Book: Helen of the Old House

H >> Harold Bell Wright >> Helen of the Old House




The Interpreter's attention at the moment was fixed upon his work and
he remained unaware of the intruder's presence, while Jake Vodell,
standing in the doorway, regarded the old basket maker curiously, with
a contemptuous smile on his bearded lips.

But Billy Rand saw him. A moment he looked at the man in the doorway
inquiringly, as he would have regarded any one of the Interpreter's
many visitors; then the deaf and dumb man's expression changed.
Glancing quickly at his still unobserving companion, he caught up a
hatchet that lay among the tools on the table and, with a movement that
was not unlike the guarding action of a huge mastiff, rose to his feet.
His face was a picture of animal rage; his teeth were bared, his eyes
gleamed, his every muscle was tense.

The man in the doorway was evidently no coward, but the smile vanished
from his heavy face and his right hand went quickly inside his vest.
"What's the matter with you?" he said, sharply, as Billy started toward
him with deliberate menace in his movement.

At the sound of the man's voice the Interpreter looked up. One glance
and the old basket maker caught the wheels of his chair and with a
quick, strong movement rolled himself between the two men--so close to
Billy that he caught his defender by the arm. Facing his enraged
companion, the Interpreter talked to him rapidly in their sign language
and held out his hand for the hatchet. The silent Billy reluctantly
surrendered the weapon and drew back to his place on the other side of
the table, where he sat glaring at the stranger in angry watchfulness.

The man in the doorway laughed harshly. "They told me I would find a
helpless old cripple up here," he said. "I think you are pretty well
protected at that."

Regarding the stranger gravely, the Interpreter apologized for his
companion. "You can see that Billy is not wholly responsible," he
explained. "He is little more than a child mentally; his actions are
often apparently governed wholly by that strange instinct which seems
to guide the animals. He is very devoted to me."

"He seems to be in earnest all right," said the stranger. "He is a
husky brute, too."

The Interpreter, regarding the man inquiringly, almost as if he were
seeking in the personality of his visitor the reason for Billy's
startling conduct, replied, simply, "He would have killed you."

With a shrug of his thick shoulders, the stranger uninvited came
forward and helped himself to a chair, and, with the air of one
introducing a person of some importance, said, "I am Vodell--Jake
Vodell. You have heard of me, I think, heh?"

"Oh, yes. Indeed, I should say that every one has heard of you, Mr.
Vodell. Your work has given you even more than national prominence, I
believe."

The man was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. "I am known, yes."

"It is odd," said the Interpreter, "but your face seems familiar to me,
as if I had met you before."

"You have heard me speak somewhere, maybe, heh?"

"No, it cannot be that. You have never been in Millsburgh before, have
you?"

"No."

"It is strange," mused the old basket maker.

"It is the papers," returned Vodell with a shrug. "Many times the
papers have my picture--you must have seen."

"Of course, that is it," exclaimed the Interpreter. "I remember now,
distinctly. It was in connection with that terrible bomb outrage in--"

"Sir!" interrupted the other indignantly. "Outrage--what do you mean,
outrage?"

"I was thinking of the innocent people who were killed or injured,"
returned the Interpreter, calmly. "I believe you were also prominent in
those western strikes where so many women and children suffered, were
you not?"

The labor agitator replied with the exact manner of a scientific
lecturer. "It is unfortunate that innocent persons must sometimes be
hurt in these affairs. But that is one of the penalties that society
must pay for tolerating the conditions that make these industrial wars
necessary."

"If I remember correctly, you were in the South, too, at the time that
mill was destroyed."

"Oh, yes, they had me in jail there. But that was nothing. I have many
such experiences. They are to me very commonplace. Wherever there are
the poor laboring men who must fight for their rights, I go. The mines,
shops, mills, factories--it is all the same to me. I go wherever I can
serve the Cause. I have been in America now ten years, nearly eleven."

"You are not, then, a citizen of this country?"

Jake Vodell laughed contemptuously. "Oh, sure I am a citizen of this
country--this great America of fools and cowards that talk all the time
so big about freedom and equality, while the capitalist money hogs hold
them in slavery and rob them of the property they create. I had to
become a citizen when the war came, you see, or they would have sent me
away. But for that I would make myself a citizen of some cannibal
country first." The old basket maker's dark eyes blazed with quick
fire and he lifted himself with sudden strength to a more erect
position in his wheel chair. But when he spoke his deep voice was calm
and steady. "You have been in our little city nearly a month, I
understand."

"Just about. I have been looking around, getting acquainted, studying
the situation. One must be very careful to know the right men, you
understand. It pays, I find, to go a little slow at first. We will go
fast enough later." His thick lips parted in a meaning grin.

The Interpreter's hands gripped the wheels of his chair.

"Everybody tells me I should see you," the agitator continued.
"Everywhere it is the same. They all talk of the Interpreter. 'Go to
the Interpreter,' they say. When they told me that this great
Interpreter is an old white-headed fellow without any legs, I laughed
and said, 'What can he do to help the laboring man? He is not good for
anything but to sit in a wheel chair and make baskets all the day. I
need _men_.' But they all answer the same thing, 'Go and see the
Interpreter.' And so I am here."

When the Interpreter was silent, his guest demanded, harshly, "They are
all right, heh? You are a friend to the workingman? Tell me, is it so?"

The old basket maker spoke with quiet dignity. "For twenty-five years
Millsburgh has been my home, and the Millsburgh people have been my
friends. You, sir, have been here less than a month; I have known you
but a few minutes."

Jake Vodell laughed understandingly. "Oh-ho, so that is it? Maybe you
like to see my credentials before we talk?"

The Interpreter held up a hand in protest. "Your reputation is
sufficient, Mr. Vodell."

The man acknowledged the compliment--as he construed it--with a shrug
and a pleased laugh. "And all that is said of you by the laboring class
in your little city is sufficient," he returned. "Even the men in
McIver's factory tell me you are the best friend that labor has ever
had in this place." He paused expectantly.

The man in the wheel chair bowed his head.

"And then," continued Jake Vodell, with a frown of displeasure, "when I
come to see you, to ask some questions about things that I should know,
what do I hear? The daughter of this old slave-driver and robber--this
capitalist enemy of the laboring class--Adam Ward, she comes also to
see this Interpreter who is such a friend of the people."

The Interpreter laughed. "And Sam Whaley's children, they come too."

"Oh, yes, that is better. I know Sam Whaley. He is a good man who will
be a great help to me. But I do not understand this woman business."

"I have known Miss Ward ever since she was born; I worked in the Mill
at the same bench with her father and Peter Martin," said the man in
the wheel chair, with quiet dignity.

"I see. It is not so bad sometimes to have a friend or two among these
millionaires when there is no danger of it being misunderstood. But
this man, who was once a workman and who deserted his class--this
traitor, her father--does he also call on you, Mr. Interpreter?"

"Once in a great while," answered the Interpreter.

Jake Vodell laughed knowingly. "When he wants something, heh?" Then,
with an air of taking up the real business of his visit to the little
hut on the cliff, he said, "Suppose now you tell me something about
this son of Adam Ward. You have known him since he was a boy too--the
same as the girl?"

"Yes," said the Interpreter, "I have known John Ward all his life."

Something in the old basket maker's voice made Jake Vodell look at him
sharply and the agitator's black brows were scowling as he said,
"So--you are friends with him, too, I guess, heh?"

"I am, sir; and so is Captain Charlie Martin, who is the head of our
Mill workers' union, as you may have heard."

"Exactly. That is why I ask. So many of the poor fools who slave for
this son of Adam Ward in the Mill say that he is such a fine man--so
kind. Oh, wonderful! Bah! When was the wolf whelped that would be kind
to a rabbit? You shall tell me now about the friendship between this
wolf cub of the capitalist Mill owner and this poor rabbit, son of the
workman Peter Martin who has all his life been a miserable slave in the
Mill. They were in the army together, heh?"

"They enlisted in the same company when the first call came and were
comrades all through the worst of the fighting in France."

"And before that, they were friends, heh?"

"They had been chums as boys, when the family lived in the old house
next door to the Martins. But during the years that John was away in
school and college Adam moved his family to the place on the hill where
they live now. When John was graduated and came home to stay, he
naturally found his friends in another circle. His intimacy with Pete
Martin's boy was not renewed--until the war."

"Exactly," grunted Jake Vodell. "And how did Adam Ward like it that his
boy should go to war? Not much, I think. It was all right for the
workman's boy to go; but the Mill owner's son--that was different,
heh?"

There was a note of pride in the Interpreter's voice, as he answered,
"Adam was determined that the boy should not go at all, even if he were
drafted. But John said that it was bad enough to let other men work to
feed and clothe him in ordinary times of peace without letting them do
his fighting for him as well."

"This Adam Ward's son said that!" exclaimed the agitator. "Huh--it was
for the effect--a grand-stand play."

"He enlisted," retorted the Interpreter. "And when his father would
have used his influence to secure some sort of commission with an easy
berth, John was more indignant than ever. He said if he ever wore
shoulder straps they would be a recognition of his service to his
country and not, as he put it, a pretty gift from a rich father. So he
and Charlie Martin both enlisted as privates, and, as it happened, on
the same day. Under such circumstances it was quite as natural that
their old friendship should be reestablished as that they should have
drifted apart under the influence of Adam Ward's prosperity."

Jake Vodell laughed disagreeably. "And then this wonderful son of your
millionaire Mill owner comes out of the war and the army exactly as he
went in, nothing but a private--not even a medal--heh? But this workman
from the Mill, he comes back a captain with a distinguished service
medal? I think maybe Private Ward's father and mother and sister liked
that--no?"

Disregarding these comments, the Interpreter said, "Now that I have
answered your questions about the friendship of John Ward and Charlie
Martin, may I ask just why you are so much interested in the matter?"

The agitator gazed at the man in the wheel chair with an expression of
incredulous amazement. "Is it possible you do not understand?" he
demanded. "And you such a friend to the workingman! But wait--one more
thing, then I will answer you. This daughter of Adam Ward--she is also
good friends with her old playmate who is now Captain Martin, is she?
The workman goes sometimes to the big house on the hill to see his
millionaire friends, does he?"

The Interpreter answered, coldly, "I can't discuss Miss Ward with you,
sir."

"Oh-ho! And now I will answer your question as to my interest. This
John Ward is already a boss in the Mill. His father, everybody tells
me, is not well. Any time now the old man may retire from the business
and the son will have his place as general manager. He will be the
owner. The friendship between these two men is not good--because
Charlie Martin is the leader of the union and there can be no such
friendship between a leader of the laboring class and one of the
employer class without great loss to our Cause. You will see. These
rich owners of the Mill, they will flatter and make much of this poor
workman captain because of his influence among the people who slave for
them, and so any movement to secure for the workmen their rights will
be defeated. Do you understand now, Mister basket maker, heh?"

The Interpreter bowed his head.

The agitator continued. "Already I find it very hard to accomplish much
with this Mill workers' union. Except for our friend, Sam Whaley, and a
few others, the fools are losing their class loyalty. Their fighting
spirit is breaking down. It will not do, I tell you. At the McIver
factory it is all very different. It will be easy there. The workingmen
show the proper spirit--they will be ready when I give the word. But I
am not pleased with the situation in this Mill of Adam Ward's. This
fine friendship between the son of the owner and the son of the workman
must stop. Friendship--bah!--it is a pretense, a sham, a trick."

The man's manner, when he thus passed judgment upon the comradeship of
John and Charlie, was that of an absolute monarch who was righteously
annoyed at some manifestation of disloyalty among his subjects. His
voice was harsh with the authority of one whose mandates are not to be
questioned. His countenance was dark with scowling displeasure.

"And you, too, my friend," he went on, glaring from under his black
brows at the old man in the wheel chair, "you will be wise if you
accept my suggestion and be a little careful yourself. It is not so
bad, perhaps, this young woman coming to see you, but I am told that
her brother also comes to visit with the Interpreter. And this leader
of the Mill workers' union, Charlie Martin, he comes, too. Everybody
says you are the best friend of the working people. But I tell you
there cannot be friendship between the employer class and the laboring
class--it must be between them always war. So, Mr. Interpreter, you
must look out. The time is not far when the people of Millsburgh will
know for sure who is a friend to the labor class and who is a friend to
the employer class."

The Interpreter received this warning from Jake Vodell exactly as he
had listened to Bobby Whaley's boyish talk about blowing up the castle
of Adam Ward on the hill.

Rising abruptly, the agitator, without so much as a by-your-leave, went
into the house where he proceeded to examine the books and periodicals
on the table. Billy started from his place to follow, but the
Interpreter shook his head forbiddingly, and while Jake Vodell passed
on to the farther corner of the room and stood looking over the well
filled shelves of the Interpreter's library, the old basket maker
talked to his companion in their silent language.

When this foreign defender of the rights of the American laboring class
returned to the porch he was smiling approval. "Good!" he said. "You
are all right, I think. No man could read the papers and books that you
have there, and not be the friend of freedom and a champion of the
people against their capitalist masters. We will have a great victory
for the Cause in Millsburgh, comrade. You shall see. It is too bad that
you do not have your legs so that you could take an active part with me
in the work that I will do."

The Interpreter smiled. "If you do not mind, I would like to know
something of your plans. That is," he added, courteously, "so far as
you are at liberty to tell me."

"Certainly I will tell you, comrade," returned the other, heartily.
"Who can say--it may be that you will be of some small use to me after
all." His eyes narrowed slyly. "It may be that for these Mill owners to
come to you here in your little hut is perhaps not so bad when we think
about it a little more, heh? The daughter of Adam Ward might be led to
say many foolish little things that to a clever man like you would be
understood. Even the brother, the manager of the Mill--well, I have
known men like him to talk of themselves and their plans rather freely
at times when they thought there was no harm. And what possible harm
could there be in a poor crippled old basket maker like you, heh?" The
man laughed as though his jest were perfectly understood and
appreciated by his host--as, indeed, it was.

"But about my plans for this campaign in Millsburgh," he went on. "You
know the great brotherhood that I represent and you are familiar with
their teachings of course." He gestured comprehensively toward the
Interpreter's library.

The man in the wheel chair silently nodded assent.

Jake Vodell continued. "I am come to Millsburgh, as I go everywhere, in
the interests of our Cause. It is my experience that I can always work
best through the unions."

The Interpreter interrupted. "Oh, one of our Millsburgh unions sent for
you then? I did not know."

The agitator shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "No--no--I was not
sent for. I was sent. I am here because it was reported that there was
a good opportunity to advance the Cause. No union brings me. I come to
the unions, to work with them for the freedom of the laboring class."

"And of what union are you a member, sir?" asked the Interpreter.

"Me! Ha! I am not a member of any of your silly American unions! I
belong to that greater union, if you please, which embraces them all.
But your unions know and receive me as a leader because of the work
that I do for all. Our Cause is the cause of the working people of
America, as it is the cause of the laboring classes in England, and
France, and Russia, and Germany, and everywhere in the world."

Again the old basket maker bowed his silent assent.

"You have, in this place," continued the agitator, "one strong union of
the Mill workers. In the other shops and factories and in the trades it
is like McIver's factory, the men are not so well organized."

Again the Interpreter interrupted. "The working people of Millsburgh,
generally, receive the highest wage paid anywhere in the country, do
they not?"

"Ah, but surely that is not the question, comrade. Surely you
understand that all the laboring people of America must be united in
one brotherhood with all the other countries of the world, so that
they, the producers of wealth, shall be able to take possession of, and
operate, the industries of this country, and finally take this
government away from the capitalist class who are now the real owners
of what you call your 'land of the free and the home of the brave.'
Bah! You fool Americans do not know the first meaning of the word
freedom. You are a nation of slaves. If you were as brave as you sing,
you very soon would be your own masters."

"And your plan for Millsburgh?" asked the Interpreter, calmly.

"It is simple. But for this John Ward and his friendship with Charlie
Martin that so deceives everybody, it will be easy. The first step in
my campaign here will be to call out the employees of McIver's factory
on a strike. I start with McIver's workmen because his well-known
position against the laboring class will make it easy for me to win the
sympathy of the public for the strikers."

"But," said the Interpreter, "the factory union is working under an
agreement with McIver."

The self-appointed savior of the American working people shrugged his
heavy shoulders disdainfully. "That is no matter--it is always easy to
find a grievance. When the factory men have walked out, then will come
the sympathetic strike of your strong Mill workers' union. All the
other labor organizations will be forced to join us, whether they wish
to or not. I shall have all Millsburgh so that not a wheel can turn
anywhere. The mills--the factories--the builders--the bakeries--
everything will be in our hands and then, my comrade, then!"

The man rose to his feet and stood looking out over the life that lay
within view from the Interpreter's balcony-porch, as if possessed with
the magnitude of the power that would be his when this American
community should be given into his hand.

Silent, watchful Billy stirred uneasily.

The Interpreter, touching his companion's arm, shook his head.

Jake Vodell, deep in his ambitious dream, did not notice. "The time is
coming, comrade," he said, "and it is nearer than the fool Americans
think, when the labor class will rise in their might and take what is
theirs. My campaign here in Millsburgh, you must know, is only one of
the hundreds of little fires that we are lighting all over this
country. The American people, they are asleep. They have drugged
themselves with their own talk of how safe and strong and prosperous
they are. Bah! There is no people so easy to fool. They think we strike
for recognition of some union, or that it is for higher wages, or some
other local grievance. Bah! We use for an excuse anything that will
give us a hold on the labor class. These silly unions, they are nothing
in themselves. But we--_we_ can use them in the Cause. And so
everywhere--North, South, East, West--we light our little fires. And
when we are ready--Boom! One big blaze will come so quick from all
points at once that it will sweep the country before the sleeping fools
wake up. And then--then, comrade, you shall see what will happen to
your capitalist vultures and your employer swine, who have so long
grown fat on the strength of the working class."

A moment longer he stood as if lost in the contemplation of the glory
of that day, when, in the triumph of his leadership, the people of the
nation he so despised and hated would rise in bloody revolution against
their own government and accept in its stead the dictatorship of
lawless aliens who profess allegiance to no one but their own godless
selves.

Then he turned back to the Interpreter with a command, "You, comrade,
shall keep me informed, heh? From these people of our enemy class who
come here to your hut, you will learn the things I will want to know. I
shall come to you from time to time, but not too often. But, you must
see that your watchdog there has better manners for me, heh?" He
laughed and was gone.


At the club that evening, Jim McIver sat with a group of men discussing
the industrial situation.

"They're fixing for a fight all right," said one. "What do you think,
Jim?"

The factory owner answered, "They can have a fight any time they want
it. Nothing but a period of starvation will ever put the laboring class
back where it belongs and the sooner we get it over the better it will
be for business conditions all around."


In the twilight dust and grime of the Flats, a woman sat on the
doorstep of a wretched house. Her rounded shoulders slouched
wearily--her tired hands were folded in her lap. She stared with dull,
listless eyes at the squalid homes of her neighbors across the street.
The Interpreter had described the woman to Helen--"a girl with fine
instincts for the best things of life and a capacity for great
happiness."


In a room back of a pool hall of ill-repute, the man Jake Vodell sat in
conference with three others of his brotherhood. A peculiar knock
sounded at the door. Vodell drew the bolt. Sam Whaley entered. "My kids
told me you wanted me," said the workman. Long into the night, on the
balcony porch of the hut on the cliff, John Ward and Captain Charlie
Martin talked with the Interpreter. As they talked, they watched the
lights of the Mill, the Flats, the business streets, and the homes.




CHAPTER IX

THE MILL


It was pay day at the Mill.

No one, unless he, at some period in his life, has been absolutely
dependent upon the wages of his daily toil, can appreciate a pay day.
To experience properly the thrill of a pay day one must have no other
source of income. The pay check must be the only barrier between one
and actual hunger. Bobby and Maggie Whaley knew the full meaning of pay
day. Their mother measured life itself by that event.

Throughout the great industrial hive that morning there was an
electrical thrill of anticipation. Smiles were more frequent; jests
were passed with greater zest; men moved with a freer step, a more
joyous swing. The very machinery seemed in some incomprehensible way to
be animated with the spirit of the workmen, while the droning, humming,
roaring voice of the Mill was unquestionably keyed to a happier note.
In the offices among the bookkeepers, clerks, stenographers and the
department heads, the same brightening of the atmosphere was
noticeable. Nor was the spirit of the event confined to the Mill
itself; throughout the entire city--in the stores and banks, the post
office, the places of amusement, in the homes on the hillside and in
the Flats--pay day at the Mill was the day of days.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.