longing that poured itself out in Friedrich's tones. The
father was good-natured and sentimental, but sunk in grossness; and
the mother was worn out with the care of her brood, and beneath all
this burden the soul of the boy was crying frantically for life.
The exigencies of trade demanded endless variety of designs in carpets
and rugs, and so all day Johann Bremer stood in front of a great sheet
of cardboard, marked off in tiny numbered squares, on which he painted
with many colors. For this he received thirty dollars a week, and his
son received twelve dollars as his assistant--painting in the same
colors upon all the squares of certain numbers, and so completing a
symmetrical design. It was a very good job, and Johann prodded his son
to devote his energies to the evolving of new designs. But the boy
hated it all--thinking only of his music. And his music meant to him,
not sentimental dreaming, but a passionate clutch into the infinite, a
battle for deliverance from the bondage of the world. So Johann
himself had been in his youth, when he had become a revolutionist, and
before beer and gravy and domesticity had tamed him.
No one said a word about these things. It was all in the playing. And
now and then Samuel stole a glance about the room and discovered yet
another soul's tragedy. Sophie, too, was drinking in the music, and
life had crept into her face, and her breath came quick and fast, and
now and then she furtively brushed away a tear.
Afterwards, as they walked home, she said to Samuel, "I don't know if
it's good for me to listen to music like that."
"Why not?" he asked--"if it makes you happy."
"But it makes me unhappy afterwards. It makes me want things. And I
get restless--and when I go back to the factory it's so much harder."
"What do you do in the factory?" asked Samuel.
"I'm what they call a bobbin-girl--I tie the threads on the bobbins
when they are empty."
"Is it very hard work?"
"No, you mightn't think so. But you have to stand up all day; and it's
doing the same thing all the time--the same thing the whole day long.
You get dull--you never think about anything. And then the air is full of
dust and the machinery roars. You get used to it, but I'm sure its bad
for you."
They walked for a while in silence. "Do you like to imagine things?"
asked Sophie suddenly.
"Yes," said he.
"I used to," said she--"when I was younger." It was so strange to
Samuel to notice that this slip of a child always spoke of herself as
old.
"Why don't you do it now?" he asked.
"I'm too tired, I think. But I've a lot of pictures up in my room--
that I cut out of magazines that people gave me. Pictures of beautiful
things--birds and flowers, and old castles, and fine ladies and
gentlemen. And I used to make up stories about them, and imagine that
I was there, and that all sorts of nice things were happening to me.
Would you like to see my pictures?"
"Very much," said Samuel.
"I think of things like that when I listen to Friedrich. I've a
picture of Sir Galahad--he's very beautiful, and he stands at his
horse's head with a sword in his hand. I used to dream that somebody
like that might come and carry me off to a place where there aren't
any mills. But I guess it's no use any more."
"Why not?" asked the other.
"It's too late. There is something the matter with me. I never say
anything, because it would make mother unhappy; but I'm always tired
now, and every day I have a headache. And I'm so very sleepy, and yet
when I lie down I can't sleep--I keep hearing the mill." "Oh!" cried
Samuel involuntarily.
"I don't mind it so much," said the child. "There's no help, so what's
the use. It's only when I hear Friedrich play--then I get all stirred
up."
They walked on for a while again.
"He's very unhappy," she said finally.
"I suppose so," replied Samuel. "Tell me," he asked suddenly. "Isn't
there some other work that you could do?"
"What? I'm not strong enough for hard work. And where could I make
three dollars a week?"
"Is that what they pay you?"
"Yes--that is--when we are on full time."
"Does it make all the girls sick?" he inquired. "There's that girl who
came in this afternoon--she seems well and strong."
"Bessie, you mean? But it's just play for her, you see. She lives with
her parents and stops whenever she feels like it. She just wants to
buy dresses and go to the theater."
"But that girl we passed on the street to-day!"
"Helen Davis. Ah, yes--but she's different again. She's bad."
"Bad?" echoed Samuel perplexed.
There was a brief pause. It was not easy for him to adjust himself to
a world in which the good were of necessity frail and ill, and the bad
were rosy-cheeked and merry. "How do you mean?" he asked at last.
And Sophie answered quite simply, "She lives with a fellow."
The blood leaped into Samuel's face. Such a blunder for him to have
made.
But then the flush passed, giving place to a feeling of horrified
wonder. For Sophie was not in the least embarrassed--she spoke in the
most matter-of-fact tone. And this from a child of thirteen, who did
not look to be ten.
"I see," said he in a faint voice.
"A good many of the girls do it," she added. "You see, they move about
so much--the mills close, and so a girl has no hope of marrying. But
mothers says it's wrong, just the same."
And Samuel walked home the rest of the way in silence, and thinking no
more about the joys of music.
CHAPTER VII
On Monday morning Samuel found that Professor Stewart had returned,
and he sat in the great man's study and waited until he had finished
his breakfast.
It was a big room, completely walled with crowded bookshelves; in the
center was a big work-table covered with books and papers. Samuel had
never dreamed that there were so many books in the world, and he gazed
about him with awe, feeling that he had come to the sources of
knowledge.
That was Samuel's way. Both by nature and training, he had a profound
respect for all authority. He believed in the majesty of the law--that
was why it had shocked him so to be arrested. He thought of the church
as a divine institution, whose ministers were appointed as shepherds
of the people. And up here on the heights was this great College, a
temple of learning; and this professor was one who had been selected
by those in the seats of authority, and set apart as one of its
priests. So Samuel was profoundly grateful for the attention which was
given to him, and was prepared to pick up whatever crumbs of counsel
might be dropped.
"Ah, yes," the professor said, wiping his glasses with a silk
handkerchief. "Samuel--let me see--Samuel--"
"Prescott, sir."
"Yes--Samuel Prescott. And how have you been?"
"I've been very well, sir."
"I meant to leave a message for you, but I overlooked it. I had so
many things to attend to in the rush of departure. I--er--I hope you
didn't wait for me."
"I had nothing else to do, sir," said Samuel.
"The truth is," continued the other, "I'm afraid I shan't be able to
do for you what I thought I could."
Samuel's heart went down into his boots.
"You see," said the professor a trifle embarrassed, "my sister wanted
a man to look after her place, but I found she had already engaged
some one."
There was a pause. Samuel simply stared.
"Of course, as the man is giving satisfaction--you see--it wouldn't do
for her to send him away."
And Samuel continued to stare, dumb with terror and dismay.
"I'm very sorry," said the other--"no need to tell you that. But I
don't know of any other place."
"But what am I to do?" burst out Samuel.
"It's really too bad," remarked the other.
And again there was a silence.
"Professor Stewart," said Samuel in a low voice, "what is a man to do
who is out of work and starving?"
"God knows," said the professor.
And yet again there was silence. Samuel could have said that himself--
he had the utmost faith in God.
And after a while the professor himself seemed to realize that the
reply was inadequate. "You see," he went on, "there is a peculiar
condition here in Lockmanville. There was an attempt to corner the
glass industry, and that caused the building of too many factories,
and so there is overproduction. And then, besides that, they've just
invented a machine that blows as many bottles as a dozen men."
"But then what are the men to do?" asked Samuel.
"The condition readjusts itself," said the other. "The men have to go
into some other trade."
"But then--the cotton mills are on half time, too!"
"Yes, there are too many cotton mills."
"But then--in the end there will be too many everything."
"That is the tendency," said the professor.
"There are foreign markets, of course. But the difficulty really goes
deeper than that."
Professor Stewart paused and looked at Samuel wondering, perhaps, if
he were not throwing away his instruction. But the boy looked very
much interested, even excited.
"Most of our economists are disposed to blink the truth," said he.
"But the fact is, there are too many men."
Samuel started. It was precisely that terrible suspicion which had
been shaping itself in his own mind.
"There is a law," went on the other, "which was clearly set forth by
Malthus, that population tends continually to outrun the food supply.
And then the surplus people have to be removed."
"I see," said Samuel, awestricken. "But isn't it rather hard?"
"It seems so--to the individual. To the race it is really of the very
greatest benefit. It is the process of life."
"Please tell me," Samuel's look seemed to say.
"If you will consider Nature," Professor Stewart continued, "you will
observe that she always produces many times more individuals than can
possibly reach maturity. The salmon lays millions of eggs, and
thousands of young trees spring up in every thicket. And these
individuals struggle for a chance to live, and those survive which are
strongest and best fitted to meet the conditions. And precisely the
same thing is true among men--there is no other way by which the race
could be improved, or even kept at its present standard. Those who
perish are sacrificed for the benefit of the race."
Now, strange as it may seem, Samuel had never before heard the phrase,
"the survival of the fittest." And so now he was living over the
experience of the thinking world of fifty or sixty years ago. What a
marvelous generalization it was! What a range of life it covered! And
how obvious it seemed--one could think of a hundred things, perfectly
well known, which fitted into it. And yet he had never thought of it
himself! The struggle for existence! The survival of the fittest!
A few days ago Samuel had discovered music. And now he was discovering
science. What an extraordinary thing was the intellect of man, which
could take all the infinitely varied facts of life and interpret them
in the terms of one vast law.
Samuel was all aglow with excitement at the revelation. "I see," he
said, again and again--"I see!"
"It is the law of life," said the professor. "No one can escape from
it."
"And then," said Samuel, "when we try to change things--when we give
out charity, for instance--we are working against Nature, and we
really make things worse."
"That is it," replied the other.
And Samuel gave a great sigh. How very simple was the problem, when
one had seen it in the light of science. Here he had been worrying and
tormenting his brain about the matter; and all the time he was in the
hands of Nature--and all he had to do was to lie back and let Nature
solve it. "Nature never makes mistakes," said Professor Stewart.
Of course, in this new light Samuel's own case became plain. "Those
who are out of work are those who have failed in the struggle," he
said.
"Precisely," said the professor.
"And that is because they are unfit."
"Precisely," said the professor again. "As Herbert Spencer has phrased
it, 'Inability to catch prey must be regarded as a falling short of
conduct from its ideal.' And, of course, in an industrial community,
the 'prey' is a job."
"Who is Herbert Spencer?" asked Samuel.
"He is recognized as the authority in such matters," said the other.
"And then," pondered Samuel, "those who have jobs must be the fit. And
the very rich people--the ones who make the millions and millions--
they are the fittest of all."
"Er--yes," said the professor.
"And, of course, that makes my problem clear--I'm out of a job, and so
I must die."
The professor gazed at Samuel sharply. But it was impossible to
mistake the boy's open-eyed sincerity. He had no thought about
himself--he was discovering the laws of life.
"I'm so glad you explained it to me," he went on. "But all these
thousands of men who are starving to death--they ought to be told it,
too."
"What good would it do?" asked the other.
"Why, they ought to understand. They suffer, and it seems to them
purposeless and stupid. But if you were to explain to them that they
are being sacrificed for the benefit of the race--don't you see what a
difference it would make?"
"I don't believe they would take the suggestion kindly," said the
professor with a faint attempt to smile.
"But why not?" asked Samuel.
"Wouldn't it sound rather hypocritical, so to speak--coming from a man
who had succeeded?"
"Not at all! You have a right to your success, haven't you?"
"I hope so."
"You have a job"--began Samuel and then hesitated. "I don't know how a
professor comes to get his job," he said. "But I suppose that the men
who make the great fortunes--the ones who are wisest and best of all--
they give the money for the colleges, don't they?"
"Yes," said Professor Stewart.
"And then," said Samuel, "I suppose it is they who have chosen you?"
Again the professor darted a suspicious glance at his questioner. "Er-
-one might put it that way," he said.
"Well, then, that is your right to teach; and you could explain it.
Then you could say to these men: 'There are too many of you; you
aren't needed; and you must be removed.'"
But the professor only shook his head. "It wouldn't do," he said. And
Samuel, pondering and seeking as ever, came to a sudden comprehension.
"I see," he exclaimed. "What is needed is action!"
"Action?"
"Yes--it's for us who are beaten to teach it; and to teach it in our
lives. It's a sort of revival that is needed, you see."
"But I don't see the need," laughed the other, interested in spite of
himself.
"That's because you aren't one of us!" cried Samuel vehemently.
"Nobody else can understand--nobody! It's easy to be one of the
successes of life. You have a comfortable home and plenty to eat and
all. But when you've failed--when you're down and out--then you have
to bear hunger and cold and sickness. And there is grief and fear and
despair--you can have no idea of it! Why, I've met a little girl in
this town. She works in the cotton mill, and it's just killed her by
inches, body and soul. And even so, she can only get half a day's
work; and the mother is trying to support the little children by
sewing--and they're all just dying of slow starvation. This very
morning they asked me to stay to breakfast, and I refused, because I
knew they had only some bread and a few potatoes, and it wasn't enough
for one person. You see, it's so slow--it's such a terribly long
process--this starving people off by inches. And keeping them always
tormented by hope. Don't you see, Professor Stewart? And just because
you don't come out honestly and teach them the truth. Because you
won't say to them: 'The world is too full; and you've got to get out
of the way, so as to give us a chance.' Why, look, sir--you defeat
your own purposes! These people stay, and they keep on having more
children, and everything gets worse instead of better; and they have
diseases and vices--they ruin the whole world. What's the use of
having a world if it's got to be like this town--crowded with hovels
full of dirty people, and sick people, and starving and miserable
people? I can't see how you who live up here on the heights can enjoy
yourselves while such things continue."
"Um--no," said Professor Stewart; and he gazed at Samuel with knitted
brows--unable, for the life of him, to feel certain whether he ought
to feel amused, or to feel touched, or to feel outraged.
As for Samuel, he realized that he was through with the professor. The
professor had taught him all that he had to teach. He did not really
understand this matter at all--that was because he belonged to the
other world, the world of successful and fit people. They had their
own problems to solve, no doubt!
This non-comprehension was made quite clear by the professor's next
remark. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you," he said. "If a little
money will help you--"
"No," said the other quickly. "You mustn't offer me money. How can
that be right? That would be charity."
"Ahem!" said the professor. "Yes. But then--you mentioned that you
hadn't had any breakfast. Hadn't you better go into the kitchen. and
let them give you something?"
"But what is the use of putting things off?" cried Samuel wildly. "If
I'm going to preach this new idea, I've got to begin."
"But you can't preach very long on an empty stomach," objected the
other.
To which Samuel answered, "The preaching has to be by deeds."
And so he took his departure; and Professor Stewart turned back to his
work-table, upon which lay the bulky manuscript of his monumental
work, which was entitled: "Methods of Relief; A Theory and a
Programme." Some pages lay before him; the top one was headed:
"Chapter LXIII--Unemployment and Social Responsibility." And Professor
Stewart sat before this title, and stared, and stared.
CHAPTER VIII
Samuel meantime was walking down the broad macadam avenue debating his
problem. The first glow of excitement was over, and he was finding
difficulties. The theory still held; but in the carrying out of it
there were complications.
For one thing, it would be so hard to spread this doctrine. For if one
tried to teach it by words, he seemed a hypocrite, as the professor
had said; and on the other hand, if one simply practiced it, who would
ever know? Suppose, for instance, that he starved to death during the
next few days? That would be only one person removed, and apparently
there were millions of the superfluous.
The truth was that Samuel, in discussing the theory, had applied it
only to himself. But now he pictured himself going home to tell Mrs.
Stedman that she must give up her futile effort, and take herself and
her three children out of the way of the progress of the race. And he
realized that he could never do it--he was not equal to the task.
Doubtless, it was because he was one of the unfit. It would need some
one who did not know them, some one who could approach the matter from
the purely scientific standpoint.
Then there was another difficulty graver yet. Did not this doctrine
really point to suicide? Would it not be the simplest solution of his
problem if he were to climb down to the river, and tie a stone about
his neck, and jump in? Samuel wished that he had thought to ask the
professor about this. For the idea frightened him; he had a distinct
impression of having been taught that it was a dreadful sin to take
one's own life.
The trouble seemed to lie in the dull and unromantic nature of the
life about him. If only there had been some way to die nobly and
heroically for the good of others. If only there was a war, for
instance, and a call for men to perish on the ramparts! Or a terrible
pestilence, so that one could be a nurse! But there was nothing at all
but this low starving to death--and while other people lived in
plenty. Samuel thought of the chance of finding some work which
involved grave peril to life or limb; but apparently even the danger
posts were filled. The world did not need him, either in life or
death!
So there was nothing for it but the starving. Having eaten nothing
that day, Samuel was ready to begin at once; he tightened his belt and
set his teeth for the grapple with the gaunt wolf of hunger.
And so he strode on down the road, pining for a chance to sacrifice
himself--and at the very hour that the greatest peril of his life was
bearing down upon him.
He had passed "Fairview," the great mansion with the stately gates and
the white pillars. He had passed beyond its vast grounds, and had got
out into the open country. He was walking blindly--it made no great
difference where he went. And then suddenly behind him there was a
clatter of hoofs; and he turned, and up the road he saw a cloud of
dust, and in the midst of it a horse galloping furiously. Samuel
stared; there was some kind of a vehicle behind it, and there was a
person in the vehicle. A single glance was enough for him to realize--
it was a runaway!
To Samuel the thing came as a miracle--it was an answer to his prayer.
And it found him ready. The chance was offered him, and he would not
fail--not he! He did not falter for a second. He knew just what he had
to do, and he was ready--resolute, and alert, and tense.
He moved into the center of the road. The horse came on, galloping at
top speed; it was a blooded horse, swift and frantic with fear, and
terrible to see. Samuel spread out his arms; and then in a flash the
creature was upon him.
It swerved to pass him; and the boy wheeled, leaped swiftly, and flung
himself at the bridle.
He caught it; his arms were wrenched, but he hung on, and jerked
himself up. The horse flung him to one side; but with a swift clutch,
Samuel caught him by the nostrils with one hand, and gripped fast.
Then he drew himself up close and hung grimly, his eyes shut, with a
grasp like death.
And he was still hanging there when the run-away stopped, and the
occupant leaped from the vehicle and rushed to help him. "My God!" he
cried, "but that was nerve!"
He was a young fellow, white as a sheet and trembling in every muscle.
"How did you do it?" he panted.
"I just held on," said Samuel.
"God, but I'm thankful to you!" exclaimed the other. "You've saved my
life!"
Samuel still clung to the horse, which was quivering with nervousness.
"He'd never have got away from me, but one rein broke. See here!"--And
he held up the end.
"What started him?" asked Samuel.
"Nothing," said the other--"a piece of paper, likely. He's a fool--
always was." And he shook his fist in the horse's face, exclaiming,
"By God, I'll tame you before I finish with you!"
"Look out!" said Samuel. "You'll start him again! "And again he
clutched the horse, which started to plunge.
"I've got him now," said the other. "He'll quiet down."
"Hold fast," Samuel continued; and then he put his hand to his
forehead, and swayed slightly. "I--I'll have to sit down a moment, I'm
afraid. I feel sort of dizzy."
"Are you hurt?" cried the stranger anxiously.
"No," he said--"no, but I haven't had anything to eat to-day, and I'm
a little weak."
"Nothing to eat!" cried the other. "What's the matter?"
"Why, I've been out of a job."
"Out of a job? Good heavens, man, have you been starving?"
"Well," said Samuel with a wan smile, "I had begun to."
He sat down by the roadside, and the other stared at him. "Do you live
in Lockmanville?" he asked.
"No, I just came here. I left my home in the country to go to New
York, and I was robbed and lost all my money. And I haven't been able
to find anything to do, and I'd just about given up and got ready to
die."
"My God!" cried the other in dismay.
"Oh, it's all right," said Samuel. "I didn't mind."
The stranger gazed at him in perplexity. And Samuel returned the gaze,
being curious to see who it was he had rescued. It was a youth not
more than a year or two older than himself. The color had now come
back into his face, and Samuel thought that he was the most beautiful
human being he had ever seen. He had a frank, open face, and laughing
eyes, and golden hair like a girl's. He wore outing costume, a silk
shirt and light flannels--things which Samuel had learned to associate
with the possession of wealth and ease. Also, his horse was a
thoroughbred; and with a rubber-tired runabout and a silver-mounted
harness, the expensiveness of the rig was evident. Samuel was glad of
this, because it meant that he had rescued some one of consequence--
some one of the successful and fit people.
"Just as soon as you're able, come hold the horse," said the stranger,
"and then I'll fix this rein, and take you back and get you something
to eat."
"Oh, no!" said Samuel. "Don't bother. That's all right."
"Hell, man!" cried the other. "Don't you suppose I'm going to do
anything for you?"
"Well, I hadn't thought--" began Samuel.
"Cut it out!" exclaimed the other. "I'll set you up, and find you a
job, and you can have a decent start."
Find him a job! Samuel's heart gave a great throb. For a moment he
hardly knew how to take this--how it would fit into his new
philosophy. But surely it was all right for him to take a job. Yes, he
had earned it. Even if some one else had to be turned out--even so, he
had proven his fitness. He had won in the struggle. He had a place
among the successful, and he could help Sophie and her mother.
He got up with eagerness, and held the horse. "Do you think you can
manage him?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," said the other. "I'll chance it, anyhow."
And he leaped into the runabout and took the reins. "Now," he said;
and Samuel got in, and they sped away, back toward town.
"Don't say anything about this accident, please," said the young man
suddenly.
"I won't," said Samuel.
"My friends are always teasing me because I drive horses," he
explained.
"Why not?" asked the other.
"Well, everybody drives motors nowadays. But my father stood by
horses, and I learned to be fond of them."
"We never had but one horse on the farm," observed Samuel. "But I was
fond of him."
"What is your name?" inquired the stranger; and Samuel told him. Also
he told him where he had come from and what had happened to him. He
took particular pains to tell about the jail, because he did not want
to deceive anyone. But his companion merely called it "an infernal
outrage."
"Where were you going now?" he asked.
"I'd just left Professor Stewart's," replied Samuel.
"What! Old Stew? How do you come to know him?"
"He was at the court. And he said he'd get me a job, and then he found
he couldn't. Do you know him?"
"Oh, yes, I had him at college, you know."
"Oh, do you go to the college?"
"I used to--till my father died. Then I quit. I hate study."
Samuel was startled. "I suppose you don't need to," he said after a
pause.
"No," said the other. "My father thought the world of Old Stew," he
added; "but he used to bore the life out of me. How'd you find him?"
"Well," answered Samuel, "you see, I haven't had any of your
advantages. I found what he told me very wonderful."
"What did he tell you?"
"Well, he explained to me how it was I was out of a job. There are too
many people in the world, it seems, and I was one of the unfit. I had
failed in the struggle for existence, and so I had to be exterminated,
he said."
"The devil he did!" exclaimed the stranger.
Samuel wished that the young man would not use so many improper words;
but he presumed that was one of the privileges of the successful. "I
was very grateful to him," he went on, "because, you see, I hadn't
understood what it meant. But when I realized it was for the good of
the race, then I didn't mind any more."
His companion stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye.
"Gee!" he said.
"I had quite an argument with him. I wanted him to see that he ought
to teach the people. There are thousands of people starving here in
Lockmanville; and would you want to starve without knowing the
reason?"
"No," said the other, "I don't think I should." And again he looked at
his companion.
But the conversation was interrupted there. For some time they had
been passing the place with the ten-foot iron railing; and now they
came to the great stone entrance with the name "Fairview" carved upon
it. To Samuel's surprise they turned in.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Home," said the other.
And Samuel started. "Do you live here?" he gasped.
"Yes," was the reply.
Samuel stared at the familiar driveway with the stately elms, and the
lawns with the peacocks and lyre birds. "This is one of the places
where I asked for work," he said. "They ordered me out."
"The deuce they did!" exclaimed the other. "Well, they won't order you
out now."
There was a pause. "You haven't told me your name," put in Samuel
suddenly.
"I thought you'd guess," said the other with a laugh.
"How could I?"
"Why--don't you know what place this is?"
"No," said Samuel. "What?"
And his companion replied, "It's the Lockman place."
Samuel caught his breath and clutched at the seat.
"The Lockman place!" he panted; and then again, "The Lockman place!"
He stared ahead at the great building, with the broad porticos and the
snow-white columns. He could hardly credit his ears.
"I'm the old man's son," added the stranger genially. "Albert's my
name. They call me Bertie."
CHAPTER IX
Properly to understand the thrill which this revelation brought to
Samuel, one would have to consider the state of his mind. With all the
power of his being Samuel was seeking for excellence; and a great and
wise man had explained to him what were the signs by which this
quality was known. And in the "struggle for existence" old Henry
Lockman had succeeded more than any other man of whom Samuel had ever
heard in his life. He owned these huge glass works, and many others
all over the country. He owned the trolley roads, and the gas works,
and the water works; the place had been named after him, and the great
college also. For many years he had even run the government of the
town, so Finnegan had stated. And here was this huge estate, his home-
-a palace fit for a king. How great must have been the excellence of
such a man! And what benefits he must have conferred upon the world,
to have been rewarded with all this power and glory!
And here was his son--a youth in aspect fitting perfectly to Samuel's
vision; a very prince of the blood, yet genial and free-hearted--
noblesse oblige! To him had descended these virtues and excellences--
and all the estates and powers as the sign and symbol thereof. And now
had come a poor ignorant country boy, and it had fallen to his fortune
to save the life of this extraordinary being. And he was to have a
chance to be near him, and to serve him--to see how he lived, and to
find out the secret of his superior excellence. There was no snobbery
in Samuel's attitude; he felt precisely as another and far greater
Samuel had felt when his sovereign had condescended to praise his
dictionary, and the tears of gratitude had started into his eyes.
They drove up before the palace, and a groom came hurrying up.
"Phillips," said young Lockman, "look at that rein!"
The groom stared aghast.
"Take it and show it to Sanderson," the other continued. "Ask him if I
don't pay enough for my harness that he gets me stuff like that."
"Yes, sir," said the groom.
They alighted and crossed the broad piazza, which was covered with
easy chairs and tables and rugs. In the entrance hall stood a man in
livery.
"Peters," said the young man, "this is Samuel Prescott. I had some
trouble with my horse and he helped me. He hasn't had anything to eat
today, and I want him to have a good meal."
"Yes, sir," said the man. "Where shall I serve it, sir?"
"In the morning room. We'll wait there. And mind you, bring him a
plenty."
"Yes, sir," said Peters, and went off.
Meantime Samuel had time for a glance about him. Never had he heard or
dreamed of such magnificence. It was appalling, beyond belief! The
great entrance hall went up to the roof; and there was a broad
staircase of white marble, with galleries of marble, and below a
marble fireplace, big enough to hold a section of a tree. Beyond this
was a court with fountains splashing, and visions of palms and
gorgeous flowers; and on each side were vistas of rooms with pictures
and tapestries and furniture which Samuel thought must be of solid
gold.
"Come," said his companion, and they ascended the staircase.
Halfway up, however, Samuel stopped and caught his breath. Before him
there was a painting. There is no need to describe it in detail--
suffice it to say that it was a life-size painting of a woman,
entirely naked; and that Samuel had never seen such a thing in his
life before. He dropped his eyes as he came near to it.
They went along the gallery and entered a room, dazzlingly beautiful
and bright. It was all done in white satin, the front being of glass,
and opening upon a wide balcony. There were flowers and singing birds,
and in the panels most beautiful paintings, representing wood nymphs
dancing. These airy creatures, also, were innocent of anything save
filmy veils; but they were all about the room, and so poor Samuel had
no way to escape them. He sought for light within his mind; and
suddenly he recollected the illustrated Bible at home. Perhaps the
peerless beings who lived in such palaces had returned to a state of
guiltlessness, such as had existed before the serpent came.
Young Lockman flung himself into an easy chair and proceeded to cross-
question his companion. He wanted to know all about the interview with
"Old Stew"; and afterwards, having managed to divine Samuel's attitude
to himself, he led him to talk about that, which Samuel did with the
utmost frankness. "Gee, but you're a queer duffer!" was Lockman's
comment; but Samuel didn't mind that.
The butler came with the meal--carrying it on a big tray, and with
another man to carry a folding table, and yet another to help. Such a
display of silver and cut glass! Such snowy linen, and such
unimaginable viands! There were piles of sandwiches, each one half a
bite for a fairly hungry man. There was jellied game, and caviar, and
a pate of something strange and spicy. Nothing was what one would have
expected--there were eggs inside of baked potatoes, and ice cream in
some sort of crispy cake. The crackers looked like cakes, and the
cakes like crackers, and the cheese was green and discouraging. But a
bowl of strawberries and cream held out a rich promise at the end, and
Samuel took heart.
"Fall to," said the host; and then divining the other's state of mind,
he remarked, "You needn't serve, Peters," and the men went away, to
Samuel's vast relief.
"Don't mind me," added Lockman laughing. "And if there's any question
you want to ask, all right."
So Samuel tasted the food of the gods; a kind of food which human
skill and ingenuity had labored for centuries to invent, and for days
and even weeks to prepare. Samuel wondered vaguely where all these
foods had come from, and how many people had had a hand in their
preparation; also he wondered if all those who ate them would become
as beautiful and as dazzling as his young friend.
The friend meanwhile was vastly diverted, and was bent upon making the
most of his find. "I suppose you'd like to see the place?" he said.