Book: Helen of the Old House

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




It was an hour, perhaps, after the whistle had started the big plant
for the afternoon.

John Ward was deep in the consideration of some business of moment with
the superintendent, George Parsons--a sturdy, square-jawed,
steady-eyed, middle-aged man, who had come up from the ranks by the
sheer force of his natural ability.

* * * * *

There is nothing at all unusual about John Ward. He is simply a good
specimen of the more intelligent class of our young American manhood,
with, it might be, a more than average mind for business, which he had
inherited from his father. He is, in short, a fair type of the healthy,
clean-living, straight-thinking, broad-gauged, big-hearted young
citizen such as one may find by the hundreds of thousands in the many
fields of our national activities. In our arts and industries, in our
banks and commercial houses, in our factories and newspapers, on our
farms and in our professions, in our educational institutions, among
our writers and scientists, in our great transportation organizations,
and in the business of our government, our John Wards are to be found,
ready to take the places left to them by the passing of their fathers.

Since his return from the war, the young man had devoted himself with
the enthusiasm of a great purpose to a practical study of his father's
big industrial plant. Adam still held the general management, but his
son knew that the time must come when the responsibility of that
position would fall to him.

With John's inherited executive ability and his comradeship, plus the
driving force of his fixed and determined purpose, it was not strange
that he so quickly gained the loyal support and cooperation of his
father's long-trained assistants. His even-tempered friendliness and
ready recognition of his dependence upon his fellow workers won their
love. His industry, his clear-headed, open-minded consideration of the
daily problems presented, with his quick grasp of essential details,
commanded their admiring respect. Under the circumstance of his
father's nervous trouble and the consequent enforced absence of Adam
from his office for more and more frequent periods, it was inevitable
that John, by common, if silent, consent of the executive heads, should
be advanced more and more toward the general manager's desk.

The superintendent, gathering up his blue prints and memoranda, arose.
"And will that be all, sir?" he asked, with a smile.

Nearly every one smiled when he finished an interview with Adam Ward's
son; probably because John himself nearly always smiled when he ended a
consultation or gave an order.

"That's all from my side, George," he said, leaning back in his chair
and looking up at the superintendent in his open, straightforward way
that so surely invited confidence and trust. "Have you anything else on
your mind?"

"Nary a thing, John," returned the older man, and with a parting "so
long" he started toward the door that opened into the Mill.

With that smile of genuine affection still lingering on his face, John
watched the sturdy back of the old superintendent as if, for the
moment, his thoughts had swung from George Parsons' work to George
Parsons himself.

The superintendent opened the door and was about to step out when he
stopped suddenly and with a quick, decided movement drew back into the
room and closed the door again. To the young man in the other end of
the big office it looked as though the superintendent had seen
something that startled him. Another moment and George was again
bending over John's desk.

"The old man is out there, John."

"What! Father! Why I had no idea that he was coming down to-day." A
look of anxiety came into the frank gray eyes. "He has not been so well
lately, George. I wonder why he didn't come to the office first as
usual."

"He sometimes slips in back that way, you know," returned the
superintendent.

"He really ought not to be here," said the young man. "I wish--" He
hesitated.

"He's generally in a state of mind when he comes in like that," said
George. "You're not needing a goat, are you, boy?"

John smiled. "There's not a thing wrong in the plant so far as I know,
George."

"I don't know of anything either," returned the other, "but we may not
know all the way. There's one thing sure, the old man ought not to be
wandering through the works alone. There's some of those rough-necks
would--well it's too darned easy, sometimes, for accidents to happen,
do you see? I'll rustle out there and stick around convenient like.
You'd better stay where you are as if you didn't know he was on the
job. And remember, son, if you _should_ need a goat, I'm qualified. If
anything has happened--whether it has or he only thinks it has--just
you blame it on to old George. I'll understand."


The work was at the height of its swing when burly Max Gardner paused a
second to straighten his back and wipe the sweat from his sooty face.
As he stooped again to his heavy task, he said to his mates in a voice
that rumbled up from the depths of his naked, hairy chest, "Get a gate
on y'--get a gate on y'--y' rough-necks. 'Tis th' boss that's a-lookin'
'round to see who he'll be tyin' th' can to next."

The men laughed.

"There's one thing sure," said Bill Connley, who looked as though his
body were built of rawhide stretched over a framework of steel, "when
John Ward ties the can to a man, that man knows what 'tis for. When he
give Jim Billings his time last week, he says to him, says he, 'Jim,
I'm sorry for y'. Not because I'm fir'in' y',' says he, 'but because
y're such a loafer that y're no good to yerself nor to anybody
else--y're a disgrace to the Mill,' says he, 'and to every honest
working man in it.' An' Jim, he never give a word back--just hung his
head an' got out of sight like a dog with his tail between his legs
after a good swift kick."

"An' th' young boss was right at that," commented sturdy Soot Walters.
"Jim was a good man when he was new on the job, but since he got the
wrinkles out of his belly, he's been killin' more time than any three
men in the works."

"Pass me that pinch bar, Bill," called Dick Grant from the other side.
As he reached for the tool, his glance took in the figure that had
caught the eye of big Max. "Holy Mike!" he exclaimed, "'tis the old man
himself."

Every man in the group except Max turned his face toward Adam Ward, who
stood some distance away, and a very different tone marked the voice of
Bill Connley as he said, "Now what d'ye think brings that danged old
pirate here to look us over this day?"

"Who the devil cares?" growled Scot, as, with an air of sullen
indifference, they turned again to their work.

* * * * *

No one seeing the Mill owner as he viewed his possessions that day
could have believed that this was the wretched creature that Helen had
watched from the arbor. Away from the scenes of his business life Adam
Ward was like some poor, nervous, half-insane victim of the drug habit.
At the Mill, he was that same drug fiend under the influence of his
"dope."

His manner was calm and steady, with no sign of nervousness or lack of
control. His gray face--which, in a way, was the face of a
student--gave no hint of the thoughts and emotions that stirred within
him. As he looked about the great industrial institution to which he
had given himself, body, mind and soul, all the best years of his life,
his countenance was as expressionless as the very machines of iron and
steel and wood among which he moved--a silent, lonely, brooding spirit.
No glow of worthy pride in the work of his manhood, no gleam of
friendly comradeship for his fellow workmen, no joy of his kinship with
the great humanity that was here personified shone in his eyes or
animated his presence. Cold and calculating, he looked upon the human
element in the Mill exactly as he looked upon the machinery. Men cost
him a certain definite sum of dollars; they must be made to return to
him a certain increase in definite dollars on that cost. The living
bodies, minds, and souls that, moving here and there in the haze of
smoke and steam and dust, vitalized the inanimate machinery and gave
life and intelligent purpose to the whole, were no more to him than one
of his adding machines in the office that, mechanically obedient to his
touch, footed up long columns of dollars and cents. It is not strange
that the humanity of the Mill should respond to the spirit of its owner
with the spirit of his adding machines and give to him his totals of
dollars and cents--with nothing more.

Quickly the feeling of Adam Ward's presence spread throughout the busy
plant. Smiling faces grew grim and sullen. In the place of good-natured
jest and cheerful laugh there were muttered curses and contemptuous
epithets. The very atmosphere seemed charged with antagonism and
rebellious hatred.

"Wad ye look at it?" said one. "And they tell me that white-faced old
devil used to work along side of Pete and the Interpreter at that same
bench where Pete's a-workin' yet."

"He did that," said another. "I was a kid in the Mill at the time;
'twas before he got hold of his new process."

"Pete Martin is a better man than Adam Ward ever was or will be at
that--process or no process," said a third, while every man within
hearing endorsed the sentiment with a hearty word, an oath or a pointed
comment.

"But the young boss is a different sort, though," came from the first
speaker.

"He is that!"

"The boy's all right."

"John's a good man."

A workman with a weak face and shifty eyes paused in passing to say,
"You'll find out how different the boy is onct he's put to the test.
He's the same breed, an' it's just like Jake Vodell said last night,
there ain't one of the greedy capitalist class that wouldn't nail a
laboring man to the cross of their damnable system of slavery if they
dast."

A silence fell over the group.

Then a dry voice drawled, "Jake Vodell ain't never overworked himself
as anybody knows of, has he? As for you, Sam Whaley, I'm thinkin' it
would take somethin' more than a crucifyin' to get much profit out of
you, the way you mooch around."

There was a general laugh at this and Sam Whaley went on his weak way
to do whatever it was that he was supposed to be doing.

"Sam's all right, Bob," said one who had laughed. "His heart is in the
right place."

"Sure he is," agreed Bob. "But I sometimes can't help thinkin', just
the same, that if I was a-ownin' and a-workin' slaves, I'd consider him
a mighty poor piece of property."


When Adam Ward entered the office, some time later, he walked straight
to his son's desk, without so much as a glance or a nod of recognition
toward any other soul in the big room.

"I want to talk with you, John," he said, grimly, and passed on into
his private office.

The closing of the door of that sacred inner room behind John was the
signal for a buzz of excited comments.

"Lordy," gasped a stenographer to her nearest neighbor, "but I'm sorry
for poor young Mr. Ward--did you see the old man's face?"

The half-whispered remark expressed, with fair accuracy, the general
sentiment of the entire force.

Adam Ward did not sit down at his desk, but going to a window he stood
looking out as though deep in thought.

"Father," said John, at last, "what is it? Has anything happened?"

Adam turned slowly, and it was evident that he was holding his
self-control by a supreme effort of will. "I have made up my mind to
quit," he said. "From to-day on you will take my place and assume my
responsibilities in the Mill."

"I am glad, father," said John, simply, "You really should be free from
all business cares. As for my taking your place in the Mill," he
smiled, "no one could ever do that, father."

"You have full control and absolute authority from to-day on," returned
Adam. "I shall never put my foot inside the doors of the plant or the
office again."

"But, father!" cried John. "There is no need for you to--"

Adam interrupted him with an imperious gesture. "There is no use
arguing about it," he said, coldly. "But there are two or three things
that I want to tell you--that I think you ought to know. You can take
them from me or not, as you please. My ideas and policies that made
this institution what it is to-day will probably be thrown aside as so
much worthless junk, but I am going to give you a word or two of
warning just the same."

John knew that when his father was in this mood there was nothing to do
but to keep silent. But the expression of the old Mill owner's face
filled his son's heart with pity, and the boy could not refrain from
saying, "I am sorry you feel that way about it, father, because really
you are all wrong. Can't we sit down and talk it over comfortably?"

"I prefer to stand," returned Adam. "I can say all I have to say in a
few words. I am retiring because I know, now, after"--he
hesitated--"after the last two nights, that I must. I am turning the
Mill over to you because I would rather burn it to the ground than see
it in the hands of any one outside the family. I believe, too, that the
only way to get the wild, idiotic ideas of that old fool basket maker
out of your head is to make you personally responsible for the success
or failure of this business. I have watched you long enough to know
that you have the ability to handle it, and I am convinced that once
you realize how much money you can make, you will drop all your
sentimental nonsense and get your feet on solid ground."

John Ward's cheeks flushed, but he made no reply to his father's
pointed observations.

"I had those same romantic notions about work and business myself when
I was your age," continued Adam, "but experience taught me better.
Experience will teach you." He paused and went to stand at the window
again.

John waited.

Presently Adam faced about once more. "I suppose you have noticed that
McIver is greatly interested in your sister Helen?"

"I imagined so," returned John, soberly. "Well, he is. He wants to
marry her. If she will only be sensible and see it right, it is a
wonderful opportunity for us. McIver made over a million out of the
war. His factory is next to this in size and importance and it is so
closely related to the Mill that a combination of the two industries,
with the control of the new process, would give you a tremendous
advantage. You could practically put all competitors out of business.
McIver has approached me several times on the proposition but I have
been holding off, hoping that Helen would accept him, so that their
marriage would tie the thing up that much tighter. You and McIver, with
the family relation established by Helen, would make a great team." He
hesitated and his face worked with nervous emotion as he added, "There
is something about the new process that--perhaps--you should know--I--"
He stopped abruptly to pace up and down the room in nervous excitement,
as if fighting for the mastery of the emotions aroused by this mention
of his patented property.

As John Ward watched his father and felt the struggle within the man's
secret self, the room seemed suddenly filled with the invisible
presence of that hidden thing. The younger man's eyes filled with tears
and he cried in protest, "Father--father--please don't--"

For a moment Adam Ward faced his son in silence. Then, with a sigh of
relief, he muttered, "It's all right, John; just one of my nervous
attacks. It's gone now."

Changing the subject abruptly, he said, "I must warn you, my boy--keep
away from the Interpreter. Have nothing to do with him; he is
dangerous. And watch out for Pete Martin and Charlie, too. They are all
three together. This agitator, Jake Vodell, is going to make trouble.
He is already getting a start with McIver's men. You have some radicals
right here on your pay roll, but if you stick with McIver and follow
his lead you will come through easily and put these unions where they
belong. That's all, I guess," he finished, wearily. "Call in your
superintendent."

"Just a moment, father," said John Ward, steadily. "It is not fair to
either of us for me to accept the management of the Mill without
telling you that I can't do all that you have suggested."

Adam looked at his son sharply. "And what can't you do?" he demanded.

"I shall never work with McIver in any way," answered John slowly. "You
know what I think of him and his business principles. Helen's interest
in him is her own affair, but I have too great a sense of loyalty to my
country and too much self-respect ever to think of McIver as anything
but a traitor and an enemy."

"And what else?" asked Adam.

"I will not promise to keep away from the Interpreter. I reserve the
right to choose my own friends and business associates, and I will deal
with the employees of the Mill and with the unions without regard to
McIver's policies or any consideration of his interest in any way
whatever."

For a long moment Adam Ward looked at his son who stood so straight and
uncompromisingly soldier-like before him. Suddenly, to John's
amazement, his father laughed. And there was not a little admiration
and pride in the old Mill owner's voice as he said, "I see! In other
words, if you are going to be the boss, you don't propose to have any
strings tied to you."

"Would you, sir?" asked John.

"No, I wouldn't," returned Adam and laughed again. "Well, go ahead.
Have it your own way. I am not afraid for you in the long run. You are
too much like me not to find out where your own interests lie, once you
come squarely up against the situation. I only wanted to help you, but
it looks as though you would have to go through the experience for
yourself. It's all right, son, go to it! Now call George."

When the superintendent entered the private office, Adam Ward said,
briefly, "George, I am turning the Mill over to John here. From to-day
on he is the manager without any strings on him in any way. He has the
entire responsibility and is the only authority. He accounts to no one
but himself. That is all."

Abruptly Adam Ward left the private office. Without even a look toward
the men in the big outer room who had served with him for years, he
passed on out to the street.


When the whistle sounded, John went out into the Mill to stand near the
window where the workmen passing in line received their envelopes.

From every part of the great main building, from the yards and the
several outer sheds and structures they came. From furnace and engine
and bench and machine they made their way toward that given point as
scattered particles of steel filings are drawn toward a magnet. The
converging paths of individuals touched, and two walked side by side.
Other individuals joined the two and as quickly trios and quartets came
together to form groups that united with other similar groups; while
from the mass thus assembled, the thin line was formed that extended
past the pay clerk's window and linked the Mill to the outer world.

In that eager throng of toilers Adam Ward's son saw men of almost every
race: Scotchmen greeted Norwegians; men from Ireland exchanged friendly
jests with men from Italy; sons of England laughed with the sons of
France; Danes touched elbows with Dutchmen; and men from Poland stood
shoulder to shoulder with men whose fathers fought with Washington. And
every man was marked alike with the emblems of a common
brotherhood--the brotherhood of work. Their faces were colored with the
good color of their toil--with the smoke of their furnaces, and the
grime of their engines, and the oil from their machines mixed with the
sweat of their own bodies. Their clothing was uniform with the insignia
of their united endeavor. And to the newly appointed manager of the
Mill, these men of every nation were comrades in a common cause,
spending the strength of their manhood for common human needs. He saw
that only in the work of the world could the brotherhood of man be
realized; only in the Mill of life's essential industries could the
nations of the earth become as one.

In that gathering of workmen the son of Adam Ward saw men of many
religions, sects and creeds: Christians and pagans; Catholics and
Protestants; men who worshiped the God of Abraham and men who worshiped
no God; followers of strange fanatical spiritualism and followers of a
stranger materialism. And he saw those many shades of human beliefs
blended and harmonized--brought into one comprehensive whole by the
power of the common necessities of human life.

He saw that the unity of the warring religions of the world would not
be accomplished in seminaries of speculative theological thought, but
that in the Mill of life the spiritual brotherhood of all mankind would
be realized. In work, he saw the true worship of a common God whose
vice-regent on earth is humanity itself.

In that pay-day assembly John saw men of middle age to whom the work
into which they daily put the strength of their lives meant nothing
less than the lives of their families. In the families dependent upon
the Mill he saw the life of the nation dependent upon the nation's
industries. As he saw in the line men old and gray and bent with the
toil of many years, he realized how the generation of this day is
indebted for every blessing of life--for life itself, indeed--to these
veterans of the Mill who have given, their years in work that the
nation might, through its industries, live and, in the building up of
its industries, grow strong.

As he watched the men of his own age, he thought how they, too, must
receive the torch from the failing hands of their passing fathers, and
in the Mill prove their manhood's right to carry the fire of their
country's industrial need.

And there were boys on the edge of manhood, who must be, by the Mill,
trained in work for the coming needs of their country; who must indeed
find their very manhood itself in work, or through all their years
remain wards of the people--a burden upon humanity--the weakness of the
nation. For as surely as work is health and strength and honor and
happiness and life, so surely is idleness disease and weakness and
shame and misery and death.

The home builder, the waster, the gambler, the loyal citizen, the
slacker, the honest and dishonest--they were all there at the pay
window of the Mill. And to each the pay envelope meant a different
thing. To big Max the envelope meant an education for his son. To Bill
Connley it meant food and clothing for his brood of children. To young
Scot it meant books for his study. To others it meant medicine or
doctors for sick ones at home. To others it meant dissipation and
dishonor. To all alike those pay envelopes meant Life.

As these men of the Mill passed the son of Adam Ward, there were many
smiling nods and hearty words of greeting. Now and then one would speak
a few words about his work. Others passed a laughing jest. Many who
were his comrades in France gave him the salute of their military
days--half in fun, but with a hint of underlying seriousness that made
the act a recognition of his rank in the industrial army.

And John returned these greetings in the same good spirit of
fellowship. To one it was, "Hello, Tony, how is that new baby at your
house?" To another, whose hand was swathed in a dirty bandage, "Take
care of that hand, Mack; don't get funny with it just because it's well
enough to use again." To another, "How is the wife, Frank, better?
Good, that's fine." Again it was, "You fellows on number six machine
made a record this week." Again, "Who's the hoodoo on number seven
furnace?--four accidents in six days is going some--better look around
for your Jonah." And again, "I heard about that stunt of yours, Bill;
the kid would have been killed sure if you hadn't kept your head and
nerve. It was great work, old man." And to a lad farther down the line,
"You'll know better next time, won't you, son?" But there were some who
passed John Ward with averted faces or downcast eyes. Here and there
there were sneering, vicious glances and low muttered oaths and curses
and threats. Not infrequently the name of Jake Vodell was mentioned
with approved quotations from the agitator's speeches of hatred against
the employer class.

The last of the long line of workmen was approaching the window when
Pete Martin greeted the son of his old bench mate with a smile of
fatherly affection and pride.

"Hello, Uncle Pete," returned John. "Where is Charlie?"

"I'm sure I don't know, John," the old man answered, looking about. "I
supposed he had gone on, I was a little slow myself."

"There he is," said John, as the soldier workman came running from a
distant part of the building.

When Captain Charlie came up to them, his father moved on to the window
so that for a moment the two friends were alone.

"It's come, Charlie," said John, in a low tone. "Father told me and
gave it out to the superintendent to-day."

"Hurrah!" said Charlie Martin, and he would have said more but his
comrade interrupted him.

"Shut up, will you? We must go out to the hill to-morrow for a talk.
I'll come for you early."

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