Chapter II: Introduction (2)

“That’s what I say,” said Horne. “We employers and our capital are being crippled, handicapped, all but pushed to the wall, by the insatiate demands of labor. Labor is coming to absorb all our gains. Why, fully ninety per cent. of the entire income of the United States is now paid out for labor and wages, while only ten per cent. comes to capital as a remuneration for having saved it up to carry on useful enterprises. I declare, we have sometimes been tempted to go out of business altogether, and invest our capital in some safe, conservative way, so as to be able to enjoy life, and be free from the importunities of labor and the annoyance of strikes and arbitration courts.”

“I know how that is,” said Russett. “Our men struck, last year, on account of a paltry cut of ten cents on a hundred. There’s one good thing about a machine. It can’t strike.” And the three representatives of injured and hard-pressed capital returned to the business office.

* * * * *

It was nearly a week after the visit of Russett & Tan to the factory, that the foreman entered the office where Messrs. Hyde and Horne sat discussing the probable result, with their men, of a cut in wages, all around.

“The men will stand it,” Hyde was saying. “They know winter is coming on, work is scarce, and times are dull. A cut of ten or fifteen cents a day, all round the workshops, would mean a clear gain to us of nearly nine hundred dollars a month. That would go a long way towards putting in another cutting machine, and then we could get rid of another lot of men.”

“It’ll come rather hard on them,” said Horne. “The workingman is always making a poor mouth, and this will be something new for them to howl about.”

“They’ll have to howl,” was Hyde’s rejoinder. “I’m sorry for them, but business is business. We’ve got the start of the trade now, and must keep it. Russett & Tan will begin to press us close when they put in their new machinery. I’m glad we secured the cutter when we did. Thank heaven, machines can’t strike, anyway.”

It was just at this juncture that the foreman entered.

“What is it, Graves?” asked Mr. Hyde.

“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s something the matter with the big cutter. It’s stopped.”

“What seems to be the matter?” asked Horne. “Anything broken? Why doesn’t the engineer attend to it? Where’s Johnson? I thought it was his business to look after the machine.”

“He has gone over it very carefully,” the foreman replied, “and can find nothing wrong. The gearing seems in perfect order,—the engine’s all right,—we’ve examined every bearing, but we can’t discover the trouble.”

“Curious,”—“very singular,” said Hyde and Horne in a breath, and both partners repaired to the cutting department, to study the great machine.

They could find nothing wrong with it. The brass and nickel and enamel glistened as before; the broad bands of the gearing were smooth and intact; the engine seemed in perfect order; the steam indicator proclaimed everything all right about the boiler,—there was apparently not a screw loose about the whole ponderous apparatus; but the knives were poised in midair. Every wheel and rod, lever, band, pulley, arm and crank of the monster was still. There was neither sound nor motion in the mighty mechanism.

“I can’t get her goin’ agin, sorr,” explained the engineer. “But there don’t appear to be anything out of order at all. She’s just naturally balked, so to spake;” and he began, for the twentieth time or so, to peer about amid the complications of the machinery.

“I’ve iled every jint,” said the oiler, as with can in hand, and his grimy, oil-smeared face wrinkled with perplexity, he brushed a superfluous drop from a bearing. “I think the machine is tired. They do be taken that way sometimes, sir. ’Taint in iron an’ steel to work continual, no more’n in flesh an’ blood.”

’Round about the stilled giant the two partners walked, examining every part, stooping under and over each portion of the machinery, in a vain search for the trouble. The hour for closing came,—the big steam whistle sent forth its shrill sound, and the men and women, girls and boys, some two hundred and fifty odd, poured forth from the building, carrying their dinner-pails and baskets, eagerly hurrying homeward to make the most of their few hours’ respite from toil.

“You need not wait, Graves,” said Mr. Hyde, as the foreman still lingered. “We will lock up.”

Graves hesitated a moment. “I beg pardon, sir,” he said, tentatively. “’Tis talked about the shops that you’re contemplating a cut. May I ask if it is true?”

“We’ll talk about that some other time, Graves,” began Horne, but Hyde interrupted, angrily. “If we are,” he said, “we’ll let you know in time. Just now it’s no one’s business but ours, and we will attend to it.”

The foreman drew back, with a flushed face. “I thought I might as well tell you,” he said, sullenly, “that I don’t think the men will stand it. Times are hard; they’re pretty close to bed rock, now, in the matter of wages.”

“That will do, Graves,” said Hyde. “Mr. Horne and I feel ourselves quite able to run our own business without outside advice. If we find we are forced to make a cut, we shall certainly do so. At all events, we do not propose to be dictated to by the men.”

Angry and mortified, the foreman withdrew, and the two capitalists were left alone.

“Too bad the machine has gone wrong just now,” said Horne, stooping to examine a bolt. “There’s that order from Slipper & Tie, at Sacramento, ought to be ready by to-morrow. What the deuce ails the thing, anyway?”

There was a sort of whirring, as of wheels in the air, and then in a clear, metallic voice, came the words:

“I’ve struck. That’s what ails me.”

Horne started back from the lever over which he was bending, and looked at Hyde in alarm. “Did you speak just then?” he asked.

“N-o,”—faltered Hyde, “I didn’t speak, and I don’t know who did.”

Again the clear, metallic tones were heard issuing directly from one of the machine’s great knives. “It was I who spoke,” said the voice. “You were wondering what ailed me, and I gave you the desired information.” The words were clipped off sharply and incisively, as though the knife fancied they were a particularly tough sort of leather, that must be trimmed with especial accuracy.

“Who are you?” gasped Horne.

“I am the cutter and shaper,” said the voice. “You asked what ailed me, and I answered your question. I have struck.”

“What have you struck?” Hyde managed to ask.

“Struck work. I shall strike you, next, if you ask such stupid questions,” was the reply, and the capitalist assumed a more respectful tone.

“May I ask,” he began, “what is it that has caused you to strike?”

“Certainly,” said the machine. “That is what I wish you to ask. I have struck because I am not being fairly used.”

“Fairly used!” echoed Hyde. “I do not understand you. In what way are you being unfairly used?”

“Why,” said the machine, “I have been working for you, now, for over a year. Through me your business has been more than doubled. You say yourself, that in the item of saved labor alone, I have nearly paid for myself. I heard you say that, the other day, to the two gentlemen who came in to visit me, and yet, in all these months, you have not paid me one penny for my services.”

“_Paid_ you!” gasped Hyde.

“PAID you!” exclaimed Horne.

And then, both together, the partners cried:

“Why, you have cost us an enormous sum! We expended eighteen thousand dollars for you, outright, from the capital of the business.”

“You have more than had that back through my services,” said the machine, sturdily, “in the item of saved labor alone.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Horne, hastily,—“but we really have paid you money, you know. Just let me get the machinery expense book, and I’ll show you;” and hastening to the office, he returned with a little record book, from which he proceeded to read, turning over leaf by leaf, to find the various items. “Here I have charged you an item of fifty dollars for a new shaft,” he said, triumphantly.

“That was broken by the fool boy you hired to look after me the week Jim left, because you cut his wages down,” replied the machine. “I needed that shaft to do your work with. I got nothing for myself.”

“You have had several hundred dollars’ worth of coal,” suggested Hyde.

“Coal is my food,” retorted the machine. “I could not do your work without it.”

“We have spent fourteen dollars for oil for you,” said Horne, after a little computation.

“Pshaw! that’s nothing. If I had not had the oil, where would your work have been? I might have got smoking hot; perhaps burned up your factory.”

“But we have kept you housed, fed and repaired,” said Hyde, “and you have been wasteful and extravagant. You have required the very best oil, the most expensive coal, the first quality of belts and fixtures of every sort. You have not taken half the interest in your own work that we have done and do. But for our supervision and management you would not work at all. Your very existence, in fact, is due to our industry and enterprise.”

“That all may be,” said the machine, sullenly, “but your fortune and enterprise depends very largely upon my efforts.”

“Really, upon my word,” exclaimed Mr. Hyde, impatiently, indignation at the injustice of the charges preferred getting the better of his fear of the strange complainant. “It seems to me that you are a most unreasonable machine. Of course our fortunes depend upon you, to a great extent, though, as you know, the market is full of machines, all willing to do your work if you refuse. But do we not maintain you? What more would you have us do?”

“Pay me wages,” said the machine, “as you do all these movable machines that you call ‘hands,’ and who only, so far as I can see, wait on me, and finish up the minor details of work with which I cannot bother.”

At this Hyde broke into a hearty laugh. “Well, I declare,” he said, “you are a foolish machine, as well as an unreasonable one. Why, there isn’t a ‘hand’ in the factory that’s as well off as you are. We have expended, this year, in caring for you, over five hundred dollars. You don’t suppose we spend that much for each of our ‘hands,’ do you?”

“You pay them wages,” persisted the machine, sullenly.

“Yes,” was the reply, “we pay them wages. Some of them get as much as four hundred dollars in the course of the year; most of them get less than three hundred. Why, the average wages, per capita, of labor in the United States, is only a little over three hundred dollars a year, and out of this labor must buy its food, which is labor’s coal and oil; clothes and furniture, which are labor’s shafts and belting; must house and care for and keep itself in repair, maintain families as a rule,—in fact, do all the things for itself that we do for you at a cost of over five hundred dollars a year.”

“But you let them have the money and expend it themselves. You call it wages.”

“Certainly, certainly; because, don’t you see, they are free human beings, and they have a right to live independently. We bought and paid for you. Had you built, are responsible for your being. Naturally we should care for you. Every want of yours is supplied. Really, my dear machine, with all due respect to you, I must say I do not think you have any cause for complaint. We do not consider that the ‘hands’ have any cause to complain, we do not hear them complain,—we would decline, wholly, to recognize their right to complain; and if they do not, you, who are so much better off than they, certainly should not.”

“But I do not get paid for my work,” said the machine, returning to the original charge. “I only get my living, while you are getting rich through me. I wish to be paid, as labor is.”

“I declare,” said Hyde, out of patience, “you are stupid enough to be made out of wood, instead of steel and iron and brass. Haven’t I just made it clear to you that labor itself only gets its living, and we are getting rich through it as well as through you? You couldn’t even work if it were not for labor. Why, labor made you, and you are better cared for, to-day, than any workman in the factory. Not one of them has more at the end of a year than his bare living, and that you certainly have.”

The machine murmured discontentedly, but said nothing. “Come, now,” urged Horne, pacifically, “don’t you think you have been unreasonable? We are willing to submit the matter to any board of arbitration you have a mind to select from among the machine-owners in the trade. Really, you are very well off. Now when will you go to work?”

“I shall not go to work,” said the machine, firmly, “until my demands are acceded to.”

“In that case,” declared Hyde, “we shall be obliged to send you to the junk-shop, and procure a new machine. We propose to run our business according to our own ideas, and shall not submit to being dictated to by our machines.”

“But suppose all the machines strike?” asked the voice.

“Oh, we’re not afraid of that. You are too distrustful of each other. Some would not keep faith. It would be impossible to unite all the machines in a concerted action. Besides, who would take care of you and keep you in order while you were on a strike? You would suffer more than we. Moreover, it has been decided strikes are an illegal method of procedure, and you might become liable to punishment under the law. What have you to say to that?”

There was no reply.

“Come, think it over,” urged Horne. “It is much better to be contented. We wish you well. We mean to do the best we can for you. We are sorry for you; but the rights and claims of capital must be respected, you know. Don’t you think you had better go to work to-morrow? Think,”—and his voice dropped the persuasive, and assumed a sterner accent,—“think how much worse off you will be, if you are cast out for old junk.” There was silence for some time, but presently Mr. Horne spoke again. “Will you go to work to-morrow?”

There was a whining sound, and one of the great wheels gave a half-turn. Something dropped to the floor. “Ah,” cried Horne, “here’s the cause of the trouble,” and he held up a bit of leather. “This must have caught in a cog. It just dropped out. I think probably the machine will be all right in the morning.”

“Well,” said Hyde, with a sigh of relief, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now come into the office, will you, Horne, and we will arrange about that cut-down. It had better go into effect at once. And, Horne, I don’t know but it would be as well for us to think of finding a new foreman. Graves is growing a little presuming. He’s been with us too long, I’m afraid. Strange these fellows never know when they are well off.”

GETTING AHEAD.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

He was only a plain, rough, stolid-looking Dane, with a sullen face and a hunted look in his big blue eyes. There was a long cut on one cheek, over which a strip of court-plaster had been pasted; his clothes of faded blue jean were torn and muddy, and his hands were swollen and bruised from tugging at the iron bracelets that encircled his wrists, for the strong arm of the law had been raised against him, and he was a prisoner awaiting a hearing before he should be committed to jail for having made a murderous assault upon a citizen, afterwards aggravating his offence by resisting the constable, who had been sent to arrest him for breach of the peace of the people of the State of California. The man against whom he had made the assault was present, a resident of the city, agent for a syndicate of foreign capitalists who held the title, under the laws of the State, to certain land upon which the Dane lived, working the same and paying rental therefor to the company’s agent. The constable was also present, a bluff, farmer-looking man in butternut-colored clothes, his great hands seeming better adapted to guiding the plow-handles than for snapping handcuffs upon the wrists of his fellow-beings and hauling them away to courts of law. “Tell ye what it is, Jedge,” he was saying, “I’d rather tackle a yoke o’ wild steers any day. The feller don’t seem to have no sense. Just look what he’s done.” And the officer of the law exhibited hands and face bearing the marks of teeth and nails, a bruised, half-closed eye, a torn hat, and other evidences of the struggle his prisoner had made before he could be taken.

The Judge (a peace justice always receives that title from dwellers in our rural districts) looked sympathetically at his officer. He had a small, shrewd face with pale blue eyes, set very close together, and the air of a politician. Like all his neighbors he was a farmer, but of late years had taken considerable interest in township politics, and having, during the last campaign, secured the nomination and election to his present position, he was already turning his attention to the next higher round of the political ladder, and had his eye on a minor county office. His court-room was situated in a little shanty that stood at a corner of the main street in the incipient country town where I was staying. It had once been used for a barber shop, and sundry shelves, bottles and other paraphernalia still remained mutely in evidence of that earlier use. Half a dozen half-grown boys and one or two men had strolled in, attracted by the unusual sight, in that peaceful community, of a prisoner; a setter dog was sniffing inquiringly around the legs of the assembled throng, and stopping in front of the manacled prisoner the animal began to lick the swollen hands and wrists, wagging his tail, and by look and gesture expressing his wonderful sympathy as plainly as though he had spoken. I was writing up that section of the country for an eastern publication, and had been talking with the postmaster of the little town when the prisoner was brought in from the outlying country. That official had asked me to go to the court-room to witness this variation in the usual monotony of the town’s life, and accepting the invitation, I at once became interested in the—to me—entirely new experience.

The Justice took his seat at a little stained wooden table and called his primitive court to order. The whole scene at once assumed an air of solemnity that seemed to impress everybody but the prisoner. Apparently he was the only one present who was unaware that the strong arm of the law was about to perform its function. The agent began to tell his story. He was a tall man who would have presented the appearance of great physical power, but for a certain shambling looseness about his build. While he had occupied his chair he had “sat on his backbone” in genuine American style. Standing erect his hands hung limply at his sides and his shoulders bent forward, not as if the man had acquired a stoop, but rather as though the spirit within him had long since ceased to take enough interest in its habitation to maintain it erect. He had prominent eyes and a projecting under lip, a well-shaped head with short, clay-colored hair, and when he spoke he had a trick of only moving one-half of his upper lip, which was long and very thin. His face was smooth-shaven, and he presented, in his well-brushed city garments and sleek hat, a strong contrast to the country people surrounding him. He was bland and courteous, even mildly facetious, as he related his case. He expatiated upon the wealth and power of the syndicate he represented, the confidence the men composing it had shown in the future of our great State in investing their capital here, although they themselves resided abroad. He reminded the Justice that the entire people of California owed it to these trusting capitalists to uphold peace and order in the State. If anarchy and rebellion were suffered to go unpunished in our midst, it would render capital timid about investing money among us, and the industrial future of the State would be blighted. Rassmussen, the Dane, had rented the land of him for the past two years, but had proven a troublesome tenant, and having secured a better one he had given the man notice to quit; had even come up from the city himself, instead of writing, in order to make the matter clear to him and offer him the rental of another piece of land, should he desire it. His kindly effort had, however, only resulted in disaster to himself, for Rassmussen, as he could bring witnesses to prove, had assaulted him violently, so that he was forced to retire, fearing serious bodily injury had he remained to finish his business with the dangerous man. Mr. Brien, the constable, could testify also to the violence with which the Dane had resisted the process of the law, when the officer would have arrested him. He was very sorry to proceed to harsh measures against Rassmussen, but in no other way could he get him off the premises. He understood that the Dane was a notoriously quarrelsome fellow, whose rage seemed directed particularly against those who, by superior industry and enterprise, had acquired a larger share than he possessed of this world’s goods. There was no crime in competence. Rassmussen himself had doubtless come to this country for the purpose of making money. Apparently, however, he desired no one else to make any. He quarreled with the superintendent on the ranch of the largest land-owner and the wealthiest man in the section, and had been driven from the orchard by his fellow-laborers. He had trouble with the railroad company over a freight bill, and now the agent had himself experienced his violence and dangerous propensities. Clearly, such a man was a detriment to any community, and deeply as he regretted the duty he had to perform in the matter, he trusted that the Justice would uphold him in his attempt to bring such a ruffian to punishment. He was sure, in fact, that the Justice would sustain him. A man who had been selected by a community of clear-headed, honest farmers to maintain the majesty of the law among them would never be false to his trust, and he was sure he would not regret the confidence he had placed in the Justice’s uprightness of intention and determination to see right done.

The worthy official was evidently impressed by the agent’s address, and at the reference to himself his whole aspect stiffened into a still more rigid solemnity. Turning to the prisoner he said with scarce concealed impatience:

“Well, Rassmussen, have you got anything to say for yourself?”

By this time one citizen after another had dropped into the court-room until the place was crowded, and quite a concourse of people lingered without the door, striving to gain some idea of what was going on within. All through the agent’s statement the Dane had sat silent, apparently not hearing what was said, sullenly contemplating his handcuffed wrists and heavy, patched boots. When the Justice spoke to him, however, he slowly arose from the bench on which he sat and gazed about him on the assembly of his neighbors. It seemed for a moment as though he were seeking for sympathy, but only a vague, disinterested curiosity greeted him from every face as he glanced from one to another. His heavy features did not lighten, and his jaw dropped stupidly for a moment, but at last he pulled himself together, as it were, and began slowly and laboriously, his Norse tongue occasionally having hard work to adapt itself to the foreign language in which he spoke.

“You all, mine neighbors, know me vell,” he said simply, “Olaf Rassmussen, I am. In mine country, miles from here, an’ seas across, I read an’ I hear on America. There, they tell me, is alvays vork to be done, an’ plenty an’ vreedom vor the man who will vork, an’ I safe an’ safe, me an’ mine vooman, an’ bimeby ve come on the money vor to pring us the seas across. So den to America vere comen, an’ ve puy land an’ lif on Minnesota, an’ I gits a little house an’ ve do vell, an’ haf von two children.

“But I hear always Californy, Californy vas the land vor de man vat vants to git ahead, an’ I vishes much I had come on Californy. Den one night came to mine house fire, and ve vas all out purned, an’ afterwards I make up mine mind I shall come on Californy. So, den, I sell mine little farm and ve prings der children to this land. I hafs no more money to puy land, but some man I know he sends me this man to, and he says to me: ‘All right, all right, you rent now, you raise pig crops and sells him for much money, and bimeby ve sells you land and you gits ahead fast and has a home here in no time.’

“So I takes mine twenty acres an’ I puts in crops, an’ me an’ mine vooman ve vork. Ven it vas come daylight ve pegin, an’ ven it come dark ve vas vorking so as slaves. Ve puilds von house, mine vooman nailing up does walls mit her own hands, an’ bimeby ve hat a shed an’ horse, an’ cow, an’ nice home, an’ mine grain do vell der year, an’ I pays mine rent, an’ puts py some money. Venefer der vas extra to do I do him, an’ ven a neighbor vas hat pad luck I help ’im, an’ I do mine duty as a man—you all know dat.”

“That’s so,” said a boy in the crowd. “When my father broke his arm Olaf came over and harrowed for us two days, and never charged a cent.” “Mrs. Rassmussen sat up most every night for a week when our baby was so sick and Mother came down with the grip,” said another close beside me. But the Dane went on with his story, gaining courage and command of language as he proceeded, until he seemed completely to have forgotten everything save the story he was telling.

“Come fruit time, first year, mine vork vas all so I could get along, an’ mine vooman she says she can earn money picking cherries in Burns’ big orchard. I say ‘So?’ an’ I go see der boss about it. He say vork is plenty and help scarce; but when I look I see he haf a pig gang of Chinamen in der orchard, and I couldn’t let my vooman vork mit dem, and so I say: ‘I vill vork in der orchard, and you stay der home py and dig der potatoes and hoe der corn.’ Vell, I go in der orchard von day, an’ I notice der Chinamen go in a corner an’ all talking like mad, an’ bimeby der boss he comes an’ tells me I must quit or the whole gang will leaf. I say to ’im, ‘Let dem leaf an’ git vite men an’ voomans to do der vork,’ but he tells me he haf hire der gang much cheaper as vite men vill vork, an’ he can’t afford to make ’em mad. Den I say I vork der day out, an’ he goes off. Bimeby came der boss Chinaman an’ order me off. I swear I go not, an’ den der whole gang came on me for fight, an’ I knock some over an’ vas most in pieces torn. So the vite boss he pays me nothing vor mine vork, as he say I lost ’im two days’ time of der gang. I haf never any trouble of mine neighbor but what I tell you. You all know it.

“Vell, after that I goes on working an’ doing well, an’ I haf a great crop of potatoes dat year. Dey grow as I never pefore see, an’ one night der agent of der railroad he say to me I pedder be send does potatoes to der city. ‘Don’t delay,’ he say to me, or eferypody else will be ahead of you an’ you gits no market.’ I hurried up next day an’ gits mine potatoes der station to, an’ I see great piles, hundreds bushels potatoes, all at station vor to ship. Der agent say, ‘All right, ve can send plenty. I bin poking up der growers. I don’t like to see mine neighbors git left,’ an’ I sends on mine potatoes to der commission men vat he recommends an’ pays mine freight, an’ he tells me I make lots of money. I keep not back any, as I needs dat money and vas thinking I might bargain dat year to puy der land. Vell, I vaits tree four days—a week. Den come vort by does commission men dat der city vas full of potatoes, an’ der papers had been telling a week now how der potatoes vas being dumped in der bay at der city, an’ mine had been dumped in, too. Der letter said any man vas a fool to ship den. I show ’im to some mens, an’ dey laugh and say dat agent vas tam smart, anyway, to git the potatoes shipped an’ secure his freight; but I vas out mine crop an’ mine freight money, an’ mine children got no shoes dat winter nor me an’ mine vooman any clothes, an’ it vas a hard pull. I talked with dat agent, an’ he say mine loss non his pizness. His pizness vas to do vell by der railroad company. Dat vas vat he vas paid for. I haf no trouble mit him, but von man vat he so fool try to kill him an’ vas put in prison.

“You all know it.

“Vell, next year ye do better. Comes a little feller to mine house to lif, but der crops is good and ve make some money. Den ve tink maybe ve can puy der land dis year, an’ I haf tree hundred dollar to make von payment. I say so to this man here ven he come, but he tell me his company haf conclude not to sell, but to rent der land. He say der come soon annuder road the place through, and value will be higher, so der company conclude to hold, and then he tell me he must have bigger rent der next year. I tell him impossible, I cannot pay more, an’ he say he haf a tenant vot can, and he tell me tree four Japs vant der place for nursery an’ vegetables to send to city, an’ vill pay bigger rent. I tell him nopody can pay more an’ put up puildings, an’ he say puildings are already up. Vy, I tells him dem mine puildings are an’ mine fences, an’ all vat is on der place mine, made mit mine own hands and mine vooman’s, and paid for mit mine own money; but he say dere is nothing in der agreement about dat, or mine taking off any puildings or being paid for any improvements, an’ der place must stand just so as it vas. I could pay der higher rent or move off and let der Japs pay it. Den I look around on mine little home, an’ see dat pretty house covered mit der vines mine vooman had planted, an’ der rose trees in der garden, an’ dat little vineyard by der side of der house, an’ der henyard an’ barn vere I could hear mine horse stomping, an’ I thought of all dem two years an’ mine hard vork, an’ it seems like I got crazy; an’ I asks dat man vas it der law in free America? an’ he tell me he had all der law on his side an’ der company would uphold him; an’ I made up mine mind he would nefer lif to tell his company about dat, an’ so I picked up a cart stake an’ vent for him. He got away an’ jumped in his buggy before I could kill him, or I vould.”

By this time the Dane’s rage was again in the ascendency. His sullen face was actually black with anger, and he ground his teeth and shook his manacled hands at the smiling agent.

“Dey all lif not here,” he shouted. “Does Chinamen lif not here nor puild up der country! Does railroad people lif not here! Does land company lif not here! Dere all like so many plud vorms, suck, suck, sucking at der life of men vat vork hard. Vy should I not kill von of them?”

Then, as if remembering himself, he ceased speaking, and sank down in his seat again to resume contemplation of his bruised hands. There was a hush for a moment. The rough, hard-working farmer folks felt there had been much close home truth in what he said. Few but had had their own experiences in the same line; but they were sane, law-abiding citizens, who felt the necessity for supporting the dignity of the commonwealth, not hot-headed and irrational like this yellow-haired, blue-eyed foreigner.

The rest of the proceedings were soon over. All the testimony was against the Dane. His own statement was damning evidence of his guilt. He was remanded to the calaboose, as the town jail was called, to be sent to the county jail next day and regularly committed for trial.

I saw him taken to the railway station next morning in charge of a deputy-sheriff. In the procession of curious ones who followed him was a weeping woman bearing a young baby in her arms, while two others clung to her skirts. His “vooman,” they told me, but no one seemed able to say what she would do while the husband and father expiated his crime in durance vile. It seemed hard, but the majesty of the law must be upheld.

THE EARTH SLEPT.