of my arms. I guess I know how good the things are you wear--good
to me, I mean, too. I'm dry behind the ears, an' maybe I've
learned a few things I oughtn't to before I knew you. But I know
what I'm talkin' about, and I want to say that outside the
clothes down underneath, an' the clothes down underneath the
outside ones, I never saw a woman like you. Oh--"
He threw up his hands as if despairing of ability to express what
he thought and felt, then essayed a further attempt.
"It's not a matter of bein' only clean, though that's a whole
lot. Lots of women are clean. It ain't that. It's something more,
an' different. It's . . . well, it's the look of it, so white, an'
pretty, an' tasty. It gets on the imagination. It's something I
can't get out of my thoughts of you. I want to tell you lots of
men can't strip to advantage, an' lots of women, too. But
you--well, you're a wonder, that's all, and you can't get too
many of them nice things to suit me, and you can't get them too
nice.
"For that matter, Saxon, you can just blow yourself. There's lots
of easy money layin' around. I'm in great condition. Billy Murphy
pulled down seventy-five round iron dollars only last week for
puttin' away the Pride of North Beach. That's what ha paid us the
fifty back out of."
But this time it was Saxon who rebelled.
"There's Carl Hansen," Billy argued. "The second Sharkey, the
alfalfa sportin' writers are callin' him. An' he calls himself
Champion of the United States Navy. Well, I got his number. He's
just a big stiff. I've seen 'm fight, an' I can pass him the
sleep medicine just as easy. The Secretary of the Sportin' Life
Club offered to match me. An' a hundred iron dollars in it for
the winner. And it'll all be yours to blow in any way you want.
What d'ye say?"
"If I can't work for money, you can't fight," was Saxon's
ultimatum, immediately withdrawn. "But you and I don't drive
bargains. Even if you'd let me work for money, I wouldn't let you
fight. I've never forgotten what you told me about how
prizefighters lose their silk. Well, you're not going to lose
yours. It's half my silk, you know. And if you won't fight, I
won't work--there. And more, I'll never do anything you don't
want me to, Billy."
"Same here," Billy agreed. "Though just the same I'd like most to
death to have just one go at that squarehead Hansen." He smiled
with pleasure at the thought. "Say, let's forget it all now, an'
you sing me 'Harvest Days' on that dinky what-you-may-call-it."
When she had complied, accompanying herself on the ukulele, she
suggested his weird "Cowboy's Lament." In some inexplicable way
of love, she had come to like her husband's one song. Because he
sang it, she liked its inanity and monotonousness; and most of
all, it seemed to her, she loved his hopeless and adorable
flatting of every note. She could even sing with him, flatting as
accurately and deliciously as he. Nor did she undeceive him in
his sublime faith.
"I guess Bert an' the rest have joshed me all the time," he said.
"You and I get along together with it fine," she equivocated; for
in such matters she did not deem the untruth a wrong.
Spring was on when the strike came in the railroad shops. The
Sunday before it was called, Saxon and Billy had dinner at Bert's
house. Saxon's brother came, though he had found it impossible to
bring Sarah, who refused to budge from her household rut. Bert
was blackly pessimistic, and they found him singing with sardonic
glee:
"Nobody loves a mil-yun-aire.
Nobody likes his looks.
Nobody'll share his slightest care,
He classes with thugs and crooks.
Thriftiness has become a crime,
So spend everything you earn;
We're living now in a funny time,
When money is made to burn."
Mary went about the dinner preparation, flaunting unmistakable
signals of rebellion; and Saxon, rolling up her sleeves and tying
on an apron, washed the breakfast dishes. Bert fetched a pitcher
of steaming beer from the corner saloon, and the three men smoked
and talked about the coming strike.
"It oughta come years ago," was Bert's dictum. "It can't come any
too quick now to suit me, but it's too late. We're beaten thumbs
donn. Here's where the last of the Mohegans gets theirs, in the
neck, ker-whop!"
"Oh, I don't know," Tom, who had been smoking his pipe gravely,
began to counsel. "Organized labor's gettin' stronger every day.
Look at us now--wages, an' hours, an' everything."
"You talk like an organizer," Bert sneered, "shovin' the bull con
on the boneheads. But we know different. Organized wages won't
buy as much now as unorganized wages used to buy. They've got us
whipsawed. Look at Frisco, the labor leaders doin' dirtier
polities than the old parties, pawin' an' squabblin' over graft,
an' goin' to San Quentin, while--what are the Frisco carpenters
doin'? Let me tell you one thing, Tom Brown, if you listen to all
you hear you'll hear that every Frisco carpenter is union an'
gettin' full union wages. Do you believe it? It's a damn lie.
There ain't a carpenter that don't rebate his wages Saturday
night to the contractor. An' that's your buildin' trades in San
Francisco, while the leaders are makin' trips to Europe on the
earnings of the tenderloin--when they ain't coughing it up to the
lawyers to get out of wearin' stripes."
"That's all right," Tom concurred. "Nobody's denyin' it. The
trouble is labor ain't quite got its eyes open. It ought to play
politics, but the politics ought to be the right kind."
"Socialism, eh?" Bert caught him up with scorn. "Wouldn't they
sell us out just as the Ruefs and Schmidts have?"
"Get men that are honest," Billy said. "That's the whole trouble.
Not that I stand for socialism. I don't. All our folks was a long
time in America, an' I for one won't stand for a lot of fat
Germans an' greasy Russian Jews tellin' me how to run my country
when they can't speak English yet."
"Your country!" Bert cried. "Why, you bonehead, you ain't got a
country. That's a fairy story the grafters shove at you every
time they want to rob you some more."
"But don't vote for the grafters," Billy contended. "If we
selected honest men we'd get honest treatment."
"I wish you'd come to some of our meetings, Billy," Tom said
wistfully. "If you would, you'd get your eyes open an' vote the
socialist ticket next election."
"Not on your life," Billy declined. "When you catch me in a
socialist meeting'll be when they can talk like white men."
Bert was humming:
"We're living now in a funny time,
When money is made to burn."
Mary was too angry with her husband, because of the impending
strike and his incendiary utterances, to hold conversation with
Saxon, and the latter, bepuzzled, listened to the co
nflicting
opinions of the men.
"Where are we at?" she asked them, with a merriness that
concealed her anxiety at heart.
"We ain't at," Bert snarled. "We're gone."
"But meat and oil have gone up again," she chafed. "And Billy's
wages have been cut, and the shop men's were cut last year.
Something must be done."
"The only thing to do is fight like hell," Bert answered. "Fight,
an' go down fightin'. That's all. We're licked anyhow, but we can
have a last run for our money."
"That's no way to talk," Tom rebuked.
"The time for talkin' 's past, old cock. The time for fightin' 's
come."
"A hell of a chance you'd have against regular troops and machine
guns," Billy retorted.
"Oh, not that way. There's such things as greasy sticks that go
up with a loud noise and leave holes. There's such things as
emery powder--"
"Oh, ho!" Mary burst out upon him, arms akimbo. "So that's what
it means. That's what the emery in your vest pocket meant."
Her husband ignored her. Tom smoked with a troubled air. Billy
was hurt. It showed plainly in his face.
"You ain't ben doin' that, Bert?" he asked, his manner showing
his expectancy of his friend's denial.
"Sure thing, if you wont to know. I'd see'm all in hell if I
could, before I go."
"He's a bloody-minded anarchist," Mary complained. "Men like him
killed McKinley, and Garfield, an'--an' an' all the rest. He'll
be hung. You'll see. Mark my words. I'm glad there's no children
in sight, that's all."
"It's hot air," Billy comforted her.
"He's just teasing you," Saxon soothed. "He always was a josher."
But Mary shook her head.
"I know. I hear him talkin' in his sleep. He swears and curses
something awful, an' grits his teeth. Listen to him now."
Bert, his handsome face bitter and devil-may-care, had tilted his
"Nobody loves a mil-yun-aire,
Nobody likes his looks,
Nobody'll share his slightest care,
He classes with thugs and crooks."
Tom was saying something about reasonableness and justice, and
Bert ceased from singing to catch him up.
"Justice, eh? Another pipe-dream. I'll show you where the working
class gets justice. You remember Forbes--J. Alliston
Forbes--wrecked the Alta California Trust Company an' salted down
two cold millions. I saw him yesterday, in a big hell-bent
automobile. What'd he get? Eight years' sentence. How long did he
serve? Less'n two years. Pardoned out on account of ill health.
Ill hell! We'll be dead an' rotten before he kicks the bucket.
Here. Look out this window. You see the back of that house with
the broken porch rail. Mrs. Danaker lives there. She takes in
washin'. Her old man was killed on the railroad. Nitsky on
damages--contributory negligence, or
fellow-servant-something-or-other flimflam. That's what the
courts handed her. Her boy, Archie, was sixteen. He was on the
road, a regular road-kid. He blew into Fresno an' rolled a drunk.
Do you want to know how much he got? Two dollars and eighty
cents. Get that?--Two-eighty. And what did the alfalfa judge
hand'm? Fifty years. He's served eight of it already in San
Quentin. And he'll go on serving it till he croaks. Mrs. Danaker
says he's bad with consumption--caught it inside, but she ain't
got the pull to get'm pardoned. Archie the Kid steals two dollars
an' eighty cents from a drunk and gets fifty years. J. Alliston
Forbes sticks up the Alta Trust for two millions en' gets less'n
two years. Who's country is this anyway? Yourn an' Archie the
Kid's? Guess again. It's J. Alliston Forbes'--Oh:
"Nobody likes a mil-yun-aire,
Nobody likes his looks,
Nobody'll share his slightest care,
He classes with thugs and crooks."
Mary, at the sink, where Saxon was just finishing the last dish,
untied Saxon's apron and kissed her with the sympathy that women
alone feel for each other under the shadow of maternity.
"Now you sit down, dear. You mustn't tire yourself, and it's a
long way to go yet. I'll get your sewing for you, and you can
listen to the men talk. But don't listen to Bert. He's crazy."
Saxon sewed and listened, and Bert's face grew bleak and bitter
as he contemplated the baby clothes in her lap.
"There you go," he blurted out, "bringin' kids into the world
when you ain't got any guarantee you can feed em.
"You must a-had a souse last night," Tom grinned.
Bert shook his head.
"Aw, what's the use of gettin' grouched?" Billy cheered. "It's a
pretty good country."
"It WAS a pretty good country," Bert replied, "when we was all
Mohegans. But not now. We're jiggerooed. We're hornswoggled.
We're backed to a standstill. We're double-crossed to a
fare-you-well. My folks fought for this country. So did yourn,
all of you. We freed the niggers, killed the Indians, an starved,
an' froze, an' sweat, an' fought. This land looked good to us. We
cleared it, an' broke it, an' made the roads, an' built the
cities. And there was plenty for everybody. And we went on
fightin' for it. I had two uncles killed at Gettysburg. All of us
was mixed up in that war. Listen to Saxon talk any time what her
folks went through to get out here an' get ranches, an' horses,
an' cattle, an' everything. And they got 'em. All our folks' got
'em, Mary's, too--"
"And if they'd ben smart they'd a-held on to them," she
interpolated.
"Sure thing," Bert continued. "That's the very point. We're the
losers. We've ben robbed. We couldn't mark cards, deal from the
bottom, an' ring in cold decks like the others. We're the white
folks that failed. You see, times changed, and there was two
kinds of us, the lions and the plugs. The plugs only worked, the
lions only gobbled. They gobbled the farms, the mines, the
factories, an' now they've gobbled the government. We're the
white folks an' the children of white folks, that was too busy
being good to be smart. We're the white folks that lost out.
We're the ones that's ben skinned. D'ye get me?"
"You'd make a good soap-boxer," Tom commended, "if only you'd get
the kinks straightened out in your reasoning."
"It sounds all right, Bert," Billy said, "only it ain't. Any man
can get rich to-day--"
"Or be president of the United States," Bert snapped. "Sure
thing--if he's got it in him. Just the same I ain't heard you
makin' a noise like a millionaire or a president. Why? You ain't
got it in you. You're a bonehead. A plug. That's why. Skiddoo for
you. Skiddoo for all of us."
At the table, while they ate, Tom talked of the joys of
farm-life he had known as a boy and as a young man, and confided
that it was his dream to go and take up government land somewhere
as his people had done before him. Unfortunately, as he
explained, Sarah was set, so that the dream must remain a dream.
&nbs
p; "It's all in the game," Billy sighed. "It's played to rules. Some
one has to get knocked out, I suppose."
A little later, while Bert was off on a fresh diatribe, Billy
became aware that he was making comparisons. This house was not
like his house. Here was no satisfying atmosphere. Things seemed
to run with a jar. He recollected that when they arrived the
breakfast dishes had not yet been washed. With a man's general
obliviousness of household affairs, he had not noted details; yet
it had been borne in on him, all morning, in a myriad ways, that
Mary was not the housekeeper Saxon was. He glanced proudly across
at her, and felt the spur of an impulse to leave his seat, go
around, and embrace her. She was a wife. He remembered her dainty
undergarmenting, and on the instant, into his brain, leaped the
image of her so appareled, only to be shattered by Bert.
"Hey, Bill, you seem to think I've got a grouch. Sure thing. I
have. You ain't had my experiences. You've always done teamin'
an' pulled down easy money prizefightin'. You ain't known hard
times. You ain't ben through strikes. You ain't had to take care
of an old mother an' swallow dirt on her account. It wasn't until
after she died that I could rip loose an' take or leave as I felt
like it.
"Take that time I tackled the Niles Electric an' see what a
work-plug gets handed out to him. The Head Cheese sizes me up,
pumps me a lot of questions, an' gives me an application blank. I
make it out, payin' a dollar to a doctor they sent me to for a
health certificate. Then I got to go to a picture garage an' get
my mug taken for the Niles Electric rogues' gallery. And I cough
up another dollar for the mug. The Head Squirt takes the blank,
the health certificate, and the mug, an' fires more questions.
DID I BELONG TO A LABOR UNION?--ME? Of course I told'm the truth
I guess nit. I needed the job. The grocery wouldn't give me any
more tick, and there was my mother.
"Huh, thinks I, here's where I'm a real carman. Back platform for
me, where I can pick up the fancy skirts. Nitsky. Two dollars,
please. Me--my two dollars. All for a pewter badge. Then there
was the uniform--nineteen fifty, and get it anywhere else for
fifteen. Only that was to be paid out of my first month. And then
five dollars in change in my pocket, my own money. That was the
rule.--I borrowed that five from Tom Donovan, the policeman. Then
what? They worked me for two weeks without pay, breakin' me in."
"Did you pick up any fancy skirts?" Saxon queried teasingly.
Bert shook his head glumly.
"I only worked a month. Then we organized, and they busted our
union higher'n a kite."
"And you boobs in the shops will be busted the same way if you go
out on strike," Mary informed him.
"That's what I've ben tellin' you all along," Bert replied. "We
ain't got a chance to win."
"Then why go out?" was Saxon's question.
He looked at her with lackluster eyes for a moment, then answered
"Why did my two uncles get killed at Gettysburg?"
CHAPTER VIII
Saxon went about her housework greatly troubled. She no longer
devoted herself to the making of pretties. The materials cost
money, and she did not dare. Bert's thrust had sunk home. It
remained in her quivering consciousness like a shaft of steel
that ever turned and rankled. She and Billy were responsible for
this coming young life. Could they be sure, after all, that they
could adequately feed and clothe it and prepare it for its way in
the world? Where was the guaranty? She remembered, dimly, the
blight of hard times in the past, and the plaints of fathers and
mothers in those days returned to her with a new significance.
Almost could she understand Sarah's chronic complaining.
Hard times were already in the neighborhood, where lived the
families of the shopmen who had gone out on strike. Among the
small storekeepers, Saxon, in the course of the daily marketing,