Comrades: A Story of Social Adventure in California
by Jr. Thomas Dixon · English · Gutenberg #35447 · 378,024 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Comrades: A Story of Social Adventure in California
Author: Jr. Thomas Dixon
Illustrator: C. D. Williams
Release date: March 1, 2011 [eBook #35447]
Language: English
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* * * * *
Comrades
[Illustration]
Thomas Dixon JR.
[Illustration: NORMAN CLASPED HER IN HIS ARMS.]
COMRADES
_A STORY OF SOCIAL ADVENTURE
IN CALIFORNIA_
BY
THOMAS DIXON, Jr.
Illustrated by
C.D. WILLIAMS
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers :: New York
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY THOMAS DIXON, JR.
PUBLISHED, JANUARY, 1909
DEDICATED TO
THE DEAREST LITTLE
GIRL IN THE WORLD, MY DAUGHTER
LOUISE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Woman in Red 3
II. A New Joan of Arc 19
III. The Birth of a Man 31
IV. Among the Shadows 37
V. The Island of Ventura 48
VI. The Red Flag 56
VII. Father and Son 73
VIII. Through the Eyes of Love 85
IX. A Faded Picture 90
X. Son and Father 93
XI. The Way of a Woman 103
XII. A Royal Gift 105
XIII. The Burning of the Bridges 110
XIV. The New World 118
XV. For the Cause 123
XVI. Barbara Chooses a Profession 130
XVII. A Call for Heroes 134
XVIII. A New Aristocracy 151
XIX. Some Troubles in Heaven 166
XX. The Unconventional 181
XXI. A Pair of Cold Gray Eyes 186
XXII. The Fighting Instinct 192
XXIII. The Cords Tighten 207
XXIV. Some Interrogation Points 212
XXV. The Master Hand 224
XXVI. At the Parting of the Ways 235
XXVII. The Fruits of Patience 246
XXVIII. The New Master 257
XXIX. A Test of Strength 269
XXX. A Vision from the Hilltop 274
XXXI. In Love and War 283
XXXII. A Primitive Lover 291
XXXIII. Equality 295
XXXIV. A Brother to the Beast 306
XXXV. Love and Locksmiths 313
XXXVI. The Shining Emblem 318
LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY
_Scene_: California. _Time_: 1898-1901
NORMAN WORTH An Amateur Socialist
COLONEL WORTH His Father
ELENA STOCKTON The Colonel's Ward
HERMAN WOLF A Socialist Leader
CATHERINE His Affinity Wife
BARBARA BOZENTA A New Joan of Arc
METHODIST JOHN A Pauper
TOM MOONEY A Miner
JOHN DIGGS A Truth Seeker
ROLAND ADAIR Bard of Ramcat
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Norman clasped her in his arms" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
"'Lift the flag back to its place!'" 72
Barbara 214
"Wolf grasped her" 292
COMRADES
COMRADES
CHAPTER I
THE WOMAN IN RED
"Fools and fanatics!"
Colonel Worth crumpled the morning paper with a gesture of rage and
walked to the window.
Elena followed softly and laid her hand on his arm.
"What is it, Guardie? I thought you were supremely happy this morning
over the news that Dewey has smashed the Spanish fleet?"
"And so I am, little girl," was the gentle reply, "or was until my eye
fell on this call of the Socialists for a meeting to-night to denounce
the war--denounce the men who are dying for the flag. Read their
summons."
He opened the crumpled sheet and pointed to its head lines:
"Down with the Stars and Stripes--up with the Red Flag of
Revolution--the symbol of universal human brotherhood! Come and bring
your friends. A big surprise for all!" The Colonel's jaws snapped
suddenly.
"I'd like to give them the surprise they need to-night."
"What?" Elena asked.
"A serenade."
"A serenade?"
"Yes, with Mauser rifles and Gatling guns. I'd mow them down as I
would a herd of wild beasts loose in the streets of San Francisco."
"Merely for a difference of opinion, Governor?" lazily broke in a
voice from the depths of a heavy armchair.
"If you want to put it so, Norman, yes. Opinions, my boy, are the
essence of life--they may lead to heaven or hell. Opinions make
cowards or heroes, patriots or traitors, criminals or saints."
"But you believe in free speech?" persisted the boy.
"Yes. And that's more than any Socialist can say. I don't deny their
right to speak their message. What I can't understand is how the
people who have been hounded from the tyrant-ridden countries of the
old world and found shelter and protection beneath our flag should
turn thus to curse the hand that shields them."
"But if they propose to give you a better flag, Governor?" drawled the
lazy voice. "Why not consider?"
"Look, Elena! Did the sun ever shine on anything more beautiful? See
it fluttering from a thousand house-tops--the proud emblem of human
freedom and human progress! Dewey has lifted it this morning on the
foulest slave-pen of the Orient--the flag that has never met defeat.
The one big faith in me is the belief that Almighty God inspired our
fathers to build this Republic--the noblest dream yet conceived by the
mind of man. Dewey has sunk a tyrant fleet and conquered an empire of
slaves without the loss of a single man. The God of our fathers was
with him. We have a message for the swarming millions of the East----"
"Pardon the interruption, Governor, but I must hold the mirror up to
nature just a moment--your portrait sketched by the poet-laureate of
the English-speaking world. He speaks of the American:
"Enslaved, illogical, elate.
He greets the embarrassed gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.
"Lo! imperturbable he rules,
Unkempt, disreputable, vast--
And in the teeth of all the schools
I--I shall save him at the last!"
The Colonel smiled.
"How do you like the picture?"
"Not bad for an Englishman, Norman. You know we licked England
twice----"
"And we kin do it again, b' gosh, can't we?" blustered the younger man
with mock heroics.
"You can bet we can, my son!" continued the Colonel, quietly. "The
roar of Dewey's guns are echoing round the world this morning. The
lesson will not be lost. You will observe that even your English poet
foresees at last our salvation.
"'And in the teeth of all the schools
I--I shall save him at the last!'"
"Even in spite of the Socialists?" queried the boy, with a grin.
"In spite of every foe--even those within our own household. War is
the searchlight of history, the great revealer of national life, of
hidden strength and unexpected weakness. I saw it in the Civil
conflict--I've seen it in this little struggle----"
"Then you do acknowledge it's not the greatest struggle in
history--that's something to be thankful for in these days of
patriotism," exclaimed Norman, rising and stretching himself before
the open fire while he winked mischievously at Elena.
"It's big enough, my boy, to show us the truth about our nation. Our
old problems are no longer real. The Union our fathers dreamed has
come at last. We are one people--one out of many--and we can whip
Spain before breakfast----"
"With one hand tied behind our back!" laughed the boy.
"Yes, and blindfolded. It will be easy. But the next serious job will
be to bury a half million deluded fools in this country who call
themselves Socialists."
The Colonel paused and a look of foreboding clouded his face as he
gazed from the window of his house on Nob Hill over the city of San
Francisco, which he loved with a devotion second only to his
passionate enthusiasm for the Union.
Elena sat watching him in silent sympathy. He was the one perfect man
of her life dreams, the biggest, strongest, tenderest soul she had
ever known. Since the day she crept into his arms a lonely little
orphan ten years old she had worshipped him as father, mother,
guardian, lover, friend--all in one. She had accepted Norman's love
and promised to be his wife more to please his father than from any
overwhelming passion for the handsome, lazy young athlete. It had come
about as a matter of course because Colonel Worth wished it.
The Colonel turned from the window, and his eyes rested on Elena's
upturned face.
"It will be bloody work--but we've got to do it----"
Elena sprang to her feet with a start and a laugh.
"Do what, Guardie? I forgot what you were talking about."
"Then don't worry your pretty head about it, dear. It's a job we men
will look after in due time."
He stooped and kissed her forehead. "By-by until to-night--I'll drop
down to the club and hear the latest from the front."
With the firm, swinging stride of a man who lives in the open the
Colonel passed through the door of the library.
"Norman, I can't realize that you two are father and son--he looks
more like your brother."
"At least my older brother----"
"Yes, of course, but you would never take him for a man of
forty-eight. I like the touch of gray in his hair. It means dignity,
strength, experience. I've always hated sap-headed youngsters."
"Say, Elena, for heaven's sake, who are you in love with anyhow--with
me or the Governor?"
A smile flickered around the corners of the girl's eyes and mouth
before she slowly answered:
"I sometimes think I really love you both, Norman--but there are
times when I have doubts about you."
"Thanks. I suppose I must be duly grateful for small favours, or else
resign myself to call you 'Mother.'"
"Would such a fate be intolerable?"
Elena drew her magnificent figure to its full height and looked into
the young athlete's face with laughing audacity.
"By George, Elena, if I'm honest with you, I'd have to say no. You are
tall, stately, dignified, beautiful from the crown of your black hair
to the tip of your dainty toe--the most stunning-looking woman I ever
saw. I never think of you as a girl just out of school. You always
remind me of a glorious royal figure in some old romance of the Middle
Ages----"
"Now I'm sure I love you, Norman--for the moment at least."
"Then promise to go with me on a lark to-night," he suddenly cried.
"A lark?"
Elena's gray-blue eyes danced beneath their black lashes.
"Yes, a real lark, daring, adventurous, dangerous, audacious."
"What is it--what is it? Tell me quick."
The girl seized Norman's arm with eager, childish glee.
"Let's go to that Socialist meeting and beard the lion in his den."
Elena drew back.
"No. Guardie will be furious!"
"Ah, who's afraid? Guardie be hanged!"
"Go by yourself."
"No, you've got to go with me."
"I won't do it. You just want to worry your father and then hide
behind my skirts."
"You can see yourself that's the easiest way to manage it. If he has a
fit, I can just say that your curiosity was excited and I had to go
with you."
"But it's not excited."
"For the purposes of the lark I tell you that it is excited. There's
too much patriotism in the air. It's giving me nervous prostration. I
want something to brace me up. I think those fellows can give me some
good points to tease the Governor with."
"Tease the Governor! You flatter yourself, Norman. He doesn't pay any
more attention to your talk than he would to the bark of a six weeks'
old puppy."
"That's what riles me. The Governor's so cocksure of himself. I don't
know how to answer him, but I know he's wrong. The fury with which he
hates the Socialists rouses my curiosity. I've always found that the
good things in life are forbidden. All respectable people are
positively forbidden to attend a Socialist--traitors'--meeting. For
that reason let's go."
"No."
"Ah, come on. Don't be a chump. Be a sport!"
"I'd like the lark, but I won't hurt Guardie's feelings; so that's the
end of it."
"Going to be a surprise, they say."
"What kind of a surprise?"
"Going to spring a big sensation."
Elena's eyes began to dance again.
"The woman called the Scarlet Nun is going to speak, and Herman Wolf,
the famous 'blond beast' of Socialism, will preside. They are
mates--affinities."
"Married?"
"God knows. A hundred weird stories about them circulate in the
under-world."
"I won't go! Don't you say another word!" Elena snapped.
Norman was silent.
"Are you sure it would be perfectly safe, Norman?" the girl softly
asked.
"Perfectly. I know every inch of that quarter of the city--went there
a hundred times the year I was a reporter."
"I won't go!"
"It's the wickedest street in town. They say it's the worst block in
America."
"I don't want to see it." Elena laughed.
"And the hall is a famous red-light dancing dive in the heart of
Hell's Half Acre."
"Hush! Hush! I tell you I won't--_I won't_ go! But--but if I _do_--you
promise to hold my hand every minute, Norman?"
"And keep my arm around your waist, if you like."
Elena's cheeks flushed and her voice quivered with excitement as she
paused in the doorway.
"I'll be ready in twenty minutes after dinner."
"Bully for my chum! I'll tell the Governor we've gone for a stroll."
As the shadows slowly fell over the city, Norman led Elena down the
marble steps of his father's palatial home and paused for a moment on
the edge of the hill on which were perched the seats of the mighty.
Elena fumbled with a new glove.
"Are you ready to descend with me to the depths, my princess in
disguise?" he gaily asked.
"Did you ever know me to flunk when I gave my word?"
"No, you're a brick, Elena."
Norman seized her arm and strode down the steep hillside with sure,
firm step, the girl accompanying his every movement with responsive
joy.
"You're awfully wicked to get me into a scrape of this kind, Norman,"
she cried, with bantering laughter. "You know I was dying to go
slumming, and Guardie wouldn't let me. It's awfully mean of you to
take advantage of me like this."
He stopped suddenly and looked gravely into her flushed face.
"Let's go back, then."
"No! I won't."
Norman broke into a laugh. "Then away with vain regrets! And remember
the fate of Lot's wife."
Elena pressed his hand close to her side and whispered:
"You are with me. The big handsome captain of last year's football
team. Very young and very vain and very foolish and very lazy--but I
do think you'd stand by me in a scrap, Norman. Wouldn't you?"
"Well, I rather think!" was the deep answer, half whispered, as they
suddenly turned a corner and plunged into the red-light district. His
strong hand gripped her wrist with unusual tenderness.
"So who's afraid?" she cried, looking up into his face just as a
drunken blear-eyed woman staggered through an open door and lurched
against her.
A low scream of terror came from Elena as she sprang back, and the
woman's head struck the pavement with a dull whack. Norman bent over
her and started to lift the heavy figure, when her fist suddenly shot
into his face.
"Go ter hell--I can take care o' myself!"
"Evidently," he laughed.
Elena's hand suddenly gripped his.
"Let's go back, Norman."
"Nonsense--who's afraid?"
"I am. I don't mind saying it. This is more than I bargained for."
The woman scrambled to her feet and limped back into the doorway.
Elena shivered. "I didn't know such women lived on this earth."
"To say nothing of living but a stone's throw from your own door," he
continued.
"Let's go back," she pleaded.
"No. A thing like this is merely one more reason why we should keep
on. This only shows that the world we live in isn't quite perfect, as
the Governor seems to think. These Socialists may be right after all.
Now that we've started let's hear their side of it. Come on! Don't be
a quitter!"
Norman seized her arm and hurried through the swiftly moving throng of
the under-world--gambling touts, thieves, cut-throats, pick-pockets,
opium fiends, drunkards, thugs, carousing miners, and sailors--but
above all, everywhere, omnipresent, the abandoned woman--painted,
bedizened, lurching through the streets, hanging in doorways, clinging
to men on the sidewalks, beckoning from windows, singing vulgar songs
on crude platforms among throngs of half-drunken men, whirling past
doors and windows in dance-halls, their cracked voices shrill and
rasping above the din of cheap music.
Elena stopped suddenly and clung heavily to Norman's arm.
"Please, Norman, let's go back. I can't endure this."
"And you're my chum that never flunked when she gave her word?" he
asked with scorn. "We are only a few feet from the hall now."
"Where is it?"
"Right there in the middle of the block where you see that sign with
the blazing red torch."
"Come on, then," Elena said, with a shudder.
They walked quickly through the long, dimly lighted passage to the
entrance of the hall. It was densely packed with a crowd of five
hundred. Elena closed her eyes and allowed Norman to lead her through
the mob that blocked the space inside the door. At the entrance to the
centre aisle he encountered an usher who stared with bulging eyes at
his towering figure. Norman leaned close and whispered:
"My boy, can you possibly get us two seats?"
"Can I git de captain er de football team two seats? Well, des watch
me!"
The boy darted up the aisle, dived under the platform, drew out two
folding-chairs, placed them in the aisle on the front row, darted
back, and bowed with grave courtesy.
"Dis way, sir!"
Norman followed with Elena clinging timidly and blindly to his arm. In
a moment they were seated. He offered the boy a dollar.
The youngster bowed again.
"De honour is all mine, sir. But you can give it to the Cause when
they pass the box."
Norman turned to Elena. "Well, doesn't that jar you? A
sixteen-year-old boy declines a tip, and says give it to the Cause!"
The boy darted up the steps of the platform and whispered to the
chairman:
"Git on to his curves! Dat's de captain o' de football--de bloke dat's
worth millions, an' don't give a doggone!"
A woman dressed in deep red who sat beside the chairman leaned close
and asked with quiet intensity:
"You mean young Worth, the millionaire of Nob Hill?"
"Bet yer life! Dat's him!"
The woman in red whispered to the chairman, who nodded, while his keen
gray eyes flashed a ray of light from his heavy brows as he turned
toward Norman.
The woman wheeled suddenly in her chair, and with her back to the
audience bent over a girl who was evidently hiding behind her.
"Outdo yourself to-night, Barbara. Young Norman Worth, the son of our
multi-millionaire nabob, is sitting in the aisle just in front of you.
Win him for the Cause and I'll give you the half of our kingdom."
"How can I know him?" the girl asked excitedly.
"He's not ten feet from the platform in the centre aisle--front
row--clean shaven--a young giant of twenty-three--the handsomest man
in the house. Put your soul _and_ your body in every word you utter,
every breath you breathe--and _win_ him!"
"I'll try," was the low reply.
CHAPTER II
A NEW JOAN OF ARC
The woman in scarlet rose, lifted her hand, and the crowd sprang to
their feet to the music of the most stirring song of revolution ever
written.
Norman and Elena were both swept from their seats in spite of
themselves. Elena's eyes flashed with excitement.
"What on earth is that they are singing, Norman?" she whispered.
"The Marseillaise hymn."
"Isn't it thrilling?" she gasped.
"It makes your heart leap, doesn't it?"
"And, heavens, how they sing it!" she exclaimed.
Norman turned and looked over the crowd of eager faces--every man and
woman singing with the passionate enthusiasm of religious fanatics--an
enthusiasm electric, contagious, overwhelming. In spite of himself he
felt his heart beat with quickened sympathy.
He was amazed at the character of the audience. He had expected to see
a throng of low-browed brutes. The first shock he received was the
feeling that this crowd was distinctly an intellectual one. They might
be fanatics. They certainly were not fools. The stamp of personality
was clean cut on almost every face. They were fighters. They meant
business and they didn't care who knew it. Some of them wore dirty
clothes, but their faces were stamped with the power of free,
rebellious thought--a power that always commands respect in spite of
shabby clothes. He looked in vain for a single joyous face. Not a
smile. Deep, dark eyes, shining with the light of purpose, mouths
firm, headstrong, merciless, and bitter, but nowhere the glimmer of a
ray of sunlight! He felt with a sense of awe the uncanny presence of
Tragedy.
And to his amazement he noticed a lot of men he knew in the
crowd--three or four authors, a newspaper reporter evidently off duty,
two college professors, a clergyman, three artists, a priest, and a
street preacher.
The hymn died away into a low sigh, like the sob of the wind after a
storm. The crowd sank to their seats so quietly with the dying of the
music that Norman and Elena were standing alone for an instant. They
awoke from the spell, and dropped into their seats with evident
embarrassment.
A boy of sixteen stepped briskly to the front in answer to a nod from
the chairman, and recited a Socialist poem. After the first stanza,
which was crude and stilted, Norman's eye rested on the heavy figure
of the chairman. He was surprised at the power of his rugged face.
Through its brute strength flashed the keenest sense of alert
intelligence--an intelligence which seemed to lurk behind the big,
shaggy eyebrows as if about to spring on its victim. His heavy-set
face was covered with a thick, reddish blond beard and his short hair
stood up straight on his head, like the bristles of a wild boar. Of
medium height and heavy build, with arms and legs of extraordinary
muscle and big, coarse short fingers evidently gnarled and knotted, by
the coarsest labor in youth, he looked like a blacksmith who had taken
a college course by the light of his forge at night. There was
something about the way he sat crouching low in his seat, watching
with his keen gray eyes everything that passed, that bespoke the man
of reserve power--the man who was quietly waiting his hour.
"By George, a pretty good pet name they've given him--'The Blond
Beast,'" Norman muttered. "I shouldn't like to tackle him in the
dark."
The woman in red leaned toward the chairman and said something in low
tones. He nodded his massive head, smiled, and looked back over his
shoulder at the girl sitting behind them. The movement showed for the
first time a long ugly scar on the side of his great neck.
"Look at that fellow's neck!" whispered Elena.
"Yes. He had a close call that time," Norman answered. "But I'll bet
the other one never lived to tell the story----"
"Sh! 'The Scarlet Nun' is going to speak."
The woman in red rose and walked to the edge of the platform. She
stood silent for a moment, her tall, graceful, willowy figure erect
and tense. The crowd burst into a tumult of applause. She smiled,
bowed, and lifted her slender hand with a quick, imperious gesture for
silence.
Norman was struck by the note of religious fervour which her whole
personality seemed to radiate. The peculiar scarlet robe she wore
accented this impression perhaps, and its strangeness added a touch of
awe. The dress gave one the impression of a nun's garb except that its
long folds were so arranged that they revealed rather than concealed
the beautiful lines of her graceful figure. The colour was the deep,
warm red of the Socialist flag--the colour of human blood, chosen as
the symbol of the universal brotherhood of man. The effect of a nun's
cowl was given by a thin scarlet mantilla thrown over the head, the
silken meshes of its long fringe mingling with the waves of her thick
black hair. Her face was that of a madonna of the slender type,
except that the lips were too full, round, and sensuous and her long
eyelashes drooped slightly over dark, lustrous eyes.
"Comrades," she began, in slow, measured tones, "after to-night I
retire from the platform to take up work for which I am better fitted.
I promised you a big surprise this evening, and you shall not be
disappointed----"
A murmur rippled the audience and she paused, smiling into Norman's
face with a curious look. She spoke with a decided foreign accent with
little moments of coquettish hesitation as though feeling for words.
Norman felt an almost irresistible impulse to help her.
"I am going to in-tro-duce to you to-night," she continued, "a new
leader, whose tongue the God of the poor and the outcast and the
dis-in-herited has touched with divine fire. She is no stran-ger.
Twenty years ago she was born beneath the bright skies of
Cal-i-for-nia at Anaheim, in the little Socialist colony of Polish
dreamers led by Madame Modjeska, Count Bozenta, and Henry Sienkiewicz,
the distin-guished author of 'Quo Vadis.' As you know, the colony
failed. Her mother died in poverty and she was placed in an orphan
asylum until eight years of age, when she was taken back to Poland by
her foolish kins-men. Four years later I found her, a ragged,
homeless waif, in the streets of Warsaw, alone and star-ving. Since
then she has been mine. Amid the squalor and misery of the old world
her busy little tongue never tired telling of the glories of
Cali-for-nia! Always she sighed for its groves of oranges and olives,
its dazzling flowers, its luscious grapes, its rich valleys, its
cloud-kissed, snow-clad mountains and the mur-mur of its mighty seas!
It was her tiny hand that led me across the ocean to you. I have sent
her to school in one of your Western colleges where a great Socialist
professor has taught her history and e-con-omics. I have the high
honour, comrades, of intro-ducing to you the child of genius who from
to-night will be the Joan of Arc of our Cause, Comrade Barbara
Bozenta!"
She quickly turned and drew forward a trembling slip of a girl whose
big brown eyes were swimming in tears of excitement. A moment of
intense silence, and the crowd burst into cheers as the dazzling
beauty of their new champion slowly dawned on their understanding. The
woman in red resumed her seat, and the girl stood bowing, trembling,
and smiling.
The young athlete watched her keenly. Never had he seen such a bundle
of quivering, pulsing, nervous, ravishing beauty. He could have sworn
he saw electric sparks flash from the tips of every eyelash, from
every strand of the mass of brown curls that circled her face and fell
in rich profusion on her shoulders and across her heaving bosom. He
felt before she had uttered a word--felt, rather than saw--the
remarkable effectiveness of the simple, girlish dress which enhanced
her dark beauty. She wore the same deep red as the older woman, but
the bottom of the skirt was relieved by a row of ruffles edged with
white lace. A scarf of white embroidered at the ends with scarlet
flowers, was thrown gracefully around her shoulders and hung below the
knees. Her round young arms were bare to the elbows, her throat and
neck bare to the upper edge of the full bust.
The girl's eyes sought Norman's for an imperceptible instant and a
smile flashed from her trembling lips. The cheering ceased and she
began to speak. He watched her with breathless intensity, and listened
with steadily increasing fascination. Her voice at first was low, yet
every word fell clear and distinct. Never had he heard a voice so
tender and full of expressive feeling--soft and mellow, sweet like the
notes of a flute. There was something in its tone quality that
compelled sympathy, that stole into the inner depths of the soul of
the listener, and led reason a willing captive.
In simple yet burning words she told of the darkness and poverty, the
crime and shame, hunger and cruelty of the old world in which she had
spent four years of her childhood. And then in a flight of poetic
eloquence, came the story of her dreams of California, the Golden
West, the land of eternal sunshine and flowers. And then, in a voice
quivering and choking with emotion, she drew the picture of what she
found--of Hell's Half Acre, in which she stood, with its brazen vice,
its crime, its hopeless misery, its want and despair. With bold and
fierce invective she charged modern civilization with this infamy.
"Why do strong men go forth to war?" she cried, looking into the
depths of Norman's soul. "Here is the enemy at your door, gripping the
soft, white throats of your girls. Watch them sink into the mire at
your feet and then down, down into the black sewers of the under-world
never to rise again! I, too, call for volunteers. For heroes and
heroines--not to fight another--I call you to a nobler warfare. I call
you to the salvation of a world. Will you come? I offer you stones for
bread, the sky for your canopy, the earth for your bed, and for your
wages death! None may enter but the brave. Will you come----?"
The last words of her appeal rang through Norman's heart with
resistless power. Her round, soft arms seemed about his neck and his
soul went out to her in passionate yearning. He gripped the chair to
hold himself back from shouting:
"Yes! I'm coming!"
She sank to her seat before the crowd realized that she had stopped. A
shout of triumph shook the building--wave after wave, rising and
falling in ever-increasing intensity. At its height the Scarlet Nun
sprang to her feet, with a graceful leap reached the edge of the
platform, and again lifted her hand. A sudden hush fell on the crowd.
"Now, comrades, the battle-hymn of the Republic set to new music! Mark
its words, and remember that we sing it not as a mem-ory, but as a
proph-esy of the day our streets may run red with the blood of the
last struggle of Man to break his chains of Slav-ery--a proph-esy,
remember, not a mem-ory! Read it Barbara!"
The girl was by her side in an instant, and read from memory, her
clear sweet voice tremulous with passion:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on!
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening's dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on!
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer them, be jubilant my feet!
Our God is marching on!"
The crowd burst again into triumphant song, and Norman looked at their
faces with increasing amazement. The immense vitality of their faith,
the rush of its forward movement, the grandeur and audacity of their
programme struck him as a revelation. They proposed no half-way
measures. They meant to uproot the foundations of modern society and
build a new world on its ruins. Their leaders were fanatics--yes. But
fanatics were the only kind of people who would dare such things and do
them. Here was a movement, which at least meant something--something
big, heroic, daring. His face suddenly flushed and his heart leaped
with an impulse.
"In heaven's name, Norman, what's the matter?" Elena asked.
The young poet-athlete looked at her in a dazed sort of way and
stammered:
"Did you ever see anything like it?"
"No, and I don't want to again," she replied with a frown. "Let's go
home."
"Wait, they are taking up a collection. At least we must pay for our
seats."
When the usher passed he emptied the contents of his pocket in the
collection-box.
As the meeting broke up, the boy who placed their seats touched Norman
on the arm.
"Let me introduce ye to her. I wants ter tell 'er ye er my
friend--I've yelled my head off for ye many a day on de football
ground. Jest er minute. I'll fetch 'er right down."
The boy darted up on the platform, and Norman turned to Elena:
"Shall we please the boy?"
"You mean yourself," she replied. "I decline the honour."
She turned away into the crowd as the boy returned leading Barbara.
Norman hastened to meet them at the foot of the platform steps.
"Dis is me friend, Worth, de captain of de football team, Miss
Barbara," proudly exclaimed the boy.
Barbara extended her soft hand with a warm, friendly smile, and
Norman clasped it while his heart throbbed.
"I congratulate you," he said, "on your wonderful triumph to-night."
"You were interested?" she asked, quietly.
"More than I can tell you," was the quick response.
"Then join our club and help me in my work among the poor," she urged,
with frank eagerness. "We meet to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock.
Won't you come?"
A long, deep look into her brown eyes--his face flushed and his heart
leaped with sudden resolution.
"Thank you, I will," he slowly answered.
He joined Elena at the door and they walked home in brooding silence.
CHAPTER III
THE BIRTH OF A MAN
Norman stood silent and thoughtful before the fire in the dining-room,
the morning after the meeting of the Socialists. His sleep had been
feverish and a hundred half-formed dreams had haunted the moments in
which he had lost consciousness with always the shining face of
Barbara smiling and beckoning him on.
Elena silently entered and watched him a moment before he saw her.
"Still dreaming of the New Joan of Arc, Norman?" she asked with
playful banter.
"I'm going to do it, Elena," he said, with slow, thoughtful emphasis.
"What? Marry her without even giving me the usual two weeks' notice?"
Elena laughed.
"Now, isn't that like a woman! I wasn't even thinking of the girl----"
"Of course not."
Norman laughed. "By Jove, you're jealous at last, Elena."
"You flatter yourself."
"Honestly, I wasn't thinking of the girl----"
"Well, I've been thinking of her. She haunts me. I like her and I hate
her. I feel that she's charming and vicious, of the spirit and flesh,
and yet I can't help believing that she's good. The woman who
introduced her is a she-devil, and the man who presided over that
meeting is a brute. It's a pity she's mixed up with them. What are you
going to do--play the hero and rescue her from their clutches?"
"Nonsense. The girl is nothing to me, except as the symbol of a great
idea. It stirs my blood. I'm going to join the Socialist Club."
"Of which the fair Barbara is secretary."
"Come with me, and join too. We'll go together to every meeting."
"Have you gone mad?" Elena asked, with deep seriousness.
"I'm in dead earnest."
"And you think your father will stand for it?"
"That remains to be seen. I'm going to tackle him as soon as he comes
down to breakfast."
"Well, if I never see you again, good-bye, old pal." She extended her
hand in mock gravity.
"I'm not afraid of him."
"No, of course not!"
"You're a coward, or you'd stand by me. Wait, Elena, he's coming now."
"Why stand by? You're not afraid? I'll return in time for the
inquest. Brace up! Remember Barbara. Be a hero!"
With a ripple of laughter she disappeared as the Colonel's footsteps
were heard at the door.
Norman braced himself for the ordeal. He had never before dared to
test his father's iron will. He had grown accustomed to see strong men
bow and cringe before him, and felt a secret contempt for them all.
They were bowing to his millions. And yet the boy knew with intuitive
certainty that beneath the mask of quiet dignity and polished military
bearing of the man he facetiously called "the Governor" there
slumbered a will unique, powerful, and overbearing. More than once he
had resented the silent pressure of his positive and aggressive
personality. His own budding manhood had begun instinctively to
bristle at its approach.
The Colonel started on seeing Norman, and looked at him with a
quizzical expression.
"Was there an earthquake this morning, Norman?"
"I didn't feel it, sir--why?"
"You're downstairs rather early."
Norman smiled. "I've been a little lazy, I'm afraid, Governor. But you
know I wasn't consulted as to whether I wished to be born. You assumed
a fearful responsibility. You see the results."
The Colonel dropped his paper and looked at Norman a moment.
"Well, upon my word!" he exclaimed. "What's happened?"
"The biggest thing that ever came into my life, Governor," was the
low, serious answer.
"What?"
"The decision that hereafter I'd rather be than seem to be, that I'm
going to do some thinking for myself."
"And what brought you to this decision?" the father quietly asked.
"I went last night to that Socialist meeting."
"Indeed!"
"Yes," he went on, impetuously, "and I heard the most wonderful appeal
to which I ever listened--an appeal which stirred me to the deepest
depths of my being. I think it's the biggest movement of the century.
I'm going to study it. I'm going to see what it means. What do you say
to it?"
The boy lifted his tall figure with instinctive dignity, and his eyes
met his father's in a straight, deep man's gaze.
The faintest smile played about the corners of the Colonel's mouth as
he suddenly extended his hand.
"I congratulate you!"
"Congratulate me?" Norman stammered.
"Upon the attainment of your majority. Up to date you have written a
few verses and played football. But this is the first evidence you
have ever shown of conscious personality. You're in the grub-worm
stage as yet, but you're on the move. You're a human being. You have
developed the germ of character. And that's the only thing in this
world that's worth the candle, my boy. It's funny to hear you say that
the appeal of Socialism has worked this miracle. For character is the
one thing the scheme of Socialism leaves out of account. A character
is the one thing a machine-made society could never produce if given a
million years in which to develop the experiment."
"And you don't object?" Norman asked with increasing amazement.
"Certainly not. Study Socialism to your heart's content. Go to the
bottom of it. Don't slop over it. Don't accept sentimental mush for
facts. Find out for yourself. Read, think, and learn to know your
fellow man. When you've picked up a few first principles, and know
enough to talk intelligently, I've something to say to you--something
I've learned for myself."
The boy looked at his father steadily and spoke with a slight tremor
in his voice.
"Governor, you're a bigger man than I thought you were. I like
you--even if you are my father."
"Thanks, my boy," the Colonel gravely replied, "I trust we may know
each other still better in the future."
CHAPTER IV
AMONG THE SHADOWS
Under the tutelage of Barbara, the young millionaire plunged into the
study of Socialism with the zeal of the fresh convert to a holy
crusade.
At first he had listened to her stories of the sufferings of the poor
and the unemployed with mild incredulity. She laid her warm little
hand on his and said:
"Come and see. If you think that Socialism is a dream, I'll show you
that capitalism is a nightmare."
He followed her down the ugly pavements of a squalid street into the
poorest quarter of the city. She entered a dingy hall and pushed her
way through a swarm of filthy children to the rear room. On a bed of
rags lay the body of a suicide--a working-man who had shot himself the
day before. The wife sat crouching on a broken chair, with eyes
staring out of the window at the sunlit skies of a May morning in
California. Her body seemed to have turned to stone and her eyes to
have frozen in their sockets. Her hands lay limp in her lap, her
shoulders drooped, her mouth hung hopelessly open. She was as dead to
every sight and sound of earth as though shrouded and buried in six
feet of clay instead of sunlight.
Barbara touched her shoulder, but she did not move.
"Have you been sitting there all night, Mrs. Nelson?" she asked,
gently.
The woman turned her weak eyes toward the speaker and stared without
reply.
"You haven't tasted the food I brought you," Barbara continued.
The drooping figure stirred with sudden energy, as if the realization
of the question first asked had begun to stir her intelligence.
"Yes. I set up all night with Jim. He'd a-done as much fer me. There's
nobody else that cared enough to come. Ye know it ain't respectful to
leave your dead alone----"
"But you must eat something," Barbara urged.
"I can't eat--it chokes me." She paused a moment, and looked at Norman
in a dazed sort of way. "I tried to eat and something choked me--what
was it? O God, I remember now!" she cried, with strangling emotion.
"They are going to bury him in the potter's field unless we can save
him, and I know we can't. He's got an old mother way back East that
thinks he's doing well out here. Hit'll kill her dead when she finds
out he wuz buried by the city."
"He shan't go to the potter's field," Norman interrupted, looking out
of the window.
The woman rose, and tried to speak, but sank sobbing:
"Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!"
When the first flood of grateful emotion had spent itself, she looked
up at Norman and said:
"You see, sir, he wasn't strong, and kept losin' his job in Chicago.
We'd heard about California all our lives. We sold out everything and
got enough to come. For two years we've made a hard fight, but it was
no use. Jim couldn't git work. I tried and I couldn't. Folks have
helped us, but he was proud. He wouldn't beg and he wouldn't let me.
He wouldn't sell his gun. I think he always meant to use it that way
when he got to the end, and it come yesterday when they give us notice
to git out."
She staggered over to the bed and fell across the body, sobbing:
"My poor old boy. He loved me. He was always good to me. I tried to go
with him. But I couldn't pull the trigger! I was afraid! I was
afraid!"
When they reached the street, Barbara lifted her brown eyes to
Norman's face and asked:
"What do you think of a social system that drives thousands of men to
kill themselves like that?"
"To tell you the truth I never thought of it at all before."
"He would have been buried in a pauper's grave but for your help. I
brought you here this morning because I knew you would save her that
anguish when you understood."
"You knew I would?" he softly asked.
"I wouldn't have let you come with me if I hadn't known it," she
answered, earnestly.
"It's funny how many of us live in this world without knowing anything
about it," he said, musingly.
"It would be funny were it not a tragedy," she answered, turning
across the street to the next block. They paused at the entrance of
another narrow hallway.
"My work as secretary of the club includes, as you see, a wide range
of calls. I'm a dispenser of alms, the pastor of a great parish, the
friend, adviser, and champion of a lost world, and you have no idea
what a big world it is."
"I'm beginning to understand. What's the trouble here? Another
suicide?"
"No--something worse, I think. A man who was afraid to die and took to
drink. That's the way with most of them. None but the brave can look
into the face of Death. This man is good to his family until he's
drunk. Drink is the only thing that makes life worth the candle to
him. But when he's under the influence of liquor he's a fiend. Last
night he beat his wife into insensibility. This morning he sent one of
the children for me."
They climbed two flights of rickety stairs and entered a room littered
with broken furniture. Every chair was smashed, the table lay in
splinters, pieces of crockery scattered everywhere, and the stove
broken into fragments. Two blear-eyed children with the look of hunted
rabbits crouched in a corner. A man was bending over the bed, where
the form of a woman lay still and white.
"For God's sake, brace up, Mary!" he was saying. "Ye mustn't die! Ye
mustn't, I tell ye! Your white face will haunt me and drive me into
hell a raving maniac. I didn't know what I was doin', old gal. I was
crazy. I wouldn't 'a' hurt a hair of your head if I'd 'a' knowed what
I was doin'!"
He bowed his face in his coarse, bloated hands and sobbed.
The thin white hand of the wife stroked his hair feebly.
"It's all right, Sam. I know ye didn't mean it," she sighed.
Norman sent for a doctor, and left some money.
With each new glimpse of the under-world of pain and despair the
conviction grew in Norman's mind that he had not lived, and the
determination deepened that he would get acquainted with his fellow
men and the place he called his home.
"You are not tired?" Barbara asked, as they hurried into the street.
"No, I'm just beginning to live," he answered, soberly.
"Good. Then you shall be allowed the honour of accompanying me to the
county jail, to the poorhouse, to the hospital, and to the morgue--the
four greatest institutions of modern civilization. We must hurry. I've
another sadder visit after these."
As they hurried through the streets, Norman began to study with
increasing intensity the phenomena presented in the development of
Barbara's character. The more he saw of her, the more he realized the
lofty ideals of her life, the more puerile and contemptible his own
past seemed.
At the jail they found a boy who had been convicted of stealing and
sentenced to the penitentiary. His old mother was ill. Barbara bore
her last message of love.
They stopped at the poorhouse to see a curious old pauper who had
become a regular attendant on the Socialists' meetings. He was called
"Methodist John," because he was forever shouting "Glory, Hallelujah!"
and interrupting the speakers. Barbara was the bearer of a painful
message to John. Wolf had instructed her to keep him out of the
meetings. She had decided to try a gentler way--to warn him against
yelling "Glory" again under penalty of being deprived of a dish of
soup of which he was particularly fond. The Socialist Club served this
simple, wholesome meal to all who asked for it after its weekly
meetings.
John promised Barbara faithfully to stop shouting.
"Remember, John," she warned him finally, "shout--no soup! No
shout--soup!"
"I understand, Miss Barbara," he answered, solemnly.
"You see, sir," he said, apologetically, turning to Norman, "I get
along all right till she begins ter speak, and when I hears her soft,
sweet voice it seems ter run all down my back in little ticklin' waves
clean down ter my toes, an' I holler 'Glory' before I can stop it!"
Norman laughed.
"I understand, old man."
"You feel that way yerself, don't ye, now, when she looks down into
yer soul with them big, soft eyes o' hern, an' her voice comes
a-stealin' inter yer heart like the music of the angels----"
Barbara's face lighted, and a slight blush suffused her cheeks as she
caught the look of admiring assent in Norman's expression.
"That will do, John," she said, firmly. "Mr. Wolf was very angry with
you yesterday."
"I'll remember, Miss Barbara," he repeated. "And God bless your dear
heart fer comin' by ter tell me."
"I suppose he has no people living who are interested in him?" Norman
asked, as they turned toward the Socialist hall.
"No. He came from a big mill town in the East. His children all died
before they were grown, and he landed here with his wife ten years
ago. When she died, he was sent to the poorhouse. He hasn't much mind,
but there's enough left to burst into flame at the memory of his
children being slowly ground to death by the wheels of those mills.
I've seen his dead soul start to life more than once as I've looked
into his face from our platform. What an awful thing to see dead men
walking about!"
"Yes. People who are dead and don't know it. I never thought of it
before." Norman exclaimed.
They stopped in front of a house with a scarlet light in the hall,
which threw its rays through a red-glass transom over a door of
coloured leaded glass. The shadows of evening had begun to fall, and
for the first time the girl showed a sign of hesitation and
embarrassment.
"I hate to ask you to go in here with me, and I'd hate worse to have
you see me go alone. Yet I have to do it. My work leads me."
"I'm going with you, whether you ask it or not," he firmly replied.
"Then words are useless," she said, simply, as she rang the bell.
A Negro maid opened the door, and smiled a look of recognition. "She
ain't no better, miss. She's been crying for you all day."
Barbara led the way up two flights of stairs to a small room in the
rear, and entered without knocking. With a bound she was beside the
bed on which lay a slender girl of nineteen. A mass of golden blond
hair was piled in confusion on the pillow, and a pair of big,
childish-looking blue eyes blinked at her through her tears.
"Oh! you've come at last! I'm so glad. It makes me strong to see you.
Your face shines so, Barbara! They say I can't live, but it's not so.
I shall live! I'm feeling better every day. It's nonsense. The doctors
haven't got any sense. I wish you'd get me one that knows something.
Won't you, dear?"
"My friend, Mr. Worth, who has called with me, has kindly agreed to
send you another doctor, little sister--that's why I brought him to
see you."
Norman extended his hand, and grasped the thin, cold one the girl
extended. He felt the chill of death in its icy touch as he stammered:
"I'll send him right away."
"Thank you," the girl replied, as a smile flitted about her weak
mouth. She turned to Barbara with a look of infinite tenderness.
"I knew you'd come, and I knew you'd save me. You're my angel! When I
dream at night, you're always hovering over me."
"I'll come again to-morrow, dearie, when the new doctor has seen you,"
Barbara answered, as she pressed her hand good-bye.
When they reached the street, Norman asked:
"You knew her before she fell into evil ways?"
"Yes," Barbara answered, with feeling. "She was just a little child of
joy and sunlight. She couldn't endure the darkness. She loved flowers
and music, beauty and love. She hated drudgery and poverty. She tried
to work, and gave up in despair. A man came into her life at a
critical moment and she broke with the world. She's been sending all
the money she could make the past two years to her mother and four
little kids. Her father was killed at work in a mine for a great
corporation."
"She can't live, can she?" Norman asked.
"Of course not. I only did this to humour her. She has developed acute
consumption--she may not live a month."
Barbara paused.
"I must leave you now--I'm very tired, and I must sleep a while before
I attend the meeting to-night. It has been a great strain on me
to-day, this trip with you. How do you like our boasted civilization?
Do you think it perfect? Are you satisfied with a system which drives
hundreds of thousands of such girls into a life of shame? Are you
content with a system which produces three million paupers in a land
flowing with milk and honey? Do you like a system which drives
thousands to the madness of drink and suicide every year?"
"And to think," responded Norman, dreamily, "that for the past two
years of my manhood I've been writing verses and playing football!
Great God!"
"Then from to-day we are comrades in the cause of humanity?" she asked
tenderly, extending her hand. His own clasped hers with firm grasp.
"Comrades!"
CHAPTER V
THE ISLAND OF VENTURA
Norman had never been a boy to do things by halves. In college, when
he went in for football, he made it the one supreme end of life--and
won. He incidentally managed to pull through a course in mining
engineering. He knew mining by instinct and inheritance from his
father. It came easy.
When he had a three months' vacation from football he took up the
modelling of a dredge for mining gold from the sands of the beaches.
The thing had never been perfected, but after three months' experiment
and study he was just on the point of making the castings for the
machinery when the football season opened and he dropped such trifling
matters for the more serious work of training his men for a successful
season. He won the championship and forgot the dredge.
Into the new movement of Socialism he naturally threw his whole
personality without reservation. Its daring programme thrilled him.
The audacity of its leaders and their refusal to discuss anything less
than the salvation of man appealed to every instinct of his nature.
He devoured every book on the subject he could find, and in his
new-found enthusiasm for humanity accepted as the inspired voice of
God their wildest visions of social regeneration.
In his work of charity and organization with Barbara he found
everything to confirm and nothing to shake his faith in these
theories. When once he caught the idea that all the ills of modern
civilization were due directly to the fiendish system of "capitalism"
and its "iron law of wages," it was the key which unlocked every
mystery of Pain and every tragedy of the Soul. All sin and crime and
shame and suffering became the incidents of a social system whose
movements were as inexorable as Fate, as merciless as Death. There was
but one thing worth talking about, and that was how to destroy modern
society, root and branch, and do it quickly, thoroughly and without
compromise.
The same daring enthusiasm and capacity for leadership which made him
the captain of his football team brought him at once to the front as a
Socialist leader. He would have gained this leadership had he been the
poorest man among them. It was a gift as his birthright.
But, added to this capacity for daring and successful action, was his
wealth and social prestige. He had cast his lot with a class whose
avowed purpose was to destroy all social distinctions, to level all
wealth to a common standard. And for this reason in particular he was
conspicuous and heroic in the eyes of his Socialist comrades.
He found soon after his entrance into their active councils that the
woman known to the world as "The Scarlet Nun," to her associates as
"Sister Catherine," was the inspiring brain of their movement in the
West. This remarkable woman interested him deeply from their first
hour's talk. Born in Poland and educated in Germany, she spoke
fluently the Russian, German, French, and English languages. She had
led two great strikes of women workers in New York and had been
arrested, convicted, and sentenced twice to the penitentiary for
exciting riots. To her associates she had always remained a saint and
a martyr for their cause.
She had been married before her association with Wolf had begun, ten
years ago. Her first husband had been divorced, and her marriage to
Wolf had been merely "announced" at a Socialist meeting. And yet the
young millionaire had never questioned the sincerity of their devotion
or the apparent happiness of their union. He was amazed at her
learning, her grasp of affairs, the simplicity and refinement of her
manners, and the charm of her conversation.
Wolf he found to be a man of wide reading and deep convictions. As he
came in daily contact with these two powerful personalities, and
watched the singular zeal with which they devoted themselves to their
self-appointed task of destroying modern society, he could not divest
himself of the impression that they belonged to a religious order and
were leading a crusade, as the monks of the Middle Ages led men and
women to die to rescue the tomb of Christ from the desecration of Turk
and Saracen.
The woman in particular gave him this impression of religious
fanaticism. The apparent simplicity and austerity of her life, the
tireless zeal with which she planned and worked for the spread of the
gospel of Socialism, to his mind gave the lie emphatically to all the
stories he had read of her affairs with men.
The only moments of suspicion about her which ever clouded his mind
came with the accidental discovery that she had skilfully managed to
throw him and Barbara together for a day. It seemed just a little like
the old habit of a scheming mamma angling for the rich young man, and
deliberately using the beauty of her daughter as the bait with which
to land him in the household.
Yet, when he found himself with Barbara he had always dismissed the
thought as absurd. Whatever might be the dimly formed design in the
back of the older woman's fancy, her brilliant protege gave no sign of
being her accomplice.
Norman had found Barbara a charming but baffling enigma. She walked
through a world of sin and shame, filth and mire, with never a speck
on the white of her soul or body. She spoke in the simplest and most
direct way of things about which the ordinary girl in society would
never dare to utter a word, and yet he took it as a matter of course.
He grew to feel that she was a mysterious messenger from the spirit
world. Yet when he took her arm and felt its warm round lines soft and
thrilling against his own, or the warmth of her lithe body pressing
close to his side in some lonely or dangerous spot on their rounds of
work, he was brought up sharply against the fact that she was both
flesh and spirit. Yet the moment he tried to draw nearer to her inner
thoughts, he found her a skilful little fencer, an adept in all the
arts of the most delicate and subtle coquetry.
He grew at last, however, to know, with unerring masculine instinct,
that with all her brave and frank talk about her "fallen" sisters, she
hadn't an idea of what their fall really meant. She was as innocent
as a child, and when at last she caught the young athlete smiling at
one of her apparently frank and learned discussions of the modern
degradation of woman, she blushed and became silent. Whereat he
laughed, and she became so angry they parted in silence.
Baffled in his efforts to approach Barbara's heart, he threw himself
with zeal into the Cause. When two months had been spent in mastering
the details of the Socialist programme, in studying its history and
the condition of its movement, he called a meeting of the council of
the Socialist Club, and fairly took away the breath of the Wolfs and
Barbara by the magnitude and audacity of a scheme which he proposed to
launch immediately.
He had secured, without consulting any of his associates, an option on
a rich, beautiful, and fertile island off the coast of Southern
California. It was owned by a corporation which had invested more than
a million dollars in its improvement. The enterprise had failed for
two reasons--the money had been expended recklessly in the days of the
famous land boom, and it had been found impossible to induce labourers
to isolate themselves on this lonely spot, sixty miles from the coast
of Santa Barbara, with no means of regular connection with the outside
world.
His eyes flashing with enthusiasm and his voice ringing with
conviction, Norman closed his description of the island of Ventura
with a demand for its immediate purchase by the Socialists.
"It can be bought," he declared impetuously, "for $200,000. A million
dollars' worth of improvements are already there. I propose that we
immediately raise $500,000, buy this island, establish a steamship
line, plant a colony of ten thousand Socialists, found the Brotherhood
of Man, build a model city, and create a vast fund for the propaganda
of our faith."
Barbara's brown eyes danced with excitement, her cheeks flushed, while
her little hands clapped approval.
"Good! Good! It's great! It's beautiful! We must do it!" she cried.
Wolf grimly shook his head.
"The idea has failed a hundred times. We must conquer the world by
political action--we have the weapon in our hand--manhood suffrage.
All colonies fail sooner or later. They are corrupted from
outside----"
"Just so!" Norman interrupted. "But this one you can't reach from the
outside. We will own the only means of communication. We will inherit
all the advantages of modern civilization with none of its drawbacks.
We can demonstrate the truths we hold and from our impregnable
Gibraltar send out our missionaries to conquer the world. We will not
merely dream dreams and see visions; we will make history. We will
prove the God that's in man and establish the fact of his universal
brotherhood."
"It's a wonderful idea, comrade!" Catherine exclaimed, with
enthusiasm. "I congratulate you! We will accept your plan, and I move
that we appoint you our agent vested with full power to collect this
fund from the enemy!"
The motion was put and carried unanimously, even Wolf voting for it.
Barbara sprang to Norman's side, and grasped his hand:
"Our feud is over! I forgive you for laughing at me. You are a born
leader. You've won your spurs to-night. You will raise this money?"
"As sure as I'm living!" was the firm reply.
CHAPTER VI
THE RED FLAG
Norman lost no time in springing his scheme for the establishment of
the Socialist colony and headquarters for the propaganda of the new
social religion on the island of Ventura. The season he had spent as a
reporter gave him the key to the proper launching of a press story
which created a profound sensation. It appeared simultaneously in the
Sunday editions of all the leading dailies of the Pacific coast, and
in forty-eight hours his mail had grown to such proportions that he
required two secretaries to assist him in answering it.
He called for a thousand volunteers to join the advance-guard of the
coming Brotherhood of Man, each contributing a thousand dollars. He
announced a mass meeting and picnic for the Fourth of July, to be held
on the big lawn of the Worth country house on the outskirts of
Berkeley.
Colonel Worth had readily given his consent to the use of the lawn. He
had not tried in any way to interfere with his son's association with
the Socialists. He felt sure that in time he would tire of the fad,
as he had of football, and in a fatherly way he began to admire the
dash and audacity of the boy's plans.
On the morning of the picnic, when Elena expressed her fears of the
outcome, the Colonel laughed.
"Don't worry, Elena. He'll come to his senses. It's like a fever. It
must run its course. I'm rather proud of the extravagance of his
foolishness. A boy who can forget his games and give his life to
destroy the foundations of human society and try to rebuild a new
world on its ruins--well, there's good stuff in him."
"But if he does something rash?" Elena persisted.
"He won't. With all his extravagance and enthusiasm he's not a fool.
I, too, saw visions like that once."
"You, Guardie?"
"Yes, when I was very, very young--a mere boy of thirteen--I joined a
colony of Communists."
"I wish I could have seen you at thirteen," Elena cried, with a joyous
laugh.
The laugh died suddenly and a frown overspread her face as Norman
appeared.
"I want you and Elena to hear our orator to-day, Governor," Norman
said, with enthusiasm. "We are going to make it a great day."
"It's already great, my boy--I've just got the news."
"What news?"
The Colonel drew a telegram from his pocket.
"A message from Washington. Sampson and Schley have annihilated the
Spanish fleet. Admiral Cervera is a prisoner on board the flagship,
and the army is rapidly closing in on the doomed city of Santiago."
He handed the telegram to Norman, who glanced at it in silence and
returned it to his father.
"Come to our meeting on the lawn at noon, Governor. We've bigger news
than that for you."
"Bigger news?" the older man asked with a quizzical look.
"Yes. A message announcing the dawn of a day when every gun on earth
shall be broken to pieces and melted into ploughshares."
The Colonel looked at Norman a moment, smiled, and slowly said:
"I love the young--because I live myself over again in them."
"Then you'll join us to-day?"
"Thanks--no--Elena and I are going to shoot firecrackers--but we won't
disturb your crowd. Let them speak to their hearts' content."
The Colonel turned with Elena, and entered the house, which crowned an
eminence overlooking the distant bay and city, while Norman hurried
down the green sloping lawn to finish the decorations of the speakers'
stand.
The crowd had already begun to pour in from Oakland and San Francisco,
and more than a hundred delegates from Socialist locals in other
cities were expected.
On a little headland which jutted out from the long sloping mountain
side on which the lawn was laid out, Colonel Worth had erected a tall
steel flag-pole. The big flag which flew from its peak could be seen
by every ship that entered or left the bay and for miles on shore in
almost every direction.
Around this flag-pole Norman had built the speakers' platform, with
every inch of its boards covered with the deep-red bunting symbolic of
the Socialist cause. Behind the stand toward the mountains rose a
smooth grass-carpeted hillside in semi-circular form, making a natural
amphitheatre on which five thousand people might sit in tiers one
above the other and distinctly hear every word uttered on the
platform.
By noon every inch of this space was packed with a dense crowd of
Socialists, their friends, and the curious who had come, drawn by the
sensational announcement of the launching of the Socialist colony on
the island of Ventura.
In the front row, packed close against the platform, were a number of
famous people--conspicuous among whom was an author whose impassioned
stories of the coming social upheaval had resulted in fame for himself
and a divorce-suit by his first wife. His new wife, the "affinity" who
caused the disturbance, sat by his side.
On his left sat a solemn looking poet with bushy, unkempt hair. He had
deliberately chosen the title "The Bard of Ramcat." The name Ramcat
had been long applied to a shabby section of the outskirts of San
Francisco. Here the poet had chosen to dwell and sing of social
horrors which existed only in his fertile imagination.
He had won wide fame, however, as the supreme exponent of the
"affinity" theory which has always been epidemic among thoughtful
Socialists. He coolly informed his wife that he had discovered his
true "affinity" in a woman he had installed as her guest. The two
affinities accompanied the wife and her child to a steamer for Europe
with instructions to obtain a divorce.
The poet married the affinity, and on the birth of a new son and heir
acquired the habit of beating her as a form of relaxation from the
strain of work. Considerable trouble followed, and he spent a portion
of his time in jail. He had once gone barefooted and bareheaded. But
since his "affinity" marriage he had been compelled for reasons best
known to himself to resume shoe-leather and to buy a hat. Nevertheless
he was still a striking-looking figure, seated beside his new wife
whose strong, intellectual face won the sympathy of all who saw her.
Just behind him sat an ex-clergyman with whom a rich young woman in
his congregation had fallen in love. To avoid trouble, the woman of
wealth got him to leave the ministry, and bought him from his wife for
a good round sum. He became an apostle of the new gospel of Socialism,
and secured a position as a professor of economics. When finally he
lost this position by his vagaries, his wife hired a hall and set him
up in business as an inspired leader of new thought emancipated from
the chains of capitalistic tyranny.
Beside the distinguished ex-clergyman Socialistic apostle sat
Professor Otto Schmitt, a famous teacher of economics at a Western
university. His supreme passion was hatred of women. His one big book
was written to prove that woman has no soul, that she is the mere
matter on which man by his will acts, that she is not immoral, but
merely non-moral, having never possessed even the rudiments of a moral
nature. Schmitt had, therefore, maintained that the entrance of women
into competition in the economic world presaged the downfall of man
and the utter extinction of humanity. For this reason he had joined
the Socialists.
Not three feet away from him sat a thoughtful, elderly, short-haired
woman who had written a book on the evolution of woman to prove that
woman alone is the original unit of creation, man a superfluous and
temporary addition, merely the missing link between woman and the
monkey, and in the process of human development the male biped would
be eliminated. She demanded equal rights with man, and more besides,
and she, too, had joined the Socialists.
Yet through all these ludicrous incongruities there ran the single
scarlet thread of social discontent which made them one. In every soul
rang the stirring cry:
"Down with civilization! Up with the Red Flag!"
A more remarkable group of men and women could scarcely be gathered
together on the face of the earth. But the one mark they all bore,
distinctly cut deep in the lines of every face on which character had
set its seal, and written large in the restless, nervous personality
of the young--they all had a grievance, and though their troubles
might come from as many different causes as there were men and women
present, they united in one thought:
"Modern civilization must be destroyed!"
Every heart beat with this fiery resolution, and every incongruity
melted and faded into insignificance before this consuming belief.
And they had gone about this purpose with a deadly earnestness which
meant business. Their political campaigns were merely moments when the
captain of their ship cast the lead-line to feel the bottom and find
his position with certainty before signalling full speed ahead.
They worked all the year round and every day in every year, from one
election to the next. They were mastering the tricks of the demagogue
in their appeal to the masses, and they kept everlastingly at it. No
man is too high, no man too low, for them to reach for him. They
couldn't be beaten for they had accepted defeat before they began to
fight, and began the next fight before they got up from the ground
where they had been knocked down. They had become the one element in
American politics to which it was utterly useless to direct any
argument of expediency.
The Fourth of July, the Nation's birthday, they were now using to
demand its extinction. The fact that our army and navy had just torn
the flag of Spain from its last masthead in the Western hemisphere and
startled the old world with our sudden advent among the great powers
of the earth, stirred in their hearts no emotion save that of
contempt. While the souls of millions beat with patriotic pride, they
had met to uproot the very ideas from whose soil patriotism sprang
into life.
There was no question as to who should be the orator of the day. The
fame of Barbara Bozenta had become national from the day of her first
speech in San Francisco. Her beauty and eloquence were sufficient to
pack any hall at twenty-four hours' notice.
Her delicate face was radiant to-day with unusual elation. She walked
with a quick, nervous energy that seemed to lift her whole body into
the air. As she ascended the platform and bowed to the tumult of
applause, she trembled from head to foot with intensest excitement. As
she stood looking over the inspiring scene for a moment, her sensitive
nostrils dilated, her brown eyes flashed, and her heart beat with a
great throb of personal pride. She had never before faced such an
immense throng of excited men and women, and the secret consciousness
that she had within her soul the message which would sweep their
heartstrings as she willed, lifted her into the clouds.
She felt for the moment that the whole scene was a tribute to her
power. The magnificent house whose windows flashed in the sunlight,
the vast lawn carpeted with green and set in dazzling flowers, the
emerald waters of the bay, and the spires and domes of the distant
city set on its proud hills beyond--all were hers to-day! Her voice
had called to their standard the young millionaire whose name was now
on every lip. Her voice had inspired his dream of the experiment to be
made on the island of Ventura which had called this host together. For
one big moment she felt the thrill of conscious creative genius, the
pain, the joy, the glory of a positive achievement.
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she sank to her seat with a
suppressed sob.
When at last she rose to speak, her whole personality was a quivering
battery of resistless emotion. Her voice, low and pulsing with
magnetic waves of suppressed feeling, caught and chained the attention
of the farthest straggler on the edge of the throng. Instinctively
they moved closer. Resistlessly she drew them.
She had not spoken two minutes before she was sweeping the hearts of
her hearers. Men and women who had come to laugh or scoff, as well as
the young and thoughtless who had drifted with the crowd, were all
alike caught in the spell and hung breathless on her words.
Every trick and art of persuasive speech were hers without effort.
Scorn, pathos, humour, passion, were of the breath she breathed. At
times her eloquence reached the highest conception of its might. It
was simple thought packed until it took fire. At such moments scores
of men leaped to their feet and shouted. Nothing disconcerted her or
changed the swift current of her ideas. She was a master-musician
whose hands swept a harp of a thousand strings--every string a
throbbing human soul.
What matter if her appeal was to the emotions and not to the
intellect? Her purpose was to persuade her hearers. And she did it.
Her courage, her beauty, her skill, her utter sincerity, commanded the
respect of the strongest man who listened. If their intellects were
not convinced, no matter--she carried them with her on a storm of
resistless emotion.
Suddenly a thing happened which would have destroyed the total
impression of the average speech. Old Methodist John, her pauper
protege, had listened with increasing torture, choking down a hundred
"Glorys" as they leaped from his soul until at last he could endure no
more. At the climax of one of her impassioned appeals the old man
leaped to his feet, rushed in front of the speakers' stand and shouted
into the face of the chairman:
"Look here! Look here, now, Wolf! Soup or no soup--Glory hallelujah!"
Barbara alone smiled. The crowd took up his shout, and a thousand
voices made the heavens ring with its wild music.
Norman whispered to the old man, who sat down, and Barbara swept on in
her impetuous triumph without the lapse of a moment's power. She
seized the instant's hush which followed the storm of cheering to fire
into the minds of her hearers some of the solid shot of the
revolutionary programme.
In a voice which swelled to the clarion note of a trumpet she cried:
"The earth for all the people! This is our demand!
"The machinery of all production and distribution for all the people!
This is our demand!
"The collective ownership and control of all industry! This is our
demand!
"The elimination of rent, interest, and profit! This is our demand!
"A new social order, a higher civilization, a real republic! This is
our demand!
"The end of the hell called war, of poverty and shame, of cruelty and
crime, the birth of freedom, the dawn of brotherhood, the beginning of
man! These are our demands! This is Socialism! Is this an idle dream?
Have you no faith in your fellow man?
"In the grim prison beyond the bay I found one day a woman convict who
was little removed from a fiend. I got permission to hang a beautiful
picture in her cell--a picture that set her soul to dreaming, that
melted her at last to tears, and transformed the beast within her to a
gentle, loving, beautiful, human character.
"I believe in man because he alone possesses this power to look
through the window of the soul into the infinite and eternal. Here the
world's real battles are fought. Here the world's real work is done.
Here cowards run and the brave die. This power to recreate the earth,
people it with beauty, and fill it with harmony is your birthright.
"Lo, the day of humanity dawns!
"I preach class consciousness that we may destroy all classes. Class
must perish and Man be glorified. Man, whose inhumanity to his fellow
man has filled the ages with ashes and tears, is coming forth at last
purified by suffering, and we shall see his tears turned to smiles
upon the faces of a nobler race.
"Why should we rejoice to-day in the death of our fellow man? Nations
are but the dung-heaps out of which the fair flower of a
world-democracy is slowly growing. Truth is not national, it is
infinite. France may fight Germany because two titled fools insult
each other, but there can be no war between the laboratories of
Pasteur and of Koch. Their work is the common heritage of humanity.
Who asks if Humboldt was German or English, whether Spinoza was Jew or
Gentile, Darwin English or French? A German wrote 'Faust,' a Frenchman
set it to immortal music, and an American girl sang it into the hearts
of millions. Who cares to know nationalities? The great belong to the
democracy of the world. And I swear that your children will still
laugh with the soul of Cervantes in spite of the Fourth of July,
Santiago, and Manila!
"Why should you fight one another? When called to war by your rulers,
let the liberty-loving spirits of the modern world say to their
masters:
"'Go and do your own killing--you who have separated us from our
brothers and made the earth a slaughter-pen.'
"If you are court-martialed and shot for this act of heroism remember:
"'They never fail who die
In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:
Their heads may sodden in the sun: their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls--
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years
Elapse and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to freedom!'"
A shout of wild applause rent the air as the last note of Byron's
immortal song fell from her beautiful lips. And then, in a low,
intense voice, she closed her speech with a thrilling appeal for human
brotherhood. To Norman, who hung on her lips, the slight girlish
figure seemed transformed before their eyes into a radiant messenger
of the spirit. And when the sweet womanly tones at last broke and
choked into deep-drawn sobs, his soul and body seemed no longer his
own. As her last words sank into his heart: "From to-day let each of
us swear allegiance to but one flag, the deep-red emblem of human
blood, God's sign of universal brotherhood!" Norman leaped to his
feet, sprang on the platform, and while the crowd swayed in a frenzy
of applause, hauled down the Stars and Stripes and quickly raised the
big red standard of Socialism which was thrown across the speaker's
table.
And then the great crowd seemed to go mad. Wave after wave of cheering
rose and fell, rose and fell, in apparently unending power. Catherine
threw her arms around Barbara in a paroxysm of emotion, while the big
figure of Wolf towered above them both, shouting and gesturing like a
madman. Barbara at last lifted her hand and, as the storm subsided,
began the Marseillaise hymn.
The first stirring notes had just swept the audience when the stalwart
figure of Colonel Worth suddenly appeared on the platform, his face a
blaze of anger, his magnificent figure erect, every nerve and muscle
drawn to the highest tension.
He stepped to the edge of the stand, lifted his head, and his voice
rang over the crowd like the sudden boom of a cannon:
"Silence!"
He didn't repeat the word.
The singing stopped, and every eye was riveted on the group that stood
on the platform.
The Colonel confronted Wolf, and shot his words at him as though from
a machine-gun.
"Who lowered that flag?"
A moment of silence followed. The Colonel spoke with increasing
rapidity.
"Who lowered that flag? The man who did it must answer to me!"
Some one behind him moved, and the Colonel turned, confronting Norman.
"I did it, Governor," was the quiet answer.
"You?" the father gasped.
"Yes," said the even, firm voice.
"Haul that red rag down and raise the flag back to its place!" The
Colonel's voice was low and thick with rage.
Elena put her hand on his arm and said gently:
"Guardie!"
"Will you do it?" he firmly asked, ignoring Elena, and holding Norman
with his gaze.
The young man hesitated an instant, met his father's look with a
deadly straight stare, and slowly replied:
"I will not."
A smothered cry from Barbara, half joy, half pain, was the only sound
that followed, until the Colonel said:
"Then I'll do it for you."
Amid a dead silence he hauled down the red flag, threw it on the
floor, boldly stamped on it, made fast the Stars and Stripes, and
quickly raised it to the top of its staff. He turned to the crowd, and
in clear-cut, sharp tones of command shouted:
"This is my flag, my house, my lawn. Get off it! And do it quick!"
As the crowd hastened away, he turned to Norman:
"You and I must come to an understanding at once, young man," he said,
with angry emphasis.
"I'll meet you in the library in thirty minutes," was Norman's firm
reply as he led Barbara from the platform and joined the retreating
throng.
[Illustration: "LIFT THE FLAG BACK TO ITS PLACE."]
CHAPTER VII
FATHER AND SON
The Colonel paced the floor of his library with increasing anger as he
waited the return of Norman. Never in his life had his whole being
been so abandoned to incontrollable rage. He had always been a man of
fiery temper, but an iron will had held his temper in control.
His most intimate business associates had always found him suave,
persuasive, and genial in every hour of trial. Never once had they
heard a threat or an idle boast fall from his lips. He had the rare
faculty of beating his enemies in a fight in which no quarter was
asked or given, and coming out of it with his bitterest foe turned
into a friend. This was one of the secrets of his fortune--an
instinctive leadership among powerful men.
For the first time he realized that he had challenged the one man in
all his personal acquaintance about whose character he knew
nothing--his own son. For the first time he realized that they were
strangers. He had been absorbed in the big affairs of life. He had
taken the boy for granted. Since the death of his mother twelve years
ago, Norman had spent most of his time at school.
The Colonel had always been in command. His word had been law for so
many years, it brought him up with a disagreeable start to find that
the one man with whom his life was bound, and in whom his hopes
centred, could dare thus to defy and flaunt his wishes. It was the
most disgusting, enraging fact he had ever encountered. The longer he
confronted the situation the more furious and blind his anger became.
Elena had timidly entered the room, and stood watching him gravely
before she spoke.
"Has he returned from that woman yet?" the Colonel asked with sudden
energy.
"No, and I hope he will stay all day," she answered slowly.
"But he won't," the father snapped.
"I'm sure he will not," the girl sighed. "I don't like you to-day,
Guardie."
"You, too, side with these fanatics then?"
"No. I hate them--hate everything they say and do and stand for. I
loathe the very sight of them. But you were unfair to Norman."
"Unfair? How?"
"You allowed him the widest liberty to do as he pleased, think as he
pleased, associate with whom he pleased, and then all of a sudden you
sprang on that platform and insulted him before his invited guests."
"How could I dream that he would commit such an act of insane treason
before my very eyes?"
"You make no allowance for the spell of Barbara Bozenta's eloquence. I
don't like her, but she's a wonderful little woman, and I envy her her
power over men."
"I'll end this folly to-day," was the Colonel's firm announcement.
"I'm not so sure," Elena warned.
"I'll show you!"
She came close and laid her hand on the Colonel's arm.
"Will you promise me one thing, Guardie?" she asked, tenderly.
The anger faded from the strong face, and his voice sank low.
"I'm afraid I've never been able to refuse you anything, child. It's
on your account, I think, I'm most angry with Norman to-day."
"You promise?" she repeated.
"Yes, what is it?" he said, bending to kiss her smooth, white
forehead.
"Promise to put all anger out of your heart and talk to Norman as a
father, not as an enemy--won't you?"
"An enemy?" the Colonel slowly asked.
"Yes. I thought you were going to strike him once. It would have been
horrible. I never could have forgiven you for that. You've always been
my hero, Guardie--I never saw you give way to anger before. I don't
like it. You'll talk to him lovingly and tenderly as a father, won't
you?"
"Yes, dear, for your sake, I will," he answered.
"Then I'll tell him to come. I asked him to wait outside until I saw
you."
She turned and quickly left the room. In a moment Norman entered and
stood facing his father.
The Colonel flushed with anger at sight of the insolence with which
the younger man calmly surveyed him.
"Well, sir," the father said, at length, "have you nothing to say to
me after what has occurred to-day?"
"I was under the impression that you had something to say to me," was
the cool answer.
By an effort of will the older man crushed back an angry retort,
smiled, and said:
"Sit down, please--I've a good deal to say to you."
Norman threw himself lazily into a chair, and continued to watch his
father with a curious expression of half-amused contempt. The Colonel
stood in silence, evidently struggling with his emotions, and feeling
for the right word with which to begin.
Norman anticipated him.
"Honestly, now, Governor, just between us, don't you think you were a
little bit absurd to-day?"
"Absurd?" his father broke in with rising accent.
"Just a little childish about a piece of red, white, and blue cloth?"
"Perhaps so, my boy," was the answer. "Just about as absurd as you
were over the red rag you lifted in its place. Why did you do it?"
"On the impulse of the moment, to express my feeling of contempt for
war, and my faith in my fellow man."
"Exactly. So I acted on the impulse of the moment to express my
contempt for that crowd of fools and fanatics--my loyalty and faith in
my country."
"I can't understand how a man of your age, poise and pride, culture
and power, could be so foolish. A sixteen-year-old school-boy on the
Fourth of July, yes! But you----"
"Norman," the Colonel interrupted, in even tones, "I'm sorry I've been
too busy for us to get acquainted. It's time we began. It may
interest you to know that I, too, hate war--learned to hate it long
before your Socialist orator was born--learned it in the grim
University of Hell--war itself. Socialism has no patent on the hope of
universal peace. I am a member of a peace society. I have always
believed the Civil War should have been prevented. All the Negroes on
this earth are not worth the blood and tears of one year of that
struggle. Whether it could have been prevented God alone knows. When
it came I volunteered--a drummer-boy at fourteen--and marched to the
front beneath the flag you tore down to-day."
"I never thought of that, Governor--honestly, I never did!" the boy
exclaimed.
"I went in," the Colonel continued, "with my head full of silly
rubbish about the glory of war. When I beat the call to my first
charge, and saw the men I knew and loved shot to pieces, and heard
their groans and cries for water, I had no more delusions. I worked on
the field that night until twelve o'clock, helping the men who were
wounded--enemies as well as comrades. I learned the brotherhood of man
and the meaning of red blood in the big, tragic school of life, my
son. Many a boy in gray, whom I had fought, died in my arms while my
heart ached for his loved ones in some far-away Southern home.
"But I knew the war had to be when once it was begun. I was fighting
for the flag I loved--and I grew to love it better than life. To you
it may be a bit of red, white, and blue bunting; to me it is the
symbol of truth and right, liberty and human progress.
"My people in western North Carolina were all slave-holders and loyal
to their state, except my father. He hated slavery, loved the Union,
and moved on westward before the war. I saw them bury him in the flag
you tore down to-day, my boy.
"Many a night I've lain on the ground looking up at the stars before
the dawn of a day of battle and seen visions of that flag flying
triumphant in the sky. I've seen the men who carried it shot down
again and again, and another snatch it from their dying grasp and bear
it on to victory.
"I grew not only to love it, but to believe in it with all the
passionate faith of my soul. I believe in its destiny, in its sublime
mission to humanity. The older I've grown and the more I've seen of my
fellow man, the wider I've travelled in foreign lands, the deeper has
become my conviction that our flag symbolizes the noblest, freest
ideal ever born in the soul of man; that we have but to live up to its
standard of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, and the kingdom of
human brotherhood is already here.
"After the war, I joined the regular army, not because I loved war,
but because there seemed nothing else for me to do at the time. I was
absolutely alone in the world. At twenty-five I was in command of a
company on the frontier. I had not been in battle since the end of the
Civil War, when suddenly I found myself surrounded by a horde of
hostile Indians, and I had to turn my machine guns on them and mow
them down. The slaughter was something terrific. As the last charge
was made I saw a young squaw retreat in the face of a withering fire,
walk backward facing our men, holding a bundle of something behind her
body. She fell at last, riddled with bullets. I rode up where she lay,
and found the bundle to be a little Indian baby boy. He was unhurt,
and stretched out his hand to me in friendly baby greeting. I found
the squaw quite dead, and discovered the child was not her own. She
was simply trying to save it for the tribe. I took the child and
educated him. But he went back to the free life of the plains. I found
him again, and made him the gamekeeper of our mountain preserves."
"You mean Saka?" Norman asked.
"Yes. That night as I lay in my tent I saw war as it is--a hideous,
savage nightmare. From that moment I hated the service, hated its
iron laws of discipline, its cruel machinery devised for suppressing
the individuality of its members. I saw that night a larger vision of
life. I made up my mind to create, not to kill--to build up, not to
tear down. I left the army and mastered mining.
"Your leather-lunged agitators say that I stole my millions from the
earnings of the men who worked for me. A more stupid lie was never
uttered. I invented improved mining machinery. I made deserts blossom
and gave employment to thousands of men who couldn't think for
themselves. I did their thinking for them, and set their tasks. I have
made millions, and have added tens of millions to the wealth of the
West."
"If labour is the creator of all wealth can one man ever earn a
million dollars?" Norman interrupted.
"Manual labour is not the creator of wealth. The brain which conceives
is the creator of wealth. The hand which executes these plans is
merely the automaton moved by a superior power."
"Yet nothing could be accomplished without it," persisted Norman.
His father lifted his hand with a gesture of command.
"We'll not discuss the theory of Socialism to-day, my boy. I grant you
have plausible arguments which skilful demagogues are using with more
and more efficiency. I don't object to your study of this subject. I'm
rather pleased at the serious turn your energies have taken. What I do
object to is your continued association with the kind of people who
made up that crowd to-day--people who make the agitation of the
revolutionary programme of the Socialists a daily profession, people
who are seeking to destroy modern civilization itself."
"You will have to come down to earth, Governor," Norman said, "in your
indictment of these people. The time has gone by when you can scare
anybody with a few high-sounding phrases. If modern civilization is
rotten, it ought to be destroyed, and who cares if it is?"
"The issue between us, my boy," the Colonel continued, gravely, "is
not an academic one. It is not open to discussion. Some of the people
you are associating with have criminal records. If they continue their
present wild harangues they will be shot down like dogs in the
streets. I cannot afford to have my name even under the suspicion of
sympathy for them, through you. Do you understand me?"
"I think I do," Norman replied, holding his father's steady gaze.
"You are my son and the heir of my fortune. But you must remember that
I am the master of this establishment."
"I am aware of that fact, sir," the boy replied, in cold tones.
"I trust that it will not be necessary, then, for me to repeat to you
my first positive order--that you will immediately sever your
connection with the Socialist Club, and never again appear in public
or private with the three people who were on that platform to-day."
"It will not be necessary for you to repeat your order," the young
athlete replied, with a curious smile and a slight tightening of the
lips.
"I thought as much."
Norman laughed, and the Colonel's eyes began to blaze.
"What do you mean, sir?" he sternly asked.
"That it will be unnecessary for you to repeat your order, for the
very simple reason that I'm a man. I've the right to do my own
thinking, and I propose to do it."
With a quick stride the Colonel confronted the young rebel, his breath
quick and laboured, his face aflame with unbridled rage.
"You dare thus to defy my wishes?"
"If you put it that way, yes."
The Colonel stepped to the door and opened it.
"You will obey my order or get out of this house never to enter it
again. Take your choice!"
"You mean it?" the younger man asked, with sullen emphasis.
"Exactly what I say," was the cold reply.
Norman turned without a word, seized his hat, and left the room. As he
reached the end of the corridor, and placed his hand on the front
door, his father's voice rang out suddenly:
"Norman!"
He paused, and looked back without taking his hand from the knob.
"You can't be such a fool!" the Colonel cried.
"It looks that way, Governor!"
He opened the door, softly closed it, and was gone.
CHAPTER VIII
THROUGH THE EYES OF LOVE
Norman's break with his father created a sensation. The flag episode,
coming on the Fourth of July and at the very hour when the guns of the
forts were thundering their celebration of the fleet's victory at
Santiago, presented the dramatic contrast which stirred the
indignation of the public to unusual depths. The morning papers
devoted from four to five columns to the story. The remarkable speech
of Barbara Bozenta was reported in full, with a sketch of her life,
interspersed with portraits of the Wolfs, of Norman, Elena, his
father, the palatial home on Nob Hill, and the country estate where
the stirring little drama had been played.
The Socialist cause received a tremendous impetus. The very violence
of the editorial assaults on their programme reacted in their favour.
Thousands of men who did not know the meaning of the word Socialism
began to read and think and discuss its principles. Their meetings
were crowded, and the fame of the little brown-eyed Joan of Arc
became so great it was no longer possible for her to pass through the
streets without an escort.
All sorts of stories about the relations of the famous millionaire and
his son filled the air. Some were printed, others were vague rumours.
A sensational paper published the story that they had actually come to
blows, and had fought a duel in the big library which might have ended
fatally for one or both but for the timely interference of Colonel
Worth's ward, Elena Stockton.
Norman became at once the hero of the Socialist's cause. His
appearance at a meeting was the signal for pandemonium to break loose.
He secured employment on a sensational daily paper, and his signed
articles were made a feature.
Colonel Worth was so enraged over the vulgar notoriety with which the
incident had overwhelmed him that he denied himself to all callers,
refused to speak to a reporter or to allow a word to be uttered in
confirmation or denial of any stories printed or rumoured.
He issued orders that Norman's name should never again be spoken in
his house.
When he made this announcement to Elena her full, red lips, quivered
and she looked at him reproachfully.
"I mean it, Elena," he said, sternly.
The girl spoke in tenderness.
"I don't believe you, Guardie. It isn't like you at all. I'll not
mention his name to a servant, but I will to you."
"I don't want to hear it!"
"That's because you know you've done a great wrong."
"I accept the responsibility. It's done, and that's the end of it."
"Nothing ends until it ends right, Guardie," spoke the soft, even
voice.
"I know it's hard on you, dear," the Colonel responded, with feeling.
"It was for your sake I made the issue. If he has turned from you for
a loud-mouthed vulgar agitator, he's not worth a thought. Forget that
he lives. I'm going to leave my fortune to you."
"I don't want it at the price, Guardie," she replied, slipping her arm
around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. "I couldn't be
happy with such a fortune. What you've done hurts me more than it
hurts Norman."
"Yes, yes. I know that you love him, child, but your happiness could
not be found among a crowd of criminals and revolutionists."
"I'm not thinking of myself," was the low response as she withdrew
from his arms, "I was thinking of you."
"Of me?"
"Yes. You've broken my idol. To me you were the one perfect man in the
world. I didn't know you. I didn't know that you were hard and cold
and cruel and selfish and proud."
"I'm not, Elena."
"You allowed Norman to drift into any crazy theory that might strike
his fancy. And the moment he fails to agree with your views you turn
like a madman and drive him into the streets."
"He went of his own accord. I gave him his choice."
"And I admire his pluck. It was a manly thing to do."
"It was the act of a fool."
"Yet, you know, Guardie, in your heart of hearts you admire him for
it. He showed you that he was made of the same stuff as his father."
The Colonel scowled, and the girl took courage.
"I'm going to meet him this evening----"
"I forbid it!"
"You can't help it," she cried, as the tears slowly gathered. "I'm
going to tell him you wish to see and talk with him again."
"On one condition only--his absolute obedience to my wishes."
"I love him all the more for defying you--love him better than I ever
did in my life. And--and, Guardie--I don't love you any more. You are
cruel and unjust."
With a sob she turned and left the room.
CHAPTER IX
A FADED PICTURE
Elena's tears had shaken the Colonel's confidence in his position as
nothing else could possibly have done. Since she had finished her
course in college two years before, and he had come in daily contact
with her strong personality, a most intimate and perfect sympathy had
grown between them. He had never before known her intuitive judgment
to be wrong. Her impressions of character especially he had found
singularly accurate, her sense of right and her good taste nearly
perfect.
He retired to his room at night with a deep sense of uneasiness. His
anger had cooled, and in its stead a feeling of depression slowly
settled. From every nook and corner came memories of the boy he had
driven from his door. His pictures hung on the walls and stared at him
from every piece of furniture on which a frame could be placed. He had
learned photography as a pastime years before the kodak was invented,
and most of the pictures he had taken himself.
One photograph in particular, which stood by the clock on the mantel,
set in a heavy frame of hammered gold, which he had made himself from
the product of his first mine, riveted and held his attention. His
first impulse was to tear these pictures all down and throw them in
the fire. He had picked this one up first, to carry out his furious
impulse, but something held his hand and he placed it back in its old
place with the grim exclamation:
"No! It's the act of a coward. I've got to live with my memories--or
surrender at once."
Again and again his eye came back to this picture. He had taken it
twenty-three years ago in a little bedroom in a dirty hotel of a
desolate, God-forsaken mining town in Nevada. How well he remembered
it! He was poor then, and had just begun the first big fight of his
life for wealth and power. The boy was four weeks old, and he had
insisted on taking the picture of the mother with the baby in her
arms. He had carefully posed her, standing by the window looking down
into the child's upturned face. It had turned out a remarkable
likeness of both--the young mother's face wreathed in smiles, tender
and frail and happy, with the great joy of the dawn of motherhood
shining in her eyes.
He looked at it long and tenderly. And, as a thousand memories of
life crowded his soul, he suddenly exclaimed:
"God in heaven! What does she say to-day if she knows what I've done?"
His eyes blinked, and the tears blinded them.
He kissed the picture and buried his face in his hands as a sob of
anguish shook his frame.
"The girl's right. My boy's my boy after all. I'm wrong!"
CHAPTER X
SON AND FATHER
When the Colonel had greeted Elena at breakfast next morning he
quietly asked:
"You met Norman?"
"Yes."
"I shall be glad to see him when he comes."
Elena threw her arms impulsively around his neck.
"Now you're a darling! Now you're big and strong and good and great
again--and I love you."
The Colonel stroked her hair slowly, and asked with a smile:
"What time is he coming?"
"He's not coming." Elena laughed.
"Not coming?" the colonel repeated blankly.
"No. You're going to see him."
"Indeed!"
"You see, Guardie, he is a chip off the old block."
"It begins to look like he's the whole block," the Colonel remarked,
dryly.
"Can you blame him after the way you acted?"
"I can't say I do, much. I like a boy of spirit----"
"And individuality--that's your own pet idea Guardie."
The Colonel was silent a moment.
"Yes. I like his grit. Where will I find him?"
"At his desk at work in the newspaper office."
"I'll call him up and make an appointment."
The Colonel seized the telephone, called the newspaper office, and
asked for Norman. He waited for several minutes before any one reached
the 'phone. He scarcely recognized the short, sharp business accent of
Norman's voice:
"Well, well, what is it?"
The Colonel cleared his throat.
"Here! Here! Get a move on you--what's the matter--I'm in a hurry!"
"This is your father, Norman----"
"Get off the wire or quit your kiddin'--what do you want?"
His father laughed.
"I beg your pardon, Governor, honestly I didn't recognize your voice
until you laughed. I'm awfully glad to hear it again. What can I do
for you?"
"Well, I must say I like your impudence. What can _you_ do for me? I
want to see you right away. Shall I call at your office?"
A pause ensued, followed by audible smiles at both ends of the wire.
"Of course not, sir. It seems a long time since I left home but I've
not forgotten the way. I'll come over as soon as I can leave my desk."
Two hours later he entered the library with a boyish laugh and grasped
his father's hand.
The Colonel pressed it with deep tenderness.
"You must forgive me, boy. I wasn't fair to you the other day."
Norman tried to laugh, and stammered awkwardly:
"Well, when I hear a man of your age and experience say a thing like
that, Governor, I begin to fear I'm not quite as big as I thought I
was."
"Then we're both in the right mind now, to begin all over again, are
we not?"
"It's with you, sir," was the quick reply.
"Suppose I can convince you that you have entered on a mistaken
mission--that your programme is foolish, impossible, and dangerous?"
"Do it, and I'll join you in trying to put an end to Socialism."
"Before I begin, let me ask you a very personal question."
"As many as you like, Governor," was the frank response.
"Are you mixed up in any way personally with the young woman who spoke
here that day?"
"We're comrades in the cause of humanity--that's all."
"You're sure that it is not her personal influence over you that has
made you a Socialist?"
"Only in so far as she has made me think and feel."
"You have not made love to her?"
"Certainly not. I'm engaged to Elena."
"Then it ought to be easy for us to understand each other. Come down
out of the clouds of theory now, and tell me exactly how you are going
to save humanity, and let's see if we can't work together for the same
end. A great purpose like yours ought not to separate father and
son--you can't defend such platitudes as this, for example, which one
of your orators got off last night--listen!"
The Colonel took the morning paper from the table and read:
"Remember in this supreme hour that capitalism has you and your loved
ones by the throats, is stealing your substance, draining your veins,
and reducing you inch by inch to the potter's field. Every sweating
den cries out to you as from the depths of hell to gird up your loins
and march forth in one solid phalanx to strike the blow that shall
sound the knell of capitalistic despotism, and set the star of hope in
the skies of the despairing and dying thousands of your class who are
at the mercy of the vampires of soulless wealth. How long shall
capitalism be allowed to work its devastation, spread its blighting
curse, destroy manhood, debauch womanhood, and grind the flesh and
blood and bone of childhood into food for Mammon?"
The Colonel paused.
"Such appeals to passion can only end in riot, bloodshed, and prison
bars. You don't write such rot as that yourself, and yet the men you
are following preach it."
"I'm not following just now, Governor--I'm trying to direct this
tremendous impulse, this enthusiasm for humanity, called Socialism,
into a practical experiment that will demonstrate the truths of their
faith, and from this white city of a glorified human life send out our
missionaries to conquer the world. Give me ten thousand earnest men
and women on the island of Ventura, isolated from contact with the
corruption of the outside, and I'll show you a miracle more wonderful
than if they had risen from the dead."
"And what are the foundations on which you propose to build this
heaven on earth?"
"Squarely on these principles: From every man according to his
ability; to every man according to his needs; and to every child born
the right to laugh and play and grow to a strong manhood and
womanhood. We are not civilized so long as there is one child sobbing
to be freed from the tomb of the modern workshop, so long as there is
one man willing to work and not able to find it, so long as there is
one soul striving upward who is crushed to earth, so long as one man
lives in idleness and luxury while his neighbour starves, so long as
there's one spot of this earth on which a man lives by tearing the
bread from the lips of another."
"Hasn't your imagination been caught by beautiful phrases, my boy?"
asked the father. "In your new State of Ventura you will give to each
man according to his needs?"
"Yes."
"And who will decide how much each one needs--the man who feels the
need or the state?"
"The state, in the last resort."
"Exactly. And who will determine how large the service required of
each man? Who will decide the question of ability?"
"The state, of course."
"Are you not cutting out a pretty big job for the state, remembering
that the state is nothing more or less than a lot of ordinary
second-rate politicians named Tom, Dick, and Harry, who individually
or collectively haven't as much sense as you or I?"
"In the new world it will be different."
"Then you are going to import a new breed of men and women?"
"No, we will simply give the God in man a chance to be."
"But how about the beast that's in man--the elemental instinct to
fight and kill--to take the woman he desires by the force of his hands
and muscle?"
"When man is free and strong and happy he can have no motive to kill
or play the beast."
"That remains to be seen, my boy! Your assertion does not change the
nature of man. Another problem in your scheme I can't solve is wages."
"We will abolish wage slavery."
"Yes, yes, I know; but man must work--all men must work in your new
state?"
"Certainly."
"And the man who refuses to work?"
"Will be made to work according to his ability."
"Just so. We live under the wage system now--the system of free
contract by which labourer and employer agree. Under your system
contract would be abolished, and men would do what they are _told_ to
do--a system of _command_ instead of _contract_--is it not so?"
"I should say just the opposite. Men are forced to work now at tasks
they loathe and for pay that is insufficient. Under our state they
would be free to choose the work for which they are fitted."
"And suppose they all choose one job?"
"The state would assign their work in the last resort."
"There you are, once more, bowing down to the same Tom, Dick, and
Harry. And you cannot see that Socialism would impose on man the most
colossal system of slavery, the most merciless because the most
impersonal, the world ever saw?"
"No, I cannot. Give me a chance on one spot of earth free from the
corruption of your present system, and I'll show you that man is a
child of God, that deep in every human soul is planted the sense of
brotherhood, justice, and human fellowship."
"And you will abolish private property?"
"Except what each man earns or makes for himself."
The Colonel laughed aloud.
"Can he earn a wife, or make one for himself?"
"No; nor own one as a slave."
"You can never abolish private property, my boy, so long as any man
has the right to say, 'This woman is mine.' The home is the basis of
modern civilization. If you destroy it the home will not survive. If
the home survives it will kill Socialism. The two things can't mix."
Norman laughed.
"And you think capitalism is building ideal homes with its drudgery
that kills woman--its poverty that starves the man and drives the girl
to a life of shame?"
"Our conditions are not ideal, my son. But they are growing better
with each generation. Because all homes are not ideal, you propose to
abolish the institution. There are ten million homes in America.
Perhaps a million of them are unhappy. Can we mend matters by
destroying them all?"
"Socialism proposes to build the highest ideal of home ever seen on
earth, founded on love--and only love."
The Colonel smiled sadly.
"I see I'm too late. You've got it bad. Socialism is a contagious
disease, imported from the old world--a brain disease, the result of
centuries of wrong and oppression. Its reasons for existence in this
country are purely imaginary. If it were possible for you to build the
new State of Ventura of which you dream----"
"Dream! We are going to do it, I tell you, Governor! We have a hundred
thousand dollars already pledged. We hold to-morrow night a great
mass-meeting at which five thousand Socialists will be present. Four
hundred thousand dollars more will buy the island and give a capital
of three hundred thousand with which to begin."
"Then I can't persuade you to give up this madness?" the Colonel
asked, tenderly.
"It's my life," Norman answered firmly.
The father slipped his arm around the tall, strong figure.
"All right! Remember now, from this moment on, one thing is settled
for good and all. My boy's my boy, right or wrong, good or bad, wise
or foolish----"
The Colonel's voice broke, and his grip tightened.
Norman looked out of the window, blinked his eyes, and said in low
tones:
"I understand, sir!"
CHAPTER XI
THE WAY OF A WOMAN
As Elena entered the library the two men fell suddenly apart as though
ashamed of the weakness of affection before a woman.
The girl pretended not to have seen, but her face was radiant.
The Colonel paused as he turned to leave the room:
"You will keep up your newspaper grind, my boy?" he asked.
"No. I'll jump at the chance to do the big thing. I'll give my whole
time to it."
"Well, I suppose you're right. The way to do a thing is to do it."
As the father passed Elena he softly whispered:
"Your face shines like an angel's!"
"I am very happy," was the low answer.
Norman hastened to her side, and seized both her hands.
"I owe this to you, my stately queen."
"He would have come to the same conclusion himself. I only hastened it
a little by a suggestion," she replied.
"I have my own idea about the way you expressed it," he said with a
jolly laugh. "Look here, Elena, I hope you don't believe that I have
been disloyal to you in my association with Barbara Bozenta?"
The girl straightened her superb figure, and broke into a laugh of
mingled humour and irony.
"Well, I've a confession to make, Norman. I've been disloyal to you."
"You--disloyal--to me!" he gasped.
"Yes. I've felt of late as though you were a big, sick baby on my
hands, and I've grown tired of the charge."
"Well, upon my soul!" he exclaimed.
"Our engagement is at an end."
"Elena!"
"I'll keep your beautiful ring"--she touched it affectionately--"for
the memories that will always bind us as brother and sister. Besides,
it will deceive your father for a while. He has enough to worry him
just now."
Before Norman could pull himself together, or utter a protest, she had
turned and left him gasping with astonishment.
CHAPTER XII
A ROYAL GIFT
Norman resumed his place in his father's home and began a systematic,
persistent, and enthusiastic campaign to raise the funds to purchase
the island of Ventura and establish the ideal Commonwealth of Man.
On the day of the big mass-meeting of Socialists, who had gathered
from every state of the Golden West, Elena found her guardian seated
alone on the broad veranda overlooking the Bay of San Francisco. A
look of deep trouble clouded his strong face.
"You are worried?" she said, seating herself by his side.
"Yes, dearie," was the moody answer.
"Over Norman's meeting?"
"Yes. The boy's set his heart on this big foolish enterprise. His
failure is a certainty. I don't know what may follow."
"You are sure he can't raise the money?"
"Absolutely. The disappointment will be a stunning blow to his pride."
"You know that if he did succeed in raising the money, and
establishing his brotherhood of man, the scheme would end in failure?"
"As clearly as I know I am living."
"Would you be sorry if the dream should be realized?"
"On the other hand, I'd shout for joy to find the human race capable
of such a miracle."
Elena gently touched his hand. "Then, Guardie, there's but one thing
to do," she said, with a deep, spiritual look in her blue eyes.
"What?"
"Give Norman a round million dollars to make the experiment."
The Colonel looked at her in amazement, and suddenly sprang to his
feet, pacing the floor with feverish steps. He stopped at last before
the girl and studied her.
"Don't let Norman know who gave the money," she continued. "It will be
a big, noble, beautiful thing to do--and--it will save him."
"What a wonderful woman you are, Elena!"
He paused and looked at her steadily. "I'm going to do it!"
* * * * *
When Norman returned at midnight from the mass-meeting his face was
flushed and his eyes sparkled.
"It's done, Governor! It's done!" he fairly shouted.
"You mean the half million was subscribed?" the Colonel asked.
"Yes, and more!" he went on, excitedly. "We have succeeded beyond my
wildest hopes. We had subscriptions for a hundred thousand. Fifty
thousand more was subscribed at the meeting by the delegates, and just
as we were about to adjourn Judge Clark, a famous lawyer, rose and
announced the gift of a round million to the cause by a group of
friends whose names he refused to make known."
"And what happened?" Elena asked.
"It's hard to tell exactly. The first thing I did was to jump over
three rows of seats, grab the lawyer, and yell like a maniac. We
carried him around the room, and shouted and screamed until we were
hoarse. The scene was indescribable. Strong men fell into each other's
arms and cried like children."
"And you could get no hint of the identity of the men who gave the
money?" Elena inquired.
"Not the slightest. The deed of gift was made to me through the lawyer
as trustee. I don't like one or two conditions, exactly, but it was no
time to haggle over details."
"What were the conditions?" Elena interrupted, with a glance at the
Colonel.
"That the title to the island of Ventura should be vested in me
personally for two years. And five hundred thousand dollars should
remain a fund in my hands as trustee to administer its income for the
same period. At the end of one year, or of two, I may transfer the
whole to the Brotherhood, or reconvey it to the original donors. I
think it gives too much power into one man's hands--but I'll hold it a
sacred trust."
The young enthusiast's face glowed with thrilling purpose, and his
eyes were shining with unshed tears, as he laid his hand on his
father's shoulder and exclaimed:
"Ah! Governor, you didn't have faith enough in your fellow man! You
said it couldn't be done!"
"I congratulate you, my son," the Colonel gravely said, "and I wish
for you the noblest success."
"There's no such word as fail." Norman cried. "No sleep for me
to-night! I return to the Socialist Club for a celebration. I just
came to tell you personally of our triumph. The deed is done, and the
Brotherhood of Man is a thrilling fact!"
With swift, joyous stride he threw himself into the hall and bounded
down the steps.
"Suppose after all, Guardie, he should succeed?" Elena exclaimed.
"They'll start with many things in their favour," the Colonel
responded. "The island of Ventura is said to be the most fertile and
beautiful spot of earth in the West. No adverse influences can reach
them from without. Five thousand men and women, inspired by a sublime
faith in themselves, may under such conditions surprise us. If
Socialism is possible on an island of a hundred thousand acres, it's
possible on a hundred thousand square miles, and its faith will
conquer the world. We'll give them two years before we visit them, and
see what happens."
"Suppose they do succeed!" Elena repeated, musingly.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BURNING OF THE BRIDGES
The success which attended the launching of the new Brotherhood of Man
with its million-dollar endowment fund was phenomenal.
The announcement that the books were ready for the enrollment of the
pioneer group of two thousand who should locate the enterprise on the
island of Ventura brought twenty-five thousand applicants.
The first shock Norman's faith in man received was to collide with the
army of cranks who came in troops to join. Every creed of Christendom,
every cult of the heathen world, every ism of all the philosophies of
the past and the present came in droves. They got into arguments with
one another in the waiting-rooms of the Socialist headquarters, and
sometimes came to blows. Each conceived the hour for establishing his
own particular patent for saving the human race had come. It was an
appalling revelation to Norman to find how many of these schemes were
at work in the brains of people who were evidently incapable of taking
care of themselves.
The first week he attempted to hear each one with courtesy and
sympathy. But after wasting six days in idiotic discussions of
preposterous schemes he was compelled to call on the Wolfs for advice.
Both Wolf and his wife had begun to call Norman "Chief" from the
moment of their first burst of enthusiasm over the gift of the
million. At times the young dreamer looked at the massive face of the
older man with a touch of suspicion at this sudden acceptance of his
premiership. And yet both Wolf and Catherine (she insisted that he
call her Catherine) seemed so utterly sincere in their admiration, so
enthusiastic in their faith in his ability, they always disarmed
suspicion. Catherine's repeated explanation of this faith when Norman
halted or hesitated was always flattering to his vanity, and yet
perfectly reasonable.
"My boy, we take off our hats to you! A man can't do the impossible
unless he tries. We didn't try. You did. The trouble with Herman, and
with every man of forty, is that he loses faith in himself. We get
careful and conservative. We lack the dash and fire and daring of
youth. I envy you. I salute you as the inspired leader of our
Cause--you've done the impossible! And you've just begun. We can only
hope to help you with our larger experience."
At the end of a week of futile and exhausting palaver with this army
of cranks who infest the West, Wolf, carefully watching his
opportunity, turned to Norman and said:
"I've been waiting for you to see things a little more clearly before
I say something to you--I think it's time."
"What is it?" the young leader asked.
Wolf hesitated a moment as if feeling his way.
"Something he should have said sooner," exclaimed Catherine.
"There's but one way, comrade. Kick these fools into the street!"
"But don't we begin to weaken the moment we do a thing like that? We
accept the brotherhood of man----"
"Of man, yes," the old leader broke in, "but these are not men--they
are what might have been had they lived in a sane world. They are the
results of the nightmare we call civilization. The kindest thing you
can do for a crank is to kill him. You are trying to do what God
Almighty never undertook--to make something out of nothing. You know,
when he made Adam he had a ball of mud to start with."
"I'm afraid you're right," Norman agreed.
"When the Brotherhood is established with picked men," Catherine
added, "we can take in new members with less care. Now it is of the
utmost importance that we select the pioneer group of the best blood
in the Socialist ranks--trained men and women who believe with
passionate faith what you and I believe."
"Then do it," Norman said, with emphasis. "I put you and Wolf in
charge of this first roll. I've more important work to do in
organizing the business details of the enterprise."
A look of joy flashed from Wolf's gray eyes into the woman's as he
calmly but quickly replied:
"I'll do the best I can."
"You ought to know by name every true Socialist on the Coast," Norman
added.
"I do, comrade, and I'll guarantee the pioneer group."
"Let all applicants for membership hereafter pass your scrutiny," were
his final orders.
He rose from his desk with a sigh of relief as Barbara entered the
room, her cheeks flushed with joy, her eyes sparkling with excitement
from the ovation she had just received from the crowd which packed the
corridor.
His first impulse was to ask her to accompany him to the country, rest
and play for a day. His heart beat more quickly at the thought, but as
the question trembled on his lips, his eyes rested on Wolf's shaggy
head bending over the piles of papers on his desk, and a grim fear
shadowed his imagination. Elena's laughter suddenly echoed through his
memory. He recalled his father's questions. A frown slowly settled on
his brow, and a firm resolution took shape in his mind.
"No woman's spell to blind your senses! Clear thinking, my boy! You're
on trial before the man who gave you life. You're on trial before the
men whose faith gave you a million dollars to put you to the test.
Success first, and then, perhaps, the joy of living!"
Barbara felt the chill of a sudden barrier between them, and looked at
him with a little touch of wounded pride.
He merely nodded pleasantly and hurried from the room.
He gave his whole energies at once to the larger business of the
enterprise. The title to the property was searched with the utmost
thoroughness and found to be perfect. Enormous sums of money had been
spent on the island by the bankrupt wild-cat real-estate company which
had bought it in for improvement and exploitation. They had built a
magnificent hotel with accommodations for one thousand five hundred
guests, had planted vineyards, established a winery planted vast
orchards of plums, apricots, olives, peaches, and oranges, built flour
mills, an ice factory, and had started a number of mining and
manufacturing enterprises. When the bubble burst the company was
bankrupt and the lawyers got the rest. A careful inventory showed to
Norman that they had acquired a property of enormous value. The
improvements alone had cost $1,250,000, and they were worth twice that
sum now to the colony.
He chartered a corporate society, known as "The Brotherhood of Man,"
for the purpose of legalizing the new social State of Ventura when it
had passed the experimental stage and he could surrender to it the
title and money held in trust under the deed of gift. Two hundred
thousand dollars was paid in cash for the island, and the remaining
capital held for work. A steamer was purchased to serve the colony by
plying between the island, Santa Barbara, and San Francisco.
The Wolfs advised Norman that no mail service be asked or permitted.
"The reasons are many, comrade," the old leader urged. "The first
condition of success in this work is the complete isolation of the
colony from outside influences. If modern civilization is hell, you
can't build a heaven with daily communication between the two
places."
"Every man and woman who enters," Catherine added, "must sign a solemn
contract to remain five years, enlist as soldier, and communicate with
the outside world only by permission of the authority of the
Brotherhood."
"I see," laughed Norman. "I must have the Czar's power to examine
suspected mail if treason or rebellion threatens."
"Exactly," cried Wolf.
"A large power to put in one man's hands!" Norman protested.
"There's not a man or woman going to that island who wouldn't trust
you with life, to say nothing of a mail pouch," Catherine declared,
with a look of genuine admiration.
"You think such drastic measures to prevent communication with the
outside world will be needed?" Norman argued.
"Let us hope not," Wolf quickly replied. "But it's better to be on the
safe side. The history of every experiment made in Socialism by the
heroes and pioneers of the cause in the past shows that failure came
in every case from just this source. We will start under the most
favourable conditions ever tried. Our island will be a little world
within itself. Cut every line of possible communication with modern
competitive society, and we can prove the brotherhood of man a living
fact. Open our experiment to the lies and slanders of our enemies from
without, and they can destroy us before the work is fairly begun. Our
colony would be overrun with hostile reporters from the capitalist
press, for example----"
"You're right," exclaimed Norman.
"Let every volunteer enlist in the service of humanity for five
years," repeated Catherine, "agreeing to hold no communication with
the world. Make that agreement one impossible for them to break, and
our success is as sure as that man is made in the image of God. All we
ask is a chance to prove it without interference."
"I agree with you," cried Norman, at last. "Five years' service, with
every bridge burned behind us--we'll fight it out on that line."
A look of triumph came from beneath Wolf's shaggy brows as his eyes
rested again on the smiling madonna-like face of the woman by his
side.
CHAPTER XIV
THE NEW WORLD
On a beautiful Sunday morning in May, 1899, the steamship _Comrade_
slowly swept through the Golden Gate with two thousand enthusiastic
Socialists crowding her decks, shouting, cheering, laughing, crying,
singing their joy and faith in the new world of human brotherhood for
which they had set sail.
The flag of the republic flew from her stern because the law of the
port of entry required it. But from her huge prow rose a slender steel
staff, above the tips of her funnels and masts, on which flew the
blood-red ensign of Socialism, while from every masthead huge red
steamers fluttered in the sky.
At noon on the following day the eager eyes of the pioneers sighted
the island of Ventura. At first a tiny white and blue spot on the
horizon, and then slowly out of the sea rose its majestic outlines,
until at last the ship drew in so close to the towering mountains of
its shore line the colonists could almost touch the stone walls with
their hands.
The captain was evidently at home in the sparkling blue waters which
rolled lazily against the perpendicular cliffs.
Norman had climbed over the piles of freight, cordage, and anchors,
and taken his stand beside the flagstaff on the ship's prow, his soul
enraptured with the thrilling adventure on which he had embarked.
He had made two trips to the island before, but never had he seen it
rise from the sea in such matchless glory as to-day.
Far up in the sky loomed the mountain peaks still covered with snow,
while the rich hills and valleys to the southward rolled laughingly in
their robes of green.
Five miles down the coast the ship turned her nose inshore, and slowly
ploughed her way through a narrow channel which opened between two
hills. She quickly cleared the channel and rounded another headland,
when a shout rang from her decks. Straight before them, across a
beautiful landlocked bay, which formed a perfect harbour, rose the
huge hotel, the home of the Brotherhood. The central building was
crowned by two tall towers, and the long wings which stretched toward
the sea pierced the skyline with a dozen minarets of quaint Moorish
pattern. From the flagpole on the lawn, from each graceful tower and
each shining sun-kissed minaret, flew the scarlet ensign of Socialism.
When the ship swept in alongside the pier the building loomed from its
hilltop higher apparently than the mountain range behind it.
Barbara clapped her hands as she ran to Norman's side.
"Look! Look at those flags! Aren't they glorious? Nobody will haul
them down here, will they?"
Norman lifted his eyes and looked in silence for a moment. A stiff
breeze was blowing from the southeast, and the two huge banners of
scarlet stood straight from their staffs on the towers and seemed to
fill the sky with quivering flame.
"Glorious!" he said, at last. "They speak the end of strife, the dawn
of love and human brotherhood!"
The Wolfs had preceded them to the colony with a select band of
enthusiasts, stored the first supplies, and set the place in order to
receive as welcome guests the first shipload of pioneers.
When the throng of joyous, excited comrades had landed, they formed in
line and marched up from the pier. The wide, white, smooth road led
through a wilderness of flowers which had grown in wild profusion
since they had been abandoned two years before. The Wolfs led the
procession, with Barbara and Norman by their side.
When they reached the big circle of scarlet geraniums in the centre of
the floral court between the two wings of the great building they
stopped, and Catherine began in her clear, thrilling soprano voice the
Marseillaise hymn. The pioneers crowded around her tall, commanding
figure and sang with inspired emotion. Every heart beat with high
resolve. The heaven of which they had dreamed was no longer a dream.
They were walking its white, shining streets. Their souls were crying
for joy in its dazzling court of honour. The old world, with its sin
and shame, its crime and misery, its hunger and cold, its greed and
lust, its cruelty and insanity, had passed away, and lo! all things
were new. The very air was charged with faith and hope and love. A
wave of religious ecstasy swept the crowd. They called each by their
first names. Strong men embraced, crying "Comrade!" through their
tears. The older ones had made allowances for the glowing accounts of
the island. They expected some disillusioning at first. Yet their
wildest expectations were far surpassed. Such beauty, such grandeur,
such wealth of nature, such magnificence of equipment, were too good
to be true, and yet they were facts.
The island of Ventura was enchanted. The impression it gave each heart
of the certainty of success was the biggest asset of real wealth with
which the colony began its history.
CHAPTER XV
FOR THE CAUSE
During the first enchanted days every man woman and child entered the
strange new system with a determination to see only its beauty, its
truth, its sure success. Service was the order of the day. Men who had
never before worked with their hands asked the privilege of the
hardest tasks.
The whole colony swarmed to unload the ship. They refused to allow the
crew to touch a piece of freight or handle a piece of baggage.
The only difficulty Norman found was to systematize their work under
the captain's direction.
The day following they "swarmed" again to clear the lawn of weeds and
restore the labyrinth of walks and beds of flowers in the great court.
Merchants exchanged the yardstick for the rake and hoe. Preachers laid
aside their sermons to wield a spade, and returned from their tasks in
the evening with song and laughter.
Among the women the spirit of sacrifice and enthusiastic service was
even higher. Many who loved flowers begged the privilege of using the
pruning-knife and some even seized a hoe and worked with unwearied
zeal.
Others, who had never seen the inside of their own kitchens, rolled up
their sleeves, donned white aprons, entered the great cooking-room of
the hotel, and made pots and kettles fly. Beautiful girls who had
spent lives of comparative ease took turns in waiting on the tables,
and all worked with a spirit of joy which robbed labour of its
weariness.
By common consent Norman had assumed the general directorship of the
colony, and by common consent the Wolfs were accepted as his chief
advisers. This arrangement was formally voted on and unanimously
approved at the first night's assembly of the Brotherhood in the big
dining-hall of the building, which they now christened the "Mission
House of the Brotherhood of Man."
On accepting the position of general manager of the Brotherhood the
young leader rose and faced the people with deep emotion.
"Comrades," he began, in trembling tones, "I thank you for the
confidence you have shown in me. I shall strive to prove myself worthy
of your faith, and I hope within a year that we shall make such
progress in the development of our new social system that I shall be
able to convey then the full title to this glorious island to your
permanent organization."
A round of applause greeted this announcement.
"I'm sure our preliminary work will be completed within a single year.
I am not a man of many words, but I hope to prove myself a man of
deeds. I shall consult you in every important step to be taken, and
for this purpose the General Assembly of the Brotherhood will be held
in this hall every Friday evening. On Monday evening a ball will be
given for the pleasure of our young people, and every Wednesday
evening a social reception. Let us make these three evenings the
source of inspiration for our daily tasks."
Norman closed his brief speech in a burst of genuine enthusiasm.
Scores of young men and women crowded to the platform and grasped his
hand.
When the last echoes of the evening's celebration had died away,
Catherine led Barbara into her room.
Wolf sat quietly smoking by the window.
"What on earth's the matter?" the girl asked. "You drag me to your
room half dressed, in the dead of night, and speak in whispers. I
thought we'd done with the dark and scheming ways of the world."
"And so we have, my child," laughed Wolf. His cold gray eyes lighted
with sudden warmth as they rested on Barbara's dainty little figure.
Its exquisite lines could be plainly seen through the silk kimono as
she walked with languid grace and threw the mass of dishevelled curls
back from her shoulders.
"Sit down, dear," Catherine said, with a smile. "We have something of
the utmost importance to say to you."
"I am to go abroad as an ambassador to some foreign court. Don't say
that--I like it here."
"No. We are going to propose that you establish a court here," Wolf
interrupted.
"Establish a court!" Barbara exclaimed. "How romantic!"
"In short, my child, it's absolutely necessary for you to become, not
merely the power behind the throne with our young Comrade Chief, you
must assume the throne itself."
"But how?" the girl asked.
"As if you didn't know!"
"I honestly don't. My eloquence is of little use here. We are all
persuaded. Besides, our Comrade Chief has acquired the habit of
thinking for himself."
"Just so," observed Wolf. "And we want you to do his thinking for
him."
"What do you mean, Catherine?" Barbara asked, her brow suddenly
clouding, as she looked straight into her foster-mother's eyes.
"That you must win young Worth."
"Deliberately set out to make him love me?" the girl exclaimed with
scorn. "I'll do nothing of the kind."
"You must, my dear," Wolf pleaded earnestly. "It's all for the Cause.
It's in this boy's power to make or wreck this great enterprise. We
have a kingdom here whose wealth and power may become the wonder of
the world. It may be wrecked by the whim of one man. A thousand
difficulties must be faced before we can have smooth sailing. The one
thing above all to be done is to secure from young Worth the deed to
this island. He must be convinced of the success of the scheme, and he
must be convinced before he faces some of the most serious problems
that are sure to arise--problems which will demand a strong arm and a
cool, clear head to handle. The boy means well, but he can never meet
these issues. Win his love and everything will be easy. Slowly and
patiently I will perfect the organization we must have to succeed."
"I fail to see the necessity of such a shameless act on my part. No
man here is so enthusiastic as our young leader. He is sure to make
the deed. You heard his promise to-night."
"He intends to do it, I grant," Catherine argued. "But what Herman and
I clearly see is that he will sooner or later be overwhelmed with
difficulties. He may quit in disgust at the very moment when a strong
policy could save the Cause. We want to be sure. He is a new convert.
His enthusiasm is now at white heat. We are afraid of what may happen
when it cools."
"With your great brown eyes looking into his," Wolf broke in, "and
your little hand in his, it can't cool!"
"I don't think he cares for me in that way at all," the girl
protested. "He has held himself quite aloof from me of late."
"All the more reason why your woman's pride should be piqued to make
the conquest," urged Wolf.
"I have no such vulgar ambitions," was the short answer.
"Of course you haven't, child," Wolf said in serious tones. "We
understand that. But we ask this of you as a brave little soldier of
the Cause. It's the one big, brave thing you can do."
"I might have to let him kiss me," she said, with a frown.
"Well, he's a handsome youngster--it wouldn't poison you," laughed
Catherine.
"I hate it! I think I hate every man on earth sometimes," she
answered.
Wolf laughed and looked at her with quiet intensity.
"Come, dear, you can do this for the Cause we both love," Catherine
urged.
"I might have to let him put his arm around me----."
Catherine seized her hand, looked at her steadily for a moment, and
slowly said:
"The woman who would not give both her body and her soul for the Cause
of Humanity, if called on to make the sacrifice, is not worthy to live
in the big world of which we've dreamed."
Barbara's face flushed and her eyes sparkled.
"You believe this?" she asked, sternly.
"With all my soul," was the fierce answer.
Barbara hesitated a moment, and firmly said:
"Then I'll do it!"
CHAPTER XVI
BARBARA CHOOSES A PROFESSION
When Norman came down to the office next morning, the clerk handed him
a note. A glance at the smooth, perfect handwriting told him at once
it was from Barbara. He opened it with a smile of pleasant surprise
and read with increasing astonishment:
"You are to take breakfast with me this morning in
the rose bower of the floral court.
"By order of
"BARBARA BOZENTA,
"_Secretary to the General Manager_."
Norman found her alone, seated beside a little table in the bower, her
face wreathed in mischievous smiles.
She rose and extended her hand:
"Permit me to introduce you to your new secretary."
"I assure you my delight is only equalled by my surprise," he
answered, with boyish banter.
"Yes, I thought it best to take you by surprise. Now that it's all
settled, I trust we will get on well." She looked at him with demure
and charming impudence.
Norman burst into laughter.
"I'm sure we will!" he answered. "All I require is industry, patience,
wisdom, tact, knowledge, sacrifice, absolute obedience, and a joyous
desire to assume full responsibility for my mistakes!"
"All of which will come to me," she responded, with mock gravity.
"Permit me!"
She led him to the chair she had placed beside the table, and poured a
cup of coffee for him.
Norman watched her with keen enjoyment. "I've never seen you in this
mood before," he said, quietly.
"You like it?"
"Beyond words! I'm afraid I'll wake up directly and find I'm dreaming.
I'm sure now, when I look into your eyes, sparkling with fun, that you
are a flower nymph, and that your home has always been a rose bower on
the sunny slope of a southern hillside."
"Perhaps I'm just teasing you. Perhaps I won't work," she said,
glancing at him from the corners of her brown eyes.
"Then you'll find it a serious joke," he answered, firmly.
"Resignations are not in order. You have chosen your profession. As
general manager I have given my approval. That settles it, doesn't
it?"
"If you are pleased, yes," she answered, gravely.
"I am more than pleased. I've been afraid to ask you to do this work
for me--though I've had it in mind."
"Why afraid?"
"I don't know. I somehow got the impression lately that you didn't
like me personally."
"How could you think such a thing!" she protested.
"Just a vague impression--caught, perhaps, from little gestures you
sometimes made, little frowns that sometimes came to your brow, little
flashes of hostility from your eyes."
"I didn't mean it, comrade!" she said, demurely, while her eyes danced
and her mouth twitched playfully.
"And you've fully weighed the cost?"
"Fully."
"You know that you will be forced to spend most of your time in my
office?"
"I'll try to endure it," she laughed.
"Without a frown or a hostile look?"
"Unless you provoke it."
Norman ate in silence for five minutes, listening to Barbara's girlish
chatter while she bubbled over with the spirit of pure joy. Her whole
being radiated fun and laughter as the sun pours forth heat and light.
He wondered where this magic secret of joyous womanhood had been
hidden in the past.
"What a revelation you've been to me this morning," he said, musingly,
as he rose from the table.
"How?" she asked.
"I thought you were all seriousness and tragedy, eloquence and
pathos."
"We're in paradise now. The shadows have lifted."
"And I find you a little ray of dancing sunlight."
"So every girl would be if she had the chance."
"And we're going to give them the chance here, little comrade!" he
cried, with enthusiasm.
"I'll help you!" she earnestly responded, extending her hand with a
tender look into the depth of Norman's soul.
CHAPTER XVII
A CALL FOR HEROES
The first business before the Assembly of the Brotherhood was the
permanent assignment of work. The enthusiasm which swept the
Socialists through the first week of joyous life could not last. No
one expected it. The novelty of their surroundings, the surprise and
elation of every one over the beauty and richness of their newly
acquired empire, carried the pioneers over the opening days as in a
dream. It all seemed like a great picnic--like the long-hoped-for
holidays in life of which they had dreamed and never realized, yet
which somehow had come to pass.
But the time was at hand to face the first big, sober reality of the
new social system. The dining-hall was packed. Every member of the
Brotherhood was present.
The orchestra played a lively air in a vain effort to revive the
spirit of festivity with which every meeting had hitherto buzzed.
But an evil spirit had entered the Garden of Eden, and joy had fled.
Over every heart hovered a brood of solemn questions. What will be my
lot? Will I be allowed to choose my work? Or will they tell me what to
do? Will it be dirty and disagreeable, or pleasant and inspiring?
Norman sat in his chair of state as presiding officer, bending over a
mass of papers which Barbara had spread before him. She leaned close,
and a stray hair from one of her brown curls touched his forehead. He
trembled and stared blankly at the papers, seeing only a beautiful
face.
"You understand?" she asked. "I've placed under each department the
number of workers needed."
"Yes, yes, I understand!" he repeated, looking at her, blankly.
"I don't believe you've heard a word I've spoken to you," she said,
reproachfully.
He was about to answer when the music stopped. Norman lifted his head
with a start, rose quickly and faced the crowd.
"Comrades," he began, "the time has come for us to make good our faith
in one another. You have proven yourselves brave and faithful in our
struggle with the infamies of the system of capitalism. We call now
for the heroes and heroines of actual work. We are entering, under the
most favourable auspices, on the most important experiment yet made in
the social history of the world. We are going to prove that mankind is
one vast brotherhood--that love, not greed, can rule this earth.
"In our temporary organization we wish to outline the forms on which
we will later found the permanent State of Ventura. At present we will
organize four departments--Production, Distribution, Domestic Service,
and Education.
"I am going to ask each one of you, by secret ballot, to choose your
permanent work."
A cheer shook the building.
Norman flushed with pleasure, and continued quickly:
"It shall be my constant aim as your general manager under our
temporary organization to give you the widest personal liberty
consistent with the success of our enterprise.
"Before preparing your ballots for choice of your work, I shall have
to ask that each head of a family and each unmarried man and woman
first pass by the platform and draw lots for the assignment of your
rooms in our Mission House. There have been some complaints already,
I'm sorry to say, on this question. Some wish to live on the first
floor, some on the top, but everybody wants to live on the south side
of the house with the glorious views of the sea, and nobody wishes to
live on the north side. There is but one way to determine such a
question in our ideal state. Fate must decide.
"The numbers of each room and suite are in the basket. The bachelors
will be assigned to the right wing, the girls to the left wing, the
married ones to the centre of the building.
"Please form in line on the left and march toward the right aisle past
the platform."
"Mr. Chairman!" called Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat.
Norman rapped for silence, and those who had risen resumed their
seats.
"I protest, Mr. Chairman," continued the poet, "against the cruelty of
such a process. The weak and the aged should be given their choice
first."
"We left them all behind us!" Norman cried, with a wave of his hand.
"There are no weak and aged in this crowd. We belong to the elect. We
have found the secret of eternal youth."
Another cheer swept the crowd, the poet subsided with a sigh of
contempt, and the people quickly filed past the platform and drew
their lots for permanent rooms in the building. The larger suites had
been subdivided, so that the entire pioneer colony of two thousand
found accommodations under one roof.
When the crowd had resumed their seats, and the last cry of triumph
over a successful draw and the last groan of disappointment over an
unlucky lot had subsided, Norman rose and made the most momentous
announcement the Brotherhood had yet heard:
"In the Department of Production we need hod-carriers, bricklayers,
carpenters, architects, teamsters, and skilled mechanics for the
foundry and machine-shops, saw-mill, and flour mills. On the farm and
orchard we need ploughmen and harvesters for grain and hay, gardeners,
stablemen, and ditchers.
"In our Department of Domestic Service we need cooks, seamstresses,
washerwomen, scrubbers and cleaners, waiters, porters, bell-boys,
telephone girls, steamfitters, plumbers, chimney-sweeps, and sewer
cleaners.
"In the Department of Education we need artists and artisans,
teachers, nurses, printers and binders, pressmen and compositors, one
editor, scientists and lecturers, missionaries, actors, singers, and
authors.
"Now you each of you know what you can do best. Choose the work in
which you can render your comrades the highest service of which you
are capable and best advance the cause of humanity. Write your name
and your choice of work on the blanks which have been furnished you."
The orchestra played while the ballots were being cast and counted.
The chairman at length rose with the tabulated sheet in his hand and
faced his audience.
"Comrades," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "that old saying I'll
have to repeat, 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again!'
Beyond the shadow of a doubt we shall have to try this election again.
If I didn't know by the serious look on your faces that you mean it
I'd say off-hand that you were trying to put up a joke on me."
He paused, and a painful silence followed.
"Give us the ballot!" growled the Bard.
Norman looked at the list he held, and in spite of himself, as he
caught the gleam of mischief in Barbara's eye, burst into laughter and
sat down.
Wolf ascended the platform, glanced over the list and whispered:
"It's a waste of time. Call for the election of an executive council
with full powers."
"We'll try once more," Norman insisted, quickly rising.
"Comrades, I'm sorry to say there is no election. We must proceed to
another ballot, and if the industries absolutely necessary to the
existence of any society are not voted into operation, we must then
choose an executive council with full power to act. I appeal to your
sense of heroism and self-sacrifice----"
"Give us the ballot! Read it!" thundered the offended poet.
"Yes, read it!"
"Read it!"
The shouts came from all parts of the hall. The crowd was in dead
earnest and couldn't see the joke.
Once more the young chairman raised the fateful record of human
frailty before his eyes, paused, and then solemnly began:
"In the first place, comrades, more than six hundred ballots out of
the two thousand cast are invalid. They have been cast for work not
asked for. They must be thrown out at once.
"Three hundred and sixty five able-bodied men choose hunting as their
occupation. I grant you that game is plentiful on the island, but we
can't spare you, gentlemen!
"Two hundred and thirty-five men want to fish! The waters abound in
fish, but we have a pound-net which supplies us with all we can eat.
"Thirty-two men and forty-six women wish to preach.
"We do not need at present hunters, fishermen, or preachers, and have
not called for volunteers in these departments of labour.
"Three hundred and fifty-six women wish to go on the stage, and one
hundred and ninety-five of them choose musical comedy and light
opera. I think this includes most of our female population between the
ages of fourteen and thirty-five!"
A murmur of excitement swept the feminine portion of the audience.
"Allow me to say," he went on, "that the most urgent need of the
colony at this moment cannot be met by organizing a chorus, however
beautiful and pleasing its performances would be. We need, and we must
have, waitresses and milkmaids. The chorus can wait, the cows cannot.
"I asked for one editor. One hundred and seventy-five men and
sixty-three women have chosen that field. Seventy-five men and
thirty-two women wish to be musicians."
"We have looked in vain among the ballots for a single hod-carrier, or
ploughman, ditcher, cook, seamstress, washerman or washerwoman,
stableman, scrubber, or cleaner. The Brotherhood cannot live a day
without them. Remember, comrades, we are to make the great experiment
on which the future happiness of the race may depend. Let us forget
our selfish preferences and think only of our fellow men. I call for
heroes of the hod, heroines of the washtub and the scrubbing-brush and
milk-pail, knights of the pitchfork, spade, and shovel. Let hunters,
fishermen, preachers, and chorus-girls forget they live for the
present.
"This is not a joke, comrades, though I have laughed. It's one of the
gravest problems we must face. It has been suggested that we hire
outside labour to do this disagreeable work for a generation or two.
The moment we dare make such a compromise we are lost forever. We must
solve this problem or quit. A second ballot is ordered at once."
Again the orchestra played, the ushers passed the boxes, the vote was
taken, and all for naught. Not a single hero of the hod appeared. Not
a single heroine of the washtub, the scrubbing-brush, or the
milk-pail.
The young chairman's face was very grave when Barbara handed him the
results.
She bent and whispered:
"Away with frowns and doubts and fears! There's a better way. A leader
must lead. Their business is to follow."
Norman's face brightened. He turned to the crowd, and in tones of
clear, ringing command announced:
"Comrades, I had hoped you could choose your work of your own accord.
The attempt has failed. Six divisions of labour, each of them
absolutely essential to the existence of society in any form above
the primitive savage, have not a single man or woman in them."
"We must elect an executive council of four who shall sit as a court
of last resort in settling the question of the ability of each comrade
and the work to which he shall be assigned. Under our temporary
charter the general manager will preside over this court and cast the
deciding vote. Nominations are in order for the other four. We want
two men and two women in this council. In all our deliberations woman
shall have equal voice with man."
The Bard made a speech of protest against the action about to be
taken, in the sacred name of liberty.
"This act is the first step on the road to a tyranny more monstrous
than any ever devised by capitalism!" he shouted, with hands uplifted,
his long hair flying in wild disorder.
Tom Mooney, an old miner, who had met Norman and become his friend
during a visit to one of his father's mines, sprang to his feet and
made a rush for the excited poet. Confronting him a moment, Tom
inquired:
"Kin I ax ye a few questions?"
"Certainly. As many as you like."
"Kin ye cook?"
"I cannot."
"Kin ye wash?"
"No!"
"Kin ye scrub?"
"No, sir."
"Ever swing a hod?"
"I have not."
"Ever milk a cow?"
"No!"
"Are ye willin' to learn them things?"
"I didn't come here for that purpose."
"Then, what t' 'ell ye kickin' about?" Tom cried, and, glaring at the
poet, he thundered fiercely:
"Set down!"
The man of song was so disconcerted by this unexpected onslaught, and
by the roars of laughter which greeted Tom's final order, that he
dropped into his seat, muttering incoherent protests, and the
balloting for the executive council proceeded at once amid universal
good humour.
A dozen names were proposed as candidates, and the four receiving the
highest votes were declared duly elected.
The election resulted in the choice of Herman Wolf, Catherine, Barbara
Bozenta, and Thomas Mooney.
Tom was amazed at his sudden promotion to high office, and insisted
on resigning in favour of a man of better education.
Norman caught his big horny hand and pressed it.
"Not on your life, Tom. You've made a hit. The people like your hard
horse-sense. You will make a good judge. Besides, I need you. You're a
man I can depend on every day in the year."
"I'll stick ef you need me, boy--but I hain't fitten, I tell ye."
"I'll vouch for your fitness--sit down!"
The last command Norman thundered into Tom's ears in imitation of his
order to the poet, and the old miner, with a grin, dropped into his
seat.
As Norman was about to declare the meeting adjourned, the steward
ascended the platform and whispered a message.
The young leader turned to the crowd and lifted his hand for silence.
"Comrades, a prosaic but very important announcement I have to make. I
have just been informed that there is no milk for supper. The cows
have been neglected. They must be milked. I call for a dozen volunteer
milkmaids until this adjustment can be made. Come, now!--and a dozen
young men to assist them. Let's make this a test of your loyalty to
the cause. All labour is equally honourable. Labour is the service of
your fellow man. Who will be the first heroine to fill this breach in
the walls of our defence?"
Barbara sprang forward, with uplifted head, laughing.
"I will!"
"And I'll help you!" Norman cried, with a laugh. "Who will join us
now? Come, you pretty chorus-girls! You wouldn't mind if you carried
these milk-pails on the stage in a play. Well, this is the biggest
stage you will ever appear on, and all the millions of the civilized
world are watching."
A pretty, rosy-cheeked girl joined Barbara.
An admirer followed, and in a moment a dozen girls and their escorts
had volunteered. They formed in line and marched to the cow lot with
Norman and Barbara leading, singing and laughing and swinging their
milk-pails like a crowd of rollicking children.
When they reached the pasture where the cows were herded, Norman asked
Barbara, with some misgivings:
"Honestly, did you ever milk a cow?"
"Of course I have," she promptly replied. "I spent two years on a farm
once. Do you think I'd make a fool of myself trying before all these
kids if I hadn't?"
"I didn't know but that you made a bluff at it to lead the others on.
What can I do, for heaven's sake?"
Norman looked at her in a helpless sort of way while Barbara rolled up
her sleeves. For the first time he saw her beautifully rounded bare
arm to its full length. He stood with open-eyed admiration. Never had
he seen anything so white and round and soft, so subtly and
seductively suggestive of tenderness and love.
"For heaven's sake, what do I do?" he repeated, blankly.
"Get some meal in that bucket for my cow, and see that her calf don't
get to her--I'll do the rest."
Norman hustled to the barn with the other boys, got his bucket of
meal, placed it in front of the cow Barbara had selected, and stood
watching with admiration the skill with which her deft little hands
pressed two streams of white milk into the bucket at her feet.
"Goodness, you're a wonder," he cried, admiringly. "But where's the
calf I'm supposed to be watching?"
"I think that's the one standing close to the gate in the next lot
watching me with envy. The first time the gate's opened he'll jump
through if he gets half a chance--so look out!"
"I'll watch him," Norman promised, without lifting his eyes from the
rhythmic movement of the bare white arms.
He had scarcely spoken when a careless boy swung the gate wide open,
and the lusty calf, whose soft eyes had been watching Barbara through
the fence, made a break for his mother. In a swift, silent rush he
planted one foot in Barbara's milk-pail, knocked her over with the
other, switched his tail, and fell to work on his own account without
further concern. It was all done so suddenly it took Norman's breath.
He sprang to Barbara's side and helped her to her feet.
Norman grabbed the calf by the ear with one hand and by the tail with
the other, and started toward the gate.
The animal suddenly ducked his head, plunged forward, jerked Norman to
his knees, and dragged him ten yards before he could regain his feet.
The young leader rose, tightened his grip, and started with a rush
toward the gate, but the calf swerved in time to avoid it, gaining
speed with each step, and started off with his escort in a mad race
around the lot, galloping at a terrific speed, bellowing and snorting
at every jump.
The others stopped their work to laugh and cheer as round and round
the maddened little brute flew with the tall, heroic leader galloping
by his side.
Norman had no time to call for help. He couldn't let go and he
couldn't stop the calf.
As he made the second round of the lot, upsetting buckets, smashing
milk-pails, and stampeding peaceful cows, a boy yelled through the
roars of laughter:
"Twist his tail! Twist his tail an' he'll go the way you want him!"
Norman misunderstood the order, loosened the head and grabbed the tail
with both hands. With a loud bellow the calf plunged into a wilder
race around the lot, dragging his tormentor now with regular, graceful
easy jumps. He made the rounds twice thus, single file, amid screams
of laughter, suddenly turned and plunged headlong through an osage
hedge, and left Norman sitting in a dusty heap on the ground among the
thorns. He rose, brushed his clothes sheepishly, and looked through
the hedge at the calf which had turned and stood eyeing him now with
an expression of injured innocence.
Barbara came up, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.
"I've learned something new," Norman quietly observed. "All labour
may be equally honourable. It's not equally expedient. I wish you'd
look at that beast eyeing me through the fence! It's positively
uncanny. I believe he's possessed of the devil. I don't wonder at that
belief of the ancients. I've tackled many a brute on the football
field--but this is one on me!"
The brilliant young leader of the new moral world led the procession
of milkmaids back to the house as the shadows of evening fell, a
sadder but wiser man for the day's experience.
CHAPTER XVIII
A NEW ARISTOCRACY
Three members of the executive council, Norman, Barbara, and Tom,
began at once the task of assigning work. The problems which
immediately faced the council were overwhelming, but they were urgent
and could admit of no delay. The absolute refusal of every member of
the Brotherhood to do the dirty and disagreeable work brought at once
two issues to a crisis. Either labour must be voluntary or
involuntary. The people who did this work must be induced to agree to
perform it or they must be forced to do it by a superior authority
without their consent.
They could only be led to choose this work by inducements of an
extraordinary nature--the payment of enormously high wages and the
shortening of each day's work to a ridiculous minimum.
If wages were made unequal, the old problem of inequality would remain
unsolved. For equal wages no man would lift his hand.
Confronted by this dilemma the executive council decided at once to
fix wages on an unequal basis rather than reduce its unwilling members
to a condition of involuntary labour, which is merely a long way to
spell slavery.
When this decision was announced, Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat,
once more lifted his voice in solemn protest:
"I denounce this act in the name of every principle which has brought
us together," he cried, with solemn warning. "You have established a
system far more infamous than the unequal wages of the old society
where the law of the survival of the fittest is the court of last
resort. You have opened the door of fathomless corruption by
substituting the whim of an executive council for the law of nature.
It is the beginning of jealousy, strife, favouritism, jobbery, and
injustice."
"Then what's a better way?" Old Tom asked, with a sneer.
"It's your business to find a better way," cried the man of visions.
Tom glared at the poet with a look of fury and Norman whispered to the
old miner:
"Remember, Tom, you're sitting as a judge in the Supreme Court of
State!"
"Can't help it. I never did have no use for a fool. Ef he can't tell
us a better way, let 'im shet up."
Barbara pressed Tom's arm, and he subsided.
The court at once entered into the question of wages for domestic
service.
It had been agreed, at the suggestion of the Wolfs, that they should
spend their time in quietly investigating the qualifications of each
member of the Brotherhood for the work to be assigned, and make their
reports in secret to the majority of the court, which should sit
continuously until all had been decided.
Neither Norman, Barbara, nor the old miner suspected for a moment the
deeper motive which Wolf concealed behind this withdrawal from the
decision of these cases. They found out in a very startling way later.
The chief cook demanded a hundred dollars a month.
Old Tom snorted with contempt. Norman smiled and spoke kindly:
"Remember, Louis, you only received $75 a month in San Francisco. Here
the Brotherhood provides every man with his food, his clothes, and his
house. Wages are merely the inducement used to satisfy each individual
that labour may still be done by free contract, not by force."
"Well, it'll take a hundred a month to satisfy me," was the stolid
reply. "I didn't come here to cook. I could do that in the old hell we
lived in. I came here to do better and bigger things. I can do them,
too----"
"But we've fixed the salary of the general manager at only
seventy-five dollars a month, and you demand a hundred?"
"I do, and if the general manager prefers my job, I'll trade with you
and guarantee to do your work better than it's being done."
"Yes, you will!" old Tom growled, as he leaned over Barbara and
whispered to Norman.
"Make it thirty dollars a month, and if he don't go to work--leave him
to me, I'll beat him till he does it."
"No, we can't manage it that way, Tom. We must try to satisfy him."
"Hit's a hold-up, I tell ye--highway robbery--the triflin' son of a
gun! Don't you say so, miss?" Tom appealed earnestly to Barbara.
"We must have cooks, Tom--and we want everybody to be happy."
"Make him cook, make him--that's his business--I'd do it if I knowed
how. He's got to take what we give 'im. He can't git off this island.
He enlisted for five years. If he deserts, court-martial and shoot
him."
In spite of old Tom's bitter protest, Norman and Barbara succeeded in
persuading the chief cook to accept eighty-five dollars a month--an
advance of ten dollars over the highest wages he had ever received
before.
When the eighteen assistant cooks lined up for the settlement of their
wages a new problem of unexpected proportions was presented. They had
listened attentively to the case of the chef, and their chosen orator
presented his argument in brief but emphatic words:
"We demand the exact wages you have voted the chef."
"Well, what do ye think er that?" old Tom groaned to Norman. "Hit's
jist like I told ye. Hit's a hold-up."
"We must persuade them, Tom," the young leader replied.
"Let me persuade 'em!" the old miner pleaded.
"How?" Barbara asked, with a twinkle in her brown eyes.
"I'll line 'em up agin that wall and trim their hair with my
six-shooter. I won't hurt 'em. But when I finish the job I'll
guarantee they'll do what I tell 'em without any back talk. You folks
take a walk and make me Chief Justice fer an hour, and when you come
back we'll have peace and plenty. Jest try it now, and don't you butt
in. Let me persuade 'em!"
Norman shook his head.
"Keep still, Tom! We must reason with them."
"Ye 're wastin' yer breath," the miner drawled in disgust.
"Don't you think, comrades," Norman began, in persuasive tones, "that
your demands are rather high?"
"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "We come here to get equal
rights. We don't want to cook. I'm a born actor, myself. I expected to
play in Shakespeare when I joined the Brotherhood. Anybody that wants
this job can have it. If we do your hot, dirty, disgusting,
disagreeable work while the others play in the shade we are going to
get something for it."
"Even so," the young leader responded, "is it fair that an assistant
cook should receive equal wages with the chef?"
"And why not? Labour creates all value. The chef's a fakir. We do all
the work. He never lifts his hand to a pot or pan. He struts and loafs
through the kitchen and lords it over the men. Let him try to run the
kitchen without us, and see how much you get to eat! We stand on the
equal rights of man!"
"But my dear comrade----"
"Don't use them words," old Tom pleaded, "jest let me make a few
remarks----"
Barbara pinched Tom's arm and he subsided.
"Can't you see," Norman went on, "that we are paying the chef for his
directive ability, for his inventive genius in creating new dishes and
making old ones more delicious? You but execute his orders."
"We stand square on our principles. Labour creates all values. The
chef never works. We make every dish that goes to the table. If it has
any value we make it. We demand our rights!"
The court agreed on fifty dollars a month, and the men refused to
consider it.
"We prefer to work in the fields, the foundry, the machine-shop, the
mills, the forests, anywhere you like except the kitchen. Let the chef
do your work. Good day!"
They turned and marched out in a body and sat down in the sunshine.
In vain Norman argued and pleaded. They stood their ground with sullen
determination.
A final clincher which the young leader could not evade always ended
the argument. The spokesman came back to it with dogged persistence:
"What did you mean, then, when you've been drumming into our ears that
labour creates all value? We do all the work, don't we?"
The upshot of it was the eighteen assistant cooks marched back into
the hall, stood before the judges, and all were granted equal wages
with the chef.
Whereupon the chef sprang to his feet and faced the court with blazing
eyes.
"You grant these chumps--these idiots--wages equal to mine? Not one of
them has brains enough to cook an egg if I didn't tell him how. Their
wages equal to mine. I resign!"
Tom spoke vigorously:
"Now will ye leave him to me?"
Norman and Barbara looked at each other in angry and helpless
amazement.
The old miner leaped to his feet, made his way down from the platform,
and with two swift strides reached the chef. He leaned close and
whispered something in the rebel's ear. There was a moment's
hesitation and the chef turned, signalled to his assistants, and amid
cheers marched to the kitchen.
Tom resumed his seat beside Barbara with a smile, quietly saying:
"That's the way to do business, ladies and gentlemen!"
"What did you say to him?" Barbara asked.
"Oh, nothin' much," was the careless answer.
"I hope you didn't threaten him, Tom?" Norman asked with some
misgiving.
"Na--I didn't threaten him. I spoke quiet and peaceable."
"But what did you tell him?" the young leader persisted.
"I jest told him I'd give him two minutes ter git back ter the kitchen
or I'd blow his head off!"
"I'm afraid our table will feel the effects of that remark, Tom,"
Barbara said, doubtfully.
Next to the question of cooks the most urgent issue to be settled was
the case of the scrubbers, cleaners, and drainmen. The women who had
been assigned to the tasks of scrubbing the floors, washing the
windows and dishes, had watched the triumphs of the cooks with keen
appreciation of their own power. It was easy to see that the more
disagreeable and disgusting the character of the work, the more
extravagant the demands which could be made and enforced. The
scrubbers and dishwashers boldly demanded one hundred dollars a month
and six hours for a working day, and refused with sullen determination
to argue the question.
To Barbara's mild and gentle protest their answer was complete and
stunning:
"You have assigned us this dirty job. Do you want it at any price?"
asked their orator. "I'll take yours without wages and jump at the
chance."
Tom lost all interest in the proceedings and drew himself up in a knot
in his chair. Now and then a growl came from the depths of his
throat.
Once he was heard to distinctly articulate:
"This makes me tired."
The court begged and pleaded, cajoled, argued in vain with the
stubborn scrubwomen. Not an inch would they move in their demands. The
floors were becoming unspeakably filthy. They had not been scrubbed
since the arrival of the colony.
Norman turned to Barbara.
"Put the question solemnly to ourselves--we don't want the job at any
price, do we?"
"I couldn't do it!" she admitted, frankly. "Then what's the use? We
must be fair. It's worth what they ask."
The court granted the demands and the scrubwomen and dishwashers
marched to the kitchen and once more the chef tore his hair and cursed
the fate which brought him to such disgrace as to work with stupid
subordinates at equal wages and gaze on dishwashers and scrubwomen
whose wages exceeded his own.
The climax of all demands was reached when the drainman demanded a
hundred and fifty dollars a month and four hours for each working day.
Norman looked at him in dumb confusion. He knew what he was going to
say before he opened his mouth and he had no answer.
The drainman bowed low in mock humility, but the proud wave of his
hand belied his words.
"My calling was a humble one in the old world, Comrade Judges," he
said. "I came here to climb mountain heights and find my way among the
stars. You have sent me back to the sewers. I always felt that I had
missed my true calling. I've always wanted to be a poet----"
The Bard shook his mane and groaned.
"I don't want this job at any price. But the sewers are choked. They
have not been cleaned for two years. It must be done. I've named my
price. I'll gladly yield to any man who envies my luck. If such a man
is here let him speak--or forever hereafter hold his peace."
With a grandiloquent gesture the drainman swept the crowd with his
eye, but no man responded.
The court granted his demand.
The Bard leaped once more to his feet and entered his protest. This
time old Tom listened with interest. His concluding sentence rang with
bitter irony:
"Against these absurd decisions I lift my voice once more in solemn
protest. We came to this charmed island to abolish all class
distinctions. You have destroyed the old classes based on culture,
achievement, genius, wealth, and power. You have created a new
aristocracy on whose shield is emblazoned--a dish-rag and
scrubbing-brush encircled by a sewer pipe! I make my most humble bow
to our new king--the drainman! I hail the apotheosis of the
scrubwoman!"
"Say, you give me a pain--shut up" thundered Tom.
The singer collapsed with a sigh and the crowd laughed.
The foreman of the farm brought two men before the court and asked for
important instructions.
"Comrade Judges," he began, "I had two men assigned to me a week ago
whom I don't want and won't have at any price. I return them to the
Brotherhood with thanks. You can do what you please with them."
"What's the matter?" Norman asked, with some irritation.
The foreman shoved and kicked a man in front of the judges.
"This fool----"
"You must not use such language, Mr. Foreman," Barbara interrupted.
"I beg your pardon, Comrade Judges," he apologized. "This coyote I put
on a mowing-machine yesterday. He said he knew how to run it. He broke
it on a smooth piece of ground the first hour. I gave him another and
he wrecked it before noon. It will take the labour of five men two
days to repair the damage he has done. I don't want him at any price."
"What have you to say?" Norman asked the accused.
"It wasn't my fault. The thing broke itself."
"But how did it happen twice the same day, sonny?" Tom asked.
"I dunno. Hit jist happened," was the dogged answer.
"I've another scoundrel----"
"You must not use such language," Barbara broke in.
"Again begging the pardon of Comrade Judges," the foreman continued:
"This dog"--he kicked another slovenly looking lout before the
judges--"tore to pieces the shoulders of two pairs of horses with
careless harnessing before I found him and kicked him out of the
stables. Those four horses can't work for a month. We'll have to pay
at least $500 for two teams right away to take their places, or lose a
crop of hay."
Tom glared at the culprit.
"What did ye ruin them horses' shoulders fer?"
"I didn't know it," was the sulking answer.
"He's a liar!" cried the foreman. "He put the same collars on their
galled necks three days in succession and beat them unmercifully when
they couldn't pull the load."
"What do you say, Tom?" Norman asked.
The old miner glared at the last culprit and his grim mouth tightened:
"Wall, you kin do as ye please, but any man that'll abuse a hoss will
commit murder. I'd put the fust one in the cow lot to shovellin'
compost. This one I'd quietly lynch--no public rumpus about it--jest
take 'im down by the beach, hang 'im to one of them posts on the pier,
shoot 'im full of holes, and drop 'im into the sea to be sure he don't
come back to life."
Norman conferred with Barbara a moment and rendered the decision:
"Mr. Foreman, the first man is transferred from the field machinery to
the compost-heap in the barnyard. The second man who disabled the
horses will assist in cleaning the sewers. Their wages will remain the
same as before."
A round of applause greeted this decision.
The Bard renewed his attack with unusual zeal. Standing before the
court and shaking his long hair he cried:
"At last the climax of tyranny! Two comrades condemned without a jury
and without defense! I congratulate you. In one day you have
established an aristocracy of filth and created a penal colony without
a hearing or appeal. We are making progress."
The old miner grunted, Barbara smiled tenderly at Norman, and the
court adjourned.
CHAPTER XIX
SOME TROUBLES IN HEAVEN
Norman found it necessary for the executive council to sit
continuously for the adjustment of disputes and the settlement of new
problems which arose at every step of progress in the new moral world.
He had condemned the sins of the old world of capitalism with cocksure
certainty. Now that he had been made a supreme judge with power to
adjust the rights and wrongs of his fellow man, he was appalled at the
magnitude of the task of substituting an ideal for the reign of
natural law under which civilization had been slowly evolved.
There were two men in the Brotherhood whom he grew early to hate with
cordial, thorough, murderous hatred--Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat,
who always denounced every decision as unjust, and a tall,
hooked-nosed, stoop-shouldered, scholarly looking man named Diggs, who
invariably sat near him and at every conceivable opportunity asked
questions. These questions were always put in an innocent, friendly
way, but when Diggs looked at him through his gleaming spectacles
Norman always got the impression that an imp of the devil had suddenly
popped up through the floor.
The first day after the general assignment of work Diggs rose before
the council, adjusted his glasses, and drew a piece of paper from his
pocket. Norman knew before he spoke that the document bristled with
questions. Diggs's glasses had always fascinated him, but to-day they
seemed of unusual thickness and enormous size, and their concave
surfaces seemed to flash light from a thousand angles.
Diggs adjusted them on his hook-nose with deliberation and glanced
carefully over his notes before speaking.
Norman turned to Barbara with a sigh.
She pressed his hand in silent sympathy.
"Don't worry!" she whispered.
Norman's breath quickened as he answered the pressure of the soft,
warm fingers but he managed to move his chair and break the effects of
her spell without revealing to her the effort it cost. Each hour of
their association he felt the cords he dare not try to break tighten
about his heart. He determined each day to put the thought from him.
Over and over again with grim resolution he repeated his vow:
"I'll keep a clear head. I've got to decide this issue on its merits.
I owe it to my generous friends who made it possible."
He had avoided her for the last few days. She guessed the cause
intuitively and knew that he was fighting with desperation to escape
the net she was slowly weaving about him. She began to watch the
struggle now with a curious fascination in which cruelty and
tenderness were equally mixed. The idea of surrendering her own heart
had never once entered her pretty head.
Her life had been lived in a strange war with human society. Man had
always appeared to her imagination as an enemy. She had never trusted
one--least of all Wolf, the big, impassive animal who had dominated
the life of her foster-mother.
With deliberate and cruel art she had set out to master the heart of
the man who sat by her side. The task was accepted as part of her
work. She had enlisted as a soldier in the Cause. She had received the
orders from headquarters. When the deed was done she would turn to a
greater task. She had expected to be bored by his idiotic love making.
Now her curiosity was beginning to be piqued by his silence. She began
vaguely to wonder each moment what kind of pictures she was making in
his mind. Her brown eyes searched the depths of his soul in a dumb way
that sent the blood rushing to Norman's heart, but each time he had
eluded her.
He sat in moody silence now, giving no response to her words of cheer.
She roused him from his reverie with a plaintive protest.
"What's the matter? Have I, too, offended?"
He turned quickly and crushed her hand in his strong grasp:
"For heaven's sake don't _you_ get into the habit of asking me
questions! How could you offend? Your face is my lighthouse set on the
cliffs, calm, serene, joyful. I couldn't get through a day without
you."
A smiling answer was just trembling on her lips when Diggs began to
speak.
"Now for the human interrogation point," Barbara laughed.
"Comrade Judges," Diggs began, with guileless good humour, "while we
are shaping the form of our ideal State for its permanent organization
I wish to submit some questions which may help us in our search for
truth."
"Questions," Norman whispered, "which any fool can ask, but the angels
of God can't answer."
"But we will answer them!" she flashed, with defiant courage.
"We agree," Diggs went on, "that society must be governed in some way.
There must be rulers, but how shall we choose our rulers, and with
what powers shall we clothe them? We can begin to see that the head of
our social system must at times exercise the full powers of the State.
Into whose hands can this enormous power be entrusted, and how shall
he be called to account?"
Diggs paused, and Norman flushed at this question, for he took it as a
personal thrust. He had occasion to change his mind later.
"How can we," the questioner went on, "retain our democratic liberties
as law makers as we grow in numbers? Now we can all meet in general
assembly. When the State numbers even five thousand this will not be
possible. Will not our politics become even more corrupt than the old
system, seeing how enormous the power over the smallest details of
life which these legislators possess?
"As our society grows--and thousands are now clamouring for
admission--how is wealth to be distributed? Who shall determine, in
this larger society, who shall be common labourers, who poets,
artists, musicians, preachers, managers? Who shall appoint editors?
And who shall call them to account if they publish treason against the
State? What shall be done with the ever-increasing number of the
lazy, dishonest, and criminal members of the community?
"Who shall determine how much mental work is equivalent to so much
manual labour, seeing how vast is the difference in the value of one
man's brain product over another's? How can men who are not artists,
poets, or musicians determine the value of such work? Or how can one
poet be just to his rival if he be made the judge? When our theatre is
opened, who shall select the actors? Who shall decide whether they are
incompetent? Who shall decide on the selection of the star? What shall
be done with an actor, for example, who should spit in the face of a
judge deciding adversely? Suppose a man offends the judge? Shall he be
punished? If so, who shall do it?
"How can we prevent a man from losing his wages playing poker with his
neighbour if he does so joyfully?
"What shall be done with a man who works outside regular hours and
accumulates a vast private fortune?"
"Say, ain't you worked your jaw overtime now?" old Tom broke in
rudely. "We'll take them things up when we come to 'em. We got
somethin' else to do now--set down!"
"These are only friendly suggestions for thought as we develop our
ideal," Diggs answered, with smiling good nature, as he resumed his
seat.
"What makes me want to kill that man," Norman muttered to Barbara, "is
the unfailing politeness and unction with which he asks those
questions."
"Patience! patience!" was the low, musical reply. "These little things
will all adjust themselves."
Methodist John pressed to the front and poured out to the judges a
story of wrong and asked for justice.
"Miss Barbara," he began, in plaintive tones, "you was always good to
me in the other world, but since we've got here even you don't seem
the same. Everybody's hard and cold. They hain't got no sympathy here
for a poor man. In the other world I missed my callin'--I was born for
the ministry. I come here to serve the Lord. And now they make me work
so hard I ain't even got time to pray. I ask for a licence to preach
the gospel. Just give me a chance. They've put me to feedin' hogs and
tendin' ter calves. I ain't fit for such work. I want to call sinners
to repentance, not swine to their swill. I tell ye I've been buncoed.
It ain't a square deal. I left the poorhouse to come with you to
heaven and, by gum, I've landed in the workhouse----"
"And ef yer don't shet up and git back ter yer work," Tom thundered,
"you'll land in the hospital--you hear me!"
"I ain't er talkin' to you, you cussin, swearin', ungodly son of the
devil," the old man answered.
"Come, come, John," Norman interrupted, as he held Tom back. "We can't
grant your request. We are not ready to undertake religious work yet."
"Well, God knows ye need it!" John muttered, as the crowd pushed him
away.
At the door Catherine greeted him as he passed out, whispered
encouraging words, and sent him back to his tasks more cheerful. She
had taken her stand thus each day; and, while Wolf was busy quietly
mingling with the men outside getting the facts as to the progress of
each department, the tall graceful woman of soft voice and madonna
face was fast becoming the friend and sympathizer of each discontented
worker. She had now assumed the task of peacemaker after each harsh
decision had been rendered, and did her work with rare skill--a skill
which promised big results in the dawning State of Ventura.
Uncle Bob Worth, an old Negro, bowed low before the judges. He had
been a slave of Norman's grandfather in North Carolina and had joined
the colony out of admiration for the young leader.
"Marse Norman," he solemnly began.
"Don't call me 'master,' Bob," Norman interrupted. "Remember that we
are all comrades here."
"Yassah! Yassah! Marse Norman, I try to 'member dat sah, but 'pears
ter me dey's somefin' wrong bout dis whole 'comrade' business, sah!
I'se er 'comrade' now but I'se wuss off dan I eber wuz. 'Fo' I come
here I wuz er butler, and I wuz er gemmen--yas-sah, ef I do hat ter
say it myself--and I allus live wid gemmens an' sociate wid gemmens. I
come out here wid you ter be a white man an' er equal. Dat's what dey
all say. I be er equal 'comrade.' I make up my mind dat I jine de
minstrel band, pick de banjer, an' sing de balance er my life. Bress
God, what happen. Dey make me a hod-carrier and make me 'sociate wid
low-down po' white trash. I ain't come here ter be no 'comrade' wid
dem kin' er folks. Dey ain't my equal, sah, an' I can't 'ford to
'sociate wid 'em. What's fuddermo, sah, carryin' a hod ain't my
business--hit don't suit my health an' brick-dust ain't good fur my
complexion, sah!"
Tom grunted contemptuously.
Norman smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry, Comrade Bob," he replied. "We haven't men enough to organize
the minstrels yet. We must rush the new building. We have thousands
of new members clamouring to join. We have nowhere to house them."
"Yassah, an' I 'spec' dey'll be clamourin' ter unjine fo' long," old
Bob muttered, as he passed on to be comforted by Catherine's soothing
words.
Saka, the Indian, whom Colonel Worth had educated, had followed
Norman. He demanded a return ticket to the Colonel's hunting lodge.
It was promptly refused. Catherine attempted to soothe his ruffled
feelings. He snapped his fingers in her face and grunted.
The Brotherhood of Man saw Saka no more for many moons, but the crack
of his rifle was heard on the mountain side and the smoke of his tepee
curled defiantly from the neighbouring plains.
The chef appeared before the court in answer to numerous complaints
about the table.
"I must have the law laid down for the tables, Comrade Judges," he
demanded. "One man wants one thing and another refuses to eat at the
table where such food is served. A dozen men and women ask only for
bread, vegetables, and nuts. They refuse to eat meat. They refuse to
allow me to cook it or any one else to eat it if they can help it.
They make my life miserable. I want permission to kick them out of the
kitchen. They demand the right to inspect my pots and pans to see if
meat has touched them. They must go or I go. I will not be insulted by
fools. If you do not give me permission to kick these people out of
the kitchen I will do so without permission. You can take your
choice."
The cook mopped his brow and sat down with a defiant wave of his arm.
A woman who had been a leader of the W.C.T.U. pressed forward before
the cook's demand could be considered.
"And I demand in the name of truth, purity, righteousness, justice,
faith, and God, that no more wine be allowed on the table. I demand
that we burn the wine house and issue an order to the cook never
again, under penalty of imprisonment for life, to use a drop of
alcohol in the food he serves to the Brotherhood----"
"And I also demand, Comrade Judges," the cook interrupted, "the right
to throw that woman out of the kitchen and have her fined and
imprisoned the next time she dares to interfere with my business. She
got into the pantry yesterday and destroyed five hundred mince pies
because she smelled brandy in them."
"Yes, and I'll do it again if you dare to poison the bodies and souls
of my comrades with that hellish stuff!" she cried, triumphantly.
"I'd like to know," the cook shouted, "how I'm to do my work if every
fool in creation can butt into my business?"
"Softly! Softly!" Norman warned.
"I mean it!" thundered the chef. "This woman swears she will wreck the
dining-room if I dare to place wine again on our bill of fare. I want
to know if she's in command of this colony? If so, you can count me
out!"
"And while we are on this point, Comrade Judges," spoke up a
mild-looking little man, "I have summoned a neighbour of mine to
appear before you and show cause why he should _not_ cease to have
sauerkraut served at breakfast. He sits at my table. I've begged him
to stop it. I've begged the cook to stop cooking the stuff, but he
bribes the cook----"
"That's a lie," shouted the chef.
"I saw him do it, your honours," the little man went on. "I'm a
small-sized man or I'd lick him. I tried to move my seat but they
wouldn't let me. I pledge you my word when he brings that big dish of
steaming sauerkraut to our table it fogs the whole end of the
dining-room. The odour is so strong it not only stops you from eating,
you can't think. It knocks you out for the day."
"Is it possible," Norman inquired, "that there is a human being among
us who eats sauerkraut for breakfast?"
"There's no doubt about it, comrade," promptly responded a tall,
strapping-looking fellow, with a dark, scholarly face, as he stepped
to the front.
"That's him!" cried the little accuser. "I made him come. Told him I'd
organize a party to lynch him if he didn't. He won't dare deny it. I
can prove it."
"I have no desire to deny that I eat sauerkraut, you little ape," he
replied with scorn. "I come of German ancestry, comrades. My
great-grandfather helped to create this nation. He was a pure-blooded
German. I inherit from him my personal likes and dislikes. Sauerkraut
is the best breakfast food ever served to man. It is a pure vegetable
malt. It is wholesome, clean, healthful, and keeps the system of a
brain worker in perfect order. I eat it with ham gravy and good hot
wheat biscuits. It is some trouble for the cook to prepare this
particular kind of soft tea-biscuit for me. I paid him a little extra
for this bread--not the kraut. I suggest to your honours that you make
sauerkraut a standard breakfast diet as a health measure. They may
kick a little at first, but I assure you it will improve the health
and character of the colony. If this little chap who accuses me were
put on a diet of kraut for breakfast it might even now make a man of
him. I not only have nothing to apologize for, I bring you good
tidings. I proclaim sauerkraut the only perfect health food for
breakfast, and I suggest its compulsory use. The man who sits next to
me eats snails. I think the habit a filthy and dangerous one. If you
are going into this question, do it thoroughly. Let us fix by law what
is fit to eat, and stick to it. I'll back sauerkraut before any
dietary commission ever organized on earth."
The council appointed a commission to conduct hearings and make a
rigid code of laws establishing the kind of foods for each meal.
Again Roland Adair, the Bard of Ramcat, rose, shook his long hair and
cleared his throat.
Norman lifted his hand for silence.
"I anticipate the poet's words. You solemnly protest against the
further establishment of a tyranny which shall dare prescribe your
food from day to day. I grieve over the necessity of these laws and
mingle my tears with yours in advance. But, in the language of a
distinguished citizen of the old republic, 'we are confronted by a
condition, not a theory.' The council stands adjourned."
The Bard poured his bitter protest into Catherine's patient ears and
left with a growing conviction of her wisdom.
The woman with the drooping eyelids stood watching his retreating
figure while a quiet smile of contempt played about her full, sensuous
lips.
CHAPTER XX
THE UNCONVENTIONAL
Within a week it was necessary to appoint a commission to formulate an
elaborate code of laws regulating various nuisances which had
developed in the community.
A kitchen-boy insisted on playing a cornet in his room. He didn't know
a musical from a promissory note but he swore he'd become a musician
before he died. His efforts came near proving fatal to his neighbours
before he was suppressed.
Several women had pet parrots. The people who lived near by
strenuously objected. The parrots had to go.
A sailor had brought a monkey whose manners were not appreciated by
any one except his master. The monkey had to go. Cats were arraigned
for trial and a fierce battle raged over the question of allowing them
in the building. The question was finally put to the popular vote in
the assembly and the cats won by a good majority. But strict laws
regulating the kind of cats, their number, and their care, were put
into force.
Dogs won by a large majority when they were finally put on trial.
The commission on nuisances had finally to make a code of laws
regulating table manners and the conduct of all social gatherings.
The one question which all but precipitated a civil war was the
problem of dress. Inequality of wages meant, of necessity, inequality
of dress.
A desperate effort was made by a large number to force the community
to adopt a uniform for both men and women. It was fiercely opposed.
Every woman who believed herself good looking refused to listen to any
argument on the subject.
It was necessary at once, however, to formulate some sort of code. A
number of men had been coming into the dining-room in their shirt
sleeves. Some of them apparently never combed their hair or changed
their linen. A number of women had gotten into the habit of coming
into the dining-room in loose wrappers of variegated colors and
without corsets.
The Bard of Ramcat was particularly severe in his public criticism of
these women in the general assembly of the Brotherhood.
"In the name of beauty, I protest!" he cried. "Beauty is an attribute
of God. It is woman's first duty to be beautiful, and if she isn't, at
least to make man think she is. I insist that she shall have the
widest liberty in the choice of dress. Only let her be careful that
she is beautiful!"
The poet was heartily appl
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