United States -- National Guard -- Juvenile fiction
“For the love of Pete! I didn’t know he met them.”
“Sure he met ’em. I was there.”
“What did you say he told them?”
“Why, now, I said he told ’em he believed them men o’ Barriscale’s had
a right to their jobs, and if Barriscale didn’t give ’em back to ’em
they had a right to take ’em anyway.”
“Yes; go on!”
Brownell was gripping the arms of his chair in grim despair.
“An’ he said--he said ’at he wouldn’t never give no orders to no
soldiers to shoot workin’ men tryin’ to git their places back.”
“Oh, gosh!” The second lieutenant released his grips on the arms of
the chair and clasped his head with both his hands. “The jig’s up!” he
continued. “You’ve done it, Chick!”
“Done what, Mr. Brownell?”
“Given the enemy enough ammunition to blow Lieutenant McCormack into
the middle of next week.”
“Will--will what I told ’em hurt ’im?”
“Hurt him! Thunder and Mars! It’ll send him to a military prison for
life.”
Stunned, dazed, almost unseeing, Chick stumbled out of Brownell’s
office into the street. Had the lieutenant for one minute realized
what a staggering blow he had given to the boy, he would have dropped
everything and hurried after him and disabused his simple mind of
its belief in the enormity of his offense. As it was, the wretched
hunchback, with an awful, self-accusing finger, piercing into his very
vitals, hot and ice-cold by turns, slunk back to hide himself in his
dingy corner in the printing-shop of Donatello. For if there was one
thing on earth that he would have lost his right hand rather than to
have done, it was a thing that might in any way have been injurious to
Halpert McCormack. And if there was one person on earth for whom he
would willingly have laid down his life and thought it a joy to do so,
that person was his beloved first lieutenant.
The strike at the Barriscale plant, and at other smaller plants
throughout the city, dragged on through the spring, unsettled and
unbroken. But in May, just before starvation on the one side and
insolvency on the other became an acute possibility, the union men,
through an intermediate committee of interested citizens, came to terms
with the companies.
The employers on the one hand made certain concessions, the employees
on the other hand waived certain demands, and a settlement was reached.
But the leaders of the radicals would have none of it. Their men would
not go back, they declared, until every original demand had been fully
met, nor would they permit the union employees to resume work without
them. Moreover, when they did return it would not be as wage-slaves,
under a humiliating agreement, but as proprietors, having at least
an equal voice with their former employers in the management of the
business and the distribution of its profits. For was it not one of the
chief tenets of their organization that:
“There is but one bargain which industrial workers will make
with the employing class, complete surrender of all control of
industry to the Organized Workers.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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