A Tame Surrender, A Story of The Chicago StrikeKing, Charles
General
A Tame Surrender, A Story of The Chicago Strike
King, Charles
Chicago (Ill.) -- Fiction; Pullman Strike, 1894 -- Fiction; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
Then there were some lonely, anxious days for a pale-faced, slender,
sad-eyed girl who seemed to get no benefit from the bracing breezes, and
then, bursting suddenly from winter to summer, as is often the way with
our ill-ordered, turbulent, defiant, and generally indescribable
climate, came the first day of moisture-laden heat, depressing,
debilitating,--a day when the tide of his affairs swept Elmendorf from
his moorings at Cranston's and sent the freeholder thereof in search of
a stenographer,--the day when poor Jenny begged to be excused from
having even to write that detested name. And then speedily came the
long-threatened outbreak, the demand of the American Railway Union that
the public cease to patronize or the railway companies to run, no matter
what their contracts, the cars of the Pullman Company. "We've got 'em by
the throat at last," screamed Mart Wallen at Donnelly's Shades that
night. "This means that the people, the people of the whole nation, have
risen to down that damned old miser, and we'll make a clean sweep of
other misers while we're about it."
"We've got 'em foul," echoed with drunken hiccoughs the graceless nephew
Mrs. Mac and her sobered sergeant were dragging home between them, deaf
to the eloquence of Elmendorf haranguing the crowd in the open square
beyond. What was he saying?--"Stand firm, and the blood of the innocent
victims of the glorious appeal of seven years ago, the martyred lives
of the innocent men who died upon the scaffold, strangled in their
effort to speak for you and your children, not only will not have been
lost in vain, but soon shall be magnificently avenged. Oh, that it had
been my lot to lead you here in '86! God be thanked, it is my lot to
lead you now!"
"Oh, that ye had been here to lead in '86, ye howling lunatic," echoed
Mrs. Mac, shaking her one unoccupied fist at the glorified but luckily
distant face of the speaker; "yer only lot this night would have been in
the graveyard, for ye never would have lived to lead anything, barrin'
yer own funeral."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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